#and its like. i get the joke. i get how you got to that joke. i get you didnt mean anything by it.

[sunny-knight]

THIS IS HOME

@forgettable-au Fan-Animatic ⭐️

The stars welcome him with open arms…

Work and Progress + Analysis below!

You can find the work in progress things here! because I wanna show the sketch animatic and you can only upload one video…

The entire idea was inspired off of THIS lovely little qna written a bit ago! havnt forgotten about it since! Despite what the AU might have you believe And recently I decided I could just draw out the fun part instead of go through the pain of storyboarding and cleaning up a nearly 4 minute long song 👍👍👍

Thats the idea though, theres no real plot, so no real context I can give other than the things the comic itself already provides. “This Is Home” just works incredibly well for this poor childs trauma, and it was a great opportunity to practice my composition and storytelling!!

Onto the deep analysis of every frame individually!!! (this is normal. this happens every time.)

The idea that Wingdings just eventually- gave up. Trying to connect with anyone. HURTS ME DEEPLY. I’m not sure if thats specifically because he just couldn’t get the font thing down, but I imagine that was a big contributing factor. But thats what specifically stops him here. He eventually slams his keys down on the board and says “IM DONE” and throws himself into a thing he can purely enjoy on his own- science. Even at a young age, I feel he only had 2 lives. One with Sans, and one with science. Then when those worlds combined when he became the royal scientist uhhh- I imagine it got worse.

Speaking of his young age, In these shots he’s also notably a tad older than the later depictions of his younger self with the scarf. Less full of joy and whimsy

“His mind is in a different place” is taken a tad more negatively than in the context of the song I feel, as he’s more or less isolated himself from everyone (but Sans) now in this “giving up” phase of his childhood. I wonder how Sans noticed/took that and if he tried to convince him otherwise, but in this case he just thinks he needs some time to himself.

Also let it be known that the words being crammed in at the “Give him a little bit of space” bit is on PURPOSE and a SILLY LITTLE JOKE/VISUAL GAG GIVEN THE LINE. I AM SO FUNNY.

The colors are also notably dark blues, that get greyer when Wingdings has given up. The light that Sans lets in ((looks into the camera, tearing up)) is still pretty cold despite it being brighter.

The berating is also in uppercase to show most of this is from Wingdings’ pov- I know he speaks in proper casing at this time, but I NEED SOME SORT OF INDICATOR, WORK WITH ME HERE. His main issue was his own self consciousness and desire to communicate properly, since it was said before on the blog that no one really picked on him for his inability to talk to them.

Then we have Papyrus!! The colors are similarly blue, but a lot brighter and a touch purpler and greener. Its from the same world, but not the same person. Also he’s wearing a yellow vest which is the complimentary color to blue ☝️

Papyrus is more heavily associated with warm colors in contrast to Wingdings, but this takes place very early on when he was very confused where his place was (or at least I assume thats what happened). He’s associating with warm colors (yellow) but is somewhat weary about it and still subconsciously clutching onto the comfort in familiarity.

The scene ofc depicts Papyrus being incredibly uncomfortable about any photos of himself as a child. It still definitely…looooks… like him. it just feels really wrong.

Similar thing to last time with the fonts as well, uppercase, Papyrus’ pov, he just wants to know who/WHAT he is.

I enjoy the colors in the photo and how they reallly stand out from the rest of the shot, just another emphasis that the photo feels otherworldly to Papyrus.

This is the part where I start weeping pitifully. The tiny Wingdings to Gaster comparison- it’s just so upsetting, I want to know what this poor child would think if he saw what he ends up as 😭

Wingdings enjoyed dreaming about the real stars he MIGHT get to see one day with Sans. The scene is dark, as it still hasnt happened yet, but still bright and hopeful as he stares up at the light! Its always a possibility. But then we have Gaster, who finally did it. He reached the stars, he gets to look up and say “wow…. I really did it”. Staring up at the void before him. Without Sans…I feel he wouldn’t ponder on it much, and consciously he doesn’t see anything bad about his circumstances, but the crack going down his eye that elludes to a tear says otherwise in the suppressed emotions.

The world Wingdings lived in when he was small, seemed so endless…Despite the underground being small compared to the real world, his imagination was endless. He could dream, he could imagine, and create things, get and give new ideas! But now as an adult that just so happens to be a lovecraftian entity, everything is much more simple and straightforward. At least from his perspective…Gaster may be able to DO way more than he ever could as a small child, but his mind is pretty one track at this point.

I wonder how Gaster feels…Now that they’ve gotten to the surface. without him

Im not sure how Papyrus in the game or even in the comic feels about stars, but Sans for one doesnt have to daydream anymore. They’ve also “done it” just like Gaster, but the hug insinuates less of that and more a “we WON”. They share in this moment together more emotionally than anything.

Again, compared to Gaster and them, they enjoy the moment in their own ways- Gaster just the action of seeing the stars, and Papyrus in what the moment itself means. I feel those are the 2 wants Wingdings had and thats a lot of what Papyrus and Gaster are. 2 halfs of Wingdings’…whole…thing

Also the stars welcoming him with open arms is both in reference to Sans but also Papyrus welcoming/accepting/loving himself…

IN CONCLUSION:

…yknow ive never asked before, but if anyone has any questions or needs clarification im happy to-

[adoringaffliction]

A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

Professor!Reid x student!fem!reader

Warnings: age-gap, power dynamics, mean!dom!spencer, sub!reader, reader is reid's student, reader wears a skirt, petnames, oral (fem receiving), fingering, dubcon (please do not do this irl), semi-public sex, reader is in college, cheating, reader has a boyfriend

Summary: Reader's professor Dr. Reid, overheard some complaints about Reader's boyfriend. It's too bad her boyfriend doesn't have what it takes to really take care of her.

MDNI +18

The bell rang and I gathered my things off my desk. 

“Y/n can you hang back for just a sec?” Dr. Reid asked and my head popped up. He looked particularly fine today. Hair tousled and sweater vest on. I nodded and grabbed my backpack throwing it over my shoulder and walking up to his desk. 

“What’s up?” I looked down at him in his desk chair and watched as his eyes roved from my face down to my shoes. I could feel the flush starting on my face. 

He reached out to thumb the hem of my skirt,”This is cute.” 

“Oh thanks-“

“You don’t wear skirts often,” he looked up at me, still having my skirt pinched between his index and thumb. 

“Oh- um- I just bought it,” I stammered. I looked around to find no one else in the classroom. “Dr. Reid, did you need something?” 

He maintained eye contact, ”You could say that.” 

My chest tightened and I could feel my skin start to buzz. It felt hot, and his gaze didn’t help the matter. 

“What did you need?” 

“How are you and your boyfriend doing?” 

I looked at him confused,”Um- well- we’re fine.” 

He nodded and let go of my skirt,”Got it, so what you said to Selena is fine?” I gulped. I’d explained to my desk partner Selena that me and my boyfriend were on the rocks. He seemingly had no interest in me physically and it was starting to make me restless. “Cause it didn’t sound fine.” 

“How- how much of that did you hear?” 

“You sit right next to my desk sweetheart.” 

I nodded resigning to my fate. My physics teacher had heard about my sexual frustrations and now he was staring up at me and being hot and I couldn’t take it anymore. It was like I was going feral. I pressed my fingers to the space I between my brow,”Dr. Reid I am so sorry you had to hear that-“

I felt Dr. Reid’s hand start to snake around my exposed thigh. He tugged causing me to  shuffle towards him. “It’s a shame really.” His eyes rolled up and down my figure stopping back at my eyes. 

“Wh-what?” 

“I said it’s a shame. Look at you. Bet this skirt was for him, huh?” His hand grazed the back of my thigh and I felt it travel up. 

I glanced down at the outfit I was wearing,”I- well, yeah…” 

“Too bad…” 

“Mr. Reid, I don’t know-“ 

“Funny- I thought you knew everything,” he joked and looked up at me. His fingers started to gently trace over the edges of my panties. 

“I-,” I started, only to be interrupted again. 

“You know, you’re not very quiet.” 

“Wh- what do you mean?” 

He looked up at me and grinned devilishly,“I hear everything you say honey. I sat you up next to me for a reason.” I look at him confused. “Oh don’t act so innocent. Because the things you say about me to your desk partner definitely aren’t.” I look at him like a deer caught in headlights. Shit. “Aw, you thought you were slick huh?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Aw now, don’t lie honey. Lying’s a sin you know. You don’t need anything else in your repertoire.” My jaw drops and he laughs,”You’re adorable.” 

His fingertips continued their dance over the edges of my cotton underwear. He flipped up my skirt to take a peek and grinned. I was wearing a pink pair with an embroidered rabbit on the front. “God, it just keeps getting better huh?” He looked up at me, and it no longer felt like I was looking at my adorably nerdy physics professor. This was an entirely different man. This wasn’t Dr. Reid. This man was sinister, and hungry. Like a wolf waiting for its prey to take the bait, and unfortunately I was stupid. 

“They’re my favorite pair,” I murmured. 

“Oh I bet, they’re very you.” 

I nodded nervously at this comment. There was something uncomfortable in his gaze. It kept me shifting from side to side. I felt as if I was being inspected. I kept looking back at the classroom door to make sure no-one was going to walk in. 

Reid noticed this,”The door’s locked from the outside sweetheart. No one’s gonna see me play with you.” I felt my face flush harder. He spoke so sweetly, yet every word was drenched in the essence of sin. “You don’t even know how long I’ve wanted this. To see you. Feel you.” He hooked his fingers around the waistband of my panties and began to peel them down. 

Something in between a moan and a laugh escaped his lips as he watched my panties try their best to cling to me. A silent protest to the debauchery happening before them. The honey from my center webbed itself to my underwear. A silky strand of wetness shining in the fluorescent light of the classroom. 

“God, that is so sweet,”he smiled and gazed up at me with blown out pupils and devastatingly doeish eyes. My breathing took a rapid turn and I felt like a rabbit, constantly twitching. “It’s okay sweet girl, just let it happen. This is what you wanted right?” His smirk is enough to force my understanding. I’d brought this upon myself. My own lustful ideas and wishes. The things I’d let slip to my desk partner. All a dreadful mistake, because now I’d made my way right into the wolve’s den. 

“I think the words you’d used were,’I want him to do despicable things to me’. No?” If I was embarrassed before, it was nothing on the mortification I was feeling now. He was being cruel, and he knew it. Tears brimmed at my lash line and he laughed,”Aw, aren’t these the consequences of your own actions sweet thing?” I tried to nod but all my function was lost as he drug his finger from my entrance to my clit, drawing slow figure-eights. A small whimper fell from my mouth and my eyes fluttered shut. Quickly I grabbed the edge of his desk. He applied more pressure and I was sure that my legs would give out.

I’d touched myself before, but this was nothing like how that felt. It was different, and almost exciting. While all of my own touches were calculated, his were sudden. New. 

“Dr. Reid-,” I brokenly cried. 

“What is it sweet girl? It feel good?” His lips curled up and then he took it all away. 

I whined at the loss of stimulation, but all of that was quickly forgotten when he gripped my hips and manhandled me to the top of his desk. Sat on the edge, legs spread, and my panties hanging off of my right ankle. Shining and mocking me, circling my ruffled socks and white sneakers. It was a cute outfit, but I’d never be able to wear it again and think normal thoughts.

“I need to do an experiment, okay angel?” 

I looked down at him with curiosity. I watched as he smirked again,”I need to know if you taste as sweet as you look.” And with that he buried his head underneath my skirt. I felt his tongue lick up my core, gathering all of my essence and flicking it back into his mouth with a groan. A shattered moan broke through me as he ate me out like I was some kind of undeniable delicacy. Except most would think that this meant he would take his time. But Dr. Reid never stood still for long, and he definitely was not good at slow. 

It wasn’t long before I felt an orgasm build in me as he rolled my clit between his lips and inserted his long middle finger into me. It was an unknown intrusion- nothing like how mine had felt. He curled it and pressed into the wall of my pussy. This drew a gasp and a drawing of my eyebrows together. I peeled back my skirt so I could see the master at work and was doomed the moment his chestnut curls came into view. The new light must have alerted him of my peeping as he was now staring up at me with those eyes, and that’s when it happened. 

My orgasm broke over me like a tsunami. Waves of staticy pleasure washing over me one after the other. But what was pleasure quickly turned to overstimulation, causing whine after whine to jump from my lips. 

He pulled away grinning, my wetness dripping from his stubbled chin. “That good huh?” He asked and I nodded vigorously. My hand was gripped onto his shoulder when I felt him rise to his feet. In this position I felt much more cornered. Everywhere I looked there he was, staring at me with that stupid smirk on his face. 

“It’s too bad that your boyfriend doesn’t ever wanna do that for you,” he licked his lips and wiped his chin with his sleeve. I was so entranced that I missed when he hooked his finger around my favorite pair of underwear, removing it from my ankle, and stuffing it into his pant pocket. “But, you know, my door’s always open.” I gulped and nodded. “You’re sweet, inside and out.” He helped me down and walked me to his classroom door. Before I could even quite register what was happening I was pushed out into the hallway and the door was closed behind me. I turned to face the door and suddenly felt awfully chill down there… 

I tried the handle but funnily enough, locked. 

[askoverkill]

entirely unrelated to this but i was going to run my own AU thing in a similar style to yours, with asks giving input, but my AU actually has... combat. and i was wondering if you would have any suggestion as to how i would handle that to be the right balance of not-tedious (actually a little tedious it IS isat) but also not-nonexistent

// awesome! I love to hear people are making more projects. We need more works in the world. I hope you have fun 💖

// firstly, I want to talk about interaction. Using online feedback as a feature in the story has its ups and downs. The best advice I can give is tell the story YOU want to tell first most.

// If you need to send your own asks or post as a post instead, do so! It's super cool to get people to be creative and push the story in ways you'd never expect, it's rewarding and creative for both sides in the collaboration BUT ultimately, you are the director of the story.

// try to give every post a purpose. If you can fit more than one, the better. Does the post have a joke? Is it progressing the plot? Is there a fun character interaction? If it doesn't have anything, rethink your approach to it. Sometimes a post HAS to be set up for a later scene, but try to make it entertaining or introspective or something in addition.

(I'm struggling with this as we repeat plot beats. As a timeloop story, repetition is necessary to give what DOES change have importance. I'm still figuring out what's the best approach and how much to change each loop.)

Formatting: find a work flow that works best for you! I'm used to boring repetition and edits so Im fine making my blog so image heavy like this. Text works fine!!!! What matters the most is readability and your convince! Stories are already a LOT of work, don't give yourself anything more than necessary!

// PACE yourself. It's not a contest and you are doing this for free and for fun. If you're not feeling up to it, don't make anything. Breaks are a part of the process. I'm mega ADHD hyperfixating distraction coping and I AM NOT a good example of productivity. Don't judge yourself for your output. Focus on having fun and interacting with others.

// OK General askblog advice aside, now to focus on your actual question. It'd really depend on what you're comfortable with and the level of interaction you want for the story.

// it's important to remember this is a completely different format and medium than a video game. If you tried to make it into a video game you're going to fail. A fight in-game will have a hundred little inputs within minutes while an askblog takes IRL time between posts and asks.

// Polls have a minimum of 24 hours so they're a bit inconvenient for quick engagement like with askblogs let alone fights! If you really need fights, then simplify a single turn into an ask? A whole fight? Maybe spin a wheel or flip a coin? Maybe, since it's an ask format, have fans suggest outcomes and pick what's the most entertaining?

// alternatively, skip combat and just have it happen between posts. You've got a ton of options, and I'm sure there's way more I hadn't considered.

// work with what you've got and don't be afraid to simplify or ask for more advice. If anyone else has suggestions, feel free to shoot some here! Best wishes! 👌

[secretlysamcro]

#till it’s gone #question

Do you think Jax would have allowed and if so liked to get naughty pictures and videos from reader?

This thing you've got going with Jax, its deeper than you ever meant it to be. What started off as lust and secrecy has turned into something messier. Something heavier. You'd never say it out loud, not yet. And definetley not to him. But in your heart, you know the truth. On your side, this isn't just an affair anymore. This is...love.

It's been almost a year since you first met Jax at the diner. Almost a year since he had you pinned up against that dirty wall, fucking you so good it rewired something inside you.

You knew it was wrong, even then. He's got a wife, two boys, a whole life that doesn't belong to you, has no fucking room for you. But that didn't stop you, and it still doesn't. There's something about him, raw, dangerous and addictive that keeps pulling you back. No matter how much you tell yourself to walk away, to stop these secret little meetings, but you cant. Because all you crave is more. More of his hands. More of his voice. More of that fucked up, all consuming high that only he can give you. Not even just the sexual parts, the deep emotional parts that he lets you see, lets you in on.

