#I am still going to do a few more over the week

[windser]

where the apple falls

pairing: amnesia, exbf! caleb x reader rating: t wc: 1700+ a/n: based off this post. this will be a series of drabbles. i will also be working on other exbf! caleb verse. that is the trope for him the resonates most with me. after reading his story, i'm soooo excited to write about him. happy to take requests relating to both tropes!

“hmm, jian bing? normally i have to accumulate quite a bit of favors to wake up to this. what’s the occasion?”

a homemade cure to job memory loss, sits on your tongue like a secret. but you swallow it down, tasting every word you can’t admit. it’s only been a week. since then, caleb has seen the physicians once more—three days since returning to your home for a follow-up.

but just those seventy-two hours had felt like distant memory. the first morning had been the most jarring. caleb had walked into the apartment as if he’d only returned from a day at work, not nearly a week in the hospital, though even the small missed him longer. his only moment of hesitation was the brief pause when his eyes caught on the small changes you had made since the breakup.

the furniture remained the same—too much hassle to replace—but you'd taken quiet, deliberate steps to erase him. gone were the photos of shared milestones, absent were his awards and accolades. the tangible pieces of caleb had vanished, leaving only the slowly healing void in your heart.

the physician had given you ample time to prepare your home for his discharge, clear instructions to recreate a familiar space that mirrored the fragments of his memory. but you’d balked at the thought of resurrecting the past. now the remnants of the last four years were still stored away in the recesses of your closet. 

selfish, perhaps. misguided, maybe. but a part of you refused to accept the accident—not just the memory loss, but the implausibility of it all. caleb, always composed, prepared for anything? reduced now to a vulnerable man clinging to fractured echoes of what was? 

it didn’t sit right with you.

you watched as his gaze drifted over the near-barren walls and mismatched artwork. his jaw tightened, barely perceptibly, lips parting as if testing words that refused to form. his shoulders rose once, twice, then sagged in quiet surrender before he turned to you with a smile so perfectly broken it felt like a carefully crafted illusion.

"still in the middle of some deep cleaning, huh? i appreciate you getting everything ready for me to come back home. why don't I help get it back in order?"

at the check-up, the physician warned you: patience was crucial. recovery couldn’t be rushed without risking setbacks. most cases resolved themselves with time, they assured you.

just be patient.

“i thought some of your favorites would help you remember” you offered instead, glancing over your shoulder quickly before turning your attention back to the stove. “it’s almost done.”

caleb didn’t respond at first as he sat down at the kitchen bar, still dressed in his sleepwear. he couldn’t have been up for more than a few minutes, likely just long enough to take his part of medication before arriving. the others would require a meal to go with them.

“i couldn’t have missed that much,” he said finally, voice laced with casual dismissal. “i don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

it was eerie, how easily he brushed off nearly a year of his life.

you set a cup of coffee down in front of him with a mishandled grimace. “this is serious, caleb. you can’t just report a wrong date and think everyone is going to write it off. ” it was becoming just a bit more than a little frustrating how light he took the situation. 

his hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could turn away. his grip was firm but not unkind, his thumb brushing absently over your pulse.

“i am taking it seriously,” he said quietly, his eyes steady on yours. “do you understand how troubling it is to hear you've lost months of time?”

“could have fooled me.” you mumbled under your breath, tugging half-heartedly at his arm.

“what was that?” his voice sharpened slightly. “it doesn’t help when you mutter.”

you exhaled sharply, meeting his gaze. “i said you’re not exactly helping yourself, caleb. It was okay at first to adjust. i know you were in pain, and it was jarring, but—” your voice cracked, the words caught in your throat. you cleared it hastily, averting your eyes. the physicians had warned you to avoid accusations, anything that might exacerbate his confusion or headaches. caleb’s expression tightened as he read the unspoken in your hesitation.

“but?” he pressed. his grip on your arm loosened, though he didn’t let go.

“it doesn’t feel like you’re trying to get better,” you said, wincing as you braced for his reaction.

instead, you felt the soft press of his lips against your temple.

“i don’t even know what ‘better’ looks like,” he murmured. “I’m doing what i was told. resuming routines. beyond that…” his thumb brushed your cheek as he trailed off. “you’ve got your orders too. sure you’re doing your part?”

you shoved at his chest, though there was no real force behind it. “that’s not funny.”

he didn’t laugh, though his eyes glinted with suppressed amusement. “okay okay, i know. it’s just... a lot to process. being told your life isn’t what you thought it was.” he sipped his coffee. “i mean, what could i have possibly missed?”

your gaze dropped to the mug, a relic of the past—the one you’d gifted him when he got his fleet position. “a lot, caleb. a lot.”

“well, they told me to take it one step at a time. i’m still processing it all. still can’t believe the news headlines”

“pretty sure you were told to not overwhelm yourself,” you countered.

he shrugged. “i binged all the new seasons of our sitcoms. i get bored.”

“and nothing triggered even the smallest memory?”

“it might help if you just told me what i’m forgetting.”

you stiffened, jaw tight. “you’re supposed to recall them naturally.”

caleb leaned back, studying you with quiet intensity. “then we just keep going as we were. i have you, and you have me. what else matters?”

“caleb…” your voice faltered, a lump rising in your throat. “that’s not—”

“i’m sorry.” his tone softened as he tugged you closer. “i know this is hard for you too. there are probably things you want to tell me…” his hands steadied you as he guided you onto his lap.

your faces were so close now that you could feel the faint heat radiating from him, a warmth that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. it struck you as almost cruelly ironic how, in a way, you were both reliving memories—but only you felt the hollow ache of the gaps between them. you could count every one of his dark lashes, each one a delicate frame to the deep gaze fixed on you. and then your eyes betrayed you, flickering downward to caleb’s mouth: light pink, nicely shaped, and far too familiar. you knew, if you gave in and pressed your lips to his, they’d taste soft, warm, and faintly of coffee.

“yeah,” you replied, though your voice was barely more than a breath.

“yeah,” caleb echoed with a faint, lopsided quirk to his lips. “just… give me a bit more time, okay? right now, despite the aches in my body, nothing has ever felt more right. it’s always been like this with you.” his voice softened, becoming something raw and fragile. “i wouldn’t trade this for anything. not even for the memories I’ve lost.”

“that’s not okay, caleb,” you said tersely, the words rising unbidden in your throat. “you can’t just disregard the past—or the future.”

his head tilted slightly as he studied you, something unspoken glimmering in his eyes. for a moment, silence stretched thin between you before, without warning, caleb stood up. you barely had time to react before you were flipped upside down, your world spinning as blood rushed to your head.

“caleb, what are you doing!?” you yelped, hands scrambling to clutch the fabric of his shirt in tight fists.

“just hang on,” he said, voice far too calm for the chaos he’d just unleashed.

he carried you the short distance to the couch with an unsettling ease, his shins pressing against the edge before he lowered you onto the cushions. a pillow fell to the floor in his wake, discarded like an afterthought.

in the shock of it all, you barely registered his hands threading gently through your hair, the sensation grounding you even as your mind reeled. his gaze traced the lines of your body as though committing them to memory, an intensity that made your breath hitch. caleb had always been intense, after all—a force that could bring everything in its path to kneel. that much hadn’t changed. but now, there was something else. a weight behind his actions, a shadow you couldn’t quite name.

he wasn’t holding you down, but his presence blanketed you, toeing the fragile line between comfort and constraint.

when his lips descended, it felt inevitable, like the pull of gravity. a soft, tentative brush at first, before returning with more intensity, more hunger, as if savoring the moment like a man starved. his kiss was familiar in all the ways that made your heart ache, every motion perfectly attuned to what you liked, what you craved.

when Caleb finally pulled away, you instinctively leaned forward, chasing the warmth of his mouth. but he had already shifted, his lips grazing along your jaw, leaving a trail of nips and feather-light kisses in his wake.

it was still caleb. caleb, who always knew exactly how to undo you.

your eyes fluttered open, stealing a glance at him as he kissed the curve of your neck. you weren’t sure what you were looking for—a sign, a clue—but all you saw was caleb. just caleb.

despite it all.

despite your suspicions.

he was okay.

and despite everything, the thought of losing him still felt unbearable.

caleb sighed softly, leaning back to look at you. his hand drifted to your face, a knuckle brushing against your cheek in a gesture so tender it made your chest tighten. you leaned into his touch without thinking.

“i’ll figure it out,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “i always do.”

and in that moment, as his words settled in the space between you, you couldn’t quite recall why that wasn’t a good thing.

[guess-my-next-obsession]

endure & survive | ii. don't shoot

pairing: post-outbreak!joel miller x single mother!reader

chapter content: MINORS DNI, written in dual POV/first person POV, no description/name given to reader, reader is a single mother, age gap (twenty-ish years), grief, gun talk/threats

word count: 3.9k

series masterlist | previous chapter

JOEL 

“Easy, now. Don’t shoot,” I say, raising my hands slowly with my palms facing the woman currently aiming the barrel of a shotgun at my face.  

“Fuck you,” she spits, tightening her grip on her gun. “Go or I’ll shoot your head right the fuck off.” 

“The hell you will!” Ellie’s voice sounds from the stranger’s other side, causing me to let out a low curse. When I chance a glance at her, she’s holding her pistol like I taught her, aiming it at the woman’s head.  

“Ellie—“ 

“Who the fuck is she? Your ward?” the stranger asks, her brows furrowing as she adjusts her position to be able to watch us both.  

“I’m the one aiming a gun at your head, dipshit,” Ellie returns.  

“Hey,” I hiss, snapping my hand at her while remaining as still as possible. “Language.” 

“She’s trying to shoot you,” Ellie replies, as if I’m the senseless one here. She’s still young enough to enjoy the thrill of a fight. Me, on the other hand, I’m just trying to get out of this without a gunshot wound.  

“Haven’t tried yet,” the stranger corrects. “Just threatened to.” 

“And I’d appreciate it if it stayed that way,” I say, focusing back on the woman a few yards away from me. “We’re just passin’ through. Didn’t know anybody was out here. That’s all.” 

“Then you can continue passing,” she says, jutting her chin towards the treeline behind us.  

“Alright,” I say, backing away slowly. “Ellie, c’mon.” 

“What the fuck, Joel?” Ellie groans. “She has a fucking fireplace.” 

“And a gun pointed right at me,” I remind. “We can find someplace else—“ 

“Mama,” a tiny voice interrupts me, and I watch as a kid half Ellie’s age steps out of the cabin and onto the porch.  

“Baby, get back inside,” the woman—the child’s mother—commands, softening her voice for him.  

I watch as she struggles to pick who to focus her attention on—her son, or Ellie and I. In the end, it’s her son that wins as she lowers her gun and guides the boy to hide behind her leg, his skinny hands clinging to her worn and weathered sweater. 

“Shit,” Ellie says, lowering her gun as she shoots me a glance before turning back to the woman. “I didn’t realize you had a kid. Just so you know, I wasn’t going to shoot unless you shot first.” 

The woman lets out what I think is meant to be a chuckle, but sounds more like a scoff. “You do realize you’re a kid, too?” 

“Eh,” is Ellie’s only response, along with a casual shrug of her shoulders.  

“Listen,” I butt in, slowly making my way over to Ellie. “Clearly, you know what it’s like to have a kid out here in all this mess. We ain’t lookin’ to make any trouble for you and yours, long as you don’t make any for us.” 

“I’m sensing there’s more to this speech than just stating the obvious,” she says, her free hand still firmly grasping the hilt of her shotgun.  

“We’ve been out here in the cold for weeks now,” I say. Calmly. Hesitantly. If I wasn’t feeling as bone tired as this, as desperate for just a bit of warmth, I would never even consider bunking up with two strangers, especially with Ellie in tow. But even though it might not look like it, I know my limits. I know that if we keep on out here in this weather, there’s a chance we won’t make it another twenty miles, let alone the hundreds between here and Salt Lake.  

“Absolutely not,” she says, shaking her head adamantly as she backs her and her son up a step towards her front door. “You two could be infected for all I know. As good of a person I’d like to think I am, there’s no way I’m letting you in here with my son.” 

“We’re not infected,” I say, though I know those words have been spoken by plenty who hadn’t meant them. Or hadn’t realized yet. But all I’ve got is my word and the hope that she’ll trust it. “I know I can’t prove it, but I’m askin’ you to trust that I’d never put a kid in harm's way.” 

“You allow yours to carry around a pistol,” she says, pointing towards Ellie. “You bring her to break into random cabins in the middle of the woods. Your word doesn’t mean shit to me.” 

I know a losing battle when I see one. I can sit here and beg all I want, but she’s never going to cave. I can’t say I’d do any different if I were in her position. Hell, I actually kind of respect her more for it.  

“Alright,” I concede, even though it hurts to. Just a night in a warm, dry place would’ve been enough for me to regain some of the energy and fight I desperately need out here. But I ain’t about to stand here and grovel, strip myself down and prove to her that there aren’t any bites marring my skin, just scars and proof of the hard life I’ve lived. Besides, if she got even one look at Ellie’s wrist, we’d both be dead. It’s better this way. Safer. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.  

“Dude,” Ellie scolds—or whines, rather. I shoot her a warning look that does little to wipe the outrage off her face.  

“C’mon,” I order, stepping backwards towards the tree line. I might not have a gun pointed at me right now, but no way in hell am I going to turn my back on that murderous looking woman. 

Not when I know exactly what I’d do if I were in her position. 

READER 

Empathy’s a fucking bitch sometimes.  

I don’t want to let these two strangers onto my property. I don’t want to risk the chance that they’ll endanger Colt and I. But fuck, it’s cold outside, and the storm clouds brewing above us prove it’s only going to get colder.  

If it had just been the guy, I would’ve had no issue telling him to fuck right off. I would’ve had no issue shooting him dead if he refused to do so. But that kid with him fucked my hard exterior all the way up—even if she doesn’t talk or act much like a kid at all. She can’t be older than thirteen or fourteen, just a few years older than I was when the virus spread and changed the world for good. I remember what it felt like to be that young, dealing with things no generation before me had ever dealt with. I remember how scared I was, how hopeless I felt. And that was in the relatively new and safe confinements of the QZ. I couldn’t imagine being out here in the open that young. And fuck, I can’t imagine how anxious her dad, or whatever the fuck the guy was to her, must be, having no shelter or safety to run to if shit was to go down out here.  

