#i kept remembering this scene so i just...had to

[bloggerspam]

Gonna change it up a little and reblog from my sideblog bc ill be doing some little omake scenes (extras, and in this case not-quite canon but might as well be) over there (if i think of any/can manage to be funny enough)

If you saw me reblog the new update no you didnt it was a last minute decision. >.>

===

So.

The unnamed Cousin who caught him in his lies was not in fact, a bigot who was appalled about Jon's powers, but rather a concerned meta-human himself.

Good to know.

Kon uses his hearing to try and get a bead on the suddenly missing Cousin's whereabouts, his irregular heartbeat standing out amongst the crowd.

He grabs the red-headed cousin who made Jon on his meta-human status and tugs her along to where his little brother might be. He can already hear the un-named cousin scolding the younger kids for their recklessness, which makes him smile in relief. He's always been bad at that kind of thing, even though it's his job to do so as the older one.

Even if Jon has technically existed for longer than he has, Kon has way more information downloaded into him. The fact that they didn't download him with the intricacies of being an older sibling should honestly be a crime.

At any rate, Kon and Jon definitely owe these cousins for discretion. Even though Ma said the Walkers wouldn't have had an issue with them having powers, it was still dangerous to even give the possibility of a connection to the Supers.

Especially since Clark was already Smallville's biggest and worse kept secret.

Honestly, he shouldn't have trusted Clark in the first place, even if Pa backed him up on it.

Kon hates to say it, but this is exactly why Tim is so adamant on those stupid plans and practicing them.

It started out so well too—none of the Aunts or Uncles or older cousins suspected a thing! Kon introduced himself, gave his branch family name, and most of them just, moved on!

When Pa and Clark said it wasn't unusual in a big family like theirs, Kon almost didn't believe them. It was only through the virtue of Jon's previous memories of not remembering a single cousin despite going to three of these reunions already that Kon even agreed to the foolhardy plan!

Kon had even asked for Mom and Ma's help just in case, but then Auntie Agatha had her emergency and Kon had to drop them both off and Pa needed help carrying Ma's pies—

All this to say, he shouldn't have let his guard down just because a couple of relatives let it pass. There was bound to be at least one relative who would notice, and Kon knows more than anyone that twisting yourself up in lies can get you caught real quick—you don't stay on a team with Red Robin and not learn that lesson the hard way.

Have fun, Pa said. It'll be fine, nobody'll notice, Clark said. Seriously, you're starting to sound like Tim, Jon said!

And look how that turned out, Kon thinks viciously. Both Jon and Kon have been made by not just one but three Walker cousins, and Kon has to deal with it as the older one.

The absolute worst.

From a mission objective point of view, Kon has utterly and terribly failed. He was thrown into the deep with no basic research under his belt, no rudimentary plan, and worst of all, no back up plans or back up plans for the back up plan.

Kon should have insisted they waited for Mom, damn it. Tim would have done that. Cassie would have probably lied better than him, and Bart would have just coasted on his cute little baby face.

Kon hates to say this even more, but his brashness of just jumping right in with the confidence of success no matter what is probably something he inherited from Clark.

But Batman isn't here to clean up his mess, and his team is scattered doing their own secret identity obligations.

He really should have waited for Mom to come back.

Kon rounds the bend of one of the Uncle's houses, the Reunion being held in the neighborhood the local family members have low-key taken over. With a total of four ranch-sized houses owned, next to each other, it makes for a big enough space to host (or so he's been told).

"Ellie, you know you were supposed to stay out of the bounce house." A stern voice is staying. He and the red-headed cousin find their prize just behind the edge house, somehow empty and devoid of the reunion shenanigans.

Jon and (presumably) Ellie are sitting on the grass looking caught out but otherwise happy with themselves. They keep nudging each other as the meta-cousin stands before them, arms crossed and shaking his head in defeat. He's even pinching the bridge of his nose, reminding Kon of Tim when the team does something they're not supposed to be doing.

"Baby Jon, didn't Uncle Clark teach you how to control your powers?" The unnamed meta-cousin asks his brother, exasperated. "What am I saying, he doesn't have a subtle bone in his body when it comes to the family.."

Kon snorts, unable to help himself, drawing the trio's attention.

"Jazz!" Ellie beams, waving excitedly before spotting Kon. Her wide-eyes freeze him in place. "Who's that?"

"That's what I'd like to know." The meta-cousin grumbles, hands going to his hips and Jazz stumbles over to check over Ellie and Jon.

"I told you," Kon adjusts his sunglasses to dart a look at the meta-cousin, before smiling down at Ellie. "I'm Jon's older brother, Conner."

"Baby Jon doesn't have a brother." Jazz and Ellie say in unison.

The meta-cousin throws his hands up in defeat. "And Baby Jon didn't have powers either, clearly we're missing something!"

"It's a new development." Jon grumbles. "You didn't have powers last time either, Cousin Danny."

"It's a new development." The finally named meta-cousin mocks back. "And clearly, I have a better handle on it than you do, Baby Jon."

"This is so unfair." Jon huffs, flopping back into the grass. "And I hate it when you guys call me Baby Jon."

Danny points at Jon whilst Jazz rolls her eyes as they both say in unison, "You're not a Cousin until you bring your first dessert."

"But Ma never lets me near the oven!" Jon whines as Ellie giggles, tumbling back into his brother and making him laugh with her.

"I think that's kind of the point, kiddo." Kon ventures, unsure feeling less and less confident in Clark's plan.

"Don't think I forgot about you," Danny points at Kon, who puts his hands up in surrender. "Far as we're concerned you're still a Baby too. You did not exist before this, and therefore have not brought a dessert."

"You don't know that." Kon challenges, trying to at least get one lie through. "I don't come to these things often, sure, but it's not like you know every cousin in this gods damned family."

"That's the thing." Danny squints his eyes in suspicion, "You'd be correct if you weren't in my age range. My generation came out the smallest—there's only three of us cousins in this age bracket, and you sure as hell ain't tall and blonde like Cousin Mark is, and you're damned well not a girl like Cousin Jenny."

"Plus," Jazz interjects, scrolling through her phone. "I don't have your baby pictures."

"What?" Kon and Jon say in unison, the younger sitting up in confusion. Kon clears his throat, trying to sound authoritative. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Jazz has everyone's baby pictures." Ellie says as she also sits up. "Plus, she and Dad know every family member."

"See?" Jazz turns her phone around, showing a family picture of Ma and Pa and Clark and Mom when she was heavily pregnant with Jon. "I have every Kent's photo except for you."

Scrolling through, she starts showing them pictures of a toddler Jon on Clark's shoulders, Ma and Pa chatting at Mom's wedding, even a picture of Clark doing some kind of bull wrangling when he was Kon's age.

"And you just…have that." Kon stares disbelievingly at Jazz, "On your phone."

"Well, yes." Jazz looks at him confusedly. "I have most of the family's baby pictures."

"She even has some pictures of Great Aunt Martha's first date with Great Uncle Jon." Danny shrugs, as if this is normal.

As if this is sane behavior when you have 100+ family members.

"…How?" Kon asks, scrolling through her phone and jolting. "Is this Mom in high school?? Where did you get these??"

"They showed me once, so I took a picture of it." Jazz shrugs. "Sometimes the Aunts blast them out in group chats, or on InstaFace."

"Nobody even uses InstaFace anymore!" Kon feels like he might be crazy, this is insane right? None of his downloaded information is helpful, and Tim didn't include this in his powerpoint about social media.

"Jazz got one specifically to keep up with the family!" Ellie smirks, which makes Kon realize she thinks his reaction is funny. "She doesn't use any other social media."

"Aren't there like, a bajillion family members?" Jon chimes in from where he's hopping up behind Kon, trying to see. Kon bends over a little bit before he does something drastic, like fly. "Why do you have like, everyone's baby pictures?"

"I don't have everyone," Jazz argues, "Great Grandpa Arty and Great Grandma Bella didn't have pictures."

"Because that's what we're focusing on here." Kon snarks, looking to Danny and Ellie for help and getting exactly zero.

"It is not that strange!" Jazz huffs, snatching her phone back and scrolling through to a particular one. "It's nice to have memories and I like keeping track of everyone!"

She seems to find the picture she's looking for, shoving it in his face. It's a picture of an album.

There's a picture of Ma and Pa's wedding, a little sepia toned from sun or time damage where it shines a little unevenly in the album it's in. There are two hands in the photo holding open the album, a small pale hand with teal nail polish on it, and a slender woman's hand, wrinkles barely visible, with Ma's wedding ring on it.

Admittedly, Kon can understand wanting to save these kind of memories. Knowing Ma, she would have told Jazz the entire story too.

It makes a pang pulse through Kon, something close to jealousy and envy, but just a little to the left of it.

Something like loneliness.

"Is this Great Aunt Martha?" A tuft of black hair gets in his face, causing him to jerk back a little. Ellie has inserted herself between Kon and the phone, hanging off his arm and tiptoe-ing to see.

The point of contact soothes him a little, moreso when Jon nudges in from his other side, the two almost bumping heads and bickering over the photo.

Kon lets them have it, and the two sort of wrestle their way to the grass to peruse the rest of the album to try and find more of the Kents and Fentons like some kind of Where's Waldo game.

A hand clasps down on his shoulder, and when Kon turns his gaze away from the preteens he meets Danny's almost sad gaze.

"Listen. Clearly we need to do a sort of…" Danny steers Kon over to where Jazz has sat down neatly next to the kids on the grass, "debrief, I guess."

"Did Uncle Clark have you with a one night stand?" Ellie asks, which has both him and his brother choking on their spit. "Mom said he was hopeless with the ladies, but maybe he was good enough to have a rendezvous or two?"

The look on Jazz and Danny's faces suggest that they clearly don't think Clark is cool enough for that, and it warms the cockles of Kon's little heart.

"I don't think Uncle Clark is the...one night stand type." Jazz says, reasonably. "He doesn't really do anything casual by the mile."

"Conner's a Junior like me, so Uncle Clark would have been…" Danny does the math, "at least dating Aunt Lois, so if he did it'd be an affair."

"I am not an affair baby." Kon interjects exasperatedly, throwing one last Hail Mary out. "I was just really shy as a kid, and since Lois had me out of wedlock I felt real weird about it, okay!"

"Aunt Lois wouldn't have been ashamed." Jazz's voice is stern, which makes his spine tingle the same way it does when Tim or Ma or Mom scold him—like he's done something really wrong and should cop up to it. "Great Aunt Martha wouldn't have let her, I wouldn't have let her, and you've got another thing comin' if you think I'm gonna let you keep talkin' 'bout yourself like that young man."

"Shit," Danny cusses, rubbing the back of his head and pressing Kon down into the grass between the kids. "You might as well get talkin'. When Jazz's accent gets all funky it means she's real mad."

Kon looks at Jon, at a loss.

They don't know each other well enough to have built up some kind of sibling communication, and most of all Kon's still new to this whole, human/family/community thing even if YJ has done its damnedest.

But somehow, both of them know they've got to give up the ghost.

This is definitely all Clark's fault.

"…We tell you ours," Kon offers as Jon employs his deadliest puppy dog eyes, "and you tell us yours?"

Before Danny or Jazz can even think to interject, Ellie sticks out her hand towards his little brother to shake. "Deal!"

Cousins, Clones and Conning the Family

Family Reunion AU, where cousins Maddie and Clark try to smuggle their clone children into the family reunion that happens every 5 years and pretend they've been there the whole time.

Spoiler alert, one of them does significantly better than the other. Mainly Kid POV, and also on AO3! Multichapter. ===

The problem with big family reunions, Danny thinks, is how utterly fucking lost Danny is all the gosh dang time.

"Well now, you're Maddie's son now ain'tcha? How old is you now?" The woman standing before him guffaws, ruffling his hair. He lets it, trying desperately to remember the speadsheet Jazz created for the family and (obviously) failing to recall this woman's name.

Agatha? Selene? Riri? No, Aunt Riri is over there—

"Yes ma'am," Danny smiles up at the unnamed aunt, accent going a little twangy like it always does at these functions, "I'll be hittin' 17 in a coupl'a months or so."

"My, my, you youngin's sure grow like weeds!" The aunt coos, gesturing to a height by her hip, "You used to be this tall last time I saw ya, betcha don't r'member me now do ya?"

It's a trap. If he says he doesn't remember, which is expected at reunions such as these that happen every 5 years or longer, she'll start going on and on about the stories she has of the family. Danny would have to stand here and demure and laugh at these cousins he doesn't really remember too well, but know enough to know that she's gotten them all mixed up.

"Pshaw," Danny doesn't react when a whisper breathes the answer into his ear, "I'd never forget a pretty lady like you, Aunt Helena!"

It works like a charm.

The second he's out of her clutches, he feels around for a cold spot. There, trailing just behind him, is Ellie. She's not invisible anymore, so he tucks her under his arm and bee-lines it towards the metaphorical kid's table.

"Thanks, Ellie. Weren't you supposed to stay with Dad?" Danny leads them around, trying to avoid any other mishaps. "Did Jazz send you?"

"She made me flashcards!" Ellie smirks up at him, ignoring his other question and pulling a corner of an index card out from the palm of her hand. She's always been better than him at manipulating the ecto in her body, for obvious reasons. Danny's not bitter about it at all.

"Damn, all I got was a presentation." Danny grumbles. Jazz and Dad somehow know every single one of their family members, which is ludicrous when even Mom doesn't know despite it being her side of the family.

He still can't really believe how big his family actually is, but he supposes that's natural. He only sees them once every couple of years, the only relative they see even on a remotely regular basis is Aunt Alicia, who has no kids and refuses (rightfully so) to remarry.

Danny's fine with that, he gets the best of both worlds after all. Cozy holiday stays with Aunt Alicia and he has places to stay all over the country if he really needs it, no questions asked.

Plus, crazy as they can be, these reunions have always felt like a big country festival for Danny.

"She likes me better." Ellie snickers, tugging him back to avoid Uncle Charlie's drunken stumbling.

"Everyone likes you better," Danny rolls his eyes, pushing Ellie's head down and ducking to avoid a stray kid's toy flying overhead, "I like you better."

As if somehow knowing Danny's being self deprecating again, Jazz shows up to smack him on the head. "I like both of you equally in special ways."

Danny makes a disgruntled noise, grumbling as he rubs his head, "Mooooom, Jazz is therapizing me again!"

Even though he was only half joking, Mom does show up specifically to laugh at him. "Honey, your father and I love all our children equally!"

"It's a secret," Dad says from behind Jazz, kids climbing all over him, "But Ellie's the favorite!"

"Jack!" Mom yells at the same time Jazz screams, "Dad!"

Ellie dissolves into giggles, making everyone but Dad helplessly laugh. It's good to see Ellie laugh, she does it a lot but it still doesn't feel like it's enough. Danny picks her up, giggling mess and all, and tosses her at Dad.

She lands, as expected, straight into the pile of children who scream and accept her easily.

"Nice." Jazz chuckles, this time patting him gently on his head in approval. Danny shrugs, dusting his hands off and heading back towards salvation: the food.

He and Jazz mingle a bit, exchanging greetings and school updates with the Aunts and Uncles they occasionally bump into, making their way slowly through and keeping an eye out for the other cousins.

Eventually, Jazz gets nabbed by Cousin Dermot just as Danny reaches the table, tossing a pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth and chewing with glee. The locals of the family usually something potluck style—and though Dad's genes are strong and the Fentons can't cook, the bulk of the Walker family definitely can.

In fact—Great Aunt Martha said she was going to bring some mini pies right?

Danny spies a pile of them in the middle of the large table and reaches for one, only to bump into the spikes of black fingerless gloves.

The gloves are, of course, attached to someone else.

It's a boy, around Danny's age, in a spiked leather jacket (matching the gloves) and white tee shirt with ripped jeans. He's got the tiniest John Lennon sunglasses and piercings everywhere—it makes Danny squint at him, with how much the sun keeps catching on everything—the spikes, the piercings, the metal arms of the sunglasses, is this dude also wearing lipgloss?

Danny's not judging, a guy can appreciate proper hydration to avoid chapped lips or even just for the aesthetic, but it doesn't help with the glare.

"Sorry, my bad." Right, okay, city slicker then. Not that Danny's much of a country boy or anything. "Did my spikes get you?"

Maybe Cousin Jenny brought a plus one? Danny eyes the guys jeans—they look tight. Was Cousin Mark into guys? Is this dude a guy or possibly a masculine girl? Ack. Stupid sun frying his brain.

"It's okay," Danny says, blinking away and tossing mini pie to the other person. "Aunt Martha's pies are worth the minor injury. You comin' in with one of the cousins?"

"Uh, yeah." Citypunk looks at Danny nervously, "I mean, I am one of the cousins." The guy bites his lips, shrugging, "Uh, one of the Kents, actually. Ma's real proud of the pies."

Danny blinks.

"…You're not Jon." Danny says, very carefully and slowly.

"…No…" Stranger Danger draws his vowels out, "I'm Conner. His, uh, older brother? Can't blame ya for being confused though!"

"…You can't." Danny agrees, because out of the two them, Danny definitely isn't to blame for the confusion.

"Yeah, lots of cousins, and all," Curiouser and Curiouser beams at Danny, shrugging and rubbing the back of his neck, "Plus, I know Jon's more sociable at these things."

"Right, he really is rambunctious, that guy." Danny nods, as if that's the problem, and not the fact that Danny knows every single cousin his age. Big as his family might be, Danny's generation came out the smallest. Cousin Jenny and Cousin Mark are the only two his age.

With Ellie and Jazz each being four years younger and older than Danny, and the other cousins being well beyond those ages in gaps, there is no way this guy is a cousin.

"Don't worry," Punk'd laughs self deprecatingly, "I know he's the favorite. even if Mom won't admit it."

Danny feels a vein throb in his right temple.

He's unsure if he should slowly back away or get up in the guy's face. It's just—now that Danny thinks about it, if wedding crashing is a thing, does that mean family reunion crashing is a thing too?

What's the protocol here? Should he fight this guy for having the audacity to use Great Aunt Martha's name in vein?

Wait, no, that's Jesus.

Is Great Aunt Martha Catholic? ...Is that the one with Jesus, or was that Christianity?

Wait, Danny, you knuckle head, Uncle Clark was adopted. Conner could be adopted too! Even though he looks exactly like that Uncle Clark when he was younger…

"Is this your first time at a reunion?" Danny ventures, "We only have 'em—"

"Every 5 years, yeah." Conner huffs, "Nah, I just used to hide with Ma in the kitchens."

Okay, clearly Great Aunt Martha isn't in on this, because Danny used to hide with Great Aunt Martha in the kitchens. Danny's about to lose his shit on this guy—or maybe sic Ellie on him. Whichever is worse.

"Oh yeah? That's must have been cozy." Danny grits out, taking a deep breath so his eyes don't flash.

"Yeah, it was!" Conner beams shyly. though all Danny sees is a smug smirk. "She's real nice-like, I'm sure you know. Real lucky to have her for a Grandma."

"Real lucky." Danny agrees, because Great Aunt Martha really was one of the better Great Aunts. Though most of the Walker Kin were hardy and tough, in that badass kind of way. Mom really liked Great Aunt Martha's lessons on bull wranglin' back when they were younger. "Speakin' of, she ain't here?"

"Nah," Conner makes a sad little pout. "She hadta stop by Auntie Agatha's for an emergency. She left two days ago, so she's runnin' a little behind. Cl—Dad went to go pick her up."

Danny squints at the possible imposter. That sounded like he was going to call Uncle Clark by his name, which makes things confusing for Danny. Guy will call Aunt Lois Mom but he won't call Uncle Clark Dad easily?  Maybe he's a kid Aunt Lois had before marrying Uncle Clark? But Aunt Lois would never hide a kid, and Great Aunt Martha would never let her treat a kid like that. That's not even taking into account that this kid looks way too much like Uncle Clark for it to be a fucking coincidence. Plus, Danny knew about Aunt Aggie's emergency and how she might not be making it to this year's reunion—this gives Conner's story credibility.

But Danny knows that the best way to lie is with truths, even if the truths are confusing.

So what the hell is going on? Is Clockwork fucking with him? Did an alternate timeline get switched with his?

It wouldn't be the first time, but Clockwork at least had the decency to let him know at least.

"What the—" Danny blinks, as Conner picks up a very familiar, eye-searingly green colored post it note that was stuck to the plate under a mini pie. "Is this yours?"

"Yeah," Danny huffs. taking the note and rolling his eyes as lies roll off his tongue, "Sorry, y'know how it goes with Jazz."

"Oh, yeah." And Danny has to give it Conner, he at least rolls with the punches real quick, "I heard about it but didn't ever uh, see it in action."

"Really?" Danny feigns surprise, head pulsing in irritation at the words all is as it should be written in purple pen. There's no mocking smiley face, but Danny feels it in the ink anyway. "Thought she got all the cousins at the last reunion."

Conner chuckles nervously, "Oh, yeah—Guess I'm just, easy to miss you know?"

"Uh huh…" Danny eyes the guy and his piercings and very distinct style, from the tip of his clearly styled hair and needlessly ostentatious big black studded boots. "…Right."

Conner laughs, wincing. "These're new. High school debut."

"…You're a freshman?" Danny tilts his head, squinting.

"Junior." Conner automatically corrects, before stiffening. "…I just wanted to reinvent myself for Junior Prom."

"Right." Danny repeats, drawing out the vowels and finally giving up. He can tell Conner already knows what Danny is going to ask, and is trying to exit this conversation post-haste.

Fortunately for Conner and unfortunately for Danny, Jazz comes barreling in, almost knocking the former out in the process as she grips the latter's biceps tightly with her eyes wide and nervous.

Unfortunately for Conner and fortunately for Danny, though the look in Jazz's eyes thoroughly distracts the latter and gives the former a window to escape, Jazz's hissed out words end up keeping Conner rooted to the floor.

"Baby Jon has powers!" Jazz hisses as she moves Danny away from the possible imposter a couple feet. Even though she says it low enough for only Danny to hear, Conner's wide eyes as he whips his gaze towards them suggests that Jon's not the only one with powers.

And then words actually register along with that thought.

Danny hisses out the first thing he thinks of. "Since when?? I thought he took after Aunt Lois!"

"Since now," Jazz gruffs, switching her grip to drag Danny away, "and I need you to do something about it!"

"What?" Danny doesn't struggle, going along even as he eyes Conner who seems to be following them at a distance. "Why?"

Jazz pushes him towards the kid's area, rushing out a frantic "He's in the bounce house with Ellie!"

Danny freezes, or tries to even as Jazz keeps tugging him along, before shaking off her hand and booking it towards the bounce house.

Once the bounce house (a castle) comes into view, Danny clocks several things in succession:

One: Ellie and Jon are thankfully the only ones in the bounce house right now.

Two: Ellie and Jon are laughing, and through the mesh Danny can see Ellie watching Jon jump way too high to be considered normal.

And three: The bounce house is about to fucking tip over.

There's a gaggle of Aunts herding the younger cousins towards the food that's dense enough for cover, but sparse enough for Danny to dash through.

Between one blink and the next, he disappears.

[starl1ght444]

jason todd x reader

── .✦ angst

[ jason bought you, your favorite flowers for the first time ]

long story — [8.2k words count]

second person writing

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

phase one ; blooming [dating]

you loved carnations.

jason learned that on your third date. It was a small, throwaway moment—something you said while sipping a lukewarm latte in a dingy coffee shop tucked away from gotham’s chaos. you’d been talking about nothing in particular, just bantering like usual, your legs tucked under you in the booth as the sky darkened outside.

“they’re not fancy,” you said, absently stirring cream into your coffee, “but they’re strong. they last longer than most flowers, you know? and they come in so many colors.”

jason raised an eyebrow. “you really into flowers?”

You shrugged. “they’re just… comforting. It’s like a reminder that something can be soft and still survive.”

he didn’t answer. just stared at you for a moment like you were something he hadn’t figured out yet—like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

you weren’t like the people in his world. you didn’t carry trauma like a weapon. you didn’t flinch at loud sounds or look over your shoulder in paranoia. you had a softness to you that he hadn’t expected in gotham. and he didn’t know what to do with it.

when he walked you home that night, you paused at a flower stall outside your building. rain was drizzling, the kind that clung to your lashes and curled your hair, and you stopped to look at a small bouquet of pale pink carnations.

“they’re my favorite,” you said, smiling. “someday I’m gonna fill my whole apartment with them.”

jason rolled his eyes. “flowers are a waste of money. they die in a week.”

you blinked. just a second. just enough for him to notice. “well,” you said, voice light, “some things are worth it, even if they don’t last.” he didn’t understand what you meant. not then. not yet.

you started seeing each other more often—slow at first. you were cautious with your heart, and jason was dangerous with his. but he started staying the night. started showing up at your place with bruises and bullet grazes and that haunted look in his eyes. you never asked where he’d been. you only asked if he was hungry. If he was okay. If he wanted to talk.

he never did. not about the big stuff. but you’d find him in your kitchen at 2 a.m., heating up leftover pasta, or sitting on your couch with your cat in his lap like he belonged there. and he did.

he didn’t say “I love you,” not for months. but he watched over you like he did. he’d show up outside your job with a scowl and coffee if you had a rough day. he knew the fastest route from your place to every hospital in the city. he installed cameras at your front door and never told you. — you noticed. you just didn’t say anything.

carnations bloomed on your windowsill. a new one every week. you bought them yourself—white-blush and lavender. you kept waiting, hoping maybe jason would walk in one day with a bunch in his hands. not because you needed them, but because you wanted to know he’d remembered.

he didn’t.

one night, curled up with him under a ratty old blanket, you brought it up gently. “I used to get flowers when I was little,” you said. “my dad would bring me carnations on my birthday. I think that’s why I still love them so much.”

jason looked at you from where he lay on your chest, his brow furrowed. “didn’t know your dad was around.”

“he’s not.. not anymore.” silence settled between you.

“I used to think… if someone brought me carnations, it meant they really saw me,” you admitted. “not the ‘I’m fine’ version. the real me.”

jason didn’t say anything. — you didn’t push.

the first time you told him you loved him, he froze.

It had been a good day. one of the rare ones—no crime scenes, no emergency calls, no red hood business dragging him into gotham’s underbelly. you’d spent the afternoon in the park, lying in the grass, his head on your stomach as you read a book aloud.

that night, wrapped in each other’s arms, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his back, you whispered, “I love you.” — jason’s whole body tensed.

you felt it. every muscle. then he pulled back. looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. “you don’t have to say it back,” you murmured.

he didn’t. but he kissed you like he meant it. held you all night like he was terrified you’d disappear. you told yourself it was enough.

phase two ; budding [fiancé]

It wasn’t a proposal. not really.

It was three in the morning, and jason was sitting on the edge of the bathtub while you brushed your teeth, eyes half-lidded with sleep, his hair a mess from the pillow. you wore one of his old shirts, threadbare from a hundred washes. he wore the quiet panic of someone who had never believed they’d live long enough to consider a future.

“hey,” he said, voice low. you glanced at him in the mirror, mouth full of toothpaste. “If I asked you to marry me, what would you say?”

you froze mid-brush. he didn’t flinch or try to recover it with a joke. he just watched you—blue eyes soft and serious, hands clasped between his knees. you spit into the sink and turned to face him.

“Is this the part where you propose with a ring made out of dental floss?” a breath of laughter left his nose, and the tension eased from his shoulders.

“I’m serious,” he said. you stepped closer, cupped his jaw with a wet hand. “then ask me like you mean it.”

jason paused. his eyes searched yours, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “(y/n) (m/n) (l/n), will you marry me.”

and you—heart pounding, love swelling in your chest like it would break your ribs—smiled. “yes,” you said. “of course I will.”

he pulled you into his arms, buried his face in your stomach, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself breathe like it was safe.

the ring came later.

