#i don’t even think i have eight at all. much less eight of a single color

[azaharinflames]

I’m loving your theories on the whole BuckTommy (sorry Lou ilu but the name BuckTommy has stuck with me) arc. So I have to ask… why do you think people (read: fandom people) are convinced this is the last season? I really don’t see ABC/Disney undertaking this big of a show (money and following wise) and being like “yeah we’ll put time and effort into this production, but only for one season”

Thank you! Glad you love them, I feel slightly less of a clown when people understand how I think lol. Also - I was rooting for Tevan hard, and even Firefly, but I've accepted Bucktommy and now it has a special place in my heart.

As for your question... I think it all comes to change.

Let me explain. For shows to have a long life, they have to change. They have to evolve. We cannot feel as if we are tuning in to the same thing every week, especially when the same thing has long become boring. I will put Modern Family (my ultimate comfort show) as an example: the whole eleven seasons are of constant change. We are growing with the characters, we are happy, frustrated, sad, whatever, with their actions and choices. And because they are changing, we want to tune in next week to see what will be next.

911 has a severe issue of lack of change. The characters go through these cycles constantly; we said Buck was in a hamster wheel, but the truth is that every single character is in there, too. The writers are somehow unable to find new storylines or conflicts, that aren't what we have seen already, only this time with a new context.

This is partly the reason why so many people, and why a big part of the GA, latched onto Tommy and BuckTommy so quickly - because they were a breath of fresh air, and they felt like the much-needed novelty we were all expecting. If we don't have them, we go to the same repetitive stories - with Buck, but with everyone else, too, to be honest.

And if there is no change... people get bored. There are just so many times you can see Henren on the brink of losing their kids, or Buck trying to find the one (it's stopped being cute, especially when he just had the perfect partner for him walk away), Eddie being unable to move on or forget Shannon (because as much as he's 'better' - has he actually dealt with it?), Madney having either a kid storyline or a Dough-influenced storyline, Bathena having issues with communicating... eight seasons is a long time of this. And unless they change it up, just how much longer can they go? We joke about Grey's sometimes, but the fact is that they are constantly changing.

So. That's partly it.

But (without wanting to make this a whole novel), there were also rumors that some cast was hesitant to continue. Take this with a grain of salt, please, but rumor has it that Peter was kind of ready to walk away a while ago. He even has said in interviews he cannot do this for much longer, as 911 is a very exigent show to shoot. He even wanted Bobby to be killed off at the S7 opening emergency. Angela has also expressed a desire to be on Broadway, so that could also be conflicting. Again, take it with a grain of salt.

And as for ABC - you're right, they bought 911. But with the upcoming spin-off, one can't help but wonder if it is not complimentary but, rather, a substitute. Perhaps they are planning on moving someone from the OG there, who knows. The fact is that they managed to catch the audience's attention with the OG, enough that if they lose it but immediately have a variation of it, they might tune in. And this new show would be cheaper than OG is right now because let me tell you - it ain't cheap, as far as I am aware.

If you want my personal opinion on this - I am 50-50. I think it would be a very weird final season if this was the last, but I wouldn't be that surprised if we find out it is. I can see them going for a ninth season, but I cannot see them going further than a tenth, and that is being really generous. If they prove me wrong and are willing to adapt to change, I will happily eat my words.

PS: I do think if this is the last season, or even if we have it in the next couple of years, they could bring Tommy back (if they haven't yet), as a sort of rushed HEA. Kind of playing with the whole 'right person, wrong time', just bringing it to the right time finally.

Thanks for the ask <3

[goldensunset]

y’know what i got all the wisps in pla without using the internet i can get all the cursed stakes in violet without using the internet

[grandisknight]

at your service | rafayel

summary: Gaining the upper hand in Kitty Cards has its benefits, which solely consist of making the loser (Rafayel) comply to the winner’s choice.

tags: nsfw (mdni), established relationship, kitty cards (derogatory), teasing, gn!reader (no specific descriptors), 'miss bodyguard' name mention, thomas mention, maid!rafayel, sub!rafayel, costumes, roleplay, maids, photography, kissing, praise kink, ‘master’ kink, brief mouth fucking, finger sucking, handjobs, m!orgasm, ejaculate, implied/suggestive ending

wc: 3.0k | ao3 | kinktober in deepspace masterlist

a/n: don't ask me what happened but just know i will die on the hill that is maid!rafayel

You couldn’t believe your luck. 

And Rafayel couldn’t understand his lack of it. 

The Evol kittens were no better in-between the two of you—some were happily purring or fast asleep, comfortable in their colored teacups. More importantly, unbothered and unaware of the two players on opposite spectrums in their aftermath.

Out of the nine creatures, an overwhelming majority belonged to you. After a long, arduous dual and third round sweep, you had overshadowed Rafayel with a score of thirty-two points to his measly eight sum. He held a quarter to your victory.

“This game sucks,” Rafayel sulks. His frown mirrors one of the red Evol kittens closest to him, rounded tears blobbing down its cheeks. Both defeated, worse for wear at the outcome.

You let out a small laugh. “You say that, and yet you still play with me every week.” 

You poke the cheek of a cheery green Evol kitten, who nudges against your touch in turn and meows. “Isn’t that right, little fella?” It delightfully purrs back at you, the accordance only rubbing more salt into Rafayel’s poor wound.

“Hmph.” He doesn’t fight you there, chin resting in the palm of his hand and averting your teasing gaze.

You collect your hand and his, returning all cards to the discard pile with a satisfied hum. No sooner did a café worker come by to clear your table, leaving the two of you to your devices.

“And you know what that means, don’t you?” You lean forward, reaching to his sulking demeanor. Catching the sleeve of his blouse, you lightly pinch the silk between your fingers, putting on your own petulant expression. “Unless you forgot so soon.”

As long as he breathed and lived, it was actually Rafayel who would constantly have to remind you of things said and done in the past. Less of the forgetful one between you, he takes pride in his memory retention.

Even so, he couldn’t stay upset with you for so long. His shoulders relax at the sound, back straightening and taking your hand into his. A scoff of, “Puh-lease, of course I remember,” answers your questions.

“Loser does what the winner wants,” he tacks on in confidence. 

It was the terms agreed upon when stepping into Meow Meow Café earlier that day—he didn’t think much of it at the time, confident he would win today’s rounds. 

But, that wasn’t the case. Right. You won the first, he the second, and as for the third…

Rafayel pauses then, dual-chromed eyes now narrowing in suspicion. “Wait a minute. I’m the loser.”

You nod, a grin plastered to your face. “Today you are, yeah.”

“And you’re the winner,” he follows up. 

(If you look close enough, you could make out swirls of equations and calculations floating around his head.)

“Two for two, you’re absolutely correct.” With a gentle tug and rise from your seat, you string along a bewildered artist in tow. 

It came altogether then. A sense of dread at your unrevealed schemes quickly fills his tone, face already draining of its color. “Oh no,” Rafayel groans.

“Oh yes,” you chirp. “I have a wish that needs to be granted, and you’re going to help me out!”

—

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” 

You stood outside the bathroom door, which was currently (and firmly) locked from within. Not that you were going to barge in unannounced, but surely it warranted some concern when Rafayel hadn’t stepped a single foot out since entering. Only the rustles of clothing and hushed utterances echoed the acoustics of tiled walls; you couldn’t really make out any of the finer details otherwise.

And it’s been ten minutes.

You clear your throat, wondering if he missed the first time you called out. “Ra—fa—yel—“

The door swings open then, the man of the hour greeting you with, “Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”

It took a second to register his reappearance, and your mouth fell slack taking him in. “Woah,” you breathe out in awe.

No longer in his casual blouse and accompanying slacks, the artist stood before you in a newly picked attire. 

White knee-high socks stuck to his calves, with the edge of their supporting garters partially hidden and neatly wrapped all the same. A frilled apron of ivory linen rested neatly above his kneecaps, blanketing the black satin of a dress in an equally-met length underneath. Sleeves puffed around his shoulders, and a pointed collar was tastefully unbuttoned in fashion—undoubtedly of his own doing, revealing the flush of his chest and collarbone that homed one of his many beauty marks.

To which, he instinctively covers up with a defensive cross of arms and ears tipped in a bright red. Embarrassment follows his rather meek stance. “So like, that’s all, right? Can I take this off now?”

You take a step closer, hands clasped behind your back in observation and hum. It was well-fitted to his body, hugged neatly in all the places where it mattered. Thomas came in clutch when you asked him the other day, catching him at Flux Arts during one of the slower viewing hours. 

“His measurements?” The agent pondered your request. A couple swipes to his tab later, he adds on with a smile, “Sure thing. If it’s for Rafayel’s sake, then I’ll send them over.”

A little secret kept between the two of you, unbeknownst to the wearer. It was probably for the best, you wouldn’t hear the end of his moping otherwise.

Rafayel whines under your scrutinizing gaze that was lost in thought. “Hey—“

“Not yet,” you say with a shake of your head. “Indulge me for a while more. You took forever in there all by yourself, anyhow.”

You reveal a matching headdress between your once hidden fingers, a row of pleated ribbon swiftly placed amongst his wavy locks. The final piece of the puzzle, a maid in all his glory and in the comforts of your humble abode. A sense of glittering pride holds your gaze to his.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he points out.

Your shoulders raise in a slight shrug. “Of course I am, it’s the winner’s right.” A hand trails down to the curve of his jaw, holding the face that continues to pout. With a light snicker and compliment in attendance, you tell him, “You look very cute, by the way.”

Rafayel’s pout twitches for a second, slyly revealing his enjoyment to the compliment. He clears his throat, saying, “Yeaaah right. Take a picture, I’m sure it’ll last longer.”

Oh, but he spoke too soon. His eyes widen when you actually take out your phone, much to his better judgment. “Hold on, you’re not planning on really keeping a memo, are you?”

“It would be a shame if I didn’t,” you counter. He said so himself—might as well take his word for it.

Swiping to the camera app,  you position the lens inches away and see his furrowed brows through the viewfinder. You gently tug him forward, fingers fully curled underneath his chin. On the other hand, he purposefully sways back and forth in an effort to blur your captures.

You tsk. “The more you squirm, the longer I’ll have to keep trying to take a shot.”

“What, you don’t like my blurry faces too? They’re all handsome,” he huffs. Though a squish to his cheeks cuts him short, stilling him long enough for a ring of shutters to seal the deal.

“Alright, alright,” you coo to console his woes. “I think I managed to get a good one.” 

You lower the phone in observation, scrolling through the new gallery additions. The flurry of dark lavender and hazy skin aside, a few select shots captured the paused moment of time where he did behave. 

Device neatly tucked away into your back pocket, your attention turns back to the subject of your newest wallpaper. Even if this was a reward for you, he deserved just as much in compensation. 

A soft kiss to Rafayel’s jutted lip melts some of his tension, brows no longer scrunched together. You smile at his relaxing shoulders and opening arms when you give another. 

You shower him in adoration, butterflied smooches and his closing eyes soon pressing against the closest wall. Your hands run over the frills of his skirt, smooth to the touch and gently laid out atop his thighs. The barrier of fabric did nothing to hide the amount of warmth emanating through, the effect of your touches having a clear reaction on him. 

You wondered if there was more to be seen—only one way to find out.

Shifting, you drag your lips away from his and to the sweet spot where his jaw and earlobe meet. You ask in a low voice, “So, what do you think?” His blush steadily follows into the very space, worsening when you blow gently over the affected skin. “Dressing up like this for me.”

“My thoughts?” 

Whether it was in disbelief or furthered embarrassment—perhaps a fine condition of both—Rafayel could only exhale. You could feel his legs pressing together in unspoken confirmation, and a bashful turn of his head carries his murmur of, “What do you think I’m thinking about when you touch me like that?”

“Well,” you trail off. “I’d rather show and not tell.”

In a blink, your fingers bunch up the skirt fabric into messied pleats that reveal the answers you sought after. And it truly was a lovely sight to see—you let out a low whistle, impressed at the state he’s in. Through the sheer lace of white trim, a curved tip as red as his ears was weeping quietly, soiling the undergarment dutifully.

“Don’t look,” he whines, attempting to cover up his hardened arousal with the satin.

“Would you prefer if I touched instead?” You tease, catching his wrist in apt timing. You guide his hand over where his body couldn’t lie, and he noticeably twitches. “Oh? Maybe you prefer touching yourself.”

“I can’t do that,” Rafayel weakly counters. It breaks into a low moan when you slowly inch him closer to the beads of precum pulsing past his slit. He hisses when your thumb slips against it, purposefully smearing his come against the lace. “You’re so, so mean, Miss Bodygu—“

“Ah, not so fast.” You tut, drawing back and a string of his arousal follows. He gasps at the unexpected loss, protests shaping his lips before you continue your turn. “That’s not my proper title.”

Confusion tints the hues of red and blue that, already, were far dipped into the seas of lust. “I call you that all the time though.” 

In hindsight, you are his Miss Bodyguard. Have been, for months on end, and with generous bank statements stamped with his name as a source of proof. One who graciously accompanies him when your schedules allow it, to even sightseeing trips for both business and pleasure.

He pauses, then notably gawks with the cogs of realization spinning. “You… Don’t tell me, you want me to call you that?”

It wouldn’t be the first time this particular name has come up in conversation, but the circumstances were vastly different. You bring your soiled thumb to his lips, swiping it across and allowing it to settle into a thin layer of gloss. 

“You can’t be serious,” he says.

“Sorry, are you talking to me right now? I only listen to those with manners.” His eyes only grow in size, yet you feign indifference to it. Of course you would hear him out—though only with the proper name.

Ignorance was never bliss, but rather a crude form of torture for Rafayel. “M… m…” The word laid on the tip of his tongue in a hesitant sound, before a quick mumble follows.

“I can’t hear you.” Your fingers curl themselves once more in a grip over his chin, directing his gaze to go nowhere else but to you. And your eyes were steadfast, committing his flustered face to memory.

“Speak up,” you encourage.

The air above sea had never felt so suffocating yet enticing all at once. Rafayel couldn’t help but enjoy the heat, and the root cause of it, to which he says in a low groan, “Master.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Your faceted praise comes with a tilt of his head and a kiss to reward his newfound diligence. He sighs into your warmth that welcomes him, though it shifts to a whine when you pull away too soon.

Rafayel nudges your nose with his, a pity show pooling in his eyes. “More, Master.”

“More of what, exactly?” You contemplate, before a decisive, downwards push of his lacey underwear has him sighing. 

His length stood proud against his abdomen, way past a softened state, firm and twitching to the exposed air. You draw a fine line from base to sensitive head, gauging his reaction. The other hand toys with the closest garter on his thigh, fingers dipping past the fine leather. “My sweet Rafayel,” you purr. “What should I do with you?”

“Want you to touch me,” he strains, an edge of impatience to confession. His lips move to mouth at your collarbone, no longer hiding his neediness and taking it in stride. It was rare for you to see this side of him, so vulnerable yet entirely reserved for you—a face he wouldn’t dare show anyone else.

Rafayel spoke with heat in his voice and hazy stars in his eyes. “Master, please. I swear I’ll do anything you want.”

“Anything,” you muse, squeezing his thigh thoughtfully. “And all you want me to do is touch you.”  You can’t help but chuckle when his enthusiastic nod only adds to your point. 

You could see his illusory fox ears flatten in disappointment when you pull away, against his wishes. He lets out a small yelp when your fingers release the garter and smack against his skin.

“Master, I—“

“Open,” you instruct, fingers searching his lips once more. 

And Rafayel does, choking a moan when you place them against his tongue. Carefully, you stroke his warm cavern, to which his mouth closes around and sucks with zeal. He swirls his tongue against the pads of your fingers, determined to please you.

His canines briefly graze your skin when you depart with a faint string. Now finely coated in a layer of his saliva, you dip your hand downwards—curling the sticky fingers around his nearly-neglected cock. Rafayel cants his hips immediately, supporting the salaciously wet noises that echo in tune. 

You squeeze his length in warning, pressing the other hand to his abdomen. “Stay still,” you scold, feeling him contract beneath your pressure. “If you can’t follow a simple order, I’ll leave you high and dry.”

“No, no, no,” he whimpers, shaking his head adamantly. His hands grip the skirt, desperate and knuckles almost turning white from their strength. Something to keep him grounded, to make sure he listens well to his beloved—“Master, I won’t move, promise.”

You purse your lips. “We’ll see about that.” 

Up and down, you tenderly attend to his arousal in generous strokes. Steady rubs and an occasional swipe to his sensitive head last for what feels like an eternity to Rafayel. He was so well-behaved when his orgasm was threatened, all in the palm of your hand.

“You’re close,” you observe with a particularly firm flick, “Aren’t you?”

“Mhm, ‘m very close,” Rafayel quickly admits, his breaths ardent and changing in pitch. He looked so beautiful like this, prettily wrapped around your fingers and a sweet song of your name resonates from his throat. 

Abandoning the languid strokes, you angle your elbow to reach him sooner—faster. “A good, honest boy,” you coo. His blush only deepens at the sound, and his keens grow in volume. You’d apologize to the neighbors later. 

“Should I let you come?” You ask knowingly.

“Master, Ma—ah—ster,” he cries out. “Can feel it, I’m about to—“ A tear rolls down his cheek, matching the one threatening to bead past his slit. “Please, please.” Overwhelmed and in a desperate need for relief, Rafayel’s expression stirred a flame within you.

“Let it out,” you coax, pace unrelenting and threatening to cramp your fingers. The finish line was only a step away, and you say with a smile, “Do it for me. Come undone, my little maid.”

Blissful orgasm wrecks his body, accompanying his labored whines and pearls of white leaving his spent cock. Both the fabric of his outfit and your hand became victims to the viscous liquid, with the air equally met with nothing but the scent of it. 

Rafayel was boneless by the time he was nothing but dribbles of cum and a wrinkled skirt, slouching against the wall.

Your dry hand finds its way to his face, kindly stroking his cheek and adding a kiss to his relaxed brow. “You did so well, Raf.”

“Course I did,” he manages to jest in a hoarse voice. He eyes the state of his clothes and your dirtied hand, to which he nods towards. “Give me your hand.”

“What?” You look down, before raising it between your faces. It glistens, brought to the light and sinking into the creases of your skin. “Why—Ah.” 

Obediently, Rafayel takes your fingers dripping in release to his mouth. He licks in strides at the leftovers as if it were a swirl of ice cream on a hot, summer day.

“Cleaning up the mess you made,” you muse, though make no movement to stop him. “What a dutiful maid I have.” 

He nips your now unsullied fingertips at the comment. His hold on your wrist brings you closer—you stumble unexpectedly, letting go of his face to steady a hand to his chest.

“Raf—“ Your voice stutters when you feel his knee rub between your legs. Purposeful and angled, the pressure stokes the forsaken flames in your abdomen. “Rafayel,” you breathe, attempting to collect your bearings. 

“I hope you know I won’t easily forget all the things you’ve done,” Rafayel murmurs, eyes glimmering in mischief. “I won’t let you off easy, Master.”

[lovebugism]

Could you pleaseeee do more single dad!Eddie 🥺

✶ ┄ MAYDAY ! [ stand by me ]

summary: after totally embarrassing yourself at eddie's kid's birthday party, the metalhead single dad from the trailer park shows you his (perhaps equally embarrassing) favorite movie. (2.9k)

pairing: dad!eddie munson / f!reader

tags: eddie and maeve universe, strangers to lovers (eventually), slow burn, mutual pining, idiots in love, girl dad eddie munson™, fluff, ugly crying at movies

You never did crack open that bottle.

The one you accidentally brought to Eddie’s kid’s birthday party? Yeah, that one. The glass container sits unopened on the coffee table in front of you, casting amber reflections on the old wood beneath the lamplight. It’s just a silly conversation starter now. You’ve got no real reason to drink it, anyway.

There’s nothing more intoxicating than Eddie Munson’s presence.

Sunrays spill from your mouth when you tip your head back to laugh. You turn to look at the boy on the other end of the couch, and your warm cheek squishes against the cushion. “Stand By Me is not your favorite movie!” you argue, giggling softly with disbelief.

Eddie has no idea how big he’s smiling. He’s too busy staring at you to notice the beam on his face. 

He shrugs his shoulders, now free from the confines of his leather jacket. He wears a faded Peanuts shirt now. A hand-me-down, you figure. “I mean… Land Before Time is a really close second,” he answers in a teasing lilt.

“Oh, yeah. Only the saddest movie ever made.”

“Maeve used to love it. And, like, not in a normal way— She used to make me play it for her until the tape spun out,” Eddie tells you, chuckling softly to himself. “It grew on me eventually, but… Then she grew out of it.”

You watch him get all forlorn at the thought. You meet his subtle pout with a scrunched nose. “Well, she’s only four, right? Surely, she hasn’t had time to grow out of much.”

Eddie scoffs and slouches further on the couch until his thighs spread. “You’d be surprised. Every time I think I— you know— start to understand her a little bit or whatever, she just… She changes, you know? Like, overnight.”

He doesn’t mean to get so suddenly sentimental about the whole thing. Especially not in front of a pretty girl he only met eight hours ago. He’ll blame it on the late night and the existential dread that always comes with birthdays. He conceals his brooding behind a dumb joke.

“I mean, just this morning, Maeve’s favorite animal was a Hefflelump… Now it’s a blobfish.”

You try to hold back your laughter. You fail. The sunshine-coated giggle sputters from your mouth despite your attempts to keep it hidden. Eddie only laughs because you are.

“I should’ve said turtle or something,” you humor with a roll of your eyes, tucking your knees to your chest. “Or, like, a badger. Maybe then I wouldn’t have gotten made fun of all day.”

“Those aren’t any less normal,” Eddie chuckles with a lopsided grin, dark chocolate eyes twinkling ‘cause he never really liked normal anyway.

You shrug. “Agree to disagree.”

“You wanna know something?” he blurts after a long beat of silent smiles. “When I tucked her in, she made me promise to take her to the aquarium tomorrow. Said she wanted to see ‘if the blobfish were just as gross in real life.’

You smile so wide your eyes squint at the edges. “Do they have blobfish at the aquarium?” you laugh.

Eddie shrugs. “Probably not. But she’ll get to pet a stingray or somethin’. Then she’ll forget all about it.”

“Sounds fun…” you murmur, picking at pills of cotton on the old couch with a suddenly anxious hand. 

“Yeah. Parenting always is,” Eddie hums with a distant smile. “Even when it isn’t.”

“Should I— Should I, like, go?” you stammer.

The boy seems shocked by your question. His fluffy brows pinch as he hums. “Huh?”

You squirm, less than comfortable in your own skin. “Well, I mean, it’s… It’s getting kinda late and everything, and… If you guys are going into the city in the morning, I don’t wanna, like, keep you or whatever—”

Suddenly anxious, Eddie sits up a little straighter. “No! No, it’s okay. I don’t mind,” he responds, then quickly follows with wide eyes. “Unless— Unless you want to leave—”

“I don’t!” you answer, equally flustered.

Eddie forces an awkward chuckle. “I don’t want you to think I’m, like, keeping you hostage here or something—”

“I just don’t wanna overstay my welcome—”

“You couldn’t,” he insists.

You nod, and in a mousy voice, you reply, “Well, you couldn’t keep me hostage, so…”

Eddie grins. “Good.”

“Good,” you echo.

“So… Wanna watch a movie or something?” he offers with a fluttering heart and fidgeting hands. 

He feels like a teenage boy all over again — only he never actually got the opportunity to ask a pretty girl out when he was a teenager. People weren’t exactly fighting to spend time with the local freak back then. Or now, really.

Except you.

“Whaddaya got?”

“Well, let’s see…” he says, grunting as he rises from the couch. 

Eddie walks the short distance to the box television across the room — which Maeve has carefully decorated with a collection of sparkly stickers. He sorts through the VHS tapes stacked in less-than-organized piles with a ringed hand, realizing must’ve left all the good stuff at Wayne’s.

“Oh, you know… All the Maeve Munson favorites…” he singsongs with a sigh.

“Surprise me,” you call from the couch.

Eddie rises then, with two bulky VHSs clutched within ringed fingers. He holds them on either side of his face and grins between them. “Stand By Me or Land Before Time?”

“Stand By Me,” you answer with a firm nod. “Unless, you know, you wanna see me ugly cry.”

“That’s second date territory,” he quips with a wink, suddenly and very uncharacteristically cool. “Stand By Me it is.”

—————

You’re crying on a stranger’s couch about ninety minutes later. 

The credits roll in static colors on the tiny television across from you. The low bass of a nostalgic song floats quietly through the living room — If the sky, that we look upon, should tumble and fall… Or the mountains, should crumble to the sea…

Eddie looks on with a sympathetic beam as you hide your teary face behind your palms. He can’t tell if you’re shaking from sobs or from laughter. Maybe a healthy mixture of both. “I thought you weren’t gonna cry!” he chuckles.

You peek at him through your fingers. Your eyes are glassy with tears and squinting at the edges with a smile. “I forgot how sad it was!” you sniffle, then laugh at yourself.

I won’t cry, I won’t cry… No, I won’t shed a tear…

“You’re crying, too!” you observe as the boy beside you wipes at his eyes with his fingertips. You reach over to shove him with a playful hand. “You big softy!”

Eddie scoffs and swipes his nose with the back of his wrist. “I’m not crying! I’m just… I had something in my eye.”

“Tears?” you tease with a scrunched nose.

He nods, and with a sheepish look in his eyes, he says, “Yeah…”

Your quiet laughter entwines, filling the dim living room with something sparkly and golden. The sound of violins swells in a similar way. Eddie’s eyes flutter shut as he begins singing the lyrics to himself, not really trying but sounding pretty anyway.

“Just as long, as you stand, stand by me…” he croons quietly. You beam and sing softly along with him, audibly less serious about the whole thing. “And darlin’! Darlin’! Stand by me… Oh, stand by me—”

Both of you quieten when a door squeaks about open down the hall. The distant screech is followed by the patter of tiny footsteps. Eddie huffs and sits up a little straighter. “Ah, shit…”

Your face floods with horror. “Was I too loud?” you whisper.

“No. It’s just midnight,” he answers, shaking his wild head. “She always wakes up at midnight. Like my personal little Gremlin.”

Maeve appears in the dark hallway then, drowning in one of her dad’s old t-shirts. Corroded Coffin, the front of it reads, in what seems to be hand-made lettering. The thing fits her like a gown. 

Her curls sit in an untamed halo around her head from the intensity of her slumber. She rubs at her swollen eyes with chubby fists. Eddie can’t help but grin at the sight of her. 

“Hey, Mayday,” he coos. “What happened? You can’t sleep?”

The girl shuffles to her father like it’s muscle memory to her. Still half-asleep, she grips his shirt with graceless fingers and climbs onto his lap with her eyes still shut. She cuddles into his torso, fitting perfectly there, while you sit frozen on the other side of the couch. Like maybe if you’re real still, she won’t notice you’re there.

“We gonna go see da blobfish now?” she wonders in tiny slurs against his chest.

Eddie’s cheek squishes against her head when he smiles. The expression gets lost in her wild chestnut locks. “Not yet, May. It’s too late— All the fishies are sleeping now. Like you should be.”

She shifts on his lap like she’s trying to get more comfortable there. Her cheek, indented with lines of sleep, rubs against his shirt when she turns to look up at him. “Need you to tuck me in,” she tells him, tiny chin bobbing against his chest.

Eddie juts back to see her better. “Again?” he humors with his brows raised behind his curly bangs.

“Mhmm,” she nods, slow and sleepy.

“Okay,” he hums, scoffing a tired chuckle. “I’ll tuck you in again, bug.”

You don’t mean to laugh. It just crawls up your throat and out of your mouth before you can stop it. You try to hide it behind your palm, but Maeve still notices. 

Her fluffy brows scrunch together when she turns to you. She swipes at the hair sticking to her cheek with a fumbling hand to see you better. She doesn’t say anything, though. She just kinda blinks at you, with a brown-eyed, emotionless gaze.

You muster a wavering smile at the girl, lifting your hand in an unsure wave.

“Wanna go see the blobfish with us tomorrow?” Maeve blurts. Though, in her less than awake state, it sounds more like wanna go see da bobfish wiv us tommowow? It’s like you can feel your heart melting.

