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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

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The Invisible String Theory

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You didn't expect the man who gave you his coat to be the same one to bust down the door where you and the other women slept - sniper hood scaring everyone within an inch of their life. You didn't expect him to become so important to you, either. (Based on König's in-game backstory).

WORDCOUNT: 9.2k

WARNINGS: Human trafficking, mentions of unwanted touching, trauma, blood, gore, guns, bullets, protective!König, soft!König, nightmares, mentions of bullying, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

'DATE: 25, NOVEMBER, 2021

LOCATION: BERLIN, GERMANY

TIME OF EVENT: 0230

MISSION REPORT: PENDING….'

You don’t remember much from the day that could be called out of the ordinary. Ever since you’d been moved here with the other girls, everything was predictable down to the time the men would come over, to the point where the screams had to be muffled by pillows.

Never in your life did you think you’d be part of the nearly fifty million people stuck in this situation, and neither did you think you’d be the one in one hundred who got out. But before you can think about November twenty-fifth and those pale gray eyes, you have to go back to the beginning. To Al-Qatala.

You hadn’t been with this cell initially—you’d been moved around and bartered off more times than you could count; the initial founder of your predicament was long gone at this point. North and South America, Europe, Africa, Asia, and Oceania…you’d been practically everywhere and on every continent barring the obvious last. In Europe, you couldn’t name the countries, but you knew this for a fact: you’d never been to Germany before.

They had you with five other women in a large SUV in the beginning, this international ring of human traffickers. You had watched from the window, face blank and eyes unblinking, at the men who met near the docks. They had brought you in through Hamburg, first—not only the largest seaport in Germany but the third largest in Europe; you think you read that on a flier at some point. One of those flimsy ones that you find in gas stations with bright lettering to attract the tourists with their interesting facts.

You wished you were only a tourist.

You’d watched the men shake hands, and that was when you knew your fate, as well as that of the five other women, was sealed. You were going to all be here for a long time.

This Al-Qatala cell was ruthless, but you supposed with being around terrorists, ruthlessness was better than being executed.

For days you’d be exploited with the false promises of moments of freedom, breaks, food, and water. For some of the women it was drugs or money, but when your stomach was empty and your eyes blurring from lack of sleep, even addictions seemed to pale for brief hours. But above it all was the threat of death at every corner. These men would kill you.

It was only a matter of time unless you could give them what they wanted.

You yourself had developed a system, and it was probably the only reason you were still alive. Pick one of the handlers, gain his favor, and pray that he treats you specially while you keep up the act of a mindless, weak, woman.

Ivon was the man’s name this time around. Born and raised here in Berlin before the clutches of his fanatical ideations brought him to Al-Qatala. You hated him.

Hated his touch—hated his scent and how he talked; every bit of him was corrupted like a black dog at a crossroads, always leading people down the wrong path. Your only saving grace was that he was stupid. The other girls called you Cat—said you managed to nuzzle up to someone and soon after got them to give you what you wanted. Everything you wanted except freedom, that was.

You didn’t deny that Ivon did give you privileges, but that was the point. About a week into your stay in Berlin, he allowed you to go into public with him. Arm-candy.

A doll.

The townhouse you’d been stuck in had disappeared into a spec behind the rearview mirror, the chilled air from outside making you shiver at the lack of heat and the thin shawl you’d been thrown. No jacket.

The care of your health only extended to how well you were able to work—at the moment you were relatively healthy despite the bulge of bruises and constantly shell-shocked look behind your eyes.

But the trip—the trip. You supposed that was when it had fully started, and you didn’t even realize it before you saw those gray eyes again.

“Come,” Ivon orders, holding tightly to your arm and dragging you along from the corner shop without making a scene. Your hands loosely brush the wrack of clothes, fabric soft under your fingertips as it sways.

Fixing your shawl, you try to burrow your neck into it, gaining what little heat is available to you. It was cold out—you were shivering. People send looks, eyes tight as they shift up and down your form, but no one ever says anything. To be this bold, this cell had to have been at this for a long, long time. The realization didn’t make you feel any better.

That was when you first saw him.

You were standing outside a coffee shop, quivering like a newly hatched butterfly, Ivon making a call only a few feet away with fast motions of his arms. It was hard not to make a run for it right then and there; hard not to take those few seconds of open air and dash away—start screaming and yelling until the authorities came.

It would save yourself, but what about the others? They wouldn’t be so fortunate, you’d be sentencing them to death. None of this was simple—it needed to be thought out. Two games of chess being played at the same time.

The irony of it was that König had been off-duty that day. It had been a shot in the dark.

“Are you alright?” A thick Austrian accent makes you flinch as it appears beside your right ear, grating.

Your eyes snap to the side, moving one foot back as you blink wildly up at the blue-gray orbs that would become a staple. You liked to call it as everyone else did—the invisible string theory. A theory that stated that the universe connected people who were destined to meet one day. Through thick or thin waters, it was inevitable. He was inevitable.

“Yes,” you say quickly, holding your hands tightly around you. The man ahead of you was tall, almost startlingly so, with muscles more bulky than a boulder and his buzz-cut head open to the chilled breeze. He wore a surgical mask over his lower visage, his hoodie under the thick material of a canvas jacket. “Yes,” you say again, hearing Ivon’s voice behind you still on the phone. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Gray eyes furrow slightly, gaze darting over your head.

“Are you…sure, Ma’am?”

“Thank you for your concern,” you fake laugh, eyes pained, backing up farther. That invisible string snaps into place, pulling tight at only those few simple words.

His stature made you slightly nervous—large, intimidating; those hands could do quite the damage if given the chance. Your eyes had hit and bounced off the identity discs at his chest with little thought, too preoccupied to notice the fact that he was in the Service.

König’s eyes had narrowed softly, dark brows minutely moving in.

Ivon hangs up his phone.

“Can I help you?” He asks, coming up and sliding a hand around your waist. The man had stared at him for a long minute, and you had felt Ivon tense slowly at the unblinking eye contact.

This stranger had commented in German a long string of frim words, hands going to his jacket and grabbing at the arms—he slips out of it while still uttering.

Before you can react, the large coat swallows you whole and you snatch at the heat that’s still inside instinctually, now only realizing how much you were shivering. Your body sags into the weight of the fabric, the scent of sweat and coffee.

You don’t even pay attention to the growing tones, shocked. People look over to the two fast words being tossed.

Yet it could only last so long.

Ivon’s hand latches onto the side of your arm, beginning to drag you back and away from this kind stranger like a lap dog while throwing curses behind him. Gray eyes meet yours as old shoes skid and stumble.

König had taken a firm step towards you that day, his body tense and his hands clenched at his side—ready to do anything on a moment's notice should you ask for it. But all you do is stare, jaw loose, and the given coat still on your shoulders. You just couldn’t understand why he would do that.

The stranger gets swallowed by the crowd, and just like that, he’s gone.

That was all it had been; a moment—a few mere seconds in the large plot that was this almost impossible tale. You were glad it had been him, or else the events of the future could have been very different.

Of course, they hadn’t let you keep the jacket, but the memory was enough to warm you for days even as old pains faded and new ones took their place.

But those gray eyes would help you in the future, like a guardian; a protector in your dreams as you watched the snow fall from the sliver of outside light in your room with the others. Your mattress was on the floor like the rest, thin blankets and clouds of cold breath wafting up from sleeping forms.

This was the time it happened, and you’d just woken up to find the curtains shifting as one of the women near it moved in her sleep. Shadows slip past, the light interrupted as it shifts over your tired face with broken fractures.

You were always kept on the ground floor.

'CLEARANCE: APPROVED

TRANSLATING MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’…

STAND BY…

Operation Red Freedom took place on November twenty-fifth, 2021, at approximately 0230 in the neighborhood of [REDACTED], at the residence of [REDACTED], Berlin, Germany. A squad of ten highly trained [REDACTED] personnel covertly entered the residence in two teams of five. Fireteam One advanced from the back entrance while Fireteam Two entered the residence from the balcony at the top floor, accessed via ladder.

Squad Leader [REDACTED], part of Fireteam One, set foot in the residence of [REDACTED] at approximately 0238 and began sweeping the ground floor as Fireteam Two cleared three of twelve known individuals belonging to the terrorist organization, Al-Qatala, on the top floor….'

You shift and shiver, your body trying to warm itself as the world blurs at the sides of your vision. Fingers twitch as your hand goes to wrap your waist, curled into the fetal position, creaking emanates from above you. Blinking softly, you frown and take a quivering breath, head nuzzling the thin mattress.

“Cold,” you say, the following low exhale of air out of your lips only making it all worse as everything seems to drop another degree. The darkness didn’t help either, only that one line of light trying desperately to fill the room like a bucket descending into a dry well.

You’re only clothed in the dirty and tattered remains of a large shirt, your legs feeling like they don’t hold any blood in them as they quiver without your knowledge—shaking the blanket above you. A few of the girls had said it would be okay to share, but everyone was afraid of the lock on the door clicking open and the men coming back in and seeing them. In the end, you could only look after yourself.

A thump makes you startle, drooping eyes snapping back open as you gasp.

Head shifting, you blink rapidly upward to the ceiling, confused as to whether that had been a part of a failing mind or if you’d really just heard a muffled bump upstairs. Brows furrowing, you lightly sit up, hands still around yourself and legs limply outward; spine hunched.

Your fingers had lost feeling, just as your nose had gone numb, but moving helped a little. Your hands dig into your flesh and your ears twitch at every creak in the wood—every pass of silent feet that suddenly becomes all the clearer as the sheen of fatigue slowly leaves your brain.

Walking? Small pains move along your body like needles, poking and prodding, but you ignore them as easily as you do the vile hands that had touched you. Survival had forced you into a constant state of self-preservation—pain couldn’t bother you, because if you stopped, you wouldn’t get back going again.

Your head tilts so you can side-eye the door to the room, sleeping forms all around shifting, singular groaning of tired lungs. But there’s something inside of you that stiffens like a prey animal, and you don’t know why. Inside of your sockets, your eyes hone in, bones stiff and your chest stilling as the grain becomes the most interesting thing to you beyond breathing.

There was someone….out there.

Watching, the sides of your vision shadow over to focus harder, your muscles tight. Your mind goes to the thumps from upstairs, the moving feet that sounded far more careful and deliberate than the ones your jailors took care to walk with.

Inside your ribs, your heart patters a bit faster, adrenal glands sending a certain flight or flight through the few veins you hold that aren’t chilled over.

Something was happening. Something wasn’t right.

Only when you move to shake the shoulder of one of the women sleeping beside you does it happen.

A yell.

A scream.

The girls in the room all startle awake, sounds of concern and shock entering the air that you mirror; faces snapping to the ceiling and the door. The townhouse erupts into gunfire and the sound of slamming wood—a warzone that only is separated from all of you by the thin material of the four walls.

You feel yourself being grabbed and held in fear in the dark, as your open face holds the expression of a rabbit in an open field, looking along the long, hidden grass.

The sounds persist, loud German shouts going up over the house and echoing with heated fever. This continues for minutes, added in with the sound of doors breaking off hinges, bouncing off the ground, and shaking the foundation so hard that you can feel it reverberate. The women go silent. Stone-still.

But the gunfire—so much gunfire. The constant pop of assault weapons and a pound of multiple booted feet.

What was going on? You can't make sense of it, so you only freeze and listen; trying to understand the longer the fight goes on, heart hammering; mouth slack-jawed. And then it’s like it never happened.

Silence.

You share quick looks with the others, all gripping one another and heads angled to the door. The heavy feet start back up again, coming closer. Your mind slashes to the window across the room, but it’s hard to think beyond the sudden body that shakes the door that leads directly to you all—the women scream, some standing up and racing to the glass with the same idea as you.

'…Squad Leader [REDACTED], and both Fireteams successfully eliminated all targets inside of the [REDACTED] residence, leaving the room occupied by known hostages last to prevent casualties and/or the usage of bargaining chips. Squad Leader [REDACTED] made contact with hostages at approximately 0244 after the final sweep of the townhouse had been completed and all personnel accounted for.

Local authorities had been contacted by neighbors due to noise but were dismissed.'

The door busts off its hinges and the room devolves into panicked yells and hurled bits of mattress material. Loud pleas and curses stuck like gums to teeth as they were forced out in fear and bone-crushing terror. You remember pushing back into the wall, many others doing the same, as a beast of a man enters the room with his face covered with a loose fabric hood of some sort.

Large—brutish. Like a demon walking with the color of black printed over his entire body; gear hangs from a combat vest, hands holding an assault rifle as a sidearm is strapped to his bulging thigh. Forearms the side of your head stays near his chest, and in order to not hit his head on the doorframe, the individual has to bend slightly. Over that hood, the lenses and head-gear of a night-vision rig sit heavily before it’s moved back with a firm hand that is nearly double the size of yours.

A monster.

Your entire being is tight with quivering tension, eyes blinking away tears at the smell of blood that rolls in from the hallway. The women at the window duck down, hands to their heads as if expecting a bullet to carve its way between their skulls.

“Cat,” one of the ladies behind you mutters, voice quivering. You shush her on bitten lips and move her farther behind you.

“Don’t speak,” you mutter. “Don’t move.”

You don’t know what you expect, but nothing about this is correct.

The man raises his hands, the rifle slapping his chest as it hangs from a strap. He speaks in German, and the heavy and fast noise of it makes your already addled head spin. No one answers beyond the slide of their own feet over the hardwood floors.

“Ich heiße König,” his head swivels from one to another, “Sprichst du Deutsch? Irgendjemand?”

You stare blankly, panting.

After a moment, and a slow step forward from the stranger, he speaks again, though this time, it’s in English.

