#ceramics and fanfics

[phoenixortheflame]

Attention Rookie Moves fanatics. Please behold this “Stupefy! Fucking Stupefy!” mug my friend made me.

[crowsoundsonly]

beautiful.

pair: matt murdock x neighbor!fem!reader

word count: ~4.1k

summary: your hot neighbor comes by to check on you when he hears some unusual sounds coming from your apartment.

warnings: a bit of an awkward reader for the first part but she gets it together :D; smut (at the end and i marked when it starts !) fingering (f rec); one use of y/n; guys i've never actually done any ceramics or pottery so i apologize for my ignorance to anyone who actually knows what they are doing. i tried. :) i also recognize that this isn't very realistic and that you probably wouldn't be doing this with your neighbor u barely know, no matter how hot he is, but you know. fantasy and fanfic and all.

a/n: hey guys!! it has been FOREVER since i posted a fic !! i wrote this today and am kind of impulse posting it lol. i've fallen deep into the matt murdock rabbit hole and i don't think i'll be emerging anytime soon. i hope you enjoy the fic !!

The feeling of wet clay in your fingers has always grounded you. Having converted a corner of your small New York apartment into a space for your hobby, you enjoy going to your pottery wheel and creating to the melodies of your favorite songs. Tonight, you needed the outlet more than ever.

Your mind spins as you shuck off your jacket at the door. You stride to your closet to pull out the t-shirt you always wear when you sit behind the wheel, trying to focus on hurriedly changing your clothes, begging your mind to leave alone the horrifyingly embarrassing interaction you just had.

Minutes before, you had approached your building with your headphones shoved in your ears, so you had failed to hear your neighbor, your hot blind neighbor, calling out to you to hold the door. You only noticed him when the door didn’t close properly due to his body being wedged between it and the frame. Ripping your headphones out of your ears, you apologized profusely, yanking the door open for him to awkwardly shuffle through, holding his cane out in front of him before retracting it to his body. 

“I am so sorry! I am so sorry I didn’t hear you,” you exclaimed, stuttering out an explanation that you hope is sufficient enough to permit his forgiveness. “I didn’t hear you. I had my headphones in. I am so sorry.”

You clutched your headphones in your hand as you let the door close behind him. If you were not so rattled, you would have taken the time to really look at him. You have never had the pleasure of actually talking to your neighbor. You have only ever caught glimpses of him on the stairwell dressed in suits, very much like the one he was sporting today.

“Don’t worry about it,” he assured, “I run into more doors than I’d like to admit.”

At his words, you noticed the easy smile that adorned his features, leading you to believe that he was not really hurt, physically or otherwise. Still unsure as to what to do and still stunned that you were talking to him at all, you just nodded your head.

“Being blind and all,” he supplied when you didn’t respond or laugh at his joke, making you realize that you had nodded to a blind man.

“I’m so sorry,” was all you could get out, not specifying what you were apologizing for.

“You closing the door on me didn’t make me blind,” he joked, trying to help the awkwardness.

“No, I’m sorry. I know. I just realized that I had nodded at you and you couldn’t see it. I’m sorry,” you said, the headphones in your hand digging into your palm, sure to leave an imprint because of how tightly you were clenching your fist. 

Your ears burned with embarrassment as heat flashed over your skin. You watched him laugh a little, his shoulders shaking slightly. 

“I think you have said sorry more times in the last minute than I have heard in the last month. Don’t feel bad. I’m fine,” the man said as he began to step forward. “I’m Matt, by the way.” 

He stretched a hand out for you to shake, but you had forgotten the headphones in your hand, so as you reached out, they clattered to the floor. 

You cursed quietly, embarrassing yourself even more, apologizing yet again. You shook his hand quickly, supplying your name before bending down to gather your things at his feet.

“I’m beginning to think that you have some sort of complex,” Matt teased as you stood up, much closer to him than you should be upon first meeting. You were close enough to actually see yourself in the reflection of his glasses and smell the cologne he had on.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered for being so close, taking a step back, wanting nothing in the world other than to dart away and hide in your apartment and hope to forget this whole interaction.

All Matt did was laugh at your apology, set his cane back down on the ground, and begin tapping in front of him. 

“It was nice meeting you,” he said politely as he found his way to the elevator. “Have a good evening, Y/N.”

“You, too, Matt. Sorry again.”

Your feet were stuck in place as you watched him get on the elevator, chuckling to himself. When you finally came to your senses, you began running up the stairwell, your stomach in your throat as you replayed the entire interaction with your hot neighbor in your head on an extremely embarrassing loop.

…

When Matt made it to his apartment, he stripped himself of his jacket, pulled a beer out of the fridge and sat down. He knows that he shouldn’t invade your privacy, but he was curious about what you were doing. It has been a few weeks since your first encounter at the door, and Matt’s curiosity about you has only grown. You have run into each other a handful of times since, but you tend to skirt away before the conversations can get beyond anything simply cordial.

On occasion, he will find your apartment with his ears and listen to the sound of you singing along to your music. There is often an unfamiliar sound coming from your apartment as well, one that he can’t pick out, especially when you have music playing over it. The sound is always a bit wet, so his mind initially thought of something a little more lewd than he should allow himself to think about you.

Matt listens for a moment longer, enjoying the sound of you humming and singing quietly. He was about to let his mind drift away from you until he heard a distinct clatter and a string of curses flow from your lips. He doesn’t hear anything for the next few seconds as he waits to see if you are okay. It feels like hours have passed before he hears you shuffling around your apartment, picking things up off the floor, sighing and muttering as you go. His curiosity gets the better of him, and before he can reconsider, he grabs his cane and walks out the door, intent on knocking on yours.

…

Groaning quietly, you scoop the clay off the floor. You had lost focus and control, leading you to make a mess at your wheel. With your rescued clay in hand, you begin preparing it to be molded again when you hear a knock on the door.

You are not expecting anyone, so you jump a little at the sound. Glancing down at your hands still holding the wet clay in them, you are at a loss at what to do. You shuffle to the door, peaking through the peephole.

At the sight of your neighbor, Matt, you step back and curse to yourself, embarrassed that you look a mess at the moment. He is blind, but you still don’t feel particularly presentable. Another knock at the door snaps you out of your thoughts, and in a bit of a panic, you call out, “Come in!” 

The door slowly clicks open and your neighbor peeks his head through before opening it up all the way. He’s wearing slacks and a white dress shirt, tinted glasses covering his eyes, obviously having recently come home from work. You wonder how he could look so good in such a simple outfit, admiring the way his torso tapers down into his hips.

“Hi, Matt,” you breathe, clutching the clay in your hands, realizing that you are dripping a bit in your doorway. “Is everything okay?” you ask, still confused as to why he is at your door.

“I guess I was coming to ask you that. I was walking by and heard some thuds and wanted to make sure you were okay,” he smiles, leaning slightly on his cane.

“Oh! Yes,” you rush out. “I’m fine. I was just doing some pottery and I, um, my clay kind of flew off the wheel a bit. Would you like to come in for a minute?” 

You had asked the question before really considering what that could mean. Without hesitation, Matt agrees and steps through the door with a few taps of his cane.

“You make pottery,” he states, a smirk on his face making you feel like there is some joke you aren’t understanding behind his words. 

“Yeah, I converted a bit of my apartment into a studio for it,” you say as you start to walk further into your apartment. The clay in your hands starts to weigh heavy as you realize that it is keeping you from leading Matt around. “Sorry, let me put my clay down and I can help you to the couch.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Matt says, followed by your name. Your heart stutters at the sound of your name on his lips. “I can get around fine. Am I facing the right way at least?”

Your mind is racing, trying to catch up with what is happening. You thought that your embarrassing first encounter would have turned him off of ever wanting to get to know you, but it doesn’t seem to be deterring him.

“Yes, just about four steps in front of you is the back of the couch.”

You watch him begin to maneuver around the room before coming to your senses and swiftly setting your clay back down on the wheel. When you turn back around, he has settled into the couch and is folding up his cane.

“Let me wash my hands,” you mumble, striding to the kitchen to scrub the clay off your fingers.

Matt begins making conversation, asking, “How long have you been making pottery?”

He is kind to ask, seemingly genuine in his interest. Over the sounds of the faucet you answer, “I took a class in college. Picked it up as a hobby and have been doing it ever since.”

You can hear him hum as you turn off the sink, drying your hands. Tentatively, you join Matt on the couch, sure to leave a cushion of space between you.

“Do you want something to drink? Beer? Water?” you offer, standing before he even has time to answer.

“Water would be great, thanks,” he replies. You notice the way his lips turn up in a smile and his head cocks to the side as he talks, finding it quirky, if not charming.

You take a few deep breaths at the sink, calming your nerves that have your mind in a jumbled mess. Your hot, well-dressed neighbor is sitting on your couch, happily engaging in small talk as you sit in a ratty t-shirt and shorts. “What am I doing?” you quietly ask yourself as you pick up the glasses off the counter and bring them to Matt, waiting patiently on the couch.

When you offer him the glass, he thanks you softly, bringing the rim to his lips. You can’t help but watch intently, your heart picking up its pace at the thought of doing more with those lips than watching them.

“What do you do for work, Matt?” you ask quickly, trying to distract your own mind from your wandering thoughts.

“I’m a defense attorney. My friend and I have a firm we started together,” he says as he puts his glass down on the coffee table. You are impressed that he even knew it was there, but before you can think too long about it, he has asked you the same question.

“I’m an English teacher,” you say between sips. “At the high school on 76th. Twelfth grade.”

“Admirable,” he laughs. “I hated my English teacher.”

“Everyone who doesn’t end up studying English hated their high school English teachers,” you joke. “What did they make you read? Grapes of Wrath?” 

This only causes Matt to laugh more as he nods, “Worst book I’ve read in my life.”

“Yeah, that one is a tough read,” you concede. “But at least it’s better than The Odyssey.”

“Well, you’ve got me there,” he smiles.

You are not exactly sure what Matt had hoped would happen when he knocked on your door, but you are sure it wasn’t to discuss literature.

“I’m sorry. I can somehow always bring books into the conversation. Is there something I can do for you, Matt?”

He shakes his head slightly, smile only growing wider. “No, I love reading so don’t apologize for talking about it,” he assures you. “And like I said, I was just coming by to make sure you were okay.”

“Right,” you breathe, nodding and smiling. “I’m fine. Just the clay.”

The two of you fall into easy conversation for the next hour, getting to know each other. You discovered that you both frequent Josie’s, the bar around the corner, surprised that you have never run into each other there. He teases you about your first meeting, calling you out for the plethora of sorries you said. 

You enjoy talking to Matt. You find that it is almost effortless to do so. The conversation is seamless and you eventually make your way back to the topic of ceramics where you had started.

“Can I listen while you work?” he asks you. “I have always wanted to try pottery but never got around to taking a class.”

Shocked that he is asking to stay longer, and that he is asking with such surety, you agree. 

“Yes, of course. You’re welcome to. Would you, um, would you like to try it?” 

You glance again at his clothes which are far too nice to be doing pottery in, but you asked the question before you ever considered that.

“Could I? I would love to, if that’s okay,” he says, looking adorably eager.

“Of course. It is a little bit messy,” you say, getting up to find some clothes for him to change into. “Let me grab you some sweats or something.”

Shifting through your drawers, you find a pair of sweatpants big enough for him to wear. You bring them out and find that he has already unbuttoned his shirt, giving you a clear vision of his incredibly toned torso. Your breath catches at the sight, eyes unmoving as he removes the article entirely. 

“I found some sweats,” you mumble, your throat suddenly dry. “I can find a shirt, too.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he dismisses, grabbing the sweats from your hands. “I don’t want to get all your clothes dirty.”

You breathe out a quiet, “Okay,” before leading him gently to the bathroom to change his pants.

When the door has closed behind him, you let yourself catch your breath, mind going into panic-mode as you comprehend what is about to happen. You are about to teach your hot, blind shirtless neighbor, Matt, how to work with wet clay. How in the world did you get here?

