#but these memories are what i'm holding onto

[darkbluekies]

Cannot take what was never meant to leave

Yandere!king OC x fem!fairy!reader

Summary: Edmund walks out in the forest and finds something he never seen before: a tree fairy. Upon learning that he can't take her as long as her tree is there, he does the only thing he can think of.

Warnings: Edmund is a bit more insane than usual, reader is in a lot of pain, kidnapping, basically killing, use of an ax

Word count: 2.5k

A/N: this is HEAVILY inspired by Erutan's song "The Willow Maid"!! I have absolutely loved that song for ages, and after seeing PurestarMedia's music video of it on YouTube, I had to write something!! Edmund felt like the perfect fit for it!!

Summer is almost over. He can tell by a slight shift in the winds that colder times are approaching, even though barely any of the trees show any signs of autumn. He can't wait until he can bring out his thicker coat. He likes the colors of it much more.

Ten men he brought with him on his hunt for rabbits. They've decided to go into another part of the forest in hopes of finding anything.

Suddenly. A sound.

“Shh!” Edmund hushes and holds up a hand, signaling the others to stop.

He listens closely. It sounds like humming. It's a tune he has never heard before, but one that feels weirdly familiar — as if he has heard it in a dream or past life.

Quietly, they follow the sound until they reach a field full of small, white flowers. In the middle of the white field stands a tree with dark leaves. A scene taken straight out of one of the paintings hanging on the castle walls. Edmund notices someone sitting by the foot of the tree, resting among the roots. A woman?

The group of men creep closer. The woman is lying on the tree roots, leaning her head against the tree trunk, having a root under her knees for support. She's dressed in a long, white gown reminding Edmund of the small flowers. On her head rests a flower crown made of the very flowers. Her eyes are shut. Her mouth hums. 

A fairy.

One of Edmund’s men steps onto a branch on the floor, which snaps in half and pulls the fairy out of her thoughts. Her eyes snap open, revealing them to be deep and dark — and full of fear. She shoots up from her root and stumbles backwards, hiding behind her tree.

“Who are you?” she asks quickly. “What do you want?”

“You are a fairy”, Edmund says, still in disbelief.

“Yes … what do you want?”

“Have you seen any rabbits around here?”

She peeks out from behind the tree.

“What do you want them?” she asks and seems to notice the rifles hanging over their shoulders. “I'm not assisting you in killing harmless creatures.”

Edmund meets her dark eyes. They're hypnotic.

“You humans are despicable sometimes”, she says. “Killing innocent creatures who haven't done anything to you.”

“If I wouldn't, someone else would — man or animal.”

“I want you to leave.”

“Yeah, we should move on. We have rabbits to hunt.”

He can feel her eyes burn through his back as he walks back over the field of white flowers. He hopes that she will watch him until he disappears into the forest.

“Did you have a good hunt, your majesty?” his secretary asks as Edmund and his ten men come back to the castle.

“Caught a few rabbits”, he answers and smiles, thinking of the memory. “We encountered a fairy.”

They start to walk inside. 

“A fairy?” the secretary asks and holds the door into the castle open for the young king.

“What do you know about fairies?” Edmund asks. 

They walk down the large hall.

“I know that, like humans, there are different types of fairies”, the secretary says. “You found her in the woods, you said?”

Edmund nods. 

“She’s probably a tree fairy”, the secretary continues. 

“Yeah, she was sitting by a tree … almost like it was holding her”, Edmund says, furrowing his dark brows as he thinks about it. 

He holds out his arms as if he was carrying a woman, imagining her knees bending over his right arm and her back supported by his left … her head resting on his shoulder — like she had done to the tree bark. 

They walk into Edmund’s office, closing the door behind them. 

“What do you know about tree fairies?” Edmund asks and throws himself in his chair. 

“I know that they live in the woods and that they are connected to a particular tree. They feed off of sap from the tree and flower nectar — and if their tree bears fruit they eat that too.”

“What happens if they eat something else? Like meat? Or potatoes?”

“I don’t know, your majesty.”

“Would it kill them, do you think?”

“Perhaps. What I do know kills a tree fairy is killing their tree.”

Edmund looks up at him. “What?” 

“Their life source is connected to their tree. They live as long as their tree does.”

“So you’re saying that a fairy can become hundreds of years? Thousands even?”

“Could be.”

“Interesting.” He sighs and throws his head back. “You should have seen that thing. Before she noticed us she looked so … peaceful. She was resting and humming a tune. When she realized that we were there she flew up and hid behind her tree. All of that seemed so young and naive. Her tree wasn’t that large either. I think I’ve found myself a young fairy.”

“The fairy seems to interest you.”

“I’ve always wanted to meet a fairy. I didn’t believe that they actually existed. But now, I’ve found one. I think that I’m going to make her my wife.”

The next day, he returns with his ten men and his secretary, dressed in his autumn coat. On the way to the glade, Edmund picks a few flowers with the biggest nectars he can find, hoping that they will be a good enough gift. He is going to ask her to marry him. 

She is walking around the white flowers, picking up a few and putting them in her flower crown. She looks up as they come. This time she doesn’t look as startled, but there’s something wary in her eyes. 

She’s beautiful and delicate, there’s no denying. Edmund needs her. Every fiber of his body needs her. She needs to be his wife, to be the mother to his children. He refuses to leave without her. 

“What brings you back?” she asks as Edmund gets close enough, but doesn’t sound like she wants to know. 

He can tell that she wants to get back to her tree. She gives it quick glimpses and takes small steps back towards it. 

Edmund holds out the flowers towards her. She hesitates before taking them out of his hand. Her fingertips barely graces his skin. Her touch is humanlike, kind and delicate. 

“Thank you”, she says and smells them softly. 

He smiles. He wants nothing more than to hug her, to hold what belongs to him in his arms, but he has to ask the question first.

“I want you to marry me”, Edmund says. 

The fairy drops the flowers in shock. They disappear underneath the small, white ones. Edmund furrows his brows.

“Marry you?” the fairy repeats, shocked. “How could I possibly-? No, no, I shall not.”

Edmund stares at her, eyes darkening, unable to understand how anyone could turn down his proposal. Women would travel far and wide to hear those words come from his mouth, and this fairy — who does she think she is — doesn’t even think twice before rejecting him. It should crush him, but instead it has the opposite effect. He will not leave without his fairy. 

He looks over his shoulder, at his ten men. “Seize her.”

Just as the ten men are about to grab the fleeing girl, his secretary grabs his shoulder. 

“Your majesty, don’t”, he says quickly. “That won’t be possible. She can’t leave the glade.”

“What do you mean?” Edmund scoffs.

“She’s connected to that tree.” He nods towards the tree in the middle of the field. “She can’t leave it.”

Edmund glares at the tree. That damn tree. The woman runs through the flowers towards her tree, hugging it tightly. Edmund finds it humorous how she thinks a simple tree could protect her. He could do it a hundred times better, will do it a hundred times better. 

He sees how she sinks down by the tree, huddled up by the tree bark, crying. Soon, she will search for comfort in him, not a damn tree. 

“We can’t take her”, the secretary says. “I don’t know what would happen if we tried, but as long as that tree is there, we can’t remove her.”

Edmund doesn’t answer as he walks back into the forest. The ten men follow him. His secretary keeps a distance. Edmund feels like he could explode with anger. He had pictured himself leaving the forest with his new fiance hand in hand. But he will not give up. He will get his fairy. 

He returns a third time the next day. This time he’s by himself … and this time, he’s brought an ax. Determined to take her with him. She will be his wife. This time, he’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer. He will not walk away empty handed. The thought consumes him as he marches through the forest, towards the glade. 

He can see her lying in the same spot he had seen her the first time. This time, she’s not humming. She opens her eyes as he gets nearer and jumps to her feet as her eyes fall on the sharp edge of the ax. 

“No!” she screams in pure panic. “No, what are you doing?! Don’t!”

Edmund lifts his hands and lands a blow on the bark, cutting away a piece. To his right, the fairy screams in agonizing pain and clutches her heart. He continues to hit the tree. The woman continues to scream. She cries in pain. 

It takes longer than he expects. He takes his eyes off the deep cut in the tree and turns them towards her. She’s lying between the roots, curled up with her hands pressed against her heart, crying and screaming. 

“Please stop!” she screams and sobs so that her entire body trembles. “Y-You’ll kill me! Please s-stop, please! I’m begging y-you!”

If he continues to hit the tree, she will die. 

Edmund will have to bring a piece of the tree with him and replant it in his castle’s garden so that it doesn’t die — so that she doesn’t die. He continues to chop. She continues to scream, cry and plead for him to stop. 

A loud creaking echoes through the air. He watches as the tree bends in half and falls. The fairy stumbles upon weak legs and hugs her fallen tree, sobbing. 

With the ax, Edmund manages to dig up root systems of the tree. He holds it in his left hand and grabs the fairy’s wrist tightly with his right. He yanks her up on her feet. 

“You belong to me now”, he says. 

She only sobs for an answer. She tries reaching out for her tree, but Edmund pulls her with him. She stumbles. He drags her into the forest. 

“Please …”, she sobs. “Please …”

He doesn’t know what she begs for. The tree is fallen, he can’t undo what he has done. 

“Please, I’m in so much pain”, she pants. 

He doesn’t listen, doesn’t have time for it. He has to get her to the castle, where he can lock her in, so that she can’t escape out to the forest again. 

He can feel her collapse. Edmund gasps and watches her lie lifeless on the ground. He shoves the tree roots in his pocket and hurries to check her pulse. She’s still living, for now. Edmund stresses to pick her up. Her limp body rests in his arms as he runs out of the forest, towards the castle. 

He runs into the castle yard, into the hallways and out to the garden. He lays the fairy down on the grass and hurried to dig a hole with his hands. Oh, how he hates the feeling of dirt under his nails. He can’t think about that now. 

He places the root in the hole and covers it with the soil. Edmund runs over to the fountain, cups his hands and fills it with water. He runs back and forth until enough water has been poured over it. He feels for a pulse on the fairy’s neck. There’s still a faint pulsation underneath his fingers. He removes his coat and places it on the ground beside the tree root before lifting the fairy onto it. He caresses her face. 

“You actually got her.”

He looks over his shoulder at his secretary. He stands there, looking at them in disbelief and horror. 

“Is she dead?” he asks. 

“No, not yet”, Edmund replies  breathlessly. “I brought a piece of the tree here and I have replanted it. She should survive. But we need flowers — lots of flowers. And anything else a fairy might eat. We need to nurture her back to life.”

“I’ll prepare some honey water, I think that should be drinkable.”

Edmund sits by the fairy, waiting patiently. 

