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isuckatwritingsobenice · 3 months

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Infernal Shadows 03

Synopsis: Being one of the most powerful overlords in Hell, you like to keep up with colonies and overlord plans. Recently with the new extermination date out, you hold your annual gala sooner than usual. You hadn’t expected to get in the middle of the already heated feud between the Radio Demon and the head of Vox Tech.

Warnings: She/Her pronouns used for the reader, mentions of blood, voodoo?, Angel Dust being a horn-bag, Reader is referred too as Madame to the public. Vox and Alastor feud because I live for it. Carmilla and Velvet feud because I also live for that. I also really favor Zestial for some reason as a calm mediator.

Song for this chapter: Ludwig van Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61

A/N: Thank you all so much for your positive feedback & feedback in general on the last two posts!! I really didn’t think this would catch so much attention but I’m so glad people like it. For some reason Tumblr’s being weird and doesn’t want to let me tag certain people, I don’t know why but if anyone does please let me know because I really don’t like that ;/ But I hope you all enjoy this chapter!! Please note that some blogs cannot be tagged, so I recommend checking this post and to check your settings to make sure I can tag you! If anything I can always just message you when the next chapter comes out, and yes I am making this series longer :) it’ll also be posted on my Wattpad soon!

Word count: 3890

Taglist: @dollops-of-delusion @nebusokuxp @scrunchss @rosedasy @valluvz @chesstras @pishybowl @iaaeav @forgotten-blues @22carolina08 @roboticsuccubus83 @doflamingadonquixote @froggyferrets @frompeach @absurd-ash @sillysillyxinnabun @urdariingdoll @delectableworm @immahuman @justaproudslytherpuff @local-mr-frog @angeli-fucking-cat @coldsweetsenthusiast @jadekomaeda @iaaeav @coffeethoughtsandanxiety @lunalixya @pretty-puppy-stuffies @lemonrolls @asimplikeallyall @lunalixya

Navigation!! // Masterlist!!! // Serendipity Writes (event) // Part One. // Part two. // Part four.

Engaging with guests throughout the night had become an exhausting endeavor, and a part of you yearned for the solace of your absence. Nevertheless, you maintained the façade, acknowledging every sinner whose smile dripped with crimson mischief. Having greeted each guest, you discreetly slipped into a shadowed corner, your shadows enveloping your figure quickly, seamlessly disappearing from the expansive room in mere seconds and emerging into an intimate gazebo outside, meticulously arranged beneath the sweeping branches of a weeping willow, you marveled at its unique ambiance. Unlike the earthly counterparts that stood white, the willow in your realm bore a deep crimson hue, its leaves adorned with a subtle, luminous sheen. A gentle smile graced your lips as you leaned against the sturdy black iron railing, delicately cradling a piece of the weeping willow between your fingertips. In the distance, the grand mansion hosting the gala loomed, its opulence contrasting with the simplicity of your secluded retreat. Despite the awareness of etiquette dictating against leaving guests unattended, the need for a mental break led you to this haven, a safe space for you. Reflecting, you acknowledged a desire for better preparation and rehearsal with the shadows, realizing the repetitiveness of conversations with the familiar sinners had rendered the night somewhat lackluster. It almost felt like you had come out of hiding for nothing. Quite the disappointment.

You sigh, massaging your temples, the lace fabric on your fingertips only slightly soothing the growing headache. However, not too far behind, you hear the sound of soft grass. You straighten up and turn around, seeing none other than your long time friend Zestial, who just smiled, nodding at you.

“Why art thou out here all alone on this crimson night?” Zestial inquired, standing by your side with his back against the railing. You resumed your original position, taking a moment to appreciate his father. Mentally noting how much of your grandfather Zestial reminded you of, you kept the sentiment unspoken.

Tonight, Zestial adorned himself in an outfit resonant with his time period, preserving his distinctive color scheme. A dark, meticulously tailored coat with lime green accents draped over his slender frame, capturing the essence of his demonic class. The cloak, adorned with lime green spider webs, unveiled a mesmerizing display when unfurled—his lime green eyes radiating, the upper pair embellished with vivid red irises. Instead of the customary big top hat, Zestial selected a smaller, more appropriate hat with a touch of flair. Dark as the shadows you command, it featured a light grey patch at the front and was finished with a grey-colored skull and a lime green and red-striped feather on the right side, adding a distinctive touch that mirrored his nature.

“Why art thou out here all alone on this crimson night?” Zestial repeated, shifting toward you a bit. Yet you resumed your original position, savoring the quiet ambiance before finally answering him. “What shall we discourse upon during our repast this eventide?” Zestial asked. Though his wording occasionally posed a challenge for others, having grown up in a family of eloquent speakers, you easily deciphered his intent. Something he truly appreciated. Though he was learning to speak more ‘modern’, or as modern as he could be.

“Quite unsure of that. Everything is changing, and I fear I might be left behind,” you expressed bluntly. Zestial sighed in response, a mix of understanding and concern evident in his lime green eyes.

“Madame, thou art timeless,” Zestial said with a bow, his cup proofing into smoke. “I pray thee, vex not thyself o’er so trivial a matter,” he added, his words resonating with both reassurance and genuine care.

You nodded, handing him a card. His surprised expression upon finding two cards instead of one didn’t escape you. “What manner of thing is this?” Zestial inquired, prompting you to summon a shadow for yourself, knowing he would find his own means back to the Gala.

“Carmilla. I am no fool to the both of you,” you said, amusement coloring your words as Zestial shook his head.

“Thou dost astonish me on every occasion,” Zestial remarked, standing by your side as you walked into your portal. Two seats vanished, leaving four empty seats at your table and six occupied.

In your study, you floated scripts in front of you, checking off names on the table list for tonight. With a few overlords left to choose from, Alastor and Charlotte secured seats based on trust and connections. Vox, Zestial, and Carmilla, an unspoken but potent couple, promised intrigue. Reconsidering Velvet for her potential devolution, you weighed each decision with strategic acumen.

Valentino, the Von Eldritch twins, and other weaker options were dismissed, maintaining a careful balance of power and influence. As you weigh the option of inviting Rosie to the gathering, her unpredictable nature adds a layer of excitement and potential surprise to the upcoming discussions. However, this unpredictability could also introduce challenges, creating an air of uncertainty around her contributions. Hopefully with Alastor around, she’d feel more inclined to behave. You check her name off the list.

In considering Stolas, the Goetia prince, his personal issues and tarnished reputation pose significant hurdles. Divorcing from his wife, sleeping with an imp for fun, as well as losing control of his daughter on Earth, it all seemed too risky to get involved with. While his wisdom and influence could contribute positively, the shadows of his struggles may complicate the dynamics, stirring potential conflicts and requiring delicate handling. Someone might get out of line with a comment towards him. His power was incredibly useful, but not worth the risk.

Husk’s transformation from a former overlord to a bartender signals a decline in power and status. While his laid-back demeanor might bring a sense of unpredictability, his diminished influence raises questions about the relevance of his involvement in the current political landscape of hell. Though he was your friend, you needed to keep your reputation pristine.

As the you contemplate the overlords assets, a mix of excitement, caution, and uncertainty envelops the decision-making process. Each overlord’s potential positive contributions are balanced by the looming negatives.

“Madame?” One of your shadows materialized, prompting a nod for them to proceed. “There seems to be some trouble in the lobby between the guests. What would you like us to do?” it inquired. A grimace crossed your face, hoping the disturbance wouldn’t mar your night. “Let me handle it,” you declared, snapping your fingers, causing the script to vanish. The shadow nodded, blending back into a wall for you to step through.

Upon reappearing, you assumed the form of a taller shadow. The room surrounded by guests revealed Vox, Velvet, Alastor, and Carmilla standing in the middle. Zestial, seemingly composed, stood close behind Carmilla, observing the situation. Carmilla appeared visibly upset, with Velvet in proximity, a pointed finger dropping as soon as she noticed your arrival. Alastor maintained his usual wide smile, though it bordered on the eerie, revealing a glimpse of his gums. The scene unfolded, presenting a potential challenge to the serene atmosphere you aimed to maintain during the gala.

Everyone seemed to stop, slowly turning toward you to see your face. Except there was no expression, just the large shadow you had taken form of. In seconds the shadow disappeared, leaving you in the fog, the expression on your face anything but calm.

"Madame I-" Velvet began, but her words were halted by the sight of your lace glove, your hand rising to silence her. Approaching the overlords, you spoke with an air of cold authority.

"My quarters. Now," you commanded, and with a snap of your fingers, smoke enveloped your spot as you vanished. Shadows materialized around the overlords, guiding them to your quarters, leaving the stunned guests in the lobby.

"Well, that was interesting," Valentino remarked.

In your study, the overlords found you seated in your tall, black chair. Its ebony surface featured intricate carvings of black glass, elegant swirls, and patterns tailored to your essence, creating an atmosphere of undeniable authority and refinement.

"I hope you all had fun acting like children," you chided sternly. The overlords lined up, forming a unified front. Leaning against the right side of your chair, you crossed your legs, elbow on the armrest, pinching the bridge of your nose with a sigh. Annoyance laced your words as you questioned, "What did you feel the need to argue about now?" Before Velvet, Vox, and Carmilla could respond simultaneously, you halted them. "One at a time. I'd assume you all handle this like adults, if you even can." The tension in the room hung thick as the overlords awaited their turn to address your inquiry.

“She wants me at her table Vaggie! Me!” Charlotte said excitedly. Vagatha just smiled.

“That’s good! Now you can tell them about the hotel, and maybe someone will be interested.” Vagatha said, and Charlotte just nodded.

“Maybe they-“ Charlotte stopped, observing as people began to crowd around the center of the lobby. Charlotte and Vagatha stood from their spots at the bar to walk toward the center, where the overlords stood. Velvet and Vox were next to each other, while Carmilla, Alastor and Zestial were across. Carmilla and Velvet were face to face. “What’s going on?” Charlotte asked as Vagatha and her pushed their way through the crowds of people.

“Come on, Carmilla, always the mood-killer,” Velvet scoffed, a disrespectful tone tainting her words. Carmilla shot her a stern look, ready to assert her authority.

“Watch that tongue, Velvet. I will not let your insolence slide,” Carmilla retorted, attempting to rein in the escalating tension.

Vox, ever the smooth talker, chimed in, “Ladies, ladies, let’s not turn this into a drama fest. We’re all here for a reason.” Vox said, sternly giving a tight lipped smile to Velvet, silently telling her to keep her shit together.

Carmilla shot a glare at Velvet, who replied with a defiant smirk, “Drama or not, Vox, some of us aren’t here for the ballroom charm.”

Alastor, drawn to the brewing chaos, couldn’t resist adding his flair, “Well, well, a bit of spice never hurt a party, does it?”

Carmilla, unfazed by the chaos, spoke with a calm authority, “Velvet, your insolence is unnecessary. This is not a playground; it’s a gathering of overlords. Act accordingly.”

Velvet, seemingly undeterred, shot back with a dismissive laugh, “Poor Grandma, always trying to play the responsible one. Maybe loosen up a bit? Have a drink will you?”

Vox, ever the smooth talker, added with a slick comment, “Perhaps we can focus on the matters at hand. Save the theatrics for later ladies.”

Alastor, intrigued by the unfolding drama, simply grinned, “Oh the picture box has spoken! Quite intriguing.” The room continued to buzz with tension as each overlord, except Rosie, added their own flavor to the brewing turmoil. As the tension thickened, Vox, with a sly grin, couldn't resist adding his own slick comment to the mix.

"Ah, Alastor, the radio days were quaint, but it seems you're a bit outdated. Television is the future, perhaps you should tune in sometime," he quipped with a wink, the words delivered with a calculated smoothness. The room momentarily hung in a charged silence before the verbal sparring resumed, adding another layer to the complex interplay of personalities at the gala.

With Vox's comment about Alastor being outdated sinking in, the radio demon responded with a sly grin, sharp teeth on display, his eyes displays dials, as the rooms lights began to deepen, "Ah, Vox, your television endeavors are impressive, but remember, I'm not just audible; I'm unforgettable. A little screen time won't change that," he retorted, “This face was made for radio.” He said with a grin, tilting his head to the side, a sharp snap in his neck, his words carrying a mix of amusement and confidence. The verbal exchange between the two overlords added another layer to the already charged atmosphere, each comment becoming a piece in the intricate puzzle of conflicts and egos at the gala.

“See what you did grandma, now you’ve got the two of them fighting.” Velvet said, pointing a finger into Carmella’s chest. She scoffed, shoving her away.

“Don’t you dare get disrespectful on me you brat.” Carmilla said, beginning to heat up with anger.

That's when Madame stepped in, reappearing in the form of a taller shadow, casting a lengthened silhouette in the room brimming with guests. Vox, Velvet, Alastor, and Carmilla found themselves at the center of the unfolding tableau, and Zestial, seemingly composed, lingered just behind Carmilla, quietly observing the escalating drama. Carmilla's visage betrayed a hint of distress, her pointed finger lowering as she registered your reappearance. Alastor, with his trademark grin, bordered on eerie, revealing a glimpse of his gums. The unfolding scene disrupted the serene atmosphere you had meticulously aimed to maintain during the gala, presenting an unexpected challenge.

