#that's GOOD. that's what they SHOULD be doing. taking things slow.

[temiizpalace]

☆┊MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE?

SUMMARY: many heroes wished to share this dance with you, yet you chose him.

CHARACTERS: HEARTSLABYUL

GENRE: fluff

OTHER: heartslabyul savanaclaw octavinelle scarabia pomefiore ignihyde diasomnia

NOTES: thank you for an entire year, tumblr! as celebration for my first anniversary, have a small mini scenario as a token of my gratitude.

reader is g/n, reader is yuu

PROLOGUE ☆˙∘

excitement fluttered within the confines of the classroom. a nationwide gala was being held this evening for students all over twisted wonderland, and this years selected host was none other than the prestigious night raven college. you couldn’t help but feel a little nervous with how everybody spoke of such an event.

even if dances weren’t your thing, it was still worth it to go, right? “myah.. what’s with all the blabbering? it’s just a borin stuffy ball, right? all ya do is stand around for hours. i can guarantee ya not everyone’s gonna have a dance partner.” grim huffs, beginning to grow annoyed with the gossip.

“well, there’s going to be food from all over the region. at least then we’d have something to do, right?” you grin, your partner in crime suddenly very excited for the dance. “why didn’t ya start with that?! we needa go prep our outfits right now!”

evening came sooner than you anticipated. as chaotic as nrc was, somehow this was 10x as lively as usual. everybody had spoke with someone new while you were stuck at the snack bar with grim. a new face appears, wishing to have a small chat.

🌹┊RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS∘˙✩

“so you’re the magicless prefect, hm?”

a young boy leaned on the table, his unexpected presence startling you. “and you are..?” you question, curious as to how he knew you. he looked unfamiliar, but you couldn’t help but notice his pristine and well dressed appearance. he was handsome, certainly.

“where are my manners? amias reinheardt, a pleasure.” he smiles, bowing slightly before you. “i have heard lots about you, meeting you in person is truly an honor.” the way he spoke so highly of you was flattering, it was almost too much. but all his praise leads back to the same question: how does he know you?

“it’s nice to meet you, but how do you know me exactly?” you ask, raising your brow. “you’re quite popular. my classmate neige had many things to say, i just had to meet you myself.” he chuckles, and suddenly it clicked. classmate? “you’re from rsa?”

“correct you are.” he chuckles. now it all made sense. he was surprisingly chatty, but not in an off putting way. it was actually nice having someone not stuffing their face anytime you tried to talk to them. however, your chatter and laughter caught the attention of a nearby redhead.

“riddle, calm down.” trey sighs, seeing as riddle grit his teeth from afar. “what are you on about, trey? i am perfectly calm.” unfortunately, riddle was not raised as a good liar. “just go up to them, im sure it’s fine.” the boy in glasses sighs, adjusting them so they don’t fall off his face.

“it’s rude to interrupt conversations, you know.” riddle frowns, crossing his arms. despite his attempts to act unbothered, his gaze would still find its way back to you. seven why must you do this to him?

maybe he should just go over there. why fight it if there’s nothing to gain but seething jealousy?

a slow song starts to play, students suddenly stopping and taking their partners to the floor. amias paused as well, looking to you with a small smile. “oh? prefect, shall we?” he holds his hand out to you, waiting for you to take it.

riddle, on the other hand, was not going to stand for that. “[MC].” riddle struts over, causing you to whip your head over in his direction. “riddle?”

“may i have this dance?” he puts a hand behind his back, bowing slightly while reaching out for you. “pardon?” amias interjects, looking to riddle then back at you. “i believe i had asked first.”

oh. taken aback by their sudden proposals, you had to take a moment to ensure this is reality and not some weird vivid dream you were apart of.

you hesitate for a moment before taking riddle’s hand. “im sorry amias..” you mumble, shooting him an apologetic look. “don’t be. maybe someday..” he trails off, watching as riddle led you to the dance floor.

“at least try to be more cautious around strangers, prefect. not all of them have good intentions.” he sighs, waltzing you around the ballroom. his movements were refined, not perfect but not imperfect either. he made sure not to step on your foot no matter how bad your dancing may be.

“oh come on, he wasn’t a bad guy. maybe you’re just jealous.” you laugh, his silence a clear enough answer for you. his cheeks were red, but it was far too endearing.

“i wouldn’t want to share this dance with anyone else, riddle.” you hold a firm grip on his hands as you spoke, unable to hide your own flustered expression in turn.

“..im happy to hear that, [MC]..”

❤️┊ACE TRAPPOLA˙∘✩

“you [MC]?”

you turn to find a short boy invading your personal space, taking a few steps back to get a clear view of him. “uhm.. yes? and you’re.?” you answer, confused. his outfit was a tad disheveled, like it was barely put together. there were wrinkles and folds in his suit, but he had an odd charm about him.

“alan. alan fletcher. upcoming star player for rsa’s basketball team.” he grins triumphantly, his expression almost cocky. “ohh, i have a friend in basketball!” you reply, making the boy flinch.

“what?! err i mean, i heard a lot about ya. popular dude from school talks about you sometimes.” he shrugs, like he was reading your mind. you were just about to ask how he knows you!

“well there’s not much to know about me.” you laugh awkwardly, fiddling with the ends of your sleeves.

“yeah right, you’re from a different world! cmon, talk about it! im curious. what’s different there?” he asks, leaning on the table. it’s been awhile since you’ve last got to talk about home. with all the chaos at nrc, you’ve almost forgotten you’re trying to look for a way back.

“i guess there are a few things.” you chuckle, causing the boys heart to flutter.

ace frowned from afar, an unfamiliar feeling of jealousy coming over him as he stared. “ACE, THATS WAY TOO MUCH PUNCH! STOP POURIN.” deuce yells, his cup overflowing and spilling onto the tablecloth.

ace looks to deuce. he was absentmindedly scooping punch into his cup without realizing it. “gah, we need napkins! professor crewel would kill us if he saw this.”

while deuce was fretting over the spill, rushing over for napkins or any cloth he can find to mask the spill, ace felt lost. has he always been this jealous over you? i mean, sure he’s given a few dudes the stink eye every now and then, but this felt different.

the song changed abruptly, everyone now finding a dance partner or stepping off the floor. alan looks at you, waiting for you to say something. you try to avoid his gaze, his stare beginning to grow unsettling.

breaking the silence, alan spoke. “hey, do you wanna—”

“yo! [MC]!” ace shouts, running over to you with a cheeky grin. “been lookin for ya. cmon, let’s dance!” he grabs your hand, pulling you towards the middle of the ballroom.

“what?! hey!” alan calls out for you, but by the time you turned around to apologize, he was already out of sight.

you frown at ace, to which he scoffs in return. “what?”

“that was a bitch move, ace.” you pinch his nose, causing him to wince in pain.

“OW! look, we can apologize later. shut up and dance for awhile!” he chuckles, spinning you around.

“thought you were gonna dance with deuce. you jealous?”

“..i said shut up dance.”

(deuce was pissed to see ace leave him with the stain but at least you’re having fun).

♠┊DEUCE SPADE∘˙✩

“are you the student with no magic?”

a boy in a tacky looking hat smiled at you, making you stare for awhile before finding his eyes. aside from his hat, his suit was quite.. eccentric. colorful, for sure. somehow it all tied together, but he would most definitely stand out in a crowd. “i am..” you nod slowly.

“the names thistle!” he grinned, holding his hand out. as you reach out to shake his hand, he pulls a rose out of his sleeve and hands it to you elegantly. somehow this guy reminds you of a certain somebody in pomefiore.. interesting.

“are you familiar with che’nya? i know he sneaks onto your campus at times.” he laughs.

“i see him at unbirthday parties. didn’t know he talked about me so often.” you chuckle, finding the thought flattering.

“he tells me you’re from another universe. care to talk about it?” he asks, resting his chin on his hand.

“hm.. to kill time i guess.”

deuce stared at you, his expression blank and empty. you were laughing and having a good time, he should be happy, right? why does his heart ache so much?

seeing you with a rose in hand and a huge smile on your face would be such a breathtaking sight if it weren’t for who was next to you.

ace took notice of deuce’s expression, or lack of thereof. he smirked and nudged him gently. “looks like the prefect is hot on the market.” Ace teased, a cocky grin on his face.

deuce shoots him a glare, suddenly frowning at his partner in crime. “shut up! they can talk to whoever they want! im not jealous.” he huffs, crossing his arms.

“i never said anything about jealousy. yeesh, lighten up.” ace holds his hands up in defense, backing away slowly. “if you’re really upset just go talk to em. im sure your presence is welcomed with open arms anyway.”

“you think so..?” deuce felt his eyes lighten up, his gaze averting back to you.

the ballroom crowded to the center, students finding their partners to dance to the slow rhythm. thistle looks at you, putting his hand out. before he can even ask, a loud shout from across the ballroom stops him in his tracks.

“[MC]!!” deuce sprints over, stopping in front of you while panting for breath.

“deuce?! where did you—”

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO DANCE WITH ME?” he asks in between breaths, eyes shimmering in a newfound confidence. realizing he sounded a little pushy, he finally regulates his breathing and asks once more.

“uhm— i meant uh.. may i have this dance.?” he holds his hand out, bowing slightly before you.

you look to thistle, he smiled and gestured for you to take deuce’s hand. before taking off, you mouth an apology before turning to deuce and bringing him to the center.

“you didn’t have to run, yknow. i would’ve turned him down anyway.” you laugh, noticing deuce’s stiff movements.

“s-sorry. i guess i was just scared.” his dancing was robotic, missing his steps constantly. he stepped on his foot, but you managed to pick up the slack.

“ah! sorry!” he mumbled an apology, to which you grin in return.

“don’t worry, we can work on your dancing together. how about next week?”

“r-really?”

“really. consider it a date.”

“A DATE?! oh, i mean— sure. sounds good!” despite deuce’s attempts to seem calm and collected, he couldn’t hide the dopey grin spread across his face.

♦┊CATER DIAMOND˙∘✩

“so it’s true! nrc does have a student without magic!”

a startling shout from your right catches you off guard, turning to meet a rabbit beastmen with a huge smile. he wasn’t really wearing a suit, more of a vest. it wasn’t buttoned up all the way, but you must say he had really nice hair. looked so smooth.. “uh, tadaa?”

“what’s your name?” he asks, looking at you intently. “what’s yours?” you asked in turn, putting a hand on your hip.

“woah, woah, i asked first didn’t i?”

“well you initiated the conversation.” you shrug.

“alright, alright. im timothy parker, and you are?”

“[MC], nice to meet you.”

“i’ve heard so much about you from a friend of mine! we should get to know each other! have you played 20 questions?” he was a quick talker, you barely had time to reply before he talked about something different.

“i think ive played before.” you recall, nodding your head. “cool! ill start then!”

cater watched you, two drinks in his hand held firmly within his grip. he wasn’t one for jealousy, but something about this guy doesn’t sit right with him. his expression was usually so well hidden, but he couldn’t hide his frown. riddle took notice of cater’s dismay and raises a brow.

“cater, the drink might spill if you hold the cup so tightly.” riddle sighs, catching the attention of the boy beside him. “whoopsies! sorry, riddle! got a little distracted, haha!” he tries laughing it off, but that only makes him less believable.

“is something bothering you?” riddle questions, crossing his arms while looking in the direction cater was staring at.

“nope! don’t worry about it, cay-cay is fine!” he gives riddle a wink before walking towards you with a smile. “[MC]! heyy!”

you turn to see cater approaching, flashing a smile before waving enthusiastically. “cater!” timothy looks over, his smile faltering slightly at the sight of a new face.

“timothy, cater, cater, timothy.” you introduce them to each other. both boys stay silent for a moment before breaking the silence with a few casual greetings and fake smiles.

“hii! names cater, [MC]’s bestie!” cater hands you a drink, to which you eagerly accept. “hello. im timothy.” he replies dryly, much different than the way he greeted you.

the conversation flowed normally, though you chose to ignore their obvious distaste for each others presence. such cheery guys choosing to hate each other instead of bond, it made you kinda sad.

the music shifts to a slow song, cater immediately looking at you with a smile. “[MC], wanna dance?” he asks before timothy could, not failing to see his frown. cater put out his hand, gesturing for you to take it.

you felt your cheeks warm up. you put your drink down to hold his hand as he takes you away from the snack bar.

“isn’t this fun!” he beams, waltzing around with you. “i should take a photo!”

“if you do, you should send it to me. we can have matching profile pics.” you laugh, twirling him around.

“that’s so cute! smile for the cam!” he holds his phone up, snapping a quick photo of you two together. he posts it quickly, putting a string of emojis on the caption before putting his phone away and spinning you both around the room.

your smile means the world to him. it always will.

he didn’t want a viral post, he just wanted to keep your smile preserved for all time.

♣️┊TREY CLOVER∘˙✩

“boo!”

you jump, turning to find a floating head beside you. that head looked familiar. “che’nya?”

“meow how’d you guess?” suddenly, in the blink of an eye his full body appeared. his outfit was definitely not up to dresscode, lots of patches stitched onto an already brightly colored vest. it does suit him, but it feels like you were flashbanged.

“just a hunch. did you need something?” you ask, only to be met with his usual catlike smile. che’nya looked somewhere, grinning mischievously before averting his attention back down at you.

“wanna see a trick?”

“uh, sure?” and with that, he pulls out a deck of cards. he gestures for you to take one before suddenly changing the deck into a full tea set.

laughing in amusement, trey couldn’t help his heart from singing. why did his damn friend need to tease him like that? he clenched his fist tightly, feeling a little embarrassed for being jealous like that.

“trey-trey, let’s take it down a notch! che’nya’s just playing!” cater reassures his friend, patting him on the shoulder. trey sighs, adjusting his glasses properly.

“i know.. i shouldn’t even be jealous. it’s not like we’re together or anything.” he laughs awkwardly, making cater tut in response.

“don’t you see the way they look at you? when they bake with you it’s more than just being a helping hand, yknow?” cater crosses his arms, causing trey to stiffen.

“huh?”

“enough chit-chattt, let’s go join their convo!” cater drags trey to the snack bar, actively ignoring his protests and obvious refusals.

the melodies of slow violin play across the ballroom, students around beginning to slow dance.

“now’s your shot! go!” cater shoved trey towards you with great force. trey nearly fell to his knees but he managed to find his balance before he embarrassed himself.

“GAH!”

che’nya smirks, pointing behind you. “what?”

“trey?!”

“[MC],” trey puts his hand out for you. “may i have this dance?” a small smile hinted at the corners of his lips, you swore butterflies began to erupt in your stomach.

“it’d be an honor.” you take his hand, leading him away to the middle of the floor.

trey was surprisingly good at slow dancing. much better than that time with the ghost bride. “taking dance lessons, clover?” you ask, laughing as he averts your eyes.

“i’d rather not humiliate myself for a second time, haha.” he chuckles, swaying you around.

“i was honestly a little jealous seeing you have a good time with che’nya.” he admits, in which you burst into laughter in return.

“whys that? im sure you know he was just playing?”

“you can never be too sure.”

“don’t worry trey, this dance was reserved for you.”

“that’s reassuring to hear..”

A/N: names for these NPCS were harder than the actual fic 💀💀💀

date published: 11/27/24

© temiizpalace — do not copy, steal, or put my work into ai. thank you!

divider found here! ☆

[chithereader]

losing my cool / aaron hotchner

part 2 to playing it cool !!! hope you like it word count: 1.6k pairing: aaron hotchner x f!reader genre: angst at first, but fluff!!!!!! cw: more sickeningly sweet and soft aaron x reader, mentions of insecurities

The smile on Aaron’s face slowly fades as he takes in your frozen stance. You’re staring at him like he just shot you in the back and worry starts to fill him, “Honey..?” waving his hand in front of your face, hoping it would be enough to break you out of your stupor. 

 “Hello?” Still waving his hand in your face, your eyes darted to his. Your body is in a state of shock– in your mind, there’s a tiny version of you desperately digging her way out of a landslide of disbelief. Waves and waves of doubts and insecurities hindering you from processing what is happening. 

Aaron watches as your mouth moves with barely any sound coming out. Like a fish out of water, you’re scrambling, “W-what?” That’s… a bit too shaky to be good. 

He pauses to think. The doubts are starting to creep up on him. 

Maybe he was too rash with his question. 

Maybe that wasn’t the best way to spring it on you. 

Maybe he should have waited for a better time.

Maybe he should have planned something. 

Maybe she isn’t ready.

Maybe she just doesn’t want to marry me. 

He tries hard to swallow all these dark thoughts, clearing his throat to fake the confidence that’s slowly diminishing, “I said, ‘Marry me.’” After he says those words again he stills, hoping that this time he’ll get an answer. And that.. it would be the answer he so badly wants. 

But time slows down and his heart soon follows as he watches tears start to pool in your eyes. You’re shaking your head– they’re tiny shakes and you look panicked. This isn’t good. Not good at all. 

He really wasn’t expecting this. It never occurred to him you’d say no. Or ..not yes. Aaron’s mind is running a million miles per hour. He doesn’t know what to do, or say. He barely even knows how he feels. And so he defaults to doing the one thing he does best (as a prosecutor at least): object. 

This is triggered by your movement. You move around him, leaving the kitchen towards your living room. Your goal was to sit on the couch, craving some stability as your legs get weaker the more you’re processing what was asked, how you reacted, and how it could be coming across. 

But Aaron’s legs are longer than yours. Before you even reach the couch, he’s holding your arm firmly and gently at the same time. He’s got that furrow in his brows that makes him look stern, but his eyes betray him as you can clearly see the worry in them. 

“Well yes!” he says in disagreement. He doesn’t understand why you haven’t said yes, and as much as he isn’t the kind of man to ever force a lady into anything, a part of him is scared of what he’ll hear if he asks you why you’re not saying yes. 

Though instead of allowing that fear to paralyze him, he allows it to control him. To bear its face because the softer, more rational part of him is hiding. 

You’re avoiding his gaze, crossing your arms– you’re turning away from him. “No- Aaron, you– I don– I ca–” 

You know he’s studying you. You can feel his eyes roaming your face, your neck, your body. He’s taking in everything he can because you’ve given him absolutely nothing so far. And oh how you wish you could voice it all out. 

You just wish it was easy to say I don’t think I’m enough for you. What if you realize one day that I’m not good enough? Are you sure? Are you sure about this? About me? What if you start to want someone smarter? Prettier? Hotter? What if you want someone who is as accomplished or important as you? What if you get bored of me? What if– 

You’re broken out of your thoughts when he suddenly straightens. He looks as if he’s realized something and the next thing you know you’re hit by a gust of wind because he’s running up the stairs. 

Within an instant you run after him. A dozen scenarios are running through your head, the worst being Aaron packing your things because he’s going to ask you to leave. Your heart beats faster as you reach the top of the steps. You peek into your room and see him rummaging through drawers. 

Your worries quiet significantly when you realize they’re his drawers. And just when you’re about to approach him, he turns around meeting you halfway. You’re both illuminated by the sunlight that’s coming through the bedroom window you’re standing in front of. 

He’s still. He’s got a serious look on his face. You take him in, trying to read him but he’s got his profiler look on– unreadable and determined. His voice rattles you, “I’m sorry. That was a mistake.” Firm and devoid of any emotion. 

Oh god.

You’re shaking your head, reaching to hold him by his arms. You start to cry, “Aaron please, that’s not what I–” but… he’s going down on one knee. 

What?

He watched multiple emotions flicker on your face. Defeat, panic, confusion– “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have said that. I– I planned to do it better than that. I don’t know why I let it slip out, you deserve better than that.” 

Before you can process it, Aaron’s holding out a ring. He’s holding your hand in the other while tears are streaming down both your faces. You have no idea how you heard it but you guess it’s simply a testament to how attuned you are to him when he whispers, “Please, please, please. Will you marry me, honey?” 

Time stops. Literally. You can feel your heart in your chest beating louder, heavier. It’s pounding as if begging to be heard. Begging to let Aaron know that it beats for him and him only. You’re lowering yourself to kneel before him. You want to see his face properly. His eyes. His nose. His lips. This is the man you love. This is the man you want to marry. Your eyes are simply capturing every angle of this moment. 

You’re leveled now. Equals. You grab both his hands in yours and you stare into his brown eyes. You want him to know you mean it, as you nod your head slowly and breathe out, “Yes.” A smile breaks across his face, tears starting to stream again. 

You watch him as he tries to put the ring on your finger, getting it on the first try even if his sight is slightly hindered by his tears of happiness and relief. The sun makes the ring sparkle, catching your attention and you look at it properly for the first time. 

It’s beautiful. Aaron would argue that the stone screams you – grace, loyalty, peace. He catches your eye and the both of you start to smile. You start to giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck while his arms snake around your waist. 

He buries his head in your neck, breathing in your scent while silently thanking the heavens for granting him this. You break apart, startled to hear tiny footsteps nearing. The both of you start to stand up from the floor, straightening yourselves out and wiping the remaining tears staining your faces. 

You both look to the door, waiting for the little boy to show himself. You hear a soft knock right before the door opens slowly, a head peeking in, “Daddy?” 

Aaron goes to the door, opening it more for Jack to come in. The little boy goes straight to you and you pick him up in your arms with ease, resting him on your hip. You have your left hand holding him stable, and even though the little boy’s still groggy with sleep he notices the sparkling addition to your hand. 

You take notice of how his little face lights up in excitement and you have no idea what about it he understands, “I help Daddy buy you that!” His voice is full of pride, genuinely proud that he had played a part in picking. 

You’re confused, not fully understanding what Jack means. Looking to Aaron for an answer, you’re surprised to find him blushing. He looks shy and he’s shrugging at you but you can tell he’s trying hard to play it cool. The smile fighting its way on his face betrays him. 

You decide to take your chance on the adorable kid that is now fiddling with your ring, watching in amazement at how much it’s twinkling in the light. Children are the most honest people you know anyway. Pursing your lips with squinted eyes, you investigate “What do you mean, bubba?” 

“Daddy asked me what ring pop you want, so I asked you when we watched Spiderman and you said your favorite is the green one so I tell Daddy you want the green one!” 

Your heart stutters and the tears start coming in again. Aaron asking Jack for his opinion for your engagement ring. Jack thinking it's a ring pop. Jack asking for your favorite ring pop flavor. Jack being proud that you got the ring you want, pop or not. 

Brought out of your thoughts by Jack wanting to leave your hold, you put him down. You watch as he happily walks out of your room, presumably to go to the kitchen. You look at Aaron again, and just as you’re about to say something about what you just found out, you realize one thing. Spiderman.

You gasp. Covering your mouth in surprise, you slap his arm lightly, “That was our third date!”

Aaron laughs loudly, rushing out of the room before you can throw questions at him or even comments about how insane he is. He couldn’t care less. He was right. 

a/n: just want to say thank you so much for the love and support i've been getting for my hotch fics!! as someone who's new here, it all means so much to me <33 i recently made a masterlist as i plan to write so much more and branch out to other characters i've been perpetually in love with!! leave requests of what you want to read or characters i can write about, i'd love to write for you guys ◡̈ tagging the people who wanted a part 2 for this: @pear-1206 @dedicatedfangirl2001 u guys are so sweet

[alchemistc]

Part One

Oh, I've got plenty to be thankful for

I've got eyes to see with

Ears to hear with

Arms to hug with

Lips to kiss with

Someone to adore

-bing crosby

He keeps waiting for someone to say something. To accuse him of lingering where he doesn't belong, or remind him he'd never actually made it all the way in. To tell him to go home, maybe get a halfhearted promise to let him know how Buck is at some point.

Maddie lays an exhausted head on his shoulder and Bobby sneaks him a slice of pumpkin pie he's apparently been hiding in the tote at his feet. Hen tosses him a power bank with a lightning cord and Karen makes a joke about his holiday attire.

When the coffee comes, Howie takes the trip to the lobby with him, pulls out his wallet and does his damnedest to strong arm Tommy into letting him tip the haggard looking girl another twenty bucks on top of the fifty Tommy'd figured was appropriate for having to balance a literal stack of hot beverages from the parking lot on Thanksgiving. She eyes them both with a smile and Tommy is more compelled the grab the drink carriers from her tired arms than stop Howie.