You hated this part.

The waiting, the silence. The pretending you didn't care that he hadn't messaged you all day. That he could go hours, sometimes longer without acknowledging you, without checking in.

So you drank.

Not to forget him, not really. Just enough to dull the edge. Enough to stop wondering if he thought about you when he laid down next to her at night. Maybe it was the third drink that made you do it, or maybe it was the loneliness. But either way, you stopped over thinking.

You slipped your tee off, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. You keep the main light in your bedroom off, but the soft glow of your fairy lights stay on, casting just enough warmth across your skin.

You crawl onto your bed slowly, facing the mirror. You knew exactly how he liked you. On your knees, back arched deep, ass high like you were begging without saying a word. So that's exactly how you posed. One hand steadying yourself against the sheets, the other lifting your phone, getting the perfect angle.

You took the photo, no filter, no caption sent with it. Deep down, you knew it wasn't just for him. It was for you too. A quiet, dangerous 'fuck you' in the form of a nude, no words needed.

Because if he was going to ignore you all day, you'd give him something he couldn't ignore.

[Text thread y/n & Jax - Friday 21:34PM]

JAX: What the fuck are you doing You sent that and she's in the fucking room My phone lit up right in front of her ?

JAX: One second different and this whole thing would've been over

Y/N: kinda the point jax maybe if u fuckin remembered I existed I wouldn't have to do stupid shit

JAX: Dont do this you think this is how you get my attention think ur being smart?

Y/N: Dnt care im drunk and tired and sick of being ur fuckin secret

JAX: You need to shut your mouth before u say something you can't take back

Y/N: You gonna make me u

Y/N: u think im scared of you

JAX: what the fuck is wrong with you?

Y/N: u :)

JAX: Keep talkin like that You think this is all about u like I’m not hanging on by a fucking thread tryna keep this shit together ?

Y/N: no I think u go home to ur wife and kids and I sit here like a fuckin idiot thinking shit will change lol

JAX: I’m doing everything to keep this from blowin up. Protecting myself and you And this is what ur doing? textin me cause ur drunk and feel ignored ?

Y/N: I don’t need protecting what am I? a child??? I wanted u to give a fuck for once

JAX: ur fucking impossible y/n You knew what this was before it even started u don’t get to act like the victim now

Y/N: victim lmaoo r u fucking joking?

JAX: y/n do you not get that Tara could have seen that pic

Y/N: And???? you don’t give a fuck when ur cocks in me what’s the difference U didn’t even say if you liked it? Did I make you hard??

JAX: Im not doing this over text Meet me at the lot 30 mins

Y/N: no lol Too drunk to drive

JAX: I’ve got the van I’ll come get u

Y/N: No just come here and we can talk

JAX: Nah Dont wanna come inside

Y/N: Lmao heard that one before

JAX: Just be fucking ready when I pull up Leavin in 10

He deletes the entire thread. Every word. Every picture. Wipes it clean like it never happened. Like he didn’t just blow up on you for almost exposing every fucking thing.

He walks down the hallway, grabbing his kutte from the hook and slides it back on, snatching the van keys without hesitation.

“Where are you going?” Tara’s voice cuts through the quiet as she pokes her head out of the boys room, eyebrows creased.

“Club shit. Important” he says, so fucking cold. No pause, no eye contact. Just lies through his fucking teeth, already halfway out the door before she can ask anything else.

The whole drive to your place he’s pacing in his own head. Trying to figure out what the fuck he’s even doing, what he should say to you, what he shouldn’t. He knows this whole thing is wrong, every single part of it is absolutely fucked.

But these feelings he’s grown for you?

These deep, unshakeable feelings that dig under his skin?

They feel dangerously right.

And when you finally walk out of your apartment, slower than usual, your body still buzzing with alcohol but your eyes all fury. He doesn’t know what the fuck to say.

You climb into the passenger seat without saying a word. He drives, silent, tense. Every second dragging.

He pulls into the usual underground lot then cuts the engine. The silence hangs between you for a breath, until you speak up first.

“You ever gonna leave her?”

Till it’s gone pt 1 starts right here.

[azzie-tangerine]

Three years ago today, I posted the final chapter of Being a Knight is Easy

It wasn't the first Kirby fic I posted to ao3, nor was it the most popular fic that I posted. But it did beat my other fics in word count, and the amount of received fanart it got (I know its been forever since then, but thank you sm??). The production of BAKIS started with just a funny thought on a car ride, and it led to over 100k words that I still joke about to this day.

BAKIS means a lot to me, more than my other fics do. Not only is it the longest thing I've ever written, but it's extremely personal to me, as it was almost closure for things in my own life.

I don't... usually get this personal on the internet. But I feel like it's warranted here.

I grew up in not the greatest mental state. I constantly wanted to see the best in everyone, and it led to several people in my life hurting me. I had the worst self esteem, seeing myself as the problem and a failure. I had a wakeup call when I got into an argument with a couple friends, and how I yelled at them for seeing me so highly snapped me out of my trance. I realized I needed help.

If this sounds oddly familiar to anyone- that's because I gave Kirby and Fluff these issues in this fic. Not as the main focus of the fic- but as small character flaws they had to overcome. And in chapter 17, the two had an argument quite inspired by what happened to me in real life. Whoops?

I'm doing a lot better nowadays. Not every day is the best, but I manage. I'm in university now, very close to getting a master's in Psychology (about... halfway?) And even if BAKIS ended three years ago, I still look at it with fond memories. That's practically my heart right there, posted on ao3 with over 10k hits.

So... thank you, BAKIS. I know that's not an accurate acronym for you, but it stuck and it frankly always will. Thank you everyone who read it at some point, those who commented, left kudos and bookmarks- and especially thank you if you drew fanart? I still have them all in a special folder I look at on my bad days.

And if you haven't read BAKIS, perhaps go give it a shot? It's all available on ao3 for free. And it always will be, I have no plans on deleting it.

[charcubed]

Doctor Odyssey finale (aka the Captain vs The Powers That Be)

WELL! My mind is powerful unfortunately.

That simultaneously blatantly looked like what happens when a queer story gets censored but ALSO felt it could be twisted as setup for a future throuple in season 2 if miracles happen, which is both better and worse than I expected (a la Max’s speech).

They packed several bits of ODY3 subtext in the last like 5 minutes of that episode and I will TAKE IT ALL:

Max and Tristan making up as a group wedding happens.

Here's a screencap I took that also captured my sister texting me because she heard me yell "FUCKING FINALLY" through the wall.

Bonus points for the Captain's speech about love.

Despacito (LMFAAAOOO) being a Max/Tristan moment before Avery returns. "It started with a dance on a beach," as we were reminded this episode. But that song and dance was always about all 3 of them.

Not ending it on Maxavery; ending it on the throuple. Despite how that makes Tristan a third wheel in a scene that would feel objectively insane in any other television program about a love triangle lol. But this was never a conventional love triangle despite this supposed "resolution"! It was a poly love story!

And Max said he'd take all the bad again for both of them.

Treasuring the beautiful morsels <3

But! Come for the ODY3 subtext, stay for the other tangentially related subtext in the episode.

It's not a joke anymore (if it ever was): I DO think there is credence to the Captain's story in this finale being about the censorship of the show. It felt intentionally blatant.

"Corporate" "The powers that be" The rest of the team standing in solidarity? Not a boat but a SHIP?

Yeah.

Sequence of events:

Captain Massey, #1 supporter of ODY3 in the show (like its creators/writers), is steering the ship.

Captain is removed from power by corporate and the ship is steered by Monroe to bring Avery to Max.

Maxavery ultimately decide on monogamy. (That hard cut from Max and Avery dancing without Tristan to the Captain looking upset while on the ship? Like holy shit lol.)

Captain is then put back in power in the end via solidarity and protesting from his team.

Only then does ODY3 subtext return.

Crazy work.

I see. I perceive and appreciate. I say "fuck you, ABC network executives." The usual.

But in all seriousness, one of the reasons I'm arguing this is that – if I understood/remember correction (I'm very tired so maybe I'm off with this detail lol) – the Captain was removed from his position for saying they were returning to land to pick everyone up. So corporate punished him for that.

But Munroe made the same call and then did THE SAME DAMN THING with no consequence. It wasn't a plot thing. It was a metaphor!!!

CRAZY. WORK.

I do think they set up potential for a season 2 fairly well, all things considered? Like Max/Avery are obviously doomed without Tristan involved. Framing even conveyed that:

Tristan being in the middle again, getting between Max and Avery just like when they walked down the aisle as a trio (as ODY3 truther Captain is reinstated)… likely thing for them to show.

Avery wearing red as a visual warning while Max/Avery's chairs are close together and Tristan is slightly farther with a different drink… sick and twistedddd. (<- Complimentary)

So like, I'm at the point where I believe this show either doesn't get renewed because they said no ODY3 allowed, or if it DOES get renewed it's because ODY3 is (temporarily) alive as a possibility. The writers left themselves enough threads and subtext to work with, though I'm not sure how they'd get around Avery not being on the boat.

...but Avery going to med school means Max/Tristan would physically be on the ship together as just the two of them for a bit. There's that.

So like. Am I satisfied? No.

Would I say I'm upset? Not on the level I could've been. The writers got to sneak in more crumbs than my low expectations anticipated tbh. I'm mostly just sighing heavily. I also think I'm entitled to financial compensation, and Tristan as a character is entitled to violence, after which I will wrap him up in a blanket to hug him.

Would I say this show has wasted potential if it's been axed via the behind-the-scenes ultimatum of network interference that I suspect? Yeah, obviously. ABC executives, you STUPID BIGOTED BASTARDS.

To recap from last week's post:

There is a non-zero possibility that the execs gave Ryan Murphy an ultimatum about no longer doing polyamory, and since that’s the premise of the show, he is stuck struggling to figure out where the show can go from here. Which is maybe why it’s a decision (but not much of one) that the execs say Ryan Murphy has to make, which positions him as the bad guy who has to take the fallout from fans if he ostensibly ~just decides not to continue the story~ if renewal doesn’t happen.

The way this finale went seems to support that. But who knows! Take it with a grain of salt.

Anyway. I'm chillin. Like I made my peace with this a couple weeks ago at this point because I could see the writing on the wall. This show was still a gift to me. Censorship is just seemingly alive and well in the big year of 2025 (that's not news, though I really appreciate it being written into a plot) but subtext is also alive and well, so! Fuck it.

Throuple slow burn love story boat show I will always adore yoouuu <333

[slaaverin]

Jin's live or the return of bangtan chaos

Ah, gosh, I missed this so much.

Congrats on Jin's new album, I very much like this album and find that the style suits his voice very much ~ yaye Jin! Go Jin! 💜 I'm proud 😌

Nothing could have prepared us for the members to leave 192?!?!? messages on this live.

Funny little jikook excerpts:

Jimin spent the whole live basically flexing his boyfriend which omg good for him. "Look at my man, so big, so strong, he's with me, he's mine"

WE KNOW. We know, Jiminie 😂

But keep saying it loud and proud I love it

Little jokes only they understand

JK is a savage sometimes 😂 it's like exactly like in AYS. (Curious to see how tkkers will turn a poop joke romantic now 🥲)

Jikook laughing together, I can hear their giggles 🫠

You don't say? I love how Jimin is like "if you doubted it we are together 24/7 for the people in the back"

At least things are crystal clear.

🐥 answer! this is what Jungkook does to me everyday

CARE TO EXPLAIN WHAT YOU MEAN BY THAT JIMIN?

It's safe to say that our man loves to be manhandled by JK.

There is another translation where he said "dorm" so whether they are at the barracks or in vacation at home, those two truly are inseperable 🥹💜

They even continued chatting after the live ended:

Sharing one brain cell for real

I didn't want it to end, it felt like we were in their private groupchat thrown into the bangtan chaos we missed for so long 😭

Are we truly ready for the discharge live???? I think it will be worse because its like jikook became one person now and we will be decyphering endlessly all their insides jokes with non-stop giggles and arghhh it's like we won't be even there for them. Thirdwheeling at its finest.

BRING IT ON!!!! 🔥🔥🔥

Last message:

💜💜💜💜🥹🥹🥹🥹🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

Not you hater, not you tkker, but US! The people who actually support him and love him 🥰💜

Ahhhh this was so refreshing. I love that we got the chaos back. Bangtan's energy is so infectious and joyous 🥹

Can't wait to get back to it in the future, everyone is gonna have a lot of fun 😌

And we are not ready for jikook at all methink loool they seem more in love if that's even possible

[marauder-misprint]

Congrats on 1,000 followers! I just recently found your writing and started binge reading. I was wondering if you could write the getting asked out prompt; “one problem, you hate me.” with George Weasley. Something like f!reader’s close with Fred but has always secretly liked George and George acts cold towards her because he think she’s interested in Fred when he’s always fancied her?

Thank you! ❤︎ I swear I posted my 1,000 Followers celebration and then immediately forgot how to write. Brains are stupid.

BUT! I am happy to be slowly expanding my Golden Trio era writing ❤︎

Hope you enjoy ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

One Problem

George Weasley x reader

1.9k words

cw: pining, fluff, y/n

For most people, Fred and George were a package deal. If you were friends with one, you were automatically friends with the other. You were one of the few who only managed to befriend one of them. You and Fred served a detention together during first year and since then, you have been friends. George also had detention that night, but he was halfway across the school with a different professor. Professors learned quickly to not put Fred and George in the same detention. 

Somehow in all the times you went to Gryffindor parties and Hogsmeade with Fred, George never seemed to get the memo that you and Fred were friends. In all the times you did homework with Fred, walked with him to class, talked to him during said classes and even sat with him during meals, George rarely interacted with you. You only minded a little bit because if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to respond if he did talk to you for longer than thirty seconds. 

Through your friendship with Fred, you’ve been able to be near George. Close enough to know that he uses a different cologne than Fred, that his handwriting is more swoopy than Fred’s, that he’s more of the brains behind their pranks and products while Fred is the idea guy. You find yourself laughing harder at George’s jokes and staring at him during quidditch practices and games. You were simply drawn to George.

It felt like some kind of cruel joke that you’re able to have such a close relationship with Fred while crushing hard on George. 

“Fred!” you called, jogging to catch up to the twins as they walked to Hogsmeade. 

“Hey! No girls today?” he asked once you got closer. 

George shifted slightly away from you on the path and you tried to ignore it.

“No. They all got dates. There must be something in the air or something…” you said, shaking your head. “My options were to either cry in the library over Snape’s essay or hope to run into you.”

“You have time to turn back,” George muttered.

You shot him a quick glare before turning back to Fred. “D’you mind if I tag along? Or is this precious twin time?”

“You’re always welcome with us,” Fred said, throwing a loose arm over your shoulder. “Right, Georgie?” 

“Right,” he grumbled with an eye roll that Fred missed. 

It became more clear that you weren’t intruding on twin time when Lee joined the group in Hogsmeade. As things normally went when it was the four of you, you split into two pairs: you and Fred, Lee and George. The boys’ first stop was always Zonko’s. You never bought anything for yourself in there, but you loved watching the three of them start to formulate prank ideas as they browsed the stands. Even just watching the boys shop, your eyes lingered on George. You never worried about getting caught staring; George didn’t look at you. 

The next stop was Honeydukes. This was where you spent your galleons. Fred followed you around like a shadow so he could influence your purchases with the hopes of being allowed to mooch off of your haul. George walked around the shop with Lee, but much like you in Zonko’s, his gaze found its way to you. 

“You’re staring again,” Lee sighed as he decided on which flavor of sugar quill he wanted. He didn’t need to actually look at George to know that he was staring. 

“I’m not.” George diverted his eyes from you. “You always pick the red one. Doubt you’re going to branch out now.” 

“You know you’d have a better shot with her if you actually talked to her, rather than creepily staring at her from across the store?” 

George snorted a laugh. “No shot with her to be had, Lee. She obviously fancies Fred.”

“If she fancies him, how come they haven’t snogged? She’s proper fit.”

“I don’t know. Do I look like Fred to you?” George sighed once he saw Lee’s face and realized what he said. “Don’t answer that, you twat.”

“Just givin’ you my advice, that’s all. You got to relax and talk to her. She’s just a girl.” 

George wanted to laugh. Just a girl. A girl that Fred brought around, introduced to their friends and allowed to stay. A girl who fit in perfectly and who was perfect, in every way except for the fact that she liked Fred. Well, liking Fred wasn’t the issue, fancying him was. He thought it was obvious in the way that you looked at him and always walked up to his side. Even though you’ve been around their friends for years, you still went to Fred first. You always went to Fred. 

