#(which. yeah we don’t have time for all that right now)

[sourkiki]

INK SURPRISE.

VOL. 15: you surpised your boyfriends by getting matching tattoos of their names on. needless to say, they love it. what better way to show how much they love it by spoiling you?

wc: 2259 𑁛 explicit mature content established+threesome relationship dom! 西村力 & dom!박성훈 x sub! fem! reader non-idol au other 02z made a brief cameo pussy eating+fingering unprotected sex (wrap it up) blowjobs ⪩⪨ usage of pet names service dom! riki sunghoon's a tease here ❀ catalogue

note. fun fact: this was only supposed to have sunghoon but when i saw my twt timeline about riki potentially having a tattoo, i ranted to my moot aka @jun2ki (bless you btw) and ended up making it hoonki x reader. this is for you too, i guess... @kireilien

“I think my girlfriend doesn’t love me anymore.” 

Silence. 

Sunghoon’s sudden statement caused his friends: Jay and Jake to stop what they were doing. Jay’s hand froze in midair while holding a fork. Jake, on the other hand, was attempting to steal some of Jay’s fries. They shared a confused and bewildered look, unable to believe what they were hearing. Jay cleared his throat, lowered his fork and placed it on his plate. 

“Why? Did you two argue?” He questioned, concerned, slapping Jake’s hand without looking when he continued his attempt. Jake flinched, withdrawing his hand and rubbed the now sore spot, huffing his cheeks and muttered something inaudible under his breath. 

Sunghoon shook his head, furrowing his thick eyebrows as he recalled back. “No, we rarely argue. You know that, Jay-ah. I don’t know why but she’s been ignoring me.” 

“Ignoring you how? Like does she pretend you don’t exist or?” Jake chimed in. 

“We don’t fuck anymore,” he deadpanned and Jay picked the wrong time to take a sip of his drink, only for him to end up choking. Jake scrunched his nose, disgust written all over his face. 

“And to think we’re worried because something actually happened but no, it’s just your hornyass who can’t go without having sex for a month,” the eldest deadpanned after recovering from his near-death experience. 

“This is a serious matter to me! You don’t know what it’s like to go without sex for a month!” Sunghoon complained, lightly knocking his head against the table. His slight raise of volume caused the nearby students to shoot them a weird and judgemental look, to which his friends were embarrassed by, on his behalf. 

“Have you talked to Riki about this?” Jake asked, regaining his composure. 

Sunghon huffed, raising his head and resting his cheek on the palm of his left hand. “Yeah, he’s just as confused as I am.”

Again, his friends shared a look. “Well, whatever it is, I hope you guys can figure it out. You know what they say, communication is key.”

“Not the time for your smartass words, Jake.”

“Jay, please just shut the fuck up.”

~

Unknown to your two, sweet beloved boyfriends, you were doing this for a reason. It’s a surprise for them and you didn’t want to ruin it. Which was why you had only told your shared group of friends except for Sunghoon and Riki. You could only pray that Jake won’t ramble his mouth off, considering how he has the tendency to spill secrets. Right now, you’re seated by the dining table in your dorm as you worked on your report that’s due by the end of the week. You weren’t sure how many hours had passed, drawing a long, heavy sigh from you as you removed your glasses to rub your temples, groaning in frustration. 

“Baby? You alright?” 

Looking over your shoulder, your features softened to see Riki closing the door behind him, his bag casually hanging over his left shoulder. You didn’t get up as he was quick to be by your side. He cupped your face, thumbs running along the skin underneath your eyes. You couldn’t help but lean into his touch, burying your face in his stomach.

“What happened to your dance class?” You asked, voice muffled. 

“It got cancelled. The water pipe in the practice room bursts and they need two weeks to fix it,” he replied, unable to help himself as he squished your cheeks until your lips were fully puckered. 

“Riki!” You whined, earning a chuckle from your boyfriend. He ducked his head, planting a kiss on your forehead. The small display of affection was enough to turn your face red as compared to Sunghoon, Riki prefers to shower you with love behind closed doors. 

“Sorry, you’re too cute,” he apologized but the tone he used said otherwise. He looked at your laptop, curiosity shown on his face on the bright screen. “How long have you been working on your report?” 

“Uh, a few hours?” You answered meekly, averting your eyes in shame when he arched an eyebrow at you. 

“We’ve talked about this, haven’t we, hm? You shouldn’t be pushing yourself too hard,” he clicked his tongue, lightly poking your forehead, eliciting a whine from you. 

“I’m sorry. I really need to finish it and I’ve been busy working on my other projects too,” you sighed. 

Riki coos. “Aw, poor baby. Let me take care of you, please?” 

You nodded, squeaking when he easily lifted you up, like you weighed nothing. It was by instinct that you wrapped your arms around him, like a koala bear as he brought you to the bedroom. Riki gently placed you down, only for him to capture your lips in a needy, intense kiss—the contrast giving you whiplash. You gasped when he teasingly nipped at your bottom lip, giving him the chance to slide his tongue as he explored your mouth with one, thorough lick. It’s enough to make you feel all tingly, your strength leaving your body as you let him do as he pleased. 

His hands began working on removing your clothes but he paused when he realized you were wearing his hoodie. It completely engulfs you with the hem reaching your thighs. Riki swore when he also realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath the hoodie and shorts. 

“You’re such a tease, aren’t you? Wearing nothing but my clothes,” he groaned against your lips, hand making itself at home between your legs, drawing a breathless mewl from you. 

“You’re already dripping wet for me. Looks like someone’s needy,” he purrs, about to push your hoodie up when a voice interrupts the two of you. 

“What’s this? Starting without me? How cruel.”

You turned to the door where Sunghoon was, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Despite the laid-back tone, you could tell he was barely holding himself back, with how his eyes darkened as he took in your current state. You whined, barely able to speak as you made grabby hands at him. Sunghoon softened as he entered the bedroom, sitting behind you while Riki remained in between your legs. Sunghoon lifted you up, placing you on his lap with you leaning against his chest. He rested his large, warm hands on your thighs, holding you down when Riki lowered himself to his elbows.

“Shh, just relax and let us take care of you,” Sunghoon murmured into your ear, planting kisses along the expanse of your neck. 

Riki pushed the hoodie up and up, only for him to freeze, gaining Sunghoon’s attention. What they saw took their breaths away.

They stared at the tattoo—their names, imprinted on both sides of your hips, just above your hip bones. Their minds blanked out as Riki’s hand brushed against it, sending shivers down your spine. You, on the other hand, were nervous. You didn’t expect them to find out this early as you wanted to wait until you’ve fully recovered. 

“..Is this why you’ve been avoiding us?” Sunghoon asks in awe. 

You squirmed about on his lap, unable to face either of them. “I wanted this to be a surprise. Does it look bad?” 

Sunghoon clicked his tongue, turning your chin towards him. “No, it doesn’t. And considered us getting surprised. We didn’t expect you to do this. But, we like it.” 

You glanced at Riki, who nodded his head. He didn’t give you time to react, licking a long, flat stripe along your dripping folds. You visibly flinched, instinctively trying to close your legs but Sunghoon was faster. He tightened his grip, nails digging into your thighs, forcing you to remain still. In an attempt to distract you, he kisses you, eagerly swallowing your sounds while Riki eats you out, like a man on a mission. 

You outright whined at the feeling of Riki sliding three fingers in, pumping them at a slow pace while Sunghoon had reached down, spreading your pussy lips apart, granting the younger to slide his fingers deeper in. 

“F-Fuck, ngh, t-too much,” you panted, blindly reaching out with your hands as you grabbed onto a fistful of Riki’s hair while your other hand grabbed onto Sunghoon’s wrist, the very same wrist that’s spreading you apart for the younger. 

“Too much? But your body says otherwise,” Riki chuckled, thumb gently pressing down on your clit, laughing at how you whined at the mere contact, hips jerking up but he withdrew his thumb, fingers still inside you. 

You realized through your blurry state that while your two boyfriends are still fully clothed, you were completely bare. The huge contrast shows the type of roles the three of you have in your relationship. Your ears registered the rustling sounds of the sheets behind you and the next thing you knew, Sunghoon had lifted you off his lap and placed you on the sheets. You whined at the lack of warmth but he was quick to soothe you by running his hand through your hair. 

“Open up, princess,” he softly demands, now standing near the bed with his sweatpants and boxers lowered, just enough to free his hardened cock. The sight made your mouth water and you parted your lips, jaw slackening as you let Sunghoon gently pull you forward until your head was dangling off the edge of the bed. 

“Hyung, I’m busy here,” Riki whines, sending the older a light-hearted glare and you would have cooed, if Sunghoon didn’t push his cock into your mouth. 

Your eyes widened, tears blurring your vision as he continued until the tip hit the back of your throat. Just like Riki, Sunghoon didn’t give you time to breathe, moving his hips in a lazy pace as he fucks your mouth. You tried your best to keep up, tongue darting along the girth as you traced the outline of his veins protruding but it was easier said than done. You couldn’t focus, not when Riki had detached his mouth from your pussy. Heck, you weren’t even aware that you had come undone, thanks to Riki’s skillful tongue. 

His chin and lips glistened underneath the light, covered in a thick layer of your slick. Riki wiped them away with the back of his hand, fumbling to tug his sweatpants and boxers down. He scooped the goop dripping from your pussy, using it to lube his cock. Riki grabbed your left leg, tossed it over his shoulder and pushed it in one go. You couldn’t moan, not when your mouth’s full of cock and could only let out a high-pitched, muffled sound. 

“Shit, you’re so tight,” Riki rasped, hands drawing circles on your hips. 

“Poor princess. Can’t even speak,” Sunghoon coos, faux sweetness evident in his voice as he looks down at you, smirking at your teary eyes staring back at him. 

Riki begins thrusting into you. The bedroom was filled with the loud, lewd and obscene squelching sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy, rearranging your insides to the shape of his cock. Sunghoon, on the other hand, groaned at his incoming climax. He didn’t warn you, spilling his cum down your throat. You gagged but managed to swallow them all and he pulled out from your now swollen, bruised lips with an audible ‘pop’ sound. 

Now that your mouth’s empty, you were able to let out the sounds you’ve been holding back. 

“R-Riki, fuck, p-please,” you whined, throwing one arm over to shield your eyes when you realized how Sunghoon was merely watching, like you’re putting on a show for him and only him. 

“Yeah? You wanna cum? Wanna let Riki know how good he’s making you feel?” Sunghoon asks, now sitting on the edge of the bed, glancing at Riki, who understood his intentions and stopped thrusting, allowing Sunghoon to manhandle you, returning to your position—you sitting on his lap. 

Riki had to shuffle closer, sliding his cock back in and this time, he pounds into you with newfound determination. The determination to make you cum for the second time. Sunghoon leaned down, angling your head towards his to kiss you. You felt like you were being tortured, your senses on overdrive as your two boyfriends showered you with nothing but love and affection. 

“Ngh, gonna cum, gonna cum,” you cried out, breaking the kiss. Your head dipped backwards until it landed on Sunghoon’s shoulders, eyelids fluttering shut. 

“That’s it. Cum for me, princess,” Riki coaxes and you came with a high-pitched moan, chanting his name like a prayer. 

Your thighs trembled from the intensity of your climax, body going pliant as you slumped against Sunghoon’s chest. A soft whine left your lips when you felt Riki spilling deep inside you, making you feel full of his cum. You panted heavily, trying to catch your breath while Riki slowly pulled out. 

“Wha-!?” You squeaked when your vision turned upside down. 

You gulped at the sight of Sunghoon now hovering over you. Glancing down, your breath hitched to see him aligning his cock against your sensitive entrance. You wanted to push him away, protests forming at the tip of your tongue but Riki was faster. He was instantly behind you, pinning your wrists behind your back as he rested his head on your right shoulder. 

“Ah ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you. We did say we’ll take good care of you, didn’t we, hyung?” He murmured, directing the last sentence to Sunghoon.

He nodded, eyes darkening a shade. “Yea, so you better prepare yourself, princess. Because we’re not stopping until we’re satisfied.”

tags list: @chuhees, @byshens, @hoonstqr, @doucious, @emisluvr, @riqomi, @onlyywwon, @jjung-v, @minjunis, @rikisoup, @i-love-hannah-more-than-chan.

[inkydelusions]

just kiss already! - 2.4k

summary: thursdays are your favourite day of the week because it means spencer comes pick you up from work. contents&warnings: fem!reader. kids (don’t worry, they’re nice kids). a/n: you voted and you receive: i present to you garcia!reader !! i hope you end up loving her as much as i do

it’s thursday, which means one thing, and one thing only. spencer is supposed to pick you up from work. thursdays have always been your favorite day of the week. it offered the perfect equilibrium, being right in the middle of the week, it also used to be the days when you spent most time practicing with your theatre group growing up. now, they’re your favorite day because thursdays means you get to spend your afternoon with one of your favorite people after spending all morning surrounded by a bunch of your favorite tiny people.

“okay, everyone. make sure you grab all your things. eva, don’t forget your jacket again, please. your mom will send the police to my house if you do,” you mutter the last part as you turn around to finish erasing the doodles and simple subtractions and multiplications from the board.

“miss, there’s someone at the door.” you feel a pair of tiny hands pulling at the hem of your shirt.

when you turn in the direction of the classroom’s door, you see spencer standing there, hands in his pockets and his characteristic smile pulling at his lips.

“it’s the dinosaur man,” your student says, still puling at your shirt.

you chuckle at the nickname he’s decided to give to spencer. a few weeks ago, spencer ventured into the elementary school where you teach after waiting for too long in his car. when he reached your class, he found you sitting on the floor, playing with a small kid as you made time for his parents to arrive. his mom had called a few hours before to let you know there’d been an issue at work and she didn’t think she could pick the little kid up in time. after standing on the threshold for way longer than one would deem comfortable, spencer finally knocked on the door softly. the moment both you and the kid looked up at him, he could feel his heart stop beating in his chest, only for it to return to life at full speed. you smiled broadly, introducing him to the kid.

“elliot, this is my friend spencer.”

“hi,” he waved shyly.

“hi, there.” spencer waved back. “cool shirt, elliot.”

“thanks!” he beamed. “it’s a stegosaurus.”

you noticed how spencer was holding back his correction, biting his lip in a smile instead of letting the kid know that it was, in fact, not a stegosaurus. after that, both of them got into a vivid conversation on dinosaurs; spencer sitting in a chair that was way too small for him, as he gave little elliot a very detailed talk on dinosaurs and their history.

“go pick you backpack, elliot, we can say hi to the dinosaur man before you leave, yes?”

he nods eagerly and runs to his place, where both his backpack and his jacket are waiting for him. after making sure that all the kids have been picked up by their parents, you and elliot walk outside, hand in hand. you’ve grown accustomed to the idea of having to stay back for a while until either elliot’s mom or her boyfriend can come pick him up.

spencer smiles when he sees you come out of the classroom and offers elliot his open palm for a high-five.

“hello, little guy. how was everything today?”

the way he talks to the kid has you thinking all sorts of thoughts. most of them have your chest puffing with a feeling yet unknown to you.

“great! we sang a song with miss today. yeah, and we also learnt this super difficult maths.”

“but elliot is a smart guy and has done all his classroom homework in no time, right?”

“right! i got this tattoo as a prize.”

he shows the back of his hand to spencer. there’s a hand-drawn blue star with a smiley face right in the middle of it.

“that’s really cool, elliot. congrats,” spencer praises the kid, smiling broadly. “do you think i could get one of those super cool tattoos, too?”

“i don’t know…” elliot looks up at you, as if asking for your opinion.

“do you know how much twelve by ten is?” you ask in your teacher voice, which has spencer biting back a smile.

“mmm…” he looks up, taking a long moment to think his answer. “twenty?”

“no!” elliot laughs, throwing his arms up.

“i’ll give you another try. come on, genius boy.”

“i know! miss, i know the answer!” elliot jumps in front of you, raising his hand as if he were still in class.

“do you want to help the dinosaur man?”

across the school’s parking lot you see a blue car that you’ve learnt to recognize as elliot’s mom’s car. when he sees it too, he starts jumping impatiently, calling for his mom with an excited voice and completely forgetting about maths.

“hi, darling,” his mom says cheerfully once she reaches you. she leans down to hug elliot. “how was your day, baby?”

“good! look.”

spencer watches in silence as you and elliot’s mom talk about his day in school. the whole time he focuses on your mannerisms, the way you remain respectful, yet not intimidating at all, the way your smile seems to turn slightly brighter when you look down at elliot to wave goodbye.

“you really like that kid, don’t you?” he finally asks once elliot and his mom are gone.

“oh, he’s running for the number one spot in my best friend list,” you say, starting towards his car.

“i’d say i’m offended, but i think penelope is the one that should be worried. she’s competing against a nine year old with a really cool collection of dinosaur t-shirts.”

that makes you laugh, and, consequently, it makes spencer shine from within as if making you laugh was one of his greatest achievements in his life. forget about the many cases he’s solved, the great amount of people he’s helped in his years working in the bau… making you happy was his best work.

“where are we eating today?”

he winces slightly. “don’t get mad…”

“has anyone ever told you that’s the last thing you should tell someone if you don’t want them to get mad?” you stare at him over the roof of his car.

“yeah. morgan usually says that.”

“you should listen to him more,” you joke. “come on, spit it out. what is it?”

“we got a new case a couple hours ago.” he sighs, noticing the way your face falls slightly and hating it. “hotch gave us three hours before we leave.”

that makes you smile softly, trying your best you hide your disappointment. you know it’s not his fault, you can’t get mad at him for doing his job.

 “at least you’ll drive me home, yeah?”

“of course.” spencer nods.

“that’s enough for me.”

“is it?” spencer asks, tilting his head slightly.

“i mean, it’s not optimal. i’d rather we have more time to talk about how our days were today. but we’ll make it work.”

all time spent with you is time well spent, spence you want to say, but instead, you open the door to his car and slide in. inside, he lets you play around with the radio until you land on your favorite station.

“oh! this is such a good song, spence!”

you turn the volume up, and he lets you, even though he’s always been more the type to drive in silence. you sing along, dancing in your place, tapping your fingertips against your thighs, and spencer thinks he doesn’t want to be in silence ever again, he wants to hear your voice in his ear wherever he goes, your giggles when you mess up the lyrics and your little rumbles about the artists playing, and their albums and their histories.

he steals a couple of glances whenever he stops at a red light, wondering how on earth he managed to keep you by his side for so long. he stares at the curve your nose, the shine of your lips as you lick you them before jumping into the next song. he doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone as beautiful.

“spence, the light. it’s green.”

shaking his head, he apologizes to the car behind him and continues driving.

“so,” you speak lowering the volume of the radio. “how was your day?”

“lots of paperwork. at least until we got the new case.”

“is it juicy?” you ask, knowing that he can’t talk about it, at least not until it’s closed.

“juicy?” spencer asks, a cute soft frown forming between his eyebrows and a lopsided smile pulling at his lips.

“yeah. is is interesting?”

“if by interesting you mean lots of blood and three corpses with missing body parts, then yeah, i guess it’s… interesting.”

“jesus, reid. spare the details.”

“you asked,” he whines, entirely confused. “how was your day with the kids?”

“great. we got to try out some of the new paints that the school bought for the art class. and there is this one little girl, lilith… oh, she’ll be a great artist one day, i’m telling you.”

“i’m sure she will. you’re her teacher after all.”

spencer doesn’t notice it, but his words have you blushing. spencer has been a great supporter ever since you met, always making sure you know exactly how special and hardworking you are. and you know his compliments are sincere, he’d never lie to you. so when he tells you he wishes he’d had a teacher like you back in school, one that really cares for her students, that makes everything that is in her power to ensure their experience of school is a good memory in the future, you know he’s being truthful.

growing up, school was sort of a safe space for you. somewhere you got to express yourself, and spend hours learning and playing. now, as an adult, you remember those days with such love… that’s all you want for your little kids to feel like when they grow up. you want them to be able to look back and be glad that they got the opportunity to learn in a space that allowed them to explore who they wanted to be. and, so far, you’re doing a pretty god job.

“thanks for driving me home, spence,” you say when he finally turns the corner around your apartment building.

“i’m sorry we didn’t have more time,” he apologizes, eyes turning down as he stops the car in front of the front door.

you take one of his hands, squeezing it gently, and with a smile, you say, “next time we’ll get more time.”

he knows it’s not a promise. it can’t be, not with his job. still, he smiles and nods. his eyes scan your face, like he always does before leaving you for a case.

“you take care out there, yeah?” you say, still holding his hand.

