#but to me its such a core part of this energy of hope coming out of the darkness...

[moist-von-lipwig]

the way the regular non-extended LOTR essentially cuts out all the Eowyn/Faramir romance scenes is a crime really

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xi)

ZERO CROSSING—The moment everything inverts, and the axis breaks.

summary: Joel is too far from home, travelling and surviving once again, for a purpose.

a/n: buckle up, this is a looooong one. I wanted to share all the journey and the loss in a single chapter, initially, I wanted to break it into two, but it only made sense here to have it done with. Please take this with a grain of salt, and understand the world of TLOU is difficult and irredeemable. bad shit happens, you can't stop it. okay, let's do this!

word count: 19,000 + [ I had an ask from a sweet anon who wanted this included. hello! I hope you can estimate your reading time now, thanks for letting me know :) ]

DAY 1: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. FOURTEEN HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON, SOMEWHERE PAST SALT LAKE CITY.

Regrets and worries. Joel knew now—they weren’t the same. Not even close. Two different beasts, pulling in opposite directions. One stalked behind you, the other ahead. He had both nipping at his heels.

Regret caught up fast enough. It had already happened, and there was no undoing it. Hated that shit to the core. And worry? Well, he was so used to seeing its back before him now, just waiting for it fuck up. Together, they twisted in his gut. Frayed wires, snarled and buzzing, so tangled he couldn’t tell which was which anymore.

Not here, not now—lying on the splintered floorboards of some half-collapsed home, walls paper-thin against the hiss of falling snow outside, air cold enough it bit the inside of his nose when he breathed too deep.

The cabin was barely standing. Roof half gone, one wall caved in, and wind came through the boards like breath through teeth. It was shelter in the loosest sense—four walls and a place to keep his back to. That’d have to be enough.

The stew sat like lead in his stomach. Came out of a battered can, label long gone. Might’ve been beef. Might’ve been dog food. Probably expired a decade ago. He didn’t care. Shoved it down like punishment. Energy was energy. Didn’t matter how it tasted going in—only that it stayed down. Now, though, his gut churned like it disagreed. Violently.

With the rifle close at hand, Joel sat with his legs stretched out, boots frozen stiff with slush, snow melting slowly off his jacket shoulders. He hadn’t bothered stripping out of his gear. No point. Cold like this, alone out here, you didn’t sleep long anyway.

He’d been riding for fourteen hours. Maybe more. He’d stopped keeping track somewhere past hour ten. Through rough terrain, past the last of the patrol lines, past roads that weren’t really roads anymore, just veins through snow-covered land that didn’t feel real. The map crumpled in his jacket wasn’t worth shit now. Just paper soaked with sweat and hope.

And fuck this snow. It wasn’t just cold—it was fucking brutal. It soaked through seams, dulled the edges of his vision, and turned the horse into a slipping mess of nerves and bone. He couldn’t wait to hit the open heat again—past Vegas, past the mountains, back where the sky turned gold and didn’t bite.

Vegas. Jesus, he’d be riding past it soon. What a weird thought. He’d never liked that place. Clinking noise and vice and strobe lights that didn’t mean anything. Still, the thought of it almost felt like an assurance now—like anything would be better than this stretch of cold emptiness.

The sun had set and risen without his permission, and the horse was starting to limp. He’d have to rest it come morning. If there was a morning. This part of the country didn’t feel like it had days anymore—just gray stretches of silence between dusk and deeper dusk.

And still, sleep wouldn’t come.

He rolled something between his fingers—small, brass, worn, warm from the heat of his palm. A button. Not from anything he’d owned. Probably from a coat someone lost before the world went to hell. Maya had picked it up off the road during the summer, on their way back home from dinner at Tommy's. He remembered her squealing when she spotted it, stubby fingers plucking it out of the dirt like gold, and handing it to him later, bestowing him a treasure, her tiny gummy smile vast as anything.

He’d kept it ever since. Didn’t matter what it came from. The button was hers, then his. It hadn’t left his pocket since.

He squeezed it between his fingers, thumb brushing the grooves, meeting his lip just once, and tucked it away again.

He hadn’t said much when he left. Tommy met him in the barn before sunrise, lit only by a lantern swinging from a nail. The horses had been restless. Cold was coming in through the slats, and Joel had cinched the saddle like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Tommy had offered to go—thrice. Said it didn’t sit right, Joel riding out alone. But Joel had shaken his head.

“You stay here. For my girls.”

He didn’t trust anyone else to watch over them. Not the way Tommy would. “Just make sure they eat and sleep. That they know I'm doin' fine. You hear me?”

Tommy didn’t argue after that. Just handed him the reins and clapped his shoulder once. It was enough, maybe more than enough.

He’d ridden out before the light touched the mountains, the sound of the gate swinging shut behind him like a period at the end of a sentence.

Just yesterday—just yesterday—he’d been home. His home. The big white house, on the edge of Jackson with the bramble bushes out back and Leela’s cursive handwriting on the walls in pencil, tiny indelible equations scrawled between coat hooks and door frames.

Maya had held onto his finger compliantly, in her too-thick coat, dragging her plastic basket across the frost-hardened ground, and crouched beside him in the garden beds as they picked out what her mama had wanted for dinner. Carrots, lumpy and sweet. A head of cauliflower. All collected in her basket, while Joel wondered out loud to her, that maybe Leela was making that spicy stew of hers, with sumac and saffron.

And that night—he’d had Leela’s breath in his ear, her hand latched around his. They’d curled up together under that white duvet, head resting close, her thumb drawing soft, slow circles into his palm until he drifted off.

Now here he was.

Cold. Dirty. Bone-tired. Alone. Chasing ghosts toward a city he hadn’t seen in decades.

He leaned back until his head tapped the wood behind him, and let out a breath. It fogged up in front of him and vanished.

“Screw it,” he muttered.

The backpack was by his side, half-buried in snow-dust. He pulled it closer, unzipped it with numb fingers. Inside, wrapped tight in old linen, was Leela’s notebook—the one with her proofs, her ideas, the kind of math that gave him a migraine. The one he was risking everything to deliver.

Tucked beneath it were two small tape recorders. But—there were two of them, same make, scratched from use. He’d grabbed both in a rush. One of them had her logs, her working thoughts on the Riemann Hypothesis. The other… who knew.

It didn’t matter. He needed her. Her voice. Even if it was just numbers and theorems he didn’t understand. Even if it was her being brilliant in a way that left him in the dust. Something to make the world feel less far.

Joel held one to his chest a moment. Closed his eyes. Thumb hovering over the play button for a moment before he pressed it.

The machine clicked. The static cleared. A brief hiss.

And then, for a second, all Joel could hear was the wind scratching at the seams of the broken-down cabin. Then came her voice—soft, unsure.

He smiled, exhaled, and let the recorder rest on his chest. Ready for sleep.

X

L.REED MAYA INFANCY DEVELOPMENT LOG – AUDIO FILE #9

(Click. The soft static of the recorder kicks in. There's a rustling sound, like someone adjusting a blanket or shifting in bed. Then, Leela's voice—gentle, low, a little breathless, like she’s just settled in beside someone small and wriggly. Maya.)

“You wanna say 'hi'? Hi?”

(Maya hums. Coos softly before saying—) “Hah.”

(Leela laughs.) “Close enough. Okay, so. It is August the seventeenth. Time is… very late.” (A soft snort.) “Um, two-twelve a.m. Bedroom. Maya, age eight months.”

(A soft, gurgling coo interrupts. Then a thump-thump—like a baby kicking her feet against the mattress. Leela exhales a smile into the mic.)

“Baby girl is vocalizing consistently. Her consonant-vowel chains are stronger. Lots of ‘ba-ba’, ‘ga-ga’, ‘ta-ta’, occasionally ‘da’. This morning, I caught her mimicking Joel yawning and singing. She’s watching his lips more, listening to intonation. Repeating the pitch, if not the structure.”

(More babbling now. Higher-pitched. Happier. Leela’s voice quiets slightly, as if leaning in.)

“But just now…” (a pause, soft disbelief flickering in her voice) “…she said ‘Mama.’”

(There’s a quiet moment. A little sniff from Leela, then a huff of a laugh.)

“I was holding her, rocking her. She had her hand on my lips, just as I taught her to express ‘I love you’. Looked me dead in the eye. And said it.”

(Maya giggles, wet and delighted, then says it again—muffled but distinct) “Mamamamama.”

“That. Right there. Did you hear that?” (Leela’s voice wavers, thickens with emotion she’s trying not to name.) “Omigosh, baby.”

(We can hear Maya closer now, her soft breaths, her curious coos.)

“You wanna say that for me, please? Can you say 'Mama' one more time?”

(Soft, adorable, Maya speaks.) “Mama.”

(Leela giggles.) “Yeah?”

(She's excited, seeing her mother smile.) “Maaaa!”

“Maya's first word. Not just a sound. Not just noise. She meant me.”

(Another pause, the rustling of blankets. Leela’s voice softens even more, almost like she’s speaking to herself now.)

“My baby is growing so fast, learning, laughing daily, and it's all Joel. He speaks to her so much, it's no wonder she wants to talk right back at him. But I don’t know what I expected. I mean, I’ve studied this a little from that old baby book Mom had lying around in storage. I know the milestones. The phoneme acquisition timeline. But hearing it…”

(She stops. A breath. Then, quieter—) “It made me feel real. Like I didn’t just survive her. Like maybe I was meant to be her mother after all.”

(Maya babbles in the background, then lets out a little sigh and flops back against the mattress. Leela chuckles softly, tired.)

“She does this cute thing with her hands when she’s trying to form new sounds. Presses her fingers to her mouth like she’s shaping the word. Like she’s building it.”

(A beat. Then Leela's voice dips into playfulness—dry, teasing, a rare glint of humor.)

“She’s smarter than me, I know it. It’s totally fine. I’ll just be the one who cuts up her fruit and explains Hilbert spaces until she’s old enough to tell me to stop.”

(The door creaks open. Joel’s voice enters the room, low and gravelly, but softened with affection.)

“You still up, darlin'? Jesus, go to bed already.” (His boots thud quietly against the floor as he steps in. A pause. Then the sound of a kiss—quiet, slow. A press of lips to Leela’s temple.) “Doin’ experiments with the poor kid again? Hi, baby girl.”

(Leela hums, leaning into him whilst Maya squeals in excitement at Joel's arrival.) “Infancy development log for future purposes. Joel, come sit. Listen, listen. Maya said her first word.”

(There’s a beat. Joel exhales like he’s trying to hide a smile. He shifts closer—more rustling, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he sits beside them. Maya lets out a soft coo.)

“Yeah?” (His voice is quieter now, touched with awe.) “What’d she say?”

(Leela pauses. Her voice is a little breathless when she finally answers.) “She said 'Mama.'”

(Joel is quiet. Then—he laughs under his breath, low, warm and a little stunned. A laugh that carries years in it.)

“Course she did. Trouble and a traitor.” (A kiss, this time to his baby’s head.) “Smartass, just like you.”

(Maya babbles off-screen—happy nonsense, punctuated with a triumphant little—) “Mama!”

(Leela half-laughs, disbelieving) “Hear that? Again and again. No prompting, Joel. Just—‘Mama.’ Like she knew.”

(Another tiny voice from the baby.) “Maaaaaama.”

(Joel sighs like a man personally betrayed.) “Wow. She’s on a roll.”

“You seem jealous.”

(Joel, in mock offence) “Psh. Jealous, schmealous.” (Then addresses Maya directly, lowly.) “You know how many nappies I’ve changed for you, trouble? How many times I’ve walked you around this house at two in the damn morning?”

(He leans closer, pitching his voice hopeful and coaxing.) “Say Da-da. Come on, baby girl. Just once. Da-da.”

(Maya hushes. Then lets out another cheerful—) “Mama.”

“She’s doin’ it on fuckin' purpose.”

“She’s a baby.”

“She’s my baby. Which means she’s bein’ a pain in my ass on purpose.”

(The static is filled with the sound of Joel scooping her up, lifting her overhead with ease—Maya giggles, squeals, kicks her feet.)

(Joel playfully threatens.) “That it? You say 'Mama' one more time and I swear to God, I’m throwin’ you in the trash.”

(Maya hiccups out another: “Mama!” then laughs like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Leela bursts out laughing behind the recorder.)

“Right, you're with the raccoons now. C’mere, you lil’ menace.” (He smothers a chuckle with a deep kiss against Maya's cheek.)

(Leela's teasing does not cease.) “Go ahead. She’ll climb back out.”

“She’s got your damn mouth. And your attitude.”

(Leela’s voice, still recording, drops into a whisper—proud and fragile.) “Cannot believe she picked me.”

(Joel snickers.) “Yeah, baby. But we’re all hers now.”

(Click.)

X

DAY 2: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. TWENTY-SIX HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON.

You know how when you're completely alone, and there’s nothing left to look at but the walls, nothing to hear but the ticking of your own breath? When there’s no noise, no job, no person, no purpose to pull you away from the one thing that's been haunting the edges of your mind?

That’s where Joel was. No goddamn purpose except forward.

The road stretched ahead like a savage scar across the earth—silent, broken, endless. The only sound was the dull rhythm of hooves on packed dirt and the occasional creak of the saddle under Joel’s weight. His ribs throbbed with every breath.

No talking. No laughter. No baby cries. Just him, the horse, and the wind. It was in that kind of silence—complete, bone-deep—that the memory found him. The quiet made space for things he didn’t want.

It wasn’t even something big. Not some major milestone, holiday, or sweet, cinematic moment he could cling to like a lifeline.

Just a soft thing. A quiet day. It had been raining since morning, their first wave of summer storms.

It was not hard, not a downpour, just that steady mountain drizzle that turned everything gray and soft, that blurred the windows and hushed the world, made the house smaller and cozier. Inside this cushy room he'd made for his little girl, the air was scented of old cotton, wood, and whatever Maya had wiped on his shirt earlier.

Joel had stood in the nursery, one arm braced on the crib’s rail, the other setting down a freshly folded onesie on a small, lopsided pile. The window had been cracked, just an inch, enough to let in petrichor and the patter of water on the roof. The rhythm of it folded itself into the room like background music—so familiar he barely noticed it anymore, like a breath or heartbeats.

The laundry was warm from the dryer, and the little pink crib had become a makeshift laundry basket—tiny socks, soft bloomers, onesies with Leela's sweet embroideries of bears, owls, stars, and moons, all heaped together like a colourful cloud.

Maya, just a hair past eight months, sat squarely in the middle of the pile, the clean laundry heaped around her like a nest. She had one sock in each hand, neither matching, and looked at them like she was weighing philosophical truths. Her dark curls were sticking up in fuzzy snares. Her legs were crossed, her posture oddly regal—like she’d appointed herself queen of the sock mountain.

Joel glanced at her, then down at the onesie in his hand. It had a bear on the front, kind of wonky, with one eye stitched lower than the other.

He let out a soft huff through his nose. “I keep meanin’ to ask your mama to patch that bear’s eye. Looks like he’s been through some shit, right?”

Maya blinked at him, then looked back at her socks, utterly unbothered.

Joel folded the onesie and stacked it. “Yeah. Damn garden’s gonna be drowned if this rain keeps up,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “See, I told Mama not to put that basil down near the low spot, but she won’t listen. You’ll see when you’re older—ain’t no one listening to the man with the shovel.”

Maya scrunched one of the socks in her hand, held it up, and gave him a look like, Is this even a sock or is it something greater?

Joel chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Socks. Don’t make no sense, huh?”

He reached over and gently tugged one of the matching pairs out of the pile. “This your big contribution?” he asked. “You fold this one? Looks like it got run over by a possum.”

Maya made a quiet noise—something between a hum and a grunt—and waved both socks in the air like streamers. Joel looked up again, and this time, he softened.

“I see you, baby girl,” he murmured. “Workin’ real hard.”

She blinked at him, pleased with herself, and stuck one sock on her foot over the other one she was already wearing.

“That’s it,” Joel hummed. “Yeah, two socks on one foot. Tyra Banks, you are. You’re gonna revolutionize the whole town.”

And suddenly she was a firecracker of excitement in her double-layered socks. She was up on her feet, squealing, “Da-da-da-da!”

Her little bare feet thudded softly on the crib mattress as she twirled, arms stretched out like wings. The flannel dress—a new one, made by her Mama, cut from one of Joel’s old shirts—fanned out around her like a pinwheel. The plaid knots at her shoulders bounced with every turn, and the fabric spun around her legs with a gentle swish, like the hush of wind through leaves.

Maya made a breathy sound with each spin—a little “hah!” like surprise was bubbling out of her chest. Her curls, puffed up from the static, lifted with each whirl, a halo of chaos above her head. She looked like joy personified: loose, unselfconscious, free.

Joel, sock still half-folded in his hands, couldn’t help but watch. Something about her face in that moment—the pure glee, the trust in the world—grew a warm ache. The kind you didn’t know how to carry, because it was too good. Too fleeting.

“Look at you,” he said, quiet. “You like that dress, huh? That’s Daddy’s old shirt, you know.”

Maya squealed but didn’t answer, too caught up in her spinning. Until her balance gave out. She toppled sideways into the cloth hill with a wild, delighted shriek, caught herself on her hands, and let out a giggle.

He opened his mouth to warn her to slow down—when the thunder cracked.

It came like the snap of a tree limb overhead—sharp, sudden, alive with force. The windows rattled in their frames.

The sound wiped the joy clean off her face. Her arms dropped. Her breath caught in her throat. She pivoted toward the window, her expression one of stunned betrayal—like the world had just raised its voice at her for the first time.

Then she moved.

Ran straight at Joel, flung herself against the crib rails, fingers latching onto his jeans like she could climb up into his skin. She didn’t cry, not yet. But her whole body was taut and trembling. Her face was still turned toward the glass, mouth parted, trying to understand the sky.

He saw the tiny tremble in her lower lip, the way two fingers picked at them nervously, the way her eyebrows drew tight, a wrinkle forming between them like a shadow.

Another thunder roll followed. This one longer, deeper. It crawled over the house like a prowling animal, ploughing into the roof.

Maya let out a whimper—not loud, but helpless. She looked up at him, big eyes wide, uneasy, and in a voice cracked with fear, she whispered, “Da-da, mhmm. Up, pease.”

Joel didn’t answer. He moved first.

In two strides, he was at the open window. He reached up and slammed it shut with the heel of his palm. The muffled silence afterward was almost a relief, just the soft percussion of rain on the roof.

“There we go. Nothin', it's gone now.”

Then he came back to her, crouched down, arms open before she even reached him. She crashed into his chest with a panicked little cry, climbing up him like he was a tree, tiny fingers clawing for purchase in his shirt, breaths shallow.

“I got you, honey,” he murmured to her as he stood, lifting her up against him. “You’re alright. I got you, baby girl.”

Another boom rolled over the mountains—long, low, rumbling—and she whimpered, her face pressed into his neck, her whole body trembling against his.

He gathered her up and lowered himself slowly to the rug. Sat cross-legged, grunting, settling herself in the crook of his chest. He curled himself around her like a shelter, drawing her in until she was tucked fully against his chest. Her bare toes nudged under his arm, one arm trapped between their chests, the other clutching his collar in a death grip.

“It’s just the sky talkin' to you,” he said, soft against the crown of her head. “Ain’t nothin’ but the sky being all big and loud for its favourite little girl.”

Another crack of thunder, and she jumped.

“Ahh, no, no, no da-da!”

“Okay, okay. Ssh.”

That’s when Joel gently brought his hands up to her ears—those big, calloused palms, rough from years of labour but soft now, careful as he cupped her tiny head. He didn’t press, didn’t smother—just curved them over her ears like a living shield. Just enough to hush the worst of the world.

“There,” he whispered, voice tucked low in his throat, like a secret just for her. “That better, baby?”

She only sagged into him, her whole weight melting down like her bones had gone soft. Her breath came fast, shallow little gasps against his neck, her cheeks hot and wet where her tears were soaking straight through his shirt.

Joel’s chest clenched.

“Shh, hey now,” he murmured, rocking her gently, like he’d done when she was still small enough to fit in one forearm. “Ain’t no storm gonna touch you. Not while you’re right here with me.”

He pushed a kiss to her temple—warm, lingering—then rested his cheek against her curls, letting himself sink into her warmth too. Her curls were soft against his stubbled jaw, but still quivering like a frightened baby bird. Every flinch of hers felt like a blow to his own ribs.

The next clap of thunder rolled in, less sharp now but still loud, echoing through the valley.

She flinched again—hard—and bowed into herself even tighter, like she was trying to disappear inside his chest. Her lip quivered, her little shoulders jumping beneath his hands.

Joel tucked her closer, wrapped himself around her, every muscle taut with the instinct to protect. To cover.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, peppering kisses wherever he could. “Almost over, sweetheart.”

His hands moved—slow, pacifying—one cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades. He could feel her heart racing under his palm, tiny and frantic. Like a hummingbird. But with each pass of his hand, it began to slow, just a little.

Outside, the thunder rumbled again. Softer now. Farther away. Tired, fading.

Joel didn’t move his hands. Just kept holding her, kept being the still point in the storm, the rock she could anchor to.

“You hear that?” he said, reaching down to brush his thumb against her eyes and wipe the tears away. “Storm’s gettin’ tired. Runnin’ outta gas.”

And as the rain gentled on the roof, Maya’s breath began to slow. Her tiny fists, once knotted in his shirt, loosened, fingers going slack. Her lashes fluttered against his collarbone like moth wings. Not asleep—but safe. Settled.

After a minute, she shifted. Pulled back just enough to sit upright in his lap, still nestled between his knees. Her legs folded beneath her, toes peeking out under the hem of her dress. She didn’t say anything—just found one of the buttons on his shirt and started turning it slowly with her fingers, brow furrowed.

Then she looked up. Big, brown, still-wet eyes. A pout like a petal turned down, cheeks sticky with the last of her tears. Her curls were a damp halo, and her bottom lip wobbled, just a little.

Joel leaned in, forehead leaning gently against hers. Let their warmth meet in the middle.

“Hey. Doesn’t stand a goddamn chance against you and me, right?” he asked in a whisper.

Maya blinked up at him. Then touched her fingers to her lips—soft and sweet—and pressed them to his. That little 'I love you' trick again. She gave it off so freely sometimes, to Ellie all the time, to Maria, even Tommy, who bugged the hell out of her.

He gave a breath of a laugh, quiet and rough-edged. His eyes closed as he felt her tiny hand against his mouth.

“I love you too,” he murmured, catching her little hand between two cautious fingers, rubbing the bare lines there. His fingertips barely spanned her palm, this tiny little thing that trusted him to hold her through her first storm.

Let it thunder, he had thought then. Let it break the whole damn sky. It wouldn’t get to her. Not here. Not while he was breathing.

That memory bloomed behind Joel’s eyes like a flame in the cold.

He blinked, slow, pulled back to reality by the enduring rhythm of the horse’s hooves. Wind whipped around his straight collar. His ribs ached with every breath.

Forever was a grandiose fucking myth. That soft, rainy day might as well’ve been a dream. A world made of cotton and woodsmoke and spinning plaid dresses. Twenty hours behind him. Maybe a thousand miles. Maybe gone forever.

And if she was scared now? If the thunder came again and she reached for him, he wouldn’t be there.

All he had now was the ghost of her breath on his neck. The echo of her trust. The weight of his baby girl he could still feel in his arms, though she wasn’t there.

Joel hunched deeper into his coat, reins pulled taut, leather digging into his palm.

Because the storm hadn’t left him. It had just moved inside.

X

DAY 2: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. TWENTY-SEVEN HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON, JUST PAST GRAND JUNCTION, COLORADO

The first thing that hit him was the same goddamn cold.

Not the kind he was used to, that stung his fingers or turned his breath white—but the kind that stole. That lung-squeezing, bone-hollowing cold that came with being slammed headfirst into a river in the middle of no-fucking-where.

It engulfed him whole.

Joel’s skull cracked against stone. He barely had time to curse before the water closed over him. It was an aggressive silence, all muffled roars and bubbles, blood rushing in his ears. His body spasmed on instinct, legs booting, hands clawing for something—anything.

His face broke the surface with a sharp gasp, just before a boot came down, hard, and shoved him under again.

He went back under with a strangled snarl, teeth bared in the dark, throat filling with river. He thrashed—unseeing, feral, like a dog tangled in barbed wire, hands scraping across riverbed rock. Something thick and ugly filled his chest—not just water, but rage. Blind, instinctual, living within his very marrow.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He didn’t even know where the trap had sprung from—just that one second he was crossing that busted-out bridge, cold wind at his back, and the next he was flying sideways, skull and ribs screaming as they hit the bank. A flash of movement, then mud, then water.

Now his gear was scattered, his rifle somewhere downstream to the Gulf of California, and the weight on his back was not budging.

Had to give it to him, the guy was strong. Not smart. Sloppy, wild. But strong as fuck.

Joel twisted, spine screaming, hips torquing. A crack of pain lit up his ribs—he didn’t have time to wonder if they were broken. He got one knee up in the current and drove it backwards—boot connected with something soft. The man grunted. Joel surged, body arching, hands fumbling. His fingers closed around something slick. A stone, maybe. Maybe a piece of his own gear. He didn’t look. Just swung it upward.

There was a crack of bone. The weight lifted.

Joel broke the surface like a corpse pulled from the deep. He choked, spat, and coughed, the sound raw and ragged. His whole body was trembling, muscles stuttering from the cold.

He had half a breath in him before the guy was on him again.

“Sonuva—” he bit out through chattering teeth.

Big, ugly, one of those loner types. Eyes wide and bloodshot. Beard crusted with something black. Stinking of rot, blood, sweat and boots that’d walked through worse places than this.

Joel didn’t waste time—got a hand on the man’s face, fingers clawing for the eyes, gouging. The other hand dropped to his belt—the knife was still there. Thank God. He drew it, fast, but his wrist was shaking and his grip was off.

He wasn’t thinking. He was moving. This wasn’t the first time someone tried to kill him. And it wouldn’t be the last.

The blade found flesh—but not where it needed to. It glanced off the bastard’s side, shallow, not enough. The guy roared and drove a fist into Joel’s temple. Stars burst behind his eyes.

His boots skidded on slick river stones. He went down hard.

The weight came again. Pinning him. Crushing.

The man’s knee jammed into Joel’s chest, ribs shrieking under the press, full body leaning in. Joel felt something crack. Pain ripped through him like lightning. The knife slipped from his hand.

Shit—

“You're fuckin' dead, asshole.”

Alright. Bring it the fuck on.

The guy was growling in his ear, teeth gnashing, breath hot and putrid. Hands clawing at his throat. Joel struggled, arms scrabbling. His body was giving out. Water dragged on his clothes. His lungs were still half-full of the river. His legs were kicking, but they felt far away.

Too tired. Too fucking slow. Too fucking old.

A knee jammed into his chest. His own vision flickering. The sky above him was a fair smudge between barren tree branches.

Not like this.

He saw her face. Maya’s. Then Leela’s. Ellie’s. Faces he’d left behind to protect. Faces he wasn’t ready to forget. Just a little more time. One more chance. Go back home, forget this whole damn thing. Just live.

Not like this, not like this, not like—

BANG.

The body on top of him jolted. A spurt of red bloomed across his shoulder, steam rising from the impact.

BANG.

Closer this time. Blood misted across Joel’s face. The man slumped. Collapsed. Dead weight, sudden and slack.

Joel lay there for a second, breath snagged in his throat. The silence came back—but it wasn’t tranquil. It was sharp. Expectant.

He eventually gasped furiously, chest heaving, struggling to pull air through raw lungs. Hands numb, shaking. His ears rang. Blinked the blood out of his eyes.

Then slowly, painfully, he shoved the corpse off and rolled onto his side. Coughing. Wheezing. The river soaked into his bones like poison. His fingers dug into the pebbles just to remember what solid ground felt like.

A third gunshot wasn't coming.

He turned his head, half-expecting a hallucination, knife still in hand—every nerve sparking. His body was coiled, heart pounding in his throat, soaked through, freezing, half out of his mind—

And standing there, staring at him with wide, shit-scared eyes—

Ellie.

Still holding the pistol two-handed, her arms locked, face pale and furious and terrified. Her breath ghosted in the cold, breathing hard, like she’d run all the way here. Snow dusted her hair, melting into her collar. Hair messy, sleeves pushed up, a smear of blood on her cheek—he didn’t even know if it was hers.

She looked like a goddamn kid again, that shock in her.

Joel stared at her for a moment that felt like the world had paused—like time itself needed a second to understand what the hell just happened.

She took a step toward him, lowering the gun.

“Joel—” Her voice broke halfway through his name.

And then, behind her, out of the trees—Leela.

Moving quick but steady, wrapped in that old worn coat of hers, fur-lined, hair tied up into a big, tight bun, eyes locked onto Joel like she’d been hunting him through a warzone. Her hand was clenched around something that looked cobbled together from broken bottles, tubing, and copper wire, rigged with metal scraps and cloth. A bomb, crude and half-melted, glass fogged with something dark and hissing inside. Acid, maybe. Of her own damn making.

A fucking acid bomb.

He stared at them both, still on his knees in the water, stunned, soaked, heart clawing its way back into his throat.

For a split second, he thought he was dreaming. Thought maybe he’d finally cracked. That maybe he died in that river, and this was what his mind made up on the way out.

But unfortunately, no.

Ellie was still holding that pistol, shoulders tense. Leela was here, real as anything, her breath catching when she saw the blood on his face.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel rasped. He staggered upright to his feet, knees buckling, one hand pressed to his broken ribs. His voice was hoarse with cold and panic. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

Ellie didn’t answer. She was staring at him like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to hug him or shoot him for leaving her like that.

Joel was still dripping, clothes ungainly, cuts stinging on his hands and face. His fingers flexed around the knife hilt, but he let it drop, slowly. His voice, when it came again, cracked with cold and fury and fear.

“Have you lost your goddamn minds?!”

He didn’t care how raw he sounded. Didn’t care that his legs were shaking. Because what the hell were they thinking?

Jackson was safe. He left them there for a reason.

Joel turned his gaze to Leela, eyes wild. Still couldn't believe this shit. No, he was definitely imagining this.

“You—you brought her out here?” he rasped to Ellie, the words stumbling out, shredded at the edges.

His voice cracked with wrath, but beneath it was something else. Something jagged and terrified. He wasn’t yelling at her—he was yelling because if he didn’t, he might fucking break.

But Leela didn’t move. Just stood there. Still as a statue, wet snow clinging to her sleeves, her mouth parted like she couldn’t speak. And her eyes—no.

She looked at him like she didn’t recognize what she’d found. Like she’d expected someone else. A stronger man. One who wasn’t half-drowned, bloody, and shaking from the cold. A man who didn’t have someone else’s blood running down his neck.

She’d come all this way, and this was what she got.

He wasn’t even sure he was breathing anymore. This was the whole reason he’d left. So she wouldn’t have to see this version of him. The one he tried to keep locked up in the dark.

The bleeding one. The broken one. The furious one. The one who failed and lost—over and over again.

Joel’s lungs seized. His ribs ached like something inside had torn loose. Not broken, just bitterly bruised. He didn’t know if it was the pain, the grief, or just too many nights without sleep.

“I told you to stay the fuck back,” he growled, staggering forward, fury spilling out of him just to cover the terror underneath. He took a step forward, wet boots dragging in the muck. “Do you even know what the hell I’m walkin’ into? You think this is a joke? You've just killed yourselves!”

He wasn’t shouting at her anymore. He was shouting at the world. At himself.

But Ellie’s voice cut through the fog like a blade. “He would’ve fucking killed you. How about a 'thank you'?”

“Coulda blown my goddamn head off,” he grunted.

“You scared the shit out of me, Joel! You just—” she rubbed her wrist against her nose, to quiet a sniffle, “When she came to my door with the kid, crying her head off, I thought you were... God, you're such a fucking asshole!”

Joel stopped.

Her hands were shaking. The gun still hung in her grip, barrel down, smoke curling from the muzzle. Her eyes were glassy, but she wasn’t crying. Ellie never cried, not where he could see it.

He wanted to argue. Tell her she shouldn’t have been here, that she was reckless, that she’d risked everything—

But he couldn’t. Because she was right.

So instead, he looked away. His jaw clenched. Hands flexed uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching with adrenaline that had nowhere to go. The cold came creeping back in.

He didn’t know what the fuck this was anymore. Didn’t understand how they’d followed him this far. Didn’t even understand why. All he knew was that the two people he’d tried to protect by walking away were now here—wet, cold, bleeding. Standing in the wreckage of his silence.

And for a second, it felt like the whole damn universe had flipped inside out.

Then he muttered, hoarse and quiet, almost to himself, “I ain’t sure what’s what anymore. Stupid kids.”

He barely had time to let the words settle before Leela moved. Past Ellie. Past the smoking pistol still loose in her hands. Past all the invisible lines she obeyed—the ones built of silence, of distance, of dignity too scarred to name.

She moved like he had finally broken open inside her. And all he wanted was to just bring her close, sink her into his chest, all her warmth and strength, be grateful she had come all this way, and she was still alive. His good arm opened to do just that.

Until she hit him. Hard.

Joel didn’t even register the motion. Just the crack—a sharp, ringing pop against his cheekbone, like someone had fired a shot next to his ear. His head snapped to the side, mouth open in dumbfounded silence. The cold air lit up against the raw skin like fire on ice.

He barely managed to turn his head, blinking, confused, lips parting to speak—the fuck—to find her eyes, to demand something, anything—

When the second slap landed. Harder.

Across the opposite cheek, this one sent him a half-step back. His balance rocked. His knees gave a warning lurch. His vision blurred at the edges.

Ellie, though, came through with a hollow, “Jesus.”

The ringing in his ears drowned out everything. Even the birds had gone still. The only sound was that awful, hollow rush of blood in his head. His jaw ached. His mouth tasted of copper.

He didn’t know whether to be infuriated or stupidly impressed.

Leela was small. Smaller than him by a long shot. But she had those arms—those long, welder’s arms. He’d seen her rip stubborn rusted bolts loose like paper tabs, carry piping half her weight over her shoulder, hold Maya in one arm and stir sauce on a pot without breaking for a full hour. All that strength—he felt it now, blistering across his jaw. Twice.

She stood before him, chest rising and falling too fast, few loose curls clinging wet to her cheeks, lips parted like maybe she was about to say more—but didn’t.

And Joel just stood there, wordless.

The cold didn’t exist anymore. The bruising in his ribs didn’t matter. His back could be broken for all he knew, and he still wouldn’t have felt it.

Because all that existed now was her.

Leela. Storm-eyed. Livid. Trembling. Hot, if he might brainlessly add. And something else—something behind all that rage. A breaking point.

He had never seen her like this. Not once. Not even in the worst moments. Not even when Maya was screaming from frequent colic at two in the morning and Leela hadn’t slept in days. Not when the generator blew and she spent a week hauling scrap in snow up to her knees to get the lights back on. Not even when he'd practically roared at her for taking up that supply run with Tommy all that time back.

She always held the line. Quiet, astute, controlled. Too benumbed, sometimes. Too in her head to react. Never like this.

Then—her hand was on him again.

But this time, not to strike, but he did flinch though. Her slaps hurt like a bitch.

Her fingers curled into his scruff—rough and fast, like a wrench clamping down on rusted metal—and she yanked his face back toward hers.

He tried to look away. Tried to drop his gaze, tried to vanish into the pain, the shame, the damn noise in his skull—oh, she didn’t let him.

Her grip was iron. Her eyes locked with his, and what he saw wasn’t just rage. It was worse than rage.

It was finality.

“Listen good, Joel. I left my one-year-old daughter behind to travel for two days through stinking shit, trying to find your dumbass. And when we get back to Jackson after this,” she said, her voice low and flat, steel cooled just before it cracked. “I’ll make sure you never touch a goddamn hair on Maya's head again.”

She let go, just like that.

Her fingers unhooked from his chin like she was cutting a rope, severing the last thing tethering them together.

And he—well, he didn’t fall, not exactly. But his spine bent, his head dipped, and his shoulders slumped like something inside had gone slack. Like the immaterial weight he carried every day had finally doubled, and he’d just let it.

She stepped back, stiff, her breath catching now, arms trembling—whether from rage or the cold or the crash after adrenaline, he couldn’t tell. The acid bomb still dangled from one hand like a fucked-up metaphor—glass, cloth, something sharp—as if she didn’t even realize she was still holding it.

Joel didn’t move. Couldn't force another word out.

He stood there in the destruction of it—soaked to the bone, shaking, cheeks stinging red, the blood of a stranger drying on his collar. His pack and rifle, drenched. His bearings were lost. Everything that had once made him sure of the next step.

And now—that one sentence—rattling around his skull like a bullet in a spent chamber, louder than the gunshots, louder than the river, louder than the slaps.

Leela meant what she said. And there was no fire, no flood, no click of a rifle or scream of infected that disturbed him more than those words.

He’d lost her for good. Not in some hypothetical, not in a nightmare. He lost her, in truth. In the cold light of consequence.

And he was losing Maya too. Not to death or sickness.

To himself. To the choices he made, trying to keep them safe.

He swallowed hard. It felt like glass going down. His eyes, dull and sunken, drifted sideways—to Ellie.

She hadn’t said a word through all of it. Just stood there, in the dying light, watching. Her eyes were too sharp, too old for her age. Her mouth set in a line like she was biting down on something jagged to keep it from spilling out.

She didn’t say I told you so. Really didn't have to.

Joel straightened up, rolling his shoulders. Slowly. Felt every snap and creak in his spine. His breath shuddered through cracked ribs. His jaw clenched once. Twice.

Then he did what Joel always did. He put it all in a box—every shattered piece—and shoved it deep, where the other shit festered, where it couldn’t get in the way. Where it couldn’t slow his hand if the trigger needed pulling. Where it wouldn’t matter.

Because they were still alive. And that meant the work wasn’t done.

So he cleared his throat. Almost a cough. And nodded once at Ellie. Then, he spoke in a voice low, steady, already shifting back into the man he had to be.

“We gotta get movin’.”

Ellie blinked at him. Leela didn’t turn.

The stinging wind picked up around. Joel looked toward the trees—branches swaying. The river was still coursing around him, still loud in his ears, but fading now.

He adjusted the straps of his pack on his shoulder and shook out the water from the rifle. Pocketed the revolver and a knife he couldn’t remember drawing.

He didn’t ask if they were ready or reach out. He just started walking ahead.

Because there were still threats out here. Still ground to cover. Still two people behind him who might not want him anymore—but they needed to make it back home.

And if that was the last thing Joel could give them, then by god, he’d give it. Even if it broke him for good.

X

Now, Leela knew everything.

It wasn’t about how much she knew—it was how deep it cut. And worse, how much she must hate him for it. There was no middle ground left. No soft place to land. Whatever warmth she’d once kept lit for him—whatever delicate belonging he’d built with her and Maya—it was probably gone. Extinguished.

They made camp off a deer trail, tucked under a collapsed ridge where the wind didn’t bite quite as hard. The sun was long gone, dragged under by the tree line, and the cold had come thieving in.

A fire snapped to life with Ellie’s careful work, dry bark and pine needles catching under flint sparks. It cast a low amber glow, flickering over ash-stained hands, over their little circle of silence. They were three bodies, orbiting the same silence. One fight too many.

Joel sat against a stone, one knee bent, the other leg stiff with bruises. He pressed the heel of his hand into his ribs—each breath was a blade. A cracked rib, maybe two. It'd heal in some time. His cheek throbbed where Leela’s palm had landed square beneath the eye. There was still the taste of blood in his mouth from the split inside his cheek, and he didn’t spit it out. He kept it there. Felt like something he owed.

But the rest—the real pain—had nothing to do with flesh.

His knuckles were broken open again. Skin peeled back, raw and crusted with blood. They hadn’t been torn like that in months. Not since Maya. Not since he swore to himself that those days—those versions of him—were done.

He found a patch of old snow, tucked in the roots of a fallen tree, and jammed his hand in it without thinking. The sting cleared his head for a second. Not long. But long enough. Better that than thinking about what he'd lost in the last twenty-four hours.

Across from him, just past the fire’s reach, Leela sat hunched against the bark of a maple, her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight. Her silhouette was tense. A wire pulled too far. Her face was turned away, but he could still feel the gravity of her silence.

She hadn’t said a word since the fight. Since the slap. Since she told him he’d never touch Maya again.

Joel didn’t blame her.

He couldn’t look at her too long. It felt like staring at something holy that you’d already shattered with your own hands. Like the moment before a deer bolts—only this time, the deer had every reason to tear you apart instead.

Ellie passed around rations—some real food for once, not the dog-food shit Joel had been choking down since he left Jackson. Canned venison. A half-stale biscuit. Dried apples.

Leela barely took a bite. Just lifted the fork, stared at it, waited for the appetite that wasn't coming, and handed it back to Ellie with a quiet shake of her head.

“C'mon, Leela,” Ellie tried. “You can't just—”

“It's okay. You need more energy than I do,” she reasoned. “I'm really fine, honey. Thanks.”

Of course, she wouldn’t eat it. She wasn’t built for this kind of hunger. She could stomach a hundred theorems, burn through chalk and paper and sleepless nights like they were fuel, but this—this fire pit, this blood-caked survival shit—he never wanted her to have to endure it. He’d promised her safety. Comfort within their big, white house with walls thick enough to keep the world out.

But he’d dragged her right into it.

Joel watched her movements like they were coordinates. Markers of the damage. Not one bruise on her skin, but she looked like she’d been through hell. Not the kind he was inured to. The parent alone kind. The watching every shadow in case it takes your child kind. And he’d left her in it.

He cleared his throat. The words scraped coming up. “You two ate somethin’ on the way?”

Leela didn’t respond. Didn’t even twitch.

Ellie glanced between them. Her voice filled the space like a thread trying to stitch up a wound that wouldn’t close. “She foraged,” she said. “I had rations. We got by.”

Joel nodded, though it didn’t ease a damn thing. Getting by wasn’t the point. One day was enough. One day without Maya, not knowing where she was—what she needed. Whether she’d cried herself to sleep. Whether she’d asked for her dad.

His hand throbbed inside the patch of snow he’d buried it in, and he left it there. A self-inflicted punishment that didn’t go deep enough.

