#And I wanted to reflect that with this au

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

BURN YOU ! ☆ minors do not interact.

paring : firefighter mydei x fem!reader

warnings : nsfw / smut, creampie, messy sēx, cock warming, breeding kink, spitting, nipple play, dumbfaction, size kink, pet-names, tit play, hair pulling, rough sēx and gentle aftercare.

synopsis : You should’ve died in that fire. Mydei made sure you didn’t. Now you owe him a thank you you never wanted to give. Everything you built, burned to the ground. And the bastard who saved you? He’s smug, too rough around the edges, and doesn’t know how to back off. But maybe that’s exactly what you need—something to shove against, scream at, fall into when the world turns to ash. He doesn’t say sorry. He doesn’t ask for permission. He just takes, and god help you—you want him to. (modern au)

You don’t remember the flames. Not really.

Just the heat, choking. The sound of a man’s voice shouting your name over the crackle. Then hands—strong, harsh—hauling you against a chest that smelled like sweat and smoke and something older, darker.

That was two weeks ago. The warehouse—your family’s last remaining property—was gone. Along with your savings. Your job. Your plans. You’re living in a borrowed apartment with nothing but the smoke-stained clothes you had on that night.

And him.

Lieutenant Mydei. Firefighter. Asshole.

You didn’t expect to keep seeing him after the fire. But somehow, he’s always there. Bringing you coffee without asking. Fixing your apartment door like it’s his. Picking you up when the nightmares hit and you end up crying outside in the cold.

You never asked him to stay. But he does.

Tonight, the power’s out. Summer thunderstorm. Sheets of rain smacking the window. You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch in shorts and a tank top, phone dead, candles flickering. A sharp knock makes you flinch.

You already know who it is.

When you open the door, he’s soaked through. His uniform clings to him, navy shirt nearly black with rain, reflective pants low on his hips. Drops slide off his lashes. His jaw clenches like he’s been holding back something bigger than words.

“Got power?” he grunts.

“Nope.”

“Generator’s fried. Substation’s out. Might be a while.”

You blink at him. “Did you come here just to say that?”

His eyes rake over you—bare legs, soft thighs, the stretch of your shirt over your chest. You feel hot and cold at the same time. His voice dips.

“No. I came ‘cause I knew you’d be scared.”

Your stomach flips. “I’m not—”

He steps inside. Closes the door with a heavy thunk. Rain slicks off his shoulders as he shrugs off the jacket and hangs it, steam rising off his body like he’s still burning from the inside.

“I can leave,” he says. But he doesn’t move.

You swallow. “Stay.”

You’re sitting beside him on the couch. There’s a candle flickering on the table between you, casting gold across his face—his cut cheekbones, the muscle ticking in his jaw, the little scar just above his brow. He’s got one leg stretched out, one arm slung behind the couch. His fingers brush your bare shoulder without meaning to. Or maybe he does mean to.

You keep catching him staring. You try not to stare back.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

“I never said thank you,” you whisper.

He looks at you, slow.

“For the fire.”

He snorts softly. “Didn’t need it.”

“I screamed at you for not saving the building.”

“Yeah. You did.”

“…Sorry.”

He leans closer, resting his arm on the back of the couch behind your neck. He smells like leather and rain. His voice is lower now. Rougher.

“You were in shock. I get it.”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t just angry about the fire. I was angry ‘cause…”

“‘Cause what?”

“…You touched me like you owned me. Like I was yours.”

Silence. Heavy. His gaze drops to your lips.

“Maybe I wanted you to be,” he says.

It’s not gentle.

The kiss comes hard and messy—his mouth slanting over yours with teeth and tongue, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other grabs your thigh and pulls you into his lap. You gasp against him, and he groans, low and guttural like he’s wanted this for too long.

He’s already hard beneath you, thick and heavy, straining against the wet fabric of his pants. You grind against him instinctively, whimpering into his mouth as his hands squeeze your ass and pull you tighter.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You gonna let me have it, baby?”

You nod helplessly.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please, I want it—want you—”

He pulls your tank top up, baring your tits. His hands are huge, calloused and greedy, thumbs swiping over your nipples until they pebble hard. He spits on them—hot, dirty—and watches it slide down, then leans in and sucks, hard, his teeth grazing. You moan, arching.

“Such pretty fuckin’ tits,” he murmurs. “Bet you’d look even better bouncin’ on my cock.”

Your face burns. Your pussy clenches.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, laying you back on the couch, then drags your shorts and panties down in one pull. He stares at your soaked cunt like it’s a feast.

“Spread.”

You do.

He doesn’t go slow. He devours—his tongue lapping and flicking, lips wrapped around your clit, two thick fingers pumping deep. You’re crying out, legs shaking, clutching at his soaked hair as you come hard with a scream, and he doesn’t stop—just moans into you, ravenous.

“Can’t wait,” he growls, standing and undoing his belt. “Gotta be inside you.”

His cock springs free—massive, veiny, flushed dark. You gasp.

“Too big,” you whisper.

He strokes it, slow. “You’ll take it. I’ll make you.”

He lays back, legs spread. “C’mere. Climb on.”

You straddle him, nervous, shaking, but he grabs your hips and guides you, letting your slick pussy slide along the thick head.

“You’re drippin’, sweet thing,” he groans. “Look at that. Already beggin’.”

You sink down, inch by thick inch, moaning loud as the stretch burns and fills you in ways you didn’t think were possible. Your hands claw at his chest, nails digging into his rain-soaked shirt as his cock spears deeper, slow but insistent.

“My—dei,” you gasp, broken, barely able to breathe. “S-so deep—”

“That’s it,” he growls, voice thick and possessive, his hands bruising your hips. “Take it. Every fuckin’ inch. You were made for this cock.”

He doesn’t let you rest. Doesn’t let you think. His hands come up to your tits again, squeezing, thumbing your nipples until your back arches like a bow. You’re so full it’s dizzying—so full your mind starts to go soft around the edges.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmurs, almost amused. “You dumb on my cock already, baby?”

You nod, whining, tears pricking your eyes from the stretch and the pleasure and the way his cock pulses so deep it kisses your damn cervix. He lifts you halfway and slams you back down. Again. Again.

“Fuck—fuck—you’re tight,” he groans, eyes wild as he watches your tits bounce with every grind of your hips. “Squeezin’ me like you wanna milk me dry.”

“I—I do,” you babble. “Want it inside. Want your cum—”

His expression twists, something dark flashing in his gaze. His hand comes down on your ass—smack—loud and sharp.

“Say it again.”

You whimper. “Want your cum. Wanna be full. Wanna be—bred.”

“Dirty little thing,” he hisses, rutting up into you hard enough the couch creaks. “You want me knockin’ you up? Swellin’ your belly with my fuckin’ load?”

“Y-Yes—”

He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back, exposing your throat. “Then ride, bunny. Show me how bad you want it.”

You do. You ride like you’re starved for him, like your body’s not yours anymore but something that belongs to him. You bounce, hips clapping, cunt sucking him in again and again until you can’t think past the drag of his cock and the way his fingers twist your nipples between every thrust.

“Look at you,” he pants, watching you fall apart. “So full of cock you can’t even talk.”

You nod, mouth open, tongue peeking out. He spits—hot and messy—right onto your tongue.

“Swallow.”

You do. Moaning.

He wraps his arms around your waist and fucks up into you, hard and fast, making your thighs shake and your eyes roll back. One of his hands moves to your throat, not choking but holding—possessive, grounding.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “You belong to me.”

“Y-Yes, yes—Mydei, I’m yours—!”

He grits his teeth. You feel him swell inside you, cock twitching.

“Gonna fuckin’ cum—where do you want it, baby?”

You choke out, “Inside.”

That breaks him.

He growls deep in his chest like an animal and slams up once, twice, three times—and then he’s spilling inside you, thick, hot, endless. You feel it flood your insides, dripping around his cock as he pumps you full.

You both go still. Breathless.

You’re trembling, body still fluttering from the aftershocks. He strokes your thigh, gently now. Reverent.

“…Still okay?”

You nod. Snuggle into his chest, cock still buried deep inside you. You don’t want him to pull out. Ever.

He smirks, voice hoarse. “Cockwarming me now, huh?”

You hum. “Feels safe.”

His arms tighten around you. He kisses the top of your head.

“You are safe,” he murmurs. “Long as I’m here, sweetheart—nothin’s gonna burn you again.”

You’re still perched on his lap, stuffed full, his cock pulsing deep inside your overstretched heat like it owns you.

And it does.

You twitch when he shifts his hips — just a slow, grinding roll that makes your breath hitch and your whole body clench.

“Still warm,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low against your temple. “Still squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go.”

You can’t respond. You’re too gone. Brain soft, eyes glassy — a hazy, cock-drunk little thing melted against his chest.

He chuckles. It's dark. Possessive.

“Look at you. Cross-eyed and droolin’ like a bitch in heat,” he purrs, cupping your jaw and forcing you to face him. “Not a single thought left in that pretty little head, huh?”

Your lips part. A whimper slips out.

That’s all he needs.

“Open,” he growls.

You do.

He spits—messy, wet—right onto your tongue, and watches you swallow with a broken sound.

“Good girl,” he snarls, hand sliding up into your hair. “Now stay open. I ain’t done with you yet.”

And just like that, he snaps his hips up hard.

You scream.

Your hands scrabble at his shoulders, your whole body convulsing as he begins to pound into you, no rhythm—just raw, brutal force. Your thighs tremble violently. Your eyes roll. Every drag of his cock splits you wider, shoves the breath right out of your lungs.

“Gonna fuck you stupid,” he snarls into your neck. “Gonna break you right here, stuffed full on my cock like you were made to be bred.”

You try to answer — you really do — but all that comes out is a choked cry, a garbled sob of "yesyesyesyes—"

He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back, exposing your flushed, tear-streaked face.

“Say it.”

“Y-Yours—m’yours—breed me—please—!”

Your eyes flutter, crossing again when he thrusts up so deep your legs spasm.

“Dumb girl,” he growls, his grip in your hair tightening. “Can’t even think straight with a cock inside, can you? All you know is takin’ it. Beggin’ for it.”

You sob, nodding frantically, nails digging into his back. Your body trembles with every brutal thrust, the couch beneath you groaning from the force.

“Look at this,” he hisses. “Your fuckin’ belly’s bulging around me.”

He presses a palm low on your stomach — right where his cock hits deepest — and you shatter.

The pleasure blinds you. Your toes curl. Your thighs lock around his hips as you scream through your orgasm, convulsing around him like your body’s never gonna stop milking him for more.

But he doesn't stop. Doesn't let you come down.

“Take it,” he growls. “You want bred like a bitch in heat? You better fuckin’ take it.”

Your head lolls. Your lips are parted, moaning endlessly as he drives up into you again, again, again—

Until suddenly—

He slams up one last time and holds.

You feel the heat flood into you. Thick, hot, and endless. His hand’s still fisted in your hair as he groans deep in his chest, his cock jerking inside you as he spills everything into your wrecked little body.

You’re both panting, drenched in sweat and soaked in everything else. He lets your hair go gently, guiding your head down to rest on his shoulder.

“You took it all, baby,” he mutters against your temple, still inside you. “Just like you were made to.”

And you? You can’t even answer.

Your eyes are still crossed.

You’re trembling in his arms. Legs twitching, breaths short, body still split open and full of him—but you’re not scared. Not overwhelmed.

Just… gone.

And safe.

Mydei doesn’t move for a long time. He just holds you, big arms wrapped around your small, spent frame while your heartbeat thuds against his chest like a trapped bird trying to settle. His cock is still buried inside you, twitching now and then, but all the fire’s gone from his touch. What’s left is only warmth.

“Hey,” he murmurs. His voice is rough, low, but there's something gentle in it now—like he’s afraid you’ll drift too far if he doesn't keep you tethered. “You with me?”

You nod, or try to. It’s more of a sleepy nuzzle into his neck, your lips brushing the line of his jaw. You breathe him in—smoke, rain, salt, and him—and melt just a little more.

He smiles against your hair.

“Did so good, bunny. Took me so well.” One of his hands strokes your back slowly, grounding you. The other stays curled around your waist, fingers splayed like he doesn’t want to let you go. “You’re safe now. I got you.”

You hum—barely a sound. It makes him chuckle softly, and that sound rumbles through you like thunder in a storm you never want to leave.

After a while, he reaches down with strong, careful hands, lifting you just enough to slip out of you with a low hiss. You whimper at the loss, and he kisses your cheek.

“I know, baby. I know.” His hands are already there, gently cupping between your thighs, catching the slow leak of everything he poured into you. “Made a mess of you, huh?”

You nod drowsily, lips slack and eyes barely open.

He kisses your forehead. “Let me clean you up, yeah?”

You don’t fight him when he lifts you, carries you bridal-style toward the bathroom. You cling weakly to his neck, trusting him completely.

And when he kneels beside the tub, warm water running, soft towels laid out, he looks down at you like you’re something fragile and holy. Like you’re not just the girl who rode him raw into the couch—you’re his girl.

“You did so good for me,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face. “I’ll take care of everything now.”

He washes you slow. Dresses you in one of his shirts. Carries you back to the couch and wraps you up in his arms, blankets and all, like a cocoon.

By the time your eyes finally flutter shut, one of his big hands is stroking your hair and the other is pressed protectively over your tummy.

And right before you fall asleep, you hear him say it—

“I ain’t lettin’ you go, sweetheart. Not now. Not ever.”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm In Love (SMAU ft. Lando Norris) - part xi

pairing: lando norris x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n); past carlos alcaraz x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n)

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons and/or events

series: part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | ...

bonus: one, two, three

June 2-3, 2025

[Excerpt: True or False with Babolat Ambassador Y/N L/N] True or False – you’ve never won Wimbledon or the US Open

True, for now! Trying to change it this year. I did get to the final of Wimbledon two years ago, so hoping I can at least get there again.

True or False – Your favourite tv series is Abbott Elementary

Oooh, favourite tv series ever? I don’t know about that, that’s really difficult. But I do love it as one of my favourite tv series that’s currently on tv for sure. Especially because it's funny and low-stakes, but also still very real and touching.

True or False – Every tennis player also is an avid watcher of tennis

Definitely false. There’s a pretty clear divide between those of us who watch tennis for entertainment, and those of us who cannot stand it – because you can’t escape your need to analyse every single millisecond of a match. I’ll leave it up to you to guess which category I belong to.

True or False – you had a small background part in the movie Challengers

Ha, I wish!

True or False – Using the right, fresh balls makes all the difference in a championship match.

That’s actually true. The more you’ve used them and hit them over the course of a match, even in as much as 20 minutes the balls degrade. And so does the quality. It means you have to adjust your hitting style constantly, and that takes a lot of effort. It also depends on the surface a bit. Clay is a lot more physical than hard court, for example.

True or False – If you hadn’t become a tennis player, you would have wanted to be a location scout for movies.

How do you guys know that? Yeah, I just think it’d be such a cool and creative job. You’d get to travel a lot, which I get to do now as well – but you’d actually get to spend time exploring the place with a purpose in mind. I don’t know, I think capturing what the world looks like is so beautiful. Sometimes we forget just how beautiful it is, and just how precious our environment is.

True or False – your celebrity crush is Sebastian Stan

True. Has been since I first watched him in Once Upon A Time.

True or False – Your favourite racket is a Babolat Aero.

Hmmm trick question! I actually have my own modified version as of this year. It’s now available for people to pre-order – the Babolat Aero Pro L/N. I’m so excited to bring the racket that I’m using this tour to stores. It’s been a very rigorous process of designing and developing this racket to suit me the best, and give me the most feel and spin control as possible.

True or False – Your dream holiday destination is Japan.

True again. This year I actually got to spend my birthday there. It was absolutely wonderful, and also a complete surprise that my best friend had organised for me. I don't think anyone's ever given me such a thoughtful gift. I thought I was being dropped off at the airport, and instead we drove straight to Niigata for Sakura. I'm pretty sure I'll never forget just how breathtaking it was to be surrounded by so much beauty, and to share that with such special people who mean the world to me.

June 4-5, 2025

[Excerpt Max Fewtrell Twitch Stream, June 5th, 2025]

"Yeah, he is in Paris right now. What a life he leads, huh? Terrible. No, as much as I loved the Australian Open - I won't be going to the tennis this time. I'll be back to support Lando during his next race though. We do have our own lives, I know it might not look like it, but we do."

“Am I following the tournament? Yes I am, though I must say the atmosphere in a stadium is hard to replicate through a screen. It's such an intense sport. Really rooting for Y/N L/N of course.”

“If I have a favourite for the men? Ohh I can't really say. Let's first see who gets into the final, because it does take a while with tennis.”

“What else is coming from Quadrant? Quite a lot actually. It’s been very exciting, we’ve been working hard behind the scenes for a while. So just have to be patient for a little while longer chat, but I promise you it’ll be well worth the wait.”

June 6-8, 2025

A/N: omg so much has happened irl between previous chapter and this one, podium wins, the MET, there's a new pope, and i now have a new laptop woohoo. Next up in WSIIL: get in, we're going shopping with an increasingly unraveling y/n and loverboy lando :) :)

♥ likes, comments, reblogs and asks are always very much appreciated - i love chatting and hearing your thoughts! ♥

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[remmickrealgf]

Pretty Little Thing

Tags & Warnings: Chicago au, non-canon events, mafia au, Smoke and Stack are in a gang, Remmick is in an Irish mafia gang, alcohol, age gaps, Everyone is up north, long fanfic, eventual smut, dub-con, Black Female Reader, Reader is 22

Synopsis: At twins new night club in Chicago, you give an opening performance and among the crowd of onlookers a certain Irish man from the other side of the southside eyes linger a little too long on you. 

A/N: I'll post this over on Ao3 in the morning cause I gotta head to bed. Also enjoy. And part two is coming soon!

Word Count: 1k

Reblogs, Likes and Comments are appreciated!!

Authors Pov:

“Well, little lady, you ready to show off that voice of yours?” A raspy, dried out voice croaks. 

In the mirror’s reflection your eyes catch an old tall man peeking his head through the crack of the dressing room’s door. Still applying makeup, you give him a silent nod, heart racing. You begged and begged your older twin cousins from down south to let you sing at their brand  new night club and always they denied you, specifically the more firm, mean one, Smoke. Only reason tonight you’re set to put on a show is because little ole Sammy from down south came all the way up north to escape the hot fields of crop sharing is putting on a show himself. He will perform right after you, singing blues whilst playing his guitar. You two are the same age, twenty-two and you made sure to bring it up to make your case against Smoke. Stack took your side and convinced his brother and that’s how you ended up in their club’s dressroom. 

“Okay, well make the dolling up quick, Smoke says you're on in five minutes, little lady.” His southern accent drips from his words. He also came up north to support the twins' new night club. 

“I’ll be out soon, Slim.”

With that said, Slim leaves with the soft click of the door closing. You continue finishing your last step of putting on the makeup–lipstick. Careful and docile, you apply a dark cherry red lipstick before twirling in the mirror. The pale purple flapper dress dances in the air, shining from the light's reflection. You always wanted to wear this type of dress, but never had the money to afford one. Stack has taste since he’s the one who brought you the dress for tonight. 

You join Slim on the main stage excited but nervous. From his piano he looks up and smiles. “My, my, little lady, you are breathtaking tonight.”

You blow the old man a kiss. “Why thank you!” You giggle, eyes bright.

People pool into the establishment, wearing all sorts of expensive attire for tonight’s event. The sight of so many people nearly makes you want to dash off stage to the dressing room and stay there the entire night. But you refuse to back out. Not after all that convincing you did. Nope, no going back now. 

Sammy comes on stage, guitar in his hand as usual. “Good luck out there, y/n.” He smiles ear to ear. 

“Same to you!” You chirp, as Slim begins to play the piano and other musicians on stage join him.

Soon the night club is buzzing with folks from all around Chicago’s southside. Brown faces of all shades fill the room leaving no room for any lighter tones. Though the city wasn’t legally segregated, it still was separated by redlining. The closest you have been to white people are the ones also residing in the southside as well but in different neighborhoods–the Irish white folk. Lately there’s been rumors of tensions growing between the Black and Irish gangs for territories and things you really didn’t know about. It’s also rumored tonight an irish gang would join tonight's club to settle the tensions or come to some sort of compromise.  

Whatever, it doesn’t concern you so you don’t mind it. On the main level where the dance floor is Smoke and Stack stand side by side welcoming their guests. Stack wears a bubbly face and his brother with an intimidating frown, stoic as always. 

Stack takes a drag of a thick cigar. “Welcome, good folk of chicago! How y’all doing tonight?”

The crowd hoots and whistles among claps. 

“Tonight our little cousin raised and born here in the sweet ole windy city will be our opening performance.” Smoke chucks a thumb over his shoulder to the stage facing his backside and takes his turn with the cigar.

The crowd cheers louder this time as the showlights shine brightly on your frame at the center of the stage. It nearly blinds you, but you remain stiff, not daring to move an inch. 

“She got the voice of an angel y’all, but let’s get this shit started!” Stack hypes the people up once more before blending into the sea of tables with his older brother trailing after. 

The lights everywhere else in the large club fade to a dimmer glow, and only the bright light on the stage shines. You feel like you could throw up at any given second with so many eyes glued on you. At the side of the stage Delta Slim begins playing the piano and other musicians on stage follow suit. Deep among the multiple faces of strangers, Sammy gives you a reassuring smile and mouths, “you got this!” He flicks up a thumb. 

