#ITS GETTING LATE LITTLE MOON. FINISH THE SONG
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So do we think Liam O'Brien is aware of The Worm King's Lullaby by Richard Siken because oh my god-
#SOMEONE HAS TO LEAVE FIRST#ITS GETTING LATE LITTLE MOON. FINISH THE SONG#screaming sobbing throwing up#critical role#c3#orym of the air ashari#liam o'brien#richard siken
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Sage
Summary: Joel finished your tattoo but staying in each other lives is easier than he thinks. A late night phone call reminds him of how easy it is to lose something too.
Read the beginning: You put aside your touch aversion for a tattoo from Joel.
Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader
Word count: ~10.6k
Warnings: slow build, no outbreak tattoo!au, angst then comfort, the 'believes they're hard to love, loving them is like breathing' trope, reader has issues with touch and is mostly touch adverse (joel's workin' on that though), description of a past abusive relationship, undefined unresolved previous trauma, insecurity, anxiety, Joel gets to have both his daughters in this
A/N: I can't tell you how happy the love for this series has made me. You’re all my heroes and this is dedicated to all of you.
Once again, we’re ignoring canon and pretending like Joel can draw for this fic, thank you. Editing this was a labor, so if there are any mistakes blame my tired eyes. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!
“Joel?” Your voice is staticky in the dark.
He’s used to answering the phone half awake in the middle of the night, shadows still strung between the wings of his window. Between bailing Tommy out of jail when he was younger and rescuing Sarah and Ellie from sleepovers they didn’t want to stay at, he’s answered the phone in the shy hours of the very early morning more times than he can count.
In the few months he’s known you, though, you’ve never called him, not once, let alone in the middle of the night.
“Joel?” The connection crackles and your voice wavers. “Can you hear me?”
It’s then that his mind catches up with him, digs its heels in and kicks to life. He hadn’t said anything beyond a cranky, irritated hello? after the shrill ring woke him and he blindly groped for the phone and pressed it to his ear. “Hey, yeah, I can hear ya.”
Maybe he has the good sense to answer you, but he’s not awake enough to consider the why of the call yet. He’s glad to hear your voice, though.
It’s like a sweet little song in his ear when he hadn’t gotten to see you at all that day.
And lately the days he doesn’t get to see you are a rarity.
Most days, you stop by the studio but some days he meets you for coffee, or goes on a drive with you, or insists on teaching you to fish. You’ve been at a few Friday dinners with his girls, though not all of them because you fold yourself up tight and try not to intrude. Most Sundays find you arriving early at his door with pie and coffee from Flu’s, which you eat on his front porch in companionable silence before the heat of the day can settle in.
“I’m sorry,” you say. Your voice trembles and Joel feels like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over him.
He lurches up in bed so fast that spots dance in his vision and a spear of pain slices through his shoulder, raking iron hot nails into a years old injury. “Sweetheart?” A knot of protective worry forms in his chest, lights a fire in his belly. “What’s goin’ on?”
The moon casts a thin, pale beam of light across the foot of his bed, growing brighter by the second as his eyes adjust to the darkness. But then you continue and the protective feeling only grows, and then goes hard with an icy ferocity. “Sorry for calling so late and bothering you with this but I don’t—I didn’t have anyone else I wanted to call.”
Your voice breaks on the last word, the creaking in your mouth splintering across the line. “Can you…I don’t—” There’s a little pause in which Joel can hear your footsteps as you pace and the quick sound of your breathing. “I just don’t know what to do.”
Joel pulls himself out of bed and shucks on his jeans that had lain crumpled on the floor where he left them and then pulls on the first shirt his hand touches when he yanks open a dresser drawer. “What’s goin’ on?” He asks again. “Where are you?”
“Ugh—” You swallow thickly, sounding inexplicably embarrassed. “It’s nothing, really. I’m-I’m being stupid. I shouldn’t have called.”
He can practically see you fidgeting, looking down, shaking your head. Can practically feel you thinking of hanging up the phone, nervous doe eyes darting around like you’ve done something wrong.
“Don’t sound like nothin’,” he grits out, his voice coming out harsher than he means it to. “What happened?”
You’d gone down to Austin to visit some friends for the day. It’s why he hadn’t gotten the chance to see you.
Your ex slips suddenly to the forefront of his mind, who was the goddamn reason you’d moved out of Austin in the first place. Then all the myriad of other terrible things that could have prompted you to call him so late flash through his mind.
It only serves to make his chest burn.
“You still in Austin?” Again, his voice comes out angrier than he intends. He pulls open his bedroom door and moves down the hall, not bothering to flip on any lights.
“No. I’m at—I’m at home,” you stutter.
He pauses in the front entryway, wallet and keys dangling from his fingers, one foot halfway into a shoe. “Home?”
“I’m—yeah, home. I just…I came home and the street door was open. I thought maybe the neighbors just forgot to close it when they were bringing groceries in or something, but then the security light wasn’t coming on and my apartment door is open too. It’s probably nothing, Joel, don’t bother with—look I’m sorry for—”
He’s frozen for a moment. The cavernous black hole of your front door looms, the teeth of the darkness sharp and wanting.
The street door, despite his best efforts to augment it, is notoriously difficult to get open. If it was open when you got home—
If your apartment door was open too—
“I’m sorry for calling,” you say again when he doesn’t answer, your voice small and anxious. “I think I might have been robbed or something. I just. . . I didn’t want to call anyone else,” you repeat. “I’m afraid.”
Afraid.
It’s a cold word.
Stuffing his wallet into his back pocket and getting his boots all the way on, he tugs his own front door open. “Don’t you move a goddamn muscle. Do not go inside. Go back down to the street.”
“Joel—”
“I’m serious,” he all but snarls. “Now.”
“Okay,” you agree. Your voice is tight, choked. “Okay.”
“I’m gettin’ on the road now.”
“Thank you.”
He doesn’t answer for a minute, just listens to your breathing as he gets in his truck and turns the engine, phone squished between his shoulder and ear. The drive into town is only about ten minutes. You should be alright in that time.
“You there?” Your voice is breathy. You sound a little like you might have been crying and he wonders how long you waffled in front of your door, trying to decide whether to call him or just go inside by yourself. “Joel?”
“‘m here.” He turns off the long dirt road that leads to the ranch. “Yeah, I’m here, honey. Stay on the phone.”
“Okay,” you murmur. “Thanks,” you say again.
The word doesn’t register. His mind is already with you, imagining you standing alone on your street, or worse, with folks lurking around the corner waiting to do you harm. It’s an insidious image that he knows isn’t based entirely in reality. “You alone?” Despite his thoughts, he can’t imagine anyone out on the streets of the tiny town at this hour.
“Mm. Just me.”
“Good. Stay away from that door,” he grumbles.
“Bossy,” you accuse lightly, the soft attempt at a joke.
He doesn’t laugh. The drive feels like it's taking too long, longer than the ten minutes it normally takes.
He steps on the accelerator and his mind wanders to all the other times he’s been called, into the dark or otherwise, because his people needed him. To the hospital once when Sarah had broken her ankle at a pool party, to the high school when Ellie’d gotten into a fight that ended with a blood spattered hallway and broken nose.
Those were the worst calls, drives. That was when he felt most helpless, like he was stuck in quicksand. There were just things that he couldn’t protect them from. He couldn’t be there every second of the day, he couldn’t always be with them, and that had always grated.
Most assured him the anxiety would fade as Sarah got older, but it never did. It hadn’t even begun with her. It was always there, that protective anxiousness. It had gotten exponentially worse with Sarah’s birth, a tiny life he was responsible for, a tiny life that was so delicate.
And then—Ellie. At least with Sarah he’d had some piece of mind. But Ellie, like Tommy, had a knack for trouble. Too many times she swung in the back door with bleeding knees and twigs stuck in her hair and a scrape over her cheek. It wasn’t always a fight, sometimes it was just climbing a tree she had no business being in, racing her bike against kids twice her size, and unlike Sarah, she had no sense of preservation.
“Are you hurt?” The question burns in his mouth. He doesn't mean to ask it.
“Hurt—” you start, sounding surprised. “No. No, of course not. I’m okay, Joel. It’s just the stupid door. I’m just—I told you I’m just being stupid. Listen, just—”
Joel knows what you’re going to say, and he should tell you that you aren’t being stupid, that it was good you called him; that he wants you to call him, all the time, but especially when you need him.
Instead, he snaps, “Don’t move.”
Your voice cuts off.
His eyes strain past streetlights and empty, open fields, past the copse of trees that marked the start of a forest where he’d seen a trio of deer a few weeks before, like some kind of omen.
In the distance, the town comes into view. You don’t say anything but he listens to the sound of your breathing, the calm in and out that reassures him that you’re okay, that you’re there patiently waiting.
When he turns down your street, you come into view, standing beneath a streetlight in front of your building. The security light above your door flickers weakly, but otherwise remains dark. “You see me?”
You turn and lift your hand. “I see you,” you say, voice crumbling and soft. The golden light pools around you, casts your shadow behind you like a ghost, or an angel. But you’re there, you’re safe, he can see you, and some of the tension melts off his shoulders. “Gonna hang up now,” you say.
“All right,” he agrees.
The line goes dead.
Joel is angry with you.
It’s the only thought that sticks, barbed and fanged and catching, in your mind. It burrows into the top of your spine and makes your whole body go rigid with fear.
Joel is angry with you.
Joel, who’s always been sweet and kind. Who introduced you to his family with affection in his voice, took you fishing and always tossed the fish back when you looked so mournfully at them, who pointed out birds and deer to you quietly and with a practiced ease, who lets you read on the green leather couch in his shop and asks your opinions on the designs he’s working on that you often wish were for you.
But you’ve never really fucked up before. You’ve never made him angry.
This, calling him out of bed in the middle of the night, would give him plenty to be angry about. It would give him something to blame you for.
The truck rolls to a stop, headlights flaring out, and dread forms a knot in the back of your throat.
Before you can open your mouth, to head off his foul mood and explain, Joel is out of the truck and his hands are cupped around your shoulders, then the sides of your face.
You flinch at the suddenness of it and then tense but Joel doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes darting over your body like he expects to find you gravely injured. He doesn’t normally touch you so abruptly and the feeling of his hands on your skin makes tears burn behind your eyes.
He looks pretty in the moonlight. His eyes are cast dark and shaded as they search yours, his pupils so blown out the brown is consumed. You aren’t sure what he’s looking for. “You all right?” He asks, the comforting scent of him wrapping around you. He smells like rosemary and pine, like sawdust. You think distantly that he must have been working on some project earlier in the day.
And sage. He smells like protection.
His thumb slides over your cheek slowly in a vaguely self soothing way.
You resist the urge to twist out of grip, trying to remind yourself that now isn’t then, that he isn’t him.
Your body remembers though, remembers what it’s like to taste fear.
“Fine,” you reassure him again and pull back slightly. “I just—like I said, it’s nothing. It’s stupid. I just got spooked. I—Joel I’m sorry—”
Joel doesn’t seem to hear you as he releases your face, apparently satisfied with whatever he saw there. He grips your elbow instead and leads you to the passenger side of the truck. “You stay here,” he says. “‘M gonna take a look around. Give me your key.”
There’s a protective violence around him, a current of energy that makes you wary, that you don’t want to be on the wrong side of.
“You—Joel, please, listen—” You attempt to shake his hand off, panic clawing at your chest. You’re too tense to be touched, too anxious he’s about to snap at you.
Joel has never raised his voice at you. This fear isn’t one that should rest with him and that frustrates you even more. It makes you feel crazy and unbalanced and like you don’t know who’s really in front of you.
Still, it’s your fault, after all. It’s your fault he’s here, and maybe that’s good enough for him to start.
His eyes are like hard, dark flint, like chips of glittering amber, glinting in the pale moonlight that washes out his skin, highlights the circles beneath his eyes.
“Just stay here,” he repeats. His voice is hard when his eyes flash up to yours. “I’ll only be a minute.” His hand still cradles your elbow as he pulls the truck’s door open, thumb sweeping over the ridge of bone there.
His hand feels tight, even though it’s probably not. You tug your arm gently out of his grasp and take a step back. “I’m not going to stay here,” you try again, gathering your courage and tipping your chin up. “It’s my apartment. And I don’t want you to go alone.”
Joel stares at you, brows lowering over his eyes.
Anxiety beats a nervous, familiar pattern against your ribs, hollowing out the well of your lungs. You bite back the urge to apologize to him again, but he clearly doesn’t want to hear it since he hasn’t responded to it yet.
He is angry with you, and you don’t like that. But you try to remind yourself again that Joel is not your ex, that in the months you’ve known him, he’s never made you feel unsafe, or like you couldn’t disagree with him.
But it hadn’t been like that with your ex at first either, and your body is not listening to your mind.
“Jesus Christ—” he grits out then stops, the words long and deeply accented in his mouth. You do your best to swallow down the squirming worry souring your belly. “Fine. Just—behind me.”
You aren’t sure how to deal with Joel like this, he’s always so soft and kind and easy with you.
And you suppose he’s being soft with you now, he’s just—
Angry. He sounds mad; he must be pissed off. Probably because you’ve called him out of bed in the middle of night for no good reason, really. You should have just plucked up the courage to go inside by yourself. It’s likely you’ve called him down for nothing.
“Okay,” you relent. “Behind you.”
He doesn’t answer and shuts the truck door. Instead, he moves toward your building without preamble, decidedly not looking at you.
Seeing the street door wide open when you got home had scared you, the security light not blinking on had terrified you, and then Joel’s constant worries had drifted into the back of your mind, cloyingly poisonous.
He hates that you leave your windows open and trust the town you live in. He hates anytime you mention that your neighbors leave their door unlocked, even as a joke.
Ain’t safe, he always said, you don’t do that.
It was never a question.
He worries about you standing on the street and struggling with the door. He worries about you getting robbed or worse. You always rolled your eyes, because it was always fine and Joel was a serial worrier.
But that had been all you were able to think of as you stood there on the street.
Somehow, you’d convinced yourself to go inside after a few long minutes. You’d debated just going inside too, when you found your apartment door open but the fear had eventually won out.
Joel’s broad shoulders disappear into the dark entryway before the stairwell light flares on. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and jeans. He looks rumpled and soft and painfully domestic. His jeans are pressed with creases, the laces of his boots undone. The t-shirt stretches across the plains of his back, tight against his shoulders. His hair, normally carefully brushed, is mussed. A lick of gray hair sticks up off his forehead.
When he stops in front of your apartment door, you have to repress the urge to smooth it back, to press yourself into his side in silent askance for comfort you’re not sure you deserve.
“I’m sorry,” you find yourself saying again. “Really,” you continue, trying to ignore the dread building colonies in your lungs.
Nervous now, you realize, not because you might have been robbed, but because Joel is angry with you.
But, like all the other times, Joel doesn't acknowledge your apology. He pushes the door open and flips on the light just inside the door.
Your apartment looks the way it always does, homely and calm. You can’t see a single thing out of place, but that doesn’t stop Joel from searching through it anyway.
For the next few minutes it's quiet as Joel moves slowly around your little apartment. It’s messy, messier than usual. And when he pushes your bedroom door open, you feel embarrassment crawl up the back of your throat.
Because this is the first time he’s seeing your bedroom, also a mess, and you realize you wanted that to go differently.
He’s only ever had cause to sit at your tiny kitchen table, your sofa, before.
The floor is strewn with clothes, your bed is unmade, half your jewelry is out of its box and strung across your dresser. Used glasses and mugs sit on your bedside table that you’ve yet to take to the kitchen, your desk is a mess of old receipts, record sleeves, discarded pens, and stacks of books.
You wince when he pushes aside your curtains and slams your window shut, the one you always left open for Paprika, before he opens your closet door.
When your throat tightens, you leave him to your room and sit on your couch instead to wait.
Inexplicable shame and embarrassment melts around your heart. You try not to think of yourself as a bother to him, not exactly, anyway, and not anymore. But it's hard in this moment when he sounds so upset, so irritated with you.
Over the last few months, being around Joel and being. . .kind of something, something indefinable and light, to each other, you’ve realized it wasn’t just the tattoo. The tattoo your ex gave you, branded you with, was just the final nail in the coffin.
Now is a good reminder of that, that you’re sitting around waiting for Joel to tell you how useless you are, to break something, to snap at you.
He won’t, you know that. Somewhere inside you, you know that’s the truth.
But your body does not understand that. You’re coiled as tight as a spring, hands fisted in your lap as you wait for the other shoe to drop, for his concern to evaporate when he realizes there really is nothing wrong.
Anxiety burns bright in your belly, echoes in the stiff cut of Joel’s shoulders, the way he stalks around your apartment, checking increasingly more absurd hiding places until he’s satisfied that you’re alone and the door is locked.
Joel pushes aside the clothes hanging in your closet, gets on his hands and knees and looks under your bed, and finally peeks in your bathroom.
He feels calmer, better, now that he knows you’re safe and unharmed, that you’re there in the living room with the front door locked and your bedroom window shut.
Which reminds him of that damn cat you sometimes let into your apartment, and doesn’t seem to be around.
Joel trails back to the main room, ignoring the details of your bedroom—the clothes in piles on the floor, the few books strewn across your bed and desk with pens sticking out of the pages, the soft cerulean and cream blankets draped over your bed and on the chair in the corner. He shouldn’t get to see those things, not like this at least. “Where’s your cat?”
You blink and turn to look at him over the back of the sofa. You have one of the brightly colored, crocheted shawls over your shoulders and had been staring at his painting. The one he gifted you a few weeks before and that you don’t know is of you. The doe with bees dancing around her ears.
It’s an okay painting, but you adore it.
“What?”
“Your cat,” Joel grumbles. He’s yet to meet the cat, who always made himself scarce whenever he happened to find himself in your apartment. “Paprika, right? He’s not inside. He okay?”
He doesn’t want to go searching alleyways in the dark for the orange tabby but he’ll do it. For you, he’d do it.
“Oh,” you frown. “He’s not really mine,” you shake your head and shift your eyes from his. You look anxious and drawn. It’s like a lead weight in his stomach, to see fear and uncertainty spilled across your face. “He’s fine. I just feed him sometimes. He comes and goes when he likes.”
Joel hesitates. “You sure?”
“I—” Your eyes flicker over him before you look away again, your expression closing up. “Um,” you shift uncomfortably. Your shoulders are tense. “Yeah. He doesn’t—he doesn’t really need me.”
Something about the way you say it breaks his heart.
There are a lot of things you don’t see clearly about yourself, and your worth, your importance, is one of them.
“Thanks for coming by,” you say eventually when he doesn’t reply and rounds the couch to sit next to you. “I really didn’t mean to bother you.”
Joel reaches for you, carefully slots his hand in the crook of your elbow. You tense and he sweeps his thumb over the inside of your arm, soothing you the way he always does. His eyes drift down to your tattoo, the one he gave you. It looks beautiful on you. So beautiful he’s drawn up half a dozen other designs just for you.
He’d draw forever, if it meant getting something just right for you again.
It leaves something warm in him, that you like the tattoo so much.
“I think everything is all right,” he admits. He expects you to relax with that reassurance but your arm goes impossibly tenser beneath his touch. “I don’t want you stayin’ here tonight.”
The words fall out of his mouth. They’d been twisting circles around his mind since he picked up your phone call half an hour before, but now they spill out, desperate. Anxiety warps his voice into something hard, something tainted with acrid vulnerability that he hates.
He doesn’t know if you hear it, but you go still and swallow thickly. You tug your arm away from his hand and rub the inside of your elbow.
Your eyes meet his, wide and weighed down with something hurt. His pretty little doe, afraid. He suppresses the urge to tell you it’s all right, that he’s got you.
“But it’s all fine, isn't it?” You ask, like that matters at all, like the night isn’t long.
“Guess so,” he concedes. “But I ain’t leavin’ you here alone tonight. I can’t.”
Your frown, lips parting gently as you stare down at your lap.
“I’d feel better if y’stayed with me,” he continues when you don’t answer, his voice still laced with irritation. He clears it, tries to make it softer but the worry lingers, infects, roots down in him like you have, bright as sunshine, sweet as tea and bumblebees on a summer evening. You make him sick with worry and he needs to know you’re safe. He needs to see you, real and right in front of him. “Tonight.”
“Better?” You look up again, confusion tugging your brows up. “Why?”
Joel fists his hands on his knees. His knuckles strain against his skin, the flesh white with tension. It pulls hard until something starts to ache, and he has to wonder if that’s how you always feel. If your skin feels like a thousand tiny needles are prinkling at the underside of your skin.
“Yeah,” he says, his accent deepened, kinked and hard. “Better knownin’ you’re okay.” His voice doesn’t raise in volume, but you still flinch. You try to pass it off as a shiver but he sees it, finally sees what you see, what you’re so clearly waiting for.
The thought alone makes him want to curl inward, crawl inside his own heart and shield you there. Makes him sick with unease.
And his suspicions are only confirmed when you duck your head, tuck your hands beneath your thighs, and start again, “I’m sorry for bothering you. I really didn’t mean to drag you out of bed for nothing.”
Joel isn’t sure what to say to that as he realizes you’ve been apologizing repeatedly since he got there.
It makes him hate himself, because you’re so clearly afraid of him.
The silence stretches, moonlight pools on your thighs and around your calves from the kitchen window, competing with the low yellow of the floor lamp. You fidget with a loose thread on your jeans, fingers plucking nervously at it.
“It wasn’t—” He shakes his head. He can’t think of a way to reassure you. “You think it was nothin’?”
“Well,” you glance around your intruder-less apartment. Like it’s all the damning evidence you need. “It was. I shouldn’t have called.”
Joel curls a gentle finger beneath your chin and tips your face up, making an effort to have his voice as gentle as he possibly can. Like you’re that deer again, the one that’s familiar with him and yet still wary, still watchful. “You all right with that? Comin’ home with me?” You reluctantly lift your eyes to his and give a mute nod. “You don’t have to.”
“I’m sorry,” you burst out again, soft eyes fringed with worry. “I—”
“Hey.” Joel doesn’t let you look away from him, smoothes his thumb against your chin. Your skin is soft there, and you don’t try to pull away again. “I always want you to call on me. For anythin’. It wasn’t nothin’. I’m glad you called me.”
You blink at the sincerity in his voice. Some of the tension around you fades. “I ain’t upset with you,” he says, just so you’re both clear.
You pull your face away from his hand, and he knows your skin feels stretched too thin, tight and uncomfortable, because you scrub at it again with your hand.
Joel lets his hand drop to the space between you. “Stay with me tonight, darlin’.” he pleads, not sure he’ll be able to make the drive home if you say no. “In the mornin’ we’ll come back here, see if anything is missin’, and I’ll change the locks.”
You shake your head. “It’s fine, Joel,” you try again. “It’s okay. I’m safe here.”
But that isn’t good enough. He needs to know you’re okay and he can’t do that if you’re in this damn apartment alone with locks he no longer has any kind of faith in.