Hours go by. She doesn’t move. Barely breathing. Edmund wonders if he she has fallen into some kind of limbo, where the tree is barely alive, and so is she. If the tree doesn’t survive, neither will she. He has to nurture both. 

He feeds the tree water and nutrient dense soil and tries to pour droplets of honey water into the fairy’s mouth. Sometimes she responds by swallowing softly, and sometimes let it drip out of her mouth. 

Hours turn to days. Days to weeks. As the tree slowly grows roots in Edmund’s soil and become stronger, so does the fairy. Edmund doubts that she will ever become as strong as she was before. The tree will never be in its full glory again, and neither will she. She can’t walk, her body is too weak to move more than a few minutes. He lets her rest by her short stub. When he can’t stay with her, he watches from afar, from one of the windows. She’s always curled up, hugging her stomach as if she’s got cramps. The poor thing never smiles anymore. 

He holds a glass of warm honey water in his hands as he walks out to the petty excuse of a tree. It'll take years to become as big as it originally was, but it will never be the original tree.

“Hi”, Edmund says softly and sits down beside the fairy, holding the cup to her dry lips.

She doesn't seem to care what she gets fed anymore. Maybe she hopes that it will kill her.

In a sense, Edmund has killed the fairy.

She drinks slowly.

“I don't know what to feed you when winter comes”, he says. “I have harvested a lot of nectar and sap, but I don't know how long that will be good for.”

A tear runs down her cheek. Edmund wipes it carefully.

“My fairy, don't worry”, he whispers reassuringly. “I will figure it out.”

He wishes that she could respond, but he hasn't heard her voice since that day she screams in pain — when he killed her.

He stands up, gives her forehead one last kiss before walking back inside. In the beginning, he used to have guards watch over the garden to make sure that she wouldn't run off, but he realized that as long as that tree is there, she isn't going anywhere.

[googleitlol]

Two questions! Well, one’s more like a prompt/scenario, but I’m still saying it!

Do you have any plans on getting back to your “The Memory of You” fanfic in the future? Because I’m a certified Macaque wimp (right there with Wukong) and I’m dying to know everything that happened between him and Lian!😭

And second:

I just got myself Black Myth Wukong brainrot and I randomly thought of a situation where Dove would wake up from a nightmare about Wukong’s death, and she instinctively places a hand over the Destined One’s heart to hear it beating because of his resemblance and everything. And the Destined One just helps hold her hand to his chest and resting his own hand over hers until she calms down🥲💘💞

1) Omg tbh I didn't realise ppl were still reading that one! I'm focusing on PoM rn so I don't think I'll be getting to it anytime soon unfortunately. I do wanna continue it tho, and rewrite some stuff too! My google doc is so big for TMoY that if you wanted, I could totally answer some asks about it. Since I'm focusing on Dove and Wukong rn, I wouldn't mind sharing some secrets about Lian and Macaque's past (I will yap so much abt them, I love Lian she's my sweetheart).

I also took a break from writing that fic because, uhhhhh… I had only seen part of season 4 when I started writing the backstory for Lian, did some research into chinese mythology and legends I could pull from… then after posting a bunch of chapters, I watched the rest and realised I accidentally made her backstory/creation extremely similar to someone else (if you're caught up on the show, you'll know who I'm talking about). They both involve, uh… similar people?? So I got spooked and decided to wait a bit to see if that character's backstory would be like what I'd written for Lian and… it's starts out very similar 💀

But honestly, I think I'm gonna keep it the same cuz I love Lian, and I love the story I've made for her and Macaque. So if you've got any questions abt them, I'd be happy to answer until I shift my focus back onto TMoY.

2) Oh, and… my god. I love this idea of yours. That dream. Hoo boy, that dream. I love it when people understand the sort of angst I wanna put Dove under. Running to her love, knowing what's about to happen but too far to stop it. Maybe if he saw her, if he knew she was coming, maybe he'd still be there. But no matter how much her throat scratches as she screams, no sound is made. No matter how fast she runs, how far she pushes herself, nothing changes.

The Destined One frowns, he's seen her like this on so many nights. There's something that's plaguing her… he just doesn't know what. She shuts him down at any and all moments he has to inquire about her night-terrors. Still, he's found a subtle way to help in the best way he can. After one night where she reached out for him and he let her hand press against his chest, he noticed how she calmed a bit.

That becomes their nightly ritual. Whenever he notices how she starts to mumble in her sleep, shout and cry, he'll cuddle up next to her and hold her in his arms. He'll keep her head pressed against his chest so she can hear his heart– that always calms her down. As long as she has something, her hand or even an ear pressed to his heart, she'll calm down. Maybe the first few nights he started doing this, she'd cuddle up to him a bit. He'd be awkward about it at first, but eventually grow used to it. After a while, he'd find that he actually really enjoys spending those nights with Dove in his arms.

[faketrex]

How about "2) the last room at a drive-in motel in the small hours of the morning" for firstprince? 👀

Thank you, Sara! 💝 For prompt number 2, "the last room at a drive-in motel in the small hours of the morning."

RWRB, firstprince, alternate universe, a little bit of faux noir. Spies? Maybe! It's an... interlude. Plot creep was real with this one.

...

Just because the banging on the door–the banging that wakes him from the first sleep he's gotten in more than twenty-four hours–isn't a surprise, that doesn't mean that Alex fucking enjoys it.

On the nightstand, the red numbers on the radio alarm clock show 03:35 AM. Hard pass. Alex mashes one ear into his pillow; who knows, maybe he'll get lucky and it'll reduce the noise by half.

The banging gets louder. He'd expected that.

"Open the bloody door, Lexington, I know you're in there."

Whoever’s in the room on the other side of Alex's headboard starts pounding on the wall, too, in an aggressive rhythm that Alex recognizes: it's the sound of a business traveler who's not going to put up with any shit. "Be quiet, it's three in the morning!"

"Fine," Alex yells back as he rolls to his feet. He bangs one fist against the wall twice for good measure. Might as well join in on the fun. "I'm up, I'm up. Everyone hold your fucking horses."

Contrary to every one of his instincts, there's no need to check the peephole–or put on shoes, or even a shirt–before unlatching the door and swinging it open.

Alex has, in fact, been expecting this visit.

"You know, sweetheart, some of us like to live our lives using a little thing called subtlety. Fly under the radar, so to speak." He looks Henry up and down, eyes skimming over the crisp suit, the slicked-back hair, the shoes that had probably cost more than half the furniture in this motel room. "Does that concept ring any bells in your pretty little head?"

"Your charm is matched only by your shameless hypocrisy, as usual."

"Yeah? Should I even ask what kind of bogus James Bond car you've got parked outside?"

"Ah, but that would ruin the surprise," Henry demurs, deadpan.

Alex leans to the right and up onto his toes, but the parking lot is dim and misty–and he can't make much out beyond Henry's broad shoulders, anyway. They're a little distracting, and not just because of the raindrops spattered across his expensive suit. All of Henry is a little distracting. "Give me a hint?"

"Gather your things and come see for yourself."

"Well, maybe I'd rather just go back to bed, baby. It's always a treat to see you, but–"

"Shut up, shut up, I'm calling the front desk!"

In the pause following the threat, Henry reaches out and trails the tips of his fingers up Alex's bare clavicle. "Your neighbor would seem to agree with my plan."

"My neighbor hasn't got a leg to stand on after watching Wheel of Fortune so loudly, I could spell all the words myself. For five fucking hours. And–" The memory of Henry's touch on Alex's skin is staggering. "And you're late, Henry."

"Alex," Henry whispers, hushed, softly enough it's more breath than sound. "Love. There's coffee in the car."

Lucky for Henry, Alex's bag is already packed.

[menlove]

wait curious about your thoughts on this. i genuinely dont believe the paul john reconciliation thing that paul pushes in every interview (abt the bread phone call etc) like im sure they had that conversation and maybe that was a nice memory but theres a paul late november 1980 interview (good morning america i think?) where the interviewer is like “john said you died creatively etc” and then paul gets very awkward and said he just keeps quiet publicly or else john will get resentful and that he doesnt know why john does that. its literally like two weeks before john died idk im like a mclennon ended on bad terms truther and i genuinely believe pauls batshit behavior the last 40 years is the result of him feeling bad about everything

I think I'm at a bit of a middle road with it! because there's certainly that (although what john actually said in that interview was meant differently and seemingly misconstrued to paul to try and start drama, although it sadly says a lot that paul sort of just expected that sort of thing by that point) & I do think that their relationship by 1980 was a lot more complicated than paul has wanted to talk about (for good reason). I wanna say there's a few interviews where he even says that, like it was difficult to come to terms with his feelings on everything with john bc suddenly he was Dead you know?

but I do think them reconciling and being friends again wouldn't necessarily negate that. there was a lot of baggage between them at that point & it would be very easy for the two of them to be Wary of each other even if they WERE on good terms and calling more often. which would just make paul's reaction to "john said you died creatively" even more of a blow for him like "what the hell, we're on good terms now, why is he STILL saying this shit?" and given that it was misconstrued and I wanna say not even a PUBLISHED interview yet, he really had nothing to go on except being ambushed by that question

plus there's the fact that they apparently had a recording studio booked for '81 and john was set to come back to england to record with him. and ofc (just like) starting over in general, though that depends on how much you believe that was for paul

honestly I think john died while they were on confusing terms. not really a Great place but also not on bad terms either. sort of a "yeah okay, we've made up, we're trying, maybe we'll get together and record, now what?" sort of place. especially given a lot anecdotes that yoko was fielding calls from paul & requests to come see john. I think they both Wanted to make up, but life was in the way. so they got phone calls about bread. but paul was obviously still wary and hurt/confused by john's back and forth behavior. I think there's some other quote somewhere from paul about how he never knew what he'd be picking the phone up to. on john's end, he probably WAS hopeful and fully intent on recording with him in the next year and, ya know, starting over. for paul, he probably didn't know if he could hold him to that or even hold him to being nice the next time they talked.

but ya know, 40+ years down the line, it's probably a bit easier to cling onto the good moments and not the confusion around where they stood at the end. lots of time for reflection on how john must have been feeling & coming to the conclusion that they WERE on track to being okay again. I think at the Time paul was probably just rightfully very cautious & that had to be a weird feeling to deal with after any future plans were killed with john

[fortheloveoffanfic]

What if this is the last time I see you?

Hozier x fem!reader

Author's note: I'm sorry that I haven't finished one angsty story before forcing another onto you. But this one is shorter, I promise.

Summary: A chance run-in between exes at the farmers market leaves Andrew wondering if he’ll be okay never seeing Y/n again. Part 1 of 2.

Warnings: ANGST

At first, Andrew thinks his eyes must be playing tricks on him. But the longer he stares, the more it makes sense – and the more it makes sense, the more he is convinced. A pop-up farmers market, a fruit vendor selling an assortment of brightly coloured, sure-to-be sweet, freshly picked fruit. Or so he says.

