#had forgotten about that repressed memory

[claratyler]

bro what the fuck i just watched the episode where L dies and THAT scene after they come back inside from the rain really is over the top.what the fuck. I did not remember that romantic piano music. Also the double-entendres of everything they say..on the one hand it's alluding to L's soon-to-be murder, but also clearly it's meant to be (or at least could be) understood as romantic. What the actual fuck did I just watch. Also why did they look at each other like that. What the fuck

[eloaholiveira]

Freaks AU Sticks revamp cuz I didn't like her being a fairy.

Storyline changes a bit, instead of not knowing what she is she straight up forgets, forgets she's not actually Mobian. She's not Mundane.

When the shorelines became too dangerous to live in, her mom told her at a very young age that she should never go near large bodies of water, and to avoid even puddles. She could touch and drink it, but not go inside it or else "she would die a horrible death." Stick's mamma made sure to put that in her kid brain before disappearing, never to be seem again.

When she touches a decent quantity of water, like doing the dishes or taking a shower, her hands' webs show up, as well as her feet.

She convived with mobians all her life, she was mostly a feral child, didn't have a house or family and liked the wild, but every once in a while she would take a shower or eat something in the local's house. She pushed aside the super foggy, forgotten memories of little Sticks to the point she forgot she was a Siren, as well as her mom.

With her mother telling her to never go near water again, she did as she was told. That was, until an accident with Amy happened that got her in the water, Sticks didn't think twice before saving her best friend, even if it meant she would die.

...But she didn't. Instead of dying the water reawakened her repressed Siren self, painfully and slowly shifting to her Siren form. The only reason it hurt as much as it did was because she wasn't used to it, she had been "dry" for years, so when her scales show up again it's immensively painful like when a young werebeast shifts.

Timeline wise, Sticks figuring out she was a Siren happens before the Bakery incident, which leads to Sticks being pissed at Amy for her not telling her about her being a werewolf. She meant to, but before she could, said incident happened and Sticks found out sooner.

At the time she was mad, but soon came to understanding her position, and they were fine again.

[littlemarianah]

I have a headcannon that it was Peeta's mother who used to decorate the bakery's cakes before him.

She learned it as soon as she married the baker, and is kinda good at it.

Maybe that's why she's so picky about the cakes Peeta makes. "If I had done it..." is what she always says when is about to criticize him. But the truth is that the boy is so good that it's difficult to find something in his cakes to complain.

Peeta took his mother's artistic essence. She is good at crafts, always painting the bakery sign with elegant calligraphy, decorate them with flower designs.

Mrs. Mellark would be a good artist if it weren’t for her complete lack of imagination. For her the books are nonsense, and the illustrations are children’s drawings.

That’s why she didn’t let Peeta draw too much when he was growing up. “go do something useful.” She said “You will not learn to knead bread making doodles.”

She never wanted to be a baker, she never wanted the life she chose, but she knew it was the only way. Her father was a drunk, her mother was neurotic

She didn't choose her husband out of love. She chose him because he was stable, because he was disciplined, because he could be a good father. She didn't have children because she wanted to be a mother, but because she needed more hands to work.

The first was planned, the second tolerated, the third an accident.

After the games, when Peeta returned home, limping and with deep-set eyes. She went to visit him a few times in the victors village.

Peeta's house wasn't organized like she taught him to leave his room. Was a mess. His room was full of pages with scribbles, tubes of paint amd unfinished paintings. Art and more art, everywhere... Mrs. Mellark didn't even know that her son still painted. After he became a teenager, was good at hiding who he really was from his mother. She never saw him draw again, but the truth is that the little artist she tried to repress so much never stopped drawing.

Drawings of landscapes and places, many doodles from the small bakery where he grew up. Drawings of people, neighbors, customers, many drawings of the hunting girl. Peeta paints her much better than she really looks, without marks, without scars, without the frown she has. For Mrs. Mellark, it's just another sign of the madness her son has fallen into.

To the woman’s surprise, she find some drawings of herself, all unfinished. Peeta always seems to stop drawing when he get on her face. Lots and lots of unbedded scribbles of herself. She has always preferred to be feared than loved, to be the tough guy when her soft husband doesn’t have the courage to discipline his children. But it pains her to see that her husband’s drawings at least had the decency to be finished before being thrown into the pile of forgotten scribbles.

Peeta. Her youngest boy. Weak like his father, sentimental, scared, soft. She was perhaps a little heavy on him growing up. She saw how very fragile he was when he was little. He wasn't like his brothers, Peeta was always an outsider. And she always saw that... So she doesn't even try to scold him for the mess in his house.

After he came back to the games she could only see in him the small, scared boy who always tried to hide under her skirt when he was young. And with that memory, comes all the times she pushed him away and told him to become a man. That a six-year-old boy shouldn't cry like a soft girl.

But Mrs. Mellark regrets nothing, even if the memories make her uncomfortable. Was because of that he won the Hunger Games. She taught him to endure, she turned the weak boy into a grown man. She never apologized for that, even though her son hates her forever.

She didn't visit him much in the victor's village, but one of the few times she did, Peeta thought she would fill him with complaints about the dirty house. But she just does said:

"It's not because you're crippled that you have to stay inside this house all day, go sunbathe and open the curtains." And then she left a fresh loaf of bread on the kitchen table and when home.

That was it.

One of the last interactions Peeta had with his mother before she died. Buried under the rubble of the bakery that she fought her entire life to maintain, with the children she raised to become respectable bakers. Men enough to take care of their wives and children. Everything she fought for her entire life was left in ashes and the only one of the boys left was the one she never thought would prosper.

Peeta misses her sometimes.

He thinks his eldest daughter looks like her grandmother a bit. Big blue eyes and dimples on her cheeks. He sometimes thinks he even forgives his mom, not all the time, but sometimes. Peeta misses her discipline and resilience. Sometimes he wants to hear her voice telling him to stop whining and come back with his head held high.

Perhaps the only lesson she taught him and stuck with him until the end is that the Mellarks never give up. Every morning, they wake up early, turn on the oven and work until sunset. That the Mellarks are never content with little, that they never accept mediocrity.

So he teaches his children to lift their heads after a defeat, to try again after they fail. Because The Mellarks never give up.

[sysmedsaresexist]

The Big "Is RAMCOA Antisemitic?" Debunk Post

Because I have to stay relevant, here we go

Let's start with a little speech. A bit of positivity.

You know, there is something good to said about this RAMCOA antisemitism discourse. The majority don't seem to be falling for it at all, and many are becoming more educated about the panic, RAMCOA/OEA and its history (the good and the bad) than ever before

RAMCOA/OEA a very real issue that deserves awareness and advocacy, and so far, I've noticed a massive surge in members of the community researching the ISSTD and the OEA sig's work.

It has brought antisemitism into light in a way that hasn't really been talked about on a large scale in system communities, and most don't know ever existed. Many, genuinely, had no idea that the satanic panic was antisemitic in these ways, and it's putting a lot of pieces together and adding a lot of context that'll help us grow and be better people going forward.

It's been really nice seeing such a positive shift to open, educational conversations, with people genuinely wanting to know the truth and unlearn harmful associations.

SAS stands with RAMCOA and OEA survivors.

So let's get into it.

SRA and The Memory Wars, lasting results

SRA started with Michelle Remembers, a book, in 1980. It resulted in thousands of unsubstantiated claims of abuse, daycare hysteria, set CDD research and OEA abuse back decades, affected millions, and to this day conjures images of cloaked figures sacrificing children.

The ISSTD was formed in 1984, amid the panic, with the goal of quickly developing an effective treatment and documenting the disorder as thoroughly as possible. Many mistakes were made. Clinicians aren't immune to societal panics, and lessons were learned the hard way.

I think an important distinction that many have forgotten is that the ISSTD's principal controversy isn't SRA. SRA didn't start or end with the ISSTD.

While the “Satanic Panic” played out in courts and in mass media, the ISSTD entered “The Memory Wars”, and it's this that they're most controversial for. False, implanted, and fostered memories weren't solely related to SRA. It was used to discredit all types of abuse and violence and is still used to this day to silence victims.

By the 1990s, therapists were being sued, licenses were being revoked, and members were fleeing the ISSTD. The False Memory Syndrome Foundation wouldn't be created for another couple of years, but that doesn't mean its founding members weren't already wreaking havoc.

The FMSF would be created in 1992, and their bigger and better attacks on therapists were brutal and persistent. The legal battles would be especially effective at causing therapists to refuse to work with victims of abuse.

Research on ritual abuse, CDDs, and repressed memories came to a grinding halt.

The Satanic Panic eventually fell into relative silence by 1995, but false memories lived on, loud and cruel.

The FMSF would eventually begin to write college textbooks for the next generation of clinicians. It would survive until 2019.

The ISSTD is still trying to regain its membership. It's only recently that they reached 1500, the highest since 1993.

Antisemitism, blood libel, and the satanic panic

If you're confused about how everything is related, I'm going to make it very simple so you grasp the basic idea.

This is not a history lesson.

Blood Libel, or ritual murder, is the idea that Jewish people sacrificed Christian children in religious rituals. Cloaked figures performing rituals and killing children and animals. The same thing you picture when you think of Satanists and rituals.

For those who recognize the connection (racists), this fuels their sentiments and creates a language for them to speak to each other.

It is true, a basic fact, that for many people, Satanists are anyone who doesn't worship the Christian god. Including and especially Jewish people.

SRA and RAMCOA

Depending on who you ask, the connection is either that:

MYTH: the ISSTD originally called their RAMCOA sig (Special Interest Group) the SRA sig. FACT: The RAMCOA sig, one of twelve ISSTD sigs, was created in 2008. There was never any kind of satanic ritual abuse group or association within the ISSTD.

FACT: Ritual abuse, the RA in RAMCOA, still has ties to SRA and brings to mind everything from the panic. ALSO FACT: That's why the ISSTD has renamed it to the OEA sig.

Hopefully we're all on the same page now.

Who's Grey Faction?

Grey Faction is a group of the TST (The Satanic Temple) and is closely related to the FMSF. While the FMSF generally attacked all types of abuse, GF, being related to Satanism, is focused on recovered memories and the (still alive) satanic panic. They believe that all reports of false memories supports satanic panic conspiracy theories. They continue the FMSF's work.

How did we get here?

Well, TST and GF are on reddit. Syscringe is on reddit. And now syscringe is here.

This is what syscringe bot says every time RAMCOA is brought up.

That link goes to Grey Faction.

So is RAMCOA Antisemitic?

Kind of yeah. It was a really good move of the ISSTD to change the name to OEA sig. They talk about the association on their website and stated they wanted to get away from that. No one won the satanic panic. Ritual abuse is real, but its history is tainted.

The discourse around RAMCOA isn't about helping Jewish people. At least, not for the people pushing the false connection that the ISSTD started and continues to maintain the panic to this day.

It's about discrediting the ISSTD and the trauma theory. It's about silencing victims, even Jewish survivors.

It's about ignoring that the ISSTD is making moves in the right direction.

It's about continuing the idea that false memories exist and that trauma memories can't be trusted or taken at face value. It's about downplaying the depravity of abusers and the lengths they'll go to.

I want to finish this post with a letter from a very dear friend. It's not a mod on this blog, simply someone wishing to stay anonymous.

Uplift Jewish Voices

Hello, I’m Noam, an ethnic and religious Jew. I face antisemitism on the daily and deal with having DID. I am not a RAMCOA survivor, but I have a number of friends who are. Today I’m here to talk about the recent discourse going around regarding whether claiming to have RAMCOA experiences is inherently antisemitic. TLDR: no.

Let’s start with understanding why people think this. The term ritual abuse originated from the term satanic ritual abuse and is often associated with the satanic panic. The satanic panic in the 80s and 90s was extreme and yes, did involve a lot of antisemitic conspiracy theories. People would suggest certain symbols or music or groups of people (often vague, or calling it a nationwide conspiracy) were “brainwashing” these “good Christian children” into satanic practices or straying from rigid Christianity. Jews are often stereotyped as Satanic, controlling things, and murdering and cannibalizing children/babies.

Ritual abuse nowadays is often still associated with Satanic cults, but it has a much broader and less accusatory definition in medical/therapeutic spaces. Per Schröder et al. (2018), “ritual abuse occurs when a religious, political, or spiritual authority uses its position of power and the sovereignty to interpret the respective belief system to manipulate and dominate its followers.” Some examples include repeated forced creation of CSEM, religious and other types of cults (yes, including satanic, but also Christian and other religions), and being forced to abuse others (Schröder et al., 2018). Trafficking is also a type of organized abuse. We know these types of abuses happen. But given the history of RA as a term and the harm claims of SRA caused, how does one determine whether something is a conspiracy theory or actual trauma someone experienced?

This page by the European Commission does a good job of talking about identifying conspiracy theories and the harm they do. I won’t recount the whole thing, but here are some basic things they state conspiracy theories have in common: a secret plot, a group of conspirators, unfounded/unreliable evidence, suggesting everything is connected, dividing the world into good people and bad people, and scapegoating certain groups (“Identifying Conspiracy Theories,” 2020).

What makes (many) stories of RAMCOA different from antisemitic conspiracy theories? I’m glad you asked!

• The secret plot in conspiracy theories often involves a large group of people in on some secret changing something about the world or identifying a secret thing that must have happened to lead to unfortunate current events. RAMCOA tends to stem from people or organizations working on a much smaller scale, and the things they are doing mostly affect the person/people experiencing this abuse. Abusers may try to instill in victims a sense that they control a lot about the world and the events that happen within it, but they don’t.

• A big question I like to ask people who spout conspiracy theories is “who is they (the group of conspirators)?” If they is some generic big bad, the government, “elites” (see the AJC’s Translate Hate Glossary section titled “cosmopolitan elite”), or vague and unknown, it’s usually a dogwhistle for Jews. The person themselves may not realize this, but perhaps they never looked further into the evidence behind these accusations and who those being accused are. RAMCOA perpetrators are not vague to their victims. They often have familial ties or other close relationships with them that allow the abusers to gain their victims’ trust (Schröder et al. 2018). The things they do to abuse people and the methods they use are not vague or mysterious actions to achieve an end. There are specific actions and tactics that cults and authority figures use for RAMCOA.

• Whether evidence is unfounded is a harder thing to distinguish, since many survivors of RAMCOA cope using dissociation or have an amount of dissociative amnesia around traumatic events (Shröder 2018). The Europe Commission suggests three main things to check for in regards to evidence about a claim. Who is the author and why are they writing this? Is the source reliable/reputable? Is the tone and style “balanced and fair or sensationalist and one-dimensional?” (“Identifying Conspiracy Theories,” 2020). I also like to think about, especially with regards to abuse survivors, if this is a conspiracy theory, why are they telling me the things they’re telling me? Most RAMCOA survivors I’ve met avoid talking about their trauma and are more focused on figuring out if what they experienced is real and how to heal from it. They are not trying to convince me of something; they are just sharing their story and looking for support.

• RAMCOA victims I’ve talked to, particularly those with DID, also have a more complex view of their abusers or are trying to come to terms with all the bad things someone they admired, trusted, and/or loved did. Conspiracy theorists tend to separate people into conspirators or innocents. There is no middle ground. Healing for a lot of abuse victims involves realizing that good people can do bad things and bad people can do good things; the world is not black and white.

• Scapegoating often involves generalizing and demonizing certain people or groups of people. I find a lack of seeing these “others” as human or wanting anything other than a single, unified goal. It also tends to involve assumptions much more than any personal experience. Anyone with even the slightest connection to a certain ideology is evil. RAMCOA often involves many victims, many of whom understand that other people involved with the organization that hurt them are also victims or have been scared or brainwashed into further perpetuating abuse.

• Also, while satanic panic was largely about going against Christianity, many religious cults are associated with particular sects or communities within Christianity, and they use certain ideologies within the group to deter people from leaving or reporting abuse. Perpetrators claim some sort of punishment or betrayal will be involved in these actions.

Anyways, I want to put emphasis on healing in RAMCOA survivors, where many of the points and purposes of conspiracy theories are antithetical to such a process. People should be allowed to find support, community, and reliable resources about what they have gone through (if it is physically/mentally safe for them to do so). Please do not insist that these traumas aren’t real on the basis of antisemitism from the satanic panic. The survivors I’ve met who talk about parts of their trauma are working hard to come to terms with it themselves and how to cope, and while they may be angry and upset towards their abusers, they do not try to insist to me how evil a group is and that there is a need to take direct action against them. They are just trying to survive.

Now, ritual abuse as a term and the history of its use is something I think needs more discussion. I would love to see more research about how the term evolved within medical/therapeutic spaces and how much of a connection the current definition and use has to antisemitism. But regardless of what we end up calling these types of abuses, there are real examples of them and people who have empirical evidence that they have been through such experiences.

Furthermore, I have a problem with a lot of the claims of antisemitism in relation to RAMCOA coming from goyim (AKA non-Jews). You are not the authority on antisemitism. You do not get to claim to defend us while not speaking to us about the topic. There is so much antisemitism going around, but I find so few people willing to listen to Jews when we talk about the struggles we face. (The SAS mods are an example of exceptions to this. I appreciate the amount I’ve been able to talk to them and how open and supportive they are. I love y’all.) Encouraging hate and disbelief is not helpful to us. What’s helpful is doing your research and learning about how to recognize and combat antisemitism. Take your energy where it’s needed, thank you.

European Commission. (2020, August 12). Identifying conspiracy theories. European Commission. <https://commission.europa.eu/strategy-and-policy/coronavirus-response/fighting-disinformation/identifying-conspiracy-theories_en>

Gerke, J., Fegert, J., Rassenhofer, M., & Fegert, J. M. (2024). Organized sexualized and ritual violence: Results from two representative German samples. Child Abuse & Neglect, 152, 106792. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.chiabu.2024.106792

[smile-files]

nickel and balloon stuff from spring on the breakfast!!! i'm keeping in mind that in the previous episode, both of them were under the impression that their friendship wasn't real...

in a way, ii3 balloon is a lot like late ii3 cabby. of course, balloon did something indisputably immoral (manipulate and exploit others), and cabby only did something thought to be immoral (keep and use files about her fellow contestants) -- but both did something wrong and had to subsequently undergo a disproportionate amount of abuse and malignment for it, ending up with them being apologetic and submissive to avoid any chance of being framed as bad again. the biggest difference is that cabby has internalized the guilt others have attributed to her, while balloon largely hasn't -- he understands the concept of rolling with the punches for the sake of keeping good connections, but he doesn't believe he deserves it.

nickel brushes off ii2 a LOT this episode. to rid himself of his guilt regarding that time, he necessarily has to delegitimize the hatred he felt towards balloon then, thus also ridding balloon of his guilt. he expresses this all vaguely, choosing to remember ii2 fondly and saying off-hand that its baggage should be laughed off -- implying that balloon has been forgiven. reasonably, balloon is happy that nickel seems to actually believe he's changed for the better, so initially this makes him happy.

of course, though, it becomes clear that nickel just wants to shove his own actions under the rug, and balloon reasonably gets pissed off. nickel treated balloon and suitcase like complete garbage in ii2, and balloon clearly hasn't forgotten that.

"it keeps things easy." it keeps things easy to roll with the punches, to endure nickel's abuse and accept his sudden friendship. note, also, that nickel is still placing the blame on balloon: he's saying that balloon didn't want to "make things better", as if nickel and balloon ever having a rift was entirely balloon's fault, and his problem to fix.

and as we can see, nickel still hasn't fully forgiven balloon for ii1. as i've discussed before, nickel seems to secretly feel incredible guilt about how he treated balloon in ii2 (which is why he goes to such lengths to repress the whole memory of it) -- but that guilt is about the way in which he expressed his disdain and distrust of balloon, not those opinions themselves, nor the motivations for them. this is all very interesting, then -- if he still believes balloon can't change from his old, bad self, why did nickel start being friends with him at all?

i think a large part of it is his projection onto balloon. nickel sees himself in balloon: someone who screwed up big-time and isn't able to become a better person after that (according to nickel). we tend to gravitate to people similar to us, after all. i wouldn't be surprised if nickel was also trying to overcompensate for his hostility towards balloon in ii2 by being very friendly with him in ii3, thereby helping him forget that he was ever hostile to him at all.

the most fascinating thing to me about balloon and nickel's relationship is how impersonal it is for balloon. he seems to value what nickel's affection represents rather than nickel himself -- and it represents that he's been forgiven. anyone who saw balloon and nickel's conflict in ii2, which was a product of balloon's nastiness in ii1 and nickel's subsequent inability to forgive that nastiness, would likely come to accept balloon and forgive him themselves if they then saw nickel being friendly with him -- because nickel is the epitome of the ii contestants' anger at him, and nickel of all people (seemingly) forgiving him would imply that he's really changed. the relationship is almost entirely a symbol in that regard. i don't think balloon has much residual guilt about is actions in ii1 -- he feels like he's adequately addressed them and changed -- but nickel having a positive relationship would be helpful in affirming that stance and proving to himself that he really has changed.

i wouldn't say it's cruel of balloon to keep this relationship going on under that pretense, but it is backhanded, and it helps explain why he was ever willing to accept nickel's friendliness unchallenged. he wanted his crimes to finally be laid to rest once and for all, and keeping nickel on good terms with him would let that happen. people would finally shut up about it. up until now, nickel wasn't explicitly denying his past cruelty towards balloon anyway, so balloon would be able to ignore that he neglected to ever bring it up; now, though, nickel is denying not only what he did to balloon but also to suitcase, which balloon is not able to tolerate. now that he's confronted nickel about that though, nickel snaps back with his condemnation of what balloon did in ii1, thereby uprooting the social stasis balloon had been able to maintain precisely because nickel refused to bring anything up before. in a way, then, balloon is purposefully shoving the past under the rug, just like nickel is.

we can't forget, though, that nickel has his own complex about fearing that he's incapable of change and incapable of forming positive, genuine relationships with people. balloon is essentially revealing that, in a way, he wasn't really friends with nickel -- at least not in the way nickel wished and fooled himself into thinking they were. if balloon truly were friends with nickel like that, then that would mean that balloon had forgiven him for his cruelty in ii2, and perhaps that he really has changed... but no. balloon hasn't forgiven him. why should he? nickel never apologized -- and given how he never apologized, it's impossible that he could've changed anyway: nickel doesn't want to apologize because that means addressing his guilt and allowing himself to feel it. he wants the forgiveness to be handed to him on a silver platter, without him having to do all of the painful work, and he's incredibly upset when it isn't. he wants to not be a bad person, but in order to do that, he has to feel like one, and he really doesn't want to. he hates who he was and doesn't want to associate with it at all.

(note how it's the suitcase robot who says "you can say sorry" when nickel says that nothing can be done about making things better...)

there's clearly an immeasurable amount of resentment these two have been harboring for each other throughout this season, which they'd only been hiding for the sake of fooling themselves into thinking they've changed (nickel) or thinking that others think they've changed (balloon). and now that they've let themselves explode with anger, partly related to the lies they'd been telling themselves falling apart, they yell at each other and balloon drops nickel down a hole!

ah, balloon and nickel's relationship... it's bizarre, it's toxic, it's convoluted, it's shady, and it's incredibly sad. i'm glad i'm revisiting ii3, especially this episode -- i used to be utterly baffled by nickel's writing, particularly in spring on the breakfast, but now it makes complete sense to me. also, i used to think balloon was entirely the victim in this relationship, while now i know that he has his own faults and own baggage in that regard. it's weird -- they hate each other, but at the same time they're dying to be liked by one another. god i love these freaks...

[just-a-creep-babe]

A Demon’s Ache — Part 20

Eyeless Jack x Reader

A Demon's Ache Masterlist

Commissioned by @cookiereblogss — thank you so so much for your whole support throughout this entire series! It genuinely wouldn’t be here without you, and I appreciate it so much 💓💗💖

Requests are closed but commissions are open!

Masterlist: x

Pain

Before he can even begin to understand where he is, all he can register is pain

His body’s numb with it

A groan escapes him

Blood pounds in his eardrums

It feels like his head’s being split open from the inside—he can’t remember the last time he had such a bad migraine

He reaches up to press his hands to his head, as if doing so could alleviate his headache, and the movement is accompanied by the sound of metal clanging against metal

He pauses, his body stiffening as he realizes there's a weight around his wrists

He’s chained down to something

With a disgruntled sound, he forces his attention to his surroundings

The first thing he notices is that he’s in some sort of basement, with dark wood-paneled walls and bare stone floors

He’s not wearing his mask, his face uncomfortably exposed for anyone to see, but that’s the least of his problems right now

He's kneeling, chained to the wall, he realizes, in front of both you and The Operator

Worry laces your features

The scent of your stress and fear permeates the otherwise stale, dead air

Panic infiltrates Jack's system as things start to click into place

What happened?

He tries to think back to the last thing he remembers; something about running through the forest, something about wanting to kill

But the more he tries to remember, the louder that dull pounding in his head grows, and he realizes he just can't concentrate properly

Not right now, anyway, not like this

He tries to shake the discomfort off, and then, feeling awkward just kneeling there in front of the both of you, he stands

Or, at least, he tries to stand, but his legs are shaky and unstable, like he recently over-exerted himself, and his muscles are too stiff to function properly, so he gives up, and simply stays on the dirty floor

“Jack…” you say his name, then hesitate, like you’re scared or uncertain about something

It breaks his heart

He wants to reach out and comfort you

Before anything else—before even figuring out what happened and why he’s here—he just wants to make sure you’re ok

Jack Nyras

He flinches at the sound of his name, his real, full name, echoed in his mind by The Operator's rumbling hiss

He can't remember the last time he heard that name—it feels like lifetimes ago

He'd almost forgotten it entirely, and, in all honesty, he would've preferred to keep it that way

You have violated the laws of the Safe House

Static fills his mind, growing in intensity with every word

What is your defense?