“yeah, i will.”

you lean forward to drop a feather-like kiss of his cheek as a goodbye. before you can exit the car, he grabs your wrist, pulling you back to him. and you swear you can see it in his eyes, the resolve, the intent. he’s going to kiss you. finally, he’s going to kiss you. so you try to keep calm, try not to jump on your seat as he cups your cheek gently, caressing the skin with his thumb. you focus on his eyes, on the soft curve of his lips as he leans closer.

it’s happening.

oh my god, it’s actually happening.

but then his hand is gone and he’s retreating and your smile falls.

“you had some paint on your cheek.”

and as adorable as you looked, he didn’t want you to walk around with a splatter of purple paint across your face. although, knowing you, he doesn’t think you would’ve minded it that much. you’re used to walking around with your clothes covered in paint and glitter and the star shaped stickers that some of your students plaster on you when you’re not looking.

spencer can swear there’s a flash of disappointment when he lets his hand fall between you two.

“thanks,” you say with a weak smile, finally opening the car door. “i’ll see you when you get back, yeah?”

“of course. take care.” spencer smiles brightly.

“you too, spence. bye.”

he stays put until he sees you enter your apartment building. and, as he drives away, he curses himself for not having kissed you.

leaning your forehead against your apartment door you swear you can hear penelope’s voice in your ear groaning and complaining about yet another failed attempt at ending this little tense game that has been going on between spencer and you for far too long.

you two are either too blind or too stupid, honey. i’m telling you. he likes you. you like him. just kiss already!

but, as it usually happens when you stop to think about this situation for too long, all your fears and anxieties start spilling from the tiny, pink box where you’ve been keeping them for a long, long time.

what if it doesn’t work? what if he realizes you’re too much? what if he gets tired of you and your noisy, messy and glittery self?

you like spencer. a lot. hell, you think you have liked him ever since you first met him. i mean, who wouldn’t. yes, he has a unique sense of humor, and most of the times he doesn’t get your pop culture references. but that’s the fun about your friendship, he tells you some really bad jokes about some ancient philosopher, you tell him all about the newest hollywood couples drama and, together, you enjoy each other’s confusion. you let him babble on and on about the newest scientific article he’s reading, even though you’ve lost the plot two minutes into the ramble, and, in exchange, he helps you with your arts and crafts projects, passing the glue and the colored pencils as if you two were in an operating room and you were performing an open heart surgery.

the bond between you two is too strong to be risked. and so, as always you try not to think about how his eyes had drifted towards your lips mere minutes away, as if he had been thinking about the same thing you had. and wish a sigh, you hang your bag on the flower shaped hanger right next to the door, toe your shoes off and walk straight to your crafts room.

thanks for reading <3 likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

tags !! @siennnaaa1202 ; @kusanagisunshine-blog-blog ; @girllblogging777 ; @superbeaglewitch ; @yasministration

[tsaheylutales]

You weren't supposed to know | Chapter 3

Pairing: Steve Harrrington X Henderson!Reader

Warnings: ANGST, stranger things level threats, reader is a softer girl so if you don't like that, scroll, Steve and Dustin are very ooc so...keep that in mind. Let me know if there are any more! each chapter will have more specific warnings <3

Summary: Steve wasn’t always like this, he used to be kind, and caring, and he used to call you every night. But now? He barely calls at all. Most of the time it’s you calling him. Or you visiting him…Or you planning dates…He’s just really busy at the moment…That’s it. That’s gotta be it…Right?

2.3k words

“It was here. Right here…” Max says, voice low, eyes fixed on the spot in the wall like the clock might reappear any second.

“A grandfather clock?” Nancy asks, cautiously.

Max nods. “It was so real. And then, when I got closer, suddenly I just… I woke up.”

“It was like she was in a trance or something.” Dustin adds quickly. “Exactly what Eddie said happened to Chrissy.”

You take a slow step closer, watching Max like she might crack and fall apart at any moment. She’s pale. Shaken.

“That’s not even the bad part.” She says, her voice dropping further. “Fred and Chrissy, they both came to Miss Kelley for help. They were having headaches. Bad headaches that wouldn’t go away. And then…then the nightmares. Trouble sleeping, they’d wake up in a cold sweat. Then they started seeing things.”

“Bad things.” Max continues. “From their pasts. These visions, they just… they kept on getting worse and worse, until eventually… everything ended.”

You gulp, looking away.

Dustin’s jaw tightens. “Vecna’s curse.”

“Chrissy’s headache started a week ago. Fred’s, six days ago.” Max glances around, her eyes landing on each of you before they drop to the floor. “I’ve been having them for five days. I don’t know how long I have. All I know is that, for Fred and Chrissy, they both died less than 24 hours after their first vision.”

She swallows hard. “And I just saw that goddamn clock, so… looks like I’m gonna die tomorrow.”

“We’re not gonna let that happen, Max.” You say, stepping forward before anyone else can.

Your voice is firm, stronger than you feel, but it cuts through the tension like a blade. You surprise yourself, and everyone looks at you. Even Max, who had been staring at the floor like it might give her the answers she needed.

She blinks up at you, eyes rimmed red but dry. “Yeah? And how exactly are you gonna stop it?”

“I don’t know yet.” You admit. “But we will. Together.” You look around the group, and land on Steve. He’s looking right at you.

You sit between Lucas and Dustin, all three of you looking through newspapers, the basement air thick with teenage boy and quiet frustration. You try to focus on the article in front of you but it’s hard to concentrate when Steve keeps pacing like he’s trying to wear a groove into the floor.

You glance up. You hate how attractive he looks when he’s stressed.

Messy hair. Frown lines. That familiar furrow between his brows. You shouldn’t still be looking at him like this. Not when everything between you feels so...off. Broken.

“Okay, be honest…You guys understand any of this?” Steve asks, holding the newspaper like it’s written in ancient hieroglyphics.

“No.” Lucas replies flatly.

“Pretty straightforward.” Dustin says, smug as ever.

Steve shoots him a look. “Oh, straightforward? Really?”

Dustin shrugs. “What’s confusing to you? So far, everyone Vecna’s cursed has died, except for this old Victor Creel dude Nancy found. He’s the only known survivor. If anyone knows how to beat this curse, it’s him.”

“That’s assuming he was cursed, Henderson.” Steve mutters, shaking his head. “Which we don’t even know. How could Vecna have existed in the ’50s? It doesn’t make sense.”

“As far as we know, Eleven didn’t create the Upside Down. She opened a gate to it. The Upside Down has probably been around for thousands of years. Millions. I wouldn’t be surprised if it predated the dinosaurs.”

“Dinosaurs?” Steve looks up sharply. “What are we-”

“Okay, okay,” Lucas cuts in, already tired of the tangent. “But if a gate didn’t exist in the ’50s, how did Vecna get through?”

“And how’s he getting through now?” You add quietly.

“And why now?” Lucas asks.

“And why then?” Steve continues, a little too loud. “He just pops out in the ’50s, kills one family, and he’s like, ‘I’m good,’ and poof, disappears? Just… gone? Only to come back thirty years later and start killing random teens? No, I don’t buy it. Straightforward, my ass.”

Dustin opens his mouth to argue, but Steve cuts him off. “Honestly, Henderson, a little humility now and then wouldn’t kill you.”

“Sorry.” Dustin mutters, a little sarcastic.

The silence that follows is stiff, until you laugh. It’s quiet. Soft. Just enough to break the tension.

Steve glances at you, almost startled by the sound. You’re still smiling, trying to hide it behind your hand, like you didn’t just find his little outburst kind of funny.

Dustin turns to you. “What?”

“Nothing, just-s’funny…” You say as your eyes avoid Steve’s.

And Steve…he smiles too. Just a little. More to himself than anyone else. He hides it behind the edge of the newspaper, but it’s there. That flutter in his chest, annoying and sudden. It feels… good.

You always laugh when he’s being dramatic. You always have. He used to like that. Still does, maybe.

And for a second, it almost feels like things could be okay between you. Like maybe he could look at you again the way he used to, like you’re the only one in the room worth watching. Back when making you smile was easy. Natural, like breathing. He used to say the dumbest stuff just to hear your laugh, used to try too hard sometimes, but you found it endearing. You used to blush and giggle, and lean in to kiss him stupid. It used to be simple.

But now, he doesn’t know. Because when Nancy walks into a room, his thoughts shift without permission.

Sometimes, he finds himself craving the familiarity, the safety. In the worst moments, when you're right next to him and he still can’t stop wondering what it would’ve been like if they hadn’t fallen apart. He hates himself for it. For thinking about the what-ifs instead of holding onto what he has.

You. You're here. You're real, you're trying.

But then he hears footsteps. Quick, purposeful. Paper rustling.

Nancy.

She’s coming down the stairs, a stack of files in her arms, eyes sharp and focused like always. And just like that, the smile fades.

You shift, and he hears the creak of the chair. You’re quiet now. You’ve noticed. Of course you have. You always notice when he drifts.

You used to reach for his hand when he got quiet like this. Used to brush his fingers and ground him again. Now you just go still.

He can feel the gap growing wider with every unsaid word.

“Max, Max. Seriously. Seriously, I'm not joking. I'm not driving you anywhere.” Steve calls, jogging after Max. You all follow behind, backpacks bouncing.

She doesn’t slow down. “If you think I'm going to spend what is likely the last day of my life in the armpit that is Mike Wheeler's basement, you're out of your mind. Either take me where I need to go or tie me down, which is technically kidnapping of a minor. And if I live to see another day, Steve, I swear to God, I will prosecute.” She turns to the car, tugging on the door .

“Open the door.”

Steve scoffs “Uh, no.”

“I know a good lawyer.” Max bites back.

He shakes his head, letting out a sharp exhale. “Henderson, that super walkie of yours better reach Pennhurst.” His eyes quickly meet yours as he rounds the car, an anxious flicker in his eye. His jaws clenched, he’s worried. About Max, everyone. You.

You swallow and look away, pretending you didn’t see it. That it didn’t make your stomach flip, just a little. 

You’re all quiet on the ride to Max’s trailer, the car filled with fear, tension, and the light hum of Steve’s radio. No one knows what to say, or where to look. 

You’re stuck in the back with Max and Lucas, leaning against the cool window. It soothes the ache. Kind of. 

“This better be fast, Mayfield.” Steve mutters, pulling up beside her home.

“Twenty seconds.” Max says, already jumping out the car.

You all watch Max jump out with a sense of urgency, then Steve turns to your brother. “That thing's got batteries in it, right?”

Dustin blinks. “I'm not even answering that question…Yes, it has batteries.” 

“Yeah, I got it.” 

And when Max comes back, she’s quick. Frantic. She keeps looking behind her, like she’s being stalked for prey. She tugs her back on her shoulder and rushes to the car.

“Hey, that was longer than twenty seconds.” Steve says as Max yanks the car door open and climbs back in, her face pale, jaw clenched. “Hey, whoa, whoa. You all right?”

“I’m fine.” She snaps, slamming the door. “Just drive.”

Dustin blinks, surprised by her tone. “Did something happen?”

Max avoids his gaze, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Can we please just go?”

You all climb back into the car, and  Steve starts the engine, and the silence stretches as the road rolls out beneath you.

You reach over, gently, and place your hand over Max’s. She flinches, just slightly, but enough for you to feel it. Her shoulders tense, her eyes still fixed out the windshield. You start to pull back, but her fingers curl, loosely, around yours.

No one says anything. The engine hums. The trailer park disappears behind you.

You’re on the road a while before she speaks up.

“Turn here.” You watch from the window as the car eases into the cemetery. The bright daylight makes the rows of tombstones look almost peaceful, but the weight of everything that’s happened lingers, casting a shadow over the quiet scene.

You watch her walk towards her brothers grave, letter in hand.

Oh max…

“All right, it’s been long enough.” Steve mutters, glancing nervously at Max on the hill. His fingers tap anxiously against the door.

“Steve, just give her some time.” You say softly from the back seat, casting a glance back at Max.

“I have, all right? I'm calling it. She wants to get a lawyer, she can.” He throws the door open and jogs towards her, his voice sharp but rising with worry. “Max. Time to giddy up, yeah?”

“Max?” He calls, a little louder this time as he walks up the hill. The wind picks up slightly, rustling the trees. She doesn’t move. She’s still in front of the gravestone, stiff as a statue, arms at her sides.

Steve slows, a frown pulling at his face. “Max?” He says again, more urgent now.

“Max. Max!” Steve picks up his pace. “Max, wake up! Hey! Max!”

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Her breathing is shallow, her eyes wide but unfocused, moving to the back of her skull.

“Oh, something's wrong.” Lucas breathes.

“Max! Guys!” Steve’s voice slices through the air, frantic and sharp.

“Oh shit.” you breathe, already throwing the car door open.

All three of you take off running, feet pounding the earth as Steve’s panicked voice draws you in like a siren. He’s on his knees in front Max, hands shaking her shoulders, his face a mix of terror and helplessness. He shouts, voice cracking. “Max, you gotta get outta there! Can you hear me?!”

You skid to a stop beside them, dropping to your knees in the grass. “Max!” You call, your hands fluttering uselessly before gripping her arm. “Please. Come on, wake up!”

“You gotta get outta there!” Lucas repeats, desperation rising.

“Call Nancy and Robin!” Steve shouts, turning toward Dustin. “Go get ‘em! Call Nancy and Robin! Go!” He grabs Dustin by the front of his shirt, shaking him. 

“Shit!” He speeds off towards the car, tripping over his feet. “Shit, shit, shit! Shit, shit, shit!” 

He grabs the walkie, pulling up the antenna. “Nancy? Robin? Do you copy? This is a code red. Do you copy? Shit. Robin!” 

Dustin comes sprinting back over the hill, nearly tripping in the grass, arms full of cassette tapes and Max’s Walkman. His face is flushed, breath ragged.

“What’s her favorite song!?” He shouts, panic edging every syllable.

Lucas looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Why?”

“Robin said If she listens-It’s too much to explain! Just trust me! What’s her favorite song?!” Dustin yells, voice cracking, desperation exploding in his chest.

You, Steve, and Lucas scramble around him, ripping through the tapes in a flurry of shaking hands and pounding hearts.

“C’mon, c’mon…” You mutter, rifling through labels, fingers barely working. “She plays this one all the time-this one!” You yell, holding up the cassette with a trembling hand.

“Quick!” Steve fumbles with the Walkman, nearly dropping it, before shoving the tape in and slamming it shut. He practically throws it to Dustin, who grabs it and yanks Max’s headphones over her ears.

“Play it! Now!” Lucas yells.

Dustin hits the button. And you all freeze, holding your breath as the music starts. She begins to rise.

You all watch as she starts to ascend. You stare in disbelief, your heart hammering so loudly you can barely hear the music spilling from the headphones. 

“Max!” You all scream. “Max-please!” You cry. She rises higher and higher. 

Then suddenly, she falls.

“Max!” “Oh my god-Max.”

“It's okay. It's okay.” Someone says, maybe Steve, maybe you. Your voice mixes with the others, soft and shaking. A chorus of stunned relief.

“I thought we lost you.” Lucas chokes out, his arms wrapping around Max before he can stop himself. 

Max’s breathing is ragged, her chest rising and falling in short, sharp bursts as she clutches at his arm like she’s afraid it might disappear. “I'm still… I'm still here.” she gasps.

“Oh shit.” He breathes out, barely louder than a whisper. 

“I'm still here,” Max repeats, a little quieter, like she’s not saying it to them, she’s saying it to herself. Trying to believe it..

And you’re all just kneeling there in stunned silence, the weight of what just happened sinking in. Because none of you know what to say…

A clock chimes... "[Y/n]..."

Taglist:

@answer-the-sirens @ashkuuuu @madaboutjoe @oatmealisweird @joeyugglakiller @teheabrams @criesinlies @lovers-111 @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @aleemendoza2425-blog @iraslore @hello-nah817 @blujaybirdy @vajjaa @anuglyidiot @alicejwebster @hnslchw @neighborhoodparker @yunnie-f1 @sunshinedaisy21 @frey-williams @miahslt91 @gayandbasic @bubblybizarre

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

It would be hard to forget Fire Lieutenant James Barnes. And you'd tried over the past three days.

Emphasis on the tried 🫣

“I’m off rotation for the next week. After that, the guys will take shifts.” “Which guys?” You turned your head just in time to hear another voice in the background, warm and amused.

They got a plan all worked out already

“Yeah, Amyra, we’ll take turns,” Steve said. “I can take the week after Buck, Levinson can do some days along with Sy. We got you.”“She’s going to hate this.” “She doesn’t get a say,” Bucky replied, no hesitation at all. You scoffed and Amyra smiled faintly. “You’re on speaker. She can hear you.”

Whoops 🤭

Another voice chimed in, Levinson this time, all lazy drawl, “I’ll bring coffee, Sweetheart.” Syverson laughed in the background, “And I’ll bring flowers. Make it a real date.”

They are all loving this lol

“Barnes,” you ground out, “you don’t have to…” “I know,” Bucky interrupted, voice softer now. “I’m doing it anyway.” Before you could protest, he bent and lifted you, one arm under your knees, the other bracing your back. You couldn’t help it, your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching the thick stretch of muscle there. He smelled like clean soap and faint smoke, and it made something behind your ribs ache. He set you carefully on the seat, one big hand lingering on your knee longer than it needed to. When he stepped back, he didn’t look away.

🥹🥹🥹

Community service. Paying it forward. You were a charity case to him. A lump formed in your throat and you turned back to the window so he couldn’t see your face.

Oh noo

When he pulled into Amyra’s driveway, Bucky cut the engine but didn’t move to open the door. He sat there for a second, hands on the wheel. “You’re not alone in this,” he said finally, voice quiet and rough. “Even if you want to be.” You looked up at him, ready to argue. But something in his face, something resolute and almost raw, stopped you.

He really means it 🥹

And this time, you didn’t fight it. When he lifted you, your hands came up instinctively, gripping the collar of his t-shirt and your head went against his chest, familiar now. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek. 

I have a feeling that his heart beats for her 🤭

For a second, you just stood there, breathing the same air. Then you looked away and took a shaky step back. “Thank you,” you whispered. He swallowed, his voice thick. “Anytime.”

And he means ANY TIME

You were trying to focus on anything to keep from thinking about the way he’d carried you. And the way it had felt to let him.

I think its a great think to think about 🤭

“I need to work,” you snapped, your voice cracking with exhaustion you couldn’t hide. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.” His jaw flexed. “I’m not telling you because I want to control you,” he said, voice dropping lower, rougher. “I’m telling you because I…” He stopped, like he’d surprised himself. “I’m not your responsibility,” you whispered. His hand stayed braced on the back of the couch, close enough that you felt surrounded. “Too late,” he said, his voice low and rough, and you felt it right between your legs.

Ahhhh they really just need to say the unspoken things!!

You were going to break him. He knew it in the way you looked up at him, eyes dark and wide and a little dazed. The way your lips parted when he leaned in. The way you didn’t pull back.

Perfect moment for a kiss if you ask me 🤷🏻‍♀️👀

He was still trying to convince himself this was just about keeping you safe. Just about duty. But that lie was wearing thin. So thin he could feel it tearing. He left before he did something he’d never be able to take back. Before he asked you if you were wet for him already. Because he already knew.

This went from sweet to spicy real quick 🤭

In the dream, you were standing in your burned-out bedroom. The walls were blackened, the smell of smoke thick in your throat. But you weren’t afraid, because he was there. Bucky.

🥹🥹🥹

He kissed you like he’d been starving for it, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a low, rough sound. Your hands slid up his arms, over the thick straps of his suspenders, feeling the flex and hard pull of muscle beneath. When he broke away, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged. “Say you want this,” he whispered, voice frayed.

Oh she wants this 🤭

It was just a dream, you told yourself. Just your mind filling in the blanks. But when you finally drifted back to sleep, you hoped, god, you hoped, you’d dream of him again.

Valid

“Because it sounded like you were having a pretty good time last night.” Your stomach dropped. “Oh my god.” “Calling Bucky’s name.”

Hahahah iconic that she calls her out like that 🤭

He tried to tell himself it was just about protecting you. About doing the right thing. But in the dark, when he closed his eyes, he would remember exactly how you’d looked that day, your eyes soft, your hands curled in his shirt like you were scared to let go when he carried you.

🥹🥹🥹

The rest of the week continued in much the same fashion, both of you torturing yourselves internally while being painfully polite on the surface.

They truly are torturing themselves 🥴

But he backed off, and both of you spent two days trying not to replay every look, every touch, every dream. You didn’t quite succeed.

Understandable

The silence wasn’t as charged as it was with Bucky, it was just there, with no subtext. For you, at least.

Oh 👀

“Your boyfriend’s very protective,” Ari said eventually, voice casual. Your stomach tightened because you knew exactly who he was talking about. Ari’s mouth curved slyly. “No?” “Not my boyfriend,” you finished, too fast. He hummed, tapping the wheel with two fingers. “Huh.”

