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ackerfics · 6 months

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my love is mine all mine ch 2 | toji fushiguro x female reader

part one of to the girls who are failed by the narrative series.

series summary:

'the glorified womb', 'the heir bearer', 'the blessed flower of the jujutsu society' — they are just some of the titles given to the women of your mother's clan, and all of them eventually fell to you, the prodigal firstborn who has the misfortune of birthing someone who will be stronger than their predecessors. with the fate of someone's clan on your shoulders, there are only a handful of things told to you while growing up; be as demure as you can be, never open your mouth and squash your thoughts, sit with a posture befitting that of a lady wearing an invisible yet heavy diadem. but the one that rings the most goes like this: your only purpose in this world is to be a silent wife to a man who will give you the opportunity to carry the next generation of powerful sorcerers. you remember all of these as you walk toward zen'in ogi in your uchikake, the constricting material around your waist akin to the gripping hold of your cursed technique.

and in fate's funny little ways of fabricating legacies and stories, you forget them when you are spirited away by the man who always welcomes the coming of the seasons with you without fail.

chapter title: in our circle of green

warnings: objectifying women, misogynistic beliefs, pregnancy, miscarriage, stillbirth, death

Toji already figured that the Zen’in clan was cruel the moment he could understand words.

Some say that the birth of his older brother marked the downfall of a clan so revered they were supposed to be placed on a pedestal alongside two families in the jujutsu society. Born with a cursed energy that didn’t make the shadows dance, Jinichi is the first ink blot on a pristine scroll of names. Their father, ever the people pleaser and the self-proclaimed heir of the clan, tried to appeal to the elders and the head who are all a bunch of stoic people whom Toji didn’t have the mood to list because they are so withered and grey they are almost unforgettable. Zen’in Ichiro begged them to give him another chance to prove that the Zen’in clan still had the potential to carry on the technique that spoke of them being shadow puppeteers.

And then came him.

While his brother earned cursed energy, Toji did not.

His life ended the moment it started.

He is used as an excuse for blows and barbed words. The scars littering his back and upper arms are just some of the few inflicted on him, the others healing with time. When they saw that his resolve wouldn’t easily break, all of the bruises and wounds went to his parents.

The family finally drove his father insane; and with his father spiralling, the suffering of his mother begins.

Then, came the blaming.

His mother, a woman so kind that she even smiles after receiving the end of his father’s verbal daggers, became a target for the elders. With the veins on her hand visible to the naked eye from how pale she is and the purple bags under her eyes from lack of rest, the wife of the assumed clan heir loved her second son despite being the one thing the Zen’in loathed. Dry hands cupped his chubby cheeks often, her chapped lips murmuring sweet nothings to his ears. She told him she prayed to the gods to make him just the way she was—normal and untainted by the world they were living in. They were words that would remain meaningless to him for they rang with false promises. He never understood her spending more time with him when he was younger. Until he saw her getting dragged by the hair after refusing to lay with him for another child that would become another failure. For the months that his mother endured, just this one rippling event made her take her last breath.

The reason for the death of his mother was him—the boon of the Zen’in clan.

All unlucky things revolved around him.

At least that’s what he was told when they pushed him into a room full of cursed spirits to test his strength.

There is a certain air of unparalleled dignity when covered by the rooftops of the Joushou clan compound, the potent air of purity ringing through the pillars holding it together. Compared to the Zen’in clan residence, those who bear the Joushou family name all lived in a small village in Kyoto, a space barricaded by so many barriers that Toji felt like it’s too much for a clan that isn’t within the triad of the Jujutsu society.

They are going to attend a funeral, his grandfather said. There was no mistaking that when the old man announced that everyone should be on their best behaviour, he was directing the words to both sons of his failed firstborn, specifically him, the boy they threw into a room of cursed spirits and the one they left scars on. When the creaking old man finally retreated to his chambers after the announcement was made, Toji could finally roll his eyes at the absurdity of the situation, the action never unnoticed by his older brother, judging by the low snicker Jinichi made.

Now, they are hiking toward the main house, a parade of black under the canopy of green and slivers of light. The chosen members of the Zen’in clan who were honoured (he wants to barf because it was exactly what the ancient old man said) to attend this funeral walked for about an hour; the compound of this family of purity or whatever they are called is that expansive. Toji swallows the complaint rising in his throat the more he feels his feet straining against the straps of his geta, choosing to keep quiet instead. He doesn’t begin to comprehend the complex layout of this clan compound. Why can’t it be a single house like theirs? With all the talk his uncles make about their family, one would think that the Zen’in clan is the epitome of perfection in the jujutsu society. It’s both bewildering and funny that they don’t hold a candle to the opulence boasted by the Joushou clan.

“Hey,” an annoying voice buzzes in his ear like a fly.

Toji stops giving the gravel his attention and places it on his ugly brother. “What?”

“You notice it?” Jinichi asks.

He keeps on looking at the dimwitted boy with hooded eyes. “What?” he repeats. Toji is not a repeater of his words but when it comes to Jinichi, he tends to do it a lot. His older brother has this habit of never fully explaining the context behind his words, one of the many reasons why Toji’s patience sometimes runs so thin it’s almost like a piece of thread now.

Jinichi rolls his eyes. “The barriers; it’s the twelfth now. ” A second of haughtiness passes in his eyes and he jeers at Toji with an air of superiority over him. “Oh, I forgot — you can’t sense anything.”

“Get to the point,” he grits out.

With a concealed smile, his older brother basks in his simmering irritation while gesturing around the towering woods with his chin. “Do you remember the stories that circulate about Father and Uncle Naobito? How they nearly went ballistic because of a woman so beautiful she managed to ensnare the Gojo heir as well?” Jinichi huffs a laugh, his eyes boring through the backs of their grandfather’s eldest sons. Toji’s eyebrows meet on his forehead at all the stalling. He is about to walk ahead when Jinichi continues talking, “That woman has a daughter and she’s about the same age as us. The barriers around this compound are all for her.”

That piece of information is anything but relevant to Toji. All he knows about the clan they are attending a funeral for is that they are so revered because of their strength that they can walk through someone’s Domain Expansion unscathed. This is the first time he has heard a member of his family mention a woman in this kind of light, almost worshipping with no shred of degradation and discrimination. His brother was talking about this girl with a tone similar to that of his uncle when he found the perfect woman to ruin. Toji doesn’t hold back the sneer on his lips, the scar pulsing with a phantom pain that lays out the image of grotesque humanoid creatures crawling on blackened walls and ceilings. He looks away from his brother and fixes his eyes on the nearing building ahead of them. Too bad there are no pockets in his black kimono. He would have buried his hands hours before.

“What’s that supposed to mean, aniki ?”

Jinichi cracks a chilling smile. “That means she could be offered as a wife to me.”

Toji snaps his neck to give the older boy a look painted in incredulity.

“I am the clan heir’s heir; it is imperative that I have a wife as bewitching, alluring, and docile as a woman born from the bloodline of the Hanamo clan. She will bring a new age of Ten Shadow users to our family and the Zen’in name will be stronger than it was before. With twelve—oh, thirteen—barriers protecting her from the outside world,” Jinichi snickers under his breath, “she must be a treasure.”

“Like I care about her.”

“Of course, you don’t,” his older brother scoffs. “You will never deserve a girl with that kind of calibre—you and your title of the clan’s disappointment.”

A vein nearly pops in his forehead. There is enough of the badmouthing Toji gets from the adults in the clan, he doesn’t need any more of it from his older brother who is a kid himself. “Do not test me, aniki. ”

“What are you going to do about it—grovel?”

“I will tear you to shreds like I did to the room of curses they threw me in,” Toji blandly replies with wide eyes. He notices the slight flinch making Jinichi’s shoulders rise but that is not enough to brew satisfaction into his body, which is already catching up to the older boy even though he is two years Toji’s senior. “So, you can shove your fantasies of marrying a wife made for carrying children right up your hairy ass before I do it for you.”

It takes Jinichi a couple of moments to answer, cold sweat dripping over his brow. “You don’t scare me, you little shit. You are just a fucking bug to me—amounting to nothing. Know your place as the outcast before spewing bullshit like that.”

Toji’s voice is kept within his throat, only choosing to look at Jinichi for as long as it takes until his older brother has enough. Jinichi walks past him, remembering to knock his shoulder against Toji’s. The impact feels like a breeze that only brushes on a piece of fabric. Even the force his older brother has to exert will never make him falter, which is why he is the perfect piece to twist in the puzzle that is their clan. How Fate laughs at him, he thinks; the strength given to him by the deities walking on clouds is the reason why he carries blemishes on his skin like battle armour.

He nearly lets out a scoff. All this is because of a faceless girl so fragile that she should be protected by how many barriers the sorcerers of the Joushou clan can produce.

Yet this faceless girl is anything but ordinary, living up to the hearsays passing around the halls of their residence.

She is small and the kimono covering her figure is embroidered with outlines of red flowers. It is the first time Toji has seen something so bright even with her hair covering the side of her face—practically blinding that he looks at the flower arrangements around the small coffin over her shoulder instead of her miserable face.

For someone who should be mourning for their little sibling, the girl never gives a glance at the displayed body in the middle of the room. Instead, she is tugging on the sleeves of her mother’s kimono, calling for her attention, which in turn attracts all those who are present. Toji can hear the murmurs of the adults around him — curious, unwarranted things that should not be said regarding children. There are whispers of her blooming beauty (how she will grow up to become the next bride touched by the fingers of Izanami) and the suffocating yet pellucid air of her cursed technique (calling to the flowers near him); they are all comments made by men who are older than her father.

Then, she turns around to fix her eyes on him and suddenly, Toji finds himself at a standstill—eyes blank and breathing stagnant as the flowers in her irises bloom with curiosity. She blinks and Toji can see that they touch the skin underneath her eyes.

It is only when she faces her father that Toji can breathe again.

He shakily lets out the sigh lodged in his throat.

A memory surfaces.

In the Zen’in residence on a certain day, there are dolls lined up in the main receiving area, all dressed in elaborate kimonos with the sound of their accessories twinkling from a single gust of wind from the open window. Toji remembers transfixing his attention on these dolls when he was four years old, his curiosity pulsing through his undeveloped mind to touch one of them. His fingers reach out and the tip of his toes carry him closer to the girl wearing a headdress that can tangle with a single nudge. The doll is almost calling to him—the crinkling eyes closing because of the smile on her face, the folds on her attire devoid of creases, and the platforms possessing patterns that match her partner. But Toji also remembers feeling a hand crack against his skin, pushing him from peeking through the edge of the display area and to the ground below him. He remembers the pain that erupted after his head roughly bumped on the hardwood floor. There was no time to whimper in pain because the hand gripped the tendrils of his hair in between their fingers. His eardrums nearly burst as he closed his eyes to accept whatever punishment the hand gave him.

The doll gives off the same feeling as the girl walking through the door. He is itching to reach out to make sure she is real but he knows once he does that, the hand will come back again.

“Man, she is perfect for me,” Jinichi muses beside him.

Toji never takes his eyes off the doorway where the main family of the Joushou clan disappears, answering, “Keep on dreaming.”

“You don’t think so?” Jinichi scoffs. “What? Are you planning on taking her? Don’t—you’ll only soil her holiness with your curse or the better lack of it rather. She will give birth to my heirs and the possible holder of the Ten Shadows cursed technique, mark my words.”

He makes no sign of using his voice. Toji flickers his eyes to the body of the little boy that will be burned later on in the ceremony. If the Hanamo clan can bring forth life with their wombs, why would the mother of that girl give birth to something dead? The doll-like girl then comes into mind—her fluttering eyelashes, the plushness on the apples of her cheeks, her eyes that seem to carry an entire flower field, and her air of only existing in dreams. Will she suffer through the weight of carrying death inside her? Will she assume that lifeless look her mother donned?

“What will you do?”

“What?”

He keeps on talking to Jinichi, “What will you do if she becomes her mother?”

“You mean to test our bond as brothers?”

Stupid. “If it comes to a point that she is not who our world tells us she is—giving birth to dead babies. Will you still accept her? Be faithful and not take any mistress like our father did?”

“Father is a coward,” Jinichi answers. “The women who have the privilege of being offered to us are the cream of the crop as the elders have been saying. We are told that they are the perfect women to breed children into and I will do everything in my power to make sure they will bring life instead of death. The Joushou girl is not an exception.” Toji feels his skin crawl at Jinichi’s smile. “In fact, her womb is the best reason to try and try again, am I right? I bet her father will do that to her mother tonight. Have you seen the look on his face?”

All Toji can offer as a response is silence.

“It’s the look of someone with a goal in mind. Maybe the next time we visit the Joushou compound is for a festival, not a shitty funeral for a dead kid.”

It’s another funeral—this time, not for a dead kid, but for the esteemed Lady Joushou instead.

The previous one was not as suffocating as this one and Toji is not an idiot to detect the miasma of tension surrounding the entire compound. With the Lady gone, the clan is in chaos—if the rotting smell of flowers drifting in the air is any indication. He can hear the elders of both the Jujutsu society and this family urge the head to find potential women to replace the one they have lost. It’s not a surprise to him—older men telling leaders what to do with the future of their clan, having lived in the most grappling environment he knows in his life—but it repulses him that they are outwardly discussing it in the Lady’s funeral.

The funeral rites have ended, the ashes are gathered, condolences are given, and Toji leaves it all behind to enter the withering gardens of the Joushou main residence. He may not have the capacity to feel cursed energy but he can tell that this decay is caused by the Lady’s death. With no one to educate him on the many clans in their society, Toji learned everything by himself. One particular scroll has been hidden away in the library of the Zen’in residence and they entail the history of the Heir Makers. It was only a year ago that he was curious enough to learn more about the doll’s familial lineage. Of course, the Joushou made a name for themselves with their impenetrable cursed technique but it is the Hanamo clan that made the doll’s birth possible. Just like their name, they have something to do with flowers and something about the manipulation of their souls—befriending them to follow their bidding. All of these are overlooked by the fact that just like flowers, they represent the essence of life—fertile wombs and precious beauty above all.

While he walks in this grey scenery, Toji is silent on his feet. Not a single sound emanates from his footsteps. The heavens are not that cruel—they still blessed him with an advantage against those who can sense cursed energy. There is no symphony of birdsong here, almost like they feel that their voices shouldn’t tarnish the melancholy dome around the compound. Toji blends in with the silence. His eyes roam around the dropping shrubs and the raining leaves, his hands nestling inside the sleeves of his black kimono.

A splash of green on the stiff grass catches his attention. He follows it. They form a line, stepping stones even, toward her.

The doll is crying in the middle of a pond of grass, her back turned from him. Her hair is pinned close to her head, her black funeral garb once again embroidered with red outlines of flowers that seem to bring colour to this eternal void. Even without facing him, he can tell she is crying from the way her tiny shoulders shake. Of course, she won’t notice him, nobody can, so Toji takes this time to watch her silently and let her heart cry for her mother. The sight in front of him calls all of his attention for her tears bring a solitary flower to sprout from the ground. It’s oddly beautiful, he finds himself thinking. He expects her to grow more flowers from her grief.

What he doesn’t expect is her looking over her shoulder to zone in on him, those flower fields for eyes arresting him in place and rendering him motionless.

The pounding of his heart echoes through the chambers of his heart, alerting the tingles in his stomach to flutter their wings. It’s different from the paced heartbeat he experiences whenever someone pushes him into the mud in the Zen’in estate. This particular reaction from just her making eye contact with him pushes the heat to climb to his face, dusting his cheeks and the tips of his ears. It’s the first time he feels embarrassed about being noticed.

She is as pretty as her cursed technique.

“Who are you?” her voice carries through the dead garden.

Toji nearly jumps in place but he covers it with a cough from behind the sleeve of his kimono.

She cuts him off from answering. “You’re not supposed to be here.” Her eyes cut through the open shoji doors behind him.

“And you’re supposed to be out there,” Toji nonchalantly remarks with a thumb pointing behind him.

The doll blinks, her eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings on her skin. She looks away from him and blue washes over her tiny figure. “I don’t want to.”

“And I don’t want to be there either, which is why I’m here.”

Annoyance flickers on her face as she juts her bottom lip in a pout. Toji blankly stares at the unwarranted gesture—cute. She really is like a doll; so fragile, dainty, and tiny that nobody has the right to touch her, including him. The distance between them will remain as is; something he will never lessen through weathering seasons. This girl’s existence is everything he is not and she is worth more than him, way more than his family can offer. She breathes life in her tears—who knows what she will bring with her touch. “The elders won’t like it if you’re here,” she finally fills in the silence.

“I don’t care what the elders have to say. I stopped caring a long time ago.”

She thoughtfully brings her attention back to him. “I remember you.”

Toji can’t help but wear shock on his face.

“You’re the boy who looked friendly two years ago. You were at my,” she chokes up, “brother’s funeral two years ago.”

So he did leave a lasting impression on her. For whatever reason, Toji doesn’t know.

“I think you’re the only one who looked friendly, that’s why I remember you.”

Him—friendly? He is described as looking like a demon spawn by many. Not to mention that he inherited his family’s signature harsh look, narrow eyes, and face always set in a scowl without trying. People will say otherwise if they heard what came out of this princess’s mouth.

“Hey, princess, I’m anything but friendly.”

“The flowers aren’t afraid of you, including this one,” she nods at the flower swaying in the wind, the only witness to their exchange and the first one to many to come. There’s no smile on her face but her tone suggests something that douses Toji in a foreign feeling. Nobody has given him this kind of attention before and it’s getting hard not to look away from her. “You’re not like the rest of your family.”

Toji scoffs. “Of course, I’m not—”

“I can tell you have more heart than them.”

He raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

“If other people from your family found me here, this conversation wouldn’t be the same as the one we’re having now. They will tell my father and he will scold me like he scolded Mother. Or worse, they’ll pick me as a bride.”

He remembers his older brother asking their father about his possible betrothal to the treasure of the Joushou clan but Jinichi was instantly shut down by a drunk remark, saying that he will never be good enough for something precious as the girl. Toji also remembers Jinichi letting out his frustrations and anger at him in the dead of the night when the servants were asleep and the night was cold, pushing him out of the residence and forcing him to lay on the garden’s pebbled path as if it’s his fault for ruining a potential alliance—Toji is bad luck as Jinichi stated.

After gaining sentience and understanding, Toji hates everything that his clan stands for. So, he should also be hating this girl. She is the pinnacle of jujutsu and every special case is something to be revered at. However, looking at her right now, how can someone suggest that they marry someone younger than the youngest member of the Zen’in clan?

“You’re too young to marry anyway,” Toji replies while scratching his head. “What good would marrying a kid give to the old geezers I know?” He then sighs, “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be playing with dolls at this age? Why are you already talking about marriage?”

She looks away. “Because my mother is dead.”

“Hah?” he exclaims. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Her eyes dim a little and Toji curses himself for not thinking before speaking. “Father needs good alliances for ruining the one he has with my mother’s family. I’ve heard him talk.”

“And he’s what? Selling you to my clan?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Well, that sucks.”

The doll nods.

Toji clicks his tongue. “If they keep on pestering you to be their wife, you might as well just run away.”

She tilts her head, making her look like an adorable stuffed toy hanging on stalls in festival games. “Mother told me that would be the worst thing to do. Father would be angry and I would be chased.”

Something becomes stuck at the back of his throat. How will those words influence you when your mother is dead, is the unsaid thought lingering in his mind. He chooses to let them bubble inside him. Instead, he says, “If I were you, I would have run away from the moment I heard my father arranging marriage proposals. It sounds like an escape that I would want from everything if I’m being honest. And now that I’m thinking about it, marrying into the Zen’in clan will mean that you will become either my aunt or my sister. I don’t know which of the two I prefer.”

“I don’t think I’d prefer any of that either.”

Toji watches as she fiddles with the petals of the carnation resting on her palm. Hesitation keeps making him twitch, from the tips of his fingers to the shuffling in his feet. The distance between them lessens as he follows the trail of green toward her. His hands are still hiding in his sleeves and he paints a picture of nonchalance on his face, one that doesn’t betray how his heart is racing at the thought of being in the same circle as her. The doll he was reaching for when he was young is finally within his reach. He plops on the spot next to her, far from her and the flower but not that much to warrant any awkward air around them.

“Toji.”

“Hmm?” The girl doesn’t even flinch in surprise at his proximity.

He fixes her a glance, almost grumbling, “That’s my name—Toji. Figured that if you want my help in running away, you should know it.”

She finally smiles, a tiny one but still noticeable within the monochromatic background they are surrounded by, and his hands become sweaty at the sight. The girl doesn’t even know the power she has while doing it. A piece of hair falls from her elaborate hairstyle, draping itself over her shoulder, with Toji’s hand itching to push it behind her ear. What is wrong with him? He feels his face heat up while looking away from her. Unwarranted thoughts circle the caverns of his head, all concerning the girl beside him. Regretting his decision to sit with her in the only vibrant area of the withered garden, Toji covers the bottom half of his face with one hand, finding the gentle swaying of the breeze among the grey leaves entertaining.

“[Name].”

“Huh?”

“Nice to meet you, Toji-san,” she once again offers a small smile that reaches her eyes. “I’m [Name]. Thank you for talking to me.”

He clicks his tongue. “It’s nothing—just thought that you could use some company because everyone seems to be fawning over your father.”

She doesn’t reply, simply looking down at her lap like she is taught.

No words are exchanged between the two of them. The silence is not palpable to push them into creating meaningless chatter.

It’s just the two of them—a boy who has nothing to his name except for being part of a family he wants to escape from and a girl who starts feeling the strings dictating her every move.

As the funeral rites go on behind them and as the afternoon makes way for the sun to peek through the cloud formations, the colour spreads from where they are sitting, and in the space between them, Toji notices a small bush of hydrangeas* touching the tips of his wooden slippers.

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#— rory's passages 🌼#jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro #toji x you #toji x y/n #toji fushiguro x you

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rafeandonlyrafe · 8 months

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childhood friends to lovers

words: 800

“how is he so handsome?” you rest your chin against your hand, admiring rafe from the second story balcony as he climbs back onto the yacht, hair wet and body dripping with sea water.

wheezie makes a face, “stop, that’s my brother!”

you laugh and look away that way rafe doesn’t realize you’ve been eyeing him, admiring his muscles. “sorry, wheeze.”

“you just need to screw already.” wheezie comments as you head back to the interior from the upper deck, needing to get out of the sun after feeling hot watching rafe.

you snap your head to wheezie, eyes going wide. “and what would you know about screwing?” you ask.