They're halfway back when Howie purposely slows his pace, and Tommy fights the urge to pick his up and avoid whatever's coming down on him. "So. Was this the wake up call you needed, or can I expect Buck to order a freezer on a Black Friday deal for my garage to store more baked goods?"

He doesn't know what that means.

He can extrapolate, though. "He's been baking?"

"Tommy, I cannot stress enough exactly how much he's been baking."

He'd tried his hand at a few things here and there, but Tommy's used to experimental chef Evan Buckley, not baking Evan Buckley. To be fair, if he'd seen Evan working a KitchenAid, apron tied loose and flour on a cheekbone, Tommy doubts he'd have actually had the time to finish whatever he had planned. That was then, of course.

"What was he doing on that trail, Howie?" That, too, he could maybe extrapolate. He doesn't want to, but he could.

Howie eyes him. Uses his free arm to elbow Tommy in the ribs. "You were the first person he ever invited to a 118 Thanksgiving, you know. My guess? He wasn't in the mood to be reminded of it while there was no room in the oven to bake away his feelings."

Yeah.

Jax had been over the moon when Tommy offered to take his shift, no trades necessary. What would the point have been, when Christmas and New Year's would be unbooked too?

Evan had bribed like six different people to ensure they'd be able to swing dinner on the day. Hobbes had sounded so thrilled to hear Tommy asking for the time off that he'd approved it without even looking at the shift.

"I'm just warning you in advance. The grovelling process is gonna involve eating your weight in loaves, most likely."

And that's that, apparently. No heavy handed warnings, no suspicion about why Tommy hasn't fucked off yet. Like it's some foregone conclusion that Tommy's not gonna panic and bolt a second time. Nothing has changed, yet Tommy gets the feeling they're all expecting some tearful reunion and a return to TommyandBuck.

Tommy slips the tea into Maddie's hands and watches her sniff it in distaste, which is an interesting nugget he'll have to revisit later if -

If.

There's no guarantees, here. That Tommy will be able to articulate how fucking terrified he is, that Evan will understand it. That the two of them will find a way through it together. All he has to go on is a solo hike on a day Evan should have been with family, an apparent bakery full of feelings spread between the 118, and the quiet calm that had washed over him when Eddie prompted him to make a decision.

Feet to the fire, he'd stayed.

---

Maddie's pregnant. It hits him between the eyes right around hour three of sit-and-wait. He's not an idiot, or a fool, and he hasn't spoken to any of these people in weeks so he's not going to announce it to the world, but somewhere in between the sporadic naps on Tommy's shoulder and the way she is attempting (failing) to power through her now cold tea makes him think. She and Bobby had driven here, and it's clear everyone else had been indulging. Maddie's no lush, but he's seen her knock back half a bottle of wine before when she's got nowhere to be.

She excuses herself to the bathroom for a third time, looking a little green, and Tommy ends up locked in a staring contest with Howie that only ends when Tommy mimes zipping his lips.

He still hasn't gotten the story about Eddie and why he's not here.

Bobby and Athena are apparently closing in on a new house.

Howie is less than a year away from having a second kid.

Athena's kids are apparently at Howie and Maddie's, attempting to keep Mara and Jee from destroying the house in the absence of adults.

And Tommy wants.

Wanting has never really been the problem, though. Wanting is the easy part. Wanting doesn't get him over the hurdle of knowing he's not enough. For Evan, for this family he's built that just keeps growing bigger and bigger. It'd been a relief, those first few days after, not to have to wonder which member of the 118 would land in the hospital next, not to have to rearrange something else on his schedule because Evan was convinced he was cursed, or Eddie'd had another shitty call with Christopher.

The relief hadn't lasted. A week in, he'd stayed up all night demolishing the half-bath off his dining room, because he'd been putting it off for months and he'd nearly texted Evan something that was startlingly revealing and left him exposed on all sides. Two weeks in he'd finished grouting the backsplash in his kitchen. And in between, he wondered how Eddie was doing, if he'd made any progress with his son. He'd wondered if Maddie enjoyed the bottle of wine they'd brought back from a spur of the moment trip to Napa. He'd wondered how Nash was doing, if he was readjusting to having his crew and his station back. He wondered how Hen and Karen were, how many things Denny had already gotten stuck in his cast trying to ease an itch.

He'd wondered, and he'd sat in it, and then he'd rewired the shoddy work an electrician had done in his spare room that he kept telling himself he'd get around to.

The wanting never goes away. He just finds new places to put it when he starts to care too much.

"Kinard and Buckley?"

Maddie's still in the restroom. Tommy - has no fucking clue why the nurse is staring at them like they'll just materialize the right people. She sucks in her lips and gives him a dead eyed stare before her eyes dart to his chest. More specifically, the nameplate on his chest.

Tommy blinks.

---

The having is where he's always floundered. Things are temporary. People are temporary. He's always been borrowing. Borrowing time, attention, affection.

For a few months there, he'd really started to think he could handle the having. That he'd get to keep it.

---

"I'm Buckley, he's Kinard," Maddie says from somewhere over his left shoulder, and he turns in time to see her adjusting her jacket, wiping at her lip. She stabilizes, looking unfazed, and stands tall. As tall as she can, at least. "You have news about my brother?"

The nurse glances around the room. No one is bothering to pretend not to be listening. Maddie hovers a wave behind her.

"Ignore the audience, we're all waiting with bated breath to see how obnoxious my brothers going to be. It depends entirely on whether or not he gets pie tonight."

She gives them all a disapproving look. This must not be one of their normal nurses.

Christ. They have normal nurses.

"Well, no pie tonight, but he should be able to eat a sandwich in the morning."

He's fine. He's fine.

Tommy knew going in that most of his injuries were superficial. The ribs had been a concern but with the pain meds and the collar he hadn't really had a chance to exacerbate those injuries. There's no reason he should feel quite so relieved to know that Evan will have a few annoying splints to work around and he'll probably need to rehab his ankle for a couple weeks once it's healed. The concussion isn't ideal, and he'll need help for a few days, but he's fine.

Tommy can feel the tears building.

"He'll likely be out for a few more hours, but I'll let you know when he's set up in a room. Two visitors at a time," she warns. "The concussion will effect his response time. Don't be surprised if he doesn't remember much, loses his train of thought."

Hen shifts somewhere behind him. It feels a bit like she's being held back from correcting the nurse about the normal side effects.

Things move on around him. The nurse leaves, Hen passes a Stanley cup around that definitely isn't filled with water, the normal sigh of relief is released while Maddie drops into the seat next to him with a groan, the team has a strange competition around him to battle for visitor position.

Tommy breathes.

I should go, Tommy thinks to himself, as half the people in the room raise their phones.

His own phone vibrates against his thigh.

A message from Howie, time stamped two minutes - Tommy squints to make sure - two minutes ago, an update on Evan. Another from Eddie reminding them all to give Buck a patent Eddie look from him while they were giving him shit. A selfie of Eddie, with Christopher somewhat reluctantly bending into the picture over his shoulder.

In another thread, he's got three messages from Eddie.

If I have to remove you from this group I'm sending my kid after you with his crutches.

You guys hiked Griffith Park for your Not-A-One-Month-Anniversary-We-Swear date, right?

Send Buck my love. Not like that, though.

Tommy sends back: When the fuck did he add me to his emergency contacts? and then decides he doesn't want to know anyway so he turns off his phone.

---

Maddie goes alone, and Tommy spends the time alternating between tapping his foot against the tile to distraction, and clamping his hand over his knee in an attempt to stop the tapping.

Bobby and Athena go next, then Hen and Karen. Then they're pulling on jackets and promising to save a plate for Buck.

Howie slips away for a few minutes and then returns, looking amused. "You think everyone else got the same greeting?" he asks his wife, who grins tiredly at him, pats his wrist. Her gaze turns to Tommy.

"Should we stay?"

That's a trap of a question. That's an assumption Tommy doesn't have a clue how to handle. He clears his throat. Shakes a few curls loose.

"What makes you think he'd want me to?"

Maddie's perfected the unimpressed eyebrow. It must be a parent thing.

Tommy barely holds in the sigh. "Go enjoy your meal."

---

Evan's been watching the door. It's clear the moment Tommy makes it to the threshold - he presses up, winces, tips sideways just enough to peek around the corner.

"Tommy," he says, and his expression melts.

Tommy's heard some iteration of that name a million times. Tom, from his dad. Tommy, fond and quiet from his mother, who'd never really learned how to speak up before she was gone. Thomas, in school, from teachers annoyed that he wouldn't just apply himself.

He was Kinard, to teammates, then fellow soldiers, to the firefighters he'd worked alongside for a decade before he ever let any of them know him.

No one says his name with quite so much reverence as Evan Buckley. He's convinced himself, over the last few weeks, that he'd been hearing adulation in that tone. But now it just sounds...relieved. Happy.

Evan slumps back and tries to cross his arms in a pout. There are too many cords and wires attached to him for it to work. "I'm pretty sure I'm mad at you," he says, and Tommy steps over the threshold.

---

Hobbes sounds fucking thrilled to find out he's going to be down a pilot for five days.

Evan throws a fit when he finds out Tommy's plan is to sleep on his own couch for the short duration of Evan's stay. Evan wins the proceeding argument and doesn't even complain that Tommy hadn't argued too hard

Bobby brings over enough leftovers to keep them in turkey sandwiches for a week, and Tommy doesn't think to ask how he got Tommy's address.

Tommy breathes. Tommy thinks. Once Evan can hold a train of thought for more than five minutes, Tommy talks.

Evan listens.

---

"So no Christmas," Evan pouts, and Tommy wants to bite it. "And no New Year's."

Tommy shifts a hand over his shoulder, tucks his chin over top of it so he can't see the pout anymore. "We were both already working those anyway."

"Do people do anything to celebrate Presidents Day?"

"Evan."

"Tommy," Evan mocks, and pulls far enough away to catch his gaze. "In the interest of transparency that was mostly a cover so I didn't ask about Valentine's Day."

"Is this you not asking about Valentine's Day?"

His smile is deceptively sweet. "I need help with my sandwich."

Tommy's seen him balancing a glass of water, his phone, two books and a takeout bag in his one good hand. He's absolutely full of shit.

Tommy leans forward to grab the sandwich off Evan's plate for him.

---

"You should stay," Tommy says, an hour after midnight two days into the new year. He's tipsy on his second glass of cheap champagne and he can't think of a reason to keep this in, anymore. Evan crinkles a brow at him.

"I... wasn't planning to go?"

There's a gold crown perched in his curls, and Tommy still hasn't taken the cheap plastic 2025 glasses off. The house is quiet, and there'd been shockingly few fires started by fireworks this year, so he's less tired than he'd expected to be.

"I meant -." Tommy starts, and then pauses. "I meant permanently. You should live here."

Evan laughs. Takes a bite out of his cake, and rolls his eyes, and then...stops. His entire body stills. "What."

It's ridiculous. The very thing that had pushed Tommy up out of his seat just a few months ago, sent him out the loft door with wet eyes and a heaviness in his heart.

"Tommy," Evan prompts, and Tommy catches the hand frozen on the countertop. He'd planned to hold this back, wait until something significant or poignant. But Evan had baked them a red velvet cake and argued with him the entire drive back from dinner about the proper way to fold a towel, and Tommy's tired of denying this isn't everything he's refused to let himself want for decades.

"You don't have to say yes just to confirm you're not breaking up with me," he tries to joke, and it falls flat.

"Tommy," Evan murmurs, quieter but more insistent.

"I'm serious. I want you here. I want -."

"Yes," Evan says, and squeezes his hand before he ducks his head bashfully. "Sorry. Continue."

"I want a life with you." The tears tickle at the back of his throat. He's gonna fucking cry, again. He'd always fucking known opening himself up to this was just an invitation for more tears in his life.

He can't quite convince himself the rest doesn't make them worth it.

"Yes. Again. Tommy, of course." He tips his chin. Purses his lips. "If you're sure."

Tommy swallows down the lump in his throat. He's never been more sure or more terrified of anything in his life. So he tells him so.

The words are like knives, but he works his way through the soreness, fights up past the fear that he's not sure will ever completely go away, and claws past the reminder that it's been a blink of an eye since Tommy walked out on this.

"Well. You can't walk out of your own house," Evan points out when he's finished, and of all things, it's that that snaps the tension of for once in his life prioritizing something other than fucking survival. He tips a grin, curls his elbow to bring their entwined hands to his lips. "It's gonna take years to coordinate another Thanksgiving with everyone," he bemoans, looking suspiciously watery-eyed himself as he holds Tommy's own wet gaze.

Tommy can extrapolate from that.

[derinwrites]

Do you have any advice for writing in a web serial format?

Let’s look at this in two sections – the business part, and the actual writing part.

The Business Part

1. Consistency. Consistency in updates. Have a schedule and STICK TO IT.

If your schedule is too hectic and starts affecting your health or otherwise adversely affecting your life, change the schedule; update less often. Don’t update in spurts and then randomly stop. The audience will far more easily tolerate a slow schedule than an inconsistent one; an inconsistent one will lose many readers. You’re not Andrew Hussie and you can’t get away with that bullshit.

There may be times where you need to take a hiatus due to some emergency, life event, or health condition. This is fine – your wellbeing is more important than your story. But you need to be up-front with your audience about this; tell them you’re taking a hiatus and tell them exactly how long it’s going to be. If you can, you should tell them in advance (this isn’t possible for things like a car accident, but is very possible if you’re planning to, say, move house in a month). If you’re taking too many hiatuses, then it’s better to slow down your schedule and update less often. Audiences prefer fast and consistent, but if they have to choose, slow is better than inconsistent.

The #1 helper to consistency is having a big buffer – that is, have several weeks’ worth of unpublished chapters. The length of your buffer is personal taste, but I like to keep mine as long as possible so that if there’s some problem that stops me from writing for several weeks, it won’t upset the schedule. It keeps my stress down to know that I have that leeway. Other writers prefer to only write a week or two ahead, though, so different things work for different people.

2. Decide on your monetisation system early and prioritise it.

The most popular and most effective method for monetising a web serial seems to be the patronage method, which is the one I use. You set up a patreon, ko-fi, or whatever sponsorship system you prefer, and offer rewards to those who support you. Having their names in a credit list and getting access to advance chapters are very common rewards. Some people also lock access to their discord behind a paywall, or offer extra stories or let supporters name story characters.

This model is not the only way to make money from web serials. Some people make money via advertising, or selling merchandise, or use the web serial itself to advertise stories that they sell. You can of course use several revenue streams – you can have both a patreon/ko-fi and run ads on your website (I don’t because I hate ads, but you can), or start selling merch related to your story once there’s a demand for it. Many web serial authors (including myself) sell their completed works as books. But the important thing here is that one of these systems will be your main system, and you need to know what it is and behave accordingly. If you run ads AND have a patreon, are you more focused on ad revenue or patreon revenue? You’re going to have to put your time and attention into one of them over the other. You’re going to have to make decisions that will help one and harm the other. So know in advance which one is most important to you.

You don’t have to monetise your story at all, of course. Plenty of people write fiction on the internet for free every day with no thought to making an income at all. But if you’re serious about this, I would recommend monetising it, because that makes a better and more consistent product. The reason I’m still able to keep writing these year after year is that my supporters pay my mortgage; without Patreon and ko-fi, I’d have to get a different job, and wouldn’t have time or energy to write consistently. Also, the reason I can write and update even when I don’t feel like it, and the reason I always push to make my stories as good as possible even when I’m not interested, is because I owe it to my supporters who are paying me real actual money to read my work. If I didn’t owe my readers anything, none of these stories would ever get finished, because writing is only fun about half of the time.

3. Don’t expect to be able to turn this into a career.

This advice sounds silly coming from me, who has through sheer luck, as well as the generosity and passion of my readers, somehow turned this into a career. But I need to emphasise that that luck is not typical. Most web serial writers will not be able to support themselves solely with their writing. It can make a good side hustle, but if your primary goal is “low barrier to entry work-from-home career where I don’t have to answer to a boss and can support myself comfortably,” then web serial writing is usually all of those things except the last one. There’s no harm in trying to turn this into a career – I did it, as have many other web serial authors – but don’t expect that result, is all I’m saying.

Still, if you can do it, it does have a lot of advantages.

4. Don’t expect to make money fast.

I remember when I finally started making an entire $100/month on Patreon. It was a fantastic day.

It was when I’d been writing web serials for four years.

5. Your most valuable resource is your readership.

Your readership will grow and gather momentum over time. The best business decisions you can make are those that grow your readership and allow your readers to participate in community, even if you have to give up opportunities to make money to do it.

A good example of this is discord. Some people have private discords that only their patrons can access; while this is a useful anti-spam and anti-harassment tool, I don’t recommend doing this if you don’t have a major spam or harassment problem. Some people will pay for discord access, yes, so you might get a handful of extra dollars per month that way – however, you will also get a far less active discord. When it comes to readers, population density is critically important; the more activity, the more people talking about your work together (or talking about anything and bonding with each other), the better. Plenty of people have joined my free discord just because it was there and only read my stories after seeing people talk about them there. Then they go and get their friends to read the stories. Enthusiastic readers are inherently valuable, and the best thing you can do is give them the resources they need to talk to each other and share their interest.

This principle applies to a lot of things. I have a lot of free stories on my website that aren’t the usual web serials, and more than once I’ve considered whether they should be paywalled. The answer I always land on is ‘no���; I couldn’t tell you how many readers have been roped into my web serials because they liked Copy <|> Paste, or The Void Princess, or Drops of Blood. These readers may or may not then become monetary supporters, but even the ones who don’t will increase activity and discussion about the stories, have fun and tell jokes in the discord, and may even produce fanart. A thriving community is always going to be more valuable to you than a few extra dollars; make sure to support them accordingly.

Your readership will start very small. In terms of marketing, this is your hardest time. A big readership does the majority of the marketing for you, but when you’re on your own, it takes a lot to convince anyone to give your stories a shot. It helps if you have an existing readership to leverage, which is what I did – I’d been writing Animorphs fanfiction on AO3 for years, and many of my first readers followed me over from there. If you have such a community that already has faith in your writing, leverage it. If you don’t, you can gain one my writing in a place where people go to read stories similar to your work, such as an appropriate subreddit, or a web serial site like Royal Road or Scribblehub. You are looking to gain as high a number of enthusiastic, engaged readers as possible.

And now, the fun part – the actual craft!

The Writing Part

1. Always remember that you are writing for two audiences

A web serial author has to keep two audiences in mind; the serial readers, and the bingers. You are writing a story that needs to be fun and engaging when read very slowly, at the pace of whatever your update schedule is, but that also needs to be interesting when read all at once.

This is not an easy task.

It’s something I fucked up pretty significantly with Curse Words, which was my first attempt at this. Curse Words has a lot of complicated political stuff happening throughout pretty much the whole story, as well as a complex save-the-world plot that’s reliant on a lot of secrets, mysteries and extremely speculative information. With so many wheels spinning, I decided to make the protagonist not particularly smart and move him very slowly through the plot to make sure that the reader would be able to keep up.

This was a mistake.

‘Pretty slow and simple’ at a novel reader’s pace is torturous at a web serial pace. Readers got a full week to discuss the mysteries and implications of each chapter with each other, doing the detective work of ten chapters between each one. The frustration with Kayden’s slow pace was clear, and he came across as an outright idiot rather than an average teen. Personally, I think this lesson was one of the biggest reasons for the difference in quality between Curse Words and Time to Orbit. Don’t slow down for your audience; they’re already slowed down by your update schedule.

At the same time, though, you don’t want to move so fast that you lose the bingers. You can’t assume that your readers will have time between chapters, or that they will discuss each chapter with other readers, or that they will go back over previous chapters looking for clues. Interested people reading update by update will do this, but bingers absolutely will not. So you still need to make sure that everything is comprehensible on a binge read with no backchecking or outside investigation.

My advice on this matter is to move as fast as possible, but take care to make sure that readers are reminded of everything important a few chapters before it comes into play. That way, both audiences can keep up. If you have to make a decision, it’s best to favour your update readers; they’re your most active community. They’re doing the up-to-date discussion, and probably doing the most word-of-mouth and fanart, although binge readers will do that too (I have plenty of dedicated readers who wait five or six weeks to binge a bunch of chapters on purpose, just because that’s their preferred reading style, and they’re still very engaged). But if you plan to publish your story later as a complete work, you also need to keep in mind how it’s going to read as a binge – and also, new readers will binge the earlier chapters of your story to catch up to the current one, so make sure it’s a good experience for them or they won’t get a chance to become update readers.

Two audiences. Mind your pacing and information reveals accordingly.

2. Chapter length

The general rule of web serials is that the more often you update, the shorter your chapters should be. The generally agreed ‘sweet spot’ is 1-1.5k words, 3 times a week, but this depends heavily on individual style. I update once or twice a week (depending on what stories I’ve got going) and try to keep my chapters between 2 and 2.5k words. If you update once a month, your sweet spot is probably about 10k words.

Don’t hold religiously to what other people tell you the ideal word count is – this will vary drastically with genre and personal style – but it’s best to try to stay fairly consistent. It’s not always possible to stay exactly on target because the best break points between chapters will vary (I’ve got 1.8k chapters and 3.5k chapters), but readers like to be able to predict about how long an update will be and they like it to not vary too wildly too often. As with choosing your update schedule, choosing your chapter length will depend on what suits your personal schedule, and what suits the story you’re writing.

“The shorter the chapter, the more frequent the updates” is a good rule for attracting the widest audience. Short, infrequent chapters will have a lot of readers losing interest between updates; long, frequent ones will have a lot of readers feeling overwhelmed. But the most important thing is finding something that you can consistently output year after year (remember, it took me 4 years to make $100/month; this is a long game).

3. It’s a TV show, not a movie

This advice is less useful in our age of Marvel movie franchises and made-to-binge Netflix series, so pretend I’m talking to you in the year 2010 or earlier. If a novel is a movie, a web serial is a TV show. What I mean by that is that a novel is shaped primarily as a complete experience, whereas a web serial is shaped as a chapter-by-chapter experience.

It’s best, in both cases, to have a well structures and paced story that is made of well structured and paced chapters. But sometimes you have to choose between the structure or a chapter and the structure of the story as a whole; making one better will cheapen the other. When you’re writing a novel, you should choose the structure of the whole, but when you’re writing a web serial, you should choose the structure of the chapter. Web serial readers will prefer a chained series of excellent chapters, over a beautiful story of chapters with mediocre individual structure.

In fact, whether you want a structure to the overall story at all is personal taste. My stories have strong overall structure and move towards a planned conclusion because that’s how I prefer to write (and it also makes the story bingeable, since it’s basically a novel being released really slowly), but plenty of web serials out there have no real planned ending and will wander about for years and years in no obviously consistent direction, occasionally throwing in a big twist or major change to freshen things up. These would make absolutely horrible novels, but make very popular web serials. Whether you write like me or like them, the rule is the same – the experience of each individual chapter takes priority.

Come to think of it, this might be why people call my stories “ADHD crack”…

4. Okay, so how do I structure a good chapter?

I generally try to do three things in every chapter.

- Hit the ground running

- Give them something new

- End on an open question

Hit the ground running – Unless it’s the very first chapter of the story, you don’t have to be coy getting into the action. Open the chapter as if it’s the middle of the chapter; start at full momentum. Catch the high point of the last chapter before it falls. It your last chapter ended with “We checked the fingerprints on the candlestick. It’s Colonel Mustard.” then you can start this one with “But he was in the library at the time!”, you don’t need to recap or slow down or anything.

Give them something new – Every chapter should give the reader at least one thing to talk and think about. A new choice, some new information, a shift in perspective, whatever. People are reading these updates one at a time so it is vital that they feel like they got something out of the experience. A chapter in which nothing is learned will make readers feel like their time was wasted, and they have all the time until next update to reflect on that.

This is also true of a novel, but it’s much more critical in a web serial. A novel with nothing chapters in it is just frustratingly slow-paced; a web serial with nothing chapters in it leaves the reader feeling cheated for long stretches of time.