You gulp giving moisture to your gritty, dry throat and start to sing. Slowly your body loosens up, that stiffness melting off. As the song goes on your body moves with the flow dancing around the stage and the crowd becomes lively. People cheer for you and others groove to the rhythm themselves. As you’re distracted, absorbed in the world of music, you miss the glowing red eyes far off at a table with Smoke and Stack. The eyes latch onto your body, watching your every move on stage. 

Curiosity turns to interest. 

Interest to fascination. 

Fascination to lust and desire.

“Hey, Irish man, eyes on me,” Smoke demands, eyes grave as his palm rests on the gun buried in his hip holster. “Not on my baby cousin on stage.”

Stack joins in, a cocky smirk pulls at his full lips. “I know, she a diamond ain’t she, but you ain’t come here for that. So, you best keep those wanderin’ eyes on us.”

The Irish man grins himself, eyes slick. “Can’t help admiring pretty things,” he drifts off, eyes daring to sneak a peek at you once more. “And I’m the type of man that loves pretty things.” 

His words tick the twins off. But more than the younger one, it pisses Smoke off more. It takes every ounce in his body to stop the itch in his hand not to aim the gun at the cheeky Irish man. 

“You better watch that filthy fuckin’ mouth of yours, motherfucker.”

The Irish man’s goons around him tense at his offensive words. Ready to start a bloodbath their hands ghost over their guns too but their boss’ voices freezes them. “Be calm, this ain’t nothing.” And as if it’s a command their muscles relax. “Right, me and my men are gathered here for business. So let’s talk business.” 

On stage you huff, panting, light sweat pooling at your temples. The crowds go wild as they clap and cheer your name. “You did amazing,” Slim says, then takes a swig from a flask. 

You shoot him a smile too tired to use your voice. When the cheers die down you gain the club’s attention. “Cousin Smoke and Stack, cheers to a wonderful night tonight!” Your hands point to them and then at Sammy. “And everyone give it up for little ole Sammy from the deep south!”

Like before they all cheer as you leave the stage. Behind stage Sammy squeezes you in a tight hug. He applauds your performance before rushing to the stage to sing his blues. Before he completely disappears to the stage he halts, head peering over his shoulder. 

“Oh also, Smoke said to stay in the back rooms cause you ain’t allowed up front.”

You blink. His words take a minute to sink and soak in your brain and before they register he’s already off on stage. The booming sounds from the crowds tell it all as it practically shakes the walls. You want to ask him why, but seeing it’s too late you just listen. Salty and disappointed, you walk through the short dimly lit hall. Fingers trailing along the blood red walls as you pass by. The backroom is empty of people. Fancy expensive couch chairs surrounding a polished wooden table with a candle on top centers the room. Just like the halls outside, the walls inside here are also painted red with painted portraits of long black figures dancing and playing the blues. Left of the wooden table is a brick built in fireplace and to the right is a small bar with pricey booze bottles. 

Illegal booze.

You take a seat at the bar on a tall tool and grab one of the liquor bottles. How ironic, blues music whispers in the backroom as you are feeling quite blue. After tonight you would make sure to give Smoke and even Stack a piece of your mind. This sudden unpromised treatment was petty and unfair. After your performance you expected to be out on the dance floor dancing and mingling. Not locked away back here for no one to see. You slide a nearby shot glass to you and pop a bottle open. Filling the small glass to the brim, you take a swig of the bitter poison. It burns after it slips down your throat. You repeat the process once more. 

You sigh and bury your face in your palms with both elbows propped on the table. “Fuck you Smoke…and fuck you Stack.”

As if they planned it, the twins burst through the door and you jolt upright on the tool. Behind them a pale white man follows after. His eyes are quick to find you and a sly smirk carves on his face. The twins however fail to notice you until they're on the cushion red couches. Smoke's face is quick to flash with anger and irritation while Stack is dumbfounded. 

Stack stands. “Y/n, the fuck are you doin’ back here?”

Your eyes widen, appalled at his words. “Why am I back here,” you pause. A glare pulls your brows together. “You two jerks sent me back here, that’s what I’m doing back here!”

Your little feisty attitude makes the Irish man lean forward. Elbows resting on his legs, callused hands entwined as his face ghosts above them. A low chuckle rumbles in his throat. His mind races with ideas of how he’d have fun breaking you in. He never did like the obedient type of women. 

Smoke remains seated, legs crossed. “Watch your damn mouth in front of company, girl.”

The word girl makes you flinch as the three men watch you. Smoke rarely speaks to you in such a tone let alone call you girl. It makes you wonder who spit in his drink tonight. 

“Don’t mind him, y/n, he’s just a bit moody,” Stack says lightly, but you still don’t buy it. 

You shift in the stool, feeling a bit nervous at your older cousin’s harsh demeanor. “Whatever,” you mumble, but no one but your ears hears.

“But really, why’re you back here, Sammy didn’t tell you to come here.”

Confusion flickers upon your features. “With all due respect, yes he did.”

A long exhale falls from Smoke’s mouth. “Damn boy, can’t even listen right.”

The Irish man sitting between both twins is silent and patient as he watches the scene unravel. His eyes sparkle with greed and mischief when his eyes linger longer over at the bar. 

“Well, gone on home. Find Sammy and Slim so they can take you home.”

“Wait.” 

All of your eyes fall on the Irish man as you now stand on your feet. He tilts his head towards the bar and you swear you can see steam seething from Smoke. 

“Don’t,” Smoke grits out. His eyes glint with bloodlust as he leans forward on the couch.

The Irish man keeps going, regardless of Smoke’s threat. “Is that my open booze over there by the pretty little thing?” His eyes remain on the twins. 

Smoke and Stack heads whip to the bar. The younger twin eyes are wide and his brother’s face twists with rage. Smoke curses under his breath, lost for words.

“Remmick, you leave her out of this. She had no idea it was yours,” Stack says. 

You stand stuck, confused and scared. Did you do something wrong? Yes, and you know it, but you just don’t know what exactly it is. You do figure it’s got something to do with the open booze bottle on the bar table. It may be the wrong decision to make but you do it anyway. “Okay, Smoke. Stack. I’m gonna head home now.”

“Don’t move.” Remmick voice freezes your body in place. “I think you owe me, darlin’.” 

“How much money for the bottle?” Smoke stands from the couch.

“I’m not talking to you,” Remmick says dryly. His deep brown irises burn holes through you. “What was it again?” His fingers caress his chin. “Right, y/n.” He smirks, licking at his sharp canines that resemble more that of fangs than regular human teeth. “And how are you gonna pay me back for drinking my booze?”

[themorningsunshine]

Apple pies

Pie eyed over you - Chapter 4

Mafia - Baker AU

Masterlist                        Series Masterlist

Previous Part

Pairing - Mafia!Bucky x Baker!Reader

Summary - When a new baker in town refuses to abide by his rules, Bucky has no option but to go and take care of it himself. But nothing could prepare him for what stood on the other side. Nothing could prepare him for you.

Warnings - Some talk of weapons, and a scene where the reader feels she is being followed

Word count - 3.7k

A/n - Took me 2 years, but the chapter is finally here. I am extremely sorry for extending my break this much. I am not sure if anyone is still interested in this story, but I really wanted to get back to writing, so here it is :)

The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, revealing the cold marble floor of the mob tower’s top level. Bucky stepped out, dark coat swinging behind him.

Steve stood near the railing with his arms crossed, jaw tight. Sam paced beside him, checking his watch for the third time in two minutes. Both of them turned at the sound of approaching footsteps — heavy, measured, familiar.

“Dude, where the hell were you?” Sam was the first person to speak, stepping beside Bucky as they walked to the conference room.

“Good morning to you too, Sam.” Bucky rolled his eyes, but his lips were tucked slightly upward. There was a certain softness to his expression, a skip in his step.

Sam squinted his eyes. “There’s something on his face, Steve.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, looking at his reflection in the marble of the walls. “What?”

Steve elbowed Sam lightly. “You’re smiling, Buck.”

Sam interrupted, “No, no. That’s not possible. There has to be some other explanation. I bet on – He’s dying.”

Bucky rolled his eyes again. “Shut up. Can’t a man just have a good day?”

Sam’s eves widened. “A goo - ? Steve. I am telling you, he cannot lead this meeting in this condition. We need to rush him to the hospital, or even the cemetery is fine with me.”

They stepped into the conference room where Stark had been waiting for 15 minutes. As soon as his eyes landed on Bucky, his grimace grew. “Barnes, you’re late. Some of us have other empires to run, you know.”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t argue back. “You’ll live, Stark.”

Bucky straightens up and claps his hands once. “So, let’s get to it.”

Tony picked up his tablet, presenting the screen to the whole room. “So, the Mark IV. Still think it’s too flashy?”

“I think it’s unstable,” Bucky said, sliding into the chair opposite. “I need reliability, not a light show.”

Tony clicked his tongue. “So, you want boring.”

“I want functional,” Bucky replied, voice calm. “If it fails, people die.”

“Alright, alright,” Tony grumbled, thumbing through settings. “I’ll strip it down, swap in a tri-core stabilizer. Loses some edge, but it won’t jam in a blizzard.”

“And the recoil sensors?”

“Upgraded. Thermal override. But you’ll lose two percent on range.”

Bucky gave a slow nod. “I can live with that.”

He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. His voice was still quiet, still measured. “But I want eyes on every shipment. No third-party drops. Your men hand it to mine. In person.”

Tony raised a brow. “So that’s what this mellow version of you is about— trust issues wrapped in a velvet bow.”

“Call it what you want,” Bucky said. “Non-negotiable.”

Tony leaned back and gave him a crooked grin. “Fine. But if this goes south, don’t come crying to me.”

“I don’t cry, Stark.”

“No,” Tony smirked. “But you used to break tables when you didn’t get your way.” He stood, offering a hand. “Progress.”

Bucky clasped it once, firmly.

Tony smirked. “Also, congratulations on taking down Pierce. It was about damn time.”

Bucky nodded. ”But we still haven’t caught that bastard. Escaped like a mouse.”

“I am sure you will.”

Across the room, Sam leaned toward Steve again. “Okay, what the hell? Bucky isn’t yelling, hasn’t clipped commands or threatened to break someone’s jaw or burn them alive in half an hour. Trust me, I am not complaining but what has gotten over him?”

Steve didn’t respond right away. Sam kept his voice low. “Maybe it’s not bad. You’ve seen him like this before?”

“Once,” Steve said, jaw tightening. “Before everything went to hell.”

Sam whispered slowly, “You think it’s her?”

Steve didn’t answer. He knew what Sam didn’t. Knew Bucky.

The meeting wrapped up with a handshake and a few nods. Tony left with a smirk, mumbling something about miracles and therapy. The room emptied slowly.

Bucky stayed behind, gathering the files. Calm. Almost serene. Steve didn’t move until the door clicked shut behind the last man.

Then: “You’re not even going to tell me what’s going on?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Nothing’s going on, Steve.”

“You show up smiling, speaking in full sentences, not threatening to break anyone’s jaw—Sam practically started doing the sign of the cross.”

Bucky shrugged. “Can’t a guy have a good day?”

Steve walked closer, voice dropping. “It’s not just a good day. Something’s changed.” A pause.

Then Bucky met his eyes, and Steve saw it — the softness. The warmth. Something achingly human behind the cool blue.

“She’s good for you,” Steve said, softer now. “I see it. So does Sam.” He didn’t ask. He stated it.

That earned him a glance. “What are you getting at?”

Steve exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You care about her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Steve turned to him fully. “But you’re not just smiling, Buck. You’re softening. Letting her in. That’s not something you do lightly.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, the moment of levity gone. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Steve asked, and his voice wasn’t accusing, just heavy. “Does she know who you are?”

Silence. “Buck.”

“No.” The word left his mouth quietly. “She doesn’t.”

Steve exhaled. “Then you are building a deep damn hole for yourself, Buck. Because this thing—whatever it is—it’s real. And she doesn’t know who you are.” Silence. “She doesn’t know what we do. The people we’ve hurt.”

“I know,” Bucky snapped, sharper than he intended. “You think I don’t lie awake thinking about that? You think I don’t see it every time I look at her? That every single time she smiles at me, or holds my hand, I feel like I am somehow tainting her with the blood on my hands? Every damn time she says my name with a softness I won’t be worthy of in any universe, I hate myself a little more.” He stopped, breath caught. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper, “because god damn it, how does someone like me get to even breathe the same air as someone like her?”

Steve’s voice softened, his heart aching for his best friend. “You need to tell her. Before someone else does.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, suddenly restless. “Because I finally have something that doesn’t feel like blood and ash. Something soft. And good. And real.” His voice cracked slightly. “She looks at me like I’m just… James. Not a monster. Not a mob boss. Just… James. And the moment I tell her truth, I lose that. I lose her. She would never want to see my face again, Steve. She will hate me.”

Steve takes a step forward, “You don’t know that.”

A broken expression flickered across Bucky’s face. “That’s the thing. I do. I have stood there and listened to her talking about how much she hates the mob. About how she despises them with everything she’s got. And even after that, I am such a fucking terrible person, I didn’t tell her truth. You know why? Because the moment I do so, everything comes crashing down. She will stop looking at me like someone worthy. Like someone anything more than a monster. Like someone she could love.” Bucky’s voice echoes in the hall room.

Steve had never seen his friend so scared, so vulnerable. He was seeking the light and he knew it, but he had to save his friend from the fire too. “She deserves to know the truth.”

“I know she does.”

Steve moved closer. “So tell her. Would you rather build something on a lie?”

“It’s not a lie—”

“It is if you’re hiding the worst part of yourself.” Bucky flinched. “I’m not saying you don’t deserve this,” Steve added gently. “God, Buck, if anyone deserves a shot at something good, it’s you. But you’re terrified she’ll walk away, and what then? You spiral? You burn down everything again?”

Bucky was quiet for a long time. Then, finally: “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Steve.” His voice was almost broken. “And I don’t know how to let go of that.”

Steve put a hand on his shoulder, his voice gentler now. “Then don’t.” He squeezed gently. “Just don’t wait too long. Because the truth always finds a way out. And if it comes from someone else… you won’t just lose her. You’ll lose yourself.”

Bucky looked away, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he couldn’t catch his breath. “I don’t know how to do this, Steve. I’ve never had something I wanted to protect this badly.” “You don’t protect someone by lying to them,” Steve said quietly. “You protect them by giving them the choice.”

Bucky didn’t reply. He just stared out through the window, eyes far away, knuckles white. And Steve, watching him, didn’t say anything else. Because he knew that look—the look of a man dangling off the edge, holding on with bleeding fingers, too afraid to fall and too afraid to let go.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩

You step out of the grocery store just as the sun slips below the skyline. The sky is that in-between shade and the streetlights buzz to life with a flicker, casting long shadows that stretch across the pavement.

You hug the paper bag closer to your chest. It crinkles in your arms. Feels louder than it should in the quiet. The walk to the bakery isn’t long. Ten minutes, maybe less if you don’t stop.

Your phone is silent in your coat pocket. Still no message. Still no call.

You tried not to think about it. Tried not to let the silence weigh too much. Last night meant something. Right?

Your fingers gripped the paper bag tighter. You could still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, still remember the way he had looked at you—so gentle, so unguarded. But the doubt crept in, quiet and mean.

What if it hadn’t meant anything to him? What if you were just another soft place to land? You hate the way your chest tightens, how the silence starts to sound like a verdict. Maybe he woke up and realized it was a mistake. Maybe he left it behind like it was easy. You swallow the thought. It feels too sharp, like chewing on glass.

The city is quieter than usual. Not empty, just… muted. Like it’s holding its breath. A man across the street leans against a lamppost, smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette. He doesn’t look at you. Still, something prickles at the back of your neck. You ignore it. Tell yourself you’re being dramatic.

Another streetlamp flickered overhead. Buzz. Flicker. Dark. Light again.

You glance over your shoulder. Nothing there. And yet. There’s a feeling. Like breath on your collarbone. Like something just barely out of sight. You shake it off. Adjust your pace. Just a little faster.

Then— A sound. A footstep that doesn’t match your rhythm. You stop. Pretend to check your phone. You glance back. No one. But you feel it. That sensation. Of not being alone.

You pass the florist. Closed. Lights off. The reflection in the darkened window catching your eye. Someone was behind you. Far back. Walking slow.

You start walking again, quicker this time. Each step lands harder than the last. Your heartbeat starts to climb, matching the tempo of your feet. You pass a row of darkened windows. Your reflection moves with you. And then—a footstep. Not yours. Measured. Delibrate.

You don’t turn. You just know. Every hair on your arms stands on end. Your hands tremble, the grocery bag rustling like dry leaves. Your breath fogs in the air. You try to keep it even. Try to make it to the corner. One more street and you’ll see the bakery. The lights. The warmth. Another step behind you. Closer now.

Your mouth goes dry. You think you can hear your heartbeat—too fast, too loud—thudding in your ears like it might give you away. You grip your phone so tight your fingers ache. You don’t unlock it. Don’t text anyone. You don’t want to look down. You just want to get there.

You turn the corner. There it is. The bakery. Lit up like a beacon. You break into a near-run, not caring how it looks, not caring if you drop the stupid groceries. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see what’s behind you. Not yet.

You stumble the last few steps to the bakery. The bag crushes against your chest, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The warm glow from the bakery providing a moment of relief. Your heart hammering in your chest – But then you see him.

Just to the side of the door, half in shadow, half under the flickering bakery sign. James

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s looking at the ground like he’s arguing with himself.

“James” You call out, still out of breathe. He looks up immediately. His shoulders are tense, eyes sharp. Like he’s been waiting.

His gaze lands on you, narrowing with concern. He steps forward quickly, hand reaching out on instinct before halting just short of touching you. “Sweets, you okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I just—”

But your voice betrays you. It's thin. Unsteady.

His brows pull together. “What happened?”

You hesitate. “I think… I think someone was following me.”

“Where?” he asks, instantly alert. “Where exactly?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Back on Hemsworth. Maybe earlier. I didn’t see a face. Just—heard footsteps. It could’ve been nothing.”

James takes a few steps away, peering down the sidewalk. You know that look—like he’s slipping into some version of himself you haven’t met yet. “I’ll check—”

“No,” you say, reaching for his arm. “Don’t.” His eyes meet yours again, searching.

“There’s no one now. And if there was someone… they wouldn’t still be standing around waiting to be caught, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just studies you like he’s trying to read more than you’re willing to say. “Please,” you say, quieter. “I just want to go inside.”

After a beat, he nods. Gently takes the bag from your arms like it’s instinct. The touch makes something in your chest ache.

The doorbell jingles as you both step inside. Warmth spills over you. Bread and sugar and safety. But it doesn’t chase away the cold in your stomach.

James sets the bags on the counter, then hands you a glass of water. “You sure you are okay?” You slip slowly, trying to calm your trembling hands before nodding. “Yeah, yeah.”

You glance at him. He runs his hand through his hair, visibly torn. It looks like he is wrestling with something. You watch as his mouth opens slightly, like he’s going to say something – but doesn’t. And just like that, the fear creeps back in—but a different kind this time. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the part where he tells you it was a mistake. That last night was too much. Too soon.

Maybe he waited here not because he missed you—but because he needed to end it before it went further. You assume the worst—because it’s easier than hoping. You watch him battle something inside himself. Like it’s taking everything in him just to stay put.

So, you try to defuse the tension. You clear your throat. “So, I’ve been thinking about renovating the bakery.”

Bucky’s head snaps up at that. “Really? I thought you loved this place exactly how it is.”

You nod. “Yeah, but.. change is good, right?”

A smirk tugs at his lips, “Sweets, you once threatened to track down a customer and burn their house down because they moved a flower pot.”

“I - The pot is supposed to be by the window so it gets enough sunlight, everybody knows that.”

He lets out a laugh, and the sound steadies you a little.“Okay, but why the sudden change of heart?”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’ve saved up. Thanks to someone who keeps stuffing the tip jar every time they visit.” You point an accusatory finger at him.

He looks away, feigning innocence. “Could be anyone.”

“With hundred-dollar bills? Seriously?”

Bucky chuckles innocently.

Silence falls again, but this time, it’s heavier. That uneasy weight presses down again. James is still fighting something. Steve was right—if he wants this, and God, he’s never wanted anything more—he can’t build it on lies.

But the fear that the truth will destroy it—that you’ll walk away—that fear is choking him. Still, he tries. “Y/N,” he says, voice low. “I need to talk to you about something.”

One look at him, and you know it is killing him to get the words out. Why was it so difficult for him to break your heart? So, you make it easier for the both of you. “James, you don’t have to say it. I know.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. It couldn’t be, right?

You took a deep breathe before continuing, “I understand if last night didn’t mean anything. It was late. You had just come back after so long and were clearly in a rough space. I just want you to know, it’s okay. I’m okay. I mean, I know we didn’t say anything about what it was… I didn’t expect anything. It was late, we were both tired, and emotions were—high, and that happens sometimes, right?”

You let out a nervous laugh. It sounds awful. Tight. He takes a step toward you, eyes narrowing.

“Because I don’t want to make this weird,” you continue, forcing a smile that trembles at the edges. “We’re friends, right? And I hope that doesn’t change. I sincerely hope that. So if that’s where you’re at,” you rush on, “if you’re standing here because you want to say it was a mistake, or that we should just pretend it didn’t happen, or that you’re sorry—please, just say it. I can take it. I’d rather you just be honest than—than stand there looking like you’re trying to figure out how to break bad news.”