And so, humanity coming out on top, I open my mouth and seal my son and I’s fate. 

“Wait,” I call out, just as the two of them reach the tree line. The girl—Ellie, I think her name is—stops first, spinning around like she’d been expecting this all along. The guy is next to turn, giving me a skeptical quirk of his brow as if he expected hadn’t expected this at all. “Even if I wanted to let the two of you into the cabin, there’s no room.” 

I see the light die a bit more in both of their eyes. The man purses his lips before giving me a solitary nod. “Alright.” 

“But there’s a shed right over there,” I say, pointing behind me to the small, wooden building on the other side of the cabin. “It’s not much, but there’s a furnace and firewood. I can heat up some water and let the two of you use the bathroom inside the cabin to clean up. Maybe see if I can spare some food.” 

“Oh, fuck yeah.” Ellie beams, already making her way across the snow. The man she’s with looks hesitant to follow, but he looks more hesitant to let her carry on without him, and so he joins her.  

“Thank you,” he mutters as he passes the porch, locking eyes with me as if he’s just as suspicious over my good will as I am about him and the girl’s intentions. I only nod in response and pull Colt tighter to me. He’ll no doubt have a million and one questions about our guests, seeing as we’ve never had any before.  

In fact, these two are the only people he’s ever seen, aside from me. He never even got to see his own father, and now I’m bringing two strangers into his life.  

Strangers that could kill us. Strangers that could infect us.  

All because of my stupid, empathetic, hopeful heart that’s telling me that there’s something different about these two.  

Something safe.  

JOEL  

“This is...” Ellie trails off as she scans the shed that’s hardly large enough to fit a twin sized bed—if we had the luxury of having a twin sized bed, that is.  

“It’s better than bein’ out in the cold,” I say, not giving her a chance to shit on the small space. It’s a miracle that woman didn’t shoot us dead, let alone that she let us stay on her property.  

I move over to the old furnace in the corner of the space and squat to check it out. The thing looks ancient, even to my old eyes, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. The older the appliance, the less likely it is to need things we don’t have access to, like gas or electricity. And this old beast looks like it runs strictly off of good old-fashioned burning logs.  

“Alright, you stay put,” I order with a grunt as I stand upright. “I’m goin’ t’grab some logs. Maybe see about some hot water.” 

“What the fuck do I do, then?” she asks, lifting her hands before letting them fall to her sides. “Just sit here and freeze?” 

“Could make yourself useful and clean the old ashes out of the furnace,” I say with a shrug as I shove open the rickety wooden door. “Or you can sit there. Either way, you’re stayin’ put.” 

She grumbles something that I don’t manage to catch as I walk back out into the cold, but what’s new. Always a smart-assed remark from her loaded up and ready to go. Her and Bill would’ve had a hell of a time going back and forth.  

As I trudge through the snow, I try not to think about my now deceased friend and instead fix my attention onto the pile of logs I remember seeing on the other side of the cabin. Only when I reach the porch do I hear the sound of two voices—one feminine and soft and one tiny and energetic—going back and forth.  

“So they’re going to be living with us?” the boy asks, and from where I’m standing just around the corner, I can see him following his mother back and forth from the river to the back porch of the cabin as she fills buckets up with ice-cold water from the creek behind the cabin.  

“Not permanently,” she says with a sigh. “Just until the storm passes.” 

“Can I go play with the girl, then? Until the storm passes?” 

“No, baby,” she says, and another, deeper sigh slips free as she prepares for the inevitable follow-up question kids his age always have ready to go. 

“Why?” he whines, stomping his boot to emphasize his point.  

“Because,” she says, stopping in place to look down at him. “We don’t know them. We don’t know if they’re safe.” 

“She didn’t look infected,” he says softly, looking down at his shoes with a frown. “I just wanted to play.” 

Suddenly, I’m hyper aware that I’ve been standing here eavesdropping on an intimate moment between the two of them. Clearing my throat, I continue on toward them—toward the logs that sit in a pile a few feet from them. Instinctively, the woman reaches for her son and pulls him close. I don’t blame her or take offense. She doesn’t know me. It’s the same reason I told Ellie to stay put. 

“Just grabbin’ some logs,” I say as a way of greeting.  

“I’m about to start heating up some water for you two,” she says, gesturing at the buckets that sit full on the back porch.  

“Thank you,” I reply as I scoop up a few logs and tuck them under my arm, ready to go my own way and leave the two of them be.  

“Wait—” Her voice stops me, and I turn to face her with furrowed brows. “What was your name?” 

Right. Hadn’t had time to do the whole introductions thing with guns pointed at each other.  

“Joel,” I say, before tilting my head towards the shed. “And her name’s Ellie.” 

She tells me her name and then her son’s, Colt. When I lock eyes with the boy, he gives me a friendly smile and a timid wave.  

Poor kid. Being sheltered like this hasn’t taught him a thing about being friendly to strangers.  

But he’s not my problem.  

Neither of them are. 

READER 

It’s an hour after exchanging names that I invite Ellie into the cabin to use the bathroom. There’s no running water out here, just buckets of water collected from the creek out back that I’ve boiled on the wood-burning stove. Whoever owned this cabin in the days of old made a wise choice at keeping all the appliances ancient and manual. It was one of the many reasons Kit and I settled here to begin with. That and the cold weather that keeps stragglers from venturing this far north during the autumn and winter months.  

Her guardian—Joel—has chosen to remain close by as she uses the bathroom, lingering on the porch in the cold rather than sit in the old shed. I get it. He doesn’t trust me, and even though I’d never harm that kid without a good reason to, it’s a smart move on his part.  

Trust is a fragile thing these days. It’s something I’ve only ever given to one person. Something I’ve only ever received from two.  

“You hungry?” I ask, stepping out onto the porch with a bowl of steaming stew in hand. It’s not anything to write home about in terms of flavor and quality of ingredients, but it’s hot and it’s enough to fill a stomach. These days, that’s about as much as anyone can ask for.  

Joel tilts his head towards me, his brows furrowed as his eyes drift from mine to the bowl in my hand. There’s flecks of snow laying gently on top of his brown and grey curls, at the tips of his eyelashes. Clearly, he doesn’t want to accept the food, but with him out here turning into Jack Frost, there’s no way I’m backing down. “Listen, you don’t have to eat it, but I’m going to leave it out here with you in case you change your mind. When Ellie comes out, there’s food waiting for her, too.” 

“You put anything in it?” he asks, hesitating before lifting his hand to take the bowl from mine.  

“Running low on poison these days,” I say dryly, earning another one of those unreadable, unamused looks of his. I can’t say my face tells any different of a story. “Look, believe me or not, I didn’t poison the damn food. Just trying to do the decent thing here.” 

He sets the bowl down beside him and turns to face me a bit more, his jaw ticking as he studies me like an opponent. “I appreciate all that you’re doin’, lettin’ us stay here and all, but let’s not get this twisted. We’ve both got people to protect. I’m not takin’ any chances with mine, and I trust you’re not takin’ any with yours. Let’s just agree to take care of our own and leave all this other shit out of it.” 

Okay, asshole.  

“It was a bowl of soup, not my fucking hand in marriage,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “But you don’t want decency, that’s fine. I’m still going to offer what I can to Ellie because she’s a kid and deserves to be shown some decency.” 

“She’s fine.“ 

“She’s capable of telling me to fuck off just like you have,” I counter as I lean down and scoop the bowl off the porch. “Hope that pride keeps you warm and full tonight. Dick.” 

JOEL 

I might’ve been a little harsh earlier, but something about the way she was looking at me set me off. It looked too much like pity, maybe even judgement. She probably thinks I’m some reckless, negligent guardian who can’t take care of a kid. To be fair, I might be. But I’ll be damned if I let this woman I don’t know judge me and treat me like some charity case when Ellie and I are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves.  

It’s just this fucking storm rolling in that had us out here seeking shelter. The minute this blizzard rolls through and skies clear up a bit, we’re gone. And the less of a debt we owe, the better.  

Though I turned my nose up at the hot stew I was offered—a decision my stomach is angry at me for—I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to take a warm bath. Even if it was creek water. Even if the water only made it up to my hips. Warmth is warmth, and my aching bones have needed it more than I realized.  

Dragging a wash cloth over my arms, I marvel at the amount of dirt and grime I’ve been wearing for however long it’s been. Twenty years ago, I’d be disgusted. These days, I’m surprised it’s not worse. Even in the QZ, people just got used to being dirty all the damn time. You washed the important bits—the bits you planned on giving others access to—but the rest often went neglected. After all, what’s the sense in scrubbing yourself clean every day when you’re just going to get caked in blood and sweat and mud and ash the next day?  

I was surprised to see that our host had a decent stockpile of bar soaps underneath the sink. The smuggler I used to be would’ve swiped a good chunk of it for myself, but those days are long in the past now. Besides, she’s got that kid of hers to worry about keeping clean. No sense in letting all that soap go to waste on a man who doesn’t even have access to clean water most of the time.  

Using the already used bar that sits on the ledge, I lather my body up and take in the scent of Irish Spring—something clean and artificial and nostalgic all at the same time. It makes me feel a bit more human. A bit less like an animal trained for survival.  

Surviving is all I’ve done, even when it was the last thing I meant to do.  

I find myself wondering about Tommy, about his survival. I wonder if he’s somewhere with Irish Spring and warm meals or if he’s gotten himself into trouble. I wonder if he’s even alive.  

God, I hope he is.  

A knock at the door startles me out of my thoughts.  

“Dude, did you pass out in there? The kid needs to use the bathroom!” Ellie shouts, clearly disobeying my command to head back to the shed and wait for me. I sigh, using the last bit of water in the bucket to rinse myself off before pulling the plug out of the drain.  

It only take me a minute to dry off and get dressed into the spare set of clothes I have tucked into my pack. They’re not much cleaner, but it’s better than what I’ve been wearing for weeks now. Eventually, I’ll have to break down and wash them in some creek when the weather gets warmer, but we’re a long ways away from that.  

“Sorry,” I mutter as I step out of the bathroom, finding Ellie sitting on an old armchair in the tiny living room that doubles as the bedroom. In the corner, on an old queen mattress, sits our host and her son, but only Colt looks my way.  

“Have a nice bath?” he asks, friendly and surprisingly well articulated for his age.  

I grunt in response before turning to Ellie. “I told you to wait in the shed.” 

“I was offered food,” she says, feigning manners I know she doesn’t possess. “It would be rude to turn it down.” 

“You’d think,” our host mutters under her breath, just loud enough for my shitting hearing to catch it.  

“C’mon,” I say, snapping my fingers at Ellie.  

“Thank you for the bath and the food,” Ellie says, earning a polite nod and a small smile from our host. “Colt, it was nice talking dinosaurs with you.” 

“You too,” he says with a giggle, kicking his feet off the edge of the bed. “Bye Ellie. Bye Joel.” 

Once again, I don’t reply.  

“You could be a little nicer,” Ellie says, rolling her eyes as we walk through the snow to the shed. “She told me how you turned her food down. Big mistake, by the way. Shit was gooooood.” 

“Got food of my own,” I grumble.  

“Ah, yes. Cold, canned beans. So much better than hot stew.”  

“I’ll be fine,” I say, and it’s true. I’ve had less and worse to eat in the last twenty years.  

“Just saying,” she says as we nestle ourselves into the small shed. I’m quick to get the furnace reignited, my hair too wet to be out in this cold for much longer. “She’s nice, Colt’s cool. Maybe you play your cards right and you’ll have a girlfriend and a stepson to come back to after we’re done in Salt Lake.” 

“Very funny.” 

“Seriously! She’s hot in like a mom sort of way. Why not?” 

“I’m good,” I say, shaking my head as I sit down against the wall and bask in the warmth of the fire. “Not on the market.” 

“But if you were—“ 

“She’d still be twenty some odd years younger than me.” 

“Boring,” Ellie yawns, curling up on the floor with her backpack as a pillow. “Whatever. Just trying to set your depressed ass up for some happiness.”  

“Can you act like a normal kid for one second?” I ask, my voice groggy with sleep. “Set yourself up for some sleep.” 

“Fuck you,” she mumbles, already halfway gone.  

“Yeah, goodnight to you too, kid.” 

[galaxy-stardust]

Simon Ghost Riley x you

Gift from Simon 🐾

Part 3

The days passed too quickly. It always felt like time slipped through your fingers whenever Simon was home. Before you knew it, he was standing in the hallway, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder, Shadow sitting obediently by your feet. She had grown surprisingly disciplined with Simon’s training, though you knew her progress was also thanks to the bond you’d been building with her.

Simon crouched down, scratching behind Shadow’s ears. “You take care of her, yeah?” he said to the puppy, who wagged her tail in response.

“She’s not the one you need to worry about,” you said softly, your arms crossed as you tried to keep your emotions in check.

Simon stood, his dark eyes locking onto yours. He reached out, his gloved hand brushing your cheek. “You’ll be fine, love. You’re stronger than you think.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “I just wish you didn’t have to go.”

“I know,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “But I’ll call when I can. And I’ll come back to you.”

With one last lingering look, he turned and walked out the door, leaving the apartment feeling colder and emptier than it had in weeks.

The first few days were the hardest. Shadow sensed your unease, staying close to you wherever you went. She’d curl up at your feet while you worked and nudge you with her nose when you seemed particularly down.

Late one night, as you sat on the couch scrolling through your phone, it buzzed with a new message.

Simon: Still awake, love?

Your heart leapt at the sight of his name. You quickly typed back.

You: Yeah. Couldn’t sleep. Are you okay?

There was a pause before his reply.

Simon: I’m fine. Long day, but I needed to hear from you.

You: I miss you.