The thing to talk about doesn’t necessarily have to be a big plot reveal or major advancement. An incredibly cute scene, or sad scene, or funny scene will work just as well. But you have to give them SOMETHING. If you’re giving them nothing, consider cutting the chapter entirely and integrating any important foreshadowing or whatever into the next chapter.

One major hurdle of mine with this rule is recap chapters. If you’re writing a very complex plot over a long period of time, you need ways to occasionally take stock and make sure everyone is on the same page and nobody’s forgotten or misinterpreted anything important. This information can be recapped or conveyed in the middle of an action sequence or something, but I personally find that putting other stuff in the scene makes it too distracting and therefore less effective. I like to literally just sit the heroes down in a room and have them go, “okay, we’re spinning a lot of threads at once right now; what do we know, what are we trying to figure out, and what are our next steps?” This is the literary equivalent of the save point or room full of health packs right before a boss battle. Game designers don’t put that room there to be nice; they do it so that they know exactly how much health you’re going to have going into the battle, and can structure it accordingly.

You can make these chapters entertaining with character banter, but you can’t really introduce new threads to talk about, except possibly as a twist right at the end. Introducing new information mid-recap distracts from the recap and makes it pointless. You might have something similar in your stories, chapters that are essential but don’t give the reader anything new to work with.

My advice for these is to just bite the bullet on this one. Release the chapter with nothing new to talk about. You can get away with doing this occasionally, if the chapter has a clear purpose (I get a lot of readers tell me that they appreciate my recap chapters). Readers who get nothing out of the chapter will shrug and talk about older stuff instead, so long as you only do this occasionally. But a chapter with no new information has a cost in opportunity and in reader patience, so only pay it if the chapter’s worth it.

End on an open question– End the chapter with a reason for the reader to come back. You want them to think about the story afterward and be eager to read the next chapter when it comes out. Adhering to this principle is probably why I have such a reputation for cliffhangers, although truth be told I don’t use nearly as many actual cliffhangers as people say, I just try to end by opening a question. By that I mean, the audience should always end a chapter asking a question, which can be something that will span dozens of chapters (“How can Colonel Mustard’s fignerprints be on the candlestick? Is he being framed? Does this mean that the candlestick was in the library and isn’t even the murder weapon?”) or span a single paragraph (“How will the narrator react to learning that Colonel Mustard lied about never touchign the candlestick?”) This could be the emotional height of a scene, or the point at which new information recontextualises everything. It could be the moment where the stakes are raised or an important assumption turns out to be false. Anything that makes the audience eager to learn what happens next will do.

There should always be at least one open question in your story, more if it’s thematically appropriate. You know how mmorpgs and crafting games and suchlike keep you playing for hours and hours by making sure you’re always near the end of an activity – keep playing til you reach the next level, oh but now we’re nearly at the end of this quest so we should complete that, oh but now we’re just 20 gold short of being able to buy that cool new armour so we should just… same trick. Readers should always have at least one ‘quest’, an open question that they’re following, and should always be close to an answer.

You don’t have to dramatically introduce an entirely new question each time; you can end a chapter by reminding the reader of an existing open question. I tend to be a fan of the Big Dramatic Reveal On The Last Line method (cliffhanger reputation), but you don’t have to do it that way. Indeed, it’s a good idea not to do it that way every single time, lest you get stuck in a rut; every chapter ending doesn’t have to be incredibly tense and snappy. Somebody mentioning that they wish they knew how they could get enough food to make it through the winter before a full paragraph of cuddling and falling asleep in their mother’s arms works just as well.

5. It will help if your story is good, but it isn’t required.

You don’t have to be very good at writing to do this.

It helps to be good at writing, of course, and I assume that since you’re asking me for tips, you’re the sort of person who wants to be as good at writing as you can. But there is some true hack garbage out there doing absolute numbers in the web serial circuit. I try not to harp on about this too much because Curse Words fans get really upset at me when I do, but I think most of us can agree that Curse Words kind of sucks. And that just sucks in an ‘author is still learning how to do this’ kind of way; there’s much worse writing, real bullshit Ready Player One-level writing, trucking along out there brilliantly.

The point I’m trying to make here is that this isn’t an industry where there’s any value in hesitating and wringing your hands and asking yourself if you’re a good enough writer to do it yet. You are. You can just start writing a web serial right now and so long as you consistently update, you’re probably already above average for the market. And your first one probably will suck (mine did), but it’ll teach you how to make a better one. I think that Time to Orbit: Unknown is passably okay, and it absolutely would not be passably okay if I hadn’t written Curse Words first. Just go for it. Try to write a quality story if you can, but if you can’t, it’s honestly not that big of a deal. What matters, truly matters, is that you are committed to improving your craft. And that means actually practicing your craft. Which means writing some chapters and setting up a release schedule.

Good luck.

[sweetshuga]

𝑺𝒎𝒖𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒂𝒚 𝟣 ✰ 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝑺𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐

𝒘𝒄. 𝟩𝟦𝟣

𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆. English is not my first language! MDNI

You and your boyfriend, along with his brothers, had decided to go skating at your local ice rink, but they decided at the last minute that skating in a public rink in December would be too crowded and won’t be as enjoyable so they rented a whole hockey rink. You and the triplets arrived at the rink an hour after renting it – accompanied by a few mutual friends.

After an hour and a half of skating, you decided to take a break, you weren’t good at it so it took a toll on you. The amount of times you’ve lost balance and fell on your ass finally getting to you as you sat on one of the benches in the locker room. Your muscles already sore and ass feeling like it’s bruised. Matt did suggest skating with your hands entwined so you wouldn’t fall, but you didn’t want to burden him. After all, he was pretty hyped about playing hockey since it had been a while.

Your eyes zeroed in on Matt when he entered the locker room, his skates still on and a small smile on his face. "You okay sweetheart?" You nodded, "yeah, just a bit tired." Matt chuckled and walked towards you before sitting down beside you. "C’mon pretty, you should’ve just taken my offer." He grinned, teasing you.

You raised your eyebrows slightly, an amused smirk on your lips, "and why should I have taken it?" He laughed softly, "I think we both know why, you’ve fallen on your ass how many times now? And you won’t even let me help you up, such a stubborn girl." He said shaking his head slightly, before a wolfish grin appeared on his face.

You tilted your head in confusion, trying to read his face. "What’re you thinking?" His grin widened, "so, what do you say about a little massage, you look like you could really use one." You blinked in confusion, "massage? Now?" He nodded, his grin widening ever so slightly as kneeled down to help you take off your skates before standing up again and taking off his own ones.

You were none the wiser to what he had in mind as you nodded, "alright, yeah, I could really use some shoulder rubs or something," you chuckled. "Thanks baby," you smiled at him and he responded with a smile of his own. He suddenly turned around and walked towards the door, locking it and walked back to you. "Was it really necessary to lock it? Just for a massage?" He smirked at your confused expression, finding your obliviousness endearing in a way. "Yeah, very necessary."

"Oh fu—ck, Matt, slow—slow down," you mewled, your hands desperately clutching onto the edges of the benches you were laying on, your knees pressed against your chest, almost folded in half as Matt held you down with his weight. "Mm, you’re gonna take it—take everything I give you," he grunted in exertion as he increased his pace, the head of his cock hitting your cervix mercilessly.

You tried to keep quiet, but the exquisite feeling of his thick length pumping in and out of you was too much, too good. "Matt, m’gonna, gonna— Matt!" You screamed his name when he slammed into that spongy spot inside you, the one that makes you feel like you’re going to lose your mind. "Shhh—" he hushed you, his hand coming up to cover your mouth as he pounded into you.

You struggled to keep your eyes open as you looked at him, the look of pure unadulterated pleasure etched on his handsome features were enough to make that tight knot snap. Your whole body shuddered and a loud withdrawn moan escaped your lips, getting muffled, but not silenced, by his hand.

"Oh fuck, yeah... Just like that," he rasped, letting out a shaky breath that bordered on a whimper as he felt your pussy spasming around his cock. His pace faltered before he slammed into you once, twice and on the third he stilled, his length twitching inside you as he filled your quivering cunt full with his cum. "Your pussy was made f’me, such a sweet little thing," he murmured against your neck, whispering sweet nothings as you caught your breath.

How did a massage session turn into this? You thought to yourself, but were you complaining? The way you didn’t stop him when he started to move again with renewed desire spoke for itself.

𓆩♡𓆪

𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @h3arts4nat @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @courta13 @bumbl3b34 @slag2 @slut4chris888 @chrissluttyygf @billiesbabya @chrissbows @kaybug88 @sturniolo-fann @itsmaddielouis @urfavppls133 @certified-sturniolo @emkhlo @madisonsls @sammy1z @friendlyneighborhoodemo @layvvy @bellabooxx333 @wh0remikasas @ja75ahm @hearts4werka @miabumbia @slut4music @plrlvssnz @hannahhsturn1oloo @sturninsworld @idkwuttopit @madssturniolo @devilese @thatsitsthings @pr3ttyf4wn @stvrnioloslvt @d3adfa1ry @valsenoj @maddie-2024 @fallingforfalll2 @sagesturns @alicesturns @ccsturns @slxt4chriss @sturniolosfr3shl0v3 @slvtf0rchr1s @thebigbadwolfahoooo @poopysturniolo @pinktalearcade @clumsycunt @rhaine720 @halfbloodwriter

© sweetshuga

[endless-ineffabilities]

#1. fish — a jack schlossblurb

main masterlist

the start of a jack x reader blurb series! #2. crisis of masculinity will be up next. if you've got suggestions, send over a word or phrase that I can write up a blurb over. and remember to water the root, not the fruit! happy Jacksgiving!!

"Heartbreak sucks. Getting broken up with sucks." You hear Jack start yet another spiel from the living room, and you walk over to find him doing his usual. His phone held out in front of him, acting out a skit—shaking his head as if disappointed. Heartbroken, you could say. Running a hand down his face. Leaning back and dislodging his trucker cap.

Your boyfriend loves the camera, and more so, he's fucking obsessed with the sound of his own voice.

Your cheeks puff as you hold in a laugh. You take a slow sip of your tea to reign yourself in, watching the chaos unfold.

"If they didn't wanna be with you, they're so dumb," he continues. Tell em, hotshot. Speak your truth.

He audibly groans, head shooting in your direction. And you realise you just said that out loud.

"Baaabe! You ruined my take!" he whines.

"Hey, don't come for me, alright? And by the way, should I be concerned? Who broke your heart?"

"You, last night, when you didn't let me do that thing," he shakes his head, fidgeting with his phone as he sets up for another take.

"I was tired! Unlike you, I work a 9 to 5."

"You know I can work you longer than 9 to 5," he smirks, puckering his lips at you.

You feign annoyance, rolling your eyes, but you love his antics. With Jack, no day is boring. Just ridiculous, but you'll take it. "Okay, yuck. Not in front of my ginger tea."

He's got his arm outstretched again, but he clears his throat and looks at you expectantly.

"What now?"

He juts his chin out and makes a kissy face. You sigh in exasperation. And affection. Those two tend to go hand in hand with your very own Little Edie.

So you give him the peck he asks for. His rough hand snakes its way to the back of your neck as you bend down, his lips parting wide to take you in. "Mmm, gingery," he wags his eyebrows when you pull back.

"Go on. Finish your video."

"Oh, damn. Babe, I had already pressed record. Can I keep our kiss in? It would be good for generating traffic, getting people's attention—"

"Jack, don't you fucking dare." You warn, but of course he wouldn't do that. It would ruin the credibility of his heartbreak speech.

He ends it just a moment later. "... if it wasn't working. Then good. Be happy. Move on. There are other fish."

"There are other fish," he repeats, when you plop down on his lap, his phone discarded somewhere on the couch and well out of the way. "But not for me. It's just you, babe. Just you."

"You're so dramatic, Schlossberg."

"What, you think I'm kidding? I'm serious all the time," he counters.

"Sure you are, bud."

"By the way, it's your day off. So... will you let me do that thing now?"

You can only stare at him blankly. "Maybe."

"Good, then. Let me eat your a—"

"As soon as I finish my tea."

[lostintransist]

Secrets Are For Grown Ups | Part 3

CW: Paperwork. I hate paperwork.

Shout out to the fabulous @xbirdiex. It's better than reading my words for the first time because she is so good at articulting to me how everything makes her feel.

Part 1 here.

John pulled off his glasses before rubbing his eyes so hard the kaleidoscope of colors blurred his vision for seconds after he blinked to clear them. He needed to retire. The years of being trapped at a desk and only let out for training had sapped him of the will to continue. He had given the greater good all that he could, but if one more file got sent to him as half digital half paper copy he would start launching things out the window or possibly set his office ablaze.

He had stayed longer than he should have again but the frozen dish of lasagna and beer at his flat did not entice him home. The trill of his ringing phone pulled him from his languorous thoughts. Number hadn’t been saved in his phone. Odd. The same tickle in his brain that saved him on countless missions twitched now. Answering it in silence he waited.

“Is this Captain Price?”

“Not a captain anymore, but this is Price. May I ask who is calling?”

The woman on the other end blew out a breath.

“I worked with you several years back on a visa from the US. I’m not sure if you remember me,” her tone indicated a question as she searched for more words.

John could only remember one such woman in his time as a captain. You popped into his mind in technicolor.

“I do remember. I haven’t heard from you since you left for your family emergency. Has something come up?”

He swore he could feel you vacillating on the other end of the line. You had been so painfully expressive in your communications the year you had worked for him. For you to call out of the blue after so many years, something had to be wrong.

“Yes. You could say that.” You blow out a slow breath before continuing. “This is a…a bit of a long story. Do you have a moment?”

Settling back into his office chair with a creak John gets more comfortable.

“For you, I can take all day.”

Leave had been approved fairly quickly. John had an overabundance of it that brass and the HR and accounting teams hounded him about taking. They all claimed it made their jobs harder if he let it build up so high. He could take off six months without putting a dent in his overall amount of leave. Also if he weren’t there to bitch about the paperwork brass would more likely pass it off to someone else.

Last-minute flights were a pain in the ass to schedule as well as to pay for but like everything else in his life money tended to pile up because he rarely had time to spend it. John packed the same way he would for a long mission, though this time he packed his good underwear. You had offered to let him stay with you after he provided the contact information for one Nyla MacTavish.

His phone rang as he zipped up his large suitcase. Glancing at the name John wished he had a cigar to add a hint of nicotine-laced clarity to his thoughts. Flicking open his phone with a thumb John lifted it to his ear.

“Been expecting your call.”

“That’s never a good way to start a conversation, John.”

“I agree. Now tell me what happened?”

“Did you know?” The quiet, pained question could bore through bone. Simon, one of his muppets, his strongest men, sounded on the point of tears.

“Not until a few hours ago,” pinching the phone between his ear and his shoulder John settled his wheeled luggage on the floor.

“Good,” Simon repeated it to himself as if confirming his belief in John stood strong. “I had to dose Johnny with part of an edible he didn’t know we had in the house. He wanted to break down her door for answers.”

The idea of Simon handing Johnny an innocuous candy or baked good to dose him into a stupor that wouldn’t lead to criminal charges caught John as funny.

“I think your husband is going to have something to say about that in the morning.”

Simon snorted, “Knowing him he is going to have a lot more than a single thing to say.”

“Mmm, you might be right.” John paused to lock his flat door behind him. “Give me twenty-four hours Simon. I am headed to the airport right now and out to you.”

“Did she invite you or are you coming to keep us in line?” Simon’s voice edged into Ghost territory.

“For your information, I was invited,” John replied, mock offended.

“You would have come anyway.”

John could hear the rolling of his eyes even across the line.

“Yes, but this way I get to meet your boys and don’t have to pay for a hotel.”

Simon sucked in a breath.

“Boys? We thought she had a boy and a girl.”

“Nope, she clearly referred to them as the boys or her boys.”

A wet cough cleared the phone line.

“Okay. Let us know when we can meet with her and discuss this all.” Simon sounded defeated, unmoored.

“Are you wanting her back?” John asked carefully as he stepped onto the street to wait for his cab.

“Not…not like before. Johnny and I are happy as we are, but if the boys are either of ours we both want to be involved. We deserve that much.”

John didn’t know if the word deserved had any place in this sticky of a situation but he let it slide. That would be for you to explain.

“I will see you in a day or so, Simon. Keep your husband on a short leash until I get there. We both know explosions from Johnny weren’t only from bombs.”

A light chuckle from Simon is the only warning before the call ends. John sighs through his nose as he tucks his phone away.

What a hell of a story this would turn out to be.

Secrets Masterlist | Masterlist

@love-kha1 @bdbdhshhs @persephone-kore-law @vmaxis @splaterparty0-0 @momowhoo @talia-the-gemini @redkarmakai @aethelwyneleigh27 @asexualbuthorny

[the-winter-spider]

Red | One Shot

Bucky x reader AU

Word count: 9.4k

Warnings: Angst sorta

A/N: Just was hanging around in my docs

Purple

The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle by the time the bartender placed another drink in front of you, unasked but not unwelcome. You curled your fingers around the glass, watching the condensation bead and trickle down to the counter. In the corner of your vision, he was still there, watching—not in a way that felt predatory, but in a way that made you hyperaware of everything. The tilt of your head. The way your fingers trembled slightly on the glass. The flutter of your scarf in the breeze sneaking through the cracked door.

“Another round?” the bartender asked, jerking his thumb toward your almost-empty glass.

You nodded, grateful for the distraction, but when the man in the corner stood, your breath caught.

The sound of his boots against the wooden floor carried through the room like a countdown, slow and deliberate. You kept your gaze locked on your hands, trying to steady your nerves, until he was there. Beside you.

“You look like you could use better company than that drink,” he said, the roughness of his voice softened by something faintly teasing.

You glanced up, and there it was again—that pull, that undeniable gravity. “And you think you’re better company?” you shot back, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to pretend his presence wasn’t unraveling you thread by thread.

He slid onto the stool beside you, leaning back like he’d been sitting there all along. “You tell me.”

The ice in your glass melted as the conversation deepened, its edges smooth and warm, much like his voice. He asked simple questions at first—the easy kind, the kind that let you pretend this was just another stranger making small talk. But as the minutes passed, the space between you seemed to shrink, the questions becoming sharper, more pointed.

“Why here?” he asked after a while, motioning to the bar around you.

You glanced around, taking in the dim lights and peeling wallpaper, the faint hum of music struggling against the noise of the room. “The rain,” you admitted. “I wasn’t planning on stopping. This just…happened.”

He nodded slowly, his fingers drumming softly against the counter. “Funny how things happen, isn’t it?”

“And you?” you asked, your curiosity finally outweighing your nerves. “What’s your excuse for being here?”

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I wasn’t planning on stopping either.”

What struck you most about him wasn’t what he said, but the way he didn’t speak. The moments of silence between his words were heavy, charged with something unspoken but palpable.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that made you feel like you needed to fill it. It was the kind of silence that made you want to stay.

“People don’t usually stick around when I stop talking,” he said after one of those silences stretched long enough to make the bartender glance over.

You smiled faintly. “Maybe I’m not most people.”

His eyes flicked to yours then, sharp and piercing, and for the first time, you thought you saw something crack in the façade he carried so carefully. Something vulnerable. “No,” he said softly. “You’re not.”

The red scarf had become your anchor, your fingers twisting and untwisting it like a lifeline. When he noticed, his gaze softened, and he leaned in just slightly.

“Nervous?” he asked.

You laughed softly, though your chest felt tight. “Should I be?”

“Probably.” The word was heavy, weighted with something unspoken, but his tone was lighter—almost teasing. “But you don’t scare easy, do you?”

You hesitated, unsure of how much of yourself to reveal to someone who already seemed to see too much. “Maybe I’m just good at pretending,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended.

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he was studying you. “Or maybe you’re braver than you think.”

The words shouldn’t have affected you the way they did, but they hit like a fist to the chest, leaving you breathless.

Time moved strangely when you were with him. Minutes stretched and contracted, the room around you fading into a blur until it was just the two of you, caught in the strange, magnetic pull that had brought you together.

The rain had stopped by the time you noticed how late it had gotten, the room quieter now as patrons trickled out into the damp night. You pulled your scarf tighter around your neck, reluctant to leave but knowing you couldn’t stay.

He stood when you did, his presence a shadow behind you as you moved toward the door.

“Be careful out there,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle.

You turned to face him, the red scarf catching the faint breeze sneaking in from outside. “I could say the same to you.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable. And then he nodded, his lips twitching into a faint smile.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he said, though it didn’t sound like a promise.

You stood there for a long moment, your heart racing as the distance between you grew. And when he stepped back into the shadows of the bar, disappearing as quietly as he’d appeared, you felt like you’d lost something you hadn’t even known you were looking for.

You stepped out into the damp night, the world strangely quiet around you. The red neon of The Red Star Lounge flickered behind you, its glow painting the pavement like blood.

You walked slowly, the chill creeping back into your skin despite the warmth of your scarf. And as you turned the corner, the realization settled deep in your chest.

Whatever had started tonight, it wouldn’t end well.

But maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it.

Green

The days after your first time meeting Bucky were a blur of stolen moments and quiet intensity. He was everywhere���every corner you turned, every crowded space you slipped into. He’d somehow become woven into the fabric of your days, and time itself seemed to shift around him.

You caught his glances in places you hadn’t expected to see him, like the coffee shop down the street or the bookstore you thought no one but you ever visited. His presence lingered, felt before seen, heavy and magnetic in a way that made your pulse quicken.

It wasn’t love—not yet. It couldn’t be. You’d only just met him. But it was something wild and unstoppable, like a spark catching dry kindling. The kind of connection that was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

You hadn’t planned on running into him again so soon. The market was bustling, filled with the warmth of laughter, the clink of cups from a nearby café, and the chatter of vendors calling out deals. You’d come to escape the growing restlessness inside you, hoping to lose yourself in the ordinary rhythm of the crowd. But then, as if summoned by your thoughts, there he was.

“Hi,” came the familiar, gravelly voice from behind you.

You turned, your breath catching for just a moment. There he stood, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his steel-blue eyes fixed on you in a way that made the bustling market fade into the background.

“Hi,” you replied, the word softer than you intended, like a whisper carried on the breeze.

A small smirk tugged at his lips, and for a moment, you could swear the space between you felt electric. “We keep running into each other,” he said, his tone teasing, but there was something deeper beneath it—something unspoken.

“You’re everywhere,” you said, almost accusing, though your lips curved into a faint smile.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Is that a bad thing?”

You hesitated, the playful edge in his voice sending a flutter through your chest. “You tell me,” you said, your voice steadier now, though your heart was racing.

His smirk widened just enough to make your stomach flip. “I think it depends,” he said, stepping just a fraction closer, his presence filling the space around you. “Do I bother you?”

“Should you?” you shot back, meeting his gaze evenly despite the way he made your pulse race.

“Guess that’s up to you.” His voice was low, steady, but there was a challenge in it, the kind that made you want to stay in this moment longer than you should.

The crowd around you moved on, the noise of the market dulling as the two of you stood there, caught in the pull that seemed to draw you together no matter where you were.

The moment stretched, the world around you blurring as the tension between you thickened. It was maddening, this pull, this constant feeling that he was both a mystery you wanted to solve and a danger you weren’t sure you should touch.

“Are you always this… persistent?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He laughed softly, the sound warm and rough, settling somewhere deep in your chest. “Only when I’ve got a reason to be.”

“And do you?”

His smile faded, replaced by something softer, something that made your breath catch. “Maybe.”

The honesty in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you weren’t sure what to say, weren’t sure you could say anything at all without betraying the way he was already getting under your skin.

Before either of you could say more, someone jostled past you, breaking the moment like a stone dropped in still water. You took a step back, breaking his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of the world around you again.

“Well,” you said, pulling your scarf tighter around your neck, the movement more of a reflex than a necessity. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Guess so,” he replied, his voice softer now, but still carrying that magnetic pull that made it hard to leave.

You turned before you could change your mind, slipping back into the crowd, but you could feel his eyes on you long after you’d disappeared from view.