“The aquarium,” Eddie clarifies.

You squirm in your seat. “Oh, I… I can’t,” you sigh, then follow quickly when she pouts. “I wish I could! It sounds super fun, but I’m… I’m busy…”

You aren’t, really. ‘Cause tomorrow’s Saturday — the only thing you really have to do is try to wake up before noon. You just don’t know how else to turn her down.

“Maybe next time?” Eddie offers hopefully, mostly for Maeve’s sake.

You nod rapidly, just for Maeve. “Yeah. Next time. Definitely.”

“See? It’s okay,” Eddie lilts, squeezing gently at the girl’s sides until she’s smiling again. “We can have fun just you and me, right?”

Maeve pouts in response, a sort of snarled face that’s obviously playful.

Eddie laughs loud and boyishly in return. “Hey! Don’t make that face at me!” he exclaims, feigning offense. Maeve loses her poker face almost instantly as she giggles. “Go get in bed, you weirdo. I’ll tuck you in in a second.”

“And read me another book?” she presses hopefully.

He nods, knowing it’s a fight he’s bound to lose. “And read you another book.”

“Two of them?”

The girl holds her pointer and middle finger in front of her face. Eddie chuckles and guides the latter back down with a gentle hand. “One,” he corrects.

“Two.”

“One.”

“Two!”

A brief stare-off ensues, one in which you’ve got a front-row seat. Maeve’s dark chocolate gaze resembles her father’s — button-eyed and swimming with something honeyed and stubborn. She tilts her chin to her chest and glares unwavering at the man in front of her.

Eddie inevitably caves. He sighs so deeply his chest deflates. “Fine… Two. But only if you run real fast.”

Maeves slides down his denim-clad legs until her bare feet hit the carpet. She scurries down the hall without another word, quiet giggles fading with her footsteps. Eddie slumps against the couch with a small, contented sigh. 

You realize you haven’t stopped smiling for several minutes now. “She’s really sweet,” you compliment to fill the silence.

Eddie scoffs a gentle laugh. “Yeah. When she wants to be.”

The quiet returns. You run out of things to say. The notion of the late-late night settles more heavily upon you. You swallow hard and fight for a way out that doesn’t make it sound like Eddie hasn’t just given you one of the best nights of your life. 

“I think I’m gonna—”

“Well, I should—”

The boy starts speaking at the same time as you. You cut each other off without trying, then laugh quietly at yourselves.

“You first,” you tell him.

“I should go tuck Maeve in before she goes all Mayday mode and starts screaming at me,” Eddie says, only partly joking. 

His sweet little Maeve is only Mayday when she’s throwing a too-passionate tantrum. Or when it’s past midnight, and she’s acting like a total gremlin. He doesn’t particularly want you to witness either. ‘Cause kids tend to be pretty gnarly sometimes — especially when you aren’t the one raising them.

“Yeah, I should probably start heading home, anyway,” you reply. “It’s late.”

Eddie rises with a small huff. You follow behind him towards the front door, both of you moving with slow and heavy strides — neither particularly wanting the other to go. 

“Thanks for keeping me company,” he says beneath the sound of the screeching screen door. “And for helping Maeve have a good day and everything… Most people don’t really consider hanging out with a four-year-old and her dad a good time, so…”

“Well, most people are weirdos,” you scoff and slide past him through the doorway. “You and Maeve are, like, the coolest people in Hawkins.”

You stand ahead of him on the front steps of the trailer, glowing beneath the silver moon and the buzzing amber porchlight. Eddie lingers in the entryway and holds the door open with his shoulder, so he can hear Maeve when she inevitably starts shouting for him.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that,” he wavers with a scrunched nose. “Maeve’s pretty cool and all, but… She definitely didn’t get that from me.”

“Your favorite movies are Land Before Time and Stand By Me,” you deadpan with a flat face. A smile inevitably pulls at your lips when you look at him too long, pretty as he is. “You’re cool, Eddie. Whether you wanna be or not.”

“Agree to disagree,” he grins, totally sheepish as he shrugs off the compliment. “Thanks for hangin’ around. Again.”

He feels like he’s said that too many times now, but he’s too full of gratitude to stop. It’s been just him and Maeve for so long. And, yeah, sure, Steve and Robin come around when they can, but they’ve got their own lives outside of this one. It isn’t every day someone appears at his trailer with a bottle of booze and the wherewithal to acclimate to his chaotic life.

Eddie feels like he should never stop thanking you, really.

You shrug. “Thanks for keeping me around. Again.”

“See you soon?” he wonders with a hopeful glint in his dark eyes, made a much lighter amber in the moonlight.

You nod firmly once. “‘Course.”

And even though that’s as good a dismissal as any, you both linger in the doorway still. Like your feet are glued in place. 

How are you supposed to walk away from him? The man with wild rockstar curls, rings on each finger, and a beaded bracelet with his daughter’s initial in the very center. The man who loves cartoons more than his toddler and cries with you at sad movies?

You figure you’ll spend forever chasing this foreign feeling he’s so effortlessly given you.

“Daddy!” Maeve shouts. Her high-pitched voice rings through the tiny trailer. It makes you wince a little. You didn’t think something so tiny could be so loud.

“And there’s Mayday…” Eddie lilts quietly, unflinching ‘cause he’s used to this by now.

“I’ll go,” you laugh, walking backward towards your car. “I’ll— I’ll see you around.”

“G’night,” he calls to you as he watches you go.

His chest stings when he realizes he never asked for your number. It feels much too awkward to do it now, and he’s only got a few minutes more before Maeve goes crazy on him. He should’ve asked you ages ago, really. But he didn’t. ‘Cause he’s an idiot.

You notice it, too, but you flash him a sheepish smile over your shoulder anyway. Even if you never hear from him again after you’re gone, you figure there’s always next year. 

Maeve will be another year older. Steve will bring you along to her party if you beg. Eddie will be in desperate need of a pick-me-up, and you’ll bring a bottle of booze just to make him smile. The alcohol will go untouched, though, as the two of you get lost in conversation and Stand By Me.

Even if all this was only destined to happen once every year — even if it was only supposed to happen once and never again — you’ll spend the rest of your life grateful that it happened at all.

With a cold hand trembling with longing, you wrench your car door open. Though your heart’s heavy with a distant worry that you may never be back here again, you grin at him through the grief and the small distance between you.

“Good night, Eddie.”

[suzukiblu]

"🍻❓" poll winner, "your honor uncuff me so I can high-five my life", aka "Billy and Damian and the whole soulmate thing". (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“You still can’t take me in,” Billy retorts, folding his arms and scowling at Batman again. He doesn’t care how many stupid bedrooms Batman has, because–“You’ve got a ton of kids and all of Gotham to worry about. You don’t even have time to do the paperwork, much less actually figure out how to keep me from just walking out the stupid door. And Fawcett needs me, plus our social services wouldn’t send me all the way to Gotham anyway!”

And Robin was already worried about his dad getting rid of him; there’s no way he’s gonna feel any better about his dad spending all that time on getting custody of another kid, his soulmate or not. Plus it’d be weird! It’d be super-weird, getting fostered by his soulmate’s dad! 

“You’re twelve,” Batman says like that is even slightly relevant to literally a single thing that they’re talking about. 

“I’m leaving. I’ll come back when I’m eighteen and can marry Robin,” Billy announces, glowering at him. “Good luck next time the apocalypse is magic or Superman gets mind-controlled or all the adults get kicked off the planet, ‘cuz everybody in Young Justice is too old to fix that for you now and I'm not gonna be around to.” 

“Technically the speedster and the clone are both under the age of ten,” Robin says. “They might manage a loophole.” 

“Oh, maybe,” Billy says, frowning in consideration. “I guess it depends on the spell, in that case? Well, or if it’s even a spell again at all, that’s–”

“Wait, you did get kicked off the planet then!” Flash protests indignantly. Billy gives him a withering look. He and Robin were talking. Also, isn’t it obvious what happened anyway? 

“Captain Marvel got kicked off the plant,” he retorts dubiously. “I just went back and forth whenever I transformed. Duh.” 

“How is that even possible?” Superman asks, looking stressed. “You were still twelve.” 

“Actually I was like eight then,” Billy says, because again, his age has literally nothing to do with anything, but whatever. “Well, eight and a half.” 

Superman puts his face in his hands, for some reason, which makes about as much sense as everyone keeping on bringing up that he’s twelve. Billy literally does not even care, at this point. Superman thinks he can’t even do his job. 

[chuunai]

I had an idea for the 100 followers thingy- so like the babies thing but you’re a single mother (maybe teen mom?) and dazai (pm) falls in love with you and your baby :} ps- I LOVE YOU TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF SUGAR 💗‼️‼️‼️

I’m trying I swear TvT

✧˚ · . you’re a virgin and I’m just a meth head - pm! dazai osamu

the new hire at the port mafia interests him. the baby, too.

summary ⋆ ★ comfort, fluff with a sprinkle of angst, mentions of teen pregnancy, reader and PM! dazai are seventeen, SFW, mentions of a former abusive relationship, mentions of suicide (it’s fucking dazai), happy ending.

Assistants were something he never cared for much.

They came and go, either requesting to work for a different department in the Port Mafia after witnessing his peculiarities or dying. He hadn’t ever formed any bonds with them. Hell, he hardly knew their names. Dazai preferred to give them childish nicknames such as ‘four-eyes’ for the ones with glasses or ‘baldy’ for the ones who had barely began balding.

No use in actually getting to know them.

All they were good for anyway was organizing his work and making a schedule of meetings and pointless missions he’d hardly follow. And what could they do? Nothing.

Once, he had attempted to get Ango to apply for the job during an outing at Bar Lupin, but that four-eyes declined. So did Oda. Geez, his friends lacked faith in him. Dazai wasn’t that bad of a boss. His subordinates didn’t die that often compared to the others.

Then again, his most recent assistant had died via overdosing. Straight from the Port Mafia’s warehouses, too. Dying of his own stupidity because karma struck him down. The high may have been sending him to the clouds, but he got too close to the sun just as Icarus did and burned—or in this case, vomited—to death. Fun.

A replacement would be needed, yes, but that would involve looking through so many applications and that was boring compared to strangling himself or pulling Chuuya’s hair when the redhead was speaking with Kouyou.

He’d pick irritating the slug over paperwork any day. At least one was fun.

So he just had Mori pick one out. As long as they wouldn’t be a nuisance and knew their place, he didn’t care who it was. Boy, girl, whatever. All ages welcomed. Dazai preferred younger though. The old farts were annoying and so utterly dumb! So when a subordinate gave him a file for his new assistant, he didn’t think anything of it. He always got those for record keeping.

Although this particular individual piqued his interest as his eyes gazed over the information attached.

The age was young—seventeen, same as him. A girl. According to the report, you were previously stationed as a secretary for some lower ranking member. And you’d just joined, too. Only a few blissful months ago. Just barely a baby in the crime world. All dewy-eyed and truly unknowing of the dark underbelly of Yokohama.

Most interesting, though, and the thing that struck his curiosity was the fact that a small sticky note was attached to the last page.

‘Single mother of eight month old girl’

There weren’t many parents in the Mafia, much less teenage ones. Nobody had time to have a baby with the lack of safety. But you did. Someone desperate enough to provide for their child to the point where they joined an illegal organization without even being an adult yet. That took will and selflessness. Something he lacked.

And without having even met you yet, Dazai found himself fascinated by you.

Murmuring your name to himself, he found himself a bit startled at how smooth it rolled off his tongue. He liked it, too. Your name was nice to say.

Tossing the file onto his desk carelessly, Dazai tapped his fingers on the desk, mind wandering once more. If you had a child then you’d probably work your best to support them. You’d be competent enough for him.

Apparently competent enough to the point where you felt like you could handle bringing the baby to the Mafia HQ.

“I don’t remember hiring two assistants.”

Dazai’s voice came out as slightly amused and startled. There you were, standing in-front of his desk while occasionally shushing your…daughter? It looked like a girl, anyway.

“Sorry- her sitter wasn’t available and I-“

His eyes stared at your reddening cheeks—embarrassment and shame, he could tell—as you spoke again.

“I don’t really have anyone to watch her. I’m so sorry, sir.”

Sir? You called him sir? That made him wave his hand a bit dismissively. The only people who called him ‘sir’ were the random grunts and gunmen that served under him. Or people who were scared shitless of him.

“Dazai. Not sir.”

Sitting up languidly, his uncovered eye focused on the baby. Curls of dark hair fell over her forehead while her tiny hands grabbed at your shirt and hair. Funny, he thought.

“And the baby can stay.”

She reminded him of some of the orphans Oda took care of. Especially Sakura. Maybe they had the same name, too. Unlikely, though. She didn’t look like a Sakura, really.

Picking up a pen, he pointed it at you, a small smile on her face.

“Speaking of, may I know her mother’s name?”

He knew it already. But it felt more right if he convinced himself you told him.

“Oh! Yes, uhm, I’m (L/N) (Y/N). And her name,” Tapping your baby’s forehead, she released a small coo, giggling slightly. “is (L/N) Yukirou.”

“Winter baby, huh. I’ll guess, December 16th?”

This was so much fun for him so far. Maybe Yukirou really could be his second assistant. As a joke, of course.

Nodding, you began to ramble on about the baby as he relaxed back in his chair, spinning around and making funny faces at Yukirou. The small child giggled and outreached her fingers to him, probably infatuated by his bandages and messy hair. He didn’t touch her, though. No need to let such a good small thing interact with a person like him.

And so minutes went by. Technically, he should’ve been doling out tasks and trying to kill himself again—he had heard of a technique where one could inject apple juice into their neck and die, but he wasn’t sure it’d work—but it slipped out of his grasp. Maybe it was the fact you two were so close in age. The fact that in another universe you could’ve been classmates fueled this moment. Dazai didn’t really know people his age other than Chuuya, but Chuuya was Chuuya. You were new.

New to everything in this line of business. The killing, the release of morals. Then again, you were just an assistant. You’d never directly be involved with that. Just helping him out with whatever was needed.

Dazai thought that was a smart choice, whether or not you intended for it to be. As an assistant, you’d be safe from the gunfire and outermost threats. More likely to live and protect your daughter.

So caring in a line of work where lives were dispensable.

He wondered how you got there. Not to the Port Mafia—the file told him. But how you took on such a frowned upon job to solely provide for your child. Was the father a deadbeat? Or actually dead? His father was the same. Dead five years into Dazai’s life.

His mother tried her best, but she died too and he slipped onto Mori’s grasp. Hopefully your baby wouldn’t end up in the same situation.

The peaceful moment was interrupted by one of his men who dropped off a load of documents, side-eyeing you before leaving.

Dazai wished you hadn’t turned the conversation back to work.

“Sir, sorry- Dazai-san, would you like me to organize the papers..?”

Why did he forget that you were just an assistant of his? The medication must be making his mind woozy again.

“By date and incident, yep. Also, if you see any that mentioned a Chuuya, please throw them out. Or burn them. Preferably the burning part.”

His office was always to be kept rid of that ginger.

“On it.”

And so he doodled a noose on the wood of his desk while you slowly put the papers away. It soon became clear to him that Yukirou was making the job a tad difficult by trying to grab at the papers.

A slight idea of letting her crawl loose in Mori’s office and destroying it entered his mind, but it quickly left.

“Y’know, if she’s being a devil, I can play with her for a bit. I swear I’ll be good!”

The words left him before he could really process them. Next thing he knew he was wearing the baby carrier with tiny fingers pulling at his shirt. Instructions poured from your lips as he nodded and patted the baby’s back.

“I’ll kill you if anything goes wrong.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at the sound of that. You? Kill him? Never going to happen. Unless it were a double suicide, but you probably wouldn’t say yes.

And he replied when the slight fear in your eyes registered after remembering that he was your boss in the Mafia.

“If course, cutie. I give you permission to kill me if theoretically anything goes wrong.”

Dazai made sure to sneak a peek at your reddening cheeks before leaving his office with the baby strapped to his chest and tugging at his bandages like a little snake.

That’s how it all started. A boy and a girl who happened to have a baby.

He’d never regret how months went by as you two became closer and closer. Joking around, complaining about work, all the stuff friends did. Hell, Dazai even watched Yukirou sometimes.

Thank god Chuuya wasn’t there to see him watching children’s cartoons on your couch with a baby in his lap and a stuffed animal in the other.

Or how he insisted on covering some of your rent when you were struggling. Yukirou needs a home, after all. He sees himself in her a bit. And he didn’t want her to turn out like him. If he couldn’t change his own life for the better, he’d change hers.

And yours.

Much better than that dickhead that fathered Yukirou. You told Dazai about it one night when he stayed over after babysitting once more. Yukirou was napping in her nursery, and you two were sitting on the couch just talking.

Talking turned into sharing details of your lives, and he came up. Your old flame who ditched you. Breaking a promise that he’d be there for the baby and you. Dazai was silent all throughout it. Quiet when you spoke of the emotional abuse and stress that you had, quiet when you began crying over the fact you never got to graduate high school.

He was just there, daring to awkwardly rub your back as you vented. He wondered if you had talked about it before. Probably not.

Dazai felt like he too needed to share a story of his childhood too in exchange for yours. So he told you about the poor neighborhood he grew up in and the horrors he saw daily.

Did it lessen the impact of your venting? Most likely, but in his opinion, he was trying to show you that he trusted you now too. He assumed it worked when you fell asleep on his shoulder. He took care of Yukirou when she woke crying an hour later. He would’ve been a much better father than that bastard.

It didn’t help either that Yukirou began to see him as her daddy. He was there when she turned a year old, gifting her all sorts of things. Scolding her when she nibbled on his hands. Doing nearly everything a dad would.

Even when she managed to say ‘mama’ and ‘dada’ for the first time, it was when all three of you were in the room together. In her tiny mind, it was her family. Her mama and Dazai—her papa. Oda congratulated him for becoming a father when you came along one day with him to Bar Lupin.

It didn’t live up to Chuuya’s reaction when he first heard one of his guys call Dazai a doting father. The shortstack had gone up to him asking if he really was Yukirou’s dad—rumors went around at HQ quickly—and Dazai had to sadly reply that he wasn’t. Sometimes he wished he was. Months of time with you led to nights in bed where he dreamed of a universe that he was really the dad. That Yukirou had his brown eyes instead of her dad’s blue ones.

It wasn’t fair.

Nor were his growing feelings.

Dazai was smart. A genius thinker and planner. So of course he noticed how his heart began to rapidly beat around you. The sweating of his usually cold hands.

He’d had crushes in the past, sure. But it didn’t equate to this. Such a strong connection only made it worse. Was it wrong his Google history lately was filled with questions about confessing to and dating a single mom?

Did you even like him back?

That question couldn’t be answered by anyone but you. It scared him. You probably didn’t. Not as more than a brother, anyway. His suicidal ideation and tendencies scared off any woman who wanted more than sex. But he probably wouldn’t be living long anyway. So he’d have to shoot his shot eventually.

Which he did after another five months of consideration and thought. Dazai committed this act by simply asking you to sort out some notes for him. A total of eight. Each one had a single word on it. If you correctly put them together, it spelled:

‘I like you. Do you like me back?’

Much to his relief and shock, you did. You did, and he had hugged you so tightly. Tightening their bond, too.

So he became your boyfriend. And he wore the title of ‘dad’ to Yukirou gladly. The little girl saw him as her papa, and he couldn’t deny it. Even if it wasn’t biologically, she was his. And yours.

Dazai’s life used to be mundane and slow, yet with his new…family, he felt genuine happiness for once. A reason to live.

That was the greatest gift he could receive of all.

Regular Tags: @twst-om-lover, @xxcandlelightxx, @sinfulthoughtsposts.

Tags for everyone who interacted with this post (it’s over 100): @walking-simp, @hypocritic-trash-baby, @heartsfourdazai, @cheriiyaya, @depressed-monarch, @nyxt0t, @baby-tini, @h0nk3rs, @internet-angell, @cupidszvlvr, @owosamu, @my-dear-melancholy, @dazaibae, @nekomafumafufan18-blog, @cvsmois, @lizsano, @nanamiinto, @inojuuy, @reomarys, @mayanakahara, @briiscoolig, @maislovebot, @syona-sachyo, @xieqq2, @angelof-darkness, @moriiko, @fuckthisfuckingshit, @daushu, @wrynue, @amnda-ft-fyodor, @rain-alucard, @hanayoshiii, @moemoekunn, @thatwasa, @miiiloo, @probablyzombiedinosaurs, @mauviese, @chips-and-vinegar, @https-dazai, @rragudoru, @leyla3x0, @cheetozai, @jillyfsh, @rylerboi, @linaaeatsfamilies, @zorizoras, @onlinewhisper14, @komicoral, @anim3-simps, @theoddsinner, @caayye, @scaramow, @such-a-silly-little-gy, @bunnybs-stuff, @psychiclovecollective, @sleepy-yumi516, @fromjas, @suzurans-world, @mrstengenuzui, @mitislm, @tealover111, @edgarallanpoeswifey, @baby-tini, @yaz4luvv, @deliciouscandysalad, @isrealityevenreal, @briefcreationcandy, @astr3eaa, @underscoredaniii, @nolongerhooman, @notalooo, @ratinawetsocksweater, @tomiroro,

Rest in comments I’m crying now also if your tag is white it’s because you didn’t pop up when I was doing the @‘s

[elliesbelle]

nobody compares to you

chapter 13

pairing: ellie x reader

synopsis: you're in your junior year of college and at a party, you run into the girl who broke your heart: ellie williams. despite the time it took to reset your life, will you risk a broken heart again for her?

content warnings: modern college au, cursing, angst, dealer!ellie, mentions of marijuana and descriptions of its usage, descriptions of anaphylactic shock, brief mention of needles, descriptions of anxiety, mentions of death, descriptions of jealousy, mentions of breakups, several flashback scenes, mentions of LSD and its usage, descriptions of acid tripping, ellie's POV, minors do not interact

word count: 9k

chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen

series masterlist

my masterlist

i have a ko-if if you like my work so much that you feel compelled to tip me ♡︎

the "nobody compares to you" spotify playlist

songs featured in this chapter (including a surprise audio AND drawing commission in the middle of the fic):

the aaron taylor song “i think i love you again”

the carpenters song “merry christmas darling”

palestine will be free

“Where the fuck even are you?” 

“Not home.” 

“Well, no shit. I’m literally sitting on your living room couch, dumbass.” 

“Get out of my apartment, weirdo.” 

“Stop procrastinating, asshole.” 

Ellie rolls her eyes as a couple of bright yellow leaves slowly dance down on the pavement from the nearby trees on her path home. One hand holds her phone up in front of her with Dina’s face front and center on the screen through FaceTime. 

Having just dropped off a rather large order to a couple of stoner sophomores living on campus, Ellie’d decided to take the longer, more scenic route home instead of the usual way she’d go every day. She had a “date” lined up with Daniela in about an hour or so, a meeting she wasn’t particularly looking forward to being present for. Having no real enthusiasm to actually be on time to meet up with her, Ellie was purposely and leisurely delaying her return home to get ready. 

Dina, busy lounging on the couch in Jesse and Ellie’s living room, busies herself by finishing a bland, microwaveable box of mac and cheese she’d found shoved in the back of the duo’s full freezer. She was casually killing time talking to Ellie through video chat while she waited for Jesse to finish getting ready for their movie date night. 

Jesse enjoyed dragging Dina along to a movie theater in the neighbouring downtown area that showed old and foreign films. Back home in Jackson throughout their childhood, he and Ellie would make Dina sit through old sci-fi pictures, cult horror films, martial arts movies in a completely different language and with no subtitles. Dina would sit in the middle of the two in complete boredom as she listened to them psychoanalyzing background characters who had two lines and spending hours explaining their personal interpretations of a single camera angle in some inconsequential scene. 

When they all began attending university, Jesse was over the moon upon discovering the nearby theater and the kind of films they would show. Dina complained every single time, but she secretly enjoyed these date nights regardless, always arguing with Jesse on the way home with her own analyses of the movie they’d just seen. She was a little less enthusiastic this time, however, upon hearing that the film they were about to go see was an early 2000s Bollywood movie that had a running time of nearly four hours. 

Jesse had just gotten home from working out at the gym and was busy showering, and Dina decided to preoccupy herself in the meantime by thoroughly berating Ellie for her disinterest and voluntary tardiness for her “date” later that evening. 

“El, I really don’t understand why you’re even bothering with her,” Dina says after a huge, wet slurp of her mac and cheese. “Leave that poor freshman girl alone. You really don’t even seem to like her that much.” 

“She’s still got Joel’s jacket and I want it back.” Ellie shrugs nonchalantly. 

“Maybe if you didn’t pass that shabby old thing around to every new girl you see for a month…” Dina replies, not bothering to mutter under her breath. 

“Oh, leave me the fuck alone, Woodward,” Ellie says, chuckling. “Slutshamer.” 

Jesse jaunts into the living room, jet black hair damp from the shower and fully dressed, and spots Ellie’s face on Dina’s tiny screen. He waltzes towards the couch and, without any warning, stealthily snatches Dina’s phone right out of her hand. 

“Hey!” Dina protests indignantly, trying to reach for it back. 

Jesse ignores her as Ellie laughs. 

“Yo, what the fuck, Williams.” Jesse scolds the auburn-haired girl. 

“Wassup, Chang.” 

“What the hell did you ditch me and the gym for earlier? Today’s our cardio day.” 

“Had a huge delivery I needed to make,” Ellie shrugs. “Wanted two 40 bags on top of a few lavender pre-rolls. And they lived on the opposite side of campus.” 

“A likely excuse,” Jesse scoffs. “I think you’ve been harbouring a secret, years-long grudge against me and actually hate me for some reason.” 

“Oh, it’s not a secret. I do hate you.” 

“Dickhead.” Jesse chuckles as Dina heartily laughs behind him with a mouthful of mac and cheese. 

Before Jesse can continue to berate his best friend, his own phone rings noisily from the inside of one of his jeans pockets. 

“Oh, look. Someone who actually loves and appreciates me.” He says indignantly, handing small-scale Ellie back to Dina. 

Ellie playfully rolls her eyes, trying to ignore the fact that Jesse’s phone is currently buzzing and blaring with the personalized ringtone he’d set for your contact years ago shortly after you’d all met for the first time. 

Dina, recognizing the familiar sound as well and noticing Ellie’s tight lips and rigid expression, quickly attempts to change the subject. 

“So where exactly are you gonna be meeting up with the Daniela girl?” Dina quickly asks Ellie at the same time that Jesse booms, “Good evening once again to my absolute favourite person in the whole world!” 

Ellie hesitantly begins to reply to Dina but cuts off almost immediately when she hears Jesse’s tone turn serious and mutter a name she’d come to despise. 

“Oh. Hey, Anderson. What’s up?” Jesse says blankly. “Where’s—” 

“Oh, shit.” Dina inadvertently murmurs as Ellie’s face immediately goes red with fury. 

“Why the fuck is Anderson calling Jesse on her phone?” Ellie demands quietly of Dina. 

“I mean… she is on a date with her tonight…” Dina reluctantly admits, knowing that lying to Ellie about your current whereabouts is pointless after figuring Jesse would eventually blab it to her anyway. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Ellie seethes. 

“I don’t really know why she’d be calling Jesse, though. That doesn’t make any sense...” Dina says, setting down her fork and turning her head back towards her boyfriend as Ellie watches intently him from the corner of Dina’s phone screen. 

Both girls stare Jesse down as he intently listens to the other end of the line, the two getting more and more nervous as his face gets stonier as each second passes. When he finally speaks, his voice is grave and urgent. 

“Is she breathing?” 

“What?” Both Dina and Ellie simultaneously say in distress, which Jesse ignores. 

“What did she eat?” He asks Abby. 

“What’s going on?” Dina implores of him fearfully, sitting up straighter in her seat and completely abandoning her partially eaten mac and cheese on the coffee table. 

Jesse holds up a pointer finger as an indication that he needs to keep listening as Ellie hushes her sternly, fiercely trying to eavesdrop on Jesse’s conversation. 

“Okay. What did you eat?” Jesse questions. 

The way Jesse’s face falls elicits a sharply drawn breath from Dina and drains all the colour from Ellie’s face. 