“My name is König.” His voice is familiar to you, and you blink in confusion quickly, hidden near the back of the shaking bodies. “I am with the German Military, yes? We have conducted a raid on this residence.”

Military? Raid?

“...I am not here to hurt you.” He nears one of the women, beginning to bend down slowly. She squeaks, balking back—making him tense and halt. It didn't matter what he said, König was the epitome of a man who was intimidating on body alone; the gear wasn’t helping. Neither was the hood.

A soldier appears in the doorway, calling out to him in his native language as you flinch at the noise.

König calls back calmly, trying to keep an air of gentle strength around him.

The second soldier comes inside, dressed similarly despite the lack of fabric over his visage which instantly puts many at ease again. He clears his throat as König steps back, gargantuan hands coming up to rest at his vest collar as his legs shift. He seems a bit put off at the fearful stares from everyone, rolling his shoulders for a moment as he turns his head to look out of the doorway.

Your eyes don’t move from him, though. A nagging feeling in the back of your skull.

“We have to leave this place,” the second soldier tells you all, kneeling and resting a hand over his knee. “We’ll get you medical attention. Food. Water. There’s no need to suffer here any longer, hm? We can see to it that all of you will get the best care that can be provided.” A pause. “We can get you back home.”

That certainly got the attention that was needed.

Meek questions started falling out, then louder ones before pandemonium was roused in that tiny room pushed to the very back of the townhouse. Home. It was a word that had almost lost all meaning but was still that constant shining light in the back of everyone’s mind.

Home.

Did you even have one of those left?

As the rest of your fellows all got to their feet, taking you with them, you had to think over that fact as the soldier guided them gently out of the room to join the others waiting—trying to answer their questions and get them away from the gore before they saw it.

You stayed behind, feet shifting over the floor and your lips thin. As the silence settles in, you hold yourself a bit tighter and glance at the mattress all mashed together and stained—those thin blankets as you shiver.

“Are you alright?” Your head snaps over.

You’d forgotten about König.

He still stands there, still and with his hands at his collar; he clears his throat softly, speaking up from his low utterance. “Please…do not be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” you say tinily, your voice cracking in the lie.

You can’t see his eyes—not with the shadow from his hood or his head rig, but you can see the way his skull lightly tilts to the side, trying to see you better in the low light.

“That is good,” he answers, not convinced. “I’m glad. I did not wish to scare anyone.” He moves back and motions with a hand to the door from where they hang. “Please. It is best not to linger, yes?”

“Do I…” you hesitate, shivering. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

König’s face isn’t visible, but you can still sense the feeling of confusion leaking out of him. The man takes a small step closer, and you gaze up at him until his eyes are visible.

Blue-gray.

You stare, mouth parting in shock.

König blinks twice, quickly making a noise in the back of his throat at the sight of your eyes gazing into his—the same woman outside of the coffee shop from days ago.

That little invisible string pulls you closer, small millimeter by small millimeter.

“You?” You both say it at the same time, laced with surprise and shock.

It’s a long moment of gazing into each other, a battered body and another more strong than an ox. All fear of the man dissipates.

“You gave me your jacket,” you whisper, still torn up about it.

König’s hood shifts as he glances back to the door, German speech over the radio strapped to his chest which he takes in and processes in the back of his skull. But he always looks back at you, eyes crinkled with concern and perhaps even a bit of misplaced guilt.

A protective knife sides into his side.

“Come.” The man reaches out a hand, hovering it over your arm. You stare at the gloved limb for a moment before softly moving towards it with your breath caught in your throat, hesitant. König’s fingers delicately slide over the flesh, not closing around it until he feels your muscles loosen. “...Let’s get you warmer, Schatz, yes?”

You blink.

“It’s cold here,” you mutter, letting him guide you along, his gray orbs always keeping you in the side of his vision.

“Yes,” he agrees, nodding. “Very cold. Have you been to Germany during the winter before?”

Your head slightly shakes, bare feet padding along next to the pair of great boots—you lean closer unconsciously to the promise of warmth. König guides you away from the seeping blood on the floor and protects your eyes from the view of the bodies across the room with his own as a guard dog would.

“No.” He notices your leaning and brings you nearer to him, letting you use him as a brace. The man knows the effects of shock, and you wear it as plainly as any other. “I’ve never been here before.”

König hums and his free hand goes up to press into the radio, muttering in his native tongue. He releases the connection and asks as he blinks at you, “Do you require any immediate medical attention?”

Again, you shake your head.

“Where are the others?” You sink further into him, being guided to the front door, open to the soft snowfall and a chilled wind as your shoulder hunch.

“Just outside,” König glances at the bodies across the room—the ones he’d riddled with bullets that still twitch even as the minutes draw longer. Gray eyes going from one to another, the house is heavy with the weight of dead men. Twelve in total and all getting colder just like the temperature outside. König didn’t feel bad about it, and when he’d finally busted open that door to find you and the women, he was satisfied with the blood on his hands. If hell were to be his home, he would walk there with a golden-fanged smile.

But now wasn’t the time for that.

“I will bring you to them,” the soldier speaks, snow blowing in from the entrance. “Slowly, now, Schatz, watch the steps. Allow me to help.”

You stop at the doorway, bringing a hand to your mouth to cover a haggard cough as König makes his way down the first concrete step ahead of you—large armored vehicles had pulled up from a ways away. The women huddle around one another, the rest of the soldiers sticking by them and opening the doors to the vehicles as the night gets only more cold and stormy.

Gray eyes flicker for a moment down to your lack of proper protection, fingers twitching and tapping at his thigh as König remembers your expression the day he’d first met you.

“Do you want me to carry you?” He says slowly, cautious in his approach. The man wasn’t stupid—he wouldn’t touch you unless you explicitly stated it was alright for him to do so. “I will be gentle, I promise. I do not wish for your feet to freeze, I...” He pauses as you blink, staring into his soul. “I…will not touch you if you do not tell me to do it. You have my word.”

You continue to stand there for a moment, face unreadable before your head slowly turns to the vehicles in the street.

The neighborhood was so normal it still caused you to wonder how no one had spoken up and seen something. Rows of connected houses now with their lights on—faces peeking from the windows like little children on Christmas morning; trying to get glimpses of Santa and the man’s reindeer.

Finally, your gaze moves back to the hooded visage of König, able to see it better under the moonlight and the glare of falling snowflakes—a few of those frozen pieces sitting in the folds of the fabric.

“The hood scared them,” you utter about the others. König stiffens a bit, blinking at you but not looking away. “They’re used to people trying to hide their faces, but yours…with how large you are…”

“I understand.” König doesn't tear away his eyes. “...Did I scare you, Schatz?”

You don’t know why, but for what seems like the first time in years, the question makes you giggle. The beast of a man goes still with his feet on the ground, usually jittery and moving body captivated by the sound as it echoes over the night’s air—the puff of your breath as it moves around his hood; rustling it like leaves on a tree.

Eyes widening only a sliver more, König’s breath is in his throat.

It was like listening to a bird’s song.

“Maybe only a little,” you whisper to him. “But it’s okay. I’m scared of most things.”

He licks his lips, but you’re unable to see the slight quirk of them afterward.

“Then I will make it up to you, yes?” He holds out a hand. “Let me? The car is warm and your friends are waiting for you. My men say they ask about your health.”

You softly nod, the shadow of the house trying to drag you back into it—its blackened arms reaching and latching onto old scars. When your hand connects with König's, the man takes his time putting one foot back to a step and scooping you up from behind your knees. With a tiny grunt, you settle at his chest, calming your heartbeat with the fact that you know he won’t hurt you.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

In his arms, your bare legs hang in the air, hand wrapping his neck, and with a slightly nervous look to you as your body hovers. König watches for a moment, hesitating before he begins walking to the same vehicle the other woman had been moved into out of the snowfall.

“Can you tell me your name,” he asks to distract you from his hold, to get you more comfortable with him as his boots crunch through the packed powder on the ground—making sure to watch his step so as to not jostle you.

“Everyone calls me Cat.” Gray eyes blink your way, visible skin painted black. König’s head tilts. You can’t help but find it endearing.

“Katze?” He hums, and you can imagine his lips moving slightly upwards from the innocent tone of his voice as if taken by the strange moniker. “That is…interesting.”

You huff tinily, shivering again as your body moves to curl a little more.

The soldier quickly reassures you. “Nearly there.”

The vehicle is in front of you, and a nearby man opens the door for König as he carries you over. Nodding in thanks, the large individual eases you into one of the seats as the blast of warm air makes you sag—the other woman in there mulls closer, grabbing onto you and laughing through tears.

Looking back at them, you smile and feel yourself get a bit teary-eyed as everything starts to slowly come into focus.

Glancing outward, you stare at the snow that hits the dark hood of König, sticking and hanging off until the tiny white dots melt from the heat of his body. With his legs shifting he moves back a step and nods to you, eyes moving to stare at the ground for a moment.

“We will take you to base. From there you will all be given dorms and fresh apparel to—”

“Thank you, König,” you interrupted him. He stares, lips parted with the half-tones of cut-off speech. “And please extend my thanks to your men as well.”

“...Of course, Katze.” König stands straighter, always twitching fingers moving to the car door as engines start with a grinding roar. He nods again, the loose fabric swaying as the lenses of his rig stay firm at the movement. “There is no need to thank us. Relax. Sleep, if you wish to do it. The ride will be long.” The man’s gray eyes linger for a moment on your own, studying the bumps and small marks on your face. His hand tightens over the door as your gaze is stuck with his own; warmth blooming in his chest. He was glad he had found you.

König slips out a soft, “There are blankets under the seats,” before he closes the door with a firm thump of metal.

You can’t help but smile.

'…Hostages were taken back to [REDACTED] and received minor medical attention on site. Housed in [REDACTED] and were admitted for needed treatments/medications - all details/names listed in File 3 Section 6 for future reference. DNA was placed into databases.

Next of kin were informed of their family members’ position and/or state of being via phone call to the corresponding government official that then traveled through the appropriate channels once identified.'

You sit as a nurse hands you heating pads for your hands, which you take with a small thanks and clenched tightly, sucking every ounce of warmth from them to stop the shaking. Your body was heavy with the weight of new clothes and heated blankets, the room utterly normal in a way you’d not known for years. A corner table with books and a chess board—a connected bathroom stocked with amenities you may need; even a rug on the tile floor. You don’t know why that was shocking to you, but even the simplest thing was awe-inspiring. Your eyes had even slipped over a tiny nightlight near the door.

It nearly made you cry.

Your nurse moves back a bit, smiling down at you kindly.

“Is there anything else you might need, Dear?” Her accent is prominent, though not as much as König’s had been. She waits for your answer diligently as the pitcher of water and a similar glass sit on your nightstand.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. Your socked feet rub together like a grasshopper. “I think that’s all.” Your eyelids blink. “But…” you stop.

“What is it?” The lady asks gently, hands slack at her sides.

“The man—König,” you pause. “Is he here?”

Blinking at you, the nurse tilts her head to the side in curiosity. “Not currently, no. At least, not in this specific building. He and his men are being debriefed across base. They will be there for a long while.” At your blank look, her brows slightly move up in accommodating comfort. “Would…you like me to tell him something for you?”

Playing with the heating pads in your hands, your face gains a slightly embarrassed sheen. You liked the thought of being near König, truthfully. No one had made you feel safe like he did—him and his selfless action of a large coat given with no intention of getting anything in return.

“Just,” you breathe softly. “Just that I’m sorry for losing his coat, and that I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

The nurse stares, very much confused but not about to question you. Her feet shift over the floor, and a light nod is sent your way.

“Of course. I’ll tell him.” She motions to the bed with a hand and explains that whenever you wished to sleep, you were free to use the bed—and the TV was open to you as well, though you might not be able to understand the local stations. With that, she exited the room.

Left alone, your head moves around the room slowly, taking it all in once more as the small bandages under your clothes pull at your flesh. The tears start slipping down your cheeks with no warning.

Wrist coming up to your eyes, the limb presses in tightly, water staining the flesh as it dribbles down, and your lip quivers like a worm below it. You don’t know why you’re crying now and not when König had gotten you out of that townhouse. Why now, when there wasn’t anything prompting you to do so?

But something was prompting you—the knowledge that you would never be going back to anyone who would mistreat you again. You had your own room. Good food. All the water that your stomach could drink down. A nightlight that pushes back the darkness even if you’re so used to living in it.

Through your soft sniffles, chuckles move out, filling the space with a warm echo. You pull the blankets closer to you and collapse backward onto the mattress, smiling widely at the ceiling.

That little invisible string dances as your heart pulls at it.

—

König’s leg lightly jumps from under his table, signing off his name at the bottom of a report before he stands and rubs a hand over the top of his un-hooded head. He grabs the paper and slips it into a manila folder, hands pale with deep scars running the length of them like fissures in the earth. Deftly taking the item, he walks out of his office and begins moving down the length of the building, fingers tapping over the yellowish material with a small connection of flesh and thick envelope.

Tap-tap, tappity-tap.

His fingers were always fidgeting—moving, tensing, twitching. It was one of the reasons they never let him become a recon sniper; the more obvious being the blatant size of his body. Both of which had been the cause of much teasing throughout his childhood.

But König’s mind was on something other than the report in his hands, and it was starting to become a very strong distraction. You. The women. Al-Qatala.

He was angry he hadn’t acted outside of that coffee shop—angry he hadn't noticed the signs right in front of him even if he had been powerless to stop it then. The soldier’s jaw clenched, the strong muscles of his jaw roving.

“Verdammt,” he hisses under his breath, glaring at the tile. “Should have done something.”