It wasn’t new—wasn’t even something he’d gone out to buy. one night, you found him sitting in the closet, the small wooden box in his hand. It had belonged to catherine todd—passed down, like love that tries to survive the storm.

“she kept it hidden,” jason said quietly, running a thumb over the aged velvet. “I think she always meant to give it to me… if I ever found someone.”

you sank down beside him on the floor, resting your head on his shoulder. “she’d be glad you did.”

he gave it to you that night, no speeches or ceremony. just slid it onto your finger while you sat together on the floor of the hallway, bathed in moonlight from the window. as jason kissed the ring on your finger.

It fit perfectly.

planning the wedding wasn’t easy. you didn’t want much. jason didn’t want attention. but it was yours—intimate, quiet, full of stolen glances and laughter that didn’t belong in a city like gotham.

dick cried during the vows — roy forgot the rings.

alfred gave you a smile that nearly brought you to tears.

jason kept his hand in yours like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. you didn’t walk down the aisle with roses or lilies or orchids.

you held a bouquet of white carnations, tied with a silver ribbon. jason saw them, saw the way your fingers curled around the stems, and something flickered in his expression. he didn’t say anything. but you caught the way he looked at them—like they were a language he hadn’t learned yet.

life settled into something that almost resembled normal. at least, your version of it.

your mornings were soft. you’d wake first, kiss the scar on jason’s temple, whisper something into his sleep-dazed hair. he never told you what it meant to wake up to that. but he held you tighter every day.

sometimes he cooked breakfast—burned eggs and all. sometimes you did. the coffee was always too strong, but neither of you minded. the routine mattered more than the taste. — your nights were more complicated. jason still went out. still fought gotham’s darkness with red and black. but he came home now. always came home.

and he talked more.

he told you about things he’d buried—things no one else knew. his mother. the pit. the dreams he still had where the coffin never opened. the pain of coming back to a world that had moved on without him.

you never asked for those stories. you only listened, threading your fingers through his, anchoring him with silence and steady breaths. — one night, after a particularly rough patrol, he came home soaked in rain and blood. you helped him out of the kevlar, your hands gentle, your voice quiet.

he sat at the kitchen table while you cleaned a deep gash along his ribs. “I thought I was gonna die tonight,” he muttered.

you paused, heart in your throat. jason looked up at you. “and the weirdest part? I wasn’t scared for me. I was scared you’d be alone.” you pressed gauze to the wound, leaned in, and kissed his forehead. “you’re not dying, jason.”

“someday I will,” he said, a sad smile tugging at his mouth. “and you’ll have to go on without me.”

“then you better keep surviving,” you said, voice firm. “because I’m not planning on loving anyone else.”

he pulled you into his lap, held you there like he was trying to fuse your heartbeat with his.

you kept carnations in the apartment. a vase in the kitchen. one on the nightstand. always fresh. always soft. jason never brought them home. but he started noticing them—more than before.

he’d run his fingers along the petals absently while sipping his coffee. tuck a fallen one behind your ear with a fond little smile. you caught him once, standing in front of a grocery store flower display, just staring at them. — but he walked past.

you didn’t mention it.

you never asked for them anymore. not because you didn’t want them. but because you wanted him to want to bring them. — some small part of you still hoped.

one afternoon, you were lying together on the couch, your legs draped across his lap. he was reading something—an old paperback with cracked pages—and you were watching the sunlight paint gold across the hardwood floor.

“do you think we’ll ever leave gotham?” you asked suddenly.

jason looked up. “you want to?”

“I don’t know. sometimes.” you shrugged. “sometimes I imagine a house with a garden. somewhere quiet. I’d grow carnations.”

he smiled, brushing your ankle with his thumb. “you and your damn flowers.”

you chuckled. “they’d be all over the place. kitchen, bedroom, porch. even in the bathroom.”

jason leaned down, kissed the inside of your knee. “If you want a garden, I’ll build you one.”

you reached for his hand. “I don’t need a garden. just you.”

but still, in the back of your mind, you pictured it—soft soil and early mornings, dew on petals, and jason beside you, older, whole. — you didn’t know it would stay a dream.

phase three ; blooming [marriage]

married life with jason was unexpectedly sweet.

you never imagined the red hood would be the type to make tea in the mornings or memorize your grocery list, but he did. he kept your mugs on the lowest shelf so you didn’t have to stretch. he learned how to braid your hair, poorly but determinedly, just so you’d smile.

your new apartment was bigger, higher up—safer. there was a little balcony with just enough space for a few flower boxes, and you filled them with carnations in every shade. jason helped you plant them, dirt under his fingernails and a look on his face like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand why you loved them so much.

“you said they’re strong, right?” he asked one evening, watering them carefully.

you looked up from your book. “yeah.”

he watched a pale yellow bloom tremble in the breeze. “they remind me of you.”

you didn’t cry. but your throat ached as you crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him, resting your cheek against his shoulder. you were happy. really, genuinely happy.

jason had been changing—slowly but surely, like stone shaped by water.

he didn’t punch walls anymore. he let himself laugh more, sleep more. he still fought, still bled for gotham, but he came home more often than not. he started going to therapy, though he never told anyone but you. he even made peace with bruce—if only in small pieces, quiet dinners, and fewer arguments.

“I think I’m finally starting to feel human again,” he told you once, curled in bed with you at dawn. “you made me human.”

you kissed his chest, hand over his heart. “you were always human, jason. you just forgot for a while.”

you talked about kids more openly now.

“we could adopt,” you said once, the thought half-formed in your mind as you watched him fix the hinge on a closet door. “someday. maybe.”

jason looked up, surprised—but not alarmed. “yeah. maybe. I’d want them to be safe first. you to be safe.”

“we’re close,” you said. “gotham won’t be forever.”

he stood, brushed the dust off his hands. “no. just a little longer. then we’ll go.”

you imagined a place with less noise. a porch. a yard. real mornings without sirens. carnations blooming around the edges of a little house.

jason kissed you that night like he could already see it too.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

the last morning was warm.

you watered the flowers on the balcony while jason made eggs and toast, humming some rock song under his breath. the windows were open. the world felt light for once.

you had plans to meet barbara for lunch, to run errands, maybe grab groceries. jason had patrol later that evening but promised to be back before midnight. you kissed him at the door like it was any other day. — he kissed you twice.

“text me when you get there,” he said. — “I always do.”

you smiled, leaned back against the doorframe, watching him disappear down the hallway with a peace in your chest you hadn’t felt in years. you didn’t know it was the last time.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

you weren’t supposed to be anywhere near Ivy’s old sector.

the lab had been quiet for months—dormant, some said, shut down after the last run-in with her plant toxins. but something pinged on the surveillance net—unusual bio-activity—and you, being who you were, decided to check it out.

It was just a recon mission. you were careful. you always were.

you never saw the vines until it was too late.

jason got the call from babs, her voice tight and scared.

“something’s happened,” she said. “(y/n)… we lost her signal near Ivy’s old territory.” he didn’t hear the rest.

he was on his bike in seconds, tearing through Gotham like the city itself had betrayed him. he didn’t stop at lights. didn’t slow for anything.

he found the lab half-collapsed, tendrils of greenery coiling through the wreckage like veins.

he screamed your name.

he dug through debris with bare hands, shoving aside branches that moved like they were alive. the air was thick with the scent of earth and blood.

then he saw you. — your body was tangled in vines, arms limp, head turned slightly to the side. you looked peaceful.

but you were too still.

and around you—blooming like a cruel, beautiful grave—were carnations. each one having a meaning.

white — purity, innocence, remembrance

pink — gratitude, admiration, undying love

purple — unpredictably, capriciousness, free spirit

all curling around the vines like some terrible mockery of love.

jason dropped to his knees. — “no,” he whispered. “no, no, no—please..please.. (y/n).. no no.. please…”

he tore at the vines with shaking hands, not caring that they cut into his skin. he gathered you into his arms, blood staining your shirt where the toxins had entered.

you weren’t breathing.

“come on,” he choked out, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re strong. you’re stronger than this. you said—you said they were strong.”

he rocked with you in his arms, howling into the air like something feral. screaming like his heart had been physically ripped out of him. sobbing into your shirt, the same one he had watched you put on this morning asking if you looked good. and of course you did, jason was always mesmerizing by you. and right now he was spiraling into a new unknown feeling.

bruce was the first to arrive. then dick. then tim.

they found jason cradling you, his jacket wrapped around your body even though you were already cold.

he didn’t look up when bruce knelt beside him. “she’s cold.. i put my jacket...and she’s still cold.. i couldn’t save her,” jason whispered. “I wasn’t there. I promised I’d be there.”

“I know,” bruce said softly, eyes glassy. his daughter-in-law peacefully covered in blood and carnations. he never truly got to tell you how much he appreciated the way you helped jason grow into the man he had become— you taught jason everything he couldn’t. jason slowly became emotionally mature, your marriage teaching him how to love and be  patient everyday.

dick stood nearby, hands over his mouth, unable to speak— the way he watched his younger brother holding his lifeless wife in his arms. tim just stared, stunned— not being able to believe the scene in front of him, as the wind tugged at the scattered petals around you.

“look at them,” jason murmured, brushing a blood-streaked carnation with his thumb. “she loved these. I never… I never brought her any. n..not once.”

jason looked up at bruce with hollow eyes. “I was going to. this week. I swear. I saw some at the store. I almost bought them.” — looking back down at you, squeezing you hard. trying to look for any sign of life left in you.

bruce placed a hand on his shoulder. “she knew.”

jason shook his head. “I should’ve told her more. I should’ve done everything more.”

Dick finally stepped forward, kneeling across from his brother. “you did love her, jay. you loved her more than anyone. she knew. she felt it.”

jason’s face crumpled. “she died alone, dick. In pain. In fear.”

“no,” bruce said gently. “she died trying to help people. that’s who she was. that’s why you loved her.”

jason buried his face in your hair, silent now, his grief no longer words—just broken, shaking breath. staying like that, planting himself on the ground sobbing into you. tracing your body trying to remember every detail about you, like you always did for him. “i love you (y/n).. i love you.. please.. god we were going to leave.. we should’ve... i can’t.. (y/n) please baby, wake up… what am i supposed to do.. sweetheart please.. pleaseplease.. you’re so strong.. my beautiful wife.. we were gonna adopt.. you would’ve been a p..phenomenal mother..my sunshine.. please babygirl.. i can’t do this without you.. im so sorry.. im sorry..god please” jason holding your hand, rubbing his moms ring — the ring he vowed to love and protect you forever.

they had to pull him away eventually. jason fighting each one of them, not ready to let go of his wife. “please.. stop.. please.. a few more minutes.. please.. i can’t..please..i need her” he sounded defeated. bruce helping him up while he still clung to you. carrying both of you out of the building. struggling, not because of holding you two — but struggling not to sob along with his sons.

phase four ; wilting [death]

the funeral was three days after they pulled your body from the vines.

gotham had turned grey that week. the sky hung heavy, like even the clouds mourned you. the streets were quieter. the city somehow knew it had lost something bright.

they dressed you in soft fabric. nothing flashy. just something gentle and familiar. jason picked the dress. he remembered how it looked on you the first time you danced in the living room, barefoot and laughing.

you had flowers around you. carnations. barbara brought them. white, pink, red—your favorites. jason couldn’t stop staring at them.

he hadn’t cried since that night. now, at the funeral, he was quiet, but this time it was different. empty.

a shell wearing his face — everyone was there.

dick stood beside him, barely breathing. tim sat stiffly, not blinking. bruce kept a hand on jason’s back, grounding him, like he was afraid he’d float away.

barbara gave a speech. so did roy. even alfred, voice trembling, spoke a few words about love and grace and the way your laughter changed the manor the few times you visited.

jason didn’t hear any of it — he just looked at you.

laid out in the casket like sleep had taken you mid-sentence. lips soft. lashes resting against your cheeks. skin too pale, but peaceful. like you were waiting for him to say something.

the carnations framed your face like a crown.

and jason— he hated them.

not because they were ugly. not because they were yours. but because they were there, blooming, when you weren’t breathing. —because you always asked for them, and he never brought them.

and now they were here. too late.

someone touched his shoulder after the service. maybe dick. maybe bruce. maybe god himself—jason didn’t look.

“she loved you,” the voice said. “she never doubted you.”

but jason didn’t believe it.

not when he’d failed you in the most final way possible.

the grave was at the edge of the cemetery, under a weeping willow. the headstone was simple. your name. your birth and death dates. and a small engraving at the bottom:

“still the light in the dark.” he visited the next day. and the day after that. and the next. — he came without flowers. he didn’t know how to carry them.

weeks passed.

the apartment stayed quiet. your shoes still by the door. your toothbrush still in the cup. your pillow still untouched. the only thing touched were parts of your clothing. lingering perfume you’d sprayed on your shirts — jason needed the items to help him sleep. craving any ounce of you he could find. clinging onto the fabric imagining it was you. your body laying on top of his, cupping his face and kissing him endlessly. whispering about the good life they had. it broke jason. everything reminded him of you. it was killing him in a way he couldn’t grieve properly.

he didn’t move anything.

he didn’t patrol much anymore. bruce didn’t force it. dick stopped asking. jason barely responded to texts. calls went unanswered. roy left voicemails. barbara stopped by once and found him curled on the living room floor, clutching one of your sweaters, rocking slowly.

“it still smells like her,” he whispered. barbara didn’t say anything. just sat beside him and cried quietly.

he didn’t dream of you. not really.

just flashes. the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. the sound of your laugh in the kitchen. the scent of carnations on your skin. the feel of your hand in his—soft and warm and alive. soft words leaving your lips — “i love you jay, i love you, i love you” you said like a prayer to him. your sweet voice haunting him in a way he hoped he’d never forget. wanted these cruel dreams, just to listen to you until his brain slowly fades it away.

then he’d wake up. and the cold would remind him. you weren’t coming back.

one night, he sat in front of the flower shop you used to visit. they had carnations in the window. he stared at them for an hour. then he walked inside. — the woman behind the counter gave him a curious look. “need help?”

he cleared his throat. “just… just the carnations.”

“any color?”

he looked down. his hands were shaking.

“all of them.”

he brought them to your grave the next morning. the sun hadn’t risen yet. the cemetery was still wrapped in mist, cold and soft. the carnations trembled in his grip. red, white, pink, purple, yellow, orange, lavender— tied with a pale ribbon. the kind you would’ve picked.

he knelt beside your headstone, laid the flowers gently across the grass. “you deserved these,” he whispered. his voice cracked. “i should’ve brought them sooner.”

he brushed his fingers across your name, eyes stinging.

“i thought they were pointless. i thought flowers died too easily.” his breath hitched. “but they were never about that, were they? they were about love. about life. about choosing something beautiful even when everything else was dark.”

he laughed, bitter and broken. “you knew that. you were that.”

the wind shifted, gentle and cold, like a simple answer.

“i miss you,” he said. “god, i miss you so much it fucking hurts.” he pressed his forehead against the stone. “i don’t know who i am without you.”

days blurred. he kept bringing flowers.

sometimes he talked to you. sometimes he just sat. sometimes he cried. he never stayed dry-eyed for long.

he stopped going to the apartment eventually. moved back into one of the safehouses. colder. emptier. more fitting.

he stopped shaving. stopped eating well. he looked thinner, paler, his eyes sunken like the weight of grief was dragging his soul down with it. — no one could reach him.

not dick, not bruce, not even alfred.

roy visited once. found jason standing in the rain at your grave, drenched and shaking. “you need to come inside,” roy said.

“she’s alone,” jason whispered. tears and rain mixing together, not knowing which was which.

“she’s not,” roy said. “you carry her everywhere.”

jason shook his head. “it’s not enough.”

roy didn’t know what to say. because maybe jason was right. and roy didn’t leave his side. they both sat in the rain. his best friend holding him and rubbing his shoulder in a ‘i’ve got you’ way. sitting in silence while jason continued to cry.

jason would be walking down the street, trying his best to clear his mind when he would see a little girl walking with her dad holding hands while the girl had a carnation, a small reminder. the ghost of you she saw in that little girl. — crushing him. these flowers were now everywhere he went. he couldn’t get away from them. it was a sign just like roy said — that you were everywhere.

jason never moved on. he didn’t date. didn’t laugh like he used to. he existed. he survived. that was it.

every year on your anniversary, he brought nine carnations. three white, three red, three pink. one for every phase of your life together—dating, engaged, married.

every year, he whispered the same thing. “you were the best thing that ever happened to me, i love you eternally sweetheart. i miss you.. every.. every fucking day.. it’s so difficult.. you were my favorite person…god i hate this city.. i gutturally hate ivy for taking you away from me…i miss you..so much.. please know that… i love you (y/n) todd”

and one night, sitting by your grave, his back against the cold stone, he looked at the flowers and finally said it aloud: “i think… i think i was a carnation too.”

his voice was hoarse. the wind tugged at his coat. “strong. stubborn. quiet. always trying to survive. but…” he blinked slowly. “i needed care. i needed you. you were the one who watered me. gave me sunlight. made sure i didn’t wither.”

he closed his eyes. “you kept me alive.. and now—” he didn’t finish. he didn’t need to. because the silence answered for him.

the carnations on your grave never wilted for long. he always replaced them — always brought fresh ones — always sat with you. — in every lifetime, you had been his light. his warmth. his reason.

he was just a flower with cracked petals. and you— you were the hands that kept him blooming. and without you, he wilted. and never truly grew again. stuck in the endless cycle of grief. still having dreams of you, bright and beautiful. a cruel reminder of what he can’t have anymore. “i use to be scared that if i went you’d be alone.. now.. i..”

jason was alone. he shut everyone out. he knew it wouldn’t be what you wanted. jason was afraid of actually accepting your death, grieving properly and moving on. you were the most impactful person in his life, and couldn’t imagine moving on from you. he was only alive for you, knowing you had dreams and passion about life, it was taken from so you abruptly that jason wanted to find comfort in your activities. his routine meshing with your old one. “i built a flower bed.. right outside that coffee shop where we had our first couple date.. i know you’d love it. a couple kids painted it for me.. it’s stunning, just like you baby…” jason said kissing the headstone, placing a bouquet of carnations down.

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

i love jason 🫂 i should write something sweet next time, or would ya’ll like more angst? — have a good day / night xx !!!

i hope this was an okay read!! i could’ve gone more in depth at some parts, but i kept training off :p !!!! mwaahh byyee <3

[1982grapejuiceblues]

The Space Between

Official Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Stranger Lanes Part 5

Summary: The night after their grocery run, Harry and Y/N settle into a softer, slower rhythm—one that neither of them tries to define, but both of them feel. What begins as cozy banter over groceries stretches into something deeper as they fall asleep side-by-side and wake the next morning still wrapped in quiet closeness. As the house wakes and the group’s dynamics shift, the change between Harry and Y/N becomes noticeable—visible in the space they share, the glances they hold, and the ease with which they orbit one another. Through small moments and slow conversations, they begin to realize they’ve been noticing each other for far longer than they thought. And now? They don’t want to stop.

Warnings: Emotional intimacy and physical closeness, Subtle group tension / awkward dynamics with exes, Unspoken jealousy (not graphic), Long stretches of slow-burn tension and silence, Extended quiet/physical vulnerability between characters, Strong mutual awareness / noticing / emotional softness, Vibes: soft, domestic, loaded eye contact, blanket warmth, “we’re not saying it, but we’re saying it”

A/N: You guys. The amount of messages that I've received these past two weeks asking me to update Stranger Lanes is insane, I'm so glad you love it! Without further ado, here we go! As always, comment or reblog to be added to the taglist! Love ya! <3

Word Count: 9.8K

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

By the time they got back to the lake house, her cheeks ached from smiling. Not the kind of smile you pull out for photos or to make small talk palatable—but the kind you forget you’re wearing, the kind that curls at the corners of your mouth because of something dumb someone said or the way someone looked at you across a narrow grocery aisle with too much toothpaste and too little judgment. Harry made her laugh. Not just polite, I-guess-that-was-funny laughter, but unfiltered, belly-deep laughter that left her leaning on the cart and pretending to scold him for making a scene when she was the one cackling in the cereal aisle.

It had been easy with him today. Maybe a little too easy. And now, as they unpacked bags of food in the warm yellow light of the kitchen, that same easy rhythm had followed them back like a soft hum beneath the surface.

He was beside her at the counter, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair a little tousled from running his hands through it all evening. He kept brushing against her, not in any overt way—just enough that their elbows collided when they both reached for the same bag of granola, just enough that his knee nudged hers when he stepped around her to grab a mixing bowl that wasn’t even in use yet. She should’ve minded. She didn’t.

The others were scattered throughout the house, drifting in and out of the kitchen to grab a snack or comment on something they’d forgotten. Ali had passed through twice just to eye the Doritos with suspicion, and Ben had made a barely veiled comment about “coordinated grocery store showmances” that Claire tried—and failed—to smooth over with a joke that landed with all the subtlety of a brick. But Y/N didn’t really care. Not in the way she used to.

Because Harry was leaning over the counter with a bag of apples tucked against his chest, humming some obscure tune under his breath, tossing her a look every time she opened a cabinet and couldn’t find what she needed. And every time, she found herself holding his gaze a little longer than necessary.

It had become a silent game, this exchange of glances. One she didn’t remember agreeing to play but now found herself reluctant to stop. He’d glance at her with those stupid green eyes and that crooked half-smile like he was in on some secret she hadn’t figured out yet, and it made her chest tighten in a way that felt suspiciously like wanting.

She reached for the bread and he reached for the peanut butter, and for a second, their hands brushed, fingers curling back reflexively. She felt it like static—quick, sudden, warm.

Harry looked at her. Not away. At her.

Y/N swallowed, but didn’t step back. “You gonna hoard the snacks or share with the class?”

His mouth twitched, amused. “You calling this a class?”

“I’m calling it a democracy. And I think I deserve equal access to the pretzels, at the very least.”

Harry leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice lower now. “Didn’t realize I’d been elected to office.”

“You haven’t,” she said, lips quirking. “You’re a temporary appointment at best.”

“Wow. Brutal.”

“Democracy’s ruthless.”

He looked at her for a beat longer, and then passed her the pretzels without breaking eye contact. “Here then. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

She tried not to smile. Failed. “I’ll file it for future reference.”

It was nothing. It was everything. The quiet exchange. The ease. The small flickers of humor folded into something warmer.

And it didn’t stop there. Every time she moved, he was there—not in a suffocating way, but in that rare, magnetic kind of proximity that made her feel like they were orbiting the same sun. That sun, lately, was shaped suspiciously like a grocery list and the way Harry grinned at her like he knew she was about to say something sarcastic before she’d even opened her mouth.

And worse—she’d come to like it.

More than like it.

The hum of the refrigerator filled the space between them, layered beneath the soft shuffle of feet on tile and the occasional thump of a grocery bag being set down. The rest of the house had grown quieter now—Claire and Ben had retreated to the back porch with a couple of drinks and the unearned air of smugness that still made Y/N’s stomach twist, while Ali, ever the perceptive guardian angel, had claimed she was going upstairs to “sort out the towel situation,” which Y/N knew was code for I see what’s happening here and I’m giving you space. Everyone else had followed suit, either drifting to their rooms or settling into the den, and for the first time that evening, the kitchen belonged to just the two of them.

Y/N stood barefoot near the sink, sleeves pushed up, organizing the pantry with something that vaguely resembled purpose. But her brain had long stopped caring about where the almond butter went. All she could think about was the way Harry had started humming again—some bluesy guitar riff that didn’t quite belong to a real song but had enough shape and rhythm to stay stuck in her head. It matched the tempo of the evening: a little loose, a little unexpected, but easy to fall into.

He was crouched near the fridge now, rearranging produce with more care than anyone who had just launched a pineapple into the cart an hour earlier had any right to possess. And when he stood and glanced over at her, catching her mid-stare, his brows lifted as if to say you good? with nothing but the arch of his face.

She nodded, too quickly. “I was just—thinking about how weird it is that you’re good at this.”

“Organizing groceries?”

“Being useful. Functional. I feel like I need to recalibrate my entire impression of you.”

He grinned, slow and smug, and leaned a hip against the counter like he’d just won a bet. “See, this is why it’s fun to keep expectations low. Then when I’m actually helpful, it’s a revelation.”

Y/N scoffed, tossing a box of pasta into the pantry without looking. “You act like that was some kind of elaborate strategy.”

“Who says it wasn’t?”

She narrowed her eyes, but the amusement curled in her chest before she could try to stifle it. He made her feel off balance, but not in a way that felt dangerous. It was… disarming. Like he’d quietly invited her into a different version of the week than she thought she’d be having, and she’d somehow agreed without realizing.

And maybe she wasn’t mad about it.

-

“Why are you so chipper tonight?” she asked finally, watching him move toward the paper towels like they hadn’t shared the same exhaustion earlier in the car. “You were grumpy all day yesterday. Fully brooding. Brood-y. Broodman.”

Harry barked out a laugh as he tore into the plastic. “Broodman?”

“It was that or The Grumble Knight.”

He rolled his eyes. “Alright, Shakespeare. Let’s calm down.”

“You say that,” she said, leaning against the pantry doorway now, her shoulder brushing the frame. “But the Harry I drove here with would’ve had at least four sulky comebacks by now. And he wouldn’t have bought the marshmallows.”

“Those marshmallows were a peace offering,” he said, pointing at her with a dishtowel like it was a gavel. “I’m trying to be the bigger person.”

“Interesting choice of words coming from a man who tried to body-check me into the cereal aisle.”

“I guided you,” he said, nose crinkling as he tried not to laugh. “Gently.”

“With your hip. Like a hockey player.”

Harry grinned. “You stayed upright.”

“Barely.”

They paused again. A beat of stillness that felt a little too thick to be casual. Y/N’s eyes lingered on his face longer than they should’ve. She noticed the way his lashes caught the kitchen light, the faint trace of sun still warming his cheekbones, the softness of his mouth as he fought another smile. He was infuriating and charming and deeply annoying in the way people are when you’ve accidentally let them matter too much.

She wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

Then Harry broke the moment, eyes flicking toward the pantry. “You still gonna tell me where you want this stuff, or should I just start hiding peanut butter in weird places?”

“Try it,” she said, lifting an eyebrow. “I dare you.”

He smirked and stepped forward, closing the space between them just slightly—enough that she had to tilt her chin to keep her eyes on his.

“Don’t tempt me, Y/N,” he said quietly, playfully, but there was something behind it now. Something that felt just a little heavier. Just a little more loaded.

Y/N’s breath caught for half a second. Then, just as quickly, she broke eye contact and turned back to the shelf. “You’re exhausting,” she muttered, trying not to smile.

“Don’t pretend you’re not thriving off the chaos,” he said, stepping away, but his tone was lighter again, teasing, like he’d sensed the shift and knew just how far to push it. “You practically instigated a three-minute argument over oat milk. You like the chaos.”

“Chaos,” she said, pulling a snack bag from the bottom of the tote and turning it in her hand, “is the only way to survive in a house this full.”

And maybe, she thought, setting it down, it’s also the only way to fall into something new without realizing you’re falling.

-

He watched her for a second longer than he should have—watched the way her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the counter, how she leaned her weight into her hip like she was trying not to lean into him instead. The overhead light wasn’t particularly flattering, too yellow and dim in the way lake houses always were, but it caught on her skin in places that made him stare anyway. The curve of her jaw, the side of her neck, the slight tilt of her mouth as she sorted through bags of trail mix like it mattered.