A hush fell over the room as everyone turned their gaze toward you, anticipating your reaction. However, your face remained expressionless, concealed within the depths of the large shadow you had taken form of. In mere seconds, the shadow dissipated, leaving you in a misty veil. Yet, beneath the calm exterior, a storm brewed, ready to challenge the delicate balance of the evening.

Now, here you all were, sitting in the study after Carmilla had explained the situation.

“Madame, with all due respect,” Carmilla spoke, looking down. “I truly do not believe Velvet is mature enough to be at our table tonight.” Carmilla said.

“Are you questioning my judgment?” You asked sharply, to which Carmilla stiffened quickly, shaking her head then.

”No Madame, I would never-“

“Then do not say foolish things.” You said. Sighing, you shut your eyes, feeling the weight of the situation. Tonight sensitive information would be revealed and Carmilla did have some point here. Velvet clearly could not hold her tongue.

”Vox, control your associate please, or you both will be cut from the dinner tonight.” You said finally, to which he nodded nervously.

“Of course Madame.” He said, nodding to you.

“I wasn’t finished.” You said, looking to Alastor.

“I want none of this technology talk either.” You spoke, staring at Alastor who just smiled with lidded eyes. You knew he was very much upset, but you had forbidden anyone to fight in your home, anyone but you of course. “You all will act like mature adults wether you like it or not. I am not your guardian, I should not be having this conversation with overlords who should know better.” You said, standing. ”Now, all of you, out.” You said, snapping your fingers. Quickly the shadows began to move, ushering everyone out of your study. Everyone except Carmilla. “Not you.” You said to her, Zestial nodding to you and her as he stepped out, giving you both privacy.

“Madame, I didn’t mean what I said-“ Carmilla said quickly. You waved her off, straightening yourself out.

“Nonsense Carmilla, I know you meant well.” You said with a stoic expression. You sit back down, crossing your legs and snapping your fingers to form a chair in front of your desk, ushering her to sit. “I wanted to speak to you about your weapons.” You stated. At this her eyes went wide, before dropping again.

“Oh, very well then. What would you like to know?” She asked. You grinned, before standing again.

“Well, how much would I need to give you for you to make me a personal bayonet?” You asked. She went silent for a moment, before answering.

“Nothing at all Madame.” She said, standing to look at you. “May I ask what for?” She questioned. You shook your head.

“No, just to have on display. I want a new one, the old one I have is quite out of style for me.” You replied. She just nodded, before you waved to her, sitting back down and summoning a script again. “You may go now, and please, do not argue with children.” You commented. She just smiled and nodded, leaving you to your own vices.

It was half-past eleven, five minutes till the midnight bells chime. Everyone in the lobby was beginning to get excited for the entertainment you had planned for the night. Oh, you knew you would not disappoint.

“Madame would like everyone to accompany her on a journey tonight. She has sent me to retrieve you all. She would like to formally welcome you to tonight’s entertainment.” The large shadow said, standing from the topic of the stairs. Behind it was a large portal. It stepped backwards, into the portal, and nodded for the guests to start coming through.

The custom-built coliseum stands as a testament to Madame's vision, a grand fusion of opulence and dark elegance. The circular structure boasts towering columns, but instead of conventional pillars, thick chains rise, intricately linked and serving as both ornamental decor and structural support. The arches, molded in black, curve gracefully around the circumference, evoking a Victorian Gothic aesthetic that permeates the entire venue.

Two larger-than-life statues of Madame herself flank the entrance, capturing her regal poise and adding a touch of imposing authority. The statues serve not only as decorative elements but as a representation of the gala's hostess, a constant presence overseeing the proceedings, she is always watching, all seeing, perfection.

The overall ambiance is one of grandeur and mystery, with the black molding on the arches casting shadows that play into the darker undertones. Every intricate detail, from the chains to the statues, contributes to the unique Victorian Gothic feel of the coliseum, matching Madame’s home perfectly, matching her perfectly. The venue, finally being unveiled to the guests, now welcomes them who are treated to an appetizer course, surrounded by the striking architecture and entertained within the darkly enchanting atmosphere Madame has meticulously crafted.

Numerous shadows, dark and formless, line the entrance walls, extending silent greetings to the arriving guests. Their presence adds an air of mystique and intrigue as they blend seamlessly with the Gothic architecture. As attendees make their way into the coliseum, these shadowy figures create an ethereal welcome, embodying the unique atmosphere of Madame's custom-built venue.

At a separate entrance reserved for the handpicked members of Madame's esteemed dinner table, a solitary shadow stands guard. This entrance, reserved for a select few, hints at the exclusivity and importance of those who will partake in the upcoming dinner. The shadowy sentinels serve not only as silent greeters but also as guardians of the event's secrets, casting an enigmatic allure over the gala.

A singular shadows escorts Charlotte, Alastor, and the rest of the overlords to the exclusive section, leading them to an elevator to bring them to the best seats in the coliseum. The elevator’s interior is a striking display of elegance, with white and black checkered flooring lending a timeless touch. The walls, enveloped in darkness, exude an air of mystery, while black, smokey glass engravings on the ceiling add intricate detailing that dances in the ambient light. Each number on the elevator, indicating the ascending levels, glows a vibrant red, creating a vivid contrast against the monochrome palette.

“Oh I’m so excited! What do you think we’re gonna see? Gladiators? Sinners fight? Oh actually I hope not, I don’t want people to die.” Charlotte said to Alastor. Carmilla just chuckled at her antics while Zestial eyed her with curiosity. Where did Alastor find such a girl and why the princess of all people?

The elevator stops at the top floor, revealing the opening in the middle, which was surprisingly covered with water.

“What is Madame playing at?” Carmilla questioned as the overlords sat in a row at the top. From there they could see everything and everyone.

“I am quite uncertain, yet my anticipation is stirred nonetheless.” Zestial said. The lights around began to dim, and shadows began to pour glasses of water in front of all the guests. Down in the middle of the coliseum was the tallest shadow, the one that seemed to be Madame’s favorite, since it always spoke for her.

“Greetings all. It is Madame’s pleasure to invite you all to the special entertainment tonight. Madame has put together some of hell’s finest performers for your entertainment tonight. I would like to present, preforming here tonight, The Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra preforming Ludwig van Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61.” The shadow said with a bow, before it vanished just as quick as it came. Then, other shadows appeared, but this time they were different. They were people, performers, with clear outlined silhouettes, faces and expressions, even clothes.

“Hey, Al?” Charlotte asked, leaning over in her seat to Alastor. He let out a ‘hm?’ In response.

“Does Madame own those souls down there?” Charlotte whispered, but before Alastor could answer, a shadow had already cut in.

“Yes. All the shadows here, even yours, Madame owns.” The shadow said quietly, filling Charlotte’s glass cup with water. Charlotte nervously, perked up, but said nothing as she shadow carried on with it’s catering.

The ethereal notes of the music filled the air as the performance unfolded. Around the musicians stood ballet dancers, their movements a delicate poetry in motion. Clad in all black, the performers created a stark contrast to the dancers, who emerged with an otherworldly grace akin to figures rising from the depths of water. The dancers moved with an angelic fluidity, their forms intertwining seamlessly with the haunting melody, creating a mesmerizing tableau that captivated the audience. The visual symphony of black-clad musicians and the whisky-hued ballet dancers painted a scene of enchantment and mystery within the grand coliseum. Even down to the dancers, this had Madame written all over it.

Velvet's keen eye captured the essence of the dancers' ethereal movements on paper. With each stroke of her sketch, she depicted the dancers as if emerging from a watery abyss, the fog enveloping their feet creating an illusion of water flowing upward. The intricate details on her sketch paper brought to life the dancers' graceful forms, their figures seemingly intertwined with the rising mist, evoking the enchantment of a waterspout captured in a moment of sublime artistry. Velvet's artistic interpretation added a layer of depth to the performance, transforming the ephemeral dance into a tangible and captivating visual narrative.

Water had begun to swirl, the dancers moving around it, the water getting taller and taller, similar to the way it had when you had first made your entrance at the beginning of the Gala. Now, it was water, and from Charlotte’s seat, she had struggled to make out what was going on. She turned to Alastor to see him holding a pair of opera glasses in his hand. Without you having to ask, he tapped the armrest of her seat. Charlotte turned to the side to see a pair tucked neatly against the front of the armrest. She grabbed them quickly, before looking through them and at the waterspout now forming in the middle. Her jaw flew open, as well as the loud screech of Alastor’s track playing. Vox had short circuited, and Carmilla gasped loudly. Velvet stood silent, but there was evident confusion on her face, while Zestial sunk into his seat, conflicting emotions flowing through him.

“Madame- she’s-“ Charlotte stuttered, and Alastor nodded, swallowing thickly.

“With an exorcist. I know.”

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #hazbin vaggie #hazbin demon #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel rosie #alastor #zestial hazbin hotel #yandere alastor x reader #yandere alastor #yandere vox #yandere vox x reader #hellaverse #isuckatwritingsobenice infernal shadows #isuckatwritingsobenice

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08luvmailz · 4 months

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𓇼 I'VE REMEMBERED . . ਏਓ !

𖥔 ݁ 𓈒 summary 𓍯 he remembered your favorite color — 🎙 contents : angst

The air bore the fragrance of scented candles, dry flowers and melancholy, a symphony of quiet sorrow woven into the tapestry of twilight, where memories slumbered beneath the dew-kissed grass of lost souls. The man's quiet footsteps, hesitant steps with the echoes of eternity echoing at the hushed place, reverberated through the sacred stillness of the sepulchered landscape. His eyes wandered across the cold tiles as his gaze, heavy with the weight of unspoken solace.

He is only here for one person, one destination.

His youthful eyes clouded with grief and sadness but also a relief. Amidst the silence, a transient of his past, reading your name that fluttered between the dusty tombstone like delicate moths drawn to the flame of remembrance. He sat on the chilly grass as his eyes darkened while reading the transcript of the tombstone.

" It's been a while, my dear. " it burned, His throat tightened with hushed words or how the man's lungs crushed with every breath he'd taken. " I can feel you roll your eyes at me. It's been years since I've visited you. You must have been waiting for a long time. " He closed his eyes as he needed to capture the translucent tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

" Do you perhaps hear me? " his words are as gentle as the breeze on a cold Saturday night. It was all too ironic, too painfully evident for his aching heart. " You may not forgive me as I never visited you since the day... you've left me, your family," he confessed to the quietness. Acceptance was never easy in his forte, the cruel duty of how much he cared and loved. It was never enough to let you stay or bask in your radiance that once and finally left.

The wind carried his burden but never left his body like the air he needed constantly breathe to live as years later, he never changed in the slightest bit. " I wish I could know more about you, so I can show myself, can please you. " In the vulnerability of his words, he sighed. The man found solace in the communion of utterances spoken to the wind. " The regret in my stomach filled me like butterflies, as I only wished that I could touch your delicate face as I confess my undying feeling for you. " His fingers brushed gently and tentatively against the engraved letters that etched the name of his one and only.

His hands gripped tightly to the flowers he brought for you. The smell of it wafted in the air as it reminded him what you smell like. It was different you, had a husky-like smell than these floral flowers but it was only a replica of what you smelled like as it was a mere comfort for him. " I've brought you flowers, it may not be your favorite. But it is your favorite color," he confessed, his voice a soft echo in the stillness.

" You may not see the full-bloomed colors of these flowers nor the color itself, I will be your eyes and nose to tell you that they are beautiful and smelled like you, a bit. " He quietly chuckled as his delicate-ragged fingers plucked one petal. The man's touch became an ode as he caressed the plucked petal, A caress to remember that transcended the veil between them.

My memory with you has faded completely, but I will always remember how you, loved these colors.

The rays of sunlight painted the blue sky as the scent of flowers flowed through his brain, the shadow of a lone willow tree twisted and shaped themselves as his figure standing like a lone wolf. His eyes formed from darkness and a hollow void of coloration turned into light like a burning flame like one that flowed crimson red to the skies. " This would be the first and last time that I would visit you; I would continue living my life… without you. " His lips quirked upwards, a smile that could clash with the sunflowers bathing in sunlight.

He moved on, from you. He finally did the next step on his journey

" You showed me things that I wished to see and this time I'm the only one who will see those things. You have my gratitude and that will always be impeccable and irreplaceable. " He laughed as he spoke those words, words of joy tickled by the melody of his laughter, swayed with a rhythm known as his greatest love for you.

He did it, you must have been so proud.

" Goodbye… my dear, I'll see you soon enough. Wait for me a little longer. " As he walked into the embrace of the sunlight caressing his face, with each step, the memories of you two faded from his view, his eyes wandered one last time at your tombstone as the sunlight beamed on the pavement. It was like an unfinished painting awaiting the strokes of a new beginning.

A beginning without you.

