#you can fix the past but the past still happened

[shy9-29]

From Dare To You ★ 심재윤

“a part two to love, lies, and sim jake” - enhypen campus series

🌿 After YN found out about the bet, Jake apologized, revealing he ended it before asking her out for real. Though hurt, she played along, but his constant effort and genuine care slowly broke through her walls, and trust began to rebuild between them.

🏷️ - @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @sheseung @c9b7luv @bswrldd @kiikiisblog @memyselfandkoo @k1ttyjwon @bloomiize @titttuaf @sunghoon-cam @xnatqq @azzy02 @rairaiblog @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @luvksnn @sunarin96 @aerispark @monoidol @starnaris @pinknjm @marimariiisblog @blckorchidd @pinknjm @melodiessvy @gyulune @marimariiisblog @bgyusgf @doririsstuff @enhastolemyheart @prkhoonlvr @miamoari @dearestdreamies

wc. 9.7k · masterlist · enha campus series · part one

You didn’t plan to see him again so soon.

But there he was sitting alone on the bleachers behind the field after school, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes cast downward like the weight of the past few days was finally too heavy to carry. He looked smaller somehow. Not physically, but… quieter. Like the version of him who used to light up every room had dimmed.

You hesitated. Part of you wanted to turn back, to leave things unfinished and avoid another scene. But your feet moved anyway, slowly, carefully, until you were standing in front of him.

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours. For a second, nothing was said—just the breeze brushing past and the silence between two people who didn’t know how to start again.

“I didn’t know,” you said finally, voice soft. “About the bet. That you ended it.”

Jake stared at you for a moment, jaw tense, eyes tired. “Would it have changed anything if you did?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. It would’ve.”

He gave a small, humorless laugh, then looked away. “Too late now, huh?”

“No,” you said quickly, sitting beside him before you could change your mind. “Maybe not.”

Jake didn’t say anything at first. Then: “I was an idiot, YN. For agreeing to that bet in the first place. For not telling you sooner. I thought I could control it—my feelings. Thought if I kept it casual, it wouldn’t mess everything up. But then it stopped being casual, and I didn’t know how to fix it without losing you.”

Your heart twisted. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I thought you’d never believe me,” he admitted. “And I didn’t think I deserved a second chance. I’ve seen it happen to heeseung and it still keeps him up , I didn’t wanna take the chance with you.”

Jake stared ahead at the empty field, jaw tight, like he’d run out of words to say—or maybe like he was too afraid to say the wrong one.

You sat next to him, your voice low but sharp. “Then why did you come running back to me?”

His head turned toward you slowly. “Because I couldn’t stay away.”

You scoffed, shaking your head as a bitter laugh slipped past your lips. “Right. After everything. After the bet, after humiliating me in front of everyone, after pretending to care…”

“I wasn’t pretending,” Jake cut in, voice firmer now. “Not when I kissed you. Not when I asked you to be mine. Not when I stayed up all night hoping you’d text back.”

You looked away, jaw clenched. “You made me feel like I was something to win.”

Jake exhaled hard, like the guilt had been burning in his lungs. “I know. And if I could take it back, I would. All of it. The joke, the dare—everything that hurt you. But the way I feel about you now?” He looked at you then, eyes soft but intense. “That’s never been a lie.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your throat was tight, like the words wanted to come out but didn’t know how.

Finally, you muttered, “I don’t know if I can believe you.”

Jake nodded slowly, not pushing. “Then don’t. Not yet. Just… let me show you.”

And for once, he didn’t try to close the distance between you. He didn’t reach out. He didn’t beg.

He just sat there, quiet and waiting.

Like he finally understood that trust wasn’t something he could ask for—he had to earn it.

And so that’s what he did.

The next couple of days, Jake didn’t text you paragraphs or blow up your phone with apologies. He didn’t show up unannounced or try to corner you in the hallways. He didn’t force you to talk when you weren’t ready.

Instead… he showed up differently.

He waited outside your classroom after the bell, never too close, never pushing—just there. Quiet, patient, like a steady presence.

He started walking slower when he saw you down the hall, letting you pass instead of calling out your name.

He laughed a little softer when your friends made jokes, stealing glances your way but never trying to pull you in unless you wanted to be.

He wasn’t perfect. He still fumbled sometimes, caught himself staring too long, said your name like it was still his favorite word—but he didn’t try to take anything more than what you were willing to give.

