#Canon Divergence

[alive-gh0st]

❝Nostos❞

⚜️Odysseus!Mark Grayson x Penelope!Reader⚜️

𓊈Part II — ”Epistrefó”𓊉

࣪ ˖ ࣪ ⊹˖ ࣪ 𓂃﹏﹏𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓊝﹏﹏𓂃𓂁﹏﹏𓂃 ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖ ࣪

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

📜 summary: he left. not with cruelty. not with goodbye. mark just vanished—and you stayed. it’s hard to stay normal. you try to move on. you really do. but mark’s jacket still waits on the chair. his name is still pinned in your phone. the coffee still brews for two. and the letters? they pile up. this isn’t about hope. it’s about absence. you’re not hoping. just staying, even when no one asks you to. (aka: grief without a grave. love without closure. devotion without return.)

📜 contains: sfw. slow burn. heartbreak. memory as a character. one-sided presence. two-sided ache. grief without death. love in limbo. emotionally repressed!reader. odysseus-coded!mark. penelope-coded!reader. messy handwriting vs neat black pen. polaroid keepsakes. lots of flashbacks. debbie grayson being a mother figure to reader. soft domesticity haunted by absence. boxes of unsent letters. a jacket no one can move. a girl who stays. a boy who doesn’t come back (yet).

📜 warning: emotional themes. ambiguous grief. depressive routine. unresolved love. emotional repression. survivor’s guilt. mentions of blood/injury (light). isolation. loneliness. ambiguous trauma. post-battle exhaustion. implied memory loss. existential ache. quiet breakdowns. longing dressed as daily routine. no happy ending (in this part). read gently.

📜 wc: 5983

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently for this story. i had a very specific ache in mind when writing this, and it wouldn’t leave until it was posted. “Nostos” is the first half of a two-part heartbreak duology (the second part, Epistrefó, is in the works). remember that sometimes, love doesn’t vanish—it just lingers in doorways and folds itself into jackets we simply can’t put away.

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You don’t check your phone anymore. Not really.

Not for him.

You check the battery. The time. The weather. The signal bars in the top corner that say you’re still here, and he’s still not. But you don’t expect anything.

You don’t hope.

Not anymore.

Not since Mark disappeared one night and never came back. Not since his contact slipped further down your recent list with each passing day, replaced by bills, deliveries, and people who went back to normal too quickly.

Still, you charge it every night. Still, you leave the phone ringer on.

Maybe that’s not hope. Maybe it’s just routine. The kind that sneaks in and settles behind your ribs when life starts to rot slowly.

The kind that whispers—if I just do this one more time, maybe…

You wake before your alarm.

The morning light creeps in like a slow apology, filtering half-heartedly through the curtains. Your hand finds the phone instinctively, thumb brushing the screen without really looking.

No missed calls. No new messages. One software update.

You ignore it all.

The house is quiet. But it’s not peace. It’s absence.

The faucet drips every six seconds. The kettle clicks on. You don’t remember pressing it. The hum of heating water sounds too loud in the silence you’ve been pretending doesn’t suffocate you.

You sit at the table with your legs folded underneath you, the mug pressed between both palms. The steam curls upward, ghostlike—like something leaving.

No movement, no noise, no presence.

You scroll anyway.

His name is still pinned.

“Mark 💫”

You don’t remember what the emoji was supposed to mean.

He added it himself like it was hilarious. Said it made him look mysterious. Said he was “a riddle in human form” and you had laughed so hard you snorted.

Mark grinned like he liked the sound of your laughter too much.

That was before.

Now the last message from him still sits there like a paperweight you never moved.

be there soon

You didn’t respond.

You never got the chance.

And you remember—

It was late.

You were at your front door, holding it open with your socked foot, arm crossed over your chest, just watching him from the hallway.

His jacket was unzipped, hoodie strings uneven, hair still wet from the shower he’d apparently taken somewhere else.

Mark didn’t say where. You didn’t ask.

You always meant to ask more questions. You never did.

“I’ll be quick,” he’d told you.

You frowned. “Isn’t that what you said last time?”

He gave you that look.

The one that said ’don’t ruin this’. The one he always pulled when he was five seconds away from pulling you into a hug and ten seconds from disappearing entirely.

He kissed the side of your head instead.

“You’ll see me soon.”

A look. A promise. Nothing more.

You’d watched him walk off with his hands shoved in his pockets, like he didn’t know what to do with them when they weren’t on you.

And then Mark never came back.

Back in the present, you unlock your phone again. Not for anything. Just for motion.

The drafts are still there.

You don’t even know how many you’ve written now. Some are seconds long. Some are full paragraphs. All unsent. All useless.

U alive or what lol

Remind me again why ur hot when ur annoying

It’s raining and you’re missing it. Again

Mark where are you

I should’ve told you not to go

Just say you miss me already. Coward

You promised, you promised, you promised

Just say something�� anything

I hate you for this.

You tap a new one open. Blank screen. Blinking cursor. And you type.

Hey. You probably won’t see this. That’s fine. But I saw someone yesterday who almost looked like you. He smiled. You don’t really smile like that, but I wanted it to be you so bad I didn’t care. Just thought I’d tell you that. That I thought it was you.

That I wished it was.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you lock the screen. Set it facedown. You don’t delete it. You don’t send it. You don’t do anything, really.

The ringer stays on.

Because maybe tomorrow, the silence will break. Maybe tomorrow, he won’t still be gone.

Or maybe because that’s what you do when you love someone.

You wait.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

You didn’t mean to hold it.

Today was supposed to be about cleaning. Supposed to be about moving things around—there were sheets to wash, shoes to line up, that one drawer that collects things nobody owns.

You were supposed to finally put away the pieces of him that stayed even when he didn’t.

But the chair stopped you.

The jacket was still there. Still slung across the back like he just left it yesterday.

Like Mark might still come back for it.

It hangs exactly where he used to sit, where he’d tip backward on two legs and pretend he wasn’t breaking the chair every time. You used to scold him for that.

Not seriously. Not like you meant it.

Now, there’s no one left to play pretend-annoyed with.

Your hand brushes the sleeve as you pass. And then you pause. Fingers curling into worn fabric that still holds his shape.

You lift it gently. Not all the way. Just enough to hold it against your chest.

It smells like dust now.

But beneath that—beneath time, and distance, and everything he didn’t say—there’s still a trace of him.

That warm scent of something musky and clean and entirely Mark.

Something you only noticed the first time he hugged you and it stuck to your hoodie for days. Something that crept into your sheets and your sweaters and your bloodstream without permission.

You breathe it in.

Then again. Slower.

It’s not grief, exactly.

Not yet.

It’s something duller. Something quieter.

You keep the jacket in your arms as you move to the kitchen. You don’t even realize you’re actually wearing it until you catch your reflection in the microwave—shoulders swallowed by dark fabric, sleeves dragging.

It’s too big. Always was.

He used to joke about that, too.

“That’s the point,” he’d said once, tugging it over your shoulders when you were shivering outside. “If it fits, it’s not boyfriend-coded.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

He’d shrugged, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “Yet.”

You hadn’t answered. But you hadn’t taken it off either.

It was cold that night.

Not freezing, just sharp in the kind of way that nipped at your fingertips and made you hug yourself tighter.

You’d both been walking back from something—food, maybe. You don’t remember the details.

Just that your arms were bare and your voice was quieter than usual.

Mark had slowed beside you, watching the way you rubbed your arms.

He didn’t say anything yet. Just unzipped his jacket and handed it over like it was instinct.

You hadn’t asked. He hadn’t offered.

He just—did it.

And you took it.

He didn’t make a joke after that. Didn’t flirt. Just kept walking beside you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

But it changed everything.

Not right then. Not obviously. But something shifted.

You remember the way your stomach twisted and your heartbeat picked up. You remember thinking—

Oh.

He didn’t touch you again that night. Not once. But you felt him everywhere.

You slide the jacket off and drape it over the back of the same chair again.

Smoothing the collar down. Adjusting the shoulders like he might sit there again.

Like maybe if you leave it just right, he’ll feel it.

You keep it where you’d reach for him if he were here.

Right there. In arm’s length.

Because if you moved it—if you packed it away in a box or folded it into the back of your closet—it would mean he’s not coming back.

And you’re not ready for that.

You stir the tea. One cup. Steam rising.

Mark’s chair stays empty.

But the jacket waits.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It just… happens.

You measure out the coffee, same as always.

Scoop. Scoop. Pour. Wait.

The rhythm is muscle memory now—something buried into the mornings like breath, like heartbeat, like him.

Then you finally catch yourself.

Two mugs.

One for you.

One for Mark.

It’s like the whole room freezes.

You’d promised yourself you stopped doing this. That you finally broke the habit. You even shoved his mug to the back of the cabinet.

You swore you were done waiting.

But it’s still there.

Still chipped on the side where he knocked it against the sink one morning and said it gave the mug “character.”

It’s still black with those stupid yellow stars.

Still his.

You should’ve noticed when your hands reached for it before your head did.

Still him.

You pour the coffee anyway. Two mugs.

No sugar in either.

Just the way he drank it—and the way you learned to drink it too.

And you leave the other warm, just in case.

You sit at the table.

Mark’s cup across from you.

Untouched.

And you remember—

It was a mess of a morning.

You were late. He was later. The kitchen was a disaster, and Mark was shirtless for absolutely no reason. You were trying to make toast while he danced barefoot on the tile to a song you couldn’t stand.

You’d told him to stop being annoying.

He’d winked. Stole the toast off your plate.

You’d shrieked—actually shrieked—and chased him around the counter, barefoot and giggling so hard you nearly slipped on the corner rug.

Mark dodged you once. Twice. Then let you catch him.

Hands on your waist, your breath in his mouth, laughter tangled between your fingers as they clutched the front of his hoodie like it meant something.

It didn’t mean anything—yet somehow meant everything.

He kissed you on the cheek. And you kissed him back.

Then he whispered, “Keep the mug warm for me.”

And of course, you do.

Every morning.

You lift your own cup. Blow on it. Sip. It burns your tongue.

The second mug cools across the table.

Quiet. Still. Full.

You rinse it out before you leave the kitchen.

You always do.

Not because it’s dirty. Not because it was used. Just because that’s what you do.

When you’re still hoping.

Even if you won’t say it out loud.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

Stay productive.

That’s what people say, right? Structure helps. Routine is good. Keep busy.

Keep moving. Keep going. Keep making plans. Keep pretending you’re fine.

Like motion can patch what memory keeps splitting open.

So you write lists now.

Groceries. Cleaning. Meal plans. Things you need. Things you might need. Things to make it look like you’re okay.

Tiny tasks that make up a life—yours now missing half of what made it feel like one.

Today’s list starts the same way as always. Blank paper. Black pen. You write the date at the top like it matters.

Like it’s going to mean anything in a week.

Monday:

• Bread

• Tea

• Paper towels

• …

You pause after the third item. Pen hovers. Eyes drift toward the drawer to your left.

You shouldn’t open it. You do anyway.

You rifle through receipts and extra takeout menus, an old flashlight that barely works. And then you find it.

Folded. Yellowed at the edges. Paper soft from time and… something else.

You unfold it slowly. You already know what it is. You know how it ends.

Mark’s handwriting stares back at you—lopsided and confident, faded blue color with that kind of controlled madness that always looked better on him than it had any right to.

Like even his grocery lists didn’t know how to sit still.

• eggs

• bananas

• that almond milk you swear tastes different but doesn’t

• granola (get the one you like, I don’t care)

• more tea, we’re out again

• the cookies you pretend you don’t eat at 1am

• trash bags

• shampoo (the purple one)

• soap

• strawwber strawberry toothpaste

• something sweet (if you’re still mad at me)

Underneath that, at a slight diagonal across the corner—

’get flowers if she still looks tired.’

Drawn beside a doodle of what might be a dog—big eyes, lopsided ears, tongue out—and just next to it those three words…

’Love You…♡’

You laugh. Or maybe choke. The sound comes out somewhere in between.

You remember this list.

You’d been teasing him for writing everything on paper instead of using his phone. He’d argued phones were ”soulless,” and that “real men use Post-its.”

You’d rolled your eyes. Mark kissed your temple.

Said lists were how he kept you with him when you weren’t there.

You press your thumb into the little heart he’d drawn beside your name. The blue ink’s slightly smeared—maybe it got wet once.

Or maybe you just touched it too many times.

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, the way it still folds exactly the same.

The way the creases fall into place like they know how to find their way back.

Like him.

You think about throwing it away.

You even fold it once.

Then unfold it again.

You stare at it until your eyes blur—until you stop seeing the letters and only see the way he handed it to you, smug and soft and so full of quiet affection you didn’t know what to do with it.

You don’t throw it out.

You just slide it back where it came from. Like it belongs in the drawer. Like it still has a purpose.

The new list started on a different page.

And you don’t write your name on it.

You don’t add cookies or shampoo or flowers. You just… let his list stay.

Right where it was. Blue ink intact. Doodle untouched.

Like maybe it’s not a list at all—maybe it’s a letter. A timestamp. A small, stupid way to say Mark was here.

And maybe that’s enough.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It starts like they all always do.

Somewhere between a joke and a lie. Between habit and hope.

You sharpen the black pen you always use—neat, intentional, boring—like if your handwriting is steady enough, your heart will be too.

The paper is folded once, creased twice, tucked behind the tray of teas and old receipts in the kitchen drawer.

There’s more where that came from.

This isn’t the first.

It won’t be the last.

You press the pen to the page, and let your hand lead.

﹏﹏

Hey, idiot,

I saw a guy today with the same shitty walk you have. Thought it was you.

Wasn’t. Obviously. He was taller.

And had better posture. So now I’m mad.

Not at him.

At you.

﹏﹏

You exhale.

It’s stupid—you know it is. But it doesn’t stop your fingers.

Doesn’t stop the ache curling behind your ribs like something left too long in the cold.

﹏﹏

I made coffee.

You’d say it was too sweet. You’d drink it anyway. And lie.

Like you always did.

Like I let you.

﹏﹏

You swallow hard. Blink twice. Don’t stop writing.

﹏﹏

I keep the jacket on your chair.

The mug near the kettle.

You’re not here. But yet you’re everywhere.

﹏﹏

The pen presses harder now. The strokes sharper. Angrier.

﹏﹏

You said I’d see you soon.

You never said it’d be the last time.

I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I don’t even know if this is goodbye.

I don’t know anything.

Except that it still smells like you when I open the closet.

And I haven’t changed the sheets. And I keep forgetting how your voice sounds when you laugh. But I remember how it sounded when you said my name.

I hate that.

I hate you for that.

﹏﹏

The paper blurs.

You don’t notice the first tear until it hits the corner of the page. A soft smear—like watercolor. Like proof.

You don’t wipe it away.

More come.

Slow. Heavy. Quiet.

Your body doesn’t sob. Doesn’t heave.

You just… leak. Like your heart sprung a hole somewhere too deep to find.

And still, your hand moves.

﹏﹏

I remember the first time you touched me like you meant it.

Not the kiss. Not the teasing.

I mean your hand on my back. Just resting there. Just… there. No pressure. No agenda.

I think that’s when I knew.

You brushed my hair off my forehead the night you stayed late. We weren’t even together. You didn’t ask. You just did it.

And I wanted to cry, even then.

﹏﹏

You’re shaking now. Just a little. Just enough for the words to tilt downward, slope off-kilter—like they’re falling away from you.

Like he did.

﹏﹏

You used to hum when you thought I was asleep. Through the bathroom door. While brushing your teeth.

I never told you I heard it. I just listened. It made me feel safe.

You made me feel safe.

﹏﹏

You pause.

And for a second, your mind goes completely blank.

You sit in it. The silence. The space where Mark used to be.

The world moves on. The faucet drips. The light buzzes. Somewhere outside, a car starts.

You look down at the page.

﹏﹏

I’m scared you’re gone.

But I’m more scared I’ll learn how to live with it.

﹏﹏

That’s the last thing you wrote.

No signature. No goodbye.

Just a confession.

You fold it slow. With care.

Then you rise. Move across the apartment like sleepwalking. Like prayer.

You kneel by the closet. Reach behind the stack of scarves and that one box of photos you haven’t opened since fall.

There’s a shoebox there. Faded cardboard. Tied with a string. You lift the lid.

Letters.

Dozens of them. Maybe more.

Some are bent. Some warped at the corners. Some tear-stained.

All unopened. All unsent.

You place the new one on top. Neatly. Lovingly. Like it belongs.

Then you close the lid. Tug the string taut again. And push the box gently back into the dark.

You don’t say anything. But in your head, you whisper—

If you come back… I’ll give you all of them.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It was raining.

Not the cinematic kind. Just grey, steady, apathetic. Like even the sky had given up.

You hadn’t spoken to anyone in two days. Hadn’t opened the blinds.

It was a Tuesday. Or maybe a Wednesday. You didn’t care anymore.

There was a knock at the door. Three short taps.

You knew it was her before you even looked through the peephole. There was a pause. Then the sound of her key turning in the lock.

Debbie didn’t wait. She never did.

She stepped inside with the same quiet confidence she always had—like someone used to walking through grief.

Like she already knew the shape of it.

You stood barefoot in the doorway. Hoodie too big. Eyes too tired.

“I brought soup,” she said simply.

Her voice was gentler than the rain.

You didn’t reply. Just nodded.

Let her set the bag on the counter and pretend the room wasn’t full of things neither of you could say out loud.

“Tea, too,” she added. “The one you like. With the weird flowers in it.”

You didn’t remember ever telling her that.

Maybe Mark did.

You didn’t ask.

The kettle clicked on. The air started to fill with steam and silence. You sat at the table while she moved around the kitchen with quiet ease—like it was still hers too.

Debbie moved like she knew where everything was. Because she did.

You sat at the table, watching her stir the broth like it was a spell.

She didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t mention him. Just placed the bowl in front of you and cupped your shoulder in one hand, soft but steady.

“Eat,” she said. “You don’t have to talk.”

So you didn’t.

The soup scalded your mouth, and maybe that was the point. You blinked too hard once. Looked down instead of up.

Debbie sat across from you. Elbows on the table. Tea in hand.

She looked tired too. But not the same kind of tired.

The kind that comes from knowing too much and saying too little.

She let the silence stretch. Let it fill every corner of the kitchen without trying to sweep it away. She sipped her tea, slow and steady, like the world wasn’t breaking apart right in front of her.

At one point, she opened her mouth. Paused. Closed it again.

You looked up.

Her eyes were fixed on the jacket. Still on the chair. Still untouched.

Still his.

Her jaw tightened. Just a little.

“You keeping it there on purpose?” she asked, like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t the first time either of you had acknowledged it.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Debbie nodded once. Almost like she understood. Like she was doing the same thing in a different house.

“He used to leave his socks everywhere,” she said quietly. “I found one under the couch last week.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Eventually Debbie started cleaning while you ate.

Folded the dish towel. Organized that one drawer you kept forgetting about. Hummed a song you didn’t recognize under her breath.

At some point, she slid the other tea towards you.

You blinked. “I don’t—”

“I know,” she said. “But you need it today.”

You obeyed.

It was awful. It tasted too sweet. Too floral. Like comfort where it didn’t belong. But you drank it anyway.

Because Debbie was right.

When she left, she kissed the top of your head and pressed a folded napkin into your hand.

“I’m not him,” she said, quiet and steady, “but I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t open the napkin until the door clicked shut behind her. Inside, in her neat cursive, it just said—

Eat. Sleep. Let yourself be loved.

Below it, smaller—

Call me if you forget that.

You blinked hard again. This time, it wasn’t because of the soup.

You tucked it in the drawer. Right under the first letter you ever wrote to him.

And you never threw it away.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It’s not hard to lie.

You thought it would be.

You thought the shape of his name in your chest would make it catch somewhere between your teeth, twist your mouth into something unreadable—but no.

When people ask if you’re okay, your voice doesn’t crack. Your face doesn’t fall. You just smile.

Tight. Bright. Fine.

”I’m fine.”

It rolls off your tongue like water. Like breath. Like maybe, if you say it enough, it’ll start being true.

You say it at the coffee shop. At the pharmacy. To the neighbor with the loud dog and the judgmental eyes.

And you say it tonight, too—when you’re out.

You weren’t planning to go.

You don’t remember saying yes. Don’t remember texting back. But somehow, you’re here anyway.

Same bar. Same table. Same people.

Same everything—except the part that matters.

The seat next to you is empty. No one takes it. They don’t even try.

It used to be Mark’s.

Always.

He’d sprawl too far, take up too much space, nudge your knee under the table like it was a secret only you two knew.

