#and that it makes people more avoidant or whatever. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alchemistc · 2 days ago

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Part One

Oh, I've got plenty to be thankful for

I've got eyes to see with

Ears to hear with

Arms to hug with

Lips to kiss with

Someone to adore

-bing crosby

He keeps waiting for someone to say something. To accuse him of lingering where he doesn't belong, or remind him he'd never actually made it all the way in. To tell him to go home, maybe get a halfhearted promise to let him know how Buck is at some point.

Maddie lays an exhausted head on his shoulder and Bobby sneaks him a slice of pumpkin pie he's apparently been hiding in the tote at his feet. Hen tosses him a power bank with a lightning cord and Karen makes a joke about his holiday attire.

When the coffee comes, Howie takes the trip to the lobby with him, pulls out his wallet and does his damnedest to strong arm Tommy into letting him tip the haggard looking girl another twenty bucks on top of the fifty Tommy'd figured was appropriate for having to balance a literal stack of hot beverages from the parking lot on Thanksgiving. She eyes them both with a smile and Tommy is more compelled the grab the drink carriers from her tired arms than stop Howie.

They're halfway back when Howie purposely slows his pace, and Tommy fights the urge to pick his up and avoid whatever's coming down on him. "So. Was this the wake up call you needed, or can I expect Buck to order a freezer on a Black Friday deal for my garage to store more baked goods?"

He doesn't know what that means.

He can extrapolate, though. "He's been baking?"

"Tommy, I cannot stress enough exactly how much he's been baking."

He'd tried his hand at a few things here and there, but Tommy's used to experimental chef Evan Buckley, not baking Evan Buckley. To be fair, if he'd seen Evan working a KitchenAid, apron tied loose and flour on a cheekbone, Tommy doubts he'd have actually had the time to finish whatever he had planned. That was then, of course.

"What was he doing on that trail, Howie?" That, too, he could maybe extrapolate. He doesn't want to, but he could.

Howie eyes him. Uses his free arm to elbow Tommy in the ribs. "You were the first person he ever invited to a 118 Thanksgiving, you know. My guess? He wasn't in the mood to be reminded of it while there was no room in the oven to bake away his feelings."

Yeah.

Jax had been over the moon when Tommy offered to take his shift, no trades necessary. What would the point have been, when Christmas and New Year's would be unbooked too?

Evan had bribed like six different people to ensure they'd be able to swing dinner on the day. Hobbes had sounded so thrilled to hear Tommy asking for the time off that he'd approved it without even looking at the shift.

"I'm just warning you in advance. The grovelling process is gonna involve eating your weight in loaves, most likely."

And that's that, apparently. No heavy handed warnings, no suspicion about why Tommy hasn't fucked off yet. Like it's some foregone conclusion that Tommy's not gonna panic and bolt a second time. Nothing has changed, yet Tommy gets the feeling they're all expecting some tearful reunion and a return to TommyandBuck.

Tommy slips the tea into Maddie's hands and watches her sniff it in distaste, which is an interesting nugget he'll have to revisit later if -

If.

There's no guarantees, here. That Tommy will be able to articulate how fucking terrified he is, that Evan will understand it. That the two of them will find a way through it together. All he has to go on is a solo hike on a day Evan should have been with family, an apparent bakery full of feelings spread between the 118, and the quiet calm that had washed over him when Eddie prompted him to make a decision.

Feet to the fire, he'd stayed.

---

Maddie's pregnant. It hits him between the eyes right around hour three of sit-and-wait. He's not an idiot, or a fool, and he hasn't spoken to any of these people in weeks so he's not going to announce it to the world, but somewhere in between the sporadic naps on Tommy's shoulder and the way she is attempting (failing) to power through her now cold tea makes him think. She and Bobby had driven here, and it's clear everyone else had been indulging. Maddie's no lush, but he's seen her knock back half a bottle of wine before when she's got nowhere to be.

She excuses herself to the bathroom for a third time, looking a little green, and Tommy ends up locked in a staring contest with Howie that only ends when Tommy mimes zipping his lips.

He still hasn't gotten the story about Eddie and why he's not here.

Bobby and Athena are apparently closing in on a new house.

Howie is less than a year away from having a second kid.

Athena's kids are apparently at Howie and Maddie's, attempting to keep Mara and Jee from destroying the house in the absence of adults.

And Tommy wants.

Wanting has never really been the problem, though. Wanting is the easy part. Wanting doesn't get him over the hurdle of knowing he's not enough. For Evan, for this family he's built that just keeps growing bigger and bigger. It'd been a relief, those first few days after, not to have to wonder which member of the 118 would land in the hospital next, not to have to rearrange something else on his schedule because Evan was convinced he was cursed, or Eddie'd had another shitty call with Christopher.

The relief hadn't lasted. A week in, he'd stayed up all night demolishing the half-bath off his dining room, because he'd been putting it off for months and he'd nearly texted Evan something that was startlingly revealing and left him exposed on all sides. Two weeks in he'd finished grouting the backsplash in his kitchen. And in between, he wondered how Eddie was doing, if he'd made any progress with his son. He'd wondered if Maddie enjoyed the bottle of wine they'd brought back from a spur of the moment trip to Napa. He'd wondered how Nash was doing, if he was readjusting to having his crew and his station back. He wondered how Hen and Karen were, how many things Denny had already gotten stuck in his cast trying to ease an itch.

He'd wondered, and he'd sat in it, and then he'd rewired the shoddy work an electrician had done in his spare room that he kept telling himself he'd get around to.

The wanting never goes away. He just finds new places to put it when he starts to care too much.

"Kinard and Buckley?"

Maddie's still in the restroom. Tommy - has no fucking clue why the nurse is staring at them like they'll just materialize the right people. She sucks in her lips and gives him a dead eyed stare before her eyes dart to his chest. More specifically, the nameplate on his chest.

Tommy blinks.

---

The having is where he's always floundered. Things are temporary. People are temporary. He's always been borrowing. Borrowing time, attention, affection.

For a few months there, he'd really started to think he could handle the having. That he'd get to keep it.

---

"I'm Buckley, he's Kinard," Maddie says from somewhere over his left shoulder, and he turns in time to see her adjusting her jacket, wiping at her lip. She stabilizes, looking unfazed, and stands tall. As tall as she can, at least. "You have news about my brother?"

The nurse glances around the room. No one is bothering to pretend not to be listening. Maddie hovers a wave behind her.

"Ignore the audience, we're all waiting with bated breath to see how obnoxious my brothers going to be. It depends entirely on whether or not he gets pie tonight."

She gives them all a disapproving look. This must not be one of their normal nurses.

Christ. They have normal nurses.

"Well, no pie tonight, but he should be able to eat a sandwich in the morning."

He's fine. He's fine.

Tommy knew going in that most of his injuries were superficial. The ribs had been a concern but with the pain meds and the collar he hadn't really had a chance to exacerbate those injuries. There's no reason he should feel quite so relieved to know that Evan will have a few annoying splints to work around and he'll probably need to rehab his ankle for a couple weeks once it's healed. The concussion isn't ideal, and he'll need help for a few days, but he's fine.

Tommy can feel the tears building.

"He'll likely be out for a few more hours, but I'll let you know when he's set up in a room. Two visitors at a time," she warns. "The concussion will effect his response time. Don't be surprised if he doesn't remember much, loses his train of thought."

Hen shifts somewhere behind him. It feels a bit like she's being held back from correcting the nurse about the normal side effects.

Things move on around him. The nurse leaves, Hen passes a Stanley cup around that definitely isn't filled with water, the normal sigh of relief is released while Maddie drops into the seat next to him with a groan, the team has a strange competition around him to battle for visitor position.

Tommy breathes.

I should go, Tommy thinks to himself, as half the people in the room raise their phones.

His own phone vibrates against his thigh.

A message from Howie, time stamped two minutes - Tommy squints to make sure - two minutes ago, an update on Evan. Another from Eddie reminding them all to give Buck a patent Eddie look from him while they were giving him shit. A selfie of Eddie, with Christopher somewhat reluctantly bending into the picture over his shoulder.

In another thread, he's got three messages from Eddie.

If I have to remove you from this group I'm sending my kid after you with his crutches.

You guys hiked Griffith Park for your Not-A-One-Month-Anniversary-We-Swear date, right?

Send Buck my love. Not like that, though.

Tommy sends back: When the fuck did he add me to his emergency contacts? and then decides he doesn't want to know anyway so he turns off his phone.

---

Maddie goes alone, and Tommy spends the time alternating between tapping his foot against the tile to distraction, and clamping his hand over his knee in an attempt to stop the tapping.

Bobby and Athena go next, then Hen and Karen. Then they're pulling on jackets and promising to save a plate for Buck.

Howie slips away for a few minutes and then returns, looking amused. "You think everyone else got the same greeting?" he asks his wife, who grins tiredly at him, pats his wrist. Her gaze turns to Tommy.

"Should we stay?"

That's a trap of a question. That's an assumption Tommy doesn't have a clue how to handle. He clears his throat. Shakes a few curls loose.

"What makes you think he'd want me to?"

Maddie's perfected the unimpressed eyebrow. It must be a parent thing.

Tommy barely holds in the sigh. "Go enjoy your meal."

---

Evan's been watching the door. It's clear the moment Tommy makes it to the threshold - he presses up, winces, tips sideways just enough to peek around the corner.

"Tommy," he says, and his expression melts.

Tommy's heard some iteration of that name a million times. Tom, from his dad. Tommy, fond and quiet from his mother, who'd never really learned how to speak up before she was gone. Thomas, in school, from teachers annoyed that he wouldn't just apply himself.

He was Kinard, to teammates, then fellow soldiers, to the firefighters he'd worked alongside for a decade before he ever let any of them know him.

No one says his name with quite so much reverence as Evan Buckley. He's convinced himself, over the last few weeks, that he'd been hearing adulation in that tone. But now it just sounds...relieved. Happy.

Evan slumps back and tries to cross his arms in a pout. There are too many cords and wires attached to him for it to work. "I'm pretty sure I'm mad at you," he says, and Tommy steps over the threshold.

---

Hobbes sounds fucking thrilled to find out he's going to be down a pilot for five days.

Evan throws a fit when he finds out Tommy's plan is to sleep on his own couch for the short duration of Evan's stay. Evan wins the proceeding argument and doesn't even complain that Tommy hadn't argued too hard

Bobby brings over enough leftovers to keep them in turkey sandwiches for a week, and Tommy doesn't think to ask how he got Tommy's address.

Tommy breathes. Tommy thinks. Once Evan can hold a train of thought for more than five minutes, Tommy talks.

Evan listens.

---

"So no Christmas," Evan pouts, and Tommy wants to bite it. "And no New Year's."

Tommy shifts a hand over his shoulder, tucks his chin over top of it so he can't see the pout anymore. "We were both already working those anyway."

"Do people do anything to celebrate Presidents Day?"

"Evan."

"Tommy," Evan mocks, and pulls far enough away to catch his gaze. "In the interest of transparency that was mostly a cover so I didn't ask about Valentine's Day."

"Is this you not asking about Valentine's Day?"

His smile is deceptively sweet. "I need help with my sandwich."

Tommy's seen him balancing a glass of water, his phone, two books and a takeout bag in his one good hand. He's absolutely full of shit.

Tommy leans forward to grab the sandwich off Evan's plate for him.

---

"You should stay," Tommy says, an hour after midnight two days into the new year. He's tipsy on his second glass of cheap champagne and he can't think of a reason to keep this in, anymore. Evan crinkles a brow at him.

"I... wasn't planning to go?"

There's a gold crown perched in his curls, and Tommy still hasn't taken the cheap plastic 2025 glasses off. The house is quiet, and there'd been shockingly few fires started by fireworks this year, so he's less tired than he'd expected to be.

"I meant -." Tommy starts, and then pauses. "I meant permanently. You should live here."

Evan laughs. Takes a bite out of his cake, and rolls his eyes, and then...stops. His entire body stills. "What."

It's ridiculous. The very thing that had pushed Tommy up out of his seat just a few months ago, sent him out the loft door with wet eyes and a heaviness in his heart.

"Tommy," Evan prompts, and Tommy catches the hand frozen on the countertop. He'd planned to hold this back, wait until something significant or poignant. But Evan had baked them a red velvet cake and argued with him the entire drive back from dinner about the proper way to fold a towel, and Tommy's tired of denying this isn't everything he's refused to let himself want for decades.

"You don't have to say yes just to confirm you're not breaking up with me," he tries to joke, and it falls flat.

"Tommy," Evan murmurs, quieter but more insistent.

"I'm serious. I want you here. I want -."

"Yes," Evan says, and squeezes his hand before he ducks his head bashfully. "Sorry. Continue."

"I want a life with you." The tears tickle at the back of his throat. He's gonna fucking cry, again. He'd always fucking known opening himself up to this was just an invitation for more tears in his life.

He can't quite convince himself the rest doesn't make them worth it.

"Yes. Again. Tommy, of course." He tips his chin. Purses his lips. "If you're sure."

Tommy swallows down the lump in his throat. He's never been more sure or more terrified of anything in his life. So he tells him so.

The words are like knives, but he works his way through the soreness, fights up past the fear that he's not sure will ever completely go away, and claws past the reminder that it's been a blink of an eye since Tommy walked out on this.

"Well. You can't walk out of your own house," Evan points out when he's finished, and of all things, it's that that snaps the tension of for once in his life prioritizing something other than fucking survival. He tips a grin, curls his elbow to bring their entwined hands to his lips. "It's gonna take years to coordinate another Thanksgiving with everyone," he bemoans, looking suspiciously watery-eyed himself as he holds Tommy's own wet gaze.

Tommy can extrapolate from that.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #happy Thanksgiving #pls feel free to piss off your relatives at the dinner table this afternoon!#tommy and buck would approve!

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slightly-knot-insane · 3 days ago

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A Little Bit Rusty [part 2]

[ m!monster x fem!reader ]

a/n: continuation of this short drabble, now with more plot, hehe. also, i imagined this monster as some kind of dinosaur hybrid, but i'll still keep it vague enough for readers to imagine whatever they like ^^ content: nsfw, some steamy moments with clothes on, fingering

You left his apartment before he woke up, figuring it will be less awkward than to have breakfast together and spend the morning in silence avoiding each other's gaze. The night was so good, though, you think as you enter the museum, your workplace.