König gets to his commanding officer’s office and knocks, only staying long enough to hand him the folder with his finished report and leave once more. His mind wouldn’t stay silent tonight. There’s no doubt that he won’t be able to sleep unless he reassures himself that you and the others are okay.

The man’s head shifts back to the email he had gotten from your assigned nurse, whom he’d taken it upon himself to know the name of when he carried you into the base’s hospital—Eva.

‘...She says she wants to apologize for losing your coat…”

König’s heart had twisted at that—that was what you were concerned about? He had to tell you that it was alright, or else he would never know peace. Perhaps even ask how you’ve been treated so far, just to make sure that everything was comfortable for you.

The man’s eyelids move slightly downward in thought, a pull at his heart to walk outside. He passes a few other soldiers in the hallway, nodding to them with a tiny greeting but unwilling to stop and talk. In only fatigues, König exits the main doors quickly, lightly moving into a jog as his body shivers at the sudden chill touching his arms under the black compression shirt. Under him the snow has grown deeper, the large lights illuminating the almost greenish reflections of the winter landscape of open roads and large buildings.

Curfew was long past—this had to be quick.

Just a check-in, König tells himself as he nears the hospital, his breath puffing in the air. Then I can wipe my hands of it.

He slows as he nears the doors, huffing a breath as he pushes on the barrier, opening it with a squawk of hinges and metal. Entering, the front desk staff looked up at him in surprise, muttering his name in question.

“Katze?” He responds, pushing a hand over his head and feeling the melting snowflakes. His cheeks are a light shade of exposure-red, and inquisitive eyes shift over the two individuals slowly. “What room?”

The pair share a glance and tell him in the same breath. Room ten.

It’s no sooner after that König finds himself there, hand hovering over the handle as the hallway clock ticks beside his right ear. His gray eyes blink at the door, feet shuffling from under him before he clears his throat under his breath, glancing away for a second in hesitation.

Was this appropriate?

König didn’t have an answer, but the pull in his chest was tight and firm—he just needed to see you. A glimpse, nothing more. He raises his fist and raps his knuckles over the wood delicately, three tiny knocks that hit his ears like bullets from a gun; the bullets he’s put into pathetic Al-Qatala bodies and watched burst like sacks of fluid.

He waits, hands going to grasp at his shirt collar, pushing out a low breath to calm himself.

After a long moment, his foot taps the floor, blinking. Again he knocks—a bit louder.

“She is sleeping, you evolutionsbremse,” he utters, accent low and grating. “Leave her alone.” But even if you are, his nerves peek their head over the brimstone wall of his brain.

With his fingers caressing the handle, slowly moved to clutch it fully, swallowing the metal in his grip. König takes a deep breath into his lungs, letting it fill them up. Again, he tells himself, just a check-in.

He twists the doorknob and sets his forearm on the wood, pushing the barrier open.

König moves so that his body makes no noise, even with how large it is as he angles the side of his head through the opening. He finds a large mound of blankets atop the bed—stacked and layered so heavily that he has to blink in surprise at how you can breathe under them; because you were under them.

Gray eyes make out the small sliver of skin peaking out from the side of the bed—fingers—and the top of your forehead near the pillows formed around your skull. Unconsciously, a soft smile works its way over König’s lips until he finds himself chuckling.

“Niedlich,” he mutters, scars over his face shifting as he speaks.

Sighing lowly, König pulls back his head, beginning to close the door once more.

“König…?” Your tiny voice makes him halt like he had in the townhouse.

Eyes wide and lips parted at being caught, the door remains open, only a sliver visible to your vision as your furrowed brows are stuck at the barrier. A red sheen moves across the soldier’s face in a slow sweep of embarrassment that goes bone deep.

With a lick of his lips, König re-opens the door slightly.

“I did not mean to wake you, Katze.” He finds your eyes and nods to you. “I apologize. Go back to sleep—you must be tired.”

“Wait,” you utter, moving your head fully out from under the blankets. König pauses, eyes staring as his other hand comes up to itch at the back of his neck.

“What is it,” the man asks, opening the door fully and moving inside. “Do you need anything?”

The question had hit you in your thin slumber, interrupted only partially by the opening of your door to the familiar pull of gray eyes and a strong build. A buzz-cut head. You take a slow breath to wake yourself up more, watching him from your bed. “...Did you know that I would be in that house?”

König tilts his head at the question, sighing slightly and glancing at the clock inside of the room on your nightstand. He frowns.

“No,” he explains gently, coming closer. “No, I did not. I do not get told such things—only where to shoot and where not to.” The man tries a small smile, kneeling on one leg down by the bed and staring into your sleepy eyes. “But I am glad I found you again, yes? You had me worried.”

“You were worried?” You can’t quite grasp it.

“Ja,” he nods. “Your eyes—they have stuck with me, Schatz, you understand?”

Your eyebrows pull up your face, blinking in shock.

“...Yours, too,” you confess. König’s heart flutters, listening until your lips have fallen still. “They’re very nice, König.”

He goes sheepish, lips flicking up into a smile and his eyes daring away for a moment. “You can thank my mother for them, then.” He chuckles. “I have stolen the family's eyes, I was told.”

You chuckle with him, hand coming to rub at your cheek. A silence falls between the two of you.

“I don’t sleep well,” you tell him in the relative darkness, light from the hallway and your night light illuminating the dips and bone structure of his face. “I was awake when you opened the door.”

He nods after a moment. “Ja.” A pause. “I don’t either…Nightmares?”

You watch him before nodding tinily.

“Ah,” he mutters. “They are not pleasant, I’m sorry that they have been plaguing you. Do you…” König wonders if he should leave—this was far more than he had anticipated. “Do you wish for me to stay?”

Why had he said that?

The string between the two of you tightens evermore, gaining another thread just as it would for the years to come until it became as unbreakable as steel.

“I don’t want to be a nuisance,” you begin but are quickly interrupted with a shake of a square head and a huff of a sharp nose.

“You are not. Do not call yourself such.” His accent deepens with emotion, eyes narrowing as the dark brows on his face pull in. “If you want me to stay, I will stay. Wake you if you become shaky, yes? Keep the bad dreams at bay.”

“But what about you?” Your voice moves around the room as König stands and goes to the table in the back, shifting one of the chairs so that it’s angled your way. You shift so you can watch him sit back, grunting as his legs move out in front of him, opening so he can be more comfortable. He needed a bigger chair, but he wasn’t going to complain about it.

“I’m not tired, Schatz.” A lie. His muscles are heavy, and he longs for his bed in the barracks. He pushes out, “Please, go back to sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

You stare for a long while, studying him and how he fidgets in his seat of choice. A small laugh meets the man’s ears as he crosses his arms over his chest. König pauses, blinking over in confusion. His lips move upwards slowly.

“What are you laughing at, then, hm?”

“You look like you’re about to break it,” you mutter, head nuzzling the pillow under you as fatigue claws its way under your skin.

König huffs, fingers twitching over the meat of his biceps as he slouches. He nods jokingly. “Perhaps,” he shrugs, the window behind him letting a slight tinge of cold air in from outside. “It would not be the first, I’m afraid, though it would be quite the embarrassment to do it in front of you, Katze.” He smirks. “But I’ll say, hitting my head on door frames hurts more than letting my arsch kiss the ground.”

You laugh under your heap, your body jerking to the movement of your lungs.

“I bet,” you say, fingers grasping one of your blankets and pulling it closer. “It’s a funny image.”

“You can laugh all you want,” König jokes, eyes soft as they gaze at you. “It does not bother me.”

Your sweet sounds of amusement waft out from under the crack in the door, where a small group of curious nurses mull and listen with glances to one another. A doctor moves past the hallway where they stand, and all scatter on quick feet.

'…Signed,

[REDACTED]

SUBMITTED: 0517, 25, November 2021

END OF MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’

RETURNING TO SELECTION MENU…

STAND BY…'

It’s only after most of the other women leave—sent home to awaiting families or loved ones—that you know your time is coming to a close here in Berlin, Germany. While you’re excited to put this behind you, you can’t help but feel a bit…lost.

There’s something that keeps you here, on this base, until you’re the last out of all of them, waiting. And then you’re given the green light to go—go home—and suddenly you have a backpack full of necessities and you’re closing the door to your room with the little nightlight’s plastic body pushing against your spine. Yet, you stand in the hallway for a long minute, fingers interlocked.

You take a long, deep, breath.

Over the weeks of recovery, König had been a constant companion when he wasn’t needed. He had eased you back into a comfortable state, letting you somewhat lose the black-and-white view you had gained of the world. But there was only so much he could do, even if his soft eyes were still stuck in your dreams—the good ones, of course.

You needed to go home, and, today, the C-17 was whirring on the tarmac, waiting for you to be transported to a military base far from here where you would be processed and, ultimately, let go.

Let go. It was jarring to think about, all of that freedom. What would you do with it? Right now, you don’t have the faintest clue. It was the best feeling you can remember having.

Smiling, you take one last look at the room behind you and walk on.

At the entrance, you say a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to the nurses and doctors in broken German, shaking their hands as Eva kisses your forehead and whispers how happy she is to have had you here for such little time—you know what she means and you chuckle with her at the double-edged sword.

König waits by the door, holding it open with…you blink at the item in his hands as well as his sudden appearance. Canvas fabric. A coat.

The coat.

“I had to have it processed,” he says, smiling as you gape at him. “Very long process. It was found in the closet in the townhouse.”

“Then why are you handing it to me,” you ask, tilting your head and walking closer.

“I gave it to you, did I not?” The man hums, head tilting as he motions with it again. “It’s a good coat, Katze. Winters get cold.” Gray eyes crinkle gently. “I would hate for you to shiver, wherever it is that you end up, yes?”

You shake your head, cheeks hot. But your hands don’t hesitate to grasp the item, König’s hold on it remains fast, though, and you blink at him as you both keep it gently clasped like it’s worth its weight in gold.

König stares at you, the door still kept open behind him. He opens and closes his mouth for a moment as you tilt your head.

“Keep it safe for me,” is what he ends with, but his expression tells you he’s not talking about the coat.

It makes your arms tingle—your heart skips a beat.

“I’ll be sure it never gets lost,” you smile warmly, eyes malleable as the make of their color glints. There is a connection to this man that transcends words, and it is tied to you just as heavily as it is to him; unexplainable, incomprehensible, non-describable.

Enigmatic.

König’s reverential face is soft with care.

“Good,” he mutters, unable to look away. “Very good.”

Clearing his throat, his grays dart to the floor, shifting his feet to move backward. He pushes open the door wider for you, and you hold your backpack in one hand as you shift past him and slip into his coat.

It was exactly how you remembered it, and you sank into the fabric with a thankful sigh and a fluttering of your lashes. You shift the bag back over your shoulders, letting the straps fall into the bulk of the extra material.

The snow wasn’t falling today, and the ground was shoveled of any white powder too. On the air, you can hear the whir of the C-17.

König comes up beside you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as he guides you along. For the most part, the walk to the tarmac is silent with the weight of the future. You had no phone. No socials. You didn’t even know if you wanted any, to be honest. Your mind had convinced you that a good bout of soul-searching was exactly what you needed. And you had to do that alone.

Your lips are thin as your legs take you closer to the plane, König’s scent stuck into the stitches of the coat and covered your senses.

At the ramp, he stops as your feet take you onto the metal. Closing your eyes for a moment, you turn and lock gazes with him—gray hiding away what other, more human, emotions to be found. It was a slate of carefully crafted acceptance, and your own followed soon after.

It had to be this. The string wouldn’t break, no, but it had to be stretched to such a point to come back stronger.

“Thank—”

“Don’t,” he says, not blinking, looking up at you.

You smile. “What do you want me to say, then?”

“You don’t have to say anything to me.” You hadn't known it then, but the both of you had truly thought that this would be the last of your meetings. It produced a pulse in both of your hearts that would never be told aloud. “....Live well,” König utters. “Heal, Mein Schatz.”

The soldier wasn't one to give his chances to hope.

Your eyes follow as he backs up, moving away as you stare. In his head, König pleads with you to stop and give him a reprieve from the hypnosis of your gaze, the addictive movement of your head as it tilts to the side.

Live well.

You send him a smile, a delicate thing, and then you back up a step and turn, disappearing into the darkness.

The string follows, and it continues to do so even as your hands slip into your pockets hours later, bumping into the small form of a black flip phone. The note hidden inside of it.

‘For whenever you find what you’re looking for.’

'REQUEST FOR ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE

REQUESTED BY: [REDACTED]

ENTERED: DECEMBER 15, 2021

TIME: 1422

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED….

RETURNING TO FILE SELECT MENU…

FILE SELECTED….

TRANSLATING…

STAND BY…

REQUEST OF HONORABLE ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE OF [REDACTED] APPROVED ON JANUARY 2, 2022

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED…

SYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN'

You sit in a coffee shop in Berlin, Germany, by the window. It wasn’t just any coffee shop, but you try not to think about all of that. It was all in the past—three years, now. You like to think you’d learned something in that time.

“Danke schön,” you say to the woman who brings you your drink, nodding kindly. You take a small sip, humming and winking at her teasingly. “Perfekt.”

She chuckles, wiping her hands on her apron. “Möchten Sie noch etwas anderes dazu?”

“Nein, nein,” you shake your head, waving a hand that soft bumps the flip phone on the table. “Danke.”

The lady walks away, and you take another sip of the hot beverage, never put off by the heat.

It was winter again, and your eyes followed the flakes as they fell from a cloudy sky, finding the beauty in it easily as you sat inside. The scarf around your neck is loose—your gifted coat open. You smile to yourself and hum, watching people walk past outside, thinking about their lives and how they live them.