He glanced across the fire again.

Leela hadn’t moved. She looked fossilized—ancient and delicate, trapped in amber. Beautiful, brittle. Ready to break under the wrong kind of breath. He wanted to go to her. Kiss her palms. Her feet. Kneel, grovel even. Say anything.

I’m sorry. I did this for you. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m here now. I’m here. Take me back.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t trust his legs. Didn’t trust her to want him near. Didn’t trust himself not to ruin something worse.

“Who’s got Maya now? She okay?” he asked instead, softer this time. Barely a whisper.

Ellie shrugged. “Tommy has her.”

Yet, something in Leela shifted.

She turned her head toward him slowly, like a hinge rusted from disuse. Her eyes gleamed amber glass in the firelight—not soft, not tearful. Eyes that used to flinch from cruelty now dared it.

“Oh, you care so much all of a sudden?”

Joel shrank back. Not from the words—he could handle words. It was the disgust behind them, the truth he could hear in the marrow of her voice.

“Of course I fuckin’ do—”

He stopped himself. The old Joel—the one with fists and fury and pride—wanted to bark something back. But the man in front of her now? All of that had caved inward.

“It’s all I care about,” he said instead, quieter, shriveled on the way out. “She’s all I care about.”

Ellie glanced between them again, saw the scene for what it was, and without a word, she got to her feet with a grunt.

“I’m gonna go scout the area,” she sighed, a quiet, nonsense excuse. Her voice didn’t carry judgment—just tired understanding. And wise enough to leave broken things alone until they stopped bleeding.

Joel barely heard her leave. His eyes were on Leela. On the streak of dried dirt down her neck. The way her free hand curled into a fist at her side.

Leela’s glare didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened. Her mouth twisted, barely restrained.

“If you did care,” she continued slowly, “you wouldn’t have left her, you lying coward.”

Joel stared into the fire. His ribs ached with every breath. His hand stung. But none of it compared to that.

Coward. That one fit. And still, all he could think was—you deserve it. Every word. Every second of this.

“You nearly cost my daughter her father,” she went on. “The one you promised you’d be. All for your self-righteous, noble bullshit that I never even knew about.”

Our daughter, he wanted to say, but it caught in his throat. It rose halfway up his throat before dying there, stuck in that place where pride and sorrow went to rot. Because maybe it wasn’t true anymore. Maybe that word—our—was already gone.

Joel stared into the fire. His ribs throbbed. His knuckles ached. But none of it hurt like her voice.

“I left to protect what is mine,” he muttered. “I left because—”

“Because what?” Leela cut in. “Because you didn’t think I could handle it? Because you thought sneaking off in the middle of the night was kinder than just letting me choose with you?”

Joel blinked, and it hit him in the gut: she wasn’t exclaiming because she didn’t need to anymore. Because maybe she was done needing anything from him at all. It was worse this way—each word a clean and precise incision, a scalpel gliding through flesh. Pain wearing the skin of rage.

Grief had taken root behind her eyes, and it had teeth.

“I don’t care that you didn’t tell me about LA sooner,” she said. “I don’t even care that you thought you were loving me by keeping it all to yourself—because you’re a dense, selfish, sad, angry bastard, Joel, and I knew that from day one. I chose you anyway.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Hollow. Stupid. Like a man reaching for an apology after the fire’s already burned down the house.

“I hate your goddamn nerve,” she spat. “I hate that you thought you were sparing me. I hate knowing that if you died out here, I wouldn't even know where to bury you.”

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. That calm—that cutting calm—was worse than rage.

Joel tried to speak again, defend himself, make her understand. Nothing came. Just breaths. Just fire.

“I hate that you thought you were protecting me,” she said. “You always think that you know what’s best. That you can carry it all on your own. That if you just bleed enough, it counts as love.”

Joel leaned forward. His cracked rib barked in protest, but he barely registered the pain. “I wasn’t tryin’ to—”

“Yes, you were,” she snapped.

She turned her face back to the fire, as if looking at him hurt worse than the memories. “You don’t get to decide what I can survive, Joel.”

His hands shook now. Tremors he couldn’t hide anymore.

“I do,” he rasped. “I fuckin’ do. I’m the only one who does.”

Leela laughed. Not from amusement—but something bitter and jagged that barely passed for a laugh at all. “You think that makes it better?”

Joel looked down at his hands. At the crusted blood, the swollen joints. The man they belonged to.

“You haven't seen what I've seen. Fought, bled, and starved with this shit. Leela, there are slavers out here,” he said, eyes dropping to the fire. His voice was unraveling. “And if you get away from that, there are people who try to eat you. Hunters. Raiders. Rap—”

He stopped. The word stuck like a bone in his throat. A single syllable, too heavy to lift up. Don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it.

But they both heard it anyway.

Leela flinched like she’d been struck. In half a moment, her shoulders straightened, eyes steel again.

“You think I don’t know that?” she said, sharp as shrapnel. “I have been living with it in every breath I take.”

Joel wanted to disappear. Not walk away—vanish. Just cease. Be unmade.

“I left because I thought I could do something for you,” he said, voice low, cracking open at the seams. “Find someone. Anyone. Get them your proof. Make it count. That way, maybe everything wouldn’t just sit there in the dirt and rot, like you said. That is what you wanted.”

The fire popped. A spark shot upward, fizzled, and died in the cold air.

Leela stared at him. And in that look was every sleepless night. Every muffled sob she’d buried in Maya’s curls. Every second of silence and solitude he’d forced her to carry alone.

“You think I needed you to go fix it for me, Joel? What are you, my partner or some god?” she asked. Her voice was raw now. Stripped to the bone. “You don’t get to disappear and say it’s for our own good. No. You don’t get to wrap your guilt up in goddamn sacrifice and act like it’s some kind of gift.”

His lips parted, then closed again. His throat constricted like it was physically rejecting words.

Because what was he going to say? That he did it for them? That he didn’t tell her because it would’ve broken her heart that he kept from her this long?

That he thought maybe—just maybe—if he made it out to LA, if he delivered her precious legacy, if he gave the Fireflies her working theory, maybe then he wouldn’t have to carry the guilt anymore?

He was supposed to carry it. That was the deal. That was the role he’d carved out for himself after all the blood, after every goddamn life he'd taken and every one he'd failed to save.

But Leela didn’t see it that way.

All she saw was the door closing. The boots gone from the threshold. A child wailing at night with no arms strong enough to lift her.

And all Joel could whisper—quiet, hollow, useless—was: “I needed to do the right thing for you.”

She stood. Slow. Heavy. Like her joints were made of stone. The firelight curved around her, throwing shadows under her eyes, painting her tired skin gold and gray.

“I needed you to stay. To talk to me, to trust me.”

And that was the kill shot. It landed clean.

Presence over preemption. That was all it was to her, only he realized too late.

“I didn’t need some far-off maybe or prove yourself to someone who knows you,” she said. “I needed you. Here. I needed to step outside the house without worrying if she’d choke or fall or cry herself raw. I needed her dad to hold her so I didn’t have to do it all alone. I needed someone to watch her grow with me. Because that is what is real, Joel.”

Joel closed his eyes.

And he saw her—Maya—small and warm in his arms. Her tiny fist tangled in his shirt collar. Her big, bright, brown eyes blinking up at him. The way she said Dada like it meant safety.

He’d traded all of that for an empty road. A mission. A maybe.

And now here he was—blood dried on his collar, ribs cracked, knuckles split, and heart hollowed out like the carcass of some roadkill he hadn’t even seen in time.

He’d gone looking for hope. Thinking he could trade blood and sweat and scars for redemption. For Ellie. For Tess. For Sarah. That if he walked far enough, bled hard enough, proved his love with enough miles and silence and pain—he’d earn something back.

But Leela was right. He’d dressed his guilt in duty. And called it love.

And now all he had to show for it was this—The wind in the trees. The crackle of dying fire. A man lost.

He wanted to go to her. To hold her back, take her hand, press his forehead to hers, say the words he couldn’t ever seem to find.

But he didn’t move.

He just sat there, broken and burning, his only fallback left to survival. The fire crackled on, spitting cinders into the dark.

And Joel—protector, survivor, fool—just watched it, and hated the man he’d reverted to.

X

DAY 3-5: EN ROUTE TO CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. SIXTY HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON

“We're seeing this through. So I'm not leaving, and neither is Ellie,” Leela had finalized for him outright.

“Look, I can't—”

“I don't need you to. I said I'm not leaving, Joel.”

Stubborn fucking mama.

And Joel didn’t fight them on it anymore.

He should’ve. He told himself that. Told himself it the morning since they saddled up and rode out together—that if he were the man he used to be, he’d have grabbed both of them by the arm, dragged them back into Jackson, forced them to stay where it was safe.

But Leela had made her choice. And the truth was, he didn’t have it in him to push her away again.

So now, they rode.

The world around them unspooled like a reel of forgotten film. Dry plains gave way to rocky scrub, sagebrush rustling under the winter wind. They passed old highways cracked wide with weeds, a rust-eaten railroad bridge swallowed half by floodwater, a small burned-out town swallowed whole by silence. The road south stretched endlessly ahead, its shoulders littered with bones of the old world—billboards sun-bleached to blankness, gas stations gutted, houses like open, parched mouths.

The cold had let up somewhere past Idaho. By the fourth day, they’d started peeling off their outer layers, stripping down to threadbare flannel and undershirts. The sun was sharp now, almost springlike in the way it bore down around noon. Nights were still bitter, but the frost no longer clung to their boots come morning.

Ellie named every strange cactus they passed, tried to make him laugh by pointing out skeletons shaped like they died mid-dance. One, half-buried in the sand, was hunched like it was tying its shoe; another leaned back, arms splayed, the skull twisted toward the sun.

He gave her a few hums in response, nothing more. His attention kept drifting behind her—to the woman riding pillion, quiet as a shadow.

Leela didn’t speak much. Not to him. Just to Ellie. She wasn’t angry anymore. That was the worst of it.

Anger had a shape, volume—one he could understand, parry, push back against. This silence was weightless and permanent. Like the ash after a burn.

At night, she curled in close to the fire, wrapped in her own coat. She didn’t sleep easily, just like old times. Joel noticed the way her body stayed curled too tightly, like she was bracing for something. And sometimes, when it was his turn to take watch, he’d hear her stir behind him, restless, breath catching in her throat.

She’d wake with a sharp noise, legs thrashing, hand flying to her side like she expected something there.

Joel would glance over, pretend he hadn’t noticed. But he always did.

One night, she jerked upright so fast her hood fell back. Her breath came fast, shallow, and she folded forward with her arms around her knees, head ducked low like she was trying to disappear inside herself.

“Darlin’, you alright?” he had tried to call to her once.

“I—I wasn’t sleeping, just...” she drawled off, voice dry with exhaustion.

He nodded. “Okay. I'm right here.”

Joel turned his gaze back to the dark horizon, giving her that thin veil of privacy she always clung to. But when he heard the rustle of her coat, the soft scrape of her boots in the dirt, he realized she hadn’t lain back down.

Instead, she stayed awake beside him. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there with her arms folded, eyes watching the fire.

This happened more than once. Sometimes she’d wake from those dreams and never return to sleep. Other times, she didn’t even bother lying down—just sat with whoever was on watch, a silent shadow, her eyes rimmed red and distant come morning.

Joel didn’t ask. He wouldn’t push her, not about that.

He knew the ghosts that came back louder in the quiet. Knew how the wilderness could turn remembering into something sharper, hungrier. How it could whisper the worst things back to you in your own voice. And even if she didn’t say it, he knew exactly what kept her awake. What she was afraid of.

Sometimes he wondered if she thought Maya would be safer if she’d stayed behind. If she questioned the math, the risk. If she blamed herself, the way people like them always did.

But even like this, she was still… same old Leela. Which meant she was still incredible.

She knew how to move through this land, the way a bird knows when to migrate. He caught her one afternoon scaling the knotted side of a tree that had grown wild across the ruins of a collapsed overpass. She gripped the bark like she was born to it, legs coiled beneath her, moving with deft efficiency. She tossed down a fistful of small, yellow apricots, slightly underripe, and a few wild pears with bruised skins that thudded onto Joel's waiting jacket. Later, he watched her dig up something near the riverbed—root veg, maybe burdock or wild carrot—and clean it carefully, rubbing the dirt off with her sleeves, pressing them to her nose, testing if they were sweet or poisonous.

Joel lowered himself beside her with a grunt, his knees stiff. He held open her pack as she added more roots, careful not to crush the fruit she’d wrapped in a handkerchief. Woodsmoke wafted through the air from the fire that Ellie had just started uphill.

“You always know what to look for,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The stuff that won’t kill us, I mean.”

Leela didn’t look up. “You get good at it when you’re tired of throwing up pine bark.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Pine bark?”

She picked up another root, brushed the dirt from its ridges. “Good for the heart.”

Joel nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I'll take some of that when we get back home.”

She doesn't say anything more. His sentence hung in the air, almost shaping into a misreality.

He kept looking at her hands—fast, continued, precise. She wasn’t being cold. Just simple. Honest. It was a fact of the earth, same as everything else she pulled from it.

Evidently, she hated canned food. Always had. Joel remembered how she used to nudge the tins aside, which he'd brought her from patrol, grimacing at mushy peaches and synthetic meat stew like they were poison. So now, she gathered what she could. Built fires. Let the fruit and roots roast slowly over the open flame.

That night, he found three apricots—peeled, pitted, still warm from where they’d sat on a flat rock near his sleeping bag.

Didn’t let him go hungry.

And in the morning, when he stirred against the half-deflated camping mat, shivering from the cold ground, ribs smarting, there it was—her jacket draped across his shoulders, fur tickling his nose. That puffy green one she always wore, the one patched at the elbows. Smelled faintly of smoke and lavender soap. She must’ve covered him sometime before dawn, when the fire died low and the frost crept back in. His fingers curled over it without thinking, bringing it to his nose. He didn’t want to let it go.

Didn’t let him freeze either.

“Take care of your own damn self out here,” he muttered to her that afternoon, when Ellie had wandered off to check a sound in the brush. “I’ll be fine.”

Leela didn’t answer. Maybe she’d heard it too many times before.

Soon enough, they were moving through the shell of a city—some old Vegas township gutted by time and flame. Dust coated everything like it had fallen just yesterday and never stopped. Storefronts with sun-bleached awnings sagged in silence, windows cracked or blasted clean through, their displays long since picked over—or left to rot. An old jewellery store stood crooked between a payday loans kiosk and a shuttered vape lounge, its signage hanging by one rusted chain.

Joel didn’t like it. Too many angles. Too much open space.

Ellie pushed open the busted glass door.

“Gimme a sec,” she called over her shoulder. “Might be something useful in here.”

Joel stayed out on the sidewalk, scanning the street, back set against the tilt of the wind. Leela had wandered across the way, squinting up at a streetlamp that had snapped clean in half and was tangled in telephone wires like a dead limb. Her coat tugged in the breeze, hair pulled back tight today.

Joel kept half an eye on her, the other on Ellie.

From the inside, Ellie’s voice floated out through the cracked window. “Ooh, now this is romantic. Joel, check it.”

Joel let out a harshened sigh. “Don’t, kiddo.”

“C’mon,” she said, grinning, holding up an old velvet ring box missing its jewel. “Little shiny thing like this? She’d probably cry.”

“She doesn’t want all that,” he muttered, eyes tracking the rooftops. “Doesn’t want anything from me. The way she's goin' about this, I might have to move out again when we get back.”

Ellie snorted, still rummaging. “Sure, that’s what she says. But I dunno, man—if I survived the apocalypse and the kind of shit you two been through? I’d want some credit. Maybe a bouquet of barbed wire. Something symbolic.”

Joel gave her a flat look through the broken window. “You done yet?”

Ellie wiggled the ring box again, then tossed it onto a dusty counter. “You’re no fun. What happened to carving rings from bone for her?” She held up the sign of the horns. “Disgusting, but metal as hell.”

Joel huffed through his nose, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Leela turned back then, catching his eye from across the street. She didn’t wave. Just nodded—barely—and returned her attention to the crumpled lamppost, fingers brushing the wiring like she was piecing something together.

And then came the gunfire.

No warning. Just the sudden crack-crack-crack of it, echoing off old brick, and Joel flinched sideways as the sharp hiss of a bullet splintered stone inches from his ear.

“Down, down, move!” he roared, rifle up in a second.

Ellie hit the floor, crawling fast toward the back exit, already firing through the jagged window glass. “Joel!”

Joel ducked behind a rusted truck frame, adrenaline flattening his breath. The street flared with gunfire, loud and close. Somewhere to his left, Leela had disappeared from the sidewalk. Goddamnit, where was she? Where was she?

“Ellie,” he growled, crouching low as he swung around the corner of the car, “head down, c'mon!”

“Yeah, I got it!” she shot back, sharp with focus. “You see Leela anywhere?”

“I dunno,” he muttered. His heart punched harder. Maybe she found cover nearby. Dammit, that stupid ring joke didn’t feel so funny now.

Ellie ducked and returned fire without hesitation, pushing herself into the side of a rusted-out car. Joel followed suit, rifle up, stock tight against his shoulder.

“Fuckin' ambush,” he grunted. “You see that? Two o’clock—rooftop. Gotta be fast, kiddo.”

Ellie scoffed. “I know, I ain't blind, old man.”

They’d walked right into it. Fucking scavenger crew—hunter types, the kind that circled ruined cities like vultures. Not Fireflies. Not FEDRA. Just the kind who didn’t blink at killing for shoes or rations.

Shots tore through the air like thunder cracks. Joel’s head snapped to the sound—figures ducking behind a flipped bus, another peeling off to circle left. Four, five, six—too many.

His gut tightened.

“Ellie, no. Stay down!”

“I got it, Joel!”

She broke cover, darting low. But she didn’t get far.

One of them—tall, fast—slipped out from the wreckage like a fucking shadow, got behind her, arm around her throat, dragging her back behind a wall.

Joel stopped breathing.

Everything else—gunfire, shouts, the pounding of his own heart—fell away. The world narrowed to that one point: Ellie being taken.

He saw red. And he pushed forward.

Not tactical. Not planned. Just rage and instinct.

He exploded from cover with a snarl caught in his throat, moving like he had a purpose and a goddamn clock ticking down. His revolver barked—once, twice. The first man went down with a bullet in his chest. The second—gutshot—dropped screaming. Joel didn’t blink.

He was already on the third.

The one with his arm wrapped around Ellie’s throat.

Joel hit him from behind, slamming him into the wall with bone-cracking force. The man grunted, tried to turn, but Joel hooked his elbow and wrenched—shoulder dislocated with a wet pop—and drove a knee into his spine, once, twice, until he dropped Ellie with a choked gasp.

She hit the ground, coughing.

Joel didn’t stop.

He fell on the bastard like a dog on a carcass, knife already in his hand. It wasn’t quick. He didn’t want quick.

First strike—base of the neck, just above the collarbone, angled down to sever the artery. Second strike—lower, ribcage, a twisting motion that made the man buck and scream.

Blood sprayed warm across Joel’s chest, his hands, soaking into his shirt. His knuckles were already skinned raw from impact. He drove his boot into the man’s hip when he tried to crawl. Then the knife again, this time straight into the chest.

Between the ribs. In and out. Faultless. Practiced.

Joel didn’t stop, grunting, letting the man bleed, until the man went still.

And even then, for a moment, he just crouched there—knife dripping, chest heaving, the silence crushing.

Then he heard it. Not Ellie. Not gunfire.

A gasp.

Joel’s head whipped up.

Leela.

Ten feet away, half-shadowed by the remains of a splintered awning. Her boots frozen mid-step in a puddle slick with oil and blood. She wasn’t crouched, wasn’t armed, wasn’t anything but exposed. Frozen. Not moving. Not blinking. Her hands had lifted halfway—toward her mouth, toward her wide eyes, he couldn’t tell.

Not just the scene. Not the blood. Not the body crumpled beneath him, throat torn wide, chest leaking into the cracked pavement.

Him.

Joel. The man who traced the outline of her ribs under cotton sheets. The man who kissed her slowly as breakfast sizzled on the stove, called her ‘darlin’’ until she broke out a grin, danced slow with her in the living room to the record player, Maya on his hip, all honey and drawl. The man she let in, trusted, after all she’d been through.

But he wasn’t that man now.

Only this was left. This feral thing she’d never seen before.

Blood up til his elbows. Wild-eyed. Panting like a fucking animal. Knife still tight in his broken fists. He didn’t know how long he’d been on top of the guy. Didn’t remember the last stab. Couldn’t even tell where the screaming had stopped and his breathing had started.

And she saw it. All of it.

Her expression—it gutted him more than the fighting ever could.

She didn’t look angry.

No, she looked like she’d just walked through a door into another life, and one she hadn’t agreed to. There was fear there—not loud, not flailing—but silent. Contained. Like someone who’d learned a long time ago that panic didn’t save you.

“Leela—” His voice was gravel, torn and rasped and nothing soft.

She flinched when he stood. Not away—just a jerk of her shoulders, like she’d been struck once and braced for the second.

And that—was the fucking worst of it.

Because Joel had seen her scared before. Seen her tense up in the dark, eyes scanning for shadows that didn’t exist. Seen her sit up from a nightmare with her hands clenched into fists, her breath short and strangled.

But she’d never looked like that at him.

He didn't get to go to her. Get to explain. He wanted to wipe the blood off his hands, off his chest, off the whole goddamn world. But it was too late. Because right then—

“C'mon, we have to go!” Ellie’s voice splintered through the space between them. She was already pulling on Leela’s wrist. “Now, now, go, go, go!”

Joel heard the shot before it echoed. Close.

He saw Leela’s fingers twitch—like she might reach for him, or maybe just steady herself. For one splinter of a second, he felt everything—her horror, her disbelief, the silent question in her eyes: Is this the man I love? The one Maya sweetly calls da-da?

And then that old, festering and terrible being in him took the reins. The hunter. The killer. The man who always fucking survives.

“MOVE!” he barked, voice cracked open by fury and urgency. A dire command.

Leela jolted. Her head ducked. Her feet moved.

And they ran.

They didn’t stop running until the city was a smear behind them—just smoke and ruin on the horizon, softened by distance and dust.

They found cover in a half-collapsed service station half-sunk into the dirt, the roof bowed like a snapped spine, windows blown out, desert wind whistling through the hollow bones of what used to be civilization.

Joel sat slumped against a concrete pillar, elbows braced on his knees, hands stained and stiff. Dried blood mapped across his knuckles, under his fingernails, along the creases of his palms like some fucked-up tattoo he hadn’t earned but couldn’t wash off. His shirt clung to him, crusted dark across the chest.

He hadn’t changed. Couldn’t. Didn’t deserve the comfort of clean clothes just yet. No river around to wash off in any way, and even if there had been, it wouldn’t scrub out what was under his skin.

He hadn’t looked at her. Not once.

She sat maybe too far away. Back to a wall. Her pack in her lap, unzipped. She wasn’t cleaning a weapon like methodical Ellie—not Leela. She didn’t carry guns. Joel would never let her.

Instead, she was threading a needle.

Or trying to.

He watched her from the corner of his eye, head bowed like he wasn’t. Her hands—usually so steady, precise—were quivering. The needle slipped from her fingers twice. She picked it up again, quietly, without swearing or sighing, and tried again. Her knees were drawn up. The strap she was stitching had only a small tear, maybe half an inch—but she worked it like it held her together.

He’d seen her sew before. Months back, she once fixed the lining in his jacket in less than three minutes with the same damned needle. She’d repaired most of Joel’s clothes back home, stitched her own strappy little tops, embroidered tiny designs into Maya's clothes, humming while she did it, threading them with ease, her fingers confident and graceful.

Every stitch is a solution, she'd say to him when he watched her, and the design is just the equation. A measure, a numeral. Now she looked like she didn’t even remember how to hold the damn thing.

Because every so often her eyes slid to him.

No, not to him. At him.

The difference. His hands. His shirt. His boots, still stained from when that last bastard had coughed blood all over the ground and it had splashed up onto Joel’s shins.

And she’d seen it all.

The way he’d moved. Not just fast. Not just angry. But precise. Like he knew the exact spots to hit to ruin a man. Like it wasn’t new. Like he’d done it before. Because he had. More times than he could count.

And she knew that now.

She’d seen what was under the soft Texan drawl, the morning coffee, the warm, calloused hands that tucked Maya’s curls behind her ears when she ate. She’d seen what that tenderness was built over.

Violence. Unapologetic, unflinching, survivalist violence.

And Joel couldn’t scrub it off. Couldn’t fold it up and stash it away before she got too close. He almost wished she had screamed and told him he was a monster. Asked how the hell he could do what he did. At least then he’d know where to place her in all of this.

Joel swallowed, jaw tight. A vein throbbed at his temple. His heart had slowed, but it still kicked, irregular, like a motor trying to start after a crash.

What the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry you saw me gut a man alive? Sorry I turned into the thing you’ve spent a year convincing yourself I wasn’t?

He’d been brutal before. She just hadn’t seen it.

Only now she’d seen what he truly was. The old world didn’t raise kind men—it bred survivors. And Joel had survived every way a man could. Through pain. Through blood. Through choices that never stopped echoing even now.

The only thing he managed to say, finally, low and gruff and barely louder than the wind scraping across the station floor, “We’re still a full day out. We’ll keep movin’ at first light, so get some rest.”

X

And look, Joel was trying to rest. Trying and failing, but still.

His head was a goddamn mess. Static. Replay. A loop he couldn’t break. Blood. Breath. The sound that bastard made when the knife went in—wet and sudden, a choke of surprise right before the silence.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose. Closed his eyes. Let his head fall back against the cracked concrete wall, cool against the sweat on his neck.

And then he heard it. Soft at first. Half-whispers. Barely there.

“I’m Leela.” A pause. A breath. A shift of cloth behind the shattered doorway of what used to be a bathroom. “Leela... no. Leela. I want to tell you—no. I have solved—my parents and I have solved—no.” A frustrated exhale. Then, quieter, “I am Leela… dammit. C’mon.”

Joel opened one eye. Turned his head.

The light in the bathroom was dim—barely a glow from some scavenged flashlight she’d propped up near the mirror. He couldn’t see her, but the words carried, echoing off tile and porcelain. She must’ve thought she was whispering. Must’ve thought no one could hear.

Across the room, Ellie was propped up on her elbow, her face lit faintly by that same flicker. She was grinning, eyes alight with mischief.

“Been goin’ on for ten minutes,” she snickered, voice hushed, like sharing a secret. “It’s adorable. I think she's nervous to meet these Firefly folks.”

Joel didn’t smile. Just raised an eyebrow. Looked back up at the ceiling.

Adorable. Maybe. Or maybe it was a bad sign. A red flag waving itself stupid in the middle of the dark.

Practicing your own goddamn name. Stumbling over words like they were bricks in your mouth. That wasn’t adorable. That was pressure. That was fear, chewing at the edges. That was a person so wound up she didn’t trust herself to say hello without screwing it up.

His jaw tightened.

There was a part of him—a stupid, reckless part—that wanted to get up. Walk over there, nice and quiet. Knock on the doorframe just once. Let her know she wasn’t alone. That she didn’t have to rehearse anything. That if she needed to talk, he’d sit there and listen, no matter how long it took.

But the other part—the bigger, meaner part—kept him pinned down.

Because he still hadn’t earned the right. Not after what she saw. And the last thing she needed was him looming over her, making it worse.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Exhaled slowly. He was a complete fucking idiot.

“You’re an idiot, Joel.”

For a moment, he thought he had been the one to say it out loud.

He blinked and turned his head again. Ellie. Still watching him. Smirking now, like she’d been waiting for him to figure it out.

He grunted. “Not in the mood, kid.”

“You’re never in the mood,” she shot back, flopping onto her bedroll. She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it—just the kind of tired, familiar sass that came from too many nights like this. “Doesn’t stop you from being a total dickhead.”

He gave her a look. One of those long, dead-eyed stares that usually shut her up. The kind that said, Don’t push me.

Not tonight.

She just grinned, hands behind her head. “You really think she came all this way—through all those cities, with people trying to kill us every ten miles—just to tell you to fuck off?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

“She cares about your hardass, just as much as I do,” Ellie muttered.

So, maybe Ellie saw all the things Joel didn’t let himself see. Or maybe she was just better at hope.

Because he had thought it.

More than once, he’d pictured it—that she’d reach the Fireflies, hand off whatever math magic was burning a hole through her skull, nod her thanks, and go. Cut the thread. Return to Jackson. Return to their—her daughter. Back to her life before he bulldozed into it like he always did with anything good. Maybe she’d have the decency to leave a note at the door when kicking him out.

Joel, please just leave us alone. I don't want a psychopath raising my daughter.

Maybe he deserved that.

He sat there a moment longer, thumb working absently along a notch in the stock of his rifle, tracing the smooth edge over and over. The kid was right. She had come all this way. Across states, through wasteland, through gunfire and ash, and sickness and silence. She’d fought beside them. Saved his life once. Slept with one eye open, traded warmth for distance, wore her grief like it was stitched into her coat. All of that. And not just for some cause.

She left Maya behind.

The thought hit like a hammer to the sternum.

Maya. His baby girl. His sweetheart, who barely fit in his arms anymore, yet so small she could tuck her frightened face under his chin when it thundered. He’d seen it. Seen the way Leela held her now, so different from all those months back—no fear, just pure maternal instinct. Even when she was dead on her feet, her touch was protective. Fierce.

You don’t leave that kind of love behind unless you got no goddamn choice. Unless whatever’s out there—the person, the reason—is worth the risk of not coming back.

He ran a hand down his face. Felt the rough scrape of beard under his fingers. Closed his eyes for a second. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Goddamn.”

Because no matter how many times he tried to tell himself she’d come for the Fireflies, for the math, for the cause—every time he looked at that bathroom door and heard her voice cracking around his name—he knew better.

She’d come for him.

A tangle of shame and wonder and raw, stupid hope in his chest made him feel like a little boy again. A dumb, dangerous feeling.

But his eyes slid back to the thin light under the bathroom door. The edge of her pack catching a sliver of glow. The sound of her voice still faint, repeating those words, again and again, as if she was willing herself into belief.

I am Leela.

Joel sat up.

His joints popped in protest, old aches coming to life as he rose slowly to his feet. The room tilted for a second—blood loss and no real sleep—but he steadied himself with a hand on the wall.

“Wipe that smile off your face, you little shit,” he hissed to Ellie.

“Whatta marshmallow,” Ellie mumbled, just watching him go, her smirk softening.

The door wasn’t fully closed. He nudged it open with two fingers.

The bathroom was dim and damp, smelling faintly of rust, infection and old mildew. A cracked mirror stretched above the sink, fractured down one side like a spiderweb frozen mid-snap.

Leela, hunched over the filthy porcelain basin, arms braced, hair falling around her face and body like a curtain. Her bare shoulders, under that black tanktop, rose and fell with shallow, controlled breaths. She hadn’t heard him yet. Or maybe she had and didn’t move, too far gone in whatever loop she was caught in.

Joel stepped in.

Quiet, like muscle memory. Like coming up behind her at the kitchen counter, when she was at the chopping board or scribbling on paper. In that quiet way he used to do, just to let her know he was there, he wanted her near, that he didn’t need her to talk.

He slid his hands around her waist.

Her body tensed.

Not a flinch exactly—but enough. A subtle stiffening beneath his palms that made his chest cave in a little. His heart fractured in that single instinctive reaction.

He didn’t pull away. Because as it had been established, he was selfish fucker. He stayed and didn’t say anything.

Just rested his forehead against the back of her head, where her hair smelled faintly of soap and smoke and salt. His eyes shut. He couldn’t bear the mirror. Couldn’t look up and see the condition of them—this makeshift version of a life that should’ve been warm, and home, and full of sweet nothings.

He’d had a picture in his head.

Them, side-by-side at a clean sink, still damp from the shower. Brushing their teeth together while Maya babbled from their bed outside, waiting to be put to sleep. Arguing about whether to fry the rice or save the eggs for pancakes. Leela nudging him with her elbow because he always hogged the mirror.

That was the image. The one he clung to.

Not this. Not her hands shaking just barely, gripping the sides of a stained sink as she tried to convince herself she still belonged to something greater than this broken world.

He didn’t speak at first. Just breathed her in—like maybe that alone could calm the blood in his veins. His hands were splayed over her powerful middle now, warm through the thin fabric of her shirt. She was too still. Not pulling away. Not leaning in.

So he moved slowly.

Pushed her all her thick, long hair gently over one shoulder, careful not to tug. It slipped between his fingers like threadbare silk. Then he bent forward, kissed the shell of her ear. Just once. Just enough.

“There’s a part of me that—I never wanted you to see that, darlin',” he whispered, the words nearly breaking in his throat.

She didn’t move.

Joel’s forehead pressed to the side of her head again. He closed his eyes. “That… thing. That man with the knife. That’s what’s left when I run outta reasons. When I think I gotta protect somethin’ I already lost.”

Silence buzzed in the air.

He wanted to tell her exactly that he’d do it all again to keep Ellie safe. That sometimes you didn’t get the choice to be gentle. That the world didn’t work in softness and she should wake the fuck up. But all of it sounded like a goddamn excuse, and worse—it sounded like the truth.

His voice faltered off. “If you hate me… I get it. I ain’t askin’ you to forget what I did. I just—”

God, what was he thinking? He wouldn't want her apologies anyway.

His chin lifted a little. “But I’m still me, Leela. Still Maya’s. Still yours, if there’s any part of you that wants that.”

There was no dramatic pause. No breath held in hope. He said it like a man naming his failures in the dark. Mum. Certain. Not because he thought it would change anything—but because it was true. And because she deserved to hear it out loud.

Maybe she was remembering what it meant to let something dangerous that close. Maybe this was the moment she realized she couldn’t love him. Maybe this was the moment he proved he didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t blame her.

Then he felt her shift. Just barely.

Her hand came up and back, platting into his hair. Her fingers scraped lightly at his scalp, a slow, grounding motion—not tender, not affectionate, not forgiving. Just there. Present. Real.

She didn’t say it’s okay. She’d never needed to wrap things in softness. Sadly, she knew what it meant to be ruined.

To be taken apart and put back together with pieces missing. She’d lived in the wreckage of her own skin, patched herself up with logic and reason, with equations and notebooks, trying to make sense of something that defied sense.

And still—he loved her. Not in spite of it. Not around it. Just through it. All the way through. So what if he’d split a man open like kindling? What if she’d been split first—by someone who’d never deserved to touch her in the first place?

She was here. She’d come. With her voice cracking in the dark and her hands braced on a sink like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She was still herself. Still trying.

Joel let out a breath against her neck.

And then, quiet—low and splintering—she said, “I’ve been dead before, Joel. This is not what kills me.”

The words lodged in his chest like a nail. No dramatics. No trembling voice. The truth. Her fingers kept moving, dragging slow circles in his hair.

And when she turned her head—just scarcely—he saw her in the mirror. Saw the red-rimmed eyes, the taut mouth, the exhaustion etched so deep into her face it looked like it might never fade.

She met his gaze in the cracked glass. A long moment passed.

There was a change, not in her body, not in the set of her jaw or the tremble of her breath, but in the way she looked at him. Like seeing a wound that hadn’t stopped bleeding and finally understanding why the bandages never worked. A clarity there he was familiar with.

Joel just watched her eyes, the way they softened and steeled in the same breath. The way grief and love could live in the same goddamn face.

He saw her swallow. Her throat worked once, twice, like the words weren’t forming—they were fighting their way up.

And then, without turning fully, she said, “It’s horrible. How grateful I am that you can become... that.”

He blinked. His heart gave a slow, brutal thud against his ribs.

“Because it means no one will ever touch her. Not Maya. Not while you’re breathing.”

And just like that, he had to bite the inside of his cheek. Hard. To keep from falling into whatever that was curling up inside him. All that shame and pride and an ache so old it had turned quiet.

Her head stayed dipped, his mouth just a breath away from her skin.

The silence between them wasn’t hollow anymore. It had mass. Weight. Like a room full of smoke that they’d both learned to breathe in.

Joel didn’t move, didn’t dare. His hand remained at her waist, palm flat, fingers barely curled. He could feel the heaves of her breathing—still tight, still not stable. But alive. Still with him.

He should’ve said something. He knew it. Should’ve said I’m sorry, even if it wasn’t enough. Should’ve said you can hate me, I’ll still kill for you. Should’ve said you can take Maya away, and I’ll still be at your back the rest of my life.

But every sentence that came to mind sounded like another wound. Another wrong turn.

So he stayed quiet. And waited. Let her have this moment to leave—if that’s what she needed. But then—

She turned. Just a little. Enough that her shoulder brushed against his chest. Enough that he saw her face not in the mirror, but right there—real and close. Red-rimmed eyes. Lips chapped from the cold, pale, parted just a bit.

There was no invitation. No demand. Just presence. And that—God help him—was what crushed him.

Joel raised his hand, slowly. Let his knuckles ghost across her jaw like he was scared to touch her too hard, like she might shatter.

She didn’t lean in. She didn’t lean away. She just stood there. Breathing still.

That was all the backing he needed.

The kiss he prompted was not soft. Not romantic like the hundred before. It was dry, cracked and laced with grief. His mouth moved over hers like he was memorizing the shape of her pain, and hers opened to him with something like surrender—not of will, anything but.

They didn’t move or deepen. Didn’t gasp or moan or pull or want or seek anything more.

They just connected. Two broken things, sealed at the seam for a single breath of repose in the storm.

Joel’s hand stayed on her cheek, rough thumb grazing the edge of her temple. His other hand, the one still resting at her waist, gripped just a little tighter, like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go now. Not after everything. Not after seeing the worst of each other and still not walking away.

He didn’t know if this meant anything, if it was the beginning of the end. Or just a flicker of what used to be.

But when they pulled apart—slow, wistful, just inches—her eyes opened again.

Clear. Tired. Still full of all the rage and grief and brilliance that made her who she was.

“You’re still in there, Joel,” she whispered. Not accusing. Not forgiving. Just observing. Like she was taking stock of a fire that wouldn’t quite die, even after the smoke had choked the sky.

Joel held her gaze for a moment, and then dropped it—couldn’t take the weight of it. He exhaled, slow and heavy, eyes closing. His voice came low and coarse, barely brushing the air between them.

“Don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss just below her ear. A whisper of a thing. A thank you. An imprecise I’m sorry. A Jesus, what the hell are we now?

Outside, the wind pushed against the walls of the small bathroom like it wanted in. The fire crackled somewhere in the next room, Ellie’s shadow moving quietly near the doorway, always vigilant, giving them space.

Inside, Leela didn’t speak. But her fingers—still trembling—moved to cover his on her abdomen. Held them there. No tighter. No looser.

Just there.

Joel let the moment breathe, let the silence settle. His throat worked once before he spoke again, voice barely a rasp.

“When we get to California, whatever happens… I just…” He paused, brow furrowing. “You don’t gotta decide anything yet. I just need to know I’ll still get to see my little girl.”

A flicker passed through Leela’s eyes. She didn’t flinch or draw back, but she didn’t soften either.

She looked at him like she was trying to hold him in focus through a haze of old pain and newer fractures. Behind her gaze, where he lived, there it was—subtle, distant.

Her fingers didn’t move from his. But her voice, when it came, was quiet. Neutral. Like she was choosing every word as if it could tilt the precarious balance in this world.

“Let’s see what happens first.”

That was all. Not yes. Not no. Not never. But not enough either.

Joel’s jaw worked. He almost nodded—but didn’t. Almost pulled away—but couldn’t.

Instead, he kept his hand where it was, over her belly, where Maya used to sleep once, safe and tiny. Where Leela had once felt the flutter of her little feet and hands through her skin, long before she had her pretty name.

“You don’t gotta do it for me,” he said at last. “But she’s mine too. I need both of you.”

Leela didn’t argue. Her silence said she knew. Said she’d always known. But knowing didn’t always mean trusting.

Still, she kept his hand where it was.

X

DAY 7: CALIFORNIA INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES - APPROX. EIGHT-FOUR HOURS SOUTH OF JACKSON

The sun stretched long over the broken streets of Pasadena in the Golden State, just as much, casting amber behind a veil of smog. The quiet clip of hooves on cracked asphalt echoed like a heartbeat in a place long hollowed out. Joel rode just a pace ahead, his rifle slung low, boots scuffed from days on the road. Ellie was beside him, reins loose in her hands, a sliver of calm in her eyes. Behind her, Leela fidgeted with her hair again—first the braid, then a ponytail, then nothing, then the braid again.

She’d done it twice in the last hour.

Not out of vanity. Joel knew that. It was nerves. Restlessness. That same rhythm she used to have with a pencil—tap, scribble, flip a page, start again. Always thinking. Always fighting something unseen.

She hadn’t said much since sunrise. None of them had. The weight of what might be waiting ahead pulled the air taut between them.

“Do you think we could stay for some time when we get there?” Leela asked, not looking at either of them.

“Sure thing. I wanna see the beach, too,” Ellie replied without pause, smiling and all loyal, already craning her neck for the first sign of the Caltech buildings.

Joel said nothing. But his hands tightened just a little on the reins.

Stay. Stay for what?

See, if there were scientists there—real ones, still working on things like cures and vaccines—then it wasn’t just Leela they were walking into that place for.

It was Ellie. It was the blood in her veins. That cursed miracle pulsing just beneath her skin.

His mind was running ahead of him, tearing through what-if after what-if. What if they were here? What if they had the equipment, the knowledge? What if they looked at Ellie like she was the key again? What if they asked—no, expected—the same sacrifice?

And Joel—he knew himself too well by now. Knew the panic that twisted up in his gut and tried to claw its way out. He didn’t let it show. Not in his face or voice. But it made him nudge his horse forward just slightly, pace picking up, eyes scanning rooftops and blown-out cars and anything that might look like trouble or, God forbid, hope.

They crested a slight hill, and Caltech unfurled below.

Golden light skimmed the cracked concrete and broken signage like it was trying to remember what wonder looked like. Ivy crawled up the old physics building, curling over shattered windows, draping across the once-grand entrance like a shroud. Palm trees stood like sentinels over long-dry fountains.