Suddenly, the door is open and Matt is shuffling to the middle of the room, glasses and dress pants removed. You grab his elbow and guide him to the stool in front of the pottery wheel. He sits down, and you let out a quiet breath.

“You ready?” you ask, pulling up another stool behind him.

“I’m ready,” he answers as he stretches his hands out to find the clay. 

You start the wheel up and guide his hands with your own, reaching around him, one arm going over his bare, sculpted shoulder, the other weaving under it. Your skin tingles as your arm presses into his side, hyper aware of every centimeter of contact. Wet hands push and mold the clay, helping it take shape.

You can hear his breath falling short as you help him cup his hands over the clay. You talk softly, whispering directions and guidance.

“You’re doing great, Matt. You’re a natural,” you praise, causing his breath to hitch.

“I have a good teacher,” he whispers as his head leans back slightly to direct his comment to your mouth.

When you have a good round shape going, you press his thumb into the center gently, your chest pressing into his back in order to angle his hand correctly. Your heart pounds in your ears, hips shifting on the stool.

“Beautiful,” you breathe as the clay begins taking the form of a small cup. “You were perfect.”

“Thank you for teaching me.”

When your project is complete, you take your hands away from the clay and slow the wheel down until it comes to a stop. You do not move from your position around Matt yet, instead electing to guide his hands to the bowl of water you have beside the wheel. You submerge Matt’s large, calloused hands in the water, gliding your fingers over his palms in an effort to loosen the shell of clay forming around them. Your fingers weave through his as you clean them, the feeling of his knuckles catching on yours has a subtle heat surging to your core. You feel the raised scars that litter his hands and wonder who he fought to get them. 

Matt’s eyes are closed as you work with his hands, your chest still pressed to his back. You hear him whisper your name, drawing your eyes to his. You know he can’t see you, but you feel his attention on you, making your skin flush with heat. He leans in slowly, his nose nudging yours before finding your lips with his own. 

The kiss is slow, soft, unsure. Your breath flutters out of your nose as his lips begin to move. The feeling of his beard scratching at your chin causes your stomach to tighten and hands to grip his in the water. His tongue comes to press against your top lip, silently asking for entrance. You grant it as you tilt your head, finding the angle where your lips perfectly slot with his.

“Matt,” you mumble against his lips, causing him to pull away slightly, “come with me.”

You stand up slowly and wrap your hands in a towel, drying Matt’s with it as well. He stands up quietly and links his hands in yours, shuffling behind you. You guide him to the bathroom and turn on the spray of water from the shower head. 

“I’m just going to wash your arms,” you explain. You know he could wash them himself, but you want to have an excuse to keep touching him. Your heart hasn’t stopped its steady thumping since you sat behind Matt at the wheel, and the pace only quickens when you help him put his beautifully toned forearms under the water. 

For being so confident on the surface, Matt is exceptionally quiet. You expected maybe a few more suggestive comments or pick up lines, but instead, Matt has kept silent, only mumbling small thank you’s and hums. His eyebrows knit together in what looks to be contentment, almost bliss. 

You run your fingers over his arms, fingernails scratching at his skin, rinsing away any remaining clay. When you have finished, you begin washing yourself, and having sensed this, Matt stops your movement and replaces your hands with his own. He quietly glides his palms over your forearms, scratching over your wrists. The tender actions have your breath coming in shallow pants as your eyes flutter closed at the feeling.

“Beautiful,” Matt whispers, parroting your comment from earlier.

You pull your hands out of the water, turning it off. Matt’s hands never leave your body. They slide up your arms and cascade down your waist. His lips find yours again as your wet hands weave their way through his hair. You gently press your hips to his which causes his breath to catch and hitch in a way that has you pressing yourself even further into him.

After a few more kisses, Matt pulls away for a second and removes his hands from your waist to loop them around your wrists.

“No one has ever been as gentle with me as you have been,” he says in a voice that is barely audible. 

“You deserve it, Matt,” you say before leaning in to kiss him again.

(Smut begins here)

The two of you make your way out of the bathroom and back to the couch where your glasses of water were left unfinished. You lay down and guide Matt to the space between your knees. His hips press into yours, your core clenching and burning at the friction. Lips find each other as one of  his hands comes to rest above his head while the other nudges its way beneath your shirt at your hip.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly, eyes open and gazing unfocused at your collarbones.

“Yes,” you breathe, “more than okay.”

At your words of consent, his hips start moving against your core, igniting a fire below your navel. His hands, still damp from the shower, slide up your bare waist, skimming below your breast. You had rid yourself of your bra when you had come home from work, completely unaware that you would be in this position a few hours later. Because of this, Matt has unadulterated access which you are more than happy to grant him.

Your hips roll into his, back arching when his thumb grazes your nipple. He hushes the quiet sigh that escapes you with a kiss, sliding his hand down your back. His lips move behind your ear, down your throat, and over the exposed skin of your collarbone. His hips have not stopped their slow circles, and your own meet him in rhythm. 

You can feel your panties becoming soaked by the second, and as if he can read your mind, he pulls you up to straddle his lap, his hand coming to press gently to your core. You gasp at the pressure which elicits a smile and a hum from Matt.

“Can I touch you here?” he asks quietly. 

You nod and whisper, “Please.”

“Can I take these off?” 

Before he can help you, you stand up and slide your shorts down your legs and climb back in his lap.

“That’s a good girl,” he says, the words shooting straight to your core. You clench around nothing, your hips rolling in search of friction. Shaky breaths flutter from your lips, and the sound drives Matt crazy.

In one motion, Matt kisses you hard and open mouthed as his fingers push your panties to the side, pressing into your wet core. You suck in a breath at the feeling of his fingers swiping up and down, finding place inside of you. They move in and out, nudging the spot that has you arching and keening in his lap.

“I like listening to you,” he murmurs into your lips, capturing them in a kiss that has you moaning into his mouth. “Your breaths. Your moans. Let me hear you, sweetheart.”

His words draw a sigh from your lips, your hands clutching his bare shoulders as his fingers drive in and out of you. Covered in you, they find your pearl, pressing and stroking. It doesn’t take long for the coil in your core to tighten, your eyes to clench, and your hips to roll against his fingers.

“I’m so close,” you mumble, sighing and moaning as you chase your release.

“That’s it,” Matt says softly. “Let go.”

At that moment, the pressure in your hips releases and you let yourself come on his fingers, clenching around them as his thumb rubs over your clit. He guides you through it, kissing you as his other hand cradles your head. 

“You were perfect, sweetheart,” he says, his praise soothing as you come down from your high. Your heart starts slowing its pace as you melt into Matt. He pulls his fingers out and wraps his arms around you, taking you in as you collapse into his form. You sit silently together for a minute while you catch your breath. You listen to his breathing, your face pressed into the crook of his neck.

“Matt,” you say, at which he hums in acknowledgment. “Thanks for coming to check on me.”

He lets out a laugh that comes out more like a huff. “Of course. I’m glad you were okay.”

“Do you want to come over again? I could show you how to make a bowl next time.”

He laughs but does not give an immediate response. For a second you thought that he was going to say no, your body panicking, your heart rate spiking, but before you started overthinking everything, he answers, “I would love to. And I’ll bring dinner next time.”

a/n: thank you so so much for reading !! check out my masterlist with a few other fics if you want more !!

[goldengalaxy-gg-official]

Knead My Heart Until It's Ready To Be Glazed

Chapter 2: Video Games

Main tags: Slice of Life, sweet, pining, fluff, domestic

Pairings: Blaze x Gasquatch

Blaze found himself coming back to that small coffee shop now and then. Little Carlito’s had a warm feeling to it– the scent of pumpkin spice filling the air while customers’ voices would exchange along with the music of computers’ keys tapping at different speeds. The soft sight light graced the room, illuminating the various fall and Halloween decor that set the shop for the season’s autumn spirit. And the sight of a burly man behind the counter that towered above all who came to order. 

Yes, Blaze liked this. 

And he liked the talks he and Gasquatch casually shared while on his shift. He’s good company. 

“Hey, Gasquatch.”

The big man was wiping tables when the hero called him. “Yeah, Blaze?”

“Wanna go to my place for video games after your shift?” 

Gasquatch glanced back at Blaze before a smile graced his lips. “Really?!” If he were a puppy, he would be wagging his big luscious furry tail. “Of course!”

That was the beginning of Gasquatch’s regular integration into his life. Aside from his weekly coffee trips to Little Carlito’s, Blaze would find time to spend time with his behemoth of a friend. Gasquatch was extremely friendly, so he blended well with his fellow racers. 

Gasquatch joined them on Pumpkin Carving hangouts, baking with Starla and Watts, making paper decor with Stripes, and playing games with Darington. Gasquatch loved having conversations with Blaze’s friends, and the red-haired hero was relieved that the big man was able to incorporate himself into his group. 

But sometimes, Blaze could understand that Gasquatch could get overwhelmed and would rather have one friend than multiple. 

“Woo!” Blaze cheered as the screen displayed Blaze’s character as the first place in another round of Mario Kart. He laughed as Gasquatch’s character fell off the leaderboard and was down to the bottom of the display screen. 

He glanced at his pouting friend and chuckled. “Awe, Gas. There's no need to be bitter about a losing streak. It’s part of the fun!”

“Fun for you, maybe,” Gasquatch huffed. “But c’mon! How the heck am I this bad at Mario Kart?!” 

“Maybe you’re just choosing the wrong cart, buddy,” Blaze laughed. 

“Ooor, I have a busted controller.” Gasquatch offered his controller to Blaze and asked, “Trade?”

Blaze traded controllers with his friend. The device on his hand felt warm to the touch, having been enveloped by his friend’s large hands for thirty minutes already. He brushed his thumb against the knob of the controller before glancing at his taller friend. He watched the reflection of the TV in his eyes and concealed a laugh when Gasquatch’s nose crinkled in annoyance when he couldn’t find the perfect character. 

Blaze didn’t realize how invested his friend was in this game, but he didn’t mind. Why would he when he could see how excited his friend was when he finally was able to push past Blaze’s cart and race to the finish line? 

“YES!” Gasquatch rejoiced as the game ended, showing Gasquatch on the 5th leaderboard while Blaze was demoted to the 6th. “I knew my controller was busted!”

“What are you celebrating for? You still lost!” Blaze laughed, never one to admit that he didn’t just lose on purpose just to see his friend smile. 

Gasquatch pulled Blaze into a noogie and said enthusiastically, “I still beat you, didn’t I? That’s all that matters! HAH!” 

Blaze laughed and squirmed his way out of Gasquatch’s grip only to be recaptured again. The two wrestled around the couch, letting the remote controllers fall, until Gasquatch eventually fell, hitting his bum hard on the floor.

Blaze laughed, but it was quickly cut short when Gasquatch dragged him down to the floor. 

It was honestly just one of those days that Blaze let himself fall into the comfort of friendship instead of tending to the outside world, and although their hangout was as simple as playing video games, Blaze wouldn’t mind doing it all over again. 

[saberamane]

Finally getting some painting done. Here are some ceramics:

And some models of my fanfic horses! Rufina (Federico's mare) and Girasole (buckskin draft mare)

[bleachbleachbleach]

REVERSE THE BONE - PART 1

Timeline: less than 49 days after the Thousand-Year Blood War Characters: Hinamori (POV), Hitsugaya; 89 of the Gotei’s finest Word Count: 11, 800 (Part 1 of 2) // ~31k total

Summary:

A certain degree of lunacy is expected of all officers in the Gotei 13, and rumor has it Captain Hitsugaya has finally grown into his. At least, that’s the only explanation for why he’s agreed to take the East Rukongai Trash Job. ...Officially it’s called the East Rukongai Train Job. But Hinamori’s not buying it, and she is going to get to the bottom of this. Two tickets to ride on the East Rukongai Soul Train, packed to the brim with the Seireitei’s old and broken things—and a secret (or two) that is not listed on the manifest. AKA what passes for Rukongai pleasure tourism. AKA how to survive the war after the war. AKA the things you fall in love with won't be what you think.