A large form travels out from a shop across the street, a plastic bag in his loose grip. He was not small, no, this man was a beast of height and strength alike. The loping, canid-like, walk was accented by the twitch of his fingers over his quarry.

Your wide eyes stay stuck to him for a long moment as he moves to the crosswalk, people shifting out of his way as he ignores them. Familiarity strikes like lighting—a buzz down your spine that leaves you straightening.

After a long moment, a breathless laugh sneaks out of you.

There were just some things that people were never meant to understand.

Your hand places your cup back on the table, picking up the old flip phone and pushing it open. Your thumb runs the keypad, moving to the only contact that had ever been entered into the device.

Pressing, you move it to your ear as you watch with a soft expression, heart pattering.

Across the way, the man tenses, hand patting his leg before the other hand moves inside his pocket and shifts the item out. People walk away, moving to the other side of the crosswalk as he stares at the contact.

A minute passes, and all the while you hold your breath.

He presses and moves the phone to his ear, staying as still as stone. As still as a man afraid his hood might scare a group of terrified women.

His voice graces your ear.

“...Katze?” You beam, trapped in the warmth of the coat around your shoulders.

“How do you feel about coffee, König?”

Blue-gray eyes had never been more beautiful than when they snapped up to meet yours.

TAGS:

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sleepiestoken · 2 months ago

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i've just pulled out some interesting quotes from the metal hammer article for myself and anyone else interested. anything bolded for emphasis by me.

George Lever [Sleep Token producer 2016-2021]: The starting point was removing this idea of the music you listen to being related to the person making it. By being anonymous, the listener is forced to relate to what they're actually hearing.

James Monteith [Tesseract guitarist/publicist at Hold Tight PR]: I was approached by Tom Quigley, who was a scene regular and ran a few blogs at the time. He said he was working with this new band, would we maybe be interested in doing their press? We ended up talking for an hour, and he rolled out the whole concept, the imagery and everything about it... other than the music.

George: The lore/narrative was pretty loose still, but it definitely existed.

James: There was nothing specific as such, more this idea of creating an occult vibe and feeling, led by this prophet-like character who leads a religion.

George: A lot of the first EP was actually us trying stuff out. We recorded the drums on a whim at Monnow Valley Studio in Wales. I introduced him to one of my friends, who actually still drums in them now.

James: We always got requests [for interviews], but the band said from the start they were anonymous and wouldn't do them. It helped create more curiosity because nobody could get access to them.

Matt Benton [Metal Hammer writer]: You can't do an introductory piece without an interview. We managed to get an agreement for an email interview with Metal Hammer. Even then, the band knew they didn't want a voice.

Matt: It's one of only a few interviews they've ever done. It's something I'm glad exists, because it's like getting the Word Of God.

George: I had freedom to offer interpretations of what I was hearing. It was a very fortunate combination of personalities and ideals. There was never any, 'We're going to take over the world' -type chat. It was more, 'Do we like this? Let's do more of that.'

Nathan Barley Phillips [co-founder of Basick Records]: Trying to keep some sense of anonymity was a real mission. Particularly getting them to and from the stage [at Great Escape festival 2018] without anyone seeing who they were.

George: We did Sundowning in three months - we went from demo to final master being released in just 12 weeks. We didn't have days off; we'd do seven in the morning until seven, eight or even nine at night every day for three months. We were in each other's pockets; we'd go to the gym together, swim, do the sauna... All this stuff to recover from being sat down all the time. There was a lot of time to spend holistically being friends making this record. We didn't know how to make this thing, but we had a confidence that we'd get there in the end. That's my favourite three-month period of my life.

George: We started making [TPWBYT] and the first day was when lockdowns began. Tomb... was tough for all of us emotionally. There were lifestyle pressures as a result of the lockdown that made it not very conducive to making art that is supposed to be welcoming. A lot of those songs are, in one way or another, about love, love being lost or remorse, they are compassionate tales that are designed to bring the listener towards the artist. It's hard to do that when it feels like the world is going to end.

Matt: I've got friends in merchandising and they say Sleep Token shift more merch than any other UK heavy band - more than even Iron Maiden.

Nathan: Bands like Ghost and Sleep Token aren't successful because they wear masks. They're successful because they write great music. Masks don't mean anything if the music isn't any good.

Matt: I'll be interested to see, when the first official TV movie of the band gets made, the difference between the reality of what happened and the story that gets told. In a way, the myth becomes reality.

#sleep token #george lever #sleep token vessel #metal hammer #i wanted these quotes on my blog so hope this is interesting for others too!#i loooove a tidbit!#some v cool insights in here #biggest takeaways...#george introduced ves and ii??? CRYING #vessel was originally just known as Him #the sundowning bts is so special to me.. they became besties <3 #we have george to thanks for vessel's abs i guess?#also tv movie hello?? OKAY #lots of other bits in here too but mostly just like how they went from small shows to big ones #also doesnt sound.. at least to me.. that the anonymity is going away anytime soon. good for them #im sure the full article will float around soon #let me know if you still want me to upload the full thing #i can prob scan it at work or smth #*

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saddayfordemocracy · 2 years ago

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How the Watermelon Became a Symbol of Palestinian Solidarity

The use of the watermelon as a Palestinian symbol is not new. It first emerged after the Six-day War in 1967, when Israel seized control of the West Bank and Gaza, and annexed East Jerusalem. At the time, the Israeli government made public displays of the Palestinian flag a criminal offense in Gaza and the West Bank.

To circumvent the ban, Palestinians began using the watermelon because, when cut open, the fruit bears the national colors of the Palestinian flag—red, black, white, and green.

The Israeli government didn't just crack down on the flag. Artist Sliman Mansour told The National in 2021 that Israeli officials in 1980 shut down an exhibition at 79 Gallery in Ramallah featuring his work and others, including Nabil Anani and Issam Badrl. “They told us that painting the Palestinian flag was forbidden, but also the colors were forbidden. So Issam said, ‘What if I were to make a flower of red, green, black and white?’, to which the officer replied angrily, ‘It will be confiscated. Even if you paint a watermelon, it will be confiscated,’” Mansour told the outlet.

Israel lifted the ban on the Palestinian flag in 1993, as part of the Oslo Accords, which entailed mutual recognition by Israel and the Palestinian Liberation Organization and were the first formal agreements to try to resolve the decades-long Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The flag was accepted as representing the Palestinian Authority, which would administer Gaza and the West Bank.

In the wake of the accords, the New York Times nodded to the role of watermelon as a stand-in symbol during the flag ban. “In the Gaza Strip, where young men were once arrested for carrying sliced watermelons—thus displaying the red, black and green Palestinian colors—soldiers stand by, blasé, as processions march by waving the once-banned flag,” wrote Times journalist John Kifner.

In 2007, just after the Second Intifada, artist Khaled Hourani created The Story of the Watermelon for a book entitled Subjective Atlas of Palestine. In 2013, he isolated one print and named it The Colours of the Palestinian Flag, which has since been seen by people across the globe.

The use of the watermelon as a symbol resurged in 2021, following an Israeli court ruling that Palestinian families based in the Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood in East Jerusalem would be evicted from their homes to make way for settlers.

The watermelon symbol today:

In January, Israel’s National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir gave police the power to confiscate Palestinian flags. This was later followed by a June vote on a bill to ban people from displaying the flag at state-funded institutions, including universities. (The bill passed preliminary approval but the government later collapsed.)

In June, Zazim, an Arab-Israeli community organization, launched a campaign to protest against the ensuing arrests and confiscation of flags. Images of watermelons were plastered on to 16 taxis operating in Tel Aviv, with the accompanying text reading, “This is not a Palestinian flag.”

“Our message to the government is clear: we will always find a way to circumvent any absurd ban and we will not stop fighting for freedom of expression and democracy,” said Zazim director Raluca Ganea.

Amal Saad, a Palestinian from Haifa who worked on the Zazim campaign, told Al-Jazeera they had a clear message: “If you want to stop us, we’ll find another way to express ourselves.”

Words courtesy of BY ARMANI SYED / TIME

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chaaistained · 6 months ago

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☕︎ my better cr; intro •°

🗝️ you’ve now unlocked the recipe to my better cr ≈

name : ℳ

age (when i shift) : 17/18 — i’m planning to either shift to dec 2021 or aug 2022 , wtv my subconscious chooses

occupation : university student — double degree in law and arts, majoring in media law and craft of writing & literature, respectively

+ part time tutor for english and maths, at the same private tutoring company i went to in high school

+ (eventually) part time stock acquisition and youth advertiser at a telecommunications company near my campus which is technically a nepo hire bcs my aunt works there

+ (eventually) paid internship at the australian taxation office for the study of torts and contracts and even tho i got in genuinely bcs of my marks and my interview it also feels a little nepo bcs another aunt (a family friend) also works here.. anyway

side hobbies/hustles : blogger (tumblrina in every reality if i can help it) , tiktok + youtube cover channel with two of my high school friends , fic author (ao3 curse does NOT exist here come at me) , occasional columnist for my uni’s student newsletter

my s/o : childhood family friend — lost contact and reunited ten years later — not revealing his name apart from the first letter bcs . he’s real .. anyway it’s 𝒜

౨ৎ meet ℳ

a sun kissed cinnamon bun personified — she is the smile that blossoms between warm cheeks during the burn of a sunrise ≈

in this dr i don’t change my name, and for that reason i’ll stick to the first letter (just like my pinned post) which is ℳ.

i’m nothing more than a normal girl, waking up each day already tired but willing myself to either go to uni or work, staying up late to catch up on the hours i spend doing other things, i have a closet full of clothes and yet i have nothing to wear, i have three of the same shades of lip gloss but they’re all from different brands so ofcs they’re not the same, i just bought a new journal but i’m yet to finish the one i got four years ago, i have ink stains on the tips of my fingers and chai stains on the pages edge of the novel i’m currently reading.

i just take every day like a new pot of tea leaves, waiting to be steeped to perfection.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

౨ৎ the metamorphosis

with frayed edges and tear stained cheeks, she undid the binds of a life once lived, a life once loved, finding the holes to be too much to bear in the everlasting winter of the cold reality that was thrust upon her, opting to take the needle and thread between her own fingers and stitch up the seams, to reinforce the realm of her existence into one that can hold her hand rather than hold her down

quite often i approach the concept of reinvention with a quivering hand, unable to part ways from the comfort — or perhaps the codependency — of that familiarity.

but eventually i took a step back and realised, there is no shame in finding freedom in what already feels right . after all, our souls are not dependant on this realm or this body, our consciousness is an ever expanding universe on its own, and our power to wield it is something that we have grown to understand and control in a way that allows us to live the lives we truly desire.. that’s all that this dr represents for me.

a life that i truly desire.

i’m not that different here, i have the same name, the same birthday, the same family. but it would be a lie to say everything stays the same.

i do admit to changing my appearance a bit, i’m nothing if not a perfectionist and whilst i do think my features have potential, i actually reach said potential in this reality. my upbringing has been revitalised to be something that enriched me rather than keeping me sheltered. my parental unit is less overbearing and more understanding, my brother is less of a jerk and more of a friend, my family relationships are less immature and more genuine.

i revise my failures in education, i revise my anxieties around success and the fear of that success being unreachable, i revise my health, my athleticism, my willpower and the general energy i have throughout the day to achieve everything that i wish to accomplish, everything that i could not bring myself to take a step towards in my previous reality.

my passions aren’t shamed here, they are encouraged. not just with the wary caution of a simple hobby but rather as an actual proper lifestyle, a feasible choice to make for a career, a skill that is supported as something from which i can make a name for myself.

and in this growth, in this metamorphosis, i find stability and comfort in not just my family but also my friends — people that i lost contact with, people that i drifted away from, people that i couldn’t bring myself to keep close because of the shame in my own progression or lack thereof — i’m not an aspect of shame, i never was, i know what i deserve and what i’m capable of and in this reality, i am all those things.

that’s why this is home, even after i break out of the cocoon and open my eyes in a world that’s familiar, it will also be different, because i’ll be different — no longer experiencing the slow sluggish state of what once was, for i now have a marvellous symmetry of splendour that holds me high, the equilibrium of my reality, where the scales finally tipped in my favour, levelling out to be amiably sound, with every flap of a butterfly’s wing.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

౨ৎ sugar heart cookies

it’s an inexplicable pull, an intangible tug on the heartstrings, a firm grip, a gentle ache, a deep longing. you can’t help but feel that there is something more out there for you, that there is someone more. someone that feels less like a piece and more like a whole person. someone who won’t complete you, but will help you complete yourself. two halves of a heart leaves you vulnerable when you’re apart, but when it’s two hearts beating alongside each other, the only thing left is to hold onto you

he sat beside me in his mother’s car. we were six (me) and eight (him). he sat in the drivers seat while his mother went inside the house to pick up a few things before taking the three of us (his little sister sat in the back) to a gathering of family friends.

his mother had bought us britannia little hearts. i can still remember the minuscule sugar crystals stuck to the tips of my small fingers while i dove inside the aluminium cover every few seconds to reach for the next tiny biscuit.

he asked me where i was that day — i’d stayed home from school because i felt unwell — when i told him, his first reaction was to nag me : “you know, if you’re sick, you shouldn’t be eating these. this is pure sugar.”