He doesn’t want to try touching you again, not when you’re fidgeting and anxious and pulling away. Guilt ties knots around his lungs when he thinks of you flinching, how often he’s touched you without thought tonight. “Look at me,” he says instead. “Look at me, baby.”
You lift your eyes to his, your gaze hooking into his, desperation he can’t place lingering in your expression. “I’m proud of you, for callin’ on me. But I won’t rest knowin’ you’re here alone.”
You frown. “Proud?” This time, you reach for him.
Your hand is warm and soft, the brush of your fingers against his palm like homecoming. “Yeah.” And then, again, “I’m not mad. You did good.”
He can’t tell if you believe him, but you agree to stay with him anyway.
You’ve been to Joel’s house more than a few times and each time, it’s more familiar than the last.
Joel’s touch is on everything there. His girls’ lives are fingerprinted on every surface, his life and his family pressed into each fold of the house. The walls sigh with memories that have been collected and transported from Austin, wrapped in tissue paper and delicately given a place to live. Somehow, it always smells like sage has always just been burned.
There are a pair of sheep and a goat that command the acres of land around the ranch. “I’d like a couple horses,” he’d said the first time he brought you over and showed you around, months before. A couple weeks had passed since you’d had breakfast with him and his girls for the first time, and you were already dangerously attached to him. “But that’s money and time I don’t have.”
“You should get chickens,” you’d said, petting one of the goats through the wooden fence, squinting at him through autumn sunshine.
“Chickens?”
“Mhm. For eggs. Cost less money than horses and there’s nothing like fresh eggs.”
Joel had only looked consideringly out over the field. “Chickens for horses,” he’d laughed a little, the sound dry and pleasant, like he found you a peculiar kind of amusing. “There’s an idea.”
The driveway is long, the world far away. Late autumn air drifts in the truck’s open windows, warm with dry heat. The fingers of bare trees reach toward the sky, skeletal and thin, clenched around the outline of the moon.
The ranch always feels like a home, like a refuge, and in the night it seems like a fortress. He parks the truck beneath a leafless oak and kills the engine. You listen to it pop as it cools in the darkness.
Lightning bugs careen through the air, the low sounds of crickets and cicadas cascading on the breeze. “C’mon,” Joel’s voice is crinkled, washed in the gentle, pastel colored tones you know. “Let’s get you inside.”
Joel takes your bag from your hands and meets you on your side of the truck before you even have the door fully open, his hand pressed to your spine. You fight the urge to lean away, an anxiousness thrumming under your skin that isn’t familiar when it comes to Joel’s touch.
As you cross the driveway to his front porch you spot something through the dark, a new structure near the sheep’s fence. “Are you building something?”
He turns to where you’re looking. “Chicken coop,” he mumbles.
“You’re getting chickens?” You ask, surprised.
“Told me to, didn’t ya?”
You suppose you did, though you didn’t know he’d actually taken your suggestion to heart.
But he sounds annoyed again, so you let it go, let him push you ahead of him toward the house. Joel’s front door, unlike your own, opens without complaint.
His keys rattle as he sits them on the table inside the door. The living room light blinks on, a warm yellow that contrasts against the lightening blue sky beyond the front windows. Guilt swirls in your belly again. It’s so late that it’s now early.
If you weren’t so stupid, if you weren’t so useless—
The only thing you can be grateful for is that it’s a Sunday and Joel doesn’t have to rush to the studio after being awake all night.
A new, shame laden thought blooms, infects—maybe he felt he had no choice but to heed your call. Because you’re useless.
“This way,” Joel grumbles lowly in your ear, his hand on your hip, pushing you through the living room gently but forcefully, like he’s herding a particularly stubborn sheep.
You step away from his hand, and this time Joel notices immediately and drops his hand. “That’s okay,” you assure him. “I remember where the bathroom is.”
“You all right?” He asks. “I know you’re probably—”
“I know you said you aren’t angry,” you interrupt, fidgeting with your fingers. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do things for me. You could have said no. You could have told me to figure it out.”
He stares at you, confusion pulling at the lines in his face. You have to lock down the urge to reach up and trace the delicate pattern of crow’s feet beside his eyes. “I didn’t want to say no.”
You blink, something warm worming its way into your heart, replacing the dread that had curled there like a snake, sharp with venom, waiting to strike. “You didn’t?”
“Sweetheart,” he says, extending his hand to you but not touching you. “I’d do it every night if I had to, if it meant you were safe. You don’t have to figure it out. Not alone, anyhow.”
“Well,” you say gently. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to every night.” Then, before you can help yourself, you continue, “I know you said you weren’t, but you just. . .you sounded angry.” You stop and think about leaving it at that but he would never understand you if you left him to guess. You want to be honest with him besides. You want him to trust you. “And I. . .my ex he—well, he would have been upset. He would have told me to figure it out.”
You fold your hand into his, still outstretched to you. The pads of his fingers are rough and familiar beneath yours. “I ain’t him,” he reminds you.
“I know. But it’s hard to remember, sometimes.” You take a long breath. “I always had to get ahead of it, y’know? Because I was always in the wrong. It was somehow always my fault.”
Joel watches you, his eyes knowing in a way you can’t decipher. He nods and instead of answering, he holds out your bag. “C’mon,” he says, voice soft, like the brush of wings. “Been a long night.”
When you’ve washed your face and changed your clothes and convinced yourself that Joel was telling the truth and that he would not mind seeing you in your pajamas—you trek back through the house to find him in the kitchen.
He’s sitting at the dining table, covered in Sarah’s textbooks from the previous semester and photo albums and mail, a bowl of fruit and a jar of honey, art supplies and the tiniest carving of a deer you’ve ever seen. You pause and let your bag fall to the floor before slowly approaching.
Joel’s shoulders are loose and soft, one hand relaxed and open on the table, the other curled around a pencil as he sketches in an open leather bound book.
He turns and closes the book before you can peer over his shoulder and see what it is he’s working on. “Hey,” he says, the cut of his voice back to what you know. It alights on you in a warm glow, chases the fog of worry from your mind. “You all right?”
It feels like the thousandth time he’s asked you.
“I promise I’m fine, Joel,” you assure, pressing one hand to the space between his shoulder blades. He leans back into your touch almost immediately, the tendon in his neck loosening. You rub your thumb slowly against his skin. Thick muscle flexes and releases beneath your hand. “Really.”
“It’s okay,” he says, glancing up at you. “If you’re shaken up.”
You pause and tilt your head at him. “Do you want me to be?” You ask, finally pushing that errant lock of his hair back down and into place.
“No,” he answers immediately. He stares up at you with big, sincere eyes. Your gaze flicks across his face, down to his mouth, and not for the first time, you find yourself wishing he’d kiss you.
Just like each Sunday morning spent on his porch, just like all those times he pointed wildlife out to you, his shoulder pressed into yours, his face close to yours when you turned to smile at him.
“Are you shaken up?” You ask, refocusing on the softness of his gaze.
Joel shifts in his seat and then reaches out to draw the chair next to him out. You let your hand fall from his back and fold yourself into the space next to him, wishing he’d tuck you into his side.
He doesn’t, because he’s Joel. Instead, he lays his hand on the table and lets you come to him, just like he always does, just like he always has.
A few weeks before, when Joel was driving you back to town, you’d seen a deer on the side of the road. She was beautiful with big, dark eyes and a smooth tawny coat. You’d pointed her out, watched the flick and twitch of her alert ears.
You weren’t sure you’d ever seen such a pretty animal before. And then, behind her, two spotted deer, smaller, clearly younger, but no longer fawns, had appeared.
Joel, to your surprise, pulled over. He told you to stay put and then approached them slowly, so he could usher them back into the woods rather than spook them into the road. He hadn’t said anything to you about it and you hadn’t asked, but the act had stuck with you.
Now, his hand there on the table, you’re reminded of that moment. You’re reminded of all the moments like this one, where he patiently waited for you to come closer.
You reach out and fold your fingers through his. “Yeah, I was,” he admits and for a long while he doesn’t say anything else. You aren’t really expecting him to.
The light in the kitchen is warm and muted, a cold blue morning light beginning to grow on the other side of the blinds. There are pictures of his girls all along the wall beside the door that leads to the back deck.
Sarah and Ellie in high school graduation gowns and caps, Ellie bent over someone’s shoulder as she tattooed, hair obscuring her face and theirs, Sarah as a baby in Joel’s arms, Ellie as a gap-toothed child, tongue poking out of her mouth, Tommy and Joel with their arms around each other, fishing poles leaning against the truck behind them.
Joel is only in a couple of the pictures, the space on the wall reserved for the people he loved and not himself. You squint closer. “Joel,” you say, a spike of laughter in your voice. “Is that you? Did Ellie tattoo you?”
“Yep,” he says with a shrug. “Needed the practice.”
“I didn’t know,” you turn back to him and tighten your grip on his hand. You smile. “How many tattoos do you have that I’ve never gotten to see?”
His mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. “Guess,” he says, throwing your challenge from months ago back at you.
You roll your eyes and don’t take the bait. Instead you say, “It’s okay, you know? That you were shaken up. That’s okay. I’m okay.”
He watches you for a long moment before his eyes drop, and he watches your hands instead. His voice is carefully casual and even when he asks, “How long did you stay with him? After the tattoo?”
There’s nothing accusatory in his voice and it takes you a moment to realize Joel is asking about the tattoo on your shoulder, the one your ex permanently marked you with.
He’s asking about the Pandora’s box of your body, the cavalcade of emotions and fears that lived inside you.
You expected anger, to be screamed at for something out of your control, to be faulted for someone else compromising your safety, to be blamed for asking for help and wanting someone else to take care of you.
“The tattoo. . .” you trail off and swallow back the uncomfortable feeling that lodges itself in the back of your throat. “It was the last straw.” You look away. “I just didn’t realize it at the time. I thought all the other stuff—I thought it was my fault. It doesn’t make sense while it’s happening to you, I guess. You pretend it’s normal because sometimes things are fine and good. I was just stupid enough to wait until after he left me with something permanent to realize things were so bad.”
Joel doesn’t say anything for a minute but when he pulls his hand away from yours, your belly swoops painfully, a knot forming in your chest.
It’s a lot.
Your issues with touch, the relationship trauma you haven’t examined but locked away to burst to the surface while someone was trying to help you. The doubt that he even really wanted to help you, because who would?
But then he says, “It ain’t permanent. Look here.” He tips your chin up with a delicate tap.
You turn and watch him leaf through the leather bound book. He pulls out a sketch and hands it to you. The paper is thick, the edges of it rough and torn. You don’t say anything, not really sure what you’re looking at. The design is beautiful, in the same style as the tattoo on your forearm.
It’s so clearly for you specifically that it makes your heart cinch painfully tight.
“It’s a—we can change it however y’want. It’s a design for a cover-up,” he plucks the page from your fingers and turns it. “See here, there underneath is the original, best as I could remember it anyway.” It’s a coverup of the ugly fucking tattoo on your shoulder, the reminder, the painful, itchy grossness.
You stare at it, unable to form words, lips moving soundlessly as you take the page back, looking more closely at the details, at the clever ways he’d thought of incorporating the existing lines. He doesn’t say anything, not even when you turn and throw your arms around his neck, squeezing tight until his arms curl around your waist. “He doesn’t get to have you,” he says.
One broad hand slides up your spine to cup the back of your neck. It makes you feel small. In a good way, in a way that makes you close your eyes to stave off the tide rising in your chest.
He’d done that the last time he held you, too. When you’d melted into him in your kitchen and told him you were nothing but work. He’d whispered things like it’s okay and good girl in your ear then.
His fingers are warm and firm against your skin, rough and soft in all the right places. An ache forms between your ribs, juts up into your heart and splits you open.
“Thank you,” you say against his shoulder. “For everything.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for,” he says, his chest rising and falling with each word, like a symphony against your own body.
You bury your nose against his neck, let the pins and needles of touch fade away, replaced with the safety that Joel carried around with him like it cost him nothing. “I mean it,” you say quietly.
“I know you do,” he replies.
The morning light is golden now, bleeding in through the curtains in thin shafts, bars that cross you and Joel, still settled in his arms. It doesn’t feel wrong to relax against him, to let him rub your back slowly.
It doesn’t hurt, and you realize you don’t expect it to.
“You wanna sleep?”
“Maybe for a little while.”
You move out of his grasp, and then let him pull you along to his bedroom.
Joel’s room is darker than the kitchen, and it's easy not to think too hard about what’s happening as you slide beneath the sheets next to him.
It’s quiet, the whole world still and silent aside from the fan rotating slowly overhead.
You reach for him in the dark, curl up tight against his side. His arm slides around your back, tugs you that much closer. He’s still in his jeans but you don’t point that out because you don’t want him to move.
“One of my tattoos,” he says against your temple, when you relax into the safe circle of his arms. “Is over my heart.”
You contemplate that for a long time, trying to imagine what it might be. “A nice one? Or an Ellie apprenticing one?”
He chuckles. “A nice one.” You expect him to ask about your tattoos, and you’re prepared to answer, but he says instead, “It’s been a long time, since I’ve done this.”
Joel doesn’t specify what he means by this, whatever little thing has been growing between you. “Have someone in your bed?” You tease.
He doesn’t answer, the silence heavy, almost melancholy. His hand slides up your back again, the fabric of your shirt teasing up. You tense when his fingers brush against your bare skin, warm and gentle.
His hand moves away and tugs your shirt back down for you. You consider, maybe for the first time, Joel’s position. He’s only ever touched you freely, so needfully, the first and second times you’d been tattooed by him, and every day you’ve seen him since.
He plays by your rules and you have to wonder what he needs.
It’s been a long time, he’d said. He’s inched closer to you over a period of months, patience in spades wrapped around you like a safety net.
You trust Joel, you realize. Maybe you’d known it before but it sinks into your skin in that moment, folds itself tightly inside your soul. You want to let him take something he needs. “It’s okay,” you find yourself saying. “You can. . .it’s okay.”
He hesitates and you push one of his hands back to your waist. “I like it,” you assure him.
He presses both hands beneath your shirt so they rest against the small of your back. The span of his hands are broad, splayed across your spine, over the ridges of your vertebrae. “Sure?” He asks, but his nose is pressed against your temple, his body loose and molded to yours. “My girl,” you think he says, so quiet it’s almost inaudible, the words pressed right against your forehead in a kiss. “Good girl.”
It feels so nice, the intimacy without expectation of anything more, without feeling like something was wrong with you. It feels like the envelope of your heart may burst.
You tuck yourself tighter into the crook of his arm, nose buried against his shoulder. He smells so strongly of himself there, the natural scent of his skin and sweat undercut only slightly by the faded smell of his soap.
He sounds close to sleep, exhausted after the worrisome, anxiety fueled night you had accidentally caused him. “Joel?” He grunts so you know he’s listening, still awake. “My antler tattoo is on my ribs.”
“What?” His hands drift a bit higher. “Really?”
“Mm.”
So when his fingers trace over your bare skin, you close your eyes. The sensation is so nice. The earlier acrid wave of fear has passed and no needles stab at your skin. It tickles, it feels like wings against your ribs.
Want flutters alive, in your belly, between your legs.
His bedroom is warm and cast in faded, milky light. He shifts and pushes up the sleeve of his t-shirt, until the curve of his opposite shoulder and the expanse of skin beneath is bared to your eyes. “One of Ellie’s first,” he says. It’s a needless explanation, though you find the tiny outline of the dinosaur a little funny.
When you reach across his chest and touch it, Joel twitches, like he isn’t expecting you to. His skin is soft there. “It suits you,” you say as he digs both his hands into your waist again.
You trace your fingers over his chest and throat. You trace the line by his eyes and rake your fingers through his hair.
He leans into your touch and you feel like the world rests in your palm.
When he says, “I think I can feel yours.” You close your eyes and smile. It almost feels like he’s tracing the outline of it.
“You can’t.”
“I can,” he disagrees. “It’s real pretty.”
You want to offer to show him yours in return, but sleep and safety pull you under.
Joel’s room is empty when he wakes, and if it weren’t for the clear imprint of your body in the nest of sheets next to him, he’d think the previous night was a dream.
He’d think the comfortable way you curled into him was a dream.
He lies there, jeans cutting into his waist painfully, thinking about how easily you’d curled up next to him, how velvet soft your skin was. It makes him smile and he groans and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Just like a kid,” he huffs. You make him feel young, like this is the first time and he’s a better man than he is.
But he’s starting to wonder if that’s what love is supposed to feel like. Off Balance and brand new and secure and like it had always been there and always would be, all at once.
Joel gets up slowly, shoulder and knees and back smarting as he does. He feels the ghost of your head on his shoulder, an ache forming along his collarbone from the weight of it resting there. His fingers snag on the blanket you must have thrown over him in lieu of your body heat.
He wonders where you’ve gotten to. Maybe you left, took an Uber back to town.
Then, he hears it; commotion in his kitchen.
And he remembers it’s a Sunday and that his girls have been visiting more often, ever since they figured you were around on most Sundays. That usually you stopped by with coffee and pie from Flu’s, and sat on the front porch with him.
The noise is nice, better than waking to a silent house which he’d never gotten used to after Sarah and Ellie moved out.
His girls and you, down the hallway, in the kitchen. There’s laughter, and then a shriek as something shatters on the floor, a flood of curses from Ellie that devolve into shushing and giggling.
The smell of breakfast food cooking slips under the door as he changes. In the bathroom he slicks his hair back into place with wet fingers and thinks about your fingertips fluttering through his hair and tracing the crinkles by his eyes of their own accord. He brushes his teeth and thinks about how gently you’d laid your hand between his shoulder blades, how you let him sleep with his hands pressed inside your shirt, told him about your antler tattoo. . .
The antlers on your ribs, spearing up through the cage of your body.
He wants to see it, trace it, wants to put his mouth against it. The urge to touch every inch of you siphons into his chest, the urge to curl you in close to him, to feel the plush curves of you against his side, in his hands.
He wonders if you’d let him. He wants to earn it from you, coax you closer and closer, as slow as he has to.
When he walks down the hall and passes into the living room and then the kitchen, he finds the three of you huddled around the breakfast table. Sarah’s head is lent against your shoulder and Ellie’s bicep presses into yours.
The three of you have your heads bent together, hungry eyes sliding over something on the table in front of you.
“Mornin’,” he greets.
You look up at him, doe eyes bright, crinkled at the corners, every doubt and fear from the night before washed away. “Morning, Joel.”
“Girls,” he nods, passing by the table, beelining for the coffeepot.
“We made breakfast,” Sarah says by way of a greeting. “How come you haven’t shown her all these designs?”
He does a double take at the table, to find most of the contents of his notebook spread across the wood.
Joel sighs hard through his nose and Ellie does have the grace to at least look sheepish, though it outs her as the instigator. “It’s not like you were ever gonna show her!”
“Jesus,” he grumbles, not looking at you as he grabs a mug from the cabinet, a little embarrassed at the sheer amount of them. “Well, now I won’t get the chance to, will I?”
As he pours coffee into his mug, Ellie gives a dramatic groan and Sarah says, “C’mon, dad, don’t be like that.”
He turns to find all three of you staring at him, and he can’t really be all that upset when your mouth is twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Come sit down,” you suggest, “and I’ll tell you which one my favorite is.”
So, he gathers up a plate of eggs and bacon and toast and ignores the smirking of both his daughters, the knowingness in both their faces grating on him, and sits across from you.
He watches you page through design after design, months worth of work, all the way back to the beginning of summer when you’d first, finally, wandered into the studio. You push one across the table towards him, and then a couple more.
“That’s just about all of ‘em,” he comments around a forkful of egg.
Instead of responding to him, you turn to Sarah and say, “Maybe one day he’ll realize he’s a good artist.”
You insist on cleaning up after breakfast so Joel can have some time with his daughters.
The light buzz of conversation seeps in from the living room. Occasionally Ellie’s voice rings out, more excitable and louder than Joel and Sarah’s. You can’t hear what they’re talking about and you don’t want to.
A bit of guilt pools in your belly, a slight worry that Joel might be upset with you for letting his girls show you something they probably shouldn’t have.
You hope he really had intended to eventually show them to you, to share with you the beautiful things he made, whether he thought of them like that or not.
Joel’s home bursts with art, with craftsmanship and creativity, though he doesn’t believe you. He tells you the same things are true about your apartment and your silly little hobbies, and you suppose both of you have a little to learn in being as proud of yourselves as you are of each other.
When you’re wiping down the counters, Ellie and Sarah pass through to gather their things and say goodbye. While Sarah gives you an unexpected hug that you make yourself hang on for, Ellie rifles through a cabinet, pilfering it for stray snacks.
“He isn’t mad you saw them,” Sarah says when she pulls back, mischievous glint in her eye.
Ellie and Sarah are the same kind of troublesome, you’ve come to realize. Sarah is just better at hiding it. “Oh yeah?”
“He needs a little push sometimes,” she says delicately and with a shrug.
“More like a huge kick in the ass,” Ellie says. “You should have heard him before he even met you! It was like you were some kind of ghost or something. But it was like that after he met you too.” Her voice pitches lower and gruffer in tone, “Ellie, you’re goin’ to spook her. Don’t say nothin’ —”
“Alright,” Joel says from the mouth of the kitchen. “That’s enough. Get your ass back to Austin.”
You smile at Ellie, “You do a really good impression.”
“Told you, dude!” She says as she slides past her dad, Sarah following right after.
Joel just grunts and then calls after them, “Drive careful!”
“Bye!” Twin voices call out before the front door slams closed.
And then you’re alone with him, fingers still tangled in a dish towel.
Joel’s eyes soften when he looks at you, and you’re reminded of his hands beneath your shirt, the iron hot touch of his body against yours. You’re reminded of the lancing burst of want that sparked inside you with him.
Only with him.
Maybe because you knew he tried to understand, that he’d let you go when you needed it.
You open your mouth, not sure what you’re going to say, when Joel steps forward and tugs the towel out of your hands. “Don’t suppose you’d come outside with me? I want to show you somethin’. See if you might help me with it.”
“Sure,” you say.
Joel nods and when you brush your knuckles against his, he laces your fingers together.
Outside the air is warm in a distinctly autumn way, with the scent of sun in the air muted, the swirling chatter of decaying leaves on the breeze, the earthy scent of hay and soil.
You cross the porch with him and descend the steps to the yard. He leads you toward the chicken coop.
“When did you have time to build that? It’s new.”
“Been workin’ on it for awhile now. Just had Tommy help me move it here from out back.”
“Oh?”
“Was supposed to be a surprise,” he grumbles.
You lean into his arm, seeing your walk from the truck to the house in a different light. “Is that why you were cranky about me seeing it last night?” Joel starts to answer when you gasp and let go of him as two red-ish brown hens and a rooster round the corner of the coop. “Joel! You already got some?”
He mutters something about goddamn chickens showing me up behind you as you crouch to watch them on the other side of the fence.