He’d make jokes too loud, smile too wide, say your name in that ridiculous sing-song tone that meant he wanted something.

You look around.

Someone laughs—you think it’s William. A real sound. Loud and open and bright.

You wonder how he can do that so easily without his best-friend but you mimic it.

And it almost feels real.

Almost.

They’re his friends.

But they became yours too, at some point.

Somewhere between group dinners and stupid game nights and Mark dragging you along even when you said you were tired.

Now they invite you without him. Pretend it’s the same.

Maybe they also don’t know what else to do.

You nod at the right times. Ask the right questions. Sip the drink Amber handed you earlier and pretend it doesn’t taste like guilt.

Eve tells a story you’ve heard before. You laugh.

It feels like theft.

On your way home, every man you pass looks a little like him.

A curl of dark hair. A familiar height. A walk that’s too casual to be a stranger’s.

And every time, your heart stutters.

Then sinks.

You’re not even surprised anymore. You barely blink. It’s like your brain keeps pressing the bruise just to make sure it still hurts.

It does.

There’s a couple ahead of you on the sidewalk. The guy lifts his girlfriend’s hand and spins her. She laughs, off-balance, clutches his jacket.

Mark did that once.

You’d told him to stop being cheesy. He said you needed more magic in your life. That he could be that for you. That he wanted to be.

You’d called him stupid.

Mark had grinned and spun you anyway.

You’d laughed.

And believed him.

It’s late when you get back.

The apartment smells like lemon cleaner and leftover memory.

You peel off your jacket, toss your keys in the bowl by the door. Kick your shoes off. Shrug.

The chair still holds the jacket.

The mug is still clean.

The box of letters stays untouched in the closet, tucked beneath everything else. Like muscle memory. Like something sacred.

You flick on the lamp. Just one. The soft one by the couch. It doesn’t light the whole room—just enough to see by. Just enough to remember.

You sit.

No sound. No movement. No laughter through the wall or door slamming shut or Mark calling, “I’m back!” with a grin in his voice like he never left.

The couch is too quiet.

Your hands too still.

You don’t cry.

You’re not even sad, not really. Not tonight.

Just… empty.

You wonder what it means to miss someone without being abandoned.

Because he didn’t leave you.

He just… left.

And you stayed.

That’s what you’re good at.

Staying.

Even when everything else doesn’t.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

You don’t know how long it’s been.

You could count the days. You could scroll through the calendar, trace your finger back through mornings and meals and missed alarms—but you won’t.

You already know time doesn’t move right anymore.

Not forward. Not backward. Just… around.

Looping like bad weather. Like a door that won’t shut all the way.

You clean the kitchen for the third time in two days. It doesn’t need it. The counter gleams. The stovetop is spotless. You scrub anyway.

The rag smells like citrus and ache.

The music you put on in the background stops three songs in. You don’t notice until the apartment goes still again—until the silence feels too loud, too final.

Like a punchline that never came.

You breathe. Stretch.

Decide today is drawer day.

You start with the junk one. Pens, batteries, some keys that don’t fit anything anymore. You find a single glove. Three twist-ties. A coupon that expired last year. Then, tucked in the very back—

A pen. Blue.

You freeze.

Not yours.

You only use black.

It’s scratched along the clip like he chewed on it. There’s a tiny smear of ink dried at the tip. The weight of it in your hand is so stupidly familiar your chest hurts.

You test it against your palm.

It still works.

You set it down like it’s fragile. Like it might vanish if you breathe wrong.

And for a second, you just… stand there. Hands on the counter. Eyes on the pen.

It’s nothing. It’s just a pen.

But it’s his.

Still here.

Like you.

You think about burning them.

The letters. The box. Everything unsaid.

You even set them out once.

One night when the air felt too heavy and your body buzzed with something desperate—something like grief or anger or just plain madness.

You pulled the box from the closet. Untied the string. Stacked the envelopes like firewood. You think there are thirty-seven now. Maybe more. You don’t count anymore.

And then you stared.

You imagined the flame. Imagined the way the ink would curl and vanish. How the words would finally mean something if they disappeared.

But you couldn’t do it.

Not because you believed he’d come back. Not because you were hoping.

But because letting go would feel too final.

Too loud. Too much.

So you put them away again. Tucked them back in the dark. You didn’t even read them.

Just… stayed.

The jacket’s been on the chair too long.

You know it. The collar’s starting to droop. The sleeves are dusted in sunlight and stale air.

So you fold it.

Not like packing it away. Not like forgetting. Just gentle. Careful. A quiet kind of reverence.

You press out the creases with your palms. Smooth the fabric like it’s skin. Like it’ll wrinkle if you look at it too hard.

Then you hang it.

Not deep in the closet. Not hidden. Just inside the door. Where you could still reach for it, if you needed to.

You do that a lot.

Not need. Not want.

Just… reach.

The call wasn’t planned. It’s not even brave. Just—impulse. A moment where your thumb hovers over that name and you press down before you can talk yourself out of it.

Debbie Grayson.

It rings once. Twice. Then her voice.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You freeze.

You didn’t know how much you missed being called that. How much you missed her warm voice.

The conversation is short. Gentle. Careful in all the places that still hurt. You talk about the weather. Groceries. Some show she’s watching. You tell her your heater’s been acting up. Debbie says she’ll send someone.

The call went quiet for a few seconds. You could hear a bird outside her window, maybe. The soft clink of glass.

“How are you… really?” she asked gently.

You said, “Fine.”

Too quick. Too flat.

She didn’t challenge it.

“Me too,” she said. Then a pause. “Liar.”

You laughed once. Quiet. Bitter.

“Still keeping his jacket out?” she asked.

You nodded before realizing she couldn’t see you. Then whispered, “Yeah.”

Debbie hummed. “Me too. It’s his hoodie, though. The one with the dumb band on it.”

You smile. “He loved that one.”

“He stank in that one,” she corrected, and you laughed again—this time without choking on it. “Wouldn’t let me wash it for two weeks.”

“He said that ruins the ‘vibe,’” you added.

“I swear, he made up half of his vocabulary.”

You fall into silence again. But this time, it doesn’t feel crushing.

Just familiar.

She sighs softly. Then—

“If he could’ve called… he would have.”

You know what she means. You also know it doesn’t help.

But you’re glad she said it anyway.

“I know,” you whisper.

But before you hang up, her voice goes soft.

“Call me anytime if you need anything, okay?”

„Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Debbie hangs up. And you’re left alone again. But not quite the same.

You say you would call.

You both know you won’t.

After the call, your hands are shaking.

You go to the bathroom. Not because you need to. Just… because it’s something to do.

The faucet hisses. The water runs warm.

You scrub your hands harder than you need to. Focus on the spaces between your fingers. The creases in your palm.

Like if you scrub hard enough, you’ll find something still yours underneath it all.

When it happens, it doesn’t feel like a breakdown.

It’s not messy. It’s not loud. You don’t drop anything. You don’t scream.

You’re just staring at the sink. At your own reflection in the mirror. You don’t recognize the girl looking back.

She’s too still. Too tired.

Too not you.

And suddenly, the weight of your own body feels too much to carry.

Your knees fold before your heart does.

You sit on the floor, palms flat to the tile, breath shallow. The water still running behind you.

Your chest stays quiet—your eyes don’t.

It’s not the ugly kind. No heaving, no sobbing, no gasping for air like you thought heartbreak was supposed to look like.

It’s just tears.

Fast. Full. Final.

You don’t stop them. You don’t wipe them away. You let them fall. Don’t curse them. Don’t name it healing.

Because it doesn’t feel like healing.

It just feels like staying.

Still here.

Still.

You crawl to the couch eventually. Turn off the faucet. Leave the light on.

The pen’s still on the counter. The jacket’s still by the door. The box stays closed in the closet. The chair is empty.

But you’re not. Not really.

You sit in the same corner of the couch where Mark used to throw his legs across your lap.

Rest your head on the same pillow he once stole for himself.

You breathe.

And in the stillness—in the ache, in the quiet, in the thing that doesn’t have a name yet—you can’t help but think that,

Mark was always good at leaving… you just never got better at staying.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The rain had stopped hours ago, but the ground still glistened.

Mud clung to his boots. Blood dried in thin lines along his ribs. The air smelled like iron, smoke, and burnt-out stars.

Mark didn’t feel any of it.

He sat still. Quiet. Shoulders hunched beneath the battered weight of his suit. Eyes unfocused. Breathing steady, but shallow. Like he didn’t want to take up space.

Like he didn’t deserve to.

He’d stopped keeping track of time weeks ago. Or maybe months.

There was no sun where he’d been—no moon, no clock, no human-made markers to tell him whether the world still turned without him.

He guessed it did.

It always did.

The cold crept in first—through his gloves, up his spine—but he didn’t shiver. He hadn’t in a long time. Everything about him was different now.

Everything except…

His hand moved. Slow. Careful.

Fingers brushed against the hidden seam in his suit—just under the chest area, where fabric frayed from wear and war.

He peeled it back.

And there it was.

A folded square of photo paper. Faded at the corners. Edges curled with time and sweat and memory. He unfolded it with the kind of care he didn’t show to anything else anymore.

The Polaroid was creased. Smudged. Soft in places where his thumb had held it too long.

But your face—your face was still there.

Captured in half-light and joy.

One of those accidental shots—mid-laugh, hair messy, your eyes looking somewhere off-frame like someone just said something ridiculous and you couldn’t help but smile.

He didn’t even remember who took it.

Just that you hadn’t wanted to keep it. And he had.

He kept it when he left. He kept it through everything. Buried it in the lining of his suit like it was armor.

Like if he held it close enough, he wouldn’t forget how you looked when you were happy.

When you were his.

Mark stared at it now like it could answer for everything. For the silence. The distance. The cowardice.

He’d nearly lost it once.

The suit got torn in some place he didn’t have a name for. He hadn’t even noticed the rip until hours later, bleeding from the mouth and limping through someone else’s wreckage.

When he found it again—caught in the lining, damp but whole—he almost broke.

He’d never let it out of his sight again.

Now, it rested against his palm like a heartbeat.

His fingers trembled. Not from the cold. Not from pain. Just from you.

He looked at your face the way you might look at something holy. Not like forgiveness—but like the memory of it.

And then, quietly—so quiet it almost didn’t leave his lips—he whispered your name. Soft. Once.

Like prayer.

Like penance.

He tucked the photo back where it belonged. Right over his heart. Pressed the seam shut like it was a secret.

Then Mark stood.

And didn’t look back.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[samazing0831]

What Should Never Be - Dean Winchester x Reader (mini-series)

After falling into a djinn's dream, Dean Winchester wakes in a world where you - his lost love - is his fiancée. The illusion is perfect: peaceful mornings, shared laughter, and a love he thought he couldn't have. But as he lingers in the fantasy, signs begin to crack the illusion: missing scars, a too-perfect lie, and the ache of unresolved guilt. Ultimately, Dean chooses to leave the dream behind and fight for the real version of you - the one he drove away. When he finally finds you again, he doesn't beg or bargain - he simply asks for a second chance.

2.5k words

Dean wakes up to the kind of peace that doesn’t belong to him.

At first, he doesn’t trust it. The sheets are too soft. The air too quiet. There’s a breeze coming through the cracked window, carrying the scent of lavender and warm coffee, and not a single sound of monsters lurking in the shadows.

This isn’t a motel.

And he isn’t alone.

There’s a weight beside him in the bed. He turns slowly, cautiously, like he’s afraid of what - or who - he’ll see.

It’s you.

Hair fanned out over the pillow. A small, content smile on your lips. Your hand, resting against his chest like it’s always belonged there.

Dean’s throat tightens. His pulse slows, then spikes again.

Your hand.

There’s a ring.

You shift in your sleep, murmuring his name like it’s your favorite word. And Dean swears his heart almost stops.

You left. You walked away from him six months ago with tears in your eyes and your voice shaking when you said, “I can’t keep loving a man who only loves me when the world’s ending.”

And now you’re here. In his bed. In his arms. Wearing his ring.

His first instinct is to pull you close and never let go.

But this isn’t real.

It can’t be.

Still, he lets himself believe for a while.

—

Days pass. Or maybe hours. Time is strange here.

Dean cooks breakfast for you while you hum something under your breath - some pop song he pretends not to like. You tease him about how he takes his coffee and laugh at the old flannel that he still wears.

There’s a calendar on the fridge with wedding venues circled. A photo of the two of you tucked into the frame of the mirror.  You wear one of his old t-shirts to bed.

You ask him if he wants to look at suits this weekend. You call him “babe” in public and he doesn’t flinch. He smiles.

And that’s the scariest part.

He smiles.

This - whatever this is-  is what he never let himself want. What he told himself he couldn’t have. He ruined it when he made you feel like an option instead of the love of his damn life.

And now it’s here.

But it’s a lie.

Every moment that passes is warm and golden and perfect in all the ways that real life never was. You don’t ask about hunts. You don’t cry when he comes home late. There are no bruises. No blood. No secrets.

And no scar on your shoulder.

The one you got that night in Nebraska. Your last hunt together. The night he froze up and you jumped in front of a werewolf’s claws.

You bled all over him. And two weeks later, you were gone.

So why wasn’t the scar there?

Dean stares at you across the bed that night, jaw clenched, heart breaking as the truth settles in.

This isn’t you.

It’s his dream of you.

It’s what he wants you to be - safe, happy, in love with him despite everything.

And he doesn’t get to keep you.

—

You’re sitting on the porch when he comes out the next morning, coffee in hand.

“You’re quiet today,” you say.

Dean doesn’t answer.

You glance over. “Bad dream again?”

He looks at you, and it feels like he’s seeing a ghost.

“I can’t stay here,” he says finally. “This isn’t real.”

You frown. “Dean…”

“I wanted it to be. God, I wanted this more than anything.” His voice brakes, and he looks away. “But I don’t get to keep pretending. I messed it up. I let you walk away. I told myself I couldn’t have this, and I made sure I didn’t.”

You set your mug down, worry in your eyes. “Dean, you’re scaring me.”

“I have to go. I have to find the real you. The one who actually lived through all the crap I put you through. I have to make it right.”

Silence falls like snow.

Then you smile.

It’s soft. Sad. Almost… knowing.

“Then wake up,” you whisper. “And find me.”

—

Dean wakes up gasping.

His body screams in pain. There’s a dead djinn on the floor. Sam is yelling his name. His wrists are raw from the ropes. His heart is broken.

But he’s awake.

He’s alive.

And you’re not there.

—

The first thing Dean does is check his phone.

No texts. No calls. Your last message is from six months ago:

Goodbye, Dean.

He tries every hunter contact he knows. Eventually, Bobby points him toward Oregon.

“You sure about this?” Sam asks.

Dean nods. “She’s real. She’s alive. And I’m not wasting any more time.”

It takes two more weeks. Two motel rooms. One hunter bar where someone finally says, “Yeah, I’ve seen her. Real sharp. Keeps to herself.”

When he sees you, you’re sitting outside a dive diner, eating fries and flipping through a worn notebook.

You don’t see him at first.

He walks up slowly, like he’s approaching a ghost.

“Hey.”

You freeze. Your eyes meet his. And the expression you wear is unreadable.

“Dean.”

—

You let him sit across from you, but your walls are high. Your jaw tight. Your body defensive.

He gets it.

“I saw you,” he says quietly. “In the djinn dream. We were engaged.”

You blink. “Engaged?”

He nods. “You were happy. You danced in the kitchen. Teased me about my coffee. Wore my shirts.”

You say nothing.

“It was a lie,” he adds. “But it felt like home.”

Still, you don’t speak.

Dean leans forward.

“I let you go. I know. I didn’t fight. I thought I was doing the right thing - keeping you safe, sparing you from my mess of a life.”

He swallows hard.

“But it wasn’t right. It was just easy. And I’m done doing what’s easy.”

You study him for a long moment. Long enough that the silence hurts.

Then, softly. “What do you want from me, Dean?”

He looks you in the eye.

“A chance to try again.”

You take a breath.

“You broke my heart,” you say.

“I know.”

“I waited. I fought for us. And you ran.”

“I did.” He swallows. “But I’m not running anymore.”

You stare at him. Then, without a word, you slide your notebook aside and reach for his hand.

He exhales like it’s the first time he’s breathed in months.

“You’re late, Winchester,” you mutter.

He smiles.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m here now.”

And this time, he means to stay.

There’s no hunt.

No monsters.

Just you, Dean, a bottle of whiskey neither of you touches, and an old vinyl spinning something bluesy in the background.

You’re in a little cabin somewhere in Montana. A gift from Jodi, who swore it was good for “restorative vacations” but really just wanted the two of you to disappear from the world for a bit.

You’re sitting on the floor, knees bent, wrapped in one of Dean’s sweatshirts. His head’s in your lap, eyes half-lidded as your fingers comb gently through his hair.

He hasn’t said much tonight. He’s quiet like a man who has a storm building inside him.

And you know that look.

He’s been wearing it since the djinn. Since he found you again. Since you let him back in.

You let him in, but you never said you’d stay.

And he’s been waiting - for you to change your mind. For the other shoe to drop.

For the dream to end.

“You still think I’m gonna walk?” you ask softly.

Dean doesn’t look at you right away.

Instead, he says, “Every morning I wake up and I check that you’re still there. That you didn’t leave in the middle of the night.”

Your fingers pause. Then resume.

“I’m still here, Dean.”

“I know,” he says. Then, quieter, “But I keep waiting for the day you decide I’m not worth the second chance.”

You inhale slowly, letting the weight of that land between you.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe you meant it,” you whisper. “You don’t get to keep punishing yourself for the past. Not when you’re doing the work now.”

Dean shifts, sitting up. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the grain of the wood floor like it holds all the answers he’s been too afraid to ask for.

“I never told you,” he murmurs. “What exactly happened. In the dream.”

You stay quiet. Let him talk.

“We were engaged. You were wearing this stupid pink hoodie with a coffee stain on the sleeve and you danced barefoot in the kitchen.” He huffs a breath - half laugh, half ache. “You told me we’d paint the spare room blue.”

You glance at him, unsure what to say.

Dean looks at you then, eyes red-rimmed and raw.

“It wasn’t real. But God, I wish it was.”

You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “It could be. Just… not perfect. Not easy.”

His gaze holds yours like he’s trying to memorize it.

And then he says, “I want to marry you.”

You blink.

Not because you’re shocked - but because this isn’t how it was supposed to happen.

There’s no fancy dinner. No ring. No fireworks.

Just Dean.

Tired, hurting, loving.

Dean, who always loved with his whole chest but never let himself believe he deserved it back.

Dean, who just blurted it out like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Your breath catches.

He sees your silence and mistakes it for rejection. “I - I don’t have a ring. And this isn’t - this isn’t a proposal, not really. I just - shit.”

He stands like he might bolt.

You reach for his hand before he can.

“Sit back down, Winchester.”

He does.

You move beside him, curling into his side as he exhales shakily.

You rest your head against his shoulder. “It’s not a proposal?”

“Not yet.”

You smile, heart full. “Then maybe you should try again.”

Dean turns toward you, eyes wide, vulnerable.

“Marry me,” he says again, quieter this time. No armor. No bravado. Just Dean.

“I know it won’t be perfect. I’ll screw up. We’ll fight. But I’ll show up. Every day. I’ll love you through the messy parts. Through the fear. Through the real life we’ve got - not the dream I lost you in.”

You lift your eyes to his.

“Okay.”

He blinks. “Okay?”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Yes, Dean. Of course it’s yes.”

—

Later, you’re curled up in bed, wrapped in each other like there’s no space between the two of you anymore.

Dean traces soft circles on your back.

“You sure?” he murmurs.

You smile against his skin. “Completely.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Gonna get you a ring.”

You snort. “You better.”

“We’ll do it right.”

You tilt your head up. “You already did.”

Dean grins against your temple, and this time, there’s no fear behind it.

Just love.

And finally, peace.

They said it would rain. Everyone told you Montana in May would be unpredictable.

But today, the sky is clear. The sun glows golden through the trees, the wind barely a whisper across the wildflowers.

You stand at the edge of a clearing tucked into the woods behind Jody’s cabin, wearing a simple cream dress - no frills, just soft fabric that moves with you. Your hair is curled gently, half-up with sprigs of baby’s breath. No veil. You didn’t want one.

Dean is already standing at the front, boots planted, eyes locked on you.

His suit is charcoal gray, shirt half unbuttoned at the top because of course it is, and his tie - forest green - is crooked in a way that’s almost endearing. Sam probably tried to fix it. Dean probably rolled his eyes and yanked it loose the second he could.