“yeah but i don’t want to listen to you!” — i was .. never really good at listening to people, especially not cute boys who were a little older than me.

he always seemed a bit uptight, but i guess i forgot how much he cared. because i can’t remember what happened two years later, during my last day in my old school. i remember crying, and i remember being comforted by people. but i guess i forgot that one of those people was him. i guess i forgot that he told me “it’ll be alright. i’m sure we’ll see each other again someday.”

it took us ten years but we got there.

this time, he was upstairs, in the house that was hosting a dinner among friends. i was distracted by my brother’s antics, one foot inside the threshold past the door and one foot on the pavement outside. with a flick of my head, my gaze turned up, up past the stairs in front of the door, up to the railing on the second level, a lookout point for the entrance.

he was leaning against the railing, blue button up shirt tucked into his black jeans, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, taking a quick glance to his side before doing a double take.

the silence felt like the calm before a pattering evening of rainfall, where you can feel the change in your future from the way the air seems electrified, from the way the clouds seems to churn around each other, like they’re brewing together, ready to erupt and explode into thunder, like the way you can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

he seemed familiar, he seemed important, he seemed to be everything i could ever ask for and i didn’t know why the sirens were singing in my skull but i knew in my gut he was meant to be important to me. i knew he was meant to be somebody.

it took me a second to look away, but that entire night, and every night that followed, and every day that came along with it, i can’t ever forget the sugar crystal glimmers of light in his eyes. and for every moment to come, i’ll hold the little heart biscuits of our love in the palm of my hands, because i’m not someone who listens to people very well, i don’t care if i’m not allowed, i want them . i want him.

don’t swallow the tea leaves ! for they leave you a message 🍂

this dr is very near and dear to my heart and i can’t even begin to put everything i wanna say about it into one post so .. there will be more abt this dr

it’s literally home. it’s my life.

i’m so grateful for it xx

chaai brews; tea assortments — dr archive

2025 © chaaistained

#by chaaistained #chaai for : 𝒜 ৻ꪆ #chaai channels ; ℳ༄#dividers from: saradika-graphics & issysh3ll #pngs by me !!#better cr #better cr dr #reality shifting #reality shifter #manifestation #permashifting #permashift #permashifter #dr intro #better cr intro

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mariacallous · 16 days ago

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Remember ivermectin? The animal-deworming medication was used so avidly as an off-label COVID treatment during the pandemic that some feed stores ended up going out of stock. (MUST SHOW A PIC OF YOU AND YOUR HORSE, a sign at one demanded of would-be customers in 2021.) If you haven’t heard about it since, then you’ve existed blissfully outside the gyre of misinformation and conspiracies that have come to define the MAGA world’s outlook on medicine. In the past few years, ivermectin’s popularity has only grown, and the drug has become a go-to treatment for almost any ailment whatsoever. Once a suspect COVID cure, now a right-wing aspirin.

In fact, ivermectin never really worked for treating SARS-CoV-2 infections. Many of the initial studies that hinted at a benefit turned out to be flawed and unreliable. By 2023, a series of clinical trials had already proved beyond a doubt that ivermectin won’t reduce COVID symptoms or mortality. But these findings mattered little to its fans, who saw the drug as having earned the status of dissident antiviral—a treatment that they believed had been suppressed by the medical establishment. And if ivermectin was good enough to be rejected by mainstream doctors as a cure for COVID, health-care skeptics seemed to reason, then surely it must have a host of other uses too.

As a physician who diagnoses cancer, I have come across this line of thinking in my patients, and found that some were using ivermectin to treat their life-threatening tumors. Nicholas Hornstein, a medical oncologist in New York City, told me that he’s had the same experience: About one in 20 of his patients ask about the drug, he said. He remembers one woman who came into his office with a tumor that was visibly protruding from her abdomen, having swapped her chemotherapy for some ivermectin that she’d picked up at a veterinary-supply store. “It’s going to work any day now,” he says she told him when he tried to intervene.

The idea that ivermectin could be a cancer-fighting agent does have some modest basis in reality: Preliminary studies have suggested that antiparasitic medications might inhibit tumor growth, and at least one ongoing clinical trial is evaluating ivermectin’s role as an adjunct to cancer treatment. That study has enrolled only nine patients, however, and the results so far show that just one patient’s tumor actually shrank, according to a recent scientific abstract. But these meager grounds for hope now support a towering pile of expectations.

Cancer is just one of many illnesses that ivermectin is supposed to heal. According to All Family Pharmacy, a Florida-based company that promotes the compound to fans of Donald Trump Jr., Dan Bongino, Matt Gaetz, and Laura Ingraham on their podcasts and shows, the drug has “anti-inflammatory properties that could help keep the immune system balanced in fighting infection.” (The company did not respond to a request for comment.) In sprawling Facebook groups devoted to ivermectin’s healing powers, the claims are more extreme: The drug can combat a long list of conditions, members say, including Alzheimer’s disease, heart disease, diabetes, autism, carpal tunnel syndrome, crow’s feet, brain fog, and bee stings.

As a medication that supposedly was censored by elites—if not canceled outright by woke medicine and Big Pharma—ivermectin has become a symbol of medical freedom. It’s also a MAGA shibboleth: Republican-leaning parts of the country helped drive an astounding 964 percent increase in prescriptions for the drug early in the pandemic, and GOP members of Congress have used their official posts to advocate for its benefits. Ivermectin can now be purchased without a prescription in Arkansas and Idaho, and other states are considering similar measures.

Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has been a particularly strong proponent. In his 2021 book about the pandemic, Kennedy referred to the “massive and overwhelming evidence” in ivermectin’s favor, and invoked its “staggering, life-saving efficacy.” He also argued at great length that the pharmaceutical industry—with the support of Anthony Fauci and Bill Gates—had engaged in a historic crime by attempting to discourage its use. Jay Bhattacharya, the director of the National Institutes of Health, has similarly backed the conspiracy theory that the use of ivermectin was dismissed by “the powers that be” in an apparent ploy to ease the approval of COVID vaccines. (Not everyone in the current administration is a fan: Before he became the FDA’s vaccine czar, the oncologist Vinay Prasad publicly disputed Kennedy’s views on ivermectin, and earlier this year he called its use for cancer “the right’s version of masking on the airplane and praying to Lord Fauci.”) In response to questions about Kennedy’s and Bhattacharya’s current views on ivermectin, the HHS press secretary Emily Hilliard told me that they “continue to follow the latest scientific research regarding therapeutic options for COVID-19 and other illnesses.” She did not respond to questions about Prasad.

The idea of using antiparasitic drugs as cancer treatments was already taking hold by the late 2010s, Skyler Johnson, a Utah radiation oncologist who studies medical misinformation, told me. In January 2017, a man with lung cancer named Joe Tippens started on a dewormer called fenbendazole, which had been suggested to him by a veterinarian. Daniel Lemoi, who had Lyme disease, had started taking ivermectin in 2012 after reading a paper on the genetic similarities between humans and horses. Tippens would go on to achieve global fame among desperate cancer patients, and Lemoi became an ivermectin influencer during the pandemic.

Since then, a gaggle of dubious doctors has worked to bolster the credibility of deworming drugs within alternative medicine and anti-vaccine circles. Their underlying pitch has become familiar in the past few years: Health experts can’t be trusted; the pharmaceutical industry is suppressing cheap cures; and patients deserve the liberty to choose their own medical interventions. For the rest of the medical establishment, the worldview this entails is straining doctor-patient relationships. Johnson told me that many of his patients are now skeptical of his advice, if not openly combative. One cancer patient accused Johnson of bias when he failed to recommend ivermectin. The drug is so cheap and effective, this patient had concluded, that Johnson would be out of a job if everyone knew about it. (Johnson told me that he offers patients “the best possible treatment, no matter the financial incentive.”) Ivermectin has become a big business in its own right. Online pharmacies and wellness shops are cashing in on the deworming craze, with one offering parasite cleanses for $200 a month. Meanwhile, fringe doctors can charge patients who have cancer and other diseases thousands of dollars to prescribe such treatments.

Johnson’s own experience suggests that the cult of ivermectin is growing larger. He told me that he’s seen his patients’ interest in the drug explode since January, when the actor Mel Gibson went on Joe Rogan’s podcast and claimed that three of his friends had beat back their advanced tumors with ivermectin and fenbendazole, among various other potions. “This stuff works, man,” Gibson said. Meanwhile, in the ivermectin Facebook groups—including one with close to 300,000 members—the public can read posts from a woman with breast cancer considering using ivermectin in lieu of hormone treatments; a leukemia patient who has given up on chemotherapy to “see what happens” with antiparasitic drugs; or a concerned aunt wondering if the drugs might help her little niece with Stage 4 cancer.

But ivermectin advocacy is most disturbing in its totalizing form, wherein parasites—which is to say, the pathogens against which the drug truly is effective—are reimagined as the secret cause of many other unrelated problems. In the Facebook groups, members will share images of what they say are worms that have been expelled from their bodies by treatment. (This phenomenon brings to mind a different disease entirely: delusional parasitosis.) One recent post from the daughter of a Stage 4 lung-cancer patient showed a bloody glob that had “dropped down into her mouth.” Commenters debated whether this might be a worm or something else. “Blood clot from Covid vax?” one suggested. A few days later, the daughter gave an update: Her mom had gone to see the doctor, who informed her that she’d likely coughed up a piece of her own lung.

The whole exchange provides a sad illustration of this delirious and desperate time. Before it turned into a conservative cure-all, ivermectin was legitimately a wonder drug for the poorest people on Earth. Since its discovery in 1973, it has become a leading weapon in the fight against horrific infections such as river blindness and elephantiasis. Yet now that substantial success seems to have given birth to a self-destructive fantasy.

A decade ago, the co-discoverers of ivermectin—William Campbell and Satoshi Ōmura—were awarded a Nobel Prize in recognition of their contribution to reducing human suffering. In his formal lecture to the Academy, Campbell offered some reflections on the simple science that gave rise to the treatment, and to its wide array of applications. But his speech contained a warning, too, that any medicine that works so broadly and so well runs the risk of being handed out too often. The more benefits that such a drug provides, he told the audience in Stockholm, “the more we must guard against the hazards of indiscriminate use.”

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 7 months ago

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Wham! - Last Christmas 1984

"Last Christmas" is a song by British pop duo Wham!. Written and produced by George Michael, it was released on 3 December 1984 via CBS Records internationally and as a double A-side via Epic Records with "Everything She Wants" in several European countries. Wham! donated all of their royalties to relief efforts for the Ethiopian famine.

Upon its initial release in 1984, "Last Christmas" spent five consecutive weeks at number two in the UK singles chart—it was held off the top spot at Christmas by Band Aid's "Do They Know It's Christmas?" (poll #444), on which Michael also performed. After many chart runs in subsequent years, which included three more weeks at number two, the song finally reached number one in the UK Singles Chart on New Year's Day 2021, more than 36 years after its initial release; in doing so, it became the fifth UK number one single for the duo. Prior to it reaching number one, "Last Christmas" had for many years held the record as the highest-selling single never to top the charts by the Official Charts Company (OCC) with 1.9 million copies sold (not including streams). The song reached number one in the UK after it was streamed 9.2 million times in the last week of 2020 and sold 1,555 downloads, resulting in a total of 40,149 combined sales.

Having been the Christmas number two again in 2022, "Last Christmas" finally achieved the accolade of Christmas number one in 2023, 39 years after its initial release, and, in 2024, became the first song to be the Christmas number one in back-to-back years. Combining sales and streams, it also became the third biggest song of all time in the UK. It was certified sextuple platinum in December 2023. Outside the UK, the song topped the charts in fourteen countries and peaked within the top ten of the charts in several countries including Australia, Canada and the US. In Germany, the song is the most successful Christmas single of all time, having spent 169 weeks on the German Singles Chart and attained a peak position of number 1 on 24 December 2021. It has charted every year since 1997. It is the eighth best-selling single of all time in Japan released by a non-Japanese act. It also reached number two on the Billboard Global 200 in January 2021. On 10 December 2024, the digital single was certified 7× Platinum by the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA), indicating US sales of 7 million digital units.

The 2019 film Last Christmas prominently features the music of George Michael, including this song.

"Last Christmas" received a total of 78,3% yes votes! Previous Wham!/George Michael polls: #62 "As", #108 "Everything She Wants", #219 "Freedom! '90".

youtube

#finished #high yes #low no #80s #o1 #o1 sweep #lo2 #lo4 #wham!#george michael #english

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progressglobenews · 4 months ago

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[May 17, 2021]

Newsweek:

The largest undercover force the world has ever known is the one created by the Pentagon over the past decade. Some 60,000 people now belong to this secret army, many working under masked identities and in low profile, all part of a broad program called "signature reduction." The force, more than ten times the size of the clandestine elements of the CIA, carries out domestic and foreign assignments, both in military uniforms and under civilian cover, in real life and online, sometimes hiding in private businesses and consultancies, some of them household name companies. The unprecedented shift has placed an ever greater number of soldiers, civilians, and contractors working under false identities, partly as a natural result in the growth of secret special forces but also as an intentional response to the challenges of traveling and operating in an increasingly transparent world. The explosion of Pentagon cyber warfare, moreover, has led to thousands of spies who carry out their day-to-day work in various made-up personas, the very type of nefarious operations the United States decries when Russian and Chinese spies do the same. Newsweek's exclusive report on this secret world is the result of a two-year investigation involving the examination of over 600 resumes and 1,000 job postings, dozens of Freedom of Information Act requests, and scores of interviews with participants and defense decision-makers. What emerges is a window into not just a little-known sector of the American military, but also a completely unregulated practice. No one knows the program's total size, and the explosion of signature reduction has never been examined for its impact on military policies and culture. Congress has never held a hearing on the subject. And yet the military developing this gigantic clandestine force challenges U.S. laws, the Geneva Conventions, the code of military conduct and basic accountability.

