#i love this series so much more than i ever thought i would

[shellshocklove]

does anyone know where the love of god goes? | joel miller

pairing/AU: joel miller x female!reader – post breakout & no ellie AU

summary: crossing the country alone as he searches for his brother, joel stumbles on a farm. winter is closing in, and against his better judgement he's convinced to stay. as the frost covers the land like a blanket, a warmth ignites in his heart for the young woman who's home he finds himself in.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so minors dni!!! canon-typical violence, age gap (reader is mid to late twenties), swearing, dead animals, joel being a sad man, masturbation, no use of y/n

a/n: i soft launched this ao3 last month and it flopped lol so i'm gonna keep my expectations low for this series. anyways this has been a story i've been thinking about since probably october. this is the first part of what i'm hoping will be 3 parts. happy reading i guess

main masterlist / series masterlist / ao3 / playlist

The leaves rustled against Joel’s boots with every step he took. The sun had turned traitor cold, and he couldn’t feel its kiss against his cheek no more. The trees shivered above him in the wind – the only sound for miles except his heavy steps.

Did he still exist, with no one around? Joel had never minded being alone; after the breakout he’d found that he sometimes preferred it. People could be… well, when you’ve seen the worst of humanity, maybe it’s best to leave it behind.

And wasn’t he the worst of humanity? The things he’d done. The people he’d killed, and killed for. The people he’d lost.

But he had to keep going. For Tess. He promised.

Every night as he stared into the flames his thoughts would drift to her – the memories flickering in the fire. They should’ve never gone through that museum – it was supposed to have been empty – they should’ve never left Boston in the first place. Now Tess is gone because of him, him and his stupid plan to find his brother.

And for what? How is he ever gonna find Tommy?

Joel didn’t even know where he was. Nebraska? South-Dakota? Maybe he’d made it to Wyoming and just didn’t know it? Abe had told him ‘Cody Tower’, but Joel hadn’t seen anything other than mother nature for weeks.

Everything had started to look the same. Trees and more trees, a mountain in the distance, a grey and heavy sky above him. He’d been walking for forever. Slowly he moved west– or at least he thought he was. On the days where the sun hung high in the sky and wasn’t shielded behind a cloudy partition, he liked to watch it as it dipped below the earth. As the days turned shorter and shorter, the display of color had started to get more vivid. Joel would watch the light blue turn red and bloody, fiery tongues of flames licking over the horizon while the sharp edges of the mountains, and the triangular shapes of the trees faded into an intense black– like the shape of the mountain and the trees had been cut out with scissors. There wasn’t much to stay alive for anymore– but Joel lived for those few moments where nature painted with fire. Humanity might’ve gone to shit, but the cyclical regularity of mother nature gave Joel a small sense of peace.

But he missed the kiss of the sun against his cheek now. He’d moved into a large forest a few days ago. Tall trees hovered over him like giants and cast shadows down at him. It was colder here than out in the open country, but at least he’d been somewhat shaded from the rain pouring from the grey cover above his head the last few days.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound stopped Joel in his tracks. Muscle memory worked on its own, gripping the shotgun slung over his shoulder. He listened for the sound again, to the steady rhythm echoing through the forest.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

With slow calculated steps Joel walked in the direction of the sound with the shotgun held tightly to his chest, his finger hovered over the trigger. The chopping sound got louder as he closed in on a man. He couldn’t tell his age with the man’s back turned – but he was strong – Joel could tell from how hard the man’s axe hit the tree trunk.

Taking another silent step, Joel got in position, “How ‘bout you slowly turn around and place that axe on the ground.”

Joel’s voice was hoarse after no use, but still cold and calculated as he spoke his order. He could see he’d startled the man, probably thinking he was alone, just like Joel had thought mere minutes ago.

The man obeyed, turning around slowly. He was older than Joel, maybe mid-seventies, maybe older if the wrinkles and creases around his eyes and nose were to be believed. His hair was white as snow matching his unkempt beard. Joel caught his eye. Strong and steady, no trace of fear one would think a man would feel while having a gun pointed at them.

Joel’s grip around the gun tightened. He wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger if that’s where this was headed. The man watched him calmly before he bent his knees, throwing the axe haphazardly on the ground.

“Kick it over here,” Joel commanded again, and the man obeyed, kicking the axe clumsily towards Joel.

Slowly Joel crept closer, gun still pointed at the man. He locked the heel of his shoe against the shaft, dragging the axe behind him and out of the way.

“Hands where I can see ‘em.”

“Are you going to kill me, son?”

The man’s question puzzled Joel. He said it so calmly, like how you’d ask someone to pass the salt.

“That depends on you.” Joel’s answer pulled at the old man’s lips, a small huff of a laugh escaping them.

“Well, you’re the one with the gun. I think it depends on you.”

Joel tightened his grip on the shotgun again – he didn’t know why –to frighten the man? He didn’t seem very frightened.

“Are you alone?” Joel asked.

“Not anymore,” the man answered.

“Don’t be a smartass,” Joel gritted through his teeth, “who you travelin’ with?”

“No one,” the man’s eyes never left Joel, “I live at a farm about a mile away.”

“Take me to it.”

The man walked with a limp Joel noticed. It was barely there, you wouldn’t see it if you didn’t pay attention, but it was there. The man acted tough enough, but his body revealed his weaknesses. It would be easy to kill him, Joel thought, if it came to that.

He followed the man through the trees with his gun pointed at his back. When they reached the end of the forest a clearing revealed itself. They followed a path through a field of, tall but wilted, brown grass until they reached an overgrown gravel road with a fence running along it. Looking out in the distance, Joel could see small spots of white and black wool. The gravel moaned under their feet as they closed in on a small farm. A two-story house sat in the middle of the barnyard where it was surrounded by a barn who’d seen better days, a silo, and a smaller farmhouse – a stable – Joel noticed as they walked closer.

The man trudged up the front stairs of the main farmhouse, a hand on the handrail keeping him steady.

“Put that gun away would you, son? I don’t want you frightening my wife.” The man broke the silence between them, speaking for the first time since they left the woods.

Joel’s grip on his shotgun didn’t loosen. How could he be sure that this man’s ‘wife’ wasn’t some gang of raiders hiding behind the front door? A question he asked the man through gritted teeth when he turned around to look at Joel.

“There’s nothing of the sort around here,” the man said, “we don’t even see any infected.”

When Joel didn’t say anything, and didn’t lower the gun, the man spoke again, “Who are you?”

“Just someone passin’ through,” Joel answered, making the man chuckle.

“You’re something else, passer-througher,” the old man smiled before he turned around again and stepped inside, leaving Joel on the porch alone.

Abandoned outside he lowered his gun slightly. Inside he could hear muffled voices, a deeper one, definitely the old man, and a brighter one, a woman’s voice. He listened, trying to make out their words with no prevail. The man seemed to have spoken the truth up until now. He most definitely lived on this farm – a seemingly normal farm. This man was just someone making an honest living – even after the apocalypse.

Lowering the gun completely, Joel put the safety on before he slung it over his shoulder. Taking a hollowed step towards the front door, movement in the window to the right of him caught his eye. It was there and then it was gone – just a ruffle of blonde curtains. Then, the door opened revealing an elderly woman.

The man’s wife.

“Welcome, traveler,” she greeted, stepping aside to let Joel in.

He passed through the doorway with a “Thank you, ma’am,” never forgetting his manners even after pointing a gun at her husband.

Inside it looked like a picture taken straight out of a Homes & Gardens magazine. The house was cozy, but it was small. He’d been welcomed into what probably used to be a parlor, but now served its purpose as their living room. It was hard to get a read on the house. Not like those open-floor plan houses he’d built too many of back before the outbreak – this was old, maybe hundreds of years old. The floorboard creaked under his shoes as he walked deeper into the living room, the rest of the house locked away like a secret behind three closed doors. The man was seated in a lounge chair by the fireplace, watching Joel with an expression Joel found it hard to decipher.

“Would you like some tea?” the woman asked, “It’s peppermint from our garden.”

Joel turned his head to the woman. She must be around the same age as the old man, Joel thought. He cleared his throat before he answered with a nod, “Thank you, ma’am.”

She pointed to the sofa, urging him to sit down with a smile before she disappeared through one of the doors to what Joel thought must be the kitchen. He felt the old man watching him as he slid his backpack off his shoulders, placing it on the creaky wooden floor behind the sofa. Joel hesitated for just a second when placing the shotgun up against the back, but decided he wasn’t in any imminent danger.

Joel almost groaned as he sat down. He’d been walking for so long, slept on the hard ground for months, he’d almost forgotten what a comfortable chair was. It almost felt surreal, being invited in for tea, like the outbreak had never happened. Here, it was like the time had stood still.

“So,” the man started, “where are you heading to if you’re just ‘passin’ through’?”

Joel cleared his throat again, “I’m lookin’ for my brother,” he answered truthfully, “last I heard he was somewhere in Wyoming.”

“If you’re going to Wyoming, then what you’re doing all the way up here?” The man queried with a chuckle.

Annoyed, Joel grinded his teeth, “Not many signs in the fuckin’ woods are there?” He huffed.

“I guess not,” the man shrugged, “but you’ve made a heck of a detour… where did you come from? Texas? You sound it.”

“Boston.”

“Boston?” the man didn’t hide his surprise, breathing out chuckles in disbelief, “I’ll give it to you, that’s one long trip.”

Joel only huffed in agreement, turning his head from the man to the window overlooking the barnyard.

“Well,” the man broke the growing silence between the two men, “you’re more than welcome to stay for dinner and for the night– you look like you could need a hot meal and a warm bed.”

Joel’s instinct was to say no, but before he could the front door opened, revealing a young woman. You.

You stopped dead in your tracks as you laid your eyes on Joel, “Oh!”.

The door slammed behind you. Under your arm you were carrying a metal bucket filled with apples. You were beautiful, young, but still beautiful – Joel couldn’t deny it.

“This is…” The man paused.

“Joel.” He cleared his throat, introducing himself, “Joel Miller.”

“Mr. Miller is just passing through– he’s looking for his brother,” the old man explained to you.

You nodded at the information, sat the bucket down before you reached out a hand for Joel to take, introducing yourself. Your hand in his was warm and soft while his own dwarfed yours, rough and calloused. He couldn’t help but think about what his hands had done, the people they’d killed. He shouldn’t be tainting yours, painting them red. Joel quickly drew his hand back, balling it into a fist at his side.

Joel looked over at the old man, “Your daughter?” he asked with a tilt of his head in your direction.

“Oh, no,” the man answered with a playful smile, “You’re not the first person ‘passin’ through’ who’s shown up on our doorstep.”

The door to the kitchen opened to reveal the old woman with a teapot in her hand, and a stacked tower of teacups in the other.

“Let me help you Alma,” you said, taking the teacups from the old woman’s hand before placing them on the table; one in front of Joel, a second in front of the old man, “Here you go Arthur,” and a third next to Joel.

“Did you also want some tea, sweetie?” Alma asked you as she placed the steaming teapot on the table.

“Yes, please, but I can grab a cup myself– sit down,” you smiled and padded the old woman’s shoulder, then you grabbed the bucket of apples and disappeared into the kitchen.

Alma started pouring the tea as a silence fell over the room. A small, “Thank you, ma’am,” left Joel’s lips as she moved on to pouring tea for her husband.

“So,” the man started before taking a sip of his tea, “what do you say Mr. Miller? You staying for the night?”

That night as he laid in a real bed for the first time in months, Joel had trouble falling asleep. He wasn’t used to this. Hadn’t been used to it for a while. His belly full, soft fabric against his skin, feeling warm, and clean. The old couple had offered him one of the two bedrooms on the first floor, the two mystery doors in the living room now revealed. Laying in his new bed he tried not to think about who he was sharing a wall with.

You.

You were something else, helpful and kind. Everything Joel hadn’t seen since the outbreak. At the dinner table you’d asked him questions and listened intently – even when his answers were short and brisk. There was a glimmer in your eye, and it touched something inside him he hadn’t felt in a long time. But you were young, mid to late twenties he reckoned, maybe a little older– anyways, he shouldn’t be harboring anything for you, it wouldn’t be right. Especially now, now that he’d agreed to stay.

After the dinner plates had been cleared, Arthur had folded a big map out on the table. “Here are we now,” he’d pointed a finger at the map. Montana. Southern Montana to be precise. “I’ll give it to you Mr. Miller, if you’ve made it this far on your own you probably won’t have any trouble making your way down south to Wyoming.”

“But?” Joel watched the grimace pulling at the old man’s face.

“But,” Arthur had said, “Winter is just around the corner and… well, going back out there in the wilderness alone during our winters is a dead trap, I’ll tell you that much.”

Joel had let the man go on about the far below freezing temperatures, the heavy snow, and the tough wind, but Joel wasn’t stupid. He knew the winters up here were harsh. It wasn’t even winter yet, but every day he’d felt the temperature drop lower and lower, and the last few of nights he’d even had to get a fire going, against his better judgement.

So– the deal was: Joel would stay over the winter. Just for the winter, he’d been adamant on not staying longer. He’d get a place to stay, a warm bed to sleep in, and food in his belly on one condition – he’d help out on the farm.

The fire crackled loudly, red tongues licking up the chimney as Joel fed it another log. He watched as the fire caught in the new log, devouring it quickly and with no mercy. It was really starting to heat up now. A small flicker of pride sparked in Joel chest. He’d always been good at building a fire. It was one of those things, Joel had come to learn, where you needed to pay attention, to have patience.

When he was younger, he’d take Tommy out camping sometimes, just the two of them. Mostly they’d go during the summer; Tommy wasn’t a fan of sleeping outside in the cold, though cold had meant something different back then in Texas. But Joel remembered one time he’d managed to convince him to go with him. It was right after he’d gotten his driver’s license, and his parents had given him a beat-up truck for his birthday – for sharing – they’d told him, “You need to give your little brother a ride when he needs it!” Joel wasn’t exactly thrilled about his future as Tommy’s private driver, but it didn’t mean he didn’t love his brother.

A few weeks into October he’d managed to convince Tommy to go camping. They’d packed the truck with their tents, sleeping bags, and fishing equipment, before they’d gotten on the road, driving to a lake where they knew there were fish to catch. Finding a place to camp was always difficult with Tommy. They’d parked Joel’s truck at the edge of the forest before they’d followed a hiking trail. Joel was convinced they’d walked at least three quarters of the way around the lake before they found a spot good enough for Tommy.

It had to be flat, but also shielded. There couldn’t be too many rocks, but there also had to be enough rocks to build a hearth. Tommy wanted it to be private, but he also wanted it to be open enough that he could see if someone would stumble upon their camp. Joel knew not to argue with him when he got like that, opting instead for a defeated, “Whatever.”

Setting up camp went relatively easy. They’d worked together building the tents, collecting rocks for their fireplace, and even managed to find a fallen tree to use as a bench. When the night slowly started to cover them in darkness, Tommy decided to get the fire going. Joel watched him work the logs into a pile as he started on filleting the fish they’d just caught.

“You’re doin’ it wrong,” he’d told his brother, “You’re suffocatin’ it.” He’d washed his hands in the lake, ridding himself of the slimy smell of fish, before crouching down next to Tommy.

The fire was one big bowl of smoke, and Joel caught himself wondering what messages Tommy must’ve been sending to the heavens. He removed some of the heavier logs, and the fire could breathe.

“See?” he’d looked at Tommy, “It just needed air.” Joel had shifted the smaller pieces of wood around and not long after the fire was alive.

That Joel, that green boy who liked to take his little brother camping, that Joel didn’t know how much those skills would come in handy in a few years when the world would get turned upside down.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?”

Your question pulled Joel from his memories. He turned his head slightly, meeting your gaze from where you were huddled up in the corner of the couch. You looked cozy, but he knew you weren’t. The house was cold this morning, outside a thin layer of frost had stuck to the grass during the night. It was early too, the sun not having climbed high enough yet to peek over the mountains. You looked tired where you sat, clad in a wool sweater with a blanket pulled over your knees. Under the blanket Joel remembered you were still wearing your pajama pants, and in your hand you held a steaming cup of tea, peppermint, Joel knew, his own cup abandoned on the coffee table.

“What?” Joel answered, eyebrows furrowed.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?” you repeated softly, like the way people tended to speak in the mornings, like they were afraid they’d wake up the world.

His calves were starting to burn from the strain of being crouched in front of the fireplace for a moment too long, and he tried his best to hide his groan, biting his teeth together as he stood to his feet, knees cracking loudly.

“Um, no,” he said, confused about your question.

“I’ll knit you a pair then,” you smiled before putting your cup down next to his.

“That’s… that ain’t necessary,” Joel hurried, but you waved him off.

“Sure it is,” you smiled again, much to Joel’s annoyance. He didn’t deserve your kindness, but you gave it away like it cost nothing. “If you’re gonna be helping Arthur out in the woods this winter, you need some mittens.”

Joel watched as you got up from your home on the couch and vanished into your bedroom. A moment later you appeared in the doorway with a basket under your arm.

“Also…” you gave him another smile as you sat back down again, placing the basket in your lap. It was close to overflowing with yarn, balls of black and white in varying sizes peeking over the top, the homespun ends fraying against the rough edges of the basket. “I’ll have something to do during the evenings,” you winked before you rummaged through the basket and fished out a measuring tape.

Joel shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he watched you. Mittens? Joel can’t remember if he’s ever owned a pair of mittens. Gloves, sure, but mittens?

You patted the cushion next to you, urging him to sit down, kind smile hanging off your lips like always. Sitting down, he folded his hands in his lap, suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting. It wasn’t like he hadn’t sat next to you before; he’d been here a few weeks now, and he was starting to know you, but for some reason, this felt different. Maybe it was the early morning, the quiet house, or the fact that Alma and Arthur were still sleeping upstairs, but it felt like it was just the two of you, alone, and Joel didn’t know how to feel about it.

You shifted towards him, the blanket slipping slightly off the couch with your movement, in your hands you held the measuring tape while you looked at him expectantly.

When Joel didn’t move, a smile quirked at the corner of your mouth before you grabbed one of his hands resting in his lap. You uncurled his fingers slowly, one by one, making Joel hold his breath.

“I need to see how big I need to make them,” you whispered, holding his hand very gently.

Joel’s heart hammered in his chest. Your hand was warm and soft, like the last time he’d touched you as you’d introduced yourself to him. Joel didn’t dare look at your face, or he’d say something stupid, so he didn’t. He looked at your joined hands, his brain trying to remember the last time someone had held his hand as gently as you did, your thumb running over the back of it soothingly.

He can’t remember. His hands are always empty.

With your other hand, a finger curled around the measuring tape, you slipped it around his wrist before leaning closer to look at the numbers.

“Is this too tight you think, or do you want them to be looser?” You asked through your lashes, eyes sparkling in the low morning light.

Joel cleared his throat, “No, that’s fine.”

“Okay,” you nodded, slipping the measuring tape from his wrist to write down the measurement. He hadn’t noticed your notebook until now. It was a little rough around the edges from use, the spined cracked and the paper a little yellow. Placing the pen in the seam, you grabbed the measuring tape again.