That night, as you sat by your window, the red scarf still warm against your neck, you couldn’t shake the feeling of him—the way he looked at you, the way he seemed to linger in your thoughts long after he was gone.

Orange

The first time he took your hand, it was under the cover of night. The two of you had wandered out of town, the air crisp and the moon high above, lighting the fields with silver. You’d teased him into leaving the bar, insisting there was more to life than whiskey and dark corners. To your surprise, he followed.

“You’re relentless, you know that?” he muttered, his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket as you walked side by side down the quiet road.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” you shot back, glancing over your shoulder with a grin.

When the road opened into a clearing, the moonlight spilling across the grass like liquid silver, you stopped. “Dance with me,” you said suddenly.

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, you thought he might refuse. “You’re kidding, right? I don’t dance.”

“Everyone dances.” You grabbed his hand before he could protest further, your fingers tangling with his. “You just haven’t tried with the right partner.”

At first, he was stiff, awkward, his steps uncertain. But you laughed, the sound soft and free, and something in him loosened. His hands found your waist, tentative but firm, and together you moved under the open sky, your red scarf trailing in the breeze like a streak of fire against the night.

His grin was shy but genuine, his guard slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the man hidden beneath the rough edges.

The air around you seemed to hum, the crisp night wrapping you both in a cocoon of stillness, as if the world had paused just for this moment. The stars twinkled overhead, scattered across the velvet sky, and the quiet rustle of grass beneath your feet served as the only soundtrack to your impromptu dance.

His hand on your waist was steady now, the earlier awkwardness fading as he settled into the rhythm of your movements. You could feel his warmth even through the layers of fabric between you, grounding and electric all at once.

“You’re full of surprises,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. The moonlight illuminated his features in a way that made him seem both sharper and softer all at once—the hard lines of his jaw, the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes as he smiled.

“Don’t get used to it,” he teased, though his voice lacked its usual edge.

“Oh, I already am,” you shot back, a grin tugging at your lips. “You’re stuck with me now.”

His laugh was quiet, almost a hum, and you caught a flicker of something in his expression—hesitation, maybe, or disbelief. Like he wasn’t used to this kind of lightness, this kind of joy.

“You really do this to everyone?” he asked, tilting his head as he studied you, his tone carrying a mix of curiosity and playfulness.

“Do what?”

“Drag them out into fields, make them dance under the stars, make them feel like…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. “Like this.”

Your smile faltered, but only slightly. “Like what?”

“Like there’s still something good in the world.” His voice was quieter now, almost a whisper, and the words felt like they carried more weight than you expected.

Your breath caught in your chest, and for a moment, the flirty banter dissolved into something deeper, something raw. You didn’t look away, though, even as his gaze burned into yours. “Maybe I just have good instincts,” you said softly. “Maybe I knew you needed this and maybe you're not just anyone.."

He didn’t respond right away, his jaw tightening as he seemed to wrestle with whatever storm was brewing inside him. But then he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe.”

You continued to sway, the tension between you softening but not disappearing. His grip on your waist tightened slightly, not possessive but steady, anchoring you to the moment.

“You’re not bad at this, you know,” you said, breaking the silence. “For someone who doesn’t dance.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he muttered, but there was no hiding the faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Too late.”

You laughed, and the sound seemed to draw something out of him—a quiet chuckle, his guard slipping even further. He spun you then, a move so unexpected and unpolished that you nearly stumbled, but his hand caught yours, pulling you back to him with ease.

“Show-off,” you teased, breathless from the movement and his proximity.

“You asked for a dance,” he replied, his grin widening. “Don’t complain when I deliver.”

After a while, your movements slowed, the dance turning into little more than a quiet sway. The night had grown colder, the stars above brighter, and the world around you quieter.

His hands lingered on your waist longer than they needed to as you pulled back slightly, your red scarf brushing against his arm.

“You’re not as bad at this as you think,” you said softly, your voice carrying just enough warmth to take the sting out of the teasing.

“Guess I had the right partner,” he replied, his tone quieter now, almost serious.

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you smiled, your fingers brushing his briefly before you stepped back fully.

“Thank you,” you said, and you weren’t sure if you meant for the dance, for following you out here, or for letting you see this softer side of him.

He nodded, his eyes meeting yours one last time before he stepped back, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “You’re trouble,” he repeated, the faintest trace of a smile still on his lips.

“And don’t you forget it,” you replied, your grin returning as you adjusted your scarf, the red fabric catching the breeze.

As the two of you made your way back to the bar in comfortable silence, you couldn’t help but glance at him from the corner of your eye. There was something about the way he walked beside you, the way he seemed both cautious and unflinchingly present, that made you wonder what was hiding behind those sharp eyes and soft smiles.

Grey

It started with something small. It always did.

The two of you had been in his apartment, a quiet night derailed by the weight of unspoken things. You’d made a joke—a harmless, casual jab at the way he always seemed to know what was happening before you did, like he had a sixth sense for trouble. But instead of laughing, his jaw tightened, and his response came sharp and clipped.

“Maybe you shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” he muttered, his voice low, his eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “Excuse me?”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair as if to push the thought away. “Forget it.”

But you couldn’t. You hated when he did this—when he locked you out, pulling the shutters down on a window you’d thought was finally open.

“Bucky, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” you asked, your voice rising despite your best efforts to stay calm.

“It means I’ve got enough going on without you digging into things that don’t concern you,” he snapped, his frustration spilling over.

“Things that don’t concern me?” You took a step closer, your chest tight with a mix of anger and hurt. “How can you say that? You’re the one who pulled me into this—into you. Don’t tell me I don’t get to care about what’s going on in your head.”

His gaze flicked to yours, sharp and guarded, like he was debating whether to fight or retreat. “You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less biting. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry the kind of shit I do.”

You stared at him, the words hitting you like a blow. “You’re right,” you said, your voice trembling. “I don’t know. Because you won’t let me!”

The room fell silent, the tension crackling like a live wire between you.

“Maybe it’s better that way,” he said after a long pause, his voice cold and distant.

The words sliced through you, sharp and unforgiving. You turned away, grabbing your coat and scarf, your movements jerky and frantic.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice rising as you stormed toward the door.

“Somewhere I don’t feel like a burden!” you shot back, the words raw and cutting as they left your lips.

The rain started just as you stepped outside, a steady downpour that soaked through your clothes within minutes. You didn’t care. Your feet carried you forward, one step after another, until you were too far from his building to hear his voice if he called after you.

But he did call.

“Y/N!”

You stopped, the sound of his voice slicing through the rain and your resolve. You turned slowly, the water streaming down your face, mingling with the tears you hadn’t realized were falling.

Bucky stood a few feet away, his hair plastered to his forehead, his jacket already drenched. He looked as wrecked as you felt.

“Why are you here, Bucky?” you shouted, your voice shaking with anger and something far more dangerous—hope. “Why do you care?”

Red

“Because I can’t not care!” he shouted back, the words breaking open something in both of you.

He took a step closer, his boots splashing in the puddles, his gaze locking onto yours. “You think I don’t know what this is doing to you? To us? I’m trying, baby. I just—”

His voice cracked, the raw emotion in it making your breath hitch. “I just don’t know how to be the person you think I am,” he finished, his shoulders slumping.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your chest heaving with the force of everything you felt. You wanted to yell, to cry, to pull him closer and push him away all at once. But before you could do anything, he moved.

His hands cupped your face, his touch firm but trembling, his palms warm against your rain-chilled skin. And then his lips were on yours, urgent and unyielding, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the kiss.

The rain poured harder, cold and relentless, but you didn’t feel it. All you felt was him—his hands in your hair, his body pressed against yours, the heat of his kiss erasing every other thought in your mind.

Your hands found their way to his jacket, gripping the wet leather as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. His lips moved against yours, fierce and desperate, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

The rain poured around you, cold and relentless, but his kiss was all heat. It stole your breath, your anger, your fears—leaving nothing but the raw, unshakable truth of how deeply he’d gotten under your skin.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and ragged against your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words barely audible over the rain. “I’m so goddamn sorry.”

Your hands loosened their grip on his jacket, falling to your sides as you searched his eyes. “Then stop pushing me away,” you said, your voice trembling. “Stop making me feel like I’m not enough.”

His eyes closed briefly, his jaw tightening as he nodded. “I’m trying,” he said, his voice raw. “I swear I’m trying.”

You exhaled shakily, the weight of his words pressing against your chest. “Then let me help you,” you said softly. “Whatever it is, Bucky, i can take it….But you have to let me in.”

His hands dropped from your face, his gaze falling to the ground. For a long moment, he said nothing, the silence filled only by the sound of the rain.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice hoarse but steady. “Okay.”

The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time you made your way back to his apartment, walking side by side in silence. His hand brushed against yours once, then again, before he finally took it, his grip firm and grounding.

Neither of you spoke as you stepped inside, the warmth of the room wrapping around you as you shed your soaked coats and shoes.

“I’ll make some tea,” he said quietly, his voice still rough around the edges.

You nodded, watching as he moved to the kitchen, his shoulders still tense but lighter somehow. The storm wasn’t over—not completely.

White

It didn’t take long for you to realize that Bucky wasn’t like anyone else you’d ever loved. He carried his past like a weight around his neck, a shadow that followed him even in his brightest moments. He never talked about it—not in words, at least. But it was there, in the tension that gripped his shoulders when he thought no one was watching, in the way his eyes sometimes drifted to the distance, as if he could still see ghosts in the corners of his mind.

One night, as you traced the faded scars on his knuckles, the storm of his silence felt unbearable.

“Where did these come from?” you asked softly, your thumb brushing over the jagged lines etched into his skin.

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Bar fights,” he said, his voice laced with forced nonchalance.

“Must’ve been some fight,” you murmured, your fingers lingering on the edges of his scars like you could smooth them away.

He shrugged, but the movement was tight, deliberate, like he was trying to shrug off more than the question. His smirk faded, replaced by something far heavier. “I wasn’t always… the guy you see now,” he said finally, his voice quiet, almost hollow.

The air in the room shifted, the words lingering between you like smoke, impossible to clear. You didn’t press him. You’d learned by now that he wasn’t the type to offer up pieces of himself freely. He kept his pain buried deep, beneath layers of charm and bravado, but in the quiet moments—when the walls came down—you could feel it.

The silence stretched, heavy but not empty. You studied his face, the hard lines of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the way his lips pressed into a thin line like he was holding back words he didn’t trust himself to say. His eyes, always so sharp and clear, seemed distant, as if he wasn’t in the room with you anymore but somewhere else entirely.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you said softly, your fingers still resting against his hand. “But you don’t have to carry it alone, either.”

His gaze snapped back to you then, sharp and searching, like he was trying to decide whether you meant it.

“Some things aren’t worth sharing,” he said after a long moment, his tone guarded but not unkind. “They don’t make anything better.”

“Maybe not,” you said carefully, leaning back slightly to give him space. “But sometimes saying it out loud makes it hurt a little less.”

He laughed softly, but it wasn’t a laugh meant to comfort—it was bitter, self-deprecating, the sound of someone who didn’t believe a word you’d said.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Then tell me,” you challenged, your voice steady even as your heart pounded. “Show me.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, his expression a mix of disbelief and something darker—fear, maybe, or anger. For a moment, you thought he might snap, might push you away entirely. But instead, he let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of whatever he was holding.

“I’ve done things,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Things I can’t take back. Things I don’t want to take back because… because I thought I deserved them.”

The confession hit you like a punch to the chest, but you didn’t flinch. You stayed where you were, your hand still resting on his, grounding him in a way you hoped was enough.

He looked down, his jaw tight, his voice rough as he continued. “You want to know where these scars came from? Fine. Some are bar fights. Most of them are from being too drunk to care what happened to me. Or too angry to stop swinging when I should’ve walked away.” He paused, his eyes flicking back to yours. “And some of them are from people who thought I deserved worse.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t speak. This wasn’t the time to offer reassurances he wouldn’t believe. This was the time to let him speak, to let the floodgates open.

“I wasn’t a good person, darlin’,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly. “I was reckless. Selfish. I burned bridges with everyone who ever gave a damn about me, because it was easier to burn them than to admit I needed them.”

He let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You look at me like I’m someone worth saving, but you don’t know what you’re saving me from. And I don’t know if I want you to.”

Your hand tightened on his instinctively, and he looked at you like he was waiting for you to pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned forward, your voice quiet but firm.

“You’re not that person anymore, Bucky.”

His laugh was bitter, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “And what makes you so sure?”

“Because I know you,” you said, your words steady even as your chest ached with the weight of what he’d shared. “I know the man you are now. The man who stands up when he’d rather run. The man who cares about the people in his life even when he’s scared he’ll lose them. The man who looks at me like… like I’m more than just another person passing through his life.”

His breath hitched, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart pound. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he murmured, his voice low and broken.

“Don’t I?” you replied, leaning closer, your hand still on his. “You think I don’t see the cracks in you? The scars you’re trying to hide? I see them, Bucky. I see you. And I’m still here.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his chest rising and falling with the force of his emotions. And then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

“Maybe not,” you said softly, leaning into his touch. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

Pink

Not everything was heavy. There were moments of lightness, too—moments when the weight he carried seemed to lift, revealing the boy he must’ve been before life carved him into the man he’d become.

Like the time you convinced him to teach you how to ride his motorcycle.

“This is a terrible idea,” he said, his hands firm on your shoulders as you perched awkwardly on the seat. His jacket was slung over the handlebars, leaving him in a worn t-shirt that clung to his frame in the afternoon heat.

“You’re just saying that because you’re scared I’ll be better at it than you,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder with a grin.

He rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “No, I’m saying it because I like this bike, and I’d rather not see it flipped into a ditch.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” you said, sticking your tongue out at him before turning your attention back to the bike. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Fine,” he relented, stepping around to stand beside you, one hand resting on the handlebar. “First rule: don’t panic. Second rule: listen to me.”

“Was that not the first rule?”

He smirked. “It’s the first and second rule. You like to improvise, and I’m not interested in seeing where that gets us today.”

You weren’t good at it—not at first. Your balance was all wrong, your movements jerky as you tried to adjust to the unfamiliar weight of the bike beneath you. The engine purred, vibrating against your thighs as you gripped the handlebars too tightly.

“Loosen up,” Bucky said, his voice even as he kept one hand on the back of the seat to steady you. “You’re not wrestling it into submission.”

“Easy for you to say!” you snapped, your voice high-pitched with nerves as the bike wobbled forward.

His laugh was low and infuriatingly calm. “Relax, you’re not going to die. I’ve got you.”

“You better,” you muttered, biting your lip as you tried to focus on his instructions.

By the time you’d tipped the bike over for the second time—mercifully without actually crashing—your cheeks were flushed, half from embarrassment and half from the adrenaline coursing through you.

“Alright, maybe this was a terrible idea,” you admitted, throwing him an exasperated look as you struggled to right the bike again.

He was already laughing, the sound deep and unrestrained as he grabbed the handlebars to help. “Told you,” he said, grinning wide enough to show his teeth.

“Don’t gloat,” you shot back, but your own laughter bubbled up before you could stop it.

By the time you got the hang of it—coasting in a slow, wobbly circle while he watched from a few feet away, arms crossed and smirking like he was witnessing a miracle—you were both laughing so hard you could barely breathe.

“Look at me!” you shouted, your voice triumphant. “I’m doing it!”

“Don’t get cocky,” he warned, though his tone was light. “You’re still going about five miles an hour.”

“That’s five more miles an hour than you thought I’d manage,” you called back, steering carefully toward him.

When you finally stopped, dismounting with all the grace of a baby giraffe, you stumbled into his arms, laughing uncontrollably.

“Okay, okay,” you gasped, your forehead resting against his chest as you tried to catch your breath. “Maybe you’re the expert.”

“Told you,” he said, his laugh rumbling against your ear. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, holding you steady as your knees threatened to buckle.

“You know,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, “you’re kind of a good teacher. Strict, but effective.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he replied, though there was a softness in his eyes that made your heart flip.

In those moments, you forgot about the shadows lurking at the edges of your relationship. You forgot about the way he sometimes disappeared into his own head, shutting you out without warning. You forgot about the way doubt sometimes crept in, whispering that you’d never be enough to pull him out of the darkness he carried.

In those moments, it was just him and you. His laughter, his warmth, the way he looked at you like you were the brightest thing in his world.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he said suddenly, his tone light but his gaze lingering on you a moment too long.

“So i've been told,” you replied, smirking “But here you are”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, but something flickered in his expression—something unspoken but undeniable. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Here I am.”

Black

Bucky’s past was a shadow that followed him everywhere, slipping into the quiet moments between you, seeping into the cracks of your conversations, and weighing down the lightness you fought so hard to hold onto. He never told you the full story, but you’d pieced together enough to know it was dark, messy, and full of mistakes he couldn’t forgive himself for.

He’d let pieces of it slip, in fragments so small they barely felt like enough to build a picture. The late nights when he’d sit on the edge of the bed, his back to you, head in his hands as he tried to keep his breathing even. The scars on his knuckles, his ribs, the faint burn marks along his forearms he never wanted to explain.

“Old life,” he’d say when you pushed, the words clipped, like the conversation was over before it began.

But you could see the weight of it in his eyes, the way they clouded when you asked too many questions, or the way his jaw tightened when you pressed him about the motorcycle gathering dust in the corner of the garage.

One night, tangled together in bed, you felt the words leave your lips before you could stop them.

“Why don’t you let yourself be happy?”

You hadn’t meant it to sound so accusatory, but it hung heavy in the air between you. He was staring at the ceiling, the dim light casting shadows across his face, and for a moment, you weren’t sure he’d heard you.

Then, quietly, he answered. “I don’t deserve it.”

The simplicity of it made your chest ache. You shifted closer, your hand sliding over his chest to rest just above his heart. His pulse was steady beneath your fingertips, but his breathing was shallow.

“Who gets to decide that?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

The silence that followed was louder than anything he could’ve said. You felt his walls build themselves back up in real time, felt the distance between you grow even though he was right there. And that was the moment you realized just how fragile this thing between you really was.

You were falling for him—deeply, recklessly—but you couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how hard you tried, you’d never be able to love away the pain he carried.

It was a few days later when he finally said something. You were sitting on the back steps of the house, the two of you sharing a beer in comfortable silence, the late summer heat clinging to the air.

“I used to be part of something,” he started, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself.

You turned to him, careful not to interrupt.

He stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if the past was painted somewhere in the fading streaks of the sunset. His hands fidgeted with the beer bottle, his thumb running along the condensation like it was the only thing grounding him to the moment.

“A gang of sorts,” he finally said, the words clipped, sharp, like they physically hurt to say out loud. “We didn’t call it that. We thought we were a brotherhood, a club at best. Thought we were something… loyal. But it wasn’t like that.”

Your breath caught, but you stayed silent, knowing this was fragile ground you were treading on.

“We rode together. Lived for the thrill of it. For the noise, the chaos, the speed.” He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line. “But it was never just that. It was fights. Deals. Smuggling. You name it, we probably did it—or looked the other way while it was happening.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “And I was all in. I thought I’d found a family. I thought… it meant something.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and you reached for his hand instinctively, your fingers brushing his. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t look at you either.

“What changed?” you asked softly.

His jaw clenched, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. “I did. Or maybe I just woke up. Started seeing it for what it really was—a way to hurt people. A way to run from everything I didn’t want to face. And when I finally decided I couldn’t be part of it anymore…”

He trailed off, his knuckles tightening around the beer bottle.

“What happened?”

He turned to you then, his eyes heavy with something you couldn’t quite name—regret, anger, fear. “They don’t let you just walk away from something like that. Not without consequences.”

“They came after you?” you guessed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“They tried,” he said, his tone flat. “It got messy. People got hurt, people died, good people died…. And I left everything behind. My bike, my crew, the only life I’d known up to that point. I’ve been running ever since.”

His words hung in the humid air, and you struggled to process everything he was laying bare.

“Bucky…”

He shook his head, cutting you off. “Don’t. Don’t try to make it sound better than it was. I don’t deserve that.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him that everyone deserved a second chance, that whatever he’d done, it didn’t define who he was now. But you knew he wouldn’t hear it. Not yet.

Instead, you squeezed his hand, your thumb brushing over the scarred skin of his knuckles. “You don’t have to keep running,” you said, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat.

He let out a humorless laugh, his shoulders slumping. “You think it’s that easy? That I can just… stop?”

“I think it’s a start,” you said. “And I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

That night, after the sun had dipped below the horizon and the two of you had gone inside, you lay awake beside him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You wondered about the things he hadn’t told you—the names, the faces, the details he still kept locked away. You could feel them pressing down on him, weighing him down like chains he didn’t know how to break.

And yet, despite everything, you felt hope. Because he’d told you something. He’d opened a door, even if only a crack.

But in the days that followed, the weight of his confession seemed to grow heavier. You noticed the way his eyes darted to the shadows when the two of you walked down the street, the way his body tensed every time a motorcycle engine roared in the distance.

As you sat together in the living room, the sound of distant thunder rolling through the open window, you decided to ask the question that had been burning in the back of your mind.

“Do you think they’ll come for you?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze was fixed on the window, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhaled, leaning back against the couch. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Maybe. Probably.”

Your chest tightened, the weight of his words sinking in. “What would you do?”

“Whatever I have to,” he said, his voice firm, his jaw set.

The finality in his tone sent a chill down your spine. “You don’t have to face it alone, Bucky.”

He turned to you, his eyes softening just enough to let you see the fear buried beneath the bravado. “You don’t understand. If they find me, it won’t just be me they’ll go after.”

For a moment, the air between you was thick with everything left unsaid. Then he reached for your hand, his grip strong but trembling. “I don’t want you to get hurt, I cant have you get hurt”

“I know,” you said softly. “But I’m not walking away.”

RED

It was late, the kind of quiet that made the world feel smaller, as though the two of you were the only people left in it. The rain had come and gone, leaving the air cool and clean, and the faint scent of damp earth drifted through the open window.

Bucky sat on the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, an old book balanced on his knee. You were curled up beside him, your feet tucked under his thigh, a mug of tea cradled in your hands. It was a simple moment, unremarkable in its stillness, but it felt significant in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

You watched him over the rim of your mug, his brow furrowed as he read, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His hair was tousled from the way he kept running his fingers through it, and the soft lamplight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw.

“What?” he asked suddenly, his eyes flicking to yours.

You blinked, realizing you’d been caught staring. “Nothing,” you said quickly, though the warmth rising in your cheeks gave you away.

He closed the book, his lips curving into a lopsided grin. “That didn’t look like ‘nothing.’”

You rolled your eyes, setting your mug down on the coffee table. “Maybe I just like looking at you.”

His grin faltered, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. He reached out, his hand finding yours where it rested on the couch cushion. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low. “You keep saying things like that, and I might start believing them.”

The words were on the tip of your tongue before you even realized they were there. They spilled out quietly, almost like they’d slipped past your defenses on their own.

“I love you.”

The room seemed to freeze, the words hanging in the air between you. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, your heart pounding in your chest as you waited for his response.

Bucky’s hand stilled against yours, his eyes widening slightly as he looked at you. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing. “I love you,” you repeated, more firmly this time.

His breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then he shifted closer, his hand cupping your cheek as he studied your face like he was trying to memorize every detail.

“You mean that?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

You nodded, your hand covering his where it rested on your cheek. “I mean it, Bucky.. I love you.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything. His thumb brushed against your cheekbone, his touch warm and steady, and you could see the emotions flickering behind his eyes—fear, disbelief, hope.

Then, finally, he exhaled, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “I love you too,” he said, the words soft but sure, like they’d been waiting inside him all along.

You felt your chest tighten, the weight of his confession hitting you like a wave. You leaned into his touch, your forehead resting against his as a quiet laugh escaped you.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” you teased, though your voice was thick with emotion.

“Because I didn’t think I’d ever get to say it,” he admitted, his voice raw.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers tangling with his. “Well, you do,” you said firmly. “You do.”

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you as he buried his face in your hair. You could feel his heart pounding against your own, his breathing shaky as he held you like he was afraid to let go.

“I love you,” he murmured again, the words muffled against your skin.