“sorry, kiss or whatever. just get it out of your system, you've been in love with him since i was born.” wheezie flops down on the couch, and you’re quick to join her.

“i’m not in love with him.” you say, staring up at the white ceiling.

“yeah, right.” wheezie says, her voice dripping in sarcasm.

“we are friends! best friends. i’ve known him since i was a baby! i am not in love with him, he is my friend.” you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince wheezie or yourself more.

“listen, i know i’m just a kid to you two, but i see things. get over it and tell him you want to be more than friends.”

you frown and cross your arms, thinking over wheezies words.

“you’re staring again.” wheezie says, making rafe jolt. in his trance, he honestly forgot she was there.

“wasn’t.” rafe says, but his eyes flick back to you. you’re splashing in the shallow water, playing with one of your small cousins.

“you always stare at her… and she always stares at you, too.”

rafe finally looks away from you, glaring at wheezie. “she doesn’t stare at me.”

“she does.” wheezie scoffs. “and it’s getting freaking annoying. can you two just date already?”

“i don’t see her like that.” rafe says, “every guy in her life comes in wanting to date her, i’m her friend, she needs me to just be her friend.”

“i think she rejects all those guys because they’re not you. trust me, she talks to me.” wheezie picks her phone back up, hoping that’s the end of the conversation, but rafe is persistent. he takes the phone out of wheezie’s hand and sets it on the empty beach chaise next to them.

“she talks to you about me?”

wheezie is beyond annoyed with the back and forth, and decides a little white lie would never hurt if you both got what you actually wanted. “yes. she’s in love with you. go and kiss her already.”

“hey.” rafe says, flopping onto the bed in the guest room of tanneyhill that practically belonged to you considering how much you slept over.

“hi.” you giggle, pushing his bangs out of his face so you can see his eyes better.

“i’m not tired yet, want to take a walk with me?” rafe asks, pouting out his bottom lip just slightly to entice you to come.

“rafey, i’m already in my pajamas.” you whine, pulling your blanket down a little so he can see your pjs.

“please.” rafe says, a word that rarely comes out of his mouth. you grin, unable to resist when he’s being so sweet. you sigh dramatically and then throw your blankets off, getting up and slipping into your crocs.

“lets go.” you say, reaching your hand out for rafe. he takes it as you head down the stairs and out the door into the cool air, the breeze making it ever so slightly chilly, especially for the end of summer.

rafe keeps your hands locked together as he guides you down the sidewalk. you’re not sure where he’s leading you, but you’d follow him anywhere. you just enjoy the feeling of his rough palm against yours, the backtrack of crickets and frogs, and the moon lighting your way between street lights.

“oh, look how pretty!” you say, coming up to a house with fairy lights decorating their fence.

“almost as pretty as you.” rafe says, and you turn to him confused, letting out an awkward giggle.

“thanks, i guess.” you shrug, unused to these kinds of compliments from rafe.

“i was talking with wheezie about you the other day.” rafe says, hoping he can lead you into the topic he really wants to talk about.

“oh yeah, so was i.” you hum, wondering what his conversation was about.

“you know you’re my best friend.” rafe grabs your hands so you stop, illuminated by the twinkling fairy lights. you turn to face him, letting out a nod. of course you know, you’ve been best friends forever.

“but i was thinking maybe we could try being more than that.” rafe admits.

“really?” you squeak, surprised that he felt the same as you.

#obxweek23 #reupload!#rafe fic #rafe fanfic #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron one shot

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myster-roca · 8 months

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Desires and Deception: Full Undercover

"Your assignment: Assume the identity of a high-profile businessman and fitness guru with deep connections to the underworld elite.

Your objective: Infiltrate a high-stakes bodybuilding event where one of the underworld's most influential figures, deeply involved in a clandestine affair, is about to take center stage. A complete physical transformation is your only cover."

On the surface, his existence seems so different from mine. He's deeply entrenched in the world of luxury, surrounded by the glitter and glamour of the upper class.

I lead a life of shadows and secrecy, a chameleon in the backdrop of society. While he basks in the spotlight, I thrive in the darkness.

Yet, as I become more familiar with his life, I realize that beneath the facades, we're not so dissimilar. We both wear masks, albeit of different kinds.

He portrays an image of power and wealth, and I craft identities to delve into the hidden realms of espionage. We're both performers, navigating the stage of our own making, just on opposite sides of the curtain.

Within the covert operations division, our team constituted a rare breed, masters of disguise, each possessing an exceptional talent for the craft of metamorphosis.

We shared an unspoken bond born from the countless secrets we held and the trust we placed in one another.

The intricately crafted muscle suit lay before me like a silent partner in this clandestine masquerade. I'd done this countless times before, but the excitement and tension of the moment never ceased to grip me.

This moment brings a complex blend of emotions to my entire body.

There's the weight of responsibility, knowing that I must seamlessly become another person, thinking, speaking, and moving as they do.

But there's also the thrill of the challenge, the adrenaline rush that comes with immersing myself in a persona utterly distinct from my own.

As I slipped into the suit, the material stretched and molded to my physique. My hands found their way to the attached silicone gloves. The snug fit accentuated every contour, making me look more sculpted than ever.

My team of ingenious innovators had left no stone unturned to make the muscle suit as lifelike as humanly possible. Their unwavering dedication shone through in the meticulous attention to detail.

My pulse quickened with anticipation as the muscles subtly inflated, intensifying the illusion of strength and confidence.

With every stroke, the skilled hands erased my facial hair, and I could almost sense a new identity taking shape.

The skintone had been impeccably matched, with the paintwork skillfully blending the boundary between reality and artifice.

I marveled at their exceptional precision as they carefully placed the snow-white silicone prosthetic skin onto my scalp, deftly concealing the intricate details at the rear.

Each brushstroke they applied infused the blank canvas with a spectrum of shades and tones, gradually merging it with the flesh-colored muscle suit.

The cap clung to my scalp, obscuring any hint of my natural hair. Their unparalleled expertise accomplished an astounding feat, vanquishing visible seams and ensuring a flawless integration with the rest of the suit.

As I rose to my feet, I could feel the muscles discreetly swelling, enhancing my size and making me appear more imposing. Enthralled by this transformation, I locked my gaze onto the mirror, realizing that, except for my own face, the reflection before me resembled that of a complete stranger.

The next phase was even more unsettling. I couldn't help but feel vulnerable, yet excited, as I closed my eyes and immersed myself in embodying the fitness guru's charisma and unwavering drive for power.

Seated before the vanity, I felt the cool touch of silicone on my skin. With each prosthetic piece, I watched myself morph into the figure whose aura and allure I admired and now emulated.

My own features were vanishing, slowly replaced by the chiseled jawline, pronounced cheekbones, and the perfectly shaped nose.

Each adjustment, every little tweak, brought me closer to becoming the fitness influencer I needed to become.

The transformation has reached its halfway point, yet I can't shake the persistent unease that lingers within me. Something feels awry, lacking in authenticity.

This void echoes the emptiness I've felt in past impersonations. The team is well aware of this predicament, which motivated them to develop a new technology aimed at resolving the issue. Although they conducted numerous beta tests, this marks the first field trial.

I stood from my chair and began to don the silicone muscle pants, preparing myself for the next step.

The pants appeared remarkably sophisticated, quite different from the silicone muscle pants I had initially envisioned. Nevertheless, the team assured me that this unique design was intentional, tailored to fulfill its specific purpose.

As I settled into a sleek, state-of-the-art machine, they assured me that it would serve as the catalyst for the forthcoming comprehensive transformation. The team then delved into an explanation of the pants' fabric and the silicone prosthetic pieces they had attached, emphasizing their integration with nanites.

They elaborated on how these minuscule marvels were precisely programmed to discern the unique contours and characteristics of my body, thereby enabling the seamless fusion of the material with my own skin. This intricate process would ensure an astonishingly lifelike and untraceable metamorphosis.

The machine enclosed around my waist with a gentle yet firm embrace. I could feel its mechanisms hum to life as it began its work. A warm, viscous liquid began to flow from the machine's hidden nozzles, gently cascading down my legs and torso.

The sensation was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was as if I were being submerged in a pool of liquid silk. I watched, my heart racing, as the substance encased my legs and torso. It was as if the nanites and the liquid skin were in perfect harmony, dancing a choreography that was breathtaking to experience.

The machine released me, and I fell forward, landing on my hands and knees. The ground was cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the heat that surged within me. As I struggled to regain my footing, I realized that I was sweating, my skin tingling with life.

My skin glistened with sweat as the nanites engulfed my whole body. My senses were on fire as the second skin adapted to the shape of my own body, molding itself to me with an almost sentient understanding. I could feel the air against my skin as I breathed deeply, savoring the newfound sensations.

I stood on my feet, and a tidal wave of power surged through my veins—a breathtaking rush of unearthed strength that sent shivers of exhilaration cascading down my spine. I was utterly captivated by the profound transformation I had undergone.

It was as though this second skin had reshaped the core of my existence. It was no longer just a disguise; it had become a part of my own being.

Overwhelmed by curiosity and newfound confidence, I couldn't resist the urge to explore my transformed physique.

As I flexed my thighs, I could feel their utmost solidity, the sensation of unyielding strength resonating through my body. My legs, once unassuming and lean, now bore the weight of sculpted power.

Running my hands across my chest, I felt the hard contours beneath my fingers, swelling with a sense of pride. My pectoral muscles were now pronounced and firm. I couldn't resist running my fingers over the chiseled ridges of my new washboard abs.

With each movement, I admired the pronounced biceps and triceps, each muscle responding to my command. Flexing my forearms, the veins stood out like a roadmap of my uncovered power.

I had truly become the living embodiment of the role I was about to play.

With the transformation complete, I am reborn in the shadows, ready to dance into the abyss of intrigue and danger, playing my part in a game where trust is a currency of uncertainty, and the truth remains veiled forever.

To Be Continued . . .

#male body transformation #male bodysuit #body change #male transformation #male skin #male disguise #male body suit #male form #hot male

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officialunitedstates · 4 months

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And there I stood on the precipice right outside the great verdant castle, its walls and gates themselves towering over the South Atlantic on the border between Português y Español. 500 years of colonization had led to the great structure behind me, and billions of years had led to the ocean before me, yet we call one a marvel and the other a geographic fact. How many had looked upon this same ocean, with their back at the same fortress, with their mind on the same thoughts I now drew? I picked up the soil from below me, letting it sift and slide through my hands. Gravity cleaned them completely. Even the specks of the earth did not dare stay with me. Then, out in the distance, a dot of gray. A ship? It had to be, simply deduced. What else would dwell far out amongst the blue; what else would dare? And on that ship, was there anyone with a spyglass, a telescope, who would venture their eyes upon the upper coast and spot me, peering without aid onto their vessel? Many paths, one self, and one mind to use to compensate the course, to steer and navigate the soul. I had been here before, I thought, throughout my life, yet never had I reached the same climax of suspense, the same clifftop. I had distractions back then, I had mortal others, but most terrifyingly I had a freely-provided shovel and endless soil to bury it all away in a nice and clean pile. And still more, I never dared climb the cliff to begin with; I never dared to stand with the castle at my back. My civilization, my decade, wasted? Yes, wasted. 10 years of lies, of angst, of waiting for nothing to happen. Who was I to do this to myself? Who was I to meander through the maze of society's corruption and seemingly attractive pits? Where was I hoping to arrive if not back at the original start after trekking through mire and empty mirth? What was I if not pitifully self-righteous, ignorant, foolish. He laid my path before me 29 years ago, when all the doctors thought I may have not even started it, or reached it only to succumb to some of the worst afflictions humans face. But then I was born, free of it all. I thought myself as burdened these past years, but no, I was in fact weightless. I had only to take the easiest steps with the lamp at my feet and the light on my path. To follow the one who had laid that path before me. I had only to progress, to trust, to believe, to pour out. What could I do now but smile? Rejoice in knowing that I have turned the corner, that I had climbed the cliff, that I had the great, green castle at my back, and that I had the great, blue ocean of possibilities in front of me, endlessly spewing forth water and life. I did not need to climb up this mountain to see it, but now that I had, my vision was clear, and I could see in all the good and great glory what awaits before me, and what awaits everyone else as well.

#art

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swanimagines · 4 months

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CHAMPAGNE KISSES | NIKOLAI LANTSOV

Summary: Boring parties can always get some spice by taking a step back to have fun with your secret prince lover.

A/N: My new neighbor is a Paddy doppelgänger and looking at Nikolai gifs is now awkward for me to be honest 😂

Nikolai Lantsov had attended a fair share of parties during his lifetime - being a prince kind of required it. Gossiping with people, making small talk and feigning interest in their mundane lives. It wasn’t like he didn’t care of Ravkan people, but parties always had these posh upper class people who didn’t know anything less than expensive champagne with every meal, personal cooks, big manors with a dozen rooms they never visit and diamonds in every piece of jewerly. He would have much rather spend time with people who knew what actual life was, not being born inside a fancy bubble. But parties like these were mandatory to attend, so here he was, a glass of champagne in his hand.

He let his gaze wander around the hall, and saw you making your way towards him. He smiled a little at you, nodding as you settled yourself beside him and sighed.

“Hate these parties,” you grumbled. “And yet, my parents always drag me with them. It’s my duty as the heir of the family name, they say.”

Nikolai chuckled at your comment, finding comfort in how his secret lover felt the same way as he did. It wasn’t like he didn’t know it, but your words still made him feel better. “I know exactly what you mean. Same for me. Duty, duty, duty. It gets old after a while.”

You scoffed, tapping your fingers on your arm before a smirk spread on your face.

"C’mon," you said, "you need a reason to get out of here and I have one."

Nikolai raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what would that be?”

You giggled playfully, your hand grasping Nikolai’s as you started to pull him with you. “It’s a secret.”

“Lead the way, then.” Nikolai replied and you left your champagne glasses on one of the drawers as you ventured away from the ballroom. Soon, you were far enough from peering eyes, in a secluded corner and the moment you stepped there you spun around, pulling Nikolai in for a kiss. He had known to expect it, of course, and his hands found their way to your waist as he deepened the kiss, savoring the taste of your lips on his.

When you pulled away, Nikolai smirked at you. “So, this is the secret? You wanting to make out with me?”

“When I wouldn’t?” you mumbled, still staying close enough so your noses brushed together.

Nikolai chuckled again, his hands still on your waist. “No complaints from me.”

You kissed him again, this time with more passion than with the last one. This kiss lasted longer too, and you felt Nikolai’s hands roaming up and down your sides. Eventually though, he pulled away, leaving you trying to chase his lips for a moment.

“We should probably get back before someone misses us,” he told you, breathless from all the kissing you had just done.

“Yeah, probably,” you sighed, disappointment clear in your tone as you forced yourself to pull yourself away from his embrace, smoothing out your clothes and trying to settle your hair to look like it looked pre-kissing.

You wished it would be easier, not to be his secret lover, but a real one, acknowledged, being able to hold his hand and look at him like you wanted to look at him publicly too. But your family name wasn’t regal enough for a prince - Nikolai’s parents wouldn’t agree on it. So you were stuck like this, for now at least.

But Nikolai swore that one day, he’d find a way to make you his, with or without his parents’ consent. Some day, you’d be his, seen by Ravkan people like he saw you. He just hoped that day would be soon.

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Requests are always open! FANDOM LIST | PROMPT LIST(S) | RULES (READ!!!)

#nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov imagine #nikolai lantsov #grishaverse #grishaverse x reader #grishaverse imagine #sab #sab imagine #sab x reader #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone fanfic #shadow and bone #shadow and bone x reader #gn reader #my works

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penvisions · 5 months

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return the favor {chapter 20}

Pairing: Post-Outbreak! Joel Miller x Smuggler! Reader

Summary: The arrival in the haven of Jackson brings certain things to a head, you find solace in a few people of the settlement after being alone with your thoughts for months.

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, canon typical angst, like MAJOR ANGST, feelings of inadequacy, ptsd, trauma, brief discussion of child loss, grief, argumentative language, yelling, shouting, joel being an ass, reader being an ass, angry emotions, brief suicidal ideation, reference to past self-harm injury, ellie being a little shit, maria's hyper awareness, reference to sexual content

A/N: this came to me very quickly, having had the ending scene written from the get go and the rest of the story was a way to make it make sense. hope this doesn't hurt anyone too bad! please come complain to me (nicely) if you feel the need

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

The horses were fast, impossibly so after being only on foot for so long. You kept a tight hold on Ellie in front of you, arms around her and holding the reigns of the horse you had been offered. She’d never been on one before but he helped her up all the same, and then you behind her. You knew he was worried about your arm, irritating it with the effort to pull yourself up on your own.

Joel was on his own, right behind the woman who introduced herself as Maria, one of the declared leaders of the council to whatever haven they were now taking you to. She had been curt with her words, saying that Joel’s brother was with them. There had been argument or discussion, Joel asking to see him, be taken to him such weak tone you knew was born of hope and desperation at this point.

A formidable structure was cresting over a hill, giant logs forming a wall with an entrance that you could barely make out adorned with people on watch. Your heart had yet to calm down since the first whiny of a horse, thudding heavily in your chest and almost mirrored in your temple as a headache formed at this drastic chain of events.

It almost seemed too good to be true, like a lifeline that was a trick should you reach out and grab it. But Joel had, he had reached out his aching hands and gripped it tight, refusing to let it go.

As the gates opened you could feel your breath leave you in a puff of steam. It…it was a whole town, revealed behind the gates. A traditional main street lined with maintained buildings, people bustling about and doing so much that it was all so dizzying. You turned to look at Joel, having been corralled in the middle of the group for entrance into their settlement. He could only share your look of disbelief, nodding at you to turn back around and take it all in.

There were elderly people, there were children, there was laughter, there was excitement.

There was life.

Your observations were cut short when Joel’s voice boomed behind you.

“Tommy!”

You turned to look at him, Ellie mirroring you and you followed his gaze toward a man clad in denim who was atop some scaffolding and working with another figure to haul up pillars of wood. Building, they were actively building. Creating something, making something more for this already amazingly impressive place. The man looked up, his focus shattered at a vaguely familiar voice. Dark hair longer and curling at the ends, thick mustache that rivaled Joel’s atop his upper lip. The same kind eyes and similar features telling you that it was indeed his kin if he hadn’t just shouted it for all to hear. Both men rushed toward each other, Joel dismounting his horse and the man stomping down the scaffolding.

They embraced in the middle of the street, boots nearly sliding out from underneath each of them at the collision, Joel’s disbelieving chuckle coloring the air and softening your heart.

Ellie reached for your hand still holding the reigns. So small in your own as you shifted the reigns to one and held her with the other. Her eyes were cast down, watching the scene through her lashes.

“What the fuck ya doing here?”

“I came here to save you.”

They both laughed, embracing again and nearly swaying on the spot. Ellie turned away from the reunion, knowing that her thoughts were much like your own.

Alone.

You were both alone. No family of your own left. You shifted forward and pressed your front to her back and leaned over her a little. Whispering into her ear that she had you, that she wasn’t alone. That you wouldn’t leave her for anything. That she had you.

She didn’t respond, face barely composed as the horses began to move once again. Joel and his brother walking beside them.

Her words of asking you to stay with her echoed in your head.

It felt like a dream, entering the stables and securing the horses. Following behind the small group of Maria, Tommy, Joel, and Ellie through the town. Walking through doors into a large space that was set up like a mess hall.

The plate in your hand heavy as it was handed over to you, filled with steaming food that you couldn’t smell. A cup of coffee and a glass of water are brought to the table once seated. You, Joel, and Ellie on one side while Maria cornered her chair from the head closer to Tommy on the other. Joel and Ellie wasted no time digging in, barely taking a breath as they inhaled their food.

But you were too overwhelmed, too wary. You had come across a place similar to this once, not nearly as large. Only a small collection of houses at the end of a cul-de-sac. But the food had been a ploy to get your guard down. It had been tainted, the drugs making you dizzy enough to become pliant when taken back to a room full of women shackled to the walls.

The fork in your hand felt fake, too light and unlike a weapon that had been become a part of you.

“There’s more if you need it.” Maria’s voice was even, and your eyes shifted to her, she was already watching you. Her eyes moving between your trio in even sweeps, trying to read whatever you were unconsciously telling her. Trying to discern the dynamic and the reason for you sticking together. Worry underlying her gaze as you noticed her leg move to touch against Tommy’s under the tabletop.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Joel took a moment to catch his breath, fork still loaded and hunched over his plate slightly. “Been a while since we’ve had a proper meal.”

“Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper meal.” Ellie quickly tore down his simple statement.

“Now that’s a lie, Bean’s made us plenty of meals with what she could.” He fired back, no real heat behind his words. He looked over to you, but he paused when he realized you had yet to touch your food. The fork in your grip just hovering over the tablecloth laid out beneath it. The steam rising from the mix of different things on the plate not enticing you enough to indulge. You wouldn’t meet his eyes, too busy trained on Maria and having a silent conversation with the woman across from you.

“Okay, maybe one or two. But this is fuckin’ amazing.

Joel’s head whipped back to the teenager whose focus was solely on the food she was hunched over, her arms creating a barrier from the rest of the table.

“Sorry.” He aimed at his brother and the woman beside him, almost sheepish. It was a surprise to both of them that you didn’t admonish her like you had back at the cabin, when she cursed at the elderly couple. You weren’t completely present and it was setting them both on edge a little. You hadn’t been so out of it since the fever that tried to take over you after Salt Lake City. But even then, your eyes were clouded over, instincts taking hold and guiding you. Survival being the only goal right now, despite being in an entirely different climate and environment. “Ellie, let’s mind our manners.”

Tommy’s smile was beautiful, though there was pain behind it. Joel’s too as you realized they were sharing hesitant one. You and Maria shared another look of your own before she reached a hand out for you.

You flinched, the fork clattering to the table as you pulled your hand back. Joel stiffened beside you, his knee pressing to yours underneath the table in a small comfort. But it was fruitless, you were too worked up, too overwhelmed. Too hopeless to salvage or take anything with the man in light of changing circumstances.

“I promise you the food is safe.” Her eyes softened as she realized what you must’ve been thinking, seeing you too clearly for comfort.

Ellie’s demanding ‘what’ broke the connection, drawing attention to a young girl that scurried away from where she had been observing the table.

“What’s wrong with you?” Joel’s voice was incredulous, unable to process the front she was putting on much like she had done at the older couples’ cabin. He glanced over at you, but you were focused on the food in front of you, not really present. Unable to help him try to get Ellie to behave herself. He huffed, worried for you and exasperated with the teenager, feeling the strain of having to watch over you both even now.