— GOJO . GETO . shoto . obanai . TOJI . NANAMI . choso . LEVI . eren . BAKUGO . HAWKS . dabi . KURAPIKA . killua AGED UP! . CHROLLO . choso . zhongli . XIAO . DAINSLEIF . neuvillette . diluc . wriothesley . KAEYA . tartaglia . kaveh . alhaitham ... your faves

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 10 months

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Bestie could you pls write something about dadrry taking care of his sick toddler. Just him cuddling them and dotting all over them 🥺

Sick On Tour.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

blurb masterlist is here.

authors note - this was actually such a cute concept to write about! feel free to send in some concepts if your own by clicking here.

word count - 3.8k

in which, touring europe was meant to be a fun thing to do as a family, but when your toddler suddenly developes a sickness bug, you watch with fond eyes as your husband takes care of your little one, nursing them back to full health.

You stood by the hotel room window, the sun casting a warm glow across the room, as you watched a vibrant blue sky stretching as far as the eye could see.

It was a beautiful day outside, but inside your heart was heavy with concern.

Your three-year-old daughter, Willow, lay curled up in bed, battling a nasty stomach bug which had developed during the middle of the night when she came running from her adjacent hotel bed and onto yours and yours husbands.

The tranquility of the night was abruptly shattered when a soft whimper filled the room, jolting you awake. Your eyes blinked open, adjusting to the dim light, as you turned your head towards the sound.

There, in the faint moonlight, you saw your three-year-old daughter Willow standing by her bed, her little face etched with worry. Instinctively, you sat up, your heart pounding, and motioned for her to come closer. She hesitated for a moment, then shuffled her way towards you, her tiny feet tiptoeing across the carpeted floor.

She crawled onto your bed, her small body trembling. The scent of vomit wafted through the air, and you immediately understood the cause of her distress. Panic surged through you as you glanced at Willow's bed, confirming your suspicion.

"Oh, sweetheart, you've been sick," you whispered, gently pulling her closer. She buried her face against your shoulder, her cries muffled against your nightgown.

Harry stirred beside you, awakened by the commotion. His sleepy eyes widened as he took in the scene before him. Without a word, he reached out to Willow, drawing her into his protective embrace.

"What happened, love?" Harry asked, his voice filled with concern.

Willow hiccuped through her sobs, trying to form words between her tears. "I... I feel... sick," she managed to say, her voice quivering.

You looked at your husband, worry etched across your face. "It's alright, Willow. Mommy and Daddy are here for you," you assured her, rubbing her back in a soothing motion. "Let's get you cleaned up, my love."

Harry carefully lifted Willow from the bed, cradling her against his bare chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him as if he were her lifeline. The three of you made your way to the bathroom, where you began the process of cleaning up the mess.

As you gently wiped away the traces of illness, Willow gazed up at you, her wide, tear-filled eyes searching for comfort. "Mommy, I don't feel good," she whimpered.

You kissed her forehead softly, offering words of reassurance. "It's alright, sweetheart. Sometimes our tummies get upset, but we'll take care of you. Daddy and I are here to make you feel better."

Harry, ever the rock in times of need, interjected, his voice filled with warmth. "That's right, princess. We'll take care of you until you're all better."

Returning to the hotel bed, you settled Willow between you and Harry, cocooning her in your embrace. She nestled against her father's chest, seeking solace in his familiar heartbeat. His arms enveloped her, providing a sense of security and protection.

Willow's sobs slowly subsided, her trembling body finding solace in her father's warm embrace. Harry's gentle voice continued to offer words of comfort, soothing her worries as she drifted back to sleep, nestled against his chest.

You had been eagerly looking forward to an afternoon out with Sarah and Glenne for months, when Harry had told you that he was going to be touring in Wales, the three of you were going to go and look round at all the different sights that city had to offer, but now the thought of leaving Willow alone in her weakened state weighed heavily on you.

Every parent hated seeing their child sick, every toddler was bound to get sick just like when you all had the flu and Harry had to cancel some of his shows, you were all suffering with the flu but Willow took it exceptionally hard due to the fact she couldn’t exactly voice all her thoughts and feelings.

Just then, your husband Harry walked into the room, a sympathetic expression on his face which made you snap out of the daze you appeared to be in.

He understood the dilemma you faced and was determined to find a solution.

"Hey, love," Harry began gently, coming over to stand beside you. "I know Willow isn't feeling well, but you've been planning this day with Sarah and Glenne for so long. They've been looking forward to it too. Maybe we can find a way to make it work?"

It was true, seeing as this was one of the only days where you didn’t have anything planned, Harry had told you that it was fine that you go out with the girls and see the city of Cardiff but that was before Willow got sick.

You didn’t want to let your best friends down but you didn’t want to leave your daughter all high and vulnerable.

You turned to face Harry, the sunlight highlighting the worry lines on your forehead. "I can't bear the thought of leaving Willow like this, Harry. She's so sick and uncomfortable. What if she gets worse?"

Harry reached out, taking your hand in his, his touch providing a sense of comfort. "I understand your concerns, sweetheart. But remember, everyone’s here with us., and they all love Willow as much as we do. If I need any help, Mitch is next door who has a toddler himself, he can help take good care of her while you're gone."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at Harry, your voice filled with worry. "What if she needs me? What if she feels scared and doesn't understand why I'm not there?"

Harry's voice softened as he pulled you into a reassuring embrace, the warmth of the sun's rays wrapping around you both. "I promise you, love, if Willow needs you, I'll call you immediately. We'll make sure she feels safe and loved. And sometimes, kids surprise us with how resilient they can be. Right now, she needs rest and care, and you deserve a break too."

You hesitated for a moment, torn between your desire to be there for your daughter and the longing to spend time with your friends.

Eventually, you took a deep breath and nodded, drawing strength from Harry's presence. "Okay, Harry. I trust you. Let's give it a try, but just know that you’ll be getting a text at least every twenty minutes to check on Willow.”

A genuine smile lit up Harry's face as he squeezed your hand gently. "Absolutely, love. I’ll keep a close eye on her, and if anything changes, you’ll be getting a call straight away to come back immediately. Sarah and Glenne are waiting for you, and they'll understand if you need to leave early."

With Harry's unwavering support and reassurance, you made your way to the door, the sunlight filtering through the window like a gentle reminder of hope.

"Remember, I love you, and you're just going to be just a phone call away," Harry whispered, his voice carrying a reassuring warmth. "Enjoy your time with Sarah and Glenne, and know that when you return, Willow will be in your arms, feeling better."

With one last glance at Willow, who lay sleeping peacefully, you let the sunlight guide you forward, casting aside your worries for a few hours. The day outside held the promise of healing, and you allowed yourself to immerse in the present moment, trusting in Harry's words and the love that surrounded Willow in your absence.

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━━━━━━━━┓ 💫 ┏━━━━━━━━

Harry stood in the hotel room's small kitchenette, a pot of soup simmering on the stove. The aroma of warm broth and vegetables filled the air, creating a comforting atmosphere.

Once the soup was all cooked, he settled it next to the sippy cup of water on the tray and made his way over to where the hotel bed was.

With a tray in his hands carrying a bowl of warm soup. Willow, his three-year-old daughter, sat propped up against the pillows in the hotel bed, her small frame wrapped in a cosy blanket.

Her cheeks were flushed from the fever, and she looked weak and tired.

"Hey, angel baby," Harry greeted her softly, placing the tray on the nightstand. "I made you some soup. It's going to help make you feel better."

Willow mustered a weak smile, her voice frail. "Thank you, Daddy."

Harry settled himself on the edge of the bed, picking up the spoon and gently blowing on a spoonful of soup to cool it down. "Here, sweetheart, open up. Just take small bites."

Willow obediently opened her mouth, allowing Harry to feed her a spoonful of the warm soup. She tried her best to swallow it, but a wave of nausea washed over her, and she coughed, spitting the soup back into the bowl.

"Oh, it's okay, Willow," Harry reassured her, his voice filled with empathy. He grabbed a tissue and gently wiped her mouth. "We'll take it slow, alright? No rush."

Tears welled up in Willow's eyes, frustration evident in her voice. "I don't want to be sick, Daddy."

Harry's heart ached for his daughter as he gathered her into his arms, holding her close. "I know, sweetheart. It's not easy. But we're here with you, and we'll do everything we can to help you feel better."

Willow nestled against her father's chest, seeking comfort in his embrace. Harry stroked her hair soothingly, his voice gentle and reassuring. "Let's try again, okay? Maybe just a tiny sip this time."

Willow nodded, sniffling softly. She took another small sip of the soup, her face scrunching up in discomfort. She swallowed, but her body rebelled, and she vomited once more, tears streaming down her face.

Harry held her tightly, wiping away her tears. "It's alright, Willow. You tried, and that's what matters. We'll find something else that won't upset your tummy."

Willow's voice trembled as she spoke, her disappointment evident. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I just can't."

Harry kissed her forehead, his voice filled with love and understanding. "You don't need to apologize, my love. It's not your fault. We'll find another way to nourish you. How about we try some dry crackers or toast? Something lighter that might be easier for your tummy?"

Willow nodded, finding solace in her father's words. "Okay, Daddy. Maybe that will be better."

Harry gently guided her back onto the pillows, reaching for a plate of crackers and a slice of toast. He placed it within Willow's reach, his voice soothing. "Take your time, sweetheart. Whenever you feel ready, you can have a nibble. And if you're not hungry right now, that's perfectly alright too."

Willow nodded, her energy depleted. "Thank you, Daddy. You're the best."

Harry's heart swelled with love for his daughter as he caressed her cheek. "You're welcome, my brave girl. I'll always be here for you. We'll figure this out together, and you'll feel better soon."

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Harry stood in the bathroom, a concerned look on his face as he carefully prepared a warm bath for his three-year-old daughter, Willow, who was battling a stomach bug. He adjusted the faucets, ensuring the water was just the right temperature to provide some relief to her discomfort.

Taking a deep breath, Harry glanced at the assortment of bath products on the counter. He reached for a bottle of soothing lavender bubble bath, knowing its calming scent might bring some comfort to his little girl.

"Alright, Willow, we're going to have a special bath today to help you feel better," Harry said, his voice filled with gentle reassurance. "Let's make it extra relaxing, shall we?"

Willow, her face pale and tired, nodded weakly. She clutched her stomach, her tiny body aching from the persistent bug. But she trusted her dad to make things a little easier for her.

"Alright, Willow, we're going to have a special bath today to help you feel better," Harry said, his voice filled with gentle reassurance. "Let's make it extra relaxing, shall we?"

Willow, her face pale and tired, nodded weakly. She clutched her stomach, her tiny body aching from the persistent bug. But she trusted her dad to make things a little easier for her.

Harry knelt down beside her, placing a hand on her back. "I know it's been tough, sweetheart, but we'll do our best to make you feel a bit better, alright? The bath will help soothe your tummy."

Willow mustered a faint smile, grateful for her dad's comforting presence. She leaned into him, seeking solace in his touch.

With great care, Harry helped Willow undress, taking his time to ensure she felt safe and comfortable. He selected her favourite towel, soft and fluffy, ready to embrace her delicate skin.

"Alright, Willow, we're going to have a special bath today to help you feel better," Harry said, his voice filled with gentle reassurance. "Let's make it extra relaxing, shall we?"

Willow, her face pale and tired, nodded weakly. She clutched her stomach, her tiny body aching from the persistent bug. But she trusted her dad to make things a little easier for her.

Harry knelt down beside her, placing a hand on her back. "I know it's been tough, sweetheart, but we'll do our best to make you feel a bit better, alright? The bath will help soothe your tummy."

Willow mustered a faint smile, grateful for her dad's comforting presence. She leaned into him, seeking solace in his touch.

With great care, Harry helped Willow undress, taking his time to ensure she felt safe and comfortable. He selected her favorite towel, soft and fluffy, ready to embrace her delicate skin.

As Harry prepared the bath, he added a few drops of the lavender bubble bath, watching as the water transformed into a frothy, fragrant oasis. He swirled it gently, creating a cloud of bubbles that floated atop the surface.

"Look, Willow! We've got magic bubbles today!" Harry exclaimed, his voice filled with playful excitement. "They're here to make you feel all cosy and relaxed."

He lifted her into the tub, ensuring her body was well supported. Willow winced as she eased herself into the warm water, the discomfort evident on her face.

Harry sat on a stool next to the tub, a washcloth and a gentle, fragrance-free soap at hand. He dipped the cloth into the water, wringing it out before carefully washing Willow's body, mindful of her sensitivity.

As he washed her, Harry maintained a soothing conversation, speaking softly and tenderly. He distracted her with stories of their favorite adventures, trying to ease her mind from the uneasiness caused by the stomach bug.

"Remember that time we went to the park and fed the ducks, Willow?" Harry asked, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "They quacked so loudly when you threw bread to them!"

Willow managed a small smile, her eyes flickering with fleeting joy. "Yeah, Daddy. They were funny."

Harry continued to cleanse her, moving with gentle strokes and utmost care. He avoided any sensitive areas, mindful of her discomfort. Willow leaned into his touch, finding solace in her father's loving presence.

As the bath went on, Harry noticed Willow's fatigue growing. He poured warm water over her hair, gently massaging her scalp with his fingertips. Willow closed her eyes, surrendering to the soothing sensation.

"Daddy, I don't feel good," Willow murmured, her voice barely audible.

Harry's heart ached, his love for his daughter shining through his eyes. "I know, sweetheart. I wish I could make it all go away for you. Just a little while longer, and we'll get you out of the bath and into some cozy pajamas."