Defense?

He can hardly remember what happened, and now he's supposed to defend himself?

He tries to concentrate again, tries to think through the noise crowding his head

He remembers making it to a cabin—the proxies' cabin?

He remembers wood splintering and glass shattering, and then there was something about a fight, something about squeezing someone's neck between his hands, feeling pleasure as their life slowly drained away

He shivers, repressing the memory

What is your defense?

The question is repeated, louder this time, noticeably less forgiving and more commanding

"I-I don't know," Jack admits out loud, "I don't have one"

You are aware of the consequences of violating the laws of the Safe House

Even though it isn't a question, it's phrased as though The Operator expects an answer

And so, with a nod, Jack complies

"I am"

The faceless monster tilts its head to the side, the motion, of which, might’ve been unnerving if Jack hadn’t grown so used to it

Do you accept the consequences?

The hybrid furrows his brows

The biggest rule of the mansion was to never intentionally harm another resident

The punishments ranged in severity depending on circumstance, but Jack definitely had the intention to kill—and to kill one of Slender’s beloved proxies, nonetheless

Having him ask if he accepted the consequences could only mean one thing; he was about to face expulsion

How could he just accept that?

He looks up at you, at your fear, at your nervousness and confusion and uncertainty

What about her? Why did you drag her down to see this?

He doesn't say it out loud, but he directs his question to the eldritch being

Her presence is for her own benefit, seeing as her fate is tied to yours

It takes him a moment to register the low timber pervading his mind

And, at first, he almost thinks he didn't understand correctly

"What do you mean?"

He asks the question slowly, carefully, keeping his voice low as if to contain the mix of emotions threatening to surface

He doesn't look away from you as he asks, either—he can't

He wants to see your reaction, wants to know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling

Part of him is also curious to see if you understand what they're talking about, based solely on his side of the conversation

Or maybe you’re having your own internal discussion with The Operator at the same time

But then he notices the obvious confusion and burning curiosity stirring alongside your fear, and he realizes you really don’t know

She has become inherently tied to you; she will share your decided fate, it repeats

"What? Why? That doesn't make any sense," he jerks in his chains; a futile attempt to free himself

She didn't do anything wrong

He adds in that last part in his head because he doesn’t want you to know what they're talking about

Part of him still insists on sheltering you from as much of this mess as possible

It is simply how things must come to pass

The Operator expresses it with such an air of indifference that it makes Jack's blood boil

"I refuse," Jack hisses

After everything he's done, everything he did to you—he can't be the reason you're expelled

He's caused enough disorder in your life as is

You have no choice, The Operator answers simply

"Give me the choice," Jack insists, a snarl accidentally rippling out of him as his anger bubbles out

And it isn't like him at all to succumb to his anger so easily; he usually prides himself on his ability to remain calm and collected, even in tense situations

But it’s like this whole thing is just grating on his nerves at this point

And it’s even worse since you’re involved in this, too

And that's when it suddenly clicks that this must be one of the many effects of the mark

You have no choice, The Operator repeats, and as the voice fills his head, so does an overwhelming wave of static

Jack chokes back another snarl

His muscles tense, and he grits his teeth, trying to bear the pain threatening to split his head open again

"S-stop—don't hurt him!"

Hearing you cry out for him, he looks up, right as another surge of agony knocks the breath out of him

It's dizzying

The pain pushes and presses up against his skull, like his head's suddenly way, way too crowded and it's on the verge of bursting

Once it's filled his mind, left with no other space to invade, it travels down his nervous system like a flash of electricity, burning every single nerve ending along the way

It's excruciating

The intensity drowns out everything in his surroundings

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he hears you crying out again, but he can't make out the words over the shrill ringing in his ears

He sees you trying to reach for him, sees The Operator's tendrils appear out of nowhere to wrap around you, to hold you back from helping him

Jack hisses out through gritted teeth

His chest heaves with labored breaths as he’s violated from the inside-out

Something cold licks up his thoughts, and then all at once, his memories are forced to surface

Every interaction, every intimate moment shared between the two of you is brought up and laid bare for The Operator to pick through

The steamy exchanges, the longing, the private glances, the first kiss—all of the back and forth, the tangle of emotions and miscommunications that'd been treasured in his memories is yanked from the privacy he'd previously taken for granted

No, no, no—stop—stop doing this—make it stop

Even through the burning pain, the words repeat themselves over and over in his head—as if merely thinking it could stop him

He'd rather be tortured than forced to expose everything like this

It’s beyond violating—he’s tarnishing the intimacy of the memories by being so rough and cruel with them

He doesn’t know how long it lasts—it feels like a short, endless eternity

And then, before he knows it, it’s all over

The agony subsides like it was never there to begin with, and he's left dizzy and nauseous, and torn between wanting to cry and wanting to kill the damn bastard with his bare hands

When he looks up at you, an apology hangs at the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't have time to express it as he notices the fear in your eyes, now more intense than ever, as The Operator's tentacles twist and writhe around your form

One quick snap would be all it takes to kill you

He lurches forward, about to plead, about to say anything to save you, when you open your mouth and speak

"I- I don't know," you say, and he realizes The Operator's in your mind now, having a conversation about God-knows-what

He wants to interrupt, wants to beg him not to hurt you, but at the same time, he's scared doing just that will jeopardize your safety

You chew at your lip, looking at Jack with uncertainty clear on your features

"It's-it's complicated—please, just, don't—"

You cut yourself off with a wince, and when you squirm in Slender’s hold, the tendrils tighten even further around you like he's planning on suffocating you

Jack holds his breath

He doesn't know whether or not he should say something

He's never felt so helpless

You wince again, squeezing your eyes shut

"Yes," you answer, and Jack's just about dying to know the context of the exchange

The following seconds trickling are unbearably slow and agonizing

Your eyes keep darting back and forth uncertainly, looking at him, looking at Slender, then back to him with your brows furrowed in contemplation

Just free her, he pleads internally, just let her go and I won't cause any more trouble

But almost immediately as he thinks it, your breath catches in your throat with a gasp

“N-no—don’t,” he tries to beg, knowing what’s coming, but as soon as he opens his mouth, you scream

Pain contorts your features, your body going rigid before you twist and jerk to try to free yourself

God, he can’t stand it

He can’t stand the sound of your pain, the sight of your visceral gut-wrenching agony

"Stop, stop! Make it stop—I'll do anything!"

Pleas falling on deaf ears, he snarls, jerking forward only to have the chains snap him back into place

Your screaming overrides his humanity—whatever was left of his rational mind evaporates and leaves behind his baser instincts

It turns him into a monster

He doesn’t hear himself snarling and growling over your pained cries

He doesn’t hear the chains groaning in protest, doesn’t register the feeling of them bending with strain as he pulls against them with all of his force

He just needs to make it stop

The metal creaks unpleasantly as he gains an inch, and then another one after that

The fixture restraining him to the wall goes taut, and then, all at once, it finally snaps off

The tentacles disappear as he rushes toward you

He wraps his arms around you, pressing you close to his chest, as if the less distance there is between the both of you, the better he can protect you

The last thing he thinks is that he'd die for you, and then everything goes dark

He wakes up sore and disoriented, which seems to be a recurring theme as of late

Except, this time, instead of being in some shady basement, he's... outside, in the forest

Sun peaks through the canopy of the trees, dappling the grass in bright patches of warmth

With a groan, Jack sits upright

His mask is staring up at him from a bed of wildflowers

He picks it up, fixes it over his face, and looks around

He doesn't immediately recognize this part of the forest, which would worry him—if a more intense kind of panic didn't immediately seize his chest at the realization that you're not anywhere around

He wastes no time standing up, ignoring the protest of his aching muscles, and moving in the direction of the sun

But he only makes it maybe 20 minutes or so when he feels a presence behind him

He tenses, knowing it could only be one person

And, surely enough, when he turns around, he finds Slender facing him expectantly

"Where is she?"

He wastes no time asking the question

Fuck everything else, he just needs to know you're ok

(Y/n) has made a bargain, it informs, and it sets Jack on edge even more so than he already was

She has 24 hours to decide, among other things, whether or not she is willing to become your mate

Jack's throat tightens

Failure to accept, or failure to decide, will result in both of you being expelled from the Safe House

He’s condemned you, Jack thinks, much to his horror; because of this mess he’s created, he’s inadvertently forcing you to either live a life you don’t want, or lose the one you currently cherish so deeply

It's all his fault

Nausea like bile rises in his throat

“Is there… is there any other way around this?” he insists, “Can't you just expel me, and leave her out of this? She didn’t do anything to deserve punishment—she didn't break any rules”

The Operator tilts his head to the side

The mere notion that a compromise is being permitted is an exception not permitted to most. There is no other way

“What about—“ he tries again, balling his fists at his side as he refuses to accept things, “what about if—if things don't pan out," he takes a deep breath, knowing it's a plausible reality, "and we're both kicked out—if we sort things outside of the mansion, and come to some kind of peaceful agreement or understanding together—could she still be allowed in?”

A tense second passes as The Operator considers his question

If, it clarifies, you and (y/n) come to an agreement that guarantees you will not be jeopardizing the sanctuary of the Safe House, I may consider her re-admittance based on a very strictly defined set of terms

The burden on his shoulders lightens somewhat

It isn’t much, but it’s something—something he can cling to if nothing else works

Some kind of hope

You are to remain here until the decision is taken, or the time otherwise reaches its end

And, just like that, he vanishes

For the rest of the morning—or, at least, what he assumes to be morning, based on the position of the sun—Jack wanders aimlessly through the forest

He thinks about the past few hours, how quickly everything spiraled, how it's all his fault

He doesn't know how you could ever manage to forgive him—much less accept being his mate

He runs through hundreds of scenarios in his head, trying to figure out the best course of action that would guarantee you keep your spot at the mansion

Jack's not an idiot; he's always known Slender's had an eye on him, so to speak

Maybe he could strike up his own bargain; becoming a proxy in exchange for your guaranteed residence at the mansion

He'll sell his soul to the devil for you, if he has to

Time trickles by slowly, painfully so

He doesn't know what to do with himself, so he just overthinks, and overthinks, and overthinks some more after that

The sun crests over the midway point in the sky, dips down a few inches, and still, no word from Slender

He sits, leaning his back against a tree, and tries to relax, tries to fall asleep or something to pass the time—but it, of course, is impossible to do so

He digs his fingers into the soft dirt

He feels the earth give way beneath his nails, and it reminds him of the feeling of tearing organs from a body

He pulls out a patch of grass, sprinkles it around him, repeats the motion

He’s ripped out maybe half a dozen handfuls when he feels that presence in front of him again

He looks up, and sees The Operator looking down at him

You are free to return to the mansion

It’s all he says before disappearing

The demon’s heart leaps up his throat

He stands, and starts making his way toward what he can only guess to be the mansion’s general direction

He doesn’t know why the damn bastard couldn’t have just teleported him there, or why he was forced to wait in this forest, but none of that matters right now

All that matters is he has the chance to see you again, to make sure you’re ok

It takes him longer than he would’ve liked to make it, but a few hours into his trek, he spots that familiar shape of the large building just up ahead

He picks up the pace, nearly jogging the rest of the way

He doesn’t wait a moment longer to make it to your room

As soon as he reaches it and makes it to your room, he notices that your door’s wide open, but you’re not inside

He takes in a slow, steadying breath

His room

He should check his own room; maybe you figured it’d be better to meet him there

After everything that’s been said and done, even despite Slender’s verdict, he doesn’t want to get his hopes crushed

Which is why he keeps his expectations exceptionally low as he beelines it to his room

And after everything that’s happened up until this point, it almost doesn’t even feel real when he sees you there; curled up in his bed, your eyes closed and your breathing slow and steady with his pillow hugged to your chest

He walks up to the bed, careful to not wake you

But either you weren’t sleeping, or you weren’t in a very deep sleep, because you immediately open your eyes when he gets to the edge of the bed

“…Hey,” you say, softly, your voice gentle, with a faint smile on your lips

“Hey,” he answers

You move over a few inches to make space for him, then pat the empty space next to you

He’s, admittedly, somewhat hesitant, somewhat nervous to accept the offer

But when he does, and when you cuddle up next to him, and he can hold you in his arms again so that nothing could hurt you, he finally relaxes around you

It wasn’t a secret that the hybrid had a thing for you

But now you knew; knew how badly he wanted you, knew the lengths he’d go to please you, to make you his

Maybe he’s not so hopeless after all, he thinks

Maybe, just maybe, things are going to be ok

[sapphicseasapphire]

ok, so, this has been bugging me for a bit today, but, what was Sky's reaction to when he first met Warriors? like there's got to be a strong emotion there given that Fi is also a sword spirit.

so yeah, I'm just wondering what you have planed for that.

.

.

.

.

(also great artwork it's absolutely stunning and looks really yummy)

((dont question it))

SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO RESPOND TO THIS, I HAD TO DRAW IT.

(Lore under the cut. Sorry, I have a lot to say about this haha)

Sky’s reaction when he first meets Warriors? Awe.

They find Wars last- or, well, they find his sword. The others are notably confused because they were looking for the hero. The temple that they were led to is completely empty except for a single sword atop a pedestal. Surely their lead was wrong- this can’t be it. Maybe this is the hero’s blade? And he will return to the temple? Or is this just the wrong spot entirely?

While the others are arguing with each other about what to do next, Sky steps up to the blade. It’s… a lot fancier than the ones that the heroes are accustomed to. Gems are inlaid into the guard, fabric is woven around the grip in a familiar pattern. There are diamonds that run down the blade and a piece of blue fabric is tied around the ring of the pommel. This level of decoration is not usually suited for a sword to be wielded in battle. In fact, the only sword that he’s known to be this beautiful and but also effective is currently strapped at his side. As Sky walks closer, he can see the blade glow unnaturally, and his voice echoes through the temple:

“It’s a Sword Spirit,” he’d say, reaching out to the blade but not touching. Not yet.

There’s a mix of emotions when Sky looks upon the blade. He’s relieved, for he had feared that Sword Spirits had been forgotten entirely. His heart aches at the cold weight of Fi at his side, empty and quiet where she used to be full of life. It’s good, he thinks, to see a new sword shine so bright. He’s a little afraid, he’d admit, since he has unsavory memories of a different Sword Spirit. Phantom hands at his shoulders, tongue at his ear, black blades arcing in the air.

Still, Sky can’t repress the way his heart leaps in excitement, a smile at his lips, even as his hand falters in the air. Another Sword Spirit, here, right in front of him. Another opportunity to make things right, to fix things. Oh, how he misses Fi.

“This is the hero we’re looking for.”

And the others would approach, their curiosity piqued by the reverent tone of Sky’s voice. (Note that Sky had just joined them about two-ish days ago? He was the second to last to meet the Chain, the last being Wars).

No one else has met a Sword Spirit before, not even Wild or Time (who, at this point, everyone thinks is a spirit), so they’re all a bit hesitant to accept Sky’s words at face value. Sky explains that he’s met Sword Spirits before, that the Master Sword herself is a spirit. Puzzle pieces click into place but they still need more convincing. They’ll believe that Sky’s correct: that the sword in the pedestal is indeed a Sword Spirit, but they don’t agree that it’s the hero that they’re looking for.

At least, not until the spirit bursts from his sword in a flash of white light, floating in the air as Fi had done so long ago. The eight heroes stand, eyes wide, before the glowing metallic figure. Sky could cry in at the joy he feels as the spirit utters his first words to them:

“Hello, Masters.”

. . .

• Sky inherently trusts everything that Wars says because he trusted Fi. Fi didn’t lie, she was always helpful, and she told him exactly what he needed to hear every single time, even if he didn’t like it. She was calculating and intelligent and Sky (well… Link) could not have survived on the Surface without her. He trusted her with his life. Sky has no reason to think that Wars would ever lie to him, either. Especially in the early days, when he’s more robotic and less human. And so, he trusts Wars to always be honest.

• This will totally definitely 100% not be a problem guys, I promise. Wars would never lie to Sky about something dangerous. And it totally would never result in Sky getting hurt. And it’s definitely not why Wars looks so upset in the sketches I did yesterday. You can trust me. I promise.

• Sky and Wars talk a lot about Fi. Wars is curious about her, since he’s met her before in his own era and doesn’t know what happened to her. So Sky would explain that she went to sleep after his first adventure, and Wars would stare at him blankly.

“Sword Spirits do not necessitate sleep, Master.”

“I-” Sky would look away, something terribly vulnerable in his eyes. His voice would be sad and quiet as he continued: “I know.”

• I know I’ve talked about this before, but Sky is the most knowledgeable about Wars. He understands. And so his interactions with Wars are a lot easier for the Sword Spirit than with the others. The others don’t like being called “Master.” They don’t like the matter-of-fact way he talks, how he calculates every sentence before speaking it, how he uses percentages and simulations to back up his arguments. (How he always wins arguments). And Sky doesn’t necessarily like these things either, but he’s always patient. Always gentle. He allows Wars to call him “Master” because he understands how much Wars needs it. When Wars goes off on tangents and describes every bit of data he can think of, Sky sits and listens and they talk and it’s just so easy. Sky is probably Wars’ favorite, just for that.

• The REASON that Sky is so supportive of Wars goes back to the one thing that drives him through literally everything in his life: guilt. He said goodbye to Fi much too soon. She was just starting to open up, to feel and express her emotions, when their time ran out. He never got to know the person she’d end up to be, and he’s not making that same mistake again with Warriors.

I think I’ve talked about this before? How when Sword Spirits are young, they talk robotically and don’t express themselves, but as they mature and are around more people, they kind of adopt their traits and become a more well rounded person? Fi, for example was only around for what? A few months? Ghirahim had thousands of years to develop. That’s the difference between “According to your social customs, I should provide you with my personal designation. Fi is the name I was given,” and “You may call me Ghirahim. In truth, I very much prefer to be indulged with my full title: Lord Ghirahim. But I'm not fussy."

Sky wants to see Wars grow in the way that he never got to see Fi. He wants to know Wars. Not just as a spirit, but as a friend.

[stardust-and-snickerdoodles]

fall asleep, close my eyes, and disappear pt. 1

fandom: X-Men

pairing: Charles Xavier x Reader

summary: Charles Xavier is familiar with the weight of his students' past traumas, including yours. At least that's what he thinks, until a mission-related injury prompts him to delve into your mind, uncovering a deep-seated trauma you've repressed. Fearing he's caused more harm, Charles works with you to reveal this forgotten memory and heal from your past experiences.

tags/warnings: injury, rape aftermath/recovery (implied), anxiety, panic attacks, emotional hurt/comfort, charles xavier trying his very best not to invade someone else's privacy

word count: 2089

Charles Xavier is well-acquainted with the traumatic past lives of his students. It is easy to see how many of them had come from terrible circumstances, how many had been ridiculed or hurt or abandoned. He has seen his share of darkness as well, and he wishes to protect his students from any more of it.

Amidst all the sadness and despair that clouds the minds of the youngsters, there is you. Old enough to be a teacher, but new enough to your powers to still be a student. You are close with Charles due to your age, but keep him an arm’s length away. You, too, had been hurt in the past. You don’t want to trust your heart to anyone… yet.

Being surrounded by all the young students, you know you have to put on a brave face. You smile in the hallways and laugh and tell jokes. And things are fine – you enjoy your pseudo-parental role at the school.

But something is missing. A heaviness weighs on your mind, something dangerous that you subconsciously suppress. All you know is that sometimes you wake in the middle of the night gasping, and it feels like you’ve lost something.

Charles knows of course – Charles always knows – but figures you’ll come to him when you feel comfortable. He learned his lesson about prying into people’s minds long, long ago. And he doesn’t want to push you away the way he’d pushed away others (Erik, Raven, Jean – no, he shouldn’t think of these things). He cares for you far too much to lose you.

That being said, as time passes, Charles can't help but grow more and more concerned. He hears you lying awake at night, or even worse, in the throes of a nightmare. Yet in the morning, it seems all is well. You carry on as always, no worse for wear. It worries Charles. The temptation to just read your mind and see what plagues you is all too strong. But he respects your privacy.

But he can’t stay out of your mind forever, no matter how much he wants to.

The X-Men had been sent off to assist a crew of miners who had been trapped in a cave. A small mishap led to a few injuries amongst the team, nothing serious but certainly enough to warrant a visit to Hank after. You received the worst of it – your powers of telekinesis meant you were in the thick of it, pulling rocks off the imprisoned crew – when a section of the wall crumbled away on top of you. You managed to block most of the debris, but a well-timed drop of a boulder managed to clip you on the head, knocking you unconscious for a brief interlude. You woke shortly thereafter, already on the ship and headed home, but the team insisted you get checked out despite your protests.

When you arrive back at the school, Hank and Charles wait with matching anxious expressions. You stumble along with the help of Kurt, trying to look like you aren’t leaning too heavily on him.

Charles and Hank rush to you. Hank comes up on your left to support that side, while Charles sweeps his eyes over you protectively. You wave them off with a bloodied hand. “I’m fine, guys, seriously.” You aren’t – your head is pounding – but students are standing at the doors to the school, and you know you have to put on a brave face for their sake.

Hank side-eyes you. “You’re bleeding.”

“Hank, take her to the lab. I’ll be down shortly,” Charles says, barely keeping the worry out of his voice. You flash him what you hope is a reassuring smile. It doesn’t seem to change his expression.

Down in the lab, Hank runs a myriad of tests, all while you complain and insist that you are fine. Eventually, he lets out a sigh. “Well, everything looks okay.” You move to hop off the exam table when he holds out a hand to stop you. “But I want Charles to take a look to make sure you didn’t goof up your brain. I can’t see everything on a CT scan.”

You groan and settle back in. Charles, always with a talent for dramatic timing, enters at that precise moment. “How are you feeling?” he says as he rolls up to the table.

“Like I said before, I’m fine. Just a little bump, is all.”

Charles stares at you, as if trying to read your mind without actually doing it. His eyebrows furrow before he turns to his colleague. “Hank?”

Hank crosses his arms. “Her scans all seem fine. A bit of rest should take care of the residual ache. But I’d like you to see for yourself. Just in case.”

Charles nods and looks at you again. “Are you alright with that?”

You shrug. “Go for it, professor.”

Charles wheels himself a little closer. “Lay back,” he murmurs, positioning himself at the head of the exam table.

You do as he asks, and Charles places two warm fingers on your temple. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel him enter your mind.

Charles weaves through the lanes of your conscious, seeking out any damage. He takes in your recent memories, watches the rock wall crumble on top of you. He digs deeper, searching further into your past. He watches as you come to the school, watches you trudge through the rainy streets as a homeless beggar, watches your family leave you. Charles breezes past those memories as quick as he can – no sense in dwelling on the things that cannot be changed. He races down neural pathways and connections, spotting nothing of note.

That is, until he slams into a mental wall, one so thick and aversive that even he might have a hard time getting through it. He is so deep into your mind that he isn’t sure you even know this exists. Concern courses through him as he attempts to break through the wall. But it won’t give, at least not without causing you distress. Already he can hear you – outside your mind, in the real world – whimpering in anguish.

Charles pulls away, mentally and physically, drawing his hands from your temples. Your eyes shoot open, and for a moment there’s a flash of fear in them. But it’s gone in an instant. Charles realizes how starved for air he seems to be and takes in a deep breath.

You sit up quickly. “All good?” you ask.

Charles nods, unable to speak, and you hop off the table. Before he or Hank can get another word in, you are out the door and on your way.

“Charles?” Hank looks at his friend in confusion. “What is it? What did you see?”

The professor stares blankly at the table. “Her mind… There’s something… I’m not sure.”

“Is it from the accident?”

Charles shakes his head. “No, this was… deeper. Further back. Something she’s repressed. I doubt she even knows it’s there.”

…

Upstairs, your fellow teammates greet you with sighs of relief and gratitude for making the mission a success. Someone proposes the idea of drinks, and all of a sudden people are putting coats on and discussing plans for the night.

“Um, I think I’m going to pass on this one,” you announce, wringing your hands together nervously. You’re afraid to miss out on the festivities, but your head is aching and you know you should probably rest.

Your team wishes you well and heads out, and soon you are left in the kitchen alone. You trudge up the stairs to your room, nearly ready to collapse from exhaustion. It seems fate had other plans for you though, for as soon as your back hits the mattress, there’s a knock on your door.

You groan quietly and twist your hand in the direction of the door. It opens with a soft click and soon you hear the telltale sound of Charles’s wheels on the floor.

You squint at him out of one eye as he makes his way to the side of your bed. “Yes?” you question when he doesn't say anything. “Did you need something?”

“No, no,” Charles reassures, his voice soft. “I just wanted to make sure you truly were alright.”

“Well, my head hurts something awful but I think I just need to rest,” you reply honestly.

Charles nods and you turn on your side to face him, pulling a pillow under your cheek. Again, the professor says nothing more, just gazes at you with those striking blue eyes of his. You watch him for a moment, before you feel your eyes begin to drift closed.

Just as you’re about to fall asleep, you hear him murmur. “What?” you grumble, slightly annoyed that your peace was disturbed.

Charles clears his throat and speaks up. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“You know you can ask me anything,” you yawn. Sleep pulls your eyelids closed again.

“Would it be alright if I looked into your mind while you were sleeping?”

You snort out a laugh. “I love when people ask before they violate my privacy.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

You snap your eyes open, only to see him starting to wheel away. “No, Charles, it’s fine. I was joking.”

“Right.” He comes closer to the bed again.

“Did you see something wrong earlier?” Panic creeps into your voice at the thought. “Is there something wrong with my brain?”

“No, darling, of course not,” Charles rushes. “You’re… perfect. I just want to make sure. Sometimes things can be revealed in sleep that are not present while we are awake.”

That seems to make sense to you, so you settle further into your pillow, letting your eyes fall closed again. “Well, just… have fun digging around, I guess,” you mutter. “Don’t break anything.”