“What about her manners?” Ellie spit back, voice lethal as she tried to defend herself. Too familiar with watching, prying eyes. Scanning her for weakness and then using it against her. This wasn’t the FEDRA school building, this wasn’t a controlled environment like that. This was different, she was different. She wouldn’t let someone get the chance to bully or beat her up just because she was new or different this time around.

“She was just curious.” Maria spoke softly, trying to maintain a calm head in the face of Ellie’s defensive front and your nearly shut down one. “Kids around here don’t usually look or talk like you.”

“Right…well, maybe I’ll teach them.” She held the woman’s gaze, setting your nerves alight, worried she would get herself into a situation she couldn’t get out of, a situation you or even Joel couldn’t help to get her out of. You were paying attention, but everything seemed to be happening behind a thick panel of glass. Like you were there but not, removed and watching as if in another headspace you couldn’t shake off. “And I want my gun back.”

“They also aren’t armed.” Maria’s tone hardened, her frustration showing slightly but trying to keep up appearances, keep her calm in the wake of seeing how your trio was failing to integrate even this early on after being brought in. You were sure if there was no connection to the man beside her, you would’ve been turned away.

“You know what? Uh- I think y’all maybe got off on the wrong foot.”

“She was gonna have her guys kill us.” The silverware in her grip thudded onto the table as she leaned forward, no longer willing to play nice.

“We gotta be real careful about who we let in this place.” Tommy tried to explain, calmly taking over the conversation. He and Joel seemed the most calm, it was you, Maria, and Ellie who were having trouble acting like this wasn’t one of the weirdest fucking interactions of your lives. “But it’s all bark. We’re just tryna scare off those who might wanna try us is all.”

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

“Ellie.” Joel’s head swiveled heavily as he pinned her with a sharp look for her foul language.

“They say that you leave dead bodies around?” Ellie focused back on Maria, wanting to hear the answer the woman came up with.

“Those are the people who tried us.”

“A bad reputation doesn’t mean you’re bad. Not always, at least.” Maria’s eyes locked on Joel, his chewing stopping as he realized what she was insinuating despite having just met him.

“Ma’am, we’re grateful for your hospitality and all.” He locked eyes with his brother, who suddenly seemed uncomfortable, worried about what was about to be said. “But it’d be nice to have a moment here, maybe just for family.”

“Well, um…” Tommy scrambled for words. But you didn’t hesitate.

Taking that as your queue to leave, you began to move.

"You're okay, darlin’." Joel had turned to face you; you were on his right side out of habit. He was looking down at you, the few inches of space making you dizzy as his eyes were on you. You shook your head slightly, disagreeing quietly to save face, mentally preparing yourself for the rift that was bound to open between you now that he was back with his actual flesh and blood. You had never seen such unadulterated joy on his face as you had seen today, though Ellie would be the first to argue that he looks at you in much the same way.

As if sensing the shift in you, Joel turned his head just enough to keep you in his periphery. Body still taught and on alert despite being behind the walls and in the company of his finally found brother. The room was large, too many people milling about, seated at their own tables. The hum of chatter almost suffocating as it was so different a background noise from the howling of the wind and the rustling of trees that kept you company for months now. The hush of moving fabric a threat more than a comfort, the shadows of people moving about and minding their own business something that set you on edge instead of placated you. But you knew it had to be a good thing, this settlement.

Joel whispered your name, reaching out a hand to grip yours where it was on the table, having put the utensil down at his words and gone to push yourself up from your chair. Ellie watched with caution as he did so, knowing that you were full of emotions she couldn't read, she was feeling some kind of way herself ever since the brothers had hugged so unabashedly in the street. You yanked your hand from him in a moment of self-anger and pity, upset that you had begun to think things were mending between you. But he kept his hold, your clasped hands hanging between where he was still seated and where you stood beside him, chair kicked back a few inches at the motion.

But the truth was that in the light of civilization, in the chance at human connection, you didn't stand a chance. The strain that had been slowly developing between you both would shatter into nothing in the light of finding this haven in the middle of nowhere.

He would find some semblance of his old life here with his brother. You were just someone who he traveled with, shared favors when things got overwhelming and human urges were too strong to quell. You weren’t anything to him, not really, and even if you were naïve enough to think so, it wasn’t real. Whatever you two had wasn’t real, it was a faux creation of comfortability built in the confines of forced close quarters.

"Let go of me." He pulled his hand back as if burned, he didn't dare step over set boundaries when it came to touch. Your voice had been quiet, just enough to be heard. You nodded at Tommy, at Maria in silent thanks for the untouched meal and then walked away from the table. The door didn’t even get to close behind you completely before Joel was excusing himself and following you.

“Please, just, I can’t pretend like this isn’t all so overwhelming.” You didn’t turn around to look at him but could feel how close he was behind you as you descended the steps leading to the entrance of the building. Snow and rock salt crunched underneath your worn boots and you wanted to continue to hear that sound until you were far away from this place, from this supposed refuge. People were dangerous, perspective having been solidified by nearly every encounter from the last fifteen years accumulating and not changing in the slightest.

“Family includes you.”

“You trekked across the country for him, Joel. Go be with your brother. I’ll give you space or whatever you need, but please don’t make me feel like I’m something I’m not.”

“You are, you are…important.”

“Not now! Not…not since I’ve been so in my head that I can’t distinguish the present from the warped reality in my head. I know it and you know it.”

“Darlin’, c’mon, at least get a warm meal in ya before we do this.” Your features morphed into a deceptive calm. Even he was admitting that this was about to all fall apart, the thin string of connection between your little trio, between you both.

“Joel-“

“Enough!” His frustrated shout caught the attention of more than a few passerby, craning their necks toward the argument. No longer given the element of privacy behind the walls and in the center of town. “Let’s just go back in there and hear them out, you owe me that much.”

“No!” You shouted back, not caring how it echoed or the people watching on with wide eyes. Not caring how it may look to these people who knew nothing about you or even seemed to be welcoming. Prying eyes be damned, you would not let Joel steam roll you.

“You’re treating me like shit, Joel. And I’m over it. Pinging back and forth so quick I can’t keep up. I don’t care if you don’t want anything from me, but you have to show me some respect. Don’t go acting like this one meal with your real family is going to change anything. You’re going to drop me, and I’d rather know now.”

“I am trying to keep you alive. Yours and Ellie’s lives are in my hands and I am trying my damned best to keep them safe. Between her constant questions and your hovering, it’s nearly impossible to keep a quiet trek. Even now, behind these walls. You’re acting like I’ve betrayed you in some way and throwing up your walls without hearing anything out.”

The irony of his words must’ve sunk in because he stepped back with a deep inhale, his expression steeling as if freezing over in the cold air.

“No one said it was just your responsibility. I’m here too, Joel, you have to let me carry some of the weight. I’m here, I’ve done nothing but follow your lead and I am glad to, but you have to respect me. Do not treat me like a burden because I’m not one. Don’t pretend like you’re not about to cut your losses and move on.”

The words seemed to ignite him further, no longer willing to hold back all of the emotions he had been feeling and still felt despite the temporary reprieve. A glint shone in his eyes as he stepped toward you, his height allowing him the display of power as he glared down at you. You tried not to let the flash of fear show, but you know it passed over your face as he got closer. He had paused for the fraction of a second, seeing it and hating that it had happened but sticking to his guns all the same. Despite the knowledge that he wouldn’t hurt you, the thought was so palpable as he loomed over you. Your hands twitched but there were no weapons to reach for, having been taken at the gate upon entrance.

“Oh yeah? Is that why every god damn set back, every break we’ve had to take was because of you? If you’re so capable then why are you constantly injured, huh? First the broken arm, then the fever, then the god damn bear, and the lake. Hell, the first day we came across you and cleared the city limits, you fell, knocked your head and twisted your god damn ankle. What do all of those have in common? You. It’s because you’re weak, darlin’.”

“Fuck you.” You spat, taken aback by the way he was speaking to you. The way he was deciding to do this. Putting the blame for his inability to face reality on you, with you.

“My arm got broken because I was protecting Ellie on the ground while you were up in that house! The fever was because of my broken arm. The bear? The goddamn bear, Joel? You mean the one you couldn’t hear coming up from behind? And the lake? You were the one taken hostage, not me. I was the one that got you untied, I was the one that’s been getting the shit end of the stick this whole journey, but guess what, I’ve also been the one healing everyone! Been cooking whatever we hunt and forage, been the one to help bridge the gap between you and teenage girl you’re afraid of!”

“I am not afraid of that little girl.” He hissed, teeth clenched tight as he bared them at you.

“You are. And you’re afraid of me. Because it’s more than making sure we stay alive. It’s because you care.”

“I don’t care. Only doing this to get-“

“Oh shut the fuck up, you repressed asshole.”

You stalked away from him, done with the conversation before it blew up even more. But not before he saw the tears overflow and begin to race down your cheeks. Shoving through the people that had loosely gathered around you both, pretending not to listen in but failing at being discreet. Perfect, the first impression you were both making was terrible. A heated, boisterous argument right in the middle of the densest part of the whole town.

Joel called your name, but you ignored it. Done with the conversation, done with him. Your ears were ringing, your body was tingling as if numb, that staticky feeling when a limb fell asleep and blood flow was blocked. Your throat was tight, face hot with emotions. Family. The word echoed in your head over and over again, too much, too defining. Too much of a lie. Reality be damned, you’d rather be alone than force a connection with someone who deemed you a proverbial punching bag because they couldn’t handle their emotions. The street blurred by as you stalked off, pace fast.

You physically reeled when a hand closed around your upper arm. You startled so badly at the touch that you tripped, body falling with the sudden loss of balance and stability.

“Don’t touch me!” You shrieked, not willing to play nice any longer. You swung a clenched fist around too quick for the person to dodge and a woman fell to the ground with a shout just as you landed on your own ass. Both arms going out to try and catch yourself, but when the contact of your left arm was made you shouted out. Tingles sprouted up and down the entire length and all you could do was grip it right with your right and look up through your tears. The woman who had approached you was cradling her face, a pink blossom sprouting from where you had landed the punch. But you didn’t move even as you distantly heard the click of a gun’s safety.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you, I’m a nurse! I just wanted to help, you’re obviously distressed.”

Ellie sat there and stabbed at her food, taking too big a mouthful to cover her discomfort at being left at the table with these strangers alone.

“They do that a lot?” Maria asked, trying to comb over the obvious awkward tension in the air as the girl was left beside two people she didn’t know anything about. It didn’t seem to matter that it was a safe environment, Ellie was on edge and it was obvious.

“What, act like dumbasses who don’t know the other likes them?” Ellie swallowed her food, stabbing another large bite. Trying to act like she wasn’t brimming with anxiety while you and Joel were separated from each other. Maria and Tommy shared a look, not sure what to do other than wait for one or both of you to return to the table. “All the time, it’s exhausting.”

Joel ambled back in and Ellie perked up slightly until she realized you weren’t behind him. He just shook his head slightly at her, letting her know that you had walked off to cool down or gather yourself or whatever. But he was sure the sharp cuts of words you both shouted at each other had been audible from outside.

“Maria is family.” Tommy declared, shaking their held hands atop the table.

“Oh shit,” Ellie shifted from their linked hands to each of their faces. “Congrats.”

“Joel, say congrats.” The teenager calmly prompted, taking enjoyment out of the turn of roles to mind manners. Shifting in the seat he had taken back him, he locked eyes with his brother and congratulated them in a flat tone. The hits of the day continued to land as he realized his place in this world.

As the group stepped out from the mess hall, a woman came up to Maria and whispered something to her. With a nod she sent her off and turned to Joel.

“Your girl is at the infirmary, the nurse we have is tending to her arm. It was broken recently?”

“Three months ago, broke clean through the skin. She tended to it herself as best she could.” He was sure you wouldn’t mind the information being shared, most likely the exact thing you were telling the people at the infirmary to get a better understanding of how your attempts had done and able to determine how well it had healed.

“Bean can take care of herself, she went to school for, what was it Joel?” Ellie turned to him, not wanting to say the wrong thing. But wanting the woman to know who she was messing with, know who she almost killed. Spiteful tendencies not falling off in the face of authority.

“EMT, medical anthropology. She’s got degrees under her belt and certifications.” Joel felt pride flare up in his chest as he spoke, wanting Tommy and Maria to know that you were capable, just as he was. That you had been holding your own out there in the wilderness, that it hadn’t been easy but you managed between here and Boston just fine.

“A smart woman, we need someone with that kind of knowledge. Our last doctor that taken out by a nasty strain of the flu last season.” Tommy tried to bridge the gap of conversation. Trying to understand exactly what happened to his brother from the moment he left Boston with the Fireflies to now, without being too direct. Knowing focused questions would warrant Joel to close oof or fabricated lies that were only hints of what actually happened. The girl and you being the biggest questions he has by far. But he let it rest for now, hoping they could have a moment alone soon enough. Hoping that by some miracle his brother would plan on staying here, safe. With him.

Joel listened as Maria began her informative tour, explaining the basics of things here in Jackson for him and Ellie to learn. To get familiar with. But he wasn’t sure what to do now, what the right choice to make was.

Remain here and integrate. Make some semblance of like all together. Or simply use it as a place to recharge and then get back on the road, use it as a place to gather information and supplies before picking up where they left off. The Fireflies, Ellie being immune, you needing rest, Joel needing rest…all of it factors in a decision he needed to talk over with you. After he apologized for the way he spoke to you earlier, for the things he blamed on you that he was at war within himself over. He was bonded to you all and that was the problem, he had gotten too close in the months of travel. Come to instinctually seek you both out as soon as his eyes opened after sleep, needing to protect you both at any cost.

Something Maria said brought him out of his spiraling thoughts, and he turned his attention to her with a furrowed brow. None of this made any sense, too many generators that would fail out in cycles between fixes and scavenging for parts or batteries. A light pole stood proud in the center of the street, thick cables running off of it an toward the tops of the surrounding buildings.

“You draw power from the dam.”

“Got that working a few years ago.” She agreed, slight confusion coloring her features as he pointed it out. She hadn’t said so, but she continues talking, finding it a good thing that he was asking questions and engaging rather than shutting down and running off like you had been. Though she wished you were within her sights, just to make sure you were okay.

“Bean was right.” Ellie pinned Joel with a mild glare. Aware of the growing tension between the two of you as the days bled together.

The stables were loud, now in the later hour. The bustle of horses being lead around large pens, sheep being herded from one to another, people tending to the animals keeping his thoughts at bay. He felt a glimmer of something as he watched the sheep move about with trotting steps and comforting noises, the conversation from the night before sprouting to the front of his mind.

“Hey Joel, check it.” Ellie smiled, imitating them as she looked over her shoulder at the man. Tommy looked between them, brows raised in a silent question that Joel waved off with a slight nod of his head.

“Soooo are you like, in charge?” Ellie askes, hands weakly clapping together from where she had them buried deep in her jacket pockets. Nervous energy filling her up the longer she was away from you, but hoping you would join back up with them soon.

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

“Everything you see in our town: greenhouses, livestock, all shared. Collective ownership.

“So, un, communism.” Joel spoke up, taking it all in. Thoughts racing as he wondered if you were getting the same information at the infirmary.

“Nah.” Tommy scoffed, not agreeing with the rather simple way that Joel summarized everything. “Nah, it ain’t like that.”

“It is that. Literally.” Maria burst her husband’s naïve bubble, though there was no heat behind her words as she glanced back at him. It simply was the most accurate way to describe what they had established here in Jackson. “This is a commune. We’re communists.”

Joel tossed Tommy a smug look over his shoulder as he rubbed his aching hands together and followed after the girls. Tommy hung back for a moment, soaking in the realization.

“No way!” Excitement colored Ellie’s tone when she spotted the mare and her foal peeking out from within a stable close by.

“That’s our newest one. Couple months old, wanna pet her?” The offer was genuine as the group approached the opening and Ellie reached out to baby talk and caress the foal’s fur.

“Yeah, what’s her name?” Joel ambled close to her, sticking by her side even with the relative safety of the place, not taking any chances with the bustle of people everywhere. She was distracted, the sights and phenomena garnering her attention. She wasn’t on alert, but he remained so for her sake. For his.

“Shimmer.”

“Well, I’m sure they’d like a shower. Some new clothes. We can put them in the empty house across the street from us.”

“Yeah,” Tommy looked to his brother, hoping they weren’t overstepping anything by offering without all three of your trio present. “Decent place, pretty much untouched since ’03, but it’s got the heat goin’ in it. Could do worse.”

“Oh, trust me, we have been.”

“We’ve been doin’ fine. Don’t disrespect Bean like that.” Joel defended, not wanting them to know just how bad it had been getting before they found you. Feeling self-righteous in the face of finding out his brother had been experiencing old world comforts while he slept on the frozen ground and ate whatever could be scrounged up day after day. That he had barely been able to provide for you and Ellie despite his efforts.

“Oh, like you did, yelling at her in the middle of the street and running her off?” The teenager fired back, not taking Joel’s attempt at corralling her in that instance.

“Ellie-“ Joel hung his head, shoulders inching up as he realized this was only the first of many comments the teenager was going to make.

“Well, I’ll take Ellie over there. Track down…Bean was it you’re calling her? Let you two catch up.”

Joel gave them your real name them, not sure if you’d want strangers you didn’t know calling you by the fond nickname Ellie had graced you with before him and his brother broke off to have a moment alone.

It was night when you returned to the center of town, the main street lit up with fairy lights and burn barrels. It was pretty, you had to admit as you walked around looking for the movie gathering that Maria had marked on a note for you back at the house assigned to you for the night. It had been empty when you arrived. Lights and heat on for when one or all three of you retired for the night.

“Maria, can I…have a word with you?”

“Of course,” The woman lead you out of the crowded room and onto the street. She opened the door to a front further down the street. You settled up on a stool at the bar while she rounded the long counter and poured you a drink. Eyes trained on the bottle she replaced back on the shelve, not pouring one of her own.

You gripped the lowball glass in steady hands.

“I know you what you must think of me…of Joel. But we did right by that little girl and we’ve been doing our best to keep her alive. But…it’s not been easy, I won’t lie to you.”

“That argument was pretty heated, seems like things haven’t been easy in the slightest.”

“It’s…unforgiving out there. Thought I had enough trouble traveling alone, but with people you feel responsible for, that look to you for guidance, it’s far worse.”

“She’s not yours.” Maria realized, putting the words to fruition, seeing you and making it known. She could recognize it in you, just like you could in her. Mirrors of each other, though one had safety and community while one did not. Mothers who have lost, women who have survived. You met her eyes and showed even more of yourself to her, feeling like she was trustworthy to know. To be privy to what drove you and made you who you were. That you were willing to be a part of this should they allow you to stay, with or without Joel.

“No, mine was lost before the pregnancy could come to term. Ambushed. Lost my husband and my home, nearly lost myself too.” Honesty seemed to be the best course of action, the right thing to do in face of all this woman had offered you so far. Despite the way in which the initial greeting had played out. You understood the need to protect, the need to threaten. You’ve had to do it before and you would do it again in a heartbeat.

“I’ve lost a child too. It’s not something you can come back from without weight.”

“No, it’s not. Even after fifteen years. Twenty years.”

“But Joel-“

“He’s a good man, but I know he’s done some things. Things that weren’t necessary but were easier for him to do in his own grief. I think he’s carried it heavier than all of us combined. But please, don’t mistake me, I am not making excuses for the man, hell, we ain’t even friends. Not really. Just happened across each other and stuck together, for Ellie.”

“But you love him. I can see it. Despite everything.”

“It’s those damn Miller genes, gotta hand it to them.” Your lips pulled up at one corner before you sobered, mood not picking up completely in wake of the day. “He doesn’t return those feelings, or he does and can’t stomach the thought, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been a fool to think that this journey changed him in that regard.”

“But the journey isn’t over.” She was smart, reading you like you were one and the same. You wondered if for all your combined hardness, if preserving softness was how you truly survived. Her with helping to keep this commune running, you with protecting a little girl with everything you had. Both the same, both trying to heal with world in what little ways you could with dual swords gripped tight in each hand.

“All I ask for is supplies and a horse, I’ll take Ellie on from here. But please, give him the same curtesy if he decided to stay or not or y’all vote against him stayin’. Please.” You gazed out at the smoke wafting from one of the burn barrels, hoping to be emersed in a hot shower after being out in the cold so long. You hadn’t sat still for more than a moment since entering the town, doing rounds and talking with the nurse who had been kind enough to help you despite blindly attacking her.

She was nice, if a little misguided. Working off of notations and medical books that wouldn’t help her to truly understand the gravity of certain injuries unless she had dealt with them before. You left your own journal for her, some of the books you had kept with you. You hadn’t asked for anything in return but she made you a plate of food in her home, her wife kind enough clean your coat while you all talked.

“She’s all I got now, and she needs me. We can finish our travels from here on out alone, and don’t want to be a burden to someone who is still dealing with their own internal demons. But he’s right, I am weak. Been injured more than whole the past three months, but if it means I could get her to where she needs to be, then I’ll risk my death.”

“I’ll get you what you need but…know there’s a place here for you both- all if you…don’t find what you’re looking for.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m medically trained.”

“I mean it, you deserve a chance too, even if you’ve already given up.”

She reached out to take your hand and this time you didn’t flinch.

You didn’t greet Joel as he entered the home, the shine of tears long past still evident on his face in other ways. His shoulders were slumped, exhaustion plain in his every movement. He walks past you and toward the staircase, his path toward Ellie up in one of the rooms.

“Don’t,” You stepped away from the bottom of the stairs the second he appeared at the top of them. The soft light of the lamps lit up around the living room bathing you in half shadows. But they didn’t hide the hard focus of your features. You heard everything that reverberated down the stairs. He had broken Ellie’s trust in him, her faith in him, just like he was about to do with you.

Tension was a thick wight over the room, your body tense and Joel’s shoulders slumped as he leaned his knees against the side of the couch. The argument from earlier floating between you both as you were standing by an armchair across the room.

“We…we can still get her there.”

“We’re both too weak.”

“Not-not if we rest for a few days, get some decent meals in us. Water that we aren’t rationing to only what we can carry.”

“No, not even then. I’m too old, too worn down. You’re too injured, prone to get more so. We aren’t strong enough.”

“Joel-“ You pinched the bridge of your nose, head throbbing with the cold still waning from your trek to find Maria.