And even if you didn’t say much, even if your heart still felt bruised and hesitant, you noticed. You noticed it all.

Because Jake Sim wasn’t trying to win a bet anymore.

He was trying to win you.

And this time, it wasn’t about pride.

It wasn’t about proving something to his friends.

It was about proving something to you.

That he was serious.

That he meant it.

That he’d stay—without the game.

It was subtle at first.

You didn’t even realize the way your walls had started to shift until you caught yourself smiling at something he said in passing. Something stupid—probably about his dog or how he nearly tripped over a soccer ball in gym. But your lips had curved before you could stop them, and when you realized he saw it, you quickly looked away.

Jake didn’t call attention to it. He just smiled too. A quiet, knowing one. And kept walking.

Later, you found a note in your locker. No big dramatic gesture—just a piece of notebook paper folded in half.

Hope today’s better than yesterday. That’s all.

— J

You stared at it longer than you’d admit. Kept it tucked into your sleeve. Didn’t text him, didn’t mention it, but the knot in your chest loosened—just a little.

At lunch, Yuna nudged you. “He’s trying,” she said gently, not with that sharp tone she’d used before. “Really trying.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched him from across the courtyard, laughing with Sunghoon and Jay—but every now and then, glancing your way.

Like he was making sure you were still there.

By Thursday, you found yourself slowing your steps so he could catch up.

By Friday, you sat next to him during study period and pretended not to notice when his hand brushed against yours on the desk.

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask. He just looked at you with those soft, unguarded eyes and smiled like that moment was enough.

And somehow…

For now, it was.

Saturday came, and with it, a text from Jake.

simjyn:

Hey. I was gonna go for a walk later. Clear my head. You don’t have to come but… if you do, I’ll bring snacks.

You stared at the message for a good ten minutes. No pressure, no “we need to talk,” no expectations—just Jake, being soft and careful. The kind of boy you weren’t sure existed weeks ago.

You didn’t reply right away. But a few hours later, there you were—hoodie on, hands in your pockets, meeting him just down the block.

He grinned when he saw you. “You came.”

You shrugged. “You said snacks.”

He held up a bag of your favorite chips with a lopsided smile. “I don’t lie about the important things.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a while. The streets were quieter than usual, the air warm with the smell of spring. Every now and then your shoulders would brush, and each time, Jake would glance over, like he was still surprised you hadn’t pulled away.

“I meant what I said,” he said eventually, voice softer than usual. “About showing you. I don’t want to screw this up.”

You didn’t answer at first. The sidewalk was cracked and uneven beneath your feet, like your thoughts.

Finally, you spoke. “You already did screw it up, Jake.”

He flinched, just a little. But he nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

You turned to him then. “So don’t just tell me. Show me. Keep showing me. Not just this week. Not just while you feel bad.”

Jake stopped walking. “I will.”

You searched his face for any sign of hesitation, but there wasn’t any. Just him. Raw and real.

He took a careful step closer. “Can I—?” he started to ask, but stopped himself.

And for once, you closed the space between you.

Just a little. Just enough to let him know that maybe—maybe—this was the beginning of trust again.

Jake didn’t touch you. He didn’t try to hold your hand or pull you into some movie-perfect kiss. He just smiled, slow and genuine, like that one small step meant everything.

And honestly?

It kind of did.

The next week passed like the world had slowed down—but in a good way.

There were no dramatic declarations, no big speeches. Just… Jake.

Sitting next to you during free period, not too close, but close enough.

Sliding you a note in class with the dumbest doodle imaginable—your name in bubble letters with a little crown on top.

Sending you a playlist that started off upbeat and chaotic, but slowly drifted into soft, late-night kind of songs you didn’t expect from him.

Smiling like he had a secret every time your eyes met in the hallway.

And you?

You found yourself waiting for it. For him.

You told yourself you were being cautious. That you hadn’t forgiven him yet. That your heart was still bruised from what he’d done.

But when he laughed? It didn’t hurt.

When he said your name? You didn’t flinch.

And when you caught yourself smiling—again—you didn’t look away this time.

It was Friday afternoon when he found you sitting alone near the back of the school garden. The spot you always went to when you needed to think.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat down beside you and handed you an iced drink—your favorite.

“I like this,” he said after a minute, eyes on the sky. “Just… being here. With you. No pretending. No games.”

You didn’t respond right away. The breeze was light, the sun warming your face.