After you and Lee purchased your sweets, Lee had the group stop for some ink and extra parchment before you made your way to the Three Broomsticks. It seemed like every student in Hogsmeade had descended on the pub. You lingered by the door as you searched for an open table. The group had to wait for a few minutes until some seventh years got up to leave. Lee was first to the table to claim it. 

“I’ll get the butterbeers,” Fred said, leaving you with Lee and George. 

You sat quietly, looking from George to Lee and back. As usual, George wouldn’t look at you and Lee had a permanent look of amusement on his face. Fred came back with the four mugs, handing the first one to you. He sat down next to you after sliding two across the table. 

“Right, so you were talking about Snape’s essay earlier. I have not started that,” Fred said. 

“So glad I don’t have to deal with those anymore,” Lee said, picking up his mug. 

“Some of us don’t have the luxury of dropping Potions, Jordan,” you sighed. “I’m stuck with Potions and Herbology forever.”

“What was it you want to do after Hogwarts?” Lee asked.

“Healer,” you and George said at the same time.

You gave George a curious look. You were frankly surprised that he remembered. He had been around a few times when you talked about it with Fred, but you didn’t think he was paying attention. He looked away from you and you swore the tips of his ears were slightly pink. Odd. 

“Right, right, because you’re always fixing these two after a prank gone wrong,” Lee laughed. 

“Oi!” Fred claimed, making you laugh and Lee laugh harder.

“You’ve certainly given me some good practice!” you said, bumping his shoulder with yours. “I’ve gotten quite good!”

“Your episkey hurts,” George deadpanned.

“Well, it’s either painful episkey from me or having to explain to Pomfrey why seven of your toes were broken.” 

“You could’ve numbed my feet first!”

“I didn’t have that potion with me.”

“That’s why you can’t drop Potions,” Fred said. “Can’t have you fixing toes without numbing potions.” 

“Very unprofessional of you,” Lee said.

“Not a healer yet, boys. But once I am, I promise you, my services won’t be free to you gits.”

Fred gasped dramatically. “You’re going to charge us?” 

“How else am I going to make a living?”

“I got a few ideas of what you could–fuck, ow!” Lee said, earning him at least a kick from you. He also got kicked by both of the twins. 

The conversation shifted to Fred and George’s next products. There was some spitballing and brainstorming. Then homework came up again. More essays. A story about how a mandrake bit Lee during second year. And Fred showing off a scar on his arm from the garden gnomes at the Burrow. 

Soon enough, it was time for you to return to Hogwarts. You walked with Lee as the twins fell a little behind. Lee was attempting to convince you to share your Charms essay with him for “inspiration” and you told him to get “inspiration” from Fred or George’s essays. Apparently, they were going to use his. Which brought him back to asking for yours. 

“You ‘ight, mate?” Fred asked, giving George a sideways glance. 

He sighed. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“You ever kissed Y/N?”

Fred stumbled and mumbled, “Damn rocks,” when you briefly looked over your shoulder at him. Then he looked at George with narrowed eyes. “No. I haven’t. Never will. We don’t like each other like that.” 

George didn’t say anything. His thoughts lingered on how certain Fred sounded when he said we don’t. He was speaking for you too, but did he actually know? 

“You thinking about kissing her?” Fred asked after a few seconds.

“I… erm… might work up to it? You know, she’s pretty and stuff.”

Fred laughed. “And stuff!”

“You’re sure she doesn’t fancy you?” George asked, feeling a tad awkward about it all. Asking his brother if his good friend fancies him, and debating taking his shot if the answer’s no.

“Yeah. I think I’d know by now if she did.” Fred nudged George with his elbow. “Give it a go. You’re a pretty handsome bloke, if I do say so myself. And worst she can say is no, right?” 

“Yeah… Right.” 

George didn’t attempt to talk to you for the rest of the night. He didn’t change how he acted around you for a few days. He didn’t want to ask around Fred and you were always around Fred. George needed to get you alone. 

His chance came up when you were waiting for your friends outside of the library. Fred was off with Lee somewhere. You were alone, flipping through your Potions book with a frown on your face.

“Y/N,” he said, standing in front of you.

You lifted your eyes to look at George. Then you looked around. George didn’t talk to you unless Fred or Lee was around, and neither were. 

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering if you… if you’d want to go on a date with me sometime?”

Your heart stopped. George just asked you out? You’d always wanted this but it felt weird to actually have it happen. He can normally barely look at you.

You closed your book and crossed your arms. “One problem: you hate me.”

“I… I don’t hate you.”

“Sure act like it.”

George bounced on the balls of his feet briefly as his face flushed.

“That’d be because I really like you and thought you might fancy Fred.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Me and Fred? There’s nothing there besides good ol’ friendship.”

“So what about me? D’you think there could be something other than friendship here?” he asked, gesturing between you.

You bit the inside of your lip. This felt so out of character for George; well, being directed at you it was out of character. This George was the one you saw interacting with others. 

“You’re genuinely asking? Not some extravagant Weasley prank?” 

He nodded. 

“Then yes. I’d like that quite a lot. I mean, as long as you promise to actually look at me and talk to me?” 

“I can do that. I’ll even hold your hand if you’re up to it.”

“I probably will.” You smiled and then caught sight of your friends over George’s shoulder. “Erm, I see my friends, but I’m looking forward to our date.”

“Me too. I’ll talk to you later.”

He winked at you before turning to leave with more pep in his step than he had in a while. 

tags: @navs-bhat

[ishiniku]

Well dang, chapter 126 is... something, who could have guessed. sighs 

But I decided as my first post here to just give some opinion on this chapter, wanting to point some things I really got interested.

CHAPTER 126 SPOILERS + some thoughts on it as bonus

Well, thanks for the help unknown-cat, btw what do you mean "And I know what that feels like?" —It sounded so..."I've been through something similar, so I understand how she feels"...— I think we still have a lot to discover about what happened in this timeline.  

And wow, we found out how Sandclock works and it rules: 

You can't just say you're back from the future, and I believe you probably can't say anything related to the Sandclock, or perhaps nothing from the future too. Damn this thing is pulling the wool over your eyes Yashiro. 

You can come back as many time as you wish, but when you come back you only have one chance to change it, because you won't be able to come back again at that moment. You have a short time to change what you want, that is, until the last sand falls. 

Btw, hourglass is such a... Grrrrrr please Aidairo give me a human materialized form of the it to me so I can draw it getting beat up. Nothing good comes out with using it, the hourglass always makes you WANT to change the past, and when you think you got what you wanted, something terrible happens. 

Well it's like it says Nene,

"Again and again.''

Baby Tsukasa jumpscare for y'all...  gurl got possessed, i did know the moment he popped in my screen that Yashiro was doomed.

THIS IS SO SAD MAN. One of their mothers called in their phone...Who would be? I hope it's Kou's mother hah... And it could this be important? I don't know, I think it's more to emphasize that they are human, they have family, they have their own life, they have people caring about them...How nice...They died btw!! 😋 

Imagine your best friend dedicating her last moments trying to help you get out of your trance and giving you a warm, caring, tight hug as a goodbye? Wow Aoinene angst is so tasty!! Aida&iro why you two so good at creating doomed narratives?????

Nene smile at least now your body count is 5!! Please get the joke. (Not that I think you killed 5 people this easily with this little knife, not that I doubt the capabilities of possession, but like... Two normal people, one clockeepers and two exorcists? hardcore, I know octopusamane helped you.) 

..Entity... Good job at being disgusting, this is something this thing doesn't fail at all. (btw where is the trigger warning in this chapter Aida...)/srs

She came back to 103rd anniversary of Kamome Gakuen? She said she panicked, I believe this has led her to a completely random time, or maybe there is something important on this date...

YEAH HELP HER DAMN IT, ITS YOUR FAULT. It's shocking the world, it's heartbreaking, Akane is still alive. 

sorry, I promise I love him, I just have a slight hate-love relationship w/ all the characters of TBHK, frantic coughing  

Now why is Akane here? He is clearly very calm in the situation, "I finally found you" He knew this would happen, I imagine the other Akanes who died are from the their own timelines, but this one... Where is him from? "Our" timeline (can we pretty please call Hanako timeline as "Our") or the original timeline?! Don't know HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. But he was clearly saw the changes Yashiro tried to do, since he was looking for her, but probably when he was finally close to finding her, she used the hourglass. 

This chapter and the next ones to follow literally will give a BIG change/grow in Nene character and probably her relationships too, think about how traumatizing this experience was guys...I'm literally not complaining, just sad.

Plus, they are giving a lot of weight to the entity of the redhouse, the root of the problem; Of course, Tsukasa w/ entity was somehow violent, but this?!?? Guys?... This just proves the fact that Tsukasa somehow stabilized him by idk merging his soul with the monster??? How? Why? How many control does Tsukasa or the Entity has, its 50% or perhaps Tsukasa has more control? We still have many things to be answered. (Honestly I like the theory that Tsukasa merged with the Pit God by eating it, I just don't know how to explain how this would work.) 

One of the bloodiest chapters so far,I wonder if ever we're getting some chapter w/ more gore than this. And honestly Aida&Iro exceeded my expectations. 1000000000000/10. my reaction to the chapter is this image below.

[miwsolovely]

—Low & Careful

kyle ‘gaz’ garrick x gn!reader | hurt / comfort | gaz appreciation week masterlist.

day two : hurt / comfort

tw : dependency ( kyle on reader )

It stuck to him like glue.

The feeling of dread, of loss. Sunk its poisoned talons into his flesh, touching bone, tainting anything and everything. It travelled from his flesh, his bones, to deep in his belly; taking root in his stomach and growing there. Drinking what he did, stealing what he ate.

He felt as it grew up from his stomach, used its vines to claw its way up and out his throat, his mouth. Felt it become him; turning into a skin as deep as his, mimicking the molten caramel of his eyes, the dripping honey from his smile, the tiny moons imbedded into his cheeks—it replaced him.

No wonder he’s always lived like he’s bracing for something to fall apart.

He doesn’t mean to — it’s just instinct by now. Keep things at a distance. Don’t get too soft. Don’t name anything you don’t want to lose.

( “Don’t name anything you want to lose”—Yet he catches himself giving you names that drip like molasses from his lips.

Smiling at you in the morning, a hand at your waist as he leans your body on his. “What do you want to eat today, angel?”

Thumbing away your tears, smoothing the furrow between your brows and replacing it with a kiss. “It’s okay love, I got you.” )

He’s good at pretending.

Knows just how to smile when someone cracks a joke, how to nod like he’s listening, like he’s not somewhere else entirely—buried under the weight of everything he’s lost, and everything he never let himself keep.

You come along quieter than most. You don’t ask too many questions. And that’s probably why he doesn’t shove you away.

But even then, he keeps you at arm’s length. A careful, practiced distance.

Because it’s not you—it’s what you could become. Another person he could miss. Another name he’d carve into his bones if things went wrong.

He doesn’t let you see it though—the nights when sleep won’t come. When the silence curls tight around his ribs like barbed wire. When he lies awake replaying the past in fragments he can’t put back together.

He remembers touches he never gets to feel again. Laughter that doesn’t echo anymore. He remembers what it’s like to hold something close and still lose it.

So he keeps his voice calm. Keeps his hands steady. Keeps his heart barricaded behind worn smiles and casual shrugs.

And you—

You’re. . . patient. That’s what terrifies him the most. You look at him like you see the cracks and don’t mind the sharp edges. Like you’re not going to run when things get messy, piercing your skin and when he tries to help, his fingers get painted with blood. Your blood.

But you don’t know what you’re in for.

Because if he lets you in, if he lets himself want this, want you—

he knows it’ll ruin him if you ever go.

And part of him already thinks you will.

They always do.

When he first felt this way, this hopelessness that stuck to him, it scared him how you didn’t press him to open up to you.

You never asked him what kept him up at night, or why his eyes lingered a little too long on doorways, shadows, goodbyes. You don’t try to fix him—and maybe that’s why he sometimes finds himself watching you longer than he means to. Like he’s trying to memorize you in case you disappear too.

Because you might. Because everyone else does.

He tells himself it’s better this way. Keeping it light. Keeping it safe. Jokes over bruised knuckles and tired grins over half-eaten takeout. Letting you in just far enough that you think you’re close, but never far enough to see where it hurts; where each crack lies.

And it does hurt.

More than he’ll ever say out loud.

The silence after missions. The way his chest aches when his phone lights up and it’s not you. The way he finds traces of you in places you’ve never even touched—your shampoo on his towel, your laugh echoing in his kitchen, your ghost curled up on the couch long after you’ve left.

He’s scared.

Not of dying. He’s made peace with that. It’s easy, in comparison.

He’s scared of his dependence on you. Of letting himself believe this could be something, and then waking up one day to find you gone, just like the rest. Another person who realized he wasn’t worth staying for. Another empty room. Another silence he has to learn to live with.

So when you ask, one night, soft and unsure, “Do you ever get tired of being alone?”—

he doesn’t answer right away.

Just looks at you, like maybe if he stares long enough, he’ll find the words he’s buried too deep.

His voice is quiet when it finally comes.

“Only when you’re not here.”

You only looked at him for a moment, then a slow, unsure smile crept on your face.

Part of him thinks he doesn’t want to notice something’s wrong. Like keeping it tucked away in the back of his mind, locked away and collecting dust. But he knows it’s there. Knows that he needs to notice it. But nobody notices anything at first.

Not the way his day starts to feel off when you don’t text back. Not the way the silence in his flat stretches longer without your voice in it. Not the way he stops buying coffee for one.

It creeps in—soft, quiet, like you. Like the way you leave your cardigan on the back of his chair. Like the way your laughter settles into the walls like warmth. Like the way your presence feels less like a visit and more like a rhythm he’s gotten used to.

You never ask him to need you. You never make it obvious. You just. . . show up. When he’s had a rough day, when he doesn’t say anything but somehow you still know. You hand him tea and don’t ask about the blood caked in his fingernails. You sit beside him and let him exist without having to explain.

And he doesn’t say it—that he looks for you before he looks for anyone else. That your name on his phone makes something in his chest unclench. That some days, the only reason he makes it out of bed is the thought of maybe seeing you later.

He tells himself it’s not need. That he’s just used to you now. That it’s convenience. Familiarity.

But he starts keeping your favorite snacks in his kitchen. Starts sleeping a little better when you’re around. Starts catching himself listening for your footsteps down the hall like they mean something. Like you mean something.

And when you’re gone—even just for a day or two—he feels it.

Not in the dramatic way. Not in the falling-apart, can’t-function kind of way.

But in the quiet spaces.

In the way he leaves the TV on for background noise. In the untouched mug on the counter he still sets out for you by habit. In the way he checks the door three times, like he’s hoping you’ll walk through it.

Like he’s already forgotten what life was like without you in it.

And as always, he tells himself he’s fine.

That he hasn’t noticed how your toothbrush lives beside his now. That the worn-in softness of your jackets on the back of the couch doesn’t make his chest feel too tight. That the playlists on his phone—the ones he swore he didn’t care about—are full of songs you’ve hummed under your breath.

He still sleeps on his side of the bed, even when you’re not there. Leaves yours untouched. As if you might walk in, any second now, and crawl into it like you always do—feet cold, eyes tired, muttering something about how shit the weather is.

And maybe that’s what scares him.

Not that you’ve changed his space,

But that he’s started needing you in it.

There’s a rhythm to his life now, and it’s shaped around you in ways he didn’t authorize. You’ve folded yourself into the cracks he thought he’d sealed off— the quiet, jagged places no one else bothered to stay long enough to find.

He finds himself remembering your voice in moments you weren’t even there for.

When it’s late and his hands won’t stop shaking. When the mission chatter fades and there’s only blood on his boots and something cold in his throat—he hears your laugh. Not loud. Not bright. Just there, like a tether. Like a promise he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

You’re in all the soft places now.

The back of his mind. The curve of his routines. The split second before he answers the phone—hoping it’s you.

And still, he doesn’t say anything.

He won’t.

Because to say it would mean admitting something’s shifted. That the distance he’s always kept, the armor he’s worn for so long—it’s not holding like it used to. Not with you.

He tells himself it’s manageable. That he can handle this—the way he checks the door when he hears footsteps, the way he sleeps lighter when you’re not there, just in case you come back and he doesn’t want to miss it.

That he’s not getting used to you in the same way he breathes—constantly, unconsciously, like something vital.

But he is.

And that terrifies him more than anything he’s faced out there in the field.

It starts small.

You don’t text that morning.

No “morning, sunshine” with a sleepy photo of your pillow-smushed face. No joke about how your coffee tastes like regret. Nothing. Just silence.

He notices, of course. Pretends he doesn’t.

Wipes a hand down his face and tells himself you’re probably just busy. That you overslept. That it’s nothing. He even types out a message—You alive?—but doesn’t send it. Just stares at the screen for a while and puts the phone face-down on the table.