“You deserve better, dammit! Not some old fuck who can’t handle anything anymore!” His voice was loud, booming around the dusty living room and you jumped, not expecting it. You were sure Ellie could hear the hollering just as you had heard her a few moments before. Your hands were fisted at your sides, nails digging into the skin of your palms at the action. “You’re so insistent on keeping on with me when there’s no fucking reason! Like a damn thorn in my side, no matter how hard I dig I can’t get you out!”

“It’s not about what I deserve, you fucking idiot! It’s about what I want. And you’re it, Joel Miller.”

“Well, sometimes we don’t get what we want. I’m not your shot at a second chance to start a family. I’m too damn old for this shit. Playing pretend and ignoring the reality of the situation. We shouldn’t have started what we did, it just made things complicated. We were both weak, to give into that. Too stupid to see that it wasn’t moments of peace, it was damnation.”

“I don’t regret being that way with you.”

“Well I do. It wasn’t right, we were fools to think there weren’t strings attached to it. You have enough trauma with that kind of stuff for there not to be. With how you came onto me, propositioned me, I shoulda known you would get attached.” The words tumbled out of his mouth without a thought. The heat of the moment and the emotions swirling in him too much for common sense and decency to play a part.

All of the emotions of seeing his brother after so long, having been living in a safe and protected place while he had suddenly come into the care of someone he hadn’t had room in his stone cold heart to deal with. Losing the one person he had come to trust in his life, suddenly shackled with another woman who reminded him of her so much. Suddenly a father again and faced with a familiar silhouette that sparked too many hurtful memories.

“Oh.” Your face fell, no longer firm with determination as you fired shouts at him as fast as he had been doing to you. A heaviness settled in your chest as you schooled your expression into a blank one. You didn’t want Joel to see you cry, even as you felt the tears begin to well up, your face heated up as they did so. Your hands were still at your sides, when not two seconds ago your fists were clenched as you pleaded with the man to understand. But it was too late, he set fire to the bridge you two had cautiously and carefully built over the last four months with one breath.

“Shit, that-“

“No, no. I get it, I’m damaged goods. Too impure for you in your fuckin’ set southern ways. I guess we don’t owe each other anymore favors. I felt safe with you, I let my guard down with you, but I’m seeing it for what it was now. I was nothing more than an easy fuck to you. That’s all I’ve ever been to people in this damn forsaken world. God forbid I think I’m anything of substance, of anything more than that. I haven’t felt wanted since before my husband got slaughtered.”

You didn’t care how hoarse your voice was, the volume diminished now that your heart felt like it had been stabbed, wounded beyond repair.

The scar on your left arm was throbbing. The sensation to tear the skin open fleeting in your mind just as was the bloodied body of a past lover, of the men you had taken out after finding them retreating in deep snow, of your legs scratched and bruised from fighting one of them off to no avail. You opted to reach for your pack where you had set it beside an armchair. Joel was silent as he watched you try to pick it up, his fingers curling into his palm over and over again in that obvious nervous twitch of his. But you were too overcome with the situation to lift it, the weight of it too much for you. You crumbled to the ground, knees digging into the hardwood of the floor, your hands gripped tight on the fabric of the pack, knuckles white with the pressure. Tears rolled down your face, heavy and hot as your chest ached.

“At least everyone else had the decency to demand what they wanted from me, not play tricks in order to get it. I was honest with you, I meant what I said. But, maybe I should’ve been honest when it developed past that and that’s on me. Played me like a damn fool.” Your words wavered as they fell from your lips, no more fight to your voice. He had broken you, like he did everything he ever touched. “Savior complex rewarded by helping out someone in their time of need and then getting the reward. Should’ve seen it for what it was this whole time.”

No words came from him, no defense against himself, no admonishments for you and what you were thinking. All of the embraces, all of the reaching hands, all of the shared looks, tainted now. And there was no going back. He just watched the way you clung to your pack, crumbled down on the ground.

You didn’t say anything, head bowed over your hands still tangled in the handle of your pack. The tears were rolling down your cheeks, hiccups lofting into the air on every other intake of shuddering breath. You tried to tamp it down, not wanting the man to see you break down and continue to see you as weak, but being too overcome to realize it would make a lasting impression on him for the days to come either way.

“Tommy is going to take my post, he’ll help get you both to where you need to be. Dawn, it’s his call.”

His steps were heavy as he thudded past you, crossing the room. His coat being tugged on over his taut shoulders, entire body tense as he worried you would suddenly find a second wind. But you didn’t and he made it to the door. The sound of it closing behind him, the click of the handle sounding with a note of finality. Joel rubbed hard at his face, hand smearing the tears that had fallen from his own eyes over his heated skin. He looked up to see Tommy standing on the steps to the porch, frozen mid-step between two of them, gloved hand on the railing.

“Don’t.”

“Joel…”

“I said don’t, Tommy.” He clenched his eyes shut as the muffled sound of your cries sounded through the door. He didn’t think his heart could ever feel so heavy again, but he was proven wrong as he walked away from the house that was supposed to be some sort of future for all three of you. He was a damn fool too.

It could’ve been minutes; it could’ve been hours; you weren’t sure how much time had passed but eventually you made it upstairs and in a bedroom. You felt numb, body on autopilot as you undressed and regarded yourself in the vanity mirror. Steam filled the bathroom, swirling around you as you took in the state you had been left in, gutted.

The hits he had thrown at you weren’t physical, but you could feel them coloring your skin, tightening it around your ribcage, your knuckles, your temples. Weakening you beyond anything someone else could manage to do. Your eyes stung, dried out from the tears before you managed to detangle yourself from the pack and get up off the heap you had made on the ground down in the living room.

Hot water cascaded down your body, hurting when it made contact with the back of your neck, burning your skin pink. You choked on a sudden sob, bursting from your chest as you had the fleeting, naïve thought of sharing a shower with the man who had made it his mission to tear you apart.

Instead of sharing in your body in this way, he had taken chunks of it for himself with his teeth. Carrying you around with him as the blood stained around his biting mouth and underneath his clawing nails. Not in the way you had wanted, not in the way of a bruise sucked into his neck or scratches down his back, the phantom feeling of you wrapped around him or phantom whines in his ear. But this far more sinister way, where you got nothing in return.

The bed was a freezing contrast when you collapsed into it, though sleep didn’t come.

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dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics

taglist: (trying to link everyone who's asked) @sawymredfox @narcissa-anastasia @ayamenimthiriel @rosaaeles @littlemisspascal @oscarissac2099

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bangtanhoneys · 9 months

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Namjoon & Grace - First Meeting

It’s often said that when BTS came together, it was fate. That the merging of eight talented people had been a once in a lifetime opportunity that would never happen again due to their individual personalities, talents, skills and backgrounds. And while some believed the origins of BTS started with Namjoon, Yoongi and Hoseok - it was actually the meeting between Namjoon and Grace.

He had signed with Big Hit Entertainment and Hitman Bang two weeks ago to start life as a trainee. Hitman Bang was putting together a hip-hop group (later an idol group) and Namjoon was the first piece of the puzzle, his rapping skills were superior to what had been picked before and he was nearly fluent in English. He just needed to be molded and formed into what he would later become - RM.

But first, there was someone who he would have to meet who would become his mentor.

It had been clear from the start that the hip-hop group would be men but his mentor would be a woman, five years older than himself. Grace Chu had entered Big Hit over a year ago as a bit of an enigma - she had training in ballet and ballroom dancing, she could sing, she was fluent in English having been born in the UK, she was somewhat fluent in German and she had the upbringing of a mixed Korean-British household.

Yet, there were no plans to make her an idol.

She was back up - learning the ropes of singing to do background vocals, rapping, contemporary dancing, how to look like an idol, how to work a crowd but there were no concrete plans. A spare part yet used for everything including paid work as an assistant to various people in the building. Her training had been done by Lee Hyun, who was currently in the military.

Namjoon stopped outside the small room that had been set aside for Grace. It was smack in the middle of the managers and producers, so she could go between the two departments easily. He could hear typing behind the door and every now and then he could hear classical music playing.

Another piece of the large puzzle that was Grace.

“Come in,” came a soft voice when Namjoon knocked on the door and he paused, taking a deep breath before opening it.

He didn’t know what he expected but he’d later admitted he expected her to look more European than Korean. She was only 5’4, later 5’8 in heels, and dark brown, almost black curly hair that had been pulled into a ponytail. Her Korean eyes were dark brown yet small flecks of hazel in them. She was tan but not overly.

“Kim Namjoon?” she asked, grinning slightly at the tall boy in front of her who was all arms and legs, his face a bit too big for this body.

He bowed politely then remembered she was British so he held out his hand, “Pleasure to meet you, Miss. Chu.”

Perfect English, near enough. If not sounding a bit too American for her liking.

“Please, call me Grace…unless you prefer to call me noona? I’ll leave that up to you.”

Her accent was a typical British accent, maybe slightly upper class if Namjoon paid close attention to it. There was something else underneath it as well but he couldn’t tell what it was.

“Grace is fine with me,” he paused and stood there awkwardly. She was five years his senior, she had been in the company for over a year and while he expected her to take control of the conversation immediately, she could tell he was nervous and unsure.

“Don’t worry Namjoon, I don’t bite. Hitman Bang told me everything, though Bang PD would be the right thing to call him I suppose. He’s sent you to me for mentoring though I’m going to be honest, I don’t know much about rap or hip-hop. I’m only doing the lessons because I’m going to be doing background vocals for the next big hip-hop group,” she sighed and nodded at the chairs in front of the desk. “Take your weight off your feet Namjoon.”

He slowly sank into one of the chairs. “Did he say what you’re mentoring me in?”

“English is one, though you speak perfect English to me. Maybe a bit of work needs to be done on pronunciation but only a bit. And I’m meant to teach you the way of the idol life,” Grace suddenly grinned. It had occurred to her, as it had Namjoon, that she would be his idol mentor while not being slated to be an idol herself.

“You’re not going to be put forward as a solo artist?” he found himself asking, seeing the pictures of the artists and bands that had gone before on the wall behind Grace’s desk.

“My contract is purely work - I’m going to be a trainee but one who is going to help other artists, like yourself. Bang PD wants to focus on the new hip-hop group, BPB, which won’t be co-ed. I’ll help with background vocals, meetings, some lyrics but not many.”

Namjoon sighed and looked down at his hands, fiddling with a ring that was on his index finger. “Well, thank you Grace then. For all the future help you’ll give me.”

God he was cute.

Sixteen years old and already sounding like a leader.

“You are more than welcome Namjoon. So, let’s work out a schedule. It’s going to be one to one with you and me for a while until others are signed - I believe there’s more auditions coming. Why don’t you work out a list of things you want to learn and I’ll schedule lessons around your training and school,” Grace said as she got out her diary.

He was silent for a moment and she wondered if she had said the wrong thing when he spoke, shyly for the first time since entering the room.

“Can I call you Gigi?”

Of all the nicknames she had been given in her life, Gigi was not one of them. It was certainly unique and not what she was expecting - it was a bit hard to create a nickname out of Grace or even her Korean name, Hea.

“Only if I can call Joon.”

From that moment on, a solid relationship between mentor and student was formed. Within a month to a year, it would change to leader and artist, not before it was brother and sister. Grace would become Namjoon’s back, his silent supporter, his go-to for when being a leader got too much or when he couldn’t translate. Namjoon in return would become Grace’s solo supporter, championing the use of her lyrics and notes, spearheading her career as Grace Chu, not as BTS.

Their family would form when six others would join that small little office and make their introductions to their leader and their noona.

#bts 8th member #bts additional member #bts eighth member #bts female member #bts fic #bts fanfiction

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echantedtoon · 6 months

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What If: Gyutaro Edition

DISCLAIMER: THIS WORK IS IN ABSOLUTELY NO WAY CANNON TO DEMON BRIDE AND IS NOT AN ENDING. IT IS A WHAT IF IDEA THAT I THOUGHT WOULD BE FUN TO WRITE. PLEASE KEEP THAT IN MIND GOING FORWARD.

Warnings: Douma IS his own warning. Possibly some innuendos.

If you get the references for Gyu's kiddos you get a cookie.

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How did his life come to this again? He wasn't exactly sure himself...

He certainly wasn't expecting to be sitting here cradling such a small life in his arms. A small perfectly wrapped up combination of blue blankets. A small head nestled outside of them. The small defenseless thing completely asleep to the cruelties of the cold world. Little breaths taken as he knew nothing but slumber despite the messy curls of green locks threatening to accidentally get sucked into the open mouth. A small innocence in the chaos of the man holding him-

"Ni,Ni! Gyutaro, you're not balancing his head up right." A blue nailed hand reached over to push his elbow up higher cradling the infant's head. "Here. You're supposed to hold a baby's head leveled with or higher than their feet. Try this." He let go and rainbow eyes smiled happily at the slightly scared man in front of him. "There you go! I knew you could do it!"

"How do you even know so much about holding babies?" Sickly yellow eyes blinked at the more colorful ones.

"I hold them all the time to bless the newborns and welcome them to the compound."

He didn't question that but the yellow eyes turned to the other infant Douma held in his arms. A mirror image of the son he held only his daughter had a black splotach pattern across her cheek. His scared him at first that one of his offspring had been born with such a marking but found comfort in that her only marking looked so much like a flower unlike the ones that lined out his own body. They were beautiful. Just as he had hoped they would be. Relief flooded him, but with newborns it always was very stressful to handle. Twins were even more of a stress. He was grateful for the constant helping hand of the more experienced Upper Moon.

"Scary Dad!".

Both men's heads turned to a familiar sight. Ah. The white haired boy. Rui walked in ignoring the obvious presence of Douma in favor of walking right up to the skinnier upper moon. His pale hand holding the hand of his one year old brother and technically Gyutaro's firstborn son. The toddler toddled along being led by the eleven year and stopped when Rui did as his older adopted brother looked at Gyutaro.

"Douma and I want to go outside and play. May we?," the spider child asked him.

Douma's smile got incredibly wider from right across from Gyutaro and Rui frowned. Yeah...In hindsight maybe it wasn't a good idea to name his firstborn after someone his eldest disliked but at the time he thought it was a good idea. Naming him after someone who practically raised him and Daki and got them so far in life...Douma was never going to let him live it down however. Always bragging about being 'Grandpa Douma.' The toddler next to him only blinked up with big blue eyes and unruly black hair covering his face.

"No...I'm exhausted trying to watch all of you." Rui pouted and Douma looked at his older brother... before mimicking his pout. He could call it cute if he wasn't so busy trying to watch four kids under the age of twelve. "You heard me. Is Daki back yet?"

His sister had INSISTED on giving Y/n a girls' night out saying that 'she needed a break from mother duties for a bit' and 'he could use a day bonding with his kids.' No way he was ready to handle watching four kids with three being a toddler and two infants yet. Thank the gods Douma was always willing to help him with anything he needed.

In his own words saying, "If you ever need or want any help, just know that you can come to me. I've dealt with many children in my compound and there's many other parents and midwives that would be more than welcome to help teach you."

He definitely has taken up his old mentor's offers of help more than once even if Y/n didn't Always like him spontaneously dropping by Upper Moon Two's domain for surprise visits. But she relented seeing how much he was still struggling with the life of being a new dad.

"Then can I hold Ume or Yushiro?" He held up his hands towards him and the infant he held with newfound awe. "I barely get to hold them anymore."

He sighed. "Fine but sit down and do it. And be careful!"

"I'm always careful!"

Despite him raising a brow he rolled his eyes and relented, gently sliding Yushiro out of his hold and into the awestruck arms of Rui who perfectly cradled him from hours of practice by his mother and plopped himself down right there in front of them. A big smile on his pale features. Hm..Well he'd admit the kid was a pretty good big brother. Douma followed Rui's motions like before and also mimicked him plopping down only to tumble over on accident and then giggle at his mishap like any happy one year old would. Despite himself the actions of the children made him huff and smile the slightest bit-

"Uh oh. Did someone wake up from her nap?," Douma's voice cooed and it made him look over. In his distraction his daughter had woken up and up on seeing that it wasn't her father, mother, or older brother holding her had started to kick up a fuss in Douma's arms. Whining and moving her limbs under the blankets. "Aw. Someone's cranky. Looks like someone wants Daddy."

"Wait. What?"

He didn't even get a chance to say anything else before the smiling blonde was already hoisting the fussing girl out of his arms and plopping her right into a slightly panicked Gyutaro's whom practically froze when the squirming infant was suddenly in his hold. Ume continued to move around making whined of protests before looking back up and pausing meeting his usual terrifying face. She slowly paused seeing him and both just stared at one another for a long moment before the derpy chubby face gave a lopsided smile at him followed by a giggle. Something warm swelled up in his chest and she was held closer to himself.

"Do you need help there?"

".....No." He smiled. For once in a very long time in his long, hard life. A sense of domestic normalcy and pride only he could have. "I'm fine."

#demon bride lost bits #kimetsu gakuen #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #gyutaro x reader #gyutaro #Daki

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roninishere · 10 months

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Strong.

Part 2 of Half of my heart!

Obanai Iguro x Female Reader

Warnings: horrible grammar? Haha

Summary: things finally were coming together.

‘My hands, your hands Tied up like two ships Drifting, weightless Waves trying to break it I'd do anything to save it Why is it so hard to say it?’

‘I’m so sorry Y/N, I can’t come home yet. The only way I can come home is if I kill Muzan, and finally purify my blood.’

It was time.

Demon Slayer Corps successful took down Muzan and the rest of the upper moons with no casualties. It was a miracle.

Y/N started to get worried when a week had passed after the final battle, where was he?

He promised.

After asking Tengen and his wives to pick your up after school and watch over him, you had rushed home to pack a small bag. Just enough for a day trip.

He promised though.

Swinging the door open, nearly rushing out, a familiar black and white stripped hoari caught your eyes, bringing you to a full halt. Your eyes shot up, and you swore you thought you were gunna faint. You locked eyes with those familiar yellow and turquoise eyes; and your knees buckled. Before they gave out, you leaned your hip and body weight on the side of the door frame.

He kept his promise.

You got some overwhelmed with emotions, you started crying as you regained your posture. Was this real? Or were you dreaming?

You weren’t emotional often, but fuck you were a fool for the serpent Hashira. This is four YEARS into the making, for this very moment. Subconsciously, you closed the gap between the two of you, bringing your hands up to his face. You thought your heart was going to burst out of you chest. Your palms were embarrassing sweaty as you cupped his cheeks, letting out the softest joy of laugh ‘He’s really here…’

Obanai had always been hesitant and awkward with affection, so when he didn’t go to touch or embrace you, it didn’t bother you. Though the instant you set your hands on his face over his bandages, he dropped his luggage bag, he instantly leaned into your touch as his beautiful unique eyes were locked on yours. Your eyes were so breathtaking and beautiful as he remembered.

The unfamiliar feeling of warm and fuzziness ran through his body when you moved in close, pressing your lips on his bandages, where his lips would be, for a couple seconds before pulling back with the biggest smile he’s ever seen “Welcome home baby.”

Welcome home baby. Between those words and the fact that you were so loving towards him, even with the new scars nasty on his face, he felt he was on cloud nine.

“I’m so sorry that it took this long,” he started with that look of disappointment and shame in his eyes that unfortunately was common to you. “Even though Muzan is gone, a part of me still feels like I shouldn’t be here, that I don’t deserve this. Not with everything I’ve put you through. I feel like I’m still a disgrace.” The feelings he had about his past still very much existed for the now former Hashira, and it continues to break your heart.

He had been through so much not only the first twelve years of his life, but in general. He was a man of insecurities, self doubt, and self hate. You wanted to help change that.

“I understand baby, I promised that I’d wait a hundred years for you if that’s how long it took. As for you still have those feelings, over time they’ll go away,” your gentle words brought him to tears, and you never saw him shed a tear. “But it’ll take time, and for you to forgive yourself. It starts with you. I’ve forgiven you the moment our little boy was born,” you gently brushed your thumbs across the bandages and whispered “You were never a disgrace, and you still will never be one. You’ve saved hundreds of lives! Probably even thousands! If you’re anything, you’re a hero baby.

“You deserve to be happy again, to be with the ones that you love, to finally live your life. How you want.”

Your words gave him strength to finally touch you, he engulfed you into his arms, hugging you so tight that it was slightly difficult to breathe.

‘My heart, your heart Sit tight like bookends Pages between us Written with no end So many words we're not saying Don't wanna wait till it's gone You make me strong’

“Do you trust me?” Your question had him taken him by surprise but he didn’t hesitate to answer “With my life.”

Your brain went a little mushy thinking that was super cute of him to say, you blushed before picking up his luggage bag with one hand as you tugged for him to follow you into your home. You brought him to you-now your guys bedroom, set his luggage down in front of your-now his as well drawers before you closed the sliding doors.

“Wait, where’s Kaburamaru?” You couldn’t believe you almost forgot.

A soft muffled chuckle left Obanais lips at your concern “He’s in the trees in front, he wanted to give us…privacy.”

“Oh how considerate!”

‘I'm sorry if I say I need you But I don't care, I'm not scared of love 'Cause when I'm not with you, I'm weaker Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong? That you make me strong’

Four years. Fours years since the two of you were this close. You lead him to the edge of the bed, your fingers running through his hair, brushing it the stains out of his face. You nudged his legs to open so you placed yourself in the middle of them, securing all space between the two of you as you bent down, kissing all his scars.

His hands flumbed with your kimono as his eyes were glued onto your face. Your kisses were so soft, lingering, and tiniest bit wet as you kissed what seemed like ever inch of his face. Untying your kimono, he pushed the fabric off your shoulders, and with a soft thud, you were half naked in front him. Unable to break away from your gaze, his hands find your waist, giving the soft skin squeezes here and there.

Your fingers found their way behind his head, slowly untying his bandages, unwrapping the rest of his face. You pecked the top of his nose saying “So handsome,” as you gently tossed the bandages behind him, continuing on with your attack with kisses.

Feeling you kissing the corner of his lips, Obanai felt like he was gunna faint from such affection. It wasn’t the first time that you kissed his scars or called him handsome, but he felt his face get hot and flustered as his hands grip your hips. Once you’ve layered so many kisses on his face, you pull back, your hands trailing down to unbutton his top.

The way your hair fell over your shoulders, surrounding you and the Serpents Hashiras, made it that more easier for him to look at your pumped lip that you currently had dragged underneath your teeth. Oh god he was always weak when you bit your lip like that, got him so turned on. Your clumsy fingers were struggling to undress him, though it’s not like you always were undressing someone. He was the last person you had been with.

You were just as breathtaking as the last time you two were intimate.