She’s wearing a jacket that he swears he’s seen before, but it could’ve very well been on a mannequin in a store front and not in her closet – or on her body.

But he’s certain that its her. She’s carrying the basket in a way that’s all too familiar. She’s looking at strawberries and those are her favorite in the summer. It must be her.

So it must be divine intervention that he drove past the farmers market and decided to stop, because Andrew usually gets his produce at the grocery store, on the occasion that he’s home for long enough to do his own shopping.

Setting down the bright, glossy apple he’d been holding onto for a criminally long period, he inches towards her little section of the booth, debating what he should say. ‘Hi’ doesn’t feel like enough, but he fears that if he takes a chance with anything more he might stomp all over their impromptu reunion. He doesn’t want to be too much;

What a funny thought, he thinks. Considering the whole reason for their end was because he wasn’t enough.

Well, that might be a bit of an unfair distribution of blame. He’s pretty good at playing the victim where the demise of their relationship is concerned.

By the time he reaches her, Y/n has already placed a few strawberries into a plastic baggie and is looking for a few more to round off her purchase. And he settles on the very measly and shamefully uneventful; “hey.”

Surprised, Y/n jumps slightly and twists to face him, eyes going wide. “Andy, oh my gosh, hey.” She hesitates for a moment before reaching out for a hug that becomes quite a clumsy endeavor. They don’t seem to know each other as well as they used to; he can’t tell if she’s reaching for his neck or midsection, so their limbs get tangled in a strange manner. “Sorry,” she mumbles bashfully when the whole thing goes on for longer than any ‘I haven’t seen you in five years’ hug should take.

Shrugging off the unwarranted apology, Andrew stuffs his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans in an effort to keep himself from touching her again. “How have you been?” He tries to sound nonchalant, but his gaze drips to her left hand, looking for any sign of a ring. And when there isn’t one, he feels a knot in his chest loosen a little.

“I’ve been….” Y/n trails off, as if the question is the hardest one she’s been asked in a while. In some ways, she supposes it is. Is she supposed to lie to Andrew? Tell him she’s fine and happy and her life is going fantastically well when the truth is she hasn’t been able to scrub the memory of him from her mind and she still buys his favorite brand of tea because when it brews, the smell makes her house feel a little more like home. “I’ve been alright,” its something between the truth and any lie she can tell; she is alright. Alive and healthy, if only a little sad sometimes – but who isn’t, right? “You?”

Andrew fumbles with his words, he’s not sure why but the question feels almost taunting. Why would she throw that back to him? Why wouldn’t she just assume that she’s stowed the best of him into a box and taken it along with her? Everyone else sees it, they tell him he hasn’t looked the same since she left, that he talks differently and he’s truly a little depressing to be around sometimes. “I’m…..okay.” Just okay – not good, not bad, but somewhere in limbo, surviving.

At his response, Y/n nods absently. God, he wishes he knew what that meant. He wishes he still knew her well enough to know what anything she does means. There used to be things that only he understood about Y/n. There’s a version of her in his mind that still whispers in the dark, even if they’re the only people in the room, and ensures all the cutlery in the drawer is packed in the same direction. There’s a version of her that might have tilted her head at his response, and told him that she knows that ‘okay’ is never just ‘okay.’

But this is someone else, someone he doesn’t know. But he loves her anyway.

He’ll love every version of her. But at least he’s only lost one.

“You’re probably the last person I’d expect to run into, here especially,” but maybe she doesn’t really know him that well anymore. Maybe he goes to the farmer’s market every Sunday now and they’ve just been missing each other.

Maybe he goes with his girlfriend - a wife even -and right now she's at another vendor. She's going to be back soon. And she'll be beautiful and Y/n will think; no wonder he let me go so easily, because he knew there was better was out there.

Shaking off the unsettling thought, Y/n adds, “you used to get everything at the grocery store.”

“You used to grow everything yourself,” he notes, not maliciously though. It's really just an innocent observation; he wonders why she stopped.

“I guess…..we’ve changed,” Y/n muses, and a little sliver of her wonders if they’ve changed enough to make it work for a second time around.

“Not too much, I hope,” but what he really means to say is; ‘I hope we’re still the kind of people that can love each other.’ “Ehm,” he clears his throat softly, and finally gathers the courage to ask what he’d been thinking about since he discreetly examined her finger, “seeing anyone?”

What a question! Simultaneously, it makes her want to laugh and cry. “Not right now, no.” Of course, she’s seen other people since their break-up, but nothing ever sticks, and that might be because every man is now measured to Andrew; does it taste the same when they kiss her? Hold her hand the way he used to? Do they tell the same sort of jokes or thread their fingers through her hair before falling asleep? “What about you?”

Andrew waves his hand dismissively, “no one serious,” there isn't really anyone at all, but he doesn’t want to seem like he’s a complete wreck and one more white lie can’t hurt.

“Good,” the word slips out almost without thought, and Y/n quickly shakes her head when Andrew arches a brow. He isn't supposed to know that she's relieved; that he just quashed one of her biggest fears - that there's another woman that knows him as well as she does, but couldn't love him half as much, “well....not good. Just you know….you’re good at being on your own,” he was pretty damn good on his own even when they lived in the same house, “so I’m sure you’re doing good,” god, she wishes she had stopped talking three minutes ago.

Hesitating, he bites his tongue as the urge to tell her that he's not okay and it's all her fault wells up. Didn’t she see the lie in his eyes when he said he was okay? Is he that much of a stranger to her now?

Again, Andrew shrugs halfheartedly, “I’ve been okay,” he repeats before pressing his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t trust himself to add anything more, because then he’ll say he still misses her and its been far too long for him to still be mourning an empty side of the bed and the sound of her laughter in the drawing room.

He shouldn’t still go into his home studio and still expect her to come trailing after him, armed with a book with the intention of curling up on the sofa that gets just the right amount of noon sun. He shouldn't miss the way she looks while humming along softly to what he's working on, blanket draped on her folded legs, hazy light washing her face - he shouldn’t have left her blanket there after all this time.

He shouldn’t even be thinking about it, because the more he does, the more he wants to tell her. Beg Y/n to come back – to take him back because he’s really only half himself without her.

“I should let you –”

“You probably have –”

“Sorry.” Another clumsy, awkward apology, this one in aching unison. There’s silence for a while, and Y/n tugs her lower lip between her teeth. In a way, it feels like they’ve been standing there for too long, at least, like this. Not knowing what to say to each other, with the nails of her free hand digging into her palm so she doesn’t reach out to touch his arm. It shouldn’t be like this, she never wanted them to come to this; reduced to two awfully familiar strangers. “I should um….I have to….go…” She goes to say home, but the word doesn’t come, “I gotta go, Andrew.”

Swallowing the lump that’s been caught in his throat since he first saw fifteen minutes earlier, Andrew nods stiffly. “Of course,” he breathes. The last thing he wants is for her to leave, but he doesn’t really have any right to keep her. “I’ll leave you to it.” They both nod that time, shy and unsure but no one leaves. Not immediately. His eyes stay matching hers, and there’s a hundred things weighing down the tip of his tongue, but clinging to it like molten sugar.

I'm sorry I let you walk out, I'm sorry about everything. I still keep your ring in my nightstand, just in case. My mom still asks about you. I should've been better, let you in and I know that now. I'd do it now. I'm actually horrible on my own now, because you've ruined me in the best way - and the worst. But he doesn't say any of it; the moment is long gone and his pride does a pretty good job at keeping him quiet.

A shuddered breath escapes her lips upon realizing that she actually hasn’t moved an inch; Y/n doesn’t think she can be the one to bring herself to leave this time. She doesn't want to turn her back to him again. So she lingers, and she swears roots are sprouting from the soles of her feet, keeping her in place, staring into his eyes because lost in them is suddenly the only place she wants to be.

“I should go,” he eventually determines, glancing away. Though, the minute he says it, Andrew is lashed with immediate regret; he does not want to go. He doesn’t want to leave, but he suspects that this time its entirely on him to turn around and walk away.

“Right, right,” Y/n blinks quickly, then, just as he’s about to turn, she interjects, if only for the purpose of holding him there a little longer, “it was really nice seeing you.”

He nods, but doesn’t say anything, not right then. Though, when he turns away and starts retreating to the other end of the small tent, squinting his eyes at the midday sun, catching him square in the face, he pauses. Throwing a cautious backwards glance her way, he finds that Y/n has returned to picking out strawberries and on a whim, Andrew finally allows himself a singular moment of weakness – perhaps in a way of giving her what she’s wanted since their very last fight. “I’ve missed you,” he utters.

Y/n’s head snaps up just as she hands the bag over to the vendor for weighting, “what?” Her brows are furrowed and her lips are slightly agape.

Hating the sudden vulnerability that comes with those three little words, he shakes his head, “nothing. I’ll see you around,” he spares her a short wave, and she does the same.

After that, not a single word is traded between them again; Y/n pays, plops the bag into her basket, and walks off, and he watches her go. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest as she weaves her way through the busy market, and there’s a strange sort of finality in the moment where the last inkling of her green jacket disappears.

What if he never sees her again? What if that moment, in that tent, surrounded by fruits honeyed by summer’s warmth and the bitter heartache of something unfinished, constitutes the last fifteen minutes they will ever share?

What if she’s gone from his life forever and he’s damned to an eternity spent looking at her pictures and never hearing her voice again? Wondering what she’s doing and if she’s finally moved on from him?

Can he survive it? Truly? Without feeling like a shell just being shuffled around by the wind?

Returning to the assortment of ruby-toned apples, he struggles to escape the onslaught in his mind and Andrew finds himself unable to choose any, not even one, so he goes with strawberries instead.

To be continued.....

[rockwgooglyeyes]

Although this is extremely late, what would you say happens during and after Nyx’s and the other’s escape?

HI (I am assuming) PARA!! I'm so sorry that I never wrote something for the aftermath of Nyx's round, I had a draft but I just moved into my flat at uni and my flatmates moved in last Sunday and it's been kind of super chaotic since. I haven't had much time to write. But the finished product will be in this ask-response, for simplicity's sake. If that's okay with you

LOG (SUBJECT: Round 18 - ONYX LOSS)

SPECIMEN: 001247 (ONYX)

When the lights go out, fear is the furthest thing from Nyx's mind.

Why would he be afraid? Lang won, she won, he's so happy he could cry. She deserves it, she deserves the world, he wants to hug her and kiss her forehead and tell her that he loves her before he goes. He clutches onto her, their dance stuttering to a stop in the muddy black. He can hear the alarms going off, the panicked screams of the crowd, the footsteps clattering through the arena and the gunshots ringing out, but it all feels far away. Lang starts to push him away, her hands shaking, but he holds fast.