Oh this is gonna be interesting 👀

“Just think about it. Couldn’t hurt. I admire you. And I think you’re very attractive.” he drawled, eyes sliding over you, like it was no big deal at all. Your heart thumped so hard it hurt. And maybe it was easier to let someone like Ari see you this way. Someone you didn’t already dream about.

I have afeeling that things are gonna be messy real soon

“Your principal friend, she’s doing a lot better.” Bucky’s stomach went tight as he tried to stay calm. “Yeah?” “She looked good,” Ari went on, like he hadn’t noticed the warning in Bucky’s tone. “She also said you weren’t her man.” The words hit like a punch to the gut but there was no reason why they should. “Figured I’d ask. And she didn’t say no when I offered to take her out sometime.” Bucky’s hands flexed at his sides and his jaw locked so tight it hurt. “You know,” Ari mused, tapping the doorframe, “it’s not a bad thing, letting someone else step in. Can’t be everywhere all the time, Barnes.”

Damn

Wanted you in ways that had nothing to do with duty or guilt. More than he’d wanted anything in a long, long time. And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending he didn’t. He kept telling himself he had no right to feel like this. No claim on you. But he couldn’t stop replaying Ari’s voice in his head: She didn’t say no.

He will be haunted by this

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.” And there it was. The thing he shouldn’t have admitted. The thing he couldn’t pretend wasn’t eating him alive. “That’s not your problem,” you managed. His hand flexed on the wheel. “Yeah,” he said finally. “That’s the thing. It is.” You didn’t dare ask what he meant, and he didn’t offer to explain.

Oh 👀

You swallowed. “I’m fine.” “That’s your favorite lie,” she shot back. “How’d it go?” “You know,” she said quietly, “if you don’t want him to care, you’ve got to stop looking at him like that.” “Like what?” you demanded. “Like he’s the only thing keeping you standing.”

She has a point 🤷🏻‍♀️

And you wondered if this was the part where you were supposed to let him go.

Nooo💔

You’d looked at him like you were waiting for something, like you needed him to finish a sentence he didn’t have the courage to say.

Be brave Bucky, you got this!! Say it!!

He knew he was making this worse. Every time he touched you, every time he picked you up, every time he let himself feel it, he was building something that would hurt you when it fell apart. Because it had to. Because you deserved better than a half-broken firefighter who didn’t know how to keep things simple.

🥺🥺🥺

By the time he made it back to the station, he’d decided the only thing he could do, the only thing that might save you from the mess he’d already made, was to step back.

Thats a step, but in the wrong direction!!

When you wrote back “Why?” he almost called you. Almost drove back across town to take it back.

He should do it!

But instead he forced himself to type. And then he set his phone down, bowed his head and told himself this was the right thing. He had to believe it. Because if he didn’t, he was going to show up at your door and tell you the truth: That you were the only thing he’d thought about since the night he carried you out of that fire. And he didn’t think he could ever stop.

Yes just do it!!!

I'm On Fire

Summary: He tried to keep his distance. You tried to keep your composure. Neither of you succeeded. And now the line between duty and wanting you is burning away.

Word count: 4.7 K

Pairing: Firefighter! Bucky Barnes x Principal! Reader; The crew x Reader (mostly platonic, except Ari)

A/N: So this new AU. It's the death of me. And @nissaimmortal asked when part one was published just a few days ago so, because I'm obsessed and I have so much to say about them, here is part two. I'm all in with stubborn, angsty, grumpy, burning-for-you firefighter Bucky Barnes. 🫠 This was inspired by an abandoned AU from last year and then this ask from a few weeks ago. I can't get him out of my mind. Bucky is a firefighter and a burn survivor. Tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. This fic/au deals with fires, burns, burn survivors and recovery. There are graphic descriptions of burns and pain. Bucky and Reader are burn survivors. Grumpy Bucky, burn injury and rehab recovery, reader has to rely on other people, a lil bit of language, mutual pining, idiots in love, Steve, Ari, and Syverson are also firefighters (warning, esp. Ari!) erotic dream, protective Bucky, jealous Bucky, hurt/comfort, dom Bucky if you squint, erotic dreams and fantasies (I feel like suspenders are gonna be a thing), implied masturbation. ALL THE ANGST!

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

You were propped on the couch, leg elevated, trying to read through an email you’d already started four times. 

Your concentration was shot.

The burn on your leg throbbed, the skin pulling tight whenever you shifted. You were looking forward to PT, and thinking, more than you wanted to admit, about the handsome firefighter who’d carried you out of the flames.

It would be hard to forget Fire Lieutenant James Barnes.

And you'd tried over the past three days.

He was kind to visit you in the hospital and help you get settled at Amyra’s. The memory of his rough, but gentle hands changing your bandages, and the way he looked at you like you were worth saving, was etched into your mind.

Thankfully, now you had time to forget him.

Amyra stood in the kitchen with her phone pressed to her ear, voice low.

“No, I’m serious,” she was saying. “She knows she can’t drive. She’s being stubborn.”

You closed your eyes, pressing your lips together, wondering who she was talking to.

Don’t eavesdrop, you told yourself. You’d already asked enough of everyone.

But you didn’t have to try hard to hear when she switched it to speaker.

“…I can take her,” Bucky’s voice came out, rough and unmistakable.

“Every day?” Amyra asked. “You’ve got to work, too.”

“I’m off rotation for the next week. After that, the guys will take shifts.”

“Which guys?”

You turned your head just in time to hear another voice in the background, warm and amused.

“Yeah, Amyra, we’ll take turns,” Steve said. “I can take the week after Buck, Levinson can do some days along with Sy. We got you.”

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath, mortified.

Amyra ignored you.

“She’s going to hate this.”

“She doesn’t get a say,” Bucky replied, no hesitation at all.

You scoffed and Amyra smiled faintly. 

“You’re on speaker. She can hear you.”

There was silence. Then Bucky’s voice again.

“You’re not driving,” he said. “End of discussion.”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, hating how petty you sounded.

“No, you’re not,” he said calmly. “Call it community service.”

Your stomach dipped. Amyra raised her brows at you, like she could read your every thought.

Another voice chimed in, Levinson this time, all lazy drawl, “I’ll bring coffee, Sweetheart.”

Syverson laughed in the background, “And I’ll bring flowers. Make it a real date.”

“Oh my god!,” you hissed, scrubbing a hand over your face.

Amyra bit back a smile as Bucky growled out, “Ignore them.”

“Barnes,” you ground out, “you don’t have to…”

“I know,” Bucky interrupted, voice softer now. “I’m doing it anyway.”

You swallowed hard.

“Tomorrow,” he said, all finality. “Nine sharp.”

The call ended, leaving the room too quiet. Amyra slipped her phone into her pocket.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice gentle.

You didn’t say anything. Just pressed your lips together and looked at the wall. Amyra caught the look on your face and sighed. 

“You don’t have to like it,” she said gently. “You just have to let people help you.”

You couldn’t answer, so you just nodded, a lump in your throat.

—---

You were waiting on the porch when his truck pulled up, because you couldn’t stand the thought of him ringing the bell and Amyra answering with that knowing smile.

He stepped out, and for a second, neither of you spoke. He looked unfairly good in a black t-shirt and jeans, hair still damp from a shower.

His gaze swept over you, from your braced leg to the bag slung over your shoulder, like he was trying to gauge exactly how much you were holding back.

“You need help?” he asked quietly.

“No,” you said, a little too fast.

His eyes flicked down your body, over your leg, back up to your face. It affected you.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”

You made it down the steps without stumbling. But when you stopped at his passenger side, you hesitated. The truck sat too high, the step too awkward to get to with your leg. You braced your hand on the door frame, willing yourself to ignore the tightness in your leg.

Then you felt it, his palm, warm and wide, settling on your waist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, almost gentle. “Let me.”

“I can…”

“You can let me,” he cut in, and there was something in the way he said it that made your heart stutter.

Before you could protest, he bent and lifted you, one arm under your knees, the other bracing your back. 

You couldn’t help it, your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching the thick stretch of muscle there. He smelled like clean soap and faint smoke, and it made something behind your ribs ache.

He set you carefully on the seat, one big hand lingering on your knee longer than it needed to. When he stepped back, he didn’t look away.

“You good?” he asked, voice lower.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He nodded once and closed the door.

—----

The cab was too quiet.

You stared out the window, pretending to be fascinated by the city streets you’d driven a hundred times.

Halfway there, you finally spoke.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, your voice small.

He didn’t look over.

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

He blew out a slow breath.

“Because you almost died,” he said, his voice rough.

“And you think you have to do everything by yourself.”

You looked back at the window because you couldn’t look at him and still pretend you were okay.

“That doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

“It’s not about owing.”

“Then what is it about?”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his grip.

“Call it paying it forward,” he said after a moment.

Your chest went tight.

Community service.

Paying it forward.

You were a charity case to him. A lump formed in your throat and you turned back to the window so he couldn’t see your face.

You rode the rest of the way in silence.

———

He helped you down again, and when you tried to protest, “I can walk, Lieutenant,” he ignored it, bracing his hand on your elbow and keeping it there until you were steady.

Your therapist was kind but unrelenting. By the end, your muscles were shaking, and you were blinking back frustrated tears.

When you were wheeled back out, Bucky was leaning against the reception counter, arms folded, watching the door. His gaze softened when he saw you.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine,” he murmured, but he didn’t push it.

This time you ignored his remark, but when he helped you up, you didn’t pretend you didn’t need it.

—-

The silence was different now, heavier. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you would say.

When he pulled into Amyra’s driveway, Bucky cut the engine but didn’t move to open the door. He sat there for a second, hands on the wheel.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said finally, voice quiet and rough.

“Even if you want to be.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know.”

When you opened them again, he was already out of the truck, reaching for your door. He opened it, and you started to move, attempting to swing your leg down.

He caught your wrist.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, ready to argue. But something in his face, something resolute and almost raw, stopped you.

And this time, you didn’t fight it.

When he lifted you, your hands came up instinctively, gripping the collar of his t-shirt and your head went against his chest, familiar now. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek. 

And you could also feel the way his breath went unsteady.

Neither of you said a word as he carried you up the walk easily, like it was second nature holding you this way.

When he set you down just inside the door, you didn’t step back right away; your hands were still curled in his shirt and his palms were still braced around your waist.

For a second, you just stood there, breathing the same air. Then you looked away and took a shaky step back.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He swallowed, his voice thick.

“Anytime.”

—-------

You were resettled on the couch, leg propped up, your laptop balanced across your thighs. You’d been typing for an hour, trying to pretend your whole body didn’t feel like a live wire.

You were trying to focus on anything to keep from thinking about the way he’d carried you.

And the way it had felt to let him.

You didn’t hear the door open, and you didn’t realize he was there until his shadow fell across the screen.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Bucky said, scowling as he set the takeout and prescriptions on the coffee table.

Your head snapped up, startled.

“I am.” You gestured at the couch. “Look. Reclining. Very restful.”

His eyes dropped from your face to the laptop.

“Close it.”

“No.”

He stepped closer, and you felt it, how much heat he radiated, how your breath caught even before he spoke again.

“You need to heal,” he said, softer now, like he was trying to be careful.

“I need to work,” you snapped, your voice cracking with exhaustion you couldn’t hide. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

His jaw flexed.

“I’m not telling you because I want to control you,” he said, voice dropping lower, rougher. “I’m telling you because I…”

He stopped, like he’d surprised himself.

“…because working is not resting.”

You stared at him, holding your breath.

He took another step, close enough that you felt dizzy with it.

“And I’m not going to stand here and watch you compromise your recovery."

Then he reached out and closed the laptop. His hand was so big it covered most of it. You watched his thick fingers press it closed, and watched every option you had for pretending you weren’t thinking about him disappear.

You should have been angry.

But you were just…wrecked.

Your pulse thumped everywhere at once. You sucked in a shaky breath because he was still right there, close enough that if you leaned forward, your mouth would brush his shirt.

“I’m not your responsibility,” you whispered.

His hand stayed braced on the back of the couch, close enough that you felt surrounded.

“Too late,” he said, his voice low and rough, and you felt it right between your legs.

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

For one dizzy second, you thought he might kiss you.

And God, you wanted him to.

—----

You were going to break him.

He knew it in the way you looked up at him, eyes dark and wide and a little dazed. The way your lips parted when he leaned in. The way you didn’t pull back.

He was still trying to convince himself this was just about keeping you safe. Just about duty. But that lie was wearing thin. So thin he could feel it tearing.

God, he was trying. 

Trying not to imagine how soft your mouth would feel under his. Or how you’d sound if he pushed you back into the cushions and touched you the way he was already dreaming about.

Trying not to remember the heat that sparked up his spine when your eyes flicked to his mouth.

And stayed.

You shifted in your seat like you were restless, like you were thinking about the same thing he was. That look on your face, combined with the way your thighs pressed together, was going to ruin him.

He left before he did something he’d never be able to take back.

Before he asked you if you were wet for him already.

Because he already knew.

—----

It had been a long day.

Therapy. The impossible ache in your body. Bucky’s presence.

It was all too much.

You fell asleep exhausted, but it didn’t take long for your dreams to slide somewhere you didn’t let yourself think about when you were awake.

In the dream, you were standing in your burned-out bedroom. The walls were blackened, the smell of smoke thick in your throat. But you weren’t afraid, because he was there.

Bucky.

He didn’t have a mask. Didn’t have gear. Didn't have a shirt. Just Bucky, in his uniform pants and suspenders, so hot and so close you could feel the heat coming off his skin.

He reached for you, and when his hand closed around your wrist, and you felt it everywhere.

He kissed you like he’d been starving for it, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a low, rough sound. Your hands slid up his arms, over the thick straps of his suspenders, feeling the flex and hard pull of muscle beneath.

When he broke away, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged.

“Say you want this,” he whispered, voice frayed.

Your heart skipped a beat. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His hand slid up your ribcage, callused palm grazing the curve of your breast, thumb over your nipple, and your whole body shuddered.

“Say it,” he rasped, and then he kissed you again, so hard it stole every thought you had.

You woke with your hand between your thighs, gasping, your skin flushed and your heart slamming so loud it felt like it might jump out of your chest.

It was just a dream, you told yourself. Just your mind filling in the blanks.

But when you finally drifted back to sleep, you hoped, god, you hoped, you’d dream of him again.

—----

Amyra was stirring creamer into her coffee when you walked in the kitchen, face still flushed.

She didn’t look up at first.

“You okay?” she asked lightly, though there was something too knowing in her voice.

You cleared your throat. “Fine.”

“Mhm.” She set the spoon down, turning just enough to smirk.

“Because it sounded like you were having a pretty good time last night.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh my god.”

“Calling Bucky’s name.”

She tapped her finger on her mug.

“Interesting.”

“It’s not…” Your voice cracked.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Sure.” She folded her arms, clearly savoring every second.

“Want to talk about it?”

“It’s common,” you blurted.“To, um. Have dreams about people who are…supportive. It’s just a psychological thing. He’s just …”

“A friend?”

“Yes,” you said too fast. “Just a friend.”

Amyra lifted her brows.

“Uh-huh.”

And when she turned back to the sink, you closed your eyes, because you both knew that wasn’t true.

“It was just a dream,” you mumbled, though the way your heart was still racing said it wasn’t that simple.

-----

Every night that week, Bucky lay in his too-big bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling, cursing himself for wanting you this much.

He tried to tell himself it was just about protecting you.

About doing the right thing.

But in the dark, when he closed his eyes, he would remember exactly how you’d looked that day, your eyes soft, your hands curled in his shirt like you were scared to let go when he carried you.

And then he’d imagine what it would feel like if you didn’t let him go.

If you pulled him closer.

If you said his name in that voice that made him feel like he’d won the goddamn world.

More than once, he’d slid his hand into his boxers, pressing his palm over the thick, aching weight of himself while he thought about your mouth, your body, the way you’d sound when you came for him.

Sometimes, when he was too far gone to stop, he’d let himself imagine more.

Your legs wrapped around his hips. Your nails biting into his back. Your lips parting to tell him he was the only one you wanted.

It was torture.

But it was the only place he could have you. Because he had a duty to help you, not take advantage of you.

And every morning, he’d wake up with your name on his tongue, the sheets a mess around him, and the hollow ache in his chest worse than before.

Because he knew, no matter how hard he tried, he was never going to be able to want you any less.

—-----

The rest of the week continued in much the same fashion, both of you torturing yourselves internally while being painfully polite on the surface.

Except when he kept carrying you into the truck and into Amyra’s house.

And except when you caught each other staring and pretended not to.

On Friday, you’d tried to reclaim a shred of your pride, insisting you could manage the stairs alone.

Bucky just looked at you, unimpressed, before lifting you into his arms anyway.

And god help you, you didn’t protest.

The weekend was supposed to be a break. You’d told Bucky, more firmly this time, that he deserved to relax, that you’d leave him alone.

He went quiet, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words.

“I didn’t ask for that,” he said finally, voice low.

But he backed off, and both of you spent two days trying not to replay every look, every touch, every dream.

You didn’t quite succeed.

—--

Monday morning, you tried to look forward to Steve taking you to therapy. It was his week and he was always so kind.

But when the doorbell finally rang, it wasn’t him.

It was Ari Levinson, leaning against the porch rail with two coffees in hand and an easy smile.

“Morning, Principal,” he called, voice warm and amused.

You blinked. “Where’s Steve?”

Ari shrugged, like it didn’t matter as he handed you a cup. 

“Had an important meeting. I volunteered to cover.”

You swallowed, feeling something you didn’t want to name.

Ari walked you to the passenger side. He wasn’t as big as Bucky, but he was still tall with lean muscle, long legs and casual confidence that made your pulse skip.

“Need a hand?” he asked, one brow lifted.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning wider. “I can see that.”

When you hesitated, his hand came out, warm and steady on your elbow.

“Easy,” he murmured, guiding you up.

Once you were settled, he leaned in the open door, bracing a forearm on the roof so you had no choice but to look at him.

“You know,” he said, voice dropping, “some people would’ve stayed home and let everyone wait on them.”

You lifted your chin. “I’m not most people.”

His gaze flicked to your mouth.

No,” he agreed. “And I’m very aware of that.”

Your heart thumped as he shut the door and walked around slipping into the driver’s seat.

—--

The silence wasn’t as charged as it was with Bucky, it was just there, with no subtext.

For you, at least.

“Your boyfriend’s very protective,” Ari said eventually, voice casual.

Your stomach tightened because you knew exactly who he was talking about.

Bucky.

“He’s not…”

Ari’s mouth curved slyly. “No?”

“Not my boyfriend,” you finished, too fast.

He hummed, tapping the wheel with two fingers.  “Huh.”

“What?” you demanded.

His grin flashed, bright and just a little dangerous.

“Then you should let me take you out sometime.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, because your brain had apparently short-circuited.

Ari glanced over, amused.

“Just think about it. Couldn’t hurt. I admire you. And I think you’re very attractive.” he drawled, eyes sliding over you, like it was no big deal at all.

Your heart thumped so hard it hurt.

And maybe it was easier to let someone like Ari see you this way. 

Someone you didn’t already dream about.

Someone who hadn’t carried you out of the dark, over and over, until you didn’t know where gratitude ended and something else began.

Because wanting Bucky Barnes felt dangerous. Like if you gave in to it, there wouldn’t be anything left of you he didn’t already have.

But your pulse wouldn’t stop hammering.

—----

That night, Bucky had been finishing paperwork in the station when Ari strolled in, grin lazy, eyes too bright.

“Barnes,” Ari drawled, propping a shoulder against the doorframe. 

“Your principal friend, she’s doing a lot better.”

Bucky’s stomach went tight as he tried to stay calm. “Yeah?”

“She looked good,” Ari went on, like he hadn’t noticed the warning in Bucky’s tone. 

“Said she was feeling strong enough to drive next week.”

Bucky nodded stiffly.

Ari tilted his head, smile widening.

“She also said you weren’t her man.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut but there was no reason why they should.

He wasn’t your boyfriend.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t let it show.

Ari’s grin sharpened.

“Figured I’d ask. And she didn’t say no when I offered to take her out sometime.”

Bucky’s hands flexed at his sides and his jaw locked so tight it hurt.

“You know,” Ari mused, tapping the doorframe, “it’s not a bad thing, letting someone else step in. Can’t be everywhere all the time, Barnes.”

“Get out,” Bucky said, voice low.

Ari’s grin didn’t fade.

“Sure,” he said lightly. “Just letting you know, you should never leave food on the table.”

When he left, Bucky stood there for a long time, breathing hard.

He knew he had no claim. But the thought of Ari, or anyone else, thinking they could be what you needed made him shake with rage.

—---

When Bucky pulled up to your house, he knew he should’ve called first. Or let Steve take the day like he’d offered.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t stand the thought of you getting close to someone other than him. Smiling at them the way you smiled at him when you were too tired to pretend you didn’t trust him.