He told himself he was just tired. That was why his chest felt a little warm. That was why he kept noticing the little things.

But that wasn’t it. Not really.

The truth—uncomfortable, clear, and increasingly undeniable—was that something between them had shifted. Somewhere between the grocery aisle detour into cereal warfare and the way she’d leaned into him, laughing too hard to stand straight, something had cracked open. And now that it was out in the open, he didn’t know how to tuck it back in.

It had been easy to keep things distant before. She was smart and quick and had a mouth that didn’t quit, and he liked that about her—liked sparring with her, testing the edge of her wit. But earlier today, when she’d thrown her head back laughing about his passionate Wheaties speech, something had tightened in his chest. And when she hadn’t looked away afterward—had just stood there, watching him like she was seeing past something—he hadn’t wanted her to.

That was the problem now. He liked being seen. Not the easy kind of attention. Not the casual glances or forced conversations. But this—this quiet, offhand familiarity she offered. Like he didn’t have to perform around her. Like he could just be.

And now, with the kitchen emptied out and the hum of the fridge giving way to soft, companionable silence, that realization pressed heavier on his ribs.

-

“Okay,” Y/N said finally, reaching up to adjust a shelf like she had any intention of organizing anything. “We’ve got a suspicious amount of granola, and I’m blaming you.”

He walked to the other side of the counter, resting his forearms against the surface as he watched her. “I stand by my granola choices.”

“Of course you do. They’re chaos.”

“They’re curated.”

“They’re evidence of a man who doesn’t know what he wants.”

Harry tilted his head, amused. “That supposed to be some sort of deep metaphor?”

“Maybe.”

She didn’t turn to look at him, but he could see the way her lips twitched as she spoke. And something in his chest flipped.

He wanted to say something about it—about the way she noticed him, about the way she kept giving him these small openings and trusting he wouldn’t take too much. But he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Didn’t want to name it too early and watch it evaporate.

Instead, he opened a cabinet and started stacking cans, letting the moment breathe.

-

The quiet between them stretched again, long and comfortable, until Y/N broke it with a laugh that came out of nowhere.

He turned toward her. “What?”

She held up a small, crumpled receipt from one of the tote bags. “You bought a single kiwi.”

“I did,” he said, nodding solemnly. “It was calling to me.”

Y/N blinked at him. “You bought one kiwi.”

“Correct.”

“No other fruit. Just… the lone kiwi.”

“Don’t kiwi-shame me.”

She stared at him like she was trying to figure out if he was joking. “What were you going to do with it?”

Harry shrugged. “Bond with it. Maybe name it. Maybe slice it open dramatically at a key plot point later in the week.”

“You’re unwell.”

“I’m a man of simple needs.”

Her laugh was soft but full, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made his chest tighten again. She tossed the receipt at him without thinking, and he caught it midair, tucking it into his pocket with a grin that felt too easy for how tightly wound he actually was.

He didn’t say what he was thinking—that the grocery trip hadn’t really been about the food. That maybe the whole thing had just been an excuse to be near her longer. That he’d kept finding reasons to slow their pace, to prolong the wandering, to hold onto the moment before they had to come back to the house and face the rest of the world again.

But she knew. He could see it in the way her eyes softened when she looked at him again. In the way she let herself stay near him even after the last of the groceries were put away, even after the last bit of banter had faded. They were standing in the kitchen like neither of them had anywhere else to be, and maybe they didn’t. Maybe they didn’t want to.

He looked down at her hands, then back up at her face. “We did good.”

“With the groceries?”

“With… all of it.”

Her breath hitched just slightly—barely perceptible—but she nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “We did.”

-

When they finally stepped out of the kitchen, the house felt different. Not silent, but settled. The low murmur of the others had dulled to a comforting hum in the background—faint music from someone’s speaker upstairs, a door clicking shut, the rhythmic tick of the ceiling fan in the front room. The kind of quiet that only comes after a day has been lived fully and completely. And somehow, she and Harry had outlasted it.

Y/N moved toward the living room without saying anything, brushing her hand over the worn wood of the banister as she passed. She half-expected Harry to head upstairs, maybe say goodnight with that lopsided smile and a parting joke, but when she turned slightly, he was still following her. Quiet. Calm. As if it was obvious he’d go wherever she went.

The moment settled into her like warmth. Like gravity.

She tucked herself into the corner of the wide, overstuffed couch, legs folding beneath her, a throw blanket tossed absently over the armrest as if someone had abandoned it mid-afternoon. The lake outside the window was completely dark now, just a shimmer of moonlight off the glassy surface visible through the trees. She felt it—the shift. The almost sacred hush of a summer night when you’ve laughed too hard earlier in the day and your body remembers it in the best possible way.

Harry dropped down beside her a second later, but not too close. Not the way Ben or someone like him would’ve—overconfident, presumptive. He stayed a few inches away, elbows resting on his thighs, head tilted slightly back against the cushion. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter now, something lazy and loose threaded into it.

“You tired?”

She shook her head. “You?”

Harry hummed in response—noncommittal. But he didn’t move to get up.

The lamp in the corner buzzed slightly, its golden light catching on the curve of his jaw and casting his eyelashes in long, soft shadows. Y/N leaned her cheek against the back of the couch and just… looked at him. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so comfortable doing nothing with someone. Not just silence for the sake of it, but silence that felt like it meant something.

He glanced over a beat later and caught her watching. And instead of looking away, he held her gaze.

“What?” he asked, his mouth teetering up at the corners.

She shrugged, but her lips parted into the beginnings of a smile. “Just surprised you haven’t tried to start another cereal debate.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, shifting slightly toward her now. “I still think your take was objectively wrong.”

Y/N let her smile widen. “You’re just mad I had better arguments.”

“Better marketing. Not better arguments.”

“Marketing is half the battle.”

“You’re exhausting.”

She gave a light shrug, the fabric of the blanket shifting against her arm. “Takes one to know one.”

Harry snorted softly and leaned back again, but this time, his knee bumped against hers. He didn’t move it.

The contact was small—barely noticeable in a room this quiet. But to her, it felt like a light being switched on. A soft there you are. And when he didn’t shift away, when he let the contact stay, something inside her responded with a kind of stillness that surprised her. Like her body knew something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

They stayed like that for a while. Not speaking. Not needing to.

-

The window let in just enough breeze to lift the edge of the curtain, and Y/N found her gaze drifting to it as her mind wandered. There had been so many ways this trip could’ve gone. And yet, here they were—her and Harry, of all people. Existing in the same corner of the world in a way that felt almost deliberate. Like they’d been steered here by a hundred tiny decisions neither of them had realized they were making.

And she didn’t want to waste it.

“You always this quiet at night?” she asked eventually, not because she minded the silence, but because she wanted more of his voice in the room.

Harry tilted his head toward her, mouth ticking up slightly. “Only when I’m trying not to ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“This.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. And she didn’t press.

Instead, she turned a little more toward him, their knees still touching now. She let her head rest back against the couch, mirroring his posture, letting the moment stretch.

She didn’t want it to end.

-

He didn’t remember the last time silence had felt this good.

Usually it meant something was missing—words that needed saying, a thought waiting to be cleaned up and made less jagged, or worse, something unsaid hanging sharp between him and someone who didn’t know how to fill the gaps. But this wasn’t that.

This silence felt earned.

She was sitting a little closer now—still curled up in her corner, but angled toward him. Their knees pressed side by side, just barely, but firmly enough that he knew it was deliberate. A shared warmth, a quiet we’re here. And the room held it. Carried it gently, like it understood this was something new, something precious that hadn’t been named yet.

He could hear her breathing. Not loud. Just steady. Present. And it somehow made the space around them feel smaller in the best way.

Harry didn’t want to ruin it. He didn’t want to break it with the wrong comment or a joke that would land sideways. But more than that, he didn’t want to pretend anymore—not after the grocery store, not after the car ride, not after the way she’d laughed today like he’d said the most brilliant thing she’d ever heard even though he’d been talking about cereal mascots.

There were so many things about her he’d started to collect without meaning to.

Like how she always tied her hoodie strings in a double knot and never fixed them once they slipped uneven. Or how she picked up boxes in the grocery store and read the ingredients—not because she cared about health, but because she liked knowing what was inside something. Like how her voice got softer—not quieter, just rounder—when she was trying to figure out how to say something honest. Or how she never leaned away when someone moved closer. Only in.

And then there were the things he didn’t know how to name. The way she felt in a room. Like she steadied it. Even when she was teasing him. Especially when she was teasing him.

That was the part that got him. The steadiness.

-

Her head tilted slightly, like she was half-lost in thought, and Harry felt the urge to say something rise up in his chest. Not anything big. Just something. To bridge the space between what they were doing and what they both knew they were doing.

But before he could, Y/N moved. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly. Her foot slipped down from beneath her and stretched just enough that her ankle bumped against his.

Harry didn’t move.

Y/N didn’t either.

She just stayed like that—close, still, barely touching but definitely touching. And when she looked over at him, when her eyes met his without pretense, it felt like something broke open again.

“Sorry,” she murmured, though her voice wasn’t apologetic. It was more like an invitation to respond. To meet her there.

He didn’t look away. “Don’t be.”

They sat like that for a moment—watching each other, but not trying to figure anything out. Just… noticing. Letting it be what it was.

-

She didn’t know what made her move. Not exactly.

Maybe it was the stillness. Or the way his breathing was calm but not quite even. Or the way she’d been watching the way his fingers curled around the throw pillow like he didn’t realize he was doing it, like he needed something to hold onto.

But it felt natural, the way her leg had shifted, the way her foot had bumped his. It hadn’t been a mistake. Not really. She could’ve moved it. She could’ve leaned back into her corner and made the moment small again. Dismissible.

But she didn’t.

Because the moment wasn’t small.

She looked at him then, and the expression on his face wasn’t something she had words for. Open. A little vulnerable. Like he was already where she was, but had been waiting for her to catch up.

And the way he said don’t be—soft, low, steady—made her feel something deep in her chest unfurl slowly and completely.

She hadn’t felt that in a long time. Not in a way that mattered.

-

Her voice, when it came again, was quieter than before. “You’re not what I expected.”

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He smiled then, but it wasn’t cocky or teasing. It was the kind of smile that happened when something felt real. And the sight of it—unguarded, a little tired, completely honest—made something twist in her chest again.

She didn’t want to sleep. Didn’t want to break whatever this was, whatever they were building in the spaces between eye contact and half-laughed jokes. Because this was the part she always missed. This part—the quiet, unspoken build—was the part no one ever paid attention to.

She wanted to remember this.

The way his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to be funny. The way his breath hitched a little when she looked too long. The way his knee pressed into hers like he didn’t want to let her drift too far away.

She wanted to stay.

-

She didn’t pull away.

That’s what he noticed first. That after she shifted, after her ankle nudged against his and she looked at him like he was worth seeing, she didn’t take it back. She just… stayed. Let it happen. Let them happen.

He hadn’t realized how much of himself had been waiting for that—for the proof that this thing wasn’t one-sided. That the rhythm they’d found today wasn’t just a fluke of timing or convenience or boredom. That she felt it, too. The tension. The pull. The comfort and the edge and the way she never gave him the easy version of herself, and how he didn’t want it even if she did.

She shifted slightly now, just enough that her shoulder brushed his arm, and the contact was light—barely anything—but it traveled straight to his chest like it had weight.

He let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

-

He didn’t move away. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. Something about her presence made everything else quieter. And not in a muted way. In a way that made more sense. Like his brain had finally stopped doing the thing where it ran in a hundred directions at once.

She made things quieter.

Clearer.

And now she was here, pressed just barely against him, and the house had fallen away. The whole house. The trip. The people upstairs. The water outside. Everything had dimmed. All of it.

Except her.

-

He turned toward her just enough to catch her profile. The shape of her mouth in the soft lamp glow. The crease between her brows that deepened when she was thinking about something she didn’t want to say out loud. The slope of her neck where it met her shoulder, loose and relaxed now, like she didn’t feel the need to tense around him.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to say anything stupid. He didn’t want to push it too far. But he also didn’t want to lose this—this sliver of time where she was here and real and his world had narrowed down to the warmth of her leaning toward him without hesitation.

So he shifted his arm. Slowly. Cautiously. Until his forearm was resting behind her on the back cushion of the couch. Not touching. Not yet. But close.

She looked over at him, just her eyes. They flicked toward his arm, then back to his face.

He didn’t smile.

She didn’t look away.

-

It felt like something might happen.

Not something dramatic. Not anything that needed music or speeches or the weight of big declarations. But something important. Something small and undeniable and impossible to forget.

She could feel the heat from his arm now, close behind her shoulders. Not touching. But there. Waiting.

She wanted to lean into it. Just a little. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she did—if he’d shift away, if the spell would break, if it would feel like too much. But her body wanted to close the gap, and her heart hadn’t argued once all evening.

Harry had been different tonight. Lighter, yes. Playful. But also present. The kind of present you couldn’t fake. And she’d been watching it happen in real time—his gaze on her when she smiled, the way he passed her things wordlessly, the way he hadn’t walked ahead of her once at the store. He let her be beside him. He wanted her beside him.

And now they were here, in the dim quiet of a worn summer living room, and he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t drifted off or shut down or offered some sarcastic remark to undo the softness between them. He was staying.

She didn’t want to pretend anymore either.

-

So she shifted again. Small. Just a fraction of space. Enough that her back met the warm line of his arm, and she let it rest there—light and certain and brave.

He froze for a second. Not tense. Just still. As if he didn’t want to ruin the way her weight felt against him.

Then, slowly, he relaxed into it. Let his arm settle behind her like it had always belonged there.

And it was everything.

-

Her heart beat slower now. Heavier, but not with anxiety. With knowing. With the kind of awareness you only get when you’ve been dancing around something for long enough to understand that it isn’t going away.

This wasn’t about fixing anything anymore. Not about making up for what they’d lost or comparing where they were to where they’d been. It was just this. Him. Her. The night. The shift that had started in a grocery aisle and hadn’t stopped since.

He leaned his head toward hers slightly, not resting against her, but close enough to make her breath catch.

She didn’t say a word.

Neither did he.

But in the stillness between them, in the warmth of the contact and the way neither of them felt the need to explain it, something settled.

A beginning.

-

There was something about the way she settled into him that made the whole day snap into focus.

Like all the noise and heat and tension that had woven itself through the morning—the posturing, the clipped conversations, the weight of unspoken things—had finally broken apart, leaving behind only this: the quiet rhythm of her breath beside him, the solid warmth of her against his side, the soft brush of her shoulder pressing against his chest.

He could’ve sat there forever.

No one had ever leaned into him like that without pulling away eventually. No one had ever stayed close without needing it to be a moment or a joke or something performative. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t a moment being made—this was a moment becoming.

And he didn’t want to miss it.

He let his arm settle fully around her now, his hand resting lightly against her upper arm, careful but certain. Like he was learning the shape of what this could be. And when she didn’t flinch, didn’t tease, didn’t shift away, something in him unclenched. Something deep and quiet and tightly wound that had been waiting for her to decide if she wanted this, too.

She did.

And that truth pulsed through him like steady heat.

-

It wasn’t the contact that undid her. It wasn’t the way his arm fit around her or the strength of his presence or the subtle curve of his body pressing into hers like he meant to stay. It was the ease. The way it felt natural. Uncomplicated. Like they had always ended days like this, quietly and without urgency, tucked into the same corner of the couch and the same fold of breath.

There was no pressure here. Just closeness. Just stillness.

And somehow, that made it all feel more real.

She wanted to say something. Just a small thing. A word or a whisper to acknowledge what this was without cracking it open too wide. But everything she thought of felt either too much or not enough.

So instead, she let her head tip slightly, just enough that it brushed the side of his shoulder. Not quite a lean. Not quite an ask. Just a shared quiet.

Harry didn’t speak. He just shifted, his fingers curling slightly where they rested against her arm. Like a promise. Like yes, I feel it too.

And it was enough.

-

The room had dimmed even more now, the lamp flickering once and holding steady, the only light against the coolness of the lake air drifting in through the window. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked, and someone murmured a goodnight. But the house was drifting into its own hush, and they were drifting with it.

Y/N blinked slowly, her body finally catching up with the weight of the day, her eyes heavy but her thoughts still alive and buzzing beneath the quiet.

He smelled like the outdoors and coffee and something faintly citrusy she couldn’t place. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath against her shoulder, the calm rhythm of someone who wasn’t pretending to be okay—someone who was okay, in this moment, with her.

And it was disarming. And lovely. And more than she’d let herself want, until now.

-

She didn’t want to sleep.

Not because she was afraid of what morning would bring. Not because she was waiting for him to ruin it. But because she didn’t want it to stop.

This stillness. This closeness. The way he hadn’t made it a big thing. The way he’d let it grow slowly, carefully, without needing it to become something right away.

It made her trust him more than she expected.

Maybe more than she should.

But she wasn’t scared.

She was… here.

And when she felt the weight of his head dip slightly, the gentle pressure of him leaning just a bit more into her, she let herself breathe into the moment like it belonged to her.

Because maybe it did.

-

The last thing she remembered before sleep took hold was the warmth of his hand, slow and steady where it rested on her arm, and the certainty—clear, quiet, and undeniable—that she wasn’t alone in this anymore.

Not even close.

-

She woke slowly.

Not because she’d slept particularly well—she’d only half remembered drifting off, barely aware of when her limbs gave in to the pull of rest—but because she was afraid that moving too fast would shatter whatever quiet magic had wrapped itself around them the night before.

The first thing she registered was the soft pressure of something warm around her waist. Not heavy. Not restrictive. Just there. Steady. Familiar in a way that felt startling.

Harry.

He was still beside her. His body relaxed, breathing slow and even. One arm draped loosely around her middle, the other resting across his own chest. And she was tucked into him, head against the curve of his shoulder, like they’d been fitted together by some gentle, invisible hand while they slept.

She didn’t panic. She didn’t tense. That was the most surprising part of all.

She just stayed there. Eyes open, barely breathing, letting herself feel the moment before she had to move through it.

The room was awash in morning light now—faint and golden, slipping in through the narrow window over the couch. Dust motes floated in the quiet beams, suspended in the air like they were trying to hold onto the hush as long as they could. And outside, she could hear the lake birds beginning their slow, lazy chorus. The world was waking up. But the cocoon they’d created hadn’t cracked yet.

Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric of the throw blanket draped over them. She didn’t remember pulling it up. Maybe he had. Maybe it had just fallen that way. It didn’t matter.

All she knew was that she hadn’t slept like that in a long time. Not just beside someone. But with someone.

Safe. Easy. Warm.

She knew it should scare her. That if she thought about it too long, if she let her mind get too far ahead of her heart, she’d ruin it with questions and panic and doubts. But right now, lying in the soft hush of the early morning, she didn’t want to move at all.

-

A shift.

His breathing changed—just slightly, just enough.

And then his fingers twitched against her waist.

She stilled, breath catching.

A pause. A stretch of silence so heavy she could hear her own pulse.

Then, quietly, his voice—rough from sleep, soft at the edges.

“You’re still here.”

She turned her head slightly against him, enough to feel the faint rumble of his voice in his chest. “So are you.”

A beat passed. She could feel his cheek shift as he smiled.

“Wasn’t sure if you’d sneak away.”

“I thought about it,” she murmured. “Didn’t want to risk waking the human furnace.”

Harry chuckled, low and warm. His breath stirred the hair near her temple. “I am unreasonably warm. That’s fair.”

She smiled, but didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The morning felt like something suspended—like time had been stretched out a little, just for them. And for once, she didn’t want to rush into the next thing. She didn’t want to ruin the slowness.

-

It took him a minute to remember where he was.

Not the house—that was easy. The lake, the trip, the chaos of the friend group turned semi-hostage situation, the way Claire and Ben had imploded them all into the same orbit. That was background noise by now.

It was this—the body curled against his, the warmth of her breathing soft and even, the way she hadn’t moved when he woke—that made his brain catch up slower.

Y/N.

Still here.

Still in his arms.

And somehow, not weird.

Not wrong.

It felt natural in the kind of way that made him worry about how natural it felt. Like his body had already adjusted. Like it knew what to do with her pressed into his side, with her breath brushing his chest, with the silence that sat comfortably between them like it was supposed to be there.

He hadn’t expected to fall asleep. Not really. He’d meant to stay there until she shifted, until it got too warm or someone came downstairs and ruined it. But the longer she’d stayed close, the more his body had given in. The stillness had soothed him in a way he couldn’t explain.

And now—morning light and all—she was still here.

No rush. No excuses.

Just warmth. Just her.

-

“I’m sorry if I was—” he started, not even sure how he meant to finish that sentence.

“You weren’t,” she said before he could. “I wasn’t, either.”

That startled him a little. The honesty of it. The way she didn’t even let him apologize for something he hadn’t said yet.

And he realized, again, that she saw him. The version of him he didn’t always let people near. The one who second-guessed when things felt too easy.

His voice came quieter. “This isn’t weird, is it?”

Y/N turned just enough to glance up at him, her chin brushing his chest. “It’s not.”

He exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

And somehow, it really was.

-

They eventually moved, but only because they had to.

Not in a dramatic sense—no one came barging in, no phone call interrupted the silence. It was just the sun creeping a little higher, the house shifting around them, the collective rhythm of morning making itself known in soft creaks and a far-off shower running upstairs.

Still, it took time. Several long minutes of neither of them saying anything, of her just breathing into the warmth of his chest and him keeping his arm where it had settled naturally around her waist. She felt his thumb move once, tracing the fabric of her shirt absentmindedly. Not possessive. Just present.

But the stillness couldn’t last forever, and eventually her body started to stir with the weight of the day ahead.

She shifted slightly. Just enough that their legs uncrossed, their limbs uncurled, their shared warmth gave way to the cooler space between them again.

And even though it was small—just a few inches of air—she felt the ache of it.

Harry sat up with her, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face, blinking against the light. His curls were flattened in one spot and sticking up in another. She could see the faint red line of the couch seam pressed into his cheek. And still, somehow, he looked stupidly good.

She pulled the blanket from her lap and folded it out of habit. Something to do with her hands. Something to keep the air moving before it thickened again.

“So,” she said quietly, glancing sideways at him. “How long until someone walks in and ruins this completely?”

Harry snorted, leaning back against the couch, arms draped across his knees. “Ten minutes. Tops.”

She smiled, but it faded quickly—softly—not because anything was wrong, but because everything felt right, and she didn’t want to lose that by trying too hard to hold onto it.

He must’ve sensed it, too, because he looked at her for a long beat. Then, quieter, steadier, he said, “You okay?”

Y/N nodded once. “You?”

His smile was small. “I am.”

And for a moment, that was enough.

-

The morning air was cool against the back of his neck when he finally pushed off the couch and stretched. He let out a quiet groan, partly for dramatic effect, mostly because his spine wasn’t built to spend the night curled up on a lakeside sectional with only half a cushion under him.

Y/N stood too, rolling her shoulders, pulling her hoodie tighter around her as she moved toward the kitchen without a word. He followed her out of habit now, like he didn’t know how not to. It didn’t feel weird. It didn’t feel too much.

It just felt like them.

Something had changed, and it wasn’t just the proximity. It was the ease. They were moving around each other differently now. Calmer. Not waiting for the next sharp word or cold glance or clumsy silence. They existed in each other’s spaces like the sharp corners had been sanded down. Like they’d forgotten, for a few hours, how to be suspicious of one another.

The house was still mostly asleep. The floor creaked beneath them as they padded into the kitchen, but the lights were off, and the world hadn’t quite woken up yet. Just the rustle of trees outside, the soft lap of water against the dock, and the distant clink of someone—Ali, probably—mumbling about coffee filters upstairs.

Harry watched as Y/N stood by the sink, her back to him, and reached for a mug from the drying rack. The one she’d used yesterday. A small floral one with a chip in the handle. She held it in both hands for a second, then set it gently on the counter like it was fragile.

Maybe they both were.

He crossed the space between them slowly, stopping beside her, leaning against the counter the way he had yesterday when they’d bickered over peanut butter.

Except now, she didn’t look tired of him.

Now, she looked softened by him.

-

“I was thinking,” he said, voice quiet in the hush between them, “we could go on another walk today.”

She didn’t look at him, but her shoulder tilted in his direction like she wanted to. “Another scenic route?”

“Something like that.”

She glanced up at him then, and the look in her eyes wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t guarded.

It was open.

And it hit him like a stone dropped into still water.

“I’d like that,” she said.

And just like that, the day began with a promise neither of them had to say out loud.

-

Ali was the first to see it.

Of course she was. She wasn’t loud about it. Didn’t say anything. But the second she walked into the kitchen and found them already there—quiet, close, in sync in a way they hadn’t been before—her expression shifted for just a second. Something soft. Something aware.

Then she moved toward the coffee pot and started fussing with the filters like she hadn’t seen anything at all.

Y/N caught the flicker of a smile at the corner of her mouth anyway.

She kept her back mostly turned to Harry as she helped pull things from the fridge—fruit, eggs, the container of almond milk he’d made fun of yesterday. But it was different now. Every step she took near him came with the awareness that they’d slept beside each other. That they’d woken up warm and still touching, neither one in a rush to leave.

She could feel it in her fingertips. In her chest. In the way her voice softened when she asked him to hand her a fork.

She didn’t think she’d be able to hide it. Not really.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

-

More footsteps. Laughter upstairs. The house was waking now.

And then—Ben and Claire.

They entered together, too casual to be natural, both holding mugs that didn’t quite match their expressions. Ben had that look he always wore when he knew he was walking into a room with too much history in it. And Claire was smiling too tightly, her gaze flicking once between Y/N and Harry before landing somewhere pointedly else.

Y/N said nothing.

Harry, to his credit, didn’t even look at them. Just kept slicing a banana in long, careful strokes, setting the pieces gently into a bowl.

The air got thicker.

Ali cleared her throat. “I think we’ve got stuff for pancakes if someone wants to take lead on that.”

Ben made a vague noise, but Claire stepped toward the counter instead. “I can do it.”

“Let me help,” Ben offered.

“No, it’s fine.”

Y/N kept her head down. Kept cutting strawberries, even though they didn’t need more fruit. Kept breathing evenly.

Harry bumped his elbow against hers once. A light touch. Intentional.

She glanced at him, and he gave her the smallest, most devastatingly calm look—like I’ve got you. Keep going.

She did.

-

He didn’t like the way Ben looked at her.

He never had, even before everything. There was something smug about it. Something that suggested he still thought he had a claim. And even if Harry couldn’t quite name what he was to Y/N right now, he knew what Ben wasn’t.

Still, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Because she was next to him.

Because she hadn’t moved.

Because when he bumped her elbow, she looked at him like she wasn’t sorry for last night. Like she wasn’t planning to take it back.

And that was more than enough.

-

Ali talked more now, filling the space with questions about breakfast and day plans and whether anyone wanted to help bring the cooler out of the garage. Y/N slipped out of the kitchen for a moment to grab her water bottle, and Harry found himself alone at the counter with Claire.

He didn’t look up at her. He didn’t speak.

But she did.

“You two seemed… close this morning.”

He didn’t stop slicing the banana. “Is that a problem?”

Claire’s smile was light, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Not for me.”

“Good.”

She lingered like she wanted to say more. But then she turned away.

Harry didn’t watch her go.

He didn’t need to.

Because Y/N came back into the room a second later, and without thinking, she stepped back to his side like she’d never left it.

-

It wasn’t that they were doing anything obvious.

No hands held. No whispered confessions. No sudden announcement over breakfast that she’d fallen asleep in Harry’s arms and woken up still tucked there, blinking into the soft light of morning like something in her chest had clicked into place overnight.

But everything had changed.