Simon: I miss you too. Tell me about your day. How’s Shadow?

You smiled, glancing at the puppy snoozing beside you.

You: She’s doing great. She’s learned “stay” and “come” without treats now. But she keeps trying to steal my socks.

Simon: Smart girl. She’s keeping you on your toes.

You: She’s doing her best to fill the void you left.

The typing indicator blinked for a moment before his response came through.

Simon: I’m sorry I have to leave, love. You mean the world to me.

Your chest tightened, and you hesitated before typing back.

You: I know. Just come back to me in one piece, okay?

Simon: Always. Get some rest, yeah? I’ll call when I can.

Weeks passed, and Shadow grew more confident and skilled. You worked with her daily, reinforcing the commands Simon had taught her and adding new ones. She’d gone from a clumsy, playful puppy to a well-trained companion, though her mischievous streak still peeked through.

One evening, as you sat on the floor playing tug-of-war with Shadow, your phone buzzed with an incoming call. You scrambled to answer it, your heart racing when you saw Simon’s name.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Hey, love,” Simon’s deep voice rumbled through the phone. “How’re you holding up?”

“I’m okay. Just tired. Shadow’s been keeping me busy.”

“I’ll bet. She giving you trouble?”

“Only when she’s stealing my socks,” you said with a small laugh.

Simon chuckled. “She’s got good taste, then.”

There was a pause, the kind that felt heavy with unspoken words. Finally, you broke the silence. “How are you? Are you safe?”

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice softening. “Just tired like you. Long days, but thinking about you helps.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you bit your lip. “What do you think about?”

“You, in our bed. Curled up with Shadow. Or the way you look in the morning, hair all messy, wearing my shirt.” His voice dropped lower, sending a shiver down your spine. “I miss touching you, holding you. I miss your laugh, your smile… everything.”

Your breath hitched. “Simon…”

“I’ll be home soon,” he said, his tone filled with quiet promise. “And when I am, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

You smiled through the tears that pricked your eyes. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The next few weeks flew by as you focused on work and Shadow’s training. She’d grown noticeably larger, her once floppy ears now standing tall. She was fiercely loyal, sticking to your side during walks and alerting you to any strange sounds in the apartment.

One evening, as you prepared dinner, Shadow suddenly perked up, her tail wagging furiously as she ran to the door. You frowned, wiping your hands on a towel before following her.

The knock on the door made your heart leap. You rushed to open it, and there he was—Simon, his duffle bag at his feet, Shadow practically vibrating with excitement as she jumped up to greet him.

“Hey, love,” he said, his voice warm and tired.

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. “You’re home.”

“I told you I’d come back,” he murmured, holding you tightly.

Shadow barked happily at your feet, and Simon chuckled. “Missed me too, did you, girl?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still gripping his jacket. “You’re staying for a while this time, right?”

“For as long as I can,” he promised, his dark eyes soft as they met yours.

In that moment, with Simon back and Shadow by your side, the loneliness that had haunted you disappeared. For now, you were whole again.

[blueishspace]

Hero, Villain God 55

(Prev) (Next) (First)

*Grian's pov*

You sigh in relief, that was close... too close, you almost had to think about some of the stuff you really don't want to aknowledge.... Hopefully Joel doesn't get funny ideas from that.

Sure, you might have gotten a slight bit attached to one mortal...or two...but it's just more fun this way! Yes! Nothing more to it. Nothing at all... And well you don't need to justify yourself to him anyway! Who is he to question you? ... Outside of like being the literal sky.

You are digging your metaphorical hole deeper at this point.

...

ANYWAY, It's time to go back to your vessel now, It's been a long enough time that it shouldn't be too weird for you to wake up... Well it might still be but at this point you are too bored to care.

You just give it a bit of a push and you open your eyes.

Ugh, It's way too bright in here and now that you are back inside the body the pain has somewhat returned, going to have to fix that at one point tll. You never understood why humans were made to be so fleshy and weak and sickly in the first place...

You push yourself up on the medical bef, the muscle mass in the arms is mostly intact with minimal athropy luckily, the legs are pretty much the same so not an horrible state by mortal standards at least... The door to the room opens, It's a nurse... She seems shocked to see you awake, she quickly dashes to your bedside to check on some monitors near you...then after a few minutes of questions that you really didn't care about she nods and leaves to make a call...

Soon after Cub burst trough the door, covered from head to toe in water.

"Grian? I was told you were up."

"That I am ..."

You should probably be asking questions right, they think you have been unconcious for the last week or so.

"... What happened? The uh nurse that found me when I woke up didn't explain much."

There! Perfect! Now he thinks you are clueless and your divinity is once more kept secret, good job you!

"You ...got shot protecting Hotguy from a sniper"

"And how long was I...?"

"Oh just... A bit more less then two weeks"

"Hmm."

...

The silence that follows is akward, you just want to get this over with so you can leave and the two of you barely know eachother... You really want to ask about what the associations current plans are for you but you can't just ask that, you already made Cub suspicious with the blood samples way before everything went down...

...Ok maybe you can phrase it in a non-suspicious way, It's a better option then laying on the bed for who knows how long.

"So... What now?"

"Uh?"

"Can I like ...leave now?" That should sound earnest enough hopefully.

"What?"

Cub is not the expressive type, you have gathered that from the little you have seen of him. This is not an exception, he just tilts his head before giggling a bit, you really can't tell if It's genuine or not.

"Grian, you just woke up from a coma you- you can't just...you can't just get up and leave."

"Oh..."

Well then, you messed it up, he's -

"Where would you even get that idea? Is that something you have done before? Wake up from a possibly life ending injury and just leave?"

There is a right answer is. . . You don't know what that is, you have no clue what he wants you to say. So you do a bit of gambling.

"Yes yes, many times, all the time"

His smile falters a bit, this somehow feels more like genuine confusion or thought...he just looks at you, did you say the wrong thing? You should have just done the mind reading trick... No, you gave yourself a challenge, if you just used all your powers this wouldn't be any fun anymore.

...

He doesn't even say anything else he just keeps looking, you tilt your head a bit and it seems to bring him back.

"Right... Well, I'll be speaking with the medical staff then."

"Sure."

He slowly gets up and after a few seconds goes to open the door and leave... He stops just as he reaches for the door.

"And Grian?"

"Yeah?"

"Scar is worried, should -"

"Tell him to come by."

"Alright"

And like that he's gone.

*End of Chapter 10*

[jtl07]

Shenanigans prompt - avatrice as queer superheroes, one is out, the other not yet...

hey anon, apologies on the delay here - caught a bit of a cold over the weekend; hopefully this reads alright. decided to lean on a previous shenanigan where Bea is a super and Ava is The Halo...

"Uh oh, we've got a level 5 thinking face. Who do I have to go rough up?"

Beatrice blinks up at Ava, still in costume and hovering next to her on the rooftop that was completely empty just a few moments ago. Or hours, considering the deep darkness of the sky. Beatrice frowns, not used to losing track of time. Then Ava's words catch up to her. "What do you mean level 5?"

"Like yknow," Ava says, flipping onto her side in midair, as if lying on a couch. She's somehow also procured a bag of gummy bears that she offers to Beatrice. Beatrice waves it off, looks at her expectantly. "Like hurricanes and stuff. Your thinking face is intense. Sexy though, don't get me wrong -"

Beatrice rolls her eyes, ignores the brief rush of heat to her cheeks. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're running yourself more ragged than any of the fights we had this week. And I dunno about you, but this week was shit." Ava flips over onto her stomach, hovers towards Beatrice until their face to face. "Cmon. Talk to me."

Beatrice sighs. "It's dumb."

"Probably not but I'm still listening."

"It's just -" Beatrice bites at her lip "Pride is coming up." It's hard to ignore, what with all the decorations, all the excitement. It's also why she and Ava have been working so hard lately, to make sure the festivities are exactly that: festive, joyful; safe.

"Yeah! Cam said she's got my new cape with the rainbow lining ready. I'm so excited to wear it," Ava all but squeals, wiggling still in midair.

"I'm excited to see it," Beatrice says - and she's telling the truth, she is.

Ava touches down quietly. Takes Beatrice's hand. "But?"

A deep breath shudders out of Beatrice. Followed by a tremulous want: "I just wish I could do something like that too."

The words hang in the night air, held in the quiet space between them. There's so much Beatrice wishes she could do, that she could be. She can do all the super things - fly faster than the speed of sound, leap tall buildings in a single bound - but when it comes to being normal; when it comes to being simply Beatrice -

"You can, Bea." Ava wraps Beatrice's hand with both of hers, surrounding it in warmth. "But only if you want to."

"But -"

"No buts." Ava's voice is firm. "There's no duty in this. It has to be for you first." She tugs gently on Beatrice's hand and brings her in close; cradles Beatrice's head against her shoulder. "We have time, Bea. There's no rush. And when you're ready, I know a certain journalist who can write one hell of a coming out story. I should know: she wrote mine."

Beatrice laughs softly into the curve of Ava's neck. Presses a light kiss there. "Thank you, Ava." For loving me as I am.

[ashes-writing-corner]

And we are back, literally on time for Nosferatu to come out! Yall gifmakers are gifts from the gods I swear! Thank you for all you do! And to those who read my story and enjoy it, yall are gifts too and I love all of you ^^

Taglist: @exactlyelegantwizard, @xenoanamorph, @hoeia-strigoi, @arwenkenobi48, @xanth420, @serpentdeath, and @landlockedmermaid77

If you want to be added to the taglist please let me know ^^

On to chapter 3!

Exile: A Nosferatu Fanfic

Chapter 3

You're not my homeland anymore. So what am I defending now?

Ellen was at a loss. She honestly had no idea what to do. How could this have happened? How could she have been so blind? Ever eternally…and the Beast had seriously meant it. Even in death they couldn't be parted. There had to be a way…something…anything. This was not how she wanted to spend her eternal rest, lying next to the monster who made her life a living hell.

Not just her life. Thomas’ too for the brief time he knew of the situation. Her beloved Thomas…she couldn’t help but wonder about him now. Where was he? Was he even alive? Ellen didn’t take him for the sort to take his own life, and she would be devastated if that were the case. He had been her everything after the Beast abandoned her initially.

Oh yes, he left her. He left her alone when she needed him most. Left her with nothing but trauma and a severely scarred soul and a heart to match. It had hurt, even if Ellen wouldn’t admit it aloud. She didn’t understand why he had pulled away so harshly, so suddenly. But he stopped answering her, stopped visiting her, leaving her with this numbing sadness. She had waited, and waited, weeks turning to months, before she met Thomas.

He had been one of the few suitors her father had found for her. He wasn’t rich, nor did he have a well known name, but Thomas was hard working, honest, and decent. All were qualities her dear papa had liked and respected about him. Despite her oddities, he was so kind to her, so warm, courteous, and gentle. A better suitor couldn’t be asked for. So no surprise they courted and finally Thomas asked her to marry him, which Ellen was quick to accept.

With her acceptance, she thought that was the end of it. The Demon was gone, she was happy, and had all she wanted. Ellen didn’t need wealth or a nice house or material things. She just wanted a peaceful, happy life with her sweetheart. That was all.

But of course, the dead can never stay dead for long…

Furie whined softly next to her on the bed, his ears flattened as if sensing her emotions. For a hound literally named Rage, he seemed to have very little of it. The wolfhound had literally stayed by her side for the past two days, keeping watch over her for his master. The Beast hadn’t come back, just as Ellen commanded, and it made her wonder: Was he bound still by her power? Did she still hold some sort of sway over him, even in death?

Ellen had tried to be kind in a sense. She had to kill him, there was no doubt in her mind about that. He needed to die. But she had tried to be kind as it happened, for the sake of what they once were to each other. That was only fair wasn’t it? Ellen had tried to give him one last kiss, one last small gesture of love before they were both gone. It was only meant to be kind, as a way to let go of what once was.

She gently pet Furie. “It’s okay. I’m alright. I promise. I just…have a lot on my mind”.

The wolfhound looked at her, his ears perked as if he were listening intently. Ellen chuckled, her first laugh since her death.

“I don’t know if you’d be able to understand. But…I don’t really have anyone else to talk to I suppose-”.

Furie whined, as if attempting to remind her there was someone she could talk to. Ellen shook her head.

“Trust me, I would rather much talk to you more than him. At least you don’t try to tell me I did the right thing for the wrong reason” Ellen paused, “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. I know what the covenant said but I thought with death it would be done. I could be free. But I’m not and I don’t know why”.

She knew why. It said Ever Eternally…but she didn’t understand why that meant even after death. Ellen got up and looked out the window, peering out the expansive, glistening surroundings. For a second she thought she heard a voice, a soft collective of voices, on the wind calling her name somewhere in the distance. It sounded like the whispers of every person she ever knew: Thomas, Papa, Freidrich and Anna and their children, even the Demon’s voice could be heard among them. Ellen felt her mind go blank a moment, her eyes going a strange milky white color as though she had died again. Furie rose from the bed and growled, followed by a sharp bark, pulling Ellen back to herself.

She took a deep breath and blinked several times to recollect herself. Ellen turned to the dog, calming herself a little as he came to her side and whined, nuzzling her hand. She pet him, breathing deeply as her mind and spirit settled back into her body. What in the world was that, that strange call?

Ellen kept a hand on Furie’s head. “Good boy. Thank you…thank you so much. I think I might’ve been in a little bit of trouble had I somehow answered that”.

Furie whined, wagging his tail at her praise. He had sensed something was amiss and had been quick to pull his mistress back from what he thought was something that could and would seriously harm her. He was entrusted with her safety after all, and the wolfhound clearly took that job to heart.

“It’s always snowing here” Ellen looked outside again thoughtfully, “How about we go outside and do something fun?”

