#and her or i will say something and it’ll spiral into something else

[bookalicent]

me and my mom both shit talking the song of achilles during our after work chats 🙏

[bilestat]

insane how quickly something small can tank my mood

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (06)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 5.3k

Aliyah's Notes: after the calamity of ch5 i present u ch6.... enjoy it. or not. AND IM SORRY FOR THE ENDING 🔥😩😅😨

It's been days. Or weeks? You didn’t even know anymore. The calendar on your phone kept reminding you, but you stopped counting. Maybe if you ignored the world long enough, it’ll forget you existed. Maybe if you stayed in this apartment, you could disappear into these four walls like you were never here in the first place.

Numbers. You used to count them, obsess over them, keep track of every passing hour. But now, time feels... irrelevant. What’s the point of knowing how long you’ve been sinking when no one’s coming to pull you out?

The silence feels... safe. No one to judge you. No one to see the mess you’ve become. It’s funny, though—people always see what they want to see. The headlines called you a goddess, an untouchable force of beauty and success. But what would they say if they knew the truth? That the girl in their glossy magazines could barely stand to look at herself anymore.

You hated this. The lying, the pretending. Nina thought you were just going through a rough patch, but she didn’t know how deep the cracks went. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t supposed to be this anymore—broken, fragile, teetering on the edge again. You swore you’d never come back to this place. But it’s funny how easy it is to fall back into old habits, how fast the darkness creeps in when no one’s watching.

No one’s watching.

Maybe that’s for the best. Let them keep seeing the version of you they wanted to see—the confident supermodel, the girl who had it all. Let them believe the lie, because the truth? The truth was ugly. The truth was you’ve been staring at your phone for days, hoping—no, needing—for a message, for something from him.

But nothing.

He was in Missouri. Working, you guessed. You didn’t even know when he was coming back. He didn’t say. 

You hated him for that. But you hated yourself more for caring. For letting him in, even when you knew better. For thinking, for just one second, that maybe—just maybe—there was something real between you, beneath all the lies you told the world.

But none of it was real. Not the dating, not the smiles, not the person they thought you were. You were a fraud. A perfect, golden fraud wrapped up in designer clothes and empty promises. And the worst part was, you were too tired to fight it anymore. Maybe this was who you were now. A girl who hid in her apartment, waiting for the world to forget she existed.

Or maybe it already happened.

The sound of the door creaking open started you, pulling you out of the spiral you’ve been sinking into. You didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. No one else had the key to your apartment beside her.

“Are you kidding me, Y/N?” Nina’s voice cut through the heavy silence like a knife. “This is the third time this week. How long do you think you can keep doing this?”

You didn’t respond.

Nina stromed in, slamming the door behind her, and you heard her heels clacking on the floor as she made her way to the living room. “You’re not answering your phone. You’re not responding to emails. You missed three shoots! People are asking questions, Y/N. What do you think I’m supposed to tell them?”

You stayed silent, curling deeper into the couch. Maybe if you didn’t look at her, she’ll go away. Maybe she’ll finally get the hint that you didn’t want to be saved.

But Nina wasn���t the type to back off. “No,” she snapped. “You don’t get to ignore me, not today. You need to get up. You need to fix this, Y/N. You think you can just hide away forever? Is that the plan? Because let me tell you, honey, the world won’t wait for you to get your shit together.”

She stood in front of you now, hands on her hips, glaring down at you like a disappointed mother. Her usually immaculate hair was slightly disheveled, and you could tell by the tension in her jaw that she’s been worrying. 

“Talk to me, honey,” she said, her voice lower now. “This isn’t you. You don’t just disappear like this. What happened? Is it Rafe? Is it work? Are you back to…” her voice trailed off, but the question hanged in the air, heavy and unspoken. 

You couldn’t look at her. The shame curled in your chest, making in hard to breathe. She didn’t know. She didn’t know how badly you’ve relapsed, how badly everything felt like it was slipping out of control again. And you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Not to her. Not to anyone.

“When’s the last time you even showered? Eaten something decent? Your career’s on the line. Everything we’ve worked for is on the line. You can’t just… give up like this.”

Her words hit like slaps, each one stinging, but you still didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Nina huffed, pacing now, her frustration spilling over. “I don’t know what happened between you and Rafe, and honestly, I don’t care. But whatever it is, you don’t get to throw your life away because of it. You’re stronger than this, Y/N. I know you are. So why the hell are you letting this break you?”

You flinched at the word “break.” Because that’s what it feels like. Like you’re already broken, shattered into a million pieces, and you didn’t even know how to start putting yourself back together.

Nina crouched down in front of you, her voice softening, her eyes searching yours. “Talk to me, honey. Please. Tell me what’s going on. I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.”

For a moment, you almost did. You almost told her everything—the text, the relapse, the endless void you’ve been sinking into. But the words caught in your throat, choking you. What’s the point in talking when nothing will change?

You shook your head, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Nina’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You’re not fine. You’re far from it. You think I haven’t seen you like this before? You’re not fooling anyone, Y/N.”

She stood, her frustration bubbling back to the surface. “You need to snap out of it. Because in five days, you’re getting engaged to Rafe Cameron, whether you like it or not. And a week after that, you’re walking down the aisle. You can’t afford to fall apart now.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing down on you like a lead blanket. The engagement. The wedding. The lies. It all felt so suffocating, so inevitable.

Nina crossed her arms, her voice firm. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get up, you’re going to shower, and you’re going to pull yourself together. Because tomorrow, you’ve got a charity event with Rafe, and you’re going to smile for the cameras and make everyone believe that you’re still that perfect, golden girl they love.”

You wanted to scream at her, tell her you couldn't do it, that you didn't even know how to pretend anymore. But instead, you nodded numbly, sinking deeper into the fog that had settled over your mind.

Nina sighed, her voice softening again as she headed toward the door. "I'll be back tomorrow morning. And I swear, Y/N, if you're still in this state when I get here, I will personally drag you to that charity event."

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving you alone with the weight of everything she'd just said.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Just laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how you were supposed to pretend like everything was fine when every part of you was falling apart. You could still hear Nina’s voice in your head, telling you to pull yourself together, to be the golden girl everyone expected you to be. 

You dragged yourself out of bed, your body heavy. Your legs felt weak, and your mind feltl worse. Everything was numb, but somehow you still felt the pain. You stumbled into the bathroom, turning the water on without thinking. The cold spray hit your skin like tiny needes, and you stood there for a while, trying to let the string wake you up. But it didn’t work—you were still in that fog.

When you finally stepped out of the shower, you didn’t even bother looking in the mirror. It didn’t matter. You grabbed the first thing you saw—a plain black sweater, loose and oversized, and a pair of jeans that didn’t quite fit right anymore. You didn’t even try with your hair, just pulled it back into a bun. No makeup. What was the point? It wasn’t like anyone cared what you looked like today.

When you got to the office, the tension hit you the moment you walked through the door. Your stomach twisted as you made your way down the hallway, each step heavier than the last. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your chest tightening with every breath. You shouldn’t have cared. You shouldn’t. But as you pushed open the door to the conference room and saw him sitting there—Rafe, looking like he hadn’t been bothered by a single thing—you felt the anger bubbling up, hot and sharp.

It started as a familiar ache that had been building ever since the night he walked out of your apartment without a word. Two weeks. Fourteen days of silence. Fourteen nights spent waiting for a text that never came, hoping for even the smallest explanation, something to make sense of the hollow space he’d left behind.

Day 1. Monday, 2:42 AM

You: “Hey. Are you home? LMK, just to be safe.”

Day 2. Tuesday, 8:18 AM

You: “I’m still so confused about what happened last night, but let’s talk when you have a minute.”

Day 3. Wednesday, 5.32 PM

You: “Look, if you’re mad at me, just say it! I thought we were good, what the hell?”

Day 4. Friday, 11:04 PM

You: “It’s been days and I still don’t understand why you left like this.”

Day 5. Sunday, 3:27 PM

You: “Fuck you. I don't know why I keep texting. I know you’re seeing my texts, even though I’m on delivered. Just tell me if you’re done with this.”

Day 5. Sunday, 10:41 PM

You: “Why am I acting like I’m the one who fucked up? I didn’t do anything wrong. You left me like I was nothing, and your only explanation was a shitty rom-com excuse. I thought we were friends, Rafe.”

Day 5: Sunday, 11:36 PM

You: “I hope you rot in your shit ass apartment, but trust that I will show up to one of your stupid games with a sign that says “Small Dick Ghoster” in big, glittery letters. And I hope Chiara will hug you so hard that she’ll end up strangling you to death. Fuck you, again!”

And there he was, sitting there like none of it had happened, like you were still just strangers playing a game. His posture relaxed, that effortless confidence radiating from him, his gaze fixed on the papers in front of him, completely indifferent.

It infuriated you—the ease with which he moved on, the way he could look so composed, so completely unbothered, as if he hadn’t abandoned you in that moment when you were raw and vulnerable. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing.

Every part of you screamed to confront him, to demand an explanation for the silence, the absence, the complete disregard. You could feel the hurt clawing up from your chest, tangling with the anger that burned hotter with each passing second. He was so close, but somehow, he felt miles away.

So instead, you steeled yourself, locking down the hurt, burying it beneath the anger that simmered just beneath the surface. You wouldn’t let him see the effect he had on you, wouldn’t give him the power to know just how much his absence had shattered you. No—he would get nothing from you. Not a word, not a glance, not a single sign of the turmoil raging inside you.

You walked past him without a word, each step heavy with the weight of the anger you swallowed down. Let him sit there, pretending like nothing was wrong. Let him think he could ignore you, dismiss you, erase you from his life without consequence. Because you would make sure he felt every bit of the coldness he had left you with, every ounce of the hurt he’d carved into you.

Ignoring him was the only power you had left, the only way to keep the anger from spilling over, from breaking you down entirely. And if he thought he could continue on as if the past two weeks hadn’t happened, then he was going to learn just how wrong he was.

Nicolas cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had settled over the room. “Hi, you two—we’ve got a lot to go over, and the timeline is tight. The engagement is in five days, and the wedding is scheduled for a week after that. So we need to finalize the details today—food, decorations, dresses, the guest list…”

You couldn’t focus. The words blurred together a dull hum in the background as you stared down at the table. Rafe said something, his voice casual, but you tuned it out. You didn’t want to hear him.

Sabrina spoke next, her tone brighter, more enthusiastic. “The audience is really enjoying you together, by the way. Ever since your date, and especially after the pictures from Kelce’s party where you two were cuddled up? People are in love with the idea of you and Rafe together. So, good job, guys.”

Your stomach churned at her words. Cuddled up. Like you were some happy couple.

“And tomorrow,” she continued. “You’ll need to make another public appearance together. It’s a charity event for cancer awareness. A perfect opportunity for more good press. The public is expecting you two to show up as the perfect couple—affectionate, in love, all of that.”

In love.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood. This was the part where you were supposed to smile and nod, agree to hold his hand and play the role of the devoted future fiancée. But all you felt was the tension building, the weight of the lie pressing down on you until it was suffocating.

Rafe shifted in his seat, and you could feel his eyes on you, but you still didn’t look at him. Rafe felt an uneasy twist in his stomach. You looked… different. Disheveled, almost. Your sweater hung losely over your shoulders, practically swallowing your frame, and he could see dark shadows under your eyes that hadn’t been there before. You seemed smaller somehow, your usual energy muted, replaced by something tense and fragile.

Rafe’s gaze dropped to your hands, noticing how your fingers fidgeted restlessly, twisting and tugging at your sleeves. Your leg was bouncing under the table, tapping out an anxious rhythm that only he seemed to notice. Every small movement, every nervous habit—you looked like you were holding yourself back, like there was something simmering beneath the surface, ready to break free.

You still hadn’t looked at him, hadn’t given him a single glance, and that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. You’d been messaging him, and he’d been… well, avoiding it, convincing himself it was for the best. But seeing you now, seeing the wear and tear he’d left behind, he couldn’t shake the guilt.

Rafe’s chest tightened. He’d expected you to be angry, maybe annoyed. But this? You looked worn down, frayed at the edges, like you've been carrying a weight no one else could see.

You didn’t remember most of the details they were talking about. Your mind drifted in and out of focus as they went on about the guest list, the food, the decorations. All you heard were words—dresses, flowers, venues. None of it felt real. It was as if you were watching someone else’s life unfold in front of you, just sitting there, an outsider in your own story.

“The wedding will be televised, of course,” Sabrina says, flipping through her notes, her eyes gleaming with the excitement of it all. “And with a full press presence. We want every detail to reflect both of your public personas. Elegant, grand, but also with an intimate, personal feel—something that tells a story about who you both are.”

Who we were. I almost laughed at the irony. I didn't even know who I was right now, much less who we were.

“We were thinking of something grand but elegant. A modern luxury wedding. White roses, lots of gold accents. Maybe something at the estate in the Hamptons?”

You glanced at the board, at all the glossy, pristine images of weddings that could belong to anyone. None of them felt like you.

“Do you have any preferences?” Sabrina asked, smiling like this is the most exciting conversation in the world. “Colors, themes, anything that’s important to you?”

"Actually," you finally broke your silence, your voice coming out quietly, but the words landing heavily in the room. "I’d like the ceremony to reflect... my background." You could feel Rafe's eyes on you again, but for once, you didn’t care. This wasn’t about him.

Sabrina blinked, taken aback, but she quickly nodded, jotting down notes as if she were open to whatever you had in mind. "Of course, that could be beautiful. Were you thinking about specific details?"

You hesitated for a moment, uncertain if they’d take you seriously, but you pressed on. "Yes. The colors… the decorations. I want there to be vibrant colors—not just whites and pastels, but deep greens, maroons, and gold. The way we’d have them back home. And for the flowers… jasmine and roses. That’s what we use for weddings where I’m from. I want it to feel like... like part of my heritage."

Nicolas raised an eyebrow, as if he hadn’t expected you to care about any of this. But he just nodded, his pen moving across his notepad. "We can definitely arrange that. A traditional, multicultural theme would add a unique touch to the event, I think. It’ll definitely resonate with the press and the viewers."

You didn’t care if it resonated. It wasn’t for them—it was for you, a sliver of authenticity in this whole farce.

Then Sabrina’s voice broke into your thoughts. "And of course, the dress. Have you given any thought to what you want? Or would you like us to arrange for a stylist to go over options with you?"

Your heart twisted at the mention of the dress. The one thing you’d always imagined as a girl—the dress you’d wear at your own wedding. Only, you’d never thought it would be for this.

"I’d like to include some of my culture there too," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe... a fusion. Something elegant and modern but with hints of traditional South Asian bridal elements. Like embroidery or... beadwork. Maybe even henna if it wouldn’t look out of place."

Sabrina seemed to light up at the idea. "That would be stunning. We can definitely work with that! I know several designers who specialize in fusing traditional and contemporary styles."

She was still talking, but the air around you felt thicker, as though the room was closing in. You could sense Rafe’s gaze without even looking at him, the weight of his silence pressing into you.

You zoned out again, your mind wandering back to the last wedding you attended. The colors, the music, the way the bride’s lehenga shimmered under the sun as she walked down the aisle. You’d always thought your wedding would be like that—full of life and celebration, surrounded by people who loved you.

Instead, you were planning a wedding for the cameras, for people who didn’t know you.

The sudden, sharp knock on the door cut through the stillness like a jolt of cold water. Your head shot up from the pillow, heart hammering in your chest. For a moment, the world felt like it was still. The quiet of your apartment, the thick fog still clouding your thoughts. You didn’t want to get up. You didn’t want to face the world outside of this bed, this cocoon of emptiness you’d wrapped yourself in for days.

