#what causes sunburn

[sunburndrink]

Basically, sunburn is caused by prolonged and intense exposure to those harmful ultraviolet rays coming from the sun. It is said that these radiations in the form of UV rays cause burns on the skin by killing a few cells in the process. Actually, cell death triggers your immune system response which further leaves you with sunburn’s visible symptoms.

[amberluvsbugs]

Some traditional art I did while in Texas to see the solar eclipse :D First impression of the eclipse left me shell-shocked, speechless and a bit convoluted. I was in awe that I was able to see it, I've been waiting for years for this moment. But at the same time, I was scared by just how small I really felt in this vast moment, mesmerized by the sight of seeing it with my own eyes (IT'S NOT THE SAME AS PICTURES), and sad that I wouldn't be able to see this event again for a very long time. Those 4 minutes and 24 seconds of totality felt like they were so fast, and yet so slow. Words can't describe the feeling of seeing it. I will be making more illustrations cause holy fuck I’m still reeling from it.

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

I hope yall enjoyed your stevepop today I sat so weird all day I sprained my HIP!!! stevepop how could you do this to me. how could you do this to me stevepop.

[welcometoqueer]

Also! Check the UVI for wherever you live as it gives important information regarding sun exposure and what to do to protect yourself.

Remember the sun is really just a giant, hot, angry, gassy baby that keeps burping up radiation that’ll make you very sick!

be pro-aging but wear sun screen. sun protection is not beauty industry propaganda it will save you. wear it. or else.

[drowninginthoughts27]

i yet again could not escape the UV of 9 while at the beach and am in fact severely sunburnt now

[conkreetmonkey]

Red Dead Redemption 2 was so real for creating the most in-depth, realistic clothing system I've ever seen in any game, and exclusively using it on burly, unhygienic men.

You choose every layer, every accessory, with dozens to hundreds of each to choose from. You can go in and fine-tune minute details like whether or not to roll up the shirt sleeves, or button the collar, or whether to wear your pants under your boots. These clothes get dirty in real time depending on what you do in the game. Mud, dust and blood linger unless washed off. Every garment has a warmth rating based on its material, and the game calculates what temperatures an outfit is suitable for based on the combined total. Dressing too cold or warm for the weather causes health debuffs.

You can choose which way he parts his hair, and whether he gels it. If you eat too much he gets bulkier and gains a double chin, and if you eat too little he can go underweight and get all bony and sallow. Both of these states come with stat changes. His hair and beard grow in real game time, and you need to routinely style and shave his facial hair if you want any style other than a full Santa. You need to bathe him regularly or people will start commenting on his BO, and he'll start visibly appearing filthy long before that. He sunburns in the sun, and in the heat he becomes slick and glossy with sweat.

This shit is IN DEPTH. It blows the customization systems of actual fashion-centric games like tf2, Monster Hunter and Splatoon out of the water in every regard. They honestly look basic in comparison. It's a paradigm shift for sure once you experience RDR2's level of customization. Everything else starts to feel smaller.

The player character all this customization is applied to, and I simply cannot stress this enough, is a 36 year old, 6'3" smoker weighing well over 200 pounds, with facial hair thicker than a sheepdogs, forearms like gnarled tree trunks and a dark, dense forest of body hair covering every reasonable surface. His skin is pocked and marred with scars from a rugged, nomadic lifestyle, and his teeth are the colour of cornbread. He has a thick southern accent, is a known mean drunk and knows how to skin pretty much any North American animal. He has never worn deodorant, flossed or moisturized. He eats canned beans, fruit and the like by simply pouring them into his mouth and gulping, often while walking or riding a horse at full gallop.

I can think of NO better use case for such customization. Not some fresh-faced little twink, not some busty anime babe. Just a gross, hairy, unwashed homeless dude with crippling self esteem issues and a chest broader than a barrel laid lengthwise. A non fashion-centric game, certainly a non-fashion centric character, but for some reason the best clothing and customization system ever concieved, bar none. What the fuck.

[sirfrogsworth]

"UV camera" is probably an inaccurate name. The camera is just expanding the spectrum it can capture to include UV.

The camera is still capturing the rainbow but it also captures a little bit into the purple. The more light reflected, the brighter the overall image. But if light is absorbed, it won't contribute to the brightness of the photo.

And since the sunscreen is absorbing a lot of UV light, their faces expose much darker.

You aren't actually seeing any UV light. Just the absence or presence of it making things lighter and darker. To see only UV light you'd need some kind of false color representation like predator vision.

A whlie back I was restoring a photo for a client and noticed a few people in the photo looked like they were donning black face makeup.

This didn't make a lot of sense because it was a team photo of an Australian rugby team from the 1930s and not a racist minstrel show.

And when I did my corrections, it turned out he was just a regular Aussie white dude.

I was initially very confused as to what was going on. But then I remembered modern camera sensors have a special filter to block any UV light that would affect the image. Cameras and lenses in the 30s did not have that technology and some film could expose beyond our visual spectrum—picking up a little bit of UV and infrared light.

Melanin absorbs UV light. Some white people have more than others. And so the young man in the photo appeared much darker than his teammates. In real life he was probably of similar complexion or a bit more tan. Maybe even sunburned.

It's also possible he was using rudimentary sunscreen. It was invented in the late 20s and I'm guessing athletes who were in the sun all day would be some of the first to be interested in sunscreen.

Another interesting effect caused by expanded spectrum cameras or black light photography—super freckles!

They are just dense spots of concentrated melanin.

Light is neat.

[em1i2a3]

Soak Up The Sun

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and the team are on vacation in Mexico–Val’s treat for staying out of trouble–and Bob ends up getting a brutal sunburn after refusing to wear sunscreen.

Warnings: Just pure fluff here, Descriptions of Sunburns, Bob is in pain in this one (bros please wear SUNSCREEN) Bob and Reader are in an established relationship, Bob’s a bit sassy in this lol.

Author’s Note: In keeping up with the theme of being in scorching hot climates, I decided that this would be a great little blurb to do! I just found it to be a nice little thing to release and write as a little break from my Bob Floyd fic today. I loved writing this little thing and adored the little hint of sassy Bob I decided to throw in there cause the man does have some sass I think. I can’t wait to post my next thing tomorrow, I’m so excited for it! Cause on Friday we’ve got another crazy double update circuit and I cannot wait!

Word Count: 2,856

“Bob…” Your voice was low, a plea edged with exasperation as you leaned one hip against the dresser, sunscreen bottle in hand, “Please…You’re literally going to scorch. I forgot to reapply yesterday and I literally felt my skin cooking. I could’ve sworn I smelled burning flesh.”

From across the hotel room, Bob groaned like you were asking him to give up his freedom instead of just–god forbid–apply a thin layer of SPF. He was standing near the sliding door that led to the balcony, the golden morning sun caught the tousled edges of his damp light brown locks. His thin cover up–white linen, of course–hung open and loose over his chest, clinging slightly where his skin was still warm from the shower you both took. His swim trunks were a deep navy, already wrinkled from him sitting cross-legged on the bed earlier trying to fix the drawstrings so they were even.

His bare chest–pale in all it’s glory–was on full display, freckled and defenseless. And still, he had the audacity to shrug lazily and say “My skin is us–used to the sun. I’ll be fine Y/N.” You stared at him with wide eyes, absolutely aghast by what he had just said.

”Used to the sun?” You repeated, “Bob…My love…Light of my life…The only thing your skin is used to right now is fluorescent lighting and being covered by hoodies, long sleeved shirts, and sweaters year–round…This isn’t New York.” He scratched the back of his neck, his face turning a blush red from all the things you had just called him, clearly trying not to grin, and slowly you watched his eyes soften. It was the look he always gave to you when he wanted to entice you for a kiss–or for when he wanted to convince you to let him do what he wanted.

”Bob. Don’t give me that look. You’re really going to end up getting burned. Put the damn sunscreen on.” He raised his hands as if he was surrendering, but instead he took a step towards the hotel room door.

“Y/N…I’ll be fi–fine. I’m just going to be an hour or two…Maybe less.” You advanced a single step towards him,

“Robert.” You said sternly, which made his lips quirk up into a smile.

”Ou…Using my fu–full name now…We're getting serious hmm?” You squinted at him.

“You’re pushing it.” You warned, still following his movements. You kept your distance, calculating your angle. If you needed to tackle him, you’d need room for a solid launch. The carpet was thick, cushioned enough to minimize injury. Bob’s eyes flicked nervously to your stance, and you knew he saw it too–the calculation behind your silence. You saw his hand move to rest subtly on the doorknob behind him, fingers curling around it slowly.

“I will literally tackle you to the ground in the middle of the damn resort if you don’t protect your skin.” Your voice dropped into dangerous territory. Low. Even. With just enough heat to make his brow glisten.

Bob paused. His hand froze on the handle, knuckles paling.

“Va–Val won’t appreciate us getting into trouble here…” He started, slowly. “Remember sh–she booked this trip for the team so that we could unwind and relax… If we get shipped back to New York for–for stirring things up, Val isn’t going to be happy.”

You arched a brow, stalking closer.

“You know who she really won’t be happy with?” You asked, voice sharp as cracked ice. “You, if you come back looking like the color of Elmo, Bob.”

He groaned like your logic physically pained him. “I do–don’t burn! I tan.” You laughed, short and disbelieving, crossing your arms in front of you.

“Bob, I’ve only ever seen you in different shades of red. Crimson. Rose gold. That one time it was practically cherry Kool-Aid. I’ve never seen you tan. Ever.”

His hand finally gripped the doorknob. Turned it.

And then he had the audacity to smirk–smirk–with a crooked, sheepish sort of charm that softened the edges of his face and made your heart annoyingly ache just beneath your ribs.

“Th–That’s because you never fail to ma–make me blush…”

Your mouth opened, already halfway to a flustered retort–

But the door was already swinging.

“Sorry, I love you, I’ll se–see you in an hour!” he called out breathlessly, bolting into the hallway like a man running from the scene of a crime.

You stood there in stunned silence, sunscreen still clutched in your hand like a grenade with the pin pulled.

“BOB REYNOLDS–”

But it was too late, he was gone, and all you could hear was the hurried slap of bare feet on tile echoing down the corridor.

The door clicked shut gently behind him, like it didn’t just bear witness to your complete defeat, and you let out a dramatic groan, walking to the edge of the bed tossing down the sunscreen onto the thin comforter before dropping face-first into the mattress, climbing up to Bob’s side of the bed, smelling his aftershave–lemon, and mint–on the pillow that he had laid on the night before. You reached for your phone and opened the group chat.

You: If any of you bozos see Bob around please slather him in sunscreen, he’s going to come back looking like a piece of bacon if you don’t.

——————————

The hours had slipped by.

You were curled in the hammock strung up just outside the balcony doors, a paperback in one hand and a half-melted drink in the other. The sun above Mexico had climbed to its highest point, casting everything in that harsh, white-hot glare that made even the breeze feel like it passed through an oven first. Fortunately, you had stationed yourself smartly beneath the wide circle of your umbrella, skin protected, mind adrift in the haze of heat and fictional drama.

The quiet lull of your page-turning was broken by the snick of the hotel door unlocking.

You froze mid-sentence.

Then came the unmistakable shuffle of bare feet dragging across the carpet. Slow. Heavy. The rhythm of a man whose body had turned against him.

You glanced over your shoulder just as the glass door slid open again.

Bob stood there, blinking at the floor like it might shift under his feet. His white linen shirt was wrinkled and clinging in places, damp from sweat. His chest, his arms, even the tops of his cheeks—all a warm, flushed hue of pink that hadn’t been there when he’d left. His light brown curls stuck slightly to his forehead, limp from heat and water.

“See?” he murmured, voice low and sleepy. “I di–didn’t burn.”

You narrowed your eyes, slipping out of the hammock with a sigh and placing your book on the patio table. “You sound like you’re on the brink of heat stroke. Lay down on the bed. Let me get you some water.”

He shuffled past you like a man barely conscious, a wilted version of the smug idiot who’d bolted out this morning. You opened the mini fridge, pulled out one of the chilled water bottles, twisted the cap off–and turned just in time to catch the full, pathetic glory of Bob Reynolds trying to climb onto the bed like it was covered in spikes.

He was moving in slow motion–elbows bent weird, hips at a funny angle, legs dragging like they’d stopped cooperating.

You arched a brow, unimpressed. “You sure you’re not burned? Because you’re definitely doing the ‘I’m burned’ crawl onto that bed of ours.”

“No…” He breathed. His curls fell forward, sticking to his flushed forehead. “No, I’m fine. Just di–dizzy.”

You sighed through your nose as you crossed the room.

He flopped onto his back like it took everything in him, a soft huff of air escaping his lungs as he sank into the mattress. His arm flopped across his chest dramatically, and he looked up at you like a dying Victorian debutante.

You handed him the water wordlessly, and he chugged it in seconds, neck arched, throat working in big, frantic swallows. You watched with your hands on your hips.

“Yeah…” You muttered. “You’re either dehydrated or about to pass out from sun exposure.”

You reached out to touch his arm.

And jerked your hand back instantly.

“Jesus Christ, Bob…” You gasped. “You are burned! You’re boiling!”

He shook his head weakly, eyes fluttering closed as the empty water bottle rolled off his chest. “It’s no–not painful though.”

“Not yet!” You snapped, rubbing your fingertips against your shorts like the heat still clung to them. “Sunburns don’t always show up right away. It usually takes a bit of time. You goof…You’re probably going to blister.” Bob made a soft sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper, curling in slightly on himself. The movement clearly hurt him–his jaw clenched, and his whole body flinched with it.

“I… I th–thought I’d just get a little color,” He said, eyes still closed, lips dry and cracked.

You sighed and sat beside him, pressing a hand gently to his forehead. Still way too hot. He didn’t protest your touch now–just blinked up at you, cheeks bright and flushed with the early burn.

“You’re gonna regret this in about an hour,” You muttered.

He reached for your hand sluggishly, curling his fingers around yours. “I al–already do…Sorry I didn’t listen.” You brushed his sweat-damp locks back from his forehead with your free hand, heart squeezing despite yourself. You let out a breath somewhere between a huff and a sigh, brushing your thumb along the back of his hand.

“You’re lucky I remembered to bring aloe vera with me…”

Bob cracked a faint smile, eyes still closed, his voice hoarse and wobbly.