“I still don’t know if I trust you,” you said quietly.

Jake didn’t flinch. “I’ll wait until you do.”

You looked over at him. Really looked. And maybe for the first time, you believed it.

Not because of his words.

But because of how he’d changed when he stopped trying to win you—

And started trying to deserve you.

So you leaned back, sipped your drink, and said nothing else.

But Jake’s smile widened.

Because silence from you now?

Wasn’t rejection.

It was peace.

And maybe, just maybe… it was the start of forgiveness.

By Monday, the whispers had started.

It wasn’t just glances anymore—it was full-on stares, hushed giggles, and not-so-subtle side-eyes when you walked into a room.

You were halfway to your seat in homeroom when you heard it.

“Do you think she did something to him?”

“She had to. There’s no way Jake Sim just—changes.”

“Dude hasn’t flirted with anyone in weeks. Not even once. He’s not even posting thirst traps anymore.”

“That’s, like, unheard of. What did she do? Put a spell on him?”

You rolled your eyes as you sat down, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something.

Apparently, the student body couldn’t comprehend that Jake Sim—the golden boy, the walking distraction, the school’s certified heartbreaker—might’ve just… grown up. Or fallen for someone. Or both.

You heard someone mutter behind you, “Honestly? Kind of iconic if she did. Like… imagine taming Jake.”

The seat beside you stayed empty. You glanced at it without meaning to.

Jake’s chair. Still untouched. Still waiting for him to come back.

And even though you weren’t sure what this was between you and him yet—or where it was going—hearing the way people talked made you feel something you hadn’t expected:

Protective.

Because sure, maybe Jake had been a reckless flirt once. Maybe he hadn’t been the safest person to care about. But he was trying. He was changing.

And he deserved the chance to do that without being a punchline.

Even if you weren’t ready to say it out loud, you knew it deep in your gut—

Whatever you and Jake were building… it was already real enough for people to notice.

Back home, everything felt quieter without him.

You didn’t realize how much space Jake had taken up in your day until he wasn’t there to fill it. His empty seat in class, the silence where his random texts would pop up, the way your phone didn’t light up with his name the second you unlocked it—it was strange.

You hated to admit it, but… you missed him.

More than you wanted to.

You found yourself hovering over his contact a dozen times, thumb lingering on the call button. What would you even say? You still didn’t know how you felt. Still didn’t know if you were ready to let yourself fully trust him again.

But that didn’t stop your heart from aching.

So, one night—when the silence in your room felt too loud and the thoughts in your head wouldn’t shut up—you caved. You tapped call.

It rang once. Twice.

Then—“Hello?”

His voice was raspy, low. He sounded half-asleep. You glanced at the time. 4:02 AM in Australia.

“Oh my god—Jake, I’m sorry,” you blurted. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I’ll call you back later, just go back to sleep—”

“No,” he said quickly, voice still heavy with sleep but suddenly more alert. “No, stay. Please. I wanna stay on the call. For you? Always.”

You went quiet, swallowing down the guilt that rose in your chest.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, a smile tugging into his voice. “Hearing your voice is already better than sleep.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaky and a little embarrassed. Then, without really meaning to—you started talking.

Not about anything huge. Just the little stuff. The rumors at school. How Kazuha almost knocked over a vending machine trying to get a free soda. How the cafeteria ran out of your favorite chips and it weirdly ruined your day more than it should’ve.

Jake didn’t interrupt. Didn’t talk over you. He just listened—soft, warm, awake only because you needed him.

And eventually, your words grew quieter. Slower.

“I didn’t think I’d miss you this much,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s stupid. After everything, I should still be mad. And I am. But… I miss you anyway.”

There was a pause. Then his voice, low and soft through the speaker:

“I miss you too. Every second. Even the ones I’m supposed to be sleeping through.”

You smiled, curling deeper into your blanket, heart beating too fast for how calm your voice sounded.

Maybe this wasn’t forgiveness.

Maybe it was just… a step toward it.

But for now, lying in bed and hearing his sleepy breath through the phone—

It was enough.

The next day, the evening settled in quietly—soft rain pattering against your window, the smell of shampoo still lingering in the air as you curled up in bed in your oversized hoodie. Hair damp, phone warm in your hand, you finally gave in and called him again.

Jake picked up almost instantly, like he’d been waiting.

The screen lit up with his face, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. His hair was a little messy, eyes a little puffy—he looked tired, but the kind of tired that made him look softer.