Because now, every time he walked past her, he didn’t brush against her accidentally. He drifted closer. Purposefully. Every time she looked up from chopping something or setting out plates, his gaze was already on her. Steady. Soft. Knowing. And when they moved around each other in the kitchen, they didn’t speak much—but their silences were whole conversations.

And people noticed.

Not loudly, not directly. But the shift was unmistakable.

The group, for all their oblivious chaos, picked up on the undercurrent. Ali clocked it instantly, her glances flickering like checkmarks—okay, okay, I see you two. Jules didn’t say anything, but her mouth twitched more than once when they reached for the same bowl of granola or started laughing at something no one else had heard. Even Eli, half-asleep and nursing his coffee like it owed him money, gave them a lingering second look as he passed them on his way to the table.

The only ones who seemed actively uncomfortable were Ben and Claire.

Which was a little too on the nose.

Ben kept making comments that didn’t land—backhanded jokes about “overcorrecting” and “people getting cozy all of a sudden.” Claire kept stirring the pancake batter too hard. And Y/N kept not looking at either of them.

She didn’t need to.

Because Harry was beside her. Solid. Quiet. Constant.

And when she felt the pressure of his hand at the small of her back as he passed behind her with a stack of mugs, it grounded her in a way she hadn’t expected.

She exhaled slowly. Picked up the jar of jam. Set it on the table like her hands weren’t still buzzing.

-

He wasn’t trying to make a scene. He wasn’t trying to do anything, really.

Except not hide it.

Whatever “it” was. Whatever last night had become. Whatever he and Y/N were doing now—if they were doing anything at all.

Because the truth was, they hadn’t defined it. Hadn’t drawn a line or written the story down or decided what any of this meant. But what he knew—what he felt—was that she’d stayed. That she’d leaned in. That when she looked at him now, she didn’t do it with the skepticism from before. She did it like she knew him. Like she chose him.

So he didn’t perform. He didn’t overdo it.

But he also didn’t shrink.

When she turned to ask him if they had more butter, he didn’t answer right away—just looked at her. Long enough for her to notice. Long enough that her breath hitched.

She said nothing.

Neither did he.

But the space between them got quieter.

And that said everything.

-

The table was loud once they sat down, but Harry barely heard it.

People talked over each other. Laughed about something someone said last night. Ben kept trying to direct the conversation, his voice louder than necessary, his eyes flicking toward Y/N like he was waiting for her to jump in.

She didn’t.

She was sitting next to Harry.

Close. Not pressed up against him. But close enough that their knees brushed. Close enough that she leaned toward him when she reached for the strawberries instead of across the table. Close enough that it meant something.

Ali raised an eyebrow once—just once—when Y/N said something under her breath and Harry laughed before anyone else had a chance to catch the joke. But she didn’t say anything. She just smirked into her orange juice.

It felt like a secret. One the whole table was almost in on, even if no one had the guts to say it out loud.

And Harry didn’t mind.

He liked it.

He liked the quiet between them. The comfort of her beside him. The weight of her presence when she wasn’t trying to hold it back. The way she’d looked at him that morning like something had been decided.

And maybe it had.

-

The meal started to wind down. People stood up to rinse plates, talk about who wanted to swim, what time the hike might be. Ben made another joke—something about “partners in crime” and “getting too close for comfort”—but it fell flat.

Harry didn’t even look up.

Y/N didn’t respond.

Instead, she leaned slightly toward him as she stood, brushing her hand against his arm on her way to the sink.

She didn’t say anything.

But the touch lingered.

And his chest ached in the best way.

-

She found him on the back deck twenty minutes later.

The house had scattered. Claire and Jules were arguing over sunscreen, Eli was trying to convince someone to help him test out the paddleboards, and Ben—blessedly—had wandered off somewhere, maybe finally catching on that his presence wasn’t wanted. The kitchen was mostly clean, the dining table half-abandoned, and Ali had quietly told Y/N to “go take five minutes or forty” with a pointed look before disappearing toward the driveway.

She didn’t need to be told twice.

And she knew exactly where she was going.

Harry was sitting in the shaded corner of the deck, barefoot, his long legs stretched out in front of him, mug balanced on one knee. His sunglasses were pushed up into his curls, his shirt soft and wrinkled from sleep, and he looked unfairly at ease with the world. Like nothing could rattle him here.

Except maybe her.

Because the moment he saw her step through the sliding door, his entire posture shifted. Just slightly. Not a dramatic straighten, not anything performative. Just enough to say there you are.

And that was enough to make her chest ache.

She didn’t say anything. She just sat down beside him—close again, like they were already used to being close. Her thigh brushing his, her shoulder leaning in just enough to tilt her toward him.

The silence between them stretched, but not because there was nothing to say. Because everything was already being said.

Harry passed her the mug without a word.

She took it. Sipped. And handed it back.

-

The lake glittered in front of them, impossibly bright in the mid-morning sun. Kids shouted somewhere across the water. A bird wheeled lazily overhead. Everything felt suspended—like the world was moving forward, but this moment wasn’t. Like this was the kind of stillness people wrote about and never quite got right.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Feels different now.”

He looked at her. “Yeah.”

She didn’t ask what he meant. She didn’t need to.

Because she already knew.

-

She was so close.

And it wasn’t just physical. It was her being here, her showing up, her choosing to be near him again when she could’ve so easily blended into the chaos of the group and let the night before blur into memory.

But she didn’t.

She was here, beside him, her presence tucked against his like she was built to fit there.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just sat with her, letting the breeze move through the trees above them, letting the scent of the lake wrap around them like summer itself was trying to keep the air quiet.

It didn’t feel like a conversation anymore.

It felt like a knowing.

And it made him braver.

-

“I think I notice more than I let on,” he said finally, his voice low.

Y/N glanced at him, curious. “What do you mean?”

He swallowed once, glancing down at the mug in his hand. “About you.”

Her breath caught. But she didn’t speak.

“I know you always skip the fourth question in card games. Even when no one’s paying attention. You tuck your thumb under your palm when you’re uncomfortable. You hum to yourself when you walk away from an argument.” He smiled softly, still not looking at her. “And you put the blueberries at the back of the fridge so no one else finishes them.”

She laughed quietly. “Okay, that one’s fair.”

He looked up at her now, the smile still tugging at his mouth. “I notice things.”

She held his gaze. “So do I.”

That surprised him a little. He blinked.

“I know you don’t like the first sip of coffee—always wait a second before drinking it. You reread instructions, even if you know what they say. You look away when you’re trying not to laugh.” She paused. “And you always stand behind people when you talk to them. Just far enough that no one thinks you’re trying to get too close.”

His throat tightened.

She shifted closer, eyes soft. “You don’t do that with me.”

And he didn’t. He hadn’t thought about it until now, but she was right.

He wanted to be near her.

He was near her.

And it didn’t feel like a risk.

It felt like finally.

-

They didn’t speak after that.

They didn’t need to.

Not every connection was made through conversation. Not every moment needed explanation or context or anything more than this—two people sitting just close enough that their shoulders touched, breathing the same air, watching the same water glitter beneath the sun.

Harry shifted slightly so their knees aligned again. Their legs pressed from hip to ankle now. Steady. Solid. Warm.

And she let herself lean.

Not because she was tired. Not because it was comfortable.

But because she wanted to.

She didn’t want to be anywhere else.

-

The breeze lifted her hair gently, strands tickling her face. Harry reached over without hesitation, tucking one behind her ear.

His fingers lingered.

Her eyes met his.

And for a long, breathless moment, they didn’t move.

There was a question between them. Unspoken. Not ready to be asked, but undeniable in its presence.

And then he smiled.

Soft. Crooked. The kind that made her feel like the morning light had shifted just for her.

She smiled back.

And leaned her head against his shoulder.

-

She fit.

That’s what hit him most.

Not the heat of her beside him, or the way she leaned without asking, or the way her hair brushed his jaw as she settled into him.

It was how right it felt.

How easy.

How like he’d been carrying a weight he hadn’t noticed until it was gone.

He let his cheek rest gently against the top of her head. Just a little. Just enough to say I’m here.

And she didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen.

She just sighed, slow and full, and let her hand rest on his knee.

-

It was quiet like that for a long time.

Long enough that the world started to fade. The laughter from the dock became background noise. The creak of the screen door lost its edge. The wind and the trees and the water became a rhythm beneath them, something that moved with them instead of around them.

He didn’t want to move.

He didn’t want to speak.

He didn’t want to risk even one second of disrupting the way she was curled into him like she’d always known how.

So he didn’t.

He just stayed.

-

Eventually, she closed her eyes.

Not to sleep. Just to feel it better. To memorize the way the sun warmed her cheek, the way his arm wrapped lightly around her, the way her entire body exhaled when she let herself believe—for one slow, golden morning—that this didn’t have to be complicated.

That maybe, for the first time in a long time, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

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Next Part (Coming Soon)

[lifeisbutadream444]

The Last Night (Original Version)

Aaron Pierre x Reader

A/N: This is the original version of The Last Night. After working on this for weeks I decided to start from scratch and wrote the version I published yesterday. I decided I might as well finish this version too. Let me know what version you prefer. Enjoy!

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut

Summary: After the series finale wraps, she thinks she’s saying goodbye to four years of tension, restraint, and the co-star she was never supposed to love.

The wrap party was everything it was supposed to be, loud, nostalgic. The kind of celebration where laughter echoes and everyone pretends they aren’t grieving something they’ll never get back.

You stood near the back of the venue, sipping Moet that had long since gone flat, pretending to laugh at a joke someone from production told. You couldn’t even remember what he said, your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes anyway. Not tonight.

Four years. That show had been your entire life for four years. And now, just like that, it was over.

Worse than that? It meant no more long shoot days with Aaron. No more early call times where he brought you coffee and teased you until you smiled. No more inside jokes whispered between takes. No more lingering glances in the makeup trailer when he thought you weren’t looking. No more pretending you didn’t feel what you’ve been trying to swallow down since day one.

It was easier to laugh it all off. To act like you never noticed the subtle touches, the way he always found a reason to sit too close, the way he remembered your Starbucks order better than you did. Easier to pretend you were just friends. Close friends. Best friends. Because if you didn’t, you’d have to face the terrifying truth: Aaron made you feel too much.

And you couldn't afford heartbreak.

Not when this show was your first real acting job. Not when you were finally being offered opportunities to work with actors and directors you've always admired. You couldn’t afford to be messy. Not publicly. Not with someone like him. Your name trending beside his would be career-ending, or worse—life-consuming. You had seen what his fans did to the girls they thought he was dating. You weren’t ready for that kind of bloodbath.

So you kept your distance.

But tonight, distance felt like a knife in your chest.

You glanced across the room, and there he was, laughing with one of the directors, drink in hand, that easy smile stretching across his face. The smile that always found a way to cut through your worst moods.

You hadn't spoken to him tonight. But every time you looked at him, your heart squeezed like it knew the truth before you could admit it to yourself.

You were going to miss him. Every part of him.

“Hey,” Lauren nudged your side, breaking your trance. “You okay?”

You blinked, pulling your gaze away from Aaron. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Lauren looked like she wanted to press further, but thankfully someone called her name and she was pulled away into another conversation.

You took the chance to slip toward the back exit. Maybe if you left quietly, you wouldn’t have to deal with goodbyes. You weren’t sure you could get through one without your voice cracking.

But just as your hand reached for the door, you heard his voice behind you.

“You were really gonna leave without saying goodbye?”

You closed your eyes for a split second, cursed under your breath, and turned.

Aaron stood there, that signature half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips, one brow raised like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. His gaze was steady, but his eyes, those fucking blue-green eyes, held something else tonight. Something softer.

“I figured you were busy,” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual.

“Too busy for you?” He stepped closer. “Come on, don’t do that.”

You forced a smile, even as your chest tightened. “Congratulations, by the way. Everyone’s been talking about how brilliant your last scene was.”

Aaron tilted his head. “You’re really gonna stand there and give me the PR version of goodbye?”

Your smile faltered.

He took another step, closing the space between you. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered for just a moment longer than necessary.

“You gonna miss me?” he asked, low and unassuming, like he didn’t already know the answer.

You looked away, blinked rapidly. Your vision started to blur.

Shit.

Aaron leaned in slightly, his voice a whisper now. “Hey… are you crying?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He exhaled through his nose, like something had just clicked for him. Like maybe—for the first time—he really saw it. That you cared. That you always had.

He didn't press, didn't tease you like he usually did. Instead, he leaned in just a little closer, his breath brushing against your temple.

“You wanna get out of here?” he murmured. “Not like that. Just… come back to mine. For a little while. Don’t go home sad, yeah?”

You hesitated.

You should have said no.

But instead, you nodded once.

“Okay.”

And just like that, something between you shifted.

You didn’t know what it meant yet. Didn’t know if this was the beginning of something or the inevitable unraveling of a years-long friendship.

But you followed him out into the night anyway.

Aaron’s house was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that made your skin hum with awareness.

You’d been here before. Once. Maybe twice. But never alone. Never with your heart in your throat and your body still trembling from the pool of emotions you’d barely managed to hide at the wrap party. Never with the weight of goodbye thick in the air between you.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you stood there in his entryway, wrapped in the dim gold light spilling from the living room. Everything smelled like him, clean linen, a hint of whatever cologne lingered on his skin. It should’ve been comforting.

It wasn’t.

It was dangerous.

He walked past you to his kitchen, silent, calm, and poured two drinks. You didn’t sit. Couldn’t. Your body was buzzing, pulse erratic. You needed to leave. You should’ve never come here. But you didn’t move when he handed you the glass.

“Relax,” he murmured, taking a sip of his own. “You’re acting like I brought you here to eat you alive.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and your throat went dry.

Because the way he was looking at you, eyes smoldering under heavy lashes, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips.

You scoffed, trying to push the heat down. “I’m fine.”

You looked away, sipping your drink to steady yourself. But it did nothing to settle the nerves, or the ache you hated admitting was there.

He wasn’t trying to do anything.

That was the problem.

He didn’t have to.

And he knew it.

“Come get in the pool,” he said, like it was nothing. “It’s warm. You’ll like it.”

You blinked. “I don’t have a bathing suit.”

Aaron turned back toward you, one brow lifted like the answer was obvious.

“I’ll find you something,” he said. “Or you can wear nothing. I’m not picky.”

Your heart flipped. You knew he was joking. Kind of.

But the look he gave you lingered.

Not a dare.

Not a question.

You hated how easily he could undo you with a single look.

Still, you followed.

The water was warm, just like he said. It wrapped around your skin like silk, soothing and overwhelming all at once. But being with him—like this—was anything but soothing.

He was leaning against the edge of the pool, arms spread wide, watching you, like always.

You floated near the center, trying to pretend like you didn’t feel the way his gaze traced every inch of your body. You felt naked under his stare, even with the tank top he had given you to swim in.

“Why were avoiding me tonight?”

Your throat tightened.

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the surface of the water. “I wasn't”

He pushed off the wall, slow and silent, cutting through the water like it parted just for him.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he said, voice low and dark. “How you avoid being alone with me whenever we’re not working?”

You backed up, your shoulders brushing tile. Nowhere to go.

His hands landed on the wall beside your head, caging you in without touching you.

Your stomach flipped.

He was too close. Too warm. Too much.

You hated that your body betrayed you before your mouth could speak.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you murmured, even though you absolutely did.

He smiled. Slow. Cruel.

“Yes, you do.”

You couldn’t hold his gaze.

Your breath hitched as his fingers dipped below the water, brushing your thigh. Not by accident.

“I’ve let you lie to yourself for years,” he murmured. “I let you keep me at arm’s length because I thought maybe… one day, you’d stop.”

You swallowed hard.

But you said nothing.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

And maybe… tonight… he finally had proof. You’d almost cried earlier. Over him. He saw it. You knew he did.

“Are you scared I’ll fuck it up?” he asked, tone too soft now. “Or are you scared I won’t?”

Your breath caught.

“You must be drunk,” you whispered, even though you knew he wasn’t.

His fingers dragged higher, slow under the water, skating along your thigh, your hipbone, stopping just shy of where you ached.

“I think you want me,” he said, lips brushing your jaw. “And I think you’ve spent four fucking years pretending you don’t.”

Your knees went weak. You thanked God for the lack of gravity in the water.

But still, you stayed quiet.

Because saying it out loud would make it real. And once it was real, it could break you.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his lips grazing your neck now.

You didn’t.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes burning into yours. Waiting. Testing.

And still—you said nothing.

That was all he needed.

Aaron surged forward and kissed you.

Hard.

His mouth crashed against yours like he was punishing you for every moment you made him wait. His hand fisted in your shirt under the water, dragging you flush against his chest, your legs lifting instinctively to wrap around him like muscle memory.

You moaned into him before you could stop it, and he groaned back like it fed him.

It was the kind of kiss that left no room for lies.

You wanted him.

You loved him.

And it terrified you.

You pulled away suddenly, breath ragged. “We can’t.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed. “What?”

You shook your head, already backing away toward the steps. “I should go.”

You grabbed your towel from the chair, wrapping it tightly around yourself like a shield.

You were already halfway across the deck when you heard it—the shift in the water. Then the unmistakable sound of him climbing out after you. Not rushed. Not panicked.

You turned around, pulse hammering. He was still dripping wet, his swim trunks low on his hips, chest rising and falling with every breath.

“You’re really gonna do it, huh?” he asked, voice quiet but tight. “Walk away. Pretend none of this happened.”

He let out a soft laugh, one that held no humor.

“You’re exhausting,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You really are.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No, really,” he said, stepping closer. “I watched you fall apart in front of me less than an hour ago. You practically cried over the thought of not seeing me again. But now you’re gonna leave and pretend that all of this was nothing.”

You crossed your arms. “I didn’t say it was nothing.”

“Well you’re definitely acting like it,” he snapped.

He stepped closer, water still dripping from his body, his voice rough with restraint.

“Can you let go of your pride for two fucking seconds and admit what’s been obvious since year one?”

You shook your head. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it!” he fired back. “Tell me why you’d rather keep pretending we’re just friends.”

Your silence said more than your words ever could.

Aaron exhaled a bitter breath, then looked at you—really looked. His voice dropped.

“Fine. If that’s what you want,” he said. “Then go. Walk out. We’ll send each other happy birthday texts once a year and make awkward small talk at events.”

You didn’t move.

His eyes narrowed.

You felt your pride clawing at your throat.

But your heart? It was already unraveling.

Your voice cracked. “You don’t understand. If we take it there, and something happens… if I lose you…”

“You already are,” he said, softer now. “You’re losing me right now.”

“I waited,” he said, softer now. “Four fucking years. Do you know what it’s like to want someone that long and still try to play it cool?”

You looked away, eyes stinging.

“I gave you space,” he continued. “I didn’t push. I stayed your friend. I didn’t touch you, didn’t cross the line, because I thought that’s what you needed.”

You swallowed hard, throat aching. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did,” he said, simply. No accusation in his voice. Just fact.

He stepped closer. Slowly. Like he wasn’t trying to intimidate you — just be near you. Like it physically hurt to be that far away.

“I love you.” he said, voice steady now. He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist gently.

Your breath caught.

Aaron’s hand wrapped gently around yours, grounding you.

“I’m not saying it to pressure you,” he added. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted, as something in your chest cracked open.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when you ignored it. Even when you gave me every reason to give up on you.”

His thumb rubbed over the back of your hand, slow and patient.

The silence between you swelled — not empty, not awkward.

“I love you too,” you whispered, voice breaking. “And I've spent every day talking myself out of it.”

He didn’t interrupt.

You swallowed. “You know how brutal this industry is. One wrong rumor, one bad headline, and it’s over before it even starts.”

Aaron’s face softened. Just slightly. But his jaw ticked—he didn’t like hearing it.

“I’ve watched what happens to the women you're linked to,” you continued. “The obsession. The speculation. The fucking hate. It’s relentless. You brush it off like it's nothing, but I can't. I don’t want to live under a microscope, constantly defending who I am and why I'm standing next to you.”

You paused, eyes locked with his, not backing down. “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of what the world does to women who get too close to men like you.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then Aaron stepped in, slow but certain, until your bodies were almost touching. His hands lifted to cradle your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones—gentle, but claiming. His voice dropped low.

“You think I don’t see how hard you’ve worked?” he said, gaze unwavering. “You think I’d let some clickbait headline undo that? You think I’d let anyone touch what you’ve built?”

His eyes narrowed, intense now. “Let me be very clear. If anyone tries to come for you—press, fans, blogs, producers—I’ll handle it. You don’t have to fight them alone. You don’t have to carry any of this alone.”

You exhaled, shaky but steadying, and he caught it.

You blinked up at him. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s gonna be messy. There’ll be headlines. There’ll be moments that test both of us.”

He paused, then added, quieter—dead serious:

“But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll take the heat, the questions, the bullshit. I just need you to trust me.”

You didn’t look away.

And maybe that’s why he smiled—just a little. That crooked, cocky half-grin that always drove you insane.

“You're so fucking stubborn,” he murmured.

But his tone wasn’t annoyed. It was amused. Admiring. Like he liked it — like he liked you this way. Unflinching. Complicated. Honest.

Then he stepped in and kissed your cheek.

Not your lips.

Not yet.

“I want you upstairs,” he murmured against your skin. “Now.”

Your legs went weak. The floor tilted.

“Come on.” he whispered, voice low and dark.

He didn’t wait for you to respond. He turned, grabbed your hand, and started leading you down the hall like he already knew you’d follow.

And you did.

Of course you did.

The second the bedroom door shut behind you, everything changed.

The air thickened.

The lights were low, but the tension was high — the kind that buzzed against your skin before he even touched you again.

He stopped in the middle of the room and turned to face you.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Not for a moment.

He looked at you like he was still giving you an out. But there was no judgment in his stare — only confidence. Only heat.

Aaron kissed you like he was starving. Like four years of restraint had finally burned up and he was done pretending.

He walked you back until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. His hands were already on your hips, your waist, your ribs — gripping like he needed to ground himself in you.

“You’ve been driving me crazy for years,” he muttered into your mouth.

You gasped when he slipped his hands under your wet shirt. He didn’t rush. He didn’t ask.

He just lifted it over your head, slow and reverent, watching you the entire time.

His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. “Get on the bed.”

You obeyed.

And when he climbed over you, when he leaned down and pressed a kiss just under your jaw, then lower — just above your collarbone — your body melted beneath him.

In the next breath, his hand slipped between your thighs — over your panties, not inside. Just pressure. Just enough to make your eyes flutter shut and your hips buck into him.

You groaned. “Aaron.”

You squirmed beneath him, his body caging you in, his mouth at your ear now.

“You ever touch yourself thinking about me, sweetheart?” he murmured, dark and velvet-smooth.

You gasped, the flush rushing to your cheeks so fast it burned.

His lips brushed your ear. “Be honest. Did you?”

“…Yes.”

He groaned, his breath catching just slightly.

Then he pulled back to look at you, his hand still teasing you through your panties, his thumb stroking in slow, maddening circles.

“You gonna let me take care of that tonight?” he asked.

You nodded, wide-eyed, hips rocking into his hand like your body was already answering for you.

“Tell me what you need.” he said, still rubbing your clit through your soaked underwear.

You were too overwhelmed with pleasure to say anything. You were burning — for him, with him — and that hunger was terrifying. The power he had over your body. Over your mind.

His eyes narrowed, his fingers stilled right as you were about to reach your peak. He stared down at you with the kind of heat that made you ache all over again.

Then, suddenly, he was gone. His body left yours completely — the heat of him, the weight, the steady hand between your legs.

You blinked in confusion as he stood at the edge of the bed, running a slow hand through his hair, like he was cooling himself down.

And then he smiled.

That smug, heart-stopping, ruin-you smile.

“You wanna act like you don’t need it that bad?” he said, voice low and calm. “Then I won’t touch you again until you say it.”

Your pulse thundered. “Say what?”

He crossed his arms. “That you want me to make you come.”

Your whole body went still.

His eyes dropped down to your legs, still parted, still waiting.

“You’ve got five seconds,” he said, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Or I’m getting in that bed and going to sleep.”

You stared at him, chest heaving. Your pride flared — for half a second.

Then you exhaled, wrecked and trembling.

“I want you,” you breathed.

He raised a brow. “That’s not what I said to say.”

Your face burned. “Aaron—”

He stepped closer, slowly, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down to the edge of the bed until your hips met the mattress seam and your thighs bracketed his.

“Say it,” he whispered, hand grazing the inside of your knee.

You bit your lip.

“I want you to make me come.”

His growl was soft. Satisfied.

You barely had time to respond before he slipped your panties down in one fluid motion and lowered his mouth to your center.

You gasped — sharp and guttural — as his tongue dragged through your folds with precision, with reverence. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you in place like you might try to run.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

He licked you again, then again — slow, rhythmic, maddening. Your back arched, your fingers flying to his hair. He let you tug, let you guide — and then he groaned, deep and hungry, like your reaction fed him.

“Fuck,” you breathed, already trembling. “Aaron, please—”

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t let up.

His tongue circled your clit, then flattened against it. His fingers gripped your thighs harder now, keeping you spread, keeping you exposed, like he wanted you to feel completely his.

You moaned his name again, louder this time, and he didn’t speak — just hummed into you in response. The vibration made your legs twitch, made your hips rise — and he pushed them back down with ease.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked.

You nodded, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

The pressure built with every flick of his tongue, every pass of his mouth. You were unraveling — slowly, beautifully — on the edge of something that had been denied for far too long.

You gasped again, eyes wide. “Aaron—”

“I know,” he breathed. “Let go.”

And when you did — when the wave broke and you cried out his name, body arched, toes curled — he didn’t stop.

He didn’t pull away.

He held you through it, mouth still working you through every shudder, every pulse, until you collapsed back into the mattress, completely undone.

You were still catching your breath when he kissed the inside of your thigh. Slow. Purposeful. Like he wasn’t done worshiping you yet.

Aaron’s hands were still on your body — one anchoring your hip, the other smoothing up your stomach in slow, calming strokes. You were trembling. Soft. Open.

He climbed up over you, every inch of his body pressed to yours now — bare chest flush against your skin, his forearm beside your head, bracing himself.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, reaching up to touch his face. “More than okay.”

He kissed you then.

It was different this time.

Slower. Deeper. Like he was sealing a promise between your mouths. Like this wasn’t just about lust anymore — it never really was.

You could feel the weight of him against your thigh now. Hard. Hot. Controlled. And when you shifted beneath him, hips brushing instinctively against his, he groaned low in his throat.

He stood at the edge of the bed and undressed without a word — sliding off his swim trunks.

When you saw him — all of him — your mouth went dry. You’d imagined this moment a thousand times, but nothing compared to the real thing.

Aaron crawled back over you, settling between your thighs again, his weight comforting, overwhelming.

“You nervous?” he murmured, brushing your hair back again.

You nodded. “A little.”

He lowered himself just enough so his mouth hovered above yours. “Don’t be.”

Then, slowly, he reached between you — guiding himself, dragging the thick length of him through your slick folds.

You gasped at the contact. At the feel of him so close. So real.

“You sure?” he asked again.

“I’m sure.”

He watched your face the entire time as he pressed in.

Inch by inch.

Stretching you. Filling you.

You let out a soft cry, gripping his forearm as your back arched, your body adjusting, welcoming him in a way that felt both completely new and somehow inevitable.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep, forehead resting against yours.

His voice was a rasp.

“Fuck...”

Your eyes burned. You didn’t expect that part. The emotion. The weight of being seen — fully, deeply — and still wanted like this.

He started to move.

Slow.

Measured.

Devastating.