“Stop.” His voice is low. Firm. Not angry—urgent. You freeze.

He takes another step closer, and now he’s right in front of you. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him. Close enough that his voice drops even lower when he says— “Stop talking like that. Like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter.” You blink, lips parting—but no words come out.

“It meant something to me,” he says. “It meant everything to me.”

Your heart stutters. “James…”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated—but not with you. With himself. With this moment. With whatever war’s been playing out behind his eyes since the second you arrived. “You think I’m trying to figure out how to walk away from you?” His eyes are on you now—unflinching. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to stay.”

He takes a breath. “I’m not good at this. I never have been. I screw things up. I keep things in. I second-guess the people I care about because… I never really let myself care before.” You can’t breathe. Not properly. “But last night?” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t get caught up. I didn’t lose control. I chose it. I chose you. Every second of it.”

Your chest is tight now, full of too much and not enough at once. He exhales, shaky. Runs a hand down his face. “You think I could just forget what happened? That I could hold you like that and not have it break something open in me?”

He reaches out—hesitant still, but when you don’t move away, his hand finds yours. “I could never think of it as a mistake,” he says. “You could never be a mistake.”

You look at him—really look at him—and your heart stumbles over the truth that’s been sitting in your chest for hours. “I was scared it mattered more to me than it did to you.” You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know when it happened,” you murmur. “Maybe it was the night you stayed after closing just to fix the jammed drawer, or when you started learning the names of all my regulars like it mattered to you. Or maybe it was way before that, when you started showing up like clockwork, always pretending it wasn’t on purpose.” You lift your eyes to his, voice gentler now. “So if you’re scared, you’re not alone. I’m terrified. Because you matter to me in ways I don’t know how to say without sounding like I’ve already given you too much of me.”

And his thumb brushes your knuckles like he’s grounding himself with the contact. You don’t say anything.

Because suddenly, standing there in the warm light of the bakery, your hands tangled together, everything feels…right.

James steps closer. And before you can even catch your breath, he kisses you—soft and warm and real. You smile into it, wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing him back like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

When you part, you laugh quietly. “What was that?”

His smile is so warm it could light up the world. Yours, especially. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you pulled me under your ridiculously floral umbrella.”

You squint at him. “First of all, my umbrella is beautiful. Second--creepy much?”

Bucky wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, “You know you love it.”

And you do. He will never know just how much you love it. Love him. Standing there in the heart of the bakery, wrapped in his arms, your faces close enough to count the freckles on his nose—you love all of it.

But you don’t know the war raging inside his mind. The things he hasn’t said. And the truth he was still hiding had teeth—and it was already circling the edges of everything you’d just begun to build. You just didn’t know it. At least not yet.

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[kingkruell]

THINGS UNSAID, THINGS HELD | JJK MULTIPLE [DRABBLE]

SYNOPSIS - despite the doubt that gnaws at you relentlessly, he always finds a way to silence it. with every gesture, every word, every subtle, careful touch, he could just always bring you back from the edge of your insecurities. and you love him for that.

CONTENT- multiple! jjk characters x insecure! reader, satoru x reader, sukuna x reader, suguru x reader, choso x reader, domestic! jjk bfs au, fem! reader, mentions of getting cheated on, insecurities, bodily insecurities, angst-comfort, established relationships, and most importantly, fluff.

WORD COUNT 3.462

based on a request by @creepyn00dles, enjoy!

listening to candy says - the velvet underground

PART 1

GOJO SATORU

“okay,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “we’re not going out today.”

you tug at the hem of your halter top, fingers brushing the smooth fabric like you’re trying to will it to feel right against your skin. it’s a sleek white piece that hugs your curves just so right, at least it's supposed to be. it's one of those outfits you’d usually feel good in. but right now, the mirror feels almost unforgiving as it reflects back all the little doubts that have been clawing at you.

satoru’s head immediately pops through your doorway, his expression a mix of confusion and mild disbelief.

“what? no way. i’ve got everything planned, baby! i was so excited—first the aquarium, then a picnic. oh, and wait ‘til you—”

“i’m sorry, ‘toru. i just... don’t feel good right now.”

you avert your gaze, mumbling. his excitement—so sweet, so childlike—makes your stomach twist. guilt curls in your chest. the truth is, satoru has been swamped with work lately. it feels so selfish to just take away the one day you’ve finally carved out for yourselves, especially after weeks of looking forward to it.

the brightness in his eyes softens immediately, and he crosses the room in a few easy strides, his long fingers finding your shoulders with a gentle touch.

“hey, hey... you feeling sick?”

he leans down, forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice lower and surprisingly careful.

“want me to grab you something? medicine? hot chocolate? one of my shirts?”

you look away, your face warm with a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

“no, it’s... it’s not that. i just don’t feel good about... myself.” you mumble as you look away.

at that very second, gojo just can’t quite comprehend that you could not feel good about yourself.

he thinks—how could you not see it?

the way your eyes catch the light like something holy.

the way your laugh curls up at the edges, soft and unexpected, like the first warmth of spring.

the way your presence shifts the air in a room, quieting the noise in his head like nothing ever could.

to him, you’re gravity. you ground him in a world that often feels too fast, too fragile, too fake.

you’re the realest thing he’s ever known.

he watches you fold in on yourself, and it doesn’t make sense.

because to gojo, you’re everything.

and the idea that you’d ever see anything less in the mirror feels like some kind of cosmic error.

silence falls for a moment, and you can almost hear his thoughts whirring behind those crystalline eyes. then, with a softness that just feels his, satoru hooks a finger under your chin, guiding your gaze back to him. a faint, knowing smile curls at his lips.

“you know,” he starts, lips curling into that boyish, teasing smile, “you could wear a potato sack, and i’d still think you’re the most gorgeous thing to ever walk this earth.”

despite yourself, a small laugh escapes, and satoru’s smile widens, triumphant.

he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. seeing your reaction pushes him even more.

“and it’s almost criminal how you’re underestimating yourself right now. you’re absolutely gorgeous—like, objectively. if beauty were a contest, everyone else would have to find a new hobby.”

you roll your eyes at his dramatics, but he doesn’t miss the way your shoulders relax just a little. satoru notices everything—even the things you don’t say.

“you’re just saying that.”

you huff it out, but he only shakes his head.

“seriously. i’d bet my sunglasses on it—and you know how much i love those. you’ve got this way of making everything brighter just by existing, and it’s a little unfair to the rest of the world.”

he tilts his head, his voice lowering to that rare, earnest timbre.

“look, we don’t have to go anywhere if you’re not feeling up for it. but just so you know... i’d still like to spend the day with you. i’m pretty sure watching movies in bed while you wear my hoodie sounds just as fun as the aquarium.”

he winks, squeezing your shoulders like he’s grounding you to the moment, his expression still holding that boyish charm, but now tinged with something softer.

“and if you ever forget how breathtaking you are, i’ll just have to remind you. repeatedly. relentlessly. until you get sick of me.”

the hint of a smile finds its way back to your lips, and he beams, clearly triumphant.

as you lean into his touch, he presses a quick, featherlight kiss to your forehead, his breath warm and reassuring.

“see? there’s that pretty smile i love. now, how about breakfast? i’ll make pancakes. you, me, and a day with just the two of us--whatever that looks like.”

you nod, finally allowing yourself to melt into his embrace, and he hums contentedly, already thinking out ways to see your beautiful smile for the rest of the day.

GETO SUGURU

it starts with the way you look at your reflection.

not hatefully. not even critically.

just like you’re searching for something, something you think should be there and isn’t.

but suguru sees it.

you don’t say anything when you step out of the bathroom. just towel-dried hair, a hoodie that isn’t yours, and that silence. that soft, invisible weight you think you’re hiding.

you dry your hands. exhale once, long and slow. and open the door.

he cheated because you weren’t enough.

because you stopped being exciting. because someone else was better.

you should’ve known. you should’ve seen it coming.

the apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of the air purifier and the quiet flipping of a page. suguru is exactly where you left him: on the couch, half-tucked into the corner, one leg folded underneath him, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. he looks impossibly serene, black hair half-tied, jaw slack with ease. the kind of peace you still sometimes feel like you’re borrowing.

“you’re doing it again,” he says, without looking up.

you pause mid-step. “doing what?”

“looking at yourself like you’re a puzzle.” he casually flips a page. and you know he’s right.

you exhale, eyes flicking down. “you make it sound dramatic.”

he hums, finally looking at you now, eyes soft and unreadable all at once. “it is. because it’s you. and i don’t like when you go quiet like that.”

you don’t say anything. maybe because you don’t know how to explain it, the way the echoes of your past still show up uninvited. that ugly, lingering voice in the back of your mind: he cheated because you weren’t enough.

because you weren’t pretty enough. exciting enough. good enough.

you sit beside him, legs folded just shy of touching his

“i don’t want to be the insecure girlfriend,” you murmur eventually, half into your sleeves.

suguru closes the book with a quiet thud. sets the mug aside. and shifts to face you fully.

“then don’t be,” he says simply. “be mine instead.”

you blink. “that’s the same thing.”

“nah,” he smirks faintly, brushing the damp hair back behind your ear. “my girlfriend gets to feel things. even the shitty ones. especially the shitty ones. she also gets forehead kisses on demand, hoodie privileges, and my last piece of gum. so really, she’s winning.”

you huff a laugh and suguru grins.

but then, softer, his hand lingers at the side of your face. his thumb traces the curve of your cheek like it’s familiar ground.

“you know,” he says quietly, “he didn’t cheat because you lacked anything. he cheated because he did. because some people don’t know how to hold onto good things when they have them. and you... you're the kind of good people spend lifetimes trying to find again.”

you stare at him, throat tightening. even without saying it, he just knows, he knows you like the back of his hand.

“you say that like it’s obvious.”

“it is.” he leans in. “and if you ever forget again, i’ll just keep saying it. out loud. annoyingly. maybe even in public.”

“suguru—”

“oh, don’t test me. i’ll pull a megaphone on the train. ‘ladies and gentlemen, please look at my girlfriend, the love of my life, the reason the sun even bothers to rise—’”

you swat him with a pillow, the smug grin on his face only widens, like he’s won something. like your irritation is a gift he’s been waiting to unwrap.

“see? knew i could make you laugh,” he says, ducking another half-hearted swing with the grace of someone who’s used to dodging curses and flirty retaliation alike.

“you’re insufferable,” you mutter, though you’re smiling now, and he sees it. he always sees it.

he raises his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “and yet, here you are. voluntarily trapped on the couch with me. must be something in the hair.”

“it’s definitely not that.”

“rude.”

reaching across the narrow space between your bodies, and finds yours-his fingers slip between yours so easily it feels like something you’ve done a thousand times. maybe you have.

his palm is warm. solid. reassuring in a way that words never quite manage to be. he doesn’t squeeze right away. he just holds it. lets your hand settle there in his like it’s always belonged.

and when he does give the slightest squeeze; thumb brushing over the back of your hand like a spell—you feel something shift inside your chest. like maybe the pieces don’t hurt so much when they’re held like this.

“i’m not him,” he says.

you squeeze his hand.

“i know,” you whisper. and maybe this time, you really do.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you don’t mean for him to hear you.

not really.

it’s just a slip of a whisper, not even words, at first. a half-voiced sigh, the kind that carries weight without sound. but sukuna’s ears have always been sharp. nothing escapes him. especially you.

you’re standing at the edge of the bed, back to him, fingers fussing with the hem of your shirt — or maybe your skin beneath it. he can’t quite tell. your reflection in the darkened mirror looks like someone bracing for battle.

“you’re staring,” you murmur, quiet and strained.

he doesn’t bother denying it. “of course i am.”

you hesitate, shoulders drawing up. the shirt falls from your hands.

“you don’t have to,” you murmur, almost too low for human ears. but you forget who you’re speaking to. “you don’t have to pretend.”

there’s a pause. his brow shifts, barely. “pretend what?”

“like i’m still…” you falter, lips parting soundlessly before closing again. the words wedge deep, too sharp to drag free easily. “…like i’m enough for you. like you still want me.”

the silence that follows is heavy. not absence — presence. thick with something unnamed, and watching.

then his voice cuts through it. low. and calm.

“are you fucking serious.”

you turn slowly, shoulders stiff, your face a carefully guarded mask. but the tension gives you away, the way your eyes don’t quite meet his, the way your posture coils like you’re expecting a blow, even if it’s only verbal. not from him. from the fear that maybe, somehow, you’re right.

he sits at the head of the bed, one knee drawn up, forearm slung over it lazily. like a king on his throne, but his gaze is far from idle. it pins. holds. not with rage. something quieter. something older.

sukuna tilts his head. there’s an edge of disbelief in his expression, tempered by a kind of dispassionate patience that makes you feel smaller than you’d like.

“woman. do you think i keep you here out of pity?”

you open your mouth. try to explain. but your voice sticks. the doubt’s too loud in your chest.

"it's just...i..maybe i am not enough, 'kuna."

he exhales, it almost sounds like a laugh, but it's more of a scoff twisted in disbelief. “i’ve erased bloodlines for lesser insults.”

“excuse me for being—human,” you snap, voice rising despite the sting behind your eyes. “i’m allowed to have doubts.”

he lifts a brow, unbothered. “doubts, yes. but let’s not confuse them for delusions.”

you turn away again, arms crossed tight over your chest, like you’re trying to hold something in — or hold yourself together.

“god, you’re such an asshole sometimes.”

“mm,” he hums. “and you’re sulking in the moonlight like a tragic little thing. do you really expect me to ignore it?”

“i’m not sulking.”

“you’re absolutely sulking.”

your spine stiffens. you whip around, jaw clenched. “why do you even care?”

he’s on his feet before the words finish echoing, fast and fluid, like something coiled finally springing. you barely register the movement before he’s standing before you, too close. towering. calm.

his hand lifts, slow, almost cautious. the gesture contrasts the weight of his presence; all fire and ruin. his thumb brushes your cheek. just barely. like he’s testing the edges.

“i care,” he says, soft but firm, “because it offends me to think anyone else has ever made you feel uncertain of what’s mine.”

your breath catches, unsteady.

his touch trails lower, to the curve of your jaw, anchoring you. his voice dips into something quieter. he doesn’t raise it. he never has to.

“you think some idiot who didn’t know how to hold you gets to decide how you see yourself now? after everything you’ve endured? after surviving me?”

there’s heat behind your eyes, and you hate it. but it’s there. he sees it. of course he does.

he leans in — not enough to touch, not quite. but close enough that the space between you feels intimate. unavoidable.

“i want you,” he says. “every version. every scar. every fury and ache and tenderness. i want you when you’re sharp and untouchable. and i want you when you’re unraveling.”

his thumb tips your chin up. not a demand. a nudge.

“do you understand me?”

you nod, slow, trembling beneath it all. but it’s not enough for him.

“use your words.”

“…yes,” you breathe.

his eyes narrow, testing.

“yes, i understand.”

he studies you a beat longer. then, apparently satisfied, he exhales through his nose and tugs you forward until your forehead rests against his collarbone. his arms curl around you, slow, sure, possessive.

“good,” he murmurs. “now stop sulking before i decide to strangle you for real.”

a muffled laugh escapes you before you can stop it as his arms tighten. he’s pleased. like he’s claimed something.

maybe he has.

because when he walks you back to the bed, not forceful, just certain, when he pulls the covers over your limbs with finality, when he gathers you into him like a crown too precious for the world to touch, something inside you finally lets go.

you’re not too much.

you’re not not enough.

you are his.

and in sukuna’s world, what’s his is sacred.

KAMO CHOSO

the apartment settles into quiet like it always does, the hum of the heater, the faint clink of dishes cooling in the sink, the silence pressed soft and heavy between two bodies that haven’t spoken in a while.

you’re still in your going-out clothes. makeup smudged, jewelry half-removed, hair pulled back like you couldn’t stand the weight of it anymore. your reflection in the blank tv screen looks tired. stretched thin at the edges. like you were holding something in all night and now it’s coming loose.

you don’t know why it hit so hard. the party wasn’t bad. no one was cruel. everyone smiled at the right moments. choso stayed close, his hand on the small of your back, his expression unreadable in that way of his, not cold, just hard to reach.

but somewhere between the sixth inside joke you didn’t understand and the third time someone interrupted you mid-sentence, something small in you began to crack.

and now it’s all rushing out at once. not in sobs. not in tears.

just in the quiet, gnawing doubt you thought you’d buried years ago.

you sit on the couch, knees pulled up, eyes unfocused. choso is in the kitchen, rinsing the last of the glasses from earlier — sleeves rolled up, movements slow, methodical. like cleaning gives him something to hold on to.

he doesn’t speak right away when he comes back. just stands in the doorway for a beat too long, watching you. you don’t have to look to know. he’s always watching when you go quiet.

you hate how much that makes you want to cry.

you don’t mean to say it aloud.

but you do.

“i must’ve seemed off tonight.”

he doesn’t answer right away. just watches you, the way he always does.

so you go on. too soft. too fast.

“i don’t blame you if you were embarrassed.”

his brows draws together like he doesn't understand. because of course he doesn't, not in the way you do, where you've been second guessing yourself since you were thirteen.

he moves then, slow, silent steps across the room. the kind of movement that would startle if it weren’t so careful, so practiced. like he’s always had to be mindful of how much space he takes up. he sinks onto the couch beside you, his weight pulling the cushions down. you feel the shift. the warmth. he doesn’t touch you. just sits close enough for the heat of him to remind you you’re not alone.

still, he says nothing.

you glance sideways. he’s staring at the floor.

his jaw is tight. the silence stretches, soft and sharp. like the space between lightning and thunder.

and then he lifts his head. slowly. looks at you like he’s just heard something he doesn’t understand , something that doesn’t make sense in a language he thought he was fluent in.

his brow furrows.

not in confusion.

in disbelief.

he blinks once, like trying to clear it. like he’s checking if you’re serious.

“embarrassed?” he echoes, voice quiet. “by you?”

you draw your arms tighter around your legs. press your cheek to your knee. and you hate how you feel yourself closing in, folding smaller and smaller. like if you keep still enough, the lingering doubt won't bloom even further the way it always does. like you can trap it in your lungs and exhale it later.

“everyone else is so easy,” you say. “they talk without thinking. they laugh and it sounds real. i’m just… trying not to say the wrong thing. or too much. or not enough.”

and then he laughs. not because it’s funny. not because he’s mocking you. it’s short. breathless. a sound cut from the middle of a scoff. like something in him can't quite process the absurdity of it.

he rubs a hand down his face. then over his mouth. still shaking his head, eyes dark.

you feel your chest tighten, shame curling in your throat. you don’t know why it hurts more that he’s reacting like this — like the thought alone unsettles him.

then, softly:

“is that really what you think?”

he turns to face you, full now. and you can see it all, up close: the flicker of frustration, the rawness underneath it. but it’s not aimed at you. not even a little.

he looks at you like someone trying to remember how to breathe.

and suddenly, you realize —

he doesn’t know how to do this. not the talking, not the gentle, not the naming of feelings. but he’s trying. hard.

you nod. just once. small. shame creeping up your neck.

his hand moves before he even seems to decide it — just a touch to your arm, the back of his fingers grazing your sleeve. like he wants to make sure you’re real.

“you were the only person in that room,” he says,“who didn’t want something from me.”

you look up.

his eyes don’t flinch.

“you weren’t trying to be impressive. or charming. or easy to like.”

he swallows.

“you were just being you. and i couldn’t stop looking.”

your breath hitches. it’s not the words, it’s the way they sit in the air between you. like they were carved instead of spoken.

his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, hesitant

and then quieter, he says almost to himself, “i didn’t know it was possible to want someone this much and still think it’s not enough.”

you don’t mean to cry, but your eyes burn. his other hand comes up slowly, touches your jaw. his thumb rests just under your cheekbone, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.and he leans in, not to kiss, but just to rest his forehead lightly against yours. grounding. still.

“i’m not that good at this,” he breathes.

you nod. whisper, “i know.”

“but i’m not leaving,” he says.

not a promise. not a reassurance.

a fact.

he draws you in, finally, arms wrapping around you like a barrier against the rest of the world. not tight, but firm. like the way people hold onto the only thing that’s ever made sense. you press your face into his shoulder, and he smells like laundry soap and warmth and the faintest trace of clove from the candle.

neither of you speaks after that.

he doesn’t need to.

the room hums around you: gentle, lived-in, dim.

and for the first time that night, you let yourself belong.

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

A Fool For Love (18+ Fic) *PREVIEW*

Pairing: Gangster!Bakugou x Black!Bimbo!Reader

Synopsis: You were just a lowly young woman singing and dancing at your local club to care for your sick mother and a chance at fame. He was just a renowned gangster, building his lonely empire and riches on the bones he broke. And then you two met and suddenly, everything seemed to fit together...until he broke it all apart again. Now, trying to move on, you find affection with another, but your gangster ex doesn't take too kindly to that and will have to find it in himself to make you understand that you're the one for him.