There’s no traditional aisle. Just a pathway made of pine branches and wildflowers, scattered by Claire and Alex earlier that morning while teasing Dean mercilessly about crying.

You walk toward him with a pounding heart and the softest smile.

And he’s crying anyway.

Jody officiates. You didn’t even ask anyone else - she was always family. She stands between you and Dean, holding a small, weathered book she probably found in Bobby’s study. But she doesn’t read from it.

She doesn’t have to.

“(Y/N),” she says, gently, “Do you take this man to be your husband?”

You laugh under your breath, eyes shining.

“I do.”

Dean watches you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

“Dean,” Jody says, already choked up, “Do you take this woman to be your wife?”

Dean nods, then says, hoarse, “Yeah. I do.”

You hold hands.

He squeezes once.

You know that means thank you for coming back.

Sam hands over the rings - silver bands, simple, no stones. You helped Dean pick them out a month ago in a tiny shop in Wyoming. They felt right the second you saw them. Not flashy. Just true.

You slide his on first.

“With this ring, I promise to stay. Through all of it. I promise to fight beside you. Love you like you never have to earn it. And remind you every day that you’re already enough.”

Dean presses his lips together, trying not to fall apart.

He slips your ring on next.

“With this ring,” he says slowly, “I promise to keep choosing you. Even when it’s hard. Especially then. I promise to never make you wonder again where you stand with me. You’re it. You’ve always been it.”

Someone behind you sniffles. Probably Sam.

You both laugh through your tears.

“By the power vested in me by this weird-ass family,” Jody says with a grin, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Dean looks at you like he can’t believe this is real.

You beat him to it.

You kiss him first - hands cupping his jaw, mouths soft and sure.

The clearing erupts in cheers.

Claire whistles. Cas smiles faintly beside Sam. Jack claps with wide eyes like this is the most magical thing he’s ever seen.

Dean whispers against your lips, “Hi, wife.”

You beam. “Hi, husband.”

—

The reception is homemade. Pie instead of cake. A playlist made by Charlie. Beer in coolers. Cas grills the burgers like it’s his sacred duty.

You dance barefoot in the grass.

Dean holds you close, arms around your waist, is voice barely audible over the music as he hums along to the slow song playing.

“I used to think I wasn’t built for this,” he murmurs. “Marriage. Peace. Normal.”

You tilt your head to meet his gaze. “Still don’t think we’re normal.”

He chuckles. “Fair point.”

You brush your nose against his. “But you were built for love.”

Dean leans in, forehead to yours.

“And now,” you whisper, “you don’t have to run from it.”

The stars come out slowly.

You stay wrapped in each other as the fire crackles and laughter spills from the porch.

Dean Winchester - hunter, legend, stubborn pain in the ass - is your husband.

And for the first time in a long time, forever feels real.

[mirrorofliterature]

lenore dove lives.

heel, dog.

haymitch abernathy never stood a chance.

.

the noose has tightened.

there is no removing it.

in this life, haymitch does not drink, even when the nightmares drive him to desperation -

the kids won't stop dying -

they get smaller every year -

heel, haymitch.

the barrel of the gun is always aimed at lenore dove.

.

haymitch begs astrid everdeen to lie and say lenore dove is infertile.

please, he says. weeps. his tears, salt. his heart, irreparable.

she is alive, but that could always change.

haymitch always wanted children. lenore dove, too.

but they cannot.

no, not like this.

.

the sun, rising.

the meadow, soundless.

haymitch abernathy never stops living in fear.

[bardic-tales]

Ashes of the Nexus: An Original / FF 7 Crossover Fic

Summary: In a world reborn from the ashes of forgotten stars, Bianca unleashes her full celestial wrath to protect her children from the blade of a man she loves.

Pairing: Bianca (f!OC) / Sephiroth

Other Characters: Lucien (m!OC child), Aurora (f!OC child)

Possible Trigger Warnings: Abuse (parental), body horror, blood, child endangerment, emotional trauma, graphic violence, grief, injury detail, internalized trauma, medical experimentation (implied), mind manipulation, parental betrayal, transformation sequence, and war trauma.

Author's Note: Friday's will always be Fic Fridays. I write these up during Sunday. Every Friday, you can find either an xReader or OC x Canon.

Ethereal Nexus

Eons after the main events of FF VII.

The stars above the Ethereal Nexus didn’t twinkle. They pulsed like open wounds in the sky. Beneath the bleeding heavens and the bones of a city lost to time, Aurora screamed: not in a voice, but a keen, high-frequency cry that cracked glass and made the galaxies overhead stutter. Her white hair turned to flame as her humanoid form gave out. The small child swallowed by phoenix fire and pain. Lucien followed, collapsing in a tangle of black feathers and talons, eyes wide with betrayal as Sephiroth stood before them: tall, cold, and unflinching.

The sword in his hand still dripped their blood. They were four. Four.

Bianca saw red. No. Not metaphor, not madness, but a literal flooding of her vision as every fiber of her being buckled beneath the maternal surge.

Her twins staggered toward her on bleeding claws, unable to speak in their pain but crying her name in their minds. Only one desperate thought: Mama. Please.

Smoke curled from their wings. Their protofeathers burnt at the edges. Her fingers twitched. The white ribbon in her hair trembled. Something inside her snapped.

Bones split. Flesh groaned. The change was never elegant. It was never poetic, despite her celestial blood. Her knees hit the fractured stone as her back convulsed in impossible angles. Wings tore from her shoulder blades. Not the kind that a human would expect: not the soft-feathered wings of old scripture but seething plumes lined with barbs and shuddering shadows. Her scream wasn’t human. It wasn’t dragon. It was the dying cry of a galaxy being born. Sephiroth didn’t move. Not because he was startled but because he expected this.

The children collapsed beneath her. Bianca, now colossal and monstrous was a titan wrapped in feathered majesty. She pulled them beneath her wings. Her beak dipped to gently nuzzle Aurora, then Lucien, one after the other, smearing golden ichor from their wounds across her own face. Her wings tightened like a fortress of grief.

Mine, her aura screamed. These are MINE.

Her gaze locked with Sephiroth’s. He was not her husband. Not lover. Not the man who placed a white ribbon beside her sleeping form long ago. He looked like Asmodeus now. Aloof, powerful, and cruel. The same stare her father had given her when he split her open to see what bled: light or darkness. But Sephiroth was not her father. And that made what came next personal.

She lunged.

Her body collided with his like a meteor into a mountain. The blast cratered the ground beneath them, swallowing the bones of buildings. Her talons raked across his pauldrons, wrenching metal from his shoulder and drawing blood. His S-cells hissing in the air as her corrupted aura flared. Celestial light bled from her core, but twisted now, as it was infused with shadow and pulsed with demonic wrath. Her fury was not divine. It was maternal.

Sephiroth grunted as he was sent skidding across the plaza, boots sliding across the onyx stone beneath. He was already rising before he stopped sliding. Masamune sang in his hand. A single flick of his wrist loosed a wave of kinetic force, slicing the air.

Bianca met it with a ripple of warped time, bending the force mid-air until it dissolved into dust and echoes. Their thread burned bright wrapped around their wrists, reacting to every heartbeat, every wound, and every scream.

He came at her next, faster than light. Bianca blinked through fractured reality to meet him mid-motion, as their collision sending a shockwave through the Nexus. Masamune bit into her shoulder, tearing through tendons, bones, and muscle.

She retaliated with a plume of corrupt flame from her throat, licking at his side, searing through his coat and branding into his ribs with infernal, purple flame. With each clash, her aura subjugated the cells within her. Darkness curdled like spoiled milk but obeyed. And within him? His Jenova cells twitched and hesitated.

Sephiroth felt it like a rope around his ribs, tightening. The demonic part of Bianca didn’t just fight him. It sang to the infection in his blood, whispering treason and reckoning. His muscles slowed. His instincts hesitated. He looked at her, really looked at the monster in the sky and the woman beneath its flesh. He saw her eyes: her millions of eyes doting along her head, her neck, and her plummage. Still Bianca’s. Still hers. And in that moment, the thread between them tugged.

But he struck again.

A flash of silver and void. Gravity warped beneath their feet. Bianca twisted time around them like a net, dragging him through frozen seconds, only to hurl him into the crumbling remains of a cathedral. Dust rained from broken stained glass skies. He rose again, slower. His hand gripped Masamune tight, but his breath hitched. The cells inside him buckled. Not in submission. In confusion.

The twins whimpered behind her. Bianca’s blood dripped like molten gold from her wound. She roared. The sound cracked nebulae above, and surged forward. Her claws swept upward, not to kill. Never to kill but to force him back. Sephiroth met her blow with his own. Masamune dragged across her chest, but the moment it touched her light and golden blood, flowing down her writhing feather-like tendrils in rivulets, the corruption stuttered. Jenova’s control shattered.

For a blink in eternity, they stood there: blade and talons poised in mutual destruction. And then the thread pulsed. The bond, ancient and sacred, older than even Jenova and the realms, wound tighter: not breaking him, not redeeming him, but rerouting him. He would still burn worlds. Still ride the husk of planets to the next. But not at the expense of their children.

Bianca exhaled white smoke that curled around her serrated beak. Her wings rose slowly in an arc above her body, as she let out an otherworldly bellow. Her indigo eyes wreathed with golden specks never left his.

“If you touch them again,” her thoughts rumbled through the confines of his mind and the cells within his body, “I will unmake you.”

Sephiroth stepped back. Not in fear but in reverence. Not of her power but of her choice. Of her.

@themaradwrites @shepardstales @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon @projecthypocrisy

[gothamite-rambler]

Duke Thomas: What’s your biggest fear?

Jason Todd: That I’ll never be good enough for anyone.

Tim Drake: Everyone hates me and talks about me behind my back.

Dick Grayson: Vampires.

Jason Todd: ...

Tim Drake: ...

Dick Grayson: I got turned into one once and nearly killed peoples. It's a bloodlust, you never know when you'll be fully quenched and every non-vampire is a succulent vessel... But I'm not a vampire anymore and that is in my past.

Dick eats his apple after that.

*silence*

Duke Thomas: Holy crap stick, Batman.

Tim: Can I change my option to Dick Grayson?

Jason: Same.

[lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom]

Nightmare

KANG DAE-HO X READER

Summary- Dae-ho wakes up from a nightmare, with you being the only one by his side to calm him down.

Warnings- Mentions of PTSD, Nightmare, ECT.

A/N- Thank you, @tomgregtruther101 @errruvande @momoko-world @thethreeeyed-raven for encouraging me to write this!

Word Count- 1,223

A low mumble awoke you from your slumber. Typically you were a heavy sleeper, but when it came to Dae-ho it was different. You could have slept through a firework show. Though, the second your beloved got up to use the bathroom- you're up with him.

It bothered the sweet man at first, he hated waking you up. After some reassurance that you didn't mind, he warmed up to the idea. This night, however, was not like many.

It was not uncommon for Dae-Ho to wake up frazzled. He would get something warm to drink from the kitchen, and lay back down. (Praying he didn't wake you). On the much more common occurrence, you would awake with him. In turn, you'd be the one making him something warm to drink, possibly something sweet to snack on. Then the two of you would cuddle until he was fast asleep.

It was honestly comforting for you as well, being able to be his anchor was flattering. He trusted you like no other.

Dae-ho was not Frazzled though, and he didn't wake up to get a beverage.

He was thrashing, hard. His legs slightly kicking, arms jumping up every few seconds. With an impossibly scrunched face, he mumbled again.

"Dae?" You whispered out. The only response you received was a hit to the side, a stray flaring hand had got you.

The mumbling quickly turned louder, now sounding like a cry or groan. It worried you beyond recognition.

"Dae-ho." You pressed a gentle hand to his shoulder. His body jerked away from it. Very uncharacteristic.

A disfigured 'no' left his lips, a struggled sob escaped. He had managed to kick the comforter off of himself, and the bed.

You were now sat on your knees, looming over him. "Dae-ho!" You firmly grabbed both of his shoulders, shaking him.

A loud gasp erupted from both of you as his eyes shot open, you had no time to make a comment. His legs pushed and kicked, separating himself from you. At that singular moment, in his fear struck mind, he didn't seem to recognize you.

He had already found himself against the headboard of the bed, his hands pressing tight against his ears. You had barely blinked in all his movement.

With gaping eyes, a pounding chest, and heavy breathing he looked at you. Almost as if you were the one who hurt him.

"It just me, Dae-ho, its just me..." You spoke as soft and low as you could. You didn't approach any closer, but put your hands up to appear less intimidating.

His eyes just darted across the room in response, body curling further. His lip quivered, face and body drenched in sweat.

"You're okay, you're safe. Dae, you're safe. It's just me... It was just a nightmare, everything is okay..."

He swallowed thick, slowly nodding his head. His gaze now stuck on yours. His scared and nerve wrecked appearance crushed you. It was opposite of the man he appears to show to everyone, only you knew of his nightmares.

"I'm going to come closer, I promise I'm here, I'm real, you're at home. Safe in bed..." You shuffled over on your knees, hands starting at his forearm.

He slightly flinched at your touch, but made no attempt to move away. Your hand caressed across his arm, going to his own hand. You tenderly unravel his tight grip on his head, tangling your fingers in his.

A large sigh left him, his head falling back in frustration. He was now back to reality, though still beat and weary. Water glossed over his eyes. He bit his lip hard, trying to fight away any tears. He thought it would make him seem less of a man to cry in front of you. You couldn't disagree more.

"I'm so sor-" His voice cracked as he tried to speak, a couple tears has managed to escape. You didn't let him finish, his face was pressed deeply into your chest within seconds. He truly didn't know what he was apologizing for, for waking you? For having a nightmare? For his frequent PTSD attacks?

You had quickly taken his frame into your arms. He would have admitted that your knees pressing into his thighs was uncomfortable, but he didn't care right now. You were with him, holding him, and loving him. That's all he cared about.

"Don't you dare apologize, you've done nothing wrong." You cradled his head tight, pressing kisses to the top of his crown.

You managed to twist the two of you around, your back now against the headboard with him in your lap. He was quiet for awhile, you simply rocked him back and forth for a little bit.

His arms found themselves wrapped around your waist. He held onto you for dear life... Almost as if you'd fade away if he let go. You heard his breathing shake every few breaths, but he was calming down.

Continuing to rock, you reached your hands up to his hair. It was half up, half down. The hair tie pulled out of his hair easily enough. You were able to considerably comb through his hair with your fingers. A simple action you knew he loved.

While one hand worked at his soft black hair, another rubbed circles on his back. "Feeling better?"

He sniffled, leaning up to look at you. He couldn't meet your eyes, almost embarrassed. His meek, "Thank you." was accompanied by a nod.

You brushed through his hair, even with him sat up. "Want to talk about it?" You never wanted to pressure him into anything he wasn't comfortable with.

"Just the typical... but you were there, you were who I was shooting... It was like you were the enemy... I just- I can't describe it.. It made no sense-." His voice shook again, so you interrupted him.

"Exactly, baby. It was a nightmare that will never happen... Because I know you would never hurt me, that you would do anything to protect me?" Your tone implied a question.

He nodded furiously, now making direct eye contact. There wasn't a phrase he agreed more with. He looked at you like a loyal puppy.

"See? It was your sweet little mind playing mean tricks on you..." You rested a flat palm to his cheek. Taking in how handsome he looked in the moonlight.

He puffed, now more light hearted, and fell back onto your chest.

"I promise I will keep you safe from all the nightmares and mind games." He was frustrated at your words.

"But that's supposed to be my job..." He said, face conveniently still upon your breast.

You smiled warmly, "Yes, it is. And you fulfill it perfectly. I couldn't be happier. But, you must let me take care of you as well..."

He didn't respond, his internal monologue had a million points to argue back. But he didn't. He embasked in the moment, squeezing you tight again.

You took the silent request, resuming your back rubbing and head scratching.

From experience, you knew he would not fall asleep any time soon. That you'd probably fall asleep before him, no matter how hard you tried to stay up. All you could do for now was whisper how much you love him, play with his hair, and hum silly melodies.

And he was content with that.

A/N- Okay, so erm. I feel like it was rushed (it was), but I also feel that way about all my works. So... Please let me know how I can improve. Also this is my first time writing something like this, so I hope it wasn't terrible. XOXOXOX LOVE YALL

[kelin-is-writing]

HELLO???? PRO-HERO TOUYA???? I’M FOLDING SO BAD—?????

[grayandthyme]

nights in white satin ;

masterlist

w/c 10.1k

jackson!joel miller x f!reader

synopsis: what if that cold winter day happened a little bit differently? what if he survived? what if you got your happy ending. and, what if you showed him what that happiness really felt like? warnings/tags: 18+ smut, mentions of violence, death, and gore. mentions events of s2e2/second game, mild angst, confession, mentions of survivor's guilt, extreme guilt, anxiety, maybe some ptsd, yearning, unprotected p in v, mentions of overstimulation, oral sex (f receiving), mature language, grumpy x sunshine, no use of y/n. maybe a fix it fic....

"Mornin'," he rumbles, voice thick with sleep, rough like gravel under boot. The coffee cup skates across the cool granite, leaving a streak of warmth behind, and the smell—rich, dark, almost divine—hits you like a prayer answered by the gods above. Liquid fuckin sleep.

"Good morning to you too, Miller," you murmur around a yawn, curling two fingers through the handle and pulling the mug close. Heat seeps into your skin, chasing away the chill clinging to your bones.

Your gaze lifts to him—Joel—watching as he drags a hand down his face, wiping away whatever dreams still clung to him. His fingers thump against the counter with a soft, aimless tap, and you catch yourself staring at the rough, calloused pads of them, worn, weathered and real.

"Tired?" His voice is softer this time, threading through the sleepy silence between you.

You nod, sipping carefully at the coffee. Blessed and sorely needed.

"Is Ellie up, or did you let her sleep in?" you ask, stifling another yawn as you tip your head in a lazy nod toward the next patrol filing into the mess hall.

"I let her sleep," he mutters, gaze flicking down to the coffee steaming in his hand. You don’t have to press him—you already know. They’re still tangled up in whatever silent war they started. Fighting, ignoring each other, walking on eggshells… some messy, stubborn version of a father-daughter standoff that's got both of them fraying at the edges.

"Aren’t you a good daddy, eh?" you tease, hiding a smirk behind the rim of your mug. Your eyes cut sideways, waiting—almost daring him—to react.

Right on cue, he lets out a low, gruff hnf, a sound half embarrassment, half warning.

"I wouldn't press you about it anyway, Miller," you say with a soft grin, slipping down from the barstool. The soles of your boots scuff lightly against the floor, the sound too loud in the sleepy hush of the mess hall.

"I'm with Jesse this morning—we’ve got the market patrol," you add, turning as you shrug into your jacket, tugging it into place with a few sharp tugs. Still, your gaze can’t help but drift back to him.

Joel stands there, broad-shouldered and a little crumpled around the edges, like sleep hadn't quite finished with him yet. Your eyes catch on the strands of silver threading through the dark, messy curls at his temples.

Pretty, you think, a little surprised at yourself. Stupidly pretty.

He doesn’t notice the way you’re looking—or maybe he does and just pretends not to. He’s good at that.

"I'm with Dina," Joel says, giving a small nod. His eyes flick sideways, quick, like a habit he can't quite shake. Watching you. Pretending not to. It's subtle, the way he does it—barely there—but you catch it anyway.

"If you’re back in time, we can hit the bar for happy hour~," you tease, voice lilting into a singsong as you nudge a playful jab toward his shoulder, stopping just shy of actually making contact. "Maybe even get you to talk about your little daddy-daughter debacle."

You flash him a grin, wide and shameless, knowing full well how much he hates when you call it that. The word debacle alone is enough to get that tight, uncomfortable pinch around his mouth—the one he tries and fails to hide every time.

He huffs out a breath, more air than sound, and levels you with a look—one that’s supposed to be warning, but doesn’t have much bite behind it. His mouth pulls into a tight line, and for a second, you think he’s going to let it go.

But, of course, Joel Miller never lets anything go easy.

"You’re askin’ for trouble, y'know that?" he mutters, low and gravelly, eyes narrowing just a touch. Not angry. Just… exasperated. The kind of exasperated that sounds a whole lot like fond when it’s him.

You just laugh, light and careless, throwing a wink over your shoulder as you head for the door.

"Been askin' for trouble since the day you met me, old man," you call back, earning a rough, half-hearted hnf that follows you all the way out into the morning chill.

. . .