Another knock, this one louder, more demanding.

“Y/N!” Nina’s voice came through the door, sharp and impatient. “You better not still be in bed, because I swear—”

The door swung open before you could even make a sound, Nina storming in, wearing the same determined, unbothered expression she always had when she was on a mission. You tried to bury your face back into the pillow, but she wasn’t having it. Her hand reached down, grabbing the covers and yanking them off with force. You shivered as the cold air hit your skin, the warmth of the blankets yanked away along with any shred of comfort you’d been clinging to.

“Get up.” Nina wasn’t asking. She was commanding. “You’ve got a charity event today, and Rafe is already at the venue. We don’t have time for your pity party.”

You squinted at her, still half-wrapped in your sheets like a burrito, and mumbled from underneath the pillow, “Can’t you just… I don’t know… handle it for me? Go in my place. You’d look great in a gown.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, I’d look amazing, but you and I both know I don’t have that kind of charisma.”

“True,” you admitted, peeking out from under the pillow. 

Nina raised her hands in mock surrender. “Exactly. Now, up. I’m not playing with you today.”

Before you could even protest, she yanked the covers off you with a dramatic flourish, leaving you to shiver in nothing but your oversized T-shirt. It was a miracle you didn’t roll off the bed in the process.

“Come on, Y/N. Let’s go.” Nina didn’t wait for you to even get a grip on reality before heading straight for your closet, rummaging through your clothes like she was on a mission. “You’re going to look so good today that Rafe might just start thinking you actually like him.”

You shot her a glare that could’ve frozen water, but she just smirked, tossing a black dress onto the bed like she was some fashion fairy sent to save you from yourself.

“I’m not going,” you said flatly.

“Oh, yes, you are.” Nina threw a matching pair of heels onto the bed with the same casual flick of the wrist she used to dismiss your protests. “Because you will look stunning, and you will show up.”

You sat up slowly, rubbing your face. “What is it with you people? Why does everyone keep trying to drag me out of bed? It’s like I’m the world’s most reluctant celebrity.”

“Because you are.” Nina grinned, holding up your dress like she was presenting the Holy Grail. “But, hey, guess what? You’re really good at it. So stop sulking and get your glam on. You’re the star of the show today.”

You let out a theatrical sigh. “Oh, joy.”

Nina didn’t even flinch. “I’m not asking for a performance. Just put on the damn dress and show up. You can pretend to be miserable, and I’ll pretend I’m not a miracle worker for getting you out of here.”

You hesitated for just a moment, then dragged yourself out of bed with a grunt. “Fine.”

“Oh, by the way, Aisha’s going to be there. She practically begged me to make sure you show.”

Your eyes snapped open. Aisha Patel. Your best friend and, quite honestly, the only person in your life who could drag you out of bed with a single text. She’s been your best friend since you’d arrived in the States. She’d been away for five months—longer than ever before—working on some high-profile project in Switzerland. You hadn’t seen her in ages.

“You’re kidding,” you mumbled, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. “Aisha’s coming?”

Nina smiled smugly. “Yep. She’s flown back for the event. Can you imagine the drama if you don’t show up? She’ll never let you live it down.”

You sighed, a smile tugging at your lips. “God, I missed her.”

“Me too,” Nina said, her voice softening for just a second. “But you still have to get up. Like now.”

You looked at the dress Nina had already picked out, a sleek white gown that somehow made you feel both glamorous and like you were about to attend a royal gala. “Fine. I’m up. I’m dressed.”

Nina, who was already rummaging through your closet like a pro, grinned. “You look absolutely beautiful, honey,” she noticed your weight loss but decided to not speak on it, in fear it’ll make you relapse… if only she knew. “Chiara’s also going to be there...”

You froze, the mention of Chiara Romano sending a cold shiver down your spine. You’d told Nina everything about the Chiara encounter—her subtle digs, the way she made you feel like you were just another passing phase in Rafe’s life. She’d made things uncomfortable enough at Kelce’s party, and now you had to face her again?

“What? Fucking why?”

“Her father���s the one running the whole damn event,” she explained. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her or her family because they’re pretty famous, especially in the entertainment and events world. So, get ready for a day full of small talk, fake smiles, and people who will pry into your private life.”

You sighed. “How perfect is that?”

You stood in front of the mirror, trying to shake off the heavy weight of everything swirling in your head. You glanced at the clock. You were running out of time.

You reached for your hair tie, pulling it through your tangled locks. Your hair had grown longer than you remembered, and you decided to tie it up in a messy, yet elegant bun—one that would allow a few soft, curly strands to escape and frame your face. It was casual but chic—classic you. You let a few strands fall loosely, giving the bun a less formal, more effortless vibe. After a moment of satisfaction, you moved on to the makeup.

A soft, dewy glow covered your skin, nothing too dramatic. You didn’t want to feel caked in layers today, just enough to enhance your features. You applied a touch of blush to your cheeks, just a hint, to keep the look fresh. A thin line of mascara lengthened your lashes, and your signature lip combo was the finishing touch. Simple. Comfortable.

As you turned to check yourself one last time, you heard Nina's voice from the other room.

“Y/N! We need to go now. Rafe's texting me and he’s getting antsy. He’s apparently already at the event!”

You sighed, feeling the familiar rush of anxiety settle into your stomach. The mirror reflected a version of you that was ready for the world, but the world, especially tonight, wasn’t ready for this version of you. But as the pressure of the event built up, you couldn’t deny the uncertainty gnawing at you.

When you made your way into the living room, Nina was pacing, her phone glued to her ear. She shot you a quick, approving glance. “Looking good. Let’s go.”

As you grabbed your clutch, ready to face whatever tonight had in store, the doorbell rang. Your heart skipped a beat. Was it Aisha? Maybe she’d arrived early, wanting to meet up before the event?

But when you opened the door, your breath caught.

Standing in the doorway wasn’t Aisha.

It was Rafe.

He was in a suit—sharp, looking like he belonged in a magazine ad for high-end fashion—but his eyes, dark and intense, held something more than just a desire to impress. He had the look of a man who knew he had messed up.

His words hit you before you could even process them. “You look stunning. I wanted to make sure you’re okay... before all this.” The sincerity in his voice made your heart thump a little faster, and you hated yourself for it.

The words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you just stood there, blinking at him. You hadn’t expected him to show up—especially not with that kind of intensity in his eyes.

You exhaled slowly, your arms instinctively crossing over your chest, your posture defensive. The audacity of this guy.

“Really?” You scoffed, trying to mask the vulnerability creeping up your spine with sharp sarcasm. “Now you care?”

Rafe seemed to falter at that, but he quickly recovered, taking a small step closer, but not enough to make you feel cornered. “I’ve always cared, Y/N. You know that.” His voice was quieter this time, and the sincerity in his eyes almost made your resolve crack.

“Do I?” you shot back, stepping out of the doorway and giving him a once-over, your gaze icy. “Because you sure had a funny way of showing it.”

Rafe winced, a flash of guilt flickering in his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I messed up, okay? I should’ve reached out. I didn’t know what to say, but I should’ve just... shown up.”

You rolled your eyes, the anger simmering beneath your skin rising again. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, not from the sight of him, but from the frustration that had been building over the past two weeks. “You didn’t know what to say? You think showing up fixes two weeks of silence? Just like that?”

He took a step forward, his face tightening, as though he was bracing himself for a confrontation. "I wasn’t sure what to do," he said, his voice lowering. "I thought... maybe you needed space. I thought if I gave you time, it would be better." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear in his expression. “I was trying to do the right thing.”

You stared at him for a long moment, the audacity of his words settling like a lump in your throat. “Space?” you asked, your voice low, incredulous. “You thought ghosting me for two weeks would give me space?” 

Rafe’s face twisted in guilt, but it didn’t matter. You weren’t going to let him off the hook.

“Did you at least see my texts?” you demanded, anger rising in your throat.

"Y/N, you’re needed at the car right now!" Nina called, stopping Rafe in his tracks of answering. Before you could walk away, Rafe reached out, his hand closing around your wrist, pulling you back gently.

"Wait," he murmured, his thumb brushing your skin.

You stared up at Rafe, your breath caught in your throat, uncertainty swirling in your chest. The air between you two felt charged, a thousand unspoken questions hanging in the balance. Your pulse was racing, but before you could voice any of them, Nina practically shoved you both into the elevator. Her hand pressed the button for the ground floor as she threw your heels at you, the sharp click of the stilettos punctuating the tension.

You caught them on instinct. The elevator descended, and your mind was still spiraling, trying to piece together what the hell was happening. What the fuck—this distance between you and Rafe? 

But just as the elevator doors opened, the sound of a familiar car door slamming outside caught your attention. A quiet thud, followed by the sound of heels clicking against pavement. Your instincts were on alert, an uneasy feeling crawling under your skin.

And when you turned to look, you saw someone stepping out of the car.

Someone who shouldn’t be here.

“I was wondering when we’d get the chance to catch up.”

chapter seven

[charliemwrites]

Part 4 of obsessed Johnny.

(Part 3 is here!)

(CW for nonconsensual ‘sort-of’ free use and edging; and again - dubious consent. Please stay safe!!)

Johnny’s favorite pastime is playing with you. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he’s being purposefully cruel, but no. He’s just… strangely preoccupied with your body.

He spends most nights cradling you between his legs, your back to his chest, arms wrapped around you. The two of you watch tv or movies, share popcorn - sometimes he watches you play on your Switch or reads over your shoulder.

It started out almost innocent (so to speak) in the beginning. He’s a fidgety guy, you’ve known that long before this whole mess, used to smile to yourself when you cleaned up straw wrappers and clean napkins folded into odd shapes.

So you barely notice when he starts fiddling with the hems of your sweatshirt and long shirts, picking at strings or running his thumb over knit textures. When he moved to your socks, that caught your attention but never went very far - just tugging at elastic lace or rolling/unrolling the tops along your thighs.

And then one night, as the two of you are watching the latest superhero movie, he hand creeps under your panties. You jolt the instant his fingers grazes your slit, hands twitching as you debate the dangers of redirecting him.

“Something wrong, Bonnie?” he asks against your ear, genuinely curious. “Is it too loud?”

It occurs to you that he genuinely might not realize what he’s doing - that reaching for you is just a thoughtless action like folding up bits of paper.

“Your hand is in my underwear,” you explain.

A pause. “Oh, so it is.” And to your surprise, he returns to hugging you.

It happens again though, this time you’re so preoccupied trying to beat a video game level that you almost don’t notice until his middle finger glides over your clit. You suck in a breath and die instantly.

“Damn,” he mutters. “Thought you had it that time. Gonna give it another go or you done for the night.”

Stuttering, you say you’ll give it another try, almost morbidly curious about how far he’ll go. Pretty far it turns out. He toys with your clit for 15 minutes before you clear your throat and shift, feeling unbearably wet and achy.

“Oh, shite. I did it again,” he mumbles, extracting his hand and settling it on the outside of your thigh. “No wonder you keep dying.”

The next time is during an intense tv show you’ve both gotten really into. It’s distracting from the weird reality you’ve found yourself in - but not weird enough that you can ignore Johnny tapping his finger nervously over your clit. You swear your heartbeat is starting to match that rhythm - tap, tap, tap. He doesn’t get the hint when you shift this time, eyes locked on the screen as he mutters to himself.

“No way is he secretly her brother. No fuckin’ way.”

You try to ignore it. Hope it’ll end in its own time when the tension dies down. It doesn’t. He lets the next episode load automatically, babbling to you about the crazy cliffhanger.

As it opens, his fingers travel down your slit to your entrance, find the slick there and play in it. Microthrusts against your leaking hole, just wetting his fingertip before dragging it out, up to your clit, three circles, then back down again.

It’s maddening but it’s not enough. You’re biting your lip so hard you’re surprised you don’t taste blood, thighs twitching with each jolt of pleasure coursing through you.

On and on it goes, slow and absent, maddening. Literally just playing with your pussy like a fidget toy. He’s not even fully hard against your lower back! Just the normal amount of mildly turned on that having you in his lap produces.

It’s driving you into a fucking spiral. So so sensitive, so close to the edge, but never enough. You just lay there trapped against him, dripping and desperate and determined to be quiet because you don’t know what else to do now. You can’t let yourself get off to this - but you also can’t find the words to remind him to stop.

When the episode - the finally - finally ends, he pulls his hand away, already gearing up to discuss theories for the next season with you. Instead, he’s cut off as you hiccup, near tears with being denied.

“What’s wrong, hen? I didn’t think it was that bad!” he says.

“You-you were…” you can’t get the words out, give up entirely. Time to see if he really is as devoted to pleasing you as he always swears.

You crawl out of his lap, flip onto your back, and yank him down by the hair. He makes a startled noise, eyes going huge, and then whimpers as his cheek presses into your absolutely soaked panties. Even that is a cruel but unintentional tease.

“Fix it,” you near sob.

“Of course, baby, of course,” he hurries to say, wriggling into a better position. “I’m sorry, love. So sorry. Got you all spun up, huh? Didn’t mean to. You’re just so soft and-”

You whine. “Soap, shut up and lick me!”

He moans, hips jerking hard into the mattress. “Yes, ma’am.”

[p0orbaby]

Why Do I Give You the Worst of Me (1)

summary: love and bad decisions collide as you struggle to balance a tour and a relationship that’s spiraling out of control

warnings: 18+ adult themes throughout

a/n: another series i’m hoping i don’t regret committing myself to… not sure how many parts it’ll be, i don’t plan anything

word count: 3.1k

-

You wake up face-first on a sofa that smells like cigarettes, spilled beer, and faintly, vomit. Not yours, you think. The synthetic fabric is scratchy against your cheek, and when you open your eyes, it takes a moment to realise it’s morning—sunlight cutting through the cracked blinds, striping the floor with dusty light. The sofa is mustard yellow, ugly in a deliberate, trying-too-hard-to-be-retro way. It doesn’t belong to you. Nothing in this flat belongs to you.

There’s a girl in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she pours cereal into a bowl. You don’t know her name, but you know she wears Chanel No. 5 because it’s all you could smell last night when she leaned too close, whispering something you didn’t quite catch. Her hair’s a mess now—like spun gold caught in a tangle of barbed wire—but her makeup is still pristine. She’s the kind who sets her eyeliner with setting spray before going out, even if it’s just to the pub. You admire the commitment, if not the execution.

Your head throbs—a deep, insistent ache behind your eyes that reminds you of last night in bits and pieces: the gig (decent, though the sound guy fucked up your monitor levels), the afterparty (loud, sweaty, a haze of bodies and smoke), the lines of coke on a chipped coffee table, the bartender who kept giving you free shots because he recognised you from that NME interview last month. At some point, someone tried to fight you, though you’re not sure why. You vaguely remember smashing a bottle of tequila against a wall and laughing as glass shards rained down like confetti.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, which is peeling in a way that suggests years of neglect, a building held together more by stubbornness than actual structural integrity. There’s a stain in the corner that looks suspiciously like mould, but you don’t care enough to investigate. The flat isn’t yours, after all. You were invited here by someone whose name escapes you now—a bassist from another band, or maybe it was their girlfriend? They’re gone this morning, anyway, leaving behind only the detritus of a night well-lived: empty bottles, crushed cigarette packets, a single black stiletto abandoned near the door like a fairy-tale gone wrong.