"It's just me, please," he rasps, voice breaking on the last syllable. She goes still in his arms, wariness clear in the steely potential energy of her limbs. He finds her forehead with his hand and brushes away her bangs from it, bending down to press a kiss to the revealed skin. "Thank you, Lang, for being my friend. I love you." She hesitates, hands twitching where they rest on his chest, before hugging him. She squeezes him tightly and lets go all too soon, distancing herself from him. She takes one step and then another, getting farther and farther each time.

Letting out a shaky breath, Nyx lets her go. Lang doesn't turn, she doesn't run away, she watches him unflinchingly in the murky darkness. If there really is an afterlife, he thinks, I will miss her when I get there. Maybe I'll get to see Kyo, or Cas. Tov might even name a constellation after me. He doesn't follow her, simply standing there and waiting for death to come. He doesn't care how it's done, whether it be a bullet through the chest or someone slams him to the ground and bashes his head in, it doesn't matter. If his last memory is one of pain, then so be it. He deserves it, after all this time of living past his expiration date.

See, it was as soon as he realized that Kyo would never love him back, it was when he first set his eyes on Asahi, it was when he stood on stage at graduation- those were the moments that told Nyx that he wouldn't make it past twenty. Here he is, though, twenty and something months, however many days over his allowance. He doesn't regret it, the moments he had in that stolen time. He was able to tell Tov he loved her, he got to tell Vera goodbye, he saw Aurien one last time and Solei, well, Solei is still alive. He just hopes that they're happy.

Nyx can't help but laugh- Tov will be absolutely furious with him for dying. For losing. At least, he hopes she hates him for it, that it makes it easier to accept that he's gone. Part of him still wishes he had done something other than laugh. He wishes that the last thing he said to her was something gentle, sweet, but he supposes it wouldn't have been true to form. He's not a sweet, gentle person. He's brittle and sharp around the edges and cruel when it counts, bitter when it hurts. Still, he wishes that he had done something better than laugh when she told him to win. He laughed because he had nothing to say, because he was surprised, because he was astounded that Tov thought he even stood a chance. After all, she knows the truth, that Cas threw the round, that he'd done it as some kind of sacrifice, some sick act of love.

(Really, Nyx should have known from the beginning, that something was off, that Cas wasn't trying as hard as he should have been, that he wasn't pouring his heart out into it like he would've been had the circumstances been different. He should've known that the calm, the acceptance in Cas' eyes was a harbinger of doom, an omen for what was to come. He didn't. He was too foolish, too naïve, too stupid to see the truth.)

When a hand clamps down over his mouth from behind him, he doesn't scream. He doesn't fight. He waits for the end, no resistance, no questions, no fear. Maybe that's why it takes him a moment to make out Aurien's voice, pleading with him.

"Nyx? Nyx, can you hear me?" He blinks, turning to see his little sister, standing stark in the darkness. Inky strands of hair is dripping into her wild eyes, she pulls down a mask covering her mouth, breathing heavily as she watches him.

"Aurien," he murmurs, breathing her name in a hushed whisper, reverent as a prayer. He takes a step forward and tucks her hair behind her ear, cupping her face with a hand, stroking his thumb down the delicate curve of her cheekbone, the gentle flutter of her eyelashes. She leans into his touch, smiling slightly and releasing a sigh of relief. "You're not supposed to be here." What happens next doesn't make sense, her eyes flashing open, fury flashing in their obsidian depths.

"Nyx," she intones, warning obvious in her tone. She places her hand on top of his, her jaw twitching with barely constrained rage.

"I've already stayed too long," he tells her, running his fingers through her hair, just as he used to when they were children and he was comforting her while she cried. "Please, save Lang instead. She doesn't deserve to die." She jerks backwards, ripping his hand away and stumbling, looking shaken to her core.

"What are you talking about?" She demands, throwing her hands up in the air. "You don't deserve to die, either." Nyx barks out a laugh, shaking his head.

"Of course, you would say that," he sighs, looking down at the ground. "But Cas died. He died so that I could live. Kyo is gone, Vera too, that's not even mentioning Tallis. You and Solei are happy, now. I'll just drag you down, with my cynicism, my baggage. You're better off forgetting about me."

"You-"

"I don't deserve to be saved."

"Well, good thing that I don't fucking care whether or not you deserve it," Aurien snaps, eyes flashing dangerously. "You're coming. We're saving you. No buts."

Of course, right after she says that, a whistle pierces the air and punctures her in the side. Right where she was shot the first time. Right where Cas was shot. Nyx catches her when she falls, grasping at her arms with shaking, sweaty hands. She coughs out blood onto his shoulder, trying to push herself back up and failing. Nyx should be helping her, he knows he should be helping her. After all, she's real.

But his vision is flickering in and out, Aurien's hair turning curly, the color of dried blood, hemoglobin on silk. She looks up at him, says something, but he can only see Castor's face, smiling at him with bloodied lips. Nyx can only hear the laugh that bubbled out of Castor in his last moments. Nyx's heart is beating the drums of war in his ears, chest heaving and tears budding in his eyes. He presses his hand to the wound in her side to stem the bleeding (like he did with Cas) and she hisses in pain just like Cas did.

Nyx chokes on his own breath, stuttering backwards, unable to do this any longer. Aurien makes a noise in surprise, crumpling to the floor, just like Cas did. Just like Cas did.

"It's not, real, he's gone," Nyx hiccups out, shaking his head, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. "He's gone, he's gone. Please, please," He repeats it, a broken record catching again on the needle, attempting to self-soothe in the face of a fracturing psyche.

"Onyx," a voice cuts through his delusions. He barely hears it and when a hand suddenly grabs his forearm, he flinches away on instinct, eyes wide, panic taking over every other faculty of his mind. The owner of the hand is he doesn't recognize, with white curly hair and a face mask just like the one Aurien was wearing, and they're looking at him sternly. "We need to get out of here."

"Wh- I- alright," Nyx acquiesces, too tired to fight anymore. "Where're we going?" His voice is hollowed out and rough, broken by his crying.

"Surveillance room," the white-haired person grunts out while picking up Aurien gingerly and holding her over their shoulder. "You know a way there?" Nyx nods, scanning his mind for the shortest route from the stage. He beckons them to follow him and darts off, lowering himself down off of the stage and going to the undercroft beneath the stage through a hidden panel. The person ducks in behind him, seeming surprised at where they end up, the racks of costumes, the tools and other supplies, microphones and cords strewn about. Nyx weaves through the mess quickly, leaving his companions to catch up as he rewires the lift to bypass the security lockdown.

"I wouldn't risk the lift if we didn't have someone injured," Nyx says quietly, fingers tangles and disentangling the cords he pulled from the outlet. Finally, the lift dings, the light turning on as the doors open with a hiss. The person holding Aurien nods to him and enters the lift. Nyx presses the button inside and opens up the admin panel to program a no-stop straight shot to the surveillance room. "See, the thing is, the undercroft and the surveillance room are directly connected because they're both backstage work areas." Nyx doesn't know why he's talking, not really, but the words are spilling out of him and it feels good to fill the silence up with something other than the hum of the electricity and the whispers in his head insisting that this isn't real either, he's already dead and this is some grandiose delusion of heaven.

They actually reach the surveillance room before the person holding Aurien even responds to his rambling which feels a bit like a blessing in disguise. There are two people already in the surveillance room, one of which whips around to face them while the other stays hunched over the admin panel, presumably doing damage control. Funnily enough, they look like Ryu and Ji-Woo but that's ridiculous. Those two went missing.

"Nyx?" The person that looks and sounds like Ryu exclaims, amber eyes widening. "Shit, what happened to Aurien, Bunny?!" The person carrying Aurien, Bunny apparently, lets out a sigh and walks out of the lift, dragging Nyx with them.

"She got shot, Ryu, obviously," Bunny answers. "Now, where's our muster point? We can't just hole up in here."

"I'm working on it," Ji-Woo barks out. Nyx has decided that they must be the real Ryu and Ji-Woo, no matter how ridiculous that is, because they both sound like them and look like them and Ryu got called Ryu by Bunny and Aurien is the real Aurien and- fuck, he should really just shut up. Ryu glances at Nyx out of the corner of his eye.

"Hey, are you okay?" Nyx blinks, frowning at Ryu in confusion. "You seem shaken up." Nyx stares at him for a moment longer before trying to smile.

"Never been better," he lies through his teeth. He's definitely been worse but suffice to say, this not one of his better days.

"I've got a muster point from Solei, c'mon, we need to go," Ji-Woo says as soon as he sends out a command for a system wide 24hr shut down. "We meet at docking bay 4D in the Φ wing. You know where that is?" Ji-Woo glances to Nyx who blinks in surprise before nodding. He finds his way to the front of their pack before darting ahead, scanning the hallways for any guards as he slowly orients himself and takes them through the weird back alleys of the arena.

"How do you even know these are here?" Ryu asks at some point while they're in an abandoned fuel cellar in Φ wing.

"Uh, trial and error mostly," Nyx replies as he tries to remember whether they go right or left from here. "Oryon took me to the last two seasons of ALNST but it didn't really supervise me well so I wandered around."

"And you never got caught?" Bunny inquires, skeptical and for good reason.

"Oh, it's left," Nyx realizes, beckoning them to follow him through the gap between two walls where there used to be insulation, before the wing was decommissioned and set for demolition. "I mean, I haven't gotten caught doing this yet." Finally, they emerge in the bay after going through the vault in the ceiling, where all the old electrical is still hanging from the rafters.

"You would have been useful to have when we did this before, Ji-Woo and I kept getting lost," Ryu remarks. Ji-Woo blushes and elbows his partner before breaking off to find Solei. He waves them over to a bulky object covered by a dusty tarp after a moment. He and Ryu drag the tarp off and Solei pops up from the bed of the truck, eyes huge and wary in the dim. Bunny settles into the bed of the truck as well, putting Aurien down gently in the pile of bedding there so that she won't get jostled too much. Solei chirps, panic obvious in their tone and Nyx feels guilt pool in his stomach. He gets into the passenger seat after Ji-Woo settles behind the wheel, unable to face his sister who he was unable to help when she needed and the friend who loves his sister as much as he does.

Nyx thinks the best thing that happened tonight was Lang surviving.

Perhaps, Nyx is not good at accepting good things.