Before long, you’re out like a light.

Charles wastes no time in laying his fingers on your temples again. This time, he knows where he’s headed and he makes his way along the pathways quickly. He can feel a heaviness begin to weigh on him as he comes closer to the mental block. Perhaps this is what causes your nightmares, your occasional zoning out, your sad disposition that hid behind a cheerful façade.

Charles prepares himself as he approaches the wall, trying to get a sense for its depth and meaning. He can tell that this blockade was formed long ago. Perhaps not in your childhood – it isn’t that far back – but maybe as a teenager. And it’s so strong, it rivals his own mental walls.

Carefully, Charles begins to pick away at the wall. He pushes and pulls at the tenuous strings that make up the outer barrier, then chisels away at more cemented bits further in. The further he goes, the heavier the darkness seems to become. His own mind is beginning to feel fatigued, but he can sense he’s close. Whispers of this forgotten memory slip through the cracks that form, not enough to make out but he knows they’re there.

Finally, finally, he breaks through. And instantly, he wishes he hadn’t.

No.

Stop.

Please!

Charles forces himself out of your mind, his breaths coming in short gasps. The room has darkened with the approaching night, and your still-sleeping form is illuminated by moonlight. Charles runs a shaking hand over his eyes. What have I done?

As he looks on, your body begins to shake and tremble. You let out heart-wrenching cries as a nightmare overtakes you. Those same cries that he hears every night, those same cries he just heard in your subconscious. “Don’t break anything,” you had said. Has he broken you?

The wall. He has to put the wall back in place. This memory, this horror… He has to protect you. With trembling fingers, Charles re-enters your mind.

Already he can see the memory seeping out, its darkness spilling into the recesses of your mind. Charles feels his heart sink as he realizes the damage he’s caused. It’s like Jean all over again.

Except this time, he is determined not to lose you.

Brick by brick, string by fragile string, Charles rebuilds the barricade around the memory. He seals in as much of it as he can.

Not forever, no. Not like Jean.

He will help you reveal it yourself. And then he will help you heal.

But to let it all out at once… that would destroy you.

>>>

part 2

[bapple117]

Memory Reboot - A One-Sided Radiostatic One-Shot (Vox x Alastor)

Third person - Fluff, Pining, Angst - mild adult references

~ A03 Link ~ text is also included below after the break ~ excuse the crappy art ~

Summary: Every now and then, Vox allows himself a trip down memory lane; back to when he and Alastor were good friends. This night, Vox rediscovers an old bit of memorabilia that has him reminiscing, all about one night when he and the Radio Demon shared a drink or two. The memory is a bittersweet reminder of what could have been, and what almost happened; lips meeting for the sweetest of stolen moments.

---------------------------------

Vox stumbles into his room, clumsy and heavy with drink. He bashes his head into the door as it rebounds; groaning, he rubs at his screen with a grimace. 

Drinking alone is always a bad idea. With the other two Vees both out for the night, Vox had allowed himself a little more stalking than he usually does; drinking in his surveillance room, watching and rewatching clips of the Radio Demon going about his day. It’s obsessive; Vox knows it is. He still can’t help himself. 

He teeters wildly on his legs now, looking through his belongings for some painkillers for the inevitable screen-ache he’ll have in the morning; where the fuck are they?!

Not a single drawer he searches yields any results. Vox tosses items left and right, searching through masses of cables and piles of clothes. He rifles through his bathroom cabinet, knocking down an assortment of pill bottles in the process; none of them what he needs right now.

“Fuck my life,” the Television Demon mutters to himself. 

On his hands and knees, he pulls out a bottom drawer from a huge dresser. Vox moves sloppily with inebriation as he pilfers through all the junk and bric-a-brac. And then - his hand is on something that feels familiar yet forgotten all at once. Vox pulls it out; and there it is.

His electric heart shudders within his chest. 

The tiny die-cast CRT TV model that Alastor had gifted to him years ago. So many years ago. So long ago, in-fact, that when Alastor had presented Vox with this small model, it had been exactly what Vox’s own head had looked like. A chunky, heavy, 70s television. Long outdated technology, these days, of course; Vox has upgraded several times over the years since then. 

Vox can hardly believe his tired eyes; it’s been years since he thought about this. He remembers the night Alastor gave it to him all too well - too painfully well. Vox sighs; his sadness threatening to leak into the forefront of his drink-weakened mind. 

The search for the painkillers now given up on and forgotten, Vox crawls to his bed and lays on it in the dark, the small metal totem still in his hand. Neon lights from the city outside dance and skitter on the walls. Vox stares at the ceiling. 

He can’t help himself; the memory begins to play in his mind, like an old VHS recording, discovered and dusty. Vox usually represses these memories, but for some reason, he allows this one to consume his thoughts this night. He drifts off into it; a broken heart indulging itself despite the pain. 

---------------------------------

It’s the past. Long, long ago; some time in the 1970s. Vox is drinking with Alastor - the Radio Demon, his friend. They are drinking together in Alastor’s old apartment, sharing each other’s company in the easy way that they used to. The apartment is full of antique furniture and vintage radio paraphernalia; Vox has been here many times, and yet he always eyes Alastor’s decor with the same dry observations. 

“You really need to get with the times, Al,” Vox says. “Get some more modern stuff.”

The Television Demon gawks at himself in an ornate mirror on the wall; his on-screen features blink back at him, set in his wide CRT TV head. 

“Nonsense,” Alastor calls from the kitchen. “There’s nothing wrong with my decor choices. Some things never go out of style.”

Vox huffs in amusement to himself. Secretly, he adores Alastor’s presentation. Vox looks up to the Radio Demon; he admires him. Vox wants to be just like Alastor, really. Powerful, respected, smart, classy. Alastor is everything Vox wants to be. At this point in time, Vox is a much weaker Overlord than Alastor, having only been in Hell for less than twenty years. It’s never an issue between them, of course, but Vox knows he is inferior. One day, he’ll be better. 

The Television Demon joins his friend in the kitchen then; Alastor is pouring new glasses of drink for them. Something expensive. 

“Woah,” Vox says, laughing. “What are we celebrating?”

“Well, I was wondering when you’d ask,” Alastor says sassily. “I took down another one of my rivals today.”

Vox blinks. His screen buzzes. 

“Another Overlord?” He asks, both impressed and appalled. 

Alastor nods, pleased. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” Alastor says, grinning. “It was no effort at all, really. Hardly worth you looking so gormless over. What fun it was though!”

Vox laughs nervously. 

“Well, uh, that’s great, Al!” He says, accepting the drink. “You gotta promise not to ever try and take me down like that though, huh?”

It’s a weak joke; both demons know that it stinks of a true fear. Alastor scoffs. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Vox,” the Radio Demon says. “How long have we known each other now, hmm?”

Vox scans his memories to try and answer accurately.

“Uhhh… Well years,” he says. “Almost two decades.”

“Exactly. And have I ever once betrayed you?” Alastor asks, gesturing for them to sit at the table. 

Vox follows Alastor’s lead and sits. 

“I guess not,” Vox says. 

The two demons sit in silence for a while; which is odd, given how prone to idle conversation they both usually are. Alastor hums along to a jazz tune playing in the background; Vox fiddles with his glass.

Alastor is deep in contented thought; eyes closed, a red claw tapping at the table to the rhythm of the song. Vox takes a gulp of his drink, still not knowing what it is; his question is answered as soon as it hits his throat. Some kind of very strong spiced rum, neat on ice. The Television Demon coughs a little, white noise filling the silence. Alastor grins. 

Vox looks up at his friend then; sees his smile. His own grin creeps up on to his screen. How simple it is between them; how easy it’s always been. Just the two of them. Alastor doesn’t have many friends; Vox is honoured to be one of them. Friends. Vox wishes they were so much more. 

“You know,” Vox says then, staring at his drink. “We could be something. Together, I mean.”

Alastor’s neck snaps a little as his head twitches to the side in confusion. 

“Something?” 

Vox hastens to clarify. 

“You know. A team. Take down Overlords together,” he says. 

Alastor seems to genuinely consider this for a moment; he drifts away into the thought of it. Vox lets himself hope for a second; his hopes are dashed just as quickly. 

“Hmm,” Alastor says. “You know me, though! I prefer to work solo.”

Vox slumps a little. His work shirt sleeves are rolled up messily; one begins to loosen from its turn-up, so he focuses on re-rolling it. 

“I know,” he says. “Doesn’t it ever get lonely, though?”

“I don’t think so,” Alastor says, amused. 

“Oh.”

The Radio Demon ponders this for a beat longer; he senses he has insulted his friend somehow. This is meant to be a nice evening celebrating his latest victory; Alastor supposes he should show a little courtesy to keep things jovial. 

“I suppose it does, sometimes,” Alastor says. 

Vox feels his inner wiring twisting in his abdomen. 

“Oh?”

Alastor rolls his eyes; must he elaborate?

“Well, I suppose having more allies couldn’t hurt,” he says. 

“Oh, well,” Vox says. “I could… I could be that for you?”

Alastor grins. 

“In your current state, I feel you may not be of any use to me, Vox old pal,” Alastor teases. “Come back to me when you’re stronger, hmm?”

The Radio Demon knocks playfully on the side of Vox’s clunky CRT head; it echoes within him. Vox knows that Alastor only means this as a cheeky gibe between friends; it wounds him all the same. 

Vox lets out a nervous laugh as response and tries to conceal the hurt.

The night is salvaged somewhat; the two demons continue to drink into the early hours. They chat, they listen to music, they share stories about various occurrences in Hell. Despite the fact they are undying souls in burning eternity, they are also both something else; two beings who both died as young men, now frozen in time. 

Alastor isn’t who he’ll truly be just yet; neither is Vox. In this memory, they are their younger, slightly sweeter selves. It’s enough to make present-day Vox cry with how much he’d give anything to have those days back. 

Towards the end of the night, the two demons sit side by side together, wasted. They use the sofa as a backrest as they sit sloppily on the floor. Vox hiccups and it sounds like a channel being changed; Alastor laughs.

“You know,” the Radio Demon starts. “I do enjoy these little chats of ours, despite our conflicting technology.”

Vox is giddy; he nods, eager. 

“One day I’m gonna be great, Al,” Vox says, suddenly. “I’m gonna build an empire. It’s gonna be huge.”

Alastor smiles; it’s the soft, fond smile of a friend humouring someone. 

“Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Vox says, slurring slightly. “And I’ll be as strong as you - no! - even stronger.” 

Alastor is laughing; genuine and warm. Vox grins wide at the sound of it. 

“I’ll take over all of Hell!” Vox says, clenching a fist. 

Alastor chuckles. 

“Hm. That sounds nice,” he says, drunk and feeling it. 

“Well,” Vox starts. “You’ll be there with me, right?”

Alastor quirks his head. 

“Will I?”

“Sure! We’ll do it together,” Vox says, wicked intent on his screened features. “We’ll rule Hell together. No fucker will cross us with our combined skills.”

Alastor is giggling; Vox wants to climb into the sound of it and live there. 

“Well, that is a lofty concept, to be sure,” Alastor says. “But it is pleasing, I have to admit. You truly do get some devious ideas don’t you?”

“Fuck yeah I do!” Vox says, delighted. 

Alastor smiles to himself, looking away. 

“Well, if that ever comes to fruition, you can count on me being there,” he says.

“Yeah?!” Vox is beaming. “I can’t wait for what the future brings, Al. This old thing will be the first to get an upgrade, that’s for sure.”

Vox taps his own head; even now in the late 70s, his TV set head is looking a bit vintage. Vox just needs to wait for Earth technology to advance and filter down; he can’t wait to be better. Stronger. Faster. Alastor tenses as a thought seems to come to him.

“That reminds me!” The Radio Demon says. “I have something for you.”

Alastor retrieves something from his pocket and hands it to a captivated Vox; it's a tiny metal die-cast model of a Sony Triniton KV-1820UB television set. It looks just like Vox’s current head. 

“Here you are,” Alastor says, pleased with himself. 

Vox is enamoured; the Radio Demon doesn’t do gifts. This is special; it means Vox is special. 

“Al, I don’t know what to say,” Vox says, his nerves alive and crackling. “I can’t believe you got this for me… I love it.”

Alastor grins wide. 

“I got one for me, too,” he says, holding up a tiny model of an old radio. “I found a charming boutique selling all kinds of little novelties. Aren’t they fun?”

Vox is astonished; not only did Alastor get him a gift, he got one for himself to match. This surely is symbolic? Vox’s receivers are scrabbling to interpret the signals Alastor is giving off. 

“Wow, yeah, that’s uh… That’s cute, Al,” Vox says, shakily. “It’s not like you to give gifts.”

Alastor laughs. 

“Well. My conquest today put me in an especially good mood, I suppose,” he says. 

Vox nods. 

“Thank you, Al,” he says, screen blinking. “I will treasure this. I mean it.”

Alastor’s quota for sincerity has reached its limit; eager to return the conversation to playful jibes and gossip, the Radio Demon scoffs. Vox grins; he knows Alastor hates to be perceived as kind, despite the fact he can be. Vox shoves himself into Alastor’s shoulder in a playful bump.

“You’re goin’ soft on me, old man,” Vox jokes; Alastor pretends to be aghast. 

“Old man?” He scorns. “How dare you, Vox. I only died two decades before you and we were both more or less the same age at death. Watch your tongue.”

Vox chuckles to himself. The two demons sit together for a little while longer in peaceful quiet; Vox’s mind is full of static. He’s processing, thinking. Vox has tried to broach this topic before, but he can’t help himself; he needs to push it again. 

“Hey, uh, Al?” He says. 

Alastor looks at him and hums an acknowledgement. Vox’s gaze shifts around nervously. 

“Do you remember that… conversation, we had a while ago?” Vox says. 

Alastor does remember; he pretends for now that he doesn’t. He shakes his head. Vox exhales shakily. 

“Look, I, uh… I know you don’t like talking about… feelings, and stuff, but…”

Alastor wants this nipped in the bud as soon as possible. 

“Is this about your infatuation, hmm?” The Radio Demon says, trying to sound casual about it. “I’ve told you Vox. It will pass, it’s just a-“

“No,” Vox says, urgent. “It won’t, Al, and you know it.”

Vox grabs Alastor’s hand; the Radio Demon doesn’t recoil. He lets his claws sit limply within Vox’s; a tiny concession for this display of vulnerability. And anyway; they’ve linked hands before, when dancing or fleeing a crime scene, or such. No big deal. Alastor sighs. 

“You know I can’t give you want you want,” he says, radio filter slipping away. “This is all I can give you. My time. My friendship, my consort to you as a fellow Overlord.”

Vox is exasperated. 

“Can’t you give me just a little bit more?” He asks.

Alastor avoids the Television Demon’s gaze. 

“I don’t think so,” he says. 

Vox grabs Alastor’s chin in his, then; pulling it in his direction to make Alastor look at him. 

“How do you know you won’t like it?” Vox says. “You’ve never even tried it.”

Alastor blushes at the sudden contact, the intrusiveness of it. He’s flustered simply because Vox is being so forward; any sign of aggressive intent is entertaining to Alastor, of course. 

“Why don’t you let me just try?” Vox says, his voice a thin whine.

“Vox, old friend, come on now-“

“Why won’t you let me just kiss you?” Vox whispers. “Please, Al.”

Alastor hesitates; if he relents, will it be enough to just shut Vox up about this once and for all? This topic cropping up every couple of years is getting tiresome. And... he does care about Vox. Alastor loves him, in his own way; platonic but true.

“Please, Al,” Vox murmurs, his eyes fixed on Alastor’s lips. “I’m begging you. I know it’ll feel right when it happens.”

Vox’s hand tightens around Alastor’s chin; he’s trying to pull him inwards. Alastor’s heart rate quickens; annoyingly. He’s a deer in headlights; drunk and unsure how to retaliate. Vox is closing the distance between their faces; Alastor can feel their hot breath exchanging in the small gap between their mouths. 

Alastor’s ears are flat against his head; Vox is staring at his lips.

“Please,” he whispers again. 

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Alastor whispers back. 

“Please,” Vox begs, desperate. 

Alastor huffs in defeat, and Vox knows he has won. Vox leans in and presses his screen to Alastor’s mouth; for a moment, the Radio Demon is rigid. But then… his mouth is moving; Vox is elated. Alastor is relenting. Vox cannot believe it. Alastor is kissing him back; his hand at the edge of Vox’s screen. Their mouths move together quickly, the taste of rum amongst it all. Vox's mind is awash with joy.

Yes, YES. Fucking YES! This is it, this is IT! 

Vox moans into Alastor’s mouth; he risks letting his tongue breech Alastor’s lips, tries sticking it down Alastor’s throat - 

Alastor pulls away; Vox is devastated. Too far. 

“Hmm!” Alastor says, recovering, trying to sound light-hearted. “No, still not for me, I don’t think.”

Vox is panting, red in the screen. He’s hard; of course he is. Vox’s eyes dart all over Alastor, looking for signs - proof that he did like it. 

“No, Al, come on,” Vox says. “Please, you know it works, WE work, c'maaan!”

Alastor is sad; a part of him does wish he could give Vox what he wants. It would make things so much easier; it would ensure keeping his loyalty, for one. And… well. It would make things a bit less lonely. But Alastor just can’t let himself go there.

“I’m sorry, Vox,” he says, genuinely melancholy. “I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want from me. I really am.”

“No,” Vox is angry. “It cannot be like this, please, we were so close-“

“I think it’s high time we went to bed, hmm?” Alastor says. “You’re in no state to get yourself home. You can sleep on the sofa.”

“Al, stop, just, can we talk about this? Can we try again, I’ll go slower, I promise,” Vox says, grasping at straws.

Alastor smiles weakly. He reaches up and turns one of Vox’s dials fondly; Vox’s erection twitches in his jeans. 

“You’ve just had too much to drink, hmm?” Alastor says. “We’ll sleep this off and tomorrow it’ll all be forgotten about.”

Alastor stands then; Vox groans, his screen in his hands. 

“We’ll be back to normal tomorrow, eh, old pal?” Alastor says with forced jollity.

Vox sighs; it’s guttural. He looks up at the Radio Demon, agonised. 

“I’m never going to be back to normal,” Vox says. “I’m always going to want this. I’m always going to want you.”

Alastor hesitates; he looks forlorn. Only in the eyes, of course; but his smile is a tight, thin line on his face. 

“I know," he says.

Vox's heart shatters in his chest; not for the first time. 

"Do try to get over it, though, won’t you?” Alastor says, and he turns to leave for his bedroom. “Get some sleep.”

Vox is left alone in the living room; ruined. 

---------------------------------

The memory of that night, so many decades ago, drifts away from present-day Vox, just as cruelly as Alastor had slipped from his grasp.

The pain of it - and indeed, remembering what came later - is unbearable; Vox can only cope with these memories now by wanting Alastor dead. Just so he’d be gone for good; just to rid himself of the pain of knowing Vox never got to keep him. He came close, of course; some years later, in the 80s. For a while, Vox had had Alastor; it had been so sweet. Vox doesn’t let himself think on this, for now. It’s too brutal. He’d be a mess; for now, he needs to compose himself. Vox places the die-cast vintage TV model on his bedside table and looks at it for a few beats. 

I wonder if Alastor still has his radio model. 

I wonder if he still thinks of me.

Vox curls into a ball in his bed; the truth hums around him, thick and heavy, like electricity in the air before a thunderstorm. 

He’ll never love me like I love him.

He never did.

---------------------------------

This story continues in:

Bluest Monday

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In Memory of Him | It's Cold In Here

↳ Florist!Taehyung x Artist!f.Reader ⤜ Non-Idol, Late Husband's Best Friend ⤜ Rating: MA 🔞 ⤜ WC: 13,558 ⚠️ Mild language, death/loss of a loved one, deep depression, high anxiety, loads of guilt, hidden feelings, realizations, hurt feelings, repressed feelings, hurt/comfort

Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon!) ◅ Back to story masterlist

With trembling fingers, you smooth out the letter that you found attached to a bundle of flowers on your doorstep.

To the love of my life, For after the funeral Take a deep breath, baby, I know it’s not easy. Even as I sit and write this, I can feel your energy in the next room. You’re always such a worrier, I’m sorry I’ve added to that. It’ll all be better soon, I promise. But, I know you and I know that you’ll pull away, you’ll cut yourself off…and we can’t have that, now can we? You have to keep going if we’re to stay connected even after I’m gone.

So, here’s the first of a collection of some things that you can hold and look back on when the storm starts to roll in. There are only so many words in existence to describe what you mean to me. So, instead of words, I want you to remember these feelings: Warmth - like the sun on your face while you read a great book Satisfaction - the way you sigh softly after a good, lazy day in bed Contentment - waking up with a smile on your face every morning Peace - that moment of quiet before the rain starts, when the scent of petrichor filters in These are all the things you’ve brought into my life the last seven years. I’ve never been able to look at the sun, sleeping, smiles, or storms the same. Never did I imagine I’d meet and marry such a beautiful, kind-hearted soul with a genuinely unique outlook on life. I never had to be reminded to smile because it just came so naturally whenever you were around. You have brought so much light into my world and gave me the best years of my life. You also gave me Sujin, the perfect little replica of myself even if you think he looks more like you than me (I secretly agree, but that’s not something I’ll admit outloud). When I look at our wonderful son, I’m reminded of the beauty that first drew me to you all those years ago. Being his father is the second greatest achievement of my life, the first being making you fall madly in love with me…don’t laugh, you know it’s true. Many people see things in black and white, a beginning and an end…but our life isn’t like that. We’re full of color and everything in between. You’ve supported me at my best and have loved me at my worst. Everything good in my life is because of you. I know you’ll always love me, and I know it won’t be easy once I’m gone, but I need you to promise me you’ll continue to wake up with that smile on your face and never forget how the sun feels or how beautiful the quiet before the storm is. I need my light, my girl, to keep going. Be that guiding light so I know exactly where you are in the world as I watch over you and Sujin. We knew forever wasn’t guaranteed, that’s just the way life is, right? This doesn’t mean it’s over, not by a long shot. You still have so much more to give, so much more love to offer.  I know you’d never forget about me, that’s not what this letter is for—it’s not a reminder of me, it’s a reminder to live, love, and keep shining. There are more where this came from, Taehyung has them and knows what to do, but not until you’re ready for them. I love you so much, never stop living—for me, for Sujin…for you. Love forever, Your Yejun

The letter crumples in your fist, the bundle of hibiscus and lavender it was attached to forgotten on the step between your feet as you bury your face in the crook of your elbow and scream. It’s better that way—the symbolism of the hibiscus flower on a letter from Yejun is a punch to the gut when he’s no longer here. Eternity? Bullshit. The sound is muffled into the thick wool of your coat but no less filled with agony. As if the day wasn’t hard enough, everything went belly-up when you found the flowers and the letter on your door step. You choke on a breath of air as you try to control yourself.

“Yejun.” His name drips from your trembling lips, absorbed into your jacket sleeve like your cries. “I miss you so much. Why did you have to leave us?”

A hand on your shoulder makes you flinch, jerking away from the potential comfort, despite it being exactly what you need right now. You crowd against the wall, knees knocking into one another as you huddle in on yourself where you’re sitting in the stairwell outside your apartment door.

“Hey, hey, hey, come here,” a strong, soothing voice coos. Your limbs protest weakly for a moment, your heart raging with guilt at the prospect of finding solace in another man’s arms—even if that man is Taehyung, your now late husband's best friend—but the desperate need for someone to hold your pieces together wins out. You fear if you let yourself truly break, you’ll never be able to be made whole again. You frantically launch into those open arms, keening a wail into the solid chest between them. “Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

💔💔💔

Two years later

“Mommy, are we going to Uncle Tae’s house today?” Sujin asks from behind you, where he’s strapped into his booster seat.

You glance in the rearview mirror, angling yourself so you catch a glimpse of his smile as he stares out the window, patiently awaiting your answer. It’s gotten easier over the last two years to look at him without growing weepy. He looks like and reminds you so much of Yejun. They have the same chestnut-colored eyes and floppy midnight tresses. When he smiles, the tiny dimple on his left cheek is a near mirror to his father’s and something that your eyes seek out every time he flashes you a grin. Little pieces of his father that fill the gaps in your heart.

“Did you not want to stay at Grandma’s tonight? That’s what you said you wanted yesterday,” you remind him.

Sujin hums like he’s thinking hard about your question. “Well, I did want to go to Grandma’s, but I also want to see Uncle Tae, and plus, he always has good ice cream. All Grandma has is boring vanilla.”

“How about we see if Uncle Tae wants to hang out this weekend? I think Grandma would be sad if you decided not to stay with her tonight.”

In truth, you’d also be a bit disappointed if Sujin changed his mind. Being only four when his father passed, he doesn’t remember Yejun much, mostly knows him from photos and stories he’s heard. So, it’s not surprising he’s not able to put together that today is the second anniversary of his father’s passing. He doesn’t know that tonight isn’t just about your mom getting a visit. It’s also about you having an evening to grieve without being under your son's watchful and inquisitive eye.

Though maybe you’re wrong, perhaps he knows more than you think as he responds softly, “It’s okay, Mommy, I’ll stay with Grandma so you can go visit Daddy.”

If it wasn’t for tightening your grip on the steering wheel, you might have driven right off the highway. “You know what today is?” you ask hesitantly once your initial shock passes.

“Of course I do,” Sujin says with another smile, his dimple catching in the afternoon sunlight coming in through the car window. “I might not remember him, but I could never forget him.” It’s a wonder there aren’t more six-year-old poets, as what he just said is easily the most eloquent thing ever uttered by a child. Your heart swells, and you feel that telltale burn in the back of your nose and behind your eyes as you blink away the flood of emotions threatening to spill into the open.

You nod, taking a deep breath. “That’s right. He’d be so proud of you and how much you’ve grown.”