He carefully rinsed away the soap, making sure not to get any water in her eyes. Once Willow was clean, he lifted her out of the tub, enveloping her in a soft, warm towel. She leaned heavily against him, seeking his support.

Harry carried Willow to her bedroom, laying her on the bed. He dressed her in the softest, most comfortable pyjamas he could find, being extra gentle as he handled her delicate frame.

"Almost there, my brave girl," Harry whispered, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. "Now, let's get you settled and rest up."

"Daddy, can we cuddle on the sofa? My tummy hurts," Willow requested, her voice soft and vulnerable.

Harry's heart melted at the sight of his daughter in need of comfort. He nodded, a gentle smile gracing his lips. "Of course, sweetheart. Let's make you feel better."

Harry carefully lifted the duvet from their bed and spread it over the sofa, creating a cozy nest for their cuddle session. Willow eagerly climbed onto the sofa, nestling herself against Harry's side. He wrapped the soft duvet around their bodies, cocooning them in warmth.

"Are you comfy, my little princess?" Harry asked, brushing a strand of hair away from Willow's face.

Willow nodded, her eyes lighting up with anticipation. "Yes, Daddy. Can we watch 'The Little Mermaid'?"

Harry couldn't resist her request, knowing that the familiar story would provide a soothing distraction from her discomfort. He reached for the TV remote and found the beloved Disney film, adjusting the volume to a gentle level.

With the movie playing, Willow nestled closer to Harry, finding solace in his embrace. She rested her head on his lap, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath.

As the film unfolded, Harry couldn't help but marvel at Willow's innocent wonder. Her eyes were glued to the screen, captivated by Ariel's underwater adventures. He smiled, knowing that even in the midst of her illness, her spirit remained resilient.

Halfway through the movie, Willow's eyelids grew heavy, her body succumbing to exhaustion. Harry continued to stroke her hair, his touch gentle and soothing.

"Daddy, I'm tired," Willow whispered, her voice barely audible.

Harry's heart swelled with love and tenderness as he looked down at his daughter. "It's okay, my love. Rest your eyes. I'll be right here with you."

Willow snuggled deeper into her father's lap, finding comfort in his presence. Within moments, her breathing steadied, and her little body relaxed into a peaceful slumber.

Harry couldn't help but smile, his heart overflowing with affection. He watched as the characters on the screen continued their enchanting journey, but his attention was solely on his sleeping daughter. He marvelled at her innocence and the depth of his love for her.

It wasn’t long before you were walking through the hotel door.

You turned the doorknob and stepped into the hotel room, feeling a mix of exhaustion and excitement after a day of sightseeing in Cardiff with your friends.

As you entered, a heartwarming sight awaited you - your husband and your precious daughter fast asleep on the sofa, their peaceful expressions revealing the toll the stomach bug had taken on your angel baby.

A soft smile graced your lips as you quietly approached them. The scene was too precious to resist capturing, so you reached for your phone from your back pocket, snapping a photo to cherish the love and vulnerability that filled the room.

It would most likely become your wallpaper later.

After taking the picture, you leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to both Harry and Willow's foreheads, whispering, "I love you both more than words can say," as your lips met their skin.

The soft touch of your kiss stirred Harry from his slumber, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours. He blinked a few times, a sleepy smile forming on his face.

"Hey, love. You're back," he murmured, his voice laced with warmth and held a slight rasp due to the fact he just woken up.

You settled down beside them on the sofa, grateful for the comfort of their presence.

“Yes, I'm back. How was your day here with Low?" you asked, your voice filled with curiosity.

Harry shifted, making room for you on the sofa, careful not to disturb the snoozing tot.

"It was eventful, to say the least," he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Willow had a bit of a rough time with her stomach, but we managed. We watched 'The Little Mermaid,' as she requested, and cuddled up together. She fell asleep just a little while ago."

A mix of relief and concern washed over you. "I'm glad she had you by her side, Harry. You always know how to make her feel safe and loved," you said, admiration evident in your voice.

Harry smiled, his eyes shining with love. "She's my little princess, after all. Taking care of her is the most important thing to me."

You took a moment to gaze at Willow, her tiny frame nestled against her father's. A surge of gratitude filled your heart for the incredible bond they shared.

"How was your day with Sarah and Glenne?" Harry asked, curiosity evident in his eyes.

You recounted the adventures of the day, sharing stories of the places you had visited and the laughter you had shared. The joy in your voice was contagious as you reminisced about the memories made with your friends.

As you finished sharing your day, you turned to Harry, your eyes filled with concern. "And how was Willow? Did she have a tough time today?"

Harry nodded, his expression filled with reassurance. "It was a bit challenging at times, but we managed. She had her moments of discomfort, but we made sure to give her the care she needed. She's a strong little girl, just like her mum."

A warm feeling spread within you, grateful for Harry's unwavering love and dedication to your family. You placed a gentle hand on Willow's back, feeling the rise and fall of her breath.

Love On Tour.

More like Sick On Tour.

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saraiisstanky · 2 years

Text

Fem! Solangelo doodle

Lesbeans 🙌

#lesbeans #pjo #doodles #hoo #art #nico di angelo #toa #fanart #will solace #solangelo #fem! Solangelo #genderbend #willow solace #Nicole di Angelo

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milkiane · 2 years

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I’M HOME, SWEETHEART. eddie munson.

navigation - masterlist - taglist

summary: they say home is where the heart is but eddie’s home and heart is you.

warnings: just fluff and love! lovesick eddie! profanities and very slight suggestiveness. gif credits to @his-name-is-ed.

word count: 2.2k

“i’m home, sweetheart!”

never once did eddie go home without making his arrival known, not when he finally has someone to go home to. it’s a gesture of simplicity, yet it carries a deep feeling of intimacy and saccharine for him.

you two went through hell and back trying to save up for your own place, your home — for your life together — but it was all worth it in the end because now you have a dainty apartment in michigan, stable jobs, and food on the table. it’s far from hawkins and its dark secrets but not far enough for dustin and the gang not to visit.

he groans softly as he locks the door, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension, eyes momentarily closing. he lets the strap of his guitar bag slide down from his arm, alleviating the digging into his skin. and then —

CRASH! — eddie stumbles over an ottoman that he swore was never there before. he stands up straight and scans the room. it was redecorated. he sighs, shuffling around the new arrangement of the apartment.

“eddie?”

eddie turns around to find you in a shirt twice your size, you were rubbing the sleep out of your eyes — and then with the pitter-patter of feet and the jingling of a bell, your dog runs towards him, greeting him with a pushing weight on his legs.

“sorry, did i wake you?” eddie frowns, rubbing the spot behind willow’s ears as he gestures to the living room. “didn’t know our interior designer came to visit.”

you smile sheepishly, squishing your face against his chest as you hug him. he pulls you closer, planting a kiss on the crown of your head. your words come out muffled, “i missed you today, had to get my mind off things for a while.”

“s’okay, sweetheart. i missed you, too, so much,” he mumbles, slowly swaying you in place. “but next time, tell me, yeah? nearly kissed the ground before i could even kiss your pretty lips.”

you laugh softly, pulling away from his embrace to give him a kiss, a quick one that issues a whine of protest from your boyfriend. “take a shower and then we can kiss all you want. you smell like mike’s socks.”

eddie grumbles, tugging your arm to give you another kiss; seconds longer and sweeter until he has to pull away to breathe. eddie wishes he didn’t have to so he kisses you again. “go back to bed, baby, i’ll be with you before you know it.”

and true to his word, eddie walks into your shared bedroom, fresh out of the shower. you look up at him from the solace of the warm duvet. your head is the only thing peeking out. it’s cute.

“aren’t you looking very comfortable?” he grins as you make grabby hands at him. he flops down the bed with a bounce, wrapping you in his arms.

“much better,” you sigh in contentment.

he tilts up your chin to give you a kiss, ever so soft and slow; no one’s in a rush, it’s all at the moment, one of which eddie wishes to live in forever. there’s a hint of morose gnawing at his chest — the thought of how he could just spend every waking and sleeping hour with you in his arms.

he thinks of how the world can be cruel by depriving him of the time to spend more with you. instead, he gets stuck day after day in a stinking bar with drunkards who do not appreciate the art of metal — aside from the owner, mrs. duran, who loves their setlist. bless her heart.

he does believe in the saying ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder’. it does, it really does. he finds himself missing you, thinking of you, yearning for you.

but then he thinks of your beautiful smile — and maybe another thing — and it’s enough motivation for him to get through his day and get home to you.

being lovesick is an incurable disease, he thinks, vastly lethal when it’s with the right person. there is no cure, but even if there is, eddie will not as much blink an eye for it. he’s been with you for three years and counting, and his love for you has never faltered — like poison, it grew, it spread, it flourished — but it isn’t as ruthless as death, no. it gives him life, it gives him love.

it’s everything every person can ever dream of; finding the love that makes everything make sense as if it has all along.

and eddie, who up until this moment marvels over his felicity, has just so happened to find both friendship and love in you. he’s the happiest he’s ever been, starting from the moment he met you, it never wavered.

he drapes the blanket over the two of you and turns the lamp off, enveloping you in darkness.

“i love you, eddie.”

“i love you, sweetheart.” not i love you, too — i love you. because he did not need you to say it for him to support the idea that he loves you. it’s not a too, it’s not an also, it’s not an as well; it’s i love you.

it’s a declaration that is instilled within the abyss of our hearts. therefore it should be veritable as it is brought out only by the intensity of our affection — felt to such a visceral degree. it’s the coup de grace of every profession of love ever made.

“more than your guitar?” you tease sleepily.

eddie scoffs, “let’s not go that far, babe.”

you chuckle, placing your head above his chest to listen to his heartbeat. thump… thump… thump…

“i’m kidding, baby. i love you…” he repeats, this time softer as he slowly succumbs to sleep and the dreams of you.

sunlight trickles through the window pane of the bedroom, sheathing a warm kiss on eddie’s skin. he groans softly, mindlessly patting around for you only to find your side of the bed cold and empty.

he yawns, rising from the bed with a stretch to wake his sleeping limbs. he shuffles out of the room, picking up the discarded socks on the floor. he makes a detour around the room, shooting the deserted clothes in the hamper.

eddie doesn’t mind it, really. no matter how many times you forget to pick up your socks or put your shoes in the rack, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

he wouldn’t have a place to call home if it didn’t have even a trace of you in it. the place will simply be called a house or an apartment, but not a home. it would be undeserving of that title if it doesn’t have your clothes lying around, or you spontaneously rearranging the furniture, baking cookies, dancing in the kitchen, or sleeping with him in his bed.

it shows signs of living, of laughter, of loving. with pictures gracing the mantelpiece, a sweater of yours thrown over the couch, and your diverse album records that are mixed with his — it paints the perfect home for him.

he finds you on the balcony, a mug of coffee in hand.

you feel him before you see him, arms making their way around your waist. eddie presses soft kisses on your neck, trailing from your cheeks and up to your forehead. he puts your coffee cup on the table, turning you around to kiss you on the lips.

“good morning, gorgeous,” he whispers, smiling at the feeling of you against him. his cold hands slip under your shirt and you jump at the temperature, pulling away from him.

“cold!” you chastise him, placing his hands over your shirt instead.

“but that’s why i need you to heat ‘em up for me,” he whines, trying to sneak them back under again, lightly brushing them higher… and higher… until…

“eddie!” you smack his hands away, laughing at his poor attempts. you look down at your sock-clad feet and his bunny slippers-clad ones. it didn’t fit even half of it, his heels were poking out. “...are those my slippers?”

he models them. “you like ‘em? they’re new.”

“yeah, it looks better on you.” you tease, grabbing your coffee cup from the table and his hand with the other, dragging him back inside. “c’mon, let’s make some breakfast.”

“what do you mean?” he asks in faux confusion, pulling you in the direction of the bedroom. “i’m right here, woman! here’s your breakfast — bon appétit, ma chérie.”

“you’re insufferable!” you laugh, pushing him away.

“you’re telling me you don’t want a piece of this?” he gestures to himself and when you shake your head ‘no’, he dramatically falls back onto the couch, clutching his chest as if he was shot. “how shall i live knowing thou love of my life no longer desires me and my di-?”

“woah!” you interrupted with an incredulous laugh, pulling him up on his feet. “that’s enough, romeo,”

“-displays of affection.” eddie finishes with a pointed look. he teasingly squints his eyes at you and he clicks his tongue. “what were you thinking, you perv?”

you playfully roll your eyes at him, making your way towards the kitchen. “we need some eggs, by the way. can you drop by the store to get some?”

“if i get a kiss, i would.”

“i’ll give you two.”

“deal,” he grins, immediately sauntering towards you. he tugs you by your waist and gives you a sweet kiss and two and three, and then more.

you pull away, patting his cheek. “i said two.”

“you gave me more anyway,” he quips, giving your butt a quick smack. “be back in a second, sweetcheeks.”