I will tag @starry-skiez because Ryu & Ji-Woo belong to him, @bluemoonscape because Castor & Kyo belong to him, @apriciticreveries because she's Aurien's mama, @solei-eclipse is Solei's creator, @rosedeleca for Bunny & Rose. um. @zerostyrant because he asked to be tagged <3 oh and @ivanttakethis because i mention Tov <3

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

I just saw the excellent post about Chuuya's loyalty and 1) how he hasn't questioned his philosophy and 2) "In a world where a "path" typically involves challenging the characters' philosophies and forcing them to reevaluate, what the hell is going to have to happen to get Chuuya to do the same?" (quoting you)

Chuuya is always used by others. He's not the only BSD character whose been taken advantage of, but it does seem to be reoccurring with him? First by the government who intended to use him as a super weapon, then by the Sheep who used him for his ability, then by mafia/Mori (getting him to join in exchange for sparing the sheep, keeping his past from him and giving him incentive to become an executive and stay in the organization). He's constantly used for his power.

Please tell me if I'm misinterpreting what you all said, but it seems (to me) that Chuuya ignores the mafia's/Mori's manipulation because they have helped him and given him a home+family, so he's instead loyal to them.

Because even though Mori has not and is using him for his power, he still allows it/goes along with it because they've helped him in the past and earned his loyalty.

So Chuuya tolerates being used.

He's now being used again, obviously, in part, because of his power. We have Fyodor referring to him as just his ability and bragging about how he can "use" him better than Dazai ("doesn't that mean you're unfit to USE a gravity manipulator")

Do you think it's possible that just being vamped and used again will cause him to reflect on his mentality? He's once again being used (but be it in far more blatant way: literal mind control. Also reminds me of Verlaine+his creator). Reflecting on how he's been used in the past and no longer accepting being used by others anymore?

Or do you think it might have the opposite affect and push him deeper into the mafia somehow

Also it's interesting that Fyodor is using him but hasn't earned his loyalty (like the sheep+mafia) and how that'll affect Chuuya

I'll get to the second ask in a bit but I'm combining these because they're related.

About the first ask: I mean, yeah, you're right about this. I don't know that I'd consider it so much "ignoring" though as "the benefits outweigh the costs so whatever", and I do want to state that I'm pretty sure Mori is genuinely at least a little fond of Chuuya (see: their conversation about leadership at the end of Fifteen), and his Mafia colleagues do respect him.

But yeah, you are absolutely right to say that there is a pattern of people who want Chuuya for his ability and his loyalty, and/or reduced him down to these traits. Playing hot potato with the escaped military lab experiment and the Mafia won (<-simplification for the funnies but still).

But here's the thing: if this was the end of it, we might expect to see some resentment mixed in there from Chuuya. He was blackmailed with the Sheep's lives. His past was intentionally locked away from him until he worked his way up to executive. That's... not great.

But instead we find pretty much only gratitude from him. Why?

Well, see, there's a reason I put the return of Chuuya's screwed up self-concept in the tags on that post, because it's kind of at the heart of his impressive loyalty. Chuuya believes that since he is the one with the strongest power, that makes him responsible for protecting everyone else, which means that he rationalizes any concern or protection directed at him as something "above and beyond", and worthy of recognition and repayment. Remember that he genuinely felt like just a vessel for power and nothing else for apparently quite a bit of his childhood, and the Sheep emphasizing that he owed them for taking him in probably did not help.

When it comes to having his back, the Mafia did this for him in a way no one else did. They protect their own, a value that aligns closely with Chuuya's own personal philosophy. The Mafia is also relatively safe from external threat, if we recall Dazai's pitch to Odasaku in Day I Picked Up Dazai - Odasaku is being targeted, but no one in their right mind would challenge the Mafia just to get to him. So, the Mafia has provided Chuuya with protection, comradery, and relative safety, which in my mind all condenses into a central need that takes precedence over everything else to him.

Chuuya's core need is actually stability.

And this makes quite a bit of sense. He started off as a kid with no memories and a whole lot of trauma he couldn't remember the roots of. One's past is a source of stability, but that had been taken from him. His position as leader of the Sheep was shaky. Even his identity as a human being was called into question. Chuuya as a kid and teen was largely untethered, separate from everyone else with no way to ground himself. Under those circumstances, something that originated as a chain could easily become a safety rope.

And once Chuuya found this stability, there was really no need for him to change anything. So he didn't. He settled into his new role and became really, really good at it, and didn't bother to re-evaluate beyond that. Why would he? That minimal core need has been met, despite the rocky beginning.

Which brings me to this second ask because it's actually incredibly relevant. Yes, Chuuya and Sigma are alike. You are not losing it anon.

Let's run a list, shall we? They both awoke with no memories and a missing history, and had their humanity called into question. They were used and blackmailed repeatedly, which they were, fortunately and unfortunately, consciously aware of. When they find something that matters to them, they become violently defensive of it. They both operate on principles of reciprocity and transaction because that is what they believe to be normal in relationships (Sigma's ability even is quite literally a transaction!). They both have pretty low standards for their assistance (Sigma hearing one (1) single person (Atsushi) be kind to him in what he thought were his last moments, Chuuya "You have helped Chuuya! Chuuya will now kill and die for you!" Nakahara).

Above all else, they are looking for stability. They are looking for a home.

As of yet, Sigma hasn't found a true home, but it seems we may be building up to him joining the ADA. The key part is Sigma's realization that the Agency doesn't rely solely on transaction. Dazai is not using the Agency, the Agency is not using Dazai. The Agency members are all helping each other. They care about each other.

Meanwhile, Chuuya has already found a place that provides his core need, but there's one caveat about the Mafia that should be clarified here - as Odasaku says in Dark Era, people within its ranks don't talk about personal matters and feelings with each other, and everyone instead keeps to themselves. If you don't talk about your issues or air them out, relations tend to stay personally shallow and dictated almost entirely by the demands and positions of the organization. This is not a conducive environment for reappraisal or self-exploration.

Unfortunately, this is ideal for Mr. Chuuya "I'll keep all my emotions right here and then one day I'll die" Nakahara.

Chuuya has found some measure of stability - solace in his own self-defined identity in spite of the initial ambiguity as to his humanity. "This is who I am", "Till those flames die down, I can't just do whatever I want", "I'm gonna do what I need to do", etc. But importantly, this identity is entangled in whichever group he happens to be a part of, which in this case is the Mafia. This kind of self-identity cannot exist without the structure of an organization. It relies on the reciprocity of a group.

Moreover, it relies on Chuuya showing very little vulnerability. Compartmentalize, and move on. He expects that of himself.

So, we've established that Chuuya has his core need for stability met by the Mafia - a relatively secure place that runs on transaction, which is familiar to him - yet it also doesn't push him out of his comfort zone with respect to emotional vulnerability and openness. What this means is that, in the Mafia, Chuuya is practically invincible, both physically (his ability, his martial arts prowess) and emotionally (personal life kept hidden and guarded as a Mafia expectation).

Unfortunately, this means Chuuya also remains stagnant as a character, which finally, finally brings me back to your original question anon.

No, I don't think the vampirism is enough to trigger change in Chuuya's character. Chuuya has some standards, and treating him like a tool (and Dazai's tool, no less) is going to seriously piss him off, but that's anger at Fyodor, and it doesn't impact his stability with the Mafia any which way. If Chuuya had've been forced to activate Corruption to escape the drowning then maybe he would've been angry with Dazai enough for something to shift (activation being his own choice is a huge theme with them), but since he didn't, I expect Chuuya will unfortunately just shrug it off and roll with it. Probably yell at him for a bit, but nothing that would have far-reaching consequences for his character unless there is something about his current situation we don't yet know.

I think for Chuuya to grow and change as a character, he needs something major to shift in his life - the threat has to come from within his place of security. He needs to be destabilized. Something needs to happen that specifically targets his tethers and his self-concept.

Personally, my money's on the destabilization of his bond with Mori, who he has the most respect for, because that might trigger development related to leadership and goals, but I guess we'll see. I think it'll probably be incredibly heart wrenching and hurt us all severely, whatever it is.

Huh. I wrote a lot. Congrats for making it to the end! I'm going to sleep now. :D

—

Edited by removing the entire middle section because it was absolute garbage and probably should’ve been its own post. I hope the rest of this holds up. That’s what I get for writing things at 2 in the morning I guess.

[theragamuffininitiative]

I watched the doctor donna specials and I have emotions. Also I kinda love fifteen. Also none of those plots made sense but they were still good lol.

I just love the Doctor and his bestie Donna so so much. 😭 she got a happy ending after all 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 and so did he alkdlrfkleldd 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 ok I'm normal I'm fine.

[dire-kumori]

I tend to think of Mike as someone who wants to be good, but only had bad examples to learn from.

[moe-broey]

I <3 blowing up my save files mid-playthrough or after I've beaten the game and feel aimless or I'm three hours in and incredibly indecisive and perfectionistic and have to start over Better this time or I just get really into One Idea and blow up the save for the sole purpose of achieving the One Idea and once I have it's like. Well. What was the point of that actually. And then I blow it up again

[romanticnihilistforhire]

I think I get praise kinks now?

I had to get my blood drawn and the tech said, "Wow you have such good veins." In a low, almost reverent tone.

And it hit me some kind of way. I fucking blushed and batted my eyes like, "thanks"

[cactusdodes]

.

[nc-vb]

I was wondering why Apep's boss theme sounded so familiar, like I was having heavy nostalgia trying to figure it out, but it reminds me of something from Kingdom Hearts, which I haven't played in so, so long!! Like especially the parts that involve the flute and clarinet??

omg y'all didn't know but I used to play the clarinet in middle school and grade nine, and we had to put on a little performance once, and I played one of the OSTs from the second game ksdjfsldgslk thinking about it kinda gets me cringy BUT it's a core memory where the aftermath of the performance unfortunately made me not want to play it anymore......... it's such a shame.

[madamescarlette]

I don't remember who I was / before you painted my nights / a color I've searched for since

[chaosgenasi]

i started entertaining the notion that ashton is a diy beacon too hard and now i’ve fallen into a metaphor

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

So Much Love in Oklahoma

Tyler Owens x fem!reader  7k words

summary: Tyler saves you from a tornado one day. The next, he shows up at your doorstep.

a/n: absolutely no clue about tornados. or oklahoma. don't come at me for inaccuracies

also!!! i'm currently working on some tyler smut too, but you are so definitely allowed to come request things (or just talk to me)! my inbox is wideeeee open, especially when it comes to mister owens <33

masterlist | twisters masterlist

What happens that particular Tuesday afternoon should have been impossible. That's what goes through your head about a bazillion times in the following days. The chances of what happens even happening are about as close to zero, you think, as the possibility of you discovering a cure for cancer.

(They're not. Of course. But it feels like that.)

Because you're not even really in Oklahoma. You're just driving through Oklahoma. You're not from a place where they give you a 'How to Deal with Tornados' manual in school. You're entirely, completely, wholly unprepared for what's brewing as you drive down almost empty highways with the radio all the way up.