“He’d be proud of you, too, Mommy.”

It’s another blow, directly targeting the cracks already forming in your armor. Fissures zip and snap over the surface of the wall you’ve spent the last two years building. “Thank you, buddy. I love you,” you manage to get past the lump in your throat. 

The rest of the car ride home is spent with Sujin telling you about his day at school and how one of his classmates snuck a salamander into the classroom after recess. You hum, haw, and laugh as he recounts the way the class reacted to the discovery of the amphibian.

It makes you feel lighter, listening to his words and hearing the clear whimsy his heart possesses as the salamander suddenly becomes a dragon and Sujin, the fearless knight that saved the teacher—the damsel in distress—by scooping it up and putting it in an empty lunch box.

“She said since I was so brave and such a good helper that I could go outside with Mr. Kim, the science teacher, and help him release it back into the wild,” he proudly proclaims. “Did you know salamanders like water? Mr. Kim said they’re kind of like frogs even though they look more like lizards.” Sujin continues on, spouting off facts he learned about the salamander from his science teacher.

It’s a short drive from the school to your apartment. You’ve often thought about moving, using some of the life insurance money from Yejun to buy you and Sujin a lovely place outside the city. But, your mom lives just a floor up, and it’s been convenient having someone so close to look after Sujin when you need them, like tonight.

Having your mom close by, not just as a babysitter but also as an emotional support outlet, has been a blessing and far outweighs the other feelings—the seemingly endless void that now lingers in place of your late husband. With that, though, you can’t help looking at your small apartment as more like a preservation of memories. It was the first place you and Yejun moved into after getting married. It’s the place you both brought Sujin home to when he was born. It’s still filled with so many memories…you’re not sure you want to leave—at least, not yet.

The building has no elevator, just several winding flights of steps right up the middle. “Go on up to Grandma’s. I’ll stop by with dinner before I leave. Remember, homework first before you play.”

Sujin gives you a beaming smile and nods his head in understanding before vaulting up the stairs, his strong six-year-old legs carrying him far faster than your own. You watch him disappear up the stairs—the last flash of his face so reminiscent of Yejun racing up those very same steps the day you moved in—followed by the familiar sound of your mother’s voice drifting out over and down the stairwell as she welcomes him into her space—a safe space, away from the looming cloud of darkness over you.

Knowing he’s occupied and cared for, you allow your mask to slip just a little. The weight on your shoulders eases as you let the emotional fatigue roll in and replace your typically calm and collected demeanor. Even after two years, it’s not gotten any easier when this particular day comes. The holidays are hard, sure. There are plenty of days where you find yourself feeling like it’s too much…but nothing truly compares to this day. It’s not filled with happy memories the way those other days are. It’s nothing but darkness. There is a constant ache in your chest, which is amplified when the calendar turns over, and you find yourself once again reliving that fateful day all over again.

You spent nearly every waking hour sitting beside Yejun, the uncomfortable, stiff hospital chair becoming your permanent perch. The ventilator was always loud, but the punching swoosh grew to be comforting because you knew that meant he was still there. All the lines and tubes hooked up to him made it look like a scene from one of those sci-fi films he enjoyed making you watch with him. Yejun was so full of life when you first met, many years before. But, the image stuck in your mind—the one you can’t seem to get rid of—is of him with sallow cheeks and pale, greyish lips, drained of life.

It’s weird to think of watching someone die. But that’s precisely what you did over the six months Yejun was in the hospital. The disease moved quickly, the cancer stealing your husband away bit by bit, and you were powerless to stop it. That’s probably one of the worst parts, the helpless feeling that no matter what you do, you can’t prevent it from happening. No amount of prayer, begging, or screaming would change it. He’d still die, just the same. Day by day, the best parts of the man you loved vanished, and by the end—you feel guilty even thinking the thoughts, so you push them out of your head. 

After unlocking the door, you step into the quiet space of your apartment. Your shoes join the ones discarded by the door before you drop your purse on the small console table against the wall and make your way across the living room to the hall leading to the bedrooms. Sujin’s room is the first door. You peek inside to see that he had made up his bed before school this morning. You make a mental note to grab one of his chocolate popsicles from the freezer before dropping off dinner tonight. He deserves a little treat for being such a good kid.

The small single bathroom sits between Sujin’s room and the larger of the two bedrooms, the one you shared with Yejun for almost five years. You haven’t changed any of the decor. Everything is the same as it always has been, right down to the pillow on Yejun’s side of the bed. It took months before you mustered the courage to wash the pillow case and cried the entire time you stripped the pillow and plopped it in the washer.

The pillow was small fish compared to the closet. Going through all of Yejun’s clothes nearly took you out. Thankfully, Taehyung was there to help. You weren’t the only one that lost someone two years ago today. Taehyung and Yejun grew up together and worked together for the last dozen years, starting out as teens together at Taehyung’s parents' florist shop. They are—were—as close as brothers, and not just for the fact that Taehyung’s parents took Yejun in when his parents both passed, but because of their unbreakable bond—a bond nearly as strong as the one you had with Yejun.

Taehyung has been there for you whenever you’ve needed him since Yejun’s passing. All it takes is a phone call or a text message, and he drops everything for you. You try not to take advantage of it because you don’t want him sucked into your empty void any more than he already is. No grown man should be attached to a woman like that, especially when he has no obligation for it.

But, you must admit, it’s nice knowing he’s there…especially today. This is the one day of the year that you know you don’t have to text or call Taehyung for him to show up. His one promise to you. He’ll be there, waiting for you at the cemetery, just like he was last year.

You pull off your oversized t-shirt and worn jeans covered in splotches of paint from your time in the studio today. Once a well-known local artist, you haven’t been able to create anything worthwhile since Yejun passed. He would always joke about being your one true muse. It seems he wasn’t wrong. Everything you’ve been able to create in the last two years feels wrong, like it’s missing something.

The life insurance you received from Yejun has been more than enough to keep you and Sujin afloat. However, you feel like a failure having even to touch that money, even if it’s just to pay the bills. If you could just get your life together, you’d be able to provide for yourself and Sujin the way you once did—before everything happened. Shoving that line of thinking away, you focus on the here and now, just getting through the next handful of hours.

A quick shower later, and you’re dressed in a warm sweater and a clean pair of jeans with thick wool socks. It’s cold, winter having well and truly taken hold outside, but when the sun goes down, the bite from the wind grows more bitter. Grabbing the large, lidded bowl of beef stew you had cooking in the slow cooker all day. You wrap it in a dish towel to keep from burning your hands on the hot sides, snag a popsicle for Sujin, and make the short trip upstairs to your mom’s place.

“Hey, sweetheart,” your mom greets you when she opens the door. She’s gotten a lot more grey in her hair in the last year or so. The steel-colored strands stand out against her temples, framing her strong but still soft face. You used to think she looked too austere, but then you realized that was just the permanent mark of motherhood and time.

“Hi, Mom. Did Sujin get his homework done?” You follow your mom in, shutting and locking the door behind you as she ambles into the kitchen on the other side of the living room. Her apartment is a near mirror of your own, her second bedroom set up for Sujin as well.

“He finished a bit ago and wanted to break out the paints. Was nattering on about some sort of lizard, I think. He wanted to try to paint it,” she explains, putting the tea kettle on without needing to ask. Peppermint tea with a dollop of honey can fix even the worst of woes in her eyes. She’ll insist you have some just as she has any other time she can feel your darkness crowding in. You’ve grown to appreciate your mother's intuition, both for yourself and your son's sake.

“There was an incident involving a student bringing in a salamander at school, it seems. Sujin helped the teacher and was allowed to go out with Namjoon—Mr. Kim—to release it.” You recall the conversation in the car, your mother chuckling softly when you tell her about the salamander turning into a dragon.

She busies herself, packing the tea steeper with her own blend of mint tea. Tending the small garden of herbs and spices that she keeps on the fire escape off the living room, is how she spends most of her days since she retired a few years ago. Even in winter, she keeps a small plastic greenhouse over them, opening it just enough to care for them each day. “So, you’re on a first-name basis with that science teacher now?” she asks. You can tell she’s lightly probing, trying to figure out if there is anything more between you and ‘Mr. Kim’.

“I met him at the beginning of the year when we had parent-teacher meetings. He insisted I call him Namjoon, that’s all, Mom.”

Humming, she grabs the kettle just before it begins to whistle. “Still, he’s nice?” she asks, casting you a glance over her shoulder.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, wishing she’d not try to go down this path of questioning. You know she means well, but you’re just…you’re not ready to think about those things.

“He’s nice enough, Mom, I guess. It was just a slip of the tongue. I’m used to greeting him at drop-off in the mornings. It’s not—I don’t, it’s just being cordial, y’know? I’m not ready…” you trail off, hoping your mom picks up on what you’re trying to say so you don’t actually have to say it; not today.

Her free hand goes to her mouth, covering her frown. “Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t mean—you know I’d never, not like that. I’m sorry. Forgive an old fool for her loose words.”

“It’s okay, Mom, really,” you offer with a tight smile as you set the stew on the counter and pop the popsicle you brought for Sujin in the freezer.

She sets down the tea, the cup slightly trembling on the tiny saucer she serves it on. “I made some pajeon to go with the stew. It’s warming in the oven. Are you going to stay for dinner?” she asks, seeing that you need to move on from the previous subject.

You settle on one of the chairs at her small dining table, pick up the tiny teacup, and blow across the surface before taking a tentative sip. The mint is a cooling contrast to the heat of the liquid, coating your throat with a soothing sensation. The blooming sweetness of the honey lingers on your tongue, helping combat the intense punch of the minty flavor. It’s comforting. Reminds you of home.

“I’m not all that hungry. You and Sujin enjoy it. You’re sure you’re okay taking him to school tomorrow?” She gives you a fond smile and nods. “I’ll pick him up on my way home and we’ll come have dinner.”

“That’s fine, sweetheart.”

You finish off the tea, suppressing a grimace as it goes down a little too warm and nearly scalds your throat. The sun will be completely down soon, and you’d like to get to the cemetery before it’s too dark out. “I should get going. Just going to say hi to him real quick.”

Your mom watches you stand. Her eyes are hyper-focused on your face. “Okay, sweetheart,” she says slowly. It’s clear she wants to say more, but you’re glad she doesn’t push.

The room your mom has set up for Sujin has a small bed pushed into one corner, leaving the rest of the space for him to play—unlike his room at your place, which has a writing desk and dresser taking up the majority of the play space. He’s never complained, though, choosing to get creative with the small room he does have. “Hey, buddy, Grandma said you’re painting. Can I see?”

You lean on the door jamb, peering into the room. The easel Sujin is using is angled away from the door. All you can see is smears of bright color peeking around the edge of the canvas.

His bright eyes meet yours as he grins extra wide. “It’s not done yet, but of course you can see it.”

Stepping in and around the easel frame, you take in the canvas covered in paint. When your mom said he was going to paint the salamander, you knew there was a possibility of said ‘lizard’ being portrayed as a dragon as it was in Sujin’s story in the car. But what you didn’t expect were the characters surrounding the dragon. You count them, six in total. The brunette woman at the top of the castle tower is clearly Sujin’s teacher, Mrs. Min. Sujin himself is astride the dragon, and who you think is Namjoon stands in a corner near some trees, his large-frame glasses are what lead you to believe that’s who it is. The other three characters are where you’re a bit lost.

“Who are these people?” you ask, gesturing to the other feminine figure framed by two men; one with unruly black hair and the other with small angel wings extending from his shoulders. It dawns on you the moment you ask.

“That’s you, Daddy, and Uncle Tae, of course,” Sujin proudly states. “You were in the tower with Mrs. Min. I’m rescuing her, and Uncle Tae is rescuing you while Daddy guides him.”

You’re not sure what to say. But you can’t help looking at your son in a different light. He’s only six, but in moments like this, you feel like his soul is older and wiser than yours. “It’s lovely,” you finally say, because it truly is, and everything else you could say would definitely start the waterworks, and there will be enough of that later. “I’ll be back tomorrow to get you. Be good for Grandma. There’s a treat for you in the freezer, but only after dinner, okay?” You feel like you’re running away—and maybe you are, but the darkness creeps in just a little bit further the more you look at his painting.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sujin beams at you sweetly. He lifts his chin, angling a cheek in your direction for a kiss. You plant one there, throwing an arm around his back for a quick squeeze, too. “Love you, Mommy.”

“Love you, too, buddy,” you murmur, shoving down the suffocating feeling bubbling in your chest—just need to make it a few more hours.

💔💔💔

The cemetery is about an hour's drive from your place in the city. Yejun grew up in the countryside, and the columbarium where he’s interred is at the cemetery closest to his and Taehyung’s childhood home. It’s a quiet drive, a typical Tuesday evening if it were any other week. You don’t even bother with music, haven’t in the last two years, preferring to just soak in the quiet and try to center yourself.

As you pull into the parking area outside the gate to the grounds, you spot Taehyung’s black SUV. He’s standing beside it, leaning against the driver's side door with his chin tipped down below the line of the thick scarf wrapped around his neck. Your headlights swing across his vehicle, illuminating him in the process as you park.

You take your time climbing out of your car, casting fleeting glances in his direction while you gather your courage and resolve. He’s wearing a thick grey-colored tweed coat that covers him to the knees, and khaki slacks lead down to shiny brown loafers. His hair is windswept, the fluffy waves moving across his forehead with every gust of chilly air.

“Hey,” you say as you swing open your door and step out. He catches your eye over the roof of your car and gives you a soft smile.

“Good evening. Drive okay?”

You nod. “Not too much traffic, which is always nice.”

“You should have let me come and pick you up.” It’s the same thing he said last year, to which you decline politely just the same as well.

“Thanks, but I enjoy the drive. Gives me time to think.”

His eyes flick over you, taking you in from head to toe. There is understanding clear on his face. “Shall we?” He gestures toward the entrance gate. You notice a small bundle of flowers held in his other hand that’s hanging by his side. “Oh, this is for you.” It surprises you when Taehyung offers you the flowers, having thought he was bringing them to leave in Yejun’s vase.

You take the offered cluster, automatically bringing it to your nose and giving it a delicate sniff. It’s hard to smell the fragrance in the cold, but as you peer down at the flowers and take in the deep purple and soft pink, the scent of lavender and hibiscus filters through as if on a memory. It’s a combination that reminds you painfully of Yejun, as this was always his go-to whenever he would bring you home flowers from the shop after work.

“Thank y—“ your polite words cut off as you hear the distinct crackle of paper as you shift the bundle of flowers between your hands. “What’s this?” you ask, holding the flowers up until you see the small envelope attached to the hemp string holding the bunch together.

“A note,” Taehyung responds slowly as if he’s trying to decide if that’s all he’ll say. “Perhaps wait until we’re settled to read it?”

You finger the crisp fold of parchment, wondering. “Okay, yeah,” you agree, chalking it up to most likely being a grievance note from Taehyung, and it might be awkward for you to read it right now in front of him.

The cemetery typically closes at sundown, but Taehyung has access as the gardener. When he and Yejun took over Taehyung’s parents' floral shop, they expanded the business to include landscaping for local companies and establishments. The cemetery is one such establishment they took on. He produces a key from his pocket, unlocking the small pedestrian gate that must have been locked up not too long ago, judging by the sun barely having dipped below the horizon.

“Moojin left about ten minutes before you pulled up,” Taehyung explains casually, confirming the thought you just had. “It’ll just be us, so we can take as much time as we need.”

Maybe you should feel bad that Taehyung gives you preferential treatment and access to the cemetery after hours, but it’s hard to care about that when other, darker feelings have you clutched so tightly. The walk to the columbarium is relatively short, being one of the newer buildings erected within the grounds just some twenty years ago or so.

“The trees are doing well, even in the winter,” you note, nodding toward the row of young pines along the fence line. It was one of the last projects Yejun worked on with Taehyung before he became ill.

“He’d be able to tell you all the properties of the tree that make it sustainable during this time of the year,” Taehyung responds, his voice carrying notes of sadness. Yejun doesn’t come up much in conversation between the two of you, most things not needing to be said, merely understood without a spoken word. So, it’s surprising and endearing to actually hear Taehyung talk about him, especially now.

You smile, knowing he’s right. “With enough scientific jargon to make you go cross-eyed trying to keep up, too.”

That earns you a soft laugh from Taehyung. “And he wouldn’t even realize it until you’re so lost you can’t even pretend to have understood.”

“I miss that,” you whisper with a sigh, your warm breath misting lightly in the cold.

Taehyung slips his arm through yours, hooking his elbow around the crook of your arm. “Me, too.”

💔💔💔

Taehyung

It’s never easy, watching the way you suffer through your emotions. Taehyung knows you try to hide them, and sometimes you’re successful. But others…like right now, he can read you as clear as a bright spring sky. Only instead of pastel blues, pinks, and yellows, you’re a stark monochrome of Pantone grey. Just as clear, but decidedly less alive. He hates it. Knowing just how vibrant of a person you once were. When Yejun left your life, so, too, did the color, it seems. Leeched away with the slow death of your husband. It’s a cruel fate, Taehyung has decided, and it’s one you never deserved. Yejun also knew this. He saw this in the way you mourned at his bedside, even before he was gone. It’s why Yejun made Taehyung promise to take care of you, to never let you forget how to smile.

As more time passes, Taehyung isn’t sure whether or not he’s done a good job by Yejun’s request. Not when the dark circles around your eyes seem to get more permanent every time Taehyung sees you. It’s why he brought the letter—the next letter. He’s curious if you remember the first one, the one that came the day of Yejun’s funeral; the one that had you crawling into Taehyung’s arms for the first time, seeking the comfort you knew was there.

That’s happened a few times in the two years since Yejun now. Any time you begin to fray at the edges and unravel a bit too quickly, Taehyung’s been there, weaving you back together the best he can. It might not be pretty, but a patchwork quilt is better than shredded rags, he likes to think. He hopes, at least.

“Are you warm enough?” Taehyung asks, realizing your arm is trembling around his. The jacket you’re wearing is far too thin, meant more for warding off spring rain showers than winter chills. Your lips are formed into a thin, bloodless line as if you’re trying to keep your teeth from chattering, and your brow is pinched.

The lift of your shoulder is subtle, dismissive and nonchalant. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not. Here,” Taehyung insists, pulling you to a halt on the walking path. “Take this.” He shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over the thinner trench you’re wearing over your sweater. You instantly relax, a soft sigh misting the air in front of your mouth.

“Thank you. I forget how cold it gets out here at night,” you mumble, encouraging Taehyung to continue walking toward the entrance to the columbarium, where Yejun’s memorial awaits. “Are you sure you’ll be okay without it?” Your eyes are round and glassy when you look up at him, the moonlight overhead reflecting in their depths.

The thick sweater Taehyung has on paired with his wool scarf is enough to stave off the wintery bite, but what warms him the most is seeing your eyes flash with a brief flicker of life when you snuggle into the depths of his jacket, bringing the tweed collar up around your neck after he assures you he’s fine without it.

Your feet shuffle, your stride slowing as you approach the columbarium. Taehyung can feel your hesitancy. The air around you is suffocating and full of static, something Taehyung wants desperately to help dispel.

“Come on. Together.” Taehyung offers you his hand, splaying his fingers wide in invitation. You lick your lips, eyes flicking between Taehyung’s face and his offered hand. Finally, you sag a little and slip your fingers in between his.

Your hand is soft and delicate in his. Taehyung has always admired your ability as an artist, being able to take your hands and a simple tool like a paintbrush and create something profound and breathtaking. Some might argue that what Taehyung does is also a form of art, but he swears it’s nothing compared to the pure magic you create. He’s found himself under your spell more than once, entranced by your art.

Even the works you’ve created in the last two years, the things you keep hidden away in your studio, are still quite beautiful—if more haunted. Taehyung knows you’re not selling any art and you haven’t hosted a gallery night in almost three years now. The few times he’s been inside your studio since Yejun, you’ve indulged his curiosity and let him look at the things you’ve worked on.

Taehyung cherishes those private moments you allow him within your space. He uses them as a time to reflect on what life has brought to you and to him. You have a shared experience of losing someone, but it’s clear you’re both working through your pain differently. Your studio, once a bright and vibrant space filled with inspiration and captured moments of love, is now more of a tomb, silent and full of the whisper of death.

Taehyung eases open the door to the columbarium. The motion-activated lights within flicker on and fill the space with a soft yellow glow. It’s better than the typical fluorescent white lights they used to use. Taehyung thinks the bright, sterile lighting is far too reminiscent of a morgue or hospital, not exactly places people should be reminded of when coming to visit their dead loved ones. So, he suggested the change when he took over doing the gardening for the cemetery.

Yejun’s niche is towards the back of the space, near the bottom. You separate yourself from Taehyung, letting the bundle of flowers droop upside down in your hand as you step lightly across the floor. You look like a specter, gliding across holy ground in search of what’s keeping you tied to this plane of existence. In many ways, Taehyung thinks that’s precisely what is happening with you. You’re suspended in time, stuck in a limbo of heartache.

In the two years since Yejun, you haven’t been able to move on, even though that’s exactly what Yejun wanted you to do. Yejun never wanted you to mourn him for long. He told Taehyung there was far too much love for you to give, and you had a heart big enough to love someone else while still holding true to Yejun. What Yejun failed to realize, Taehyung thinks, is that without Yejun, you didn’t want to love again.

Taehyung holds back a few steps, giving you some time to have a private moment as you kneel down in front of Yejun’s niche. The placard covering the niche is engraved with his name, birth and death dates, and a small metal frame that holds a glass engraved likeness of Yejun. It pains Taehyung to see the smiling face and crinkled eyes behind his wireframed glasses. Yejun was his brother in all ways, except for being born to the same parents. That didn’t matter to them, though—still doesn’t matter to Taehyung. They love—loved—each other just as fiercely as if they had been.

“Yejun,” you whimper his name, pressing a hand to the placard, head hanging low. Taehyung watches your shoulders shake with silent sobs, and he can’t take it anymore. He moves across the space and kneels down beside you, ignoring the cold that instantly leeches through the knees of his trousers. Before he can think better of it, he has his arms around you, trying to hold you together…trying to keep your seams from unraveling too fast.

Taehyung coos softly, murmuring as many words of encouragement and solace as can work past his quivering lips, “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. It’s going to be okay. I promise. He loved you so fiercely. I miss him, too. I’m here for you. Shh, it’s going to be okay.” Over and over again, Taehyung repeats it like a mantra until your sniffles subside, and you slump into his arms, feebly returning his embrace.

Feeling your arms around him is a comfort, one that helps him keep his own tears in check. “Thank you for being here,” you sniff before burying your face in his scarf and inhaling deeply.

“I’m always going to be here for you,” Taehyung offers, smoothing a hand over your hair in what he hopes is a soothing fashion. He watched Yejun console you enough times to have a good idea of what might help. After Sujin was born, you battled postpartum depression for a while, and Taehyung helped wherever he could, giving him those brief glimpses into your emotional turmoil. Yejun always petted your hair and let you ground yourself in his embrace. He never even had to say a word; just let you draw on his strength. So, Taehyung has always tried to emulate that for you whenever you’ve needed him.

You sigh, and Taehyung reluctantly lets you pull away to sit back on your heels. “I’m such a mess. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Taehyung says, capturing the side of your face in one of his hands. You sway on your knees; big, round, red-rimmed eyes locked onto his. “Never apologize to me. You’re human, not a mess. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, lips barely moving. You slowly turn, sitting with your back against Yejun’s niche.

“Okay,” Taehyung repeats, and settles in beside you. He barely notices the cold this time as it seeps through the seat of his pants. There are far too many fierce emotions rolling through him to be bothered by the chill.

“Is it okay if I read this now?” you ask after several moments of shared silence.

Taehyung looks over at you, fingering the small envelope attached to the bundle of fresh flowers he brought. He swallows past the thick knot in his throat, worried about you reading it but knowing you need to. Perhaps it’ll be best read when he’s around and not in the solitude of your apartment where you could fall apart without someone there to catch you; Taehyung knows Sujin is staying at your mother’s tonight.

He clears his throat. “Uh, sure, yeah.”

“They really are beautiful,” you say, voice so soft it barely carries to Taehyung. You admire the flowers for a moment, and the anxiety Taehyung had earlier in the shop when he was wrapping them goes away. He was worried that he got the flowers wrong. He knew Yejun always brought you fresh flowers, different types for different occasions. Yejun was all about the spiritual and emotional meaning of flowers, something that Taehyung hardly paid any mind to until after.

Finally, you tug the end of the string that attaches the envelope to the flowers, and you set them to the side. The flap is tucked into the envelope, so you slide it out and remove the tri-folded parchment from within. It looks the same as it did the day Yejun gave it to Taehyung a few weeks before he died. It’s the same as all the other letters waiting in a box under Taehyung’s bed—waiting for the right moment, waiting for you.

“If you need a moment—” Taehyung begins to say, but you hold up a hand to silence him. Slowly, you unfold the paper and smooth it over your thighs. Your eyes flick over the paper, snatching on random words until they hit the name signed at the bottom.

“What is this?” you whisper, yet your voice cuts like steel. “Is this a cruel joke?” You hold the paper up for Taehyung to see. At the top, it reads ‘For if you haven’t moved on’. Taehyung can understand why you might think so.

“N-no. It’s…there’s…” Taehyung pauses and takes a deep breath before trying again. “It’s not a joke. It’s from Yejun.” The look of hurt that ghosts across your face brings a prickling heat behind Taehyung's eyes, and he has to blink them several times to hold his emotions at bay as he explains. “The letter I gave you after the funeral?” He waits until you give him a subtle nod. “This is another he gave me…along with many others.”

“Many others?” you ask, incredulity seeping into your tone.