“Be–Because you knew I’d be stubborn?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it. “Exactly.” You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, leaning in slightly so he could hear the dry amusement under your exasperation. “Did we learn our lesson, though?”

He nodded against the pillow, light brown curls shifting ever so slightly with the movement. “Al–Always listen to you…”

“Damn right,” You muttered, softening, leaning forward to press a kiss between his flushed brows.

Bob hissed–just a tiny intake of breath–but still smiled underneath it.

“It’s that,” you murmured, brushing your lips over the same spot again, “And always wear sunscreen.” He let out a breathy, tired laugh that made your heart squeeze again. He sounded like he was trying to keep it together through the sheer force of exhaustion and heat.

“Will you help me put so–some of that aloe on now?” He asked, voice low, tentative. “I actually am starting to fe–feel like I’m on fire…And I need to cool off.”

You gave him one more soft kiss between the eyebrows and stood, letting go of his hand.

“Hang tight. I’m gonna go dig it out.”

He made a noise that might’ve been agreement or pain–it was hard to tell at this point.

You padded over to your side of the room and crouched beside your open suitcase, rifling through the tangle of rolled-up swimsuits, cover-ups, soft cotton shorts, and travel-sized chaos. Your fingers finally closed around the cool plastic bottle of aloe, the gel inside sloshing as you pulled it out with a triumphant sigh.

“Got it.”

You turned to face him again, twisting the cap open with one hand and watching as he barely lifted his head from the pillow.

“You’re just burned on your front, right?”

“Ye–Yeah…” He murmured. “I fell asleep on my back.” You paused mid-step.

“…You fell asleep?” He winced, realizing his admission. “So you’re saying this could’ve been even worse?” You added.

Bob made the smallest, most pathetic groan. “Bu–But it’s not worse…” He insisted weakly. “So can you pl–please come here and rub that on my skin now?”

Your lips twitched.

“I should make you wait,” You muttered under your breath. “Just for the drama of it.”

He whimpered. A real one. A sad, miserable little whine that came from deep in his chest.

You sighed again, crossing the room slowly and lowering yourself onto the bed beside him. Bob shifted slowly, groaning as he maneuvered himself upright in the most awkward half-sit of all time. He moved like every inch of him was coated in regret. Still, he reached for you, mumbling something unintelligible as he crawled over and finally laid the full weight of his upper body across your lap.

The heat of him hit you instantly. Not metaphorical heat. Actual radiating body heat–like you were holding a radiator in your lap. The warmth soaked through your thighs, making your skin damp almost instantly, but still…His weight settled into you in that familiar, grounding way. The way it always did.

You exhaled softly, brushing your fingers over his hair again before reaching for the aloe bottle.

With a low pop, you squeezed a generous glob into your hand. The gel was thick and cool, a soft translucent green that shimmered faintly in the sunlight pouring through the window. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus and cucumber–fresh and sharp and oddly calming. A scent meant for soothing. Healing.

You rubbed your palms together to warm it slightly and whispered, “Alright, solar boy… brace yourself.”

You leaned forward and gently pressed your hands to his chest.

His body tensed beneath your touch–muscles flexing instinctively beneath the coolness–before he let out a long, shuddering sigh that sounded like the air had been punched out of him.

“God,” he breathed, “it feels like a piece of ice…Th–that’s so good.”

You smiled softly, brushing your thumbs over the line of his collarbones as you slowly worked the gel into the angry pink flush of his skin.

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling against his cheeks. His body, normally all controlled strength and subtle restraint, was loose now. Boneless. Almost fragile.

“Ha–have I told you that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my en–entire life,” he mumbled, voice drifting somewhere between delirium and sincerity, “and that I don’t deserve such a perfect person like you in my life?”

You snorted, amused despite yourself. “You technically tell me that every day without words.”

He hummed–a low, content sound from somewhere deep in his chest.

You grabbed another cool dollop of aloe and slowly slathered it along the tender skin of his stomach, careful not to press too hard. He flinched only slightly, but didn’t pull away–just let you touch him, soothe him, cool him.

“I love you so much…” He murmured, the words tumbling out like they’d been resting behind his teeth for hours. “And I’m glad that I have you.”

You looked down at him.

His eyes were still closed, face relaxed now. Less pained. His lips were parted slightly, pink and dry and still cracked from too much sun, too much pool water, too much stubborn Bob nonsense.

You bent down slowly, brushing your lips over his gently, careful not to hurt the delicate skin. He responded with the softest twitch of a smile, his hand reaching to weakly brush your thigh where it held his weight.

“I love you too,” You whispered. “And you’re the best thing that’s happened to me as well. Even if you don’t believe it.”

He let out a soft, almost bashful hum, the kind you’d only ever heard when it was just the two of you–quiet and slow and completely unguarded. His head dropped slightly against your stomach, and you felt him melt.

“You’re wa–warm by the way,” He grumbled sleepily.

“Because you turned me into a human heating pad.”

“Still nice…” He slurred, already fading.

You pressed one last kiss into his hairline, then shifted slightly so you could reach for more aloe without displacing him.

“Get some sleep,” You whispered, “You’ve got a long night of whining ahead of you.”

He didn’t answer.

But the weight of him against you was answer enough as he slowly got heavier and heavier against you as your hands continued to work in the aloe.

[marzipanandminutiae]

ok but what are YOUR favorite and probably real victorian funfacts?

There genuinely were some doctors who thought riding in trains would cause uterine prolapse [uterus falling out], when trains were new. The concern was that the vibrations from travelling so fast would break the fibers connecting the uterus to the abdominal wall. Unsurprisingly, this did not stop women from riding in trains. Because fuck that noise- trains!!!

One time in the 1840s a bunch of doctors shellacked live horses and rabbits and concluded, when the animals died (probably from heat exhaustion after being unable to sweat), that they had suffocated and that mammals breathed partially through our skin.

Some beauty manuals of the era may have created accidental sunscreen. Occasionally you see advice to wear cold cream on your face when going out, to prevent sunburn. This probably mostly didn't work- but some cold cream recipes contained zinc oxide for a "white foundation" effect, due to beauty standards favoring very light skin, which may have created a low-level SPF. Other manuals also advocate sealing the cold cream in with powder...which even more frequently involved zinc oxide.

A dentist may have gotten away with a malpractice death by blaming tightlacing. A 23-year-old maid named Annie Budden, of Preston, England, went to have a tooth pulled in January of 1895 and suffocated after the procedure, during which she had been dosed with nitrous oxide. The dentist said she was tightlaced and therefore the coroner ruled that he was not at fault- however said dentist claimed that her natural waist was 23" and her corset measured 18". Presumably that's the closed measurement, and corsets were commonly worn with at least a 2" lacing gap at the time (one corset ad I've seen mentions that women liked to give the theoretical closed measurement of their corset as their waist measurement, to make it sound smaller, while actually wearing it with the customary gap). Ergo, she was only laced down about 2-3 inches, a difference unlikely to cause asphyxiation. The fact that she worked as a maid similarly calls the assessment into question- how could she have successfully done physical labor while laced down in a way that diminished her lung capacity so much? Her employer vouched for her good character and excessive tightlacing was seen as vanity- and would have been noticed by making Miss Budden look out-of-proportion physically. That doesn't add up either, to me. The dentist went on to become mayor of the town where this all happened.

That thing above started as a fun fact about the only credible death due to tightlacing and then I looked into it more and now I'm just mad.

Justice For Annie Budden

Sorry this has gotten off-track but I'm still mad about the whole Annie Budden thing

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Alpha male reader with omaga mikey and they are with each other and Mikey heat comes Unexpectedly ♦️

Pairings: Mikey x male reader

Warnings: Alpha male!reader, dom/top!reader, sub/bottom/omega!Mikey, lots of pet names, clingy sex, public sex, biting, heat, knotting, brief mention of pregnancy, reader is called "sir + master"

It's a crisp, spring day and you are a humble alpha taking his little omega boyfriend out to the park. As usual, Mikey's first move is to find the food stalls and buy a snack to eat while you take a stroll. Something sweet, obviously. Because what's a daytime park date without a little sugar?

If you're lucky he might even share a bite with you (!!!!!!) without you asking! Your lips linger around Mikey's fingers for just a few seconds longer than they need to, and the omega feels a flush of warmth hit his body from the inside. He shrugs it off though, and your date continues over to a bench by the water.

“A lot of ducks here today, huh?” you comment. Eyeing the feathered creatures as a dozen or so glide along the water's surface.

Mikey looks at you with a raised eyebrow, “I didn't think anyone seemed that rude… that one kid even smiled as we passed them.”

You returned his puzzled expression with one of your own, until it clicked, and you snorted as you corrected him. “Ducks, Mikey,” pointing towards the water in front of you. “not dicks. You've got a dirty little mind today, dont'cha?”

“What do you mean?! That one mistake doesn't make me some pervert, like you think I am!” Mikey pouted, crossing his arms over his chest and swiveling away from you.

Your boyfriend's childish nature is adorable sometimes (and annoying at others…) — huffing while he avoids eye contact, even turning his body away from you so he can pretend to be mad. Such a cutie~

“Uh-huh, sure.” you said sarcastically. “Don't think I didn't see the look in your eyes when I "accidentally" sucked on your fingers earlier. Your mind went somewhere very naughty, and we both know it~” Your teasing turned the tips of Mikey's ears red in an instant, filling his mind with many ideas. In that moment, all the blood in his body rushed downward, causing his soft shaft to slowly swell and rise—creating a small bulge in the front of his pants.

As you turn your attention back to the natural world surrounding you, a soft whine makes your ear twitch. You glance over and notice the deep red taking over Mikey's cheeks and nose, and the way his fingers dig into the wood of the bench you're sitting on. “M-Mikey…?”

The utterance of his name sends another jolt straight to his cock, filling him with an unbearable heat that spreads to every last corner of his body. He's wheezing now, mouth open as ragged breaths come out and his chest heaves. You stare at the sudden new state of your partner in shock — is he getting a fever?! Is this spot too sunny?!

“Hey, babe, are you– are you alright?” you touch the back of your hand against his forehead, and it almost feels like Mikey got a terrible sunburn. “You're burning up! Uuuhh… should we move somewhere with shade?!”

“Lower… touch me lower pleeeaasee~ ” he whines. His thighs tense, rubbing together a bit as he tries not to let a glob of precum spill from his dick. “Please, sir… I need it– mMFhjkD–!! I need Master's touch…”

Wow. Ok, this is embarrassing! As your eyes scan your immediate surroundings, you find that most of the people are over towards the center of the park, or by the entrance. There are still a few people nearby though, and they could probably see or hear you if you do anything right here–

“Mikey, wh– are you…?” you're cut off by Mikey grabbing your wrist and forcing your hand into his pants, unzipping them so that you can fit your whole hand down there. His tiny cock has swelled so much, and the insides of his clothes are soaked already! There's a wet mess sliding down his thighs and pooling underneath his ass.

While you try not to alert any other park-goers, you discreetly palm your boyfriend underneath his clothes, rubbing at his entrance and nearly easing a finger in there. This alone causes your balls to tighten, and you sense something a bit more primal bubbling towards the surface as Mikey whimpers and thrusts his hips wildly — like an animal in heat.

“Mikey, why didn't you tell me your heat was coming on? We could have stayed home — taken care of this properly. The park could've waited.”

“I-I didn't– gnngh-! I didn't kn-know… I swear!” he stammers between noises of ecstasy. “OoOOohh mm~ yeah~ I didn't feel any-thiiing aaAhhH!! A-anything until after we got here… hnngh…” you have to quickly cover your boyfriend's mouth, lest he moan any louder and draw someone's attention.

Well, now that you're less concerned about his health, and you know why Mikey is red and a million degrees, now you have to make a quick decision — how are you going to take care of this? You could try to take him back home, where you'd have all the privacy possible to fuck him silly until this heat subsides. But, looking at the state your boyfriend is currently in, you don't see that working out very well. He's too far into this to walk that far… The park bathrooms aren't private enough, plus they're not all that clean. You guess…

“Pl-please please please please– it huuuurts…” Mikey cries, prying your hand away from his lips and trying to get both of your hands down his pants.

“No — zip these back up, quickly–”

“NONONONONO PLEASE—I'LL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU, MASTER, PLEASE–!!!” Mikey screams, clinging onto your arm like a child would to their parents when they don't want them to leave.

You slap a hand over Mikey's mouth again, nearly flying off of the bench to shush him. “SHH! Be quiet! I'm GOING to, but we can't do it right here! It's bad enough that someone probably saw us already… we're in public, Mikey! We can't just do it in front of an audience!”

Another pitiful whine reverberates into your palm, and the blond's black eyes well with tears as he reluctantly zips up his pants, feeling lonely without your hand on him.

“Get up, hold on to me if you need to.”

Mikey stumbles as you begin walking somewhere, wrapping his arms around your elbow and nuzzling his nose into the exposed skin. That little inhale of your scent has him clenching his legs together for a moment as a dribble of precum leaks out of his tip.

That whole display only causes your hormones to kick in further, bringing an uncomfortable wave of heat to your body now. It's all you can do to lead Mikey along until you come to a rather large hedge on the outer edge of the park, barely covered by a few trees and a fence on one side.

“Why are we… over here?” your little omega asks.

Before you answer, you scoop him up and lay him down on the grass. “Fixing our little "problem"—fuckin'… nngh-” you growl impatiently, “Look at what you did to me, honey…” the very obvious dick-shaped bulge in your pants made Mikey drool. His hands dig into the grass and dirt below him, and his legs spread instinctually.

“That's a good boy, but you gotta take your clothes off first, yeah?” you remind him. In a flash, your boyfriend has his pants and underwear off, only draped around one ankle. At the same time, you unzip yours and pull them down just enough to free your aching, throbbing cock.

“Ready for me?” Mikey nods vigorously, and you quickly line up your cock, pushing against his entrance with a bit of resistance. The slick coating his insides and sliding down his inner thighs helps greatly, though it is still a tight fit. Not that you're complaining, exactly — that tightness feels damn good for both of you.