So when suddenly, you're in the middle of a storm, with the wind picking up until it drowns out your music and rain and hail slashing against your windows, you're absolutely terrified.

It forms within a few minutes, goes from barely grey skies to a horrible, horrible whirl of almost black clouds, and the insecurity you'd been feeling turns into the gut-churning realisation that you're unquestionably fucked.

Some part of your brain tugs out a deeply buried memory of cars being sucked into tornados on the news, so with your heart racing a few hundred miles per hour and your hands shaking so badly you can barely hold onto the steering wheel anymore, you maneuver your car onto the side of the road, just in time for you to be climbing out of the passenger seat as another car comes to a shrieking halt next to yours.

You're getting drenched within half a second, you're honestly not that sure whether your cheeks are wet from the rain or your tears, and on top of that, you almost trip as you set your trembling feet onto the ground below. The other car's driver bangs their door shut with a resounding thud that makes you flinch so hard you think your soul leaves your body. Your head shoots up as he shouts at you, already three steps away from his truck:

"What the hell are you doing out here?"

He's drenched, too - his hair sticks to his face and his shirt clings to his skin and his pants are stained at least a shade darker. But unlike you, he's not shaking, he's steady as a fucking rock, steady and quick, already reaching out for your arm before you can even begin to think. Your brain lags behind, foggy and cloudy and scared, so fucking scared. You're so terrified you can hardly open your mouth.

"I-", you stutter, then he's wrapping his big hand around your arm and tugging you away from your car, away from the road already.

"We need to get the fuck down!", he calls, pulling you with him onto one of those many, many fields that surround you. "There's a ditch over there, see that?"

You're wide-eyed, shaking, basically being dragged along by him - one foot in front of the other, that's what your brain's concentrating on right now, which is easier said than done. You trip over your own feet every other step. But the guy just wraps his arm around your waist and hurries further.

"Do you see that?", he asks again when you don't respond. Your mind races even faster than your heart does, but you force yourself to concentrate on his voice. The panic doesn't lessen, but his question shifts your focus. Ditch. Ditch. Not the storm raging around you, no, you're looking for a ditch. You're focusing on finding a ditch.

"Yeah", you breathe, your eyes finally catching on the ditch only a bit away.

"Yeah?", the guy shouts. "We need to get there. We need to get low."

With that, he picks up his pace once more and you stumble along, bumping into his side, watching the ditch come closer and closer and closer until your feet are drowned in dirty, muddy water.

"Alright, get down!", he shouts, unwrapping his arm from around your waist to help you into the cold, cold water. "Hold onto the ground!"

You aren't thinking. You can't think. Your brain has shut off completely. Panic numbs every part of you. All you can do, all you can possibly do, is concentrate on the voice of the man who's crouching down beside you. It's like his words have replaced your own thoughts, and like a marionette, you stretch out your arms and dig your fingers into the grass. Which is way easier said than done. You're pretty sure you feel one of your nails break as you try your hardest to find something, anything to hold onto. And then the wind hits.

If you'd thought you'd experienced heavy winds before, you were wrong. So wrong. No vacation in a surfer's town could possibly compare to this.

"Fuck!", you scream, instinctively dropping your head onto the moist grass below. The wind pulls and pulls and pulls at you and you imagine yourself being dragged by it - dragged away, away into certain death. But then an arm wraps around you, and the guy next to you is not next to you anymore but half on top of you, securing you in his arms, holding you close, pressing you to the ground.

"Stay down!", he shouts as you cling to the grass. "I got you."

I got you.

You replay that in your head like a mantra - he's got you, he's got you, he's got you. You're trembling, you're shaking, you're cramping, you're trying to hold onto the ground with all your might as the wind grows and grows and grows and pulls and pulls and pulls at you.

You want to scream. You think you're screaming. But it's so loud. It's deafening, the roar of the wind and the thunder. You can't hear yourself scream.

He can, though. He can. And he tightens his arms around you and repeats "I got you, I got you, I got you". And you believe him. You have to.

You're crying now, you're sure of that. Some part of you hurts. Maybe all of you hurts. You're scared. You're not just scared, you're terrified. It's loud, it's loud and it's everywhere, all around you.

And then suddenly - there's nothing.

It disappears within seconds.

There's no sounds. None. There's silence, deafening silence. Forget the calm before the storm - this is the silence after the tornado.

You take a few shuddering breaths. You're trembling, trembling from head to toes. You're soaked. You're cold.

"Alright, it's gone", the guy says - the guy that's still got his arms wrapped around you, who's still on top of you. "You did it."

He pulls his arm away from you and rolls onto his back next to you. Water sloshes around as he goes.

You don't move an inch.

You can't move.

You're stuck, you're frozen in place. Your fingers are cramped into the dirt and the grass and you're frozen.

The guy sits back up again and reaches out for you. He smooths his hand down your back, surprisingly warm against your ice-cold skin.

"Hey", he says softly. "You're okay. You can get up."

You pry your fingers from the ground one by one, flex your trembling hands and push yourself upright. It takes a few seconds for reality to sink in - you're in a ditch. In a ditch. You're soaked, soaked with muddy ditch water. Your shoes are drenched, your legs splattered with dirt, the hem of your dress soaked in brown. And you're cold. Ice-cold and trembling. And your legs hurt, your arms hurt, your fingers hurt. Three of your nails are cracked.

You're sitting in a ditch in the middle of Oklahoma and you'd just been through a tornado. A fucking ditch in Oklahoma and a tornado.

And a guy, a guy who's brushing his hand down your arm and eyeing you up.

"Alright, let's get you out of here, you're shaking", he says and for the first time, you turn your head and look at him. Actually look at him.

He's tall and he's blonde and he's drenched, too, drenched in that same dirty, muddy water as you. His hands are big, big and pleasantly warm as he grabs softly onto you and carefully maneuvers you towards him.

You don't really remember the next minutes. Not what you're doing, at least. It's a hazy, fuzzy passing of time - you barely remember that you're moving. You're cold and scared and still in shock and somehow, your eyes have locked onto him, onto this guy who you realise probably just saved your fucking life. Because when you come back to reality, he's wrapping a blanket around you - a dry, warm blanket - and the spot where you'd parked your car is empty.

Empty.

"My car", you whisper, staring wide-eyed at absolutely nothing. The guy wraps the blanket tighter around you before he looks over his shoulder and glances around.

"Your car's not that important", he reassures, even though his voice is heavy. Heavy and raspy, you realise. He's got a certain Southern twang to it that you hadn't noticed in all the chaos before. "Much more important is that you're alive."

You nod half-heartedly (he's right, some rational part of your brain shouts, while the practical part mourns the shit ton of money you'd just lost) and settle your eyes back on him.

You don't know what it is, exactly, but something about this, something about the warmth of the blanket and the way he's rubbing your arms, something about him, about his voice and his words, slowly peels away the layers and layers of terror that are clinging to your pounding heart.

You swallow hard, reach up to tug the blanket tighter around yourself and shift your focus. Not the car or the tornado or the fact that you're drenched in dirty ditch water - him. This guy in front of you, who's looking you up and down to check if you're hurt. It's easier that way. It's easier to calm down when you're not thinking about any of it. It's easier when you're staring at him, counting to ten, slowly regaining your sanity. And what's suddenly also easier is realising that this guy in front of you is very much easy to look at. Even though his hair sticks to his head, even though his jeans are stained brown. He's what you'd expect as a reference picture next to the word "handsome" in a dictionary.

All of a sudden, you're not as cold anymore. All of a sudden, you're rather flushed. Because if he's drenched and dirty, you must look about the same. And you don't think you want him to see you like that. You'd much rather meet him in a bar or something, when you're dressed up and clean and preferably not terrified.

"Thanks", you get out, a little too quickly as you tighten the blanket further around yourself. "For, uh, for saving my life."

The guy's lips quirk up and he grins, a lopsided, half-cocky grin that makes your heart leap.

"Anytime, sweetheart", he drawls, then reaches up as though he wants to tip his hat - just that he's not wearing one, so instead, he settles for brushing his hand through his hair, just a second too late to seem intentional from the start. "Why were you out here anyway? Half a mile back is a gas station with a basement."

"I didn't-", you start, hesitant to admit just how unprepared you'd been for what had happened. "I didn't know it was a tornado. I thought it was just a bad storm or something, I'm... I'm not from around here."

He nods at you, his lips already parting when you suddenly twitch away from him and sneeze - once, then twice. His grin has dropped by the time you look up at him again and excuse yourself. God, is this embarrassing.

"You need dry clothes before you catch a cold", he says, his eyes travelling down your soaked dress and your bare legs. "I've got a shirt in the trunk, give me a minute."

He walks towards the back of his car and opens up his trunk and you're hit with two thoughts at the same time. The first is more along the lines of goddamn, are his shoulders broad, but the second - arguably the one that should be more important - is why the fuck his car is still standing in the very same spot he'd parked it before the tornado had hit.

Especially when your car is absolutely nowhere to be seen. Your car and all your things inside it. Oh, god-

"Here you go", he says, holding out a dry copy of the shirt he's wearing, red checkered cotton. He's about to go on when you blurt out:

"Sorry, why's your car still... you know, there?"

His lips pull into that impossibly charming grin once more and he points at the underside of the truck.

"Tornado-proof", he explains, just the slightest bit cocky. You follow the invisible line he's drawing to two... what looks like giant screws? twisted into the ground below.

"Oh", you let out, not too intelligently - but really, what are you supposed to say?

He just chuckles and holds the shirt out for you again. You take it carefully, your fingers grazing his. He's so warm, so fucking warm. Meanwhile you're shaking even underneath the blanket he'd given you. Though that's also starting to get soaked.

"You can change in the car if you want", he offers, already pulling open the door to the passenger seat. You don't really have to think hard about it. You're drenched in the middle of nowhere, with no way to get home, and this guy has just saved your life. So you unwrap the blanket and give it back to him with a smile and a thanks.

It's tight and cramped inside the car, even as you roll the seat all the way back. You pry the drenched dress off of your body and only then remember to turn around and check if the guy is watching you (as handsome as he is, he's still a guy). But no, he's turned away, has his hands rested against his hips and is staring intently at the slowly clearing sky.

You turn back with a smile and get rid of your soaked bra, too, before you pull his shirt on over your head.

Damn, it smells good. He smells good. And it's very comfortable, you have to admit. Plus, it's dry, which is most definitely an improvement.

You take a few seconds to consider whether or not to pull off your shorts... but they're drenched, too, and the guy seems respectful enough to not risk a bladder infection for. So you take your shoes off, and your socks, and your shorts. And then you crack open the car door again and knock softly against the window.

"I'm done", you call out, loud enough that he can hear. He turns back and his eyes drag down your body - or what of it he can see through the open door - and even though he looks right back up at your face, you can't help but feel flustered. You ball your wet clothes up in your hands nervously.