Loosening your grip on his hand you placed it over the thick of your thigh. Joel drew a quick breath, his heartbeat hammering in his ears, under his hand he could feel the warmth of you through the soft flannel.

You continued taking your measurements. You didn’t say anything, so neither did Joel, but you looked up at him through your lashes sometimes, and Joel thought that maybe the most useful thing one can do with empty hands, is hold on.

The creak of the stair made Joel jump, and like he’d been burned his hand retracted on reflex, as Arthur’s heavy steps got closer.

“Morning,” Arthur greeted as he ducked his head through the door to the living room.

“Mornin’,” Joel mumbled, head lowered as he gathered his hands in his lap.

“Good morning!” you smiled, always with that kind smile, “Did you sleep well, Arthur?” you got up from your seat before grabbing your teacup to follow Arthur into the kitchen, leaving the yarn and Joel.

Taking a deep breath, Joel pinched the top of his nose. He needed to get it together. You were just being your regular kind self; your soft touch was nothing more than that. Standing to his feet, Joel grabbed his own cup, trudging into the kitchen.

In the kitchen Arthur sat in his usual spot at the dining table, the chair closest to the window. “I need to get on with this barn soon,” Joel heard him say as he sat down opposite him. “It’s gonna fall apart come spring if we get as much snow as we did last year.”

Joel tried his best not to look at you as he heard you hum. You were stood at the kitchen counter slicing the bread Alma had baked yesterday, readying breakfast. Instead, Joel opted to gaze down into his teacup, where the peppermint leaves had all gathered at the bottom.

“Um,” Joel cleared his throat, “what needs fixin’?”

“What doesn’t need fixing in that barn?” Arthur sighed, peeling his eyes from out the window to Joel.

“I can uh,” Joel eyes shifted quickly to you before he cleared his throat again, “I can take a look at it, if ya want?”

Arthur’s eyebrows met in a furrow as he looked at Joel.

“I used to be a contractor,” Joel explained with a shrug, before taking a last cold sip of his tea.

“So, you know a thing or two about buildings I reckon?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, well I used to,” Joel leaned back in his chair.

“Well, that would be very helpful Joel– I’d appreciated it!” Arthur smiled before leaning back in his chair making room for you as you started setting the table. Joel gave him a short nod in return, trying to fight the urge to look at you as you placed the food on the table.

Arthur had downplayed the state of the barn – it was a mess – it was dangerous, and had Joel told him as much. But it was nothing Joel couldn’t fix, as long as he had the right supplies, fortunately for him the forest would provide them with what they needed.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The axe dug a deep wound into the bark with every swing. Joel’s breath was heavy, and his arms ached, but it was a welcomed form of tiredness. A month into it, he was starting to get used to the work. There was something so satisfying about manual labor, of using his hands, of making something – he’d almost forgotten.

The routine of the work felt good. Waking up at dawn, then breakfast, he could use his body for something useful for the first time in twenty years and end the day with a warm meal for supper. This new temporary life was simple, but it was strangely normal.

Originally, Joel was only helping Arthur out in the woods for firewood through the winter– but now with the barn, they’d changed course. The last few days they’d started to become more selective with the trees; looking for the tallest and straightest ones that would fall safely.

A frozen sky hovered over the men as they worked. This morning when Joel had woken up, the thinnest layer of snow had fallen like powdered sugar during the night, turning the world bright with winter. Earlier in the week the frost had perched on the farm, and Joel had known winter was closing in. He’d lost count of the days and months passing while on his own, but Arthur had told him it was late October.

“It will start snowing properly soon,” Arthur said, breaking the silence between them.

Joel hummed before taking a bite of his packed lunch. They’d worked all morning – Joel felling the trees and Arthur cleaning them up and removing the branches. Now they were sat on a fresh tree stump each, their first break of the day.

“I have an old logging sled in the barn– used to be my father’s,” Arthur explained, “I think we should leave the trees here until the snow gets deep enough for the sled and have the horses pull them back to the farm.”

“Fine by me,” Joel took another bite of his lunch.

“The logs will have to dry out over the winter,” Arthur mused, “Then come spring we can start the repairs on the barn.”

Spring. If everything goes according to plan, Joel won’t be here come spring. He needed to find Tommy– he couldn’t, and he wasn’t gonna stay on the farm for any longer than necessary. He’d already decided– when the snow finally started to melt, Joel was gone.

Joel hummed, a non-committed answer. It was easier that way, to not get Arthur’s hopes up. He liked Arthur, he was a good man, a hard worker even in his old age, and silent when Joel wanted him to be. Joel liked Alma too, but her age shined through more easily than Arthur’s. Joel couldn’t help but notice her repeating herself more often and forgetting where she put things. It made life harder for you, Joel could see it. Your responsibilities were already a lot to handle as you took care of the animals mostly by yourself, but as Joel had discovered Alma starting to struggle with the housework, he’d noticed you starting to help her more often. In Joel’s mind it was unfair to you, but it wasn’t like he could blame Alma for growing older, in this world it was a feat.

Still, he’d try his best to help you when he could, like doing the dishes after dinner as you dried them off and put them away. The first few times you were both quiet, it was strangely intimate, only the sound of splashing water filling the space between you. One night he'd gotten brave, breaking the comfortable silence and asked you ‘What you thinkin’ about, sweetheart?’ You’d looked at him with big eyes, searching his own for something, but before he could figure out what it was, you’d answered him with a shrug. It was unlike you, unlike you to be this silent, but Joel didn’t push. The next night the silence persisted, and he’d thought adding ‘Sweetheart’ had been too much, but then the next night you’d sighed quietly and whispered, “I’m worried about Alma.”

Looking down at the mittens in his lap, the guilt gnawed at him. The look of worry in your eyes, Arthur’s hopeful wishes, and Alma’s aging. Joel couldn’t have anything tying him to this place. He was supposed to find his brother.

Suddenly, a black and orange butterfly landed on Joel’s knee. Joel stopped breathing, body going rigid as he tried not to move. How the hell was this butterfly still alive? It sat quiet on his knee, wings slowly retracting and widening behind it. Memories pushed its way to the forefront of Joel’s mind then.

Sarah. Another year had gone by, and the thought made his chest tighten.

“That’s quite a sight at this time of year,” he heard Arthur say, “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Y-yeah,” Joel stammered out an answer, afraid his voice would scare it away.

The longer Joel watched the butterfly he found his guilt started to slowly melt away. It’s okay, dad. It was like the rustling of the trees carried her voice with them. You’re on the right path.

“I can do that f’you want, sweetheart.”

Joel’s boots creaked under him as he walked across the barnyard. You looked up at the sound of his voice, smile blossoming across your face as you tightened your grip on the shovel.

“It’s alright,” you said with a grunt as you picked up more snow, adding it to the growing pile, “Good for me to get some physical work in.”

Joel nodded as you straightened up, hand going to your hip while the other leaned on the shovel, your heavy breath curled in small plumes out of your mouth. You took him in for a second, eyes flickering over his form before they fell on the rabbits hanging over Joel’s shoulder.

“Where’d you get those?” you asked, and Joel shrugged.

“Shot ‘em,” he said simply, “they walked right by me as I was choppin’– seemed too good to pass up.”

“Not for the rabbits,” you muttered, and Joel had to fight the urge to smile.

“You a vegetarian or somethin’?” he asked with a single raised eyebrow, and you waved him off.

“No,” you said pointedly, but a teasing lilt lingered, “Just stating a fact... we don’t eat a lot of rabbit around here, is all.”

Joel nodded slightly; it made sense. He knew there was a gun in the house, but it was a revolver– too small to do any real hunting, and Joel didn’t even know if there were bullets for it. So, Joel didn't ask further. Lucky for him, you did.

“So, you just shot those?” you asked, a frown pulling at your eyebrows, “Aren’t they fast?”

Joel made a nonchalant sort of face. “Ain’t that hard when you can aim straight.”

“Well, how do you aim straight?”

“You learn to shoot.”

You let out a small laugh, one that pulled at Joel’s lips. “And how did you go about learning that?”

Joel felt his smile drop, the leather strap of his shotgun weighing heavy on his shoulder, “Practice.”

You didn’t seem to notice the change in his demeanor as you dug the shovel into the snow, so it stood by itself like a watchman. “Can you teach me?” you asked, the snow creaking under your shoes as you took a few steps closer.

His lips pulled at the corner, “No.”

Your eyes widened with disappointment, eyebrows pulling together in a frown as you asked, “Why?”

“Nothin’ good ever comes from it,” Joel shrugged.

“Okay,” you huffed a laugh, “that’s sinister.” Then you narrowed your eyes at him, gearing up for an argument no doubt with the way you rested your hand on your hip. “What if I also wanted to go hunting?” you posed, and Joel shook his head.

“That ain’t happenin’, sweetheart.”

“Okay, but now you’ve brought us rabbits– and what if I end up really liking rabbit?” you bit down on your bottom lip, unconsciously showing off you own rabbit teeth.

Cute.

“Then I’ll shoot as many rabbits as you want,” Joel countered with a teasing smile before tightening his hold on the rope slung over his other shoulder (the one he’d tied the rabbits to), and walked towards the kitchen door at the back of the farmhouse.

He heard you huff in defeat behind him, your creaky steps following him up the stairs and inside. Walking into the kitchen Joel placed the rabbits on the table before he pulled at his mittens, stripped off his jacket, and hung it neatly over the back of one of the dining chairs. Grabbing one of the rabbits he brought it to the kitchen counter to start dressing it, fighting the urge to turn his head as he heard you enter the room.

“Come on, Joel,” you whined, “Why won’t you teach me?”

“Told you already,” Joel replied, “Nothin’ good comes from learnin’ to shoot things.”

Shifting the rabbit around on the counter he reached for the butcher knife in the knife block.

“You know, that’s a really stupid way of saying you don’t want to spend the time,” you told him, your voice closer now as you leaned against the kitchen counter.  

“When exactly did ya hear me sayin’ I don't wanna spend time with you?” Joel asked, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

“You won’t teach me to shoot,” you teased, and Joel could hear the smile in your voice.

Joel huffed out a laugh, “Damn right I won’t.”  

He heard you let out a whiney huff, before you turned on your heel, muttering out a curse under your breath when you accidently bumped your hip into the counter and Joel couldn’t help the smile teasing at his lips. You sat down with an overdramatic sigh, and Joel still didn’t look at you – he knew he’d cave eventually if he did, say yes against his better judgement – so he kept his eyes on the knife in his hand.

“How’s Arthur?” Joel asked as he worked.

“I don’t know,” you sighed, “The same I think– Alma was up there looking after him last time I checked.”

This time Joel allowed himself to look at you. You sat sideways on the wooden chair, legs crossed and tucked under your chair with your head hanging, eyes glued to your lap. Gone were the teasing, and gone were the smiles.

“He’ll be fine,” Joel said, his eyes back on the rabbit, “it’s just a cold.”

“Yeah… but he’s been getting sick a lot more often,” your voice was low, like you didn’t want them to hear you upstairs, “you can’t help but think the worst you know?”

Joel put the knife down and moved over to the sink. He quickly washed his hands before grabbing a towel to dry off, twisting it in his hands as he approached you. Placing the towel on the counter, he hesitated for a moment as he watched you, watched the way you twisted your hands in your lap with no sense of purpose or intent. It was like the worry dripped down your body. Pushing off the counter Joel knelt in front of you, a grunt escaped him as his knees clicked loudly, his balance slightly off on his haunches.

“Shit,” Joel huffed out a laugh, and you followed. Your palms landed on his knees to keep him steady, warmth spreading like jolting electricity.

“Sweetheart, I’ll tell you what–” he stopped himself when you looked at him through your lashes, trying to ignore the way your eyes focused on his mouth as he spoke. “’s just a cold, he’ll be up ‘n walkin’ tomorrow– man’s got gumption.”

“Yeah?” your eyes flickered upwards, meeting his.

Suddenly, under your gaze Joel felt brave. His hand moved on its own accord, cupping your cheek in his hand. He let his thumb ghost over your skin, still cold under his fingertips from being outside, but warming under his touch.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, you only watched him with glimmering eyes, like you were under a spell. Maybe he was too.

“Still,” you sighed, “Would be better if I could pick up more of the slack around here... Arthur does a lot, and I wish I could do more to support them.”

“Like what? You take care of the animals all by yourself– that’s more than enough.”

“Well, I could learn to shoot rabbits,” you told him, before the corners of your mouth pulled into a pleased smirk as he rolled his eyes at you.

Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away, making a move to stand when you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

“I’m kidding, Joel,” you smiled, before a more serious look washed over your features. “I mean it’s… It’s gonna be empty here without you,” you said, “I’m starting to really like having you here, Joel.”

Joel turned his hand to rest the back of it on your thigh, your hand fitting in his.

“I uh,” his eyes fixated on your joined hands, then he cleared his throat, “I’ll stay as long as you need me to. I’m not leavin’ you alone, sweetheart.”

Your eyes lit up at his words, smile growing large across your face. Joel’s heart drummed in his chest as your eyes flickered down to his mouth again.

“Thank you,” you said in a low voice, and then you did something Joel thought was gonna make his heart stop beating. You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. It bloomed against his skin, and made wings flutter against the walls of his stomach.

“You’re a good man, Joel Miller,” you whispered before you pulled away, looking at him with kindness in your eyes.

If only you knew, Joel thought, if only you knew the blood on his hands.

He couldn’t look at you when you looked at him like that. Like you believed your own words. So, he cleared his throat awkwardly and stood to his feet, his knees clicking as your hand slipped from his movement. He walked back to the counter, fingers grabbing the towel with no other purpose than to calm himself down.

After placing the towel back where it usually hung, he grabbed the knife again, turning his attention back to the rabbit, allowing himself to steal a few glances at you where you sat looking out the kitchen window.

“Hey, uh,” Joel broke the growing silence after a few minutes, “how ‘bout rabbit stew for lunch?”

Your head snapped to look at him as he spoke, a smile ghosting over your lips as you said, “I’ll go get some vegetables from the cellar.”

Joel wouldn’t necessarily call himself a good cook – he wouldn’t even call himself a cook in the first place. Back before the outbreak he’d been forced to learn the basics as a fresh single dad, but he’d never been able to provide Sarah with gourmet meals very often, and when Sarah had gotten older, he’d been embarrassed to say that her food was always better than his – eggshells and all. One summer he’d bought himself a nice grill– one of those way too expensive gas grills with too many fancy accessories for Joel to regularly use. He’d had a job that ended up paying well, some rich guy’s mansion that needed renovating, and decided to treat himself for once. That summer all their meals had come from that grill, well mostly, and afterwards Joel looked at himself as a pretty good griller, if nothing else.

You on the other hand, you knew what you were doing, it was clear in the effortlessly way you moved beside him as you got the vegetables ready for the stew. Joel seared the meat to the best of his abilities, making sure it was properly browned on both sides before setting it aside. After that, it was clear that you were in charge, and Joel let you boss him around and tell him what to do. It made his heart warm around the edges, watching how you put so much love and care into everything you did.

An hour later you finally sat down to eat; two hearty bowls of stew each as light snowflakes covered the world outside. You’d let the pot simmer on low over the heat as you’d wanted to bring up a bowl for Arthur and Alma later.

“So…” you started, watching as Joel dug into his bowl, “How’s the stew?”

“’s good!” Joel nodded through a mouthful, and he wasn’t lying. It was good, really good in fact.

“Yeah?” you bubbled through a smile, before you dug into your own bowl to see if he’d spoken the truth. He watched as you face brightened as you chewed, nodding your head to confirm his verdict.

“I think I really like rabbit, Joel,” you said through a teasing smile, and Joel couldn’t fight the chuckle from spilling.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, teasing smile not going anywhere, “So… when are you teaching me to shoot?”

“Shut up.”

The living room was quiet, safe for the cracking of the fire. It had almost died out when Joel had stepped out of his room. He’d been twisting and turning again, counting sheep, but nothing had been able to pull him under the blanket of sleep. He was plumb tired too, that was the worst part. The embers hummed with a low light, and with a small stick Joel had spread them out before placing a small piece of wood on top. No less than a minute later the fire fed on the log.

Taking a seat and leaning back in the lounge chair, Joel looked out the window with tired eyes. The moon looked down on him, big and bright, it shone its white light over the barnyard like a spotlight. His thoughts were clouded over as he gazed up. A billion little lights turning into bright spheres in the sky.

On nights like this, Joel felt like he was barely breathing at all.

His thoughts didn’t stray for long before they found you again. Lately, you were always on his mind. He thought about how you’d looked mere hours ago, when he’d sat in this same exact chair, only this time it was facing towards the sofa and not the window.

You’d been sat curled up in the corner, blanket thrown over your lap with a book in hand. You’d told him you’d read all the books in the house already, but it didn’t stop you from coming back to your favorites. Joel had been reading his own book, an old western he’d found in the bookshelf in the upstairs hallway a few days ago. It was entertaining, but not enough to hold his attention. He found his eyes had a mind of their own, slipping over the top to steal a peek at you as you read, feeling a smile tug at his lips at the barely there furrow of concentration between your eyebrows.

“Joel.”

Joel perked up at the whisper of his name, the memories fading like ripples in still water. He looked around the room –nothing. He sat quietly in his chair for a moment, listening, as his heartbeat quickened in his chest. It had been your voice, hadn’t it? Or was he starting to lose it? His eyes fell to the door of your bedroom. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but he could see it was slightly ajar.

“Joel.”

The voice was louder this time, almost strained, but it was yours. A thousand scenarios flashed before his eyes then at your tone. Was there someone in your room? Were you in danger? Seconds later Joel crossed the room, a mix of fear and protectiveness overcoming him.

Leaning up against your door he listened for the intruder as he readied himself. The soft crinkling of your sheets combined with your strained whimpers was all it took for him to push the door open, fearing the worst.

And…

It was empty, your room, you were alone. Joel immediately felt stupid– the only intruder here was him.

He was about to step out, embarrassed at his actions, when he heard it again, his name falling from your lips. It was all Joel needed to finally take in your body, squirming under your sheets, still asleep. The realization of what he’d just walked in on made Joel’s eyes widen.

Laying on your back, the duvet had slipped down your torso from your movements to reveal the thin t-shirt you wore to bed. Like this he could see your perked nipples through the fabric, as your chest quickly rose and fell, making Joel’s imagination start to run wild.

“Joel.”

In his pajama pants, Joel could feel his cock come alive from the soft whimper that left your lips along with his name. He couldn’t move, like some farm elf had glued his feet to the floor while he wasn’t looking. He watched as you scrunched your face together in pleasure, another whimper falling from your lips, and all the blood in Joel’s body rushed down south.

As if the soundwaves from your voice had broken against him, he took a step backwards, and then another, and another until he crossed the threshold of your door. He tried his best to be quiet, to not wake you and have you catch him in your room in the middle of the night.