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legendary-ai-stories · 9 months ago

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"Armature Bikini alla Deriva: La Stravaganza di Halloween che Sta Facendo il Giro del Mondo"

In un turbinio di creature mostruose e spiriti dell’oltretomba, un nuovo trend ha invaso le strade nelle notti del terrore di Halloween. Armature bikini femminili in rovina sono diventate l’ultima tendenza delle festività. Questa inusitata miscela di audacia e elementi gotici, appare spettacolarmente attraente e decadente allo stesso tempo. La moda delle armature bikini rovinate ha avuto una…

#armature bikini #Audacia e Originalità #Bikini Armors #Boldness and Originality #Day of the Dead #Fashion News.#Female Fashion #Femininity and Freedom #Femminilità e Libertà #Festa dei Morti #Gotico Rivisitato #Halloween 2021 #Moda Femminile #Moda Rovina #News Moda In inglese: Halloween Trend #Revisited Gothic #Ruin Fashion #Tendenza Halloween

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goldfades · 8 months ago

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all my tomorrows | JOE BURROW⁹ [001]

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference! FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 5.6k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | your wedding day - from start to (semi) finish. a night woven with love and laughter, where heartfelt speeches echo through the air. joe and y/n’s wedding glows with tenderness, from ja'marr’s playful tribute to y/n’s unshakable place in joe’s heart, to your best's teary words of lifelong friendship.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | fluff, mentions of drinking, emotional, ummmm pretty much nothing else! just tooth-rotting fluff!!

MAY 23RD, 2021

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐔𝐙𝐘 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒, painting the bridal suite in a soft, golden light. The air is alive with the hum of excitement, laughter bubbling over as your bridesmaids flit around the room. The scent of fresh coffee and the faint floral aroma from your bouquet mix with the sharp tang of hair spray.

Maisie, your maid of honor and partner-in-crime since middle school, perches on the edge of the vanity chair, scrolling through her phone. “Okay, ladies,” she announces, holding up a to-do list like it’s a sacred text. “We’ve got exactly three hours until we need to head down. Hair? Check. Makeup? In progress. Emotional stability?” She raises an eyebrow at you. “Questionable.”

“Excuse me,” you say, leaning back in your chair as one of the stylists curls another section of your hair. “I am perfectly stable.”

Maisie smirks. “Sure, sure. That’s why you’ve been bouncing your knee like a jackhammer since you sat down.”

You glance down at your leg, which is, indeed, in overdrive. With a sheepish laugh, you press a hand to your knee. “Okay, maybe a little nervous.”

“A little?” Olivia, one of your bridesmaids, arches a perfectly sculpted brow from her spot on the couch, where she’s applying a flawless coat of mascara. “Babe, you’re marrying Joe freaking Burrow. Nerves are allowed.”

“Not just allowed,” adds Camila, another bridesmaid, who’s currently rifling through a box of pastries. “Expected. Honestly, if you weren’t nervous, I’d be concerned.” She holds up a croissant. “Carb therapy?”

You laugh, waving her off. “Later. If I eat now, I’ll definitely spill it on the dress.”

From her seat by the window, Elena, your quiet but fiercely loyal bridesmaid, sips her coffee and smiles. “You’ll be stunning, no matter what.”

“Exactly,” Maisie says, setting her phone down and standing up with a dramatic flourish. “Now, let’s get down to business. Who’s ready for some champagne?”

There’s a collective cheer as Maisie grabs a bottle from the mini fridge and expertly pops the cork, sending a small shower of bubbly onto the floor.

“To Y/N,” Maisie says, raising her glass high. “The calmest, coolest bride in history. May your day be perfect, your vows unforgettable, and your dance moves questionable.”

You all burst into laughter as you clink glasses, the bubbles fizzing against your lips. It’s a moment of pure joy, a snapshot of the love and friendship that’s carried you to this day.

As you sip your champagne, Maisie sets her glass down and turns to the garment bag hanging on the door. “Alright, who’s ready to see the dress one more time before the big reveal?”

Your heart skips a beat as you watch her carefully unzip the bag, revealing the gown that feels like a dream. The room falls silent, the air thick with awe as your bridesmaids crowd around.

“Oh my God,” Olivia breathes. “It’s even more beautiful than I remember.”

“You’re going to take his breath away,” Elena whispers, her eyes shimmering.

Camila sniffs dramatically, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m not crying, you’re crying.”

Maisie steps back, hands on her hips, beaming with pride. “This is it, Y/N. Your moment.”

You stand, the nerves from earlier settling into a warm, steady excitement. Maisie reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “How are you feeling?”

You take a deep breath, your gaze flickering to the gown, then to the faces of your best friends. “Like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”

Maisie grins. “Damn right you are.”

The rest of the morning unfolds in a flurry of final touches, shared memories, and stolen glances at the clock. With every passing minute, the reality sinks in deeper. In just a few hours, you’ll walk down the aisle, and at the end of it, Joe will be waiting.

The laughter and chatter around you start to blur, their voices melding into a soft, comforting hum. You watch the light bounce off the champagne flutes, the delicate lace of your wedding dress shimmering under the glow of the morning sun. Everything feels surreal, like you’re walking through a dream that somehow came to life.

This is really happening.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the memories wash over you. The first time you saw Joe in that high school hallway, head buried in a playbook, hair a little too long, and a smile that made your heart stumble. The late-night phone calls during college, when the distance felt unbearable but his voice kept you tethered. The endless games, the victories and losses, the quiet moments when it was just the two of you against the world.

You think about LSU, that electric night when the stadium roared and confetti rained down like the universe was celebrating your love. Joe, on one knee, looking at you like you were the only person who mattered in the sea of screaming fans. And now, here you are, hours away from saying “I do” to the person who has been your anchor, your partner, your everything.

A soft voice breaks through your reverie. “You feeling it?”

You blink, returning to the present. The makeup artist, a kind-eyed woman named Grace, is watching you with a gentle smile, her brush paused mid-air.

You nod, swallowing the lump forming in your throat. “Yeah, I’m feeling it.”

And then, without warning, the weight of it all hits you. The love, the journey, the sheer magnitude of this moment—it’s overwhelming in the best way. Your eyes start to sting, the tears welling up faster than you can stop them.

Grace’s eyes widen in alarm. “Oh no, no, no,” she says quickly, setting down her brush and grabbing a tissue. “Not the tears, honey, not yet! Think dry thoughts! Puppies! Deserts! That scene in The Lion King where Mufasa—wait, no, not that.”

Maisie, ever the quick thinker, swoops in with a hand fan and starts fanning your face like her life depends on it. “Deep breaths, Y/N. In through your nose, out through your mouth. We are not letting you walk down the aisle with streaky mascara.”

Camila appears on your other side, holding a tiny bottle of setting spray like it’s a weapon. “I’ve got reinforcements. Don’t worry, we’ll seal it in if we have to.”

You laugh through the tears, shaking your head as you try to compose yourself. “I’m sorry,” you say, your voice wobbly. “It’s just… it’s a lot, you know? This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of, and it’s actually happening.”

Grace dabs at the corners of your eyes with the tissue, her touch light and practiced. “Of course, it’s a lot,” she says, her tone soft and understanding. “But that’s a good thing. It means you’re present. You’re feeling every bit of this moment, and that’s exactly how it should be.”

Maisie leans in, her fan still going strong. “And we’ll make sure you feel it after the ceremony too. Right now, though, we’re keeping that face flawless, okay?”

You nod, a watery smile spreading across your face. “Okay.”

Grace picks up her brush again, giving you a reassuring wink. “Alright, let’s get back to it. By the time I’m done, you’ll be glowing like the goddess you are.”

As the room falls back into its rhythm, you take another deep breath, letting the love and support of your friends steady you. This is it—the beginning of forever. And you’re ready.

┈┈┈

The low rumble of laughter echoes off the walls of the groom’s suite, mixing with the faint scent of cologne and the crisp aroma of freshly pressed suits. Joe adjusts the cufflinks on his shirt, his fingers moving with the kind of calm precision he usually reserves for pre-game rituals. Except today, he’s not suiting up for a game—he’s preparing for the most important moment of his life.

“You good, man?” Ja’Marr Chase, his best man and long-time teammate, asks from across the room. He’s lounging on the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His tie is still untied around his neck, but Ja’Marr never rushes.

Joe glances at him in the mirror, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “Yeah, I’m good.” He adjusts his collar, taking a step back to inspect himself. The suit fits like a glove—sharp, tailored to perfection—but it’s not the suit he cares about. It’s the moment waiting for him just a few hours away.

“Good?” Ja’Marr raises an eyebrow, sitting up a little straighter. “You’re about to marry the love of your life, bro. You better be more than good.”

Joe laughs, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. I’m better than good. Happy now?”

Ja’Marr grins, setting his glass down and standing up. “That’s what I like to hear.” He walks over, clapping a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “You nervous at all?”

Joe considers the question for a moment. “A little,” he admits. “But it’s a good kind of nervous. Like, the kind you get before a big game. You know what you’re doing, but it still hits you that it’s a huge deal.”

“Except this time,” Ja’Marr says, leaning against the dresser, “you’re not just playing for a win. You’re locking down your forever.”

Joe chuckles. “Exactly.”

The door swings open, and a few more of the guys—Sam, Tee, and Tyler—stroll in, already dressed and ready.

“Look at you,” Tee says, whistling as he takes in Joe’s suit. “Sharp as hell. Y/N’s gonna lose it when she sees you.”

Joe smirks. “That’s the plan.”

Sam drops into one of the chairs, pulling out his phone. “Alright, we’ve got time before we head down. Who’s up for a quick game of Madden?”

Tyler shakes his head, laughing. “You’re seriously trying to play video games right now?”

“Hey, it’s tradition,” Sam says with a shrug. “Pre-game warm-up, right?”

Ja’Marr rolls his eyes but grabs a controller anyway. “Fine. One game. But I’m playing as the Bengals, and if I win, Joe owes me a drink later.”

Joe leans against the wall, watching as they set up the game. It’s the kind of easy, familiar energy that’s followed them through years of locker rooms, road trips, and big games. And as much as he appreciates the distraction, his mind keeps drifting back to you.

He pictures you in your dress, walking down the aisle, the way your smile will light up the entire room. The thought sends a wave of anticipation and love crashing over him, so powerful it’s almost dizzying.

“You zoning out over there?” Ja’Marr asks, glancing over from the couch.

Joe snaps back to the present, his grin widening. “Just thinking about her.”

Ja’Marr nods, his expression softening. “Yeah, man. She’s something else.”

The game kicks off, and the room fills with shouts and laughter as the guys trash-talk and celebrate their plays. But through it all, Joe stays grounded in the reality that today, his life changes forever.

“Hey,” Ja’Marr says after scoring a touchdown, “just remember—when you’re standing up there, take a second to really take it all in. Don’t rush through it. That’s a moment you’ll wanna remember for the rest of your life.”

Joe meets his best friend’s gaze and nods. “I will.”

Because as much as this day is about promises and celebrations, it’s also about the journey that brought them here. And Joe’s ready to embrace every second of it.

┈┈┈

The sunlight streams gently through the wide windows of the bridal suite, filtering through gauzy curtains and casting a golden glow across the room. The air hums with quiet anticipation, the kind that wraps itself around every detail—the rustle of satin, the soft click of heels against polished wood, the faint notes of the string quartet warming up outside.

You stand before a full-length mirror, the lace and tulle of your wedding dress spilling elegantly around you. Every bead and stitch feels like a promise, every delicate detail a testament to the day you’ve dreamed about for so long.

Grace, the makeup artist, gives your hair one last fluff before stepping back. “Alright,” she says, her voice warm and steady. “You’re officially ready.”

You barely hear her. Your eyes are locked on your reflection, taking in the way the dress hugs and flows, the way the soft waves in your hair frame your face. It’s not just the look—it’s the weight of the moment that catches in your chest.

Maisie appears at your side, her own dress swishing as she moves. “You look perfect,” she says, her voice hushed, like speaking too loudly might break the spell.

You nod slowly, your hands brushing against the smooth fabric of your gown. “I can’t believe this is actually happening,” you whisper.

Maisie grins. “Believe it, babe. You’re about to marry Joe freaking Burrow.”

The mention of his name sends a flutter of excitement through you. You can almost picture him now—standing somewhere in the men’s suite, probably adjusting his tie for the hundredth time or cracking a joke with Ja’Marr.

As if reading your thoughts, Maisie nudges you playfully. “Think he’s as nervous as you are?”

You laugh softly. “If he is, he’s hiding it better.”

A knock at the door pulls your attention, and your mom steps in, her eyes already glistening with tears. “Sweetheart,” she says, her voice catching. “You look… oh, my goodness.”

Her reaction sends another wave of emotion crashing over you, and you have to blink back tears to keep your makeup intact. She walks over, taking your hands in hers, her smile warm and full of love. “You’re radiant.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

Grace, ever vigilant, gives a soft warning from the corner. “No tears yet, ladies. We’re too close to mess up perfection.”

The room dissolves into light laughter, the tension easing just a bit. Your bridesmaids begin gathering their bouquets, Maisie organizing everyone with the efficiency of a seasoned event planner.

Meanwhile, across the country club, Joe is standing in front of another mirror, adjusting his tie for what must be the fifth time in as many minutes.

“Man, you’ve got it,” Ja’Marr says from behind him, lounging in a chair with a relaxed grin. “Your tie’s fine. You’re fine. Stop messing with it before you undo all of Grace’s hard work.”

Joe huffs a quiet laugh but lets his hands fall to his sides. He steps back, taking in the full picture—charcoal gray suit, crisp white shirt, tie perfectly aligned. It’s a look he’s worn before, but today it feels different. He looks like a groom. He looks like someone about to marry the love of his life.