You light a cigarette, despite the pounding in your head and the fact that you’re pretty sure it’s technically illegal to smoke indoors here. The girl in the kitchen glances at you but doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure if she’s annoyed or indifferent; you don’t care. The smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling, and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the quiet. Mornings like this are rare—where everything is still and soft, where the chaos of your life is temporarily held at bay by the thin walls of someone else’s flat.

Your bass is propped up against the armchair, scratched and battered in a way that tells a story if you care to look closely enough. It’s a Fender Precision, black with a white pickguard, the same model Sid Vicious used to play—not that you’d ever admit that’s why you bought it. The neck has a gouge near the third fret from when you threw it at a sound tech who deserved it (and missed). The strap is leather, worn smooth where it rests on your shoulder, and the bridge still has flecks of blood from the time you played so hard your fingers split open mid-song. You keep meaning to clean it, but you never do.

You check your phone, which is cracked and sticky with something you don’t want to identify. No new messages, except for a text from your drummer that reads: “u alive?” You don’t bother replying.

-

You’ve been in the band for five years now, though it feels longer. It started as a joke—a group of friends fucking around in someone’s garage, trying to see who could play the loudest, the fastest, the most obnoxious. Somewhere along the way, it became serious. There was a DIY EP, recorded in one manic weekend on borrowed gear, and a string of gigs in dingy pubs where the audiences were more interested in drinking than listening. Then came the break—a slot supporting a bigger band, one of those industry darlings who’d already started to hate themselves for selling out. The kind of band that wears matching outfits ironically, even though everyone knows it’s not ironic at all.

Now, you play sold-out shows to crowds who scream your lyrics back at you, though most of them probably couldn’t name your second album. Your face has been on the cover of Kerrang! twice, though you didn’t bother reading the articles. You hate interviews, but you do them anyway because your manager insists. You’re better at the photoshoots—smirking at the camera in a way that suggests you don’t care (you do).

The band is your life, though you wouldn’t call it that. Calling it your life makes it sound like you have some sort of plan, and you don’t. You’re just here, playing gigs and writing songs and doing whatever it takes to keep the wheels from falling off.

Your bandmates are a mixed bag of personalities, each one a walking caricature in their own way. There’s Matt, the drummer, who swears he’s been abducted by aliens and won’t shut up about it. Alex, the lead guitarist, is constantly high and insists on bringing his cat on tour, which you find deeply annoying. And then there’s Holly, the singer, who somehow manages to be both the most chaotic and the most responsible member of the group. She’s the one who organises rehearsals, books the studio time, and keeps you all from self-destructing entirely. You love her for it, even if you’d never say it out loud.

The girl in the kitchen finishes her cereal, rinses the bowl, and leaves without saying goodbye. You watch her go, not because you care but because there’s nothing else to do. When the door slams shut, the flat feels even smaller, like the walls are pressing in on you. You stub out your cigarette, grab your bass, and leave too.

-

Outside, London is already alive, though you wouldn’t call it awake. The streets are sticky from last night—spilled pints and kebab wrappers crushed into the pavement, cigarette butts floating in puddles of something that smells suspiciously like piss. The air has that distinct urban flavour: exhaust fumes mingling with fryer grease and the faint tang of wet concrete. You pull your leather jacket tighter around you, not because it’s cold (it is), but because it completes the look.

The jacket is vintage—or at least you tell people it is. In reality, you bought it at a high-street shop three years ago, and it’s held up surprisingly well, considering the abuse it’s endured. The lining is torn, the cuffs are frayed, and there’s a mysterious stain on the back you can’t quite place. But it’s yours, and it feels like armour. The boots, on the other hand, are real vintage: a pair of Dr Martens from the ‘90s you found in a thrift shop in Brighton. They’re scuffed to hell, and the left one squeaks when you walk, but you refuse to replace them because they’re authentic.

You head toward the Tube station, your bass slung over one shoulder like a soldier carrying a rifle. People stare, but only briefly. In London, no one has the energy to care for long. The morning commuters are a mix of suits and students, their faces blank, their eyes glazed over as they clutch takeaway coffees in one hand and their phones in the other. You feel out of place but also weirdly superior, like you’ve cracked some code they haven’t even realised exists yet.

You hop on the Northern line, ignoring the signs that politely request passengers to “refrain from eating or drinking.” You’re not eating or drinking, but you do pull out a cigarette, which is arguably worse. It’s a roll-up, so you convince yourself it doesn’t count. An old woman glares at you, clutching her handbag like she thinks you’re about to mug her. You offer her a crooked smile, which she does not return, and you put the cigarette back in your pocket because she reminds you of your nan.

The train screeches into motion, and you pull out your phone. The lock screen is a photo of your bass, which says a lot about you. There are a few notifications—mostly spam emails and an unread message from Holly: Rehearsal at 2. Don’t be late, dickhead.

You glance at the time. 11:47 a.m. Plenty of time.

-

The rehearsal space is in Camden, a dingy basement that smells of mildew and unwashed socks. The walls are lined with egg cartons painted black in a half-hearted attempt at soundproofing, and the floor is sticky for reasons you’d rather not think about. The room has seen better days—probably in the ‘80s, when it was still a nightclub and not a haven for struggling musicians. There’s a single fluorescent bulb overhead that flickers ominously, and a space heater in the corner that’s never worked.

Holly is already there when you arrive, tuning her guitar with the precision of someone who takes this far more seriously than you do. She’s wearing a denim jacket covered in patches for bands you’ve never heard of, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She looks up as you walk in, her expression equal parts exasperation and relief.

“Christ, you smell like an ashtray,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s called branding,” you reply, dropping your bass onto the floor with a thud.

Matt and Alex show up ten minutes later, looking even worse than you do. Matt has the kind of face that always looks slightly hungover, even when he’s not, and Alex is wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, now with an impressive new stain across the front.

The rehearsal starts late, as it always does, and quickly descends into chaos. Matt insists on playing a drum solo during every song, despite the fact that no one asked for it. Alex keeps stopping mid-riff to check his phone, claiming he’s “waiting for an important call,” though everyone knows it’s just his dealer. Holly shouts at both of them until her voice cracks, then turns her frustration on you for being “completely fucking useless.” You take it in stride, plucking random notes on your bass and pretending to care.

-

At some point, Holly storms out, leaving the three of you to your own devices. Matt immediately pulls out a joint, which Alex lights with a lighter shaped like a naked woman. You lean back against the wall, your bass resting against your thigh, and watch as they argue over which fast-food place to hit up after rehearsal.

“McDonald’s is closer,” Alex says, taking a drag.

“But KFC’s got the gravy,” Matt counters, waving his arms for emphasis.

“It’s not even real gravy,” Alex snaps.

“None of it’s real,” you interject, flicking ash onto the floor. “We’re all just cogs in the capitalist machine.”

They stare at you for a moment, then go back to arguing.

-

By the time rehearsal ends, it’s dark outside. You pack up your gear, ignoring Holly’s death glare as she reminds you for the millionth time that you need to take this more seriously. You nod, mumble something about “artistic integrity,” and leave before she can yell at you again.

Back on the street, the air is crisp, the kind of cold that bites at your skin and makes you wish you’d brought a scarf. You light another cigarette, even though you’ve already smoked half a pack today, and head toward the pub.

The pub is your sanctuary, a place where time slows down and the only thing that matters is the next round. It’s a dive, the kind of place where the carpet sticks to your shoes and the jukebox is permanently stuck on a rotation of The Clash and The Smiths. You know the bartender by name, though you’re not sure if he knows yours.

You order a pint and settle into a corner booth, your bass case propped up beside you. The first sip is like a warm hug, washing away the stress of the day. You’re halfway through your second pint when you see her.

-

You don’t notice her at first. Not properly. She’s part of the blur—the dim bar lights catching on glasses, the low hum of half-drunken conversation, the vague sense that you’ve been here before even if you haven’t. She’s leaning against the counter, waiting for her drink, and it’s not until the bartender—a man whose name might be Pete but who you’re pretty sure is just “Oi, mate” to everyone who comes in—hands her a gin and tonic that you actually see her.

And it’s a gin and tonic. Not a lager, not a rum and coke, not something ironic like a snakebite or one of those craft beers with names like Hops and Robbers. It’s a G&T, clean and crisp, with a slice of lime balanced on the rim like it’s posing for a stock photo. The glass is crystal clear, and so are her nails—short, practical, painted the sort of soft pink that suggests she doesn’t chew them during stressful moments (unlike you). She takes the drink with both hands, like she’s steadying herself, and there’s something about that—the deliberateness of it—that hooks you.

You tell yourself you’re just looking because she’s there. Because it’s either her or the guy at the next table who’s been droning on about Bitcoin for twenty minutes straight. But it’s more than that. There’s a stillness to her, an odd kind of clarity that doesn’t fit in a place like this, like she’s wandered in from a parallel universe.

She turns slightly, and you catch her profile: sharp nose, strong jawline, cheekbones that could cut glass but probably wouldn’t because she seems far too polite. Her hair is blonde—not platinum, not peroxide, but the kind of natural gold that makes you think of expensive shampoo and childhood summers. It’s tied back loosely, wisps framing her face in a way that seems accidental but probably isn’t.

She’s not wearing makeup. Or maybe she is, but it’s the invisible kind—the kind that takes forty-five minutes to apply but looks like you’ve just rolled out of bed looking flawless. Her jumper is navy, oversized enough to suggest she might have nicked it from someone else’s wardrobe, paired with jeans that sit perfectly at her hips without being skinny. On her feet are white trainers—clean, like freshly ironed bedsheets—Adidas, the classic three stripes in black, laces tied neatly, no fraying ends.

You’re staring. You know you are. But she hasn’t noticed, so it doesn’t count.

The bartender mutters something to her, and she laughs. Not the loud, performative laugh you hear from most people in bars, but something softer, like it’s meant for her and her alone. The sound is so out of place in this dingy pub that it feels almost sacrilegious, like someone’s brought a cathedral choir to sing in a nightclub.

You tell yourself to look away. You don’t.

Instead, you light a cigarette, even though the pub is strictly non-smoking. You do it for the aesthetic, the same way you do most things. There’s a half-empty pint in front of you—lager, flat and warm, probably with someone else’s fingerprints on the glass—but you take a sip anyway, because what else are you going to do?

She turns then, her gaze sweeping the room, and you’re caught like a deer in headlights. For a second, you think she’s looking at you, but she’s not. She’s looking past you, at the dartboard on the wall behind your head. Her expression is curious, like she’s trying to figure out why anyone would bother playing darts in a place like this.

Then her eyes meet yours, and the world tilts.

It’s not love at first sight, not really. Love at first sight is for Disney films and Hallmark cards and people who shop at Waitrose without looking at the prices. This is something else. Recognition, maybe. Like you’ve seen her before in a dream or a half-remembered story someone told you once. Like you’ve spent your whole life waiting for this moment without knowing it.

She holds your gaze for a second longer than is polite. Then she looks away, back at her gin and tonic, and you realise you’ve been holding your breath.

-

You don’t approach her right away. That would be too obvious, too predictable. Instead, you wait, watching her out of the corner of your eye while pretending to scroll through your phone. It’s a shitty phone, cracked and outdated, but you’ve never bothered upgrading because you secretly enjoy the low expectations it sets. No one looks at you and expects success when your phone screen is held together with Sellotape.

She moves to a table in the corner, near the radiator, and sits down alone. No book, no laptop, no visible excuse to be here other than the gin and tonic in her hand. She sips it slowly, methodically, like she’s savouring it. Like she’s savouring this.

You wonder what her story is.

Is she waiting for someone? A friend, a boyfriend, a clandestine meeting with a lover? Or is she just one of those people who can sit alone in public without feeling like a target? You’ve never understood that kind of confidence—the kind that lets you exist without an audience, without a role to play.

You take another sip of your pint, then decide, fuck it.

You stand, grab your bass (because leaving it behind would feel like abandoning a child), and make your way across the room. Your boots squeak against the sticky floor, and you curse them under your breath. She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable.

“Mind if I join you?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the empty chair across from her.

She hesitates, just for a moment, then nods.

“Sure.”

Her voice is soft, but not shy. Measured. Like she’s weighing every word before she says it.

You sit, placing your bass case carefully against the table leg. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You’re not sure what to say, and she seems content to let the silence stretch. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s not easy, either.

Finally, she breaks it.

“You’re in a band,” she says, nodding toward the bass. It’s not a question.

You smile. “Yeah. What gave it away?”

She raises an eyebrow, and you realise it’s a stupid question.

“What’s the band called?”

You tell her, and she nods, like she’s vaguely heard of it but couldn’t name a single song.

“I’m Alessia,” she says, holding out her hand. Her grip is firm, her skin warm.

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, and for the first time in a long time, you actually mean it.

[oksurethisismyname]

A continuation on my transmasc postpartum Sanji thoughts, this version had top surgery at some point in his life.

When Sanji got pregnant, one of the unfortunate prenatal questions his amazing Dr. Chopper asked was “do you plan on chest feeding?” For someone else with less trauma around being fed and their body, this question wouldn’t be awful. But for Sanji? This question hits him like the sea train hit Franky. It rips him up. His thoughts spiral.

Can I even do that? Do I still have those… organs or whatever the fuck? What if my baby can’t eat because of me fuck shit I didn’t think it through enough I wanted to look a certain way holy shit I can’t believe I was so selfish I can’t -

It’s not hard for Zoro or Chopper to see Sanji spiraling. Honestly, Chopper expected some dysphoria but he didn’t think this would be the moment. Zoro has to gently pull Sanjis hands from his hair. After some uncomfortable moments of calming down, Sanji shares his concerns. Chopper doesn’t lie, doesn’t sugar coat it. It’s possible he can still chest feed which is why he asked if that was something he wanted or planned to do. It’s possible there won’t be enough milk, they can’t really be certain ahead of time, so it would be smart to think through alternatives.

So they make a plan. Sanji tirelessly researches safe breast milk alternatives, with Robin and Choppers help. Goats milk? Cows milk? There was one book that suggested donkey milk but where would they even find that? One island in the new world feeds infants a mixture of wine and honey but Chopper is adamant that, while he respects and learns from different cultural medical care, this is not one that should be practiced.

And when the baby comes, they miraculously latch and Sanji thinks maybe it’ll be ok maybe he’ll make enough maybe he’s capable. And then it’s every 2-3 hour feeding, regaining birth weight, nursing and then having some goatsmilk while held in a chest feeding position. This goes on for weeks? Maybe? Sanji can’t tell, he’s waking up every 2 hours. Zoro offers every night to feed the baby so Sanji can get 4 hours of uninterrupted sleep but Sanji can’t accept that help. What is he good for if not this? His job is to feed his crew and his child. If he can’t do that what’s the fucking point?

When the baby finally gets back their birthweight and starts sleeping for longer stretches, Sanji allows himself to rest. Chopper is constantly bringing him electrolyte drinks and protein packed foods; Nami has started forcing him to sit with her when she’s on deck sunbathing to get some sun on his skin and fresh air; Zoro is changing every diaper claiming that if “sanji deals with what goes in the baby all by himself, I can deal with what comes out.” Sanji kicks him softly in the shin for that.

Months pass and Sanji is depressed. He barely has the effort to shower let alone care for this baby. He thinks he hates this baby. He’s suffocating on intrusive thoughts. His thoughts scare him. He thinks about throwing the baby overboard. Dropping the baby down the stairs. Pouring coffee on the baby. Why can’t he stop thinking these things?