The little omega opens his mouth to moan—or maybe scream—but not a sound comes out. Instead, his eyes simply glaze over while you bottom out in one thrust. “OoOOohH fuck-! Tight… so fuckin' tight for me…”

Instincts take over as you start humping Mikey's wet hole, already overwhelmed by having his soft, warm insides hug your cock. Primal as this all is, you also desperately cling to your boyfriend—overtaken by a primal love for him too. One hand combs through his hair, pushing it out of his face, while the other slides to the small of his back. “Mhm~ You feel so gooood, baby- ah! ah! ah! Fu-uck y-yeah–!” you drawl to the rhythm of your thrusts. Plowing Mikey's ass so hard that it kind of hurts your hips too.

The omega wraps his arms around the back of your neck, pulling your face closer until your lips brush against his skin. You nibble on his earlobe, and Mikey lets out a cute whimper as his eyes squeeze shut in embarrassment. Nibbling turns to nipping at his neck, which then turns into sucking on the tender flesh — all while the blond moans louder than he probably should.

“Fuck! I'm gonna- hnngh–!!” Before you can even finish your sentence, a flood of thick, creamy cum fills up Mikey's hole. Painting his insides white as you bite down on his shoulder to stay quiet.

“M-more! Moremoremore~! Need… Alpha's cum~💛” his voice fades towards the end, and his small body slumps all at once as the last drops of cum spill into his unprotected hole.

You're barely able to hold yourself up, but you try to, so you don't crush your precious omega with your weight. Though your vision is spotty, you can still appreciate the sight of your darling boyfriend in his blissful state. You assume he's half unconscious already; until you start pulling out and Mikey perks up, whining out “Noooo… isss'not enough yet… need master's cock~”

A knot is already formed at the base of your shaft, and you're honestly not any softer even though you pumped a bucket load of semen into him. You certainly can't walk home like this…

“Yeah? Is this what you're needing, honey?” you ask, bringing one of Mikey's hands to the knot and letting him feel it. He gropes it, strokes it, and begs for you to put it back inside in such a loving voice. It's enough to make you feel bad about even thinking of stopping here.

“Anything for my baby boy~ Haah… wanna push it in yourself?” Mikey nods tiredly, guiding the rest of your dick back into his hole. Once the knot reaches his entrance, he holds onto your hips, and you begin thrusting again. “A little harder—here, I'll help ya.” you take Mikey's waist in your hands and pull him towards you as you thrust in.

The speed of your thrusts picks back up, and with enough effort from both of you, your knot eventually squeezes past his fucked out rim. “Oh god-! It's in! Fffuuck, Mikey… s'tighter than before-!!” As your bulky cock stretches his ass, you can already feel another orgasm coming.

Mikey pulls you down by the neck again, clinging to you—his lifeline, his sunshine, his stars, his galaxy, his entire world—and you return the embrace. His small body takes everything you have to offer as you greedily hump him, creating just enough friction to unload another round of cum into his womb. “Shit! Cumming! Mmhm, gonna breed you, Mikey~ Gonna breed my sweet omega–!!”

“Breed me! Please… mMMhgNm…” his muffled cries turn into whimpers as you up the ante with your breeding talk–

“Oh fuck-! Gonna knock you up, yeah? Fill your little tummy with kids?” between every powerful bump against Mikey's body, you affirm his deep-rooted desires. “You'll be a daddy after I'm finished with ya, sweetheart~”

—

You're not sure how many minutes pass, but what you are sure of is the fact that your knot hasn't gone away yet… it's still swollen, tethering you and your omega together and preventing you from leaving your hiding spot.

Mikey is all but passed out under you, and it's still early enough in the day — it's not like you need to rush out of the park, sooooo… you guess you're just going to lay here until you can safely pull out.

In the meantime, what's the harm in admiring your boyfriend while he naps? After all, his soft features look even prettier after you had them twisting in pleasure~

[norrisainz33]

photograph pt2. || op81

summary: after losing touch with your childhood best friend, oscar piastri, you finally find your way back to each other.

pairing: oscar piastri x best friend!reader

warnings: slightly angsty to start but happy ending YAY!

word count: 2,165

masterlist | pt. 1

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

the envelope sat unopened on your kitchen counter for exactly 2 days and 14 hours and 15 minutes. not that you had been counting just how long that letter had been mocking you from its place on your marble counter.

the letter had arrived in the usual pile of bills and junk mail and at first thats what you had thought it was but with the sleek white envelope with the mclaren logo printed in the corner and your name handwritten on the back... you figured it was anything but junk mail. and you couldn't quite shake the feeling that you recognized the sharp messy handwriting on the envelope from all those birthday cards you had gotten from oscar as a kid.

you shouldn’t have been totally surprised. melbourne was hosting the grand prix again and oscar was racing in it again. of course they were doing some kind of nostalgia campaign, pulling at local connections and grassroots beginnings sorta deal. you just hadn’t expected you to be one of the local connections. though one of your friends had warned you that some pictures of you and oscar karting as kids had been going viral and you were sure the mclaren social media team had seen it.

even with that said, the envelope stayed sealed and you couldn't bring yourself to open it.

you weren’t totally sure why. maybe because part of you didn’t want to believe he remembered and wanted to believe that you were just another name on a list, another childhood tie to help pad a story for the cameras by the social media team. or maybe you were just scared... really scared of seeing him again and realizing too much had changed. scared of realizing that he hadn’t missed you at all.

it’s four days before the race when your phone buzzes with a number you didn't have saved.

you almost don’t answer but seeing the monaco country code in front of the cell number caused curiosity to win.

“hello?”

there was a pause that caused you to almost hang up the phone and then: “so… you’re ignoring mclaren and me now?”

your heart nearly stopped and you momentarily forget how to breath. you know that voice. you’d know it in your sleep.

“oscar?”

he chuckles awkwardly. “right, yeah, hi.”

you don’t say anything right away. too many memories come rushing back all at once - karting tracks and late-night talks, sunburned grins and tear-stained goodbyes.

“i didn’t think you’d call,” you finally manage to get out after entirely too long.

“yeah, well,” he says, his voice quieter now. “mclaren told me you hadn’t responded back to our invite and i just… well.. i just wanted to make sure you got it and that my mom had your address right.”

“I got it, yeah. nicole does have my address right.” you say. “i don't know - i wasn’t sure if I should go.”

another pause. this time from his end. “why wouldn’t you come?”

you laugh bitterly. “because we haven’t talked in years, oscar. and now, out of nowhere, you send me an invite like nothing ever changed and theres nothing a little weird about it?”

“I didn’t send it to pretend nothing changed,” he counters. “I sent it because everything did change and I never stopped wishing it hadn’t. and i'm sorry that it took the mclaren pr team shoving an old photo of us in my face, that has apparently gone viral, for me to grow a pair and reach back out but here i am.”

oscar had stunned you into silence.

“i’m not asking for anything,” he almost whispered. “but it just... it would mean a lot to see you there.”

you don’t promise anything but you don’t hang up either and that’s how you know you’ve already made your decision.

the australian grand prix weekend arrives faster than you’re ready for.

you don’t remember the last time you felt this anxious. the city is buzzing with that unique energy only a race weekend can bring - the sound of cars testing engines in the distance, the people walking in and out of pit garages, the rush of adrenaline that clings to the air. you’re surrounded by it all but none of it feels as real as the invitation sitting in your pocket the one you’d finally decided to accept. the one from oscar.

you’re not sure what you expected when you finally set foot in the mclaren hospitality suite after the whirlwind of mclaren team members ushering you through various levels of the paddock. you had thought you might feel out of place. maybe even invisible. but the second you step inside, a voice you haven’t heard in forever slices through the noise of the crowd.

“y/n/n!”

it’s him. there’s no mistaking that voice.

you turn and there he is, oscar piastri, standing in the flesh like he’s never left. he's a bit taller now and his hair a little more styled but those eyes — the same familiar brown ones that always seemed to see right through you — still hold that quiet intensity you remember so well.

he’s staring at you, mouth open like he can’t quite believe you’re standing there in front of him. you can’t help but smile. for a moment, you forget about the space and time that’s stretched between you, and you’re just here. here with him. here with oscar - your oscar.

oscar takes a reluctant step forward, and then another.

“you came, y/n.” his voice is a little breathless like he’s just caught up with his own surprise.

“yeah, I did,” you reply trying to hide the nervous excitement bubbling inside you. it’s so familiar to hear him say your name yet it feels different now like you’re both stepping into an unfamiliar place, even though everything around you is the same.

you take in his face again, the way his smile is both shy and relieved. it’s still that goofy grin you remember but now it’s edged with years of experiences you’ve only seen through a screen or in photos.

“guess you’re doing well, huh?” you say gesturing to the mclaren garage around you. the fact that he’s here, that he’s made it this far, makes something in your chest swell with pride even though you’ve been away from it all for so long, you’re reminded of why you always believed in him.

“yeah, I guess so,” oscar chuckled rubbing the back of his neck. “it’s... still weird though.. coming back here - you know? it feels like everything’s changed but also like nothing’s changed at all.” he shrugged clearly feeling a little awkward. “so what’s it been? four years?” he asked, looking at you sheepishly. “I mean, I think I’ve sent you like... what, two messages in all that time?”

“something like that,” you say with a laugh but it’s a hollow one. it’s easy to brush off but underneath it all, you both know. the distance between you is far more than the years on paper.

oscar shifts on his feet and adjusts his team shirt. he’s no longer that wide-eyed kid who left melbourne chasing a dream. he’s the man who made it.

“listen,” he starts, running a hand through his hair. “I owe you an apology. for... everything. for not keeping in touch. for letting things drift between us. I was an idiot and I’m really genuinely sorry.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you, y/n/n. I didn’t mean for things to end up like this. when i left i got so caught up in everything and I never stopped to think about you. about us.“

you take a slow breath. “It’s not all your fault,” you say quietly. “I should’ve said something too. the phone definitely goes both ways osc.”

oscar let out a heavy sigh. “maybe but I should’ve been the one to fix it. i was the one who left and the one who should've done something about it. and I didn’t... I didn’t realize what I had until I lost it.”

your heart beats a little faster at his words. your mind flashes back to all the unspoken moments between you two — the laughs, the stares, the quiet understanding that never needed words, the love that had always simmered under the surface.

“and you never stopped caring for me?” you ask before you can stop yourself, your face instantly turning red.

oscar’s gaze locks onto yours, and for the first time, there’s no hesitation. “never. and honestly not only did i never stopped caring, i've also never stopped loving you. I’ve loved you for so long, y/n. i was too afraid to admit it. afraid of losing you even more than I already had.”

a lump forms in your throat. it feels like the world has paused for just a moment like it’s finally giving you both the chance to say everything you couldn’t before.

“i'm not that person anymore,” oscar adds his voice a little more vulnerable now. “i've changed and i’ve grown up and if you’re willing to give me a chance to prove that... I’d do anything to fix what I broke.”

you didn’t expect him to be this open or this honest and you sure as hell didn’t expect him to feel the same way you’d always felt.

for a moment, you’re speechless. all you can do is look at him. the boy who left, the man who came back, and somehow... it feels like maybe you’ve been waiting for him this whole time.

“oscar,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “we were both just scared and maybe we don’t need to be anymore.”

he smiles a little unsure but full of hope. “so you’ll give me a chance?”

you hesitate, your pulse quickening as you nod. “yeah. i think I will.”

oscar steps a little closer with his hand outstretched. you don’t hesitate this time. you take it and your fingers intertwine like they used to.

and for the first time in years, you allow yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there’s a future for both of you — together.

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

a/n: thank you soooo very much for reading!! i appreciate the feedback on the first part xx

tag list from pt1: @raweceekk @silverstcness @littlegrapejuice @il0vereadingstuff @ladywhistledownx

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[celuere]

sometimes silence guides the mind

pairing: arlecchino x pregnant!reader

context: on a draining day, there is only one thing that can soothe the Knaves mind.

cw: domestic fluff, arle is besotted with your baby belly oh i‘m so sick, reader is in her third trimester btw

when i tell you that i am smoking domestic arle atm.

„what do you mean he was found dead.“

a mixture of disbelief and frustration slowly edged itself into the white-haired woman’s facial features as she flipped through the files scattered across her desk.

„Monsieur Wellfield was found dead this morning in his sleeping chambers. the local authorities are trying to cover up the incident as a „sudden heartattack“, but as you can see in the files…“, the subordinate gestured to the various pictures of the gruesome crime scene in front of them, „that was no heartattack. we’re dealing with an assassination.“

„indeed. it seems like the cartel of nod krai doesn’t want to be associated with the fatui in any form, given how monsieur wellfield was one of our suspects to have ties to their inner circle. they must’ve caught wind of our plan to contact them. how should be proceed, lady arlecchino?“

„doesn’t want to be associated with us, as if they are in any position to decide over such trivial matters. the tsaritsa herself wants to negotiate with their higher ups, who are they to decline a god. it‘s such arrogance and incompetence that rob me of my last nerve.“, arlecchino rubbed the bridge of her nose before waving the subordinate in front of her off, „you’re dismissed. i‘ll handle the situation accordingly myself.“

but just before the man was about to pass through the door, arlecchino spoke up, „you don‘t happen to know anything about my wife‘s whereabouts, do you?“, slowly the subordinate turned back around, scratching his neck as he recalled the memory of your last location.

„if i am not mistaken… i saw her just a few moments ago when she left the house with some of the children, picnic baskets in hand. she seemed in high spirits about the sunny weather today.“.

„then i shall be joining her. a little bit of fresh air never hurt anyone.“, and with that she rose up from her rather chaotic desk which was of little concern for her for now.

Arlecchino found you sitting underneath the cool shadows of a rather tall grown tree, just a five minute walk away from the hearth, being busy with smearing sunscreen all over foltz‘s face who did everything in his willpower to get away from your sticky hands.

„let go of me! i won‘t get sunburn, i prom- mh!“, he was shut up immediately when you wiped the remaining sunscreen over his mouth and chin before letting go of this oh so tortured soul. a rare feeling of comfort and warmth washed over the harbinger at the sight, slowly nagging away at her bad mood.

„that is not something you can promise, foltz. you will thank me once you eat enough veggies to grow older. now hop along and don‘t let me catch you pushing your siblings into the pond!“, you were still sitting with your back turned to your approaching husband when the boy sped past arlecchino and yelled a quick greeting to his father as he ran by, causing you turn around - well, at least you tried turning around. when you happen to be eight months into your pregnancy, even the smallest things turn into a challenge.