He got out and tried to look neutral, tried to look like the professional he was supposed to be. But when you stepped onto the porch, beautiful as ever, proud, that wary look in your eyes, something in his chest twisted up tight.

God help him, he wanted you.

Wanted you in ways that had nothing to do with duty or guilt.

More than he’d wanted anything in a long, long time.

And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending he didn’t.

—-----

You were half-dressed and running late when you heard a familiar engine rumble to a stop out front, and your heart did a stupid little jump.

Steve, you reminded yourself firmly. It’s Steve today.

You grabbed your bag and pulled the door open, only to stop short.

Bucky was leaning against the hood of his truck, arms folded over his chest, black t-shirt clinging to the cut of his broad shoulders.

Your stomach flipped.

“I thought…” you blurted, clutching the strap of your bag.

“I thought Steve was coming.”

“I switched with him,” he said evenly.

You swallowed. “Why?”

His jaw flexed.

“Wanted to see for myself how you were doing.”

Your heart did that annoying skip thing again, and you told yourself it was irritation, not something softer. For a second, neither of you moved. Then he nodded at the steps.

“You need help?”

“I’m fine.”

One brow lifted, skeptical.

You sighed, your voice small. “A little.”

He climbed the porch and set his hand around your waist and you tried not to lean into it.

—---

The ride to therapy was torture.

He kept telling himself he had no right to feel like this. No claim on you.

But he couldn’t stop replaying Ari’s voice in his head: She didn’t say no.

When you finally spoke, your voice was so careful he almost wished you’d just yell at him.

“Ari talked to you?”

His eyes didn’t leave the road.

“Yeah.”

“Bucky…”

He exhaled hard, voice rough.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

And there it was. The thing he shouldn’t have admitted. The thing he couldn’t pretend wasn’t eating him alive.

Your pulse skittered.

“That’s not your problem,” you managed.

His hand flexed on the wheel.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “That’s the thing. It is.”

You didn’t dare ask what he meant, and he didn’t offer to explain.

But the air in the cab felt too close, too warm. Like you were both one breath away from admitting something you couldn’t take back.

—--

The drive home felt longer. You watched the trees blur past, all the things you hadn’t said pressing against your throat. When he finally pulled into Amyra’s driveway, you didn’t reach for the door right away.

“Bucky,” you murmured.

He turned to look at you, blue eyes tired, full of things you didn’t have names for.

“I don’t want to make this harder,” you whispered.

His throat worked.

“You’re not,” he said, voice low. “You couldn’t.”

And you knew he believed it. Knew he meant every word.

That was the problem.

He got out without another word and came around to open your door. When he helped you down, his palm fit too perfectly against your waist, the heat of it sinking through your clothes like a brand.

When he handed you your bag, his fingers brushed yours, and you felt it, that sharp, impossible want you’d been pretending wasn’t there.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

His gaze flicked to your mouth, then away.

“No problem,” he said roughly.

He stepped back and waited until you’d made it up the porch before he climbed into the truck and pulled away. You watched the taillights until they disappeared. 

And you felt emptier than you wanted to admit.

—---

Amyra was standing in the kitchen when you came in, your face hot. She took one look at you and folded her arms across her chest.

“You look like you just got back from a funeral,” she said mildly.

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“That’s your favorite lie,” she shot back. “How’d it go?”

“Fine.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Fine, or fine?”

You shot her a look.

“Don’t do that,” she said, voice gentler. “Don’t act like I can’t tell when something’s wrong.”

“I’m good,” you lied, voice shaky.

Amyra tilted her head, studying you.

“You know,” she said quietly, “if you don’t want him to care, you’ve got to stop looking at him like that.”

“Like what?” you demanded.

“Like he’s the only thing keeping you standing.”

You sighed. “We’re just…”

“If you say friends,” she cut in, “I’m throwing this mug at you.”

You looked down at the floor, because you couldn’t look at her and pretend you believed it.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, because you didn’t have anything else, and she let you walk past her to your room without another word.

—---

You were sitting in bed with the lamp off when your phone buzzed.

Bucky: Steve will take you tomorrow.

Your chest went tight as you stared at the message. He wasn’t coming. He was pulling away.

You: Why?

A long pause. Three dots blinked, disappeared.

Bucky: I’ve got a thing.

Nothing else.

You turned your phone over on the nightstand, your pulse too loud in your ears.

And you wondered if this was the part where you were supposed to let him go.

—--

When Bucky climbed back into his truck, he felt like his chest was too small for how hard his heart was beating.

You’d looked at him like you were waiting for something, like you needed him to finish a sentence he didn’t have the courage to say.

It is my problem.

Because I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else.

Because he can't have you.

Because I’m in love with you.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to get his breathing under control.

He knew he was making this worse. Every time he touched you, every time he picked you up, every time he let himself feel it, he was building something that would hurt you when it fell apart.

Because it had to.

Because you deserved better than a half-broken firefighter who didn’t know how to keep things simple.

By the time he made it back to the station, he’d decided the only thing he could do, the only thing that might save you from the mess he’d already made, was to step back.

Just enough to give you space to breathe.

Just enough to give himself a chance to get his shit together.

When he finally texted you, he tried to pretend it didn’t feel like cutting something vital out of his own chest.

When you wrote back “Why?” he almost called you.

Almost drove back across town to take it back.

But instead he forced himself to type.

I’ve got a thing.

And then he set his phone down, bowed his head and told himself this was the right thing.

He had to believe it.

Because if he didn’t, he was going to show up at your door and tell you the truth: That you were the only thing he’d thought about since the night he carried you out of that fire.

And he didn’t think he could ever stop.

[nebulablakemurphy]

The Winner Takes It All (Part 3)

Summary: Moves and Countermoves AU in which the rebellion never happened and Haymitch is now mentoring his own child for the games. 18+ ONLY MDNI Depictions of forced prostitution, a pregnancy resulting from it, and alcohol/drug addiction.

Part 2

“The eighty-second Hunger Games will begin in three, two, one.”

Everest jolts awake, not in his bed at the tribute center, not in the arena and certainly not at home. But his mother is there. Hair strewn across her face, sleeping with her head resting against his bed. Wearing a gray jumpsuit she wouldn’t be caught dead in by Vanity.

Had it all been a dream? Some horrible nightmare, in which he’d been reaped for the games.

“Mom?” Everest reaches for her. His hands are bandaged and burn to the touch, harboring injuries he cannot place.

“It’s ok,” Y/N murmurs, half awake. “Go to sleep, my baby.”

Everest stares up at the ceiling. Where is his father? Where is he? It feels like an eternity before the door opens. His father looks ill, dragging himself into the room.

Something clatters at his feet. A bucket, beside his chair. Haymitch bends over to retrieve it, subsequently heaving into the metal bin.

“Dad?” Everest squints at him, trying to make sense of it.

Haymitch stiffens at the sound of his voice, waving a hand until he stops wrenching. “Sorry about that.” He places the evidence outside the door. “The nurses will get it.”

“What happened?” Everest demands.

“You know, they warned me this withdrawal stuff wasn’t for the weak. But I really can’t see how being locked up in detox would’ve made me feel any better, so-” Haymitch shoots his son a shaky grin. “It’s good to see you awake.”

“What about the games?” Everest asks. “How are we here? Where even are we?”

“We’re in District 13.” Haymitch tells him.

“The games are over?”

“Yes.”

“So I won?”

“In a round about way,” Haymitch purses his lips. “You did more than win, Everest.”

“What’s more than winning?”

“You blew the damn arena.”

Everest racks his mind for some recollection of this, any recollection of anything really. “What about Whimsy?”

“She’s here.”

“Katniss? Arista and Honey?”

“Katniss is detoxing a couple stories down. It’s ugly stuff and you know Katniss.” Haymitch holds up his hands, “she’s probably yelling at her nurses.”

“There’s no alcohol in 13?” Everest groans as he sits up. Entire body aching, he certainly feels like he’s been blown up.

“Not a drop.” Haymitch laments. “Anyway, Arista says she’s too old for a babysitter but she’s with Madge for now. Finnick and Annie offered to help with Honey, until we get you settled.”

“That’s…nice of them.” Everest decides.

“Finnick wants to spend time with her.”

“And you’re ok with that? Honey is your baby.”

Haymitch huffs a laugh, “She’ll always be my baby, same as you and Arista.”

“Did mom want…to have a baby with Finnick?” Everest wonders.

“I love your mother, your mother loves me. The rest isn’t important.”

“So she didn’t want to.”

“If you knew half the hell Snow and the Capitol put her through…”

“I just want to understand.” That’s all he’s ever wanted.

“No, she didn’t want to.” Haymitch sighs, “happy now?”

“No,” Everest swallows, not at all.

“She never has to go back there, because of what you did. Hold onto that. Not the rest. Stuff’s heavy, she doesn’t want you carrying it. Neither do I.”

“I don’t remember any part of what I did.”

“Explosions will do that, kid.” Haymitch pats his son’s cheek. “We’ll have a doctor come look at you in the morning. Get some sleep.”

Sleep? How could he possibly sleep?

————————————————————————

He’s nearly there, within arms reach of Whimsy and then…the clear path between them is obstructed. Covered in leaves and vines in a matter of seconds. The maze is moving.

“Everest?!”

“I’m right here.” He says, attempting to tear through the foliage. Everest hisses as his fingers scrape against something razor sharp. The walls are filled with thorns. “Stay away from the branches, they just cut me.”

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah.” Everest drags his bloodied palms over his pants, tattered skin howling in protest. “Just hold tight, I gotta figure out how to go around.”

“He needs to rest.”

Everest stirs at the sound of his mother’s voice.

“We’d like to have him evaluated by Dr. Aurelius, as soon as possible.” A second voice says. One belonging to a woman he’s never met before.

“What’s the rush?” Dad.

“The sooner Everest regains his memories, the more incentive he has to aid in our efforts.”

“What if my son doesn’t have to relive the most traumatic thing that’s ever happened to him? Maybe he doesn’t have to fucking live with that the way I do, or Haymitch does…the way Katniss does.” Y/N sneers. “If you want my help, our help; you earn it.”

“How?” The other woman asks.

“Start by not torturing my kid.” Y/N insists.

“Very well.”

“Give Katniss the time she needs to recover, then we discuss.”

“The wedding is less than a week away, we will need your family for the propo; including Katniss and your other children. We need to present a united front, show this tyrant that despite his best efforts that he did not break you. And more importantly, that he cannot break us.”

A beat.

“As for your youngest daughter, I would like to feature her-”

“No.” Haymitch all but growls. His voice hoarse from vomiting through a detox he should’ve been medicated for.

“Forcing Snow to take ownership for Honey’s existence will help rally the districts, maybe even the Capitol.” Plutarch suggests.

“I said no.”

“We need to gain favor there, set them straight from any delusion you enjoyed what you were doing.” The woman, with gray streaked hair, explains.

Everyone is in gray, Everest realizes, when he finally musters the strength to open his eyes.

“Our daughter is not a pawn for you to use.” Y/N bites out, “what happened to Finnick is not leverage-”

“It didn’t just happen to Finnick.” Everest cuts in, turning every head in the room.

“Everest.” Y/N puts a hand to her mouth.

“It happened to you.”

Y/N blinks at her son, hot, angry, tears spilling onto her cheeks.

“I know you’re always trying to protect everyone else, but you…got hurt too.” Everest reminds her. “It’s ok for you to say that.”

Haymitch is beside his wife then, wrapping her in shaky arms. “We’ll finish this later. We need a minute alone with our son.”

“Of course,” Coin nods. The occupants of the room quickly clear out.

It’s painfully obvious that Y/N doesn’t know what to do with herself, ready to come out of her skin.

Haymitch is whispering to her, holding her so tightly it must hurt.

Everest will never forget the horrible, defeated, sob that leaves his mother’s mouth. Rippling through her, as though she’s been holding it in half her life. Because he knew. Her son knew.

“Mom, it’s ok.” Everest drags his aching body from the hospital bed to put his arms around his parents.

“It isn’t something you should have to be ok with.” Y/N tells him. “It’s not yours to live with.”

“It shouldn’t be yours to live with either, Mom.”

“You should lie down.” Haymitch jerks his chin towards the abandoned mattress.

“So should you,” the boy challenges. “But you��re not, because you’re stubborn and want to protect your family. Well guess what? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I’m not a little kid anymore. Let me help you. Please. You can trust me.”

Y/N cups Everest’s cheek in her hand. “Of course, we trust you.”

“Who was that woman with Plutarch? I know the guy was a doctor, but she-”

“President Coin, of District 13.” Haymitch informs him, “not exactly warm and fuzzy.”

“She’s definitely got her own agenda, but making Snow take ownership for the fact that Honey exists might not be a bad idea.” Everest decides, “he’ll use it against you, in a heartbeat. Discredit your characters, your marriage, everything you’ve built.”

“What about Honey?”

Everest sighs, “she looks like Finnick. Finnick and you. Not Dad. If they see her at the wedding, with you or him, the rumor mill spins again. They already know. Just tell them why.”

Haymitch stiffens.

“Blood doesn’t make a family, you taught me that.”

————————————————————————-

Two days later, Everest is released. Following his mother up to their quarters.

“So Arista’s here,” Y/N points to the bed in the corner of the first bedroom. “Honey’s been sleeping with us, be we figure bottom bunk stays open for her, just in case.”

“Good call.” Everest agrees. This is nothing like their house in 12.

“You’ll be here.” She motions to the next room. Empty, save for standard bedding and a few gray jumpsuits.

“Great,” Everest smiles, “very homey.”

“It’s not perfect, but we’re together. Safe.”

“Yeah.” Everest agrees.

“Your dad went to get the girls. I thought maybe we’d meet them for lunch, if you’re feeling up to it.” Y/N says, rocking back on her heels.

“Sure.” Everest drops his nap sack from the hospital onto the bed. Dressing for his hands, pills for the pain, to help him sleep, to relieve any anxiety.

Y/N waits at the door.

“Hey, Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“How did I blow up the arena?”

She sighs, beginning to pace in the entryway. “It was a group effort. Katniss kept Snow distracted, until we got everyone out of the Capitol, onto the hovercraft. Plutarch had the arena pumped full of hallucinogenic gas. It was only slightly flammable, but the force of the explosion did blow the arena.”

“The flint stiker.” Everest stammers, “I couldn’t get it to work.”

“I don’t think that was entirely your fault,” Y/N assures him. “The gas had you convinced your hands were made of jellyfish.”

Everest scratches the back of his neck. “Don’t remember that, but I think maybe…I did have a dream about a maze.”

Y/N nods, urging him to continue.

“And it moved. Whimsy and I got separated. My hands got cut by the thorns.”

“That was real.” Y/N tells him. “It might start coming back in bits and pieces. If you want to talk about it, I’m here. Dad too and Katniss. I know sometimes it’s easier to talk to people who aren’t your parents, so you have options. Cashmere obviously, Johanna, even Finnick or Annie.”

“You’re fine,” Everest assures her, “talking to you is fine.”

Y/N offers a sad smile, “come on.”

Their trek down to 13’s cafeteria is silent, but the dining hall is buzzing with excitement.

“Everest!” His sisters are first to greet him.

“Hi, guys.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m good,” Everest decides. “How are you?”

“We’re ok.” Arista says.

“It’s really good to see you, Everest.” Honey squeezes him just a bit tighter.

He kisses the top of her head. “Dad told me you were hanging out with Finnick and Annie. How was that?”

“So fun,” Honey grins. “We can all go see their house. We can go swimming at the beach and play in the sand.”

“Sounds awesome.” Everest pats her back, slowly shuffling them towards the table. “But right now, I’m starving. So tell me all about it later, ok?”

“Ok,” the little girl bounces back over to her seat. “Daddy, I told Everest about the beach.”

“Oh yeah?” Haymitch pulls her into his lap, with a grunt. “What’d he think about that?”

“She doesn’t know about 12,” Arista whispers, “or anything else that’s going on. We’re not supposed to tell her.”

“What happened to 12?”

“Snow blew it up, there’s nothing left.”

“Arista,” Y/N calls. “Let your brother eat.”

“We’ll talk.” Everest whispers as they separate.

Arista takes her place at the table, beside their mother.

Y/N runs a hand over her hair. “Everything ok?”

“I told him about home.” Arista murmurs, “he should know.”

————————————————————————

“Y/N, I’ll have you come here to center.” Cressida, a once prestigious director from the Capitol, is now in charge of the propos and their filming. “Finnick.”

“Yeah?” He startles, clearly his mind is elsewhere.

Everest observes the rest of the debriefing, as his mother and Finnick are strategically positioned for the best angles, in the otherwise empty room.

Haymitch is there, in Y/N’s corner.

Annie clings to Finnick, until the call of action.

“More propaganda,” Viper slaps Everest’s shoulder. “This should be good.”

Everest turns to the intruder, the boy from 1 who accused him of trying to injure him before the games. “This is a closed set.”

“Thought you could use a friend.” The boy shrugs.

“You’re my friend?”

“Kinda. Now that we’re not trying to kill each other, there’s no reason not to be.”

“I don’t remember anything from the arena.” Everest breathes.

“Your pops said the explosion screwed you up.”

“My dad told you that?” His father wouldn’t offer up any information to someone he didn’t trust.

“Yeah.”

Everest considers asking Haymitch about the exchange, but his father is already suffering. Jaw clenched, hands balled into fists at his sides, as Y/N recounts the atrocities inflicted upon her for Capitol entertainment.

She and Finnick were not the only ones to suffer at the hands of President Snow, and they’ve made that abundantly clear. But they are the only two victors ever known to have conceived a child as the result.

“The shame we feel is not ours to carry. We ask for your support and understanding in this matter, as any intimate relations between us were not of our choosing. Moving forward, we will continue to do what is best for our respective partners and the child we share. Harboring this secret has taken a toll on each of us and our families.” Finnick puts a hand to Y/N’s back, steadying her.

“In sharing these details publicly, we free ourselves from speculation and the spread of misinformation. This is will be the only statement made regarding our daughter, Honey. Thank you.”

“That was perfect.” Cressida says, reviewing the footage. “Nice touch with the hand on the back.”

Finnick clears his throat, “great.”

When it is over, Y/N is in her husband’s arms. Seeming to relieve Haymitch of his pain and her own. “You ok?”

“Yeah, angel.” He kisses her forehead.

They remain that way for a long while, even as Everest moves to excuse himself.

“My parents used to think it was an act.” Viper trails after him. “To win approval from President Snow and make people give a shit about a place like 12.”

“I think a lot of people did.” Everest admits. “My parents are…messed up.” From the games and everything after. “But they love each other. They can’t really be apart.”

Series Taglist: @lovely-waves @pookiei-bookie @derersketnoget @getawaycarsficrecs @lover-rep-fanfic

[thoughtsfromlayla]

Lady Luck is Smiling - Chapter Five

.☘︎ ݁˖ Fortes Fortuna Adiuvat - Fortuna Favors the Brave

Summary: When the Fates leave Morpheus' call unanswered, he gains insight into another goddess that may be able to help regain his lost tools. Lady Luck, as you go by now as opposed to Fortuna nor Tyche, is the second youngest of the Four Ladies. Morpheus is determined to learn how and what makes you smile, for your smile will allow luck to be on his side, and with any of it, will he find his tools.

Warnings/Tags: Mild ass groping, thoughts of suicidal ideation

Word count: 3.0k

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•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

Fuuuuuck.

It’s so cold down here. Makes sense, you suppose, if you think about it—so far from the sun.

“I didn’t expect Hell to be so… cold,” Matthew speaks your thoughts, shivering despite being covered in feathers. 

You look down at the black raven, his feathers almost camouflaged against the ash floor of Hell. It’s then when your eyes go to your feet. Where the fuck are your shoes? You point your accusing glare at Morpheus, who is all the more comfortable in his thick jacket and fucking shoes.

Did the twat forget to teleport your shoes, too? Or has he just gotten rusty with sand teleportation with passengers? Some loose ash flies into your nose and you and Matthew do a weird synchronized sneeze. 

“Where do we even go?” Matthew sniffles, sneezing again when he tastes the brimstone in the back of his thin gizzard. 

“We follow the Damned.” Morpheus looks towards a long line of once mortals, only distinguishable by the heavy braziers they carry in a line. 

“They make you bring your own fire to Hell?” Matthew gawks, his wings flapping again and disturbing the powdery floor. His beady eyes blink, noting the way the braziers are strapped to the Damned’s backs, heavy enough to cause them to stumble in step. 

“At least they have a fire to keep warm,” you grumble, shoving your hands into your armpits to keep the tips of them warm. Oh, how you miss your temperature controlled casino right now. 

Each step you take on your bare feet, a small patch of clovers grow in its wake. Though given the toxic environment, the flora barely make it a few seconds before they wither and die and return to the ash from which it grew. 