“He wanted to leave you something, something more than just your memories and heartache. So, he spent a few weeks, before he got bad, writing letters to you. He gave them to me and made me promise I’d give them to you when the time was right. This one—” Taehyung nods toward the letter held between your fingers “—was one I wasn’t sure if I’d have to give you or not. It was one Yejun specifically said to only give you if…well, if you hadn’t started living life again.”

“Hadn’t started living life again?” You balk at that, rearing back from him with an angry look pinching your face.

Taehyung feels like he’s botching this, not explaining it properly to you or something. “Just, just please read it.” Taehyung has no idea what the letter says. He never wanted to invade Yejun’s and your privacy. He’s hoping, though, that maybe the letter might hold some key information to help you understand…to help ease your anger in a way that Taehyung’s words can’t seem to.

You stare at Taehyung for a moment, and he’s certain you’re about to spit in his face and leave him sitting here alone. But, you finally shake your head and sigh, settling back into place and focusing on the paper. Taehyung is sorely tempted to try and read over your shoulder, but he doesn’t want to further your ire. So, he slides a few inches away, opening up a wide, cold gap between the two of you…and waits.

💔💔💔

To the love of my life,   For if you haven’t moved on Hi, baby. I hope this is a letter Tae never has to give you, but if you’re reading this, then that means we’re not doing so well. I say ‘we’, because I’m still there with you. Just like I promised in my other letter. I told Tae to use his discretion on whether to ever give you this or not. He knows you nearly as well as I do, so I trust him. So, if you ever read this, know he doesn’t mean any harm by it…I don’t mean any harm by it. But, baby, you gotta start living again. At this point, I don’t know how much time will have passed since I had to go away, but I do know you can’t let much more time pass. I need you to live, my love. Live for me, live for Sujin…live for yourself. No more standing by while the world continues to spin, you have to spin with it, baby, let it carry you away, and on to better days. Please. Find something that makes you laugh, find something that makes you smile…even if it’s a someone. I know you’ll always love me. There is no doubt about that. But, don’t let that love stop you from living. Let someone in, let someone help…love again, for me. Show the world that it can’t tear you down. Go on a date, go skydiving, go to one of those fancy art galleries in Italy you used to fantasize about…just go, baby. Go and do, and be free. Don’t be afraid…please, don’t be afraid to live. Love forever, Your Yejun

The memory of the other letter, albeit a bit fuzzy, drifts through your mind as you sit and try to come to terms with how you feel at this moment. You absently trace the neat scrawl of Yejun’s handwriting covering the page. Don’t be afraid. Are you afraid? Is that it? You’ve never thought of it like that, in terms of being afraid to live. But, if you think about it, you suppose that’s the root of it. You are afraid. Afraid of moving on. What if you do find happiness? What if you do find someone else? Yejun is clear that he’s confident you’ll never forget him, but what if you do?

You don’t want to be sitting somewhere thirty years from now, with your head thrown back, laughing at the joke from some other guy, with Yejun having not crossed your mind in years. It’s not that you don’t want to be happy. You just…you don’t know.

Taehyung is sitting so quietly beside you that if you closed your eyes, you’d think you were alone. Guilt pricks against your heart at how badly you first reacted, the harsh tone and words you lashed at Taehyung where he didn’t deserve it. You clear your throat, drawing the flicker of Taehyung’s eyes in your direction.

“I’m sorry, Tae. I really am. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” The words are thick on your tongue as you work through the emotions threatening to obliterate your existence. You think you might cry, but give yourself an imaginary pat on the back when you manage to maintain eye contact with Taehyung while successfully blinking back the tears.

Taehyung is quiet for a moment, a muscle in his jaw working, flexing the dark stubble you can see shadowing along his jawline. It’s in this moment that you feel like you see Taehyung in a new light, with added clarity. He looks haggard, tired. You didn’t notice it before, the sunken circles around his eyes or the lack of a clean shave…until now. It’s not fair, you realize, that he has taken care of you so much the last two years when you haven’t even so much as bothered to check on how he is doing.

You’re just about to break the silence with another feeble apology when he smiles, it’s faint, but it’s there. “You don’t need to apologize to me. Yejun and I might have shared a different kind of bond than what you two had, but I have at least an inkling of the keen sting you’re feeling, the one that never quite goes away no matter what you do.” He brings a hand up and presses it to the center of his chest. “The one that slices a little deeper after the sun goes down and everyone else has gone about their lives.”

Chilled goosebumps pop up along your arms, despite the warmth from the added layer of Taehyung’s jacket. That is exactly what it feels like, a lingering sting that won’t go away, one that grows when you’re alone.

You lick your trembling lips, tearing your gaze away from his and focusing back on the letter clutched in your hand. “Yejun,” you whisper. “He—he wants…he wants me to move on.” A soft sob catches in your throat. “But, I can’t do that. How can I do that?”

Your shoulders heave as the emotions you were able to hold at bay before come crashing through the walls you managed to put up. It’s not like the weeping from earlier. That was simply the quiet cries of a mourning wife. This is bone-deep, soul-rending agony that shakes your entire body.

Taehyung pulls you into his arms, and you press your face into the cushioning of his scarf and scream. The sound is muffled, but you can still hear it echoing through the columbarium when all the air finally empties from your lungs. You try to replenish the air, sucking in stilted breaths, but it’s not enough. Panic ensues, your heart launching into a heavy, staccato rhythm as if trying to pound right out of your chest.

“Hey, hey,” Taehyung soothes. “Slow down. Try to breathe slowly.” He pulls you firmly into his lap. You’re heedless to the intimate position your body falls into with your knees on either side of his hips. All you care about is getting air into your lungs. Taehyung holds you by the face, angling yours so you look up into his worried eyes. “Come on, slow. In…out…like that, come on, another one. In and then out.” He breathes with you, exaggerating the way he inhales air through his nose and pushes it back out through his mouth.

His warm breath puffs across your face with each exhale, carrying with it the faintest sharp tinge of mint and the earthy tones of tea. Something that instantly makes you think of home. It helps bring you back to reality, slowing your rampaging heart, and subsiding your shuddering cries.

“I can’t do it,” you mumble.

“You can. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

“No, no. You don’t—I can’t. It’s…it’s cold in here,” you whisper, pressing a trembling hand over your heart. “No one wants that.”

A soft, sad smile forms on Taehyung’s face as he continues to stare down at you. “Good thing that I know a thing or two about keeping things warm.” He drops his hands from your face and grabs the lapels of his jacket that’s still draped over your shoulders and gives it a tug, pulling it tighter around you. You can’t help but smile, even if it’s a watery one.

“What would I do without you?” you ask, not expecting Taehyung to answer.

“You’d make it.” He sounds so sure. “I know you would, you’d do it. But, I am glad to be here, to help however I can.”

Taehyung doesn’t urge you off of his lap, just allows you to rest there with your cheek pressed over his softly beating heart, finding whatever comfort you can from the proximity of another source of warmth. His words linger there, filling the space between you with a comfortability that you know you’ll never find anywhere else. You don’t say anything else, as there isn’t much else to say. At least, not words you think you could say out loud. Not here, not now.

But, an hour later, as you’re driving home, you decide to try. So, you do something you haven’t done in a while and turn on the radio, letting the music fill the silence from before. It’s a small step, but a step nonetheless; the first of—you hope—many.

The next morning, with the light of a new day spilling through the gap between your bedroom curtains, you decide you feel…good. As you lay in bed last night, full of revelations about how you’re going to start making steps toward Yejun’s desire for you to be happy again, worry began to set in. Worry over whether or not you can do this. Now, though, you feel decidedly different—light, in a way—as you push back the blankets and climb out of bed.

With your mom having taken Sujin to school this morning, it afforded you some time to sleep in, which is something you haven’t done in years. You weren’t sure you were going to, considering how poorly you’ve been sleeping the last couple of years. It feels nice, stretching your arms over your head and not feeling as groggy for once.

There is one thing you want to do before heading to the studio, where you know you’ll probably just piddle around until it’s time to pick up Sujin, but it’s just baby steps for now. It’s not lost on you that your work, the art you create, no matter if you manage to move on or not, might still be something that you’re never able to recover. Yejun wasn’t far off when he joked about being your one true muse, but you try to remain hopeful that you can surprise yourself.

The box in the back of the closet is exactly where you left it almost two years ago. It holds some of your most treasured possessions. Things you’ve held on to dating back as far as your teen years and as recent as two years ago. You kneel in the bottom of your closet and slide the box out from behind the stack of empty shoe boxes you can’t seem to toss out.

It’s a bit faded, the blue exterior, once a brilliant navy, is now more denim in color. You’ve had the box since you were a child, given to you by your father the summer before he split from your mom. That really hurt your family, when he cut himself out of the picture without so much as an apology; he ran off with another woman. It was so hard for you to believe in love after that.

Lifting the small silvered latch, you ease open the box lid and sigh as your eyes land on the folded paper nestled on top. Yejun’s first letter. It’s the last thing you put in this box. The paper still feels crisp in your fingers as you delicately pluck it out and unfold it. You worry at your bottom lip a moment before letting your eyes devour the same words you read once before.

This time, they don’t hurt nearly as much. You still feel that piercing ache, but it’s accompanied by another, fresher feeling—one of hope. What stands out the most, now, though, is the confirmation that there are other letters waiting for you. Yejun says as much himself in this letter, you just hadn’t ever put the dots together, too distracted in your grief.

There are endless possibilities for what those other letters might be for. But, what’s clear is that you won't get another one until you do something to deserve it. Knowing Yejun, you have a few ideas of what those things might be. There is a thrill but also a sense of trepidation as you think about that. You want to move on and be happy again, and in doing so, you know you’ll get the other letters, but there’s also that sense of overwhelming dread.

Where do you begin?

You spent most of your day rearranging and organizing supplies at the studio. But, now that the sun is beyond its zenith and casting longer shadows across your paint-marked studio floor, you feel like you’ve done nothing but waste time. You still haven’t decided where to begin with Yejun’s letters and you’re no closer to coming up with an idea for your next project either.

With frustration coloring your thoughts, you lock up and welcome the reprieve of going and picking Sujin up from school. That’s one part of your life that you do know up from down with.

As you pull through the pick up line, you don’t see Sujin anywhere out front. You spot Mrs. Min ushering a few students to their cars, her friendly face sporting a smile as she does so. Her eye catches yours and she holds up a hand, rushing over to your passenger side window.

“Hi!” she says when you roll it down. “So glad I caught you before you waited too long. Sujin volunteered to help Mr. Kim with his terrarium and it’s taking a bit longer than expected. He should be out in the next fifteen minutes or so, feel free to park in the teacher’s lot or you can wait here if you’d like.”

“Mrs. Min!” a rambunctious gaggle of students call her name, requesting her assistance.

She gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, duty calls. He shouldn’t be too long!” she calls over her shoulder as she jogs towards the cluster of students beckoning her over. One of the kids has what appears to be a large diorama that they’re having a hard time carrying to their car, even with the assistance of their friends.

“Well, great,” you mumble to yourself, checking your rearview mirror and seeing a long line of cars waiting behind you.

Pulling ahead, you slip around the side of the school and pull into one of the empty teacher spots and cut the engine. You haven’t been inside the school since the parent-teacher meeting at the beginning of the year, so it wouldn’t hurt if you went inside now, it would give you a chance to peek into Sujin’s classrooms and see what he’s been up to. If it’s one thing he loves, it’s learning.

Mr. Kim and Mrs. Min have adjoining classrooms at the end of the hall for Sujin’s grade, a storage and supply closet connecting the two rooms. The door to Mrs. Min’s room is closed but the light is still on inside. You take a quick peek through the view window on the door and see colorful drawings and paper projects hanging on the wall, books scattered across a few tables, and a large container of art supplies opened on her desk. She teaches English, Reading, Art, and History while Namjoon covers Math and Science. 

The gym teacher, Mr. Jeon, startles you as he breezes through the double doors at the end of the hall that lead out to the playground. “Oh, hey! Sujin, your mom is here!” he calls, stepping back and propping the door open with the heel of his sneaker.

“Mom!” you hear Sujin’s voice sound from through the open door. “You gotta come see this!”

Mr. Jeon holds the door open for you, his face lit with a pleasant smile. “A future scientist, I’d bet,” Mr. Jeon stage-whispers as you pass him and that makes your own smile blossom further.

“What’s going on, buddy?” you ask, taking in the scene before you.

Namjoon is crouched down beside Sujin, helping him sort through a collection of rocks spread out on a sheet of plastic. There are dozens of them, all various shapes and colors.

Sujin excitedly points out a few of the large rocks. “These would be perfect to create a hiding space!” he loudly proclaims before turning his bright eyes up to you. “Mr. Kim is letting me help him choose the rocks to go into the terrarium. We’re going to get our very own class salamander! Isn’t that cool, Mom? A class dragon!”

A soft chuckle comes from Namjoon as he pivots on his heels and squints up at you, the sun catching on the thick-framed glasses that are slipping down his nose. “We had so much fun yesterday talking about the salamander that was brought into Mrs. Min’s class that I couldn’t resist. I’ve had this old aquarium sitting in my garage for years, it just seems perfect.”

“Wow, yeah, that’s really cool.”

“Sorry for keeping him,” Namjoon suddenly stands, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking contrite. “I didn’t realize the bell had rung until Jungkook said something.” He turns to Sujin who is happily stacking a few of the smaller rocks into a pile. “I think that’s all for today, Sujin. We’ll finish it up tomorrow during class.”

Sujin frowns, his warm brown eyes flicking to Namjoon. “Okay,” he sighs.

“I tell you what, for all your hard work today, how about I let you be creative director during assembly tomorrow? Does that sound okay?”

The frown is quickly replaced with another excited smile. Sujin gives a whoop of delight and slaps his hands together before dusting them off. “Thank you, Mr. Kim, that sounds amazing!”

Seeing the interaction between Namjoon and Sujin gives you an idea, one that you hope you won’t regret. “Go grab your backpack, buddy, I’ll meet you outside Mrs. Min’s room in a second.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Sujin pulls open the door and scampers through, his sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor as he skips down the hall.

“Thank you for that, Namjoon, really. He was so excited about what happened yesterday and now this? He’s been wanting a turtle for a year now, so this will be a good test on whether or not we should get one.”

Namjoon pulls one of his hands out of his pocket and grips the back of his neck as he smiles shyly, his cheeks pinking slightly. “He’s a great kid, loves to learn. Though, turtles are a bit more needy than salamanders. It would also depend on the type of turtle. The standard box turtles are…” Namjoon trails off, his brow pinching as he throws furtive glances your way. “Sorry, you didn’t ask for a science lesson.”

That makes you laugh, which seems to ease the awkward tension in Namjoon. “Sujin isn’t the only one that likes learning.” You don’t intend the words to sound flirty, but they come out that way and you can distinctly tell that Namjoon keys into that.

“Yeah?” he asks, the shyness leeching away by the second.

“Um, yeah. Er, well, I should—” you jerk your thumb over your shoulder toward the door “—Sujin is probably waiting.” 

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Namjoon sidesteps over the plastic sheet of rocks and fumbles with the door handle before yanking it open. “Have a good—”

“Are you free Friday night?” you blurt, wincing at the rudeness of interrupting him but knowing if you don’t ask now then you’ll lose your nerve.

“Friday?” he parrots back, eyes wide behind his glasses.

Panic slices through and you immediately want to take it back. “Sorry, that was—I didn’t, it’s not appropriate is it? I’m so sor—”

“I’m free,” he states, the words silencing your backpedaling.

“Oh.” Now that he’s confirmed, you’re not sure what else to say. It’s been so long since you’ve done this.

“Is there something you wanted to do?” Namjoon asks hesitantly, clearly picking up on your trepidation.

You swallow around the choking feeling in your throat, the one that’s ingrained with the idea that you’re still married and still madly in love with another man and this is akin to cheating. “Maybe dinner? Or a late coffee? Um, or…I’m sorry, it’s been so long since I’ve done this.”

Namjoon gives you an easy smile. “Dinner sounds great. Let’s say, seven?”

“Seven is good. How about that new pizza place that opened up near the park, do you know the one?”

“I’ve had my eye on that place for weeks! That sounds perfect.”

Are you really going on a date…with Sujin’s Science teacher? “Okay,” you say, chewing the inside of your cheek as you take a few steps down the hall. “Great.”

“Great,” Namjoon confirms with a smile, his deep dimples making an appearance. “See you then.”

All you can do is nod, not trusting yourself with any more words with the influx of emotions now swirling through you. Sujin bursts through Mrs. Min’s door, his backpack and lunchbox in tow.

“Let’s go!” he trumpets, thrusting his free hand into the air in a fist. “I’ve got some homework to do before I can work on my diagram for the terrarium!”

Namjoon’s soft chuckle carries to you from down the hall as you usher Sujin towards the exit. You can’t help casting one last glance behind you, taking in the way he’s lazily leaning against the doorframe of his classroom. He’s quite handsome, there’s no arguing that.

A giddy feeling adds itself to the uncertain emotions rolling through you. A fluttering in your tummy that you haven’t felt in over seven years. You can’t help but wonder, as you load Sujin into the car, if this is really what Yejun wants for you or are you making a mistake?

💔💔💔

Taehyung

It’s a weird sensation when you expect to feel one emotion but end up feeling another. That’s what Taehyung thinks anyway, as he reads the text message he received from you for the dozenth time. You have a date. With Namjoon.

Taehyung has never met the quirky Science teacher, but he’s heard plenty of stories about him from Sujin. Charming, educated, and completely and utterly perfect for you. And that should make Taehyung happy. Yet, all he can feel is mild annoyance when he thinks about Namjoon sitting across from you at a dinner table making you laugh and smile.

He wants to chalk it up to being overprotective in a brotherly sort of way, but Taehyung knows better. It’s no secret—well maybe it is to you—that Taehyung cares for you deeply. Even before Yejun, Taehyung always had a soft spot for his best friend’s wife. Something that he drunkenly confessed to Yejun once a few years ago. Yejun took it goodnaturedly, something that Taehyung still thinks about to this day, and simply told Taehyung he understood the attraction because hell, who could blame him?

They never talked about it again, until the day Yejun asked Taehyung to take care of you and Sujin—the day he was given a box of letters addressed to you. Yejun had given Taehyung a knowing smile and said something along the lines of fate knowing and that’s why Taehyung already had so much love for you.

He wasn’t sure, at first, if Yejun had ever shared Taehyung’s little secret with you. But, as time went on, it was clear that he hadn’t. That, or, so lost in your grief, you’ve been keenly uninterested in that prospect. But, now, you’re going on a date and Taehyung doesn’t know how to feel about it.

The twinge of jealousy in his chest doesn’t sit right with him. He has no right to feel this way. It’s just something that he can’t seem to shake, hasn’t been able to since you told him about it two days ago. So, instead of expressing that, he forces himself to try and share in your joy.

That’s great. Let me know when you’re home, I have something for you.

A letter perhaps??

Your eager reply makes him smile despite himself. If anything, that helps his mood to improve. The ‘first date’ letter is already sitting on his counter, waiting.

Perhaps. Now stop texting me and go have fun.

There is no reply to that. So, Taehyung waits patiently, phone in hand. Hours pass in a mindless, sluggish way. He’s far too wound up to do anything productive but also has nervous energy that needs to be released. So, Taehyung spends the four hours it takes for you to finally respond by squeaking out haphazard notes on the alto saxophone he’s taken to trying to learn to play.

His phone lights up where it sits on the coffee table and he nearly drops the instrument in his haste to snatch up the device.

I’m home.

That’s all it says and it makes Taehyung frown. Not that he expected you to tell him how the date went over text message, but he was anticipating something more than just those two words. He is startled to realize just how late it is, though, being past eleven already.

Is it too late? I can always just swing by tomorrow.

Sujin is staying with mom. It’s not too late.

Taehyung is contemplating his reply when another text from you pops up that makes him drop everything else and grab his car keys, not caring it’ll be close to midnight by the time he pulls up outside your apartment. It was a knee-jerk reaction to also grab the letter that was sitting beside his keys, but now he’s thinking about whether or not it’s a good idea.

Those thoughts quickly fade as he focuses on the road, intent on reaching your apartment in record time. His phone sits on the passenger seat, still open to your text thread, the single word might as well be an alarm blaring to Taehyung, urging him on faster.

Please.

💔💔💔

As soon as you send the last text message you want to take it back. Not only do you feel whiny, but you know Taehyung will drop everything and come over which makes you feel terrible and like you’re using him.

But, fuck. The date was so horrible all you want to do is crawl into familiar, comforting arms and cry yourself to sleep. You’re about to pour your third glass of wine when there is a sudden knock on the door, followed by it swinging open. Taehyung stands there with your spare key in his hand, eyes wide with concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks, breathless as he clearly sprinted up the stairs to get here and now you feel infinitely worse for it.

You shake your head which earns you a pained sound from Taehyung but you hold up your hand, silencing him. “I’m not shaking my head no as in no I’m not fine, it’s more a I’m such a fool head shake. I’m sorry, Tae. I’m fine. I shouldn’t have said anything, I just—”

“I’m glad you said something. What happened? Do I need to go pay a certain science teacher a visit?” For all his bravado, you know he wouldn’t hesitate if you said yes.

“No, no. It’s not his fault. Well, not entirely. Look, I’m sorry you drove all the way over here.” You discard the empty wine glass in favor of taking a large glug directly from the bottle.

“Hey, hey,” Taehyung says, deftly taking the bottle from your hands before you have the chance to take a second gulp from it. “Stop apologizing and tell me what’s wrong.”

“It was a fucking disaster.”

If Taehyung is surprised by your cussing, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he stills beside you, brow slowly pinching and forming deep furrows between them. “Did he hurt you?” he whispers, but his tone is cold and hard. “I’ll kill him.”

“What? What, oh no, Tae, no. He didn’t hurt me, god no.” You sigh, propping your hip against the lip of the counter and wrapping your arms around your middle. “He was lovely, actually. I was the disaster. Or maybe we were. I don’t know, it was just a terrible night. A terrible idea.”

“Talk to me about it,” Taehyung encourages, his hands landing lightly on your shoulders to steer you toward the couch in the living room.

So, you spend the next hour recounting all the horrid details for him. Everything from the way Namjoon wouldn’t stop talking about rocks and mineralized dirt to the way he tried to kiss you at the end of the night only for you to duck and him to lose his balance, effectively making him face plant into the brick wall of your apartment building.

“See, it was a terrible idea,” you lament, letting out a frustrated sigh.

Taehyung hums softly. “It doesn’t sound like a complete disaster to me. Namjoon was polite, even if he did nothing but talk about his own interests. Did you try changing the subject, or did he ask about you and you gave a dismissive answer?” You give Taehyung an annoyed look. “I��m just saying, you have the tendency to avoid things like that. So, it’s only meant as a means to try and understand. Maybe it can be better next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.” You throw up your hands in defeat. “He said he had a lovely time, but I could see it plain on his face, he was just trying to be nice. He left with a bloody napkin pressed against his mouth for crying out loud!”

“Well, maybe he really—”

“But, most of all,” you continue, speaking over Taehyung, “I didn’t have a good time. I don’t want to do it again. It didn’t make me happy.”

That seems to subdue Taehyung. “Oh,” he says, nodding slowly. “Well, okay, that’s different.”

“I’m broken, defective.”

Taehyung scoffs, giving you a withering look a moment before dragging you into his arms, squeezing you tightly. “You’re not defective. You’re human. All this proves is that maybe the science teacher isn’t the guy for you. Simply just a lack of…chemistry.”

You can’t help but laugh at his bad joke. “You’re terrible,” you say in a lighter tone, meant to tease more than chastise. “But, you’re right, I guess. I just…this was the first date I’ve been on in a long time and it all went so horribly. It’s hard not to think that I somehow messed up, that I’m just…not right, just broken, y’know?” Taehyung’s eyes are soft as you look up at him, trying hard not to let yourself grow too accustomed to the comforting feel of his arms around your shoulders.

“You are perfect, most certainly not broken,” he whispers. You watch from beneath your lashes as a small crease etches across his forehead and you can tell he’s warring with himself over something before he slowly presses a soft kiss against the side of your head. “You just have to give yourself grace. I’m proud of you.” As he says that last part, he gently pulls back, hands resting on your shoulders. His right hand trails down your arm and you feel the soft caress of paper against the back of your hand. “Yejun would be proud of you, too, taking as big of a step as you have, I just know it.”

The envelope is small, but you instantly recognize the shape and feel of the paper. It’s just like the one you got earlier this week—like the one from two years ago. “Should I wait to read it?” you ask, not really expecting an answer.

“I’ll leave if you’d like some privacy.”

And in that moment you realize that’s the last thing you want. “No, please stay. Umm, that is, unless you have something to do.” It’s after midnight, the sour twist of jealousy rears as you think of everything that could possibly take Taehyung away at this hour. You tamp it down, knowing you have no right to keep him here, regardless. “I’m okay, I promise.”

Taehyung’s lip twitches as you wait for him to answer. He shakes his head. “No, I have nothing else to do. I can’t promise I won’t end up crashing on your couch, though,” he says, stifling a yawn in his elbow before lacing his fingers behind his head and stretching out. “I’m here as long as you need me.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and spreading it out over Taehyung’s legs before curling up on the opposite end of the couch. Taehyung shifts around the blanket with his feet, making sure the other end covers your legs as well.

“Don’t have to thank me,” he sighs sleepily. “I just want to make you happy.”

You’re not sure if he misspoke, because surely he meant only that he wants to see you happy. Because, as it is, him saying he wants to make you happy…well, that does something funny to you. Though, you can probably blame that on the terrible date with Namjoon or the half a bottle of wine you drank. Either way, you can’t help but smile as you look at Taehyung laying on the other end of your couch, eyes closed, and chest rising and falling with deep, even breathing.