“I did,” he sighs. “Look here.” He opens the gate and ushers you through to the other side where a hatch opens in the coop. “Go on,” he says, gesturing for you to look.
Two fuzz balls peer back at you from the depths when you peer into the hatch. “Chicks?” You say excitedly.
“Chicks,” he agrees mildly. “You wanna hold one?”
Without waiting for a response, he gently cups his hands around one of the yellow, fuzzed creatures and drags it out.
And you get the very real pleasure of seeing Joel Miller standing there in the morning sunshine, holding a tiny chicken to his chest. You laugh, and he says, “What?”
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The chick is transferred to your hands from his, light and airy, like something incorporeal sitting in your palms, peeping softly. When you look at him, Joel’s face is relaxed. “What did you want me to help with?”
He clears his throat and gestures to the coop. “Paintin’.”
“Weren’t you a contractor?” You tease. “Shouldn’t you be able to paint it?”
Joel rolls his eyes. “I mean somethin’ pretty. Like how you painted your table.”
“Oh,” you murmur, something warm settling in your chest. “That’s nothing special.”
“Mhm, just like how that painting of mine you like so much ain’t special either.”
You roll your eyes and offer the baby chick back to him. “Okay, I get it. I’ll help you paint it.” Joel tucks the bird back into its home, the peeping fading when he closes the hatch. “Joel,” you reach for his wrist. “I’m sorry about seeing those sketches.”
“You ever goin’ to stop apologizin’ to me for everything?” He asks, eyes alighting on you.
“Well,” you continue. “I am. Especially if you never intended for me to see them.”
He nods and squints into the sun. His boot scuffs against the ground. “I always intended you to see ‘em. They’re yours.”
“They’re beautiful.” You step closer to him, the hens clucking around your ankles, and draw his fingers between yours. It’s quiet for a moment before you take another step. Being around Joel is like being safely shaded, like sleeping in a protected wood. “Thank you for coming when I called. You didn’t have to.”
“I did, honey,” he disagrees. “I’ll always come when you call. Even if you think it’s nothin’.”
You nod and tip your chin up, watching his eyes. The sun makes the irises look honeyed. You glance away, swallowing down the words burgeoning behind your lips, all the things you want from him and want to say to him.
He shifts. “I’m sure you got other things to get to. Let’s go take a look at your apartment—”
“Wait,” you tighten your hold on his hand. “Not everyone would do what you did. Not everyone would put up with me the way you have. My ex didn’t. He probably made me worse.” You’re so close to him you can feel the sink and rise of his chest, you can feel each deep breath like it's your own. “But you make me better, you make me safe. So just let me say thank you for once.”
He shakes his head. “I won’t let you thank me for doin’ right by you,” he says, stubborn as a bull. “I know you need reminding. But you ain’t work to me. There’s nothin’ wrong with you. I haven’t been putting up with anything. I’d drive down there every damn night if I had to.”
You tilt your cheek into his hand when he cups your jaw. Joel’s eyes are flicking over your face, his expression tense and needful, wanting.
His eyes hook into you, intense and tawny, the breath is punched from your lungs.
Never.
You’ve never felt like this with anyone, like you could be stripped bear, like he could press his hands inside your chest and feel the slick beating of your heart in his palms and everything would still be okay. He’d catch you, he’d shield you, he’d figure out a way to mend you and help you, he’d look at your heart and put it back in your chest even if he wanted to keep it for himself.
When he leans in and kisses you, it feels like fragments of your soul are being pieced back together. Shards of yourself you hadn’t even known were dust reform, shine brighter.
He cradles you to him, the line of your body pressed against his. He’s muscled and soft and broad and so solid. He groans into your mouth, licks into you. There’s possession in the way he holds you, like you’re his and his and his and you always have been.
Joel tastes like coffee, because there’s nothing else he could have tasted like.
He’s so familiar and safe, like sage burning against the night, like a soft place to land in all the ways a person could be.
His other hand splays against your lower back, the tips of his fingers against the waist of your jeans.
When you pull back, lungs aching for air, he presses his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. His jaw is clenched tight, a muscle jumps in his jaw, like he’s afraid.
“I’m not that skittish,” you say. “I trust you, Joel.”
He opens his eyes, swipes his thumb across your lips. He looks like a man who’s patient, steady hand has finally touched something delicate and rare.
💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞
#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#tlou fanfiction#the last of us fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#joel miller#the last of us#pedro pascal#honeyed fic
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This is a request @wisteria-songs sent in! As the ask has two requests I'll be posting the ask with the second request. Hopefully everyone enjoys, and you can thank Wisteria for being the push I needed to write for Rolan! :)
Bachelors finding a sketchbook with drawings of them
Dammon
Dammon tries to never pry into things you don't want to share
He's an open book but he understands wanting to keep some things to yourself
He knows you sketch but if you decide not to share your art it's not a big deal to him
The way he'd find your sketchbook is while cleaning your shared room, picking up a stack of clutter it happens to be on top of
As it lands on its spine, the only thing it can do is open to reveal sketches filling the pages with the now blushing blacksmith
Dammons quick to close it and return it to you, bashfully admitting he saw some pictures of himself
He's so flattered, and lets you know how talented he thinks you are
Honestly, Dammon would be absolutely over the moon if you decided to show him some of your drawings
Zevlor
Another man that tries to let you have your privacy
Zevlor is definitely curious about what it is you always seem to be drawing, but if you tell him it's a secret then he'll respect it
Though, if you do show him you'll see an especially flustered tiefling, face completely flushed with his tail near wagging behind him
If you don't show him, he'd likely find you curled up in his little office, asleep with a half finished sketch of him on your lap
He can see the other page full of depictions of him and it makes him blush furiously
You'll wake up the next morning tucked into bed with the sketchbook sitting safely beside the bed
Zevlor will tell you that he closed up your book but did see a few of the pictures, and you can bet he's going to compliment you on them too
He loves getting to see how talented you are, and would love for you to share your work with him
Another thing Zevlor loves is the thought of a whole notebook of sketches showing how much you love him back
Rolan
This man is such a tease
He'll constantly be teasing you and making snarky remarks about your 'oh so secret sketchbook'
One thing he won't do is purposefully go through it
But, a tired Rolan is a careless Rolan
It's late, been a busy day, and with how close your sketchbook is to his spellbooks it's an easy mistake to make
He idly flicks through a couple pages before it actually registers what he's looking at
Then, he drops the book like it's burnt him, cheeks overtaken with a rosy blush as he carefully tucks it away
The thought of it is on his mind all night though, the excitement of seeing your hidden affections for him
You'll know the next day that he read it purely because he's terrible at hiding things from you
Rolans eyes are shifting, his tail can't stay still, when he looks at you he flushes like a schoolboy with a crush
It's when you pull out your sketchbook that an apology bursts from him
Honestly, it's so adorable it's hard not to laugh
#baldurs gate 3#bg3 x reader#baldurs gate 3 x reader#bg3#baldurs gate 3 dammon#bg3 dammon#dammon x reader#baldurs gate 3 zevlor#bg3 zevlor#zevlor x reader#baldurs gate 3 rolan#bg3 rolan#rolan x reader
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Archons Reacting To Their Creator Singing Pt. 1
Hello, peeps! This is my first SAGAU post! :)
Part 1 [Venti, Zhongli, Ei and Nahida] (You're Here!) || Part 2 [Furina]
Author's Note: The Creator is singing this song specifically (or any of The Crane Wives' songs, honestly). It's such a good song.
Also, I had a few headcanons of mine thrown here and there. You can figure them out as you go and feel free to take inspiration! :D
Author's Note 2 (8/26/23): I'll be adding Furina soon!
Author's Note 3 (11/12/23): Added Furina! :D Check the link above! I also fixed minor things here!
Content Warning(s): None
Other Notes: Default SAGAU / GN!Reader / Drabbles - Different Scenarios / 1.9k+ Words / Ao3 Link
[ Venti ]
" This house says my name like an elegy
Oh my, oh my
Echoing where my ghosts all used to be
Oh my, oh my "
After a long day entertaining your followers and finally alone, the Traveler takes you to Windrise for you to rest and bid farewell as they used the Statue of the Seven to teleport who-knows-where. You remember they prefer working on commissions late at night but you worry they aren’t getting proper sleep.
You sigh, tiredness caught up to your body, but your mind is wide-awake. A crystal fly perches on your shoulder, basking in your presence. Its glow never ceases to amaze you; you can feel your eyes twinkling as you gently caress it with your fingertip.
A distant tune chimes in your mind - like the gentle light of the moon and the soft earthy smell of the ground. You hum the song's intro quietly; the crystal fly takes flight to join its kin, circling you from the air with their slow elegance.
You start singing, your peripheral missing a certain bard stopping in his tracks when he hears your voice and hides in plain sight. The grass sways beneath your feet, and the fireflies glow brighter as you gain the confidence to sing a little louder. He floats by and rests his feet on one of the tree’s branches, adoring the sight below him.
As a bard, Barbatos wants to play along but doesn't want to interrupt you; that would be impolite of him. He pays attention to the lyrics you’re singing and makes sure to ingrain them in his mind and inspire him to make another tune similar to yours. He knows it doesn’t match your divine, but he will try to please you with his hymns. The God of Wind can see you smile while singing to yourself, and your surroundings dance in delight, making his heart skip a beat.
Due to his starstruck mind, he didn’t realize that you had finished singing, and you glanced up to see the crystal flies; your eyes met his. You suddenly feel conscious, heat rising on your cheeks. He drops from his hiding spot, kneeling on one knee when he lands.
“Your Grace,” He looks up at you, slight regret upon his emerald eyes, “I apologize-”
You’re honestly tired of your followers apologizing to you for every little thing they do.
“It’s not a big deal, Venti.” You say so casually, your tone firm yet smooth as silk, “As I said before, treat me like any other normal Teyvatians. Or like a fellow Archon.”
He is quiet for a while as he contemplates, which is highly unusual for him. You mentally take a note before he stands up, manifesting his lyre, and smiles at you.
“Well then,” He says, his fingers plucking the strings, “Can you teach the song of yours to a poor ol’ bard like me, Y/N?”
You can’t help but grin when he says your name. “With pleasure.”
[ Zhongli ]
“ All my aching bones are trembling
And I may yet fall apart
Won't you stay with me, my darling
When the war starts in my heart? “
It is a hot afternoon when you visit Nantianmen, with Zhongli accompanying you since he knows his region at the back of his hand. He built it from the ground to impress you and continuously fight off threats to prepare for your arrival.
But he never thought you would arrive after his "death", yet he welcomed you when you sought him out at the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. You agreed to have a contract with him that states that you will never expose his true identity as Morax. After all, you know his lore and backstory, so you stir clear from Adepti territories as much as possible despite the condition not written on the contract.
His gaze never leaves you as you hum and randomly point your finger to something new; he willingly gives you its story and you listen to him intently, eyes sparkling with curiosity. As he finishes, both of you stand before the area where Azhdaha was imprisoned.
You sing your tune while brushing your hands against the flowers, blossoming under your touch. His golden eyes widen, turning to you as your surroundings come to life. The leaves sway to your melody; the sunlight emits a glow that Zhongli himself cannot explain. The birds chirp along, and the rustle of the grass compliments your melodies.
The song's lyrics are breathtaking enough, and your voice is divine to his ears. He is more than happy to have you sing in his presence.
He realizes he is holding his breath after you’re done singing; you turn to him and smile bashfully.
“I hope you liked it.” You say, “And I may have messed up the lyrics a little.”
“I enjoyed it, Your Grace.” He says to you, pleased, “And, I assure you, I will not mind if you explain the ly-”
“Oh boy, I’m really glad you can lend an ear, Zhongli!” You beamed. “You have no idea how much I want to discuss the lyrics with someone!”
He blinks in surprise, his pursed lips melting into a genuine smile. “I'll be listening, Your Grace.”
[ Ei ]
“ Every word I say is kindling
But the smoke clears when you're around
Won't you stay with me, my darling
When my walls start burning down, down, down “
Beelzebul is built for fighting. You are well-aware of that.
But, as a Creator, you are bold enough to ask her if she can sing, and she turns to you with a dumbfounded look. You didn’t mind if she didn’t answer your inquiry, but she insisted anyway. Of course, she can, but some of her notes are off-tune. Regardless, you’re impressed that the Electro Archon herself can sing and that's enough information for you.
Ei didn’t tell you how embarrassed she was when she tried to sing in front of your divine presence. She airs this predicament out to her dear friend Yae Miko. The sly Yokai obviously never going to live it down.
Weeks later, you are invited to a gathering where you need to entertain people and can’t deny the request since you are this world's Creator. You are looking for someone to get comfortable with singing the tune in your head. You do not feel as safe with any of your followers except with Ei but she already has a nation to deal with, and you don’t need to disturb her from her endeavors.
Even without speaking, Yae takes notice of your behavior and notifies Ei as soon as possible. Knowing that sly Youkai, you had no choice but to rehearse in front of the Archon since you would rather hide behind Ei while she deals with a Thunderhelm Lawachurl than Yae shooting you cunning looks and teasing you despite you being her Creator.
You temporarily borrowed the Traveler’s Serenitea pot; they don’t mind since they are taking bounties and finishing their remaining commissions. There’s a kitchen inside the teapot, so you had prepared her favorite dessert as a token of thanks for her presence. She says there’s no need for you to be so polite since you are her Creator but you insist that you appreciate her having her schedule cleared just to see you sing.
You take a deep breath, calming yourself before starting to sing. Ei’s eyes widen when she hears you sing, stopping her from eating the dessert she’s holding. The sky above you delightful showers you with its light, and your hair glistens radiantly. The water from the nearby waterfall matches your tune, and a gentle breeze hugs your body.
She just stares in awe after you’re done singing.
“Uh, how was it?” You ask her awkwardly, her gaze unchanging. Her purple eyes remain on you as if she is studying your stance.
She gains back composure a second later after registering your question and clears her throat, “It’s impressive, Your Grace. And I wouldn’t mind if you could sing for eternity.”
You freeze at that thought as she chuckles at your reaction.
[ Nahida ]
“ This tired old machine is a-rumbling
Oh my, oh my
Singing songs to the secrets behind my eye
Oh my, oh my “
Nahida is a gentle and intelligent god by nature.
Meanwhile, you are already an intense person in your world to protect the weak. As a Creator of this world, you want the Sages to pay like any other sane person and punish them accordingly and mercilessly. They will face your wrath like any other enemies who dared to lay a finger on your favored acolytes.
But she begs you not to, and you have no choice but to comply with her wishes. She’s the God of Wisdom… and an adorable one that you can't resist her pleading emerald eyes. Despite your rough facade, Buer sees through you and appreciates you - as her Creator - wanting to protect her. You huff and glance away, saying she deserves more than being treated like nothing for hundreds of years.
You wonder how such a god can be kindhearted; you even acknowledge quietly that there’s not even a bad bone in Nahida. You trade your knowledge with her about your world, and she trades off the knowledge she learned from the Irmunsul and Dottore. She does this in order to distract you from your violent tendencies - you will give a piece of your mind to whoever bad mouths her and your followers.
One day, she accompanies and leads you to a place where small creatures live to ease your mind from harming the Sages. They call themselves the Aranara, and they are… tiny. Tiny and cute creatures, you thought to yourself. You notice they speak in such an odd manner, but you don’t mind.
One Aranara requested if you could sing for them, and you blinked rapidly at the sudden request. What kind of question is that? You look confused and turn to the Dendro Archon, who encourages you to answer. You sigh before saying that you can, but you warn that they should not expect your voice to be pretty and all.
The Aranara in front of you tilts their head and gives it a little scratch with its tiny hand; they said they haven’t even heard of your voice. You finally cave in and straighten your back to sing the first song that comes to your mind.
The forest around you lights up as if cheering and basking under your divinity. The Aranara around you follows your tune, and they are good at picking up the notes even when they aren’t familiar with the song you’re singing.
Nahida watches you out of curiosity, and admiration, relieved when you finally let loose, and she grins when she sees you smiling. She claps along when you hit the second chorus of your song, humming along with the tunes she’s familiar with.
When you’re done singing, the Aranara folk cheers. One floats above you to put a flower crown on your head. You feel slightly embarrassed with all the attention you’re getting and you see Nahida clapping her hands in delight.
“That was delightful, Your Grace.” She says, coming down from her projected swing.
“It’s nothing, really.” You lied but, surely, she had already seen through you.
Nahida chuckles and hands you her signature dessert, “Have a snack! I’m pretty sure you’re hungry from all that singing.”
You let out a small, amused laugh, “...Thank you, Nahida.”
Damn it, you’ve grown a soft spot for this gentle god.
And both of you know that you wouldn’t stop protecting her when the time comes, no matter the cost.
#genshin impact#genshin impact sagau#genshin sagau#sagau#sagau x reader#venti#venti sagau#zhongli#zhongli sagau#raiden ei#raiden ei sagau#nahida#nahida sagau#as you can see i've used the word 'eyes' for each one of them#i love how expressive eyes are - as a writer and as an artist#i was also able to use their current names and demon names ;)#seven's tag#500
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hear me out.. xsoleil one bed trope 👁
like, imagine reader and xsoleil member on a school trip, and the room they booked had to be changed to a one-bed room :3
lyra’s notes -> i will in fact hear you out on this
pairings -> xsoliel x gn! reader
genre -> fluffy scenario + silly little hotel things cuz lowkey why is staying in a hotel so much fun
song -> pink cheeks - eldon
warnings -> not established relationship, food mentions, reader wears a swimsuit in melo’s but no body types or anatomy is mentioned for reader :), why does this take place in such a fancy hotel lol
VER VERMILLION ->
due to the sudden change in arrangements with your room in particular, it left poor kaichou insanely flustered and wondering what the hell he was to do in that situation. he’d end up walking shyly back into the shared main room in his black and red pajama pants and grey t-shirt, hair taken out of its usual side-swept style and tousled, hanging slightly over his rose colored eyes. in an attempt to make it less awkward, he’d make a small divider using blankets between your bodies. but before either of you went to bed, ver heard your stomach grumble and suggested you go to the small in-hotel café downstairs in your pajamas together. the elevator ride downstairs was full of giggles and some looks from the people around you, wondering why students were at a hotel, not knowing it was for a counsel trip.
the downstairs café was very calm in atmosphere, ver ordering a pastry and a hot tea while continuing to talk and crack jokes with you. god, he was adorable. as the night went on, he quietly encouraged you to head back to your shared room to rest, and you obliged with sleepy eyes and an equally quiet voice.
you had no idea what had went on while the both of you were asleep, but you woke up in the counsel president’s arms as he slept so peacefully, as if you were simply a plushie. you were wrapped in warm blankets and so was he, ver’s warm body drawing you ever closer to him. you couldn’t help but drift into a deep sleep again with his warmth as your company.
MELOCO KYORAN ->
she figured it would be a good idea to go to the hot tub for a bit to de-stress. she invited you to go with her with a smug smile on her face as she adjusted the deep purple silk bathrobe she wore over her swimsuit. meloco was more than happy to have you accompany her, it was just an excuse to get even closer to you. seeing as her hair was very long, it was tied into a loose bun high up on her head so the chlorinated water didn’t interfere with its softness.
you sat in that hot tub with her for what might have been hours as the sun finished its descent under the horizon and the moon and stars took its place. she was so enthusiastic when talking to you, in stark contrast to her usual stern and sarcastic manner.
she would flop down on your now shared bed in her adorable and soft, lavender colored nightshirt that hung over her body like a dress. her long hair hung flat to her head since she had taken a shower after the hot tub. a glance at the clock would tell you that it was far past midnight and time to sleep. meloco wouldn’t mind holding you in her sleep, in fact she would really like it if given your consent cuz consent is hot. you’d wake up with your head on her soft chest as if it were a pillow (booba 🤤).
DOPPIO DROPSCYTHE ->
why is bro so enthusiastic about this. it’s almost like he has a crush on you or something. he’d get pizza or something of the like that you enjoy delivered to your room while you watch reality tv with him. please watch 90 day fiancé with him he will become even more infatuated with you as he munches on his pizza while making the silliest comments on the show. his hair would be tousled and messy, his pajamas would be black sweatpants and a dark pink-purple shirt with a white design on it saying “#1 cheftecfive”. you couldn’t help but giggle at his shirt and how cute he looked in it.
you’d stay up with him late into the night until you fall asleep and end up resting your head on his shoulder. piochan would gently wrap a blanket around you and turn the tv’s volume down until he was ready to go to bed. he’d wrap his strong arms around you and hold you like a little teddy bear.
ugh imagine his deep and slightly raspy morning voice as he wishes you a good morning, holding you so tightly.
KOTOKA TORAHIME ->
she’s so precious. girl will be so excited to share a room with you and watch movies long into the night, so excitedly exclaiming how happy she is to be with you for your time together. she’d eventually decide to keep the movies playing even if she’s about to fall asleep, which ended with you holding each other, fast asleep by the time the sun began riding.
kotoka would wake up first, not wanting to leave your arms or let go of you and letting herself fall asleep. her onesie was so cozy to snuggle her in, you just couldn’t help but hold her tightly in your sleep.
you’d awake so happily in the morning too, just so excited to have kotoka by your side in her adorable cat onesie. she’d get breakfast delivered to your shared room, filled with giggles on the cool morning.
HEX HAYWIRE ->
oughhh he is so teasing about it. he won’t hesitate to hold you and be your big spoon in his sleep, brushing your hair after your bath or shower at night or morning (personally i’m a night bath kinda guy but yk) and saying affirming things to you in his naturally deep and gravelly voice. he’s so. ugh.
hex will wake you up in the morning with your favorite caffeinated drink and something you’ll eat for breakfast with a gentle smile on his face as he adjusts his glasses.
the way he looks when you wake up before him though…god. his hair will be more tousled than usual, his normally sharp eyes closed in soft sleep and the most small and gentle smile on his face as he presumably dreams a happy dream. you can’t help but fall asleep to the sound of his gentle and calm breathing.
#lyr.fic#nijien x reader#nijisanji en#nijisanji x reader#nijien#xsoliel x you#xsoliel x reader#xsoliel#ver vermillion#ver vermillion x reader#ver vermillion x you#meloco kyoran#meloco kyoran x reader#meloco kyoran x you#doppio dropscythe#doppio dropscythe my favorite cheftective x you#doppio dropscythe x reader#doppio dropscythe x you#kotoka torahime#kotoka torahime x reader#kotoka torahime x you#hex haywire#hex haywire x reader#hex haywire x you
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Remember How Much I Love You | T.Miller
~ You thought everything would be perfect when you and Tommy finally moved in together, and when its not the two of you try your best to fix things ~
Warnings: Not really, some angst but I swear the ending is sweet. Mention of pregnancy.