Black

The cracks in your relationship with Bucky had always been there, faint at first, like hairline fractures in glass. But over time, those fractures deepened, spreading until the entire structure seemed ready to shatter. You both saw it coming. Neither of you stopped it.

The end wasn’t sudden—it was a slow, excruciating unraveling. It started with the silences, the way Bucky’s gaze lingered on the horizon instead of you. Then came the arguments, sharp and biting, words flung like weapons that left wounds neither of you could heal. And finally, the moment when everything fell apart.

The air between you was thick, suffocating, as you stood across from Bucky in the dim light of your apartment. Outside, the sun was setting, the sky painted in hues of crimson and gold, like a warning, like a fire.

“You don’t get it, do you?” you snapped, your voice trembling with frustration. “I can’t keep doing this, Bucky. I can’t keep wondering if you’re going to disappear every time things get hard.”

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his jaw tight. “I’m not disappearing.” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it, the tension in his frame barely restrained.

“Then what do you call it?” You stepped closer, your chest heaving with the weight of everything you’d been holding back. “The nights you don’t come home? The way you shut me out? How am I supposed to love you when you won’t even let me in?”

His eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw something crack in his expression. But then he looked away, and the wall went back up. “You knew what you were getting into,” he muttered, the words like a punch to your chest.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I didn’t know it would feel like this. Like I’m constantly fighting to hold onto you while you’re halfway out the door.”

“I’m trying!” he shot back, his voice rising for the first time. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his frustration boiling over. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I don’t hate myself for dragging you into my mess?”

“I didn’t ask for perfect, Bucky,” you said, your voice shaking. “I just wanted you. But you can’t even give me that, can you?”

The tension snapped like a breaking wire. He turned sharply, his movements abrupt, knocking a glass from the counter. It hit the floor and shattered, the sound ringing out like a gunshot in the suffocating silence.

You both froze, staring at the pieces scattered across the floor. The sharp edges glinted in the fading light, and you couldn’t help but think how perfectly they mirrored the state of your heart.

“I can’t do this,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t keep trying to fix something that doesn’t wanna be fixed.”

His head snapped up, his eyes wide and almost panicked. “Baby, don’t—”

But you held up a hand, cutting him off. “No. You don’t get to keep doing this. You don’t get to keep tearing me apart just because you’re scared.”

You turned away from him, walking to the window where the last rays of the sun bled across the sky. The red hues painted the room, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch forever. You felt his presence behind you, silent and heavy, but he didn’t move closer.

“Do you even love me?” you asked, your voice trembling.

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, quietly, he said, “More than anything.”

You closed your eyes, a single tear slipping down your cheek. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one fighting for us?”

When you finally turned to face him, the sight of him nearly broke you. His shoulders were slumped, his expression a mixture of pain and regret. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I think you need to leave,” you said softly, the words tasting like ash on your tongue.

“No,” he said quickly, his voice thick with emotion. He took a step toward you, but you shook your head.

“Bucky, please,” you said, your voice breaking. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

He stopped, his hands clenching at his sides. For a long moment, the two of you just stared at each other, the weight of everything left unsaid hanging heavy in the air.

“Loving you is the best and worst thing i've ever done,” you whispered finally, the words cutting through the silence.

He flinched, the pain in his eyes unmistakable. But he didn’t argue. He didn’t beg. Instead, he stepped back, his red leather jacket catching the dying light like embers.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely audible.

And then he turned and walked away.

You stood there long after he was gone, staring at the shattered glass on the floor, the red hues of the sunset fading into the gray of twilight. The silence in the room was deafening, and the absence of him felt like a physical ache, a hollow space where your heart had been.

You wanted to scream, to cry, to rage against the unfairness of it all. But all you could do was sink to the floor, your knees pulling to your chest as you clutched the scarf around your neck—the same red scarf you’d worn the night you met him.

The memory of him lingered, vivid and unrelenting, like a fire that refused to be extinguished. And as the last light disappeared, leaving the room bathed in shadows, you realized that some scars never really fade.

Loving him had been a blaze of color, bright and beautiful and all-consuming. But now, all that was left was the ash.

Dark Grey

Years later, you would still catch yourself tracing the edges of your life, searching for the faint marks Bucky had left on it. They were everywhere—small, quiet reminders that had become part of you. A fleeting song lyric. A warm breeze on a rainy day. The streak of red in a sunset that made your breath hitch.

Not all loves were meant to last forever. You knew that now. But the ones that didn’t stay still had the power to change you. Some were fleeting, like sparks that burn brightly before fading, but even when the fire dies, it leaves a mark. A scar. A memory. A piece of yourself you couldn’t reclaim.

And Bucky had left you with all three.

You moved on in the ways that mattered. You built a life filled with steady, small joys—the kind of life you never would have imagined in those tumultuous days with him. There was laughter and comfort, new love and old friends, and yet, there was always that quiet space inside you that belonged to him.

Because loving Bucky had been unforgettable. It had been red—vivid, bold, and impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t just the good that stayed with you, though. It was the ache, too—the lingering hollow of his absence that sometimes felt like it echoed in your chest.

You remembered the way his hand had felt in yours, steady and warm, even when everything around you felt like it was unraveling. The way his voice, low and rough, could calm you and set you alight in the same breath.

And you remembered the way he looked at you—like you were something he wanted to hold onto but didn’t know how to keep. Like he was terrified of you slipping away, even as he kept his distance.

You didn’t regret loving him. How could you? Even with the heartbreak, the unanswered questions, the nights spent missing him so fiercely you thought it might tear you apart, Bucky had given you something no one else had.

He’d made you feel alive.

One night, as you wandered home after a late dinner with friends, the city felt unusually quiet. The streets were slick with rain, the glow of streetlights reflecting off the pavement in golden pools. You’d tucked your red scarf tighter around your neck, the fabric trailing behind you as the cool wind nipped at your cheeks.

And then you felt it—him.

It wasn’t something you could explain. It wasn’t logical or rooted in reason. It was a pull, a magnetic force that had always drawn you to him, no matter how far apart you’d been.

You stopped mid-step, your eyes scanning the crowded street. At first, it felt silly—just your mind playing tricks on you again, filling strangers’ faces with memories of him. But then you saw him.

Across the street, standing near the entrance to a dimly lit diner, was a figure you’d know anywhere. The dark hair. The broad shoulders. The familiar slouch of someone trying not to be noticed but failing anyway.

Your breath caught. For a moment, the world narrowed to just him, the sound of your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

You hesitated, your feet frozen to the pavement. And then, as if sensing you, he turned.

His eyes found yours across the distance, and the breath you’d been holding escaped in a sharp gasp. It was him. It wasn’t a trick of the light, wasn’t your imagination conjuring his ghost again.

It was Bucky.

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His hair was shorter now, his stubble heavier, but his eyes were the same—piercing, sharp, filled with something you couldn’t name.

He took a step toward you, and for a moment, you thought he might cross the street. But instead, he stopped just at the edge of the curb.

“Red suits you,” he said, his voice low and familiar, carrying over the noise of the city.

The words hit you like a tidal wave, dragging you under. Red suits you. He’d said it to you once before, years ago, as he wrapped your scarf around your neck on a bitterly cold night, pulling you close to kiss you before the wind could steal the moment.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. What could you say?

But he didn’t wait for you to answer. With one last lingering look, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, slipping away as easily as he always had.

You stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the spot where he’d been, your heart racing and your mind spinning. You didn’t know why he’d been there, why he’d said what he had, or why he’d left again so quickly.

But as the rain began to fall again, you smiled, your hand instinctively reaching up to tug your scarf tighter.

Some loves weren’t meant to last forever.

But some burned too brightly to ever truly fade.

And as you turned and walked into the night, the rain soaking your hair and your scarf trailing behind you, you couldn’t help but feel like you were exactly where you were meant to be—haunted, alive, and forever marked by him.

Because loving Bucky had been red. And somehow, you knew, that story wasn’t finished yet.

[lis-likes-fics]

spencer reid drabble

cw: mute!reader, american sign language usage, // means things said in sign

You look up as Emily comes in for the day. She’s a little late—only by a couple minutes—but it’s no big deal. She waves as she walks in. “Hey, everyone.” You all give her your greetings as she sets her purse on the desk (across from yours) with a hefty sigh. “How’s everyone doing?”

“Let’s see,” JJ says, twirling around in her chair and raising her cup. “Coffee, check. No case, double check. Doing great so far.”

You smile, leaning back in your own chair. You start to sign, your hands moving quickly as you go through a short recap. /Spencer got me this pastry from the bakery this morning, and it was so good./ Spencer’s voice easily narrates your movements.

“Sounds delicious,” Emily sighs, the sound so longing that you think she may be imagining a pastry of her own to munch on.

You’re selectively mute. As soon as you joined the team a few years ago, everyone loved you from the beginning. While they did their best in learning sign for you, Spencer was already a pro and did most of your translating.

He sits next to you—right now, at least. Hotch has gotten into the habit of separating the both of you when work gets slow. You indulge him and his distractions, even though you’re so quiet. You can’t be blamed! You like to listen to him speak. Who cares how much work is piling up?

It’s nice. You could go as fast as you wanted, and Spencer could always keep up with you. Sometimes when you were in the comfort of your own home, curled up on the couch with Spencer, neither of you would even say words. It would be a silent exchange where you would sit and “talk” for hours.

“Oh, damn it,” Emily mutters, sitting back in her chair and staring down at her lap. Her voice is laced with exasperation. “Not again.”

JJ hums. “Someone sounds cranky.” She peers over to get a better look at what’s going on.

A sharp breath passes through her. She starts toying with her belt, shaking her head briefly. “No, I just got this new belt a while ago, but it’s super crappy. This is my first time wearing it, and it keeps coming undone.” She fixes said belt, holding onto it like she’ll do it for the rest of the day if she has to. “If these pants weren’t so loose, I’d just take it off,”

You nod. Spencer speaks as you sign. “You should try Spencer.”

Everyone’s confused, including Spencer.

“‘Spencer’?” JJ wonders, eyeing you curiously, though amusement is shining in her gaze.

You have to hide your smile as you turn to Spencer, shaking your head gently. You go slow. /The clothes./

Spencer’s eyes immediately light up. “Oh!” he exclaims, turning back to everyone. He starts to sign as he speaks, and you’re not sure if he realizes he’s even doing it. “Sorry, suspenders. She’s saying you should try suspenders.”

Your laugh is silent, and you shake your head in your amusement. /Yeah. I used to wear them as a kid. I went through a phase./

They nod in understanding, but then Emily’s brow furrows and she chuckles. “Wait, do you call Spencer ‘Suspenders’?”

You shrug, glancing away. /They sound really similar…/ Spencer’s voice doesn’t match the quiet of your movements, but that’s okay.

He nods anyway. “Yeah. Emily, she calls you ‘Mystery’.”

Her face shines in surprise, a smile creeping on her lips. “Oh, cool,” she mutters.

JJ smiles big, leaning toward you and crossing her arms over her chest. Her interest is piqued now. “What about me?”

You purse your lips in the same way Spencer does, that awkward tight smile that you adore so much as you glance over at him. He mirrors your expression, clearing his throat and shrugging lightly. “She just signs J-2.”

Her shoulders drop a bit, her smile shrinking. “Oh,” she mumbles. A tiny sigh slips past her lips.

You rub your fist clockwise over your heart in apology. /It’s simple./

She shakes her head dismissively. “I get it.” She’s not really upset, but she had hoped for something more exciting. She turns back around to her desk to finish the work shining over her screen.

Emily looks at you past her computer, one brow raised with a curious grin. You forget how pretty she is sometimes. “Suspenders, huh?” she says quietly.

You shrug, your signs just between you and her. /He holds me up./ She laughs, muttering something about you being corny before she’s placing her attention back on her screen.

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[softpascalito]

I To Dig a Grave I Chapter 6 I

Summary: Twenty-one years after the outbreak, you come to Wyoming looking for something and end up in Jackson after a stranger saves your life.

But he doesn't stay a stranger.

Turns out Joel Miller is looking for something too. It feels like a fresh start. But when bad luck seems to follow you, Joel is the only one to turn to, forcing both of you to confront your feelings about your pasts- and each other.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 25k+ Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Age Difference, Smut, Explicit Content, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Chose not to use Archive Warnings, Tags to be added

AO3 LINK // Series Masterlist // Playlist

notes: hello! it's been a second but i promise tdag is still my favorite child so this is continuing slowly but surely (i'm currently just distracted by pedro pascal as slutty gladiator).

this fic will deal with heavy topics. please note that it doesn't use archive warnings and tags will be added as we go in order to avoid spoilers. each chapter will have detailed warnings in the end notes on ao3.

Chapter 6 – The Ceremony Part 1

‘I didn't exactly miss it or want to live there again- I just wondered where it had gone.’

— Alice Munro, Dear Life

What the fuck does he think he’s doing?

If there is one person in Jackson who is least equipped to handle a grieving person who’s just lost someone to suicide, it’s him. Joel is sure of that. He should just tell you that he can’t do this, hand you over to Tommy or Maria or anyone else who doesn’t mess up whatever or whoever they touch.

It would be better for you, to have someone who actually knows how to work through grief. Not someone who sneaks out of bed before dawn to get a glass of whiskey and sit in their dark living room to ponder over things years and years past. The way he currently is.

But Joel is also sure that he can’t let you go. He can’t recall how or why but he does understand that you have found a way to get under his skin, one no one else has quite figured out, carved a path that only you may tread, that causes something to tug at his heart every time he sees you curled up in his bed or smells the soap that sits on his bathroom shelf. Somewhere along the road, he has started to care.

Not that anything good ever happens to the people he cares about.

A small groan leaves his throat as he leans back into the cushions, his free hand reaching over to produce a small notebook from below the couch table. He stares down at it for a few moments, weighing it in his hand. Then, he downs his whiskey in one go, sets the glass down onto the table and begins flipping through the small pages, seemingly endless notes, many of them jotted down rather hurriedly, a few written with much more care.

A thud upstairs makes his head jerk up. He freezes, listening intently. And then, he hears the unmistakable sound of someone running over the wooden floor upstairs. He’s up in an instant, cursing under his breath as he moves through the dimly lit room, using his foot to nudge a box aside that’s still sitting in the hallway, blocking his path towards the sound of bare feet thundering down the stairs.

***

For a split moment, you think it’s morning. The warmth beside you is gone. Maybe Joel has gotten another early start, doing whatever he does in the mornings while he lets you sleep.

And then, while you’re still floating in the comfortable state between dreaming and reality, you think you hear a door close somewhere downstairs.

Your body moves before your brain has a chance to catch up. Your legs, still tangled in the sheets, get caught in them and send you flying off the bed and onto the hard floor with a thud. It doesn’t slow you down. You force your trembling legs to push your body back onto your feet and rush through the bedroom door, taking the stairs three steps at a time. You have half a mind that you should shout, alert someone to what is happening, but your throat feels like it’s closed up.

Someone needs to stop him. To keep him from going out into the woods, to some hidden cabin. He always has the revolver on him. At that thought, you jump down the last few steps.

For the second time, your run towards the front door is interrupted and you collide with something solid just as you reach the corner that turns toward the front door. Again, it sends you stumbling and you prepare yourself for another hard fall. But it never comes. Instead, two strong arms catch you and Joel’s face above you finally comes into focus.

“You—” Again, your throat fails you. You simply press yourself into Joel’s chest, seemingly the only place that will swallow your sobs these days.

“Hey, it’s okay. Calm down, I’m right here,” Joel coos above you, his chest vibrating as he hums and brings one hand up to the back of your head, stroking your still slightly damp hair.

It takes him a solid five minutes to get you over onto the couch and calm you enough for him to let go for a moment. “I’ll be right here, hold on. Give me one second.”

He steps back into the hallway, shuffling something around. And as your panic recedes, the tide sinking, you glance around. A single glass sits on the coffee table in front of you, holding a few leftover drops of what you’re quite sure is whiskey. Beside it is a small notebook, the pages already slightly rippled.

You suddenly realize you’re not the only one in the old house who seems to have trouble sleeping.

Eventually, Joel returns with a woolen blanket that he drapes over your form, nodding to himself. “There we are.”

He doesn’t sit down, instead stepping over to the window and casting a glance outside. As if there is anything worth seeing on a street that never changes, one that hasn’t had cars passing on it in over twenty years.

“I’m sorry, I just—I panicked,” you whisper, keeping your head just low enough that you can still see Joel’s outline against the dim light of the street lamp outside. His shoulders seem to hang a tad lower than usual, still broad but not as intimidating as they once seemed, especially with him dressed in his usual pajamas consisting of soft plaid pants and a worn shirt.

“Don’t apologize. You’re bound to have some triggers after everything. It’s good if we figure them out as early as possible.” He pauses for a moment, turning around to study your face. “Was it being by yourself?”

You gently shake your head. “No. Not really. It was more—I thought I heard a door close. Like you were leaving.”

You can see the exact moment he understands what you are implying and his face falls slightly. “Oh, darlin’, you know I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t leave you. You know that, right?” 

The only response you can manage is a shaky nod.

Joel sighs as he sits down next to you, rubbing his thumb over the small bald spot in his beard. To both your surprise, it’s you who starts the conversation back up.

“What about you?”

A frown appears between Joel's brows at the question and he turns towards you, studying your face as if the answers to whatever questions he has are written there. “What about me?”

“You were up too, weren’t you?” you ask quietly, turning your body towards him and leaning into the couch, the plush cushions and the blanket comfortable against your skin.

“Yeah but I was just—I wanted to get some things done for tomorrow—”

“Joel,” you stop him, raising your brow a tiny bit. It’s not meant to be hurtful, you’re sure of that. But if he believes you will swallow such a blatantly obvious lie, he may not be as good at this as you thought he was. “It’s not fair if you’re not honest with me.”

You can see his facade crumble as his expression falters and he nods quietly. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right about that.” Still, he seems to consider his words very carefully. “I don’t sleep well, sometimes. So I figured I may as well do some work. Didn’t wanna wake you with my tossing ‘n turning.”

Your heart aches at how casually he mentions this. It makes sense that he’d have nightmares. And you’re sure you barely know half of what they’re about. Joel cares so much when it comes to you that it genuinely baffles you how easily he brushes it off when he is the one suffering.

And then, a very quiet voice reminds you that this may be, like so many things, your fault. That you are so messed up that even big bad Joel Miller begins to struggle if he keeps you around for too long.

“Was it about—” You pause for a moment, trying to find the right words. It suddenly appears to you how difficult that is and you silently vow to thank Joel for having found them all throughout the last few days. “Was it about what we were talking about earlier?”

You have to be a horrible person. Because you know that deep inside, you want him to say yes. To assure you that this is about the things from his past that still haunt him and not about Lane—or about you. You don’t want to be the cause for his sleepless nights.

He doesn’t respond, but you have a feeling he doesn’t need to. It’s written all over him. The way he holds his body, the eyes that won’t meet yours. You don’t know what to do. You want to help. Maybe the same way he wants to help you. Cooking dinner, making coffee, getting an extra blanket. Because this is something he can’t fix. Only mend.

7 months earlier

“There is absolutely no way I’m going in there,” you proclaimed, dipping your toe into the water below you. “That is freezing!”

“It’s better once you’re in there. We can’t have hiked all this way for nothing,” a voice mused next to you. “Besides, it was your idea to come up here.”

“Well, I haven’t been before and I sure as hell wouldn’t have if I'd known it would involve freezing to death,” you groaned, lifting your foot back to the safety of solid ground below you and taking a few steps along the water of Flat Creek Lake.

It was crystal clear, allowing you to see the small rocks littering the bottom of the lake and the little fish zooming back and forth between them. It was still enough that you could see the reflection of the sky, blue with a few clouds scattered in between. The first warm day of the year.

You took in the scenery for a few more moments, letting your gaze wander further over the water and the trees on the other side of the lake and the mountains behind them, before turning back towards Lane—only to find that she’d thrown her clothes over a nearby trunk and was sporting a striped bathing suit. A small whistle escaped your throat.

“Haven’t seen that one before,” you commented off-handedly, causing a faint blush to appear on her cheeks. “That’s ‘cause it’s not mine.”

You raised a brow as you watched her wade into the water, sending small rippling waves out into the lake. “Wait, you’re not saying—”

A tiny smirk had appeared on Lane’s face. “Cat was nice enough to lend it to me when I told her we were gonna hike up here.”

“I see how it is.” You grinned, pushing your shirt over your head and throwing it next to Lane's pile of clothes. Unlike her, you opted for some of your more covered up underwear. Swimsuits weren’t exactly a clothing priority and you hadn’t found yourself in need of any until now. “I’m not enough for you anymore,” you said dramatically, throwing a hand towards your temple. “How will I ever get over you leaving me?”

“Oh shut up. Besides, if you are allowed to have your boyfriend over for dinner every other month, I am definitely good to borrow a bathing suit.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” You groaned exasperatedly. “Joel is not my boyfriend. He’s just–” You raised a hand and waved it through the air, trying to find the right word. It wouldn’t come.

“I don’t know. We’re just friends.” You weakly kicked at a small rock below you before stepping into the water for the second time that day, getting your feet used to the temperature of the mountain lake.

“Even Tommy says Joel doesn’t have friends,” Lane pointed out with a lopsided grin.

You shrugged. You yourself weren’t sure what to call your relationship with Joel, and even though you’d tried not to think on it too hard, the question had forced itself to the forefront of your mind more than once. And with every passing month, it seemed to become more persistent and difficult to push away.

“Are you gonna get over here or think about that old man all day?”

Lane paid for her comment (and, you silently vowed, for daring to call Joel old) by receiving a big splash of cold water aimed directly at her. She squealed, jumping the few steps over to you and pulling you further into the lake. It didn’t seem quite as cold as you splashed around in it together, only coming back out when you saw that Lane’s lips began to match the shade of her hair and pointed out that her freezing to death would really ruin the early summer day.

You headed over to one of the log cabins at the foot of the small lake, a place so far from civilization that it had barely been touched since the outbreak. It had taken you close to six hours to make the hike up the dirt road into the mountains. But, upon seeing the view in front of you, you both had agreed that getting up early had been worth it.

“Who told you about this again?” Lane asked, her mouth slightly open as she stared around the cabin that seemed almost completely intact. Bits and pieces were missing but the furniture was still properly arranged, mugs and plates were lined up neatly on a shelf over the sink and even a few items of clothing were still dangling from some hooks near the door.

“Joel did,” you admitted quietly. She just wiggled her eyebrows at you before heading further into the cabin, peeking into the small bathroom and the adjacent bedroom.

“Hey, there’s some towels here,” she called over her shoulder and came back a few moments later holding some cream-colored towels that had probably once been white. Even in the more remote areas around Jackson, finding housing that was this intact was rather rare.

“Maybe we should take a look around,” you offered, your mind already wandering to which treasures could be hidden in the cabin. Anything from practical items like medicine to more recreational ones—possibly a nice bottle of whiskey, stored away just for you to find. As if she could read your thoughts, Lane pursed her lips a little, one hand smoothing over the towels in her hands.

You stared at her. “What?”

“I don’t think we should take anything;” she said softly. “At least not back to Jackson.”

You felt a small frown appear on your forehead as you mulled her words over in your mind. “What do you mean? It’s not like anyone’ll come back for this.” You gently tapped the wood of the cupboard next to you. “Judging by the amount of dust these have not been touched in at least a decade.”

She shrugged, stepping back towards the front door. “I just mean, if it’s been very peaceful here for so long… We shouldn’t be the ones to make it less so.”

You stared after Lane as she stepped outside, watching her descend down the few wooden steps that led up to the cabin and the way the sun hit her blue hair, the ends still dripping slightly.

It took you a moment to gather your thoughts and follow her back to the lake, carefully closing the cabin door behind you. You both had secured a towel each from the cabin and were drying off when Lane caught you off-guard for the second time that day.

“Do you remember any of it? Before, I mean?”

You sighed softly. The question that had become as recurring as ‘and what do you do for a living?’ had once been. In hindsight, you were surprised you hadn’t discussed it earlier–at least not in detail.