"Alright then", he says, takes a step closer and reaches for the door handle. "You said you're not from around here, where were you driving?"

Ah, right, that part.

Honestly, with so much happening in so few minutes, you'd about blocked out everything else. Everything normal.

"My parents, uh-", you start, trailing off when you realise that's not much help for him. "About three, four hours from here."

"That's quite a drive", he chuckles. "I live maybe half an hour from here, how about I take you with me so you can eat and drink something? Maybe you can borrow a pair of Lilly's pants. And you could phone your parents."

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and you narrow your eyes at him, taking a second too long to even understand all of what he's saying before taking another second too long to sort how you'll respond. Then you start with what you find most important.

"I've got my phone", you tell him, pulling it out from where you'd just deposited it in the centre console. "I had it in my pocket."

You'd taken it with you more reflexively than consciously when you'd stumbled out of your car - but truly, what self-respecting adult didn't take their phone with them when they left anywhere?

The guy just raises his eyebrows and glances at your phone.

"And it still works?", he asks, a little incredulously.

"Yep", you smile - for the first time, you realise, since the tornado. "It's waterproof."

More because you'd been scared you'd drop the love of your life into the pool or the ocean on vacation, but a tornado in the middle of Oklahoma worked as well. At least you now knew you'd spent your money wisely.

"Smart", he grins. You can't help but grin right back.

He's charming and he's respectful and he looks so goddamn good.

"Who's Lilly?", you ask then, because that had been the second thing you'd wanted to say. He hesitates for a half a moment.

"A friend", he says. You squint at him. He doesn't look like he's lying, but he does look like there's something you don't know about. God, if he turns out to be a cheater- "I'll introduce you if you'd like."

You raise your eyebrows. Alright, so not a cheater. And, if you're interpreting correctly, another invitation to come with him. Not that you'd been about to refuse the first one.

"Sure", you say, as casually as you can. "I didn't really feel like standing around half-naked on the street anyway."

...

A few minutes later, he's driving his weird car/truck with the screws on the bottom down the empty highway. Though 'empty' is the wrong description, really - here and there, trees, road signs and utility poles are scattered on the pavement.

You're driving in silence. Well, silence as in neither of you talks, not as in actual silence. Alongside the motor, the radio had turned on, playing one country song after the other.

"You never told me your name", the guy says suddenly. The very much stranger, who's very much right - you'd never told him your name.

"You never told me yours", you counter, because that's also the truth. He'd never told you his name. You knew his friend's name, but not his.

"Didn't think I'd have to", he mutters under his breath, so quietly you barely catch it. "It's Tyler. Tyler Owens?"

He says it like it's a question. You don't know why. So instead you just answer with your own name and Tyler, as you'd come to know, repeats it with a smile on his lips.

God, you don't think it's ever sounded that good.

"Pretty name", he says, all casual like that doesn't get your heart racing again. Pretty. He'd called you pretty. Almost unconsciously, you brush your hands through your hair.

"Thank you", you mutter. As if to distract yourself, you add: "So, Tyler, what do you do?"

...

Exactly half an hour later, Tyler takes your hand in his and helps you out of his car. His house - the one he's sharing with Lilly, you'd found out, with Lilly and the rest of his Tornado Wranglers - is big and inviting. It's a little way off from any other houses, which you personally think is quite nice. Not that you say that, though.

Tyler walks you inside without having to unlock the door. He takes two steps, then he calls out "Guys, we've got a guest", which immediately results in a surprised shout of "whoops" and the sound of a set of feet scurrying up the stairs. Tyler has barely pulled off his shoes (after politely asking you to wait just a second) when a head pops through the doorframe at the end of the hallway.

"Boone was naked", the woman grins before settling her eyes on you and throwing you a wave. "Hey there, I'm Lilly."

She glances down at your bare legs.

"A little cold there?", she asks and even though her words are sarcastic, her voice is anything but.

"A little", you answer truthfully, smiling at her as she steps out into the hallway.

"You want a pair of pants?", she asks, seemingly without giving a single thought to who you are or why you're standing half-naked in her hallway.

You glance at Tyler, but he's grinning and only shrugs at you, so you turn back to Lilly and nod at her. She seems sweet, really sweet, and very kind. She takes you with her to her room (up two sets of stairs, the fucking house has three floors and a basement) and shows you her closet, the very definition of unbothered even as you nervously rummage through her clothes.

"Hey, you can take a shirt too, if you want", she says, flopping down onto her bed and rolling onto her side to look at you.

"Oh", you let out and glance down at the shirt you're wearing - Tyler's shirt, that very country, checkered shirt that's way too big for you. "I'm fine, thanks."

Honestly, if it were up to you, you would never wear anything else ever again. Tyler's shirt is soft and comfortable and - most importantly - it smells like him. You really just want to tug the hem up to your nose and breathe in his scent (but that would be weird, so you don't).

"Alright", Lilly drawls. "Your choice."

...

Lilly shows you the bathroom, gives you the wifi password and tells you to come down whenever you feel like it. You realise half a second too late that you haven't told her your name yet and crack open the bathroom door to call out for her.

Honestly, you like her. You really like her. And you really like Tyler, too. He's handsome and he smells good and he's respectful and he's nice and he saved your fucking life today. You don't even want to think about what would have happened to you if he hadn't driven by.

In the bathroom is the first time you can really breathe. You throw some water at your face and blowdry your hair. Ten minutes later, you're walking down the stairs into the hallway again - this time, when you stroll through there, you're wearing comfortable pants, fuzzy socks and take your time to look around.

You'd already called your parents back in the car with Tyler. They'd been about as shocked as you'd expected, had needed a few minutes to even understand just what you were telling them, but then they'd offered to come pick you up immediately. Tyler had provided them his address and now here you are - knocking at the open door to the kitchen, where all of the Tornado Wranglers sit around the table. All of them, except for Tyler, who's leaning against the countertop and looks up at you with a grin when you step in.

"Hey there", he drawls, his eyes raking down your body once more today - you've tucked his shirt into Lilly's pants and you could swear his eyes linger on your waist. "Warm and dry?"

"Very", you grin back, then nod at Lilly. "Thanks again."

She shakes her head and waves you off.

"Hey, no big deal. Do you want some pasta?"

...

It's comfortable there, in the kitchen of these strangers who are feeding you pasta and lending you clothes. You've settled onto the countertop next to Tyler and now and then, when you're dangling your feet or he's taking a bite, your legs graze his arm. He's changed into dry clothes too, you realise as you brush against him for the first time, and he's even warmer now than before.

"Tyler's told us all about you", Boone says after a few minutes of easy conversation. You raise your eyebrows and turn your head, staring at Tyler from the side.

"Has he?", you ask, because you hadn't even told him enough about yourself to warrant any use of the word 'all'. Sure, you'd talked on the ride here - but mostly about him, because - as it had turned out - what Tyler Owens did wasn't a normal job like doctor or lawyer, but instead professional Tornado Wrangler. Which, of course, had then dominated the conversation for the rest of the drive.

"Yeah, like how you were driving to you parents and didn't know what to do in a tornado so you just kept on driving", Boone grins, scraping the rest of his pasta off his plate. "And how he made you go in that ditch and-"

"Alright, shut up, Boone", Tyler interrupts, even though there's no real malice behind his words. "She knows the story. She's in it."

"I'm just saying", Boone goes on, entirely undeterred as he puts his now empty plate down on the kitchen table. "If you'd filmed that, it would go viral for sure."

You have to snort at that.

"Yeah, because of all the indecent exposure."

...

When your mother rings the doorbell three hours later, you're in the middle of the second round of a boardgame Dexter had pulled from a drawer. You'd been paired with Tyler for the first round and - somehow not surprisingly - that had worked quite well. You'd won just so against Dexter and Dani (Lilly and Boone hadn't been too much competition) and Dani's "We never get to play this right 'cuz we're always five people" after Tyler had high-fived you with a victorious cheer had warmed your heart. At least they'd enjoyed themselves - at least you hadn't been a burden.

"I call dibs on her", Lilly had declared when the second round had begun, so Tyler had teamed up with Boone instead.

"Oh, oh, botany!", you call out, just as the doorbell finally rings. Lilly jumps up and high-fives you.

"How in the hell did you guess that?", Dani asks, sounding all but exasperated at this point as Tyler pushes out of his seat and walks towards the front door. You shrug.

"Pure talent", you joke, then you climb off the couch as well. "Alright, it was so nice meeting you all, but I think my taxi's out front."

They all hug you goodbye and tell you to come around again anytime - Boone even hands you one of those t-shirts Tyler had told you about in the car. You can hardly hold back a snort. Though Tyler had told you about the shirts existing, yes, he must have accidentally forgotten to mention that his goddamn face is printed on them, paired with the very... comedic phrase "Not My First Tornadeo".

You thread through the hallway with the shirt and your phone in your hands, only to be hit with the sight of Tyler hugging your mother on the doorstep. Or your mother hugging Tyler, more like. Either way, you're suddenly frozen in place.

But then your mother opens her eyes and sees you standing there and she lets go of Tyler with a sharp cry to come running at you instead. She throws her arms around you with so much vigor you're almost knocked off your feet. You meet Tyler's eyes over her shoulder - crinkled with lines of laughter as he smiles at you. Your eyes dart away again just as quickly.

"It's fine, mom, I'm okay", you reassure.

"Yeah, thanks to Tyler", she mutters into your hair. "I already told him we'll pay him whatever he wants for saving our daughter."

"And I already said I don't want any money", Tyler clarifies.

...

The next morning, you wake up comfortably late in a warm bed. You walk down the stairs in fuzzy socks and start the day with a simple cup of tea.

A simple cup of tea and Tyler Owens' YouTube channel.

You'd looked him and his Tornado Wranglers up the very second you'd sat down in your mother's car. Then you'd subscribed to every channel you could find. And then... you'd kind of got obsessed. You'd watched so many of their videos that by one am, you'd simply fallen asleep to one of them.

"Aunt May's gonna be here in half an hour", your mother informs you casually, a stack of plates in her hands as she rummages around in the kitchen. You're still sitting at the table in your pajamas, a spoonful of cereal in your mouth, your phone propped up against a water bottle in front of you, playing a Tornado Wranglers video from a year ago.

"Seriously?", you get out, chewing on your cereal before you can swallow it down. "Mom, I still have to shower and get ready and all."

She throws you one of those eyebrows-raised glances that immediately let you know she's judging you for something.

"We only let you sleep this long because you almost died yesterday", she says matter-of-factly, then she eyes your phone. "And if you weren't watching Tyler's videos so obsessively, you would be done by now."

"Really, mom?"

You let out a resigned sigh. She only shrugs and grins at you. She's a little bit right, anyway.