The image of you squirming under your sheets, dreaming of him, didn’t leave him as he closed the door to his own room. With a sigh his head fell against the door, a strong hand gliding down his front to hover over his aching cock.

Joel Miller was no saint, but what he was doing– what he was about to do, was bad.

“Shit,” he quietly hissed, running his hand up his clothed cock. He hadn’t touched himself properly in a long time, not since he left Boston.

His cock reacted to his touch, growing harder and harder until he couldn’t take it anymore. He hooked his finger around the hem of his pajama pants, pulling them down to the thick of his thigh, freeing himself. He hissed at the cold air hitting his length, as it bopped with the movement of being freed. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Joel spat, before he wrapped his spit-soaked hand around himself.

His mind found you again as he started stroking himself, slowly at first, pumping himself with a practiced hand, squeezing himself at the base before bringing his hand up to thumb at the tip. Joel couldn’t get the way you sounded out of his mind. Couldn’t forget how you were squirming in your bed, dreaming of him. Couldn’t shake the thought of pulling those moans and whimpers from you with his hands, and his mouth, and with his cock.

“Fuck.”

Joel tried to be quiet, but he couldn’t fight the moan from slipping from his lips. Fuck, he wanted you. He wanted his hands all over you. Closing his eyes his mouth dropped open as he imagined what he was dying to do to you.

How much he’d wanted to help you out of your t-shirt, run his hands over your breasts and tease your nipples. Take his time to pull those moans and whimpers from your soft lips as he teased you with kisses down your body, down the valley of your breasts, your tummy, down to you to your–

Another low moan fell from Joel’s lips. He squeezed himself tighter as he jerked himself off, precum pearling at the tip, and slipping down his length, mixing with his spit.

The sound of the slick rhythm of his hand filled his bedroom as he increased the pace of his strokes. He had to bite down on his lip to strangle a groan when thoughts of getting between your legs, spreading them open and getting his mouth on you filled his head. He fantasized about how you’d taste falling apart on his tongue–Fuck, how you’d sound falling apart around his cock.

His eyes fell shut as he fisted himself faster. Joel could feel his orgasm quickly building, coiling tight in his tummy. With his free hand he cupped his balls, and then he couldn’t help but imagine it was you, a picture of you on your knees before him flashed behind his eyelids, your tongue lapping at his balls while your hand pumped his cock.

“Shit.”

With a strained groan, thick ropes of cum spilled over his knuckles and down his length, coating him in his release. His breath came out ragged, as he continued his strokes, milking himself of the rest of his release.

Fuck.

His cock softened in his hand as he calmed down from his high. With a quiet groan he pushed himself off the door, looking around his room for something to clean himself up with.

The guilt of what he’d done washed over him quickly, settling in his chest like a heavy weight. You were so young, and beautiful, and Joel just an old man. He shouldn’t want you like this, shouldn’t want you this much.

Climbing under the covers, Joel couldn’t shake his thoughts of you, of you dreaming about him in your bed, about your smiles, and your touch. A supercut of you rolling like a tape in his minds eye. A supercut of you bundled up under a blanket on the sofa, knitting him his mittens. Of you, your own knitted hat pulled tightly down over your ears as you stepped out into the snow to check on the animals. Of the way you’d looked at him for the first time, with the bucket of apples under your arm, and the sweet taste of them as you’d offered him one later, after dinner.

Finally, Joel could breathe.

i hope someone liked this? if you did a comment, reply or an ask is always welcome and they make me super happy <3 other than that thank you for reading!!

[hwanchaesong]

┗🖋️ Starry eyes lighting up the fire / The scorching palms of a squire / Ignites the sensations of ire / A storm, not in peace with a lyre 📖

🎧: Taylor Swift ft. Post Malone- Fortnight

wc: 1.7k

genre & warnings: angst, sprinkle of fluff, smut, jay is rich and reader is an ave citizen, cursing, club and drinking, unprotected sex, overstim, creampie, mentions of forced marriage, etc etc mdni

a/n: this is a part of The Tortured Poems Department series. if y'all want, you can read the other album inspired fics of other groups here.

"You alone?" a figure came up from behind you, snapping your daydreams.

"Oh uhm," you stuttered, not exactly a great talker, much less in front of an attractive man, "with my friends but.. it seems like they have found some men to go home with."

An awkward chuckle escapes you, and you almost wince with how unnatural you sounded, thankfully, the male is not a judgmental one.

"Well then, let me accompany you."

That was hours ago and now you're having your back blown by the rich, handsome man you've been conversing with back at the bar.

Face pushed onto the lush pillow of the luxurious bed of the hotel you're in, knuckles turning white with how you're gripping the silken sheets, and your muffled moans with the wet sounds of skin slapping echoed throughout the expanse of the room.

"That's my good princess, you take me so well." the man above you continues to harshly pound into your abused cunt, showering you with praise that had you reeling in pride and pleasure.

You had been going at it for three hours now, and he had made you cum for.. the nth time. You can't count anymore, if you're going to be honest.

He's so so good with his fingers, tongue, and everything. A stranger that you only met for tonight gave you the best experience you'll ever pray or wish for.

You mewled his name in a weak manner when he slows his pace down, a condescending smirk on his insanely attractive face.

"Close?" he asked and you can only nod meekly, he chuckles at you before manhandling you in a missionary position.

"Ja- Ah! Oh god! Slow down!" you cried out, arms flying on his chest when he suddenly bottoms out in your wetness and railing you to oblivion.

He started off sweet, he was basically making you comfortable until you begged for him to do more. So he did do more, and you can only blame yourself for biting more than you can chew.

You can complain all you want though, he's not stopping. Not when you're this dripping all over him, gripping him, oh, he knows you're loving this.

"Why would I slow down, babe?" he rasped, leaning down to lick a stripe of your skin on your neck, "I thought you like it better if it's rough?" he whispers in your ear, nibbling on your lobe.

"I-I, it was not hmpf-!" he cuts you off with his own mouth, capturing your lips in a filthy kiss, tongues out and clashing with each other until drool dribbles down your chin.

"No more explaining, baby." he mumbles against your lips, his thrusts are relentless throughout and it has you moaning in rapture.

He is so big and thick, he easily hits all the spots that most men can't even touch. The tip of his length scratches your cervix and it sends you into a frenzy.

You are nothing but a muttering hot doll in his presence, and it makes him smirk, the way you take everything that he gives you.

"See, you like this." he mused, furrowing his brows when he felt his high coming nearer, his hands reaching down to rub circles on your bundle of nerves, "Last one baby, you can do it."

He urges you to let go, and with one last thrust from him, you both came at the same time.

Heavy pants filled the room, and he pulled out of you with a grunt, followed by your whines when he inserted two fingers in your sensitive womanhood, pushing the mixture of cum back in your pussy.

"Jay.. stop it." you mumbled sleepily as he laughed lightly, licking his digits to clean the liquids and lying down beside you.

"Sorry, gotta make sure you'll keep all that in." you giggle at his silliness, peering at him through your lashes, only to see him staring at you intently.

"What is it?" you inquired, shutting your eyes when his hands rubbed your flushed skin, soothing the tense muscles underneath.

"I was thinking," he contemplates for a second, "do you want to spend your remaining two weeks here with me?"

With a wide smile, you turned and embraced him, catching him by surprise but he returned the hug nonetheless, covering you in his sturdy arms, "Thought you'd never ask."

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

"My fu-! Dear god." you were woken up rather abruptly when loud knocks resonated in your home.. newly bought home.

Life has been good so far. You got a new job in the suburbs, far away from the city but you like the tranquil vibes (and the pay is higher for some reason). You're finally out of your crappy apartment, your effort of saving money has paid you with a new house and lot.

You rubbed your eyes, standing from the sofa and subtly checking yourself in front of the mirror if you're presentable enough to entertain guests. Deeming yourself fine, you're good to go.

Upon opening the door, a lovely woman greeted you, offering you a freshly baked good. 'A gift for the new neighbor', she says.

"Thank you so much. You didn't have to go through the trouble." you muttered graciously, an appreciative smile on your face.

"No problem!" she laughs, extending her hand for you to take, "I'm Park Minhee. I live right next to you with my husband." she points at the large, mansion-like house beside your own average one.

"That's great." you accept the handshake, starting to grow fond of the kind woman, and it makes you think that her husband must be so lucky to have her by his side.

"By the way," she says in a hurried tone, "please join us for dinner later, I would like to introduce you to my husband."

"Sure!" you agreed without hesitation, making her beam with joy and when she ran off into their household, only then did you realize the repercussion of your impulsive decision.

You barely knew them and it feels like you're intruding!

You shake your head in disappointment, you have to work on that aspect of yourself.

Putting down the gift you had received, you realize that it was an apple pie.. his favorite.

You stopped yourself from thinking about him again. It's unbelievable, really, how he's still plaguing your mind and heart with the memories and feelings he left within you.

It was 2 weeks for fucks sake! Why is it so hard to move on from him? What kind of narcotic did he use on you that you're unable to forget about him.

Was it the way he touched you while his eyes speak millions of sentiments that words can't fully express it?

Was it the way he kissed you, fucked you, made you feel like you're the only girl that matters in the whole world?

4 months fucking months since you've last seen him and haven't been able to escape the loop of that fleeting 14 days of February.

You inhaled, burying the thoughts in your subconscious. You just have to give it some time, and slowly but surely, he will be nothing but a burnt ash of your cigarette.

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

Hell.

The dinner with the Parks was hell.

It was so fucking awkward you'd rather die because why on the damnest reason is he the husband, out of all people?

You had to act like everything was okay. The steak was delicious, the wine was magnificent, heck the interior of their home is superb except for the man of the house.

The relief is close, you'll be free from the restraints soon. You just have to hold it in.

"You are such a sweet lady!" Mrs. Park giggles on the sofa, clearly about to pass out because of the amount of the wine she consumed.

"Thank you for accommodating me tonight." you managed to give her a small smile, even if she can't see it, bidding them goodbye but then you went rigid when the wife sputtered her next sentence.

"Jongseong, would you be a dear and assist our guest on her way home."

You interjected, not wanting to spend more minutes breathing the same air as him, "Oh no, it's fine! I literally live right t-"

"I insist." the male voices out in a firm manner, leaving no arguments.

The older woman waves you two off, flumping onto the sofa to rest, and the hell part two begins.

It was quiet, no one dared to say a word until you reached the front of your house, and Jay has never been a man with a stitched mouth.

"It's good to see you again.. well, not like this but.." he trails off, finding the right words is difficult at the moment.

"It is," you turn on your heels to face him, "and it's good to know that you're living the best life."

He bites his lower lip, deliberating whether to explain himself to you or not, ultimately choosing the former.

"We were forced into marriage, just a few weeks ago."

Well, good to know that you weren't the other woman in the picture. That doesn't make the pain any less, though you are ready to put on your big girl pants.

Dead set on being mature in the situation, make your guardian angels proud of you once in a while.

"Jay, it's okay." you murmur, taking his cold hands in your warm ones, "Whatever happened there, stays there. Goodnight."

You didn't give him the chance to reply because if you hear his voice, you think you'll make a mistake that you'll regret later on.

Slumping down on your wooden door, a thud came out of it, you have to pull yourself together.

One day, greeting Jay while getting your mails would be possible. Chatting with him about the weather will be child's play. Watching his wife tend to their garden would be a daily scenery that you wouldn’t mind one bit.

Jay stayed outside of your home for a few more minutes, fighting his inner turmoil. The one that is urging him to be honest with you. The side of him that wants to explain everything after your fated meeting in the club. 

There were a lot of times where he tried calling you, but no courage came to him, the fear of your rejection was far stronger than any forces out there. 

You will never know how Jay loved you during that everlasting 2 weeks, and he will never know how your feelings for him lay waste in your heart.

taglist:

@ramenoil @shakalakaboomboo

[stxrvel]

back to shibuya

snippets of your life with kento after you both miraculously survived shibuya. pairing: nanami x f!reader content: angst and somehow comfort? a/n: second nanami fic and i can't just drop the angst! but i think this one's more calmer than the last one. hope you guys enjoy! loved seeing your comments <3

jjk main masterlist (coming) | main masterlist

Nanami woke up in the middle of the night, exalted, with a cold sweat running down his body and a terrible disastrous feeling that something horrible had happened. His head did not rest as his arms moved to the left side of the bed… empty. Cold.

For a moment he felt an invisible force steal the breath from his lungs, an uncontainable pressure planted itself in his chest and his erratic breathing only worsened.

In the midst of his shock, he took his gaze around the room.

Dark. Too dark.

Nanami Kento kept having nightmares ever since the Shibuya incident. Waking up after each one was worse when you weren't next to him in bed and it was too hard for him, in the midst of the panic that was gnawing at him, to remember that he had gone to bed the night before with you next to him. Fear clouded his mind and his judgment and without a second thought he found himself crawling out of bed, across the room, the whimpers of your name piercing the silence of the huge house.

“y/n! love…” he almost pleaded.

His feet carried him into the hallway, and from the hallway to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the guest room and from that room to the living room, from the living room to the kitchen where he could barely register the glow of the light on and your figure sprawled on the island chair, sound asleep.

Nanami stood on his feet in the kitchen doorway, his fingers twitching in involuntary spasms. Trying to catch his breath, memories came back to him bit by bit.

That day, when Kento had come in from a heavy day at the office, because he had left the sorcerer world as soon as it was all over in Shibuya, and you were waiting for him at home with one of his favorite dishes. The warmth of the lovingly made food in his mouth, the savoring of your lips on his when he dragged you to bed and didn't let you escape, even though you wanted to watch the new episode of the series you watched together. The tranquility and peace it brought him to have your body curled up with his, between the sheets, with no other care in the world but to have you by his side.

Perhaps he had even sensed when you moved in his arms to get out of bed and from that moment on he had surely begun his nightmare.

Nanami moved towards your figure, his crystallized eyes roaming over your body, his steps light and cautious as if he feared that at any moment you would disappear right in front of his eyes.

With all the good memories also came the bad ones, and his hands clutched at his sides at the spasm of pain that shot through his chest. He would probably never forget the heartbreaking way your lips said his name, repeatedly asking for forgiveness, thinking you would not make it. Inside Shoko's infirmary, holding his hand when by sheer luck he had escaped Mahito's hands with Itadori. But you didn't need to know that, not at that moment, not when Nanami felt you were slipping out of his grip when he had you right in front of him.

Your closed eyes in that awkward posture also brought back those bad memories for him.

“y/n…” Kento stepped closer, reaching up with trembling hands to grab you by the shoulders. He barely brushed against you and his hands contracted. His breathing hadn't calmed at any point, he had simply been fighting back tears. You were there at that moment, fine, alive, he could see the way your body moved slightly as you took in air and expelled it.

You were fine.

So why couldn't he calm down?

Kento watched your profile, deciding not to disturb your sleep, especially since he knew how much it would worry you to see him with that broken expression, with those tears he wasn't being able to hold back.

He dropped down in front of you, his knees touching the cold wood of the floor. His brow furrowed, expression contracted, lips pursed trying not to make even the slightest noise. Tears running down his cheeks, his hands holding his face because he couldn't believe that he still had so much stress and so much fear when too much time had already passed, when Shoko had already saved you, when your recovery was already over. When you were already so well that you had agreed to leave the country to live with him anywhere else in the world.

He didn't know why he was still so full of that anguish when everything was fine. That sometimes made him think that maybe it wasn't true; that he had been imagining that whole journey, that really neither of you had made it past that day and now… and now…

Kento's emotions were too strong and no matter how hard he tried to contain them, it was physically impossible.

When you woke up, you barely registered the yellow light and the view of the kitchen and living room when you heard it. Him.

Your back and neck ached from how fast you moved, frantically looking everywhere until you stood up and your feet bumped into something.

Kento. Huddled in front of you as if he wanted to make himself tiny enough to disappear. His little sobs pierced your soul. Hands covering his face and moving through his hair in an almost desperate gesture.

“kento…” you murmured, trying to get his attention, but that only made his sobs increase. “kento, it's okay. You're okay. We're okay.”

You knelt down in front of him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, feeling something inside him unwind and his arms move extremely quickly to wrap around you just the same. You didn't know what had been going through his head, but from the way he whimpered into the crook of your neck, bringing tears to your own eyes, you knew it was nothing good.

Like every time he had a nightmare, Kento could only go back to Shibuya. It was something that would probably take him years to heal.

“i love you, kento. we're fine.”

[the-scarlet-witch-22]

The Lark Ascending: A Chaconne Story (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

Summary: Five years after leaving your heart in New York to chase your dreams in Vienna, you're finally a rising star in the classical music world. After scoring your biggest gig yet- a soloist job for a summer concert series in LA- you discover that the past isn’t as distant as you’d thought.

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: Hello friends, welcome to the Chaconne sequel, The Lark Ascending! This story is very near and dear to my heart and I’m so excited to be posting it. The inspiration for this fic is from one of my favorite pieces of the same name, The Lark Ascending. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy it. Please feel free to let me know what you think!

Being a musician was all about sacrifice; you had to be willing to get to the top by any means necessary. You couldn’t just give it your all, it had to be more than that. But what happens when that wasn’t enough? What happens when you have it all just within reach, but no matter how hard you try you can’t quite get there? Those were the questions you had asked yourself when you first moved to Vienna. It seemed like no matter what you tried, how many hours you practiced, it wasn’t right. There was something missing. You did everything you should have, you moved to Vienna (although that wasn’t entirely your idea to begin with), you performed night after night with your blood, sweat, and tears, all while healing a broken heart.

It felt like you had all of the pieces to the puzzle in front of you, but they didn’t fit together. Or rather, you didn’t fit. There was something missing, and no amount of practicing could fix that. There was a small voice in the back of your mind whispering that there was a reason you didn’t make it into the Manhattan Symphony. Agatha would always say how much progress you were making, how much potential you had, that there was promise, but you wondered just how true that was; how much of it she really meant. You had been doing a lot of thinking on your relationship with Agatha lately.

The first few months after you moved to Vienna, you couldn’t even say her name without crying. There were reminders of her everywhere you turned. The coffee shop near your apartment, the rehearsal hall where you spent most of your time, every park you strolled through. You’d stumble upon small things, like a review for a new play, or interesting theories on post-modern music, and subconsciously want to share them with her. A beautiful sunny day, the flowers blooming in the ground, the wind whistling in the distance, the way the dew sparkled on the grass after a thunderstorm, everything was Agatha. You knew they called Vienna “The City of Dreams”, but you never anticipated all of your fantasies to revolve around the same woman. How were you supposed to get closure when she was thousands of miles away?

Your solace came, unsurprisingly, in the form of music. Vienna was the birthplace of some of classical music’s great forefathers, and there was inspiration all around you. Performing with Natasha and her chamber orchestra was like a breath of fresh air, and with every performance you slowly found yourself again. It wasn’t entirely true when they said time heals all wounds, because you weren’t sure you’d ever heal from the scar of leaving Agatha, but with every month that passed you found it hurt less and less. You often thought you would always love her, but this was for the best, you knew it was.