By midday, the silence is louder.

He checks his phone again. Then again. Then again, even though he told himself he wouldn’t. It feels stupid. Pathetic. He’s a grown man. He’s seen hell and walked out of it. But this? This radio silence from you? It puts a knot in his chest he can’t seem to loosen.

You’re not pulling away on purpose. Not really.

But you don’t show up that night either. No knock at the door. No comfortable silence on his couch while you scroll through your phone with your legs in his lap like they belong there.

And maybe they did. Maybe they still do. But without you here, the space feels off. Airless.

He eats half his dinner and tosses the rest. Sleeps like shit. Wakes up twice thinking he heard you, only to remember you never came in the first place.

It shouldn’t bother him. You’re not his. Not really.

But your absence wraps around him tighter than your presence ever did. It digs into the space you carved out and reminds him, cruelly, that he let you get too close. That he’s not fine. That maybe he does need you—not in the abstract, but in the bone-deep, can’t-sleep-right-without-you-here kind of way.

And now, he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Doesn’t know how to ask you to come back without sounding like he’s falling apart. Doesn’t know how to admit he’s been leaning on you this whole time, even when he swore he wasn’t.

He picks up his phone again. Scrolls up to your last message — two days ago. A dumb meme and a heart emoji.

He stares at it longer than he should.

Then, quietly, he types out:

Did I do something?

He doesn’t send it.

Just leaves it there, cursor blinking.

Waiting.

Then someone knocks on his front door.

Somehow he knows it’s you before even standing up to answer it. Like he can feel your warmth through the old wood.

It’s funny, how just the sound of your knuckles against his door—three soft taps like always, calmed him down from his tense battle in his mind. And when he opens it, you’re just standing there in that old jacket he likes on you—his jacket—hands in your pockets, eyes tired but warm.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just blinks like he’s not sure you’re real.

“I didn’t mean to go quiet.” You say softly, already stepping inside like you never left. “Got caught up. Shit week.”

He nods. Says, “Yeah, no worries,” like he hasn’t been unraveling for days.

But you look at him a little too long. And he knows you’ve seen it.

The bags under his eyes. The slightly off-center tension in his posture. The way he doesn’t meet your gaze for too long, like if he does, everything he’s been holding in might just spill out all at once.

You don’t push.

You just move through the flat like you belong there, like the gap in the last few days didn’t stretch painfully wide between you. You toss your bag on the floor, kick off your shoes, and when you pass him, your fingers brush his briefly—not enough to be obvious, just enough to ground him.

He doesn’t realize how tight his shoulders were until they start to loosen.

Later, you’re curled up on the couch, legs under you, flipping through the TV with half-interest. He hasn’t said much. He’s just sitting beside you, head tilted back against the cushion, eyes closed, listening to the sound of you being here again.

“I missed this,” You murmur, casual.

His eyes open, sharp, like that one sentence tugged something deep.

You turn your head to look at him. “I missed you, Kyle.”

His name from your mouth does something to him. Always has.

He wants to brush it off, say something easy—“Right back at you”, or “Someone’s gotta put up with me”—but he doesn’t. Not this time.

He swallows instead. Quiet. Raw.

“I didn’t like it when you were gone.”

Your eyes soften. Not with pity—never pity. Just understanding.

“I know,” You say gently, and scoot closer. Your hand finds his, warm and sure. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were alone again.”

He lets out a shaky breath. Not quite relief. Not quite fear. Just something too big to name.

“You didn’t,” He lies.

You squeeze his hand once. “Yeah, I did. And I’m sorry.”

There’s silence for a moment—but not the bad kind. The kind where breathing gets easier.

He shifts then, a little awkwardly, a little helplessly—and lets his head drop onto your shoulder like it’s the only place that makes sense.

And when your fingers start threading through his hair, slow and steady, he finally exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

No words. Just you. Here.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like enough.

Then, when you say you need to talk to him—really talk to him, he gets scared.

But instead of the belittling scolding he thought he’d get from you, (“I need space, I don’t have time to be taking care of a man-baby right now.”he could think of other things you’d say, but it’d just make his eyes water and spill, decorating his cheeks in a clear, beautiful way) you just let him rest his head on your shoulder, his weight warm and solid and a little heavier than usual. His hand loops through yours, loose but not letting go, like he’s afraid you might vanish again if he does.

But eventually, you speak. Low. Careful.

“Kyle.”

He makes a soft sound—not quite a word—like he hears you, but doesn’t want to move.

“You’ve been doing it again,” You say gently.

That gets a reaction. His fingers twitch. His body goes just a little tense against yours.

You keep going, voice soft. Not accusing. Just truthful.

“Building your world around me without saying it out loud. Letting everything lean a little harder on me than it should.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. But you can feel it in him—the way he holds himself a little too still. Like he’s waiting for you to be angry. To tell him he’s too much. Too needy. Like everyone else eventually did.

You shift, just enough to look at him. His eyes are on the floor, jaw tight.

“I don’t mind,” You say.

His eyes flick up—guarded, hopeful, wrecked all at once.

You squeeze his hand. “I just don’t want you to break if I’m gone for a few days.”

He looks like he’s been hit in the chest. Swallows hard. Doesn’t know what to do with the softness in your voice. Doesn’t know how to answer without admitting how much of what you’re saying is true.

You keep going, because someone has to say it.

“You’ve been carrying so much for so long, I don’t think you remember what it’s like to stand on your own. And now that I’m here, I think you’re scared I’ll be the next thing to disappear.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just nods, slow. Miserable.

“I’m not mad,” You whisper. “But I want to help, not just hold you up when you’re falling.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes out like he’s in pain.

“I don’t mean to—” He starts, then falters.

“I know.”

You brush his knuckles with your thumb. Gentle. Steady.

“I want to help you build something stronger than this. . . than just me. I’ll still be here, but you need something that doesn’t fall apart when I’m not in the room.”

He leans into your touch, quiet. Vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Help me. . . please,” He says finally. Barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to do it.”

You nod. “We’ll figure it out. Together. But you’ve got to meet me halfway.”

He doesn’t answer with words.

Just leans into you, forehead pressed to your shoulder like it’s the only place he’s sure won’t fall away. And you let him. You hold him steady—not to carry him, but to show him he doesn’t have to walk alone anymore.

It starts here.

Not with a fix. Not with a promise. But with a choice.

To stay; to help him learn how.

It starts with silence.

Not the aching kind that used to fill the room like smoke—but the kind that settles. Gentle. Mutual. His forehead rests against your shoulder, your hand still in his hair, the weight of his admission lingering between you like something fragile and sacred.

Help me.

You’d never heard him sound so small. So real. And you don’t say anything for a long moment because you know what it costs him to ask.

But when you finally speak, your voice is steady.

“Okay.”

He exhales against your collarbone—not relief exactly, but something close. Like a knot pulled loose in his chest.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, and you touch his cheek with the back of your hand—a small gesture, but one that anchors him. “We take it one step at a time,” you say. “No pressure. No rush.”

His nod is barely there, but it’s enough.

It starts slow.

No big changes. No dramatic speeches. Just little things—nough that he doesn’t feel like the ground’s shifting under him. You know him too well to push.

First, it’s the mornings.

You start texting him early, even if you’re not around. Simple stuff. Up yet? Go brush your teeth, love. Don’t make me come over there. He rolls his eyes every time, but he answers. Every single time.

Then, it’s lists.

You sit down with him one evening—calm, casual—and say, “Let’s make a routine for you. Just the basics.” He grumbles, but you see the way his fingers tighten on the pen when you hand it to him. Like structure feels safer than he wants to admit.

He starts small:

• Wake up.

• Shower.

• Eat something that isn’t toast.

• Go for a walk.

• Check in—with someone. Anyone.

You help him set reminders. You don’t treat him like he’s broken—just tired. Just someone who’s been holding the world up alone for too long.

Then comes the harder part.

“Talk to Price,” You say gently one night, when he’s stretched out on the couch and not quite asleep.

He stiffens. “Why?”

“Because he’s known you longer than me. He cares. And he’s seen this before—in other people. In himself, probably.”

Gaz doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

“I’m not saying unload everything,” You continue, soft but firm. “Just let someone else see you. Outside of me.”

It takes three days.

Then he texts you a photo—a blurry shot of two coffee mugs on a table, Price’s hand halfway in frame.

Talked. Didn’t explode. No emotional damage. Might try again.

You don’t reply right away. You let him sit in that little win. Let him own it.

You build from there.

Encourage him to reconnect with the others—Soap, Laswell, anyone who’s part of his life but got pushed out by his quiet dependence on just you. It’s not about letting go of what you are to him—it’s about making space for more than just that.

Some days, he slips. Cancels plans. Shuts down. You don’t scold him. You just show up with takeout and sit beside him, quiet, patient. And he always comes back. A little steadier each time.

He starts taking walks alone. Reading again. Even finds a dog shelter nearby and volunteers once a week—says the dogs don’t ask questions he can’t answer.

You don’t say it, but you’re proud. So proud.

And one night, weeks later, you find him standing in the kitchen, phone in hand, smiling at a message.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Soap,” He says, eyes still on the screen. “Sent me a video of his dog dragging his laundry across the house.”

You blink. “You text Soap now?”

He shrugs, casual. Too casual. “He texted first. I just answered.”

But you see it. The lightness. The shift.

The first signs of something better taking root.

He still needs you. But not like before. Not like air. Not like a crutch. Now, it’s something healthier. Something chosen, not clung to.

He steps toward you and wraps his arms around your waist, grounding himself in the curve of your shoulder, your heartbeat, your warmth.

“Thank you,” He murmurs.

You smile against his hair.

“I love you too.”

- please do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms !

- likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3 !!

©miwsolovely

[rapunzellovesbooks]

I think that one of the biggest misconceptions in the Bridgerton fandom is what "the show is supposed to do with its actors once their season airs" and what people think if that does not happen.

Let me explain.

I always hear that once your BGT season airs, you then will get all of these amazing opportunities. And the example that always comes up is Jonathan Bailey. It all boils down to him and the massive success and recognition he has earned since his season of BGT aired. The problem is... JB has been around for quite a while. I knew him from Broadchurch, Doctor Who and other minor roles in shows. Sure, BGT is his most well known role, but this also has changed since then and now it is Wicked. There are people who genuinely had no clue he was in BGT. But the fact that most of these big roles came out after his BGT season made people look at the BGT effect. Netflix is a massive platform so, yes, I understand that having your show on it and being advertised everywhere in the world will do wonders for your career. However... is it really the BGT season that does it all?

This is then used as a way to insult other actors whose rise to fame and billboards has not been as fast as JB (I say fast meaning after the BGT season, the dude has been around and I am sure he disagrees with BGT being the reason of where he is now), like, Rege Jean Page. I cannot tell you the amount of jokes I have seen at his expense for "only" starring in one movie as a side character since season 1 aired, paired with people being pissed at him for not returning. Phoebe also did not get roles immediately and I can only recall one Netflix movie of hers. Simone is the same thing, again, she has had roles before and after BGT Season 2 starred in a minor role in the Little Mermaid and then this year she made her own rom com.

Which brings me to Luke Newton and Nicola. It is safe to say that Nicola is way more online than Luke, way more present at award and fashion shows, at events in general. Luke disappears and is only seen every few months. Him not booking a role right after BGT 3 was used to call him jobless and many other things, comparing him with JB and even Nicola, who went straight from the premiere to a movie in Malta. Never mind that Luke went to Rome in November and show two projects at the same time. But people do not see that. They believe Nicola got her roles because of BGT, following the BGT effect. No, she did not. The effect is in our minds. Nicola has also been around, she was in Derry Girls and that show only became the phenomenon it is now because it went up on Netflix, which is great. But BGT did not get her that role.

Because if we go by the BGT effect, why is Claudia Jesse still only Eloise to so many people? She has been in every single episode of the show and she is clearly a fan favourite. So, why? Exactly. There is no why.

Getting roles has nothing to do with BGT or how well your did in your season. BGT is not the reason someone gets famous or books a lot of roles. It can certainly help for visibility but it is not the catalyst.

Stop comparing them. Stop trying to replicate JB and stop acting as if you know anything about booking acting jobs in Hollywood or what each of these actors want.

I had to get it off my chest because it makes me quite angry to see all of these actors compete in an imaginary race to be the next JB. That is not how it works.

[redux-iterum]

I didn't even know what warrior cats was but you got me interested. how much of this cool shit is tumblr headcanon and how much will i actually find in the books?

This, by far, is one of my favorite introductions of oneself someone has given me from outside of the fandom. Welcome to the god damn party, and I'm sorry.

To keep things concise, pretty much everything within the list of lore is from me and my friend/editor for this fic. The mythology, unique cultural traits of each Clan, scholars, and languages were created by us, to name a few things.

Canon has the very basic layout of four Clans named ThunderClan, WindClan, ShadowClan and RiverClan, a religious belief in a fifth heavenly Clan called StarClan, and a code of law that the living cats strive to honor and live by. They also have medicine cats as their doctors (a rank we replaced with seers), a two-part naming system (that we gave a list of acceptable prefixes and suffixes for structure and sensibility), and every character within this fic is a canon character that has been changed in some way - renamed, given a different appearance, etc. That's about it. Canon is very, VERY light on its worldbuilding and personalities of characters.

Consider this fic's setting and story as us having taken a bowl of flour with a paper that has instructions on it and added in ingredients (altering some in the process) until we got a cake, frosting and all. You won't find a lot of deep lore or, uh, quality of story in canon, so we made shit up ourselves. We are about as standard of a rewrite fix-it fic as you could imagine - we're displeased with canon, so we rolled up our sleeves and said, "Fuck it, we'll do it ourselves." People have joked on here before that this series has replaced the canon in their heads, which is a high compliment and bragging point, if you'll pardon me.

I can't really recommend reading canon, because those books are just so bad, but you're free to do as you like to contrast and compare. At the very least, you'll get some context for why we made the changes we did.

[justwinginglife]

So another request hehe but this would be my last one (for the meantime) since I don't want to flood your inbox.

I'm thinking about Hoshina with a Lieutenant reader that has a Disney Princess ability, like ya know the animal whisperer sort of thing. The reader is known for being loved by animals by the third division, so they called them a Disney Princess. They always saw the reader with a random animal in the middle of the battlefield and since then the whole division had a bet on what would be the animal they will be seen every time they enter the battlefield, or how many. One time they got attacked by a Wolf Kaiju, they thought they already killed all of the Kaiju's but Okonogi kept on saying there's still one left, and the reader is missing. When they found the Kaiju, they also found the reader who's now giving the Wolf Kaiju a belly rub.

/⁠ᐠ⁠｡⁠ꞈ⁠｡⁠ᐟ⁠\ -requester

I swear this request has been in my inbox so long it literally, actually collected dust and for that, I'm sorry. Thank you for your patience. Hope you like this!

Crushes and Crowns

Approx Word Count: 3800 Tags: idk, something like, "Hoshina is a silly brat but you love him anyway" and more Third Divison Shenanigans

“Evening, Princess!”

“Rough day, Princess?”

“See you later, Princess!”

You shook your head, laughing to yourself, as you made your way through the Third Division’s halls. Despite your protesting of this new nickname you’d earned, the soldiers continued to use it anyway (overuse it, really), and it’d started to grow on you (though you still found it rather silly.)

You still remembered the day you’d been dubbed, “Princess.” It was your fourth time in one week, bringing home an animal to the base, and it wasn’t even your fault. Your entire childhood, animals had been drawn to you, and it seemed that none of that had changed in your adulthood. It wasn’t like you purposely brought them along with you, they just…followed wherever you went. The first day you’d settled into the dorms, you’d tracked bees inside. No one had thought much of it at first, as you had brought flowers to brighten up your living space. The second time, a raccoon had trailed in behind you, eager to make its home beneath your bed. The third time, you’d come home with bags upon bags of clothes from your latest shopping spree, and when a bag slipped from your arms, a stray dog had caught it and walked it back to base for you. Soon, it became a running joke that the next time you tracked in an animal, it’d be a horse, as the animals you attracted seemed to be getting bigger and bigger in size. Or maybe this was how they discovered unicorns really existed, was when it sauntered in beside you after your next outing. 

It was honestly a wonder how you hadn’t been crowned “Princess” sooner, when your Defense Force exam was only made memorable because a flock of crows had suddenly flooded the arena during the test, working to distract the Kaiju while you took them out, one by one. It was even more peculiar that crows weren’t local to that area, and even if they had been, that would not have been the season to see them. 

Either way, as bizarre as these events were, you had never deemed them a result of any particular skill on your part. You just assumed it was pure coincidence that animals were drawn to you. Maybe you had an attractive scent; that couldn’t be helped. 