It's hard to focus on paperwork you left unfinished yesterday in order to have fun with your co-worker, aka supervisor, aka mentor. It's very hard not to think about his long monstrous tongue or his teeth biting your inner thighs.

"Good morning..." You jolt up immediately recognizing your mentor's voice. You didn't notice when he entered the office. He is standing a few steps away from you, like you have a disease. "Are you... okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" You are truly surprised with his question. Last night was fantastic.

He suddenly stands with his back straighter than before - if that's even possible. "R-right. Good to know." And then basically runs away.

Maybe he didn't have such a good time? He sure didn't act unsatisfied. You chuckle looking at him trip over his own legs.

It's a busy day, Saturday, and the museum is full of people. You both have tours to lead, but since you only started working, you are mostly free or assisting him.

You actually love listening to him, since he's very eloquent when talking about archaeological findings, especially about bones. He is especially charming with kids and can make them laugh easily. But as soon as he lays his eyes on you, he blushes or stutters. It's so entertaining seeing him flustered you can't help but on purposely make his job even harder.

You shorten your skirt, pull your blouse down to expose your bosom, and tighten the belt around your waist to accentuate your curves even more. When he sees you the next time, his jaw drops like a malfunctioning lid. Luckily, his group is enjoying some free time exploring the science room so he has time to quickly approach you.

"You, um..." he tries to form words, ask you something very polite probably, but you bite your lip and his pupils dangerously dilate.

He pushes you behind 'staff only' little door in the next room and shoves your body against the wall. It is so cramped in there and you can't move - not that you want to. This 'rusty old man' how he called himself, is all but out of practice, and you get wet just thinking about what he could do to you right now.

"I'm not blind," he growls and pushes his clawed hand into your hair pulling your head backwards. He licks your neck along your jugular. "You're toying with me."

"You think?" your sarcastic remark is cut short by his hand sliding between your thick thighs and lightly touching your mons pubis.

"Why did you leave this morning?" he asks you but doesn't let you answer because he pushes his tongue inside your mouth. All you can do is moan and suck. "Why?" he repeats letting you catch your breath.

"I-I'm not sure," you reply, mind hazy, "I wanted us to think about everything, I guess. Analyze things."

"I see," he hums as his finger slithers inside your panties and rubs your lewdness while his other hand grips your hips. "I recon we're both done thinking."

He pulls his finger out and licks it with the tip of his tongue. Your pussy throbs.

"We should get back to work," he says, blushing again, returning to his old flustered self... and kisses his wet finger before exiting the storage room with a naughty wink.

[ third part coming soon! ]

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jezebelblues · 2 days ago

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live on tour (interlinked) | h.s | 2

pt 1, pt 2 (complete)

summary: we don't talk about it, it's something we don't do—cause once you go without it, nothing else will do.

cw: smut18+ unprotected (piv), degradation if u squint, choking, weed, alcohol, angst, sort of a slowburn idk, fem!reader, hs1rry

word count: approx 8.8k

| okay so here’s pt 2, smuts at the end LMFAO. sorry if u hate ! tumblr (right as i’m about to post) is like sorry too many words 🤪 so i had to SPLIT anyway

masterlist

Outside, rain drizzled. The show ended an hour ago, Harry was busy with greetings and photos. She stood in the doorway of the side exit, the breeze cool and carrying the scent of wet pavement and grass.

A cigarette hung loosely between her fingers, stains of her lipstick kissed against the filter. She thought it’d quell her nausea, the pins and needles in her fingertips—but all it did was make her chest feel lighter. Everything else stayed.

She’s heard the song a thousand times, rehearsals the entire summer, soundchecks, shows. But it was different this time. He pulled her to play with him for a reason, their unspoken games—it was a message.

Her breath hitched as she jumped slightly, a gentle hand against her shoulder. It was Harry, a quiet greeting as he settled beside her, along the wall next to the door. His eyes swept over her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes slightly glossed over.

They had just stared at each other for a while, like their eyes held more words than their mouths could. She took her bottom lip between her teeth as she let the cigarette drift onto the gravel outside, watching the embers burn out under the rain. “Harry.” She sighed, her eyes soft, a frown on her lips. “This needs to stop.”

He leaned his head against the cement wall, his gaze unwavering. “What does?”

She swallowed hard, shifting to lean into the opposite side of the door frame facing him, the heavy door still propped open. The wind danced in her hair, goosebumps cascading down her bare arms. “Whatever this is. Us. This is just work, Harry, I don’t get it.”

“Just work?”

She paused, averting her eyes from his to glance back outside. There wasn’t much of a view, gravel, smooth pavement, a large chain-link fence that shook and sang in the wind. “I don’t get it. None of my other jobs have been like this. We tour, we play and it’s easy. Hell, half of the people on the Floyd revival were on coke and it was easier than this.”

He studied her for a moment, his breaths heavy although he tried to lighten them. His eyebrows knit together, a glint of light shimmering along the edge of his pupil that painted him a tragic work of art. “Easy.” He managed, his voice ragged, as if it was a struggle to get the words out. “This isn’t a gig, or a studio session—we’re a band. A team. It isn’t supposed to be easy.”

She clenched her jaw, snapping her eyes back to his. “Don’t. It’s not about the band, it’s about you. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And what’s that?”

“You get under my skin, Harry! And then you just fucking stay there and pick pick pick until you avoid me again.”

“You do the same!” He was exasperated, his eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That night in Nashville. It was normal, it was easy.” He echoed the word, mocking. “And you just pushed it away. S’constantly a step fucking toward, two steps back.”

Her belly continued to twist, her frown deepening. “Cause I don’t know what the hell you want from me.”

“What I want—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair as his voice cracked slightly. “You think I know what I want? This isn’t exactly easy for me either, YN.”

The admission stunned her into silence, the weight of his words settling heavily between them.

For a moment, the anger in his eyes flickered into something else—something raw and vulnerable—but it disappeared just as quickly, replaced by his usual guarded expression. “You’re not the only one trying to figure this out.”

The silence between them thickened, pressing down like the weight of the rain-soaked clouds above. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. What was there to say?

Harry pushed off the wall, his movements deliberate but tense, his eyes still locked on her. For a moment, it looked like he might step closer, might reach for her, but his hands stayed stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

“You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse, like it hurt to say the words. “You think I’m trying to mess with you? I’m just—” He stopped, jaw tightening as he looked away, toward the gravel outside. His hand raked through his hair again, his frustration palpable.

She crossed her arms tighter, trying to shield herself from the chill in the air—or maybe from him. “Then what? What are you just, Harry? Because all I see is you dragging me into something I didn’t ask for, and then acting like I’m the one making it difficult.”

His head snapped back toward her, a spark of anger flaring in his eyes. “You think I wanted this? You think I planned for this?” He motioned vaguely between them, his voice rising just enough to make her flinch. “Do you know how easy it’d be for me to just… not? To let this all go?”

“Then why don’t you?” she shot back, her voice sharp as she straightened up, uncrossing her arms.

The question hung in the air like a dare, but Harry didn’t take it. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but whatever it was, he swallowed it down. Instead, he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he looked away again. “That’s the thing,” he muttered, his tone softer now, almost to himself. “I don’t know how.”

Her chest tightened, the weight of his words sinking into her ribs. But she refused to let him see the crack in her armor. She turned her face toward the rain, her jaw clenched, her breaths slow and measured.

“Well, maybe you should figure it out,” she said, her voice quieter but no less sharp. “Because I can’t keep doing this with you.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep, uneven breath, his face unreadable as he started to turn. “Fine,” he said, the word clipped, bitter. “Guess I’ll figure it out.”

He didn’t look back as he walked down the narrow hallway, out to wherever he was going.

She stayed frozen in the doorway, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her heart pounding too loud in the quiet. The door swung slightly with the wind, creaking on its hinges as she leaned against the frame.

She bit down hard on her lip, a sharp pang of regret bubbling up inside her, but she shoved it down, stuffing it into the same corner where all the other unspoken things between them lived.

The cigarette embers had long since faded, leaving only the faint smell of ash and rain.

Once you go without it, nothing else will do.

The bassline thumped steadily, drowning out conversation and vibrating through the floor of the packed venue. Laughter spilled over from corners where small groups huddled close, their faces flushed with warmth and the buzz of alcohol. Fairy lights strung haphazardly along the ceiling flickered, giving the room an ethereal glow that blurred edges and softened harsh lines. It was October second, a free evening before they had to start gearing up for Toronto, and they had found themselves at this party—an impromptu gathering of familiar and unfamiliar faces.

They had a few days to rest before they geared up for the Toronto show.

YN moved through the throng like a thread of color in an otherwise monotone fabric. Her dress clung to her in all the right places, its silky material catching the light with every movement. Her makeup was immaculate, her lips a striking shade that dared anyone to look away. Heads turned as she passed, her heels clicking faintly against the hardwood floor beneath the relentless pulse of the music.

Across the room, Harry caught the glance of a mutual friend before his gaze settled on her. She hadn’t noticed him yet—or perhaps she was pretending not to. That had been their dynamic since the DC show—stolen glances, sharp words, and an undercurrent of something unresolved that simmered just below the surface. Tonight wasn’t much different. If she felt his eyes on her, she didn’t show it. Instead, she let herself be led toward the bar by a guy whose name she couldn’t quite recall but whose interest in her was overtly clear.

Leo—or maybe it was Geo— was tall, broad-shouldered, with a smooth voice and easy laugh. He leaned in close, brushing his fingers lightly against her arm as he spoke, and her lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It wasn’t that she found him unappealing—he was attractive enough, charming in a way that was disarming—but she was using him. His attention was a distraction, a convenient shield from the simmering tension she refused to address. She wasn’t about to let Harry consume her thoughts tonight.

“Another drink?” Leo–Geo asked, his voice warm against her ear.

She nodded, watching as he flagged down the bartender and ordered for her. When the drink came, he handed it to her, his fingers grazing hers deliberately. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into him, tilting her head to laugh at something he said. She wasn’t entirely listening, but it didn’t matter. She let him lead her to the edge of the dance floor, where the music was louder and the lights flashed in dizzying patterns.

His hands found her waist as they swayed together, the rhythm of the music guiding their movements. She felt his breath against her skin as he leaned in, his lips grazing the curve of her neck. It was easy, his touch, his attention. It dulled the edges of her thoughts, made the heat of Harry’s gaze on her back easier to ignore.

For a moment, she let herself get lost in it.

But Harry was watching. He stood near the edge of the room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The muscles in his jaw worked as he watched her laugh at something the other man said, her hand brushing lightly against the stranger’s chest. His stomach twisted, anger and something else—something sharper, more possessive—flaring within him. He told himself to leave it alone, to let her do what she wanted. But then he saw them moving toward the door, her hand loosely clasped in the other man’s.

Something in him snapped.

He moved quickly, weaving through the crowd with single-minded determination. She didn’t see him coming, not until his hand closed around her arm in a firm grip.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was low, controlled, but there was no mistaking the anger in it.

She froze, her wide eyes meeting his for the first time all night. Her companion, caught off guard, let go of her hand and stepped back.

“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows furrowed, her voice laced with irritation.

“I said, what the hell are you doing?” he repeated, his grip on her arm tightening slightly.

“Let go of me, Harry,” she snapped, tugging her arm free. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her a step closer, his green eyes boring into hers.

“Do you even know his name?” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

Her lips parted, but no answer came. She didn’t know his name, and they both knew it.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry muttered, his jaw clenched. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”

“Harry what—no!” Her voice was louder now, drawing a few curious glances from the people around them. “You don’t get to decide what I do.”

He only ignored her.

“Harry—”

“Go,” Harry said sharply, cutting her off as he turned his attention to the other man. “Now.”

The man hesitated, glancing between them before holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, mate. She’s all yours.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving the two of them alone in a small bubble of tension that felt ready to burst.

“Are you happy now?” she asked, her voice shaking with anger, eyes threatening to gloss over.

“You were about t’leave with a stranger,” he said, his voice still low but tinged with frustration.

“So what if I was? What does it matter to you?”

“It—“ He paused, voice barely above a whisper. His hand finally dropped from her arm, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he leaned in closer, his eyes searching hers. “Forget it, YN.”

The music pounded around them, but neither of them moved. The weight of his words hung heavy between them, unspoken things simmering just below the surface. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

And then, abruptly, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the crowded room, her heart racing and her mind spinning.

After a while, she found her way back to the bar. YN perched on the edge of a high stool, her fingers wrapped around the cold glass of a freshly poured Midori Sour. She wasn’t sure why she kept ordering them—maybe because they were sweet enough to soften the edges of her mood. Maybe because the tang of melon lingered on her tongue in a way she liked. Or maybe because she knew it annoyed him.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Harry approaching, his strides long and purposeful, the faint clink of his rings catching her attention before anything else. He stopped beside her, leaning against the bar with an infuriating casualness, his profile sharp under the low-hanging lights.

“Another one of those?” he asked, his voice low but distinctly mocking. He gestured toward her drink with a tilt of his head. “You’ve got the palate of a teenager.”

YN didn’t even glance at him. “And you’ve got the personality of a Jack and Coke. Bitter, basic, and way too predictable.”

The bartender chuckled as he slid Harry’s drink across the counter. Harry’s lips twitched at the corners, not quite a smile but enough to tell her her barb had landed.

“Predictable, am I?” he asked, lifting his glass to his lips. His voice was softer now, dangerous in the way it dripped with quiet confidence. “At least I’m not clinging to a sugar high like I’m at prom.”

YN finally turned her head, meeting his gaze dead-on. Those green eyes of his were sharper than the whiskey he was sipping, and the way they pinned her in place made her chest tighten—not that she’d ever admit it.

“At least I’m not controlling your night to avoid saying what I really want to say,” she shot back, her voice steady but low, just for him.

Harry blinked, his brows raising slightly in surprise before he composed himself. He set his glass down on the counter, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And what exactly is it you think I’m hiding?”

The word love slid off his tongue like a taunt, curling around her like smoke. It wasn’t affectionate—it was a challenge, one that dared her to push back. And god, did she want to push back.

YN leaned in too, her face just close enough to his that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, warm and heady. “I think you’ve got a lot of things you don’t say out loud,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the noise of the bar. “But don’t worry, Harry. I’m not dying to know.”