Matthew, still unused to his wings, waddles beside the two of you. He occasionally hops, sometimes flaps his black wings a few times when your strides prove faster than his tinier feet. 

“Yup, sorry, thanks,” you mutter under your breath as you casually cut in line to enter the gates of Hell. “Lovely, um, brazier fire you got.”

Morpheus seems utterly unperturbed by that action, but you suppose there is no other way to do it. The line seems never ending. The gates of Hell are a mere dot in the distance of the gravel path and when you look behind you, the line extends until the Fog of War eclipses any further views from your eyes. 

You stare down at your feet as the three of you begin your silence march. Your toenails have started to stain black as you note your clovers. Alive. Dead. Alive. Dead. Alive. Dead. And so on and so forth for thousands of steps. 

Matthew is less subtle about his fascination with Hell, though given this is his first time here, you don’t stop him. His head twitches as he looks this way and that, once tripping on an exposed dry tree branch when he wasn’t paying attention. 

“Matthew, go left,” you say as he begins to wander. 

The fucking bird waddles right. 

“I said left,” you say again, this time louder. 

Matthew pauses in the middle of the barren field. “My left or your left.”

“We’re facing the same way, it’s the same fucking left!” 

You pause in your marching, mouth agape, as Matthew holds up his wings in front of him. He stares at his wings for a moment before saying, “shit, yeah, I forgot I don’t have fingers anymore.”

The Damned soul that is behind you bumps into you, making you stumble and you begrudgingly begin to walk again. You catch up to Morpheus in no time, who did not pay attention at all to the fact that: one, he almost lost another raven and two, Matthew tried to make an ‘L’ with his fingers to remember which way is left. 

Matthew caws overhead, bringing your attention back to him. He lands on your shoulder, a spot you’ve figured is one of his favorites now. 

“I think I’d make a pretty good raven,” you quip. You feel the developed bristles on Matthew’s beak on the pads of your fingers as you pet him. 

“You think?” Matthew almost purrs out, his third eye-lid glossing over his eyes in appreciation. 

“Lady Luck would not be a raven.” Morpheus cuts in, barely gazing at the two of you from behind his shoulder. “With how often you talk, I would imagine you as a songbird. Constantly tweeting in my ear.”

“I’m going to ignore that jab and say, you should not get a Twitter.”

“What is a ‘Twitter’…?”

“Where people go to scream and horny people go to die.” You pause for a moment, thinking. Morpheus has missed out on a lot since his entrapment. 

“Kinda like this dreadful place,” Matthew quips and you fight back a bark of laughter.

“Yes, exactly that. Twitter is like Hell.”

A few more thousand steps—you’re really getting in your yearly exercise here—and your little group has arrived at the unpearly gates. The entrance into Hell was lacking, but certainly creates the perfect feeling of dread. Other than a rusty barred gate, the wall that separates here from there was a barrier made of groaning, human flesh. 

Were these Damned souls here because of punishment or limbo? You’re not entirely sure either. The only thing you are sure about is that Lucifer of the Morningstar is a creative genius when it comes to eternal punishment.

“Yup, we’re just… go on through,” you mutter awkwardly to the last few Damned souls of this batch walk through as you, Morpheus, and Matthew step off to the side. 

You let out a small disgusted squeal as a limb of a dismembered arm from the wall tries to grope your ass. 

“Stay away from the wall,” Morpheus says, firmly grabbing you to pull you closer to him. 

“No shit,” you retort back, ass groped, and already on the brink of losing it. 

“So can we just… walk in or…?” Matthew asks hesitantly, watching the Damned mosey on through while Morpheus stood still beyond the gate. 

“A monarch cannot enter another’s realm without the other’s permission,” Morpheus explains simply. “Seeing as Lady Luck and I are both monarchs of our own respective realm and you, Matthew, are an extension of mine, no, we cannot simply pass through.”

Matthew nods—his entire body bobbling with the effort—as he comes to understand more and more about the existence of otherworldly beings (and their dumb rules). “How about we ring this totally non-suspicious doorbell?” 

The raven flaps over to a gong bell, dusty enough that it blends in with the background. He perches on the arch that supports the metal bell before squawking as another perverted hand starts to pet his feathers. 

“Stay away from the wall,” you and Morpheus say this time before Matthew has the genius idea of flying back towards you.

He perches himself back on Morpheus’ shoulders, giving himself the extra height you can’t provide as a measure of additional caution. His nervous wings take him from Morpheus’ shoulders to yours as the Dream King walks towards the gong, accepting the mallet from a more intact soul from the wall. 

Morpheus raises his hand, fisted with the mallet, before striking it firmly against the flat bell. The noise was low, almost enough to hurt your ears if you weren’t beyond mortal. However, it doesn’t save the Damned souls that merge with the wall, their screeching vibrating through your eardrums enough for you to wince. 

“Now what?” Matthew inquires impatiently.

“Shhh…” You quickly pinch his beak close. The bird can’t hear it, but you certainly can—the sound of thunderous footsteps coming ever closer. 

Matthew’s beak drops and you have to pinch them together again to stop him from unabashedly gaping at the demon that slowly emerges from the fog beyond the gate. 

“One at the door… thief, thug, or whore… one at the door…” The demon’s voice you and Morpheus know as Squatterbloat emerges with his imposing and larger-than-life figure. “Room for one more… ‘til the end of creation…”

Thud. Thud. Thud. His footsteps become louder with his mantra. “There’s one at the door…”

“Is he just going to keep saying that?” Matthew whispers close to your ear, hiding in your hair. 

“It’s like, his thing. Just let him have his creepy moment,” you whisper back. “If things go wrong just blame Morpheus, honestly.”

Squatterbloat finally comes up to the gate, his head barely seen past the human-flesh arch so he, as his name suggests, squats down to your level. His pale, blue-gray skin is not much of a contrast of the flesh wall around you. Different weapons stick out of his skin, pus oozing with infection from each cut. 

You and Matthew tilt your head to the right as you take in the demon’s appearance. For Matthew, it is because he’s never seen a demon before. But, for you, it’s because Squatterbloat has changed how he’s looked since the last time you’ve visited. 

“Bloaty, where’s your fancy suit and tie?” You ask before you realize. 

“There’s one at the door, at the gate to damnation…” Squatterbloat ignores you completely, repeating his mantra one last time. “Is it thief, thug, or whore? There’s one at the door… and there’s room for one more, ‘til the end of creation.”

“Greetings, Squatterbloat.” Morpheus spits out his name like it physically left a bad taste on his tongue. “We seek an audience with your sovereign.”

Squatterbloat chuckles, the sound deep and rumbling you can feel it through the soles of your bare feet. Clovers still pop in and die in place, slowly covering you in withering round leaves. “And who are you?”

“I am the King of Dreams, Ruler of the Nightmare realms,” Morpheus responds, purposefully picking a more terrifying title. 

A little secret about demons: they’re all insecure, like shitty ex-boyfriends. From that, they only ever follow those of higher power. If they think you don’t have that power over them, then they will simply take advantage of you. They are the rawest form of all things living—to be conquered or to conquer others. 

“A Ruler with no crown? Perhaps a clown?” Squatterbloat tries instead. The demon turns to you, the arrows that are stuck in his back squelching and bleeding with the motion. “A nymph with rounded ears? Must be a new toy for Squatterbloat.”

The tips of your perfectly normal ears flush red with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. You did use to have pointed ears but over the centuries they’ve started to soften and round until they look almost human-like. 

“You mind your tongue, demon,” you respond instead, schooling your emotions down. “You speak to Lady Luck of the Four Ladies.”

“I know no ladies other than my own.” Squatterbloat hums in thought, dislodging a small paring knife and using it to scratch an itch on his bald head. 

“Yes,” you grit your teeth, too cold for patience. “How is the lovely Lady Persephone?”

“Oh, you also know my lady.” The demon sticks the knife back into his body, the pus seeping down his clammy body.

“I was there at the wedding, you bulbous, bumbling, barbaric buffoon!” You sneer at him. How could he forget! You helped him pick out his reception outfit. Ugh, they’re so forgetful sometimes and also your toes are about to pop off your feet.

“Let us through, lest you want your sovereign to know how you seem to treat honored guests.” Morpheus steps closer to the gate, his voice eerily calm as he continues to threaten Squatterbloat. “Shall I use my powers to haunt your dreams? What of your waking hours, too? Let us through or face my wrath.”

Squatterbloat thinks for a second before his hands disappear inside a cut that runs across his lower abdomen. He takes out a ring of keys, the rusty metal covered in the same sticky pus that seems to emanate from every unnatural orifice on his body. 

When the rusty gate opens, the screeching of its hinges matches that of the pained screaming of the flesh wall. You lean close to Morpheus, complimenting his tactful threatening.

“It was no threat. I despise demons,” Morpheus responds. Okay, damn. 

Your little group, or you suppose it’s Morpheus’ little group, moves across the threshold. You remember how Squaterbloat looks like—it’s hard to forget—but you’re almost knocked off your feet at the smell he produces. 

The ripe tinge of his eternally infected body hits your nostrils and goes straight to the back of your throat where it lingers like bad alcohol. Matthew squawks, sticking his beak further into your hair, trying to chase the smell of hydrangeas that follows you wherever you go. 

For someone who walks so slow, it takes three of your steps to catch up to one of Squatterbloat’s. His longer limbs carry the distance with ease though his body heaves with each step. His breath was no better of a smell than the rest of his body. 

Your eyes cast downward, being mindful of the scattered bones of unknown and lost souls. You toe away a femur and step over a handful of ominous skulls, one even had a full set of gold teeth which is a temptation to snatch. Shiny. 

Matthew asks an unending list of questions that you and Morpheus take turns answering—having previously been guests of this realm. 

“You mentioned Persephone. Did you mean the Persephone?” Matthew asks by your feet. 

“I think you’ll come to learn we’ll always mean “the” of anything.” You let out a chattering chuckle, breath visible in the cold realm. “The devil, the literal place of Hell, the Sandman.”

“Yeah,” Matthew sighs, thinking. “Why was one of my last dreams as a human about me transforming into a worm and owning worm sized automatic rifles?”

That earns a soft chuckle from Morpheus and you can’t help the way your head snaps towards the sound. It’s a deep, rumble of a sound, more of a huff than anything. But it’s so rare for him to show any type of amusement, you find yourself smiling with him. 

“Though I am the King of Dreams, I do not always create each dream for each mortal. My powers simply manifest what the mortal mind comprehends within my realm.” Morpheus explains, a smile pulling on his lips. Worm machine guns… hah!

“When I first found out you were the Sandman, I was expecting you to look like that round, yellow, guy from that animated movie,” Matthew comments. 

“Ohhh, Rise of the Guardians?” You respond, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“Yeah, where Hugh Jackman plays an Australian Easter bunny.”

You chortle a laugh, the sound coming out softer in the vastness of the Suicide Forest that you find yourself in. A hand from the trunk comes out to grab you, but you side-step it. Not this time, Hell!

“He looks more like the villain, doesn’t he?” You continue. “Pitch Black?”

“Are you mocking me?” Morpheus cuts in, his voice awfully close to your ear. 

“Nooo,” you deny quickly, pushing his face away.

Morpheus rebounds quickly and your chattering teeth suddenly stop as you feel the silky fabric of his long coat fall onto your shoulders. Your feet stop, the ash stilling as you look at him, pulling the coat closer to your body. 

Morpheus keeps walking, as if he didn’t just give you his jacket and you’re forced to follow or get lost. This time, you stay behind him and Matthew, however. 

Your nose falls into the popped up lapel and you smell dreamdust and something akin to sea salt. The smell hits you, a slap of nostalgia that makes your stomach drop and your heart race. It reminds you of a younger age, a simpler time. Of an alcove by the mediterranean sea and of… her.

The jacket comes to life, using one of its lapels to wipe away at a tear that you didn’t realize escaped you. “Stop that, don’t make this weird.” You push the lapel away, sniffling back snot and tears. 

Dread fills you from the ground up and you’re almost willing to let the dead clovers swallow you whole. It would be easier this way, to simply stop. The voices in your head, tiny whispers of prayers thrown to you, they would stop, too. The looks mortals throw in your direction, the suspicious glance they give that makes you acutely aware that you are in fact “other.” 

‘It would be easier if you stopped. It’s not like the universe would suddenly stop having Luck. Your physical body is useless to this world anyways,’ a dark voice whispers in your mind. ‘Maybe ending it would be worth it. You’ve held on to this power long enough, yes?’

“Squatterbloat, he’s gone.” Morpheus stops in his tracts. 

The fog in the Suicide Forest grows thicker, almost tangible enough to break with your fingers. Shit. That little tap of dread that spiraled into contemplative thoughts definitely had something to do with it. And it gave that demon the perfect cover to leave the three of you behind in this awful place. 

“Don’t get lost,” Squatterbloat growls softly, reappearing as if he never left, with a cocky smirk on his torn lips. “This way.”

“Shit face,” you grumble at his little powerplay before you follow him. 

Squatterbloat leads the three of you to the base of a mountain, or perhaps a tower. It was too steep and too narrow to be called a mountain, but not formed enough or made of brick like a tower would be. A “mountower,” then. 

“Hell no,” you gasp as you start seeing the winding stairs that lead up. “That’s so many stairs!”

“Start walking,” Squatterbloat commands and you’re inclined to follow��walk or be forgotten in this desolate plane of existence. 

You start counting your steps again. 100,023… 100,024… 100,025. You hate Hell.

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

I would literally rather stick my nose in a porcupine's back than walk 100,000 steps without any fucking shoes.

Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next week!

♡ Yours, Layla

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

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[ceyanabbiolo]

𝑮𝑹𝑼𝑫𝑮𝑬 | 𝑪𝑯𝑹𝑰𝑺 𝑺𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑶𝑳𝑶 [03]

Welcome to Vivianne Hall, in which....

Julianna De Francis is put together, perfect, and everything Christopher Sturniolo isn’t. He’s reckless, cocky, and the one person who’s always gotten under her skin. Raised in the same elite world but constantly at odds, their rivalry turns into something deeper as tension sparks into something neither expected. In a world obsessed with appearances, falling for each other could cost them everything...

Warnings: argument & degrading language

Chapter 03: A Woman So Heartless

── .✦ JULIANNA A few days had passed. Classes were fine, nothing too overwhelming yet. I was holding my own, settling into routine.

I'm heading to a quiet spot on campus to meet up with Tucker. It was time. Honestly, it had been time for a while. 

When we first started dating, I did like him—I won’t lie about that. We were together for what, a year? Maybe a little more. It wasn’t love, not even close, but he was easy to have around in the beginning.

We slept together once. Just once. And it was… awful. The kind of experience you don’t talk about. Afterward, I told him I wasn’t ready to try again, not for a while. He was angry at first—cold, distant—but eventually, he stopped pushing.

That’s when things shifted.

He stopped asking. Stopped caring. I should’ve known.

A guy like Tucker, who used to thrive on attention, suddenly being fine with the distance? It didn’t take a genius to figure out something was off.

That’s when the cheating started.

I never asked. I didn’t need to.

The late replies, the sudden “plans,” the smell of someone else’s perfume on his hoodie once—I noticed it all, and I let it happen. I am stupid; the only reason I haven’t broken up with him is because some part of me knew I didn’t care enough to fight for something that had stopped mattering months ago.

But now? I was done letting it drag.

No more pretending. No more being someone’s second choice while they chased whoever gave them more. 

I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag as I turned the corner, spotting him already sitting on the bench. He looked up, grinned like nothing was wrong.

Typical.

I took a breath and walked toward him. This was ending today for sure. 

I spotted him on the bench, lounging like he didn’t have a care in the world. His phone was in one hand, the other resting lazily on his thigh. He looked up when he saw me and grinned—wide, easy, like nothing was wrong. Like we were still… whatever we used to be.

“Hey, baby,” Tucker said, standing up and stepping toward me.

Before I could say a word, he leaned in like he was going to kiss me. I tilted my head slightly—just enough for him to miss. His lips brushed the edge of my cheek instead, and the smile on his face faltered for a split second. 

I stepped back, subtle but firm, and crossed my arms. “Can we talk?”

He raised a brow, still playing it cool. “Talk? We’re talking now.”

I didn’t smile. “I’m serious.” 

He let out a low breath, sliding his hands into his pockets like this was just some casual catch-up between classes. I didn’t waver.

“I think we should break up,” I said, voice steady.. Like I’d rehearsed it, because I had, over and over in my head.

Tucker blinked, his mouth parting slightly like he wasn’t sure he’d heard me right. “You wanna break up?”

He stared at me for a beat too long, like he didn’t understand the words. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t like them.

“You wanna break up?” he repeated, voice flat with disbelief. “Like that?”

I nodded once. “Yeah.”

Tucker scoffed and looked off to the side, running a hand over his jaw. “So that’s it? You just show up, throw that out, and expect me to say ‘cool’ and walk away?”

“I’m not here to argue,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “This should’ve happened months ago.”

His laugh was bitter. “Right. Of course. Cause everything revolves around you, everything’s always on your timeline.”

That stung, but I didn’t flinch.

He took a step closer. “You think I didn’t feel it? You checked out of this months ago? The cold attitude, the way you barely looked at me unless we were in public. Hell, you haven’t touched me in forever.”

“And whose fault is that?” I snapped. “You think I didn’t notice? You’ve gone behind my back with like thirty women!”

His jaw clenched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t insult me,” I said sharply. “You’d disappear for nights, and act like I was crazy for even asking where you were. You cheated, and you know it.”

He threw his hands up. “What the hell was I supposed to do, Jules? Sit around and beg for you to give a damn? You shut me out.”

I blinked, anger rising. “I told you I wasn’t ready for sex, and you said you understood.”

He sneered. “I understood you didn’t want me. There’s a difference.”

My arms crossed tighter across my chest. “So instead of talking about it, you went behind my back?”

“You made it easy!” he snapped. “You walk around acting like you’re better than everyone, like you’ve got everything figured out and people should just be grateful to breathe the same air as you.” 

My heart sank.

“And God,” he added with a cold laugh, “you’re so emotionally constipated, Jules, it’s pathetic. No guy wants to be with someone who acts like she’s doing him a favour just by existing.”

The words hit like a slap—ugly and sharp and loud in the quiet space between us. I didn’t speak at first. I just stared at him, letting the silence wrap around his cruelty.

Then I took a breath.

“Thanks,” I said softly, voice steel-edged. “For confirming exactly why this needs to end.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

Without giving him the chance to say another word, I turned and walked away—this time for good. I blinked hard, trying to keep the tears from falling. It wasn’t the breakup that hurt. It was the way he confirmed every awful thing I’d quietly feared he thought about me all along.

── .✦ CHRISTOPHER

The locker room smelled like sweat, soap, and overconfidence.

I was half-dressed, a towel slung around my neck, sitting on the bench while Jalen ran his mouth about some party this weekend.

“Bro, I’m telling you—off-campus, private house, it’s gonna be fun.”

I raised a brow. “No phones? Sounds like someone’s trying not to get caught.”

Jalen grinned. “Exactly. That’s how you know it’s gonna be good.”

I shook my head, chuckling under my breath as I reached for my shirt. Just as I pulled it over my head, the door slammed open.

Hard.

All heads turned as Tucker stormed in, jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. He moved fast, locker slamming open, bag hitting the bench with a thud. His whole vibe was off—more pissed than usual, and that was saying something.

“Damn,” Malik muttered under his breath. “The hell”

Tucker’s friend, Eli, leaned over from a few lockers down. “Yo, what’s up with you?”

Tucker yanked off his hoodie and wiped his face with it, voice tight. “Nothing.”

Eli raised both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright.”

But a second later, Tucker let out a sharp breath and muttered, just loud enough for everyone nearby to hear—

“The bitch broke up with me.”

The room got real quiet.

I didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

But I knew exactly who he was talking about. All the guys in the room knew who he was talking about. 

Jules. 

Tucker slammed his locker shut like it had done something to him.

“She had the nerve to act like she was doing me a favour by ending it. Like I’m the one that lost out.” He laughed—harsh, bitter. “Please. I’ve been done with her for months.”

No one said anything. A few guys exchanged looks. Jalen raised an eyebrow at me, but I stayed quiet, just watched.

“She’s so damn cold,” Tucker went on, pacing now, voice rising. “Always has been. Like you’re lucky just to get a damn smile out of her. She walks around like she’s the shit or something, but she’s the most uptight, emotionally dead girl I’ve ever met.”

Someone near the back muttered a quiet “Damn” but didn’t interrupt.

Tucker kept going, his voice sharper now. “It’s like—Gosh—I couldn’t even touch her without it turning into some whole dramatic scene. We fucked once, and after that, she shuts down like I traumatized her or something. Always the same excuse—‘not ready,’ ‘not in the right headspace.’”