The wolfhound cocked his head curiously and Ellen smiled as she got up to change. She wasn’t sure if she really needed to dress warmly in this world, but she figured it was better to be safe than sorry. The wardrobe was shockingly full of clothes she remembered wearing in the other world…and there were others in there she had never seen. Older dresses, some furs that looked like they hadn’t been touched in ages. These weren’t hers. But yet, somehow, they felt familiar. The texture, the smell hiding beneath years of unuse…she knew these older articles of clothing somewhere. Again, it was like a memory from a dream she had a long time ago…

“Let go” she heard a voice sound in her head, one that was eerily similar to her own, but not quite hers, “Please…you have to let go…for me…”

In her mind’s eye, Ellen could see the image of a woman with a face like hers, but her hair was a shining copper color, and her eyes a deep blue tinged with green. She looked pale, deathly so, laying in bed looking at her dead in the eye. Her pale blue-purple lips trembled as she reached a quivering hand out to her.

“Please…love…I’m afraid…”

Ellen dropped the fur coat immediately, frightened by the dream. It was like looking at her own pale, dying face in a mirror. Only the reflection had spoken to her. She set the coat back in the wardrobe and grabbed one of her own warmer outfits for her outside activities, which Ellen wasn’t even sure if she wanted to do anymore.

No, no, she did want to. She needed to get out of this castle, out of this room, even for a short while. Even if it was to do something silly and childish with a large wolfhound at her side. Ellen redressed herself and motioned for Furie to follow her, something akin to excitement blooming in her chest. She hadn’t done this particular activity since she was little and she always loved doing it.

She made her way outside, surprisingly avoiding the Demon. Ellen glanced around, rendered breathless by the glistening snow around her. It was as though the grounds of the castle were being purified under a blanket of white. Ellen stepped out, the soft snow giving out a satisfying crunch under her booted feet. Furie followed behind her, his tail wagging in excitement. He liked being outside, but liked it even more with her it seemed.

Ellen found a nice, clear spot to begin her work. She made a ball, small enough to fit in her gloved hand and slowly started to roll it around to increase its size. Her troubles seemed far away as she worked, her mind drifting to happier times. Furie moved the ball too with his head and Ellen laughed.

“Trying to help me now?” She asked and gave him a pet, “such a good, sweet boy. I don't get why he called you Furie. You're anything but” Ellen stopped in her work to give the wolfhound pets along his chin and chest. All the while his tail kept wagging in delight.

“You are the sweetest thing I swear” she put her nose to his and giggled, feeling very much like a little girl again.

Ellen turned back to her task, and Furie joined her in pushing the ball around. Little did they know, the third hound, Durere, had spotted them outside and ran back in to tell his sister and master about it.

He let out several barks to Orlok, as if trying to articulate what he saw. The vampire glared.

“She's outside?” He got up and glanced out a nearby window.

Lo and behold, there was his Little Soul, rolling a large ball of snow around with Furie, before finally settling it somewhere. What in the world was she doing out there? Chaos still called for her, and she was still susceptible to its call. It wasn't safe to be out there alone. Orlok turned from the window, grabbing his enormous coat to go out and keep an eye on her…

“I think we can start on the body now, hm Furie?” Ellen asked, to which the wolfhound barked and wagged his tail.

She turned to start a new ball, this one to be slightly smaller than the other, when Ellen felt her blood run cold. An all too familiar shadow fell over her, and she knew it was the Beast. She sighed and stopped rolling the ball as Furie barked a greeting to his master. Ellen stood, facing him fully for the first time since they found themselves here to see him petting all three wolfhounds.

“You’ve named him poorly” she dared to say, “There’s not an ounce of rage in him”.

“Because you haven’t seen him angry…yet” Orlok replied, looking over at the large ball of snow, “What is it you’re doing, Micul Suflet?”.

Ellen stifled the urge to glare at the nickname. “I would appreciate it if you used my name…And what does it look like I’m doing? I’m making a…a snowman”.

He raised a brow. “A what?”

“A snowman. Have you never…” she stopped when he just looked contemplative, as if the concept of such a winter activity was foreign to him, “You’ve never made one before, have you?”

“Such things were considered a waste of time back in my youth. I spent the winters studying, learning and preparing for my role” He told her, almost avoiding her eyes.

“You never even got to do such things? Just…do childish things like this?”.

Ellen didn’t need an answer. His silence and avoidance were more than enough of an answer. Honestly it hurt something in her to know that. Maybe that was a part of the problem, why he turned out like this. Ellen took a single step toward him, a hand reaching for his.

“Come…join me. Help me with this” she requested, “Please?”

He pulled his long clawed hand away from her, shaking his head. “It’s a childish waste of-”.

“Stop. Right now. Time doesn’t mean anything anymore. It’s okay. We can do things like this. No one’s here to stop us or judge us or anything. Who cares if it’s childish? A time spent in merriment isn’t wasted time, even if time was still relevant to us” Ellen looked in his eyes, “A passionate hour is never a wasted one. Help me with this…Just once”.

Orlok narrowed his eyes at her and then the huge ball of snow. He sighed in annoyance and shook his head.

“Fine…Once, and that’s it” he conceded.

“Once is all I ask” she smiled coyly, like a cat who had just caught her prey. Her first genuine smile since they appeared here.

But even that was enough to make something in his chest feel awfully warm…

If you guys enjoyed this please feel free to like, reblog, and comment! If you wanna read more of my work, feel free to follow! Thank you all so much for reading and I'll see you in the next one ^^ <3

[ledesaid]

Someone once told me ╚-.╚-.╚-.╚-.

..............................................

"Don't trust strangers..."

I think I had no choice when I met him.

The lights of the trains passing through my station were new, this section of the route was closed, but they pass so quickly that they barely illuminate the entire station.

But that station felt smaller than I usually remember.

It felt so lonely.

I felt trapped.

There was only one way out. I knew it, the echo resonating through the tunnels invited me every hour without fail to get on that train. I've lost count of how many times it has stopped and started again.

I may not know about equations, but I know that something entered the station and did something.

But I couldn't ask and was tied up, literally trapped.

The exit of the station had disappeared and an invisible force pushed me away from the train tracks.

I would be desperate, I really was, but I couldn't ask for help... I thought that if they were my last moments, they would be fine, always and whenever they stopped.

The train stopped every six hours, waited five minutes, and then left again.

Maybe I could have watched this for weeks, but I felt so tired that I knew I could only withstand one more cycle of the train, there was only one bottle of water and two granola bars left.

It was unfair that I had no choice...

But at least, as a mark of my passage through the world, I took a can of paint that someone had left and began to write on the station floor:

"Hello, my name is Billy Batson. I am nine years old and I'm going to get on an unknown train."

"This sucks, please call Superman for me."

For my tired self, I couldn't think of anything better at the moment, I had no friends, parents, or anyone close... That still hurts even now.

When the doors opened for the last time, I knew it was over... I knew it was time and I just took what little I had with me. A stuffed animal, a blanket, and half my bottle of water.

The train didn't take long to move forward as it usually did, I realized it was a trap, but I didn't try to get off and just sat and waited.

The windows only illuminated the stations very quickly like flashes and, after a few minutes, there was only a blinding light that disoriented me.

I tasted fear in my throat, held on to the only thing I had... a small tiger stuffed animal, and begged for it to end soon.

At some point, I fell asleep, but when I opened my eyes, the doors were open and I believed I was alone again...

I decided to get off. I had no other choice.

Billy: "Come on Batson, you can do it..." I tried not to cower before the unknown.

To my surprise, there was no station to welcome me, only a dark cave in its place.

***: "Welcome William, I have been waiting for you for a long time..."

Billy: "Who are you? Why am I here?"

***: "I am the wizard Shazam and you have been chosen as the champion of magic."

Billy: "I want to leave."

Shazam: "You have no choice. The Olympians have chosen you and you just answered the call."

Billy: "You forced me to get on the train."

Shazam: "It's an honor to be chosen, William, and you only need to say my name 'Shazam' and you will be able to walk among mortals carrying my power with you to protect magic. The end of my era has come, good luck Captain Marvel, you will need it..."

I still have nightmares about a giant rock crushing the wizard I had just met.

Two days later I couldn't take it anymore and invoked the wizard's name... One week later I saved Fawcett, six months later they offered me to join the league and now, two years later, I'm telling you my story... I really, really didn't expect to tell this to anyone... I'm glad you're just an AI, Sanctuary.

Billy: "I must go now, thanks for just listening..."

Sanctuary: "Thank you for your service Captain Marvel, even if it was imposed on you, you have saved many lives. Thank you for getting on the train."

Billy: "You're welcome, I suppose... I had no choice and really, even now, I don't feel like I have one."

[supernotnatural2005]

The Meet Cute - Chapter Three

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: After deliberating with yourself for weeks about committing to a date with Dean, you finally take the plunge after some much needed encouragement off of your best friend and the desire to see Dean again.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: FLUFF, mentions of past relationships, Matty is something else 😂

AN: Here it is! I'm excited to finally be sharing this with you all and hope it was worth the wait. I do apologise for it taking so long, but I wanted it to be right. Also, I am from the UK, and know very little about American customs and their multicultural societies etc 😅 What is included in this chapter is purely based off of research, so I do apologise if any of it is wrong.

Main Masterlist

TMC Masterlist

The first few weeks after the wedding weekend flew by in a blur. Work had been relentless, and though you had Dean’s number and exchanged a few texts, you just couldn’t find the time—or the courage—to meet him again. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. Every time his name lit up your phone, your stomach would flip, and you’d catch yourself smiling before you could stop. But the thought of stepping into something new, something that could hurt as much as it could heal, was terrifying.

Matty had been the loudest voice in your ear, even from across the country. After the wedding, he’d returned to LA, and his absence was palpable. Phone calls and late-night texts were all you had now, and this evening was no different, and as perusal the topic was brought back to Dean. 

“Babe, you’re doing that thing again,” he said in a sing song voice over the line. “You’re overthinking, overanalysing, and over-everything-ing. Just go out with him. It’s one date.”

“It’s not that simple,” you replied, picking at the edge of your blanket you had draped over your legs, a glass of half-drunk wine sat beside you. Outside, the rain drizzled against the windows, the soft patter mirroring the unease in your chest. It was a common denominator in your augment of why you hadn’t gone on this date already. 

“You don’t understand,” you said, your voice quieter now. “The last time I let someone in, it broke me. You were there, Matty. You saw what it did.” Although it had been nearly 3 years, sometimes the wounds still felt fresh, no matter how much ‘healing’ you’d done. 

The line was silent for a moment, and then Matty’s voice softened. “I did. And I also saw you rebuild yourself. You’re stronger now, more than you realise and you deserve to be happy. Don’t let fear keep you from that.” You sighed softly, knowing and hating that he was always right. But it was moments like this that made you only cherish your friendship more. 

“Now, onto more important topics. Has he sent you a dick pic yet? And can I see it?” 

After scrubbing, to no avail, at the wine stain you’d made by spluttering all over your beige blanket as a result from choking on your wine.

Leave it to Matty to turn a tender moment vulgar.

His previous words had stuck with you long after the call ended. 

They echoed in your mind as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. You’d spent so long guarding your heart, building walls to keep the pain out. But those same walls had also kept joy at bay. Could you really let someone in again?

The decision came one evening when a text from Dean popped up. It was a meme—a goofy, exaggerated depiction of a woman in an elaborate ball gown captioned, “Me: ‘I have nothing to wear!’”

You burst out laughing. It was the latest in a string of silly back-and-forth’s you and Dean had been sharing. The unofficial competition to ‘out-meme’ each other had been one of the lighter parts of your chaotic weeks. His text reminded you of the morning after the wedding, when he teased you about your hug faux pas and your insistence that you didn’t need rescuing. 

Somehow, this guy—the one you’d hugged by accident, who had laughed with you through one of the most unexpectedly fun nights of your life—was still here, making an effort.

The thought hit you like a jolt. Dean had stuck around. Even through your genuine excuses of being busy, he hadn’t given up. And he still made you laugh.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you typed out a reply.

You: Okay, you win. When are you free?

His response came almost immediately.

Dean: I’m free Friday. There’s a little Italian place just outside of town I think you’d like. I’ll pick you up at 6?

You: Deal. 6 it is.

Friday evening arrived quicker than you expected. You spent far too long debating what to wear, rifling through your closet as Matty’s voice echoed in your head.

"Wear something that says, ‘I’m interested but not desperate’”.

“Easy for you to say.” You huffed, settling on a simple pale-yellow sundress paired with some cute wedges you’d purchased a couple of weeks ago, but had yet to wear. By the time you were done with your hair and makeup, you were flustered but cautiously optimistic.

When Dean had texted that he was outside, your stomach was a bundle of nerves. Taking a deep breath, you grabbed your bag, forgoing a jacket since it was the middle of July and the weather was decent enough to not need one, and headed out. 

You were taken by surprise when you first saw his car. It was a classic black Chevy, sleek and immaculate, and somehow it suited him perfectly. Dean leaned casually against the driver’s side, dressed in a dark green button-down that made his eyes stand out even more, paired with some dark-wash jeans and boots. He looked delectable.  

Dean’s grin widened the moment his eyes met yours. "Wow," he said, his voice carrying a mixture of warmth and awe. His gaze swept over you—not in a way that made you feel self-conscious but as if he genuinely appreciated every detail. "You look amazing."

"Thanks," you replied, a shy smile tugging at your lips as a blush crept up your neck. His words, paired with the sincerity in his tone, had you feeling flustered in the best way. "You clean up pretty well yourself."

Dean stepped closer then, his movements unhurried and natural, as though he’d done this a hundred times before. When he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, his lips barely brushing your skin, it was enough to send a shiver down your spine.

"It’s really good to see you," he said softly, his voice tinged with a genuine warmth that melted any lingering nerves.

The unexpected intimacy left you momentarily stunned, your heart pounding in your chest. You barely managed to maintain your composure, though the scent of his cologne—woodsy with a hint of spice—was distracting in the best way. And the way his hand lingered briefly on your arm as he pulled back didn’t help your spiralling thoughts. Damn, why did he always have to smell so good?

"You too," you murmured, your voice softer than you intended. Meeting his eyes for a brief moment, you felt a jolt of something unnameable. It left your stomach flipping and twisting, and before you could overthink, you broke eye contact, glancing toward his car.