Patrol was boring. The kind of boring that makes you wish for something stupid to happen, just to feel your blood move a little faster. The roads were dead quiet, muffled under thick, heavy snow. Jesse didn't talk much—just rambled now and then about town repairs, busted generators, and roofs that needed patching. Stuff that drifted past your ears without sticking.

Building wasn’t really your thing, anyway. You stuck to what you were good at—helping out in the greenhouses, lending a hand at the infirmary—anything that didn’t require a hammer and nails. Unfortunately, you were still subjected to freeze your ass off on patrol.

The wind bit at your face until your eyebrows went numb, your eyelashes stiff and clumped with frost. You were about five minutes away from becoming a human popsicle when you finally reached for your walkie.

"Jackson, come in, over," you called, voice crackling through the static.

There was a beat of silence before a faint voice answered, a little too quick, a little too tense. "Jackson copy. Twin Forks, how’s it looking out there?"

You glanced over at Jesse, who just gave a small shrug, his breath clouding in the frozen air. Raising the walkie back to your mouth, you huffed out a sigh.

"Freezin' half to death. Roads are mainly clear. We're headin' back, over" you said, teeth chattering a little around the words.

Static hissed through the speaker again. Longer this time.

Your eyebrows pulled together, unease creeping slow and sharp down your spine. That wasn’t like Jackson. They were usually fast—too fast sometimes, like they were just waiting for any excuse to chatter your ear off.

Before you could say anything, the walkie cracked back to life:

"Twin Forks, copy—have you heard from Dina or Joel? Over."

Your stomach dropped clean through you. Like stepping into thin ice.

You tightened your grip on the walkie, heart already kicking up in your chest.

"No," you said, sharper than you meant to. "Aren’t they supposed to be back already?"

The static answered for them.

And for the first time all morning, the cold wasn’t the thing making your hands shake.

Your eyes flicked up to Jesse. His face was stone—jaw tight, mouth a grim, thin line. You knew he had something with Dina. Whatever messy, tangled thing it was between them, it ran deep enough to light that cold fury in his eyes now.

"I'm following their route," you said, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "You can come with me… or you can go home."

Your teeth caught your bottom lip, biting down hard enough that the sting cut through the churning anxiety in your gut. It felt like your stomach was trying to turn itself inside out, the nerves scraping raw against your ribs.

For a second, Jesse didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, snow catching in his hair, breath huffing out in slow, frosted clouds.

Then he nodded once. Sharp. Decisive.

"Let's go."

You didn’t wait. You just adjusted your pack and started moving, boots crunching hard through the deep snow, following the trail Joel and Dina were supposed to take.

Every step forward made the pit in your stomach twist tighter. Something was wrong. You could feel it, thrumming under your skin like a warning.

You tapped your heel against your horse’s side—once, twice—and the animal surged forward into the snow, kicking up white powder in its wake. Fingers tightening so hard around the reins that the leather bit deep into your palms, leaving angry, stinging red imprints.

"Joel? Dina? Come in. Over," you barked into the walkie, voice clipped and sharp from the cold and the panic creeping higher in your throat.

Static answered. Again. No Joel. No reply.

"Fuck," you hissed under your breath, jamming the radio back onto your pack with a rough snap.

The trail ahead was still. Too still. Snow stretched in every direction, pristine and coated except for a broken trail of hoof prints leading up toward the mountain.

You didn’t need to think. You urged your horse faster, heart hammering in your chest, every muscle wound tight.

It was only a few yards up the slope when you saw it—Dina and Joel’s horse, standing riderless in the snow.

But no Dina. No Joel.

Your eyes snapped to the cabin tucked just ahead. It looked solid—half-renovated, sturdy enough to stand against the winter. Someone had been here, maybe still was.

"Jesse—front door," you ordered, voice low but firm. "Make sure no one goes in or out."

Your gaze cut to him, sharp and urgent. He nodded, pulling his gun free from his belt as he circled wide, boots crunching over the frozen ground.

"I’ll take the side door," you added, already slipping from your horse, landing hard in the snow. "Look around."

You hesitated, just for a second—just long enough to catch his eye—and the words slipped out, rougher, quieter:

"And… be safe."

The look you gave him said the rest. You were already wired tight with anxiety, your nerves scraped raw. One wrong move, and this whole thing could turn sideways fast.

Jesse gave you a tight nod, disappearing toward the front, and you turned toward the side of the cabin, heart hammering loud enough you swore it echoed in your ears.

Hand on your weapon, you moved in.

he bile clawed up your throat, threatening to spill out. Your whole body felt like it had caught fire—nerves sparking, brain short-circuiting, tears stinging hot at the corners of your eyes.

You rounded the corner of the basement, sweeping it methodically, breathing shallow, every inch of you tight with dread. Clear. Clear. Clear.

Until the stairs came into view.

You climbed them slow, careful, each step deliberate, barely daring to breathe. The wood creaked under your boots, but only slightly—only enough to make your heart jump into your throat.

Then— "Ha—ha—HA—"

The ragged gasping hit you like a blow to the chest. Violent. Desperate. A woman’s voice, cracked and breaking from the strain of it.

You froze, finger curling tight around your trigger, inching closer to the source.

Through the narrow sliver of the cracked door, you saw it.

Blood. Everywhere.

The metallic scent hit you hard, thick and suffocating.

And then— The mess of salt and pepper curls. Familiar. Burned into your mind from only this morning, when you were smiling over your coffee and teasing him about happy hour. When you wished you had told him that since the day you met him, he had meant everything to you.

Joel.

Blood soaked the floorboards beneath him, pooling like something alive, something hungry. Gushing. And he wasn’t moving.

Your body moved before your brain had time to catch up. You slammed your shoulder into the door with a force you didn’t even know you had, sending it crashing backward with a groan of splintering wood.

The room was a blur—chaos and blood and panic. The familiar weight of a body on the ground, unmoving. Your eyes barely caught it before you were reacting, fingers tightening around your weapon. The shot was instinct, clean and precise, straight to the face. The sound of the gunshot rang in your ears as one of the women dropped like a ragdoll, her body crumpling.

But then— The wind was knocked out of you.

The second she hit the floor, another figure lunged, grabbing you by the shoulders, slamming you back against the wall with bone-crushing force.

You gasped for air, panic flooding in as your body screamed to move, to do anything but be pinned here. There was a man on you, wild eyes flashing with terror and fury. You fought back, muscles burning, your hand darting to the nearest thing—anything to give you an edge. It landed on a glass bottle, slick and cold in your grasp.

Without thinking, you swung it, the bottle crashing against his skull with a sickening crack. He staggered back, momentarily dazed, giving you just enough space to slip away, your chest heaving as you fought against the rage, the fear, the overwhelming anxiety that turned your blood to fire.

Your eyes blurred—tears, or maybe just the smoke of too much anger, too much chaos. Every breath felt like a fist in your ribs.

You barely recognized yourself in that moment.

The fury inside you was pure, uncontrollable—fueled by terror, by the sight of him, by the fact that he was here, and he shouldn’t be.

And it was all too much.

You spun around, gun already raised, your finger pulling the trigger without a single hesitation. The man who had been on you moments ago crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud, his body twitching once, twice, thrice, before stilling.

Your eyes snapped to the remaining two. One was kneeling over Joel, her braided hair swinging wildly with each frantic movement, fingers locked tight around a golf club. The other was above Dina’s body, her face stained with tears as she hovered over the fallen woman. You couldn’t tell if Dina was still breathing. The sight of it made everything inside you twist in fury.

The world around you narrowed—there was no room for hesitation, no time to think.

Angry. So fucking angry. Calculated. Bloodthirsty.

You took a step forward, the weight of the rage feeding you, making everything feel sharp and clear. With one fluid motion, you threw your empty gun to the floor. The clatter echoed in the room, loud and final.

The braided woman took a sharp breath, and before you could even blink, she swung the club at you, a brutal arc aimed right for your face. You felt the crack against the bridge of your nose, the force enough to send you stumbling back, but you didn’t flinch. You welcomed it—felt it fuel the fury already pumping through your veins.

You wanted to feel this.

You didn't give her a second to recover. You lunged, body crashing into hers with everything you had. It was all strength—no technique—just pure violence. She hit the ground hard beneath you, gasping for breath, but you didn’t stop.

Your hand found her side, fingers brushing over the knife strapped to her waist. In one brutal move, you ripped it from her and lifted it high.

The first slash was messy, a deep gash across her throat. She choked, but you didn’t stop. Not until the blade bit down again and again, each thrust deeper, each second an eternity of rage, until her body stopped moving entirely.

You pulled the knife from her throat, your breath coming in ragged gasps, chest heaving as the adrenaline coursed through you, a sick buzz that made everything feel… distant. Empty.

The silence in the room was suffocating now.

You hadn’t even realized it, but Jesse had already moved in, subdued the woman who had been hovering over Dina, and now he was holding the girl in his arms, checking her pulse. Through the ringing in your ears, his voice cut through—low, steady, but with a note of relief.

"She's alive."

The knife slipped from your fingers, clattering to the floor with a sickening finality. But you didn’t even look at it. Your body was already in motion, adrenaline still coursing through you, pulling you toward the only thing that mattered now.

You stumbled over to Joel, heart hammering in your chest, each beat pounding like a war drum. You leaned over him, your breath shaky as you hovered above his bloodied form.

"Hey, hey, hey…" The words came out soft, almost like a prayer, your fingers hovering above his battered skin. Every inch of you wanted to touch him, to make sure he was still breathing—still there—but you were terrified. Terrified that if you did, if you moved too quickly, you might break him with a single touch.

His face was bruised and battered, blood streaked down his jaw and neck. His breathing was shallow, ragged—but it was still there. He was still here.

Your hand trembled, fingers hovering just above him, a fragile hesitation before you finally let them settle on his chest, feeling the weak rise and fall beneath your palm.

"Joel," you whispered, voice cracking, soft but desperate. "Joel, stay with me. Cmon, don’t do this.”

. . .

It had been two weeks since the incident, but time felt warped—like it had both stopped and dragged on at once. You hadn’t left this chair. Maybe just to go to the bathroom, but even then, you barely registered it, too numb, too drained.

The room had become your world. The pale walls, the soft beeping of the machines keeping a rhythm to your broken thoughts. Every other sound faded into the background, until it was just you and the memories that haunted you.

At some point, Tommy had barged in and threatened to force-feed you if you didn’t eat something, anything, before dragging you out of the infirmary for a few minutes of air. You barely remembered it—just that he was there, urging you to move, to care, but you hadn’t felt it.

And then Maria had made you change. She wasn’t gentle about it, but you were too far gone to fight back. She made you strip the bloodstained clothes off your body—clothes that clung to you like a second skin of guilt—and put on something fresh. Something clean. Something that didn't smell like the blood of the man you nearly lost.

Joel was in stable condition now, his heart still beating, his lungs still taking in air. He still hadn't woken up.

His face was burned into your consciousness. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it. The bruising. The blood. The scar on his temple you always teased him about, now covered with black and blue. The deep, unsettling weight of it all settled in your chest, each time harder to breathe through.

You couldn’t escape it.

His face. The desperate, silent plea you could never erase.

Ellie had visited numerous times. She never asked what you were thinking, never pressed you to speak, but she didn’t have to. She knew you well enough to see the anger, and sadness swirling beneath your skin, the tension in your every move.

She knew this wasn’t just exhaustion or grief—it was guilt. Deep, suffocating guilt. Whether it was survivor's guilt or something more, Ellie saw it, knew it. And she also knew, without a doubt, that you cared for him. The way your eyes lingered on his sleeping form. The way your hands would twitch, wanting to touch him, but afraid to.

But you didn’t act on it. You couldn't.

It was too much. The weight of your own feelings, the weight of what had happened, the fear that maybe you didn’t deserve to feel this way. Not after everything. Not after the bloodshed. Not after the fact that you were still here, breathing, while he was lying unconscious, fighting for every breath.

Would it be better to die? The thought had plagued you more than once. To die with him, to end it all and erase the possibility of this endless ache that gnawed at your insides. To take away even the chance of missing him, the chance of waking up and still feeling this pain in your chest.

What if he died and you never got the chance to say you loved him. How each and every longing stare meant something more than 'I'm afraid to let you in.' Please don't leave without letting me love you.

You wondered if it would be simpler, if the universe would just let you follow him into the dark. Maybe it would stop this gnawing emptiness. Maybe it would stop the endless loop of what-ifs, of imagining him waking up and letting your hands roam against his skin—lips and tongue trailing against every scar, every inch pain he's ever received. kissing it better.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel this heavy.

But, you couldn’t escape it. The raw, bitter truth that you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t leave him. And somehow, even if it felt like a punishment, you had to keep going. Had to keep breathing for him, even when every part of you wanted to shut down and fade into nothing.

. . .

You could barely function the morning it happened. Your body felt like it was made of lead, eyes swollen from exhaustion, hands shaking as they pressed against your temple in an effort to stay upright in the hospital chair you hadn't left in days.

The rustling of sheets cut through the exhaustion. Your eyes shot open, heart hammering against your chest, panic. For a split second, the room seemed to warp—was it another dream? Another cruel twist of your mind playing tricks on you?

You blinked, trying to focus through the haze of fatigue, and then you saw it. A pair of soft, tired mocha eyes meeting yours—slow and heavy, yet unmistakably aware. It wasn’t a hallucination. He was here.

“Joel…” The name slipped from your lips, barely a whisper, trembling and unsteady, as if you weren’t sure if it was real either.

He blinked once, his gaze flickering around the room like he was still piecing things together, his breath shallow but deliberate. The faintest glimmer of recognition passed through his expression, a slight furrow in his brow as if the fog in his head hadn’t completely lifted yet.

But the sight of him—alive, awake, breathing—was enough to make the world stop spinning for a moment.

You held your breath, every muscle in your body frozen. You couldn’t tear your eyes away. You didn’t want to blink, didn’t want to miss a single second.

Before you could finish your thoughts, before you could form some grand gesture, before your body could even drop to its knees in relief or allow yourself the catharsis of crying… the door to the room opened.

The flood of people—Tommy, Ellie, Maria, and a few others—poured in. Their voices were muffled, distant, like static in your ears as the room seemed to close in on you. You felt their eyes, their relief, their joy. But all you could feel was the suffocating weight of guilt pressing down on your chest. It crawled beneath your skin, an infection that wrapped itself around your throat, choking the air from your lungs.

He’s alive. You wanted to scream it, to be happy, to feel like you had the right to feel something other than shame. But it was like the joy couldn’t reach you.

Instead, it only deepened the ache. The guilt. You had almost lost him. You had almost killed him. What if you didn't make it in time? You should have gotten there sooner. Look at him. Do you see those bruises? Do you see his face? This is your fault. Your fault.

You didn’t want to face anyone. Not yet. Not now.

You turned, before anyone could speak, before they could reach you. The world seemed too loud, too bright. The room felt like it was spinning out of control, like every inch of space was filled with a thousand questions you didn’t want to answer. You left.

You couldn’t breathe in that room, surrounded by their relief, their comfort. You couldn’t breathe with him alive, with everything still hanging in the balance. You couldn’t face them. Not now.

It had been four days since he woke up. Four days since the flood of guilt and relief had crashed over you, and you hadn’t spoken to anyone since. You hadn’t answered your door when they knocked.

The world felt suffocating, and you didn’t feel like you deserved to face it. You didn’t want to face the world. You shouldn’t. The anxiety gnawed at you, relentless. It kept you up at night, pacing in the small space of your mind, suffocating you with every breath. And tonight, it was no different.

You found yourself standing outside his door in the infirmary, fingers trembling as you reached out. The wood was cool beneath your touch, but your hand felt as if it might tremble right through it. You had to do this. You had to.

A soft breath escaped you as you gathered whatever courage you could, your hand hovering just inches from knocking. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest, a steady, painful rhythm that echoed in your ears.

Knock Knock Knock

What if he’s angry? What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if it’s too late for us?

The thoughts swirled, but you pushed them down, your knuckles gently tapping against the door. The sound seemed to reverberate through your body, like an announcement that you were about to face everything you had been running from.

"Come in."

The voice was rough, deep, and it hit you like a wave—like honey to your brain, smooth and warm, yet leaving you trembling in its wake. The same voice you had sinned thinking about. "Thatsa' good girl." … "It's like you were made for me." … "Take me so good." Late at night when your thoughts spiraled, when guilt and longing tangled into something too complicated to sort through.

The same voice that had sent chills down your spine and made your heart race even when you tried to ignore it. The same voice that had teased you about liking sugar in your morning coffee, a soft joke that always lingered just a little too long.

Your breath caught in your throat. That voice. You could still remember every word, every inflection, like the memory of him had been etched into you long before this.

You let out a shaky breath, pushing the door open slowly. You didn't dare let your footsteps be loud, like maybe if you made yourself small enough, you could avoid the flood of emotions threatening to pour over the edge.

You shut the door softly behind you, the sound of it clicking shut making everything feel too real. Too right.

Your gaze flickered to him.

Joel was sitting up in the bed, propped up by pillows, his figure still worn but somehow more solid than you'd seen him in days. His expression was tired, but his eyes—they locked onto yours with a quiet intensity that made your heart skip. His hair, though still messy, had the same dark, unruly curls you remembered. But the bruises were fading now, the bloodstains mostly gone, leaving just the raw remnants of the pain he'd been through.

He didn’t speak at first, but his gaze said everything.

You’re here.

You opened your mouth, but the words wouldn't come. They got stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled in the fear, the guilt, the ache.

"Hey, Miller…" Your voice came out soft, creaky, and far too small. Awkward. You felt like a stranger in your own body, unsure of how to act, unsure of how to bridge the chasm of silence that had stretched between the two of you for so long.

Joel's gaze softened slightly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was tired—physically, mentally, emotionally. His face still held the remnants of pain, the tiredness that seemed to etch deeper into his features every day. He had a rough, unshaven jawline, the dark stubble more pronounced now, and his eyes looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks either. You weren’t the only one haunted by everything that had happened.

You felt a flush of heat rise up your neck, self-conscious of how you must look—dark circles under your eyes, skin pale and flushed from lack of sleep, your clothes barely hanging on your frame from the stress and nightmares that had claimed your nights.

It felt like everything about you was falling apart. You didn’t want to show him this side of you. The broken, tired version of yourself that you were trying so hard to bury beneath the weight of it all.

Joel's voice was rough when he finally spoke. "You look like hell."

The words were blunt, honest—but there was no cruelty behind them. Just a quiet, tired acknowledgment.

Your chest tightened. You don’t even know the half of it.

"I—" You swallowed thickly, but the words stuck. The shame, the anxiety, the feeling of being so lost in your own head, it all bubbled up, suffocating. "I didn't—"

The guilt was there again, squeezing at your lungs, choking the air out of you. You hadn’t been there for him. Not in the way you needed to. And now, everything between you felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

You swallow. Deep. Visibly. The lump in your throat is thick, hard to push down, but you try. You have to say something.

"You're one to talk." Your words are meant to be a jest, a poor attempt to deflect, to mask the fragile state you’re in. But the moment the words leave your lips, you know it’s hollow. You feel it in the way your voice cracks, in the way your shoulders tremble with the weight of everything unsaid.

The tears start to fall, slowly at first, as if your body couldn't hold them back any longer. You feel them trickle down your cheeks, hot and stinging, leaving tracks where they slip beneath your eyes. It’s like the dam inside of you has broken.

"C'mere, Darlin'." His voice is low, a soft sigh that seems to carry all the weight of everything unspoken between you.

Before you can even respond, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, gentle but firm enough that you can’t pull away, not even if you wanted to. The touch isn’t demanding; it’s an invitation. A silent plea for connection, for comfort, for whatever fractured piece of yourself you were too afraid to offer.

His pull is soft, like he’s letting you decide whether or not to lean in. And you do. Slowly, you lean over the bed, drawn toward him like a magnet, feeling the warmth of his body. It’s the closest thing to safety you’ve known in days.

The moment you’re within reach, his arms are around you, pulling you in, and you can’t stop the sob that escapes you. His hands are in your hair, fingers splaying against the back of your head, holding you to him like he’s afraid you might break into pieces if he lets go.

It’s a hug. No words, no explanations. Just him and you, and the space between you that was never meant to be there.

Your arms sink into his body, like you were carved for each other, like you were always meant to find this moment. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart. It’s solid. It's real. It’s the reassurance you didn’t know you needed.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself breathe. You let yourself break. His presence steadies you.

"I thought I lost you." You hiccup, the words coming out ragged, broken. The tears just keep falling, unstoppable now. The weight of everything hits you harder than you expected, each sob shaking you to your core.