“i’m home, sweetheart!”

eddie groans at the smell of bacon, immediately making a sharp left to the kitchen. he places the box of eggs on the counter and stands behind you, chin resting on your shoulder. “smells amazing.”

you smile, looking away from the pan for a moment to start preparing the eggs when —

“OW!” eddie yelped, pulling away from the bacon he was trying to steal. he blows at the burn prickling his fingers, hissing at the sting.

“idiot! why would you get it from the pan? it’s hot!” you scold him, a laugh escaping your lips as you turn the stove off.

“i know that now.” he glares at you before his face contorts into a puppy dog look. he pouts at you, burned hand extending towards you. “i need you to kiss it better.”

you scoff in mock disbelief, turning your back to him as you fix up the eggs, stove back on.

“y/n,” he drags out, like a child having a temper tantrum. “you’re being mean. what if i die, huh? what if the burn spreads through my body and i get a heat stroke? it will be too late! — you have to tell dustin i love him but he will never have my d&d set.”

“you fucking drama queen.” you poke his side, grabbing his hand and giving it soft kisses. “s’that good now?”

“i think it needs more, doc,” eddie sighs dramatically and puckers his lips. “here, too, or else i’ll die of lack of air!”

“lack of air?” you laugh in disbelief. “how is that-”

“because you! you are the air that i breathe…” he pretends as if it was his last breath before he theatrically falls to the ground, eyes closed and tongue poking out as though proclaimed dead.

you snort in amusement, softly kicking at his side. “c’mon, munson, stand up and i’ll give you a proper kiss.”

and just like that, he’s standing straighter than he ever was before. you lean on the tips of your toes, holding his face in your hands as you smother him with kisses. i love you i love you i love you — you whisper in every butterfly kiss. i love you i love you i love you — you continue to say it.

eddie smiles at your affection. he used to believe he was undeserving of love — your love to be exact; your soft and loving love. it was beautiful. it was like no other. he believes he’s living in a fairytale except there were no adventures, no strife — it was just straight to happily ever after.

your smile parallels his; soft and lovelorn. you pull him closer, kiss him on the lips, and it's just as magical as every other one you had before — its spark never losing its touch. it still makes your hearts flutter, cheeks warm, minds fuzzy.

i love you i love you i love you — eddie whispers in between kisses. and fucking shit, was it true. he would give up everything if it meant stopping time just to be in the moment with you. be it that moment, the night before, or the day after this — he doesn’t care which moment it will be because every moment with you is a moment he will cherish for eternity.

with you, he is home and you will forever be his as he is yours. he is home. your home.

he’s home, sweetheart.

“do you smell burning?”

“fUCK THE EGGS- !”

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another-lost-mc · 5 months

Text

candy prompts: michael + sweet (with a dash of spice)

michael struggles with doubt when you visit the celestial realm.

pairing: michael x gn!reader

content: sfw-ish. some kissing but nothing explicit. insecurity and unhealthy coping mechanisms (michael). hurt/comfort. takes place sometime after s4.

word count: 1.2k+ (oops)

Michael spends most of his free time in his private garden. He tells the other angels he meditates there in the solace of sun and shade under his favourite willow tree, but it's only an excuse disguise the ugly truth: he goes there to run away.

He runs away when his endless responsibilities make his head spin and his jaw clench in frustration. Sometimes he runs away with a third helping of dessert so he can enjoy some semblance of sugary comfort when he feels empty inside. The sweet distraction he craves dissolves to ash on his tongue, tainted by whatever dark thoughts haunt him.

Today, he runs away to his garden and hides from you.

When you came to visit the Celestial Realm, Michael thought he was prepared. In a strange sort of way, it felt like he knew you already despite your limited conversations before. Luke adored you like a sibling and talked about you often. Simeon was obviously very fond of you too, but some of his messages were laced with lustful implications that Michael tried to ignore.

It was suspicious when Michael first realized how close you were with his fallen brothers. You somehow charmed the likes of Lucifer into creating a pact with you when so many others had failed. Not only that, but The Morningstar cared about you enough that he was willing to sacrifice his own life to save yours. It bothered Michael immensely at the time, but the jealousy he used to feel gradually lost its sharp edge and reluctant admiration took its place.

Michael knew he should meet you properly to understand what made you so captivating, so special. He couldn’t underestimate you the way all the others did—he wouldn’t be made a fool of. He steadied his resolve and braced his heart to meet you. You were the only human he respected and feared in equal measure.

He was right to fear you, of course. The moment he laid eyes on you, hesitantly stepping out from that portal and smiling in the realm’s eternal light, he was utterly charmed by you. From that first introduction with your hand grasped gently in his own, you murmured his name like a prayer and he felt the first stirrings of temptation. You were so pretty and so human and he finally understood why so many others fell for you.

He was determined not to succumb to you that easily. At first, he successfully avoided spending too much time alone with you. He made excuses while one of the other willing angels kept you company. If you knew he was avoiding you, you didn't seem to mind.

Every angel within the realm has their true calling and spends their days working or learning or teaching or training. You were eager to learn alongside them and most of them were glad to have your company in return. Even the most stubborn angels fell victim to your easy smiles and contagious laughter. Many were already lamenting the day when you would leave them.

It startled Michael when your interest eventually shifted back to him. He couldn’t make excuses to avoid you forever and you trailed after him as he carried out his duties in the Celestial Halls. He spent hours in his office completing the most mundane tasks but it wasn't enough to bore you or drive you away. You brought books with you to read and told him about Devildom gossip as you scrolled through your D.D.D. and you offered to fetch more tea from the kitchen when your cups ran dry.

He told himself that it was easier to tolerate you than to ignore you. You became a familiar presence at his side and it bothered him how much he liked it. In fleeting moments he found himself wanting even more.

Now he sits in his garden in the shade of his favorite willow tree, head tipped back against the rough bark and his legs are stretched out in front of him. Lately he spends his time consumed by thoughts of you. Tonight he tries not to think about the way you brushed your thigh against his under the table at dinner, or the way your face brightened when you told him you helped bake tonight’s dessert—one of his favourites, of course.

He ate his dessert slowly, slicing into the delicate cake and complimenting your efforts between bites. He enjoyed the fluffy whipped cream and sweet berry filling, but his eyes lingered on your lips when you hummed happily as you finished your own serving. He wondered what you would taste like if he kissed that flirty smile and cleaned that little smear of cream from the corner of your mouth with his tongue.

A quiet rustling nearby catches his attention. Michael’s not surprised to hear the soft shuffle of sandals against the grass as you approach him. He keeps his eyes stubbornly closed even when he feels you bump his leg as you kneel at his feet. He finally opens his eyes and watches with curious reservation as you crawl forward on your hands and knees until you’re practically sitting in his lap. Your hands tremble against his chest and after a moment, he carefully settles his on your waist to steady you. You melt into the touch and lean against him, warmed by his body against your own.

He gives you his silent acceptance of whatever this is and hopes he won't live to regret it. If he were a better angel, he would send you away so both of you can pretend this never happened. But he’s not that angel, not anymore, and he’s always been a little selfish.

Michael wonders what you see when you look at him because your gaze is so affectionate with the slightest hint of desire. It flickers in your irises like the first hesitant flames before the fire burns into a roaring inferno. He can’t remember the last time he felt so wanted; he feels overheated despite the cool breeze that jostles the tree branches above.

Still, he hesitates. What does an old angel like him have to offer someone like you? He bears the weight of so many burdens on his shoulders. His heart is heavy from impossible choices and regrets that keep him awake at night. Years of indulgence have left his belly bigger and softer than it used to be. He doesn’t understand why someone like you would ever want him.

He groans when your lips press against his. Your first hesitant kiss shatters his stubborn resolve and he gently rolls both of you over, laying you on the grass underneath him. Your chest heaves with panted breaths but you look completely satisfied. His brave little lamb. He props himself up on his forearms so he doesn’t hurt you with his weight but you pout like you want to feel more of him. He obliges and lifts your thigh up so it rests against the curve of his hip. He swallows your gasp when he lowers himself and grinds down against you, experimentally at first and harder when you dig your fingers into his back and urge him to give you more. You beckon him with sinful prayers and he feels compelled to obey.

He shudders with each soft noise that tumbles from your lips and each flick of your tongue against his own. His hands find their way beneath the intricately-woven clothes he had made for you while he seeks out all your sensitive places. He drags his mouth over the curve of your jaw while his deep voice murmurs praise into your skin, leaving a trail of biting kisses in his wake.

He satiates his ravenous hunger while he takes you apart with all the skill and patience he can muster. After all, there’s no need to rush—no one will come looking for you in his garden.

read more: halloween 2023 masterlist || obey me masterlist

#obey me #obey me michael #obey me michael x reader #obey me x reader #x reader #gn!reader #trick or treat 2023

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orchidyoonkook · 1 year

Text

Under The Willow Tree | MYG

Title: Under The Willow Tree

Pairing: Bad Boy!Min Yoongi x (F)!Reader

Rating//Genre: (T) | One Shot, Small Town AU, S2F2L, Implied Age Gap, Slow Burn, Angst, Touch of Fluff, Darker Subject Matter, First Kiss, Silce of Life

Summary: The town outcast shows up in the one place you find solace from it’s residents. The people you force yourself to fit in with, even though you never want to be anything like them. Will he ruin your only place of salvation, or become the most unlikely friend?

Warnings: PG16, some not necessarily positive non-specific religious discussions, people using religion in a negative may, plot twisty, cursing, kissing, semi-apparent abandonment issues, discussions of dead parents and guardians, mentions of alcoholism in a parent, mentions of illness in a parent, yoongi has tattoos and a motorcycle, motorcycle lessons, longing, mishandled emotions, catharsis.

Word Count: 7401

Release Date: April 10, 2023, 4:05PM

A/N 1: This happened due to a writing prompts post I shared sometime in late march. I’m quite proud of it considering I hadn’t planned anything so the entire story was written as I was writing. Very different than my normal writing process.

A/N 2: Thank you endlessly to @borahae-k, @katykatmeow, @here4btsfics and @phthartic-fox for beta’ing this. I love you all for your help, support and kindness.

It happened under a willow tree. A weeping willow.

Your favourite willow, to be specific. Even though there’s just the one.

It’s by the pond deep in the woods behind your house, where you watch ducks swim through the long, wispy branches that just reach its shore. Where you sit at the base, waiting for the sun to set the sky ablaze with colour as it falls into the horizon for another good night's sleep.

The one under which you had your first kiss.

You’d been waiting. Wanting it to be special, with the right person.

But a brief brush of soft, pink lips with the last person you ever expected had you wanting more, more, more.

It’d been a few months since he started coming to the willow. You’d assumed for the same reason you did.

To get away. From anyone and everything.

There aren’t many places in your hometown that allow for privacy, and you imagined he needed it more than anyone. Somewhere far from the residents' judgmental stares that were always nothing less than smothering.

Hailing from a very small, very rural, religious town where everybody’s known everyone for generations, your community is one where you follow in the footsteps of your parents and grandparents before them.

Where your life is already decided for you at birth, whether you know it or not.

Copy. Paste.

Copy.

Paste.

You’re born there; either at home with a midwife or in the one floor hospital down the main road. Raised there; a hand-me-down wearing, bike riding, creek-playing child.

You go to school there; stuck inside the same four walls from the ages of 4 to 18. Get your driver's licence there; from the sheriff after a road test that a 9 year old could pass.

You graduate there; from the same high school your friends, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents went to. Get a job; in town or on a farm, the only two options there are.

And marry there; before 25, lest you become a spinster, subject to the gossip vultures also known as your neighbours. Then have some kids before growing old and dying, your permanent resting place dug in the same graveyard as everyone else that came before you.

Copy.

Paste.

It’s a suffocating fate that petrified you to your core. And you’ve known you didn’t want it for as long as you can remember.

You never liked their rules. Didn’t want to become one of them, to do as they do, live the way they live.

You’d skillfully escaped making any true friends as you grew older, but kept the people you could tolerate close enough to not be bored on weekends. They’re all temporary placeholders in your life anyway, people who sound like robots stuck in the same settings. People who would hold you back.

What’s worst of all is that you don’t share the religion they claim to be so hallowed and wonderful. The one that’s unwittingly forced them all into this life of monotonous repetition.

You dream of more. Of life outside this dreaded purgatory.

Of leaving.

But no one ever leaves. They’re stuck here, in this downwards spiral of life you’re so desperately trying to dig yourself out of. It makes you feel like a fraud, constantly pretending to be one of them. Always wearing a mask just to make it to the next day alive, unharmed by them and their values.

It makes you feel like there’s always a pair of eyes watching, waiting for you to mess up and reveal your blasphemous self.

You’re terrified they’ll discover the truth. Terrified of the ostracisation that will come the second they know you aren’t one of them.

You’ve seen it in real time. What they do to people who don’t conform.

Seen how they treat him.

Two years older. Bleach blond hair and a sleeve full of tattoos. A leather jacket he wears like armour with all black clothes to match. And last, but certainly not least, a motorcycle.

You daydreamed about that bike. Taking it and riding far, far away.

The busybodied people of your town never had a kind word to be said about him. Instead, choosing to call him any and every horrible name under the sun.

Beast, bastard, demon, monster, criminal.

Unable to understand him, understand anyone different.

They herd their children away from him in the streets; parting like the Red Sea when he walks by.