Eventually, it felt like everything was falling into place. Performing with a prestigious group that featured world renowned soloists like Wanda Maximoff meant you were able to make the right connections. You worked harder than you ever thought possible, and channeled your grief into your music to push you forward. It paid off in the end, and with Natasha and Wanda’s help you eventually entered a rising soloist contest.

Getting over your fears of inadequacy was another story. You knew that the one thing that was missing was your ability to believe that you were good enough; that you had always been good enough. No amount of practicing could convince you of that either, it had to come within yourself.

In the days leading up to the competition, you had a breakdown in front of Wanda that changed the way you saw yourself.

You set your violin down on the piano, ignoring Wanda’s concerned glance in your direction. “I think I need to drop out of this competition. I’m nowhere near ready.”

Wanda frowned, looking over the sheet music you had handed her earlier. “What are you talking about? You have everything memorized. You sound really good.”

“I don’t feel ready,” you argued, staring at the floor, trying to ignore the tightening of your chest at the thought of competing that weekend.

“No one ever feels ready for these sorts of things,” Wanda pointed out, and you knew she was trying to help, but you weren’t in the mood to hear it.

“I’ve never had the best luck with these sorts of things,” you reminded her. “I think I need to accept that this kind of dream isn’t feasible for me.”

“Why do you keep getting in your own way?” Wanda questioned, moving the sheet music to the side, her tone curious.

“I’m not getting in my own way,” you politely informed her. “I’m being realistic.”

“Nothing about this, about what we do is realistic,” Wanda corrected you, standing up from her seat. “I never thought I’d make it as a soloist, but I had to believe in myself enough to try. If you can’t even give yourself that, then you’re right; this isn’t feasible for you.”

Her words sat with you for a moment, and as you took it in, you felt the tightening in your chest begin to break until you could breathe again. She was right, you knew it deep down. As silly as it sounded, you had to give yourself a chance.

That ended up being the first competition you ever won, much to your surprise and Wanda’s delight.

Things began to look up after that. You slowly entered more competitions, and eventually you made enough of a name for yourself to begin soloing with various orchestras. It was nothing you could have ever imagined in your wildest dreams, but it was real. You did it. In spite of the heartache and pain, you did it all.

The past year proved to be your busiest yet. You had been booked solid with performances across the U.S. with a wide variety of orchestras, and your schedule wasn’t slowing down just yet. You would be spending your summer in Los Angeles, and you were still in disbelief.

If you had told yourself five years ago that you would be the featured artist in residence of the Los Angeles Symphony’s summer season, you would have thought it was a joke. Being the premiere performing symphony on the entire west coast, they had a stellar reputation and drew in huge crowds. Stephen Strange was a legendary conductor who you had always dreamed of getting to work with. It almost felt too good to be true.

You made it to the symphony center a little earlier than you planned, but with the unpredictability of LA traffic you didn’t want to risk being late. All that was on your agenda for the day was a meeting with the CFO of the board, Tony Stark, and a short rehearsal. But, you were hoping to get a quick peak of the concert hall while it was still empty. There weren't many people around this early in the day, but you had little trouble navigating yourself around until you found the backstage door.

The concert hall was pitch black, and you fumbled with the switches backstage before managing to flip on a single stage light. You wouldn’t need anything more than that, surely. Stepping on the stage you looked out at the vast concert hall, which seemed to hold hundreds of empty seats, and you pictured what it would be like to step out to thunderous applause. None of your previous experiences performing as a soloist had ever been for an audience of this size, and you silently came to the realization that the crowd at the Hollywood Bowl would be even larger. A familiar tingle of nerves coursed through your system as tiny thoughts of doubt twirled around your brain. Were you ready for this?

Absentmindedly tapping your fingers against the music stand at the podium, your eyes swept across the room. A quick glance at the schedule confirmed that no one from the orchestra would be here until later in the evening, so you’d have the place entirely to yourself. Taking a deep breath, you unpacked your violin and began to tune, taking note of how the sound bounced all around the walls, and gradually felt yourself relax. It was funny, you mused as you lowered your violin, how easy it was for you to discredit how much you had accomplished over the past few years. You weren’t just some conductor’s assistant anymore, you were a professional violinist, and a good one at that. It was unclear if your hesitation to accept your success came from the fear of being considered overly cocky, or if it derived from years of low self esteem and an inferiority complex.

Taking another long, calming breath, you swept those thoughts aside. Raising your violin, you rolled your shoulders back, turning so you were facing the front of the hall. It would be foolish to play the entire piece hours before rehearsal, as you would be wasting energy that you would desperately need. Performing was a lot like running a marathon, you couldn’t blow through everything you had in the first few miles and be left with nothing for the end. No, you needed to be intentional with every movement of your bow and shift of your fingers up and down the fingerboard.

The Lark Ascending was a majestic sixteen minute piece that was filled with swooping melodies as the violin sang higher and higher with every measure. Vaughan Williams was a composer during the late Romantic Era, crossing over into the Contemporary, and he had been inspired by a poem of the same name written by English author George Meredith. Vaughan Williams was able to create such stirring imagery with the notes on the page, that it was easy to get lost as you were playing and get transported to this dreamy, astral realm. Filled with a gorgeous blend of vivid colors and clouds, you felt like the lark Vaughan Williams was depicting, soaring through the clear skies.

The piece was filled with vulnerable cadences where you played without the orchestra’s accompaniment acting as a safety net in case you fell. You had to be completely sure of yourself, a hint of hesitation of your fingers or incomplete bow changes would ruin this picturesque painting. Rolling your bow to the frog, you internalized what you wanted your first note to sound like, settling on working on your opening phrase. Placing your fingers on the string, you closed your eyes and began. Your introduction was a stunning cadenza, with the tempo gradually increasing as you began your opening runs, your fingers gliding across the strings.

There was freedom with the tempo, allowing you to take your time and savor each note, your vibrato ringing through the hall. As you climbed higher and higher into the stratosphere it almost felt like you were the lark, ascending into the open air. Performing like this had unlocked a new sense of freedom you always yearned for; the countless hours of practicing turned into an almost effortless sight to any audience. It was as natural as breathing, and each exhale you took matched the strokes of your bow. Nearing the end of the phrase, you tried a new stylistic technique as you shifted your fingers gradually down the fingerboard, making note to try it again later at rehearsal.

As your bow stopped moving you made a few other mental notes of where you could add more vibrato, or improve your dynamics, when all of the lights in the hall turned on, snapping you out of your inner thoughts. The abrupt sound of loud clapping is what startled you the most, as you thought no one else would be using the stage until tonight. You turned around to find the stage door was still ajar, just as you left it, but you noticed a figure lingering in the shadows, and you nearly jumped at the sight. The building was secure enough that you weren’t going to be murdered, right?

“Can I help you?” You asked as politely as possible, setting your violin in its case.

“I have to say, dear, you certainly know how to leave a girl wanting more,” A familiar voice rang out, amusement clear from their tone as they stepped into the light. “You must have had an excellent teacher.”

Agatha Harkness leaned against the door frame, hands folded across her chest. Her dark hair was splayed against her shoulders in their usual messy curls, and you were surprised to find her in more casual attire consisting of a pair of black jeans and a lightweight button-up sheer white shirt. She arched an eyebrow at your shocked expression

You felt your heart stop as you stared into a familiar pair of blue eyes. “Agatha?”

Her lips twisted upwards, smirking, a familiar glint in her eyes. “Surprised to see me?”

Time stood still as you were frozen in place, millions of thoughts dancing around your brain. You were unsure if it had been five seconds or five hours, all you could do was try to remember to breathe. Agatha was here, but how was she here? Were you imagining it? It wouldn’t have been the first time, as you’d lost track of the number of appearances she had made in your dreams over the years. They were all of slightly different variations, but would all end in the same heartbreaking fashion of reconciling with the conductor and feeling a sense of happiness you’d long forgotten…until you inevitably woke up alone.

Blinking, you took a timid step towards her, your hands uncomfortably folding behind your back. “Agatha, what are you doing here?”

Ignoring your question, she walked over to your violin case, and, despite your protests, she picked up your violin, examining it. “I see someone got a new instrument.” Gently turning it, you watched her trace the scroll, her fingers dancing around the pegs. “A shame, really, I was quite fond of your old one. But this is nice too, I suppose. What is it? Italian? German?“

“Swiss, actually,” you lightly corrected her, holding out your hands, signaling for her to hand it over.

As she disregarded your wishes for a second time, you felt a familiar pang of annoyance at how stubborn she could be. Picking up your bow, she raised your violin, setting the bow on the string, before releasing and producing a G-major chord. As the chord echoed throughout the hall you relished in the sound. Agatha had rarely used your violin before. She had always insisted that her talents remained with conducting and the piano, but you recalled a few memories of convincing her to play a scale or two on your violin.

You were normally extremely protective over your instrument, often refusing to allow anyone else to even hold her. However, you recollected, it had never been like that with Agatha. There had been some deep, unspoken level of trust that you had never felt with anyone else.

“Impressive,” Agatha remarked, appearing to admire the sound quality, before finally handing it back to you. Her hands briefly brushed against yours as you wrapped your hands around the neck of your violin, and it was as if you had been zapped by lightning.

But as quickly as the sensation overcame you, it was gone. Agatha retracted her hands, deep blue eyes boring into yours with the same intensity she always seemed to carry.

Clearing your throat, you broke eye contact, feeling the weight of her gaze still on you. “You never answered my question. What are you doing here?”

The conductor released a thoughtful hum, as you watched her move towards the edge of the stage. “Now is that any way to greet the Los Angeles Symphony’s guest conductor, dear?”

Guest conductor? Your face scrunched up, surprise coloring your features. None of your recent internet searches of the conductor revealed she would be in Los Angeles for any upcoming performances. Now, you weren’t exactly stalking Agatha, that would be creepy. You just liked to occasionally see what she was up to. That was normal, right?

“Tony never mentioned a guest conductor when I spoke with him earlier,” you pointed out, leaving out your internal ramblings as you were sure Agatha would get far too much pleasure from hearing you had looked her up.

“Well, it appears that Stephen contracted a rather nasty stomach bug, and I just happened to be in the area.” Agatha explained, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

Now, you weren’t claiming to be an expert geographer, but something in your gut told you that she was lying. “So you just happened to be in California when you live on the East Coast?”

“Something like that,” Agatha tossed out, teasing you ever so slightly, and you scoffed.

She had always been elusive; that had been part of her charm. You never entirely knew what to expect when you were dealing with Agatha Harkness, and that used to excite you. She often reminded you of a raging hurricane, with her occasional fits of anger and passion all mingling together like the waves crashing against the shore. There had been a gentler side to her, of course, located in the eye of the storm. That had been the Agatha you were most familiar with, underneath all of the sarcastic quips and horrible temper was the woman you had once fallen in love with.

Nothing about her had ever been direct, which nearly drove you mad. But the subtlety of how she offered her affection more than made up for it. Nearly every night she insisted on driving you home, and you had quickly learned she detested the subway. She had been horrified when you had revealed you almost never cooked, so she made a point to teach you her favorite recipes (while only gently mocking your lack of skill in the kitchen in the process). It was clear she hadn’t been used to expressing her emotions, but then again you had never been an expert in that field either. Still, she loved you in her own way, and deep down a small part of you knew she loved you enough to let you go all those years ago.

But standing here now, you couldn’t help but wonder what she was really doing here. Did she know you were set to premiere with the orchestra? There was a fleeting thought where you dared to wonder if she came here for you, but you knew that was too foolish to even imagine. It had been so long without any word from her, why would she come to you now? You had performed with a few other orchestras in the States over the past year, and there had been a few brief moments where you hoped she would show, but she never did.

She was looking pleased, far too pleased for your liking. A rather dark thought crossed your mind, and you shot her an incredulous look. “Oh my god, did you do something to Stephen?”

Agatha let out a loud cackle, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “I’m a conductor, dear, not a homicidal witch. What exactly do you think I could have done, beat him up with my baton?”

That painted a rather interesting image in your head, but you frowned at her, unamused. “You’re not going to tell me what you’re doing here, are you?”

“You always were a fast learner, darling,” Agatha quietly remarked as she took a step towards you, the once familiar pet name sounding foreign on her tongue. “I must say, I was surprised to learn you had selected Vaughan Williams.”

“Why?” You questioned, noting how she slowly inched her way closer to you.

“I suppose I assumed you’d pick something with more flare. Tchaikovsky perhaps, or Sibelius.”

Shrugging, you vaguely called to mind one of the first things Agatha had ever said to you. “I don’t know, I guess I always preferred something more subdued, you know?”

You watched her eyes sparkle with a mischievous glint, and it was clear she knew what you were doing. “Something more subdued, hm? Not a fan of the dramatics?”

“I think that’s much more your genre of choice than mine,” You retorted, feeling the air in the room begin to thin as she circled you like a shark.

Agatha stepped in even closer, and her fingers reached up, playing with the loose strands of hair that fell around your shoulders. You felt your body react to her touch, a sensation you’d long forgotten. “You cut your hair,” she murmured, so low you could barely hear her.

“You haven’t seen me in over five years,” you pointed out, feeling a wave of nerves hit you over having her so close. “I’m sure my hair’s changed a lot since then.”

“It looked longer in Chicago,” she mused, still twirling the strands around, and you were stunned. Chicago? Your most recent performance was with the Chicago Philharmonic last month, and that would mean that…was she there?

“How would you know that?” You pressed, and her fingers ceased their movements, as you searched her eyes for a glimpse into what she was implying.

You could feel millions of unanswered questions dancing between the two of you, the tension thick in the air. Agatha’s hands abruptly dropped your hair as if she had been burned, and you briefly yearned for her touch again.

“My assistant showed me a recording of the performance on their phone,” Agatha explained, folding her hands against her chest. “Your stage presence certainly has improved, but you were late coming out of your cadenza.”

Ignoring the slight dig, your brain honed in on what she said prior to that. Her assistant. You couldn’t help but ask yourself if she had kept the same assistant since you left. A brief, but intrusive, thought made you wonder if the dynamic between Agatha and this new assistant was similar to the one you once shared. Did she call them the same terms of endearments she had bestowed upon you? Did she introduce them to her favorite old movies that you used to beg her to turn on? Did she go out of her way to fluster them, as she once took pleasure in doing to you?

You weren’t sure why it bothered you so much. It wasn’t as if you were together anymore, Agatha was free to do what she liked and to see who she pleased. You had a few short-lived, meaningless flings while living abroad, so it would be hypocritical to judge her. But, there was a voice screaming deep inside you, questioning how special your time together truly was if she could have replaced you so easily?

“Right, your assistant.” You tried your best to keep the bitterness from seeping through, but could practically taste the venom in your mouth.

Agatha raised her eyebrows, but refrained from commenting on your change in tone. Instead, she turned to walk down the stairs of the stage, leading to the aisle. “I only heard the last few bars of your cadenza, and it isn’t terrible, but it could certainly be better. Now, I don’t have my score on me, but it sounds like you’re losing too much momentum as you come down the fingerboard.” She sat a few rows back from the stage, crossing her legs together. “Could you take it again from your last run, and try to make your decrescendo last longer? We want to elongate these phrases to draw the audience in.”

There had been a time when you would have done anything Agatha had asked of you without question. Your daily practice sessions with the conductor had been grueling at times, as she was incredibly nitpicky, and had an impeccably well-trained ear. Any missed entrance or a note that was even just a hair flat she would pick up on. You had worked with a lot of gifted musicians in the past, but none of them could dream of coming close to Agatha Harkness. She wasn’t just a conductor, she possessed the rare ability to take the notes off the page and transform them into these brilliant, colorful works of art.

You used to live for her praise, and would often go out of your way to receive it. It had been your worst fear to disappoint her somehow, even if it meant sacrificing your own dreams to please her. But things were different now, you weren’t her assistant anymore. The burning desire to gain her approval still lingered somewhere within you, but it wasn’t as strong anymore. You knew that you would be okay without it, as you had to learn to live without her.

Giving her a pointed look, you decided to test the waters. “You do realize you’re not my boss anymore, right? I don’t have to just do whatever you say.”

Agatha looked momentarily stunned, and you could practically watch the gears turning in her head. “If I recall correctly, you used to enjoy having me tell you what to do.”

Looking down, you forced yourself to not remember just how much you used to enjoy that. Clearing your throat, you thought of something to fire back with. “Well, they do say memory is the first thing to go.”

“Funny, dear.” Agatha deadpanned, but as you lifted your head you were able to see the corners of her lips were turned upwards. “But I’m not paying you to just stand there and look pretty.”

“You’re actually not paying me at all, the orchestra is.”

“Technicalities,” Agatha said dismissively, waving her hand to signal you to hurry up. “And as you just so kindly pointed out, I’m not getting any younger. Any day now.”

It was clear Agatha wasn’t going to let up, and you weren’t in the mood to keep arguing with her. Grabbing your violin, you gently rested it under your arm. “Should I start at my last entrance?”

Agatha had a thoughtful expression on her face, and you couldn’t help but focus on her fingers tapping out indecipherable rhythms on the top of the seats in front of her. “Hmmm, let’s take it from the top. Do you need your sheet music?”

Shaking your head, you raised your violin. Placing your bow on the string, you tried to rid yourself of the nerves you could feel start to overtake you. Your first few notes rang through the hall as you tried to perfectly time each shift of your fingers and vibrato. Everything had to be fluid; any jerky bow changes or careless finger placements would risk destroying the exquisite illusion you were painting. Some violinists would claim the most challenging pieces to perform were the ones with incredibly fast passages that were often impossible to master. Your brain had to be a few steps ahead of your nimble fingers so you could anticipate what the next notes would be, and one small slip up would send you tumbling down.

While you agreed that exuberant pieces were extremely difficult, you would argue that the hardest pieces to perform as a soloist were the more melodic ones. The pieces filled with stunning melodies, warmed up by gorgeous vibrato. They weren’t packed with thrilling runs up and down the fingerboard, instead they were notated with sweet, heartbreakingly beautiful lines that required you to pour your heart out. Yes, it was scary to have to nail a few hundred notes coming out one after another, but the hardest feat to master on the violin was the ability to play achingly slow, glorious passages. It was to fully captivate an audience with every elegant swish of your bow and dance of your fingers on the strings.

You were so swept up in the notes you had memorized in your brain, you barely heard the soft creaking of the stairs leading up to the stage. There was a particularly bare section halfway through your cadenza, where you were so high up the fingerboard that you needed to extend your elbow to allow your fingers to reach. It wasn’t good enough to merely play the right notes; you had to be confident your left hand was pressing down on the correct spot on the string, while your right hand held the bow but didn’t press too hard down. If you applied too much pressure when you released the bow, it would produce a screeching noise on the string.

Continuing on, you kept your fingers on your bow relaxed, but you could gradually feel your shoulders begin to tighten. This happened on occasions when you were feeling particularly nervous or antsy, and it was usually difficult for you to relax them. As you tried to refocus your breathing and attempt to get your body to calm down, you could feel a familiar presence lurking in the background. Even though you could not see her, you knew she was right behind you. You had found yourself in this exact scenario with the conductor too many times to count. She would always promise to stay in her seat while you were playing for her, but would almost always end up on the stage within mere moments.