What kind of monster hates his own child? I swore I’d never be like them is this the beginning am I losing myself will zoro have to keep his promise he’ll be devestated I can’t believe I put this burden on him fuck I’m so useless I can’t even -

Zoro, Chopper, and Nami hold what some might call an intervention. They know he’s struggling with post partum depression and they think maybe if he stops chest feeding that will help. They tip toe around it until Zoro finally says it aloud. He’s never yelled at a woman before but he screams at all of them, Nami included. He yells. He cries. How dare they tell him what to do with his body! They don’t fucking get it! The only time he feels connected to that baby is when he’s nursing. It’s the only time he looks down and feels actually connected, actually useful, actually wanted by this child.

He doesn’t stop chest feeding. He gets worse. Around month 7, the baby starts gnawing on his nipples. It fucking hurts but he’ll get through it. He’s dreading when he’ll need to start weening. What if they don’t ween until the baby’s 2 yrs old? Will he even live that long? He doesn’t share those thoughts, he knows they would scare his crew.

He’s getting treatment for his post partum, he’s doing his best to get better when he has the energy to but it’s so hard.

And then one day, the baby won’t nurse. They’re distracted, they’re full, they’ve started eating soft solid foods and purées recently. Sanji breaks down crying, sobbing because if he can’t do this one thing what’s he good for?

Surprisingly, or maybe not, it’s Luffy who is able to calm him down. He’s so straight forward, everything is an adventure or a battle to win.

“Sanjis the best cook in the world! You did such a good job feeding all of us, especially the baby! You did it! That baby is strong and big and chunky with the fattest cheeks like when I’m eating a lot of food and shi shi shi they’ve got those thigh rolls and Robin says that means the baby is healthy and I think I saw them eyeing my turkey leg oh my gosh that was so good can you maybe more? Please please please please”

Sanji sits there repeating the words in his head, over and over he thinks I did it. Yeah. I did do it. I did it. I did it. I did good.

[lilacxquartz]

Those Late Summer Nights I Chapter 18

satoru gojo x f!reader × suguru geto

plot: you moved to tokyo over the summer to take a teaching job. as you get settled in, you find yourself entangled in a toxic dynamic.

chapter summary: suguru takes you to your hometown, finally ready to fulfil his promise. satoru in the meantime spirals, deciding on a bleak outcome for you both.

< Previous Chapter • Final Chapter >

18. Consequences

By the time Suguru finally returned, it was already deep into the night. You couldn’t bring yourself to occupy your time with much else while he was away, instead surrendering your mind to a blank state of mind. All you could do was lay in bed and passively browse your phone, ignoring those who attempted to reach out.

Satoru was one of them, but you didn’t even bother looking at what he was sending you.

You cycled between that and simply just rolling onto your back to stare off into the darkness for the majority of the night; never once bothering to turn the lights back on. You figured that since your mind was already in a dark place, that it wouldn’t have made a difference no matter what you did.

Suguru walked back inside flipping on a dim light anyway, dumping some familiar looking bags onto the floor by the doorway. Your eyes flicked over to the sight, squinting to see your suitcase and your laundry bag filled with the rest of your stuff.

“What’s all this?” you asked groggily, stretching out your arms and pretending that what happened earlier on didn’t happen at all. It was easier than facing the truth.

Suguru let out a deep breath as he ran his fingers through his hair, figuring out how to explain anything at all to you, “We’re going on a little trip, remember?”

“To my hometown, right?” you remembered, but it still didn’t explain the amount of things he brought back.

He paused for a moment, assessing your mental state before continuing, “To your hometown and then somewhere else, yes.”

You nodded despite not understanding fully, “Okay…?”

“Let’s just say that you’re not going back to Shoko’s,” he admitted after a moment of strained silence, walking himself over to the bed where you lay to break the news to you, “I’ve settled the rent for this month and the next, but she’s going to have to learn to live without you.”

“B-but why…?” you asked with a slight frown. You wanted to go back at some point. You liked living with her. It was the only part of your life that made sense.

Was he really expecting you to just move in with him without even asking you?

“It’ll be okay,” he added, sighing deeply again. He wanted to assure you, but he didn’t exactly know the proper way to do it.

“W-will it…?” you asked in a wary tone.

He dipped his tongue in-between his lips as though he wanted to say something but swallowed his words away. He wanted to lie and say that it was all in fact going to be just fine, but it was much more complicated than that. Instead, he looked at you with a strained look, hoping to get you on board with something else he had planned.

Running his hand along your thigh, he patted at your pocket where your phone was, “Do me a favour, will you?”

You sat up slightly, leaning your back against the headboard.

“Yeah?” you asked.

“Delete everyone you know from your contacts except me,” he requested. His tone was however firm and it sounded much more like a demand.

In response, you couldn’t even reply aside from a quizzing hum. Your eyes squinted at him as you took in his weary state, the exhaustion clearly clinging to his face. In his eyes, you didn’t look that much worse than he did; both equally tired from each other.

“You don’t need anyone else right now,” he added, tapping on your thigh, “just me.”

You cautiously took your phone out of your pocket and navigated over to the contacts under his watchful gaze. While Suguru wasn’t being the least bit forceful about this physically, his implications and authoritative tone made it clear that he wasn’t going to be giving you a choice in the matter at all.

With a deep sigh, you reluctantly deleted just about everyone off of your phone except for your parents and him.

“Done,” you concluded.

“Lemme see,” he replied, holding out his hand so that you could hand him your phone, disagreeing with your actions before speaking up again, “I said everyone, didn’t I?”

Frowning a bit deeper, you couldn’t help but protest just a little, “But… but… my family?”

“Everyone,” he repeated, his voice carrying a slightly more hostile tone than before. He did take a deep breath before going off the deep end though, forcing himself to calm down before handing your phone back to you.

He would have done it himself, but there was just something more symbolic from having you do it by yourself in his eyes. It was a personal and selfless act on your behalf, to let go of your old life in favour of him.

“Done yet?” he asked.

You nodded, showing him the screen.

“Alright,” he continued, not quite believing his own words as he continued to talk; was it even him at this point? “Go to your texts and clear everyone’s messages and… if anyone tries to call or text you again, just block ‘em.”

You hesitantly did so as he kept asking on and off to keep track of your progress, his demeanour seeming much less tense and more so relaxed the emptier that your phone became.

“Perfect, perfect…” he praised.

The two of you continued to sit in a strained silence for the next couple of minutes, not saying a single word. You didn’t really have much to say on your end because you were just hoping that this was all some sort of strangely realistic nightmare that you were going to be waking up from any minute now, while Suguru was hoping that this would be the last of the madness that the two of you would ever have to endure.

There were only two things left to do now.

To kill Yui.

And to move you all somewhere different. You, him and the girls. It would have been a fresh start for you all.

He did consider confronting Satoru, but he already knew that it wouldn’t have done shit. He leaned his body back, settling across the bed and joined you in staring into nothingness. This sort of thing wasn’t too uncommon back when he was a teenager, he remembered. He’d be interested in a girl and then Satoru would too, then eventually they’d both move on. It was different when they were all grown up though. It felt personal now, especially since he had real feelings towards you.

If Satoru just stayed in his own lane to begin with, then he’d never end up in this sort of mess with you.

It wasn’t your fault either; you simply got caught up in the middle of the crossfire.

Still, this sort of progression made sense. At least somewhat. He didn’t quite feel as though he belonged to jujutsu tech to begin with—not quite agreeing with who he was supposed to be protecting. Just even considering it, with how the girls were treated back in the village and how Yui got away with ruining your life… maybe the regular people of the world didn’t deserve it, after all.

“I really gotta ask,” he spoke up again after a while, taking his thoughts from his head and into the open, “you’re committed to me, right?”

You sighed as you felt trapped; not quite having a choice in the matter. You didn’t want to be left alone though, at least not after everything, so you nodded against your better judgement.

“Yes,” you followed up with, your voice sounding a little strained.

“Good, that’s good…” he trailed off, seeming content, “I guess I am too.”

You drummed your fingers along the mattress as your eyes focused on the bedroom door; your sights flickering on and off your stuff that sat piled up on the floor. Something about the whole situation didn’t sit quite right with you. He didn’t bother unpacking a single bag which threw you off. You were both going on a trip together sure and he was likely tired, but something about the way he was acting overall left you feeling uneasy.

“I should probably fix my, um, sleep schedule,” you replied, baiting him into a hopeful answer, knowing already that he wasn’t going to be direct with you unless you triggered the right context, “work’s starting soon and I need to get up earlier soon enough.”

Suguru shushed you just as you concluded your sentence, sitting up in bed with you again, “Nah, you’re not gonna be doing that,” he added, confirming your suspicions, “we’re gonna go to your town and then once the girls are back, we’re… going somewhere else.”

“Oh,” you blankly replied, wondering what he could have possibly meant.

“Yeah, just me… you… and the girls,” he reassured you, sensing your hesitation, “they’ll love you, don’t worry.”

“I-I suppose,” you nodded, not quite looking forward to the idea.

Giving your leg a gentle squeeze, he tried to ease you into the idea, “You wanted to change lives with teaching, right? You’ll still get to do that, it’ll just be more… personal.”

“I-I, uh, yeah, I guess I want to do that.”

“Then that’s what you’ll do,” he concluded, settling on the very thought on your behalf, not quite considering that you might not have wanted to do that at all.

~~~

The next couple of days felt surreal. A couple of knocks cycled on and off on the front door and your phone would at times ring, or you’d get a text but you simply just ignored everything that came your way. Most of your time was spent alone as Suguru tied off loose ends in real life, preparing to make a life changing move.

You recognised Shoko’s voice on and off at the front door talking to Suguru in what seemed to be a neutral voice. You partially hoped for her to get you out of this whole mess, but she didn’t seem to pry too much which only confirmed just how bleak the outlook truly was.

(She wanted to drop you a hint that she was actually on your side, but she had to be secretive about it. You were in a bad place right now and Suguru could read you a little too well, so she had to keep as level of a head as possible.)

Satoru swung by too, at times. He didn’t seem to act upset around Suguru either, acting suspiciously friendly with him and pretending that nothing was actually going on. It felt strangely infuriating almost to listen to the pair joke and talk as though nothing was going on, even though there was something complex warring beneath the surface.

Suguru was trying to keep his upcoming disappearance a secret from him, while Satoru plotted something much more sinister.

The way Satoru saw it was that specifically you were a complication.

It was all going just fine until his perfectly intact friend group received some sort of anomaly tearing them all apart in all sorts of directions which was becoming something of a problem.

The issue was though, that he wasn’t willing to just simply let you go. No, he considered it, but the idea never settled. Initially, he was going to request to transfer you to a jujutsu school far across the country—somewhere far away enough that none of them would run into you ever again, except in maybe an emergency. That much would have been fine, but no, something more darker festered within his deeper desires.

Maybe he could get rid of you in a different sort of way, while keeping hold of you. All he had to do was finally take the offer to move into a house on the estate grounds, finally selling off the penthouse. Then, he could flesh out the interior basement and simply just… stash you away.

Problem was though, it was risky (and was also surely insane).

But he did have the means. He could afford to do it discreetly and forge any required document into clear authenticity just by getting into contact with the right people. His family surely had the connections to do so, hell, he was content even with silencing anyone who looked too deep into what he was truly up to.

All he had to do was get you at the right time and at the right place and actually pull it off.

If he did though, then things had the potential to go back to normal.

So with that idea in mind, he pretended that everything was fine.

Completely unaware of what Suguru was truly up to.

Completely unaware of just how Shoko was planning to intercept them both.

~~~

Come the day of the road trip, it was surprisingly not too stressful of a day, all things considered. Just about everything needed was already packed away into the boot of the car and you didn’t have to do too much on your end. All you truly could do throughout the week was simply exist, so this was more so a welcome break away from your own unsettling thoughts, if anything.

The drive was a quiet one, like usual. This time there were no strange stops to the side of the road though and Suguru actually played music for you to listen to, though nothing too upbeat. Something relaxed and easy to doze off to, if needed and when you finally arrived there after many, many hours, you didn’t feel too weary from the ride, either.

He ended up parking his black sedan right in the dead centre of the town square, where the week parking was. It wasn’t too late just yet, but in his district of Tokyo, it would have been bustling, yet it was starkly empty. Your town never really got tourists either since there wasn’t much to do, so at the most there were probably a handful of teenagers loitering by the bicycle racks near the train platform with nobody else around.

In the city, it was of course going to be different. You couldn’t deny that much. It was going to be populated at least by the dozens on every street you looked at during the evening, even in the lesser central areas.

Getting out of the car, Suguru looked around, wiping his forehead as the heat of summer forced sweat to trickle down his skin.

“Well,” he began as he scrolled his eyes around, kicking the door shut as he watched you leave the passenger side, “this is a dump.”

“Yeah…” you agreed, not even being able to deny it.

“Alright, just give me a tour or something,” he muttered under his breath, blipping the vehicle shut before tucking the keys back into his pocket.

You proceeded to guide him awkwardly around the town per his request, even though you weren't particularly sure what he wanted out of the whole place. The walk itself was just as uneventful as the car ride and he seemed to bitterly take in the scenery as you walked through the area.

After a while, his voice softened and he tried to break the silence with you again, “You know, I’m sorry that you were a victim of this place.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, watching him kick a rock on the pavement as you both walked.

“You didn’t deserve to grow up here,” he added.

“I mean, I didn’t really have a choice,” you replied.

“And that’s exactly what I mean,” he sighed, feeling a bit bothered with having to repeat his point, although he did realise by himself once again that he wasn’t making a whole lot of sense to you, “you… you were simply a victim of the wrong place at the wrong time and to the wrong people.”

“I guess?” you agreed bitterly with a nod, he wasn’t really making much sense still but you supposed that you got the gist of the sentiment.

“What happens next is a consequence of that fact,” he added as he slipped his hand into yours.

“Suguru…?” you warily asked.

“I’m finally gonna fix things for you and I’m so sorry that you had to wait so long.”

The rest of the walk continued onwards without a single word said for a while because you didn’t exactly know how to reply to him on that front, nor was he expecting you to do so. It did however feel comforting to a messed up extent though, that he recognised that what happened here wasn’t your fault.

Eventually, you subconsciously led him to your own house and paused in your tracks.

He was the first to break the silence, “So this is where you used to live, huh?”

You nodded, frowning a little. You were silently praying that your parents wouldn’t notice you, especially after the rushed visit to leave from last time and the very fact that you have been dodging their attempts to get into contact with them for the last week or so.

Just as you turned around though, you heard a familiar voice.

“[name]?” you recognised the voice as your mother’s, feeling an uncomfortable shiver run down your spine as you were forced to confront her.

You turned around slowly, noticing the slightly ajar door and her concerned expression. It was a weekend and it was the evening, so of course your parents would be home. They probably spotted you from the living room. Suguru did not let go of your hand for a single second as he narrowed his gaze at her, pulling you slightly back as though to silently urge you to not stick around for too long.

“Um,” you couldn’t reply with much else than just strained sounds, “I…”

“You’re… here?” she asked again, her eyes flickering towards Suguru and then back towards you, attempting to figure out his involvement with you and what was going on exactly.

“Just a quick visit,” you finally replied, forcing yourself to hopefully ease her worries, hoping that she wouldn’t notice what sort of trouble you were entangled in because if she did, then what was she going to do exactly? Your parents weren’t sorcerers, they couldn’t even begin to take him on.

Despite tethering to your side, Suguru surprisingly didn’t protest when your mother approached you to pull you over to the side for a quick word.

Keeping you slightly out of reach from the company you kept, she leaned in and asked you out of genuine care while your father was still distracted in the living room, “Is everything alright with you?”