Joel pulled his horse to a stop beside Ellie’s, her body swaying forward slightly with momentum before sitting back straight.

For a moment, no one spoke.

They were here.

This was it.

“This is where they're supposed to be,” Joel murmured, more to himself than to either of them.

Or what was left of it.

Buildings, sure. A few were still standing proud. Brick and steel and glass, scabbed over with vines and scorch marks and time. But no movement. No guards. No posted signs or perimeter watch. No sound beyond the dry creak of trees and the hum of wind through broken fencing.

Joel felt it like a gut punch before anyone said a word.

The front of the building looked like it had been blown out from the inside—glass scattered across the steps like a trail of brittle petals, black scorch marks clawing up the stone walls. Half the Caltech signage still hung above the arched entryway, its metal frame twisted, under layers of ash and grime.

Joel dismounted first. His boots crunched over the broken glass, rifle already in hand. Ellie hopped off behind him, lighter on her feet, but just as alert. Leela stayed on the horse a beat longer, her eyes locked on the faded lettering above the entry. ‘California Institute of Technology for Advanced Research.’

She whispered it aloud like it was something sacred. “Wow. We're here.”

Joel motioned for her to stay close. Light slanted in through fractured skylights above, catching on overturned desks and moldy file boxes. Drawers like mouths wide open. A bunk with a Firefly logo stamped on the wall above it—old, faded, forgotten. Emergency cots folded and stacked like they'd been waiting for orders that never came. A faded banner still hung across the far end of the lobby, reading proudly:

‘INNOVATION FOR THE NEXT CENTURY.’

Oh, what a big fucking joke.

You try to innovate, you end up like this. You pick up a gun, you get to live. The world they lived in now.

Now, what they hadn’t expected was the smell.

The moment they stepped inside the physics building, it hit them—thick, wet, and metallic. Like mold and meat. Old rot. The kind that stuck to your tongue. He knew what it was already. Joel raised a hand, signalled Ellie behind him. Leela paused just inside the threshold, her face blanching.

“Get back outside,” Joel said to her. “Don’t need you in here.”

But Leela didn’t move.

She stared down the hall like she could still pretend it was just dust and old desks and the smell of something dead not walking.

Until the first one came.

It staggered out from a lab at the far end, skin sloughing off in ribbons, yellowing mouth open in a wet click-click-click. Ellie didn’t hesitate—she dropped to one knee and put a bullet through its eye. But the goddamn Clicker wasn’t alone. From the shadows, they came dragging, stumbling, clicking—two, three, five of them—some already burst open with fungal bloom, their faces split by time and Cordyceps.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, rifle already up. “Leela—go, get out of here!”

She bolted off. He didn’t watch where.

The gunfire echoed in the narrow halls. Joel moved with brutal efficiency—tight shots, clean execution. Ellie flanked him, nimble and fast, clearing corners. They moved like they'd done this a hundred times. Well, because they had.

But Leela was new to it. She waited outside, pacing, clutching the straps of her bag so tightly her knuckles nearly bled. Her eyes flicked to the windows, to the flashes of movement inside.

She hadn’t come for this. To watch them both die at the end.

When the last echo faded, Joel emerged from the stairwell, blood on his sleeve and a tight grimace on his face. “All clear.”

Leela didn’t answer. She pushed past him, boots scraping on tile as she made her way deeper into the building. Joel wanted to hold her hand back, tuck him into his side.

“Maybe they were Fireflies?” Ellie muttered, nudging one corpse with the toe of her boot.

Joel didn’t respond. He didn’t want to think about it, even if he knew the signs.

This wasn’t an outpost.

It was an exodus.

He pushed the doors open into the next wing—a long hallway flanked by glass-walled rooms, some still scrawled with chemical equations and 3D renderings of gene splicing. Dust hung thick in the air, swirling in lazy spirals, disturbed only by their presence. The deeper they moved in, the clearer it became: this had been a research hub. State of the art. Once.

Now it was just dust and silence.

Ellie was the first to call out. “Helloooo? It's Dr Leela here with your math magic miracle! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Her voice echoed down the empty walkway. And no answer.

“Shy buncha nerds,” she harrumphed.

“Ellie,” Joel sighed.

Leela drifted toward one of the labs as they moved up to the second floor, climbing over debris, her hand brushing against the edge of a metal table. There were still beakers here, clipboards thick with faded paper, broken monitors, glass casings. Her fingers hovered over them like she didn’t know whether to read or weep.

Joel had gotten used to failing so much, this didn't hurt anymore.. He’d brought her all this way. Let her believe.

Now, he stood in the doorway of the ruined lab like a man caught between two times—one where hope had still been breathing, and the one he was in now, where it lay stiff and cold on the floor.

Joel’s eyes were drawn, inevitably, to the skeleton, slumped against a bank of monitors, mold climbing up one arm like ivy.

It wasn’t the first dead body he’d seen. Not even the hundredth. But this one was different. There was something almost edifying in the way the figure was wilted—propped against the monitors like they’d died mid-thought, clinging to some last hope that didn’t pan out. What had they been hoping to see? A breakthrough? A miracle? A sign someone else had made it?

The bones were dressed in a lab coat, name badge still clipped to the collar. YAMADA. What was left of the face was caved in, probably from the gun still lying on the floor beside them. A personal choice, Joel figured. Easier than turning, for sure.

But it was the recorder nearby that made his stomach knot.

He watched Leela reach for it like she was reaching for her own fate. Slow, careful, fingers trembling despite all her control. She glanced back at him—asking for what? Permission? Support? For him to tell her this wasn’t what it looked like?

He gave her the nod because it was all he had.

And because he couldn’t lie to her anymore. Whatever that device held, bad or worse, he had her always. What were another hundred miles? Perhaps another boat, a storm in the ocean, another open city, another ten years on the road? He'd do it with her if she wanted to.

Leela pressed play.

As the recorder whirred to life and that ragged, weary voice filled the silence, Joel’s heart dropped to somewhere cold inside him. Every word was another nail in the coffin.

“This is Dr. Kichiro Yamada. March twenty-third, the time is four-twenty-four in the evening. If you’re hearing this, then you’re too late. Or maybe you’re lucky. Jury’s out.”

Joel stared at the monitors. The screens were dead, cracked, and flecked with grime. Whatever brilliance had once flickered there had gone out long ago. There were notes on the desk, too, curling with rainwater. He couldn’t read half of them, and didn’t understand the other half. But he recognized the desperation in the handwriting. Bold strokes turned frantic. Numbers blurring. Whole pages scratched out. A slow unraveling.

“We gave it everything. Years. Two whole decades. All of us. There were twenty-four of us here once. Distinguished faculty of professors, scholars and dedicated students—from aeronautics, biochemistry, theoretical physics to fucking art history—working toward a common purpose. Persevering in the face of extinction. Then we dwindled. Nine of us, then four. Then Dr. Connelly, now it's... just me. See, the world didn’t wait for us. Supplies dried up. People got scared. We had raiders come in once or twice, and butcher some of our best. Most of them left. Some went east, to survivor settlements. I stayed until the end. I made it this far.

Joel looked over at Ellie. She was still. Watching Leela. Watching him.

“To whoever finds this... you’re standing in the last Firefly outpost in California. Maybe the whole goddamn continent. Shit, I don't know anymore. We had data. We had hope. And then we had death. I’ve just managed to upload everything we had and researched to the central terminal. If you’ve got the brains to use it, maybe it won’t be for nothing. Help yourselves. Save yourselves.”

A long silence. He thought of how long they must’ve laboured in here, chasing answers. How much belief it took to type that much down.

“This place was supposed to save the world. We were supposed to make a difference. What a fucking waste.”

Click.

Joel let out a long-suffering sigh. Ellie hovered near the door, her jaw set, eyes wide, trying to take it all in, trying not to crumble.

Leela stood motionless, eyes fixed on the blank recorder. Her shoulders started to tremble, slow at first, then all at once—tight, pulled inward, trying to keep from flying apart.

She didn’t cry.

She just knelt down beside the desk, knees hitting the floor in a slow, mechanical motion, folding over her own legs like her body had given up on standing. Her hair—braided, unbraided, ponytailed, undone—hung limp down her back, as if it too had finally settled into stillness. No tears, no words. Just the quiet shape of someone who’d hoped too hard for too long.

Joel stood there, unsure if he’d made her kneel or if the world had.

He swallowed hard.

He’d brought Leela here. Not just her—her hope, her faith, her genius, all bundled into that same quiet determination she wore like armor. She had believed in this place. Believed in the people who’d once lived here. She’d believed him, maybe worst of all.

And now? Now it was just another tomb. Another place the world had forgotten how to care about.

Joel clenched his jaw. “Wasn't supposed to end like this,” he said softly. But the words felt hollow the moment they left his mouth.

And yet, somehow it always did.

The world didn’t care about minds like hers. It didn’t give a damn about brilliance or sacrifice or the people who tried to fix what was broken. It just… moved on. Swallowed the light whole. Buried the good with the bad and let it rot in the dark.

Behind him, Ellie spoke, her voice quieter than usual. “Hey, we should check out that terminal.”

Joel nodded once, not looking back. “Yeah.”

He moved slowly, boots scuffing against the floor. That terminal—an old monitor, half-sunken into the desk, still humming faintly—blinked as they approached. He expected nothing. Expected it to flicker out, dead and useless, like everything else.

But somehow, when he moved the mouse, it lit up.

“C'mere, baby,” he called out, trying to will what he had left into her. “Let's see what this is.”

Leela had already started typing. Her hands trembled, but she typed anyway—quick, practiced keystrokes, as if her muscles still remembered how to do this even when her heart didn’t.

Lines of data filled the screen. Pages and pages of it. He didn't know what the fuck it was. Research logs. Complex equations. Genetic markers, timestamps, decay models. Scans of buildings and servers. Plant growth charts. Vectors and resistance patterns, and computational models he didn’t understand, but recognized by the sheer significance of them.

She stared at the formulas like they were the names of the dead.

Joel knelt beside her, slow, as if any sudden movement might shatter her.

He didn’t reach for her. Not yet. Didn’t deserve to. Just stayed near, let his voice reach across the inches between them.

“You did what they couldn’t,” he said, hoarse. “You're a goddamn saviour, Leela. You did it all.”

Her eyes didn’t move from the screen. “They were supposed to be here.”

Joel glanced toward the body by the monitor, the fingers still curled like they’d meant to hit save and didn’t make it. “They left it behind for you,” he said. “They wanted it found. You found it.”

Leela turned to him, finally. Her eyes were dry—but there was nothing behind them. No fire. No fight. Just a dull, hollow ache where everything else had been scorched out.

“It’s not enough, Joel.”

“No,” he whispered. “It ain’t. But it’s all we got.”

And he couldn’t stay away any longer.

He reached out. Gently. Palms callused, hands unhurried.

This time, she let him pull her into his arms. She didn’t fall apart. Didn’t cry, or shudder, or whisper anything dramatic. She just leaned—slow, silent—against him, her face resting into his shoulder like the grief was too dense to lift her head anymore.

It wasn’t forgiveness she gave him. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t even warmth. And for the first time in days, Joel didn’t feel guilt, or fear, or even that thick, choking regret.

Just the excruciating, quiet ache of being alive.

He turned his head, pressing his cheek to the top of her hair. She smelled like the road. Like leather and firewood. Like survival. Like the kind of person you meet once in a lifetime and never again.

He almost didn’t hear the footsteps—soft and measured.

Ellie, framed by the last of the sun bleeding in through the broken glass. She crossed the room slowly, past ruined dreams, past rusted lab equipment and flickering terminals, past the slumped skeleton and the shattered hope. She didn’t speak. Just knelt beside them, her shoulder bumping gently against Leela’s other side.

Joel looked at her just in time to see her hand reach out—hesitant, hovering for a second—then settle across Leela’s back.

Not in comfort or even empathy.

Recognition. Kinship. Guilt.

Leela was everything Ellie wasn’t—older, brilliant, composed—but in this moment? They were the same. Two people who gave their hearts to something that’s gone.

Ellie's fingers splayed across the jacket, tentative at first, then firmer. She didn’t look at either of them. Her face stayed turned, eyes down, jaw clenched. Simply being there.

Joel could see it in her—the way she held her breath, the way her lips were pressed into a thin, white line. That familiar cyclone behind her eyes. The echo of so many other losses.

He didn’t say a word.

Because in that lab, surrounded by failure and rot, the three of them formed something that had no name. Not victory, hope or even survival. Just austere, tangible proof that they were still here.

He looked at the recorder lying in Leela's palms like a gravestone, and as she hit rewind, that last line rang in his ears like a verdict:

“...What a fucking waste.”

Joel closed his eyes. He didn’t know if the voice was talking about the science, the building, the people, or the whole damn world.

But whatever it meant—however it was intended—it felt right now. And maybe all the brilliance in Leela’s head, all the years she’d clawed her way through loss and theory and impossibility—maybe even that had nowhere left to go.

He knew this one all too well. The one that told him some endings weren’t explosive or tragic or heroic.

No last stand. No meaning. Just a hush. A breath. A door that closed without ceremony.

Some endings just... stopped.

The storm comes, you crawl into shelter. Find something—someone—to hold onto. And when it's over, you are left to breathe in the quiet afterward.

Waiting for the next storm. The next door.

X

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[jburrgf]

About you ||| — The Love Trope Series.

“Do you think I have forgotten about you?”

• pairing: ¡lsu!joe burrow x ¡ex situashionship!reader

° summary: second change trope, college relationships, slow burn love, right person wrong time.

o description: you and joe had a thing months before, but the things ended in a bad way. now, you see yourself stuck in something that requires you to be close to him every single day.

• playlist: About You - The 1975, Love Me Like You Do - Ellie Golding, Like Real People Do - Hoozier, I Bet You Think About Me - Taylor Swift, Called You Again - Lizzy McAlpine, Tolerate It, ImGonnaGetYouBack, Clean - Taylor Swift

PART THREE: I BET YOU THINK ABOUT ME

The fluorescent lights in the classroom buzzed faintly as I slipped into my seat at the back of the room, pulling my hoodie tighter around me, hoping to disappear into the fabric. Mondays were bad enough, but after the party on Saturday, the mere thought of facing the day made me want to crawl back under the covers and stay there.

Especially now, with the nagging suspicion that my life was about to take another unpredictable turn.

The group of students gathered for Media Strategies in Sports was small, a core requirement for my degree, and one of the few that worked directly with LSU’s athletic department. Normally, I loved it—brainstorming campaigns, creating social media content, and pitching ideas to actual professionals. But today, the room felt stifling, like the walls were closing in.

I sank lower into my seat, Maddie, seated beside me, shot me a knowing look.

“Morning, sunshine,” Maddie chirped, sliding into the chair beside me with her usual energy that somehow thrived even at 8 a.m.

I grunted in response, burying my face in the collar of my hoodie.

“Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad,” she teased, nudging my arm. “You left before anything interesting happened.”

I shot her a glare, and she held up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. “You’re being dramatic,” she whispered, nudging me with her elbow.

“I’m being cautious,” I muttered, keeping my voice low.

Professor Reynolds entered the room, a stack of papers tucked under his arm. He was a tall, wiry man with a gruff demeanor, but he loved his job. This class was his pride and joy, a hybrid course designed to give students real-world experience working with the university’s rising athletes

The professor, Dr. Reynolds, stood at the front of the room, a stack of papers in his hands and an overly chipper demeanor that felt out of place this early in the week. “Alright, class,” he began, his voice cutting through the low hum of chatter. “As you all know, this semester we’re diving into a hands-on project with the athletic department. Each of you will be paired with an up-and-coming athlete to develop a personalized media strategy. This is a big opportunity—LSU takes its athletics seriously, and these athletes are the faces of the future.”

I already hated this.

“Pairs will be assigned at random,” Reynolds continued, adjusting his glasses. “These are some of LSU’s rising stars, and this is your chance to prove you can handle the pressure.”

Dr. Reynolds began reading off the pairings, his voice steady and matter-of-fact.

“Anna, you’ll be working with Derek Stingley Jr. Jamie, you’ve got Clyde Edwards-Helaire…”

The names blurred together as I stared at my notebook, pretending to take notes. Maybe, just maybe, I’d luck out and get someone I could handle—a name I barely recognized, someone who wouldn’t make me feel like the walls were closing in.

“Justin Jefferson,” Dr. Collins called, glancing up. “Maddie Carter.”

Maddie lit up like a Christmas tree, her grin practically splitting her face. She turned to me, barely able to contain her excitement. “Oh my God, Y/N. Justin Jefferson. Can you believe it?”

“Lucky you,” I said flatly, my heart sinking further.

She didn’t notice, too busy already envisioning her project.

“Y/N L/N,” Professor Hart continued, scanning his list. “You’ll be working with Joe Burrow.”

I didn’t respond, hoping for some kind of cosmic intervention. Reynolds’s gaze found me anyway, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he looked at me.

“Joe Burrow.”

My blood ran cold.

Maddie audibly gasped beside me, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle her reaction. I couldn’t even look at her. Instead, I ducked lower into my hoodie, practically melting into my chair.

My heart plummeted.

Maddie turned to me, her eyes wide. “Oh no.”

The words hit me like a freight train, and my body instinctively tensed. My heart sank, my pulse quickening as the room seemed to close in around me.

I slid further into my hoodie, wishing the fabric could swallow me whole.

“Of all the people,” I muttered, my voice muffled.

I didn’t respond, instead pulling my hoodie up over my head and practically disappearing into the fabric. My face burned as the rest of the class murmured, a few curious glances thrown my way.

Maddie leaned closer, her voice low. “Y/N, this is fine. It’s fine. You can handle this.”

I peeked out from the safety of my hoodie, glaring at her. “This is not fine.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re overreacting. It’s just Joe.”

“Exactly,” I hissed. “It’s Joe.”

Before she could respond, Dr. Reynolds clapped his hands together, pulling the class’s attention back to him. “Remember, this project is about collaboration. You’ll be working closely with your athlete all semester, so make sure to establish good communication from the start. Now, if there are no questions, class is dismissed.”

I stayed rooted in my seat as everyone began gathering their things, my mind racing. There was no way I could do this.

Maddie stood and slung her bag over her shoulder, leaning down to whisper, “Go talk to him. Maybe he’ll switch you with someone.”

“That’s the plan,” I muttered, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

I shot her a point and Maddie shrugged. I waited until the room had cleared out, then made my way to the front where Dr. Reynolds was organizing his notes.

“Professor?” I said hesitantly.

He looked up, offering a kind smile. “Yes, Y/N?”

I shifted awkwardly, clutching my notebook to my chest. “About the project… I was wondering if there was any chance I could switch partners.”

His brow furrowed, and he set his papers down. “Switch partners? Is there a specific reason why?”

I hesitated, my mind scrambling for a professional-sounding excuse. “I just think… maybe someone else would be a better fit. Joe and I… we don’t really have a lot in common, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to… um, connect with him the way someone else might.”

Dr. Reynolds studied me for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “Y/N, part of this project is about stepping outside your comfort zone. Learning to work with different personalities is a crucial skill in this field. Joe Burrow is one of the most promising athletes at LSU right now, and I believe you’re more than capable of handling this assignment.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. “I understand this might feel challenging, but I’m confident it’ll be a valuable experience for you. Give it a shot, and if there are any real issues, we can revisit this conversation later in the semester.”

“Right,” I said weakly. “Of course.”

“Besides,” he added with a small smile, “working with someone like Joe is an incredible opportunity. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

I forced a tight smile, nodding as I backed toward the door. “Thanks, Dr. Reynolds. I’ll, uh, do my best.”

As I turned to leave, Maddie was waiting just outside the door, her arms crossed and a knowing smirk on her face.

“Well?” she asked.

“No luck,” I grumbled, pulling my hoodie back up.

She shrugged, looping her arm through mine as we walked down the hallway. “See? The universe wants you two to work this out.”

I groaned, leaning my head against her shoulder. “You’re not helping.”

She laughed, giviI glared at her. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” she replied, linking her arm through mine as we started walking. “Come on, Y/N. You’ll survive. He’s just a guy. A very cute guy who just so happens to be your ex, but still—just a guy.”

But as we walked across campus, her words felt far from reassuring. Because deep down, I knew this wasn’t just about the project—or about Joe. It was about the way he still made me feel, no matter how hard I tried to forget.

“You’ll thank me later.”

I groaned, pressing my hands to my face. “Why do I feel like this is going to be a disaster?”

“Because you’re overthinking it,” she said, looping her arm through mine. “Come on. Let’s grab lunch. You’re gonna crush this project, and if he tries to make it weird, I’ll personally set Justin Jefferson on him.”

Despite myself, I laughed. Maddie always had a way of making things feel just a little bit lighter.

But as we walked out of the building, I couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in my chest. Joe Burrow wasn’t just any project partner. And no matter how much Maddie tried to convince me otherwise, I knew this was going to be anything but simple.

“When are you guys going to meet?” Maddie asked me, walking by my side down the streets of the campus. We were doing our way to Malone’s.

“Probably still this week. Joe has the hardest schedule, but I know he has some free days this week. I kinda Remember.”

Maddie gave me a quick look, but she didn’t say a word. And it was ok, cause I know her enough to know what 's going on in her mind. And it was the same way with her: she knew what was going on my mind right now.

"You are not going to do that," she told me, as if her demand would change something I had already decided in my mind.

I didn’t answer, my mind already spinning with ideas to get out of this. There had to be a way to switch partners. Maybe Jamar could help me—he was Joe’s best friend, and I’d worked with him before — kinda met him when I was with Joe. He was always good at reading Burrow, especially. Maybe, just maybe, he’d pull some strings for me, cause I know that half of the girls from my class would kill to be paired with Joseph Lee Burrow.

I pulled out my phone, dialing Jamar’s number quickly. The phone rang once, twice...

“Yo, Y/N, what’s up?” Jamar’s voice came through the speaker, relaxed but friendly.

“Hey, Jamar,” I said, trying to sound casual but feeling the anxiety creep in. “Look, I need a huge favor. You know that media project for class, right?”

“Yeah, I’m in that class too. You got paired up with someone tough?” He asked me. “I wasn’t in the class today, got early practice this morning.”

“Well,” I hesitated, glancing over at Maddie who was watching me curiously, “I got paired with Joe.”

There was a brief silence on the other end, and then Jamar laughed. “Oh, man. That’s gonna be fun.”

I didn’t share his enthusiasm. “I don’t want to work with him, Jamar. It’s... it’s complicated, you know? Any chance you can make a switch for me? Just... I don’t know, talk to the professor or someone? Talk to the girl that got you!”

Maddie, still walking beside me, leaned in with a mischievous grin. “You’re not seriously asking Jamar to pull strings, are you?”

I shot her a glare, but she just laughed, clearly knowing what I was about to do.

On the phone, Jamar chuckled again. “I get it, I get it. But nah, I can’t really do that. You two gotta work it out. Besides, Joe’s a good dude. You’ll be fine.”

I felt my shoulders slump. “You’re not helping here, Jamar.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, you’ve got this,” he replied, his tone warm but firm. “But you’ll need to face it at some point, right? Might as well be now.”

I groaned, my frustration mounting. “You’re all against me, huh?”

“Not against you, just keeping it real,” Jamar said, laughing lightly. “But look, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, you’ll have some good stories to tell after, right?”

I wasn’t ready to accept that yet, but before I could say anything else, Maddie swiped the phone from my hand, holding it to her ear before I could protest.

“Chase! It’s Maddie. We’re going to Malone’s now, you in?” she said, all casual and confident.

“Maddie!” I protested, grabbing at her, but she pulled the phone further from me.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. You need to face Joe,” Maddie continued to Jamar, ignoring my complaints. “We’re going to make sure you do, and I’ll be there to back you up. You’ll be fine.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Maddie just gave me that look—the one that told me she wasn’t about to let me off the hook.

Jamar’s voice came through the phone again. “Malone’s, huh? Yeah, sure, I’ll swing by. Should be a good time.”

Maddie grinned at me. “See? Jamar’s in. Now you just have to deal with the whole Joe thing, and we’ll all go get a drink. It’ll be a good distraction. You’re welcome.”

I sighed, defeated, knowing she was right. There was no avoiding Joe, and it seemed like I wasn’t going to get out of this project. “Fine,” I muttered, sinking into the nearest bench. “But you’re buying me a drink tonight, Maddie. I’m gonna need it.”

Maddie smiled, her arm linking through mine. “Deal. But remember, you’re facing your ex like an adult. No running away this time.”

I rolled my eyes, but there was no escaping it now. "You’re relentless, you know that?"

She just winked. "That’s why you love me."

[…]

The atmosphere at Malone’s was a mix of low chatter, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. It was the kind of place where everyone on campus went to blow off steam, whether it was for a burger or a beer. Maddie, Jamar, and I had been sitting at one of the wooden booths for over an hour, nursing drinks and nibbling on fries while we talked about the media class project.

Jamar had been surprisingly helpful, giving me tips on how to navigate the project with Joe—though he seemed to enjoy teasing me about it at every opportunity. Maddie, as always, was in her element, sipping on her drink and chiming in with her unsolicited (but not entirely unwelcome) advice.

“I’m just saying,” Jamar said, leaning back in his chair. “Joe’s not that bad to work with. Once you get past his, you know... personality.”

I shot him a look. “Oh, you mean his stubbornness? His perfectionism? His tendency to completely ignore other people’s input?”

Jamar grinned. “Exactly.”

Before I could retort, the door swung open, and in walked Justin Jefferson. His easy confidence turned a few heads as he made his way toward our table, spotting us immediately.

"Well, well, well. Look who it is," Jamar greeted, sliding over to make room for him. "What’s up, Justin?"

Justin slid into the seat directly across from Maddie, his eyes flicking to her before settling on the rest of us.“Not much. Just got out of a meeting with Coach. You know how it is." Justin said, His eyes flicked to her drink. “You already started without me?”

Maddie smirked, raising her glass. “You’re late. That’s on you.”

Justin chuckled, settling in as if he’d been there the whole time.

Maddie perked up immediately, smiling at Justin as if the rest of us had disappeared. "Hey, did you see the assignment? I got paired with you for the project."

Justin leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Yeah, I saw that. Guess we’ll be spending a lot of time together, huh?" His tone was casual, but the way he looked at Maddie made it clear he wasn’t just talking about work.

I couldn’t help but smile a little at their interaction. It was nice to see Maddie’s confidence in action, even if I wanted to shrink into my hoodie at the mere thought of working with Joe.

Justin turned his attention to me after a moment, his eyebrows raising. "So, who’d you get stuck with, Y/N?"

I hesitated, glancing at Maddie and Jamar for support. Maddie was quick to jump in. "She got Joe," she said with a grin, as if this were the most entertaining development of her week.

Justin’s eyes widened slightly, his smile turning into something more curious. "Wait, Joe Joe? As in, Joe Burrow? Your Joe Burrow? Didn’t you two have a thing?”

“He’s not my Joe,” I said quickly, my face heating up.

Jamar chuckled, and Maddie smirked into her drink, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

“It was a long time ago,” I muttered, wishing the ground would swallow me whole.

Justin leaned back in his chair, clearly amused. “Man, this just keeps getting better.”

“Look,” Jamar said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m just saying, if you don’t want to work with Joe, you better have a solid plan. Dude’s serious about this stuff when it comes to football, and he’s not gonna let you off easy.”

I groaned, stirring my drink with the straw. “It’s not about him being serious. It’s about—”

“History,” Maddie interrupted with a sly smirk. “We all know the elephant in the room.”

I shot her a glare, but Jamar chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. History aside, you’ll be fine. Just keep it professional. Joe’s not the type to hold grudges.”

Before I could come up with a response, Jamar’s phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up, his face lighting up when he saw the name on the screen. “Speak of the devil,” he said with a smirk. “It’s Joe,” Jamar announced, holding up the screen for us to see.

“Put it on speaker,” Justin said immediately, leaning forward with interest.

“No, don’t—” I started, but it was too late. Jamar had already hit the speaker button and placed the phone in the middle of the table.

“Yo, Joe, what’s up?” Jamar said.

“Hey, man,” Joe’s voice came through the phone, low and steady. “I just got out of practice. What’s up with this project? Do you know who I’m paired with yet?”

Maddie and Justin exchanged glances, their eyes twinkling with amusement. I sank deeper into my seat, pulling my hoodie over my head in a futile attempt to hide.

“Not yet, huh?” Jamar replied, grinning at me. “Man, you’re gonna love this one.”

Joe groaned on the other end of the line. “I swear, if it’s someone who doesn’t take this seriously, I’m gonna lose it.”

“Don’t worry,” Jamar said, his voice full of mock reassurance. “Your partner’s... super dedicated. Really invested.”

Maddie coughed, barely stifling her laughter. Justin was no better, leaning forward with his hand over his mouth to muffle his amusement.

Joe sighed. “Great. Anyway, where are you? I’m starving.”

“We’re at Malone’s,” Jamar said casually. “You should swing by.”

There was a pause before Joe replied. “Alright, be there in ten.”

When the call ended, the table fell into a quiet buzz of excitement. Justin leaned forward, his gaze flicking between Maddie and me. “This just got a whole lot more interesting.”

I shot him a look, then turned to Maddie. “You’re not helping.”

Maddie shrugged, clearly unbothered. “I told you, you need to face him. Now’s your chance.”

I glared at Jamar. “Why did you invite him?”

“Because,” he said, leaning forward with a grin, “I live for the drama.”

Maddie nudged me. “Relax, Y/N. It’s just Joe. You’ll be fine.”

I didn’t respond, my mind racing as I tried to mentally prepare myself for what was about to happen.

A few minutes later, the door swung open again, and there he was. He looked like he’d just come from practice, a hoodie slung over his shoulders, hair slightly disheveled, but his sharp gaze swept over the room like he was always in control.

I froze in my seat, trying to shrink into the background as his eyes roamed over the tables.

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Justin muttered under his breath, leaning forward with a smirk.

Jamar casually waved him over. “Yo, Joe, over here!”

Joe’s head turned toward the sound of Jamar’s voice, and then his eyes landed on me. He stopped mid-step.

He froze when he saw me.

His gaze locked with mine, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The noise, the people, the world—it all disappeared as we stared at each other.

Joe walked over slowly, his expression carefully neutral, but I could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes as he took the empty seat directly across from me.

“Sup,” Joe greeted. The space felt smaller now, the table between us an insignificant barrier.

“Hey, man,” Jamar said with a grin, clearly enjoying the tension that had settled over the table.

Joe’s gaze flicked briefly to Maddie, then Justin, before landing back on me. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, his voice neutral, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something—surprise, maybe.

Justin, ever the instigator, wasted no time. “So, Joe, you know who your partner is for the big marketing project yet?”

Joe frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing in curiosity. “Not yet. They haven’t told me.”

“Oh, really?” Jamar said, feigning surprise. “Man, that’s weird. I thought for sure you’d know by now.”

Maddie stifled a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. I shot her a glare, but she just winked at me.

Joe glanced at Jamar, then at Justin, and finally back at me. His expression shifted subtly, realization dawning as he pieced it together. His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, the rest of the table seemed to fade away.

“You’re kidding,” he said, his voice low and edged with disbelief.

I looked down at the table, suddenly fascinated by the condensation on my glass. “Nope,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Not kidding.”

Joe let out a quiet, humorless laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Of course.”

Justin chuckled, clearly enjoying the drama. “This just got a whole lot more interesting.”

Joe ignored him, his focus entirely on me. “So, it’s you,” he said, his tone unreadable.

“It’s me,” I replied, finally meeting his gaze.

The air between us felt heavy, the unspoken history lingering like a storm cloud. Maddie broke the tension with a cheerful, overly chipper tone.

“See? This will be great! You two already know each other. It’s a head start!”

Joe shot her a look, and she just shrugged innocently.

Jamar leaned forward, grinning. “Come on, Joe. Don’t look so worried. Y/N’s great to work with. She’ll probably carry you through the whole project.”

Joe didn’t respond immediately, his eyes never leaving mine. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, quieter. “Yeah. We’ll see.”

Maddie cleared her throat loudly, cutting through the tension. “Alright, this is officially too much brooding for one table. Jamar, let’s order another round, yeah?”

Joe leaned forward slightly, his attention still on me, even as Jamar and Maddie launched into a debate about appetizers. “We should figure out a schedule for the project,” he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

“Yeah,” I replied, my throat dry.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he added, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Fine.”

Maddie shot him a look, then turned to Joe. “Look, it’s just a project. You’ll survive.”

Joe didn’t respond immediately, his eyes still on me. There was something in his expression I couldn’t quite place—like he was trying to figure out how to handle the situation without making it worse.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his tone resigned. “I guess we don’t have a choice.”

“Exactly,” Maddie said, her voice overly cheerful. “It’s gonna be fine. Right, Y/N?”

I forced a tight smile. “Sure. Fine.”

Joe’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he reached for the menu in front of him, clearly ready to change the subject. But the tension lingered, thick and unspoken, as we all sat there pretending this wasn’t as uncomfortable as it actually was.

Jamar, of course, seemed determined to make things worse. “Hey, Joe,” he said, grinning. “Remember that time we talked about working with people you had... history with? Funny how life works, huh?”

Joe shot him a glare, and I kicked Jamar under the table, but he just laughed, unfazed.

Joe nodded once, then glanced at Jamar. “You’re paying for my drink, by the way.”

Maddie leaned over to whisper, “You’re doing great, sweetie,” and I resisted the urge to groan.

Jamar laughed, but the awkwardness didn’t fade. I knew this project was going to be a challenge, but sitting across from Joe now, with all the unresolved tension hanging in the air, I realized just how difficult it was going to be.

I couldn’t take it anymore. The awkwardness, the stares, the weight of his presence—it was all too much. Pushing my chair back, I stood abruptly.

“I need some air,” I said, not waiting for a response as I made my way toward the door.

Behind me, I could hear Maddie murmuring something to Joe, probably trying to smooth things over. But I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.

The cool evening air hit my face as I stepped outside, my breath shaky as I tried to collect myself. Working with Joe was going to be harder than I thought.

I leaned against the brick wall outside Malone’s, the faint buzz of conversation and clinking glasses filtering through the door behind me. The cool air helped calm the heat rising in my chest, but it didn’t quiet my thoughts.

What were the odds of being paired with Joe? It felt like the universe was playing some cruel joke on me, forcing me to confront something I wasn’t ready to face.

The reality of it settled in my chest like a stone, making it hard to breathe. I shouldn’t have reacted like that—I knew it. But seeing him, sitting across from me, brought back everything I’d tried so hard to bury.

The door behind me creaked open, and I turned my head slightly, expecting Maddie.

Instead, Jamar stepped out, his usual easy grin replaced by something softer, almost concerned.

“Hey,” he said, leaning against the wall beside me.

Hey,” he said, leaning against the wall beside me.

I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to look unaffected. “Hey.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The quiet between us was heavy, filled with everything I wasn’t ready to admit.

“You okay?” Jamar finally asked, his voice low.

I let out a shaky breath, my eyes fixed on the parking lot in front of us. “I’m fine.”

“Come on, Y/N,” he said, tilting his head to catch my gaze. “I’m not Maddie—I know when someone’s not fine.”

I hesitated, the words caught in my throat. Jamar wasn’t the kind of guy who pried, but he also didn’t let people off the hook easily.

“It’s just… a lot,” I admitted quietly, my fingers gripping the sleeves of my jacket.

He nodded, like he’d expected that answer. “Yeah, I figured. That’s why I came out here.”

He gave a slight nod, his face serious again. “Just don’t shut us out, alright? If you need to talk or need a distraction, we’re here.” He glanced back toward the door of Malone’s, then added, “Joe left, by the way. Said something about needing to clear his head. I think you both just need some space.”

I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or frustrated. Joe leaving only added to the uncertainty swirling inside me. “I guess that’s for the best,” I muttered, pushing myself off the wall. “I don’t know how much more I can handle right now.”

“Yeah, he’s complicated like that,” Jamar continued, his tone light, but his eyes were sharp, watching me closely. “He pretends he’s all chill and collected, but deep down? He’s just as messed up about this as you are.”

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. “That’s comforting.”

Jamar bumped my shoulder lightly, his grin returning. “Hey, I’m just saying—he’s not some robot. You’re not the only one feeling weird about this.”

I didn’t respond, the weight of his words settling over me.

Jamar studied me for a moment, then sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I get that. I do. But listen, you don’t have to do this alone. You’ve got Maddie, and you’ve got me. And if you need me to keep Joe in check, I got you.” He smirked lightly, trying to lighten the mood. “He may be a little too quiet for his own good, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t make things awkward for you. And honestly, Joe’s not as scary as you think.”

“Debatable,” I muttered, earning a chuckle from him.

“Fair,” he said, stepping away from the wall. “But seriously, don’t let this eat you up. You’re tougher than you give yourself credit for.”

I watched as he walked back toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “Oh, and Maddie’s probably in there plotting how to cheer you up, so brace yourself.”

Despite everything, I smiled. “Thanks, Jamar.”

He winked before disappearing back inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts—and a small, fleeting sense of hope.

As Jamar started to head back inside, I stayed a moment longer, trying to steady myself. I knew I couldn’t run away from this forever. Sooner or later, I was going to have to face Joe. And when that time came, I hoped I’d be able to handle it without letting everything fall apart.

But for now, I took a deep breath, and when I walked back through the door of Malone's, it felt like stepping back into a world where the past was waiting to meet me.

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Three

Series Masterlist

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August 26, 2022- Belgian Grand Prix, FP1

The very moment the motor first kicks to life behind you, none of it matters. Not the grueling four days of data and sim work, fitments and interviews, handshaking and poster signing and representing- none of it. All week, you had been a hopeful reserve, a smiling PR campaign, and- behind team doors, in the cover of night, behind the flickering OLED screens of your SIM sessions- a demon, addicted to work. Addicted to making it work. 

But now? Right now? Feeling 1600 cubic centimeters of compressed power vibrate the monocoque with a pitch that borders on mechanical insanity? You are one thing.

You’re a goddamn driver. 

The green light flickers on at the end of the pit lane, and you release the clutch, feeling the car lurch forward beneath you. The moment the wheels catch, the second the throttle opens up, it feels like someone has jammed a live wire straight into your spine. Your whole body floods with something electric, something hot and sharp and intoxicating, a rush so pure it borders on delirium.

For half a second, you expect fear. You expect nerves, or hesitation, or the overwhelming weight of the moment to crash down on you. You expect to second- guess yourself, expect the sheer reality of piloting a Formula 1 car to be too much all at once.

But none of it comes.

What hits you instead is joy.

The engine roars behind you, a sound so crisp and violent it doesn’t feel like noise- it feels like energy, like it’s bleeding straight into your bloodstream, wiring itself into the cadence of your pulse. The car is impossibly light beneath you, a creature so finely tuned it responds before you’ve even finished forming the thought to move. It’s not a fight. It’s not a negotiation. There’s no pleading, no compensating, no sluggish delay between what you want and what it does.

It listens.

It reacts to you like an extension of your own body, like it has been waiting for you to touch it, waiting for you to tell it what to do. The steering is surgical- razor-sharp and immediate. The brakes are so strong they feel like they’re stopping time itself. The grip is astonishing, an impossible glue holding you to the track as you push into the throttle, feather- light but coiled tight with power.

The speed is like nothing you’ve ever felt before, but it doesn’t scare you. It doesn’t overwhelm. It fits.

You fit.

Every car you’ve ever driven has had a point of stalemate-  some ceiling you had to work around, some wall you eventually hit where you could have done more, you could have gone faster, but the car just wasn’t capable. You’ve spent years fighting underwhelming machines, extracting every ounce of potential from cars that refused to give you anything for free. You’ve always had to compensate. Always had to drag the car with you.

But not this time.

This car- this fucking car- is ahead of you. It’s waiting for you to catch up, for you to match its ability. And for the first time in your life, the machine is not the limiting factor. The steering is so sharp it’s surgical, the brakes so powerful they threaten to rearrange your internal organs. You know it won’t stay like this -  the tyres will go off, the balance will shift, the car will inevitably degrade -  but right now, in this first out- lap, it’s close to perfect.

It’s you.

It makes you feel giddy, almost manic with adrenaline. You haven’t even pushed yet- not really- but God, you want to. You want to lean on it, ask for more, see what it can do. And the most insane part? This isn’t even a good car.

This is an AlphaTauri- a junior car, a hand- me- down car, the one that lives in the midfield on its best days and drowns in the back on its worst. This is a car that’s not designed to win, that is, at its core, inferior to the likes of Red Bull, Ferrari, and Mercedes.

But to you, it is already the best thing you’ve ever driven in your life.

If this is what a bad F1 car feels like, then holy fuck, what does an RB18 feel like? What kind of machine must Max and Checo have beneath them if this- this perfectly sharp, beautifully reactive beast- isn’t even the best option? You cannot even begin to fathom it. But right now, you don’t care about that. Right now, you only care about this car, your car for this fleeting, precious session. 

The grip is intoxicating.

You barely have to think, barely have to make any conscious effort, and the AlphaTauri does exactly what you want. The front end bites into the track through La Source, and the moment you release the brakes, the car surges forward, eager, hungry for speed. You ride the torque curve with practiced ease, feeding in the throttle as you rocket downhill toward Eau Rouge, fingers instinctively twitching in a minor correction as you kiss the white line.

Mattia’s voice crackles into your ear. "Take your time, get comfortable." He sounds calm, controlled- like he doesn’t know that your heartbeat is rattling inside your ribs like a caged animal, like you feel so high on this experience that you might never come down.

You exhale a laugh, barely able to contain the sheer joy that’s bubbling inside of you. Oh, Mattia. If only you knew. He sounds almost concerned, like maybe you’re overdriving already, wringing the car’s neck before you’ve even warmed the tyres. Maybe you’re asking for too much, too soon. 

You’re not. You’re just driving. And it feels fucking amazing.

Still, you know he’s right. You need to settle in first- feel it out, give your body time to sync with the car. You run through your checks, the familiarity of it grounding you just enough to keep your head from spinning off into the stratosphere. You flick through the gears, feeling the crisp snap of the paddles beneath your fingers, listening to the way the power unit responds, learning the exact moment to upshift without losing momentum. Every movement feels dialed in.