As if he were acid.

As if he was evil itself, and not just a young man.

You’ve never even heard him speak because no one dares to talk to him, worried any contact could turn them, seduce them into whatever his sick ways were.

And you’re ashamed to admit you’re one of them…sort of.

You aren’t worried about speaking to him, you’re worried about what being seen speaking with him will do to you.

You’re someone whose only salvation from complete and total social isolation relies on fitting in.

And even if it kills you to pretend, you only need to do it for a little while longer.

You just had to make it to college. You’d be the first one in decades to go. Their mindset of ‘you have everything you need here so why bother leaving’ having not once in your life resonated.

You can deal with them and all of their beliefs about what you should do with your life for the short hours of school and occasional shifts at the diner, so long as you can escape to your willow tree, you’ll be okay.

The weeping willow in the middle of the forest behind your house is the only one in the area. You never understood why that is, but it’s your oasis away from everything you hate.

The tips of its branches sway rhythmically in the wind, and moss creeps up its trunk. It’s surrounded by dense, plush grass for you to sit on, and after all the years of sitting in the same spot, a little groove in the shape of your body has formed at its base.

Its canopy protects you from the outside world, creating a space where you don't have to hide. Where you can proudly be yourself without fear. Where you spend as much of your time as you possibly can to keep your sanity intact.

No one bothers you here.

Your mum died years ago from an illness they never diagnosed, her plot in the town’s graveyard long since filled.

And your dad never notices you gone, too drunk in your house up on the hill to care.

So as long as there’s a constant supply of food on the counter and beer in the fridge, you’re free to do as you please.

Under the willow you do your homework and sketch. You take pictures and eat breakfasts and lunches and dinners. You listen to music and dance under the safety of its shade.

Under the willow you read great adventure novels, and dream you’re the protagonists whisked away on grand adventures. Anywhere but here.

Under the willow is your home away from home. Next to the pond, under the stars.

So it’s to your great surprise when an unexpected guest pries open the curtain of flowing foliage one spring afternoon. A bleached blond, leather jacket wearing, motorcycle riding, guest.

You don’t see him at first, too focused on the sketchpad in front of you. He steps in, and watches you work quietly, waiting for you to notice him.

You fascinate him. Every other girl in town can be found at one of three places, yet you were never at any of them. Not at the restaurant sipping on a milkshake. Not at the library studying. And not at the church volunteering.

You’re always elsewhere.

And he’s finally figured out where that is.

He was nervous at first. To follow you. You’d never spoken but that wasn’t anything new to him. No one in this town ever did.

Not to him.

But you don’t look down at him like the others do. Or jump out of the way when he walks by. You don’t tear away from his gaze as fast as the others. You hold on, even if for just a second longer.

Unknowingly, you’ve captivated him more than anyone else he’s ever met.

So he followed you to see where you vanish off to, not expecting you to go into the forest behind your house.

For a half second he considered you dangerous, because what on earth could you be getting up to in a forest for hours? But as he trailed the sounds of your footsteps and saw the small clearing with the tree, it began to make sense.

After jumping ten feet from seeing something tall and dark in your periphery, you exhale a large breath when you realise you aren’t in any danger, and shake out the nerves.

You’d normally worry he was there to hurt you, but something in you knew he never would. Never could. Maybe it was the look he gave as he regarded you.

Soft. Wistful even.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, wary. The first words you’ve ever spoken to him.

Barely contained inside the limits of the willows perimeter, he shrugs, and takes a long look around your little sanctuary.

And as he does, you get your first real look at him.

He’s handsome. Stoically so. And for only a moment do you wonder about all the stories hidden behind his eyes.

The ones now focused on you.

“Wanted to see where you disappear to. You’re never in town.”

So what if you were never in town? Why did he care? Wait—How did he know? Does he pay attention to you?

…Why you?

You didn’t think he cared to notice anyone in this town, let alone you enough to know you don’t follow the social expectations of someone your age.

To pick up on the fact that you’re never there at all.

It makes a million things run through your mind—Why does he care about where you go? What about you is so special? Does he even know your name?—before one resounding thought hits you like a ton of bricks.

Can you trust him?

No one else in this town does, but all of their reasons are superficial bullshit.

All you know is you don’t know the first thing about him, and that now he knows about the one place you feel safe.

“That’s intentional,” you say, cautious. Not giving away anything but not saying much either.

“Can’t blame you,” he responds, before checking out the rooftop of bright green and muttering, “Eyes and ears everywhere.”

Those four words alone are all you need.

He gets it.

“Yeah.”

Maybe you can trust him.

Observing each other for a silent minute, there seems to be an unspoken understanding forming between the two of you.

And he shoves his hands in his pockets, asking, “Mind company?”

You think about it for only a second.

No. No you didn’t.

“As long as you’re quiet. I’m trying to focus,” pointing the eraser end of your pencil to the sketchpad on your lap. “The cattail leaves are the hardest to get the lines right.”

He nods, finally breaking free of his position at the branch's edge. Nearing the base of the tree, he crouches down, about a quarter of the trunk's diameter away from you. It’s close enough to still see each other, but far enough to not bump into one another.

And before nestling in fully, he extends a tattooed hand to you.

“Yoongi.”

An introduction.

“Y/N,” you return, putting your pencil down in the crease of your pad and shaking.

His hand is calloused, the ones you get from years of working with your hands. And strong, a firm grip. The kind you’d want to pull you up if you were dangling over a cliff.

So many stories contained in a 3 second touch. Yet you find yourself wanting to know all of them.

Releasing, he settles in.

What surprises you most about the whole encounter isn’t his arrival, or speaking to him for the first time, or even the handshake.

It’s that when he’s comfortable, with one leg up for an elbow to rest upon, he digs a book out from the confines of his jacket.

Jules Verne, The Mysterious Island.

Your favourite.

Spring fades into a wonderful summer of late nights and early mornings. Of beautiful blue skies and vivid sunsets you appreciate a little more now that you have someone to share them with.

Yoongi comes almost, if not, every day to the willow. Always a different book in hand. Always one of the classics.

The Iliad, 1984, Jane Eyre, Moby Dick, Anna Karina, Dracula, Little Women, Frankenstein, Catcher in the Rye, and those are just the ones you can remember because you’ve read them too. Some of them more than once.

You never expected to have anything in common with the boy that sits next to you. But from the little you’ve spoken to one another over the months, you’ve found that you share so much more than just reading habits.

On a warm April afternoon he told you he reads because he loves it but also to escape the daily hell that is your town.

“Mmm, what’s your favourite?” you’d asked.

Yoongi was lying down with an arm behind his head, staring into the treetop. Brave New World sat opened and facedown on his chest, his hand resting atop it.

“Pride and Prejudice.”

That was the last answer you expected.

“Why?”

He lifts his head to look at you.

“I thought the answer would’ve been obvious.”

After a cold drink on a hot June morning he told you his dreams of moving across the country. As far away as he could get.

“Just have to save up enough money first.”

You wondered how he made any. He definitely didn’t work anywhere in town…maybe waiting to inherit?

Who knew?

Both on a blanket you’d brought, Yoongi’s lying opposite and beside you, his feet by your hips. He used his balled up jacket as a pillow while you sat in your usual spot, capturing the way the branches swayed in your sketchpad.

He’d taken to reading to you while you drew, including you in the grand stories he now knew you loved to read too.

That day he had The Great Gatsby, a story you’d read about 20 times.

You often dreamed of attending one of his parties. Of seeing the green light across the way, or having a conversation with Nick, why he stayed.

“Are you anywhere close?” you asked, in reference to his saving goals.

“Getting there,” was all he gave.

And on a miserable, rainy night in the middle of August, is when you learned he’s all on his own.

Sitting beside each other, you both huddled underneath his jacket for what little protection from the rain it could give. Water droplets fell from the tips of his bangs as he spoke.

“My parents died in a car crash when I was 9, and then my grandma who took care of me, when I was 15.”

You grieved for him as he told you his story.

How he had to raise himself.

Just like you did.

“I’m sorry,” you’d replied gently. Softly. Knowing how it felt to have no one support you. No one to help you.

Knowing how it felt to be alone.

You understood.

You did, you did, you did.

Yoongi just stared at the ground, unable to meet your eyes. And you’d wondered if any of the water on his face was salty as he breathed out a quiet and heartbreaking, “Thank you.”

It made you question how many kind words he’d heard since his family passed.

And also incredibly pissed off at the people in your town for how they’d treated him.

How you’d…treated him.

A silent promise was made then and there. Never having felt more embarrassed and furious with yourself than in that moment. You’d learned your lesson, and hoped that offering up your own piece of vulnerability might help him feel not so alone.

Though you watched the rain turn the pond into a canvas of vibration as you did. Words dragged from the deepest parts of your soul, burning the back of your throat as they left.

“My dad hasn’t been sober a day since my mom died. His eyes are turning yellow,” you said, hugging yourself to stop shaking, convinced yourself it was because of the cold.

Even though it was August.

“He doesn’t recognize me most of the time.”

You closed your eyes, a familiar tang washing over your tongue as you licked the water dripping from your lips. He gave no response, but an arm found its way over your shoulders and squeezed.

He understood.

It’s the beginning of September. The air’s started to nip at your cheeks, and the ground crunches a little more everyday with all of the leaves falling underfoot.

The tips of the willows leaves have begun to turn the colour of the morning sun, and by the time mid October rolls around, it’ll look like golden hour every hour of the day.

Yoongi finally tells you about the job he has at a mechanic's in the next town over. He explains how they don’t pay him nearly what they should, but he doesn’t complain because every cent brings him closer to leaving.

Just him and his bike.

You turn sheepish.

“Can I tell you something?”

He sits closer after all this time, more comfortable around one another. Still not enough to touch, not crossing that invisible boundary line, but enough that you don’t have to turn your head much anymore to see his eyes.

Brown and endless.

“Yeah, sure.”

You take a deep breath.

“I kind of always dreamed of taking your bike to get away from here and never come back.” He gives you a look and you shrug. “Seemed the easiest route to take.”

A smile that starts as a smirk turns into a healthy laugh.

“What’s so funny?” You demand. He has to calm himself down a bit before answering.

“You just uhm…don’t seem the criminal type to me, Cattails.”

There’s a flutter of something in your chest at the stupid nickname. For the drawing you did the day you met.

He continues, unaware of the goings on inside you. “Stealing? You? Nah. Not a chance.”

You open your mouth in mock outrage, scrunching your brow and bringing a hand to your chest.

“I’ll have you know I’d make an excellent criminal,” you lie to his face. He knows it too.

But giving in, you detail the plan you’d always kept in your head for emergencies, heat slowly rising in your cheeks with every word.

“I’d take the key from you when you weren’t looking, duplicate it at the hardware store, and slip it back into your pocket before you ever noticed it was gone. Then go to your place in the middle of the night and be halfway across the country before morning.”

“Oh yeah?” he says with a raised brow you don’t trust.

“Yeah,” you confirm with a little too much faux confidence.

“And where do I keep my key, Y/N? Hmm?”

“Your jacket pocket,” you’d deduced long ago.

“Mmm,” he tsks with a shake of his head. “Nope.”

Oh. Well then it must be,

“Your pants pocket?”

“Nuh uh, try again.”

Damnit!

You’d never thought much about it. How many places can someone keep a key on them without a bag and it not be in their pockets?

“Ummm, in your wallet?” Far-fetched but worth a shot.

“Ooo,” he blows through pursed lips before smirking at you again, but this one was different. It caused something very deep inside of you to turn to lava. “Good guess, but also no.”

Closing his book and setting it down, Yoongi straightens and reaches inside the collar of his shirt, retrieving a necklace you didn’t know he wore.

It’s small, the key, and almost silver. The colouring is tarnished from years of use, with worn teeth and some lettering at its base.

He holds it against a palm to show you.

“Why there?” You ask, wondering if there’s a reason aside from convenience.

With a sad tug of his lips, he answers. “Bike was my dads. I like to keep him close.”

A tender smile meets your own plush as you stare at the little key, appreciating it more after learning the importance it has to him.

And Yoongi watches you, viewing his ticket to freedom with the biggest eyes he’s ever seen, full of that same compassion and understanding you’ve always given him.

An understanding he didn’t think he’d ever see again from this place.

One he doesn’t know if he deserves.

Before you can respond, he’s taking the chain off and sliding it over your head, hand lingering for a second longer than necessary at your nape.

“Yoongi,” you hesitate.

It’s the first time you’ve said his name out loud.

You like the way it feels on your tongue. Warm, sweet. Like honey.

What you don’t know is he loves the way it sounds coming from you.

You falter. “W-what are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“But it’s your key! Don’t you need it?”

“Nah, got a spare in the storage compartment of the bike,” he says, gesturing to the one you now hold in your palms. “This way you won’t have to go through the hassle of stealing it.”

“But I—”

“Keep it,” he cuts you off. “In case you need it more than I do.”

It never leaves your neck.

“You want me to what?” You ask as you walk towards the forest edge, Yoongi trailing on your left.

“Take her out for a spin. See if you even can. You’re the one who has all these grand plans but doesn’t even know how to turn it on,” he explains, referring to his motorcycle.