"I thought I didn't make it on time—" You inhale sharply, the breath hitching painfully in your chest as your heart races. The air feels too thin, too cold. "I thought, I thought—" The words don’t come out in a way that makes sense, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t need to explain.

Joel doesn’t speak at first, but his arms tighten around you just enough to ground you. To remind you that you’re still here. That he’s still here. But when you whisper the words that have been haunting you, your voice soft, shaking, the weight of it lingers in the space between you:

"What if you died?"

It’s like you’ve just said the one thing you’ve been avoiding for days. The truth. The thought that has been crushing you silently, quietly, as you tried to keep it together. The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. Joel's breath stills for a moment, and you can feel the subtle shift in his chest, like he’s absorbing what you’ve just said. He doesn’t pull away, though. He doesn’t let you go.

After a long pause, his voice comes, deep and steady, like he's trying to find the right words to anchor you. "I’m here, Darlin'. I’m here. And I’m not goin’ anywhere."

You tremble against him, a few more tears slipping free. His words feel like a lifeline. Like the space you’ve been treading on has finally found solid ground.

It felt like hours passed, the tears still coming in waves, but slowly they began to quiet. You didn’t even know how long you’d been there, in his arms, the two of you sorting through the guilt, the fear, the helplessness.

The silence between you now wasn’t suffocating—it was calm, soothing.

Somehow, though, you found yourself on the infirmary bed, tucked next to him. His presence was warm, steady, and his chest rose and fell with a deep, even breath that kept you grounded.

You had never thought you’d end up like this—lying next to him, with the scent of sterile bandages in the air, the soft hum of the room around you, and the quiet weight of his hand in yours. But here you were.

The pad of your finger traced along a deep purple scar against his forearm the one you couldn’t help but notice when you first sat down beside him. It was a stark reminder of how close you came to losing him.

Your touch was gentle, almost reverent, like you were afraid that if you pressed too hard, the moment might shatter. His skin was rough under your fingertips, but it was warm, real, and alive. Each scar, each mark on him felt like a story, a part of him that you couldn’t change. It made you ache. It made you feel sick.

Joel’s voice broke the silence, quiet but with a hint of warmth that made your chest tighten. "You don’t gotta do that, y'know." He said, his voice softer than usual, but there was an understanding in it.

"I know," you whispered, your voice a little strained, but calm, for the first time in what felt like forever. "I just… need to know you're okay."

"I'm here. Can't get rid of me." His voice is steady, but the weight of it carries something more—something unspoken. Joel’s eyes drift over your face, tracing each line, each imperfection. He doesn’t say anything about how you look, though the words are there, heavy in the air. You look like hell—tired, broken—but to him, you’re still the most beautiful damn thing he’s ever seen.

The intensity of his gaze makes your chest tighten. For a second, it feels like everything stops. The world outside the infirmary fades away. His eyes are searching you—like he’s trying to figure something out, but you can’t quite tell what. Maybe it’s the same thing you’ve been trying to figure out, too.

Your breath hitches slightly, but you hold his gaze, even though you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. It's like time slows down. An eternity of silence stretches between you, and in that silence, everything seems to hang.

You don’t want to ruin this. Not this moment. Not whatever this is.

The thought of naming it—of putting a label on it—feels overwhelming. Is it friendship? Coexistence? Just two people trying to make it through this hell together? Or is it something more? You can’t tell, but you’re afraid that if you try to define it, if you try to make sense of it, you might destroy what little of it you have left.

“You’ve got a way of making everything feel… complicated,” you finally whisper. You wish you could say more, but you don’t know how.

He chuckles softly, and you can hear the tiredness in his voice. “Yeah, I’ve got that effect on people.” His hand shifts, his fingers lightly brushing the side of your face, almost tentative, but the warmth of it fills the space between you. "I don’t have all the answers. But you’ve got me, Darlin'. That’s more than I can offer right now."

Your eyes close for a brief moment, the weight of his words sinking in. There’s a kind of comfort in them, in the uncertainty. In the fact that neither of you has it all figured out.

Fuck it.

Like a string that snaps, your brain rewires the moment you make eye contact again. It’s sudden, electric—You don’t think about it. You don’t think about the consequences, the mess, or the fact that this might break whatever fragile balance you’ve managed to keep. You just act.

Your hands slip up, fingers trembling ever so slightly, but the moment they make contact with his dark curls, something inside you stills. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. His eyes are steady on yours, but there’s something raw in them now. Something that tells you he’s as desperate for this connection as you are.

Inches away, you breathe in his scent, that familiar mix of dust and earth, the roughness of the world outside, but underneath it—there’s him.

A presence that’s always been there, always just out of reach. But now, now it’s close enough to touch.

Your lips part, but it's only an invitation. You don't say anything. Don’t have to. Everything that needs to be said is written in the way your bodies lean toward each other, drawn together like magnets.

His breath hitches, and before you can even think about it, he’s closing the distance between you. His lips find yours with a desperation that takes your breath away, and the world outside falls away entirely.

It's nothing like you imagined. It’s messy, raw, and full of that intensity that neither of you can contain.

His free hand slips effortlessly against your thigh, lifting your leg and guiding it over his waist. It’s instinctual, animalistic, the movement seamless. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, if that’s even possible. He kisses you like a man starved, teeth scraping lightly at your bottom lip, as if claiming you in a way words never could.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the rush of heat, the feeling of him—his strength, his need, his warmth, the way his body presses against yours.

Then, as if sensing the balance of control slipping away, you pull back just enough to whisper, your voice rough, "This was—"

He inhales, as if the pull away from you visibly made him chill.

"This was a mistake. I'm sorry." You mumble, slipping back from his hands cascaded gently into your hair. His eyes dull, as if they really calculate what's really happening here.

"I don't want to mess anything up — make it weird…" You hesitate before taking another step back. Feet brushing against the ground of the hospital, boots making a small scraping noise as they lift from the floor. "I'm glad you're awake. I'm glad you're alive." You practically spew, "But this— Us? This can't happen."

Joel doesn't move. Not right away. His hands remain suspended in the air where you'd just been, as if the weight of your absence took a moment to register. Slowly, they fall to his lap, fingers curling inward like he's holding something fragile that just shattered in his palms.

His brows pull together, the light in his eyes dimming but not extinguished. He nods once—slow, like he's swallowing something bitter—but doesn’t speak right away. The silence between you is thick, suffocating. The kind that says everything without a single word.

Then, his voice breaks through, rough and low. “You ain’t messin’ anything up.” He pauses, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory in case you don’t come back. “But I get it. Hell, I probably shouldn’t’ve—”

He stops himself, jaw clenching. You can see the hurt there, just beneath the surface. Not anger. Just a quiet ache he doesn’t know what to do with.

“You don’t owe me nothin’. Not after what you did for me. For Dina.” His voice cracks slightly, but he clears it, steadying himself. “If this—whatever this is—ain’t somethin’ you want, I won’t push it.”

You turn to go. You don’t want to, but standing in this room any longer feels like peeling skin off a wound that’s still fresh. Like clawing your skin open, nails rough, sharp. You grip the door handle like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. The cold metallic of the handle searing into your hot sweaty palms.

But before you pull it open, you hear him again—softer this time, almost like he's talking to himself.

“I was glad it was you. When I woke up… I was glad it was you sittin’ there.”

Your chest tightens, fingers trembling around the handle. The sound of your boots echo as you leave, but his words follow you long after the door clicks shut.

. . .

It was two days later. Two days of hiding from the town. Hiding from the man whose ghost now walked on flesh and bone legs, breathing and real, and everywhere, even your head. Since Joel had been released from the infirmary, you hadn’t so much as walked past the diner. Not the greenhouse. Not even the training range.

He was free now. Free to walk Jackson’s frosted streets. Carrying the weight of that night, that kiss, that almost. Whatever almost was.

Flyers for the winter social had started popping up, taped to doors with half-used duct tape, and coffee stained paper.

Pulling one off your door with more force than necessary, crumpling it before it could flutter too long. The word celebrate stared at you like an accusation.

Celebrate what? Survival? Guilt?

You hadn’t even gone into town yet. Too afraid of seeing him again. Of his eyes. Of that voice, gravelly and soft, saying your name like it meant something.

But, I guess it did mean something. 'If this—whatever this is—ain’t somethin’ you want, I won’t push it.'

'I won't push it.'

Fuck, Joel—You don't have to push anything. If you asked me to lay down on the ground and die, I'd surely succumb.

Your jacket felt too heavy as you shrugged it on. Maybe you’d walk. Maybe not toward town, but just out. Just far enough to quiet the thoughts screaming through your skull. Just long enough to convince yourself he hadn’t meant anything by it.

But then—three soft knocks on the door.

You froze, hand on the knob. Breath held. Like if you didn’t move, whoever it was would give up and go.

But they didn’t.

“Darlin’…?” The voice was muffled, but unmistakable. A drawl like smoke and honey, carrying your nickname like it was a prayer and a curse all at once.

Joel.

You don’t open the door. Can’t. Your fingers ghost over the handle like it might bite, like turning it would unravel something you’ve spent days trying to sew back together.

“Yeah?” you call, voice thinner than you’d like, strained from disuse and guilt and whatever mess you and Joel had brewed up in the dark of that infirmary room.

A pause. You can almost hear him shift his weight on the porch. One boot against the old wood, creaking just slightly. He’s nervous. Or maybe annoyed. It’s always hard to tell with him.

“I ain’t here to fight,” he finally says. His tone is gentler than expected. Tired. “Just… wanted to talk.”

You lean your forehead against the wood. Cold. Solid. Safe. “About what?” you ask, not unkindly, but not welcoming either. Somewhere in the middle. A purgatory of almost.

Another pause.

“’Bout that night,” he says, like it hurts to even admit it out loud. “About… what you said..”

You squeeze your eyes shut, breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your chest.

You don’t want to open the door. But God, you want to hear what he has to say.

"I am uh— very sick. very ill." You lie, a fake cough following the announcement. "Cough, Cough, Haack."

There’s a pause. Long enough to make you think—maybe—he bought it.

“That so?” Joel says, flat. Almost amused.

You can practically hear the eyebrow he’s raising.

“’Cause I saw you at the stables this morning, arguing with Tommy ‘bout the feed schedule. Didn’t look real near deathbed to me.”

"That—was a hallucination," you say quickly. "Fever dreams. Very common with… plague. And, you're still recovering." Your face burns. Shit.

A muffled chuckle—soft, rough, and goddamn sweet.

“I’ll wait,” he says simply, like he's got all the time in the world. “Out here. Cold’s good for the immune system, and recovery.”

You bite your lip. Damn him. Damn that gravel-sweet voice and that infuriating patience. Damn that sexy ass fucking voice.

Because you know—you know—you’re going to open the door. Maybe not now. Maybe not in the next ten seconds. But eventually.

Your fingers wrap around the handle, pressing it down and pulling toward you. The wooden door creaks open, revealing the screen door. A thin barrier between you.

He looks… good. Brown jacket, blue jeans, a belt, and new boots, the remnants of blood no longer. His eyes were still dark, and tired, but there was an air of relief to them, like he had relaxed long enough to feel somewhat a semblance of peace.

The cold air rushes in, bites at your skin like karma. He’s watching you with that unreadable expression, the one that’s somewhere between stern and soft. Somewhere between don’t push me and please, push me just a little.

“Hey,” he says, simple. Low.

You swallow hard. Your throat’s suddenly dry, like the lie about being sick took too much out of you. Fuck, maybe you were ill.

“Hey,” you echo. Quieter.

He shifts, thumbs hooking against his belt. It’s a casual stance, but you can see the tension sitting behind it. You know him well enough to read the signs. He’s rehearsed something. That jaw twitch? That's anxiety settling into his gut. That tiny nod to himself? That’s a man about to dive headfirst into something he’s not sure he knows how to swim through.

“I ain’t here to mess things up,” he starts, voice steady, “or push somethin’ you don’t want. But I been thinkin’, and…” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re not the only one who’s scared, y’know.”

That hits harder than you expect.

“I wake up every day grateful I get to be scared,” he adds, quieter. “Grateful you pulled me outta there. Grateful I get to even have this conversation.”

Your fingers twitch around the edge of the doorframe. The weight of it all, the what-ifs, the blood, the almost—they come rushing back.

He steps a little closer, boots scraping softly against the porch wood.

“So I figured… if you're done bein’ on your deathbed," his mouth tugs in a half-smile, “maybe you’d let me take you to that winter social at tipsys…”

You stand there. Mouth hung agape open like some fucking fool. I'm sorry? He said what? What the fuck did he just say to you?

"You.. uh.." You stutter, fingers curling against the door frame, "You… don't hate me?"

Joel’s brow furrows—just slightly. Not in frustration, but in that Joel Miller kind of way. The one where he's thinking? The one where he's registering how to fix this. The kind where concern looks like confusion and softness hides behind the grit.

“Hate you?” he repeats, like the words physically repulse him. “Darlin’, I don’t think I could hate you if I tried.”

He steps a little closer again, enough that the warmth of his breath ghosts across the screen.

“You saved my life. You nearly lost your damn mind doin’ it. I saw it. Hell, I felt it.”

His hand lifts, hovers at the screen like he wants to touch you through it but won’t risk the boundary unless you give the signal.

“I hated that you ran. I hated that I woke up and you weren’t there. But hate you?” He shakes his head, the weight of it settling like snowfall. “I could never.”

The silence that follows is sharp and thick, clinging to the air between you.

“You still think I don’t want you?” he asks, voice rough. Not angry. Just naked. “'Cause I’ve been tryin’ not to want you every damn day since I met you. And I’m losin’ that fight.”

Your pulse is thunder in your ears.

Oh fuck…

Your gaze drops—floor, boots, anywhere but his eyes. Then slowly lifts again, like your body’s trying to catch up to your heart.

Your brain? Gone. Empty. Nothing but static between your ears.

Your hand moves on its own, fingers brushing the cold metal of the screen door latch. One soft twist.

Click.

The lock gives.

You glance up, startled by your own movement, eyes locking with his like you just said something out loud without speaking.

Because you did.

That sound—that soft, quiet click—wasn't just a noise. It was a confession.

You wanted him. Still do.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, waiting for him to make the first move. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, a nervous habit you can’t shake. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and for a moment, you wonder if it’s just you feeling this, or if he’s as sick with it as you are.

The seconds stretch on, too long. Too quiet.

Then, without warning, he steps forward, closing the distance between you. His hand reaches up, brushing the edge of the screen door, before he grips the frame with the same steady, sure hands that had been so tender earlier.

His gaze doesn’t leave yours. “You sure about this?” he asks, low and rough, voice dragging across your skin like a touch.

It’s a question, but you both know it’s not. It’s him waiting for you, giving you space to breathe, even as every inch of him is drawn to you.

You can feel the heat radiating off him, and it pulls at you like gravity, drawing you closer despite every rational thought telling you to back away. He’s patient, but there’s that edge beneath his calm—something hungry, something wild, that’s been buried too long.

“I wouldn’t be standing here if I wasn’t,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, betraying the storm crashing in your chest.

He gives a half-smile, a flicker of something dangerous. “Good,” he mutters, then leans in, just close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your lips, but not close enough to touch.

The tension is suffocating. The world outside doesn’t exist. Not anymore.

And then he speaks again, voice almost a whisper, lips brushing against your ear.

“Because you ain't runnin' away this time.”

With one quick motion he's in the house, hands slipping against the hooks of your jeans. His boot knocks against the wooden door, closing it. A sway of air as it slams.

His mouth is already against yours, hand moving up to splay against the middle of your back—leading you, leading you straight back against your kitchen countertop only a few feet away. Mouth falling from your lips, he moves into the nape of your neck, a quick and deep inhale—"Fuck, darlin,'"

"You don't know," A small nibble against the tender skin, "… what you do to me."

The air is thick, heavy with anticipation. His body presses against yours, firm. You gasp, it's the warmth of his breath skimming across your neck, his lips brushing against the delicate curve of your shoulder. Facial hair leaving a tickling sensation in wake.

His fingers tighten around you, pulling you even closer, and it’s as if your bodies have a language of their own—unspoken, raw.

“You don’t know what you’ve done to me either, Joel,” you breathe, your own hands trembling as they find their way to his chest. His shirt soft against your fingertips, pulls at you like it’s just one more obstacle you need to get past. Nails scraping at the buttons of the flannel. You feel like a caged animal.

“I think I got an idea.” His chuckle is low, dark.

His hand slips between your legs, hand splayed across the material of your jeans with a subtle press. "Can practically feel it."

His lips find yours again, hungry this time, teeth grazing against your bottom lip. His free hand presses against the small of your back and the other your thigh, hesitating to lift you.

His voice drops, barely a whisper against your lips. “You sure you want this, darlin’?” It’s the same question from earlier, but now, it’s not doubt—it’s something softer, something more urgent. A plead. A fucking prayer. Like if you said no, he'd get on his knees and beg.

His eyes lock with yours, his thumb brushing the side of your jaw as he waits for you to answer.

It only takes seconds for you to dive into another kiss, urgency flooding your body like fire. Your fingers tremble as they work at the buttons of his flannel, fumbling slightly with each one.

His lips are on yours again, a hungry, desperate rhythm that matches the frantic pace of your heart. His hands move to your waist, gripping you tight. The flannel falls open, the fabric grazing your hand, and fingertips finding refuge against tanned scarred skin. It's a sin to hide a body this fucking pretty under clothing.

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath ragged, eyes dark with something raw, something dangerous. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The hunger in his gaze says it all. Without a word, he shifts you, his hand firm against the curve of your back, pulling you up just enough to sit you on the edge of the counter. The movement is quick, efficient, and the cool granite meets your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of his body, pressed against you.

Your breath hitches as his hands slide under your shirt, rough against your skin, pulling you even closer. His lips hover just above your ear, his voice gravelly, rough. “You kiss like you patrol.”

He's purposeful with each movement. Every drag of his finger causing a fire in it's path. Hands gently coming to the hem of your jeans, and then with a small pop, the button is undone. A slow, and soft shimmying down until all he can stare at is his glistening prize.

"Greedy… Unhinged..." He continues, lowering down to his knees— his hands slipping down your thighs, to your ankles, and then hooking your legs above his shoulders, "Clumsily, maybe…"

Within seconds his mouth is against you. It's hot, wet, animalistic as if the man is starved. Clumsy. Messy. Tongue grazing over every sensitive fold— and your very swollen clit. He flattens his tongue against you,—then as quick as he can extinguish the pleasure, he nibbles against you. Profanities dripping from your mouth, his name followers like a prayer of forgiveness.

"Needy fuckin girl, y'taste so good."

The response to his words. Your free hand shoots out to the top of his head, fingers interlacing with salt and pepper curls. Wanting can't even describe your state of mind right now. It's more like yearning, fucking craving.

Forearm burning from strength it takes to hold yourself up on the countertop, needing to see him on his knees for yourself.

You curl your fingers, a soft tug of his hair earns that deep guttural growl from his throat.

"mmh, easy, girl," His breath fans across your pussy, sending shivers shooting up your spine.

You try to look away—try to break this sight, but you're pretty sure if you blinked hard enough you'd wake up from this dream. He dips lower, his mouth pulling you closer to the edge, grounding you to him like you were the only thing that ever mattered.

His lips release from your cunt with a pop, tongue curling against the spit line that follows. His eyes settle against your own— dark, and frantic.

The release of the sensation causes you to shiver, the overstimulation already coiling in your core. Twitching, a small huff to every breath you release.

"That all it takes to get you shakin' like a leaf?" He chuckles—soft.

The tension in the air thickens as you lean down, close enough to make your heart race, yet he doesn’t rush it. His hand still holds your thighs spread apart, the warmth of his touch grounding you.

"I want you." The words flow easily. Easily because your brain is pathetically melted inside of your skull.

He practically purrs, another deep growl from his throat, "Yeah?"

"Then take it… 'ts all yours," He tilts his head with his words, eyes dancing over every single feature you have. He stares at you like his brain maps out every mole, and scar. You needily grab at the remnants of his unbuttoned flannel, pulling it up towards you. He smiles, smiles. Excitedly standing back up, and leaning into your touch.

You don't hesitate. You pull him back in, mouths clashing, breaths hot and broken. His hands roam your thighs, your hips, possessive like he’s memorizing you, branding you. You feel the scratch of his callouses against your skin, grounding you, making you dizzy all at once.

One hand tilts your chin up, the other slides up your back, holding you steady while his mouth traces a trail from your lips to your jaw, then lower, pressing kisses down your throat, your collarbone.

You tilt your head back to give him more space, a soft, desperate noise escaping your throat. His name slips from your lips without thinking—"Joel."