„arle…? when did you get here?“, the glimmer of love blitzing up in your eyes as she sat down next to you on the picnic blanket made her almost immediately forget about all the troubles plaguing her mind.

„just now. paperwork seems to have a suffocating effect on me lately, i thought it‘d be a good idea to join my wife for a break…“, arle slowly leaned in to pepper a soft kiss onto your cheek before you felt her hand roaming over your baby belly before she turns her whole attention towards it.

„ah, well in that case my husband is free spend her free time with me… and her baby…“, a smile so soft and lovingly tugged at your lips, the bare sight caused her heart to swell inside her chest at the realization of the life growing in your belly. not just any life. her daughter. she will probably never wrap her hand around how this little life you are nurturing in your belly right now is her own child. 

„mhm… with my wife and baby…“, a heavy sigh escaped her lungs as she carefully and gently laid her head down on your baby bump. well, you long grew out of the term „bump“ but you still think it‘s an adorable term to use. 

„my… hard day, ma cherie…?“, gently running your fingers through her soft strands, you allowed your nails to scratch over the scalp and forcing a pleased hum from her lips.

„mhm… very much… but such insignificant things aren’t of much importance to me at the moment…“, with one hand still stroking over your belly, the knave allowed herself to shut her eyes at the sensation from your nails caressing her scalp. there were cursed things in her life. she herself was a wandering curse but you seemed to cool the boiling flames underneath her marked skin, cool the terrorizing thoughts gnawing at the back of her mind.

„celestia above… you are so enchanting… i can‘t seem to keep myself together…“, pressing her lips now softly to your tummy, you couldn’t help but feel your heart speeding up. especially when the kisses didnt seem to stop.

ever since you found out about upcoming addition to your life, arlecchino has been nothing but comforting and accommodating to you. you need a massage at the end of a rough day? or help with showering? your husband is at your beck and call. even when you wake her up in the middle of the night because one of your cravings  rendered you sleepless. she‘d still get up and put herself into the kitchen at 2am. she was perfect. inside and out. which wasn‘t helping your baby fever at all, even tho one would think being pregnant would soothe the symptoms. it was quite the opposite with her.

„why don‘t you take a little powernap then, hm..?“

„a powernap…? hm… fine. i will indulge in twenty minutes of rest.“

you did not wake her up after twenty minutes.

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico hates three-legged races on principle. One, because they force him to pronounce the extra syllable in legged, which makes him think of William Shakespeare -- Billy, as he insists Nico calls him. Ugh. Two, because they are stupid. And three, bonus, because they are stupid enough to merit saying that twice.

It's inefficient, is what it is.

"It's fun," Will coaxes. He winks, or tries to. He really just blinks both eyes and Nico melts but for propriety's sake, and because it is ridiculous also, he pretends he doesn't. "Plus, it's not so bad if it's me you're tied to, huh?"

Nico glares at him for a moment. He is grinning, now, wide and cheeky, ignoring the genuine Distance between his hips and Nico's and the general calamity that is sure to cause. They are not only about run a three-legged race, but they are going to lose. Which is worse.

(Practice, Chiron insists. You never know what the real world will be like.)

(Bah.)

But as he opens his mouth to snark something along the lines of I don't actually need you to qualify, I just need your leg, so don't piss me off, he comes to a realization that snaps his jaw right closed.

Tied to, Will had said.

A grin of his own spreads over Nico's face. He hides it quickly.

"On your marks, racers!" calls Chiron, stamping his hoof. All fifteen teams of the meet hobble over to the starting line, pushing and shoving. Will and Nico make their ridiculous, sauntering way.

"Actually," Nico muses, as they shift into position. "If I'm gonna have you tied up..."

"Get set!"

He moves just enough to brush his shoulder along Will's bicep, tilting his chin up to stare right in Will's round, pretty face, tilted in confusion.

Nico lets his mouth curve into something wide and wolfish.

"I'd rather it be somewhere a little more private."

"Go!"

The rest of the teams tear off. The advantage they have is staggering -- Chiron had offered, safe distance away, if Nico would prefer competing in a weight class perhaps closer to his own, and Nico had snapped his disgust so loudly campers jumped several paces away. It had, possibly, been a tad arrogant, and if Will had not sighed in exasperated fondness Nico may have swallowed back his pride and accepted the offer.

...Well, maybe.

But it is his own fault, regardless, their predicament. In no way and on no planet would they have in any way won, by any margin. They are simply no match for Ellis and Malcolm, when the freakishly reedy rivals manage to set their differences aside.

But the total dead weight on Will's end is a surprise.

The flush, he had expected. Nico relished in the anticipation of the redness high on Will's cheeks, the heat pouring off of him, the curl of his shoulders up by his ears and the high bend of his cracking voice.

What he was not expecting was for each of Will's freckles to go supernova.

In a sudden, cracking flash, like sunlight bursting through stormclouds in tiny little pinpricks, every little dot on Will's body -- of which there are many -- shine a beam of pure, hot, white line in every direction, enveloping him like a nuclear waste facility lit aflame. Between every white-bright light is bright red heat, like lithium flame, so hot the air around them kind of warps. Were it not for Nico's tough jeans and long-sleeved shirt, he may have fried off his skin. As it is, he feels sunburn.

"What did you do to him," asks Lou Ellen, aghast. She and Cecil have not only paused but have doubled back, hobbling over to gawk.

Nico grimaces. It is probably a bad sign if two of Will's closest friends have not seen him react in this way. A quick glance around confirms that all racers are gawking; spectators, too, stopping where they stand to stare at the sheer light pouring off of Will until it burns so brightly they have to look away.

"Hey," Nico whispers, poking his friend in the ribs. He regrets it immediately, sticking the smarting burn on his fingertip into his mouth. "Are you -- Will? Are you still...present?"

His soul is, at least. Mostly. His facial features however have become entirely obscured by a glowing red so bright it is white, like the sun behind closed eyelids.

Oops.

Nico spares another look at the racegrounds. Still people watch, mouths open -- gaping or whispering to one another, curious. Several appear to be scribbling notes onto paper. Kayla appears to be taking diagnostic photographs. (Or, at least, Nico gives her the benefit of the doubt.)

The race track is wide open.

"I promise I didn't actually try to turn your brain off for this," Nico says. He carefully does not promise never to do it again, in case Will is present behind the glow and holds him to it. "But I am going to use this to our advantage."

Nico pulls his sleeves over his hands and grabs both of Will's, tugging them to the finish line. Nobody stops them.

"Notice how I said 'our'. See, we're a team."

Quickly they cross the finish line. Nico stands for a moment at the end and ponders his situation, wondering if he should let Will calm down and perhaps stop while he is ahead.

But as Will's light fades, the bright red flush high on both his cheeks becomes clear and cherry-toned, and the red does ever so bring out the absolute mortified agony in his eyes mixed with slow-blinking confusion, like the last time he forgot to eat for five days and passed out directly on top of a rock, giving himself a grade 3 concussion.

"What -- happened."

And, well.

Nobody really got hurt.

"Nothing," Nico assures quickly. He pats Will's still-red cheek, smirking. "Yet."

[aroaceleovaldez]

i already was seeing a lot of Jason with albinism stuff but there's been a significant uptick in it since the Thalia casting announcement and I wanted to say: please please PLEASE do actual research about albinism if you're gonna make headcanons about Jason being albino. I have already seen so much ignorant and ableist stuff about it because nobody is bothering to do any research and it's really annoying.

A couple of major notes:

There are different types of albinism!!!!! and no i'm not referring to vitiligo or etc. Just straight up albinism there are different types. There are two main types (oculocutaneous albinism types 1 and 2) plus ocular albinism, and then some other types as well that are even rarer. It is also possible to have only partial absence of melanin. (Vitiligo is a form of partial absence/loss of melanin, and often involves loss over time)

Albinism is a lack of melanin/pigmentation. This affects sensitivity to light and UV rays a LOT. Like a lot a lot. (This also applies to vitiligo btw! Melanin protects your skin from the sun, so a loss of melanin even in patches means those areas are more sensitive!)

Skin sensitivity to sunlight does not only apply to when it is sunny out. People with albinism have to take a lot of steps to protect their skin because they are SIGNIFICANTLY more susceptible to sun/UV damage. It doesn't matter if it's overcast, raining, snowing, whatever. They are putting on sunscreen, and they are putting on a lot of it. Sun protection can also come from just covering up. Big hats are also popular choices.

Sensitivity to light also applies in all environments. Transition glasses are common and sunglasses are common.

People with albinism do not have red irises. A lack of pigmentation in irises (referred to as ocular albinism) appears blue, usually a very light blue (less melanin/pigmentation in the eye, the lighter blue it appears). The red appearance comes from more light entering the eye than usual, causing a red eye effect like you see in flash photography except with the naked eye. This can make the iris appear slightly pink/red-tinted and will more often make the pupil look reddish instead of pure black because you are seeing into the eyeball itself and the muscles and veins within it. Not everyone with albinism has blue eyes depending on how much the pigmentation in their eyes is affected, but a lot of people do.

Albinism basically always includes the individual having vision problems, usually low vision or outright being legally blind. They are not completely blind but it is very likely they are legally blind. We're talking very thick glasses (though glasses don't always help because of what causes the low vision), requiring enlarged text, i know somebody who had a little glass block that magnified text underneath it and they used that a lot, etc etc. Depending on severity they may require other assistive devices. Albinism affects the optic nerve, so other eye conditions like strabismus and nystagmus (and more) are also extremely common if not a guarantee (nystagmus is basically always guaranteed).

Nystagmus, for those who don't want to bother googling it, is uncontrollable eye movement in the form of back and forth shaking. Strabismus is when your eyes don't align with each other. These also cause vision impairment.

If you are writing Jason as having poor vision from albinism, he would KNOW he needs glasses. Literally everybody should know he needs glasses/is blind. He would likely be legally blind and would have been pretty much his entire life. He would also almost definitely have other eye conditions as well. (Also rip Jason being raised by the wolves, poor guy is gonna have the WORST sunburn)

People with albinism have different skin tones! And different hair colors! A lack of pigmentation looks different depending on your individual genes and what type of albinism you have! Look up photo references!!!!!

There is also a lot of fetishization of albinism. PLEASE BE RESPECTFUL when you are making headcanons about it, or creating/designing characters who are albino.

Here's a couple of short tiktoks that go over some basic information and other stuff about albinism if visual-auditory learning is more your jam: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] (Kayla_lud has a lot of videos going over information about albinism)

okay now everybody take your notes and go tweak your headcanons yeah? yeah. okay good.

[filthyjoelslvr]

The Other Woman (3)

part 1 | part 2 | part 4

Content: jackson!tommy x reader; jackson!joel x reader (previous chapter)

Synop: Tommy isn't the same after you told him about you and Joel. His heads hung low, his smile falters, his eyes scream of the pain he feels. You keep running into him and each time breaks you a little more than the last.

Then, Joel tells his ex wife of the affair. And the whole town knows. They stare, they whisper, and Tommy can barely stand it.

Warnings: pinv, fingering, tommy spits in your mouth, tells reader i hate you during sex?, sad tommy, guilty joel, physical fighting (mentions blood), very small mention of SA (past), death of mother, prob forgetting some

Word Count: 10K!

(dividers by: @cafekitsune)

a/n: guys i hope you like this one!! i was in such a stump and then got a random burst of inspiration so i hope i did a good job blending it all together. i literally wanna turn this whole series into a chapter book!!! but i made this so long so another part is coming soon im so sorry yall, ik ik i need to chill. but..... should you have tommy's babies ???? AHH DONT COME FOR ME IM INTO THAT

It had been twenty-three days since you last spoke to Tommy.

Not that you were counting, but every night bled into the next without him, and each morning you woke up hoping the ache would be duller than the day before. It wasn’t.

The last time you saw him — really saw him — was the night everything fell apart. The night he looked at you like he didn’t know who you were. Technically, he never asked you to be his girlfriend, not in those exact words, but you didn’t need him to. You knew it. Felt it in every look, every late-night visit, every time he held you like the world might end before morning. You were his. And he was yours.

But now… now you were nothing.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen the way it did. You never meant to hurt him, never wanted to be the cause of that devastation you saw in his eyes that day. The memory of it still clawed at your insides.

You heard the footsteps before the knock — heavy, sure, familiar in a way that made your throat tighten.

When you opened the door, there he was. Tommy. Sunburned cheeks, wind-worn jacket, smile so big it made your chest ache. “Told you I’d be back, didn’t I?”

You had launched into his arms. Laughed. Let him spin you like a girl who hadn’t done the unthinkable. You buried yourself in him because you didn’t know how to be anywhere else. Because you were scared.

You tried to tell him. Tried to say the words. But he kissed you — kissed you like nothing had changed. And you let him. You let him love you, worship you, fall deeper when you knew the truth would tear him apart.

And when he finally said I love you, you broke. You couldn’t hold it anymore.

“Tommy, I slept with Joel.”

You watched him come undone in real time. Disbelief. Rage. Pain. That gut-wrenching, final line: "Stay the fuck away from me. We're done."

And then the door slammed, and you felt yourself unravel.

Now, three weeks later, you saw him again for the first time.

You hadn’t planned to be in town, but someone had asked for help dropping off supplies. Just some cloth and thread. It was supposed to be a quiet errand — quick. Anonymous.

But then you saw him.

Tommy walked through the square, not ten feet from you. And the sight of him made your stomach flip and your eyes sting.

He looked terrible.

Not rugged or tired. Wrecked. Hair messy. Eyes hollow. Posture slumped like the world weighed heavier than usual. Tommy, who used to light up Jackson just by passing through, didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t speak. He just walked — silent and angry and broken.

Then he looked up. Just for a second.

Your eyes locked.

It was like being struck. His face flickered — just barely — before he looked away again, fast. Like you were something painful to behold. Like remembering you hurt worse than forgetting.

You didn’t move. Didn’t follow. You couldn’t.

You’d seen the damage. You saw what you did. How far he’d fallen from the man who used to dance with you in the kitchen just to hear you laugh.

You broke him.

So you let him go. Again.

You turned away, heart hammering, eyes blurry, breath shallow.

You wanted to run after him. To explain. To beg. But that wasn’t love — not anymore. Love, real love, was giving someone what they needed. And right now? Tommy needed space. Distance. Time.

Even if it killed you to give it. Even if he never let you close again.

Because if he needed time to hate you before he could begin to understand you, then that’s what you’d give him.