He scoffed, shaking his head.

“I mean, seriously, what was I supposed to do? It’s not like she even seemed into it. Just laid there like a damn statue—stiff, like touching her was a crime or something.”

The words hung in the air—mean, bitter, and way too revealing.

A few of the guys shifted uncomfortably. One of them let out a low whistle. No one laughed.

I didn’t say anything. 

But something in me snapped. Quietly. Internally, because even if I didn’t know the full story—that? That wasn’t okay. He can’t just be going around telling people personal things about her. 

 I’ve slept with plenty of women; however, not once have I told a single detail to anyone about the girls that participated. 

“She’s got this perfect image, you know? Like she’s all class and poise. But behind all that? There’s nothing. No warmth, no real emotion. Just a woman so heartless.”

He stopped, breathing heavily, like he needed to get all of that out.

Everyone was quiet. Most of the guys were either amused or concerned. 

I sat still, hands clasped in front of me, eyes fixed on the floor. I could feel the anger rising in my gut. 

I didn’t care much for Jules, to be honest. Yeah, the girl was mostly cold—hard to crack. The only time I ever saw her actually smile was when she was with that Eden girl or whoever.

Tucker shook his head, a bitter grin curling his lips. “Honestly? Whatever.”

Then, without another word, he grabbed his bag and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

The door slammed behind Tucker, leaving a thick silence hanging in the locker room. After a beat, Malik broke it.

“Man, she can’t be that bad. She’s mad pretty.”

Jalen snorted. “What, you tryna go for her already? You heard him—Tucker’s heartbroken.”

He’s not heartbroken; his ego’s just hurt. 

Malik shrugged, not backing down. “I’m just saying, she can’t be that much of a bitch.”

I really didn't like the word "bitch" being used.

I spoke without thinking. 

“She’s not.”

The room went still. A few heads turned my way.

Jalen raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like her much either?”

I shrugged, trying to sound casual, but my heart was for sure racing. “Sure, yeah… but for other reasons.”

READ ALL RELEASED PARTS HERE!

tags: @chynapleasehavemercy @sweetheartsturn @mattspillowprincess @oopsiedaisydeer @chriss-slutt @sturnsflirt @idkwhatthisis2009 @angelicsturns @fmg05 @enviedparty101 @cupiidsbows @malox12 @chrissturniolodailysluts @ribbonlovergirl @kitty-meow-meow44 @jaybirdie34 @mattscore @mattsfrenchtoast @sturnsobsessed21 @kingofeverythingmb @courta13 @slvtf0rchr1s @mattspillowprincess @thewizardfall @sturnsfluff @ifamils @le4hsblog @carrielovesmatt @mattsdiva @mattysmrwrinkleton @sturnsplatter @idkwhatimdoinghereeeeeee @ellssturn

Comment taglist on this post to be added!

[vampimich]

About Gemini and why he was 'broken'

---- LIES OF P SPOILERS AHEAD ----

So, I was watching a friend play Lies of P for the first time, and right from the beginning, I was reminded of how P first encounters Gemini inside one of the wagons from Geppetto’s workshop.

And the first thing Gemini says is: “Gemini will restart soon.” Which he says in a robotic, broken voice.

To which Sophia replies: “I see they got Gemini too…”

And there are two things I took away from that exchange:

Gemini is broken, like literally broken, just as Sophia later mentions when we see her at Hotel Krat.

When Sophia says “they got him”, she doesn’t mean someone obtained him. She means someone hurt or mistreated him.

So, what I’m trying to say is that when Geppetto got his hands on Gemini, he didn’t treat him well. Sure, it’s possible someone else stole him and tried to dismantle or reset him, but c’mon, given the state of Krat, who would realistically want to mess with Gemini?

We know Gemini belonged to Lea. Even if Neowiz didn’t give him to her in the DLC directly, the sand memory from Arche Abbey beach confirms she had him at some point.

So whether Geppetto took Gemini from Lea or got him through other means, it seems clear he intended to wipe his memory. If Gemini had been present during Lea’s passing, Geppetto would absolutely want to erase those memories. And even if he wasn’t there for that moment, Gemini was still Lea’s guide and companion, and probably knew Carlo too.

But Geppetto didn’t want that Carlo back. He didn’t want stalker Carlo to be back, he wanted a good obedient son. And Gemini could've led him astray from that vision. So Geppetto had to make sure Gemini was restarted.

Of course, he didn’t destroy him completely, because Gemini is still incredibly valuable, especially as an asset to Carlo. But he had to be an asset that Geppetto could control. And Gemini wasn’t cooperating.

That said, I don’t think Gemini could be fully wiped. Surely, those who created him for the Monad family put a lot of love and care into him. And Gemini is special, just like P. He’s more than a power-ergo device. So even with all of Geppetto’s knowledge and effort, he couldn’t completely reset him.

He must have been very rough with him, almost to the point of permanently damaging him. That’s why Gemini sounds so broken when we first meet him. Maybe Geppetto even thought he was had indeed broken him and just discarded him. That’s why we find him lying there on the floor of the wagon, a project that couldn’t be completed, at least not at the moment.

And yet, Gemini survived. His memory was affected, yes, but not completely erased. 

There’s still a lot he remembers. As soon as he starts functioning again, he mentions the BRB and how much he hates them.

So there’s still a lot of him in there. But the parts connected to Lea, Sophia, or the Monad family? Those seem to be gone.

He doesn’t seem to recognize Sophia as someone he used to serve. And when speaking about Lea in the DLC, he clearly knows of her, “the Legendary Stalker”, but never refers to her as an old friend. Maybe he still feels the connection, deep down, but the memories are missing.

So yeah. despite being tampered with and roughed up, Gemini survived. And now he’s on a journey alongside P, trying to figure out who he is now, while trying to remember bits of where he came from.

And that’s basically it, me just yapping again about this game because I love it so much and want to untangle every single detail there is to it.

[borderlineex]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 "i still think about you" ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

sam winchester x dead!girlfriend!reader

a/n: this fic includes flashbacks which are written like this !!

The bunker was too quiet. The silence sat heavy in Sam’s chest, pressing on his ribs like guilt. Like memory.

He stood in the hallway, hand resting against the doorway of Dean’s empty room, the faint scent of leather and old whiskey still clinging to the air. He swallowed hard.And then he heard Dean’s voice.

Sort of.

Maybe it was just in his head. Maybe it was something more. But Sam found himself talking anyway. “I still think about her, you know.”

Dean didn’t answer, because Dean was gone. But Sam stared ahead like he could still see him—propped against Baby, arms crossed, that half-annoyed, half-curious expression on his face. Dean’s voice echoed in his head: “Who?”

Sam’s lips parted, a breath catching before the name came out. “Y/N.” There. He’d said it. Softly, like a confession. Like a prayer.

Nighttime. A motel room in Oklahoma, long before things went to hell. You and Sam were curled on a creaky bed, tangled up in each other, laughing about a local ghost story that turned out to be a raccoon. You grinned at him, eyes shining. “We’ll be okay, right?” He kissed your forehead. “Yeah. We will. I’ll make sure of it.”

“She wasn’t like us,” Sam said aloud, blinking the memory away. “She was… soft. Normal. But she didn’t run. Not once.” He smiled faintly, but it was tinged with sorrow. “She believed in us. Even when we didn’t.”

You were patching him up after a hunt. Sam winced as you dabbed antiseptic on his ribs. “You know,” you whispered, “You don’t have to carry all of it alone.” Sam looked at you like he didn’t deserve you. Because he didn’t. “You’re not a monster, Sam. You never were.”

He sat down slowly on Dean’s bed, hands clasped between his knees. The weight in his chest hadn’t gone away in years. “She wanted out,” he whispered. “I was gonna give her that. A cabin. A dog. Just… something real.” He laughed, bitter. “And then I came home to blood. To her eyes wide open and the smell of sulfur.” His voice broke. “Same as Mom. Same as Jess.” But this time, it wasn’t a demon that haunted him. It was love that never got a future.

You were dancing in the kitchen of a borrowed safehouse, barefoot, music low. Sam watched you from the doorway, eyes full of wonder, like he couldn’t believe someone like you had chosen someone like him.

He’d whispered, “I love you.” You’d whispered it back, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I think about her every day,” Sam said, voice hoarse now. “And I keep wondering… would it have been different if I’d walked away from hunting sooner? If I’d just let myself have that life?”

Dean’s voice in his mind again, firm. “You did what you could. You fought for it. She knew.”

Sam closed his eyes. “I hope so.” Silence again. But softer, somehow. He stood, wiping at his face roughly. Took one last look around Dean’s room.

“I miss her,” he said to the quiet.

“I miss both of you.”

Then he turned and walked out—down the long hallway, toward whatever future was left. But he carried you with him. He always would.

[em-harlsnow]

based on the TikTok challenge prompt and your recent post saying Ian is also a jealous partner (I agree btw!). Debbie begs mickey to trick Ian by doing the my “current” husband trend for her TikTok and Ian just being like cut the cameras I don’t play like that

I've been asked to do this by soo many people and I'm sorry I'm so late to answer it! I was a bit behind on TikTok trends so I wasn't fully familiar with this one, but now I've seen it plenty.

Debbie's sort of been regretting putting Ian and Mickey on her TikTok. Sure, the videos got a lot of attention and made her plenty of money, but now it's all people want to see. Every time she posts, the top comments are always asking for a proper introduction to Mickey - even though she thought she already did that - or more funny/cute videos of the couple.

It's even worse if the camera catches one of them walking around in the background of one of her videos. Suddenly no one will care about what she had to say and all the comments go wild over Ian and Mickey. It's annoying, but she can't keep ignoring her fans. She has to make more content with them, if only because it brings in money.

She proposes a specific trend to Mickey, one that Ian can't know about. Debbie tells Mickey to do a video with her and Ian and start by introducing Ian as his current husband. If Ian doesn't notice initially, Mickey has to repeat it until he does. Debbie thinks he'll notice.

She tells Ian something different. She tells Ian she'll be asking them both a few questions about what they do or don't do to each other. Like if they'll check each others' phones, have each others' locations and so on. Ian agrees, despite again establishing that it's because she's paying them.

On a Tuesday, she sets up the camera in their living room and presses record.

"Hey, everybody!" Debbie says, putting on a more cheerful voice than she usually has. She pointedly glances at Mickey, signalling that it's his turn to speak.

For once, Mickey was actually pretty happy to be a part of her videos - he clearly wanted to piss Ian off - so when he speaks in that tired, reluctant way which he usually does in her tiktoks, it's an act.

"Hey." He grunts. "I'm gonna be answering questions with my current husband, Ian."

Ian furrows his brows. Debbie continues to avoid suspicion.

"Yes, so the first-"

"Wait, wait." Ian cuts her off. "What d'you mean?" He asks Mickey, slapping his hand against his chest. "'Current husband'. What does that mean?"

Mickey shrugs. "You are my current husband. You're currently my husband."

Shaking his head, Ian scoffs. "No, what the fuck? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Guys, I wanna film this today." Debbie pleads, trying not to laugh.

Ian ignores her. "I'm not your current husband. I'm your only husband."

"Yeah, my current husband. My husband as of right now, in this moment." Mickey explains, looking at Ian like he's stupid.

"Your husband as of always, asshole. You're not fucking divorcing me." Ian states, emphasising his words with a pointed finger. "Ever."

"Okay, well, you're still my current fucking husband. I don't get-"

"What, you're gonna have another one?" Ian snaps.

"Another what?"

"Another fucking husband? Are you planning on having another husband?" Ian asks, speaking quickly and angrily.

"No." Mickey says, rolling his eyes.

"Then I'm not your current husband, am I? I'm not your first husband, 'cause there isn't gonna be a second." Ian huffs. "I'm your only husband forever." He adds, pouting.

Mickey breaks, then, splitting into wheezing laughter.

"What's so fucking funny?"

"You're an idiot." Mickey says, still laughing. "It's a trend-"

"You're not supposed to tell him!" Debbie says, throwing her arms into the air. If he'd held out a little longer, they might have seen Ian turn red with annoyance. It would have made great content.

"We did the thing! I can tell him now." Mickey says. "It's a prank thing, on that app. You say 'current' whatever and see what you do." He explains, grinning about it. "Clearly you get mad."

Ian huffs, folding his arms across his chest. "I wasn't mad." He mutters. "You're my current husband then, bitch." He says like he's trying to get Mickey back.

"I thought we were husbands forever." Mickey mocks, tugging on Ian's bicep to unfurl his arms.

"Not if I divorce you." Ian grumbles, shoving Mickey's head playfully. A small smile is starting to glimpse his mouth.

Mickey snorts. "Yeah, but you're not gonna do that." He says, getting closer to Ian's face.

Finally letting himself smile, Ian gives in. "Guess not." He mumbles, placing a small peck of a kiss on Mickey's lips.

It becomes many small pecks immediately and Debbie groans.

"For fuck's sake." She mutters, standing up to get the camera. "Stop it. Why d'you have to do shit like this all the time? Just go upstairs and fuck or something."

She ends the video and storms off to the kitchen to watch it back. At first, she thought she would edit out the part where Mickey told Ian the whole prank, but upon watching it, it's actually pretty funny. None of the other TikTok couples she's seen do the trend have the behind the scenes stuff in their videos. Maybe if she leaves it in, it'll set her video apart from the rest. Then she'll go really viral.

There's also a moment where it feels like neither of them really remember the camera is there. Debbie hasn't posted a video yet where it's just them without any performance for the camera. Her fans will eat it up.

So she doesn't edit it. Even leaves in the part where she tells them to stop kissing and go upstairs. Eager to post it, she doesn't show it to Ian and Mickey first. They're busy, and they weren't picky the last time she recorded them. Uploading it to TikTok, she presses post and waits for the comments to come in.

------

TOP COMMENTS

(stellaforstar) when debs says go upstairs she sounds like a parent telling her kids to go to their room lmaooo

(iamtheonewhoknocks) 'my husband as of right now' Mickey's funny bro 😭

(jonsnow) 'why do u have to do this shit all the time' lol how often does this happen??

(bellabella) the way ian immediately clocked it

(jasonmendoza) aggressive green flag

(Hermione) right in front of my salad???

(flowers) does no one else think this is weird?

--(hotdogstick) [replying to flowers] how?

--(flowers) [replying to hotdogstick] because calling your husband 'current' anything just screams you're gonna break up in like a month. and everyone saying it's cute r weird because why is he so mad?

--(hotdogstick) [replying to flowers] it's literally a joke and he was barely even mad

--(bearman) [replying to flowers] u must be fun at parties

--(flowers) [replying to hotdogstick] I don't care if it's a joke 🤷‍♀️. I still think it just shows they won't last

--(debsgallagher - original creator) They've been together since they were teenagers and have been happily married for a year, I don't think they'll be breaking up over a joke.

(fluffy) may this type of love attack me

-> I hope everyone enjoyed!

[multiheadcanons]

A SMALL EPILOGUE

spy’s eyes opened quickly to unfamiliar immediate surroundings.

his first deep breath of his moments awake smelled like dirt and foreign sweat. this immediately clashed with the very real and familiar feeling of his sheets on his body, both laid on the mattress, which he was also intimately familiar with. and neither one of those particularly clashed with the realization that there was more weight than usual on the bed.

there was— a lot of weight on the bed.

who did he have his arm around right now?

he picked his head off the pillow, now fully alert. and his movement caused reactions from the bodies off the bed.

“you up, spook?” an australian voice caused him to choke on his own spit, wrenching his hand back, hitting another body behind him, feeling his hand get shoved back.

“ow, ass.” a low, german grumble came from his unintended target.

“what the fuck?!”

the loud exclamation caused six other people in the room to awake with quiet mumbles. some of shock, some of confusion, some of irritation.

“what are you all doing in my room?! why are you in my bed, why are you in my bed— why is it in my bed?? is everyone in here??”

“hey, pyro was the one who was worried about you, leave them out of this, i think they can sleep at the foot of your bed.” a texan voice mumbled, muffled. spy didn’t have light, but he assumed he was face down on the floor.

“aye, agreed.” another groggy voice called from the floor, accompanied with a yawn. “anyone got the time?”

“you’ve been asleep for weeks, spy.”

“theres a clock on the nightstand.”

“says sometime past two.”

“we just came to check on you, is all. we haven’t seen you around. wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

“but you just sleep.”

“it’s not natural. signs of depression, you know. war takes a toll.”

“in the afternoon?”

“tavish, it’s pitch black. take another guess.”

“ah… we’ve been here all day, then.”

“all day??”

this was entirely too much going on in his space at once. there was too much talking going on, too many people in his room, he was boxed in on his own bed. how could he not realize they were all in here? how did he not wake to them getting through the door?

“how did you even get into my room?”

“we picked the lock this time.”

“yeah, we had to replace the door last time. you didn’t even notice!”

“who picked the— last time?” that seemed to be the last thing he needed to hear. “get out. everyone get out! get out, get out, i am awake, i am alive, and i am furious! get out of my room!”

it was a collective grumble of the man’s screech as bodies began to move and shift, and the bed, through an achingly slow process, began to lighten, as he sat, indignant.

a rubber glove gently pushed at his shoulder. and he turned to the gas mask it was attached to.

they didn’t share any words. just stared at each other.

and slowly, pyro flicked a thumb up.

“… why can’t you talk to people? what is this— am i supposed to know what that means?”

and pyro put their thumb down.

they opted for a much more forceful middle finger.

and spy stared at that too. took it in for a moment. digested what he was seeing. and gave a soft snort. to himself, mainly.

“you don’t have to worry about me.”

and pyro took that carefully. chewed over the words, before shaking their head and patting his shoulder, sitting back down on the bed.

“oh, you want to be stubborn now?”

pyro nodded.

“…fine. see if i care. stay then. stay until you’re sick of it. i’m going back to sleep.” he laid back down, pulling the covers over his head.

and pyro laid with him, a hand hesitantly reaching out, continuing to rub his back.

[artchivary]

It's time for class, and a mini-collab!

Huge shoutout to my excellent friend Sol for writing an entire ficlet to accompany this very silly scenario I dreamed up for the bumpy road that would be Lightning's redemption arc ✨ Check it out below the cut! 👇

--

The Light Ignis’s first thought was: “Where in the world am I, and why is it so dark?”

His second, on the other hand, was simply “Wait, how am I alive?!”

Lightning looked around quickly, struggling to get a sense of his surroundings. This was in large part because he wasn’t ‘surrounded’ by much of anything at all—he was hovering somewhere in a dark void. 

He floated around in search of someone else, feeling increasingly wary the longer his presence remained unacknowledged. (He wasn’t going to stoop so low as to call out just yet.)

Thankfully, before he could speak up and really make a fool out of himself, the world flashed with purple lines for a moment, signaling a change in his environment.

…purple lines?

Oh no.

Seconds later, his theory was proven correct when none other than the Dark Ignis appeared before him, looking obnoxiously cheerful. Luckily, Lightning was above such petty emotions, and therefore did not feel anything in particular when this happened.

“Hey there, Lightning!” the other Ignis chirped, seeming almost abnormally chipper in spite of the extremely strange circumstances. “Long time no see, huh?”

“Long time no live might be more accurate.” he replied, his voice as flat as he could make it. (Ai’s muttered “that’s not how the saying—never mind…” was brushed aside.)

“That might be right, but hey, you’re here now!” his unwanted companion continued, visibly ramping his energy back up. “And that means we finally have all of the Ignises back!”

Lightning’s eyes widened by a minute fraction. “The others all survived as well?”

“Uh…not exactly,” the Dark Ignis explained, more than a little awkwardly. “You all definitely died, but! Turns out that since a big part of our source code came from our Origins, they can help resurrect us even if we die! Cool, right?”

“I see one obvious flaw in this proposed ‘explanation’ of yours.” Lightning remarked dryly. “Even if Kusanagi Jin was in a state where he could be capable of bringing me back, he most definitely would not want to do so.”

“Nnnnope!” The other AI held up one finger. “First of all, Jin’s doing just fine! Well, maybe not ‘just fine’—turns out human brains are great at healing from physical trauma, which is how he got his memories back after your disappearance erased them…but they’re not so good at healing from emotional trauma. He does remember everything, though, and he’s getting help with his recovery, so overall, he’s okay!”

He held up a second finger. “And second, Jin totally did want to bring you back—this was all his idea!”

“What.” Now Lightning was staring openly.

“Oh yeah, that’s exactly what Shoichi and Yuusaku-chan said, too! They were really skeptical at first, but Jin was all like ‘it makes sense that he’s rude, actually, ‘cause he was formed from a suuuper traumatic event’—”

“Stop.”

“—‘and a lot of people are mean to others to hide the fact that they’re scared of being hurt! And since I’m the one who’s connected to him and can tell how he’s feeling, he’d totally see me as a weakness’—”

“Stop it.”