It wasn’t until you started showing up to battle with an animal by your side -completely unprompted- that you thought to yourself, maybe you were what they called an animal whisperer. You could coo to the birds and call them to your aid, you could click your tongue and the moles would burrow out of the ground, you could whistle to the wolves and they’d bound to your side, even the snakes (as stubborn and self serving as they were) answered to your every beck and call. At this point, it seemed there was no beast alive that you couldn’t tame. Or man, for that matter.

And recently, you’d had your eye on one Vice Captain Hoshina of the Defense Force’s Third Division. 

While you had eventually, begrudgingly accepted the title of “Princess” (after weeks of scrunching up your nose and wrinkling your brows at the name), you’d never had any real desire for the name to grace your ears. That is, until you fell in love with the Vice Captain, the one person who did not use your ridiculous nickname. And now, after having been accustomed to the pet name (being smothered with it, really), you developed a sudden longing for him to one day take you by the hand, look deep into your eyes, and whisper to you lovingly, “Princess,” as though it were a name only he could bestow. It was all you could think about. He was all you could think about.

It wasn’t difficult in the slightest to fall completely and totally in love with him. Not at all. While you had long proven yourself an asset to the Defense Force, you still remember the days when your every achievement was attributed solely to your animal help on the field. Hoshina was the first person to acknowledge that, while you’d had help, it’d been due to your skill and your skill alone that you achieved what you did. Making an impossible shot, your bullets piercing through a kaiju core with exact precision, even despite the flock of animals crowding around your shot- that accomplishment was the result of your tireless effort and dedication to honing your craft, and the recognition and rewards for such a talent belonged to you and you only. The animals may have done their part, but at the end of the day, it was you firing the shot, you ending the fight before lives could be lost, you saving the day. And you were invaluable to him. 

 Of course, you longed to be more than just an asset to him. 

If he wasn’t interested in you, it wasn't for lack of trying on your part. You noticed he always got up early to go for a run, so you’d join him on his runs. Every single day, without fail, you’d jog up to him, saying, “Fancy meeting you here,” like it was pure coincidence that you just so happened to be up at the crack of dawn even though you’d never woken up so early in your entire life, and you just so happened to run along the same path as him at the same time as him and the same pace as him. He’d laugh. Play along. Every single day, without fail, “What a coincidence,” He’d say with a grin. Some days, you wouldn’t talk much. You’d simply keep pace beside each other, enjoying the crisp, fresh air as your breaths painted clouds of white into the morning sky, and it’d be enough. Other days, he’d acknowledge that he knew you were coming. He’d hand you an extra bottle of water because he’d brought two. He’d pull out his portable speaker because you kept asking him what he was listening to on these runs. Sometimes, if you were late, you’d find him stretching on a nearby bench, and when you’d ask him why he hadn’t started his run yet, he’d raise an eyebrow to you like it was only obvious. He was waiting for you. Of course he was waiting for you. But was it just because he was used to you? Being his running partner didn’t mean you were anything else to him. 

So you’d snag seats by him on the transport to the battlefield. Ask if he’d gotten a chance to eat lunch or dinner before the alarm had gone off. If he said yes, you’d tease him for not sharing. If he said no, you’d slip him a snack. He’d nod his head in thanks, and tell you, with a playful grin, that he’d protect your gift with his life. You’d tell him to worry about protecting himself. Tell him that if he slipped up in combat and you ended up having to go on your morning runs by yourself, you’d strangle his ghost. He’d give a little chuckle, and then make his lighthearted promises to you that he’d do his best to remain in one piece. You wondered if he’d ever promise you anything else. 

But life went on, your relationship with him progressed at a snail’s pace, and the Third Division remained as rowdy as ever. You discovered that their latest source of entertainment was a betting pool. About you. 

It’d become common knowledge on base that wherever you were, the animals followed. Even if you made a trip overseas, they were sure that some sort of whale or shark or dolphin would accompany you on your journey. So they began to place their bets on what animal would make their appearance during your next march into battle. 

Haruichi mused that perhaps you’d appear with a fox by your side. 

Iharu swore that a fox was too meager, and you were more likely to show up with a bear bounding behind you. 

Ichikawa ruminated that it was possible a peacock would be your next companion. 

Kafka bellowed with laughter, telling them all that they were thinking too small. He was sure you’d find some way to will dragons into existence and bend them to your command. 

Platoon Leader Nakanoshima chided them all for being childish, but inside, she was hoping you’d bring home a kitten next time. 

Everyone had their guesses and though you found them outlandish, you were curious to hear what Hoshina’s prediction was. 

“Any thoughts, Vice Captain?”

He raised an amused brow to you. “Thoughts? On the betting pool? You’re really buying into what everyone is saying? That you’re some sort of animal goddess with the power to commune with nature?” 

“No, of course not!” Your cheeks burst into flames. “That….that would just be stupid…” You grumbled to yourself, a slight pout on your lips, as you turned away from him. 

He leaned into your field of view once more, head cocked, a cheeky grin dashed across his face. “I see, I see. So you were hoping to be some sort of deity after all.”

“I would never-!”

“Pufferfish.”

Your thoughts halted in their tracks. “A what??”

He grinned slyly. “You heard me. Bring a pufferfish next time.”

“To a BATTLEFIELD??? On LAND???”

He shrugged innocently, but his eyes sparkled with mirth. “I dunno, maybe you could blow it up big and hang it on a string, like it’s a balloon, or something,” 

“You really are just teasing me, Hoshina!” 

“I would never.”

“You told me that you found a shortcut on our little running trail the other day and led me straight through mud.” You made a show out of glaring at him. 

He burst into laughter, shoulders quaking as he wiped tears from his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d believe me! We’ve run that path so much, I thought you’d know there was no shortcut. And besides, that’s more of a prank and less of a tease, so your argument is invalid.” 

You would’ve fired back at him. Would’ve combat his teasing with a witty rebuttal. Maybe you would’ve even feigned upset and pretended to give him the cold shoulder just so he’d beg you to understand that he was just joking and he would never be so careless with your feelings. But you never got the chance to. 

The red alarm went off.

Hoshina’s lax demeanor instantly went rigid, solemnity crossing over his face as he popped his comms in to receive a report of the situation. You zipped up your suit as you watched him nod his head in response to the report. He gestured for you to follow him as he made his way to the door. 

“Honju. Ruins outside of town.” He mouthed to you.

You kept pace with him as he began speeding towards the transport, tying your hair up into a ponytail on the way. Along the way, the two of you collected soldiers, updating them on the situation as you all rushed to pull your gear together. 

The atmosphere should’ve been tense, the adrenaline buzzing, the fear of death lurking around the corner, the fear of failing your country looming in the air. But it wasn’t. Not when you were around. Your fellow officers raced to catch up to you, whispering to each other, “So did you bet on cougar or coyote this time?” They’d snicker to each other as they made their arguments on which situation was more likely. 

Even Hoshina couldn’t help but notice the lighthearted environment. “That’s enough chit chat, everyone in your vehicles now. And besides…I’m betting on a phoenix.” He winked and then hopped in the truck.

A phoenix??? Now he was on team mythical?? You groaned to yourself as you slunk in beside him. “You’re really setting the bar high, you know that?” You grumbled under your breath.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your ear. “If anyone can do it, it’s you... Princess.”

Your heart choked on its own rhythm, stuttering to a stop. He said it. He really, actually, truly fucking said it. And by god, you were not prepared in the slightest. Was the room spinning? Was the air increasingly thin? Had the sun filed in behind all the soldiers and made camp in this truck? Why were you sweltering and shivering all at once? 

He bit back a laugh, opting instead to clear his throat into his fist. “Cat got your tongue?”

“P-pufferfish.” You mumbled meekly. “Thought you…wanted a pufferfish.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, chest shuddering, as he attempted to swallow down his own laughter. You were adorable, how else was he supposed to describe it? And how the hell was he supposed to contain himself? And in a truck full of people, no less. He was lucky they were all distracted with placing their bets, because he couldn’t help sneaking a look at your rose-tinted cheeks and it sent his heart into overdrive. 

He might’ve reached out to caress them or pinch them, anything to touch them, and soothe his sanity. But then the truck stopped.

“Time to move out.” He ordered.

The soldiers spilled out of the car, and you were left to stumble behind them. Hoshina glanced back at you, suddenly aware that he’d left you all too dazed, and he immediately regretted teasing you so close to battle. He instructed a Platoon Leader to take you into their care, assigning their squad to the very back of the line. On any other day, you might’ve felt offended that he was benching you. But today, you hadn’t even noticed. How could you, when your heart was sprinting in dizzying circles in your chest? Could you even remember how to breathe? Did you remember what oxygen was? Sheer muscle memory allowed you to lock and load your gun, but your heart had no previous practice with gallivanting through sunny meadows and rainbowed skies. By the time you even realized what platoon you’d been assigned to, Hoshina was long gone. 

He had rushed to the front lines, as he often did, slashing a path through his every foe with ease, until he reached his designated target. There it stood, hulking and howling, a Honju with a wolvish appearance- a beast among beasts. Hoshina noted to himself that it must have been the Alpha of the pack, as every bark and grunt appeared to be individual commands given to the Yoju that were currently swarming his comrades. He’d be sure to take it out quickly; he had to disrupt their chain of command. After all, he’d never forgive himself if even one of them caused any harm to you. Even as the last line of defense, you were still much too close to the battle for his liking. He trusted your skills, but he rebuked himself for the state he’d left you in. He’d be sure to finish this battle soon, and rush back to your side for a celebratory beer.

But even with all his talent, Hoshina was reminded that there was no such thing as a sure victory in battle. When he had decided to engage the Honju in battle, he had expected it to react much like a Kaiju would. He would attack and, having nothing but primal instincts to guide it, the Honju should respond in kind, bearing its fangs in retaliation. And, of course, it did at first. Hoshina’s blades clashed with its claws, weapons that somehow rivaled his own in both integrity and ferocity, and for a moment, it appeared as though it were anyone’s battle to win, with both sides equally as charged and tenacious. But it quickly became evident that Hoshina was stronger. And after a couple of fiery exchanges, the beast made the decision to retreat, its more animalistic nature winning out over its monstrous nature. Wolves, after all, hunt in packs and, even as the leader, a lone wolf is smart enough to know when to withdraw. 

Hoshina pursued its quickly fleeing figure but it was to no avail. Even tracking it did no good, and he eventually made the decision to rejoin his officers in the field, clearing out the remaining Yoju. By the time the battle was over, he had almost been able to forget the humiliating draw between him and the Honju. That is, until Okonogi chimed in on his comms.

“Vice Captain, picking up one remaining Honju on the field, sir.”

He shook his head in frustration. “System must be acting up, Okonogi. I watched it retreat myself. It’s long gone by now.”

“No, sir. The readings are accurate. It’s still on the field.”

Hot blood surged through his veins. “Where?” He demanded. 

“Sector Bravo.”

In an instant, his blood ran cold. Bravo. That was your sector. The end of the defensive line. “Okonogi, get me a sitrep on all officers in Sector Bravo. Is everyone accounted for?” His heart thundered in his chest as he sped through alleyways and burst through ruined buildings, all the while, listening to her rattle off each individual officer’s status. He couldn’t very well tell her that no one’s status but yours mattered. 

“And finally, Officer L/N. Vitals normal.”

His breathing evened.

“But she appears to be secluded from the rest of the officers.”

His chest tightened. “She what??”

“For some reason, she’s in an abandoned part of the map.” Okonogi reported.

What on god’s earth were you doing out there alone?? His already-rapid pace increased even further. “Get me a status on the Honju.”

“It’s…oh. OH.”

“Okonogi-” He hissed.

“It’s closing in on her as we speak, Vice Captain-!”

She’d barely finished her sentence when he rocketed ahead, renewed strength and renewed desperation propelling him forward. 

No, no, no, no. He hadn’t even asked your favorite genre of music, hadn’t asked if you ever minded always listening to his. He hadn’t asked you if you wanted to go with him to see the new, upcoming movie. He hadn’t asked you if you even liked animals or if you just somehow always got stuck with them. He hadn’t asked your deepest fears or your sincerest wishes. He hadn’t gotten to know you as well as he’d wanted. And most importantly…he hadn’t told you how he felt. 

Right now, all he felt was panic. Terror. Anxiety. 

He heard that familiar growl again and it sent his stomach spiraling into a knot. Why wasn’t he faster? Why wouldn’t his feet obey him? Why couldn’t he simply sprout wings and fly???

Then he heard your laugh.

He stumbled into the clearing just in time to see you, rubbing the wolf’s belly. 

“Who’s a good boy? Yes, you are. Yes, you are! You’re not so scary now, are you? Just a lil hungry. Just a lil hungry baby. Have something for you, sweetie pie.” You yanked a nearby, rusted stop sign out of the ground and waved it back and forth. 

Eyes lighting up, the Honju lunged forward.

Hoshina’s feet reacted before his mind did and he was at your side in a split second, swords at the ready, eager to spill the Kaiju’s organs all over the pavement.

But the Honju didn’t attack you. He simply gnawed on the “stick” you’d given him as a treat. 

“Oh, Hoshina, you’re here. Hey.”

He blinked. ‘Hey?’ That was all he got? He literally broke the sound barrier, rushing to your aid, and he got a simple, ‘Hey?’

“Hoshina- meet Spot. Spot, meet my Vice Captain.”

His jaw dropped and shattered on the ground. “You NAMED it??”

You gave a sheepish laugh. “Well…I couldn’t very well kill it. Not when he’s being such a good boy for me. Aren’t you?”

As if in response, the wolf flopped onto its back once again, eager for more belly rubs, its wagging tail stirring up dirt. 

Hoshina waved away the dust, coughing. “He’s not a ‘good boy.’ He tried to kill me.”

“But that was then. This is now. Can’t you just let this one Kaiju off the hook?”

Disbelief, shock, and indignation warred within him. But in the end, he fell victim to your glimmering eyes and your perfectly pouted lips. He sighed. “I…I suppose the… the Captain has her own kaiju pet so…it wouldn’t be completely inconceivable for you to…also have one.” His shoulders slumped in defeat.

Your eyes lit up like fireworks. “Really?? Oh- you’re the absolute best, Soshiro!” Excitement overtaking any sense of rationality, you threw your arms around him and squeezed him tight. 

It wasn’t until he was properly snuggled into your embrace that you realized the gravity of what you’d said. And done. 

“S…Soshiro?” He asked weakly.

Your arms froze around his waist. “I…I meant...Hosh…Vice…I…”

His body began to quiver and you wondered if you’d really upset him to the point of being so shaken with rage. But then he rested his forehead against your shoulder, laughter tumbling out of his lips. “You really just skipped straight to first names like it was nothing,” He gasped out in between fits of laughter. 

You bit your lip, having no choice but to endure the shame and humiliation.

He finally stopped laughing enough to pull back and look at you, amusement painted clearly across his features. “Cat got your tongue?” He repeated his earlier words. “Princess.”

And there it was again. That same, overwhelming flood of crimson that rushed to the surface of your skin, enveloping every inch of your face. This time, even the tips of your ears had begun to dye themselves in the similar shade of rouge. 

“Aww. How cute. Fearless in the face of monsters, but speechless when it comes to me. Why is that?” His voice danced with that familiar, teasing tone. 

You attempted to shrink away from him but he caught you by the waist. 

“No running away from me now, Princess.” His tone suddenly dropped, his words a low purr. “Tell me. What’s got you so worked up?”

“If you’re asking me things like that, you already know.” You grumbled in complaint. He chuckled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’ll have to enlighten me.” 

“I like you. Stupid Soshiro.” You crossed your arms emphatically.

“What was that? Couldn’t hear you.”

“I said you’re stupid, Soshiro!” 

He pressed his lips to yours, his taste intermingling with yours as he deepened the kiss.  “And…” He pulled away, leaving you entranced, “What was it you said before that?”

“...like you. Stupid.” You repeated meekly.

“Could’ve done without the stupid,” He grinned, “But I like you too. My princess.” He dipped his head down to smother his whispered words against the soft swell of your lips once again. And then he kept kissing you until your lips were chapped, until there was no question about his feelings for you. 

You’d never been too fond of your nickname before, but somehow, someway, whenever he murmured it the way he did, in that sickeningly sweet tone of his, as he buried his lips in yours, somehow- you felt like royalty.

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @ouiouimochi @minasfwoopyponytail @inkytypewriter

[fratboykate]

Ok, but I really need to see Kate in rehab now. Also Yelena not willing to say ex-wife but Kate's like "no, we broke up. I fucked this."

And maybe it's me needing some fluff, but just. Kate and Yelena FaceTime. Little talks. The ones where they ignore the shit and it feels like it did before, but then they get quiet because they remember it's not before. Its now and it's kind of fucked.