Even if it meant losing him forever.

The first time you ran into Tommy again after that morning in the square, it was by accident. You turned a corner near the stables, arms full of fabric bundles, and nearly collided with him.

He stopped. Looked at you.

Just for a second.

And then he walked around you like you weren’t even there.

It knocked the breath from your lungs. You stood there, holding that stupid cloth to your chest like it might keep you from falling apart.

After that, it kept happening.

At the gate post. By the greenhouse. Outside the mess hall. Always unplanned. Always painful.

And always the same.

He’d glance at you, just once — eyes heavy with something that looked like grief — and then look away, jaw clenched, chest rising a little faster. Sometimes he’d adjust his jacket, or rub at his mouth like he could scrub the memory of you off his lips.

Each time you saw him, he looked a little worse.

Like he was unraveling slowly. Skin paler. Beard uneven. His usual spark — gone. Tommy had always been a light in Jackson. He made people laugh. Made things feel easier just by being around.

But now? Now he barely spoke. He avoided crowds. Didn’t show up to half the community meetings he used to help run. And when he did, he’d sit in the back with a far-off look in his eyes like his body was present, but nothing else was.

It was like he couldn’t stand to be in a world where you also existed.

And still, you said nothing.

You wanted to run to him. To beg. To explain it all again. But you stayed quiet. You gave him the distance he so clearly needed, even when it felt like it was killing you a little more each day.

Sometimes you’d go to the trade stalls to stay busy. Sort items. Help with repairs. Anything to get out of your own head.

That’s where you’d see Joel.

Not often. Just enough to notice.

He never stayed long — always stopping by for parts or ammo, sometimes to drop off gear from a patrol. When he saw you, he’d nod once. Give you a polite hey or mornin'.

Nothing else.

No private talks. No apologies. No pressure.

He had stopped coming to see you, just like you asked.

And the silence between the two of you felt like a second kind of punishment. A colder one. Because even though Joel had been the cause of it all, he wasn’t the one looking at you like you’d destroyed him.

That was Tommy.

And somehow, seeing the pain still written across his face every time he caught your presence — like your shadow alone was enough to make him sick — it hurt worse than anything you could have imagined.

Because you were the one who did that to him.

And you didn’t know if you’d ever get the chance to make it right.

The silence didn’t get easier.

If anything, the more time passed, the heavier it got. It filled the corners of your house like smoke. Settled into your sheets. Clung to your skin.

Some nights, it felt unbearable. So you started writing.

Not because you expected him to read it. Not because you thought it would fix anything. But because keeping it all inside was rotting you from the inside out.

The first letter was messy — half tears, half ink. You didn’t even bother starting it with his name. Just dove straight in. I think about you all the time. I keep seeing you in crowds. Sometimes I think I hear your laugh and then remember you haven’t laughed in weeks.

You didn’t mean to keep going, but you did. The words kept spilling out. Page after page. You wrote about the little things — how you still caught yourself reaching for his favorite mug when you made tea. How you didn’t listen to music anymore because everything reminded you of that night he danced with you at the town square. How you couldn’t stop replaying the sound of his voice when he said, Stay the fuck away from me.

You folded that one and tucked it into your dresser drawer. Told yourself you’d burn it later.

But you didn’t.

You kept writing.

A second letter. A third. A tenth.

Some were long, aching pages of apology. Others were just fragments. You looked tired today. I saw you touch your ribs — did you get hurt? You smiled at someone. I was both relieved and sick over it.

You never sent them. Never would.

But writing them was the only way to keep yourself from going to him.

Because the truth was, every time you saw Tommy — every time he looked at you and then looked away — it felt like losing him all over again. The glances were killing you more than outright silence ever could. Like he still felt something, but it hurt too much to let it show.

You knew that look. You wore the same one when you were begging for Joel's love.

So you wrote. Because writing didn’t cost him anything.

You gave him his space, his time, his absence. Even though it made you ache. Even though you missed him so much it sometimes felt like you couldn’t breathe.

And still, he didn’t speak to you.

Which meant you were alone. So you wrote. Even if the only one who would ever read the letters was you.

The bell above the trade stalls door jingled, breaking the quiet rhythm of your work.

You didn’t even look up at first. Most people came in for standard barters — thread, blankets, maybe a new pair of gloves. But something in your chest tightened before you even saw Joel because you knew today you'd talk to him.

He hesitated in the doorway, like he was unsure if he should even step inside. Then, with that familiar heavy gait, he walked toward one of the side shelves, not looking at you.

You let a beat pass. Then another.

“…Hey,” you said, voice low but steady.

His head snapped up like you'd thrown a rock at him. “What?”

You stepped out from behind the counter slowly. “I was... wondering how you’ve been.”

He blinked at you, completely thrown. “You told me to stay the hell away from you.”

“I know,” you said softly, glancing down. “I meant it, at the time. But… I also meant what I said back then — that you needed to work on yourself.”

He frowned, jaw tight, arms crossing. “So what’s this? Curiosity check-in?”

You offered a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. Just figured if we were gonna keep running into each other, we didn’t have to pretend the other didn’t exist.”

Joel snorted under his breath, leaning a little against the shelf. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to start a damn conversation, I’ll tell you that much.”

You watched him carefully. “So… how have you been? Really?”

He scratched his beard, eyes narrowed like the question was somehow offensive. Then he exhaled, slower this time. “Better. Some days. Worse on others. But I’ve been tryin' to get my shit together.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

Joel nodded, grumbling like the words hurt to say. “Ain’t drinkin’ as much. Talked to people about helpin’ out more on the patrol rotation. Saw a counselor a few times, if you can believe that.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Didn’t talk much at first, but… I’m listenin’ now. Tryin’ to understand why I did the things I did. Why I kept goin’ back to pain like it was comfort.”

You studied his face, and for the first time since all this began, he looked almost… vulnerable. Not proud, not defensive — just tired and trying.

And it hit you, suddenly, how much further behind you were.

“I’m happy for you,” you said. “I really am.”

He tilted his head. “And you? You look like hell, no offense.”

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes even though they weren’t crying. “That obvious, huh?”

Joel’s face softened slightly. “How’re you holdin’ up?”

You hesitated, and when you answered, your voice was small. “I’m not. Not really. I miss Tommy so bad it makes me sick.”

His expression darkened slightly, but he didn’t speak, so you kept going.

“I told him. About everything. The night he came home. He told me he loved me and I—” your breath caught. “I told him what happened. With you.”

Joel’s face fell. “And?”

“He walked out. Said we were done. That he doesn't want to see me again.”

Joel looked away. “Yeah… I figured.”

You furrowed your brow. “What do you mean?”

He took a breath through his nose like he was bracing for something. “Tommy came to my house that night.”

You stared at him. “He what?”

“Stormed in like a damn fire. Said he wanted to look me in the eye before he broke my nose.”

Your breath caught.

Joel gave a dry, humorless laugh. “And he did. Couple times.”

“Joel…”

“I didn’t stop him,” he said simply. “Didn’t raise a hand. Just let him. Took everything he gave me.”

“Jesus…”

Joel nodded. “Threw me into a wall. Told me I broke the only good thing in his life. Asked me how long I’d been watchin’ him like a damn vulture, waitin’ for him to turn his back so I could crawl into bed with his girl.”

You felt like you might be sick.

“I tried to tell him it wasn’t like that,” Joel continued. “That it wasn’t planned. But he didn’t want to hear it. And truth is, he had every right not to.”

You pressed a hand to your stomach. “I didn’t know he— God, Joel."

Joel shrugged. “He said what he needed to with his fists. We haven’t talked since. Tommy is scary as hell when he wants to be.”

The silence hung thick between you, full of shame and pain and words neither of you could take back. You remembered that night you told the lie about the guy harassing you — how Tommy's expression turned unrecognizable. You know now Tommy meant it when he said he could find the guy.

Joel looked at you again, more carefully now. “You still care about him?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

He nodded once, solemn. “He’s stubborn as hell, but he ain’t made of stone. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have shown up at my door.”

Your eyes welled, and this time, you didn’t stop the tears. “I think I already lost him.”

Joel shook his head. “I really am sorry."

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded. The two of you stood there for a while, surrounded by the quiet buzz of the shop, the weight of everything still hovering — but maybe just a little lighter than before.

Joel finally turned to leave, then paused at the door. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

“I’m trying,” you said softly.

He nodded once, then stepped out, the bell jingling behind him like punctuation on something that wasn’t quite closure — but maybe something close.

You didn’t want him.

Not in the aching, dizzy way that once made you forget what was right and wrong. Not in the sleepless, guilt-laced quiet after you let him crawl into your bed like a ghost begging to be remembered. That part of your story was over. Done. You weren’t his. Not anymore.

But watching Joel now — steady-voiced, clearer-eyed, softer somehow — still felt like swallowing glass.

Because he looked like someone learning to live. And you? You were still just surviving.

It wasn’t envy, not quite. Just a strange, heavy sorrow. Like watching a storm break over someone else’s house while you’re still knee-deep in floodwater.

You were proud of him. You were. Even if it felt like a betrayal to admit that out loud. Because Joel was trying. For once, he wasn’t running from the damage — he was naming it. Owning it. Carrying it like it was his to hold. And maybe that’s what made it harder: he was finally becoming the man he should’ve been before he met you.

But the part that hurt most didn’t live between you and him anymore.

It lived in the space between two brothers.

You hadn’t meant to tear them apart. You didn’t want that. God, you never wanted that. But when Joel told you — quietly, without flinching — about the fight, your stomach dropped so fast you thought you’d be sick.

Tommy had come to his door with all the fury a broken heart could hold. No words. No warning. Just fists.

And Joel had let him. Didn’t block, didn’t swing, didn’t shout.

He just took it.

Because he knew what he did. What you both did.

But knowing it doesn’t make it easier to live with. It doesn’t unmake the silence that now stretches between them like a scar across the years they’d built.

You’d already lost Tommy.

But knowing you might’ve helped him lose Joel too — that settled differently. A dull, throbbing grief you couldn’t outrun. You had touched something sacred, and you hadn’t been careful. And now they both carried that weight in their own quiet ways.

Joel with his guilt.

Tommy with his silence.

And you… with both.

You watched the wind roll through the trees above you, aching in your chest like you’d been hollowed out.

You didn’t want Joel. You never would again. But you wanted them to find each other. Somehow. Someday.

Even if it meant you never stood between them again.

Tommy,

I saw you again yesterday.

You didn’t say anything. You never do. Just that same half-second glance before your eyes drop like you’re afraid of catching something from me. Like I’m the infection now. And maybe I am.

I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry in a way that mattered. I wish I could hand you my heart in pieces and let you see how much of it still belongs to you. Even now. Especially now.

You looked tired. Not just the kind of tired that sleep can fix, but the kind that lives in your bones. I used to know how to make you laugh. Now I can’t even make you look at me without flinching.

It guts me, Tommy. Not just what I did. But what it did to you.

And about Joel.

I never meant for you two to stop speaking. I never meant to wedge myself between blood. I didn’t think. I didn’t protect you. I didn’t protect either of you.

And the worst part? You were both trying to love me in your own broken ways.

I still can’t breathe when I think about that night. You holding me like I was something soft. Something yours. And I was. God, I was. Even if I didn’t know how to show it right. Even if I let the wrong person tell me who I was and who I didn’t deserve.

You told me you loved me. I never said it back.

Not because I didn’t mean it.

Because I meant it too much.

And now you won’t even let me get close enough to say your name.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’ll ever have the courage to hand it to you.

But I had to write it.

Because pretending I don’t miss you isn’t working anymore.

Love always

Thanksgiving in Jackson wasn’t about turkey or cranberry sauce — not really. Not anymore.

There hadn’t been a turkey in years. Probably never would be again. The food had changed, stripped down to what the community could grow, trade, or salvage. Beans, rabbit, maybe dried cornbread if they were lucky. But it wasn’t about tradition — it was about normalcy. Or the illusion of it. About carving out a moment that felt familiar before the world lost its shape.

The whole town pitched in — tables made from repurposed wood dragged into the square, covered with mismatched cloths and cracked ceramic dishes. A makeshift fire pit burned low in the center, its scent curling into the air, a poor man’s incense for the ghosts of better holidays.

You almost didn’t come.

You’d stood by the door for a long time with your coat half on, debating. But in the end, the thought of free food — and a few hours outside of your own damn thoughts — pushed you out the door. You told yourself you’d stay thirty minutes. Just enough to show your face, eat something, maybe even smile like your bones weren’t aching with guilt.

But the second you stepped into the crowd, you knew something was wrong.

The air was wrong.

Too still. Too sharp. The way it gets before a thunderstorm or a fight.

People were looking at you. Not glancing — staring. Some subtly. Others, not at all. A few whispered to each other, heads bowed close like conspirators at a wake. Their eyes flicked up every few seconds, straight at you, as if you’d grown horns or started bleeding from the mouth.

You tried to convince yourself it was in your head. You hadn’t been around this many people in weeks. Of course it felt overwhelming. Of course everything felt too much.

But then it kept happening.

Someone who normally smiled at you — a woman you’d traded flour with two weeks ago — turned her head sharply when you passed. Wouldn’t even meet your eyes.

A man you used to laugh with at the greenhouse suddenly got real interested in a plate of carrots.

By the time you reached the food table, your chest felt like it had been filled with wet cement. Your hands were shaking. Your skin hot and cold all at once. The walls of the square seemed to close in, every table too close, every whisper sharpened like glass.

“…heard it was Joel…”

“…Tommy’s girl, wasn’t she?”

“…no wonder he looks like hell…”

You weren’t sure if you were going to faint or vomit.

And just as you turned to leave — just as you told yourself forget it, just go home — a hand gripped your arm and tugged you sideways into the alley behind the mess tent.

You barely had time to react before your back was against the cool stone of a wall and Joel Miller was standing in front of you, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

His voice was low, urgent. “You okay?”

You blinked at him, disoriented. “What—? What are you doing?”

“Could ask you the same damn thing,” he muttered, eyes scanning your face. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You swallowed hard. “People are… looking at me. Talking. Joel, what’s going on?”

He shifted, jaw working. You could see it — that hesitance. That frustration.

“I told her,” he said finally. “My ex-wife. ’Bout us.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I told her. Sat down and told her the truth. ’Bout me and you. About what I did.”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came.