“I do. Not much, not anything–I don’t remember how the world was. Just how it seemed to me as a kid,” you answered truthfully.

You could see Lane nod out of the corner of your eye as she leaned back and wrung out her hair.

“I miss it sometimes.” A few seconds of quiet passed. “It’s silly, really. You can’t miss something you don’t remember.”

“I think you can,” you said softly, turning your head towards her. She had paused in her movements and was gazing out onto the lake, though her eyes seemed much more distant than usual.

Your own stayed trained on her as she spoke, her tone a tad lower. “Do you ever think about leaving?”

If it had been anyone else with you, you probably would’ve lied, claimed that of course your heart never wavered, that you knew you were exactly where you needed to be. But this was Lane. Lane was safe.

“Sometimes,” you answered, your voice equally quiet even though you were sure there was no one around to listen except the small fish and possibly a fawn hiding in the undergrowth. “But then, I suppose it wouldn’t make much of a difference. We’d suffer through the day anywhere. But here, we at least have something to come home to when the suffering is done.”

It wasn’t exactly as positive as you may have wanted to sound. You’d always felt a tad protective over Lane, with her being a few years younger and less experienced. You knew she looked up to you and you wanted to set a good example, more than anything.

But that included being honest.

“When I came—When I headed to Wyoming, I was looking for something better than a QZ or Fedra,” you said softly. “I think I could’ve ended up in a lot of places much worse than Jackson.”

“But Jackson isn’t what you were looking for.”

You shook your head. “No. I suppose it’s not. But it’s what I found.”

You gave a bittersweet smile and she returned it, even though hers still seemed slightly broader than yours. It was an odd moment that passed between you, almost an unspoken agreement not to dwell on the topic too long. To not speak of the loss.

“What about you?” you asked, shifting the conversation away from yourself. “Do you remember anything from before?”

Lane gave a small snort at that. “Yeah, now that you ask, I remember pooping my pants.” She shook her head weakly, leaning back and staring out at the water again. “I was a baby.” A sigh escaped her lips as her body faltered slightly, her shoulders dropping a tiny bit. “Sometimes I wonder what my life would’ve been like if I’d been born ten years earlier. If it had been—I don’t know. Better.”

“Well, for the record, I’m glad you ended up in Jackson at the same time I did,” you said softly, nudging her shoulder.

She nodded and smiled, returning the small gesture. It doesn’t dawn on you until much later that she talks about her life in past tense.

“Okay, a tiny bit to the left,” Lane waved her hand as if she could position you like a puppet. “My left or yours?”

“Yours—Yeah, like that.”

A few seconds passed where you showed the lens your best smile and saw Lane fumbling with the buttons before the noise of the camera shutter announced that she’d found a frame she was content with. The giggle that followed, however, took you by surprise. “What?” You asked, looking past the lens and trying to catch a glimpse of her face. “What's so funny?!”

“Oh, I just thought about whether or not to slip this into the slideshow at the town hall next week. Maybe that would finally get Joel to ask you out.”

“You, Eleanor, are a pervert,” you commented drily, letting yourself fall back onto your comfortable towel and reaching for your book, trying to ignore the small wave of heat that had suddenly spread through your body at the thought of Joel seeing you like this.

“You know, I do think you two would fit together pretty well,” Lane hummed with her eyes closed half an hour later when both of you had stretched out on your towels and were bathing in the sun, waiting for the warmth to dry you. Content to ignore the world around you for just another hour.

You put your book down for a moment, squinting as you glanced over at her. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but nothing is happening between Joel and me. Not ever.”

***

His knock on the bathroom door is tentative, two gentle raps that travel through the wood towards you.

“Are you almost done?”

You stare at your reflection. A woman in black stares back. You know she is about to attend a funeral, the dark outfit and the sadness hiding behind concealer that doesn’t quite match her skin tone giving away what awaits her just as much as what’s behind.

You long to wish her something, to give her hope. But you don’t have any left to give.

You wish you could stay in the comforting bathroom forever, retire the black clothes, bundle them up and hide them at the very back of the cupboard below the sink, next to long expired cleaning supplies and a broken hairdryer. Close the door on all of them and run a hot bath to curl up in, one that never runs cold and that you never have to leave.

“Are you alright in there?”

Joel’s tone has turned slightly worried, no doubt owing to the fact that you are too busy keeping yourself from having a panic attack to respond properly.

“I’m done,” you call out, your voice trembling a little but at least it’s loud enough for him to hear. You can practically see him nod outside the door, even before you’ve moved over to it and turned the knob. Facing Joel Miller is the easy part. Facing the rest of the world is the hard one.

His gaze flies over you very briefly, taking in the clothes he retrieved from your house for the occasion, but you barely notice. What you do notice is that Joel has shaved while you were getting ready, his beard a little more neat than usual, even if still streaked with the small hints of gray that make your eyes linger. What makes your breath hitch in your throat however are his clothes.

He’s dressed accordingly, in a black suit that’s been patched up in a few places and is half a size too small on his broad frame. You’re alarmingly aware you have never seen him in a suit before—you’re certain you'd remember if you did if this is what he looks like.

It doesn’t quite fit the Joel who’s been following you around the house like an anxious guard dog, the man who wears plaid shirts and jeans so much that you remember being surprised when you first found out he does not, in fact, sleep in them. He always looks comfortable, in his worn shirts and slightly stained clothes, like he’s been wearing them for years, like he’ll never change. Like he’ll never leave. A constant that nothing could take from you, like the peaks of the mountains you can see from Jackson on a clear day.

But now he looks—there is no other way to put it—sexy. The suit, tight in all the right places, momentarily manages to take your mind off the why and you very briefly allow yourself to just stare at him.

“Hey, you’re not gonna pass out on me, are you?” Joel muses, bringing a hand to your shoulder to steady you. He looks worried, the crease on his forehead that never seems to leave it these days a little deeper than usual. Of course he’d think that your behavior can be attributed to your distress. Which it can, technically, just a completely different kind of distress.

“Sorry, no, I'm fine,” you reassure him, pushing your way further into the bedroom and taking a deep breath. He doesn’t move quite in time, causing your side to brush over his and you can actually feel the smooth fabric of his blazer against the skin of your hand where they meet. You catch a whiff of his aftershave—or whatever the hell makes him smell so good—just as you step past him into the bedroom and towards the door, completely missing that the slight scowl on Joel's face has changed ever so slightly.

“Come on, Texas. I don’t wanna be late,” you mumble, trying to lighten the mood—or at least distract from the fact that your brain is ready to head down a wildly inappropriate path. It must be the shock causing it to go haywire, or at least that is what you silently vow to believe.

Still, you’re careful to not turn around far enough to actually see him, keeping him safely out of sight.

Because you really must be the worst person in the world to stand here, about to attend you best friends funeral, and leer over some fucking man.

Just that it's Lane's funeral and a small voice in the back of your head that sounds oddly like her pipes up to say that he does look good and that, if nothing else, this may be the one good thing to come out of today. Joel Miller in a fucking suit.

notes: thank you for reading! i have a few more chapters done but opening this fic is somehow both my therapy and mentally very taxing so bear with me please <3

[estrellami-1]

Lavender Letters

To those of you who celebrate, who have something worth celebrating… happy Thanksgiving. To everyone else, happy random Thursday!

Part 8

“S-something else?” Steve parrots.

“That’s right. I’m going to put my hand on your body.” He grabs Steve’s wrist, grins at the gasp that gets him. “And you tell me if you like it there. Okay?”

“O-okay.”

“So how about here?” He tightens his grip, smiles at the whine Steve lets out.

“Y-yeah.”

“Oh, I know you do, sweet boy. You’re so expressive.”

“Eddie-”

“Mhm?” He pulls back a little, enough to see Steve’s face. Steve just gasps, little breaths in and out. “You like sayin’ my name, sweet thing?” He pulls Steve’s hand behind his back and nudges forward, causing them to brush together. He inhales shakily as Steve moans quietly. “You got an upstairs we can go to, sweetheart? Somewhere I can take you apart?”

Steve sways forward, catching himself just before their lips brush. “I’ve- I’ve got a room upstairs,” he says. “But I’m not- I can’t-”

Eddie pulls his hand to his side again, locks their fingers together. “You can’t?”

“They’re gonna hear.”

“How do you feel about gags?”

Steve shakes his head. Even the thought seems to clear his head some. “No gags. Or- or blindfolds. Or restraints.”

“But my hand around your wrist?”

“That’s fine. You’re touching me. But- but no restraints that aren’t you. Or, um. I could try? If you want me to grab the headboard and not move. I could try.”

Eddie hums. “Nah, I think I like you touching me too much. But we’re out of luck until the party’s over, huh?”

Steve turns sad eyes up at him, nods.

Eddie smiles, touches his finger to Steve’s chin. “That’s alright. We can take it slow for a couple of hours. Get to know each other even better.”

Steve smiles. “Like what?”

Eddie hums exaggeratedly, tapping his finger on his chin. “Favorite sound?”

Steve laughs. “I have two. First is rain. I love hearing rain, especially as I’m falling asleep.”

“Nothing better,” Eddie agrees. “And your second?”

Steve colors. “When Robin sleeps over she talks in her sleep sometimes, and I’ll wake up to hear it. And it reminds me that I’m safe.”

Eddie smiles. “My favorite sound is Wayne’s snoring. It’s not overly loud, but sometimes I’ll sit just behind my door and listen to him sleep until I’m close enough to get back into bed and drift off. I think it’s sweet that Robin’s yours.”

Steve looks down. “Would it bother you if I could never listen to your music? Or never learned how to play DnD?”

“Would you let me rant to you about it? You wouldn’t even have to pay attention, really, or remember anything. Just let me talk at you about it, and don’t get annoyed when I want to talk about it.”

“Of course.”

Eddie grabs his hands, smiles. “Then I promise to do the same about whatever you want.”

Steve grins. “Even if it’s sports?”

“I’ll even watch it with you,” Eddie promises.

“You will?”

“I mean, I’ll at least sit in the same room. No promises that I’ll remember anything.”

“That’s okay. Robin’s the same way. Lucas—did I tell you about him? L?”

Eddie hums. “I think so… most polite? Wicked sharp tongue? Is that him?”

Steve beams. “Yeah, exactly! He likes sports, basketball, and sometimes we’ll play together.” He angles a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got a hoop in the back. He’s getting really good.”

“I should hope so, if he’s playing with you. How about football?”

Steve hums. “I like watching it, but playing it wouldn’t be a good idea. Not with the concussions I have.”

“Wayne likes watching it, too. Maybe you could come over, watch a game with him. I know he’d appreciate it.”

Steve’s eyes shine. “Really?”

“Mhm.” He leans sideways against the counter, facing Steve. “Can I ask about the concussions? Or NDAs?”

Steve deflates. “I want to tell you.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

“Besides the fact that I fully believe the government’s got ears here? I don’t think you’ll believe me.”

Eddie hums, leans closer. “Well either way, I’d like to take you out one day in my van. Somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, where you can be as loud as you want.” He leans in and whispers, “or say whatever you want.” He pulls back with a smirk. “What do you think?”

Steve takes a shaky breath. “I think I want to kick everyone out,” he murmurs, “but I also think Robin would never let me live it down if I did.”

Eddie chuckles, pulls away. “Drink your water,” he suggests. “Let’s take some time, dance a little. Socialize. Let Robin know I’m here for a good time and a long time.”

Steve takes a few big gulps of water. “I think you’re going to ruin me,” he says slowly. “In the best way possible.”

Eddie grins sharply at him. “That’s the plan, big boy.”

He winks.

Steve gulps.

This is going to be fun.

[punkshort]

Evergreen | Chapter Two: Anger

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter Summary: After his brother knocks some sense into him, Joel apologizes and you both decide to take things slow... until an unexpected guest arrives at the very worst time.

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, grief, mentions of OC deaths, mostly Joel POV but it swaps back and forth, smutty thoughts, fluff, really super soft Joel, sexual tension

WC: 10.7K

Series Masterlist

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Oh, you stupid fucking idiot.

Joel somehow drove himself back home, but he couldn't remember a single second of the drive. He had been on autopilot while his mind replayed that moment with you over and over and over again. The way you smelled, the way your soft lips felt pressed against his, the way your hand caressed his cheek. Shock was too small a word to describe how he felt. He was so damn rusty and so taken aback that he knew he didn't handle it right. Your face was filled with shame and embarrassment, apologies tumbling from your lips while he just fucking sat there in a stunned silence. Eventually, he jumped up and raked his fingers through his hair, looking everywhere but at you until he mumbled something about needing to go.

Of course, you still insisted he take the leftovers home. Another reminder of how kind and generous you were, so what the hell were you doing kissing someone like him? You could have anyone you wanted. You had your whole life ahead of you.

Fuck! He should have said something. He shouldn't have let you spiral. He barely remembered to thank you before he left. Did he even say good bye?

Too late now.

Once he was safely parked in his driveway, he slumped against the steering wheel and closed his eyes. His body sagged under the weight of the past hour, the internal war he was fighting making him weak. So weak that he was beginning to fantasize about the way you said his name and how beautiful your eyes were when you looked at him. Would it be so horrible? Would it be so inconceivable that someone like you would be interested in someone like him?

Maybe he was going crazy.

He couldn't remember the last time he ever felt like this. Did he ever feel like this before?

Guilt coursed through his veins at the mere thought. What a horrible fucking person he must be to think his late wife never made him feel wanted, desired, excited. She did, surely. It was just so long ago and it was tough, in the beginning. Money was tight and Mia struggled to keep a steady job during record high unemployment rates. It was stressful and hard but they still loved each other deeply.

Sure, maybe passion was put on the back burner for a while. But he always knew how she felt about him and vice versa. There was a comfort in that type of love. A peace.

But he found a sense of peace when he was with you, too. How was that possible?

He dragged himself out of his truck, carrying the leftovers under one arm while he fiddled with his keys, searching for the right one to unlock his front door. He could smell the fried chicken even though it was sealed up tight and he immediately thought about you moving around your kitchen, looking like an absolute natural. You didn't have any cookbooks out or timers on. Hell, you probably didn't even use measuring spoons. He could tell you meant it when you said you liked to cook. Even if it wasn't evident by the way you breezed around the room, the love you had for it certainly came through in the final product.

As he packed the food away in his refrigerator, the previous contents looking sad and questionable, he tried to remember the last time he had such a good meal that didn't require him to have to sit down at a restaurant.

His landline rang after he had gotten out of the shower. The entire time he was hard as a rock but he absolutely refused to touch himself. He knew if he did, his mind would immediately drift to you, and he was ashamed enough as it was that there was no use adding to it.

"Yeah?" he asked gruffly, knowing full well only a handful of people called his house phone over his cell.

"Hey brother, how was your date?"

Joel cringed and sat down on the edge of his bed. "It wasn't a date."

"Oh, right, sorry. Forgot. Pick up anythin' interesting to read, then?"

"Fuck!" Joel exclaimed, slapping his forehead with his palm. "I forgot the goddamn books!"

Tommy chuckled through the phone. "Alright. You tell me it ain't a date, now you're tellin' me you forgot the books. So what the hell was it?"

"We looked at the books, I had 'em all picked out, just... forgot," he grumbled.

"Sounds like you'll have to see her again, don't it?"

"Tommy, I ain't in the fuckin' mood," Joel warned, falling back onto his bed in a huff.

"The hell's got you all twisted 'round for?" Tommy demanded on the other end.

Joel chewed on the inside of his cheek, his eyes darting around his room while he quickly weighed the pros and cons of confiding in his brother before sighing and giving in.

"Alright. Do not tell Sarah what I'm 'bout to tell you."

"Cross my heart."

Joel gave him the bullet points of the evening, making sure to leave out his true feelings on the matter so he could hopefully get some unbiased advice.

"Joel, you ain't gonna like what I'm gonna say."

"Just say it," Joel groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing for the verbal thrashing he deserved.

"I think you oughta go for it."

Joel's eyes snapped open in surprise. "What?"

"Go for it. She likes you, I'm pretty sure you like her or else you wouldn't be this torn up over one little kiss. I think it'll be good for you both."

"Tommy, she's thirty-one," he began, but he was immediately cut off.

"She's an adult, Joel. She's been through shit, you've been through shit. She sounds sweet and kind. Worst case scenario, you just provide a little comfort for each other and maybe help heal some old wounds."

Joel thought it over for a moment, listening to ice clinking in a glass on the other end. "And best case scenario?"

He could practically hear Tommy's smile before he even spoke.

"Best case scenario, you fall in love and live happily ever after."

You had told yourself you wouldn't let it bother you, that you wouldn't let yourself get nervous, but the following week you found yourself doing exactly that. More specifically, sitting in the parking lot of the familiar, run down little brick building you'd been going to for months, tapping your fingers anxiously against your leg as your eyes drifted between the books piled on your passenger seat and the front door of the building.

With a sigh, you resigned yourself and turned your car off. Checking your hair once more in the mirror, you opened the door to your SUV and slid out. Locking the doors with the push of a button and an expensive sounding chirp, you made your way to the entrance, nodding occasionally when you saw a familiar face but never spotting the face you yearned to see.

Guilt-addled, you sat through the hour long meeting, hardly listening to a word anybody said.

He didn't show.

You swallowed tightly and stared at your hands, at the large diamond on your left ring finger, at the pale pink polish on your nails that matched your toes. And you waited. For what, you weren't sure. Maybe a sign. A sign to remain in Texas and not move back home, like your mother and father were begging you to do.

Moments before the meeting wrapped up, a nimble, lean body plopped itself in the empty chair next to you.

"Shit, I got the time wrong, didn't I?"

You looked up to see a girl no older than twenty sitting next to you, with piercing green eyes and brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She was wearing a worn T-shirt and converse sneakers and you thought you could see the beginnings of an arm tattoo hiding at the cuff of her sleeve.

"Yeah, it's about to end," you told her. She groaned and slumped down in her chair.

"Shit," she repeated with a sigh.

Ryan ended the meeting like he usually did; a reminder of cards in the back of the room and the offering of an ear to bend afterwards. The room collectively stood and stretched, a low murmur rippling throughout the cinderblock walls.

"I'm Ellie," she said abruptly, shoving out her hand to you unceremoniously. "Both my parents kicked it."

You blinked rapidly in shock, then slowly extended your own hand and offered her your name. "I lost my fiancé last year."

"Man, that stinks. Sorry," she said, rolling her shoulder and glancing around. "How'd he go?"

"Car accident," you told her, finding it strangely easy to say the words you struggled with for a year. "And I was in the car," you added, watching her face contort in pain.

"Fuck, dude," she whispered, shaking her head.

"What about you? How'd your parents pass?"

"Plane crash. Their bodies were ripped to shreds on impact, couldn't even find enough for their coffins. Had to fill them with pictures and clothes and shit so it felt like we had something to bury."

Your eyes widened and you felt your breath get caught in your throat. "Oh my god, Ellie, that's horrible!"

She cracked a smile and burst out laughing. "I'm messing with you. I just felt like I had to one up you or something. Lung cancer: they were both huge smokers, wasn't exactly a shock."

"Jesus!" you sputtered, then began to laugh behind your hand. Never once had anyone made you feel like death could be a joking matter but there was something different about Ellie. You knew deep down it had to be a coping mechanism, but damn if it wasn't better than crying for once.

You followed her to the back of the room and weaved your way through the stragglers to survey the snack table. Each of you grabbed a donut and some bottles of water before finding a quiet corner to eat.

"This is your first meeting, I take it?"

She nodded, mouth full of a strawberry donut. "My family told me I should go."

"Yeah? Mine too," you said, ripping off a piece of the pastry and popping it into your mouth.

"Does it help?" she asked.

You sighed and looked around. "Yeah, but it takes a while. I think it helps to know you're not alone."

She nodded and shoved the rest of the donut in her mouth. "What'd your fiancé do for work?"

You brightened up at that. "He was an author. The Crimson Stone, ever heard of it?"

Her jaw dropped and her eyes bugged out of her head. "Daniel Davis was your fiancé?!" You nodded and grinned. "Holy shit! I love his work! That series got me through some tough shit in high school. Man... what a world," she said, voice filled with disbelief.

"Well, if you like it that much, I have an unpublished manuscript of his for the next book in the series. It's just a first draft meant for his editor, but if you wanted a copy-"

"Yes!" she exclaimed happily. "Yes! Please! Oh my god, you fucking rock!"

You giggled and shrugged. "I'll bring it next week if you'll be here? Or if you want it sooner, you can stop by my house."

She nodded eagerly. "Can I, like... give you money or something for it?"

You instantly shook your head. "No, no! Daniel loved his stories and just wanted to share them with the world. The fact he made any money from it was just a bonus. He would have wanted you to have it."

"Wow," she breathed, tossing her plate in the trash and dusting her hands on the sides of her jeans. "You're pretty fucking cool."

"Thanks," you grinned, tossing your plate as well and nodding towards the door. "You heading out?"

"Yeah," she said, following you and swiping one of Ryan's cards from the table in the process. You stepped out into the parking lot, the air significantly cooler than before now that the sun was beginning to set. You took a step towards the parked cars, then stopped when you realized Ellie wasn't following. Turning around, you saw her unlock a padlock from the front tire of a black mountain bike, the sight filling you with alarm.

"You rode your bike here?"

She nodded and yanked it from the bike rack before snatching the helmet from the handlebars and tossing it casually on her head.

"Yeah, I don't live too far away, I like to bike whenever I can. It's better for the environment."

You couldn't explain the sudden urge to protect someone you just met. Maybe knowing she lost both her parents at such a young age made you offer her a ride, telling her she could fit the bike in the back of your SUV, but she just shook her head.

"Thanks, but I'm alright."

"But it's dark," you protested. Ellie chuckled and swung a leg over the seat.

"It's not that dark. I'm, like, a ten minute ride to my apartment. Promise I'll be okay."

You worried your lower lip and was once again ready to insist you take her home, your arm lifting to point in the direction of your car when you saw him. Even from across the parking lot, you recognized those broad shoulders and greying curls leaning against the hood of your car with his arms crossed, watching you both.

"See ya at the next one," Ellie said, and before you could get your bearings, she was off.

You turned once to watch her pedal through the parking lot in the direction of her home, then turned back around, wondering if he had been a mirage, but no. He still stood there, patiently waiting for you. And it wasn't until you were roughly ten feet away that you noticed the bag of your clean tupperware at his feet.

"Thought I scared you off," you joked, ignoring the tremor in your voice. He smiled and dropped his gaze to the pavement.

"Nah," he said softly, twisting his mouth to the side as he scuffed the tip of his boot into the loose asphalt. "Came to apologize. I was rude 'n you did so much for me, felt horrible all week."

"You don't need to apologize," you said, wrapping your arms around yourself. "I'm the one who should apologize. I obviously read things wrong -"

"No, you didn't."

Your eyes went wide and you froze, waiting for him to continue.

"You didn't," he repeated again before dragging his eyes back up. "I just... you... and I'm..." he huffed and scratched the back of his neck nervously. "You got me all twisted up," he admitted shyly with a pink tint to his cheeks.

You laughed, a pretty little sound he very much wanted to hear again, and took a tentative step closer.

"Twisted up? Is that some southern thing?"

He grinned and shrugged. "Suppose I coulda said you knocked me on my ass but I was tryin' to be a gentleman."

You coyly bit your lip, enjoying how bashful he was being.

"Well, you got me twisted up, too," you told him, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

He chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets while he stared at you, still unwilling to believe someone as pretty and sweet as you would be interested in him.

He couldn't help it. He had to bring up the elephant in the room.

"You're so young, darlin'," he said as if you didn't already know. "And so beautiful. You don't want me. My life's half over."

You frowned, eyebrows furrowed as if that was the most offensive thing he could ever utter.

"You see me," you told him sternly. "Nobody really sees me but you see me. You remembered how I took my coffee after meeting me once. You appreciate the little things, like... genuinely appreciate them. And you listen to me, Joel. You let me cry, some girl you had just met, and you comforted me. Did you know no one else, not even my own family, bothers to do that? They just avoid the topic of Daniel all together now so they don't have to deal with me being a little fucking sad now and again."