Can we get Yelena visiting Kate in treatment? Kate reconnecting with her kids? Kate accepting accountability? There’s so much angst to explore! It’s like Christmas but if Christmas made me cry.

Kinda a combo of parts of these two. Not fully fulfilling either but...I think it'll scratch y'alls itch. Here's 7.8k of angsty goodness.

--

Thirty days.

That’s how long it’s been since Kate overdosed on their bathroom floor, shaking and blue and almost gone. Thirty days since they called 911. Thirty days since her world transformed in an instant.

The doctors said no visitors. At least three weeks. Standard protocol, apparently. Full detox. Full isolation. No calls. No visits. No distractions. Yelena had argued, but not much. She knew better than anyone how Kate could manipulate a room. How she could talk her way out of anything, convince even the sharpest doctor she was fine. Better. Cured.

Three weeks. Clean break. Let the treatment take root. That’s what they said. Yelena knows it was the right call. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking hurt.

//

Yelena didn’t realize how much Kate handled until she wasn’t there. Didn’t realize how overloaded Kate must have felt. Because that’s how she feels now. Drop-offs, sports, dance classes, dentist appointments, remembering that Alexia needs a poster board or Maks has a costume party. With the kids in her care full-time now, Yelena’s brain runs like a computer with too many tabs open. None of them organized. All of them on fire.

Sonny’s teething again. Maks wet the bed three times this week. Alexia…Yelena doesn’t even know. The girl’s gone quiet. Too still. She doesn’t ask about Kate much anymore. Doesn’t cry. Just watches. That’s worse.

The silence. The observing. The waiting. Yelena can feel the weight of Alexia’s eyes on her when she’s folding laundry, when she forgets to pack a snack, when she doesn’t laugh at Maks’ joke fast enough. She can feel it like a measuring stick being held up to her forehead.

Are you enough? Are you enough without her?

//

Alexei has all but moved in. At first it was just to help for the week. Then the week stretched. Then it became routine. He makes breakfast every morning like he’s been doing it forever. Walks Sonny up and down the block when she won’t stop crying. Tells Maks stories about when Yelena was little, always ending with, "And that is why your Mama is like this."

Melina stops by every day with printouts. Meal plans. Color-coded calendars. Suggestions for managing the emotional trauma of children post-crisis. She talks in bullet points. But she has never, not once, told Yelena or Alexei how she feels about any of this.

Alexei and Melina are helping. They are. But it’s still also only Yelena now. She’s the one who wakes up every night to check if the kids are breathing. The one who takes the calls from the school. The one who remembers which brand of pull-ups doesn’t give Sonny a rash. The one who has to answer the same question, over and over again:

"When is Mommy coming home?"

She tells them: Soon. When she’s better. When the doctors say she’s ready.

Maks asks if they’ll get to live together again after. Alexia doesn’t say anything.

//

Yelena goes to group once a week. Nar-Anon. The one for the families and friends of addicts. Took her three tries to actually walk inside. Sat in the car the first time, engine running, hand on the door. Couldn’t move. The second time she got as far as the hallway before a woman smiled at her too kindly and she bolted. The third time, she sat down. Didn’t talk. Just listened.

Heard stories that sounded too familiar. Stories about addicts who lied and stole and relapsed and swore they wouldn’t. About kids who grew up with half-parents. About the helplessness. The rage.

She cried halfway through her second real meeting.

Now she’s made it a point to put in on her calendar. She promises herself she’ll go every Thursday night. So far, she’s stuck with it.

She sits in the third row, near the back. Not sharing. Not uttering Kate’s name. Not even her own. She simply shows up and listens. And, for now, that’s enough.

//

Yelena misses work deadlines constantly now. The lab understands. Mostly. Her name still carries weight. But the remorse gnaws at her. She was never late before. Never missed a review or stood someone up for a meeting or forgot to follow through.

Now she sets alarms and forgets what they’re even for. Now she pours coffee and drinks it cold. Now she folds laundry at midnight because it’s the only time the house is quiet.

Alexia stays up too late. Pretends to read. Yelena doesn’t push her. Maks has become more clingy, crawling into her bed in the middle of the night and whispering that he had another bad dream. Sonny hangs on to Alexei like a barnacle. Yelena calls him Dad. So now Sonny calls him Dad. Like it’s always been that way.

Yelena loves them so much it hurts. Loves them beyond measure…yet nevertheless, she sometimes wants to scream. But there’s no room to fall apart. No corner of the day where she can shatter. No one to pass the baton to. Kate isn’t there. Kate isn’t texting to say she’s running late but will pick up dinner. Kate isn’t leaving her notes in the margin of grocery lists or fixing the playlist in the car.

Kate isn’t there. But Yelena is.

//

The house is clean now. Too clean. Alexei’s doing. He can’t sit still. He folds every blanket. Organizes every drawer. Makes the beds with hospital corners. Something about control, Yelena thinks.

Maks spilled juice on the carpet and cried like it was the end of the world. Yelena knelt down, cleaned it, held him, told him it was just juice. Told him it’s something you can wipe away.

Yelena understands their tantrums have nothing to do with juice spills or teething or dinner choices. So she tries to be extra patient with them. That’s the best she can do lately.

//

Kate’s been in rehab for fourteen days. No visitors. No phone calls. The center sends progress updates through a family liaison. Yelena reads every one three times.

"Katherine has been compliant with all treatment protocols."

"Katherine is responding well to group therapy."

"Katherine has rejected additional individual counseling."

“Katherine isn’t being entirely honest.”

The reports are clinical. Distant. Yelena reads them like a lifeline. Every sentence a heartbeat. Every paragraph a breadcrumb that means maybe…maybe…Kate is coming back to the kids.

Yelena doesn’t know if she’s coming back to her. That’s…not something she lets herself think about. Not yet.

//

Yelena talks to Dr. O’Grady twice a week. Once for solo therapy, once with the kids. It was Dr. O’Grady who suggested the group meetings, the Thursday ones Yelena now attends like a quiet form of penance.

When it’s just the two of them, the sessions are usually quiet. Dr. O’Grady is maddeningly good at silence. She doesn’t push. She just…waits. Long enough that Yelena starts talking just to fill the air.

“What are you most afraid of?” She asked last session.

Yelena stared at the carpet for what felt like minutes. Her fingers twisted in her lap. Her mouth opened once, then closed.

Then finally, she said, “That Kate doesn’t want to come back.”

A beat.

“Not to the kids.”

A longer one.

“To me.”

//

On Day Twenty-One, the rehab center calls while Yelena is at work. Her stomach drops.

Yelena hesitates, then stands and steps just outside the door, answering with a tight, “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Amy from Reed Recovery. Is this Ms. Belova?”

“…Yeah.”

“We’re calling to confirm visitation availability for Saturday. Ms. Bishop blackout period is over. You’re cleared to schedule a visit and Kate has listed you as her primary contact. Would you like to schedule a time?”

Yelena’s every muscle goes stiff. For a second, she can’t breathe.

“Yes. Yes, I…sorry. Yes. I’d like to come.”

“Great. Would 10AM work?”
 “Yes. Definitely. Yes.”

“You’re confirmed for 10AM. We recommend arriving fifteen minutes early and bringing a form of ID. We’ll go over visitor rules and expectations when you arrive.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Yelena hangs up before she can hear the rest.

Instead of going back to the meeting she just…leaves. She sits in her car for forty-five minutes. Breath ragged. Phone still in her hand. She closes her eyes.

A month ago, she almost became a single parent permanently. A month ago, she shoved her mouth against Kate’s and begged her to stay. Now she has to see her again. Hear her voice.

Yelena doesn’t know if she wants to cry or scream or run. But she’ll do it. Because this is her life now. Her mess. Her kids. Her family. Her responsibility. And maybe…just maybe…her future, too.

//

The room smells like burnt coffee and industrial-strength floor cleaner. The chairs are all the same. Metal, beige, barely cushioned. Uncomfortable by design. There’s cheap carpeting underfoot, a table in the corner with cookies no one touches, and a corkboard on the wall covered in photos and typed-out success stories. It’s the kind of space meant to disappear into itself. Neutral. A blank enough canvas to hold grief, rage, hope, regret. Whatever you bring in, it’ll carry. That’s the idea, anyway.

Yelena sits in her usual spot, third row from the back. The ceiling tile above her is still stained. She’s counted it twice. It doesn’t change.

The room’s half full. Some familiar faces. Some new. Most of them worn in the way pain wears people down. Quiet around the edges, as if loosening even a little might make them fall apart completely. She’s listened to them speak for three weeks now. Sat through the stories. Mothers crying over sons, daughters raging about brothers, husbands whispering about wives they barely recognize.

She’s understood all of it. Just never knew what the fuck to say. Until tonight. Maybe it’s the phone call. Maybe it’s the silence that followed. Either way, something itches under her skin. Restless. Inevitable.

Because tonight, for the first time in twenty-one days, Yelena has a date and time. She’s going to see Kate. Saturday. Ten AM.

After three weeks of silence, no calls, no updates beyond the sterile progress notes from the facility. After twenty-one days of fielding tantrums and bedtime meltdowns and teething and quiet questions from Maks and sideways glances from Alexia. After all that…she finally gets to see the woman she used to call her wife.

She hasn’t told the kids yet. Not until she sees for herself.

She picks at her thumbnail. Around her, the meeting begins. Someone checks in. Someone else reads from a pamphlet. The man across the circle sips his coffee like it’s been keeping him alive for decades. A tired laugh breaks out when someone makes a dry joke. Then the room settles again. A lull.

The facilitator scans the circle.

“Who wants to go next?”

Silence. A chair squeaks. Then, before she knows why she’s doing it, Yelena hears herself speak.

“I’ll go.”

Heads turn. Some surprised. Some quietly supportive. She doesn’t move to the center. Just stays where she is, hands in the pockets of her jacket, voice low but steady.

“I’m Yelena. Been coming here for three weeks.” She exhales. Her fingers curl tighter in her pockets. “First because I didn’t know what else to do. Now because I still don’t. I haven’t spoken yet. Didn’t think I would.” She glances around. The faces are kind. Or at least trying to be. “My wife…ex-wife…we were in the middle of finalizing our divorce when she overdosed.”

That word lands. She sees a few eyes shift. Nods. A soft inhale.

“It wasn’t…some perfect fairy tale. It was a fucking mess. I’m not quite sure what we are now…Sorry. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I don’t know what I want to say….”

She stops. Regathers.

“Three weeks ago, she overdosed. Cocaine laced with fentanyl. Her heart stopped. She seized. Then had a heart attack. The doctors told me if I’d gotten there a few minutes later, she’d be dead.”

A murmur. One man closes his eyes.

“Our kids were home. I found her on the bathroom floor. Blue. Not moving.”

The words don’t come dramatic. They come plain. Undecorated.

“I did CPR until the medics got there. I didn’t think it would work. I didn’t think…I thought I was going to have to tell our kids that their mom was dead.”

Someone across the circle nods. Quietly. Like they’ve been there. Maybe they have.

“She made it. Barely. She was in the hospital for a week. Got released. Got into a program. They sent her upstate. No contact for three weeks. Today, I got the call. I’m allowed to visit. Saturday. Ten AM.”

Yelena shifts. Scratches at the seam of her jeans.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to her. I don’t know if I’m supposed to scream or cry or hug her or just…sit there. I’m mad. I’m scared. And I’m so fucking tired.”

Her throat tightens. She pushes past it.

“I’ve had the kids full-time since it happened. Three kids. One in diapers. One who is desperate to understand everything but is too little to truly grasp anything. One who’s trying to carry the weight of all of it without saying a single word. I look at them and think, ‘They have no idea how close they came to losing her.’ And they shouldn’t. They shouldn’t have to carry that. But I do.”

The facilitator offers a gentle nod. Silent encouragement. Yelena breathes deep. Keeps going.

“I came here because I thought I needed to vent. Or hear that I was right to be mad. That I wasn’t crazy for feeling like this. But I don’t want her punished. I just…want her better. I want her to want to be better.” A pause. “She’s a good mom. She loves them. That’s not the problem. The problem is that she’s sick. And now I’m stuck in this place where I’m furious and terrified and still trying to be kind. Trying to be generous. And I don’t know how the fuck to do it all at once.”

There’s a hush now. That real silence. When people aren’t just listening, but hearing you.

“I don’t know who she is to me anymore. She’s been every version of something. Girlfriend. Partner. Wife. Roommate. Ex. Co-parent. Estranged. The woman who almost died in our shared bathroom.” Her voice lowers. “I almost had to call her my dead wife.”

Yelena lets that sit.

“I keep thinking that should be enough. That she survived. That I didn’t have to make those calls. That should be enough, right?” She shakes her head. “But it’s not. It’s not even close.”

Silence again.

“Sorry. I didn’t plan to speak tonight. But it felt worse not to.” She exhales. Her shoulders slump. The room exhales with her. “Anyway. That’s me.”

Yelena sits back down. Breathing shaky. Heart louder than it should be.

Someone murmurs, “Thank you.”

Another: “Glad you’re here.”

And then the circle moves again. Someone else stands. Someone else starts. And Yelena sits back and listens.

Even if the words don’t fix anything, they were real. And that’s a start.

The rest of the session passes in a blur. Someone cries. Someone else hands them tissues. A man across the room talks about how his daughter stole from him to get high. Yelena barely hears a word.

//

When the meeting ends, Yelena doesn’t bolt like usual.

She lingers. Watching people trickle out. Coats shrugged on. Murmured goodbyes. Chairs screeching as they’re pushed back into straight lines.

She drifts toward the cookie table, eyeing a lonely oatmeal raisin that looks like it’s been there since the Carter administration. She debates it. Even knowing it’ll taste like chalk and drywall, she takes a bite. Instantly regrets it.

Then a voice behind her: warm, low, just amused enough.

“You speak like you’re used to being listened to.”

Yelena turns.

The woman behind her is tall. Late thirties, maybe. Warm brown skin. Dark curls pulled into a half-knot that manages to look effortless and deliberate at the same time. Her black jeans are worn, her cardigan oversized, and her boots look like they’ve stomped over lesser men. There’s navy polish chipping off her nails and a little mischief tucked into the corners of her mouth. Her eyes are darker still. Serious. Curious. Magnetic.

“Most people don’t,” the woman adds.

Yelena lets out a soft snort.

“Used to yelling, maybe. Listening’s harder.”

That earns a smile.

“Still. I’m glad you spoke.”

“Thanks.” Yelena nods, cautious.

“I’m Ava.” She offers a hand.

“Yelena.”

“I know.” Ava grins. “You’ve been sitting in that same chair for three weeks.”

Yelena quirks a brow.

“You keeping tabs?”

“I’m observant.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

Ava shrugs.

“Something like that…Talking’s harder than it looks, huh?”

“At least I didn’t cry.”

“No shame if you had. I ugly-cried my first five meetings. Full snot. Olympic-level.”

Yelena huffs a laugh. It catches her by surprise. “Impressive.”

“I own it now. Snot and all.”

They fall quiet for a beat. Then Ava nudges the table.

“Okay, be real with me. Are these cookies as bad as they look?”

“Worse.”

“Thought so.”

Ava drops her hands into her pockets.

“You wanna walk? There's a decent bodega two blocks over with actual cookies. Fresh. Usually.”

Yelena hesitates. Ava notices.

“Not trying to be weird. Just…you looked like you needed to talk a little more. Or not talk. I’m good with either.”

Yelena glances at the time. 9:13. Alexei’s at home with the kids. They’re probably already asleep. And she…doesn’t want to go back. Not just yet. The thought of going home, of crawling back into silence, tastes worse than the cookie she didn’t eat.

“Alright. Lead the way.”

//

Outside, the air is brisk. The streets are slick with earlier rain, neon puddles blooming under streetlights. They walk side by side, Ava with that relaxed stride of someone who’s been through shit and lived to laugh about it.

“Saturday, huh?” Ava says.

“Yeah.” Yelena nods.

“Longest you’ve ever gone without seeing her?”

Yelena nods again.

“Never in twenty years. Even during the worst of it, we were always circling each other. Drop-offs. Pickups. Something.”

“She know you’re coming?”

“I assume so…I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel. Angry. Relieved. Panicked. It’s like everything’s fighting for space in my head. I can’t decide if I want to hug her or punch her in the throat.”

“That tracks.”

“You always this good at reading people?”

“I’m a school counselor. I spend most of my day navigating hormonal chaos and unspoken trauma. You get good at spotting what’s really going on under the surface. And you get especially proficient at sorting the quiet from the dangerous.”

“And what am I?”

Ava surveys her.

“Neither. You’re something else entirely.”