The tension between them was suffocating now, thick and electric. She saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed against his glass like he was resisting the urge to reach for her instead. Her pulse hammered in her throat, each beat daring her to stay in this dangerous little game they’d started.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out,” Harry said finally, his voice like velvet lined with steel. “But you’re wrong, YN. Dead wrong.”

Her name on his lips was her undoing. She stood abruptly, grabbing her bag and tossing a few bills on the counter. “Why are you here again, Harry?” She muttered, “Your jealousy, which you refuse to admit, is insufferable. You ruined my night and I want to drink.”

Silence.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not doing this.” Her voice was low, laced in anger as she spun on her heel and headed toward the back of the bar where the restrooms were tucked away.

But of course, he followed.

She could hear him behind her, the weight of his footsteps matching the rhythm of her pounding heart. She ignored him, turning a tight corner.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he shouted, his voice low and gravelly. He was close—too close—and she could feel the heat radiating off him, suffusing her skin like a fever.

“Go away, Harry,” she said through clenched teeth, still nearing the bathroom doors that seemed to get farther and farther away with every step she took.

He stepped in front of her, one large step he made quickly and without effort. “Not until you tell me what your problem is,” he snapped. His hands smacking against the walls abruptly, caging her in. His chest was barely an inch from her back, and she could feel the way his breath hitched, like he was struggling to keep his composure.

YN whirled around, forcing him to step back just enough to meet her glare. “My problem?” she repeated, her voice sharp enough to cut. “My problem is you. You’ve been a thorn in my side since June, and I’m sick of it. Sick of the looks, the comments, the—”

“The what?” Harry interrupted, his voice rising. “The fact that I actually give a shit about what you’re doing? The fact that I care if you’re about to make a mistake?”

“A mistake?” she echoed, her eyes blazing. “What the hell do you care if I—”

“What was his name, YN?” He spit, an echo from earlier, nostrils flared and jaw tight. He already knew the answer, she didn’t know.

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to keep her anger to a low simmer. “Fuck you.”

They didn’t just hold each other’s gaze. They gripped it. Like a rope stretched between them, fraying under the strain. Her scoff sliced the moment clean, and she ducked under his arm, her stride sharp, deliberate, toward the bathroom door.

Her fingers curled around the knob, twisting it with the kind of force that spoke louder than words. The door swung open, her heels clicking against the tile, a precise rhythm against the muted bass thumping somewhere beyond the purple-painted walls. She spun, gripping the edge of the door, and shoved it back with all the fury her body could muster. But it didn’t slam. It hit something solid—a thud, then a jolt.

His hand, metal rings against wood.

The door ricocheted toward her before she even registered what had happened. He stepped in, the breadth of him filling the space, his palm swallowing the knob as he pushed it shut behind him. The twist of the lock was a gunshot in the silence, louder than the music bleeding through the cracks.

“Are you fucking serious?” Her voice was a hiss, low and venomous, the kind of sound that cut through everything. Her chest heaved, each breath shallow and sharp, the thin sheen of sweat glinting along her collarbone like glass shards catching the light.

The room was alive, though barely. A flickering bulb above them glowed warm and harsh, its glass casing distorting the light into fractured halos. Yet, there were blues bleeding from LED's in the corner, washing them in warmth and cobalt—fire and ice.

His gaze dragged down her body like he couldn’t stop himself, like she was a work of art, damning and divine all at once. She was something out of a fever dream—wild, furious, her beauty distorted by the tension in the air. “We didn’t get to finish.”

Her laugh came hard and bitter, her nostrils flaring as she raked her fingers through her hair. “Finish what? This?” She threw her hands out, exasperation dripping from every gesture. “This isn’t fucking worth it!”

But he wasn’t looking at her hands. His eyes were on her lips, her eyes, back to her lips—then lower. Her chest, rising and falling. Anger looked good on her, he thought. Anger looked good enough to ruin him. “You didn’t hear me,” he said, quieter this time.

He stepped closer, and the air between them shifted. Compressed. Heavy. Her back hit the wall before she realized she’d even moved, the cool tile shocking against the heat rolling off her skin. She pressed her palms flat against it as though the room was tilting, threatening to spill her out into some uncharted void.

He loomed over her—it was foreboding, yet, it made a heat pool between her thighs.

“Get out.” She murmured, but her voice cracked under the weight of her own trembling breath. There was no steel in the words. Only rust.

“Say it like you mean it.” His voice was smoke, burning slow and low, roughened edges catching on her nerves. He was too close now, close enough that she could smell him—whiskey and spearmint, aftershave, and something deeper, earthier. The heat of him radiated against her skin.

Her eyes darted to his mouth, to the thin line of his jaw, then lower—to the silver chain around his neck. The pendant at the center gleamed faintly, catching the light like a drop of molten metal. It glimmered orange, blue—a ripple in the ocean bathed in harvest moon. “Harry—” she started, his name trembling on her lips.

But before she could say more, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was raw, like barbed wire snapping, cutting deep and fast. She gasped against him, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt, twisting it into her fists as if to keep herself upright. His body molded into hers, chest to chest, hip to hip, the press of him heavy and solid and absolutely inescapable.

“I hate you,” she muttered, the words breaking into his mouth, dancing onto his tongue. Her fingers were already tugging at the buttons of his shirt, feverish and clumsy, her frustration bleeding into every movement.

He moaned into her, guttural, reverberating from the bottom of his throat. “I know.” He breathed, his lips brushing along her jaw, down her neck.

Her head tipped back, hitting the tile with a soft thud, her hands shoving his shirt open. Her fingers traced his chest, dragging across the heat of his skin. “Fuck—you’re an asshole.” She bit out, her voice shaking with something between anger and desperation.

His lips curved into a crooked smile, amusement tugging at the edges even as his breath hitched. “Keep going,” he urged, his words strained but teasing, his hands finding the curve of her waist. His grip was firm, grounding her as if the tension might otherwise consume them both.

Her mouth crashed against his again, this time harder, rougher. Her fingers curled into his hair, tugging like she wanted to hurt him, to punish him for every maddening, chaotic feeling he’d pulled out of her. Every shiver. Every breath. Every ache.

“I hate how much I want this,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with something raw and unfiltered.

“Yeah?” He sighed, his lips brushing hers, his voice cracked and ragged. He tilted his head, his dark eyes locking with hers, his gaze searing. “Hate me all you want, but you’re not stopping. Are you?”

Her only response was another kiss, pulling him closer, harder, until the line between them blurred. Until all the anger, the longing, the fire consuming them burned the world around them into ash.

Her fingers found his belt with a kind of determination that burned. Leather sliding through brass, sharp and deliberate. Her nails scraped his stomach as she pushed the belt free, her movements jerky, impatient. Every tug of her hands felt like a challenge, every drag of her fingers against his skin like she wanted to leave a mark.

"You think this is gonna fix anything?" she spat, her voice low and trembling, caught somewhere between anger and something that tasted sweeter. Bitter edges trying to cut through the heat swelling between them.

"Never said it would," he murmured, his voice rough, a rasp that settled low in her chest. His hands were already under her dress, sliding up the backs of her thighs. His grip was firm, too tight, bruising—like he was trying to make sure she wouldn't slip away.

When he bunched the fabric over her hips, the sound of it pulling free from her skin filled the air between them.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" she bit out, her words sharp and breathless, her desire, her anger tearing through her. Her hands shoved his pants down, knuckles brushing against him in a way that made her stomach twist.

His laugh was dark, rasping out like a rough scrape of metal. "Says the one tearing my clothes off."

"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped, but her voice cracked, betraying her even as she glared up at him. "This doesn't mean anything."

"Sure, it doesn't." His words dripped with mockery—a blade under silk. His mouth brushed against her neck now, teeth grazing her skin. "Keep saying it, YN. You're real convincing."

Her head tipped back as he bit at her skin, the scrape of his teeth followed by the heat of his tongue. "You're so fucking–“ she started, but her words dissolved into a sharp gasp when his hand slid between her thighs, dragging over the thin barrier of lace that still clung to her.

"What was that?" He hummed, his tone laced with dark amusement, his fingers pressing into her just enough to make her hips roll forward, chasing him. "Didn't quite catch it."

"Don't," she managed, though her voice wavered, her breath catching as he moved against her again, more deliberate this time.

"Don't what?" he teased, his lips brushing her ear now, his free hand gripping her thigh and pulling it higher around his waist. His body pressed against hers, the hard line of him undeniable, the heat radiating off him making her skin burn. "Don't stop? Don't touch you?"

Her hands tangled in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth. "Don't act like you have the upper hand," she shot back, though her voice was shaking, her chest rising and falling against his as though the air between them had thinned.

His laugh rumbled against her skin, low and rough. "Petal, l've had the upper hand since the second you let me touch you."

"You're delusional," she snarled, but her body betrayed her again, arching into him as his fingers slipped beneath the lace, her cunt slick with arousal. A broken sound escaped her throat, and her nails dragged across his scalp.

"Yeah?" he breathed, his voice darker now, tinged with something ragged, unsteady. His lips caught the corner of her jaw, moving toward her mouth but stopping just short. "Then why are you shaking?"

"God, you're insufferable."

"And you're not going anywhere.” Harry's hands found her waist with the kind of grip that could bruise, his fingers digging in as he spun her around without warning. The breath caught in her throat as her body collided with the edge of the sink counter, her palms bracing against the cool marble.

She caught his eyes in the mirror, dark and feral, locked on her like she was prey.

"Look at you," he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping the edges of his throat. His hands moved to her hips, holding her still as he pressed himself against her. The solid heat of him burned through the fabric separating them, and she bit down hard on her lip to stop the sound threatening to escape. "Desperate for it, huh?”

"No.” she quipped, but her voice wasn't as sharp as she wanted it to be. Her reflection gave her away—her lips parted, her chest heaving, her thighs trembling just enough to notice. "You're so goddamn cocky. It's disgusting."

He ignored her, or maybe he loved it—she couldn't tell. His hands left her hips briefly, his fingers moving to his slacks, shoving them all the way down in a rough, impatient motion. The sound of the fabric brushing against his legs filled the space between them, quick and deliberate.

Harry's hand slid up her front, rough but with ease, fingers curling under her chin. His grip was firm, enough to keep her still, his thumb brushing just once over the edge of her jaw before tilting her head up. The mirror stared back at her, unforgiving and vivid, and his chest pressed hard against her back, pinning her in place. "Eyes up," he muttered, low and commanding, his breath hot against the side of her neck.

His fingers flexed under her chin, urging her gaze to meet their reflection. "You're gonna watch, yeah? Gonna see exactly what I do to you."

She didn't answer—couldn't. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her body shivered under his touch.

His free hand slid lower, over her stomach, down between her thighs, where his fingers paused, resting just above where she needed him most.

He tutted, staring her reflection down. "Dripping mess already." He smiled, slow and wicked, his lips brushing her ear. "You think that guy could do this to you? Hm? Think he could get you this wet?"

"Shut up," she bit out, though her voice lacked conviction, trembling just like the rest of her. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white against the cool marble, desperate for something solid to hold on to.

Harry's laugh was dark, rich, vibrating against her back. "That's not a no.” He drawled, dragging his fingers down, brushing over her slick folds in a featherlight touch that made her legs shake. "What is it, then? You just don't wanna admit it?"

"Admit what?" she shook, her tone sharp, though her hips betrayed her by rolling forward, chasing his hand.

"That no one else could make y’feel like this." His fingers pressed in harder now, slow and teasing as they circled her clit. His other hand kept her chin steady, forcing her to watch as his fingers moved, dragging against her in slow, maddening circles. "Look at you, YN. Fucking dripping for me. You see that?"

Her eyes flicked to the mirror, catching the way his hand disappeared between her thighs, the glint of wetness coating his fingers as they moved. Her cheeks flushed hot, but she couldn't tear her gaze away, her body betraying her with every soft sound slipping from her lips.

"Harry—“ she gasped, but her voice broke into a moan as he pressed his fingers harder, rolling them against her with deliberate pressure.

"There she is," he smiled, his tone mocking but warm, like he'd been waiting for her to break. "That's it. Don't hold back. I want you t’hear yourself, yeah? Want to know what y’sound like when it's me making you fall apart."

Her hands shook against the counter, nails digging into the marble as his fingers slowed again, agonizingly teasing. Her body jerked, desperate for more, and he smiled, smug and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

"H, please–“ she whined, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

"Please, what?" he tutted, his voice dropping lower, rougher. His fingers dragged down, slipping inside her cunt just enough to make her gasp, then pulling out again. "Use your words, YN. Tell me what y’need."

"I hate you," she muttered, but it sounded hollow, the tremble in her voice giving her away entirely.

"Not what I asked," he growled, and his teeth scraped against the curve of her shoulder, a sharp bite that made her head snap back. His fingers pressed into her again, this time deeper, curling just right, and a loud moan broke free from her chest, her body arching against him.

"Look at that," he whispered, his hand still steady on her chin, holding her in place. "Look at you, petal. Such a pretty little slut for me." His thumb brushed over her clit now, slow but deliberate, and her hips rocked into him, chasing every movement. "You like watching, don't you? Like seeing what I do t’you."

Her only answer was another moan, louder this time, her lips parting as her head fell forward—but his hand caught her, tilting her chin back up. "No," he murmured, soft but firm. "Keep watching."

Her reflection burned into her vision—the way her mouth hung open, her cheeks flushed and glowing, her body pressed tight against his. The sight of his fingers moving, disappearing into her before dragging back out, glistening with her arousal.

"Good girl.” He breathed, his voice rough now, almost reverent. His free hand slid to her hip, holding her steady as he shifted behind her, his body pressing closer. "Now, keep your eyes on me. I'm not done with you yet."

Harry's fingers slid out of her slowly, teasing the slick heat between her thighs, a deliberate rhythm that left her trembling. The pressure was enough to keep her on edge, never enough to tip her over.

Every moan she tried to swallow only fueled him, and he made sure she knew it. "Fuck, look at you," he muttered, his voice a low rasp against her ear. "Falling apart on my fingers, and I haven't even fucked you yet.“

"Shut up," she breathed, but the bite in her tone was fading, her resolve crumbling with every slow, maddening drag of his fingers. Her thighs quivered, her knees barely holding her upright, and her hands gripped the edge of the sink like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

"Thought so," he said, smug and soft, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a wicked grin. His thumb circled her clit, slow and firm, drawing a whimper from her lips she couldn't hold back. "No one else knows how to ruin you, do they?"