Your eyes dart to the track ahead, picking up the slightest cues- the painted curbs, the shifts in tarmac color, the subtle undulations of Spa’s legendary circuit. You pay attention to the weight transfer, how the rear settles under throttle, how much slip you can get away with before you’ll have to catch it.

Still, you can feel the edges of a grin pulling at your lips, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. “I am comfortable.”

Because this is fun.

It’s the most alive you’ve felt in years.

You can feel the car’s hunger to move, to be set free. It doesn’t wait for you- it demands you to be as fast as it is. You breathe through it, settling into the car’s rhythm, hands steady, body loose but alert as you approach the most iconic stretch of track you’ve ever driven.

Eau Rouge is insane.

You’ve watched this turn a thousand times. You studied the film, traced it on paper, imagined the weight shift over and over. But nothing- nothing- prepares you for the way it feels.

The incline rises in front of you, daunting, but you don’t lift. The climb is steeper than you expected, the compression more violent, the forces tugging at you like they want to rip you straight through the seat. Your stomach drops for half a second as the car squats under the load, the tires digging into the asphalt, the aerodynamics pressing you into the track with a force that should not feel this natural. And then, before your brain even finishes processing it, you’re already cresting Raidillon at over 300 kilometers per hour, foot flat, the car stable beneath you.

Jesus fuck. It’s effortless. It’s violent. It’s perfect.

Your grip tightens on the wheel, your breath coming quicker, but not from fear- from sheer, unfiltered exhilaration. You don’t even need to say anything. You just let the car run, let the chassis talk to you, let the track tell you where the limits are.

The DRS opens with a click, and you’re flying down the Kemmel Straight, the wind resistance dropping as you rocket toward Les Combes. The downforce is working, keeping the car planted even as your speed climbs to levels you’ve only ever experienced in a sim. The world blurs at the edges, the engine note a high- pitched scream in your ears.

You’re here. You’re doing this.

Lap after lap ticks by, your times are not spectacular but solid. Consistent. No major mistakes, no excursions into the gravel, no panicked radio calls, even if you’re seeing streaks of red and black and navy buzz past like you’re a mere annoyance to them-  a hunk of carbon between them and the hundredth of a second it took to steer around you. You don’t ask about Liam’s times -  not because you’re not curious, but because you can’t afford to care about anything but your own laps right now. This isn’t about beating anyone. It’s about proving you belong.

"How does it feel?" Mattia’s voice cuts through the noise in your helmet, steady and professional, but you can hear something beneath it- something expectant, like he’s bracing himself for your answer.

You swallow, force yourself to be methodical. Every part of you is buzzing, strung tight between euphoria and the razor- sharp focus of a driver with everything to prove. But you need to be helpful. Useful. You can’t just give him an emotional response, no matter how much you want to laugh like a maniac and tell him it’s the best fucking thing you’ve ever experienced.

"Front feels good," you start, keeping your voice even. "Responsive, stable on turn- in. Maybe a little light under braking, but I think that’s just me adjusting. Rear is planted- feels predictable on power. Balance is neutral for now. Tires are still coming in, so I’ll hold final impressions, but initial read is solid."

There’s a beat of silence before he responds. "Copy that. You’re managing. No need to push yet.” Mattia keeps his voice measured, feeding you gentle corrections, reminders about brake balance and shifting points, but you can hear something underneath -  a flicker of quiet surprise. Like maybe he didn’t expect you to look this at home so quickly.

Then comes the first sign that things aren’t going to plan in the other car.

"Just a heads- up -  we’re pulling Liam in for a soft tyre run."

Mattia’s voice is steady, controlled, relaying information the way he always does- clinical, neutral, as if it’s just another line item in the plan. But the words snag something deep in your brain, pulling at loose threads you don’t want to unravel.

It’s early. Too early for a performance run, unless they’re already trying to adjust something. Maybe Liam’s struggling to get comfortable. Maybe they’re trying to tease out extra speed. Or-  and God, you hate that this thought even occurs to you - maybe you’re so far behind that they’re already moving him onto a different program, already setting him up to succeed in ways they haven’t even considered for you.

You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, willing yourself not to care. Not to let that poison seep in. Not to start calculating, comparing, doubting. You do not need to be doing the math in your head, breaking down sector times, trying to anticipate the numbers they aren’t telling you.

That is not your job right now.

Your job is to drive.

And more than that- your job is to feel.

Because for all the calculations, all the planning, all the raw, blistering focus you need to maintain to be sharp here, this moment is not guaranteed.

This might be the only time you ever drive a Formula 1 car.

You might never get another shot. They might decide to stick with the devil they know. Liam might pull something incredible out of his soft tyre run, and all of this- all of this- could be over before the day is done. You could be back on a plane to nowhere, and this could all become nothing more than a fever dream, something you got to touch for a single, fleeting moment before it was snatched away.

You feel every inch of it. Every push of the throttle, every delicate slide of rotation, every perfect hum of the tyres as they start to hit their peak. You take Eau Rouge again with a smooth confidence that should scare you, but doesn’t.

The world outside the cockpit doesn’t exist- not the engineers, not the data, not Liam, not the fear creeping at the edges of your consciousness whispering that this might be the end before it even begins.

What exists is this. 

This car, beneath your hands. 

This track, stretching before you.

This moment, where you are exactly where you have always dreamed of being.

You will yourself to hold onto it. To be here, in this, in a way that isn’t just performance and analysis and execution.

And for however long it lasts, you will not waste one single second of it.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, something thick and complicated and impossible to swallow down. You knew this would be an uphill battle. You knew that even with talent, even with an hour of near- perfect execution, you might still be shown the door when this session ends. That you might walk away with nothing but the knowledge that you were almost enough.

So you do the only thing you can do.

You drive.

You let yourself love it. You let yourself hold onto every second, every sensation, every ounce of connection between your hands and the wheel, between your body and the machine, between the moment and the meaning of it.

You brake later. Let the car settle where it wants to. Trust that it will be there when you need it. You feel it, let yourself memorize the way it moves, the way it breathes beneath you, the way it lets you be more than you’ve ever been before.

Just in case.

Just in case this is all you get.

Fifteen minutes in, your number flashes up on the pit board, and Mattia’s voice follows half a second later. “Box this lap.”

It takes you a second to process it- long enough that you almost forget you’re supposed to respond. The call feels intrusive, like a knock on a locked door when you’re in the middle of something sacred. You swallow the instinct to bristle at it, at the way it yanks you out of that special place in your head where it’s just you and the car and the turn ahead.

Stay present. Do your job.

You bring the car in, neat and clean, threading it into the pit box with the muscle memory of a hundred rehearsals- but it’s a little rough. A little unpolished. Not bad, not enough to be a problem, but enough that you feel the difference, enough that it reminds you that this isn’t just driving, this is procedure, and procedure isn’t instinct yet. The stop is quick- clean, efficient hands swapping out your tires, sending you back onto track with a fresh set of softs, pristine and bright as candy against the dull asphalt.

Your heart stutters. Oh, baby.

Soft tires. Real grip. The kind of grip that turns a car from a machine into an extension of your body, something you don’t just drive but wear.

Mattia is in your ear again. “Out lap, gentle. Get some temp in the tires, feel the grip, no heroics.”

You hum in acknowledgement, rolling out onto track, but the whole garage already knows the truth: they couldn’t keep you from pushing if they tried. Not now. Not with this car underneath you, not with the way it responds to every input like it’s reading your mind, wanting to be driven harder. You roll heat into the tires like you’re coaxing a lover- just enough aggression to wake them up, to make them want to give you more.

By the time you cross the line again, they’re alive, and so are you.

The first push lap is obscene, the car reacting with an almost sinful precision, the softs gripping the track so hard it feels like you could carve your name into it. It moves exactly how you want it to, no hesitation, no lag, no resistance- just pure obedience. You barely register that Mattia is saying something- gentle cautions, probably- but it doesn’t matter. You’re high. Absolutely fucking high. This is what you’ve spent a lifetime chasing, and somehow, somehow, it’s even better than you imagined.

The AlphaTauri isn’t perfect- there’s understeer in the slow corners, the rear gets light if you’re too greedy on exit- but compared to the stubborn bricks you’ve been wrestling in Indy, it’s dreamy. Everything you put in, it gives back, no compromises, no fighting, just yes. 

And God, do you want to give it everything.You crave to be the kind of driver that can take it to the absolute edge of what it can do, hold it’s hand and take it to places that flirt with where machinery ends and magic begins. You’re not there-  not after just half a session together-  but you want to be. You could be.

It’s intoxicating.

You don’t need Mattia to report the time. You know. The lap was hot. Not perfect- there’s more in it-  in the lap, the car-  you’re sure- but fast enough that you’re only really getting passed by the Red Bulls, the Ferraris, the Mercedes. The best cars, driven by the best drivers-  give or take a few more. You had seen the rear of Alonso’s Aston Martin float by, a handful of others on their own push laps. And you? You’re holding your own.

You’re already lining up for another flyer, already recalibrating, ready to shave another few tenths, when the lights flash yellow.

Shit.

Your eyes snap to the flag boards, then sweep the track ahead as instinct overrides adrenaline. It takes half a second to spot the wreck at the top of Les Combes- Liam, half- buried in the gravel, nose pressed into the barrier at an angle that tells you exactly how it went wrong. Too much kerb, unsettled the car, lost the rear on correction. It’s not catastrophic- he’s already out, helmet off, standing with his hands on his hips- but he’s done for the session.

You don’t need to see to know what he looks like under the helmet. You know that posture. The stiff-set shoulders, the weight shifting restlessly from foot to foot. The barely-contained fury at himself, at the car, at physics itself for not bending to his will.

You should probably feel something. Relief. Satisfaction. Some kind of justification. But you know better than to celebrate someone else’s mistake. Racing gods have long memories and a penchant for irony. And honestly? You get it.

He’s worked his entire life for this shot. Spent years clawing his way through the ranks, waiting for this one golden moment to prove himself. And now? Now he’s standing there, staring at the crumpled nose of his own downfall, watching the opportunity slip through his fingers.

And it’s not like he binned it on purpose. It wasn’t reckless, wasn’t careless- it was just too much. The same hunger that fuels you, the same fire, pushed him one inch too far, and now the session belongs to you.

You don’t let it affect you. Not right now. Not when you’re still in the car, still running, because you’re still in control of your own fate. But you make a mental note as you pass the scene, rolling through under caution.

You expect to keep running- you’re certain there’s still some meaningful time left in the session- but instead, Mattia’s voice comes again, careful. Measured. “Uh, we will box this lap. Copy? Boxing. Please come into the pits.” Your fingers twitch on the wheel, a barely- there protest. Already? You don’t want to cut the session short, don’t want to step out of this car when there’s still time left to extract more, to refine, to prove. But you don’t argue.

“Uh, copy.” The words are tight in your throat as you roll back in, forcing yourself to think practically. Maybe they saw something on the data- temps spiking, a weird vibration. Maybe Mattia’s just feeling protective. You can’t really blame him. You’ve already exceeded expectations today, and with Liam out, there’s nothing left to prove.

Still, when you pull into the box and kill the engine, it feels too soon. Premature. Like cutting a song before the final chorus.

The moment your belts come off, you climb out of the car, still buzzing- adrenaline humming through your veins, pulse high, mind spinning from the rush of it all. Your boots hit the concrete with a muted thud, but your hands- your hands find the tires without thinking, drawn like magnets to the still-hot rubber.

They radiate heat into your skin, warmth still trapped from the laps you carved into the track. The surface is pliant, sticky, alive in that way only fresh, brutalized rubber can be. It clings when you press your palm against it, tacky against your fingers, resisting just slightly before pulling away with a soft, reluctant give. You roll a few marbles of rubber between your fingertips, feeling the way they squish, shift, then firm as they cool- still soft, still warm, but not for long.

The smell rises to meet you- burnt asphalt, scorched rubber, the faintest whisper of fuel. Familiar. Comforting, in the strangest way. The smell of garages and pit lanes, of every car you’ve ever driven, from the first time your hands touched a steering wheel to the moment you left IndyCar in the rearview to chase this impossible, once-in-a-lifetime chance.

You don’t even think about it. You just do it- the same way you always have. Rolling, pressing, rubbing the warmth into your palm like a grounding ritual. You’ve been doing this since you were a kid, since you were small enough to sit in the grass after your mom’s hobby races and pick up the leftover bits of tire shed by passing cars. You used to save them in little piles, fill old jam jars up with the bits of treasure you had pulled from your karts, line them up like tiny trophies-  label them. If you’re still- if you try- you can see them in your mind’s eye, each sitting next to the accolades that the marbles themselves brought home.

Your mom never questioned it. She’s the one who passed this on to you, after all- the fever, the addiction, the inheritance of a heartbeat that sounds more like a piston stroke than flesh and blood. She never complained when your laundry came out of the dryer with melted bits of rubber stuck to the pockets.

Your dad and brother, though? Loving. Supportive. But always the first to tease. They’d scrunch their noses when they caught you bringing them into the house. Why do you want those? They’re just trash.

But you loved them. Because they weren’t just rubber. They were proof. 

Proof that the car had been there, that you had been there. Proof that the track had left its mark, that you had marked it back, that something had happened, something real.

And now, standing in the middle of an F1 garage, the weight of the session pressing in around you, you’re still doing it. Still rolling the marbles between your fingers, feeling the way the life bleeds out and they start to go stiff, still reminiscing the heat and the effort and the fight. The marbles are cooling. The tyres are cooling. The garage itself is cooling-  technicians already working, already stripping back what was yours.

But is it even yours anymore?

You don’t know.

You don’t want to know.

The important faces- the ones that would know- are gone. Slipped off the pit wall, disappeared behind closed doors, out of the garage entirely.

So you keep your eyes on the rubber in your fingers, rolling it, pressing it between your thumb and index finger, grounding yourself in the one undeniable truth left in this moment.

This was real.

You were here.

You are here.

But for how much longer?

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

This cannot be happening.

This cannot be happening.

You’re standing at the back of the garage, hands still stuffed into your gloves, visor down, every inch of your body still buzzing from FP1, though it’s been hours. The adrenaline should’ve faded by now, but it hasn’t. The feeling of the car- of its perfect responsiveness, the way it listened- still thrums beneath your skin, electric and alive. You had delivered. Textbook. Fast, controlled, right behind Pierre’s pace and miles from the backmarkers. You did exactly what they asked.

And now you’re watching them strip your seat out of the car.

The moment you see it, your brain tries to reason, to find the logic, the natural order of things. Of course they’re pulling the setup-  Pierre missed the session because of you; they’re down a car for the rest of the day; obviously, they’re prepping it for him.

Except that’s not Pierre’s kit they’re loading in.

It’s Liam’s.

Your stomach drops so hard it feels like a freefall.

The only reason you even suited up for FP2 was because nobody told you what was happening. You waited. And waited. And waited. Hours of PR duties, of answering the same dozen questions from media vultures picking at the scraps of your noncommittal answers. You smiled, nodded, danced around the real question- will we see you again this weekend?- because the truth was, you didn’t fucking know.

Mattia had been locked in meetings. Franz, too. Every single person who had the power to decide your fate had spent the last three hours behind closed doors, leaving you in the lurch. And now, instead of answers, instead of clarity, you get this- standing here like an idiot, ready to go, while they rip every piece of you out of the car and replace it with him.

You force yourself to breathe, slow and controlled, but your hands twitch inside your gloves, instinctively curling into fists. You should leave. Take the hint. Walk out and change back into your street clothes like you don’t feel like you’re about to crawl out of your skin. But you can’t move. You can’t look away.

You watch as one of the mechanics fits Liam’s seat into place, tightening it down like it belongs there. It shouldn’t bother you this much. It shouldn’t feel like they’re ripping something out of your ribcage, like the miscarriage of your career, like you’re being erased before you ever had the chance to really exist.

You don’t say a word. Because what could you even say? You stare, trying to make sense of it -  like maybe you’re misinterpreting what you’re seeing, like maybe there’s some logistical quirk you’re not understanding. But no. It’s exactly what it looks like.

They’re giving him your car.

You feel your teeth sink into your lower lip, the sharp sting barely cutting through the fire crawling up the back of your neck. This is not what they told you. This was supposed to be a fair fight. FP1 -  a clean, head-to-head comparison. You both got laps, you both got data, and then they would decide.

And you delivered. Not just clean laps- fast laps. Controlled, methodical, sharper than anyone could have reasonably expected from a driver who had never touched an F1 car before today. You did exactly what they asked, more than what they asked. Liam? Liam binned it into the wall like a fucking rookie in his first wet kart race.

It should be easy. It should be so fucking easy.

But instead, you’re standing here, watching them slot his seat into place, load his ballast, prep your car for his second attempt. The injustice of it- the naked, gut- wrenching unfairness- burns in your throat like acid. You can feel it, the scream clawing up from deep inside you, a fury so razor- edged it threatens to spill out before you can choke it down. The kind of scream that would echo off the metal walls and shatter any chance you have of being taken seriously.

But you can’t scream.

You can’t do anything.

Not here. Not in front of all these people.

Your whole body is electric with rage, white-hot and so fucking bitter you can taste it. It’s the exact same, isn’t it? The exact same as every other garage you’ve had to claw your way through. Dale Coyne, where results didn’t mean shit if the right people wanted someone else in. Where performance got you exactly nowhere if the narrative was already written without you in it.

And you had wanted so fucking badly to believe that Formula 1 was different.

You stare at the mechanics working, each precise motion hammering the reality deeper into your ribs. The thought comes unbidden- they had a plan for you. Not a seat- never a seat. Just the optics, just the PR points, just the “historic” moment they could milk for feel-good stories before sending you back to the fringes where you belonged.

You hate that you’re even thinking it. Hate that this is the spiral your brain is trying to pull you into. Because you know- you know- this sport isn’t that simple. You know there’s more to this than what’s happening in the garage right now. But that doesn’t stop it from feeling like the same bullshit in a different uniform.

Your jaw tightens, your lip throbbing where your teeth have broken skin, but you keep your visor down, your expression locked away behind layers of carbon fiber and bulletproof glass.

Because if there’s one thing you won’t do, it’s give them the satisfaction of seeing you crack.

You could throw a fit, pitch a scene, demand the fairness you earned- and you’d be right. You are right. But that doesn’t fucking matter. Not here. Not now. It doesn’t matter that world champions and 3-point drivers alike can curse, and scream, and shove. You’re a woman. You don’t get that luxury. Not in a world where being difficult, emotional, hysterical will write you off faster than a bad lap. 

So, whatever. Have it their way. They have no fucking clue what you’re capable of. You’re talented at a lot of things. Driving, sure. But if there’s one skill you’ve mastered above all else?

It’s swallowing bowlfuls of bullshit when everyone would just love to watch you spit it out.

So you swallow it.

You don’t ask about Liam. You don’t ask about the car. You don’t hover, you don’t press. You just walk yourself to the back wall, take a seat, and you swallow it. You lay your gloves down, pull your helmet and balaclava over your head, and you swallow it.

Pierre, to his credit, is pissed. Not the kind of anger you’re used to- sharp, barely- contained, barely hidden. No, this is different. This is furious. Visibly, unflinchingly, in the exact way you can’t afford to be. His arms are crossed so tightly across his chest it looks like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will, jaw locked, muttering rapid- fire French under his breath that you’re pretty sure would have been censored on live television.

And fuck, is it satisfying.

Not because it helps, not because it changes anything, but because it’s proof- someone else sees this for what it is. You know it’s not necessarily on your behalf, not exactly, but it feels nice all the same. Like a tiny, bitter validation of what’s currently crawling under your skin like acid.

When you settle in beside him, he barely turns his head, just shoots you a sharp look, his nostrils flaring slightly. You’re seeing this bullshit, no?

Oh, you’re seeing it.

It’s not just insulting, it’s outright disrespectful -  to him, to the car, to the team as a whole. He’s the only fully contracted driver here this weekend. The only one guaranteed to race. And yet, somehow, the team has decided that the only functional car should go not to him, not to the rookie who actually put in a respectable showing in FP1, but to the kid who wrecked the other car in the first place.

Pierre lets out a short, sharp exhale through his nose, shaking his head as he watches Liam step up to the car, as the engineers finalize their checks. Pierre’s arms are crossed so tightly over his chest it looks like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. His jaw is tight, his mouth set in a line so sharp it could cut.

It doesn’t take a genius to see you’re getting fucked here. Even Pierre- who has no real stake in your fight, who doesn’t owe you anything- sees it clear as day. And if anyone knows what it’s like to get fucked by Red Bull, it’s Pierre Gasly.

You don’t leave before the session starts, not to change, not even for air. The moment you step outside that door, you know the press will be waiting- cameras, mics, wide grins sharpened into knives, all of them dying to get a quick interview with the American girl who just made a splash in her first Formula 1 session. For every reporter you had talked to this afternoon, there were four more behind them with a recorder and a pen and a thousand questions designed to make you work to be diplomatic.

And right now? You do not trust yourself to be diplomatic. Even Marissa’s schooling of grin-and-bear-it can only temper so much rage, and you’re certain that if the right amount of camera flashes went off in your face, if the right amount of finely sharpened queries poked at just the right soft spots-  that you would say what you really think. And nobody wants that. 

So you sit. And you stare at your notes. And you wait.

You can see Liam through the gap between the monitors, helmet already on, body language stiff and defensive in a way that tells you even he knows he shouldn’t be the one climbing into that car. But he does it anyway, because this is racing, and nobody turns down free laps.

Soft tires, again.

You watch as he rolls out, and you have to fight the urge to go stand by the timing screen. You won’t. You’re not going to hover, not going to ask, not going to play the desperate rookie begging for scraps of information. You have some fucking pride.

Still -  another set of softs. You bite the inside of your cheek, wondering how much they’re going to coddle him, how much they’re going to stack the deck in his favor just to justify putting him in the car tomorrow.

Pierre sees it before you do, his quiet scoff an indicator that something requires your attention more than the seam of your racesuit. A flash of yellow on the screen, the quick, sharp flicker of movement in the timing tower, and then- confirmation. Sector one, yellow flag. Car stopped. The air in the garage tightens, and Pierre exhales hard, sharp, his hands flexing over his biceps where they’re crossed tight over his chest.

“Putain.” The word is quiet, but pointed. French profanity laced with something that sounds almost like vindication.

Your eyes snap to the monitor, and there it is-  Les Combes. Again. Same mistake, same angle, same outcome. The gravel swallowing the front tires, the nose crumpled into the barrier, the whole car looking like it got caught in some nightmarish deja vu of this morning

Liam’s helmet bobs slightly as he shifts in the cockpit, unbuckling, moving slowly like the weight of the mistake is already starting to settle. The track marshals swarm around him, the cameras cutting away just as he climbs out.

Pierre doesn’t even bother hiding his disdain. He turns slightly toward the row of engineers at the screens, leveling them with a look that could probably peel paint. He doesn’t have to say it out loud- you can feel the sentiment radiating off of him. This is what you get. This is what you fucking get. He runs a hand over his face, dragging it down his jaw, lets out a humorless chuckle, then turns to look at you. It’s not an I told you so look. Not exactly. But it’s close.

You press your lips together, fighting the complicated mix of emotions churning under your ribs.

Because Pierre’s right. Obviously he’s right. This is bullshit, and now they all have to sit with the consequences of it. They pulled you from the car, gave Liam another shot, and he binned it again.

And yet…

You bite the inside of your cheek, watching Liam stand by the wreckage, helmet still on, hands limp at his sides. His shoulders are drawn in tight, his whole posture screaming humiliation. You don’t need to see the screen to know exactly what his reaction is- flushed, jaw tight, eyes already darting toward the pit lane, toward the garage, toward the engineers who are probably already muttering under their breath about how much work this is going to take to fix.

It’s not his fault they put him in.

It’s not his fault they stacked the deck in his favor, piled all this pressure onto his shoulders, and sent him back out there like they could just will him into proving them right. Like they could force him to be the driver they needed him to be.

You inhale slowly through your nose, exhale just as carefully, keeping your face blank, keeping every reaction locked down inside your chest. Pierre, however, has no such restraint. He lets out another sharp breath, shaking his head again. “They deserve this.”

You don’t disagree. But you also know that when the dust settles, when the adrenaline fades and the session is over, the only one really paying for this mistake is Liam.

[hailthegodsong]

MAYBE

One Shot ~ Sam Kiszka x Female Reader

Word Count: 17k +

A/N: This one shot was requested in October last year, so I'm so so sorry that it has taken so long to come out with. I also strayed from the ask dramatically, I hope you don't mind anon. Huge huge thanks to @hailtheaeon for being there to help me brainstorm in the process of writing this story <33

Summary: After years of struggling to move past the damage left by abusive relationships, you’ve built a life focused on safety— for yourself and your rescue dog, Bella, who carries her own scars. But when Sam's quiet kindness enters your life, the walls you’ve built start to crack. Even when fears and trauma threaten to push him away, Sam’s patience and understanding help you begin to heal. Maybe, just maybe, letting someone in doesn’t have to be a risk after all.

Content warnings: Trauma from domestic violence, descriptions of past verbal, emotional, and physical abuse, fear, anxiety, panic attack, trust issues, crying, swearing kissing.

🐾

The late afternoon sun cast golden hues over the grass that Bella ran across, her golden coat shining in the glow. This park was a quiet place, your sanctuary, where the world felt a little less sharp and the noise of your thoughts could settle. Bella, the dog you’d rescued from a local shelter just over a year ago padded beside you, her nose to the ground as she sniffed along the blades of grass and dirt below. She was your anchor, your constant companion, and a reflection of your own guarded— if not fearful nature.

Like you, she didn’t trust easily. You’d chosen her for that reason— a timid, gentle soul who had been hurt at the hands of another, just like you had. Someone who needed a safe space just as much as you did. A safe space from her fears of men. She had been rescued from neglect, and the bond you’d formed felt like a quiet understanding. You’d protect each other.

Today was supposed to be a peaceful outing, a routine part of your shared journey toward confidence. But as you strolled, you noticed a flash of movement. A dog— small, brindle, and full of energy— bounded toward you, stopping just short of your dog. Its tail wagged furiously, and it let out an excited little bark.

“Well, hello,” you murmured, crouching slightly, to show Bella that other dogs were safe. Your dog stiffened for a moment, but as the brindle one nudged her gently, Bellas tail gave a tentative wag. You blinked in surprise. That was… a quick turnaround. Bella was usually timid, cautious, and would hide behind your legs as you greeted other people, or other dogs.

Before you could process it, another dog approached— a darker one this time, bigger but just as lively. The two newcomers sniffed at your hands, tails wagging like flags in the wind, and you felt a small smile tug at your lips despite the suddenness of it all.

You glanced around the park, searching for an owner, but there was no one in sight— only you, Bella, and the two lost pups. The puppy had a collar, so you knelt and carefully checked for a tag. The name read Fox, and luckily, there was a phone number beneath it.

Your stomach twisted. Calling a stranger— a man, judging by the name scrawled on the back of the tag— made your pulse quicken. Sam, was the name. But Sam could be a woman's name too, couldn’t it? But it could also be a man, and the prospect of being alone out there with a man whom you didn't know frightened you to your core. Your hand tightened around your phone as you hesitated. What if it’s a trap? What if he’s someone you should fear? The thoughts came unbidden, unwelcome, but familiar.

You glanced back down at the dogs. They were sitting now, panting happily at your feet, and your own dog— your cautious, wary girl— was watching them with what looked like joy. You took a breath, pushed the fear aside just enough, and dialed.

The phone rang exactly twice before a man’s voice answered, slightly breathless. “Hello?”

“Hi,” you said, your voice more clipped than you intended. “I found your dog. Two, actually— Fox and another one… but I don’t know her name, she doesn’t have a collar.”

The relief in his voice was immediate and overwhelming. “Oh my God, thank you. I’ve been looking everywhere for them. Are they okay?”

“They’re fine,” you answered, glancing down at the dogs, who seemed completely unbothered by the situation. “We’re at the park with the walking trail and the big open field, near the creek. You can come pick them up.”

“Thank you so much,” he said again, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’m so sorry— they must have gotten out of the yard. Thank you, thank you.”

“No worries,” you forced out. “See you soon.” You hung up, still gripping the phone tightly. The rational part of you knew there was no reason to distrust him— he sounded genuinely relieved, even frantic— but the cautious part, the part shaped by years of bad experiences, kept your guard up.

You sat on a bench, watching as the three dogs sprawled out near your feet. Your dog rested her head on her paws, more relaxed than you’d seen her in a long time. It stirred something warm in your chest, seeing her so content in a place that wasn't the foot of your bed. Still, a knot of worry lingered. She’d never been good with men— you’d never been good with men— and the thought of one arriving soon made your shoulders tense.

Ten minutes felt like an eternity, but eventually, a figure appeared in the distance. He was tall, with long, dark, slightly unruly hair and a hurried stride. The moment the dogs spotted him, they were off like rockets, tails wagging furiously as they lept toward him.

He dropped to his knees, his laughter ringing out as they practically bowled him over. “Hey, hey— there you are,” he says, his voice warm and full of relief. “I was so worried about you two.”

Bella stood now too, her ears perked and her tail giving the smallest of wags. She looked at you, then back at him, as if asking permission.

You rose slowly, your pulse quickening. He stood as well, the two dogs happily circling his legs, and the smaller one jumping up at his calves for attention. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you were struck by how kind they seemed.

“I can’t thank you enough,” he said, his voice earnest. “Fox is new, and she must’ve slipped out somehow. Rose must have followed her. I’ve been looking for them everywhere.”

“It’s no problem,” you assured, your voice softer than you expected. “They’re sweet dogs.”

As you spoke, Bella stepped closer to him, her nose twitching as she sniffed his ankle. He noticed and crouched slightly, holding out a hand. “And who’s this?”

“That’s Bella,” you said, quickly adding, “Um, maybe don’t— she’s not great with men. She’s a rescue.”

He pulled his hand back immediately, nodding in understanding. “Got it. Sorry about that.”

But to your shock, Bella didn’t shy away. Instead, she sniffed a little longer before her tail started wagging— a hesitant flick at first, then more assured. She stepped closer, nudging his hand with her nose.

He laughed softly, his voice gentle. “Well, hello there.” Although her advances were friendly, Sam still refrained from petting her, allowing her to feel him out herself. You stared, completely baffled. Bella didn’t do this. She didn’t trust men— not after everything she’d been through.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” you said, your voice tinged with awe.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” he replied, his tone light. “Maybe it’s because I have long hair,” he joked, and you smiled softly at him. 

Rose and Fox joined in, playfully bumping into your dog before breaking into a game of chase. They darted around your legs, tails wagging as they barked at one another and spun in dizzying circles.

Sam straightened, his smile soft. “Looks like they’ve gotten well acquainted.”

You laughed lightly, feeling a little of the tension drain from your shoulders. “Yeah. They clicked pretty fast.”

“I’m Sam, by the way,” he greeted, holding out his hand.

You hesitated for only a moment before taking it. “Nice to meet you,” you replied, the words feeling more natural than you’d expected. You introduced yourself too, watching as Sam's mouth grew into yet another gentle smile as you spoke. You pulled your hand away timidly, and turned back to your dogs, avoiding his gaze. 

As the dogs played, you caught yourself smiling— not just at them, but at him too. He seemed kind, and he seemed to understand your need for silence. It was comfortable being around him.

Sam watched the dogs play, his face lit up with genuine joy. “I think they’ve already decided they’re best friends,” he commented with a soft laugh, glancing over at you. “Rose doesn’t usually warm up to other dogs this fast.”

You smiled, a little hesitant but unable to help the warmth spreading in your chest as you watched the three of them chase each other in joyful circles. “Same with her,” you admitted, nodding toward your dog, whose tail was wagging furiously as she bounded after Rose. “She’s usually... cautious, especially in new situations.”

Sam tilted his head, studying the dogs for a moment before meeting your eyes. “You’ve done a great job with her, though. She seems really happy.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn't know how to respond. Compliments always felt awkward, especially from strangers— especially from men. They were almost always ingenuine. A ruse to have you trust them— so that they could hurt you. But there was something disarming about the way Sam spoke, casual but earnest, like he really meant it.

“Thanks,” you managed, your voice soft. “It’s been a process, but... she’s worth it.”

Sam smiled sideways, and this time, it felt a little more personal, like he understood in a way that didn’t need further explanation. “I get that,” he started. “Rose was a rescue too. Took me a while to figure out her rhythm. And Fox... well, she’s still a work in progress.” He let out a boyish laugh. “But… I think we’re all a little rough around the edges, right?”

“Yeah, I guess we are.”

The conversation lulled, but it was another comfortable silence. The dogs continued their game of back and forth, weaving around the two of you with an almost choreographed grace. Bella, at one point, paused in need of a breath and trotted over to you. You bent slightly to give her a scratch behind the ear, her hand leaning into your touch, before you pulled away. Casually, she meandered over to Sam, her tail wagging slowly but surely. She nudged his hand again, and he remained mostly still, offering his hand carefully so as not to startle her.

Bella then turned, and leant her body weight against Sam's legs, watching as Fox and Rose continued their game of chase.

You watched, a mix of awe and confusion swirling inside you. “I’ve never seen her do that before,” you commented quietly. “She doesn’t trust men.”

Sam looked over to you, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softened again. “Well she’s very brave, for taking a chance on me.”

Before you could think of a response, Fox barked sharply, demanding his attention. He laughed and stepped back. Bella skirted away from him at the movement, jumpy still— almost as if she had remembered to be scared.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” Sam called, his voice light and teasing. He glanced back at you, his expression a mix of gratitude and something else you couldn’t quite place. “We should probably head home now. Thanks again, by the way. For calling me. And for... you know, everything.”

You nodded, a little flustered but managing a small smile. “It was no trouble. Really.”

“Well,” he said, taking a step back but clearly not wanting to leave just yet, “If you’re ever back at this park... maybe our dogs could have another playdate?”

The suggestion caught you off guard, but the nervous manner of his tone eased your anxiety. Instead, you actually found yourself nodding. “Yeah, maybe. They seem to like each other.”

“And maybe,” Sam added, grinning, “They could even convince us humans to talk again.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe,” you repeated, the word feeling like a tentative step forward.

As he walked away, his dogs trotting happily at his heels, Bella nudged your hand, looking up at you with a curious tilt of her head. You scratched behind her ears, still trying to process everything that just happened.

“Maybe,” you murmured again, this time to yourself. 

🐾

The next few days were rather bland. You and Bella meandered around the house lazily, keeping each other company with cuddles on the couch and in bed. 

You were confused, to say the least. Proud of yourself for spending so much time with Sam— and for being able to hold a conversation with him without breaking down into a panicked state, like you most often did when speaking to men, especially alone. But another part of you— the dark, afraid exterior you had put on to protect yourself— was ashamed. You’d experienced too much hurt to be naive. And letting yourself grow so fond of a man after only one introduction, solely based on a feeling you had, was utterly ridiculous. 

You wanted to keep yourself indoors forever at the thought. The idea of curling yourself in your bedsheets and never remerging sounded more alluring with each day that passed. Alas, Bella was restless, and you knew you couldn't keep her cooped up and isolated with you, no matter how much you dreaded leaving the comfort of your home. 

Getting up with a dramatic sigh, you showered, dressed, and made yourself look somewhat presentable, Bella excitedly trotting by your heels in anticipation as you got ready. You were soon out the door, as Bella gave a particularly harsh tug on the lead to get the walk started as you fumbled with your keys to lock the front door. 

It wasn’t unusual for her to be excited for her walks, but this was different, and her enthusiasm didn't let up any further into the walk. Your whole body, slanted awkwardly in an attempt to control her pulling, lest you go flying face first into the concrete, was beginning to tire at her relentless eagerness.

“Bella, what has gotten into you?” you grunted as you feebly tried to control her near frantic pace. 

Your question was answered when she turned a sharp, deliberate corner down the trail that led you to your local park. The same park where you had met Sam, and his dogs. 

“Oh, Bella,” you cooed. Her happy little face looked up at you, tongue hanging out and tail thwacking your legs as it wagged uncontrollably. 

You weren’t sure what to do. On one hand, you doubted he’d even be there again. He hadn’t even been there in the first place— had only come to pick up his dogs. But, strangely you weren’t opposed to seeing him again. His presence wasn’t forceful or uncomfortable in the slightest. Sam was easy to be with. 

But the other part of you— the rational, protective part of your mind, reasoned with you through memory. You hadn’t been treated fairly by a man— ever. Did you really expect that to change now? You’d learnt your lessons, and promised to never put yourself back in a situation like that, ever again. Yet here you were, contemplating returning to an otherwise empty park in hopes to find yourself alone with a man you had quite literally just met. 

Bella sat by your feet and whined, her paws pressing into the ground impatiently. Alas, be it naivety or some pathetic kind of hope, Sam didn’t make you feel scared. Not like other men did, at least. Sure you felt nervous, jittery, and a little guarded around him, but it was nothing compared to how you reacted to the presence of other men. No sweaty palms, erratic heart beats, panicked breathing, or racing thoughts. Just Sam, and the strangely peaceful air he had about him.

You sighed, “Alright then.” With that, Bella jumped from her spot, springing to her feet and tugging on the leash. 

After battling her tugging for the next five minutes of the walk, you re-emerged in the park you had been at a few days prior. Bellas head, much like yours, was high, scanning the area in sight of any others— in sight of Sam. 

“Get it Rose!” 

Your head turned at the sound of his voice, echoing through the park as a familiar brindle dog whizzed passed you. There Sam stood, just off to the edge of the grass, a ball thrower in hand as he watched Rose chase his latest throw. Fox was by his feet, tugging on his maroon scarf which hung unevenly over his shoulders. 

You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips when you saw him, a big, cheesy smile stretched across his face. The smile turned to a frown when he felt the incessant tugging of his scarf slowly sliding off his shoulder, and he peered down to see Fox chewing at the threads. 

“Fox!” he exclaimed, kneeling to take it from her mouth. “We’ve talked about this young lady. No chewing on Daddy’s clothes, that's what your toys are for, remember?” he explained as he pried her mouth open to snatch his scarf back. 

You leaned down to unclip Bellas leash and in a flash she was bouncing off to greet them. Sam still hadn’t noticed your presence, and he startled slightly when Bella approached, dancing around his legs excitedly. 

“Well hello there!” he greeted Bella as she pressed herself into his legs. His eyes quickly jumped up to see you walking towards him, his smile returning to his face at the sight of you. “You’re back,” he commented as he rose, and took a few tentative steps forward. 

“I’m back,” you repeated, your voice kind, but a little timid. You continued to walk towards him until you stood only a couple of feet away. “Bella pulled pretty hard to come here today— couldn’t say no to that face,” you joked, gesturing to her slobbery, open mouthed smile. 

Sam blinked, and opened his mouth to say something but hesitated. He seemed to think for a moment before he settled on, “Well good, I’m glad to see you again.” By now, Rose had come bouncing back, and was sniffing at Bella by your feet. 

“Thanks… you too,” you replied, rather awkwardly you thought. 

Sam gestured to the small bench beside you with his arm. “Shall we sit?” 

You nodded, letting out a quiet breath as you moved toward the bench. Bella followed, although unclipped, her leash was tight in your grip as if it were the only thing keeping you steady. Sam sat last, leaving a respectable amount of space between you, like he somehow sensed you’d need it. 

Okay, this is fine. He’s just a guy. Sitting on a bench. It’s fine.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” Sam said, breaking the quiet. His tone was casual, but there was something genuine behind it, something that made your chest feel tight. Bella sniffed at his feet, her tail wagging like she’d known him for years instead of just one brief meeting. “Rose has been acting like a lovesick puppy since the last time we were here.”

You managed a small smile, glancing down at the two dogs. Rose’s tail wagged furiously as Bella sniffed at her face, the two of them falling into an easy rhythm. You envied that— how simple it was for them to just... connect. No overthinking. No fear.

Why couldn't you be like that? Why did this have to be so hard?

“I’m glad she dragged you out,” Sam added, leaning back slightly on the bench. His voice was light, but the way he said it— like he really meant it— made you glance at him. He caught your gaze for half a second before you looked away, your heart thudding too loudly in your chest.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admitted before you could stop yourself. Your gut twisted in embarrassment. Why did you have to say that?

“But you did,” he pointed out gently. “And I’m glad.”

You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the leash. He was kind. Too kind. The way he looked at you, like he wasn’t in a rush or expecting anything from you, made something in your chest ache. It would’ve been easier if he was pushy, if he gave you a reason to shut down. But he wasn’t.

The silence stretched, and you could feel the familiar pull to retreat, to make an excuse and leave. But then Sam spoke again, his voice cutting through the fog in your head.

“You know,” he said carefully, “I’ve been meaning to try that little café down the street. The one with the uhhh…” he clicked his finger as he thought, willing the memory to existence, “What's it called? You know, the flower with the long stem and uhh…” He continued to click his fingers as he dropped his head into his other hand, rubbing at his brow bone as he tried to remember. 

“Tulip?” you offered meekly. 

“Yes!” he pointed at you, body straightening. “That big tulip artwork on the front window. Have you been? It looks nice,” he explained, hands gesturing in front of him as he described the art. 

You shook your head, “No, I haven’t been. But I’ve walked past it a few times— smells nice in there.”

Sam smiled, leaning forward slightly. “Maybe we could check it out together sometime. If you’re up for it.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. 

You looked at him, unsure what to say. The idea of sitting across from him, having a conversation in a quiet café, felt like a massive leap. You were not ready for this. You’d sworn off men— off dating. It hadn’t even been a question, you knew you weren’t mentally prepared to handle the things that came with being in a relationship— not now.

But at the same time, there was a tiny spark of something else— something that wanted to say yes. Would you ever be ready? Or would you spend the rest of your lonely life at home with Bella? Forced by the mental confines of your mind.

“I—uh...” You stumbled over your words, your brain fighting with itself. Say something. Say yes. He’s not going to wait forever.

“No pressure,” Sam added quickly, his tone easy. “It doesn’t have to be soon. Or ever, if.. you don't want to, or…you’re not comfortable, or… whatever.”