Yelena doesn’t know what to do with that. So she doesn’t.

The words settle between them like a match waiting to be struck.

//

The bodega hums with fluorescent light and the low buzz of a radio behind the counter. The cookie shelf is still stocked.

“These…” Ava points. “These are the good ones.”

Yelena grabs two. Pays in crumpled bills. They step back out into the night, warmth of the store giving way to chill.

Ava breaks off a piece and hands it to her. Yelena takes it. Their fingers brush. Electric current hums under it.

“What do you think Saturday will be?”

Yelena chews. Swallows.

“I don’t know. And that makes it worse.”

“Nothing bad with a bit of mystery. Sometimes it gets you to the other side.”

“I’m not trying to get to the other side of anything. I just want her to be okay.”

“And you?” Yelena remains silent. “What about you?” Ava looks over. “Do you want you to be okay?”

Yelena stares at the sidewalk. At a puddle. At her shoes. Anything else.

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Maybe start.”

There’s no judgment in Ava’s voice. Just a kind of understanding that sits quietly in the chest.

They walk more. It’s quiet. Not heavy. Just present.

“You come to group often?”

“Couple times a week.”

“Why?”

‘My sister. She’s in her fifth rehab stint. This one’s in Arizona. Desert views. God and green juice. The works.”

Yelena huffs a laugh.

“Fuck.” She reels it back. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”

“Don’t be. I laugh about it too.”

They fall into step again. The city sounds rise and fall around them. Cars. Music. A siren somewhere distant.

“You should decide what you’re gonna say to her. The first time is always weird. I’ve realized it’s easier if you come prepared.”

“I want to shake her. I want to hold her. I want her to say she’ll fix everything. I want to believe it.”

“None of those are mutually exclusive…I’ve wanted to kill my sister and protect her in the same breath. That’s love, I think. Stupid and savage and soft.”

Another pause. This one softer. Yelena finds herself watching Ava again. The sharpness in her tone hasn’t dulled the warmth in her face.

“How long was your sister sober? Before Arizona…” Yelena asks.

“Two years. Then…bad overdose too. I don’t know what happened. She won't tell me. Three months sober this time. I haven’t talked to her since she checked in. Says she needs distance to focus. And I’m…pretending I’m okay with that.”

Yelena nods. “Yeah.”

“Anyway…you did good tonight. Saying all that. Takes guts.”

“Didn’t feel brave.”

“It never does.”

Another silence. This one warmer.

“Do you think they change? I mean…really change?” Yelena asks.

“I think they can.”

“But do they?”

Ava exhales. “Sometimes.”

“Her brother was an addict. OD’d. Same thing. Cocaine. Her parents are basically functioning alcoholics. It’s a family affair apparently. I keep asking myself if I’m delusional for thinking she’s gonna make it out. That she won’t end up the same. I don’t even know if I can trust her again. Not really.”

“She’s not her brother. Or her parents.” Ava’s voice is quiet but certain.

“No. But she’s still her.”

They stop at the corner. Ava turns to face her, eyes catching the streetlight just right. Too perceptive, too steady.

“Then make sure she’s coming back to someone real. Not just to her guilt…Or your fear.”

The words land hard. Not cruel. Just true.

They walk in silence for a few blocks. The kind of silence that doesn’t ache. Just exists. Like they’re making space for each other in real time.

“How old are your kids?” Ava asks.

“Rounding up? Eight, five, and eighteen months.”

“Woof. That’s a lot of snack crumbs.”

Yelena lets out a soft, unexpected laugh.

“So much vacumming.”

“I think the best we can do is be someone they’d be proud of. At their best. And hope they meet us with that same energy.”

Yelena doesn’t respond. She doesn’t know how to. She just looks at Ava. This stranger who doesn’t feel like one. This woman who’s asked nothing of her.

Yelena doesn’t know if she wants anything from her either. Doesn’t know if this is a connection, or just two people orbiting the same ache. But it feels like something. Like space. Like room to exhale. It feels like air. And after the last month, that feels like a fucking miracle.

Her heart starts pounding. Not from panic. Not from grief. But from the quiet shock of still being alive. From something warmer. Stranger. Hope, maybe. Or the very early outline of it.

//\\

They take her shoelaces first.

The moment she’s admitted she’s left barefoot, shaking, silent. Then they cut the strings out of her sweatpants. Just protocol. Then her hoodie. Then her bag. They peel her life away piece by piece, like they’re undressing her for autopsy.

Everything sharp. Everything with a cord or edge or weight is removed. For her safety, they say.

That’s the first time she genuinely cries. Not the ER. Not the ICU. Not even on the ride over.

It’s the moment a stranger puts most things she owns in a clear plastic bag with her name on it and says, “You’ll get these back when you discharge.”

It hits her then…she’s not leaving for a while.

They take her phone next. That one hurts worse. Yelena and the kids are lock screen. Alexia on her hip. Sonny asleep in her arms. Maks making a face behind them. That photo…the one she looked at every time she felt like a failure…is gone now too.

The woman at intake tells her kindly that the first 72 hours are the worst. If she can get through those mostly sane, she’ll probably be okay.

Kate nods. Says nothing.

//

Kate pukes six times in the first three hours. She was still getting SOME drugs at the hospital. For the pain. That dulled the edges of the symptoms. She’s not getting anything here and that sends her spiraling.

Withdrawal is…hell.

She knew it would be. She vividly remembers watching DJ go through it. The cold sweats. The bone-deep ache. The tremors. But nothing…nothing…could prepare her for the fucking silence.

There are no distractions here. No phone to scroll. No playlist to drown out the static in her head. No Yelena to pick a fight with. No kids to orbit. Just time. Time and pain and shame.

She doesn't talk for the first week. Not in any real way. Just enough to get through the vitals check. Just enough to keep people out of her face. But the thoughts don’t stop.

The worst part isn’t the physical withdrawal.

The worst part is remembering the look on Yelena’s face the first time she saw her in the hospital. The disappointment behind her eyes now that she fully knew what Kate had been up to.

//

Day six, she cracks.

Not publicly. Not in front of the group or staff or the med tech who hands out her meds like communion. But in the shower. On the floor. She slides down the wall, shaking and soaked, her forehead pressed to her knees. She sobs until she dry-heaves.

And even then, it doesn’t feel like enough.

The guilt doesn’t come in waves. It sits on her chest. A cinderblock. Constant. Every time she thinks about Sonny’s face. Or Alexia’s voice. Or Maks rapid fire questions.

She doesn’t deserve to get better. That’s the thought. Over and over. She doesn’t deserve to get better.

//

Day nine, her group counselor calls her out.

“You can’t sit in the back with your arms crossed forever, Bishop.”

Kate meets her eyes.

“Bet I can.”

The woman laughs.

“Wanna bet your gym privileges?”

That night, Kate speaks in group for the first time. It isn’t poetic. It isn’t a breakthrough. It’s one sentence.

“My wife found me.”

No one says anything. Someone nods. Another whispers “fuck” under their breath. Kate doesn’t say more. Doesn’t need to.

It’s the first time she refers to Yelena as her wife since the divorce paperwork was filed.

//

By Day Fourteen, she sleeps through the night. Mostly. She stops sweating through her sheets. Stops throwing up after every meal. Stops pacing the length of her room at 3AM trying to scrape the itch out of her skin. But she still doesn’t feel right.

There’s something about sobriety no one tells you: when the drugs leave your system, the rest of you catches up. All the things you were trying not to feel? They wait for you.

Kate starts journaling because they make her. She writes like she’s reporting someone else’s crimes. Third person. Detached. But eventually the sentences bend. Become personal.

“I wanted to disappear.”

“I didn’t think about the fact that they were home.”

“I wasn’t trying to die. But I didn’t care if I did.”

//

The staff calls Kate “high-functioning.” Says she presents well. Says she’s a “good candidate for reintegration.”

Kate wants to throw a chair through the window. Of course she presents well. She always has. That’s what scares her the most.

Even in rehab, even after nearly dying, she can still talk her way into being believed. She can say what they need to hear. Smile at the right moment. Show progress in a measured, digestible way.

She can do that. And underneath?

She wants to use again. She wants the quiet. Not all the time. Not every second. But enough. Enough that it scares her.

//

The reports go to Yelena, apparently. Kate finds that out from her counselor during one of their one-on-ones.

“She’s listed as your primary contact. She’s been receiving regular updates.” The woman says.

Kate’s throat closes.

“She’s reading them?”

“As far as I know.”

Something shifts in Kate’s chest then. A sob she doesn’t let out. A hope she doesn’t want to feed. She nods. Bites her lip until she tastes blood.

Then she asks what more she has to do to earn her visit privileges.

//

On Day Twenty-One, they tell Kate she has a visit scheduled.

Saturday. 10AM.

She doesn’t ask who it is. She already knows. After all this time, Yelena is coming. And Kate? She isn’t ready. Not even a little. But she wants to be.

Kate has a couple days to figure out how to look her in the eye. Days to become someone worthy of being seen.

So Kate sits down. Picks up the pen. And starts writing.

“Dear Yelena…”

She writes. Then writes some more. Like a prayer.

And hopes…just fucking hopes…she’s earned the chance to say it out loud.

//

SATURDAY

Yelena pulls into the lot an hour early. It’s the only way she knows she won’t be late.

She’s been parked for nearly fifty minutes now. The engine’s off. The clock glows 9:43AM. Her hands are locked around the steering wheel like she’s afraid it’ll bolt. The dash ticks forward.

9:44.

Her stomach backflips.

It’s been twenty-four days since she last saw Kate. Not that she hasn’t seen her. Kate’s in her head constantly. Eyes half-lidded. Mouth slack. Skin cold and blue against the tile. That image lives behind her eyelids now. Every night.

Yelena exhales slowly. Unbuckles. Grabs the small duffel from the passenger seat. There’s a few changes of clothes, a new toothbrush, the kids’ drawings. And a letter from Alexia that she wouldn’t let anyone read. Yelena respect her wishes and hasn’t opened it. She doesn’t know what it says. Only hopes it won’t hurt more than it helps.

She shoulders the bag and walks toward the building.

//

The lobby is sterile. Cheerful in a curated, eerie way. The woman at the desk greets her with a soft, professional smile.

“We just finished morning group. They’ll bring her out shortly.”

Yelena nods and takes a seat in a stiff chair that squeaks beneath her. The corners of the room feel round. Soft. Safe. There’s a fake plant next to the bookshelf and a corkboard full of smiling headshots. Recovered alumni with laminated quotes printed underneath. She stares at it. Trying to reconcile the feelings it brings forth.

Then she hears footsteps. Her whole body tenses. Kate turns the corner with her counselor a step behind her. And for a second, Yelena forgets how to breathe.

Kate looks…diminished. Not thinner, not sickly, but smaller somehow. Like something’s been hollowed out. Her posture’s straighter than before. Rigid, even. But she looks like someone scrubbed her down too hard and left her raw. There’s no makeup. No armor. Just a braid, clean clothes, and a face that no longer knows what to expect.

It’s the most honest Yelena’s seen her in a long time.

//

Kate hovers by the visitor check-in desk, one hand buried deep in her pocket, fingers toying with the folded letter she’s eager to give. The other hand stays rigid at her side, pressed flat against her thigh to keep it from shaking. She hasn’t worn real clothes in three weeks. Just rehab-issue sweats and those sad little socks with grippy soles. But today, she asked for jeans. A shirt that fits. Something that gives some semblance of normalcy.

She tries to remember how she used to hold herself when she was out in the world. In real life. Taller, maybe. Shoulders back. Chin higher. Now it all feels like like she’s cosplaying herself.

She rounds the corner. Stops cold. Yelena is already there.

It’s like walking into a memory. Her blonde hair is down, loose waves framing her face. She’s wearing a green dress. Deep, sea glass green. The kind that makes her eyes burn brighter. The shoes even match. Kate doubts she dressed up for this. It’s just how Yelena always looks. But some part of her wants to believe Yelena tried. Because she did. God, she did.

Their eyes meet. Blue and green. Yelena offers a soft smile. Walks forward. Kate mirrors her.

She watches Yelena’s gait. It’s different. Slower. Measured. Like her balance has shifted in the last three weeks. Like something invisible’s been redistributed in her bones.

They stop two feet apart.

The counselor, all clipped warmth, gives the spiel.

“You’ll have one hour. There’s a private room down the hall. No touching outside of one hello and one goodbye hug. No gifts. Bags will be held and checked for restricted items.”

Yelena nods, wordless. Hands over the duffel bag. Watches the staff unzip it, flip through everything. A sweatshirt gets held up. A t-shirt stretched by its seams. They check the hems like Yelena stitched heroin into the thread.

Kate can’t look at her. She almost flinches when she hears the whisper.

“Hi.” Yelena finally says.

Kate turns. Yelena’s looking right at her. Steady. Calm.

“Hi,” Kate echoes.

That’s it. Nothing more. Just that small, brutal exchange between two people who’ve known each other too long to need filler.

The staff goes on rifling. After a beat, they’re cleared to carry on with the visit.

They walk. Side by side. Not touching. Not speaking. Just breathing the same air again. For the first time in twenty-four days.

Kate gestures to the far end of the corridor.

“They call it the Family Room. Which is hilarious.”

Yelena gives a half snort. Not quite a laugh.

“A little on the nose.”

Inside, it’s beige and beige and more beige.There’s a round table and two plastic chairs. A small couch. A box of tissues. Everything in here is either unbreakable or bolted down.

Kate sits. Yelena follows. Across from each other. A few feet and a lifetime apart. For a minute, they don’t speak.

“You look…” Kate trails off. “Good.”

“You look tired.”

“I am.” Kate chuckles once.

“You feel okay?”

“Define ‘okay.’”

Yelena chuckles too. It’s a start.

“Alex drew you something.”

Yelena hands over the folder she was holding.

Kate opens it gingerly. Inside, a few drawings. The top one is definitely Alexia’s. A seven-year-old’s crayon-scribbled mess…but Kate knows exactly what it is. Their family. All five of them. Yelena and Kate holding hands. Alexia with a thundercloud over her head. Maks mid-dinosaur attack. Sonny holding what looks like a sword but might just be a juice box.

Kate’s hand trembles slightly.

“How is she?” Kate asks.

“She’s quiet. That’s new…I think she’s just processing.”

Kate’s eyes drop to the paper again. Shakes her head. Guilt washing over her.

“She still drew you…She wanted to.”

Kate closes the folder like it’s fragile. Like if she moves too fast, the whole thing might shatter.

“How’s Karina?” Kate asks after a long beat.

Yelena furrows her brow, taken aback. The name drops like a coin in water.

“I don’t remember the last time anyone called her that.”

“It’s her name.”

“It is.”

“I was…we did this thing in group this morning. Had to write down our kids’ full names. I don’t know. It’s just…stuck in my head.”

“She made a friend at daycare. Bit her. We’re dealing with that.”

Kate groans.

“God. How bad?”

“Tiny vampire-level bite. Minimal blood. But emotionally? Devastating.”

Kate snorts.

“Sounds like her.”

“She’s still teething. Still pissed at the world about it. Honestly, biting is low on the list of traumatizing things she’s done this week.” Yelena offers with a faint smile.

“She’s STILL teething? How many teeth does she even have to grow?”

“She’s a dental overachiever.”

Kate smiles again, something honest breaking through in her face. Yelena leans back in her chair, studying her. Kate knows that look. The scan. The slow once-over. Watching for tremors, pupil dilation, the microexpressions of a lie. Yelena doesn’t speak until she’s satisfied.

“Maks only sleeps in my bed now,” Yelena adds quietly. “And he refuses to eat soup. Says it’s a vegetable conspiracy.”

Kate lets out a real laugh. Short. Startled. She covers her mouth like it slipped out by accident.

“He needs to stop spending so much time with my dad.”

“I miss his weird little brain.”

“He misses you too.”

Kate’s smile falters. Her throat works around something that doesn’t quite make it out.

“Yeah?”

Yelena nods.

“He asks when you’re coming home. All day long.”

Kate glances away, jaw tight.

“What do you tell him?”

“That you’re trying really hard.”

Kate nods, slow. Thoughtful.

“Do you believe that?”

“I hope so.”

Another silence. This one different. Softer. But sharp around the edges.

Yelena glances at the clock. Half the visit gone.

Kate shakes her head. A breath escapes her, half a laugh, half a sigh.

“Jesus, I missed you.”

Yelena doesn’t say it back.

Kate notices.

//

They talk about the kids. About therapy. About Susan. About school drop-offs and field trips and Maks accidentally calling Alexei “Dad” in public. They fall into the shape of old habits. Let it breathe between them.

Kate talks about group. About a woman who keeps trying to convince her yoga will change her life. About journaling. About her roommate who snores and cries in the shower and reminds her of DJ in all the worst ways. She talks about detox. About how bad it got.