A/N: Had a bit of slump, but I really wanted to finish this, and i have a part 2 of this in the books.. plz let me know what ya'll think. if you like feel free to have a gander at my masterlist <3 xx
It had been nearly six months since you and Tommy bought your home together, in the outskirts of Austin it was everything that you had ever dreamed of. In your old farmhouse the two of you could live out the rest of your days, here you could both get old together.
Transitioning to sharing your space with Tommy had been relatively easy, considering that the two of you were used to spending almost all of your free time together anyway.
At first it felt perfect, the two of you feeling like those corny couples in those rom-coms that always had you cringing together. Swearing you’d never be like that.
You both were basically connected at the hip whenever you were home together, if you were in the kitchen doing ‘literally anything’ then he would be behind you. Distracting you with your tasks as he would drop his head onto your shoulder, his stubbled cheeks would burn the soft skin on your neck as he peppered warm kisses there.
He made you feel like a teenager again, how he managed to get you flustered so easily, just him touching you had you pulling him away from the kitchen and back upstairs in a desperate frenzy to get your hands on him one last time before you would both go your separate ways for the day.
Mornings were always blissful like that, you would both be making breakfast and drinking coffee in a post-sex haze. Filled with laughter and very mediocre dance moves from whatever songs were playing on the radio, leaving you both amused with your distractions resulting in sulking in eating burnt toast.
But now the beauty of it all was replaced with the very harsh and brutal reality, the wool had been ripped from your eyes and only now did you realise that it wasn’t like that anymore. You had recently graduated from college and was offered a teaching job, which you were excited for so you said yes straight away. The only downside was that you were never home, every weekday you were up and out the door before the sun peeked through the rocky valleys beyond your home, and the moon was already out when you got home.
Much like you, Tommy who was now always working, he and his older brother Joel started up their own construction business that took them a lot of work and money. So they were always busy with new projects that always left him coming home exhausted, by the time you were home he was usually asleep on either the sofa or bed. It was a very rare occasion that the two of you would actually run into each other during the day.
Both of you were just too tired to notice how bad it was getting.
Though tonight you had a plan to take a step in the right direction, you had been feeling so flat lately and figured that it was your body’s way of telling you to take a step back and really evaluate what was important in your life. You felt the need to at least try and save your relationship before a simple homemade dinner couldn't fix it.
A smile grew on your face when Tommy’s car pulled up in the driveway, no doubt surprised to see yours there as well. It felt good to surprise him, to do something that felt so foreign. The two of you would always do sweet little things like this, whether it was you knocking on his door unannounced in the morning with a sweet smirk on your face. Or him waiting for you to finish classes for the day to pick you up and take you somewhere special.
“Just in here!” You called out from where you stood in the kitchen finishing up making Tommy’s favourite, your own lasagna recipe. His tired groans could be heard getting gradually louder as he eventually dragged his feet onto the tiled floor, clearly not matching your level of enthusiasm. “Y’aint usually home this early.” He mumbled as his tied eyes caught sight of you during the day time, a sight he was not used to. “I know I got sent home actually, still not feeling well.” You shrugged, sending a tight lipped smile as Tommy leaned against the doorway, an almost confused look on his face.
“Been workin’ too hard.”
“Yeah well, guess we're both guilty of that.” The words came out harsher than you expected, making you cringe as you saw Tommy frown from your peripheral.
“Tommy wait–” You breathed out, ready to apologise but he was already walking towards the stairs. It made you feel uneasy, like you didn’t know how to talk to each other anymore.
Tommy sighed as he felt your concerned eyes burning into his, he knew that all you wanted to was just try and make an effort. But he was just so tired.
“M’just having a shower alright?” He bit back in an almost sad voice, he felt guilty that he was simply just too exhausted to do this with you right now. His fingers were tightly wrapped on the polished bannister, it wasn’t a nice feeling to be annoyed at you for doing absolutely nothing wrong. But yet he was…
He continued walking up the stairs and shutting the bathroom door behind him without looking back up at you, you let out a meek ‘okay’ knowing that he wouldn't even hear you. You wondered where it all went wrong so quickly, never did you ever think that you two could get to a point that you wouldn’t know how to even talk to each other.
You were alone in the kitchen again till everything was nearly ready, the silence was deafening how quiet it was. No longer having your laughter would be bouncing off the walls during Tommy’s attempts to take over you cooking dinner.
Though when Tommy did come back downstairs you were already plating up the food in a huff, already feeling like you ruined everything.
The both of you danced around each other, while Tommy opened the fridge to grab himself a beer, you were already sitting down as you picked away at the food on your palate. Whether it was your stomach or the tense silence that made your stomach churn at the idea of eating anything.v
“So uh, how’s work been? I feel like we haven’t had a night like this in ages.” You smiled sadly, not wanting to—start anything or mean anything by it. Simply just, starting a conversation.
He responded with a sigh, as he shook his head ridiculously as his damp curls danced wildly.
“Yeah well we had a new guy start a couple of weeks ago, he broke his ankle over the weekend so he’s out.” Tommy groaned as he took another sip of his beer, you only noticed now how tired he actually looked. It had been so long since the two of you caught up with each other at the end of the day like this, you missed this. “So what does that mean?”
“Will probably have to pick up the slack for ‘em, at least till we find someone to replace him.” Tommy shrugged matter of factly, his eyes not lifting up from his plate. “God Tommy, you’ll work yourself into the ground.” There was worry evident in your voice, your cutlery clinking against the ceramic plate as you gave the man in front of you your full attention. He was being absolutely ridiculous, you had the right mind to call Joel and tell him to get someone else to help out.
“Well, someone has to do it.”
“Tommy--"
“Why does it matter?” He looked up at you in annoyance, his tone an octave higher than you're used to. He was hoping that you would simply drop it, why couldn’t you just drop it.
He could feel his agitation rising as the conversation continued, even though all you were doing was worrying about him. “Well I know we don’t see each other as much and–”
“Jesus Christ.” He groaned, rubbing a calloused hand down his face, his elbow propping on the table with a loud ‘thonk’. “Can’t you just let it go? You’re the one that’s at work all goddamn day!” His voice rose in irritation as his now red hot cheeks turned to look at you, almost awaiting an answer.
Your eyes shot up to watch him in shock, it was a very rare occurrence for Tommy to ever raise his voice, especially at you. You were taken aback at how annoyed and mad he looked, the vein in his neck protruding after his outburst.
“Yeah you're probably right–I’m so sorry for trying Tommy. It obviously seems like I’m too late anyway.”
Your harsh words cut into Tommy like a burning hot knife, but your lip quivered as you tried to hide the tears from slipping out. He almost expected you to just yell straight back at him, but when you didn't it made him feel worse.
Tommy then let out a frustrated sigh, when his eyes caught onto yours he realised the mistake that he made. “Shit–darlin’ that aint what I meant.” His voice was frantic now, trying to fix his mistake once it was too late. His eyes searched for yours but he couldn’t, your own refusing to look up. Because you knew if you did, you would cry.
“But it is! Jesus, I dont– I can’t do this right now Tommy.” Your head shook in disbelief, how could something so simple that you had planned go so horribly wrong. You tried to ignore the part of your brain that wondered if you both just weren't the same people you used to be.
As you stood up abruptly, the chair underneath screeched under the wooden floorboards. Throwing your napkin on the plate you left the table in a hurry, ignoring the calls from Tommy as you basically ran up the stairs. As he sat in the same spot sulking, you were in your upstairs bathroom throwing up what little remnants you had from dinner.
Your eyes were blurry as you sat on the cold tiles, your eyes continued to water as your eyes drifted on the small silver ring on your left hand. It was the one Tommy gave to you when he proposed to you not long after you graduated, even though you both knew long ago that you wanted to marry him. It was one of the happiest days of your life and now it almost made you want to vomit again.
Surely this wasn't the same man that you just argued with downstairs, your Tommy was soft and kind and had the most beautiful smile– not that you had seen it much lately.
You were basically never home with this new job, but when you brought it up to Tommy he said ‘you’d be a fool not to take it.’ And now he was using it against you, when all you were trying to do was have a conversation. You knew that tomorrow was Friday, you just had to make it through the day and then you would have the whole weekend to try and fix this.
You just had too.
Tommy groaned out in pain when he woke up on the sofa, his back aching from the hard springs poking into him. He figured he deserved it anyway, as a painful reminder from the universe. At least that’s what you’d probably say, he doesn’t get any of that stuff. He figured he'd go upstairs and try and make things at least a little better with you, tell you that he was sorry— because he was.
But when he padded down the hallway he could already tell you were gone, your soft snores were absent to him, your side of the bed was empty.
Usually he wouldn’t mind, but Tommy still felt horrible for the way he talked to you last night. He was never the type to lash out at you in anger or frustration, no matter how tired or exhausted he was. Seeing you get so upset last night made him realise that it was all more than just ‘being at work all the time,’ it was starting to affect your relationship. And the fact that even you knew, and tried to do something nice, and he just basically threw it back in your face.
He didn’t even know if he could fix it…
He felt like the biggest asshole, as he tried to figure out to make it up to you all he could think about how upset you looked, it was burned into his mind. Your side of the bed was unmade and it made him imagine you throwing the covers in a frenzy to get up on time like always, your pajamas laying on the floor in a line to the bathroom where you would’ve stumbled to the shower.
With an annoyed groan he ran his hands down his face as he dropped out and sat on the edge of the bed, he missed your lingering fingers in the morning. Checking his phone he saw that you left him a message.
‘Can you remind Joel he needs to pick up Sarah?
Was sick this morning so I’ll be late..no point waiting up.
His brows furrowed as he read your text, trying to trace back in his memory to when you mentioned you were feeling unwell, besides from yesterday at least. Was he really that bad of a fiancé that could no longer notice these things? Usually he prided himself in noticing if there was something wrong.
Tommy knew that he had to do something, before the two of you began to resent each other—if you didn’t already.
On the top of his nightstand in a handmade shell frame by Sarah, it was his favourite photo of the two of you.
In the polaroid you were crawled up in his lap, arm slung around the back of his neck as you both smiled for the excited Sarah who had gifted her first camera. The two of you had bright smiles on your face, cheeks pinched with genuine happiness. He missed your smile.
The two of you looked so young despite it not actually being that long ago, he remembered that day fondly. The day he proposed to you…
After an entertaining morning opening presents the two of you were sitting outside on the back porch, your elbows propped up on the arm of the lawn chairs you sat on. You were wearing that beautiful white white dress Admiring the view as you watched Tommy strumming his guitar with the new guitar pick you had gifted him for Christmas.
He was happily strumming for sometime, before stopping and turning to face you, a wide smile on his face. "Y'know I almost forgot your present..." Tommy had a playful smirk on his face. "Oh good, and here I thought you forgot about me." You chuckled in amusement, giving him that look that reminded him that you didn't actually mind, you were never one to like anything extravagant for presents.
"Ain't no way I could forget about you. Now, just close your eyes."
"Do you really expect me to fall for that one again Tommy?" Your hands rested on your hip, giving him a suspicious look. Which made Tommys head fall back in laughter, his raven curls bouncing as he chuckled in amusement. "Come on now darlin', just close 'em."
"Ugh, fine." You huff as you then close your eyes, despite the shuffling noises you hear you keep them shut.
Then when you opened your eyes you let out a surprised gasp, not expecting to see Tommy down on one knee. For a brief few seconds you were completely speechless, frozen. You had been waiting for this moment, for so long. As your eyes began to water, he began to speak.
"Now you know i ain't best with this kind of stuff, but do you wanna marry me darlin?"
"Are you kidding me? I--of course!" You exclaimed, your head nodding at him frantically. There was no possible way that you could ever say no to him. You jumped into his arms, instantly connecting your lips with his in a passionate fever.
"Love you so much darlin', gonna make sure you remember that everyday."
God he had to fix this…
Orange and deep purple hues began to pour onto your hands as they shook on top of your desk, the red marking pen falling onto the wood with a deafening ‘thonk.’
You were meant to leave nearly twenty minutes ago if you wanted to be home somewhat early. Yet you still hadn’t dared to move from your desk, any homework to mark was completely lost to you now, too preoccupied with the positive pregnancy test you took during your lunch break.
Your coworker Meg suggested the idea of you being pregnant causally during a conversation of your latest sickness, and now that you thought about it, it made perfect sense.
The constant unwavering nausea that you had you avoiding food like the plague, the fact that no matter how much sleep you had you were still always tired. Then lastly, the fact that you could actually remember when you had your period. For so long you had blamed all of these on your current life changes and stress levels, but no longer could it be ignored…
You were pregnant.
As you let out a shaky breath, running your fingers through your hair you thought about telling Tommy. Usually you would be ecstatic with such news, but after the night before you suddenly weren’t sure.
The two of you had daydreamed about having children together numerous times, but that was also before he had his own business and you had college fees and a full time job. Would it be the same now that it was real or were you simply overreacting? Who knew till you told him.
Maybe last night solidified just how far you both had let this go on, this big wall that separated the two of you in your own home. You were almost surprised that Tommy hadn’t thought you were pregnant yet, usually being so attentive over you. More times than most, he would know something was wrong with you before you even did.
Not that you were any better, you were barely home anymore. Yet you used to spend all of your free time with Tommy, no matter what.
What if the two of you could never change?
After spending a few extra minutes psychic yourself up in your parked car in the driveway, your eyes drifted to the yellow light peering from your open kitchen window where Tommy was probably cooking himself dinner. You could only presume since you would usually still be at work, it made you realise how much you missed his cooking. Maybe not in the kitchen, but despite what you had been told by Joel, the man could and loved his grill.
Eventually entering the home you noticed how oddly cozy it felt, like you had been enveloped into a warm welcoming hug. Which lately, had been the opposite of how you felt coming home. You couldn’t even remember the last time it felt like this, so lived in. That the people that lived here actually had their shit together.
Peeling off your jacket you walked towards the yellow light leaking on the floor from behind the door to the kitchen, you stopped in shock. Tommy stood by the oven, his back to you as he swore over what you could imagine was your tattered old recipe book that belonged to your grandmother. The old frayed edges that poked over on the counter, as he leaned over trying to read the old handwriting.
It almost looked like some sort of fever dream, he was showered, shaved and wearing open of his nice button down shirts. The exact olive green one that you had bought him last year for his birthday, you reckon it was the first time he had put it on.
“Oh hey—“ Tommy chuckled nervously once he turned to see you still in the doorway, a confused and shocked look on your face. “I uh—wasn’t expectin’ you till later.” His voice was chipper, which was the polar opposite from yesterday. He was obviously trying, be nice.
“What's all this for?” You tried not to sound mean, you obviously knew why. But you needed to know…
“Well I wanted to do somethin’ nice for ya. Try and make up for me being a dick, n’not taking care of you like I should be.” Tommy’s shoulder dropped with a sigh, his hands cupping the edge of the counter that leant against, you could tell that he was upset. A deep crease forming between his brows, the way it always did when he was upset with himself, you could see the internal nettle he was having with himself.
Your breathing hitches when your eyes drift to the bouquet of wildflowers in the centre of your dining table, the ceramic vase was the same one that was gathering dust since you moved in. He even tidied up the leftover mess that neither of you had been bothered to put away.
Tommy’s eyes peered up to where you stood in the doorway, your glassy eyes analysing the home. Your cheeks were puffy and stained from pre- existing tears, it broke his heart thinking that you had been crying because of him.
“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I was tired and stressed out—and I know that’s not an excuse.” His large warm hands enveloped your own as he grazed his thumb along the top of your cold knuckles.
“I just wanted to make sure you still knew how much I love ya.” He flashed you the same dorky grin you fell in love with all those years ago, that you were still in love with.
Guilt ripped through you, the fact that you really thought he stopped loving you, after all these years that he could stop just like that. That you doubted that he wouldn’t want a baby with you…
“I was just so worried that we were falling apart.” A sob escaped your lips, your shoulders trembling under your blouse. The feelings you had been harbouring were overwhelming with your newly added hormones, you simply had no more room left, you had to let it all out.
His strong arms envelop you as he pushes you into his chest, his hands slide up your back to cradle to the back of your head. The soft fruity smells of your shampoo filling his nose, a smell that took him back, something that he didn’t realise he could miss so much.
“Baby I’m still just as in love with you as the day I met you. I know I ain’t been actin’ like it lately, but I’m gonna put in more effort.”
You could smell his aftershave as you brought your head into his chest, as your tears darkened the fabric of his shirt. Tommy’s rough hands moved up to cup the soft skin of your cheeks, so he could look at you properly as he spoke, making sure that you knew.
“Don’t— it’s not just your fault. I’m at fault too Tommy.”
“Look, we both are as bad as each other. But I don’t want to feel that far away from you ever again.”
“Tommy I, it’s not just that—“ You let out a shuddered breath, choking on your words as they tried to come out. The entire speech that you had thought out in the car was completely lost to you, your brain went blank.
“What's going on baby? Talk to me.”
Swallowing the lump of nerves in your throat, you dropped a trembling hand down into your pocket. Grasping onto the tiny piece of plastic that you had been staring at all afternoon. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, your arm felt astronomically heavier as you lifted up the test and placed it in his unsuspecting hand.
“I—I only found out this afternoon.” You added nervously, unknowingly holding in a breath as Tommy remained quiet. His brows furrowed for a brief moment till his glassy eyes darted up to look at yours. “I'm gonna be a Dad?” His glassy honey brown eyes beamed down at you, filled with so much happiness. You simply nodded, your own wide smile growing on your face. The nerves that had you anxious all afternoon had dissipated.
“Holy shit, baby this is amazing!” He exclaimed with excitement, bringing you into another tight embrace. His lips pressing onto yours, softly but full of hunger. The two of you were both desperate for each other's touch, after what felt like forever. This felt right, with him, it felt perfect.
“Love you so much darlin’, ain’t gonna ever let you forget it.”
#tommy miller#tommy miller x reader#tommy miller fanfiction#tommy miller fanfic#tommy miller x y/n#tommy miller angst#tommy miller x you#gabriel luna#tommy miller tlou#tlou
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Cassiopeia (AzrielxReader) Angst
A/N: I feel like my blog is slowly being overcome by Az angst and I am HERE for it. This also turned into a bit of a reverse roles thing for “Memento Mori”
Warnings: Angstish
W/C: 2.3
~~
It was quiet here, blissfully so.
Snow had begun to fall weeks prior and the ground you laid on was packed hard with powder and ice alike. The wind caressed the fir branches above you and urged them to dance and sway in the moon’s soft glow. The only light in your little spot was created by the night sky and the shadows of the night enveloped you, effectively keeping you hidden from any prying eyes.
It was unnaturally clear for a night so deep in the throes of winter, and miles below you could spot the city lights of Velaris. You were too far removed from the city to hear it, but her phantom song still lulled your mind and calmed your nerves. After the mourning of the war was over, and the reconstruction finished this had become your routine. The week would slip by with work and meetings, and the weekend would be wasted away on the mountainside- far from the life of your home. You’d lay on the mountainside and point out shapes in the bright copses of stars,
Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Perseus… You had them memorized, found comfort in the way their shine broke up the snow capped canopy above your head.
You drug your gloved hands through the snow at your sides, relished in the cold seeping through the leather covering your hands. The tips of your ears and the points of your face had long since turned red and numb- your lashes sporting a soft coating of ice. The biting cold had not been a bother since your nights spent in war camps and training grounds designed to rip away any sensitivity you had been born with. Now, it served as a stark reminder that you were in fact alive, and not a war torn corpse rotting in the mass graves that had been left in wake of the carnage Hybern had created.
“Its past midnight.” A voice called from the trees behind you. You had not heard him approach, but had felt that tingling thrum from his side of the bond when he had winnowed here from the city below.
“I know.”
“Are you coming home soon?”
“I dont know.”
Azriel’s question was not chidding, nor was it judgemental in any way. He had been so patient with you, so gentle. He had sat through the outbursts with sealed lips, let the blows fall on his own skin when you were sobbing so violently you found comfort in beating your pillows to a pulp, and had not questioned your late night visits to the mountainside.
“Mor made dinner, she saved you a plate.” He spoke, opting to sit behind you, a good distance away. You laid still, staring at the moon through the branches above. It was waning, that strange phase where the light was dying from its full glow. Your eyes narrowed to slits so you could focus on it, though you weren't sure you were really seeing anything as you listened to the male behind you.
“It would be beneficial if you ate something.”
“I ate earlier.”
“Twelve hours ago does not count, (y/n).”
“I know.” Your voice was a whisper against the winter winds breaking through the woods. He had flared his wings to protect your frame from it, that much made clear by the way snow was avoiding your body entirely. “I’ll be home soon, promise.”
You heard his leathers shifting and felt the cold as he tucked his wings and stood. “I’ll wait up for you.” He stated hopefully, tucking his hands behind his back as you turned your head to glance at him.
Your mouth was drawn in a tight line and you took him in, standing there as if you would decide to get up and leave with him. “You dont need to, Az. I’ll probably stay in town tonight anyhow.”
You had been doing that a lot. Avoiding your shared home outside of Velaris and opting for the dusty shelves of your own room at the river house.
Azriel’s eyes shuddered, and his breath caught momentarily before he nodded sternly and disappeared in a puff of shadow and snow. You watched his empty place for a moment, felt a crack of pain down the bond before shutting it off completely. You laid your upper half back into the snow and sucked in a frigid breath.
Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Perseus…
⤧
“How was she?” Mor piped up from her spot on the couch as Azriel slunk through the door of the river house. The rest of the inner circle were splayed on chairs and couches in the living room, sipping wine or talking quietly.
Azriel cut his gaze to the blonde and shrugged, slumping into a free seat by the blazing hearth, “The usual.”
Mor slouched back into the couch, watching the fire with saddened eyes. From beside her, Feyre patted her leg and frowned. “This is not normal behavior.” Feyre spoke to no one in particular as her gaze found the flames as well. They were licking warm tones onto the walls of the darkened room and left hard shadows falling across Azriel’s downturned features.
“I dont think normal exists anymore Fey.” Cassian spoke, shifting carefully as not to wake Nesta who had fallen asleep with her head in his lap. Feyre nodded at his words and relaxed into Mor’s side. The women held each other, lost in deep thought as the room fell quiet.
Azriel sat in his own silence, mulling over your words and that distant look in your eyes. This happened every week. You would stay with him in your shared home, eat with him, share a bed, hell you would even joke around. But when the hustle and bustle of the week faded away into the slowness of the weekend you would disappear to that cropping of trees in the mountains and lay there until the sun was threatening to break over the peaks and beg you to come home itself.
Time passed slowly, and no one moved. At some point Amren bid her goodnights and headed off to her own apartment- but there was some silent understanding that tonight, they would wait for you to come home.
They had all, of course, heard you entering in the early hours of the morning only to trudge to your room and remain there until the following afternoon. They had watched you waste the weekends away without Azriel. And yet it had been months and none of them had stayed up long enough to see you enter, to see that glistening tears on frosty lashes, or the hunch in your shoulders that would right itself the following day.
A key sounded in the lock.