“Did she have any?” He asks. 

While Jesse listens for Abby’s lengthy response, Ellie quickly averts her eyes back to Dina. 

“Dina.” She says hastily. “Where did Anderson take her tonight?” 

“Orchards. It’s that fancy restaurant that’s like, right by here.” 

“I know. They serve a lot of seafood there, right?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Do you think Anderson ordered any?” 

“El, how am I supposed to know that?” 

“Well, does Anderson know that she’s deadly fucking allergic to shellfish? That she can’t even fucking touch that shit?” 

Dina’s terrified face suddenly goes completely pale before she responds. 

“I-I don’t know...” 

“Does she have any pockets or some kind of bag with her?” They hear Jesse say. “See if she has her EpiPen in there.” 

“E-El… I don’t think she does.” Dina stammers.” I helped her get dressed tonight and I saw her before she left, and I-I don’t think—” 

Ellie nearly drops her phone on the pavement from how clammy her hands have become from complete fear. When she hears Jesse fiercely mutter a furious “fuck,” she immediately breaks into a sprint. 

“Dina!” Ellie demands. “Give me back to Jesse! Now!” Dina hastily hands her phone to her petrified boyfriend without question as he quickly asks Abby to stay calm and give him a quick second. 

“Jess!” Ellie breathlessly yells, not bothering to keep her voice down and without any concern for the fellow students she was alarming as she ran by. “Go to my room right now and search in the bottom drawer of my desk!!!” 

Promptly and silently, Jesse darts in the direction of Ellie’s bedroom with Dina following closely behind him. 

“There’s an old EpiPen of hers somewhere in there! I think it’s probably a couple of months expired now, but grab it anyway!” 

Jesse and Dina unceremoniously bust into Ellie’s bedroom and follow her instructions precisely. After forcibly yanking open the bottom-most drawer of her computer desk, they begin to desperately rifle through it. After a few seconds of frantic ransacking through its miscellaneous contents, Jesse pulls out a thick, plastic cylindrical object with tiny lettering embellished all over the translucent plastic. 

“Look for the little slot on the side of it that shows you some liquid-y shit inside!” Ellie presses him. “Is it still completely clear and clean, or is it all brown and murky?” 

“It’s clear.” Jesse replies after quickly inspecting the EpiPen. 

“Okay, go!” Ellie orders. “Dina’s gonna call 911 right now! Orchards is right around the corner from our place, so run! Inject the needle on the outside of her thigh! And check her pulse and see if she’s breathing, ‘cause you’ll need to do CPR if she isn’t! Paramedics probably won’t get there for another five minutes or so, so you just gotta keep doing chest compressions until they can get there!” 

Jesse nods and immediately sprints out of the room after handing Dina her phone, placing his own back to his ear and quickly informing Abby that he’d be there shortly, firmly asking her to check your pulse. 

Dina sets her eyes on Ellie, pure terror engraved on her face. 

“Ellie, s-shouldn’t we grab the EpiPen she has now in her apartment? I think I know where it is, probably. Isn’t that safer than—”

“Her apartment is fifteen minutes away from that restaurant and Jesse can get there in two! We can’t waste any more time!” Ellie clarifies quickly. “Now, I need you to hang up right away and call 911 and explain everything that’s just happened! Go!” 

Ellie doesn’t bother waiting for Dina to end the call and roughly taps on the red button herself. 

She shoves her phone into the pocket of her hoodie and quickens her pace. 

Her lungs winded and her heart threatening to beat out of her chest, she couldn't seem to care any less about her own breathing at that very moment. She trusts nothing else but her own feet to get her exactly where she desperately needs to be. She sees nothing and no one else but the pavement directly in front of her, cutting across the university’s campus through the fastest route she can think of in the moment. 

Despite never having been a religious person in any way, Ellie begins to plead a desperate prayer in her mind to whatever god or deity that could possibly exist that you were still breathing somehow and that Jesse had found you and gotten there in time. 

She takes a moment to pull her phone out and check how long it’s been since she ended the FaceTime call with Dina, seeing that a little less than five minutes had just passed. She considers calling her once more for any updates; but not wanting to risk being a possible distraction in case Dina is needed in the moment, she ultimately decides against doing so and instead wills her feet to move faster. 

Unwelcome thoughts begin to involuntarily flood Ellie’s mind as she sprints. 

She thinks of the last time you’d seen each other: that night of your heart-to-heart dinner with Jesse at Sterling’s. It felt almost fated for her and Dina to walk into the same restaurant at the same time that the two of you had been meeting. Ellie recalls the identical look of dismay on both of your faces, equally overwhelmed at the sight of one another. She can still feel the angry yet doleful tears that fell down her red cheeks as she stormed away from the diner, threatening to expose endless repressed feelings of remorse and heartache. 

She remembers the day she saw your sudden reunion with Abby Anderson, you dressed in that beautiful floral sundress and very obviously flirting with the tall, muscular blonde. Her nails were so angrily digging into her palms at the sight of you two that she can still feel the phantom marks that had nearly drawn blood. She’d nearly frightened Dina, who was lounging on the living room couch with a joint in hand, when she busted into her and Jesse’s apartment with immediate choice words that were aroused by her unbridled anger. 

She recalls the last time you’d actually spoken to one other directly after that miserable, unfortunate night of the Sigma Eta party, how taken aback she was at how you were still so undeniably beautiful underneath the pale moonlight. Having been sitting on the hood of her Jeep while she watched in amusement at your futile attempts to keep yourself warm, she thinks of the way your eyes were furiously and desperately trying to avoid her piercing ocean green gaze. The memory of the angry, fleeting look you’d given Daniela when you’d obviously noticed Joel’s old motorcycle jacket resting on her shoulders is one she can never forget; nor could she the air of raw, bitter indignation that radiated off you at the sight of one of your signature lavender joints nestled in between Daniela’s lips. 

She can still feel the visceral rage that sparked inside her from Frat Guy Adam’s casual cruelty towards you, followed by feelings of heartbreak at watching the way your face had fallen at his words. The sheer remorse from pathetically having done nothing right when it happened still weighs on her. Ellie can never forget the simultaneous feelings of shame and comfort she’d felt after your heated encounter with her in the bathroom of Sterling’s: shame from being forcibly confronted with a reminder of the deepest regret of her whole life; and comfort at finally being able to see with her own ocean green eyes, after so long, the face of a person she once adored more than she did anyone else in the world. 

Maybe even still. 

Ellie eventually finds herself at the intersection right where her shared apartment with Jesse is located. Her hasty pursuit is frustratingly impeded when she’s stopped by the angry, glowing red hand at the crosswalk she needs to get past to reach Orchards, cars endlessly coming one after the other. For a few moments, she’s at least able to catch a much-needed, painful breath.

While she bounces up and down on her feet in impatience, very seriously contemplating running across anyway and risking being hit by a speeding car, Ellie thinks of one thing and one thing only: the first moment her eyes met yours all those years ago. The moment when she knew, deep down and instinctively, that everything had changed. 

She’s brutally broken out of her brief reverie by the blaring of sirens booming from around the corner. Her head immediately shoots towards the sound and she watches as two ambulances with flashing red and white lights speed down the road and towards what she believes is the direction of the nearest emergency room. 

Ellie wastes no time bolting down the crosswalk the millisecond that the orange pedestrian signal finally blinks to white, sprinting down the street of Orchards. She’s somehow able to spot Dina’s figure in the middle of a small crowd of people gathered next to the restaurant and immediately sprints towards her. By the time Ellie is able to reach her, most of the unfamiliar bystanders have dispersed with whispers. Her heart races as she sees Dina’s cheeks wet and dripping endlessly with tears. 

“Dina!” Ellie huffs, using the last of her breath and energy to dash to her side. 

“Ellie!” Dina sighs in relief upon spotting her friend. 

They envelop each other in a tight embrace, Dina hiccuping slightly into Ellie’s shoulder. 

“What happened? Did you guys make it in time? Is she okay? Where is she? Where’s Jesse?” Ellie rambles. 

“Sh-she’s okay, I think,” Dina stammers. “She was breathing when Jesse got here, but her pulse was really slow. The paramedics got here a few minutes after Jesse did.” 

She sloppily wipes her eyes with the back of her hands before continuing. 

“They said that the EpiPen probably saved her life, said that she would have had a lot less of a chance if we had just waited for them to arrive. Expired EpiPen was apparently better than nothing, as long as it wasn’t too far off from when it did expire.” 

Ellie takes a relieved breath in at hearing this. 

“Thank god. Thank fucking god. That’s what I thought, but I-I honestly wasn’t sure. I couldn’t remember clearly in the moment.” 

“How did you even know that?” Dina asks her in genuine curiosity. 

“I-I… wh-when we were, you know, t-together…” Ellie mutters awkwardly. “I made sure to know, j-just in case.” 

“Oh, Ellie…” 

Ellie wrings her hands together and clears her throat in embarrassment. 

“So where’s Jess? Where’s Anderson?” She asks, changing the subject and voice dripping in disdain at the last word. 

“Jesse rode in the ambulance with her and the paramedics, and Abby said that she’d follow behind in her car,” Dina replies. “I stayed behind ‘cause I figured you were on your way and I wanted to be able to tell you what happened in person.” 

“Thank you, D, seriously.” 

Dina stares at Ellie earnestly for a moment. 

“You really do still love her.” Dina says, not as a question but as a statement. 

Ellie doesn’t respond to this remark, her lips tight and her ocean green eyes unreadable. 

“Come on. Let’s go see her.” 

You had been brought to St. Peter’s Hospital, the closest one located to your university. When Ellie and Dina had gotten there, they found Jesse sitting alone in the mostly empty waiting room. He was staring up at the dreary off-white ceiling, his left leg nervously bouncing up and down as one of his hands gripped his right knee. When he spots the two girls enter the room, he immediately jumps out of his seat to meet them. He pulls his girlfriend into a tight embrace and gives her a tender kiss on the forehead, and then he places a firm and reassuring hand on his best friend’s shoulder. 

“How is she?” Ellie asks nervously. 

“Unconcious still, but she’s alive,” Jesse replies somberly. “The paramedics in the ambulance told me that they were pumping her full of adrenaline; and so now, they’re either still doing that or they’re just trying to get her heart rate back to normal. Apparently, her tongue was so swollen and her throat closed up completely, so they’ve got to reopen her airways ‘cause she’s having a hard time breathing.” 

“Oh, god…” Dina chokes out. 

“Don’t worry, D.” Jesse consoles. “She’s gonna be fine. She’s strong, and we know that. They’re taking care of her, and she’ll hopefully be awake soon.” 

“I know, I know…” Dina sniffles. “It’s really not like me to fall apart like this. But she’s like a sister to me, you know. I mean, she basically is.” 

“Me too, babe. Don’t worry. We all love her too. No need to explain.” Jesse says. 

Dina gives him a soft smile as he gives her another tender forehead kiss. Watching such a small but affectionate scene between the two makes Ellie feel as if she’s intruding on a private moment she shouldn’t be witnessing. Jealousy in the form of a knife in the stomach twists inside her while her heart aches to feel that kind of intimacy. 

“Oh, shit, I should call her uncle,” Dina suddenly realizes, pulling away from Jesse slightly. “I think I still have his number from freshman year. He should know what’s going on.” 

“Good idea.” Jesse agrees. “He’s one of her emergency contacts, but I’m not sure if he knows just yet.” 

“I’ll call the girls too,” She continues, referring to the other girls who lived in the Wilson Valley building with you and Dina during your freshman year. “I know that they’ll also want to know.” 

She pulls her phone out of her pocket before muttering a quick “be right back” and exiting the waiting room. 

Jesse and Ellie watch her walk out silently. After a moment or two, Jesse speaks up. 

“Are you okay, El?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Come on, man. Don’t do that. You know what I mean.” 

“I’m fine, Jess.” 

“Dude.” 

“What?” 

Jesse turns his whole body to face Ellie straight on, crossing his arms against his chest and frowning. 

“You’re completely red in the face, you look the most stressed out than I’ve ever seen you, and you’re here.” 

“So?” Ellie replies stubbornly. 

“Williams.” Jesse stresses sternly. “You know Dina and I saw everything you had in that desk drawer.” 

Ellie says nothing in reply and Jesse continues. 

“You literally still had her old EpiPen from like, two years ago. That entire drawer was full of her shit.” 

Ellie clenches her jaw and balls up her fists. 

“You still have all those old letters she used to write you all the time, all these mementos and knickknacks from when you two were together. You even have Barbie Bear.” Jesse points out. “Do you know that she’s been chewing Dina out nonstop about her for years because she thinks Dina stole her?” 

“Look, she and I just stopped talking to each other all of a sudden before sophomore year. I never had an actual chance to give her all of her shit back—” 

“You literally could have given them to me or Dina or even any of the Wilson girls so we could return them.” 

“Look—” 

“And what about the rest of it? Shit that you didn’t have to actually give back to her? It’s been years. You could have easily thrown it all out.” 

“You don’t understa—” 

“You didn’t even bother leaving all that shit back home in Jackson. You brought it all here with you to keep in our apartment.” 

“I… I—” 

“She could have fucking died tonight, El. And you’re still bullshitting me.” 

“Jesse.” Ellie croaks out through quivering lips and watery eyes. 

“You saved her life. She could have very well been in a worse state right now if it weren’t for you. You told me and Dina what to do. Nobody told you to do any of that. And by the sorry state of you, it looks like you just ran three marathons in a row just to get here and make sure she was okay in person.” 

Tears threaten to flow down from Ellie’s ocean green eyes, and it takes every ounce of strength that she has left in her to will them not to fall. 

“She means so, so much to me and Dina. And to a whole bunch of other people too. When she gets hurt, we feel that shit too.” Jesse says. “I need you to get your motherfucking shit together, Williams. Now.” 

Before Ellie can even form some kind of thought in response to his declaration, Dina suddenly reenters the waiting room. 

“Called her uncle and told him everything I know. He’s currently looking up the first flight out and he’ll hopefully be here sometime tomorrow.” Dina informs the pair as she walks over. “Just got off the phone with Astrid too. Most of the girls are either busy or asleep by now, but she said she’ll let them know too as soon as possible. If she’s awake tomorrow, they’ll try to come by to pay her a visit.” 

“Okay, good.” Jesse nods in response. “Thanks for doing that, D. I was so focused on what’s been going on, and none of that even crossed my mind.” 

“They deserved to know.” Dina smiles sadly before suddenly frowning. “But why did she even go into anaphylactic shock in the first place? They both asked me, but I realized that you never actually told either of us and I didn’t really know what to tell them.” 

“She and Anderson were making out, and Anderson had eaten some seafood bouillabaisse for dinner. Apparently, it had a bunch of chopped-up shrimp in it that she couldn’t see.” Jesse says plainly. 

Dina inadvertently glances at Ellie in slight sympathy, but Jesse looks at her with zero remorse on his face. 

“She didn’t tell Abby that she was really allergic?” Dina asks. 

“Anderson apparently had no idea, said that she wouldn’t have ordered it if she knew in the first place.” Jesse clarified. 

“Anderson should have fucking double-checked re-fucking-gardless.” Ellie angrily interjects. 

“It’s not Abby’s fault, Ellie. There’s no way she could have just known instinctively.” Dina reasons. 

“Doesn’t matter. Isn’t she studying to be a fucking doctor? Isn’t that some basic shit that they teach at med school or whatever? She should have known better.” Ellie seethes. “Where the fuck is she, anyway? I thought she came along.” 

“She went down to the food court for a breather.” Jesse says. 

“Oh, she needs a breather?” Ellie sneers. “Yeah, go ahead and catch your breath when the person you almost killed tonight can’t even fucking breathe—” 

“Ellie!” Dina scolds. 

“Whatever.” Ellie scoffs. 

“El,” Dina suddenly brings up. “Have you talked to Daniela yet?” 

“What about her?” Ellie asks. 

“Weren’t you supposed to meet up with her…” Dina checks the time on her phone. “... almost an hour ago?” 

“So?” 

“Ellie.” 

Ellie clicks her tongue. 

“Fine, let me text her right now that I won’t make it—” She begins to say begrudgingly, but she cuts herself off as someone else enters the waiting room. 

Abby Anderson quietly walks through the door, sipping a plain black coffee from a styrofoam cup. She looks up from her drink and gives Jesse an awkward but polite smile which he respectfully returns along with a nod. 

Ellie’s entire body goes cold with frigid, icy hatred, exacerbated when her furious ocean green eyes suddenly meet with Abby Anderson’s tired sky blue ones. 

“Actually,” Ellie suddenly says. “I’m gonna give her a call and see if she’s still free to meet up tonight. I still want my jacket back.” 

Both Dina and Jesse look as if they’re each about to interject with a response, but Ellie is too quick for either of them to say a word. 

Ellie storms out of the waiting room, not giving a second look at Abby Anderson. 

Ellie throws Joel’s old leather jacket onto her bed, sighing softly. She sheds her sweaty grey hoodie and throws it down next to the jacket before pulling her phone out. She proceeds to call Jesse, but she’s greeted with ten, empty-sounding buzzes before being redirected to his voicemail. She then attempts to call Dina but is greeted with an immediate automated message stating that the call could not be completed. 

Groaning in exasperation, Ellie collapses into her desk chair and roughly kicks off her Converse. After a moment or two, she notices the bottom-most drawer of her desk and the way it’s hanging off the frame precariously. Sighing, she crouches down on the floor and begins to rearrange its previous contents. 

At first, she shoves items back into the drawer at random, but she immediately pauses once her hand grazes across the fur of a pink stuffed animal. 

Barbie Bear. 

She picks up the stuffed animal and stares sadly into its plastic eyes. Noticing that the light pink ribbon around its neck has gotten loose, Ellie delicately attempts to retie it back into a bow. After a couple of lopsided tries, she’s eventually satisfied once she’s able to center the ribbon correctly. She carefully places Barbie Bear back into the drawer before returning to restore its contents with more consideration. 

After replacing a few pairs of old earrings of yours into a small box, she picks up a stack of old letters that she’d tied together with a piece of brown twine. Ellie resists the urge to go through each of them, but when she notices that one had fallen out of the stack and is now lying on the floor, her willpower dwindles almost instantly. 

Ellie picks up the envelope gingerly, almost as if she’s afraid that her touch will cause it to burst into flames. She reads her name on the front written with green ink and flips it over to where the flap of the envelope is torn open. She runs her fingers over the wax seal that had secured the letter inside: the design of Saturn amongst several stars. Nervously, she slips the card out from inside and unfolds it to reveal your handwriting. 

Dear Ellie, 

It is currently 4:27 A.M. and I can’t sleep, and for some reason, I can’t stop watching that story you posted on Instagram earlier over and over. The one of you singing and playing your electric guitar to that Aaron Taylor song. Not to be gay as fuck, but it is so easy to get lost in the sound of your voice. Also, I really like your lips. And your hands. 

I know I said this yesterday already, but you’ve been overworking yourself way too much lately. I’m glad that you’ve been putting a lot of effort into your schoolwork, but have you eaten? When was the last time you had a full meal (microwaveable ramen does not count)? Have you been taking any time for yourself? It’s really sweet that you still make time to come hang out with me most days, but you need some you time too, you know. 

Not that I don’t love seeing your goofy face all the time. I don’t know, I think me writing all that out is me casually acknowledging that I have attachment issues and attempting to work on it. Oh, well. I’m pretty attached to you, fucking dork. 

Okay, heading to bed now. Hopefully, I’ll actually be able to fall asleep this time. But hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow (I know I just said that you need to take more time for yourself, but shut up). You’re always the best part of my day. 

Ellie can’t seem to let herself read the final piece of the letter, the part where you’d signed your name. 

She delicately folds the card once more and places it back into its envelope. Turning it over in her hand and tenderly running her fingers over where you’d addressed her name, she wonders if your handwriting is still the same as it was all those years ago. 

Reluctantly, Ellie tucks the letter back into the stack before tying them all securely together once more. 

Earlier That Evening 

Ellie was fifty-two minutes late to her supposed “date” with Daniela. This was Ellie’s third failed attempt at reacquiring Joel’s old motorcycle jacket, and they had previously decided to meet up outside the coffee shop on campus where Daniela recently started working after the end of her shift. 

But after Ellie’s unexplained absence from their meeting, Daniela bitterly stormed back home to her dorm. She had half a mind to say no when Ellie called her with a half-assed explanation and asked if she could come over to retrieve her jacket. But after giving in, Ellie arrived at her dorm room within half an hour. 

It wasn’t a total shock to Ellie when she was greeted with a look of annoyance when Daniela opened the door for her. Ellie attempted to feign a guilty expression, but all that she could muster was an indifferent grimace. Daniela said nothing as she silently beckoned Ellie to follow her and come in, an AirPod playing music loudly in one ear. 

Ellie took a quick glance around the place, never having actually been inside Daniela’s room before. The twin-size beds, old wooden dressers, and scuffed-up desks were an all-too-familiar sight for Ellie, having gone through the same torturous experience herself only a couple of years back in her freshman year. But a few things were different as Daniela and her roommate had attempted to really personalize their living area. Ellie tried not to make a face of repulsion when spotting a few Taylor Swift concert posters above one of the desks. 

Daniela plopped onto, what Ellie had assumed was, her bed but made no gesture that welcomed Ellie to do the same. She merely stared at her passively as Ellie tried to avoid looking her directly in the eye. 

“You’re an hour late.” Daniela pointed out. 

“Only fifty-two minutes late.” Ellie attempted to joke. 

Daniela only hummed in response, unsmiling. She picked up a faded brown jacket that was sitting on top of her pillow by the collar and handed it over to Ellie. 

“Thanks,” Ellie muttered, tucking the jacket under her arm. “Uh, thanks a lot for looking after it. Needed it back ‘cause it’s really my dad’s old jacket.” 

“Oh, sorry. I would have given it back sooner if I knew that.” Daniela replied, not sounding the least bit sorry. 

“It’s okay.” Ellie mumbled awkwardly. 

There was an uncomfortable moment or two of complete silence where Daniela continued to merely gaze at Ellie, unwavering and unapologetic, while Ellie focused her eyes on her Converse as she wrung her hands together. 

“Hey, look…” Ellie eventually spoke up. “I really am sorry about being late. I just had a really important emergency that I had to deal with.” 

“It’s fine,” Daniela replied remorselessly. “Tara told me that you suddenly had to deal with some shit.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“Tara. Tara Maclay. She works with me at Ruston.” 

“Oh, right.” 

Another awkward moment of silence. 

“Your ex-girlfriend, right?” Daniela asks unexpectedly. 

“What?” 

“Your ex-girlfriend. The shit you had to deal with tonight.” 

“Oh, uh…” 

“No point in lying, Ellie.” Daniela shrugged. “Tara already told me the gist.” 

“Oh. What did she say exactly?” 

“Not much. Said that you needed to help deal with something for someone you both know. She didn’t tell me exactly that it was your ex-girlfriend, but it was pretty obvious. I read between the lines.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“She really shouldn’t have told you all that.” 

“She was ranting to another co-worker and I overheard your name and I was curious.” Daniela shrugged again, unabashed. 

Another awkward moment of silence. 

“So you still into your ex or something, Ellie?” Daniela spoke up again. 

“She’s not really my ex-girlfriend.” 

“Whatever.” 

Another awkward moment of silence. 

“Well?” Daniela asked. 

“It’s kind of complicated.” 

“That’s just the bullshit way of saying yes,” Daniela rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t matter if she’s your ‘ex’ or whatever.” 

“Look, Daniela—” 

“I know we aren’t serious or whatever, but I don’t really feel like dealing with someone else’s ex drama.” 

“There’s no drama. I don’t even speak to her anymore.” 

“And yet you ditched me to go and help her out with something earlier.” 

“It’s not like that. And it was also an emergency.” 

“So you said.” 

Ellie wasn’t sure why she felt the need to explain herself to a girl she barely knew. Part of her felt compelled to do so as if she could continue to actively ignore her feelings by saying these things out loud. 

Another awkward moment of silence. 

“God, you’re such an asshole fuckboy, Ellie.” 

“Hey, what the fuck—” 

“You know that you can get girls and do, but you just like to fuck around with them and play with their feelings.” 

“Alright, first of all, you said yourself that we’re nothing serious. We’ve barely even done anything.” Ellie said defensively. “Second, I literally just said that I don’t even talk to her anymore! Not even tonight!” 

Ellie scoffed as Daniela rolled her eyes once more. 

“Look,” Ellie continued through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry that I was late tonight. And I get it if your feelings are hurt. But nothing’s happening between me and my ex.” 

“You just said that she wasn’t your ex.” 

“Sh-she’s— she’s not, she’s—” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Daniela muttered as stood up from her bed. “At this point, I’m over it, and I really don’t give a fuck anymore. You’re hot and all, Ellie. But this is not worth it.” 

She popped an AirPod in her ear once more and sauntered over to the door. 

“Word of advice. Figure out your feelings for this ‘ex’ of yours and decide if you actually wanna be with her or not before getting involved with anyone else. Nobody deserves that hanging over their head, especially when you’re so clearly still in love with her.” 

And with that, Daniela opened the door and peered at her expectantly. Ellie took the hint and walked towards her direction and through the doorway. Before Ellie could fully turn around and give any parting words, Daniela shut the door in her face. 

Present 

Ellie collapses onto her bed next to Joel’s old motorcycle jacket. She pulls her phone out again, contemplating calling Jesse and Dina once more. But realizing they’ll probably call her if they have anything important that they feel she needs to know, she drops the phone down to her side in defeat. 

She continues to lay in her bed for a while, stewing in her unresolved feelings with nobody to confide in. Closing her eyes, her mind begins to race against her will with reminders of the path life led her down after you. 

First was Marisol. Less than two months into sophomore year of college, Jesse and Dina were completely aghast to see Ellie walking around campus with a girl they’d never seen her with before. She was in Ellie’s Aerospace Engineering class, and Ellie had claimed to have had an eye on her since last year. Jesse and Dina watched helplessly as their friend flaunted her new girlfriend around everywhere for the next couple of months. 

Ellie wasn’t initially sure what it was that attracted her to Marisol in the first place. She was naturally beautiful with her long, black hair and slender figure, and she was the textbook definition of a perfect girlfriend. It took two and a half months of overly extravagant dates and bouquets of Marisol’s favourite flowers and late nights spent at her dorm room for Ellie to understand what it was about Marisol that she was drawn to: it was her eyes. Down to the specks in her irises and how her eyelids curved, Marisol’s eyes resembled yours far too well. After coming to this harrowing realization, Ellie quickly broke things off with her tactlessly and with a half-assed, mostly untrue justification. 

The next was Luz who she had met during her near-daily workouts at the gym with Jesse. Ellie spent several autumn weeks with them, allowing Luz to whisk her about to different parties with different groups of friends every weekend. But one fateful night when they had dragged Ellie to a party at the same Sigma Eta frat house where you’d both first met, a bad acid trip cemented the end of her time with Luz. 

As Ellie’s dilated pupils focused intensely on Luz’s black boots, a pair very similar to your favourites, she felt a sensation begin to roughly tug at something inside her. From her spot on the living room couch, her eyes darted up to a spot by the wall where a small group of partygoers were congregating. She zeroed in on a random girl she’d never seen before whose multi-coloured features, as a result of LSD brain fog, began to morph into those of someone she was desperately trying to forget.

Once the last parts of the stranger’s face had fully formed to impersonate yours, she abruptly stood up from her slouched position on the couch, muttered an excuse to Luz about using the bathroom, and desperately begged Jesse to come pick her up immediately. After Jesse helped her click on her seatbelt in the passenger seat with a tight-lipped expression where he fought the urge to remind her of the significance of this house, Ellie never looked back and swore never to trip on acid again, subsequently ghosting Luz after that night. 

A couple of weeks before winter break, she met a sweet and quiet girl named Simi. They met through a dating app during one of Ellie’s crossfaded swiping sprees at 2 in the morning. Ellie’s affair with her was extremely short-lived, ending things with her a day before everyone left campus to head home for the holidays. While spending the day hanging out at Simi’s dorm room as her new girlfriend packed for her trip home, Ellie suddenly and unfairly started a fight with her after Simi had begun to mindlessly sing the song “Merry Christmas Darling” under her breath. 