As if she could sense you about to stop playing, you heard her voice ring out. “Don’t stop now, dear. I’m just observing something.”

You wanted to turn around and ask if she was observing your ass, but you knew she would merely retort with something to make you blush furiously in response. So you kept going, trying not to picture what she was doing.

As the line slowly started to take you down the fingerboard with every new phrase, you put all of your attention into your intonation. You could hear her take yet another small step towards you, to the point where she was nearly pressed up against you.

“You need to relax.” Agatha uttered, so close to whispering in your ear that you reflexively shivered. She put one hand on your shoulder, rubbing gentle circles. “Your posture is giving me horrible flashbacks.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult for you to remember the correct notes when she was closer to you than she had been in so long. Her other hand rested on your hip, the sensation almost causing you to drop your violin. It had been so long since you last felt her touch, and you could just barely hold onto the melody in your memory. A small voice in the back of your brain begged for more, but you ignored it.

“Relax.” Agatha repeated, her voice firmer this time, and you felt your body obey her command. Your shoulders finally went down to their correct position, but her hands stayed on you. “There we go, good girl.”

Your brain buzzed at her words, feeling your cheeks burn and you were thankful she couldn’t see the effect she still had on you. As you reached the end of the cadenza, you slowly lowered your instrument, trying your best not to fall over from the overwhelming feeling surrounding you. “So, what did you think?”

Using the hand situated on your hip, Agatha swiftly twisted you around to face her, moving the hand she had on your shoulder down to help secure your violin. You stumbled just ever so slightly, but she steadied you, her grip tightening on your waist.

“Easy there,” Agatha lightly teased, and you thought you saw her eyes hungrily rake up and down your body. “Have you always been this jumpy, or are you just excited to see me?”

There was so much you wanted to say, but there was a lump in your throat that grew bigger with every tug on your waist, drawing you impossibly closer to the woman your brain refused to let go of. She was infuriatingly high-handed, extremely egotistical, and was single-handedly the most stubborn individual you had ever encountered. She was obsessive, and aggressive, and had her eyes always been so blue?

“Agatha…” you managed to breathe out, desperately trying to clear your head and regain some sense of self control, but your brain felt slippery.

The combination of the heat from the bright stage lights and the intensely burning gaze from the conductor had you feeling more unsteady on your feet as the seconds slowly ticked by. You’d spent the past year performing in sold out concert halls, yet you were never more nervous than you currently felt being face to face with Agatha Harkness.

It was unclear how long you stood there, staring at each other. You knew Agatha well enough to know she had something to say, it was written all over her face. But she remained silent, one hand situated on your waist and the other gently holding your violin in place. There was something about the way she was looking at you, as if she thought she’d never see you again.

Just as she opened her mouth to say something, a loud buzzing noise began to ring through the hall. The moment was broken as she released you, sighing as she reached to her back pocket, revealing her cell phone.

Squinting at the screen, and you suddenly remembered the difficulty she had of reading off her phone without her glasses, she frowned. “I’m sorry, I have to take this. It’s my assistant.”

You took a step backwards, feeling burned. “Right. Your assistant. Best not keep them waiting.”

Agatha gave you a brief, perplexed glance before answering her phone. “What do you want now?” Loudly sighing, you watched as she closed her eyes, clearly vexed. “I already told you, for the millionth time, it’s the box in my study.” Pausing, as she listened to her assistant reply, she held up a finger to you, signaling for you to wait for her. “For the last time, no, nothing else. Just the box in my study, the singular box. Make sure Scratchy is ready to go as well.”

It appeared the assistant had more questions, as you watched Agatha pinch the bridge of her nose in agitation. “No, no, no, stop,” she then paused, and looked at you again. “I have to deal with this, I’ll see you at rehearsal.”

She stormed away without another word, squawking orders over the phone, and you were left in the aftershock of the earthquake that was Agatha Harkness.

[skywalker1dream]

part of the stuck with stranger series

Navigating Love's Secret Path

part one | part two | part three

note: I will add summary later, I am working on other fics and I'm little lazy but read it and you will find out and it need little editing too. hope you like it, and I hope you are having a goo day or night, drink water and eat healthy. bye ;3

warnings none?

@barcelonaloverf1life @bokutos-babyowl

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As the revelation hung heavy in the air, tension crackled between you and Carlos like an electric storm brewing on the horizon. His gaze searched yours, seeking answers, understanding, perhaps even forgiveness for not knowing sooner. But the truth remained, casting a stark light on the intricacies of your burgeoning relationship.

Carlos's brow furrowed as he struggled to process the unexpected twist. "Your sister?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "But… but I had no idea… that you….."

You watched as the shock registered on Carlos's face, his features contorting with a mix of disbelief and dawning realization. It was as if the ground had shifted beneath his feet, leaving him adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

In that moment, you knew that nothing would ever be the same again. The revelation had shaken Carlos to his core, casting a shadow over the fragile bond you had built together. And as you stood there, caught between past and present, you couldn't help but wonder what the future held in store for you and Carlos.

Before you could say anything, Lando, oblivious to the bombshell he had dropped, chimed in with his trademark grin, "Yeah, I thought it was time for her to see what all the fuss is about in the paddock."

Carlos's gaze flicked from you to Lando and back again, his expression unreadable. "I… I need a moment," he managed, his voice strained.

You watched as he turned and walked away, his steps heavy with the weight of newfound knowledge. And as you stood there, grappling with the ramifications of the revelation, you couldn't help but wonder how this unexpected turn of events would shape the future of your relationship with Carlos.

As Carlos walked away, his mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Betrayal wasn't a word he associated with himself, yet the revelation had stirred doubts he hadn't anticipated.

He found a quiet corner in the paddock, away from the prying eyes and the cacophony of the racing world. Leaning against a wall, he closed his eyes, trying to make sense of it all.

Did he betray Lando by developing feelings for his sister? The thought gnawed at him, twisting his gut with guilt. Lando had been more than a friend; he was like a brother. And now, here he was, entangled in a romance with someone so closely tied to him.

But then, amidst the guilt, there was a flicker of something else. A warmth in his chest, a longing that refused to be extinguished. His feelings for you were real, undeniable, and he couldn't simply ignore them, no matter how complicated the situation had become.

As he grappled with his conscience, a voice interrupted his thoughts. Lando stood before him, his expression a mix of concern and confusion.

"Carlos, what's going on?" Lando asked, his brow furrowed with worry.

Carlos hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. "I… I didn't know, Lando," he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. "I never meant for things to get so complicated."

Lando's confusion deepened. "What do you mean?"

And as Carlos struggled to find the words to explain, he realized that the path ahead was fraught with uncertainty. Love had thrown him a curveball, and now, he had to navigate the complexities of his feelings while confronting the possibility of losing his best friend in the process.

Certainly! Let's explore another direction:

Carlos took a step back, his mind reeling with the revelation. The thought of betraying his best friend gnawed at him, clouding his judgment with a heavy sense of guilt. He never intended for things to unfold this way, for his feelings to complicate what was once a simple friendship.

"I… I need some time," he finally managed, his voice strained with emotion.

Lando, sensing the tension, nodded solemnly. "I...okay, I understand, Carlos. Take all the time you need, If you want to talk I'm here, mate"

As Carlos retreated to gather his thoughts, he couldn't shake the feeling of remorse that weighed heavily on his heart. He had always prided himself on his loyalty to Lando, but now, he found himself caught in a web of emotions he couldn't untangle.

Hours passed, the buzz of the paddock fading into the background as Carlos grappled with his inner turmoil. Was it worth risking his friendship with Lando for a chance at love? Could he live with the consequences of betraying his best friend?

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice you approaching until you were standing before him, your presence a soothing balm to his troubled mind.

"Carlos," you said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "We need to talk."

He met your gaze, seeing the concern etched in your eyes, and felt a pang of guilt wash over him. "I'm sorry, (Your Name). I never meant for any of this to happen."

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "It's not your fault, Carlos, its mine . I should have told you sooner but I got scared."

As you spoke, Carlos felt a glimmer of hope stir within him. Perhaps there was a way forward, a way to navigate the complexities of your relationship without sacrificing his friendship with Lando.

Carlos and I exchanged hesitant glances, the weight of the revelation still heavy on our minds. After a moment of tense silence, I took a deep breath, gathering the courage to broach the topic.

"Carlos, I think... I think we need to talk," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his expression serious as he met my gaze. "Yeah, we do."

We moved to a quieter corner of the paddock, away from prying eyes and curious ears, where we could speak freely.

"I know this is... complicated," I began, choosing my words carefully. "But I don't think we should tell Lando just yet. Not until we figure out what this... what we... mean to each other."

Carlos listened intently, his brow furrowed in thought. "You're right," he agreed after a moment. "We need time to sort through our feelings before we involve anyone else."

Relief washed over me at his understanding. "Exactly. I don't want to hurt Lando, but I also don't want to rush into anything and make a mess of everything."

He reached out, gently taking my hand in his, a silent reassurance of his support. "We'll take it slow," he promised. "And when the time is right, we'll find a way to tell him together."

With a shared understanding, we knew the path ahead wouldn't be easy. But as long as we faced it together, with honesty and care, we believed we could navigate the complexities of our relationship and emerge stronger on the other side.

As we stood there, hand in hand, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope amidst the uncertainty. And with Carlos by my side, I knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, we would face them together, united in our love and determination.

In that moment, with you by his side, Carlos knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, he was ready to confront them head-on. For in you, he had found a love worth risking it all for, even if it meant defying the expectations of friendship and loyalty.

------

As I approached Lando in the bustling paddock, he turned towards me with a bright smile. "Hey there! What's on your mind?" he asked, his eyes full of curiosity.

I returned his smile, though my mind was preoccupied with the weight of the conversation I'd just had with Carlos. "Just wanted to catch up with you, Lando," I replied, trying to keep my tone light.

Lando nodded, gesturing for me to join him. "come on, I was just thinking about grabbing a coffee. Care to join me?"

Before I could respond, Carlos appeared beside us, his presence catching me off guard. I tried to hide my surprise, but Lando noticed the brief hesitation.

"Hey, Carlos!" Lando greeted him with a grin. "Perfect timing. We were just about to head for some coffee. Care to join us?"

Carlos glanced at me, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features before he nodded. "Sure, sounds good."

As we walked towards the coffee stand, Lando chattered animatedly about the upcoming race, effortlessly filling the air with his infectious energy. Meanwhile, I stole glances at Carlos, silently communicating the need to tread carefully in front of Lando.

The three of us settled into a cozy corner of the café, sipping our drinks as Lando continued to regale us with stories from past races. Despite the weight of the unspoken truth between Carlos and me, I found myself getting lost in the easy camaraderie of the moment.

"So, what's the plan for later?" Lando asked, turning to Carlos with a grin.

Carlos glanced at me, a silent plea for help in his eyes, before turning back to Lando with a shrug. "Not sure yet. Any suggestions?"

Lando's eyes lit up with excitement as he launched into a myriad of ideas, each more adventurous than the last. And as we laughed and joked together, I couldn't help but marvel at the delicate dance we were performing, keeping our true feelings hidden beneath a facade of friendship and camaraderie.

But deep down, I knew that sooner or later, the truth would have to come out. And when it did, I could only hope that our bond with Lando would be strong enough to weather the storm.

[autumnmobile12]

Fuyumi had asked him if he’d wanted to watch the live broadcast of the Sports Festival with her and Natsuo.  Shimura had invited him along with the rest of the Vanguard to stream it at his uncle’s house.  Dad had gone to the festival in person, not that he would have invited any of them to go with him anyway.

Touya had gone to Sekoto Peak that day.

During one of their earliest sessions, Doc Honda had recommended he try and revisit the mountain.  It didn’t have to be right away, she’d told him, but since he could see it from his family’s home, from his bedroom window even, that was the first step.  Over the years, he’d gone for walks around the base after school, always avoiding the entrance to the trail that led to where it had happened.  Then he began climbing the trails.  Fuyumi came with him sometimes, or Natsuo.  In the ten years that had elapsed since the incident, the forest had been allowed to grow back naturally as opposed to an artificial recovery instigated by plant-based Quirk users.  The trees in the one kilometer radius around the burn site were all young and didn’t allow for much cover from the sun, so the wildflowers and underbrush of the forest had grown in full force.

It took three years, but he could now stand over the very spot where he’d burned.

And he preferred it to subjecting himself to anything to do with his brother’s accomplishments.  Shouto wasn’t to blame.  It wasn’t his fault he’d been born and their father loved his ambition more than he ever did his own children.  Yet he still couldn’t help but resent the sibling who had supplanted him.

~The Summer Camp Ambush Simulation, Ch. 2

...

This is from a new comic WIP for Ambush Simulation, but since this page is directly related to a part from the related fic, I thought I'd do a sneak peak.

Bit of a glimpse of Touya’s therapist, affectionately referred to as Doc Honda. She won’t make much of an appearance in Ambush Simulation, but her name will come up now and then. She’s also a cameo character from another series, so you may recognize her.

If you didn't recognize the background in the first panel, it's a redraw of this shot from the anime:

[forever-once-gone]

Day 3: Yoongi - You Meet Your Fated at a Coffee Shop <3

Part of the Love, Amour, Aur Pyaar drabble series for February! (lol)

Word count: 3.7k (can't keep them short for the life of me)

Content and Warnings: soulmate au, coffee shop au, gn!reader, sharing preferences, arguing, frustration, they're both a bit dense lol, but other than that nothing too terrible in this, just sweet honestly, almost throwing up, coffee snob!Yoongi, barista!Yoongi, mocha slander, terms of endearment: baby, dear, Y/n is ready to FIGHT

Author's Note: Hey! So like I know it is well past Feb, but tbh it was crazy of me to even think id have time to publish these things during midterms season. Even though I had reading week, it was just not going to happen. Even though I did manage to write some of the days, I obviously couldn't every day. And posting? Forget about it. Anyway, even if it's past Feb, would you want me to post the ones I did write? It won't be instantaneous, but I would like to share what I did write, and maybe even finish all the other days as I had already planned out what I wanted to write each day. Let me know if you're interested! Anyways, as always, enjoy! <3

Another mocha, just another mocha to fill up in the takeaway cup for another person who is trying to get through the February cold. Yoongi gets a lot of mocha requests before the winter holidays season. When so many are hyped up with Christmas cheer. Even people who do not celebrate Christmas tend to indulge in peppermint mochas when the snow hits the ground. And the trend trickled into the post holiday months every winter season. To the point when people ordered mochas even into early spring.

Yoongi, ever the coffee enthusiast, hated having to make so many mochas.

Frankly, he considered mochas just snobby chocolate milk with the smallest hint of caffeine. Like do mochas even deserve to be considered coffee-based beverages? He thought not. You could barely even taste the coffee in between the thick, tongue-coating taste of chocolate and the heaviness of way too much milk.

Everytime he had to make mochas, every single time, he’d be cursing in his head about how he would rather just be able to make his espressos, black coffees, and iced americanos. Iced americanos are the most he’d be willing to go when it comes to diffusing the taste of coffee.

Adding milk? Forget it.

Adding sugar? He’d rather just pour it down the drain than drink it.

Alas, when it comes to his job, he has to fulfill the customer’s wishes. No matter how much he hated the sugary, barely-even-coffee, more-like-milkshakes drinks, he would make the drink for them. A waste of good coffee in his books, but he needed the money that came from his overpriced caffeinated chocolate milk 

So, when it came to a coffee-novice coming into his coffee shop asking for a mocha, he would grit his teeth but make the drink nonetheless, the underline he requires to be able to pay his shop’s mortgage and keep all of his employees.

It was another one of these spring days when he’d unlocked the front doors of the café only to see someone new. Normally, only a few select people would come to his café so early in the morning, after all, most people started work at 9 or later. Only a few people would come at 5:30 when he opened. But today, there was someone new.

There was you, a person he’d never seen before standing behind his regulars. A cheery looking person, giving him a smile when he unlocked the door and opened it for the small group of people to trickle in.

He made his way behind the counter as he began his small routine with his regulars, smiling at each one of them as they gave him their orders, even though there really was no need as he had gotten each one of them memorized ages ago.

He took and prepared each order with practiced ease, until he got to the last person in line. The one who had spent the last ten minutes scanning the chalkboard menu with an analytical look.

You.

“Good morning,” you said to him with a kind smile.

“Good morning,” he replied. “What can I get started for you today?”

You wrung your hands, scanning the menu again, before looking back at him. “Can I get a large mocha?”

He scoffed. Seriously, chocolate this early in the morning? Typical from a cheery-looking person like yourself.

“What?” you asked, wondering if you’d broken some unspoken social cue. You’d seen the way he’d kindly spoken to the customers before you, making small talk, so what happened when it came to you?

“Nothing, nothing,” he waved you off, before pressing some buttons on his cash register’s screen. “That’ll be 5000 won.”

“No, no. That definitely was something. Did I say anything wrong?” You insisted, brows furrowed together in a mix of worry and a bit of indignation.

“No, not at all. It’ll be 5000 won.” He tried to force a smile, but your eyes were squinted together just as you did before when you were scanning the menu, but this time your object of interest was him.

“What? You just don’t like me or something?” You felt a bit uncomfortable, out of place in this cafe with a barista who seemed to hold a certain disdain for you from the moment you opened your mouth. But that didn’t mean you were going to back down from this entitled man. You eyed him up and down, letting him know the contempt was mutual.

He let out a small scoff, before seeming to recompose himself with customer service professionalism. “Of course not. I’m sorry if it seemed that way. Your total is 5000 won.”

You could see through his poorly reconstructed composure, but nonetheless gave him the requested money. You were already running late to your job interview, and you needed this job if you hoped to actually be able to rent a place in this city. You had already spent three weeks staying with your friend after moving here from your old city. You couldn’t stay with her forever, even if she was willing to keep you for forever if you needed it.

You stepped away from the register after he had given you your change and moved away to make your drink. You took the time to continue admiring the interior of the cafe as the barista flew around his counter space. You took in the worn furniture resembling something half between industrial and contemporary. The hanging lights and the various maps lining the walls of the place. Very hipster. Fitting for a coffee shop.

The call of: “One large mocha?” brought you back from your inspection. With a hum, you took your drink from him, feeling the drink warm your gloved hands.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, have a nice day.” And with that he was moving back to his dishes to clean up the dishes he’d used before the next customers wandered in.

You turned away from him, moving towards the door. Before you pushed open the door to brave into the cold, you flipped open the flap on the top of the to-go cup. You took a quick sip, ready for the delicious drink to coat your tongue, but instead your tastebuds were assaulted with a heinous amount of sugar. It tasted like you’d boiled a pool full of chocolate and dumped a truck full of sugar and then reduced the entire pool full over a roaring fire until only a cup of the concentrated mixture remained full of pure chocolate and sugar.

You immediately turned back on your heel. Pressing your tongue against the tip of your mouth, trying to rid it of the sweet assault. “You messed up,” you slammed the cup on the counter, seeing the barista’s shoulders jump at the loud thump.