Every thrust hit deep, unrelenting, made worse by the way he kept whispering things into your skin — your shoulder, your neck, the corner of your mouth.

“You’ve been mine for a long time.”

“Say my name again.”

“You feel so good wrapped around me, baby.”

Your fingers clawed at his back, anchoring yourself, trying to match his rhythm, but he was stronger. Steadier. Always in control.

You whimpered as he rolled his hips, hitting the perfect spot inside you again and again.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak.

He kissed you hard, catching the sound in your throat before it escaped.

And when your second climax started building — sharp and fast — he felt it before you said a word.

“That’s it,” he whispered, fucking you a little harder now. “Let me feel you.”

You shattered with a cry, clenching around him so tightly his rhythm faltered.

And that’s when he gave in.

Aaron groaned, low and guttural, as he buried himself to the hilt, stilling as he came with your name on his lips.

It was raw. Breathless. Unfiltered.

He collapsed over you, still holding you close, chest heaving against yours.

He didn’t move right away.

He just held you.

Tight. Steady. Like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

And when he finally lifted his head, when he looked at you like you were something holy, you knew one thing for sure:

This wasn’t the end of something.

It was the beginning.

[strawbrryvyy]

“Say that again , baby”

pairing- anton x fem!reader

genre- smut

a/n: been in my drafts for MONTHS

You were curled up in Anton’s lap, legs draped over his thighs, head thrown back against his shoulder. The drama was playing in the background, something about a chaebol heir falling in love with a barista, and you were halfway through an excited rant about episode four.

“So like—she doesn’t know he’s the heir, right? But then he—ah—he showed up at her apartment and—”

Your words stuttered as his fingers slipped beneath your shorts, dragging slowly through your folds. He didn’t say anything, just hummed in your ear like he was listening, even though his other hand was spreading your legs wider.

“Anton—wait, I was—talking—”

“You were,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck. “But you’re getting all messy. You sure you can still talk, baby?”

You tried to keep going, tried to explain the plot twist that had you so excited five minutes ago, but it all started blurring—his fingers curling just right inside you, pressing deep, slow, unrelenting. Your thoughts melted, each sentence more broken than the last, stammering out half-formed words while your hips rocked helplessly against his hand.

“Just keep talking, sweetheart,” he whispered, smug and so gentle it drove you crazy. “Wanna hear how dumb you sound when I’m making you feel this good.”

You tried so hard to keep going, tried to hold on to the thread of your thoughts—something about the second lead being her childhood friend? Or maybe it was the café scene? You couldn’t remember. You couldn’t even think.

Anton had two fingers inside you now, deep and slow, and his thumb was circling your clit like he was drawing lazy hearts on it. You twitched in his lap, back arching, thighs shaking already—and he laughed. Quiet and low in your ear.

“Drama’s really good, huh?” he said, curling his fingers just right. “Or were you gonna tell me about the scene where he bends her over the counter?”

You whimpered, hips grinding down hard against his hand. “N-No—he didn’t—he didn’t do that—yet—hah—oh my god—”

“Didn’t think so,” he smirked, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so wet, you’re making a mess all over me. Keep talking, baby. Pretend like I’m not even here.”

You tried. You tried so hard to talk about the next episode, but it came out in gasps and whines, every sentence broken by a cry or a moan.

“He—ah—he confesses but then—then she—Ant—Anton—please—”

Your thighs snapped shut around his wrist, but he just forced them open again, arm strong around your waist, keeping you wide and helpless in his lap. The pressure built fast—too fast—and your brain was barely working. You weren’t even thinking in words anymore, just fuzzy white heat and the squelch of his fingers thrusting into you.

“Aw, look at you,” he breathed against your ear. “So dumb already. What happened to all that talking, hmm? Baby can’t even finish a sentence now.”

That broke something in you. Your mouth dropped open, breath catching as your stomach tensed—and then you were gone. Your body shook as you squirted all over his hand, thighs trembling uncontrollably, vision blurring with tears and bliss. You cried out his name, babbling nonsense, twitching with every aftershock while he just kept whispering sweet, smug things.

“Good girl. Look at that. Couldn’t even make it five minutes. You really are dumb when I touch you like this, huh?”

You were limp in his lap, chest heaving, eyes glassy, legs twitching every time he so much as moved a finger. But Anton wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Look at you,” he muttered, pulling his soaked hand away and flexing his fingers. “Dripping like a broken faucet.”

You whined, turning your face into his neck, but he caught your chin, lifting your head up to look at the screen still playing the kdrama you were definitely not watching anymore.

“Nuh-uh,” he said softly. “You said we were watching this. Come on, baby. Stay with me.”

He grabbed his phone with one hand, tapped the screen, and suddenly—your flushed, ruined face was staring back at you. Front camera on. Recording.

“Anto—no,” you gasped, squirming.

“Yes,” he said, tone almost loving. “You look so pretty like this. Dumb, messy, needy. Say hi to the camera, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t. Your lips parted, but all that came out was a broken moan as he slipped his fingers back inside you—three this time—and your whole body jolted.

“Can’t even speak, huh?” he whispered, pressing slow and deep again, curling them just right. “Thought you were smart. Thought you were gonna explain the whole plot to me.”

Your legs kicked weakly, toes curling, your head falling back with a thud against his shoulder. Wet, obscene sounds echoed in the room—your body giving everything to him again, too sensitive, too full, and yet begging for more.

“You feel that?” he asked, phone angled just right to capture your twitching thighs, your slick leaking down onto his sweatpants. “You’re gushing all over again. You gonna squirt for me, dumb girl?”

Your mouth hung open. You nodded, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

“There she is,” he cooed, voice low and tender as he pushed you right to the edge again. “So pretty when she’s stupid for me.”

And then—you snapped.

Your whole body convulsed, crying out so loud your throat burned, squirting again and again while he watched, fascinated, his phone catching every stuttering sob, every flutter of your lashes as you went completely dumb in his arms.

By the time he finally stopped, pulled his hand out, your thighs were shaking, your mind blank, your body a wreck. He kissed your temple and whispered, “We’ll watch the rest later. I think you need a nap.”

[rederiss]

In today’s session of Rederiss Rambles, we will be talking about: Jeremy Knox

Buckle up guys, this will get sad. (This is your warning. If you have not read TGR, STOP NOW!!!)

Thesis: Jeremy Knox has a disassociating problem, and I will be shedding light on how this affects the narration, his views on himself, and his views with sex. (This is a very shitty thesis, but whatever. Im graduating soon, so i dont give a fuck)

Before we get going, I am not saying he has a disorder. I am specifically looking at disassociating as a form of coping and disconnecting from the world.

The very first time we, as the audience, may experience may experience a potential disassociating moment from Jeremy Knox is when his brother texts him, and he drops his phone into his coffee (Exhibit A below). I’ve only added these parts of the whole scene to show the full shift. Jeremy literally went from casually talking about the issue at hand to completely a whole different side of him. He starts feeling dread, reads the phone, then drops his phone into his coffee a moment later. He does not even move. Laila had to take the mug out of his hands and the whole scene feels as if everything becomes a fog. The tone Jeremy uses goes from focused to distant, and he’s not fully back until Laila presses a kiss on his temple. Now, we all know that he very much so needs that touch to anchor him…

But sometimes touch doesn’t always anchor him! Sometimes, he uses it as self harm, though he labels it as “rebellion.” Yes, we are now going to talk about his sex life becuase that is such a huge part of Jeremy. Has anyone noticed that Jeremy never details the sex? At first, I thought it was because Nora purposefully omitted those parts, but then after thinking on it, this is Jeremy. If Nora is omitting in Jeremy’s POV, it probably means we should focus on what is being omitted and how she details the omission… and yes you can detail omission. Jeremy Knox is notorious for omitting that we need to focus on it to know more.

For instance, a great example is when he saw the police and kept his eyes forward, trying to ignore the police. We all noticed this, of course. Jeremy was omitting information from us and framing it in away where he attempts to gloss over him doing that, but in reality, it’s a focus point. Why is he doing this? So, we need to really dig into his narration to have some understanding… it’s actually how I figured out he had a sex scandal before TGR came out (look, I made that post as half a joke, as a meme…)

OKAY, so let’s look at an example omission scene… Actually two and compare them now that we know we need to look at how he is framing these omitted information. If you compare both the Leo and Faser sex scenes, you’ll notice the same framing: Jeremy describes some foreplay then omits the entirety of the sex and describes how he leaves. It’s like he mentally goes in and out. We don’t even know that his neck gets bruised until much later. When we learn about the bruises, he passes it off pretty easily and quite literally says “he remembers…” and that it was “easy to ignore” which show some sign of dissociating/disconnecting.

At face value, we wouldn’t think much about Jeremy omitting those scenes, but when you compare them and then add in the “Jeremy remembered Faster’s bruising grip” we get to see a more clear picture. We all know that Jeremy is using sex as self harm, but he also uses it to disconnect from what he doesn’t want to face. Him dissociating during sex is very harmful, which we see with Faser. He remembered, but he ignored since he was more focused on the pleasure (we see this in the next line, I purposely didn’t include).

What I am trying to say is we don’t get details… because Jeremy may just completely disconnect and allow himself to fall into sex. With the extreme that he does this, he no longer uses sex to cope, he uses it to harm himself.

There is one more that I wanted to discuss, that I think is a missed sign of Jeremy having a problem with disociating…

Did not want to add the full scene because it is a couple pages long, but this is the most relevant part. Though I do suggest rereading how this part is framed. Jeremy and Jean are talking, then Jean gave him a reassurance, causing Jeremy to immediately go into a full LONG paragraph about his family’s lackadaisical care for Jeremy/how they view him and how Jean views Jeremy (which Jeremy mischaracterizes). We get this in Jeremy’s POV so it may not have seemed like he became disconnected, but then the above ^^ happened where Jean brought him back.

Jean saying “You go away when you go home” shows how much Jeremy does disconnect, and it’s framed as a coping mechanism… but then the sexual encounters becomes so extreme that it becomes unhealthy, so therefore his coping mechanism is unhealthy. Jeremy needs touch to feel grounded, which is why he uses sex, but it’s now going so far that he’s completely disconnecting and causes himself harm.

[loveharlow]

↷⋯♡ᵎ MATCHING WOUNDS

JJ Maybank x Dealer!Reader [ more jj content ]

SYNOPSIS & WC ‧₊˚ [idk] Where you and JJ share a blunt and childhood trauma

WARNING(S) & A/N ‧₊˚ mentions of child neglect, mentions of child abuse, underage drug use, swearing, kind of hurt/comfort

THE TRAILER WAS THICK WITH SMOKE. You and JJ sat on the floor, passing a blunt that glowed like a dying ember between the two of you. Josephine had left for her waitressing shift at The Island Club hours ago, a stark contrast to the way you spent your days.

Josephine's trailer, Betsy, was your shared space in Shady Acres — a trailer park on The Cut known less for its scenic beauty and more for housing a significant portion of the island's drug trade — users and dealers alike. You were a dealer, and Betsy, for the time being, was your base of operations. This exchange with JJ was likely your last of the day.

JJ was a relatively new client. He'd appeared on the scene after his previous dealer acquired a lengthy list of charges and fled the state, leaving the blonde high and dry. Unlike many, JJ hadn't gravitated towards Barry, the other prominent dealer in the area. There was an unexpected ease between you and JJ, a connection that had quickly evolved into shared smoke sessions where the lines of business and something similar to pleasure blurred.

"So,” He started. “It's just you and your sister holding down the fort?" JJ asked, exhaling a plume of smoke. He pinched the blunt between his fingers, offering it to you.

"Yep." You replied with a tight smile, taking the offered joint.

"Where are your folks?" He chuckled, watching you inhale. "Or are they the 'out of sight, out of mind' type?"

"They're gone." You said, smoke curling from your lips. "Probably squatting in some crumbling building in another state, chasing their next high." You passed the blunt back to JJ, his fingers briefly brushing yours. "What about yours?" you countered, resting your forearms on your bent knees. The setting sun painted the trailer's interior in hues of deep orange through the open windows.

"Mom, uh, she split a long time ago..." JJ's tone carried a hint of pain. He ran a hand through his hair, toying with the joint. "And my dad, he's...somethin’ else." He sighed, taking a long drag.

"...’S that why you're never home?" You reached behind you, grabbing your Monster Energy drink. "Sorry, if that's…too personal. I've just noticed you're always here, with your crew, or running ‘round on The Cut."

JJ raised an eyebrow. "You been keeping tabs on me, junkie?" A smirk played on his lips.

You scoffed, taking a swig. "Please. You're just hard to miss." You shrugged, taking the blunt back. "And let's not kill the rotation, alright?" You offered him a sarcastic smile as you leaned back against the cabinet.

JJ rolled his eyes, stretching his legs out. "My old man's an asshole, but only at home. So, if I never go home-."

"You avoid the asshole-ry." You finished for him.

"Exactly." He watched you smoke, then turned serious when remembering your words. "But you've got it worse. No way your folks just bail with two kids in the picture."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your knees. "You think so?"

"I'm just sayin’," JJ shrugged. "That's messed up. They just left? Just like that?"

"Look, blondie, my family was a shit-show with a kitchen that was only kept clean enough to snort lines off of every surface in it." You said, leaning your head back. "Blood don’t mean shit. If my parents taught me anything, it's that."

"Sounds about right." JJ agreed, taking another drink. "Mine's still a train wreck. Just traded the kitchen for a boatyard. And I don't see my dad leavin’ anytime soon."

"Your old man sounds like a real piece of work..." You said. "I'm surprised you haven't been swallowed up by the system."

"The system? Hell, my dad is the system." Bitterness laced his words. "Predictable, abusive, and you can’t escape him. At least the actual system offers three meals a day."

"Ha!" You laughed, the sound catching JJ off guard. "Hardly. You'd be lucky to get three meals a week. Foster care's a damn joke. It’s just free bread for money-hungry assholes and a place for the state to dump kids they don't want." The lightness vanished, replaced by a cold flatness in your eyes.

"...You were in the system?" JJ asked, his gaze softening. You nodded in response. "When?...Why?"

You groaned, pushing yourself into a slightly straighter position. "You ask a lot of questions, blondie." You sighed. "But fine. You want the condensed version...or the director's cut?"

JJ just shrugged. "I've got time."

You leaned forward, meeting his gaze as you spoke. "Alright then." You adjusted. "My parents were addicts. Name a drug, they did it. The neighbors knew, cops were there all the time, but nothing ever changed. My sister and I slipped through the cracks. When I was eight, Jo had just turned eighteen...and she told me she was leaving." Your voice shook slightly.

"I begged her to stay, or take me with her, but she couldn't. As bad as it was there, she had nothing, no means to care for a kid. But she promised she'd call, send what she could, and that one day, she'd get me out." You bit your cheek, fighting back a wave of emotion. "I was alone with my parents for two years. Jo called, but the calls never went through. Without her, the bills went unpaid — no phone, no electricity, no running water. She had to come visit me at school when she could."

"Damn...."

"Yeah," You sighed, fidgeting with your fingers. "When I was ten, my mom came home, freaking out. Next thing I knew, they were throwing stuff in a bag, telling me they'd be back soon." You clenched your jaw at the memory. "It was no surprise when they never came back. And I was there for two weeks, starving and terrified, before a social worker found me. I guess a neighbor had noticed it was too quiet and called it in. Again."

"Hold up. They just left you?" JJ was incredulous.

"Mhm." You confirmed, watching him snub out the blunt in the ashtray, the cherry burning away as he listened. "I survived on half-empty water bottles and moldy PB&J’s. And foster care wasn't some kind of salvation." A bitter edge returned to your voice. "Most foster parents are just in it for the check. And even with the good ones... the system bounces you around so much, you never get to stay." You shook your head, the memories surfacing.

"Dealing... It's something a lot of us picked up inside. Old sleazebags prey on vulnerable kids to do their dirty work. It's hard to get a job when you're a foster kid. So, a lot of us turn to easier, less legal means. And even when you make it out, it has a way of sticking with you. It's all you know." You shrugged. "Jo finally tracked me down and got me out when I was fourteen. By then, I was old enough that they didn't care who took me. Case closed as far as they were concerned." You laughed, a hollow sound. "And Jo, of course, freaked when she found out what I was doing." You let your head fall, a humorless laugh escaping you.

JJ reached out, placing a hand on your knee. "I'm sorry, dude. That's seriously fucked up."

“Yeah, I guess.” You shrugged, deflecting. "Anyway, enough of the sob stories," you said, voice lighter, the shift abrupt. "You ruined our smoke session with all your questions." You flashed a smile, the change in demeanor so fast it gave JJ whiplash. "Wanna hit another one?" You pulled another pretty pink blunt from your pocket.

JJ just stared for a moment, then nodded, the shared vulnerability replaced by the familiar rhythm of give and take, smoke and survival.

JJ Maybank Taglist & Dealer!Reader Taglist in replies!

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

©loveharlow

[confusedmothboy]

Pleak,,,, I beg of thee,,,,, soft Jackie and Eddie art,,,, or,,,, if you’re feeling generous,,,, headcanons on Jackie and Eddie’s relationship in an au where Jackie lives,,,, I think they’d be a powerful duo in and out of the wilderness despite their awful parents,,,

theyre such a boyloser girlfailure duo theyre mlm wlw rivals theyre haters theyre so stupid i love them quite a lot

headcanons and writing under the cut

jackie hits eddie a lot. like a lot a lot. usually she just slaps him on the arm or over the back of the head, but the sweet fragile vibe that she has with the rest of the team evaporates whenever eddie acts up (breathes)

eddie hates jeff with a passion because one time jeff tried to mansplain something he learned about world war one (except he stole the information from a movie on world war two and eddie is highly abnormal about history). jackie hates all the girls eddie's dated not because he has bad taste but because even before she knew he was gay, she could tell that he was only dating them for gifts (cigarettes, cassettes, collectibles). jackie is so neutral on travis she had to ask "who" after spending two months out in the wilderness with everybody.

jackie's much closer to their parents than eddie is. ever since he was outed to them in 1993, they refuse to kick him out but also refuse to treat him normally. jackie doesn't know much about what goes on at home because shes usually out at practice, parties, studying, or up in her room with jeff.

eddie kept all the old cassettes that jackie wanted to throw out even though jackie swears up and down that she doesnt listen to "old" artists like madonna anymore (she still sings along when she hears him playing her music)

if jackie were to live (no crash au), eddie's life probably wouldnt go all that different, minus the fact that eddie would be living on the west coast (no fear of planes). one of my friends has an oc that he pairs up with jackie so im sorry jackieshauna truthers but she ends up with him instead. eddie's the uncle with the job you dont understand until youre around 13 or 14 whos always doing something to spoil his nieces/nephews. look at my oc hes lowkey just a chill guy /ref

--- doomcoming (the fun part) drabble ---

“She can’t even fit into her dress.” Jackie muttered under her breath. Eddie looked across the clearing to see Shauna swaying to the acapella music awkwardly. He snorted.

“And whose fault is that?” He mumbled the snide comment, leaning in closer to Jackie so no one could hear them. “Sure as hell isn’t yours that she's trashy. Or that she chose that God-awful dress.” He sipped his berry wine, the taste growing on him.

“Ugh. Don't make me think about it.” Jackie sighed.

“You want me to request a song from the DJs?” Eddie pointed with his pinky over to Crystal, Akilah, Gen, and Melissa, who were all harmonizing Hotel California -by Crystal's instruction- as the others danced. 

“What song?” Jackie asked tiredly. 

“Trust me, its one of your favorites.” Eddie lied. Jackie smiled, allowing it.

Eddie walked over to the choir group, past Javi, who was trying to convince Travis that he should be allowed to drink the berry wine. Travis relented right as Eddie whispered the song name in Crystal’s ear. She nodded and brought the song to an end - there wasn't much in the way of instrumentals and the portion with lyrics had already been sung. Crystal conferred with the rest of the group as Eddie took his place next to Jackie. They started humming the opening to the song, and it took a second for Jackie to realize what Eddie had chosen. She looked up at him. 

“No- no, I’m not doing it.” She couldn't hide the amused grin on her face. 

“See that girl, watch that scene,” 

“You don't have a choice, sorry Jacks, rules are rules.” Eddie shrugged, smiling wide.

“-digging the dancing queen…”

“C’mon, I’ll embarrass myself too.” Eddie pulled her by the hand onto the ‘dance floor���. They had a routine for that song that Eddie knew she still remembered. Jackie stumbled over the first few steps, but eventually started to dance side by side with Eddie, laughing. It was corny, it was dorky, it was evenings after the dust from their arguments would settle, and he and Jackie would watch movies and have dance-offs together. Eddie almost tripped over a branch, and glanced up at Travis, who was smiling at them. 

“Anybody could be that guy…” 

Jackie twirled Eddie around, a move that was clearly intended for a time when Eddie was significantly shorter than her. A few others started joining in. Tai and Van were giggling like crazy as they danced with each other. Mari pulled Akilah from the singer's group for a moment to join her. 

Eddie remembered exactly when they had last danced to that song. He had been about twelve, Jackie fifteen, and it came on the speakers at some family friend’s wedding. He and Jackie had stolen the show, and by that he meant they had danced horribly and everyone had laughed at their performance. That was good. That was the point.

Out of breath, the song winding down, Eddie stumbled out of the dance clearing to sit next to Travis on his log ‘bench’. As the girls started to hum the beginning to Heat Of The Moment, Travis placed a quick peck on Eddie’s cheek. Eddie turned to glance at him, both of their faces red. They weren't exactly trying to hide what was going on anymore, especially not after the celebration that Tai and Van’s kiss had earned. But Eddie still felt giddy at the fact that they didn't have to hide anything. He saw Javi at the other side of the clearing, a cup full of berry wine, looking back and forth at his brother and Eddie, confused, before shrugging and taking a swig. 

“You gonna keep him from a lifetime of alcoholism?” Eddie nudged Travis, who laughed. 

“Ah- who the hell cares anymore?” Travis tilted his head as he watched the rest of the group dance and sing their hearts out. “End of the world, and all.”

--- thank you for reading!!! ---

[undead-cypress]

Some more shitposts and Jpn new game + notes

I THINK (because it's not like I have a script nor am I particularly observant) this miiiiight be the first instance of a personal pronoun? 自分 is a pretty impersonal one though, which makes sense in this context because this is the scene announcing Will's entry into the tournament. The dialogue choices here are, in response to (paraphrased because I don't remember it exactly) "Entry to the tournament? With this runt?"

> It's me who's entering

> not a runt

> don't answer a question with another question

I picked "not a runt" because it is endlessly amusing to me how obviously Will was supposed to be even younger. We're not a baby :((( not born three weeks ago :((((

(please ignore how, in my blazed out state, took me several minutes to try to type in "Jingles" - long story - on the PS4 while still forgetting to add the " to シ so now I'm stuck with "Shingles" for a mc name. Oops. The Japanese PS4 keyboard mapping is NUTS. You know how they put the English keys in alphabetical order?? When you're wired to use QWERTY?? It's kinda like that. It's hard when you're high.)

In other pronoun stuff, all the street vendors (not shop keepers though) refer to the MC as お兄さん, even though they're all universally WAY older. It's more of an informal way to show deference to a potential customer, a rank thing rather than an age or family thing.

Brigitta's pronouns for her dog are basically it/it's 😂. Mostly because she refuses to give it a name, so she refers to the dog as コレ, コイツ, etc

I think it's funny this is Strohl's default mode. I never noticed until now, when one of the ranked events had him going up to the landlord guy like this and for a second I wondered if we're supposed to interpret it as "we saw you across the street and we hate your vibes". But nah that's just his normal. Nobody else's idle pose has clenched fists, this is excellent. I've said it before but his line deliveries are a bit more aggro/seething in Japanese and maybe that's why I'm noticing.

Fabienne is much more forceful sounding in Japanese and her tone was pretty scary at times. In English she comes off as more tired, but in Japanese it sounds much more like she's kind, yes, but she will beat you down with a stick with no hesitation if she must.

Bardon doesn't have an equivalent accent in Japanese and I'm not immediately picking up anything special about the way he talks. Aww. He does still sound very much like a hapless goober though.

Gloddel is even hammier, if that was possible. My god, this is what every middle schooler going through anime phase wishes they sound like.

Neuras has an accent though! He's very much still a wacky scamp.

I kept joking that Hulkenberg is horse coded so my friend made her a horse in miitopia. Then the Mind Horse (draw a horse without using references) challenge started trending again on Bluesky, and people wanted to see my mind horse. Unfortunately my mind horse is just a regular lookin horse and not very funny, so I drew Hulkenhorse instead

You're welcome?

[buckwheeler]

This, sort of looking around

buck/eddie, buck & eddie & chris

Eddie’s in the kitchen, his old kitchen, or, Buck's kitchen. His real kitchen. He’s staring into the refrigerator like it might hold any kind of answer, when his phone starts ringing. Chris is in his room- his real room, or. His old room. Eddie’s in his kitchen. Tommy’s name pops up on his phone screen, calling. For half a second, he has half an instinct to screen the call out of sheer habit. The couple of times Tommy tried to reach out to him after everything, Eddie hadn’t even let it ring twice. Felt a little bad but. There hadn’t been anything left to say. Now, though. The instinct is only half an instinct, for half a second. Because of the over-riding instinct. How Eddie has kept note, without conscious decision, of Bucks current whereabouts and who-with-ness from the moment he got off the phone with him a week ago. The call where Buck told him that Bobby was dead. So, he answers the phone immediately. 

“What’s wrong?” Eddie asks.

“Hey, Eddie,” Tommy starts, harried and stumbling and weird.

“What’s wrong?” Eddie asks again. 

“Look, um, it’s Buck…” Tommy says. Of course it’s Buck. What else would it be?

“Is he hurt? Where are you? What’s-“

“No, he’s not hurt, God, I’m sorry. It’s just. He’s… he’s upset,” Tommy gets it out quick, all in a rush, which Eddie appreciates. Wishes he’d go faster. 

“You’re at your place?”

“My place. Listen, I can text you the address if-“

“I remember,” Eddie says, and hangs up the phone, already walking towards Chris’ room where he knows he isn’t asleep. “Buddy,” he knocks, tries to keep his voice calm. 

“Yeah, Dad? Come in-“ 

Eddie cracks the door open. Steady breathing. “I’m just going to pick up Buck, okay? Can you promise me you’ll call me if you need anything-“

“Yeah, I promise. Is he okay?” Chris sits up where he was hunched over his phone, drops it on the bed even. 

Eddie nods quickly. “He’s upset. So I’m gonna go get him, and then everything’s gonna be fine. Okay?”

“Okay. Um. Tell him I love him.”

Eddie could cry. As it stands he takes a couple of quick steps to kiss Chris’ head. “‘Course I will. He knows that. Okay, please call me if you need anything I won’t be long.”

He keeps to the speed limit. Nobody is in physical danger. Buck is upset. He’s upset. He’d seemed okay. He’s been acting so horribly okay. All week. Picking Chris and Eddie up from the airport. Getting them all set up at the house. Always half an ear on the phone. Making arrangements and carting off meals to Athena and Chimney and Hen. He had seemed okay. Every time Eddie tried to talk to him, to find him in a corner, Buck had just told him. He was okay. As okay as he could be. It was awful, it was awful but he was okay. Said Eddie should get some rest. Picked up his phone again.

And Tommy. Tommy had been around. Eddie knew he’d been the one to drive Buck home, after the lab, after everything. He’d been there. It was good for someone to be there for Buck who hadn’t just had their own limb detached. Someone who’s heart hadn’t been ripped out so completely by this. He had seemed okay. 