Tired eyes turned towards the door and hunched postures righted themselves as you kicked your boots off by the door and made your way to the stairs. You paused by the archway leading to the living room, not entirely different from the image of an animal caught in a hunter’s sight.
“(Y/N)?” Azriel spoke first, leaning towards you in his seat.
Slowly, you turned to face them all, paling at the wideness of their eyes.
“You guys are up late.” You whispered in reply, starkly aware of the wetness on your cheeks. Willing the tears to stop you leaned against the archway, crossing your arms over your chest.
“We wanted to make a pillow fort but Nes told us that was a stupid idea.” Rhysand jested, a lazy smile curling the corner of his lip. Despite yourself you chuckled at his words and relaxed a bit.
“Why are you really up?”
Your question was pointed at Azriel who merely shrugged and patted the arm of his chair. Slinking over you sat, allowing his arm to curl around your waist and pull you into his lap.
Nesta was awake now, leaning into Cassian and she was staring at you. Her head was cocked to the side and her fingers were wringing themselves milky white. No one spoke.
“Well if no one else is gonna fucking say it I will.” The words tumbled from her mouth messily, panicked. You stiffened in Azriel’s lap and his arm tightened. Rhysand sighed and rested his head in his hand, the others mimicking the noise almost painfully.
“Say what?” You questioned, looking between them all but finding no one able to look you in the eyes. You made to get up but Azriel pulled you back down, a worried crease in his brow.
“(Y/N)-”
“You're freaking us out.” Nesta stated plainly, wiggling out of Cassian’s grasp to brace herself on her elbows and stare at you with unnervingly calm eyes. “You act normal and then you dont. You speak to us and then night comes and you're on that damn mountain until the sun comes up. What’s up there?”
You stared at her, nerves steeling. She was worried, they all were. But damn her for trying to make you feel bad about escaping for a while. “Nothing, Nesta. Nothing is up there.”
“Then why spend hours there?”
“Because there is nothing there.”
Azriel shifted beneath you, suddenly uncomfortable with how the Archeron was staring at you. He curved his other arm around you and pulled you further into his chest.
“I think what Nes is trying to say is- we are concerned with how you're feeling.” Feyre added cautiously, gently pushing her sister back into the couch by her shoulder. Nesta huffed and relented, training her gaze on the fire before her. You scoffed and writhed free of Azriel’s grasp. Standing before them you crossed your arms over your chest and watched as they beheld you with bated breaths.
“I feel how we all feel.” You began, warding off the tears that threatened to spill, “And just like you guys Im not going to talk about it. I sit on the mountain to clear my head. Its no different than Feyre painting alone, Rhysand holing up in his office, or Cassian drinking himself to death.” The wounded look in Cassian’s eyes and the far off stare Rhysand held almost made you feel bad, but it had to be said.
“Maybe we should talk about it.” It was timid Elain, who had yet to speak that added her thoughts from her chair in the corner opposite of you. You cut your gaze to her and you were almost certain she cowered in her seat, terrified she had said the wrong thing. Everyone looked to her, even Nesta as pissed as she was softened at her sister’s demeanor.
“Maybe we should.” Rhysand spoke then, voice strong and smooth as ever.
Everyone began to nod in agreement, but you just watched them. When they turned your way you began to shake your head, lips thinning into a tight line, “No.” You whispered.
“No?” Azriel questioned softly.
“No.” You added once more, firmly this time. That crevice in your chest you had kept so tightly sealed began to crack open and you gripped your chest as though you could hold it closed from the outside. You stepped backwards towards the stairs, and let your hand find the bannister as they watched you.
“Im sorry- but I cant.” You whispered, turning to trudge up the stairs. Their voices became muddled as you climbed the flight and the tears began to spill when you heard Azriel’s voice break in a gruff sound of anguish.
You weren't ready to be touchy feely about the war, weren’t ready to stop feeling the bite of guilt and pain when you thought about the things you had done. They were. They had been ready to lay it out on the living room floor if it just meant that you would feel seen. And somehow, you realized as you rounded the corner to your room, that made it so much worse. Worse because you didn't want to be open like that with them, with your family. Worse because they were offering you a glimpse into how they had been feeling - so you wouldnt feel alone - and you couldn't bring yourself to light that candle.
You slammed the door on their voices below.
⤧
He entered your room an hour later, after you had already crawled into the sheets and found yourself in a fitful sleep. Silently, he sat on the edge of the bed and watched you. He had always found your sleeping face so serene. He would lay awake for hours at night when you first mated to watch the steady rise and fall of your chest, you were so beautiful, yet so unaware of the world around you.
You stirred as he slipped into bed beside you, sharing the space of your room in the river house for the first time in years.
“Az?” You whispered sleepily, allowing his arms to lock around you and pull you into his strong chest. He stroked your hair away from your face and rested his chin atop your head. He felt bad- guilty almost- for the bombardment you had come home to. He hadn't facilitated it, and yet he had let it happen as you sat there on the verge of tears.
“Im here.” He replied, “You don't have to talk to me, but I'm here.”
And you curled a fist around his tshirt, sunk into his chest and laid there. He had always been close, always watchful and ready to listen. Even when you shut him out he stayed, waiting patiently for you to be ready.
He knew, better than anyone, how you felt. He had lived through two wars, had felt that guilt and pain so many times that it had become second nature. He knew it was new for you- fresh in a way that had the anguish ripping at your skin until you threatened to disappear completely. And so he laid there, letting you grip his shirt until it was nearly shredded, and held you as your body shook and you began to cry.
You cried for the family downstairs you didn't know how to talk to, for the friends you had buried, and the people (innocent in their own right) you had slaughtered.
And he laid there, stroking your hair and staring out the window of your bedroom into the fading night beyond, and watched the stars you loved so fondly.
Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Perseus…
TAGS:
@brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @younxii @momlo @morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @highladyofillyria @crimsonandwhiteprincess @purplevitagen @isthataknuck
#azriel x you#acotar smut#acotar x reader#azriel acotar#azriel spymaster#lucien x reader#azriel x reader#acotar fanfiction#acotar fanart#acomaf#helion x reader#helionacotar#eris vanserra#helion acotar#night court#sjmaas#ACOTAR#a court of thorns and roses#acotar fic#smut#fluff#angst#annwritesacotar#annwrites#annwritesarchangel#acotar#azriel angst#azriel x reader angst
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lust for a vampire
for my fifty follower celebration! @heareball asked: max phillips and prompt no. nine— "you look so pretty like this." title from the song. i am so sorry this ended up being like, gross. and long. thanks to @wannab-urs for the reassurance and beta. if you recognize the horror movies referenced in this fic i love you.
rating & word count: 4k words | explicit
warnings: very briefly mentioned drug use, sexually explicit content, more plot than porn, dubious consent question mark, supernatural stalking, blood and its consumption, pussy slapping (like once), orgasm denial, spit play ???, background sex work/stripping, physical altercation (not with max), vaginal fingering, pet names (sweet thing, honey, sweetheart), i changed how vampires work from bsb because my writing, my rules.
It’s late now. Another thirty minutes and you get to flick the switch to the overhead lights—on and off, on and off again. Closing time. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Then there’s bar cleanup, a little sweeping, some heavy mopping. Assuring that no one’s upchucked on the stone bust of sexy Dracula out front, or making one of your coworkers clean it up if they have.
You can’t say that this is exactly what you dreamed of doing for the rest of your life: living in the slimy suburbs of a tourist trap border city, doubling as a bartender and host at a vampire-themed titty bar. Whatever. You suppose there are worse things. The patrons are usually so distracted by the girls that are actually naked that they leave you alone. The most you get is a grunted drink order, sometimes with an accompanying snort if the man ordering has just spent a little time in a bathroom stall with a bump of Big C.
Usually. Tonight, there’s a man at the corner of the bar who seems to be paying you attention in particular. He’s eyeing you more than Kali, the dancer spinning half nude on the main stage pole as crimson-coloured corn syrup slides down her body in waves.
You noticed him right away. He looks nothing like your regulars; usually sex and death goth chicks and their annoying boyfriends, or black metal listeners who could use a good shower…or three. No, the man at the bar is unlike anyone you’ve ever seen walk in here before. A tailored suit jacket strains slightly against the breadth of his shoulders, waistcoat unbuttoned as he sits sipping at his third whiskey and coke. His hair is slicked yet stylishly tousled. The glint in his eye tells you that he knows he looks good. Cocky, then.
Mercy saunters up to him with a sway in her hips, skin as pale as the moon outside. She bleaches her hair to white twice a month, keeping it shorter to handle the damage. The woman is a vampire in the flesh if you’ve ever seen one, clad in crimson lace as she lays a hand of finely manicured claws on his shoulder.
Mercy leans into him, whispering something softly into his ear. At first, you can’t gauge his reaction, watching the exchange out of the corner of your eye. You’re torn between him shaking his head and telling her to get lost, or happily obliging to let her take him for a private show.
He seems to be considering it, too, eventually nodding with a bright smile. You can’t look at his mouth as he does, teeth too bright for the low light. It looks like they almost glow. He and Mercy disappear to the back, finding one of the empty private rooms to take their business. You finish polishing another rack of glasses before a customer flags you down for a refill.
You don’t see the man when you announce last call, or again before you’re locking the doors behind the last couple of stragglers. The girls are in the back already, taking off their makeup and packing up to head home. You give the bar another good wipe down as Martin and Phil take the dirty glasses to the back. When the bar is adequate in its cleanliness, you get started on spraying down the tables. Louis is mopping both stages, the sudsy water of the industrial pale turning black from the sweat, spit, and fake blood.
Closing at three o’clock, the lot of you get out at almost four-thirty in the morning. The light of dawn hasn’t quite hit the horizon, the moon missing from the sky behind clouds of city smog. The streets are truly dark. You navigate through the alley behind the club, passing a twin pair of Dumpsters.
It must have rained while you were inside, the sidewalk wet with remnants of it. Puddles pool in the corners of the road. If you were anyone else, if you were anywhere else, this scene might be a little concerning. This is the part where the killer emerges, silent but deadly behind the wisp of a girl as she walks the streets alone. The situation isn’t exactly safe, per say. Definitely not ideal. It isn’t your fault that the closest lot with free parking is four blocks away.
You are no wisp, and this is no monster movie. This is a Saturday night like any other.
Or, well, it’s supposed to be. Turning another corner, you come upon Mercy standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Still clad in her outfit from the club, she notices you almost immediately. You stop yourself, processing what it is you’re looking at. Darkness stains half of her silky lingerie, and in this lighting you can’t tell if it’s real or fake.
Mercy sways where she stands, eyes narrowing the slightest before her face softens, an agreeable smile pulling at her lips. Her six inch heels clop against the concrete as she closes the short distance between the two of you.
“Mercy?” you ask. “What are you doing out here?”
“Hey baby,” she drawls.
“Is everything okay?”
“Much better now,” Mercy smiles. Her teeth are stained red. All of this blood…is it hers?
“What happened? Did someone do something to you?”
Your pulse is racing as you dart your eyes around the street. It remains empty spare you and her, your eyes telling you that the coast is clear. Still, the situation feels off. Mercy is still smiling as your stomach roils in your gut. When she sways a little too far to the right, you grab ahold of her arm, looping it around your shoulder.
“We’ll get you back to my car, okay?” you ask.
Mercy takes a couple of steps with you before the axis of the world changes. No, wait. Only the axis of you. The dancer has you pressed to the hard, clumpy brick of a building. Her arm sits over your neck, putting pressure on your windpipe. You claw at her arm, scratching at the milky white of her skin. It’s no use. Mercy is putting those self-defense classes to good use trying to choke you out right now.
She moves in closer to your face, nosing at your jaw down to the side of your neck.
“Smells so good. I just need…a little bit,” Mercy breathes into your ear.
“No,” is the only word you can press past your lips.
“It’ll only hurt a little, honey,” she continues, voice dripping with sweetness. It’s the one she uses with clients, a tone that’s pulled thousands of dollars of cash from the eager wallets of horny bastards. “Then, it’s going to feel so, so good.”
As your vision speckles, Mercy licks a long, wet stripe along the skin of your neck. Something about the action sets you off; the pre-emptive finality of it activates your survival instincts as you bring a knee up to her gut. The blow winds her. Mercy pushes herself off of you to clutch at her stomach, a frustrated growl ripping itself from her throat.
“That wasn’t very nice, bitch,” she mutters.
You take off down the street, praying to whatever god that Mercy’s newfound kink for street violence hasn’t instilled in her the ability to sprint in Pleasers. You’re so close now; the lot where your Chevy sedan has been parked and baking since dinnertime is finally in sight. Air isn’t quite reaching your lungs as fast as you need it, the world around you hazey as you continue to run to your car.
Blinking, the parking lot is gone when you open your eyes again. Someone’s dropped a black curtain in front of you—or so you think. When you collide chest-first with a man on the sidewalk, you recontextualize. You were staring at the shoulder of his suit jacket.
Another moment passes as you realize just who the man is. Three-piece, from the club. The man who sat at the bar making eyes at you all night long. Tonight must be a cosmic punishment.
“Hey, whoa there.” He holds his hands out, almost in surrender. Concern blankets his features as he looks you over. “Everything alright?”
“Look, I really don’t have time—”
You stop yourself, sucking in frantic gasps of air. Grabbing onto the nearest wall, you brace yourself as you cough and choke on oxygen. The stranger watches you, then glances down the street the way you came. It seems his critical thinking skills have kicked in.
“Is someone following you?” he asks.
“My crazy fucking coworker…” you start, “has taken up casual street assault.”
“Let’s get you out of here, alright? Is your car nearby?”
You nod, pushing yourself up and off the wall. He guides you across the street to your car, standing with you as you sift through your bag for the keys. When you find them, you turn to the man.
“Well, thanks.”
“Not a problem at all,” he says. Slowly, he turns to walk away. Then you remember how many drinks you served him earlier.
“Hey, do you want a ride home?” Bad idea. Bad idea.
The man turns around and faces you once again. “I’m alright,” he says.
Three whiskey and cokes, a couple of shots, and whatever might have gone out to his private room that you hadn’t been able to keep track of.
“It’s not a hassle,” you shrug.
This is better. You would rather drive to a stranger’s house at dawn and drop him off than have him pass out somewhere in the street—or worse, let him try to drive home and end up hurting someone.
You tell him your name. He says his name is Max. The two of you get into your car. Buckling your seatbelt, you ask, “Maxwell? Or Maximillion?”
“Just Max.”
You hum. “Straight to the point.”
“I try to be.”
The car starts with minimal fanfare and you pull out of the parking lot. You scan the streets for any sign of Mercy, but come up empty in your search. You’re too tired to think about her or the odd encounter anymore.
“So what draws someone like you to a place like that?” you ask, referring to the club.
“Someone like me?” Max asks.
“Come on, look at you. The suit? You look like you’re fresh off the trading floor.”
“Not quite. Mergers and acquisitions,” he says.
“Point still stands,” you say. “What brings you to a gothic striptease?”
Max shrugs beside you. “Reminds me of college, I guess.”
You can’t help the laugh that falls from your mouth. The strange answer does nothing to satisfy your lingering curiosity, but you focus back on the road. Max tells you when to turn and which streets to take, leading you out of town. Twenty minutes into your drive, you realize he’s guiding you past the university and over the connecting bridge.
“Lewiston?” you ask, glancing at him. Max is already staring at you, eyes softening when they meet yours.
“It’s quaint,” he says.
And he’s right. When you pull into the driveway of his house, you momentarily wonder if you’ve arrived at the wrong address. Max doesn’t share the hesitance, getting out of the car and rounding the front to meet you at the driver’s side window. You roll it down, letting him duck his head in the slightest bit.
Max leans his forearms against the opening in the door. “Thanks for the ride,” he says. And then he’s offering to let you come inside, grab a coffee before you hit the road again.
You want to say no—should, considering how late (early?) it is. Glancing at the clock on your dashboard, you look up at Max to politely decline, but can’t summon the words. There’s something about his eyes, dark and wondrous as they stare. He doesn’t blink, waiting on your answer.
“A coffee couldn’t hurt,” you say. A smile pulls at the corners of his lips.
Max steps away from the door to let you get out. It closes with a solid thud, and then he’s leading you up to the front steps of his home. He doesn’t reach for any keys, simply turning the knob and pushing the door open. You barely make note of this, too distracted by his presence and the walls of his front hallway.
Everything in here seems perfect, the cutesy makings of a home somewhere in the countryside. And yet that’s what makes it totally out of place; the floral wallpaper, the simple wooden frames holding photos of faces you can’t quite parse in the dark. Maybe you’re letting outdated stereotypes get the better of you, but someone like Max would usually be living in a sleek, stainless steel cavern—not Little House on the Prairie.
Like he can read your mind, he says, “This isn’t my usual decor. It was my grandmother’s house.”
“Oh,” you nod. “Sorry for your loss.”
Max shakes his head, giving you a dismissive wave as he turns left and mills about a small yellow kitchen. “She was old. It happens. I’m in town to settle up some things, see what ends up happening to this place.”
“So you aren’t from around here,” you say.
Back turned to you, the laugh he lets out shakes his broad shoulders the slightest bit. “You caught me,” Max says.
“Between condolences and meetings with lawyers, you find solace watching naked women cover themselves in blood?”
He’s facing you again. The coffee has started to brew, steam rising from the machine as the warm smell of arabica greets your nose.
“Something like that,” he says. “What about you? The bartending life all that they say it is?”
“It’s alright.” You lean in the doorway, never quite stepping into the kitchen. “Not as terrible as other places.”
“But you aren’t fulfilled,” Max says for you.
“Things could be worse.”
“Hm,” is all he gives you.
Max gets two mugs out of his grandmother’s cupboards, filling them both when the coffee is done a few silent minutes later. He closes the distance between the counter and where you stand to hand one to you. Then he sits at the short table wedged in against the wall. The implication to sit down with him settles over you, but Max doesn’t say anything.
He’s waiting because he knows that you will. Deep down, you know it too.
When you cross over the threshold into the room, the world shifts. Only slightly, barely noticeable with the porcelain burning in your palm. You take the seat across from Max and set the coffee down.
“How is it?” he asks, nodding at it.
“Good,” you say. Neither of you have taken a sip of the stuff.
Max’s hand is on the table, resting on a doily next to his own mug. He asks, “What’s got a woman like you walking the streets at night all alone?”
“Free parking,” you say.
His lip twitches. “That all?”
“Fourteen dollars a night adds up when you work six times a week.”
“No, I mean,” Max says, “that can’t be it.”
His hand is closer to your own now. You aren’t sure when it moved. The proximity of his skin to yours sets your pulse racing again; instinct kicking in once more.
“Small town, lots of tourists. People from all over the world in and out of there all the time. You’re sure to come across some scary characters.”
“When you’re the one plying ‘em with alcohol, it’s a little different. Don’t wanna bite the hand that feeds,” you say. “I can handle myself.”
“I’m sure you can,” Max agrees. He uses his pointer finger to draw a line along the length of your thumb. His touch is ice cold. The contact makes you shiver.
“I don’t scare easy,” you continue, heart in your throat now.
“Is that right?” he asks.
You can’t tell what he means by that. You move to grab the mug before you, finally taking a sip to avoid answering the question. The brew is acrid. This close to your nose, it smells like lemons and bleach. Frowning into the mug, you look up at Max again. His chair sits empty.
Your brain can’t catch up with your eyes. Suddenly, something is pressing into your back, and for the second time tonight you find yourself pinned to an unfamiliar wall. Max is gentler than Mercy, a single hand at your shoulder to press you against the peeling paint behind you.
You open your mouth to say something, anything at all. Please don’t kill me. The coffee’s fine, I swear.
“Aw, don’t be scared,” he says, low and close to your ear. The words rumble in his chest, something like a purr against your ribcage.
“Don’t hurt me,” you whisper.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Max says. “You look so pretty like this.”
“What do you want?”
“What do you want?” he asks, turning the question around. “I’ve watched you… I know you, sweetheart. This isn’t the life you want, is it? Certainly not the life you deserve.”
Despite yourself, you start to lean a little into his body; aching cold against your broiling warmth. Your neck and forehead are damp with sweat.
“I can give you all you’ve ever wanted,” Max says. “Remake you and your life. Never grow old. Never die.”
It’s fun to be a vampire. Yeah, you’ve seen that nineties movie too.
All night, you’ve been missing the forest for the trees. Mercy and her frantic, violent behaviour; the stains that soaked her lingerie. Max sidling up to the bar again, out of place and yet perfectly suited to the grimey, bleeding environment.
“Max…” you breathe.
“All you have to do is say yes,” he says.
This man is overwhelming, breathing down your neck and nosing along your jaw. He’s not pinning you to the wall anymore. You’ve elected to stay here. Thoughts are hard to manage, everything covered in a thick fog. His presence is intoxicating, and you have a feeling that’s on purpose.
All girls don’t want bad boys, and yet you feel yourself caving. An answer sits on the tip of your tongue. If only you could spit out the goddamn words…
“Please,” you say.
“And she’s polite with it too. Sweet thing.” Max’s cool thumb drags across your cheek. “What do you need?”
“Anything. Everything, please.”
God, this is pathetic. In your right mind this scene would make you sick, but at this moment you can’t help it. You are a wound all over, easing into Max’s soothing touch. He can fix this—fix you, needy and wanting in this lovely little home. It’s all you want; all you’ve ever wanted.
Max kisses your neck once, twice before he pulls away. His right hand wraps around your ribs to support you, the other trailing up and over your stomach, your sternum. He splays his fingers across your clavicle, feeling the heat of your skin. His touch is bleak, sapping the warmth from your body.
You can’t tell if it’s his voice or your own echoing in your ears. What draws someone like you to a place like this? But what kind of place is this exactly?
Max shreds the front of your shirt, the sparkly white logo of the strip club torn in two as the fabric hangs limply off your body. With no bra underneath, he has free access to fondle your breast. His cold hand over your heart makes you shiver.
Kissing down your chest, he still holds your side, even as he crouches in front of you. Through bleary eyes, you watch as Max kisses at either of your hips before making quick work of the button and zipper of your jeans. You pull at his hair, needing him up here. Truly, you need him everywhere; to consume you and warp you beyond identification. Go ahead and make you something new.
“Max, please,” you whine.
He licks a line from your stomach to the dip between your neck and collarbones, cold air catching at the saliva in the absence of his tongue. Then he’s face to face with you again, smiling. Max slides his hands into your pants and tuts lightly. You’re wet, and he can feel it. Embarassment floods you, making you squirm.
“Oh honey, relax. It’s only natural,” he says.
Max rubs at you over your panties, lightly grazing your clit through the fabric with each pass. It’s gentle. It isn’t what you need.
You grip his arm harshly. No matter what he is, it hurts. A little bit of something flashes in his eyes, coming and going too quickly. Something you need.
“Give me what I want,” you demand softly.