[Read on AO3]

Written for @hitsuhina-week July 2023 | DAY 5: "I could go anywhere with you"!

NB: Please know that two versions ago, this fic was titled 'Hinamori had never seen such a mess.' While the statement is still true, Thomas the Tank Engine did not vibematch the story Hinamori ended up telling, so I had to change it. I am devastated by this.

PLEASE enjoy the train ticket. After the Atrocieties of an earlier version of this fic I was like, "Well, I can't not write it. I made tickets!" and that is essentially why I kept trying to write this fic. I love the tickets.

[revivify-inn]

A book mug for my romance novel lovers out there~

Just one bright red heart on the front of the Book scribbles mug! Theres a hint of a glitter in the glaze, and the unglazed clay has a perfect weathered paper look to it.

[luci-z-wont-shut-up]

EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP A GUIDE TO ENDINGS JUST UPDATED

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44842474/chapters/119920090

I know I was gonna read thru FSA for Gilded Daggers research but this takes priority

[oldmanffucker]

The Crew carries out 'Motor Vehicle Sundown (Event)' by George Brecht, from Fluxus' first publication, An Anthology of Chance Operations.

(this is a description of a group performance art piece) (click Read More to see the instructions for this event that the crew is performing)

To the unsuspecting passerby, delivery driver, neighbor, patron on the block or otherwise in the area, the street might look almost like the night sky - lights winking stars and airplanes. They might jump as the quiet bustle of the city block is suddenly and sporadically lit up with the syncopated sound of car horns and car doors and car trunks and car radios sounding or slamming or blaring. They might even be struck by the fact that, if they stand there long enough at their living room window, or on the sidewalk, or sit idling in their car, or glancing out the window from their low lit dinners, that the cacophony is almost…..melodious. Sounds almost orchestrated and looks almost choreographed. They may even furrow their brow in perplexity as their eyes and ears roam over all of these to see one, two…four people standing in various empty parking spots, shouting “HEAD LIGHTS.” “FOOT-BRAKE LIGHTS ONNNNNNNNN” (one person will hold the word for three seconds, another will speak it so quickly, “footbrakelightson” that it’s over in the space of a second). Someone will knock on their head, standing there on the asphalt, next to the parking meter, breath curling thick and visible from their nose and then, a few minutes later, slap their own cheek. Someone else will mime walking to the back of an invisible car (announcing as they open the door, open the trunk, close the trunk, close the door).

All the while, some car or another continues to flash its head lights (high beam, low beam, off. One second, four seconds, five seconds, two seconds, three seconds), someone in another car can be seen grinning widely, folding down the passenger seat - first quickly, then back up, then with moderate speed, then back up, then slowly, languidly, and back up.

And then, gradually (adagio), the cars and the people inside them will quiet and still, the block growing more and more hushed as each engine cuts, each body standing in the cold quits their shouting and their miming and their clamoring and simply stands, breathes. 

It’ll be a few moments still before all the twinkling and honking and slamming ceases, and the silence will trickle into the consciousness of people participating, and they will each crane their necks and strain their ears to be sure that the symphony has ended, that every instrument has reached the double bar, every bow has stilled. 

Then when they’re sure the conductor has lowered his baton, the doors will open one last time and the expectant, pregnant pause will burst with a whoop and a cheer and a watery laugh and a giggle and a “Jesus” and a “Babe you look freezing” from all directions. 

If the unsuspecting passerby, delivery driver, neighbor, patron on the block or otherwise in the area had stayed this long, they may be inclined to clap for the performance. Or, they may simply shake their head and exhale though their nose and bury their hands deeper in their pockets and carry on toward home, wondering if any of that was really what it looked like, or if they simply got carried away in what might have always been the mundane beauty of the city streets at night. 

[Note, Frenchie proposes that those who walked, biked, carpooled, or otherwise did not operate a car to get to dinner tonight will also get the cards, and they will walk to a spot where a car would be parked and they will instead shout the instructions rather than enact them.]

Transcription in image description.

[t1meslayer]

Splatoon: B-Mix (Ch. 1)

Had to give the Mariver army one last surprise for the end of Pride. This is a direct follow-up to "Harmonic Frequencies," so don't miss out on that story before jumping in here!

---

Fandom: Splatoon

Pairing: Marie/Shiver (part of my newly coined "Mariver Madness" series)

Summary: Shiver faces one of their toughest challenges yet: an unexpected date in the heart of Inkopolis where impressing Marie at her own game is a truly uphill battle. Mild language ahead.

Click through the Read More below to get a preview of my latest fic. Thanks for reading <3

Marie turns a nearby street corner, and Shiver catches her eye just in time to see the Inkling's power-walk come to a screeching halt.

If either idol had been carrying a weapon, this would look like a proper showdown at high noon set outside the Sea Biscuit Bakery. It wasn't much of a saloon, but the sun beats down just as harsh. Heat bounces between skyscrapers like a convection oven, goading one of them to sate their itchy trigger fingers.

Marie would obviously win. When a sniper pulls the trigger, someone is sure to be splatted.

This might be the only time Shiver is eager to take that 'L.' They put on a strong front and wave Marie over, but their cheery smirk belies a deeply disturbed understanding of whence their partner's confusion stemmed.

Shiver is overdressed.

Whereas Shiver is slow roasting in a black tube top draped with semi-sheer fabric and torn fishnets wedgied into their shorts, Marie look ready for a cozy evening out on the prairie. She's practically swimming in her orange-brown overalls, with suspenders strapped high over the shoulders of their navy tee that looks straight out of a cranberry juice ad.

Shiver is furious at how effortlessly she pulls it off.

[aftgphoenix]

This fic, Grow as We Go by thelovelaugh, has such a beautiful and heartbreaking first chapter! If you like Jean content, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE check it out!!!

[strawberry-lychee]

self-care night w/ simon

self-care, charcuterie, and movie night with simon <3 he literally doesn't care what for dinner as long as you're for dessert!! tags: a little nsfw, but mostly fluff and loving on simon, i wanna appreciate the quiet moments you get with him <333 a/n: i dont think i've written fanfic since i was 17/18 but my current hyper fixation is ghost and so the brain worms need to come out

'girl dinner~ girl dinner~~~ giiiiirlll dinner~~~~' you sing to yourself, laying out slices of a freshly baked baguette, prosciutto, brie, strawberries, and other delectable little treats along the long cutting board.

youre at simon's flat right now since he's on leave and you both want to spend every second together that you can!! while simon was at the gym, you went to go get snacks for a movie night in together!! you had big plans to stay in and do nothing!! you weren't sure if everything you had planned was really simon's thing but you loveddd a little self-care night and you know that if you love it, simon's always game to play along (he's so sweet to you like that!!)

simon comes out of the bathroom, fresh out of the shower. his hair's still a bit wet and he's wearing a soft worn black t shirt and matching black boxer briefs. it takes all your willpower to not be a horny little shit and start something right now. "'m ready," he tells you.

"ooo yay!!" you cheered, excited. you had specially requested that simon let you do his skincare after showering.

he watches you gingerly setting the charcuterie board on the coffee table. he notices that there's already a glass of whiskey waiting for him. there were also two wine glasses sitting on the table adjacent to a pink wine bottle. and everything was sitting on top of these ceramic coasters you picked out and painted as a surprise for him during one of your first dates <3

simon watches you bounce over to him. you've already changed into one of his shirts and some little shorts. he's undressing you in his head as you take his hand and guide him back into the bathroom.

the corner of his lip quirks upwards as he lifts you by your waist onto the bathroom counter so you can have easy access to his face. you slide to sit closer to the edge so simon can stand right in between your legs.

your toiletry bag was already sitting on the counter. you dig through it pulling out tiny bottles of toners and serums and moisturizer. simon listens intently as you explain what each one does. you shake some toner onto your plans and massage it into simon's face. he closes his eyes and leans into your touch, content and safe. sometimes his mind wanders off to other things -- chores he still needs to get done, if his mom and dad were ever like this, flashbacks to the mission he just completed -- but your soft touch brings him back to the present. simon sits and revels as you work through each step, gently and lovingly massaging the potion you've brewed especially for him into his face. into the scars lining his jaw and cheeks. into the wrinkles of his skin from hours of stress, of laying in the sun, scoping out his target, of fretting about why you're still here, with him.

simon's resting his hands on your thighs, and he gives them the gentlest squeeze. it's a silent reassurance to himself -- that you're really there. with him. the prettiest bird he's ever met is in his little flat welcoming him home from deployment. he still doesn't understand how or why there's a soft spot in your heart for a brute like him, but he's learning to stop questioning it. he's learning that maybe he does deserve you after all. maybe simon does get to be happy.

"almost done~, just gotta do some lip balm next" you chime. simon grunts in acknowledge, his eyes still closed. he can't see anything, but he hears you pull out something else from your toiletries bag. you unscrew it, a moment passes, and simon barely registers the scent of strawberries before feeling your lips press up against his.

simon contently moans into the kiss, thinking about the passionate sex you two had last night... and this morning and right before he went to the gym. he raises his hands to firmly brace your hips against his. before simon has the chance to start nipping at your lips, you pull away and say, "all done!"

you even take a finger to swipe some excess lip balm off the corner of his mouth before you giggle and slip off the bathroom counter, absolutely aware of the effect you have on him. you love being his little minx <3

you walk over plop down on the couch and smile at simon, patting on the seat next to you, inviting him to join. for now, he ignores the growing tent in his boxers.

as soon as he sits down, you scooch up against his side and he raises his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. as you rest your cheek on him, simon feels a warmth creep up inside. you two fit together like pieces of a puzzle. before meeting you, what did he even do while he was on leave? this is the most at ease he's felt in a long time. the long lonely nights of sitting by himself on his couch, trying to figure out what to do next are in the past.

you turn to plant a kiss on his shoulder. there's a part of simon that preens under the ample attention you shower him with.

"you wanna try a bite of all this?" you asked. simon knows you're talking about the charcuterie board you put together, but he's thinking about something else he'd like a bite of 👀 👀

simon doesn't even have to give you a verbal response, he just opens his mouth and you slide in a delicate little bite of baguette and brie with a drizzle of honey on top into his mouth. he chews and chews, and relishes it. simon's never been one for 'fancy' food like this, but the fact that you prepared it for him warms his heart. it's been a long time since someone's made food for him. simon nods thoughtfully and takes a sip of his whiskey. "that's fuckin' gourmet right there," he says.

you giggle again. "im so glad you like it!!" you say. it sends a chill down simon's back.

oh, he could get used to this.

[nwarrior777]

"Did you see that new guy?.. I swear, his face looks like ceramic mask, and i swear i see it's cracking" - Tim Stocker

Starting new year with putting Knife in Martin K(nife) Blackwood

The fanfic with the quote from Tim above is not written (yet?) but i have one about Martin Knifing Elias - here is ao3 link

[elfwreck]

I have a friend who isn't anti-porn but it makes her sad that fanfic has a reputation for being porny and usually not very good. I'm fine with both those things and my views mostly align with that of AO3. I disagree with the idea that porn and badness are treated as equivalent, but for most people that's just how they think. But I was wondering if youve ever written something about this?

There is a lot of smut at AO3.

There is a lot of bad writing at AO3.

There's a lot of badly written smut at AO3.

...None of those are problems except for the people who think there is something wrong with those existing, or that there needs to be some external value that "balances" those that make those acceptable to exist as unwanted side-effects of "the good stuff."

The badly-written smut is also "the good stuff."

It's part of the reason AO3 exists. It's not intended to be an archive for "the high-quality fanfic that could be published if it weren't about characters that someone else wrote first"; it's an archive for "what fanfic writers want to write." That makes the terrible writing and the tacky porn and the badly-written tacky porn part of the reason the archive exists.

Tangent 1 (I'll connect these points later): Theodore Sturgeon said "90% of everything is crud." He was more-or-less referring to the science fiction field in the 50s, but it definitely extended to politics, business, and writing outside of science fiction.