Then he paused.

You tilted your head. “What?”

Jake blinked, then bit his lip, trying not to grin. “Nothing,” he said, voice all low and lazy. “You’re just… cute like that.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling your hoodie closer. “Like what?”

He laughed quietly. “Like that. All soft and cozy. I dunno. It’s just…” He shrugged. “I’d like to see you in my hoodie one day.”

Your stomach did this stupid little flip, but you masked it with a scoff. “You’d probably never get it back.”

“That’s the point,” he said, eyes shining with something gentle.

You looked away for a second, trying not to let the smile win—but it crept in anyway. You hated how easy it was to slip into this, how warm his voice made you feel even when you were still trying to protect your heart.

Still… you didn’t change the subject.

Instead, Jake shifted the camera and suddenly, a golden blur popped into view.

“Oh my god,” you said, sitting up. “Is that Layla?”

Jake beamed, gently scratching behind the ears of his border collie. “Yup. She’s been sulking without me. But she likes calls with you.”

Layla barked softly, tail wagging, and it made something in you melt.

You smiled quietly. “She’s so pretty.”

Jake looked back at the screen. “She’d love you.”

You hesitated for a beat, watching him, the way his hand rested gently on Layla’s fur, the way his face relaxed when he looked at you like that—like you were something precious.

“I’m still figuring things out,” you said softly.

Jake nodded without hesitation. “I know. And I’ll wait, remember?”

Your walls were still there. But they were softer now, worn down in places.

And maybe… just maybe… you were starting to believe he really meant it.

The next night, you weren’t sure why your fingers moved so quickly to hit call.

Maybe it was the silence of your room again.

Maybe it was the way his name lingered in your head all day.

Or maybe… you just wanted to hear his voice.

Jake answered with that same smile—bright and sleepy and just for you.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he said, voice a little hoarse, a little teasing. “You always call me right before bed. Not that I’m complaining.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe I just like seeing Layla.”

Jake laughed, turning the camera to show Layla curled up at his feet. “She missed you too.”

You hesitated for a second. Your heart picked up.

And before you could overthink it, before your brain could yell no—you said it.

“I missed you,” you said quietly, voice softer than usual.

Jake blinked. His smile didn’t falter, but you could see something shift behind his eyes—like the words landed a little deeper than either of you expected.

“You… what?”

You swallowed. “I said I missed you. Don’t make me say it again.”

His lips curled into something warm and slow, something real. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”

You looked away, cheeks heating. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t,” he said, still grinning. “But just so you know… I missed you more.”

And just like that, something shifted.

Not huge, not loud—but it was there.

A new softness in the way you looked at each other.

A new kind of trust threading its way through the call.

You still weren’t all the way in.

But you were no longer holding all the way back either.

“Three more days,” Jake said through the screen, stretching his arms above his head with a groggy little yawn.

It was morning there, the sunlight barely creeping in through the curtains behind him, and his voice was still heavy with sleep. His hair was messy, sticking up in every direction, and you could hear Layla snoring faintly in the background.

You smiled at the sight, tucked under your blanket, phone propped up on your pillow.

“Not that I’m counting,” he added, eyes flicking up to meet yours through the screen with a crooked grin.

You raised a brow. “You literally said that exact thing yesterday. And the day before.”

“Okay, so maybe I am counting.” He shrugged, grin widening. “What can I say? I miss you.”

You rolled your eyes, but this time, you didn’t try to hide your smile.

Jake leaned closer to the camera, as if trying to get a better look at you through the screen. “What about you?”

“What about me?” you said, playing dumb even though your heart was already speeding up.

He tilted his head, voice soft. “You still miss me yet?”

You let a pause hang in the air for just a second longer than necessary before you whispered, “Maybe.”

Jake let out a low laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. “That’s all I get? A maybe?”

You bit your lip, trying to look annoyed, but the truth was written all over your face. You missed him more than you wanted to admit, and saying it out loud felt like giving up the last bit of control you had left.

But still, you added, “Three more days.”

Jake’s gaze softened. “Yeah… three more days, and I’m yours again.”

You looked at him, really looked at him—sleepy, sincere, and a little too perfect for his own good.

And in that moment, it hit you:

Maybe this was real after all.

And maybe… you were finally letting yourself believe it.

There was a soft knock on your door—three gentle taps, familiar and unhurried.