That sound alone seems to snap something inside him. Saying his name like that. Like you need him. Like you fucking crave him. It practically got him drunk on sin.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and molten. His hands grip your waist firmly, thumbs stroking slow circles against your sides. “Gonna take care of you, darlin’. Gonna give you everything you been needin’… just like you deserve.”

The jingle of his belt catches your attention, as if your brain can process anymore. His fingers softly unthreading the leather from the metal, and with a clank—it's slipping to the floor.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice rough, thumb brushing tender over your hipbone.

You nod, too breathless to speak.

That's all he needs. The pads of his fingers undoing the button of his jeans, a soft slide down and the sight nearly makes you keel over. You've met god. How could someone hide such a perfect cock? The size of him itself steals the air from your lungs.

"Please," You breathe, "Please Joel."

"You look so damn pretty like this," he says, half in awe, half in something darker, heavier.

"Layin' below me, fucked out on your kitchen counter."

Without a delay he inches in, the tip of his cock pressing against your needy, and swollen entrance. The angle is perfect, a slow and greedy intrusion that causes your nails to scrape at the granite of the countertop.

"Fuck—" He exhales, a restrained whine from his throat, "You were made f'r me…"

Joel inhales as he plunges himself fully. Without a second thought, he pulls back out, before sliding back in. It's like a game for him, eyes downward on the motion. Watching the back and forth of his cock as he dives in and out of you.

His pace quickens, the musical rhythmic of the thrusting becoming faster, and faster. He's hitting spots you didn't even know you had. Spots that nobody has ever reached. You can barely hear, ears ringing, vision blurred by inklings of tears.

You don't realize your howling his name until he speaks.

"Gotta… Quiet down there, darlin'…”He chuckles, deep and gravelly as he holds back a strained noise. Hips snapping back and forth, the wet squelches of your pussy like music to his ears, "… don't want the neighbors thinkin' you got coyotes."

Every thrust is a further hit to your core, releasing a sound that vaguely resembles a wheeze rather than a moan. Each muscle in your thighs threatening to give out, as you open your legs wider and wider for his ravaging.

Joel likes to drag it out, pulling his cock all the way out, leaving only the tip—grinding there for a moment until his own body twitches, and then slamming back in as hard as possible. Hands vice gripped around your thighs, bringing you to and from him like a pocket pussy.

“Sweet girl, oh fuck.. fuck..”

Sloppy around him, already drenching the area between you two - wet squishing noises as he drags back the mixture of pre and slick, just to bury it back inside of you.

"Gonna paint your fuckin' insides at this rate…" He exhales, shakily. He's fucking into you like a wild animal. At the end of the day, that's what he is. Bloodthirsty, a killer, known for his haunting and inhuman actions.

“Fuck, please.. right there, oh fuck, Joel—" You cry out, hips clumsily and weakly fumbling against your meeting point, trying to bury him deeper inside of yourself.

Bottom lip taken between his teeth, glossy eyed staring down at the sight of his cock sliding in and out. "Can feel you squeezn', know how close you are…"

Back and forth— milking cries from your sweet lips. Continually riding the way you clamp down on him desperately, leaning into your orgasm.

"J-Joel— Oh my g.." The words can't even release from your throat, before your head tilts back and a series of gargled profanities and pet-names drool out.

"Good fuckin' girl, just like that… take it just like that…" his words are pure fucking filth.

It's not long after you that his hips start to snap messily, losing his train of thought at every deep bury into your overstimulated pussy. Head tipping down—he clamps his eyes shut, riding the high of your squirming.

He cums. It paints your insides with boiling heat, both of you stringing out whines and grunts. The snapping motion continues, as he ruts the cum deeper and deeper inside of you. He's purposefully dragging out his own relief. Doesn't want it to end. Fuck, he never wants it to end.

"Fuckin' hell…" Joel murmurs softly, slipping out with a slow release. The tension eases in your gut, and you feel every muscle in your body screaming at you. You let out a noise between a sigh and a whimper, the feeling sends a shiver up and down your body. Goosebumps in the wake of his hot breath.

“Yeah.. you ain't gettin' away from me again…"

[honey-nut-scooter]

Bedrotting with Suguru.

(Part 2 of my Satosugu comic)

[incognitopolls]

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[mazeeelabyrinth]

♡♡♡ Project Bunny ♡♡♡

Chapter I: Live - PixelBunny.exe

“Y-you all are so mean… I’m shy, y’know. I’m not just here to be your toy…” You purred, same curated high-pitched tone matched with a sickly sweet giggle. “But thank you, Daddies.”

♡■♡■♡ Pairing: LADS MLIs x afab camgirl!reader

♡■♡■♡ Plot Summary:

By day, you're just a broke barista with a caffeine addiction, with a useless degree and a student loan nightmare, and a customer service smile stitched over your burnout. By night, you're Pixel Bunny—a bratty, cosplay-clad camgirl with a shy voice, a pastel aesthetic, and a growing fanbase that keeps your lights on and your legs open.

Except… your five most generous patrons are a little too devoted. Each a stranger with a username and a hard-on for control, slowly bleeding into your real life.

♡■♡■♡ Tags: 18+, multichapters, second pov, eventual poly, eventual orgy, dark romance, reverse harem, shameless smut, porn with plot, explicit, gradual shift into darker themes, voyeurism, praise kink, porn, ooc, canon divergence au, sex toys, clothing fetish, cosplay, breeding kink, ddlg (daddy dom/little girl), pet names, live masturbation, power play, strip tease, sex work, camgirl au, streaming culture, orgasm denial, parasocial relationship, obsessive parasocial behavior, dirty talk, stalking tendencies, reader is not mc, reader has a day job, reader is addressed as "Bunny" or "PixelBunny" on stream, masked identities

♡■♡■♡ Word Count: 7.2K

A/N: Finally dug up an old idea and use it for another LADS fanfic. I was debating whether I use an oc or just follow my usual "x reader", guess what I did? Please take this "you" persona impersonally.

A/N2: holy shit, I thought I saved it up as a draft 😂 I wasn't done editing it lmfao

MASTERLIST | AO3 | FOR TAG LIST, INTERACT HERE. | NAVIGATION

Your screen flickered to life with the soft, ambient glow of neon pinks and cool lilacs. Lo-fi beats hummed low through your headset, a curated loop of calming bass and synthetic purrs you’ve fine-tuned to make every viewer feel like they were lounging right in bed with you.

The room behind you was an aesthetic fever dream: plushies, pastel LEDs, posters of vintage anime girls with glassy eyes and lollipops too large for their mouths.

You're perched on the center of your bed, legs curled just right, clad in a baby-pink cropped cardigan that technically covers your nipples—but just barely, plaid skirt strategically rumpled that showed off your panties you’d pretend were modest if they weren’t riding a dangerous line between “cute” and “cam site terms of service violation.”

The bunny-eared headset—your signature look—bobbed slightly as you adjusted, lips glossed to a cherry sheen and parted with practiced nervousness.

A delectable morsel wrapped in pastel and lust. That’s you, PixelBunny. A camgirl rising on the other side of the internet.

Just shy. Just bratty enough.

Innocent. Dumb. Deceiving.

Click. You're live.

The chat was already rioting. A thousand hearts bloomed in the corner of your screen. Familiar names lit up the chat like a twisted bouquet of usernames you knew better than your actual friends.

Syl.Draconia 💎 has joined the stream 🐇

R.tist!c tipped 1000 credits: angel, that lipstick shade is killing me

X-Devoted upgraded to SUGAR DADDY - ULTRA VIP 💎

Mr. WhiteCoat tipped 500 credits: Don’t overwork yourself.

C.Pilot: you're late. I've been waiting Bunny. ;)

3009 more viewers have joined 🐇

You smiled sweetly. Blushed. Looked away. A beat too long, just to make them ache for it. And then, your voice—high, breathy, a porcelain teacup too full of heat—spilled into the mic.

“H-hi, everyone. Welcome back to my... super cozy Friday stream. I—I missed you all so much... I was sooo lonely today…”

A flurry of small donations exploded with the flood of emotes. Bunnies. Eggplants. Hearts. Claws. One name after another. Each one hit your account like a loaded promise. A private ping dinged—five times, exactly. Direct messages, encrypted, VIP access only.

You ignored them. For now.

The camera zoomed slightly—auto-focus tracing your thighs as they shifted. Your skin was glossed, powdered, glowing under artificial moonlight. You stretched your arms overhead, the croptop sliding just enough to show the soft curve of underboobs, a calculated ‘oopsie’ perfected by months of practice.

C.Pilot: you know you missed yesterday right?

X-Devoted: Uve been a veeery naughty bunny…

Mr. WhiteCoat: I’m monitoring your dopamine spikes in real time. They’re inconsistent.

R.tist!c: is that the cardigan i sent you? unbutton it slowly

Syl.Draconia: Shes hiding something tonight. Increased blink rate. Deviated gaze.

“Y-you all are so mean… I’m shy, y’know. I’m not just here to be your toy…” You purred, same curated high-pitched tone matched with a sickly sweet giggle. “But thank you, Daddies.”

You giggled, again, hiding your face in your hands. A perfect little bunny. Tempting fate like it was a game. Innocence so carefully curated it could only be filthy. Just a girl in your safe little pastel den, alone in your apartment, with predatory men watching you burn.

You shifted, thighs parting slightly, your voice rising just a note.

“I m-might’ve been a little mean… I didn’t respond to some DMs. I went live without private previews tonight... I guess I was just feeling bold.”

X-Devoted: U will learn sweetheart

Syl.Draconia: Already running your own script. Dangerous.

Mr. WhiteCoat: This requires corrective conditioning.

C.Pilot: youre gonna make me break my keyboard Bun.

R.tist!c: keep talking, your shame is muse enough

The camera light pulsed. You leaned forward, intentionally framing your cleavage with your forearms as you pouted at the lens.

“You’re all so strict with me lately,” you murmured, voice full of mock-pout and something that wasn’t so mock. “But I know how much you missed me…”

You reached for a small heart-shaped plastic on the nightstand.

“A-and I think I’m ready to be your good bunny again.”

Then—click.

You pressed the first tip-button. The sex toy that was already inserted before the stream purred to life inside you, humming quiet and wicked.

“A-ah—mm! T-that’s... oopsie.” Well, at least the moan that slipped from your glossy lips was real.

X-Devoted: Dont play shy. U wore that choker for me.

Syl.Draconia: Zoom. 140%. Enhance the thighs.

R.tist!c: such soft curves, let me paint you like this

Mr. WhiteCoat: Keep still. I’m running diagnostics.

C.Pilot : bet she soaked the sheets already.

mr.unknown: oh yes, moan for us more 😩

zeronut: show pussy plz… 💦

"Oh... Oh Daddy..." You murmured into the mic, your eyes glazed over as the vibrations from the toy X-Devoted had chosen for you resonated through your body. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, a blush that surely painted your face in a way that made the camera love you more. The chat was a whirlwind of lewd comments and generous tips. Each one of your patrons had a piece of you, and you knew it. You reveled in it.

You leaned back into the plush pillows, your hands sneaked under the cardigan, fingers dancing over your chest, tracing the edges of the pasties you knew R.tist!c had picked out from the last set of gifts he'd sent. His taste was always so... exquisite. You could feel your heart racing, the decorative adhesive tickling against your skin with each breath.

"Thank you for the tips, Daddy..." You breathed into the mic, a soft smile playing on your lips as you scanned the chat for X-Devoted's name. His tip had triggered the toy, and the pleasure was already pooling in your stomach, threatening to spill over. "You're all so generous tonight."

The screen was a blur of usernames and donation amounts. You bit your bottom lip, letting the anticipation build as you slowly unbuttoned the cardigan. The cool air hit your bare skin, and you shivered dramatically for the camera, knowing it would drive them wild. The room was a symphony of virtual praise, each note hitting a different chord of your arousal.

X-Devoted: Good girl. Thats what I like to see

C.Pilot: let’s see how much you’ve been taking care of yourself Bunny.

R.tist!c: more little bun, show us everything

With a devilish smirk, you leaned forward, giving them the show they were dying to see. The cardigan fell away, revealing the purple, starfish-shaped pasties that covered your areola—nipples already peaked out and were begging for attention beneath the adhesive silicone.

The cold lens of the camera was the only thing touching them as you whispered, "Look at what you do to me, Daddy." You gave your torso a gentle shake, watching your breasts jiggle before the eyes of your devoted audience.

The chat exploded with emojis and messages. The numbers on the side of your screen spun upwards like a slot machine hitting a jackpot. You felt a thrill of power, a heady rush of adrenaline, knowing that these men were all watching you, all wanting you, all willing to give you anything to satisfy their desires. You were the puppeteer, and they were your marionettes, dancing to the tune of your siren's song.

"Would you like to taste my tits, Daddy?" You whispered into the void, watching the screen as your words sent a shockwave through the chat. The vibrator in your panties buzzed in time with your racing heart every time someone tipped, a symphony of need and greed. You cupped your breasts, your thumbs flicking over the covered areola, teasing the silicone away from your sensitive skin.

X-Devoted: Yes baby. Take off the starfish. Let us all admire ur pretty nipples

Mr.WhiteCoat: Use the adhesive fabric next time if the silicone irritates your nipples.

R.tist!c: i wish those pasties were my mouth

R.tist!c: soon you will be mine

C.Pilot: make it quick, I can feel my cock pulsing already.

Syl.Draconia: Watch yourself Bunny. Watch how beautiful you are.

You bit back a giggle, feeling a thrill of excitement at their commands. You knew they were all watching, all waiting with bated breath for the moment you'd give in. Your fingers danced along the edge of the silicone, the tension building as you paused, just for a second, to let them beg for more.

Syl.Draconia tipped 1000 credits: Take it off let the breeze kiss those pretty nipples of yours.

Your heart skipped a beat as you read the message from Syl.Draconia. His requests always sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and excitement. But you had a show to run. You had to keep them all on the edge of their seats. So, with a flick of your wrist, the pasties came off, revealing your bare breasts to the camera. The coolness of the room kissed your skin, making your nipples peak even further. You leaned closer to the camera, letting them get a good look at the prize.

But amidst the flurry of tips and messages, one stood out. C.Pilot’s text was simple, but the implication was clear. "you know I wanna fuck those tits Bunny." The chat went wild, a mix of excitement and anticipation. This wasn't the first time he'd made such a bold statement.

You looked into the camera, eyes wide with feigned shock, "Oh my... Daddy's being extra naughty tonight." You giggled, playing coy. But inside, you felt a thrill of danger. It was all part of the game, but you knew it was one you couldn't ignore for much longer.

The tips continued to flood in as you played with the strings of your skirt, tugging it down just enough to reveal the sheer lace of your panties. The camera zoomed in, capturing the wetness that had already begun to soak through. You could feel the fabric sticking to your skin as you teased them, the anticipation building. Each user's kink reflected in their words, a silent bidding war for your attention.

X-Devoted: Spread ur legs for us baby. Show us ur sweet little cunt

Mr.WhiteCoat: I can see your heart rate increasing. Keep going.

R.tist!c: imagine its my tongue licking you clean

C.Pilot: you know I’d shower those tits with my cum.

Syl.Draconia: Take off the skirt. Give us a show.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of their eyes—or rather, the screens—on you. It was all a game, a dance of power and desire played out in pixels. But you were good at this dance, weren't you? You'd been doing it for some months. You leaned back, letting your legs fall open just enough to hint at the lacy treasure beneath. The toy in your panties buzzed louder, the intensity of the vibrations making you gasp.

"M-maybe later, Daddy. I-I’m getting shy now…" you whispered, batting your eyelashes at the camera in practiced timidity. The chat erupted again, the sound of keys smacking screens echoing in your mind. The thrill of control was intoxicating. You were the queen of this digital realm, and they were all just pawns in your game.

The vibrations grew more intense, and you couldn’t help but squirm. You reached down and slipped your hand into your skirt, your fingers sliding over the drenched fabric of your panties. The toy buzzed against your clit, and you let out a soft moan, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. The room grew hot, the air thick with lust.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Your pulse is racing faster now. Tell us how it feels.

X-Devoted: Ure mine tonight bunny

R.tist!c: i can almost taste you through the screen

C.Pilot: give us a better look.

Syl.Draconia: Yes show us how much you want it.

Your cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink, and your breathing grew heavier as you read the messages, feeling their eyes on you—or rather, the screens that served as their windows into your private world. The vibrations grew stronger, and you could feel yourself getting closer to the edge. But you weren’t ready to give in just yet. You had to keep them wanting more.

"But not yet, Daddy," you murmured into the microphone, your voice a sultry whisper. "I want to save the best for later." You pulled your hand away from your panties, leaving them wet and exposed. The camera zoomed in, and you watched the chat light up with excitement. You had them hooked, and you were the master angler reeling them in, inch by inch.

With a practiced brattiness, you stood from the bed.

"Oh... so cold!~" You gasp, hugging yourself in a manner dramatic enough to tease your audience.

You turned to face the camera fully, your eyes scanning the chat for any signs of the five high-rollers you knew were out there. You strutted over to the clothing rack, the soft thud of your feet echoing through the quiet room. The outfit was a surprise, something you'd picked out just for them. A devilish smirk played on your lips as you pulled out the hanger, the fabric gliding over your fingertips like silk.

"Alright, everyone," you announced, the sound of you unraveling the garment garnering a slew of eager messages. "It's time for the main event!" The anticipation in your voice was palpable as you held the outfit against your body, obscuring your nakedness with the screen of fabric. "Tonight, I've got something extra special for you. Who's ready for a surprise?"

The chat exploded with excitement, a barrage of suggestive emojis and filthy messages.

C.Pilot: can't wait Bunny.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Your secrets are the best part of the show.

R.tist!c: show us little muse

You took a deep breath, the anticipation building in your chest as you held up the lingerie set. "I've got something that's gonna knock your socks off, Daddies!" You giggled, feeling the excitement of your digital audience pulse through the air. The pastel colors shimmered under the soft light, a perfect blend of innocence and desire.

You turned around, giving them a glimpse of your bare back, the tension building as you slowly untied the strings of your skirt. The skirt softly rustled as it slid down your thighs like silk, leaving only your sheer panties that barely covered your dripping cunt and the vibrator thrumming inside you.

"Oopsie daisy!" You exclaimed, feigning clumsiness, making sure the camera captured every inch of your exposed skin. "Looks like I need to get changed!"

The chatter in the chat grew louder as you began to peel off your panties, the fabric sticking to your wetness before finally sliding away. The toy remained in place, a silent sentinel of your pleasure.

You stepped into the new set, a pair of lace g-strings that barely covered your curves, and a matching sheer bralette that left nothing to the imagination. Each movement sent waves of pleasure through your body, the vibrations syncing with your heartbeat.

"How does this look?" You asked, spinning around for them, giving a full view of the new ensemble. The chat went wild, a cacophony of lewd comments and tips. You could feel the power surging through you, a heady rush that only grew as you watched the numbers climb.

X-Devoted: Perfect. Just like I knew it would be

Mr.WhiteCoat: Your obedience is... commendable, PixelBunny.

R.tist!c: a masterpiece worthy of my canvas

C.Pilot: fuck baby. you're driving me wild.

You leaned closer to the camera, your breath hot against the lens. "Does Daddy like it?" You whispered, your eyes sparkling with mischief. The chat was a blur of eager responses, each one more eager than the last.

Syl.Draconia: Youre a vision, my sweet bunny. I could rip that in one flick of my fingers.

You winked at the camera, the toy inside you buzzing in response to the thrill of their words. "Good, because I got something extra special for you all." Your breasts bounced slightly as you turned, giving them the show they craved. "Who wants to see what I've got planned?"

The tips—smaller amounts this time—poured in faster than you could read, the screen lighting up like a Christmas tree. Your heart raced as you felt the eyes of your devoted fans, the vibrations inside you reaching a crescendo. "Alright, Daddies. Let's get this party started!"

You slid the toy out of you with a wet pop, ensuring the camera caught everything, the chat exploding in a symphony of virtual pleasure. The toy was replaced with something new, something they hadn't seen before. It was a custom-made dildo, the girthy shaft covered in bumpy, tiny lights that matched the color scheme of your room.

"This little guy is gonna light up the night," you said with a wink, turning it on. The lights flickered in time with your racing pulse, a silent promise of what was to come.

Strutting closer to your desktop, you straddled the fuschia pink-white gaming chair, posing your back against the lens. You took a moment to appreciate the view on the screen—the way the lights played off your curves, highlighting the view of your asscheeks in the air, your drenched cunt peeking through the scant g-string. Turning you into a living work of art.