...He was talking about published books in the 50s. Turns out, a lot more than 90% of writing is crud when there aren't any gatekeepers between it and the readers. But also:

Tangent 2, from the book "Art and Fear":

[A] ceramics teacher announced on opening day that he was dividing the class into two groups. All those on the left side of the studio, he said, would be graded solely on the quantity of work they produced, all those on the right solely on its quality. His procedure was simple: on the final day of class he would bring in his bathroom scales and weigh the work of the “quantity” group: fifty pound of pots rated an “A”, forty pounds a “B”, and so on. Those being graded on “quality”, however, needed to produce only one pot — albeit a perfect one — to get an “A”. Well, came grading time and a curious fact emerged: the works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity. It seems that while the “quantity” group was busily churning out piles of work – and learning from their mistakes — the “quality” group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay.

You don't get to "quality writing" without going through a lot of crappy writing.

That doesn't mean the crappy writing is garbage to be thrown out. If you make 50 pots or bowls or vases, and only one of them is The Good One... most of the rest are okay. Maybe not sale-quality good, but your-kitchen-table quality good. Maybe some aren't that good and are kids-toy-in-the-sandbox level good.

Bad writing has a purpose for the writer: they can use it as practice to get better. It has a purpose for the reader: It can serve as inspiration ("I can do better than that") or grammatical instruction ("that...does not work; why doesn't that work?") or just as entertainment ("eh, so it's missing a few commas; I can still understand it").

Smut and porn writing works the same way. It's of some value to the writer, and some to the readers.

It's not of value to everyone. That's what tags and filters are for, and why there's a summary and list of stats (like word counts)--so you can figure out if you're one of the readers for whom this piece of writing is useful or interesting.

But AO3, like any library, is not there to take the top 5% of Excellent Writing and provide it a showcase. It is absolutely for all 50 lbs of pots.

If your friend wants to read the good stuff, there are rec lists and collections to help her find it.

If she already manages that, and is just annoyed at how much of the not-good stuff (however she defines that) exists... she's picked the wrong battle. She's arguing with the ocean that it has too many kinds of fish and some are poisonous a lot of them are ugly.

[goldengalaxy-gg-official]

Knead My Heart Until It's Ready To Be Glazed

Chapter 3: Snowfall

Main tags: Slice of Life, winter, coffee shop au

Pairings: Blaze x Gasquatch

Gasquatch watches the first snowfall.

It was around 8 PM that Gasquatch could lock the doors of Little Carlito’s.

The cold air combed through Gasquatch’s unruly locks, making the hair on the back of his neck bristle. Gasquatch normally wouldn’t mind the bite of the cool wind if it weren’t for the fact that he missed his home. 

He admits Axle City was a wonderful place, but it wasn’t his home. It didn’t have the smell of dewdrops greeting him every morning, instead, it had smoke and fumes entering his nostrils every time he breathed. It didn’t have the familiar faces of his animal friends that greeted him as he walked through the dirt paths of the forest. Still, instead, it had the unfamiliar faces greeting him with side glances and accidental shoulder bumps whenever he walked to work. It didn’t have the starry skies that would watch Gasquatch sleep, but instead, the city gave him blank skies, the stars overshadowed by the constant light that emanated from the tall buildings. 

Gasquatch sighed as he began to walk away from the cafe but then he stopped when he saw a drop of snow. He looked up and he saw snow slowly falling from the sky, gracing the Earth with their presence. 

A small smile tugged at the corners of Gasquatch’s lips as he tightened the wrap of his scarf, snuggling in its warmth and then continuing his way to his apartment. 

Axle City is not home. It was far from the comfort that the forest brought the large man. But at least it had something in common with it– Winter. It may not be Gasquatch’s most favorite season, but it was a season he was frankly familiar with. 

He took his time walking down the street to his small apartment, enjoying the company of the first snowfall of Winter.

[hunnylagoon]

Birthday Girl

A/N This is my first tumblr fic. I’m a retired Wattpad warrior, I only wrote this bc the Ellie tag is over diluted by smut, we need some angst and fluff to balance it out. My credentials are that I used to write Game of Thrones fanfic and I was blocked by Noah Beck on Twitter. Apologies in advance for any spelling errors or confusing sentences, bc I was high off my ass when I wrote this.

Summary

Jackson’s resident Baker works herself tirelessly to take care of everyone on their birthday and ensure they get something nice to brighten their special day but who is there to take care of her?

Birthdays are like brilliant gems in the kaleidoscope of time; they are the times when life's symphony crescendos into a celebration of its children. As the sun circles the earth once a year, we are given a day to celebrate our own journey, a day that whispers stories of victories, laughter, and the sweet notes of resiliency. You had always loved birthdays, who didn't? The look of joy on someone's face when they open a  gift you spent weeks looking for, the uncontrollable smile and pure serotonin that took over even the grumpiest of people. Everyone had a special day designated to them, of course, it was a cause to celebrate. 

You worked in the town bakery with very few other people, from five am to twelve pm on Monday to Friday every single week you were hustling around in a humid bakery, hell, you ran it like the navy.  Every morning, walking into the bakery is like stepping into a fragrant paradise where time seems to slow down to the sound of ovens buzzing to life. The first two hours were just for you before you let anyone in, The comforting routine of donning a flour-dusted apron and tying back unruly hair precedes the artistry of crafting pastries and breads. The almost therapeutic rhythm of kneading, rolling, and shaping becomes second nature: the soft crack of eggs, the calculated pour of sugar, and the clouds of flour hovering in midair. 

There wasn't much creative freedom while working in the Jackson bakery, it really just consisted of making dozens of bread loaves daily and then carting them over to the 'Barbecue Place' Which was once a restaurant though it had been refashioned into Jackson's mess hall.  However, you were able to dabble in some fun and were able to make cupcakes daily and a large batch of miscellaneous pastries every Friday. The cupcakes were very dear to you, you had to beg Maria when you were thirteen to approve the idea and eventually, you were green-lit.

As you step into the bakery you are greeted by the creek of wooden planks which are a testament to decades of busy activity; the dance of innumerable bakers has worn away at their shiny surfaces. The aroma of baked goods still hovers in the air from the previous day and all the days that came before, taking you to a more peaceful time. Sunlight streams through old lace curtains, illuminating worn, mismatched tables and chairs that have served eager clients for centuries though they no longer serve guests in the bakery. Deeply patinated wooden shelves support a variety of ceramic jars, each containing a treasure trove of hidden ingredients. Fading photos and yellowed newspaper clippings decorate the walls, telling the story of the bakery's illustrious past. There are copper pots and pans strung like time capsules on strong hooks, and an old-fashioned cash register sits on the end of the counter past the empty glass displays, it no longer serves a purpose but you have fought bravely to keep it around as it makes you think of what life had been like before the world fell apart. 

You look at a beat-up calendar on the walls, sitting in the place of an old picture frame that had been knocked down and shattered by none other than yourself when you were fourteen and had the bright idea of having you and your friend toss a bag of flour at each other to see who was strong enough to last longer in the odd game of catch. Surely, Ellie threw the five-pound bag a little too hard, you ducked to save yourself but it smashed into the framed photo of the family who ran the bakery before the apocalypse. It not only was smashed into little fragments but the bag of flour exploded and covered the dining room of the bakery as well as yourself in white powder, it looked like it had snowed inside. The calendar you were checking held the birthday of every person in Jackson, it was messy and hard to read as you usually had to cram several birthdays into a single day which was only a small square, it was hardly legible, there was almost no one else who could read it. Every day when you walked into the bakery, the first thing you did was check the calendar to find out whose birthday it was, then you began your bread dough or carried on with the sourdough started the day before, while the dough rose, you made cake batter, adjusting the recipe according to how many you had to make. After finishing work for the day or sometimes when you were midway through it, you would give each person a cupcake to celebrate their special day.

Even if no one else remembered their birthday, you were always there to make it a little bit better.

Today there were two birthdays on the calendar, Sean Casey, a man who was turning sixty. The second birthday marked down in the little square was yours. 

That's what made that day so special, you were ecstatic to see what your friends had planned for you later. Last year Ellie promised that she would go above and beyond for your next birthday and you were going to hold her to that. There was already a nice start to your morning by having your dad wake you up with breakfast in bed which you found truly impressive as he usually slept in till at least ten, on top of that he had scavenged a stand mixer for the home. You grabbed your apron off of the hook putting it over your neck and tying it tight around your waist. Everyone had a couple of designated aprons to rotate through throughout the week, yours consisted of two plain white ones, a red gingham pattern, one of forest green, and another made of a fabric covered in hyacinth flowers, their colours diluted like paint. Today you wore the apron your father gave you last year on your birthday, it was your favourite colour and the neckline was embroidered to say '(y/n)s kitchen'. You could tell your dad did the embroidery himself, the stitches were loose and uneven in some areas while being extremely tight in others, that's why you loved it so much, it was the thought and care behind it.

With a gentle hand, you pulled each of your necessary ingredients along with equipment out to begin your day. You preheat the ovens and in the quiet pre-dawn hours, the bakery comes alive with the hushed sounds of industrial mixers. The heady scent of freshly milled flour dances in the air as you measure the precise alchemy of ingredients, your hands moving with practiced grace. Kneading the dough becomes repetitive, muscles working in harmony to transform a mound of humble ingredients into a soft elastic texture. As the dough rests and rises, the anticipation builds—the promise of crusty loaves and soft, pillowy interiors. You slipped the pans of dough into the industrial ovens, the heat attacking you the second you opened the door; making sure to place the pumpernickel, rye, sourdough, brioche and wheat loaves all sorted on different racks in the respective ovens.

By the time you put the loaves in ovens it had been two hours from when you began, even with preparation the day before and dough starters, it was a process. You quickly washed your hands before unlocking the door for Juno as well as anyone who wanted to come in to visit. 

The clock read '7:09', because of the passthrough you were still able to look outside via the glass storefront, you could see people walking along the streets heading to whatever job they worked to contribute to the community, no one got paid, it was a commune after all, you couldn't imagine a world where everyone was so dependent on money and so obsessed with over-consumption. Part of you was waiting for one of those people to come in and wish you a happy birthday, but you shook the thoughts from your head.

You began to make the small portion for two of cupcake batter, remembering distinctly how four years ago you sat next to Sean at the Fourth of July party and he went on and on about how much he hated vanilla, it seemed like one of those crazy old man rants but you found delight in it. Never had you seen a man so passionate about cake flavouring. He said vanilla was nothing special, flavourless; you had come to learn that he was a chocolate man, every holiday event filling his pot belly with chocolate, when you had brought assorted sweets for a Christmas party he dove straight for the brownies. So it was easy for you to make up your mind on what flavour of cupcake to make.

After years of this cupcake tradition you had memorized each ratio to make, a double serving of chocolate batter consisting of 1/4 cup of flour, 2 1/2 tablespoons of white sugar, 1 tablespoon of unsweetened cocoa powder, 1/4 tablespoon of baking soda, a dash of salt, 2 tablespoons milk, two tablespoons canola oil, 1/4 tablespoon vanilla extract. You treated baking like it was a science and recipes were your formulas.

As for the frosting, you had a stockpile of plain buttercream that you took small servings from and flavoured according to said person's preference. All you had to do was whip it up and add some cocoa powder to make it fluffy and creamy again.

The bell above the doorway rang, signalling the arrival of someone, you looked up to see Maria. "Hey, there," You smiled, turning off the stand mixer so you could hear her.

"Hi, (y/n)," She greeted and you quickly wiped whatever was on your hands onto your apron before coming around to the service counter to speak with her. "I have something to ask of you."

"Yes?"

"I know you already do your little cupcake thing but we are throwing a surprise party tonight for Sean and I was hoping you could make a cake for him?"

You nod with a smile "Anything for the town chief."

"Great, then how about a simple vanilla cake?"

"Sean doesn't like vanilla," You answered quickly.

"Okay, well I trust you with it, his party starts at eight tonight in the town square and he's turning sixty so it's a big one, I'll see you there around then?" 

"Definitely," You grinned at Maria, waiting for her to wish you a happy birthday and reveal that she was only pretending to forget but she didn't. She thanked you and walked out, leaving you in a flour-covered apron with a tinge of hurt in your heart. It wasn't like you weren't close with Maria, you had Thanksgiving at her house every year.