Joel continued, voice rough, like gravel dragged over pavement. “Didn’t expect her to forgive me. Sure as hell didn’t think she’d tell the whole damn town. But… she fuckin’ did.”

The words crashed over you like cold water.

Everyone knows.

The whispers. The stares.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, feeling sick. “God.”

“She said people had a right to know,” Joel muttered. “Don’t know why she thinks it’s their business but it’s not like I could’ve stopped her. Didn’t know she was gonna do that.”

You backed against the wall, head swimming. “She’s not wrong. She— she has every right to be angry.”

Joel nodded slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

You were quiet for a beat.

Then you whispered, “But if they’re looking at me like this… then what about Tommy?”

Joel’s expression tensed.

Your eyes burned. “He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t do anything wrong, and now he’s being looked at like he’s broken, like he’s the idiot who got played—”

“Hey.” Joel took a step closer, softer now. “I know. Believe me. I know.”

And just as you were about to say something else — to ask what Joel had seen, if Tommy had said anything — someone stumbled into the alley behind you.

Fast. Breathing hard. Gasping like he’d run the whole town.

You turned sharply. And there he was.

Tommy.

He didn’t see you at first. His hands were on top of his head, fingers laced as he paced two frantic steps forward, then back, trying to slow the breath rattling out of his lungs.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, voice low and wrecked. “What the fuck. Fuck." He put his hand across his heart as if to slow its beat. He looked like he was having a panic attack.

You froze. Joel did too.

He looked like panic made flesh — red-faced, eyes wide, shoulders shaking. His clothes were damp with sweat despite the chill, curls stuck to his forehead, his chest rising and falling like he’d outrun his own thoughts.

And then — he turned.

His eyes landed on Joel first. Then you.

His whole body went still. And the silence that followed was sharper than any scream.

At first, he just stared. Then — he laughed.

But it wasn’t the kind of laugh you remembered. Not the soft, throaty one he used when he was teasing you in the garden, or that boyish chuckle when you surprised him with a joke. This laugh was sharp, broken at the edges. It didn’t sound like relief. It sounded like something inside him finally cracked.

He kept laughing — once, then again, a breathless huff that collapsed into a sniffle. Like he was going crazy. He dragged a hand across his face, but his eyes never left the two of you.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ joking,” he said, voice hoarse.

He took a shaky step closer. His eyes were bloodshot, wide and dark like they were drowning in everything unsaid.

“Back here?” His voice trembled, then rose. “Hidin' back here, together, while the whole goddamn town is whisperin' about us?”

“Tommy—” you stepped forward, but he flinched.

“Don’t.” He pointed at you, then Joel. “Don’t do that thing where you act like it’s nothin'.”

His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts. “You two back here doin' — what? Fuckin' again? Thought you’d sneak off for another round while they’re out there lookin’ at me like I’m a fuckin’ stray dog that got kicked in the ribs?”

Joel stepped forward too, hands half-raised in surrender. “It’s not like that, Tommy. We were just talkin’, I swear—”

“Yeah?” Tommy barked. “Just talkin’? Like last time? Or the time before that?”

“It’s not what you think—” you tried again.

“It’s exactly what I think!” he shouted, voice cracking. “’Cause I know what it looks like. I know what people are sayin’. Do you have any idea how many people came up to me today, eyes all soft and sorry, like I just got left at the fuckin’ altar?”

You felt it then — a deep twist of guilt in your gut. His pain wasn’t subtle. It was all over him, in the way his arms stayed stiff at his sides, in the way his mouth kept twitching like he was trying not to break right there in front of you.

“They’re lookin’ at me like I’m pathetic,” he spat. “Like I’m too stupid to know what’s good for me. And you two—” his voice caught, and he finally blinked away the first tear that slipped free, “—you’re just back here. Hidin'. Doin' whatever the fuck this is.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Joel said, voice low.

Tommy’s eyes flicked to him. “You’re the last person I want to hear from.”

Joel fell silent.

You stepped forward again, slower this time, heart in your throat. “Tommy, please. Just listen. I didn’t know she was gonna tell anyone. I didn’t want this—”

“You did it though,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And now the whole town knows. And I get to be the fuckin’ punchline.”

His face crumpled, a fresh wave of hurt surfacing just beneath the surface — but he swallowed it back down. Didn’t let it rise. He didn’t yell again. Didn’t cry. He just looked at you like you were someone he didn’t recognize anymore.

And then he turned.

You reached for him without thinking. “Tommy—”

But he stepped out of your grasp. “Don’t,” he said, not angry anymore — just tired. “Just… don’t.”

And he walked away.

Not fast. Not storming. Just… left.

And it hurt worse than if he’d screamed.

You stood frozen for a moment after Tommy disappeared into the crowd — like if you stayed still enough, maybe time would reverse itself, maybe he’d come back. But he didn’t.

The silence that followed felt suffocating. Even the wind seemed to hush around you, like the whole world had heard what just happened.

Joel exhaled slowly beside you, his arms hanging limp, eyes downcast. “Well,” he muttered, voice rough and low, “that went to hell real fuckin’ fast.”

You didn’t answer.

Your heart was pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. You could still see the look in Tommy’s eyes — disbelief, betrayal, something splintered and sharp, like it physically hurt him to look at you. You hated it. Hated knowing you put that expression on his face.

“I shouldn’t’ve said anything to her,” Joel added, more to himself than you. “I knew she’d be pissed, but I didn’t think she’d… tell the whole goddamn town.”

“She had a right to be angry,” you murmured. “We hurt her, too.”

“Yeah, well,” Joel scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair, “I was ready to deal with her bein’ angry. Not every fuckin’ person in this settlement looking at us like we pissed in the water supply.”

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable. “You alright?”

You shook your head. “No.”

And for once, he didn’t press. Didn’t try to smooth it over. He just nodded.

“I know you said you were working on yourself,” you said, your voice quiet and thick. “And I believe that. But I’m not… I’m not okay, Joel. I haven’t been okay since that night. Since I lost him.”

He looked away. You could see the guilt set heavy on his shoulders.

“I'm lost,” you admitted, eyes stinging. “And now… now he thinks I’m still sneaking around with you, after everything. After I tried so hard to give him the space to heal.”

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, scowling at the dirt. “He’ll calm down.”

You frowned. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice dry. “I don’t.”

You both stood there in the quiet, the sounds of the Thanksgiving celebration still echoing faintly beyond the building — laughter, music, a child yelling for another piece of bread. It all felt miles away.

Joel finally spoke, gravel in his throat. “I didn’t wanna make things worse for you. I know what people are sayin’. I know what it looks like.”

You turned to him, heart aching. “I don’t care what it looks like for me. I care what it looks like for him. He didn’t do anything wrong, and now he’s the one people are whispering about. Staring at.”

Joel didn’t respond.

You crossed your arms over your chest, squeezing them tight. “He looked like he was about to fall apart. He was—he was running, Joel. From them. From all of it.”

Joel’s eyes closed for a beat. “I didn’t think he’d take it this hard.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You should’ve. We both should’ve.”

Another long silence.

“I deserve it,” Joel said finally. “The looks. The talk. Whatever comes.”

You nodded, a bitter smile tugging at your mouth. “Maybe we both do.”

But even as you said it, your stomach twisted with something else — not guilt, exactly. Not shame. Something softer, sadder. Regret.

Because maybe you did deserve the judgment. But Tommy didn’t. He just loved someone he thought he could trust.

And now?

Now he was alone in it. And you didn’t know how to fix that.

Tommy,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this.

Maybe I’ll leave it in a drawer with the others until the paper yellows. But I needed to write you — even if it’s only into the quiet.

I keep thinking about your hands. How they never reached for me in a rush. How they held me like I was something worth protecting — not because I was fragile, but because I was yours. You made me feel steady, even when the world was still shaking under my feet.

You loved me like I had never been broken.

And I think… I think that’s part of why I broke everything.

It doesn’t make sense, I know. But love like yours — it asks you to rise. And I didn’t know how to. Not then.

I was still mourning something I couldn’t name. The future I’d lost. The person I used to be. There was a storm in me I didn’t know how to quiet, and sometimes when Joel and I sat in that silence together, it felt like breathing underwater — wrong, but familiar. He knew the dark. I think I mistook that for safety.

But please believe me. I loved you.

Even when I was with him. Even when I chose wrong. Even now.

It wasn’t about choosing someone over you — it was about losing myself. And in the wreckage, I hurt the one person I never meant to. You didn’t deserve it. You never did.

I remember the way your voice softened when you said my name. The way you smiled when you thought I wasn’t looking. The way your fingers brushed the small of my back like you were memorizing me. God, Tommy — I loved you so quietly, I think you never realized how loud it lived in me.

And now I’ve stained it. I’ve stained us.

The worst part is knowing I can’t take it back. That no matter how many times I whisper your name in the dark, you won’t be there to answer it anymore.

I don’t expect anything. Not forgiveness. Not understanding.

But if there’s a part of you — even a splinter — that still remembers what we were when it was good… please hold onto that. Not for me. But for you. Because what we had was real, Tommy.

Even if I broke it.

I need you. Still. And always a little too late.

Love always

It had become a cruel joke at this point — how often you and Tommy ended up in the same room. Same roads. Same shops. Same town that felt smaller and smaller every time he looked through you like you were a stranger.

You hadn’t seen him at the counter when you walked into the diner — your mind too tired to scan for him, your stomach louder than your anxiety. But there he was, three seats down. Hunched over a half-eaten plate of food, nursing a cup of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t leave. You couldn’t. The place was packed, and you were already late.

Tommy didn’t acknowledge you, but you saw it. The way his jaw tensed. The way his fork slowed down just slightly. He knew you were there. Of course he did. And the silence between you throbbed louder than the low hum of conversation around you.

You just wanted a quiet breakfast. Something warm. Something simple.

The man who sat down next to you smelled like sweat and old cigarettes. When he noticed you, he looked at you like you were a meal he’d already half-finished and didn’t particularly respect.

“Well, look who it is,” he muttered, loud enough for the next table to hear. “Didn’t think you’d show your face again.”

You didn’t look at him. “Not interested.”

“Bet that’s what you told Joel the first time, too. And Tommy. And who knows who else.”

The words hit you like ice water.

“Please leave me alone,” you said under your breath.

“Why?” he laughed. “Ain’t like your legs were closed before. You really gonna act shy now? After the whole town knows you were screwin’ around with both Miller brothers like it was your own little soap opera?”

You stiffened. People were starting to look over. The volume of his voice was rising, and so was your shame.

“Heard you like it rough. Heard you like to beg. How’d the Millers allow a little slut like you to ruin their family?”

You looked down, eyes stinging. The whispers were back, growing louder. You could feel them clinging to your skin.

"Ever think your mama died just so she wouldn’t have to watch her daughter turn into a whore?"

You felt it before you heard it — a sudden, unnatural stillness beside you.

The scrape of a stool. Then the sound of wood skittering against tile.

Tommy was on his feet.

Not rising — erupting.

His chair tipped backward, clattering to the ground, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look down. His eyes were locked onto the man beside you, and there was nothing soft left in them. Not anger. Not pain. Not grief.

Just something unhinged.

Something raw.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Tommy said, low and dangerous.

His voice didn’t sound like his own. It was quieter than you expected. Quieter than it should have been. But somehow, it carried through the room like a warning bell — low and deadly, the kind of tone that makes your stomach twist before your mind even catches up.

The man — greasy, smug, half-drunk — let out a laugh. He spread his arms like he was performing for the audience that was already starting to gather.

“Jesus, man, I’m just sayin’ what everyone else is thinkin’. You’re the one who got played. She—”

He didn’t finish.

Tommy’s fist hit his jaw so hard it made a crack like splitting bone.

The man reeled back into the counter with a grunt, clutching his mouth — but Tommy was already on him, fists flying with brutal, bone-breaking precision.

One. Two. Three.

You heard flesh meet flesh. Heard the man groan, then whimper, then go quiet as Tommy drove his fist into his face again and again — not just to hurt, but to erase him.

Curses spilled from Tommy’s mouth like venom. His breath ragged. His whole body shaking as he pressed forward, knuckles smeared red, eyes burning with something wild.

“Tommy!” you cried out, voice cracking.

But he didn’t hear you. He didn’t hear anything.

It was like watching someone drown from the inside out — a man unraveling, coming apart blow by blow.

The man had fallen to the floor now, barely conscious, one eye already swelling shut — but Tommy kept going. He grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled him partway up just to drive another fist into his ribs. The sickening thud echoed like a gunshot.

Someone screamed. A chair scraped. Then another.

It took three grown men to finally drag Tommy off — his fists still swinging, legs kicking, his voice hoarse and cracked with rage. He struggled like an animal in a trap, teeth bared, his breath coming in ragged bursts that sounded more like gasps than anything human.

You stood frozen, rooted to the spot, hands trembling.

Tommy’s face was smeared with blood — some his, most not. His eyes darted around the room as they held him back, chest heaving, fists still clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white beneath the blood.

And then — it stopped. Like someone had pulled the plug.

No one spoke. No one moved.

The diner had gone completely still. Forks hovered mid-air. Half-eaten food sat forgotten. Every eye in the room was on him — on the blood, the wreckage, the man everyone thought they knew.

Tommy looked down at his hands, and something in him shifted.

Like he’d just realized where he was. What he’d done.

He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing more blood across his cheek. His gaze found you — just for a second.

And in that second, he didn’t look furious anymore.

He looked shattered.

Then, without a word, he shrugged off the hands holding him, turned, and walked out the door. Leaving silence and blood in his wake.

And you sat there, tears brimming, your heart in your throat.

It wasn’t just the shame that burned — it was the truth.

He was still protecting you.

Even now. Even after everything. And it was killing him.

The cold hit you first. Bitter and sharp against your skin, the kind that makes your lungs ache. But you didn’t care. You just ran — out the diner, past the wooden porch, boots scraping against the icy gravel road as you tried to catch up to him.

“Tommy!” you called, breathless. “Tommy, please— just wait!”

He kept walking. Fast. Determined. Like if he didn’t stop, none of this could catch him. Like if he just moved fast enough, he wouldn’t feel it. Wouldn’t feel you.

But you weren’t giving up this time. You couldn’t.

“Tommy—!”