You peeled yourself off your bed, phone still warm in your hand from just hanging up with Jake. Padding over in your hoodie and socks, you opened the door.

Yuna stood there, arms crossed, an all-too-knowing smirk already forming on her face. “You’ve been on the phone every night,” she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “I swear, I can hear you giggling through the wall.”

You flushed immediately. “I do not giggle.”

“Sure,” she said, plopping down dramatically onto your bed. “Just like how you’re totally not falling for him again.”

You shut the door behind her with a sigh, leaning your back against it. “He’s… different now. I don’t know, Yuna. I can’t explain it.”

Yuna looked at you for a long second, all the teasing melting into something more sincere.

“I believe he’s actually trying,” she said softly. “I do. I’ve been watching. He’s not flirting with every girl in sight. He hasn’t pulled one of his stupid ‘fuck boy’ games since the party. He’s… quieter. Focused. On you.”

You bit your lip, walking over to sit next to her on the edge of the bed.

“But I’m still pissed,” she added, voice firmer now. “What he did to you? The bet? The way he played it at first—that wasn’t okay. And I hate that you got caught up in it.”

“I know,” you said, eyes on your lap. “I hate it too. But it’s not like I didn’t see it coming. I just… didn’t expect him to change.”

Yuna was quiet for a second, then nudged your arm with hers. “You don’t have to forgive him all the way. Not yet. But you’re allowed to feel what you feel, okay? Even if it’s messy.”

You looked at her—your best friend, the one who always had your back even when you were being stubborn—and nodded.

“Thanks for not saying I told you so.”

“Oh, I totally told you so,” Yuna said with a smirk. “But I’m saying it with love.”

You laughed, and for the first time in a while, it felt real.

Later that night, after Yuna had left with a dramatic “Don’t stay up all night whispering sweet nothings,” you were back in bed, your thoughts buzzing.

You stared at your phone, thumb hovering over Jake’s name. It felt different now—not like you had to call him, but like… maybe you wanted to.

So you did.

The screen lit up, and after just one ring, his face appeared—eyes half-lidded, hoodie hood pulled halfway over his messy hair.

“Hey,” he said, voice all gravel and sleep. “Missed me already?”

You snorted, shifting under your blanket. “It’s only been a few hours.”

Jake smiled lazily. “Still counts.”

You studied him quietly for a moment—how tired he looked, how soft he sounded when he was with you. And for a second, it almost felt easy. Natural. As if things had always been like this between you.

“Yuna and I talked,” you said.

Jake blinked more awake. “Yeah? What’d she say?”

You shrugged. “She still doesn’t like what you did. But… she believes you’re trying.”

Jake leaned back against his pillows, hand dragging down his face. “I deserve that. I don’t expect anyone to forgive me right away.”

There was a pause. His eyes flicked back to the screen. “But you talked to her about me.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m not,” he said, grinning. “Just… glad.”

You rested your cheek on your pillow, watching him through the screen. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when you come back.”

“I do,” he said. “I’m gonna see you. And I’m gonna keep proving it—every day. No games. Just me.”

Your heart did that thing again—that annoying, traitorous flutter—but you didn’t stop it this time.

“Three days,” you whispered.

Jake smiled so softly it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. “Yeah. Three days.”

And even with all the scars and hesitation…

You couldn’t help but feel a little bit like you were finally getting your heart back.

Two more days.

That’s what you’d told yourself all morning.

Just two more days and he’d be back. Two more days and you’d see him—really see him—not just on a screen.

But that night, something felt off.

Jake hadn’t called.

Not even a text.

Not a “good morning” or a sleepy voice note. Nothing.

You tried to brush it off at first.

He’s probably tired. Maybe busy with his family.

But the longer you stared at your phone, the more uneasy you felt.

You sent a message. Then another.

And when the little “Delivered” didn’t change to “Read”… you panicked.

You tried calling. Once. Twice. Then five more times.

Your fingers moved on their own—FaceTime.

The screen rang for what felt like forever before finally—

Click.

His face appeared, flushed and damp, water still running faintly in the background. Steam curled around the edges of the screen, and his wet hair was slicked back. He was clearly still in the shower, the camera only catching his bare shoulders and face, but—

“Y/N?” Jake asked, breathless. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Your words came out rushed. “What’s wrong with you? Why weren’t you answering? I thought— I don’t know. I thought something happened—”

Jake blinked fast, clearly still trying to process. “Shit, I’m sorry. I was in the shower. I left my phone on the counter but it wouldn’t stop buzzing—I thought someone died.”