Ja’Marr gets up, straightening his own jacket before patting Joe on the back. “You ready for this?”

Joe meets his best friend’s eyes in the mirror, and for a moment, the usual swagger softens. “Yeah,” he says, his voice steady. “I’ve been ready.”

The groomsmen begin to gather, straightening lapels and exchanging last-minute words of encouragement. There’s a knock at the door, and the wedding coordinator peeks in. “Five minutes, gentlemen.”

Joe nods, the weight of the moment settling in. He takes a deep breath, letting it anchor him. Then, with one last glance in the mirror, he turns to Ja’Marr. “Let’s do this.”

Back in the bridal suite, the final touches are being made. Maisie adjusts the hem of your dress, while Camila ensures your veil is perfectly in place. The air buzzes with quiet excitement, but as the minutes tick down, a hush falls over the room.

Your heart pounds as the wedding coordinator steps in, her clipboard clutched to her chest. “It’s time,” she says with a smile.

Your bridesmaids file out first, their dresses swaying softly as they move down the hall. Maisie lingers for a moment, giving your hand a quick squeeze. “I’ll see you out there,” she says, her eyes shining.

Finally, it’s just you and your dad. He steps forward, offering his arm with a look that says everything he doesn’t need to.

“Ready?” he asks softly.

You nod, your heart full. “Ready.”

Together, you step into the hallway, the sound of the string quartet growing louder with each step. The doors to the ceremony space are just ahead, and beyond them—Joe.

As you pause at the threshold, waiting for the doors to open, you take a deep breath, grounding yourself in the moment. This is it. The beginning of forever.

The double doors swing open with a soft creak, revealing the grand expanse of the ceremony space. The world narrows, and for a moment, all you hear is the soft hum of the string quartet, transitioning seamlessly into Canon in D. The light spills in golden rays through the tall windows, catching on the polished wood of the pews, the delicate floral arrangements lining the aisle, and the beaming faces of friends and family.

But none of that matters, not really. Your eyes find him instantly.

Joe stands at the end of the aisle, a picture of calm and quiet strength in his charcoal gray suit. His hands are clasped in front of him, but even from here, you can see his fingers fidgeting just slightly. His lips are curved in a soft smile, but his eyes—those clear blue eyes—are what hold you. They shine with an emotion so raw, so overwhelming, that it catches in your throat.

And then, just as you take your first step forward, you see it. His smile falters for a second, his jaw tightens, and he blinks rapidly, a single tear slipping free and tracing a line down his cheek. You feel your own breath hitch, your chest tight with a swell of love so profound it feels like it could lift you off the ground.

Your father tightens his hold on your arm, his silent support grounding you. Together, you walk down the aisle, each step measured and deliberate, as if savoring every second leading up to this moment. The murmurs of the crowd fade, the music becomes a soft, distant melody, and it’s just you and Joe, two halves of a whole, moving closer with every heartbeat.

When you finally reach him, your father gently lifts your veil, pressing a kiss to your temple. He steps back, his eyes glassy, and places your hand in Joe’s. The warmth of Joe’s touch sends a comforting rush through you, anchoring you in the present.

The officiant begins, his voice calm and steady, weaving words of love and commitment. But it’s hard to focus on anything beyond Joe—his steady breathing, the way his thumb brushes over the back of your hand, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.

Then, it’s time for the vows.

Joe goes first. He clears his throat, his fingers tightening around yours as he begins.

“I was sixteen when I first knew I wanted to spend my life with you. You were standing in the bleachers, cheering me on like you always do, and I remember thinking that nothing else mattered as long as I could keep seeing that smile.”

His voice catches slightly, and he pauses, taking a steadying breath. “You’ve been my biggest supporter, my best friend, my home. Through every victory and every loss, you’ve been there, steady and unwavering. Today, I promise to be that for you. I promise to love you unconditionally, to stand by your side in every challenge and every joy, to be your partner in all things. You’ve given me a life I never dreamed possible, and I will spend everyday making sure you know how deeply you are loved.”

You’re barely holding it together by the time he finishes. Your heart is a mess of emotions, tears pooling in your eyes, but you manage a small, watery smile.

It’s your turn. You squeeze Joe’s hand lightly, drawing strength from his steady presence as you begin.

“Joe, from the moment we met, you’ve been my safe place. You’ve seen me at my best and my worst, and through it all, you’ve loved me without hesitation. You’ve shown me what it means to be truly known and deeply loved.”

Your voice wavers, and you pause for a moment, blinking back tears. “You’ve given me so much—your love, your dreams, your heart—and today, I vow to give you all of me. I promise to stand by your side through every adventure, every challenge, and every quiet, ordinary day. I promise to support your dreams, to cheer you on, to be your rock, your home, your everything. You are my greatest love, my greatest joy, and I can’t wait to build a life with you.”

The silence that follows is filled with the quiet rustle of tissues and soft sniffles from the crowd. Joe’s eyes glisten, and his grip on your hands tightens ever so slightly, as if to say I’m here, always.

The officiant smiles warmly. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Joe, you may kiss your bride.”

Time seems to slow as Joe steps closer, his hands coming up to gently frame your face. His touch is tender, reverent, as if he’s holding the most precious thing in the world. He leans in, and when his lips meet yours, it’s like the world tilts on its axis. The kiss is soft, unhurried, a perfect melding of love and promise, and the crowd erupts in cheers and applause around you.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, basking in the glow of a love that feels infinite.

“Hi, Mrs. Burrow,” Joe whispers, his voice filled with a mix of awe and joy.

You laugh softly, your heart full. “Hi, Mr. Burrow.”

As the applause swells around you, Joe flashes that signature grin—the one that’s a little mischievous, a little playful, and entirely him. Before you can register what’s happening, he scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other around your back.

A collective cheer erupts from the crowd, and you let out a surprised laugh, your hands instinctively wrapping around his neck.

“Joe!” you exclaim, your face flushing with joy and a hint of embarrassment. “What are you doing?”

“Carrying my bride into forever,” he says, his voice low and warm, eyes sparkling with pride and love. “Figured I’d start now.”

The guests eat it up, laughter and whoops echoing throughout the grand hall. Your bridesmaids are clapping and cheering, Maisie yelling, “That’s right, Joe! Set the standard high!” Jamarr, Joe’s best man, is laughing so hard he’s doubled over, while the rest of the groomsmen slap each other on the back.

Joe walks down the aisle, steady and sure, carrying you like you weigh nothing, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. The light from the chandeliers above casts a golden glow on the scene, making everything feel almost dreamlike.

You lean in close, your forehead brushing against his temple. “You know you’re setting a pretty high bar for the rest of the night,” you murmur, your lips curling into a soft smile.

He glances down at you, his grin widening. “Good. I want this day to be perfect, just like you.”

You feel your heart swell, your chest tight with emotion. How did you get so lucky? To have this man—this steadfast, loving, utterly wonderful man—as your partner for life feels almost too good to be true.

As you reach the end of the aisle, Joe gently sets you down, but not before placing a lingering kiss on your forehead. The two of you stand there for a moment, hand in hand, soaking in the love and energy radiating from your friends and family.

The officiant steps forward, raising his hands to quiet the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to present to you, for the very first time, Mr. and Mrs. Joe Burrow!”

The applause erupts once more, and this time it feels like the sound of a thousand well-wishes, all wrapped up in joy and celebration. You and Joe raise your joined hands in triumph, sharing a laugh as you begin your walk—together—toward the next chapter of your lives.

But Joe, ever the showman, has one more trick up his sleeve. Just before you step out of the grand hall, he pauses, turns to face the crowd, and dips you dramatically, pressing a quick, playful kiss to your lips. The guests erupt in laughter and cheers, and you can’t help but laugh with them.

“Always gotta go out with a bang,” he whispers as he pulls you upright again.

“You’re impossible,” you reply, but your eyes are shining with love.

“And you’re mine,” he says simply, guiding you toward the door, where a new adventure awaits.

┈┈┈

The reception hall is bathed in a soft, romantic glow, the kind that makes everything feel like a scene out of a dream. Fairy lights are strung across the ceiling, casting a warm shimmer over the room, while candles flicker on every table, their golden light reflected in the delicate crystal glasses and polished silverware. The gentle hum of laughter and conversation fills the air, mingling with the soft clinking of glasses.

But now, the room falls quiet. The band begins to play the familiar, soulful opening chords of Tennessee Whiskey, and a hush settles over the crowd. All eyes are on you and Joe as he takes your hand, his touch warm and steady. The two of you step onto the dance floor, the world around you fading away until it’s just the two of you and the music.

Joe pulls you close, his hand settling at the small of your back, while your free hand rests lightly on his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your fingertips, a grounding rhythm that anchors you in the moment. He leans in, his forehead brushing against yours, and you can feel the soft, slow exhale of his breath.

The lyrics begin, the singer’s rich, velvety voice filling the room.

“Used to spend my nights out in a barroom…”

Joe’s voice is low, almost a whisper. “This is it,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours. “Our first dance as husband and wife.”

You smile, your throat tight with emotion. “I can’t believe we’re here,” you reply softly. “It feels like a dream.”

He tilts his head slightly, his lips quirking into that familiar, heart-melting grin. “If it is, I don’t ever want to wake up.”

The two of you begin to sway, the movement slow and intimate, as if the music is a secret meant only for you. His hand tightens slightly at your back, pulling you just a bit closer, and you let yourself melt into him, your head resting against his chest. The deep timbre of his voice as he hums along to the song vibrates through you, a comforting resonance that feels like home.

“But when you poured out your heart, I didn’t waste it…”

The lyrics seem to speak directly to your souls, each word a reflection of the journey that’s brought you to this moment. From high school hallways and Friday night lights to the bright glare of championship stadiums, every step has been a testament to the love you share, a love that’s only grown stronger with time.

As the chorus swells, you lift your head to look at him, your eyes meeting his. Joe’s gaze is soft but intense, filled with an unspoken promise, a silent declaration of just how much you mean to him. His hand moves from your back to cup your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away a stray tear that’s escaped down your cheek.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, his voice full of tenderness.

You nod, your smile trembling. “I’m just… so happy.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Me too,” he murmurs, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulls back. “More than I can ever say.”

Around you, the room fades into a blur of soft light and smiling faces, but you barely notice. You’re lost in the moment, in the feel of his arms around you, in the weight of everything this dance represents. Every twirl, every step feels like a promise: of love, of partnership, of a future filled with shared dreams and unwavering support.

“You’re as smooth as Tennessee whiskey…”

The song reaches its final chorus, the music swelling with a quiet power that mirrors the emotions building in your chest. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the melody wash over you, and when you open them, Joe is still watching you, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I love you,” he says, his voice barely audible over the music but carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat.

As the final notes of the song fade into the air, Joe twirls you gently one last time before pulling you back into his arms. The room erupts in applause, but it feels distant, like the sound of waves crashing far off on the shore. All you can focus on is him, the love in his eyes, and the way his arms feel like the safest place in the world.

For a moment, the two of you stand there, holding each other as the world moves around you, and you know, without a doubt, that this is just the beginning of a lifetime of dances, each one more beautiful than the last.

The first dance gives way to the gentle hum of conversation and the soft clinking of cutlery. Dinner is served: a beautifully plated meal that looks almost too good to eat. Almost. You and Joe laugh as he insists on stealing a bite from your plate, claiming, “What’s yours is mine, right?” You retaliate by snagging a forkful of his mashed potatoes, and soon the two of you are sharing more food than you expected, all while sneaking adoring glances at each other.

As the last plates are cleared and the sound of laughter echoes from every table, the evening’s next act begins. Joe’s best man, Ja’Marr, stands and taps his champagne glass, the sharp ting ting ting drawing everyone’s attention.

“Alright, alright, listen up!” Ja’Marr’s grin is wide, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he adjusts his tie. “First off, I want to say how honored I am to stand here as Joe’s best man. It’s a big job, but hey, someone’s gotta keep this guy in line, right?”

Laughter ripples through the room, and Joe shakes his head with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair with an easy confidence.

Ja’Marr continues, his tone light but sincere. “Joe and I have been through a lot together. We’ve shared victories, defeats, endless practices, and even more late-night fast food runs than I care to admit. But what’s always stood out about Joe is his drive—not just on the field but in every part of his life. And that includes how he loves Y/N.”

He pauses, his expression softening as he looks at you. “Y/N, I gotta tell you, this guy…he’s been head over heels for you since day one. You’ve been his biggest cheerleader, his rock, and the love of his life. And if anyone ever doubted how much he loves you, well, they weren’t around for that time he turned down a post-game party just to FaceTime you for three hours.”

The crowd bursts into laughter, and you cover your face, laughing as Joe groans, muttering, “Thanks, Ja’Marr.”

“But seriously,” Ja’Marr adds, his tone shifting to something deeper, “what you two have is rare. It’s the kind of love that inspires everyone around you, and I’m lucky to witness it up close. Here’s to a lifetime of happiness, love, and, knowing Joe, a whole lot of competitive board games.”

He raises his glass. “To Joe and Y/N!”

“To Joe and Y/N!” the guests echo, glasses clinking and laughter bubbling up once again.

Next, Maisie rises, her expression a mix of excitement and nerves. She smooths down her dress and clears her throat, giving you a wink.

“Okay, I’m not great at public speaking, but for my best friend, I’ll give it a shot,” Maisie begins, her voice warm and steady. “Y/N and I have been friends since middle school, back when braces and awkward school dances were our biggest worries. From the moment we met, I knew she was someone special—kind, fiercely loyal, and with a laugh that could brighten anyone’s day.”