Ellie had unkindly demanded for her to “shut up” immediately, understandably hurting Simi’s feelings. The fight was short and confusing, as Ellie had refused to elaborate on her sudden explosion. As she unceremoniously marched out of the dorm room, Ellie aggressively tried to suppress memories of you singing that same Carpenters song on a loop all of December of the previous year. You’d claimed you couldn’t get it out of your head and needed to sing it out loud at least fifty times a day so you could stop thinking about it. Though Ellie had playfully cussed you out and thrown several pillows at you on multiple occasions, that song now belonged to you forever and nobody else. 

After Simi were strings of countless others, some who had used Ellie as their brief college lesbian experience and many whose names Ellie would never be able to recall. She never hooked up with the same person more than twice, never actually took another one out for an actual date until Daniela. 

Ellie had found Daniela incredibly pretty when she’d first laid eyes on her on a warm September afternoon earlier in the year. She was lounging on the quad as Dina did her homework and Jesse lazily strummed his guitar when a group of freshmen walked by. Ellie hadn’t spared them a glance until one of the girls approached her, all shy and giggly, and said that one of her friends found Ellie very cute. After pointing Daniela out and asking for her number, Ellie shrugged and relented. She ignored Dina and Jesse’s identical judgmental looks and eye-rolls in her peripheral vision. 

Ellie enjoyed the undivided attention of someone completely enamoured by her. Daniela was constantly responsive, did whatever Ellie wanted to do, and was always so eager to please her. Ellie’d bring her to the movies, go on long drives with her in her Jeep, take her to whatever restaurants she’d want to eat at. 

To anyone who keenly observed when they were together, it was quite obvious who was far more invested between the two. Despite spending an ample amount of time with her in the past month or so, Ellie continued to keep Daniela at arm’s length. On multiple occasions when Ellie’d convinced Jesse and Dina to allow Daniela to accompany them, the long-time couple would watch how disconnected their friend was from this new girl she’d been seeing.

Dina would constantly give Jesse a raised eyebrow look that silently would ask, “Is she really serious?” to which Jesse would give her a tight-lipped, wordless grimace that replied with “We both know she’s a fucking dumbass.” They both placed bets on when exactly Ellie would eventually ditch this new girlfriend. 

Unbeknownst to them, it’s Ellie who was so easily discarded this time around. Feeling so unmoved and unaffected about the split with Daniela, Ellie tries to feel some kind of guilt over her lack of reciprocation. It’s her own actions, after all, that landed her dumped in the first place. She’s never fully seen Daniela as an actual girlfriend, and she knows full well that she shouldn’t have strung her along. 

But as she continues to lay in her bed, ocean green eyes shut and a hand woven through her auburn locks, she thinks of only you. 

Ellie can’t remember a single moment in her life when she’s felt more in need of another person’s company than she does at this very moment. Unable to trouble Dina to be her listening ear as she always is or bother Jesse to bluntly set her straight as usual, she feels the loneliness of the gloomy, dark room creep into her guilty conscience. 

Her fingers begin to mindlessly search her bedsheets as she continues to stare at her decrepit bedroom ceiling, seeking for her silver joint box that had fallen out of her pocket when she’d collapsed on her bed. Instead of the feel of cold metal, her hand comes across something smooth and warm. Pulling the brown leather jacket up to her face, Ellie’s mind murmurs a single word. 

Joel. 

She pulls her phone out to search for her father’s face within her favourite contacts. She hesitates for a moment but pushes herself to call. 

Joel picks up after only two rings. 

“Ellie? Jesus, kiddo, what the hell time is it?” 

“Hello to you too, old man.” Ellie chuckles. 

“Everythin’ alright?” Joel’s voice asks, tired but urgent. 

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I guess.” 

Ellie can almost hear her father sitting up straight in bed. 

“What’s wrong, Ellie?” 

“I-I…” She stutters. “Joel…” 

With a whimpering tone, she suddenly recounts the night’s events in complete detail. Joel listens attentively, only ever interrupting with sharp intakes of breath and hushed, imperceptible asides. After listening to his daughter’s sorrowful spiel, he finally speaks. 

“Oh, baby girl…” Joel utters. “I truly am sorry. It’s been a real rough night for all of y’all.” 

“Yeah…” 

“That poor kid… I’m glad she had you three lookin’ out for her tonight.” 

Ellie says nothing to this, pursing her lips. 

“How about you, Ellie?” Joel continues. “How are you feelin’ after everythin’ that’s happened?” 

“I-I’m not really sure. I’m not sure I know how to feel.” 

“That’s okay. You don’t have to just yet. It just happened and all.” 

“All I feel is so much fucking guilt, Joel. It feels like my mind is empty but overflowing all at the same time. I feel so motherfucking powerless and I don’t know what to do.” 

There’s a moment of silence before her father speaks again. 

“You given any thought to the conversation we had before you left for school, kiddo?” 

Last August: Jackson 

Ellie’s bedroom was full of boxes and bags packed with everything she planned to bring to college for her junior year. The space was slightly more barren, closet mostly empty and trinkets missing from her shelves. It was only a couple more days before she, Dina, and Jesse would be making their journey back to their university, and she was uncharacteristically ahead of schedule. 

Leaning against her desk with a box full of comic books on the floor next to her, she was casually perusing an old graphic novel when Joel appeared in her open doorway. 

“Knock, knock.” 

“The door’s open, old man. Also, you can literally just walk in, you know.” 

“Who raised you to have so much cheek against your elders, kid?” 

“You, dude.” 

The pair smirked at each other’s smart-mouthed retorts. 

“Need any help packin’ up?” 

“Nah. It’s pretty much done except for a handful of essentials.” 

“Including that book you’re holdin’ right now?” 

“Like I said: essentials.” 

Joel chuckled. 

“Well, the Changs sent over some dinner for us, if you want some. Wisa made K-kaw… Khao Tom Pa… no, Plah…” Joel stuttered, making an effort to pronounce the Thai dish correctly. “Khao Tom Plah, that’s it. She brought some over earlier, thought we might want some. She even made it without the prawns, just the way you like it.” 

“Sick. She’s the best. I’ll text Jesse later to thank her.” 

“Good.” 

Joel lingered as Ellie went back to reading her comic, wistfully looking around his daughter’s nearly vacated bedroom. His eyes fell on a small box sitting at the foot of Ellie’s bed. It was an ordinary, cardboard box just as the others were, except it was heavily sealed with multiple layers of silver duct tape. He frowned. 

“Still plannin’ on bringin’ that box?” 

“What do you mean?” Ellie asked, knowing exactly what her father was referring to without looking up. 

“You know you can just leave it here at home, right? It ain’t like I go through your doohickeys when you ain’t here.” 

“So you do go through my shit when I am here?” 

“Ellie.” 

“What?” 

“Why the hell are you doing this to yourself, kid?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“We’ve been having this same conversation for the past year now.” 

Ellie finally peeled her eyes away from her graphic novel, tossing it on the desk behind her and crossing her arms. 

“You’re the one who keeps bringing it up, Joel.” 

“I bring it up because I know that you ain’t been talkin’ about these feelings with anyone. Not me or Jesse or Dina. It’s been a year since you ditched that poor girl, and you’re still sulkin’ over it.” 

“She ditched me.” 

“Hold your horses; we both know that ain’t true.” 

“What do you want from me, old man?” 

“I want you to be happy, kiddo.” 

“What makes you think I’m not happy?” 

“Now, don’t try to bullshit me. You can grumble and deny it ‘til the cows come home, but even after all this time, all you ever do is brood and pine after that girl. Plain as day to anyone. You ain’t been the same since y’all broke up.” 

“We weren’t together.” 

“Yes, you were.” 

Joel ignored his daughter’s subsequent eye-roll before continuing. 

“You still have the box, Ellie.” 

“I just forgot I even had it.” 

“And yet, you’re bringin’ it to school with you, just like you did last year. Why?” 

“It was just in my closet stuffed in with all this other shit I don’t touch. Had to take it out while I was packing.” 

“That ain’t amount to a hill o’ beans. And you still ain’t answer my question.” 

“Sorry, dude.” 

“Ellie. You and I would down to Beacon Run all the damn time back when you were growin’ up. You used to beg me to go for dinner whenever you had a hankerin’ to order that cheesy crab dip with all those chips and jalapeños and such.” 

Ellie raised her eyebrow, unsure where her father was going with this. 

“Then all of a sudden, a few years ago, you seemed to hate the place. You’ll maybe get a plate of fries and nothin’ else. Matter of fact, I can’t, for the life of me, recall the last time I’ve seen you eat a plate of seafood with any kind of shellfish in it.” 

Joel’s greying eyes pierced Ellie’s ocean green. 

“Two years.” He continued. “It’s been two years. You almost never eat any kind of seafood no more, and even the Changs never cook us anythin’ that has shrimps or scallops or anythin’ of the like.”

Joel watched as his daughter stubbornly struggled to justify herself. He sighed sadly. 

“I wish you’d let yourself be happy, Ellie. You could be.” 

“That so? How do you figure that?” 

“First step is admitting exactly what is clear as day to everyone around you.” 

“Oh, yeah? And what is that?” 

Present Day 

“J-Joel… I-I…” Ellie sobs. “I love her.” 

“I know, baby girl.” 

Joel helplessly listens to his daughter’s desperate weeping from the other end of the line. 

“So,” He eventually asks in between her snivels. “What now?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” She sniffs. 

“Kiddo, why do you think your feelings don’t matter?” 

“Because relationships do not work for me. Love doesn’t work for me.” 

“Your relationship with her didn’t work. Past tense. It’s been years. It was a tough situation. You’re a different person now.” Joel clarifies. “And there’s plenty love ‘round you, kiddo. You got a lotta love in your life. I need you t’realize that.” 

“Except I-I’m not a different person, Joel. I-I am just an older, slightly more experienced version of myself. I-I…” Ellie stutters. “I’m afraid.” 

“Of course you are, kid. It’s only natural.” Joel replies. “But you can’t live your whole life closed off from the rest of the world. You need and deserve love, Ellie.” 

“Except I don’t, Joel! I fucking don’t!” She cries. “God, y-you just, you just don’t understand!” 

“What don’t I understand?” 

“She almost fucking died!” Ellie nearly screams. 

A silence falls between the two, only broken by Ellie’s hot and angry tears noisily dropping onto the old leather jacket. She grips it tightly in one hand before continuing. 

“I-if… if none of it happened… if I d-didn’t do all that to h-her all those years ago…” She stutters between shaky lips. “M-maybe she wouldn’t be where she is now. She wouldn’t have gone on a date w-with someone who didn’t know about…” 

Ellie chokes back a sob. 

“I-I… I would have known. I would have t-taken care of her. I would never have—” 

“Ellie.” 

“She needed me, and I… I let her down. Not just tonight. All those years ago. I couldn’t be what she needed. I fucking failed her.” 

“It’s not that simple, kid.” 

“Yes, it is! Her cousin fucking died! He was her whole fucking world, and she loved him more than anything, and he fucking died and I… I ran. I abandoned her.” 

The blurry memory of your sleeping figure in the passenger seat of Ellie’s Jeep appears in front of her, wrapped up cozily in her flannel as she drives you home from Jackson and naive to what lies ahead. 

“I know… I know what I’m capable of, Joel. I loved her so much all those years ago and… I still hurt her. I hurt her so fucking badly.” 

Your image transforms to one of you awake and livid, Ellie’s flannel torn off and tears streaming down your face. Anger and betrayal are etched all over your face, just like they were all those years ago. The shame she’d felt back then is incomparable to what she feels now. 

“I don’t ever want to do that to her again, ever. I just can’t. I won’t.” 

Joel sighs deeply before finally speaking. 

“Ellie. That fear is always gonna be there. But you’re young, and we make plenty of mistakes in our youth. God knows how much of my past I used to regret.” 

Ellie takes deep breaths as her father continues to speak. 

“Everythin’ that happened tonight? None of it was your fault. In fact, I reckon you’re the reason she’s still livin’ and breathin’ right now. I’m proud of you for that.” 

“All I did was—” 

“All you did was save her life.” 

Ellie sniffles but doesn’t respond. 

“Look, kiddo,” Joel continues. “As someone who has known you for a very long time, I know how much of a good heart you got. You’re a lovin’ person who deserves love. I wish you could believe that.” 

The sound of people entering through the front door echoes all around the empty apartment, but Ellie hears nothing else but the sound of her own agonized sobs. 

author’s notes:

belle posting TWO chapters of ncty within less than two weeks of each other??? what is this, may 2023???

saury for not posting this right away like promised yesterday, like i said, going thru some shit rn! but i hope y'all enjoyed regardless ♥︎

i'll give you a kiss on the mouth if you guess the bollywood movie i vaguely reference at the beginning of the chapter :)

the idea of reader being allergic to shellfish and going into anaphylactic shock came to me one day a while back when i was eating something with shrimp and randomly remembered that i am very allergic to shellfish and instead of being like, "i should go take some medicine immediately", i thought, "hmm this would be a wild plot point for ncty" LMFAOOOO

anyway, this is your reminder that if you have an epipen, don't be stupid, bring that shit with you wherever you go sldkfjsdl

the more of jesse that i include in this series, the more i enjoy writing him. he's such a fun character to write hehe

i thought having abby sipping on some hot, black coffee when ellie fucking canonically hates coffee was so hilarious, i pat myself on the fucking back for that one

yes i also pat myself on the back for the line regarding ellie's ocean green eyes and abby's sky blue ones. i fucking love parallels and symbolism. i'm a whore for them, in fact.

btw dina doesn't respond to ellie's phone call bc her phone died (prob from facetiming ellie for that long earlier in the night) and idk, jesse's either not paying attention or being petty LMFAO

the reappearance of barbie bearrrrr, my babyyyy. idk if y'all remember, but yes, barbie bear is a reference to the actual stuffed pink bear i sleep with every night named barbie. i had planned since chapter 4 (which is the chapter barbie bear is first mentioned) for ellie to have had her this whole time because i'm a fucking lunatic LOL

i mentioned in the author's notes section of the last chapter how reader's letterwriting hobby is inspired by me irl cause i do that all the time for friends, but reader's letter in this chapter is actually loosely based on a letter that soulmate ex wrote me, it's not word for word exactly, i altered it a bit to fit the story better, but it's very close because i'm INSANE, anyway

yes "i think i love you again" is on my playlist about my ex-girlfriend and "merry christmas darling" is on his playlist for me, go away

ellie's clear aversion to taylor swift is both a reference to a previous chapter where jesse subtly mentions her dislike for her and also to my personal belief that ellie really would not like her as a person or an artist at all irl lmfao

the names of all of ellie's ex gfs or whatever are inspired by something very specific but that's another heehee secret trivia that nobody else but me will ever know about (let's be real, i'll prob tell star later LOL)

i named jesse's mom after one of my fave co-workers hehe (and the dish she makes for them is thai bc my co-worker is from thailand)

ellie's declaration of love about reader that she makes to joel has also been a long time planned now, idk why i knew it was gonna be chapter 13 when i did it, but i just knew it was. it was always the plan for her to confess it out loud to joel first, above anyone else

the final conversation between ellie and joel is heavily inspired by a scene from one of my fave tv shows, crazy ex-girlfriend. the scene makes me bawl every time i watch it. please watch crazy ex-girlfriend. so good.

we really are thirteen chapters into this series, huh? crazy. anyway, love y'all. <3

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[goodqueenaly]

do you have any theories as to why Ned didn't return Willam Dustin's body to the North? Even accounting for the fact that he probably couldn't have reasonably suspected that this would lead his widow into nursing a decades long grudge against House Stark, it seems out of character for him to just leave the corpse of a cherished northern companion in Dorne

It’s important to remember the context of Willam Dustin’s death - that is, the events of the tower of joy. Net had not just experienced Willam’s own death (not to mention the deaths of his other northern companions, still less the deaths of the Kingsguard members). He had also witnessed the death of his beloved sister, while simultaneously discovering the existence of (as yet unnamed) baby Jon. Ned was dealing with a situation both personally traumatic and practically highly complicated and delicate - one in which Willam Dustin’s death, and the question of his body’s fate thereafter, was only a single part.

In this situation, I think Ned had to make hard decisions about how he was going to proceed. He had to dispose of the bodies of both his comrades at arms and the fallen Kingsguard in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion about the circumstances of their deaths; he had to provide for the baby nephew whose mother may have made his welfare her dying wish to her brother, and whose very existence was a potential bombshell for the rebellion he, Ned, had just helped lead to victory; he had to return his much-loved sister to her final resting place among the Starks, as she had also requested; and he had to go back to Winterfell, along the way breaking the news - or a version of the news - of the tower of joy to those families affected - not just Lady Barbrey, but also Ashara Dayne (not to mention the Glover, Cassel, Ryswell, and Wull families presumably as well).

So I think Ned decided that the best course of action with respect to Willam Dustin’s body was to bury it at the site of the now-demolished tower of joy, along with the bodies of the rest of the fallen men. As a matter of practicality, it would be much easier burying Willam and the others there than try to drag the bodies of eight men however far it would be from the relative remoteness of the tower of joy to the nearest silent sister to strip the bodies to bones (a rather specialized skill, as Barristan ruefully reflects when considering what to do with Quentyn Martell’s body in Meeteen). It was not, I think, that Ned did not care about Willam Dustin: indeed, the fact that Ned selected Willam as part of the very small party Ned compiled to accompany him on his mission to find Lyanna speaks I believe to Ned’s trust in Lord Willam’s skill and discretion. Nor do I think Ned was trying to insult Willam’s memory, the Dustins, or Lady Barbrey in this moment; after all, I don’t think Ned was trying to insult the memory of Ethan Glover; his own beloved late brother’s squire, or that of Martyn Cassel, a familiar face of Winterfell Ned had likely known from early childhood and his trips home from the Eyrie (not to mention Arthur Dayne; a knight Ned seems to have deeply respected). However, in an extremely sensitive situation, where the greatest level of secrecy had to be maintained, trying to get the five dead northerners, not to mention the three dead Kingsguard, to a silent sister or a motherhouse of silent sisters to have their bones preserved might have seemed like an excellent opportunity to raise questions about what the Lord of Winterfell and the Lord of Greywater Watch were doing with so many notable dead warriors (including Kingsguard missing from every major latter stage battle of Robert’s Rebellion), beyond the considerable practical impediments to doing so. If Ned cared most deeply about his late sister, and his promises to her, above anyone else who perished at the tower of joy - and I’m sure he did - it was also practically much easier for Ned to take the single body of Lyanna to be stripped to its bones without as much in the way of questioning, and leave his dead companions and the dead Kingsguard as fallen in battle not otherwise specified.

Of course, because Ned had to maintain strict secrecy around what truly happened at the tower of joy, there was no way to explain all of this detail to Barbrey. If Ned was willing to intimidate into silence even his own wife on a line of questioning dangerously close to the events around the tower of joy showdown, he was certainly not going to tell Barbrey the full circumstances of Willam’s death and burial. Barbrey’s feelings of grief for the man I think she loved were undoubtedly real and valid, and by extension her bitterness toward Ned for seemingly prioritizing his sister over her late husband, but Barbrey also could not know why Ned had done what he did, nor what personal cost Ned believed he bore in being unable to return the bones of any of the men who had perished in the shadow of that tower.

[safination]

Partners in Death...and Life

Part 5: Glimpse of Me and You: part ii

|Part 5: Gimpse of Me and You: Part i| Part 6: Radio's Last Broadcast| |Masterlist| Ao3| Taglist| Pairings: Alastor x wife! Reader Tags: fem!reader, established relationships, Asexual! Alastor, Reader is in hell for a reason Here it is! The second half of this chapter. Finally finished. Some parts are a little bit rough but I'll be away tomorrow, so I decided to post it now. I'll just edit it here and there.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

1932

Alastor is playing the piano.

The wooden door does nothing to muffle how feverishly his fingers glide over the keys, joining together to create a harmony of melodies. Was it a coincidence that Alastor presses the keys in the exact sequence of notes of the song you are currently calling your favorite? Maybe, but gosh does it ignite the most stupid smile in you.

You press your back into the front door, listening to Alastor play the piano. His music flows into the air, and reverberates out the walls. Part of you thinks it calls out for you. If you strain your ears, you can hear Alastor mumble the lyrics. You run a hand over your face, still with that stupid and wide smile. Unfair. Too unfair. How foul of him to hang such an expression on your face.

There’s no good reason to stay out here, seated in the cold. You should go inside. A warm bath and a proper meal await you. A simple twist of the doorknob, and you would receive all that and more . . . but . . . but Alastor is playing the piano. There’s even less of a reason to interrupt him, not when he there’s a tinge of joy when he sings into the air.  So, you stay seated in the cold, eyes closed and numb fingers.

The tempo of the songs picks up, and Alastor doesn’t make a single wrong note. You could practically see him glide his fingers, pressing each key with perfection.

Two days . . . 

It’s been two days since you’ve felt the traces of him. Two days since you caught sight of that brown hair, and stared into those two brown eyes that even the moon cannot compare to. It’s only a measly forty-eight hours, but even then, it was forty-eight hours too long since you washed the dishes with the person you swore to do so for the rest of your life. Forty-eight hours without being able to exist with him.

The music stops abruptly.

The door swings open, and your back smacks to the floor. You land between Alastor’s shoes, looking straight at him. He angles his head down, staring right back at you. There it is. It’s unfair, too unfair for him to possess a gaze that strikes you silly.

You smile at him.

He smiles back.

You don’t move—not yet. Not even when half your body sticks out the door.

“You are welcome to come inside, anytime,” he says, and his bangs hang in the air a bit. Alastor pushes his glasses up his nose. “Come on, I’ll heat up some food.”

You open your mouth to respond. There’s so much to say for you to say, so much you want him to know. But . . . huh . . . nothing can come out. It’s almost as if your brain refuses to produce any words.

Alastor sinks to his knees, reaching to poke your cheek. “You could have called me,” he says, shifting his hand to trail the back of his fingers down your face. “I would have gone to pick you up from work. All you needed to do was call for me.”

A smile is the only response you’re able to give.

Alastor hooks his arms underneath your armpits, dragging you across the floor. Your skin slides over the wood, squeaking with friction. Alastor drops you, not before safeguarding your head from the hard wooden floor. It’s the simplest of acts, but it's everything to you.  He closes the front door with his foot.

Alastor lies next to you on this cold and hard floor. He nudges his head with yours, connecting you to him. “Hi.”

You can’t find the energy to say it back.

He inches closer, planting the softest of kisses on your forehead. His chapped lips prick your skin. You twist to face him, looking straight at him . . . just him and only him. You reach out to plant a hand on his cheek, caressing him with your thumb. The warmth of his face presses deeper into your palm.

You stay on this floor, even as the very hard and very solid wood aches your shoulder. But Alastor lies here as well, smiling next to you, and suddenly it doesn’t really matter where you are.

“Welcome home,” he says, peeling your hand off his face. He holds you, and pulls your hand closer to plant the smallest of kisses. “Are you planning on becoming our new doormat? Can you imagine that? Somewhere out there, in a different life, you and I are just a couple of doormats.”

And what a silly, silly man to imagine a world where even as a doormat, there will be him and there will be you, existing together as inanimate objects.

Alastor squeezes your hand, and his smile wobbles. “Talk to me?”

You squeeze back. “I . . . I heard you playing,” you say, because denying him will never be an ability available to you, not when he asks you in a voice that is oh so soft. “You were magnificent.”

Alastor’s smile brightens, and you know you did good. “Would you like to hear more?”

“Always and forever.”

He hops to his feet. Once more, Alastor hooks an arm underneath, and drags you across the floor, knowing very well that he has the strength to carry you properly. Your legs bump into the stray furniture. He lifts the upper half of your body high enough to sit you on the piano chair.

You lean into his side when he takes the seat next to you.

Alastor hovers his finger above the piano keys, taking one last glance at you. “ When we turn old, ” he sings, swaying a bit. “ I hope we are never changing. Whenever and wherever we are, this is my dream .”

Alastor stills a bit, his fingers slowly pressing the keys. He looks at you with expectant eyes.

You smile at him, and bump your shoulders, singing along with a snort. “ Will you be able to kiss me and hug me until we grow old? ”

And there it is again, that bright smiles pointed at you and only you. “ I’m just asking ,” he sings, “ will you still love me even when my hair turns gray? ”

“ That day will come when your hair will also turn gray, ” you sing. It’s not as good as Alastor’s smoother and deeper voice, but you’re not embarrassed. Not one bit. Because why would you be? Deep down, somehow, you know he doesn’t care. “ Together we will dream of our past .”

“ I’ll remind you of my promise. ” Alastor lifts his hand off the key, and boops your nose.

You laugh, pressing deeper into his side. What a silly, silly man to be married to.

“ That my love is always yours ,” he sings to you. “ Even when my hair turns gray .”

The song ends too soon. Alastor lifts his hands from the keys.

You smile at him. “I didn’t know you knew how to play this,” you say. “When did you even learn?”

“Well, you kept singing it over and over and over again. It somehow got stuck in my head,” Alastor says. “I had some free time on my hands.”

You inch closer, pressing your lips on his cheek. “You are a wonderful singer, dearest.”

Alastor laughs. It’s breathy and light and the best thing you have ever heard. “Maybe I should sing for you more since you’re so keen on singing praises for me.” He grabs your hand. “Have I ever taught you how to play?”

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

Alastor presses on the keys, creating a perfect harmony. “Each key produces a specific sound.”

“I know that much!” you say, kicking his leg with a huff.

There are so many different keys on this piano. Each has their own special sound that it’s almost impossible to memorize them all. You copy Alastor’s form, and press down on a single key. The note reverberates across the air.

Alastor swats your hand with a strained smile. “What did our piano ever do to you?”

You blink at him, then at your hand, and take one, single, deep, breath. “ Ooouuuuuccchhh !” you exclaim with the fakest of whines and place a hand on your forehead. “I don’t think I can ever recover from this, my love. My hand . . . Alastor . . . my hand! You hurt me! It hurts so much! It huuuuuurrrrts .”

Alastor rolls his eyes, but still, his smile never wavers. “I barely tapped you.”

You glare at him.

He glares back.

“Well, I’ll have you know that you deserved what you got,” he says, crossing his arms. “I give zero apologies to those who abuse pianos.”

You stare at him, and throw your hands into the air. “I just pressed it!”

“You did not ‘just press it’,” he tells you, pointing a finger at you. “You slammed your finger down on the key!”

You huff at him, crossing your arms. “I did no such thing,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You’re just exaggerating, and I will have you know, that really hurts.” (It didn’t. Not one bit.)

Alastor takes your hand he swatted, caressing your skin with his thumb. He brings it up to his mouth, pressing his lips. “You don’t need to press on it so harshly,” he says and hover your hand over the piano. He pushes your fingers with his own, and the piano sounds. “Gentle strokes will suffice.”

“Should I leave the two of you alone then?”

Alastor bumps your knees. “Funny.”

He keeps his hands hovering above yours, moving and pushing on your fingers to play specific notes like you were a puppet for him to control. With his guidance, you’re able to play different notes.

You twist one wrist, and intertwine your fingers around his.

Alastor slides gaze to you, raising an eyebrow. “I’m supposed to be teaching you how to play.”

“I think I’d rather watch you play.”

Alastor shakes his hand, but you only tighten your grip. “Let go,” he says. “I can’t play with one hand.”

You show him your most innocent smile. “Find a way.”

Alastor sighs, but plays with one hand. The sound isn’t as good as when he has full use of both, but that’s to be expected. There’s no more singing. Alastor presses his finger over a bunch of keys to create the most perfect harmony.

Alastor squeezes your hand, eyes still focused on the piano.

You stare at him, and squeeze back with a smile.

He turns to you with a smile that is oh so soft. His hand moves away from the piano and onto your face, the back of his fingers trailing down your cheek. “I . . . ,” he begins, looking straight into your eyes, capturing your gaze. It was only ever his to catch. “I l . . . I think you need to wash your hair.”

Immediately, your lips twist into a frown, and you pull back your hand.