You weren’t particularly used to her being this way with you. Your father had been tough on you both when you were growing up, but it did leave you feeling somewhat nostalgic for the brief glimpses in your memory when it was just you and her alone when he was held up at work. The simpler times, before you could properly understand just how strained your own family relations were.

“I’m fine,” you lied, “I promise.”

She frowned ever so slightly, pulling you into a hug while warily shooting Suguru a look, letting go once your father had joined the scene. The way that Suguru looked at you in an almost possessive manner reminded her of when she was younger and just how equally pressured she felt from your father, silently praying that you weren’t caught up in anything similar.

“You’re sure?” she mouthed to you, her voice barely a whisper.

You nodded before briefly paying an acknowledging nod to your father, taking a couple of steps back and then turning towards Suguru when he cleared his throat to remind you that he was still there.

As you left your family home for a second time, you couldn’t help but look back at your parents one last time and the all too familiar look in your mother’s eyes.

(Were you really that different, after all?)

Finally back within his grasp, Suguru walked off in the direction you had in mind, his arm wrapping around your shoulder, “Took you long enough.”

“Was I supposed to just ignore her…?” you asked.

He shrugged, glancing back with a look of slight disdain in his eyes, “Nah, you’re alright. Can see where you got your lack of spine from, though.”

Frowning, you felt just a little bit of hurt course through your body, “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?” he teased a little, squeezing you tighter into his body as you both walked, his demeanour seeming somehow drastically different after that exchange, almost spiteful—resentful, even, “It’s true, isn’t it? The fact you’re asking me about it rather than jumping to defend yourself is evident enough.”

“It’s just rude though,” you mumbled.

“Case and point,” he teased, finally relaxing his hold on you, “don’t worry though, it’s all about to change.”

“It is…?” you asked, resigning to a sigh before he could reply. Maybe you shouldn’t be arguing back so much. He wasn’t exactly wrong, but the way he delivered his words left you feeling worse than anything else.

He hummed as he walked through the remainder of the town with you, hoping that you would eventually learn to stand up to him at least somewhat. He didn’t want you to take in the jabs and let them settle like a doormat as that much was boring, so he would continue to egg you on until it finally happened.

(Even if that was the wrong way to go about things.)

After a while though, he finally got to the point of the whole visit, needing some answers from you before moving forward with his promise to both himself as well as to you.

“Hey, [name]?” he asked you, squeezing your hand to grab your attention.

“Yeah?” you asked.

“I’m kinda curious about something, actually.”

You finally lifted up your chin to get a good look at him. He seemed deep in thought about something, almost appearing to be troubled.

“Yeah?”

“When you visited here last with… Satoru,” he began, “did you encounter Yui?”

“Y-yes, actually…” you confirmed.

He stopped in his tracks for a moment, turning to face you directly, “Anything happen?”

“N-not really,” you replied, trying to recall exactly what went down, “he made me ignore her and we just kinda left the next day.”

He scoffed, “Aw, that’s it?”

In a way, he was disappointed. Maybe though, Satoru just didn’t simply hold as big of a grudge against Yui as he did. He was the one who kept pressing for details about the bully when you all had first met, too, so he probably thought that you were exaggerating to an extent when you talked about the past. But Suguru knew about the cruelty of just regular people. Mimiko and Nanako were the living proof of that fact.

He supposed that in all of the wrong he had done, it wasn’t Satoru’s fault that he didn’t understand. He spent his entire life being told that he was the strongest, after all. The best protector for the people who didn’t know any better.

“I-I mean, it kind of worked?” you spoke up after a short pause.

Suguru’s tongue danced around his teeth for a moment as he considered his next response, furrowing his brows before coming to a conclusion. Suddenly smiling however as he relaxed his features, he brought you in a little bit closer as though to convince you that just a little bit more had to be done, “You shouldn’t let this shithole define you, you know?”

“I-I try not to…” you murmured.

“No, I mean it, like really mean it,” he persisted, starting to walk you through the street again, “all of the pent up anger, resentment and whatever vile shit that places like these harbour are reflected in the people that reside within them, you get me?”

You shook your head somewhat, despite your contradicting reply. “S-sort of?”

“[name], why would a peaceful little place like this even have cursed spirits to begin with?” he asked, trying a different approach with you.

“...B-because people’s troubled thoughts manifest as negative energy?”

“Correct,” he replied, squeezing your hand in approval, “but this place is so… quaint, isn’t it? There’s no real crime and as boring as it is, people seem pretty happy to waste their lives here. Yet, that’s not really how it went for you, was it?”

Attempting to keep up, you knitted your brows as he spoke, “N-no?”

“That’s because humanity is ugly. This whole town is ugly. There’s no escape from the negativity from people because people are inherently ugly on the inside,” he tried to emphasise, “and despite that, you still turned out to be good on the inside.”

“R-right,” you said as you continued to listen.

“What I’m trying to say, [name], is that you’re better than these people, these ordinary, boring people…” Suguru concluded as he tried not to trail off too much, “this town is better off without you.”

“So… why are we here then?” you asked.

“You can take a guess,” he replied, encouraging you to work it out for yourself.

However, you needed him to be clear, “Suguru…”

“Yui ruined your life, [name],” he sighed, “and she thinks she can get away with it because she’s got a bit of old money behind her name, but what she doesn’t realise is that despite all of that, she’s ordinary. Just a regular person. I think it’s time that she recognises that she fucked up the moment she ever laid a finger on you.”

Finally getting it, you couldn’t help but need him to say it, “W-what are you going to do?”

“People like Yui never gain a redemption arc, [name],” he continued, “they just simply learn to hide their malice better. So in return for all the hurt I gave you, I’m going to take all of that pent up rage—t-that… that pent up… betrayal and fix it by killing the person who started it all.”

Without saying a word you gulped down your thoughts and nodded, all the while Suguru carefully studied your expression for every person who passed you by, knowing exactly who Yui was from the moment your eyes glinted a certain way, from the moment you tensed up and just the way your breathing changed alone.

That this was it.

It wouldn’t fix everything, but he could finally do something right by you.

(And you would actually let him, because if you were being honest, you wanted for her to suffer, too.)

[m1ssunderstanding]

Get Back Rewatch 55 Years On: Day Nine

Here’s the thing. Like, on one hand, Paul loves teaching. But on the other hand, I honestly think he’d be a terrible teacher. He’s genuinely trying to explain songwriting to this kid, and all I’m getting is that I should be able to just look at a piano and it’ll give me whatever I want. “So it’s really just . . .” *plays Martha My Dear* “. . . and from there, you know, like, um, there’s no – unless you stop yourself – there’s no stopping yourself.” Yes, thank you, Professor McCartney. Very informative. Good thing you’re a gorgeous genius because not a word of that lecture made any sense. 

Seriously I am BEGging someone to write Paul and Ringo in the 20s as a cabaret duo! With Paul’s talents being songwriting, slutting it up, piano, and vocals and Ringo’s talents being tap-dancing, ventriloquist dummy impersonation, with the occasional piano, vocals, and sly winks. Maybe they meet George and John through organized crime, idk.

“They don’t just sort of come in your head, kind of thing?” “Yeah, sure. Fact, I had one this morning.” You know. As one does.

See, even Ringo’s on board with my plan. “Let’s make a silent movie.” And Paul. “In a club. That’s it. We’re in a band. We’re in a band, but we sell drugs.” And now they're stringing Paul up just for kicks. Maybe they could join the circus!

Literally the minute John starts being silly, Paul gets this fond look on his face and you can see the wheels turning like “quick, think of a way to get close to him.” And John’s into it. But they keep doing this seesaw thing and I can’t help but think how reminiscent it is of their dynamic as a whole. 

“I see you’ve given up smoking, Richie.” “Yes, I have.” Reminds me of that classic, “I don’t even smoke,” thing. Seems like five-hundred years ago.

PLEASE tell me Peter Sellers and Ringo had a torrid love affair during the filming of The Magic Christian. The way Peter touches Ringo’s hair and his face! Ringo being a gentleman and getting Peter a chair! And I mean there’s plenty of queer coding between them in the film.  

But also laughing my ass off at Peter’s reaction to their song-titles/lyrics/gibberish/other references code.

Yoko, you’re stone-cold and hilarious. “Or what we haven’t.” I honestly have mad respect for her complete disregard/disdain for the Beatles and their art only because that’s how they treat hers for the most part. But girl. You’re married to one of them. He genuinely does love them and what he does with them and you’ve got to respect that or go find someone else, you know?

Also, Paul does Not appreciate the attitude. “Or we’ll just sort of sit here and allow ourselves to be embarrassed. ‘Number nine . . .”

Aaand, just like that, Peter Sellers “must be off.” He lasted all of 1 minute 26 seconds. Weak. George and Ringo lasted fifteen years. 

MLH is literally that annoying person that asks you a serious question about yourself just so he can use you as a segue to talk about his problems.

John: just recovering from the day, you know. Yoko: from the night. John: embarrassed (you have no right, dude, you literally played your sex tape for everyone like two weeks ago) Paul: Did not want that image, thanks very much. 

It actually KILLS me though that we’ll never understand their code. Paul and Ringo will take it to their graves and no one else knows it and any footage like this we’ve got, and any code songs, will just be mostly uninterpretable for all time. 

Okay these few minutes here are soooo special to me. It’s John at his peak lovely, sweet, gentle, kind self. He makes a joke at which Paul can only nod darkly which makes John realize just how bad of a place Paul’s in. 

Paul wants them to get to work “achieve something every day.” But John knows he’s not in a good headspace to work and it’ll be shit and then Paul will spiral even more. So, he turns up the humor until Paul is sufficiently cheered. 

And then, he says. “Guitars? I thought that’s what they do.” And Paul’s stammering. “Oh, that is what they do, but–” John stands up, does a little head-tilt toward the instruments. “Come on, I’ll even show you about half a song I was writing. Come on.” That last in the tenderest, most coaxing voice. It’s just soooo. Like. We talk a lot about Paul ‘handling’ John, and he did. But John sure knows how to handle Paul.

I SO wish they’d have done something with “Madman”. It’s so fun!! Every single song in this era I will go to bat for, no question. 

Ringo’s little hug for Paul!!!! I can’t.

[mochegato]

Forever Yours

It was bad. She knew it had to be bad. Why else wouldn't they have heard anything?  Why else would they keep her... them!  Keep them in the dark?  They wouldn't.  Unless there was a reason not to tell them... like something really bad had happened and they were trying to mitigate the fallout.

This was far from Adrien’s first mission for the Justice League.  They both frequently worked with various members.  It wasn’t even his first mission without Marinette.  In fact, they went on missions without one another a lot.  But there was just something about going on a two-person mission behind the Order’s worst enemy’s lines with someone neither Adrien nor Marinette knew well… or fully trusted if she was being honest, that kicked up the nerves.

It was supposed to be a quick mission.  “Two hours max”, they said.  “In and out,” they said.  “No real danger,” they lied.  But that was twelve hours and quite a few anxiety spirals ago.  The muscles in her hands were starting to cramp from her fidgeting, her fingers curling and flexing over and over like a compulsion.  She had paced around Mia’s apartment so many times, the carpet was beginning to show an indent from her perpetual path.

“It’ll be fine,” Dick assured her.  “Lack of information doesn't mean anything.  It's just standard operating procedure, really, especially for Constantine.”

Marinette shot him a flat, almost disgusted look.  “It’s standard procedure when something goes wrong,” she explained slowly, annoyance starting to seep through.  “No contact for twelve hours on a ‘two hour max’ mission, is NOT standard operating procedure.”

Dick held up his hands.  “I’m just saying I don’t think there’s a reason to panic yet.”

Zatanna sighed almost grudgingly.  She glared at Dick as she spoke up.  “I will admit, missions with Constantine often end like this.  Things get off track and I don’t think he ever communicates with anyone.  It’s kind of a blackout whenever you go out with him.”

Dick rapidly in agreement.  “Exactly!  It isn’t worth the worry.  I just think you should take a breath, let it out slowly, and relax.”  To his credit, Marinette did stop pacing, but it was to stare dumbfounded at him. 

Meanwhile, Roy let out a loud breath, almost a scoff, and dropped his head, but Mia was far more vocal.  “Did you just tell her to calm down?” she demanded.  “While she’s in the middle of an anxiety attack?”

Dick looked around, eyes wide.  “What?  No!”  He whipped around to face her.  “I would never… I just thought… It’s not productive to just pace here.  I thought maybe you might want to go home and relax.”

“Maybe you should go home,” Marinette snapped.

He looked around helplessly for anybody to back him up but nobody would meet his eyes, everyone looking determinedly away.  Finally, he nodded and took a seat meekly.  Marinette glared a few more seconds before returning to her circuit and abusing her lips and hands once again.

Roy watched her make a few more rounds before reaching his limit.  If she chewed any harder on her lip, she was going to draw blood.   Marinette was declining and he was not about to just sit back and let it continue.  Her purse had been tossed onto the coffee table in front of her so he took the opportunity to search through it until he found what he was looking for.  Like any artist, there was a sundry assemblage of drawing utensils at the bottom of her bag, always ready for when inspiration strikes and always too caught up in the euphoria of capturing their vision to put it away properly.

There were colored pencils, pens, markers, acrylic based markers, paint sticks, he even found a few crayons that he knew were likely for Alya’s infant.  He rummaged around for a few seconds before pulling out his target.  He waited until she passed by again to grab her arm and pull her onto the couch next to him.  She barely had a chance to scowl at him and snap, before he held the Sharpie from her bag out to her with one hand.  The other hand he settled across her lap, his bare, clean forearm facing up.

Marinette looked between the sharpie and his forearm, her brow furrowing further with each flick.  She finally lifted her eyes to his, the furrow deeply embedded and a light frown pulling down her lips.  “What are you doing?”

“You’re freaking out,” he said, like that was in any way an adequate or even logical answer to her question.  She blinked at him, utterly dumbfounded.  The completely nonsensical nature of his response knocked her out of her anxiety spiral, at least temporarily, allowing her to focus on his words.  But being able to focus didn’t help at all because no matter how much she focused on his words, she couldn’t make sense of it.  When she still hadn’t responded after a while, he continued, “You relax when you draw.  I don’t have paper, but you can use my skin.”

Her eyes flickered back and forth between his face and his forearm.  “What?”

He waved the sharpie again and motioned toward his forearm, flexing it as he did to accentuate it.  “Use my arm as your canvas.  Get your anxiety out with it.”

“Really?” she asked uncertainly.  “Are you sure?”

He smirked and leaned closer as he waggled his eyebrows.  “I mean, I’m willing to give you other ways to work out your anxiety…” he chuckled at the scowl she shot him, but his expression quickly softened into something more sincere.  “You can use me however you want, Fire Flower.  If what you want to use me for is as a drawing pad, I’m here for you.”

Marinette groaned and rolled her eyes but shot him a small smile as she grabbed the sharpie and repositioned herself so she faced him.  He could see it as soon as she got into position, the way her mind instantly settled, and a calm washed over her.  It was like the sharpie flipped a switch in her and gave her mind purpose.  Her entire body relaxed.  All the tension that had been building up for hours dissolved once she had a focus.

The moment the felt tip touched his skin, he could feel her exhale.  She held the sharpie in the spot for just a moment before gliding it up into a delicate but simple design.  She was drawing for a few minutes before he heard a whispered, “Thank you.”

The grateful tone in her voice, and maybe the way she was almost sitting in his lap or the way he could feel each exhale fan out over his skin, spread a warmth through his body like a wildfire.  He leaned forward to drop a lingering kiss on the crown of her head.  “Always,” he whispered into her hair.