Feeling his eyes glued to your face, you nervous chuckled as you looked into his eyes for a moment before getting the last button undone. “There…” you breathed as you pushed off his top along with haori, and your expression never changed. Never once to the battle scars he had endured. Scars never once bothered you, you told him they were simply art, and behind all art, there was always a story.

Of course you had your own fair share of them, but Obanais scars didn’t scare or make you disgusted. If they made you feel anything, just a feeling of unease that he had endured so much pain at a young age.

She smiled so brightly at him saying “I’m sorry if I say that I need you Obanai.”

‘Think of how much Love that's been wasted People always Trying to escape it Move on to stop their heart breaking But there's nothing I'm running from You make me strong’

The both of you crash on the bed, catching your breaths after the two of you were coming down from your climaxes. You sat up on your elbow, leaning over to lay kisses back on his face with the cutest giggles. You were so happy to have him home, it was like a part of you came back. Whatever doubts you ever had, immediately disappeared with Obanai.

“Y/N?” His whisper was so soft as his hand cupped your cheek, “Hmmmm?”

Oh, the way your eyes lit up as you gave him your undivided attention, and that same bright smile of yours that made him fall in love with you when he first met you. Wow, how he’s missed this. Just when he couldn’t fall harder, he did.

“I love you so much,” your eyes turned ever to loving, finally hearing those words leave his word rather written in a letter than his crow delivered to you. “Marry me, so I can finally be the man you deserve. I promise I will make up my absence for the rest of our lives.”

Lost for words, you were cheesing as you nodded as the words came back to you “Oh baby I love you too, and of course I’ll marry you and make you the happiest man ever!”

“I already am,” he admitted gently against her lips as he combed back her hair.

oh shit this was really happening. Things finally working out for you and your son.

“Alright,” you sat up, stretching out a bit before giving him the softest and loving kiss, “come, I’m going to start a bath for us, there’s someone important you have to meet.”

Someone important you have to meet, those words echoed in his head which brought him both joy and a nerve racking feeling. Obanai was scared that his own son would reject him, tell him to stay away, cry and say he hated him.

Even though he deserved it, but his true obstacle wasn’t getting forgiveness for you, but from the spilt image of him.

‘I'm sorry if I say I need you But I don't care, I'm not scared of love 'Cause when I'm not with you I'm weaker Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong?’

The more you told him that he had nothing to worry about, it leveled out his nerves. He also felt like you made him stronger, not afraid of being himself, of taking chances. A leap of faith. He brought your hand up to his face, kissing your hand through his bandages before you knocked on the door of the Uzui’s home.

‘So, baby, hold on to my heart, ooh Need you to keep me from falling apart I'll always hold on 'Cause you make me strong’

“You have eyes like mine! Are you my father? Momma said you were away fighting to protect us from the monsters! Are all the monsters gone?!” The former Hashiras eyes flickered to you, which you have him a cheeky smile. Well, she wasn’t wrong now was she?

Bending down to his son level, he brushed back his sons hair with such love in his eyes, “I am, and yes all the monsters are gone. I can finally be with you two.”

“Momma! Is this true?” He turned back with so much excitement as his mother nodded with a smile “It is my love!”

Before he could say anything, the little boy jumped into his fathers arm, hugging him so tightly saying how much he had been looking for this moment. To meet his father. How happy he was.

‘ I'm sorry if I say I need you But I don't care, I'm not scared of love 'Cause when I'm not with you, I'm weaker Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong?’

Love. Obanai Iguro had never felt so much love in his entire life until he could come

home. Until he could be with his family, to be with his son who didn’t fear or hate him.

“You’re not scared?” The little boy brought his hand up, touching all of his fathers scars, especially tracing his fingers in the ones at the corner of his lips.

The little boy shook his head “No, momma said scars are like art! A story behind each one!”

If his heart hadn’t melt before, it definitely didn’t right there in that moment. There wasn’t an ounce of fear or disgust in your sons eyes. Just amazed and intrigued by them. The same exact way his sons mother looked at him. With so much love.

‘I'm sorry if I say I need you But I don't care, I'm not scared of love 'Cause when I'm not with you, I'm weaker Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong? That you make me strong’

“Hey,” Obanai nudged his nose against your cheek as his hand caress across your round belly. It was spring time, and you guys watched Obanais minion with Kaburamaru up on his shoulder. You couldn’t help yourself get comfortable and drift off when your husband was calling for your attention. When you turned your head, he thought your droopy sleepy eyes were so adorable “I just wanted to remind you, you two make me so happy, that because if you, you make strong.”

‘I'm sorry if I say I need you But I don't care, I'm not scared of love 'Cause when I'm not with you, I'm weaker Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong? That you make me strong’

Nothing made you more happy than finally being Obanai’s wife, and have a chance to have another baby, but with him along your side this time around. However, for Obanai, love and happiness surrounded for rest of his life…fulfilling those promises he made to you many years ago.

😭 I can’t, so much cuteness overload! Special shout-out to @unofficialmuilover for assisting me with the whole thing, song and plot and everything! I hope you all enjoyed!

#demon slayer x reader #obanai x reader #kny obanai #obanai iguro #obanai x you #kimetsu no yaiba obanai #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer imagines #demon slayer

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adore-laur · 5 months

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BULLSEYE: PART ONE

— a lonely small-town boy meets a demure city girl (this series is unfinished)

| The Boy |

Morning fog drifts throughout Lurgashall, West Sussex. Doves faintly coo in the dense forest. The sound of the rushing river nearby gives life to the rural landscape. The pathway is hugged by trees on both sides, weeping willows and broadleaf evergreens bending over the gravel as if to greet passersby. The sky is a silky shade of periwinkle, and the sun gently grapples to peek out from behind a sheet of looming stratus clouds. Squirrels and hares race through the thicket to rustle and stir up insects. The crickets will soon chirp and wake the rest of the sleeping nature around them.

Distant footsteps crunch rock fragments with each stride, the approaching noise startling the birds as they scatter away to their homes nestled in the slim branches above. A boy whom the townsfolk know as Harry is the product of the sound. His intriguing and mysterious presence always makes itself known, even to placid wildlife. Unless he's with his father, of course. In those moments, he's a silent shadow in the background of the older man's domineering limelight.

As the steps grow louder, creatures turn their heads to observe the boy's blue, melancholy aura that walks the timeworn path every dawn. He holds a metal bucket filled to the brim with fresh water from the stream. It's heavy but no challenge for his strong arms. He ventures down the winding trail, disrupting the pebbles with each clunky trudge of his steel-toed boots. Atop his head is a cowboy-esque hat made of straw, and his freshly showered hair, damp and curly, makes an appearance underneath as it dries with assistance from the crisp breeze. His long legs are clad in light-wash jeans, and his upper half is covered with a cream-colored button-up. He leaves it open over a trusty white tank top, the fabric sticking to his perspiring chest. Humidity is starting to make its presence known, and he wishes autumn would arrive faster. He despises summer for his own repressive reasons.

Harry is not a cowboy by any means. He's what people would instead consider a rancher. His father had once told him that there was a significant difference. A rancher doesn't wrangle cattle or compete in barrel racing. They don't herd sheep or wear chaps. Nor do they own a lasso or race horses for profit. No, Harry takes care of the horses. He nurtures them by feeding, grooming, and riding them across the village fields. He speaks to them when he locks the stable up at night, telling them about the newest baby born in tiny Lurgashall or the fawn he saw grazing in the pasture.

He works at his father's ranch. It provides services such as horseback riding and equestrian lessons. His father handles the latter, having grown up in the village his entire life and acquiring decades of experience. On the other hand, Harry helps with the guided horse tours by visiting the picturesque countryside a few times daily with a group of locals or tourists. They travel the paths overrun with blossoming flowers and satiny grass matted down by hoof prints. Farthest out on the tour, they stop at beautifully eroded rock formations on the hill and soak in the expanse of the sky.

It never gets old, yet the boy still feels stuck. He's caught up in a constant cycle of living the same day repeatedly, always ending with desolation crawling into his lonely heart that so desperately wants to be loved. It doesn't help that he doesn't have many friends, not that it's such a horrible thing. However, living in a place with a whopping population of six hundred people leaves him relatively isolated. He doesn't mind, though. He's grown used to going home to his cabin in the woods and having the entire place to do as he pleases. He can play his records as loud as he wants. He can get drunk off cheap whiskey and dance around his living room, thinking about all the things he should have said and done in his past. He can fall asleep under his quilted blanket and dream of flying through the sky, his fingers sweeping through the soft grass of foreign fields he wishes to visit one day.

When Harry does manage to hang around other people, it's usually at the singular pub in Lurgashall. It's small, with a rustic, sixteenth-century interior and matching decor that comforts him. He walks there from his cabin or the stables, either chosen way taking less than ten minutes, and admires the scenic view of the whole journey.

Whenever he steps through the doorway, he comes alive. Talking to strangers and locals, listening to their stories with endless questions bubbling up inside him. He sometimes rides his horse there and ties it to the porch fence, then excuses himself from the pub for a moment to feed them a carrot that he always keeps in his satchel. Hogging the jukebox by playing Dolly Parton back-to-back until a drunk man yells at him to pick something else. Harry will often go behind the bar and help serve drinks to the patrons, charming them with his infectious smile, never forgetting to undo a couple of extra buttons on his shirt to attract anyone interested. Someone usually is, but he never acts on their flirtatious exertions. Harry prefers going back to his cabin alone with rosy cheeks and a dizzy head. His father calls him a dry-as-dust introvert with how much time he spends in solitude. So be it, the boy thinks. He's doing perfectly fine on his own.

Harry's favorite thing to do at the pub is partake in a game of darts. He claims he could be a professional one day and travel the world, knocking down any competition far and wide with ease. He'll play by himself for hours straight with complete focus and a light buzz coursing through his blood from the beer or whiskey he drinks. The local ladies will watch while whistling and cheering him on. It feeds his narcissism nicely. Then he'll stumble home and crash on his bed, getting no more than four hours of sleep before dragging his feet to work the following morning with a headache and a feeling of existential dread about the stand-still life that his father gave him. Needless to say, the boy has some unresolved daddy issues.

That's not to say Harry isn't fond of where he lives and works. He loves horses and showing people the beauty of his hometown. He doesn't mind waking up at dawn to sit with the horses after completing his duties. He'll bring his sketchbook and pencils and draw potential ideas for tattoos.

Oh, don't even get him started on tattoos. His father hates them, so Harry gets dozens out of pure spite. His arms are covered with ink inspired by his own drawings. He will often tattoo himself with his gun and supplies in a drawer at his cabin since the nearest tattoo parlor is an entire town away. He honestly can't get enough. The feeling of the needle piercing his flesh brings him a painfully addictive pleasure he hasn't found anywhere else.

It's six in the morning when Harry walks into the main stable. He hears the familiar sound of hooves clopping against the wooden planks. This is where he can stop thinking about everything wrong in his life. This is where he goes to get away from his father's disapproving demeanor. This is where he can reminisce about his mother, his angel in the sky guiding him toward better days.

——

| The Girl |

It takes just under an hour to drive from Portsmouth to Lurgashall. There's green everywhere, a pleasant change from the grey city. Boundless fields and forests seclude the cozy, spaced-out cottages and farmhouses along the road. It's technically not even a road; it's simply a gravel path looping throughout the village.

Cramped in a car with three other people, it's becoming hard to breathe with the muggy air wafting in because someone insisted on rolling the windows down. It's almost comical to think about how city girls could survive staying here for a week after being conditioned to traffic and bumping into people on concrete streets.

The girl, who suburbanites know as Shyla, has friends who insisted they travel to the countryside to temporarily flee their swarmed hometown of Portsmouth. They quite literally threw a dart on a map of England to determine the destination. Lo and behold, it hit the microscopic region of Lurgashall.

Eight square miles. Six hundred residents. She's absolutely dreading it.

Shyla was left out of the trip planning. She also wasn't given the option to ride shotgun in the car. Now, she's on the way to go horseback riding at a ranch when her friends know she's never ridden one before and has absolutely no desire to. The guided horseback tour is private for the four girls. Shyla is thankful for that since she doesn't want strangers laughing at her inability to steer a horse properly. Needless to say, the girl doesn't have a great support system.

See, Shyla is lonely even when she's around her friends. They ignore her and leave her out of conversations. They only hang out with her when they need something out of it — a designated driver, money, or someone to tease. Shyla is fed up, to be honest, but she's too terrified of confrontation. She doesn't want to lose the only people she has left.

Once the ranch comes into view, Shyla feels her heart sink with an anchor of anxiousness. From the backseat window, she admires the rolling hills that expand as far as the eye can see. Behind the ranch is a fenced pasture connected to the stables. Horses are tied up, chewing on hay and stomping their hooves, causing dust to swirl in the stale air.

Gravel crunches under the car's wheels as they slow down. No parking spots are marked, so they park in front of the wraparound porch. The ranch building is cute, with its horseshoe hanging above the front door and the crooked wooden sign that reads Styles Stables.

Shyla thinks maybe this won't be so bad after all. The exterior atmosphere of the place seems inviting enough. She wonders how the business stays afloat in such a small town, especially since there are currently no other cars. The owner will be in for a surprise when a group of girls from the city asks to ride their horses. Her friends can be obnoxious sometimes, so she prays they won't embarrass her and make anyone's job more difficult.

They all clamber out of the car and stumble toward the front door on legs that haven't been used for a while. Shyla strays behind, trying to get fresh air in her lungs. Plummeting apprehension has suddenly hit her.

The door is already open, revealing a naturally lit room. Shyla is the last one to step inside, and she's taken aback by the overpowering smell of sawdust and leather. It's a spacious area with creaky wooden floors decorated with only a rustic bench and a shabby front desk. There are two men behind it. One has grey hair that shines from the sunlight pouring through the window. The other has curly brown hair. Their backs are turned, and they seem to be poring over a stack of papers.

One of Shyla's friends rings the silver service bell to get their attention. The silver-haired man slowly turns around with a stoic expression and studies each person. He seems intimidating right off the bat. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers at the other person behind the counter. The boy flinches slightly and silently hurries out the back door. Without a word, the older man slides four waivers toward them. They paid beforehand, and Shyla assumes they must not have anyone else riding today since he didn't ask for their names.

Her three friends sit on the bench to fill them out, leaving Shyla to remain standing and write on the splintered surface of the desk. After they finish, they give the papers to the man. Shyla gets negative vibes from him. It's no wonder no one comes here; the owner is the most off-putting person she's ever met.

Then he speaks. A low, gruff voice thunders when he says, "Harry, my son, will be your guide today. Go out the back door, and he'll situate everyone with a horse based on experience. Let me know if he's cranky. I'll make sure to give him a stern talking-to."

They all nod and head to the stables. They're met with posts lining a fence that several horses, all varying colors and sizes, are tied to with rope. Shyla's eyes start watering from the dryness outside—or maybe from fear.

The boy, who Shyla now knows as Harry, carries saddles out and begins setting them on a few select horses. She has an unobstructed view of him now, so she takes in his outfit, consisting of a beige button-up with a brown leather jacket over it and jeans with a hole just below each of his knees. His hair is almost parted down the middle, with some loose curls hanging over his forehead, and there's faint stubble growing above his lips and along his jaw.

Once the horses have saddles on, Shyla watches Harry lead a tall, sleek black horse in front of the girls. Shyla guesses it's the one he'll be riding since it doesn't have a saddle on, and it looks daunting. He ties it to the entrance gate leading to the trail, then brings another horse out. He's silent the entire time, and Shyla thinks he might actually be cranky. She's not a snitch, though.

Harry stops in front of the girls after the four horses are tied to the fence. He clears his throat, then asks, "Has anyone here never ridden a horse before?"

Shyla glances over to her friends and quickly realizes she's the only one who hasn't. With a hesitant raise of her arm, she indicates her inexperience. The boy locks eyes with her and nods before untying a copper-colored horse. He walks it over to Shyla while adjusting its saddle.

"This is Quake," he explains, patting the horse's neck. "We use him for beginners. Are you comfortable mounting him by yourself?"

"Um, I've never gotten on a horse before, so I might need some help."

"Sure. Start by putting your left foot in the stirrup." Shyla steps into the stirrup and waits for further instruction. "Then push down on it to lift your leg up and over his body."

He's watching her every movement. Shyla swallows her parched throat. She does what he says and hoists her leg to stretch uncomfortably over Quake's wide body, then sets her feet in both stirrups and holds onto the saddle's horn. She peeks over at her friends to see if they'll be proud of her, but they're all too distracted taking pictures on their phones. She tries not to let it bother her.

"Do your feet feel loose at all?" Harry asks, placing the reins in her grasp.

"They feel a bit loose, yeah. I also feel like they're too low. Sorry, I'm short." She doesn't know why she's apologizing. She just feels bad for being a beginner and wasting everyone's time. Her friends are obviously bored while waiting for her.

"All right, let me fix those for you." He grabs the left stirrup and pulls the strap to tighten and lift it, his fingers grazing Shyla's ankle. She almost shivers at the touch. He goes over to fix the other one and gives her a questioning thumbs-up. She hastily nods to confirm they're better.

"What's your name?" he mumbles as he adjusts Quake's bridle.

She almost forgets it but manages a quiet murmur of "Shyla."

"Shyla. Pretty name." Harry puts his hands on his hips. "So, if you want to steer right or left, just turn the reins in that direction. The hand you write with holds the reins, but you can use two if you're more comfortable that way. If you want to slow down or stop, gently pull the reins back. Quake is a good horse, so there shouldn't be any problems. Going downhill, you want to lean back. Going uphill is when you'll lean forward. If Quake stops moving, just lightly kick his side. Let's see... always sit up straight, but keep your body relaxed. No need to worry about trotting or accidental running since he's our most easy-going horse. He doesn't get spooked much." He exhales, eyes squinting from the sun. "That's it, I think. Any questions?"

Shyla shifts in the saddle, overwhelmed by all the rules. "No, I should be fine. Thank you."

"No problem." He hikes his thumb over his shoulder. "Quake will just stand still for right now, so I'll get everyone else set up."

Once everyone is on their designated horses, Harry unties his horse and gracefully mounts it. He then takes his leather jacket off and hangs it over the fence post, skillfully turning his horse around to lead the front of the line.

"Okay," he says, looking at everyone. "Since Shyla hasn't done this before, I'll have her ride behind me. Sound good?"

The girls all nod their heads. Harry opens the rusty gate and gets his horse to start walking by clicking his tongue, causing the other horses to follow suit. Shyla sees him twist back to check on her, and she smiles softly to show she's good. He just bows his head and stares straight ahead again.

Shyla doesn't remember what she was ever anxious about.

——

| The Boy |

Harry has concluded that the girl behind him is catastrophically pretty. He finds himself looking back at her every so often to make sure she's all right, and each time he does, she grants him an innocent smile paired with eyes the color of chestnuts.

Harry has also concluded that her friends are absolute shit. They won't stop gabbing about city gossip with their whiny voices. He thanks his lucky stars that they're not behind him; otherwise, he would be seconds away from getting his horse to kick them off. The girl not being annoying, who Harry now knows as Shyla, is reserved and respectful. Whenever he subtly steals a glance at her, she's admiring the nature around her and petting Quake's neck with a delicate hand.

When they finally reach the rock formations, everyone gets off their horse to stretch their legs and appreciate the view. This is Harry's favorite part. He likes to watch his groups be impressed with how beautiful little Lurgashall can be.

He observes Shyla with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Her wide eyes scan over the rocks and endless greenery around her. For some reason, it makes his mouth twitch with a ghost of a smile.

Five minutes pass before they begin their trip back to the stables. Shyla, who has been otherwise quiet, suddenly speaks up, much to Harry's surprise. Her friends are too busy talking about where to get dinner to join in.

"How long have you been doing this?" she asks.

Harry turns his head toward her momentarily before turning back and taking a deep, calming breath. He's awful at small talk unless he has alcohol in his system. He keeps his backstory vague and says, "Around a decade. I started as a guide when I was sixteen. My father built the ranch long before I was born, so I kind of had no choice but to follow in his footsteps."

It's true he didn't have a choice, but there's a more personal side to it that he can't talk about without either crying or getting angry. It's about his mother and any fleeting thought of her begs for tears to fall. If he starts crying on a horse in front of a pretty girl, he's officially hit rock bottom.

"Is it just you and him working at the ranch?" Shyla questions further.

His shoulders tense. "Only us," he curtly replies. Shyla must notice his discomfort because she's silent the rest of the way back.

Eventually, they arrive at the stables. Harry smoothly dismounts his horse and walks over to help Shyla off Quake first. He reaches his hand out, and she firmly grips it while swinging her leg over and hopping onto the ground. His thumb lightly strokes the back of her hand before he lets go. If she feels it, she doesn't let it show.

As Shyla dusts off her pants, Harry glimpses at her friends, who are getting off their horses and taking more pictures of themselves. Irritation simmers inside of him. They could at least pretend to care about her.

He shakes the thought from his head and coughs gingerly into his fist before mumbling, "Have a nice day, Shyla," and bidding farewell with a two-finger salute.

Again, he's awful at making conversation. He gets nervous, especially when mesmerizing brown eyes give him a tenderhearted look he hasn't seen since his mother left him.

——

| The Girl |

Shyla and her friends have decided to go out for cocktails tonight. Much to everyone's disappointment, there's only one pub in Lurgashall to choose from, but it'll have to do. They drove aimlessly after horseback riding since the checkout time for the inn they are staying at isn't until tomorrow morning. The girls are terrible at planning, so they have no other option but to sleep in the car tonight. It's going to be hell.

It's ten o'clock when they walk through the threshold. Shyla's view is instantly bombarded with people chatting, dancing, and drinking in every corner of the confined space. Her friends are already heading toward the bar to order drinks. Shyla lingers behind and soaks in the lively environment. Friendly smiles fleetingly greet her. Bony limbs accidentally elbow her. Boisterous laughs invitingly lure her in.

As her curious eyes scan the room, she quickly spots a familiar face. Harry, the boy from the ranch, is in the far corner, standing next to a retro jukebox. He's wearing his brown leather jacket from earlier with no shirt underneath, and several tattoos can be seen in the dim lighting of the pub. He nurses what looks like a glass of whiskey or bourbon in his hand as he slowly sways to the song playing. He's mouthing the lyrics with his head tilted back. Shyla recognizes the song as "You're the Only One" by Dolly Parton. She flits her gaze away so he doesn't catch her gawking.