"He's good-looking, I get it", she says, then she strolls out of the kitchen, chuckling to herself while you curse at her. He is good-looking, fuck this. You need to get it together before the rest of your extended family arrives.

...

The doorbell rings for the umpteenth time that day, just as you step out of the bathroom and smooth down the front of the red-checkered shirt you're wearing. You call some version of "I got it", down the hallway, not too sure if anyone even hears - they're all in the backyard anyway. Then you open the door with a smile on your face, a smile that instantly pulls into a wide grin when you see just who's standing there.

Because it's not another aunt or uncle or cousin. It's no one in your family, not even close.

It's Tyler.

Tyler Owens.

"Hi", he says. Just that. Hi.

You lean against the open door and cross your arms. Your grin only grows.

"Hi", you echo.

His eyes rake down your body and it seems like whatever he'd wanted to say gets stuck in his throat as he realises that the shirt you're wearing isn't your shirt, really. You can't help but bite down on your lip.

Look, you hadn't expected this. You hadn't expected him. None of this was a scheme or a plan or anything even close. You'd just seen it lying there this morning, right next to Lilly's pants on your desk, and you hadn't been able to help yourself. It smelled so fucking good.

"Nice shirt", he grins, eyes snapping back up to yours.

"Thanks", you grin back. "I got it from this guy after he saved me from dying in a tornado yesterday."

Tyler chuckles.

"Seems like a great guy."

"So great", you agree. "Even though he prints his face on t-shirts."

Tyler is just about to retort something - all toothy grins and laughter lines - when your mother calls out his name, very obviously pleasantly surprised as she comes down the hallway. She smiles at him, big and wide.

"What are you doing here?", she asks, stopping next to you to ask the very question that had been on the tip of your tongue too when you'd opened up the door.

"Oh, I'm just bringing these back", he says and holds up his hand to show a stack of neatly folded clothes with your bra right on top. You have to bite down on your cheeks to stop from outright grinning.

Okay, so even if wearing his shirt hadn't been a scheme, and even if you hadn't expected to see him... You might just have done something to ensure you would see him again. But hey, he's about the most handsome man you've ever laid your eyes on, you'd be damned if you'd have to watch him on the screen of your phone for the rest of your life. So yeah, you may have accidentally 'forgotten' your wet clothes in his bathroom after you'd hung them over the heater to dry. You just hadn't thought he'd find them so quickly.

"And you drove four hours for that?", your mother asks, more baffled than you are. Tyler only shrugs. Your mother reaches out for your clothes, grabs them from him and puts them on the cupboard in the hallway. Then she looks at him.

"You're coming in, yes? We're having barbecue now and cake in a bit. I'm not letting you drive four hours here just to deliver her clothes."

...

Twenty minutes later is when you get Tyler alone for the first time. Your mother has schlepped him with you through the whole garden and introduced him to every single person there - "He's the guy who saved her yesterday!" (because, obviously, your story had been about the only topic anyone had talked about so far) - your father first and foremost, who hugs Tyler so tightly that for a moment you're afraid he'll break him.

You catch up with Tyler just as he finishes loading his plate with food, finally on his own after your mother has excused herself to go cut up more bread.

"How'd you find me?", you ask, sipping at your ice-cold coke and eyeing him up. It's the one question that had been burning in your mind for the past twenty minutes. How in the hell had he managed to find you? It's not like you'd left a note with your address next to your clothes (though in hindsight, you don't remember how you'd meant for him to bring them back to you).

He looks almost bashful for a second.

"Boone noticed you'd followed our account", he explains then. "He figured out your last name from your handle and searched the phone book of the city on your mom's license plate. And then he read out all the names until I recognised your mom's because she'd introduced herself to me yesterday."

Your eyebrows raise, further and further the more he speaks. You swallow. Silence falls for a second, then two.

"You know, some people would call that creepy", you say, but your lips tug up into an involuntary grin that gives away more quickly than you'd wanted that you aren't one of those people. Tyler grins right back at you.

"Personally I think it would've been more creepy if I'd kept your bra."

...

It's 9:20 when your mother comes over. You've long since switched from barbecue to cake, then to snacks. Your feet are tucked underneath Tyler's legs, propped up against the side of his garden chair and he's running his fingers up and down your calves.

You'd spent the afternoon chatting away and laughing, barely talking to anyone but him. Your 'family get-together' had turned into more of a date. You certainly aren't about to complain, though.

"Tyler, you're staying the night, right?", your mother asks, a fresh plate of chips in her hands that she puts next to the almost empty one on the table in front of you.

"I don't want to overstay my welcome", he says, all gentlemanly even as your mother rests her hands against her hips and stares him down.

"Young man, you're welcome in this house any time, for however long. I'm not letting you drive home four hours. You're staying the night." Then she points at you. "She's still got a couch in her room that you can sleep on. I'd offer you a guest room, but half the family's staying here and we're already out of air mattresses."

So an hour later, you're rummaging about your room, picking up clothes off the couch and stuffing them in your closet to make room for Tyler. He's leaning against your doorway, looking around, taking in the mess that is your childhood bedroom.

"Nice posters", he says, and you throw him a look over your shoulder that could be deadly. He's grinning all sarcastic, only chuckling as his eyes meet yours. "You could put up one of my shirts here."

You have to snort at that and before you can even really think about it, you've pulled the shirt Boone had given you yesterday from where you'd put it down on your desk. You throw it at him carelessly and he catches it with no effort at all, which - paired with that fucking grin - shouldn't be as attractive as it turns out to be.

"Knock yourself out", you say, then you turn back around to your closet and tug out bedsheets for him. "My old poster glue should be in one of the desk drawers."

You don't think he'll seriously do it, but you seem to have misjudged him. Badly. Because he gets to work immediately.

You watch him for a few stunned seconds before you decide to just leave him to it. So while you turn the couch into a makeshift bed for him, he glues that goddamn "Not My First Tornadeo" shirt to your wall.

"Fits perfectly if you ask me", he declares eventually, barely concealing the amusement dripping from his words. You smooth down his sheets before you look up at your wall. He's put the shirt up in one of the few empty spots, right between your Maroon 5 and Destiny's Child posters.

"Yeah", you snort. "Perfectly."

You give him a toothbrush and let him use your bathroom. While he's gone, you change into your pajamas, fold his shirt carefully and put it on a pile with Lilly's pants and her socks. Honestly, a little part of you already mourns the loss of it - but another part of you already has hope for another shirt. Maybe in a different context.

"What're you doing?", Tyler asks, shutting the bathroom door behind him. You don't look up as you fold the other clothes you'd thrown onto your desk yesterday.

"I put Lilly's things and your shirt there, you can take it back tomorrow", you explain, starting a second pile of your own clothes next to his.

"Keep my shirt", he says. That finally makes you look up at him.

Which isn't a good idea. Not at all. Because he's standing there in nothing but his briefs and good fucking lord-

You'd known he's handsome. You'd known he's broad. But you hadn't known he's fucking ripped. You shouldn't stare. You're very aware. You definitely shouldn't stare. It's incredibly rude to stare. It's very inappropriate to stare. But goddamn, this man is built so perfectly god himself must be jealous.

You have to forcibly blink yourself back to reality. You're definitely red in the face when you finally manage to meet his eyes again. And he's raised his eyebrows in a way that tells you he's reading your every emotion right off your face.

"Sorry, come again?", you croak out, brushing your hand through your hair and realising just a second too late that your eyes have travelled down too far again.

"I said you should keep my shirt", he repeats, a very, very obvious grin on his lips. "It looks better on you."

"Okay", you agree, a little too quickly. The heat in your cheeks comes from more than just the half-naked view of him now. He thinks his shirt looks better on you. You don't even care if that's a line. "I'll... I'll go brush my teeth real quick."

When you come out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Tyler has made himself comfortable on your couch. It's a little too small for him, you realise, but he doesn't seem bothered. He's pulled the covers up to his hips - you can still stare at his chest, to your delight. And he's put one hand under his head, flexing his bicep in a way that has you hurrying over to your own bed so you won't jump him right then and there.

"Alright, goodnight, Tyler", you breathe, adjusting your pillow and wrapping your blanket around your body as if grabbing at it will somehow ground you.

"Goodnight", he echoes, and then you turn off the light.

It's quiet. The only noise is the laughter of your family a floor below, all settling into bed themselves. It's quiet and it's dark.

And you're staring wide-eyed at absolutely nothing.

Oh, god. He's so fucking hot. He's so fucking hot you want to throw yourself out of the window. He's so fucking hot and he's on your fucking couch, barely ten feet from you. He's so fucking hot and he'd driven four hours here just to bring your clothes.

"Tyler", you say, barely two minutes after you'd turned the light off. He hums in response - still awake. You don't know what you'd expected. "Thanks again. For, you know, for everything."

"Anytime", he replies, and even though you can't see his grin, you imagine you can hear it. You nod into your pillow. Then silence falls again.

It lasts maybe another two minutes.

"Your family's nice", he says then. You can't help but smile.

"Thanks", you mutter.

"I like your mother", he says. Your smile only grows. You turn onto your back and stare at the dark ceiling.

"She likes you too."

It's the truth.

Tyler stays quiet. You don't even try to close your eyes this time - you can hear him breathe, deep and relaxed. It's calming. You're sure it could lull you to sleep. If you were anywhere near tired, that is. This way, you just blink at black nothingness.

"Were you really a Destiny's Child fan?", Tyler asks eventually, his sheets rustling.

"Yep", you say.

That's it for that conversation.

You don't know what it is, the darkness or the silence, but something pushes on your chest and weighs you down, warming your skin as it settles on your body. It's a tension, thick and heavy, one that had grown with every scrap of conversation.

"You know-", he starts again, but this time, you've got enough.

"Tyler", you interrupt, turning onto your side and pulling your covers with you. "Get up here."

You can't see him as he throws his bedsheets off himself, can't watch as he heaves himself up, can't look at him as he strides over to your bed - but you hear the rustling of his covers, you hear the couch creaking, you hear his steps on the floorboards. And you feel the mattress dipping when he finally sets his knees on your bed.

You don't wait until he's actually in there. You don't think you could possibly wait until he is. You just push yourself up, grab onto the first part of him you can get your hands on (his shoulders), cup his face in your palms and pull him into you.

Right into your kiss.

Tyler Owens kisses you for the first time in the darkness of your childhood bedroom. For the second time in the morning light in your bed. For the third time in your parent's kitchen, right as your mother walks in. For the fourth time in his truck, after your parents all but throw you out of their house and force you to go home with him. For the fifth time in front of his own house, where his crew watches through the window.

And after that, Tyler Owens loses count of just how often he kisses you. Because he kisses you every day for the rest of his life.