You breathed out a shaky laugh, rubbing your eyes. “You scared me.”

He frowned, guilt all over his face. “I didn’t mean to. I swear, I just— I was in the middle of shampooing and suddenly it’s like twelve missed calls—”

“I thought something happened to you,” you admitted quietly, voice softer now.

Jake’s brows knit together. He adjusted the phone slightly—still just his face and shoulders on screen—and his voice dipped low. “Hey… I’m okay. I promise. You’re not overthinking, alright? I should’ve texted you first. That’s on me.”

You nodded, but your heart was still racing.

He gave a crooked smile. “For what it’s worth… I’m kinda glad you spammed me.”

“Why?”

“Means you care,” he said simply. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

You looked at him, steam rising around his face, eyes tired but warm.

“Next time,” you muttered, “at least answer before I have a meltdown.”

Jake chuckled. “Deal.”

And even though the call wasn’t long…

And even though he was still in Australia, two days away—

You went to bed that night with your heart just a little more at ease.

The next morning, sunlight filtered through your blinds as you sat cross-legged on your bed, phone propped up in front of you. Jake’s sleepy face filled the screen—his hair a little messy, eyes soft and hooded from just waking up. It was night over there, but he still looked wide awake for one reason only.

You.

“Okay,” you said, holding up two options. “Sweater or hoodie?”

Jake squinted, rubbing at his eye. “Wait, wait, go back to the blue one. The knit one.”

You held it up again, amused. “This?”

“Yeah,” he said, already smiling. “That. With the jean shorts. You’ll look so good, I swear.”

You gave him a look. “You didn’t even see it on.”

“Babe,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I already know. Trust me.”

You rolled your eyes but tugged the sweater on anyway. It was cozy, a little oversized, sleeves dropping slightly past your wrists. Paired with your denim shorts and a quick glance in the mirror—you had to admit, he was right.

You turned back toward the screen to find Jake watching you with this quiet, lopsided grin on his face.

“What?” you asked, reaching for your mascara.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just… you’re really pretty.”

Your hand paused mid-air. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he said, his voice softer now. “Like, stupid pretty.”

You bit back a smile and kept doing your makeup, feeling his gaze linger. He didn’t say anything for a bit, just watched you brush and blend and put on lip balm.

“I don’t care how jet-lagged I am tomorrow,” he said suddenly. “I’m staying up all night with you.”

You glanced at the screen.

He looked dead serious, head resting on his pillow but eyes locked on you.

“I’m gonna hug you so tight,” he said. “Like, refuse to let go tight. And kiss you until you tell me to stop.”

You pretended to be unbothered, but your smile gave you away.

He laughed gently. “That a yes?”

You shook your head, cheeks warm. “We’ll see.”

Jake yawned and nestled deeper into his sheets. “One more day…”

“One more,” you echoed, slipping on your shoes.

And as you grabbed your bag and headed out the door, you couldn’t help but feel the smallest flicker of excitement under your skin.

Just one more.

That whole day felt… weird. Good weird. Butterflies-in-your-stomach kind of weird.

Everything you did—walking through the halls, sitting through class, zoning out during lunch—had one repeating thought in the back of your mind: Jake’s coming back today.

You weren’t texting him much. Just a few updates here and there.

He sent you a photo of the plane window, captioned: Next stop: you.

And that alone had you stuffing your phone into your locker before you completely melted in front of everyone.

By the time school ended, your legs were bouncing nonstop on the bus ride home. You told yourself you were being chill. Normal. Totally not overthinking the fact that Jake Sim, the boy who once treated girls like trophies, who once made you a bet, was now someone you were waiting for.

And maybe even falling for.

You got home, changed into something a little more comfortable, and threw yourself on your bed—phone clutched in your hand like it was your lifeline.

Then, a text buzzed through:

@simjyn: Landed. Be at yours in 20. Don’t freak out.

Your heart immediately started freaking out.

You sat up fast, checked your reflection in the mirror, and tried to tell yourself it wasn’t that deep.

But it was.

Because this wasn’t just any visit.

This was the first time you were going to see him since everything—

Since the bet, the heartbreak, the slow rebuild.

Since the quiet confessions and late night calls and the I miss yous.

This was real.

And you were about to find out just how real it truly felt… when he was standing right in front of you.