Maisie pauses, her eyes glimmering with fondness. “And then Joe came along. At first, I was skeptical—football star, all the confidence in the world. I thought, ‘Great, here comes the cliché.’” She smirks, and the guests laugh knowingly. “But then I saw the way he looked at her, like she was the only person in the room. And it wasn’t long before I realized he wasn’t just the star quarterback. He was the guy who would drive hours just to surprise her, who’d send her good morning texts every single day, and who always made her laugh, even when she didn’t feel like smiling.”

Maisie’s voice catches slightly, and she takes a moment to compose herself. “Joe, you’ve made my best friend so incredibly happy, and for that, I’ll always be grateful. And Y/N…you’ve found the kind of love people write songs about, the kind that lasts a lifetime.”

She raises her glass, her smile radiant. “To Joe and Y/N, and to a love that’s as smooth as Tennessee whiskey.”

The room erupts into cheers and applause, and you feel a tear slip down your cheek. Joe squeezes your hand under the table, his thumb brushing against your skin in a silent gesture of love and reassurance.

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trevuorzegras · 8 days ago

Text

THE TOWN THAT JUDGED 　QUINN HUGHES

　　　quinn hughes x fem biker!reader

SUMMARY 　quinn hughes didn’t plan on getting close to the town’s most talked-about girl, but the more he learns, the more he questions everything. including who he really is.

contains 　mentions of parental illness/death, financial hardship and poverty, mentions of stripping, verbal judgment, mild profanity, police encounter, emotional struggles, use of y/n.

note 　the wc for this is 2.3k, please enjoy! <3

　　MICHIGAN WAS SUPPOSED TO be Quinn’s escape. A safe haven from the chaos of Vancouver, from hockey season, from pressure. The lake brought him comfort — a stillness that made him feel like he could finally breathe. No eyes on him. No unrealistic expectations. Just water, family, and freedom.

Then he met y/n.

She was like a plot twist in a story he thought he’d already figured out. Different — not in a way that startled him, but in a way that made him curious. She didn’t fit the mold of this town he’d grown to love, and that only made her stand out more.

You couldn’t miss her if you tried.

The deep purple 2021 Kawasaki Ninja ZX-25R she rode made sure of that. Her presence turned heads. Sometimes for the wrong reasons. People around here knew her. Or at least, they thought they did.

Y/n had never managed to leave this place, no matter how hard she tried.

She knew the rumors. Knew what they whispered when she walked into a room. She’d never been arrested, but that didn’t stop people from assuming the worst. In their eyes, she was trouble. Not worth their time.

She worked hard — long shifts at a local diner. But bills didn’t care about pride. So when the diner wasn’t enough, she picked up shifts at the club. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t her dream. But it paid. And she didn’t let the looks or the whispers get to her. Not publicly, anyway.

What people thought didn’t define her.

She knew who she was. And who she wasn’t.

Meeting Quinn Hughes was like sunlight cracking through overcast skies.

She had been mid-shift at the diner when he walked in with his brothers and a few friends. All laughter, easy smiles, and a presence that turned the air electric.

She spent more time watching him than waiting tables that night.

He barely noticed her. Too wrapped up in whatever the guys were talking about. Something more important, she guessed. She told herself it didn’t matter. Guys like him didn’t notice girls like her.

Still, by the end of the night, she was almost sure he knew exactly who she was. Word travels fast in a town like this. And facts didn’t matter. Only gossip did. Truth gets bent, twisted, until even you start to wonder who you really are.

But she didn’t let herself dwell. So what if one good-looking guy thought she was nothing? She’d been judged before. Still, a part of her wished people could see past the rumors — that they could see her.

She had dreams once.

College. Criminology. She wanted to be a detective. Make a difference. But life had other plans. Her mom got sick, and survival became the priority. By eighteen, her mother was gone — and so was the future she’d once imagined.

Quinn saw her. Barely.

The night was thick and quiet, his only light coming from his headlights and a flickering streetlamp. He noticed the bike first. Then her — standing beside it like a shadow trying not to be seen.

He pulled up slowly, rolling down the passenger window.

“Hey,” he called gently, voice laced with concern. “You okay?”

Y/n glanced up, startled. She hadn’t heard the SUV roll up. Her helmet sat on the seat of her bike, strands of hair sticking to her cheek from the humidity. She looked tired — not just from the day, but from everything.

She hesitated. “Yeah. Just… bike’s acting up.”

Quinn nodded slowly, not pushing. “Want a ride?”

She looked at him like she couldn’t decide if it was a trap or kindness. Then, with a sigh, she grabbed her helmet and walked towards his car. “Sure.”

The drive was quiet. Comfortable, even. The radio played low. Something mellow. She gave him directions without looking at him, and he didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t make her explain or fill the silence.

When they pulled up outside a small apartment above a pawn shop, she unbuckled her seatbelt slowly.

“Thanks,” she said. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” He glanced at her, hand still on the wheel. “I’m Quinn, by the way.”

She smirked faintly. “I know who you are.”

He laughed under his breath. “Fair enough. Still figured I’d introduce myself.”

She paused. “Y/n.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/n.”

They saw each other more after that. Small moments at first — him stopping by the diner for coffee, her dropping off dinner for him and his family. Neither of them labeled it. But it was something.

They talked about things people didn’t usually talk about. He told her about the pressure, the expectations, the weight of always being good enough. She told him about the dreams she buried and the scars she never showed anyone.

It was slow. Real.

Then one night, she texted him.

Y/n: Wanna see something cool?

Bring a flashlight.

He picked her up, heart racing with anticipation. She directed him through winding back roads until they reached a crumbling brick building half-hidden by trees and overgrowth.

“The old Elridge Theater?” he asked, squinting at the faded marquee.

“Yup. Closed when I was ten. Been sneaking in since I was fifteen. It’s quiet. No one comes here.”

She led him through a side door half hanging off its hinges. The inside was dusty, the air stale with age and forgotten dreams. Rows of broken seats. A stage that hadn’t seen a spotlight in over a decade.

“This is your hideout?” he whispered, his voice echoing.

She grinned. “Welcome to my sanctuary.”

They climbed up onto the stage and laid on their backs, staring at the ceiling where stars had once been painted. It was cracked and faded now — but beautiful in its own way.

“You always do stuff like this?” he asked.

“Only with people who need to loosen up,” she teased.

He nudged her shoulder. “You think I need to loosen up?”

“I know you do.”

They laughed. It was easy. Freer than anything he’d felt in months.

Then, Flashlights. Voices. “Police! Anyone inside?”

Y/n’s eyes widened. “Shit. C’mon.”

They scrambled off the stage, darting down an aisle and into a side hallway. She knew every turn, every shortcut. They burst out a back door just as a patrol car pulled up in front.

They ran — breathless, hearts pounding, laughing in disbelief when they finally ducked behind a dumpster two blocks away.

Quinn leaned against the wall, panting. “That was —”

“Insane?” she offered.

“Incredible.”

He looked at her, really looked at her. She was flushed from the run, eyes bright, a wild grin on her face. And something shifted in his chest.

“I think I’ve been living my life trying to be this… version of myself that made sense to everyone else,” he said quietly. “Perfect son. Perfect player. Never stepping out of line.”

She tilted her head, breath still catching. “And now?”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Now I think maybe I’ve been missing the whole point.”

A pause. Then, “I think I’ve been looking for something real. For someone real.”

She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t look away either.

And for the first time in a long time, Quinn didn’t feel like he had to be anything more than exactly who he was.

They didn’t talk about what happened at the theater.

But something changed after that night.

Quinn started texting her more. Nothing dramatic. Just little things:

Quinn: You survive the late night drive?

What’s your go-to late night diner order?

I still owe you for that getaway.

They started hanging out more. At first it was late-night drives or quick coffee breaks during her split shifts. But soon, it was hikes, music playing through shared earbuds, or long conversations on her apartment roof — where they’d lie side by side watching the stars fade into sunrise.

Quinn was changing.

And he knew it.

He was finally breathing. Laughing. Saying “no” when he needed to. Letting go of the pressure to be polished all the time.

And when he told Jack about y/n, his brother didn’t understand.

“She’s… different,” Jack said, frowning. “I just don’t want you getting mixed up in anything messy.”

Quinn looked out the window, jaw tight. “Maybe messy is what I need right now.”

Y/n noticed it too.

The way Quinn had started showing up more. Not just physically, but emotionally. He listened when she spoke, remembered the small things — like how her mom used to make mint tea at night, or how she always sat in the far left booth at the diner when she needed space.

He didn’t push. Never tried to fix her. Just let her be.

That scared her more than anything.

No one had ever seen her without expectations. Without judgment.

So the night she opened her notebook and let him read a few of her old detective school essays, she felt like she was handing him a piece of herself she’d locked away.

“You could still do this,” he said, turning the pages slowly.

She shook her head. “It’s too late.”

“No,” he said, quiet but certain. “It’s not.”

The next week, she took him to her favorite spot — a half-forgotten overlook by the lake, hidden behind a crumbling back road and dense bushes.

They sat on the hood of his car, a blanket draped across their laps, passing a thermos of lukewarm coffee between them.

The water shimmered in the moonlight, endless and quiet.

“I used to come here when things got loud,” she said. “Before my mom got sick. When I still thought life might go the way I wanted it to.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her like he was memorizing the exact shade of her sadness.

“You know what I’ve realized?” he finally said.

She glanced at him, brow raised.

“You’re not messy. You’re real. Everyone else is too busy pretending to be fine.”

Her chest tightened. She looked away before he could see her eyes glisten. “Quinn…”

“I mean it.”

They sat there for a long time after that — not touching, not speaking. Just existing beside each other, like two people finally letting their guards down.

Things kept unfolding slowly.

One night, she brought him into the club — through the back door, after hours. She was sweeping up, and he helped without saying a word. She played music from the jukebox and dared him to dance.

He was horrible.

She laughed so hard she snorted. And when he caught her around the waist and spun her clumsily, they were both breathless and shining like kids again.

And later, standing close, hands brushing, she looked up at him.

“You sure you know what you’re doing with me?”

He looked right back, voice steady.

“No,” he admitted. “But I know I want to keep finding out.”

It started with whispers.

They’d been careful. Mostly. No hand-holding in public, no kissing outside her apartment. But in a town like this, it didn’t matter. People noticed things. The way Quinn lingered at the diner after she refilled his coffee. The way she laughed more when he was around.

And just like that, the rumors took off.

She’s using him.

He’s just a phase.

Poor kid doesn’t know what kind of girl she is.

Wonder what she did to get her claws into a Hughes boy.

Y/n heard it first, of course — dirty looks at the club, side comments from the booths at the diner, snide whispers when she walked into the grocery store.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

But the truth was: it stung.

Especially because she knew what was coming next.

It was Jack who showed up first. Alone.

He waited outside the diner after her shift ended, leaning against the hood of his car like he’d been rehearsing what he wanted to say.

Y/n atopped in her tracks when she saw him.

“Jack,” she said cautiously, tightening her jacket around herself. “Did Quinn send you?”

“No. He doesn’t know I’m here.” He pushed off the car, crossing his arms. “I just want to talk.”

“Right,” she muttered. “That’s what people say before they try to make me feel small.”

“I’m not here to insult you,” he said. “I just want to understand. What are you doing with my brother?”

Y/n stared at him. For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, “Did it ever occur to you that I’m not doing anything to him? That maybe he just… likes me?”

Jack shook his head, frustrated. “You’ve got a past, Y/n. People talk. You think we haven’t heard the things they say?”

She stepped forward, jaw tight. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ve heard plenty. But did you ever think to ask what’s true?”

Jack didn’t answer.

She took a breath, steadying herself. “You know what? You don’t have to like me. But I’ve never lied to Quinn. I’ve never asked him for anything. If he wants to be around me, that’s his choice.”

Jack’s expression shifted — not angry, but unsure. Like he hadn’t expected her to meet him head-on.

And maybe that’s when the doubt first crept in.

A few days later, Luke cornered Quinn in the garage at their parents’ house, tossing a hockey stick down and crossing his arms.

“You really seeing that girl?”

Quinn didn’t look up from taping his stick. “Yeah.”

“You know what people are saying, right?”

“I don’t care.”

Luke scoffed. “You should. You’ve worked your whole life to build this reputation, and now people think you’re slumming it with some stripper who—”

Quinn stood up fast. Too fast.

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

Luke blinked.

Quinn’s voice was low but firm. “You think you know her because of some rumors? Try sitting with her when she talks about taking care of her mom. Try watching her stay on her feet for twelve hours at the diner without a single complaint. She’s been through hell and still wakes up fighting. I respect her more than half the people who judge her.”

Luke looked away, uncomfortable.

“She’s not who you think,” Quinn added, softer now. “But she’s exactly who I needed.”

Jack and Luke didn’t get it. Not fully — until they saw y/n with their mom.

It was an accident, really. Quinn had invited her over for dinner. Something lowkey. Just family, and Jack had been skeptical the entire time.

But then y/n helped clean the kitchen. Shared stories with their mom about how she used to organize canned goods by color as a kid. Even teased Quinn gently when he dropped a glass.

Jack saw something he hadn’t expected: warmth.

Not performance. Not manipulation.

Just a girl, quietly trying to belong in a place that had always told her she didn’t.

After she left, their mom turned to them with a knowing smile.

“She’s strong. And she cares about him. I like her.”

Jack didn’t argue. Neither did Luke.

And maybe, in that moment, they finally started to understand.

The town still whispered.

But now, when people said things to Jack or Luke, hinted at shame or scandal — they didn’t join in.

Instead, they said what Quinn had said all along:

“You don’t know her.”

And maybe, just maybe, people would start realizing they were right.

NAVIGATION　　 ✶ 　　NHL MASTERLIST

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