Nonetheless, it was only a blip in your soon-to-be perfect day. Just as you had frosted the two cupcakes, putting chocolate chips on Sean's and breaking half of a double fudge cookie and sticking it into the thick icing. Rainbow sprinkles cascade like confetti, adding a whimsical touch to the miniature confection. The bell rang again calling for your attention, this time you didn't leave the kitchen instead just moved to look at whoever it was by the passthrough.

"Hey, kiddo!" Tommy greeted, clad in a red flannel tucked into blue jeans. He walked into the bakery as comfortably as he would his home.

"Howdy, Tommy," You said, moving out of his sight for a quick moment to put the two cupcakes in the fridge to prevent the buttercream from prematurely melting. 

"So, it's Sean's birthday today and I was wondering if you could bake a cake for his party-

"Maria was already in," You answered "Don't worry, I'm on it."

He smiled "Of course, you're always so on top of it," He leaned over the counter slightly, trying to get a look inside the kitchen via the passthrough "Say, have you got anything back there for me?" You opened the box of double fudge cookies you made the day before and scooted around the passthrough to hand him one, boots clattering on the ground. Tommy loved to visit the bakery as you always had a sweet treat for him and he would never get sick of the aromatic embrace of fresh bread. "Thanks, kiddo, I'll see you around." 

This was the moment you were almost convinced that they were planning a surprise party for you, sure Maria could forget about your birthday, she was a busy lady but there was no way Tommy would. He was good buddies with your dad and was over at your place for beers a minimum of once a week. You always baked for him when he came over and he constantly joked about you trying to fatten him up. 

The bell sounded again though you didn't bother to look up, you knew who it was by the time of the clock, Juno was starting her shift. As usual, she tied her mousy brown hair into a sleek ponytail then grabbed her apron and stuck a baseball cap on over her head so there was no chance of her hair coming loose. "Good morning," She walked into the kitchen, heading over to the sink to wash her hands.

"Mornin'," You answer.

She looks you up and down with a slight smile "You're wearing your favourite apron, must be a special day."

“Sure doesn't feel like it."

♡

Your birthday wasn’t panning out great but you didn't want to lose hope.

You had walked over to the greenhouses after your shift to find Sean, he loved the cupcake, he even hugged you which was nice albeit a little odd. You walked through town a bit after you had stopped and talked to everyone on the street for not a single one to say the words you've been pleading to hear all day. Taking it as defeat, you grabbed a sandwich for lunch from the mess hall and began the desolate walk home.

Nestled at the end of a peaceful, tree-lined street, the charming but battered house had a certain charm that cut through its worn yellow exterior. Tentacles of ivy wrapped about the crumbling outside walls, their green tones infusing the dilapidated building with a hint of the natural world's tenacity. The worn-out yet friendly doormat and weathered rocking chair on the porch told of years spent taking in the changing of the seasons. The wooden frames of the windows, adorned with faded drapes that seen innumerable sunsets, spoke tales of laughter and time passed.

The house's coziness unfolded inside like a time capsule, with worn-out rugs covering creaky floorboards and a fireplace in the living room that was adorned with vintage tiles that were mismatched and provided warmth in more ways than one. The rooms had a lived-in comfort despite the peeling wallpaper and chipped paint, and each mismatched piece of furniture seemed to tell a story of its own. Despite being tatty and ragged around the edges, the house exuded a calmness that invited guests to enjoy the beauty concealed in the flaws of a place that had aged gracefully and with character like most homes in Jackson. The living room was always your favourite, there was a spruce bookshelf pushed behind the gray, L-shaped couch, and the rug was once a maroon colour though it's clear that it's been well-loved over the years. Pillows and throw blankets were carelessly scattered over the couch from when you and your dad had watched '21 Jumpstreet' the night before, he kept saying it was a shame the outbreak happened before they got to make a second one, though many of the jokes didn't land with you, you loved to see your dad laugh so hard he snorted. The room was illuminated by a warm glow from the fairy lights overhead that your dad scavenged years prior, a small stack of books piled up on the coffee table which had been hand-crafted by Joel.

You popped 'Mean Girls' into the DVD player, just to have some background noise and went to the kitchen and started on Sean's cake. As much as you loved the bakery, you wanted to be somewhere a little more close to comfort. 

As you measured each ingredient with care, you couldn't shake the bittersweet feeling that lingered in the air. Sifting the ingredients into the bowl, you had wished your father was home from patrol duty, all you really wanted was a hug but instead, you slaved away at a black forest complete with layers of moist sponge, decadent frosting, and a profusion of vibrant decorations.

As you delicately frosted the cake, your mind flitted between thoughts of the celebration and the poignant fact that everyone seemed to have overlooked your own special day. The kitchen, usually a sanctuary for you to escape to, now harboured the weight of unspoken emotions. Your heart, though excited for Sean to get a nice surprise on his Birthday, held an unnoticed longing for acknowledgment.

The aroma of the baking cake filled the kitchen, mingling with the scent of disappointment that you couldn't quite shake.

As the cake took shape, you couldn't help but think back to the calendar at the bakery, where the date circled in red seemed to mock you. Your own birthday, usually a day filled with surprises and the warmth of laughter, had slipped through the cracks of everyone's awareness. Though the night was still young and Ellie had said that she was planning something incredible.

Finally, nine was about to roll around, you changed into some clean clothes that hadn't yet carried the memories of your disappointing day, just a white top and some jeans. The sun had set, and your dad wouldn't be home for a good while so you walked over to the town square alone. 

There was a table full of food and a long banner that read 'Happy Birthday Sean!' strung between two street lamps. There were twinkling fairy lights illuminating what would have otherwise been a dark night. 

"There she is!" Tommy smiled, doing that awkward little dad jog over you. "Wow, that cake looks incredible, mind if I take it off your hands?"

"Go ahead," You held out the cakeboard. Tommy gingerly took it away from your grasp, his forearm underneath to support and his other hand held the side of the board for balance.

"I owe ya' kiddo," He winked before taking the cake away to show a group of adults.

You stood around awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to do with yourself.  You turned your attention to the moon, wanting to believe that it shined so very bright just for you, because the moon, unlike everyone else recalled how important this day was to you-

"SURPRISE!" Everyone erupted in cheers as Sean walked up to his party, his daughter had her arm linked with his. He had the biggest smile on his face it almost made you forgive everyone for forgetting because at least Sean got something thoughtful.

"Lord, I was thinking everyone forgot my birthday!" Sean laughed, pulling Tommy in for a hug.

"(y/n)!" Dina yelled, you turned your head to follow her voice. She was sitting at a long picnic table beneath an awning with some friends "Over here," She motioned for you to sit down and you obliged, taking a spot between Ellie and Laila. "What have you been up to? I feel like I haven't seen you all day."

"That's because you haven't," You said with an awkward smile. "I've just been baking, like always."

"You're always working so hard, I swear you live in that bakery and when you aren't in there your busy busting your ass around town to make sure everyone gets something on their birthday," Dina sat across from you and put a hand onto yours "You look out for everyone, but who's looking out for you?"

"My dad?" You glance at Ellie who isn't tuned into the conversation in the slightest, she has her arms crossed in front of her on the table and her head resting on them. 

"Aw, that's sweet-" Kayla moves to look at you but in doing so, she spills a glass of juice onto you. "I'm so sorry," She slaps one hand over her mouth, her eyebrows furrowing. Kayla stood up from the table, her ginger curls rustling with the breeze "I'll get a cloth or something-

"Don't worry about it," I wave her off "It's just clothes, I'll grab some napkins." You push yourself away from the table, walking over to the table adorned with food, you see a small stack of Christmas themed napkins (it must've been hard for them to come by regular ones) and grab a handful, bunching them up in your hand in an attempt to soak up some of the juice that had already indefinitely stained your clothes. 

You feel some eyes on you from the other side of the table, to look up and see Joel, he doesn't say anything though his lips are pressed together tight.

"You're back," You say, a spark of happiness rekindling inside of you "So my dad's back from patrol too?"

Joel nods "Too tuckered to come out, said he was just heading home," He uses tongs to put a couple cuts of chicken onto his plate "Oh and happy birthday, you've probably heard that a whole bunch already, lord, it's all your old man would talk about on our last couple of patrols."

"What did you say?" You look at him with furrowed eyebrows, unsure if he said what you really thought.

"I said happy birthday, shame you've stained your clothes on your birthday," He absentmindedly added some mashed potatoes onto his plate. The words hung in the air, a moment that transcended the boundaries of their usual exchanges. You, momentarily taken aback, met Joel's gaze. It was a simple, earnest wish, uttered with the spontaneity of someone who had remembered a small yet significant detail in the whirlwind of festivity.

"Thank you, Joel," You replied, your voice carrying a mix of surprise and gratitude. In that fleeting instant, the isolation that had surrounded her seemed to dissipate. A connection, however tenuous, had been forged in the acknowledgment of her existence amidst the collective celebration.

"No problem, kid, I'll see you around," He left with his plate leaving you to stand alone at the table. You continued to dab at the juice on your white top, and though you knew it wouldn't come out you proceeded to rub it; the best exchange of your day, no more than eight sentences suddenly turned from joy to frustration. The only two people who remembered your birthday were your dad and a fiftey-eight-year-old man who practically raised the girl you had spent years crushing on, not the girl herself, but her father figure. However, you thought, maybe if Joel remembered, Ellie had aswell and she actually did have something planned.

Amidst the lively chatter and laughter that reverberated through the night, you stood in the midst of flickering candles and colourful decorations, your eyes cast down to the ground. The atmosphere of celebration enveloped her, but a palpable sense of solitude hung in the air like a heavy mist settling upon your shoulders. It was a birthday party, yes, but not your own. Forgotten and overlooked, your heart echoed with a quiet ache, the irony of your situation casting a shadow over the festive scene.

The square was adorned with streamers and balloons, a tapestry of colours that seemed to dance in rhythm with the joyful voices around her. The community gathered, their faces lit by the warm glow of the fairy lights and street lamps, each one caught up in the merriment of the moment. Yet, for you, the celebration felt like a distant spectacle, a scene from which you were detached.

It was your birthday too—a fact that no one cared enough to recall. As Darla (Sean's daughter)  calls guests toward a decadent cake adorned with candles, which you had made, you couldn't escape the bitter irony of the situation. You watched as the room erupted into a chorus of "Happy Birthday," the song meant for another soul, another moment of joy. You joined in, lips forming the familiar words, your voice harmonizing with the collective melody. But within the depths of your being, the celebration rang hollow, a stark contrast to the cheer that echoed around you.

Throughout the evening, you navigated the party with a forced smile, concealing the invisible weight of your emotions. Conversations buzzed like bees in your ears, no- it grated like a fork in a blender, but you found yourself on the outskirts—a silent observer amidst the numerous connections. The laughter that erupted like fireworks, the clinking of glasses, the embraces of old friends—it all seemed distant, an echo from another realm where she once belonged.

The party unfolded as a series of snapshots: a group photo with smiling faces, a toast to Sean, and the opening of gifts that weren't meant for you. Each moment, though vibrant and filled with the warmth of shared camaraderie, magnified the silence that enveloped your own celebration, forgotten and left to dissolve into the shadows.

As the night carried out, seeming like the celebration would never cease, you cut yourself a slice of cake, grabbing one of the half-melted candles that Sean had already blown out, they sat in a frosting-covered pile next to the cake. You took your favourite colour out of the rainbow assortment of candles and stuck it into the piece of black forest cake.

With your cake you sat back down by Ellie at the picnic table where she still returned to after conversing, everyone else had gotten up to dance. You reached for the lighter in your pocket and struck it to ignite, sparks flickered around the end of it, you struck it again and a flame arose, you carefully brought it to the wick of the partially melted candle.