You exhaled shakily, gripping Bella’s leash like it was a lifeline. “No, I…” you sighed. “That sounds nice,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sam’s smile didn’t falter, and that surprised you. Most people would’ve pushed or tried to pin you down for a time. But not him. “Okay,” he said simply. “Whenever you’re free.”

You nodded, feeling a flicker of relief but also something else. Maybe you could do this. Maybe.

The dogs ran off again, chasing each other in lazy circles, and for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to believe that you could take a step forward. Even if it was small, even if it was terrifying, you wanted to try. 

Sam's voice brought your gaze back to him again. “How about you give me your number and we can arrange a time that you’re free. Or— I mean, I can give you mine if that's better,” he shrugged, his speech beginning to turn more into a ramble than an offer. “That way you can, y’know, choose when— or if you’re free, or if you even want to do it, cause—”

“I do want to do it. Stop overthinking it,” you joked, though you knew he had every right to be worried. You had no idea how you were going to show up to this… date? Catchup? You weren't sure what it was, but the title didn't make the occasion any less daunting. Sam's happy grin encouraged your next words. “Do you have your phone on you? I can put my number into your contacts,” you suggested. 

His eyebrows lifted as he nodded, “Yeah, yeah, for sure.” He awkwardly patted his pockets before finding his phone lost somewhere inside his coat. “Here y’go.”

Sam handed you his phone, an empty contact card open for you to put your details in. This was huge. You were willingly giving a man your phone number— a man you'd practically just met. Something tugged at whatever part of your brain was responsible for decision making persistently, willing you to question if what you were doing may be stupid. You knew it wasn't smart, not after what you’d been through— what you’d experienced with men. They always started off kind, you knew that. Yet there was something about Sam that you felt you could trust, and that frightened you the most. 

As your fingers hesitated on the keyboard against his phone, you glanced down to where Bella settled by Sam's feet, staring off into the park and allowing Sam to lightly pet the middle of her back. You sighed, willing away the thoughts like they were just some annoying, unwelcomed pest, as you forced your fingers to tap the phone screen. 

“Done.” You handed his phone back to him, fingers picking at your cuticles nervously as you watched him smile and type something into his phone. Your phone buzzed from your back pocket and you slid it out to see a text message: “Here's my number too :)”

The lightheartedness of the message made your lips twitch, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at the corners. You glanced at Sam who was still sitting beside you, leaning back against the wooden table, looking completely at ease.

You shifted awkwardly, fiddling with Bella’s leash, though she had sprawled out at Sam's feet, panting contentedly after her play. Sam didn’t seem to notice your nerves— or maybe he did, and he just chose not to draw attention to it. Either way, his relaxed energy made it hard to feel completely on edge.

“So,” Sam began, breaking the comfortable silence. “Is this Bella's favourite park, or…?”

You nodded, glancing at him briefly before looking away. “Yeah, usually. She likes how quiet it is.”

“Quiet’s good,” he agreed, his voice warm and easy. “I usually go to that busy dog park across the city when I get the chance. Rose and Fox like to drag me out of the house to get there.”

You chuckled softly, looking at Rose, who was now sprawled out a few feet away, eyes half-closed in the sunlight. “Looks like she’s not too demanding right now.”

“Yeah, don’t let that fool you,” Sam said, leaning toward you a little as he itched his forearm, his elbow brushing yours briefly. “Ten more minutes, and she’ll be up, trying to wrestle me or something. That girl hasn't known how to take it easy for her whole life,” he laughed.

You smiled faintly, your fingers tightening on Bella’s leash. It was strange, sitting here with someone you’d only just met. Normally, this would feel like too much— too close, too personal— but with Sam, it felt... manageable.

“Anyway,” he continued, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, “I figured I’d send that text so you’ve got my number too. Just in case, y’know, Bella needs a playmate or something.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips twitching again. “Just for our dogs, huh? Not for our coffee outing?” 

Sam grinned, his shoulders shaking with a quiet laugh. “Fair point. I’m more of a sidekick in this operation. I let Fox and Rose do the heavy lifting.”

That small flicker of humor in your chest felt foreign but not unwelcome. There was no pressure to say anything. He wasn’t watching you, waiting for a response. Instead, he looked out at the park, his expression calm, like he was perfectly content to just be here.

“I don’t usually... give my number out,” you said suddenly, the words escaping before you could stop them.

Sam glanced at you, his brows lifting slightly, but he didn’t press. “Yeah? Well, I don’t usually ask for numbers in dog parks, so I guess we’re both a little out of our comfort zones.”

You snorted softly, shaking your head. “That’s... one way to look at it.”

He shifted slightly, his tone softening. “I get it, though. It’s not always easy to, uh... put yourself out there— socially, or otherwise.”

You glanced at him, feeling a pang of something— gratitude, maybe? He wasn’t prying. He wasn’t asking why or trying to dig into things you weren’t ready to share. He just... understood.

Bella nudged at your leg, and you reached down to scratch behind her ears, your fingers trembling slightly.

“You seem pretty good at it,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

Sam tilted his head, a small, almost self-deprecating smile on his lips. “You’d be surprised. I just talk a lot and hope something sticks.”

That earned a small laugh from you, and you saw his smile widen.

“Seriously, though,” he added, his voice dropping just a little, “We don’t have to do anything you’re not up for. I mean it.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”

“Good,” he said, leaning back again, his shoes toeing into the dirt beneath him nervously. “But for the record, I think Rose, Fox and Bella would make a great tag team. So if you ever want to let them hang out again, just say the word.”

Just say the word. The offer was there, present for you to take at your own accord. It didn't press you, and it didn't make you feel like if you didn’t reach out, you were letting anybody down. It was comfortable— as was everything that Sam said. The casualness of his tone made it easier to breathe.

“Okay,” you said softly. Sam smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. 

You glanced at your phone to check the time, a small pang of disappointment blooming in your chest. You hated that you had to leave. You wanted to stay— maybe not talk much, but just exist here with him, in the easy quiet of the park.

“I, uh, should probably head home,” you said reluctantly, rising to your feet. “I’ve got a meeting in thirty minutes.”

Sam’s brows lifted as he stood too, the easygoing smile on his face flickering with something softer. “Oh? Do you work from home?” he asked, as Bella jumped to her feet beside you, shaking out her coat.

“Yeah,” you nodded, clipping the leash onto her collar. “I don’t have to leave Bella alone for hours, so it works out.”

“Lucky Bella,” he said lightly, though his mouth stayed open, as if he wanted to keep talking— as if he didn't want the moment to end. He shook his head lightly before continuing, “Well, I’ll let you go. Don’t want you to be late or anything.”

You smiled, a small, genuine curve of your lips. “Thanks. I’ll, uh… I’ll text you,” you said, the words slipping out before you could second-guess them. The certainty in Sam’s returning smile made your chest flutter. Maybe saying it wasn’t such a bad thing.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said warmly, his eyes meeting yours in a way that felt reassuring and kind.

You nodded, a little too quickly, gripping Bella’s leash tightly as if it could keep your nerves steady. “See you.”

“Bye,” he said, his voice lingering just a moment longer. He reached for Fox and Rose, gently holding them back as they strained toward Bella, their tails wagging wildly.

You gave a small, awkward wave before turning away, the crisp air filling your lungs as you and Bella walked toward the park gate.

As you reached the edge of the park, you couldn’t help glancing back. Sam was still standing there, a hand resting idly on Rose’s back, watching as you left. When your eyes met his, he raised a hand in a casual wave, his grin as easy as ever.

You turned back around quickly, your cheeks warming against the cold. Maybe this wasn’t as terrifying as it seemed. Maybe.

Bella tugged gently on the leash, grounding you as you crossed the street and started for home. Your phone buzzed in your pocket— a message from Sam. It was a photo of Fox and Rose, their ears pricked up and eyes fixed on the empty entrance of the park, as though they were waiting for you and Bella to return.

A second message followed right after: “Looks like they’re already missing you both.”

A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. It was a small gesture, but something about it made your chest feel a little lighter. You slipped your phone back into your pocket without responding, telling yourself you’d reply when you got home. Maybe you’d even send him a photo of Bella in return. Maybe you’d keep the conversation going.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the thought of staying connected didn’t seem so impossible. It felt… nice.

🐾

The coffee meet-up had gone so much better than you’d imagined, better than you had even allowed yourself to hope for. The worst part— unsurprisingly— had been the lead-up. You’d paced your apartment for what felt like hours, second-guessing every decision. Your mind raced with a thousand doubts: Was this smart? Was this too soon? Were you setting yourself up for heartbreak again? Bella sat patiently by the door, watching you with her big, soulful eyes, almost as if she were silently urging you to go, to just try.

You’d arrived at the café early, jittery from nerves and a lack of sleep. When Sam walked in, his warm smile immediately eased some of your tension. He looked genuinely happy to see you, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. He’d waved and slid into the seat across from you, his presence grounding but not overbearing.

Conversation had flowed naturally, which surprised you. Sam had a way of filling the space between you without making it feel stifling. He’d asked about Bella, what you did for work, and even shared a funny story about Rose stealing one of his socks that morning. When the conversation lulled, as it inevitably did, Sam didn’t make it awkward. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze wandering to the people passing by outside the café window.

“See that guy?” he’d said, nodding toward a man hurriedly crossing the street with a mismatched pair of gloves, and a bright pink scarf. “What do you reckon? He’s either late for something important or has a really funky sense of style.”

You’d followed his gaze, smiling faintly. “Maybe both.”

And just like that, the quiet moments turned into a game of people-watching. Sam made up lighthearted stories about strangers, his voice calm and easy, and for the first time in a long time, you felt safe in someone else’s company. There was no pressure, no expectation— just two people sitting across from each other, sharing a moment.

By the time you’d parted ways, your nerves had transformed into optimism. You didn’t regret coming. In fact, you were already looking forward to seeing him again.

The next morning you saw him again at the park. You hadn’t planned to go at the same time, but there he was, with Rose and Fox bounding around in the grass. You’d exchanged a smile and a wave, and soon enough, it became a daily routine. Every morning, you’d take Bella to the park, secretly hoping he’d be there too. And every morning, Sam was.

One day, as you approached the park, you noticed him holding a cup of coffee, a familiar logo on the side. He smiled as he handed it to you, his expression a mix of shy and pleased.

“I, uh, noticed what you ordered the other day,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought you might like one this morning.”

You stared at the cup in your hands, warmth spreading from your fingertips to your chest. “Thank you,” you said softly, touched by the small but thoughtful gesture. From that day on, he always seemed to have a coffee ready for you. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it meant more than he probably realized.

Still, as much as you looked forward to those mornings, your mind wasn’t entirely at ease. The scars of your past whispered doubts in the quiet moments. This is too good to be true. Men like this don’t stay this way. You’ve been here before. The memories of past relationships, of violence and betrayal, were like shadows you couldn’t shake.

But then there was Sam— patient, kind, and attentive in a way that felt entirely genuine. He didn’t push when you hesitated. He didn’t pry when you grew quiet. He just was.

When he invited you to a dinner at his house, casually mentioning that his brothers and their friends would be there, you froze. The thought of being in a group setting, of being in his home, felt like too much too soon. You’d declined, softly but firmly, and to your relief, Sam had taken it in stride.

“All good. Another time, maybe,” he’d said with a smile, as if to let you know the door was always open.

The refusal had felt good— not because you didn’t want to go, but because you were learning to set boundaries. You were opening yourself up, little by little, but you weren’t letting go of yourself in the process.

Throughout the week, Sam continued to send you pictures of Rose and Fox. They were always candid and endearing— Rose sprawled out on the couch, Fox sitting attentively by the window as if waiting for you and Bella. One evening, you found Bella lounging in her usual spot, her head tilted just so, and before you could overthink it, you snapped a picture and sent it to Sam.

“She says hi,” you’d typed, your heart fluttering as you hit send.

His reply had come almost instantly: “Tell her we say hi back. Same time tomorrow?”

You’d smiled, and without hesitation, replied: “Of course.”

🐾

A couple of days later, you found yourself bracing for a high-stakes work meeting with some of the most important executives in your company. Stress clung to you like a second skin, tightening your shoulders and quickening your breath. Your living room reflected your frayed state of mind— dog toys scattered across the floor, an abandoned mug of coffee perched precariously on the edge of the table, and a pile of laundry slumped in the corner, forgotten in your whirlwind of preparation.

You’d spent the entire morning darting between tasks: fussing with your hair, adjusting your blouse for the hundredth time, and sifting through the jumbled notes on your desk in a desperate attempt to find some semblance of order— despite the fact that the meeting started at noon. Bella had shadowed you every step of the way, her quiet presence an unspoken reminder of her unmet need for the walk she’d come to expect every morning.

Her brown eyes followed you as you paced the room, and when you finally sat down at your desk with a heavy sigh, she whined softly, settling herself at your feet.

“Bella, please,” you muttered, reaching down to give her a quick pat before returning to your computer screen. You flicked your eyes to the clock— thirty minutes until your call. The number pulsed in your mind like a ticking bomb, making your stomach twist.

Bella’s tail thumped against the floor, slow and deliberate, each wag a pointed reminder of her dissatisfaction. She huffed, letting out a low whimper, and you resisted the urge to groan. Normally, she’d be sprawled out in her favorite spot by now, worn out from a romp at the park. But today, skipping that routine had thrown her off entirely, and her restless energy was only adding to your own mounting tension.

“Bella,” you said again, your voice sharper this time, though guilt twisted in your chest. She wasn’t trying to annoy you— she just didn’t understand why things were different today. You ran a hand over your face, leaning back in your chair and staring at the ceiling.

Another loud whine that trailed off into a howl broke the silence, and you glanced down to see Bella staring up at you with wide, imploring eyes. She shifted closer, her tail wagging faster now, and let out a short, sharp bark.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you muttered, your voice tight. “You’re stressed. Join the club.”

The tension in the room felt suffocating as Bella circled your chair, her nails clicking against the hardwood floor. You bent down again, this time stroking her fur more firmly in an attempt to calm her. But as soon as you pulled away, she was pacing again, her frustration palpable.

You checked the clock once more— twenty-five minutes now— and felt a rush of panic. This meeting was important, one you couldn’t afford to be distracted during. But how were you supposed to focus with Bella practically climbing the walls? You sighed, sitting back in your chair and opening your phone to check your emails. 

Instead, you saw a new message from Sam. “Hey, no park today?” Attached was a photo of Rose and Fox, both sitting by the edge of the park, their ears pricked up like they were waiting for someone. He was still there, despite it being hours after you’d usually meet. Guilt twisted your gut.

You smiled despite yourself, typing a quick reply. “No park today :( I’ve got a busy afternoon of meetings and needed to prepare. I meant to let you know— sorry about that!”

His reply came almost instantly. “Ah okay, no worries! Good luck with your meetings :)”

Before you could put your phone down, Bella let out another pitiful whine, pacing back and forth near the door.

You replied. “Thanks. I think I’ll need it— Bella won’t stop whining and whimpering. I think she missed you guys. I don’t know what to do.”

Sam responded immediately. “Maybe just lock her in another room with some toys and treats?”

You sighed, wincing as Bella barked piercingly. “Can't. She’s got attachment anxiety. Starts to rip things up if she's left alone.”

You hit send, leaning back in your chair as Bella plopped down dramatically near the door, her eyes fixed on it like she was willing it to open, letting high pitched whines leave her throat.

A minute passed without a reply, and you were about to set your phone aside when it buzzed.

“I can come by and look after her for however long if you’d like? Take her out for a walk until your meeting is over?”

You stared at the message, your heart skipping a beat. He’s really offering to do this? The idea of letting someone into your space, even Sam, made you hesitate. But at the same time, you couldn’t deny how kind the offer was— or how badly you needed help right now.

You bit your lip as you replied. “Thanks Sam, but Bella doesn’t like being away from me. She gets really anxious.”

His reply came quickly. “I could just hang out with her in another room if you’d prefer? All good if not, of course, but the offer’s there.”

You set your phone down, your thoughts spinning. Bella whined again, pacing back to your chair and pawing at your leg.

“Bella,” you scolded gently. “Quiet.” You stood and grabbed her bowl, filling it with a few treats in hopes of distracting her, but she barely glanced at it. She let out a sharp bark, scratching at the front door now.

“Bella! Stop!” you said, exasperated, but she wasn’t listening.

You glanced at the clock— twenty minutes until your call. Another bark echoed through the apartment, and you dropped your head into your hands. “Okay, okay!” you muttered, grabbing your phone and opening the messages again.

“Yeah, I might have to take you up on that offer, if you wouldn’t mind.”

His response came almost immediately. “Of course :) Do you mind if I bring the girls?”

You sighed in relief. “Of course not. I’ll text you my address. My call is in 20 minutes, though.”

“Perfect. I’ll be there in 10.”

You exhaled, tension leaving your shoulders as you sent him your address. Bella looked up at you expectantly, and you gave her a small smile. “Someone’s coming to rescue you, happy now?” She whined at your words, eyes looking to and from the door as she impatiently waited for you to take her out. 

While you waited, you found yourself fidgeting with your reflection in the hallway mirror. It was ridiculous, really— the meeting with the board members hadn’t inspired this level of concern, but knowing Sam was on his way had you smoothing down your hair and adjusting the hem of your sweater like a teenager before prom.

“Get a grip,” you muttered under your breath, brushing an invisible speck of lint off your sleeve. Bella whined softly from her spot near the door, her tail wagging with anticipation. And now, you tried to focus on the sound of her impatience instead of the nervous fluttering in your stomach.

The sharp knock at the door made Bella erupt into a frenzy of barking, spinning in circles by your feet. You felt your heart jolt, but not from the noise. It was that brief, nagging moment of doubt— a voice in the back of your mind reminding you that you were about to let a man into your home.

For a split second, you froze, your hand hovering over the lock. But then Bella barked again, her paws scratching at the door in her impatience, and you shoved the thought aside. This was Sam. Sam, who brought coffee to the park every morning. Sam, who made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t in a long time. You took a breath and opened the door.

“Hey!” Sam greeted you, his smile warm and disarming.

The dogs went wild, Bella barking and wagging her tail like a propeller as Rose and Fox tugged excitedly on their leashes. The narrow entryway became a chaotic blur of wagging tails and happy whines as you tried to wrangle Bella away from the tangle of Sam’s dogs.

“Come in, quick,” you said, stepping aside to let them all in before the noise woke your neighbors. Bella followed Rose and Fox eagerly as they darted into the living room, their tails wagging in unison.

“You can take their leashes off,” you told Sam, watching as he crouched to unclip them. The dogs bounded off to explore, Bella right on their heels, and the house fell into an almost eerie quiet after the explosion of noise. 

You turned back to Sam, who had straightened up and was now standing with his hands tucked casually into his coat pockets. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, his expression softening.

“You look nice,” he said, his voice warm but casual, as though it was just a simple observation and not a compliment that sent your pulse racing.

Your cheeks flushed, and you glanced down, brushing at your sweater even though you knew there was nothing on it. “Oh, uh… thanks. This meeting’s kind of a big deal.” Lie. You fixed your appearance for him. “Thank you for coming”

Sam’s smile widened, and he shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’m happy to help. Plus, I could hear Bella whining from the street.” 

You laughed as you watched her whizz past you both into the living room, Rose and Fox hot on her heels. 

“Where do you want me?” Sam asked, reminding you that you needed to get a move on if you wanted to make this meeting in time. 

“Anywhere is fine. I’ll be in my little office so as long as Bella doesn't come in it’ll be fine. Though, I suspect she’ll be quiet now that you guys are here.”

Sam nodded and ran a hand through his hair, and you took a moment to admire how long and healthy it looked. You had to ask him what products he used to get it looking so shiny. “Does the living room sound okay?” he asked, gesturing to the couch. You cringed at the sight of the messy room. 

“Yeah, of course. Sorry the place is such a mess. And help yourself to anything from the kitchen if you're hungry or thirsty. We have tea, too, if you'd like.”

Sam smiled as his gaze swept over your living room. “Alright, thanks. I'll go... gather the pack.”

You laughed softly, grateful for his ease. “Thanks. My meeting is until two, and I’ll have just a little bit of work to get through after that. Give me a shout if you need anything.”

With that, you headed back to your office, the door clicking gently behind you. As you settled into your chair and shuffled through your notes, the familiar sound of the kettle whistling from the kitchen reached your ears, accompanied by the rhythmic panting of the dogs as they sprawled in the living room. The noises were oddly comforting, grounding you in the moment.

Two minutes before your call was set to begin, the door to your office nudged open, creaking softly on its hinges. You glanced up, expecting Bella, but instead, there was Sam. He held a steaming mug of tea in his hand, hovering just inside the doorway, careful not to disrupt anything. His gaze darted to your screen, checking to see if you were on the call yet.

“Oh,” you said, pleasantly surprised. “Thank you so much. You really didn’t have to do that.”

Sam waved it off with an easy shrug, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Pfft, it’s nothing. Good luck with your call,” he said, holding up a thumbs-up.

You smiled, warmed by the gesture, and murmured your thanks again. He slipped out just as quietly as he’d entered, carefully shutting the door behind him.

The call, as expected, was long and dull— slides full of graphs, executives droning on about projections, and polite but strained small talk. Your attention kept drifting. Every so often, you’d hear faint noises from the next room— Sam’s voice, low and warm, talking to the dogs. You couldn’t make out the words, but the sound of his laughter reached you now and then, and it made you smile. You wished you were out there with him, soaking up his easy energy instead of slogging through a seemingly endless meeting.

When the call finally ended, and you’d rushed through whatever work you needed to do for the rest of the day, you exhaled a long sigh of relief and pushed yourself up from your chair, stretching your arms overhead. You made your way to the living room, the low hum of conversation growing clearer as you approached.

But as you rounded the corner, you stopped in your tracks.

The living room, which had been a mess of dog toys, cushions askew, and Bella’s fur tumbleweeds, was now spotless. The toys had been neatly piled in the corner, the couch cushions were fluffed and straightened, and even the coffee table had been wiped down. You glanced toward the kitchen and saw the dishes that had been piled in the sink were now washed and drying on the rack. The counters, which had been cluttered with remnants of your rushed breakfast, were clear.

Sam was crouched on the floor, tugging gently at a rope toy while Bella growled playfully. He looked up as your shadow crossed the room, his face lighting up with a grin. “Hey! Meeting over?”

Your heart squeezed at the sight of him so effortlessly at home. “Yeah,” you said, your voice soft. “Did you… clean up?”

He shrugged, standing and brushing his hands on his jeans. “Hope you don’t mind. I figured you had enough on your plate, and the dogs were napping.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned. “That’s… really sweet. Thank you.”

“It wasn’t trouble,” he insisted, his voice gentle but sincere. “I just wanted to make things easier for you.”

You hesitated, your heart stumbling over itself at his kindness. Before you could stop yourself, the words were tumbling out. “You know… you’ve already done so much, but if you don’t have plans, you could stay for dinner?”

Sam blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“You wouldn’t be,” you interrupted quickly, then added with a soft laugh, “Honestly, I’d love to make you dinner as a thank-you. You’ve helped so much today.” You glanced at your watch seeing it was just after three in the afternoon. “I know it’s still early but…” you shrugged.

His hesitation lingered for a moment, but then his lips curved into that easy smile. “If you’re sure, I’d like that. But only if I get to help.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“Come on,” he interrupted, already heading toward the kitchen. “You’re doing me a favor by letting me stay. Let me at least chop something.”

You sighed with a sarcastic roll of your eyes. “Alright then, if you insist.”

Sam smiled cheekily and jumped from his spot on the couch to follow you to the kitchen. You'd decided on a simple pasta dish, and the kitchen quickly came alive with activity as you both worked side by side. Sam had insisted on chopping vegetables, though his knife skills left much to be desired.

“You know,” he said, holding up a piece of onion that was noticeably uneven, “I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you took the cutting board from him. “Sure, if you were trying to invent abstract vegetable art.”

He laughed, leaning against the counter as he watched you take over. “I’ll have you know, my abstract art is highly sought after. Just wait till you see my tomato slicing.”

“God help me,” you teased, shaking your head.

The banter flowed easily between you as you moved around the kitchen. Sam stirred the sauce with dramatic flair, claiming he was a “culinary genius,” while you rolled your eyes and corrected his seasoning suggestions.

“You’re gonna regret doubting me when this sauce wins an award,” he said, tapping the spoon against the edge of the pot.

“Uh-huh,” you replied, turning to grab a pot for the pasta. “I’ll make sure to nominate it for Most Over-Seasoned Dish.”

“Rude,” he muttered, though he was grinning.

At one point, while you were boiling the pasta, Sam stepped behind you to grab plates from the cabinet. The brush of his arm against yours was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through you. You glanced at him, finding his focus entirely on the task at hand, as if he hadn’t noticed.

The domesticity of it all was surreal. You hadn’t had anyone in your kitchen like this in years— working together, laughing, existing in a space that felt so normal, yet so foreign to you.

Once the food was ready, you carried the plates while Sam grabbed the water glasses, and without much conversation, the two of you gravitated toward the couch. Somehow, eating there felt more natural than sitting stiffly at the dining table.

Sam handed you your plate before settling in beside you, leaving enough space between you to keep it comfortable. He looked around, scanning the small stack of DVDs you had near the TV. “Dinner and a movie,” he said, glancing at you with a grin. “You’ve officially spoiled me.”

You smiled softly, sitting down a little more cautiously than him, keeping a small gap between you. “And you can pick the movie, too.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Bold move, letting me choose. I’m warning you, I have excellent taste.”

“Let’s see how excellent it really is,” you teased, tucking your legs beneath you as you took a bite of your food.

Sam, however, froze after his first bite. His eyes widened, and he turned to you with an exaggerated look of awe. “Okay, what is this? Did you make a deal with the devil or something? This is incredible.”

You snorted, trying to hide your grin. “It’s just pasta, Sam.”

“No,” he insisted, pointing his fork at you dramatically. “This is art. It’s poetry. I didn’t even know food could taste like this.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re keeping me fed. It’s only fair I hype you up. But you better give me the recipe before I leave tonight.”

Your cheeks warmed at his playful sincerity, and you ducked your head to take another bite, hoping he wouldn’t notice. The banter eased something in you, though— like you weren’t trying too hard, like you could just be in the moment with him.

Eventually, Sam settled on a movie, popping it into the player before sinking back into the couch with his plate. “Okay, so this one’s a classic,” he said, gesturing toward the TV. “If you hate it, I’ll take the blame, but I promise, it’s amazing.”

“I’m holding you to that,” you said, though your tone was lighter than before.

The movie started, and for a while, the focus shifted to the screen. You found yourself occasionally glancing at him out of the corner of your eye— his easy posture, the way he laughed a little too loudly at the jokes, the way he balanced his plate effortlessly while gesturing with his fork as if narrating the scenes. God, he was such a dork. 

You seemed to gravitate towards one another as you settled into the couch, your dogs soon joining you as they lay on top of each other happily. 

The movie continued to drone on in the background. At first, you’d tried to stay engaged, nodding along at the occasional joke Sam laughed at, but gradually, your attention began to wander. Your fingers toyed with the hem of your sweater, and your plate of half-eaten pasta sat forgotten on the coffee table.

It had been such a nice evening so far— surprisingly so. Sam had been kind, thoughtful, even funny in a way that made you feel at ease. But now, in the quiet comfort of your living room, with him sitting just a little too close, the questions started creeping in.

Why had you asked him to stay?

It had felt right in the moment, natural even. But now, the edges of doubt started to fray that confidence. You barely knew him. Sure, you’d seen him at the park almost every morning, but how much did you really know about him? Enough to invite him into your home? Enough to cook dinner together like… like this was normal?

Your fingers fidgeted against your lap as your chest tightened.

Sure, he seemed nice. But doesn’t it always start like that?

The thought hit you like a cold wave. Your mind turned back to memories you tried so hard to keep buried— moments you didn’t want to revisit but couldn’t stop from surfacing. The times when smiles and kind words turned into raised voices, sharp insults, slammed doors. Or worse.

Your breathing quickened as flashes of those memories filled your mind: the weight of someone’s anger looming over you, the sting of being told you weren’t enough, the fear of not knowing what would set him off next. The boundaries you’d built so carefully around yourself now felt perilously close to crumbling, all because you’d let one man in.

Your stomach twisted. What if this was a mistake? What if he was just better at hiding it than the others?

You glanced at Sam from the corner of your eye. He looked completely at ease, focused on the movie, his body relaxed against the couch. But that didn’t calm the growing unease in your chest. He was sitting close— too close. And while you knew it wasn’t threatening, the proximity still made you acutely aware of your vulnerability.

Your mind raced. You shouldn’t have asked him to stay. You shouldn’t have sent him your address. You shouldn’t—

Bella shifted from her spot on the floor, her soft snuffling breaking your spiraling thoughts. She curled up closer to Sam’s feet, her tail thumping lazily against the floor. He reached down to give her a gentle scratch behind the ears without breaking his attention from the screen.

Something about that small gesture grounded you for a moment. Your breath caught, and you tried to focus on it— on Bella, on the way Sam’s touch was calm and unassuming. And on the way Bella trusted him. But the unease lingered, creeping in at the edges.

This was too much. Too fast.

Your chest felt tight, and you didn’t know how you were going to make it through the rest of the movie. You wanted to get up, to create some space, to pull yourself out of this situation— but you didn’t want to draw attention to your panic. You didn’t want him to notice.

Sam noticed, of course. He always did. “You okay?” he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes searching.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, trying to sound convincing. “Just… full. Food coma incoming.”

He chuckled, not pressing the issue. “Understandable. I’d be out cold too if I wasn’t so invested in your reaction to this movie.”

You gave him a small smile, but your nerves didn’t completely ease. You shifted slightly, creating just enough space between you to make yourself feel a little safer.

The movie carried on, and so did your thoughts. 

You were so lost in your thoughts that the sudden movement beside you felt like a thunderclap. Sam shifted forward on the couch to grab the remote, reaching toward the coffee table. The motion was quick, his hand brushing past yours as he grabbed the remote.

It was such a small movement, but with your mind racing the way it was, you knew anything could have set you off. You flinched, hard, instinctively pulling back as if you’d been burned. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, muscles tensing and your breath hitching audibly.

The air between you shifted immediately. Sam froze, his hand hovering midair as his eyes snapped to yours. His brow furrowed with concern.

“Woah,” he said softly, his voice calm but tinged with worry. “What was that? Are you okay?”

You tried to force a laugh, to wave it off, but the sound that came out was shaky and unconvincing. “Yeah, sorry. Just… startled me.”

Sam didn’t look convinced. He set the remote down gently on the table and turned his full attention to you, his hands now resting loosely on his knees. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said carefully, his tone deliberate and measured, as though he didn't want to push you further into discomfort.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, embarrassment mixing with the lingering panic in your chest. “It’s fine,” you mumbled, looking down at your lap. “I just… I don’t know. I guess I was in my own head.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. “Okay,” he said, leaving a pause for you to fill if you wanted to. When you didn’t, he added, “If I did something to make you uncomfortable, you can tell me. I’d never want to—” He stopped himself, his words trailing off, but the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable.

He sighed, and you listened awkwardly as the film continued to play in the background. 

The tension in your chest loosened just a fraction at his words. He wasn’t pressing, wasn’t pushing for answers. He was simply… there. Present. And the way he sat, his posture open and relaxed, made it feel like the ball was entirely in your court.

“It’s not you,” you finally admitted, your voice quiet but steady. “I just… sometimes I get a little jumpy. It’s stupid.”

Sam shook his head immediately. “It’s not stupid.” He hesitated, glancing briefly at Bella, who was now watching the two of you with curious eyes. When he looked back at you, his voice was gentle but firm. “Whatever made you feel like that, it’s not stupid. And if there’s ever something I’m doing that doesn’t feel okay, just tell me. I mean it.”

The knot in your stomach unraveled just a bit more at his words. You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything without your voice shaking. You bit your cheek as you felt your eyes fill to the brim with tears. God, this was so embarrassing. 

Sam's features softened impossibly further, his hand lifting to reach you, but it hesitated in the air. 

You quickly turned your head away, scratching the back of your head nervously as you blinked furiously, trying to will away your tears. “I’m sorry, I don’t—” You shook your head, wiping a hand over your face before you reluctantly faced Sam again. “I don’t know what's gotten into me.” 

You did, but Sam didn’t need to know that. You pulled all your energy together to force the tears at bay, and returned your gaze to Sam. 

Sam shifted slightly on the couch, his expression caught somewhere between concern and uncertainty. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice careful like he was walking a tightrope. “I don’t want to overstep or make you uncomfortable, but if there’s anything I can do... or if you just want me to shut up and leave you alone, I can do that too.”

You shook your head quickly, your breath hitching as you fought back the lump in your throat. “No, it’s not you,” you repeated, your voice strained. “I just... I’m a mess right now. You don't need to do anything.”

Sam tilted his head, studying you for a moment before he spoke. “I want to, though. Because I care,” he said simply, shrugging like it was the most natural thing in the world. His gaze flicked over your closed-off body language, the way your arms were wrapped tightly around yourself, and you could see the hesitation in him. He didn’t want to push.

He sighed softly, glancing down at Rose and Fox, who were curled up near his feet. “Maybe I should get going,” he said carefully, testing the waters. “It’s late anyway, and these two need their beauty sleep.” He smiled faintly, gesturing toward his dogs, but his eyes stayed on you, gauging your reaction.

Your heart twisted at his words, and you bit your lip instinctively, and your voice came out quiet and unsure. “I’m sorry.”

Sam hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line before he offered you a small, understanding smile. “No, it’s alright,” he said gently. “I can see you need some time to yourself. And that’s okay. I get it.” His tone was so soft, so genuine, that it made your chest ache.

You couldn’t bring yourself to argue. You just nodded, your voice caught somewhere in your throat as you stood to walk him to the door. Bella followed silently at your side, her usual energy replaced with a quiet understanding of the tension in the room.

Sam gathered Rose and Fox, leashing them up before turning back to you. “Thank you for tonight,” he said, his voice warm despite the weight in the air. “Dinner was amazing. And... I hope you’ll text me if you need anything, alright?”

You nodded again, barely able to meet his eyes. “Thanks, Sam. I will.”

With that, he gave you a faint smile, one last glance that lingered a second too long before he opened the door and stepped out into the night. As soon as the door clicked shut, you let out a shaky breath, your legs giving out as you slid down the wall, burying your face in your hands.

The tears came fast and heavy, spilling over like a dam had finally broken inside you. It felt like you cried for hours, each sob pulling from a deep well of pain and frustration you’d kept buried for far too long. You hated this— hated the way your trauma had its claws in every part of your life, ruining even the good things you tried so desperately to hold onto. You wanted to be normal, to feel normal. But instead, you felt broken, incapable of letting anyone in without breaking apart.

Your phone buzzed on the floor beside you, and you wiped at your tear-streaked face as you reached for it, your vision blurry as you unlocked the screen.

It was Sam. “Thank you for dinner tonight. I had a great time. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

The knot in your chest tightened at his words. Even now, he was worried about you, trying to make sure you were okay when he didn’t have to. You stared at the message for a long moment, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as fresh tears blurred your vision.

🐾

The next morning, sunlight streamed through your curtains, far brighter than it should have been. You groaned, sitting up in bed as Bella stretched out beside you, her tail thumping against the blankets. Reaching for your phone, you squinted at the time and felt a pang of guilt hit your chest.

It was late. Too late. You’d missed the park. Again.

“Bella,” you murmured, the sound more like a frustrated groan than anything, rubbing your face as the weight of your restless night settled on your shoulders. Her ears perked up at her name, and she let out a soft, hopeful bark, her eyes darting to the door. She didn’t understand why you hadn’t gotten up earlier, why your routine had been thrown off, but she still looked at you like she trusted you to make it right.

Your thoughts immediately flicked to Sam. He’d probably been at the park with Rose and Fox, glancing toward the entrance like he always did. Waiting. And you hadn’t shown up. Guilt twisted in your chest, but it wasn’t just about missing the park. It was the reason you’d overslept.

The dream— no, the memory— had dragged you back into the dark. It had been so vivid, so real. His voice still echoed in your mind, sharp and cutting, a hand falling down to strike you. It wasn’t the worst memory you’d ever had, but it reminded you of everything. The fear. The helplessness. The suffocating feeling of never being safe, no matter what you did.

And then there was last night— flinching at Sam. The look on his face when you pulled away. The ache in your chest knowing it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with what had been done to you.

You sighed, staring at Bella as she sat at your feet, her tail wagging cautiously, as though trying to coax you into feeling better.

“I know, girl,” you whispered, reaching down to scratch behind her ears. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

But tomorrow wasn’t really what weighed on you. It was the thought of Sam. The thought of how kind and patient he’d been. And the fear that you’d ruined whatever fragile thing was starting to grow between you two.

You weren’t going to let it happen again.

Your past— the yelling, the broken glass, the bruises you’d hidden under long sleeves— had taken so much from you already. But it wasn’t going to take this. It wasn’t going to take Sam. You refused to let those men, those memories, ruin something good. You weren't going to let them continue to control you. 

As you made your way to the kitchen, Bella trailing at your heels, you resolved to text him. To explain, even if it felt awkward or difficult. You couldn’t let the silence between you grow. But before you could, your phone buzzed on the counter. Picking it up, you saw Sam’s name lighting up the screen, and your heart gave an involuntary jolt.

The text read: “Hey, just wanted to check in. Missed you guys at the park this morning. Everything okay?”

You stared at the message for a long moment before typing out a reply. “Hey, yeah, I’m okay. Just overslept, sorry.”

His reply came almost instantly: “Not a worry :) I hope you got some rest at least. The girls missed Bella.”

You smiled softly, though a flicker of nerves still lingered before recycling. “I did, thanks.” 

Before you could overthink it, another message popped up: “I was thinking, I’ve been working on this recipe, and I might need some help. You know, use your culinary skills and all. Also could use someone to taste-test it and tell me if it’s edible.”

You blinked at the screen, reading it twice. Your heart gave a small flutter, but you couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or something softer.

Another message popped up: “No pressure, though. If you’re busy or not feeling it, totally fine. Just thought it might be nice.”

He was careful. You could tell he was trying not to push after last night, and the effort didn’t go unnoticed. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. You stared at the message, torn. Dinner. At his place. Alone. The idea felt heavy, but not because of Sam— because of you. Still, you didn’t want to let fear win again. And besides, the way he framed it felt low stakes, almost casual.

Before you could overthink it, another message arrived: “Also, Rose has been stealing things off the counter lately, and I could really use some advice before she eats something she shouldn’t.”

That made you smile, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as Bella nudged your leg. 

“Okay”, you finally typed. “But I’m not an expert, so no promises about Rose.”

The reply came almost instantly: “You’ll do better than me. Friday night? Around 7?”

“Yeah, that works,” you wrote, your pulse quickening.

Sam followed up quickly: “Great. If you change your mind, don’t feel bad, just let me know.”

“I’ll be there,” you replied, before you could talk yourself out of it.

His final message was simple, but it made you smile again: “Looking forward to seeing you. And Bella too, of course. She’s my secret weapon to keep Rose and Fox in line.”

You set the phone down, exhaling slowly. Bella wagged her tail, watching you like she knew something important had just happened.

“I guess we’re going to Sam’s on Friday,” you murmured to her.

Bella’s tail thumped harder, and you reached down to scratch behind her ears. Nerves churned in your stomach, but there was something else there too. Something steadier. A kind of strength in the fact that you knew you were growing. You were leaving that shit behind you. 

Though, the doubts were still there, lingering just beneath the surface like they always were. As you stared at Sam’s text, you tried to push them down. You wanted to move on. You wanted to reclaim the part of your life that felt stolen. Dinner with Sam was a step forward. It wasn’t a declaration of trust or a promise to let your guard down completely, but it was something. Besides, Sam had never given you a reason to fear him. If anything, he’d gone out of his way to make you feel safe. You reminded yourself of his soft patience, his quick smile, the way he’d thanked you for dinner even after you’d practically fallen apart the night before. If anyone deserved a little faith, it was him.

The next few mornings at the park felt like an unspoken agreement to ease the tension. Sam didn’t mention your flinch or your teary goodbye. He treated you just the same as always— grinning as you approached, offering Bella a warm hello, and making little jokes as the dogs ran wild. It was comforting in a way, like he knew you needed the space to find your footing again.

By the time the evening of the dinner rolled around, you’d talked yourself into believing this was a good thing. A normal thing. Still, nerves clawed at your stomach as you approached Sam’s place. Bella trotted at your side, oblivious to your inner turmoil, but her calm presence grounded you just enough to knock on the door.

Sam answered almost immediately, his face lighting up when he saw you. “Hey, you made it,” he said warmly, stepping aside to let you in.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice a little quieter than you wanted it to be. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Sam offered a small shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Of course. And thanks for bringing Bella. The girls will be happy to see her.” 

As you stepped inside, you glanced around nervously. His house was cozy, filled with warm light and signs of life— a guitar leaning against the wall, a piano tucked into the far corner and a few books stacked on the coffee table, and a faint smell of something savory coming from the kitchen.

“You can let her off the leash if you want,” Sam said, gesturing toward Bella, who was already sniffing around curiously. “The girls are in the backyard. She can join them whenever.”

“Okay,” you said, unclipping her leash. Bella wagged her tail, giving you a reassuring glance before trotting off to explore.

“Dinner’s going to take a little while,” Sam said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Hope you’re ready to help, because I’m not exactly known for my cooking skills.”

You let out a nervous laugh, following him toward the kitchen. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably,” he teased, opening the fridge to pull out some ingredients. “Honestly, I need you to save me here. If you leave me to it, we’re eating charred chicken and plain rice.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you reached for a cutting board. “Good thing I’m here, then.”

“Exactly,” he said, smirking as he handed you a knife. “I knew you’d make this work.”

The lightness of his tone started to ease the tension in your chest. As you chopped vegetables and Sam worked beside you— throwing in exaggerated instructions and grinning every time he “consulted” you— it felt easy. Comfortable, even. You found yourself laughing more than you thought you would, and when Sam tasted the sauce you made and dramatically declared it “life-changing,” you couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, shaking your head.

“Ridiculously lucky to have you helping me,” he shot back, his grin boyish and teasing. You looked back at the chopping board with a hint of a blush. 