Her hand faltered slightly at the contact, disrupting the line she had been drawing and breaking the perfect stroke, but she recovered almost flawlessly.  She almost seemed unaffected by the move otherwise, but after a few more seconds, she leaned her body against him and rested her head on his chest.  The movement almost seemed thoughtless, like a natural movement, made without taking her focus from her art.

She was too focused to notice the reaction in the room to their intimate proximity, but Roy wasn’t.  He was all too aware of the looks and knowing smiles.  It was a familiar sight.  Because this was a familiar position for them.  Not the drawing on the skin, but the familiarity and affection.  He had been harassed more than once about it.  But it hadn’t worked yet, and it wasn’t going to work that night either.  He glared at them with a one finger salute to make sure they knew it too.

><><><><><><><><>< 

It had been two weeks since Adrien had returned from his mission, a bit disheveled, a bit tired, and quite a bit traumatized.  But he had returned.  And most surprisingly, uninjured… physically anyway.  He still shuddered whenever he saw a headband and Marinette was positive she did not want to know the story behind that trauma.  Perhaps more disturbingly, since that mission she would occasionally find him staring blankly until she would shake him out of it.

So that night, there was a new mission: Cheer Adrien Up.  All of their friends in the area were invited to the party.  She’d ordered his favorite food and gotten Adrien’s favorite games and movies ready, she was even considering letting him win a few of them… maybe.

Maybe not.  Because not everybody else seemed to have that perspective.  A few… okay, maybe just one, brought their competitive spirit and once they started, she just couldn’t back down, especially when Roy started trash talking her.

That was NOT something she could let slide.  Roy didn’t need the ego boost and she refused to give up her gaming crown.

They were midway though their sixth head-to-head battle, everyone else having decided watching them play was far more fun than playing themselves, controllers held so tightly knuckles were white, both sitting on the very edge of their seats and still leaning forward to get closer, eyes for nothing but the screen and each other, and yet somehow the tension was getting even higher.

She smirked at him when a particularly creative combination caught him off guard and knocked his player down quite a few percentage points.  Unwilling to back down, he narrowed his eyes and pushed his sleeves up to remove any distractions.  However, the result was the opposite.  Marinette stared at his arm, the controller going lax in her hands.  She didn’t even notice when the game ended announcing his first win.  Roy jumped up and yelled in celebration, turning to Marinette to rub it in, but froze at the look on her face.  Her eyes snapped to his and without saying a word, she grabbed him and dragged him out of the room, still oblivious to the whispers and grins of the people around them.

She pulled him into her room, her hand a vice grip on his wrist.  As soon as the door was closed behind them, she rounded on him and shoved his sleeve up to his elbow before he could even react, exposing his newly healed, freshly inked forearm.  She stared at it for a few seconds, her eyes following the lines before lifting them up to him accusatorily.  “Is this… Did you get my drawing tattooed on your arm?”

“Yeah, a few weeks ago.”  He grinned proudly at her, not oblivious to her accusatory glare, if anything, it made his grin widen.  “Like it?”

Her face scrunched in an incredulous expression.  The action itself was baffling, but the cocky reaction was driving her from bewilderment to indignation.  “Why did you get this?”

His smile stayed firmly in place, but it eased into something softer.  “I liked it,” he shrugged like it was a no-brainer, an obvious resolution.  “I liked the way it looked on my skin, so I inked it.”

She let out a long-suffering breath, something of a cross between a sigh and a groan and pulled his arm closer to study it.  The tattoo was an almost perfect replica of her design.  The intensity of brush strokes was duplicated, heavier where she’d pushed harder with the marker, thinner where she’d almost ghosted the marker over his skin.  Her fingers traced the design with an almost reverent wonder.  She paused at an irregularity in an otherwise smooth, unbroken line.  “You even got where I messed up,” she murmured.

“Well, yeah,” he shrugged, extremely careful not to dislodge his arm from her grasp.  “It’s part of the memory.  It’s one of my favorite parts of the design, actually,” he added quietly.

She continued to stare at the imperfection, almost transfixed for a few moments before finally lifting her eyes to his, stealing the breath from his lungs from the awestricken look in her eyes.  He raised his other arm to wrap around her waist but dropped it when she finally spoke before he could make contact.  “What the hell were you thinking?” she demanded, her voice low and hissing.

He quirked his head to the side at the unexpected tone, taking a second to ascertain if she was serious.  “It’s beautiful and I want a piece of you on me forever…” he dropped his eyes to his tattoo, not only as a way to avoid her eyes but to seek a source of reinforcement before continuing with a bit more vulnerability than he usually showed, “and maybe I wanted you to mark me.”

It took a few seconds before he looked up to meet her eyes, hoping to see an affectionate gaze, but instead Marinette was staring daggers at him.  “That is the dumbest thing you’ve ever said!” she exclaimed, shoving his arm back at him.  She paced away and ran her hands through her hair before turning back to him, her eyes no longer blazing, now closer to pleading.  “You’re a hero!  You have incredibly dangerous enemies!  You can’t just…” she motioned helplessly toward his arm then threw her arms up in the air in frustration.  “If someone saw that, they’d know who you were.  They could trace your identity because of me!”

He stared at her dumbfounded for a few seconds before chuckling.  Cautiously, he approached her like he was afraid she might run away… or hit him.  “This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever done and you’re yelling at me?” he asked incredulously, eyes dancing with mirth.

“Dying is not romantic!” she yelled, pushing him away.  “You could get hurt because of me.  It would be my fault you were hurt!”  His chuckles died down at the tortured look in her eyes and the desperate tone to her voice.

He moved to her instantly, wrapping his arms around her before he’d even thought about it, unwilling to let her suffer at all, especially if he could comfort her.  He held her tighter when she didn’t pull away.  After a few moments he leaned back and ducked his head to catch her gaze.  “Marinette, Baby, have you seen my other tattoos?” he asked softly.  “Fire Flower, if I was going to get recognized for a tattoo, it’s probably the massive, conspicuous ones on my completely exposed biceps, not the one covered by my gloves that are part of my costume and that I never skip when I go out.”

She stared at him looking for the lie in his words.  Finding none, she shook her head and looked down gathering her thoughts, which clearly didn’t go in his favor based on her dipping out of his embrace and groaning.  “Roy, we’re not even together!”

His mouth lifted into a smile.  That response meant she had accepted that she hadn’t put him in danger.  Now, he just needed to convince her that he knew what his action implied and he meant it.  “We don’t need to be together for me to love you,” he answered simply. 

Marinette opened her mouth then closed it again with a groan and ran her hands through her hair.  “You can’t just say things like that,” she whined.

He edged towards her again as his smile morphed into something closer to a smirk.  “The truth?”

“Yes!  No!  Wait.”  She let out an exasperated huff then pouted at his widening grin.  She shoved him again, but with much less conviction this time.  “Stop smiling at me!”

He stepped closer to her, a move that forced her to crane her neck in order to continue to meet his eyes.  “No.  I like when you get flustered.”  He ghosted a finger over her cheek, keeping his touch just shy of making contact but close enough she could feel the movement in the air.  His eyes met hers in an intense gaze.  “I like everything about you.” 

The air left her lungs when he finally made fiery contact, running his knuckles along her jaw this time.  His eyes roamed over her face like he was memorizing every curve and contour, they caught on her cheeks when they flared the most delectable shade of pink, the shade quickly became his favorite color, until he met her eyes again and remembered that shade of blue was his favorite.

“Even if we never get together, I know I’ll always care about you.  You will always be important to me.  You are already carved into my soul.  The tattoo might be more visible, but that?”  He laid a hand over his heart and shook his head adoringly.  “There’s no amount of time or separation or drifting apart or conflict that will take that away.  I won’t regret this.  Not tomorrow, not next week, not next year, not next lifetime.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, his heart racing when she went to him easily.  “Do you know why that irregularity in the line is my favorite part of the design?”  It seemed like it took her a few seconds for her to snap out of her trance and register his words.  She shook her head slowly, refusing to break eye contact.  “Because it happened as a reaction to me.  I did that.  I had that effect on you.  My kiss did.  It was the moment I knew.”

“Knew what?” she asked, her voice soft, almost like she was afraid anything rougher would burst their intimate bubble.

“That I had to act,” he answered in the same tone.  “I got the tattoo because I wanted you forever on my body, like you’re forever in my heart, and what I want now is you forever in my life.  I’m tired of waiting for the exact right moment for it to happen.  I’m tired of waiting for fate or destiny or whatever is out there to provide.  I’m taking my fate.  I’m creating my own destiny and that’s you.  A lifetime of happiness and teasing and laughter and loving together.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear to give her a few moments to let his words sink in, let her internalize them, and consider them fully.  “The question is, what do you want?”

She stared at him dumbfounded.  The idea of acting was scary.  They had always danced along the edge of doing more, flirting with each other and with crossing the line.  They’d always shied away just before tipping over.  There was so much that was at risk if they did.  They were always together, either as part of their larger friend group or by themselves.  If anything happened, Marinette didn’t know how she would be able to experience each day.  But the prospect of not acting was even more terrifying.

She pushed up to brush her lips against his tentatively.  Even after his most ardent declaration, she was still apprehensive of how he would react, terrified he would suddenly realize this wasn’t what he wanted.  She wasn’t what he wanted.  But before her mind could sabotage her, he wound his hand behind her head, running his fingers into her hair and pulling her harder against him to intensify the kiss.  His lips moved greedily against hers like he was afraid he would never get the chance again, almost devouring her.  She responded instantly, pulling his body against hers by his shirt then sliding her hands up his chest in part to settle the electricity that was humming through her veins.

After a long, highly pleasurable, while he pulled away just enough to press his forehead to hers, his breathing, like hers, ragged.  “I think I want that,” she panted.  She opened her eyes to find his already staring at her.  The hope in his eyes stole her breath and steeled her resolve.  “I want that version of forever.”

His responding grin lit up the dim room.  “Let’s start tonight.  Will you go on a date with me?”

She opened her mouth to respond but instead of her voice, Adrien’s floated through the apartment.  “Dinner’s here!”  She snickered and dropped her head to his chest for a few seconds before looking back up, resigned but happy.  “I’d love to, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Roy agreed.  He pecked her lips quickly and led her out to the party, fingers intertwined and smile beaming.

@maribat-calendar-events

[daffi-990]

WIP Wednesday 🌊

Tagged by the wonderfully talented @wikiangela, @diazsdimples and @tizniz. Make sure to check out their snippy snip snippets.

It was so hard to pick what part I wanted to share today from Rival Firefighters 🚒 because I wrote a scene this morning and ahh it was just … I really like it and want to share the whole thing cos I want you all to scream at me but I also don’t want to share everything you know? 😅

Prev snippet here

“Eddie, it’s for you.” Bobby hands him the SAT phone, a concerned looked etched on his face.

Eddie takes the phone, albeit a bit hesitant. Dispatch wanting to talk to him has warning flags flying up. He’s not a commanding rank so the only reason he can think of as to why they’d be tracking him down is because they’re about to give him bad news.

He knows that Buck and Chris are safe. Buck had texted him that they were planning on going to the movie theatre near his apartment and then out for ice cream at that place Chris loves that is not at all in the area where the tsunami hit. They’re safe.

Tia Pepa and Abuela are visiting Eddie’s parents back in Texas and Eddie isn’t Carla’s emergency contact.

Which only leaves one person.

Dread sinks heavily in his stomach like a lead balloon as he brings the phone up to his ear.

“This is Diaz.”

“Eddie.”

He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or not that it’s Maddie’s voice on the other line. Maybe it’ll hurt less coming from a familiar voice. The voice of a friend. Though he can’t help feeling guilty that it’s Maddie having to shoulder the weight of telling him that his ex wife is injured, missing or — no. He can’t even think the word. It’s too painful. What’s he going to do if Shannon is— if she’s — what’s he going to tell Chris?

Fuck.

He needs to find out what the actual situation is before he starts spiraling.

“Don’t sugar coat it Maddie, just—,” he takes a shaky breath and clutches the phone tighter, trying to steady his trembling hands, “just tell me. Please.”

He’s aware of eyes on him, that Bobby has moved just that little bit closer, body rigid and on alert like he’s ready to jump in and catch Eddie if he needs to.

“A rescue boat found Chris. He’s alive, only sustained minor cuts and scrapes. They’ve taken him to the triage centre. Shannon’s on her way to him now.”

Eddie almost drops the phone as his world comes to a stop. He feels a surge of grief, fear and helplessness claw at his chest, their icy talons slicing into him and leaving him feeling like he’s been flayed open. Bile begins to rise up his throat but he swallows it down, the bitter taste of it lingering and burning. He’s pretty sure his heart stops beating and it’s not until Maddie says the words he’s alive that it picks up its rhythm again, a rush of relief washing over him and soaking through his skin, settling into his bones.

He takes a shuddering breath. Chris is alive.

No pressure tagging: @hippolotamus @spotsandsocks @athenagranted @wildlife4life @thewolvesof1998 @fortheloveofbuddie @monsterrae1 @watchyourbuck @exhuastedpigeon @missmagooglie @mellaithwen @bekkachaos @nmcggg @elvensorceress @eddiebabygirldiaz @evanbegins @epicbuddieficrecs @the-likesofus @theotherbuckley @rewritetheending @rainbow-nerdss @princessfbi @prettyboybuckley @puppyboybuckley @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @steadfastsaturnsrings @try-set-me-on-fire @devirnis @disasterbuckdiaz @giddyupbuck @fiona-fififi @hoodie-buck @homerforsure @honestlydarkprincess @jeeyuns @jesuisici33 @king-buckley @lover-of-mine @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @captain-hen and anyone else who wants to share something -> consider this your official tag 😘

[interstellar-productions]

So this is probably unimportant to anyone who reads this but i feel like i need to explain my though process here, I’m a psych major specializing in abnormal psych with interest in creative writing and art. Very much an art, science and history girlie. Im saying this so there’s some context to the way I visualize certain things.

I want to elaborate on my view of the foxes in a less scientific and more artistic view, metaphors and imagery.

I see Aaron very much as someone who internalizes his hurts. My brain conjures up the example that as he was growing up he was the type that every time a piece of him cracked off he picked it up, at first perhaps to use as a weapon. Taking the jagged edge and using it to lash out but that only got him bad things growing up with Tilda. (Who I imagine as the embodiment of catholic guilt, she knows what she’s doing is wrong but she’s so consumed by her hatred and bad choices the only way she can internalize it is through violence. Specifically directed at Aaron.) So as he got a little older he took those edges and hurt himself with them.

Aaron would have known from living with Tilda that physical marks raise questions that cause trouble, so it wouldn’t have been the same form of self harm that Andrew and some of the others used. But he i image he would have taken those edges and used them to hurt himself mentally, self hatred and self harm that doesn’t leave lasting marks.

Then Andrew and Nicky and Luther start getting in the picture. Tilda was always to strung out to notice and the men she brought around didn’t care. So Aaron learn to carefully shave the edges of his jagged pieces down, purposefully cutting up the parts of himself that remain and taking tape to stick it all back together. Trying to form some semblance of a human being that wont make people ask questions. The pieces don’t fit right though, some pieces are still jagged, some pieces are too smooth, some he cut down too much to be able to put them back right.

By the time AFTG is taking place Aaron has probably caused himself so much damage by trying to self internalize he issues that he more so resembles a stained glass piece before its soldered together. Just pieces that loosely sort of fit together that might be something one day but could also just as easily smash into a million pieces. 