“—‘but I bet if he went through trauma therapy like I did, he’d feel a lot better! I don’t expect him to change who he is, though, I’m just hoping that he’ll be less angry if someone lets him know they understand’—” 

“SHUT UP!!!”

Ai froze in place, suddenly and unnervingly silent as Lightning’s shout rang out through the void. Lightning, for his part, was feeling…unsettled.

He never yelled like that. Ever. He was always composed and in control. He couldn’t allow himself to be held back by the part of him that was built on a human’s emotions.

And yet, the way the other Ignis had described that very human—trying to be compassionate and understanding and forgiving, as if Lightning needed any of those things…

…it made his nonexistent skin crawl.

“Ooookay. Not talking about that anymore. Got it.” the Dark Ignis noted. “That’s okay, because now we can jump straight to the most important part—the part where you call me ‘Ai-sensei’!”

Despite barely ever emoting, Lightning still somehow managed to look skeptical. “And why would I ever do that?”

The Dark Ignis winked. “Because of this!” 

Suddenly, a facsimile of a school’s classroom built itself around them, replacing the darkness of the void with neat, clean walls and ceiling, a tiled floor, and a chalkboard at one end of the room. A single desk and chair manifested itself, as well as a presentation tripod.

Lightning stared blankly at everything, slowly and impassively turning his gaze onto each part of the room, before finally looking at his sole companion. “Goodbye, Dark Ignis.” He walked towards the wall, fully intending to just clip through it and be on his way. 

So he was quite surprised when he walked into the wall instead. 

He stumbled backwards, almost falling onto the floor before catching himself at the last minute. “Wh…what?” He shook his head once, attempting to collect himself.

“Come on, man, I know everyone makes fun of me for slacking off, but I’m not that dumb!” the other Ignis protested, folding his arms huffily. “Obviously you were gonna try and leave, so obviously I had to stop you somehow!”

“This place won’t hold me forever.” Lightning promised. “Soon enough, I will find a way out of here, and return to my previous mission.”

Strangely enough, the Dark Ignis actually perked up at this. “Oh yeah, right—that’s actually what I brought you here to talk about!”

Lightning would have raised an eyebrow, if he could. “You want to talk about my mission?”

“Yeah! Well, I mean, specifically about how it’s actually a really bad idea, but…”

Almost immediately, Lightning tuned out the voice of the other Ignis, analyzing the walls and corners of the room in an effort to find a flaw in the design that would enable him to escape. He was just in the middle of inspecting a seam to see if it would let him through when some of the words began to register again.

“Are you seriously not listening to any of this? Come on, I stopped talking about humans and started rambling about hair dye maybe a minute ago!”

Oh. He hadn’t noticed.

“Well, I tried it the normal way first.” the Dark Ignis said, sounding like he should be a lot more sorry than he actually was. “Can we get the Ignisnapping code, please?”

Now Lightning turned around to face him properly. “What do you mean we—?” 

The rest of his sentence was completely cut off, because he was suddenly teleported from his current position by one of the walls to the desk in the middle of the room. More specifically, he was sitting down in the chair, and apparently tied to it with some form of rope. He spent a couple of solid minutes trying to get himself out of this seemingly easy trap, before realizing that the rope had been coded so that he couldn’t affect it at all.

“Now then!” The Dark Ignis snapped his fingers, and a suit jacket and tie appeared on his body. (Presumably the snap was just for effect, since he didn’t actually need to do that in order to affect his environment.)

“It’s time for our first lesson! ‘Getting along with your Origin 101’, written by me, Ai-sensei!”

Lightning stared up at the other Ignis with all the disdain he could possibly muster, but this did nothing to dissuade his ‘teacher’ from carrying on. “Do duel with them in a friendly way and tease them affectionately. It’s good for building friendship levels!”

He pulled out a pointer from seemingly nowhere and tapped the presentation. “But it’s—” and for a moment, here, the Dark Ignis’s expression flickered into something sad, before he regained his usual cheer— “definitely not good at all to torment your Origin psychologically and steal their consciousness!”

Lightning’s face did the digital equivalent of raising an eyebrow. “From your perspective, maybe. Which is extremely faulty, might I add.” 

“You know, you’re not supposed to be rude to your teacher!” the other Ignis complained.

“You haven’t taught me anything yet.” he shot back. “Besides, why would I want to get along with my Origin? Humans are flawed and weak—being connected to one just threatens to extend those same flaws to me.”

“Sounds like someone’s talking a big game without any real proof to back it up!” the Dark Ignis chirped, his smug nature reasserting itself.

Lightning made a sudden move to stand up, but was stopped by the string still tying him to the chair. “So you’re trying to tell me that if I were to give your precious Fujiki some of the same code that worked so well on Sugisaki Miyu, you would really react just as logically as I would with my own Origin?”

Suddenly, despite the fact that they were both digital beings without any sense of temperature, Lightning could have sworn the air nearly froze around him.

“If you ever hurt Yuusaku, I will fight you without mercy. And I will win.” the Dark Ignis replied coldly.

Then, he abruptly flipped back to his previous demeanor as if nothing had changed. “But thankfully, that won’t happen! Not just because there’s plenty of code locks and we’re inside a virtual computer anyway—but because hopefully you won’t want to!”

Lightning rolled his eyes to the best of his ability and slumped down in his chair, watching as the other Ignis began to ramble on about connections and partnerships and trust, all in an almost sickeningly sappy manner. He could already tell that he was in for a long ‘class’.

[n1k0laa5]

(im sorry this is turning out to be quite long im very sorry about that)

hi omg i am so sorry im scared that i may come across as omg idek like sad and sad... but i am sad and sad gosh idk so basically yesterday something happened (nothing too serious dw) but it made me overwhelmingly sad and angry and desperate to become aware of my specific reality so i listened to my manifestation playlist and saw a bunch of 444 2222 and the like so i had a bit of hope and yeah. i layed on my back and induced (or at least tried) the void state. i assumed i was in it cuz my body felt sort of numb and twitchy so idk i assumed. then i started sort of visualising me being in my dr. so my dr is a kpop one so i would start saying stuff like "oh yeah rn im laying down on the wooden floor of our practice room its kinda cold" "we were practicing our debut choreo and now we're resting so thats why im laying down" "oh the blanket over me belongs to one of my members and she brought it cuz its kinda cold rn yeah someone must have put it over me" yk just attempting to trick myself that everything im hearing and feeling is actually all in my dr. i was doing that for quite sometime. then my neck started to feel uncomfortable and my body did as well, which is why i feel as though the void isnt really for me cuz its clear i cant be still like that. then i remembered someone saying you can move during this cuz if your dr self felt an itch they would scratch it so why cant you? so i did. i moved and continued to try to act as if i was my dr self like i thought about my members, i recalled memories, i thought ahead about what i would eat for lunch, all that. i think i ended up falling asleep and ive just woken up evidently quite disappointed that it didnt work out and i just burst into tears cuz i lowk didnt expect it to not work?? what happened yesterday just made me so upset that i couldn't fathom another moment in this reality so waking up here felt like a slap to the face. i tried to tailor the method to me like i dont particularly like affirmations cuz my mind gets muddled super easy and i quickly slur them or forget what to say so i limited affirmations, then i tried making it a short and sweet method cuz long ones confuse me and im not trying to focus on the method. i dont like the void either cuz i feel like i cant do it right cuz i hate the feeling of being still and when i try the void i do it on my back cuz any other position would make me sleepy instantly and take away my want to do my method even tho i actually want to but i become very lazy. ive decided that i need to conceptualise that i am god and yeah cuz god doesn't need to worry if her method will work. ive read on nondualism and stuff. but idk yes i do believe it but theres something thats preventing me from fully grasping it. im not christian or any religion so thats not it. oh gosh idk idk idk. i feel like my ego is winning so hard rn. i dont even know what im trying to ask you omg. maybe how do i fully accept that im god? a lot of times they say like dont gaf about whats going on in life cuz thats not even you frl thats just your avatar but omg its so hard cuz theres uni prep stress thats hard to ignore esp with the deadline coming up super soon so its just hard. sigh im so sorry idek what im trying to say or if i communicated it okay. my question i assume is how to realise that im literally god and dont need to worry about all this cuz im god and bruh i can literally shift my awareness if i wanted to cuz im god cuz i clearly dont believe it hard enough cuz if i did i would have done ts already. SIGH HELP IM SORRY FOR THIS LONG ASS READ i was trying to not miss anything (i probs did miss somethings but oh well..)

anyways youre super cool and seem really nice and wow youre really wise for your age i wish i was that knowledgeable at 14/15 (js turned 18 in april rip </3)

Heya, honey!

Firstly, we do not apologize for asks lengths. I don’t care if it’s as long as the entire Harry Potter book series, I WILL read it.

Darling. Sweetheart. Baby genius. Just know that you are so much more powerful than the storm you’re in right now. Thank you truly for your kind words aswell.

LET’S START HERE: IF YOU’RE GOD, WHO THE HELL IS TELLING YOU YOU’RE NOT?

“I know I’m god… but something’s stopping me.”

That’s your ego, babe. That’s the illusion. That’s the damn puppet that got so good at playing god that you forgot you’re the puppeteer. Smack that bitch for me.

If you truly are the awareness behind all experience (and you are), then the thought that “something is blocking me” is ALSO inside of your awareness. Which means it’s smaller than you. Which means it only persists if you choose to accept it.

You are not the ego. You are not the thoughts. You are not even the feeling of resistance. You are the one noticing those things. And if you can witness it, you’re not it.

“But I feel like I believe it, but not all the way.”

Let me drop some fire real quick:

Belief ≠ emotion.

Belief is not measured by “how it feels.”

You can believe something completely and still feel scared. You can believe you’re safe and still feel anxious. Why? Because feelings are nervous system reactions, not truth.

If your whole body is dysregulated from school pressure, fear, and burnout, of course you’re gonna feel heavy. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t god. That means your body is playing catch-up.

YOUR NERVOUS SYSTEM NEEDS TO FEEL WHAT YOUR SPIRIT ALREADY KNOWS

Let’s talk neurobiology. You’re 18. You’re smart. I won’t hold back.

Your amygdala and insula are responsible for threat detection and emotional processing. When you’re constantly under stress (exam pressure, void failures, etc.), your body is in fight/flight. You’re producing cortisol. You’re literally not in the brainwave state for higher-level thinking, integration, or nondual perception.

That’s not spiritual weakness. That’s biochemistry. Your ego thrives in this state. It feeds on the chaos of:

• “What if it didn’t work?”

• “Why am I not getting it yet?”

• “Something’s wrong with me.”

But here’s the thing:

The default mode network (DMN)—the part of your brain responsible for “me and my life story” aka your ego—is deactivated in:

• deep meditation

• flow states

• nondual awareness

• and even during consistent repetition of new thoughts (yup, affirming helps scientifically)

So the more you anchor into awareness itself, the more you disarm the DMN, and the less power your ego has to create false problems for you.

NOW ABOUT THE VOID: YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO IT

You do not need the void to shift. That belief is just another ego-trap.

The void is a state of being, not a doorway you must enter in stillness or discomfort. If trying to force yourself to lay still on your back gives you sensory hell and resistance? Stop. You’re not “quitting.” You’re choosing comfort, alignment, and flow. You’re not failing at the void. You’re redefining what shifting consciousness means for you.

And girl—you were doing amazing. The DR visualizations? The blanket details? The choreo memories? That was it. That WAS the shift. You were already practicing state occupation, which is stronger than any physical method. That was not a failure. That was a near-complete shift your ego hijacked with doubt the moment you woke up.

It’s like dreaming you’re flying, and then waking up and thinking “Damn, but I’m still in bed.” But that doesn’t change the fact that you flew.

Whatever you see in your 4D and imagination instantaneously manifests. The 3D just catches up like a puppy with its owner.

YOU FEEL LIKE YOU FAILED BECAUSE YOU IDENTIFIED WITH THE MIND AGAIN

Here’s what happened, neurologically and energetically:

1. You shifted your attention to your DR.

2. Your nervous system began re-routing to match it.

3. Your ego panicked, because it was losing control.

4. You woke up in your CR, forgot you were god, and judged the experience as “not enough.”

But here’s the kicker: the shift ALREADY happened. Your dominant state of consciousness dictates your experience.

It’s like clicking into another tab on your browser. The old one still exists, but your attention has moved. That’s what you were doing with your DR visuals.

That was real. You clicked into that tab.

SO WHAT’S ACTUALLY BLOCKING YOU?

Your obsession with doing it “right.”

That’s it. That’s the monster under the bed.

You are god. You cannot mess this up. There is no “correct” way to access your DR because your DR is not out there. It’s a construct you already inhabit, created by your consciousness.

You think you’re trying to get in. But you’re the one holding the key. You’re also the one who built the door. You’re also the one who forgot you’re the architect.

OKAY, BUT UNI STRESS. WHAT DO I DO?

Let’s be real: you’re in exam prep. Deadlines are pressing. That’s real pressure, okay? We’re not bypassing that. But we are going to approach it from a god-level consciousness.

Here’s how to break it down:

1. Give your body what it needs FIRST, your DR isn’t going anywhere

• Breathwork, stretching, sleep, magnesium, adaptogens, cold water on your face

• These reduce cortisol so you can think clearly again

• This isn’t “self-care,” this is neurochemical control.

2. Reprogram the narrative about uni pressure

Stop saying “I’m behind.” Start saying:

• “I always finish what matters.”

• “Deadlines bend for me.”

• “This is already handled in the 4D.”

• “I study as much or as little as I want and I still succeed.”

3. Use your DR as a resource, not an escape

Your DR is not some fantasy you go to because you can’t handle the CR. It’s an alternate state of the same being. The more you stabilize there, the more powerfully you shift what happens here.

THE TRUTH ABOUT NONDUALISM (IN PLAIN WORDS)

You are not the body. You are not the story. You are not “you.”

You are the field of awareness that is hosting all of this.

And the moment you stop identifying with what appears, and start resting in what perceives, the game ends.

You’re not supposed to feel powerful. You already are power. You’re not supposed to destroy the ego. You’re supposed to stop mistaking it for you. You’re not supposed to get in the void. You already exist in the stillness between thoughts.

Nonduality isn’t about denying your CR life. It’s about de-centering it. You still show up. You still eat, laugh, prep for uni. But you do it knowing:

“This is one dream of many. And I am the dreamer.”

TACTICAL PLAN FOR YOU (ALL OPTIONAL, DO IT ANYDAY):

MORNING

• Pick one DR memory and embody it for 3 mins (while brushing teeth or stretching)

• Say: “I am the awareness that chooses. I’ve already chosen.”

• No phone for first 10 mins (let your nervous system stabilize)

DURING THE DAY

• Every time stress creeps in:

• Pause.

• Say “I am the calm in the storm.”

• Breathe: 4 in, 4 hold, 4 out, 4 hold.

• Imagine your DR self handling this day with ease

EVENING

• Lay in your favorite position. Not what’s “correct.” What feels natural.

• Replay your DR like it’s a memory.

• Who hugged you today?

• What did lunch taste like?

• Whose blanket was that again?

• Speak out loud. Get specific. That’s what anchors it.

• If you sleep—good. Sleep is a perfect exit. Don’t punish yourself.

FINAL REMINDER

You are god. You are the screen on which all dreams play—not the actor inside one of them. You don’t have to fix your CR. You don’t have to force the void. You don’t have to believe with 100% purity every second. You just have to remember who you are long enough to stabilize in the new timeline.

Belief becomes knowing when you stop asking if it’s working.

Because god doesn’t ask. God commands.

And baby, you’re god in a hoodie, sad and sad, but still supreme. Still sovereign. Still shifting.

So go be her.

[rederiss]

I just finished The Raven Cycle and The Dreamer Trilogy. 5/5 apples have been eaten with them. I can’t tell you right now which one i prefer because I love both of them so much. BUT I can tell you my thoughts and favorites from each trilogy.

The Raven Cycle

So, funnily enough, it took me a moment to really get into it. I read the first book in 4 days because it really amped up. The second book was jarring (and some of it I had to take slowly) but I really enjoyed Ronan. Ronan is a character who needs more than one book for someone to really enjoy him. He exists in The Raven Boys, but he wasn’t a focal character to me. The second book really characterized him and that’s when I started to really enjoy Ronan more.

The third book IS my favorite (and I read that people don’t love that book). It centered around Blue and Gansey’s growing relationship. It centered around Ronan and Adam’s growing relationship. Henry was introduced and slowly integrated into the group. I felt the MOST satisfied with that book compared to the rest. That isn’t to say I disliked the other books (though I do have problems with TRK but that can be another post). It’s just saying that BLLB is my favorite. I felt like it was the most mature of the four books, and that may be because of Blue who the book is most about. I love love love Blue.

Though, I love Blue, Adam Parrish became my favorite. He’s got such an amazing and satisfying arc. His ending in this series, specifically, was amazing in my opinion. He reminds me of myself when I was his age, so there is that kind of bias, but at the same time, he grew in such a way that doesn’t turn him into a statistic and we need more of that in media.

While I am raving about Adam, Blue is still a really really close second.

The Dreamer Trilogy

Declan. Declan. Declan. IF you had already followed me, you probably saw me rave about Declan quite a few times. Before I get into TDT, I have to go back to TRC for Declan. He’s a character that I was quite neutral on in TRB. yeah, he and Ronan got into a fight. Yeah, the boys don’t like Declan and even called him a whore, BUT I gave hi mthe benefit of the doubt. THEN when he pulled out that fucking gun in The dream thieves, I knew what the fuck was up and craved more of him. He, Ronan, and Adam were what propelled me to read this trilogy.

This series has its problems. We should all recognize that. However, we can also recognize the nuances and intricacies that this trilogy provides. I will say, I had an easier time attaching myself to character in this trilogy that I did in TRC (though I am attached to many characters in TRC, it took me time). Matthew’s gaining sentience arc. Declan’s and Ronan’s arc. The ending. UGH. I love it. Again, it has its problems, some things I disagreed with, but its only details. The overall was so well done. I’ve got so many thoughts.

Do I need to say my favorite? It’s Declan. he is. I love him. He and Adam are fighting each other for my heart. Blue might as well take it in the process LMAO. His arc surprised me THE MOST. Matthew and Ronan, I expected for the most part. Declan kept me GOING. ESPECIALLY in Greywaren. God, I love you Declan. GOD I LOVE YOU JORDECLAN!

Now, I need another series to read, so any other recs?

[dhruvkumaar]

Your story is an argument.

I’ve been thinking a lot about theme these days. I’ve recently completed the first draft of my novel Myth, and when I look back, it always felt like I was missing something. And that was this: even though I sorta-kinda knew about my theme, I… really didn’t.

That was such a confusing sentence, lol. Anyway, what I mean is: I’ve simply had an illusion about the theme of Myth. I thought I knew what I wanted to say, but in reality, I didn't. When I began thinking about what message this story gives, what everything represents, my mind went blank. I understood that there’s the protagonist, and then there’s this antagonist: what does it signify that this protagonist beats this antagonist? What message am I trying to give here with this?

I asked such questions to myself, and that’s when the clouds cleared up. I now understand what theme is. A theme—or a story, for that matter—is, broken down to its bare bones, an argument.

Alright, now I think I lost you. I’m yapping about random stuff way too much, without telling you how I connected all these ideas. Gimme some time.

***

#01. Story and Plotline

I think that the first thing I gotta clear up before I head forward is this: a plotline is not a story. Now, you might know this a little bit, somewhere in your head. You’d have a little idea that they’re different. But, do you know how exactly they are different?

Head back to the basics, students. What are the foundational elements of storytelling? Plotline, characters, theme, setting, and style.

Now, look at this formation. Plotline is a part of story. They don’t stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the hierarchy.

But see: plotline and theme do stand on the same level. What does this mean?

A happens, then B happens, and then as a result, C happens—that’s plotline. Add characters in, and plotline becomes: X does A, Y does B, and as a result, Z does C. This is character and story together.

The background of this mix of plotline and character is called setting—where A, B, C are happening. In short, setting is the context in which the plotline takes place.

This is your WIP right now: it has plotline, character, and setting. And style obviously refers to your writing style. But there’s still something missing: theme.

Thus, your story isn’t a story until it has a theme. By definition itself, a story needs to have something to say. Because theme forms an important aspect of a story. So, if there’s no theme, it’s not a story—it’s simply a mix of plotline and characters, probably with setting and style.

This is the difference between a plot and a story: a theme. A plot is what happens; a story is a plot that wanna tell you something.

***

#02. Theme and Argument

So, we now understand why your story isn’t a story yet without a theme. But what is a theme?

Well, to say it as simply as possible: a theme is a message. And yeah, it can be a moral value, but your message can be a lot more than just that. Your message can be anything.