You take a moment, running back over the date with Namjoon in your head, fingers idly moving along the edge of the envelope. It started out so nicely, Namjoon standing outside your apartment with a bouquet of flowers. They made your nose itch and your eyes water a bit from how overly fragrant they were—clearly some mass grown clippings from a supermarket—but you smiled anyway, appreciating the gesture.

Dinner was lovely, the new restaurant proving to be worth the drive and money spent. It’s perhaps your own fault for thinking Namjoon might pay for the meal and it didn’t hurt you any to pay for your own, but it felt oddly…impersonal? Less like a date and more like a business meeting or something. You’re not too old to be naive in the sense that women are just as capable of paying for dinner as men, as well as the fact that men shouldn’t hold the complete burden of expense on dates. It’s just…it was unusual and he didn’t even bring it up, simply told the waiter to split the check before it was brought.

It’s not helped by the fact that Namjoon wouldn’t stop talking about work or soil deposits. And perhaps Taehyung was at least half right in the fact that you didn’t put forth a lot of effort to change the subject, but the way you see it, if Namjoon was interested in knowing about you, he would have asked. Though, is that expecting too much? Are you being too harsh? Maybe you’re projecting and Namjoon really wasn’t that bad.

Before you can continue to spiral any further, you force your thoughts to the letter in your hand. Hoping it’ll put your ill heart at ease, you extract the folded parchment and smooth it out.

To the love of my life,             For after your first date Hi, baby. First, I want to say that I love you. Second, I hope he at least made you smile. If he didn’t bring you flowers or even those cheap ones from the supermarket, don’t think too much of it. I’ll let you in on a little guy secret, not all of us are well versed on flora and even less so on women. Even if it didn’t go so well, though I hope it did, you can’t give up. Go on another date, with the same person or someone else, you just can’t stop now. Take as many adventures as you can, do something spontaneous. You never did take that dance class you wanted to a few years ago. Paint, travel, explore the world. Take Sujin to places we never got to go. Just don’t stop, keep turning, even if it’s slowly. I’m so proud of you, you know? No matter what, I know you’re going to be okay. You’re going to make it. I can’t wait to see all you do. You’re going to be wonderful. You’re amazing, keep shining, baby. I love you so much. Forever With You, Your Yejun

Tucking the letter against your heart, you snuggle down in the couch, mind racing. You feel lighter somehow, like Yejun’s words have given you far more affirmation than you thought possible. The terrible date doesn’t seem so disastrous now.

“You okay?”

You startle at the soft question, thinking Taehyung was fast asleep. His eyes are barely cracked open, peering at you over his bent, blanket-covered knees.

“Mm, yeah. I think so,” you say after clearing your throat.

“Good…good,” Taehyung murmurs, his eyes falling shut once more.

“Hey, Tae?”

“Hmm?” His eyebrows raise but he doesn’t open his eyes. You take a moment to truly see him, the soft light from the stand lamp on the other side of the room illuminating him in profile. The soft curve of his cheek, the delicate slope of his nose, and the pouty bow of his lips aren’t new features, but you’re not sure you’ve ever truly paid attention to how breathtakingly handsome he is.

“Will you help me?”

Taehyung’s lips twitch as a mild frown turns down his lips. “Help you?”

“With whatever comes next.”

“Whatever you need, I’m yours,” he mumbles, a soft smile replacing his frown. You watch him for a moment longer, his lips going even softer as the smile fades with sleep. His chest rises and falls, your eyes tracking the motion in the dim lighting until you feel the pull of sleep yourself. Taehyung is the last thing you see before you close your eyes, and for the first time in over two years, you sleep peacefully; with a subtle warmth blooming in your chest where once there was only cold.

Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon!) ◅ Back to story masterlist  

◅ Back to Main Master List ©️ 2024-03-18 ColorMePurplex2

[fantasy-relax]

Sweet alpha, Dangerous Omega

Part 1 Part 10 Part 11

Your healing continued without trouble despite your unconscious state, the hunger and dehydration plus your wounds exhausted you enough to stay still while Alcina healed you.

The fact that the matriarch had been as delicate as possible with you helped a lot.

The poor cub was just doing her duty

Standing on the side of your bed Alcina closed her eyes, stopping repressing her Beta from whom she could feel disappointment and anguish along with immense fury.

Cassandra is too strong and stubborn to be easily dominated, if the alpha had been like all the others, taking her by force, our wolf would have ripped out her throat with her teeth. Remember that when we found her, she did not have any wounds, not a single bruise or scratch, her aroma was soft and light without a trace of that bitterness that weighed us down so much.

When we returned to that cabin, we found an Alpha in agony willing to die in our hands rather than endure being without our girl for more than a second, she didn't beg, she didn't even try to run away, she stayed still, just holding in her arms the only memory she had left, refusing to die without it. She only acted violently when he noticed Cassandra's scent and her smell only transmitted a threat towards us, a threat that disappeared when she recognized who the omega, she had lived with was, an omega whose reputation was more than infamous, however in her eyes there was only affection. We witnessed her behavior during her heat, we saw firsthand the care and gentleness with which the alpha treated our cub who for the first time in decades was not suffering alone.

Despite the anger, shame and frustration that she feels, Cassandra is much more relaxed compared to her past Heats.

There will never be anyone who deserves our daughters, however, that Alpha will spend the rest of her life trying to be worthy.

Cassandra can deny it as many times as she wants, but her Omega wants that Alpha as her partner. Her stubbornness against her instinct will only cause her trouble and misery.

And you know that well.

The lady of the house put a hand to her face just to stop immediately when she saw the stains she had from your blood.

The blood from the wounds she caused you.

A woman is different, her parents punish her for her existence.

What a familiar story, don't you think?

The Beta's words were like a blow to her face, guilt filled her chest and the gravity of her actions weighed on her shoulders.

A pale woman whose death was hoped for, fighting to live another day.

What a familiar story.

--------------------------------

While causing pain didn't bring her as much pleasure as it did Cassandra, Lucia's moans were music to her ears.

“Hey Bela, what did she do?”

In her quest for revenge, she had forgotten to tell Daniela about what happened she simply burst into the library with a promise of fresh prey and the redhead followed her.

“Remember how I told you that the alpha had failed to demonstrate self-control?”

"Aha?"

"I was wrong, actually her self-control is admirable, in her shoes I would have torn out this bitch's tongue." She took the sickle out of the woman's leg only to skewer it in the other and continued her walk to the dungeon, ignoring the cries behind her.

“Oh? Miss Perfect admitting a mistake? I think boredom is making me hallucinate”

The two stopped when they heard Cassandra's voice, the brunette came out of her swarm with a mocking smile, leaning on the back of her younger sister.

“Oh, did you hear that too Cassie? For a moment I thought I had gone deaf.” Daniela rubbed her ears, smiling at the oldest of the three. “So, what did she do, you can't leave us wondering.”

Bela let go of her sickle, sighing knowing that her sisters wouldn’t let her forget this. Glancing sideways at Cassandra she decided to at least have a little fun.

“Well, you know that mother left me in charge of the Alpha.” The smile faded from Cassandra's face. "In just one month she has exceeded my expectations, her discipline and work are magnificent, and Relia recognizes her ability to the point of declaring her as her future substitute." The brunette rolled her eyes, but in the air you could detect the slight pride that her scent gave off. “That is why I am sad to admit that I judged her without seeking more evidence”

“Eh afa-aff lieugh-s”

It seems that the beating you gave her had knocked out a few neurons in addition to her teeth.

“So, there have never been any acts of violence against said alpha?” Cassandra's posture stiffened. “Are the physical and verbal attacks that I have been informed of nothing more than fallacies?” Her sister, with false calm, approached the maid's body and placed her heel on her chest.

"So?"

“Lie-ugh-s” Yes, she was stupid.

“It's also a lie that the reason she attacked you was because you said that my sister was so desperate to be fucked that she would let the Lycans mount her” Daniela looked at her in horror, shaking her head in disgust at the image while Cassandra turned to her seeing her with indignation and disgust to which Bela only shrugged her shoulders. “Words more words less”

“LI-AHH” Cassandra kicked her jaw, dislocating it again while Daniela grabbed the embedded sickle and twisted it.

"Besides, the person who told me wasn´t the alpha, it was another maid who witnessed your actions." If it weren't for Zina... "You attacked a co-worker and disrespected the Dimitrescu House," she approached the woman's face and force her to look at her by holding her dislocated jaw. “And you still try to evade your punishment? The alpha hasn't made even the slightest complaint these days, and still, you think you're superior?” She asked with anger before controlling herself, “Normally Cassandra would take care of you.”

“Ugh, am I really still grounded?” The brunette complained. “It's been a month already!”

“And mother said you still will be grounded for another eight.” In reality were four, but she was still upset with Cassandra for her irresponsibility. She signaled to Daniela to continue walking. The pool of blood was going to be difficult to remove, and they had left a trail of blood on the entire hallway, perfect that would make them remember who was in charge. “But she said you were free to give advice on how to proceed with her.”

Her sister sighed, but she nodded, accepting what was offered.

“If Daniela can be patient, maybe you can keep her alive for more than a week.”

“HEY”

“Let's start with the basics, we have to prevent her from bleeding completely, Daniela take out the sickle and use this to make a tourniquet on her legs” Cassandra offered a rope to the minor and then smiled evilly at Lucia, making sure to show her fangs “She deserves special treatment after all.”

---------------------------------------

When you woke up you looked at the ceiling of your room feeling relief for not being trapped in the dungeon you looked at the window finally noticing how late it was. Lady Dimitrescu had shown mercy in releasing you early and you repaid her by sleeping during work hours.

You got up immediately to put on your uniform and left the room without even taking a bath, chasing away the flies that fluttered around you attracted by your bad smell. Some of them left but one stayed, refusing to die crushed by your hands. You gave up and let it rest on your neck.

You swore it was laughing at you.

Arriving at the workshop you were greeted by Relia who scolded you, but not for the reason you expected.

“You should be resting for another day! *Sniff* You haven't even bathed, Holy Mother Miranda, give me patience, Come here.”

You followed her without saying anything, you didn't want to make her more angry but as always she was the one who broke the silence.

"I'm sorry"

“Uh?”

“I didn't realize how you were treated, I thought you just didn't want to get involved with Betas when in reality they were the ones who didn't want you to be there.” She looked at you with determination. “Things will be different, I promise you.”

"You don't have to apologize, that's normal for me, an alpha woman is an aberration just like an omega man, their existence is unnatural and grotesque and should be treated as such."

Although you had hoped that outside the town it would be different, the reality was that here being treated with insults and beatings was common. You never expected it to be different in the castle.

You stiffened as you felt arms wrap around you only to relax as you realized it was just Relia giving you a hug.

It felt good.

“I will make sure to create a new normal for you.”

You leaned on her more.

For a moment you thought the fly was rubbing against you offering its own form of comfort.

----------------------------

After your bath, Relia took you to the kitchen where Dorottea received her with a light slap for not going to breakfast while she told you to sit down with a light dish since mealtime was close.

Unlike other days, the kitchen staff interacted with you, involving you in their conversations.

Which seemed to be a bad decision.

Every time you mentioned something about your life in the village, all the women would stare at you with a mixture of horror, pity, and disbelief.

You knew your life wasn't the best and frankly it was bad but it wasn't that horrible either.

Right?

“Let me see if I heard correctly.” Dorottea joined the conversation after a while. “Your father used you as bait to attract a bear” You nodded. “For which he threw a bucket of blood on you and left you in the middle of the forest with just a whistle.”

“He didn't leave me alone; he climbed a tree to aim and see better so he wouldn't shoot me by mistake again.” Your parents were cruel but it's not like they tried to kill you on purpose.

“Shoot you?!”

"Again?!"

“It was only a few times on my arm and leg and once it grazed my cheek” And every time that happened they let you rest until you healed. “After that he changed the strategy”

"To what?"

“He tied my ankle to a rock and when the bear came, he would throw it to get me out of the way” Much more effective and safer.

Silence.

“At the end he would get me down and adjust my ankle if it had been dislocated” Later he will teach you how to do it on your own, a very useful skill in your opinion.

“How old were you?”

"Eight"

The silence seemed to increase the sound of the clock that marked how close it was to meal time.

The kitchen staff got up and proceeded to do their jobs like every day, however you thought that perhaps they were cutting the ingredients with more force than necessary and you were sure that the murmurs they made under their breath sounded like swear words.

Greta came in, looked at the situation and shrugged her shoulders and then spoke to you.

“Lady Bela wishes to speak with you, follow me.”

-------------------------------------------------

There was no trace of resentment on your face.

“Why didn't you say something about the treatment of maids?”

“I didn't think it was necessary, although it caused some delays, it was nothing I hadn't dealt with before”

After reading Greta's report it was easy to understand why it took you so long to get to your lessons. Another thing that she punished you for without first asking you what was happening, she rubbed her temples for a second before looking at you again.

“You could have told me when the incident with Lucia occurred” Your eyes shone with fury for a few seconds. You closed them as you took a breath and the fire faded.

“I broke the rules that were imposed on me, no matter the reason it doesn't change the fact that I disobeyed Lady Dimitrescu's orders, as well as yours.”

Bela sighed, her guilt still weighing on her.

“Any person would react badly upon hearing those words, you had great self-control to avoid killing her considering that she offended the omega of your interest.”

The seriousness with which you acted faded, you blushed completely and avoided her gaze.

“Well it's uhh” You cleared your throat to control your voice “I must act like a proper alpha if I want to be Lady Cassandra's heat partner.”

Oh?

“And what do you think an alpha does that qualifies her as adequate?”

Despite your firm stance there was a resignation and defeat in your eyes.

“Provides their partner with food and shelter, protects them from any enemy and never makes them doubt their loyalty and affection.” You took a deep breath. “I know that the only thing I can offer Lady Cassandra is my presence and body, however, if I can do anything else for her, I will do it without thinking.”

So, for you that's being an alpha.

To protect and provide with love and loyalty.

Black God seems like a line taken from one of the novels that-

“How romantic!”

Daniela likes so much…

“Dani, what did I tell you about entering without knocking?”

 Her sister completely ignored her as she held your hands.

“Don't you want to be my mate? I'll treat you better than Cassie." Her little sister was shamelessly flirting with you.

Blushing up to your ears, you freed yourself from Daniela's grip and took a step back.

“It would be an honor to be your mate Lady Daniela” You bowed your head “However it is Lady Cassandra who my alpha has chosen and I agree with that decision, I apologize for rejecting your generous offer.”

Silence.

Daniela hugged you, almost drowning you in her chest.

“AWW NO PROBLEM, CUTIE I WILL BE MORE THAN SATISFIED BEING YOUR FAVORITE SISTER-IN-LAW”

You were on your tiptoes with your hands fluttering around not knowing where to place them.

You really were a special case.

“Dani, you are going to suffocate her, and Cassandra is going to get angry with you if you rub your scent on her.”

As soon as you were free you took breaths of air without control.

“Killjoy, you don't want me to be her favorite, you've already spent a lot of time with her now it's my turn!”

“If I spend so much time with her, that's why; one, I am in charge of her and two, I give her classes”

“You have surely bored her to death with your numbers.”

“That you don't like mathematics is another thing”

Daniela pouted and then smiled in a way that Bela knew meant trouble.

“You are very busy, dear sister. What do you think if we divide the work?” She raised an eyebrow, intrigued by what her sister was planning. “You teach her about math, geometry and everything boring” she rolled her eyes. “And I am in charge of teaching her about literature, grammar and writing, which you know very well I am better at than you.” Daniela finished by placing her hands on her back while she wiggled back and forth on the balls of her feet.

With a hand on her chin Bela considered the offer, your writing needed improvement and you had numerous errors in your spelling with Daniela teaching, you would learn properly and her schedule wouldn't be so tight.

"That seems fine to me"

“Yesss”

Walking towards you Bela placed a hand on your shoulder, you tensed for a second before relaxing considerably.

“You will continue with your work with Relia, I am in charge of establishing a class schedule with Daniela”

“Boring”

"Daniela"

With her sister quiet, she decided to make something else clear.

“I'm in charge of you, if you have a problem, tell me immediately” You nodded “And if someone insults my family again you are free to punish them” She let go of your shoulder and caressed your head, smiling as she noticed how you leaned closer to her when he walked away. “You can leave.”

Alone with Daniela, it was the youngest who broke the silence.

“The blouse she is wearing is yours, right?”

“Yes, I'm surprised Cassandra hasn't noticed it yet.”

Sighing, her sister sat on the couch.

“Cass hasn't noticed because she's been avoiding her since she kicked her out of her room.” Daniela rubbed her face with both hands. “She denies that she has any interest and what happened was just a slip of her omega's heat"

Bela returned to her new desk, sitting down to review reports on the status of the vineyard.

Daniela turned to look at her. “Do we agree that the plan is to bother Cassie until she admits her interest?” she asked mischievously.

"Absolutely"

[morning-star-joy]

I am not the only traveler

a stranger's heart without a home Chapter 1

Pairing: rivals to friends with benefits Joel x F!Reader, Post-Outbreak

Fic Summary: Sleeping with Joel Miller was supposed to be a one time thing. When the older brother of your closest friend showed up in Jackson, you hadn't expected him to stay more than a day. You'd both given into a brief moment of passion before he left, and that was the end of that. It didn't matter, you were never going to see him again. Then Joel returns a few months later, and screws up everything about the comforting life you had established in Jackson.

Fic Genre/Tags: One Night Stands into Friends with Benefits (from chapter 3 & on, forgive the exposition), Emotional Slow Burn (really slow), Eventual Romance, some Angst, some Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family (lots of Tommy & Reader and Dina & Reader friendships), Long Chapters (usually around 10k except for this first one)

Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI) starting in Ch 3, Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, Age Difference (Reader around 30, Joel 56) Themes of Grief/PTSD/Depression with mentions of death (family members, both Reader and Joel) that can be heavy at times

Chapter Warnings: Brief Canon-Typical Violence (Infected), Language, Alcohol Use

Wordcount: 5.2k

chapter 1 || chapter 2 || chapter 3 || masterlist

ao3 link

You were young when the world ended.

Details of Outbreak Day and those hard days that followed had gotten lost in the flow of time, memories difficult to recall so many years later. You supposed you should count yourself as one of the lucky ones, to have made it long enough that those days had become blurry, the trauma easier to repress.

But never forgotten, you remark to yourself as trained eyes scan your surroundings through the scope. While the immediate events of the Outbreak were heavy with loss, there were some things worse than the Infected and what they took. Some wounds were newer and deeper, too stubborn to heal. Impossible to forget.

Movement catches your eye, and all somber soliloquy is forgotten as you hone in on the Runner shambling through the snow. You inhale, steadying your aim, finger pressing down on the trigger as you slowly exhale.

The Runner hits the ground with a loud bang, joining the other dead Infected scattered around the abandoned barn. You quickly eject the cartridge, scope moving to find the source of an inhuman snarl as another came running around the corner of the building.

It had become a learned routine, a habit as second nature as breathing. Inhale, finger on the trigger, and exhale as a shot rang through the air, and the second one dropped.

You pause.

“Eleven to eight,” a Southern accent drawls from beside you, and you suppress an eye roll as you turn to look at your patrol route partner and perpetual pain in the ass.

“You know,” you sigh as you turn back to look through your scope again, “one of these days you’re gonna shoot at the same time I do, and one of us will look like a fool with a wasted bullet.”

“Probably you,” the stupid comeback was filled with playful arrogance, and this time you couldn’t stop your eye roll.

You huffed quietly as you mumbled, “Charming, Miller.”

Seeing no more movement, you allow yourself to relax. You lean back, rolling your neck to loosen the tension in your muscles as you hear your companion laugh.

“Ah, don’t be a sore loser,” you glare up at the man as he stands and stretches. “Eight ain’t bad. Maybe eventually you’ll beat Eugene.”

You push yourself onto your feet, dismounting your rifle and swinging the strap over your shoulder. “Tommy, we both know Eugene can probably drop more than the both of us combined. To beat him would be an honor.”

The two of you began to head back to where you hitched your horses, your mood lightening now that you had cleared the area and the scent of danger was no longer heavy in the air.

You looked back at your companion to see him smiling amiably back at you. Dark curls, a strong nose and a kind face, Tommy brought comfort to many with his presence, you included. But you knew better than most how deceiving a smiling face could be, especially if you were on the other end of the ex-Firefly’s scope.

Luckily, you had never found yourself unfortunate enough to be caught in his crosshairs. You were sure you wouldn't be alive now to tell the tale if you had been.

“And besides, aren’t you about as old as him, anyway?” you teased as you swiftly mounted your horse, barely hiding a snicker as Tommy grunted from a misstep in placing his foot in the stirrup on his own horse.

“C’mon, I’m nowhere near that old!” You couldn’t help but laugh, both at the protest and the muffled curses behind you as you nudged your horse into motion, forcing Tommy to catch up when he had just barely finished mounting. “Besides, you ain’t that much younger than me, girly.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please,” you tossed an unimpressed look over your shoulder as he eventually managed to catch up and match your pace, “You got at least a decade or two on me, old man.”

“A decade of wisdom,” he drawled with a charming grin, one that had all the ladies fawning over him for a time since you both arrived in Jackson, until Maria locked it down.

“A decade of age,” you countered, urging your horse into a gallop. “And wrinkles! Trying to cover it all up with that hideous thing on your lip?”

You could barely hear his initial reaction over the sound of both of your horses’ hooves hitting the snow-packed ground, but you know it was affronted. His shout pushed against the wind to reach your ears as you rode, “Maria said she likes my mustache!”

Scrunching up your face, you look over at him with a mock sound of disgust. But you couldn’t hide your laughter, your expression cheerful, mirrored by Tommy’s as the two of you took the established patrol route back to Jackson.

Jackson had been your home for the past few years, though you had been tentative to call the settlement such at first. While Jackson was comfortable, there were things that were lacking, presences that couldn’t be filled no matter where you went. Eventually, you figured Jackson was as good a place as any to try and settle down. To try and carve out some kind of life for yourself. 

Besides, it had Tommy, the only friendly face you still recognized. Even if you had really wanted to leave, he was adamant about staying, and you couldn’t bring yourself to part ways after the bond you two had forged. An unbreakable bond, as many forged in the fire were.

Not for the first time, you felt a weight pressing on your abdomen. It was a phantom sensation, a reminder created by the cruel confines of your mind of the mark you had chosen to brandish there. The first life you had chosen to lead after everything had been decided for you since the Outbreak.

Or had you been a follower then, too? The thought echoed in your head as you waited for the gates of Jackson to open, gaze flashing to Tommy beside you, happily content and eyes bright; probably eager to return to Maria.

Are you still following now?

You shake the musings away, horse slowly trotting after Tommy's into the settlement when there was enough space to move through. The mood in the air of Jackson was one of cheer, perhaps holiday cheer if you looked closely enough at the snowmen built by children, carols sung by friends, and trees decorated by families.

Your hands clutched the reins tighter, looking straight forward at your path as the sound of laughter echoed around you. It mixed with the quieter cacophony of workers carrying out their tasks to keep the settlement running, so those fortunate souls that still had families could call it home. You took a strange, sick bit of comfort in the idea that maybe some of those workers were as hardened and bitter as you.

Together with Tommy, you rode slowly to the stables, silently going through the process of unloading your equipment and caring for your respective horses once inside the safety of your respective stalls. You were in the process of running a brush through your horse’s mane when you heard Tommy call out from the next stall over to another patrolman passing by.

“Hey Mike, you seen Maria around?”

You could understand the tinge of worry that leaked into Tommy’s voice when he asked the question. While the two weren’t obvious about their relationship, their marriage was well-known, perhaps even a morale boost to some. Maria usually was lurking somewhere nearby when you and Tommy returned from patrol, but she hadn't been today, which was odd.

“She went out with a group earlier.” You swear you could hear Tommy’s teeth grinding together from your own stall even before Mike was finished explaining. “Bonnie and Greg saw a couple folks across from the dam, they went to check it out.”

Tommy gave a stiff nod, and you both watched as Mike left before you turned back to run the brush through your horse’s mane again.

“She can handle herself,” the words were meant to be a comfort, but there was an unintended edge to your tone that you winced at.

“I know that,” you glanced back over your shoulder to where you heard Tommy continue to unpack his horse. “That’s not the issue, it’s just—”

“I know,” you repeated his own words, voice softer now as you set the brush aside.

Maria’s pregnancy wasn’t common knowledge yet, but Tommy had been too excited, too flat-out drunk from his own personal celebration when he came to your house that night not to let it slip to you. Your loyalty to him ensured that you wouldn’t run your mouth about it, even if you did have the urge to spread that kind of gossip—which you really fucking didn't.

After a few sugar cubes fed to your horse as a treat, you slowly shut the gate to the stall behind you. You leaned against Tommy’s open stall to watch as he fed his own horse an apple, a larger treat he must have been saving.

You knew family was important to Tommy, and how much becoming a father meant to him. While there was a twinge of jealousy you felt for the life he had built after all the shit you both had done, you were happy for him. Maria was great for him, and vice versa, the two balancing each other out when it came to power and humility.

Something was eating away at you though, as you looked over your shoulder to make sure the two of you were alone. You respected their privacy, but you were part of Tommy’s life too, even before Maria was. There was no way you could let it go so easily, and seeing as Maria wasn't around to hear…

“Hey, Tommy,” you said slowly, the toe of your boot tapping against the dirt-packed ground as you wondered how to broach the subject carefully. Experience had taught you how touchy a topic it was you were about to bring up, and he was already in a bad mood now with Maria out, but you couldn’t stop yourself. Your inner musings had trudged it up from the back of your mind, and you wouldn’t be satisfied until you acted on it.

“Hm?” He wiped his hands, tugging his gloves back on as he arched a dark brow at you. Both a question and a signal to proceed.

“I was just wondering,” you hedged, arms crossing over your chest as you braced yourself for his reaction, “you send a message to your brother yet?”