As the minutes ticked by, it became painfully clear that Sam and the sauce were not meant to be. He stirred it with all the confidence of a man who thought he knew what he was doing, but the sizzling sounds and occasional splatters told a very different story.

“Sam,” you said slowly, watching as he aggressively poked at the bubbling liquid with a wooden spoon, “what exactly are you doing?”

He glanced at you, utterly unbothered by the chaos he was creating. “Improvising,” he replied with a grin, giving the sauce an extra stir that sent a small splash onto the counter.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “It looks more like you’re waging war on it.”

“I’m adding character,” he said, feigning offense as he swirled the spoon around dramatically. “This is what chefs do— they experiment.”

“Chefs don’t usually burn the sauce, though,” you teased, leaning over to sniff the air. “Seriously, is that… smoke?”

He froze, his grin faltering as he gave the pot a closer look. “Okay, maybe it’s a little toasted. That’s a flavor profile, right?”

“Not when it smells like a campfire,” you shot back, stepping in to gently nudge him aside. “Alright, sauce master, let’s trade. I’ll handle this before it becomes a kitchen emergency.”

Sam relinquished the spoon with a mock pout, stepping back to let you take over. “Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “But only because I don’t want to deprive you of the joy of saving dinner.”

“Oh, how selfless of you,” you replied dryly, shooting him a playful glare before turning your attention to salvaging the sauce.

From behind you, Sam muttered something about being unappreciated, but when you glanced over your shoulder, you caught him grinning as he began chopping vegetables with exaggerated precision, clearly unbothered by his failed attempt at culinary greatness.

“You know,” he said, watching you expertly stir the sauce, “I think this is your master plan—let me screw something up so you can come in and save the day.”

“Obviously,” you quipped, shaking your head. “I mean, what better way to assert dominance in the kitchen than by rescuing dinner from your reckless hands?”

As you got started on stirring the sauce, Sam opened a cabinet and frowned. “Forgot the thyme. Again. Be right back— got some in the garden.”

You blinked, surprised. “You have a garden?”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” he shot back with a grin, grabbing the back door handle. “I’m full of surprises.”

You snorted. “What’s next? A compost bin?”

“Mock me all you want,” he called over his shoulder as he stepped outside. “But when this thyme makes you cry over how good this sauce tastes, you’ll owe me an apology!”

As Sam slipped out the back door to grab herbs from his garden, the house fell silent, save for the faint shuffle of the dog's paws as they followed him to the window, tails wagging lazily. You stood in the kitchen, absently wiping your palms on a tea towel. It was strange how quiet everything felt without Sam’s warm, easy presence nearby.

You glanced at the knife you’d been using earlier, resting precariously close to the edge of the counter. Muttering under your breath, you reached out to adjust it. As you stretched to grab the handle, your wrist brushed the corner of a wine glass that had been drying by the side of the sink.

Time seemed to slow as the glass tipped, wobbling once before gravity claimed it. It slipped from the counter and plummeted to the floor, shattering with a deafening crash.

The sound tore through the stillness like a gunshot. Instantly, your chest tightened, your breath catching as your heart began to race. It was so loud. So, so loud. And there was glass everywhere. Shit, shit, shit, shit. The sharp, crystalline sound echoed in your ears, and your mind reeled.

For a moment, you froze, staring at the shards scattered across the floor, gleaming like jagged little stars. Your vision blurred, and the kitchen around you seemed to waver, the walls closing in as a familiar, suffocating sense of dread washed over you.

The world around you dissolved into a haze. The glass wasn’t just glass anymore— it was every slammed door, every smashed object that had signaled danger in the past. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out any rational thoughts. Your hands shook as you instinctively dropped to your knees, fumbling for the larger shards, desperate to clean it up before Sam came back inside.

“Oh God, oh God,” you whispered frantically, your voice trembling. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh God.”

The words tumbled out in a panicked, incoherent mess as your hands worked faster, clutching at the broken pieces, heedless of the sharp edges biting into your fingertips. The sting barely registered; all you could think about was fixing it, making it right, undoing the mistake.

Bella barked once, and you wondered briefly if it was at Sam, but you hardly noticed. Your breathing grew shallow and uneven, your chest heaving as you fought to keep the panic at bay.

The back door swung open with a creak, and Sam’s voice called out, worriedly, “Hey, what was that? Are you okay?”

He stepped inside, his gaze falling to the scene before him. You were kneeling on the floor, your shoulders hunched and trembling, surrounded by a sea of broken glass.

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” he said quickly, his voice softening as he set the herbs on the counter. “What happened? Are you okay?”

You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t do anything but mumble a frantic stream of apologies. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to— I’ll fix it, I’ll clean it up, I promise. I’ll—”

“Hey,” Sam interrupted gently, crouching down a safe distance away. His tone was calm, careful, like he was trying not to spook a skittish animal. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Just stop for a second, okay? You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

You shook your head, your hands still trembling as you tried to pick up another shard. “I have to clean it up. I— I can’t leave it like this. I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop,” Sam said more firmly this time, his hand hovering near yours but not touching. “Please. Just stop.”

His voice cut through the haze, grounding you for a moment. Your hands faltered, falling still as you finally looked up at him. His face was open, his brow furrowed with concern. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t upset.

“Let me handle it,” he said softly, holding your gaze. “You don’t have to do this. Just… take a breath for me, okay?”

You shook your head, fresh tears spilling over. “I ruined everything—”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said, cutting you off again. “Hey, listen to me. It’s fine. Really. I don’t care about the glass. I care about you.”

His words hit you like a lifeline, cutting through the spiral of panic just enough for you to take a shaky breath.

You bit your lip, wiping at your face as you tried to pull yourself together. “I’m sorry,” you whispered again.

“Don’t be,” he said simply, without a hint of frustration or condescension. “It’s okay.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you nodded, your chest heaving as you tried to follow his instructions. Your hands hovered over the shards for a moment longer before you finally let the glass clatter to the floor, your hands falling limply into your lap.

“That’s it,” Sam murmured, his voice low and soothing. He crouched in front of you, his hands hovering just over yours, hesitant. “Can I—?” he started to ask, and when you gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, he gently wrapped his fingers over your hand. His touch was careful, deliberate, as if he knew the wrong move might send you spiraling further.

His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, his touch warm and grounding. “Okay,” he said softly, his eyes fixed on yours, kind and steady. “Let’s just breathe together. You’re safe. Right here, you’re safe.”

You tried to focus on his words, but your chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, your lungs refusing to fill properly. Your breaths came quick and shallow, each one catching like it wasn’t enough.

“In through your nose,” Sam coaxed, his voice a quiet anchor in the chaos. He exaggerated the motion, inhaling deeply, slow and steady, his shoulders rising just enough for you to notice. “Like this. Just follow me.”

You tried, your breaths hitching at first, but he stayed with you. His eyes didn’t leave yours— not for a second. They weren’t impatient or searching for the right thing to say. They were just… there, holding you in place like a tether.

“That’s it,” he encouraged when you managed even a fraction of a steady inhale. “Now out through your mouth. Slow, like this,” he demonstrated again, his exhale controlled and quiet, and you mirrored it as best you could.

Your hands trembled under his, and he squeezed them gently, his thumbs never stopping their slow, soothing rhythm. “You’re okay,” he said, his tone so soft, so certain, it almost broke something inside you.

Your chest still felt tight, but the air was coming a little easier now, your breaths slowing in uneven increments. Your vision, blurry from tears and panic, began to clear, and you could see the worry etched into his face, the way his brow furrowed just slightly.

“You’re doing so good,” he said, his voice steady, never wavering. “Just keep going. One breath at a time.”

You nodded weakly, tears spilling over despite your efforts to keep them at bay. A shaky sob broke free, and you quickly turned your head, ashamed, but Sam’s grip on your hands tightened, grounding you.

“Hey,” he said softly, pulling your gaze back to him. “It’s okay. You don’t have to hide. Not from me.”

His words hit like a gentle wave, washing over the raw edges of your panic. You blinked rapidly, trying to pull yourself together, but his unwavering presence made it harder to keep the walls up.

“I’m sorry,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t,” he said immediately, his tone firm but gentle. “You don’t have to be sorry for anything. I promise.”

His words wrapped around you like a safety net, and though the panic hadn’t completely left, it was no longer suffocating. Slowly, your breathing evened out, the shaking in your hands subsiding under the warmth of his.

Sam stayed there, crouched in front of you, never rushing, never looking away. His kind eyes softened further when you finally met them fully, your body still trembling slightly but no longer on the edge of breaking apart.

“There you are,” he said quietly, a small, relieved smile pulling at his lips.

Sam waited until he was sure you wouldn’t move before he stood, grabbing the broom and dustpan from a nearby corner. As he swept up the broken glass, he spoke gently, his tone casual but soothing. “I broke my favorite coffee mug last week. Sent coffee everywhere. It was a disaster.”

His attempt to lighten the mood made something stir in your chest— something that felt like gratitude, even if it was buried under layers of shame and panic.

Once the glass was gone and the floor was safe again, Sam turned back to you. “C’mon,” he said softly, holding out a hand to help you up. “Let’s sit down for a minute, yeah?”

You stared at the hand extended toward you for a few long beats, your eyes fixed on his fingers as if they were foreign objects. It wasn’t just a hand— it was trust, it was care, it was safety, and yet all you could feel in that moment was a deep, gnawing hesitation. Your chest still felt tight, your heart racing as echoes of past moments flooded your mind.

The trembling in your hands betrayed you, but Sam didn’t push. He didn’t frown or look impatient. His hand remained steady, palm open, an unspoken reassurance that the choice was entirely yours.

His voice was soft, cutting through the storm in your head like a lifeline. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

That was all it took for something to shift. You blinked, the edges of your vision clearing as you finally looked up at him. His expression wasn’t pitying, wasn’t concerned in a way that made you feel small— it was just patient. Steady. Kind.

Your fingers twitched at your sides before you finally reached out, your hand trembling as it found his. His grip was gentle but firm, warm in a way that made your chest ache with a mix of relief and vulnerability. He didn’t pull you up too quickly or make a big deal of it. He just guided you to your feet, his other hand hovering nearby as if ready to catch you should you falter.

“There you go,” he said quietly, his tone light yet soothing, as if you’d just accomplished something monumental. And, in a way, you had.

Your legs felt shaky as you stood, and when Sam gently guided you to the couch, you didn’t resist. Hearing the commotion, Bella, Rose and Fox had joined you both, sniffing carefully at you, no doubt smelling the anxiety in the air. 

Sam guided you gently to the couch, his hand never leaving yours until you were seated. The soft cushions welcomed you, but your body remained stiff, your shoulders drawn tight as though bracing for impact. He sat beside you, his eyes scanning your face carefully. His hands rested on his knees, open and unassuming, making no move to invade your space further.

“I didn’t mean to freak out like that,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Sam's movements were slow and deliberate as he nodded. “I know. But something tells me this wasn’t just about the wine glass.” He hesitated, his gaze softening as he shifted to sit beside you on the couch, leaving a comfortable distance between you. “Do you want to talk about it? If you don’t, that’s okay. But if you do… I’m here. No judgment.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “It’s a long story,” you said quietly, your words a little rushed, almost as though you were trying to dismiss the idea altogether. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“It matters,” Sam countered gently. “You matter. But I won’t push you. We can just sit here if that’s what you need.”

His words felt like an anchor in a storm. He wasn’t pressuring you, wasn’t prying— he was just there, a steady presence that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could let some of the weight go. You drew in a shaky breath, staring down at your hands as the words started to form in your throat.

“It’s not pretty,” you warned, your voice trembling. “It’s… it’s a lot.”

Sam nodded, his expression unwavering. “I can handle a lot.”

You hesitated, the weight of Sam’s steady, concerned gaze almost too much to bear. You’d never been good at this— letting someone in, being vulnerable. But here he was, sitting so close you could feel his warmth, his eyes searching yours like he genuinely wanted to understand. It felt impossible to explain everything, but you knew if you didn’t at least try, the moment would pass, and the weight you carried would stay right where it always had— on your shoulders alone.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the tremor in your voice. “It’s… it’s not an easy thing to talk about,” you began, staring down at your hands, which were clenched tightly in your lap. “I’ve never really told anyone before.”

Sam leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. His voice was gentle but firm. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready. But if you want to, I’m here. I want to listen.”

The sincerity in his words made your throat tighten. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to continue. “I’ve… been in bad relationships. Really bad ones.” Your voice wavered, and you paused, your fingers digging into your palms as if the pressure could keep you grounded.

Sam didn’t say anything, but you felt the shift in his posture, the subtle way he straightened like he was bracing himself for whatever you were about to say.

“It started off so small,” you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Little things, you know? Like comments about how I dressed, or what I did. Controlling stuff. But it didn’t stay that way. It got worse— way worse.”

You glanced up at him briefly, and the look on his face made your stomach twist. His brows were furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes… God, his eyes were filled with something you couldn’t quite place. Anger? Sadness? Maybe both.

“Soon it wasn’t just words,” you continued, your voice barely audible now. “There were… fights. Things thrown at me. And sometimes it wasn’t just things— sometimes it was…” You trailed off, your throat tightening painfully as the memories threatened to overwhelm you.

Sam’s jaw tightened, and his hands flexed where they rested on his knees, but he didn’t interrupt.

“They’d hurt me,” you finally forced out, the words feeling sharp and jagged in your throat. “Physically. Emotionally. In ways I didn’t even realize until it was too late. And I let it happen because… because I thought it was normal. Or that it would stop if I was better.”

Sams broke your train of thoughts, his voice slightly croaky. “‘They’?” He swallowed. 

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, and you wiped it away quickly, angry at yourself for falling apart like this. “It happened twice. Got away from one abuser just to get into a relationship with another.” You chuckled humorlessly, “I was young, and stupid.” There was a long beat of silence, your uneven breaths and Sam's anchoring, steady ones the only sound in the room. “Even now, I… I can’t stop expecting someone to yell, or grab me, or…” You shook your head, unable to finish the sentence.

Sam exhaled softly, the sound filled with a quiet frustration that wasn’t aimed at you. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t imagine… I can’t even begin to imagine what that was like for you.”

You shrugged, your shoulders hunched. “I got out. That’s all that matters, right? I should just be over it by now.”

“No,” Sam said firmly, his tone so sudden and certain that it startled you. You looked up at him, surprised by the intensity in his expression. “That’s not how it works. What they did to you— it doesn’t just go away. And it’s not your fault that it doesn’t. None of it was your fault.”

His words hit you like a physical blow, and before you realized what you were doing, you leaned into him, your body tilting toward his as if seeking comfort. You rested your head on his slim shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t pull back or hesitate, just stayed perfectly still, letting you make the decision to close the distance.

“I hate how much power they still have over me,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I hate that I can’t even break a stupid glass without falling apart.”

Sam shook his head, his hand lifting hesitantly before settling lightly on your arm. His touch was warm and steady, grounding you in a way you didn’t expect. “You’re not falling apart,” he said softly. “You’re still here. So strong, and brave, for trusting me.”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “It doesn’t feel like strength. It feels like I’m barely holding on most days.”

Sam’s grip on your arm tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that was both comforting and careful. “Help me ease the burden? Maybe you are holding on. But I can help you carry some of your weight.”

You blinked back tears, the warmth of his touch and the sincerity in his voice making it harder to keep your defenses up. “Why are you so nice to me?”

He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a way that softened his entire face. “Because I care about you. And I hate that anyone ever made you feel like you weren’t worth caring about.”

His words shattered something inside you, and before you could stop yourself, you let out a soft, broken sob. Sam’s hand moved to your back, his palm resting there lightly.

“And,” he added cautiously, his voice quiet, “I really, really like you.”

You lifted your head to stare at him, the words hanging in the air like they’d been suspended just for you. A part of you wanted to shy away, to laugh it off, to hide behind that defense you’d built so carefully. But his eyes— those warm, steady eyes— kept you anchored. He wasn’t taking the words back. He wasn’t looking away.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost cautious. His hand moved up your arm in a featherlight touch. “Don’t feel like you have to say anything,” he murmured, his thumb brushing just slightly against your sleeve. “And I’m sorry if… if that wasn’t the right time. I just—” He exhaled, his lips twitching in a nervous half-smile. “I just want to be here for you.”

You dropped your gaze to your hands, fidgeting with your fingers, trying to steady the racing in your chest. When you glanced back up, your eyes moved over him with quiet curiosity, as if seeing him for the first time. The faint scruff lining his jaw, the soft mustache that twitched just slightly when he breathed, the way his brows dipped, like he was bracing himself for you to pull away. And those eyes. God, those eyes.

“Sam,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. Your hand moved almost without thought, finding the solid warmth of his forearm.

His gaze flicked down to where your fingers rested before returning to yours, his brows lifting just slightly. “Yeah?” His voice was soft, but there was something raw in it, something that made your chest ache.

You leaned in a fraction, testing the space between you. Your heart hammered, but you couldn’t stop yourself. “Kiss me, please,” you murmured. The words felt foreign but right, trembling as they left your lips.

His breath caught. You could see it, feel it. His hand shifted slightly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate, like he was giving you every chance to back away.

You nodded, your body moving closer, instinct overriding fear. “Yes.”

Sam exhaled, his lips parting slightly as he leaned in, closing the distance. The first press of his lips against yours was gentle, impossibly tender, like he was holding back everything he wanted to give. His hand moved to your face, his fingers warm and steady as they cradled your jaw, grounding you.

The kiss deepened just slightly, enough to make your breath hitch, enough to remind you of just how good it felt to do this, with someone you liked— someone that made you feel safe. His other hand slipped down to yours, fingers intertwining in a way that made you feel tethered, present. His thumb brushed softly over your skin.

When he pulled back, it was slow, deliberate, his forehead resting against yours like he couldn’t bring himself to let you go just yet. His breathing was steady, calming, and you let yourself match it, your chest rising and falling in sync with his.

“I’ll make sure you feel safe,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand lingered at your jaw, his thumb brushing a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. “Every day, if you let me.”

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes closing as the weight of his words settled over you. They weren’t just pretty promises; you could feel the truth in them, in him. Slowly, you opened your eyes and nodded, your lips curving into the smallest, most vulnerable smile.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed him. Or, at the very least, you wanted to try. Maybe this could work. 

🐾

Tag List - @fleetingjake @allof--mylove @hailtheaeon

Complete the google form here to be added to my permanent taglist for any future one shots!

[silverbeamcreations]

When Duty Summons

A DP x DC fanfic by Silverbeam creations aka lunarmushroom on AO3

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

AUTHOR NOTE:

I'm new to tumblr and new to fanfic writing styles, so comments, hearts, theories, ideas etc, are helpful in my motivation to write more, and I super appreciate it. Any tips for how tumblr works and any fandom and writing tips are welcome as well. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy!

‐----------------------

Part 4

"peek a booooo?" murmered Danny quietly as he popped his head through another wall. DAnnys fingers tapped along the wall as he gave the room a look around. empty rusted barrels lay along one wall amidst the dust, trash, and other refuse of the abandoned building. At the obvious lack of life signs danny continued grumbling. 15 minutes into chasing down the summoning spell, all signs had vanished. Once gone he had spent the next couple hours searching the estimated area he guessed was likely a good start and then had expaneded his earch.

score 3 crack heads, 1 elderly homeless man that must have been near deaths door as he seems to sense him even though invisible along with a half dozen rats and vermin and he had come up with squat. Hed taken a break to refocus his approach and refuel. While he made a quick pb and j...a quintiple layer monstrosity for max ghost energy, he couldn't shake the flash of ghost energy he felt before the signal had dissapeared. Such an intense rage, lined with pain and perhaps deep within it a coal of fear, sparking the flames of rage. It nagged at him picking at his core.

He reached over, rolling on his bed to fumble for his phone, sandwich half eaten as he opened a familiar group chat.

Dan da dan man: sooooo little fun fact for today. You know those summoning pings Ive been getting all week? Before they were like nudges but this morning seems like they managed to get the right combo buttons as it almost pulled me in, but I have that important english paper and aint nobody got time for that. So I just said like...No? and it kinda worked except .....

Sam a Lamb sauce: Danny. WHAT. DID. YOU. DO?

Tuck Nugget: Do I need to make popcorn or prep the guns?

Sama a Lamb sauce: You don't have any guns after the last ditch and run Tucker.

Tuck Nugget: Hey baby no one can dis-ARM me of these sexies...

(Attached photo of a blurry bicep)

Dan da dan man: lol Nice one Tuck

Sam a Lamb sauce: Tucker I swear at the ancients if you start another pun war I will mail you some of my new snap dragon flowers to eat all your socks.

Tuck Nugget: Jokes on you, I gave up socks for scandalating ankles in crocs!

Sam a Lamb Sauce: Ignoring that...Danny please continue telling us what trouble you have gotten into now?

Da dan dan man: yeah that... well when I managed to slap the summons away it kinda latched onto another ghost instead?

Tuck nugget: Daaaaannnnnyyyyyy noooo....

Sam a Lamb Sauce: Can we just ignore it please?

Dan da dan man: Its just that, when I chased after it, there was this like cry? It keeps nagging at my core... It was full of intense anger but I think at the base it was covering fear and well...

Sam a lamb sauce: Your obsessions not gonna let that one go...alright what can we do to help?

Tuck Nugget: Once a hero always a hero.

Dan da dan man: well the thing is the signal disapeared and I searched like sooo many blocks full of buildings and while im gonna go back out and search more, I thought a little reearch of the area might speed things up.

Sama a lamb sauce: Deep dive into gotham cults and wacko groups. What fun.

Tuck Nugget: Im sure the Local night bats have quite the library of loony death summoning groups to purview...

Sam a Lamb Sauce: oh no you cannot go hacking the batman computer again. I do not want them on our radar.

Dan da dan man: But... they prbably have the most up to date info then what the general web would have. Im sure it will be fine,Tuckers got 1337 skillz.

Tuck nugger: (thumbs up <3 <3 <3 emoji)

Sam a Lamb Sauce: famous last words.

Dan da dan man: Im gonna head out again see if I can comb a few more blocks.

Tuck nugget: RIP your english grade

Sam a Lamb Sauce: Let's hope it's just his english this time.

[papayatori]

Fall away (p2)

Inumaki Toge x fem!reader

The night was full of loud, uninterrupted visions of humanoid creatures. Screams that weren’t my own filled my ears endlessly. I could feel the fear radiating from my bones, from my core. My entire body shook relentlessly, as if seizing without content. I knew it wasn’t real, I had felt this and seen these things before, but it all felt new and different, stronger and more powerful.

In a cold sweat, I awoke with a start, a soft knock echoing on the door. Terror had subsided for the most part, remaining purely for its own enjoyment and thrill. Shaking, I stood to open the door.

I was met with crazy brown eyes staring back at me. Itadori’s piercing gaze threw off my mental balance just enough to bring the fear I had tucked away boiling back over.

“I felt some serious energy coming from down here, I was worried something had come after you.” He invited himself in, giving me no other warning. He studied the room thoroughly, the gaze that had just held mine scanned the room intently to make sure it was safe for me to reside.

“Are you alright, y/l/n?” He sent me a confused but worried look. I nodded.

“I’m alright, sorry to startle you, Itadori.” He ran his hands through his pink hair.

“I could’ve sworn I felt something in here.” He mumbled to himself. “Didn’t you feel anything?” I only shrugged.

“I think I was having another nightmare.” I answered, hoping to give him some sort of relief.

“Do you mind me asking of what?” He had sat on my bed now, watching me as I slowly shut the door.

“I’m assuming of those cursed spirits Satoru had explained to me earlier. I’m not too sure what was happening if I’m being honest.” I shoved my hand behind my neck, rubbing it anxiously as if it would fix the awkward situation I had been forced into. He snapped his fingers in one swift motion, smiling slightly as his eyes lit up. He patted a spat next to him, beckoning me to sit. Reluctantly I did so, hoping this didn’t look as terrible to an outsider as it felt.

“That’s probably what I felt. You did seem terrified when I opened the door. I’m sorry if I made it worse.” He sheepishly grinned.

“You didn’t, I can promise that.” He smiled at me further before continuing.

“It feels different being taken from your home and forced into an environment you aren’t used to. It probably triggered your cursed energy without you realizing it.” I was suddenly aware of the cold air around me, the sweat clinging to my body as the boy next to me continued to speak. He eyed me curiously.

“You speak as if you know from experience.” He laughed lightly, playing with his hands.

“You’d be correct. I’m still new to a lot of this stuff, but I don’t think I’d trade it for the world.” His eyes had become glossy, his body stiff.

“How’d you get here, Itadori?” I asked, hearing the silence ring in my ears afterwards. He took a deep breath before continuing.

“I ate a finger.” I gasped, forgetting to let out my breath after. “It’s not as terrible as it sounds, believe me.”

“It sounds pretty terrible.” I said, giving him a deadpanned look.

“After my grandpa died, I had an incident with a school club. It was alright once I got here, but I remember the helpless feeling I got when I shut my eyes every night. Sometimes even the strongest people can’t hold back their own haunting memories.” The first genuine smile Itadori had ever given me radiated from his features. I felt my heart crack at his words.

“I’m sorry, Itadori.” I said, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. He looked surprised I had done so, his iris’s growing slightly as he smiled down at me.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. You’re going through a similar situation. If anything, I should be comforting you.” He squeezed my hand back, causing me to smile as he did so. “Your parents really never mentioned anything about jujutsu sorcery? How’d they know to send you here and not to the Tokyo institution?”

My brain rattled at his question. My eyes scanning a nonexistent folder of my recollections on the subject.

“Now that you mention it, I think my parents used to talk about it when I was younger.”

I remembered my parents leaving me a lot when I was young, equipped with weapons of all sorts. I don’t remember any conversations well enough to tell Itadori about them specifically, but I told him of these faint memories. I tore through my past, attempting to find anything that could be of significance. I remembered talk of danger towards others in Tokyo and other cities alike, small towns that I hardly recognized the name of.

“I think your parents were sorcerers like us, y/n.” I believed him, but it was hard to come to terms with.

“I’m just not sure I’m ready to put two and two together, Yuji.” He nodded in understanding, pulling his hand from mine after squeezing it one last reassuring time.

“I think you should sleep on it, or at least try your best to. I know how difficult things like this can be to process.”

Yuji waved before exiting my room, leaving me in my same seated position on a bed that felt foreign to me. I felt a tear fall from my eye, wiping it just as fast as I let it slip free. Crying about it would get me nowhere, and Yuji had a point, even the strongest of people couldn’t face their own past within their dreams.

Before I knew it, the alarm on my nightstand was ringing and the day was beginning. I wasn’t sure what to make of last nights encounter, and I hardly slept because of it. The thought of my parents being like Yuji and the others threw my mind into a frantic tizzy.

Had my life always been destined to start here? Had my parents set me up for torment all of these years or had they simply been trying to shield me from the truth? I shook my head to rid the thought. I hadn’t received word from my parents since my departure at the school gates. They had refused entry and allowed me to walk in free of their presence. I thought they had been trying to allow me a sense of freedom and maturity, but maybe there was more to that than I had foreseen before?

I walked into the classroom full of commotion. Gojo had yet to make an appearance and the others were caught up in conversation. Yuji sent me a greeting that I happily returned. I felt eyes on me as I walked over to reclaim my seat from yesterday, looking over to see who’s they belonged to.

My eyes were met with the raging violet of Inumki’s stare. They smiled at my own, softening with kindness as he waved at me. I smiled back happily, hoping he hadn’t sensed my fear last night as Yuji had. I watched him stand from his seat, Yuta nowhere in sight. He walked over to me and crouched beside my desk.

“Kelp.” He said to me, his hand extending for me to shake as the others had done yesterday. I was confused but shook his hand anyway. His warmth surrounded my smaller hand as he did so, shocking me still in my seat.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, confused still. I heard a snort from somewhere behind me before the conversation continued. Inumaki shook his head.

“Bonito flakes.” He stated confidently. I deadpanned, not sure how to respond. Seemingly frustrated, Inumkai pulled his phone from his pocket, anxiously typing away as I sat and stared at him. His eyes were fixed on the screen, giving me a chance to study his seemingly flawless features without interruption from the violet orbs that radiated thoroughly. His bangs fell perfectly to shield the top of his eyes, his collar hiding the rest of his face without effort that made me almost disappointed.

“I’m a cursed speech user. I have certain things I can say that don’t affect me much, it’s mostly why I speak in ingredients rather than words themselves. I greeted you before, then denied your question afterwards. I apologize for the confusion, but im sure Satoru will explain further later today.” It read. I smiled at the boy in front of me. He unzipped his collar, sticking his tongue out to reveal the markings that bound him to the curse.

“I’m not sure I would’ve ever caught on had you not explained it. Thank you.” He smiled brightly at me before zipping his collar and taking his phone back, tapping around on the screen once more. He handed it back to me with a questioning gleam in his violet eyes. He wanted my phone number.

I felt my face flush as well as hearing some snickers behind me. Inumaki glared at the source of the laughter while waiting patiently for me to fill out the information. I did so quickly, my heart beating slightly faster than before as he quickly went back to his seat when Yuta entered the room.

I almost immediately got a text from Inumaki, just letting me know it was him. At that time, however, Gojo stalked into the room with a cocky smirk.

“Hello everybody.” He said, dragging out the ‘o’ slightly. Maki facepalmed. “How do we feel about only training today?” He said, looking around at the others. My mind went blank. I’d never done that before. He seemed to notice my panic and lifted his finger. “With exceptions, of course.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I was scrawny, not built for the physical just yet. I wasn’t even sure what they did out there that qualified as training. As the others mumbled their agreements and started to file out of the room, Nobara stopped in front of Gojo, not moving.

“I’m staying too, I feel like you might need a demonstration at some point.” She grinned at me with two thumbs up. Gojo didn’t object, only pushing her lightly back towards her seat. Inumaki spared me one last glance before stalking out the door with the others and shutting it behind him.

I giggled at Gojo and Nobara, they were bickering back and forth about who was really the teacher here.

“Anyways, Even if Nobara is right, im still your teacher, meaning I know best.” Nobara rolled her eyes, huffing out a breath.

“So, what exactly is happening?” I asked, their attention returning to me. Nobara smiled at me slightly.

“I’m teaching you the art of cursed energy!” She exclaimed, happy to get the point across. Gojo sent her another small glare with his lip puffed out slightly.

“She means WE are going to teach you the art of cursed energy.”

The two continued to bicker for about thirty minutes before I finally stepped in and decided to ask some questions of my own. I figured I’d never get a word in edgewise, but I suppose asking the burning questions I knew they’d love to answer would allow them to put their differences behind them, even though they continued to one up each other like siblings.

“So, how can somebody manipulate cursed energy? I thought it was just to scare children growing up.” I asked. Both stopped arguing almost immediately before Nobara grinned wildly.

“Cursed energy comes in many forms, y/l/n.” Gojo spoke, gaining a somewhat serious attitude. “You can’t just ‘manipulate’ it. My students have trained to harness the power of their cursed energy, something I can only hope you’d work for as well.” He finished.

“My cursed energy is focused through my hammer.” Nobara spoke, pulling the hammer from her back. That was odd, I’d never noticed it before. She smiled smugly.

“We believe you have potential to do these sort of things, y/l/n, we just aren’t exactly sure to what extent.”

Nobara continued to explain her technique, Gojo watching from the sidelines. The two thought it would be a good idea to show me how it worked, though I found it quite frightening as they took me out to the training yard to watch the others train for a while.

The beauty of the courtyard was breathtaking. The breeze felt nice compared to the stuffy classroom I’d been in all morning, and getting to watch Nobara in action against Maki was something I’d probably never forget. The two danced with elegance in their battle, neither holding back on the other. As we continued, Gojo would explain to me what was happening.

“Maki uses cursed weapons to her advantage. She can’t exactly see cursed spirits the way we can, y/n; that’s what her glasses are for. She possesses no real cursed energy of her own, meaning she doesn’t manipulate it the way Nobara can.” He rambled for a while, I listening intently in the background. I would occasionally nod and try to understand what he was explaining to keep him entertained.

My eyes were fixed on Maki and her diligent grace in battle. Nobara seemed to gain an upper hand, launching her cursed nails at Maki and damaging her to the point I thought she would resign, though she never did. Maki seemed to heal quickly and learn Nobara’s moves almost instantly after being wounded. She summoned a weapon from almost thin air, which Gojo explained was her technique. The two fought wordlessly and breathlessly without as much as a blink towards the other. I was astonished by the ending.

The two walked towards us, not worried about the others training behind them.

“Interested, y/n?” Maki chided with a cool smirk. It’s almost as if she hadn’t been touched by Nobara at all.

“Quite.” I said with a smile. She handed me the spear she had been using against Nobara. I inspected it, feeling the writhing energy within it seeping into my skin. Was it supposed to react this way? Gojo chuckled from beside me.

“You’ve never come into close proximity with a real cursed object, have you?” He asked coolly. I deadpanned, letting the look sink in before dropping my gaze back to the spear.

“I use it to channel energy I cannot manipulate myself as Nobara can. I’m sure Gojo explained that to you?” She questioned. I nodded.

I looked up, handing back the spear and feeling the release of the energy. Its presence, however, left a weird tingling residue on my hands where I’d touched it.

I saw the others in the background, throwing punches and jabs and kicks to their opponents. I heard a yell from somewhere behind them.

“Don’t move!” It sounded calm, smooth. I saw Panda standing still in the courtyard as a punch was thrown his way by the person who hid behind the voice I had heard. I watched intently as he fell to the ground, still stuck in position as Inumaki hovered over his body. His collar was unzipped. He had spoken something other than ingredients?

He caught my gaze, giving a sheepish smile as the markings on his face rose with his dimples. Panda had slowly regained his movement, angrily shouting something at Inumaki that went unheard by my ears. He moved to see the direction Inumaki was facing and caught my gaze as well. He smirked before waving in my direction.

“Cursed speech works like that of Nobara, though entirely different. The user can manipulate words in ways like no other, causing their opponent to stun temporarily depending on the power of the manipulator.” Gojo spoke beside me once more. It seems as though he had followed my eyes to reach Inumaki’s brawl with Panda.

They walked over to our position in the grass beside the courtyard, sitting next to us without a word.

“That was impressive, Toge. Panda couldn’t move for several seconds even after falling to the ground. Your strength has improved. “ Inumaki nodded in thanks to Gojo, who seemed to be in a good mood if he was offering praise. “Have you been meditating?”

“Salmon.” He replied enthusiastically. Panda was rubbing the side of his face where Inumaki had punched him earlier.

“This is going to bruise later.” Panda said, leaving us all staring in his direction.

“Panda’s don’t bruise.” Nobara retorted, voicing what the rest of us were thinking.

“Salmon.”

“Just because I’m not human, doesn’t mean I don’t bruise.” He yelled playfully. Maki rolled her eyes, not keen on being the referee in another argument. Inumaki’s stomach growled next to me, I giggled as his cheeks reddened slightly when we made eye contact.

“Hungry this time?” I asked playfully, slightly elbowing his arm. He smiled a toothy grin.

“Salmon.” He replied. This was definitely going to take some getting used to.

“On that note, who wants lunch?”

We returned to the classroom, Inumaki staying beside me until we entered. He pulled out a small bag that held what I was assuming some sort of food inside. His smile made my face redden. He hadn’t zipped his collar back since the fight and I was able to see his facial expressions clearer than I could before. He walked to his spot in the back, motioning for me to follow him. I obliged, intrigued by the silent blonde male.

I sat beside him, allowing for Yuta to take my seat up front. Inumaki pulled a box out of the bag he had been holding. Looking around, I saw everyone had had some sort of food with them. I had felt singled out, being the only one unprepared.

“Tuna.” I heard from beside me. My attention returned to Inumaki who was holding out a small onigiri in his hand. He pushed it towards me, offering it to me. My cheeks flushed at his kindness. I shook my head slowly.

“Im really not hungry, Inumaki, but thank you.” I smiled, not wanting to take food from the person who suggested we eat lunch in the first place. Like the traitor it was, my stomach growled loudly. He chuckled, shoving the onigiri into my hands. His fingertips grazed my palm, sending a shock of what I wanted to call cursed energy through my skin. I flushed red, taking a bite as I did so. I moaned as I tasted the onigiri. I must’ve been hungrier than I had anticipated.

“Did you make these?” He nodded, offering me another. I eagerly took it as I finished the other.

He pulled out his phone, typing away as he had done this morning. I felt my phone vibrate from my pocket.

“I enjoy cooking, I like to think I’m rather good at it 😊.” I smiled at the text he had sent me.

“I think you are too, Toge.” His face reddened slightly. He averted his attention to the onigiri, eating one himself and smiling at his own culinary abilities.

“Salmon?” He asked, i assumed he was asking for my approval. I nodded eagerly in his direction.

“They’re amazing.” We smiled at each other once more.

As the day had come to an end and we all retired to our rooms, I had a small frown lingering on my face. I turned the lights on in my room, hoping to keep the darkness at bay for a while longer before my attempt to sleep. I decided to shower and hopefully clear my mind a little.

My thoughts lingered on the darkness for the majority of my shower. As I scrubbed myself clean of the dirt from the courtyard and the invisible germs I had started to wonder more about my own cursed energy. Was I really able to do the things these students had been doing earlier? Or was there some sort of mix up and I was just a normal human being. The incomparable strength they had in order to fight in hand to hand combat was one thing, but the stamina to concentrate cursed energy and fight all at the same time was something I couldn’t entirely wrap my mind around.

I ran my hands through my hair as I dried it, detangling it and staring into the mirror in front of me. My thoughts wandered further until I heard a small ding from my phone. It was Yuji.

If you need me tonight don’t hesitate to call me, you probably don’t know where my room is yet, I’ll come to you. I’m turning in for the night, but I mean it. Sleep good, y/n!

I smiled at his message, sending a quick thank you before shutting off my phone and returning to the mirror in front of me to do my skin care.

Another ding interrupted my thoughts once again, thinking it might have been Yuji, I unlocked my phone to see what the commotion was about. To my surprise, Inumaki had sent me a waving emoji. I smiled, my stomach fluttering and leaving my mind blank.

Inumaki 🍙! : 👋

y/n: Hi Toge!

Inumaki 🍙! : Do you usually eat breakfast?

His question threw me off, it wasn’t what I was expecting whatsoever, but I went along with it.

y/n: not usually no, but I probably should 😅

Inumaki 🍙!: okay! Sleep good, y/l/n, im headed to bed.

I tapped my chin, grinning about the conversation but being just as perplexed about it. Why would he ask me something so random? Especially as I was about to sleep.

I turned out the lights, trying not to think about the things that lingered in the shadows that I was unaware of. I shook my head, focusing on the comforting warmth of the sheets that surrounded me.

I stared blankly into the darkness, deciphering the shapes that I was still not completely familiar with. I find it hard to tell what things are real and how much of the black I was hallucinating because of my horrid imagination. I knew outside cursed spirits couldn’t enter Jujutsu high, Gojo had explained that yesterday, but something Yuji had said didn’t sit right with me

I wanted to make sure nothing came after you.

Was it possible for such a thing to happen here? Should it be something to worry about? Or should I simply just prepare myself in case the time arises.

My thoughts lingered for a while, I knew my mother had been widowed before I was born, but I wasn’t sure the situation completely. My step dad had always been my father, I didn’t consider him anything other than that, but was it possible I had been born into one of the Jujutsu clans and been completely unaware of it? I just couldn’t understand why they hadn’t told me or bothered to reach out to me after dumping me off here.

The room had started to spin, I felt a hot tear roll down my cheek without my consent. Why had all of this happened so suddenly? I thought I would’ve been happier here than back in Tokyo, and while I am happy with my new friends, why had my entire life been flipped so mercilessly so quickly. It felt like the door had been ripped from the hinges, or my home had been pulled from the foundations and placed in a new spot.

Ding!

Was that my phone? I had forgotten it was there.

I thought I told you to call me if you needed anything, at this rate you’re going to wake the whole school up. I’m coming over.

Before I could respond, my door was opened frantically by Yuji.

“Y/n, are you crying?” He hurried over to my bed to wipe the tears from my face. I sat up, attempting to compose myself in front of Itadori. He stopped me, sitting on the foot of the bed.

“What are you thinking about y/n?” He asked. I suddenly felt like a therapy patient.

“Everything, Yuji.” I let another tear fall as I pulled my legs to my chest. He smiled at me slightly.

“I know it’s hard to process, you’re going to struggle with that for a while.” Silence rang loudly after he said that. I allowed myself a shallow breath.

“Do you think I’m going to fit in here? I haven’t figured out anything about my parents, about my past. I don’t even feel like I fit in with them very well anymore. I don’t even feel like I know them. I dont really feel much of anything other than that if you want me to be honest.” He looked at me genuinely, sweeping over my features.

“I think you’ll be just fine. I’m sure they don’t mean any harm by it.”

“But do you think they care anymore? Do you think they ever did? Why would you dump your own kid in a place like this with no guidance, not even a word of affirmation after the ordeal-“ before I could finish my sentence I was being crushed by Yuji’s embrace. He held me there, letting me cry on his shoulder without release.

“I don’t know the situation, y/n, but I do know that you’ve made friends here and we all care for you, even if it is your second day.” He pulled away from me, smirking a bit. “I’m sure Inumaki would argue with you if he heard you speaking such nonsense.” My heart thudded at the mention of Inumaki. I wasn’t sure why my pulse increased or my cheeks heated, and I wasn’t exactly sure why I didn’t argue with my body’s decisions to do so.

“What does Toge have to do with this?” He smirked harder at me, wiping the remaining tears and poking my cheek.

“If you haven’t already noticed, he seems quite fond of you. He never offered any of us his number except Yuta, and that was an exciting encounter for sure. Toge doesn’t do social interaction with other people, y/n, much less willing sit beside them after a training session.” My gaze settled on his face, he was being genuine. I figured Toge was only being nice to me, but here I was being proven wrong again.

“It’s only my second day, Yuji.” He glared at me, puffing out his bottom lip.

“We’ll just have to see then. But you seem to like the thought of being on his mind. Either way, I got you to stop crying so I see this as a win in my book” he flashed his teeth at me. I grimaced.