Your eyes stung with unshed tears as you stood before him, begging him to see what you saw in him. And even then, he listened and he cared and his face softened with sadness when you told him the part about your family.

"You're doing it right now and you don't even see it," you laughed. One tear trickled down your cheek and you quickly brushed it away. "You're such a good man. How could I not be attracted to you?"

He scoffed but the corner of his mouth curled up into a half smile.

"Well..." he said, trailing off and fixing his gaze back on his shoes. What could he possibly not understand? But then it dawned on you - he had just told you he never dated again after his wife. Maybe he wasn't ready. Shit.

"I don't want you to feel uncomfortable," you told him softly. "If this isn't something you're ready for, we can stay friends. That is, if you want. No hard feelings. I even have the books for Sarah in the front seat."

You pointed and took a step towards the passenger door when he stopped you.

"I like you," he said, his beautiful brown eyes all soft and gentle as he looked at you. "But I'm rusty. Real rusty. Like... there ain't no savin' it kind of rusty."

You giggled and a big smile stretched across his face.

"Let's go slow," you suggested, reaching out for his hand. He met you halfway, fingers lacing together with yours, rough skin against soft. "Let's just take it at our own pace and not put any pressure on it," you added, smiling at the way your hands fit so nicely together. "Then we can just... see what happens."

He nodded slowly, his limbs growing heavy and relaxed from the sound of your sweet voice but heart pumping strong and fast behind his chest with excitement. His gaze flickered around the now nearly empty parking lot before his eyes found yours.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, immediately feeling foolish for asking. Women don't want some nervous idiot asking if they could kiss them, what was he thinking? But then your shoulders sagged with relief and your smile stretched so far, it made your eyes squint as you closed the small gap between you.

"Yes, please."

He breathed a sigh of relief and shifted his weight, dropping your hand so he could gently cup your cheeks with both palms. His eyes raked over your face for a moment, memorizing every birthmark, scar and wrinkle before sliding his eyes closed and brushing his lips tenderly over your own.

You immediately responded, massaging his lips carefully, slowly, while your hands came to rest at his waist. You had to crane your neck at an unusual angle in order to accommodate his tall frame and you smiled to yourself, thinking I could get used to this.

He pulled back for just a moment, tilting his head to the other side before eagerly pressing his lips against yours again. The lip balm you used tasted sweet and soft and he knew right away he would be thinking about the flavor for the rest of the night. His exhale fanned over your cheek, causing a shiver to race down your spine, which only encouraged him further. He peppered feather light kisses against your lips for as long as the sun let him, until it grew dark and the crickets came out to sing. And only then did he pull back, each of you a little breathless and pink in the face but sporting huge grins as you gazed at one another in an entirely new light.

This was the start of something exciting.

The following morning, Joel woke up with the sun and a huge smile. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so energized, so happy, and so excited to start the day. He wandered around his kitchen, drinking coffee and tidying up, killing time before he had to get ready for work when a strange idea struck him: maybe he should go for a run.

He looked down at his soft belly. He patted it through his shirt and felt it jiggle, then he cringed. He really ought to take care of himself more, especially now that he's older. If he wasn't interested in a diet, the least he could do is take care of his heart with a little cardio.

What was the harm? He could keep it short, just twenty minutes. Enough to get his blood pumping. He knew for sure that Sarah would be proud.

Maybe you would, too.

He dug around in the back of his closet for some basketball shorts and put them on before he lost his nerve, then he stepped out onto his porch and looked around while he did some stretches. It was quiet, hardly anyone was up yet. At least he would have some privacy if he ended up doubled over after jogging for five minutes.

It turned out, running was a lot fucking harder than he thought. His lungs burned and his muscles ached and he was only halfway done, but he kept his eye on the prize. He told himself if he wanted to be spoiled on your incredible cooking, then he had to compensate somehow. Hell, maybe exercising would give him a little more energy. One of the guys from work was an avid runner and around Joel's age. He was always talking about the incredible benefits: the endorphins, the boost in self-esteem, the improvement in his sleep... his increased sex drive.

That wasn't why Joel was running, but it would be a nice little added perk. Not that he needed help getting hard, but he was a little concerned about potentially having sex again for the first time in a fucking decade. God, just thinking about the embarrassment he would feel if he couldn't last long enough to make you feel good made his feet move faster and his spine straighten.

When he rounded the corner, his house finally in sight, he felt a second wave kick in. His sneakers slapped loudly on the asphalt, the sound echoing in his ears, breath bursting in short puffs as he got closer and closer to his destination. He finally arrived, slowing to a stop to lean against his mailbox to catch his breath. He hurt but he felt good. Maybe he could make it part of his new routine. Surely, each day would become easier and easier the more his body strengthened. Joel took one last deep breath and turned to walk up his driveway, only to skid to a dead stop when he noticed Tommy's truck parked against the garage.

Shit. He completely forgot they were driving to a site together that morning. Joel glanced at his watch and walked up the little path leading to his front door, then twisted the knob to enter.

"Tommy?"

"Kitchen," he called. Joel heard mugs clinking and his refrigerator opening as he toed off his sneakers and, on shaky legs, walked into his kitchen.

Tommy did a double take when he saw Joel, nearly dropping his coffee on the tile floor.

"You were out runnin'? Since when?"

"Since today," Joel said, sitting down with a deep groan. "I still got time to shower, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm early," Tommy replied before pulling out a chair for himself. "What the hell's gotten into you?"

"Can't just take care of myself a bit?" Joel countered, snatching a napkin and wiping the sweat from the sides of his face.

Tommy took a sip of coffee before answering. "Well, sure, I mean... that's great. Sarah's gonna love to hear 'bout this. Just a little strange that-"

His brother stopped, the gears in his head turning as he slowly figured it out.

"It's the girl, right?"

He had a shit eating grin on his face when Joel looked up from the table and shrugged.

"Don't know what you're talkin' 'bout."

"The girl! The girl with the books and chicken and dead husband."

"Fiancé," Joel corrected, then immediately regretted it when Tommy snapped his fingers as if he were caught red-handed.

"It is her! You wanna look good for your girlfriend, don't you?"

Joel cringed at the word girlfriend, feeling way too old to use that term, but he remained silent and focused on tearing up his napkin. Tommy watched him for a moment longer, expecting Joel to correct him again, and when he didn't, Tommy sat back in his chair, waiting.

"She didn't ask me to or nothin'," Joel finally mumbled. "Just wanna take care of myself."

Tommy's eyebrows raised in surprise when Joel didn't deny his girlfriend comment.

"This mean you finally took some advice I gave you? You two talk things out?"

He shrugged, still looking down at the table, but Tommy saw the corner of Joel's mouth twitch. He grinned and leaned forward excitedly.

"That's great, brother. It's 'bout time you got back out there."

"Do not tell Sarah," Joel warned once again. Tommy held up his hands and shook his head.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"'Cause I gotta tell her. It's gotta come from me, and I wanna do it my own way."

"I get it."

Joel sighed and absentmindedly scratched his beard.

"She ain't gonna like it," he finally said, filling the silence in the room. Tommy frowned.

"Why the hell not?"

"'Cause," Joel said, "the age thing. She's-"

"Oh, come on," Tommy interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand, but Joel shook his head.

"Nah, Tommy, I mean it. It'll be hard enough for her to hear I'm datin' anyone at all, let alone someone closer in age to her than me."

"I think you're wrong," he said, standing up to rinse out his mug in the sink.

"Yeah, well, you don't know her like I know her," Joel said with a groan when he stood up from the table. "She'll be home to visit in a month. If things are still goin' good, I'll tell her then."

Tommy was about to say something else when Joel walked stiffly toward the stairs, announcing he was going to take a quick shower, so he decided to drop it. But when he heard the water turn on above his head, he quickly pulled out his phone and dialed Maria's number, too excited and happy for his brother to keep the news to himself.

"How're your classes? You ain't skippin' any, are you?"

Sarah giggled on the other end. "No, Dad. You know I wouldn't waste my scholarship like that."

"Good girl," he praised, smiling into the phone that was tucked between his shoulder and ear while he chopped up peppers and onions. Sarah could hear the thunk of his knife hitting the wooden cutting board and she gasped.

"Oh my god, are you cooking?" she squealed excitedly. Joel chuckled then frowned when he looked at his work and realized all the strips of green pepper were different sizes.

"Yeah, makin', uh, stir fry."

"Wow!" Sarah said excitedly. "Vegetables and everything! I'm so proud of you."

Joel laughed and rinsed his knife in the sink. "Just you wait til I tell you what else I've been doin'."

"Hmm," she replied, pretending to think. Joel could practically see her tap her chin thoughtfully and roll her eyes to the ceiling. "Going to group?"

"Well, yeah, I have," he admitted, thinking back on earlier in the week when you had gone to counseling together. "Met someone," he said before he could stop himself, voice catching in his throat, but he couldn't bring himself to tell her about you just yet. He needed to do it in person. Just two more weeks and she would come home for the weekend. "Girl 'bout your age, named Ellie. Met through someone else, she's, uh, little rough 'round the edges. Both her parents passed so I imagine that takes its toll. But she's real funny. Think you'd get along."

"That's great, Dad. I'm glad you made a friend," Sarah replied, her sincerity coming through the phone.

"That's not what I was gonna tell you, though," Joel said, drizzling too much olive oil in a pan. He made a face and grabbed a wad of paper towels to soak some of it up. "Been runnin' in the mornin' 'fore work."

"Holy shit!" Sarah practically shouted.

"Language," he warned.

"I'm sorry, Dad, but I think you jogging warrants a holy shit!"

Joel laughed heartily at that. She wasn't wrong.

"Yeah, well, figured I oughta start takin' care of myself a bit."

He could hear her smile when she said, "Dad, you have no idea how happy this makes me. I've been so worried about you being lonely after I left but it sounds like you're actually doing better than when I lived at home!"

"Nah, I'll never do as good as when I got you, baby girl," Joel corrected her, then did a double take when he noticed the time on his microwave. "Shit. I, uh, I gotta go, honey. Can I call you tomorrow?"

Sarah paused, wanting to ask what he could possibly have to do if all he said he was doing was making dinner. Then a slow smile stretched across her face.

"Are you... dating someone?"

"W-what?" Joel stammered, face as white as a ghost. How the hell-

"Is it Ms. Palmer from up the street? I know she's always had a crush on you."

"N-no, it ain't, there's no-"

His doorbell rang and Sarah grinned.

"I'll let you get to your date," she teased.

"Sarah, it-"

"Bye, Dad! Talk to you tomorrow!"

The line went dead before Joel could get another word in edgewise. Well, at least it wouldn't be a huge surprise when he eventually told her.

He didn't have time to worry much. He tossed his phone on the counter and threw a towel over his shoulder so he could wipe his hands as he walked to the door, swinging it open with a huge grin because there you were, waiting for him and looking so goddamn beautiful in a light pink dress.

"Hi," you said, the pitch in your voice giving away your excitement to see him. His mind still couldn't grapple with the idea of someone like you looking at him the way you were, but every time he saw you, it became a little more believable.

"Hey," he replied, opening the door wider for you to squeeze past him. You took one step inside and gave him a quick peck on the lips before sliding off your shoes and padding into the kitchen. It was only after he closed the door did he register you were holding a bag.

"Did you cook for me?" you exclaimed, slowly setting your bag on the counter and staring in awe at the vegetables sautéing on the stove.

Joel grinned and gave you a half hearted shrug. "Wanted to return the favor for all the great food you cook for me."

You turned to look at him, eyes wide and filled with emotion. "This is so sweet, Joel, but you know I don't mind cooking."

"I know, but you deserve a night off," he said, brushing past you to stir the vegetables. You leaned back against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other with your lower lip pulled between your teeth as you watched him work. He was clearly out of his element, cursing under his breath when the oil popped and burnt his forearm while trying to keep an eye on both the steak and the vegetables.

It was adorable.

"Let me help," you offered, washing your hands before grabbing a clean mixing spoon. He almost declined your offer until he realized he was in over his head and didn't have a backup plan if the food burned, so he let you jump in.

First thing you did was turn down the heat on both burners, making the loud crackling of oil quiet right down. It eventually got to the point where Joel was just following your instructions - start boiling water for the rice, make sure you measure the water. The lid needs to stay on, honey. Do you have any seasonings? How about mustard and soy sauce? And honey? No, I mean actual honey.

You giggled as you watched him hurry around his kitchen, opening and closing cabinets and waiting for your next request. Finally, you set your spoon down and cupped his cheek, giving him the sweetest smile followed by the sweetest kiss and the request to set the table and relax.

"What's in the bag?" Joel asked when you brought two steaming plates of stir fry over to the table. You drizzled a homemade sauce over each plate before tucking the dress of your skirt under your legs and sitting down next to him.

"I thought I was cooking," you said, picking up your fork. "I brought some supplies, but this was lovely. I'll just put it away for next time."

Oh, Joel liked that. He really, really liked the idea of you bringing things to his house, getting familiar with your surroundings and feeling comfortable there with him. It had only been two weeks but things were going so well. You made him unbearably happy and he tried his best to do the same for you because he was quickly realizing he would be crushed if he lost you. How the hell did that happen so fast?

You took your first bite of steak and made a pleased sound, raising your eyebrows at him with a little smile.

"You did most of the work," he said before you could speak.

"Not true. I just stirred a few things and sprinkled a couple other things. You picked out the steak. You marinated it, cubed it up and cooked most of it. You did great, I love it," you told him earnestly before leaning over to give him another kiss.

God, you were the sweetest thing. He couldn't get enough.

"How's the running going?" you asked before lifting another forkful of food.

"Good," Joel replied, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Think my body's gettin' used to it now. Don't hurt as much anymore."

"That's great! Maybe we can go for a walk after dinner. I'd offer to run with you one of these mornings but there's no way I can get up that early," you said with a giggle.

He nodded and dropped his gaze to his plate. You had agreed to take things slow and it was working out beautifully. But that also meant your dates never ended with either of you staying the night, which was perfectly fine with Joel. He was still self-conscious about his age and physique, and even though he knew you wouldn't ever be that shallow, it still weighed heavily in the back of his mind. He couldn't help it.

"Sounds nice. Maybe squeeze in a movie if there's time."

"It's my turn to pick," you teased, poking him in the arm with your finger.

"Y'know you can pick all of 'em. I don't care what we watch, so long as I'm watchin' it with you," he said. It took him about thirty seconds to realize you had stopped eating and were giving him this look he couldn't pinpoint. His eyes bounced between yours, scanning your face and watching your expression wilt right in front of him. Your eyebrows drew together and tears welled up in your eyes. Panic shot through him, wondering what on earth he said to make you cry as he dropped his fork with a loud clatter to grab your hands.

"What'd I say?" he whispered, feeling your fingers squeeze his before ripping one hand away to swipe at a stray tear.

"Nothing. It's just... I don't remember the last time I've heard anyone... I miss having someone..." you sniffled and wiped away another tear while Joel patiently waited for you to continue. You took a shaky breath and gave him a little smile when you said, "You make me really happy, Joel."

He grinned and gently cupped your cheek, cleaning up your tears with his thumb.

"You make me really happy, too, sweetheart."

His deep brown eyes reflected little specks of gold under the soft lighting from his kitchen as you gazed at one another. When you lost Daniel, you never thought you'd ever be able to move on, and you were okay with that. He gave you some of the most wonderful years of your life and you were grateful for every second, knowing full well there were others out there in the world who may never feel how he made you felt.

And then you met Joel and ever since, he had you wondering how lightning could possibly strike twice.

"C'mon, pretty girl. Eat up so we can take a walk 'fore the sun sets," he said. His rough fingers traced down your jaw, then gave your chin a little pinch before letting you go to pick up his fork. The rest of the dinner was relatively silent, except for the music playing quietly somewhere on his kitchen counter. You reveled in the simplicity of it. Grateful for the peace and enjoying his company.

After you cleaned the dishes together, you slipped your shoes back on and allowed Joel to take your hand so he could lead you down his front steps towards the sidewalk.

"We can just go 'round the block 'fore it gets too cold," he offered, giving your hand a little squeeze when you playfully knocked your hip into him. "So, how was your day? What'd you do?" Joel asked. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, wondering if it was too soon to share with him the biggest stressor in your life at the moment. Well, it had been longer than a moment. But when he looked at you with the kindest smile and the softest eyes, you knew nothing would scare him away.

"Well," you began, and Joel could immediately tell by your tone that something was bothering you. His eyebrows pinched together and his smile faded. "I had a meeting today... with my lawyer."

"Lawyer?" Joel repeated, and you nodded.

"I've been stuck in this horrible legal battle with Daniel's family for months," you said, keeping your eyes fixed straight ahead. "His family wants a piece of his estate and he left it all to me. They're saying because we weren't legally married yet, that I'm not owed one hundred percent, but he had a will. He was very clear, and -" you cut yourself off and glanced up at him sheepishly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, darlin'," Joel said, "You can tell me or don't tell me, whatever you want. But if you wanna talk 'bout it, I'm ready to listen."

You gave him a grateful smile and sighed.

"It's such a nightmare. I just want to move on but it feels like this never ending back and forth with them is reopening the wound every single time, you know?"

You went on to tell him Daniel ended up leaving you... a lot of money. So much that you didn't have to work, although you had always planned on finding a job just to keep busy and make friends in a city where you knew nobody, you had just never gotten around to it.

"Well, y'know me now," Joel offered with a lopsided grin. You smiled and wrapped both your arms around one of his as he led you back up his driveway. The sky had turned a brilliant orange and pink color as the sun began to dip below the trees. In the distance, you could hear mothers calling out the door for their children to come home from playing with their friends in the neighboring woods that were beginning to grow dark.

"It's so peaceful here," you told him, slinking down into the bench he had on his front porch. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into his side and smiled at a pair of siblings racing down the street on their bikes to get home before sundown.

"It is. Was a good spot for Sarah to grow up."

You tilted your chin up, admiring the way the setting sun reflected on his skin, all bronzed from working outdoors day after day.

"How's she doing? How's school?"

"Good. Was talkin' to her right before you came." Joel paused and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "She was excited I was cookin' vegetables and workin' out a bit. Said she worries 'bout me."

"She sounds so sweet. You did a good job raising her," you told him sincerely. It was moments like that one on his porch that you thought you missed more than anything. There was something so deeply comforting about having someone to talk about your day with, someone to listen to all the mundane details as well as all your fears and worries. Before Joel, you would have probably been puttering around your kitchen looking for something to do, or having yet another agonizing conversation with your mother over the phone.

"No pressure, but, uh..." Joel began with an awkward clearing of his throat. A little smile tugged at your lips as you watched him nervously pick at something on his jeans. "Sarah comes home in two weeks. Was gonna take that time and tell her 'bout you. Maybe we can all go to dinner or somethin'?" he offered, words rushing together at the end of his sentence. "If it's too fast or you ain't ready or -"

"I would love to," you interrupted. He looked up from his lap, eyes all bright with a grin to match.

"Yeah?"

You nodded, then giggled when he wrapped his hand around the back of your neck to pull you in for a deep kiss. His tongue slipped past your lips and for one heated moment, you forgot you were on his front porch for his entire neighborhood to see. You pulled away with a gasp when he began to get carried away and about to suggest going inside when a woman's voice called over from the sidewalk.

"Evenin', Joel."

Joel's grin melted when he turned to see Ms. Palmer walking her little French bulldog past the house. The look of distaste on her face told him she witnessed a little more than what was deemed appropriate and he felt his cheeks grow hot.

"Evenin'," he said sheepishly, raising a hand up in greeting. Her eyes flickered back and forth between him and you before turning her nose up in the air and urging her dog to keep walking.

"Maybe we should go inside," you said, voice muffled behind your palm as you tried to stifle your laughter. Joel chuckled and nodded.

"Good idea."

"It's gotta be around here somewhere," you muttered under your breath. You eased your foot off the gas and squinted through your windshield, silently repeating the numbers on the buildings until you finally found what you were looking for. Turning down the unpaved gravel road, you gripped the steering wheel tight, your SUV handling each deep bump with surprising ease until you turned the corner and spotted the partially finished building behind a chain link fence.

You saw a bunch of trucks parked off to the side so you found a spot near them and shifted into park. Before getting out of the car, you looked over your shoulder, hoping to see Joel's familiar face in the crowd of workers but you were too far away.

Oh, well. His truck was there, so he must be around somewhere.

Sliding out of your seat, you went to open your trunk and picked up to massive insulated tote bags filled with homemade sandwiches, pasta salads and cookies, draping one over each shoulder before tapping your foot under the tailgate to close the hatch.

You were grateful you chose a pair of jeans instead of the dress you originally wanted to wear as you walked up to the fence, dust and dirt kicking up as you walked. When a dark, curly haired man spotted you from over the fence, he walked over to unlock the gate. He took off his hard hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm before he shot you a cheesy smile.

"Hey there, little lady. You lookin' for someone?"

You gave him a polite smile despite the way his eyes raked up and down your body.

"Actually, yes," you replied, shifting the weight of one of the bags. "Is Joel around?"

The man's eyes darted up to meet yours and you watched his expression morph into one of excitement.

"Joel? Yeah, he's around. And, uh, who can I say is comin' by to make his whole damn day?"

You told him your name and he clapped his gloved hands together in triumph.

"I knew it! I fuckin' - sorry," he said, clearing his throat before opening up the fence. "C'mon in, but here, make sure you wear this," he said, plopping his smelly hard hat on top of your head. "He'll kill me if he spots you without one."

"Oh, well, thanks..." you replied. "I brought him lunch as a surprise. Well, actually, I brought everyone lunch-"

"You brought lunch?" a bigger man with a mustache popped up from behind a construction vehicle. You swiveled around and waved.

"Yeah. I have sandwiches and cookies a-"

"Here, lemme help you with all that," the first man said before introducing himself as Tommy. Then it clicked.

"You're Joel's brother!" you exclaimed, rolling your now sore shoulder as you followed him through the site towards the trailers parked in the back.

"One and only!" he said cheerily. "I'm just gonna put this in the air conditioning, then we can go find Joel."

You waited at the bottom of the stairs as Tommy disappeared into the trailer, your hands clasped behind your back and bouncing on the balls of your feet. A few men walked past and gave you a strange look, no doubt wondering who you were, but you just smiled and politely waved.

It was then that you heard Joel's voice call out your name from somewhere behind you. With a huge grin, you twisted around and shielded your eyes to look up at the framed second story, spotting him almost immediately.

The smile slipped from your face and your mouth went dry when you saw him, clothes covered in dirt, skin coated in a mix of sweat and dust. His jeans were well worn and hung lower on his hips, and over the waistband was a leather tool belt that had you thinking very inappropriate thoughts.

"Hey!" he said as he jogged down the steps. You blinked rapidly, trying to snap yourself out of your stupor, but he just looked too damn good.

"H-hi," you stammered, feeling even more overwhelmed now that he was closer. He leaned down to kiss your cheek and your eyes fluttered closed when you smelled him: a heavenly combination of sawdust, sweat, coffee and metal.

"What're you doin' here?"

He had his hands propped on his hips, gazing down at you with a huge smile, a stupidly cute hard hat perched on the top of his head that matched your own while he waited for your response.

Luckily, the door to the trailer opened and Tommy did all the talking for you, giving yourself an extra minute to get it together.

"She brought lunch for everyone. It's inside. You got a keeper here, brother, don't mess this up for us," Tommy joked with a loud clap to Joel's shoulder. A plume of dust swirled in the air, hiding the little pink tinting Joel's cheeks before turning back to you.

"You didn't need to do all that, darlin'."

"I- I wanted to," you said, forcing yourself to look away. "Thought I would surprise you and, well, you know me. Once I start cooking..."

Joel chuckled and went to wrap an arm around your shoulders before realizing how dirty he was.

"Ah, shit," he said, grimacing when you locked eyes again. "I'm filthy. Sorry."

"That's okay," you told him eagerly. Then you glanced around to make sure you couldn't be overheard when you leaned in and whispered, "I kinda like it."

Joel raised his eyebrows and smirked. "Oh, yeah?"