The flickering flame cast a subtle glow as you made a silent wish for understanding, for the beauty found in selflessness, and for the recognition that sometimes the most meaningful celebrations are the ones we craft for others, even in the quiet echoes of our own unacknowledged birthdays. Ellie turned to look at you as the candle's flame danced in the darkness, before you could blow out the candle to solidify your wish a little girl climbed up onto the bench and blew it out, you looked at her and all she did was smile up at you, the gap in her teeth prominent, her deep chocolate hair braided so intricately you had to believe that it must've taken her mother hours.

As much as you wanted to deck that little girl in the face for ruining your moment, you didn't because it would be wildly inappropriate. "Do you want this?" You sighed, holding out the plate to the girl, she smiled and nodded enthusiastically, taking the cake and scattering away "Hey, Ellie," You pushed back tears in your eyes, forcing a smile on your face "Got any plans later?"

“Yeah," She said, short

"Oh, what are they?"

"Not to sound like a cunt but I'm not really in the mood to talk, I had a shit patrol and all I want to do is go home, smoke a joint, watch a movie, maybe read a comic, and pass out on my couch, the only reason I'm here is that Dina dragged me out and Joel said I need to be more involved in the community."

Your smile dropped, you couldn't hold it in anymore, realizing that this wasn't the elaborate setup of a surprise party but Ellie genuinely forgot it was your birthday. "Are you serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember what's happening today?"

"It's Sean's birthday," She gestured to the party around her.

"You're fucking serious," Any amusement that had been in your tone was gone, replaced by a subtle anger boiling up inside of you

"Are you going to cry?" Ellie gave you a weird look "What are you so mad about?"

"I can't believe you," You laugh bitterly "Actually I can, this is so like you, I need to stop building it up in my head that you're going to surprise me with something great. But hey, at least you never fail to let me down."

"Jesus," She scoffed "There's always something going on with you, can you go one day without finding some irrational reason to be upset?"

"Irrational?"

"Yeah, irrational," She reiterated "You always come to me when something sets you off in the slightest then your problem becomes everyone else's. You're so fucking draining and I'm sick of it."

"Fuck you, I hope your comic catches fire from your joint and you burn your place down." You stand up from the bench, wiping tears away from your eyes. Your boots clattered against the cobblestone. You stormed past the dancers, some stopping to look at one another with concern. Dina leaves Jesse to ask Ellie what happened.

The walk home might've been the loneliest you had felt in your life, the harsh wind of the night bit at your nose. The feeling of the sticky juice soaking through your clothing was borderline unbearable, were just about ready to scream. There wasn't a single person out and about as everyone was either at the party or cozied up in their own homes.

Arriving at your doorstep, you fumbled with the handle, the metallic clink resonating in the quietude that enveloped the house. The door swung open, revealing the dimly lit foyer, still no surprise. Why do you still think there is going to be a party? No one is coming.

You wandered into the living room, the TV was lit with the options screen for 'Mean Girls' that you had put on hours earlier.

Sinking into the worn-out couch, You let the weight of the day wash over you. A single tear welled in your eye, and as it escaped, a floodgate of unshed sorrow burst open. The first teardrop traced a silent path down your cheek, leaving a glistening trail of heartache in its wake.

The tears you cried weren't silent and dainty but violent sobs that burned your throat each time you cried out. As you wept, it felt like someone had stabbed your gut with a thousand needles, you cried and cried, to no one in particular, maybe the moon glistening outside the window though the moon seemed to absorb your tears, offering no solace in return.

The soft tick of the clock on the wall echoed in the quiet room, marking the strike of midnight, your birthday had ended. There was no secret party or a prank where everyone was only playing an act, only the emptiness of the house echoed the howls soaked in your tears.

The oak staircase creaked, and your dad turned the corner, peering into the living room. "What's wrong, honey,?" He shook the sleep from his mind, focusing on what was important, he sat next to you on the sofa. "I thought you said you were going to be out all night with your friends?"

You shook your head, breathing shaky breaths alone, hardly able to get a word out "They forgot," You felt the harsh sting of desolation hit you all over again "Everyone forgot," You grabbed his grey t-shirt burying your face into his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, cradling you gently like you were a child who had just scraped her knee not someone who had just turned nineteen, "Except for Joel, so be nice to him, please."

"I'm sorry, baby, it was probably just a mix-up," He rubbed one hand on your back to comfort you. "I should've been there with you, I'm so sorry."

You couldn't get the words out of your mouth, all you could manage was to shake in your father's arms with sobs until you cried yourself to sleep.

♡

"Happy birthday, Jasmine!" You smile brightly, presenting a lemon-raspberry cupcake to the woman. She was serving breakfast in the mess hall, the early morning light streaming through the many windows, blinding those trying to enjoy their meals.

"Aw, thank you, love" She took the cupcake "That's real sweet," She wore a hairnet, despite having short cropped hair. "I just realized I don't even know when your birthday is."

"It was yesterday, actually."

"Aww, how was it?" Jasmine smiled, her white teeth contrasting with her dark skin.

"It was nice, it was quiet too, I just spent it by myself."

A frown replaced Jasmine's smile and she lowered her tone "Did your friends drop the ball?"

You wave off her question "Oh no, loads of people remembered, I just wanted some time to myself, it was nice."

You could tell Jasmine didn't wholeheartedly believe you, she was at Sean's party last night and saw you rush out with tears building in your eyes "If you say so," She shrugged, taking a bite of her cupcake "This is really good."

"Thanks," A small smile plays on your lips.

"God bless you, sweetheart, you deserve the best." She said, every bit of truth behind her words. She took another bite of the cupcake, savouring the sweet and sour taste "And I mean that."

You were too caught up in conversation to notice Jesse ahead of you in the service line right away, he grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the dispenser, trying to play cool and not have your attention drawn to him. With a shaky hand, he put the glass on his tray and hurried over to the table where Ellie was eating with Dina. "Guys, something not that great just happened."

Ellie furrowed her eyebrows looking from Dina to Jesse "What?" She asked through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, she swallowed them down and spoke back up "Please tell us what terrible thing has happened in the time it took you to walk to the service line, get your food and come back?" Sarcasm dripped from her voice.

"We forgot (y/n)'s birthday," He said quickly, Ellie and Dina looked at each other with wide eyes, thinking back to the night before and the way they had both behaved. Dina was extremely ignorant and Ellie got into an argument with you, though Jesse didn't speak to you at all.

"We're awful friends," Dina says quietly, scraping her mind for any way they could salvage the situation and play it off like they hadn't forgotten. "We could change all of the calendars in town and make it seem like her birthday is actually today."

"Be serious, Dina," Jesse said, though he was considering her idea. "I think the only way we can fix this is by making it up to her."

"How would we do that? We can't make it up to her, she remembers every single person's birthday in this town and gives them a cupcake, even people she doesn't like, do you remember how she planned all of our birthday parties for the last four years and has never let us down?" Dina and Jesse nodded "And how we always scramble something together last minute? Like last year, we only remembered two days before and we threw her a subpar movie night, we watched Star Wars and she doesn't even like Star Wars."

Dina sucked air through her teeth "Yeah, not our best moment."

"You think?" Jesse asked, sarcastically. "And Ellie didn't make it any better by yelling at her yesterday!"

"You yelled at her? You told me you didn't yell at her,"  Dina whipped her head to look at Ellie, the smallest glimpse of judgment in her eyes. "Shh, she's coming!"

You were making your way to the exit lugging the cart that had held loaves of bread on it before you dropped them off to the kitchen, still in your flour-covered apron, hair pinned up messy, baby hairs flying away. Clad in jeans, a green T-shirt and beaten-up boots, clacking against the hardwood floor, you still looked beautiful to Ellie with red eyes and a puffy face from crying all night. "Watch this," Jesse murmured to the group before turning around and flagging you down. "Hey (y/n)!" He smiled brightly, his words catching your attention "Did you enjoy your birthday, yesterday?"

"Jesse, I know you heard me talking to Jasmine." You said and Ellie couldn't bear the disappointed look on your face. At that moment, the guilt hit her all at once. You had been the first kid her age that she warmed up to when she arrived in Jackson, trying your best to include her in everything. You invited her to hang out with your friends even though she didn't particularly get along with them, she went anyway because she just wanted to see you. On her birthday the previous year, you had scoped out an old comic store hours away just to bring her there for one day.

Jesse's smile fell and you had walked out the door before he had the chance to push a lie through his teeth. Last night's conversation echoed through Ellie's head over and over again, she cringed at the memory, god, why did she even say that?

Dina reached over the table and gave Ellie a harsh smack on the arm "Why did you even say that?!" 

"Ow," She flinched, rubbing the spot that had been assaulted by Dina "What are you talking about?"

Dina looked at Ellie like she was just about ready to scream "What you said to her last night, what was going through your head?"

"Not much, apparently," Jesse answered for her, earning a death glare from the Auburn girl.

"I'll just apologize and it'll be water under the bridge," Ellie said, leaning back.

"That's not going to work," Dina replied quickly.

It, in fact, did not work. Ellie had shown up at the bakery where you promptly ignored her. "(y/n), I'm really sorry I forgot your birthday and said those things to you." Nothing Ellie said could get you to even look at her.

She had later stopped by your house, it was your dad who answered the door and Ellie sheepishly asked if you were home. He called for you to come down, the moment you saw Ellie, you shut the door in her face. There was no way she could defend herself, she couldn't say that she said those things because she had a bad day (even though she did), and that would just make her seem pathetic. She really wanted to say that she was scared of how much she liked you, she didn't want to ruin a good thing, you both had spent years playing the role of each other's best friend until Ellie started to distance herself from you and you ended up enwrapping yourself with work to distract yourself from the fact that she was drifting away.

Ellie didn't know what to do, if she didn't act fast, it would be too late and she was going to lose you.

♡

One week later

The sun was just beginning to set as you were already preparing to settle into bed and read a book, just about to change out of your floor-length sundress and into one of your dad's old shirts. However, your plans were interrupted when you heard your dad screaming downstairs, it was blood-curdling. You dropped everything, pulling your bedroom door open and rushing down the stairs, tripping on a step and stumbling before quickly regaining balance and moving with haste "Dad?" You called out, worry running through your head. 

"SURPRISE!" People practically screeched, the volume so loud that you jolted back in fear. The chatter only grew as you looked around you and realized what was happening, this was your belated birthday party. 

You were pulled in suddenly for a hug, squeezing you so tight you thought your eyes would pop out of your skull was Tommy "I'm so sorry, kiddo, I was being a real shithead on your birthday."

"It's okay," You choked out, nearly gasping for air. Much to your relief, he released you and you took a deep breath.

"Happy belated birthday!" Dina sang, placing a fat box in your arms. Many people followed after her, piling gifts on top of the initial one, you were quickly losing balance, so you stumbled into the living room and put the gifts onto the coffee table. There was so much life in the living room it was almost hard to believe that just a week before you had been crying alone, bathed in moonlight. 

There were streamers strung throughout your house and odd dangly decorations that hung from the ceiling. Some balloons were taped to the walls while others bounced around the ground.

The lively hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the melodic strains of birthday wishes filled the room as the party pulsated with energy. Colourful decorations adorned the walls, and the air was charged with the festive spirit.

 You had the biggest smile on your face while everyone joked and jeered. Shoving their gifts into your face, trying to get you to open them first. It had made you forget about how awful your real birthday was, though you did try to dodge awkward apologies of people fumbling over their own words to make up excuses as to why they missed your real birthday.

"Happy birthday to you-" A voice began singing, and soon enough the entire crowd joined in, harmonizing into an off-key rendition of the birthday song. They made way for the person carrying the cake which had been none other than Ellie herself. The song ended off and Ellie placed the cake in front of you on the coffee table. "Make a wish."

You blew out all of the candles, and no punchable little girl around to steal your thunder, the room erupted into applause. The celebration continued with the living room becoming a dance floor, laughter echoing through the corridors, and conversations flowing freely. The cake itself reminded you of the embroidery your dad had done on your apron, it was sloppy and imperfect but you could tell it was made with love, the icing had been put on prematurely and had partially melted off the cake. It read 'Happy birthday' with 'Sorry for being a dick' written smaller beneath the first bit of text.