The rest of the night was spent with me tossing and turning with Inumaki on the back of my mind. I hated the thought of someone already being fond of me, I hated it so much that I found myself enjoying the thought. I hated the way my cheeks reddened when he touched me, when he spoke to me. I hated the way that I wanted to text him in the middle of the night when I needed guidance for these sort of things. I also hated the fact that he was surprisingly a good cook.

I glared a hole in my door, someone was knocking on it in the earlier hours of the morning. Thinking it was Yuji, as it usually was, I went to open it and was met with a fragrant smelling Inumaki. I let out a gasp.

He had a small box in his hand with a smile on his face. He was in his pajamas, not bothering with the uniform yet, so his face was completely uncovered and visible to my eye. My face flushed completely as he motioned for me to take the box.

“Tuna, tuna.” He said, waving it in front of me. Reluctantly I took the box, eyeing him carefully. He started at me expectantly, waiting for me to open it. I did so, smelling the contents before seeing it. I covered my mouth with my hands to stifle another gasp from escaping my lips.

“T-toge you didn’t need to-“ he grabbed my hand, earning my attention once more. He shook his head vigorously to show me that he wanted to, I didn’t need to worry.

My eyes trailed back down into the box, it continued a few croissants inside with a small note that had a smiley face on it. I smiled back up at Inumaki, who smiled happily back at me.

“You need to eat.” He mouthed to me, keeping me focused on the way his lips moved when he did so. His violet eyes seemed to glow as he looked at me. I couldn’t help but blush further, he still hadn’t let go of my hand and I was overly aware of it.

“Thank you, Toge.” His face reddened and his eyes darted to the side. He nodded slightly before dropping my hand and giving me a wave. He then darted back down the hallway, leaving me speechless with my door wide open.

The day continued something like that. Toge also made me lunch, forcing me to take it regardless of how I felt about it. One thing was for certain, and that was that he knew what he was doing in the kitchen; but why had he bothered to do so much for me? His eyes had dark circles under them, leading me to believe that he had stayed up to do this for me. I couldn’t help but feel guilty regardless of how generous he was being.

Yuji continued to give me smirks throughout the day, as well, which didn’t help the way I felt towards Inumaki’s kindness. Though, it left me wondering, maybe Yuji had a point. Maybe I liked being on Toge’s mind.

[houseofhugo]

ONE AFTER ANOTHER: PART TWO

[ SYNOPSIS ] he returns the favor and it gets you asking for deeper intimacy.

[ PAIRING ] lee sangyeon x f!reader

[ CONTENTS AND WARNINGS ] 18+ read (smut), mdni (minors, please do not interact), cunnilingus, fingering, pet names, p in v sex, protected sex (reader is on a pill), creampie, multiple orgasms (both!receiveing), eavesdropping

[ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] here's the second part. hope you enjoy! love, hugo.

[NAVIGATION] PART ONE, THE BONUS CHAPTER

"Oh! Fuck! Ngh!" Words escape your mouth in whimpers as you are laid on your back at the edge of the bed with your lower half over the edge resting on your stepdad's shoulders as he is knelt on the floor between your slim legs eating you out like a hungry man. In fact, after all the things you had done together in this room of yours, his lunch isn't relevant in his stomach now which is why he's turning you into his snack this time. His tongue was so naughty and active inside of you that you're uncontrollably trying to fight against his outward force between your legs just so you can shut them off but you know that won't happen because at the same time, you never wanted him to stop in the first place.

Sangyeon ascended from your hot cunt and gave it three times of lewd slaps with his four long fingers before diving back in to press his whole mouth right at your wet folds and stick his tongue back into you where he playfully wiggles his licker to give your core a tremble. He even did a couple of slurping on your cunt and that's how you described music as delicious for the first time. You knew he was enjoying himself when you felt hard teeth on your clit and you don't even know if you would register it as a scrunching pain or an arousal gain. Either way, you would run your fingers through his strands and grip his hair just to have something to let your tension out upon just like what you are doing right now. All he can do is groan at the forced stretch of his scalp as he kept working on your open wet flesh.

You thought chewing on your lower lip would help you endure his energy, but with his facing up, he puts his index finger out as it slowly makes its way past your glossy lips. You could only yelp and clench around him from how intoxicating it already feels to have one thick finger of a man in you; and with that said, his finger curved upwards giving your sensitive spot a playful poke before proceeding to massage it as if it will soothe you up when it actually caused the bedsheet to be picked up by your toes curling red and hard. Meanwhile, on the outside, his thumb is back at your clit turning it into his cute mini joystick.

You felt his free hand sneak up to your belly where he caresses the delicate soft skin going up and down as you breathe. "You okay there, munchkin?" he assures.

"Hmm! Yes," you inhaled your words before being followed by a shaky exhale.

You didn't get any words in return. Instead, as he rocks that one finger in you, his tongue comes into the scene swording at your clit causing you to squirm on the bed as most of your back left the mattress in an arc. Seeing you like that, he decided to pick up his pace all at once and, voila! Now, you're already a whimpering mess. He keeps on tonguing your clit to put you into unconsciousness about his finger slowly pulling out of your tightness. You just knew he did as soon as the scissoring came in as he slips inside with his middle and index finger side by side. You wanted to welcome him in and don't wanna fight his fingers opening you up but your drive keeps rippling through your walls making your body disintegrate with your soul. It's making you so lost now that you feel like everything was in blur.

"Oh, daddy!"

But the language that wasn't usually yours to speak managed to integrate with your brain chemistry.

"Called me what, sweetie?" He pretended to not hear it. "Mmh. Wanna hear it."

All you replied back were whimpers and groans as you grip the sheets next to your waist. You were getting so loud, he thought he couldn't make a word out of you.

"D-Daddy—Uh!" You were so unconscious when you repeated that.

"Yes, baby girl. I'm your daddy now. Bet you like your daddy eating your delicious cunt. Hmm!" Diving back in, he sucked on your clit just like a candy as he rocks his fingers back and forth in your squelching cavern.

"Yes, daddy! I love it! Fuck!" Your fingers came back gripping on his already messy hair. You attempted to grind up to his face but you couldn't get to full power since all of your lower half doesn't have any support below except for your knees that are hooked on his shoulders. Sangyeon can feel the intentional pressure on his shoulders; he doesn't have to be given words to read that.

"AAAHH! Yes! Yes! YES!"

The elder just added another finger inside of you and began pushing further into your fleshy pussy as he has his teeth mildly biting your clit. His fingers going in and out of you got so intense that you couldn't keep your own body from pushing yourself up the bed. You were nudging extensively that Sangyeon had to pop his finger out of you and replace it with his mouth to keep the stimulation coming to you and make his hands vacant to pull you by the legs to keep the distance of your pussy close to his mouth.

"OH! MY! GOSH!"

Your out cry just fueled him to keep going as the fourth finger has finally joined the fun. His face rose between your legs making his tongue detach from your clit for a moment and being replaced by his thumb. Now, he has his full hand skillfully tasking your cunt.

"How is my munchkin feeling right now?"

"I think I'm gonna cum," you rapped through your words.

Sangyeon didn't hesitate to make the lewd sounds between your legs louder by wiggling his whole hand in all directions.

FLIP!

FLOP!

SLURP!

SLOSH!

SLURP!

SLOSH!

SLURP!

"OOOH, GOSH! DADDYYYY!"

"Go on, kitty. Let it all out for me."

All of a sudden, you couldn't differentiate an orgasm from getting a spell cast on you. It's as if magic begins on your feet curling up as it crawls up to your legs and strikes your cunt right away causing a splash of your sweetness right on the elder's face. He didn't hesitate to dunk his head right there to tongue your clit as you keep squirting your sweet juice out full force. You are drenching him up starting from his mouth down to his chin where most of your liquid has dripped from there. It also managed to land on his chest and abs in beads while it served as a little shower on his stiff cock. Your orgasm then ripples up to your breast making you pinch and pull on them right away to further stimulate yourself. With your head as the finish line, your orgasm finally ended up there targeting the chemicals of your brain into a messy mix up which caused you to completely lose your shit in just a split-second. Your pupils weren't safe as well as they enlarged and went up north to the back of your head as you think of the man that is pleasuring you between your thighs. By the end of your orgasm, your pussy seemed like a water hose that got cut off and all your mess mostly ended up on Sangyeon. His sweat and your cum mixing on his body. As soon as he stood up, the sunlight entering the window landed on his glossy back blocking it away from you. At the frame of his sight, you are the center—a twitching spectacle laying on the bed. He didn't know you could be this wonderful in his eyes. He couldn't help but lick his lips to taste the sweetness you have given to him.

It took you a couple minutes before you could even get yourself together, and by the time you couldn't feel anymore heaviness on your eyelids with the blur subsiding, you saw a body at the left corner of your eye. It was Sangyeon laying next to you on his right side with his elbow dug on the mattress and his right temple resting on his fist. He was just staring at you as if he was fixed there like a Greek sculpture.

You let out a sigh of relief. "I thought you left me," you said.

He just smiled.

You rolled to your left so that you're facing him. "Can I...tell you something?"

"Anything." He smiled with anticipation.

"I'm actually on a pill."

What's left in the room was the silence of nature coming from outside. He just locked his eyes at yours with his crunched forehead. You can see how every inch of his face was reforming into a mix of anxiousness and seriousness. It battles in Sangyeon to get to his senses because the sensual things both of you have done to each other made it hard for him to detach some of his critical pieces from you, and the fact that he's having a crisis whether to say yes or no was not sitting with him right.

"That's still not a good idea, sweetie."

"But you know how it works, right?" You managed to hold back in sounding demanding in his ears and just delivered your words in a gentle curious manner.

"You know I can't risk it," he counters.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Sweetheart, wherever you want this conversation to go, I'm not leashing myself in."

You knew this was coming and it's such a foolish thing of you to expect it the very least. Meanwhile, the elder can see on your face how you've disappointed yourself in just a matter of seconds.

"I'm sorry." You laid your palm on the mattress to push yourself up from lying on the bed. You then slid forward so that you were sat at the edge of the bed where you bent down to reach for your clothes that were piled up on the floor before standing up and directing yourself to your personal bathroom. In just a few seconds, you are now standing on the doorstep rug when you hear bare feet steps behind you. You were about to look over your shoulder when two big hands turned your whole body around. The next thing you know, Sangyeon's tongue is already deep in your mouth swording with yours and your tits are squished between your bodies. The devouring of each other's lips have gone deeper that both of your humming are coming together to exchange chilling vibrations across both of your senses alongside exchanging moans for both of you to feed your desires.

As soon as Sangyeon broke the kiss, he didn't wait for his breath to go back to normal. "I know how it works," he lets out his courage through his heaving chest before going back into your mouth to taste you once again. Keeping your faces attached with the glue of passion, he walks you back to your bed where he tosses you in before pushing your thighs wider to stand between them where he hooks his arms under your knees to bring your feet up mid-air. While keeping you in that tempting position he put you in, his right arm leaves your left leg to wrap his hand around the halfway part of his shaft for control because he would take his tip and swipe it raw on your slit a couple of times like a credit as if it was being rejected until he decides to slap it hard on your folds before shoving his only tip inside. He lets it sit there as his arm came back around your leg.

Bringing your head up, you witness his cock disappearing centimeter by centimeter into your wet cavern as the motion brushes your spot painfully slow. At the same time, you can feel the outward pressure on your walls as they attempt to follow his humongous size. You thought your mouth would validate his size until you come back losing your mind again to his cock entering your pussy and it's literally not even half of his size yet that is in you.

"Fuck, munchkin! I didn't know you were this tight." He puffs out warm air through his open mouth. It's like fitting a rope through a needle hole for your stepdad whose veins are already protruding all over his body due to the intensity of your walls around his cock tip.

You couldn't help but mewl as his cock kept sinking into you. However, not because of pain—it is barely even a painful stretch now because his fingers were enough to loosen you up—but because of how his entrance into you feels and seems so erotic than how you had dreamt about him fucking you. You didn't know that him being naked in between your upright legs trying to fit his massive cock into your cute little pussy could get this any better.

It has already come weird to you but you just couldn't help but idealistically look through the eyes of the people who have seen this deliciously hot view because now, you're getting it too. Same handsome face, same yummy body, same thick cock, same sexual aura. There's something sexy about the fact that he knows that he fucked more than one but not the idea that he has given them the similar pornographic view of himself between parted legs.

You bite hard on your lower lip while you play your clit as you watch every inch of his cock disappearing into you. By the time the corona of his tip brushed your cervix, his whole cock twitched around your walls and a firm high-pitched whine scratched its way out of your throat. You can also feel the smoothness of his balls resting on your perineum—the area between your pussy and asshole. You looked up to see that there is still this seemingly an inch of his shaft that didn't get to go in which caused the relevant distance of his and your pubes. You thought he could go further until you noticed an unusual fat lump on the skin below your belly button with a fat curve on the top. You've never seen your flat belly like this before. Meanwhile, Sangyeon tries to push a bit more but his abs are just met with the opposing pressure of your hand.

"No," you let out with an airy tone.

The elder eased you off by caressing your legs. The way he can feel you clenching again as his hands glide on your thighs made him hiss through gritted teeth with pure amusement. Now that you're filled with cock to the cervix, you rested your calves on his shoulders to release the tension you've been applying on your leg muscles. You can feel every inch of your walls emphasize not only his shaft but also the veins that decorate around him. With your body now relatively relaxed, the pressure of the stretch that used to burn turns slowly into a quite effortless accommodation of your cunt over his "kitchen towel tube" size where Sangyeon can feel your walls mold into the shape of his cock. By the time the heavy breathing in the room was replaced by bird songs and muffled whispers of natural air outside, it feels like the mattress began to swallow you in.

"Move... please," you gently asked.

From how wet you have become, his whole cock easily drags across your walls until the only thing that is left inside of you is his tip. Sangyeon looks down and sees his whole shaft instantly glossed up from the juices you have released earlier. The elder didn't waste time and just pushed himself back into you. This time, the sound of squelches came along with the drag of his manhood through your walls. It feels so great to be full again in no time. Falling in love with the feeling, he repeats the motion a couple of times. It just made his shaft progressively glossier and juicer, and the squelches louder and yummier.

"Faster." Your plea was mixed with a whine.

You started to realize his hips are now snapping at your ass which means you have managed to take him all in and it relatively made you satisfied with your walls getting filled and unfilled with lesser intervals. You were uncontrollably elongating your moans in a monotone but with his thrusts, it's making it sound like your voice is repeatedly cracking up.

"More!" Your plea this time came out as an out cry.

Sangyeon might break his back without proper stability, so as he keeps his arms hooked under your knees, he landed on his hands at the sides of your hips causing your legs to be pushed back more. Thanks to the strong muscles and bones under your legs, you are stabilized in your frog-like position.

"Am I now doing good for you, baby? Should I go harder?" he spoke to you with less stress on his voice now that this position made your faces close to each other. You can hear his voice shudder with every thrust he takes into you. He's already fucking you in a great rhythm due to his size effortlessly going in and out of you, but you're curious how he could go harder from this pace.

"Yes, please! Harder!"

He didn't hesitate to put one foot on the mattress to gain more momentum in giving the upgraded pressure between your legs. You couldn't help but yelp from how perfect and precise he was hitting your spot over and over and over again.

"Don't stop! Yes! Don't stop!"

"Don't worry, baby girl. I'm not planning to."

The elder earns the pride to go moderate but press deeper into you. It's like he's punching your guts with his tip but it doesn't even hurt a bit. The skin-slapping became louder as his thrusts became more solid. He's not even at a human pace right now. He's a whole damn fuck machine apart from the features that he can moan, he can sweat, and he can be described as a sex god just from how he looks like one while pounding into your wet cavern which caused your pupils roll back once again. A fuck machine is all metal and artificial mechanism; he's a whole hot muscle, bone, penis, and cum-containing organism who is conscious about your complex fantasies—specifically about him.

"You're so pretty being full of my cock, baby!"

His thrusts keep coming in and your wetness begins to spill out of your cunt. You couldn't help it anymore, so you reached for your clit to play with as you feel yourself approaching at the peak of your second orgasm.

"Shit! You're squeezing me hard, munchkin."

"I'm gonna cum!" you spoke through your whimpering tone.

"Cum for me, sweetie. Daddy's here to fuck you through."

Himself dropping the daddy card that way riled you up. As he really should but the way he constructed that sentence on the spot was so hot that your fingers sped up on your clit. You even pinched it to drag yourself to the edge. "Wanna cum on your cock, daddy!"

"Go on, babydoll. Gloss that cock up so daddy can fuck you more just like how you want me to."

As soon as the elder's abs got struck by your juices, he immediately pulled out and used his cock to catch all your cum by slapping and swiping the back of his dick on your cunt causing your release to be redirected everywhere like a mini explosion making wet patches on your sheets and small puddled on the floor.

"Yeees! Fucking good! So good for me," he exclaimed through his pouted lips. “Look at that. Getting my cock all soaked with that sweet juice."

By the time you were done, he went with one final pull before landing himself back all the way into you in one go. The sudden fullness after cumming was insane especially that you have a long and thick man's cock fucking you. Sangyeon didn't waste the time to start pounding your pussy to trigger your sensitivity to the clouds. It's like getting tickled by a thousand fingers but that didn't stop you from taking the hot man's cock to the brim. You suddenly feel like a champ to fully welcome him in again after that.

"Hah! Ahh! Mmmh!" You threw your head back as the pressure at your pussy started to put you back on the horny track. You've always been horny, it's just that getting horny from your first time taking his dick was horny-horny—double horny.

Sangyeon's immediate fast pace caused this foamy white stuff to begin forming around at the base of his shaft, at the lining of his testicles, and on the sides of your pussy like those ones in the bath but it's thicker. The substance makes the skin-slapping a bit muffled and fluffy in your ears as every time he lands on your ass and pulls out, the foamy substance stretches in strings as it starts to coat most of his shaft. After a few rounds of pounding, he makes sure his arms are under your knees before he slips his hands under your back and brings you up to carry you while his cock is still nestling in your walls. You wrapped your arms around his neck for extra support.

"It's getting hot at this spot, munchkin. We gotta move."

He then walked past the footboard of the bed to take you to the other side of the mattress where the shadow is all casted there. The risk is that the door is nearer at that spot, but who cares? It's locked and no one was told that both of you are here, anyway.

"Can you try fucking me while you're standing?" You took the opportunity to give the request while he was still on his feet and your back is facing the bed.

"You want that, sweetheart? I can do that for you." He leans back with his knees bent so that you're all rested stable in his hold. You can feel every of his fingers dig into each of the squishy flesh of your ass cheeks. Since you're fully in his arms immobile, he began bringing your ass up before pushing you down. Finding it easy, he started fucking you that way—like a personal fleshlight. With every entry and exit of his dick at your cunt under his control, the vulnerability crept into you that it made you hug him like a koala. On the other hand, Sangyeon was feeling himself being your gentleman which is technically kind of ironic by now.

"Ugh! Hmm!" you let it out right at his ear which triggered him to speed his hands up under your ass.

He began peppering kisses on your cheek as he moved you on his stiff length in repeat, but this time, he is meeting you halfway with his thrusts to add up to your pleasure. Meanwhile, the combination of his firm grip on your ass and his cock gliding on your walls is bringing you back on your way for another squirting session. He just has that manly hold over you that makes you feel things.

"Huh! Yeah!" Escalating whines escaped your mouth. Your arms put pressure on his shoulders as you tighten your arms around his neck.

His hands abruptly stopped moving your ass just so he can lean back and continue fucking his manhood into you with only his hip thrusts. At the same time, The tension ripples throughout his body so hard that you can feel his muscles harden under your skin. The sweat that forms between both of you acted as a lubricant which made it harder for Sangyeon to hold you in place due to how slippery your touches have become. He just kept kissing you to distract the tension on his body but he was soon cut off when you lean back to come face to face with him.

"Wanna ride you," you plead between breaths.

The man looks around not sure where to settle himself. "Where do you want me?"

It didn't take long for your consistency with the pace to be broken by hot, heavy, exhausted puffs coming out of your open mouth. You shut your eyes for a second as your head falls forward with your sweat-damped hair.

You drew your index finger pointing at the center of the bed. Sangyeon then carefully puts you down on your feet eventually making his cock slowly slip out of you with a wet squelch. The sudden emptiness kept you yearning because you can still feel his shape retained on your walls as you watched him crawl to the center of the mattress and stack two pillows on top of each other before laying his head there. You then followed facing his face as you mounted him with your knees on both sides of his waist and your cunt resting right on top of his dramatically glossed up cock head. You slouched to grab his cock from the front and fix his tip right between your folds. Not wasting any time, you lay a palm on his abs as you begin to sheath his cock into you by slowly sinking down until your cervix is kissed once again, and just like that, you didn't wait any longer to lift yourself just so you can feel your walls glide over the veins of his shaft until his tip is the only thing left in your warm cavern. Of course, you love how it went so you began fucking yourself on his cock where he can feel the eagerness throughout your walls. In fact, that was never enough, so you leaned back with one hand resting on one of his thighs behind you as you started massaging your clit giving him a beautiful spectacle of your pussy swallowing his cock as if you never struggled to be pried open by him a while ago. Because of your position, his cock managed to poke up at your tummy once again which gave the skin under your bellybutton prominent bulges that made your usually flat tummy amusingly deform in his eyes. That's nothing new to him but it never fails to feed his ego and rile him up.

"Come here now, sweetie. Lay on me," he beckons. "Let me take care of you."

Maintaining your kneeling position, you nudged forward before leaning your whole upper body towards his until you are chest to chest with him. As you rest your right cheek on his right shoulder, you feel the warmth of his solid beefy arms cage around you. You didn't get to remove your arms from getting bundled up with your torso in his strong embrace. His legs that used to be laid flat on the sheets are now bent with his knees high up which caused your ass to elevate along which put you technically in an ass up and face down position.

"Just keep your ass up for me."

His whispered command made you fix your knees and solidify your thighs as the only supports you can do for yourself to be ready for him. By the time you hear the creaking on your bed and you feel the lower part of the bed sink, you knew you were in for a good human piston ramming into you.

Sangyeon rooted his feet on the mattress and began thrusting up to your delicate cunt. Your mouth is just right next to his ear so he can hear how unstable and shaky your breathing has become in just a matter of seconds. You even groaned which sent shivers of sexual connection throughout his body. Among all the minutes you two spent being explorative with each other today, this is the time when you feel so attached to him with the fact that he is now ramming your pussy with his raw cock—no rubber separating him from you—combined with the sensuality of being physically and directly stuck to him skin to skin in his huge arms where you can feel his body heat on yours with your sweat and his coming together in this heated session.

"Ah—" Your moan got caught in your throat as he began speeding up his upward thrusts. All you can do now is make a fist on the mattress close to his hips since your arms are locked in place on both sides of your torso. "Shit!" you let out as if you are screwed when it's just you getting the best monster cock in town rearranging your guts right now.

By the time you constricted your walls around him for who knows how many times because of how much he is repeatedly hitting your spot, you didn't expect to get such a word from him.

"Oh, fuck, sweetie! I love you!"

You didn't know his pace right now could be faster and harder. The thick layer of sweat on his golden skin caused a huge wet patch to take over the sheets. It's like he was tasked by the sex demons to pleasure you because if he fails, he will be sent to the underworld and forever be chained to be their plaything. Good thing that he's making you screech and weep as if you don't want it anymore, but of course, you do. Why would you make this yummy fucker stop? He even got one hand running through your strands before locking it there by bundling them up into a fist and pulling it causing your head to jerk back and having your faces seen by each other, and to you, it was an instant intergalactic orgasm. Your heat turns into a waterfall between your legs as his cock that has now turned into a biological piston keeps on thrusting up to you making your release spray everywhere. It showered his cock, balls, and abs into a glossy mess again. You kept crying with a mix of hysterical laughs as you pushed them all out like you were just peeing with a dildo stuck in there. It's like listening to an orchestra for an intense build up of music. Sangyeon couldn't help but let his orgasm be triggered almost at the brink from how hard and tight you squeezed his whole length deep inside you as if it was the cutest thing for your cunt when it's the biggest beast of manhood you've ever had.

"You've been doing so great for me, baby. Fuck! Daddy's almost there, sweetie pie." He didn't stop thrusting up to you which made the skin slapping louder due to your release being collected by both of your skins down there.

It took you a couple of breathers before you could even stabilize your speaking voice. "Inside, please!" you dropped the words in a hurry.

"I know, baby girl. You didn't wanna get railed raw by daddy so bad for nothing."

"Yes, please, daddy!" you let out a desperate outcry. "Wanna be full of your load!"

Sangyeon had to flip you over making your turn to lay your back on the damp sheets he caused. With his cock rested deep inside you, the elder grabbed you by the ankles. With the help of his hips, he elevated your ass up in the air causing your front thighs to press on the sides of your tummy and your knees to hover over your breasts. He keeps himself up by his feet with his ass now off the sheets. He fixed his hands on the sides of your head before going back to fuck his cock into you where he took a few combos on your g-spot as if it was just a simple game he plays.

Technically, it is; he's a divorced man, anyway.

"Daddy's so close, sweetie. Gonna fill up this cute little pussy deep with my cum so good just like how you want me to."

"Oh, yes! Give it to me, daddy!"

Feeling himself at the edge, he leans over to connect his sweaty forehead with yours. He snuck one hand behind your head to keep both of you in that intimate position. "Eyes on me. Eyes on me. Daddy's gonna cum in you now." He punched your walls with all the might his cock has gotten. His thrusts were so strong that you were sliding up the bed. "Gonna think of you while I shoot this load inside this super tight cunt, baby girl! Gonna think about all what you did to me today." His hips landed on your ass with a crunchy slap where he began growing inside of you before his load started gushing through his shaft and shooting out his tip in thick and consistent ropes for the second time. "So good for me! So perfect for making stepdaddy cum twice today! You should feel accomplished. Do you feel accomplished for making me put my thick cream in your guts two times in one session, baby girl?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" you exclaimed as you feel the vacancy inside you be occupied with seemingly pints of his white and creamy man milk. They were so thick that it felt heavy on the flesh of your uterus. The pressure that came with the cumshots caused your head to spin around because the semen is already the one pushing through due to how secured your walls are around his cock just so his cum won't seep out of you.

With your thumbs laid on both of his cheeks with the remaining fingers resting on the side of his neck, you parted your foreheads and held his face in place hovering above of yours. He is starting to look so exhausted and fucked out all of a sudden with those eyelids threatening to drape his sight and his jaw slightly fallen. "Look me in the eye, daddy."

He brought up his furrowed eyes to yours. You can see how his pupils expand. His hitched through his gritted teeth with warm air brushing your lips. There were hints of growling coming from him but not overdone. You wanna pull him into a deep kiss but the orgasm faces he's creating are so hot that you just gotta stare and inspect at it like a sculpture in a museum; add the fact that he's not stopping with his heavy spurts that kept tickling your walls to the point that his own release is threatening to fill the gaps around his shaft. Knowing that if he pulls out, his release will sink back down since most of your cunt is actually filled of cock but he doesn't want to let go. Despite feeling the summer hot air that fills your bedroom and his arms are now on the mattress on both sides of your head shaking and glazed of his own perspiration, your warmth that coats around his cock along with his holy jizz is still the best thing to him.

Feeling the threatening straining of muscles throughout your limbs, you put down your feet to land on the sheets curled and red. "Stay like that," you said to him who is on all fours above you as if he will pull out anytime.

Your feet sunk into the mattress for momentum as your hips elevated from the sheets to grind on his cock from below. Sangyeon, on the other hand, was struck with a sharp sensitivity like active electricity on water which caused him to release the loudest yelp you have ever heard from him. However, he is still above you on all fours trying his best to endure the overstimulation on his cock you are causing right now. He hangs his head low to see how you work your hips on him between both of you. He couldn't help but twitch in the accommodation of your walls with his hips stuttering along.

It didn't take much time until you felt his size going back to softness but, gosh, he didn't even shrink a bit. You stopped grinding your hips to rest your ass back on the bed. The very slow pull out had you ticklish until his tip left your walls empty and loose. Sangyeon leaned back between your legs to see how wide you have become. There are a few drops of his load escaping out and he still had the nerve—despite being overstimulated—to catch them with his tip and use it to push them back in which made you shudder at the sudden in and out of him.

By the time everything cools down for you, the only thing you can hear is your heavy breathing harmonizing with his. Sangyeon was just kneeling between your thighs and you witnessed how his big chest expands and shrinks as beads of sweat glide down his skin.

"We gotta go before she—" Sangyeon was cut off as soon as both of you heard an engine getting close and loud along with the sound of the garage door opening up.

"Fuck," you mumbled.

Both of you immediately jumped out of the bed and rushed to pick up all your respective clothes. You were doing it with one hand because your other is pressed at your cunt to prevent his cum from leaking out of you. Sangyeon got undressed at your door where his clothes were scattered, so it was easy for him to get out, but after he picked his clothes up, he rushed to you.

"Don't go out of your room, okay?" he whispered.

"Wait," you whispered back.

"What?"

You immediately grabbed his underwear that was on the top layer over his forearm. You waved it at his sight. "Can I keep this for tonight? I'm gonna put it in the laundry myself tomorrow. Don't worry."

He just smirked at you before rushing to get in his remaining clothes. "Just don't go out of the room." He immediately ran to the door, shutting it off as soon as he walked out. You then tossed his underwear on your bed and started wearing your own clothes before leaning against the door.

"Honey, there was something loud in front of the car! Can you check it for me?" Through the walls, the call of your mom for him was muffled. "Where did my sexy man go?"

"I'm up here, babe!"

You didn't know if someone went down or up the stairs when you heard the footsteps until the female voice became clearer.

"Oh, I missed you," she let out an exhausted tone.

"That must be a long, tiring one for this beauty," Sangyeon coos.

"Super! I had to be the one to coordinate with the catering and design."

"I know you will do great, babe."

"Thank you," she said. "I wanna take a break, actually."

"Want me to cook for you?"

"Not that break."

You twisted the knob and settled a thin gap between the doorframe and the door to take a peek only for you to catch the door on the other side of the hallway—their shared room—shutting close with both of them nowhere to be seen, but you're not stopping your curious ass there, of course. You crouched through the hallway on your sneaky bare toes to stand next to their door.

"Honey, I think we should just check the car first. You might not get to drive that at your gathering if—"

"Just do it later."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Besides... we have a lot of days to prepare."

"But—" You heard a thud on the floor. "Oh, shit." His mumble came out sounding like he's screwed.

And then, you just realized...

"No underwear? You must be getting ready for me to get home."

You clamped your lips as you pressed a hand on your mouth.

He is screwed, but it's not that serious. She would think he didn't wear anything underneath on purpose which would ignite her more. He just had his orgasm; his whole body was just fresh from the heated sex and now, he hasn't been rested yet and he's getting one after another.

You began hearing combinations of high-pitched hums and manly groans getting muffled by the walls before a wet slurp pierced through your ear canals.

Your face faded into a shocked expression. You kind of feel bad for him.

"Did you get to talk with her while I'm away? You definitely did get to know her more. You know... it's his first time having a stepdad."

He knew you more than more, actually.

It's kind of weird that you treated this like a podcast you love but you don't wanna get invested that much because you're now feeling the grumbling of your stomach climbing up to your brain, so you just snuck down the stairs and to the kitchen.

THE END

Actually, no.

[osakanone]

I've been getting into gunpla and i'd like a rec since you know mecha. Are there any gunpla you recommend? I'd appreciate one that doesn't look like a dude as much as possible.

The closest i've gotten to that idea so far is a guarda/rever nova build from the 30 minute missions line because of the two scorpian arms.

May I suggest the Wodom Pod?

Its fairly simple to build, very cheap and readily available.

--

If you want to straddle the "a guy thing" in your mentality and challenge it a little, also good is the Aegis specifically its transformation mode as its primary mode (like all humanoid MS) is intended for generalized combat and front-line logistical work (hence the hands).

--

If not, Hildolfr is a fun one. He bridges the space between early mobilesuits in minovsky signals displacement warfare and was used by a starship cannon pilot, requiring a lot of manual skill to aim well!

--

The Xamel is also really good though only provided you've got skills to bring the best out of the kit with scribing and painting. He's a heavy launch platform hovercraft designed for opening vollies with a high powered mortar grenade system via coordinates coming from other units, with legs designed for hit and run skirmishes so he can make his get-away after providing the opening strikes and fire-support during the mop-up phase of an attack.

--

Not gunpla, and a bit more advanced is Variable Infinity's Armored Core Aaliyah. You're probably gonna need some glue for this as smaller parts fall off. Its extremely detailed, and very "not a guy" despite being humanoid.

It uses a spherical particle field of highly radioactive and toxicparticles to protect and cool itself, and is capable of absurd mobility.

Quite a pain in the ass to work with, the design itself is utterly sublime and a spectacle to look at and I fell in love with it circa 2007 with Armored Core 4. Sadly, it isn't anywhere near as posable as most Gunpla due to how "un-guy-like" its body design is. These are the concessions we make cool appearances like this.

--

A substantially easier build (and much closer to Gunpla) is bandai's 30 minute mission 30MM Armored CORE Ⅵ Fires of Rubicon - BALAM Industries BD-011 MELANDER Liger Tail

I'm a huge sucker for 4-legged mecha since they're about as far from "an guy" as you can get. They're also super affordable right now if you can find a stockist who isn't a scalper.

--

Also while not Gunpla, if you have advanced skills, Gunhed is also very good though it requires a lot of extra work since the plastic provided with this kit is more of a raw material you need to do work to, to achieve the look and hide the seams akin to more traditional model kits. Gunhed's role is to invade gigantic sprawling synthetic superstructures and wipe out unmanned weapons.

--

Though likely not to your tastes, my own personal favourite of the year has actually been the Lfrith Ur. I don't usually go for chunkier designs but it has that delightful "chubby girl in a swimsuit" energy despite being a very intense and scary weapon that scratches some strange itch in my brain that I find deeply pleasing.

It is likewise, also very cheap -- and if you get two of them, its very easy to mod them together into a single 4-legged machine with double loadout (very cool, and probably bringing it more in like with your preference -- I wish I still had photos: I'm currently out of the country and my "big database of cool research files" is at home and wouldn't search well from two continents away)

--

Also Zowort heavy from the same line if you do the same quad-leg/tetrapod adaption looks amazing. I have a huge soft-spot for unusual legs, if its not clear.

--

I hope this provides some food for thought. If you have a clearer idea of the kind of kit you want, or what your needs are, let me know and I can provide more suggestions if you'd like.

Happy modelling!!

[chloecherrysip]

all the pain will change into a memory of when we were amazing (mario & luigi-centric post-movie fic, part 1!)

(My weekend got a little busier than I was expecting, but I was still DETERMINED to get this up today and hey, I succeeded!!! I will eventually post an AO3 version as well, so if you'd like to wait for that, you can (and I will of course link it here), but sharing on tumblr is just a little easier for me to start out with. :)

Remember that this is just the first part and there will be at least two or three more coming soon!! Like I've already said in other posts, this fic has become SO LONG that it needs to be split up a little just for ease of reading. The title comes from the song Casey by Darren Hayes, which for the record, is a song about siblings and really fits movie!verse Mario & Luigi's relationship, in my eyes. Also, just so you know, this part (and only this part) has some Mario/Peach moments as well! I hope you enjoy!)

+

It took roughly eleven hours to put Brooklyn back together. 

Not to how it was before, just to be clear. Not even close. Just enough that you could no longer tell right away that it had been subjected to a catastrophic tear between dimensions or alternate realities or whatever the two worlds were in relation to one another — who even knew? Instead, it looked more like it had suffered a few earthquakes in quick succession, or a hurricane closely followed by a tornado for good measure. Y’know, normal disasters.

It would no doubt require weeks of work to fix the cracked roads, replace all the crushed cars, reassemble the shopfronts enough to reopen and finally, finally get rid of all the black chunks of molten rock and huge mushroom stalks that were still being found in the strangest crevices and alleyways. But there was a lot to be extremely grateful for too. It was an outright miracle that Bowser’s airship had happened to crash down into the empty construction site mere minutes before the workers were scheduled to get started, somehow missing all occupied buildings. Everyone on the block was unhurt and accounted for, and they all still had a mostly-intact place to sleep that night. That, Mario reasoned, was more than good enough for now.

He’d jumped headfirst into helping with the emergency cleanup efforts as best he could, of course. It was the very least he could do after unintentionally causing the whole mess to begin with, and Luigi had jumped right in alongside him, ready to go. The star had worn off  — even if Mario was still seeing glimmering afterimages of rainbows in the corners of his eyes every time he blinked — but it seemed like there were some lingering aftereffects. They felt better than ever, every injury down to the slightest bruise or cut completely healed, an overflow of joyful energy humming pleasantly all through his core. Mario guessed it was some kinda mixture of leftover magic and his own adrenaline and relief, which probably could have kept him going strong for a long time all on its own. They’d actually made it home. They’d seen their parents and family again. His brother was back within arm's reach, smiling and solidly warm and safe. How could he not feel like he was on top of the world?

So they’d spent the rest of the day working with neighbors to clear debris and shattered glass, move cars safely out of the way that were too crushed to move on their own any longer, nail up boards to cover gaps where windows once were. There were various damaged water fixtures and pipes that desperately needed some TLC before they came entirely undone and caused more damage (thankfully, Mario knew two talented plumbers who were more than up to the task). And of course, there was the not-so-small matter of rounding up all of Bowser’s minions and stuffing them back through the pipe before they snuck further into the city and started causing mass chaos. Most of that went smoothly, thankfully (other than one notable incident of some Koopas messing around at a bowling alley and accidentally getting stuck in the ball return). The magician in the blue robe, the one with the wand, had vanished entirely, though. Luigi had been the first one to notice, nervously mentioning that he’d seemed important, like a second-in-command to Bowser. Mario didn’t like that one bit, but Peach reassured him that they would stay vigilant.

Speaking of Peach, she’d taken charge of the chaotic situation right away, her leadership skills shining bright in a way that left Mario quietly in awe. She’d personally overseen Bowser’s transfer and imprisonment back in the Mushroom Kingdom while also coordinating efforts on both sides of the warp pipe, DK and Toad providing support as they all passed back and forth between worlds several times throughout the day, transporting as much of Bowser’s broken-up airship back to where it came from as possible. Toad Town was still a mess from the invasion as well, and many of the Toads who’d evacuated needed to be helped back from the forests. Mario had only spent a little time there, but thinking about such a lively, cheerful place in abandoned disarray troubled him. He considered going back for a little while to help out there too, just to make sure everyone got home safe.

But the familiar warp pipe loomed before them, and Luigi’s smile strained. Mario, hand lightly pressed to his brother’s back, registered the sudden, new tenseness, the way his breathing became shallower, despite his best efforts to not let it show. And there was Mario’s answer. He wouldn’t put Luigi through that again, not so soon, and if Luigi wasn’t going, Mario wasn’t going — end of story. The thought of being an entire world away from him after everything they’d just struggled through, even briefly, was too much to handle. All day, that uneasiness had hung around him, the one wrinkle in his light-as-air happiness and boundless energy. He hadn’t even liked Luigi being out of his sight for too long as they worked on the cleanup, which he fully knew was silly and unreasonable. That was why he'd never breathed a word of the feeling outload, even when the discomfort settled in heavily like a bad stomachache.

It'll get better once a little more time goes by, Mario kept insisting to himself with a sure, stubborn forcefulness. What's there to be worried about? We made it, both of us. We're together. Everything's gonna be okay. It really is.

“Don’t worry! We’ve got it all under control,” Peach reassured him. “I promise. The Kongs are helping, and so are the penguins from the Ice Kingdom. We’re going to work with them to rebuild their castle as well. On the bright side, I think our alliances will be much, much stronger after this mess.” 

“Are ya sure?” Mario couldn’t help but press, interlacing his fingers tightly. “I dunno, I just feel like I need to do something. If it wasn’t for you, all of you, I wouldn’t have gotten to Luigi in time.”

“Oh, and like you didn’t do even more to help us?” She gave the brim of his cap a flick that was somehow both playful and graceful. “Mario, you and your brother stopped Bowser in his tracks. Both of our worlds are safe from him now because of you two. If anything, we owe you! Toad was already talking about organizing a parade, or giving you both a chest of gold coins!”

“What? No, no, who needs all that?” Mario insisted, his face flushing a little. “Besides, those coins won’t even fit in my wallet! There probably isn’t an exchange rate or anything here for ‘em. Just my luck.”

“I thought as much.” She placed a fingertip to her pursed lips, tapping lightly as she pondered. “What about a house?” 

“A whole house!?” Mario nearly choked on the air. “For free?”

Peach gave him an odd look and a shrug, as though it was perfectly reasonable in her world to offer someone she’d just met a few days ago real estate with absolutely no strings attached. “Why not? You and Luigi are always going to be known as heroes in the Mushroom Kingdom, you do realize. It's the least we could do. But…” She thought in silence for a moment longer and then smiled, the curve of it a little heavier, more subdued. “A house doesn’t do much if no one will be living in it, huh?”

Mario considered that. Across the sewer room, the black of the warp pipe’s insides spread out behind Peach, vast and unending. “That’s…yeah, that’s true,” he said, his shoulders sinking a bit. “For now, don’t worry about doing anything for us, all right?” He swallowed around a strange, new lump in his throat. “Before anything else happens, I just really need to make sure my family’s all right.”

Peach nodded. “And I need to make sure mine is too,” she said, voice warm with understanding.

She shot a meaningful glance over Mario’s head, and he followed her gaze to where Toad and Luigi were sitting off to the side. Toad was excitedly talking, making big, bombastic gestures with his pan as though he was reenacting something. Luigi, for his part, looked a little bewildered but interested, following along as best as he could manage with lots of nodding. The strain in Mario’s chest eased.

“But you’ll both visit before too long, right?” Peach brought his attention back to her, her tone pointed. “There’s still plenty of beautiful places to see in our world. We barely scratched the surface! But we can start with a nice cup of tea in the castle, of course.”

Mario couldn’t help but smile widely. “Definitely,” he said. “And besides, I already made a promise to DK before he headed back. Me and my “stupid overalls” have to give him a rematch at some point. C’mon, how can I pass up a chance to kick his furry butt all over again?”