Story Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS GTFO); Time Period AU (Roaring 1920s); Gangster/Thug!Bakugou; Strangers to Lovers/Exes to Lovers; Opposites Attract Trope; Sunshine x Grumpy Trope; Mild Violence; Love Triangle; Jealous BF!Bakugou; Possession/Ownership; Bondage; Mild BDSM; Marking; Scent Play; Daddy Kink; Spanking; Spit Play; Cum Play; Public Sex; Dom!Bakugou x sub!Reader; Breeding Kink; Unprotected Sex/Creampies; Fluff & Hurt/Angst

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: Soooo I had this idea in my head for THEE LONGEST TIME after listening to Lucky Daye's "That's You" back to back for months now lol. I wanted to write a gangster fic for a minute now, but I was having trouble picking WHO to write it for until I did a poll on here & people chose Bakugou for it. I'm so hype to write this because I'm a slut for mafia romance (I'm a wattpad girl stfu) & I love writing period shit. I hope y'all enjoy it! 🥰🥰🥰🥰

I also have a tracklist that I made for this short compiled of songs I think fit the story & the time period it takes place in. You can find it below! If anyone has any idea who the artist is for the fan art in the tracklist, PLEASE let me know! (I found it on Pinterest) 💗💗💗💗 -Jazz

Chapters: PREVIEW. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X.

***********

PREVIEW 

Bakugou watches you intently sitting next to him in the passenger's seat of his car, the rain pitter-pattering outside, creating a loud cacophony of endless noise.

Your sweet voice nearly gets swept up with the rain. “I don’t understand, Katsuki. I just don’t understand you.”

You won't look at him. Your beautiful, doe-like brown eyes are staring somewhere else outside the windshield, the rain reflecting back in those pools of bewilderment and sorrow that Bakugou could get lost in forever.

'I know, baby,' he thinks, his own sorrow and regret threatening to swallow him whole. 'I wish I could tell you everything. Wish I could make you understand...'

But making you understand would also mean he would have to tell you and show you everything about him, and he dreads that. Because everyone he has ever shown the him behind the designer suits, fancy cars, laser red stares, and cool exterior has abandoned him. Broken his heart. Taken his affection and stomped on it.

He is afraid of what will happen if he does show you who he is because he has no idea what you'll do if he does. That is the reason he separated from you-to leave you before you left him. To save himself the heartbreak and you the horror of seeing that he is nothing like the man you thought he was.

It doesn't make it any better than you're so sweet. So kind. So different from the rest. The temptation to show you everything-the blood, the pain, the scars, the mistakes, the regrets-frightens him so.

"I'm sorry" is all he can say to you now, sitting awkwardly in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel for dear life to avoid trembling. He doesn't want to appear weak with you, his dear, precious little singer.

It is so lame, so trivial, but it is all he can muster to tell you now despite the brown liquor fogging his sense of rationality and his filter. He wants so much to tell you how much he misses you.

How he cannot fall asleep without envisioning your face next to him.

How he hasn't washed his pillow since the last time you slept on it just to smell your perfume on it.

How there has been no other woman in his bed or in his arms since you departed.

But he keeps it all back...for now. You look up at him now, turning away from the raindrops to finally put those pretty eyes on him. He nearly swallows his tongue at your beauty-your creamy skin that contrasts his; your baby face and dimples; your curly black hair made even curlier from the rain. The urge to kiss you lingers in the air.

"I don't get it," you say aloud, frustration and confusion evident in your tone and the crease in your brow. "What do you want?"

Bakugou blinks at you, not counting on the question being asked. It should be so easy to reply to, but he can't. Because if he says "you" then he will be forced to tell you the real reason why he ended your relationship: because he is afraid.

The silence must frustrate you more because your cute little lips purse, something you do when you're irritated. "What do you want, Katsuki?" you ask again, your frustration growing.

Finally, Bakugou relaxes his hold on the steering wheel and replaces it with your small, warm hands. You stare at his bigger, calloused, inked ones interlaced with yours as if you can't believe he is touching you. "I want you happy," he answers, true and genuine. "Even if it isn't with me, Y/N. I need you to be happy."

And despite the utter anguish that his response brings, despite the fact that he would be heartbroken if you were to end up with that stupid extra "Todoroki" or some other chump, if you were to be happier than you were with him, that would be the answer to his nightly prayers.

But he would also be lying if he said that he wouldn't be filled with envy for the rest of his days and dying to take the spot of the other man in your arms.

[damn-stark]

Chapter 11 Eternal eclipse

Chapter 11 of Tragedy at the Miller’s

A/N- This chapter was an emotional one to write, more than the previous one

Warning- ANGST, talks of violence and death, thoughts of suicide, spoilers for season 2, Remember this is a rewrite not an AU, so the major stuff that happens in the show will happen here :)

Pairing- Joel Miller x daughter!reader (platonic of course :), OC x Fem!reader

Episode- 2x03

(If you want to be tagged let me know!)

————

What sweet escape is there from the deafening echoes of your father’s screams torturing your every waking second?

What mercy will erase the violent memories of him getting violently beaten to death?

What trick can you play on fate so it can cut your life line and stop you from hearing your father's last words repeating again and again, adding to that merciless torture?

“Don't look…baby.”

What is the answer to all your loaded questions? If it was not Abby, then what?

You look around the clinic bathroom for a quick answer, something that will let you join him quickly, but you find nothing until…you look past your reflection. There in the depths of that steaming bath water is your answer…

Nothing can be as painful as the torture you went through, and will go through from here on out, so there’s no hesitation or fear. You were supposed to undress and wait, but you dip in the bath, getting quickly enveloped by the steaming water, and seeing darkness when you close your eyes.

A part of you expects all that grief and trauma to follow you, but there’s a peaceful abyss in the darkness, so you sink under and wait to finally be complete with your family.

It’s the only way to know peace again. It’s the only way to end the pain that awaits you. It’s…the only way to be with him again…

Yet…you can almost muster a laugh when you hear the door open, letting in fate’s intervention. Your husband, Apollo.

Said man sees you completely sunken in and reaches in to pat your shoulder, making you rise from the water and not care to wipe the water off your eyes when you open them. You just sit there with your eyes downcast and dark, with the horror still clinging to you.

“I told you to wait for me,” he says the same way he’s been speaking to you since you reunited in the middle of the street; softly and like he’s afraid that if he speaks any louder, he’ll hurt you in some way.

“At least you helped by loosening up that dry blood,” he adds so he knows he’s not scolding you, he’s just reminding you kindly of what he told you—“I'm going to start with your face, okay, my love?”

You don’t respond or acknowledge him, you simply sit still as he rubs soap on the rag and then gently touches your face to gently and slowly scrub your father’s blood off your face.

“Maria and Tommy will be back, they just have to take care of other things around town,” Apollo fills the morbid silence. “Our friends will come visit soon, and my dad will take Teddy home later. If not, Maria said he can spend the night with her.”

Finally, after a long silence, you shake your head, letting him know without a need for words that you want Teddy to be home, and he doesn’t argue against it, not in your state.

Apollo would actually not dare to try and upset you at all, thanks to Maria and Jesse, he knows why you returned home in such a disarray. He doesn’t know what exactly happened or how exactly you got hurt, but he knows enough to ask for time off work to be with you and be extremely gentle with his words and actions.

He wants to know how you ended up getting hurt, but he can’t bring himself to ask, so he has no choice but to wait to read the reports. Until then, he just washes the blood off your face, and when there’s no trace of red left, he moves onto your hands, skipping your throat because the nurses had cleared that area when they tended to your wounds. However, when he starts scrubbing your hands, he notices how filed down your nails are, and the cuts on all ten of your fingertips, almost as if you had scraped your fingers until they bled.

Once again, he doesn’t ask; he just tends to you quietly until finally you lift your eyes off the water and pull one hand away to start signing.

Now, he doesn’t know as much as you do, but he knows the alphabet, so he understands when you sign, “ELLIE.”

“Oh,” he gasps and lets his hand hang over the bathtub to give you the answer you seek. “She had some broken ribs. They’re tending to her now by the best doctor, Mia,” he lets you know with a smile in hopes you’ll mirror it, but you just express faint relief and a light nod.

“She’ll need to stay here until she heals,” Apollo continues to share. “Which is good knowing her. She’d probably try and get back to work tomorrow.”

You nod again in agreement and then pull yourself closer to the edge of the tub to ask after someone else.

“DINA,” you sign, making Apollo continue scrubbing your hand.

“She’ll be fine. The drugs have worn off, and they'll tend to that frostbite on her hand,” he lets you know, making you let out a short and deep breath of relief before you continue to look down at the water.

“And you,” he adds sweetly and with another sweet smile. “Will get to go home today. There’s no need to stay with a bruised throat. I think you’ll be more comfortable at home anyway.”

Home…

It’s supposed to bring you peace. It’s meant to be an escape from the everyday commotion of work and this apocalyptic life. You hoped with every fiber of your being that it would be an eternal escape anyway, and in some way, it is some escape. Home does offer some peace, but only because it offers sanctuary from the outside world.

You don’t fear that the infected will roam the streets, that’s not why you don’t leave home when you step foot in it. Home doesn’t keep the violent and painful memories away; no, you have those every day and every night.

When you close your eyes the first night at home, you think you’ll be in that peaceful abyss once again, but you end up back in that lodge, seeing your dad slowly slip away right in front of you.

Every single night it’s like you’re being tortured, feeling every raw ounce of grief and crippling pain. It reaches the point that Theo needs to start sleeping in his own room so he wouldn’t be startled awake by your screaming. You had advised Apollo to do the same, but he refused to, so every night, like clockwork, he wakes up to you screaming and offers you the comfort of his soothing embrace.

Apollo is the sweet reminder that you’re not there again, so you keep him close. Being near him or in his embrace eases your pain and makes days easier to navigate, but he’s not enough to ward away your paranoia. It’s why you don’t leave home for three months, because home is a sanctuary. Home keeps you from failing your dad again, it keeps you from being taken back to that lodge again and watching him get beaten to death.

Albeit eventually, sometime throughout those three months, Apollo has to return to work. He’s the head of the construction unit now, you see, because the previous one died, so who else can fill his shoes but the man he mentored?

Yet you’re not alone. You’re never alone when he’s gone. If it’s not your Uncle Tommy, it’s Maria, or Mia. Even Dina is around sometimes, but you’re never at home alone.

That would annoy anyone; it would annoy you when it hit a certain point, but why would a corpse be annoyed?

That’s what you are. A shell of a person who has a beating heart, working lungs, but no soul. It was sucked right out of you, leaving you roaming the earth like a corpse.

You do eat, but hardly. You take care of your son, but every achievement he makes passes over your head. You listen to Apollo, your Uncle Tommy, Maria, your friends, and Dina talk, but you never respond to anyone besides mindless nods and blinks.

Life just passes by. The snow melts, the bitter coldness begins to leave, and day by day spring slowly takes over the earth, but everything might as well be bitter, dull, and lifeless because you don’t bother to care.

It comes to a point where everyone who loves you, except for Ellie and Jesse, meet up at your house to talk about you, thinking you’re busy putting Theo to sleep. Albeit he's quick to fall under the spell, so you overhear everything that is said.

“It’s been 3 months, Mia,” you hear Uncle Tommy raise his voice at your friend. “If something is wrong with her, you need to tell us.”

“N-No,” Mia argues. “Nothing is wrong with her. Her wounds have healed. She should be able to talk now.”

“Then?” Your uncle quips with worry.

Mia sighs, and there’s a moment of silence before you hear Gail, Mia’s adopted mom, speak up for her daughter. “It's a trauma response. She may not be doing it on purpose. It’s her mind's reaction to everything that happened that day, but now it all depends on her. You can’t force her to speak. She needs to decide on her own.”

“And if she never does?” Maria asks with the same concern that everyone in that living room carries.

“Then she never does,” Gail puts it bluntly. “But either way, I’m going to start her therapy tomorrow. That's what you still want, Apollo?”

A second of silence passes before you hear your husband speak. “Yeah. We've been putting it off for long enough, and I…I don’t know how to help her anymore. Her nightmares don’t stop, and I…I don’t want her to suffer anymore. She doesn’t sleep. She doesn’t eat. I…don’t want this to take her. So please. Come.”

Tears slip from your eyes, and you rest your head against the wall as you take in his words and think about everyone gathered in your home, worried about you.

You don’t want them to be worried. You don’t want to be a burden. It’s all just…impossible.

Life…without him…

If you make a sweet escape, no one will worry. You’ll be no one’s burden, and most importantly, you’ll be with them again; Sarah and your mother, whom you never got to meet but was your dad's great love, according to your Uncle. Most importantly, you’ll be with your dad again. You crave that sweet afterlife so dearly…

An end to the pain…

However, one of the reasons you don’t take that path suddenly stirs awake and looks up at you with his father's sweet eyes, making you wipe your tears off your cheeks and muster a soft smile.

——

*THE NEXT DAY*

And then, in the silence of the day is an interruption. A disturbance in your day-to-day life.

Yet even though you were broken from the spell you were under, you don’t move to open the door after a visitor rapped their fist on the wooden door. You don’t pretend to be busy, you remain seated in your rocking chair with your blanket covering your legs and your crocheting project in the same state it’s been for the past three months, just a square.

The visitor, on the other hand, walks into the living room trailing after your Uncle Tommy, revealing themselves to be Gail. As predicted.

“Hello,” she greets as she walks past your Uncle to stand at his side and face your pathetic state, and since you can’t speak, you just offer her a tight-lipped smile before you look down at your crochet square and pick up the needles to pretend to be busy.

“Well, make yourself at home. I’ll be close by,” your Uncle Tommy interjects in the awkward silence, taking no time to turn away and walk off, leaving you alone with Gail and her intentions, you really don’t plan to entertain.

“Well, you can put that shit down, we both know you weren’t doing it before I got here anyway,” she says bluntly, making you pause and wait a moment before you drop the needles and keep looking away.

“We’re also not going to pretend that you don’t know why I’m here. You’re smarter than that, so get up and come with me.”

You draw out a deep breath and slowly raise your head to face her with a glum look, making her think you’re going to give her a hard time, but you pull the blanket off your lap and toss it on the couch before you rise off your seat.

“Good,” she praises you and doesn’t fret to walk off. You follow after her at a normal pace, not giving much thought to her grabbing a bag next to the doorframe, and not asking questions about where she’s taking you. You follow her until you notice that she’s heading to the backyard. That's when you stop in front of the back door, hoping that the door will close behind her, securing you inside, but Gail is quick to notice that your footsteps are not trailing after her, so she turns and manages to catch the door before it closes.

“Come,” she beckons you outside. “Just to your backyard.”

You step back, telling her that you refuse to follow along now, but she takes a step past the door as she keeps it open, and hardens her gaze.

“There’s no point in making you,” she argues. “But if you want to be difficult, I will be difficult right back. Come. Outside. I need you to see something.”

You think about her threat and know she means it, but what is her persistence compared to what she wants to show you?

You have an idea as to what she may want to show you after all, and even the thought of it makes you want to cry.

“Ellie gets out of the clinic in a week,” she then cuts through the silence to share that bit of information about a girl you haven’t gone to see in three months.

“Do you want her to see you the way you are? Is that the example you want to give your sister?” She cuts deep, forcing you to think about what she said and come up with an answer, which is no. You don’t want her to see you the way you are. That’s not the image you want her to have of you after she gets out of the hospital.

You want her to see someone…handling her grief. An example of strength so she can be so and know that it will be okay. Yet how can you be the very picture of that with the way you look now?

Thus, you drag out a deep breath and step forward, making Gail offer you a tight-lipped smile before she continues her path outside.

This time, you trail after her, and the moment you step outside, you gasp deeply as you’re hit with the simple touch of fresh air. You then immediately shield your eyes from the sun’s rays breaking through the branches of the great oak trees that live around your backyard, and duck your head whilst your shoulders tense up as you’re offended by all the noise that travels through the sky.

When you finally manage to catch up to Gail by the garden of wildflowers, your discomfort slowly washes away. The sun still slightly burns your skin and bothers your eyes, and the noise is just as annoying, but you don’t let it drive you inside. You let it all be as you keep your eyes on the vivid green leaves that decorate the oak tree.

“Look down here and tell me what this garden means to you,” she gets right to business with a strict and professional voice.

You remain defiant though and let your eyes wander the trees, feeling the sun stop burning and start feeling warm and kind against your skin.

“Look,” she presses with her voice raised, and so you proceed to blink and drag your eyes down, but you keep every feeling, thought, and memory at bay.

“So?” Gail probes.

You simply shrug, making her sigh and crouch to study the little yellow rue flowers that take part in the great wild garden.

“I think these Rue flowers are lovely,” Gail shares her thoughts, making you cross your arms over your chest. “When did you plant these?”

You don’t say anything, of course and since she already knows the answer, she continues for you.

“Was it after you came back five years ago? They’re very pretty.”

You bite your lip and glance away.

“These purple ones are really nice too,” she adds, and so you grip onto your arms and keep your eyes averted.

“Everything is just so lovely. I think there’s a purity to flowers. Grace. A resilience and a rather dependable beauty in this new life. You know? Infected roam the earth, bad people live amongst us, but this…these flowers are something you can always count on when you want to see something so perfectly beautiful. Furthermore, when you can’t see them, at least you know they’re still here, growing tall even through it all.”

You look down and see the picture she paints with the flowers. You can understand everything she says, but every personal meaning you have connected to all that’s beautiful is still kept away.

You meant to lock it away in the dark corner of your mind, but you weren’t strong enough, so it came rushing down. The only thing keeping it from completely crushing you is your fight to keep it at bay.

“Oh, ok,” Gail sighs and pushes herself to her feet before she pulls out something small from her bag that fits in her balled hand.

“If this doesn’t mean anything, then you won't mind if I torch it, right?” She says and catches all your attention.

“Tell me,” she huffs and reveals a match and a striker as she opens her hand. “What does this wildflower garden mean to you?”

You watch her pull out a match and hold it up between her and you.

“The yellow flowers are Rue flowers. You planted them with your dad in memory of your mother. Am I right?” She asks, and since she doesn’t get an immediate answer, she answers for you. “Yes, I am right.”

You swallow thickly and drop your arms to your sides to ball your hands tightly in defiance of what she threatens to bring out.

“The rest of these beautiful flowers are a reminder of who you’ve lost, right? Right.” She nods. “But mostly your sister. The one you and your dad adored. The one who looked after the both of you. The one you would spend breakfasts with just before she had to go to school and your dad had to go to work—”

You shake your head, and your eyes begin to sting along with your throat as your mind slowly gives signs of pain.

“These flowers aren’t just a reminder of her. But of that life with her and him. They’re the reminder that no matter what, your sister and now your dad will always be with you. Even if the flowers themselves aren’t showing, you know that they’re still here, underground, in the same way your dad is and will always be here. With you. Even if he’s not alive, he’s still here…with you. So what if I torch it?”

She won’t do it.

She won’t dare to, so you don’t give her what she wants or what she threatens to set free.

You remain defiant, so she chuckles maliciously and lights the match before she holds it up between you and her again.

“You think I won’t do it?” She reads your mind and smirks at you before she tilts her hand down to let the match dangle between her fingertips.

“Watch me,” she snaps, and you see her loosen her grip, making your heart begin to race with fear.

“I won’t let it burn my fingers,” she adds and looks down at the match before, in the blink of an eye, she lets the match go, causing your eyes to widen, and a breath to catch in your throat seconds before you reach over with the attempt to catch it.

Albeit you’re too slow, the match hits the ground, and the flames don’t hesitate to start wanting to consume everything in its path. So before they can kill the beautiful wild garden that holds everything sweet and hopeful, you quickly stomp out the fire and look at her bewildered and with tears welling in your eyes.

“Tell me,” she insists softer, and this time, after she almost took it all away, you feel it break like a weak dam.

Everything you tried so hard to keep away comes bursting out like a cascade of water, and when that happens, there’s no way of trying to put it all back in. It’s too late and impossible. Everything comes apart.

Every attempt to keep every feeling back washes away. The memories of the day you lost your dad are loud, and his last words are even louder, but it’s every single memory where he wasn’t being tortured, where you were happy, and when he was simply alive, that consume you completely, dragging you under the surface where you can’t breathe because of the emotions that come rushing up your throat, and where you can’t see because of the tears that cover your eyes.

The only way to breathe is by coming up for air, so you do. You surface and take that breath, and when you do, you can’t help it, you start to let out a mighty, painful wail like never before as if you had been holding everything back and only now were able to let it out.

It hurts. It really fucking hurts. It’s like every part of you is on fire, but you can’t stop. You let it all out and continue to wail for the father you loved and lost.

You lose your balance and fall on your knees. You almost fall on your hands, but there to catch you is none other than your Uncle Tommy, who had been on standby by Gail’s instructions.

“It’s okay, baby girl. It’s okay.” He whispers as he cradles you. “I’m here.”

You grip onto him and part your lips to utter your first words in months. “He’s…he’s gone,” you say hoarsely and wail again before you bury your face in his chest and sob like the day he died.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “He is, but never forgotten.” He whispers, and you cherish it as you weep and continue to weep. The pain of grief and loss doesn’t wash away with all your tears, nor does it just go away when you muster the will to speak again. Maybe grief will be a long companion, but the wildflowers are vivid with color, the sky is a sweet hue of blue, and the sun is brightly yellow.

“I think…these flowers will look just perfect in your garden.” Your Uncle says after Gail left, and you were able to stop crying, and able to pull yourself away. “Don’t you think?” He asks and pulls out a couple of lovely blue Irises still connected to its root, begging for it to be part of the dirt so as to not die.

“Gail brought them for you to plant,” he says, giving you the answer as to why Gail was carrying a bag that she left here.

“Where should we put them?” Your Uncle asks and brings the flowers down to a spot already occupied by many a flower. “Here?”