“This what you want, huh?” Max asks.
He shoves his fingers past the band of your panties, the pads of his fingers brushing hard against you. Two of them find your clit, circling over it deliciously. Still, this isn’t enough. You whimper with a shake of your head.
“Oh no, sweetheart. That’s not it,” Max says knowingly. He’s teasing and it’s killing you. “Want these, huh?”
As he asks, Max bares his teeth at you; long and intimidating, the enamel looks sharp and pointy. Seeing them has you canting your hips up into his hand.
“Bite me,” you gasp. “Bite me, bite me, please.”
His fingers on you move impossibly faster, hedging you towards the edge at a lightning pace. Heat spreads from between your thighs outwards, creeping up through your stomach, your arms, your fingertips. It’s a struggle to keep yourself upright against the wall.
Max returns his mouth to your neck, sucking and licking at your skin. You close your eyes and wait, expecting the heavy hammer of pain to fall on you soon, orgasm just out of reach. Instead, he tugs your underwear down a little further in your jeans, cupping you in his hand. He slaps your cunt once, drawing your attention back to him.
“Look,” Max says. “Pay attention now.”
Then he continues his ministrations, fingers on your clit again. You open your mouth to groan. It’s then that he bites you, catching you off guard. The pain is searing, so hot that it’s cold underneath your skin. You can feel the length of his fangs where they dig deep into flesh.
Blood rushes from the punctures immediately, trailing in a thick stream down your body. Max gulps as he drinks it down, hand still working you over. Your orgasm drowns you, an unforgiving wave. It hurts, stomach clenching at the sensations that wrack your body. There is no air left in your lungs, all of it punched out by the pain. He’s holding your head underwater.
What kind of place is this? A very, very bad one. Strawberry Shortcake’s den of iniquity. You’re bleeding out surrounded by dainty floral wallpaper and a man—monster—that’s going to eat you alive.
You slump between the wall and Max’s chest as he withdraws his teeth from you. Blood pumps out of your carotid artery in a steady pace, another gush with each beat of your heart. It pools on the white tile of the floor. Everything is red and slippery.
Max bites into the flesh of his wrist and brings it to your lips. With the little strength you have left, you grip his arm and hold it against your mouth. You drink what slowly flows from his veins. Max’s blood is cold against your tongue, going down like a shot of cheap tequila.
“There you go, sweetheart. That feel better, hm?” he asks.
When he’s sure you’ve swallowed, he tips your head back gingerly. His face over yours, Max purses his lips. He lets spit gather between them before pushing it out of his mouth, pulling yours open with his thumb to catch it. The saliva, mixed with your own blood, slides coolly against your tongue.
You’re dying, probably. Maybe you’re already dead. Doesn’t matter, really.
Max is here. He has remade you.
#pedrostories#max phillips#max phillips x reader#bloodsucking bastards#max phillips fanfiction#pedro pascal#50 followers
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A night with you
Part1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9
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ThrawnxF!reader
You’re at the Opera with your suitor when you receive a text from a certain someone later that night...
You hide your mouth behind your hand, letting a single tear stream down your cheek. A silent sob gets caught in your throat and shakes your shoulders.
He takes your hand and intertwines your fingers, squeezing it reassuringly. He turns his gaze on you and flashes you a smile. You smile back, sniffing your sobs away, you nod your head to reassure him.
“Everything alright?” He asks in a tone of confidence.
“Yes! Yes, it's just… It’s beautiful.” You manage to say without your voice cracking completely.
“I knew you would love it.”
You gaze back on the stage where the Opera singers finish their song. It is the last one. It is about the region where your planet is from, about the war, about its conquest by the aliens, a story about courage and treachery, a tragedy. You wipe your tears away and rise from your seat to clap like the rest of the audience. You clap with all your might and shout hourrays and praises. You’re moved beyond tears, you felt it down your bowels. You made a good call to come see this opera with him. He puts your fur coat on your shoulders, squeezing them gently.
“There is supposed to be a soirée after, but I want to steal you away from them.” He chants.
You feel your cheeks heating up, you nod once again and take his gloved hand to exit the Galaxies Opera House. The fresh air hits you and you shiver in your furs, you thank him once again for gifting you such a pricey item, that and the dress and the jewelry…
“Do not worry about it.” He kisses your knuckles. “You wore it perfectly, I could swear it was tailored for you.” Wrapped up in his own black fur he delicately guides you away from the crowd of other rich people to his limousine. "Come. There is a place I want to show you.”
___________________________________
“Don’t walk so fast! I can’t keep up with my heels!” You protest.
“Sorry! I’m just so excited to show you!” He laughs without letting your hand go.
You walk with difficulty between the branches and the thorns, you already find it surprising to find a forest on Coruscant. You knew some parks, but a forest? Never heard of.
You finally arrive and he gestures to you proudly. You are in awe, before you is a clearing of wild flowers with a wonderful lake where the moon reflects its light in delicious reflections. In the middle of the opened nocturnal flowers is a tablecloth with a basket and a candelabra. You can’t contain your laughter.
“You really planned all this?” You ask incredulously.
“Well, you told me you were feeling down lately and I thought it would be a great change of atmosphere after an evening with all those stuck up people.” He says. “I wanted to make a nice gesture.” He approaches you with his beautiful smile, his bun a little unmade.
“Thank you, Governor Satlove.”
“What did I told you before, (y/n)?” He chides you lightly, grazing his finger against your lips “Call me Nather.”
“Alright…” You look down at your feet, suddenly shy, before meeting back his eyes. “Nather.” Your voice got low, like a secret.
He nods approvingly, holding your face in both of his hands, eyes in eyes, he kisses your forehead. He guides you to the basket and takes out two glasses and a bottle of Calamnsi. You both sat down in front of this gorgeous moon.
“Tell me rather, how’s everything going?”
You sigh.
“Oh, it could be better…” You clink your glasses and take a sip. “I’m drowning with work and the little time I have for me I dedicate it to you.” You confess.
He raises his glass.
“And I am honored.”
You smile, playing with the trim of your dress.
“It’s been a while since I got to see my different friends and my family, and I think it started to down on me.” You sigh."That, and these pirates we can't get our grips on…Are you sure none of the ships coming from and around your planet were never attacked ?" You inquire
He takes a sip, fixated on your eyes.
"I've never heard of it in any reports, nor have we received any call for help by any helpless ship." He responds.
You lower your head, a bit discouraged. You'd hoped he would have more information on his hand. It's been years now that this group of pirates is wandering the universe freely and the Captain Marttilf is really displeased by it. The only constant you picked on is that they will appear near Nather's planet, Tirahnn, at random and unpredictable times and disappear just as quickly. For you they are clearly doing business with the local underworld and you wanna know what deals it is about.
"We've augmented the patrol on our own, but we can't do much more for the time being, I'm afraid…" He takes your hand with "sorry" spelled in his eyes. “Tell me if I can do anything else to help you. I only need to pass a phone call…”
You shake your head, you’re grateful for his eagerness to help but you can’t really do anything for now. It is useless to place a ship in ambush for a target that might come in several months or a year.
"We will get them." You look in his gray eyes with resolution. "In one way or another… We will get them."
He looks at you in silence, like he is in his thoughts, but raises his glass once again.
"Then we will drink to your success! And your long awaited promotion." You smile at the prospect. You figure Marttilf would get most of the glory, but the idea is nice. "I can do something about that, you know? I can pull the right strings to speed up the process, no problem."
"No!" Your sudden firm tone surprises him and he gets back a little. You smile and sweeten your voice. "No. If I have to advance in this career, I want to advance by merits alone."
He shake his head.
"You're an idealist, (y/n). You cannot advance by merits alone. It is the slowest and least effective way."
You know he’s right, but you don’t want to admit it, not yet at least. You’ve raised one rank and are now a junior lieutenant, so really low in the chain of command and you know your next promotion will come in years. You will need patience and abnegation.
"I know, but I would rather prevent politics from intervening in my career as much as possible."
"Politics already mingles in your career, whether you like it or not. You should take full advantage of any ressources you have, as soon as possible." He puts his head on his fist, laying lazily on his side.
"So you are a resource now?" You ask laughingly.
"I can be so much more." He says, eyes fixed on your lips, caressing your hand with the tip of his fingers.
"What can you be, then?" You bend over, getting closer.
"Anything you might desire…"
You're close, you feel his breath on your parted lips and his heat emanating from his body. You shiver in anticipation. His eyes travel between your lips and your eyes. His hand comes caressing your cheek, sliding lightly to your chin to bring you closer.
The kiss is tender, slow. It sends shivers down your spine. It’s the first one. You savor it, like a rare delicacy with your eyes closed. Your hand gets in his bun, that you undo to let his long hair fall free and hold the back of his head, his hand slides back on your cheek, his thumb caressing it with gentleness.
You part with regrets, forehead against forehead. You're breathless and panting, your shoulders raise as you breathe air.
"Was it really reasonable ?" You ask with swollen lips, under your breath.
He laughs a cristalyne laugh with gleaming eyes.
"Is anything fun ever reasonable?"
You sigh, putting your head on his shoulder.
"Maybe you're right…"
His hand comes grazing your temples. Away, a firework is lit. You observe the colorful wonders in silence, well wrapped in your furs between the fluorescent open flowers. Your mind is racing but calm and organized at the same time. You bury your head in his neck, enveloping yourself in his scent, you sigh, content.
___________________________________________________________
You climb up the stairs to your apartment with your heels in your hand. Nather drived you back, his limousine really out of place in this rather modest neighborhood, you would have come back in a cab but you didn’t feel like leaving him yet, so you hugged on the bench seat on your way back. The cold cement against the plant of your feet keeps you awake.
Finally you reach your floor, your door slides and you're home. You lean against the door, touching your lips, remembering the feeling of his mouth against yours. You smile to yourself, moistening your lips. Your face heats up with the memory of this moment.
You walk toward your room with an idiotic smile, putting down the fur coat delicately in your closet, putting your pajamas on and removing the different pieces of jewelry. You slump on your bed with a satisfied sigh, you take your comlink to check your messages, you got several: some of your family members asking you to finally come see them, some of your friends proposing you a drink after all this time. You check your agenda and your orders and answer them no with a pinch of the heart. Captain Marttilf is demanding you to shorten your leave to come back at soon as possible on the Zéphyr. You pout. You had little time to yourself and now you had even less. You scroll down the rest of the messages until you come across a name you haven't seen in years. Thrawn.
You stare his name in silence for a minute, unsure of what to do. You click on it to see the message with a beating heart..
"Good day junior lieutenant (y/l/n), I require your services."
Good day? Good day?! After 3 years, that's how he greets a friend? Granted, you didn’t have much contact during these 3 years but your friendship didn’t wither that much, right? Your finger holds its place over the screen as you think about those shared moments that keep getting more and more rare until they disappeared completely, to those messages that keep getting more sparse… Maybe what you had wasn’t as strong as you first thought.
You hold your comm unit and stare at it for a while, not knowing how to carry the conversation, you start taping a friendly reprimand, a frustrated opener, the joyful salutations. You erase them all, opting for a more cordial and professional tone.
“Good day to you too, Lieutenant Thrawn. How may I assist you?”
You reread your message several times and send it. You put your comlink on your heart, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You realize your fling didn’t disappear over time like you hoped. Just having his name resonate inside your head sent your heart racing. You gulp in discomfort, you now doubt to be able to get over it. His face draws itself under your eyes on your ceiling, floating in the dark with the memory of his voice coming back like an old melody. You close your eyes to chase it from your mind but his image persists behind your lids.
A buzz sound pulls you off your thoughts. He responded despite the late hour.
“I must inform you I am no longer a lieutenant, I recently ascended to the rank of captain. I need to use your connection to the underworld.”
You blink.
He’s captain? Already? But it takes a decade to be promoted to this rank! You whistle, whatever he’s chasing, he has his eyes on the prize. You who felt proud about your promotion will seriously need to review your objectives upwards. You’re getting outrun, and by far.
Now to the less pleasant part of the discussion, he wants you to get in contact with the underworld? But your parents cut ties with that part of your family years ago and you’re not sure you want to get back to that. You barely know them anyway.
“My congratulations. It will depend on my abilities, why do you need to enter the crime world?”
You don’t have to wait long for the answer.
“Thank you. I need intel on the black metals market and information around a name I suspect to be highly influential in the milieu.”
What is he on about? Does he dream of himself as a blacksmith?
“Find everything you can about an individual that names himself Nightsawn. Union, lobby, mafia, search every environment susceptible to birth protest and rebellion. You must also find details around the mining guild.”
You stare at the screen, concerned. It’s a true investigation he asks of you. You can’t possibly just pop up at the door of your former family with a smile and such a mission… On the other hand, getting closer to your family and their network could help you with your situation with those pirates…
It could work. You will just need to be convincing.
Really convincing.
“I will see what I can do. I will keep you informed.”
“Thank you.”
You scroll back and reread the conversation. The tone is cordial and professional but desperately impersonal and cold. You sigh discouraged, it’s your first contact after several years and it didn’t go as well as all your planned scenarios. You didn’t expect hugging and kissing but still something warmer than this arid conversation.
You stare in the void, screen in front of your face, burning your eyes. It vibrates once again in your hand.
It’s Nather.
“Good evening my pearl. Prepare a proper suit, I will bring you to a nice place next time. In hope it cures you from your loneliness.”
Strangely, you only feel a black void at this news.
It should brighten your mood and bring a smile to your lips, but at this moment you can’t be helped. It only sharpens the dark needles in your heart.
You go to your contact and modify Thrawn’s profile to a more professional and stern “Captain Thrawn”.
That’s all you’re gonna be able to call him from now on, anyway.
You put down your comlink and bury yourself under the cover with your eyes shut close.
@bluechiss, @al-astakbar
#thrawn x f!reader#thrawn x reader#thrawn x you#thrawn x y/n#thrawn#grand admiral thrawn#mitth’raw’nuruodo#fanfic#vibratingskull
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CONTEXT!
This is a drabble of sorts that originates from a pizzaplex rp server. "You" used to work at a different location when the Afton virus hit and affected all locations.
You had spent 8 years with your Sun and Moon before the virus. And now you're starting over at a new location, where you've already started feeling protective over this Sun too.
Context over I'm too proud not to share
---
It’s late, very late, the kind of late that leaves your mouth feeling like it’s been partially replaced with cotton, tongue barely able to fit behind your teeth. Your fingers pluck at the thread you’d been knotting through slivers of bamboo for the past… six hours? No wonder you’re tired.
Sleep has never been your strong suit. Even as a child, you found yourself struggling to go to bed at the “proper” time and being extra grumpy when you had to be up at five to catch the bus. Your parents (let’s be real, your mother. Your father barely exists in your personal narrative except as the occasional villain), blamed you reading books and took them away. You just laid in bed instead, staring at the ceiling, letting your thoughts overwhelm you.
It’d been a point of contention between you and Moon. Your end of shift naps had come about as a compromise. It helped with your janitorial duties and you’d sleep for the last couple of hours before getting ready for school. Your use of Moon as a bed came from it threatening to burrito you like a cat and you not taking that seriously. Neither of you had put serious thought in how dependent you’d become on that little routine.
You sigh and put aside the su. The idea of making a massive sheet of paper taller than (most) of the animatronics at the plex was tantalizing, but there are no sugeta big enough for what you’re wanting, and you don’t want to think about the *how* of forming the sheet once you’re done weaving the mat. The muscles in your left arm twinge as you stretch, and you flinch, rubbing at the scars cut deep into your face. The partially finished su and its materials are put aside at the foot of the bed, and you fiddle with your headphones, turning up the music. Sinatra croons in your ear, reminding you again that you should sleep.
The pill calendar sits in plasticy judgment on the overly modern black quartz counter. You dump the rest of your coffee from last night into a mug. It’s bitter and cold, but it washes away some of the cotton building in your mouth. The numbness in your fingers and at the top of your head lingers, so, reluctantly, you pull the calendar closer.
Most of this stuff you’d started before. You flip open one of the nights, poking at the little pills, scooping out most and avoiding the smallest tablet. You’d forgotten to take the day too, so maybe that’s why you feel so cloudy. If you doubled up, well, then you’d feel twice as sharp in the morning. *It is morning*. So twice as sharp after a short nap.
Everything is downed with a swig of coffee. You’re not tired yet (that’s a lie). There’s a box sitting in the living room, waiting for you to get to it. No time like the present, so long as you’re quiet. You thumb through your playlist, skipping the next few songs, and grab a butter knife to cut open the tape.
It’s a frame for Sunny’s print. You’d ordered it right after he sent you the size of his poster, wanting it to match the frames of the other art Lilly's let you hang in the living room. Mostly from classmates or ordered online from artists you admire. It’s a very eclectic collection, and there’s not much space for Sunny’s work unless you start a second gallery wall by the window. But then you’d need *more* work and more frames and the only ones you have available are Sun’s.
Your Sun.
You pull down a *Bioshock* poster and hang Sunny’s piece instead, snapping a photo. There’s a notification from Ellis, a picture of a cosplay they’re thinking about making. You clear it without opening the text. Your feelings on *them* have become complicated, and you’re not dealing with complicated right now. You’re hanging art and making a sugeta and learning how to create the perfect mirror glaze and
Your fingers slip and you drop the old poster on your toes.
You’re exhausted. And you can’t call out, not to your internship. You haven’t missed a day yet, and you’d rather not set a precedent. You can’t take your sleeping pills. They’ll leave you groggy for days. And you can’t take your painkillers for similar reasons. Your body aches. You should shower and stretch, but it’s late and you can’t wear headphones and you play your music too loud without them. Lilly and you have a tentative agreement right now. You don’t want to mess that up. And you can’t *not* listen to your music because then your thoughts will come back and swirl around you until you’ve been pulled under and you’re not doing complicated right now.
Sinatra comes back, and you know it’s Moon telling you to go to sleep. The coffee took the edge off, but removing the edge of a cliff still leaves a cliff. You sigh and rub at your eye and push away your bangs from your forehead. And snap a picture of the poster. You can show Sunny later, when it’s not three in the morning. You’re not certain he would understand.
No, that’s not right. Sunny would understand. There’s two photos of the poster. That’s the problem. You should delete the duplicate photo. It’ll disappear forever.
You don’t delete the duplicate.
“Okay,” you say, voice inaudible to yourself. “I get it. I’ll sleep.”
You change out of the jeans that left deep red imprints against your belly and the binder that leaves your ribs aching. Everything hurts now, masking the pain from sitting bowed over your work for far too long. Your bed is soft, a pile of overly fluffy mattress toppers and pillows and blankets that you never properly remake, preferring to crawl into the nest and fish out the charger for your phone and headphones. You have to turn down the music for Lilly’s sake, but it keeps going as you yawn and snuggle into your favorite plush. It’s the DJ, shaped like a cube, something you very strongly suspect Moon hadn’t won so much as fished out of the claw game. *Well, it wasn’t cheating. I do have claws.* It’s the only FazCo branded item you keep in the open.
You snort and sigh. Things have been so *complicated* lately. Why did you seek out this Sun and Moon? Why did you come back to FazCo at all?
Okay, maybe you can do a little complicated. You pick up your phone, pausing the music. Silence tastes like cold, burnt coffee. You scroll through your archived videos, tutorials and recovery and exercises meant to help keep the muscles in your face and arm mobile. You stop in the middle of 2017, thumb trembling. The choice is taken away from you with an involuntary flinch.
*”And here we see the Moon in its natural habitat.” Your old voice comes through overly loud and tinny, and you turn the volume down as you flinch. Did you really sound like that before? “Being an absolute menace.” The camera sweeps over the ceiling outside the glamrocks’ green rooms, following a pixelated swath of nothingness.*
*“Here to serve.”* Blue. *Its voice is as loud as yours and the phone drops, camera catching a glimpse of blue and green and your own startled face before focusing on the ceiling. Moon’s hat dangles in the camera, and you can hear your old self giggling. “You need to work on your videography skills.” Moon bends over, hiding its face as a paw-like hand scoops up the phone. The world spins and it focuses on you. Younger, unscarred, trying very hard to grow out a mustache despite being only a couple weeks on T. “Here we have the overnight janitor, absolutely not doing his job and trying to keep me from doing my own as well.”*
*“Please, you do that plenty without my help.” The old you reaches for the phone but Moon holds it out of reach, still angled down to catch you trying to climb it, fingers digging in its shoulders. “I don’t let you pick out the playlist one night, and you have to pout about it. You’re a child.”*
*”Takes one to know one.” You’re still giggling in the video, but it gets muffled as Moon is dragged down to your level. You can’t see what’s happening, the angle is bad, but you remember. You’d kissed the silly bot’s face. Its giggling starts up, hands lowering, one cupping your cheek. You get a glimpse of you both, faces close as Moon pushes forward once more.*
The video ends abruptly, leaving you to stare at your own reflection, distorted over thumbnails over your past.
It’s not really that complicated, you suppose, flipping through the videos to find another. Most of them have been saved to an external hard drive, but you’ve kept a few for days like this. Days when you need to remember. When you need to cry.
You keep telling yourself it was easier away from the plex but the truth is, you aren’t sure that’s true. You lost six… eight months to recovery, then finished school and immediately started a residency. You’re still healing physically, and outside of a monthly check in with your psychiatrist to make sure you’re taking (most of) your meds, you’ve been ignoring your mental health entirely. Most of the time it’s “okay.”
You close out the videos, locking your phone. It’s dark and quiet and you feel so tired. It’s time for a nap, you decide. The swirl of thoughts settle over the sound of Moon’s laughter, and you try not to let the thoughts expand past that. Just the sound of laughter and the taste of silicone and coffee, fingers cramping as you stretch them out.
#constellations au#kinda#dca#fnaf dca#daycare attendant#fnaf daycare attendant#fnaf daycare au#the most normal pizzaplex in ohio#most normal pizzaplex in ohio
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20 questions writer meme!
Tagged by the wonderful @breakaway71! A little Friday night break to help me jumpstart some writing, hopefully?
1. How many works do you have on AO3? 26
2. What's your total AO3 word count? 219,077
3. What fandoms do you write for? Julie and the Phantoms, though I have a CW Nancy Drew fic percolating!
4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?
our hearts can speak ourselves unseen (first collab with @where-you-go, peterpatterlina + modern cyrano de bergerac)
complications you could do without (remix of crescent moon, peterpatterlina)
for love's sake only (the fake marriage historical/regency au, rulie)
want your midnights (the OG! new year's eve 1994, hint of peterpatter)
heaven above and closer (the other collab with @where-you-go, the 90s road trip coming of age au, julie x luke x reggie x bobby, willex)
5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Oh gosh. i try, for real, y'all. i often put it off because i want to get a good grade in commenting/responding, which is something real you can achieve, and then i end up not doing it at all. but i love each and every one i receive! i'm just so inconsistent about actually replying.