“Those were just daydreamed plans! I never thought I’d actually use them! What if I crash?”

He was kidding right? He must be.

For all the time you two have spent together, you’ve never spoken or been around one another in public. An unspoken agreement.

What happens under the willow tree, stays under the willow tree.

So to be out in the open? On his bike? You don’t know if you can. Or if you should.

But then you remember a promise you made not long ago.

“You won’t crash,” he says, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“How do you know? Like you said, I don’t even know how to turn it on,” you hmph.

“Because I’ll be there.”

And maybe it’s the tone of voice he uses, or the fact that you trust him, you find yourself saying,

“Okay, fine.”

Minutes later you’re swinging a leg over the bike, and sinking on to the surprisingly comfortable seat.

“Where do I put the key?” You ask, taking it from your neck and handing it over.

Yoongi puts it in the side of the motorcycle, somewhere close to your knee.

“Here,” he shows as he turns it to the ‘ON’ position.

“Oh.”

What a weird place for an ignition.

“Mhm,” he acknowledges, then points. “Put your hand on the brake, it’s the part that sticks out on the right hand side. Hold it firmly against the handlebar. Don’t roll the handle bar itself back though, okay? That’s the throttle.”

Doing what he says, you hold the brake tight against the handle bar, murmuring an ‘okay’ under your breath.

“Now hit that button there on the right to let the fuel pump start up,” referring to the button beside the brake near your thumb. You do so.

He checks a little gauge on the side near the ignition. Seemingly pleased, he continues. “And now hit the button on the left to start it.”

Following his words once again, the engine roars to life the second the button is pressed, purring powerfully.

You feel exhilarated and a little terrified. But he’s here. You know you’re safe.

Voice a little louder to combat the noise from the motor, he says, “Okay, now on the left handle bar, grab the clutch. I’ll show you how to move into first gear, and look at me,” your eyes meet his, “do not let go of the clutch.”

You nod, but for extra precaution, he clamps his hand over the one you have holding it. You watch as he bends to put your left foot on a pedal and presses it down till you hear a pop, pushing up the kickstand when he rises.

The bike is heavy, now that you’re the only thing keeping it up right, you can feel its weight. And you understand why they’re designed to be able to have your feet on the ground even when sitting. You’d probably fall over otherwise.

“If you’re uncomfortable you let me know, yeah? And if you get scared just do what you’re doing now with this hand,” he squeezes for emphasis, “it’ll take all the power away from the engine and you’ll just coast until you stop, okay?”

“Okay!” You say, more excited by the minute. Your toes and fingertips are starting to tingle.

“I‘m gonna let go and you’re going to very, very slowly let up on the clutch—not all the way. Just enough that you move at about a pedal bike's pace. Let me jog down the road about 50 feet or so, and then you meet me there. Hold tight to the clutch again when you’re about 20 feet from me and I’ll catch you. Sound good?”

Nodding one more time in confirmation, nerves crawl all over your skin. You can’t describe the new feeling fully, but the closest you can find to it is probably the beginnings of an adrenaline rush.

You watch as Yoongi jogs down the road, throws his hands up over his head, and gives you two big thumbs up.

Taking a deep breath, you slowly release some pressure off the clutch and begin to move forwards. You know your feet are supposed to go on the metal foot rests below you, but you're so focused on not falling or crashing that you just stick them out so they don’t touch the ground.

Halting your left hands release at the speed he said to, you cruise along, wind picking up with your increased pace.

Holy shit!

You’re riding a motorcycle!

You never thought you could, it was just a dream for so long. Something you kept in the back of your mind just for fun, but now you’re actually doing it! Your driving down the road on an actual real life motorcycle!? All by yourself!?

Turns out all you needed was a little encouragement and someone you trust to spot you.

Aiming for Yoongi, you clamp down on the clutch once again, cutting power to the engine. You drift right into his awaiting hands braced for the impact, and he slides a little on the gravel road before getting you to a full stop.

He presses one of the buttons you did earlier and the bike shuts down, allowing you to jump off.

You’re positively giddy.

“Oh my god did you see me?! I just did that! I just drove a motorcycle! Can you believe it?! I can’t believe I just did that!” You don’t even register what you're saying, too full of excitement to care.

Yoongi can’t contain his grin as he gets the bike standing on its own. Your joy is too infectious not to take part in, and he walks over for a high five to celebrate.

But to his surprise, you bypass his hand completely and embrace him, throwing your arms around his neck.

It takes only a second before he’s enveloping you with his own, not letting the chance to hold you go by.

“Thank you!” You say, before letting go, not even realising what you did. You’re too busy catching your breath from all the rambling and jumping around, still filled with the remnants of your elation.

Meanwhile, Yoongi can’t get the feeling of your body against him out of his head. How soft you were. How warm. The way you smelled like a mixture of your natural scent and outside.

And he’s asking, “You wanna to go for a ride?” before he can tell himself not too.

The question makes you pause. Was he serious? Because you can’t think of anything you want more.

Staring at him, your answer is far too gentle for someone who was just screeching with joy.

“Really?”

He nods, still untrusting of his mouth, confirming with a ‘mhm.’

You don’t hesitate. You want to feel like that again.

Not a minute later he’s giving you the helmet and securing it tightly. He also makes you wear his leather jacket to protect your torso, leaving him in just an oversized black t-shirt and dark ripped jeans.

Swinging a leg over, he pats the seat behind him.

And you’re glad to have the helmet on because without it he would most definitely see your inability to meet his eye. You can barely focus on anything aside from the sight in front of you and being wrapped in the scent of him. But then he gives a tattooed hand to help you hop on, and says,

“You have to put your arms around me and hold on. Otherwise you might fly off the back when we accelerate,” holding his hands behind him to guide yours.

What? You didn’t think this far. He—you have t—Ummm, well...

“Okay,” you answer, voice small, letting your hands be guided.

Despite the loss of his jacket, he’s still deliciously warm, and the heat in your cheeks increases tenfold with your hands now splayed over his abdomen.

Lightly defined muscles meet your fingertips through the thin material of his shirt and you do your best to memorize them as he turns on the bike and pulls away from the curb.

He starts slower than normal to make sure you’re alright, but when you give him the thumbs up, he speeds up to just over the limit and you hold tight.

You’ve never felt so free, loving the rush of wind that flows over your body from going so fast. It’s pushing a welcomed cold through the fabric of your clothes as your body temperature has only increased since getting on.

You could go anywhere, do anything. Nothing and nobody could stop you.

You want that. You want it so bad. And he gave you the key to be able to.

Literally.

But now when you think about leaving, you think about leaving with him. Yoongi driving and you sitting right here on the back, nothing but each other, the road, and hope for the future.

Growing confident enough to release your grasp after a few minutes, you raise your hands in the air, and let the wind catch your fingertips. A whoop of joy leaves you at this newfound feeling he’s given you.

Then another, and another, before returning them to their place around him.

Yoongi can’t help but smile the biggest he has in years when hearing your squeals of glee.

Because for the first time in a long time, he feels it too.

Yoongi doesn’t come to the willow for almost a week.

He’s never done that since he started coming. Not once.

And you’re worried.

Where is he? Is he okay? You have no idea.

It’s not like you can go looking for him.

And you two aren’t anything anyway, so you shouldn’t even be this worried in the first place. If he’s safe, or in the bottom of a ditch somewhere.

But you can’t help it.

Just like you can’t help the feelings that have blossomed for him over the months. The feelings you didn’t want to admit to yourself for fear of him not returning them.

Yet there they were, and there isn’t anything you can do about them now.

They make you wonder if you’ll ever see him again.

Six days.

It takes him six days to return. Stomping in, and visibly pissed off.

“What’s wrong?” You ask once he’s close enough to hear.

“I’m leaving,” he says flatly, uncaring. Like you asked him what colour the sky was.

And your stupid, silly little unrequited heart shatters.

“What?”

“I’m leaving. Taking off. Getting out of here. I can’t do it anymore.”

Piece by piece it falls from your chest and into the depths of your stomach.

“B-but why? What happened?”

“I got fired.”

“Fired?”

“Yeah, fired. I tried all week to fix this one stupid mistake I made,” he explains, smoothing over his creased brow with two fingers. “But it cost more to fix than to keep me around, so they fired me. I don’t have the amount of cash I planned for, but I have enough to make it work. And I can pick up odd jobs on the road if I need to.” He nears, extending a tattooed hand. “I just came to get my key and say goodbye.”

Your hand reaches for it, clutching it tightly. You don’t want to give it back.

Who the hell is this? Because you barely recognize him. It certainly isn’t the Yoongi you’ve come to know.

The wonderfully kind, classics reading, dream-sharing, motorcycle instructing, freedom key giving man.

The one who told you about his grandmother, and his parents. Who read you stories while you drew and ate meals together. Who taught you how to ride his motorcycle.

The Yoongi you fell for.

Your Yoongi.

The person currently standing in front of you isn’t him at all.

He’s the hard, cold exterior, crafted over years of verbal and societal abuse. The one everyone avoids at all costs when walking through town. The person he had to become in order to survive.

You don’t know this person.

And you hate it.

You hate it so much it decides to exit your body in the form of tears. Ones of sadness, frustration, and heartbreak.

He’s—he’s leaving.

Actually leaving.

This place, it’s people.

You...

The few remaining pieces of your heart plunge to the floor, crumbling to dust as they hit. Nothing but a hollow, empty cavern remaining where it once sat.

“But I–you…,” the lump in your throat only getting bigger when you try to speak. You face away from him.

Don’t let him see you cry.

He’s clearly never felt anything close to what you do for him, so suck it up. Reign it in. You do it everyday. So why can’t you do it now?

You don’t get to feel this way!

Shove it back down, get it down!. Crush it all until it’s nothing.

Make it go away. Far, far away.

Yoongi’s face is falling while you’re taking deep breaths to calm down.

In all of his rage and despair at his terrible week, he’s forgotten who he was speaking to.

His kind hearted, music-sharing, been through hell and back, kickass girl. The one he can call his only true friend.

He’s such an asshole. He hadn’t seen you for almost a week, which killed him in of itself. And then the second he does, all he‘s able to do is spew the frustration and misery he’s been feeling the entire time you were apart.

Nah, he’s worse than an asshole.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ha—”

But he freezes at the sound of a small, wet inhale.

You’re crying.

He made you cry.

And a regret bigger than the ocean drowns him.

“Hey, wait, please,” he says, rushing over, but you hold out a hand to stop him. “Please, don’t cry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

He reaches for you again, and again you stop him. You can’t let him comfort you.

Not when he doesn’t realise he’s become the only person in this whole godforsaken, judgemental hellhole of a neighbourhood wasteland you have.

Your grandparents are dead, along with your mum. Your dad’s an abusive drunk, too far gone to remember he has a daughter. You don’t have any aunts or uncles or cousins to rely on, nor do you have any real friends.

You have no one, aside from Yoongi.

And now you won’t even have him.

So you can’t let him comfort you. Can’t let him see you break.

You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

Because you don’t know if you’ll be able to put yourself back together without him if you do.

But a quiet, “Y/N, please,” imbued with pain you haven’t heard since a rainy August night leaves his lips. A last ditch effort to get you to look at him, to let him help.

And it breaks you completely, bursting into a million tiny pieces to match your heart on the floor.

An unrestrained sob falls from your mouth, and he pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you. Yours go to his neck as he drags you onto his lap, gripping tight.

He holds you through every whimper and hiccup and stuttered inhale and shudder. Through every muttered ‘please don’t go’ and ‘please don’t leave me,’ that escapes, stroking a hand along the back of your head and down your spine, soothing.

He whispers, “it’s okay. I’m right here. It’s okay,” on repeat with the motion. Over and over and over until only occasional sniffles and deep breaths remain.

You hug him tighter as you start to shiver, the warmth created from your breakdown beginning to wear off. Yoongi doesn’t hesitate to slide off his jacket and throw it over your shoulders. An instant cocoon of warm and comfort.

When his hands find their place back around your waist, he dares to speak.

“I got you.”

“I know.” And you do. Your voice is a little wobbly, as you’re unmoving from the embrace, but you most definitely do.

This is your Yoongi. The one you’ve come to know. To trust.

Of course he’s got you.

You use one of your long sleeves to dry your eyes and under your nose. With the nearing autumn weather, you’ve returned to occasionally wearing them.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe into his neck after a long beat of silence.

“What could you possibly be sorry for, Cattails?”

The return of your nickname has a grin threatening to emerge.

“For freaking out. I didn’t know that was going to happen.”

“Don’t be,” he says firmly. “I sprung that on you in such a shit way because I was in an even shittier mood. And you clearly weren’t prepared to hear it. I should’ve known better, so don’t you dare be sorry about anything,” he loosens his hold to pull back and look at you. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

You look down, hiding, not wanting him to see you like this.

“None of that,” he whispers, and brings a finger to your chin, tilting up.

It doesn’t meet much resistance.

Your eyes are still a bit swollen and patchy, but it’s the concern in his that makes you crack the smallest of smiles, if only to see his worry erased.

He already has enough on his plate. No need to add to it.

Not able to offer much more than a quirk of the lip, you’re relieved that it’s enough when he starts to wear one of his own.