“Nice car,” you blurted out, gesturing toward the polished vehicle behind him. Immediately, you wanted to kick yourself for your awkward comment, but Dean didn’t seem to mind. If anything, his grin grew even more excitable.

“She’s my baby, my pride and joy,” he said with a touch of affection, running a hand over the gleaming roof. His tone held such earnest admiration that you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Your baby?” you teased, raising a playful brow.

Dean didn’t falter, not even a little. “What?” he said, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “Are you a little jealous? Afraid of some competition?”

You chuckled, raising your hands in mock surrender. “Oh no, I can clearly see I’m outmatched here. You’re a loyal man. I know my place.”

The two of you laughed together, the teasing exchange breaking the last of the tension. You nodded your thanks with another shy smile as he opened the passenger door for you, even closing it behind you.

As he settled behind the wheel, you couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of your eye. The ease in his smile, the gentle confidence in his movements—it all felt strangely reassuring. Then the teasing voice of your best friend entered your mind for the last time that night. 

“I told you so.” And in that moment, you couldn’t find it in you to argue.

The restaurant was charming, with rustic wooden beams and string lights casting a warm glow. The scent of garlic, basil, and freshly baked bread filled the air, making your stomach rumble. Dean held the door open for you, and the hostess led you to a table by a window overlooking a small, fairy-lit garden.

As you sat down, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of nervousness and excitement. Dean seemed to pick up on it, his expression softening.

“You, okay?” he asked, leaning slightly forward.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, then added with a small laugh, “It’s just been a while since I’ve done this.”

“Me too,” he admitted, a hint of vulnerability peeking through his usual confidence. “But hey, there’s no pressure, alright?”

His reassurance settled some of your nerves, and you nodded in kind. Soon the conversation began to flow, and you talked about your favourite books and movies, the quirks of your jobs, and shared embarrassing childhood stories that left you both laughing. Dean’s laugh was deep and genuine, and you found yourself relaxing more with each passing minute.

“So, the garage,” you said, resting your chin on your hand, you’d just finished a hearty plate of delicious pasta, both of your now empty plates sat off to the side. “How did that happen?”

Dean’s expression shifted, a flicker of something more serious crossing his face. “It started after my mom passed. My dad… he kind of fell apart. The garage became his way of coping, and eventually, it became mine too. It gave us both something to focus on, something to build together.”

“I’m so sorry about your mom,” you said softly.

“Thanks,” he said, his gaze meeting yours. “It was tough, but it taught me a lot about resilience. About not giving up, even when things feel impossible.”

His words struck a chord, the unspoken understanding passing between you. Before the moment grew too heavy, Dean smiled and leaned back in his chair.

“What about you?” he asked. “What’s your family like?”

You hesitated for a moment, then smiled softly. “Well, my mom remarried when I was six, and she and my stepdad, Jeff, had Amy a year later. Jeff’s been amazing—he’s the only father figure I’ve ever known since…” You trailed off but Dean interrupted, seeing it was a tough subject.

“Sounds like a great guy.”

“He is,” you said, your voice warming at the thought. “Growing up, the age difference between me and my sister sometimes made it hard to be super close, but now that we’re older, we’ve found our niche. And I’m so proud of her.”

Dean smiled affectionately at that, maybe because he could relate himself, in that regard.

The rest of the dinner passed by in a blur of laughter and shared stories. When the check came, you realised you weren’t ready for the evening to end.

“I don’t know about you,” you said, fiddling with the edge of your napkin, “but I’m not ready to call it a night yet.” 

Dean’s smile widened and it instantly dampened your rising anxiety from your confession. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, there’s a fiesta festival back in Topeka,” you said. “It’s been going on all week. They have some great sweet treats too.”

“You had me at something sweet, let’s go.” He said, his enthusiasm making you grin. 

Downtown Topeka was alive with vibrant colours, lights and the hum of music. Strings of Papel picado fluttered in the breeze, and the scent of spices and fried dough filled the air. Booths lined the streets, offering everything from handmade crafts to authentic Mexican dishes.

Dean’s eyes lit up like a child on Christmas morning as you passed by a churro stand.

“You want one?” You offered, stepping closer to the stall, he nodded furiously eyes alight with wonder at the cinnamon sugar-coated fired dough, and you exchanged a few dollars to the merchant for two servings. 

After enjoying the sweet treat and finding amusement in Dean’s adamancy that he needed to revisit these little fried pieces of heaven.

You wandered through the festival, stopping to watch traditional dancers perform in brightly coloured dresses. Dean bought you both a drink from one of the stands, and you couldn’t stop teasing him as he tried to pronounce "champurrado" while ordering the warm drink.

“This is incredible,” Dean said, taking in the bustling energy around you. “Do you come here every year?”

“Pretty much,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “It’s one of my favourite parts of living here. What about you? Do you guys have anything like this back in Lawrence?”

Dean tilted his head slightly, his gaze scanning the lively festival around you. “Not like this,” he admitted, the warmth of the surrounding lights reflecting in his eyes. “Sam would love it, though. He’s a big culture guy—always reading up on traditions and history. Stuff like this would be right up his alley.”

“How is Sam, by the way?” you asked curiously, stealing a glance at him as you strolled side by side along the strip. The stars above were fully awake now, scattered across the velvety black sky. The fading hues of twilight had been replaced by a soft chill, and without realising it, you drifted slightly closer to Dean, drawn to his steady warmth.

“He’s doing good,” Dean replied, his tone infused with a mix of pride and affection. “Working a lot as usual. But—big news—he and Jess finally set a date for the wedding.”

“Wow, that’s great!” you said, your excitement genuine. “I’m really happy for him. Though…” you added with a playful smirk, “Matty’s gonna be crushed. He was holding onto hope that Sam would switch sides.”

Dean let out a hearty laugh, the sound warm and unrestrained. “Maybe it’s best you don’t tell him, save him the heartbreak.”

“You’re probably right,” you giggled, shaking your head. “I guess we’re both victims of our younger siblings figuring their lives out before us, huh?” The thought lingered as you looked ahead at the vibrant festival, your tone shifting slightly.

Although you were proud of the life you’d built for yourself, a small part of you had always assumed you’d be the one to walk down the aisle first. It wasn’t jealousy—more a wistful acknowledgment of how differently things had turned out. Your chest tightened briefly at the thought of the man you’d once believed would stand by your side.

But that memory no longer felt sharp. The sting had dulled, replaced by clarity. That relationship would have been suffocating at best—a living hell at worst.

“Funny how things work out,” you murmured, mostly to yourself.

Dean huffed softly, a sound of both agreement and amusement. “I guess we've just been holding out for the right person,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful.

The gentleness of his words made you glance over, only to find his eyes already on you. His gaze was steady, holding something unspoken but unmistakable. It wasn’t just the charm he wore so effortlessly—this was deeper, more earnest.

Your stomach flipped, the air between you charged with something that felt both thrilling and terrifying.

“Maybe,” you said softly, your voice almost a whisper as you held his gaze a moment longer.

The sounds of the festival buzzed around you—the distant laughter of children, the rhythmic thrum of music—but it all felt distant, as though the world had shrunk to just the two of you. Dean’s hand brushed against yours briefly, a subtle, tentative touch that sent a shiver up your spine.

Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his, and Dean took the hint, intertwining his hand with yours. The simple gesture sent a warmth through you, a quiet reassurance you hadn’t realised you needed.

The night continued with more laughter, another helping of churros, at Dean's request, and even a few carnival games. Dean won you a small stuffed bear at a ring toss booth, grinning proudly as he handed it to you. 

You felt like a giddy teenager on her first date. There was something about Dean—the way he carried himself with that effortless blend of cool confidence and boyish charm—that disarmed you completely.

He had a knack for making you feel at ease, like you didn’t have to overthink or try too hard. By the time he walked you to the front door of your building, after driving you home, the evening felt like something pulled straight from a dream.

Dean lingered there with you, the warmth of his hand enveloping yours as his thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles. The simple touch sent a familiar current rippling up your arm, a spark that had been present from the very beginning but now felt undeniable.

“Thank you for tonight,” he said, his voice low and genuine. “I haven’t had this much fun in… I don’t even know how long.”

“Me neither,” you admitted, clutching the stuffed bear he’d won for you against your chest with your free hand.

His gaze softened, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade away. “So,” he began, a faint, hopeful grin tugging at his lips, “is it too soon to ask if I can see you again?”

The space between you felt smaller somehow, his presence radiating warmth against the chill of the night air. His closeness was grounding yet thrilling, and you couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across your face, making your cheeks ache in the best way.

“Not too soon,” you replied, your voice tinged with quiet certainty. “I’d like that.”

Summoning a burst of courage, you rose onto your tiptoes, leaning in to press your lips softly to his. The kiss was brief but full of emotion, and when you pulled back, the surprise on his face was endearing. His lips parted slightly; his eyes wide as though he hadn’t expected it, but then his expression shifted. The initial shock melted away, replaced by a bashful, almost boyish smile that lit up his features.

Your heart raced as you searched his face, the warmth of his lips still lingering on yours. A wave of panic crept in—had that been too much, too soon? You hadn’t planned it, hadn’t thought beyond the pull of the moment. But before you could second-guess yourself, Dean stepped closer, his hand gently brushing against your cheek as he leaned in.

This time, the kiss was deeper, his lips meeting yours with a tender determination that left no room for doubt. It was slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every second, every sensation. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you under the quiet night sky.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with your own. His voice was softer now, almost distracted, as though he were still lost in the moment. “I’ll hold you to that,” he murmured, the words carrying a promise you could feel in your bones.

You pressed on more lingering kiss to his lips, unable to help yourself. There was just something so intoxicating about the way he kissed you—gentle but determined, like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had.

A part of you already felt the addiction creeping in, the kind of pull that made you crave more even as you tried to pace yourself. His lips left a tingling warmth against your own, a sensation you knew you wouldn’t forget.

Reluctantly, you pulled away, your gaze lingering on his as you tried to steady your breathing. “Goodnight, Dean,” you said, a knowing smile playing on your lips, your voice steadier than the whirlwind of emotions inside.

Dean cleared his throat, as though grounding himself, and took a small step back. “Night, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice rougher but no less tender.

You watched as he retreated toward his car, the sound of the engine breaking the silence of the street. As his taillights disappeared around the corner, the events of the night replayed in your mind like a dream—the laughter, the easy conversation, the way he had made you feel so seen and safe.

Clutching the stuffed bear tighter, you leaned against your door, a quiet smile still lingering on your face. For the first time in what felt like forever, a spark of hope flickered in your chest. It wasn’t just a fleeting feeling—it was a sense of possibility.

Maybe, just maybe, you could let someone in again.

AN: And there we have it. I'd love to know what you all thought? How did you like 'the date'? Are you excited to see where it all leads with these two? 👀 Also I know Matty is a fan favourite for some, and his part was much smaller, but there will be more of him to come 😁 As always thank you for reading 💕

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @lyarr24 , @nancymcl

Series Tag List:

@zepskies , @roseblue373 , @muhahaha303

[almostwisegalaxy]

Under a grey sky

Bonus part

Older men oc x fem!reader

Reader has a shy character in this story and is in his twenties

Music to listen to for the atmosphere: DtMF_bad Bunny

Debí tirar más fotos de cuando de tuve. Debi darte más besos y abrazos. Las veces que pude...

Translation : I should have taken more photos of when I had it. I should have given you more kisses and hugs. The times I could. (⁠ᗒ⁠ᗩ⁠ᗕ⁠)

Sensitive souls please refrain. Sensitive subject. Death, cancer. I'm not making fun of anything. I'm just writing a story. As they say on Wattpad : I am responsible for what I write, you are responsible for what you read

..................................................................................

It was an evening like any other. The sky was overcast, threatening to rain. Y/n, apprentice baker, was finishing her day. She had spent hours crafting chocolate éclairs and apple tarts, her mind lost in the dream of owning her own bakery. But that night, her thoughts wandered. Too absorbed in calculating her savings, she hadn’t noticed the man crossing at a poorly lit street corner.

The screech of brakes. A thud.

Horrified, Y/n hurriedly got out of her small car. The man on the ground was still breathing, but a thin cut marked his forehead. She immediately called for help, her voice trembling with panic.

Armand opened his eyes in the hospital, disoriented. A dull ache pulsed through his head, and bandages covered his face. Yet what caught his attention was the young woman sitting by his bedside. Y/n was curled up in a chair, nervously twisting a tissue in her hands.

“You’re awake… I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her pleading eyes fixed on him.

Armand, a 39-year-old interior architect, looked at her curiously. Despite the pain, a faint smile appeared on his lips.

“Don’t worry… It’s nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious? I ran you over…”

“And yet, you’re here watching over me,” he replied lightly, trying to reassure her.

Y/n flushed deeply, but he continued, his gaze gentle:

“Go home. I’m fine, I promise.”

She hesitated but eventually obeyed. Yet the image of his comforting smile remained etched in her mind.

A few weeks later, as Y/n was decorating pastries in the bakery where she worked, the doorbell chimed. She glanced up briefly to greet the customer, but her gaze quickly returned to the tart she was preparing.

“Hello,” said a familiar voice.

She abruptly looked up. Standing before her was Armand, well-dressed, his bright smile hiding the slight scar on his forehead. She didn’t recognize him immediately.

“Do you have croissants?” he asked with a disarming ease.

“Yes, of course. Just a moment,” she replied, turning toward the display.

As she placed the croissants in a paper bag, he observed her with a hidden tenderness. She seemed more at ease here, in a world that felt made for her.

“You have a real talent,” he said suddenly.

Y/n blinked, surprised by the remark.

“Thank you… But how can you tell?”

“It’s obvious,” he said warmly. “I can see it in your movements.”

She blushed again, uncomfortable with such a sincere compliment.

Armand became a regular customer. Every morning, he stopped by for a coffee or pastry, finding excuses to exchange a few words with Y/n. He was interested in her work, her dreams.

“So, you want to open your own bakery?” he asked one day, taking a bite of a financier she had made.