You scoff and remark at him hoarsely. “Are you jokin’?”

He sniffles and flashes you a sly grin before he gets on his feet, making you mirror his actions.

“There,” you point out and lead him to the spot to give your new flowers a place to thrive.

After a while. After you planted the Irises and spent time in your wildflower garden, basking in the sun your body has lacked for three months. Apollo comes home from work, finding you and your uncle sitting on the bench swing.

“Hey,” he says with an air of disbelief and hope as he sees you outside for the first time in months.

“Hey, Apollo,” your uncle greets your husband as he walks over to join you by the bench swing.

“Hi,” you still can’t get your voice to sound clear, but it’s not like it matters to Apollo; he still looks at you with shock, pride, and a twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh my god,” he gasps and quickens his pace to reach you faster, making you get off the bench swing to let him embrace you and undoubtedly hug him back.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” he coos as he holds the back of your neck with one hand and rubs your back with the other.

“Teddy?” You ask for your one-year-old.

“He was sleeping, so I put him to bed.”

You hum before you hug Apollo tighter, not saying it then, but demonstrating how much you love him.

You can’t even begin to fathom how alone he must’ve felt in the time you didn’t talk, and you were there physically, but mentally, you just weren’t there.

He could’ve given up or not been so patient, but he never complained or turned his back. He held you every time you woke up screaming and when you’d cry in the middle of the day.

“Well,” your uncle breaks you and Apollo apart, but you don’t stray from one another. He keeps his arm around your waist and you tuck your hand in his coat pocket—“I’m going to head out now. You’ll be okay?”

You sigh shakily and nod ever so lightly. “Yeah. Tell Maria not to come tomorrow. I…don’t know what I’m going to do, but I know I don’t need to be looked after anymore. Thank you.”

Your uncle scoffs. “Of course, Sunny. Don’t mention it, but how about dinner, then? At our place? It’s okay, don't bring anything with you.”

Without needing it to be discussed, you nod to give your uncle the okay, making him smile before he begins to head out.

However, before he can leave, you break away from Apollo to catch your Uncle in an embrace. “Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” you whisper shakily.

“You don’t have to mention it okay?” He assures you. “It was nothing. We’re family. Always.”

You nod, and he holds you closer before he interjects.

“You remember where we put your dad to rest, yes?” He asks.

“Yeah. I remember,” you let him know and then pull back. “Get home safe.”

He scoffs and nods before he waves Apollo goodbye and then leaves, leaving you and Apollo alone in the garden where you look at the flowers and think of everything you need to tell him. Everything he needs to hear after three months of you being…not here.

“Apollo,” you don’t hesitate to say, and look away from the flowers to meet his already attentive gaze. “I—”

“Don’t say it,” he cuts you off and closes the gap to be face to face with nothing but an inch of space left between you—“it was really nothing and we made a promise to each other the day we got married. For better or for worse,” he repeats those sacred vows. “I meant them and I live by them not only because you’re my best friend, but because I am in love with you and I couldn’t abandon you when you needed me most.”

You move in, leaving no gap left to be able to grab his hand and be physically connected. “But that’s it, you didn’t abandon me, and for that I will always be grateful. So thank you…I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

He shakes his head and brings his other hand up to cradle your cheek with his warm palm. “And you don’t have to. Ever so don’t look at it that way because you’d never want me to see it that way. Right?”

“No.” You shake your head right away, making him flash you a smile before he lets your hand fall to hold your face with both hands and keep your eyes on his so as not to stray even an inch.

“Tell me, what do you feel now?” He asks.

You cup his hands and sigh. “Like I’m here…my heart was beating and my lungs were drawing in air before, but I was never here. My body was only an empty shell. But now…now I’m here and it hurts so much worse, but,” your voice trembles. “I want to try and…make it hurt less. I want to keep talking to Gail.”

Apollo sighs with relief and then caresses your cheeks. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “Really. I’m proud of you.”

You draw in a shaky breath before you drop your head on his shoulder, letting him press a gentle kiss on top of your head before he wraps his arms around you once again.

“I’m here,” he whispers.

“Me too,” you whisper back and let a silence linger before you break it with a desire. “I want to go pay my respects. I want to see my dad's grave.”

“Of course. We can go whenever you want.”

“Now,” you blurt and pull away to find his gaze. “Please.”

Once again, Apollo is too kind, he gives in. “Okay. Let me just let our friends know. They want to accompany you, if that’s okay?”

You nod. “Yes, of course. I’ll get Teddy ready and we can go.”

He hums, and without delay, you do as you agreed upon. You wait for Teddy to wake up first, and then after he’s ready, you gather your friends, ride out of town, and find yourselves in Jackson’s cemetery occupied by all of the loved ones everyone’s lost.

You have never had to come until now, but you find no trouble in finding your father. You wish you had struggled to find his grave to have time to process the fact that he’s buried here and that you’ll never get to see him again, but you find his name amongst the row of other dead and instead linger behind to take time to process the fact that he won’t be waiting for you, or meeting up with you. You have to walk to his tomb placed where he’ll be forever. Even when you’re nothing but bones as well.

No one rushes you, though. They let you take your time and wait with you until you’re finally able to approach the tomb.

“Hi Daddy,” you greet, and for the first time in thirty years, you cast a shadow over him. “I know…it’s been a while. I know I wasn’t here when they buried you, but…I’m here,” you cry and crouch down, reading the words carved on the wooden tomb.

‘Joel Miller’

‘09-26-1967 - 01-01-2029’

‘Beloved Brother and Father’

“I’m sorry,” you blurt after you read the carved letters. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I,” you stammer. “I did try. I’m sorry.”

Footsteps close in on you before a shadow casts over your figure, swallowing your shadow before you feel a warm hand on your shoulder as they crouch down by your side, revealing themselves to be Apollo and Theo in his arms.

Apollo doesn’t proceed to say anything; he just stays by your side with his hand on your shoulder, stopping you from saying everything else you had to say, everything that was already written out in your mind after months of thinking about it, and leaving you with that weight on your chest.

“Teddy, why don’t you put the flowers down for your grandpa,” Apollo tells Theo, who’s already come to visit your dad with your Uncle Tommy and Maria.

“Just there,” Apollo instructs your son before letting him go, making you hand him a bunch of yellow Rue flowers that Teddy places down without a struggle.

“Good job, Teddy,” Apollo praises him, making the boy turn to smile with glee, and causing you to clap for him and his great achievement.

“Good job, baby,” you follow up by saying as you wipe the tears off your cheeks and offer him a sweet smile, making the boy get the idea to walk over to you to hook his arms around your neck and cling onto you instead of his dad.

“You did good,” you whisper to him and cradle the back of his head, remembering at that moment the first time your dad saw Theo and held him.

He was so happy that you thought his heart would give out with joy. He also struggled to hand Theo back, so you thought he’d leave with him.

Now…your son will grow up and not even remember him. He’ll know him by all the things you’ll tell him. Other than that, he’s too young to remember how much your dad absolutely loved him, all because…

You drop your head and hold Theo close as if seeking that embrace from your father in someone who’s a part of him. You know it will never be the same, but a part of your dad lives in your son.

“Why,” you pause and clear your throat of that ball of emotions caught in your throat. “Why don’t you say hi to Grandpa?”

Theo pulls away, but keeps one hand around you as he turns to face the tomb. “Ha,” he tries his best to say. “Ha!”

You giggle and kiss his cheek before you stand up with your son in arms, causing Apollo’s hand to slip off your shoulder before he slowly mirrors you and stays by your side.

“I will follow you,” Atlas breaks his silence as he sees you on your feet. “If you want to get justice for what those bastards did, I will follow you.”

“I will too,” Mia proclaims, abandoning her mother-like role in your friend group and showing a fierce and dangerous devotion. “I follow you too. It wasn’t right what they did.”

You keep your eyes on your dad's tomb and hear Mia’s husband chime in next.

“I know I joined your friend group because of Mia, but you’re special to me now too. All of you. And Joel was a good man. I will follow you too.” He pledges and all their words warm your heart. They make you happy, and they let you know that even if you’ve been a bad friend for the past three months, you can still rely on them like before.

Yet as touched as you feel, you know revenge is not what you want.

“Thank you,” you interject and pull your eyes off your dad's tomb. “Thank you, all of you, for your support. I appreciate it more than you know. I do.” You nod and then sigh deeply. “But,” you pause and look at each and every one of them. “That’s not who we are. I’m angry. Sad beyond measure, but I’m not going to gain anything going after the woman who…killed my dad. That’s not going to make my pain any less, and that’s not what I want Teddy to know either.” You express yourself with confidence because no matter what you feel, you know that’s not the path you want to take. That’s not who you are.

“Thank you, though. It really means a lot,” you add softly and look back at your dad's tomb, feeling that weight on your chest push down so heavily that you feel it pushing on your heart.

You don’t like the feeling, but you can’t find a way to get rid of it. Not even finishing what you were sharing before you got interrupted would have been the solution. They were just a manifestation of what you feel and have been feeling, so you don't know what the cure is.

It’s not revenge.

Is it time?

Or…

——

*THE NEXT DAY*

“You don’t think she’ll be mad at me, huh, Teddy Bear?” You ask your son rhetorically, but he looks over at you and blinks as if processing what you asked.

Teddy ultimately doesn’t respond, so you don’t prolong the moment; you secure the bag of goodies around your shoulder and then knock on the door and wait.

Moments later, there’s a response from the other side of the hospital room.

“Come in.”

You open the door and slowly push it open, revealing to Ellie, the patient, that it’s you. After three long months, it’s finally you.

“Holy shit,” Ellie gasps as she sits up straighter and looks at you with her eyes wide. “I thought you were dead. Or completely forgot about me.”

You close the door behind you after you walk in and then respond to her absurd comments. Which are reasonable, but it’s still absurd.

“No,” you argue with your voice still a hint hoarse. “I just…”

“Lost your voice,” Ellie cuts you off more seriously now. “Yeah, I know.”

You set Teddy down and he doesn’t hesitate to roam, taking advantage that he’s not being held, whilst you approach Ellie with your lips drooped and your eyes dull out of guilt and shame.

“It’s not only that,” you share. “It’s…I…felt guilty,” you confess and rob Ellie of her smile and make her slowly frown. “You shouldn’t have walked in seeing that and me on the floor not being able to…uhm,” you pause and clear your throat to avoid crying more than you already have. “Well…stop her. I should’ve,” you pause again and put down your bag of goodies as you stop at the edge of her bed. “I should’ve stopped her even if it had gotten me hurt or killed.”

Ellie stares at you hard for a moment, with the wheels behind her eyes churning fast as different thoughts form.

“For that, I’m sorry,” you finish saying and drop your eyes to try and fight back the tears that well in your eyes, regardless of your attempts.

“I think Joel would have died with you if you died saving him,” Ellie says softly, pulling your eyes off the ground to look at her with sadness—“and,” she continues. “It was a tough situation, so don’t apologize. Besides, he wasn’t my dad. He was yours. I should be the one who’s sorry.”

You take in her words and take a seat beside her to hold her hand.

Ellie looks down at your touch with surprise, expecting an estrangement now that your dad wasn’t alive to keep you talking to her, or expecting anything else but your touch.

“You loved him,” you argue with a small and wobbly smile. “And he loved you. There’s nothing to be sorry about. You lost him too.”

Ellie’s eyes flicker down to your interlaced hands before she meets your watery gaze and breathes out shakily as if dropping a mask that hurt her so much to carry. After that, for the first time, she moves in and surprises you with an embrace.

There’s no awkwardness. Just vulnerability that she lets you see, just like that time after David.

Yet it’s that same vulnerability that makes a different kind of guilt creep in. Yet, you don’t let it affect you at this moment. You hold her tightly, feeling a spark of bliss in your heart that only she was able to make you feel.

“You know…” you pause as you sniff her. “You smell like sweat.”

You pull back and study her face, catching a sheet of sweat glistening over her face, proving that what you smelt was right.

“I hope you haven’t been doing something you’re not supposed to,” you manage to tease her. “My best friend is the doctor of this clinic.”

Ellie scoffs and shakes her face with an obvious lying expression. “Nope, I’ve been sitting here…all day. Every day.”

You know she’s lying, but you’re not annoying about it. Instead, you pick up your bag of goodies and then place it over her legs.

“That’s for you,” you let her know with a happy little smile. “Before the outbreak, if you were in this situation, people would’ve brought balloons and stuffed animals, but this is now, and you get out in a week, so,” you breathe out and pat the bag. “I brought you a bag with foods you like and things to keep you entertained. This last week will be hell, so I think it’ll help make the days pass by faster.”

Ellie groans as she grabs the bag to rummage through it, causing Teddy to walk over with curiosity. “Wouldn’t your doctor let me go now? I feel so much better.” She says.

“Sorry.” You offer her a pitiful frown. “But that’s something I cannot make her do. Trust me. Unless you want her pestering you for a week.”

“No,” she grumbles. “They already check on me more than they should.”

You look over your shoulder to make sure no one is coming and then look at Ellie again as you pick Teddy off the ground and sit him on the bed. “I’m sorry about Dina,” you finally address the situation you’ve overheard Dina ramble about the times she’d visit. “I can maybe start giving her the cold shoulder,” you offer. “Albeit she did visit me and stay with me so…maybe I can keep it strictly professional.”

Ellie scoffs as she pulls out a brownie and breaks it in half to share with Teddy as he grows ever so curious. “Nah, I…learned not to be bothered by what she did. It’s Dina. I assumed she’d forget about it. It’s okay. However, I am sorry she visited you.” She says with a teasing look.

You shrug. “Well, I was out of it, but it was nice. We…share a memory that will always keep us connected, so I’m quite touched she went. It’s Jesse whom I haven’t seen. Has he come to visit you?”

Ellie nods with her mouth full, thus making crumbs fall out of her mouth just like Teddy. “Yeah,” she says with her mouth full. “Plenty of times.”

You hum and wonder again why he didn’t visit you. It’s not like you were impossible to reach, you never left your house.

But alas, you push it aside for now and face her with a faint smile. “After you’re out of the hospital, you are welcome to come stay at my place if going back home is difficult.”

Ellie swallows her snack and slowly lifts her gaze to find yours with nothing to say. She just sighs as her face grows serious and glum.

“Thank you,” she offers you, with no say if she’s going to accept your offer or not.

You don’t pester her about it as long as she knows that’s an option.

“Have you gone to his house?” She asks and looks at Teddy as he asks for more of her brownies.

“Uh,” you swallow thickly. “No. Not yet. I thought about going after this, but I-I don’t know. Maybe...”

She hums and grabs another brownie to share with Teddy.

From there on, you can’t think about anything else but stopping by at your dad's house. You argue with yourself between wanting to go and waiting for a different day.

Gail says it’s okay to take things slow. You’re talking again and no longer trapped in your trauma, so you shouldn’t want to do everything at once, but it’s been three months. That’s what you keep telling yourself until you decide not to go.

You’ll go on a different day, maybe when Ellie goes.

Alas, after the hospital, you find yourself in your dad's street, slowly walking up to his house, fully expecting to see him sitting on his porch enjoying the warm sun until you reach his house and see old and new flowers, drawings, and notes in front of his house in his stead.

The porch is abandoned and has a cold shadow covering the wooden chair where he liked to sit and where you found him for the last time, just at the start of the New Year.

Maybe if you walked to the front door and knocked he’d answer, you thought foolishly until you once again noticed the dozen of notes and bouquets left in memory of him, becoming a cruel reminder that no one would answer the door. No one would sit on that porch again to play the guitar in the sun, or try to fight his sleep as he tried to read.

Maybe if you went inside, you’d feel like a part of him was still there. All of his stuff has gone untouched after all, but when you approach the end of that driveway to prepare to walk to the front door, you come to a sudden stop.

No matter how much you wanted to move, your grief would not let you take a step forward because you knew he would not be there. You knew that you’d no longer have dinners at his house or have movie nights. You'll no longer come and find him and Teddy asleep on the couch, and you’ll no longer have someone to share a cup of coffee.

His house will be alone and a harsher reminder of what you won’t have anymore, so instead of going in, you hang around the fence to read everything everyone wrote and let Teddy see and touch all the things that call his attention.

There’s things that make you smile, but there are more things that make you cry as you read how much he impacted everyone who lived in Jackson.

It all brings you close to finding the strength to walk inside, but alas, you still can’t, so you linger where you are for a moment. When you get ready to leave, you hear someone walk over, so you stop and pretend you don’t hear.

That is until you hear Jesse say your name, causing you to turn and face him with Teddy in your arms.

“Jesse,” you greet with a hint of joy and the hint of a smile, but it’s a blink and you’ll miss it type of smile.

“Were you just coming out of your dad's house?” He asks as he glances over.

“No.” You shake your head and steal a glance at the house before you look at all the things and then at him. “I…couldn’t…you know? But it’s okay, Gail says it’s okay to take my time.”

Jesse nods in comprehension and gulps before he glances at the ground and doesn’t prolong the moment. “I saw you walking out of the clinic, and I thought I’d follow you to uh, tell you first, I’m sorry that I haven’t gone to visit you.”

You watch him and hang onto every word, but wonder why someone usually so confident is struggling to speak.

“And two…I’m sorry,” he says in a quieter voice than the one you’re used to hearing. “I should’ve gotten there sooner. Maybe that would’ve made a difference. Maybe he would still be here and you would have your dad, but I didn’t even catch the ones who did it. For that, I’m so deeply sorry,” he shares what’s kept him away with genuine guilt and shame.

“Oh, Jesse,” you whisper and close the gap between you to grab his shoulder so he can at last look you in the eyes—“you did nothing wrong. Nor do you have anything to be sorry about. Maybe if you had been there you would have gotten hurt too, or worse. What happened that day happened for a reason. So please know that I have never blamed you. I actually wondered where you’ve been.”

He scoffs. “Trying to think of the right thing to say,” he shares. “I just couldn’t bring myself to face you. We are patrol partners after all. Friends too. I just…felt ashamed I let my friend down.”

You smile softly and gently shake his shoulder. “Well, as your friend I want to tell you that there’s nothin’ to be ashamed about. Ok?”

Without making things hard, he nods in comprehension, so you offer him one last smile before you let him go and bring up a question. “You workin’?”

“I have some time until my next shift,” he says, so you nod and then share what you have in mind.

“Okay, cool, come over. I was just thinkin’ about gettin’ some lunch.”

——

*A WEEK LATER*

“You need to take that goat back to the barn,” your uncle tells you for the…third time. Not like you’ll listen or consider it. “It’s goin’ to get attached to ya…more than it already has.”

“What should I name it?” You ignore him as you look at the 1 week old baby goat who was ignored by his mama. “You know that some people believe goats are the devil,” your uncle tries to spook you so you'll leave the goat be, but you get a bright idea for a name.

“Ha, Lucifer!” You snap your fingers. “Isn’t that such a good name?” You tell the baby goat over your shoulder, as it doesn’t fall behind.

“Don't worry,” you now address your uncle as you glance at him trailing at your side. “It’s just until it’s weaned and just while I’m here working on the farm.”

Your uncle sighs since he knows better.

“It seems you're slowly getting your color back,” your Uncle points out as he smoothly changes the subject. “You feelin’ stronger?”

You nod softly. “Yeah. The sun doesn’t bother me anymore, and I’ve been trying to push myself when I’m doing my work.”

“Ok, but as long as you’re not straining yourself,” he warns. “Continue to take things slowly. You’re in no rush. You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You huff and flash him a smile, leaving a short silence as you approach the area you’re working at to fix the chicken coop.

Albeit when your eyes land on the area, there in the fenced area between the cows and the chickens are Dina and Ellie.

“Maybe you should give that same advice to someone else,” you whisper to your uncle as you both know that they’re up to something since Ellie is here just after she got out of the clinic after three months.

“If she asks what I’m guessing she’s going to ask, then I will,” he responds before you reach the area and acknowledge both girls.

“Hey Dina,” you greet as you open the fence door and walk in with the goat trailing behind you and your uncle trailing behind the goat.

“Hey…aw! Hello there, goat!” Dina says back with more enthusiasm for the goat than you.

“Ellie, I’m glad to see you’re out and about after just getting out of the clinic,” you direct at her, causing her to offer you a feigned smile.

“They said I should get fresh air,” she quips, making you feign a laugh.

“Girls,” your Uncle greets them. “What brings you out here on your day off? And on your first day out of the clinic, Ellie. Weren’t we all gatherin’ at Sunny’s house later to welcome you?”

She nods faintly. “Yeah,” she brushes him off. “But later I won’t get the chance to share what I just learned, so thankfully you’re both here so I can save some breath.”

You and your uncle share nervous looks before Ellie spills what brought her to the farm while you and your Uncle are working. And it’s nothing good.

It seems Dina finally told her about the girl and her friends who killed your dad, and now Ellie is requesting what you were afraid she’d want. Revenge.

That’s why you haven’t told her about what you know and why you told her you forgot, blaming everything on the trauma of the day. Yet it seems Dina doesn’t have the same precaution in mind. She doesn’t seem to know Ellie like you know Ellie, or else she would’ve never told her.

Alas…Ellie knows, and now she’s here telling your uncle and you to go with her to Seattle, so maybe Ellie doesn’t know you.

Yet you don’t turn her down right away and tell her that. Nor does your uncle turn her down either. Whereas Ellie makes your uncle genuinely ponder, you walk away to grab more wire and pretend to be thinking about the plan when, in reality, you just need time to breathe and gather your thoughts as memories of that day threaten to flood your mind.