"Mhmm," you hummed with your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. His cheeks grew brighter pink as he shook his head and pointed awkwardly to the trailer behind you.

"Let's grab somethin' before these animals get in there. We can eat in my office."

"Office?" you repeated, following him towards the trailer.

"Oh, yeah. I got an office, baby. Shitty trailer smaller than this one, but it's all mine."

After you spread out the sandwiches and salads for Joel's crew, half of which was gone before you blinked, you grabbed your food and let him lead you to a trailer closer to the fence. He was right, it was small, but it served its purpose. Blueprints hung on the wall behind his desk. Permits, work orders, receipts and post its with phone numbers scribbled on them littered the other walls, along with an old clock with a crack in the glass right down the middle.

"I like what you've done with the place," you teased while he scooped up papers from his desk to clear a spot for you.

He laughed softly and sat down in the ancient, squeaky chair with a grunt.

"Hard to keep it clean."

"I like it. It's, like... it's chaotic but there's a method to the madness. Very impressed," you said, eyes trailing over some of the papers. "This is like a completely different language. I can't believe you do this for a living, Joel. You can read these plans and make something come to life with your bare hands."

Joel blushed again and waved you off before unwrapping his sandwich. When he picked it up, he frowned and looked at you. "Chicken cutlets?"

You nodded and he looked like he died and went to heaven when he took a bite. "Is it too much? Does it look like I'm trying too hard? Your crew probably thinks I'm nuts."

"No, darlin', this is incredible," he said around a mouthful of food. "You put lemon or somethin' in this?"

"Yep," you replied with a grin before taking a bite of your own sandwich. Your eyes kept roaming around the packed trailer in silent awe. "It's no wonder you're so exhausted after work. And you're still managing to run in the mornings."

"Lost almost ten pounds but if you keep comin' by with food like this, I'll put it right back on if I ain't careful," he said with a wink. "I don't want Sarah thinkin' I'm lyin' 'bout runnin' when she sees me next weekend."

"You don't need to lose weight, anyway," you told him with a dismissive wave.

Joel opened his mouth to argue that you hadn't actually seen him yet without clothes on so your frame of reference was skewed, but he caught himself just in time, saving himself the embarrassment. Instead, he swallowed his food and cleared his throat.

"Do anythin' interesting today? 'Sides make all this incredible food?" he asked, noting the way your expression instantly fell.

"My mom called this morning," you said, tone shifting from playful to a little cold. "She's begging me to move back to Portland again. Says there's no use in me living out here now that Daniel's gone."

Joel straightened up nervously in his chair.

"Well, that just ain't true." You have me, he wanted to add.

"I know, and I told her how much I like it in Texas, but she just doesn't understand. I even told her I applied for a few jobs hoping it would get her off my back."

"Yeah? What kinda jobs?" he asked, perking back up and ignoring the feeling of dread that filled his chest at the prospect of you moving away.

"My degree's in marketing, so a few jobs in that field," you said, picking off some extra cheese from your sandwich as you spoke. "I did some consulting work after graduation with a handful of businesses but it looks better on a résumé to have worked at one place for a good chunk of time. So, needless to say I haven't gotten any calls."

Joel frowned and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "Keep tryin'. Somethin' will shake loose. I'll keep an ear to the ground, too. I work with all sorts of different businesses."

"Thanks," you said with a smile. "Later today, I'm gonna look at fully remote jobs. That way I'm not limited to just Austin."

A few men filed past Joel's trailer, their voices and laughter echoing throughout the partially finished building.

"You probably need to get back to work, don't you?" you asked, peering out the small window by the door.

"Yeah, unfortunately gotta take advantage of the good weather while we got it," Joel said, standing and dusting his palms on his jeans. "I'll help you clean up first. They probably left a goddamn mess in there."

"No, please," you said as you stood to follow him towards the door. "You're busy. I can handle it, I promise."

"You sure?"

"Of course! So long as I still get to come over tonight," you said with a flirtatious wink.

Joel laughed as he walked you down the three steps of the trailer. "It's the only thing gettin' me through the day."

Before you headed back towards the trailer where Tommy had set up your food, you turned to loop your arms loosely around Joel's neck. Standing on your toes, you pressed your lips against his. It was meant to be a quick, chaste kiss, but when his big hands found your waist and you breathed him in up close, your jaw automatically fell open. Joel must have forgotten where you were, as well, because he didn't hesitate to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue slowly alongside yours, firmly pushing your mouths together and pulling a moan from your throat.

When a pair of younger men on the crew walked by and whistled sharply at your display, you finally broke apart, embarrassment flooding both your faces.

"Sorry," he chuckled, releasing your hips and nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

"I started it," you grinned, ignoring the handful of men over Joel's shoulder talking to Tommy about what they just witnessed. You took a few steps backwards and playfully bit your lip. "Maybe we can pick up where we left off tonight?" you offered, unable to keep the tremor from your voice. Joel's face went slack when he realized what you meant, swallowing tightly before giving you a nod.

"Uh, y-yeah. Lookin' forward to it. I-I mean, lookin' forward to seein' you later," he stammered, making you giggle. Before you turned around, you pointed to your hat.

"I'll leave it in the trailer."

He just nodded numbly and you swiveled around to collect your things, excitement and anticipation bubbling inside, the likes of which you hadn't felt in over a year.

Normally after a long week at work, Friday nights were spent having a couple beers and falling asleep early in front of whatever hockey game happened to be on. But that Friday night, Joel was energized, veins thrumming with excitement as he carefully situated a couple old, mismatched candles on his coffee table before fluffing the pillows and folding the blanket over the back of the couch.

He ran his hand through his hair nervously and looked around the room, turning certain lights on and off until he found the perfect combination for a warm glow to set the right mood. Then he went to the kitchen, opening up your favorite bottle of wine and setting it next to two glasses. It took him three attempts at microwaving popcorn before he got a bag that didn't end up burnt, which he poured into a bowl and set on the coffee table. Glancing at his watch, he lit the candles, scrunching his nose at the conflicting scents but deciding it ultimately didn't smell too bad and left them.

After checking his reflection maybe ten times in the hall mirror, he began to pace around his house, idly straightening up things or inspecting a ledge for dust... anything to try to get his mind off what he was very certain was the night.

Fuck, he was so nervous. Before Sarah's mom, he had only had sex with one other woman. He wasn't exactly brimming with experience and not only that, given it's been over ten years since he'd had sex, he'd be lucky to last three minutes. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was disappoint you or remind you of his advanced age.

Joel cursed under his breath when he heard the light knock at his front door. On his way to let you in, he silently chastised himself for feeling a flicker of guilt. His wife would have wanted him to move on, to be happy. There was no reason to feel guilty in finding comfort and happiness with someone new.

Yet, the guilt still sat there, tucked under his ribs right next to his heart.

He pushed it out of his mind when he swung the door open to find you waiting patiently on the other side. You were wearing the same jeans and shirt from earlier, but it looked like you might have done something a little different to your hair.

"Hey," he smiled breathlessly. He leaned down to give you a quick peck on the lips, inhaling your shampoo and perfume. When he pulled back, he rubbed his lips together at the sudden softness there and you grinned sheepishly up at him, swiping your thumb gently over his lips.

"Sorry. Got some lipstick on you."

His cheeks warmed under your touch and at the realization that you had put makeup on before coming over. Had you put in extra effort that night, same as him? Or was it all in his head?

"Come on in. Got the movie ready to go, plus-"

You had breezed past him and already kicked off your sneakers, interrupting him with a gasp when you saw his living room.

"Oh, Joel, you did all this for me?" you asked with your palms pressed against your heart. You looked so touched and it made his ego inflate a little. He did good.

"Uh, yep," he said, pushing the door closed and following you into the room. You surveyed the boxes of theater candy he laid out next to the popcorn, your finger tracing over them slowly as if you were mentally ranking them before noticing the wine still sitting open on his kitchen counter. You swiveled around, hands clasped behind your back and, with a flirty smile, you said, "You got my favorite."

"'Course I did," Joel replied, taking two long strides to meet you in the middle of the room. Your hands found each other immediately, his around your waist and yours behind his neck.

"And you got candles," you murmured, gazing up at him with big doe eyes. He nodded, pulse steadily humming under his skin. "How romantic."

"Little outta practice, but I tried," he shrugged.

"I love it," you whispered right before your lips brushed against his. When he kissed you, it felt like he was falling, but he wasn't scared of the drop. No, in fact, he was excited to see what was waiting for him on the other side. The way your mouth slotted perfectly with his, the soft noise you made when his tongue dipped past your lips, your nails digging into his hair a little harder when he pressed you against his chest. It was everything and not enough, all at once.

You were the first to pull away with a little breathy laugh, excitement glimmering in your eyes.

"Why don't we at least pretend to watch some of the movie?" you teased, taking a step back, just out of reach.

Joel's eyes darkened, like a predator watching his prize slip away.

"Sit. I'll get you some wine before we start the movie."

You did as you were told, plucking a piece of popcorn from the bowl and tossing it into your mouth while he poured two glasses of wine as quickly as he could. When he was out of sight, he took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves, then flicked the kitchen light off before joining you on the couch.

"Thank you," you said, taking your glass and clinking it lightly against his.

"Welcome," he answered, taking a sip while reaching for the remote. Wine wasn't his favorite drink, but for you, he would drink bath water if that's what you wanted.

He draped an arm over the back of his couch and leaned back, spreading his knees and getting comfortable while the opening credits played. You took a few sips from your glass, the candlelight catching the refractions every time you moved. By the time your glass was almost empty on the coffee table and the first act of the movie was over, you had curled into his side, your leg slung across his lap and your head resting comfortably against his shoulder. At some point, he abandoned his wine on the end table to grip your calf on his lap, his thick fingers unconsciously kneading the muscle as he watched the movie.

You made a soft noise in the back of your throat, immediately pulling his interest, the sound doing shameful things below his waist already.

"Feels good," you whispered, eyes fluttering for a moment before nuzzling further into his chest. It took him a second to realize you were referring to the absentminded massage he was giving your leg.

"Yeah?" he responded, voice deep and gravelly when he tipped his chin to brush his lips against the top of your head. "You tense, baby?"

You hummed and nodded, tilting your face up, mouths barely touching as the movie continued to play in the background. Joel's fingers around your leg tightened as the air around you thickened. He was definitely not reading things wrong. Your lips were parted to accommodate your sudden need for more air, your chest was rising and falling faster than just a moment ago and judging by the needy look in your eye, you were practically screaming for him to touch you.

So, despite his nerves, he did.

He wasn't quite sure how it happened, but within a few short minutes he had you pinned underneath him on his couch, the leg he was once massaging now wrapped around his hips. Your mouths had crashed together, sharing whimpers and gasps each time one of your hands explored a new area. The way you devoured one another, tongues twisting and fighting and denim clad hips shifting and rolling, it was impossible to tell who was more desperate for affection and comfort.

He supposed it didn't really matter, anyway. As different as you might seem to others on the surface, inside you both were the same. You both wanted to feel loved and wanted again. You both sought out safety and comfort you so desperately craved and not only that, you each eagerly wanted to give it to the other in return, because you knew how painful it felt to be so lonely.

It could have been the blood pounding loudly in his ears that kept him from hearing the front door unlock, or maybe he was too fixated on the pretty sounds you made when his hand boldly traveled underneath your shirt for the first time that blocked out the footsteps in the entryway, but the hurt and shocked tone in her voice when she spoke cut right through everything and had him bolting upright in a panic when he heard Sarah say, "Dad?"

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[sapphiresaphics]

———

^^^ so… my problem with this is that we DO see all of these things. You can WANT more… but I would argue what would more really do for the overall story?

Let’s take the Vi as a pit fighter thing. Realistically what would we see? Vi getting into fights and drinking herself stupid. How many scenes do you need to be extended to get the same message we got out of the music video montage? How would extending that stuff longer and longer actually improve the story and not just slow it to a crawl?

We don’t NEED to see her going on benders or fighting multiple fights that will all end roughly the same way. It’s essentially repetitive storytelling. I really don’t think it’s necessary to extend that sequence out into a full episode. By like the 3rd or 4th fight, that would just be getting boring.

Ekko and Jinx? Yeah I wish we could’ve seen them bonding more.. but we didn’t NEED to see them rebuilding the balloon. All that does it take away from surprise of her chaotic entrance onto the battlefield.

Maddie? We have hints. Her suspicious knowledge of who Vi is when Vi has her hand over her cheek. Her lingering at the door listening in on Vi and Caitlyn. Ambessa’s cheeky “professional entanglement” line. There are clues and they’re not just in micro expressions. I agree more clarification would be nice, but it’s not NEEDED.

The one about Caitlyn distrusting Ambessa is the strangest one of all because Caitlyn says TO HER FACE that she does not trust her. She repeatedly challenges Ambessa’s orders, she refuses to take action on the people unless there’s probable cause, she chastises Ambessa’s guard for causing issues. She’s sneaking around (just like Vi is) to spy on what Ambessa is doing with Singe. When Vi confronts her she admits she knew all along what she was doing was wrong. She lets Jinx escape and chooses to side with Vi instead of going after her. She even sacrifices an eye to take out Ambessa!!

Like… these aren’t micro expressions or something hidden you have to read between the lines on… this is just the PLOT OF THE SHOW. How did you MISS any of that?

There’s lots of things you can criticize this series on, but I find it hilarious that you focus so much on the “micro expressions” and being righteously indignant that Arcane doesn’t “spoon feed you” the plot. You should absolutely be paying attention to the micro expressions because the animation is gorgeous and amazing to look at, but even if you don’t there’s so much here that explains all of the issues you have if you just paid attention even by a little bit.

You can WANT more, that’s fine. It’s a good show and I want more too. But technically you don’t NEED more. Arcane is the epitome of trimming the fat.

When people whine about stuff like this, it just reinforces to me that they prefer to remain ignorant and don’t want to have their beliefs challenged in any way.

[inquisimer]

Hi! For Arlow and Viago: "Thank you for being here when I needed you"

thank you for the prompt!! here's me wondering WHERE my crow dad was when I drove that dragon out of treviso

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 517 words | @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers

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Even though Teia had assured her Viago was simply elsewhere, the knot in Arlow’s gut did not unclench until she laid eyes on him, upright and whole, if smoke-streaked and harried.

“You came. Good.” His approval washed over her, but Arlow just nodded. As if she would have gone anywhere else. Treviso was her home. “The dragon, is it—?”

“Gone.”

“Gone? Not dead?”

Arlow scowled, clenching her fist. “I know. Ghilan’nain called it away, we’re not sure why. Next time I will end it, Viago, I swear—“

“I know you will.” Viago jerked his head and Arlow fell in step beside him, headed back to where Teia waited. She wondered, idly, if he had some sort of sense for where she was at all times. “Crows do not leave a job unfinished.”

“Did you even thank her before reminding her of our duty, Vi?”

“She does not need me feeding her ego.”

Teia rolled her eyes, squeezing Arlow’s shoulder with a tired smile. “It is thanks to her that Treviso has only the Antaam at our door tonight, and not the Blight as well.”

Arlow couldn’t help it: she preened at Teia’s praise. At least, until she saw Viago’s unimpressed expression.

“Do not let it go to your head,” he scowled. “You did not actually kill the dragon.”

He was right. Arlow pursed her lips; her quarry’s escape was a persistent itch beneath her skin. She might have saved Treviso a slow death from the Blight, but she had also seen the havoc wrecked before she arrived. It was not an out-and-out win—it was simply not a loss.

But with how things were going these days, she would take even that. And her blade had tasted the blighted dragon’s blood; she had looked into its sickly eyes and met it blow-for-blow—it had made an enemy of Treviso, and in doing so ensured that she would end it, one way or another.

But not today. Arlow sighed. “We should—“

“Rook!”

Davrin skidded up to the Crows, out of breath and favoring his ankle. Lucanis was hot on his heels and the storm in his expression made the bottom of Arlow’s stomach drop out.

“What is it? The dragon—?” she asked, pressing a healing tonic into Davrin’s hand. Less than a day on the team and she’d gotten him injured.

“Not the dragon,” Lucanis answered as Davrin knocked back the potion. “Well, not ours. Word from Minrathous.”

Cazza. “Neve?”

Lucanis shook his head. “Haven’t heard from her. But another messenger got word through. We need to go. Now.”

“Now? But—?”

“Go,” Viago said. Arlow’s protest died on her lips as she glanced over her shoulder. There were some looks you simply didn’t argue with, and Viago wore one of them most of the time. “You’ve done enough here for tonight. We can handle the rest.”

You’ve done enough. Arlow blinked, stalled out long enough at what was almost a compliment for Viago to raise a brow at her. “Go.”

“Right,” she spun away. Move now, process later. “Minrathous. Come on.”

Hold on, Neve. We’re coming. Hold on.

[acupofinkedblood]

Medkit x Nurse reader

Don’t mind me I’m just a bored lad

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

• As much as Medkit hates his job, he still gotta make a living somehow. You can’t really expect something more or less from a man who literally bathe in a bucket anyway. Overall, work is work, and even though when he hates it, he still has to be responsible for whatever thrown in his face. The workload was undeniably a lots for him to bare alone, so he did appreciate assistance, which in this case - you

• You, who decides to become a nurse in his clinic because barely anyone is there to compete for that spot with you. If you don’t have a license, who is he to judge? You gotta work for your bills somehow as well. But you still take things professional, that is what matters the most. Just don’t screw up an operation or anything

• Working with Medkit wasn’t that bright of the star really. The man was quiet. He kept most of everything to himself. Your usual conversation with him doesn’t last for approximately 5 minutes, and most of it was about work. But don’t worry, it wasn’t hellish

• It starts as a simple “Good morning” and “The patient requires some words with you.” It will take you a while to get this man to lower his guard around you. The friendship that blooms between the two of you is slow, since he isn’t the type to do small talks occasionally. You just have to give him time to learn how to appreciate your assistance, or your presence in general

• And it will be a very long time before he takes it easy around you

• When he finally warms up to you — or at least, trusts you enough — you will find yourself hear the doctor’s comments about pretty random stuff. One moment he is greeting you a good start at work then right away he starts telling you how dumb some patients can be sometimes. It can be pretty out of pocket, but hey, at least you know he has quite the vocabularies in his mind

• Let’s be honest here, even when it is your passion to lend a hand to other demons, being a medical helper in a place like Inpherno can really give you certain headaches. How many times have you patch up a demon who blew himself up accidentally? How many times you stare at some certain idiot that skates his way right into the wall? Honestly, you start to understand why Medkit has that resting bitch face all the time while he was at work now. And when you complain to him, he just gives you a knowing ‘About damn time you get me’ look

• Don’t be surprised when you two became the tired duo of the clinic. You two complain to each other a lots about work-related stuff. Even when you are still less insufferable than him, that tiredness of his gets to your look a bit

• And your relationship with him just grow gradually from that

• When Medkit realizes his feeling for you, he freaks out

• Commitment is scary to Medkit, especially when he literally has a target on his skull and the Cult’s eye following him in the dark. He will go through denial first, his mind will be a mess. And it doesn’t help the fact you two are literally colleagues - there is no way he can avoid you without making it awkward. He doesn’t want to put you in danger. Yet at the same time he still finds himself yearn for your company

• He tries to figure what to do, even throwing his dignity away to ask Sword about what should he do. When you see him confess, keep in mind that this man has literally stay up every nights and mentally rehearsing his line over again. And one time when you find him having a smoke break after a tired shift, the nicotine messes up with his exhaustion, and those words just slip off his tongue without him realizing at first. He can feel his heart drop, anxiously waiting for a rejection—

• But then you chuckle

• When you confess that you feel the same, he almost freezes on spot immediately before you have to call for his attention. The good thing about it is that he can finally stop being such a wimp about fearing rejection now

• As for the lovey-dobey stuff, he isn’t that fond of physical touch at first. Be patient with him, this man is a walking load of trauma already. The first approach he will engage in with is mostly act of service. When he finds himself having enough confidence to be vulnerable around you, be ready for gentle lingering touches

• If you smoke, then you two have cigarette breaks with each other occasionally as well. It is good for stress relieving, at least for Medkit

• He cares for you, but won’t admit it aloud though. One time when he is tired and passed out, you put a blanket over him before taking care of everything else. The next time when it is your turn to collapse while writing a patient’s report, you wake up with a blanket over your shoulders. He says it’s returning a favor

• Now for the fun random stuff

• You remember his coffee order by heart. One time you accidentally drink his cup instead of yours, you almost spit it out because goddamn it’s literally as dark as a black hole. And the thing that terrifies you most is the fact he is immune to the strong caffeine by now. He is dead serious when saying that stuff can’t even keep him awake at night. You make a mental note to stay away from this guy’s coffee. Just the scent alone keeps you awake at night

• If you match his sassiness, then congrats, you are in for a ride. It’s never dull in his clinic when Medkit is being sassy. Getting used to that new side of his has its benefits. You understand what each other is thinking about just with a glance, which usually be used when you two side-eyeing a patient, like a ‘This guy can’t be serious’ kind of glance

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

[laz-laz-ace-pilot]

Some more thoughts, because I can't get this thing out of my head.

Ekko should meet Viktor in this AU world. Viktor has been thematically linked to time since S1 - always racing against time, in conflict with Jayce's hesitancy around safety and Heimerdinger's complacency with slow progress. This spurs a lot of the actions that lead to Viktor's downfall - so how would AU Viktor be different and what should Ekko learn from it?

I would have Viktor, like Jayce, in Zaun using his skills to help people. If this is the 'good' timeline, have Viktor using his mobility aids openly and not be afraid of public appearance - maybe give him a respirator-based mobility aid that helps with his breathing for his illness, but also distorts his voice, creating an alternative take on the Machine Herald. His illness isn't cured (as a disabled person myself, the 'magical cure to disability' trope needs to die a death) but he isn't ashamed of it. Maybe this is the point where he could give Ekko the advice about using and enjoying the time you have, and about not fearing the loss of time. It would also give Ekko's role in the end fight more weight if he had actually interacted with Viktor at some point.

And make the building of Ekko's time/ dimension machine a group effort. Rather than just Ekko, Powder and Heimerdinger working in secret, have Powder rope in the Firelights and half the Zaun community. Show that in this world, its normal for people to help out and share resources, that people believe in Ekko's ideas and actively want to help him. That he doesn't have to do things alone, and the strength that can be found in solidarity. Powder can still be at the forefront of that, and they could still have romantic moments. And you could link that back into episode 9 - instead of the Zaunites just appearing in the battle, have Ekko use what he learned in the AU to rally the different groups together and believe that there is a better Zaun to fight for. And instead of mourning Jinx alone, have him mourn with his Firelights, or others from Zaun - tie Ekko back into the backbone of Zaun's hopeful future.

Maybe even have it that the AU versions of characters work out that Ekko is from another timeline and help him anyway. Because the distrust and backstabbing that Ekko is used to isn't there. Because any version of Ekko and Zaun is worth helping. You could have so heartbreaking moments still, with characters like Benzo or Vander suggesting things for their counterparts without knowing they are dead. You could have funny moments too. Just - honest help would do Ekko wonders.

The 'Vi-dies' reality is really bugging me, especially with the explanation that Piltover and Zaun 'made peace' because a child died and that pushed people toward change. Because we've seen - both in Arcane and our own world - that children dying doesn't inspire change. Especially if they're the 'wrong' type of child.

Milo and Clagger's deaths didn't inspire change. The death of the Chembaron's son only inspired a temporary discomfort in Jayce before he started making weapons to be used against Zaun again. The other children in the Shimmer factory are never considered again. And in our own world, the body of a dead child washed up on a French beach hasn't changed the cruelty european countries show refugees in boat crossings. Children holding a conference in Gaza begging not to be killed hasn't stopped the bombings.

At best, a few people in Piltover might feel uncomfortable; Councillor Kiramman, as Jayce's sponsor, might pledge to fund a children's program in Zaun. But for the most part it would be put down to 'unfortunate', or blame would be placed on the kids for breaking in in the first place.

And the idea that without Hextech, the political disparity would disappear is wild. Hextech exacerbated the class divide, but it definitely wasn't the cause of it. Or its absense the solution.