The mix of conversations around her on top of Dolly's smooth-as-butter voice creates an ambiance that eases her anxiety. Clinking glasses and the sudden outburst of hysterics make her want to participate in the drunken bubbles. Walking over to the bar, Shyla finds an open stool to sit on when Harry suddenly slides behind the counter with a beaming smile and dilated pupils. She stares at him for a while, trying to understand how quickly he noticed her. Now, his tattooed torso is right in front of her, and she thinks he's one of the most attractive people she's ever seen.

"Hi!" Harry cheerfully greets, blowing a curly strand of hair away from his face. Shyla can immediately sense that he's a bit tipsy.

"Hey," she says awkwardly. "Um, do you work here?"

"I don't work here," he slurs with a smug raise of eyebrows. "But I can make you anything your heart desires."

Oh, so tipsy Harry is an entirely different person. Got it!

"Could I please get a lime margarita?" she asks, his intense eye contact making her flush.

He winks as he grabs a glass from under the counter. "Coming right up, Miss Shyla."

She's shocked he remembers her name as she watches him run a lime wedge along the rim of the glass and skillfully coat it in salt. After that, he pours the liquid ingredients into a mixer filled with ice and then shakes it like a professional bartender. His stomach muscles flex as he does so, and his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek in concentration. Shyla wonders how he's so good at making drinks if he doesn't work here.

Once he pours the concoction into her glass, he kisses the lime wedge and garnishes the rim. Lifting it in a cheers gesture, he slides it toward her. Who is this man? He can't be the same one she met earlier today.

"Thanks," Shyla mumbles meekly. She takes a sip and puckers her lips at the sour taste.

Harry's palms cradle his cheeks, his elbows resting on the counter. He has a cute smile on his face as he watches her expression. He looks like a kid in a candy store, his dimples deep enough to build a dreamland in them.

"I'm tipsy," he admits, his mouth barely moving. "Apologies if it's not my best work." He stands up straight with a slight sway. "Hey, do you know how to play darts? I can teach you. Not to brag, but I'm pretty decent."

Shyla peeks at the dart board snug in the corner of the pub. She's never played before, and her friends probably don't care that she's not with them, so she nods, grabs her drink, and heads over. Harry shuffles around the counter to walk beside her. He smells like pine trees with a hint of something floral.

They reach the board, and Harry leans against it with his ankles crossed. He takes a dart and points it at her. "So," he says, "the simplest version we can play is 301. Easy rules. We each start with 301 points, yeah? The goal is to reach zero; to do that, we have to try to land the dart on high numbers to get there before each other. We subtract the scores each round, and whoever gets there first wins. However, if you go past zero, you bust out and have to reset your score to what it was when you started your last turn."

Shyla's sure she'll be terrible at it, but at least it'll be something fun to do while her friends get hammered without her. She takes a gulp from her margarita to get some liquid courage churning, then sets her glass on a nearby stool and grabs a dart, the only pink one in a bundle of red and blue ones. She stands a decent distance away from the board.

"Is there a certain way to throw it?" she wonders aloud, spinning the dart between her fingers.

Harry tuts. "I'm not supposed to help you since we're competing, but yes, there is. Here, let me show you." He stands behind her, his bare chest resting against her back. His cologne and presence dangerously invade all of her senses.

"See the white line in front of you?" he says, his warm breath heating her ear. "It's called the oche. You can't step over it, or you'll be disqualified. Your feet need to be hip-width apart behind it, okay?" Shyla spreads her feet to the appropriate length. "Keep your feet at that width and then turn sideways to face the board," he adds. She does as Harry says. He continues, "Place every finger except your pinky on the barrel of the dart. Toward the front of it." Shyla attempts to mimic his direction. "Ah, ah, ah. Not too firmly. Try not to curl your fingers. Keep them long and open."

She readjusts her fingers on the dart, then turns her head to meet Harry's eyes. He licks his lips and nods. "Good girl. Now raise the dart to eye level with your elbow at a ninety-degree angle." Shyla feels him lightly grip her wrist to raise it as he bends her elbow. "Just like that."

Fuck. Her skin is on fire, surely.

"Now tilt the end upwards a bit," he murmurs, his thumb stroking her elbow, "but don't let the tip drop too far down. Then aim it right at the bullseye. Is this your first time throwing a dart?"

Shyla swallows. "Yes. Sorry if I end up putting a hole in the wall."

Harry hums a low chuckle. "Trust me, you won't. So, what you'll do now is use your dominant eye to aim. You held the reins at the ranch with your right hand, so I'm assuming you're right-handed?"

He remembered. Is that the bare minimum? Shyla can't think straight when she can feel every single one of his breaths against her neck. She manages to squeak out an affirmation.

"Okay. Keep your right eye open and close the other one. Then pull your hand back and keep your shoulders motionless as you throw it." Harry's hands place themselves on her shoulders. She tenses but relaxes instantly when he gives them an assuring squeeze. "Place weight on your foot closest to the board when you throw, but don't lean or sway. Stay as still as possible."

"All right," Shyla whispers. "Then I just throw it forward, right?"

"Snap your wrist forward, not downward, as you release it. And always remember to follow through with the motion."

He removes his hands from her shoulders and tucks in the tag from the neckline of her shirt. Has that been out the entire day? How embarrassing.

Shyla clears her throat and gets ready to aim. She closes her left eye and keeps her shoulders still like Harry said. She then lightly pushes her foot closest to the board and snaps her wrist to release the dart.

Not quite a bullseye, but pretty damn close. In Shyla's peripheral, she sees Harry whistle by sticking his pointer and middle finger in his mouth. He removes them and claps slowly but not mockingly; he looks thoroughly impressed. Shyla curtsies and takes a sip of her drink.

It's Harry's turn, so he takes a red dart and stances up behind the line. Before he gets any further, Shyla can't help but ask, "How do you play when you're tipsy? Won't your hand-eye coordination get messed up?"

Closing one eye, he pokes his tongue out in concentration and gracefully releases the dart. It hits the bullseye. He glances at her and smiles lopsidedly. "Practice makes perfect, darling."

She's stunned by his perfect aim as he removes the two darts and then writes down both scores on the nearby chalkboard. When he faces her, he spreads his arms out and arrogantly shrugs.

"You're good," Shyla compliments, breathing out a laugh and clapping.

"All in a day's work," he replies, gesturing his hands like he's dusting them off.

Shyla is about to grab another dart when Harry suddenly gasps. "You're Still the One" by Shania Twain starts playing from the jukebox. She really enjoys the song, too. She's not tipsy enough to dance around like everyone else, but when Harry holds his hand out for her to take, she can't refuse.

"What about our dart game?" she asks, taking his warm and calloused hand. He twirls her and brings her into his chest, beginning to sway them to the romantic song. One hand in hers, the other gravitating to her waist.

"Nothing else matters when Shania comes on. You'll have to stop by again so we can finish."

"Already trying to get me to come back, huh? I'm only here for a week, so you better make it worth it."

She hopes that came across as flirty. The margarita in her bloodstream is doing wonders for her boldness.

Harry's eyebrows dip sadly. "You're only here for a week?"

Shyla's unoccupied fingers graze along his abdomen. His skin is soft but somehow firm. "I'm from Portsmouth, which is about an hour southwest. I'm here on a girl's trip."

"Oh, a trip with your shitty friends?" he says monotonously as he looks over at them. They're taking shots and talking way too loudly. "Sounds absolutely riveting."

Shyla's mouth clamps shut. Had he really noticed that they mistreated her? Is it obvious?

"I mean, it's been fine so far. They're just a little more outgoing than me."

"Bullshit. They treat you like rubbish, and I've known you for less than a day."

Shyla is quiet because she knows he's right. If she can see it, why can't anyone else? She's in this boy's arms, touching his skin, and she feels more comfortable with him than the girls she's been friends with for years. Is that wrong? Or is this a feeling she shouldn't fight?

Shyla stares into his glassy eyes and then down at his lips. Something is magnetizing about him. He pulls her in and makes her feel seen.

"Do you want to come back to my place?" Harry asks, just loud enough to hear over the music and chatter. "I have a jacuzzi, or we could listen to records and dance some more."

"I would really like that," Shyla says, releasing herself from his proximity. "Um, let me go tell my friends."

"Screw them." He catches her hand before she can leave, pulling her back. "Just come with me. They're too plastered to notice you'll be gone."

Shyla thinks they wouldn't notice even if they weren't plastered. "Okay," she gives in, playing with his fingers. "Are there taxis here? Maybe an Uber?"

Harry laughs, his nose wrinkling as his hand rests on his stomach. "I'm afraid taxis in Lurgashall are nonexistent." He gently picks an eyelash off Shyla's cheek. "Listen, it's a ten-minute walk to my cabin. We can get to know each other on the way there."

She doesn't have to contemplate. "Let's go."

——

| The Boy & The Girl |

On the journey to his cabin, Harry sobers quite quickly. Shyla had a few sips of her margarita, so there was only a faint buzz coursing through her veins. They talked about what it was like growing up in their respective hometowns and their favorite music artists. He's a Dolly Parton fan, and she's obsessed with Blondie.

They round the corner of the main path, his arm slung around her shoulder. When the cabin comes into view, Shyla's breath hitches. It's a black A-frame structure with a wooden balcony. The jacuzzi Harry mentioned is surrounded by potted plants. The place is completely secluded in the forest, with no other houses visible for miles.

Harry guides her up the stairs and to the front door, opening it for her. He reaches for the light switch, and the room lightens as they enter. To their left, there's a kitchen, a cozy and compact area with a small island and a counter along the wall. A tilted window panel is angled over the sink, providing a glimpse of the pine trees outside.

His living room is opposite the kitchen. It has a leather couch, a rustic fireplace, and rugs scattered across the floor. Along the wall is a bookshelf packed with all sorts of titles. On the other wall, there are shelves filled with records, and under them is a vintage record player. The wallpaper is old-fashioned, with picture frames holding minimalistic paintings of roses, daisies, and orchards.

A rickety staircase leads to a loft area where his bedroom is. It fits a queen-sized bed and a square wooden bathtub next to it. String lights hang along the log rafters and railing, creating an inviting and intimate ambiance.

Harry begins removing bags off the counter in the kitchen while Shyla admires his space. "Sorry for the mess," he mumbles, putting groceries in the fridge. "I wasn't expecting anyone tonight."

"It's okay. You have such a beautiful home." Shyla hopes she's not intruding when she asks, "Is it just you that lives here?"

"Just me. And my horse on occasion." Harry is suddenly nervous. It's been so long since someone was in his home. Does she think it's odd that he lives in a cabin alone in the woods? Does she think he's a loser for having a bookshelf stuffed with romance novels?

"I would kill to live here," Shyla says, disproving his insecurities. "Living by yourself sounds so nice. I have to live in a congested apartment with one of my friends you saw today."

"Hmm," he hums while slowly walking toward her. "That's a shame."

"It's fine. Once I get my degree, I'm going to find somewhere to live on my own."

He stops in his tracks. This girl keeps surprising him. "Yeah? What do you study?" he asks as he changes his course and strides over to his record player.

She joins him and replies, "Psychology. I want to be a school counselor."

"Shit... you're quite clever, then. Have you been trying to psychoanalyze me all night?"

"From what I can tell, you're a very composed person. At least on the outside." She begins sifting through his records. There's ABBA, Supertramp, Stevie Nicks, and Pat Benatar. He's an old soul.

Harry stays silent at her assumption as he takes a black record out of its sleeve and carefully sets it on the turntable. He moves the needle to a specific spot, and a crackling song eventually filters through: "My Girl (My Love)" by Dolly Parton. It's her slowed-down version of the original song by The Temptations.

Leaning his hip against the table, he watches Shyla take out a Stevie Nicks record. She gazes up at him and gently smiles before setting it down and closing the distance between them. Her hands innocently grasp the lapels of his leather jacket. His skin looks so smooth under the subdued lighting of the cabin, the black ink on his chest and stomach standing out.

Shyla begins taking his jacket off, raising her eyebrows to silently ask if she can continue. He nods, so she removes it and lets it fall to the floor. Then, she drapes her arms around his bare shoulders. Harry hesitantly places his hands on her waist, swaying them to the steady music. He can't remember the last time he touched someone like this.

He has always felt like a bullseye. Everyone tries to hit him straight in the heart and win his affection, but they miss every time. No one has gotten close. No one has wanted to get to know the real him.

Except for Shyla.

She hit him in the bullseye when his green eyes met her brown ones. She pierced his lonely heart, and now he's terrified because he knows he'll mess it up. He's forgotten how to love another person and keep a flickering spark from dying. He takes the road less traveled and refuses love before he can get hurt.

Yet he craves it like a greedy beast. Every night, he becomes jealous when he goes to the pub and watches couples dance. He becomes wretched when he tipsily listens to love songs and wishes he had someone to sing with. He becomes desperate when he falls asleep and dreams of being held by someone.

The opposing path is right in front of him, but he's scared. He should run away before it grows into something he can't control, right? That's what he's used to. But as they sway, Harry obliterates those thoughts and focuses on the present. This sweet, gorgeous girl is in his arms, and she's real.

When the song ends, Shyla steps away and moves toward the sketch papers she noticed while dancing. She admires the unique designs; flowers, suns and moons, and minimalistic landscapes of oceans and desert views fill the pages.

"Did you draw these?" she quietly asks as her fingertips trace the graphite.

Harry clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. He's slightly embarrassed since no one has seen them besides himself. "Kind of. Well, yes, actually. I have a lot of tattoos, as you can see. I drew most of the ones on my skin myself."

"These are incredible," she says, facing him. "You're so talented. What's your favorite tattoo?"

This is what he means. She's the only one who tries to dig past the hardened shell around his heart.

Harry spreads his left arm out and doesn't hesitate to point to a specific one above the inside of his elbow. Shyla leans in closer to read the small lettering.

Mirror in the sky, what is love?

"I got it for my mother," he explains, his throat tight. "She's... not with us anymore. She passed away eight years ago. Anyway, she would always play "Landslide" on her guitar when I was a kid."

He hasn't opened up about that in years. What is this girl doing to him?

Her fingers delicately touch the ink. Harry watches her softened eyes graze over the other tattoos on his arm. "I'm so sorry," she whispers with a sympathetic frown. "I lost both of my parents, so I understand how difficult it is."

She rarely talks about her parents. Why is it so easy with him?

"Shyla," Harry breathes, grabbing her wrists in comfort. "God, I'm sorry. That's awful."

"It's okay. I was only four when it happened, so I don't remember much. But growing up with no parents was strange. I still feel lost a lot of the time."

"Yeah, I get that. We don't have to talk about it anymore. Kind of a mood killer."

Shyla laughs and nods. "I agree." She pauses and says, "Hey, I think I'll take you up on that jacuzzi offer you mentioned earlier."

"You read my mind," he says before letting go of her wrists and walking toward the patio door leading to the balcony.

When they step outside, the nighttime chill makes them shiver. Harry turns the string lights on above the circular jacuzzi tub and then presses the button to turn the water heater and jets on. The moon and twinkling stars above make the forest visible, the leaves rustling in the wind. She's glad she dressed warmly.

Oh no. She just remembered that she doesn't have her swimsuit. It's in her luggage in the trunk of her friend's car.

"Harry?" Shyla says timidly.

"Yeah?"

"Um, I don't have my swimsuit with me."

He twists around and blinks once while checking the water temperature. "Oh. Well, that's a problem."

"I could walk back to the pub and grab it out of my suitcase," Shyla suggests. She really doesn't want to say goodnight to him yet.

"No, no. It's late, and you don't know your way around. I could… give you a pair of boxers to wear? Is that weird? Sorry, I shouldn't—"

"No, that would work! If you're okay with it, of course."

"I'll be right back." Harry shuffles back indoors, and Shyla dips her fingers in the hot, bubbling water of the jacuzzi. This night has not gone as planned, but she's not complaining.

Moments later, Harry comes back with a folded pair of grey boxers. He shyly hands them to her before they both turn their backs to change. He first removes his shoes and jeans, then puts on a pair of white swim trunks he grabbed from his dresser. He usually sits in the jacuzzi completely naked, but that's neither here nor there.

Once he's changed, he doesn't turn around in case she isn't done yet.

Shyla puts his boxers on and decides to keep wearing her shirt. She regrets not wearing a bra tonight. She'll have to cross her arms over her chest the entire time.

"Okay, I'm all set," she says, shifting her hair to one side.

When Harry slowly turns around, his breathing instantly falters. She's in his boxers. It seems wrong, but so right.

He gestures for her to get in the tub first. Seeing her curves and exposed legs makes his blood rush. Once she's in, he gets in and sits across from her. He submerges his entire body in the water except for his head as Shyla brings her knees to her chest and thinks of something to break the awkward tension.

"Thank you for tonight," she says eventually. "And for making me a drink and teaching me how to play darts. And how to ride a horse."

Harry rests his arms against the edge of the jacuzzi. "My pleasure. I hope I didn't mansplain darts to you. I just love playing and got excited when I got to teach someone."

"No, it was fun. I'm totally going get a bullseye next time we play."

"Good luck," he murmurs with a smirk as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. "So, you're planning on coming to the pub again tomorrow?"

"My friends will probably want to since they seemed to be having a wonderful time." Shyla rolls her eyes at the thought. "I'm sure they wouldn't care if I went alone, either."

Harry opens his eyes and studies her face. He can't help but wonder why she's friends with such horrid people. They should appreciate her grace and kindness, not ignore her, and act like she's a burden.

It's quiet for a few seconds before Harry sits beside her. The silence that ensues is unbearable as he brushes his arm against hers.

Then, without warning, his pinky grazes the back of her hand under the water. It's the lightest touch, but it sets her skin ablaze. His eyes are burning holes in the side of her face. Flipping her palm so it faces up, she awaits his next move. Her heart nearly gives out when his fingers slowly walk across her palm. His thumb strays and begins stroking the crease, stretching directly underneath her own fingers.

Enough of the tension.

Shyla straddles Harry's right thigh and holds the sides of his neck. He stares at her, hunger and smug desire in his eyes like he wants her to initiate something.

"Is this okay?" she asks. Harry isn't saying anything, so she wants to be sure.

"Can I ask you two things?" Harry replies, his voice low and steady. Shyla is confused, but she nods anyway. "First question: Is this okay?" His hands rest on her ass. She nods again, more eagerly. "Good. Second question: Do you want to ride my thigh?"

Oh. Shyla was not expecting that. When she feels Harry lift his thigh to apply a slight pressure to her core, it feels heavenly.

"I've never done it before, but I want to try," she whispers as she grinds against the defined muscle.

Harry groans at her movement and pushes his hands on her ass to keep her grinding against him. Shyla rocks back and forth, the relief making her whimper into his neck. He keeps his thigh propped up as he runs his hands across the expanse of her back.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Just like that."

"It feels so fucking good," she says. Her swearing causes Harry to let out a low rumble and nip at her jaw. She doesn't even know what she's doing to him.

"Atta girl," he praises, barely brushing his lips against hers. "Use it. Make me a mess."

Shyla realizes they haven't kissed yet. His lips look soft and inviting, and they're right there, so she tests the waters and gently, almost hesitantly, suckles on his bottom lip. Harry smirks into it, causing their lips to part.

She shakily exhales as she continues grinding against his thigh. "Kiss me."

He laughs at her impatience, then envelops his lips with hers. He kisses her deeply, moans getting caught in both of their throats. Shyla slows her motions down since she's close.

Harry's tongue parts her mouth, and he inhales when she starts sucking on it. She switches to gliding her tongue under his. A fueled desire to be closer makes their teeth clash, and their hands roam near dangerous places. He lifts her and sets her over his other thigh, never breaking the kiss. A fleeting glance at her face tells him she's confused by the change, so he separates their mouth contact and squeezes her hip to get her attention.

"I tattooed something on my thigh a couple of days ago," he says, his chest heaving. "It's still sensitive. I want you to ride it."

Shyla doesn't waste any time as she grinds down, continuing her mission to orgasm strictly using his thigh. She can't see the tattoo he mentioned due to the cloudy water, but the thought alone makes the pressure bloom in her stomach. Harry's jaw goes slack as she rides the sensitive skin with fresh ink on it. The friction is borderline painful, but he loves it. It hurts better than any needle piercing his flesh.

"Good girl, Shy," he whispers. His cock is throbbing at this point, straining uncomfortably under his shorts. "Gonna make me come just from watching you."

The nickname and one last skim over his thigh has Shyla stilling and pouring her moans into Harry's ear. She feels like she's floating outside of her body as she orgasms.

Harry, on the other hand, isn't done yet. He situates her body so that it's facing a jacuzzi jet. His arm circles around her stomach as she straddles backward on his slick thigh, the pulsating jet directly in line with her core. Shyla cries out from the sensation, her head lulling against his shoulder. Harry rubs soothing circles onto her clit through her — his — boxers as the jet stimulates everywhere else. She can't help but grind against his thigh again as another orgasm begins building.

"Again," he encourages against her cheek. "One more for me."

The double stimulation and his dirty talk quickly coax another orgasm out of her. Shyla's body crumbles when she releases for the second time, Harry's hands rubbing up and down her trembling thighs.

"You did so good," he says, pulling her away from the jet. He turns her around, and she wraps her legs around his waist.

Shyla clings to his warm body, slumping her head against his neck and breathing heavily from the adrenaline. Harry holds her and soaks in the physical intimacy he's been craving for so long. His cock is still aching, but he just wants to hold her right now. Feel her skin melt with his. Her heartbeat. Anything other than loneliness.

After a while, Shyla removes herself from his arms and stands up on shaky legs. She steps out of the jacuzzi and looks at the sky.

"You're leaving?" Harry asks with a hint of insecurity.

"I should get back. My friends will be wondering where I am."

"Ah, okay. Wait here. I'll get some towels."

Harry hops out of the jacuzzi, his bulge on full display, and then goes inside. Water drips all over the floor as he jogs upstairs to his loft, palming at his cock to get some relief. He bites on his fist to stifle his moans as he swiftly grabs two bathroom towels he keeps by his dresser.

Shyla's cum is on his thighs. She came twice on each of his thighs and soaked all the way through the boxers she had on. Even when he got out of the water, the result of it stayed on his skin. On his new tattoo, no less. The mental picture is unbelievably raunchy.

When he steps back outside, he sees Shyla squeezing her shirt out. Her nipples are pebbled underneath, and he nearly passes out from the explicit sight of her casually standing before him. He snaps from his immature fantasy and hands her a towel. She dries herself off, a weird silence lingering in the air. Harry hates it. How did they go from being intimate to not knowing what to say? Will she ask to stay the night? Or will she leave him lonely like everyone else?