She nodded timidly.

“Yes… But it’s still a long way off. I need to save, learn, and find the right place.”

“You’ll make it,” he said with conviction.

His encouragements touched her, but she never dared to ask him personal questions. She was too shy to dig deeper. Meanwhile, Armand found himself increasingly fascinated by her. Her passion, her reserve, and even her clumsiness made him smile.

One evening, as he worked on an architectural project in his office, Armand found his thoughts drifting. He realized he looked forward to seeing her every morning. But he couldn’t ignore the age gap between them.

“She’s in her twenties,” he murmured to himself. “She has so much to live, so much to discover.”

Yet he couldn’t deny the emotions growing within him. Every smile, every exchanged word gave him a thrill he hadn’t felt in years.

One day, as he waited in line at the bakery, he placed a book on the counter. It was a French pastry manual, thick and adorned with vibrant photos.

“For you,” he said with a smile.

Y/n stared at him, puzzled.

“Why…?”

“Because I believe in your dreams,” he said simply.

She clutched the book to her chest, moved by his gesture.

“Thank you… It’s… it’s a lot.”

For the first time, she looked up at him and held his gaze a little longer. An invisible butterfly stirred in Armand’s stomach.

Their relationship evolved slowly, like dough rising under a damp cloth. Y/n found herself waiting for his visits, listening for the bell to chime. Armand, for his part, took his time, respecting her pace, admiring every facet of her personality.

One day, as they shared a brioche fresh from the oven, he softly murmured:

“Y/n… You’re like this brioche.”

She looked at him, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re soft. And… you bring a warmth that isn’t always noticed at first, but it lingers long after.”

She blushed, lowering her eyes, but this time, she didn’t look away completely.

It was the beginning of a fragile yet sincere love, built on glances, gestures, and shared dreams. A love that, like a good pastry, required patience and care.

---

Weeks Passed, but Armand’s Ambition Remained Intact

Weeks went by, but Armand’s ambition remained unshaken. He was a determined man, always immersed in his work, pushing his limits day after day. His architectural projects consumed more of his life than he cared to admit, and every minute of inaction felt like wasted time. Yet deep inside, something grew stronger every time he crossed paths with Y/n: love.

But he was caught in a spiral. He saw their age difference as an undeniable obstacle he couldn’t ignore. He didn’t want Y/n to get lost in a relationship that, in his mind, had no future. She was young, full of dreams, and he… he was already in a different phase of life. He had made choices, sacrificed moments of leisure to achieve his goals.

One evening, after an especially long day, Armand went to the bakery as usual, hoping for a light conversation, a little comfort in Y/n’s small gestures. But something wasn’t right. The stress of his job, his grueling hours, the constant pressure, and lack of sleep weighed heavily on him. He entered the bakery, heading toward the counter, his tired gaze fixed on her.

“Hello,” she said softly, a shy smile on her lips as always. She didn’t know he’d had an especially difficult day.

“I need a coffee, strong,” he murmured, his tone sharper than he intended.

She looked at him for a moment, surprised by the coldness in his voice. But she didn’t respond, simply preparing his order with calm concentration. When she handed him the cup, their hands brushed briefly, and he felt a dull tension rise within him. She was so gentle, so calm. She seemed worlds away from his own turmoil.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to talk about his job, his frustrations. But instead of responding, his words came out more abruptly than he intended.

“Why do you always worry about everyone? Don’t you have anything better to do? It’s not your job to take everything on yourself.”

She flinched, her eyes widening at his harsh tone. He immediately realized his mistake, but he couldn’t seem to regain control of the situation. He had acted impulsively, without thinking. The fatigue and stress had overridden his usual gentleness.

Y/n remained silent, her gaze lowering. She didn’t know what to say, but the hurt was clear on her face. Normally so understanding, so kind, she now felt deeply wounded.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured after a long pause. “I… I just wanted to offer you a little… comfort.”

He looked at her, ashamed of his words. He shouldn’t have spoken to her like that, but his nerves were frayed. Watching her retreat in silence made his heart ache.

The next morning, Armand arrived at the bakery earlier than usual, his mind tormented by the events of the previous evening. He had spent the night reflecting on his behavior, knowing he owed her an apology. But seeing her behind the counter, arranging the morning pastries, he realized he couldn’t bear to hurt her any further.

He waited for her to look up at him. When she finally did, he approached cautiously, a bit hesitant.

“Y/n… I’m sorry about yesterday. I was… I was overwhelmed, and I shouldn’t have acted that way.”

She didn’t respond immediately, and he saw doubt flicker in her eyes. He knew his words had deeply hurt her, and the thought gnawed at him.

“It wasn’t about you,” he added, his tone calmer, almost gentle. “It’s just… it’s hard for me to balance everything I need to do.”

She looked at him for a moment, then lowered her gaze, as if his apology wasn’t enough to erase the sting of his behavior. But instead of retreating into her usual silence, she offered a small gesture of understanding.

“I understand,” she said softly, but with a gentleness that instantly eased his heart. “It’s just… sometimes, we forget to rest. And that hurts you too, doesn’t it?”

Armand stood in silence for a moment, surprised by her insight. He hadn’t thought about it that way. He had been so absorbed in his work that he hadn’t realized how much the tension was hurting him from the inside.

“Yes,” he said after a pause, his voice rougher than he intended. “Sometimes, I’m so focused on what I want to accomplish that I forget to stop, to breathe.”

She nodded slightly, a timid smile brushing her lips. She understood what it meant to be swept up in dreams and ambitions, forgetting to care for oneself.

That evening, Armand went home replaying their conversation in his mind. He knew he was still far from understanding everything that was happening between him and Y/n. But one thing was clear: he loved her, and he didn’t want her to suffer because of his own shortcomings.

He also knew he had to change. Not for her. But for himself. And perhaps, in that process, they could learn to understand and love each other in a healthier, gentler way. Because Y/n deserved to be cherished, with no room for anger or exhaustion.

And for the first time in a long while, he wondered if finding balance between his dreams and his feelings was the true key to his happiness.

---

Armand’s project had consumed every fiber of his being. For months, he had poured his heart and soul into it, investing his time, ideas, and ambitions. He had imagined, designed, and created with the hope that his work would finally be recognized. He knew the moment was approaching—the moment his project would be unveiled to the public, the moment his name would finally be associated with success. And that moment came.

But it wasn’t what he had envisioned.

The day the project was praised, with critics unanimously lauding its quality, Armand felt a strange coldness seep into him. It wasn’t pride. Nor elation. It was emptiness. A void. His superior, someone who hadn’t contributed a single idea, had taken all the glory. His name shone in the headlines, while Armand’s was nowhere to be found.

He was devastated. And yet, he felt nothing. No anger. No frustration. Only an endless fatigue, a deep exhaustion.

He wanted to scream, to overturn everything around him, but his muscles were paralyzed. He couldn’t even move. He couldn’t scream. His mind was blank, as if everything he had lived, everything he had accomplished, had been swallowed by an ocean of silence. His hands trembled slightly, but he couldn’t even lift them. It all seemed so futile, so insignificant.

And yet, he couldn’t shake the sense of loss. Of betrayal. Of frustration. He hated himself for not being able to feel the injustice more intensely, for not being able to scream, to fight. Why couldn’t he react the way he wanted? Why did he feel like an empty man, a broken man without the strength to get back up?

That evening, he returned home, devoid of any enthusiasm. He collapsed on his couch, staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes. The air in the room felt heavy, almost oppressive. It was as if he were breathing in a space too small, drowning in a whirlwind of thoughts he couldn’t even organize.

It was far too late when he finally stepped outside. He didn’t even know why he left or what he was hoping for. Maybe it was the anxiety driving him out, or perhaps the need to be alone with his thoughts in the silence of the night.

The park was deserted, lit only by a few solitary streetlights. He sat on a bench under one of them and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the cool night breeze brush against his face. The sounds of the city felt distant, muffled by the stillness of the place. He felt so far from everything, so disconnected from reality.

That’s when he saw her. Y/n. She was walking alone in the park, probably after her workday. When she noticed him, she stopped for a moment, seemingly surprised to see him there at such a late hour. He slowly lifted his head to look at her, expressionless. He didn’t have the strength to smile. Nor the strength to pretend.

Y/n approached cautiously, her gaze uncertain but gentle. She seemed hesitant, unsure if she should disturb him. But she didn’t need words to know she should sit beside him. She said nothing, offering only her quiet presence.

The silence that settled between them wasn’t heavy but rather… soothing. She didn’t need to ask questions. Somehow, she knew he needed this moment of calm.

And that’s when Armand felt the first tears well up. He tried to hold them back, to stop them from falling, but it was no use. They began to stream down his face, slowly, gently, like a river cascading down a mountain, carrying away all the pain, all the frustration he had suppressed for so long.

The tears wouldn’t stop, one after another, breaking the silence of the night. He let himself go, giving in to the flood of emotions he had ignored for far too long. His body trembled as he leaned toward Y/n, unable to control the shaking.

Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him. He let himself lean into her, his face buried in her shoulder, the tears flowing endlessly. There was no shame in the gesture. No pride. Just the need to feel safe, to let go.

Y/n, silent, held him gently. She didn’t say anything, but she was there for him. That was all that mattered. She could feel the pain in his movements, in his cries, and she knew he wasn’t asking for anything other than understanding, support without judgment.

In her arms, Armand allowed himself to completely let go, his heart heavy but unburdened from the weight that had suffocated him for so long. He had finally stopped holding back his emotions, stopped repressing his pain. Y/n offered him the freedom to cry without judgment, without pressure.

Eventually, the tears subsided, though the emptiness lingered. Yet something had shifted. That emptiness, though still present, felt less insurmountable. He knew he wouldn’t face it alone. Y/n had accepted him without demanding answers, without imposing expectations. She had simply offered her heart, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he belonged.

---

The silence stretched between them, but this time, it was soothing. Y/n didn’t move; she stayed there, her arms around him, like an anchor in a calm sea. She understood that sometimes, words weren’t necessary. She felt the tension in his muscles gradually ease, and she knew that, little by little, he was regaining control over his emotions.

Armand eventually pulled away slightly, his breathing still uneven. His eyes were red, but they no longer held that empty expression. In Y/n’s embrace, he had found something precious—a peace he hadn’t sought but that had found him. Slowly, he lifted his head to look at her.

“Thank you…” he murmured, his voice broken but full of gratitude.

Y/n smiled softly, her eyes gentle and reassuring. She didn’t need a response, but her gaze spoke volumes. She wasn’t judging him. She wasn’t trying to fix him. She was simply there, by his side, and that was enough.

“I’m here, Armand,” she said simply, her voice soft but filled with tenderness. Nothing more needed to be said.

A faint smile crossed Armand’s lips, but it wasn’t forced. It was genuine—a gratitude he never thought he could feel so purely.

He stood up slowly, taking a deep breath. The night was calm around them, but something within him had shifted. A weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying had lifted, and he felt lighter, even if only for the moment.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” he offered, his tone now calmer.

She shook her head gently, a small hint of mischief in her eyes.

“No, I’m fine. But thank you. It’s… nice to be here, with you.”

He nodded, accepting her answer, though he felt a new warmth stir within him. It wasn’t just gratitude. He felt a connection, something deep silently weaving between them, without the need for words to express it. He knew that what he had just shared with her, this moment of vulnerability, could never be forgotten.

They remained there for a little while longer, enjoying the tranquility of the night. At some point, though, the silence became lighter, almost playful.

Armand turned to Y/n, his eyes now holding a spark of admiration he had felt for her since their first meeting. He looked at her, and this time, he didn’t see her as timid, fragile, or different from him. No. He saw her simply as Y/n—the person who, with a simple gesture of understanding, had brought him a kind of calm, a kind of peace he hadn’t known for a long time.

“You know, you’re really incredible,” he said softly, his voice both sincere and filled with tenderness.

Y/n blushed slightly, but her gaze didn’t waver from his. She was used to hiding her emotions, retreating into shyness. But that night, something about him encouraged her to be more open.

“Thank you,” she replied with a small smile. “But… I think we help each other.”

He smiled at her response. He didn’t need more words. He understood. They understood each other.

The days that followed felt different. Armand woke up in the morning with a slightly lighter burden on his shoulders. He continued to work, but he found himself appreciating the small things around him—things he had neglected for far too long. He spent more time reflecting on his life choices, his priorities, and what he truly wanted to achieve. But more than that, he started considering how he let his ambitions consume him.

And Y/n. He thought of her often. He hadn’t immediately seen her as someone who could help him through his moments of weakness, but he was beginning to realize that she might be the one who had shown him the path to a balance he had never sought before but was now striving to find.

For her part, Y/n seemed calmer too. She hadn’t tried to force her way into his world or immediately uncover the reasons behind his pain. She had simply listened, offering her support without expectations. She had always been a determined, dream-filled woman, but she understood that life had its own rhythm and that sometimes, stepping back was all it took to see things differently.

It wasn’t a fiery, explosive relationship, nor an all-consuming love story. It was gentler, calmer, like a quiet river. A love that grew in small gestures, in shared silences, in quiet laughter, and late-night conversations. They were learning about each other slowly but surely.

Armand knew he still had battles to fight. He also knew his responsibilities would pull him back into the whirlwind of work. But what he knew even more was that Y/n, with her quiet light and her gentle strength, would always be there, by his side. And perhaps, this budding relationship—fragile and uncertain as it might be—would become the key to a balance he had long sought without realizing it.

---

The little bakery, bathed in soft, warm light, was soothingly quiet. The last customers had long since left, and only Y/n remained behind the counter, meticulously tidying up the utensils, her precise movements reflecting her love for her craft. Armand stood in front of her, his hands buried in his pockets, looking unusually nervous.

He had rehearsed this confession in his head dozens of times. He had written a letter, carefully folded in the inside pocket of his jacket, just in case he forgot everything he wanted to say. But now, standing there in front of her, his thoughts seemed to unravel with each heartbeat.

Y/n finally looked up at him, intrigued by his uncharacteristic silence.