You watch as Tommy’s shoulders bunched up, his entire body stiffening, and you have to suppress a sigh.

“Tommy—”

He quickly interrupts you by speaking your own name, his tone dangerously low, signifying the thin ice you were walking on. How stupid it was for you to broach this subject yet again. But you already knew that, and you sure as hell weren’t going to stop now that you had started.

“You’ve never missed a week, Tommy,” you urged as he shook his head and brushed past you, “he’s probably worried sick—”

A harsh chuckle interrupts you, the sound hard and forced. Still, it didn’t deter you as you followed his heels out of the stables after he had shut his horse’s stall.

“That’s a hard sight to imagine,” Tommy’s voice was bitter, not an unusual tone that he possessed when talking about his brother at times. But you had heard the other times he spoke of the man you knew only by name alone, the glowing adoration that said much to the love he still held deep down for his older brother. “I doubt he’s even noticed.”

“Christ, Tommy,” your voice held a note of exasperation to it now. “He’s your brother.”

“And?” He was walking fast, trying to get ahead of you, maybe lose you in the crowds of the main street. But you were quick and in front of him in an instant, making him stumble to a halt so he didn’t barge right into you.

“Look,” your voice was quiet, not wanting any of the residents to overhear this now that you were out in the open, “I respect Maria, probably more than any of those fucking Fireflies we killed for, but—”

“Not,” the words were grounded out of clenched teeth as Tommy stared hard down at you, “another word.”

You bristled, anger filling your veins as he spoke to you in that same tone he had when he was your superior in that godforsaken rebellion. So you let him brush past you, trying to control that simmering rage, not wanting to say anything you might regret to one of the only friends you had left.

Still, you couldn’t stop yourself from saying one last sentence as he started to walk away, the words hauntingly quiet and pulled from your mouth almost as if by some invisible force, “Do you know what I would give for that chance?”

Tommy stopped. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask what you meant. He didn’t have to.

You watched as he hesitated, gloved hands clenching into fists before relaxing as he looked back at you. His gaze was somber; asking you for forgiveness, but resolute in his path.

A defeated exhale escaped your lips as you gave a short nod, laying this issue to rest for now. You both knew you would bring it up again at some point, as you had been over the past few weeks since you had learned Maria had convinced him to stop sending the radio messages across the country to his brother. Just because Tommy was growing a new family now, didn’t mean he had to forsake the one he used to have.

The heated exchange was not new, but it still left you exhausted. Combined with the physical tension you held between your shoulders whenever you patrolled, you nearly dragged your feet as you walked towards the nearest spot you could stop at for a drink.

“You’re back!”

The bright words pulled you out of the darkness of whatever lonely path your thoughts had led you down. You looked up from the bottom of your liquor glass over to the young, freckled face beaming up at you. You should’ve known it wouldn’t have taken her long to find you, the kid was persistent as fuck when she set her mind on something. Still, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be annoyed as your lips quirked into a half-smile.

“Always so astute,” you reply, though your tone only held a friendly teasing with the snarky response as you brought your glass up for another sip.

The teenager scoffed, rolling her eyes as she hopped up onto the stool next to you, ignoring the complaints of the bartender about adults only as she focused her attention on you. “How many did you get today?”

You took your time sipping your alcohol, finding it hard not to spit out the drink in laughter at the impatient look on the girl’s face. After finally putting the glass back down, you took a moment to indicate you wanted a refill to the bartender before answering, “Eight.”

“Aw, man,” she sighed as she crumpled, head falling onto her arms that she had dramatically thrown onto the bar. You did laugh this time, much to her apparent annoyance judging by how she peeked an eye out to fix you with a withering glare. “You’ll never catch up to Tommy like that!”

“Uh, he only got eleven,” you added, smiling and sending a nod to the bartender as your glass is filled with the amber liquid once more. “I wasn’t that far behind.”

“That’s double digits! You’ve never gotten double digits.”

“Dina,” you drew out the name of the girl in what was supposed to be a reprimanding tone, but it was impossible to hide the fondness you felt for your young shadow.

Even if you knew there were hardly enough Infected around Jackson to get double digits when you and Tommy were both out taking care of them on an established patrol route. Even though the girl who looked up to you didn’t know the body count you had left behind before coming to Jackson, or how many times you had pulled Tommy's dumb ass out of the fire.

“May I remind you that eight is more than you get?”

Dina’s head shot up from her arms, her glare shooting daggers at you. “Only because nobody lets me go.”

“Because you’re still a kid,” you remind her, earning a scoff as she swings herself around on the stool, ponytail swinging behind her back as her arms crossed in an act of stubborn defiance.

“One day, I’ll get more than the both of you combined,” Dina mumbles, and you smile wistfully at her adolescent determination.

Your glass lifts to her in a toast. “Looking forward to it,” you grin as she scoffs, ignoring the push she gives to your shoulder as she calls you an old drunk.

“Uh, Tommy’s old,” you countered as you knocked back the rest of your drink, wincing at the burn down your throat, but relishing the warmth it supplied after the day you spent in the cold. “Eugene is really fucking old. Me? I’m young as fuck.”

“Oh really?” Dina counters as she hops to her feet, followed by you as you stretch your arms over your head. “I can hear those old bones creaking as you stretch.”

You jokingly poke the back of her head as you fall into step besides her. “Little shit, you'll be as old as me in ten years,” you chastise, tone devoid of any real anger. She playfully shoves you back and you overdramatically stumble, drawing bright laughter from her that you joined in with.

Dina had arrived at Jackson not that long after you and Tommy had. You remembered your heart aching for the girl who looked so lost, alone with no family and friends to take care of her. Maybe you saw some part of yourself in her; or maybe you had seen a ghost of what you had lost. 

No matter what it was, it spurred you to take the girl under your wing, the two of you forging a close bond akin to a mentorship. Dina loved hearing your stories, living vicariously through the tales of your past as well as the patrols you took up around Jackson. She didn't have to know those stories from your history were always fragments, leaving out the worst of the brutality you had committed. She was satisfied with the adventure they told.

“So, how was your date?” you teased as the two of you pushed out of the building into the crisp winter air. You shoved your hands into your jacket to warm them up, laughing at the blush that flooded Dina’s cheeks as she glared up at you.

“It wasn’t a date!”

“You and Jesse hanging out alone wasn’t a date?” you countered with a brow arched in doubt.

“I hang out with Jesse all the time,” Dina muttered as she kicked at the ground, and you hold back a laugh to protect her fragile young pride more than anything.

“Yeah, but not alone,” you point out, waiting for whatever biting remark Dina was preparing before a sharp shout pierced the air and caught your attention.

Your heart leapt into your throat as it only took a moment to realize the booming voice had called out Tommy’s name. Feet shuffling forward, you peered through the street in search of the man, searching for any hint of danger and relaxing only once you saw him safe from harm from where he stood atop a scaffolding.

He wasn’t injured, but there was something in Tommy's eyes that you had never seen before. An intensity, almost disbelief as he stared at something, or somebody. You followed his gaze, brows furrowing as you saw Maria’s group had returned and was moving down the street, but that definitely hadn’t been Maria that had shouted.

Movement catches your eye, and your gaze snaps to a man dismounting one of the horses. Your brows furrowed, not able to instantly place a name to the face of an older man, hardened both by age and the harsh life of an apocalyptic land. Strange that you couldn't name him, considering how well you knew most of the Jackson guards and patrolmen by now.

Maybe he wasn’t a patrolman? Your mind raced through options as you tried to keep up, hampered slightly by the alcohol you had consumed as you looked over the group. You recognized them all, except—

Your gaze stops on a young girl, maybe around the same age as Dina, sitting on another one of the horses. You frowned, remembering what Mike had said about finding people near the dam. Was this them? You looked back to see the man moving towards Tommy, who was quickly descending from the scaffolding.

Father and daughter, maybe? But why had he called out to Tommy? What—

You watched as the two men embraced each other in a tight hug, and suddenly something clicked.

Joel, the name resounds in your mind. You lean back on your heels, shocked for a moment. A huff of disbelief leaves you, forming a small cloud of cold air in front of your eyes, obscuring your view for a moment before clearing to show the two men laughing and grinning at each other as they pulled back before hugging again.

You smiled, feeling a hint of warmth in that hollowed out place in your heart. A sting pricked the back of your eyes and you shook your head, patting Dina on the shoulder as you turned around to head back inside the food hall.

“I need another drink.”

The bowl of chili in front of you was half-eaten, only due to the urging from Dina to get something in your stomach.

“I’m not drunk,” you had tried to reassure her, “just a little tipsy.”

“Yeah, well, if they decide to come in here, we need a reason to stay,” she had snapped back as she tried to shove you into a seat again. “So eat!”

A barely contained chuckle nearly passes your lips as you look up from your food to where the girl had wandered to now, hiding behind a pillar, though hardly effectively. You made a note to yourself to teach her a bit more about being stealthy later. Who knew if she might need it someday, especially if she wanted to patrol for Jackson when she was old enough.

Although you tried to give the group their privacy, you ended up with an ear half-tuned into their conversation as your food helped to slowly sober you up a bit. At least you weren’t half as obvious as everybody else in that food hall right now. One glance around showed all of the attention was on the four seated at the center table.

You did pride yourself on the fact that you hadn’t looked at them since they had first walked in. What a strange stroke of luck that they ended up in the same spot as you and Dina, much to the teenager’s excitement as she slowly became restless enough that she had abandoned her own food to sneak off to a spot where she could get a better look at the new arrivals. Or one of the new arrivals in particular.

It wasn’t every day somebody her age showed up in Jackson, so you couldn’t blame her for being curious. You had to admit you were curious about the unexpected arrivals yourself, though your curiosity was based on a bit more knowledge than the pure unknown everyone else was dealing with.

Tommy was always sparing in recounting details about his past, but you were closer to the man than most. A bond forged in firefights, the two of you had relied on each other for years in the Fireflies. Those habits were hard to get rid of even now that you had settled in Jackson. Oftentimes he would seek you out for a right-hand man, knowing you would get the job done and watch his back, trusting you as much as you did him.

More than that, Tommy had become a friend. Maybe even family, if the two of you were blackout drunk and giggling over a stupid, shitty joke you wouldn’t remember in the morning. After all the loss you had suffered, you found you could rely on Tommy to be a constant, something you desperately needed after parting with the Fireflies. And it seemed that Tommy might need that, too. Although he had Maria now, you were both fond enough of each other to still spend more time together than not.

Which was why you knew more or less just who Joel Miller was. The picture that Tommy had painted of his older brother in your mind was of a cutthroat man, unafraid to get rid of anybody who stood in the way of whatever he wanted. From most of the information you had gathered, though, what he wanted seemed to be keeping the two of them safe.

Still, you had seen Tommy in action. You knew exactly what he was capable of, and knew who he had learned it from. There was no way in hell you would ever want to be on the opposite side of him, and if Joel was worse? If he had been the leader of the two, and Tommy was just a watered down version?

You spared a glance back over your shoulder to see Joel shoveling food into his mouth alongside the girl. The intense way they both gripped their forks and stabbed at their meals could almost make you laugh, the two mirror images of each other. Like father, like daughter, you supposed, although Joel having a daughter was news to you.

But Tommy had always kept the details of Joel’s life pretty locked up, from their time in the Boston QZ all the way back to life before the Outbreak. All you knew was that they were from Texas, and that Tommy had been in the army. You never felt the urge to pry, respecting his desire for privacy. Life from before and immediately after the Outbreak was private for a lot of people, you included.

Besides, anything you needed to know about Tommy, you already knew—mostly the fact that he wouldn’t shoot you in the back.

“What?”

You looked back up at the confrontational shout, seeing the girl next to Joel had snapped at—

Laughter bubbled up in your throat that you had to fight to hold back as you followed the girl’s gaze to see Dina backing off from her unsuccessful hiding place. The back of your hand covers your mouth as you smother the laugh that managed to escape, clearing your throat sharply to cover it up. You shoot Dina an apologetic look when you feel her glare at you.

You gave it a minute or two after she left, your fork absentmindedly pushing around the rest of your food before you push yourself up to your feet with a sigh. You felt a twinge of sympathy to the embarrassment Dina probably felt at being caught, but it was entertaining to see the new girl with Joel could potentially go toe-to-toe with the headstrong teenager.

Your eye gravitates towards the table of four as you pass by, holding back a wince as you notice Tommy taking Maria’s hand. Had he not told his brother that he had gotten married?

Fuck, Tommy, you think to yourself, shaking your head as you glance over at Joel, jumping when you find yourself in direct eye contact with him.

The stare Joel fixed you with was severe, definitely harder than you had ever seen Tommy look at a friendly stranger. Even closer now, you could see how right you were when you judged his face was weathered by age and experience.

Prominent frown lines and what seemed to be a permanent crease between his brow already said a lot about his hard exterior. Then there was the intensity of his dark brown gaze, his pupils moving back and forth across your face as if he was sizing you up, assessing your threat level and how fast he could take you down if needed.

Maybe you weren’t a friendly stranger to Joel. Hair that might have been as dark as Tommy's at one point was now lightened with gray, and physical features aside, his stern presence left no doubt that Joel was the older of the two brothers. Perhaps all those years focused on survival had worn him down, and he couldn’t see a friendly face in anyone anymore.

You couldn't really blame him if that was the case. He and Tommy were probably both still alive because of that caution, and for being responsible for Tommy's survival alone, you felt gratitude for the grizzled survivor.

Not that he would understand, and you couldn't help but wonder what he was reading from you in those few seconds you observed him.

“Joel, say congrats,” the girl at his side hissed. Joel’s attention snapped back to his brother at the words, and you finally looked away. 

Tension you hadn’t realized gathering in your body released, and you rolled your shoulders backwards to try and relieve the sore muscles. Behind you, Joel’s Southern accent, edges of the lilt rougher than Tommy's, echoed with an empty congratulations. 

Despite your better judgement, you scoffed at the empty sentiment.

You knew Tommy would be searching for his brother’s approval, and it certainly wasn’t given with that short tone. Shaking your head and trying to rid yourself of the mild annoyance you felt at Joel’s displayed indifference, you reminded yourself that you knew nothing of their family affairs. Just because Tommy might as well be the only family you had left, didn’t mean you were the same to him.

That thought brought a wince to your face as you pushed through the doors back into the picture-perfect winter scene of Jackson. Strands of lights reflected iridescent in the snow, children running through it and having snowball fights as their parents looked on in joy.

It struck you then, a feeling you weren’t a stranger too, but one that carved further into that hollow place in your chest each time you felt it.

You were lonely.

Yes, you had Tommy and Dina. And yes, you knew you weren’t the only sole survivor of a family line in Jackson. But in moments like this, especially in the long winter months when the nostalgic scent of what should’ve been the holidays lingered in the air, it was hard not to feel the sting of all you had lost.

You quickly zip up your jacket, pulling the collar closer around your neck as your fingers already start to numb at the chill in the air. Pulling your gloves out of your pocket and onto your hands, you wander out into the streets of Jackson, searching for another purpose in the cold.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

So i reread your pussy steve ask and HOLY SHIT i didn’t realise what i was missing out on. i had so many ideas about what new experiences steve has to go through, not just fucking but can you imagine the desperation when bucky eats him out? poor boy would be in pieces

So that idea was from the 1940s with steve and bucky, steve in his new body and only just getting used to all the sensations and upgrades- what about in the modern era? Buckys gone and steve doesn’t have a partner, and pleasuring himself only brings back memories of the war which he’d rather avoid. So, presumably, by the time bucky gets back, steve is REPRESSED.

But bucky needs help, steve doesn’t even know how to navigate friendship let alone anything else, what can he do?

So he doesn’t mention anything, doesn’t initiate anything, until bucky, being bucky, corners him in the kitchen late one night in the floor they share.

Not speaking, just slowly crowding him into the corner between the sink and the coffee maker, slowly, slowly moving his hands to steve’s hips and his nose to steve’s throat.

“uhh… buck? you okay?” steve can already feel a blush, which means bucky, being buried in his neck, can feel it to, because we all know how steve has a full body blush.

“yeah, hon, just missed you”

steve tenses, bucky doesn’t move. he hasn’t used a nickname for him other than ‘stevie’ or ‘punk’

“yeah i… missed you too buck” still, bucky doesn’t move

“god, missed you so much y’dont even know. you always been in my mind, somewhere. always been thinking about you even if i didn’t know it”

“you… remember?” bucky seems to freeze slightly, gripping steve’s hips tighter and pulling his head back just enough to give steve a smirk

“how could anyone forget you, stevie”

*insert dirty talk about steve being so desperate and keeping himself occupied with someone else, sam or tony or nat, which steve obviously denies and only gets more flustered, leaving to Bucky fucking him over the kitchen counter and making sure the whole tower can hear what’s his* (maybe bucky invites sam up to get a taste)

This is incredible!!

I can viscerally feel how heartbreaking and how hot this would be--expanding on this idea, I mean, thinking deeper about how Steve has walled himself off from pleasure in this instance. It just hurt too fucking much to remember Bucky before he came back from the dead, walking through Hell to find him again, so... he's entirely forgotten. He couldn't think about Bucky without breaking down. There was nothing to do, but know a piece of himself died with Bucky and try to drag his bruised and bloodied body forward because death did not swallow him. It evaded him and did worse than destroy him, it tore him from his world and placed him in another.

So, of course, he knows, intellectually, that Bucky did that to him; he knows it feels good, but he's not let himself remember just how good it was. His body has become numb at the accordance of his mind being saturated with pain and panic and heart-splitting trauma. And with a crash-course in modernity with its overt sexualization of him as an "icon"... Steve's quietly divorced himself more of pleasure. The slang of new sexual aggression and desire intertwined is too confusing. He doesn't think he'll ever catch up. So. He doesn't try.

Until...

Exactly, Bucky plasters himself all over him, and Steve discovers--hips jerking uncontrollably, squeezing his thighs around Bucky's soaked face, locking him there where he's making him see God, it's fucking Heaven, holding onto his thick, dark hair between his legs with a trembling fist, Steve's hot, red mouth hanging open as he moans with guttural abandon, eyes rolling back into his head, feeling obscenely wet and puffy and swollen and achy set on Bucky's hot mouth--that the serum can't always keep up enough. He's moaning enough, his pussy suffocating Bucky's wicked, knowing mouth, that he can go hoarse.

Their poor neighbor's because Bucky isn't stopping until Steve is thoroughly reminded of how it feels to be eaten out until he can't see see any more because his head is spinning, until his chest is heaving, until his throat doesn't work, and until he can't fucking move, no longer propped up, quivering, over Bucky's face, riding it, but spread out on his back with his trembling legs thrown haphazardly over Bucky's broad shoulders as he keeps fucking going to town on him. Steve doesn't feel like he can cum anymore. Steve feels like he's stuck in perpetual orgasm. Steve, Steve--Steve doesn't know. He can't.

Itfeelssogood.

Yeahhhhh. I'm so fucking down for that thought 👀

[chaosheadspace]

wip meme: Subvocals? subvocals sounds so interesting pls say more

Okay, subvocalisation is a term first coined by fanfic author Did (someone correct me if I'm wrong) for Omegaverse. It's involuntary / hard to repress sounds that express simple things like "back off / come here / I'm scared / I want you / where is my alpha / you're in serious danger of being bitten rn" stuff like that.

So this would be a Dreamling fic where everyone is part of the Omegaverse system, even the Endless. Due to his eldritch shenanigans, Dream's subvocals are in a pitch no living being can hear, so he just goes ham / he never learned how to maybe tone it down.

Cue Hob who's hearing is a little fucked. One day, while out with his friends, starts hearing those weird noises. You know where this is going, haha. Dream being called out on his bullshit by his own body, naturally.

Snippet under the cut, possibly OOC. (also, I'm not italicising all the *, I'm on mobile, I won't do that to myself)

Hob just smiles gently as his friends laugh about another story Alrin is telling, imitating the purrs and trills of his latest Omega conquest. Hob's had trouble hearing ever since he was kicked by a horse as a kid. He can't even hear his *own* subvocals, just feel the vibrations of them in his chest whenever they happen. Funnily enough, he's also grown up to really like horses. But his friends and their jokes are still a mystery to him.

So when he suddenly hears a small, discontent mewl through the din of the white horse tavern, so *clear* through all the ruckus, he doesn't even know what it is, at first. Just that it tugs at his heartstrings rather severely.

*Alone. Miserable. Hurt. Go away. Hello? No. Bad smell. Alone. Alone. Hurt. No. Don't touch. Go away.*

It's a string of sounds just a hair's breadth away from thoroughly distressed and Hob feels his chest rumble. *Hello. Hello? No threat. Here. Here. Come? I will protect. Hello?*

It's impossible to make out a specific smell here in the tavern, but Hob's eyes search frantically until they land on the most defiant man Hob has ever seen. His posture communicates that he clearly wants to be anywhere but here, his cheekbones say 'I will cut you', and his eyes say 'don't you dare'.

And the sweet, high notes coming from his throat sing *alone alone alone, please, no, help me*.

Sharp blue eyes find his and say 'do not dare. If you dare, I will kill you'. His song beckons Hob closer. Hob stands, barely registering the questioning looks from his friends, and goes to him as if drawn on a string. The high notes of the plea shift and lap over the purr in his own chest.

The stranger is silent. Hob takes a good look into his eyes, cutting himself up with masochistic joy, before saying, "I won't, you know. Die, that is. Unless you plan on killing me yourself."

The stranger tips his head, looks at Hob as if studying a mildly interesting bug and Hob knows, deep inside himself, that he could. He's fine as marble, possibly as strong, too. Hob takes a surprised breath and that's when he knows for sure that this man is not like any other he has met. He's got no smell, a weird absence of one, like fresh wind, like a torn-down forgotten memory.

And still, his body sings to Hob, sings *for* him, now a litany of *alone, alone, will you come, are you, do you, will you hold me, please, please, I'm so alone all the time*.

[genieofthebooks]

Family Line

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x Fem!reader

Part One: Ghostly Memories

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Mentions of Child Abuse and Neglect, Crying, shouting, Some Comfort. (Photo is not meant to be a description of the reader)

You were avoiding everyone. Everytime some one would walk into the room that you were in but you always came up with a pathetic excuse on why you could not stay in the room or you would quietly slip out before anyone could say anything to you. It had been a few days since the case at your old house and you have never felt so weak in front of your friends, waking up from nightmares every night of repressed memories that you thought had been lost and forgotten but were brought back to the surface like blood when you pick at a scab.

You padded out of the attic as quietly as you could skipping over all of the creaky floorboards that you had memorised so you did not wake Lucy. Sneaking around was a skill of yours, it was a survival especially in your old house and It comes in handy sometimes during cases because of Lockwood's Idiocy. Deciding that the library was your safest option as George likes to go down in the middle of the night for a glass of water. Slowly pushing the door open, seeing the soft glow of the lamp in the corner made you hesitate but whoever was sat in the big armchair had seen you before you could run back away.

"Lockwood what are you doing here at-" You looked to the clock, the small hand just passing one. "One in the morning?" You moved to sit in the armchair next to Anthony. Where the boy in question lowers his magazine to look at your pajama clad form and the anxious clawing that you were unkowingly attacking your wrist with leaving a bright red mark on your skin. He leant over the arm of his chair and pulled your hand away from your wrist so you could not inflict any more damage to your skin.

"I could say the same to you L/n" You paled at the usage of your last name, it was never used unless you were in trouble.

"Last name. What have I done?"

"You are pulling away from us, I know very hypocrytical coming from me but Y/n, we know you are not okay. Please just let one of us in." He shook your hand and swayed it gently in the air, both of you still sat in the two arm chairs but your arms interlinked brought you two together. Oceans apart but your hands were the rivers on land keeping the two of you connected.

"I don't want to talk about it" you muttered keeping a grasp on the final shield as the rest of them had fallen.

Lockwood nodded and the two of you sat in comfortable silence, your grip on his hand slowly loosened until your arm dropped hitting the edge of the arm chair. He sat up quickly but soon relaxed when he saw the rare peaceful expression on your face, asleep in the weirdest position possible. He threw a grey blanket over you. It was your favourite one that you must have left down in the library during your other midnight escapedes. He moved the hair that has slightly fallen across your face and moved it behind your ear so your were not suffocated by your hair in the middle of the night. He leant down and pressed a light kiss to your hairline, making sure you were as comfortable as you could be before switching of the only light source in the room and going to his own room.

It was morning when you awoke. Finally deciding to stop hiding and stay with your friends you got dressed into a black tank top and a pair of black ripped jeans, blue fluffy socks finalizing the look.

You walked into the kitchen where everyone was sat eating or drinking, you quietly walked over to Lockwood who was buttering toast and then slid it over to you with a soft smile on his face. You lifted the piece of toast and walked to the table with one half in your mouth, you sat next to Lucy who gave you a smile before taking a sip of her tea and George passed you the sugar to put in your tea that Lockwood placed on the table with his. He sat next to you and slung his arm on the back of your chair. The four of you were sat in content silence as it was still early morning and none of you had woken up yet.

The peircing ring of the doorbell woke you all up as you walked with Lucy to the door, knowing if you went by yourself you would not be friendly with the person at the door.

It was the same man from a few mornings ago. Your father. Once you caught his face you slammed the door back as hard as you could, not wanting to deal with him, the door rattled in the hinges when it slammed, echoing throughout 35 portland row. "No"

He knocked again and by now Lockwood and George had joined you in the hallway confused on why they might need to change the hinges and lock because of the strength that you used to slam the door. You re-opened the door and yelled. "Go away"

You went to slam the door again but when you did a foot got in the way and you seriously considered squashing it like a bug. "Please can We talk."

"Why, you never wanted to talk when I lived in the same house as you." You muttered hiding what you really wanted to say but you wanted to give him another chance because there was a stupid feeling in your heart, you thought maybe he had changed.