Why? Well . . . actually . . . you have no idea. There’s no good reason you can say as to why exactly.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that sleep has evaded you like a wildfire. Or how your stomach feels empty, but not grumbling empty that indicates hunger. But your stomach grumbled when you left work, and realistically, you haven’t eaten so you should be hungry. But you’re not hungry! And you don’t feel like eating. But also you’re kind of hungry? But you also kind of not. And at the same time—

You turn away from Alastor, walking away with a grumble.

Alastor calls out your name.

The way he says your name, the way it leaves his lips . . . it almost makes you turn back. Almost. But still—these eyes of yours. They glance back at him, and you swear they have a mind of their own.

Alastor buries his face into the piano keys. It causes a jumble of odd noises that mix with his own grumble.

You climb up the stairs, feet dragging and stomping up the steps.The bedroom door opens easily. Your fingers are still around the doorknob, and a question debates in your head

 . . . Fine, you won’t lock the door. Maybe you should, but you don’t because doing so would mean Alastor stays locked out. You can’t do it. Not him—never him.

You plop into the bed, and scrape together enough energy to pull the blanket around you. It’s embracing warmth makes you realize how absolutely bone-deep tired you are.

It’s been two days, afterall. There’s only so much a person can tolerate. Take out meals used to be such a normal thing for you, but fuck Alastor and the meals that cooks. It’s his fault that you can never stomach another take out meal. You never want to see anything not home cooked again.

The pillows are heavenly. Too heavenly that you’re ready to pass out in your clothes. Two days of sleeping on hard chairs and empty hallways tend to do that to a person.

The door creaks open.

(If you smile into your pillow, then that’s your business.)

Footsteps creak the floorboards. The bed dips as Alastor props his legs across the bed. From underneath the blankets, you curl closer to him and him alone. And finally . . . you are home. Okay, yes maybe you are still a little ticked off, but it’s been days. Human beings were created with nuance, after all.

“Are you asleep?” Alastor asks. Part of you wonders what he looks like right now, in this moment of time.

You shake your head. And there it is again. Your brain refuses to allow your throat to utter even the smallest of words. Not that you were planning on talking to Alastor anyway.

Alastor tugs on the blanket. “Talk to me?”

Nothing comes out of your mouth. You refuse to scrape up the energy to speak to him. He made his bed, and now he gets to die on it. The audacity of him to say your hair stinks when you have to drag him by the ear to brush his own teeth!

“Do you want to sleep?”

You pause, then shake your head. Not yet. Sleep could wait, because Alastor is here, next to you, and this was too nice of a moment not to stretch.

Alastor tugs on the blanket once more. “I’m going to need words.”

You hum as a reply.

Alastor reaches inside the blanket, fiddling around until your hand brushes with his. He grabs it, and pulls it out of your cocoon, lying his palm directly on top of yours. The rings on your fingers clink together. Alastor traces your hand, the pads of his fingers going up and down the lines of your palm.

He taps you, then writes a H then an I . . . . ’Hi’

You smile deeper into where you press against him. Alastor squeezes your hand, and twists it to rest your fingers directly on top of his.

‘ Hi ’ you write into his skin, giggling a bit. Okay . . . well . . . hmmm. This isn’t technically speaking. So, you’ll allow this.

Alastor leans closer, the weight of him grounding you. Actually, him just being here, existing in this space with you, tethers you to this world. It’s too good to be home. So good you might never leave again. “Did you have a long day at work?”

‘ Long day ’ doesn’t capture it. Not one bit. But still, you trace your reply on his palm. ‘ Yes .’

“Are you hungry?” Alastor asks you. Even from underneath the blanket, you feel how his other hand stretches to lay a hand on your head.

It’s a bit difficult to trace your reply when the answer is both a yes and no and ‘I don’t know’.

“An answer, please,” he says, pressing deeper. He’s practically on top of you. “Or are you not sure if you’re hungry?”

‘ Yes. ’

No more questions. You don’t have it in you to answer any more. So, you close your hand around his hand, using it as a lifeline. And oh . . . it’s shaking—you’re shaking. But, still, Alastor holds on to you.

Alastor squeezes your hand. “Yesterday, I realized that you make better coffee than I do!” he says and you can hear him smiling. “I did everything you do, and still it tasted like burnt bean water. It’s almost unfair. How can we both use the same beans and the same pot, but still produce an entirely different taste?”

You smile into your pillow, and press deeper into him.

Alastor caresses your hand, swaying his thumb up and down your skin. “And this morning, I completely gave up on making coffee, and since I arrived early for work, I bought a proper cup at this little stand,” he says. “They were selling salted pretzels. It was a bit pricey for such a simple thing, but I think you would enjoy it. Shall I take you there?”

A hum escapes your mouth as Alastor tells you about this day. You didn’t even ask. These days, you rarely need to ask. Alastor tells you about every little thing like it was the most automatic thing for him to do so.

Alastor says your name. “I’m going to remove the blanket now.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, and shake your head. Not yet. This moment can’t pass just yet. You just got home, and it’s too soon to end.

Alastor pauses for a moment. “What if I pull it down to your face?”

You give him a thumbs up.

Alastor peels the blanket, fulfilling the promise of only pulling it down until he sees your face. He’s looking directly at you, smiling. You stare and smile back. Alastor presses a kiss on your cheek. And then he shifts, leaning closer to press a kiss on the other. He trails his face upwards, his nose nudging your skin, and plants his lips on your forehead.

You push him off, pressing your hand on his cheek. You are supposed to be mad at him!

Alastor takes your hand, giving that a kiss as well. “Just one more?”

You sigh, but pull your hand away to allow it.

Alastor traces the back of his fingers down your cheek, and pecks your lips.

Your eyes widen when Alastor leans away. The way he stares down at you has you pulling the blanket back up to hide your face.

“You can’t rot in there the whole night with your outside clothes,” Alastor says. “Come on, I’ll draw a bath for you.”

A bath sounds nice. You uncurl your hand, giving him a thumbs up.

Alastor peels the blanket, and your eyes meet his. What does he see when he looks at you? You smile at him, and Alastor smiles back. He hops off the bed, circling around it. He hooks an arm underneath your knees, and the other under your shoulder to carry you like the bride you are.

You lean into his chest. He’s not wearing a bowtie anymore. It must be packed away for the day.

Alastor opens the bathroom door, flicking the lights. He sits you on the toilet, and brushes strands of hair behind your ear. He turns towards the bathtub, opening the faucet to let the water accumulate.

He lets the water drip on his fingers until the correct temperature warms his skin. “About earlier . . . ,” he says, keeping his eyes on the water. “Your hair doesn’t actually stink.”

You shake your head, smiling.

Alastor turns back to you, staring straight into his eyes. “I want you to know that you can stop me anytime,” he tells you. “And I won’t get angry.”

You nod your head, glad that you won’t have to scrape together the energy to do so yourself. If talking takes too much out of you, this would be downright impossible then.

Alator’s fingers catch on to the first button. It lingers there for a moment. He looks up to meet your eyes, and you nod once more. With your blessing, Alastor slowly unbuttons your blouse. It’s funny, charming, almost. With any other person or any other marriage or in any other story, there would be lingering eyes or breathy and soft touches, but you don’t see any of that from Alastor.

His hands trail down to unbutton your blouse. When the last button finally pops free, Alastor takes your arm, helping you slide off your blouse. He pulls your arms out until it’s fully off your skin and you’re sitting in front of your husband in your bralette who pays no mind to it. Alastor throws your top into the laundry basket.

Alastor kneels on the tiles, tilting his head as he unhooks the clasps of your bottoms. You have to push up the toilet to let him peel the thing off you completely. That too gets thrown into the laundry basket.

“I’ll leave the rest to you,” he says. “I’ll heat up some food. Try not to fall asleep.”

As he begins to leave, panic kicks in. You don’t want to be left alone in a silent, closed room, and so you grab his hand before he can step out.

Alastor looks back to you, smiling.

“ . . . stay?” you say. “Please?”

Alastor holds your face in his hand, moving his thumb to caress your cheek. He presses his lips on your forehead. “I’ll be right outside.”

“Thank you,” you say and release his hand.

The door clicks shut, and you toss your undergarments into the basket. You step into the warm water, closing your eyes in relief. Slowly, you lower yourself in the tub, bringing your knees to your chest.

The water stills. It’s the correct temperature.

You squeeze your eyes shut, and . . . once and for all . . . you think you finally understand what Alastor means when he says how completing it is to be able to just exist. This life. It’s one he chose to spend with you, and he’s better than anything you can ever dream for yourself. This couldn’t be a dream. It can’t. Because your mind could never create Alastor.

All those little details don’t matter, not when you would burn everything for his smile.

You and him.

Him and you.

The evidence is already there.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Alastor sits by the door, leaning his head against the wood.

He doesn’t fully understand why he agreed to stay, not when he knows he doesn’t need to humor your request.  After all, he could be doing more practical things like preparing for work or brainstorming new segments for his show . . . or something as simple as making sure you have something warm to eat when you finish your bath.

Alastor can leave at any moment. For a second, he thinks it would be the funniest thing in this world. You will step out, glancing around the room because you asked him to stay, and he gave his word that he would, but he would be downstairs.

It would be funny. That is until you realize he was missing. Would you be disappointed in him? Alastor imagines you, and your lips twist when you see that you are utterly alone. Does he stay, seated outside this door, because he doesn’t want to take the chance that you would frown when he didn’t keep his word?

You could very well kick him as you huff, and refuse to utter a single word in his direction.

Or worse . . . 

You would accept that leaving was something he was capable of doing, even when you asked him to stay. Does he even care?

He doesn’t.

He does.

He doesn’t.

He does . . . but only because Alastor was a man of integrity. There has never been a moment where he has broken his word, and he won’t begin now.

Your mind looked so far away when he opened the door—eyes almost hollow.

Were these two days as torturous for you as it was for him? Eating alone used to be such a normal occurrence for him. It’s your fault he cooked more than he could eat, even when he knew you wouldn’t be sitting across from him, listening to the events of his days. Instead, it was two days of silent meals. Two days of shit coffee. Two days of just . . . you not being there.

“You’re taking quite a while,” he says, just to let you know that he’s here and keeping his word. It’s important for you to understand that he is a man who does so. “Was the water too hot?”

Silence.

“I think I specifically told you not to fall asleep,” he says, calling out for you and only you. “That would be quite a terrible way to perish. I can already imagine the headlines, ‘Local Radio Star’s Wife Drowns in Their Bathtub’”

Silence once again.

In all the years Alastor has been with you, from the moment he stepped into your clinic, never once have you accepted his taunts. You don’t stay silent when he pokes at you, not when you find it better to return it tenfold. There would be a fire blazing in your eyes as you challenge him. So, why are you silent right now?

You’re unfair. It’s too unfair of you to torture him with your silence.

Alastor runs a hand over his hair. He blinks and finds himself standing to enter the bathroom. Maybe you actually fell asleep. He twists the doorknob and pokes his head inside.

“You weren’t answering me,” are the first words that come out of his mouth because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what else to say. “Don’t tell me you actually drowned.”

You’re lying your head on your knees, staring straight at the water, an empty smile on your lips as exhaustion settles heavily over your shoulders. It’s weird—almost funny, even—how your eyes remain blank when you retreat into yourself, but a tiny smile paints your face.

It reminds him of a doll, beautiful and fragile but empty. And Alastor hates dolls. Humans are able to create vast arrangements of expressions, and a doll only has one.

“Have you even started?”

Alastor wonders if you’ll ignore him again, but your eyes shift to him, smiling as you say a quiet and exhausted, “ . . . hi.”

“Hi,” he says. “Have you even started?”

The water ripples when you shake your head. “Later.”

Before he could fully think, he takes a step inside and shuts the door behind him.

Opening the cabinet, Alastor grabs a washcloth. There’s a stool hidden underneath the toilet. He drags the stool next to the bathtub and sits, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. Your smile shifts. You always do that—smiling at him in weird ways.

He dips his fingers into the water, checking its temperature. Still warm. “You can tell me to leave anytime.”

You sigh into your knees, and shut your eyes.

He dips the washcloth, letting the warm water soak up. Grabbing your body wash, he pumps it once on the towel and lathers it. Alastor brings the washcloth to your back, gently scrubbing it across your shoulders. He slides his hand up and down the length of your spine, letting the soap lather all over.

You hum with a smile and sink further into the bathtub.

Alastor takes your arm, peeling it off your knees. He scrubs at your skin, careful not to press too hard. Though he was gentle, he was thorough as well to scrub away any speck of dirt. No one deserves to go to bed filthy . . . well, actually, there are some who do . . . but you don’t. Not you—never you.

When he reaches your wrist, you flip your hand to catch his own.

With a sigh, he takes this opportunity to work the soap between your fingers, massaging his thumb across your palm. Once that’s  done, he properly holds your hand, and the soap spreads further into his hand. There was still the matter of your scalp, but these days, Alastor has gotten used to doing basic tasks with only a single hand.

All this because his wife decided that his hand wasn’t just his own anymore.

With his free hand, he grabs your shampoo and pumps it into his palm. It’s hard to lather, but not impossible. He runs his hand across your hair, letting the soap spread around. Alastor presses his thumb into your scalp, massaging it clean, and you hum when you press deeper into him.

“Are you okay?”

Please say yes.

“Later,” you tell him, eyes closed as you lean further into his touch. It’s weird. Alastor can feel the weight of your head pressing deeper into his palms. “I’ll be okay, later.”

A strand of hair sticks to your face. Alastor brushes it away, tucking it behind your ear. And there it is. You smile at him, bright and so full of life. It strikes him. Not even once has he ever told you how precious you are in his eyes. Surely, you wonder how you look in his eyes just as much as he wonders how he looks in yours.

Maybe, if he were a different man. Then and only then, could he be a husband that you deserve to call yours.

Alastor has always been a selfish man, and that would be your ruin.

The thought of you sharing a life with someone else causes a muscle on his face to tense. Would you want to know about their day?  Would you dance on the porch with them? Would you fill their life with laughter and so much joy that they could barely contain it? But . . . would you also be happy?

You deserve to build a life with someone who could give you a proper family. You deserve to find someone who could give you the emotions that you have a right to. You deserve someone who could hold you at night every single day.

“Alastor.”

He blinks at you, and continues to scrub your scalp. “Yes?”

You release his hand, and inch the tips of your fingers closer. It pokes the edges of his mouth, and pushes his lips into a smile. “A frown doesn’t suit you, my love.”

Alastor takes your hand, holding it in his to press a kiss. He shows you the wildest smile he can muster. “I never frown.”

What an idiotic thought to pop into his head. You would surely kick him for such a thought. Alastor would give you anything you could ever want. He will be every single little thing you can ever wish for.

The next minute goes something like this:

You flick water at his face. He ignores it.

Flick. Ignore.

Flick. Ignore.

Flick. Ignore.

Flick. Ignore.

Flick. Ignore.

Flick. Ignore.

The soapy water damps his hair. “Stop that.”

Your smile widens when you dip your hand under the water, letting it drench, and flick it at him.

Water droplets hit his cheek, and it trails down along with all the other drops.

His smile strains. “I’m going to hold your head under the water,” he says as his smile strains. “That would be a horrible way to die as well. Water would fill your lungs.”

You roll your eyes, and let the water pool between your cupped hands. Water splashes into his face, and his hair is wet now. Alastor glares at you.

And you give him one of your innocent smiles when you want to get away with something.

And fuck . . . .That was the most empty threat he’s ever uttered. Alastor never makes empty threats. A part of him wants to follow through, to hold your head underneath the water with the single purpose of keeping his word.

But you’re still smiling at him, bright and innocent and its everything to him

Maybe . . . just this once . . . he’ll break his word.

Alastor takes the shower head, turns on the faucet, and rinses away the suds. He passes a towel to you. “I’ll get you some clothes.”

The door clicks behind him. He walks to the closet, going through your clothes for your nightwear. There’s a certain pair you tend to like when going to bed. It takes a while, but he finds it. Alastor leaves the clothes on the toilet.

 He waits on the bed until you come out.

There’s life in your eyes when you step out, a shy and sheepish smile on your lips. “I’m hungry.”

“Of course.”

He grabs your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. You follow him, taking every step he takes until he reaches the couch.

Alastor leaves you there to go to the kitchen. It’s late. A heavy meal would do you no good. The rice porridge heats up easily. He tips the pot, letting your meal pool into a bowl. Alastor touches the sides, making sure it isn’t too hot to touch, and goes back into the living-room.

You grab the bowl eagerly, already taking a sip before he could even take his seat next to you.

There’s a brush on the table, lying next to one of his books. Alastor takes it, moving your back to face him. The bristles go through your hair. He lets the damp strands of your hair flow through his fingers, letting it linger for a moment.

You take another bite and turn to him. “You don’t like it when I eat on the couch.”

“That’s because a child makes less mess than you do,” he tells you, bringing the brush through your hair. “You leave stains everywhere.”

You reach behind you, and swat whatever you could reach. “I do not!” you say, huffing. “These stains were already there.”

And there it is. The defiance. That fire in your eyes. Tonight makes him realize that flames can be snuffed out if not taken care of. As long as he lives, he will never allow that to happen. It’s a silent promise he doesn’t tell you.

 “Where did you wander off to?”

“Nowhere,” you say, taking another bite of your porridge. “I was just tired.”

There are no more tangled strands on your hair, but Alastor passes the brush through it anyway. “I could tell.”

You turn to him with a smile that he knows means trouble. “Hey, Al . . . ”

“Yes?” he says, sighing.

Your smile widens. “My dear.”

Alastor could stop humoring you at any moment. “Yes?” he says because denying you was an ability he does not possess. “Will you just keep calling me?”

“My love”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes?”

“My, most, dearest.”

“Yes?”

You turn away from him with a laughter that’s loud and breathy and the greatest thing he has ever heard. “A few years ago, you told me you were nothing I would want.”

He drops the brush, leaning back into the couch. “Did I?”

“Yes!” you say. “You absolutely did.”

“And are you just saying that to remind me?

“Well, look at us now. To be able to be here with you has been my greatest joy,” you tell him like it was the most natural thing for you to say. “Thank you . . . for everything.”

“Is this the part where you tell me you’re terminally ill and have a month left to live?”

 . . . Please don’t say yes.

You swat him, laughing. “Be serious!”

Alastor rolls his eyes, yet he doesn’t stop the smile you’re bringing.  “I guess we’re kind of odd little things, you and I,” he says. “Bound together for infinity, like the stars.”

“Oh, not just the stars!”

He thinks of the way you held on to him earlier. How you desperately clung to him as though his hand was the only thing helping you stay together. Would it be okay for him to cling to you? Would you mind?

Alastor pulls you before he can talk himself to stop, wrapping an arm around your shoulders until your back bumps into his chest. He presses his face on the back of your neck, his nose nudging the skin of your nape. Two days without this. Two days of feeling incomplete.

A hand is placed on his forearm, you touch feather light. “The bowl is going to spill.”

“Eat later,” he says because . . . just because. Alastor cannot find any good reason as to why. He just does it. “I only need a minute.”

You lean into him. “No.”

Alastor loosens his arm

You grip him tighter. “No!” you say. “I meant no to the minute. You might only need one, but I’m going to need more.”

Alastor laughs, tightening his grip on you. He pulls you deeper into him, so much so that you’re practically on top of him.

There are words you need to hear. Three words he’s not above saying, not if it means you will understand just how deep they mean for you. It’s just a measly three words with eight letters.

Alastor controls words like a puppeteer, able to string thousands of letters into sweet metaphor and soft analogies. He can give you millions of poems. Each filled to the page with metaphors about how your smile is a drop of heaven that no being could ever re-create. 

Alastor can write about how the sun nor the moon nor the stars can compare to the light that shines in your eyes, nor can they compare to the light you ignite on his own. Alastor can write about how not even the water or air can be as important as existing with you in every moment across space and time.

But Alastor doesn't need millions of poems to make you understand. Three words that consist of eight letters are all he needs.

Only the true poets know that using the correct sequence of words will always be better than stringing together thousands.

Alastor eyes land on you because they are only ever yours to catch. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Your eyes crinkle when you smile.

Part of him wonders if you’re aware of how beautiful each and every one of your expressions are in his eyes. If he told you, he’s sure you would gloat and spout some ridiculous nonsense that’s surely meant to jab at him. It would be worth it.

“I . . . ,” he begins, but the words lodge in his throat. “I think your meal is getting cold.”

“We can always re-heat it,” you say, and your shoulders relax in his hold. “This is too nice not to hold on to.”

Coward . . . He is a coward. That’s twice he’s tried to tell you, and twice that he chose to run away.

That mind of yours. It contains so much knowledge.

There’s a wish that comes suddenly and out of nowhere. Maybe he should have spent his youth studying muscles and bones instead of learning how to correctly string the right set of words that feed into his sense of self. Not once has he ever wished for a different pursuit. But Alastor would forfeit each and every skill set that brought him the attention of the masses just to be able to see the world in your eyes.

Alastor wonders what you see when he tells you about his day. He wonders what he looks like in your eyes. Do you see the same thing he does?

Alastor’s not above telling you the words he so desperately wants you to know. But you and that bright mind of yours always seems to understand him in a way he cannot understand how. Perceptive. You were too perceptive when it came to him. Like you made it your life mission to study each and every thought he makes.

The question isn’t if he can.  The question now is what will you do when he tells you, and you see the truth he’s displaying for you to see.

Or worse . . . 

What will you do when Alastor says the words carved into his very existence, and you see a lie?

He’ll say it tomorrow. He’ll say it when you bring him his coffee or when you leave or maybe when you compliment the food he oh so carefully prepares just for you, and only you. There will always be a tomorrow. There will be another chance. Another day to be honest. Another tomorrow. Another next week. Another next month. Another next year.

If not tomorrow, then until there is no doubt remaining in his mind that you will be able to see the truth . . . only the truth.

There’s no need to say the word. Not right now.  Not when the evidence is already there: There will be you, and where you will be, there will be him. Always and forever.

There will be a lifetime of moments like this waiting for him in a world where he is yours.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

1933

All we could want was already there: You and I.

Now it’s just you.

Now it’s just me.

Where was the lifetime waiting for us in a world where I was yours?

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Next Part : |Part 6: Radio's Last Broadcast| First of all, yes, it is. You aren’t being delulu. That’s why the title is Glimpse of Me and You as well. If you know, you know. If you don’t sorry na lang lol. (Joke. I’m not going to gatekeep.) I don’t know why I did this to myself to be honest. This chapter brought a need to write more scenes of just Alastor and Reader vibing to OPMs, especially 90s OPM. RIP to Alastor. I think you would have really loved Harana. Here’s the link to the song that Alastor and Reader sings together. So this is marriage year 1932 or basically 6k words of just Alastor and Reader realizing that two days of not seeing was two days too much, and it was not something they liked. Look at them both, thinking about growing old together. ❤️:D Also, also. There’s just something so sexy about non-sexual stripping. It was really important for me to just write about it. Like just stripping and cleaning your significant other and do it for the sake of just helping your partner get clean because you care and want to help. Next chapter: Radio's Last Broadcast Taglist: @mybrainautocorrect @ray-rook @teavibesaf @valentique @qardasngan @alastorssimp @aestheticgals-blog @slaggylemon @reikamasama @obessivlyonline @okay-babe @lyralibra @holymusicalmothman @amoraneuro @tobyisher3 @sooha-neul

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four

TW: sexual harassment, no means yes, asshole doctors/doctor slander (sorry if you’re an actual good doctor), mentions of alcoholism/sickness, burns

You should probably decide to do whatever the opposite of man up is-pussy down?-and specifically request to not have Officer Ludlow ever be on your patient roster again. He’s bad for your health and, despite being the one always putting him back together, you’re bad for his, too. 

You’re trying not to morally question yourself about why you didn’t do something after the first, second, or hell, even third time he borderline sexually harassed you…  You’re trying not to think too much about why you don’t do it now: open the manager’s door with your shaking, clammy hand and say “hey, creepy patient, please keep him away from me”. It would be so easy. This stuff happens a lot to the other staff in the ED, and always gets solved without a problem. 

You don’t do it, though. You walk away without blacklisting Tom Ludlow. And doesn’t that just say mountains about you. But, anyway, you have your own job to do fighting disease and trauma from the mean streets of the City of Angels, so you don’t really have time for all this petty drama bullshit. 

Whatever helps you sleep at night.

You’re not really sure how it’s possible, after eight years of higher education plus residency training, but doctors really can be idiots sometimes. 

“Discharge, really?” You whisper to yourself, clicking on the order to see if it’s just a mistake-nope, legit. 

You grab the clipboard from your patient’s bedside and go hunt down Dr. Mercer, who is currently standing at the desk flipping through paperwork. 

“Hey, Julian, can I have a quick second?”

He gives you one of his signature, charming white smiles that can calm almost any belligerent patient down. “Of course. Anything for my favorite nurse.” He motions for you to sit in the swivel chair, and takes the one opposite from you. 

Julian makes it a point to give you his full attention, and that never fails to fluster you, but you can shoulder through it most of the time. The man is too handsome for his own good, and you haven’t found a female in this hospital immune to his charm-even Shelby, the housekeeper who is strictly attracted to women… and one man: Dr. Mercer. 

“You put in a discharge order for room 13?” 

“Hmm, one sec.” He leans over to click through the computer, then turns back. “Yes, is there a problem?”

“Well, I thought we would be admitting him?” 

“No, that won’t be necessary. He’s free to go home.” 

“Julian.” You’ve known this man for a whole year and should not be this hesitant about questioning a single order from him, but you take a big pause nonetheless. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem; any other doctor you could confront with ease, but Julian is so, so nice and he always gets your Starbucks order right and never lets you pay him back for it. You don’t want to be a dick to such a sweet person. “I don’t think he’s ready to be discharged. He’s a heavy drinker and his potassium is still low. Plus, he lives alone.” 

“His potassium is only one point off, y/n. And the rest of his labs look good. I can’t keep someone for alcoholism.”

Well, the good thing is that you’re not hesitant anymore, just really pissed, because obviously Dr. Mercer’s kindness and understanding doesn’t extend to his less fortunate patients. 

“Wow, that’s not okay, Julian.”

His smile fades a little bit, or just turns mean, you can’t really tell which, and he sighs. “I’m sorry, I’m very busy. If this conversation is about morals, I’m afraid I don’t have time for it.” 

“It’s not about morals.” You try to lasso your anger, but it seeps into the tone of your voice like a hiss. “I’m concerned about patient safety, and his potassium is just going to drop further if we send him back to drink himself to death. And then he’ll have a heart attack.” 

“I treat current conditions. I can’t focus on what-ifs.” He tries to put his hand atop yours, but you pull back. 

All doctors are the same? What a shocker. You haven’t met even one who didn’t eventually do this shit, and Julian is no different despite your burgeoning hope that he was. 

“I’m not giving him that paperwork,” you say. “I’m not discharging him.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m not doing it.”

“We need to free up the bed for patients who need it.” 

“Do it yourself, then.” 

His smile falls the whole way down, and you can’t find it in your bleeding heart to care.

You need to get away from him before you say something that will make him want to get you your usual coffee order and then spit in it, but he grabs your forearm gently before you can. 

“Y/n-“

“I told you I’m not discharging him.” He lets you pull back. “And I really don’t have time for this.” 

***

You should just let it go, but by the time your break comes around, you are still quietly seething over Dr. Mercer’s idiotic order, and the way he fucking talked to you. 

You’ve come a long way, but sometimes when a man talks down to you with that certain tone, you still see red. 

Maybe it’s a character flaw, but after the hell you’ve lived through, you can’t help but feel entitled to some righteous feminine rage.

You’re alone in the little side nook with its hard plastic chairs that almost hurt you more than standing. But your feet need a break, so while you massage your foot your tailbone suffers.

You need a massage. A real, full-body rub-down–why is it, that the thought calls up the memory of a certain large, strong, calloused pair of hands that may or may not belong to a certain inappropriate officer of the law?

It’s possible you are staring into space, fantasizing about burning dark eyes unabashedly boring into yours as those mitts for hands–

A soft knock on the doorjamb pulls you back to the present–and the last person you want to see is taking up the whole doorway. It takes every iota of self-control you have left not to snarl, What do you want?

“Doctor?” You even put extra sugar into your tone, which he seems to sense is utterly manufactured judging by his awkward smile.