Yelena listens.

Then finally, Kate says what she’s been trying not to.

“So…next week’s thirty.” Yelena nods. “I could come home. Technically.” She pauses. “Do you want me to?”

Yelena doesn’t answer right away. And that’s the answer.

“I think it’d be a mistake.”

Kate swallows. Nods once.

“Okay.”

“You don’t?” Kate hesitates. Then shrugs. Deflated. “You’re doing better. But you’re not there.”

“You don’t think I could be…at home? With you. With the kids?”

“I think you need to want to get better more than you want to be home.”

Kate looks down at her hands.

“I thought…I don’t know. You’d be mad if I stayed.”

“I’d be mad if you came home too soon.” Kate shrugs. “I wanted you back every second of every day. Until I found you on the bathroom floor. Now…I just want you alive.”

Kate looks down at her hands. Rubs her thumb against a hangnail.

“You should’ve let me die.”

Yelena’s hand slams against the table. Violently. Loud. Final.

“Don’t fucking say that to me. Ever. Are we clear?”

Kate doesn’t look up.

“You weren’t supposed to be there.”

“And what? Alex was?” Yelena’s voice rises. “Maks? Sonny?”

Kate flinches. Holds the silence for a long beat.

“I wasn’t trying to die.” Kate argues, but even she doesn’t sound convinced.

“Then what were you trying to do?”

Kate doesn’t have an answer. She’s been looking for one since it happened.

Yelena leans back. Crosses her arms. Lets the silence burn. Finally, Kate lifts her chin. Meets her eyes.

“Is there still a life to come back to?”

“I don’t know.”

And that silence is louder than anything Kate’s heard since she got sober.

They sit in it. Sit in what’s left. It’s not dramatic. It’s not even tense. Just…true.

“I guess I could stay.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

Kate hates how calm Yelena sounds. How reasonable. How fucking distant. She wants to knock the table over. To scream. ‘Are you fucking serious? That’s all I get? ‘That’s a good idea?’’

Instead, she just nods. “Yeah.”

For some reason, this hurts more than anything else. More than the broken ribs. Or the detox pain. Or the days alone with her thoughts. This moment. This quiet, reasonable agreement that her being gone is what’s best for the people she loves…it shatters her in slow motion.

Yelena isn’t begging her to come home. Isn’t clinging. Isn’t even cracking. She’s not screaming that she needs her, or that the kids do, or that this is killing her. She just sits there, composed, steady. It stings like nothing else.

“So you’re not mad that I’m not coming home?”

“I’m relieved you’re not pretending you’re ready.”

The words land like a punch to the sternum.

“So what, you want me in here forever?”

“You should stay until you’re well. That’s it.”

Kate swallows. Her throat burns. She focuses on her breath. Four seconds in, six seconds out. One of those grounding gimmicky tricks from therapy. The silence between them starts to hum with everything neither of them is saying.

“I thought…if I stayed clean. If I finished thirty days…you’d want me back.”

“I want you alive.” Yelena’s voice is even.

“Not the same thing.”

“No. It’s not.”

They let that ache. Kate leans forward, elbows on knees, palms open.

She thought seeing Yelena would feel like winning. Like some impossible victory. She thought it would feel like returning from war. Roses. Relief. Redemption.

Instead, it feels like standing in front of a locked door with no key. Because she broke it. She broke it, and Yelena isn’t even reaching for the handle anymore.

“When they told me you were coming, I thought…” Kate exhales hard. “I don’t know. I thought it would feel like something was over. Like I passed a test.”

“This isn’t pass/fail.” Yelena offers, gentle.

“Try telling that to my brain at 3AM.”

Yelena leans in too now. Mirrors her posture. Hands folded.

“I’m proud of you for staying.”

Kate laughs, humorless. “Yeah. You would be.”

“Kate…” Yelena’s voice is careful now, but not soft. She studies her. Sees through her. Always has. “If you were ready, actually ready, we’d talk about next steps. But you’re not. And I’m not doing this halfway. The kids deserve better. You deserve better.”

Kate’s eyes shine. Not with anger. With something deeper. Sadder. More familiar.

“I didn’t think it would feel this fucking lonely.” Yelena reaches across the table. Takes her hand. “I don’t know when I’m coming out,” Kate admits.

“That’s okay. Everyone will be waiting.”

‘Everyone’. Not ‘I’. That one word guts her.

Kate grips her hand tighter.

“Will you bring the kids?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I miss them so fucking much.”

“When you’re ready. Not before.”

“Okay.” Kate’s voice cracks.

Yelena squeezes her hand.

“You’re doing good…You are.”

Kate shakes her head.

“I feel like shit, Yel. All the time.”

“That’s part of it.”

They sit like that. Hands clasped. No more pretending. Just two people who’ve loved each other longer than some countries last.

The door opens. Someone pops their head in.

“Five minutes.” They say.

Yelena nods. Stands. Kate does too.

“Tell them I love them.” Kate pleads softly.

“I do. Every day.”

Kate hesitates.

“And you?”

Yelena doesn’t answer. Just looks at her. Kate waits a second, then steps into her arms. The hug is brief…too brief…but it grounds her. She breathes for the first time in weeks.

Yelena pulls back first.

“I’ll talk to your therapist. If it’s cleared, I’ll bring them next time.”

Kate nods. Doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t say please. Just nods.

Yelena turns. Kate doesn’t stop her. Doesn’t watch her walk away. Doesn’t say come back. Doesn’t say don’t leave. Just stands there and watches the woman she’s still in love with disappear through the door.

Kate closes her eyes. Slips her hand into her pocket and pulls out the letter she didn’t give. The one she rewrote a dozen times. The one she planned to give because she knew the words in it wouldn’t come out right if she tried. She unfolds it.

“Dear Yelena,

I didn’t think you’d come. I wouldn’t have, if I were you.

I’ve been trying to figure out what to say for days and I still don’t have it. I don’t know that I ever will. There’s no version of this that makes it okay. And even if there was, you wouldn’t owe me forgiveness.

So I’m not writing this to fix anything.

I’m writing it because I almost died. And if I had, I think I would’ve gone with your name in my mouth. I think that’s something you deserve to know.

I don’t remember most of that night. Not really. Just flashes. I don’t know how to explain what happened. I don’t know how I let it get that far. I don’t know what I thought I was doing. Truth is, I think I’ve been unraveling for a long time. Quietly. Bit by bit.

DJ told me the urge to use wasn’t loud. It waits. It creeps up. Builds a nest in the silence. I didn’t listen. And I almost followed him.

I’m sorry for a lot of things. But most of all, I’m sorry it was you who had to find me like that. Who had to save me. Who’s had to pick up the pieces now that I’m away.

I don’t deserve whatever grace you’ve got left for me. I probably never did. But I’m here. And I’m trying. Every second of every day. I miss the kids like fucking crazy. I miss you so much it’s almost suffocating.

I’m not asking for anything. Not a second chance. Not a maybe. I just don’t want you to forget what we were. Because we were good, Yel. We were great. We were the best thing I ever did.

Tell them I love them. That I’m getting better. That I’ll come home in a few days. That Mommy’s working really hard to be okay again.

I don’t know what life looks like on the other side of this. But if you’re ever willing to talk…I’d like to. About possibilities. About us. About what could still be.

Maybe we’re not all the way gone yet.

I love you. Always have.

-KB”

Kate stares at the last line. She folds the paper shut. Walks to the door. On her way out, she passes the trash can in the hallway.

She chucks it in.

[alpydk]

Some days are hard

@auroraesmeraldarose - Some comfort just for you. Your fic. Gale loves you very much.

Wash dishes Paint the shelves Write 1000 words Sort through the boxes Shower

The list continued, various nonessential tasks scrawled in ink down a small piece of paper. Despite lunch approaching, only one task had been stricken off: a simple ‘wipe down countertop’. Gale sighed deeply, knowing how the rest of the day would go. Tav’s list would lie abandoned in the kitchen with the dirty dishes, the boxes would remain open in the spare room, and she would retreat to the bedroom, seeing little point in even attempting the rest of the duties.

Books rested on the desk, open to random pages, some more well-loved than others. Sheets of paper contained equally messy notes, one with a coffee ring, the mug still half full and now cold beside it. After she’d reached a page detailing the intricacies of government involvement within literature, it was clear she’d given up; little over 200 words written, each one chosen meticulously, crossed out, and then written again.

Gale left the scene as it was, knowing that to move anything would lead to further stress. Closing a book would mean trying to find the lost page, pouring the mug of coffee down the sink would make way for a new kettle needing to be boiled, changing the slight spelling mistake would result in a mindset of complete failure in the whole paper and rethinking her entire future. Why did I even choose to do this? She had uttered desperately during darker days.

Stepping out of the study, he followed the hallway down to the spare room. Despite living together for some time, unpacking had not come easy to Tav. Everything had been packed last minute, every item having its possible purpose or memory attached. So many previous hobbies had been boxed up, or left in their boxes still, and each day she would tell herself that she’d get round to sorting through it all. Most attempts ended with the same result: musty smelling fabric and other craft supplies bringing about a resurrection of inspiration, a melancholy over the previous lives of such trinkets, or a frustration about needing someone to come and rid her of such torture. Gale was curious as to which he would find today.

On the large double bed lay Tav, an open box resting by her bare feet, and a tangle of string and bracelet charms in her hand. Every time she pulled one bead; another would catch on her fingertip. If Gale hadn’t seen the frustration as she bit her lower lip, he might have made the joke that she was holding an accurate representation of her own knotted mind. Instead, he remained quiet, shifting over to the open box, noting the others that still lay sealed. Knitting, Crochet, Felt. On the bed rested the box marked Jewellery Making, a selection of coloured sequins, earrings, shining clips of various shapes and sizes mixed in the chaos of string and gold chains. This was never just a case of finding a place for the contents; it was sorting the contents into their own set groups, each chosen with the same pressure as the words on her paper had been. Tav was not a perfectionist, she would tell him often. It just had to be good enough.

“Do you possibly need any help in here?” Gale offered almost cautiously, his hand sifting through the box for something he could quickly discard for her.

Another string seemed to tighten around a bead in her hand and for a moment she considered throwing the whole thing back in the box and giving up entirely. “No. I’ve got this. I just need to unravel this, then I can sort the earrings. And dinner is at 7, right?”

As always, one task had become many, and her mind was already jumping to other things that needed not be thought about. Gale took a seat beside her, catching one of her feet in his palm and gently massaging the sole. “Would you like for me then to bring you a coffee, perhaps?”

“I have one-” Tav took her eyes off the knot and looked around, confused about the absence of her mug from the side table.

“You left it in the study. It’s most likely gone cold by now.”

He continued to work at her toes, hoping to bring a little relief to her clearly distressed state.

 “I should just toss it out,” she sighed deeply. There was something unspoken in her statement, not just a need to get rid of the bracelet, but all the boxes, the paper, the numerous ideas she’d come up with throughout the weeks that now sat partially finished. “Why am I even bothering with this?” Tav asked, holding up the now worse-looking string.

Gale could only smile at the question, knowing all too well why she was trying to unravel the knot, why she forced herself to sort through forgotten trinkets, why she pushed herself in every aspect of her life. “You do it because it’s who you are, my love.”

She huffed at his cliched and non-helpful answer. “Maybe this isn’t who I want to be.”

The admission broke his heart a little, knowing that even losing the flighty forgetful aspect of her would be like dampening the glimmer of a bright, shining star. He removed his hand from her foot, instead reaching over for her hand. What he’d originally believed to be a pile of bracelets was, in fact, a single necklace of many chains, something bought cheaply on a holiday away by a relative. She’d insisted on keeping it just in case they came to visit and ask her if she still had it.

“Tav, everything you do, everything, is with love.” Placing the necklace aside, he clutched her hand in his own, his finger tracing the wedding ring he’d placed there so many moons ago. “You are overflowing with it; from saving the honeybees that get trapped in the study to deciding on which word would be most suitable for your paper. You have so many mementos in this room alone of hobbies you have once loved, still love. Your grandmother’s needles and thread lie with your own because again your love for her filters through unknowingly; unwillingly, I even bet at times.”

Glistening brown eyes fell on hers. “Some days are hard, but they become especially difficult when we pour in so much love and leave none for ourselves. And that’s just what you do. It’s who you are and if given a choice, a million times over, I would choose you as you are now, all because of that love.”

He hoped she could understand there was no failure in anything she attempted. He would still want to be with her. He would love the way she got up early to work, only to sit and watch the sunrise, the way she deliberated over which eye shadow to wear even though she looked radiant without it. She would complete everything on the list, and on the lists to come, and with each scribble checked off, his heart would swell a little more at how proud he was of her.

Standing from the bed, Gale kept hold of her hand, bringing her to follow. As she was pulled to his chest, he snaked his other arm around her waist, tracing the hem of her shirt. “Now, I believe someone needs to take a short break from this chaos, and I may have noticed ‘shower’ written on your list. I suggest, if it’s not too bold of me, that we kill two proverbial birds with one stone.”

[izythesnzy]

I almost forgot about a snzario I started a couple months ago so here it is:

“Oh baby I’ve been FEIGNING for some messfuckery so now I’ll write a dirty snzario about it… maybe to relieve myself… and is TOTALLY not a self insert

>>topic: some absolutely nasty, dirty, snotty, disgusting … pleasuring I’ll say between 2 people

cw: a looot of mess, a few pet names, a bit of praise, an idea I may or may not have done already, person with a peen 🌚

Person A is inducing with a tragically stuffy nose, and Person B happens to be near them. Both of them have unveiled their fetishes to each other, but A is testing the waters of how freaky B will get.

“AAA-trfceww~”

The snotty sneeze comes out as a stiffly mess, and A made sure B heard all of the snot that was getting loose in their nostrils. They sniffled, with a wet gurgle sound following. B’s dick starts to strain against their shorts, begging for a release of some sort. A has been going out of their way to enunciate every part this little cold they’ve caught to B

“God you’re so hot when you sneeze like that…”

B’s voice came out as a whimper, a muffled plea for some help. A, feeling emboldened, moved just a little closer, their hand trembling a little from the feather they’ve been holding to their nose.

“Oh yeah?”

A’s voice reeked of arousal, and they hurriedly rushed to grab a tiny jar of chhinkni from their pocket, a decision made a few hours in foresight. B recognized the bottle and their cock pressed harder into the undergarments, to which A took notice of; their hands gradually found their way to the drawstrings… then the shorts came off.

“G-goddamn… you weren’t joking…”

A saw B’s bulge almost bursting out of their underwear, and slowlyyy worked the underwear out of the way to reveal the nice, thick, and throbbing penis. They giggled a little before remarking,

“I’ll make sure you’ll feel extra good…”

B’s cock twitched as A’s congested voice was followed by a long sniff of the chhinkni powder. B was bracing for the pleasure, but barely even had time to before:

“EEETY-CHEIWWWE!!” “AAAAA-TCHHEWWE!” “AEEETT-CHAEEEWU!”

A desperate, messy triple shoots out of their nose, and barely starts to cover B’s erect dick. The sticky pale green snot glistened as B started to stroke… slowly. It squelched in between their hand as A’s nose continued its rampage.

“W-wait… I-i ha- AEE-ttCHEH~!”

A’s nostrils are practically filled with congestion, and B remarks

“You’ve got so much snot in you, d-dont you…~”

A nods, their cheeks starting to redden a little. Lowering their nose, B starts,

“Y-yes… blow it all… b-baby~”

A little squeal was made when they sneezed again, letting more sticky snot gush out of their nose.

“Come on… keep going… you’re doing so good for me…”

A’s snot clogged nostrils started to release the wet, messy, sticky phlegm that’s been building up in their nose, and splattered it on B’s cock, as well as getting a bit on the bed sheets. They spent a second clearing out just one nostril, but B was getting ready to break. They started to stroke faster, their nasty, sticky cock squelching with the excessive load of snot that was so graciously coating it. A was getting wet hearing and watching their mucus ride up and down B’s dick, seeing the snot build up at the base. A sniffled loudly before motioning their hand to B’s messy cock.

“Y-you wanna… finish me… off…?”

“P-please…”

A’s surprisingly submissive request took B a bit off guard, but they accepted. A’s soft hand replaced B’s and they were surprised.

“O-oh my… goodness…”

They started slow, but sped up quick; feeling their own concentration of sickness lube up B’s genitals was great motivation to get B to explode.

“F-fuck…”

“AaaT-CHEIWE~!!”

A sneeze, barely stifled, escaped from their nose. Followed by two little sniffles, they rub their snotty nose a little aggressively for a second.”

>>>>end because I kinda stopped I guess xd<<<<<