The next twenty minutes felt like an eternity. You paced around your room, picking up and putting down random things—your phone, your makeup bag, your shoes—anything to distract yourself from the nervous energy building in your chest.

You had to keep reminding yourself to breathe. It’s just Jake. It’s just Jake.

But it wasn’t just Jake, was it?

It was the Jake. The one you’d spent weeks on edge about. The one who’d broken your heart and then somehow, miraculously, started piecing it back together. The one who told you things that made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t want to admit.

The doorbell rang, sharp and sudden, making your heart jump into your throat.

You took a steadying breath and headed for the door, barely holding it together. When you opened it, Jake was standing there, grinning like he owned the world. His hair was a little messy, his eyes bright, and there was a certain softness to him that you hadn’t expected.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, a little hoarse from the travel. “Miss me?”

You just stared at him for a beat before a small laugh escaped your lips. “Are you really gonna ask that after everything?”

Jake stepped inside, closing the door behind him as he swept you into a hug. The warmth of his body was instant—familiar, comforting—and for the first time in days, you felt like maybe this was right. Like maybe it wasn’t a mistake to want him around.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quiet now, like he was finally ready to admit it. “I know I messed up, but I really meant it when I said I wanted to try. I’m here for you. I want this… with you.”

You pulled back slightly to look him in the eye, your heart still racing from the flood of emotions crashing over you.

“You’re not just saying that because you’re back now?” you asked, unsure if you were ready to hear the answer.

Jake’s hand cupped your cheek gently, his thumb brushing over your skin as if he was trying to memorize the feeling of you. “No. It’s not just because I’m here. I was never going to get off the plane without making things right. I wanted to be here. For you. For us.”

You couldn’t say anything, couldn’t form the words you needed to say. Instead, you stood there, eyes locked on his, and let the silence speak for you.

Finally, Jake leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “So, how about we just… try again? No games, no past stuff. Just us.”

You took in a shaky breath, then nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Jake smiled, that familiar cocky grin back on his face, but there was something new in his eyes—something deeper. “Good,” he murmured before gently leaning in to kiss you.

It was soft, tentative at first, like he was waiting for permission. You let him, sinking into the kiss, and for that brief moment, it felt like all the tension and uncertainty of the past few weeks just melted away.

When he pulled back, he grinned again. “Tomorrow, I’m not jet-lagged. We’re going out. I’m taking you on a real date.”

You laughed softly, still in a daze from his kiss. “What’s a ‘real date’ to you?”

“Dinner, movie, some late-night snacks, maybe another kiss or two…” Jake shrugged. “The usual, but with less games.”

You smiled, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering in response. “I think I could get used to this.”

Jake just chuckled and pulled you close again, arms wrapping around you like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to relax into him, knowing that whatever came next, you were finally ready to let things unfold.

Jake stood by the door, his hands casually in his pockets, looking around your room like he was trying to make himself comfortable. His eyes settled on you, and there was that same soft look he always had when he wasn’t being cocky or teasing.

“So, uh…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly a little unsure for the first time tonight. “Is Yuna here?”

You blinked, glancing toward the empty bed across the room. Yuna was out with her boyfriend, which left you alone in the apartment for the night. You’d assumed it would just be the two of you hanging out, but the way Jake asked made your heart skip a beat.

“Uh, no, she’s out with her boyfriend for the night,” you replied, biting your lip. “Why?”

Jake looked almost shy for a second, before shrugging. “Well, I was thinking… maybe I could stay here tonight?” His voice was hesitant, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if he was asking because he really wanted to, or if it was just the most natural thing for him to do. But when his eyes met yours, there was a sincerity there that made your stomach flutter.

You froze, a nervous little laugh escaping your lips. Stay the night?

You’d never had a guy stay over, especially not someone like Jake—someone who had once seemed like the kind of guy who’d never do anything that serious with someone. The idea of him being so close to you all night, even after everything, made your heart race. You couldn’t lie—it made you feel… nervous.

“Uh… yeah. Sure,” you said quietly, looking down at your feet, suddenly feeling shy.

Jake smiled, a bit relieved. “You sure? I don’t wanna make it awkward or anything, I just… I’ve missed being with you.”

Your heart melted at his words, but the nerves were still there, fluttering in your chest. “It’s not awkward,” you replied, glancing up at him. “I just… haven’t really had anyone stay over before. It’s… different.”