"Thank you, Ellie," You smiled softly up at her.

No one else was paying attention to you anymore, aside from those who wanted a slice of cake. Ellie nervously fumbled around with her hands "Do you want to dance?"

Ellie invited you to dance as the opening notes of the song floated through the air and she held out her hand. With a gentle smile, you accepted and you moved into the middle of the living room to form a makeshift dance floor. The soft aroma of fresh flowers blended with the scent of vanilla candles created an ambiance that enhanced the moment's sensory magic.

To the gentle beat of the song, your bodies moved in unison. Your hand settled comfortably on Ellie's shoulder, and her hand wrapped around your waist. Your bond transcended the material in the living room dance, an unspoken language of mutual feelings and unknown depths.

You both danced, recklessly, so much so that you were nearly a hazard for the swaying couples drifting around you, moving faster and not hurriedly as the tempo picked up. With each step, the living room's walls became silent witnesses to a romance that was developing on the plush carpet under their feet. The muted rustle of your clothing and the melodic notes of the music were all that could be heard to your ears.

The two of you took great pleasure in the dance's exuberance, laughing at the imperfect nature of it. In the noise of the living room, your eyes, locked in a dance of their own, spoke volumes. You were embraced by the dim lighting's vulnerability, which freed you from the burdens of the outside world to fully enjoy the moment. 

Ellie guided you in a soft spin as the song went on, your moves were not fluid and elegant but Ellie could've sworn that looking into your eyes made it feel like there was liquid sunlight coursing through your veins

You and Ellie drew closer in the song's last moments, your bodies pressed together in an embrace that went beyond the material. As the last notes of the music faded, they held each other for an extra moment, relishing the warmth that they shared and the unspoken promises that danced between them. You wished that you could've stayed in Ellie's strong embrace for centuries.

You let go of Ellie, taking a step back with a smile, "Why didn't you tell me you were such a good dancer?" You tease, almost out of breath.

"I didn't know I was," She grinned, taking the sight of you in. Your cheeks were flushed and your hair had become messy, she thought you to be beautiful all the same, if not more. Her eyes raked over your body, your floor-length sundress and mismatched socks "And here I was thinking it was too late for sundresses."

"It's never too late, Ellie."

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

Checkmate ( Book 3 of 3 in BTR Series ) a Jhea Fanfic.

Chapter 1: The New Norm..

November 27th, 2025 1:11 PM

It had been three months since August 27th, the day Rhea had been kidnapped, and Jey was barely holding on. The world around him felt muted, his grief and frustration turning every moment into a battle to stay upright. He had shut nearly everyone out, retreating into his own pain. Calls went unanswered, texts unread. Even Jey’s family, Talisua and Solofa, who had temporarily moved in to help with Jeyson, found themselves kept at arm’s length.

Jey’s ex-wife, Takecia, was the only one who managed to keep the lines of communication open, but even then, their conversations were limited. She only called to update him about Jeyce and Jaciyah, ensuring he knew they were okay. Though Jey appreciated her efforts, it didn’t ease the ache in his chest. Every time he heard her voice, he couldn’t help but think of Rhea—the love of his life, his wife—gone.

Rhea’s parents were making moves to sell their home in Australia, desperate to be closer to their grandson and to support Jey. But Jey couldn’t find the words to talk to them either. Every conversation felt like an acknowledgment of Rhea’s absence, and that was a reality he wasn’t ready to face.

During the first month, Jey found a rare moment of solace in the company of his tattoo artist, Samoan Mike. Mike had come by, offering his time and skill as a way to help Jey process his pain. What was meant to be a simple session turned into a 8-hour marathon, each needle stroke a catharsis for the emotions Jey couldn’t put into words.

On his left hand, Mike inked a small version of Rhea’s ceramic chicken, the one she had proudly displayed on the back of her arm—a quirky and meaningful tattoo that Rhea had once described as her favorite. Jey smiled faintly as he thought of how much she would have loved it. He added another palm tree on his stomach, this time inscribed with Jeyson’s name, joining the trees already dedicated to Jaciyah and Jeyce.

Finally, Mike worked on Jey’s wedding finger. There, Jey had a simple “D” tattooed in bold black ink, a permanent reminder that no matter what happened, Demi—his Rhea—was and always would be his wife. It was an unspoken vow that Jey intended to honor, no matter how uncertain the future seemed.

The weight of the tattoos was both physical and emotional, grounding Jey in the love and memories he had of Rhea while pushing him forward for the sake of their son.

Jeyson had grown so much in the past three months. What had once been a tiny newborn was now a chubby, smiley little boy. His cheeks were round, his arms and legs plump, earning him the nickname Rhea had always called him—her “chunky monkey.”

Jey often found himself staring at Jeyson for hours, watching the little movements he made, the way he gripped at his bottle or giggled at the sight of his favorite stuffed animal. Every giggle, every coo, was a bittersweet reminder of Rhea. She should have been there to see it all, to laugh with them, to call Jeyson her little chunky monkey one more time.

Despite his heartbreak, Jey knew he had to keep going. For Jeyson. For their family. But the emptiness left by Rhea’s absence felt like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Each passing day without her was another reminder of the fight he had to endure, and though the world around him continued to move, Jey felt frozen in place.

Still, deep down, he clung to the hope that he would find her. That somehow, some way, Rhea would come back to them. Until then, all he could do was hold onto the memories, the love they shared, and the promise that no matter what, he wouldn’t stop fighting for her.

Jey sat at the edge of the couch, the memory still fresh, as if it had happened just yesterday. The series of events had unfolded so quickly, yet every moment lingered in his mind like a nightmare on repeat.

It began with the notification on his phone. Rhea’s location, which she kept on for safety reasons, had gone offline. His initial reaction had been concern, but not panic—maybe her phone had died. He called her, and it answered but then the phone had hanged up. This went on for ten more times until finally the phone went to voicemail. That was when the unease began to set in.

He immediately dialed Hunter, the one person he knew would have answers.

“Hunter, have you seen Rhea?” Jey asked, his voice shaky but composed enough to mask the fear creeping in.

“No,” Hunter replied, his tone puzzled. “She wasn’t supposed to be in the office today. Why?”

Jey explained about the call from Sabrina, how Rhea had mentioned something urgent that required her to go to the office. There was a pause before Hunter answered again.

“Sabrina didn’t tell me anything about contacting Rhea. In fact, there’s a strict rule to notify Bruce for anything urgent.” His voice sharpened. “Let me look into this, Jey. I’ll call you back.”

The minutes that followed felt endless. Jey’s anxiety grew with each passing second, his mind racing with scenarios—none of them good. When his phone finally rang, he answered before the first ring finished.

“Jey,” Hunter said, his tone grim. “It’s bad.”

“What do you mean ‘bad’?” Jey demanded, his voice trembling.

Hunter’s voice was tight with controlled panic as he explained what they had uncovered on the security footage. Sabrina had been ambushed in a hallway, dragged into a closet by an unidentified assailant. Not long after, Rhea appeared on camera walking toward the entrance. A figure emerged behind her, pressing a rag to her face. She struggled, but the attacker overpowered her. Moments later, she was carried out of view and thrown into a van with no plates.

Hunter hesitated before continuing, as if bracing himself for the next part. “We called the police, Jey. They found Sabrina’s body in the closet. She didn’t make it.”

The words hit Jey like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t process it. His head spun as the reality of the situation set in—Rhea was gone, kidnapped in broad daylight, and someone had been murdered in the process.

Jey barely registered what happened next. The news spread like wildfire. Every news outlet picked up the story: “WWE Hall of Famer and New Mom, Rhea Ripley, Kidnapped from WWE Headquarters; Assistant Found Dead.”

Hours later, Stamford police arrived at Jey’s home. Their faces were grave as they delivered the official confirmation.

“Mr. Fatu,” one of the officers began, his voice heavy, “your wife has been abducted, and we’re doing everything we can to find her. We’re going to need your cooperation—”

Jey didn’t hear the rest. His body shook as he staggered backward, clutching the doorframe for support. He couldn’t breathe. The weight of it all crushed him—the thought of Rhea in danger, of her not coming home.

“FUCK!” Jey screamed, the sound raw and primal, echoing through the house. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

Jon and Trinity, who had rushed over after hearing the news, tried to comfort him, but Jey was inconsolable. He thrashed and screamed until paramedics arrived to sedate him.

The house grew quiet as Jey was carried to his bedroom by Jon, the sedative lulling him into an uneasy sleep. Even in his unconscious state, his dreams were filled with Rhea’s face, her laughter, her voice calling out to him.

The next morning after that, he woke up to the same nightmare. Rhea was still gone, and the house felt emptier than ever.

Jey pulled himself out of his spiraling thoughts when the soft sound of cooing came through the baby monitor on the coffee table. It was faint but unmistakable—Jeyson was waking up. He exhaled deeply, running a hand down his face, then pushed himself off the couch. His footsteps were slow as he ascended the stairs, the familiar ache in his chest growing heavier with each step.

The walls leading to the nursery were lined with photos—family pictures taken before everything fell apart. His fingers brushed against the edge of a frame as he passed, his eyes briefly locking onto a candid shot of Rhea holding her belly. Her face had been lit with a joy that felt so distant now, like a light snuffed out by the darkness that had consumed their lives.

When he reached the nursery, Jey paused at the door. The room was filled with soft sunlight streaming through the curtains, bathing everything in a warm glow. It was deceptively peaceful compared to the turmoil in his heart. He pushed the door open gently, his eyes falling on Jeyson lying in the crib, his chubby arms waving aimlessly as he squirmed beneath the soft blanket.

“Hey, little man,” Jey whispered, his voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. He walked to the crib, leaning over to scoop Jeyson into his arms. The baby nuzzled into his chest immediately, his tiny hands clutching at Jey’s shirt.

As Jey held him, Jeyson’s gaze drifted upward, his small hand raising to point at the wall. Jey followed his son’s line of sight to the large blown-up photo of Rhea. It was Jey’s favorite picture, the one he insisted on framing—Rhea and Jey, them, on the day Jeyson was born. She was cradling Jeyson in her arms, her face radiant with pure, unfiltered love and Jey by her side, his smile showing affection and devotion.

“You dreaming of Mami?” Jey asked softly, his throat tightening. Jeyson babbled in response, his fingers still reaching toward the photo. The sight of his son pointing at her, so innocent and unaware, hit Jey like a punch to the gut.

“She loves you so much, little man,” Jey whispered, his voice cracking as he moved to the rocking chair by the window. He sank into the seat, cradling Jeyson close. “You know that, right? Mami… she’s everything to you. And to me.”

Jeyson made another sound, a soft coo that almost sounded like a laugh. His bright eyes never left the picture of Rhea, as if he could feel her presence through it. Jey gently rocked the chair, resting his chin on the baby’s head.

“She’d be so proud of you, man. You’re getting so big.” His voice trembled. “I tell myself every day that I gotta do better, gotta keep it together. For you. For her. But some days, man… some days, it’s hard.”

Jey kissed the top of Jeyson’s head, lingering there as he drew in the comforting scent of Dove baby lotion and innocence. It was moments like these that kept him grounded, that reminded him why he couldn’t give in to the despair clawing at him.

“They are gonna bring her home, Jeyson. Mami’s coming back to us.” His voice was low, but his words carried the weight of an unshakable promise.

Jeyson wriggled in his arms, letting out a small yawn before settling into his father’s chest. Jey leaned back in the chair, rocking slowly, his eyes locked on Rhea’s photo. He let the silence fill the room, broken only by the sound of Jeyson’s soft breathing.

“She’s out there,” Jey murmured to himself, more to convince his own heart than anything. “She will come back.”

Jeyson stirred slightly, his little fist clenching and unclenching as he drifted back to sleep. Jey held him a little tighter, drawing strength from the tiny life in his arms. He had to stay strong—not just for himself, but for their son, for the future Rhea would want them to have.

He closed his eyes briefly, sending a silent prayer into the universe: that wherever Rhea was, she could feel their love.