“What’s the issue?” he asked, as he wiped off his hands on a hand towel before flipping it onto his shoulder. He leaned onto the counter with the palms of his hands, not even trying to hide his annoyance with you anymore considering the frown he sent your way.

“This is way too sweet. Like what, did you dump a whole bag of sugar into this thing?” You nudged the cup towards him. “If you didn’t like me, you could have just refused to take my order, you didn’t have to do all this!” You gestured to the cup.

“Please, I need you to calm down. I didn’t do anything to your drink. It’s just a regular mocha. Mochas are sweet, you should have known that before you ordered it for the first time.” He rolled his eyes slightly.

“First time? Oh, honey, no—I know what mochas are meant to taste like and this is not it. It’s practically the only thing I ever get!”

He scoffed yet again. Typical, he thought to himself. Never would've guessed. “Just take your drink and go, I don’t have time for this.”

“You don’t believe me do you?” You said in disbelief. You never would dare fight with someone like this, but for some reason, this one guy was just getting on your nerves. Typically, even if your order had gotten mixed up you would just swallow your disappointment and try to enjoy the drink anyway. Even if it was something bitter and boring like a plain black coffee. But the way this man had been acting from the moment you ordered has been rude and completely ruined your confidence. Not what you needed at all before trying to get this job. And for some reason, it felt like all your senses and emotions had been turned up to 100, so controlling your anger was a lot harder.

“Drink it,” you told him, holding his eye contact. “Yeah, drink it. If you can drink even one gulp without making a face, I’ll admit I was wrong and leave.”

The barista tongued his cheek for a moment, contemplating what you said. “I don’t want to. I don’t like mochas, besides, I can’t drink a customer’s drink anyway.”

“I’m just gonna take your refusal as you admitting that you fucked with my drink.”

By this point the two people left in the shop were watching the two of you fighting at the counter. A middle aged man walked up to the counter, stepping in to try and defuse the situation. “Why don't you just take a sip of it, Yoongi? Just to prove them wrong?”

“I refuse,” the barista, Yoongi, said to the man. “It’s a matter of principle at this point. I’m not drinking it. I know my abilities, and I know that that mocha would be as good as mochas get. I’m not gonna take a sip of a nasty ass mocha just cause this person wants to throw a fuss at five in the morning.”

“So you admit you fucked with it?! You admitted it’s nasty!”

“No,” he rolled his eyes at you for the umpteenth time this morning. “I just hate mochas, they taste like shit. But anyone who likes those chocolatey messes will admit mine are as good as they get. I might not like them, but I still put all my effort into making sure they taste good.”

“Just fucking drink it then! I’m not joking, this tastes like shit. Maybe something is wrong with your milk steaming machine or something—this just isn’t right!”

The middle-aged man decided to try and put the fight to an end. “Why don’t I just give it a try, huh?”

“No!” But Yoongi and you said at the same time, before turning back to each other again.

“He refuses to admit it, and he has to be the one to try it!” You crossed your arms.

“And they’re the one who is making a big situation over nothing, you should never give in to people like them.” He glared at you. Now that his patrons were getting involved, he wanted to get you out as soon as possible.

“Just try it! I swear it’s unbelievable. Just give it one sip!” You threw up your arms in frustration. “Come on, I’m not even asking for a refund or anything, I just want you to admit that you took your anger out on me for no reason. That’s all, I don’t even want an apology!”

“I don’t need to apologize! I didn’t do anything wrong! That mocha is PERFECT! I’d bet my life on it.” Yoongi was fuming now, chest heaving with frustration and annoyance. He was this close to calling the cops on you and calling it a day.

“Oh shut up with the ‘perfect’ nonsense! It’s not perfect! Just try it! This whole thing would have been over ages ago if you just gave it a try!” You pulled the cap off of the cup. “If you’re afraid it’s poisoned, I’ll take a sip of it before you drink it. See look.” 

You took a swig of the drink, nearly choking on the sugary beverage as you tried to keep the concoction from coming right back up. You gagged for a second or two, before finally straightening back up, wiping your mouth with the back of your gloved hand.

The two men around you exchanged expressions, their anger turning more to disbelief. Either you were a great actor or that drink really, really sucked.

“There, see. I didn’t tamper with it. Now, please, please just try it. Please. Don’t make me look insane. Just try it.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Fine. Fucking fine. I’ll try it. But if it tastes fine, you need to leave my shop and never come back, you hear me?”

“I swear. I won’t come back, don’t plan to anyway.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow at that, before grabbing the lidless cup from the counter. He held it up, hesitated, and then said, “I really don’t like mochas,” with a scrunch of his nose. He took a breath and then took the smallest sip you’ve ever seen a human being take before slamming the cup down. His hand immediately came up to cover his mouth, his eyebrows furrowed.

You couldn’t bear to hide your smug look. How was he gonna hide how terrible the drink was now? He looked like he was going to throw up. Ha! That will show him!

But then he did the weirdest thing. He took another sip. A long sip this time. Other than his furrowed brows, he didn’t choke, gag, or even dry heave for a millisecond. Just watching him drink was making you nauseous.

“Oh my god!” you yelled, snatching the cup from his hands before he could take another sip, holding it up behind you, away from him. “You’re going to give yourself diabetes if you drink that whole thing!”

Immediately he tried to reach across the counter and get it back from you. “Hey! Give that back! This makes no sense!”

“Yoongi, calm down!” The man said, pushing the barista back off of the counter that he was practically leaning his whole body onto at this point.

“Why does it taste good?!” The distress that the barista was under put even you on pause. You watched the barista scramble around, rubbing at his head as if it was aching him. Was this the effect of all the sugar?

“Hey, man, you doing alright?” You placed the cup back down on the counter, holding a hand out to him to show you meant no harm.

He just shook his head, picking up a half empty mug from behind the counter that you had seen him periodically sipping from between the preparation of yours and the others’ drinks. He took a large gulp only to immediately run to the sink, spitting the drink right into the drain.

“Why does my coffee taste so heinous?! Why does it taste like fucking bitter gasoline? Why does the mocha taste so fucking good?!” He was still hunched over the sink, the only thing you could see of him was his back a bit of his lowered head. His arm reached to grab the hand towel on his shoulder to throw it to the side.

You had no answer for him. This was all so bizarre.

“This—” the middle aged man brought both your and Yoongi’s attention to him, as he brought the cup back to his lips for another sip. When had he taken your mocha from you? Was it when Yoongi was losing his mind? 

“This tastes…” He took another sip. His brows furrowed in concentration. 

“This tastes like a regular mocha.” He put the cup back down. “I think you guys need to calm down for a moment and think about what this means.”

“What do you mean?” you asked him.

“I think you know what I mean, dear.” The man had a kind-hearted look on his face as his eyes flitted between both you and Yoongi.

“OH MY GOD.” Yoongi grabbed the edge of the counter, seeming to understand the man’s insinuation. “There is no way.”

“What? What am I missing?” The man only shook his head as Yoongi raised his head to meet your gaze. He just pushed his half empty mug to you. Inside was black coffee.

“Try it. I need to see if it’s true.”

“Um, no. I don’t like black coffee. Yuck.” You nudged the mug right back to him only for him to stop the movement halfway. 

“That’s exactly why you have to try this,” Yoongi said as calmly as he could, though you could swear he looked almost like he could faint right then and there.

“Fine,” you took the mug from him. “Just cause you did drink the mocha.”

You swirled the dark liquid in the mug, debating whether it was worth it to drink the bitter liquid. But when you looked up to see that both the man and Yoongi were watching you like scientists inspecting their latest mutant rats for their observational notes, you just took a sip only to get them to stop staring at you.

Instantly your throat was soothed as the smooth taste of the perfectly roasted coffee made its way through your mouth. You’d never drunk anything so refreshing, so calming as it warmed you up from the inside out. Even though there was no sugar or cream, you surprisingly didn’t mind it as it allowed the rich flavour of the black coffee to shine through strongly. It tasted so good.

You didn’t put down the mug until you’d finished the whole thing.

The middle aged man had a small smile on his face, while Yoongi seemed to be still in his inspector mode.

“So,” the man began. “How was it?”

You thought about it for a second. “Good. Like really good. Like surprisingly good.”

The man clapped his hands. “Well there you have it. Congrats you two.”

You shook your head for a second, scrunching your face in annoyance. “What are you talking about?”

Yoongi came around the counter, finally coming to stand beside you without anything between you two. “Do I need to spell it out for you?”

“Easy, Yoongi. Don’t want to scare them off now do you?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes at the man but then nodded his head in understanding. “You don’t like black coffee right? Too bitter or something?”

You nodded. “Yeah, too bitter. I need more sugar or else I just can’t get it down.”

“And I hate mochas. They’re too sweet and you can’t even tell there is coffee in it since it's so overpowered by the sugar, chocolate, and milk.”

“Okay… What does that have to do with me though?”

“But I just liked the mocha. Not just liked, I loved the mocha. And you loved the black coffee.”

“Yeah…” You waited for him to clarify further.

He waved his arm as if urging you to think further, but when you just cocked your head to the side in confusion, he dropped his arm back down to his side. “Seriously?” he asked, exasperated. “I hated my usual coffee and loved your mocha. And you hated your usual mocha and loved my coffee.”

You nodded your head, trying to understand what he was trying to get at. Until it just clicked, your eyes widening instantly, reaching to grab his elbows. “OH MY GOD! We’re soulmates! Oh my god! We switched preferences! We’re soulmates!” You threw your arms around him, pulling him as close to you as you could through your thick winter jacket.

“Took you long enough,” he huffed, his arms reciprocating your grasp.

“Oh my god! I knew I was meant to move here! I have to tell my roommate! But wait—” you pushed him out of your hold.

Yoongi let out a light groan, as he caught himself from stumbling.

You pointed a finger at him accusingly. “You hate mochas, you black coffee supremacist!”

“Seriously?” Yoongi asked you. “That’s your biggest concern now?”

“Well yeah! I mean, I don’t know if my preferences will change back, but if they do, I can’t stay with a soulmate that thinks he’s superior to me because of his coffee preferences!”

Yoongi let out a small laugh, his lips tugging into a smile. “If it makes you feel any better, I think I will never be able to hate mochas after today.”

Even with your finger still pointed at him, you felt your lips pull into a wide smile at the hidden meaning behind his words.

You both jumped at the clearing of a throat behind the two of you. The man had made his way to the front door of the coffee shop with his order in his hand. “Sorry, sorry. Just wanted to let you know that my wife, Maria, had been recording the entire thing in case you needed to call the police.” He nodded towards the other patron who had been at the shop when you and Yoongi had started fighting who was now standing holding the door open as she waited for her husband. “Let me know if you want the video of your first meeting, I’m sure your friends and family would love to see it,” he said between kind-hearted soft laughs, before leaving hand-in-hand with Maria.

“Maybe even our future grandkids,” you teased him happily, taking a step back towards him.

Yoongi just smiled in reply, showing off his perfect teeth to you.

You felt your heart swell.

He took another step towards you, grabbing a hold of your hands by your side. “I would like that.”

You heard the door chime as a customer walked into the coffee shop before their steps halted somewhere behind you.

“Uh, is this a bad time?” The customer asked from behind you.

“Give me a second,” Yoongi replied.

“Alright,” the person cleared their throat. “Just don’t want to be late for work.”

That seemed to jolt you out of your Yoongi admiring stupor. “Shit! I have an interview!” You tightened your hold on his hands before letting go.

By the time Yoongi realized what was going on, you were already halfway out the door.

“I’m going to be so late! I’ll be back later, okay, baby?” You had pushed the door open taking a step out before turning back to him. “I am allowed to come back right? Or am I still exiled from your shop?” You asked with a smile.

“Seriously?” He laughed, shaking his head as he made his way back behind the service counter. “Maybe you’ll just have to try your luck.”

“You’re impossible.” You laughed into your hand, waving your hand at him. “When I come back, if you don’t let me in, I’ll tell all your customers that I almost threw up after drinking your mocha.” You stuck out your tongue at him as he fake gasped, before finally actually leaving the shop.

Well, there's that.

So if you didn't get it, in this case, soulmates have different ways of finding out if they're meant to be in this universe. For Yoongi and Y/n, they met and ended up switching coffee preferences (or maybe even more preferences but the only thing they noticed so far is the coffee). Even though their reactions may seem extra, when you meet your soulmate all your emotions/feelings/everything is meant to be heightened. So they had each other's preferences, but n times stronger. So that's why they loved the other's preference like it was ambrosia, but their own preferences tasted like so bad to them. Y/n found the mocha wayyyy to sweet like Yoongi would usually, and Yoongi found the black coffee wayyyyy too bitter cause Y/n likes her coffee well sweetened and with a lot of stuff to mellow the coffee flavour.

But anyway, yes they're in love.

So yeah, do let me know if you want me to post the rest of these. It will be a slow process, but I would like to do so.

Take care!!

[buckybarnesb-tch]

Yan. College Student!Klaus M. A-Z

(I’ve done several Alphabets for Klaus already but I thought to do one for my Human!High School series but then I thought…Yandere College Student! And here we are😈)

A stands for AFFECTION: how would they show affection?

•Gift Giving is Klaus’ love language

•Before you even knew who he was he was sending you flowers almost everyday, especially after overhearing you tell your best friend that you love how strongly your (usually gross smelling thanks to so many other students in the wing) dorm room smells of roses thanks to the constant cycle of fresh flowers being delivered

•After he introduces himself to you for the first time (which he believes is your 6 month anniversary) he gives you a black Eternity Collar that he keeps the key to so that you can never remove it, clearly loving the knowledge that you are wearing a collar that he has gifted you

B stands for BLOODY: how bloody are they willing to get for their object of obsession?

•Klaus has made it clear that he is willing to do whatever he deems necessary to “protect you” in any way and that sometimes means getting his hands bloody

•You made the mistake around the third month of your Stalker (though he signed all of his love letters to you ‘Your Loving Boyfriend’) sending you letters and gifts, of going out on a date with a boy from your Econ class. He had been asking you out relentlessly for over 2 months and while you originally said “No” because of your Stalker, his persistence had also creeped you out (arguably in a much worse way than your Stalker). You finally said you would go to dinner with him just to get him to stop asking and he took you to a fancy little place in town. He was an asshole as you knew he would be and it seemed your Stalker noticed that too

•Your stalker believed that the idiot you went on a date with had threatened you into it and so you were forgiven…he wasn’t though and he found himself thrown off a bridge to his death later that night (though everyone else would believe it a suicide)

C stands for CRUELTY: would they ever hurt their object of obsession?

•Klaus does not physically hurt you, he won’t hit you or beat you (he had been beaten his entire childhood and he’s sensitive about it)

•The most painful thing he does is when he’s really angry he will occasionally grab you by the collar that he gave you and drag you around by it

D stands for DARLING: would they cross their object of obsession’s limits?

•Sexually, no, he will never do something that you are afraid of or that you don’t like

•Other limits are non-existent. What limits? You are his girl and your relationship has no limits

E stands for EXPOSED: how much do they expose their own feelings to their object of obsession?

•Klaus tells you about his feelings for you immediately

•Your first “interaction” with Klaus was his first letter that he sent you along with the bouquet of flowers, the letter containing his thoughts and feelings for you that he poured out onto the paper and you were instantly torn between being flattered by how gorgeous and wonderful he thought you were and being creeped out by how he was clearly watching you and had been for God knows how long

•He never hid his feelings from you in any regard, not even when he is angry with you for whatever slight you have committed without knowing it

‘I have loved you since the day I first saw you, you looked at me and I was done for, I knew it instantly.’

‘Everything I am is yours, I exist only for you and seeing you in pain hurts me more than words can express. You should never have reason to shed a tear Princess and if you tell me who it was that brought tears to your eyes, I will ensure that they never have the chance again.’

‘How could you allow him to put his hands on you like that?! Does this relationship mean nothing to you? Do I Mean Nothing to You?! I have not so much as thought about touching another girl since the day we met and you are on a date?!’

‘I cannot express how sorry I am for scaring you my Darling. I should never get upset with you, especially for something that isn’t your fault. That idiot boy pressured you into a date and you were afraid, my Princess was scared and all I did was make it worse, I am so sorry. Please forgive me for the words I wrote in anger and please accept these flowers as my sincere apology, as well as the idiot boy who pressured you into a date now never being able to set eyes on you again. No one hurts you and doesn’t suffer for it, you will never have to worry about him again.’

•His mood swings were terrifying even before you met him when all of your interactions were through his letters and texts to you. You had no idea who he was and you hid all of the letters from everyone, keeping it a secret for the entire 6 months that he stalked you before arriving at your door and instantly behaving like you had been dating the entire time

F stands for FIGHT: how would they react to their object of obsession fighting back?

•He wouldn’t understand it at all and it would confuse him before potentially enraging him if you don’t stop quickly

•You are his girl, you’ve been together happily for months and he wouldn’t understand why you’re suddenly behaving like this

G stands for GAME: do they think this is just a game?

•No, this is in no way a game

•You are Klaus’ everything and it’s not something that he takes lightly. He will kill for you if he has to, and he has done just that

H stands for HELL: what would be their object of obsession’s worst experience with them?

•Your worst experience was probably when you needed to pretend that you had nothing to do with your dates death and that he had just committed suicide

•You were questioned by everyone since he had been with you the night before, wondering how he was, if he was acting strangely, asking why he would do this and you needed to pretend you had no clue

•It was extremely stressful and you locked yourself in your room for 3 days to avoid people, not even answering for the deliveries which just worried your Stalker

I stands for IDEAL: what are their plans for their object of obsession?

•Klaus plans for you to be his forever

•He plans to graduate and take care of you, you’re going to move into a condo together and enjoy being together for a while before you have some kids and spend the rest of your lives together

J stands for JEALOUSY: how they react when jealous? Do they get jealous?

•You do not want Klaus getting jealous, he gets violent

•Klaus will instantly see another man as a threat to you and he will want to get rid of that threat anyway he can and he will absolutely kill for you

K stands for KINDNESS: how they act around their object of obsession?

•Klaus worships you

•He will give you anything you want! You want to watch your favorite movie? Fuck studying for his exam, his baby wants to watch a movie! You have a craving for ice cream at 1am? Fuck his early morning class, his Princess wants ice cream!

•You hate that he does things like that but he will never stop, he loves to see you happy and it’s the most important thing!

L stands for LOVE LETTER: how would they approach their object of obsession?

•He stalks her for 6 months sending letters and gifts almost everyday believing you are in a committed relationship

M stands for MASK: how different are their public persona from their true selves?

•Klaus is a nerdy, shy kind of guy and most people wouldn’t even notice him in the back of the class

•With you he’s a very dominant person and that last word you would ever use to describe your boyfriend is “shy”

N stands for NAUGHTY: how would they punish their object of obsession?

•Klaus’ favorite punishment is when he locks you in his dorm room and you end up forced to stay with him, only leaving when you have class but usually ending up stuck there all weekend

O stands for OPPRESSION: how many rights would they take from their object of obsession?