He turns around when Shyla begins to remove the boxers. He nibbles on his swollen bottom lip, dries himself off, and puts his leather jacket back on. He decides to just keep his swim shorts on so he doesn't have to face the shameful reality of how she made his cock the hardest it's been in years.

Shyla inhales sharply, making Harry turn back around. "I'm going to leave," she says, buttoning her denim shorts. "My friends are probably blackout drunk, and I need to drive them before they stupidly do it themselves."

He nods understandingly. She's right, but that doesn't mean he wants to say goodnight to her yet. "Will you let me walk you back to the pub?" he softly asks.

Shyla smiles and gestures for him to lead the way. He puts his shoes back on while she does the same. They then head down the stairs, Harry grabbing a lantern on the way so they can see.

In the limited light, Shyla catches a glimpse of the tattoo on his thigh. It looks like the head of a tiger, and she notices the leg hair surrounding it is still coated with her arousal. It must not have washed off in the jacuzzi. Something fervent stirs in her stomach when she realizes he didn't even wash it off when he went back inside.

They walk to the pub silently, and Shyla is irked by the awkwardness. Did she do this whole thing wrong? She checks her phone and sees that it's almost one a.m.

She's about to shake every doubtful thought from her mind, but when they finally arrive at the pub, the car she rode in is gone without a trace.

Now that's just cruel.

Shyla takes deep breaths while swallowing her anger. It manifests as prickly heat spreading across her skin like wildfire. The inn they were going to stay at tomorrow is close by, so she could just see if she could acquire a last-minute room. It's not a big deal, right?

Harry is furious. Who does that? He can't believe anyone would do something so disrespectful to such a kind girl. It doesn't matter if they're drunk; it's selfish and reprehensible in his eyes.

"Stay at my place," he says abruptly, his jaw clenching.

Shyla looks at him and shivers from the breeze. "I can't. Listen, I had a great time, but I need to figure this shit out with my friends and make sure they're okay. I'll find directions to the inn and get a room for the night."

"Shy, I'm not letting you walk alone when there's a pub full of drunks nearby."

That damn nickname makes her weak.

"I carry pepper spray in my pocket. Go home and get some rest."

Harry sets the lantern down before stressfully raking his hand through his hair. "I won't get any rest if I don't know you're safe," he says.

"Do you have your phone with you?" Shyla asks. "I'll give you my number."

"I- I don't use one," he mutters, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"You really should have a phone, Harry." Her posture perks up. "Wait, the pub has to have one, right? Go in there, and I'll call it when I get to the inn. Does that sound good?"

Harry sighs and peers at the door. "Yeah, sure. But I'm gathering a search party if I don't hear from you in twenty minutes."

"Don't worry. I know self-defense."

"Good, but… just please be safe," he says anxiously.

"I will." Shyla begins walking down the gravel path. "I'll call the pub. Promise."

Harry helplessly watches her leave. He should say something, maybe convince her to stay with him, kiss her, walk her to his cabin, and hold her under the covers. But he's an idiot that fucks things up every time.

When Shyla calls the pub seventeen minutes later, Harry answers and gets his heart broken. She tells him that her aunt is picking her up tomorrow to go back to Portsmouth because she got into a nasty argument with her drunk friends over the phone on her way to the inn.

She hangs up before he can say anything, and he can't help but feel like he just lost her.

——

| The Girl |

Shyla's aunt arrives at eight in the morning. Despite all the yelling over the phone, her friends were decent enough to drop her luggage off at the inn where she managed to get a room.

They were smart enough to have one of them be the designated driver at the pub. As much as Shyla is beyond livid, she's relieved they're all in one piece. But she can't forgive them for leaving her without knowing where she was.

Then there's Harry. God, she feels sick to her stomach about what happened. She hung up on him because she was frustrated. Not at him, but at her friends who had been assholes, telling her she should've told them she met someone and went home with them. Well, she technically did go home with someone, but she thinks it's common decency for friends to tell friends when they're taking the car with her belongings in it to who knows where.

Shyla was going to wait until she calmed down to call the pub, but it would have taken too long. Harry would have gone looking for her by then, so she spoke to him in a high-strung tone and told him she was going home. She was so focused on finding someone to pick her up that she didn't get to ask him about seeing each other again.

She has no way of contacting him now unless she calls the pub again or the ranch he works at. What would she say? Would he even want to talk to her? It doesn't matter since she doesn't plan to return to Lurgashall. Her friends are still staying there for the rest of the week, and with the tiny population, she'd be bound to run into them.

Shyla looks out the car window as the city of Portsmouth slowly fades into view. She's back where she's comfortable and ready to stay with her aunt for a few days until she finds another apartment.

Everything will be fine. She'll forget about her friends and forget about Harry. It was just one night. She has always been replaceable.

——

| The Boy |

Why can't he just say what he means? Why did he let her walk away so easily? Why won't she leave his mind?

Sitting in the bathtub in his loft, Harry numbly stares at the ceiling as the water's warmth consumes him. Rose bath salt tints the water pink, and petals from his mother's favorite flower float on the surface. He purchases a bouquet from the general store every week since it's the only physical remembrance he has left of her. His father got rid of everything else.

On the table across from his bed, a record player echoes Dolly Parton's Jolene album throughout the cabin. "Lonely Comin' Down" plays, and Harry almost laughs at how the lyrics perfectly fit his forlorn mood.

He didn't get much sleep last night after the phone call, maybe three hours interrupted by tossing and turning. He had jerked off in the bathroom, feeling unbelievably ashamed of himself. He then drowned his sorrows with whiskey until his heart became heavy enough to knock him unconscious. He woke up the following morning with a migraine and drank some more whiskey for breakfast. His soul sank when he saw the Stevie Nicks vinyl Shyla picked out still on the table.

She won't leave his mind. Her presence lingers everywhere.

He wallows during his bath and thinks of everything he should've said and done differently. He's drunk with blurry vision from either the alcohol or tears. He doesn't know or care. All he wants is to feel her again. Try to love her. He's known her for less than twenty-four hours, yet it feels like a lifetime. He felt it at the ranch, the pub, and the jacuzzi. She pulls something out of him that hasn't seen the light of day in so long — nervousness, desire, sensuality. Idyllic emotions that are otherwise scarce in his life.

He has never fallen this fast before—never at all… until now. It was inevitable that he'd be an idiot and not fight for her. He let her slip through his fingers without a kiss goodbye, and now she's miles away, probably cursing his name.

Swallowing the aching lump in his throat, Harry lets the petals in the water mend his damaged soul as tears of loneliness drip down his face.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles angst #harry styles x oc #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles #adore-laur #bullseye

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goldenraeofsun · 2 years

Text

Day 4: Wicked

Castiel keeps his longing for Dean Winchester, quarterback and last year’s junior prom king, the ultimate secret of his high school years. It's not hard; he doesn’t have many (any) friends.

At lunch, he sits at what he dubs as the “miscellaneous” table with the girl with the heavy eyeliner and combat boots, the boy with his trick deck of cards and actual top hat, and the freshman who always has their nose buried in a textbook.

After school, Castiel has homework, music lessons, cross country, and chess tutoring. Evenings not spent on extracurriculars are for his parents’ galas, auctions, and other fundraising events for their arts charity.

Dean would have graduated without ever saying one word to Castiel – except Anna Milton breaks her arm two weeks after school starts. Three days later, Castiel twists his ankle, marking the end of his senior year athletic ambitions.

As he hobbles away from his locker, he overhears Dean lamenting that they can’t find anyone to run tech after Anna’s accident.

Castiel gets the job before the school day is over.

* * *

Dean is magnificent as Harold Hill. He may have auditioned on a highly popularized dare from another football player, but he was born for the stage. His whole body lights up on the stage, and his impeccable comedic timing makes Castiel smile, even when he doesn’t get the joke.

Rehearsals quickly become Castiel’s favorite parts of his day. The stage manager, Charlie, seems determined to bring him into the theater fold and makes smalltalk about which video games and movies Castiel must try in his nonexistent free time.

Cas suspects she talks to him out of pity, but he can’t find the willpower to reject her. He has his pride – what teenager doesn’t – but not when it comes to his people skills.

The week before dress rehearsals, his chess tutor catches a cold, and Castiel finally finds an hour to read the first chapters of The Hobbit.

“You finally read it?” Charlie demands, a manic glee in her eye. She grabs his upper arm as if afraid he’s going to bolt from the conversation he started less than a minute ago.

Castiel nods. “I started it on Tuesday,”

“That’s awesome.” She punches the air triumphantly. “Count another one for Team Tolkien.”

“I haven’t finished it yet.”

“You will,” Charlie promises – or threatens?

“I like it so far,” Castiel says truthfully because he wouldn’t say anything else to her face.

“Good,“ Charlie says firmly. In a loud voice she calls, “Hey, Winchester!”

Castiel freezes.

Charlie yells, “Even Novak beat you to The Hobbit!”

From behind them, Dean’s voice comes, “I told you, I’m gonna get to it!”

Charlie shakes her head, telling Castiel in a carrying stage-whisper, “He’s been saying that for years. I honestly figured he couldn’t read and didn’t want to admit it.”

Dean makes a sputtering noise of offense. “What the hell? I can fucking read, Bradbury!”

Their drama teacher, Mrs. Chandler, barks, “Language!”

Charlie snorts, raising her hand to slightly muffle her giggles. “If Mrs. C is back from her smoke break, I’d better get going.”

To Castiel’s surprise, Charlie doesn’t drop The Hobbit until he finishes it. With her (increasingly fervid) urging, he carves out time during study halls, in between scenes, and in the back seat of their driver’s car on the way to school.

“Why do you want me to read it so badly?” Castiel asks when he only has a few chapters left, tilting his head as he studies her response.

“Other than the fact that it’s one of the best books ever written?” Charlie asks, her eyebrows rising.

“The beginning was a little dry.”

“Well, I never!” Charlie clutches her heart before she cracks a smile. “Yeah, I know.” She shrugs. “But it changed my life, and, I dunno,” she shakes her head, “I keep hoping it’ll do the same to someone else.”

Castiel sits up straighter in his chair. “I’d say it has.”

“Yeah?”

Castiel nods at the first friend he made in high school, three months into his senior year. “Of course, it has.”

* * *

The week of the performances, everyone is jumpy and on edge. Even Castiel gets swept up in the nerves, suffering through nightmares when he flubs all his lighting cues and forgets his pants.

On Tuesday – their opening night is Friday – Castiel stays behind after rehearsal to run through the lighting again one last time. Satisfied, he gathers his things and exits the tech booth, frowning as his ears catch a melody of strummed strings coming from backstage.

Castiel follows the sound to the green room to find Dean, crouched over a guitar, a songbook open in front of him. But he doesn’t recognize the chords.

“Could be, who knows,” Dean croons. “There’s something due any day, I will know right away, soon as it shows.”

Definitely not from The Music Man.

“It may come cannonballing down through the sky,” Dean sings in a rush, “gleam in its eye, bright as a – a fuck.” Dean blows a raspberry, his lips pursed, brow furrowed, as he traces a finger along the musical bars on the page.

Castiel makes an involuntary noise, and Dean whirls around. “Cas!”

Caught, Castiel coughs to dislodge the lump of nerves from his throat. “Hello, Dean.”

“What’re you doing here?” Dean asks, his expression apprehensive.

“I was running the cues one last time before heading home.”

Dean nods, his fingers tapping against the neck of his guitar, clearly uncomfortable. But, somehow, Dean’s unease puts Castiel more at ease. He takes a step further into the greenroom instead of hovering on the threshold. “You sound… nice.”

Dean laughs humorlessly. “I have no idea what I’m doing, but thanks.”

Before this moment, Castiel never would have thought Dean suffered from anything so mundane as nerves or low self-esteem

“West Side Story?” Castiel asks, peering over Dean’s shoulder to the songbook.

Dean waits a beat, but when whatever he is expecting doesn’t come, he says, “We’re reading Romeo and Juliet in English, and apparently this is just that with music and gangs, so… anyway, it’s stupid.” He raises his eyebrows. “You know West Side Story but not World of Warcraft?”

Cas blinks, surprised that Dean knew anything about him other than his name and his role backstage. “How did you know that?”

“Charlie,” Dean says with a smirk. After a beat, he ventures, “Have you seen it? West Side Story?”

Castiel shakes his head. The last revival only lasted a year and a half. “My parents never found the time to go while it was still playing.” They aren’t that far away, though, over the river in New Jersey.

“What’s your favorite?”

Castiel pauses. “I liked Rent,” he says, “Mother thought it was too loud, but that’s what the music deserved, what the characters deserved, after being ignored and overlooked for so long.”

“I have no idea what it’s about,” Dean says, sounding intrigued.

Castiel clamps his mouth shut. If any team member of the football team but Dean Winchester had gotten cast in the fall musical, the bullying would have been relentless. As it is, Castiel still sometimes catches slurs being tossed his way by the more homophobic members of their class. Dean laughs them off.

Castiel’s explanation dies on his tongue. Instead, he says awkwardly, “It’s… good.”

Dean studies him. “How come you never tried out for any of this theater crap?”

“I can’t sing,” Castiel confesses.

“Seriously?”

“I mean, I can,” Castiel corrects as his mother’s constant reminders to pay attention to details (semantics) ring in his ears, “but nobody who values their ears would willingly listen.”

Dean laughs, a sound Castiel will treasure forever. “Dude, you can’t be that bad.”

“Trust me, I am,” Castiel says eagerly. “There’s a reason I joined the orchestra instead of the choir.”

“Could I get a demo?” Dean asks, grinning.

Castiel draws up short. “Absolutely not.”

Dean laughs again, and maybe Castiel fell asleep in the lighting booth and any second now Mrs. Tate will come rushing in and remind him of a Calculus exam he should be taking right now.

To change the subject, he asks Dean, a tad desperately, “Have you seen a Broadway show recently?”

Dean grimaces. “Aren’t tickets expensive?”

Castiel frowns. They might be – he has no idea. “Probably,” he agrees, his shoulders slumping.

Dean gets to his feet, casting his gaze anywhere but at Castiel. “Listen,” he says in a low voice, “thanks for… thanks.”

* * *

Castiel arrives two hours before curtain on Sunday, the last night of the musical. Heart in his throat, hands almost shaking with nerves, he leaves the flowers and envelope with two tickets to Rock of Ages on Dean’s chair. He adds a note, Musicals are for everyone.

Practically every senior knows Dean loved music from the 80s. Whenever it was his turn to choose the warm up music for football practice, he opted for Styx, Bob Seger, or Def Leppard.

Castiel might not know pop culture, but he does know Dean Winchester.

Castiel doesn’t sign the card, so he doesn’t expect Dean to invite him along. In fact, he avoids Dean for the rest of the school year. If Dean can’t find him, he can’t reject him. Castiel is fully aware his logic holds water like a sieve, but he can’t bring himself to care.

The day on the tickets comes and goes, and Castiel breathes a sigh of relief (and disappointment).

* * *

Charlie 7:20 Heyyy best friend! I scored last minute tickets to NY Comic Con this weekend You up to dinner and a show on Wednesday?

Castiel 7:20 Of course. It’s been too long since you’ve been back on the East Coast.

Charlie 7:21 Good cause I already got tickets to Wicked 7pm b there or b square

Castiel laughs as he slips his phone back into his pocket. He had expected his friendship with Charlie to fade once they separated for college, but Charlie had the singular talent of being just as present, just as herself, online as in-person.

Still, Castiel obviously prefers the three or four times a year he gets to see her “IRL”.

* * *

“So,” Charlie says as they take their seats in the Gershwin Theatre, “are you going to the reunion next year?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t really see much of a point.”

“C’mon, it’s ten years,” Charlie wheedles. “You don’t want to see who went bald or had a dozen kids?”

“That would be very impressive,” Castiel says as he idly skims the playbill. “Statistically speaking, twins are still a relatively rare occurrence. And to have that many children in nine years would mean multiples.”

“So that’s a yes?” As Castiel shakes his head ‘no’, Charlie pouts. “You’re no fun at all.”

Castiel flips a page. “It’s been said before.”

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, “I’ll get you there one way or another.”

“Unless you’re talking about kidnapping, I’m not sure how you’ll accomplish that.”

“I have my ways,” Charlie says loftily. “Have you seen Wicked before?”

“Years ago.”

“Good,” Charlie says, “You’re not doing anything after this, right?”

He turns to her quizzically. She’s well aware of his perennial lack of plans. “Other than going home and sleeping?”

“Awesome,” Charlie says as the lights dim around them and chatter dies down.

The curtain rises and the first “Good news… she’s dead!” rings out from the stage.

Castiel leans in close to Charlie. “What are you planning?” he demands in an undertone.

She doesn’t turn her head away from the stage. “Shh! It’s starting.”

Castiel settles back in his seat and tries to immerse himself in the performance. They sail through The Wizard and I and What is This Feeling? Elphaba’s singing is slightly better than her acting, and Glinda adds a few too many runs to her solos.

But then Fiyero makes his big entrance before launching into his big number, Dancing Through Life, and –

“Charlie,” Castiel hisses.

“I know, right?” Charlie whispers back, beaming up at the stage. “He started this month!”

And he might as well be back in high school, since Castiel has eyes only for Dean Winchester for the rest of the show.

* * *

Charlie drags Castiel to the stage door to wait with the rest of the tourists for the actors’ autographs.

Dean emerges with Elphaba and Nessa, wearing a leather jacket to ward off the autumn chill and worn jeans.

“Hey, Dean!” Charlie shouts, waving with her whole body.

Castiel winces at her sheer volume.

Dean turns and does a double-take at Castiel. “Hey!” he says warmly. He holds up one finger and turns to the waiting crowd of admirers. He signs all the playbills shoved in his face, making smalltalk with anyone brave enough to strike up a conversation. But, all too soon, he makes his way over to Charlie and Castiel by the curb.

“Hey,” he says, leaning in to hug Charlie and, after a split second of hesitation, Castiel too. “So glad you made it.”

“Of course,” Charlie scoffs. “Like I’d miss it. Is it too late for a drink, Dean?”

“Nope,” Dean says easily. He turns to Castiel. “How about you, Cas?”

Castiel can only shake his head.

“Alright, Broadway Boy, where should we go?” Charlie asks.

“Don’t call me that.” Dean shudders. He points down the street, and they start walking. “That makes me sound like the lamest sidekick ever.”

“Kinda,” Charlie agrees, punching Dean in the shoulder. “But you’ll only ever be my handmaiden.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Are you ever gonna let me live that down?”

“Nope,” Charlie says cheerfully.

Dean turns to Castiel. “It was an off-Broadway experimental performance,” he explains with a grimace. “There were robots. And tentacles,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “in space.”

Charlie cackles. “It was awesome.”

They cross the street, and Dean pushes open the door to a homey-looking dive bar. It’s relatively empty this late on a Wednesday night. They order their first round at the bar, and pick a table near the front window to catch up.

But, practically as they sit down, Charlie bounds to her feet. “Little girl’s room,” she says by way of explanation, completely ignoring the look of extreme panic that Castiel shoots her over Dean’s head. “Don’t get trashed without me!”

“No promises,” Dean says with a grin as he waves her off. “So,” he starts once they’re alone. He taps his fingers against the side of his beer, and Castiel’s riot of nerves calms a little at Dean’s fidgeting. “How’ve you been?”

“Good and you?”

Dean snorts. “Not bad,” he says, raising his drink to his lips.

Castiel mentally scrambles for something, anything, to talk about. “Is this your first Broadway role? Charlie mentioned you started only recently.”

Dean nods in agreement. “Finally popped my Broadway cherry on the 2nd.”

“Congratulations.”

They each take a long pull of their drinks. Castiel tries not to stare too intently at Dean’s face.

Dean sets his glass down with slightly more force than necessary, foam splashing out over the side. “Look,” he says, reaching behind him for his wallet.

Oh no. How in the world has Castiel driven off Dean so quickly? He’d thought his people skills, never the best, had gotten better since high school.

But Dean stays seated as he flips his wallet open and pulls out two old, familiar Broadway tickets. “I just wanted to tell you that you changed my life with these,” Dean says seriously, meeting Castiel’s gaze.

Castiel swallows, and he has to take another sip of beer to get his throat working again. “I’m glad,” he says. He reaches out to touch them, his fingers hovering a hairsbreadth above the paper, creased and fragile from ten years of handling.

Dean pushes them closer, and Castiel dares to pick them up, running the pad of his thumb along the half-faded barcode stamped on the side.

“You were amazing, even in high school,” Castiel says quietly. “You deserved to see all the possibilities open to you.”

“What? No,” Dean says, and Castiel’s eyes snap from the tickets to Dean’s face. “I was already saving up to play hookey and line up for same-day tickets.”

Castiel’s mouth thins. “I’m glad I saved you one day as a truant and the extra cost.”

Dean shakes his head. “’M not saying it right,” he says, frustrated. “It’s – Cas, it wasn’t about the show.”

Castiel is completely lost. “Okay?” he says. “I hope you at least enjoyed it –”

“Of course, I did,” Dean cuts him off, irritated. “Fuck it,” he mutters as he stares down at his beer. He raises his head. “It’s that you gave them to me.”

Castiel blinks. “I don’t understand.”

“For some fuckin’ reason, you saw this kid who didn’t know an arpeggio from an archipelago, and thought he could make it on Broadway based on one dinky high school production of The Music Man.” He taps the tickets still in Castiel’s hand, leaning in. “That’s why I kept these close – because they showed that you believed in me.”

Castiel looks up, and Dean’s face hovers much closer than he remembers. “Oh,” he breathes.

Dean bites his lip, and every nerve in Castiel’s body thrums with anticipation the longer they stay there, not moving, sharing the same air.

“So sorry, they were cleaning out the bathrooms –”

The moment shatters with Charlie’s arrival.

But, for once, Castiel isn’t going to let it go without a fight. He grabs Dean by the lapels of his flannel and seals their mouths together.

Dean makes a noise of surprise but doesn’t pull away. He reaches up to cup Castiel’s jaw, and his little hum of satisfaction rings ten times sweeter than any love song Castiel has ever heard him sing.

#suptober22 #destiel #fanfic #destiel fanfic #reunion #high school au #musician dean #actor dean #charlie & castiel friendship #rae writes fic #jock dean #popular dean #loner castiel

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monkiebois · 1 year

Note

ive totally not been stalking your blog and noticed you have some actually good nezha angst content! which like nobody has ;-;

im sorry if you have already done this, but drop your angsty nezha hc's here? basically any angsty hc's for him you want ig

LOL THANKS, i actually haven't done that yet, just sprinkle ideas here ad there for people to read.

alright *cracks knuckles* angsty Nezha hc's here we go. buckle up cause theres gonna be ALOT.