Aaron lives his life being one step from the edge. A minor inconvenience could send him spiraling, a change in his routine throwing his entire day off. But he barely registers major incidents. Because for Aaron ignoring the big things is how he survives and yet the things that keeps him alive is focusing on the small details. The little things here or there that convince both him and everyone else that he’s perfectly normal. Sort of like how you can take a piece of glass and drop it from a pretty significant height and it’ll be fine so long as it lands in a way that distributes the impact. Where as if you drop a piece of glass from a small height but it lands on the wrong corner it shaders.

Aaron knows that if he can’t be normal, if he can’t convince himself or others that he is, he’ll fall apart. And if his pieces fall apart there will be no glueing them back together. There will be no getting back up. That’s part of the reason why the foxes put him on edge so much. He’s a unsoldered stained glass piece and the foxes are a swinging hammer. If they collide the foxes will survive but Aaron wont.

[estrellami-1]

If I Should Stay

Part 1 | . . . | Part 57 | Part 58 | Part 59

Just then, Eddie walks in, blinking when he finds three pairs of eyes on him. “Um. Should I leave?”

Steve smiles and shakes his head, walking towards Eddie and steering him out towards the kitchen. “Nah, you’re good. Come help me in the kitchen?”

“I mean, I’ll do what I can, but Wayne doesn’t really trust me to boil water without burning it, which admittedly is kinda my fault, I’ve definitely forgotten things on the—mmrph!” He blinks at Steve when he pulls away from the kiss, slowly beginning to smile. “What was that for?”

Steve shrugs, grins. “Just ‘cause. And ‘cause you were spiraling and it felt like the fastest way to knock you out of it. Was I right?”

Eddie chuckles. “I know I was saying something before. Good luck getting me to remember what.”

Steve chuckles and grabs a pot. “Think you could handle filling that with water?” He teases, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Okay, I know I’m hopeless, but I don’t think I’m that hopeless. Not with you here to supervise.”

“So,” Steve says, pulling a box of pasta out of the pantry. “About tonight.”

“Uh-oh,” Eddie grins. “I feel like I know that voice. You’re afraid you’re gonna disappoint me. Lemme guess, Robin’s staying?”

“Too,” Steve corrects. “Robin’s staying too. Um. If you still wanna stay, that is.”

Eddie smiles warmly. “I’d love to. What’s the plan for dinner?”

Steve shrugs. “Not that I’ve got the energy for much else, so pasta. Just a simple spaghetti.”

Eddie studies him. “While I’m sure it’ll taste fantastic,” he says gently, “you know you don’t have to impress me, right?” He takes Steve’s hands. “Sometimes the easiest option isn’t necessarily the wrong one. We can just call something in real quick. I’ll even go pick it up if you want me to.”

Steve thinks. Looks at the water on the unlit stove, the pasta on the counter. “Okay,” he murmurs, squeezing Eddie’s fingers. “What’re you in the mood for?”

“Nuh-uh,” Eddie responds, grinning, “it’s your choice. It was your plan that saved us, sweetheart.”

Steve narrows his eyes at Eddie. Suddenly they both call out, “Robin!” Before looking at each other with wide eyes.

They burst into laughter as Robin walks in, judging them with her face. “Do I want to know what happened?”

Steve giggles. “Not important. You’re the tiebreaker, whaddya want for dinner?”

“Lies!” Eddie announces dramatically. “I was gonna call you in here to ask you to make him decide what he wants for dinner.”

Robin regards them, then tells Steve, “I’m siding with Eddie on this one, babes. What are you in the mood for?”

Steve groans. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t wanna decide, Robs, c’mon.”

“You really don’t want to decide? Or you don’t want us to be unhappy with whatever you pick?”

Steve pouts at her. “Both,” he grumbles, enough of a pause in it to tell her he doesn’t mean the first part.

She chuckles, moving to kiss his forehead. “We’re okay with anything,” she assures him. “Okay? You pick what you want, because it’ll make you happy.”

He smiles and leans their foreheads together. “Love you, Robbie.”

“Love you too, dingus. Pick dinner.” With that, she walks back out.

Steve sighs mournfully at Eddie. “See what I have to deal with?”

Eddie nearly chokes on his snort. “Deal with,” he parrots. “Like you don’t love every second of it.”

Steve shrugs, grinning. “Maybe. Burgers sound good?”

Eddie smiles back. “Do they sound good to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yeah. Burgers sound great. Now will you please sit down for one minute since you’ve gotten home? How’re the bites doing?” His hand drifts to a bandage, gently brushing against it, and Steve flinches with a sharp inhale. “Well,” Eddie says, steering Steve towards the bathroom, “that’s not a very fun sound to hear. Not in this context, at least.”

Steve huffs out a laugh. “In my defense, I didn’t realize until you touched it. I didn’t feel it at all.”

Eddie smiles, presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead as he guides him to sit on the closed toilet seat lid. “You want me to look at it? Or d’you want me to get Robin?”

Steve worries his lip. “Get Robin? But… maybe stay? When you get her?”

Eddie smiles and squeezes his hand. “Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”

He appears less than a minute later, Robin in tow, berating him even before she’s crossed the threshold. “I swear to God, Steve, if you did something idiotic and opened the wound again-”

“You’ll what,” he challenges her, smiling.

“Well,” she says, “you’re joking with me, so it must not be too dire yet.”

“Not dire at all, more like,” Steve tells her. “I’m fine, Robs, I swear.”

“Except you flinched when I barely touched the bandages,” Eddie reminds him, grabbing his hand with a smile. “Forgive us for worrying about you when you know you’d be doing the same thing if our situations were reversed.”

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[hailsatanacab]

@the-ghost-trader - ooooh, i love this! it has the potential to be so incredibly sad, too, like poor Damian just trying to carve out something normal for himself only for it blow up in his face

BUT, shockingly, i'm not about the angst today! not yet anyway 😇

---

“So, how was your day?”

Despite his answering groan, Damian likes this. This. This whole… thing he has with Danielle. With Ellie. 

And, yeah, he’s not exactly told any of the others yet, but can you blame him? For wanting to keep something, anything, to himself. Wanting to keep this small little slice of goodness he’s managed to carve out, untouched and unmarred by his family, by their other lives, by the rogues, the vigilantes, the assassins, everyone.

“That bad, huh?”

Being with Ellie is freeing. That’s the best way to describe it.

She knows. Damian surprised even himself when he told her—not about the others, mind, but he supposes it’s not hard to put two and two together and Dani has always been smarter than most—but it’s the best decision he’s ever made, and no matter what the niggling little voice in the back of his head says (the one that sounds suspiciously like Father), he can’t bring himself to regret it.

He won’t. Because having Ellie know gives him freedom.

She’s a safe place, a hand to hold, a warm, welcoming presence when things inevitably turn ugly. It’s the freedom to just be normal when everything else in his life spirals into stranger and more stressful missions.

“Richard is being insufferable again. I do not understand his incessant need to know everything about my life.”

“Oh? What’s he done now?” 

“I was subjected to an hour long interrogation about my love life, like it’s any of his business. It’s infuriating!”

“Ugh, tell me about it. I get the same thing from Jazz, constantly. It can be suffocating.” Ellie says as she curls herself tighter into his side. “But it’s just how they show they care.”

“Yes, well, sometimes I wish he wouldn’t—”

“Hey!” Ellie pushes herself up to glare at him, punctuating her shout with a soft whack to his arm for good measure. “What have I said about using that word?”

“Yes, yes,” he placates with a roll of his eyes, “‘Be careful what you wish for.’ I apologise, it won't happen again.”

“Damn straight it won't.”

She maintains eye contact with him for a second longer before tucking herself back into his side, squirming around with a long, contented hum that Damian can feel rumble through him. He smiles and doesn’t complain even when he has to shift to give her more room after a particularly strong elbow jabs him in the ribs. It means leaving the warm patch on the couch, but he’s rewarded with another long, happy moan as she settles and Damian can’t bring himself to mind.

Ellie constantly makes noises. Little mews and hums and laughs and songs known only to her. It reminds him of a cat, sometimes. He likes it. It calms him down; it means she’s happy, so he's happy.

They settle back into the cushions and Damian lets the subject drop, not wanting to spoil the moment. Outside, the wind changes direction and from where he’s laying he can watch as the snow starts to come down thick and heavy. Hopefully it’ll mean a quiet night's patrol.

“Is that why you haven’t introduced me yet?”

“What?” He can't help it, he stiffens at the thought of losing his secret, of the scrutiny he'll be inviting if he lets anyone know.

“Are you worried I’ll embarrass you?”

Damian’s eyes snap down quick to reassure her, only to see her light, teasing grin. He lets out a breath of relief. It figures she wouldn't worry about that.

“Of course not, don’t be absurd. You could never embarrass me.”

“I don’t know,” she muses, her voice taking on a dangerous lilt, “that sounds like a challenge.”

“Believe me, having been subjected to Father’s Brucie persona at every gala I’ve been to, it would take a lot to embarrass me.”

“Alright, bet. I’ll get you, just you wait.”

“You’ve already got me.”

She flicks him on the nose. “You’re such a sap.”

He hums his agreement, enjoying the tinkling sound of her laughter. And then, before he can think otherwise, he asks, “Is that why you haven’t introduced me?”

“That’s different,” she scowls. “You know how hard it is to get there, there’s no signal, and Danny only gets a break like—oh, Ancients!”

Damian gets another elbow to the ribs as she bolts upright, a manic grin on her face that has him laughing.

“What is it?”

“It’s the holidays! It’s nearly Truce Day! You know I said I had a family thing around Christmas?”

“Yes?” 

“Well, do you want to come to it? I can introduce you then! I mean, it’s going to be a bit formal and you’ll have to meet everyone, not just family. There’s going to be some banquets, you’ll have to sit through some long speeches and you have to be on your best behaviour at all times, okay? Absolutely no fighting, it’s called Truce Day for a reason!”

“What?”

“Yeah, it’ll be perfect! I think Jazz is going in a couple days earlier to help with the preparations, so I’ll get her to let Danny know—and fair warning, he will try to give you the shovel talk, but this is great! It’s Truce Day, so he can’t actually do anything about it!”

“I’m sorry, but you're going to have to explain a bit.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s a bit much—but that’s family, right? Danny can get pretty protective over me, which is why going on Truce Day is the best time to do it! He can’t even command the Fright Knight to stab you! It’s genius!”

“Ellie, what?”

“Like, yeah, sure, he’s the king, but even he has to obey the rules of Truce Day—and then once you’ve spent all day with him, he’ll see that you’re a fantastic, wonderful, kind, brilliant, smart, strong, capable person and he’ll get over himself and everything will be good!"

Damian collapses down onto the couch, the wind knocked out of him. This is… He had not expected anything like this at all. For all that Ellie talked about her family, she had never mentioned this.

“Did you… did you say your brother is a king?”

“Yeah! High King Phantom, have I…” The manic grin slips off her face as she turns round and notices Damian. “Have I not mentioned that before?”

“No. No, you have not.”

“Ah. Sorry. Probably should clarify that I’m also a princess.”

“Right. Yes, that follows.”

“And I’m not really his sister, I’m his clone.”

“What?”

Damian blinks and tries to say more, but he has no idea what he’s meant to do with… any of this information. 

Normal. He thought she was meant to be his normal. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

Not that it changed anything, of course, of that he was certain. It’s just… a lot to take in. Overwhelming. But it's okay! He takes a deep breath, and another, and a sense of calm washes over him. Ellie makes one of her little hums as she cocks her head to the side to consider him and he can't help but relax at the normalcy of the sound. It'll be okay, he's dealt with stranger and he can deal with this.

“I’ve, uh… I’ve told you that we’re half ghosts, though, right?”

“What?”

[bronx-bomber87]

Good evening fandom! Welcome to my inaugural mini review post. Holy hell I can’t believe we’re finally here. These probably won’t be as detailed as normal like I mentioned. Mini review is the goal. It’ll be initial thoughts and feelings. Which will be fun cause all the other seasons other than S5 I had ton of time to reflect on moments. These thoughts for S6 could change when I rewatch the season for review purposes this summer. The exciting thing is having those first reactions. That's what these will be.

So you're getting hot off the presses thoughts haha I just watched it couple hours ago. These are thoughts I had while it was happening. With some editing to make it readable ha Want my reactions be as authentic as possible with these. Why I avoid spoilers tbh. Be interested in seeing what everyone else’s are as well. The gif library was an absolute turd so I didn't get to use all the gifs that were made yet. So I made some. Anyways this so friggin exciting to delve into so let’s get started.

6x01 Strike Back

Tim got scruffier from the finale to now-and I’m here for it. Mm. Plus he's in Metro gear. Phew Lord. Something about scruffy Tim gets me going. Adore them riding together automatically after their battle. I truly love it. The little things I continually love with them. Also LOVING the Metro call sign. Yum If this going to be his call sign all season I am about it.

Oh my lord why is her sitting at his desk so squee worthy to me? It’s getting me all in my feels. I love that Lucy can just use his office as her own. So cute using it to steal it for some study time. I love this so very much. Then her asking if they can ride together so he can quiz her? Tim doesn’t hesitate for a moment before saying yes.

Still amazes me we’re in the place with them. The Tim of old would’ve groaned and moaned about such a task. He jumps right on it for her. Ready to help her out. Even though he’s not sure how much it’s gonna do. Clearly very aware Primm is out to get her. That is common knowledge now.

Lucy is right when she says it sucks. That she has to battle this and face possible wild cards.. It isn’t fair when she's earned her spot more than most. Fought and clawed for everything she's done in this department. Definitely more than Nolan... Hey wouldn't be a review if I didn't pot shot Nolan would it? lol I love Tim finding a solution for them. Saying they can take out do the box calls all day. Widen her knowledge a bit on it. Sharpen her skills with odd calls.

I love her grateful smile when she says 'Thank you.' Loves this man. Damnit they’re so cute their banter coming out of his office is on point. Tim saying she learns best when she’s pissed off. I mean if that isn’t her rookie experience with him in a sentence. Lucy saying this feels like she is giving him permission to be an ass. Heh it kinda is no matter what Tim says.

You know he kinda loves being able to make her his boot again in some form. He is going to enjoy himself with this. There is no doubt about it. That's why he's doing that smile of his. Lucy calling him out knowing this man so well. Pointing her finger and all. God I love these idiots so much. Tim trying to tell her just his smile. Uh huh sure it is Tim.... Lucy following after him with a smile of her own. These dopes I've missed them so damn much.

I’m very much loving Tim has not really shaved in 6 weeks ha. The scruffy remains and I’m excited about it. Lucy is starting to question asking Tim to help her. We all know she learns best from that man sitting next to her though. I also always enjoy when she gets to drive. Another micro shift that has changed that I love so much. Her heart eyes when he says Angela’s cop brain is just booting up LOL Loves this goober of man.

Lucy absolutely losing it and going on a rant of epic proportions had me rolling. LOL Massive emotional downward spiral happening here. I’m dying as I watch Tim take it in. God Eric the master of expressions crushing it again. This was a huge one for her holy crap. Nuclear really. Well done Melissa getting all that in with one breath basically. By the time she’s done I’m cackling at Tim’s expression. LMAO Oh my god these two. God I’ve missed them so much it pained me.

Lucy knowing Tim's reply without even looking at him. Just epic married status at this point. Doesn’t even have to look at him or for Tim to say anything. It’s already there because of that crazy good connection they have. How deeply they know one another. It’s so good. Tim being the smart man he is says nothing. Lucy knowing he’s thinking it haha

Lucy coming to conclusion she will do crazy wild card during the day and the manual at night. She will sleep when it's over LOL Tim shaking his head. Knowing there is nothing he can say right now that'll make this better. Or to derail her crazy train of thought. This is like S1/S2 them with the added benefit of them being together now. It’s glorious.