Her body jerked against him, hips pressing into his hand despite the defiance still burning in her eyes. She wanted to tell him off, to push him away, but her voice broke every time she tried, each sound melting into a moan.

"Thought you were tougher than this," he taunted, his breath hot against her neck, his chest firm against her back. "Guess I was wrong. Just a mess for me, aren't you?"

Her head tipped forward, a choked sound escaping her throat, but his hand was there again, his fingers curling under her chin, tilting her face up to meet the mirror. "Uh-uh," he snapped. "Don’t let me see you do that again.”

Her reflection was a blur of flushed skin and trembling limbs. Her lips were parted, swollen and wet, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

His chest, exposed by the open shirt still hanging from his shoulders, pressed against her back, radiating heat. The sight of his hand moving between her legs, glistening with her arousal, was almost too much to bear.

"Harry—" she gasped, her voice cracking, her fingers gripping the sink harder, her knuckles white against the marble.

"Say my name again," he growled, his tone dark and dangerous, his fingers pressing deeper, drawing a broken moan from her lips. "Go on, petal. Let’s hear it.”

Just as her hips bucked into his hand, chasing the pressure, he pulled his fingers away, leaving her empty and trembling. She let out a frustrated whimper, her nails biting into the counter's edge, but before she could snap at him, his hand slid to her throat, curling around it in one firm, possessive grip.

"Patience,” he murmured, though his tone dripped with mockery, his lips grazing the curve of her jaw as he pulled her tighter against him. "Want it so bad? I'll give it to you, but you better fucking take it."

She felt him behind her, his hard cock pressing insistently against her, the rough fabric of his boxers catching on her skin before she shoved them down. The anticipation coiled tight in her stomach, her breath hitching as he pushed them down just enough to free himself.

His free hand guided himself to her, dragging the head of his cock along her slick folds, slow and deliberate, just to make her squirm. He laughed when her hips rolled back against him, desperate for more.

"So fucking needy. Bet you'd beg for it if I made you."

She gasped, her voice shaking as her body pressed into his.

The words caught in her throat, tangled with the moan that escaped when he finally moved, thrusting into her with one hard, unrelenting motion. A cry tore from her lips, loud and unrestrained, her body arching against him as he filled her completely. He groaned low in her ear, his hand on her throat steadying her, his other hand gripping her hip so tightly it felt like he was branding her.

The stretch was slow, deliberate, the sharpness of it stealing the breath from her lungs as he filled her inch by inch. “So fucking tight—y’feel that? How perfect y’are for me?”

Her nails scratched against the smooth marble as he moved, each thrust deep and deliberate, pulling sounds from her she couldn't control. Her body arched into him, her head tipping back against his shoulder, her resolve finally shattering. "God, you're so fucking good like this," he rasped, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Taking me so well. Look at yourself, angel. Look how fucking gorgeous y’are right now."

Her eyes fluttered open, catching their reflection again—her body against his, his shirt hanging loose on his frame, his hands commanding her as though she was his entirely. The sight burned into her, sending heat pooling low in her belly, her thighs trembling as he kept pushing her further and further.

And despite everything—her anger, her pride, her sharp tongue—she couldn't hold back the moans spilling from her lips, louder now, desperate and broken, as her body gave in to him completely.

Harry didn't ease up, not for a second. Each thrust was deep, rough, his grip on her hips bruising as he yanked her back into him, forcing her to take every inch. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the small room, mingling with her ragged breaths and broken moans, her body arching under his hands like it was built for this, for him.

"Love this cock, don’t you?" he growled, his voice gravel and heat, his chest pressing harder into her back. "Like how I fucking ruin you?"

"Please," she bit out, her voice sharp, defiant, even as it fell out as a moan. Her fingers clawed at the sink counter, nails scratching the smooth surface as her legs quivered beneath her. But still, she smirked, tilting her head just enough to catch his reflection in the mirror. "I’ve been fucked harder.”

Harry's laugh was low, a sound that rolled through her chest. "You're really gonna start with that?" he grunted, his voice a rasp of rough edges and heat. His hand slid up her back, the weight of it pushing her down until her cheek brushed the counter. The angle shifted, sharper now, and when he thrust again, a cry ripped from her lips before she could choke it back.

"And there it is," he moaned, his tone mocking, pleased. "That shut you up quick, didn't it?"

But she didn't give in. She never did. Her smirk twisted into something sharper, her breath coming in uneven bursts as she rolled her hips back against him just to prove she could. "Yeah," she slurred, her voice thick, daring. "What a waste–“ she paused, a moan emitting from the top of her throat. “–of a cock if–“ another pause, “if–if you fuck like this.”

His thrusts faltered, just for a moment—a slip that was more telling than anything he could've said. She'd gotten to him, and the flash of frustration in his eyes was enough to make her smirk widen.

"You just don't know when to shut that mouth, do you?" he snarled, his voice dripping with tension as he stilled entirely, his chest heaving against her back.

"Guess not," she shot back, her tone cutting despite the quiver in her thighs. "Maybe you're not man enough to–“

Before she could finish, his hand left her back, gripping her throat as he yanked her back up toward his chest again. He found her jaw with a force that made her gasp. His grip was firm, commanding, as his fingers pressed into her cheeks, forcing her mouth open.

"Open," he ordered, his tone low and unrelenting, the kind that left no room for argument. When she hesitated—just for a second—his grip tightened, his gaze locking hers in the mirror. "I said open."

Her lips parted, her glare defiant even as she obeyed.

"See? You do listen," he muttered, his lips curving into a wicked grin. His index and middle finger slid past her lips, pressing down hard on her tongue. Her eyes widened slightly, a muffled protest bubbling in her throat, but he just smirked. "That's better. Quiet suits you, angel."

Her teeth grazed his knuckles, her tongue squirming under the weight of his fingers, but she couldn't pull away—not while he still held her jaw firmly in place. His hips moved again, hard and unforgiving, each thrust making her body jerk forward against the sink.

He moaned, watching their reflection like it was some kind of twisted masterpiece. "Still trying t’fight me, even now. Stubborn little thing, aren't you?"

She glared at him in the mirror, her teeth biting down lightly on his fingers just to prove she still could. "Go on," he sighed, his tone amused as his fingers pressed down harder, making her gag slightly. "Bite me. Won't change a damn thing.”

Her body betrayed her-again. Her moans, muffled by his hand, spilled out in broken fragments, her hips pushing back to meet his thrusts even as her mind screamed at her to resist. The tears stinging her eyes weren't from pain, but from the overwhelming heat building low in her belly, threatening to swallow her whole.

He grunted, his breath hot against her ear as his fingers slid from her mouth, wet and slick—a mess of whimpers and moans escaping with it. "That's what you sound like when I've got y’completely undone. Maybe next time, think twice before y’run your mouth."

Her lips parted, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but it never made it past her lips. Not with the way he pulled her against him, harder, faster, his hand returning to her throat, keeping her flush against his chest.

Her hands left the edge of the sink, trembling as they reached up to find him. She gripped his forearm, her nails digging into his skin, desperate to feel the solid strength beneath her fingers. Her body jolted with every thrust, her movements uncoordinated, but her claws pressed hard enough to leave marks she knew he'd see tomorrow.

Harry didn't flinch. If anything, her desperation only made him smirk. His hand on her throat stayed steady, holding her firm, keeping her close. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the coiled strength under her palms, and she knew he wouldn't drop her. No matter how rough he got, no matter how far he pushed, he had her.

He growled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice as rough as the pace of his hips slamming into her. "You begging for more?"

Her nails dragged down his forearm, leaving a trail of red crescents in their wake. She gasped, head tipping back against his shoulder, her teeth catching her bottom lip as a moan slipped free before she could stop it. "You'll tire out before I do."

His grip on her throat tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to make her feel it, to keep her grounded against him. His other hand slid down her stomach, fingers pressing between her thighs again, circling her clit.

"Feel that?" he muttered, dragging his fingers in slow, deliberate circles, contrasting with the brutal rhythm of his hips. "That's not me getting tired, petal. That's me making sure you'll remember this tomorrow."

Her nails clawed deeper into his forearm, and her hips bucked forward, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation only to slam back into him. Her mind was fogged with heat, her body trembling under the dual assault of his fingers and the relentless thrusts that sent shocks up her spine.

"Fuck, Harry," she whimpered, her voice breaking in a way she hated, in a way he loved.

"That's it," he grunted, almost tenderly, though his actions were anything but. His lips brushed her temple, a cruel contrast to the way he dragged her closer to the edge.

Her grip on his forearm tightened, her nails biting into his skin hard enough to draw a hiss from his lips. But he didn't pull back. He wouldn't. His hold stayed firm, steady, a constant against the chaos he was dragging her through.

"You're so fucking close," he growled, his voice dark and ragged, his lips kissing her temple.

Her head fell further into his shoulder, her lips parted in a choked moan. The mirror showed everything—the way her body arched, her dress bunched high around her hips, his hand between her thighs. The sight of his fingers working her, his other hand wrapped firm around her throat, holding her steady as he pounded into her, was too much. It was filthy, mesmerizing. It was them.

"You're beautiful like this," he muttered, his breath hot against her cheek, his voice shaking with the effort to hold himself back. "Fucking perfect.”

Her hands clawed at his forearm, her nails raking over his skin as her body tensed, her thighs quivering against his. A sharp cry tore from her lips, unrestrained, as the tension inside her snapped all at once, her release washing over her in waves.

He slowed his movements just enough to drag it out, his fingers never stopping. His thrusts turned deep, deliberate, milking every last tremor from her body. "Good girl—just like that."

Her breath came in short, broken gasps, her body slackening in his arms as her hands slipped from his forearm to brace herself against the sink again. But Harry wasn't done—not yet.

His hand slid from her neck, resting briefly on her back to steady her as he pulled out. His release was a low growl, heavy with restraint, as he bent her forward over the sink again, her cheek pressing against the cool marble.

His hands tugged the bunched fabric of her dress, pushing it higher until it gathered at the small of her back.

She heard the wet sound of his hand stroking himself, the heat of him close enough to feel but just out of reach. He cursed under his breath, his voice rough and raw, his pace quickening as his own release built.

"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, his eyes glued to her reflection. His free hand slid down her back, his touch possessive, reverent.

The first hot spurt of his release hit the small of her back, a low groan tearing from his throat as he finished, his hand working himself through the aftershocks. He stayed there for a moment, his breath ragged, his chest heaving, the sight of her still bent over the sink keeping him rooted.

Harry let out a long exhale, his hand sliding up her spine in a firm, grounding touch as he leaned over her, brushing his lips against her shoulder.

The air felt thick now, heavy with the remnants of what just happened. The muffled bass of the music outside thumped distantly, but the bathroom was silent aside from their labored breaths. Neither of them spoke.

Harry stepped back, his hands dragging over her hips as if reluctant to let her go, before he turned his attention to himself. He pulled his slacks back up, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet, followed by the faint clink of his belt as he buckled it.

She stayed bent over the sink for a moment longer, her forehead pressed against the cool surface, her chest heaving as she tried to steady herself. She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her back, but she didn't dare look up. Not yet.

Harry moved to the paper towel dispenser, yanking a mess of them free without a word. He returned to her, his footsteps deliberate, and she startled slightly at the first cool touch of the towel against her skin. He didn't say anything as he wiped her clean, his movements uncharacteristically gentle now, precise, careful, like he was undoing what had been rough and unforgiving moments ago.

When he finished, he tossed the crumpled towels into the trash. His hands returned to her thighs, sliding the lace of her panties back up, his fingers brushing against her skin as he smoothed them into place. He let his fingers linger there for a moment, his thumbs grazing the red marks he'd left behind on her hips.

Her thighs bore the shape of his hands, faint but unmistakable, and when she finally straightened and caught herself in the mirror, she saw the full extent of it. Her skin was marked—her throat faintly bruised from his grip, hickeys scattered along her neck and collarbone like splashes of color against her flushed skin. The swell of her hips ached where his fingers had dug in, and she knew the prints he'd left would bloom darker by morning.

The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful. It was thick, suffocating, a tension neither of them knew how to cut. Harry leaned against the wall like it was holding him up, his head tilted back, his shirt hanging open, and his chest still heaving like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. The air felt different now—charged and heavy, yet hollow at the same time.

She stared at him for a moment, at the way his jaw was clenched tight, his gaze fixed somewhere else. His usual arrogance was gone, replaced by something quieter, something guarded. He didn’t move to fix his shirt, didn’t even glance at the mirror to see what a wreck he looked like.

She didn’t think before stepping forward, her hands finding the loose edges of his shirt. His eyes flicked down to her, dark and unreadable, but he didn’t stop her. She tugged the fabric into place, smoothing it over his shoulders before starting on the buttons, working her way down.

Her fingers brushed against his skin, still warm from her touch, but she didn’t let herself think about it—couldn’t. The weight of what they’d just done hung between them, heavy and unspoken, something that felt too big, too raw to touch.

He stayed still, watching her, his arms limp at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to move. Like touching her again might unravel everything.

She didn’t dare look at him, her gaze focused on her hands as she reached the last button. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed the fabric flat, brushing out the wrinkles before finally stepping back.

They didn’t speak.

They wouldn’t speak.

It was something they didn’t do—not about this.

Her throat felt tight, her chest heavy, her pulse still racing from the way he’d made her feel. She smoothed her hands over her dress again, though it was already straight. The mirror behind her caught their reflection—two people standing too close but pretending the distance was enough.

Her lips parted, maybe to say something, maybe to breathe, but nothing came out. She glanced up, catching his gaze for the briefest second before dropping it again.

His chest rose and fell in uneven beats, and when he finally pushed off the wall, his fingers brushing through his hair, he let out a long, shaky exhale.

We don’t talk about it.

The words sunk into the hollow space between them like a quiet truth neither of them would ever admit out loud.

It’s something we don’t do.

Because if they did—if they said it, defined it, made it real—there’d be no going back.

And that terrified her almost as much as the thought of losing this, losing him.

Harry moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached for the door. He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the handle, his head tipping forward as though he might say something. But he didn’t.

She watched him go, her stomach twisting in ways she couldn’t untangle.