It’s then you realise your position. Like the sight of it cleared your brain fog.

You’re kneeling over his lap, sitting on his thighs, face inches from his. One of his hands is holding your chin up while the other rests low on your waist, your own still loose around him.

So close, yet so far away.

Because he’s leaving.

And that thought alone allows you to throw caution to the goddamn window. It’s not going to matter once he’s gone, and you’ve wanted it to be with someone special.

He’s as special as they come.

Leaning forward, you close your eyes and the gap between the two of you.

Eyelids fluttering as your lips brush his. Soft, and gentle.

Like him.

You hold only long enough to make sure it counts before pulling back.

It’s funny, really.

It was just a few seconds, but you already find yourself wanting so much more with him. An unfamiliar but welcomed electric pulse finds itself running through your blood at the thought, and it makes you want his lips everywhere.

Your mouth, your jaw, your neck.

Anywhere he can reach.

Sparks pool inside you. Sparks and butterflies and fast flowing lava.

You let yourself relish in the glorious feeling for a single moment, before the reality of what you just did sinks in.

And then you’re scared.

Terrified, actually.

To open your eyes, see his face. His reaction.

What if he hated it? What if he’s never felt anything but platonic affection towards you and now you’ve gone and done this?

Sure, he’s leaving. But now that you think about it, does him leaving mean you’ll never see him again?

What if you just ruined everything?

Teeth sinking into the plush of your bottom lip, you take a peek.

For the second time today you feel your heart breaking, this time at the look on his face.

Is it shock? Or worse.

Disgust?

Doesn’t matter.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. Not knowing what else to say.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, trying to get out of his hold, but he keeps you there. Unyielding. And you start rambling. “I shouldn’t have done that. You clearly don’t—It’s just that you’re leaving and I—“

Lips on yours shut you up.

It’s fervent and needy and passionate as he pulls you closer by the hips, desperately trying to get you as close to him as physically possible. Your nails drag over his scalp as your fingers snake through his blond locks. They elicit a delicious groan from his mouth that you consume with your own.

It’s the most intoxicating sound you’ve ever heard, and you want more of it. So you do it again, and again, and again.

He moves down your jaw and neck, sucking at the tender flesh near your pulse point, and your mouth drops open at the feeling.

You’ve always wondered, but…you didn’t know it could feel like this.

Every touch, every whisper, every press of his lips to yours feels amazing. He’s pulling pleasure out of places you wouldn’t have thought possible before him. And you never want to go back to not knowing.

The sweetest of whimpers leaves your mouth as he gently bites a soft spot, then soothing the glorious pain he created with the kindness of his tongue.

Yoongi swears to any god who will listen that he’ll do whatever they want so long as he gets to hear that sound repeatedly and for the rest of his life.

He returns to your lips and says, “come with me.”

You’re so focused on feeling that it takes a moment for his words to land. “What?”

“Leave with me. Let’s get the fuck outta here, and never look back, the both of us. Together.”

Yoongi looks so serious but..

He—he can’t be serious can he? 15 minutes ago he was going on and on about leaving and needing his key back and saying goodbye.

And now?

Sensing your hesitance, he punctuates each of the next three words with a kiss.

“Come. With. Me.”

It makes your answer arrive without really thinking. You don’t need to think. Not when you know deep in your newly reconstructed heart that it’ll always be the same whether you think about it or not.

So long as you’re with him, you know you’ll be,

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” He questions like he can’t believe it. Can’t believe you'd agree.

You make sure there isn’t a single doubt in his head as you look him dead in the eyes and confirm.

“Yes, Yoongi,” another kiss. “I’ll go with you.”

He pulls you into him for what feels like a million more under your shared willow tree.

Your salvation.

And you know they’re going to be the firsts of many, many more to come.

Three days later, and two bags packed full of all your earthly possessions, you’re on the back of Yoongi’s motorcycle.

In those three days he’s prepared everything else you’ll need. He’s gotten a cute leather jacket and helmet for you, some reading materials for the road, snacks, drinks. A place by his side for the foreseeable future.

In the same span of time, you’ve given him a home in your heart, someone he can rely on other than himself. Talk to, trust, experience life with.

Something he hasn’t had in nearly ten years.

Something he never wants to lose again.

He swings a leg over and you unclip the chain from your neck, handing him the key to the bike, to your now shared future.

Driving out of town—straight down Main Street—you watch as all the people you grew up with, who you almost destroyed yourself to fit in with, gawk.

Watch as they judge you for being with him, your best friend. For leaving, and not doing what they all expected of you.

For not being like one of them.

Because you’re not one of them.

You never have been.

And just like the dust that flies behind the wheels, you feel weightless, not giving a single fuck what they think for the first time in your life.

You don’t have to anymore.

You’re free.

A/N 3: Thanks for reading, loves. Xoxo, - Yoon <3

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lollytea · 1 year

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Okay okay okay so my thoughts are a little jumbled right now so I'm not very coherent but I need to blabber about this one element of huntlow in For the Future that's got me going off the rails. It's the way in which they both take initiative in their interactions with each other, specifically how it differs with both Willow and Hunter.

There's a bit of a vibe in a lot of huntlow content that puts emphasis on Willow's confidence and Hunter's shyness, so she's the one who talks, who flirts, who acts, who gets the ball rolling. Meanwhile, Hunter clearly reciprocates and enjoys her attention but allows her to take the lead, rather than initiate anything himself. And this interpretation is perfectly fine. It's cute!! And Thanks to Them kinda gave us the impression that it wouldn't be that unlikely.

But the scenes involving them in For the Future were SO good. As an interesting subversion of the point above, it's actually Willow who's become the more uncertain one in their dynamic. As a contrast to how she comforts Gus when he tears up, Willow is rather hands-off when it comes to Hunter. It's likely because she understands that what he needs right now is space to process his grief, but in addition to that, she might be at a complete loss on how to help him. Because what could she possibly say? Willow can promise Gus that she'll find his Dad, she can assure Camila that things with Luz will be alright, but she can't bring Flapjack back. And even at this point in the episode, this may have been adding to her steadily escalating feelings of stress and helplessness. ("I can't help my friends...")

Willow feels like she keeps fucking up when it comes to Hunter. When she allowed herself that brief moment of childish indulgence by being silly with the plants, which resulted in Hunter snapping at her? Oh the way her smile dropped and she looked utterly devastated. She must have felt so guilty, so ashamed, so frustrated with herself for being so stupid and goofing off when her friend was severely hurting. And it's not like he was wrong for saying they didn't have time for this. But in typical Willow fashion, she shoved those feelings down and put on a smile for Gus.

There's no implication of it but I wonder if she also felt like an idiot for letting her emotions get the better of her when she saw that puppet of her Dad. She put herself in harm's way, forcing Hunter to charge after her and pull her to safety. Do you think she wonders if he was annoyed by that? Maybe that was eating away at her too. She's trying to be level-headed and reliable but it seems like she keeps slipping up. And Hunter is always there to witness it.

Of course, Willow didn't stop trying. Though she may have felt a bit rejected and disliked by him at the time, Willow still made the effort to look out for Hunter in any way that she could. She suggested they go outside and keep him company while he was pacing himself into the ground. And later on, she lit up with delight when she found something that she believed would comfort him.

And then she expressed, in her typical warm Willowy way, that they loved him unconditionally. She didn't have the perfect words to make everything okay. She was just being herself. Willow took a chance with this boy she didn't know how to help and simply said what she felt, hoping it would give him some semblance of solace.

But being herself wasn't good enough. At least not in Willow's eyes. She already had fragile confidence in regards to Hunter's current opinion of her but ohhhh the deafening silence that followed after she had bared her heart to him. The way she brought him to tears, leading her to believe she had rubbed salt in the wound. The way Luz had to gently intervene to make sure he was alright and Willow felt like sinking into the floor. How Hunter's quiet little "I....don't know..." speared her through. All of those things pushing her to her breaking point. She's made everything worse. Because that's what Half-a-Witch Willow does.

Hunter's perceived opinion of her is utterly deteriorating Willow's self confidence and it's the thing that results in her self loathing inflicted descent into thorny vines. She's in denial at first, still struggling to hold it together, still insisting that she can grasp hold of some facade. The pitchy and nervous tone of voice as Hunter appears on the scene and she desperately feigns nonchalance. She knows deep down that her magic is spiralling out of control but she cannot let him know. She cannot let him see her like this. And with this added anxiety of Hunter's presence, the vines only get worse.

Meanwhile, when it comes to Hunter, he is not idle by any means. He takes a proactive role in almost all of his significant moments with Willow.

Obviously, Hunter is a protector. He shields his friends from physical harm. He's especially paranoid about them getting hurt now after what happened to Flapjack because he can't lose them too. This paranoia, in addition to his overwhelming grief and recent trauma, has made Hunter high strung and irritable. Keeping his friends alive is his priority right now. Because of this, their emotional needs and how his snappish behavior is affecting them, is understandably the furthest thing from his mind.

But once he realizes that he's hurt Willow's feelings? Oh he looks completely shattered. The way Gus runs out the door to find her and Hunter murmurs "Wait..." before he rushes after both of them, calling out their names, begging for them to come back. There's none of the hesitation that Willow demonstrates with him, only loud desperation. What does he even intend to say to Willow? Who knows. Honestly, I don't think Hunter knows either. But it's not about that. It doesn't matter if Hunter has no idea what he's gonna say once he catches up with her. What matters is that he's running after her at all. He knows one thing and it's that he has to do something.

And that's what Hunter continues to do from that point. Something.

When he finds her tangled up in her own vines, mentally and emotionally unraveling, Gus hanging in distress above their heads, he's immediately asking her to explain, concerned and alarmed. When Willow's feigned cheerful demeanour shows its cracks and the vines start to ensnare Hunter, the last thing he does before he's fully bound is take a step towards the obviously overwhelmed and frightened Willow and try to reach out for her. Again, what was he planning to do? What was he gonna say? He probably had no idea. His actions were likely instinctive. But the fact that trying to provide some form of comfort to Willow was an instinctive response from him speaks volumes about their relationship. He's not going to stand around and do nothing while she's upset. Even if he's bad with words and emotions, he's always gonna try. She's worth trying for.

Cannot stress this enough but by the time her vines begin to consume her, Willow has probably convinced herself that Hunter's high regard for her has completely plummeted. Because why wouldn't it? This is, without a doubt, Willow at her most pathetic. But during this moment of complete wretchedness and self destruction, Hunter is the one who acts.

He bursts out of the vines and bundles her up in his arms. His hands press down on her shoulders and he frantically assures her that she's not to blame for any of this and she didn't ruin anything. He eases her anxieties by vocally expressing just how much he cares about her. He begs her not to be so mean to herself. And then, with desolate eyes and a soft gentle voice, he asks if she's been holding all this in the whole time.

He wants an answer. He wants her to talk to him. He wants her to tell him what's wrong so he can try to help. He wants to listen. And he's taking the initiative to get there.

And Willow's completely stunned face upon hearing all of this shows just how overgrown her insecurities had become, leading her to become entangled in the worst possible conclusion. She was now receieving affection and loving words from none other than the boy who she fully believed had lost patience with her for constantly messing everything up. The way the first tears pricked and her mouth wobbled when that soft gentle voice expressed concern for her, seconds before the dam inevitably burst. It was all a little too much for her I think.

Also can I talk about the little finger link?? I've been dying to talk about the little finger link!!!!

Everything about how that scene is executed is so sweet to me. Willow, though she's a lot more reassured over where she stands with Hunter, is still a little unsure on how to approach this. She doesn't hold his whole hand. No, that might be a bit much. For both Hunter and herself. Let's start smaller. Less nerve racking.

Of course, if she's still so hesitant, she doesn't have to touch him at all. But she wants to. She really wants to have physical contact with him in some capacity right now, even if it's as tentative as could be. In holding his hand, Willow would be making a rather bold statement. But in linking pinkies, it's more like she's asking a question. Is this okay?

She's clearly a bit unsure. Noticeably not looking at the touch, eyes locked on her feet before she speaks. But as unsure as it is, I think she's pretty brave for doing it at all.

What gets me is that what Hunter said left such an impact on her that she was compelled to thank him. She was grateful to be told that she didn't ruin everything. She had wanted to be told that she meant something to him. Even though she wasn't aware of it, she's realized that hearing those words took a huge weight off her chest. Willow could breathe again. She could see him a little clearer now. And she would like to tell him just how much those words meant to her. Just how much he meant to her.

This is the moment where Hunter silently answers Willow's question. He's choked up, he's nervous, he's overwhelmed, but in spite of all that, he still takes initiative.

In linking their pinkies, Willow is asking Is this okay?

And when Hunter deliberately presses the back of his hand against hers, he's answering her question. It's more than okay.

Anyway Hunter being proactive in almost all of the huntlow scenes, Willow being the more nervous one between them, neither getting to the point they've gotten to if they didn't each take the lead at different moments. It was all so good.

#toh spoilers #huntlow #long post #me: not making any long posts about my ftf thoughts yet i am tired #me five minutes later:#does this even MAKE SENSE?? like do you understand the point im making???#i feel like im not explaining it thoroughly enough #im tired

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