6. What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? hmmmmm. excellent question; even if i write angst i tend to veer toward a happy or at least hopeful ending (example: leave the light on)
actually you know what, heart like a wheel is probably the angstiest if you think about it. it's just that the main character doesn't know it, lol.
7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? oh gosh. i love a happy ending, so pick one. they're mostly all varying degrees of happy, lol
8. Do you get hate on fics? i have been very lucky so far in that i don't get outright hate, no.
9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? it's not the thrust (heh) of what i write, generally, but i have: for love's sake only and its sequel, to love's self alone, are both in the vein of a paperbook romance and are written as such. i do have a carrie x reggie smutfic in the queue though...
10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written? i can't say that i have! i might nod to another fandom but full crossovers seem so ambitious to me--two different worlds to track, two styles of story. i love reading them, though!
11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? if i have i'm not aware of it...
12. Have you ever had a fic translated? i have not!
13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? @where-you-go are now on our third collab (she, through some sorcery and witchcraft, got me to round robin on a luke x bobby fake dating story one week on here, and we're expanding it to a full fic, hopefully out before the end of the year!) and @daintyduck99 and i have put on that old song, aka the "i can't believe you married a rodeo cowboy" au, also hopefully coming soon! also maybe i'll poke @breakaway71 again about some dialogue i sent her ;)
14. What's your all-time favorite ship? i am a proud multi-shipper and you can't make me choose lololol
15. What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will? lol is "all of them" a valid answer? kidding. i have been struggling with getting over the finish line with WIPs this year so.
16. What are your writing strengths? dialogue, def. that's my theatre training/playwright classes coming through. i can always tell when i'm tired because my drafts devolve into dialogue only, haha.
17. What are your writing weaknesses? Oh gosh. endings! i can never seem to wrap things up in a snappy way! also lately stakes. like figuring out what the characters have at stake to lose in terms of the story.
18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? i'll do it sparingly but i generally avoid whole conversations. my grammar in spanish is terrible and that's the only other language i'd feel comfortable writing any dialogue at all in. maybe i'd ask family about tagalog.
19. First fandom you wrote for? oh man. hahahahahahahaha the real answer might be "self-insert o-town fanfic in which my friends and i fell in love with the band members"? but i think it might be gilmore girls. i do want to archive all my ff.net and livejournal (well, the stuff i can find :( ) things so you may see them on an ao3 near you
20. Favorite fic you've written? oh gosh. i love them all because they're mine! maybe for love's sake only because it really feels like i finished a full novella with that one. or heart like a wheel because i love tertiary character explorations. or want your midnights because it started this whole thing. see, i can't choose. don't make me
Tagging @innytoes, @jmrothwell, @daintyduck99, @invisibleraven, and anyone else who sees this and wants to participate in the fun!
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Sunset in Koral
The second part of @spacestephh 's ASK
Thank you for the prompt. I may be very slow with my writing, but you are very welcome to send prompts from this list. Or, well, your own ideas!
Check out my carrd for links to the info about SWARM.
taglist: @roofgeese @onehornedbeast @theelderhazelnut @scentedcandleibex
Writing under cut!
When the sky turns pink and the sun descends into the Green Sea, life in Koral slows down, ready to come to a halt once the night falls.
Avaritie’s shift is long over. For hours now, he’s been patrolling the city streets, looking for a soul begging to be taken away. But this day is lucky. The people he meets are all as honest as it gets, not a single liar, crook or thug in sight. Every now and again such days make him hope that his cleansing of the city is over, that every sinner has been captured and is now in search of atonement. But every now and again, he finds another soul to harvest, another red marble to swallow.
But this day is not one of the latter so Avaritie returns to his communal apartment, to the other guild members. They laugh happily, surprised at the smile adorning his ever-strict features. The water tastes better and the wooden cot feels like a good bed. The crown is taken off his head, and he lies down, ignoring the heavy weight of all the souls in his stomach. The sleep comes to him quickly, and his dreams are pleasant, just this once.
On the opposite side of the city, Royal Deluxe walks Kali Kali home. The tiny woman had finished all of her work before the sun had reached the zenith, and spent the rest of the day with her boyfriend and his other girls.
Kali Kali’s prosthetic leg hits the uneven road in sync with Royal Deluxe’s cane. They walk in comfortable silence, having talked for quite a while today already. Kali Kali holds his hand, happily leaning on him, and Royal Deluxe smiles. For a moment, they both forget their love isn’t real.
Torophya and Neela are both home. Neela had returned first, her house just a few minutes away from the agency. She visits Royal Deluxe’s mother, making sure she’s feeling well. The old lady beckons her, and Neela just can’t resist the sweet herbal scent emanating from the kitchen. She joins the Fortune Teller for a cup of tea, then helps her with the dishes. It reminds her that she’s still alive, and that her life is beautiful. She smiles, staring at the now empty sink.
Torophya has no reason to hurry. Her work for today is done, she has no places or people to visit, and all she wants is to get to her little basement flat. Once there, she warms up the water, slowly and patiently. She feels so tired, but the water calms her down. She pours the flowery salts into the water, humming a centuries-old song, so old its words remember the bombs and the bullets. Torophya knows nothing about that, just singing about a faraway land, erased from the humankind’s memory, of its trees and rivers long turned into coal and deserted valleys. The song is over, the tub is full, and Torophya climbs in, finally relaxing.
Royal Deluxe returns alone, well into the night. He travels to Hynoon, then Mariah, meeting no more than a couple of late walkers like him. A lantern in his hands scares the shadows away, and the moon above provides some extra light as well. When he’s home, his mother is already fast asleep, too tired to wait for him. He covers her with a second blanket, looks over her fondly and returns to his room. The deceitful candlelight makes his reflection flicker, distorting his beautiful features. The mouth on his neck whispers something unintelligible, not a single soul to charm. There is a long list of names with quick portrait doodles near them, all of them highlighted – except the last four.
Swarm returns home even later.
“Had a nice walk?” Renata asks, chopping the vegetables for a simple salad.
“Was viewing the sunset”, Swarm answers, closing the door behind him.
“Did you draw it?”
“Of course”.
Swarm opens his notebook, carefully hand-made from the insanely expensive Big Land paper, holding it up to her. The sheets are all colorful, filled with beautiful drawings. A dozen portraits of Renata. The many sights of Koral, from the main square and the belltower to the many sculptures and ruins of Hynoon. It is a little dirty, with splashes of colored ink turned into funny small doodles.
One of the latest drawings catches her attention.
“Who’s that?” she points to a profile of a beautiful woman, dark-skinned and with the most perfect nose Renata’s ever seen.
“Fatima, from the Greenhouses”, Swarm answers nonchalantly. Renata sighs, a pang of jealousy in her chest. “I was there today. The strawberries should ripen soon.”
“Is that so?”
“I thought you wanted to dry some for the winter”.
“I’ll collect them myself”.
“If you say so…”
Swarm sits down on the straw-filled pillow in the corner, closing his violet eyes, unwilling to leave Renata to eat alone.
“At least he doesn’t wait for Fatima like this”, Renata thinks, hiding a triumphant smile.
The salad is all finished. Swarm takes the bowl to the sink. Renata inspects her plant-filled shelves and nods, bidding Swarm goodbye and leaving for her room.
As she closes her eyes, ready to drift to sleep, hundreds of beetles exit the neighboring window, wings glistening in the moonlight.
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WIP WEDNESDAY!!!
Thank you for the tag @happy-beeeps @corrieguards and @ghostofskywalker ! I'm a week late (whoops), but at least it's Wednesday!
Here's a little excerpt from my Vampire!Fennec Western AU fic that is taking me forever to write (It's been over a month and Its still only 4.5k words). I'm determined to finish it though
You step further from the lantern light, humming a new song. It doesn’t feel so bad, following your heart. The night is peaceful.
There’s a rustling sound, accompanied by a solid, rhythmic thumping somewhere beyond the fence. The new beat is deep, slow, and uneven. You stop humming, and the thudding stops too.
Something stands in the distance, a few paces from your fence line. A figure, sitting atop a dark horse, lingers in the night. You stare into the moonlit dark, and a woman’s face, almost familiar, stares back at you. It looks like the stranger in town, maybe, but you can’t be sure—you hadn’t been able to see the bottom half of her face like you do now.
The rider’s clothes are dark, but it’s impossible to tell if they hold any color by the light of the stars. A hat sits atop her head, brim pulled low, but you can still see her eyes.
They’re glowing, reflecting red—two blood moons taking you in.
The lanternlight must be reflecting off her eyes, you think, or the moon. But that can’t be so. The lantern burns too low to reach her, it doesn’t even reach the edge of your porch, and the brim of her hat would block any light from above.
This woman isn’t quite right. The shadows are walking again, taking solid form, and you think she might be one of them. You get the sinking sense that she’s a predator, and you’re her prey.
Tagging: @starrylothcat @groguspicklejar @fives-girlfriend @freesia-writes
#tag game#I'm absolutely obsessed with this au but writing feels like pulling out my own teeth#I love it I hate it#if I was able to focus on anything for more than 5 seconds this fic might have been done much sooner#vampire!fennec my beloved please give me strength
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My Monthly Favs
What’s in my cup:
Every morning I drink iced coffee made from my one & only Nespresso machine. The past few months I can’t get enough of the double espresso blend, and then I add a bit of whole milk (happy cows only) and sweet cream. I can’t find anything better from Starbucks or anywhere else. Sometimes if I’m craving a hot drink, I’ll head to Dutch Bros for a hot Carmelizer and it is totally worth the cringy 9 minute forced convo with the DB crew. I also start my day with electrolytes, currently in the watermelon flavor. It’s surprisingly really delicious but I miss the Electrolyte Synergy blend that I was drinking for a long time, which has been sold out for almost a year now. :’)
What’s on my plate:
Dinner lately has been the laziest in America. After our trip, Drew & I either have the same ole chicken, rice and veggies, a spicy “mexican bowl” or some form of pasta, usually with Raos Arriabatta sauce. This week we’ve been stuffing our faces with Trader Joe’s frozen meals. We promise to be better next month, but we are really exhausted and the last thing we feel like planning are meals. However, for the last week of December we actually have some things planned for the holiday weekend. On Friday, we’re hitting up the town as we do every year to walk around and see the lights, and find festive little bars to try out new Christmas cocktails. We plan to spend Christmas with just the two of us. For Christmas Eve we are making our annual corn beef, cabbage and carrots because apparently we are super Irish (confirmed by 23&me which btw leaked all my genes to hackers). On Christmas we are having tri-tip, garlic & butter brussel sprouts, and mashed potatoes. The Christmas cookies we’re making this year include White Chocolate Cherry Shortbread cookies, Peanut Butter Blossoms, & Holly Leaves. Okay and now that I’ve told you all that, the Christmas cocktails we decided on this year are The Mistletoe Kiss (a vodka, soda water, rosemary & cranberry drank) and Bad Santa White Russians. I also heard that Moon X Pinot Noir from Trader Joes was really good and lately the Redvolution just isn’t doing it for me. Let me know if you want any of these recipes, ladies. I will make sure to find GF, DF, and V options.
What’s on my bookshelf:
I’ve finished two of the Colleen Hoover books, and now I’m reading another one of hers called Verity. It’s kinda depressing but that’s kinda the vibe as of late so I’m into it.
What’s in my playlist:
We love the Sia Christmas album. It’s so fun and happy. Believe it or not, Andy introduced me to it lol. It’s so good!! Other songs I’ve been into are I remember everything by Zach Bryan and Kacey Musgraves. It reminds me of a family member rn which is very depressing to me. Fun to cry to. Bubble - STAYC, Surround Sound - JID 21 Savage, Baby Tate, Adora Hills - Doja Cat.
What I’m up to:
Making our house into a winter wonderland of lights. Watching hella hallmark movies. Being seriously lazy, not working out or eating healthy. Walks with Snoop around the park. Mandala scratch off nightscapes. Reading at 3am when I was jetlagged. I had a sleep study this month too, no sleep apnea for me, back to mouth taping! It really does help with quality of sleep for me. You should try it! Also magnesium spray on my feet (shout out to Aly). This has helped with my restless leg syndrome that we’ve all experienced. This weekend, we’re making all our foods and cocktails, going downtown, driving around with hot choc to look at lights, and heading up to Rocky Mountain to hike a bunch of mountains.
Skincare Saviors:
My skin gets so dry in Colorado, its TERRIBLE. And now that I’m saving for a house, I had to break up with my amazing esthetician, who by the way I stole this template from. I’m obsessed with Dermlogica thanks to her. I use a miscellar water if I wore any make-up. If not, I just double clease with my face wash. In the AM I’ll use my Rosehip Triple C+E Firming Oil, followed by COSRX snail mucin essence, and a magical mix of calm water gel and intensive moisture balance.
Love you long time,
Li
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Warning: violence, death
Ch.2: See-Saw Jimin
The clock strikes midnight and, as if he had been waiting outside the door like you knew he would be, you hear Jimin give three loud knocks. Unlike his older brother, Jimin waits to be told to come in.
Still in your bathrobe, your hair still wet from the bath earlier, you tell him to come in through gritted teeth. Jimin pops his head in and he had a sickly sweet smile on his face, a lock of blond hair falling over his eyes. “Can you say that again, please? Nicer this time,” he says, waiting for your reply. You chew on the inside of your cheek before nodding and he disappears back outside. Once again, he knocks three times.
Pushing back on your anger, you call out almost in a sing-song voice, “Come in, Jiminie.” He pushes open the door and smiles brightly, satisfied this time. He comes over and you’re a little surprised that he’s in pyjamas, a navy blue set with stars and moons all over it, making him look younger, almost childlike.
He locks the door behind him and approaches you sitting at the small table facing the opened French doors. There’s a light breeze and it makes this summer night a little bit more bearable. Jimin looks at the teapot and your empty teacup. “Chamomile? With honey?”
You give him a small nod. “Yes. It’s finished, though.”
“Good,” he replies, sitting down in the other chair. “Should be good to calm your nerves after what happened. I can’t believe Jin-hyung brought you there.”
You eye him suspiciously, trying to get a read of what mood he’s in. It’s always a hit and miss with Jimin. You choose not to say anything back, throwing your gaze out the French doors into the inky darkness outside. The balcony is wide with a double-seated wicker sofa pushed against one wall. This is where you sometimes spend your time on your two free days - the days that come after a complete cycle of the seven brothers - with a book or just a head so tangled you don't know where one thought begins and another ends.
The balcony itself has an amazing view of the back end of the estate that the boys called their backyard; a huge understatement as it spans acres of land that looked like an abandoned garden. It’s as if someone decided to start a botanical garden but then completely discarded it years down the line. That, or the person died and no one has the time or knowledge to continue tending to all the different types of plants so much so that the west side is overgrown with rose bushes, their thorns growing almost as big as your pinky.
In the centre of the land stands one of the oldest and biggest oak trees that you’ve ever seen, its gnarled branches growing in every which way. At night, in the dark, the oak tree is a scary thing to look at even from a distance. For some reason, you can’t shake the feeling of malice and enmity every time you look at it. Taehyung mentions a mausoleum once but refuses to say exactly where it is and you think a house full of dead people would be much better than an ancient, evil-looking tree.
“We should go to bed,” pipes up Jimin after a long silence of you staring out the balcony door and him just curiously studying you. “Those bags under your eyes are not doing you any good.”
You glare at him. “And whose fault is that?”
His eyes widen in innocence as he shakes his head like a golden retriever, hair flopping over his eyes. “Definitely not mine since my day just started. I heard Namjoon-hyung was late to leave. Must’ve been his, then.”
You groan, rolling your eyes at him. You pad over to the closet, walking in and sitting down on the cushion stool, staring up at Jimin’s section. Yes, your walk-in closet is divided into seven sections of clothes you are to wear, one section for each of the brothers, all very different styles from each other. It’s madness, pure fucked-uppery how they treat you like a pet to be dressed up the way they like it and be used and abused seven different ways of hell. But to be honest, when you really think about it, the one person you want to put a bullet through is your goddamn sperm donor, but can you even do that?
Jimin walks in and goes straight to the nightwear of his section. He pulls out a blue pyjama set that matches his and hands it over cheerfully. “Here. This one.”
You look at the cotton set, a tell-tale sign of which side of Jimin you’re dealing with tonight. You take the pyjamas from him and let him undress the bathrobe, noticing the slight pinkish hue of his cheeks when he sees that you have nothing underneath except the lace panties, the only type of garment that the brothers all seem to agree on. That reaction alone manages to soften you up but only a little.
You let Jimin put the pyjamas on you almost like dressing up a porcelain doll; careful touches, gentle grips, little soft manoeuvres. He seems content with the end product and insists on drying and brushing your hair. Sitting on the middle of the bed, he meticulously braids your hair, his tongue poking out in between his lips as he focuses on the movement of his fingers. “Your hair is very fine. It refuses to stick properly,” he complains, furrowing his eyebrows.
You sense the change and quickly tell him, “It looks fine, Jiminie. It’s pretty. You’re doing a good job.”
He immediately perks up, eyebrows going up. “Really? I must be getting better then!”
“Mhm. You are,” you agree, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Done!” Taking your hand, he leads you to the full body mirror in the corner, turning you this way and that to try and show you his work. You nod, smiling and telling him it looks good without even really registering how the top part is already coming loose.
Facing the mirror, Jimin wraps his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on the top of your head. “We look cute together, don’t we?”
You take this chance to scrutinise his face; the soft brown eyes, the wavy hair that hides his forehead, the full pouty lips, the crooked front teeth that’s actually cute. You nod your head again, smiling just a little before it turns into a yawn. You let him take you back to the bed and tucks you in, laying down next to you, running his fingers through your hair as he props his head on one hand, watching you like he always does before bed. It’s not long before your breathing evens out.
“You wish you didn’t have to be here, don’t you?” he whispers, tracing one finger over your forehead. “You wish you’re far, far away from us, don’t you?”
You barely hear him, fatigue kicking in the moment you relaxed yourself and sleep takes over pretty quickly, a rare occasion for a light sleeper like you. You squirm and adjust your position, turning your head away so that all Jimin can see is your left side profile. He smiles to himself, appreciating the exposed skin of your neck where he can clearly see where the pulse point should be. He watches the spot until he sees your breathing has slowed down enough before closing in, pushing his face centimetres away from yours.
Your eyelids flutter, a sign that a dream has taken you away. Jimin finds himself wondering about it, whether if it’s good or bad and if it’s good, was he in it, and if it’s bad, is he the reason? He shakes his head. No, if it’s a bad dream then it must be Jin-hyung because why the hell did he bring you over to the Wolfsbane House for? Even Jimin gets the heebie jeebies whenever he’s in the presence of Giacoma Wolfbane. The man would have his eyes all over him, looks that make him feel vulnerable and exposed like he’s undressing Jimin in his head. He shivers just thinking of it.
Jimin’s eyes linger downwards, down to your neck almost upturned to him. He can smell the jasmine soap scent coming off your skin and he puts his nose closer, bumping it a little. He freezes but you don’t move and judging from your breathing, he didn’t wake you. Without stalling anymore in case you do wake up, he inches closer and brushes his lips against the pulse point. When you don’t stir, he tries again, pressing his lips ever so softly, feeling the warmth of your skin. Cheekily, he snakes his tongue out and takes a quick swipe, pausing to check your reaction.
When again you don’t move, he continues his work, sweeping his hair back out of his face.
Morning comes blasting through the drawn curtains of the French doors and you wake with the sun literally shining into your eyes. You squint, using one hand to shield your face, groaning at the fact that it’s not even eight. You sit up and immediately jump, startled to see Jimin sitting in the armchair next to the bed, staring at you.
“Jeez,” you sigh, a hand on your chest. “You scared me.”
Jimin doesn’t speak and you look at him more closely: all black outfit, black T-shirt, black skinny jeans, black Chelsea boots and his hair, straightened, is parted to the side, swept back and out of his face, displaying the silver dangling earrings he has on. Fuck, you think as you slowly pull the sheets back to get out of bed. You mumble about going to get dressed when Jimin stops you with one word, “No.”
You pause, turning on your heels to face him. You can never get a good read on him, never can fully tell what he plans to do or what’s on his mind, not that you’re actually good with the others as well but Jimin, when he’s like this, seems to be swinging from one random thought to the next. And just when you think you’re finally getting him, he completely flips.
Jimin points to a spot in front of him. “Come.”
You shuffle over to the spot and stand there, waiting for him to speak first. He’s looking at you from top to bottom, his forehead scrunching up at the pyjamas. Then he looks up again. “Hair.”
You touch your messy, half undone braid with hair sticking out in different directions, pulling it over your shoulder to look at it. You glance over at Jimin, trying to decipher what he meant and go with the safest option. “I’m sorry. It must have come undone during the night.”
He returns your look coolly, his face void of any emotions. He barely even moved, sitting back in the armchair, one finger at his chin. He barely even blinks, regarding you through hooded eyes. Finally he stands up, one swift motion that makes you step back involuntarily, and approaches you. He takes your hair by the tied up end and pulls off the rubber band.
“Ow!” you yelp. “What the hell was that for?”
He hands you the band. “Off.”
You ignore him, turning around and walking off to the bathroom. He follows you at a slower pace, but stops by the doorway. You start brushing your teeth, glaring at him through the mirror, growing angrier by his blank expression. He still has the rubber band in between his fingers, rolling it around as he watches you.
You spit out the toothpaste and rinse your mouth, splashing some cold water onto your face as well. You shake out your hair from the braid, using your fingers to untangle it and that’s when you notice the reddish spot on your neck. You lean closer to the mirror, tilting your neck to see better. It’s a hickey.
“What the…?”
Jimin appears right behind you. “Mine.”
You lock eyes with him, unsure of how to proceed. What does that even mean? You look back in the mirror at the spot on your neck, rubbing one finger over it as if it might smudge off. Jimin catches your hand and pulls it down but not releasing it. He looms closer, never breaking eye contact and lightly places a kiss directly on the hickey. Again, he repeats, “Mine.”
He made the hickey? Or is he saying you’re his?
Sensing your still confusion, he presses another kiss, harder this time in the same spot, and again, with added pressure, and one last time. This time he uses his teeth to pull at the skin, making you wince. He continues to suck on the tender skin there, turning it purplish blue now. You try to pull away but he’s holding you in place. There’s a sort of frenzy in his eyes now and there’s nothing you can do except wait him out, gritting your teeth to bear the sting. When he finally lets go, the hickey is now dark-coloured and very obvious, looking more like a bruise the size of your thumb than a love mark. He steps back, admiring his work, looking happy with himself.
“Are you done?” you ask in a huff.
He doesn’t respond.
Collecting yourself, you gently push away from him and step outside, making a beeline for the closet. As if there’s a string attached from your hips to his, he follows you out. Going through Jimin’s closet section, you try to pick out something with a high neck, something that can hide the hideous thing on your neck. You pull down a high polo neck sweater but Jimin rushes forward and grabs it from you, putting it back up. He then chooses a royal blue satin tank top with thin criss cross straps and a black short skirt to match it with. He then goes over to the shoes area and picks out a pair of ankle boots before coming back to hand everything over to you.