Once you go without it, nothing else will do.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #harry styles smut #harry styles angst

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rottenfyre · 1 day ago

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⸻ ᴡ ᴏ ʟ ᴠ ᴇ ʀ ɪ ɴ ᴇ ⸻

Pairing: James Howlett x Fem Reader

Headcanon: how would he be when he's obsessed?

Note: English is not my first language. Requested by lovely @fexi626. Hope you enjoy!

Logan first notices you when you move into the same small town he’s been hiding out in. It’s supposed to be a temporary stop for him—stay low, avoid attention, move on. But then there’s you, sweet and quiet, with a kindness that catches him completely off guard. It’s the way you smile when you pass him at the local diner or the soft “Good morning” you murmur when you see him on the street. It sparks something primal inside him.

Logan’s the kind of guy who tries to convince himself to stay out of it. "Don’t need to drag her into my mess," he tells himself, nursing a beer at the bar while you laugh with your friends a few tables over. But he keeps looking your way, and when some jackass sidles up to you and tries getting handsy, Logan’s out of his chair before he’s even thought it through.

The guy gets the message fast—hard not to when Logan slams him into the nearest wall. "You touch her again, you’re leavin’ here in pieces. Got it?" The look in his eyes isn’t one anyone would argue with, not if they wanted to keep breathing.

After that, Logan decides he’s gonna keep an eye on you. For your own good, he tells himself. You’re too damn sweet, too damn trusting, and the world’s full of people who’d take advantage of that. He’s doing you a favor, really. "You don’t even know how much trouble’s out there, darlin’," he mutters, walking a few steps behind you on your way home, just close enough to make sure nothing happens.

Logan’s not subtle, though he thinks he is. You start noticing him everywhere—leaning against the counter at the diner where you work, walking past your building more times than coincidence could explain. When you ask him about it, he just shrugs. "Town ain’t that big. Guess we keep runnin’ into each other." But there’s something in his tone, in the way his eyes linger on you, that makes it feel like more.

He starts inserting himself into your life. Fixing your car when it won’t start. Showing up at the bar when you’re out with friends. "Just lookin’ out for you," he says gruffly when you question it. "Not like anyone else around here’s got the balls to."

Logan’s protectiveness is… intense. If someone so much as looks at you wrong, he’s ready to start a fight. And if someone flirts with you? Forget it. You don’t even hear about half the times he’s dealt with someone behind the scenes. He doesn’t see it as a problem—it’s just him taking care of things. "Don’t need you worryin’ about shit like that. That’s my job."

Despite the rough edges, there’s a softness to him when it comes to you. When you’re upset, he doesn’t say much—just pulls you close, lets you bury your face in his chest while he rubs your back. "I got you," he murmurs, his voice low and steady. "Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you while I’m around."

But make no mistake—his love comes with a possessive streak a mile wide. If you ever tried to pull away, Logan wouldn’t take it well. He wouldn’t yell or plead; he’d just… make sure you understood. "You don’t get it, do you? You’re mine, darlin’. Always gonna be. Doesn’t matter where you go—I’ll find you. And I’ll bring you back."

Logan doesn’t think of himself as a good man, but when it comes to you, he’s downright delusional. "You deserve better, I know that. But better ain’t what you got. You got me. And I ain’t lettin’ go."

His jealousy burns hot, but his devotion runs even deeper. You’re the one thing in his life that makes him feel… human. And he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if it means crossing every line he swore he wouldn’t. "The world’s a shitshow, sweetheart. But you? You’re the only good thing in it. Don’t expect me to let that go."

Logan’s a rough-around-the-edges—possessive, protective, and dangerously loyal. He doesn’t sugarcoat things, doesn’t try to hide who he is. His love is raw, fierce, and unrelenting, just like the man himself.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

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tossawary · 1 day ago

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Recent "Star Trek" reboot universes have really tried to sell me on three different romances for Spock with other TOS characters whom he did not have romantic relationships (at least not positive ones) with in TOS, which makes it particularly annoying when some fans try to squirm away from the idea of ST ever doing a future reboot or remake in which Spock/Kirk are explicitly queer.

Like, "But it's not in the original! They want to be faithful to the original!" really, REALLY does not pass the "I think you might just be discomforted by queerness and you should work on that, rather than making appeals to the authority of textual accuracy to avoid being called a homophobe or transphobe" check here. Because it's not as though these reboots care about perfect faithfulness on pretty much any other front. We'll accept that the costumes and special effects get updated to move with the times, we'll accept wildly different characterization choices that essentially give these characters new personalities, we'll accept new timelines that change the entire political map of the galaxy, but you as a fan draw the line at "What if this character was bisexual this time?" Really???

To be clear, I am not trying to dunk on Spock/Uhura, Spock/Chapel, or Spock/T'Pring here, I am merely trying to illustrate a frustrating double-standard. TOS Uhura does notably flirt with Spock several times! I see it! I remember TOS Chapel's feelings for Spock being one-sided, but I also don't think it's a bad thing to try to update TOS's more misogynistic writing choices regarding female characters. TOS T'Pring did... kind of try to kill Spock because she didn't want to marry him, but again, I don't necessarily think it's immediately a bad thing to try to explore her as a character and her betrothal to Spock. It's fine! It's fine by me to explore new takes in new AUs.

It's just that none of that evidence from TOS for those relationships holds much of a candle to whatever the fuck Kirk and Spock had going on to inspire The Premise. "Amok Time" is an Experience. There's only so many times that Kirk can say something like, "The cost [of abandoning Spock] would have been my soul," before you want to put your face in your hands. They are taking shiny pebbles from TOS and trying their very best to sell them to me as the basis for romantic relationships in reboots, sure, while they are standing in the shadow of Spirk Evidence Mountain (TOS).

(Yes, I have seen the recent "Unification" short film. Yes, I enjoyed it. No, I will not consider Spirk "officially canon" until all plausible deniability for the squirmy folks has been completely, explicitly destroyed by a HUMAN kiss onscreen.)

And okay, I must admit, at the moment, I don't actually want Spirk to eventually happen in "Strange New Worlds" now that they've finally met. I'm mostly indifferent to their Spock and Kirk actors, personally, and the writing for every canonical romantic relationship in both SNW and "Discovery" so far has gotten a solid "well, they certainly are standing next to each other" from me. (Yes, even the gay marriage in "Discovery". I just haven't been into it so far.) I think the writers would fumble Spirk if they tried it in this specific show and then annoying fans would use the fumble as "evidence" never to try to do Spirk or queer retakes on other TOS characters ever again, or as "proof" against other queer ST in other shows characters generally.

I'm mostly just mildly annoyed that I have to keep watching Spock specifically, famously read by many people as a queer man, be straight and messy about it, especially when there has not really been a significant queer relationship onscreen in SNW yet, unless you count M'Benga's daughter Rukiya and her glow cloud friend named Debra, which I personally don't, honestly. I'd like an onscreen relationship with a main character with zero plausible deniability. There's definitely nothing yet that comes remotely close to the screentime that Spock/Chapel, Spock/T'Pring, and Kirk/La'an have all been given so far, unfortunately. (Sulu is not here yet. Scotty has just shown up. If Scotty gets to make out with a guy next season, or Uhura or Ortegas gets to make out with a lady, without it being part of some god-like-being's fantasy world, then I may be satisfied.) (Also, yes, I am aware of queer characters and relationships in other "Star Trek" shows, thanks. I very much enjoyed Mariner having her incredibly silly breakup with her girlfriend in "Lower Decks".)

"Star Trek" is one of those properties where some people's double-standards regarding romantic interpretations of the original series really jump out. "They can't do Kirk/Spock because they want to be faithful to the original!" Get real.

#mariner lower decks as a main character having incredibly stupid breakups with her girlfriend is the only thing keeping me afloat here #it's too fucking straight in here sometimes someone open a closet #tossawary star trek #spirk #spoilers #reblogs off #long post

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malusokay · 2 days ago

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Haiii !! I'm obsessed with your blog. Do you have any tips for staying motivated? I wanna better my life and I have all the resources to do so. it's just motivation that's the problem 😓😓

surround yourself with inspiration.

for me, my friends are one of my biggest motivations—having people around who inspire and encourage you to grow is everything.

it’s not just about support; it’s about energy. being in a circle of people who push you, directly or indirectly, to be better is so important.

don’t lose sight of your goals.

always keep in mind what you’re working for, whether it’s an academic milestone or something personal. knowing your “why” makes the process so much easier.

when you have a clear picture of what you’re striving for, working hard feels purposeful instead of just tiring.

set HUGE goals, and then work backwards.

start with the biggest, boldest goal, then break it down into smaller, manageable steps that fill the gap between where you are now and where you want to be.

here’s what I mean: let’s say you’re in high school, and your ultimate goal is Cambridge.

you now → finishing an essay → getting a specific grade → finding balance → acing exams → writing your personal statement → Cambridge.

this is a very vague example, but the idea is to create a roadmap where every step feels doable—and every step brings you closer. you guys get my point hahaha

find balance to avoid burnout.

I’m a total workaholic, and spending time on things that don’t align with my main goals usually makes me feel horrible. but balance is non-negotiable.

for me, balance means baking with my friends, diving into hobbies that challenge me outside of academia, reading something complex but unrelated to my studies, or creating content like this to inspire others.

whatever it looks like for you, find something that lets you reset and recharge.

visualise, but don’t let it become procrastination.

I’m all for making Pinterest boards and visualising your dream life and I highly recommend doing it because it ties into the whole “don’t lose sight of your goals” idea.

BUT: overplanning can become its own trap. making endless lists, moodboards, or ideas without ever starting the actual work is just procrastination in a prettier outfit.

so yes, make your Pinterest board, set your goals, but don’t stop there. Start taking action, even if it’s just one small step today.

I hope this is helpful to you, and I wish you the very best on your journey, if you (or anyone else hahah) have more questions regarding this, just let me know, and we can dive into this topic a little deeper. <3

my insta @ malusokay

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paperstarwriters · 7 hours ago

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Sorry for the light mode lmao

Anyways I was going to respond to this in a comment saying—and I quote "💕💕💕💕 Idk If I'd be able to actually write a fic from this but it really just scratches the good itch in my brain lmao like—" and then proceeded to basically write TWO small drabbles in the comments lmaooo

anyways it was getting too long for that so I'm just gonna put it into a reblog.

But like imagine you're running away from base—maybe it's to goof off or maybe it's to avoid all the trouble that's going on. Maybe you want to prove yourself capable, or maybe you got into an argument and stormed off believing no one would follow. Whatever the case, you've left the base, and Optimus took notice. He hunts you down, searching for you discretely in his alt-mode in your favorite populated areas, and transforming to get a better view in your favorite but less populated spots. He's doing this to protect you, he argues to himself, turning over every stone, nearly decimating entire buildings as he feverishly looks for you. You could be caught by Decepticons, you could be harassed by some lot of unsavory criminals, it was getting late—where were you???

The moment he finds you of course, he's running over to you, eager to see that you're okay, eager to make sure you're protected and safe. Eager to see you.

It doesn't stop the slight terror he imposes, when his head swivels to turn to you, blue lights gleaming as they've caught their target, and the thundering footsteps of someone approaching breaks your initial silence. Under the shadow, you can't tell if he's mad.

Under the shadow, you can't tell if that's a bad thing.

Oooooorrrr—

maybe this is you goofing off! One of many pictures taken after you had been trying to take a picture of the sunset, and curiously, Optimus peered into the frame, shadowed from the setting sun, but blue eyes still gleaming curiously as he tried to assess what you were doing. It makes him look like some sort of weird cryptid—like one of those shitty pictures of mothman, and all too eagerly you lean into the idea of it. After all, this wasn't tangible evidence of his face and existence in your possession, you could easily pass it off as a collection of weird cryptid sightings you've had should it ever put you or him in any danger, and if you had kiss-marks over the printed pictures, well hey, some people wanted to fuck mothman, why couldn't you simp for your own "freshly discovered" cryptid? So you take more pictures of him, revealing your master plan of pretending he's some janky silly creature of folklore, that few would take seriously just so you could have pictures of him on your person. He's confused but interested, and you vow to find and share stories of the modern folklore of the area, but he agrees to participate in your pictures, letting you snap a few pictures that teeter the line of creepy, and yet look nothing but pretty and adorable on his features.

As the sun sets further, you catch one picture where the dying light paints his face gold as he stares towards it, a beautiful contrast to his blue optics looking almost honey soft, in the orange-y light and for the first time you get a picture that shows his face, distorted only by the glowing light, but identifiable to a keen eye. All too suddenly, you're struck with the urge to find and collect many more pictures of him, to drag him out with you to enjoy the sunset, if only to see that face—that expression again.

And all too soon, the sun sets, and In the darkness of the growing night you can hardly see his silhouette against the surrounding darkness, just two twin spheres of blue, looking almost like some UFO in the sky through the pixelated screen of your camera. You still take the picture, you still giggle at the sight, but you make the mental note to figure out more ways to take and keep pictures of this ever stoic bot.

Optimus, on the other hand, is all to delighted at the attention you douse him in, in the delight you express at the ability to keep a picture of him for yourself. His fingers almost twitch at the urge to do the same, to have you captured in a picture so that he might have your likeness when ever you stray away from him. For work or to return home or whatever, something to ease the ache of your absence. For now though, engraving the image into his processor will be sufficient.

I touched grass a few weeks ago and while aggressively and illegally speeding through highways like Blurr (for legal reasons this is a joke), I snapped an ✨ aesthetic ✨ sunset pic. But the vibes were giving OG Bayverse, heavy 2007 vibes, like BIG TIME, so I edited Optimus in there cuz why the fuck not? 🌚

(Edit: some ppl said it looked creepy and I kinda see it now so I added eyes to make it creepier. I like it the creepiness, it’s a vibe wtf?)

#And I said I might not be able to write a fic about this lmaooooo #Ouagh just finished a long writing assignment and my first course of action was to write ANOTHER long piece of text XD #the topics are different and this requires MUCH LESS research and scientific jargon at least 💀#Paper Tells Tales #transformers #optimus x reader #optimus prime #optimus #optimus prime x reader #reader insert #Tried to keep the version vague because I don't really know bayverse super well sorry!

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here-for-fanart · 7 hours ago

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The Difference Between Jinx And Alt.(Alternate Universe) Powder

Since season 2 finished, I've had mixed feelings in regards to Alt. Powder and Jinx. It was mostly my Timebomb brain, but I was also trying to understand the psychology behind it all. Special thanks to @jicklet and @lullabyes22-blog Their combined post thread led me to a few realizations. So, here is what my brain decided to torture me with:

Alt. Powder And Jinx Share A Dependency Born Of War

The sudden loss of her parents, at such a young age, led Powder/Jinx to develop a reliance on Vi to play every role she needed in her life: sister, mother, best friend, confidante, provider, teacher, and role model. (Vander did step into the role of provider as well, but Powder/Jinx didn't show dependency on him like she did with Vi.) This dynamic, with Vi, has been mirrored in the majority of her relationships in Arcane. She has one special person that she latches onto, who becomes her world and her drive for everything. She takes her queues from them, gets motivation from them.

In childhood, her goal was to prove herself to her big sister. But, it was Vi who wanted respect from Piltover. Vi, who wanted to steal from Pilties. Vi, who wanted to fight the enforcers. The majority of Powder's input was in a supporting role to whatever Vi decided to do.

Jinx's Trauma Results In: A Fear of Abdandonment

As Jinx, this dependency and need to prove herself is more evident. Because after Vi is gone, she passes the role of "primary motivator" (or special person) onto Silco. And after he dies, she's aimless and drifting. Despite being pushed to fill his seat (by Sevika), she hesitates, unsure of what to do. She's playing around with Isha, but Isha doesn't become her "primary motivator" until after the arrest at the rally. What makes Jinx's relationship with Isha (and Sevika) unique is that it's the first time she's thrown into a leadership role.

The truth is, Jinx only ever reaches her full potential in a leadership role. Think about everything she's done and accomplished. When has she shined the brightest? Leading Zaun's calvary against Noxus. Freeing Isha and the other Zaunites from Stillwater. Sending The Grey back into Piltover with a colorful metaphor. Helping Sevika take down Smeech. Blowing up the council. Choosing the Jinx chair. Going rogue, while working for Silco. Whenever she's doing her own thing and making her own choices, she changes the world.

Her trauma is tied to her relationships, in the form of abandonment and loss. When she finally decides to 'break the cycle', it's because she's breaking the co-dependency with Vi and others from her previous relationships. She wants to detach, because she's tired of tying herself (her self worth, her happiness, her purpose) to people who can't, won't, or are unable to stay. Her trauma of abdandonment is triggered by the fear of letting go.

Alt. Powder's Trauma Results In: A Fear of Power

(Also known as Jonah Complex: "This fear prevents self-actualization, or the realization of one's own potential. It is the fear of one's own greatness, the evasion of one's destiny, or the avoidance of exercising one's talents." ~ Wikipedia)

This alternate version of Jinx seems to have it all: alive family and friends, a possible boyfriend in Ekko, a thriving city. Everybody seems to love her. She's helpful and stable (more so than even Ekko, apparently). The only thing of value that seems to be missing is Vi.

But as we look deeper into the dialogue, we see not everything is as rosey as it appears. Powder tells Vi's doll ["I got the 'not living up to my potential' speech from Vander again."] And later on, Vander tells Ekko, ["Powder's been raving about your Z-drive. Can't remember the last time I saw her so alive."] When still suspicious of Powder's nature, Ekko asks, ["And this invention, you don't have some alternative purpose for it?"] To which, Powder replies, ["You're the big idea guy."]

This Powder lacks the desire for personal achievement. Oh, she's helped everyone else with their projects, but she doesn't WANT to achieve anything for herself. But unlike Jinx, she is surrounded by potential motivators she can connect with: from her maybe boyfriend Ekko, to Vander, Benzo, Silco, to any one of her friends and family.

Then why you may ask, if she's surrounded by so many of these motivators, does she still not take initiative? And my response to that would be:

You know those ugly twins, Fear and Trauma.

Any potential motivator (despite her being attached to them) gets blocked by her trauma response...because Alt. Powder's trauma of power is triggered by a fear of recognition.

When anyone points out her potential or expresses a desire to see her make something of or for herself, she shuts it down. Thinking about it too long opens up her trauma. It upsets her. She rejects any thought that makes her special, even though everyone knows she is.

To me, this demonstrates a fear of power. Some behavioral symptoms include: downplaying one's achievements, self-sabotage, avoiding leadership roles, and avoiding situations where one might gain significant influence.

This episode showed us the reality of what Powder's trauma would have resulted in, had the tragedy took place at the apartment instead of the warehouse. The difference lies in the trigger: Vi's death was from an explosion Powder caused (by dropping the hex crystal). But! What makes this even worse, is that it was also caused by (you guessed it) the power of invention. It was an inventor's apartment they broke into and an inventor's experiment that lead to a death. From that point forward, Powder feared what she herself could do.

I think her time with our Ekko allowed her a glimpse into the life she'd have, if she wasn't so afraid of her power. We see Ekko openly admire how powerful his Jinx is, despite how often she's used that to hurt him. And when they want to experiment further with the Z-drive (despite Heimerdinger's warning), she makes a non-commital noise, before giving Ekko a mischievous smile. Ekko allowed her the freedom to question whether she wanted more, without triggering her trauma by demanding she change.

The last scene of episode 7, signifies Powder's continued choice to follow this path, unaltered. Earlier in the episode, Ekko went to the apartment, to gather hex crystal remnants to work on. He was picking it out of the wall with tweezers. This is all he got.

The real kicker?

She's had a whole bag of them, in her drawer, the entire time they were working on the Z-drive. The ones she stole from the apartment? Yeah, she kept them. They're there, in a drawer, sitting unused. The potential for power that—a fraction of which was able to build a TIME MACHINE—sits in a drawer untouched, along with a necklace from the boy who almost broke through to her, who almost changed the course of her life. This scene signifies the "unused potential" of both the hex crystals and the lesson Ekko tried to teach her. It too will be untouched for a while.

Alternate Universe Powder is worse off than Jinx, at this point, because Jinx is facing her trauma and finding new ways to break through it. This Powder may never "wake" again.

##########

[The End. Thanks for reading. Please, excuse the crappy photo quality. ...and probably writing. 🫤 Eh, who cares? This is for me and my brain demon anyways.]

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joaniscruzing · 24 hours ago

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echoes in the elixirs

WOOHOOOO yay this fic is finally done! i had so much fun writing this! thank you to everyone who supported the last fic i did, i was so happy to see so much interest! special shoutout to @joj0-thesimp for requesting and proofreading beforehand! per usual, requests are ALWAYS welcome! I write for jinx, vi and caitlyn, and do take smut requests.

also, i did my research on the herbs. a good amount of people predict that Jinx struggles with schizophrenia, which its symptoms can be alleviated with ginkgo. please let me know if my research is wrong, that way i can fix this :)

summary: jinx, looking rather off, enters your apothecary, to which you take care of her for the night.

warnings: mention of jinx's mental health issues, mention of seizures, lots of fluff, herbs are basically meds for jinx, jinx needs a hug, one-bed trope, cuddling

“Have a great day!” you called as you gave your product to your client. In the Undercity, every day in the apothecary was quite a busy one. Hundreds of people would file in every day, as they would trade in for your elixirs and remedies that would cure their pain and suffering, even if it was just for a while. The atmosphere was always loud and bustling, making you struggle to keep up.

However, when Jinx would arrive in your shop, things would usually calm down for the amount of time she was there. Business would slow down, and it was usually just you and her alone in the store. Or maybe it wasn’t, and you were just so enamored by Jinx to even notice. Either way, Jinx was your one time to stop and take a breather during the day, which was ironic, considering her electrifying, energetic presence.

“So, do you have my order, sugar?” Jinx would ask when she would enter.

“Sure do! Right here,” you’d always answer. However, today, there was something different. Jinx seemed like there was some sort of hole inside her. She hadn’t shown up for a while, since Silco had died, Piltover had been attacked, and she had had to hide to stay alive.

Today, however, she entered the store, a hood over her head, and her head low. Not to your surprise, instead of greeting you with those words, she browsed the store first, looking around, and generally not communicating with anyone. Understandable. However, you saw she was shaking as if winter’s frost had bitten her, and she had been without a coat. Trying not to overthink it too much, you went on with your business, packing up and giving your orders and occasionally convincing customers to buy more. When your final order was given, you left your table to check up on Jinx.

“Hey Jinx, are you okay?”

She seemed startled by your words, as if she didn’t expect you to come up to her and ask her that. She immediately tried to leave the store, ultimately avoiding your question.

“Jinx!” you called after her, grabbing her arm. “Do you need anything?”

“Yeah,” Jinx admitted, choked up in tone, “I need a shit ton of ginkgo biloba. More than you usually give.” Your stomach drops. Fortunately, now you know exactly what’s going on, and what you can do to help her.

“Is it getting worse?” you ask, turning Jinx around, and holding her shoulder. Her face was all you needed as an answer. Tear streaks lined her face, black and mixed up with her makeup. Her fingernails were unpainted and outlined with her blood from picking at the skin around it so much. The only distinct features that stayed were her two long braids, still hanging off her head and cascading past her waist to her ankles.

“With Silco dead, I just… don’t feel important anymore. They’re getting louder. I can’t sleep, or work, or do anything, I-” Jinx divulges, her head in her hands. You remove her hands from her face and replace them with your own.

“Jinx, do you need to stay here tonight? I can make you some food, and make you a nice tea with the ginkgo, as well as some lavender to calm you down. Whatever you need.”

“How much ginkgo?”

“The usual dosage I give you. Any more could make things a lot worse. Plus, the lavender will calm you down, help you sleep.”

“How much worse? Like what, I pass out for a week or something?”

“Jinx, have you ever heard of a seizure?”

“Oh. I guess I could stay the night. It’s not like I have anything better to do at home or anything.” With that, you closed up your shop, locking the doors, and covering the windows, that way no one knew you were secretly housing Piltover’s most wanted criminal.

You took the time to make Jinx a nice meal, as you knew she already didn’t eat enough, let alone whatever her eating habits were during this tough time of hers. As the meal cooked, you also ground up some lavender and ginkgo, which you then put into a bag in order to prepare her tea. After that, you left the kitchen in the back of your shop real quick to check on Jinx.

“Shut up! She wants to help me, I know it!” you heard her shouting, pacing around the room. Before you knew what you were doing, you ran up to her and hugged her as tightly as you could, making sure she knew that you did care. You heard her breathing slow down, and her body unwind as her tense state left her.

“You good, Jinx?” you asked. She pulled away to look at you, surprised.

“Why do you even care this much?”

“Look, you’ve told me a few things about yourself here and there. And it sucks. Other than the herbs I know you need to calm down, I know you need to be taken care of right now. You need someone to be there for you. And I want to be there for you right now.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re nice to be around.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re funny, and caring, and innovative, and your presence always brightens my day.” With this, Jinx’s round, purple eyes widen.

“I brighten your day?”

“Yes, Jinx. You brighten my day. I look forward to seeing you on the days you’re to come pick up your herbs just so I can see you, even if it’s for a few minutes. Jinx, everyone here is so down to business, and you’re the one who always lingers. Well, sometimes. Other times you were afraid of getting caught for sneaking out, so you were in and out.”

Jinx hugs you this time, burying her face in your chest.

“You’re a good person, don’t ever forget that,” Jinx discloses, tightening her grip.

“Okay, hate to let you go, but I do need to check in on the food and tea.” Jinx holds on as you struggle your way to the kitchen, making sure the food didn’t burn during the moment between the two of you. Luckily, everything was ready, and in about five minutes, dinner had been served for you both. Jinx’s tea helped her greatly, calming her down. The sense of calmness in her eyes brought relief to yours, as you were glad to know that Jinx’s head would slow down for a bit. She was also happy to eat the meal you cooked, which, per your prediction, was the first proper meal she had had in a very long time. After your scrumptious meal, you both prepared for bed. However, there was one small kink in the works of your plan to take care of Jinx; there was only one bed.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” you assured, “I can sleep on the floor.”

“Are you sure? I can sleep there too,” Jinx replied. You put your foot down though, insisting that she needed a proper sleep. It truly didn’t worry you at all. You began to lay down on the ground, preparing for your sleep. Just as you were about to close your eyes, you heard Jinx’s voice from the corner.

“Could you maybe sleep in the bed with me?”

“Yeah, is everything okay?”

“I just, haven’t slept in a new place that wasn’t where I was holed up in for a long time. Plus, you’re comforting to be around.” You get up, pillows and blankets in your arms, and settle into the bed with Jinx. She clutches onto your waist, her legs wrapping around yours. It takes every fiber in you to not turn around and spoon Jinx right there and then. However, your bountiful dinner, Jinx’s tea, and the calming atmosphere put both of you right to sleep.

so. i originally was going to make this some sort of a love story, but i felt like i couldn't considering jinx's mental state in this fic. shall i draft a part 2/ time jump where they get together?

taglist: @ananas26t @stupendousbananasharkcop @sarcasm-is-my-form-of-attack @t-wylia @emiliaisdead @ihatethis222 @west-c0ast-00 @shootingc @iliterallyhavenoideawhattosay @sweetstarfalls @klerns-birdie

(btw, this is the largest taglist i've had per explicit requests. thank yall so much for supporting <3)

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luvismenu · 24 hours ago

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chap: 11 — don't wanna be too much ✎ ,, index

“so why do you wanna hang out with me?”

you glance up at the man sitting across from you, his raised brow suggesting curiosity rather than suspicion. he takes a sip of his coffee, waiting for your answer.

“huh?” you say, caught slightly off guard. “oh. well…” you trail off, scrambling for a reason that doesn’t sound too rehearsed. “you seemed cool to talk to.”

his brow furrows briefly before his expression shifts into something resembling surprise. “really?”

you nod, taking a sip of your coffee to avoid his gaze.

“didn’t you call me annoying in our first year?” he asks, his tone light, but his words make you freeze midsip.

the liquid burns your tongue, and you flinch, coughing slightly as you put your cup back on the table. “that was ages ago,” you say, trying to wave it off with a smile.

he leans back in his chair, one corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. “yeah?”

“you’re not annoying, jason,” you say quickly, your tone earnest as you meet his gaze.

his brows relax, and the surprise fades into something closer to amusement. “okay,” he says simply, his lips quirking up into a small smile.

he believes you.

thank fuck.

it’s not like you actually want to hang out with jason.

the day after jungkook ended things—well, not officially, but enough to leave you enraged—you decided to go find him. you thought maybe you’d apologize for overreacting. you didn’t want to admit it, but maybe you’d let your emotionls get the better of you.

you wanted to tell him that; you don't wanna be too much.

but as you made your way to his class, rehearsing what you might say, you saw her. a woman you’d never seen before, standing close to jungkook. too close.

your steps faltered, and your stomach twisted as you watched her lean into him, laughing at something he said. you couldn’t hear their conversation, but you didn’t need to. the way he smiled at her.

it told you everything.

anger bubbled up inside you, sharp and overwhelming. you wanted to walk up to her and pull her away from him, demand to know who she was and why she thought she could be that close to him.

but then you caught the way he looked at her, like she was the only person in the room, and that anger quickly turned to something else.

something heavier.

he’s moving on, you thought bitterly.

he’s really fucking moving on.

you knew you were a bad communicator. you’d accepted that a long time ago. but deep down, you thought—no, you hoped—that he’d wait. at least for a little while.

he didn’t.

it's okay.

it's fine. whatever.

if he could move on that fast, so could you.

and that’s how you ended up here, sitting across from jason, pretending to care about what he’s saying and convincing yourself that this will even the score.

jungkook is stressed.

why are you so against talking about what’s going on? he wonders, running a hand through his hair.

all he wanted was to clear the air, to talk about how things between you both don’t feel “casual” anymore. you’ve noticed it too. he knows you have. but every time he tries to bring it up, you shut him down, insisting everything’s fine.

it’s not fine.

it's not fine at all.

and now you’re walking around with some new guy?

who the fuck is he?

he's never seen this guy before and honestly, he wants to beat the shit out of him.

over the last few days, he’s seen you laughing and smiling with this stranger, and it burns him up inside. every time he’s tried to approach you, you’ve brushed him off, your indifference leaving him more frustrated than ever.

and so he decided;

if this is how it’s going to be, i am not backing down either.

that’s how he ended up here, walking into the café with mia by his side. truthfully, he doesn’t know her well. she approached him a few days ago for help with some classwork, and he didn’t think much of it. it wasn’t like him to turn people away; besides, it seemed harmless.

but now?

now it feels like the perfect opportunity to play along wih whatever game you’re starting.

“jungkook, can you get me something sweet to drink, like you?” mia’s voice is sugary as she leans closer, whispering the last two words on purpose.

jungkook forces a polite smile. mentally, he sighs.

this is too much, he thinks.

mia’s is not someone he would date, not even close. if things were normal between you and him, he wouldn’t have given this moment a second thought. but they aren’t normal, and he’s had enough of feeling like he’s the only one who cares.

if this makes you feel something and makes you want to talk to him, so be it.

just as he’s about to respond to mia, he catches sight of you in the corner of the café.

you’re with him.

that fucking guy with that stupid fucking grin.

you’re sitting there, coffee in hand, looking right at him.

his jaw tightens as your eyes meet, and for a brief moment, it feels like the rest of the room fades away.

then you glance at mia.

jungkook sees the subtle shift in your expression,, the slight frown, the way your lips press together, his eyes catching the way your fingers tighten slightly around your coffee cup, your jaw clenched as you stare. his chest tightens, but he raises a brow at you instead, daring you to react.

you roll your eyes, turning your attention back to your coffee.

he scoffs under his breath.

so stubborn.

“of course,” he says, turning back to mia with a bright, deliberate smile. “something sweet for someone sweet.”

mia giggles and nods, oblivious to the silent tension crackling between you and him across the room.

what the fuck is he doing?

is he seriously with that woman right now?

in the same room as you?

you can see him talking to her, leaning in slightly, his expression relaxed like he doesn’t have a care in the world. and the way she’s giggling at whatever he’s saying? it’s really irritating you.

your hand tightens around your coffee cup, and for a split second, you imagine marching over there and giving her a piece of your mind. or worse.

maybe that’s an overreaction.

maybe not.

but it’s exactly how you feel right now.

“is everything okay?” jason’s voice pulls you back to reality.

you blink, turning to look at him. his brows are furrowed slightly, concern etched into his features as he glances between you and the direction of jungkook and mia.

“yeah, yep, everything’s fine,” you say quickly, forcing a smile that you hope looks convincing.

“you sure?” he presses, his tone soft but skeptical.

you nod, taking a sip of your coffee even though it doesn’t do much to settle the storm inside you.

but when you glance back toward jungkook, you catch his eyes on you.

he’s watching.

you notice the way his jaw clenches, his fingers tapping lightly against the table as if he’s holding himself back. a small frown forms on his face, the kind that could almost be missed if you weren’t paying attention. but you are.

your pulse quickens, the tension in the air wrapping itself tightly around you. still, you refuse to look away.

instead, you smile.

just slightly, a curve of your lips that is meant to get under his skin and turn your attention back to jason.

“so, what were you saying about your project?” you ask, your tone deliberately light, pretending not to notice the way jungkook’s gaze burns into you.

jason raises a brow, clearly sensing the sudden shift in your focus but continues, “oh, right. i was saying it’s been tricky, but i think i’ve figured out a solution.”

you nod, leaning in just a bit closer to him, giving him your full attention, or at least the appearance of it.

from the corner of your eye, you see jungkook shift in his seat, his expression darkening as mia says something to him. he doesn’t respond right away, his gaze flickering back to you and jason.

good. let him stew in it.

you’r not even sure why you care so much, but the sight of him with her acting so casual had set something off inside you. and now, you weren’t about to let him have the upper hand.

jungkook sees you, sitting across from that guy, listening intently to whatever he’s saying, a soft smile playing on your lips. his jaw tightens, and his fist clenches slightly against the table.

he hates this.

hates how easily you seem to have moved on, hates how that guy can make you smile like that, as if nothing between you and jungkook had ever mattered.

are you really going to act this way instead of talking to me? he thinks.

“oh! is it all over my face?” mia’s voice pulls him back, her tone overly sweet as she gestures to the bit of cream on her lips.

jungkook glances at her, clearly unimpressed. she could easily wipe it off herself, but it’s obvious she wants him to do it.

he mentally rolls his eyes, annoyed by her theatrics, but then his gaze shifts, catching you glancing in his direction.

without thinking, he reaches out and wipes the cream from mia’s lip, forcing a small smile.

“there,” he says, his voice neutral.

mia giggles, looking at him through her lashes as if he’s just done the most romantic thing in the world. jungkook barely notices her reaction; his eyes are already flicking back to you.

he sees the way your expression hardens just slightly, your shoulders stiffening before you quickly turn back to the guy in front of you.

his chest tightens, and he has to fight the urge to get up, to pull you away and demand to know why this all feels so messed up.

instead, he stays where he is, his hand dropping back to his lap as he forces himself to focus on mia. but the irritation bubbling inside him doesn’t go away.

because right now, he doesn’t know what else to do. he’s tired of second guessing every glance, every word, every interaction. if seeing him with mia stirs something in you, then maybe it’ll push you to say what’s been left unsaid.

he steals another glance in your direction.

you're frowning.

good.

let it bother you.

because watching you with that guy; laughing at his jokes, leaning just a little too close, makes something ugly twist in his chest.

is this jealousy? he wonders.

are you feeling the same way he is?

he doesn't know. but if this is what it takes to finally make you break the silence, then fine. he’s willing to play along.

but the truth? the truth is that he’d drop this entire charade if you’d just look at him the way you used to. if you’d just talk to him, even for a moment, and stop pretending like everything between you two hasn’t changed.

he exhales sharply, forcing himself to focus on mia’s chatter as he heads to the counter. but his mind is elsewhere.

on you.

you're on his mind a lot.

it’s frustrating, really. no matter how much he tries to distract himself, whether it’s with mia’s empty conversations or the endless tasks piling up, his thoughts always circle back to you.

he wonders what you’re thinking right now. if you’re still smiling at whatever that guy said, if you’re still glancing his way when you think he’s not looking.

he wishes he was in your mind too, even just a little.

but the way you’ve been avoiding him, the way you seem so at ease with someone else, makes him doubt it.

and that doubt? it’s what drives him crazy.

on the other side, watching jungkook with that woman. watching him talk to her and make her laugh like that?

it drives you crazy.

a/n: wow 4 owiu updates this week, isn't that crazy? (i am sleep deprived) and also yay we're halfway through the series aaaaa!!! this chapter was a last minute thing lol i didn't wanna write but here we are (also, i am hoping to finish owiu asap hehe)

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📜 permanent taglist: @lovieku @deluluisdasolulu @ddanasjk @onlyforyoukook @diamondjeon @nnybtitts08 @lil0u0 @butnotmontana @fr0ggieth1nk @minimoninini @whoa-jo @lola75111 @iswearimover5feetall @rispwr @genevieveeeee @kookoo-kachoo @junecat18 @iheartchanelle

@kyuupii @https-mei @internetrando64 @jkvias @134340-kr @mar-lo-pap @fluttershypoo @elinaki92 @jungkookmyoneandonlybaby @winterbeartaehyungbestboy @jaykay-world @jmscaffeine @libra04 @beigerin @nikidream24 @svnbangtansworld @mimi1097

#jungkook x y/n #jeon jungkook #fanfic #bts jungkook #jungkook smau #bts fanfiction #bts social media au #bts fic #jungkook x you

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softpascalito · 15 hours ago

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I To Dig a Grave I Chapter 6 I

Summary: Twenty-one years after the outbreak, you come to Wyoming looking for something and end up in Jackson after a stranger saves your life.

But he doesn't stay a stranger.

Turns out Joel Miller is looking for something too. It feels like a fresh start. But when bad luck seems to follow you, Joel is the only one to turn to, forcing both of you to confront your feelings about your pasts- and each other.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 25k+ Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Age Difference, Smut, Explicit Content, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Chose not to use Archive Warnings, Tags to be added

AO3 LINK // Series Masterlist // Playlist

notes: hello! it's been a second but i promise tdag is still my favorite child so this is continuing slowly but surely (i'm currently just distracted by pedro pascal as slutty gladiator).

this fic will deal with heavy topics. please note that it doesn't use archive warnings and tags will be added as we go in order to avoid spoilers. each chapter will have detailed warnings in the end notes on ao3.

Chapter 6 – The Ceremony Part 1

‘I didn't exactly miss it or want to live there again- I just wondered where it had gone.’

— Alice Munro, Dear Life

What the fuck does he think he’s doing?

If there is one person in Jackson who is least equipped to handle a grieving person who’s just lost someone to suicide, it’s him. Joel is sure of that. He should just tell you that he can’t do this, hand you over to Tommy or Maria or anyone else who doesn’t mess up whatever or whoever they touch.

It would be better for you, to have someone who actually knows how to work through grief. Not someone who sneaks out of bed before dawn to get a glass of whiskey and sit in their dark living room to ponder over things years and years past. The way he currently is.

But Joel is also sure that he can’t let you go. He can’t recall how or why but he does understand that you have found a way to get under his skin, one no one else has quite figured out, carved a path that only you may tread, that causes something to tug at his heart every time he sees you curled up in his bed or smells the soap that sits on his bathroom shelf. Somewhere along the road, he has started to care.

Not that anything good ever happens to the people he cares about.

A small groan leaves his throat as he leans back into the cushions, his free hand reaching over to produce a small notebook from below the couch table. He stares down at it for a few moments, weighing it in his hand. Then, he downs his whiskey in one go, sets the glass down onto the table and begins flipping through the small pages, seemingly endless notes, many of them jotted down rather hurriedly, a few written with much more care.

A thud upstairs makes his head jerk up. He freezes, listening intently. And then, he hears the unmistakable sound of someone running over the wooden floor upstairs. He’s up in an instant, cursing under his breath as he moves through the dimly lit room, using his foot to nudge a box aside that’s still sitting in the hallway, blocking his path towards the sound of bare feet thundering down the stairs.

***

For a split moment, you think it’s morning. The warmth beside you is gone. Maybe Joel has gotten another early start, doing whatever he does in the mornings while he lets you sleep.

And then, while you’re still floating in the comfortable state between dreaming and reality, you think you hear a door close somewhere downstairs.

Your body moves before your brain has a chance to catch up. Your legs, still tangled in the sheets, get caught in them and send you flying off the bed and onto the hard floor with a thud. It doesn’t slow you down. You force your trembling legs to push your body back onto your feet and rush through the bedroom door, taking the stairs three steps at a time. You have half a mind that you should shout, alert someone to what is happening, but your throat feels like it’s closed up.

Someone needs to stop him. To keep him from going out into the woods, to some hidden cabin. He always has the revolver on him. At that thought, you jump down the last few steps.

For the second time, your run towards the front door is interrupted and you collide with something solid just as you reach the corner that turns toward the front door. Again, it sends you stumbling and you prepare yourself for another hard fall. But it never comes. Instead, two strong arms catch you and Joel’s face above you finally comes into focus.

“You—” Again, your throat fails you. You simply press yourself into Joel’s chest, seemingly the only place that will swallow your sobs these days.

“Hey, it’s okay. Calm down, I’m right here,” Joel coos above you, his chest vibrating as he hums and brings one hand up to the back of your head, stroking your still slightly damp hair.

It takes him a solid five minutes to get you over onto the couch and calm you enough for him to let go for a moment. “I’ll be right here, hold on. Give me one second.”

He steps back into the hallway, shuffling something around. And as your panic recedes, the tide sinking, you glance around. A single glass sits on the coffee table in front of you, holding a few leftover drops of what you’re quite sure is whiskey. Beside it is a small notebook, the pages already slightly rippled.

You suddenly realize you’re not the only one in the old house who seems to have trouble sleeping.

Eventually, Joel returns with a woolen blanket that he drapes over your form, nodding to himself. “There we are.”

He doesn’t sit down, instead stepping over to the window and casting a glance outside. As if there is anything worth seeing on a street that never changes, one that hasn’t had cars passing on it in over twenty years.

“I’m sorry, I just—I panicked,” you whisper, keeping your head just low enough that you can still see Joel’s outline against the dim light of the street lamp outside. His shoulders seem to hang a tad lower than usual, still broad but not as intimidating as they once seemed, especially with him dressed in his usual pajamas consisting of soft plaid pants and a worn shirt.

“Don’t apologize. You’re bound to have some triggers after everything. It’s good if we figure them out as early as possible.” He pauses for a moment, turning around to study your face. “Was it being by yourself?”

You gently shake your head. “No. Not really. It was more—I thought I heard a door close. Like you were leaving.”

You can see the exact moment he understands what you are implying and his face falls slightly. “Oh, darlin’, you know I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t leave you. You know that, right?”

The only response you can manage is a shaky nod.

Joel sighs as he sits down next to you, rubbing his thumb over the small bald spot in his beard. To both your surprise, it’s you who starts the conversation back up.

“What about you?”

A frown appears between Joel's brows at the question and he turns towards you, studying your face as if the answers to whatever questions he has are written there. “What about me?”

“You were up too, weren’t you?” you ask quietly, turning your body towards him and leaning into the couch, the plush cushions and the blanket comfortable against your skin.

“Yeah but I was just—I wanted to get some things done for tomorrow—”

“Joel,” you stop him, raising your brow a tiny bit. It’s not meant to be hurtful, you’re sure of that. But if he believes you will swallow such a blatantly obvious lie, he may not be as good at this as you thought he was. “It’s not fair if you’re not honest with me.”

You can see his facade crumble as his expression falters and he nods quietly. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right about that.” Still, he seems to consider his words very carefully. “I don’t sleep well, sometimes. So I figured I may as well do some work. Didn’t wanna wake you with my tossing ‘n turning.”

Your heart aches at how casually he mentions this. It makes sense that he’d have nightmares. And you’re sure you barely know half of what they’re about. Joel cares so much when it comes to you that it genuinely baffles you how easily he brushes it off when he is the one suffering.

And then, a very quiet voice reminds you that this may be, like so many things, your fault. That you are so messed up that even big bad Joel Miller begins to struggle if he keeps you around for too long.

“Was it about—” You pause for a moment, trying to find the right words. It suddenly appears to you how difficult that is and you silently vow to thank Joel for having found them all throughout the last few days. “Was it about what we were talking about earlier?”

You have to be a horrible person. Because you know that deep inside, you want him to say yes. To assure you that this is about the things from his past that still haunt him and not about Lane—or about you. You don’t want to be the cause for his sleepless nights.

He doesn’t respond, but you have a feeling he doesn’t need to. It’s written all over him. The way he holds his body, the eyes that won’t meet yours. You don’t know what to do. You want to help. Maybe the same way he wants to help you. Cooking dinner, making coffee, getting an extra blanket. Because this is something he can’t fix. Only mend.

7 months earlier

“There is absolutely no way I’m going in there,” you proclaimed, dipping your toe into the water below you. “That is freezing!”

“It’s better once you’re in there. We can’t have hiked all this way for nothing,” a voice mused next to you. “Besides, it was your idea to come up here.”

“Well, I haven’t been before and I sure as hell wouldn’t have if I'd known it would involve freezing to death,” you groaned, lifting your foot back to the safety of solid ground below you and taking a few steps along the water of Flat Creek Lake.

It was crystal clear, allowing you to see the small rocks littering the bottom of the lake and the little fish zooming back and forth between them. It was still enough that you could see the reflection of the sky, blue with a few clouds scattered in between. The first warm day of the year.

You took in the scenery for a few more moments, letting your gaze wander further over the water and the trees on the other side of the lake and the mountains behind them, before turning back towards Lane—only to find that she’d thrown her clothes over a nearby trunk and was sporting a striped bathing suit. A small whistle escaped your throat.

“Haven’t seen that one before,” you commented off-handedly, causing a faint blush to appear on her cheeks. “That’s ‘cause it’s not mine.”

You raised a brow as you watched her wade into the water, sending small rippling waves out into the lake. “Wait, you’re not saying—”

A tiny smirk had appeared on Lane’s face. “Cat was nice enough to lend it to me when I told her we were gonna hike up here.”

“I see how it is.” You grinned, pushing your shirt over your head and throwing it next to Lane's pile of clothes. Unlike her, you opted for some of your more covered up underwear. Swimsuits weren’t exactly a clothing priority and you hadn’t found yourself in need of any until now. “I’m not enough for you anymore,” you said dramatically, throwing a hand towards your temple. “How will I ever get over you leaving me?”

“Oh shut up. Besides, if you are allowed to have your boyfriend over for dinner every other month, I am definitely good to borrow a bathing suit.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” You groaned exasperatedly. “Joel is not my boyfriend. He’s just–” You raised a hand and waved it through the air, trying to find the right word. It wouldn’t come.

“I don’t know. We’re just friends.” You weakly kicked at a small rock below you before stepping into the water for the second time that day, getting your feet used to the temperature of the mountain lake.

“Even Tommy says Joel doesn’t have friends,” Lane pointed out with a lopsided grin.

You shrugged. You yourself weren’t sure what to call your relationship with Joel, and even though you’d tried not to think on it too hard, the question had forced itself to the forefront of your mind more than once. And with every passing month, it seemed to become more persistent and difficult to push away.

“Are you gonna get over here or think about that old man all day?”

Lane paid for her comment (and, you silently vowed, for daring to call Joel old) by receiving a big splash of cold water aimed directly at her. She squealed, jumping the few steps over to you and pulling you further into the lake. It didn’t seem quite as cold as you splashed around in it together, only coming back out when you saw that Lane’s lips began to match the shade of her hair and pointed out that her freezing to death would really ruin the early summer day.

You headed over to one of the log cabins at the foot of the small lake, a place so far from civilization that it had barely been touched since the outbreak. It had taken you close to six hours to make the hike up the dirt road into the mountains. But, upon seeing the view in front of you, you both had agreed that getting up early had been worth it.

“Who told you about this again?” Lane asked, her mouth slightly open as she stared around the cabin that seemed almost completely intact. Bits and pieces were missing but the furniture was still properly arranged, mugs and plates were lined up neatly on a shelf over the sink and even a few items of clothing were still dangling from some hooks near the door.

“Joel did,” you admitted quietly. She just wiggled her eyebrows at you before heading further into the cabin, peeking into the small bathroom and the adjacent bedroom.

“Hey, there’s some towels here,” she called over her shoulder and came back a few moments later holding some cream-colored towels that had probably once been white. Even in the more remote areas around Jackson, finding housing that was this intact was rather rare.

“Maybe we should take a look around,” you offered, your mind already wandering to which treasures could be hidden in the cabin. Anything from practical items like medicine to more recreational ones—possibly a nice bottle of whiskey, stored away just for you to find. As if she could read your thoughts, Lane pursed her lips a little, one hand smoothing over the towels in her hands.

You stared at her. “What?”

“I don’t think we should take anything;” she said softly. “At least not back to Jackson.”

You felt a small frown appear on your forehead as you mulled her words over in your mind. “What do you mean? It’s not like anyone’ll come back for this.” You gently tapped the wood of the cupboard next to you. “Judging by the amount of dust these have not been touched in at least a decade.”

She shrugged, stepping back towards the front door. “I just mean, if it’s been very peaceful here for so long… We shouldn’t be the ones to make it less so.”

You stared after Lane as she stepped outside, watching her descend down the few wooden steps that led up to the cabin and the way the sun hit her blue hair, the ends still dripping slightly.

It took you a moment to gather your thoughts and follow her back to the lake, carefully closing the cabin door behind you. You both had secured a towel each from the cabin and were drying off when Lane caught you off-guard for the second time that day.

“Do you remember any of it? Before, I mean?”

You sighed softly. The question that had become as recurring as ‘and what do you do for a living?’ had once been. In hindsight, you were surprised you hadn’t discussed it earlier–at least not in detail.

“I do. Not much, not anything–I don’t remember how the world was. Just how it seemed to me as a kid,” you answered truthfully.

You could see Lane nod out of the corner of your eye as she leaned back and wrung out her hair.

“I miss it sometimes.” A few seconds of quiet passed. “It’s silly, really. You can’t miss something you don’t remember.”

“I think you can,” you said softly, turning your head towards her. She had paused in her movements and was gazing out onto the lake, though her eyes seemed much more distant than usual.

Your own stayed trained on her as she spoke, her tone a tad lower. “Do you ever think about leaving?”

If it had been anyone else with you, you probably would’ve lied, claimed that of course your heart never wavered, that you knew you were exactly where you needed to be. But this was Lane. Lane was safe.

“Sometimes,” you answered, your voice equally quiet even though you were sure there was no one around to listen except the small fish and possibly a fawn hiding in the undergrowth. “But then, I suppose it wouldn’t make much of a difference. We’d suffer through the day anywhere. But here, we at least have something to come home to when the suffering is done.”

It wasn’t exactly as positive as you may have wanted to sound. You’d always felt a tad protective over Lane, with her being a few years younger and less experienced. You knew she looked up to you and you wanted to set a good example, more than anything.

But that included being honest.

“When I came—When I headed to Wyoming, I was looking for something better than a QZ or Fedra,” you said softly. “I think I could’ve ended up in a lot of places much worse than Jackson.”

“But Jackson isn’t what you were looking for.”

You shook your head. “No. I suppose it’s not. But it’s what I found.”

You gave a bittersweet smile and she returned it, even though hers still seemed slightly broader than yours. It was an odd moment that passed between you, almost an unspoken agreement not to dwell on the topic too long. To not speak of the loss.

“What about you?” you asked, shifting the conversation away from yourself. “Do you remember anything from before?”

Lane gave a small snort at that. “Yeah, now that you ask, I remember pooping my pants.” She shook her head weakly, leaning back and staring out at the water again. “I was a baby.” A sigh escaped her lips as her body faltered slightly, her shoulders dropping a tiny bit. “Sometimes I wonder what my life would’ve been like if I’d been born ten years earlier. If it had been—I don’t know. Better.”

“Well, for the record, I’m glad you ended up in Jackson at the same time I did,” you said softly, nudging her shoulder.

She nodded and smiled, returning the small gesture. It doesn’t dawn on you until much later that she talks about her life in past tense.

“Okay, a tiny bit to the left,” Lane waved her hand as if she could position you like a puppet. “My left or yours?”

“Yours—Yeah, like that.”

A few seconds passed where you showed the lens your best smile and saw Lane fumbling with the buttons before the noise of the camera shutter announced that she’d found a frame she was content with. The giggle that followed, however, took you by surprise. “What?” You asked, looking past the lens and trying to catch a glimpse of her face. “What's so funny?!”

“Oh, I just thought about whether or not to slip this into the slideshow at the town hall next week. Maybe that would finally get Joel to ask you out.”

“You, Eleanor, are a pervert,” you commented drily, letting yourself fall back onto your comfortable towel and reaching for your book, trying to ignore the small wave of heat that had suddenly spread through your body at the thought of Joel seeing you like this.

“You know, I do think you two would fit together pretty well,” Lane hummed with her eyes closed half an hour later when both of you had stretched out on your towels and were bathing in the sun, waiting for the warmth to dry you. Content to ignore the world around you for just another hour.

You put your book down for a moment, squinting as you glanced over at her. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but nothing is happening between Joel and me. Not ever.”

***

His knock on the bathroom door is tentative, two gentle raps that travel through the wood towards you.

“Are you almost done?”

You stare at your reflection. A woman in black stares back. You know she is about to attend a funeral, the dark outfit and the sadness hiding behind concealer that doesn’t quite match her skin tone giving away what awaits her just as much as what’s behind.

You long to wish her something, to give her hope. But you don’t have any left to give.

You wish you could stay in the comforting bathroom forever, retire the black clothes, bundle them up and hide them at the very back of the cupboard below the sink, next to long expired cleaning supplies and a broken hairdryer. Close the door on all of them and run a hot bath to curl up in, one that never runs cold and that you never have to leave.

“Are you alright in there?”

Joel’s tone has turned slightly worried, no doubt owing to the fact that you are too busy keeping yourself from having a panic attack to respond properly.

“I’m done,” you call out, your voice trembling a little but at least it’s loud enough for him to hear. You can practically see him nod outside the door, even before you’ve moved over to it and turned the knob. Facing Joel Miller is the easy part. Facing the rest of the world is the hard one.

His gaze flies over you very briefly, taking in the clothes he retrieved from your house for the occasion, but you barely notice. What you do notice is that Joel has shaved while you were getting ready, his beard a little more neat than usual, even if still streaked with the small hints of gray that make your eyes linger. What makes your breath hitch in your throat however are his clothes.

He’s dressed accordingly, in a black suit that’s been patched up in a few places and is half a size too small on his broad frame. You’re alarmingly aware you have never seen him in a suit before—you’re certain you'd remember if you did if this is what he looks like.

It doesn’t quite fit the Joel who’s been following you around the house like an anxious guard dog, the man who wears plaid shirts and jeans so much that you remember being surprised when you first found out he does not, in fact, sleep in them. He always looks comfortable, in his worn shirts and slightly stained clothes, like he’s been wearing them for years, like he’ll never change. Like he’ll never leave. A constant that nothing could take from you, like the peaks of the mountains you can see from Jackson on a clear day.

But now he looks—there is no other way to put it—sexy. The suit, tight in all the right places, momentarily manages to take your mind off the why and you very briefly allow yourself to just stare at him.

“Hey, you’re not gonna pass out on me, are you?” Joel muses, bringing a hand to your shoulder to steady you. He looks worried, the crease on his forehead that never seems to leave it these days a little deeper than usual. Of course he’d think that your behavior can be attributed to your distress. Which it can, technically, just a completely different kind of distress.

“Sorry, no, I'm fine,” you reassure him, pushing your way further into the bedroom and taking a deep breath. He doesn’t move quite in time, causing your side to brush over his and you can actually feel the smooth fabric of his blazer against the skin of your hand where they meet. You catch a whiff of his aftershave—or whatever the hell makes him smell so good—just as you step past him into the bedroom and towards the door, completely missing that the slight scowl on Joel's face has changed ever so slightly.

“Come on, Texas. I don’t wanna be late,” you mumble, trying to lighten the mood—or at least distract from the fact that your brain is ready to head down a wildly inappropriate path. It must be the shock causing it to go haywire, or at least that is what you silently vow to believe.

Still, you’re careful to not turn around far enough to actually see him, keeping him safely out of sight.

Because you really must be the worst person in the world to stand here, about to attend you best friends funeral, and leer over some fucking man.

Just that it's Lane's funeral and a small voice in the back of your head that sounds oddly like her pipes up to say that he does look good and that, if nothing else, this may be the one good thing to come out of today. Joel Miller in a fucking suit.

notes: thank you for reading! i have a few more chapters done but opening this fic is somehow both my therapy and mentally very taxing so bear with me please <3

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