You think about Abby, Owen, Mel, Nora, and Manny too. You see their faces every day, but you don’t see red like Ellie. You see betrayal, guilt, a deep aching pain, and a great sadness that threatens to take you down by adding to that unbearable weight that gets closer and closer to crushing your heart.

You hurt differently than it hurts Ellie, and that’s the only reason why you return to where they are to listen, but not even consider it.

“Well?” Ellie questions you and your uncle after you come back, making you put the wire down and take a seat next to your uncle before you bend down to pick the goat off the ground and cradle it in your arms.

“I gotta think about this,” your uncle breaks the silence, saying what you were going to lie about, so you end up being quiet and let Ellie retort.

“Think about what? Let’s fucking get these guys.”

Your Uncle glances over at you as you keep your eyes on the goat, as you try your hardest to fight your emotions.

“Ellie,” your Uncle argues and looks away. “It ain’t that simple. The town is still recovering. So are you.”

“Uh, we get where you’re coming from—” Dina interjects, but gets caught off by Ellie countering with annoyance.

“No, we don’t get where you’re coming from, I don’t get where you’re coming from.”

You clench your jaw and start to caress the baby goat while also slowly starting to rub your thigh.

“If it had been you, or her,” Ellie refers to you too. “Joel would be halfway to Seattle before the sun came up.” She argues, but she argues wrong. She argues completely wrong in your dad's defense. He might’ve been an angry man. He might’ve had a reputation, but he…wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t take a path toward revenge. He only got defensive.

“He’d be halfway to Seattle to save our lives,” your Uncle counters correctly. “But when we lost people, no. It would just break him like it was his fault. I saw that time and time again. And don’t talk to me like I didn’t know him. He was my brother.”

There’s a silence where you finally pick your head up to look over at Ellie, catching her sigh and averting her gaze, which in turn makes your uncle continue more gentler and understanding.

“Listen, I’m not sayin’ you shouldn’t do this. But if we’re gonna put a posse together, we gotta do it right, which means taking it to Maria.”

Ellie’s jaw drops as she’s about to argue against your Uncle, but your Uncle beats her to talking, knowing what she had to say. “Yes, it’s fuckin’ necessary…”

You scoff softly and smirk in amusement.

“She’s gonna want a council meeting,” your Uncle continues. “Open it up to the town. Everyone who wants to get heard gets heard.”

“But you two will back us, right?” Ellie asks, and you catch the hope in her eyes.

Yet even that doesn’t change your mind. Albeit, you still lie and nod so she doesn’t argue with you.

“Of course, I will,” your Uncle gives his genuine response, releasing some tension off Ellie.

“Come here,” your Uncle says as he gets up to wrap her in an embrace that she seems to be tense in for a few seconds before you see her ease.

“And you,” your uncle directs at Dina, keeping to herself in the distance. “You hold out information on me again, you got rendering detail for a month.” He warns her as he and Ellie let go, making Dina scrunch her nose.

“Alright,” your Uncle puts an end to the matter, making Ellie and Dina walk away with the attempt to leave, albeit your Uncle stops Ellie before she can walk past the gate.

“Ellie. We buried our dead ten miles south of town. If you want to visit him.”

You let the goat go and continue doing your job.

“When we're on our way to Seattle,” she says and then leaves after Dina, leaving your Uncle with much to think about.

“You’re actually considering it?” You ask after you made sure Ellie wasn’t near anymore.

Your Uncle pushes himself off the fence and then answers. “‘Course. I’m not thrilled that she wants to pursue revenge, but if she wants to ask the council for permission, I’ll give it to her…will you?”

“I don’t have a say,” you deadpan, making your uncle sigh.

“No, but Apollo does, and what you say goes,” he says what you know and what you were pretending to be dumb about—“Will you tell him to accept?”

You don’t stop working, you keep going and give him a simple answer. “You want the truth? No. It’s not good for her to go down this path. It will get her hurt or worse.”

“Yes,” your uncle quickly argues as he approaches you now. “But if we deny her, she'll find a way to do it behind our backs. It doesn’t end well when you try to forbid the young ones from doin’ something. You were the same, and Teddy and any other kids you might have will be the same.”

You finally stop what you’re doing and look back at him. “I heard her out,” you quip. “I was about to walk away, but I heard her out. I will continue to hear her out when she speaks to the council, but my answer won’t change. She won’t like it, but it’s something I’m more than glad to risk…and it’s because I love her. Now, can we talk about something else and finish this?”

Without any more arguments, your uncle keeps his thoughts to himself to respect your choice.

Later that day, when everyone gathers in your house for the get-together you threw for Ellie, she asks Apollo the same thing she asked you, and he gives her hope since you hadn’t discussed it with him, but your Uncle is right, what you say goes. Your voice is heard one way or another through your husband, and he makes sure to ask for your opinion the next day when you’re lying in bed before you have to start the day.

“I want you to vote no,” you don’t hesitate to share without a doubt. “Whatever she might say, vote no.”

Apollo takes in your words and debates them himself only because Ellie is trusting him with this important decision that may or may not depend on him, and saying no feels like hurting her in some way.

“What if she gets the votes regardless,” Apollo brings up, so you drag yourself back, causing his leg to slip off yours, and feeling a hint of coldness as you pull your head away from his chest to face him with your gaze pointed.

“Then she gets them, but at least I’ll know I tried to put my foot down,” you rebuttal and look into his eyes, catching his doubt, so you sigh deeply and argue in your defense.

“What will getting revenge do?” You ask him. “It's not going to heal her grief. It’s not going to bring him back either. She’s just going to get hurt or worse. I get that she’s angry, I am too, but that’s why we handle it. We don’t chase people across the country for something that can’t be undone.”

Apollo sighs deeply and nods stiffly. “I understand,” he mutters. “She’s just putting her trust in me, you know?”

You swallow thickly and nod. “Yeah, I know. She’s putting her trust in me, too, but we’re the ones looking after her now, Apollo. We have to watch over her and make sure she doesn’t get herself killed. She deserves a good and long life. She won’t get that if she leaves.”

Apollo’s eyes linger on you, letting you see his resolve over the matter, but making you feel bad that he also has to go against her.

“Thank you,” you whisper and cup his cheek before you stroke your hand back to cradle the side of his head, making him smile a loving smile as he strokes your chin and then grabs the back of your head, letting you take that as a sign to nuzzle against him again.

“Will you go today?” He asks with worry. “You don’t have to, I’ll vote no.”

“Mia and Atlas are going to sit with me,” you let him know. “And either way, I’m there to support Ellie. I’ll hear what she has to say.”

He hums, and you go quiet to enjoy the little time you have left in silence before you have to get up. After that, you start your day, and the council meeting approaches soon thereafter, meaning you don’t have to handle your nerves all day. Thankfully.

Yet the same topic Ellie brought up the day before with your Uncle Tommy is brought up again, and you get uncomfortable as violent memories threaten to overwhelm you. You almost get up to leave, but you muster the strength to fight them off because your friends are with you to remind you that you’re not in that lodge, and your dad is no longer suffering.

You’re okay, and he’s…dead…

“Which is why I keep saying we need to invest more in turkeys and less in chickens,” Scott, a Jackson Hole resident and speaker for today's council meeting gets off topic, which you kind of enjoy so the matter can be delayed and your decision along with it—“and that brings me back to my earlier point about corn. Corn, some of you have heard me say, is not the easiest crop to grow, but it’s among the fastest. You can plot a graph that shows ease and resources versus time to harvest and get a li—”

“Scott,” your Uncle cuts his rambling off. “I’m sorry, but we gotta keep you on target here.”

“But it’s an open meeting. The bylaws say that—”

“Maybe we should stick to what everyone else came here to discuss,” Maria interjects now.

“I don’t really have an opinion on the Seattle thing,” Scott inputs now, ending the matter once and for all.

“Okay. Thank you,” Maria says and moves down the list of speakers. “So, that was Scott. Next is Rachel.”

You shift in your seat and keep focused, but as murmuring goes around the room and a baby goes fussy, you can’t catch a word that’s said. If it even was said.

“Can’t hear you!” Someone shouts for the entire crowd, making people go quiet and causing some shifting to happen before you finally hear Rachel’s voice.

“I said that Joel meant so much to so many of us. But he wasn’t the only one.”

You blink repeatedly and drop your eyes to your hands clasped on your lap.

“I-I lost my sister that day,” Rachel continues to say. “A lot of people in here buried family. And now, you wanna send, what are you saying, 16 of our best? Well, while they’re gone, who’s gonna be on the wall if Raiders come? A wall that’s barely mended. And none of you up there can promise us that all 16 will come back. So my heart is with you,” she says and says your name along with Tommy and Ellie’s before she finishes sharing her opinion.

“We are too hurt, and it is too soon.”

You sigh and lift your head to look at Jesse, Apollo, your Uncle, and Maria, all up on that platform as Maria brings an end to Rachel’s time.

“Thank you, Rachel. Next is Carlisle,” she moves on, making the old man stand from his seat to address the crowd.

“I’ll be quick,” he clears his throat. “‘Cause this one’s simple to me. People came and killed Joel. So, why wouldn’t we wanna take our vengeance?”

You clench your jaw and sigh deeply with distress caused by the worry that he’s going to encourage the request.

“Well, because we’re not supposed to.”

You peer over your shoulder and look at the man as he’s caught you by surprise.

“Forgive and be forgiven. No grudges. No revenge. And I’m not even a Christian. I’ve always seen the wisdom in that. That’s what separates us from the Raiders, and the murderers. Our capacity for mercy.”

You take in his words with relief, hoping that his honest and wise words will sway the council to vote no.

Yet your relief is then turned to anxiety when Seth, of all people, cuts in.

“Those sons of bitches don’t deserve our mercy.”

You clench your hands into fists and gain Apollo’s surprised and worried gaze from his place on that platform, so you end up holding in what threatens to break you and express the same surprise, but also share your anxiety on the matter.

“Well, of course they don’t deserve it,” Carlisle argues in between all of the crowds murmuring. “That’s what makes it mercy.”

“Well, to hell with that,” Seth exclaims as he gets up. “And to hell with you for saying it, Carlisle.”

“Seth, sit down,” Maria tries to bring an end to the interruption, but Seth becomes a pain in the ass and holds his ground.

“No.”

“You’re not on the list.”

“No!” He screams louder, causing you to drop your head and exhale deeply.

“What the hell are we all talking about here?” Seth continues. “Boo-hoo, it’s not fair. What, we gotta forgive everybody when they show up and piss in our eye? They came into our house. They took one of ours. My God, somebody shoots your brother, you wanna take the locks off your doors? Grow up!”

You begin to nervously rub your thigh, to the point that Atlas notices and tries his best to try and reassure you by putting his hand over yours.

When you feel his touch you look at him and offer him a faint thankful smile before you wrap your hand around his to keep clinging onto that support as Seth goes on.

“You idiots, they’ll come back. They’ll come back because we didn’t make ‘em pay. And when they come back, they’ll be laughing. And you’ll all deserve it. Bunch of goddamn victims.”

The old man sits down, bringing down an awkward silence that you almost want to leave, but you hold on and listen to the last speaker, Ellie.

After Maria finally gives her the floor, she makes the room go silent for a minute before she gets up and pulls out a paper that she reads off of. Surprisingly enough.

“I normally don’t write things down,” Ellie starts off by saying. “Because I normally don’t think before I talk, which has gotten me in trouble before, a lot.”

Oh? She’s rhyming?

“And it’s cost me in ways that sometimes couldn’t be undone. But I can’t afford that right now because I know what I’m asking is a lot. I’m asking us to risk more people and resources, and at the worst possible time. And I want everyone to know, it’s not because I want revenge.”

Oh?

“It’s not,” Ellie tries to make her lie clear, but she’s not fooling you—“what I want is what you used to give people. I want justice. Because it’s either that, or we do nothing. That’s what everyone else out there is going to do for us. Nothing,” she says with more passion. “A whole world of people who won’t lift a finger if something bad happens to me or you. We have a word for these people. They’re called strangers.”

Atlas snorts quietly over Ellie’s words, so you let his hand go and slowly glare at him, making him go serious right away.

“Well, I don’t think that we’re strangers to each other,” you hear Ellie continue. “And I want to know that I can count on you. And I swear, if someone hurts any of you or the people you love, you can count on me...”

You take this time to smile in amusement at Ellie’s complete bullshit attempt to sway the council's vote.

“…that's what holds all this together. Not potluck dinners or New Year’s Eve dances. Definitely not a wall, because that thing got busted through. But Jackson is still here. I’ll accept whatever the council decides. But I’m asking you, please…do what it takes to see that justice is done. Not for me. Not even for Joel. I am asking you, please do it for us,” she finishes her letter in an emotional ending that she even adds tears to. Whether the tears are genuine or not you don’t know, they probably are but that won't change the fact that it’s all still bullshit.

“Thank you,” Maria tells her, bringing an end to the discussion to finally move on to the voting—“The council will now vote on the proposal to send a party of 16 citizens to Seattle to find the people who killed Joel and execute them.”

As the voting begins, Apollo steals a glance at you, and you steal a glance at him and trust he’ll do what you asked, but it’s the others that make you nervous and make you sit at the edge of your seat as if that would help. It only makes you more anxious.

Either way, like watching a clock, the process seems to move more slowly than anticipated. A couple of minutes drag on, and you almost can’t take it, but alas, all the votes are given to Amy-Beth, the one person who will share the votes with the crowd without fear that she’ll lie.

“Amy-Beth?” Maria encourages, and so said girl starts.

“Yes.”

You swallow thickly and sit up straighter.

“No. Yes. No. No. Yes. No, no. No. No. No.”

You let out a shaky, relieved breath and sit back without that fear clinging onto you a moment longer.

“The vote is 8 to 3,” Amy-Beth clarifies. “The proposal is rejected.”

Murmurs spread around the room, but no one interjects this time because the word is officially given now. There’s no do-overs, just disappointment from only a handful of people. The only one you care about, you don’t look at though. Not yet.

“Adjourned,” Maria releases the meeting, making people not linger back. Everyone but the council and you get up, causing a cluster of people as they all want to leave at the same time. That’s why you finally drift your gaze to Ellie, so your gaze won't be detected as she's leaving.

Alas, when you look at the other side of the room where she had been sitting at, you actually end up catching Ellie’s gaze.

You try not to read too much into it. You don’t want to catch the betrayal she feels because, instead of getting at least 4 definite votes in support of her, she only got three, and it was obvious to guess that you lied and voted against her. You haven’t been able to look at her all day. All you greeted her with was a quick good morning, and you sat at the other side of the room with your best friends at your sides.

You lied and made Apollo vote against Ellie’s request. Against the one thing she desperately wanted. The one significant matter that required your support more than anything, and the one matter that she trusted you to have her back on, but you lied and turned your back on her and that hurt and betrayal is plain to see because of the dark shadow that cast over her face as if intentional so you won't miss a thing.

Alas, as ashamed as you feel. You feel no regrets. You’re determined to stand your ground, and that’s obvious to Ellie as the sun keeps basking your face as if…intentional.

——

*LATER*

After the council meeting, you had purposely stayed behind, welcoming people’s pity and sweet consolations to avoid facing Ellie’s disappointment and anger, but you can’t hide forever, and when you return home, sitting on your porch steps is Ellie waiting for you.

She makes herself easy to see and makes sure you know that she’s not here for pleasantries. She knows you know why she’s here, so you hand Teddy to Apollo and usher them inside.

Once the front door is closed, leaving the porch just to you and Ellie, she is quick to get to the point. “Why did you do it?”

You draw in a deep breath and turn away from the door to face her and exhale deeply before you respond. Or at least you try to, because just as you part your lips, she cuts in abruptly.

“You said you would support me, and you had Apollo vote no, why?” She asks as you see her teeter over an edge where her balance all depends on what you’re going to say.

“Because I don’t want you to go down that path,” you say, and manage to keep her from falling into a pit of anger. “I know it was messed up to lie, but it’s not like you would change your mind if I said no that day you asked.”

“No,” she interjects before you keep going.

“Exactly—”

“But you still lied,” she cuts you off with a narrowed glare. “You said I would get your vote to go get justice for Joel, and instead you want me to, what? Sit idly by?”

You shake your head. “No. I want you to grieve the right way, Ellie. I need you to open yourself up to letting yourself grieve.”

Ellie scoffs and shakes her head before she snaps, causing her grip to loosen. “So what? So I can turn to you and be depressed and pathetic for three months?!”

You blink repeatedly in disbelief and feel her words stab your heart.

“Do you not get what I’m trying to do?” Ellie continues to argue, raising her voice with the anger that seeps through. “I’m trying to get justice! You were there! You saw them! We have to make them pay!” She exclaims almost desperately.

“I was there,” you interject this time before she keeps ranting. “I know! I live through that day of my life every day and every night. I see their faces and see him die over and over again. I,” you pause and sigh to collect yourself and try to explain your reasoning behind your protest.

“I miss him too,” you say instead. “But what you want to do won’t get him back. Nothing you do will get him back, so why risk your life? Why risk anyone else’s life over it? Revenge won’t make you feel better, Ellie.”

Said girl holds your gaze with annoyance before she shakes her head and retorts. “That’s a whole bunch of bullshit and you’re a liar. If you really loved Joel, you would have voted yes,” she doesn’t hesitate from saying, making you gasp softly and feel your eyes immediately well with tears as you feel a sharp heartache.

Yet you don’t dare and use such harsh words like she did. You keep your head up and watch her give you her back.

“I’m going to do this with or without you. I don’t care,” she grumbles and walks off the porch, expecting no response, but before she can leave, you blurt.

“What about all the risks my dad took for you to be here? Will you just make that go to waste? Because if you go, there’s no chance you’re coming back. You will get hurt, or worse, so what will make those sacrifices he took to save you?”

Ellie stops in her tracks and keeps her back turned to you for a tense silence that seemed to drag on for hours, when it's only been a few seconds where you unknowingly lose her in that pit of anger.

“You know,” she mutters before she slowly turns to face you with her face contorted with rage and her eyes oozing with that terrible and blinding feeling.

“You know why he made those sacrifices,” she continues sneering as she strides back to you. However, you don’t let her make it all the way to the porch because you meet her halfway.

“Why did those people kill him?” She suddenly asks something she’s never hinted at wanting to know. She asks for the first time, letting you see a flicker of sadness in her eyes this time.

“The truth,” she blurts as her eyes well with tears, and you gulp and falter.

“They were…after revenge,” you put it simply because you’re sure there’s no shortage of people your dad pissed off. “Just like you’re after revenge, that’s why—”

“Oh shut up,” she hisses and steps forward while she keeps holding your eyes with her watery gaze and pinched eyebrows. “They were from Salt Lake…right?” She asks as she begins to slowly uncover the truth you never got to share, and the truth that threatens to unveil something else you kept a secret

“Right?!” Ellie snaps, making you blink and lower your gaze to nod stiffly and hope she doesn’t probe about the other matter.

“They killed him because of what he did, right?” She asks, getting closer to that secret.

“Right,” you answer, and look at her so she doesn’t catch anything suspicious.

Nevertheless, your attempts are futile.

“And you knew what he did?” She probes as she narrows her gaze to a glowering glare. “You knew and you lied, right? That’s why you were never mad at him, and you…” she scoffs and holds her chest. “And you told me you didn’t know. You let me believe that I could trust you. Right?!” She exclaims, causing you to let out a shaky breath and nod.

“Right,” you whisper shakily before you step toward her and grab her hands to try and make her understand. “But I need you to understand that I did it for you. I was too late to stop him, I wanted to, I really did, but I was too late, so why would I mortify you even more by telling you the truth? So I kept it from you so you could have a good life. Ellie…you deserve a good life. Please—”

“You were too late,” she repeats and nods stiffly before she huffs and spats hurtful words. “It seems you’re always too late. Always too weak. That’s why Henry is dead,” she hisses quietly, making you slowly let her hands go as you're hit with disbelief.

“And that’s why Joel is dead,” she hurts you with those last words, feeling as if the knife in your heart got twisted for something you already blame yourself for. All because you tried to stop her from walking away, and all because you brought up your dad's sacrifices to have her be here.

You unknowingly opened a can of worms, and now you’re the one hurt because of it.

“I won’t sit by like you,” she spats and points her finger at you as tears finally break out of her eyes and roll down her cheeks. “I will make them pay, and I will hate you,” she sneers. “I will hate you for the rest of my life.”

She turns around swiftly and storms away, leaving you more hurt by those words than what she said before, because it feels like another great loss.

.

.

.

.

.

A/N- Seattle anyone?

Tagged- @slut-f0r-u @star-wars-lover @maplecohen @givemylovetoall @itzagothamcitysiren @sammy-13 @beloved-reblogger @emiriia @rues-daya @sunfairyy @littleshadow17 @mcu-starwars @bigtuffswordboy @riaqiax @dheet @queenofthekill @joliettes @d4rno @hardbeingcasual @rana030 @pedropascalluvr41 @ahoyyharrington @beaniebeensbaby201 @maeneedsabreak @maelartasch @adristyles @daughterofthequeen @alastorhazbin @sunsumonner @khaylin27 @hypatia93 @hummusxx @v4mpyk1tten @1donoow @your-shifting-gurl @g4ns3y @izzzzy-the-amazing @aphr0d1teh @lovelyygirl8 @ivy-taylorsversion @mmkkzz @avitute @fuckmebobboys @kitdjarin1

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

I’ve been looking for this Sterek fic for years now. Hopefully you can help.