•All of them

•You live for him, to be his Princess and your entire life (in his opinion) should be about your relationship. What rights do you need? Where do you need to go? What do you need to do that he can’t do for you?

P stands for PATIENCE: how patient are they with their object of obsession?

•Klaus isn’t known for his patience

•Honestly, after finally meeting him you were shocked that he waited 6 whole months to meet you officially

Q stands for QUIT: if their object of obsession died or escaped, would they ever be able to move on?

•Died: Klaus would lose his mind. He would end up having a massive psychotic break and killing God knows how many people before being locked in an asylum for the rest of his life

•Escaped: He would never stop looking for you. No matter how long you’ve gotten away for, a month, a year, 10 years, just when you think you’re safe and you settle down he would find you and lock you away with him forever

R stands for REGRET: would they ever regret harming their object of obsession? Would they ever let them go?

•Klaus wouldn’t let you go, however if he did actually hurt you in his anger he would quickly regret it as soon as he calmed down

•He would take care of any injury and baby you for weeks afterwards until he knows you forgive him completely

S stands for STIGMA: what made their yandere tendencies bloom?

•The day he first saw you in class he just knew you were his

•From that moment he refused to fight his feelings, why fight destiny?

T stands for TEARS: how would they react to their object of obsession crying/breaking?

•Your tears typically send him into a panic

•He absolutely hates seeing you cry for any reason, and though when he’s angry and you cry he will just ignore it, he quickly falls right back into babying you and letting you cry on his shoulder until you feel all better

U stands for UNIQUE: something different they would do compared to others yanderes.

•The 6 months it took him to meet you in person for the first time was definitely different

•However while most Yanderes would want to lock you away (and while he did love having you all to himself) he allowed you to finish your schooling right along side of him before locking you away in the house he got the two of you after college when he was ready to stuff you full of his babies

V stands for VICE: what weakness their object of obsession could use against them?

•Y/n found out quite early that not only could she weaponize his jealousy but her tears as well

•Like most Yanderes, Klaus is profoundly jealous but he also can’t handle her crying and will do just about anything to get her to stop. As long as she doesn���t push it too far she can get almost anything she wants

W stands for WIT’S END: would they hurt their object of obsession?

•Klaus wouldn’t hurt you on purpose

•You have occasionally gotten him so upset that he ended up shoving you against the wall too hard or grabbing your arm so hard it bruises but it is very rare as he is quite attentive about that

X stands for XOANON: would they worship their object of obsession?

•The ground you walk on every moment of every day

•Klaus absolutely adores you and there is nothing you could do to change that. You’re half convinced that he believes you to be a Goddess in human form

Y stands for YEARN: how long would they pine after their object of obsession before they snap?

•He couldn’t even wait one whole day after meeting you before he sent you the first flower bouquet and letter, however 6 months was his limit before he couldn’t stand not being able to touch you anymore without losing his mind

Z stands for ZENITH: would they ever break their object of obsession?

•He would never break your spirit completely, however you would eventually do as he wanted knowing that you were never getting away from him

•Being with Klaus wasn’t so bad, honestly it could be much worse and with how much he loves you you knew you would always have just about anything you wanted

Klaus Mikaelson Masterlist

[virgilphobic]

why does edwin gasp after he looks at charles for a long time?

my thoughts;

(this is simply me running my mouth and yes i’m reading into this too much i’m just bored.)

edwin and niko had a conversation earlier on in the series, in which niko ultimately told edwin that two boy’s can indeed like each other. No one had probably ever said that to edwin before, because when he was alive there was no one on his side, like niko, to do that. he also didn’t quite know when he was alive, but after he spent so much time with charles (roughly 3 decades because on the dbd door it says ‘est. 1990.’ yay.) he had probably felt some feelings that he had pushed down due to edwin not understanding them. he clearly has emotional response issues, and we can tell through his coarse, but direct and statistical way of talking. his interactions with the cat king also stir up more conflict within him, and by the third episode of the series there are more signs that edwin does indeed love charles. even if he himself isn’t 100% sure.

edwin’s interaction with the cat king in episode three is a rather rousing one. edwin falls into his presence and finds himself getting closer and closer towards the cat king. the cat king first transforms to monty, but he doesn’t get the response from edwin that he would like. who does give him the reaction he would like? charles. from the few interactions that charles and edwin have had with the cat king, he can tell that charles seems to pull at edwin’s heart strings more than anyone. edwin leans into the embrace of the faux-charles, before he rips himself back and comes back to his senses. he felt safe with the image of charles, even if he knew it wasn’t him. even if it was just for a moment, he let his guard down. it just felt better to be treated that way by some version of charles than by no version of him at all.

the interaction leaves edwin frazzled, to say the least, and when he re-groups with the rest of the team, he is ever-so-slightly shaken up. he looks at charles as he speaks with crystal, and there is a sense of longing and yearning to his gaze. the world around him shifts to a tunnel vision of just charles. i can only assume that the images of the cat king came across his mind as he looked upon him, and he tuned out momentarily. he clearly doesn’t mean to do so, as seen in the gasp he lets out after charles calls for him, and edwin awkwardly responds / changes the subject before going to sit by the star fish with niko. i think he liked the interaction with the cat king more than he would like to admit deep down.

[thatpodcastkid]

Magnus Archives Relisten 11, MAG 11 Dreamer

If someone came to my place of work proclaiming they had a prophetic dream about my death I would simply believe them. RIP to Gertrude but I'm just built different ig.

MAG 11 analysis, spoilers ahead!

Facts: Statement of "Antonio Blake" regarding his dreams of Gertrude Robinson, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute (Head Archivist is another odd and foreshadowing usage of proper nouns in the transcript). Statement given March 14th, 2015.

Statement Notes: Oliver I love you but I also hate you so so much.

It's so strange relistening to this statement. On my first listen, I was very sympathetic to "Antonio." He was this innocent man who suddenly developed psychic abilities that tormented him. Even in 121 when he describes what he did on the voyage to Point Nemo, he seems to be driven by fear and desperation. But knowing what happens after Point Nemo and who he becomes in the Eyepocalypse, I wonder how much influence the power of the End had on him. As Jon develops his abilities, he becomes less confident in "normal" social situations, but more confident and stronger in dangerous horror-based scenarios. This seems true with Blake/Banks as well. He's very nervous as his abilities are developing when he tries to talk to Gertrude or Jennifer from Grifter's Bone. As he becomes more attuned with his abilities and gives in to his desires, he becomes more powerful, shown when he is strong and devoid of emotion enough to kill the actual Dr. Pritchard. He becomes strongest when he "gives in" to the End, being most clear and charming as he gives his statement in 121 and the Coroner's Report in 168. Just being able to track this change so clearly from this first statement to the last speaks not only to Jonny Sims skills for character development, but also the power of the Entities to draw out the worst in a person.

Blake describes his dream world as an "overexposed" or "washed out" photograph. The fading imagery was very profound and strong to me. Death is a fear, a horror represented by the black tendrils, but also a simple force of nature, slowly sucking life and color from all things. Unstoppable.

I don't know why I'm harping on this, but I can't understand why Blake's dreams always begin at the top of Canary Wharf. Does that come up again in the show? Is it personally significant to Blake?

Character Notes: I already got into Blake, so my other main character concern for this episode is Gertrude.

Did she ever see this statement?

Did she simply miss it? Was she busy and didn't get a chance to look at it before it was too late? Did she read it and attempt to prepare? She was smart. She knew which statements were real and which weren't. She would have understood what Blake was capable of. Did she attempt to prepare and defend herself but just couldn't manage it? Did Elias hide it from her? Did she read it and just accept the inevitable?

But of course, I have to bring up the Graham mention. I always thought the Graham/Oliver ship was just a fun fan thing, but I didn't realize Oliver had broken up with a Graham in cannon. Moreover, I didn't realize that it was confirmed to be Graham Folger until reading about the Season 5 Q&A when working on this post.

This raises an interesting point about original Graham. Blake describes having a mental breakdown due to his job, and Amy Patel describes her office job degrading her mental health as well. Is there something about Graham that attracts people losing their minds in an office? While it could be something spooky, I do understand why people stuck in mind-numbing careers would be drawn to someone with the time and resources to explore what he actually wants to do with his life, rather than what he has to do.

Entity Alignment: This is very clearly an End episode. I very much believe that, while he may not be the most powerful or dangerous avatar in the series, Oliver Banks was one of the most deeply connected to his entity. His psyche, his spirit, and his physical body were all so entrenched in death. It's interesting that there is no "inciting incident" that causes Graham to become an avatar of the End, as usually there is one event that acts as the root of an avatar's development. You could possibly argue it was his mental health breakdown, but that seems unrelated to death or anything associated with the End.

[greetingfromthedead]

Stormy Night (SingleDad!Vash x F!Reader)

Plot: After the culmination of Knives's plans, life took on a different rhythm for Vash and he turned a new leaf with you, hoping to leave the pain of the past behind, but forgetting that he seems to be cursed to bring death to those he loves most in life.

Series: Oneshot, but some thoughts of a part 2 swirling in my head

Pairing: SingleDad!Vash x F!Reader

Raiting: Everyone

Tags: post-Trimax (some spoilers), no use of y/n, pregnancy, childbirth, death, angst, talk of suicide, widow Vash, single father Vash

Word count: 3.9k

Author's Note: @biancalattei, ask and you shall receive. This brought me back to my roots considering I used to write almost exclusively angst. I take no responsibility for any heartache and pain this might cause.

Is he nothing more than an agent of Death? The countless lives that he has taken would suggest so. He is nothing more than doom incarnate, and he can never atone for that. From the crash to his brother's last attempt at genocide and everything in between, the blood of millions stain Vash's hands red. The guilt has chained him for nearly all his life, and he thought nothing could ease it, but you became his constant source of hope. With you by his side, Vash felt like there might be some hope of redemption after all—that as long as he lived, he could do something to lessen his sins.

Some years after the arrival of Earth's forces, life took on a very different rhythm for Vash. He found himself smiling more often and laughing genuinely, feeling a sense of peace that he hadn't experienced in 150 years. A new kind of life dawned before him—a life of peace. He no longer needed to run. He had the chance to see life flourish on Noman's Land with the help and resources of the newcomers. For the first time, he could breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that things were looking up for humanity on this planet. The struggles and hardships of the past were finally behind them. He could now focus on building a future with you.

You settled down around The Garden with other survivors, among them friends you had made along the way, including Milly and Livio, who found each other through mutual grief. Together, you all worked towards creating a sense of community and rebuilding life. The apple tree in the middle of The Garden, became a symbol of hope and new beginnings for all of you, but few knew the true significance behind it. You and Vash looked forward to the future; a strange new prospect for him was that the two of you could grow old together as humans.

Instead of running, you built a home. Instead of cutting short the strands of life, you tied yours together in marriage. Instead of death, there was life—you got pregnant. The future looked brighter than ever before. The tears kept streaming down Vash's face as you broke the news to him. He couldn't believe it, but he was overjoyed to become a father. The joy and excitement in his eyes made all the struggles and uncertainties worth it. No matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together as a family.

During your pregnancy, Vash was the happiest he had ever been. He took every opportunity to dote on you, to flaunt his beautiful wife, and to talk about your growing family. He hugged you every chance he got, his hands always resting protectively on your belly. Every morning, he would place a kiss on your forehead and another on your tummy. Each time he noted how much your bump had swollen, a proud smile on his face. He enjoyed every moment he could spend with you and his growing family. And the happiness only increased as he found out you were expecting twins. He couldn't wait to meet his two bundles of joy and hold them in his arms for the first time. His heart was full of love and anticipation for the new chapter of his life that was about to begin. His cheeks felt painful from the wide smile always gracing his face. He felt overwhelmed with happiness and gratitude.

The months went by so slowly, yet so fast, but he knew that every moment was worth the wait. You prepared together by building the nursery and getting clothes and supplies. Vash even practiced by swaddling a stray cat who had become a permanent resident of the new settlement. Peace, like he had never felt before, filled his days.

In his bliss, he forgot the most important truth he had learned from a very young age: he is misfortune, he is death. His happiness is destined to turn to ashes in his mouth. Everyone and everything he has ever loved is doomed to suffer and die. His mother, his brother, his best friend, humanity. You. You are no exception.

Vash was on high alert the moment you started to show signs of discomfort, but you kept assuring him that it wasn't time yet. It should have still been a few weeks before your babies were supposed to arrive. You acted like it was nothing; you had heard it was normal to have fake contractions, so you brushed it all off, but Vash rarely took his eyes off you. After a full day of feeling like you're being punched in the gut, your water broke and the real contractions started.

"Well, I guess they want to arrive early. That's okay!" You tried to calm Vash with a smile. "This just means we get to meet them sooner!"

"Could they have chosen a worse day?" Vash let out a deep sigh. Nothing could change the fact that he felt more terror now than ever before, and the massive sandstorms approaching your area did nothing to help the matter.

"It will be fine, love! I could be in labor for days! Don't worry so much!" You continued with a fake smile as you gathered your things. But Vash knew you too well; he recognized the fear in your eyes.

"Let's get to the hospital; that's all we can do now." Vash tried his best to keep the thoughts of doom off his mind, the worry growing in his heart.

The clinic had been set up by the newcomers and had been provided with all kinds of supplies, but personnel had become harder to come by than ever before. Doctors often went out to the smaller settlements that needed their attention, and so did the one situated in The Garden. There was only a nurse left who looked young and terrified at the prospect of having to take care of someone in labor.

"We must radio the doctor at once! Or Home! Someone!" Vash insisted as he supported you through a painful contraction. His fingers turned purple from your tight grip.

"I'm sorry, sir, all the communications are down due to the storms! We are cut off! And I find it hard to believe anyone could make it through them in one piece!" the nurse said with panic in her voice.

"There must be someone here who can help. There are all kinds of folks settled in; surely someone has some experience," you said, trying your hardest to keep your voice calm.

"I'll go immediately and send someone to ask around!" The nurse nodded and rushed off.

You teetered on your feet, leaning your hands on the bed for support, trying to find a decent position where it hurt less. Vash rushed to the other side of the bed, his hands gripping your shoulders as he looked at you with panic and concern. He leaned his forehead against yours, and it made you feel better.

"It's fine. People do this all the time, right? Giving birth should be the most natural thing in the world, and they aren't that early. It's all going to work out. They will be fine. Everything will be fine."

Vash wasn't sure if your words were meant to comfort you, him, or both. It was so like you to try and stay positive. You had dragged him through the darkest of times with that same mindset. He just nodded, knowing that you are much stronger than he ever has been.

The labor was progressing steadily, and he found solace in your unwavering optimism. Vash held onto your words like a lifeline, reminding himself that you had always been his rock. Your strength and positivity were contagious, filling the room with hope and reassurance. With each passing moment, Vash felt more confident that everything would indeed be fine, even as the situation grew more dire. There was just an old woman who could help the nurse. She had helped a few children into this world, but she was no doctor.

It was the middle of the night. The strong winds shook the clinic, glass bottles clinking together in the background of your screams of pain. The midwife had seen some difficult births before, but this one seemed particularly challenging. The first of the twins arrived without many issues, but the second twin was breached. You were told to stop pushing, and it was the hardest thing anyone could have asked you to do in that moment. You knew the safety of your baby was the most important thing, so you did your best to stay calm and follow the midwife's instructions.

"Oh God!" the young nurse exclaimed as she looked at you.

"You go take care of the baby!" the midwife told her sternly.

Everything that followed became unclear. Little fuzzy dots danced in front of your eyes. You felt dizzy as you leaned more into Vash, who had his arm around you, the other in your loosening grip. The only thought ringing in your head was that of your children. They both must survive.

"You're doing great, sweetheart! Just stay calm! It's okay! It's going to be alright!" Vash's soothing words echoed in your ear as you tried to push through the pain and fear. It was his turn to take the lead and hold on to hope.

"I'm cold," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you tried to calm your erratic and shallow breaths.

Vash's eyes stayed on you the whole time; he saw the color draining from you, your complexion becoming more ashen as whatever the midwife was doing shook your whole body. He felt utterly helpless. Your eyes kept unfocusing and trailing off.

"You have to stay awake!" The panic in Vash's voice grew with every word as he shook your shoulders. "It's nearly over! Hold on!"

Your body was on autopilot; you didn't hear his words; you just saw his sad eyes, the tears welling in them. The only thing that kept the darkness creeping at the edges of your vision at bay was the unbearable pain. One way or another, suddenly, you felt relief. Vash heard blood splattering on the clean, white floor as the midwife rose from between your legs.

"She isn't breathing!" the elderly woman said, unclear to whom.

"Save her!" you exclaimed weakly, unaware of the puddle of blood growing on the floor.

Vash's eyes darted between the midwife and you, but couldn't react before she ran out, leaving the two of you alone since the nurse never returned. Vash was filled with terror and confusion, unsure of what to do next. His babies were rushed off to a different room, one of them in a critical condition. And you. Nobody but him was here to help you, and he knew there was nothing he could do.

"You will be alright," Vash said as he pulled you closer. "You have to hold on for a little while longer. You gotta meet our babies! Right? You have to hold them! And then we can bring them home and watch them grow!" Vash's voice was shaky as he tried to reassure you; his eyes were filled with tears. "Just imagine them running around, playing with each other, and calling you 'mommy'. The trouble they will get into! Our house will be a mess!"

The tears clouded his vision as he kept going, pulling you tight against his chest, trying to find the right words to comfort you. He kept going for what felt like an eternity, until the midwife returned. She stood in the room for a moment before starting to speak in a tender and motherly tone.

"The little girl is alright now. She started breathing on her own and let out a healthy cry. She is with her brother now. The nurse is keeping a very close eye on them." She paused and came closer to Vash, who cradled you in his arms, still quietly talking about your future together with tears streaming down his face. The midwife took your limp arm and kept her fingers on your wrist to confirm what she already knew before putting it back.

"I am very sorry for your loss. There was nothing I could have done to save your wife. It's a miracle we got the second twin out alive, and I think she knew it too. I know no words can bring you comfort in this impossible situation, but your children are still weak; they need you to stay strong," the midwife said as she looked at Vash, whose words had become indistinguishable. He hunched over further, and the encouragements he spoke turned into sobs.

The stormy night was filled with more than the howling of the wind. The screaming wails of a man who has known too much death in his life echoed through the clinic and could be heard even to the surrounding houses. No words could describe his pain. Vash was angry at the world and the universe. How could grief be the price we pay for love? How is it fair to experience so much loss? How did he ever dare to let down his guard again? How did he not see how it would all end in death?

"Mister Vash, your babies are so precious! Won't you see them?" Milly asked the grieving widow beside her after sitting in silence for a long time.

"No." Vash replied just as resolutely to her as he had to the midwife, the nurse, the doctor who arrived days later, Brad, and even Luida. "I don't want to see them."

"But, mister Vash, they are finally home!" Milly tried to be cheerful. "I don't mind helping out at all, but surely they would want their dad too!"