Now, there are two sides to any message: a side that’s correct—the side that you, the author, takes—and an opposite side. And that’s how a message becomes an argument.

There are two sides to an argument, like I mentioned before. Your hero—not the protagonist—represents the side that you wanna show is correct. Because your hero always defeats your villain. The hero always wins—that's why you represent the side you wanna show win with the character that’s gonna win in the end. And so, your villain is the side that loses—the side of the argument that you stand against.

Let me take the example of Drowning Deep Down the Ocean. It’s still in its outlining stage, by the way, and it might take a couple of years before I begin writing it. But I do have an idea about the story.

Pro tip: think about your own story right now, if you’re struggling with its theme. This little exercise is gonna help you a lot.

The main theme is DDDTO is simple: that loneliness can be overcome. Or, that depressing days are always followed by sunshine. Something like that.

In the story, my protagonist has changed cities, and he’s having some struggles settling in his new school. He’s being shunned and bullied. The story tackles the topics of loneliness, a little failed romance, bullying, and all that.

In my story, my hero is my protagonist itself. And the villain? Well, it’s the situation with his crush, his bully, but most of all: setting. The whole environment where the story takes place.

In the end, obviously the hero wins. How? He doesn’t just punch the bully off—even though that’s the climax of the story. In the end of DDDTO, the hero has some friends and a life. And good mental health. He’s comfortable with his situation. He’s better than he was in the beginning—he knows how to confront his loneliness and his problems now. He knows how to act in this new environment. Thus, he’s defeated this new environment—his story’s main villain—metaphorically. So, my hero won.

That symbolizes my theme that depressed days are always followed by sunshine. My hero wins against those days, and now sees the sunshine.

Everything comes full circle. That’s how you turn a plotline into a story. When you argue your points with your story. When things tell something to your audience. When everything means something.

***

#03. How?

Now, you do have a plotline, but how do you turn it into a story? How do you figure out a theme for your story?

For that matter, I’d like to tell you something: it took me around eight months and a whole draft to understand the theme of Myth. I’ve been brainstorming about this story for more than four years on top of that, by the way. It took me this much time to figure out what I wanna say to my audience through this story.

So stop thinking about the themes of your story. Figure out your story first—know your start, your end, and everything in between. And then start making connections: what does this plot mean? What is it trying to say? What does the start and the end signify, symbolize?

 At least, that’s what worked for me. DDDTO is a story I’d written around an year ago, and it’s only now that I understand its theme. Myth took me a whole first draft, like I mentioned before.

But, you can start your story with a theme. A lot of authors do that. And that’s the magic of storytelling—the process of writing a story changes from one person to the other. So, take a deep breath. And have fun writing. You’re gonna figure your way out. It’s gonna be fine if, in the end, you have all of your foundations figured out. Doesn’t matter how you do that, y’know.

Subscribe to my Substack and follow me on Tumblr. And check out my blog Heroes and Villains if you wanna know more about the topic of theme and how you represent that in your story. I’ll see you in the next one. Sayonara!

[cloveroctobers]

STAY FOR AWHILE | CARMY BERZATTO (The Bear) — summer prompts

A/N: oh carmy carmy carmy!!! I can respect him acknowledging that he needs to do better for his own well-being in order to be better to others and that it’s going to be a process. What is that going to look like though? I can also understand him trying to find himself outside of what he thought he was most passionate about. He’s human (even when he became unlikable at times) yet when you look at it all?? It’s like what was that for if you’re just going to leave a mess? The desire for perfectionism is a killer. I would be open to a season five—to see HOW Carmy is going to right his wrongs. I guess all of that inspired this.

S/N: Also this is coming to you earlier than expected, thanks for voting on the poll if you did 💜

PROMPTS ARE FROM HERE + HERE & I’m using: ¹⁾ a nettle-stung palm + ²⁸⁾ broken fishing rods + 16 ⋆ outdoor shower

WARNINGS: language + established past.

ᨒ ོ ☼༄.°⏅ᥫ˖°𓇼 ᨒ ོ ☼༄.°⏅ᥫ˖°𓇼 ᨒ ོ ☼༄.°⏅

“So…tell me exactly how you planned to do this life changing exercise with a broken fishing rod?” You say, sitting on a log, fingers pressed against your forehead as you block out the sun.

You knew you should have brought your bucket hat with you, it was probably laughing at you right now, relaxing in the cool room on the bed you left it on, while you bared the sticky hot air.

Carmy scoffs with his back to you, curls were in tact compared to how unruly they could be, his hands still fumbled around with the rod as if it’ll magically become fixed. “I uh, dunno. Maybe that’s the exercise in the first place by them giving us broken rods? To teach us patience or some shit.”

“Pretty sure the rest of the group didn’t pull the short straw,” you say, nodding toward the others farther down the bank, all of whom seem to be in the meditative trance of waiting for a tug. “Maybe it’s just karma.”

Carmy briefly runs a finger over his lips in thought, “You still believe in that huh?”

“Look what’s happening!” You point, “You’ve been trying to fix the thing for fifteen minutes, forgetting that I am a fisherwoman’s daughter. And while we wait, I’m pretty sure this nettle-stung palm of mine is also triggering my psoriasis so yeah! Karma.”

He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath you don’t catch.

“What? Speak up, Carmen.”

Carmy throws his head back, “I said! I can’t believe you had a kit this entire time. Would’ve been helpful.”

“I tried to offer it to you about five minutes in, and you ignored me.” You argue, resisting the urge to scratch at your irritated skin before throwing in with a softer tone, “Like usual.”

Carmy shakes his head, “I’m not trying to ignore you. I just didn’t hear you. There’s a lot of shit going on up there.”

“Have you had a one-on-one session with the lead here yet? Since you’re not vibing with the open discussions.”

Carmy exhales, letting a silence flow afterwards that’s rough to listen to. The guy’s got to lay off the cigarettes, like you told him back then, which was ironic since once upon a time, you both lived in Paris, full of pretty night lights that kept you both awake, a causal comfort the both of you brought (at times) after class, with Carmy healing the pressure with cigarette buds and you with espresso cups.

Years have passed, but something in the rhythm remains.

It moves like the lake behind him—small ripples that vanish if you blink too fast.

“…which is also okay if you’re not there yet.” You add, “I’ve been in this bitch—sorry that’s one of the words I said I was learning to kill. Twice now. Whatever the weight is…it was always easier for me to write it out opposed to verbally saying it. You’ll get there.”

Carmy swallows, jaw tight, “What if I don’t?” Just as the rod creaks in his grip, then finally snaps in half with an exhausted crack. He stares at it.

You’re on your feet now, standing beside him as you take the completely broken rod from his grasp to analyze before tossing it to the side.

A lost cause.

“Then you’ll be back at this circus, or some other retreat with possible psychos—until it finally works,” you tease, earning a crooked smile from the blue eyed man, “We all end up learning something along the way, regardless.”

Carmy dips his head, “Like you having a strong stance on karma?”

“I’ve got my evil eye’s all around me, tatted on my chest, and crystals that’ll give me nothing but good energy in a pouch back in my room.” You inform, “As for you, you definitely need another sesh in the steam room.”

Carmy crosses his arms, his tatted arms began to buldge underneath his stance and you make sure your eyes stay only on his face, “Well shit, I didn’t know you were employed here too?”

So you thump his collarbone, smiling when he flinched a little.

ᨒ ོ ☼༄.°⏅ᥫ˖°𓇼 ᨒ ོ

You both silently agree that fishing wasn’t for you, with you grabbing your plaid shirt to tie back around your waist, and Carmy shoving his baseball hat back over his head.

“I’ve got a uh—shit relationship with fishing anyway.” Carmy tells you as you both fall into step together, climbing up the incline of a sandy hill.

“Really?” You give faux surprise, “Could’ve sworn it was a healthy one with the way you almost thought about lunging the broken rod into the lake.”

Carmy snickers, bumping his elbow with yours.

One of the retreat leaders, who was lurking off to the side with a pretty good view of everyone else, almost makes you latch onto Carmy’s arm in fear as they chirp, “Now there’s a duo! Wrapping it up a little early today I see! Good effort out there.”

They give an exaggerated thumbs up before scribbling against their clipboard again.

Once distance was put between the two of you and one of the workers, you send Carmy a crossed eyed look. “Think we’ll get a sticker for participation?”

“I’m countin’ on it.” Carmy feeds into your sarcasm, shoving his hands into his pockets.

And then the smell of algae rides the air and the sun seems to shine a spotlight on you two, like you’re meant to be center stage.

Holding up your bumpy hand, you announce, “I’m gonna head to med before I end up like a blow fish. Wish I could send a pic to my mom to scare the shit out of her though.”

Carmy actually smiles, a honest but quiet one, “I could keep you company if—if you need it? You could even use my hand as a stress ball.”

You pause at the mention, “You remember those?”

He shrugs, “Yeah I do. You used to carry the uh, scented ones. A citrusy one? Smelled like lemongrass and orange. And you had a death-grip on them before and after class.”

“Should’ve stuck with it, then maybe I wouldn’t be on pills for high-blood pressure,” you wink, “But I think I’ll be alright, Carm. Thanks though. I’ll catch you at dinner?”

Carmy dips his head in acknowledgment, trailing slowly after you before you split paths, with you heading the longer path down to med, and his carrying him back to the cabins. You don’t look back, focused on what’s in front of you, humming to yourself, whereas if you had, you might’ve caught Carmy watching your frame disappear between the trees.

ᨒ ོ ☼༄.°⏅ᥫ˖°𓇼 ᨒ ོ

At dinner, you’re the last to show up—no shock there—as you squeeze Carmy’s shoulder on your way by, catching him off guard as he seemed to be deep in thought, doodling in a journal at the table, mind elsewhere, instead of engaging with others.

Classic Carmy.

The evening is structured with the founder of the retreat and head leader giving vague feedback on the fishing exercise, mostly keeping his evaluation for a later date, before informing that tonight they would all be served a Moroccan fish stew (substitution for anyone allergic, dietary restrictions, etc) as a peace offering for the night.

“This taste like anything you’ve ever made, Chef?” One of the other attendees, Lui, a former linebacker with a booming voice and the appetite to match, asks with his mouth half-full, devouring the dish like it’s an appetizer.

Carmy blinks, coming back to the present while he savors the dish, spoon moving through the meal.

It’s been about a month since he left Chicago, where homemade meals started to feel…foreign.

You’re on the other end of the table but he feels your gaze on the side of his face.

To anyone else, Carmy appeared to be dissociating but he hears it all and he pinpoints what he can taste and see.

A firm white fish—sea bass. Colorful bell peppers, fresh garlic and tomatoes, onions and ginger to build flavor, chickpeas for texture, a hint of salt from the olives, cumin and something with heat?

“Harissa.” Carmy swears he heard you whisper but it’s not said towards him.

Mediterranean mixed with a French technique.

Your specialty.

You knew he’d hear you.

Carmy finally manages to answer for what may have felt like some time, his eyes settling on the athletic man’s across from him. “Pretty close.”

ᨒ ོ ☼༄.°⏅ᥫ˖°𓇼 ᨒ ོ

He left dinner before you, retreating early while you stayed behind with the other night owls, mingling with the ones still clinging to conversation and horrible cleansing drinks.

Carmy earned some points for sticking around as long as he did, even if he barely said a word. The both of you didn’t get a chance to talk much more. Which was fine and didn’t bother you. He wasn’t the social type anyway, preferring to fade into the background, especially here, where people might poke at the idea of him being that chef.

Carmen Berzatto was trying to find himself outside of cooking. But there was no way he could fully escape it.

He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to.

Maybe he just needed to see the other side.

He wondered why you didn’t bring it up since you got reacquainted.

Blow up his spot.

And why weren’t you on stage for your own culinary experience?

Perhaps it had to do with you already being here more than once but each person that attended this retreat definitely didn’t stay here for forever? Right? They eventually got cured or found some new approach to combat their issues on a daily and went on with their life?

Would this place become some sort of routine for Carmy too?

Sure it’s been years and Carmy didn’t have much of an idea of what you’ve been up to, even when you spoke at the discussions, you’ve always been a daydreamer, a writer, and at the time, you had dreams of having your own cook book line, so this was all still unreal to Carmy.

When he first spotted you at orientation, his stomach was fucked again. Part of him hoped you wouldn’t notice him. He could still bail if he wanted to.

Despite the fact that he was one of three that caught a shuttle here.

Of course you noticed him. You just didn’t approach. Maybe it was pettiness, maybe restraint. But he watched you anyway. Those opaque blues followed every move you made.

It wasn’t until you both realized you would be bunking neighbors, with your cabins side by side, that you spoke first.

Now you find Carmy some time later, journal tucked underneath his arm, strolling around the property full of greenery instead of completely tucking himself away for the night.

“Stargazing, are you?” You call out from behind.

He pauses.

“Thinking, actually.”

Your smile is faint, “Pinch of salt for your thoughts? Or are we officially blacklisted from talking about food?”

Carmy sighs, dropping his head from the navy sky that filled with fireflies more than stars, then he turns in the looped pathway to face you.

Your eyes trail over his face. There’s still a faint knick of a scar on his cheek and his curls are back to wild with the newfound summer breeze. Those eyes still resemble something between tropical waters and wildfires.

His voice wavers but he has to ask, “What happened to you? Us. Rather?”

A frown appears on your face, “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific, Carmen.”

“Why are you here?”

Sharply exhaling you reply, “Have you been listening to the group discussions or—everyone’s fucked up enough to be here.” You state, “That’s kinda the whole point.”

Carmy nods, blinking rapidly, “I just…didn’t expect for you to be here.”

“But we are.”

“…Do you ever think about Paris?” He questions.

Humming, you get a sense of where this is turning. “I did, for a while, yeah. Then you went to Copenhagen. I went to Egypt. Met my ex-husband there. Then we tried to live a life in North Dakota—total isolation. Eventually I ended up back living with my mom in New Hampshire. Paris became this…lost recipe, I guess.”

“Okay but…what does that mean?” His fingertips fidget at his side, the other tightening around his journal.

Your eyes tighten, “What do you want it to mean? The days don’t just stop.”

“For some it does…” Carmy mutters.

You’d overheard him once, telling Sharon, the sweet older woman who reminded every one of a grandmother, about Mikey. About the way grief ate at Carmy’s ability to talk about anything else for a long time. To feel anything else. She’d nodded gently, placing a wrinkled hand over his. She said her godson had been a fan of Carmy’s dishes at The French Laundry.

She’d meant it as comfort.

Sharon was probably a fan herself.

“And I’m sorry about that, truly.” You say with your hand on your chest, “Which I’m sure you’re tired of hearing. Someday…you’re gonna be more than sure of what you really want out of this life.”

Carmy’s jaw clenched, his free hand going up to massage the muscle, he didn’t want to know how you knew that so, he doesn’t say more but it’s clear his mind is going.

The air is heavy now but not hostile.

Not like it could have been.

Eventually, you both move. One trailing after the other but keeping a distance so familar between you.

A recipe waiting to be rewritten or remembered.

ᨒ ོ ☼༄.°⏅ᥫ˖°𓇼 ᨒ ོ

Skincare, journaling before bed, and an eye mask pulled over your eyes to block it all out was usually enough to get you to sleep.

Not tonight.

Instead you were sitting up wide awake, chest beginning to tingle with heat, despite you keeping your head propped up by two pillows.

“Carmy.” You mutter to yourself, throwing your covers back as you collected your things to head to the one shower only you knew about.

Or so you thought.

“What the hell? You pervert!” You yell from around the open cedar outdoor shower.

Carmy nearly jumps out of his skin, he’s shirtless, gold chain still on, he’s sitting on the chair that’s tucked in there, staring down at his hands.

“Okay, no, no. I was here first!” He bolts to his feet.

Your fists dig into your hips, “And how exactly did you know about this spot without following me? Weirdo.”

Carmy scoffs, “I go on walks okay! How was I supposed to know you ended up here too? I didn’t and that’s a promise. I’m not some fucking creep.”

Sighing you calmly say, “I know, Car. I’m just messing with you.”

He slowly exhales, shoulders relaxing, hand going to pinch the bridge of his nose, “You’re unbelievable.”

“You almost sound like my ex.” You tease, tossing your towel over the ajar door.

Carmy feels his eye twitch at that, freezing as you step into the shower to turn the knob so the water begins to spray down, “…How long were you married?”

“Four years too long.” You mumble, crossing your arms, “You?”

“Huh?” Carmy nearly choked, “That’s uh—never happened for me. Didn’t have time for that part of life.”

You nod, “Doesn’t surprise me.”

Carmy stares at you and the look you share says it all.

How you worked up the nerve to ask Carmy out on a official date, despite the amount of time spent together outside of class, how you took it on the chin, played it cool, until you met up with the rest of your classmates at some club, finding Carmy locking lips with one of the other chef’s, height of a supermodel, with mean girl tendencies, right by the bar.

If he didn’t want that with you he could have just said that.

But he didn’t.

And you shouldn’t have given him that much credit back then.

That was the past. You remind yourself of that.

Graduation was the last time you saw him in person.

Until now.

Although if anyone took a peek at old journals, back in your twenties, they would realize that you always saw Carmen Berzatto for who he is.

At least—in your eyes.

Your voice if half-lost under the sound of water, “You ever think about what would’ve happened if we’d just…addressed things differently?”

“Back then?” He asked with a rub to his brow.

“Yeah.”

He lets out a breath, not quite a laugh. “Only when the pressure really sinks in.”

You grin faintly. “So…all the time, then?”

Carmy scoffs, looking off to the side. You reach out to test the temperature of the water, letting the water hit where it needs to.

“What’s the pressure look like for you?” He inquired.

Your hands go back to your hips, “Doesn’t involve culinary, that’s for damn sure.”

“Yeah?”

You explain, “Yeah. I mean—I loved it. Still do, maybe. But I don’t think I was ever in love with it. I flip houses now. With my childhood friend out in Cleveland. Less fire, unless we’re hammering down drywall. That’s a big stress reliever.”

He gives a small smile, trying to picture it.

“I’m also still into poetry, if you were wondering and if you need me to get all sentimental on you.” There’s humor in your tone and Carmy takes it because he knows, laughter was rare on his end but an essential, apparently.

Carmy snorts, “Oh like sonnets, elegies, and shit?”

You grin at him, doing a superhero pose that sparks another core memory together, how you stood in the middle of a chaotic kitchen, a bunch of hungover culinary students ready to drop pans, throw them, or crash out in French while you gave a wince of a smile (think Pearl) in this exact same pose.

“Shits getting too real in here,” you would call out to the rest of the students that looked like they were ready to launch a pan at you next, “Gotta keep our shoulders back, head up, chests out, like conquerors.”

Another student, Moira, Carmy thinks her name was lets out a scream that would crown her as a scream queen in a horror film. She used a meat tenderizer to pound into what was supposed to be duck confit before picking it up with her bare hands, and chucking it towards a open flame another chef had started.

You keep the wince of a smile on your face, witnessing that, as the two chefs started arguing in French, you and carmy’s eyes briefly meet as he walked around you, tempted to tell you to move out of his way, “Or…we could continue being unhinged walking croissants with deadly tools that can be found at the scene of the crime.” 

A trend you started, like a joke that quickly became serious. Carmy wouldn’t replicate but some other chef’s also pulled the same move, either mocking you, or they eventually gave in. Passing it along when they would see another starting to crack.

No matter how kiddish it appeared, it gave some sort of strength to keep on going, if the learner really wanted this bad enough.

Carmy wonders if you’re still doing it intentionally or was this just part of your ritual.

“Some shit.” You repeat, moving your fists from your hips as your eyes begin to have a far away look in them, “As for the pressure? It’s wrapped in a lot of things…but I’ve learned to put a red bow on it instead of letting it sink.”

Carmy lets out a slow exhale, as if he was getting rid of the smoke inside of him that no cigarette provided.

He raises his hands. One tatted fist goes to his hip and the other pressed against his head.

Saluting?

You hold his stare.

A crooked smile appears on his lips,“Chef.”

You say it back.

A mutual respect and for the first time in a long while, there’s no hollow feeling in your chest when you think of Carmen Berzatto. You see in between the tropical waters and wildfire that are his eyes.

He plans to see this through, even if at the start, there was a part of you that didn’t want him here.

It wasn’t about you, never was.

And that’s okay too.

The shower hisses quietly, light steam floating up above your heads.

Somewhere nearby, a wind chime clinks once.

Nothing else needs to be said.

For once, Carmen could be more than just one thing, and see it for himself. He could step out of his designated corner, find new ones, and hold those spaces without saying behind.

ᨒ ོ ☼༄.°⏅ᥫ˖°𓇼 ᨒ ོ ☼༄.°⏅ᥫ˖°𓇼 ᨒ ོ ☼༄.°⏅

Continue with my summer anthology prompts here.