It’s a soulmates au where you get your soulmates scars. Stiles is covered in scars and ashamed. Most people don’t know how bad the scarring is because he wears layers all the time. His body is revealed one day, I don’t remember how, and everyone sees his scars. Eventually Derek and stiles figure out that they are mates.

That’s all I remember. Thanks in advance!

AND

Anonymous asked:

I have been looking for a fic for about a week now and I have given up and come to the god of all sterek fics for help.

Basically, stiles has scars and constantly wears layers or long sleeves and the pack calls him on it one day while they are chilling and they see his scars which is shocking to them. I’m fairly certain it was just a one-shot. But I’ve searched and searched, on here and on ao3, and have found nothing

AND

Peter and Chris are mates and from a certain age (18 or 21) they get a copy of their mates' scars. Chris doesn't know that his mate is a wolf and because he doesn't get any new scars, he thinks he doesn't have a mate and starts to self hard. He attempts suicide by hanging/strangulation and it wakes Peter up in a panic and Peter's mum helps him through that experience. They meet when the Hale's deal with an Omega and Peter calls Chris to complain that the body is still there. Eventually, they learn they are mates and Chris learns why he didn't get any new scars

Hi @lipstilinski and Anon! @lyrecqe thinks it could be one of these.

you left a mark on me by thedaughterofkings

(1/1 I 2,861 I Teen I Sterek)

Soulmates aren't a very well studied phenomenon.

It is not known what percentage of the population has a soulmate, mostly because most people don't even know it themselves. You don't get a neat tattoo of your soulmate’s name or of the first words they say to you or anything helpful like that. Stiles wishes he lived in a universe like that. Instead he gets soulmarks - literal marks appearing on his body, reflecting the injuries of his soulmate.

With the amount of scrapes they get into, his soulmate is either James Bond or a werewolf. Stiles hopes it's the latter and he even has a particular werewolf in mind.

OR

tracing patterns on your skin by To_fill_the_sea

(26/? I 55,759 I Explicit I Sterek)

They all exist in a universe where your soulmate shares all your scars. For some people that isn't so bad. For Stiles that means he's covered with marks from someone he has never met. He stopped wanting to find his soulmate a long time ago, and now his best friend is trying to figure everything out after having been bit by a werewolf and he's doing all he can. So, life is extra weird now. And it's pretty much just going to get more complicated from here on out.

[eldragon-x]

Some time ago I had the vague one-off idea of a Bonnie looping AU where Pétronille is the guide and when I was recently wondering how she'd even end up there, one of my mutuals suggested that loop'd Nille could actually be Bonnie emulating their sister, which I kinda ran with.

The idea here is that SAAP Bonnie's wish could've involved wanting to see Nille again/wanting Nille to help them, thus Bonille vaguely resembles her and is maybe ambiguously older? Something about reflecting Pétronille even further since she (at the time) was herself a kid who had to take care of Bonnie.

Also Idk what Bonille's name actually is, I've just been using it as a nickname but it would be confusing since it'd be pronounced the same as Bonnie's name.

under the read more there's some concept sketches and also practice drawings of Nille and Bonnie, especially since I still had to establish a Pétronille design for myself

[kanerallels]

RebelCaptain "and they lived" au? And/or "had a special but forgotten meeting as children" au (is that a thing xD) 🥺 Happy Star Wars Day!

OHHHHH FRIEND. That is DEFINITELY a thing and it happens to be a thing I DEEPLY LOVE so I hope you enjoy this:

“Our contact is on Pantora.”

“Pantora?” Jyn sounded taken aback, and Cassian glanced at her.

“You know it?”

She nodded, slowly. “My—I’ve been there before. When I was little. I only remember parts of it.”

When she was little. So with her parents, Cassian guessed, and didn’t press the issue. “Well, you’re about to go there again. Should be a quick in and out mission. The contact will leave the intel at a dead drop spot, and we’ll pick it up. Got it?”

Jyn nodded, her expression going serious, the way it always did before a mission. “Got it.”

They came out of hyperspace above Pantora minutes later, and had landed within half an hour. It was odd, Cassian reflected, how a place came back to you, even if you’d only been there once or twice, far younger.

He’d been to Pantora on a few runs with Maarva and Clem, when he wasn’t much older than seventeen, to sell what they’d scavenged. Apparently they’d had a good buyer there, because it hadn’t been near Ferrix. But whoever had bought from them paid well enough that they’d returned quite a few times.

Now, he wondered who it was. If they’d been connected to the contact they were following up with, or if it was just a coincidence. Less and less seemed that way these days—but despite Chirrut’s best attempts, Cassian usually wasn’t one to believe in fate, or the will of the Force. Not most days, anyways.

As they moved through the streets, he saw Jyn looking around, studying the sturdy but beautiful buildings around them. Pantora wasn’t Naboo or Alderaan in its natural beauty, and it certainly wasn’t Coruscant, but there was still something about it. Or maybe it was just the memories Cassian saw in so many of the street corners.

“See anything you remember?” he asked as Jyn paused, studying a tea shop thoughtfully.

“I think…we stopped there,” she said, voice distant. “I didn’t like the tea I got, so Papa drank it for me, and promised to get me another treat. Mama said he’d spoil me, but…I remember her smiling.” She shook her head, glancing at Cassian as if waiting for a reprimand, a reminder that they should focus.

He didn’t want to offer one. He wanted to say that they could stop on the way back, have tea, and spend a little time looking for more memories of the family she’d lost far too young. He understood what that was like.

But he also knew they had a contact to meet and an Empire to avoid, and with Skywalker’s destruction of the Death Star things were more dangerous than ever.

So he met her gaze, let her see that he wasn’t impatient or judgemental, then quietly said, “This way. We’ll cut through the square.”

She nodded, the smallest hint of a smile turning up the corner of her mouth, and they kept going.

The square was another one of those uniquely beautiful places on Pantora. For one thing, it was an actual square—a wide expanse in the middle of all the buildings and shops of bricks, bracketed in by flowering trees and lined with benches, a fountain in the middle. The bricks that made up the pavement were brightly colored, and asymmetrical in shape, like each one had been handcrafted by someone different. It was a patchwork of colors, and Cassian remembered Maarva had loved it.

He felt himself slow a little as he crossed it, almost coming to a stop by the fountain where he’d tossed pebbles—credits were too scarce to waste in water, and pebbles were common enough—just to see the water stir.

As he moved level with the fountain, he sensed the absence of someone at his side. Turning, he saw Jyn had stopped between two of the flowering trees, staring at the brickwork.

Moving back to her side in a few strides, Cassian said, “Hey. Everything good?”

“I…remember this place,” she said in a slow, wondering voice. “I stopped to look at the bricks because they were so pretty, and when I looked up…Mama and Papa were gone.” She looked up at him, brown eyes meeting his, and said, “And then…a boy found me. And helped me.”

For a moment, Cassian didn’t know what she was saying, and then it hit him. Because he remembered this, too.

He was waiting for Maarva and Clem to get back from their meeting, tossing pebbles into the fountain aimlessly. The sunlight was warm on his back, and he’d only been keeping half an eye out for stormtroopers when he saw it.

Or rather, her. A little girl, on her tiptoes, picking flowers from the trees. A brilliant smile lit up her face, like she had no other care in the world. Like the sun above them could never cast a shadow. 

It had reminded Cassian of his little sister, who he’d lost, and he’d watched just a heartbeat longer than he usually would have.

Which had turned out to be a good thing. Because the next thing he knew, an Imperial patrol was marching into the square. Everyone else knew to move, to keep their heads down. But the little girl didn’t move. Her head held high, she kept about her business, and Cassian had known it was only a matter of time.

Sure enough, one of the passing troopers pushed roughly past her, and she felt with a cry, the flowers she held scattering to the wind. Cassian had been on his feet before he knew what he was doing. Closing the distance between them, he’d pulled the girl to her feet and out of sight behind the fountain, away from the Imperials.

She wasn’t crying, even though the heels of her hands were scraped, and there were tears in her eyes. She looked angry, more than anything else. “You okay?” Cassian asked her, kneeling in front of her, and she nodded in a little jerk.

“They made me drop my flowers,” she said, her crisp Core World accent sharp in every syllable, and Cassian wondered who this girl was, what she was doing here. Where her parents were.

“I know,” he said. “But you can still see them in the trees.”

“It’s not fair,” she muttered, blinking hard.

“They never are.”

“They should be.”

Cassian had to smile at her vehemence. “They should. Maybe the only way to make things fair is to do it yourself.”

She nodded, ever so serious as she blinked away the tears, and Cassian asked, “Do you know where your parents are?”

She shook her head. “They were walking ahead, and I wanted to look at the trees. So I stayed here.”

Not a hint of fear in her voice, and Cassian couldn’t help but admire it a little. “Let’s go find them,” he said, and she took his hand without prompting.

Maarva and Clem had been furiously worried when he got back. But it was worth it to see the little girl’s delight when she saw her parents. None of her emotions seemed mild—all bright and crackling like lightning. And her parents were equally relieved to see her, her father sweeping her into his arms.

He’d left them like that, remembering the little girl’s bravery and ferocity. But only for a little while. Soon the memory faded away. Until then.

Cassian stared at Jyn, seeing the echo of the little girl she’d been in her eyes.  Still fierce, still brave. “That was you,” he said slowly.

A breeze caught a few of the petals and tangled them in her hair as she nodded. “It was. I remember telling my papa how nice you were…” she trailed off, and Cassian could see a hundred unspoken thoughts in her eyes. “You came for me, even then.”

“I always will.” The words slipped out, simple and true as all the other things he’d never said, but always meant. There seemed to be far too many, and he couldn’t carry them all forever.

A smile crossed her face. “I know.”

Another heartbeat passed, and then Jyn spoke, her tone back to normal. “We should keep moving.” Before Cassian could even move, she had, stepping past him and sweeping her hair back behind her ears, sending the loose petals scattering to the ground.

Cassian caught one as it fell, and tucked it into his pocket.

[unabashegirl]

Love Island — part 2

AU. Based on the TV show.

Author's note: I just wanted to take a moment to say a massive thank you for the incredible support you’ve shown for the first part of Love Island! Your reblogs, messages, and comments truly mean the world to me — I’ve read every single one with a huge smile on my face. You all make writing this series so much fun 💛

If there’s anything you’d like to see more of — whether it's certain dynamics, steamy moments, fluff, angst, or just pure drama — don’t be shy! My inbox is always open for blurb or one-shot requests.I’d love to bring your ideas to life!

⭐️ Please consider joining my Patreon -> Patreon

It’s only day two, but there’s already trouble in paradise. Y/N’s about to head upstairs to change, and of course, she’s bringing her best mate in the villa along for a little gossip session. After all, what would Love Island be without a bit of a squeak-filled chat about the latest hunk to drop in?

Y/N grabbed Chloe by the arm, a grin spreading across her face. “Come on, we need to talk!”

“Oh, spill, babe!” Chloe squeaked, and the two of them burst into laughter as they darted upstairs to the changing room. The laughter echoed through the villa as the girls nearly tripped over each other, barely containing their excitement.

Looks like someone’s eager for a debrief... but can you blame them? A certain tall, dark, and shirtless someone has all our heads turning.

The door clicked shut behind them as they found a spot in front of the mirror. Y/N rifled through her drawer, trying to look casual as she pulled out a sundress. Chloe leaned in, eyes wide with anticipation.

“Alright, so…” Chloe began, nudging Y/N with her elbow. “Harry! What do we think?”

Y/N tried to keep a straight face, but a giggle slipped out. “Oh, he’s... he’s definitely got a presence, doesn’t he?”

“Presence?” Chloe repeated, rolling her eyes. “Babe, he’s got more than just ‘presence.’ I saw the way he was looking at you. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit jealous!”

Y/N bit her lip, looking at her reflection as she adjusted her dress. “I mean, he’s fit, yeah. And the way he carries himself… I don’t know, there’s something about him.”

“Something about him,” she says. Go on, love, you can admit it—you’ve already got it bad! But what will Tom think if he catches a whiff of this little chat?

Chloe raised her eyebrows, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Listen, all I’m saying is, if he pulled me for a chat, I wouldn’t mind... but don’t worry, he’s all yours.”

“Oh, stop it!” Y/N said, nudging Chloe’s shoulder with a laugh. “Tom’s going to be fuming if he catches us even mentioning Harry.”

Chloe smirked, flipping her hair. “Let him fume! You’re here to find the one, not keep people happy. And besides, it’s not like Harry’s shy about showing he’s interested in you. Half the villa saw him making his way over to you this morning.”

Half the villa, you say? Well, folks, sounds like Tom may have some competition brewing—and Y/N’s the prize.

The door swung open, and in came Georgia with Lila and Amber, their voices spilling in like a burst of energy.

“There you are!” Georgia exclaimed, hands on her hips as she spotted Chloe and Y/N. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you two.”

“Oi, we’re right here!” Chloe laughed, exchanging a look with Y/N.

Georgia’s face lit up as she plopped down on the bench beside them. “I just have to say it… I really, really fancy Harry. Like, he could actually be the one.”

Chloe glanced sideways at Y/N, eyes widening, clearly trying not to laugh. Y/N looked away, keeping her expression neutral as she fiddled with her bikini strings.

“Oh, absolutely, babe,” Lila chimed in, grinning. “If you don’t make a move, I’m definitely giving him a shot.”

Georgia tossed her hair with a laugh, waving her hand. “Oh, go on then. I allow it. But you better be quick about it, or I’ll be the one nabbing him first.”

The girls dissolved into laughter, but then Georgia’s gaze turned thoughtful, and she leaned back, crossing her arms. “But seriously, though… no one in a stable relationship should be getting involved with him.”

A brief silence fell over the group as the words hung in the air. Chloe raised her brows, glancing again at Y/N with a knowing smile that didn’t go unnoticed.

Y/N chuckled, keeping her tone light. “Well, good thing it’s early days, yeah? Plenty of time for all of us to figure out what we want.”

Ooh, sounds like there’s a bit more at stake here than we thought. With the girls all vying for a piece of Harry, looks like things might heat up faster than anyone bargained for.

Amber crossed her arms and gave Georgia a skeptical look. “Hang on, that makes no sense, Georgia. Isn’t the whole point of Love Island to explore connections? Harry’s the one who should be deciding who he wants to be with, not us making some rule about it.”

Georgia raised an eyebrow, looking a bit taken aback. “Alright, Amber, but I’m just saying, it’s a bit out of line for someone in a solid coupling to be sniffing around him, don’t you think?”

Amber shrugged, not backing down. “If Harry wants to pull me for a chat, I’m not about to follow your silly rule, Georgia. And if he expresses interest in me, I’m definitely not holding back.”

Georgia’s jaw tightened, and she put her hands on her hips. “You know what, Amber? That’s not exactly being a ‘girls’ girl,’ is it? We’re all supposed to be on the same page here.”

Amber rolled her eyes, not missing a beat. “Girls’ girl? I’m here to find a connection, not to stick to some imaginary rulebook.”

Chloe and Y/N exchanged glances, struggling not to laugh at the sudden tension.

Looks like Georgia’s ‘rules’ aren’t quite going over as planned. Will Amber’s bold stance earn her a shot at Harry, or will Georgia’s “girls’ girl” code keep things from getting messy? Well, only time will tell—on Love Island, it’s every girl for herself.

Y/N mouthed “Wow!” at Chloe, eyebrows raised in disbelief. With a quick laugh, she picked up her sunglasses. “Right, I’m heading downstairs to tan and actually enjoy my book. Coming?”

“Absolutely,” Chloe grinned, trailing behind her. The two of them slipped outside and settled by the pool, stretching out on the loungers as Y/N flipped open her book.

Chloe leaned over, her tone quiet but full of curiosity. “So, what do you reckon about Georgia? She’s… a lot.”

Y/N sighed, sliding her sunglasses up her nose. “Yeah, Georgia’s definitely going to be an issue. Her and Tom both. It’s like… they’re more focused on the drama than actually getting to know people.”

Chloe laughed. “Spot on. Can already see her kicking off if Harry so much as looks at anyone else.”

Just then, their best mate in the villa, Callum, strolled over, plopping himself down beside them with a grin. “Alright, ladies. What’s all this gossip without me, eh?”

Y/N chuckled. “Nothing, don’t worry. Just a bit of Georgia talk. You know how it is.”

Callum raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. “I can imagine”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. What about Tom, though? You talk to him this morning?”

Y/N sighed, closing her book for a moment. “He’s… sweet, but he’s already worried about where my head’s at. Keeps asking if I’m interested in Harry.”

Callum chuckled, shaking his head. “Not surprised. He’s definitely feeling the heat.”

Y/N nudged Callum with a playful grin. “Listen, if you go and tell the other lads any of this, I’ll kill you.”

Callum raised his hands in surrender, laughing. “Alright, alright, not a word. My lips are sealed.”

Chloe leaned in, curiosity glinting in her eyes. “So… what’s the verdict then? What are you feeling?”

Y/N sighed, adjusting her sunglasses as she stared out over the pool. “Honestly? Tom’s… he’s lovely. He’s comfortable, you know? Comforting, even. But there’s no spark, no real passion there. I don’t feel a real connection.”

Chloe nodded, giving her a knowing smile. “That’s exactly it, though, isn’t it? If there’s no fire…”

Callum grinned, nudging her again. “So what you’re saying is… it’s not exactly end game with Tom, yeah?”

Y/N shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “Not unless something changes, and fast.”

Well, folks, looks like the door is still wide open for a certain newcomer to spark a little fire in Y/N’s heart. And with Tom in the dark… this just might be the calm before the storm.

t’s challenge time in the villa! And today, it’s all about secrets. The game? Simple: each boy will slide down a massive ramp of slime, grab a card with a girl’s secret written on it, and read it out loud for the whole villa to hear. Then, he’ll make his guess by planting a kiss on the girl he thinks it’s about. Easy? Hardly. With secrets this juicy, the sparks are about to fly.

First up, it’s our very own new boy, Harry. Let’s see what he’s got…

Harry positioned himself at the top of the slippery ramp, a playful grin plastered across his face. With a cheeky shove, he launched himself down the slimy slope, landing with a splash at the bottom. He quickly grabbed the card, shaking off some goo as he read it aloud.

“This girl once went on a date with two different guys on the same night and accidentally mixed them up when they texted her later.”

The villa erupted in laughter, the girls exchanging wide-eyed glances as they tried to suppress their giggles. Harry scanned the group, his gaze landing on Y/N with a playful sparkle in his eyes.

With a confident stride, Harry stepped forward, closing the gap between them. He leaned in, capturing Y/N’s lips with a kiss that was anything but casual. It was deep and steamy, igniting a spark that sent a wave of heat rushing through her. The laughter faded as everyone watched, mouths agape, the chemistry between them palpable.

As he pulled back, a satisfied grin spread across Harry's face. “Well, I had to be sure,” he said, his voice low and playful, leaving Y/N breathless and the others in stunned silence.

The card was flipped, revealing that the secret actually belonged to Lila, much to everyone’s surprise.

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “Shit”.

And there you have it, folks! A kiss that lit up the villa and sent shockwaves through the competition. Harry may have missed the secret, but that kiss? That’s a score for Y/N, and things are just heating up in the Love Island villa!

Next up, it’s Tom’s turn to take the slippery plunge into the chaos of secrets. With a determined look on his face, he approaches the ramp, ready to play his hand in this game of revelations. Will he manage to impress Y/N with his guess, or will he fall flat?

Tom launched himself down the slimy ramp, landing with a splat and swiftly grabbing the card. With a flourish, he read aloud, “This girl once swiped right on her ex’s best mate just to make him jealous, only to have them both show up at her door the next day!”

Laughter erupted in the villa again, and the girls exchanged knowing glances. Tom looked around, scanning the group, and finally settled on Y/N, a cheeky smile on his face. “Alright, let’s see if I can take a shot at this.”

Y/N felt a flutter of anticipation but quickly squashed it down. As Tom stepped toward her, she allowed him to lean in, but she knew she wasn’t feeling the same spark she had with Harry.

Tom’s lips met hers, and while it was nice, it didn’t ignite the fire she had hoped for. It was a brief kiss, lacking the intensity that had come from Harry just moments before. She forced a smile as he pulled back, trying to mask her disappointment.

Tom grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Was that you?

The card was flipped, revealing that the secret belonged to Chloe.

The room erupted into laughter again, and Y/N couldn’t help but roll her eyes, a small smirk on her face.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, his thoughts racing. Tom’s kiss had seemed so casual, so easy, and yet it had struck something deep within him. He thought back to the kiss he shared with Y/N, how electric it had felt, and how much he wanted to feel that again.

Harry's mind was a whirlwind of confusion and determination. He had only just arrived, yet here he was, feeling the pressure of this unexpected connection. He had to figure out how to navigate this budding relationship amidst the chaos of the villa.

As the laughter continued and the next boy prepared for his turn, Harry caught Y/N's eye across the room. She looked back at him, a curious smile on her lips, and in that moment, he knew he couldn’t just stand by. Something was pulling him towards her, and he needed to act on it before it was too late.

With the game still unfolding and emotions swirling, it was clear that this summer was going to be anything but ordinary. Let the drama begin!

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the villa, the atmosphere shifted from playful competition to a more intimate vibe. Y/N stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of her long, tight red dress that hugged her curves perfectly. She felt confident and ready to make a statement, the color a bold choice that echoed her desire to stand out.