And at the funeral, Buck had spoken so beautifully. It had seemed normal, after the wake, when he’d slipped out with Tommy. Eddie'd figured it made sense.

Tommys place looks exactly the same. The whole of L.A looks exactly the same. Nothing is.

Tommy answers the door looking pale, disturbed.

“I’m sorry, he-“

“Where is he?” Eddie asks. Hears his own voice like it sounds at a scene, how it used to sound at a scene, calm and direct. He doesn’t have to wait for Tommy to answer because he hears him. Buck. This sound. Down the hallway. He doesn’t register himself crossing the space, to the bedroom. He’s never heard Buck make anything like this sound. 

He’s curled in on himself, on top of the sheets. For a second Eddie thinks Tommy lied, that he is hurt. He’s completely stiff, clutching his own chest. His shirt half-off. He’s red. He’s shaking. The sounds are long, drawn and loud. There’s no spluttering breath between them, just quick, quick gasps. Much too quick. Eddie kneels on the floor by his head. “Okay. Hey. Hey, Buck,” he puts his hand in his hair. “Hey, Buck.”

Buck says “Eddie.” He says “Eddie.” He says, “Eddie.” He says “Eddie.”

“Hey, buddy, can you look at me please?”

Buck looks at him. 

“We need to breathe, okay?”

Buck says “Eddie.”

“It’s okay. We just need to breathe, okay? In.” He breathes in. Buck breathes in. Eddie holds it for a moment. Holds Buck's eyes. Breathes out, loud. Long. Buck mades a sound like before but choked off. Choking.

“Okay. Let’s do that again,” Eddie says.

Buck says “Eddie.”

It takes a little while to get him regulated, in and out, back in the room, back on earth. Eddie gets him sitting up. He gets his arm through the hole of his shirt. He takes a glass of water off the nightstand and brings it to Buck's mouth. Buck drinks. When Eddie takes the glass away and sets it back down Buck says “Sorry.”

“Yeah, okay, well, you don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Eddie says. He wipes at Buck's face with his sleeve. He takes his pulse. It’s fast but it’s alright. 

“I’m sorry,” Buck says again, miserable and spluttering. “I’m okay,” he takes a deep breath. “I’m okay.”

“No you’re not,” Eddie says. He moves to sit on the bed in front of him. He rights the shirt a little better. “Of course you’re not okay.”

“I have to be,” Buck says. “Bobby told me. I’d be okay.”

Eddie feels like someone’s punched him, in the stomach, hard. Bobby. Bobby. He could never stop owing him. For everything. He loves him. He was his friend, he misses him. He wishes he wasn’t dead. “Buck,” Eddie runs his sleeve over his ruddy cheeks again. “you will be okay. Eventually. You’ll be some kind of okay, some day, but of course you’re not okay right now. How could you be? I’m not okay, nobody is, Buck-”

“I have to be. I have to be okay,” Buck insists.

“Okay,” Eddie says, “Okay but it’s me. You’re with me. You don’t have to be okay with me. That’s the deal.”

Buck looks at him for a long moment. His eyes are puffy. He hasn’t stopped crying, still, and there’s a steady stream of snot coming out of his nostrils which he’s wiping on the pillowcase. “Okay.” 

Eddie nods. “Okay.”

“Bobby’s dead,” Buck says, completely baffled. Completely shocked, perturbed, like he doesn’t understand it at all. Like he doesn’t even understand what the words mean. Like someone’s told him a lie. A ridiculous, absurd lie, that could almost be funny if it wasn’t so offensive. He says it a little like he’s asking. Like he’s pleading. Like he’s desperate to comprehend it. Like he’s begging, for something. Like he’s hit. Like he tripped. Like he’s falling.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says. “I’m really sorry.”

Buck looks offended. “It’s not your fault.”

Eddie knows now’s not the time to point out how that feels debatable. How they could never know, if there was something, something he could have done. If he’d been there. He wasn’t there.

“I didn’t mean sorry like that,” he says instead. “I meant I’m sorry like. I love you, and I wish I could take your pain away.” He can hear himself crying. He doesn’t mean to. 

“Me too,” Buck says. “I’m sorry like that too.” He’s still shaking. Eddie touches his arm. He’s cold and sweaty. Eddie takes his hoodie off, puts it on Buck, pulls his arms through the holes, zips it up. He pulls the hood up over Buck's head and pulls the strings so it’s snug around his face. He holds Buck's head through the material, firmly.

“Chris-“ Buck says suddenly, panicked.

“He’s okay. He’s at home, he’s okay,” Eddie says. “He told me to tell you he loves you.”

“He shouldn’t be by himself,” Buck says miserably.

“No. Well, let’s go home, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Buck sniffs. 

Eddie pulls Buck's legs over the edge of the bed. He finds Buck's shoes, in the corner. He kneels down and puts them on Buck's feet. Ties the laces. Double knots. He stands up again, takes Buck's phone off the nightstand and puts it in his own pocket. Takes Buck's arms and pulls him up. He’s still shaking. He’s not steady.

Tommy’s in the front room, sitting on the edge of the couch. He stands up when they come in.

“Hey,” he says. He looks terrible. Buck's looking at the door.

“Hey. We’re gonna go home,” Eddie says.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says. “Shit, I just. I thought he was okay-“

“You’re good, man,” Eddie says. “Thank you for calling me.”

“Of course,” Tommy says. 

“Sorry, Tommy,” Buck says. “That was really… intense.”

“No,” Tommy says. “Don’t, I mean. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I shouldn’t have. I-“

Buck just shakes his head. “No, It’s okay. Really. Thank you for calling Eddie.”

Tommy sighs, and looks so sad. He hands Eddie Buck's jacket. Eddie puts it onto Buck, zips it up to his chin.

“Get home safe, okay?” Tommy says.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, already moving to the door.

Buck’s quiet on the drive home, collapsed against the window. His eyes are closed but Eddie knows he’s awake. He’s still not breathing quite right. 

“I’m not leaving again,” Eddie says. Buck’s eyes blink open.

“Chris,” Buck says.

“We’re gonna figure it out. We can. Or you come to Texas with us, for a bit. Or. I don’t know. I mean that I’m not leaving you again.” He wants to say ‘ever.’ That feels too big for the car. And what matters most is that Buck knows Eddie means ‘now.’ He’s not going to leave him alone, now. 

“Okay,” Buck says. He sniffs and closes his eyes again. 

Chris is awake. He’s sitting on the couch, biting his nails, watching Family Feud. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any questions, as Eddie and Buck shuffle in- Eddie still holding Buck around the elbows, despite how he’s walking okay now. Eddie helps Buck onto the sofa, sits the other side of him. Chris pulls Buck into a hug. 

“Hey, buddy,” Buck says, quiet. Eddie keeps a hand on his back, rubs it, catches Chris’ arm where it’s wrapped around him.

“You okay?” Chris whispers.

“I’ll be okay,” Buck says. “I’m sorry I worried you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Chris says. Then, “It’s so sad.”

Eddie leans forward, puts his arms around both of them.

“Yeah,” Buck says. 

Eddie can feel him squeeze Chris’ shoulder. He finds Buck's wrist and squeezes it. He puts a hand in Chris’ hair. Canned laughter on the T.V. The smell of Eddie’s laundry detergent, where his face is pressed to Buck’s shoulder. The hum of the kitchen light. Chris’ socked foot propped up on the coffee table. Buck’s breath evening out. The telenovela box sets lined up on the shelf. One of Chris’ drawings, framed, propped up next to the radio. The smell of Buck’s shampoo. Eddie closes his eyes. Chris guesses an answer. The T.V show. He gets it right. Buck says, “you’re so good at that.”

ao3

[holylulusworld]

Bad Hugs

Summary: You didn‘t want a gender reveal party.

Pairing: CEO!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, awful mother-in-law, remorse, fluff

A/N: This is a scene I wanted to use in Monster-in-law, but it didn’t match the story. It’s a standalone drabble with no connection to the original series. Inspired by a SM post.

A gender reveal party. You never wanted to do one of these. Getting to know the gender of your baby should’ve been between you and your husband.

Winnifred Barnes, your mother-in-law, had a different opinion. And, as always, at one point Bucky gave in. He organized the party and invited your family and friends.

At first, you hated it, but the closer you got to the revelation, the more you got excited to share the best-kept secret with your family and close friends.

People chatted and ate cake, you got lots of gifts, and it was an overly nice and happy day.

“Alright,” Bucky cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. He took your hand in his to press a soft kiss to your knuckles. “It’s time to reveal the gender!”

Everyone clapped their hands as you expectantly looked at Bucky. He held a gender-reveal confetti powder cannon in his hands, looking at you.

“Just tell us,” Steve called from among the guests. “Do not kill us with anticipation, Buck. We all want to know.”

“Okay, okay!” Bucky huffed. He aimed the cannon upwards, twisting the bottom of the rod. Blue. It’s blue, and you could cry because you’re so happy.

You jumped up and down and squealed. Bucky wanted to hug you, but right when you wanted to hug him too, Winnifred shoved you aside to hug him first.

You stood there, frozen to the spot, gasping audibly. It took you a moment to realize that Bucky called your name. He wanted to hug you, and you let him. “Oh, so you do remember me, your pregnant wife.”

Bucky nodded against you, still overly excited after getting to know he was going to have a baby boy.

The room was silent after what Winnifred did, and even more when you turned toward her. For years, you shut your mouth and let her walk all over you, not today.

“Why do you always have to be like this?” You snapped at her, making Steve chuckle. “Why couldn’t you let Bucky and me have this moment?”

“He’s my son, Y/N,” she bit back and dared to look hurt at your question. “I wanted to share his happiness.”

“Oh, are you the one carrying his child?” You put your hands on your swollen belly, stepping toward Winnifred. “Fine, you can celebrate together. I’m out of this.”

Everyone gasped when you grabbed one of the cakes to throw it in Winnifred’s face. “Have the cake and eat it too,” you snarled before storming out of the room.

“Doll, please open the door,” Bucky sighed outside the master bedroom.

You went straight to bed and locked the door. It didn’t matter to you that your family and friends were still at the party. They’d understand you had to leave after the stunt Winnifred pulled.

“Baby doll, please let me in.” He tried again. “I know you are mad at me.”

“You can bet your ass I’m mad,” you growled from inside the room. “You let her steal the show! A show I didn’t want in the first place. You begged me to do this shit only for her to ruin the moment.”

“I know,” Bucky murmured your name and pressed his forehead against the door. “Everyone told me so tonight. I was just stunned when she hugged me.”

“She ruined the moment for us, Buck. It has always been like that,” you sniffled and turned around in your bed. “Since the moment you introduced me to your family, your mother has tried to get all the attention. Even when I broke my arm on Christmas, she faked a terrible migraine, so everyone would care for her.”

“Mom always needed a lot of assurance and attention. I’m sorry she did this today. This was our moment, and she shouldn’t have come in between us. I told her so. Dad told her so. Hell, all of our guests told her so. Sam even threw a second cake at her.”

“I love Sammy,” you sniffled.

“He’s a punk, but yes.” You giggled because Bucky only calls the people he likes punk. “Baby doll, I swear this will never happen again.”

“Yeah, because this was a once-in-a-lifetime moment, Bucky,” you snapped at him. “We can’t redo the gender reveal. She ruined everything once again.”

“I know, baby, I know.” He whispered your name and scratched at the door. “Please let me in.”

“No. You can sleep on the couch tonight. Alpine and I will sleep here alone. This time, you should’ve stepped in, but you didn’t…”

“Baby doll, how are you feeling? Is everything alright? Do you need anything?” For days, Bucky followed you like a kicked puppy. He tried to make things up to you, but you were still hurt.

It was Winnifred’s fault, but you wished, Bucky stepped in this time.

“Do you want me to throw a cake at my mom again?” He asked, watching you pat Alpine, the stray he found before he found you. “I’ll do it.”

“What?” You blinked a few times. “I thought Sam threw a cake at her.”

“Uh—it was teamwork,” he laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted to set her straight, and Sam looked at the cake. It was a silent agreement that he hands me the cake, and I throw it in her face.”

You snickered. “This doesn’t mean you are forgiven.”

“It was a blueberry cake,” he sneaked closer to whisper in your ear, “her dress was ruined, and she hates blueberries.”

“I consider forgiving you,” you said and patted Alpine’s head. “But I do not want to be near your mother…like ever. She just proved that there’s no way she’ll respect boundaries. I won’t have it. You can choose. Her or me and your baby.”

“You,” he immediately answered. “And the baby…and Alpine,” Bucky added. “I don’t know if she’ll ever change. If you do not want her around you or our baby, I’ll make sure she stays away…”

[16wolke11]

GRAVITY GIRL - Kimi Antonelli

A/N I really love this one-shot, so I hope you will like it too!

WORDS: 1748

_____ 

If you had asked me three weeks ago if I believed in love at first sight, I would have laughed loudly, maybe even falling into a giggle again when thinking about it. I was always the practical type, with schedules, checklists, and colour-coded notes. Finishing school with the highest grades is my only priority right now. Being spontaneous is definitely not on my list until that last exam is written.

So when my brother George begged me to take a break from my revision sheets and just spend a bit of time with him at the tracks, "You don't have to be in school anyway and you can learn wherever you are," were his words and still I hesitated. He might be right, but all of this sounded messy, unstructured. Just unlike me.

But sitting at my desk day by day, only revising what was taught in classes of the last years slowly burns me out. It walks up to me and will drag me down when I don't bring some variety into my day.

So, I went with George. Still reluctant and grumpy, but armed with my laptop, noise-cancelling headphones, my sheets with notes and the plan on when I have to revise what.

Well and then he came.

It was on the third day I was with George, and I stepped out for a walk, convincing myself that some sun would wake me up better than the fourth coffee. The paddock is still sleepy, bathed in the morning sunlight and it looks oddly peaceful. I pass the other motorhomes, seeing someone here and there, but I just keep walking until I trip.

Shoe getting caught on the edge of the asphalt and down I went. Arms trying to get in front of me to protect the fall, sunglasses hitting the ground and then there he was. A guy on a scooter, scrolling through the paddock. One moment, I was bracing myself for the impact, and the next, strong arms were wrapped around me. Just like a scene taken straight out of a cheesy romance novel.

"Gotcha." He grins, like this is the best moment of his week and I just blink at him. His hair is messy, his skin sun-kissed and his eyes glimmer with mischief. He wears one of the Mercedes team shirts and I groan on the inside, knowing that this might make me the giggle of the day.

"Uh...thanks." I mutter, trying to smooth out my shirt, cheeks being on fire from how red I turn.

"No problem, you okay?" He asks, tilting his head to the side and I need a moment to answer.

"Fine...just gravity."

He laughs, a soft laugh that makes others grin too. "It's a real bastard, huh?"

I roll my eyes, but then see that he already got my sunglasses off the ground without me noticing. He offers them to me, and I take them without hesitating.

"Nice save by the way." He says, confusing me. What does he mean?

"You saved me?" I ask, eyebrows furrowed. This wasn't my achievement, but his.

"Exactly." He winks, swinging himself back on his scooter. "If you keep falling for strangers, try to pick the ugly ones, so you can keep me in mind." And just like that, he rolls away. I stare after him, kind of flustered, kind of annoyed and more interested than I want to admit.

His name is Kimi. Of course, I had to run into my brother's teammate before properly meeting him and of course, I didn't manage to remember him when he kept me from falling. But of course, he is sticking around in the garage when I walk around with George and comes over to me like we have been friends for years now.

"Hey, gravity girl." Kimi grins, making me groan.

"Please don't let that nickname stick."

"You are watching where you are going, or do I need to start carrying around some bubble wrap?"

George raises one of his eyebrows curiously but stays silent. I just sigh, before asking. "You are Kimi, right?"

"Guilty as charged. And you are?"

I tell him my name, before adding "George's sister."

"I figured that one out." Kimi says, nodding his head at George, but has no shame in flirting in front of my older brother.

"How?"

"Not many carry those pretty eyes around."

I should have walked away after that. I had stuff to learn. Spreadsheets to learn on my laptop, but instead I found myself staying on his side of the garage, listening to him telling stories about racing cars and making bad jokes.

Over the next weeks, I keep running into him. It is just a coincidence, I try to tell myself. Small paddock, same team, limited places to be at. But my excuses grew thinner every time Kimi makes me laugh until my side hurts, or we just share some lunch on top of the hospitality when he should be at an interview instead.

He was charming, funny and flirted with me shamelessly.

I learned that he grew up in the Mercedes family and had a second family when he was with Prema. That he usually spends all his free time doing anything related to racing and that he learned to cook from his Nonna.

The song Accidentally in Love plays on speaker when we share another lunch in the hospitality and Kimi smirks when he asks me, "Do you know that song?" I listen to it just for a moment, before a blush appears on my cheeks. "It's like number five on one of my playlists." Kimi smiles at me, before there is something else on his face, something vulnerable.

"Feel like that a little bit, doesn't it?" He asks, "You and me..."

His voice trails off and I want to scoff, say something sarcastic, but my heart stumbles and all I can mutter is.

"A little."

We weren't a couple, we hadn't even kissed, but somehow, I found myself rearranging my days around Kimis. Working when he is in the car, has meetings or is occupied otherwise. In between, we would meet up, just taking a walk, driving around on his scooter. I even let him drag me to the kitchen of the hospitality, convincing one of the chefs that we could cook in there.

It was spontaneous.

It was chaotic.

It wasn't me.

But for the first time, messy felt right.

Then, during one of our lunches on top of the hospitality came the rain. Not a storm, not just some droplets, one of those wild downpours that makes everything smell petrichor. We were just laughing about something when the sky cracked open. I squealed, trying to get up as quickly as possible, searching for shelter from the rain, Kimi following me.

"Great, that's what I get for not bringing a jacket." I huff, pushing my soaked hair out of my face while Kimi just grins.

"Dance with me."

"What?"

"Dance with me in the rain."

I stare at him for a moment, debating if he is really serious. "You know, people don't do that? It's just a thing they do in movies and books."

"It can be real if we do it."

And somehow that convinced me to let him pull me back into the pouring rain. Kimi twirls me around, a bit clumsily but still lovingly, singing off-key, making me laugh with every twirl. Then, somewhere between the laughing, our eyes lock. It's like being pulled by an invisible string before our lips meet.

The kiss wasn't slow, cinematic or soft. It was messy, wet from the rain, but still full of warmth and the best of it, it was real.

Kissing in the rain might be straight up a cliche, but it was perfect for us.

The next morning, I was drinking my coffee in the hospitality area alone. The temperature dropped after the rain last night, like it is a mirror of my mind. I shouldn't feel anxious about that kiss with Kimi. I should be revising, learning for my exam and thinking about what comes next. Instead, that kiss plays in my head over and over again. Then George joins me.

"You and Kimi, huh?"

"Maybe?" I ask, trying to figure out if he is okay with that, but George just smiles at me.

"You like him?"

"I didn't mean to." I sigh, making my brother laugh softly.

"That's how it usually happens."

The last evening of my time with George has come and I, of course, spent it with Kimi. We are on the balcony of his hotel room, staring at the stars.

"I don't want to go." I whisper, something I wouldn't have said a few weeks ago. Where I wanted nothing more than to go back home to my study environment, but I like what I have here.

"Then don't." Kimi just mutters and I turn my head around with a sigh.

"That is not how it works."

"Why not?"

"Because life, exams, reality."

Kimi is quiet and I know he does understand what I say, having to face his own exams soon as well, but we don't want to face reality again. We want to keep sharing time around a schedule, not have to part ways that just started to intervene.

"Can I come visit you?"

"You want to come to me when it would be easier for me to just join George again?"

Kimi nods. "Want to see where you live. Crash your time schedule." He hesitates before adding a whispered. "Steal your heart all over again."

"You are assuming you already have it." I tease him, but Kimi just reaches for my hand and laces his fingers with mine.

"You are the one who fell, gravity girl."

The next morning, I had to leave, but my head was filled with memories now and not only with the stuff for the exam. The feeling of Kimi's lips still lingering on mine and back home, I didn't lose his presence either.

The tight learning schedule came back, but something had shifted. I started to do little tasks in between again, something to loosen everything up, even danced on the balcony in pouring rain just to have the memory of Kimi close.

And every few nights, he would call with FaceTime.

Maybe I didn't mean to fall, maybe I didn't accidentally fall in love, but now that I have experienced something that wasn't planned, I don't want to go back anymore. 

[colouredbyd]

The Nightingale VI: The Capitol Has Teeth

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: a wounded alliance begins to form. old memories resurface under the cover of night—constellations, names, and things left unsaid. the arena is changing, and the Capitol is already tightening its grip.

warnings: scenes of violence, characters death, graphic content, blood, emotional distress, violence, injury care, body horror (mild), themes of control and helplessness, mild language, intense fear, reflective of the brutal nature of the Hunger Games.

word count: 8.9k (totally didnt take 3 days to write)

authors note: i love this chapter so so much, ugh. ps. so many hidden easters in this chapter..

previous part series masterlist main masterlist

This is day two of the Games, and the Garden is changing.

The trees loom higher than they did yesterday—though maybe it’s not the trees that have grown. Maybe it’s me, shrinking by the hour, forgetting how to measure anything except the ache in my chest and the sound of my own heartbeat.

The canopy above is a patchwork of rust-colored leaves, their edges curled and blackened like they’ve been touched by fire. They drip something sticky onto the ground, sap or blood or something that smells too sweet to be natural. The earth beneath our feet shifts softly sometimes, like it's breathing. And in the corners of my vision, I keep catching flickers—ghosts of motion, glimmers of light that vanish when I try to focus. I turn my head and see nothing but bark. Stones that look like teeth. Vines that might’ve been ropes.

We don’t speak. There’s no need to. The silence between us is heavier than the air.

Regulus walks ahead, every step deliberate. That same quiet intensity he’s always carried—like he was carved from silence and taught how to move without making the world flinch. He reads the terrain with his eyes, his hands, the angle of his shoulders. Every few paces, his fingers lift to the back of his neck—light and quick, like a whisper he’s trying to chase away. I’ve seen him do it before. I didn’t think much of it then. But now, I see how often. How unconscious. Like a tether—his mind checking a leash only he can feel.

He hasn’t spoken since last night. Neither have I. There’s nothing left to say that wouldn’t come out as a prayer or a scream.

Yesterday there were three cannons. Three faces in the sky.

Emmeline Vance from District 4. Mundungus Fletcher from 12. Hestia Jones from 8.

I didn’t know them—not really. I remembered their faces at the Reaping, the slight tremble in Hestia’s hands, the way Emmeline had kept her chin raised too high, defiant even when her voice cracked. But names blur quickly out here. Still, I forced myself to look. To hold their eyes as long as the sky would let me. It felt like the only thing I could offer—acknowledgement. A witness. Something human.

My heart clenched, waiting for a fourth. Bracing for the face I wouldn’t survive seeing. But it didn’t come.

No Regulus.

And the relief that washed over me was sharp and selfish and so full of guilt I could barely stand it. Because part of me still thinks that as long as he’s alive, I can be too. Like if I can just keep him breathing, I won't become one of those faces. A name no one knew well enough to mourn. But maybe that’s a lie we tell ourselves to keep walking.

I glance at Regulus again and wonder, not for the first time, what it’s cost him to survive all this. What corners of himself he’s had to cut away to keep going. What softness he’s buried. What screams he’s swallowed.

His profile is turned to the trees now, neck long and throat bruised with old scrapes. There’s a sliver of dried blood along his collarbone—too thin to worry about but too stark to ignore. His hands hang loose at his sides, stained from the last time we dug through mud for shelter. Hands that used to tremble in the Capitol’s glare. Hands that no longer do.

The Capitol doesn’t need to kill you with blades or bombs. It just waits. Patient, calculating. Watching as the days chip away at you until there’s nothing left but instinct and ash. Until the war lives in your bones and mercy is a myth you no longer afford. It doesn’t pull the trigger—it hands you the weapon, then teaches you how to aim at yourself.

It silences you slowly. Hollowing out the soft parts first—grief, love, hope—until only survival remains. It makes memory sharp. Makes kindness dangerous. It turns every name you loved into a weakness, every soft moment into something that could get you killed. That’s the Capitol’s real talent: it doesn’t need to kill you. It teaches you how to do it on your own.

And Regulus—he carries every one of those lessons behind his eyes. He walks like someone who’s memorized loss. Like the air itself cuts him, and still he keeps moving. He doesn’t look back. Maybe because he can’t. Maybe because looking means remembering. And remembering means bleeding all over again.

But I do. I always do.

Because someone has to. Someone has to hold onto what we were before they renamed us tributes and strung us up like symbols. Someone has to remember that we were people once. That we had birthdays and favorite songs. That we laughed. That kindness wasn’t a liability.

I wonder if he remembers that, too. Or if he buried hope with the rest of the dead.

We keep walking, the Garden thick around us, the silence breathing down our necks. And still, I say nothing.

But gods, I want to.

I want to call his name and watch it settle on his skin like something warm. I want to press my hand to the curve of his spine and remind him that he doesn’t have to carry all of this alone.

I want him to look at me the way he used to—like I was something he couldn’t afford to lose.

Not here. Not in the Garden, where the trees eavesdrop and the wind keeps score. Here, tenderness is a trap. 

He doesn’t need to tell me why he’s quiet. I already know.

The longer we’re still, the louder the Garden gets. The wind carries laughter sometimes, or the sound of footsteps that don’t belong to either of us. Once I swore I heard my mother singing. The exact lullaby she used to hum when I couldn’t sleep. The notes hung between the branches like fruit.

Because we both knew the truth: the arena isn’t just a place.

It’s a mind.

It watches. It learns. It carves open your past and feeds it back to you with blood on its fingers. It waits until you forget you’re a tribute, and then it strikes. Not with teeth or claws, but with memories. With softness. With the illusion of something kind, until it becomes the thing that kills you.

I walk beside him now, watching the way he moves—controlled, deliberate, like he’s holding something back. Maybe rage. Maybe grief. Maybe something colder. There’s a part of me that wants to reach for him, to remind him I’m still here. That we’re not entirely gone yet. But I don’t.

I haven’t spoken since the camera shattered. I don’t think Regulus has either.

The Garden is quieter than it was yesterday. Not peaceful—never peaceful. Just… still. Like the calm that presses down on your chest right before a scream. Even the birds are gone, if they were ever real to begin with.

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve blinked without seeing anything at all.

How many times I’ve heard my name, whispered low and sweet, threading through the trees like a secret—and turned to find nothing but bark and silence. The branches know my name now. They’ve learned how to say it with the same lilt my brother used to, the same pause my mother would make before pulling me into her arms.

I think I’m starting to forget what real sounds like. What true sounds like.

We were moving through a dense patch of undergrowth when something ahead caught the corner of my eye. It wasn’t a sound or a cry—just the faintest flicker of motion, too small to be a threat, too subtle to ignore. I stopped. My foot hovered above a root as my gaze dropped to the forest floor, sifting through the layers of leaves and dirt.

That’s when I saw him.

A boy, half-swallowed by the roots of an overturned tree—limbs tangled like he’d fallen from the sky and the forest had tried to claim him before he hit the ground. His body was twisted awkwardly, one leg bent beneath him, the other dragged out behind like he’d been running and never quite stopped. Dirt smudged his cheek, blood crusted at his temple, and his arm was curled protectively over his ribs, as if even unconscious, he was trying to shield something.

For a breathless second, I thought he was dead.

Then his fingers moved—just once. A faint tremble, barely there.

I stepped forward before I even realized it, breath catching in my throat.

“We can’t,” Regulus said. His voice was low.

I turned toward him, but he didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked on the boy, sharp and gleaming like the blade he kept hidden at his side. I could feel the tension coiled in him, the way his breath had shortened, how his grip on me tightened just slightly as the boy coughed again.