“Armand? Is something wrong?” she asked softly, her voice filled with genuine concern.

He pulled out the letter, hesitating.

“I… I have something to tell you,” he said, his voice rough, almost inaudible.

He placed the letter on the counter, but as he was about to hand it to her, his hand accidentally knocked over a cup of coffee left nearby. The brown liquid spread across the paper in an instant, soaking the carefully written words until the ink became a blur of illegible smudges.

Y/n, initially surprised, watched the scene before bursting into laughter.

“Oh no… You really planned everything, didn’t you?” she said, her playful smile lighting up her face.

Armand, initially panicked, began to laugh nervously too.

“Yes… Well, not exactly this,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed.

Y/n’s laughter faded gently, but the smile remained. She looked at him, curious, waiting for him to continue.

He took a deep breath. So much for the letter. There was no escape now.

“Y/n… I’ll be honest—I’m terrible at expressing how I feel, especially about something this important. But I’m going to try.”

She stood still, her hands folded on the counter, her eyes fixed on him.

“For a while now, I… I’ve been struggling with how I feel about you. Not because I doubt what it is, but because I doubt… myself.”

She furrowed her brows slightly but said nothing, giving him the time he needed to find his words.

“You’re young, Y/n, full of dreams, talent, and life. You have your whole future ahead of you. And me… I’m…”

He paused, searching for the right word, but none came.

“I’m already in a world where I’m fighting just to stay standing. Where I work too much, where I’m always tired. And sometimes, I wonder if I’m just… an obstacle for you.”

Y/n opened her mouth, ready to protest, but he raised a hand to stop her gently.

“Wait, let me finish, please.”

She nodded, though her gaze softened.

“For the longest time, I told myself you’d be better off with someone else. Someone who could give you everything you deserve. Someone who could make you happy in ways I can’t. But every time I tried to let go of that idea… I couldn’t. Because the truth is, I want to be that person for you. Even if I’m imperfect. Even if I’m not the obvious choice.”

He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, his dark eyes filled with a vulnerability he had never shown anyone before.

“I love you, Y/n. Not in some grand, dramatic way, but in a simple, honest way. I love you because you’re you—with your shy smiles, your passion for what you do, your way of always seeing the best in others… And I know I’m clumsy, that maybe I don’t deserve this, but I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

The silence that followed felt like an eternity. Y/n, her cheeks slightly flushed, seemed to be searching for the right words, her fingers playing with the edge of her apron. Then, slowly, she smiled.

“You know, Armand,” she murmured, “you’re putting way too much pressure on yourself.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised.

“What I love about you isn’t some perfection you think you have to reach. What I love is you. Your clumsiness, your seriousness, the way you look at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. I’ve never wanted someone perfect. I just want you.”

This time, it was his turn to be speechless. She leaned slightly over the counter, reducing the distance between them.

“I love you too, Armand,” she added, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “Even if you’re incredibly clumsy sometimes.”

He burst out laughing, relieved, and this time, the laughter was pure, sincere, full of a joy he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“So… you’ll have me, despite everything?” he asked, a hesitant smile on his lips.

She nodded, her smile widening.

“Yes. But only if you promise never to write letters next to a cup of coffee again.”

They laughed together once more, and in that shared moment of joy, the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of them. It wasn’t a perfect confession, nor a scene straight out of a romantic movie. It was clumsy, sincere, full of laughter and shyness. But it was them. Just them.

---

The months had flown by, and their relationship had blossomed in a quiet, unexpected way. Armand and Y/n had found their rhythm, balancing Armand’s busy workdays with the long hours Y/n spent in her bakery perfecting her recipes. Their love was sincere, built on small daily gestures and shared silences that spoke volumes.

They had celebrated Y/n’s victory in the pastry competition together. That day, she had climbed the stage, trembling but radiant, to receive her trophy. Armand had watched her with unwavering pride, as if she had just reached for the stars. They spent the evening laughing and celebrating in a way that felt simple and true to them.

But a few weeks after that moment of glory, their happiness was brutally interrupted.

Y/n had begun feeling pain in her lower abdomen and a fatigue she could no longer ignore. At first, she thought it was due to stress or overwork and delayed seeking medical advice. But one day, Armand insisted she see a doctor.

The diagnosis hit like a thunderbolt: terminal cancer, already too advanced to treat.

When Y/n walked out of the consultation room, her legs trembled. Armand, who had been waiting in the hallway, stood up immediately upon seeing her expression.

“Y/n? What’s wrong?”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then, with trembling hands, she reached out and grabbed his.

“I… I only have a few months left,” she finally murmured, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Armand felt his heart shatter, as though the ground had been pulled out from under him. But he didn’t let the panic take over. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as if that simple gesture could shield her from everything.

The shock of the diagnosis changed them. Y/n, initially terrified, found the strength to smile again thanks to Armand. He, though devastated inside, became her pillar of support. Together, they made a decision: they would not let this illness steal the time they had left.

They began crossing dreams off Y/n’s list. A weekend in a small cabin by the lake, where they fished together and stargazed. A day spent at a bustling market, tasting dishes they’d never dared to try before. And, of course, hours spent in the bakery’s kitchen, experimenting with new recipes Y/n had dreamed up.

One evening, as they kneaded brioche dough together, Y/n suddenly stopped, her hands covered in flour.

“You know, Armand…” she began hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“I think… even if I’d known all of this beforehand… I wouldn’t change a thing.”

He looked at her, surprised.

“Nothing?”

She nodded, a sad but sincere smile on her lips.

“Because meeting you, loving you… it was worth it.”

Armand felt his throat tighten. He stepped closer and gently wiped a smear of flour from her forehead.

“I’m the lucky one,” he murmured.

A few months after the diagnosis, Y/n was weaker, but she refused to let it defeat her. It was the day of the event they had planned to share her final pastry creations with her loved ones and loyal customers.

The little bakery was filled with laughter and joy. Armand watched her from a distance, marveling at the way she lit up the room despite her visible exhaustion. At one point, she caught his gaze and walked over to him.

“You know, I saved the best for you,” she said, handing him a small box adorned with a ribbon.

He opened it to find a delicate dessert, carefully crafted.

“I named it ‘Renaissance,’ because… even when something ends, there’s always a part of life that remains.”

He looked at her, moved, and whispered:

“Y/n, you are my renaissance.”

That night, under a starry sky, they sat on the bench in the park where it had all begun. Y/n, nestled against him, felt a tear roll down her cheek.

“Armand… you’ve given me so much more than I could have imagined,” she murmured.

He shook his head.

“You’re the one who’s taught me everything. To love, to live…”

She looked up at him, her tired eyes filled with love.

“Then promise me something,” she whispered.

“Anything.”

“When I’m gone, live for both of us. Live so fully that people will say Y/n taught you how to smile.”

Armand felt the tears well up but nodded, unable to speak. He etched that moment into his heart, as an eternal promise.

Y/n couldn’t change her fate, but she had turned their love into a light that would never fade.

---

The months had passed, and Y/n’s condition had worsened. Yet, she tried to maintain her smile, like a shield against the pain—for Armand, and for herself.

That morning, Armand arrived at Y/n’s place with a box filled with croissants he had carefully chosen from a bakery she particularly loved. But when he knocked on the door and she didn’t answer, a wave of worry washed over him.

“Y/n? It’s me, Armand.”

The silence was oppressive. After a few moments of waiting, he pulled out the spare key she had entrusted to him. When he opened the door, the familiar scent of lavender and flour greeted him, but the atmosphere felt strangely still. He hurried upstairs, his heart pounding.

“Y/n?”

In the bedroom, Y/n was still lying in bed. She slowly opened her eyes at the sound of his voice, but something in her gaze had changed. She seemed… distant. Armand approached her, and that’s when he noticed the strands of hair scattered across the pillow. Her once vibrant hair was almost all gone.

She reached a hand to her head, then lowered her eyes to the strands. A faint “Ah…” escaped her lips, barely audible, as if she no longer had the strength to react.

Armand felt a dull pain crush his heart. That indifference, that emptiness in her voice—it was worse than any tears she could have shed.

“Y/n…” he whispered, kneeling beside her.

But she didn’t respond. Slowly, mechanically, she got up to get ready.

He stayed there, motionless, his eyes fixed on the empty pillow, his trembling fingers clutching the wrinkled sheet. She was moving forward, but he felt her slipping away, like a wisp of wind he couldn’t hold onto.

A few months later, despite Y/n’s obvious weakness, Armand organized a small evening just for the two of them. He wanted to give her a moment of lightness, a little escape.

They laughed. They talked about memories, unfinished dreams, and even joked about how Armand could never bake a cake without burning it.

Y/n, tired but glowing, rested her head on his shoulder.

“You know… I think I’ve never been happier than I’ve been with you,” she murmured.

Armand gently stroked what was left of her hair and kissed her forehead.

“You are my life, Y/n.”

She looked up at him, a peaceful smile on her lips.

“Then keep living, even after me.”

That was their last conversation.

That night, Y/n fell asleep in his arms. Armand, however, couldn’t bring himself to sleep. He preferred to watch her, to engrave every detail into his memory: the softness of her features, the rhythm of her breath in the silence, the fragile warmth of her hand in his.

In the early morning, sunlight timidly peeked through the curtains. Armand opened his eyes and immediately felt something was wrong. Y/n was still—too still.

“Y/n?” he called softly, his voice filled with a hope he knew was futile.

He touched her cheek—it was cold.

“No… no,” he murmured, tears welling in his eyes.

He held her in his arms, gently rocking her, as if saying a final goodbye. Her face was peaceful, as though she had simply fallen asleep after a beautiful evening. But for Armand, the world collapsed in that moment.

The days that followed were dark, but Armand found strength in the memories they had shared. Y/n had taught him how to love, how to live fully, and he knew she wouldn’t have wanted him to drown in despair.

He kept the notebook where she had written her recipes and thoughts, and he worked to keep the promise he had made to her: to live for the both of them.

A year later, Armand opened a small bakery, which he named Y/n’s Light. Each creation carried a piece of her, a tribute to her talent and her brilliance.

And every morning, when he saw the smiles of customers enjoying what she had inspired, he felt her presence beside him. Y/n may not have had all the time she deserved, but her love—her light—was eternal.

---

Days passed, yet Armand continued to visit the cemetery regularly. Under the weeping willow, Y/n rested in the peaceful spot he had chosen carefully for her. He often spoke to the grave as if she were still there, sharing his achievements, doubts, and even the mundane stories of his day.

He decorated the gravestone with care. At Christmas, he brought small garlands and winter flowers. At Easter, he left colorful eggs and sweets he had prepared while thinking of her. The engraved photo on the stone smiled back at him, soft and almost alive.

But one day, something changed.

As part of his new project—renovating an orphanage—Armand immersed himself in his work. He wanted to create a warm, welcoming space where children could feel all the love they deserved.

One afternoon, while discussing the plans with a nun, he passed by the nursery. His gaze was drawn to a group of infants sleeping peacefully, their soft breaths filling the room with a calming rhythm.

That’s when he noticed a little girl, apart from the others. She cooed softly, observing the world with curious but timid eyes. Her cries were gentle, almost hesitant, as if unsure whether she should ask for attention.

Armand froze, his heart clenching. She reminded him of Y/n. Not physically, but in the fragile sweetness she radiated.

In the days that followed, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. The idea of adopting her became an undeniable calling, almost as if Y/n had sent him a sign.

A few weeks later, after completing all the necessary procedures, he finally welcomed the little girl into his home. He named her Y/n, in honor of the woman who had changed his life.

Four months passed. Little Y/n clung to Armand as if afraid he might disappear. Her smile, her clumsy laughter, her first attempts to stand on her tiny legs—everything about her rekindled a light he thought he had lost.

One morning, Armand made a decision. He wanted to introduce little Y/n to her “mother.”

He prepared a simple picnic, packing bottles for the baby and snacks for himself.

When he arrived at the grave, he paused for a moment, his eyes on Y/n’s engraved photo.

“Hello, Y/n,” he murmured.

Little Y/n, nestled against him, babbled softly, her big curious eyes following the willow leaves dancing in the wind. Armand knelt before the grave, spread out the blanket he had brought, and gently placed the baby on it.

“I brought someone to meet you today,” he said, a fragile smile on his lips.

He sat facing the gravestone and placed little Y/n on his lap.

“This is Y/n. She has your name. I couldn’t think of a more perfect name for her…”

He ran a tender hand through the baby’s short, soft hair as she played with a fallen willow leaf.

“She’s incredible, you know. Every day, she reminds me that life can still be beautiful, even after everything.”

He spoke for hours, sharing stories, thoughts, and promises he wanted to keep.

“I’m doing my best to be a good father. It’s not always easy… sometimes I wonder if I’m enough. But she trusts me, Y/n, just like you trusted me.”

The little girl let out a joyful cry as she spotted a butterfly fluttering nearby. Armand laughed—a sound he hadn’t heard from himself in a long time.

“You see? Even a butterfly fascinates her. She has your way of finding beauty everywhere.”

He leaned forward slightly, bringing little Y/n closer to the gravestone as if to introduce her properly to her mother.

“ Say hi to Mama” he whispered tenderly.

The baby didn’t understand what was happening, but when she saw the photo on the grave, she cheerfully held out a flower she had picked earlier and babbled joyfully. The gesture brought a smile to Armand’s face.

“See, Y/n? This little one already loves you.”

As the sun began to set, Armand rose slowly, holding little Y/n close to him.

"In another life, I hope it's you and me... I beg God that it's still you and me. I hope we will be happy together, Maybe we can love each other and... grow old together?" The little y/n in his arms suddenly lets out a chirp, as if to make her presence felt. Armand laughs despite his tears that threaten to flow. "Yes, and that the three of us can form a beautiful and happy family" he said, playing with his daughter's little hand. "Until then, I'll take care of her for both of us. Promise, my love."

“Thank you,” he murmured, looking at the gravestone one last time. “Thank you for everything you’ve given me.”

He placed one final flower on the grave before walking away.