Just as she finished primping, a loud voice boomed from downstairs. “I’ve got a text!”

Y/N’s heart raced as she hurried to the top of the stairs, the anticipation hanging in the air. She peered down to see Harry holding his phone, a mischievous grin on his face, surrounded by the other contestants who were equally eager to hear the news.

Harry glanced at the message, a mix of excitement and tension flickering across his face. “Alright, here goes…” He cleared his throat dramatically before reading, “Harry, the time has come for you to choose whom you will be coupling with tonight!”

A hush fell over the group as the weight of the announcement sank in. Y/N felt her stomach drop at the implications of Harry's choice. The tension in the air was palpable, and she could see the other contestants exchanging nervous glances, the gravity of the situation setting in.

“Right, so it’s all on me, then,” Harry said, his playful demeanor giving way to a more serious tone. “No pressure at all, right?”

Y/N’s heart raced at the thought of being chosen—or worse, being left behind. Would Harry choose her? The thrill of the unknown buzzed in the air as she felt the weight of the moment pressing down on her. She wanted to believe that their earlier connection meant something, but the uncertainty lingered.

The warm glow of the fire pit flickered against the backdrop of the villa, casting a cozy ambiance as the night deepened. The contestants sat in their couples, anticipation palpable in the air, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames. All eyes were on Harry, who stood at the front, his usual confidence slightly wavering as he prepared to make his choice.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, his nerves evident as he took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Alright, everyone,” he began, his voice steady but laced with a hint of apprehension. “This is a bit nerve-wracking, isn’t it?”

Laughter rippled through the group, easing the tension just a bit. Harry glanced at Y/N, who sat among the others, her eyes focused on him, a mixture of hope and anxiety swirling within them. He felt a rush of warmth as he continued.

“I’ve had a brilliant time here so far, and it’s all thanks to the amazing people around me. But there’s one girl in particular who’s really stood out to me,” he said, his gaze drifting toward Y/N. “She’s lovely, funny, and everything just feels so easy with her. It’s like I don’t have to force anything; it just flows naturally.”

“I know that we haven’t had a lot of time to get to know each other yet,” Harry continued, “but I feel a real connection with her, something I haven’t experienced in a while.” He paused, letting his words sink in as he gauged the reactions around him.

“And that’s why,” he said, a smile breaking through his nervousness, “tonight, I’ve decided to couple up with Y/N.”

A cheer erupted from the others, and Y/N’s heart soared at his declaration. Relief washed over her as she exchanged a glance with Harry, their eyes locking in a moment that felt electric. The fire crackled beside them, mirroring the excitement in the air, and Y/N couldn’t help but grin as she moved closer to him.

“Looks like Harry has made his choice, and it’s a choice that might just set the villa ablaze!” the narrator’s voice chimed in, the playful tone adding to the vibrant atmosphere. “But with new flames igniting, what does this mean for the other couples? Stay tuned, because the drama is just beginning!”

let me know if you would like me to add you to the tag list!

TAGLIST: @st-ev-ie, @harrystyleshotwife, @valuunit, @familyshow-orisit

[witheredwritings]

Blooming Rot

previous part <- -> next part

Summary: In an AU where joel never met Ellie, he shows up one day to his brother’s town, unannounced, unwanted. Though he keeps to himself, you seem to have caught his attention.

Word count: 2.9K

Warnings: Blood, gunviolence, stalking, creepy!joel, kidnapping, stalker!joel, AU!joel, age gap (reader is in her early 20s and joel in his late 50s)

A/N: No, Joel will not get sane. Yes, the reader is slowly becoming a replica of the freak that Joel is in this. Dinner is served x

He left you alone.

Not freedom—just absence. A permission wrapped in silence. Joel had sent you to the bathroom with an empty pack and a nod that felt too heavy to carry. Told you there were things in there you might want—might need—and said it without looking at you. His voice was low, almost gentle. He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. Just stood with his back turned, one hand gripping the door frame like it hurt to let go.

Like he was trying to make mercy look like distance.

Inside the small room, the air is stale. The kind of stillness that clings to corners after something’s died there. You don’t breathe too deep.

It’s there that you make your first real mistake.

The mirror is fractured—cracked like old teeth—and your reflection spills out in pieces. You catch yourself only in shards: the bloom of a bruise beneath your jaw, blood dried in a trail from temple to cheek, and your eyes—

Too wide. Too dark. Too gone.

Not your eyes. Not anymore.

What stares back is something emptied out. Hollowed. A marionette with the strings torn loose and her face still painted sweet. A shell in a girl’s shape.

And then the cabinet.

The shelves inside are lined. Careful. Clean. Toothbrushes still in their packaging. A razor. Pads and tampons sealed tight in Ziploc. As if waiting.

As if meant.

Joel hadn’t found these here. You know that.

He’d brought them.

He'd stolen them. From Jackson. From Maria, likely.

Your gut turns, sharp and sour. You sink down onto the toilet seat, hands trembling on your knees. You want to throw up. Or scream. Or claw at something until it breaks.

And that’s when you see it.

The window.

Not quite sealed. Nailed, yes—but loose in the frame. One corner shifts if you push just right. It’s small. But you’ll fit. You'd make it work.

You don’t think. You move.

As you walk up to it, you shove your shoulders against the frame, slowly trying to open it. It was small, but not impossible to think you could fit through and escape this place.

Hands wedge against the frame, arms braced. The cold hits your face and it tastes like freedom, bitter and thin. You grunt, push, drag yourself through—but the wood groans beneath your weight, and before you can even lift your legs—

He’s behind you.

No sound. No warning. Just there.

One arm catches your waist, the other braces your wrist, too tight. You twist, push, shove—but the world tilts and suddenly you’re on the floor, gasping.

Pain lashes through you—sharp, twisting. The bandages tear open, and blood slithers out slow, curling across the gauze like a snake waking in the cold. It coils red against the white, deliberate and mean.

Your scream is ragged. Pain and rage and shame braided into one torn sound.

Joel kneels. Not over you. Beside you. Quiet.

“I told you it was safer here,” he says. Not shouting. Not angry. Just… tired.

Resigned.

He doesn’t touch you now.

Just looks at the blood.

“Look what you did.”

He says it like you did it to yourself.

He takes you back into the main room. Shirt gone, chest half-wrapped in a bloodstained towel. Your arms tremble from the cold—or maybe something colder. Joel crouches in front of you, dragging the first aid tin open with reverent fingers, like he’s handling the last relic from a ruined chapel. He pulls gauze from its curled ribbon like it means something.

Like it’ll fix what’s already rotting.

He pours moonshine into the bowl, the harsh scent thick and bitter in your throat. The fabric soaks in it, limp and heavy between the rough pads of his fingers.

Then—he just sits there.

Staring at the wound like it’s mocking him. Like it speaks for you.

You want to scream. You want to claw at his face, rip into his quiet like it might bleed. You want to make him look at what he did.

But your body won’t obey.

When he touches you, it’s with unnatural care. Like he’s afraid you’ll shatter under him. Like you already have.

The burn hits slow, then sears deep. You flinch, hiss through your teeth. Joel’s hand clamps gently but firmly over your shoulder. “I ain’t gonna hurt you more,” he mutters.

It sounds like a lie he’s told before.

You hate how delicate he is. How his hands, capable of breaking bones and splitting skulls, move like he’s threading a needle. How he won’t meet your eyes, as if you’re too bright or too ruined.

It’s worse than cruelty.

It’s pity.

You’re frozen. Hollow.

"You did this to me," you whisper, voice raw with pain. I lose a shaky breath, fingers digging into the dusty couch cushions.

"You say you care—but how do you hurt someone you care about? Do you get off on shooting those you care about? Does it make you feel righteous?"

It doesn’t land the way you hope. The pain drains your voice, leeches the venom. The sting in your side steals your breath and with it, your rage.

I look down to his kneeling form. Watch how his face twitches and his eyes become troubled. Something bothers him. His grip on my arms became more rigid, fixed.

“We're heading to Idaho,” he says finally, voice low, gravel thick with something that might be regret or just memory. “Small town there, Swan Valley. ’Bout sixty-five miles west. Empty. Safe.”

He shifts his weight, knees creaking like old timber, but doesn’t stand. Doesn’t leave.

You listen to the sounds around you instead. The low creak of his boots against the floor. The scrape of fabric. His breath.

“We walk fifteen miles today,” he continues, quieter now. “Snake River Canyon. We’ll rest near the ridge.”

"...Why are you telling me?" you murmur. "I could run."

He looks at you for this time.

"You can try." His voice flattens. “But you won’t last long. You’re safer with me. You're better off with me. That’s just the truth.”

His voice has an edge to it, like the burden of his choices is being grounded into the rumble of his voice. His grip stays tight—just tight enough to remind you he could make it worse. Just tight enough to remind himself he hasn’t let go.

Still, when he’s done, you’re bandaged tighter. Cleaner. Warmer.

When he’s done, the bandages are tighter. Cleaner. You can feel your blood staying where it’s supposed to.

He stands, back turned. Like that means anything.

“Put your shirt on,” Joel mutters.

And you do.

Slowly. Fingers stiff. Mind numb.

Like a dog trained to heel.

The road west is bone-white with dust. Asphalt cracked and buckled, like the earth itself has been trying to tear free of what humanity left behind.

Fifteen miles. That’s what he told you. What he promised.

A day’s hike, he said.

What he meant was suffering.

Joel watches you limp across broken gravel, one arm still wrapped tight against your ribs. He keeps close, too close—his shadow swallowing yours up whole. Your boots are too big, a pair he scavenged from a dead man’s truck. The laces flap like tongues. You haven’t spoken since the shed.

But you haven’t tried to run, either.

That’s something.

He thinks about this morning. The quiet way your eyes didn’t meet his as you buttoned your shirt. The way your skin flinched under his hands while he cleaned the wound again. So careful. Too careful.

There was a moment—brief, ridiculous—where Joel thought you might have looked at him like he was human.

He tells himself it was guilt. That’s all. Remorse twisting his gut into something like love.

But the truth is meaner: it’s because your skin felt warm under his fingers. Because when you hissed in pain, he felt something ancient rise in his throat. Not pity. Not even shame.

Possession.

He pushes the thought away like smoke in his eyes.

By midafternoon, the road curves through the corpse of a collapsed gas station. Highway 26 stretches long ahead, a line of sun-bleached cars and rust-choked semis. Joel glances at the horizon—nothing. Still.

Too still.

He carves a path ahead of you like he’s done it a hundred times—through the rustbone skeletons of cars, the ivy-strangled bones of the old world. Every step he takes is certain, deliberate. He moves like a man made for this ending. Like he was waiting for it all along.

You trail behind him in silence, eyes tracing the loaded stillness in his shoulders, the way his boots land without hesitation. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look back to see if you’re following. He doesn’t need to.

This is his domain. Ruin. Collapse. The death of things.

You move like a ghost behind him, quieter now. Watching.

And then, abruptly, he halts. One foot on a crushed bumper, body gone still as stone. He tilts his head—not to listen, but to scent. Chin raised like a hound in thick woods.

He confuses you. Everything about him is contradiction: brute and caretaker, executioner and guide.

Then it hits.

The stench.

Sour. Metallic. Copper under the tongue. And something else—something sweeter, wronger. Like fruit left too long in the heat.

Rot blooming open.

He doesn’t turn to you, but you already know. They’re near.

And something in him is waking up to meet them.

Not a second later, you hear it shriek. Something between a scream and a howl, bone-dry and furious. You don’t even have time to speak. They're already coming.

They pour from the ruins of the diner across the street—four, six, nine of them. One missing half a jaw. One dragging its entrails like a wedding veil. One with a child’s shirt stretched over its bloated, man-shaped form.

You freeze. He sees it in your eyes.

Joel doesn’t.

Then chaos swallows you.

He moves first. Quicker than you’ve ever seen. Not like a man—like something torn loose from restraint, all sharp edge and intention. One shot cracks through the air, and the first infected drops like a puppet with its strings cut.

But the others keep coming.

You stumble back instinctively, ribs screaming with every jolt of movement. The pain knocks the air from your lungs, but you don’t get time to cry out. Joel’s already dropped the rifle. The machete flashes in his grip, gleaming wet.

He doesn’t fight clean.

He doesn’t fight like someone trying to survive.

He fights like someone trying to erase the world.

You watch the blade bury in one skull, then rip free with a wet snap. The body folds. Another infected lunges from the side—you don’t even see it until it’s too close. You flinch, too slow, but Joel’s there. His boot shatters its knee backwards and the machete takes its jaw clean off.

Blood hits your face.

You gasp. Choke. Stumble. The cars around you blur—windows flashing sun and shadow, broken glass underfoot.

Something grabs your arm.

You scream, flailing weakly, but your body won’t hold you up. You hit the ground hard, head swimming. Another infected barrels toward you, shrieking, face split by fungal rot.

Then Joel is there again—behind it, not in front.

He grabs a handful of its hair and slams its face into the fender of an old truck.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Until there’s nothing left but wet noise.

You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Everything rings.

Joel stands over what used to be a man, panting, the machete dripping gore like it’s crying. His shirt clings to him with blood and sweat. His jaw is clenched, eyes scanning, wild, animal.

He turns toward you, panting, chest rising like a man possessed.

Not rushing—just watching.

Like checking if you're still real. Still breathing.

The sun glints off the wet edge of the blade.

He looks like something made for this. Not a protector. A punishment.

And yet—

You don’t back away.

You look at him. Really look at him. His eyes are blown wide, but not wild. His hands twitch, but they’re not reaching for you.

Something shifts. In you. In him.

Not safety.

Something worse.

You’re not as afraid now.

Joel sees it. Feels it like a heat in his ribs.

You’re watching him not like prey anymore—but something else. Something new. Something confused and dark and dangerous.

You stand still as he wipes blood from his face with a trembling hand.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t say what he’s thinking.

But the thought is there.

Whatever’s left of you, it’s his now. And whatever’s left of him— He’ll give it.

Even the rot. Especially the rot.

The Snake river murmurs beside you like it’s trying to forget something.

It’s late. You reached your destination for today without any other suprises after the previous infected attack.

The trees lean in overhead, black silhouettes with fingers for branches, and the moon cuts its way through the dark like a knife. Smoke curls from the fire Joel built, thick and fragrant, clinging to your clothes like grief. The rabbit he caught hisses in the pan, skin crisping, flesh pale and steaming. He doesn’t speak as he cooks—just watches the flames. Always watching something.

You sit across from him, legs curled under you, your bandaged side aching with every shift. The ache reminds you you’re still here. That you're still his.

He offers you the first bite. You take it.

Warmth spreads in your belly. It feels strange, to be fed like this. Not just handed food. Fed. Looked after. It unsettles more than it soothes.

You swallow, then ask, quiet, “That thing you did. Back on the road.”

He doesn’t lift his head.

“The way you… fought.”

Joel chews, slow. He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are on the fire, reflecting back red.

You keep going. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the firelight, maybe it’s the fatigue. Maybe it’s the twisted thread tightening between you, pulled taut since that first shot. “I’ve never seen someone kill like that.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s like being seen through. Like you’re a pane of glass and he’s measuring the cracks.

“I’ve had practice,” he says.

“That’s not what I meant.” You shift closer, slowly. Testing the heat of him. “You weren’t scared.”

Joel doesn’t blink. “Didn’t have time to be.”

“Is that who you are?” you whisper. “The man with the machete?”

He’s silent.

But his hand flexes near his boot, where the weapon lies clean now, wiped and resheathed. Reverent, almost. Like it’s earned a rest.

“No one in Jackson knew anything about you,” you murmur. “Not really. Tommy talked like you were a shadow. Even he didn’t know where you’d been.”

Joel lifts his eyes again. “And now you want to?”

“I don’t know what I want.”

That’s true. You don’t. But you know you’re colder when he’s not near. You know his violence didn’t frighten you—not really. Not after he stood between you and those things like it meant something.

He thinks you’re bending.

That the blood softened you. Cracked you just enough for something else to leak in. He watches you differently now, like he’s waiting for the moment your mouth stops curling in defiance. Waiting for the shift. Like it’s inevitable.

Maybe it is.

Maybe it’s already happened.

You stare at him across the fire, and for one sick second, you can’t remember what it felt like to hate him without question. That fury—bright and raw and righteous—now sits dulled in your chest, like a weapon you no longer remember how to wield.

He shifts, just barely. A small thing. But it makes your stomach turn.

His voice is sandpaper when he speaks. “Thought if I kept quiet long enough, you’d never ask.”

Your throat tightens. “Ask what?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. His gaze drips down to the fire, where the flames chew on a blackened log. “Because if you knew who I was, you wouldn’t be here.”

Something in your chest twists.

You should scream at him. You should run. You should throw the half-eaten rabbit into the dirt and claw your way back to Jackson with your bare goddamn hands. But your legs won’t move. Your arms are dead weight. And the words just… don’t come.

You look at him—really look—and he seems smaller. Not physically. Something else. Like a man hollowed out from the inside and walking around wearing his own skin like a disguise.

You should be afraid. And you are.

But not of him.

Of you.

“I am here,” you whisper, slow. “You brought me here.”

His head tips just slightly, like he heard something in your voice he didn’t expect. Like a crack spreading through ice. His face doesn’t change, but something flickers underneath it. Something old. Something rotten.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t reach for you.

He doesn’t have to.

Because you’re still sitting there. You haven’t moved.

And that silence between you—it isn’t peace. It’s surrender, dressed up in stillness.

You chew slowly. Taste nothing.

The rabbit goes down like ash.

When he lays out the blankets later, he places them closer. The gap is smaller now. Measured in inches, not feet.

And when you lie down, facing the wall of trees, you don’t move away.

You tell yourself it’s to stay warm.

You tell yourself it’s survival.

But when your eyes close, it’s his voice that you hear in the dark— low, steady, and too close to the place where your hatred used to live.

A/N: I love these two freaks aaahhhhhh

Thank you so much for reading xx Leave a comment if you want!!

[do0zy-artz]

Ok so I mentioned my old gem au in this post and figured, why not share some of the notes I have. Though they are from a year ago....

(@pastelfools helped me brainstorm and bounced ideas around with me!!)

The au might get more development after this, or it might not, we'll see.

Scar is some kinda of quartz soldier. Thats where the scars came from, plus accidents he gets himself into. (His gem is also really scuffed up and has probably almost been cracked before.) Depsite being made for combat, he's really into building and designing things. And being so strong and bulky certainly helps with that!

I made Joel some sort of corrupted gem monster. But don't ask me how the corrupting light works/happened here I never got that far. (He might be a nephrite...)

Xornorth is also here and also corrupted bc I love xornorth and. What is Scott without his boyfriend or brother related angst

Didn't decide on Jimmy’s gem, but he's definitely low ranking

So Jimmy actually WATCHED Joel get corrupted him and he couldn't do anything. He's very desperate to get him back and also feels guilty about just...sitting there.

Jizzie is real in the au. Live laugh love Jizzie.

Lizzie is also trying to get her corrupted boyfriend back. She misses him :[ (her and Jimmy r found family btw!!)

Joel has enough sanity? To recognize jimmy and lizzie can not attack them. Everyone else is fair game tho

Pearlescentmoon is Not A Pearl, even if it would've been an easy choice for me. I dont think a pearl really fits....any of her characters? The pearls we see in the show certainly don't. I actually wrote down that she might be a copper, since this au was made when new life was airing. (If bismuth, a non gem irl, can be a canon character so can copper okay....). I might change it though..

I think I also had ren as some corrupted gem. And ya know martyns on his whole loyalty "I have to uncorrupt my favorite guy" thing

I think Martyn, Jimmy, BigB, Pearl and Grian were all made on the same planet (evo planet)

idea I had while writing this: I could like. Put some of them in the human zoo lol (<- watching SU season 4 while typing this)

Mumbo was a fusion and then they shattered his other half. Lmao get fucked.

Etho is a zircon. And he also got exiled for some reason.

Oli would probably be a spinel

I had a note about Jimmy get corrupted GSFWFS

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 41

Hear me out, DP and DC crossover where Scarecrow is cousins with the Fentons. 

 His mother was siblings with Jack’s father, and both Jazz and Danny met ‘Uncle Jonathan’ during one of the many Fenton-Nightingale family reunions that happens every few years. Honestly, perhaps it’s what gets Jazz interested in psychology, hearing from her ‘uncle’ about fear and its effects.

 And honestly once they start having to deal with ghosts and having had to deal with their parents for years it’s not really hard to talk with their uncle. Crane still doesn’t know how he became these kids’ favorite uncle, or even all of the family kids’ favorite uncle-cousin, but that’s just how the family is. 

 Really he’s not even the only villain of the family, with both Jack and Maddie being close but not quite, even if they’re definitely mad scientists. Their son becoming a local hero, even if they’re not aware of that fact, is just ironic. 

 John knows. The two kids told him when they found out that Danny may or may not need to feed on fear now that he’s half ghost, and well he’s the specialist about the emotion so…

 At least they have someone to stay with when Jazz goes to Gotham university and brings Danny with her, even if the local vigilantes are concerned as to why Scarecrow attacks have suddenly took a nosedive…

[rendevok]

Act II ~ The Challenge

A tapestry for chapter 2 of Let No One Sleep by @azalawa-scroggs on ao3

[jellynotbees]

It’s hard to take your god of death boyfriend seriously once you realize he has pink paw pads.

Close up under cut