He spun around so fast you almost ran right into him. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving from more than just the fight. His voice, when it came, was fire and fury and grief all wrapped into one.

“What the fuck do you want?” he snapped, sharp enough to cut you in half.

You staggered a step back, breath catching in your throat. He looked like he could explode all over again — jaw clenched, hands curled at his sides like he didn’t know what else to do with them. You’d never seen him like this. Not even the night he left.

“Tommy, I— I needed to talk to you. I just needed to say—”

“I’m losing my fuckin' mind,” he cut you off, voice shaking now. “You think I wanna feel like this? You think I like that I can’t stop giving a shit even when I want to?”

He laughed then — a dark, miserable sound that cracked somewhere in the middle. “I feel so goddamn stupid, you know that? All this shit people are saying about me— whispers, stares, fuckin' sympathy— I should be brushing it off. I shouldn’t care. But I do.”

His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

“And you know what that means?” he continued, stepping forward like the weight of it was too much to carry still. “It means I’m a fuckin' idiot. ‘Cause it proves I never got over you. That I thought I could, and I couldn’t. That maybe I never will.”

The words hit you hard, hollowing you out from the inside. But he wasn’t finished.

“I hate that I care about what they’re saying. But I hate it more when I hear them talkin' about you like that. Like you’re nothin' but some goddamn whore.” His voice cracked, his face twisting. “And after what that guy said in there…”

He looked down at his hands — still bloody, still trembling.

“I don’t even remember throwing the first punch,” he admitted, softer now. “I just saw red. Thought about everything. The whispers. The looks. Thanksgiving. You and Joel. I was already chokin' on all of it. And then that bastard had the nerve to bring up your mom and it just— snapped.”

He ran a hand through his hair, turning away. “And I lost it. I fuckin' lost it.”

You stood still, barely breathing. You could still feel the tension radiating off of him like heat. Still hear the echo of fists on skin, that sick, awful crack that had made your stomach twist.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, so quietly you barely heard it. “When I saw your face after, the way you looked at me…”

You stepped forward before he could finish. “I was scared,” you said honestly. “But not of you. I was scared because I didn’t know how much more either of us could take.”

His eyes met yours, and in them you saw something flicker. Guilt. Sadness. Love that hadn’t gone anywhere — it had just been buried under the rubble.

“And I need you to know,” you continued, “what you saw at Thanksgiving? With Joel? We weren’t doing anything. He was just warning me… that his ex wife told people. That everyone knew. That’s it.”

Tommy looked away, jaw tight. “Didn’t feel like nothin'.”

“I know,” you said. “But it was. I swear it was.”

A long silence stretched between you, brittle and cold. You watched him breathe, eyes fixed on the horizon like it could offer him answers.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he muttered eventually. “You broke my heart. I don’t even know if I can forgive you yet.”

You nodded, your chest aching. “I’m not asking you to. I just… wanted you to know the truth. And I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything.”

He stared at you for a long time, the anger slowly bleeding from his features. Replaced by exhaustion. By wariness. By that familiar softness that hadn’t quite died, no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

“I don’t know what the hell we’re supposed to do now,” he admitted, voice rough.

“Me either,” you whispered. “But maybe we figure it out. Or maybe… we don’t. I just didn’t want you carrying all of this alone anymore. Let me explain everything with Joel. Please Tommy."

He stared, you could see him debating the offer in his mind. But then he nodded — once — and started walking away, indicating he wanted you to follow.

The morning air was thick with tension as you followed Tommy through the sleet covered streets, your footsteps echoing in the silence. He hadn't said a word since you left the diner, his posture rigid, his pace quickening with each step. You hesitated, unsure if you should speak, but the weight of the moment pressed on you.

Finally, you reached his doorstep. Tommy paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Without turning to face you, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "Don't mind the mess. Haven't really had it in me to clean lately."

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "I know."

He exhaled sharply, pushing the door open and stepping aside.

Inside, the house was eerily quiet. The usual warmth and comfort seemed absent, replaced by an unsettling stillness. You followed him into the living room, your eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. It was as if the walls themselves held secrets, memories of a time before everything had changed.

Tommy led you down a narrow hallway to the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered overhead as he stood before the mirror, staring at his reflection. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the sink, turning on the cold water and splashing it onto his face. The blood from the earlier altercation began to mix with the water, swirling down the drain.

Frustration etched deep lines into his forehead as he scrubbed harder, trying to erase the evidence of his actions. You watched him, your heart aching at the sight. This wasn't the man you knew — the gentle, kind-hearted soul who had shown you what love could be. This was someone else, someone broken.

You stepped forward, your hand gently resting on his shoulder. "Tommy," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Let me."

He stiffened under your touch but didn't pull away. Slowly, he sank onto the toilet seat, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly together. You moved to the sink, wetting a washcloth with warm, soapy water. As you approached him, you hesitated for a moment before gently dabbing at the blood on his face.

The action was tender, soothing, a silent apology for the pain you had caused. As you cleaned him, your thoughts spilled out, raw and unfiltered.

"I've been with Joel for a while now— little over a year," you began, your voice trembling. "I knew he was married, but I thought... I thought I wanted him so badly. He made me feel things I hadn't felt in a long time. I thought he loved me."

Tommy's body tensed under your touch, his jaw clenching. You paused, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "I wasn't delusional. I knew he had a wife. But something about the way he made me feel... it made me think it was okay."

You continued, your hands moving carefully over his skin, wiping away the remnants of the morning's violence. "Over time, his love felt like hate. We were addicted to each other, but it was toxic. He never opened up to me, and I finally ended things."

His eyes softened, but the pain was still there, lurking beneath the surface.

"That's when I met you," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "At first, I was in a dark place. But you... you pulled me out of it. You showed me what love is supposed to feel like."

Tommy's breath hitched, his eyes closing as if to block out the flood of emotions.

"But then Joel came to me," you continued, your voice breaking. "He was jealous. He said he realized he truly loved me. He left his wife for me. And I... I didn't know what to do."

You paused, your heart heavy with the weight of your confession. "I wanted you, Tommy. That's why I spent so much time with you. I wanted to avoid Joel. And when you went on that supply run, I knew he would come. And he did. He made me feel like I wasn't good enough for you. Like I was a bad person."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you spoke. "He opened up about his past, and I was so confused. He said we belonged together. He manipulated me. And I believed him. I thought you deserved better. And that's why I did what I did."

Tommy's hand reached up, brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. His touch was gentle, hesitant.

"I understand if you hate me," you whispered. "But I needed you to know the truth."

Silence enveloped the room, thick and suffocating. Tommy sat there, unmoving, processing your words. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse.

"I don't know what to say," he admitted.

You nodded, understanding the complexity of the situation. "I don't expect forgiveness. I just wanted you to know everything."

The cloth had turned a deep rust color, blood clinging to the fibers no matter how many times you rinsed it. The water swirled pink in the sink, warm and steady, but your hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Tommy hadn’t said a word since you finished cleaning his face, finished dabbing at the streaks of blood with a gentle touch.

He looked so different now. Tired. Hollowed. Quiet in a way that didn’t suit him. Like joy had been scraped out of him with something sharp and careless. Like he’d been living on borrowed breath ever since.

You didn’t know why the words started pouring out.

Only that they’d lived too long in your chest. That this silence between you was wide enough to carry them.

“She wanted me to come,” you said, barely a whisper. “My mom. We were down to a single can of beans and a couple stale crackers. She said she’d feel better if we went together. That two pairs of eyes were better than one.”

Tommy looked up, slow and careful.

“But I was… I was scared,” you confessed, fingers tightening around the cloth. “It was getting dark. I didn’t want to be out there when the sun went down. I begged her to go without me. So she did.”

You let out a breath that trembled as it left you.

“She kissed my forehead, told me to bar the door behind her, and promised she’d be back before moonlight.”

You blinked hard.

“She came back with a broken lantern and a ripped jacket… and a bite.”

Your throat swelled shut at the memory, your voice a fragile thing breaking against the edges of your teeth.

“I believed — I still believe — that if I’d gone with her, she wouldn’t’ve been bit. Or I would’ve been. Or we would’ve both made it. I don’t know. I just know I didn’t go, and she died.”

A beat passed. Tommy's eyes filled with sorrow.

“When I saw the bite, I begged her to cut it off. I screamed until my voice broke. But it was already too late. Her hand was gray. The veins were turning. She knew.”

You stared at the cloth in your hands like it could wash the past clean too.

“She held me, told me she loved me, and then she made me promise to lock myself in the back room when it started. I tried. I did. I held the door shut and covered my ears. But I could still hear her.”

Your voice splintered.

“And when it stopped— when it went quiet— I waited for hours. And then I opened the door.”

You didn’t have to say what you saw. The image lived behind your eyes every time they closed.

“I used a fireplace poker,” you said, quieter now. “It took more than one hit.”

Tommy’s mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes shimmered like they were carrying the weight for you.

“I didn’t cry until it was over. And then I couldn’t stop. I buried her behind that barn with my bare hands. No shovel. Just dirt under my nails and blood on my wrists.”

You sat back against the wall and laughed softly, bitter and aching.

“After that, I wandered. I ended up with this man who said he’d keep me safe. I didn’t know what safe was supposed to look like anymore, so I believed him. He was kind at first. Gave me food, taught me how to shoot. But it turned fast.”

You wiped your eyes, only for fresh tears to take their place.

“He got possessive. Controlling. Said I owed him for everything. And one night… he tried to take what I didn’t owe. I ran. I didn’t stop running. Left everything behind. Everything but the scars.”

You traced a faint mark on your forearm, barely visible now, like a ghost trying to fade.

“I didn’t trust anyone for a long time. I fought for scraps. Slept in trees or crumbled houses. Stayed feral. And then… I found Jackson.”

You looked over at Tommy then. Really looked at him.

“And for the first time, people didn’t look at me like I was a stray. They gave me a home. A job. A name that didn’t feel like it came with blood.”

You drew in a shaky breath, your voice cracking again.

“So when Joel started looking at me like I was worth something, I couldn’t help it. I mistook it for love. I didn’t know better. I was still learning what love’s supposed to feel like.”

Your chest felt too tight to hold the truth. But you said it anyway.

“Until you.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of your tears.

“I was already damaged by the time I met you,” you said. “But you… you made me feel like I wasn’t broken beyond repair. Like I could be something soft. Something whole again.”

You stood slowly, walking to the sink and rinsing the rag one more time. The last of the blood twisted down the drain, disappearing into the dark.

“But I ruined that,” you said, voice low. “And I’ll live with it for the rest of my life.”

You turned back to Tommy.

He hadn’t moved. Not really. But something in his face had shifted — not softened, but cracked. A splintering of something buried deep.

If he spoke, you’d let him. If he didn’t, you’d understand.

You had no right to expect anything anymore.

You just wanted him to know who you really were before you lost the chance to be known at all.

You collapsed before you even realized your knees had given out.

The sobs had clawed their way up your throat so violently, you weren’t sure if you were breathing anymore. They weren’t dainty, quiet cries — they were guttural, trembling things, born from the deepest pit of memory. From the moment her hand slid from yours. From the way you waited for hours by the door until she came back bitten. From the awful silence that followed after you had to do the unthinkable.

The fire poker. Her eyes, no longer hers. The smell of blood and burnt iron.

The first swing. The second. The third.

You curled into yourself on the cold bathroom floor as if that could somehow undo the memory, or at least contain it.

And then there were arms around you.

Tommy didn’t speak. He didn’t try to hush you or ask questions or pretend to understand. He just gathered you into him with a tenderness that broke something else inside you — something quieter. Something long-starved.

You buried your face in his chest and let yourself fall apart completely.

“I’ve never told anyone,” you gasped eventually, your throat raw. “No one knows. They knew my mom died but not— not how. I never wanted to say it out loud. I was so scared. I should’ve gone with her. If I had, maybe— maybe she wouldn’t have been bit.”

Tommy’s grip around you tightened, protective and grounding.

“You were a child,” he murmured, his voice hushed like a prayer. “You were scared. That doesn’t make it your fault.”

You shook your head fiercely. “I had to kill her, Tommy. With a fucking fire poker. It took more than one hit. She didn’t even look like her anymore. But I saw her face. I saw it in the way she flinched before I— I just wanted it to stop.”

You started sobbing again, harder now, and he guided you gently back against his chest, cradling your head, his palm rubbing soft circles into your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered. “I’m so sorry for all of it. For Joel. For the way I left things. For hurting you.”

Tommy’s voice broke when he finally answered. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve listened. Should’ve let you explain. Maybe we wouldn’t’ve ended up in pieces.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him — eyes red, cheeks blotchy. He reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek with a knuckle, like the gentlest thing he’d ever done.

“I ended things with Joel before you got back,” you whispered. “He told me he loved me and I couldn’t even say it back. I told him to leave. That it was over. I didn’t want him. Not anymore.”

Tommy swallowed, eyes searching yours. You could see the pain still there, beneath the surface. But you saw something else, too — that warm, quiet flicker that had always made you feel like home.

“I think about you every single day,” you said, voice trembling. “About what I lost. What I gave up. You made me feel like I wasn’t broken.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away.

“I missed you,” he said finally, like the words had been waiting behind his ribs for too long. “Even when I didn’t want to. Even when it hurt like hell.”

You reached up and took his hand in yours. “I love you, Tommy. I never stopped. Not even when I hated myself.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I love you too.”

And then he kissed you.

It was soft and slow, mouths trembling against each other, tasting of sorrow and healing and all the time you’d lost. You didn’t rush it. You just held on — fingers in his hair, heart splintering open in your chest like a window cracking to let the light in.

When you pulled back, your breath hitched. You didn’t want to let go. But some part of you still felt like you didn’t deserve to stay.

So you stood.

“I should go,” you murmured, voice quiet as you reached for the rag still clutched in your hand.

Tommy stayed on the floor, staring at the tile like it held the answers.

Then — softly, but with no hesitation — his hand reached out.

He caught your fingers in his, callused and warm, holding them like something sacred. Both of your eyes were still swollen. Both of your hearts still trembling. But the air between you had shifted — lighter now. Honest.

“Stay,” he said, voice low and aching. “Please stay.”

Your chest cracked. The ache, the guilt, the love — all of it swelled so fast it felt like it might knock you down again.

But you didn’t fall. “Okay.”

You knelt back down. Took his face in your hands. And kissed him once more.