“What if it’s a setup?” Regulus muttered. “What if someone left him there to draw us out? We’re in the Garden. Nothing’s real here. Not pain. Not mercy. Not dying.”

His hand was still on my arm. The contact sent little aftershocks skimming through my nerves, but it was the way he said dying that made my stomach twist. Like he wasn’t afraid of it, just tired of watching it happen.

“I don’t think he’s pretending,” I said, softer now, but steady. “No one pretends to bleed like that.”

Regulus didn’t let go. He looked at me then, and for a moment, his expression faltered. Just enough for the mask to slip. Just enough for me to see what was beneath it—fear, maybe. Or something heavier.

“I can’t protect you if you walk into a trap.”

I swallowed hard. His fingers were still wrapped around my arm, thumb brushing against the inside of my wrist like he was trying to convince himself it was fine. That I was still breathing. That I was still warm. I could’ve told him I wasn’t the one who needed protecting, not from this, not now—but the words stayed in my throat.

“I’m going,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to come with me. But I’m not walking away.”

I moved toward the boy, lowering myself into a crouch until my knees met the damp, moss-covered earth. The scent of soil and something metallic filled my lungs as I leaned closer. His breathing was shallow and ragged, every rise of his chest uneven, as if each breath was a decision his body had to wrestle with. Blood had seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt, a deep maroon stain spreading across his side, dark and tacky. Most of it had dried, crusted in streaks where it had mingled with dirt and sweat, but fresh droplets still clung near the wound—bright enough to mean danger, slow enough to mean time was running out.

His body looked wrong somehow, too twisted to be resting, too still to be safe. One leg was curled beneath him in an unnatural position, the angle of it suggesting a break or worse. His arm had fallen across his ribs, bent awkwardly as if he'd collapsed mid-flight and never gotten the chance to move again. His face was pale beneath the grime, the sort of pallor that came with too many hours of pain left unattended. One eye was swollen shut, puffed and bruised, while the other remained barely open, glassy and confused. He blinked once, slowly, as if even that motion cost him something. His gaze didn’t quite find mine.

He couldn’t have been older than sixteen. There was something delicate about him, something unfinished, like he hadn’t been given enough time to grow into himself before being thrown into this place. His lips were cracked and flaking, the corners stained with blood and dust. I studied his features, searching for a name, a memory, anything to anchor him to the world outside this nightmare. 

He must have been one of the quiet ones during the interviews—the kind of tribute whose voice got lost beneath the roar of louder stories. The kind no one truly noticed until their portrait appeared in the sky, accompanied by that mournful anthem. He didn’t look like a killer. He didn’t look like he belonged in the Games. But then again, none of us did.

The heat coming off him was feverish, burning through the thin fabric of his shirt. It radiated from him in waves, pulsing with every weak breath, and I knew then that the wound had festered longer than it should have. His body was fighting a war it was already losing.

Behind me, I felt the shift of movement before I saw it—Regulus lowering himself into a crouch beside us. His expression was unreadable, all sharp lines and shadows. He didn’t speak. His eyes scanned the boy with clinical precision, taking in the damage, calculating the risk. One hand hovered near his knife, fingers ghosting the hilt like a reflex, like his body didn’t quite know how to be still without the comfort of a blade in reach. But he didn’t draw it. He stayed where he was, close but guarded, alert but not hostile.

The suspicion had not entirely left his features, but it had softened. Not into trust—Regulus didn’t give that freely—but into something quieter, something cautious and heavy with restraint. It was enough. For now.

“His leg’s broken,” he said, scanning the injury like it was a riddle. “Might be his ribs too.”

He stared at the boy a moment longer, then reached into his pack without a word.

That was the thing about him. He didn’t believe in softness, not out loud. But he still acted on it, always in the quietest ways.

Regulus took most of the weight, one of the boy’s arms draped across his shoulder, the other hanging lifeless at his side. I stayed close, supporting from behind, one hand steady on his back, the other ready to grab him if he collapsed. He was light—too light—and every step made him wince. He didn’t say a word. Just stumbled and clung on.

Regulus led the way, his pace steady but quick, each step a careful rhythm, as though he was trying to stay two steps ahead of danger. His eyes flicked over his shoulder frequently, watching the boy who staggered just behind, trying to keep pace. I saw the way his jaw tightened with each stumble, the way his grip on his knife never fully relaxed. He was wary, cautious, a man who had learned the hard way to trust no one. Not even someone in a condition like this boy’s.

The boy’s breathing was shallow, rattling in his chest like the prelude to something worse. He coughed, a wet, miserable sound that seemed to echo through the quiet woods, and muttered something I couldn’t catch. His voice was weak, barely a whisper, and when his head dropped forward, I felt a momentary surge of panic. For a moment, he looked like he might just collapse, crumple under his own weight, and we’d be left here with him, an easy target for whatever might be watching from the shadows.

I slowed my pace, moving closer to him, and whispered, my voice tight with worry. “We’re almost there,” I said, though it felt more like a promise to myself than to him. “Just hold on.”

I wasn’t sure if he even heard me. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, and he swayed as if his body couldn’t quite keep up with the effort of standing. I could feel Regulus watching us, his gaze sharp and calculating. He was already thinking two steps ahead, thinking about the next danger we might face. Even here, in this moment, we weren’t safe.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of winding through the underbrush, we emerged into a small clearing. The trees opened up just enough to give us a breath, the weight of the forest lifting slightly, as if the earth itself had parted to let us pass. The ground beneath us was soft, covered in thick, spongy moss that swallowed the sound of our footsteps, offering a temporary reprieve from the harshness of the forest.

Regulus moved swiftly, lowering the boy to the ground, his movements more tender than I would have expected, more careful than he probably intended to show. I knelt beside the boy, brushing the damp curls from his forehead, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. It was too much warmth, too much for someone so young, someone who had already been through so much.

His breaths came in short, labored gasps, each one sounding like it took all the effort he had left. I could feel the weight of his fever in the tremors of his body, the way his skin was flushed, slick with sweat despite the coolness of the night. I gently pressed my fingers to his wrist, trying to find his pulse, but it was weak, barely there.

I didn’t know how long he could last like this. The wound he’d sustained was bad, worse than I had first thought, and there was nothing we could do for him right now except wait. Wait and watch, hoping it wasn’t too late.

The air around us seemed to hold its breath, the quiet of the forest pressing in from all sides. For a moment, the world felt impossibly still, as if the trees themselves had paused to witness what was happening here.

Regulus moved behind me, his presence a quiet shadow at my back. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his gaze on the boy, feel the tension in the way he stood, watchful and poised. He wasn’t ready to let go of the boy, not yet. I understood that—this was dangerous, and we couldn’t afford to trust anyone fully, not in the Garden.

 But as I looked at the boy, his chest rising and falling too slowly, his body trembling with fever, I knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t going to last long unless we did something

I reached for the canteen with steady hands, though inside, I felt anything but calm. The metal was cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from the boy’s fevered body. I tilted it carefully toward his mouth, trying to find the balance between urgency and gentleness. “Can you drink?” I asked, my voice quiet, measured, like I was afraid the sound itself might scare him back into unconsciousness.

His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and rimmed with dirt, glassy with pain and exhaustion. They looked too old for someone his age—haunted, like he had already seen too much. He blinked up at me slowly, uncomprehending, and his cracked lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. Only a thin rasp of air, dry and broken. I tilted the canteen again, just enough to let a trickle of water touch his mouth.

He flinched slightly at first, then swallowed—a small, effortful motion that looked like it took everything out of him. A second later, he coughed, the sound low and grating, each breath catching in his throat like it was scraping against gravel. I steadied his shoulder, trying to keep him upright as his body shook. His skin was far too warm beneath my fingers, and his pulse fluttered weakly like a moth against glass.

Behind me, Regulus stood motionless, arms folded tightly across his chest, his frame half-shadowed by the last light filtering through the trees. His face was a mask—neutral, unreadable—but I knew better than to think he was at ease. His eyes didn’t leave the boy, not for a second. Every twitch of movement, every inhale, every subtle flicker in the boy’s expression was caught in his gaze. He wasn’t just watching—he was assessing. Calculating. Always preparing for the moment things might turn.

The boy stirred a little more, his head turning slightly as his eyes squinted against the light. I leaned closer, my tone softening into something gentler, something I hoped he could anchor to. “Hey,” I murmured. “You’re okay. We found you in the woods. You were hurt, but you’re safe now.”

His gaze darted between us, unfocused and flickering. I saw the fear begin to rise in his eyes—not wild panic, not the kind that screamed or thrashed, but the quieter kind, the kind that sank its teeth in slowly. It was buried beneath layers of exhaustion and pain, but it was there, tightening his expression, making his breath catch as he tried to place where he was and who we were.

“We need to know your name,” I said, more gently now, as though coaxing it out of him could unravel some of the fear. “Just your name, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away. His attention snapped to Regulus, narrowed in on him like he sensed something dangerous beneath the silence. I followed his gaze and saw what he did—Regulus hadn’t moved, hadn’t even blinked, but the stillness of his posture was deceptive. He was coiled beneath it, ready. There was a tension in his stance, like the entire forest could shift and he’d still be the first to react. Something in the boy recognized that. He wasn’t just looking at a stranger. He was looking at a threat.

Finally, after another strained pause, the boy swallowed and whispered, “Evan.”

His voice was paper-thin and frayed at the edges. The name hung between us for a moment, fragile and weightless. I turned to Regulus, catching his eyes for a brief second.

I looked back at the boy and nodded. “Okay, Evan,” I said softly, like his name was something sacred, something I didn’t want to break. “We’re going to help you. That wound—it needs care, but you’re not alone anymore. We’ll take care of it, and we’ll figure the rest out together.”

Evan’s gaze didn’t waver, but something inside it dimmed slightly, like he didn’t quite believe me, like he’d already seen too much to think anything here could be safe. “There’s no such thing,” he murmured, his words barely audible, worn thin from pain. “Safe doesn’t exist here.”

I didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.

Regulus finally moved, crouching low beside us, his knees brushing the moss, and his shadow stretched long and dark over the clearing. His presence was grounding, solid, but it brought with it the weight of reality. This wasn’t just an act of kindness. It was a decision with consequences.

His voice, when it came, was quiet but firm. “Are you alone?”

Evan’s head dipped in the faintest of nods. “I don’t know where my district partner is,” he said, voice rough. “We got separated.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full of possibilities. Regulus glanced at me, and for a second, I saw the flicker again. He was thinking. Calculating how this changed things. How long we could afford to care.

“When?” Regulus pressed.

“Since the bloodbath,” Evan said. “I tried to climb a tree after. I Thought I saw movement. I fell. Think I broke something.” He winced as he tried to shift. “Been there since. Two days, maybe.”

I reached for the first aid kit, pulling out a strip of clean cloth and the last of our antiseptic. The gash on his side had bled through his shirt. It was ragged and deep, but not too wide—if we kept it clean, he might have a chance.

“This’ll sting,” I warned, my voice low, almost apologetic as I prepared the antiseptic.

Evan didn’t flinch at my words. He just nodded, his fingers digging into the moss beneath him like it might anchor him to something solid, something real. The tremble of his hand was faint, almost imperceptible, but I saw it—saw the effort it took for him to hold himself still. His skin was already raw, burned with the fever he’d been running, and I knew this was going to make it worse.

I dabbed the cloth across his wound, and a sharp hiss escaped him, his breath a shallow, quick intake, but he didn’t cry out. He didn’t pull away. He just endured it. The sound of his breath was the only thing I could hear, ragged and unsteady.

I focused on the task, moving carefully. The world around us felt distant, like everything else had slowed down in that moment. The air was thick, heavy with the tension between us. Regulus remained quiet, his gaze fixed on Evan with a mix of watchfulness and something else—something unreadable. He handed me what I needed without a word, his movements precise and fluid, like he had already decided he would do what was necessary, whether he wanted to or not.

The silence stretched, a fragile thread that might snap at any moment, but it held. We worked in synchrony, each of us trapped in our own thoughts, the weight of what was happening pressing against us, unspoken but shared. The moment felt like it was balanced on the edge of something unnamed, something too complex to voice.

When I finished, I leaned back slightly, wiping my hands on my pants, suddenly aware of how still the air had become, how heavy my own breath felt.“You need rest,” I said, trying to make the words sound like a command, but it came out more like a suggestion—a plea. His body was barely holding itself together, and I could see how exhausted he was. He needed sleep more than anything else. 

Evan blinked slowly, his gaze drifting between us. I could see the questions in his eyes—too many to count, and none of them answered yet. “Why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper.

I opened my mouth to answer, but the words felt like they were stuck. I didn’t have a good answer. Not one that would make sense to him, or to me, for that matter. But before I could speak, Regulus answered, his tone low but firm, like he was stating a simple fact.

“We’re not sure we are.”

His words hung in the air, sharp, blunt. There was no malice in his voice—just the quiet honesty of someone who had learned the hard way not to promise things he wasn’t sure he could keep. I felt the weight of it, the honesty of it, even though part of me wanted to argue. Wanted to say that we were helping, that there was something between us that demanded it. But Regulus had said it. And in that moment, I couldn’t deny it. 

I glanced at him sharply, but his face didn’t shift. There was no anger, no bitterness, just an unwavering calm.

Evan’s eyelids fluttered shut as if the effort of staying awake had finally become too much. His voice came in a soft rasp, as fragile as his breath. “Fair enough.”

The acceptance in his words struck me more deeply than I expected. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t pleading. He was just... resigned. Maybe it was the fever, or the pain, or just the weight of everything that had happened, but in that moment, his voice was quiet, but there was a sort of strength in it too. The kind of strength that didn’t come from fighting back, but from accepting the world as it was—however hard that might be.

And as he lay there, silent, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, I felt something shift. Something delicate, but undeniable. It wasn’t that I understood Evan, not fully. But in that moment, with his simple admission, I felt connected to him in a way I hadn’t expected.

I looked back at Regulus, catching the fleeting glance he gave me—brief, unreadable—but I could sense it. Whatever had brought us here, whatever decision had been made when we chose to help him, it wasn’t just about the boy on the ground. It was about us. And whatever was happening between us, unspoken but felt, was just beginning to unfold.

Regulus stood again and moved to the fire pit, kneeling to strike the flint. I stayed by Evan’s side, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips moved soundlessly—like he was whispering something to himself in sleep. Maybe a name. Maybe a prayer.

Across the clearing, sparks jumped from stone to kindling. The fire began to catch. Regulus didn’t look at me, but I could feel the tension still radiating from him like heat.

He didn’t trust Evan. But he’d carried him here.

And something about that mattered more than either of us could admit.

It's been a few hours since Evan fell asleep. I tried to sleep. I really did, but I couldn't take my eyes off the horizon above me. The sky above isn’t real—too static, too perfect, as if someone painted it from memory and forgot that stars are supposed to flicker. The air smells like damp earth and something artificial beneath it, the Capitol’s idea of what a forest should be. It’s close but never quite right, like a lullaby sung off-key.

Beside me, Regulus lies just barely within reach. Our arms aren’t touching, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him radiating in the space between us. I can sense the rhythm of his breathing in the rise and fall of the silence, the way the air stirs gently whenever he exhales. It’s the kind of silence that isn’t empty—it’s thick with the weight of unspoken things, of years that passed without permission, of names we don’t call each other anymore.

I don’t know when I started watching him instead of the sky.

The years haven’t changed the shape of him, not really. He’s still all edges and quiet restraint, still wears silence like armor. But in the dim blue light, with the trees casting soft shadows across his face, he looks younger. Softer. Like the boy I used to know before the world asked him to become someone else.

( i highly recommend playing Space Song by Beach House here)

My gaze lifts to the stars, or the simulation of them, and a thought drifts through my mind before I can catch it.

“I used to draw stars on you.” I say.

The words slip out quieter than I expect, drifting into the dark like breath on glass. They hang there for a moment, fragile and unclaimed. My voice barely belongs to me—it sounds younger somehow, like it was pulled from another version of myself. I don’t even know if I meant to say it aloud. Maybe it’s just a memory trying to make itself real again.

But he hears. Of course he does.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes. The rhythm of it is steady, but there’s something underneath it now—something old and aching. Then, after a pause that feels too full, he murmurs, “On my wrist.”

His voice is rough, like it had to scrape its way up from somewhere deep.

Another pause. Longer, softer.

“My arm. My collarbone, once,” he adds, as though he’s cataloging each place with care, brushing dust from the bones of the past. “You got bolder every year.”

A smile finds me, faint and slow and a little sad. It hurts to hold it, but I let it bloom anyway. “You always moved before the ink dried.”

“You always scolded me when it smudged.”

“I didn’t scold,” I whisper, the corners of my voice tugged by something tender. “I just… hated when they stopped looking like stars.”

He turns his head, just enough that I can see the side of his face in the blue-dark hush. The sharp line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his mouth. There’s a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there earlier, something raw and open that I recognize, even after all this time.

“They looked like stars to me,” he says. His voice is steady now, quieter than the night, but clearer somehow. “Always.”

I close my eyes for a second and let myself slip backward, into a different time.

I used to steal ink from the shops when no one was watching. A cracked bottle, a stolen brush, a piece of charcoal snapped in half and hidden beneath my coat. We’d sneak into our hideout—our haven in the woods behind the lumber mill, where the branches reached toward the sky like they were trying to remember it—and I’d press his hand flat against the floorboards, the skin of his wrist pale and waiting.

He was always so still for me. Not for anyone else. Not even for himself. But for me—he let me paint on him like he was a blank space meant to be filled. Only for me.

Never for anyone else. Not for the world. Not for the Capitol. Not even for himself. But when I touched him, when I painted him, he became quiet in a way that felt like surrender, or maybe trust. He let me draw constellations on his skin like I was writing a language only the two of us could read.

He’d watch me with those storm-colored eyes—eyes that never gave anything away unless you knew where to look. Half-curious, half-somewhere-else. Eyes that carried entire winters in their silence.

I always began with Altair. The lead star. Three dots in a line—clean, sharp, deliberate. A shape with direction. Then I’d connect it to Vega, to Deneb, tracing faint arcs across his forearm, letting the brush kiss the contours of his bones. I’d mark Orion’s belt along his wrist. Sketch Canis Major where his veins ran faintly blue beneath the surface. Each stroke was careful, slow, reverent. A sky unfolding. A map no one else could see.

Sometimes, when I was finished, he’d flex his fingers slightly, and the stars would shimmer. Smudge. Shift. And I’d scowl like I didn’t expect it, even though I always did.

But other times, he’d just let them sit there—those tiny galaxies drawn down the pathways of his hands—like he knew they weren’t really stars. Like he knew they were promises.

And like he needed them anyway.

“I learned constellations just so I could give them to you,” I say now. “I didn’t have anything else. Not really. No money. No gifts. Just ink and time and my hands.”

“You gave me more than that,” he says quietly. “You gave me a map.”

My chest pulls tight. I don’t answer.

“You said it would help me find my way back,” he continues, the words hesitant now, like he’s stepping over glass. “Even if I got lost. Even if I was taken away.”

I turn my head toward him. His profile is made of angles and shadows, but I see him. I see the boy he used to be beneath the man the Capitol sculpted. I see the softness he buried.

“I didn’t think you’d ever really leave.” I whisper.

He’s silent for a long time. Too long.

“I didn’t think I’d have to,” he says finally, and his voice cracks like something old breaking open again.

The ache between us spreads like ink in water.

I reach out before I can stop myself. My fingers brush against his wrist, finding the place I used to start with. That delicate patch of skin beneath the bones, where his pulse beats like it remembers me. I press there, gently. My thumb moves in a slow, absent circle. My body remembers the motion of drawing.

“I always started with Altair.” I whisper.

His breath catches. “You did.”

“Three dots. A line.”

“You were always so careful about it,” he says, his voice low, almost tender. “So precise. You’d tilt your head when you worked, like you were trying to see the stars from a different angle. Bite the inside of your cheek when you were focused. You got ink on your nose half the time.”

A laugh escapes me, soft and slightly stunned by the memory. It catches in my throat, but it’s real—like it came from somewhere deep and untouched by the passing years. “And you never told me.”

His silence lingers for a moment, and then the faintest smile touches his lips, but it’s more in the way his eyes soften than anything else. “I liked watching you forget the world.”

The air feels thicker between us now, heavier with the weight of something unspoken, something raw. It’s an intimacy that feels familiar, but different, like we’re seeing each other in a light we haven’t allowed ourselves to look at in far too long.

I trace the memory of Altair now, just the lightest touch of my fingertip across his skin. No ink. No need for it. The shape is still there, imprinted beneath the surface, burned into both of us. A constellation we never erased. A story neither of us stopped carrying, no matter how much time has passed or how much we tried to forget.

His voice is quieter now, almost reverent when he speaks. “Why Altair?”

I pause, my finger hovering for just a second longer. The air around us feels thick with the weight of his question, as if the answer means more than I ever realized. I exhale slowly before speaking, my words soft but sure. “It was the first star I learned. It means the flying bird in Arabic.”

He’s quiet for a long time, the kind of silence that feels like it could stretch on forever if we let it. I keep tracing, my finger moving along his skin like it’s the only thing tethering me to the past.

“You were so angry, back then,” I murmur, more to myself than to him, though I know he hears me. “And quiet. Like you didn’t trust the world not to hurt you, so you stayed locked up tight. I think… I wanted to give you something gentle. Something that didn’t take. Something that didn’t demand anything.”

Regulus randomly flinched, one hand shooting up to the back of his neck. He pressed his palm there for a beat too long, like he was trying to smother a sudden sting.

“Something I could hold,” he says, the words fragile, like they might slip away if he doesn’t let them go now.

I nod, my throat tight, and keep tracing, my hand steady despite the trembling inside me. “Something you could follow.” I whisper back, the words tasting bittersweet on my tongue. It’s the truth, and maybe that’s what makes it hurt the most.

He shifts. His wrist turns under mine, his fingers brushing my palm. The contact is so slight, but it feels like gravity.

“That’s when you started calling me Starling,” I say softly, watching him through the dark.

But he shakes his head, slow and certain. “That’s when I understood why.”

I blink. “What?”

He exhales, like the words cost something to carry. “The first time you sang to me, I called you Starling. I think I was twelve. Maybe younger. But I didn’t understand the name then. Not really.” His voice drops lower now, like he’s peeling something open inside himself—something delicate, something hidden. “Not until you started tracing constellations on my arms with your fingers. Not until I saw how you looked at the night—like you could read it.”

I stay quiet. There’s something sacred about his voice right now. Like if I speak too soon, it’ll break the spell.

“You didn’t just look up at the stars,” he says. “You pulled them down. Wove them into songs. Hid them in your laugh. In the way you moved. I started calling you Starling because I thought it sounded small and beautiful. Something fragile, something soft.”

He pauses, and I feel it more than I hear it—that moment when something shifts in him.

“But then I saw you,” he continues, quieter now. “Really saw you. And I realized… you were never small.”

His voice hitches, just slightly, like the truth is scraping its way out of him.

“You made me feel like you were reachable,” he says. “And that terrified me.”

My breath stutters.

I want to tell him he was the only one I ever drew stars for—that no one else’s skin ever felt sacred enough to hold a sky. That I memorized the way his veins curved just so I could map the constellations with more care on his pale skin. That I sometimes woke up at night with ink-stained fingers, reaching out for a boy who was already fading into headlines and hollow eyes.

Instead, I just look at him.

“You always smudged them,” I say.

He closes his eyes. “I know. But I remembered every single one.”

It happens so fast, I almost don’t have time to understand it. One moment, I’m lying there beside him, my fingers gliding over his skin, tracing the shapes of constellations that feel almost sacred—quiet, intimate. The moment is soft, and time feels still, a fleeting sense of peace that I cling to like a lifeline.

But then, without warning, everything shifts. It’s not like the breathless panic I’ve felt before, the kind you get when you're running, heart pounding, lungs gasping for air. No, this is something entirely different. 

This is fire. It burns through me, flooding my chest with heat so sharp it feels like it could tear me apart from the inside. It steals my breath in one agonizing, violent wave. My ribs feel like they’re closing in, the air choking on its way out, and I can’t do anything but gasp in frantic desperation.

A scream claws its way up my throat, raw and strangled, as if it wants to rip through me, but it doesn’t come out right. It’s twisted—broken. 

It’s not even a scream anymore. It’s just agony, squeezing the air out of my lungs, twisting it into something unrecognizable. I claw at my throat, desperate for some relief, for just a single breath. But the fire inside only grows, the pain consuming everything until all I know is the burning in my chest. The stars I was tracing, the peace I felt only moments before, seem like distant memories now. The world tilts, spins, and I can’t find my footing. Everything goes dark at the edges of my vision.

Regulus is there, though—his hands on me, pulling me toward him, but even his voice feels far away. I hear his name, his frantic shouts, but they don’t make sense. It’s like I’m drowning in this fire, trapped in a nightmare I can’t escape. The world around me starts to blur, a thick haze of panic and pain. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is claw at my chest, trying to get air, trying to fight the fire that’s burning through me.

“Reg—” I try to say his name, but it comes out cracked and broken.

My fingers twitch, then seize. My whole body is shaking, twisting with something I can’t name. It feels like my insides are folding in on themselves, like they’re being turned to ash from the inside out.

Regulus is on his feet in an instant.

And then I feel it. A cold pressure on my neck, Regulus’s hands—frantic, shaking as he tries to steady me. His fingers are everywhere, his voice breaking through the fog of panic, but none of it matters. Nothing matters except for the suffocating burn that fills every inch of me. Every part of my body wants to scream again, but nothing comes out. Only the fire. Only the suffocating weight of it.

Regulus was on me in seconds. “What is it? What’s wrong?” His voice cracked. “Tell me where it hurts—tell me what’s happening—”

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even find the air to scream. My throat burned. My vision blurred. It felt like something was crawling inside me, twisting up through my spine, dragging barbed wires through my veins. I hit the dirt, shaking.

“Reg—Regulus—” I choked out, barely managing the sound. “I—I can’t—”

He caught me before I collapsed fully, hands gripping my shoulders like he could hold my body together through force alone. “No, no, no—stay with me. Look at me. Breathe.” His voice was wild now, breaking in places. “Breathe, please. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

I dropped to the forest floor like a puppet with cut strings, convulsing, nails digging into the dirt. My insides felt like they were tearing, every nerve lit up with flame. “Can’t—breathe,” I gasped. “It—it hurts—inside—”

“Where?” Regulus dropped beside me, eyes wild. “Where does it hurt? Starling—look at me.”

My hand flew to my ribs, fingers twitching violently. Regulus followed the motion, his hands already on me, searching, trying to stop the shaking. I could feel the panic building in him, in his breath, in the sharpness of his voice. “What is this? What did this?”

Evan stumbled out from behind the trees, his face pale, eyes wide with confusion. He looked between Regulus and me, his breath shallow and quick. "What’s going on?" His voice cracked, the panic seeping through with every word.

Regulus's voice was tight, his eyes frantic as they flicked over me. “She’s hurt.” His words were clipped, jagged. “She was fine—just a second ago—”

I tried to speak, to tell them I was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. My throat constricted, and I choked again, a violent, desperate gasp of air that scraped through me. The pain was crawling up my chest now, sharper, more intense with each passing second. It was a fire, biting at my insides, and it felt like I was being torn apart from the inside out.

Regulus was still watching me closely, his hands trembling at his sides. Then, in an instant, his gaze snapped down to my shirt. His eyes locked on the blood, barely visible at first, just a thin red line starting to stain the fabric beneath my ribs.