“Y/n.”

You wait silently, allowing the lift of one eyebrow that you fear conveys all your disdain. “I believe I owe you an apology.”

You blink, certain you misheard. 

“I’m sorry?”

“You were right. The patient was not ready for discharge.”

You blink again. Has hell warmed over? “I know,” you finally answer, which for some reason makes him smile. He takes the liberty to cross the room to sit down next to you, with only one plastic chair between you. 

“It took some courage to stand up to me. Well done.”

Dr. Julian Mercer is TV doctor hot–tall, broad shouldered, handsome. His thin scrubs do very little to conceal his lithe, athletic body underneath, and everyone in the hospital loves to titter about him as he breezes by. You’re not exactly immune to his charms, but failing to advocate for a patient for fear of displeasing him wouldn’t have even occurred to you.

“I just want what's best for my patients.” That, at least, is the truth. 

The good doctor nods, his longish hair swinging into his eyes. Maybe you do feel the slightest urge to brush it away. 

“Truly commendable, y/n.” Then he points at your foot, and makes a come hither gesture with his fingers.

You don't understand what he wants, and your face shows it. 

“Is your foot hurting you?”

Perpetually, is the answer, but you just nod dumbly.

“Give it here.”

“Why?”

His smile is gentle as spring rain. “I’m offering you an apology foot rub.”

“How wildly inappropriate,” you comment while extending your foot. You’ve eyed Dr. Julian’s hands before. They may be soft, but they are big, so maybe he could be of some use to you. 

He laughs at that; a short huff of laughter that possibly softens you a little towards him. And once your foot is in his hands–ok, that feels good, maybe better than good, and maybe Dr. Julian does know something about making the human body feel better. A small noise escapes you, and you are breaking so many hospital policies right now, but god dammit they work you to the bone here.

He’s even kind enough to do your other foot too, and by the time he’s done with you you’re leaning back in your chair on your hand with your eyes closed. You open one eye with a sigh as he gives the ball of your foot a finishing squeeze.

“Ok. I’m mostly not mad anymore.”

He gives a short guffaw at that. “You were mad?” Like he’s surprised you’ve taken any of this personally.

“Of course I was.”

“Oh.”

Strangely he doesn’t seem offended by this. “You really do care about your patients.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I'm not surprised. but…”

“But what?”

“It's hard on us as medical professionals, to take every case personally. We do our best, of course, but at the end of the day you have to keep some sliver of your heart back for yourself, or you won’t survive to help anyone tomorrow.”

You raise your eyebrows at that. It never would have even occurred to you not to give your heart and soul to anyone who needed it during your shift. 

“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.”

You can’t help but notice he still hasn't released your foot, toying with the curve of your big toe through your sock. 

“Perhaps we will.”

He is looking at you searchingly, and it’s all you can do not to flinch from that intuitive gaze.

“Thank you, Dr. Mercer.” 

He opens his mouth as though to say more, but one of your colleagues walks in, and that’s the end of your little moment.

***

Surprise, surprise, when the next night, Guess Who finds his way onto your examination table.

For fuck’s sake.

“Officer Ludlow. What brings you in tonight?”

You know you sound tired, look like hell, and smell like straight up human waste, but Tom looks extra happy to see you. “You work too much.”

You don’t have the energy to argue, much less with the truth. “Yeah, and you get injured too much.” Great, solid comeback, you really got him there. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He whistles. “Bad mood. Damn.” 

“Just tell me what you’re fucking here for, Tom.” You plop down on the stool next to his bed, chin in your hand. 

He tugs his charred pant leg up, and beneath, so fresh it should be sizzling and smoking, is a nasty burn the size of your head. 

“How did you manage that?” You wince, leaning down to assess the damage. Luckily, it’s only second degree, shiny and bloody and wet and looking too painful to bear weight on. “How are you walking?” 

“Remember the sword?” 

“How could I forget?”

“Okay, well this time it was a flamethrower.”

“How are people getting their hands on this shit?” 

He shrugs, which makes you laugh for the first time all day. “Alright, I don’t think it’s third degree, but I need the doctor to-“

“Good evening Mr. Ludlow.” Julian has drawn back the curtain and stepped inside your little exam room with that branded, signature smile on his face.

“Hey, Julian-Doctor-can you take a look at this?”

While Julian looks at the burn, you sneak a peek at Tom, and see some type of look on his face-not confusion, not concern, more analyzing. Assessing. Thinking. 

“This your doctor boyfriend you were telling me about?”

You can almost hear the sizzle of heat making its way up your neck to your cheeks. This fucking bastard. Embarassing you at work, trying to catch you out in your lie. He levels that penetrating gaze with you, just the tiniest tick at the corner of his mouth betraying his amusement.

Yet he is not the only perceptive man in the room. Julian looks between the two of you, and you swear he reads the situation as clearly as a book. Without losing a beat, god bless, he goes into Full Authoritative Doctor Mode. “I am, not that my relationship with Miss y/n is any of your concern.”

Either of them could have pushed you over with a feather–you can hardly believe Julian is playing along.

“Sorry, doc. I’m a detective. Just curious by nature.” Ludlow levels Julian with a stony look, conveying that he didn’t believe the doctor–or he really didn’t like what he’d said.

“I’m sure you are,” answers Julian, throwing you a knowing look that only makes the fire under your collar ten times worse. “Can you go check on Mrs. Andersen in room 10, y/n? I can handle Officer Ludlow.”

Somehow, you kind of doubt that, and you find you’re reluctant to leave them alone in the room together. But, you’ve already been insubordinate once this week. They’re grown men. What’s the worst that could happen? 

Yet as you’re making your exit, you can’t help but feel like you’ve just left Dr. Mercer at the mercy of a wolf. 

You are glad you went to check on Mrs. Andersen, because she needed some warm assurance, on top of a slight adjustment of her IV. When you walk back out into the hall, headed for the nurses station, it’s almost as though the atmosphere has changed. No one else seems to sense it, but somehow you just know something is off. With dread in your heart you scurry back to where you’d left Ludlow and Mercer, bursting through the curtains.

They are standing toe to toe, nose to nose. It’s made a little more ridiculous by the bulky dressing on Tom’s calf, but you still don’t doubt his ability to wipe the floor with Dr. Julian. Which is a ridiculous fucking thing for you to have to worry about, but here you are.

You don’t raise your voice, not wanting to draw attention, but you do not hesitate to put yourself between them. You try not to notice how solid Tom’s chest is beneath your hand, compared to Julian’s. “That is enough.” You direct this at Tom, of course, because you have zero doubt as to who started it.

“Why are you yelling at me?” Tom complains childishly.

“Because I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not stupid. But this asshole seems to think he owns you.”

You do lift an eyebrow at that, but it’s so not the issue at hand. “Do you want to be escorted out by security?”

“I think I’m done here anyway.” Ludlow picks up his jacket, glaring at Julian. “Thanks for the dressing, Doc.” His tone, however, more conveys Eat shit and die. Then he looks at you, and those burning dark eyes send an uneasy thrill to your toes–by way of your treacherous pussy, who does not seem to understand that men like Tom Ludlow are very bad for you. She has gotten you into so much trouble before, and by god you are not letting her run the show this time.

“Be seeing you, sweetheart.”

“Not on these hospital grounds, you’re not,” asserts Dr. Julian, and Tom, damn him, just laughs.

There is just something about that man’s presence that leaves behind traces of him in a room, long after he has gone. You just stand there, maybe rather stupidly, struggling to process what just happened. What is it about you, that attracts these cocky assholes that just can’t take no for an answer?

“Are you alright?” asks Julian, and you actually believe that he cares about you, concern written in his achingly handsome features, his kind hand on your shoulder.

“Yeah, sure. Sorry about him.”

He gives you a gently amused look. “You are not responsible for that man’s bad behavior.

And you won’t be treating him anymore.” 

You would argue, assert yourself, do that thing where you’re strong and independent and take care of the own sore skin on your back, but you really don’t have the energy right now, and Julian-fuck him-he’s right, you should not be Ludlow’s nurse anymore for his sake and yours. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and close your eyes, wishing it was the end of your shift. “Alright.” 

At least the rest of the night goes by fairly quickly, although that means you’re busy enough not to have another break, however, Julian-apologetic Julian, who brings you a turkey sandwich and makes you sit down and eat it and drink at least half a bottle of water-is making things a little better. 

The doctors don’t really get into the shit like you and your fellow nurses, although they are just as busy, and the fact that he takes time to be concerned about you after the emotional beginning of your shift really touches you. He knows he fucked up the other day, and he’s in full sweet cinnamon roll mode to try and rectify it. That’s why you can’t-and, if you’re being honest-don’t want to tell him no when he catches you in the parking lot before you get into your car. 

“Here, you left your stethoscope.” He loops it around your neck, then opens your driver’s door for you. 

“Julian, it really is okay.” You reach up to pat his lab coat shoulder in reassurance. “And I’m fine. Tom is just a big bully.” Why do you feel like you’re betraying him by talking shit to Julian in the parking lot? 

He looks down at you like he’s made up his mind about something, and grins. “Have coffee with me?”

You blink at him. “Like, right now?” 

“No, Saturday morning. Seven AM?” He grabs the spiral notebook and pen from his breast pocket and writes you his number. “Since I’m your boyfriend, I should take you out on a date, don’t you think?” 

Well, at least he’s asking nicely instead of being an asshole about it like some people… 

You chuckle, tuck the note and your hands into your scrub pockets, and hope the heat isn’t visible on your face. “Guess you’re right.” 

You might be playing a dangerous game, here, but hell, there’s a reason you work in the ED of a level one trauma center; you’re a sucker for cheap thrills

[justfandomwritings]

An essay on why I won’t be watching next season.

1. Obviously actors have to promote their shows and hype them up. But the interactions between Nicola and Luke during the press tour were, in retrospect, clearly also acting performances, and it is rare to see acting within the press tour to the degree that those two put on while grossly exaggerating things like how sexy this season would be or how much Polin we would get. I don’t blame them. It’s clearly what they were told to do. And it’s fine to hype a show, but I think a lot of people felt genuinely lied to with the WAY this season was hyped.

2. The casting has been color conscious and inclusive in a way I greatly admire. But they have not been inclusive in other ways. And that’s not to say they should have to be. One show shouldn’t bear the responsibility of being inclusive to everyone and making up for an industries worth of exclusion. But we have exactly one size inclusive character in this whole show, and I’m not even demanding more, but to butcher the season of the only size inclusive person in this show this badly and in these ways sends me a clear message of what the writers thought they could get away with with a curvy actress and how they saw her.

3. The wait times for this season and next season are just too long. The hype dies down too much between seasons such that we care less and less each time we get a new one, especially when you only give eight episodes, regardless of their length. You know who also gave us a season in 2022 and then an eight episode season this year? house of the dragon. And they have to CGI a fuck ton of dragons. Yall were sitting on this season being done filming for over a year and for what? What did you do in post? A bee? And then to have the audacity to do it in two parts? Fuck off.

4. Add to that. The costumes and new sets looked so much cheaper this season than previous seasons. Where did the budget go.

5. The plot is too crowded. Maybe you thought a curvy girl couldn’t carry a season. Maybe it was bad writing. Obviously you needed Cressida and Eloise to have decent amounts of screen time but you also did half of Francesca’s story and set one up for Violet and Benedict that collectively took the majority of the screen time and left us with very little Pen and Colin. Which was a disservice you never gave Anthony or Daphne’s seasons and was why they were good. We got enough crumbs of the others to tell us what was happening but not enough to make them feel like main characters or to make it feel like an ensemble show. There were leads in season 1 and 2. This season it was an ensemble with too many moving parts. But everyone’s said that. It’s not surprising.

6. My biggest problem is the tone. The blame. Admittedly I’m a woman who relates strongly to Penelope so I’m not impartial here. But for a character who spends her entire life being abused by every single person in this show, who is pushed to her absolute breaking point before finally giving her mother and the tonne a taste of their own medicine. For that character to receive no grace, no understanding, no respect, for the vast majority of the season hurt. To not only have zero understanding of her situation but to frame the entire plot of the show around the fact that SHE alone should be sorry. To have minimal to no groveling from Colin over what he said last season, to have no acknowledgment of how he treated her as a safety net, to humanize Cressida who made her life hell with minimal acknowledgment of that fact, to have Eloise get ONE comment from Cressida of all people about her friendship with Penelope but no real reflection from Eloise or acknowledgment on her part or apologies for what a truly SHIT friend she was for DECADES. That hurt. Because the message is that sure, they can push you to your fucking limit, you can break after years of being bullied for your weight and your looks and your status. Your own mother and sisters hands can be filthy with insults and abuse. Your friends can treat you like utter garbage for years. They can befriend your bullies. Your soon to be husband can, very recently, insult you to his friends behind your back. But you owe them the apology for breaking after years of abuse. It’s not that the tonne couldn’t be angry or that they all should’ve fallen at Pen’s feet. It’s that those arguments never happen at all because once again, just like when she was being used and abused by everyone, everything was put on Penelope. And the cycle continues.

7. Colin should’ve groveled more. I know I said that in the previous point but it really ruined things for me so I want to emphasize it. I wanted that man on his knees the whole season, and I should’ve known I wasn’t gonna get that when y’all dropped the list of songs and there wasn’t any of the A List Yearners on the list. But I’m still mad.

8. Actually that’s a good point. Did anyone else think the songs didn’t go as hard this year? Except Pitbull were we excited about any of them?

9. You did the Pride and Prejudice ballroom trick with the dancing alone thing and you didn’t nail it. If you’re gonna do that trick it has to fucking HIT. (And it has to be enemies to lovers.) And you did it half assed. You should be ashamed.

10. There was a two second window there when Cressida asked the maid for help where I thought they were gonna swap lives and the maid would go with her aunt and Cressida would become a maid and I was like “holy fuck is Cressida gonna become Bennys love interest?” and that would’ve been better than what y’all did I think. And it would’ve justified her excessive screen time.

11. I love gender swapping Michaela and making Francesca bi. We love it. But why was Francesca immediately interested. Once again the writers don’t understand pining. Michaela is PINING for Francesca and can do nothing but love her from afar. Francesca loved John completely and whole heartedly. Michaela was a beautiful love story for her but was also a second chance. She loved John completely. She would never have an emotional affair on him. How did you immediately ruin such a beautiful second chance romance?

12. Where was Pen’s friendship with Anthony or Lady Danbury? Why wasn’t Colin proud of Pen the way he was in the book? To make her even more alone? To emphasize that she was alone and at fault and helpless? Fuck off.

I just don’t have it in me to watch this show deteriorate further.

[alexiethymia]

a flower by any other name would taste as poisonous

A butterfly flaps its wings and a hurricane happens in a far-off place. 

In this case an old eunuch decides to take a different route from his usual one. It takes him by the Garnet Palace, where he’s just in time to stop a loving attendant from feeding an infant a spoonful of honey. Sufficiently warned, the attendant never bears the crushing weight of guilt for the rest of her life. 

The infant still dies though. It’s nothing surprising. Infants before a certain age would always be vulnerable and susceptible to natural illnesses. It is no one’s fault. 

If the child still died though, what did this change? Surprisingly, a lot. 

Eight years later a boy is crying after having a favorite toy taken from him once again. 

A girl, merely a year younger than him, asks him in a dispassionate tone where it hurts. 

Startled, the boy stops crying. Eyes shining, he looks at this girl who resembles a wood sorrel and decides she’s his new favorite. 

How is it that those two seemingly random encounters could lead to this particular scene, one resembling a painting?

On one side, an existence like a celestial nymph, voice of sweet honey, a beauty that could topple nations if he so wished.

One would think that no one could compare, and yet the beauty on the other side was not overshadowed. She was a vision no less stunning for she was once known as a top courtesan of the pleasure district. 

It was perhaps fortunate that no one was a witness to this display for no one could hope to count how many hapless victims would be felled by such visions of loveliness. 

As to what these beauties were doing, no one could have guessed for in between them stood a single Go board.

tap

tap

“I must admit that while I was expecting a visit from his Imperial highness soon, I didn’t think it would be for this.”

The celestial nymph flushed. 

“Apologies for taking some of your precious time, Feng Xian-dono.”

tap

tap

The unfettered beauty took her time deciding her next move. The man who was also called Jinshi did not fool himself into thinking it was because he was a worthy opponent. Although he was used to using his excellent looks as a weapon, why is it that before this woman he felt as if he were merely a mouse being played with? A finely sculpted brow conveyed enough with one gesture. He felt as if he were playing two games at the same time.

“And? What is so important that the Prince of the Moon felt the need to risk Lakan’s wrath to come here? Why, you even roped Lahan into this plan of yours.” The cold beauty didn’t smile but he had a sense that she was amused.

Jinshi wondered. Did he rope Lahan or did that miser rope him? It didn’t matter. Shaking his head, he hoped he was equally composed when he answered, “I must admit it was that esteemed personage’s recommendation that sent me your way. Aside from him, only you could fight on equal ground with our honored strategist.”

tap

tap

Seemingly bored but only just, such that she could not be accused of disrespecting him, his opponent continued her queries, “And? Surely, you don’t hope to best that girl at a game of Go? She has utterly no interest at the game. It’s a wonder if she takes after us at all. I often wonder how she came to be so uncute, though of course Lakan would disagree.”

Jinshi would as well. Or to be more accurate, he both agreed and disagreed. While that girl was often distant, on the whole he could not help but find her adorable.

And from the shadow of a smile he could spy on his opponent’s face, he gathered that she was much the same, and could only dote on her daughter in this roundabout way. Although parent and child both claimed no similarity, he thought in this manner you could not doubt their familial tie.

Likewise with her father, though she only had disdain for the man (not that it would stop that eccentric’s entreaties to be called Papa from happening, thought Jinshi with a shiver). He’ll leave it up to Gaoshun to commiserate. 

That wary cat only showed affection for her honored grand uncle. In much the same way, as much as she protested, she and her sire were a lot alike. There was also their utter disinterest in anyone ordinary and unexceptional.

Like him.

Any other family would have accepted just by virtue of who he was. But it mattered not to this particular family who cared not for prestige or power. This family was content to keep to itself and occupied with its members’ various obsessions. Rather than consider it an honor to be connected to the noble line of the rulers of this nation, Jinshi thought that Lakan rather saw him as some annoying fly. 

And for that annoying fly to not only buzz around his beloved daughter but also to dare be in the proximity of his beloved wife, the only two people that eccentric fawned over and adored with all his heart, ah surely this was a perilous gamble indeed. 

But for an ordinary person like Jinshi, no Ka Zui Getsu, this was the only thing he could do.

Ironic that when he wanted it most, he could not rely on this excellent appearance of his, the only thing extraordinary about him. This family cared not a whit for that. At first he had wondered why that apothecary continued to be unaffected by him, but to have someone like this for a mother, he realizes she must have already been bored by the sight. (She had actually scoffed at him after they had seen each other once again in the rear palace.)

It left him scrambling, but also strangely relieved. 

“It’s not that I want to best her. At most I hope to be on equal footing.” Slightly abashed, he shakes his head. “In truth, it is our honored strategist whom I wish to have a match with. Though it may be impossible, the Sage tells me my best hope lie with the only person to have bested the Grand Commandant more times than even him.” 

Seemingly intrigued if the slight lifting of one brow indicated such, the once courtesan inquired, “Oh? And to what end if I may ask?”

How to answer.

Grappling with something in himself, Jinshi finally admitted, “Merely to be acknowledged, I suppose. To be seen and recognized.”

To be accepted. 

By whom, his companion seemed content not to ask if the curl of her mouth was any indication.

Maomao had often complained (though she would deny it with a blank look if asked) in a bland tone that she thought she must surely be adopted by the one she called father, for surely she had no resemblance to this beauty in front of him. Chicken bones she called herself. (Incidentally, she was adamant that she was not ugly enough to be related to the fox. She was, in her own view, perfectly normal. Jinshi almost spat out his tea upon hearing this if only it wasn’t unbefitting his station.) 

But seeing what could pass for an amused look on this normally expressionless face, Jinshi for the first time in front of another great beauty, blushed for he could only see traces of the one he yearned for in this visage. 

Truly, they were mother and daughter indeed. 

He was caught in a daydream of a scene years into the future, with Maomao dressed in such finery, of when he could finally lavish her with all his attentions as he pleased. 

tap

tap

The harsh clack of the Go stones brought him back from his musings and his attention onto the board. Upon seeing how he was completely dominated, he let out a deep sigh. 

“A long way to go, your highness.”

As if echoing his thoughts, an imperious voice declared his resounding defeat. If not for the twinkle in her eye he could detect, he would no doubt feel as if he was not even worth the heel of her shoe, never mind that he was the current Imperial heir. Distantly, he wonders if this was the sight that bewitched and entrapped that eccentric so long ago. 

Privately laughing at his own folly, he decides he was no better for it was the same look from that tiny wood sorrel that sealed his fate. Flowers could heal, but they could also be poisonous. He knew better than most. No matter. Regardless of the outcome, he would swallow her whole.

Truly there was a long way to go before he could turn that dream into anything close to reality. He doesn’t mind tasting defeat again and again for the chance of victory one day. 

Once more, he resets the board.

notes:

Jinshi and the Imperial brother are still switched at birth so he still doesn’t know who he really is.

The imperial brother still dies in infancy but not so soon after his birth. Since Luomen manages to stop the honey incident, the tragedy with Aduo’s head maidservant doesn’t happen later on. He doesn’t get punished nor does he get driven out.

Because he doesn’t get driven out, Lakan isn’t pressured into a military expedition to reclaim the honor of the family. He manages to redeem Feng Xian immediately.

Lakan still somehow ends up the head since his younger brother doesn’t really see himself suited to the position. He still ends up taking the headship from his father probably because Feng Xian was insulted or something and he wants to spoil her. His father and sister-in-law probably still end up leaving on their own like in the original timeline rather than being driven away. One way or another, Maomao, Rahan and Rahan-nii end up being raised together.

Maomao is still the same. Sure, she’s raised as a noble lady but she still spends half of her life at the pleasure district with Feng Xian, her sisters and penny-pinching granny. I doubt Lakan would stop them since this isn’t a conventional family after all.

Luomen probably sneaks in town undercover to still be an apothecary for those who might need it most, with Maomao accompanying him.

Since Maomao is raised as a noble, one way or another she ends up as Jinshi’s playmate. Of course, Jinshi still ends up attached. And of course Lakan puts a stop to it as soon as he can. It doesn’t have anything to do with any political maneuvering. He’s just an overprotective papa.

Maomao still ends up in the rear palace, this time as Luomen’s apprentice so of course she ends up crossing paths with Jinshi once again when they’re older.

And so the adventures of the young prince and apothecary still continue, fates still intertwined.

[whumpshaped]

a rather specific prompt for you :)

whumpee is/ was trained and used a a guard dog. during their time with their master they sustained an injury that causes them to not be able to fulfill their job properly anymore. still wounded, they get thrown out, chained in some allay. whumpee expects to die alone and cold, when caretaker comes along and accidentally stumbles across the abandoned whumpee. they (caretaker) think whumpee is just a regular pet and don’t realize they have a still dangerous guard dog at their feet and decide to rescue them and help them recover. whumpee has never experienced anything like this kindness, especially after becoming so useless, so (after having lost their old master) they immediately bond to caretaker as their new master, and would do anything to protect and please them

tw pet whump, amputation, abandonment, past trauma, broken bones, medical setting, caretaker new master, murder, gore, dehumanisation

"Oh, dear..." Caretaker crouched down by the shivering figure, putting the back of their hand against their forehead. They looked... half-dead, honestly, so the feverish warmth eminating from them was almost a relief. "Who did this to you...?"

The poor thing whined, and they reminded Caretaker of a wounded dog; but maybe that was just from how they were chained up. This was all so horrible.

"Okay, don't be scared. I'm gonna get you out of the alley and to a vet, alright? We'll get you all fixed up."

Another whine, and Caretaker suddenly realised there were other issues apart from the visible sickness. The pet's ankle... it was twisted in a way they'd never seen before. It was swollen, a mix of deep red and purple, bent in a way no healthy foot was supposed to.

"Oh... Oh, this is way worse than I thought, isn't it?" They immediately regretted the comment when the thing looked up at them with those wide, fearful eyes, probably expecting them to just give up now and leave them. "That's okay!" they added hastily. "It's okay. Nothing that can't be fixed! I... I hope... I'll call someone for help."

-

So they'd been wrong. Some things were in fact beyond saving, and Whumpee's foot turned out to be one of them. Amputation, prosthetics... Whumpee was handling it badly.

"I know," Caretaker soothed. "I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But it'll be better later on, I promise, the doctors know what they're doing."

Whumpee let out a soft whimper, a scared one, and Caretaker thought their heart was going to shatter even further. The pet hadn't uttered a single word yet, — maybe they couldn't? — but their face was expressive enough to make Caretaker tear up.

"I'll be here," they said gently. "Every step of the way, yeah? I'll be here for you. I'll help. We'll figure it out."

How? Caretaker didn't know. They weren't planning on adopting a pet, but... they couldn't just leave Whumpee alone after all this. They had an obligation, a responsibility.

If anything, Whumpee's awe-filled eyes just made them more determined.

-

"One foot in front of the other. Slowly. There you go."

Physical therapy was a lot, but Whumpee seemed dead set on achieving every goal weeks earlier than planned. The staff had said it would take four to eight weeks for Whumpee to be able to walk again... and many more before they fully got used to their artificial foot. They were out and about within two weeks, much to the dismay of said staff.

"They'll hurt themself," they'd said. "They should be resting."

"They're very eager to come home, I guess," Caretaker had replied awkwardly, but Whumpee had nodded along, completely serious.

So now they were walking along the corridors, Caretaker supporting Whumpee's weight less and less as they learned the ways and limits of their new life.

-

"I know it's not super fancy..." Caretaker opened the door and stood aside, motioning Whumpee inside. "But I guess it's... homey."

The pet surveyed their surroundings curiously, then turned back towards Caretaker with a bright smile. If they'd had a tail, Caretaker wagered they would've been wagging it.

It made them smile, too. "You like it?"

Whumpee nodded enthusiastically, walking over to the new pet bed Caretaker had bought just a week prior. They carefully set their belongings down next to it, — a shirt, a pair of pants, a pair of socks, and a collar — then made themself comfortable. Testing it out.

"I think we'll get along nicely," Caretaker commented absently. "I mean, I like you a lot. And you seem to like me. I don't see how this could go wrong."

-

Caretaker couldn't believe their eyes.

This couldn't be real.

Was that blood? Was that blood on Whumpee's clothes, and hands, and... face?

When the pet spotted them they immediately fell to their knees, whimpering in terror. They tried to wipe their hands on their victim's shirt, to no avail.

"Whumpee, what– what's– what's going on...?"

Whumpee was crying now, getting more and more desperate about ridding themself of the blood, as though that was the only evidence as to what they'd done. As though they could erase it all, if only they managed to erase the stains.

Caretaker walked closer, eyes wide with shock and horror. So much blood. So much gore.

Their sweet pet had done this?

"Why...?"

Whumpee scrambled to pick up some sort of equipment, struggling to hold it between bloody fingers. A lockpick, Caretaker noted distantly. They put it down on the floor in front of their feet, then quickly grabbed something else: a knife, this time. They put it next to the lockpick. Then they crawled back, flattening themself against the floor like a dog who knew it'd done something bad, whining as they waited for the verdict.

The stranger had been a burglar. Was it... self-defence? No, this had been a brutal murder.

"You're– you're a guard dog," Caretaker said softly, because they didn't think their voice could handle anything more. They got but a whimper in response. "This... Oh, dear. This is not... This is not good."

~

general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @whumpkinpie @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @whump-em @cyborg0109 @morning-star-whump @justanotherlokifan @2in1whump @lthrboy @justletmereadmywhump @florissimps @anonymous-tiangou @whump-kitty

[magicshopaholic]

Another World

Summary: Jungkook finds himself going down a path he never intended - and his best friend might just be collateral damage.