“And I want to come back and visit this world again too!” She added excitedly. “I want to know more about the bowling we saw, and video games, and — what did you call that one thing? A calzone? — and well, everything!”

Mario laughed outright. “Sure, come back anytime! Luigi and me know allll the best spots in Brooklyn like the backs of our hands. With us, you’ll never have a bad time, guaranteed.”

Some bright, delighted mischief flashed in Peach’s eyes. “And besides,” she said, “your mom said she would show me some of your baby pictures next time. I have to see that because I can’t imagine you without a mustache, honestly. It just doesn’t seem possible.” 

Mario’s laughter got less boisterous and much more strained in a big hurry. “Right, right,” he said, voice cracking. “Gotta remember to, heh, burn some of those before then.”

“Don’t you dare!” 

With more than a little reluctance, she waved over at Toad, signaling that it was time for them to say goodbye. 

“I’ve got to get out of this wedding dress already,” she joked, holding up the skirt so Mario could clearly see all the tears and scorch-marks and dark staining, all intermingled with white and glittering pink. On the top, she was wearing a new, light pink “I LOVE NY” shirt from a cheap souvenir store; Luigi had actually been the one to get it for her, having noticed that she was spending a lot of time standing out in the sun with her shoulders uncovered. At some point along the way, she'd also tied up her blonde hair in a messy ponytail to keep it out of the way. “What a disaster, huh?”

Mario honestly thought that she looked beautiful. But there was no way he could say that, and he also didn’t want to agree because that sounded rude. Thankfully, he had only had a few more seconds of mounting internal panic left to go on that subject before Toad and Luigi came over.

“Your brother’s just as cool as you are, Mario!” Toad brightly announced out of the blue, which in turn made Luigi jolt and blush behind him. “But I should have guessed! You guys are the SUPER Mario Brothers, after all!” 

“Hey, I coulda told you that a lot sooner!” Mario grabbed Luigi around the middle with one arm and squeezed tight, enough to make his brother wriggle with a hoarse, surprised laugh. “He’s always got my back!”

“Hey, hey, I’m flattered, but there’s no way I’m as cool as Mario,” Luigi insisted, grabbing and squeezing Mario right back, playfully poking at his stomach. “Are ya kidding? This is the best guy in the world, c’mon! No contest!”

"You c'mon! Who came up with using a manhole cover as a shield out of the blue, huh?” 

Luigi blinked a few times and then ducked his head down with a big, bashful grin. “Okay, maybe that was me.”

“Exactly.” He smushed his brother’s cap, ruffling his hair underneath. “What were you guys talking about, anyway?”

“Ohohoho, wouldn’t you like to know,” Toad insisted right away with a thick air of secrecy. He mimed locking his mouth with a key and then tossing it away, winking in Luigi's direction. “No need to be jealous, Mario. I can have two best friends.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mario replied dryly.

“It was no big deal, r-really!” Luigi backed Toad up, a little too loudly. His eyes looked somewhat glassy, as though he was teetering on the verge of tears, but when Mario met his gaze full-on, worried all of a sudden, his brother smiled back, big and sincere and seemingly very happy. “We’re all good! Better than good! We’re great!”

Peach stepped forward, then. “You really made a difference when it counted most, Luigi,” she said warmly, taking one of his hands in her own and patting it. “Thank you again for that. I know you didn’t see the best our world has to offer, but I hope you’ll give us another chance soon enough.” 

Luigi, having stiffened a little at her touch out of sheer surprise, relaxed again. “Of course, Peach — I mean, Princess Peach. Your highness? Ma’am!” He gave her a salute with the other hand, for some reason. “I, uh, definitely appreciate it.” 

She let go of him and reached for Mario’s hand in turn. Out of the blue, he thought about kissing the back of it — she was a princess, right? Wasn’t that what people did in all the fairytale books? — but that was a silly idea, stupid enough to make the back of his neck burn from embarrassment. Instead, he simply held onto her tight for a long moment, reflecting her sweet smile back at her, his heart pleasantly fluttering.

Further down, Toad grabbed one of Mario’s legs and one of Luigi’s legs in both arms and hugged them fiercely at the same time, sniffling a little. They gave his head a few soft pats in return (and winced when he loudly blew his nose into their overalls). 

“See you around, Mustache,” Peach said softly. She took a small step backwards towards the pipe but didn’t let go of him, their arms stretching out further. “And don’t forget what we talked about,” she added after a beat, delicate, maybe even the tiniest bit hopeful. “What I offered…it’s always on the table, if you ever do decide you want it.” 

“I won’t forget,” he said in return, softer too. “Stay safe.” 

She squeezed his hand one last time, and then she and Toad were gone. The warp pipe’s signature sound bounced off the impossibly high walls of the room they were in until it was just a tiny echo. Mario took a deep breath. He turned to find Luigi beaming at him, eyebrows raised high and wiggling a little at the ends.

"Shut up," he sighed.

“What!? I didn’t even say anything!” Luigi insisted, even as he continued to grin.

“Yes, you did. I can read your mind.” Even Mario’s sternest do NOT go there, I’m serious look could never do much when Luigi was ready to do some ruthless teasing, but he tried it anyway as they started to trudge towards the stairwell at a much slower pace then when they’d first come down it. When had he started to feel so tired? A big yawn fought its way up his throat before he could continue. “I just met her! We’re friends. That’s all there is to it, thank you and goodnight.”

“Look, you can't prove a thing, but if I was saying something, well, I'd start with the way she was looking at you.” Luigi whistled. Mario pulled down the brim of his cap, if only to hide the sudden warmth creeping into his face a little better.  “She certainly seems like a princess with good taste, y’know?”

“All right, all right. Ya done?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m not! She’s already got a dress too, which is really convenient. After all, weddings are expensive—”

“Stop, Lu. You better not breathe a word of this back home! Cause you’re gonna get Ma and Dad all riled up too and then I’ll never hear the end of it."

“Are ya serious!? Oh, my poor, sweet, naïve Mario. They already smelled the blood in the water at least five hours back. They were talking about little blonde grandkids when you were in the bathroom and everything.” 

At least the long trek ahead of them out of the sewers would give Mario time for his face to cool down to a normal temperature again. “Great, great, just what I need,” he grumbled. “Now I gotta find a princess for you to get the heat off me.”

“W-What!?” Luigi sputtered. “I mean, I wish. But a kingdom only has one princess, right? And you’re the lucky guy.” 

“There wasn’t just one kingdom,” Mario mused. He was climbing the stairs by then, metal clanging with each step. “I betcha all the money I have that if I went looking around long enough over there, I could find a real cute royal out there who has a thing for the color green.”

He reached behind him to give Luigi’s shoulder a playful shove, only for his hand to meet nothing but air. Turning fully, he saw that his brother was moving a lot slower than he’d expected. He was still at the bottom of the stairs, clinging to the railing and blinking furiously, his gaze focused on nothing in particular. 

“Luigi?” Mario asked hesitantly. “You good?”

Luigi perked up at that and gave a thumbs-up. “A-okay!” He chirped, starting to climb. “I just — whew. I’m a little, uh, dizzy. It feels like that crazy star hung around for a while, eh? Like, we weren’t super-powered anymore, but nothing hurt, and I still had tons of energy to do whatever I wanted. But now…”

“Yeah, I’m definitely feeling that too.” Mario realized it more clearly, his breathing already labored after only climbing one flight of stairs. The injuries weren’t back, thankfully, but he was aching all over, a new heaviness creeping into his bones more and more. Luigi was hurrying to catch up with him, moving unsteadily. 

“Just go slow,” Mario called. “We’re not in a hurry. Be careful.”

It didn’t seem like Luigi heard him, still trying to talk as he climbed, huffing and puffing. “I mean, wow! We were running all over the place! We were fixing things! We were saving Brooklyn! But…huh. Something’s kinda weird.” His voice had dropped down into a mumble, so quiet and fast that Mario almost couldn’t understand him. “I’m having that pins-and-needles feeling, like my legs are asleep, but I’m still walking just fine. Right? Do I look normal walking? Be honest. I…I can’t tell.” He looked sleepy, and then he suddenly looked frightened, unfocused, as though he wasn’t even sure where he was at all. “Wait. Am I upside down? Mario…”

It happened so fast. With one last shuddery breath, Luigi’s eyes rolled back into his head. He started to fall backwards, about to topple down a nearly full flight of stairs. 

Mario’s heart seized. “Luigi!”

He covered several steps in one desperate jump. Somehow, he managed to get one arm around his brother and pull him back with every last scrap of strength he had left, crushing their bodies together. The other arm, he wrenched over and around the railing blindly, worn metal scratching and squeaking against him painfully as he struggled to hold onto it. For a long, agonizing moment, the fight against gravity seemed like it was going to be too much to overcome, and Mario, teeth gritted, mentally prepared himself to turn them around in the air so he would take the brunt of the long fall. But miraculously, his shoes found enough purchase on the steps, and his aching grip lasted just long enough for Mario to pull their combined weight back in the other direction. The two collapsed in a heap against the ascending stairs instead. 

Mario’s gasping breaths seemed like the only sound in the world, the echoes bouncing wildly all around.

“Luigi,” he finally managed to wheeze — quiet at first, then again, much louder. As gently and carefully as he could manage, he scooted up into a sitting position and turned his brother over onto his back, cradling him. He was still out cold. Mario patted his face. “Hey, Luigi. Come on, Lu, wake up for me, all right? I’m here. I’ve gotcha.” He patted a little harder, steadfastly ignoring the way his hands were trembling at that point. Every second passing with no change stretched on, an eternity and then some. “You’re all right, everything’s all right. Come on, Luigi, snap out of it…” 

Up close, Luigi looked extremely pale, sweat beaded along the line of his cap. How had Mario not noticed that before? He’d been too caught up with all the cleanup efforts, too distracted by Peach and Toad and the thought of that hypothetical house. How could he not see that Luigi was starting to struggle? What kind of brother was he? 

The kind that does something really, REALLY stupid because of pride or "destiny" or whatever you wanna call it. The kind that not only drags his brother down with him to do the stupid thing, but almost gets him killed because of it. 

Mario's shoulders sagged. He gripped Luigi tighter, pressing his little brother's face close to the crook of his neck, if only to try and desperately ground himself in the knowledge that he could feel him breathing still, at least. Their injuries were gone, it was true, but for Mario, it was suddenly like the star had just shifted the pain around instead. He could feel it pressing up from under his skin, a deep well that was ready to split him open all the way through if he let it.

It no longer seemed like he'd just been in a magical world on a whirlwind adventure, or that he'd defeated a spiked turtle monster with anger issues and saved Brooklyn in a glorious, technicolor blur. Now, he was just a small, ordinary man in a dark sewer room underground, exhausted and terrified and unable to help the person he loved most.

All of a sudden, Luigi jolted under his hands. “Noooo more flambé for me, thankyouverymuch, I’m-a good!” He shouted, the words slurred together to the point of being nearly unintelligible. With a handful of slow, very confused blinks, he finally managed to focus on Mario’s extremely relieved face overhead. “Waaaaaaait. Whuh happen?”

Mario bundled up all those sharp, aching feelings behind a new wall and regathered himself. No matter what, he was going to stay strong, stay in control. He needed to do that for Luigi’s sake. There was no other choice. “You went down like a big sack of bricks, ya lug,” he tried to joke, even as his voice cracked badly on the last word. “Nearly gave me a heart attack! Are you okay?”

Luigi considered this information, eyes unclouding bit by bit. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, soft, a little embarrassed. “Y-Yeah, I think I’m good. I, uh, don’t really know what happened there! It was like…it all just hit me at once, I guess.” 

“Yeah, no kidding.” Mario worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “When’s the last time you slept, bro?”

Discomfort crept into Luigi’s expression at that. He looked away from Mario, not able to meet his gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. “Well, I dunno if I — I was wandering around for a while, and then I couldn’t really sleep in that cage, y’know? All that lava made the metal real hot, so I had to keep moving to not get burned, and you have no idea how hard it is to nod off when there’s a creepy star laughing its head — body? — head off in the next cage over, and, and...well, I’m sure I got an hour here and there,” he scoffed lightheartedly, waving off the thought with a wobbly sweep of his hand through the air. “Nothing worse than those all-nighters in high school!”

“You almost had a nervous breakdown because of those all-nighters,” Mario said. His grip on Luigi’s shoulder tightened, fingers winding snug in the green material. “And…what about food? Water? We’ve been go-go-go all day. I didn’t even think about…”

A brand-new sense of dawning horror came over Mario, sudden enough that he trailed off. He couldn't remember them ever taking a break, even sitting down in the shade for a few minutes. There'd just been so much to do, so many people in need of help, and the two of them had felt so good, laughing and joking and keeping up with no problems whatsoever. The time had flown by. But now...

“Pfft, who needs it?” Luigi said, extremely casually and extremely unconvincingly. He coughed, closing his eyes again for a long moment, resting his cheek sleepily against Mario’s chest. “Hmm. A guard gave me some sips a couple of times? And there was some weird bread. I think it was bread. Who even knows? It was stale like croutons. Not like the really good garlic ones Ma makes, though. These were like…like erasers or something. Blech.” 

A few sips of water and some "bread." A couple of hours of sleep, if that. Luigi was on his own, scared and struggling and eventually imprisoned in a maniac’s floating lava airship, for over two full days.

“Well, no wonder you passed out,” Mario sighed, rough and very quiet. He had to talk like that — any louder, and his voice was going to become too unwieldy. It already felt like someone had promptly stuffed his heart into a blender and cranked it up to the highest setting. “Speaking of Ma, she’s probably got a full spread out by now. I’m gonna get you home, you’re gonna eat until you pop, and,” he had to pause for a moment to swallow, his throat hurting, “and then you’re gonna sleep until you can’t anymore, okay? That’s what we’re doing.”

Luigi sighed too, his smile resurfacing. “Man, that sounds like heaven. What are we waiting for?” He started to sit up with newfound determination, only for the dizzying sight of the stairs descending down into the dark beneath them to make his motions distinctly more rubbery again in a hurry. He sunk back into Mario’s arms, breathing faster, eyes closed again.

“Just, uh, one more minute," he half-wheezed. "Nothing to worry about, I’m getting up right now, I swear, but…is it just me or is it really, really hot down here? Those burns I had, they’re all gone, which is great, but I can still kindaaaa feel them? Is that a medical thing? Or am I freaking out? Because, heh, it’s starting to feel like I might be freaking out, and not to toot my own horn but some might consider me an expert when it comes to the signs of freaking out—”

“Just breathe, Lu,” Mario interjected, gently but firmly, the way he always did when Luigi got lost in a thought process that wasn’t going to lead him anywhere good in a hurry. “We can wait as long as ya need. No rush at all.”

Mario pressed back the brim of Luigi’s cap so he could brush his hairline soothingly, wipe away the sweat. He leaned down, gathering Luigi close enough to bump their foreheads together so they could breathe in slow, deep unison. He’d done that little motion to Luigi their whole lives, an unspoken shorthand that only they understood. When his little brother was scared or anxious, touching foreheads was a way to make the world smaller, less overwhelming, if only for a few seconds. It was an easy way to say: who cares about any of that? Focus on me instead. It’s just the two of us. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you.

(And he’d tried, hadn’t he? He tried, and he hadn’t been good enough this time, when it mattered most. Luigi had suffered because he couldn’t hold on tightly enough. Because he hadn’t fought harder, been smarter, pushed to move faster throughout every part of the trip. And at the end when he’d finally found his brother? It had just been dumb luck, really. He’d squinted up at all the cages at the right time through the haze of the lava heat, breathless from the climb and still half-focused on trying to stay in the air without plummeting, and he’d seen his brother fall, and his body had just reacted without any thought, desperation and adrenaline screaming in his veins, the only word in his head echoing out as faster, faster, FASTER. And if one little thing had gone differently — if he hadn’t found that specific powerup, if he hadn’t figured out how to use it properly, if he'd been looking anywhere else, if he’d misjudged the speed or simply missed his grab entirely — then that would have been it, and it would have been all his fault. The sight felt seared into Mario’s head, something he could see whether his eyes were open or closed. He saw Luigi tumbling in the air, terrified and yelling and out of control, hurtling towards the lava at full speed. Only this time, he couldn’t reach him, he couldn’t move at all, he could only watch helplessly and in horror as he—)

“Mario?” Luigi asked quietly. “Are you okay?”

Mario jolted back into the moment. He was breathing too hard, too fast; a tremor ran through him, bone-deep. Luigi was holding one of his arms, his eyes big and shining with newfound worry.

Mario smiled reassuringly for him, as easy and unthinking as a reflex. He took Luigi’s hand and wedged his fingers through his with a tight squeeze, resolving not to let go again until they were safely at home. That awful drowning feeling was rippling all through him, but he could keep his head above it if he focused hard enough, if he refused to let it sneak up on him again. He could do that. He would do that, no matter what it took.

With a slew of careful, slow-going movements, the two brothers finally stood up together on the stairs. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Mario said, and turned to lead the way. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here."

[ftmsteveraglan]

this is so cringe im sorry but i just noticed ur blog with trans william afton/steve raglan and you are so so incredibly real for that i think!!!! if you’re still taking requests, could you write like a fanfic where both william and the reader is trans bc like bro…. i rarely see fanfics that include ftm william AND ftm reader 😭😭 like i never see t4t william but ik his freaky ass would be attracted to that t guy boy loser swag or whatever…. but if ur not taking requests anymore/or has already done this its all good tho!!

also unrelated but happy new year!! can’t believe it’s 2014 already… /j

so i've gotten two requests for t4t william x reader, and it makes me happy to see that other people agree that he'd be into that cringefail loser t guy energy. hope you guys enjoy some smut!

contains: dom william, ftm4ftm, face sitting, william with a strap, matthew lillard's tongue. words for genitalia include slit, hole, cock, and tdick.

"that's it, baby, let me hear you."

you couldn't help the whine rising up in your chest as he murmured against your skin. you tried to squirm away from his teasing, but with one big hand gripping your thigh and the other squeezing your ass, william made it very clear that he was the one in control, and he'd be getting what he wanted. your futile attempts to get control only spurred him on as he ran his obscenely long tongue up your slit, drinking in your juices.

"come on, babe, quit teasing," you complained, grinding down on his face. william's deep chuckle from beneath you only stoked the fire in your belly some more. you gasped as you felt his tongue slip inside you, tasting as much as he could. as soon as his tongue entered you, it disappeared, only for william to wrap his lips around your tdick, making you whimper.

"love this fucking cock, baby," he groaned before running his tongue over it. you gripped onto the headboard, knuckles white from exertion, as he sucked eagerly, knowing just how much this would drive you crazy. any shame you had left as you ground harder against his face, chasing your orgasm, until finally, after several long, agonizing minutes, you came with a loud cry, whining as william crooned up at you, "there we go, baby, just let go..."

he playfully smacked your ass as you climbed off of his face. the sight of him send another shock of heat to your core, his normally bright eyes dark and wild with lust, his beard soaked in your slick. william chuckled and licked his lips, savoring your taste for just a bit longer.

"we're not done yet, baby," he purred as he shifted positions on the bed. "i wanna see how pretty you look when you come on my cock."

you moved around to lay on the bed, allowing yourself to get a better look at william's strap on. you could see his own slick running down his thighs as he stroked the sparkly purple strap, and part of you desperately wanted to eat him out, to taste him just as he'd done to you.

but tonight was all about you.

william climbed on top of you and leaned down to kiss you, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips. "tell me what you want, baby," he said softly before kissing you some more.

"just fuck me already," you begged. "fuck me, please, please, please..."

william grinned as you pleaded for him, a predatory smile which sent a thrill through your veins, before he lined up his strap with your hole.

"good boy," he murmured, kissing you as he slid his way inside.

[xeonetrlight]

My Thoughts about Murder Drones Episode 8

Hoo boy this has been a freaking long time coming huh, well hey there, my name is Xeon and I am finally getting to talk about Murder Drones episode 8 it was a freaking doozy because I just never had time to even type this up for the past week and I FINALLY GET TO TALK ABOUT IT!!! So without further ado, lets begin. Positives: So to talk about the positives, can we just give massive applause for the music in this episode, I swear tracks such as "Forever", "....Run" "Call-back ping" and "Bite Me" were all incredible tracks, no scratch that, the whole ost was fantastic. Oh and the animation was just freaking top notch from the fights between Uzi, N and Cyn/Solver or V vs J or the final fight with Cyn and J vs N, V and Uzi, just every fight was brimming with energy. I also loved the small interactions like Nori and Uzi where she encourages Uzi to fight back and reunite with those back at Copper 9 or when Nori just says that "she hates Khan" even though she clearly loves him, lol what a tsundere. Oh i also have to talk about hallway and the "Let me in" scenes, they were so freaking good and god, i was gripping my chair every time i go back to rewatch it. Oh and the ending when N says "That's my girlfriend." made me squeal like a little girl. Negatives: So for the things that I can call out as negative, I have to say that I am kinda disappointed in how Tessa and J ended in the final episode. I just feel awful for Tessa, she was such an interesting character and they could have done so much with her as both a character and a form of plot for N and the other Disassembly drones in the Manor era, and yet all they do is just leave her for dead. Another thing that I am kinda mad about is how J was treated, she had known about what Cyn/Solver had done to Tessa or rather what it planned to do with the solver cores and the planet after another complaint I have is that the rest of the episode felt a bit rushed near the end, I mean in that most of the episode is dedicated to the fight but that just leaves a whole coffin of questions like the origins of the solver, what did the Disassembly Drones do after Earth and even the time skip after the final battle make it feel like they were trying to wrap it up as quick as possible. Conclusion: In the end, I do think that they did a rather fine job with ending this series and honestly, despite some issues I have with this show in its ending, I am genuinely happy to be a part of this fandom and just seeing this series wrap up on a high note. I just adore these drones so freaking much and I am glad to have been along for the ride and I hope you all have a fantastic day.

[jungkoode]

oh my god kiki that last Off-Labels chapter T-T I went "my shaylaaaaa" out loud when i finished it. Also im in literal tears, idk if its a mix of catharsis bc i realyl had a bad day or bc this is so *Jung Hoseok* at his core, this is so him to want to play with someone, to dominate them and teach them, but that's so him to have all this guilt and self-disgust bc he realized he fucked up BAD all this time because in a way, he overestimated his opponent. He thought he was playing with an adept player at pretending to lose and be lost, it took him that long to realize the other person was not laying the same game at all. Like this is so him. Is it your way of telling us youre one of Hobi's ex or something because that's so close to character. The emotional hig and low i felt myself, knowing that MC was enjoying the game of checkers but Hoseok was playing chess so of course they may not understand to what extent they were losing like omg but yeah youre a genius and Off-Labels is one of my favorite non-supernatural characterization of Hoseok

Oh my God, my SHAYLAAAAAA!!! I'm legitimately sitting here CRYING with you and cackling at the same time at your reaction! Trust me, you describing that emotional rollercoaster was EXACTLY what I was hoping to achieve with this chapter.

I knowwww, I know, I know! That's why on Hoseok's birthday I only posted Chapters 5 and 6—because I wanted you all to soak in the giddy and smutty sweet vibes before everything came crashing down in Chapter 7. I'm not even sorry for the emotional warfare! Had to give y'all the sugar high before the crash.

And LISTEN, I am SCREECHING at "Is it your way of telling us you're one of Hobi's ex?" AJSKDKF OH MY GOD STOP. 💀 I wish I could say I knew him that well, but honestly, this characterization comes from watching him for years and seeing that exact duality—this playful, teasing energy but also that deeply reflective, self-aware part of him that would absolutely spiral if he thought he'd hurt someone unintentionally.

Because that's EXACTLY the dynamic I wanted to capture—Hoseok thinking he's playing chess with someone who understands all the moves and strategies, only to realize they've been playing checkers the whole time. He completely overestimated her experience level, and now he's DISGUSTED with himself. Not because she's "pure" or whatever gross shit (we don't do that here!!), but because he realizes the power imbalance was so much bigger than he thought.

But don't worry, because that means we are reaching the end of this mini series (11 chapters), and soon these two will get their shit together! They just need to have an ACTUAL conversation where they ACTUALLY say what they want instead of playing mind games first, lmao.

And thank you for saying this is one of your favorite non-supernatural characterizations of him. 😭 That means so much because I've been obsessing over getting his character right!​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[unohanadaydreams]

I read a fanfic once that talked about how overlooked Yuzu is. Like everybody talks about Karin's potential but nobody ever talks about Yuzu - she's only eleven years old but she does everything Masaki did for the family (or tries to). She's does the chores, she's the family cook, she's the one who tries to keep everyone afloat on top of school as well. We see Karin has some friends she plays soccer with but Yuzu doesn't seem to have much of a social life. Idk it makes me sad for her.

I think she doesn't have many friends. When Yuzu "steals" Kon and treats him like a doll, we see that she has a pretty solid collection of various dolls and treats them all with an amount of care & infuses them with an amount of personality that indicates she spends a lot of time with them. Not to mention the amount of time keeping a household (and helping in the clinic) takes up is massive.

She is overly invested in what everyone in the house--especially Ichigo--is doing like a mother figure would be (like saying he's different since entering highschool/officially being a teen??) & its played as a brothercon thing, but it just smacks of Yuzu feeling like this is the only way she can connect with him and desperately trying to bring her family back to being close again, if only she could just pull them into orbit and be half of what her mother was. Which is such a concerning way to go about it, but she's a child and has no idea how impossible it is.

The only time I can think of where she has anything resembling friends is when she & Karin are part of the Karakura Superheroes which is a throw away thing. I'd like to think she does stay friends with them. And Jinta having a crush on her is a recurring little thing, so it makes me hopeful that she does hang out with him and Ururu from time to time.

Like it's very obviously a choice she is making to stay at home and care for her family, but it's one from a misguided place borne from seeing what her mother's death has done to her family. And Isshin just lets it happen, mostly because he is at his core a Shinigami from Soul Society where no one deals with their trauma, they just keep it pushing and hope a battle will bring them enough catharsis to over come it for a while.

Compound that with the fact that Yuzu canonically feels left out because she can't really see spirits like her brother or sister & there's this firm distance between them. The gravity is keeping them at arms length, no matter how hard she tries.

If anyone would really benefit from getting to know the Shiba family, I think it would be Yuzu. Kuukaku's household is kept by men while she leisurely drinks and goes about her business and makes sure she knows the intimate details of everyone elses'. Yuzu would be sitting on her hands trying to keep from picking up a broom, at first, but then get amped up on feeling so close to everyone's actions.

I think Yuzu discovering a purpose outside of what she currently has is essential, even if she doesn't gain much in the way of friends to accomplish that.

On the upside, after the initial bumps in the road that would come from her moving in, I think Orihime would be a huge boon for her. And Orihime would definitely encourage her to transfer her energy into school clubs and such. Sewing club sisters would be made a reality. They are creating bentos never before seen by mankind that crush Instagram with each one posted. They are shoving a bone back into a leg with complete calm together like they've been working alongside each other for years. The Yuzu & Karin going to college fund is alive and building.

Orihime would definitely be the driving force of Yuzu stepping away from holding the ghost of her mother over her shoulders, imo.

Also side tangent, speaking of Yuzu in fics:

I actually have this draft where Mayuri sends a bogus resort offer in the mail & Yuzu falls for it, resulting in Yuzu & Karin taking a train to the Soul Society where Mayuri tries to figure out if they have the potential to be like their brother under the guise of "spa treatments" that I did not finish in time for a Bleach prompt event on here. And one of my favorite parts in there is that Yuzu is so experienced with maintaining a home that she realizes one of the walls is not like the others and wanders out of the charade. Great with sewing, not squeamish since she helps in the clinic so often, and very level headed since she has to balance so many concerns. Huge people management skills. Time management God.

Akon is playing 4d chess trying to find a way to keep her around as she spends her vacation helping him discover just how much potential Karin has to be like their brother in power while helping juggle his other duties.

Yuzu would own in R&D.

[allbeendonebefore]

hi hapo! just want to say thanks for all the work that you do, keeping the canadian personification side of the fandom alive. i live over 15,000 miles away from canada, but i fell in love with iamp and all its projects as a teen. 10 years later, my coursework on canadian politics and society has nominated me into a programme with a major canadian university.

if it's okay, i'd like to ask you how you deal with 'hobby burnout' when your interests align so closely with your study/work! canada's regional identities, history and politics are fascinating to me, but because of how i'm approaching academically, it saps some of the creative energy i have for my own province OC projects. even though it's important because of how inherently political personifications are, the weight of real historical and social issues sometimes bleeds into my projects more than i can handle.

thanks in advance!

[ catthatjustwokeup.jpg ]

whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat

wow thank you for this very thoughtful and flattering note and congratulations on DOING THE THING, that's wild! and hey if that major university is one i'm familiar with or have contacts in feel free to let me know so i can make recommendations on tasty treats and bookshops lol, but no pressure. (I am intending to stick close to academia for the foreseeable future, so it's nice to know what's going on across the country and across disciplines even when I'm not Formally Studying.)

uh well this is going to be long and rambling so i hope at least part of it makes sense and shout if there's anything I can clarify. The tongue in cheek short answer is "get a job at a university and get institutional access foreverrrrrrrr"

the hobby burn out is real for all the reasons you described and quite honestly i do what i've been doing since i was a kid who struggled making friends because i was Weird about my Interests in a way that I suspect may have been some flavour of neurodivergence that I continue to not investigate. That is, I have a handful of core interests that i cycle through and focus on when for whatever reason times get tough, it's kind of a juggling act that I will try to explain.

The Quick Fix

I think the fastest thing of Getting Away From It is having a few of those interests be Enduring, that is, the Simple Things from Childhood, if you can dust them off and get those feelings from them. While I realize going to post-secondary makes you full of Nuance and Ennui, or encountering shitty situations that ruin things for you over the course of your life is a big risk here, trying to find a grain of that you can build a pearl around is helpful. I still have been trying to beat the same Sonic games for 20+ years, I still like watching Empire Strikes Back or 1960s sitcoms when I'm feeling sick, and I still like going to the kinds of places that I loved going to as a kid like the zoo or museums to learn something from someone who's super passionate about a cool thing. It's just about making room for them and getting ready to catch them when they're coming up, which can sometimes seem impossible when you're deep into work or academia, but also necessary.

And it's also just about treating your child-self to something. I just think it's healthy once in a while to create something that would make your younger self excited or even want to be you. Take that kid with you once in a while, it's good for you both.

Personification Juggling

Within history/personifications generally, this usually results in a flip flopping between @athensandspartaadventures, which i had to quit working on and avoid during my first masters because thinking about "work" and school was so mentally draining that it ironically ended up becoming a bit of an IAMP renaissance for me, and likewise I have come back to AaSA after a long hiatus because I haven't been studying it formally since 2017, I finally got some time to read my accumulated pile of literature, and because [gestures at the current political situation].

The other thing I did within the 'fandom' (if thats what it is? i guess?) is I changed the granularity of what I was doing according to what I was thinking about at the time. For me this ultimately became @battle-of-alberta which I created primarily out of homesickness but also partially out of a retrospective need to process the "small town -> big city" transition that accompanied Becoming an Adult (tm). It occurred to me that I didn't JUST have to do either 1. Historically Brilliant Analyses With Punchlines or 2. Angry Vent Comics With Punchlines, I could also return to the sort of experiences of daily life that I was learning to notice and not just survive. I think of all the comics I do that I like doing comics about "taking the bus" or "minor annoying ways people behave in public" or "weird local news/memes" the best, even if it ultimately is very biased I think it can resonate with different people in different ways and I think the point of doing it is to get people to laugh and consider how these things do or don't match up with their own experience and to share that.

The Touch Grass Part

I think the above paragraph sort of segues nicely into "go outside, see thing that reminds you of blorbo, draw blorbo" advice, but what if you CAN'T draw blorbo???

Save your academic shit somewhere. Save those pdfs you don't have time to read, save those citations, save those quotes. Whether this is in like a physical bullet journal or a digital file or some combination, make sure you write down your sources and ideas so that 10 years after graduating you REMEMBER where to find That Thing you read on the left-hand side of some book that had a green cover. I cannot tell you how many times this has happened to me and I tear my hair out thinking "if only when I posted that stupid drawing and made that vague allusion I put a link or a citation in there so i knew what I was talking about!!" You're burned out now, sure, but some day some random anon is going to come and say hey you made an impact on my life, do you have any headcanons about blorbo and squimbus? and you'll be like FUCK!! I THINK SO!! BUT WHERE!? I try to tag these things now that a lot of things come up incidentally in my work work and I try to at least write down the date of the article for each of my newspaper screencaps and hope that I'll still be able to get along with the OCR/Proquest to find it again if I need to.

Make connections that enhance and outlast fandom. I cannot emphasize enough that this fandom is THE REASON that i have friends I can crash with from LITERAL COAST TO COAST (still working on that third coast). I have been so lucky to have hosts who are willing to share their local spots with me, and to have visitors I've been able to show around my home and adopted cities. It's just good for the soul to see things through someone else's eyes. I realize that travel is expensive and not always possible, so I encourage also both online and snail mail exchanges just to hear what is different and what is similar about places on this earth, and have fun exploring physically or virtually. You might be surprised.

Channel your inner anthropologist and get totally out of your depth on something, observe your observations. This kind of is related to the "go to the zoo" thing and also the "notice being an adult thing", but say yes to weird opportunities occasionally. Go see that play, learn how to make something, attend that highly specific conference of a profession you didn't realize HAD conferences (listen i got a free ticket to an event full of arborists last year and i was mostly there for the free food but i learned stuff about trees and bats that live in trees and people who plant trees and cut down trees and?? what a nice way to spend a summer afternoon compared to doomscrolling even though i spent a lot of it apologizing for not being there for any reason other than being a plus one.)

It sucks but sometimes you need to just quit cold turkey and let it simmer for a year or something. It sucks and it hurts but honestly sometimes you just need to put a moratorium on it because thinking about it puts you into the pits of despair, and that isn't healthy. Like, I used to listen to CBC radio every morning because it was a huge source of inspiration for me, and I had to stop for a long time because i was laying in bed grinding my teeth, so instead i switched to listening in the afternoon while i'm cooking. It's ok to put as much as you can stand of it aside, it'll still be there when you're physically and mentally able to notice the connections and appreciate them again. Combine with #2 and #3 for best results, sometimes you just need to get out of your own head and see things with different eyes, i.e. if the sociopolitical shit is getting you down try to change your routine or look at something else from another angle entirely. Learn something about the natural world, or the architectural world, or the urban planning world, just try to look for another door without carrying the baggage with you and see what you find behind it.

And kind of a spin-off of the above but trying to do a thing for a non-blorbo audience is also helpful. I'm currently working for two local history orgs and one of the things I'm doing is an illustrated article/comic that has nothing to do with my previous work, but is something my previous work prepared me to do. It's nice to do something for normies that build on all the things I did for school or for blorbs without exposing myself too badly, haha. Likewise, I have a dedicated sketchbook JUST for urban sketching so that I don't feel like dying 1000 deaths when a stranger sees me sketching, and it's something I can show people irl as a document of where i've been and what i noticed without worrying about them stumbling on my weird esoteric yaoi.

Finally, speaking of weird esoteric yaoi, just get comfortable doing bad stuff. Do the worst thing you think of. Maybe don't post it unless you think it will really resonate with people, haha, but get comfortable with being uncomfortable and making things you can't stand the sight of, or things that make you laugh because they are so stupid or so bad. Do self indulgent stuff but do it BADLY on PURPOSE. Don't take anything too seriously and don't worry about things being too niche and i swear to god do Not let the work that you do for yourself hinge on some arbitrary terminally online standard of success. People will always find a way to read things in bad faith or have wrong opinions or whatever, so allow yourself to get things wrong and to be cringe and to do things that won't make sense for your own sake, not theirs.

so. I don't know if this is completely comprehensive but I hope this is a start and gives you some ideas. The only other thing that I can add off the top of my head is that eventually, school ends. Whether it turns into work or it turns into something completely unexpected, it will end and even if it doesn't end when you think it will the experience will inevitably change. What works for me might not work for you now, but it might later, or it might work for somebody, I don't know, but nothing is permanent and that's ok.

I don't know you anon but if you or someone reading this is experiencing the joys and sorrows of Being In Your Twenties still, good luck to you and it does get better. It might feel like you are completely Baby and also Overburdened with Responsibility but trust me there are going to be times where you miss it, and where you realize "i know more than i thought i did" and "wait i can revisit that thing!" and it's actually a relief.

There are always going to be points where the work is a slog and you feel like an idiot and you feel like there is so much nuance you will never grasp, and that's fine. That's just the agony of being in the Conscious Incompetence quarter of the cycle, and eventually you will remember that you can do some pretty neat stuff when you reach other parts of that cycle. Nothing is permanent, including your understanding and your skill, and isn't it wonderful to be able to build on stuff you thought you knew and also learn stuff you didn't know you would?? wild. yeah

[ you watch me sit in silence for an hour wishing i could just manifest a gif of that poorly attempted mic drop from the 22 minutes skit about the last time you'll get to have to hear justin ]

[consistencynevermether]

Astarion x Wizard! Tav reader

A/N: part 3 of my Astarion with different Tav classes. its magic time baby

summary- 1.1k words, SFW, gn reader

Astarion x Wizard! Tav 

Neeeeerd

No seriously, that's Astarions reaction to you being a wizard. You choose to base your entire life around studying? You two are basically like oil and water in a lot of ways. 

Ok but in all seriousness, Astarion does admire your dedication to your craft. He sees how much work you put into learning new spells and is genuinely excited when you get it right 

It doesn’t mean he’s gonna stop making fun of you though. You're telling him you belong to a SCHOOL of magic??? Need for Academic validation much? Oh and please, if you're gonna wear wizard robes try to make them a little stylish, or he’ll come for your sense of fashion too.

Actually, I bet he’d help you spice up your outfits a little. A thigh slit here, a tasteful gold embroidery there, your not completely beyond hope

Dw tho, you can absolutely get him back. Oh, you need some magical assistance? Maybe help figuring out how a magical item works? Uh oh, looks like the rouge needs the wizard's help after all dontcha astarion? 

It’s definitely the highlight of your day when he has to ask for help. Unfortunately, it goes both ways. His speed and skills have definitely saved your ass in battle before 

Honestly, it’s giving annoyances to lovers. Plus I’m convinced at least 40% of Astarions love language is sass and knife cat energy. 

He enjoys the banter definitely, but it’s never meant to cut too deep. He’s good at reading people, so say you're having trouble learning this one spell and you're starting to get frustrated. He can definitely tell and knows not to make jokes about your magic today. He can’t exactly help, because this man is NOT magically inclined. But he’ll pull you away from the spell scroll long enough for you to take a deep breath and have a break. It helps in its own way because now you can come back to it with a more calm mindset. 

You can’t tell me this man isn’t laughing (a little manically) when you cast fireball. I mean come on that’s one of the most entertaining things he’s seen in 200 years let him have some fun

But also-  

He secretly finds your powers very cool. I mean there’s something beautiful about magic at its core, he can’t help but be just a little entranced. And you’ve definitely used magic to show off to him just a lil (make a rose out of magic blue light or somethin he’ll scoff but find it endearing) 

Honestly, I imagine you two are a slight hoarder couple. I mean you need to have all these ingredients for spells on you, and Astarions a rouge he definitely has like at least 5 knives on him at all times. Also the magic items. You both love to hoard those, just in case they’re useful 

If you actually do have some sort of wizard's tower, layer, study, or something Astarion wants to see it

He’ll make a joking excuse as to why he wants to see your lair. And he’s DEFINITELY gonna grab a random cloak in there and do a bad wizard impersonation 

BUT- 

The real reason he wants to see it is because it’s an integral part of you. It’s basically your home, where you store everything you find valuable, where the pantry is always stocked with the food you like, and where the bed has the exact number of pillows you want it to have. Astarion wants to know these things about you. 

I imagine after you finally defeat the mindflayers and everyone goes off to find their own way (or maybe you all stick together and keep adventuring while also occasionally having individual adventures, who am I to break up your found family) you immediately take Astarion to your tower and start working on methods to help him walk in the sun. magic sunscreen? Enchanted daylight ring? Charmed circlet? You've got options and you're not afraid to use them. Anything to make it so that Astarion doesn’t have to live his life in darkness anymore. You jest and say it would be a true tragedy if you couldn't see his beautiful silver hair kissed by the sunrise, but in reality, you were immediately tearing through every tome you owned looking for a solution. After all, who wouldn't do anything for the man that held their heart? 

Ok now imagine. You and Astarion just completed a mission, saving some people in the grove with Halsin. And you already had received a message from Wyll and Karlach asking for assistance smoking out a group of assasins that had settled in Baldurs gate. But gods you were so tired. It was nearly midnight when you both decided to crash at your liar instead of heading straight to the location Wyll had given you. You were both covered in mud, twigs, and other “gifts of nature” as Astarion had described them in a voice mocking Halsins. You were so tired your eyelids stung, and everything was hazy. You both more or less stumbled into your study, already half asleep. 

Of course, you had become a bit more coherent when you realized that there was only one bed. And two of you. Now this might seem a bit ridiculous to care about things like that considering how close the two of you are and how much you have been through and done together, but now hear me out. This man has spent the last 200 years either not having a bed or being forced to share one. You had both decided he needed some time to just be able to have his own space to sleep, after all, you had all of your lifetime together, and you wanted him to be comfortable, so whenever he had come to your study, he slept on the couch. You had wanted to get him a cot or something of his own at the place, buuut it had kinda slipped your mind entirely. And the couch he slept on was currently covered in about 50 books stacked across the couch, another thing you had forgotten about. Whoops. 

You and Astarion both looked at the pile of books on the couch and then at each other. You felt like you were about to pass out where you stood and he didn't look much better. There was an instant understanding between the both of you, that understanding being “fuck it” as you both collapse onto your bed, neither taking off your filthy armor and robes, simply passing out on the spot.

You awoke to a certain vampires face buried in the crook of your neck, trying to block out the sun now shining in his eyes. Eventually, you both dragged yourself out of the small bed and cleaned yourselves up before heading off to Wyll's location, but after this situation you both unspokenly began to sleep in the same bed alot more often.