"Please!" Your father begged when he saw you hesitate closing the door. You turned around to your friends, you met Lockwood's eyes, who nodded, signalling that you can do it and whatever happens, he will be there for you.

"Fine" You coldly stated opening the door further, letting your father walk into the front room, where you normally meet the clients.

You walked up to Lucy and whispered in her ear. "You might not want to stay, with all the things that happened between your mother. I don't want it bringing back any painful memories."

She grabbed onto your hands and shook them before walking into the front room as her answer where your father was waiting with George and Lockwood staring at him. You sat next to Lockwood who pulled your hand into his. Being the gravity that will hold you to the ground if you start to drift off.

You glared at him. No more childish cowerdice, you managed to look your mother in the eye and taunt her while she held a gun to your head so you should be able to do this. "What are you doing here?"

Everyone got deja vu to a few days ago. Especially when your father started to shift in his seat unvomfortable with the coldness you, his daughter was presenting him with. "I came to ask for forgiveness"

You raised your eyebrow and scoffed. "Mother is in jail and you don't want to go either so you are trying to get me to forgive you"

He stretched his hands out towards you, where you sank back into the sofa, sinking into Lockwood's safetly. Glad he kept a hold of your hand. "No, My daughter that is not it."

You closed your eyes and took a few quick breaths to stop your rising anger or sadnessbut it did not work. You bit your lip while thinking of how to rationally answer him. That all flew out the window. "No. No." You frowned. "You don't get to call me that. After everything that happened. You are just being cruel." You were surprised at how quiet your voice was.

"I'm being cruel" Your father questioned shocked that his own daughter would call him cruel.

"Yes. Yes. Do you know how worthless you made me feel. The fact that my own father did not stand up to me against my own mother. You never loved me and I thought my whole life that there was something wrong with me but there is not. You are incapable of Love" You leant forward staring right into your fathers eyes.

"I did not do anything to you!" Your father stood up trying to defend his case but in reality was making it worse like in a court when the defendant screws it all up at the stand.

You stood up, Lockwood standing up with you ro provide support if you needed it. "Oh but you did. By not doing anything. You just stood there and watched me get hurt by one of the other people who should show me what love was." Your voice cracked as you pointed to yourself. "You just watched and made no move to protect me because you are pathetic. You made no effort to help when she locked me in my room for nights upon end with little food to feed me. When she held a gun to my head the first time, trying to kill me because I killed her child. But I didn't he fell off a tree. It was an accident. You know it. Mother knows it but you were both filled with hatred that the only child you loved died and the unwated child was left. I was a child. But you never loved me so I'm guessing I don't count as a child"

You were stood face to face with your father and for the first time he hit you. You felt the world stop. Lockwood stepped next to you, he glared at your father with such intensity that even Lucy and George were slightly afraid of him "Get out"

You and your father were both stood frozen shook that he hit you. He never did that but now he finally did, he was just as bad as the rest of them. Only was he taken out of it when he heard Lockwood yell "Get Out! Now" he looked to you where a red handprint started to show and fled like a criminal fleeing from a crime scene. Lucy and George following behind and closing the door.

Lockwood pulled your shellshocked frame into a hug, his arms going around your shoulders. Pulling you close to him so the rythmn of his heart would lull you and ground you. Still in your fragile state but as you could move you wrapped your arms around his waist. Crying into his shirt.

Soon he pulled away from you but moved one arm down to your waist and another hand to your chin lifting it to assess the mark, he wiped away the tears that were falling with a softnes that you had never felt against your face before used to harsh touches not soft and light. He placed his forehead against yours, and you just stayed there until you could focus normally.

"Hey, you're safe. I've got you"

Sorry If it was not the best and there was not much of a confrontation but I hope you liked it.

[couldsewyouastitchandsavenine]

All The Kings [Joel Miller] 01

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

a/n: my first Joel Miller fic. It was never my intention to write it, but the other day, I just sat down and started writing, and voila, this came out. this is also the first part of two. please, read and enjoy, and feedback is very welcome in every shape and form. cheers! the title and inspiration for the story comes from one of my favorite songs All The Kings by Editors. big thanks to @avastrasposts for inspiring me to post this.

wordcount: 4.5K

warnings: as it is mainly angst, there are some hints about readers mental health, memory repression, mentions of loneliness, death in family and isolation.

You don’t really remember much from those other, happier times, when the world around you was alive, vibrant and overflowing with promises that no longer were. The memories of those days have faded, turnimg into mere echoes, like bits and pieces of a dream slipping through your fingers upon waking up, leaving you lost in a sea of confusion. 

Yet, sometimes—if you focus hard enough, that is—some of the fragments of memories flutter back to life. 

Rays of sunlight filtering through the branches and casting patterns on the sidewalk in front of your family home. Fleeting images of friends laughing. Sneaking out through the window. Scraped knees. Trampled grass. Silly crushes, and kisses stolen when no one was watching. First taste of alcohol. 

There were family gatherings and family trips, soda cans, plastic bags and coffee cups, brimming and steaming. 

There was a smell of bread fresh from the oven, burnt mouths, brain-freezes and ice cream melting between your fingers—an universe that was stitched in a mosaic of flower-adorned dresses and white, scuffed sneakers. 

There was the warmth of your mother’s embrace, your brother’s beaten-up car, and his mock impatience as he waited to give you a lift to school.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, and with your eyes still shut tight, you let your head fall forward, resting heavily on the unsteady surface of your old dining table. 

You didn’t like to think about those other, happier times, because going back meant more than reminiscing. It meant yearning. Wishing that things were different. Same as they used to be. It meant longing for a life when everything felt right. Life that was so unlike the one you lived now. 

Most of the time, you simply locked those thoughts away in your chest with a key you pretend to have lost, burying it deep within, hoping perhaps that out of sight would also mean out of mind. 

It rarely did, though—

A brisk rap at the door shattered the silence, echoing briefly before fading as swiftly as the curse you muttered under your breath. You straightened up, surprise and curiosity melding together and knitting your brows as you paused — a moment of hesitation visible in the slight scrunch of your nose.

For a brief second, you remained still, caught in the unexpected interruption. Then, with a fluid motion born of a mix of alarm and intrigue, you rose to your feet. The floorboards groaned, protesting the sudden movement as you navigated toward the door — confusion clouded your thoughts about who it might be.

Guests had become a rarity these days, becoming just an echo of a time when the outside world hadn't yet forgotten the path to your doorstep.

Oh.

Your reaction, a mix of surprise and inquiry, hung in the air as you faced the unexpected visitor—a man whose presence seemed almost surreal against the backdrop of your isolated existence. As he took a hesitant step up to your porch, your gaze involuntarily dropped to the frayed doormat beneath your feet.

The irony of having a doormat in the first place was laughable, considering everything. But once one’s life gets stripped bare of comfort, every sad attempt at homeliness makes a difference. 

“Hi!” Tommy started, his voice threaded with a note of uncertainty as he absentmindedly fiddled with his moustache. His other hand was buried in the pocket of his sherpa jacket, seemingly searching for the right words.

You observed him for a brief moment — the silence weaving its weight around you both.

Tommy Miller was a known figure in town, yet not someone you knew intimately. An influential presence, always at the forefront of community meetings and patrols — his voice resonating with a confidence that had long since ebbed from your own life.

“Can I help you with something?" your question finally broke through, tinged with doubt.

Tommy nodded, his gaze briefly shifting away before locking back onto yours. 

“Yes,” he began, pausing as if to collect his thoughts. Then, with a half-smile that wove together threads of embarrassment and sincerity, he dove straight into his request. “I was hoping you’d consider cooking for a small get-together we’re having.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, adding, “Maria’s hands are full with the baby, and she didn’t want to cancel the plans. We both remembered how amazing that meatloaf you made for the town meeting was, back when you first moved here.”

His words, earnest and slightly rushed, seemed to hang in the air between you, taking you aback. As you stood there, blinking in surprise, memories of that time—a chapter from what now felt like another life—began to resurface.

Jackson was supposed to be a beacon of hope, a place to start anew, filled with the promise of stability after a life spent drifting. It was supposed to be your slice of normalcy, a dare to dream of piecing together a life from the remnants of what once was. 

However, dreams—and people—are fragile, easily shattered in a world that often leaves very little room for them. 

That’s why you had found it so hard to try and fit into the Jackson community — a place so different from any you’d known before. And despite throwing yourself wholeheartedly into trying to meld with the locals, the sense of belonging you so deeply had craved had remained perpetually beyond your grasp.

Polite smiles and courteous small talk had come in abundance, but the deeper, more genuine relationships—the feeling of truly being part of something—always slipped through your fingers. And as friendships and social circles solidified without you, you found yourself on the periphery, like a shadow lingering just beyond the light, always observing but never participating.

So, eventually, you stopped trying, settling into a solitary existence that was often too heavy to carry, yet oddly comforting in its own way.

Tommy’s earnest appeal snapped you back to the moment. “It would mean a lot to us if you could help out. We can’t offer much, but you’re welcome to use whatever supplies we have.” 

As his words settled in the air, you paused, blinking away the remnants of a daydream before responding, “Sorry, but you want me to cook… for your gathering?” There was no sharpness in your voice, only a hint of bemusement mixed with a trace of optimism, long buried under layers of solitude. “I wasn’t sure anyone even remembered that I used to bring food.”

“I can’t speak for everyone, but I definitely haven’t forgotten,” Tommy said, his laughter tinged with a self-deprecating note, as if he were recalling culinary attempts that were perhaps better left in the past. “That meatloaf of yours—every time I try my hand at cooking, it comes to mind. And your carrot cake? I still can’t figure out how you—”

His rant was abruptly sliced by a sharp voice, one that hadn't been part of the conversation until now.

"—Tommy, you done yet?"

The sudden interruption made you realise Tommy hadn't come alone. Your gaze shifted, trailing past him to land on an imposing figure leaned against Tommy’s truck, parked against the curb. 

Arms crossed over a broad chest, stretching the fabric of his jacket, stood Joel Miller—another face you recognized but didn’t really know. A man as intimidating as he was enigmatic.

With a resigned sigh, Tommy glanced back, his voice carrying a mix of irritation and patience. "Just a minute, Joel!" he exclaimed, louder than before, before turning back to you with an apologetic smile. "Sorry 'bout that. You know how Joel can be," he said, his grin sheepish as he acknowledged Joel's stubbornness.

You responded with a shake of your head, your tone laced with a playful curiosity. "Can't say that I do, but I'll take your word for it." 

Your words seemed to ignite a spark of realisation in Tommy, his expression shifting as if a new awareness had dawned on him. He paused, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer than expected, perhaps reconsidering the extent of your interactions with the townsfolk. And then, as if your exchange had unveiled something previously unseen, Tommy turned around to face his brother.

"Joel, get over here," he urged, his command softened by a newfound understanding. "Come say hello, don’t be rude." 

You smiled a small and tentative smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. It was a mask worn too often, a shield against the realization of your own isolation, now reflected in Tommy’s eyes.

Joel Miller’s approach was measured, his posture shifting from the one of guarded stance to a more relaxed one as his arms fell to his sides. Crossing the distance, he cut an imposing figure that effortlessly dominated the space around him with his mere presence. As he neared, you managed only to offer him a muted greeting — your eyes having difficulties to hold his gaze. 

Still, he responded with a nod that was brief and somewhat brusque, offering a slight hint of recognition but little in the way of warmth. Stopping just short of the porch stairs, he tucked his hands in the pockets of his jeans before looking around.

You observed, almost in spite of yourself, as Joel’s attention methodically surveyed your surroundings, taking in details: from the neighboring houses shadowed in the dimming light to the promise of growth in your greenhouse, where the early shoots of peppers and tomatoes promised a future harvest. His scrutiny paused there, a silent acknowledgment of the small life burgeoning under your care, before shifting to the pile of wood designated for chopping, a chore left in anticipation of winter's departure.

When his eyes met yours again, they were piercing, unsettling in their intensity, almost as if he could see through the facade everyone else seemed to accept. This moment of connection, fleeting as it was, coupled with the fact that Joel Miller was undeniably an attractive man, sent an involuntary shiver through you. 

Thus, you quickly looked away, striving for composure— Joel’s eyes still locked onto you.

"Seems a bit chilly out here for standin' around, don't it? She’s probably cold, Tommy.” Joel's voice cut through the quiet, his statement more an observation than a question.

"Just a bit," you answered, your arms instinctively wrapping around yourself in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. “But it’s alright,” you quickly added, offering a dismissive half-smile to downplay your discomfort.

Joel then turned his attention to Tommy, his tone suggesting a mild impatience. “Think it’s about time you wrapped this up?” 

Tommy seemed caught off guard, his gaze flitting from Joel to you, as if weighing his next move. “I ain’t quite done here, Joel,” he responded after a brief pause, his attention momentarily shifting to a folded piece of paper he pulled from his jacket, scanning what appeared to be a list or some hastily jotted notes.

The air was growing heavier with silence; the kind that filled the gaps of unfinished conversation, and before you could stop yourself or second-guess your decisions, you ventured, “Why don’t you come in for a bit then? It’s warmer inside.”

Tommy seemed to be very eager to agree — his legs already moving forward in agreement, but Joel paused, a clear reluctance written across his features. He then opened his mouth, perhaps to voice his objections, but the look Tommy gave him—a mix of brotherly insistence and mild warning—cut him off. 

Despite his imposing stature, Joel navigated the threshold with a grace that seemed at odds with his size, deftly avoiding the door frame with a practiced ease.His shoulders came perilously close to the frame, yet he avoided it without seeming to try. There was a deliberate, almost respectful manner in the way he occupied the space, a silent recognition of his own bulk in the small, crammed interior.

Feeling a need to anchor yourself in the sudden closeness of the room, you rolled your shoulders, gently closing the door behind them. With a gesture towards the kitchen table, you offered a wordless invitation for them to sit, and Tommy, with a nod of thanks, took the seat you’d vacated as you pulled a chair next to him.

Joel, however, hesitated. Stood there for a moment, taking in the room with a thoughtful look, as if assessing its every corner and crevice. “I reckon I’ll stand, if you don’t mind,” he voiced when you shot him with a questioning look, his tone carrying a tone of politeness. “Don’t feel right settlin’ in when we won’t be staying long.” 

The moment he declined your offer to sit, Joel's attention wandered through the room — his focus soon zeroing in on a kitchen cabinet, its door slightly askew, betraying a battle with gravity and time. With a careful approach, he scrutinized the misaligned hinge, his touch deliberate yet tender, as if to reassure the inanimate object of his intention to do no further damage. 

Amidst this, you found yourself caught between two points of focus. Next to you, Tommy was speaking while going over the list, scribbled on sepia-toned paper, yet you couldn’t help but be drawn to Joel. His interaction with your lived-in kitchen space added a layer of warmth to its familiarity, making the room feel even more enclosed, more personal. 

Tommy, catching the shift in your attention, sighed—a sound tinged with resignation—and resettled in his seat, the wooden frame protesting with a creak.

"Joel, with your knee acting up, maybe you could lend a hand with these hinges instead of walking the beat?" Tommy suddenly suggested, glancing between you and Joel, a half-smile forming. “Seems like a fair exchange for a good meal, don’t you think?”

Your reaction was instinctive, fueled by a blend of pride and a deeply ingrained sense of independence. "Oh, that's not necessary at all," you found yourself saying quickly, the words laced with the kind of stubborn reluctance born from a long-held reluctance to depend on others.

Joel, a man whose economy of words often spoke volumes, didn't pause in his inspection of the cabinet. "I suppose I could swing by next week,” he responded gruffly. He didn't frame it as a question, but rather as a quiet declaration of intent, a commitment made without waiting for your consent. Turning to look back at you, his brown eyes searched for yours. "If you're up for it, that is."

You didn’t reply, just nodded, your gaze drifting back to the paper.

—

In the days after Joel and Tommy Miller's visit, time seemed to meld together, distinguishable only by the gentle shift from dawn to dusk and the routine movement of a red plastic marker across the grid of your wall calendar.

However, despite the blur of days, you found a way to push through, each task serving as a mere interlude to the anticipation of the weekend. And while Saturday had nothing particularly exciting to it, it was usually a day when you ventured out into town for supplies, this time not only for your own needs but also for Tommy’s get-together. 

Navigating the last icy patches on the sidewalks with a practiced ease, you turned onto your street where the familiar sight of Mrs. Clarke leaning against the fence her husband was mending greeted you. None of them was someone you interacted with, but you still offered a quick nod and a half-hearted smile, which Mr. Clarke returned with a courteous nod of his own, while Mrs. Clarke's eyes narrowed slightly in your direction as if you were a stranger. Which, in all fairness, you still were.

With your focus fixed ahead and the weight of the grocery bags shifting on your shoulder, you pressed on—only to come to an abrupt halt at the unexpected sight of Joel Miller in front of your home. Busy with an axe, he was rhythmically cutting the firewood you diligently ignored — the sizable, well-organized pile beside him signalling that he had been at it for quite some time before you arrived.

"Joel?" you called out, your voice a mixture of surprise and a faint nervousness. "Wasn't expecting you today."

Or at all, to be entirely honest.

He stopped his work, placing the axe against the ground as he turned to you. There was a moment of awkwardness flickering in his posture at your evident surprise, but he covered it up with a clear of his throat. 

"Yeah, well, was just passin' through," he replied, his voice a deep, familiar rumble, softened slightly by that southern lilt that seemed to ease the harshness of his appearance. "Thought I'd check on those kitchen cabinets for you."

His offer, made a week ago, had seemed inconsequential at the time. Yet, seeing him there, ready to help, only reinforced the idea that Joel was a man more of action than words.

Approaching him, the bags suddenly felt heavier, anchoring you to the ground. "You really didn't have to do this," you admitted, your voice revealing the turmoil within. "I had planned to deal with it later today, actually."

Joel leaned back against the axe handle, his gaze locking with yours. "Don't worry 'bout it," he offered. “Ain't no trouble at all, and I like stayin' busy. It’ll give you time to focus on other things."

You swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words, and it was only when Joel returned the axe to its resting place against the log pile and straightened up that you blinked back to reality, motioning for him to follow you. As he ascended the few steps to your porch and trailed after you inside, his shadow stretched over you, and for a second you found yourself wondering about just how tall and broad was he, really?

Once inside, you went straight to the kitchen table, setting the bags atop of it—eyes widening at the sight of a mess of blankets, pillows, and clutter around the room that had accumulated over the few days — an inevitable result of your habit of living most of your life in one room to conserve wood.

The panic rose inside of you, and you quickly moved in front of the small couch you called your bed, as if your frame itself would cover the chaos of your existence. 

Luckily, Joel didn’t seem to notice any of it. Or at least, he was gentleman enough to ignore it.

"Where do you need me to start?" He broke the silence easily as you nervously scratched your forehead before pointing to the cabinets hanging slightly askew, the wood swollen from years of neglect and moisture.

"Those have been giving me trouble the most. At some point I should probably tear everything down, but for now, it’s as good as it gets.”

Joel nodded, setting his tool bag down with a clunk, before beginning to inspect the cabinets — his fingers tracing along the wood, assessing each hinge and panel.

Folding your bedding, you walked to a small storage chest to Joel's left, setting it inside before closing it gently with a glance towards Joel.

"Would you like some coffee?" You asked, hoping to dispel the growing silence, but much to your disappointment, there was no answer.

Joel had already zeroed in on the cabinet, his focus entirely on the stubborn hinge.

Despite the lingering, unanswered offer and the faint echo of rejection, ringing inside your head, you went ahead with brewing the coffee, despite often preferring tea.

You didn’t dislike coffee, but you knew how scarce and difficult it was to source it.

Soon enough, the rich, comforting scent filled the kitchen, and without much effort, you poured the steaming dark brew into two mugs before walking over and quietly setting one of the mugs next to him. There was a second where you simply hovered around, like a fly on wall, observing as his gaze shifted with a momentary glance towards the warm beverage before his attention was pulled back to the cabinet. Though he didn’t say a word, the brief pause and a barely noticeable nod served as his silent gratitude.

Not wanting to dwell too much on his silence, you turned your attention to the groceries — the clicking of cans and jars, creating a rhythmic backdrop to the occasional squeak of hinges being expertly tended to.

Then, out of the blue, Joel’s gruff voice cut through the silence, causing you to startle slightly.

“So, what's it gonna be?” he asked, still not looking at you—face contorted in concentration as he tightened a screw with practiced precision.

“Huh?”

“Tommy’s and Maria’s party. What are you cookin’ up?” he clarified as he opened and closed the cabinet door, testing his work.

“Oh,” you breathed out, rolling your shoulders in a nervous gesture. “Supplies aren’t too plentiful, what with winter and all. I’m thinking a stew and nice bread would do,” you replied, then added with a hint of uncertainty and a quick glance towards him. “Still not sure about the dessert though.”

For a moment or two, you hoped that he would say something, give his input, but when he didn’t, you nodded to yourself, finding a loose piece of yarn on your pullover before wrapping it around your index finger.

Joel worked for another few minutes before straightening up and stepping back to inspect his handwork, wiping his hands on his jeans — a look of satisfaction briefly crossing his features.

Clearing your throat, you decided to break the silence, yet again, “Looks like you´ve fixed it. Thank you.”

“No problem at all,” he replied smoothly. “Just need a bit of tweakin’, is all.”

Before you could stop yourself, you spoke again. “Care for a refill?” you asked, lifting the pot with a somewhat trembling hand, not expecting to see Joel nod. Filling up his mug, you hesitated for a moment before speaking again, “Perhaps you’d like to sit down for a bit?”

Joel’s silent agreement and decision to sit down took you by surprise. His long legs stretched out slightly, relaxed in their posture as he got comfortable. You, on the other hand, was all but relaxed—posture ever so rigid, cradling your coffee mug on your lap so tight that you thought you’d break it.

An awkward silence filled the space between you as you scolded yourself mentally. You had invited him to sit, yet now, faced with his quiet presence, you were at a loss for words.

The quiet stretched to the point that it felt like it was the third person, sitting between you, until Joel shooed it away with a question, “You live alone?”

His gaze was steady as he watched you over the rim of his mug, taking a sip.

“Yeah,” you replied, feeling slightly exposed under his straightforward question.

“Any family?” he prodded gently.

You hesitated, feeling the bitterness lace your tongue before the words even left your mouth. “Had a mother and an older brother. They both passed away, ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he responded, his voice softening, infused with empathy.

It wasn’t solely the memory of your family that stirred emotions within you, but also the unexpected warmth in his words. Attempting to stifle this feeling, you shrugged, uncertain how to accept his condolences or the surprising familiarity of his tone.

So, you kept sipping your coffee, your mind struggling to find the right words, but only for a while because Joel suddenly continued.

“Life's been full of tough turns. Lost my folks young, too, around the time everything changed… you know, with the outbreak and all.” As he spoke, his gaze seemed to drift to a place far away, and you suddenly remembered the fleeting stories you’ve heard in passing, some weeks after Joel made his appearance in Jackson.

“At least we’re here and still alive.”

Joel hummed in agreement. “And what did you say, how long have you been in Jackson?”

The question hung in the air as you looked at him, both of you aware that you hadn’t mentioned it before, but his curiosity seemed genuine. So, with a glance at the calendar next to the door, you did a quick mental maths. “It was four years last week,” you responded.

“Four years?” Joel echoed, his voice tinged with a hint of disbelief. “Somehow, I don’t remember seeing you around much before.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t remember seeing me either, so it's okay," you replied—lips curling into a faint smile before continuing, “I tend to keep to myself,” you admitted quietly, not quite ready to venture into the reasons behind that decision.

Joel nodded slowly. “Guess that makes two of us then,” he said with a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was aware of how handsome he was when he was smiling.

His appearance, much like his demeanor, was rugged and weathered but there was a certain kind of comfort in it. His eyes, a soft brown, held a depth that suggested that he was someone who had seen much and lost more.

Startled and ever so ashamed by your own wandering thoughts, you looked away as you placed your mug on the table, instead reaching for a torn kitchen towel before proceeding to fold it in your lap.

And it was only when you felt a weight in the air shift subtly that you looked up only to find his eyes on you.

He was observing you—gaze intense and searching, as if trying to read you, and you couldn’t help but feel a wave of nervousness wash over you.

The intensity of his gaze was unnerving, yet there was gentleness there; a quiet understanding that seemed to reach out to you. His broad shoulders, the result of years of physical labor and survival only added to his imposing presence.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious under his gaze, you shifted in your seat — the kitchen towel in your hands now a convenient excuse to look away.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, betraying the unease his attention had sparked in you.

“No, nothin’s wrong,” he answered in a reassuring tone — the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, softening his rugged features. “Just thinkin’, is all.”

The nervousness that was building up on the inside, suddenly resurfaced, pushing you to your feet in an abrupt, restless motion that seemed to bring Joel back from his thoughts—his eyes tracking your movements as you began to fuss over a spotless table with your kitchen towel.

Without much ado, he also rose from his chair—the action effortless despite his solid build that quickly filled the small kitchen. “Well, I think I should be headin’ off,” he said in a low, even tone.

You nodded briskly, following after him as he made his way to the door — the floorboards creaking under your steps.

"Thanks again, for the wood chopping and fixing the cabinet," you said, once Joel stepped out on the dimly lit porch.

He gave you a nonchalant wave, dismissing the thanks with an ease. "It was nothin'," he assured you. Then, after a short pause, he added, "Might want to keep warm inside. Nights are still cold."

His concern, lightly voiced but sincere, brought a small, involuntary smile to your face. You nodded, feeling a warmth that had little to do with the temperature. "Will do. Take care, Joel.".

He acknowledged your words with a quiet nod and turned away, disappearing into the evening shadows. You lingered for a moment, watching his retreating figure before stepping back into the warmth of your home, closing the door gently behind you.