On the way home, little Y/n fell asleep in his arms. Armand, however, walked with a lighter step. That day, under the weeping willow, he felt something shift. It wasn’t a goodbye, but a new chapter—a bridge between the love he had lost and the love he had found.

And he knew he would return to that willow, again and again, to share the joys and sorrows of the life he was building for the two of them.

..................................................................................

Tags list : @elizalabs3

[pawnshopbleus]

These Are the Days Chapter Fourteen - Girl in Red

Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader High School au

For the summary, warnings, and more, please visit here.

previous chapter.

cw: a fight and mention of homophobic slur used (word not written out)

Abby couldn’t be happier. When she saw the look of surprise on your face when you opened the door, she knew that’s where she wanted to be: with you and her friends. 

Ellie and Dina left early in the morning, and Jesse followed them a few minutes later. Abby lay there with you slumped on her shoulder. As she looked around, she noticed the lack of photos and decorations. Abby’s home was littered with pictures of her as a kid, on fishing trips with her dad, her at her eighth grade dance, there’s even a picture of Ellie on her living room wall. Your house — although beautiful in its own right, lacks the homeliness a person needs to grow. 

Abby sighed at the thought of you missing out on so much due to the neglect of your parents. You have the right to be an awful person. You have the right to shut everyone out, but you don’t. You are the best person Abby’s ever met. You changed her life for the better, and she hopes to do the same. 

Soon after the clock strikes nine, you stir awake and groan, the tangy taste of beer still lingering on your tongue. You don’t move from your spot, fearing that this is all a dream. That you will move a limb and be transported back to your bedroom in California. No matter how much you miss your beachy town and your overpriced everything, you’d rather stay here. At this moment, nothing else matters except you and the girl who changed everything for the better. 

Abby says your name. The second you hear the beautiful timbre of her voice, you can tell that she’s been up for a while. You look up at her, your tired eyes working against the rays of sunlight streaming in through the curtains. 

“I need to ask you something,” she said, her voice laced with worry and something else. Hope, maybe? “Will you be my girlfriend?” 

…

“This is Vic Issac with KKWF radio; how may I help you?” 

“I just found out that my husband of ten years cheated on me with his secretary. I mean, how cliche is that? I am more upset at-” 

Your hand quickly moves to turn off the radio in Abby’s car. You would rather hear a car alarm than hear someone complain about their relationship problems again. Abby’s hand finds purchase on your thigh as she steers and weaves effortlessly through the streets of Bellevue. 

It has been a week since Abby asked you to be her girlfriend. In other words, it has been a week of pure bliss. She picks you up in the morning, opens the door for you, and drops you off after softball practice with her letterman safely in your arms. You’re pretty sure your bike is starting to feel neglected with how little you use it now. 

Abby pulls into her normal spot at the front of the school and rushes over to your side of the car. When you’re with her, she treats you like a princess. You wish you could do the same, but Abby insists that she’s fine. 

Jesse isn’t too happy about the new couple in the group. As the only man, it was hard enough, but now, as the resident fifth wheel, he is starting to feel like dating apps are a good option. 

You and Abby had been successful at avoiding Owen all throughout the week. If you saw him walking down the hall, the two of you would rush into an empty classroom. If he was in the lunch line, you and Abby would sneak out and eat somewhere down the road. 

Maybe it was fate that brought the three of you into this situation. Or maybe it was the fact that Owen is one of the worst people on the planet. 

You didn’t see him barreling down the hallway with a smug look on his face. It wasn’t until his shoulder met yours that you finally recognized his presence. 

“Watch where you're going,” Abby spat. 

“The fuck you just say to me?” Owen walks menacingly toward Abby.

The two of them square up. Abby, being only a few inches shorter than Owen, puffs her chest out to make herself seem taller. The tension in the middle of the hall was so thick it could be cut with a knife. 

“I said, watch where you’re going.” 

“What are you gonna do about it-” The next word out of Owen’s mouth is a word only uttered by the ignorant. It’s ugly and hateful and has no place in anyone’s vocabulary. 

Everything happens too fast for you to recount. Owen is on the floor. Abby is on top of him, delivering blow after blow while he struggles against her weight. People close in on the three of you. Some are taking videos while others chant. You can see Ellie, Dina, and Jesse cheering Abby on. 

You snap out of your trance and try and get Abby to stop. This is a side of her you have never seen. The primal urge to protect those who mean the world to her is noble, chivalrous, and destructive. As you watch her in this state, you can’t help but look at the way her muscles ripple every time she cocks her arm back or the way she grunts in anger. You shouldn’t be feeling this way when she’s in distress, but damn, does your girlfriend look hot. 

…

The front office is colder than the rest of the school. Abby’s knuckles are bloody and bruised under the ice pack provided by the nurse. Owen is alive, but his ego isn’t. After getting beaten up by his lesbian ex-girlfriend, he can kiss his social life and everything that came with it goodbye. His dad isn’t all too happy either, but there’s only so much you can do when you’re about to go to prison for tax fraud. 

The principal's secretary comes out of the shadows and beacons the two of you forward. “Now, don’t be scared and tell the truth,” She opens the door to the principal's office and closes it behind you.

The principal, a tall, slender, and elegant woman with a little midwestern twang to her voice, greets the two of you as you sit down. Her office is warmer than the climate you just left, but being under her gaze sends a shiver down your spine. On her desk sits a cup full of pens, two picture frames facing away from you, and a placard in the middle of her desk. Engraved in fancy letters is her name, Principal Servopoulos. 

“I can’t say that I’m happy to have you in my office under these circumstances. The behavior you exhibited today is unacceptable, Ms. Anderson. What possessed the captain of the softball team to act that way?” 

Abby's leg bounces as she looks down at her injured hand. You can’t help but feel slightly responsible for the outcome of this situation. If you could have just stood your ground and told Owen to fuck off, maybe the two of you would be in your history class, holding hands under the table. Hypotheticals aren’t going to help in this situation. 

“He deserved it,” Abby grits. 

Mrs. Servopoulos shakes her head. “That is neither here nor there. What is important is that you assaulted another student. As a principal, I cannot allow you to participate in any of the upcoming school activities, and I will have to revoke your title as team captain and member of the softball team.” 

Your eyes go wide. “You can’t do that! Abby’s worked too hard for this.” “Ms. Anderson is lucky she isn’t expelled!” “And what punishment is Owen getting for calling her a — that word?” 

“As the principal of this school, I cannot discuss the status of other students,” Mrs. Servopoulos said, leaning in close and whispering as if she were sharing secret information. “But as a lesbian woman with a wife and a kid, I’m going to make him regret opening his mouth.” 

… 

After school, Abby didn’t want to go home. She couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment on her dad's face. She could kiss all hope of going to college goodbye as her record would be permanently stained.

She could say she didn’t know what came over her, but that would be a lie. She knew exactly what it was. The urge to protect you from the one thing that made her life a living hell. 

As her knuckles met his skull, she could feel all the pent-up tension and frustration she held in the past few years. Punch after punch, she felt herself getting better. Was it a conventional way of overcoming something? No, but it felt good. 

Abby drove the two of you to the pier and refused to let you pay for anything. She was the one who got into trouble, after all. 

The ferris wheel creaked and groaned under the the two of you, tt’s hinges tired after so many years of use. Abby's arm is thrown across your shoulder, bringing you in close. 

“I’m sorry we can’t go to homecoming,” you sigh. 

“I’m the one who can’t go. You didn’t do anything, so, to quote Principal Servopoulos, ‘you are exempt from any punishment.’” 

“If you can’t go homecoming, then why should I? We’re in this together now, whether you like it or not.” 

“I don’t deserve you,” Abby says under her breath. “I’m sorry for getting you into all of this mess.” 

“You shouldn’t be sorry. You saved me, and I’ll be forever grateful.”

Under the twinkling stars and the silvery moon, Abby looks even more radiant than usual. You push a strand that had found its way out of her braid behind her ear and let your hand linger there momentarily. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

You can’t remember who asked who, but you can remember her soft, velvety lips touching yours. 

Tag list: @rew1nds, @colbyweirdo, @mylettterstoyou

Thank you for reading!

Next Chapter - Coming soon

[troutfur]

A kit for Sandclan! Cobrakit, a short-furred ginger tabby tom

(Forgive that I'm not giving Featherstorm's reaction for this one. It's not personal, I simply have run out of fun things to write for that section.)

A TOM!!!!! YES, THANK YOU! We are severely lacking those, our gender ratio is sooooo skewed.

But anyway! Chart!

[Image ID: Under the header “What will Cobrakit’s life be like? (02/12/2023)” 16 rows of tally marks crossed out two by two until there is only 1 or 2 left uncrossed. To the left, a shield chart at the top with the following geomantic figures: Via as the first mother, Populus as the second mother, Puer as the third mother, Carcer as the fourth mother, Puella as the first daughter, Amissio as the second daughter, Laetitia as the third daughter, Puella as the fourth daughter, Via as the first niece, Rubeus as the second niece, Tristitia as the third niece, Fortuna Maior as the fourth niece, Puella as the right witness, Albus as the left witness, Carcer as the judge, and Coniunctio as the sentence. Below the shield chart, an astrological house chart with the first twelve geomantic figures above mentioned assigned to houses 1 to 12 in the order mentioned above. /end ID]

This chart's a little more evocative. Immediately I notice Carcer as the judge and Coniunctio as the sentence so some kind of restriction or bondage, whether physical or immaterial, is the overall theme of Cobrakit's life but in the end it will bring connection and community. I'm lowkey hoping this chart will look overall favorable for a leader. Cobrastar sounds so cool. Anyway, our witnesses are Puella to the right and Albus to the left. Puella and Albus are weird in opposition, the former representing emotions and putting the needs of others before one's own and the other wisdom that comes with age. Is the chart trying to tell us Cobrakit will defy the status quo? Will they stand up to the establishment in service of others? Still hoping for a leader-like character here...

Via in the first house is always a welcome sight. The symbolism of motion and change always lends itself to eventful character biographies.

Populus in the second house is also welcome because I honestly just appreciate not having to think too hard about what the association of the second house with material posessions even could mean in this setting. This is seriously the biggest weakness in the method I believe. If anyone has any suggestion for how I could work the second house more cohesively into the system, I'm all ears.

On the third house we have Puer. I know I said that interpreting Puer and Puella simply by their meanings as signifiers of the gender polarity was boring and all but. I've wanted to give more of these siblings and we are in need of more toms so... an all male litter? I'm thinking three or so.

Carcer in the fourth house is something we have seen before! Strict parenting and/or mentorship. I'm leaning towards mentorship more. I do still want to see if I can finnagle this into Cobrastar.

Puella in the fifth house which I'm choosing to interpret as Cobra will grow up to be a nurturing parent. We love to see our den dads around these parts and I'm taking any excuse I can.

Amissio in the sixth house... You know what we are missing? A character with a cool scar or something. I am picturing the loss predicted here to be perhaps... losing an eye? Once again, would make a lot of sense if we're trying to slot this chart into a potential leader.

Laetitia in the seventh house! Good family life with his partner. I like that. I like that.

Puella in the eight house. Overlaps a little with Hickorydawn's whole thing but I think if I'm already dead set on leader for this one being able to be a comfortable presence for his clan in their time of need would be good. Honestly, between Puella here and Puella in the fifth house, I'm just thinking this dude would grow up to be just a super charismatic and comforting presence in the Clan.

Via in the ninth house. We already saw it in the first house and here it reinforces the idea he had a transformation of some kind. The rest of the chart is not implying it yet, but I think I have an inkling of what I can weave with the last three houses...

Rubeus in the tenth house is where I think I can get my angle in. While the chart has been portraying him as a pretty uncomplicated and chill dude thus far, the notion that anger and positions of power are related for him is certainly interesting. I could perhaps say, could he initially ascend to deputy on the basis of being a more aggressive type than he ended up being? Was the journey in question about mellowing out? Perhaps this is how he lost that eye I decided way back in the sixth house.

Tristitia in the eleventh house we can build this up further. Tristitia, sorrow, in the house of allies and supporters perhaps refers to how his supporters will react to his mellowing out. Perhaps as he turns to a new cat he can and becomes an emotional support for his clan his old supporters will lament a lot about who he used to be.

And finally Fortuna Maior in the twelfth house. He'll have to work hard to overcome adversities (perhaps those who liked him better how he was before?) but in the end he will thrive by his own efforts.

Putting it all together:

Cobrakit was born alongside two brothers. He was apprenticed to a warrior that was very strict with him and encouraged in him an aggression that would earn him a reputation as a ferocious fighter. He even lost an eye to show for it and everything. This put him in the radar of the leader as a favorite deputyship candidate of a certain vocal faction of aggressive cats within SandClan. He of course gladly accepted but the position of responsibility began to make him rethink his approach. Particularly as the Clan came to rely on him more and he took on more of an interest in being an emotional support through the tragedies of combat and death, he began to mellow out. The faction that had initially favored him for deputy felt extremely betrayed at this but Cobra now stood up for himself on his own authority and his likability as a deputy. Along the way he found a partner, raised children on his own, and has grown quite well into his duties as deputy and, eventually, leader.

So, give it up for the leader of SandClan Cobra(strike)star!

[genericpuff]

vent post

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

For your consideration.

(Reminder to vote in the poll)

[sportsthoughts]

.

[ask-the-totally-real-peppino]

It is i! The one who collects the random facts!

(And forgets if my questions have been answered or not!)

Can Pep do the whole "Take off my head and throw it at Peppino" thing? Like he did in Pizza tower? Since in this Au he's more... melty.

(I have offhandedly mentioned it a few times, but yes, Pep can remove his head like in game (anything that happens in game, assume he can do). The fact that he is 'melty' does not affect his ability to do so - unless he is upset and unable to hold his form, making parts of his body fuse into each other

In fact, all clones (Fake Peppinos and Peppiclones alike), can remove their heads, and it's kind of a bonding experience to swap heads for a while hehe

Anyway, Pep brain jumpscare raugh!!!

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently