#but once i moved to canada i lost ALL of it

[juice-boxy]

Man I miss being fluent in Español

[dustandthought]

Did Charles commit suicide?

What if he didn’t go north... What if he left for good? (A soul-crushing headcanon about Charles Smith)

What if Charles took his own life? Yes, yes, just like that — what if he left, not north, but FOR GOOD. I keep thinking about this more and more. Because so much about him screams — “I can’t do this anymore.”

Everyone says: he went to Canada. Oh sure, sure. But maybe it’s time to stop repeating that comforting bedtime story. Canada was mentioned once, barely, like a breath. But in another dialogue — he says he wants to go to INDOCHINA. Can you imagine? Indochina! Where is that, and where’s Canada, and where is he? He’s lost. He’s torn. He doesn’t know where to go. Because he feels at home NOWHERE. And all of this — it’s not a plan. It’s emptiness. It’s pain wrapped in scraps of fantasy.

And when he tells John: “What does your family need an old gunslinger for?” — that’s NOT A JOKE. That’s a scream. A plea. A wound masked as a smile. Because he’s the outsider among friends. He’s the extra. He’s just... there. But he’s not part of it. And he knows that. Feels it in his bones. In his heart.

He doesn’t even sleep in the house. Doesn’t sleep on the property. Wanders into the woods. Into the dark. Into solitude. Some would say — it’s just habit, right? He’s used to the wild. Used to isolation. Bullshit. It’s not habit. It’s escape. Because being close — hurts. Watching Abigail, watching John, watching their child — it’s like a blade across the soul. Their dream came true. And him? Who is he? He’s — no one. Once, he was an outcast among outcasts. Now he’s just... the only one left. Alone among the joyful.

And the doubts he voices to John — “Will this life be enough for you?” — that’s not about John. That’s about himself. He’s asking himself. He doesn’t believe happiness is possible for him. That he deserves it. That he’s even capable of feeling something other than this tight, choking loneliness.

And that talk about going north, starting a family, finding a woman... I DON’T BELIEVE IT. NOT A SINGLE WORD. It sounds like a script. A rehearsed line. A mask. A way to say something so they’ll stop asking. He has no plan. No place. No direction. He says it himself. “I don’t know where.”

Not Canada. Not Wapiti. He could’ve gone back there a hundred times. In eight years. But he didn’t. Because he never saw it as home. It was something lost, something nostalgic — not a place he was needed.

And just finding a woman? Really? This is Charles. A man who lets NO ONE in. He’s built like a fortress. In his mind. In his soul. In his silence. And if he lets someone in — it’s forever. And if he doesn’t — no one gets close. This isn’t about “settling down.” This is about finding a soul that moves him. And those are rare. Maybe one. Maybe none.

He says: “These last eight years, I’ve come to accept the things I can’t change.” Is that supposed to be hope? It’s not acceptance. It’s surrender. That’s not light at the end of the tunnel — it’s the tunnel closing in. It’s numbness. It’s emptiness.

And John, dear John… tells him: “You’re the strongest man I know.” I HATE THAT PHRASE. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT HIM. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT ME. It’s NOT strength. It’s survival. It’s when life beats you so hard, all you learn is not to fall. It’s not a choice. It’s endurance. He’s not strong. He’s exhausted. He’s shattered. He’s lonely, he’s silent, and he’s so, so tired.

Even if he met “the one” — would she love him? The real him? The broken one? The quiet one? The distant one? Or would she fall for the mask — for the “I’ve made peace with the past” lie? And if she never sees the real Charles — how could he ever be happy with her? He doesn’t do halfway. Not him.

Abigail and John are different. She knew his pain. All of it. His monsters. His sorrow. She accepted it. Who would accept Charles? Who even knows who he became?

And in that last ride... he says: “I’m heading north.” Turns down Sadie’s offer to work together. Says it’s time to move on. But what if he wasn’t moving forward. What if he was moving toward the end.

(Another powerful and unwavering argument for me: we all remember how Charles and John ride out to save Uncle in the epilogue — and how Charles, with a chilling steadiness, says that if the uncle’s wounds are too severe, the only mercy left would be to help him cross over. He speaks of killing — not driven by hatred, not poisoned by cruelty — but as a final act of love, a broken, desperate kindness to release a soul from agony. And I ask: was it only uncle’s suffering Charles wished to end? Or was he, too, reaching for a way to quiet his own howling grief? I believe he was. I believe he desperately was.)

What if that was his way of saying goodbye. Softly. Quietly. Not “farewell.” Just — gone. So they could keep living, believing he’s somewhere out there. Alive. Just... far. But in truth — he had already made peace. He had written his ending.

Not to the north. Not to Wapiti. Not to a woman. But to the place where nothing hurts anymore.

And if that’s what happened... if he really left...

...maybe, finally, he found peace.

[intheupside]

He was perfectly polite with Swedish reporters when they asked about his experience here in Stockholm. He was even funny. Yet, his grumpiness was noticeable.

MacKinnon’s peak years are coming to an end. He turns 30 in September. What he surely thought was the beginning of a potential dynasty has instead resulted in one playoff series win in three years, leaving MacKinnon in Sweden.

Do you like Sweden, Nate? 

“We love it,” he said. “We all might move here. Really nice, clean city. People are really nice. It’s been a nice experience.”

Then came the question he was dreading.

Why did you decide to come?

“I have nothing else to do,” he said. “I might as well play hockey.”

“It is fun,” MacKinnon said. “I love playing Worlds, honestly. It just feels like I can have fun again. The season is stressful. It’s more work. This is optional. So, it’s a lot of fun. And, like I said, it’s May. I have nothing better to do.”

MacKinnon, of course, should have something better to do in May. His decorated teammates know the feeling.

The visual was striking after Canada’s win against Austria on Thursday.

At one end of a hallway stood MacKinnon, surrounded by European reporters who were asking polite but redundant questions about playing in Sweden. MacKinnon handled it like a pro, but you could feel him seething from 20 feet away. He wasn’t seething at the reporters. He was still wearing the pain of the Game 7 loss to Dallas all over his face.

Crosby and Fleury stood a few feet to the right.

Fleury was giving a comedy routine and had the European media cackling, as only he can. One reporter noticed that Fleury was giving air high fives to players from afar after one of MacKinnon’s goals. Fleury didn’t understand the question at first, so he asked the reporter to repeat himself.

After hearing the question again, Fleury explained that he’s a man of many superstitions, and one of them is high-fiving people when they aren’t nearby.

“Good observation,” Fleury said. “You were watching.”

Crosby was done speaking with the media while Fleury was busy entertaining a new wave of reporters. Team Canada’s captain walked behind the goaltender and gave him a playful punch while walking past. Crosby then turned around and grinned at Fleury.

B-level tournament or not, they’re having fun. It’s good for the soul.

MacKinnon, legendary for his uncommon level of intensity, followed his buddy Crosby a moment later. Even MacKinnon stopped and grinned at Fleury.

“Never played with him before,” MacKinnon said. “Amazing person.”

MacKinnon hasn’t just walked a few miles around Stockholm. He has walked a few miles in the shoes once worn by Crosby and Fleury.

It’s not easy when you’re in your prime and not playing NHL playoff hockey in mid-May. But Crosby and Fleury have been there, and they never lost their ability to smile.

This could be yet another lesson MacKinnon has learned from Crosby over the years. Having Fleury along for the ride can only help.

I wouldn’t expect MacKinnon to start high-fiving himself anytime soon. But a smile or two would do him good.

[thegalleonsnest]

OK since I haven't seen too many people talk about this since twitter news usually strikes pretty fast over here whenever e'usk does anything ever, let me give ya'll the run down on two things that will go live on NOVEMBER 15TH and why people are mass migrating to Blue Sky once more; and provide resources to help protect your art and make the transition to Blue Sky easier if you so choose:

The Block function no longer blocks people as intended. It now basically acts as a glorified Mute button. Even when you block someone, they can still see your posts, but they can't engage in them. If your account is a Public one and not a Private one, people you blocked will see your posts.

They say because people can easily "share and hide harmful or private information about those they've blocked," they changed it this way for "greater transparency." When in reality, this is an extremely dangerous change, as the whole point of blocking is to cease interaction with people entirely for a plethora of reasons, i.e. stalking, harassment, spam, endangerment, or just plainly annoying and not wanting to see said tweets/accounts. or you know, for 18+ accounts who do not want minors interacting with them or their material at all (There is speculation saying these changes are specifically for Elon himself so he can do his own kind of stalking, and honestly, with the private likes change, it lowkey checks out in my opinion)

Also, this straight up goes against and may violate Apple and Google's app store policies and also is straight up illegal in Canada and probably other countries as well.

If this ACTUALLY goes through, twitter will only be available in select countries, probably exclusively in the US, which would collapse the site with the lost of users and stock, and probably be the last push it needs to kill the site. And if not, will be a very sad and exclusive platform made for specific kinds of people who line up with musk's line of thinking.

2. New policies regarding Grok AI and basically removing the option to opt out of Grok's information gathering to improve their software.

And anything you upload/post on the site is considered "fair game" with "royalty-free licenses" and they can do whatever they please with it. Primarily using any and all posts on twitter to train their Grok AI. A few months ago, there was a setting you can opt out of so they couldn't take anything you post to "improve" Grok, but I guess because so many people were opting out, they decided to make it mandatory as part of the policy change (This is mainly speculation from what I hear).

So this is considered the final straw for a LOT of people, especially artists who have been gripping on to twitter for as long as they can, but the AI nonsense is too much for people now, including myself. Lot's of people are moving to Blue Sky for good reason, and from personal experience, it is literally 10x better than twitter ever was, even before elon took over. There is no algorithm on there, and you can save "feeds" to your timeline to have a catered timelines to hop between if your looking for something specific like furry art or game dev stuff. It's taken them a bit to get off the ground and add much needed features, but it's genuinely so much better now

RESOURCES

Project Glaze & Cara

If you're an artist who's still on twitter or trying to ride it out for as long as you can for whatever reason you have, do yourself a favor and Glaze and/or Nightshade your work. Project Glaze is a free program designed to protect your art work from getting scrapped by AI machines. Glazing basically makes it harder to adapt and copy artwork that AI programs try to scan, while Nightshade basically "poisons" works to make AI libraries much more unstable and generate images completely off the mark. (These are layman's terms I'm using here, but follow the link to get more information)

The only problem with these programs is that they can be resource intensive for computers, and not every pc can run glaze. It's basically like rendering a frame/animation, you gotta let your pc sit there to get it glazed/nightshade, and depending on the intensity and power of your pc, this may take minutes to hours depending on how much you wanna protect your work.

HOWEVER, there are two alternatives, WebGlaze and Cara

WebGlaze is an in browser version of the program, so your pc doesn't have to do the heavy lifting. You do need to have an account with Glaze and be invited to use the program (I have not done so personally so I don't know much about the process.)

Cara is an artist focused site that doubles as both a portfolio site and a general social media platform. They've partnered with Glaze and have their own browser glazing called "Cara Glaze," and highly encourage users to post their work Glazed and are extremely anti-ai. You do get limited uses per day to glaze your work, so if you plan on doing a huge backlog uploading of your art, it may take awhile if your using just Cara Glaze.

Some twitter users have suggested glazing your art, cropping it, and overlaying it with a frame telling people to follow them elsewhere like on Bluesky. Here's a template someone provided if you wanna use this one or make your own.

Blue Sky Resources and Tips

So if your a twitter user and your about to realize the hellish task of refollowing a massive chunk of people you follow, have no fear, there's an extension called Sky Follower Bridge (Firefox & Chrome links). This is a very basic extension that makes it really easy to find people on Bluesky

It sorts them out by trying to find matching usernames, usernames in descriptions, or by screen name. It's not 100% perfect, there's a couple people I already follow on Blue Sky but the extension could not find them on twitter correctly, but I still found a huge chunk of people. Also if your worried that this extension is "iffy," they do have a github open with the source publicly available and the Blue Sky Team themselves have promoted the extension in their recent posts while welcoming new users to the platform.

FEEDS and LABELS

OK SO THE COOLEST PART ABOUT BLUESKY IS THE FEEDS SYSTEM. Basically if you've made a twitter list before, it's like that, but way more customizable and caters to specific types of posts/topics. Consolidating them into a timeline/feed that exclusively filled about those particular topics, or just people in general. There's thousands to pick and choose from!

Here's a couple of mine that I have saved and ready (down below). Some feeds I have saved so I can jump to seeing what my friends and mutuals are up to, and see their posts specifically so it doesn't get lost in reposts or other accounts, and also specialized feeds for browsing artists within the furry community.

The Furry Community feeds I have here were created by people who've built an algorithm to place any #furry or #furryart or other special tags like #Furrystreamer or #furrydev. They even have one for commissions, and yes you can say commissions on a post and not have it destroyed or shadow banned. You are safe.

If you want, and I highly recommend it to get visibility and check out a neat community, follow furryli.st to get added to their list and feeds. Once your on the list, even without a hashtag, you'll still pop up in their specialized feeds as just a member of the community there. There are plenty of other feeds out there besides this one, but I feel like a lot of people could use one like this. They even got ones for OC specific too I remember seeing somewhere.

And in terms of labels, they can be either ways to help label yourself with specific things or have user created accessibility settings to help better control your experience on Blue Sky.

And my personal favorite: Ai Imagery Labeler. Removes any AI stuff or hides it to the best of it's abilities, and it does a pretty good job, I have not seen anything AI related since subscribing to it.

Finally, HASHTAGS WORK & No need to censor yourself!

This is NOT like twitter or any other big named social media site AT ALL, so you don't have to work around words to get your stuff out there and be seen. There are literally feeds built around having commissions getting and art seen! Some people worry about bots and that has been a recent issue since a lot of people are migrating to Blue Sky, but it comes with any social media territory.

ALSO COOL PART,

you can search a hashtag on someone's profile and search exclusively on that profile as well! You can even put the hashtag in bio for easy access if you have a specialize tag like here on tumblr. OR EVEN BUILD YOUR OWN ART FEED FOR YOUR STUFF SPECIFICALLY!

So yeah, there's your quick run down about twitter's current burning building, how to protect your art, and what to do when you move to Blue Sky! Have fun!

[rowdyluv]

Say Yes - qh43

Summary: Quinn’s girlfriend attends the Hughes Bowl at Rogers Arena. She’s overtly in love with him (kind of annoying tbh) Quinn surprises her after the game.

Warnings: fluff, obsessy gf, eyes don’t leave bf, use of y/n, oc?

Word Count: 2.35k

Notes: I chose a random name for readers best friend. Ahem split second appearance of other nhler with bff. May or may not have successfully? wrote something.

In the hustling and bustling heart of Vancouver, nestled between the towering skyscrapers and the gentle caress of the Pacific sea breeze, stood the mighty Rogers Arena. Its gleaming exterior reflected the city's vibrant energy, a beacon of excitement that drew in locals and tourists alike. The chilly winter evening had descended, casting a soft glow upon the cobblestone streets, as the anticipation for the night's event grew palpable.

The Hughes Bowl also known as the Vancouver Canucks versus the New Jersey Devils

Inside the arena, the air was electric. The mouthwatering scent of popcorn and nachos mingled with the faint aroma of fresh lemonade and the mixture of alcohol in some areas. The thunderous roar of the crowd grew louder with every passing second, echoing through the vast space like a crescendo of anticipation.

Y/N and Mia, perched in the first row by the glass barrier, were surrounded by a sea of blue and green jerseys. A few red and black jerseys sprinkled in the mix. Guests in attendance dressed out were the die-hard fans, their eyes glued to the rink, where the players currently skated about in a blur of motion, warming up for the night’s showdown between the Canucks and the Devils.

When the lights had dimmed and both national anthems for Canada and the United States had a chance to play, a collective chorus of cheers fell over the stadium.

The spotlights that once bathed the ice in a soft multicolored glow lifted replaced with the bright white, and the players took their positions.

Quinn, was the center of y/n’s attention, his eyes focused and intense. He looked over at Y/N and Mia, flashing a quick smile that sent her heart racing. The puck dropped, and the game was underway.

Throughout the first period, Y/N did all she could to try and memorize every move Quinn made. An attempt to hold on to his years in the league for when they’re long over. His stick-handling was mesmerizing, a dance of precision and power that left the opposition scrambling. Whenever he checked one of his brothers, she held onto a strange mix of pride and protectiveness that swelled within her. She knew that behind the smiles and jovial rivalry, they were all fighting for the same thing: victory.

Leaning over to Mia, she whispered excitedly, "Did you see that? He totally outplayed them both! Jack and Luke!" Each time she spoke, her voice grew a little louder, the excitement spilling over like a fizzy drink. Mia, ever the supportive best friend, nodded and cheered along, even though she wasn't as versed in the nuances of the game. Y/N's eyes never left the ice when her love was on for a shift, captivated by the grace and strength of the man she loved.

Midway through the second period, Quinn scored a breathtaking goal through the goalie’s 5-hole. He spun around, stick in the air, as the crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheers. Y/N's face lit up brighter than the goal lamp as she jumped to her feet, slapping the glass in exhilaration. Quinn skated to where she was sitting behind the glass. He blew her a kiss and yelled to her, “that was for you babygirl.” She turned to Mia, her eyes sparkling with pure joy, "I knew he was just as bad as you are!" Mia giggled, pulling her best friend in to a hug, the sound of their laughter lost in the deafening applause.

The game continued, each play more intense than the last. The tension grew as the score remained close, neither team willing to concede an inch of the ice. With every check, every pass, and every shot on net, Y/N felt her heart pound harder in her chest. Her eyes never left Quinn, not even when his brothers had the puck. It was as if she could feel his every move, his every breath. Her cheers grew louder, her hands slapping the glass more vigorously, leaving behind a smudge of her palm print like a silent applause.

In the third period, the game reached a fever pitch. The crowd was on the edge of their seats, a symphony of hope and nerves. The Devils had managed to tie the game, and the Canucks were desperate to pull ahead. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the metallic tang of fear. With minutes to go, Quinn stole the puck from his youngest brother, breaking away on a two-on-one. The arena held its collective breath as he streaked down the ice, the sound of his skates slicing through the frozen surface like a knife through butter.

Y/N's eyes were glued to him, her heart racing in her chest. The play unfolded before her in slow motion, every second stretching into an eternity. Quinn passed the puck to his teammate, who whipped it back to him with the grace of a ballet dancer. The goalie saw it coming, but it was too late. Quinn's shot was a rocket, flying straight into the top corner of the net. The arena erupted into a frenzy of cheers and the sound of thousands of hands clapping together in unison. The goal lamp flashed red, the buzzer sounded, Quinn’s media tape looped on the scoreboard. His teammates rushed him for a celebration. Y/n was watching in awe of her man. Mia was watching her best friend in happy wonder.

Mia nudged her, "Looks like you got yourself a star player!" she said, her voice barely audible over the din. Y/N nodded, her smile so wide it hurt. She felt like she was floating, the adrenaline from the goal still pulsing through her veins. The final buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game. The score was 3-2 in favor of the Canucks. The arena echoed with the chant of "Quinn! Quinn! Quinn!" She could see the pure elation on his face as he skated over to her, the grin stretching from ear to ear. He tapped the glass, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Quinn had the last scoring game puck in his hand. He had already wrote on it and brought it straight to her, he pointed up towards the top of the barrier and then to her, a silent message he was tossing it to her. With a flick of his wrist, he flung it over, sending it soaring through the air. Time seemed to slow as it spun, a perfect arc of twisting team logos and black against the vibrant backdrop of the cheering crowd. Y/N's hand shot up, her palm open and ready to receive it. The puck smacked into her palm with a satisfying thud, the residual ice shavings from the game still clinging to it.

The crowd's roar grew even louder as they noticed the gesture, the cameras flashing from the stands and the Jumbotron spotlighted on her, capturing her disbelief and pure happiness. She clutched the puck to her chest, feeling its coldness against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth flooding her cheeks. The moment was surreal, a memory she knew she'd cherish forever. She mouthed a silent "thank you" to Quinn, who was already being dragged away by his teammates for an impromptu interview.

As the players filed off the ice, the tension in the arena didn't dissipate. Instead, it transformed into a buzz of excitement and congratulations. Y/N watched Quinn closely, her eyes tracing his every move as he was interviewed, his voice steady and humble despite the victory. He talked about teamwork and the importance of family, never failing to mention his brothers and their shared love for the sport. Her heart bursting with pride as she heard him speak, his words resonating with the audience.

Finally, the moment came. The Zamboni glided onto the ice, smoothing out the battleground where Quinn had just claimed victory. He skated over to the bench, his gaze seeking hers through the throngs of people. She waved, the puck still clutched in her hand, a symbol of his triumph. He pointed at her, then at the locker room, signaling for her to wait for him. The crowd began to disperse, the blue and green jerseys forming rivers of humanity that flowed through the arena's exits.

Y/N and Mia remained in their seats before heading down to wait outside of the locker room, the excitement still coursing through them like an electric current. They chatted animatedly about the game, replaying Quinn's heroics in their minds, their voices a mix of disbelief and pride. As the last of the fans trickled out, the arena staff started prepare for the post-game cleanup.

The doors to the locker room finally swung open, and the players began to emerge, their faces flushed from exertion and their eyes gleaming with the adrenaline of victory. Quinn spotted Y/N immediately, his grin growing even wider when he saw the puck in her hand. His strides to her were urgent and quick, the sound of his skates, that were hanging off the side of his bag, clanking against one another echoing through the now-quiet corridor. He was dressed back in his game day suit, no tie, but perfectly put together.

Y/N looked up at him, her confusion palpable. "Why aren't you in your comfy clothes?" she questioned, gesturing to his suit.

Quinn chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "I had to make an impression, didn't I?" He leaned down, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Besides, I had a surprise for you."

Y/N turned the puck over in her hand, her eyes widening as she read the message scrawled in black sharpie. "Best game of my life," it read, "make it better by saying yes." Her cheeks flushed, and she looked up at him, her eyes filling with unshed tears as he’s down on one knee. "Quinn, this is..."

"It’s crazy, yes but I couldn't wait. You're it for me, you're everything. And after that game, playing against my brothers, I just know this is right." His voice was earnest, his gaze unwavering as he pulled out a small velvet box. “Yes I know in front of the locker room isn’t ideal, but I just had the best game I’ve had in months, I finally beat my brothers. You’re the girl of my dreams and I can’t hold onto this any longer because I’m afraid the yahoos behind you will let it out while they’re here. So baby, please will you marry me?” Quinn asks tears of love in his eyes.

Y/N felt as if the world had stopped spinning. She looked down at the box in his hand, her heart racing like a bullet train. She assumed this was coming later on in life, but she never expected it to happen here, in the lower interior of the arena she had watched him play in so many times before. An indescribable warmth spread through her, expansive spread across her from her toes to her fingertips. She looked into his eyes, her voice shaking with raw emotion, "Yes, Quinn. Yes, I'll marry you."

The words hung in the air, suspended for a moment before reality crashed back in. The locker room doors opened wider, and his remaining teammates spilled out, cheering and clapping. They had been waiting for this moment, and now it was here. Quinn slipped the ring onto her finger, the diamond sparkling under the harsh fluorescent lights. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made just for her. She couldn't help but admire it, the way it caught the light and danced across her skin. Y/n turned to Jack and Luke to greet the brothers she was unaware were there until Quinn said something, but instead was met by Jim and Ellen.

“You’ll officially be our daughter!” Ellen saps pulling y/n into a hug.

“Can’t wait to have another female Hughesy!” Jim laughed with her, ruffling up her hair.

Y/n’s eyes are misty with happy tears. She hadn’t seen this coming like this at all, she had thought maybe it would happen in a year or two but not now.

It doesn’t matter the timing, Quinn is forever hers and she’s forever his.

“Quinn, This, here. It’s perfect.” She says, her voice full of wonder and love. “I wouldn’t want it any other way. So it is ideal. Don’t worry about what it looks like.”

Quinn broke away from Elias and Brock’s playful teasing, his smile growing as he wrapped her in a warm embrace. The cheers of his teammates and the small gathering of family erupting once more, but all Y/N could hear was the steady beat of his heart against her chest. He leaned down, cupping her face in his hands, and kissed her.

It was a kiss filled with the passion of a thousand suns, the promise of a lifetime together, and the sweetness of a love that had only grown stronger with each passing day. His lips were gentle yet firm, a declaration of his love and commitment. Hers responded eagerly, her arms snaking around his neck, the coldness of the ice forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Mia had been standing off to the side watching her best friend happily. As the couple kissed she muttered to what she thought was just herself “I’m so painfully single.”

“You and me both. Hi, name is Nico. Captain of the New Jersey Devils.”

[sometimesoliloquy]

You know what, Nick’s “cus you chose him, you chose Luke” is actually giving me a new and even more nuanced view of 5x10 and the whole heartbreaking “she has people that care for her. She doesn’t need me. I’m nothing” speech.

I always assumed that Nick fully expected June to go back to Luke whenever she got free of Gilead. I figured he probably always had this in the back of his mind once June learned Luke was alive, especially as he was trying to get her out at the start of s2, and that it just became even more concrete after he met Luke in 2x09, with Luke telling him he’d never stop loving June, and her reaction when Nick delivers the message.

But what if deep down in the darkest corner of his heart where he keeps safe the impossible dreams he can’t say out loud… what if he had thought there was a chance that just maybe, she wouldn’t (and then what)? What if he confirms June has gotten to Canada and is living with Luke, and with that question finally settled, only then goes and marries Rose, his attempt to somehow (however misguidedly) move on, and let June live the life he thinks she wants.

After all, why would Nick want to defect to Canada only to play awkward 3rd wheel to June and Luke? Living with the indefinite pain of being so close to her and not having her (and not even able to be of use to her as he is—and is constantly striving to be—while in Gilead) while being otherwise completely alone: an alien in a thoroughly unfamiliar place, potentially detained for an indefinite period and likely reviled as a war criminal by many even after he’s pardoned? He wouldn’t want that life, and maybe even more, selflessly, he wouldn’t want to complicate things for June as she tries to “rebuild” a life with Luke and Holly. So he tries to build something of a life for himself in Gilead, to keep surviving and try to make things better (if he can trust Lawrence). But only after he’s confirmed she’s reunited with Luke.

When he meets with June in 5x09, she actually does express her desire for him to defect to Canada (“Why didn’t you say yes to Mark?”) but it’s followed by a direct reminder of the circumstances: “I have Luke”. It’s not really June expressing her desire for Nick (“I only feel that way about you”), to be with Nick. It would be as the third wheel. The side piece. The forever second choice. At least that’s what he believes. And of course it’s all impossibly further complicated at this point by Rose and the coming baby. A fine mess, as June says.

So in 5x10 he says what he now knows (believes) to be true “she doesn’t need me”. But he’s really not giving Tuello the full answer: that he didn’t run away with June earlier, when he had the chance, because he always wanted her to have the choice, because he would never take away the chance for her to make the decision for her life, her future, even if it would mean she didn’t choose him. And in his eyes she’s chosen Luke.

Perhaps he thought he’d made peace with that, but in this new open vulnerability of his (as his carefully crafted Commander facade starts to crumble), seeing her again for the first time since he thought he may have lost her for good (again); for the first time since he admitted to Rose (and maybe to himself) that he can’t let her go, he can’t help letting out this telling glimpse of his inner most desire: “you chose him” (I wish you’d chosen me). “I only feel that way about you” (I still wish you’d choose me, I would drop everything for you.)

It’s not just an impossible pipe dream living rent free in his head anymore, it’s a tangibly spoken (if somewhat coded) wish. And even though he doesn’t trust Tuello, maybe he still has “no you’re not, Commander, not to her” ringing in his ears as he puts it all out there, praying she’ll prove that true.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 136 (Twists and Turns)

The next morning, Heather woke to a fresh blanket of spring snow (must be Canada 😂). She was hit with another bout of nausea, and stunned by news that one of her vet techs, Rico Garrison, had been unceremoniously culled killed in a shock drowning accident in Dachshund's Creek. This left her down a tech and about to commit to a months-long rebuild of Buttercup Pet Clinic.

Despite the unseasonably snowy holiday and feeling less than stellar, Heather had to go to work to cover Rico's appointments. She felt horrible for her best tech, Kaori Hayashi, who had been dating Rico since late winter. They were even expecting a child, which meant Heather would soon lose Kaori to maternity leave, too. At least Thaddeus, her most recent hire, could help pick up the slack, but this was undoubtedly a tragic setback.

Despite the unseasonal snowfall, J Huntington came in with his dog, Archimedes, thanking Heather for her advice over working with Landgraab Corp. "I signed the contract to give them the company. They'll take care of straightening out George's books, and for the first time, my guys will get healthcare, so everyone's on board with the change."

Heather forced a smile. She didn't care much for things that would please Nancy Landgraab, but she knew a strong presence at the docks was important after everything they'd been through over winter. "I'm happy for you," she said, and it wasn't a total lie.

She returned home in mid-afternoon, finding her younger sister back from Henford in the living room. "Hey Hazel! How was Easter dinner?"

"It was great." She fiddled with the hem of her jacket as she sat on the sofa. "I'm sorry I got upset with you while you were away. I was freaking out about all the marriage talk, but I shouldn't have put that on you."

"It's okay," said Heather. "I'm not upset, but I couldn't tell you what you should do. What if I had said no?" (That option won the poll, by the way!)

"I would've been more upset," she admitted. "I'm not ready to marry again right now, but I want to be with her for a long time."

"Did you talk to Suri?"

"I did. She said she's been feeling like she needs to hold on to the important people in her life since she lost her aunt so suddenly, and I totally understand what she's going through. But it's too soon to get married. We want to live together first - just the two of us."

"Here in Brindleton Bay?"

Hazel nodded. "I like working with Alex Goth, and the deal's almost done for Suri to buy the Salty Paw. She said when the owners found out her grandmother was Clara Bjergsen they did their own renovations and upped the price, but once a deal goes through, I'll move in with her in the small apartment over the bar."

"There's an apartment over the bar?"

"Not much of one, but we're going to try to turn it into something nice."

"I'm happy for you, Hazel. And I'm happy you handled this so maturely with Suri."

"You didn't think I could, did you."

"I hoped you would."

"Are you sure you guys won't miss me when I'm gone?"

"The Salty Paw's only about fifteen blocks away."

They laughed together and Hazel smiled. "Thanks for everything, sis. You're the best."

Heather still wasn't feeling great as she tried to get a few chores done around the house. She'd started to feel like she was fighting off an infection; it was time to see a doctor, so she left Conrad at home with Lavender to visit her gynecologist.

But she came home in a daze, stunned by the doctor's diagnosis. She found Conrad and Lavender upstairs, chatting as Lavender tried to bargain for another story. "When you're five, we'll talk about a later bedtime, but until then, that's now. Time to get into your pajamas." Conrad's attention turned when Heather shut the bedroom door behind her. "Hey! What did the doctor say?"

Heather sighed. "Well, I have a UTI. But that, the nausea, the fatigue...they have nothing to do with the spider bite."

Conrad's face fell. "What's up? You're okay...right?"

"I'm pregnant. About seven weeks."

She smiled as his expression flipped from concern to ecstatic joy. "Heather, that's incredible!"

Lavender glanced at her parents with confusion. "What's pregnen?"

"It means you're going to have a baby brother or sister."

Lavender still wasn't sure what they meant. "I have a brother awreddy. Can it be sister?"

"We don't choose, sweet girl."

"I hope it's a sister!"

After tucking Lavender into bed they settled onto the sofa for a comfortable night in, but their movie was interrupted when Heather's phone rang. She checked the call display before she connected the call. "Malcolm? What's going on? Is Ash there?"

The line was quiet for a long time. Too long, and Heather felt the phone start to shake in her hand. Finally, she heard Malcolm take a breath.

"Heather...I...It's...Ash is missing. H-he's been kidnapped." ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

NOTE: Sorry I buried the baby news, but I didn't have enough content to make a whole other post and I set myself another arbitrary deadline to get to a certain point in the story by a certain date. And Heather was supposed to learn she was pregnant later than this, but the mod-generated UTI sent her to the gynecologist and she/we found out earlier than planned. No offense to this very wanted baby but ASH IS MISSING!!

NOTE 2: @purplesimmer455 the way I couldn't react with the excitement I wanted to your meme share on Sunday knowing I paid homage to it in this very post ("What's pregnen?") and didn't want to give the truth away yet! 😅 Shout out to @matchalovertrait who also guessed this, and @changingplumbob who I think was thinking it when she asked why Ash's room had bunk beds. I made up a small fib about repurposing the tiny nursery space, but actually I still need it for the new nooboo!

NOTE 3: On one hand, it's very sad that Rico was culled when he's expecting a baby. On another hand, this is a setback on my likely-fruitless search for a five-star rating because now I have to train up a new tech! Tragic!!

WCIF Phone Poses: Unexpected Phone Call by @starrysimsie and Shocked News by @simmireen. I used @nataliaauditore-blog's iPhone 11 accessory in both poses.

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

hey! I see your posts about immigration, especially it being decreased under the new administration, and wonder what you feel the dangers are that immigrants pose?

Legal immigration? Very little. Illegal immigration? Tons. Rapes, murders, welfare fraud, terrorism (remember all these people being let across the border were, for the most part, released into the country unvetted and never tracked), increased gang acticity (MS-13, TdA, and other gangs are almost exclusively made up of and/or run by illegals) human trafficking (60% of the children that are brought into the country come with adults who aren't related to them. we have 400,000 children that came across the border that we lost track of and most of them, if they're still alive, are most likely being sex trafficked), slavery (I think it was two or three years ago that we found a bunch of illegals being used as slave labor on a farm in the US). And before you go "but that's happening to the illegals!", yes. Illegal immigration harms Americans and illegals alike. Illegals are mostly trafficked across the border by cartels. Their journeys here are perilous and women and children who make them are routinely subject to sexual abuse by the people trafficking them across the border. Oftentimes they get close to the border and are told, in addition to the thousands of dollars they already spent, they now owe thousands more. If they can't pay, they are either killed, sold into indentured servitude, or sold for sexual purposes.

There are also the economic factors to consider. Many illegals don't pay taxes and work for well below minimum wage. They send their money out of the country and into foreign hands, so that money never reenters the US economy the way citizens' money does. Every job held by an illegal is a job that won't be held by an American, increasing unemployment. And yes, Americans will very much "do those jobs" as long as they're being paid real wages.

And then there's the cultural factor of importing masses of people from foreign cultures that are largely incompatible with western liberal democratic cultures. Granted, we don't have as big of a problem with that as the Europeans do since South American and North American cultures have more in common than European and Middle Eastern, but the people who come here illegally aren't the cream of the crop where they come from. They're often uneducated, unskilled workers that immediately become a drain on our already overstrained welfare system.

I got to see the town next to the one I grew up in destroyed in real time over a period of about 15 years because of a mass influx of Guatemalan illegals. What was once a well off New York City suburb became almost a slum. Businesses closed. It wasn't safe to be out at night. The streets were teeming with unwashed masses that spit and pissed on the sidewalk. Violent crime went up. Vandalism went up. Drug dealers moved in. It got to the point where people would drive 30 minutes out of their way to catch a train so they didn't have to commute to the city using the train station in that town. There were some good people included with the trash, but even they were contributing to the problem. Me and my dad, before it got really bad, were at a restaurant (one that my dad had been going to since he was a child and that closed about a year after the owner retired and turned it over to the guy I'm about to talk about) and we were ten feet away from the Guatemalan bartender talking to a middle aged white couple about how they were going to smuggle the rest of his family into the country. They were talking about flying them up to Canada and crossing the border up there. This guy was nice and friendly, well dressed and clean. Our family was on a first name basis with him and he always talked with us when we went to eat there. But he was still paying people to bring in more illegals. And he wasn't ready to run a business. We moved out of NY before the restaurant closed, so I don't know what happened to him afterwards, but the town never recovered despite efforts over the years to revitalize it. You can't revitalize something when the people that live there don't care or don't know how to maintain a nice, American suburban town.

Illegal immigration, especially mass illegal immigration, helps no one. It only causes harm.

[moonlight-prose]

PICK YOUR POISON

➻ 01. ATROPA BELLADONNA

a/n: the october season calls for me to delve into the grotesque and gothic story ideas i save up year round. so that's what this is! i love the idea of logan howlett stuck with an immortal reader. but there's a twist. our lovely reader isn't a mutant, but someone cursed to live life in the worst way possible. i hope you enjoy the small journey these two go on and happy spooky season!

summary: life as a lumberjack gives him the freedom to pretend he's human. that he hasn't lived enough lives to leave him withered and weary. ready for the grave that will never come. until he happens upon an unmarked grave in the middle of the forest and his life changes forever.

word count: 4.2k+

pairing: lumberjack!logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: NOT EXPLICIT BUT DARK THEMES AHEAD, gothic themes, horror, necrophilia (kind of!), death, graves, vomiting, tw: blood, feral reader, poison, immortal!reader, curses, witchcraft of some kind, chance encounters, they're both a little unhinged in this one.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

The forest is silent save for the rhythmic thump of an axe against wood. Life doesn't exist in the small sphere of dead branches and fallen leaves. No bugs, no birds. The wolves hunt elsewhere; the prey have all but abandoned a place where death permeates the air.

What was nature to do when someone so unnatural had been laid to rest?

He knew he was too far from the predetermined area. The yellow tape was marked for trees ready to be chopped down. But the sound of the men laughing about some bar they found had set his teeth on edge—a rush of anger from deep in his chest now resurfacing quicker than he liked.

Some days were better than others. Some days he could join in on the laughter, make simple conversation, and pretend to be normal.

Other days he felt the clawing urge to bite and snap and dig his claws into flesh rear in his head. Try as he might, he couldn't ignore that unhinged sensation. Even if he wanted to. On those days he preferred to be alone. Away from humanity, separate from what they wanted from him.

They saw him as a man.

Not an animal.

That should be enough to appease his restless spirit; give him some peace after so much chaos.

His teeth ground together in his clenched mouth, sweat sticking to the back of his neck despite the cold weather. The axe felt like an extension of his arms. Hacking away at the base of a tree he knew would make enough noise to draw attention once it tipped. That didn't deter him from repeating his swing. From baring his teeth and growling through it in order to dig out what calm he could.

The blade wedged itself halfway into the bark before he heard it. The stifled scream of a woman. His body went stiff, head whipping around to see if someone had followed him. The instincts from before—days spent as a soldier still burned into his nerves—began to overtake his senses as another muffled scream pierced his eardrums.

He left the axe behind, heart thumping an unsteady beat in his chest as he made for the forest. Trees blocked what little sunlight poured through dense clouds; the air a murky fog that chilled his lungs with each breath. He could taste the sap dripping off tree bark on the tip of his tongue—his mind clinging to the edge of sanity as he moved.

Twigs snapped beneath his boots, leaves cracked with the weight of his body, but Logan couldn't think about moving silently. Someone was getting hurt. He could practically smell their fear. The heady coagulated tang of blood spilled over the forest floor.

"Hello?" he called out, emerging through the thicket of branches.

A small clearing gave way to what little light remained in the afternoon. Petrichor lingered in the pockets of clear air, familiar enough to set his earlier anxieties aside. Fall in Canada shepherded rain forward with a heavy hand.

He knew the woods would be soaked come morning. Any signs of life lost to the pelting drops of rain that dragged hail right alongside it.

His feet stopped at the edge of freshly packed dirt, a shovel tossed to the side with a dent in the metal large enough to resemble the size of a skull. Sucking in air, the hair rose on the back of his neck when the shriek sounded again. Pained. Anguished. As if someone was fighting to claw their way to the surface.

"Fuck," he gasped, dropping to one knee—fingers burrowing in the moist soil and heaving it over to the side. "I'm here. I've got ya!"

Another muffled cry filtered through the layers of dirt as he dug with heaving breaths. Sweat prickled along his forehead, dripping down his temple. The brine of salt dripping onto the already muddy area. What hope he could grasp onto began to slip through his fingers; now dragged beneath the surface of an already haunted forest.

Logan stumbled back when a hand shot through the dirt, piercing the ground by his foot. He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide as an arm appeared, fingers grasping for leverage in the loose topsoil. He'd never experienced terror before. True fear that lingered in the bottom of his chest, echoing a solemn tune he wanted to rip from his flesh. But the sight of someone clinging to life filled his lungs with water.

You could feel it. The dirt and stones that packed themselves beneath your nails, slicing open what remained of the once pretty nail bed. It happened later this time. Took longer than you expected. Crimson blood mixed with the black soil as you vomited what stuffed itself into your lungs; the impacted earth was too heavy for your body to hold onto and thus the result remained the same.

Somehow it felt worse each time.

A cry of agony pierced the brume—splitting open the silence that could no longer exist. And with another heave, you managed to free yourself from a shitty dug grave with barely enough dirt to cover.

Sucking in a lungful of air, you collapsed to the ground. Body nude and streaked with mud. You couldn't tell which parts of you were sliced open this time around, could barely make out the color of the trees through the thick layer of fog. But the leather brown boots two feet away caught your attention instantly.

With a whimper, you lifted your head—eyes latched onto the broad man above you who looked ready to lose his breakfast, or join you on the ground. Perhaps both with the way his paled face stilled at the sight of you.

Of course, the time it took to return would fuck up your plans for solitude. Of course, you would have company at the worst possible moment.

This part was never easy.

"Hi," you meekly rasped, voice entirely gone from how many times you screamed.

Harrowing silence became the space that hung between your body and his. You curled your toes to force the blood back down through your veins. Hands holding an unsteady shake that would take a good hour to dissipate. You began to notice the color of his flannel—a deep umber with lines of brown. The scent of cedar permeating the air; sap a thick sweetness you could practically taste in the back of your throat.

Senses took a few moments to return back to their original vigor. Yet you couldn't allow yourself to slip into the you from twelve hours ago.

Not when the man still watched you, eyes overflowing with dread. You wondered if he was real. Would he flinch if you swung a fist at his shin? Or was your dilapidated mind conjuring him in a hallucinatory haze you'd eventually break free from.

Pushing yourself up on trembling limbs, you managed to contort your half paralyzed body into a sitting position. The feeling would return to your numb core; the steady drip of life slowly seeping back into your veins the longer you remained still.

Movement seemed to puncture a hole in his stupefied mind—yanking him back to reality. He dropped to one knee with a heavy exhale. "Who the fuck did this to you?"

You wanted to laugh. You nearly did laugh.

How were you meant to tell this complete stranger that you in fact...did this to yourself?

"Are you cold?" he asked as if you still held the capability to speak.

When it became clear you had no intention of offering him any sort of explanation, he promptly cussed under his breath. Hands stripping off the brown leather jacket that hung over his clearly muscled form. You tried to shake your head, hoping he'd get the hint and simply leave you alone.

The cold didn't harm your already frozen skin. Not when a rush of blood coursed through you—pumping an unhealthy amount of adrenaline back to your now racing heart.

He draped the heavy fabric over you anyways, securing it to cover what skin he could. His eyes fixed on the side of your face. What a goddamn gentleman. Hilarity of this entire situation flickered brightly in your mind, forcing a jolt through your body that had him rearing back a few inches.

He must not be used to the sight of someone coming back from the dead.

No one would be. Unless they understood your current predicament.

"Do you have someone I can call?"

Again...silence became all that lingered in your mirrored confusion. You pleasantly discovered that you liked the sound of his voice. He felt his stomach churn with the eggs he scarfed down an hour and a half ago. Oh what a hapless pair you made. Two strangers bound in this tight knit bond of befuddlement.

"Can you speak?" He pushed for you to give him something.

You nodded, trailing the curve of his jaw with your gaze. If you had to guess his profession, you'd pick lumberjack. That made the most sense as to why he found himself standing at the foot of your grave trying to help you escape it.

Although you supposed he might have just been on a stroll through the woods; seeking time to himself. An escape from the busy world above ground. You peered into his clouded hazel eyes - plucking what you could from her expressions alone. This was a man who didn't seem drastically horrified by the sight of you coming back to life. Rather lost in murky thoughts of how.

Again the aforementioned question you loathed answering left his plush lips.

"Who did this to you?"

Sighing, you felt the blood begin to rush to your legs, a tingle of awareness entering your system. You were coming back from the state of rigor mortis. Which meant that stick around here would no longer be an option. As much as you were inclined to entertain the idea of getting to know him, the reality was far too bleak for him to accept.

He was a mere human, you were something else. It would never work.

“What’s your name?”

Agitation clearly lined his nerves the longer he crouched beside you. He’d never receive the knowledge he wanted, never get to the bottom of this otherwise grueling mystery. The longer you stayed, the harder it would be to leave. Putting him out of his misery now was the only option you had.

The only one that might guarantee his safety.

“Please. Let me help you.” His sincerity struck your heart, causing it to twist until the jagged edge of pain spread through your entire body.

They always sounded this way.

Hopeful. Intrigued.

Too many people, too many broken souls.

The path of your existence was littered with unsalvageable pieces of those you allowed to wander into your life. You refused to say goodbye to someone who clutched your love too tightly. Who never understood what this meant—the horrid depth of what you were forced to endure. You’d never be able to find freedom in love, never find hope that things might one day be different.

Eventually your curse would kill them in the end. And you—the sole survivor—would be left to pick up the fragmented shards of your armored walls.

With a pained groan you stumbled to your feet—legs shaking like a fucking fawn right after birth. He shot up beside you, hands outstretched in case you collapsed. But after so many years, you’d grown used to the sensations of a body that fought against you. The sight of him made you grin; a man so large, so imposing, somehow looked small compared to your mangled body.

Oh, how you’d remember him.

Tucking his kindness into the depths of your heart—fondly looking at it more often than you’d ever admit.

Dragging the leather jacket off your shoulders—much to his dismay—you tucked it back into his grasp. For a brief moment, you traced the shape of his eyes with your gaze. Solidifying the hazel in your mind, the hints of dark umber speckled through the iris. Eyes that would haunt you for years to come.

You wanted to ask what caused him such anguish—what had he been through—to hold an unfathomable amount of grief in eyes so tender.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the unbearable scratch in your throat dissipating the longer you were alive.

“Wait–”

With surprising quickness, you walked past him, trembling with each step. Your stomach gnawed at your insides—the vacant sensation in your body determined your next course of action. Where you were heading with no need for direction.

This wasn’t unusual. Hours spent in the ground was bound to force your body to find its sustenance one way or another. Even if you weren’t technically alive. The adrenaline would wane, leaving you rattled—in a panic about the way your soul plunged into an infinite expanse of darkness. A place with no path.

Over the decades you managed to get a handle on your body;s tells. The routine it formulated to deal with the ancient magic coursing through your veins. Sparks of a past self never to be touched again; no matter how much you bargained.

Heavy footsteps trailed after you, entirely unaware that silence wasn’t his forte. He still clutched the jacket aimlessly, unaware that the temperature dropped rapidly the longer he remained outside. You’d grown used to the behaviors of men who found you. Their incessant need to follow, to see if they could get away with what they wanted.

The same fucking song and dance; a battle you learned to evade swiftly and without mercy.

You stuck to the carved pathway created by your own footsteps trekking the same ground over the span of many years. Those who worked this deep in the forest rarely stuck around to find out who dared to live this far away from humanity. Many assumed an old psychotic woman, man, or spirit, resided in the run-down cabin.

Others whispered of a witch cursed to roam in darkness for all eternity.

Though both were merely myths spread by bored townsfolk.

You often wondered what they would do if they found out that neither strayed far from the actual truth.

Each year that came and went people dared themselves to check—to see for themselves if the stories held a bit of authenticity to them. They more often than not, left scared out of their wits at the sight of a naked woman trailing dirt in across the threshold of an archaic home.

Your shadow persisted in his personal mission—five feet away, lumbering through the silent forest like a bear with no real direction. Scaring him off should have been your first priority. You knew the longer you sanctioned this behavior the harder it’d be to get him to fuck off.

Although you couldn’t deny the instantaneous attachment you felt for a man with such a tortured soul.

Perhaps some part of yourself could see the fragments that went missing harbored in his heart.

Like a fool, you continued on the familiar trail—giving yet another aimless person leeway in your life. Regret hung heavy in your heart—a promise of what would inevitably come to pass screaming in the icy air.

Your breath forms a cloud with each puff; the exertion far too much for your freshly revived body to handle. Later when you were adjusted once more, the remorse would return within each stiff joint that pleaded for an ounce of rest. Whether you wanted to partake in the act never remained up to you—rather an inescapable future that awaited you with open arms.

The cabin stood on the remnants of an old cemetery. Bits of cracked stones that once housed names were scattered around the front. Moss clung to walls built of worn in bricks that had seen better days. You liked each part of your home. The haunting beauty that kept others out, gave you the solace you needed on days like this. Here you could pretend you were a normal person, not someone stuck with the scars of wounds that never remained.

Of pain you held no proof of.

The path was lined with plants of varying species. None of them should have survived the weather in Canada, yet like you they persisted.

Just as fucking stubborn and determined to remain alive.

Kicking a loose stone over, you reached for the rusting iron key lodged into damp dirt. The man stopped speaking long before he followed you here. Probably coming to the same conclusion they all did. You were not going to listen to a single thing that came out of his mouth.

You had to hand it to him. He knew where he stood in a situation like this—given your relatively calm exterior.

The door creaked with a weathered groan as you pushed it open. A bag of grave dirt hung on a nail in the wall to your left, an old shovel stood propped against the entryway, and a trail of dried herbs were suspended from the ceiling. You inhaled the scent of home with a grin; finally at ease within the place you knew well. A line of hooks held blankets for this very situation—heavy wool lined coats beside them.

Instead of grabbing one, you reached for what was still tucked in the pocket. The thud of his boots against the front step echoed loud in your ear. That seemed to be all you needed to hear the warning bells signal in the back of your mind. Allowing him to shadow you had been fun, but the truth still glared in your direction.

You didn’t know this man—you never would.

Better safe than sorry.

Spinning your heel, you jammed the silver dagger against his throat, forcing him to stumble back. His hands clutched at your wrists, eyes wide with the shock of what just happened. You didn’t want to admit that a small part of you liked seeing him this way. Yet no fear could be found in the darkened hazel. Merely a hint of concern—pity.

That only served to piss you off. He dared to follow you home, thinking he could enter your house without permission. In such a case as this you faced him with the fire that fueled your inhumane rage. The match struck against your heart, igniting sparks that existed long before he was ever born.

“You’re not welcome here,” you spit, eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a snarl.

He held every right to look at you as if you were a feral animal he accidentally cornered. You knew you resembled one. Right down to your hackles being raised—bloodlust burning in your glare. If he wasn’t careful, he would wind up with a split open throat and you’d have one hell of a mess to clean.

“I’m not gonna hurt ya,” he murmured.

“You followed me home.”

Swallowing thickly, Logan felt an old familiar ache rise in his chest at the sight of you. He’d been where you stood once. Desperate to be left alone; angry at a world who abandoned him. The thought of you believing the worst in him left bile climbing the back of his throat, shame burning hot in his stomach.

“Just wanted to see if you were okay.”

You grinned yet a dullness remained at the center of your eyes. “I’m alive. You can go.”

“You crawled out of a grave,” he growled.

Only to be met with one of your own. “No shit.”

“You live alone.” The knife pressed down against his skin, red welling to the surface in an instant. “Who put you there?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

You held no reservations against cutting him open. You’d done it before and would do it again in a heartbeat. Logan could see that clear as day. This wasn’t about him attempting to help. He’d surpassed that half a mile ago when you began to walk it off like you knew what was happening. And perhaps he was stupid to keep standing there in a pathetic attempt to tame you.

But he needed to know what happened.

Simply for the sake of his own sanity.

“I won’t hurt you bub,” he echoed, releasing your wrists with a soft exhale. “That’s not why I came.”

The anger dulled like the blade of your knife at the sound of his voice. Putting your faith in someone to uphold their words wasn’t something you excelled at. In fact, you found it was easier to bite first before you even bothered to bark at them. A feral animal who held no sense of safety—who thrived in bitter chaos and would until the very end.

But for the first time…you found yourself unable to fight against someone who stood before you like a mirror from a past life. The anguish in his eyes resembled your own. A fractured window that spilled light along the darkness, even if it didn’t belong. Even if you were born to exist in the vacant nothingness they put you in.

“Help me out here,” he murmured.

Before you could silence it, you laughed. Short and stunted and still layered in the gritty rasp from earlier.

“Fuck you.”

He sighed, stepping forward—his throat opening even further. You expected him to flinch, cuss loud enough to scare the varying corvid that often perched in the trees, but all that remained was that damn sincerity. The echo of a man who you somehow understood exactly what ran through your mind even before you let him in on the secret.

Logan kept his eyes locked on yours, even when his body screamed for something else. He wasn’t a stranger to having a blade to his throat, nor to violence in general. But even with the intent of killing him clear in your gaze, he knew something else stirred beneath the surface of your mind. He latched onto the quick pace of your heart, clamoring for a deeper look behind the walls of your impenetrable armor.

“I know what it’s like.” Your eyes went wide for a brief second before you resumed your previous stance. That remained enough for Logan to feel he touched on exactly the right thing.

“You don’t know anything.”

“Believe me bub,” he retorted, lips curling into a half-hearted grin. “I know what not dying feels like. Even if you want to.”

The breath was punched from your lungs, body going still as the waves of disbelief washed over you. He grasped your wrist gently, prying the knife from his throat, and you watched his skin stitch itself back together. The only remnants of your violent act was left in a stain of red he promptly wiped off.

You had half a mind to try again. Test the proof he so blatantly showed you without an ounce of shame. He seemed to catch onto your interest quicker than you expected—his palm spreading wide beneath yours and hand forcing the blade along his skin. A gasp fell past your lips at the sight of his body healing rapidly—the cut nonexistent within seconds.

Logan felt pride pierce his chest. Unfamiliar and yet entirely welcome.

“How…”

“I’ll explain it bub,” he uttered, drawing your attention back to him. “If you tell me the truth.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

He huffed, moving close enough to feel the warmth emanate from your bare skin. “I’m pretty good at spottin’ bullshit. Someone put you in that grave.”

“Yes.” Blindly you reached for a jacket behind you, slipping it on as his eyes took in the small bits of your home he could see. “I did.”

His head snapped back to you, lips set in a firm line. “What do you mean you did?”

“It’s a long story.” You waved your hand as you tied the jacket’s belt around your waist.

“I got enough time to hear it.”

Turning back towards the entryway of your home, you didn’t bother to bite back the smile that bloomed across your face. Somewhere in the back of your mind the voices of years past shrieked in horror at the choices made in the past hour.

How could you drag another soul into the darkness? Torture them with the duress of your life—of what you were forced to endure. Was it merely to appease the growing ache of loneliness that gnawed at your heart. A constant hunger you could never satiate.

He didn’t deserve what came next.

No one did.

But you were a selfish person who had tolerated far too much—who gave up every piece of your heart to keep others safe. For years you claimed you were better off alone. Only for the sight of his ability to fracture that part of yourself in two, burying it in a shallow grave with the hopes of no resurrection.

One day you’d come to regret your choice. You always did.

Tonight however you would give yourself this. Time spent in the company of another, even if it might end in a tragic disaster.

“Would you like some dinner?” you asked over your shoulder, too afraid of what his response might be.

His lips pulled into a grin as he crossed the threshold of your home—placing his jacket on the now vacant hook. “I’d love some.”

note: i handwrote a giant portion of this & proceeded to type it on my brother's laptop. so if there's mistakes forgive that. i don't have a laptop rn and i'm working with literal scraps.

[ninii-winchester]

Timeless Love

Pairing : Dean Winchester X Reader

Word count : 3.7k

Warnings : angst, s12 ep 6 (spoilers), canon violence, mentions of demons, slight mention of john winchester, mentions of amara (slight spoiler), taylor swift reference (?), fluff. Not proofread.

Part 2 to Fleeting Love.

A/n: I don’t remember what exactly happened in that episode i just winged it.

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO COPY MY WORK, TRANSLATE IT OR POST IT TO ANY OTHER PLATFORM. REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED.

Leaving was the hardest thing Dean had to do other than breaking Y/n's heart. He cried himself to sleep every night after seeing her looking like a shell of herself at school. He missed her smile and he missed being the reason of her smile. How could he let himself fall for someone, when he knew he could never have that kind of life. Loving her was the best and the worst decision of his life. Best because he got to know what love actually feels like and worst because he knows he'd never find anything like that ever again. He wouldn't allow himself to love anyone else in this lifetime. She was his first and last love.

Dean had left town, and Y/n was still picking up the pieces of a shattered heart. Days turned into weeks, but the ache never dulled. Every time she walked by the places they'd shared—her favorite diner, the lakeside road where they'd stargazed—the memories rushed in like a flood. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't outrun the ghost of him.

As much as she wanted to hate him, part of her would always him. He was her first love, her first kiss and her first time. Deep down she knew it had everything to do with his father but his betrayal was still fresh in her mind. She knew her Dean wouldn't do that her but she wished he'd stood against his father. She wished he would've fought for their love. If only she knew the reason he couldn't do it.

Fifteen years had come and gone, and Y/n had built a life—one filled with new memories, a different kind of happiness. But despite the time and distance, her heart remained anchored to a love she never truly let go of. It wasn't that she was stuck in the past; she had moved on in every way that mattered. Yet, in the quiet moments, when the world fell still, it was Dean's face she saw, his voice she heard, as if time had never touched the feelings she carried for him.

Y/n let out a sigh as she waited for her flight to be announced. She was going to Canada for a wake of the man who saved her life. She vividly remembered six years ago, she was coming back from work and a huge dog like creature attacked her. She wouldn't have believed had she not seen it with her own eyes. It was a werewolf.

She dug into the supernatural, surprised by the sheer amount of lore tied to what was already known. Myths, legends, and creatures she once thought were just stories had entire histories woven into the fabric of the world she knew.

Asa Fox was the one that killed the thing and rescued her. Now he was no more. She owed it him to atleast pay her final respects to him.

Hours later she landed in Canada and made her way towards Asa's mother's house. It was late at night when she arrived. She stepped inside and noticed a small crowd gathered in the living room, while others lingered in the kitchen and a few more were out in the backyard. They were all lost in conversation, sharing memories and stories of the brave hunter they had come together to mourn. The air was heavy with both grief and respect as they honored the life he'd lived.

She'd found Asa's mother and paid her condolences to her, recounting how her son had saved her life and how she looked up to him. The older woman nodded and Y/n took it as her cue to leave her alone. She walked the hallway and bumped into someone, she quickly apologised and looked up to them and all the air seemed to leave her lungs.

"You.." she choked on her words and the other person looked at her in mild confusion and threw her an anticipatory glance. "Mary Winchester." Y/n finally spoke. The older woman tried to rack her brain if she knew the woman infront of her but her mind remained blank.

Y/n had seen photos of Dean's mother in his room also in his wallet and she adored how much he loved his mother. Her mind went haywire thinking back to when he told her his mother died in a house fire. Did he lie? Why would he though? Thousands of thoughts ran into her mind as she thought back to her relationship with the Winchester. Even after fifteen years he's still vivid in her head. Did everything he tell her was a lie? Was Dean even his real name.

Y/n could feel herself hyperventilate and she immediately wanted to put space between the supposedly dead woman and herself. She went to the kitchen to grab herself some water. There were only two people in the kitchen, a woman with a pixie cut and a man taller than anyone she had ever seen. She grabbed a water bottle chugging it down and calming her heartbeat. She took a deep breath before speaking,

"Uhm sorry to intrude but, is a Mary Winchester out there?" She questioned the couple gesturing towards the hallway she came from. The man looked at her with a unreadable look in his eyes.

"Yeah." The woman responded.

Y/n sighed, — atleast I'm not going crazy. She thought to herself. But if that's Dean's mom, what on earth is she doing here?

"You're Y/n." The man said. It wasn't a question. He knew her. She craned her neck to look up at his face and she furrowed her brows.

"I'm sorry have we met before?" She questioned taking a step forward. A sad smile appeared on his face. The woman beside him looked at him expectantly waiting for his reply.

"You seriously don't remember me?" He chuckled and she shook her head.

"I'm sorry, but I'd remember if I had met someone as big as you." She replied leaning on the counter behind her.

"I wasn't this big when we met Y/n/n." Sam spoke and the nickname made her eyes flash with recognition but it was quickly overtaken by the hurt that came with those memories.

"Sammy." It just slipped out. She didn't mean to call him by that name, but when he called her y/n/n, it came out subconsciously. Her heart started beating loudly at the thought of his brother being here. She had never thought she'd ever meet Dean Winchester ever again and she was not ready.

Sam knew whatever happened between her and his brother hurt her more than anything and he wouldn't blame her if she up and left without a word, but he'd missed her. And he missed the man his brother was when he was with Y/n. After her, he was just a shell of a man, running on his father's commands like a soldier. Someone who seemed to let go off every emotion and just waiting for his father's next order.

Sam introduced Y/n to the woman beside him as sherrif Jody Mills and she was good friend.

"How're you Y/n?" Sam asked and she looked at him remembering the small kid she used help with homework.

"Been good. How about you?" Sam scoffed at her question. If only she knew how he's been. And how his brother's been. Coming back from the dead, hell, purgatory. She'd probably throw a chair at him for making up all this bullshit.

"Good yeah." Sam nodded. Y/n could hear footsteps approaching and prayed it wasn't who she thought it was. God knew she didn't want to see him. Maybe she hadn't been a good person, and this was her punishment, because Dean Winchester walked into the kitchen, her breath caught in her lungs.

"Sammy where the he-" Dean words got caught in his mouth as his gaze landed on her.

Y/n looked at the man she had loved and hoped that after all these years, she'd have fallen out of love with him. But one look and her heart started thudding against her ribcage. He had aged, but somehow, he was even more handsome. He was muscular now, his arms toned beneath his layers, and she could see it all. She could feel her eyes water and she didn't want to create a scene at someone's wake, she pushed past Sam and left the space with a word.

Dean stood frozen, he couldn't believe he'd run into her here of all places. The sight of her brought back a flood of memories and feelings he thought he had buried long ago. Despite the years and the changes, she was just as beautiful as he remembered. But then he wondered why was she here? Is she a relative? Does she know about the supernatural? Or worse is she a hunter?

He didn't know the answer to his questions but he knew one thing, that them meeting again after fifteen years was fate. And he'd be damned if he let go off her ever again. He'd do anything in his power to win her back because God knows he's been miserable since the minute he broke up with her. Without wasting another second Dean went behind her. He could see her going to the backyard and taking in deep breaths.

"Y/n." He said approaching her.

"Go away Dean.”

“Just hear me out once.” He pleaded.

“I don't want to hear any more of your lies." Her voice cracked as she spoke and Dean knew she was on the verge of crying.

"Lies? What lies?" He asked holding her arm and turning her to look at him. She shrugged her arm out of his grip and pulled away harshly.

"Maybe you have a bad memory Dean, fifteen years isn't that long of a time to forget about it." She snapped glaring at him. "Need I remind you of your lies? My mom died when I was four! She's inside I've seen her with my own eyes." She yelled. "I love you Y/n! And the very next day after breaking up with me I see you making out with some cheerleader. You don't do that to someone you love." She cried pushing at his chest. "You're a goddamn liar so leave me the fuck alone like you did that night at the park."

Each and every word pierced through him like a needle. It was worse than spending forty years in Hell. He knew he'd hurt her and deserved everything she threw his way, but hearing her think that he didn't love her—it just broke his heart. He never lied about his love for her.

"Y/n, baby please let me explain. I swear I'll tell you everything." He said holding her hand and she pushed him again.

"Don't touch me. And I don't need your explanations." She wiped her tears. "I'm not here for you I'm here for Asa." Dean felt a pang of jealousy at the late hunter's name and he wondered if they'd had something before he died. Is that why she's here. He completely forgot it's been fifteen years and there might be a possibility that she'd moved on. 

"How do you even know him?" He couldn't but ask. His jealousy getting the better of him.

"That is none of your concern." She retorted sharply.

"Sweetheart please hear me out." Dean begged and she moved to go back inside but the doors were locked.

"What the hell?" She tried turning the doorknob but it didn't budge. The two of them were locked out. Dean tried pushing the door but to no avail.

"Hello Dean." Dean turned to see Billie standing there and she was smirking almost evilly.

"Billie what are you doing here?" He asked the reaper. And she told him she's here to do what she does. She's here to take everyone who's inside. Dean asked her what's happening inside and she tells him a demon's got them locked inside and something about vengeance. He had to save Sam, his mom and Jody. Dean tells her to open the door for him and let him go inside, she makes him a deal to never interfere in the natural order of things and he agrees as long as she lets him inside.

"Dean what the hell is going on?" Y/n was now scared. Although she was well aware of supernatural theoretically but she was in no way prepared to fight. And demons? She didn't know those were real too.

"I'll explain later." Dean replied as calmly as possible. "Billie, I need you to keep her safe, please." Dean requested and the reaper raised her brow.

"Dean, I can either keep her safe or let you inside. I'm getting one thing out of this deal, and you're getting only one too." His jaw clenched at her words and he was internally cursing her for being a bitch.

"Fine. Get us in." He begrudgingly told the reaper and she created an opening in the door. Dean turned to Y/n and cupped her face in his large hands. "We're going in, but you gotta trust me, sweetheart. Stay by my side and I'll protect you." Y/n thought he was completely out his wits asking her to go inside a place where there's a demon.

"Time's of essence Dean." Billie commented and he glared at her. He held Y/n's hand and before she knew the two of them were inside. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw Sam, Jody and his mom alive, and even the others. Sam filled him in how the demon had cut off the water supply and locked all the doors. Y/n was terrified of being locked in a house with a demon but Dean held her close to him. His hand gripping hers tightly.

They all gathered in the living room to make a devils trap to trap whoever the demon was possesing and to keep themselves safe, being inside it.

"Dean who was that outside?" Y/n questioned her voice a quiet whisper.

"That was Billie she's a reaper." Dean replied moving her into the devils trap. She looked at him wide eyed.

"A reaper? The one that takes souls?" She questioned and he nodded. "You're acquainted with a reaper? What the fuck?" Before either of them could say any further Jody accused Mary of being possessed since her was last one to come into the room.

Sam and Dean tensed at her accusation of their mom being possessed but then Mary stepped into the devil's trap and moved out proving she's not it. Then Jody started cackling evilly, saying that was clever of Mary. With a flick of her hand she wooshed the trap, then she started attacking everyone one by one taunting them. She threw the twins across the wall and then slammed Mary in the door. She moved her hand towards Y/n but Dean pushed her behind him and the demon made him fly in the wall. Y/n was left unguarded and demon closed in on her. Sam neared them but possessed Jody threw him in the cabinet.

Y/n screamed as the demon neared her she inched backwards, her body trembling with fear. Dean watched as Jody wrapped her hand around Y/n's neck, he got up on his feet and pushed Jody away from her, not too harshly to not hurt his friend's body. He wrapped his body over her, shielding her body with his' and Sam started chanting the incantation to exorcise the demon out of Jody. The twins joined them and then Mary finished it off sending the demon back to hell.

The lights flickered back on and everyone was relieved at last. Y/n clutched Dean's shirt in her hands and hid her face in his chest. "You're fine..it's gone." He rubbed her back soothingly. "Hey sweetheart, look at me." Dean made her pull away slightly and placed his fingers underneath her chin making her look at him. "You okay?" She shook her head, no.

An hour later, Y/n was wrapped up in Dean's jacket, his mind drifting off to the first time he'd lend her his jacket and how it was their new beginning. He wondered if it was a sign of their another new beginning together. She sat on the hood of the Impala and the boys stood in front of her.

"What. The. Hell. Was. That?" She looked at Sam and Dean, while Mary and Jody watched their interaction for afar. "I mean I know werewolves and Vampires but demons? Reapers?" Dean grabbed her hand and brushed his thumb over the back of her hand.

"How'd you know about Werewolves and Vampires?" Dean asked softly and she told him how she was attacked by a werewolf and Asa saved her. And she researched a bit about the supernatural and Dean nodded in understanding. He shot Sam a glance and younger understood and left them alone.

"Sweetheart, I'll explain everything and I'll tell you why I left. You see I'm a hunter, my parents were too. I've grown up in this life. My mom did die when I was four. A demon killed her. My dad wanted us to find that demon and kill him. When I met you, I forgot all about it. I wanted to be a normal boy, I did love you with everything I had." She looked up at his eyes and they were sincere, different from when he broke her heart. It wasn't like he was holding back, or hiding something. "My dad, he didn't want you to get involved or me to lose focus. He told me that I should break your heart so you can move on with you life." Dean explained.

"I did move on with my life Dean." He shut his eyes not wanting to see the look on her face when she tells him she found someone else. "But I couldn't love anyone else. You made me question my worth, because, fuck it I was in love. And fuck you Dean for I couldn't have us."

"I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to make you question your worth, hell I wanted to show you how much you mean to me, I just wanted to keep you safe, away from this life. You aren't even back in my life for less two hours and look at this mess. I don't even want to think of what harm I would've caused you if you'd been with me all those years." He looked apologetic. "As for my mom, God's sister brought her back."

"Who THE FUCK?" She looked dumbfounded.

"It's long story." Dean chuckled. "All I'm saying is I've loved you this whole time and I only broke up with you because I didn't want you be in danger and because my dad said it was for the best." He rubbed the back of his head, half ashamed.

"Where's your dad?" She asked after few minutes of silence.

"He died, a few years ago." Dean replied gloomily.

"I'm sorry." Even if the man was the reason for her heartbreak she didn't feel good about him being dead. After all he was Dean's father. Dean nodded. "What now?"

"We could try again, that is if you want to. I'm tired of not being with you. I feel meeting you again after all these years, it's fate." Dean said softly. "And I still love you so fucking much." He rested his forehead against her.

"I still love you too, Dean." She whispered. The tension between them hangs in the air, heavy and charged. Without another word, Dean cups Y/N's face, his thumb gently brushing their cheek. There's a moment of hesitation, a breath, and then he leans in, capturing their lips in a passionate kiss.

The kiss is deep, intense, filled with all the unspoken emotions they've both been holding back. Dean pulls Y/N closer, as if trying to convey everything he couldn't say in words. For that moment, it's just the two of them, lost in the heat of the kiss. When they finally pull back, both breathless, Dean's forehead rests against Y/N's, his eyes still closed.

"Being away from you was worse than going to hell."

"As if you'd know what hell’s like." She replied rolling her eyes. Dean pulled away, his eyes filled with mischief.

"Oh I do, I went to hell, i was there for forty years."

"You're lying." She gave him a look and he shook his head.

"I'm not. I went to hell and then Castiel the angel pulled me out. Who by the way is now my best friend."

"SAMMY? HE'S LYING ISN'T HE??" She yelled to the younger Winchester and Dean barked out a laugh at her reaction. Sam didn't know what she was on about so he laughed too.

"You've got a lot of catching up to do, sweetheart." Dean said while helping her down off the hood. He threw an arm over her shoulder and dragged her towards his mom. "Mom this is Y/n. My highschool sweetheart." He said pecking her temple.

“Nice to meet you Mrs. Winchester.” Y/n said extending her hand for her to shake but Mary pulled her into a hug.

“Call me Mary. And welcome to the family.” She smiled. Dean grinned, watching the exchange with a sense of pride. Mary’s embrace made Y/n feel instantly at ease. Mary pulled back slightly, her eyes twinkling with warmth. “I’ve heard so much about you, it’s wonderful to finally put a face to the name.”

“You have?” She questioned looking at Dean who looked away shyly.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I wasn’t around the first time.” Mary joked and Y/n let out an awkward laugh.

Dean stood by, his arm still around Y/n, feeling a deep sense of contentment as his worlds finally came together. He knew they still had a lot to talk about but he also knew that they were meant to be. It’s destiny. Now that he’s got her, he’s never letting her go matter what life throws at him. He’s finally home.

Tags:

@spnfamily-j2 @galway-girlatwork @deangirl96 @queensilber

@s0urw00lf @monkey-d-hoshizora98 @deans-baby-momma @fullbelieverheart

@riah1606 @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @hobby27

@starkleila @suckitands33 @m3ntally-unstable @kanekilovelove-blog @candy-coated-misery0731

@blackcherrywhiskey @ladysparkles78 @goest-and-fuckest-thyself-blog @graywrites5567

@thelittlelightinthedarkness @enamoredwithbella @winchesterwild78 @myuhh8

[letsgetrowdy43]

Behind the door—

Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Request: hiiiiiii!! can i have a 🐞 with quinn and “i would’ve married you.”

Warnings/notes: This is kinda unrealistic, but I had an idea and I just went with it!

End of summer celebration!!

Quinn's head hung as the door shut behind him, the image of all his family members staring at him in pity replayed in his mind as his back leaned up against the wood as he loosened the tie around his neck, trying to stop the slightly suffocating feeling that was the aftermath of his failed wedding.

Tears seemed to be welling in his eyes as he took a deep breath, embarrassment filling his chest as it dawned on him that his fiance, a woman he had been with for nearly five years, a girl he had grown from a fresh out of university twenty year old into a man with had left him, just a few moments before she was meant to be walking down the aisle. Her mascara smudged as she apologized profusely, her nerves getting the best of her as she pulled Quinn away from his brothers and into a broom closet to tell him she didn't think they were ready to make such a big commitment.

And if he was being really honest with himself, he wasn't quite sure why he was rushing into marriage.

Maybe it was the pressure of the leadership role he had taken on only a year prior, feeling so young in some aspects he often overcompensated for his age in growing up too fast. Still, he was so mature in almost every other aspect of his job, that it had him feigning seriousness in his personal life.

The look on the bride's face was enough to know that she wasn't ready to take that leap, and really he was a little relieved, anxiety all over her expression as Quinn agreed and pulled her in for a hug to help soothe her.

There was a little bit in him that felt like in some senses he dodged a bullet, there was always a sense of security with the girl, but there never was a lot of love, just a lot of stability, and the logical side of him was okay with that.

He stood up straight pulled off the undone tie from around his neck and rid himself of the confinements of his jacket. His eyes searched the room and in the centre sat his childhood best friend and the girl he had spent years pining after, on the edge of a hotel bed, a sad smile on her face as she watched the colour drain from the man's face.

"Jack told me where you were, I just wanted to make sure you were okay," she watched as he quietly wiped the tears away from his eyes. His face filled with even more embarrassment as he felt a sense of pity filling the room.

Quinn’s chest tightened as he looked at her, the weight of everything that had just happened pressing down on him as he watched her brows knit together like she was trying to study his expression, gauging how to comfort him. He hated that feeling, the one where people try to take care of you, the vulnerability that lingered around him.

His tie on the floor felt like a symbol of the commitment that had just slipped through his fingers. He felt hollow, the adrenaline of the moment leaving him drained and lost as he tired walked over to the bed and sat down beside her.

The two of them lay down, legs hanging off the bed as they stared at the mirror on the ceiling. There was a sadness in her gaze and a deep understanding of his pain. It seemed as though she knew the feeling of disappointment all too well.

That was the thing with Quinn and the girl lying beside him, there had never been a time for them, there were years of feelings, an entire semester followed by a summer of hooking up, and then Quinn moved to Canada to start his life And from that point on it was summers of never seeing each other, years of on-and-off communication, but never being in the same place as once.

So everything between them remained unfinished—a story with too many open chapters, too many "what ifs" hanging in the air. The unspoken emotions, the memories of fleeting moments, and the connection they had shared were all still there but buried beneath years of life taking them in different directions.

She hesitated momentarily before reaching her pointer finger out and gently brushing against his knuckles. “I’m so sorry, Quinn,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes dropping to the floor as he struggled to find words. But before he could say anything, she hooked her finger with his. Her touch was warm, a new kind of comforting, a reminder that he wasn’t completely alone in this.

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. She squeezed his hand, her own emotions flickering across her face as she looked up at him. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I’m here, okay?”

Quinn nodded, his throat still too tight to speak. He felt like he was on the edge of something, teetering between holding it all together and completely falling apart.

After a long moment of silence, she took a deep breath and said something that caught him off guard. “You know,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “I would’ve married you.”

He propped himself up on his elbows to look at her, his eyes wide with surprise. Her words hung in the air, heavy and loaded with meaning. There was a part of him that had always wondered, that had always thought about what might have been if things had gone differently between them, but to say it out loud made the thoughts very real.

She gave him a sad smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she put her hand on his chest and pushed him on his back so he would stop looking down at her. Their eyes met through the mirror, a look of vulnerability and understanding passing between them. The weight of her words lingered in the air, and Quinn could feel the emotions he’d tried to bury for years surfacing all at once.

“I mean it, Quinn. If things had been different… if we had stayed together, I would’ve married you.”

Quinn’s heart ached at her confession, the truth of it cutting through the fog of his emotions. For a moment, he let himself imagine it—the life they could have had together, the happiness they might have found.

But that life was just a fantasy, and the reality was standing right in front of him, her hand still holding his, offering comfort in a moment when he needed it most.

“Why didn’t we?” Quinn finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he were afraid the question might shatter whatever delicate thread still connected them. Her gaze softened, and she let out a shaky breath. “We were always just a little too late, Quinn. The timing was never on our side.”

He nodded silently, a shared feeling spread between the two of them as they just sat in the comfort of each other's presence. Quinn's mind was no longer stuck on a loop of embarrassment, now full of a little hope, maybe even a sense of clarity.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. She nodded, her thumb gently stroking the back of his hand. “You’re going to be okay, Quinn. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you will be.”

He looked into her eyes, seeing the sincerity there, the genuine care she still had for him after all these years. It was enough to make him believe, even just a little, that maybe she was right. Maybe, somehow, this closed door would open one where she sat prettily behind it.

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[bookskeepers]

a little bit of love ◆ chapter one

content warnings: mentions of violence/gore, mentions of cheating, probably not how South Korean court works (i got my information from a guide called 'An overview of the criminal law system in South Korea' which was on... canada's government website)?, mentions of penises, trauma !, woo jinchul IS in this chapter

word count: 2,363

author's note: heh...? reader rlly said "oops"

taglist: none yet ! leave an ask / comment to be added

previous ◆ masterlist ◆ next

The police had appeared on your friend's doorstep the next day. When she opened the door, they simply mentioned that they were there for you and that they determined your location based on eyewitness reports. They didn't tell your friend what the crime was, instead opting to push past her and arrest you in the kitchen.

You'd've been foolish if you hadn't known this was coming; through the haze of your memories, you distinctly recalled mutilating your ex-boyfriend somehow. And, unfortunately for you, your ex-boyfriend was someone of mild importance in your neighborhood, so the police moved faster than usual to get you.

The actual investigation against you hadn't lasted very long -- they sat you down in a small, tiled room to ask you questions about your supposed motive. You could tell from their phrasing that they were already convinced you were guilty of whatever crime they were informed of, since each question was pointed and guiding.

After that, the trial itself was relatively short; you hadn't opted for a jury trial, so the decision was made by a judge. You had been detained in between the investigation and trial, cited to be "unfit to return to civil life" due to your apparent awakening and lack of control over your abilities. Your lawyer did most of the speaking for you, as your evidence was presented orally. There were only four separate court sessions total despite you having confessed to the crime, since the circumstances made the entire thing more nuanced.

When word first got out, it made national news -- it's not every day that a newly awakened hunter loses control of themselves and injures someone else unintentionally, especially not in a situation like yours. As a result, you lost your job due to the sudden criminal charges looming over your head. However, you and your ex-boyfriend's fifteen seconds of fame soon faded as the case progressed. The internet was full of arguments about who was in the right, with most people on your side since you were cheated on and abused. Your personal life was aired in every sense of the word, making you feel more like an animal in a cage than a human, and it felt like the entire world knew anything there was to know about your life by the time the trial was over.

The judge had deemed you guilty, but had given you a fairly light punishment given the scenario itself: you were to perform community service under the Hunter's Association. More specifically, you were to assist the Surveillance Team in something-or-other. You hadn't been paying close attention to the specifics, overwhelmed by relief that you weren't going to spend your life behind bars.

The same could not be said for your ex-boyfriend, however -- he lost his guild contract due to his mistreatment of you and was hospitalized for quite a bit to ensure his newly grown penis (courtesy of an A-rank healer) was working as intended. You had heard through the grapevine that it was extremely malfunctional, and you had taken a private moment of glee in response.

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

The verdict had been delivered two weeks ago. Now, you stand in front of a mirror in your friend's apartment, dressed in the best business-casual attire you own. A loose white button-up, a pair of black leggings, and a crepe blazer that dangles over your frame. You find yourself once again grateful that your friend had agreed to host you until you were able to find your own place, despite it all. You make a mental note to buy her lunch later, thankful that you were able to save while you were stuck in that awful relationship. After all, your hunter ex-boyfriend had insisted on paying for everything to appear more "masculine" to whoever may have been watching, whatever that meant.

You take a deep breath, inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth, straightening your blazer before pulling your bag over your shoulder. As you make your way out of the spare room and into the entryway of the apartment, you stop by the door to slip on a pair of low wedges to complete your outfit. You leave your slippers by the shoerack.

It doesn't take you long to reach the main building of the Hunter's Association. Upon your arrival, someone at the front desk whisks you away to a different building across the street, telling you that you need to be evaluated before your community service can actually begin.

You spend a good chunk of the morning waiting in the queues, trying to maintain an air of patience while you ignore the stares aimed at you. While you may have faded from national headlines, your verdict had been public and the case itself had been considered "juicy" for lack of a better term. It wasn't difficult to put two and two together to figure out who you were.

Right before noon, your name is called and you shuffle into the evaluation room. The giant sphere in the middle intimidates you, and you feel a pit of dread begin to form in your stomach when the attendant instructs you to place your hand on the surface of it. Some brainwashed part of you whispers that you hope you're not an E-rank, despite knowing that's impossible; you were able to harm your C-rank ex-boyfriend, after all. It's only when the attendant lets out a soft sound of surprise that you look up at her with a tilted head, a questioning look in your eyes.

"You're an A-rank," she says with a bright smile, and you wonder if they're trained to deliver all news with that expression. "In fact, you're on the upper end of the spectrum! Congratulations on your new rank." She gestures you over to her so you can look at the screen dictating your power levels. The graphs and images don't mean anything to you, however, so you decide to take her at face value.

"An A-rank?" you echo, confusion lacing itself in your tone. "That's... wow. I didn't think..." You trail off, struggling to get the words out.

The attendant seems unbothered. "If you're lucky, maybe you'll get scouted by a major guild!"

Her optimism sinks its claws into you, and you give her a weak smile. "I don't think that'll happen," you say earnestly. You've never heard of anyone with a criminal record being recruited by one of the big five. Besides, you have a stint with the Hunter's Association that has to be completed before you can even consider guild recruitment.

You thank the attendant for her time and head out, picking up your Hunter ID on your way out. You retrace your steps, crossing the street once more and re-entering the Hunter's Association HQ. The individual behind the desk herds you into an elevator this time, pressing the button for a floor higher up in the building. Soft music fills the tense, awkward silence between the two of you as the elevator ascends.

The muzak doesn't do much to quiet your thoughts, which are currently spiralling out of control. Ever since the incident, you had been trying to make sense of these sudden new powers, trying to see if you ever felt the sensations of those abilities manifesting since then. Simply put, the answer was no. In the past several months, there had been no itch in your fingertips, no sparks of red-hot rage. To be quite honest, you aren't even completely sure how awakening works -- you honestly think there should be more incidents similar to yours, because how often do people awaken with perfect control over their abilities? How did people even learn how to use them?

As if the universe itself is trying to answer your question, the elevator dings softly and the doors slide open to reveal a long hallway. You can faintly hear bustling and ringing phones off to your left, and you suppose that's where one of those huge offices with cubicles is. The secretary gestures for you to follow as they lead you down the long hallway, past the door you're sure leads to those cubicles. There are two rights and three lefts on your route, and you're working on memorizing them before the secretary stops in front of a door that matches all the other doors you've seen thus far.

"You can wait in here," they say, albeit not unkindly. They open the door with one hand, and you can feel their eyes on you as you walk inside.

It's a fairly average-looking personal office; there's a mahogany desk in the center, with giant windows as the backdrop. A swivel chair sits behind the desk, along with a neat stack of papers next to a monitor and keyboard. Several meters in front of the desk are two sofas across from each other with a coffee table in between. The walls that aren't windows are lined with tall bookcases, and closer inspection reveals that most of the books are about hunting, raids, and mana. The other few are fantasy novels and science fiction novels, which comes to you as a mild surprise.

The secretary closes the door behind you with a soft click, and you take the time to inspect the room some more. On the desk, there's a silver placard with the name "WOO JINCHUL" written in bold letters on it. The handwriting on the paperwork is extremely organized, as if whoever wrote it took extra time to ensure it's legible. The monitor isn't displaying a screensaver and the PC it's attached to is hidden out of view, but the rim of the screen has several sticky notes detailing important dates hanging from it.

You run your fingers along the placard, feeling the grooves of the letters. The metal is cool to the touch, and your hand comes away completely free of dust. You're beginning to form an image in your mind of this Woo Jinchul when the door suddenly opens rather loudly without warning, frightening you.

In your state of panic, your mind flashes back to the times your ex-boyfriend would do the same, usually with the intent to shout at you or worse. The itching in your fingers suddenly returns full force, and you find yourself firing off another one of those airblades at the newcomer. You let out a strangled "watch out," thinking about how you're about to have yet another criminal charge on your once-perfect-now-ruined record.

To your relief -- and perhaps shock -- the newcomer makes a slashing motion with their hand, and the incoming attack dissipates. Your knees suddenly collapse beneath you, the fear coursing through your veins too much to bear. It takes you several long, silent minutes to calm yourself. Once you succeed, you cringe at how awful of a first impression you just made on this individual.

"Better?" the person asks, tone polite and plain. The voice is deep and masculine, pleasing to your brain.

You blink a few times, taking the time to actually look at him. He's tall, clad in a black suit, and his blondish-orangeish hair is slicked back save for one curl that rests against his forehead. He's too far away for you to determine the exact color of his eyes, but from your vantage point you can see that they're on the darker end. His frame is broad, and something about the way he stands suggests years of experience at doing whatever it is he does. He also exudes a slightly intimidating aura, made worse by your embarrassing interaction just now.

"Um, yes, thank you, sorry," you manage to say, although your voice is not much louder than a mumble.

The man makes a show of dusting himself off before striding across the room and sitting on one of the sofas. He gestures to the couch opposite him. "Sit."

You pick yourself off the ground, wincing at the pain in your knees, and obey his command. Now that you're closer to him, you can tell that his eyes are a shade of violet. Pretty.

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing your voice to be louder this time. "I'm really sorry about that," you begin. "The door... startled me, and I don't have the best control ov--"

He holds up one finger, and you find yourself stopping mid-sentence. "Don't worry about it. I've dealt with worse." He leans forward, reaching his hand out over the coffee table. "Let me formally introduce myself. My name is Woo Jinchul, and I'll be your... case worker, for lack of a better word."

"Case... worker?" you echo, confusion laced in your tone.

"I'll be the one overseeing your community service," he clarifies. "I'm the Chief Investigator of the Hunter Association's Surveillance Team."

You blink, all these words making sense separately but not together. "So... that means...?"

Jinchul raises an eyebrow at you, perhaps the first sign of emotion he's outwardly displayed since stepping foot in the room. He slowly retracts his hand once he realizes you're probably not going to shake it. "It means my team and I keep an eye on hunters and investigate raid-related incidents when necessary."

You nod, things finally clicking into place. "I'm guessing I'll be helping you do that?" you finally say.

"Eventually. Firstly, I'm going to help you control your abilities. Then we'll see about fieldwork."

You note that he has a very straight-to-the-point way of talking, and he excels at keeping his voice even to ensure it doesn't betray his internal feelings. In fact, you can't actually get a read on how he might feel about this whole situation, as he's been nothing but polite yet somewhat cold during your entire brief interaction. Nothing about the way he's acted thus far suggests he's repulsed by you, at least.

"That's good, at least. Maybe this way I won't accidentally kill anyone for opening a door loudly," you joke.

The silence that follows your words is deafening. You find yourself wishing that there were at least crickets in the room, as their chirps would be more responsive to your comedy than Jinchul is.

After a bit, he just lets out a small sigh. "I look forward to working with you, Ms. Sun."

[hunnysahara]

˖⁺‧₊˚❀𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓪❀˚₊‧⁺˖

Hamzah x fem reader

Thought I'd be cool in California, I'd make you proud. To think I almost had it going but I let you down.

After a disastrous move to Los Angeles, you’re sent packing back home to Toronto trying to beat the gnawing feeling of loneliness.

WC: 4.4k

CW: cannabis usage / angst if you squint

No one really understood why you had to leave and you weren't willing to admit you would've rotted beneath the scalding Los Angeles sun if you didn't go back home. You didn't have the stomach to tell your parents they were right when they told you it wouldn't work out, that it wasn't something you could handle. 

Now you stare at the half-empty suitcase sprawled open on the floor, clothes spilling out in a heap like a discarded life. This is what it's come to- moving back into a cramped, outdated flat in Toronto with a roommate who spoke to you solely through dirty glares, a far cry from the polished, sun-soaked world of Los Angeles you thought you would never leave. The room is small, with barely enough space for you to walk around, let alone recreate any sense of the luxury you had grown used to. The walls are bare, a sterile white that mocks the vibrant, carefully curated lifestyle you had paraded on social media.

This must've been the fear that crept into your head during late nights coming to fruition. You had moved in a week ago and couldn't bring yourself to unpack, hardly leaving bed. You were living off the packs of ramen you bought from the gas station on the way from the airport.

You hadn't been happy in California, but being back home made you think that you wouldn't be happy anywhere. Everything there was too expensive, and everyone was coked out of their minds, and you had crawled out of there by the skin of your teeth like you had been dragged through hell. Your rise and fall have been documented in real-time for all of your followers to see even if you tried to play it cool, there were always internet sleuths who would speculate.

Still- you try to compose yourself the same way you would a song or a speech, what little savings you had wouldn't last forever. 

You start pulling clothes from the suitcase, one by one, the sharp scent of Los Angeles still clinging to the fabric. It's bitter, almost like a cruel joke- a reminder of everything you've lost. It's all here: the designer jackets, the sheer tops perfect for rooftop parties you won't be attending anymore. You didn't even like the clothes, you just liked the idea that someone would pay for you to wear one of their designs. 

What you hadn't accounted for when you made the split-second decision to move was just how cold Canada was in October. All you had to keep you warm were a handful of sweatshirts from high school and leggings you were gifted in a PR package months prior. 

Once you have forcefully shoved your clothes into your dresser and pushed every box to one side of the room, it looks almost intact from a certain point of view. You set up the tripod and camera with mechanical precision, your movements slow and deliberate as you adjust the angles, making sure the tiny frame of your new apartment looks somewhat presentable.

It's not much, and you know no amount of clever angles or editing will make this place look like your old life in Los Angeles, but you're determined to try. It's been too long since your last post your followers must be wondering where you've been, and why you've gone silent. If you don't get something out soon, they might stop caring altogether and with your digital footprint, you're sure you've closed out all other career options.

With a deep breath, you sit down in front of the camera, smoothing your hair and glancing at your reflection in the monitor. Your stomach twists as you catch sight of yourself—your eyes look hollow, your skin dull in the unfortunate lighting. 

"Hey, guys!" you begin, your voice sounding brittle and raspy. "I know it's been a while, and I just... wanted to give you all an update." You trail off, feeling the words crumble on your tongue. In the monitor, your smile falters, and you cringe, reaching forward to hit the stop button.

"Ugh," you groan. That was terrible. You sound fake like the voice actors in ads on Spotify. A voice like plastic, made to sell. You delete the footage and start again, clearing your throat, and shaking out your shoulders.

"Hey! So if you couldn't tell I have moved," You clench your teeth into a smile, awkwardly shifting to show the new space just slightly. "And I am in Canada once again," Around the end, your voice falls too soft, too unsure of your own words.

"Hi, everyone. It's been a crazy few weeks, and I know I owe you an explanation," you say, forcing the words out this time, willing them to sound genuine. "So, I'm back in Toronto, and I—" You stop, cringing as you watch your own awkwardness play out on the monitor. God, why do you look so stiff? You sound like you're reading from a script. Your eyes drop to the ground in frustration, biting the inside of your cheek to stop your off-putting words from mounting into a scream. 

In the two months you spent trying to pick yourself back up, it was like you forgot how to do your job entirely and simultaneously forgetting yourself. You weren't sure how you acted or how you were supposed to. The line between you and the caricature you played on camera was bleeding into itself.

Each attempt leaves you feeling more deflated, and more disgusted with yourself. The room starts to feel smaller, the walls inching closer with every failed take. You slam your finger onto the stop button one last time and bury your face in your hands, the frustration boiling over into hot, bitter tears.

"Whatever," you mutter to yourself, sniffling and wiping away whatever tears want to spill.

You grab your phone, hoping for a distraction, for anything to pull you out of this spiral of self-loathing. But as you scroll through your feed, that tightening in your stomach returns.

Your best friend from LA who had conveniently become busy the second things started folding in on you, was at a club with her new boyfriend who of course had a movie star smile and a head of thick curls. Another friend happily promotes her brand deal. You weren't even sure you were friends with them anymore, they didn't seem to take your absence to heart while theirs was so prominent to you that it felt like a presence.

Everyone you were friends with from high school was sharing their experiences with college, exams, dorms, and everything you traded for fifteen minutes of fame. Another friend in some exotic location, cocktail in hand. They're all doing something, achieving something. They're moving forward while you tripped and fell backwards.

You stare at the phone for what feels like an eternity, fingers hovering over your parents' contact. It's been months since you last spoke to them—their voices were tight with disappointment, the kind that sticks with you like peanut butter to the roof of your mouth. 

A lump forms in your throat as you scroll past their names again, hesitation gnawing at you. You know they're furious, and rightfully so. 

With a deep breath, you press "Call" before you can change your mind, holding the phone to your ear. It rings, once, twice, three times, the silence on the other end growing louder with every second. You glance out the window of your tiny apartment, the Toronto skyline nothing like the sunlit sprawl of LA. When the ringing stops, you almost wish they'd picked up, just to have the comfort of a familiar voice, even if it's charged with anger and disappointment.

Then the voicemail beeps.

"I'm back in Toronto, as you probably guessed," you say, voice cracking slightly. "The house... it's fine. It's not LA, but it's fine." You let out a shaky laugh that sounds hollow even to you. "Um, I know you're really mad at me but I would love to see you guys for lunch or maybe watch a movie or something like we used to."

You take a shaky breath, glancing at the phone like it might somehow give you the courage to continue. "I just wanted to hear your voices, I guess. I wanted to say I'm sorry. You were right and I wish that I listened to you. I just—" You stop yourself before the words start spilling out too fast, too frantic.

"LA was just a little too overwhelming for me, I missed Canada," you continue even if it isn't the full truth, your voice softer now. "You can yell at me all you want, I just want to see you guys." You huff a laugh to hide the urge to cry "Things are still going good, I'm glad I'm back. I don't think it'll be too different, maybe just a bit quieter."

There's a long pause, the silence of the room pressing in on you. You close your eyes, feeling the sting of tears threatening to spill over. "I love you both," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "So if you want to, call me back and we can set up dinner or something. I'll... I'll talk to you later, bye."

Outside, it gently begins to rain. You don't need to press your ear to the glass to hear it, each splatter is like a whisper and you're so attentive since it's the only thing that's spoken to you in weeks.

You drag yourself off the bed, eyes burning from the unshed tears you've been holding back. Sitting around won't fix anything, and won't magically make your problems disappear. You need to do something. Anything to get out of your own head, to stop that endless cycle of self-loathing. With a resigned sigh, you turn back to the mess of the apartment, clothes strewn across the floor, boxes stacked in corners, wrappers and empty water bottles piling up on the coffee table.

"Alright," you mutter to yourself, wiping the last of the tears from your cheeks. "Just... clean up. Start somewhere."

You grab a trash bag and move to the kitchen, shoving empty takeout containers and crumpled napkins into it, the stale smell lingering in the air. With each item that leaves your hands, you feel a tiny bit lighter. Cleaning, at least, gives you some semblance of control. You can't fix everything, but you can make this place feel a little less like a prison.

When the bag is full, you tie it up with more force than necessary, the plastic crinkling angrily under your fingers. You glance around the room, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at the cleaner surfaces, the space looking a little more livable. It's not much, but it's something.

You grab the trash bag and head to the front door, holding it awkwardly under one arm as you fumble to turn the knob. The rain is light enough that it leaves you just sprinkled as you awkwardly rush to the garbage can.

It's only when you turn to look back at your door that you remember it locks upon closing. Your breath catches in your throat as you frantically pat down your pockets, then scan the floor, hoping to see them lying somewhere nearby. "No, no, no, no," you mutter under your breath, the panic rising as you realize they're not on you. You can picture them clearly, sitting smugly on the kitchen counter, just out of reach.

Conveniently, this was when your roommate had picked up a late shift, leaving you locked out of the flat. 

You try the knob just in case, rattling it as if it might magically give way. It doesn't. A strangled sound escapes your throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Fuck!" You shout, pulling on the handle like that would do anything. 

"Are you kidding me?" you seethe, pulling away from the door and kicking it. Hard. The impact sends a jolt of pain up your foot, but you don't care. You kick it again, harder this time, the door thudding in response, refusing to budge.

As childish as you felt kicking the door, it's the final thing to tip you over and you can no longer hold back the tears that were waiting to fall. They're hot and stinging, blurring your vision as you slam your hands against the door again and again. The pain in your knuckles feels good in a way, like a release. You curse under your breath, the words tumbling out, raw and vicious. "Damn it!"

Your strength drains quickly, each hit becoming weaker until you're just slapping the door with the flat of your palms, gasping for breath, the anger dissolving into a wave of grief and exhaustion. You slump against the door, sliding down until you're sitting on the cold, hard floor, your shoulders heaving with sobs.

You pull your knees to your chest, burying your face in your arms. The street is quiet, the only sound of your broken cries echoing softly around you. It's like every emotion you've been bottling up since you got back is pouring out now, in the cold air and oncoming rain, in front of this unyielding door. You cry for the life you lost, for the mistakes you made, for the uncertain, terrifying future that stretches ahead of you.

This can't be the rest of your life, right?

Then you sense it—a presence, a pair of eyes on you. You glance up, wiping your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, and spot him: your neighbour. He's leaning against his brick doorway just a few feet away, a joint lazily balanced between his fingers, looking at you with an awkward mixture of concern and confusion from beneath the awning. 

You hadn't noticed him or the smell of pot which must've been subdued by the rain. You vaguely recognize him. Hamzah, you think his name is. Never had you known he was your neighbour but you were sure you had seen him on your feed a couple of years ago. Now, though, he's standing there, his eyes locked onto you like he's stumbled upon something he wasn't meant to see.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. He takes a drag, the tip of the joint glowing faintly in the dim hallway. You can see the smoke curl around him as he exhales, the smell reaching you a moment later. You swallow hard, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment wash over you. Great. Not only are you locked out, but now you've got an audience to witness your breakdown.

"You, uh... you good?" he asks finally, his voice rough from the smoke. It's an awkward, tentative question as if he's not quite sure what else to say in this scenario. 

"Um," You straighten your posture, coughing to clear the bubble in your throat from sobbing "Yup."

He shifts uncomfortably, scratching at the back of his neck. "Do you... need help or something? Like... with the door?" he offers, taking another drag.

"I just locked myself out, had a bad day," You say, trying to slip in an explanation for your little show "Uh, my roommate can let me in when she gets home." 

He exhales a cloud of smoke, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I can see that." Another pause, then he adds, "You want me to call someone? Like a locksmith or something? Is there something I can do?"

You glance up at Hamzah, eyes still red from crying, and see him taking another drag. The silence between you feels heavy and awkward. Impulsively, you blurt out, "Can I have a hit of that?" You're not sure why you ask—maybe you just need something to take the edge off, something to dull the sting of reality.

Hamzah hesitates, looking you over like he's trying to gauge how serious you are. Then, with a small shrug, he steps closer and extends the joint. "Sure," he says, holding it out and gesturing for you to come closer. 

Sheepishly, you move from your spot on the stoop and scamper over to his patio. You take it from his fingers, feeling the warmth of where his hand was. It's not like you've never done this before, but it feels strange now, in this setting, stuck under an awning with a virtual stranger. You bring the joint to your lips, inhaling deeply. The smoke burns your lungs for a moment, and you cough, fighting the urge to wince as you hand it back to him.

"Thanks," you croak, blinking to clear your watery eyes. The two of you sit in silence for a beat, and you sense him watching you again, more curious now than awkward.

"So," he starts, breaking the silence. "Why are you locked out? What happened?"

"Oh, it's one of those automatic locks but it's actually not since the keypad is busted," Even as you string the words together they don't make sense to you but Hamzah slowly nods.

"Okay," His eyes are half-lidded and another silence stretches between you until he fills it "So you just moved in?" He asks to which you nod "From where?"

"California."

"Why'd you leave?"

"Coke." You answer a bit too fast "Everyone is coked up all the time and it's just kinda miserable no matter where you go." 

"Yeah that checks out," He takes a drag before offering you another hit. Hamzah's eyebrows draw in as he studies the curves of your face and the bridge of your nose, finally, he says "Sorry, you just look really familiar."

"Yeah, you do too," You feel the smoke fill your lungs, the sensation feels as rough as sandpaper.

"Yeah," he reiterates, drawing the word out, eyes still on you. "No, I do know you," Hamzah announces like he's cracked a riddle "I used to watch your videos."

"Used to," You repeat, sucking a sharp breath through your teeth "Youch."

His eyes widen slightly "No, no, not like that, I'm just busy now, like I don't have time to-

You cut him off with a laugh "I don't care, I'm just being a dick."

"Oh," He takes a breath out and his lips slowly curl into a small smile "Cool." 

Silence hangs between the two of you like two birds on a wire as you pass the joint back and forth. The eeriness is filled by the patter of rain, harsher now and splashing against the concrete, so loud it sounds like pebbles being tossed onto sheets of glass.

"Are you like- okay?" He glances at you, coughing into his fight for a moment. 

You knew the marijuana had hit you when everything felt like it was moving in frames and suddenly your body didn't feel so heavy "I dunno," You answer truthfully, tongue loosened by the pot in your system "I just don't know what to do."

"How old are you?" He asks abruptly.

"Twenty-one." When the words leave your mouth he laughs "What?"

"What do you mean you don't know what to do? Watch a movie, eat some cereal, you've got time."

You look ahead of you at the street, water dribbling it's way into drains. Oddly, it felt like exactly what you needed to hear, that jigsaw falling into place. The joint is almost finished now, just a few more puffs left. You take a slow drag, savouring the earthy, slightly sweet taste before exhaling a thin stream of smoke that mingles with the cool night air. "It doesn't feel like it." 

"Nah," He waves it off "You've got time and- " Hamzah fishes another joint out of his hoodie pocket, holding it up with a grin. "Since you're already having the worst day ever," he says, "Might as well make it a little more interesting." 

You stare at him for a moment, the remains of your previous frustration tugging at the edges of your mind. But then you shrug. What do you really have to lose at this point? A small, wry smile creeps onto your face. "Sweet."

-

Hamzah's living room is messy in a comfortable way, with gaming consoles scattered around the TV and piles of clothes thrown across the couch. "Make yourself at home," he says with a grin, already rummaging through a pile on the floor to pull out a small tripod and camera.

You collapse onto the couch, feeling the familiar thrill of preparing to film, even if this time it's more chaotic and impulsive. Hamzah sets up the tripod, the lens trained on the two of you. He fumbles for a second, trying to find the record button.

"Okay, okay," he mutters to himself, squinting at the camera. "Ready?"

You nod, suppressing a giggle as he finally gets it going. He plops down beside you, and you both stare at the red light blinking at the top of the camera.

"Hey, what's up, YouTube!" Hamzah begins, his voice loud and overly enthusiastic, making you burst into laughter. He shoots you a mock-serious glance, pointing at you. "So, this is my neighbour... my locked-out, kind of sad neighbour. We just had a major debrief."

"Major," You nod in confirmation.

Hamzah grins, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. "Right, right. She is in a bit of what I call a slump that we are getting her out of. So, what brings you to the fine streets of Toronto?"

You launch into an exaggerated tale of your move back, embellishing details to make it sound even more ridiculous. He plays along, interjecting with snarky commentary, and soon the two of you are riffing off each other like a well-rehearsed duo.

For a moment, you forget about the locked door, the mess of your life outside this room. You're just... here, laughing with this random stranger, acting like a complete goof in front of a camera.

"And that's how we ended up here," Hamzah finishes, throwing his hands up dramatically. "Two neighbours, locked out, stoned out of their minds, trying to salvage what little dignity they have left."

"I think your dignity is fine, actually," You correct him.

"Mmm, I dunno about that," he shakes his head "My digital footprint is insane."

"How insane?"

Hamzah holds a finger out before reaching into his pocket and taps around, holding his phone out to show you the screen. You watch as several clips play one after another, him saying incredulous things, taking shrooms at Comic-Con, slipping in a hot tub, and eating a comically large hotdog. 

"Ah, I see," You nod slowly.

"Can you believe I did all of that sober?"

"No, actually, maybe, I don’t know you that well."

"Well," He gestures to his phone "That's basically all you need to know."

"Really?"

"Nah," he shakes his head "What am I saying?"

The glint of a green light catches your eye and you're reminded that this entire conversation is being filmed. You nudge Hamzah's bicep, pointing at the camera "Dude, we have a video to make."

"Wait," he puts his hand out, "I think I just discovered the solution for world peace."

"Do tell." Nothing makes sense, you’re just putting together the first words that come to mind like a game of scrabble.

"Everyone gets high at the same time and then we can all resolve our issues." In the moment, it seemed genius, like there were no issues to it. In your state, your face splits into a smile and you give Hamzah a high five.

"But seriously, we gotta film because I'm going to be very irrelevant very soon."

"Right, right. We will-" his head swerves, looking around for something to hold interest, then, he goes back to his phone, opening up Garage Band "Make a song."

"What?" You furrow your eyebrows.

"Nah, just trust me, we will freestyle, it'll be good."

You blink "I can't sing."

Hamzah shrugs, tapping a button that creates a drum loop. "Who cares? It doesn't have to be good. In fact, the worse it is, the funnier it'll be. People love random off-putting stuff that doesn't make sense."

You lean forward, hands on your knees as you try to think of some lyrics. "Okay, okay," you say, catching your breath. "How about... 'I got locked out of my house, life's a mess, lost my success'?"

Hamzah snorts, nodding eagerly. "Perfect. And then, something like, 'My neighbour showed up with a joint, now we're high, nothing's going as planned...'"

You both burst out laughing at how terrible it is, but that only makes it more fun. As the best of a song comes to fruition, you start shouting out lyrics in a half-singing, half-yelling voice, each line worse than the last.

"Can't pay my rent, don't have a cent!" you cry, dramatically throwing your head back.

"Got kicked out of school, and now I'm feeling uncool!" Hamzah chimes in, wailing.

It's chaotic, utterly ridiculous, and so far from anything either of you would ever consider sharing online, but the sheer absurdity of it leaves you both gasping for breath between fits of laughter. You catch glimpses of each other between the laughter, and you realize how freeing it feels to just be silly, to do something that has absolutely no pressure to be perfect or polished. In truth, it wasn't that funny but under the influence, breathing was funny.

As the last of the laughter dies down, you hear the faint rumble of a car engine pulling up outside. You freeze, holding your breath, listening as a car door slams shut and footsteps approach. It takes you a second to register what's happening, and then your eyes widen in realization.

"Oh my god," you mutter, scrambling to your feet. You rush to Hamzah's window, peering outside. There, standing by the curb with a purse in hand, is your roommate. Relief washes over you so suddenly it nearly knocks you over.

"Is that...?" Hamzah asks, glancing out the window beside you.

"Yep," you reply, feeling a mixture of giddiness and embarrassment flood your chest. "That's Margot. I can finally get back inside!" You turn back to him, grinning ear to ear. "I should probably go but uh- thanks for the weed," you say, heading toward the door. Hamzah just nods, a lopsided smile on his face as he follows you to the doorway.

"Oh- yeah," he says, opening the door for you. 

You give him a quick wave, then jog down across the yard to catch your roommate before she heads inside. By the time you reach her, she's already at the door, fumbling with her keys.

"Hey! Thank god you're back!" you blurt out, slightly out of breath. "I locked myself out."

She gives you a skeptical look, seeing your red, glassy eyes but nods, unlocking the door. You slip inside with a sigh of relief, feeling a little steadier, a little less lost than you had a few hours ago. Before she can ask more questions, you glance back toward Hamzah's house, catching sight of him leaning casually in his doorway, waving goodbye with a lazy, knowing grin.

You wave back, shaking your head slightly. What a weird, unexpected day it's been. And yet, somehow, you don't feel quite as alone anymore. It's a weird serenity that washed over you. Toronto didn't seem as hopeless as it did initially.

A/N: Anyways, if you’ve read this far, feel free to send a request. I didn’t really know where I was going with this, just wanted to write something Hamzah.

[phantom-of-the-501st]

I was thinking about something that I saw Noshir say about Charles and hope and it got me thinking about Charles' perspective on the world and all of the cruelty that it brings.

Charles is a man who feels like he was made to suffer, to exist in a world that doesn't want him. His mother was taken from him, his father turned to alcohol, there's a chance that he ended up in a reform school and would have had people trying to take his own identity away from him, and he lives in a world of people who hate him simply for who he is. He's a man who people hate and do not trust simply for the colour of his skin, for being African American, for being Native American. And being mixed race brings it's own struggles as well; he likely found that he couldn't find company among indigenous communities because he wasn't "Native American enough" and similarly found those struggles among black communities who found that he wasn't "African American enough". He lives in a world of cruelty that doesn't accept him.

But then he finds the gang. He ends up in a place where he feels like he can belong. There're still struggles, people in the group who test his patience, those who are still going to give him the side eye, but there's enough of a family for him that he feels like maybe he can belong. And on top of that, he finds a best friend in Arthur, someone he can trust and open up to, to be vulnerable with. It's been a long time since Charles felt like there was anyone he could trust to the degree that he does with Arthur. And with all of this, there's hope. Hope that maybe things will be better, that Charles can exist in a pocket of this world that isn't just the microcosm of suffering he has been trapped in this whole time. There's somewhere where he can find at least a fragment of comfort and happiness.

But then it's all taken away from him. The gang falls apart, his best friend dies and Charles is once again left wondering if he was right all along, that he only exists to suffer. Every time Charles finds something good to cling onto, it's taken away from him.

And yet, he still manages to find a little bit of hope. Hope that the others can get out, hope that even though Arthur's life is coming to an end, he still has a chance to do some good. Through all of it there is something that Charles can grasp onto, to look at and say "maybe there is something better that come out of this." It's a degree of optimism I can't help but respect in a man who always seems to prepare for the worst, who always looks over his shoulder for the seemingly inevitable.

Beecher's Hope is a fitting name: a new life, a new start, a chance to escape the cycle of suffering that many of them have been trapped in for much of their life. Arthur may have lost his, but because of it John managed to get out, so did Abigail, so did Jack. Even though they all went through immense tragedy, they came out on the other side with a better chance. Charles recognises that. I think it reinvigorates something in him, to see that hope still came out of heartbreak. The Marstons can live a better life and Jack won't have to suffer the upbringing that Arthur, John and Charles would have all gone through. At the end of the epilogue, we see Charles make the decision to move to Canada and start his own life. For once he recognises that for all the suffering that he's endured, that doesn't mean that he can't belong anywhere, because if the Marstons can pull through and come out okay, then there's a chance that he can too.

However, as we know, things don't pan out. John dies, Abigail dies, and Jack falls into the lifestyle that everyone fought so hard to save him from. I think that if this news ever got to Charles, it would devastate him. Once again, the world has landed on the side of cruelty. Once again, it all begins to fall apart.

Perhaps Charles has settled down in this time, has his own family. I don't think he ever would have stopped looking over his shoulder because at the end of the day, that's just who Charles is. He prepares for the worst and keeps an eye out for the danger that he can't help but feel will turn up eventually. And, maybe, upon hearing what has happened, he falls into that habit hard. He sleeps less, terrified that if he lets down his guard for just a second, something will happen. He trusts people less because he can't help but consider the chance of betrayal. He closes off more, scared that if he opens up again, something bad will happen to those that he loves. I don't think Charles will ever truly let go of that feeling because he lives in a world that doesn't allow him to. It seems that things will eventually always catch up.

However, I don't think that Charles ever would have lost hope. Despite everything, there is always that belief that things could get better because they do. Sure, the highs aren't permanent, but neither are the lows. Those moments of happiness aren't nothing. The time he spent with his mother, finding a family in the gang, finding someone he could trust in Arthur, that time at Beecher's Hope with the Marstons? It all means something. Maybe it was temporary, maybe that joy was fleeting at times, but it was still there. In amongst all of the pain and hurt and suffering that Charles has endured, there were moments in there that just made things brighter. Things may seem dark, but there's always something there worth living for.

There's a lesson we can all learn from Charles: even if things seem dire, there is always room for hope. The world is shit and now more than ever we are finding ourselves pushing back against the weight of hurt and hatred that seems to permeate everything. But there's still something there, something to cling onto. Things are hard, and they may be hard for a very long time, but there will always be better days. We don't know when they'll be, or how long they'll last, but they do exist and it's important to never forget that. Bad things have happened before and they will happen again, but so will the good things. If Charles can live through what he did and still hold onto that little bit of hope that things can get better, then so can we.

Extra side ramble: I just finished reading Lonesome Dove the other day so my thoughts are all on sad cowboys atm. But I think that book still holds a lot of the same messaging as RDR2. There may be a lot of awful things, but in amongst that there is always something worth living for. Appreciate the small things in life, because they mean something and shouldn't be forgotten, even if they seem mundane in the grand scheme of things. (Also it's a great book and I highly recommend).

Tagging @the-bi-space-ace as promised :D

[alwaysforyouscully]

So I have a few Gillovny thoughts running around in my head...

I wrote this years ago and never posted it so I decided this was as good a time as any to get it out.

****

The general consensus is that D&G hooked up from day one. They auditioned, then fell into bed but I have a different take, so hear me out.

Gillian is young and wants to make an impression, she knows she wasn't the first pick for Scully so she tries extra hard. David was there to help as he had more experience and I'm sure he found her intriguing. Plus G had to have found out about his reputation and the fact he also had a girlfriend in LA. I suspect she wouldn't have wanted to start an affair with her co-star and break up a relationship day one, especially after we heard how she felt when her boyfriend cheated on her. She also said later that David was dangerous and to her, I bet he was. She knew once the line was crossed there would be no going back.

Jump forward a few years and things have certainly changed and I believe this is when the party started, as it were. Though I think they both had feelings for each other early on (D&Gs comments in the ET interview about getting hurt) they didn't act until S3-ish. There is a definite shift and they just didn't hide the fact they were happy together. I really think things would have been fine if Gillian hadn't started to outshine David. Clearly they are both head over heals for each other but David was always the star, lead actor, top billing on TXF until now. When they are both winning awards, it was fine but G surpassed him and I bet things got tense. How else to you explain going from hot and heavy, S3 wrap party and the Golden Globes, to David marrying Tea a few months later (and yes G won an Emmy an D didn't). I've always thought David saw an opportunity to distance himself from Mulder and Scully by getting a wife outside the fandom and more of a movie star/power couple thing, that he couldn't have openly with Gillian. Sadly you can see how it hurt G so another reason to believe the really were a couple at this time.

On to S7. I suspect Tea found out soon enough that D was in love with G, it's pretty hard to hide. You can again see a shift in their on screen work too. David writes Amor Fati, those words meant something to him and he wanted to say them to Gillian. His whole, "let's move the show to LA so I can sleep with my wife" was super harsh but what I found funny is during Paley how absolutely torn up he was that G dated Rodney during this time. It proves to me that even though he broke it off with G, he still felt jealous of her with someone else. Also let's not forget there were lots of rumblings about D&T and their stormy relationship and I thought for sure they would break up after West was born but then there was Miller. Not surprisingly G moves out of LA and out of the US in 2002.

2006 is a turning point again. Gillian really struggled after the show ended, the Julian mess and the bad press, she was lost and David was too. Gillian not being at arm's reach in LA was hard on him. I believe she was (and is, his tether). Anyway, D&G reconnect with talks for IWTB and I know the whole conspiracy theory around Mark. I really don't know how I feel about that, tbh but I think the Phoenix rose from the ashes and Gillovny was reborn during IWTB. Thankfully by 2008 D&T were over and I think Mark was too, if the premieres are any indication.

By 2010, Gillian is at David's play and we get some of the best Gillovny evidence by way of the birthday press announcements, (David's, Gillian's and Felix's) these cannot be coincidental, not by a long shot. As the next few years played out you had the 20th anniversary cons and events. There are sightings, blinds and denials, denials, denials (ps. No need to deny if it wasn't true). The fandom was so whipped up by the time S10 rumors started you could have lit up NY with all the social media energy! Life was good for Gillovny, Gillian working in the US and Canada, close to David. David writing and has free time to go where G is, good times folks, good times. So what happened to the love in 2016?

This is a touchy subject but I really think D&G are still together in 2016 but Gillian wanted to make one last push at stardom. I think she has more she wants to say but is running out of time, in her mind. So, here is what I think happened. Gillian wants to stick closer to London, there are too many eyes in the US and she wants to establish herself as someone other than Dana Scully. She makes a deal with Netflix and part of the deal was to clean up PMs image. She never thought the 'love' connection would happen. I base this on the schmoopie shirt, she did that on purpose so there would be no doubt where her heart lay. This is proven by the total lack of credible press. As days went on and David was still single and looked fine (supposedly after losing G) and Gillian looked like she was going in for a root canal every time she was with PM.

***

This is where I stopped writing way back then, fitting I guess since the fandom crashed and burned after that. In the crazy world of D&G, we suddenly ended up in 24-25 with a Podcast visit and a cute Gillovny awards show presentation and suddenly everything is right with the world again.

You've got to love Gillovny...♥️

[russo-woso]

Hey, I have a suggestion for Jessie (feel free to write when available and if you like it ofc)

Jessie is heartbroken when moving to Portland and American reader helps her settle, takes care of the insegurities Chelsea left and she ends up falling because she was there as well to help her with Gold Cup and She Believes Cup. Reader is the first person Jessie oppened her heart to after being fucked over by her previous club and she's scared because she's falling hard

I’m here || Jessie Fleming

Summary You help Jessie during a very vulnerable time in her life

Jessie had found the move to Portland Thorns hard.

She felt many emotions from the move but the biggest one was insecurity.

She couldn’t understand why Chelsea didn’t want her anymore.

Was it that she wasn’t good enough?

Was she ever good enough?

Why wasn’t she good enough?

The only thing keeping her excited for the move was the chance to play with you.

She’d never officially met you but she knew you well enough to like you.

During the gold cup and the she believes cup, USA had played Canada and although both times Canada lost, you were the first one over to Jessie.

The same thing would always happen. You’d shake her hand and asks if she was okay and she would say congratulations on the win.

Since them moments, Jessie developed a small crush on you but it wasn’t anything major.

Then came the introduction to each other.

On Jessie’s first day, she was introduced to the whole team, a big smile appearing on her face once she met your eyes.

“Jessie, hi. I’m so glad you decided to join us.” You told her, hugging her.

“I’m glad I moved here too.” Jessie said, a hint of sadness behind her smile.

You didn’t know why Jessie was sad. You figured it was because she’d left her best friends in London, but all you did know, was that you were going to try your hardest to make her feel welcomed.

And so in order to do that, you figured the best way to start was to show her around the city.

After a few seconds of debating with herself, Jessie agreed and it was organised that you’d show her around on Saturday.

Later on that session, Jessie let a ball loose and shook her head in anger.

“Hey, hey, everyone does it. It’s fine. The last match we played, I let a ball loose by accident and it nearly resulted in the oppositions scoring. But I learnt from that mistake, that’s what we do here at Portland thorns. You make a mistake, and we help you fix it. You’re an incredible player Jessie, believe me when I say that. We’re all lucky to have you playing with us.” You told her, tears welling in Jessie’s eyes but she pushed them to the side, desperately not wanting to show any sadness to you.

Jessie didn’t know what to do, if she had done that at Chelsea, she would have been screamed at and told to do a lap.

“Thank you.” She murmured, her voice full of emotion.

—

After a week full of training, Jessie following you round everywhere like a lost puppy, it was finally time to show her around.

“Hi, Jessie.” You greeted her as she got into your car.

“Hi, how are you?” She said, a light red pigment spreading on her cheeks.

“I’m okay, it’s been a bit of a hectic morning, aka doing the food shop, but I’m happier now I’m with you. How about you? You done anything today?” You told her, reversing out of the driveway.

“Not much. Just unboxing some stuff and filling in paperwork.” Jessie responded, shrugging her shoulders lightly.

A silence filled the car and the light hum of the music took over.

You looked over at Jessie briefly, you could see the redness on her cheeks still present and the way how she fidgeted with her hands made it clearly evident that she was nervous.

You figured the best to make her less nervous was to get rid of the silence, desperately coming up with a conversation starter.

“So, the plan for this afternoon. First things first, we’re heading into the city, I’ll show you around, show you the best parking spots and the best, and I mean best, coffee shop in town. Then we’ll head to the Willamette River, and maybe show you shops along the way and then after that, I’ll show you my favourite spot in town. Of course, if you don’t want to do any of that, it’s fine. We can do what you want to do.” You explained but panicked towards the end as the thought of Jessie not liking anvy of the plan came to mind.

“That all sounds incredible. Thank you for this.” Jessie said, a grateful smile resting on her face.

“Seriously, it’s no problem. I would’ve just been watching movies all afternoon so you’re going me a favour.”

“So, first site on the tour, on your left you can see the…”

As you continued driving, showing Jessie all the important things of the city, you couldn’t help but notice the silence from Jessie.

Yes she was talking to you, but she was limiting her words, often saying one or two words each time.

You pushed it to the side, carrying on with the ‘tour’.

—

You’d finished everything you had to show Jessie except your surprise spot.

You drove up into the mountains, pulling to the left as you reached the top, reversing your car so the boot backed onto the view of the city.

It must have been reaching eight o’clock because there was a golden haze casted upon the mountains.

“It’s gorgeous up here.” Jessie said in awe as she looked at the city.

“It is, isn’t it?” You asked, looking at her.

You opened the boot, sitting down in it, gesturing for her to do the same thing.

Silence took over once more, but it was a comfortable silence this time.

There was no pressure to say anything.

You weren’t expecting Jessie to say anything but to your surprise, she did.

Taking a breath in, Jessie looked over to you before looking ahead again.

“I never wanted to move to America. I was happy at Chelsea. Well, that’s what I thought. I thought I had achieved the very best in my career being at Chelsea and maybe I had, but looking back now, I wasn’t happy there. Yes I had my friends, yes I had my life there, but I wasn’t happy.” Jessie’s voice broke as tears fell down her cheeks. “Chelsea said I wasn’t good enough, I was letting balls loose, Emma said that when I was on the pitch, the midfield was gone. When I was there, it was like I was a ghost, I didn’t make an impact. And that hurt. Ive spent my entire life trying to be the best I can and they couldn’t appreciate that. Niamh tried to get me to stay but I couldn’t. I couldn’t because Chelsea was hurting me and I couldn’t because the club that wanted me had this incredible woman that I’ve always wanted to know. So why would I say no? Why would I give up a perfectly good opportunity?”

“Jessie… I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise what you were going through. I’m sorry that Chelsea made you think all those things but you’ve got to believe me when I say they’re not true. You’re called baby Canada for a reason. You started playing for your country when you were 15. Do you know how impressive that is? And you were able to do that because you’re incredible at soccer. Jessie, please believe me.” You begged, wanting her to know the truth.

“Thank you, Y/N. Thank you for everything.” Jessie hugged you, tears still falling from her eyes as she rested her head on your shoulder, still hugging you.

“Now, I want to know something. Who’s this girl that you’ve always wanted to know?” You smirked, having a rough idea on who it is.

“American, really good at football, the most kindest and loving person I’ve ever met. I think you might know her actually. I was lucky to spend the day with her today. She goes by Y/N, know her?” Jessie joked, a smile on her face.

“I’ve heard of her. Do you know what she told me recently. She said that there’s this woman that’s just moved here. Brown hair, brown eyes, ridiculously cute, and it just so happens that she really likes this woman. That woman goes by Jessie, know her?” You continued the joke, giggly lightly.

“Hmm, heard of her.”

You and Jessie looked at each other for a few seconds, both of you wondering what to do.

“Umm, thank you again for—” Jessie began, clearing her throat as she didn’t know what to do.

“Jessie? Just kiss me.”

Jessie didn’t need to be told twice, instantly connecting her lips with yours.

Chelsea was her old life, Portland thorns, and most importantly, you, was her new life.