His breath hitched, and I heard him mutter, almost to himself, "A cut." Then, louder, with a growing urgency, “There. A thorn. A branch must’ve scratched her—”

I wanted to shake my head, to tell them it wasn’t that, that it wasn’t just a scratch, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. The pain was suffocating, pulling me deeper into something I couldn’t escape. 

Evan stepped closer, his expression stark with fear. “She barely moved,” he said, his voice trembling. His gaze flicked from me to Regulus, looking for answers.

Regulus's fingers brushed over my skin, just above the wound. I felt the slightest touch, and I screamed again, the sound tearing through me like a jagged, broken thing. The pain intensified, the fire spreading through my chest and down my limbs, as if the poison was winding its way through every part of me.

Regulus's face went pale, the reality of the situation sinking in. “It’s poisoned,” he said, his voice low, dark with the weight of the truth. 

“Fast-acting. It must’ve been one of the plants.” His words were grim, carrying the knowledge of something far worse than a simple wound. The poison was already inside me, coursing through my veins, and I could feel it.

He moved quickly, grabbing cloth from the first-aid kit and pressing it against the wound, hard, as though trying to stop the poison from spreading. I barely registered the motion, my head swimming with the overwhelming sensation of burning, of being torn apart from the inside out.

“Stay with me,” Regulus’s voice cut through the haze, hoarse and desperate. His eyes were locked onto mine, his face drawn tight with fear, but his hands were steady, pressing the cloth harder against my side. “Look at me. Breathe, Starling. Please.”

The world started to fade. The edges of my vision blurred, the colors and shapes melting into a dull, dark haze. My limbs felt distant, almost foreign, as though I couldn’t feel them at all. There was ringing in my ears, a high-pitched whine that clawed at my mind, and I thought—I thought—I might lose myself in it.

Regulus’s hand gripped mine, his voice low but firm. “Stay with me, (Y/N), I need you to fight this. Please.”

I wanted to tell him I couldn’t. I wanted to tell him it was too much, that I was already slipping away, but the words wouldn’t form.

And then, as if the world itself had decided to turn against us, I felt the ground shudder beneath us.

 At first, it was just a tremor, a soft shake that could’ve been mistaken for a gust of wind, but then it intensified. The trees around us creaked and groaned, their trunks bending unnaturally as though they were being pulled by an invisible force. The leaves rustled, a low, eerie whisper carried by the wind.

 The ground beneath our feet shifted again, a deep, unsettling rumble like the earth itself was alive and angry.

Regulus’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with panic. “The arena... it’s changing.”

The trees began to move. Not just sway in the wind, but move. Their branches twisted, reaching down like fingers grasping for something to hold, something to claim. The ground beneath us seemed to shift, warping and rippling in ways that defied logic. It was as if the earth itself was trying to consume us, to pull us deeper into its hungry depths.

Regulus pulled me up, his hands shaking as he dragged me to my feet. “We need to get out of here. Now!”

Evan was already moving, his face a mixture of disbelief and terror. “What’s going on? What the hell is happening?”

“There’s no time!” Regulus shouted, urgency flooding his voice as he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes frantic. “The trees—look at the trees!”

I could barely keep up, each step feeling like a battle against the poison coursing through my veins, my limbs weak and unresponsive. But I could hear it—the snap of branches, the groan of the earth, the sudden, unnatural stillness that filled the air. Something was coming.

And then, we saw them.

Through the trees, coming toward us, two figures emerged. 

Caradoc Dearborn and Charity Burbage, both from District 10.

Their weapons drawn, their faces grim. They didn’t see us at first. Their focus was elsewhere—on the shifting ground, the movement in the trees, the unsettling sounds of the arena alive with fury.

But then, they stepped too close.

Charity took another step forward, her eyes still scanning the shifting landscape, her footsteps heavy against the uneven ground. The wind was picking up, howling through the trees as the air grew thicker, heavier. The world felt off balance, like something had tipped and we were all about to fall into its chaos.

She didn’t notice it at first, the ground beneath her feet moving, the soil rippling like water disturbed by a pebble. She took another step—and then, with a sickening crack, the earth buckled beneath her. 

Her foot sank into the ground like it was soft mud, but there was no give, no escape. She tried to pull it out, but the ground around her was shifting, curling around her ankle like a viper’s grip.

Charity’s scream rang out, but the earth didn’t let her escape. She tried to pull her leg free, but the ground twisted around her, thick roots and vines wrapping around her like serpents. Her hands scraped at the soil, but it was no use—the earth had claimed her.

Caradoc rushed forward, his face pale with fear, but before he could reach her, the ground opened wide beneath his feet. His body jerked as he fell, his hands flailing for something—anything—but the roots shot out like claws, dragging him under.

His eyes locked onto mine, wide with terror, as the earth swallowed him whole. He struggled, his body convulsing, but the soil was stronger, crushing him until there was nothing left but an empty hole where he had been.

The arena stood still for a moment, as if savoring the silence it had created. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. The echoes of their deaths reverberated in my chest, the horror of what the arena could do to us settling like a cold stone in my gut.

The forest was trying to eat us.

My breath came in short, ragged bursts against Regulus’s neck. I could feel his heart pounding like a war drum.

Regulus had me in his arms before I fully understood I couldn't walk. My legs had gone limp, a dull weight dragging behind the panic in my chest. I could feel my fingers twitching against his shoulder, but I couldn't lift them. The pain had shifted—no longer sharp, just heavy. Like something inside me was curling inward, fading.

“I’ve got you, love” Regulus murmured, voice close to my ear. I could feel the strain in it, the tightness, like he was fighting to keep it from cracking. “Just hold on. Please.”

The nickname made me want to cry.

Evan was ahead, hacking at a wall of thick vines that had grown impossibly fast, curling over the path we’d come from. The ground shook beneath us—roots bulging and splitting the earth, trees bending low like giants being pulled from the sky. 

The Garden wasn’t just alive. It was hunting.

“Faster,” Evan called back, his voice wild with terror. “It’s closing!”

My breath hitched again. Regulus faltered, feeling it.

“(Y/N)?” he asked, stopping just for a second. His eyes met mine, desperate. “Stay awake. Stay with me. Just a little longer, alright?”

I wanted to answer. I wanted to tell him I was trying. That I didn’t mean to be slipping. But my lips were too heavy.

“I don’t want to go.” I finally managed, my voice barely a breath.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said fiercely. “You don’t get to leave me. Not again. Not like this.”

A branch snapped behind us. The ground moaned as if something deep beneath it had begun to stir.

Regulus turned and ran, gripping me tighter against his chest. I could feel the pounding of his heart, fast and wild. For a moment, I imagined I was the star again—drawn on his skin, clinging to the lines of his pulse.

Behind us, the trees twisted inward, forming a wall of writhing limbs and screaming bark. The last glimpse I caught was a blood-red moon above the canopy, blinking like an eye.

Evan screamed again—something about the path—but all I could hear now was Regulus’s breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Real.

The world was shaking. The earth howled. And through it all, Regulus ran.

I wanted to tell him thank you. I wanted to say his name. I wanted to scream.

But all I could do was close my eyes and hope the forest didn't get there first.

They are watching us, always.

It is only day two, and already the Garden is trying to chew through our bones.

The Capitol has teeth.

taglist: @fadingcollectivenightmare @spidermansfangirl   @foulwaterss @slaybestieslay946 @aelinwya @yvessentials @sickly-afraid @urfunnyvalentin3 @hufflebubble53

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Wip Whenever

Tagged by @skyrim-forever and @sulphuricgrin thanks for sticking with me. tagging @vehksfingerguns @firefly-factory @moriche for no pressure things.

I've been up and down a lot lately health wise so writing and painting has been difficult, but I decided I wanted to share both Joshi's half done tattoos and a snippet between him and Erra that I wrote a few months ago and haven't shared.

He's getting there. I'm really liking this portrait so far.

Writing under the cut since i'm shoving in 2000 words because I just really wanted to share this scene. I understand if its too much to tackle.

“I see Nanaya’s taken a shine to you, Agent.”

Teldryn jumped, almost falling off his seat at the sudden appearance of his guide. He had thought the mer was still fast asleep. Or he had been, last he checked…how long ago was that now? He had no idea.

Gods his chest hurt.

Erra folded his arms and leaned against the table Teldryn had been sitting at. He looked better, though incredibly tired. The colour had returned to his cheeks at least. He’d pulled his hair into a low, messy tail at the base of his neck, the hair, though knotted, rested over his shoulder. He’d clearly just woken up then. For a moment, Teldryn worried that he’d been too loud. He hadn’t recalled making any noise, but he tended to hum if he was busy.

Then he noticed Erra eyeing the plate full of sweets between them. He hadn’t recalled the mer eating much in the last few days…

“I mean if your sister-in-law wants to keep making me this ‘chak’ stuffthen I won’t complain,” Teldryn smiled a little as he pushed the plate a little closer towards his guide, “You want one?”

Erra nodded, reaching for a handful of the sticky treats and shovelling them into his mouth, “Thank you, I am starving!”

Teldryn looked up at him, his hands resting on the table, “When was the last time you kept something down, anyway?”

Erra shrugged, swallowing his food before answering him, “I do not quite remember, maybe before we left Maar Gan. I do not recall if we stopped on the way?”

Teldryn leaned back a little, raising his eyebrows, “Yeah, that’s three days, Erra. I—”

He shook his head and held his hand up, Teldryn took it as a sign to shut his damn mouth. Erra sighed and rubbed at his temple, “I apologise, I did not intend for this to happen. I know that you are on a tight schedule and I—”

“Aye, I don’t think you control whatever that was, yeah?” Teldryn interrupted, the last thing he wanted was to have his guide apologising to him over something that Teldryn most likely caused, “If anything, I should be apologising to you.”

“You have already apologised to me,” Erra stated flatly. He tilted his head and folded his arms, “It is not because of you that I had an attack… well, not just you.”

Teldryn swallowed, reached for the bottle of matze he’d taken from his pack earlier and took a sip. He was confused, nervous, unsure…being out of his element like this was doing a number on his anxieties.

“But I contributed to it, yeah?” Teldryn asked, his voice cracking again, “I’m apologising for that. I ah…”

“I told you that this was all…complicated?” Erra sighed, looking away from him, “I do not return here often, and such reunions are… Wobbly?” He raised his eyebrow at Teldryn and rocked his hand from side to side.

“Awkward?” Teldryn added.

“Yes, that is it,” Erra smiled, their eyes finally meeting again, “It is awkward to come back here.”

“Things seem okay between you an your brother, though?” Teldryn mused as he took another sip of matze, “I mean I don’t know what you’re saying but it didn’t seem too hostile?”

“It is not my brother or his wife that I have conflict with, agent,” Erra sighed, “There are others who would not be— pleased to see me.”

“Is that why we skirted the camp when we arrived?” Teldryn asked, placing the now emptied bottle on the far corner of the table.

Erra nodded, “I was not quite prepared to introduce you officially to the tribe. It is—”

“You could barely speak, Erra,” Teldryn interrupted, leaning back in his seat, “I get it.”

Erra exhaled and reached over for the plate of sweets again, “I do not make it a habit to leave my clients alone for so long.”

Teldryn shook his head, “How about we call it even, aye? Besides, I’ve been fine keeping myself occupied.”

Erra’s gaze switched to the mess of papers, scrawlings and charts that covered the table he was resting on, his eyes widening a little, “I can see that. What is it, if you do not mind my ah…”

Teldryn smiled and reached for the charcoal rubbing he’d made of the tablet, “I’m copying down stuff from this.”

Erra reached for the rubbing, his eyes darting from one side of the image to the other, “There are scribbles on it.”

Teldryn nodded, standing so that he could better explain what he was doing to his guide, “See how it’s all in lines, yeah?”

Erra nodded, his eyes following Teldryn’s finger as he pointed at the more visible lines of Aldmeris, “The scribbles are organised?”

Teldryn blew a shock of air through his nose in an attempt to stifle laughter. He nodded at Erra, a wide smile still spread across his face as he noticed the other mer blush. He hadn’t expected to be detailing his research to his guide but the prospect of sharing what he’d found out excited him. He figured indulging his own excitement might be okay.

“See the top line here?” Teldryn pointed to the first line of text at the very top of the rubbing, “And then that one underneath it?” He pointed to the next line, watching as Erra’s attention moved as he directed, “These are two different writing systems that say the same thing… I think.”

Erra furrowed his brow, “Why would you need two writings to say the same thing?”

“Two separate languages, sera,” He explained, tapping the top of the page again, “See this more flowy one up here?”

Erra nodded, his gaze focused on Teldryn’s finger.

“I know what these letters say, yeah?” Teldryn grinned, moving his finger down to the more geometric symbols that sat underneath the Aldmeris, “But no one can read these more square ones. I’m hoping that I can prove that the bottom line is a Dwemeri translation of the top line. We already know that they started writing in Aldmeris as their empire declined. Wouldn’t surprise me if there were like documents and stuff written in both.”

“So, you’re copying down the one you can read?” Erra asked, his voice a little soft.

He nodded, “Yeah, then I copy the Dwemeris underneath an try to find letter matches. It’s not a one-for-one, if it was I’m sure someone would’ve figured it out ages ago.”

“So that is what all these notes and drawings are?” Erra asked, pointing at the pile of papers to Teldryn’s immediate right. He nodded and reached for the page he’d just been scribbling on.

“I think I’ve managed to find a letter S,” Teldryn grinned, tapping the paper in his hand, “It doesn’t come up much but I’m seeing it repeated consistently enough to draw a conclusion, I think. Though I also think maybe it’s making a Z sound. I don’t know…”

“You also drew a scrib…” Erra smiled.

Teldryn felt his cheeks grow a little hot as he glanced back down at the page, a small doodle of a scrib eating a flowed sat in the corner, “I ah… Helps me think.”

He quickly put the paper to the side, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He was embarrassed by it, some childish thing that he’d never quite grown out of. Drawing helped get his thoughts out, he just found that he could better break a cypher if he drew a small mushroom at the bottom of the page or whatever.

“It is cute,” Erra smiled, “Writing is not something that is common here. I did not learn it until I had moved west.”

“I think Hassour mentioned something about you guys not really being into it,” Teldryn mumbled, reaching for one of the last chaks in the bowl, “So what made you learn?”

Erra sighed as he readjusted his position so that he was sitting on the table’s corner, “You cannot sell your services as a guide to outsiders if you cannot formally ask for payment it seems. One’s word is not binding.”

Teldryn sighed before taking a bit of his dessert, “I suppose that makes sense.”

“It is not as if we do not write,” Erra explained, placing his hands on the table as he leaned back a little, “it is just that why we write and who is taught how to is a little different.”

“You mean Ashlanders don’t keep meticulous records of public latrine usage hour to hour?” Teldryn joked.

Erra chuckled and shook his head, “No, but sometimes I think that might be a useful reason to write. No, writing amongst Ashlanders is usually restricted to seers. They write upon chitin and throw it in the hearth to ask questions of the ancestors.”

“You use it for magic?” Teldryn asked, folding his arms. He noticed that his splint was feeling a little loose, and he moved to tighten the knot in his bandage.

Erra nodded, “Magic is done differently than how you have been taught. It is more—” Erra exhaled sharply and bit down on his lip, “I do not know the word, but it is how we worship our ancestors.”

“I wouldn’t say I was taught all that much,” Teldryn scoffed, “So writing an magic are religious things?”

“They are one and the same, yes.” Erra sighed, his shoulders relaxing a little.

“So, you guys don’t use it in battle or—”

“That, Agent is where it gets a little complicated,” Erra smiled, his gaze falling to the floor, “Those who have magic belong to our seer casts. A small group of these seers are what your settled people call ‘battle mages’ but they still revere the ancestors before battle in a way that is proper.”

Teldryn nodded, “So it's stratified?”

“Stratified?” Erra furrowed his brow in confusion, “I do not—”

“I mean like it’s grouped,” Teldryn clarified, “So your mages do only mage things an—”

“Yes,” Erra nodded, “In a way, certain clans do certain jobs within a camp. My clan are seers and warriors.”

“So, you’d have experience with writing then?” He asked, raising his brow.

Erra waved his hand from side to side again, “Somewhat. I was trained as a warrior, my brother was trained as both since his magic flows freely. Mine requires that I use enchantments.”

“Flow freely?” Teldryn asked, “Haven’t heard that term used to describe magic users.”

“I think it is not a problem outside Ashclans,” Erra sighed, “We have…made it so that free-flowing magic is more common amongst the women in our clans. Warriors who are born with free magic we only teach ash magic that— ah it is not important.”

Teldryn took in a deep breath, obviously, Erra was trying to fill him in on custom as Cosades had instructed. A part of him had forgotten that Erra was here on business, “So how would I conduct myself about camp? Since I’m a mage with a prick.”

Erra looked a little taken aback by his language and he realised he was being a little forward. He sighed and shook his head, “I mean with all this hospitality stuff, I don’t know shit about it.”

“Clan restrictions should not apply to you,” Erra replied with a heavy sigh, “You are not a part of the tribe, so these restrictions are not of your concern. Well, not until you are named clanfriend at the very least.”

“Clanfriend?” Teldryn tilted his head, “What’s that?”

Erra sighed, “It means what you think it means. You would be allowed to move freely within the clan, but you would also be subject to our laws and customs just as any full member would.”

Teldryn nodded, his shoulders tensing a little, “So…?”

“It will not matter unless you can speak with the Ashkhan,” Erra continued, “And you cannot have an audience with my uncle without first getting permission from his Gulakhan.”

“Uncle?” Teldryn smirked at the mer, “The Ashkhan’s your uncle?”

Erra groaned and rolled his eyes, “Great Uncle, to be more precise.”

Teldryn relaxed his shoulders again and leaned backwards in his chair, his hands clasping behind his head, “So what does that make you then?”

“Nothing!” Erra clipped back as he got to his feet, his hands balled into fists by his side, “Forgive me, I must go speak with my brother. Can we speak again once I am… a little more rested, Agent?”

Teldryn swallowed, his heart sinking at his guide’s sudden change of tone. He hung his head and nodded, letting Erra slip away and leaving him alone in their silent tent. The winds of the ashlands lightly lapped at the surrounding canvas that he had learned was brimming with sound-dampening enchantments and wards.

He had been enjoying his conversation with his guide, though it was obvious that, just like before when they were travelling the ashwastes, Erra was keeping details from him. He wondered just what it was that put his guide so on edge. He had let slip that his relationship with his clan was complicated and Teldryn drew the conclusion that whatever bad blood had passed between Erra and the clan was none of his business. He was no stranger to the complexities of navigating one’s own blood. It was not his favourite topic to discuss either.

Teldryn had resolved to keep his mouth shut on the matter. He would do his best to follow Erra’s instructions, gather the information he needed, write his dumb reports for Cosades and then go from there.

Ideally, he’d like to be rid of this Nerevarine business as soon as possible. He was still finding Cosades’ revelations to be laughable. The notion that he, of all people, would fit the constraints of the Nerevarine prophecies was fucking ridiculous! The fact that this was even being entertained was fucking stupid!

And yet had the Emperor not hallucinated Teldryn’s face in a dream, he might still be wasting away in his cell in the Bastion. It was stupid, there was no doubting that but that same stupidity was why he had some modicum of freedom.

Teldryn groaned and reached for his cigarette tin, he’d go outside and try to clear his head. Forget that he was essentially spying for the fucking Empire for five fucking minutes.

[v-iroine]

₊˚⊹౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ LOVE AND DEEPSPACE HCS

Chap: In your remembrance.

✿ Xavier/!MC + Zayne/!MC + Rafayel/!MC + Sylus/!MC + Caleb/!MC (use of they/them pron! and mc's appearance is not mentioned).

ꕀ In a moment of solitude and thought, the LADS men, get lost in the memory of your presence ... ✿ (sound track) -> Music link assigned to each of them.

✿ tw: swallowing of acrylic paint (not to do at home).

✿ Author's note: these HC do not take place in the same timeline as the game, so before and after the encounter with MC. Sorry if some characters seem OOC, it's been ages since I wrote HCs (pls have mercy on Caleb, his head is fucked up in a good way?).

✿ (sound track)

Silence filled the void, dull eyes wandering into infinity. A subtle diamond shielded him, protecting him from the nonexistent surroundings.

Immobilized by sadness, small, sweet tears ran down his reddened eyes and pale cheeks. He was lost in the distance between himself and the void, eventually losing track of his path.

His back rested against the hard seat, cold hands gliding over the ship's keyboard. Every sound had been erased from his mind, leaving him completely alone with only his thoughts.

A broken, junked tape recorder forgotten within the structure that drifted through the darkness, just like its owner.

Above a worn photograph, an old scratched disc swayed gently. The man considered it the dearest thing he owned, the only thing that ever drew light into the nebula-blue of his eyes.

The passenger seat had known an old friend, but never the person in the photograph he admired so deeply.

Before him now, an immutable, irreparable choice, one he would regret until the end of his life.

“My queen, sorry if I ever disappointed you.”

It didn’t take long before the structure, too, was devoured by the void and joined the stars, brighter than ever before.

✿ (sound track)

In hand, old expired coupons whose counted the years on every single fold and tear. that kept him company during the most monotonous evenings.

They were kept carefully hidden in the pockets of the cloth, afraid of losing the memory they carried.

Space and time collapsed beneath the weight of the winter, white lights illuminated his path, while the constant growing buzz isolated him completely from the crowd.

Distant memories made their way into his mind, and he couldn't help but let a slight smile tear the scene from his mind.

Light sighs left his reddened lips as he managed to recognize elements that had not yet been changed, while his mind impatiently searched for more resemblance of that specific needle that was hiding in the straw of faceless people.

Snow-covered buildings, structures of various kinds stood before him.

His eyes immersed in tiredness could do nothing but be dazzled by the dim lights of the restaurants that from the beginning were intended for him and the owner of those tickets.

✿ (sound track)

A torn page, a hole in an empty canvas haunted him, the speakers kept playing the same composition on an endless loop.

Eyes dull, the light in his motley gaze had disappeared along with his muse.

Time had become almost immutable, the passing of day and night were just a mere nuisance, just time wasted waiting for nothing.

Only an image of them, a portrait, seemed to stand before him, a fragmented memory captured in one of the few canvases that had survived his wrath.

A broken brush between his fingers, eyebrows furrowed as he continued to stare at the milk-colored canvas, with a blank expression.

His heart seemed to have lost its pulse as he sat on the carved wooden stool, balancing himself on his bare heels against the floor.

Every brushstroke, painted with such vehemence, was sacred, untouchable, and it seemed to rebel against the white of the canvas.

He had promised himself he would stop.

But this, this was the only way to full the hollow space carved within him.

The only way to remember.

His fingers dipped with ease into the pigment, letting it slide between his fingers tips, smearing its path across the canva of his hands.

His hand traveled its path, until it reached his lips, cleaning the red that once reflected them.

✿ (sound track)

His hands reached for his helmet, unhooking it from his head.

The night air masked the smog that had clogged his nostrils only moments before.

Far from his city, he stepped into an old park, the red leaves buried in darkness, only the dim glow of scattered street lamps guiding his path.

Dry leaves and soil crunched beneath his boots, each step slower than the last, like the tension in his limbs had finally begun to drain.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, dragging his sleeve across his skin.

And there, in the dirt, a flower. A single thing that seemed to steal all the color from its surroundings, demanding to be seen.

His red eyes regained a trace of their old shine, as a gentle smirk played on his lips.

His fingertips reached down to brush the petals, as if afraid they’d vanish beneath too much pressure.

An old memory, something he had never had a chance to forget, formed in his mind.

He hesitated only a moment before tearing the stem free, careful, and slipping the flower into his jacket pocket, right above his heart, before keeping on his way.

✿ (sound track)

The light had just taken over the sky. The darkness was still there, but easily malleable with the light of the studio in the middle of the clouds.

But someone was already awake, before the arrival of the day.

His tablet, linked to the holo-display, continued to repeat the star’s words from old recordings, as if in a loop, a broken record.

His ears listened to the voice as if it were the first time, analyzing every single imperfection, as if enchanted.

His hand, locked in a tight grip around the metal medallion, continued to trace its relief—caressing it as if trying to memorize the pattern.

Old photographs, printed rather than digital, stood arranged before him like a private exhibit. All of them pictured the same subject.

His gaze, lost in each image, lingered in frozen stillness, shifting slightly only when these started to get blurry.

His messy hair hiding his penetrating gaze, after one of the many sleepless nights, the heartbeat ringing in his ears along with that voice

It was the only truth left of his life, the only memory he had left, the only subject he cared about and had to ensure he never forgot. The last fragment of his past, that he to guard like the emergency oxygen supply, his green apple.

[dramalove247]

I'm still in my feels over Top Form ep 6

a Kat 🐈 rambles post

We interrupt your regularly (un)scheduled sheKATigans to bring you some Kat-rambling feels on the night BEFORE we get episode 7.

Spoilers for episode 6 below the cut. Also, uh, you know, trigger warning for discussion of SA.

I’m STILL having a lot of feelings about Top Form Episode 6.  When not thinking about it actively it’s not as present as it was the first couple of days… but whenever I think about it everything comes flooding back.

I don’t remember details from the pilot/trailer about the series. I’m sure I watched it at some point, but other than knowing I wanted to watch it and it was about actors, I couldn’t tell you much about it.  I have also been intentional about not watching the episode teasers.  I got a slight spoiler by accident in a reaction video before watching episode 6, so I had some glimpses, but was not prepared for everything that happened.

I think it’s important to note that I think the screenplay and the acting were incredible this episode. My reaction is a testament to just how incredibly well done both those aspects are. I applaud so much about the cast, crew, and production of this series.

I kept watching the plot of episode 6 progress, all the while hoping that everything that appeared to be happening wasn’t. I hoped that I was assuming the worst and that things wouldn’t go that far. But they did. And it was so much worse even.

This wasn’t two intoxicated people past the point of decision making capabilities. This isn’t two people actively participating at different degrees of intoxication, compromised cognition, decision making, and dubious or questionable consent.

This was not a case of one person not intoxicated, with the other intoxicated to the point of unconsciousness. This was one person who, when presented with the opportunity, made the decision to RAPE another person, not impulsively, but with deliberation. From the moment he saw Akin was passed out, Johnny made the decision to rape him and put his plan into motion.  He went full speed ahead, doubling down, with no remorse or hesitation, and a whole lot of malicious glee. When Jin called, Johnny used that as an opportunity to taunt Jin, lighting the fuse on another bomb aimed at Akin, and delighted in what he was doing and planned to do to Akin.

I watched that scene and felt sick. Even taking a break didn’t help. Finishing the scene felt even worse than when I stopped in the first place. With complete respect I need to point out that this isn’t because I don’t like pain, discomfort, or drama in the series I watch.  This wasn’t because I need series to be light and fluffy.  No this is because the content is MASSIVELY TRIGGERING.  Statistically speaking if you cannot relate to Akin, then I guarantee you someone you know can- whether they have shared that with you or not.  This was a lot for me.  This was a lot for a significant number of us.  It doesn’t matter that this is a fictional.  Because the details may look different, but the pain and the shame and the dissociation and the need to keep moving and functioning because the world doesn’t stop even if you feel like you are shattering apart – yeah that’s so fucking real and relatable.  

I have a lot to say about this series, the director, how amazingly he ran his set, and about the cast. And I have even more to say about this episode.  But that will all be a post for another day.  It’s already taken me the better part of a week to say all this.  It’s late. I’m tired.  And this is some serious heavy lifting.

I’ve found myself standing in that parking garage with Akin all week, and I’m hopeful episode 7 brings some healing to him, and to those of us standing there with him.  I know I definitely need it.