Pairing: Jungkook x OC, Taehyung x OC

Genre: Angst

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 7.7 K

Warnings: none

A/N: Whew. This required some research. A disclaimer for any gaming fans out there: the kind of liberties I have taken with the video games described in this fic cannot be overstated. Think Troy butchering The Illiad source material (but with good plot anyway). Set over a period of a couple of months, starting a month after Los Angeles pt. 2)

Tagging: @bbl32 @ggukkieland @bangtannoonalvg @pb-n-juju @juciu @jeoncookie-bts @quarter-life-crisis2 @dreaming-with-happiness @meirkive  @faearchives @margopinkerton @sumzysworld @purpleseoul7 @kflixnet (italics cannot be tagged. If you want to be added to the taglist, drop a comment or ask)

Listen to: "layla" by eric clapton

taehyung masterlist | jungkook masterlist | main masterlist

Jungkook liked gaming. He liked how immersive it was, how fast it was, how much it required him to get into character and beat the bad guys. Most of all, Jungkook liked to win. Video games were winnable, for the most part. Whether it was rules, strategy or just plain speed, gaming was about beating the bad guys and winning the game.

It may have been due to this reason that all the games he owned and played broadly followed this narrative: hero, quests, bad guys, save the world, win. When he and Dilara moved away from FIFA and Real Racing (both extremely winnable games), this was how Jungkook had introduced her to his collection and invited her to play Mortal Kombat. 

Dilara hadn’t been super impressed, although she’d played without fuss. She was in London and he was in Seoul, the night beginning for her and for him, the dawn nearing. They played together, shooting, jumping, killing, running. Winning. She’d played with supreme focus (he could see her on the video at the bottom of the screen). Her eyes were trained on the screen, slight frown on her forehead that remind him ostensibly of Taehyung, her fingers moving rapidly on the console, not uttering a single word except at the beginning of the game: save the cheerleader, save the world.

Jungkook hadn’t got the reference, but she’d said it wryly, as though it was a joke only some people were meant to get. Still, she played with him and four hours later, when they were less than halfway done, she’d sat back in her chair and raised her arms over her head, stretching.

“Don’t get lazy,” he’d commanded, still in the zone. He’d tapped his headset. “We still have so many levels to complete.”

“JK,” she’d sighed. It must have been hot in London; her neck and chest were shining in the fluorescent light from the screen. She swept her long hair up into a bun and her tank top rode up slightly, suddenly revealing how tight it was.

Jungkook had looked away out of habit. It never did well to check out your friends’ girlfriends. 

“Don’t you need to sleep? Isn’t it morning for you?”

It was - but Jungkook had the day off. He told her as much but she told him she had to sleep. 

“In the middle of the game?” He was aghast. “How can you do that?”

She’d wrinkled her nose. “It’s not a cliffhanger. We can just pick it back up tomorrow. The next levels will be the same. Just shoot ‘em all.” She made a finger gun and pointed it at him before dropping her hand. “There’s no story. All the characters are just… graphic. There’s no emotion, no empathy, no… passion to save the world.”

He’d stared. “It’s saving the world. You need passion to do that?”

Dilara had chuckled tiredly. “Even guns and explosions can have a compelling story. Have you ever played Yakuza?”

Of course Jungkook had played Yakuza. It wasn’t bad, but it had been a lot of information to keep track of. Too many characters, too many plots. He’d played until he’d won, but only because it would’ve killed him not to.

“I have to be at the factory at eight am. I’m going to bed.” She’d pushed back her chair and stood up, and the screen filled for a moment with her chiselled torso, hips, and tan thighs from under her shorts. This time, it took Jungkook a moment longer to look away.

He’d bid her goodnight with a bit of half-hearted whining until she promised to resume play the next day. Once she’d logged off, Jungkook switched back to his screen and took a sip of his Americano, debating continuing without her anyway.

A moment later, he’d sighed and switched off the game, heading to bed.

—

The day Jungkook realised he wasn’t cut out for elaborate, story-telling games was the day he played A Way Out with Dilara.

She had told him about it in passing, mentioning that she’d also only played it once, years ago, before life had got in the way. Jungkook had been about to shut it down with glee right then but she’d seemed so mournful about never playing it again that he’d relented and bought the game, sending her an invite to login as well.

“It’s like I’m sixteen again,” she sniffed dramatically, making herself comfortable on her chair. The Red Bull logo on her oversized t-shirt came into full focus for a moment while she adjusted her camera, and Jungkook grinned in satisfaction.

“Well, you wouldn’t shut up about it so you basically forced me to buy it.”

“You know what? Even if that’s true, it’s going to be so worth it. This is the best game, JK,” she added, her face shining. “Emotional connections, moral conundrums, deep friendships…” She sighed and shook her head in wonder. “Just the best,” she repeated.

Jungkook raised his eyebrows at this display but said nothing. “Shall we start?” he asked.

“Yes. Okay, now, don’t worry about not getting the game initially,” she informed him. “I haven’t played it in forever either and I’m sure with the updates and everything, it’ll practically be a different game.

This, Jungkook supposed, was in response to a rather childish moment he’d had a couple of weeks prior where, amidst his inability to grasp the concept of the game, he’d sort of shrieked, yanked off his headphones and proceeded throw himself on the bed in the gaming room, face down for several minutes while Dilara called his name in irritation.

He scowled. “I’ll be fine. Will you?”

Dilara grinned sheepishly; she didn’t take well to losing either. “I’ll be okay. I’m Vince and you’re Leo?”

They commenced the game then. The story read more like a movie than a video game; Jungkook watched in awe as their characters, both in prison and holding a grudge against the same mobster, formed a begrudging alliance and escaped.

It was a gorgeous game; the screen, the special effects, the dialogue - he and Dilara read them out as quickly as possible, eager to move through the game.

“Oh, my God,” muttered Jungkook after a while, shaking his head slowly as Leo and Vincent, on the run from the law, made a campfire in the dead of night. “That’s why Vincent hates Harvey, too?”

“Harvey was an arsehole,” said Dilara with feeling. “There’s a reason Vincent wanted to partner with Leo, even if it meant he risked getting caught. There’s nothing like common hatred of a person to bring two people together.”

Jungkook stole a glance at her, which she caught. 

“What?” she asked, chuckling and looking a bit embarrassed. “That’s the fun of these games. You have to really get into it.”

He smiled without meaning to. “I get it. He killed Vincent’s brother. Vincent gets to hate him.”

“Shut up. Ooh, look, it’s Leo’s story now.” They started reading the dialogue boxes together, Jungkook reading them out in slightly accented English, when a sound cut through the soft soundtrack.

“Helicopter!” Dilara yells. “It’s the cops! Okay, go left!”

“No, I think it’s right!” The screen changed as both characters ran through the wilderness, the animated figures running faster than Jungkook could ever hope to. “Okay, we have to get into that house, I think.”

Their characters took shelter in a hut, evading the police, and looting the place for clothes, weapons and a truck.

“It’s a car chase!” Jungkook exclaimed. “You should drive!”

“You know it’s not a real truck, right?” she called out, but still manoeuvring Vincent into the driver’s seat. “Okay, let’s go! Seatbelt on!”

“I thought you said it wasn’t real!”

“I didn’t stutter, JK!”

Jungkook snorted before getting back into character, his heart racing; if the cops caught them, they were back in prison, meaning the game was over.

“Cliff!”

“Get out of the car! There’s a rowboat! And go from behind the trees!” she added as the sounds of the police’s gunshots got louder. They hopped into a conveniently placed rowboat by the banks of a thrashing river and began steering with their controllers.

“Is that a - is that a waterfall?”

“Jump!”

“What?” Jungkook’s eyes widened in a panic. “We don’t have life jackets!”

“It’s not a real river, JK!” Dilara yelled as she threw her character into the water, escaping a gunshot by a nanosecond. “Leo knows how to swim!”

Feeling his ears get hot, Jungkook obeyed and Leo jumped. The two characters somehow made it through the river and landed on the other side, the police finally no longer in sight.

“Whew.” Jungkook exhaled and takes off his headphones for a moment, shaking his hair out of his eyes. He put them back on to see Dilara grinning in the pop out screen.

“Great game, huh?”

“Holy shit. This is what you meant by emotional connection?” When she nodded, he shook his head. “Crazy. Oh, wait - Leo’s story.” He read the dialogue again, his own tone sounding more and more surprised. “Harvey betrayed Leo, too? What a jerk!”

“Villians,” was all Dilara said by way of explanation. “Oh, look! Aww…”

Jungkook followed an instruction to call home with a nearby telephone. “Leo has a wife and kid? What is this game?” he exclaimed. “This is like - like something that should be in the Oscars! Where are the machine guns and the aliens?” 

“I can see your eyes tearing up, Jeon, so don’t give me that.”

He didn’t even bother defending himself; he was more engrossed in this fully human story than he ever had been in a video game before. He glanced at Dilara again, his stomach settling comfortably when he realised he wasn’t alone.

It was a flurry of activity after that: purchasing arms, being betrayed by the arms dealer, getting in touch with a mysterious pilot from Vincent’s past who offered to fly them to Mexico to escape. The pilot also dropped another bombshell.

“Vincent has a kid?”

“Vincent is having a kid,” she corrected him. “Okay, we have an option to go to the hospital. We’re going, right? No way is Vincent abandoning his daughter before she’s even born.”

“He’s not abandoning - okay, sure,” he said quickly, catching Dilara’s surprisingly troubled expression. “It could be a trap, though.”

But Dilara ignored him, and both characters headed to the hospital. Warning bells instantly went on in Jungkook;s head, for he’d played enough video games to know what a calm spell looked like before they got attacked. But he followed Dilara until Vincent met his newborn baby girl, Julie.

“I’ve never made it this far in this game,” murmured Dilara, her voice wobbling slightly. Jungkook couldn’t help but feel like this was a slight overreaction over an animated baby, but something stopped him from commenting on it. 

“Gwaenchanha?” he ventured, but at that moment, a pop-up appeared on the screen, informing them that the police had surrounded the hospital.

“Told you!” Jungkook exclaimed, but his heart raced with excitement. What a game. 

“I’m not sorry!” she replied as they rushed out of the hospital. “I swear to God, JK, if you and Tae are ever running from the police and I’m in the hospital giving birth to his kid, you better make sure he’s there!”

“Er, sure thing,” he assured her, before changing the subject. “Okay, we have to split up.” With no indication either way, he went right while Vincent went left. He avoided the police as best he could while continuously keeping an eye on the split screen to see Dilara’s progress as well. 

She escaped; Jungkook breathed a sigh of relief and took his eyes off his own screen for a moment too long to see Dilara pump her fist in the air - long enough to get captured.

“Shit!” He’d lost the game - swallowing his disappointment, for Dilara hadn’t yet, he urged her to continue. “Go! Keep going!”

“I can’t,” she muttered determinedly, turning Vincent around and going back into the hospital with his gun loaded. “We’re in this together, mate - if you lose, we both lose.”

Despite the tension, Jungkook felt his stomach flip in excitement: he loved playing with Dilara. She was competitive, she took risks and she was good at gaming. It had been a long time since he’d met someone who matched this well with him online; it was no surprise that he constantly looked forward to their next session.

“Okay, hold still -” Dilara frowned in concentration, aiming her gun - only two bullets left - at the cop who had Leo in a headlock. Her thumb swiped over the controller ever so slightly and shot the cop straight in the head.

“You saved me!” Jungkook gasped, immediately spurring his character on and out of that damn hospital.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” she muttered, although she looked relieved as well, a grin flashing across her face.

They escaped after that, taking up the pilot’s offer to take them to Mexico, where they were ambushed by the mobster Harvey and his men. There was the old school gaming face-off: guns, fire, jumping off buildings and eliminating NPCs left and right.

“Oh, my God,” said Jungkook in surprise. “We did it. We killed Harvey.” He looked up hopefully at Dilara. “Is that it? Does that mean we win?”

“I don’t know…” The game told them that now that Harvey was dead, they could return to the US but the moment they did, they were surrounded by the police again. “Oh, no…”

“No! Come on!” Jungkook whined, frustrated now, but something was wrong. He frowned as one of the policemen, took the gem they had stolen from Harvey from Leo’s hand and handed it to Vincent… along with his gun.

“Oh, no…”

“Wait…” Jungkook frowned. “Why did the cop just -” He squinted at the screen to read the dialogue box, even though Dilara was reading it out loud. “Is - is Vincent a cop?” His eyes darted to Dilara’s picture in the pop-out. “Are you undercover?”

“Shit, I had no idea,” she murmured. “I told you I’d never reached this far in the game before.” 

His stomach churned. We’re in this together, she’d said. “I’m supposed to take you hostage now,” he stated, reading the instructions. Before she could shrug in acceptance, he subdued her and ran. It ensued in a chase again, but this time between Leo and Vincent, with Leo trying to run and Vincent trying to catch him.

It’s not real. Jungkook knew, he knew Dilara knew, and he knew the game was set up to be a certain way for the story. But it still stung, being betrayed, and before he knew it, he was being chased into a warehouse by Dilara, both of them injured and losing energy.

“Some game, Komyshan,” he muttered, sighing. He didn’t know how long they’d been playing; bonding over their shared hatred of Harvey felt like hours ago, as did each of them discovering they had kids. He chanced another look at Dilara on the pop–out and paused.

Her eyes were wet, tear tracks down her cheeks. He started, suddenly wondering if her sixteen-year-old self knew that she would have to betray her ally like this.

They climbed up the warehouse and onto the roof, both their energy packs beeping to indicate they were running out. There were their guns, bright and clear. This, Jungkook knew, was the end. One of them got the gun and shot the other, and the other died at the hands of a one-time ally.

She was still crying, even as her fingers flew over the buttons on the controller. Jungkook watched, as though in slow motion, as Vincent on screen dove for the gun and pointed it at Leo, shooting him, ending the game.

“What - what did you do?” Dilara frowned, looking taken aback. “You didn’t even go for your gun. Did - did you let me win?” she demanded, sounding horrified.

“No!” But didn’t he, though? Jungkook couldn’t tell. “I - I didn’t see the gun,” he explained weakly. He fell silent as the epilogue appeared on screen. 

“Vincent tells Linda about Leo’s death…” she read out, swallowing, “... and goes back to his wife and newborn daughter.” Dilara blinked rapidly.

“That’s a happy ending, right?” Jungkook murmured. “He didn’t have to abandon his daughter.”

Dilara was quiet for a moment. Then she chuckled softly, without humour, not looking away from the screen. “Jesus Christ, JK,” she sighed. “It’s not real. It's just a game.”

Jungkook nodded but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t seen Dilara ever break down in front of him like that, even though she’d held it together reasonably well. It stayed in his mind even as he went to bed at dawn, the image of her biting her lip while her eyes swam with tears at a fictional character leaving his wife and newborn at the hospital, and he privately came to a conclusion: he was not cut out for story-telling games. 

—

The worst loss Jungkook had ever faced in a video game was the night he invited Taehyung to play. 

He didn’t truthfully know what he’d been expecting when he’d invited the older member to join. All he remembered was that years before Dilara entered their lives, Taehyung had been the person who stayed up with him into the wee hours of the night when they were crippled with jet lag and played video games all night.

But it didn’t feel the same. Even the way the plan came to life felt… off. They were in a supermarket in Seoul, during a serendipitous week where their tour schedule and Dilara’s F1 calendar had somehow coincided to have all of them in the same location. A get-together had been planned which Hoseok had volunteered to host, with all seven members, Seokjin’s girlfriend Seulgi, Sooah, Chaeyoung and Dilara in attendance. All the members had been delegated by Namjoon, who seemed to be making a huge effort to gather everyone together, to bring different accompaniments for the night; in the gigantic mall, five out of seven members roamed around trying to fulfil their duties. 

Taehyung, Jungkook and Dilara had been dispatched to purchase liquor and mixers. On their way to the store, Taehyung bumped into a friend and, after fondly introducing Dilara as his girlfriend, encouraged her and Jungkook to go on without him.

“How are you balancing this thing?” Jungkook asked tightly, as he tried to keep the cart he was standing from bumping into any of the aisles.

“It’s called steering,” she said knowledgeably, her much smaller frame somehow managing to manoeuvre the cart with ease, almost as if she were riding a manual scooter.

“Race you to the end?” 

She grinned as they positioned their carts next to each other. “Remember, we buy what we break.”

“Good thing we can both afford it.” Jungkook winked at her, half-heartedly dodging her playful kick to his shin. “Ready?”

“Go!” 

They were careful to keep quiet and not attract attention, staying at the back of the store where they were the only customers. They stifled their giggles while trying to maintain their balance and simultaneously sabotage the other. 

“Careful, Lara,” he called to her as her cart wobbled slightly.

“Oi, you don’t get to call me that,” she admonished him, wincing and straightening her cart. “Something’s wrong with this cart, ugh…”

“Oh, yeah? Brake failure?” he taunted her. “You can’t blame everything on your engineers, you know?”

Dilara gasped as she turned her cart at the last minute to avoid hitting a standalone shelf of bottles. “How dare you, Jeon Jungkook. I’m going to kill -” She gasped again, out of his sight this time, followed by a soft oof! from someone else. Just as Jungkook spurred his cart on to make sure she hadn’t hurt herself, he heard the giggles - both of them.

“You’re not allowed to do that in here,” he heard Taehyung’s deep voice, and his heart sank unexpectedly. “You could be arrested for that, you know?”

Jungkook appeared just in time to see Taehyung tugging Dilara backwards to him, gripping both her wrists loosely in one hand. His head was tilted towards the side of her face while she smiled in a way that made Jungkook feel as though he’d walked in on something extremely private.

Fortunately, she caught sight of him and stepped away from Taehyung, albeit still staying close. “Alright, don’t we have stuff to buy?” she asked, changing the subject. “Who has the list?”

Jungkook and Taehyung both opened the group chat to check the list compiled in it, naming different liquors out of order. “Why don’t we split up?” Dilara suggested. “I’ll go to the wine section,” she volunteered, waving at both of them and disappearing behind the aisle, leaving both boys to scan the hard liquors.

“Whiskey, obviously,” stated Taehyung, picking up a bottle of Glen Fiddich and checking the price. “Probably the first bottle Hobi hyung will ever have in his house.”

Jungkook forced a chuckle. “True. I don’t think I’ll be able to stay long enough to see him at that stage of the night, though.”

“Oh, yeah? Got plans?” He raised his eyebrows mock-seriously. “Hot date tonight?”

Yeah, but it’s with your girlfriend. It was only a moment later when he looked up to see Taehyung frowning slightly at him that he realised he’d said the words out loud. “No, I just meant -” He let out another choked laugh, his heart jolting in panic. “We - well, she wanted to game tonight. We don’t have a schedule tomorrow, so…” He cleared his throat.

Taehyung paused for a moment, but then simply nodded. “I meant to ask you, Jungkook,” he said after a moment, now examining another bottle. “Is everything okay?”

“I - how do you mean?”

“I mean, like with you and me. Are you mad at me or something?”

Jungkook’s eyes widened. “N-no. Not at all. Why would you think that?”

Taehyung shrugged. “You’ve been a little short with me the last couple of days,” he remarked casually. “Did I do something?”

He shook his head, lost for words, for this was getting seriously out of hand. What was wrong with him? The tiredness from the tour was bound to catch up sometime but were his moods that erratic, that Taehyung could have  misinterpreted them for hostility?

“No, you didn’t,” he answered honestly. “I’m just tired, I swear,” he added, throwing an arm around Taehyung’s shoulders and squeezing them. “Sorry, hyung.”

Taehyung nodded, seemingly a little surprised at this reaction. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Get some sleep tonight, maybe.”

“We’re gaming tonight, though,” he answered apologetically. “You know, you should join us,” he suggested, still reeling in the mild panic that Taehyung might think he was angry with him. “We used to game all the time, before. It’s been ages since we’ve done that.”

Taehyung raised his eyebrows, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Are you sure? Wait, do I still need to let you win?”

Jungkook scoffed, hugely relieved. “Don’t worry, Dilara has beaten me more than once so losing isn’t as shocking as it was before.”

Taehyung grinned and was about to respond when Hoseok appeared out of nowhere, looking distinctly unamused.

“Wasting time, are we?” Before either of them could respond, he slapped Jungkook lightly on the shoulder. “You - go get the beer. And you - wine. Now. Now,” he repeated when Taehyung opened his mouth to argue.

They exchanged a meaningful look and went their separate ways, Jungkook straight towards the fridges with the beer. After filling an entire cart with multiple six packs of different brands, he looked around for the others, finally spotting Namjoon in the middle of the store, typing on his phone.

“Hey. Got what we need?” Namjoon asked when Jungkook joined him and peered into the cart. “This is just beer. What about the rest?”

“Hoseok hyung was with Taehyung and Dilara getting that stuff…”

Hoseok joined them then. “Take me with you,” he stated to Namjoon, looking mildly traumatised.

Namjoon frowned. “What are you talking about? Have you guys got everything?” All three of them turned to see Taehyung and Dilara by the wines, seemingly in a serious conversation. “What’s going on over there?”

Hoseok raised his eyebrows. “Well,” he began, “Taehyung is pretending to be a wine connoisseur giving a tour of his private winery to Dilara, a socialite who is trapped in a loveless marriage.”

Namjoon stared at him, evidently able to make neither head nor tail of this statement. “What?”

Hoseok nodded. “Yeah. Like I said, please take me with you.”

Namjoon responded, but Jungkook barely heard him; he watched Taehyung and Dilara, standing apart but still close together, their hands brushing and their gazes fixed on each other, apparently having forgotten that they were not alone. 

The party was supposed to start in three hours; they simply did not have time for this right now. “I’ll get them,” he volunteered, abandoning the older members with the cart of beer and striding over to the happy couple.

“Sorry, guys,” he muttered, stepping in between them, for that’s where the Pinot coincidentally was. “Namjoon hyung sent me - he’s getting really impatient.” He pretended not to notice Taehyung’s annoyed sigh or Dilara self-consciously fluffing out her hair.

Later that night, after a pleasant evening at Hoseok’s apartment, Jungkook settled into the gaming chair in his own, ready to play Trine. In light of Taehyung joining them, Jungkook put forward the one three-person game they had in their backlog, a medieval fantasy game with Zoya the Thief, Amadeus the Wizard, and Pontius the Knight, played by Dilara, Taehyung and Jungkook respectively.

Jungkook was determined to have this session go well. He wasn’t exactly sure why or what it was, but he felt as though he had something to prove to Taehyung, probably because he was the guest during their regular two-person gaming sessions.

Trine was different from A Way Out, mostly in the sense that while the latter was a human story of moral conflict and emotional connections, Trine was, in every sense of the word, a game. Three misfits having to free themselves of a magical curse, each with their own weapons and abilities - it was straightforward and promised to be fun. 

Dilara, in Jungkook’s opinion, was made to play Zoya the Thief. Zoya’s skill was archery and with her excellent hand-eye coordination, Dilara shot every single arrow exactly where she was aiming, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration. Jungkook and his character, Pontius the Knight, watched in awe, his sword dangling uselessly at his side - until something appeared out of nowhere and hit him in the head.

“What was that?” he demanded, his eyes darting across the screen and groaning when he saw that Pontius’s energy level had dipped. Without thinking, he slashed his sword through the air, the animated flame at the end of it rising but causing no damage.

“Pay attention!” Taehyung - or Amadeus - had evidently thrown some kind of object at Pontius. As Jungkook watched, Amadeus conjured up another similar looking object, while Taehyung grinned in the pop-out screen. Begrudgingly, Jungkook had to admit that even Taehyung was made to play Amadeus the Wizard - quick, witty and wearing ridiculous robes.

“Oi!” Dilara’s voice rang through his headphones. “You both know we’re all on the same side, right?”

Jungkook rolled his eyes as they continued through the game, entering a ruined castle.

“Okay, here goes.” Taehyung cleared his throat as a dialogue by Amadeus appeared on the screen, and proceeded to read the entire thing in a gruff, grandiose sort of voice that Jungkook supposed he considered a wizard’s. Through the dramatics, he could hear Dilara laughing at the voice and when he glanced at the pop-up screen, saw her looking at something to her side, and it occurred to him for the first time that Taehyung and Dilara were sitting in the same room.

The thought annoyed him more than he expected. This wasn’t how gaming was supposed to be done. Gaming was different timezones, dead of night, coffee runs and straining eyes - not sitting ten feet apart in the same bedroom and giggling at inside jokes. 

It didn’t get better as the night went on. The game went well; in fact, they were progressing at an alarming rate, finding objects, overcoming obstacles, gaining points and keeping their energy levels at an all-time high. All three of their characters seemingly worked well together, their powers in perfect tandem.

However, Jungkook was slowly starting to regret inviting Taehyung to play - not because he wasn’t good, but because it wasn’t right. There was a disturbance; he didn’t seem to understand Jungkook and Dilara’s normal trash talk, had a habit of making rather asinine observations in the graphics of the game that more often than not, ended up leading to a clue the other two had missed, and seemed to be more interested in the personality of all three characters than the actual quest.

Most frustratingly, Taehyung was beating the game - and the other players. He seemed to be able to come up with the most absurd solutions to problems - and all of them worked. During a play where they had to get at a clue that was sneakily tucked into the ceiling, Jungkook and Dilara were looking for ways to unlock a ladder that the game was offering them for a certain number of points. 

“Do you have enough energy to break through the wall with your arrows?” Jungkook urged her.

“I can try…” Dilara aimed and Zoya shot an arrow which simply bounced against the wall. “I don’t think that’s the way. And I’m running out of arrows. There has to be another way to break down that wall.”

“Okay, well, the ladder is behind it. Maybe we can blow it up?” 

“You’re the one with the flaming sword.”

“Maybe I can throw it at the wall or something… burn it down…” Jungkook searched the screen frantically, passing by Amadeus, who was using his power of conjuring to simply create cube-shaped objects. “Taehyung hyung? Some help?”

“Yeah, hang on just a sec…” Taehyung, seemingly ignoring their conundrum entirely, was now stacking the objects one above the other with a slight gap between the edges, levitating the ones at the top. “There,” he said, once they almost reached the ceiling. “Use those as steps and get to the top.”

Dilara gasped and Zoya immediately sprinted up the slanting tower of blocks, easily retrieving the clue from the ceiling. “It worked!” she exclaimed in wonder, the character jumping down gracefully. “My hero,” she said dramatically, looking out the side of her screen again, which Taehyung returned with a grin and a wink at her.

Jungkook poked his tongue into his cheek. “We have, like, seven more clues left,” he said stonily, but his words were drowned in the midst of their joking and laughing. This, right here, was the problem, he reflected: he, Jungkook, had the obvious goal, which was to collect the most points and win the damn game, whereas Taehyung’s primary objective seemed to be to make Dilara laugh, the game a mere secondary.

He wondered why Dilara wasn’t more annoyed, for she enjoyed winning just as much as he did. But she seemed equally excited at the prospect of a fellow player reading out the dialogues as though they were a script, inventing a voice for Zoya and changing her accent, getting immersed in the characters and the story along with Taehyung, with Jungkook having to remind them that time was running out.

“We’re going to lose,” he stated sullenly after a while, when it seemed unlikely that they would finish before their energy packs died. 

“Not necessarily,” pointed out Dilara, moving Zoya through an empty corridor to look for the last clue - the Trine.

“Found it,” said Taehyung casually, as though he had just found his sock and not the Trine that would allow them to win the entire game. “Let’s go?”

“Yes - oh, my God!” Jungkook ran down the castle, making sure Zoya and Amadeus were both following Pontius, his heart racing with the familiar anticipation of possibly winning the game.

“Ah, my controller is stuck.” Taehyung clicked his tongue as the animated Amadeus slowed down without Taehyung speeding him along. 

“What? Don’t you dare make us lose this, Tae!” Dilara threatened him, when they’d almost reached the final destination, where they could see the other two artifacts they must combine with the Trine.

“Wh - I can’t help this! Lara - catch!” Amadeus flung the Trine - the Trine - to Zoya, who lunged for it at the last moment, fumbled it and dropped it just as the timer ran out.

“No!” Jungkook dropped his controller and covered his mouth in horror. “No, no no!” He glared at the pop-out screen, vindicated to see Dilara glaring out the side of her screen before she stood up and disappeared from view, reappearing in Taehyung’s video.