—

3:12 PM

Trinity managed to unlock the front door, balancing a plate in one hand and a pack of diapers in the other. She nudged the door open with her hip and stepped inside, letting the familiar silence of Jey’s house greet her. It was heavy, oppressive even.

Trinity glanced around, noting the state of the living room. Baby bottles lined the coffee table, an assortment of small toys were scattered on the rug, and baby blankets were draped haphazardly across the couch. It wasn’t messy in the usual sense—it was the chaos of someone barely holding it together.

She set the plate down on the kitchen island, taking a moment to survey the space. The fridge door had a picture of Jeyson taped to it, his tiny face grinning at the camera in a way that seemed to mock the silence of the home.

Trinity sighed, running a hand through her hair. She fed Bartholomew, the guinea pig, refilling his water and topping off his food. Then she moved to Barry and Bella, the family dogs, who wagged their tails weakly at her. Even they seemed subdued, as if they could feel the weight of the household. Finally, she filled Storm’s bowl, the aloof, fat cat brushing against her leg for a moment before slinking away.

Once everything downstairs was in order, she made her way upstairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. As she reached the top, the faint sound of music drifted through the hallway.

“I only have eyes for you…”

Trinity paused, the familiar tune pulling at her heartstrings. She recognized Jey’s voice, soft and broken, singing along to The Flamingos. It wasn’t like Jey to sing—not unless he was happy. And right now, happiness seemed like a distant memory.

She approached the nursery, stopping in the doorway. The sight before her made her chest tighten.

Jey was seated in the black rocking chair, cradling Jeyson in his arms. The baby’s tiny hand rested on his father’s chest, his eyes half-closed as he drank from the bottle. Jey swayed gently, his voice barely audible over the music playing from the speaker in the corner. His face was etched with exhaustion, his eyes red and hollow, but his movements were tender, careful, as though Jeyson was the only thing grounding him.

Trinity knocked softly on the doorframe. “Jey?”

Jey flinched slightly but didn’t look up. “Hey, Trin,” he murmured, his voice rough from disuse.

Trinity stepped inside, placing the diapers on the changing table and tidying up a few scattered items. “I brought you a plate,” she said gently. “Jon almost burned the turkey this year.”

A faint laugh escaped Jey’s lips, though it was short-lived. “Figures,” he said, his eyes still fixed on Jeyson.

Trinity sat down on the small stool next to the rocking chair. “The boys are asking about you,” she said after a moment.

Jey closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening. “I miss them,” he said quietly.

“Would you like to come over?” Trinity asked hopefully.

Jey shook his head, his movements slow and deliberate. “No,” he said simply.

Trinity hesitated, searching for the right words. “Jey, everyone’s there. Your mother and father, even Jaciyah and Jeyce. Takecia brought them over, I think being with them might help… being around family could—”

“It’s not going to help,” Jey interrupted, his voice firm but trembling. “It won’t. Nothing’s going to help, Trin.”

Trinity exhaled deeply, her heart aching for him. She wanted to argue, to push, but she knew it would be pointless. Jey’s grief was a fortress, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t break through.

“Okay,” she said softly, conceding. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll bring some more stuff, alright?”

Jey nodded, his attention still focused on Jeyson. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Trinity stood, lingering for a moment as she looked at her brother-in-law. He was a shell of the man she once knew, drowning in a pain she couldn’t reach.

“Jey…” she began, but the words caught in her throat. What could she say that hadn’t already been said?

Instead, she reached out, squeezing his shoulder gently before turning and leaving the room.

As Trinity made her way back downstairs, she felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness. No matter how much she did, how often she came by, or how hard she tried, nothing seemed to ease Jey’s pain.

She locked the front door behind her, pausing for a moment on the porch. The cool evening air stung her cheeks, but she welcomed it. Glancing back at the house, she whispered a silent prayer—for Jey, for Jeyson, and for Rhea, wherever she was.

Trinity didn’t know how to fix this, but she wasn’t going to stop trying.

-

5:30 PM

At around 5:30, Trinity finally convinced Jon to check on Jey. She had been trying all afternoon, insisting that Jey needed someone to make sure he was okay, even if he wouldn’t ask for it. Jon, reluctant but knowing she was right, bundled up and headed out, leaving Trinity at home with the twins and her quiet worries about Jey’s well-being.

Jon entered his assigned gate cold and the screeching gates opened, Jon ulled into Jey’s driveway and climbed out, noting the eerie stillness of the house. He let himself in with his spare key, immediately spotting the plate Trinity had left earlier sitting on the kitchen counter. It was empty, the knife and fork neatly placed on top, a faint glimmer of effort in an otherwise chaotic scene.

Jon wandered further into the house, calling his brother’s name. “Jey! You here?” His voice echoed through the silence. No one answered.

Upstairs, Jon found Jeyson peacefully sleeping in his crib. The soft hum of the baby monitor was the only sound in the room. The camera was positioned perfectly, its screen glowing faintly as it captured every move the infant made. Jon adjusted the blanket over his nephew before stepping out and heading back downstairs.

Still no sign of Jey.

Stepping out onto the back porch, Jon scanned the yard, the faint light of dusk making everything look muted and cold. That’s when he noticed the glow coming from the greenhouse at the far end of the yard.

Jey’s shadow moved within, a faint silhouette against the warm, golden light filtering through the glass. Jon pulled his coat tighter around himself and crossed the yard, the frost-covered grass crunching under his boots.

“Jey?” Jon called out as he reached the greenhouse door.

Inside, the scene stopped him in his tracks.

The greenhouse had been transformed into a breathtakingly beautiful space, one that looked like it had been plucked straight from the pages of The Great Gatsby. The air was filled with the rich, mingling scents of fresh blooms—roses, sunflowers, lilies, and, most notably, Rhea’s favorite flower, the Pompon Dahlia. Every surface was covered in vibrant arrangements, from vases and pots to cascading floral displays that hung from the ceiling.

Jey was standing in the middle of it all, his head bowed as he adjusted a bouquet of flowers in a large vase. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost meditative. On a nearby table, the baby monitor screen displayed Jeyson sleeping soundly upstairs.

Jon stepped into the greenhouse, closing the door softly behind him. “Wow,” he said, his voice low with awe. “This… this is amazing, bro. You did all this?”

Jey glanced over his shoulder briefly, acknowledging Jon’s presence before turning back to the flowers. “Had to do something,” he said, his voice hoarse. “She loved this place. Loved the flowers, the quiet… thought maybe if I kept it alive, it’d feel like she was still here.”

Jon swallowed hard, the bittersweet beauty of the scene hitting him like a punch to the chest. “She’d love what you’ve done with it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Jey let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know, man. Feels like I’m just… treading water. Like I’m here, but I’m not, you know? I take care of Jeyson. I come out here. Then I just sit. Waiting for something to feel normal again, but it doesn’t.”

Jon stepped closer, his boots crunching softly against the gravel floor. He reached out, placing a firm hand on Jey’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do this alone, Jey. You know that, right? We’re all here for you—for you and Jeyson.”

Jey didn’t respond right away. His gaze was fixed on the flowers in front of him, his jaw tight, his shoulders stiff. Finally, he sighed and shook his head. “I appreciate it, but nothing anyone says or does is gonna change how I feel. It’s like this hole inside me that just keeps getting bigger. And I can’t climb out of it.”

Jon’s heart ached at the raw pain in his brother’s voice. “I don’t have all the answers, man. But I know one thing—you’re not alone in this. And you don’t have to carry it all by yourself. Let us help you, even if it’s just by being here.”

Jey finally looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “I don’t even know how to start letting anyone in,” he admitted.

“We can find a way..”

The two brothers stood there in the warmth of the greenhouse, surrounded by the vibrant life that Rhea had loved so much. For the first time in a long while, there was a faint glimmer of hope—fragile and fleeting, but there nonetheless. And as the soft hum of the baby monitor filled the silence, Jon silently vowed to be the rock Jey needed, no matter how long it took to pull him through.

The sharp cries of Jeyson pierced through the tension, drawing both brothers’ attention. Jey instantly grabbed the monitor, his protective fatherly instincts kicking in. “I got him,” he muttered, brushing past Jon and heading into the house. Jon followed, his heart heavy as he watched Jey ascend the stairs and enter the nursery.

Inside, Jon leaned against the doorframe, observing as Jey moved with an almost robotic precision. He spoke softly to Jeyson, his voice trembling with emotion. “It’s okay, buddy. Daddy’s here.” Jey prepared a bottle, his hands steady but his eyes distant, lost in a sea of grief. He carefully cradled the the three month old, feeding him with a tenderness that betrayed his broken spirit.

Jon’s gaze swept over the room. The large blown-up picture of Rhea, her bright smile contrasting sharply with the somber energy in the nursery. On the dresser, a smaller photo of her and Jey at the hospital stood as a painful reminder of her absence.

Jon took a deep breath, trying to choose his words carefully. “Jey,” he started, his tone gentle, “how about this? Let Mom and Dad take care of Jeyson for a few days. You and me could go on a trip. Just… clear your head, man.”

Jey shook his head, not even looking up. “I can’t. I have to wait for the police to call. What if there’s news? What if they find her?”

Jon stepped closer, his voice firm but still laced with concern. “I think it’d be better for both of you if you had some time to readjust. You’re drowning here, bro.”

Instead of responding, Jey deflected, his voice tinged with desperation. “Did you know that after birth, newborns can only see in black and white and shades of gray? They can detect movement and shapes but only see about 8 to 12 inches away. That’s, like… the distance from your eyes to theirs when you’re feeding them.”

Jon groaned, running a hand down his face. “Jey, don’t start this again.”

But Jey pressed on, his words coming out in a rush. “By the first month, babies can start to develop color vision. By two or three months, they can follow moving objects, recognize faces, and even reach for things.”

“Jey, stop!” Jon’s voice was sharper this time, cutting through the rambling.

Jey’s hands trembled as he held the bottle. His voice broke, raw and filled with anguish. “He doesn’t get to experience her!” His shout startled Jeyson, who began crying harder, his wails echoing through the room.

Jon stepped forward, trying to take control of the situation. “Give me my nephew,” he said firmly, holding out his hands.

Jey clutched Jeyson tighter, his posture defensive. “No, he’s fine,” Jey insisted, though Jeyson’s cries only grew louder.

“He’s not fine, Jey!” Jon snapped, his frustration boiling over. “I’m trying to help you! Now give me my nephew!”

Reluctantly, Jey handed Jeyson over, his hands shaking. Jon took the baby and began to coax him gently, his voice soft and soothing. Slowly, Jeyson’s cries subsided, and Jon placed him back in the crib, tucking him in securely.

Jon turned to Jey, his face a mix of anger and heartbreak. He grabbed Jey by the arm and pulled him out of the nursery, closing the door behind them. In the hallway, Jon let loose.

“Jey, if you don’t let Mom and Dad step in, I swear to God I will call Rhea’s parents and have them take over. Do you hear me? I’m scared for you! I’m losing my brother! You think you’re the only one hurting here? You think the rest of us don’t feel what happened to Rhea is fucked up?”

Jey stood frozen, his jaw tight, but Jon wasn’t done.

“I’m not saying to go out and get drunk every day, but damn it, Jey, start coming back to us! You’ve got other kids, man! Jeyce told me the other day he’s wrestling now. You know why? He thinks if he wrestles, you’ll care about him again!”

That hit Jey like a punch to the gut, but Jon pressed on.

“And Jaciyah—do you even know what’s going on with him? He has a baby on the way, Jey! Your oldest son is going to be a dad, and he just started the police academy! Do you even realize how much you’ve missed?”

Jey’s face crumbled, his defenses breaking down as Jon’s words sank in. “I didn’t… I didn’t know,” Jey whispered, his voice trembling. Takecia had spoken with him but… did he really listen?

Jon shook his head, his voice softer now but still firm. “That’s because you’ve been too caught up in your grief to see what’s right in front of you. We’re all hurting, Jey, but you don’t have to do this alone. Let us help you. Let us help Jeyson.”

“Leave my house please..”

HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM ME AND MY BOYFRIEND ! 🩷