He points to his watch and taps the face three times, looking pointedly at you. Then he walks out, hands in his pockets. You get dressed, put on light makeup and hurry downstairs. You head over to the front door but only see Jungkook’s car idling. You backtracked, going back inside and running into Jungkook, the youngest brother, coming down the stairs.
“G’morning, sunshine,” he greets with his usual bright smile and passes by you heading into the dining room where the table for eight is set up with breakfast food. He’s still fixing his tie and seems to struggle with it. You follow behind, wanting to ask if he knows where Jimin is but he turns around with a cute pout, holding out the tie. “Help?”
You can’t help but chuckle, going over to help him with the tie. He doesn’t say much but you can feel his eyes on you. You don’t mind it; Jungkook is one of the easiest ones to get along with. He’s normal at least. Somewhat.
“No.”
You both turn to see Jimin coming from the kitchen, unrolling his sleeves. His face is clouded and his eyes are angry but you note that it’s not directed at you. You step back from Jungkook. “I just helped him with his tie, that’s all,” you say to placate him, knowing that if his mood is foul the whole day, you’ll bear the brunt of it.
“No,” he repeats, eyebrows stitching together, eyes fixed on Jungkook.
“Relax,” says Jungkook. “I’m leaving anyway.”
He picks up a cup of coffee and takes a few sips, grabbing a piece of toast and saluting you with it before leaving. You hear the front door open and close and the sound of his car driving off, wishing that it was his day instead of Jimin’s.
You turn back to Jimin and he fixes a cool gaze on you. He makes a sweeping gesture at the breakfast spread. “Eat.”
What is with this family and food?
You take a seat and Jimin settles down next to you, spreading butter on your toasts. He picks up the strawberry jam bottle and looks at you questioningly. You nod and he proceeds to add the jam on top of the butter. One of the maids comes out and pours tea into your cup and coffee into his, barely making any eye contact before going off into the back.
“...to get a lot of push back on the raised tax so we should be prepared for that. Fucking hell, I don’t even know why Jin-hyung had to do that. It’s ridiculous because we have to clean up the mess.”
Hoseok’s voice carries into the dining room as footsteps descend the stairs and you whip your head around just as he rounds the corner, buttoning the cuff of his white shirt sleeves. Tall and lean with his hair slicked back and no tie with the first two buttons undone, you can’t help but admire how handsome he is even with the half scowl on his face that immediately disappears when he sees you. But then his eyes flicker over to Jimin and the dip in between his eyebrows is back.
Namjoon comes in behind him, his suit jacket in one hand, using one lapel corner to wipe his glasses. He puts them back on but barely acknowledges you, almost as if his eyes just gleam over your seat. He’s looking at Jimin, a cup of coffee at his lips. “Why aren’t you the one going to smooth things over with the Wolfsbane? It’s your department.”
Hoseok laughs. “It’s also his department that went and stuck a frigging knife in the boss’ hand.” He turns to you, one hand on the back of your seat. “I can’t believe Jin-hyung made you do that last night. I’ll give him a good talking to when I see him next, Jagi.”
Namjoon makes a face. “Yeah, but they’re literally PR. That’s their job.”
“And we’re the clean up crew,” Hoseok says, patting Namjoon on the shoulder. “How about this? I’ll handle the Wolfsbane and you can meet up with Yoongi-hyung in town.”
“You know I hate collection day.” Namjoon sighs, putting down his cup. “I’ll wait in the car.”
Hoseok arches his eyebrows at him good-naturedly. “Everyday is collection day. So you’re coming with me?”
Namjoon rolls his eyes. “Someone has to or you’ll go overboard.”
As Namjoon is leaving the room, you hear Hoseok mutter, “Damn it. Yoongi-hyung must have put him on me.” He whirls around and speaks to Jimin. “Can you believe this? Yoongi-hyung is making Namjoon watch over me.”
“Because of what happened last time?” you ask, sipping on your tea.
Hoseok pouts. “They’re overreacting over rats who don’t know where to put their loyalty. Someone had to remind them.”
You snort. “I don’t think beating them half to death would keep it either.”
“Honey,” says Hoseok leaning down close to you, “if I was nicer, I’d be on the same team as Jinmin or Taekook, simple as that.” He straightens up and puts on his suit jacket. “But there’s a reason why I’m the Punisher and Namgi the Collectors.”
“Go,” Jimin growls from next to you, not even looking up at his brother, frowning so deeply at the scrambled eggs on his plate that they would’ve scrambled away if they had been given the opportunity to live.
Hoseok smirks and winks at you. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jagi.”
Munching on your toast, you ask Jimin, “Where are we going?”
He doesn’t answer but wipes his mouth with the napkin, takes another swig of his coffee and then stands up. He pulls on his jacket, buttoning them up swiftly. “Come,” he says and without waiting, walks out of the dining room and out into the courtyard.
You roll your eyes. “Come. Go. No. Stop,” you mimic, making a face. You stand up and frustratingly push back the chair only to turn around and see Jimin standing by the window looking at you darkly. You throw him a sweet smile and a wave before following to meet him outside, although you can’t deny the way your heart is thudding widely at being caught.
In the car, Jimin busies himself with his phone. You wonder how long this Jimin will hold before Jiminie comes back but he’s going to need his vocabulary when we arrive wherever we’re going. The crease in between his eyebrows is only growing so you keep your mouth shut and stare out the window, again finding yourself looking at the House crest on the iron gate, the seven petals blooming out almost spectacularly menacing.
Lotus Sanguis is one of the oldest, richest and largest House that spans from the east coast to the west coast of the region, their influence going deep down to the roots of most of the other smaller groups, like Wolfsbane, who have pledged their infinite loyalty to Lotus Sanguis. So deep and indisputable is their reach that it goes even into those of opposing Houses, acting as eyes and ears, reporting anything and everything and almost instantaneously. You can never hide from Lotus Sanguis, can never run either. Any signs of aggression or mutiny directed to the House will be met harshly but never with haste. There’s nothing more Lotus Sanguis love than the slow suffering of their enemies.
Jade Dragon House is one of the larger groups that managed to hold their own in the southeast, eluding the grasp of Lotus Sanguis yet smart enough to skirt around their territories to grow into an almost matching force, that is until your father took over. The death of Huang Feng, your grandfather, was surrounded with too many conspiracies and when your father took the throne, the whispers only got louder. He was hot-headed and impatient, greedy and reckless and too impulsive. He succumbed to the pressure of filling shoes that were too big and not made for him, dismantling the group completely from its glorious form.
According to Jin, Jade Dragon was drowning in debt and businesses were going to ruin, and that they were hanging by a thread. That was when Lotus Sanguis came in, offering financial assistance in exchange for loyalty. But David had been too proud to serve under anyone and the group was at the brink of destruction. Fortunately for him, he had a sacrificial piece, the last of his play to maintain power. Not so fortunate for you, however.
“What are you thinking about?”
You turn to find Jimin staring at you with his head tilted to one side. A lock of hair has gotten loose from the gel and fallen over his face. You shake your head, smiling wryly. “Just my miserable fate.”
Jimin looks thoughtful for a moment then says, “Is it really that bad? Living with us?”
You stare at him, a little struck by his question. There’s sincerity in his eyes but his body language is somewhat defensive; the head cock, the constant chin rubbing with the side of his finger, the slight arch of his eyebrows. You turn away from him, muttering, “Do I even have a choice in that?”
“You’re not in shackles,” he comments lightly. “You can just run, if you had wanted to.”
You laugh, incredulous. “Really? And I would’ve succeeded?”
Jimin hums to himself as he thinks, looking out the window. “Probably not. Hoseok would’ve loved the chase, though.” He turns around again. “But he’d have to bring you to the Tree if you did.”
You frown. “Tree?”
“We’re here.”
The car pulls to a stop and Jimin gets out before the driver can get his door for him, opting to come over to your side instead and help you out. The high-rise building looks like it belongs to some conglomerate group but you can’t see any signs or logos that could tell you whose it is. It’s a new building from the looks of the fresh paint and somewhat deserted parking lot.
“Are you coming?”
You follow Jimin into the building, watching as he checks himself in the reflective surface of the elevator door, fussing with his hair and picking lint off of his clothes. His shoulders look more relaxed than earlier today but he doesn’t seem to like the choice of clothes on himself. You keep catching him looking at your top and then down to his own, pouting.
“What?” you ask finally just as the elevator pings and the door opens, splitting your reflections into halves. You both step in and Jimin presses a floor number.
“We’re not matching,” he grumbles. “And black is so boring.”
“Sounds more like a you problem,” you reply back.
He doesn’t respond, checking his watch. The elevator pings again and the door opens up to a bare hallway. You follow Jimin out, passing a few doors before he stops at one.
“Do I have to be here?” you ask before he reaches for the doorbell.
Jimin looks a little flustered, looking from you to the door and then just the general surrounding. “Uh, well, no. You can wait down in the car, I guess.”
“Really? Now you tell me?”
You sigh, ready to bolt back to the elevator. Suddenly, the office door opens and a man in a brown suit is standing there, a little confused. You meet his gaze, the faint bell of recognition ringing in the distance but can’t quite conjure up his name nor how you knew him. He, however, looks a little more surprised. He opens his mouth to say something but Jimin, noticing him staring, diverts his attention.
“So you’re going to invite me in or not?”
The man snaps his eyes away to address Jimin. “Yes, sorry. Come on in.” He looks back at you making your way back to the elevator. He watches until you step away from his line of sight, finally closing the door behind him to focus on business.
Downstairs, the driver opens the car door for you but you shake your head, resting your back against the car instead, looking up at the building. Your brain is working through the folds trying to place the man you saw upstairs but everytime you think you almost got him, he sort of slips away. You’ve seen him before, yes, but when and where and more importantly, who the hell is he?
The driver, a man probably in his thirties and looks like he served in the Marines, stands stoically a few feet away, hands behind his back. He maintains his eyes on the entrance, never even moving a muscle, doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. You heave a sigh, leaning further into the car. Without thinking, you ask aloud, “Who the fuck is he?”
The driver shifts ever so slightly. “Rafael Campania, Black Tiger’s advisor.”
You mull over the name, tossing it around on your tongue, trying to see if that will jog your memory. Nada. But Black Tiger, yes. They rule the southwest region and continue to flourish especially after your grandfather’s death. Both dragon and tiger have a sort of ironic bond, warring under the surface for the most influence of the southern region but maintain a sort of respect for each other, a little nod to acknowledge the other’s power whenever they cross paths. But David destroyed that long-nurtured relationship, too. Now, Jade Dragon looks to be at risk of being swallowed by the tiger, that much you’re sure of. Gone were the haydays of the dragon.
If Jimin is meeting with him, it can only mean one of two things: a merger or a collaboration, both of which mean nothing good to Jade Dragon. You curse yourself, wondering why you still even care about your family House when your father threw you to the wolves the first chance he got. But then again, your loyalty is not with Lotus Sanguis either. Stateless. Houseless. Homeless.
Thirty minutes later, you see Jimin come out through the entrance, immediately pulling on his dark sunglasses as he steps into the sun. The man from upstairs, Rafael, comes out just after him, eyes instantly locked on you.
Jimin turns around to face him, extending out a hand. “Well, we’ll be in touch soon. I suggest keeping your phone close by. My brother isn’t a patient man.”
Rafael looks at Jimin and takes his hand. “Seokjin, right? Heard what happened with Wolfsbane last night.”
“Words travel fast,” Jimin remarks coldly.
Rafael chuckles, eyes, again, flicking over to you. “Justified. We all know not to put our hands on other people’s toys.”
A peculiar feeling slides down the back of your neck like a cold clammy hand has been placed there and you fight hard against the shiver travelling through your body. That same bell is ringing in the back of your mind but you’re not sure if it’s out of familiarity or alarm.
“And if you look too long,” Jimin drawls, gripping Rafael’s hand harder, “I might think you’re having ideas of touching other people’s toys.”
You watch as Jimin rakes back his hair, removing the lock of hair from over his forehead. His body seems to stiffen up, standing almost ramrod straight, his face turning stony, the easy smile wiping off. He takes a step back, regards Rafael for a second before turning his head and heading for the car, fixing his jacket. The driver moves forward to get the door and Jimin gestures to you with a jerk of his chin, “Inside.” For once, you oblige happily. Rafael Campania follows the car with his eyes until it disappears in the distance.
The car ride is silent. Jimin sits with his chin on his fist looking out the window, brooding. The driver watches his employer through the rearview mirror, glancing a few times before finally asking, “Sir, you have one more meeting or shall we head home?”
A couple of minutes pass and Jimin still hasn’t answered the question, probably won’t ever, judging by how he is at the moment. One-word Jimin is moody and short-tempered and if being monosyllabic isn’t a good enough reason to stay away from doing business, then his tantrums should be. You don’t know his schedule, not even any of the others’ but something tells you that this next one might be important enough for the driver suggesting going home instead so as not to botch it.
Right when the car comes to the last intersection that would take you either homebound or back into the city, Jimin finally speaks up, “Meeting.” The driver makes a hard right.
You don’t like this side of Jimin but you haven’t actually experienced his meltdown firsthand, only had seen it when the brothers argued, which only ever happened once since you came. But they go hard. Imagine seven hot-blooded mafia lords going at each other in the confined space of the dining room and when it’s all over, the furniture is barely furniture anymore and it took two weeks for the room to be repaired and repainted over, the carpets and wall fixtures reinstalled and a thin scar on your arm from a stray glass piece. So you learnt to shut up but not out of fear, mostly to not escalate the situation for your own sake. You tend to get mouthy, too.
“Hand.”
You turn around to see Jimin looking at you pointedly, one hand palm upward. Your eyebrow dips in a half frown, wondering what ridiculous game he’s playing at now. His forehead creases up when you don’t respond, holding out his hand further forward. Then his eyes move from your face to your own hands in your lap and then to his own coming back to look at you. He doesn’t repeat himself, hardly ever does, waiting.
Reluctantly, you slide your hand into his and he pulls it over into his lap, turning away towards the window as if the whole exchange never happened. Sitting in an awkward position slightly slanted across the middle seat, you catch the driver’s eyes through the rearview mirror and you could almost swear he was smiling or was at least amused.
Scooting over to make yourself more comfortable, Jimin now has your hand clasped in between both of his, one thumb absentmindedly tracing slow circles over yours, softly, gently much to your surprise. He’s still staring off into the distance, eyes clearly unfocused.
“We’re here, sir,” announces the driver as the car pulls up into a shoplot district in a major part of town known to be associated with the mafia groups but always bustling with people. No one discusses the less-than-legal organisations openly and no one can actually prove anything and even if they could, no one dares to.
“Your hand is so soft,” he mumbles.
You look up at Jimin, noticing the difference instantly; the softer eyes, the loose lock of hair, the kinder smile. He raises your hand up to his face and brushes his lips over your knuckles. “Fits perfectly in mine. Makes me more…centred.”
For the first time, there’s warmth in his voice and you feel it spread over you like melted butter, relaxing your shoulders as you sink back into the leather seat. He throws his gaze back out the window, watching the people passing by. When he speaks, it’s almost as if he’s speaking to himself more than to you. “I hate it when he comes out. It’s cold.”
You try to make sense of what he said but can’t quite figure it out so you remain quiet, not wanting to set him off again. It’s much nicer when he’s like this, anyway. He turns back around with a soft smile. “Stay in the car, okay? I won’t be long.”
You watch him walk towards a building, cutting through the throngs of people seamlessly almost as if they weren’t even there. He stops in front of a shop and that’s when you see Jin coming to meet him. They speak with their heads leaning in together and Jin looks over to the car once and you think you make eye contact even though it shouldn’t be possible since the windows are dark-tinted from the outside. Then they both disappear up the stairs to the side of the building, Jin leading the way.
Sitting back in the seat, you rest your head back and close your eyes, breathing in deeply. The stress of being on alert since the moment you woke up slowly recedes in the absence of any one of the Lotus brothers. Lotus brothers. What were their surnames again? Surely it’s not Lotus, right? You sit up, trying to think if you knew their last name, and catch the driver looking at you through the rearview mirror. He quickly averts his gaze.
“Do you think I can go walk around?” you ask nonchalantly, looking out the window.
The driver is quiet at first and then finally says, “The master told you to stay in the car and wait.”
You let out a heavy sigh. “Can’t you just let him know I went for a walk?”
“I don’t think that’s ideal,” he replies, turning around to look through the partition. “Please wait a little. He’ll be back soon. Or shall I call for him?”
You contemplate pulling Jimin out of his meeting but the consequences won’t be good. It’s Hoseok’s day tomorrow and if anything happens to you today, Hoseok, a little more on the protective side, will take it up with his brother and that will lead to a fight, which in turn will ruin everybody’s mood the rest of the week. Like the driver said, not ideal. You sigh again, heavier and louder this time. You sit back, listening to the low hum of the car engine idling.
***
It’s exactly a hundred and twenty minutes later (yes, you counted), you finally see Jimin coming down the last steps from the corner stairs. He fishes out his sunglasses and as he’s about to put them back on, he pauses and stares at something in the distance, just beyond the car.
You watch him for a little bit, wondering what caught his attention. Jin joins him and Jimin exchanges a few words with him. The older one looks up, scans the crowd and whispers something back. He glances over to the car, to the window you’re resting your forehead on, before briskly walking away. Jimin puts on his sunglasses and strides on over. You scoot over back to your side, noting how hungry you’ve become.
The car door opens and Jimin steps in, unbuttoning his suit jacket to get comfortable. Without any verbal instructions, the car pulls away. Jimin hasn’t removed his sunglasses, turning to look at you and licking his lips. You can’t tell what he’s actually looking at but he has one hand resting in between the two of you, the fingers fidgeting. You wait for him to speak, to request for your hand again but he doesn’t. You notice that his hair is back in place, swept back and neat, a clear sign that it’s monosyllabic Jimin, but you can’t help but feel that something is off. Different.
After much staring, he finally asks in a small voice, “Can I hold your hand?”
You stare back, a little surprised but hold out your hand anyway. “I’m hungry,” you grumble, pouting as Jimin takes your hand and, again, brings it up to his lips. It’s not a kiss but a brush.
“I know,” he replies, nodding. “Does sushi sound good?”
You think about it then nod, adding sarcastically. “The most expensive ones. I want sashimis.”
Jimin nods again, a lock of hair falling over his eyes. Ah, much better, you think. You want to know what he was looking at before he got into the car but the words never left your lips as Jimin cradles your head with one hand and pulls you into his chest. It takes a moment for you to register the whirring sound of the window opening and then the jerking motion of his body as two muffled shots go off above your head. The crowd screams as the sound of a vehicle, most probably a motorcycle, crashes to the ground. The loud sound of screeching tyres fills your ears as your car peels away.
Jimin never lets go until, in the awkward position of having your head pressed against his chest, you can see the car passing through the iron gates of the Lotus Sanguis estate. The sky has grown dark, thick black clouds rolling in and it seems like the weather has changed in a split second. A part of you wants to scream at him demanding explanation as to what the fuck happened but another, much bigger part of you just wants to remain in the safety of his embrace. How ironic, given the situation.
The car glides up right to the huge front doors and the car door opens even before the car comes to a complete stop. Jin is standing there with a thunderous look on his face, pulling you out by your arm a little roughly. You don’t realise how much you’re still shaking, only standing up by the sheer strength of Jin’s arm around your waist. Jimin’s face is cool and impassive as he runs a hand to smooth back his hair into place.
“Did you get him?” Jin snaps as Jimin pulls himself out of the car.
“Yes,” replies Jimin.
“Were there more?”
“Yes.”
“Little fuckers” Jin curses. “I’ll see if I can reach Hoseok. Get her inside. Is she hurt?”
“I’m right here, y’know,” you manage to say, pulling away from Jin and finally finding your own feet. Other than shaken up, you think you’re fine.
Jin eyes you from head to toe as if scanning for even any minute injury. You notice how his eyes zone in on the ugly hickey on your neck, narrowing his eyes but doesn’t say anything. Satisfied, he nods to Jimin who takes you by the hand and leads you inside back to your room. There, again, he checks you for any signs of injury, turning you this way and that. He cups your face and leans close. “A life for every scratch on you,” he breathes out raspily as if each word was pulled out with much force.
You shiver, blinking up at him. “I’m fine,” you say quietly.
His phone rings from his pocket and he steps back to answer it. It’s Hoseok. He listens to the voice on the other end and, without a word, puts the phone away when the call finishes. He walks over to the door, turning around to look at you.
“Who was it?” you ask timidly, not sure if he would even answer.
“Nobody,” he answers almost instantly, noticing the way your body shakes as if you’re bracing against a cold gust of wind. “Come,” he sits on the armchair next to the bed and pats his lap. Oddly enough, you don’t hesitate but climb up and settle in. He pulls your legs to sit over him and runs a hand through your hair. You can feel the tightness in your muscle dissolving but this Jimin is also a source of your anxiety. It’s a full ten minutes of sitting like that when he finally speaks again, his voice softer. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. It must’ve been scary.”
You bite back on a sob, swallowing tightly. “Who did you shoot?”
He starts rocking you gently. “Don’t worry. Hoseok will take care of it.”
“Who was it?” you insist, your voice coming out hard.
After a few seconds he finally answers, “Wolfsbane’s men. They were tailing us.”
“I thought Hoseok went to go see him today,” you say.
“Yeah, he did.”
“Then?”
Jimin sighs. “Sometimes words are not enough, little one. Now hush. You don’t have to worry about it. I told you, Hoseok will take care of it.”
You press your lips together, holding back the mixed feelings you are going through; anger, sadness, guilt, mostly anger.This isn’t the first time another minor group will get wiped out, blood spilled. And this also isn’t the first time the reason being you.
Lotus Sanguis is many things but merciful. Jimin knows that when Jin sic Hoseok onto the group, it will be like they never existed. But then again, Hoseok is all for the theatrical of it all so one can only guess what the outcome will be for the Wolfsbane House. A part of Jimin is furious that they dared test him out in the open like that, cementing the idea that Giacoma Wolfsbane had never had any respect for him the same way he holds for Jin and he gloats to think that Hoseok is about to tear them apart, literally.
But you had seen him take a life, something he never thought he had to do in front of you. That was his only regret today. Curled up in his arms, your head pressed to his chest, he continues to rock you gently, entertaining the fantasy that this is just one of yours and his intimate moments and not just him trying to compensate for adding another trauma to your already long list.
a/n: Hi! Hope you like the update. I've been so busy lately (and will continue being busy for awhile) so i might take a long time to update each chapter. On another note, I finally went to Disneyland last weekend! woohoo! My first time! It was the best birthday! As usual, leave comments/ask on what you think of this chapter. Till next time!
Next chapter: here!
Check out my other works → :MASTERLIST:
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