TW--- mentions of child abuse, self-harm, suicide and violence. if u know Nezha's mythology then you know what im talking about. even if you dont Be cautious reading this i will highlight the suicide andself harm stuff in red. the child abuse is all the first half of this post

most of the first part is based off of Nezha's mythology in investiture the gods, some are creative liberties.

Nezha is literally a neurodivergent kid who has been told to stop doing the things he does bc there're 'annoying', 'rude', or 'weird'. which... their not. he just does things differently because he's neurodivergent.

no one was ever nice about telling him to do things differently. or...'normally'. he was always told off in a negative sense. it was straight-up child abuse.

of course back then it wasnt seen as child abuse much, since neurodivergancy wasnt a thing they knew about nezha was just a troublesome child, a burden. and in nezhas eyes no matter how much he tried, no matter what he did he was never enough. he was convinced that he was a mistake and a dissapointment. born with so much potential only to be thwarted by his "troublesome nature"

this "troublesome nature" was just normal neurodivergent things. normal kid things. but no one ever considered that, the only one that did was his mom. she was nicer then the rest of his family. not the greatest of course but compared to the others she understood that he was a child.

i heard its implied somewhere his father wouldnt let him out of the house for the first seven years of his life. Nezha had to sneak out and his mother would call him back inside whenever his father came back home.

one day while outside he met a man with orange hair, bright like the sun in the sky. A man with kind eyes a soft voice. the complete opposite of his father. the man stayed in the village for a few days. he kept nezha company and for once. nezha felt...safe.

but he had to leave sooner or later. even so the man promised to come back (it was wukong on his journey for immortality, disguised as a human)

his father was very picky on the way things were done, Nezha sometimes did things differently or hell probably forgot often. because ynow....hes a kid. but often that wasnt enough. there were times his father was angry, very angry. and instead of being a fucking adult about it he let it out onto Nezhas shortcomings. screaming fits, throwing things. and Nezha had to stand still, 'take it like a man' despite being a literal child. until his father was done poking and prodding at every little 'flaw' Nezha had.

all he wanted was to make his family proud.

then the dragon thing happened.

he just wanted to play with his friends.

he just wanted to protect his friends.

he just wanted to be a kid

he just wanted to do the right thing.

in a last-ditch effort to keep any blame off of his family, to keep his village safe from the dragon's wrath he took a sword at twelve years old and killed himself. offering his dead body as compensation.

he was 12

he was a child.

the man with orange hair came back and asked about Nezha. he was too late.

when he was reincarnated into a lotus body those scars remained. Scars on his hands from grabbing onto the blade and making his hands bleed. scars on his chest from....yeah, he has one on his left arm, stretching across his upper to lower arm and a shorter one on his right upper arm. both were accidental. and one on his neck.

the ones on his neck and chest were not accidental.

im not going into detail but....yeah.

His lotus body...its not exactly fit for him.

his powers i mean.

its too much.

remember how bai he's body started to crack and break due to being too weak for lbd's powers.

okay think of that but nezha in his god form.

if he uses that form for too long his body will crack until it finnaly shatters and nothing is left but a single lotus flower.

thats Nezha.

he's regenerating.

to keep this from happening too often he uses alot of weapons.

no one in heaven knows of this weakness.

Nezha began working in heaven after the whole.....trying to kill his father thing.

Context: his father destroyed a temple nezha's mother had built for nezhas soul to rest in so when nezha was reincarnated he wanted revenge.

anyways

Nezha did not have a good time working in heaven. he was 12 and...well lets just say the lotus body didnt exactly look. godlike. so over the course of a few years he use glamor and transformation magic to change his appearance. to not only look more godlike but older as well. that way people would respect him. no one would consdescend him. no one would have a reason to yell at him or poke and prod at his weaknesses.

his body doesnt grow. he's stuck the same way he was when he died.

its not a bad thing.

its really not.

he can be the child he was never allowed to be.

but he doesn't let himself be that.

he works and he works and he works.

desperate to earn respect.

desperate for people to no longer look down on him.

so he pretends to be an adult.

on one hand theres nothing really wrong with his older form, its the reason he has it thats the problem.

he stays in his older form most of the time bc...well come on. being a kid isnt always great.

despite the fact that he doesnt grow he is mature.

thousands of years of living will do that.

hes still a kid but he has many years of experience.

so being in his older form isnt a bad thing, it helps him do things that would be harder in his normal form.

like reaching tall places.

(even though he is mature due to years of experience and transforms to look older my nezha is still a child please respect this)

or fighting.

anyways

he was there when swk was punished. he didnt like any of it. at first he thought swk was just a troublesome demon but then...then he started seeing what was really going on.

it reminded him too much of his own experience.

he didnt like any of it. and when the burning of ffm happened he only pretended to join the fight. he even managed to face swk for a moment.

only for them to finally recognize each other. Swk knew this was the child from a home of thunder and lightning. Nezha knew this was the man of the sun with kind eyes.

Nezha was injured and swk told him to run and where to hide for the time being.

after it was all over...Nezha was forced to watch as swk...the only man to ever show him true kindness. the only man he feels safe around...was tortured by heaven.

he hated every second of it and to this day it haunts his nightmares. all of it. ffm. the torture, the furnace. for the following 500 years he was under the mountain Nezha had nightmares about swk blaming him for not freeing him.

worst 500 years of his life.

so much guilt.

and he already has so much on his shoulders that he is still learning how to handle.

after the journey they met up again. Nezha could barely stand to talk to him. the guilt clawing at his throat and thumping in his chest.

swk seemed cheery as ever though.

nezha invited him to tea at his home.

he moved out of his families place bc "hes an adult"

he just needed to get away from his father.

swk accepted.

it was nice for a moment. just a little bit.

then swk mentioned the elephant in the room.

he saw nezha and how horrified he looked during...that.

he wanted to ask nezha if he's okay.

for a moment nezha was silent. couldnt bear to meet his eyes.

then all the glamors and transformations fell.

every wall he'd built and fortified over the past thousand years crumbled and for once he finally let himself cry.

like a child.

swk dropped whatever he was holding (poor teacup) and immediately held the poor suffering child in front of him.

dad

Swk is dad

that day Nezha spent the rest of the afternoon letting out everything he had been holding inside. so much for someone so young.

that was the day swk adopted nezha.

nezha didnt know he was adopted swk just started showing up to his temple more often.

when swk told nezha, nezha laughed thinking it was a joke, then he got a little angry. nezha thinks he can take care of himself. he can...but he's not exactly very good at self care. swk told him he doesnt wanna coddle nezha. just... be there when he really needs it. be that person that nezha can run to when everything becomes too much.

nezha cried again.

so. yeah.

thats nezha.

he hides who he truly is from celestial eyes. working endlessly to become the perfect image of a celestial god. doing everything he can to seem perfect and untouchable. strong and unbreakable.

Swk has a room in every home he owns thats set up for Nezha to rest in whenever he needs.

Nezha and swk's dynamic doesnt exactly change much like in the show. Nezha doesnt exactly like how much Swk acts like a goofball. he's less tolerant of it around other people. then goes to ffm with him ranting about how swk is a king, a high ranking individual with alot of power. he should act more like it.

all, while he's in his true form and sits on swk's shoulders.

all while he and swk sit beside a river and lets swk braid flowers into his hair and then eat fruit on a cliff as the sun sets for dinner.

then nezha falls asleep on swk's side and she carries him home and tucks him into bed.

FFM, is a safe haven for nezha when he needs it.

swk is a safe person. the only person who ever sees his true form.

when nezha was assigned to protect the samadhi fire he felt as if he finally had the respect he's been working towards.

he stopped visiting swk as often bc of his duties.

he still visited just. not as often as before.

even so, they are father and son. nothing can change that

for more info heres some links to other posts where i talk about nezha. its mostly for au's but alot of it is also within my own hc's and not just au's

im picking out the angst ones just for u

general hc's masterpost(wip)

Nezha and his Monkey dad

Fragility

he's not good at self care

1Mother?

2Mother?

Picky eater

Sick

Unconditionally

They didn't deserve you

anyways this was fun to make. thanks mercy ive been meaning to talk about all of this for a while now

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bloodyknucklesforme · 1 year

Text

Carnal | CH. I | Taste Your Beating Heart

Carnal (adjective) : relating to or given to crude bodily pleasures and appetites

Simon was born with what his father called 'The Curse'. A wanton craving for taboo rare meat. Since his father's death, he thought he was an endling, the last and only of his kind. A monster hiding in plain sight.

Then he met Johnny.

AO3

Next Part

CW: graphic violence, cannibalism, gore,

This is very much a horror fic mostly based around the films Raw (2017) and Bones and All (2022), if you sit through those you should be good here. This is my first horror fic.

Edited: 09/07/23

Even before ‘the curse' took hold, Simon Riley had always felt more animal than human. He was treated like one. Beaten like a dog under his father’s belt, thrown about by the scruff of his neck. His childhood was scored by his mother’s cries and the sound of bottles breaking. He always got it worse than his brother, Tommy. He thought it was because he was older. He could handle it more. He took it on the chin. He was protecting him, letting their father rage against him instead. It was his job as the older brother.

He grew to learn that wasn’t the true reason.

He didn’t know what his first bite was. He supposed it had happened when he was too young to remember. He did remember biting that green-eyed boy outside of school after he pushed over Tommy. Bit down on his upper arm till blood filled his mouth. It took three older boys to pull him off. He was eight. Last he heard before enlisting was that the green-eyed boy still couldn’t fully raise his arm.

His father had taken him to the woods that weekend. He thought his father was going to kill him. They sat on old stumps, a gun in his father’s lap. He didn’t even know his father had a gun. It was an old hunting rifle.

“You have my curse, Simon. Pray to God that Tommy didn’t catch it too.”

The curse. Something passed through blood, something fueled by blood and only satiated by blood.

“Go after animals. If you go after another person I’ll take you back here and put you down.” Like an animal, he thought.

His father taught him how to hunt. Rabbits, birds, the occasional deer. Animal meat only worked so well, like eating half a meal when starving. The hunger came back with pains so he would go back out and eat more.

He was fifteen when they found her. Smelled her from the street. In a rare good mood, his father decided to treat the family to fish and chips. She was in an alley. Fresh meat. He had never seen a dead body before. She was still warm. He felt a shiver up his spine when he saw her face. She didn’t look human, something past it. She looked like food.

“C’mon,” His father nudged him.

They dragged her further into the dark alley, down a corner where they wouldn’t be bothered. A rare mood and a rare treat.

He was disgusted, his stomach churned. Muscle shredding between his teeth. He would have thrown up if it wasn’t the best thing he’d ever eaten in his life. His father complained about the taste.

“Rotten fucking whore,” He spat before taking another bite out of her arm.

They ate like animals, on their hands and knees. He gorged himself. Ate till his jaw hurt and his stomach ached. He was shaking, adrenaline pulsing through him. He could have run to London and back if he wanted. He felt sick to his stomach seeing the eviscerated corpse yet he never felt better. He finally fit into his skin. It was horrific in some other worldly sense. Every synapse in his brain finally connecting.

They dumped her body in a canal. He never heard about her on the news or in the papers. His father had mutilated her face so no one would know who she was or care what happened to her. They never got the chips.

His guilt dragged him down with her body. Hit like his father’s fist on their way back.

“Need a reason for the blood,” he said, licking his knuckles. Simon held his jaw gingerly. He’d bit his cheek, the taste of him and her mixing together in his mouth.

Simon was made to apologize to his mum and brother when they got back. He got into a fight with boys from school, no chips. Tommy called him a dickhead and slapped the back of his head before storming off. His mother wiped the blood from his face and sighed.

“You’re going to get really hurt one day, Simon.” She looked like she was close to crying. Her brown eyes got all watery and he was filled with the urge to kill his father.

Did his mother know? Know about the monsters in her house, the one she shared a bed with and the one she birthed. She used to come into his room when he was a kid. Always after his father beat him. She’d stroke his hair and tell him he was a good boy and she was sorry. He was a brave boy and she was sorry. It filled him with both resentment and immense sadness. He wanted to hate her for not standing up for him. He came from her, her first born. He’d kill for her. He’d die for her. It didn’t always feel like she’d do the same.

She came into his room later that night and stroked his hair.

“I’m sorry, Simon. None of this is your fault. You’ve always been a good boy. Don’t let him make you think you aren’t.” Did she say that because she didn’t know what he was digesting or because she did?

He vowed he wouldn’t eat again. But something about that woman changed him. He could smell better. Smell his classmate’s breakfast on their teeth or when girls were on their menses. He quit school. They needed the money, he said. His father had gotten fired again.

A butcher’s apprentice seemed perfect. A good thing. Fresh meat, decent money and he could work long hours to avoid his father. On bad days, he’d sneak cuts of beef or pork. Snap bones to suck out the marrow. Washing blood down the drain felt like he was pouring petrol down the drain. A waste.

He lasted under a year. Freshly sixteen. His life was looking up. He’d met a girl, he had a job, he kept the cravings under control and his father was too drunk to beat him, his mother, or Tommy.

He had hope for something. He had something to smile about.

A curse is a curse though. It always comes back like malignant cancer.

He got caught. He came in early before dawn. His girl, Cecilia, and he had taken that big step in the backseat of her car. He could smell her, smell how sweet she was. He drooled onto her neck. One beat of her pulse and he finished. He was scared. He was going to hurt her. Kill her.The curse was screaming.

Eat it raw.

He sank his teeth into a shank in the back of the fridge. He was shaking and crying as he forced down gulps of meat. He might have eaten more than the shank. He didn’t remember. He didn’t want to hurt her. She trusted him. He wouldn’t be like his father. He was a good boy. He was his mum’s good boy.

“Jesus fuckin christ, Riley.” His boss stood in the doorway, horrified and confused. He hoped there was something wrong with the meat. Some sort of parasite living within that would eat away at his brain. That it would kill him. That it was the meat and not him that was rotten.“What the fuck is wrong with you!”

He enlisted the next day.

That was almost sixteen years ago now. He’d encountered others in that time. He’d killed most of them. Not to eat. They were just often hostiles. Never any on his side of the battle, surprisingly enough. That was until he smelled the Scot. Sergeant John ‘Soap’ MacTavish.

Anyone with the curse didn’t smell like food, didn’t make his mouth water. They always smelled musky with a unique undercurrent, something from nature. Leftovers from the curse’s beginning. The sergeant next to him smelled like rosemary.

Soap never mentioned it or gave him a knowing glance. Went unspoken even as he watched Soap’s fingers twitch as the smell of blood permeated the battlefield. Saw him wet his lips while staring at a dead body. It was too risky to eat after combat. If it sat too long, it went rotten and the meat tastes acidic. It was only on solo missions that Simon was able to drag a corpse to a dark corner in order to cut off chunks for later. He’d given up on his vow of never eating another person years ago.

If he wasn’t alone, he’d just wait till he got back to England. He had to be even more careful there but he could justify his murders as good deeds. His last meal was the boyfriend of his upstairs neighbour. Simon had heard him knock her about one too many times. Echos of his childhood coming from the ceiling.

He caught the prick outside smoking one night. A quick jab to the throat and he couldn’t even scream. He cut off as much as he could and stored it in his flat before dumping the body in the river. He never saw his upstairs neighbour again but he was told she moved out. He hoped to somewhere better.

He wondered where and when Johnny ate. He’d seen him go for seconds on any meat served in the mess. He’d offer to help but what if he was wrong about Johnny?

He hoped he was wrong about him. It wasn’t that he didn’t desire companionship, he didn’t want anyone to suffer as he had. Johnny was a good man. He was compassionate and selfless. Always willing to make the sacrifice if it meant saving someone else.

“We made it, LT,” Johnny said, catching his breath as Simon started the car. Two long hours of guiding Johnny to the church. He was glad the mask hid the blood around his mouth. He’d ripped a dead shadow apart in between jokes. If he was going to die, he refused to do it on an empty stomach. He used a stolen backpack and ripped-up cloth to store the extra meat till later. Johnny had lost a lot of blood judging by his pallor. He’d need to eat soon. Gain back the strength. Simon learned years ago that while it wasn’t a cure all, it did help in ways regular food didn’t.

He knew Johnny could smell it as they drove out of the city. Anxious eyes darted and his nails dug into his thighs or palms. He was too busy forcing himself to stay awake to stop the drool from pooling at the edges of his mouth.

“When’s the last time you ate, Johnny?” Simon asked, not sparing him a glance. Johnny’s heartbeat echoed through the car. The smell of blood was probably making his head even hazier. Johnny shook his head weakly.

He found himself surprisingly angry by the rejection. Simon had saved his life, waited for him, got him food and despite bleeding out Johnny was rejecting salvation. He needed to eat if he wanted to live.

Maybe Simon was selfish. Maybe he wasn’t content being alone like he told himself. Maybe he wanted to drag someone down with him. He gripped the steering wheel till his knuckles hurt. He could smell the sweat pouring off of the Scot. Fighting off the feverish hunger that was tearing up his stomach.

He hadn’t shared a meal with anyone besides his father and that was a lifetime ago, before he was Ghost.

Why should Johnny have the resolve to keep his appetite at bay when Simon didn’t?

“You need to eat something, Johnny. You can act like it’s not in your nature but you know that nothing else will fill you up like it does. Take the free meal,” He growled out. Ghost would be the devil on his shoulder reminding him of greener grass.

Johnny looked like he was going to throw up, gulping down desire.

“Where is it?” He heaved.

“Pack in the backseat.”

For a half-dead man, Johnny moved fast. He threw himself into the backseat and tore open the backpack. He tossed the bloody cloth to the side and bit as much as he could shove into his mouth. From the sound of it, he hadn’t eaten in months, maybe even a year or more.

Treating a chunk of thigh like it was wagyu at a 3 Michelin star with how he groaned and gulped it down, getting seconds and thirds.

“Slow down, I don’t want you throwing up.” Ghost was watching in the rearview.

“How long have you known?” Johnny asked, wiping the blood from around his mouth. His whole body shook with every breath.

“Since I met you. Smelled it on you.”

“I don’t eat often so I’d hope it wouldn’t come off as much.”

“You smell me?”

“Aye, you’re a ripe bastard.” They both chuckled. “Smell like burnt cedar. Thought the base was on fire.”

“You smell like rosemary,” Simon said softly. Johnny fell silent and he looked in the reaarview to see him smelling himself.

“You should clean yourself up before someone sees.” He turned his eyes back to the road and tried to ignore the sweet herbal smell that wafted from the back as he took his shirt off.

They had an understanding now. The two of them. Bound by the blood of others. They just had to keep their heads down and hunt far away from base and their hometowns. Bristol, Aberdeen, Cardiff, Exeter, Dover, Belfast once even.

There was an intimacy between them now. Stuck them together like hot sugar. Unspoken once again. Months went by, just the two of them.

“His liver tastes like shit, avoid it.” Johnny was laid on a sleeping bag, his face still damp from washing it. They were holed up in an old, unused warehouse. Simon’s sleeping bag was laid out on the other side of the cooler. They’d gotten better at keeping meat, mostly thanks to Simon’s butcher training. He’d been teaching Johnny how to butcher as well.

“He was drunk when he died,” Simon said, sitting across from Johnny.

“He tastes like he was drunk when he was born.”

“Upset your delicate stomach?” He pushed him with his boot.

“Fuck off,” Johnny sighed, pushing his foot away.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Simon lit up a cigarette and obnoxiously blew the smoke towards Johnny.

“Some girl, real pretty, kind too. She keeps wanting to hook up and I…I can’t.” He held his hand out for the cigarette. Johnny rarely smoked, only when he was really pent up.

“Why not?” Simon raised an eyebrow and handed him the cigarette. Johnny took a drag and looked wistfully at the smoke before speaking again.

“Almost…I almost killed the first girl I slept with,” he admitted with an ashamed sigh. He avoided Simon’s gaze as he handed the cigarette back. “Thought I could be normal. I panicked and almost threw myself out her bedroom window. I was half naked too.”

“You didn’t finish?” Simon tried to joke.

“No” Johnny shook his head, embarrassed. “Never saw her again. Killed a rabbit on the way home and ate that instead. I enlisted shortly after. I was afraid that if I saw her again I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.”

Simon chuckled.

“What?” Johnny snapped.

“Same thing happened to me. Except I ate half a cow, got me fired from my job. I also enlisted the next day.” Johnny’s face softened. They rarely talked about themselves and what they had experienced before they partnered up. Johnny laughed at the coincidence. They were more similar than he thought. He wondered if Johnny had been with anyone else since. Simon had. Mostly one night stands with the type of people who didn’t care if you bit a little. He had control though. He’d spent years controlling it. He’d had close calls, left marks a little too deep. Hadn’t killed anyone but had scarred a few.

“I’d thought I’d be dead by now,” Johnny said quietly. “Kind of hoped I’d be actually.”

Simon didn’t respond but he offered the cigarette back. Johnny took it.

“Can’t kill myself. My maw thinks I’ll go to hell if I do that. I don’t think it matters either way with what I’ve done but I’d rather die with her thinking I’m good.” Simon let him finish the cigarette. “Thought I wanted kids but I can’t give them this. Make me a pretty shit dad, wouldn’t it?”

“It would.” Simon rubbed his face. He didn’t wear the mask around Johnny anymore. Not when they were eating. “Johnny?”

“Yeah, Si?”

“Did you ever try again?”

“Try what?”

“Sex.”

Johnny got red faced and tense.

“No, I haven’t. It’s not like I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He looked at Simon for understanding. He wanted Simon to say the same. Give them another thread to connect them. Too lonely monsters who craved flesh in more ways than they could count. He was afraid of himself. Johnny didn’t have to pretend he was good, he was good. Better than Simon at least.

Simon moved to sit next to Johnny. He could hear the other man’s heart rate pick up. He laid his hand over it, reminding it to stay calm. He smelled like rosemary and sugar.

“Do you want to try again?” Simon asked, cupping his face. Maybe he could be good like Johnny.

Tag list: @gogh-with-the-flow @queen-ilmaree @cathnoneofyourbusiness

Comment or DM me if you want to be added

#Carnal #simon ghost riley x oc #simon ghost riley x john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #modern warfare II #modern warfare #call of duty fanfic #call of duty #If you got tagged twice I apologize #I added a link to the next part and the tag list got deleted?

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