Vash remained quiet, his head filled with images of your body lying in a simple metal coffin. He had buried you two weeks ago after everyone who shared a portion of his grief had made it to town. You had touched the lives of many, but nobody knew you like he did. The hole you left in the center of his being can never be filled.

He had lingered in the house you built together. It felt empty. The only thing that kept him there was the feeling that you could walk through the door at any minute. How could someone like you be gone? How could you be destined to be nothing more than a memory in people's minds? How could he possibly keep going? The burden of death and grief had gotten too heavy; the guilt of not being able to save anyone he loved was weighing down on him like an anchor in the sea of sorrow.

The twins were finally declared healthy enough to go home. What should have been a joyous occasion was a nightmare in Vash's head. He could not bear to look at his own kids. From the moment they were born, he did not even lay a single glance on either of them. He left the clinic the day after you died, unwilling to stay there. All this time, it had been Milly who doted on the children, kept up with their progress, and tried to inform Vash of their wellbeing. But the man wouldn't listen. At first, he stood up and walked away without saying a word, but as Milly learned to be slightly less direct, he stayed seated and ignored her as she spoke. Milly and Luida brought the twins home and settled them into the nursery you had built together. Vash knows the colors you had so carefully chosen, the decor, and the toys, but he has refused to enter that room. It represents his broken dreams and his crushed future. He hasn't been strong enough to face it.

How much can any one man bear before he breaks completely? How many lies can he tell himself until he realizes he can't keep up the facade any longer? Does the agent of Death deserve to live? The answers to all these questions weigh heavily on Vash's conscience.

He sits at the step of the balcony, the cool night air wrapping around him like a shroud as his dark-haired head rests in one of his hands. His tear-soaked face turned towards the ground, the mostly empty bottle of liquor dangling in his line of sight.

Never before has the gun on his hip weighed so much. For the first time in Vash's long life, it bore more than life and death. Tonight, it symbolizes the strength of Vash's will and his resolve to keep to his convictions. He has fought for life, and he always thought he would do so to his last breath. And now he has become a hypocrite. He chooses death willingly, despite all that he has fought for and the ideals he once held dear.

From the moment he realized that you were gone, he wanted to follow you. He wanted to join you in the afterlife, to spend his tomorrows with all whom he has loved and lost. Surely there he could love everyone openly, the act wouldn't doom anyone there to the same fate they had faced in life. And wouldn't his death be a kindness? A way to atone for the pain he has caused? Wouldn't it keep his children safe?

Everyone he loves dies, so he has kept a distance from the twins. He refused to look at them; he refused to meet them, all in the hopes that he could spare them from sharing your fate. He just couldn't bear the thought of losing them or causing them suffering. It's all another lie he tells himself, of course. He can pretend that he doesn't love them, but his heart cries out to them just as much as it does to you. So that's why he must take action before it's too late.

The babies are asleep in the house you built together. In the living room, Milly had set up her bed, and Livio refused to stay behind in their own empty house. Luida is in the guestroom. The house is filled with loving people; surely they will step up where Vash is unable to. How could he face fatherhood alone without you? He is not fit, even if he wasn't cursed. Milly is very loving and grew up with many siblings; Luida had a hand in raising Vash; and Livio came from the orphanage; not to mention, he is more than capable of protecting the little ones. He can leave his children with the people here; they will grow up happy and safe.

Vash rises slowly. He has made up his mind. He goes back inside to get everything in order. He moves through the house like a ghost, careful not to wake anyone up. He takes the last picture he has of you and tucks it safely into his pocket, over his aching heart. He leaves a long note on the kitchen table, detailing his regret and reasoning. He leaves his last request to the people here, and by the time he is ready to walk into the desert with nothing but the picture and his gun, tears stream down his face.

As he is about to open the front door, he hears a little fussing from the nursery. His heart jumps at the little sound he hasn't had the chance to hear before. He can't have anyone in the house wake up now, or they will never let him leave. Surely one little look won't doom them. He takes a deep breath and slowly enters the children's room. In the bassinet under the window, a little infant wiggles in her pink swaddle and looks like she's about to let out a loud cry.

Vash moves closer to the cradle and gently runs his hand along the baby's head, soothing her before she can start crying. But the child still doesn't look quite satisfied, so he picks her up carefully, his large hand supporting her head and neck as he lifts her out of the cradle. He holds her close to his chest and quietly soothes her until her face no longer twists with distress.

His heart swells with love as he looks at his little baby girl, whom he nearly lost too. In the lines of her face, in the shape of her nose, and of her eyes, he recognizes the woman he loves most in life—you. The infant has wiggled the swaddle loose and reaches her tiny hand up towards Vash's face. He hadn't realized just how close he had leaned toward her until the little hand grabs the tip of his sharp nose.

Tears formed in his eyes again, but this time for a much different reason. How could he ever pretend that he doesn't love the children the two of you waited impatiently to arrive? How could he ever tell himself that he did not care? How could he ever let go of the love he feels for them in his heart? He knows all too well what you would say to him if you saw him doubting himself like this. You would scold him for even thinking he could be the one at fault for your death, even if he can't help but blame himself. You would be disappointed in him for not being by the side of your twins after their birth, as they too needed him. You would put an end to his pity party and give him an earful for even thinking about taking his own life and leaving your children to be raised by others.

A sad smile appears on his face as he looks down at his little baby girl. She looks so much like her mother. It's both a comfort and a pain to see her face. But it's clear you never truly left. You will live on. In the memories of others, in his heart, and in your children. Vash will see you in the stars and in every sunrise. He will hear your laugh in the gentle breeze and the song of windchimes. He will feel your presence in the warmth of the suns on his face.

Vash lifts his eyes to look out the window into the dark night. The moons shine brightly, and he whispers to himself, "I miss you more than words can say. Like the suns miss the stars in the morning sky."

As he looks down at his baby again, he could swear he saw a glimpse of you in the reflection of the glass window. An approving smile dancing on your lips. He knows there is no reason to turn around or look up again. You are gone; you aren't really here, but you will forever look over your family. So he must do everything you can't, and that includes taking care of your twins with all the love he has left to give. He will live on for his children and make sure they always feel your love.

He leans his forehead gently against the tiny infant's, tears prickling in his shut eyes. "Daddy's here, and he will never let anything happen to either of you. That's a promise."

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[lathrine]

im reading through Witcher: The Last Wish, and its been very fun with my mixed knowledge of 1/3rd of Witcher 3, four episodes of the show, and Blood Of Elves bc i know just enough to be confused at all times but also just enough to point at an upcoming scene and go "THE BUTCHER OF BLAVIKEN!!!!"

[bartonbones]

About Kaz: I think the problem is not so much him "loosing" but the context of the whole thing? Like, getting beaten by a Tidemaker on parem who just *turns into mist* when you hit them and whom you did not expect because the possibility of such powers was previously unknown makes for a good scene. Kaz getting beaten by two ordinary bruisers who just stroll into his office, though? That is the kind of writing the books would not get away with because it contradicts Kaz' status - if Pekka Rollins can just go everywhere and kill everyone including Kaz, what is the point? This also doesn't get followed up properly - Pekka makes his threat, Kaz goes anyway and by episode 8 no consequences happen and the average viewer has probably forgotten. It also builds up Pekka's power too much, imo. Murder other wealthy barrel bosses whenever without consequence upsets the idea of a semi-stable system of power in Ketterdam. Like, he can get away with murdering common lowlife, but rich business owners? That would not work in the books. So the problem is not that Kaz looses, it is how he looses.

i think that the narrative reasons kaz loses that fight aren't just because he's overpowered by the jurda, although that contributes, it's because the manor in which the tidemaker is manifesting makes him think about jordie, which distracts him during the fight and makes him more vulnerable. it's not just touch that's a vulnerability, it's anything that relates back to jordie, and that includes pekka.

in the show pekka rollins showing up into this space that kaz has made sacred to himself is enough to disarm him and distract him becuase it reminds him of jordie, becuase here is this man that represents the entire reason he has any vulnerabilities to begin with, and so that's what the show is telling you by having pekka rollins show up and disarm kaz: it's not that pekka rollins is the most powerful scary antagonist, becuase he's not even the antagonist for the crows in the show, it's just to let you see a manifestation of what kaz's vulnerabilities are. in the book, we learn them through kaz's internal dialogue more than anything else--at the end of this scene he blames himself for being distracted, calls himself a fool. in the show, the absence of internal dialogue means we need external factors to let us know that kaz is vulnerable and he is frustrated by his own vulnerability.

i imagine this interact will pay off more in s2 when we as a show audience are told why pekka was so disarming to kaz specifically. it also allows them to set up this dynamic of pekka meaning a lot to kaz, but kaz meaning next to nothing to pekka.

also, i don't mean this to say i think the show is a perfect 1:1 for the books, bc obviously it isn't. and i don't want to give credit where none is due by saying that i think they're trying to show that the kaz in the show is a precursor to the more stable/powerful/intimidating book kaz, although i think that would be a more interesting take given that in the timeline kaz should technically be newer to all this, but what i am saying is that the "gotcha" ism of "kaz would never get beat in the books!" doesn't make sense to me and i don't think him being caught off guard by seeing pekka rollins personally for what i assume is the first time is character assassination as much as it is a nessicary evil of only being able to adapt a two-book series in to 10 minute slots of another show.

[pulsar-1919]

Really wish I had not made my winx club OCs so connected to the specific world of the series that its impossible to separate them and have them become their own thing without copyright problems

[affixjoy]

I finished my first ever watch of Star Trek: The Original Series last night and wow, what a journey.

I’ve loved all the Trek I’ve watched before, but for years I avoided TOS. I had watched a handful of episodes and not really been into it, and I didn’t want to deal with any sexism or racism or other remnants of the 60s. I bought into the Kirk Drift and thought he was an asshole, and I didn’t want to watch 79 episodes of an asshole.

But after finishing Lower Decks my husband and I decided to dive in and watch all of it. I expected to adore Spock and groan at the special effects. I expected to roll my eyes a lot.

Friends, I was so wrong. I am delighted by this series. There was plenty of things to roll my eyes at and cringe at and yeah there’s stuff that has aged poorly or maybe was bad from the start. But overall, what a joy to watch. It was so fun to see the origin of so many things in science fiction and Star Trek. The costumes and sets were fun to look at. The fighting scenes are sometimes goofy but fun to watch. So much of this show is FUN and you can tell they had a blast making it.

And yeah, I loved Spock. But Kirk, Kirk surprised me. He’s such a deeper and more interesting character than I realized before watching. He’s not really an asshole at all. He’s smart and sweet and a good leader. He loves and ship and his crew. As Spock would say, he’s fascinating.

I knew vaguely about K/S and the history of fanfiction but watching it it’s like…yeah. Of course. Of course these two are together. Of course they launched fandom as we know it. Of course people saw the way they looked at each other and knew they should be married.

If you haven’t watched it yet take this as your sign that you should give it a try. You probably don’t have to watch every episode. There are some real stinkers in there. But give it a try, go in with an open heart, and you might be as delighted by it as I am now.

[itostea]

the strongest (gojo x wife! reader)

gojo can't help but feel annoyed that he feels concern for the wife he swears he doesn't care for.

warnings: arranged marriage au, gojo refers to you as his wife, enemies to lovers (?), gojo tells you to lift up your top, slight angst, he's really bad at feelings okay, image from loving yamada-kun at lv999 (part of gojo’s wife series)

The lines of intrigue and fear are often blurred. It explains why we admire fire from afar, careful not to get too close in hopes of not getting burned. It explains why we find peace in parts of the ocean and tense up in deeper parts. It also explains why Gojo Satoru seeks your presence yet pushes you away the moment he finds himself feeling something other than indifference or vexation–it’s never hatred though. The strongest can’t envision himself ever hating his wife and it scares him. 

He’s not sure that can be said about you. Gojo wouldn’t be surprised if you grew to hate him after the treatment you put up with. 

Your marriage is what you call a “marriage of convenience” and Gojo made sure you remembered that. He wasn’t always so distant with you. Back then, you might’ve considered him a friend but time did its bidding and you two drifted apart, your time together merely a memory. Now fast forward a few years and you were wedded to him, taking up his surname and sleeping in the same house as him–in separate rooms of course. 

Your steps on the wooden floors were silent as you intended not to make a single noise at such a late hour. You sighed, feeling the weight of your heavy shoulders drag you down. 

Gojo might be considered cruel to you but the elders were on a different level. They knew this mission would be too much for you yet they sent you on it as punishment for speaking your mind the last time everyone gathered. 

At that time, your husband had an unfamiliar gleam in your eyes as you voiced your thoughts on the matter of Itadori. He’s a nice kid, you thought when you first saw the pink-haired boy. 

Taking away his youth wouldn’t be fair. After all, he didn’t choose to have the Ryomen Sukuna use him as a vessel. Yet, sentiment doesn’t do well with the higher ups and they made sure you knew your place with the mission they sent you on. 

You inhaled sharply, wincing as you felt the bruise on your rib with your palm. There was blood soaking your tights, little cuts littering your legs. You’re so tired you can’t find it in yourself to even eat. Then again, you needed to be in your best condition tomorrow since another mission was sent out of you and specifically you. Those in power always make sure it’s clear that they are in power. Your voice of opinion meant nothing to their beliefs in tradition or what you liked to call, “backward thinking.” That’s one thing you and your husband could agree on. 

“Ow,” you wince for the nth time as you open the fridge, scanning the items. Mochi. Ice-cream. Leftover cake. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to go grocery shopping a day prior so you could have a proper meal. This was the kind of stuff Gojo could live on but you couldn’t. Closing the fridge, you opt for instant ramen instead. Not the best choice in regards to healthiness but cracking an egg in there meant more protein and it also minimized the spice levels. 

You’re halfway in between preparing the noodles when you feel a presence right beside you and soft breathing besides your ears. “You’re home,” your ‘husband’ mumbles, his eyes half-lidded from just having woken up. 

“God! Satoru!” You gasp, flinching away from and only realizing how close he was. For someone who claimed he wasn’t interested in you, he didn’t know what personal space was. “How did you know I was home?”

“Your cursed energy leaked in,” he shrugs his shoulders, peering down at you without the constraints of his blindfold or shades. You gulp as his eyes flit up and down your appearance, causing your insides to tense up in a sudden wave of self-consciousness. Being scrutinized by the six-eyes himself wasn’t much fun and you’re suddenly aware of the fact that your hair is disheveled and your face is sweaty from just having come home from a grueling mission. 

You don’t even notice the glint of rage that crosses his hues before he masks it. “Who did this to you?”

“Huh?” You blink, coming to your senses that your body was bloodied up and battered from having fought a curse. “Oh it was just a mission. It’s normal to be hurt on missions.” 

Gojo’s been living with you for nearly half a year now and he knows you’re more than competent when it comes to shaman duties (not that he’d ever tell you). He knows you return home by 7 p.m.., and never at hours well past midnight. He knows that you usually only get injuries on your back because you get careless at times. But now, he sees cuts everywhere and he’s not sure if you’re running on adrenaline or if you’re too tired to notice. 

His eyes glance at the way you press a palm on your rib, subconsciously squeezing the area as if hiding it from him. “Let me see.”

Your surprise is immediate and he would’ve felt a strange fluttering in his stomach if not for this concern he was experiencing for you. You smile. “See what?”

“Your injury. Let me see it,” he says again, pressing on the hand you hold close to your ribs, narrowing his eyes as you hiss in pain. “Don’t be stubborn (Name).” 

His voice is different from the cheery one he often uses and you’re left leaning further into the kitchen counter, acutely aware of the fact that his taller frame wasn’t allowing you to escape. His eyes widen the slightest once he gets a glimpse of your flustered expression as you peer up at him and he only realizes what he was asking from you. Part of him tells him to ignore this and pretend his concern for you was brief. Yet, part of him screams at him that he was your husband, so he should feel the right to be worried–even if he was months late. 

He sighs, tilting his head. “I’m just going to look. I promise I won’t do anything else,” his voice is oddly tender as he speaks to you, a contrast to the usual nonchalance you’re used to. 

You gulp and let out a shaky sigh, giving in when your fingers reach to pull your top up for him to see the bare skin that you can’t even say is spotless or void of marks. Multiple wounds litter your skin–some faded, some new. You’re scared his gaze would show some signs of judgment or disgust but you’re left bemused when you see how his eyebrows furrow and his lips purse. For a second, you allow yourself to be deluded by the fact that he might be worried but you quickly abandon that thought, averting your eyes from him.

You can see how he pieces everything together. From the way you rebelled against the elders and how they saw it as a means to punish you. He does it so quickly that you can only blink when his blank expression morphs into something different. You almost feel relieved from the fact that his expression of pure anger wasn’t directed at you and rather those who sent you on the mission.

It’s almost natural how he slides the top further up, mapping the extent of the bruise with his eyes. His hands are warm and calloused. They’re also gentle, tracing the bruise carefully to not hurt you. “I’ll kill those old bastards,” he chuckles with a sneer. “They have some nerve letting my wife take this mission without me.”

You frown as you see his anger first-hand. “Satoru–”

“Why didn’t you go to Shoko?” He interrupts, gently holding on your waist to prop you on the counter while he stands in between your legs. He watches you intently, in search of answers.

You feel somewhat embarrassed as his hand still lifts your top up to see the bare skin but don’t comment on it. “I didn’t want to bother her so late at night…”

For the first time since today, you see him flash a genuine smile, as if exasperated by your reasoning. “But you’re fine with bothering me?” 

“That’s different!” You say, a pout slowly forming on your lips and he can’t help but feel drawn to you even if he doesn’t want to. 

He laughs as you pull your top down with a huff, finding it cute that you were so bashful. “Because I’m your husband?” 

You go silent and for a second, Gojo thinks he’s messed up for mentioning that. Despite being your husband, he’s not the greatest at doing his job. He’s not callous or spiteful towards you, instead taking on more of a cold and aloof attitude towards you. Even so, he thinks that hurts just as much as a few insults. 

He’s about to pull back but your voice draws him back to you. “Yeah. It’s because you’re my husband.”

Gojo can’t stop himself from glancing at your lips at that single statement. He was today years old when he realized he was a man of simple tastes. All you had to do was tell him that he was your husband and he’d want to kiss you until your lips turned red. He considers himself lucky that you didn’t see that slip-up of his–though he wouldn’t have minded if you did.

He breathes out a sigh, propping his chin atop your head while his fingers draw circles around your hips. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

It’s a vow he swears to keep. 

“I know,” you whisper quietly enough for him to hear. “You’re the strongest after all.”

He thinks it’s funny that even as the strongest, he feels weak when he feels your fingers play with his sleeves. No words are said after that and a comfortable silence drifts between you two. It’s like the barrier between the two of you is cracking once you feel his lips press gently against your forehead and you think it's his way of sealing the promise. 

Gojo Satoru thinks–or rather he knows that he wouldn’t mind living the rest of his life with you. And he knows that he should fix his behavior around you and stop running away. That way, instead of a kiss to the forehead, he can finally give you one on your lips.