“I’m going to kill you,” she muttered to Taehyung, who grabbed her hands to stop her from doing any damage. It was a few more seconds before Jungkook realised they had moved on from the momentary seriousness to mock-anger, until Taehyung tugged at their clasped hands playfully and she fell into his lap, giggling.

Jungkook watched, dumbfounded, until Taehyung, laughing, said into the speaker, “This was so much fun, really. I think I’ll head to bed now, though,” he added, as Dilara got off his lap and went to her own laptop, pulling on her headphones.

“Yeah?” Jungkook muttered. “No rematch?”

“We’ve been playing for three hours,” he remarked. “You want to play more?”

“I want to win. Dilara?” he asked hopefully. 

“Oh, I -” She bit her lip, apparently mulling. On the pop-out screen, Taehyung had already logged off. Jungkook stared at her, his stomach churning in premature disappointment as she looked at something off screen and visibly tried to hide a smile.

“Dilara?”

“Uh… I think I’m done for tonight, too. But let’s play Person 5 tomorrow, JK. Without Taehyung,” she added deliberately, Taehyung’s muffled protests audible in her background. “Had fun, though, love. Good night!”

Jungkook swallowed as the screen went dark. Had fun? Jungkook didn’t think he’d ever hear Dilara say that about a game she had lost, even though he had never seen her laugh this much while gaming before.

Still reeling from the loss, he went straight to his gaming menu and clicked on Real Racing. No characters, no story - just cars and speed. It was weird playing this game alone, but he needed this win right now. 

Anything to not feel like a loser.

—

Sometime in the summer of that year when the group was in New York, wrapping up the America leg of the tour before starting in Europe, Dilara Komyshan DNF-ed a race.

Partly due to jetlag and partly due to the fact that it was pouring outside, almost all the members were in the suite where the race was being aired. Only Yoongi and Jimin weren’t there, the former because he was working and the latter because he was in the gym.

Jungkook had declined Jimin’s offer to work out together; he was tired, and there was the race. He would work out later, for sure. The rest of the members lounged about, doing various activities while the race played at low volume. It was beyond exciting, real-life cars going at a speed of three hundred kilometres an hour between the gorgeous mountains of Mugello, Italy.

Jungkook wished he were there; Italy had been one of his favourite countries to visit during the Red Bull collaboration last year. The views were incredible, the weather was summery, the air was pristine and the house they’d lived in had been so beautiful and rustic, with enough space outside for him and Dilara to work out together while she went through her extended break-up with Taehyung.

Jungkook sneaked a glance at the aforementioned member. Taehyung didn’t look like he was thinking about Italy last year at all; his gaze was fixed on the screen, biting his lip and tensing up every time Dilara’s car was shown on screen, as though he expected her to crash any second. 

Therefore, when her car did touch another car and they both spun out, Jungkook flinched and Taehyung was on his feet instantly, eyes wide at the screen. It didn’t seem like a violent crash, but he stayed standing, the veins in his neck popping as he stared until Dilara climbed out of the car and took off her helmet.

“Oh, thank God,” he muttered, sighing hugely in relief and sitting back down, dropping his head in hands.

Jungkook frowned; of course he was glad Dilara was okay, but she was also disappointed, for sure. She had effectively lost the race - didn’t Taehyung care about that?

The rest of the race went by with far less interest from anyone in the suite, Dilara appearing briefly in the garage, having changed into jeans and a team t-shirt. From the sounds of it, the commentators seemed to agree that it was a “racing incident”, though caused by Dilara who had apparently attempted a very ambitious overtake that had gotten away from her. 

Taehyung’s face was unreadable; he was flitting between looking at the screen and constantly checking his phone, most likely waiting for a text from Dilara. The race ended and the winners were celebrated, followed by post-race interviews where Dilara was asked about nothing but the crash.

“I did speak to Carlos as soon as we were out of the car,,” she said, nodding. looking a bit cornered with several mics being shoved at her. “We’ve sorted that out. It’s definitely really unfortunate about both our races; it wasn’t the intention and I wish we’d been able to continue, but at the same time…” She shrugged. “It was a gap, you know? What kind of a driver would I be if I didn’t take the opportunity?”

“Even if it was at the cost of a fellow driver?” asked a faceless journalist off screen.

“No - of course not.” Dilara frowned and shook her head. “Like I said, Carlos and I talked about it and I’m - I’m very sorry, obviously. But I tried to go for the gap and he tried to block it - we would’ve both done the same thing if the roles were reversed, I’m sure.” But she looked visibly rattled. The interview ended then and Lewis Hamilton appeared on screen for his interview.

Jungkook reached for his phone and typed out a text.

Jungkook [11:15] I saw the race. I’m sorry. Let me know if you want to get your mind off it. We can play anything you want :)

It didn’t take long for her response to arrive. Jungkook waited, recalling how this had genuinely helped her get over a bad race earlier in the year.

Dilara [11:20] Thanks, JK. Just don’t feel like it today though. Sorry.

As Jungkook read her message, once, twice, thrice, trying to process this and not feel disappointed, Taehyung’s phone buzzed on his lap.

He answered it immediately, jumping to his feet. “Hey,” he said softly, as he walked away towards the rooms. Jungkook stared after him as he nodded at the conversation, his voice growing quieter as he left the group, eventually going into his bedroom and closing the door behind him.

A couple of hours later, after Jungkook had dragged himself to the gym and worked out harder than his body was technically allowing him, he sat at his laptop with a coffee, knowing he had only a little while before it was night in Austria.

Jungkook [14:40] Last chance? We can play Life Is Strange. Seeing me play a teenage girl might make you feel better. I’ll do the voice too.

Dilara [14:44] Haha. That might. Will have to take a raincheck though. Sorry.

Jungkook [14:45] No problem. Let me know if you want to talk or anything.

Dilara [14:46] I will. Thanks, JK. You’re a good friend. The best actually. 

The message stayed in Jungkook’s mind the rest of the day, through rehearsal, soundcheck and the concert. The best. The best. He was her best friend. He’d cheered her up on a bad day, even if it was only on text, even if it was only for a moment.

Later that night, once everyone else was asleep but for some reason, he was still awake, Jungkook checked his phone. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find; it was the crack of dawn in Italy and almost the next night in Korea. The only people he knew were in remotely the same timezone as him were on this very floor of the hotel.

He turned to Jimin with whom he was sharing a room. After a long and borderline nauseating conversation with Sooah that Jungkook had accidentally walked in on, Jimin had finally gone to sleep and was now dead to the world. Jungkook reached for his laptop and opened it to Life Is Strange, connecting his headphones before the sound could disturb Jimin.

As it turned out, it was a good thing Dilara had declined taking part in this game for it didn’t seem to have a multi-player option at all. The single player was to assume the character of Max, a photography student in Arcadia Bay with the power to turn back time. It was the most cerebral game Jungkook had ever played; it was difficult, required concentration that was in short supply for Jungkook right now, and he found himself missing having a partner to solve the puzzles and quests with.

But Jungkook was a solo player, as was Max. He started feeling a kind of kinship with Max, who also seemed to be surrounded by people in her hometown and yet, played alone. The game began with Max experiencing a vision of a tornado during class that destroyed the town, following which, while stepping out to calm down, she witnessed a fellow student shoot another in the head and kill her.

Jungkook flinched at the gunshot, the sudden sound startling him, when he discovered Max’s new ability to rewind time. Upon going back in time to before the student - Nathan - shot the girl, Max saved her, a girl who was apparently Max’s childhood friend Chloe, now her partner in solving a series of mysterious deaths in the town of Arcadia Bay.

Jungkook imagined Dilara reading Chloe’s dialogue, even though Chloe wasn’t a player. Chloe had a very similar vibe to Dilara, he felt; they looked nothing alike, but there was a determination of a kind that Dilara had. Chloe was sensitive, asking for Max’s help to find out what happened to her missing friend Rachel, brave in her desire to fight the bad guys not afraid to cry when they discovered that Rachel was dead.

Jungkook sniffed but powered through; this was exactly the kind of game Dilara liked, with characters and story and human relationships and connections on screen. He got it now, now that it was Max and Chloe against the world. Best friends. He watched, played, went through every motion to keep them together, including going back in time to save Chloe’s father from dying in a car crash. When that alternate reality meant that Chloe was instead injured in the crash and paralyzed from the waist down, Jungkook didn’t hesitate: he went back in time once again, letting her father die and saving Chloe once again.

It was almost dawn when the game was coming to an end. Jungkook could tell the end was nearing because the timeline was meant to span less than a week, but he couldn’t tell where it was going. He frowned as the game took him, Max, to San Francisco for the opportunity to display her photo at an art gallery. It almost felt as though the game was getting away from him, for why had the story moved so far away from Arcadia Bay and from Chloe?

Max calls Chloe.

Jungkook read the dialogue, his heart skipping a beat, for here it was: the tornado, the one that Max had had a vision of hours ago at the beginning of the game, was here in Arcadia Bay, threatening to destroy everything and everyone. 

The game took Max back to the moment she took the gallery photo and Jungkook swallowed, the lump in his throat painful as he and Max descended into a pit of alternate realities that existed as a result of them messing with time, only to come to the heartbreaking conclusion that it all began because Max had saved Chloe from being shot.

“No,” whispered Jungkook out loud, his voice breaking. This was why he hated story-telling games, he thought angrily, biting his lip and feeling his eyes fill up anyway. What was the point? You got attached to a character, to her best friend, to her family, and just when you thought you were making it, it imploded and forced you to choose between two equally important things, between freedom and the ally you made in prison, or between your best friend and your integrity.

What was he supposed to do now? Let the town be destroyed to save Chloe, a character who wasn’t even a player? That definitely wasn’t how the game was designed; he couldn’t imagine the programmers would consider that a win. No, if he had to win the game, he had to save the world. Save the cheerleader, save the world, Dilara had said, months ago. It always came down to saving the world.

Jungkook followed the instructions, his vision blurring as Max went back to Arcadia Bay while the storm approached, reuniting with Chloe when the moment of truth arrived. Jungkook’s finger hovered over the button on the controller, his face screwed up as he clicked on the option in the dialogue box.

He watched motionlessly as the animation exploded, the storm rolling in and destroying Arcadia Bay, the entire town razed to the ground. As the camera panned around the devastation, Jungkook swallowed the lump in his throat and let the tears stream silently down his face as Chloe appeared amidst the ruins, alive and relieved. She and Max clasped hands and left Arcadia Bay together, leaving the wreckage behind them.

—

Thanks for reading. Don’t forget to leave a review :)

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Twenty-Eight

(AO3 counterpart here.)

However, the world does not stop for grief. Fireheart and the rest of the Clan had duties to attend to, prey to catch, borders to mark. Keeping them busy would stave off that sinkhole of despair; that seemed to be the running theory, anyway, if Speckletail’s constant orders were anything to go by.

Fireheart didn’t blame her. She was in a tough situation, he knew that, and she was doing an admirable job for what she had in her supply. But it did strike him that she was more running herself ragged than busying her Clanmates.

“I’m fine,” she would say every single time Fireheart checked on her. “Just do your duties and take care of your apprentice. Let me handle this.”

And every time, with increasing exasperation, he would think, Why would you expect me of all cats to drop the subject when you’re visibly not doing well? He’d never say it, but he was certain it was showing on his face, because she’d dart her eyes away and hurry off to do something else.

He obeyed her, at least, kind of just to humor her. Not entirely—Cloudpaw was eager to learn and explore, and Fireheart was eager to show him new knacks and skills. Having Cloudpaw’s learning style on the mind, his nephew caught onto lessons quickly. Fireheart watched with pride as his nephew started finding and catching prey on his own (though he still missed the jump here and there). Even better, he seemed as disinterested in learning to fight as Fireheart was in teaching him.

“Figures,” Darkstripe muttered one night. “The cat who’s never even raised a paw to defend his Clan would have an apprentice just like him.”

Fireheart’s thoughts escaped him before he could trap them between his teeth. “Well, hopefully your apprentice is learning a lot of great fighting skills from you. You’re famous for that, I hear.”

Darkstripe twitched his lip, but didn’t respond. Cloudpaw gave Fireheart a cheeky look, and he couldn’t resist a wink back.

One night, Cloudpaw was unusually subdued. Fireheart had brought him out to the southern part of the forest for tree-climbing practice on a surprisingly clear night, the stars glittering overhead and the air kindly still. At Fireheart’s order, Cloudpaw clambered up a few trees, sliding down once or twice and landing on his back, getting covered in snow. Even this didn’t seem to make him want to talk.

Well, Fireheart knew what to do with that. “Is something bothering you, little guy?”

Cloudpaw stood up from his slide down a trunk, shuffling his feet a little. Bark-slivers were pulled off his claws as he sharpened them on an exposed root. He didn’t look at his uncle for a long moment, until he approached and more-or-less forced eye contact.

“Do kittypets go out at night?” he asked at last.

Fireheart had a faint idea where this was going. “They sometimes do. They’re usually up in the day, or in the evening. Why?”

As he suspected, Cloudpaw hesitated before asking quietly, “Can we go see Rosy?”

Fireheart only paused to gauge what time of night it was: a little less than halfway through. To the increasingly nervous-looking Cloudpaw, he said, “Of course we can. Come on.”

He turned around and started off towards the Houses. Cloudpaw scurried along behind him, catching up quickly with his tail high and bristling in stress at the same time. Fireheart let him sort through his anxieties on his own, and the organized questions came soon:

“What if she doesn’t come out?”

“We’ll try another night.”

“Will we get in trouble if someone sees us?”

“Speckletail is pretty understanding. But we might get scolded a little by anyone else.” He blinked reassuringly. “Don’t worry. No one’s coming this way tonight and we have time to chat a little before anyone wonders where we are.”

Then a much bigger worry. “…What if she doesn’t like me?”

Fireheart stopped at that one and gave his nephew a gentle look. “She will. I promise.”

Cloudpaw met his eyes, saw the confidence in them, and settled. He took in a deep breath and nodded, walking with a more certain stride alongside his uncle.

They reached the Houses quickly. Fireheart took the lead, trotting through the grass and onto the stony, skinny road. Cloudpaw made a face at the new texture on his paws, but he didn’t say anything until they stopped in front of Rosy’s house.

“Is this it?” he whispered, like he was afraid to be heard.

Fireheart nodded. “You’ll be able to climb this fence easy, but wait for my signal. I want to surprise her.”

At this, Cloudpaw’s eyes lit up. He sat down and watched Fireheart leap up onto the top of the fence and jump down into the yard without a word.

“Rosy!” Fireheart called, pawing at the flap in the door. “Rosy?”

Only a heartbeat passed before he was nearly tackled by his sister as she sped out of the house. She barely stopped in time to avoid completely bowling him over, but he did have to stumble back a few steps.

“Fireheart!” she cried, purring like a car. She wove around him, rubbing her fur and face on his shoulders and neck. “You’re here!”

“I am here.” Fireheart bumped his head against hers when she stood still for a moment. “I’m sorry it’s been so long. A lot’s been happening.”

“I– I heard.” Rosy’s joy slipped into an anxiety similar to Cloudpaw’s. “The fire, I smelled the smoke. I was so worried for you and Cloudy. Is he okay? When can I see him again?”

“Oh…” Fireheart falsely paused in uncertainty. “About that…”

He immediately regretted the joke when Rosy’s yellow-green eyes bulged in terror. Quickly, he turned his head and called, “Come on over!”

A bit of scraping and scrabbling, and a ginger-pointed face popped up over the fenceline. Rosy gasped as Cloudpaw landed with admirable grace and stood as tall as he could. Fireheart realized too late that there was still snow on his back.

“Cloudpaw,” Fireheart said, gesturing, “This is your birth-mother, Rosy.”

He didn’t get a chance to say anything else. Rosy burst forward with a cry of joy and scooped up the considerably wider apprentice in a single-paw embrace, holding him to her chest like he was still a tiny kit. Fireheart watched with amusement and warmth as Rosy licked the top of her son’s head, purring so loudly Fireheart half-wondered if her humans could hear her.

“Oh, look at you!” She drew back to touch her nose to where she had licked. “Look at my baby boy!” She released him to wind around him too, nosing him and chattering excitedly. “You’re so big and handsome now, Cloudy, look at how lovely your fur is- oh, you poor thing, you’re covered in snow, here—”

Cloudpaw had a face Fireheart wished he could somehow capture somewhere other than his memory: confused, startled, bashful, and cautiously happy all at once. It was quite a mix of emotions to see as Rosy dusted his back and sides clear of any remaining snow, still talking the whole time.

“…and your colors are coming out so beautifully, you look just like your father—” She finally came to a stop in front of him, purring through her words. “You must be such a big, strong warrior!”

“Oh…” Cloudpaw meekly lowered his head a bit. “I’m just an apprentice right now.”

“He became one early,” Fireheart told Rosy. “He’s Cloudpaw now.”

“Oh, yes, yes, sorry.” Rosy shook her head. “Name changing, I forgot.” She returned her attention to her son. “When do you get your warrior name? Will it be soon? You have to come and tell me as soon as you get it! I’d love to hear your real grown-up name!”

“Rosy?” Fireheart took a step towards her. She looked his way and he twitched his whiskers. “You’re overwhelming him a little.”

Rosy looked back at Cloudpaw, who gave her a sheepish nod, and stepped back with a deep inhale. She shook herself hard and spoke slower.

“I’m sorry, baby boy,” she said, still shuffling a little in place. “I’m just so excited to see you again! Fireheart must have told you, I gave him to you so that I could know you were safe and happy.” Her ears fell back a little and her voice softened. “All of your siblings went away to different houses so long ago. I miss you and them every single day. I’m just so grateful that you got to live nearby and be taken care of. The molly who nursed you, will you tell her I said ‘thank you for raising my son’?”

Cloudpaw stiffened immediately. His eyes darted to Fireheart’s, and his uncle stepped in.

“She knows,” he said. “And she was happy to raise him.”

Rosy didn’t appear to notice the change in his volume; she simply continued on with the conversation. “Tell me everything! I heard you grew up with that molly’s litter? What are they like? How is being an apprentice? What’s your favorite thing about the forest? I want to hear it all!”

“W-well, um…” Cloudpaw sat down at a gesture from Rosy. “My brother and sister are Ashpaw and Aspenpaw. They’re both grey, like mi.”

“‘Mi’,” Rosy echoed, a little muted herself. Before anyone had time to reflect or respond, she shook her head and brightened up again. “Are they big and fluffy like the rest of your Clan?”

“Well, Ashpaw’s pretty skinny,” Cloudpaw said, slowly growing more confident. “He’s not as tall, either. Aspenpaw, she’s regular-sized. We all train together sometimes. It’s really fun, because we’re still kind of playing, but we’re learning at the same time.”

“He’s been excellent at tracking down prey so far,” Fireheart added. “And he’s snuck up on me in the snow before he was even an apprentice.”

Rosy trilled. “You’re amazing! I knew you would be.”

Cloudpaw relaxed a little more. “I mean, I just follow pawprints and scents. It’s not really that hard… but I like doing that in the forest, too. I didn’t see any of it before the fire, because kits aren’t allowed out of camp until they become apprentices.” He perked up. “And Fireheart saved us! Eparme*, tell her about that.”

“We’re supposed to be showing you off.” Fireheart approached and sat down to the side so Rosy still had complete access to Cloudpaw. “I can tell her about that later.”

Rosy shuddered. “Yes, please wait. I’d love to hear the story someday, but the idea of you both being stuck in a fire… it’s too awful.”

“It was really scary,” Cloudpaw confirmed. “But we’re okay now.” He hesitated. “But… Patchpelt died, when we were running away.”

“Ohhh…” Rosy moved forward and started grooming Cloudpaw’s head. “I’m so sorry, baby boy. Was he a good friend of yours?”

Cloudpaw spoke quietly. “He was an elder, and he was nice. Ravenwing was really, really sad.”

“My friend,” Fireheart elaborated. “Patchpelt was his grandfather.”

Rosy looked to Fireheart now. “Was he the one I met? Black and skinny?”

Fireheart nodded.

“Poor thing…” Rosy turned back to Cloudpaw, but she seemed to be speaking to herself. “I don’t know if it’s worse to know exactly what happened to someone you love or to never know.”

There was a brief moment of silence.

Fireheart broke it. “Cloudpaw, is there anything else you want to tell Rosy? We should leave pretty soon, before dawn starts coming up.”

“Uh…” Cloudpaw thought for a moment. His words were soft and a bit hesitant, but they were earnest. “It was nice to meet you, Rosy. Mira. Um. You know.” He straightened up again. “I’ll come back when I can.” He peeked at Fireheart. “If I can.”

Fireheart nodded warmly.

Rosy rasped her tongue over his left ear. “Please do come back soon, Cloudpaw. And Fireheart. I’ve missed you both so much. It was torture, not knowing if you were okay.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Fireheart stood up, tilting his head with the apology. “We ended up traveling all the way across the territories to live in the Barn—a big, empty house—and we had to wait to go home until all the humans were gone.”

 Rosy sighed in a sad way, rather than exasperation or frustration. “I think I can be ready to hear the story the next time you come by. When will that be, do you know?”

Cloudpaw looked inquiringly at Fireheart.

“I don’t,” he said. “There’s still a lot going on for us.”

Another inquiring look, one with a clear message: Do we tell her about…?

About what didn’t matter. There were too many things to say that would send her into a panic. Fireheart just shook his head.

“Well, alright…” Rosy licked Cloudpaw’s forehead a final time, then turned and pressed her own head under Fireheart’s chin. “Thank you for coming. Thank you so much for– for everything. Taking care of him, teaching him, bringing him here…” Her wide eyes were wet when she drew back. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

Fireheart touched his nose just above and between her eyes. “It’s been an honor.”

Cloudpaw said nothing, just blinked kindly at his mother. Rosy blinked back and stood there, watching them as they jumped up onto the rail and over the fence. Fireheart didn’t hear her flap open again, even after they were quite a distance away.

“She was nice,” Cloudpaw said at last. “I like her.”

“Good!” Fireheart bobbed his head encouragingly. “I meant it when I said I don’t know when we can go back, but I’ll get you back there as soon as I can. As long as it’s safe.”

Cloudpaw paused. “Should we have told her about the dogs? What if they come into the Houses?”

Fireheart sighed. “My friend here knows about them. The last I heard, rumors were going around, but Rosy doesn’t leave her yard very often. And, well, I didn’t want to tell her about the dogs when they’ve done… what they’ve done.”

Cloudpaw shivered.

“If you weren’t there, I would have said something,” Fireheart continued. “But I can’t bring you to her for the first time and immediately tell her you’ve been in more danger than just the fire.”

“…Okay.”

Fireheart looked at his nephew. “What’s on your mind? The dogs?”

“No,” Cloudpaw almost murmured. “I’m just thinking.”

Fireheart tapped his side with his tail. “Well, if you want to share those thoughts, I’m right here. Rosy will be, too.”

 At this, the tension in Cloudpaw’s body eased. His fur smoothed out and his tail raised.

“Yeah.” His eyes softened. “She will. I’m glad I met her.”

“See, I told you she’d like you, remember?”

A small crease in his blue eyes. “…Yeah.”

*“Eparme”: uncle.

[flamebringer0]

About Hivewings

My husband was posting WOF headcanons so I will try posting one too. Why are Hivewings so weird? Here is what I think.

“Yes, of course,” Lady Scarab snapped. “Maybe they weren’t called SilkWings back then. ShimmerWings or Flibbertigibbets or something in the old language, I don’t know. But Clearsight married one, and then another one when the first one died, and had an alarming number of dragonets with each one, and then their dragonets and their dragonets’ dragonets kept going, marrying Ye Olde SilkWings or what have you, until there was enough of them to be considered their own tribe. HiveWings. Stupid menacing name, if you ask me. It was only about five hundred years ago that we officially split into two separate tribes, you know. My charming great-great-grandmother was the queen who ordered no more mingling of the bloodlines. She was a nightmare.”

This is where Hivewings allegedly come from, but it doesn't really make any sense to assume this actually happened the way she describes it. Clearsight came to Pantala around the year 3000, and the Hivewings as a separate tribe apparently came into existence around the year 4500. That means there must have been ~1500 years in which the Beetlewings (the actual name of the "ye olde Silkwings") existed as a single breeding population with her genes in it. It hardly seems possible that by the year 4500 there could be one subset of the Beetlewing population that was descended from Clearsight and another that wasn't.

As you trace a subject's family tree back, the number of ancestors doubles in each generation: two parents, four grandparents, eight great grandparents, etc. Eventually you reach a point in time where the subject should apparently have more ancestors than the total number of living people. This discrepancy is explained by individual ancestors occupying more than one position in the subject's pedigree, which is known as pedigree collapse. This has some counterintuitive implications, like the fact that in the real world, every living human of European ancestry is descended from Charlemagne, and also from every other European who lived before the 10th century and has any modern descendants at all.

If we compare the situation with Clearsight to the situation with Charlemagne, most of the variables seem to point to this effect being even more pronounced in her case. Dragons have shorter generation times than humans (Fathom was a father at 11), she lived ~1500 years before the present as opposed to ~1300, and the population of Pantala seems to be much smaller than the population of Europe. So I find it highly unlikely that there are any Pantalans at all who aren't descended from Clearsight.

What seems more reasonable to me is that Clearsight made some small genetic contribution to every Beetlewing living in 4500, and the conception of the Hivewings specifically as her true heirs is just propaganda. What I imagine is that the Beetlewings of 4500 had developed the folk belief that dragons with more black in their scales had a closer connection to Clearsight, who was essentially deified at that point. This belief was completely wrong. Beetlewings had always come in many different colors and patterns, with and without black, and by 4500 essentially nobody was more or less related to Clearsight than anyone else. But if you have the ambition to found a tribe, none of that really matters; what matters is how well you can tell a story. It turned out that the first queen of the Hivewings told the "dragons with black scales are the true heirs of Clearsight" story well enough to split away from the Beetlewings and create a new tribe. It might also be that there was already an established tendency in 4500 for black Beetlewings to breed among themselves to try and conserve their imagined connection to Clearsight, which would only have made it easier to formally split the tribe.

Of course when the Hivewings and the Silkwings first became established as separate tribes, there wouldn't really have been any difference between them, genetically. But over the course of 500 years, Silkwings with black in their scales and Hivewings without would tend to leave the tribes they hatched in and settle down in the other. Over time, this had the effect that the two groups really did become differentiated by the presence or absence of black scales, and by the present it has become very rare for a Silkwing with black scales or a Hivewing without to hatch at all.

The other differences between the two tribes could perhaps be explained by genetic linkage, although i guess it might be a stretch to assume that real world genetics apply to WOF dragons to that degree. Most of what i've said so far, i feel like it follows naturally from things that are actually attested about the setting, but maybe it's silly to say "yeah dragons definitely have chromosomes and their genes are laid out linearly so black scales can be tied to apparently unrelated features like not having antennae". I'm just saying it's possible.

Another weird thing about Hivewings is that they seem to have way too many random powers. In most of the tribes there are only like one or two powers that only some individuals have, and they are rare. Mudwings have a few fireproof dragons, Skywings have a few firescales, Nightwings have a few psychics. But Hivewings have stingers in their tails, poison fangs, boiling acid attacks, and probably other things I don't even know about. And it seems like these features are relatively common in the population, but not universal. Why is the distribution so weird?

What I think is, hatching with random features like this is something that happens in every tribe, it's just usually very rare, and the tribes all react differently. If a Rainwing hatches with a sting in their tail, everyone says "oh, funny, you must have a Sandwing ancestor somewhere", and that's the end of it. If a Skywing hatches with a sting in their tail, their parents probably rip it off so they won't be ordered to kill their dragonet. And if a Hivewing hatches with a sting in their tail, they get black-bagged and sent off to a government breeding facility to try to increase the prevalence of tail stingers in the population.

Like the Hivewings practicing eugenics is more or less canon, right? They force Silkwings to breed at the whims of the queen to acquire more flamesilks, so it's not that hard for me to imagine they do it to their own tribe as well. Honestly when I was first reading arc 3 I felt like this one must be canon, because the strangeness of the Hivewings having so many more powers than every other tribe felt really significant to me. Nothing about it ever came up, and I'm left to assume that the canon explanation is really meant to be "no, they're just like that for some reason". But I think this makes sense and is in line with the nasty authoritarian nature of Hivewing society.