This time, it wasn’t goodbye.

It was the beginning.

It started slow. Careful. Like the two of you were afraid of what you might find in each other’s mouths after so long. His lips trembled against yours like he didn’t trust the shape they made when they remembered your name. And you — you kissed him like someone starving for something you had no right to taste.

Tommy had every reason to push you away. Every reason to hate you. You cheated. You broke the one thing he gave you freely. His trust.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t recoil. He just held your face between his hands, like you were something fragile he hadn’t decided whether to keep or crush.

“I should hate you,” he said against your mouth, voice gravel-thick and shaking. “I want to. Jesus, I want to. But I don’t.”

The words cracked something inside you.

You’d cried before. At the diner. In the hallway. At night when no one could hear you. But now, in the quiet wreckage of his bathroom, with the moonlight cutting through the window like a witness, you shattered.

Your hands trembled where they rested on his chest, fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing holding you to earth. His heartbeat was wild beneath your palm—chaotic and human and so, so full of pain.

“I don’t deserve this,” you whispered. “I don’t deserve you.”

Tommy pressed his forehead to yours, exhaling through his nose like it hurt to keep breathing.

“No,” he admitted, eyes shut tight. “You don’t.”

It would’ve hurt more if he’d lied.

“But I still fuckin' love you.”

That’s when the kiss deepened.

It turned desperate. Hungry. A kind of grief-driven hunger that came from needing to remember everything you were terrified you’d forgotten. His hands roamed — slow and reverent — across your ribs, your waist, your jaw. Yours mirrored his, like you were rediscovering a map your heart still knew by memory.

The bathroom floor was cold beneath you. His hands were still stained with blood, your cheeks streaked with salt. The air between you carried the heat of unspoken apologies, of regrets that couldn’t be undone.

Tommy’s breath caught as he kissed down the curve of your jaw, whispering things he probably shouldn’t say.

“I tried to forget you,” he rasped. “I thought if I hated you enough… if I stayed mad long enough… it’d go away. But it didn’t.”

You nodded, pressing your lips to the pulse in his throat.

“I didn’t mean to ruin us,” you choked. “I was so lost, and Joel— he twisted everything in my head. Made me believe I was too broken to be loved the way you loved me.”

Tommy flinched at his brother’s name but didn’t pull back.

“I still trusted you,” he said, voice like crushed glass. “Even when I shouldn’t have. Even when I saw you with him, part of me kept hopin' you’d look at me the way you used to. Like I was enough.”

“You were always enough,” you swore, the words barely breathing between you. “I just didn’t believe I was.”

Tommy’s eyes shimmered — red-rimmed and raw. He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you again or run. But instead, he touched your cheek with the back of his fingers, like you were a ghost he hadn’t dared reach for.

“I didn’t know how badly you had me wrapped around your fingers,” he whispered. “Not until you were gone.”

You curled into him, your tears soaking into his shoulder.

When he kissed you again, it was slower. More cautious. Like he was sealing a promise he didn’t know if he could keep.

Your thumbs traced the curve of his cheekbones and relearned the softness beneath the man hardened by grief.

He kissed you deeper, tongue slipping passed the curve of your teeth, exploring like the territory was new to him. He wasn’t going to stop this, not with the way your hands began to drift down his chest, his sternum — slipping underneath the fabric of his worn flannel, exploring his body all over again. Not with the way his fingers curled against your waist like he was terrified of letting go again.

And not with how long it had been since he last touched you like this — with worship and ache and hunger all braided together.

You kissed him back slower this time, deeper — like your lungs knew his breath better than your own. You felt the way his lips were cracked from the cold. The way his rough stubble scraped your skin like a memory you welcomed.

The tension, the grief, the time — it all burned through your veins as you rocked your hips against his, feeling the way his length was already bulging through the fabric of his jeans. It’s been too long since you felt the drag of his teeth against your jaw, leaving a trail of saliva along the way. Too long since you curled your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging to keep yourself upright. Too long since your name slipped from his throat like a prayer, sounding like he was waiting for this day too.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice shaking. “You’re gonna be the death of me, I swear.”

You didn’t respond. Just pressed closer until there was nothing between you but the restricting fabric. So close your knees dug painfully into the cold tile.

And when he groaned — low and guttural — you felt it in your spine.

He wrapped his arms around your back, laying you carefully on the hard floor — hips grinding into yours for any sense of relief, fingers brushing the stray hairs from your eyes. He was full of lust, full of hunger. Full of grief and devotion.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he muttered against your skin, mouth moving along you jaw, your neck, the hollow beneath your ear. “I should fuckin’ hate you.”

“I know.” You whispered.

“But I can’t.”

You didn’t realize you were crying again until he kissed your tears away.

“I tried to hate you,” he said, hands slipping beneath your shirt, rough palms mapping your ribs like he had to memorize every inch before sliding higher — grazing against the curve of your nipples already peaking. “God, I tried. But my heart was still reaching for you every time our paths crossed. I couldn’t scrub you outta me.”

You swallowed a sob, your body arching beneath his touch as he pushed your shirt above your chest — revealing your needy body underneath. His hands traveled all around the hills of your breasts, his head trailing kisses slowly down your body — hovering just over your curves. You instinctively arched up, trying to meet his mouth. His eyes flicked to yours, dark and hungry. He looked mad, yet his touch indicated otherwise.

“I still love you,” he confessed. You’re breath hitched, his lips trembled. “Even after everything you’ve done. Even after you ruined me. I still fuckin’ love you.”

Then his mouth was everywhere — desperate and sure — like he was reclaiming something sacred. And you let him. Let him bite at the soft flesh of your breasts, marking the skin no one else had touched in over a month. Your back screamed in pain against the bathroom tile, your fingers clung to him like a lifeline.

He was clumsy. Licking circles, flicking his tongue against your aching nubs. Taking your nipples between his teeth — sending electic shocks through your body — before sucking them into his mouth, tasting every part of you. His curls fell messily into his eyes when he pulled away with a loud pop. He’s never looked more unkept. But the way his eyes found yours underneath his curls had you squirming.

He trailed his fingers down to the clasp of your jeans, undoing the button and pushing them down to your ankles. You kicked them off, spreading your legs — ready and pleading. The soft cotton of your panties darkened in the center, proving how much you needed this — him.

His palm rubbed on the outside of the cotton — a soft whimper escaping your lips at his touch. He never broke his eye contact with you as his finger hooked, pulling your panties to the side and revealing your glistening pussy.

One of his fingers trailed achingly slow through your folds, collecting your juices and rubbing small circles when he came into contact with you swollen clit. He was killing you slowly, that was for sure. You spread your legs wider, begging for him to push his fingers through your entrance. But still, he trailed his fingers between you with that deadly eye contact you couldn’t stand anymore.

“Soaked.” Is all he said after a while. You didn’t know if he was trying to torture you. If maybe he was doing this to you as some sort of sick revenge plot. Have you ruined from his touch, begging and pleading for him, and then walk away without finishing what he started.

But finally, he pushed two fingers inside of you — sucking in a breath when he felt how ready you were for him. He started a slow pace, watching the way his fingers were soaked as he pulled out — just to push back in harder than before.

“Tommy…” You quivered. “Tommy please. I’m hurting— I.”

He leaned in close, lips hovering over yours. He rubbed your temple with his thumb, caressed your face.

“God, no one’s touched you in a while, have they?”

You shook your head harshly, mouth making a small O when his fingers started thrusting into you faster. A disgusting squelch filled the air.

His eyes had a fire behind them as he asked: “Was I the last person to touch you like this? The the last person to fill your pretty pussy with their fingers, huh?”

“Oh— god, yes Tommy. Just you.” You moaned. His fingers now curved inside of you, his thumb rubbing hard circles against your throbbing clit. He smirked, the fire fading out knowing that you’ve been waiting for him. Knowing you’ve been wanting him and only him.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered. “Gonna take good care of my girl.”

My girl.

You know you probably shouldn’t take that as anything, that maybe it was a heat of the moment thing. But you couldn’t help the way you heart swelled. Couldn’t help the smile spreading across your mouth. 

You heard him throw his belt on the bathroom floor with a rough clank. Heard the fabric of his jeans being tugged down as he finally frees himself. You physically gulp, prepared and aching for him.

He rubs his tip over you clit, slapping it against it soflty — teasingly. Your nails dig into his arms. Pleading words escaping your lips.

Tommy grabbed you cheeks with his free hand, looking you dead in the eye as he pushed his cock between your walls. You clenched around the feeling — burning sensation shooting through your body as you attempt to stretch to his size.

“I fuckin’ hate you.” He mutters, pushing himself deeper when he knows that you can take it. Your body trembles, you deserve this. But then his hand is trailing through your hair, tugging slightly — forcing you to look him in the eyes.

“But god do I love you.” He says then. I love you. And he actually, genuinely smiles — a deep moan leaving his lips as he bottoms out. Your nails are scratching him now as you try to adjust to his size. But the burn is pleasurable at the same time. “Open your mouth.”

And you do, knowing that from then on you’ll always do whatever Tommy wants. That you’ll always love Tommy. A string of spit falls between his lips, right into your mouth. You don’t swallow — keeping it open so he can see the way his saliva hits your tongue, pools into your mouth.

"That's my girl," he chuckles lightly, quietly. He finally starts moving inside of you, slow at first. Until he’s going rough, skin slapping skin. “Fuck. Fuck, sweetheart, you can swallow now.”

And you watch the way his eyes blacken, the way he bites harshly at his bottom lip as you swallow his spit. Tasting the inside of his mouth. His hand traces your throat, watching it bob when you drink him.

Tommy sits up, ripping his shirt over his head and pulling your hips into him. His thumb circles your clit while he burries himself deep. Your back is arched off the bathroom floor, tears streaking you face from the pace.

A tight heat coils in the pit of your stomach and your legs shake uncontrollably. Walls clench around him and a groan from deep within leaves his mouth at the feeling.

“Tommy,” you moan, hands tightly wrapped around his wrists to keep yourself steady. “Tommy, come with me.”

“Shit. Yeah okay, babygirl.”

He lies back on top of you, one arm wrapping around your back, the other gripping your thigh as his pace quickens. Hitting you deeper and deeper every time. You’re screaming at this point, body convulsing. And when his thrusts finally falter, you come hard around him and he follows. White strands shooting inside of you. His cock twitches with every pulse.

He gives out, putting his entire weight on you — nothing but breath and bruised hearts, limbs tangled like roots desperate to hold — Tommy moved gently. Tender in a way that nearly broke you. He cleaned you up with warm hands, wiping the sweat and remnants of need from your skin like you were something sacred. Like this was something that mattered.

He helped you to your feet, still unsteady, still shaking from all the things that had been said and the things your bodies couldn’t help but confess. And without a word, he led you through the quiet house. Back to the place that once felt like home.

His room looked the same.

Maybe that’s what hurt the most.

The blankets were still slightly uneven, the corner of the rug still curled like always. His gun sat on the bedside table, unloaded but close. Your side of the bed — the left — was untouched. Like he'd never let himself forget.

He laid you down carefully, like you might shatter, and climbed in behind you without hesitation. You shifted instinctively, curling into him, your back pressed to his chest, his arm sliding around your waist like it had never left.

His warmth enveloped you — all muscle and tension and safety. He smelled like salt and sweat and sex. And still, somehow, it smelled like home.

“We probably shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered, voice hoarse and small, swallowed by the hush of the room. You weren’t sure if you meant it, but the weight of everything hung heavy between you.

You felt him breathe in deep behind you, chest rising slow and steady against your spine. Then, softly — so softly — he answered:

“Stay with me.”

Your breath caught.

No hesitation. No conditions. No more pretending.

You blinked hard against the sting in your eyes, your fingers curling gently around the arm he’d wrapped around you like a shield.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe that maybe love could survive this too.

Tag list: @looneyleo @emmaaas-posts @demo-bats @aphroditesblunt @staley83 @immyowndefender @magicxmiller @wow-life-love4 @thaliagracesgf @sugarminsss @keseqna @ijustrepost @cakesandtom @lovelyc @vampiredoggies-blog @hjzghi-blog

[applejusue]

In the deep dark, you find a woman. Large, terrifying, injured. Despite your best instincts, you save her, and now she'll never let you go.

◟`# cw: size difference, injury, blood, deep water, near drowning, shark attack, water pollution, whaling, soft, fluff.

taglst '# @lisssyyu, @kittymrtnezz69, @mxya-dreams, @sider3us, @sevikas-whore, @cherry-coffees, @marvelwomenarehot0, @mars4hellokitty

Orca!Violet

`# desc: Most adult orca females are around 23ft, so along with her upper body Violet would be closer to 30 ft. This can cause her to be avoided by normal orca males, attracting instead the females who mistake her size for dominance and masculinity. Vi stains her skin using squid ink in an effort to camouflage better and blend in with other orca groups, it also helps her avoid sunburn on her human half when lounging above the water. She has many scars along her upper torso and face from disputes, and while she doesn't often travel with other orca groups she can be very protective. This often leads to her getting aggressive when she feels threatened.

◟`#01 ◟`#02 ◟`#03 ◟`#04 ◟`#05 ◟`#06

Mantaray!Caitlyn

`# desc: Typically manta rays can grow up to 30ft in length, so Caitlyn would be bigger than Vi. Her upper torso would be lean, pale with a slight pink hue when submerged in water. Instead of having a slender fish tail, her lower body would blossom out like a manta ray. This would allow her to glide peacefully through the waters, and when stressed she can wrap in on herself tightly, or expand outward to wade off predators. Usually though, her large size and graceful movements motivate most threats to avoid her. Caitlyn often wears a cape she'd found floating above a wreckage, blending seamlessly into her lower half and adding to her intimidation factor. Caitlyn lost her eye to a fish hook when a sailor tried to capture her for the market.

◟`# . . .

Stripeddolphin!Jinx

`# desc: The smallest of the group at just under 15ft would be Jinx, the striped dolphin. What she lacks in physical power like Caitlyn and Vi, she makes up for in speed. Her long blue braids that blow past when she leaps across currents often lead her to get mistaken for a sea serpent. With a dozen stripes along her tail, Jinx likes to decorate it with inks or crushed up coral. When under threat it is near impossible to catch her, she can whisk away in a matter of seconds and it was if she was never there to begin with.

◟`#01