Getting serious Plain Clothes Day vibes from this episode as well. Except this time Lucy light years away from who she was then. Confidently reciting what she’s going to do Tim nodding along. Tim wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t rock her boat a little though. Lucy getting in her head about the crime scene now. Tim isn’t wrong she did tick all the obvious boxes. That the point of today is looking for wild cards. That’s what he wants her to engage that brilliant brain of her's in. It's why he's here.

To zero in on the 'Out of the box thinking'. Poor Lucy spirals out not being able to decide if she wants his help or not. I ADORE Tim telling her it’s ok to not know the answer. Not shaming her in the least just needing her to make a call. God how far we’ve come. Tim pushes her because he knows that is when she learns best. Trying to add a little urgency to her decision making. Unfortunately it backfires. I kinda loved them calling each other by their ranks in this heated exchange.

Lucy is so flustered it’s giving me PCD vibe once again in the best way. The sprinklers turn on and Lucy panics. There’s the wild card….We watch as a bullet leaves this man’s body and enters the storm drain never to be seen again. Lucy being so very disappointed in herself. It’s reminiscent of the disappointment she showed in s1 but only now she's far more experienced. So it hurts much more now….Oh Lucy my heart. You poor thing. Couldn’t have gone more wrong if she tried.

I can’t believe they played clown music upon her entrance.... Beyond cruel but that's cops. Always taking shots when people mess up spectacularly. Tim trying not laugh.... Babe she is spiraling right now maybe don’t lol Poor thing I would be mortified too. I love how both Tim and Lucy smile when they see Wes and the wee one. My heart. She wants Wes's opinion and he just crushes her with logic. Ugh She needs a hug. Bad day for our girl.

Lucy continues to break my heart as they sit in front of the crime scene. She is on the verge of tears. Verge of a breakdown it feels like as well. Killing me softly. Saying she should skip the detectives exam. My girl. Tim doesn't want her to give up. I will say this fight I feel like I would be Tim. Trying to be so supportive it’s come off as agreeing with her she can’t do it. When really he was just trying to be supportive of whatever she wants.

Can't win for losing right now Timothy. She is in a bad way right now. Lucy has some weight to her argument though. if I was her in this moment I would feel the same way. If I’m in a bad headspace I need reassurances. So I can relate to both of them in this fight. It’s not a fun time for either of them. Tim is still learning that emotional depth he needs to have with her in these moments.

Being supportive has worked before so he's not sure why it's backfiring right now. They’re solid but always room to grow beauty of them. Lucy spots someone pull up to crime scene crying. She has them peel out with Tim not really understanding why. Lucy catching her digging through her trash. She ends up getting a confession. Phew Well done Luce.

Oooh this final scene. Oh my damn lord. This is some PRIMO productive angst holy hell. Eric and Melissa came out swinging with it. I knew they were going to have one more scene about it. I just didn't think it would be this explosive. I adore Tim picking up on how short she is with him. Grabbing her by the arm and confronting her. Growth continuous growth for them both continues to show. Love it. Look at Tim being the one to come at this. I’m so proud of him.

Throwing her words from 5x21 somewhat back at her. Saying this isn’t going to work if she isn’t honest with him. Then Lucy really lays into him. Now do I think he purposely undermined her? No I don’t. Not ever. That’s not in his DNA to do that to someone he loves. I was deeply hurt for him when she suggested this. You can see how hurt he is when she says as such. He’s getting emotional and it makes me as well. I just wanna hug him.

Tim as we know is a DEEPLY loyal person. Also one of my main relations to him as a character. To purposely hurt someone they love isn’t fathomable to a loyal person. It's unthinkable. You have to hurt them first. To undermine Lucy would be to hurt her so he would never. To be accused of such by your favorite person? That cut's so insanely deep for him. I haven’t seen him this hurt since the 'Tim Test' line from her in 4x08. I’m legit wounded for him. He is so upset she could think that of him.

Now Lucy might be onto something with the subconscious part. He could’ve done it not realizing what he was doing. Because love isn’t rational. Man is hardwired to protect her and want to keep her safe. So I could see this especially with her psych background. I think this is solid guess at what happened. Now was this the right time to lash out at him for Isabel stuff? I don’t know…

Felt like a low blow when he was already down for the count. She is throwing him daggers with her eyes most of this conversation. Feels like its more than just the UC right now but that's just my guess at this point. Let's not forget she was having UC doubts towards the end of last season.

Now do they need to have these fights and conversations? HELL YES. My god this subject needs to be discussed. Especially with how 5x20-5x21 were. Want to reiterate this is my first impression. I was literally writing this as I experienced their fight for first time. When I rewatch it this summer this could change. My POV could shift. But right now I see a man who only thought he had her back and was raked across the coals in this moment.

So for me right now in this moment I feel like Lucy had pent up frustrations and took it out on Tim. The protective side of me for him isn’t pleased with that tbh. Doesn't mean I love Lucy any less. I adore her so much. You all know that. But my gut leaned towards Tim in this fight. That may be bias idk but it’s how I felt when it was said and done. Tim was very very defensive when she brought up Isabel. Which hasn't happened in awhile. But his emotions were heightened and he was on the defensive before they'd reach the topic of her.

Lucy basically kicked him while he was down and he felt it. I'm not discounting her feelings at all. She is allowed to feel overwhelmed. Has every right to be. She is STRESSED and it is coming out in all kinds of ways. Ways that aren't like her. I think she stewed on this thought the ENTIRE shift and it came out in the worst way. Which also isn't like her. What she did had him defaulting back to old school Tim. Cutting off the conversation before more emotions were to be had or he said something he would regret.

Basically cut the fight off at the knees and walked away. Lucy’s face says it all when he walks away. She wasn’t expecting that. Shocked he just left her like that. Oh Lucy, you wounded him more than once and he retreated HARD. Leaving her standing there wondering what the hell just happened? God this is so good though everyone. This is the type of angst I'm all for. What a way to start the season off hot damn. Hurts so good angst to get us going. I could not be more excited for where we go this season. Feel free to comment on this. Love to chat with you all about this. All uncharted territory for us all. We're in for quite the ride.

~~~

Side notes-non Chenford

Who are these friggin people? They’re insanely ruthless. Like Rosalind level ruthless in how they just dispose of people. Sending two their team out as a distraction to be blown up. Jesus. Then sniping their own guy. They’re smart but cold af. Then killing who I thought was the boss at the end. Shit. Consider me intrigued.

I liked the 6 weeks later. Makes sense need to do a time jump.

Celina being more afraid of Tim than Harper. LOL little does she know they’re basically the same person haha

Poor Aaron wants to be back in the game and can’t be. I agree with Grey he’s not ready even if he thinks he is.

God I love Nyla Harper. Took that mofo out like the complete bad ass she is. Came with repercussions which made me sad for her.

Angela being more excited to see burritos than her husband lmao I love this woman.

Feeling little potential flirty action for Aaron and his therapist.

[showtoonzfan]

Not ganna outright say what account, but I will share that I was one of the people who had a long thread conversation with Vivziepop when she was spiraling the other day on twitter, and let me tell ya, it was like talking to a brick fucking wall. Of course I expected it, but when you’re directly talking to the woman herself, the experience is far out there. Like her other response threads, the conversation was long. No we didn’t reach a middle ground, no the conversation didn’t go anywhere, and no….she didn’t own up to anything or practically acknowledge anything I said. If I had to sum up the conversation, it was mainly her making excuses, tap dancing around certain things I said or just straight up ignoring it and saying something else. At one moment she even said nothing and just let a fan speak for her. This woman is defensive, insecure, and lacks social awareness, and I genuinely feel like the internet is making her mental health 10x worse than what is already is.

But putting that aside, there is genuinely no hope for this woman. No matter what, she’ll stick to what she believes and block out anyone who says or even suggests otherwise. She’ll put up walls for herself and either cower behind her fanbase, or ignore the issue and make up irrelevant excuses. Her words may be different but her actions show otherwise, that she genuinely believes she can do no wrong, that her writing is flawless and that she doesn’t need any constructive criticism or help, wether that be regarding the shows or in general. She’ll pull the homophobia or queer card as a defense mechanism, and cope by seeking constant praise and attention from her fanbase.

The fact that her victims may never get justice depresses me, and I’m ganna be honest with y’all, every day we get a new pathetic twitter rant, every day I wonder if reviewing or even watching Hazbin is worth it. This woman has made it clear that she will not accept anyone who tells her that her work is flawed and that she could be better. She thinks everything she touches is perfect as it is. Hazbin is going to be bad and there is no hope for it to get better because the creator has made it clear that she’s not going to do that. She’s going to stay in her personal bubble that she’s been stuck in for the past decade and never come out into the real world. So like…what’s the point of even reviewing Hazbin if you know it’s never going to get better and just slip further down the slope like Helluva is right now all because the creator is a stubborn woman child?? I want to like Hazbin so fucking bad. I love the concept and I can SMELL the potential. I want it to succeed. But there’s no point in hoping that it’ll be good or improve and it fucking sucks, I’m just so tired of all of this. I’m still definitely going to review Hazbin, but if by any miracle this show gets a season 2, I don’t think I’ll stick around for that long.

[welcome-to-puppet-hell]

Hi! can i request of a reader who falls into Home?

a bit late, anon. sorry about that! but i hope it was worth it~

if anyone else wants to request something, click here for info.

I don’t remember much from the Before. There’s only bits and pieces, flashes of arbitrary images that I can’t really make sense of—a shattered puzzle that I’ll probably struggle to put back together for a long, long, long time. But what I do remember is the smoke entering my nostrils, filling my lungs. The struggle to move, to break free. And then, something even stranger.

A spiral. This endless loop of white spinning and spinning and spinning into a black void that seemed to carry this Hunger. For what, I didn’t know. Still don’t.

But there was no other way out. No way to escape.

So, through the difficulty to breathe, through the tears streaming from my eyes, through the pain entering my limbs and trying to shut my body down, I reached my hand out towards it.

And that, I can only assume, was enough.

.

.

.

“…Oh my gosh!”

“Are they okay…?!”

“Where’d they come from?”

Oh my god, can anyone tell them to shut up?! Some people are trying to sleep here. 

Well, if you can call this sleep, really. Now that I’m actually a bit conscious, I can actually feel the agony weighing on me. Every inch of my body is crying out in the sort of pain that will leave bruises and scars and aches for days. Either I’m having the hangover of a century or I got hit by a semi, and neither seem appealing.

A groan leaves me at the thought, my eyes moving behind eyelids. I need to get up at some point. Get to my phone. Call my—

“…Hey, I think they’re comin’ round,” a deep Southern drawl above my head. 

“Step back!” Another voice, nasally and anxious. “Give them some air!”

The shuffle of many feet makes me feel a little less stifled. With a deep breath, I force myself up on my elbows. Then grasp my forehead, feeling pain pain pain, god, ow! Feels like I was run over by a truck, shit. Did I drink anything last night…? 

Actually, what did I do last night? 

Blinking, I keep trying to remember…but it just makes no sense. I came home from work, pet my cat, went into the bedroom to greet you, and then—nothing. Nothing except the memory of smelling smoke.

All my focus returns when a huge hand lands on my shoulder. I blink again and look over to see that it’s blue and…fuzzy. 

What the hell…?

My eyes follow the length of the arm to see a huge, huge blue dog staring down at me. His brows are furrowed and his eyes seem to hold worry. And even worse, in a way that disturbs me right to my bones, his mouth parts and a voice comes out.

“Hey, buddy,” he says softly, almost comforting. “Ya good?”

A ringing starts through my ears.

(Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.)

Immediately, I push away from him and scramble to my feet. I look around, seeing all the bright colors—too bright. Doesn’t look real. The grass, the trees, the flowers, and even the houses—none of it look real. Looks too bright, too colorful. And the…the people.

Wait, no. Not people. Not with those eyes, and that…that skin? Grayish-purple, orange, y-yellow…is that a bird? A sun? And omigod, what the hell is that?

(—Not human!)

“Whoa, they, uh. They don’t look too good, Barn,” says the big green one with too many arms to the big blue dog, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

“P-perhaps we can bring them some tea,” says the huge red bird, a fucking bird, her eyes soft and full of worry.

“Maybe they just need to lie down,” says a huge one with orange skin, wearing a hat. A mailman? His mouth spreads into a gentle smile as he walks over to me, his hand lifting, possibly to calm me down. “Hey pardner, just relax. Everythin’ is okay…”

(DON’T TRUST THEM.) 

And despite my heart pounding so hard it feels like it’ll burst out, despite my lungs pinched from a lack of air, I look around at all of them and scream.

“Get the hell away from me…! Who are you? Where am I? What…?”

As I lift a hand to point, I pause. A dread creeps over me, coats my back in a cold sweat. My gaze falls to my hands, my arms. My fingers are spread as I spin my hands palm up. Then they curl to stroke over each other, to touch, to feel.

(No skin. No skin, no skin, what the hell happened to my skin? It’s just. Just—)

Again, I can’t seem to breathe, my heart hammering so loud I can hear it. But then again, do I even have a heart anymore? Lungs? My hands go to my face, feel the fuzz there and a sob starts to tremble from me. Impossibly so, water flows from my eyes and down my cheeks, making my gaze blurry. Noise happens around me, like yelling but not, just voices full of worry and confusion.

And then, yellow hands grasp my own and it all goes silent.

“Neighbor…?”

That…that voice. I know it. I know him. But how? From where?

“Jamie?”

How does he know my name?

“Jamie, look at me.”

Despite everything, my eyes lift from where he’s holding my hands and meet with his.

You’d think that it was his hair that would catch my attention first, with how blue it is and how it seems to curl in on itself  in a pompadour. But no, it’s actually his eyes. They are huge in how open they are, pupils too wide, and black like the void as they stare into my own. The smile he wears is too wide, it should be splitting his face apart, and yet I kind of know it’s not with anything malicious. He’s excited that I’m here, like he’s been…waiting for me. 

I’m both unnerved, yet drawn to the gaze, despite all the alarms going off inside my skull. Like he is slowly sucking me in—

But then in a blink, his eyes look—normal. Neutral? 

“There we go. Are you all right, Neighbor?” he asks me, his smile not as wide, but still holding warmth…I think. “That was quite a fall.”

I blink. “Fall? F-from where…?”

His eyes dart pointedly upwards, silently coaxing me to follow his gaze. For a split second, high up in the clear blue sky above us—almost too high to see—there’s a black hole with a spiral of white. But then, just as quick as I see it, it closes up and blinks out of existence. I blink again and then start actually looking around me, feeling a sickening thud through my chest. 

What…what is this place?

“I…what…who…” 

Groaning suddenly, I squeeze my eyes closed and let my head fall slightly forward, the nausea making my stomach twist. Fuck, it hurts! But why does it…?

But then he squeezes my hands again, grounding me.

“Of course not, that was a dumb question,” he says in a monotone, but still somehow sounds warm and welcoming. “Come, let me take you to Home. You can have tea there, and we can talk.”

“I’ll come with!” the huge blue dog adds with a grin, and then a grin. “Walls and I can show you ‘round afterwards.”

“That’s a great idea, Barnaby! He’s really good at explaining things, much better than I am.”

At this point, I feel so numb. I can only stare into the slightly shorter man’s dark eyes. Finally, after a beat, I dare to ask:

“Who are you?”

His expression goes blank for a moment. And then, he smiles wide.

“Wally,” he says. “Wally Darling.”