Then, with a sultry smile, you placed the tip of the dildo against your entrance, the coolness sending a shiver down your spine.

"Ready for the main event, Daddies?" You teased, tapping the toy playfully against your asscheeks. The chat was a sea of anticipation, a mix of eagerness and greed. You spread your legs wider, giving them a perfect view of your glistening pussy, the fabric of your g-string the only barrier between you and their hungry eyes.

You leaned further into the chair, the cold leather against your skin a stark contrast to the heat building within you. The lights from the dildo reflected off the chrome of your gaming chair, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the room. The plastic frames bit into your knees as you settled into the position, a slight discomfort that only served to heighten the thrill of the moment.

The chat was a blur of excitement, a cacophony of usernames and tips flying by as they watched you, rapt and eager for your next move.

X-Devoted: Slowly baby. Make it last

Mr.WhiteCoat: I’m taking notes of how many pumps you’re going to do tonight.

R.tist!c: oh i wanna sketch this

C.Pilot: fuck bunny. you're so wet, I could almost feel it.

Syl.Draconia: Use the lube I sent.

With a seductive smile, you took the lube, never breaking eye contact with the camera’s lens as you lathered it around the girthy artificial phallus. The squelching echoed to the mic as your hands pumped in a tantalizing rhythm, giving your audience the fantasy of you touching their cocks instead.

You began to rub the tip against your swollen clit, the lights flickering in time with your movements. The sensation was electric, sending a jolt through your body that made your eyes roll back in your head.

"Mm, Daddy likes it slow?" You murmured, your voice a breathless purr. "Alright, let's see if I can be a good girl." You slid the toy down, teasing the folds of your pussy. The chat was a flurry of commands and compliments, each one feeding the fire of your desire.

With a deliberate slowness that was as much for show as it was for their benefit, you brushed the string of your panties aside and pushed the dildo inside your cunt. The lights flickered in time with the strokes, creating a mesmerizing pattern across your skin. You moaned, the sound carrying through the quiet apartment, a symphony of pleasure that seemed to echo back at you from the screens of your devoted fans.

"Oh, yes... just like that," you whispered into the microphone, the vibrations from the dildo making your voice shake slightly. "Daddy's got me feeling so good."

Your eyes remained locked on the camera, watching as the tips continued to roll in. Each one a little victory, each one a validation of your power. You began to move the toy in and out, the lights casting a rainbow of shadows across your vaginal walls. "Tell me, Daddies," you gasped, "How does it look when I'm being such a good girl for you?"

Mr.WhiteCoat: Your pussy looks so tight around that new toy, PixelBunny. You’re taking it well.

C.Pilot: oh fuck. that's so hot. like you're begging for the real thing.

R.tist!c: like a painting baby, a masterpiece

Syl.Draconia: Tell me you wish it was my cock Bunny.

X-Devoted: Ure mine Bunny. Remember that

Their reactions varied, a symphony of desire played out in digital text. Some praised your obedience, others painted vivid pictures of what they’d do to you, while another whispered dark promises of possession. Yet, none of them knew the truth behind your shy demeanor, the cynical smirk that tugged at your lips as you read their words.

With each stroke, the lights of the dildo grew more intense, painting your face with a rainbow of pleasure. Your body began to respond, your hips moving in a gentle rhythm that grew more urgent with each passing moment. You knew the act well, the dance of a siren luring sailors to their doom. You were their obsession, their escape from the mundane.

The sound of your wetness filled the room, mingling with your soft moans. It was a symphony of lust, each note a declaration of your power. You watched the chat, eyes flickering from one message to the next. Their words were a drug, a sweet poison that made you feel alive.

You began to rock your hips, the toy sliding in and out with increasing speed. "Is Daddy proud of me?" You whimpered, your voice a siren's call. The chat exploded, each tip a declaration of their adoration. You felt their desire, a palpable force that seemed to tighten around you, squeezing out every last drop of your inhibition.

"Oh, Daddy," you moaned, the pleasure building, the lights from the dildo casting a glow across your face. "You make me feel so... dirty." The words were like honey, sweet and thick with meaning. You watched the chat, the screen a blur of tips and messages, each one more desperate than the last.

The toy slammed into you now, the plastic thud echoing through the room. Your hands were a blur, moving in a rhythm that was almost violent. The sensation was overwhelming, the lights pulsing with your heartbeat. You could feel yourself getting closer, the orgasm a tidal wave just beyond the horizon.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Yes, PixelBunny, take it another inch deeper.

C.Pilot: so good baby. take it all for me.

R.tist!c: like youre riding my cock baby

Syl.Draconia: Mines bigger than that silly toy Bunny.

X-Devoted: Make sure u wont hurt urself

Their commands fueled you, pushing you closer to the edge. You took the toy out and licked it clean, the taste of yourself making your eyes roll back.

"Daddy, I need more," you whimpered, dropping the dildo to the floor. Slowly, you turned around to face the camera and present yourself on the chair. Your hand snaked into your g-string, your fingers finding your clit. "Is Daddy going to make me cum?"

Mr.WhiteCoat: Play with yourself more, BunnyPixel. Show us how much you want it.

C.Pilot: spread those legs wider, let me see everything.

R.tist!c: i want to see that pretty pussy swollen with desire for me

Syl.Draconia: You know you want it bunny. Take it all.

X-Devoted: Ure so greedy, arent you, Bunny? But Daddy loves that about you

Their words were a siren's song that you couldn't ignore. You spread your legs wider, the fabric of your g-string stretching tightly over your swollen clit. You watched the chat as your fingers began to dance across your folds, the wetness of your pussy glistening in the soft glow of the lights.

"Look at how wet I am for you, Daddies," you breathed into the microphone, the sound of your voice sending a shiver through your body. Your thumb circled your clit, the sensation making your toes curl. "Do you like watching me play?"

The chat erupted in a symphony of affirmations, their digital applause filling your ears. You felt a strange sense of belonging, a thrill that came from being the object of their desire. It was a power trip, one that you were all too eager to indulge in.

With a wicked grin, you picked up the dildo again, the lights pulsing to the beat of the music that played in the background. "Alright, Daddies," you said, your voice a mix of sweetness and seductive challenge. "Who wants to see how fast I can make this little toy disappear?"

The chat went wild as you positioned the dildo at your entrance, the coldness a stark contrast to the heat that had built up within you. You pushed it in, the lights dancing on your skin as you took it all in one go, the tip brushing against your cervix. You gasped, the sensation intense and overwhelming. The chat exploded in a flurry of tips and messages, each one more eager than the last to claim a piece of you.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Bravo, PixelBunny. You’re so good at taking what you’re given.

C.Pilot: fuck yes. just like that. you're mine baby.

R.tist!c: a true masterpiece in motion

Syl.Draconia tipped 1000 credits: If its my cock filling you up, youd scream louder than that.

X-Devoted: So obedient. So perfect

You watched the tips climb, feeling a thrill at their desperation. "Is Daddy proud?" You asked, your voice a needy whine as you began to pump the dildo in and out of yourself. The lights reflected off the sweat that had begun to form on your skin, casting a glow around your body.

The chat was a blur of usernames and dollar signs, a testament to your power over these men. You felt a twinge of guilt, a tiny voice that whispered they didn't know the real you, that you were playing a role. But the rush of power was too great, the thrill of their desire too potent to resist.

You began to moan, the sound echoing through your headphones. The camera captured every inch of you, every bead of sweat, every gasp of pleasure. It was a dance of seduction, a performance honed over countless nights in front of the lens.

The chat was a furor of commands, each one more demanding than the last. But you were in control. You knew just how to play them, how to keep them on the edge of their seats. With each stroke, you felt their eyes on you, their thoughts wrapped around your body like a second skin.

"Oh, Daddy," you whimpered, the dildo moving faster now, the lights blurring together into a rainbow of ecstasy. "I'm so close." The chat exploded in a frenzy of tips once more, each one a declaration of war for your pleasure.

You felt yourself getting closer, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your hand moved faster, the dildo a blur as it plunged into your pussy. Your other hand gripped the arm of the chair, knuckles white with the effort of holding back. Its creak was a silent protest against the relentless pace of the dildo, creating a lewd harmony along with the squelching of your pussy around the glowing, bumpy, glass phallus.

"I'm... I'm gonna cum," you whispered, your voice shaking with need. The chat was a sea of fire emojis, a digital inferno of desire. You could almost feel their eyes on you, their hands moving in time with yours, imagining it was their cocks that filled you so completely.

The lights grew brighter, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. It was as if the room was alive, a living entity that feasted on your pleasure. Your walls tightened around the dildo, a silent plea for more, for harder, for deeper. The glass felt like fire in your hand, a tool of your own making that you wielded with expert precision.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Yes, baby, keep going. You’re on the 496th pump and counting.

C.Pilot: that’s it slut. give it to me.

R.tist!c tipped 1500 credits: youd be more beautiful painted with my cum

Syl.Draconia tipped 300 credits: Youre so pretty when youre full of me.

X-Devoted tipped 500 credits: Ure perfect… my little whore

You threw your head back, your mouth open in a silent scream. The chat was a blur of lewd comments and demands, a symphony of desire that seemed to crescendo with every stroke. You felt their eyes on you, their hunger a palpable force that pushed you closer to the edge. The room was spinning, the lights a kaleidoscope of pleasure that painted the walls of your reality.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing over you with the force of a thousand suns. You screamed into the microphone, the sound echoing through the room. The camera captured every twitch of your body, every spasm of pleasure that racked your frame. The chat exploded in a cacophony of tips and messages, each one a declaration of victory.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Beautiful, PixelBunny. Drink water to hydrate.

C.Pilot: I’d breed that little cunt like the bunny you are.

R.tist!c: fuck youre an artwork

Syl.Draconia: Good girl.

X-Devoted tipped 750 credits: Look how swollen your clit is

As the wave of pleasure receded, you slumped in the chair, panting heavily. Your body was a wreck, a plaything used and discarded. But there was no regret, only satisfaction. You had done your job, played your role to perfection. The tips kept rolling in, a testament to your power, to your ability to manipulate and control.

Mr.WhiteCoat: That was exquisite, PixelBunny. You pumped twenty-three times more tonight than the last stream.

C.Pilot tipped 2000 credits: you're so fucking perfect, you’re gonna make me cum on my keyboard.

R.tist!c: i want to capture that moment forever

Syl.Draconia: You never disappoint pet.

X-Devoted: Such a good little bunny letting us watch

You took a moment to catch your breath, the sweat cooling on your skin as you surveyed the chat. The room was bathed in the glow of the pastel lights, a soft symphony of colors that seemed to pulse with the aftermath of your climax. The usernames swirled like a kaleidoscope, each one a reminder of the men who had claimed a piece of you.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Take off the g-string. Let us see you completely bare.

C.Pilot: you’re so responsive baby. I bet you’d scream if I was the one fucking you.

R.tist!c: i wish i could paint the way you look right now because your pussy is an art form

Syl.Draconia: Youre so open, so inviting. It makes me want to take you right here, right now.

X-Devoted: Good girl. Show me whats mine

With trembling hands, you slowly pulled the g-string to the side, fingers gliding to spread your swollen labia—exposing your clit to the cool air. The chat erupted in a symphony of desire, a crescendo of tips that sang your praises. You felt a thrill, a dark pleasure in knowing you had them all at your mercy.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Perfect. Just like that.

C.Pilot: so wet, so needy. who’s going to fill you up next?

R.tist!c: thats the look of a well-fucked muse

Syl.Draconia: Your pussy is begging for it.

X-Devoted: Remember, ure mine

You began to toy with yourself again, the dildo forgotten on the floor. Your hand moved with a newfound confidence, a silent challenge to the men watching you. You knew they were all thinking of themselves, of how they'd make you scream if they had the chance. But you were the one in control here, the one pulling the strings of their desires.

Mr.WhiteCoat: I want to see those breasts bounce, PixelBunny.

C.Pilot: play with those perfect tits.

R.tist!c: the way your titties jiggle is like watching a masterpiece come to life

Syl.Draconia: Show us your tits slut.

X-Devoted: Only for me my greedy little bunny

You leaned forward, your tits spilling out of the lingerie. Your nipples were hard peaks, begging for attention. You pinched them lightly, watching the chat for their reactions. The messages grew more frantic, a silent battle for your focus.

Mr.WhiteCoat tipped 300 credits: You’re shaking, PixelBunny. Just relax.

C.Pilot: pinch them harder, make them beg for mercy.

R.tist!c: oh baby thats the picture id sell for a fortune

Syl.Draconia: I want to feel those nipples between my teeth.

X-Devoted: Ure such a good slut for me

The room was a whirlwind of lewdness, a tornado of desire that you were at the center of. You felt a strange mix of fear and excitement, knowing that any of these men could be watching you from the shadows of your real life, and could be closer than you ever imagined.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Make yourself come again, PixelBunny. Show us how many times you can come tonight.

C.Pilot: I want to see you squirt for me baby.

R.tist!c: youre like a living, breathing fantasy

Syl.Draconia: Imagine its my tongue on you licking you clean while you squirt.

X-Devoted: Ure going to come for me arent you?

With a shiver, you focused on the task at hand. You began to rub your clit in slow circles, the sensation sending shockwaves through your overstimulated body. Your nipples tightened further as you pinched and twisted them, the pain adding a delicious edge to the pleasure.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Faster, Bunny. Make it count.

C.Pilot: so pretty when you're desperate.

R.tist!c: i want your juices mixed with paint

Syl.Draconia: So close bunny. Give us what we want.

X-Devoted: Be careful not to fall on the floor

The second orgasm built slowly, a crescendo of pleasure that you couldn't ignore. Each touch of your fingers was a declaration of war, a battle for dominance that you were determined to win. The chat was a blur of praises and commands, but you were in control. This was your show, your performance, your moment of power.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Yes, baby. Just like that.

C.Pilot: I can almost taste you Bunny.

R.tist!c: your body is a masterpiece

Syl.Draconia: Soon youll be screaming for me.

X-Devoted: Ure mine to use little slut

With a final, desperate push, you came, your body arching off the chair as your juices arced in the air—subsequently soiling your chair and the floor. The camera captured every twitch, every shiver of pleasure. The chat exploded in a flurry of tips, each one a declaration of victory. You panted, your chest heaving as you watched the numbers climb, the power of your own sexuality laid bare before you.

Mr.WhiteCoat: Beautiful, baby. Simply breathtaking.

C.Pilot: that was so fucking hot. you're incredible

R.tist!c: the way you come is like watching the universe unfold

Syl.Draconia tipped 1500 credits: Thats my slut. Ill give you a taste of my cock soon.

X-Devoted: Good girl

As the waves of pleasure receded, you couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. These men didn't just want to watch you; they wanted to own you. The thought sent a thrill down your spine, a mix of fear and excitement that you couldn't quite place.

You knew you had to keep them at bay, keep your real life separate from this digital playground. But as the tips continued to flow and the chat demanded more, you couldn't help but wonder if the line had already been crossed.

If they had already claimed a part of you that you couldn't take back.

— ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ —

You overslept.

The kind of oversleep that left mascara smudged in the corner of your eyes and thigh-high sock marks ghosting along your skin. Your alarm had gone off four times—each one silenced by a sleepy, swollen hand that still smells faintly of coconut oil and shame.

You’re not sore exactly. You're ruined.

Tender. Overfilled. Buzzing like your favorite toy never turned off. Your vibrator still under the pillow—taunting you like the whore you were last night. Your apartment smelled like artificial strawberries, lube, and desperation.

And your phone? Oh, bunny.

47 unread messages.

Syl.Draconia: Your audio peaked at 2:14:37. I liked that sound.

Mr. WhiteCoat: You should ice your thighs today. Hydration report pending.

X-Devoted: Still think about how u moaned my name last. Be good today

C.Pilot: saved the vod. watching it again before my morning meeting.

R.tist!c: i want to paint you mid-climax ill need the raw footage

You deleted none of them.

Your thighs stuck together as you rolled onto your side, squinting at the soft morning light bleeding through cheap blinds.

7:48 AM. Your café shift started at 7:00.

You groaned, dragging yourself out of bed. Your bunny headset laid discarded on the floor like a casualty, tangled with the cord of the bullet toy that made you scream so loud you had to bite the pillow. The heart-shaped toy from last night was still blinking faintly on the nightstand—taunting you. Judging you.

You’re still wearing the cropped cardigan. Nothing underneath. Just a smear of dried gloss on the collar and a suspicious hickey where your neck met the webcam’s frame.

— ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ —

You yanked on your barista apron with the grace of a drunken octopus, hair still smelling like body spray and cum-adjacent perfume, cheeks flushed with residual shame. The “CUP O' SUNSHINE!” logo stared at you like a passive-aggressive middle finger. A wrinkled pair of jeans hugged your thighs fine—inside out. No time to fix it. No bra.

Your thighs sticked slightly as you walked, the aftermath of being toyed open for hours, edged to oblivion and backed by faceless men who knew the sound of your moans better than your coworkers knew your name.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket with unread messages. The same five names.

X-Devoted: Did u eat yet baby?

Mr. WhiteCoat: You should’ve hydrated more. You lost a lot of fluids.

C.Pilot: when’s your break? I’ll call you.

R.tist!c: sketching the way your thighs shook

Syl.Draconia: You looked perfect on your knees.

You groaned and shoved it in your boring, beige, canvas tote bag.

Outside, the bus screeched past your stop without a single care for your state of existential hangover. You missed it by six goddamn seconds.

"Fuck you, rush hour,” you panted, trying to speed-walk without waddling. Your thighs screamed. Your lower back protested. You're ninety percent sure there was still some faux hickey ink blooming under your collarbone in the shape of a painted thumbprint.

Then the subway ride was hell. You shifted on the plastic seat with a soft hiss, cursing your post-stream sensitivity. The train lurched and your sore cunt clenched involuntarily. You could only bite your lip and pray no one noticed your discomfort.

When you clocked in, the coffee shop was already packed. You're over an hour late and reeking of vanilla lotion and unsanctioned orgasms.

Your workplace was aggressively normal. Neutral-toned hell. A cozy café chain squashed between a vape shop and a dentist’s office. The fluorescent lights buzzed like judging aunts. The espresso machine wheezed like a dying horse.

“Nice of you to join us,” your manager—Lysander—muttered, tossing you a stained dish towel and a name tag that read PIXEL. You didn’t bother to correct him. You were too busy hiding the fact that you forgot underwear.

You forced a smile. The same one you used on camera. “Sorry! Long night.”

As you staggered toward the counter, last night kept crashing back in wet waves.

After the ‘normal stream’—you on all fours, bouncing on a glass dildo while holding a printed-out chatlog to your chest like a script from hell.

“I-I’m gonna come again if you keep saying that, please—please don’t make me—!”

And them—ULTRA VIP chat exploding, all five usernames watching you fall apart like a perfectly wound toy snapping loose.

Syl.Draconia: Youre not allowed to finish until I say so.

X-Devoted: Slower. Hold eye contact. Now beg

Mr. WhiteCoat: Apply pressure to your clit. Precisely three fingers. That’s right.

C.Pilot: fuck, you’re gonna make me blow in my headset.

R.tist!c: cry for me, let me paint it from memory

You had collapsed into a moaning mess while the private chat was filled with tips, voice notes and possessive claims. You came so hard you nearly dislocated your mic stand.

And now here you were—Pixel Bunny’s shadow, stripped of pastel lights, lace, and fake moans. Fresh graduate, still buried in student debts, living alone, half-fucked out, and working the register for caffeine-deprived Karens and stoners.

Taking someone’s half-skim oat milk latte with a fake smile and shaky hands, your body still twitching with phantom overstimulation, your panties still sitting in a tipped-over laundry basket, and your cunt still slick from ghosts of last night’s sins.

You slapped a paper cup onto the counter like a half-dead soldier. Your bones ached. Your legs felt like overcooked noodles. You were seconds away from collapsing into the espresso grounds when you heard it:

“Medium latte. One pump vanilla.”

You didn’t look up at first. You were too busy auto-piloting through your camgirl trauma, but something about the voice made you pause.

It’s… calm and smooth. Measured.

You glanced up and your breath caught mid-exhale.

He was tall. Easily six feet. Fair-skinned and silver-haired, the kind of anime-protagonist-just-transferred-to-your-school handsome that would normally make you roll your eyes. His white sweater looked soft, expensive, the kind of thing someone would wear just to make you think about how good it would feel brushing against your thighs. His pants were dark, tailored. Hands tucked casually into the pockets.

And his eyes. Blue. Not icy—glacial.

Like he sees straight through you, and hasn’t decided if you’re prey… or his.

You swallowed. “N-name for the order?”

His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a second, gaze lingering for a beat on the upside-down nametag stuck above your chest.

“…Xavier.”

Your hand trembled around the Sharpie. You barely managed to scrawl the name on the cup, your brain already conjuring the worst possibilities.

X-Devoted. No. No. It’s just a common name. It’s fine. You’re fine, you’re just sleep-deprived and overstimulated.

You slid the cup toward the espresso machine and forced your voice steady. “It’ll be right up. Um. X-Xavier.”

His lips twitched. Not a smile. Just a flicker—barely there.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

Xavier turned to wait at the other end of the counter, hands still in his pockets. Posture straight. Like he was listening.

You sneaked one more glance as you started the order. He was staring at the pastries now. Or the board. Or maybe the reflection in the glass. You couldn’t tell.

But the prickle on the back of your neck said: be careful.

[places-across-time]

“COME GET YO MAN”

AU where Sophia is the Lady of the Lake 💛

When Merlin killed her in the lake, she regained immortality but only pertaining to her role as Lady of the Lake, destiny now intertwined for the rest of time with the prince she tried to kill

She’s a real nuisance every time Merlin shows up to the Lake of Avalon to send off another dead loved one :/ However, when it’s just the two of them for so long…

By the time Merlin sends Arthur off, Sophia sincerely promises to take care of the king until his return

This is my first fill for the @merlinbingo!

Tile T4: Sophia

[thesunwillshineonusagain757]

I have an AU that I though up and it makes me squeal every time I think about it. What if Clark found Conner, but instead of being a teenager, he was a newborn?

Naturally, Clark would panic — he's never dealt with anything like this before. Him having been a child at one point being his extent of experience with children. His first instinct is to call his parents, but this isn’t just a Clark Kent problem —it’s a Superman problem.

So, in a moment of desperation, he turns to the only person he thinks might be able to see the bigger picture: in comes Batman.

It results in Bruce comes back to the Batcave after a long night of fighting the Riddler. He’s tired, maybe even a little annoyed, and what does he find? Superman sitting on the floor of the cave, cradling a crying infant, pleading softly, “Please don’t cry, because if you do, I will too.”

Bruce doesn’t know what to do at first — he’s completely out of his element crying Kryptonian and all — but he can’t exactly say no when a baby is involved, especially a half-Kryptonian one.

Safe to say, Dick is immediately obsessed with the baby and spends all his free time playing with him. Meanwhile, Bruce and Clark’s relationship takes a surprising turn. Because if there’s two things Bruce Wayne is known for, it’s his baby fever and his obsession with Kryptonians.

If you want to read it… I started writting it enjoy!

[sugurugetoshairbrush]

thinking about playing with geto’s hair to help him unwind after a stressful week

the air hangs heavy, oppressive with summer's clinging humidity—a fitting backdrop to the surge in curses running rampant through japan. your days blur into an unrelenting cycle: exorcise, write reports, collapse in your dorm. you call it a blessing, a chance to strengthen your technique—but deep down you know that each mission brings you closer to the brink.

the fatigue is nothing short of infectious, spreading through jujutsu high like a virus. but this week, geto's weariness went beyond mere exhaustion—it teetered on the edge of total defeat. you and gojo had noticed it immediately, an unspoken observation of his too-polite words, dull eyes, and the barely-there smile he wore like armor.

although gojo is usually aloof when it comes to these types of social cues, his six eyes truly lives up to its name when it comes to geto. gojo notices his unfinished meals and lack of appetite, resorting to (in very gojo-esque manner) attempt to hand-feed him and offer up his most sacred sweets.

you'd teased gojo for his attentiveness, but he'd fire back that you were no better, always rushing to geto's side the moment he'd returned from a mission, dragging him along to a number of alleviating activities. you'd even made the mistake of inviting him to a smoke sesh with shoko, a decision you were still getting shit for since any invite to geto automatically extends to gojo—the embodiment of shoko's nightmare blunt rotation.

but today geto had been particularly elusive, so you find yourself messaging gojo privately to discuss your concern. unsurprisingly, gojo is a little too eager to engage...

S. Gojo | Today at 9:37 PM nd u saw how quickly he excused himself after giving his report ?? he didn't even scold me after yaga pointed out that my handwriting was completely illegible :0

You | Today at 9:39 PM sooo you knew that it was illegible? mbn to never worry about the consequences of your actions & ofc i noticed!! he seemed restless during that whole meeting

S. Gojo | Today at 9:40 PM just say ur jealous lol nd I noticed that too it was pretty distracting u think hes still on edge from the mission?

You | Today at 9:43 PM in his defense it doesnt take much to distract you i dont even think his mission was particularly difficult though didn’t he exorcise a bunch of grade 3 curses

S. Gojo | Today at 9:43 PM yeeah but remember he still has to absorb them hes trying to increase his collection i could yak rn just thinking ab it

You | Today at 9:45 PM truee idk how he does it honestly it must be rlly wearing him down tho i rarely see him now :(

S. Gojo | Today at 9:46 PM yeahhh he keeps hiding out in his room classic avoidant tendencies

You | Today at 9:48 PM astute observation dr. gojo that would imply he needs some space huh

S. Gojo | Today at 9:48 PM rightttt but

You | Today at 9:50 PM but? (i like where this is going)

S. Gojo | Today at 9:50 PM luckily space isn't in our vocabulary (i knew u would) lets go bother him :3

You | Today at 9:51 PM im alr omw to u :3

stuffing your phone back into your sweats, you begin making your way to your co-conspirator. it's pitch black outside save for the dim light of the flickering lantern hung at the dorm’s main post, but gojo’s room is only a couple doors down. you push open the slightly ajar door and are met with a tart, saccharine scent wafting from gojo’s not-so-secret stash of hard candy.

squinting forward you spot the culprit red-handed, splayed out across his bed, and likely one candy away from a sugar rush. your exasperated exhale breaks him from his sugar trance and he rolls over to prop himself up on his side, crinkling about eight discarded candy wrappers in the process.

"so nice of you to join me tonight~”

you wrinkle your nose at his lopsided grin, “gross satoru, a grown-ass man eating in his bed.”

gojo sneers peering over his glasses which are slowly slipping down the slope of his nose to retort, “and you are a grown-ass woman who still sleeps with stuffed animals so I don’t wanna hear it.”

he sticks out his bright red tongue before tossing the empty wrappers onto the floor to clear up some space. you consider pointing out the digimon plushie that's visible from underneath his bed but decide to let it slide, seating yourself next to him. you are instead much more interested in gawking at the ginormous bag of candy sitting before you.

"there's actually no way you plan on eating this entire bag yourself, right?" you eye his glossy, red-stained lips "your dentist must hate to see you coming."

“and I would happily take on that challenge but—" he pauses to lift a piece of candy wrapped in shiny gold paper, "I actually picked up this bag earlier because I noticed it has these hard candies with honey filling.”

"how considerate and out of character of you," you tease.

he pouts puffing his cheeks out defiantly, "yeah so this stays between us because I can't have you running around ruining my feared, distinguished, and carefully constructed reputation—"

"of being an arrogant asshole?" you finish.

"no silly, I was gonna go with alpha male."

he smugly turns over to lay flat on his stomach, picking out the honey-filled candies and kicking his feet that hung off the edge of the bed. ah yes, the tell-tale sign of an alpha male giggling and kicking his feet while rummaging through sweets.

"right."

you lean back onto your hands making contact with something hard beneath the blanket. upon further inspection, you uncover gojo's beloved nintendo ds littered with sailor moon stickers. you lift it onto your lap tracing a finger over the peeling edge of a bright-eyed feline luna.

gojo glances over at the movement, "I'm just about done, bring that too."

you sit upright pocketing a couple pieces of candy for yourself along with the ds while he shoves as much candy as physically possible into his grey flannel joggers. stretching your legs out you rise to your feet pulling him up by his arm along with you. you’re pleasantly surprised to be met with the soft, warm brush of his skin rather than the cold pressure that is the icy barrier of his infinity.

although you should be accustomed to gojo deactivating his infinity around you, you couldn't help but lightly shudder as the comforting warmth courses through your body. because despite your argumentative banter, you reveled in the fact that the gojo satoru was surrounded by trusted friends who made him feel comfortable enough to let go of the technique temporarily. he hums softly kicking on his slippers and rising off the bed.

now towering over you, he shifts his weight, fully intending to take a long stride toward the door—until your hand presses firmly against his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“listen—y'know I love you 'toru but before we go in there I'm gonna need you to promise to dial it down about five notches—" you take a breath and press your palms together in a pleading gesture, "so we don’t overwhelm him."

you’re met with a scoff and quirked snowy-white brow, “tch I'm not stupid I know how to read a room."

you release a shaky "okay" clearly unconvinced.

he rolls his eyes swatting at your hands and looping his arm around yours to pull you forward, “now let’s go visit our sweet sugubear~” you playfully bump shoulders giddy because you’re all too aware of geto’s ability to render you both docile.

lifting a hand to tug down your beige baby tee where it had bunched up from gojo’s arm, you allow yourself to be led to geto's room.

upon arrival, you are greeted with silence and the distant droning buzz of cicadas. the soft glow from gojo's ocean-blue eyes illuminates the door, and you can’t help but admire their determined sparkle.

“suguruuuu are ya in there? we know you are so let us in loser.” he accompanies his request with a sharp, forceful knock.

you snort at this tactless approach, slipping your arm out from his to swat at the back of his head. you take a gentler approach, knocking lightly, your plea sincere.

“hey um suguru, we know it’s late but we were hoping to unwind together since we haven’t really had a chance to hang out recently and we know how tiring the past few weeks have been for you and um...well all of us and well we y'know—” you pause from your rambling momentarily, banking on gojo swooping in.

“we miss you 'ru” he finishes loudly.

you both cock your heads sideways towards the door to listen for movement and jolt back when you hear the shuffling of feet move across the floor.

you lean in towards gojo, your voice a whisper, “he’s alive.”

geto's muffled voice responds, “yes yes I'm alive, sorry to disappoint,” his voice sounds strained yet still cracks into a low chuckle. he pulls the door open revealing himself to be dressed in a baggy black sweatsuit wrapped in a thick grey blanket that's pulled around his shoulders and draped over his arms. his eyes are clouded by dark bags and his hair is strung messily around his head, his lips fixed into a friendly, albeit forced smile.

gojo, slightly amused by the disheveled geto in front of him, opens his mouth to say god knows what, but geto promptly warns, “don’t make me regret opening this door satoru.”

"so scary sugu, don't be so mean," he dramatically shivers and you can hear the pout lacing his voice. you giggle into your palm at geto's stern look and gojo tugs sheepishly at his unruly milky-white hair. he approaches the darker-haired man placing a firm hand on geto’s shoulder before continuing inside. you follow suit and hear geto's lock click back into place behind you.

gojo immediately makes himself comfortable kicking off his slippers at the foot of the bed and falling face first onto geto's pillows with a sigh. he pulls out the candy from his pocket and drops a handful beside him. you remove your slippers and neatly arrange them while geto sulks over to the bed. he sits upright next to the candy and you drop yourself beside him pulling your knees into your chest. you all bask in comfortable silence before geto is the first to break.

"already infesting my bed with your sugar addiction huh, satoru?"

"no sufogu, bwought dese fa you" his words come out jumbled from the press of his mouth to the pillows.

geto lifts a single candy to his lap and carefully unwraps it. you lean into his side and point, "these candies are filled with honey 'ru, thought they could soothe your throat some."

geto gingerly lifts the candy to his lips proceeding to gently coax out the flavor, savoring the sweet taste. he tilts his head back, eyes crinkling into a thin line and shoulders easing.

“s'good, thank you."

while he revels in the soothing effect the candy is having on his throat you shift your attention towards his hair situation.

"did we wake you? it looks like you just had the nap of a lifetime." you reach up to twist a strand of hair that somehow defies the laws of physics sticking out horizontally.

"no, not at all," his eyes soften casting downward, "sleep's been more like a privilege lately."

gojo's dumbass barrels right past any underlying message there, nuzzling his face deeper into the pillow, "s'cwazy cuz you haf the soffest bed."

as expected, geto with the patience of a saint, is unbothered by his lack of awareness, reaching out to affectionately ruffle gojo's hair, which earns him a soft, satisfied sigh.

you roll your eyes at how pliant and disgustingly submissive gojo had magically become in a matter of seconds. in turn, you thread your fingers deeper into the stringy black clump that was currently geto's hair.

"ugh there's no way you let your precious hair get this tangled, it physically pains me to look at," you clutch your chest dramatically.

geto reaches up to touch the hair in question, his fingertips lightly brushing against yours. he swallows uneasily, "it's gotten pretty bad huh."

you shoot him a sympathetic look carefully removing the hand in his hair to avoid yanking his scalp. you would never admit it aloud but there isn't much you wouldn't do for him; he's reliable, a comforting presence, and his character is unshakable. no matter how unpleasant or dismissive you and gojo could get at your worst, geto was there. so you didn't hesitate to make him an earnest offer.

"let me untangle it. I just so happen to be extremely skilled at detangling, probably from my years of experience—“ you gesture to your own hair twisting a loose curl around your finger, “—and don’t worry I make adjustments for the tender-headed, just ask utahime."

"wait who said I'm tender-headed?"

you snort and simply gesture to the ground, "just sit down here, okay?"

you try your best to mask your excitement since you love geto’s hair: it’s jet-black, long, and soft to the touch. it always smells fresh, with a hint of vanilla from his shampoo. it’s honestly attractive refreshing to see such well-groomed hair on a man.

geto silently complies, crouching next to your feet to fold up and place down his blanket before retrieving his brush from a nearby drawer. anticipating the whine of an excluded gojo, you reach into your pocket and toss his ds onto his back.

"here satoru, so you don't get bored in the next minute"

he eagerly turns over and powers on the handheld device. he is so easy to placate, if he wasn’t a gojo you would frankly be concerned for his safety.

geto settles between your legs, back against the bed, and expresses his interest, "whatcha playing there 'toru? pokémon?"

you start to nimbly section off his hair using the brush and begin working on the ends.

gojo shuffles closer to the two of you and tilts the screen so geto can get a look.

"nintendogs?" geto asks sounding exasperated and you catch a quick glimpse of a black-and-white spotted puppy pawing at the screen.

you suppress a giggle because gojo truly never disappoints and continue working your way up your section unraveling a particularly large tangle.

"try not to sound so disappointed 'ru its so fun~ its got tons of adorable doggies to play with and its harder than it looks! honestly its a lot of work."

now that absurdity earns him a laugh as you smooth down the top of your section mumbling under your breath, "yeah work."

"well I don't know about all that—but I'm glad you've discovered this month’s hyper-fixation" geto responds with a yawn.

"thank you...i think," gojo replies before quickly being distracted by the incessant yapping of his digital pets.

you take your time working through geto's hair, carefully pulling apart tangles and smoothing out ends, admiring the glossy shine reflected in the low light of his dorm. once thoroughly detangled, you brush through his thick locks while running your fingers through his bangs that don’t quite reach back far enough.

you hear a low hum when your fingers lightly scrape along his scalp so you continue your ministrations to hopefully allow him some semblance of peace. the yapping coming from gojo's direction becomes white noise as you get lost in thought admiring the silky-smooth feel of geto's hair against your fingers.

the satisfying swish of the hairbrush running from root to end sounds strangely cathartic. you note how his hair has grown considerably since the last time you had seen it completely down. it cascades down a little past his shoulders curling up slightly at the bottoms when released from the confines of the brush.

you gather all his hair back intending to indicate that you had finished until you notice a breathy rumbling being released steadily from his mouth. you peer over his head to see his eyes gently resting shut, with a tranquil expression softening his features as his lips part slightly with each slow breath.

somehow he has managed to look perfectly serene, yet impossibly striking. it was a relieving sight to see after this past week made you believe that his face had become permanently fixed into a frown.

"hey—“

you swiftly press a finger to a startled gojo's lips gesturing to the sleeping geto that had slumped into your lap. gojo quickly powers off his game and cranes his neck to get a good look at geto's face.

he stifles a laugh and wraps an arm around your shoulder, "mission accomplished huh?"

you nod contently as a warm gust of his strawberry-scented breath fans your face.

gojo seats himself next to you and begins running his fingers through geto's newly tamed hair. geto releases a long sigh and you can't help but think its awfully cute.

"bet I can do a better hairstyle than you can" gojo challenges, because of course he does. you still take him up on it though; partly because you're competitive, and partly because you want to keep soothing geto through his much-needed slumber.

you smirk at gojo before parting geto's hair down the middle. taking the left side you begin splitting it into four parts to work on a fishtail. you had always wondered how one would look on him if he ever let down his taut bun.

glancing towards gojo whose eyebrows are furrowed in deep concentration, you notice his glasses had been completely removed as he’s struggling to complete a french braid. the braid is somehow tight, loose, chunky, and thin all at once—effectively securing your victory. his pale fingers weave clumsily through one another to continue down.

gojo scowls looking dissatisfied with his work thus far and begins undoing his current progress. near geto's temple the braid had twisted awkwardly and as gojo pulled the strands apart he was met with resistance accidentally yanking geto's head back suddenly.

the motion jolts you all backward and shakes geto awake releasing a pained wince from the rough pull.

"what the fuck guys”

"gojo you had one job" you moan. gojo's white eyelashes flutter apologetically and he rubs soft circles into the spot he had just pulled.

"didn't mean to sugu"

you roll your eyes at his allergy to explicitly apologizing and shove him away from geto's head. dejected, he slowly inches himself to the edge of the bed until he slides down next to geto. he pops a hard candy between his lips that seemingly appeared out of thin air and leans his head onto geto's shoulder.

you swear you can make out a hushed murmur sounding close to a sorry. geto hums and you go back to playing with his hair. you decide to make an effort to style his hair in a way that he can achieve on his own. you lift gojo's head gently to retrieve the hair that had been trapped underneath so he can snuggle in closer, and you begin working on a half-up, half-down style.

once satisfied you make the executive decision to loop the half-up ponytail into a bun and pull out his bangs to frame his face.

geto’s voice calls wearily out, "having fun back there?" his eyes are half-lidded from dozing off, and at this point he’s completely malleable to your touch.

"I'm actually taking this opportunity very seriously sugu."

you retrieve your phone and open the front-facing camera, handing it to him. he positions it in front of his face to view the finished look.

the corner of his eyes crinkle, but you can still make out the deep violet of his irises scanning over your handiwork.

"I actually like this a lot, it looks great," he praises.

gojo cracks an eye open so he can weigh in.

"I don't hate it."

at that you flick the nape of his neck harshly and geto chuckles at the subsequent wince feeling rightfully avenged for earlier.

“so seriously how do I look?”

“pretty—“ “—handsome” you and gojo both blurt out at once.

an awkward silence follows, and you can't help but giggle at your brazen, synchronized boldness.

searching for a way to ease the tension, your eyes fall back onto the camera in geto's hand and you motion towards it to refocus everyone's attention, "well we've clearly established that you look great so don't let the photo go to waste."

you catch his lips curling slightly before he complies, extending his arm to get a better shot. gojo leans back onto geto's shoulder and lazily holds up a peace sign, his cheeks tinged strawberry-red to match his lips. you scoot forward resting your chin on geto's other shoulder, tilting your head slightly and flashing a playful grin.

“perfect, my new lock screen,” you say, giving geto’s bun one final twist.

geto chuckles, low and warm, and gives your knee a gentle pat. “well, in that case, I’m honored.” he shifts his weight, stretching his legs out, visibly more at ease than when you’d first arrived. beside him, gojo, not missing a beat, looks up, hands folded across his chest.

“but of course, I'm more honored, I'm literally the honored one”

geto looks over the image zooming in slightly, "keep talking and you'll be the one cropped out satoru."

this ignites their usual bickering and you scoff. you watch as geto’s shoulders softly shake with laughter and you swear he seems lighter, the tension of the last few weeks loosening. maybe, just maybe, things could return to normal soon.

at least, for this moment, you all felt a little more like yourselves.

[maokpinaok]

Dumbass meddling instincts

[gothamite-rambler]

Tim: You are the love of my life and I would do anything within reason to make you happy.

Bernard: I would be happy if you ate, stayed hydrated and got a reasonable amount of sleep.

Tim: I said within reason, Bernard. How about I ruin the life of that guy who called you a slur at the club?

Bernard: So ruining someone's life is in reason but proper self care isn't?

Tim: Well, duh. What kind of question is that? I bet his internet history is weird and illegal.

Bernard: ...I'm not against you checking.