Jake stepped closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the best way. He reached for your hand and gently tugged you towards him, his smile soft and comforting. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for, okay? I just wanna spend time with you. Just you and me.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. “Okay…” you whispered, not sure what to expect, but feeling strangely calm in his arms.

Jake’s lips pressed softly to your forehead, his hand still holding yours as he led you to the bed. “Then, how about we just watch a movie? You pick.”

You nodded, still feeling that little wave of nervousness, but somehow comforted by the way Jake treated you. This wasn’t a game anymore, and maybe it wasn’t the big leap you’d both once imagined. But it was a step, and that was enough.

As Jake settled next to you on the bed, you grabbed your remote and flipped through the options. He leaned against the headboard, pulling you closer, as you snuggled into his side, your heart beating just a little faster than normal.

You weren’t sure what the future held, but right now, in this quiet moment with Jake, you were willing to let the night unfold however it came.

And, even if you were nervous, you didn’t mind that he was here. With you.

The bed felt a little too big for just the two of you at first. You were trying to settle in, but your nerves kept making it awkward. You told yourself it would be fine, but the reality of him being here—so close, sharing this space with you—was a little more overwhelming than you expected.

Jake, on the other hand, was perfectly at ease. He’d clearly been in similar situations before, and the way he moved around the bed, adjusting the pillows, grabbing the blanket to throw over both of you, was effortless. He wasn’t even trying to be cautious. To him, it was just another night, another moment to relax.

You, on the other hand, lay stiff beside him, your back to him as you tried to make yourself comfortable without being too aware of his presence.

Then, you heard him yawn. “So… not bad, huh?” he said casually, turning on his side to face you, his gaze sharp and mischievous. “I mean, I know you’re probably not used to me being here, but don’t worry. I’m a great bedmate.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes even though you couldn’t hide a small smile. “Yeah, sure. No more moving around, okay? I’m trying to sleep.”

Jake grinned, clearly not even the slightest bit tired. “It’s only like 6 AM for me, babe. It’s morning in Australia, so I’m wide awake.” He paused for a second before adding, “And don’t worry. I’m not that bad. I’ll let you sleep.”

But he didn’t.

The next few minutes were a blur of shifting blankets and restless movements. Every time you thought you might finally fall asleep, Jake would adjust, making sure you felt every inch of his presence next to you. It was like he was a human radiator.

He kept moving, lightly bumping into you, his arm brushing against yours as he stretched and shifted again. You groaned, turning onto your back, trying to get some space. But Jake had other plans.

“C’mon, you can’t be mad at me forever,” he murmured, his fingers trailing over your cheek as he pinched it, all while giving you that infuriatingly sweet smile.

“Jake, I’m trying to sleep,” you snapped, your voice more irritated than you meant it to be.

“I know. You’re cute when you’re grumpy.” He grinned and leaned in to pinch your other cheek. “You’re like a little puppy when you’re all sleepy and mad.”

You huffed, swatting his hand away, but Jake only laughed softly, ignoring your protests. He pulled you in closer, wrapping his arms around you tightly, so there was no escape.

“What are you doing?” you muttered, fighting the urge to squirm out of his grip.

“I’m cuddling you. Isn’t that what you do when you’re sleeping next to someone? Come on, you can’t be mad at me. It’s cute when you’re mad.” Jake’s tone was teasing, almost too playful for how much he was invading your personal space.

You gritted your teeth, pushing at his chest weakly, but the more you tried to get away, the more he pulled you in. Eventually, you just gave up, sighing in frustration, the warmth of his embrace making you feel a little too comfortable despite your annoyance.

“Seriously, Jake, I’m not in the mood for this,” you muttered, trying to wiggle free.

But instead of letting go, Jake’s hand rested on the top of your head, gently stroking your hair, as if trying to soothe you. “Shhh. Just relax, okay? You’ve had a rough couple of days. Let me take care of you.”

His words were soft and gentle, but the way he was treating you, so carefree and natural, made everything feel more intense.

You felt your face flush. God, why was he so affectionate?

Your body was tense, but Jake didn’t seem to care. He continued his little “babying” routine, pinching your cheeks again, running his hand down your arm. “You really are cute when you’re trying to act tough.”

You shoved his hand away again. “Stop!” you groaned, your face burning now, both from being flustered and from how absolutely done you were with his teasing. But even as you spoke, you couldn’t help but feel your frustration shift into something else. The warmth of his closeness, the way he kept trying to make you laugh—despite how embarrassed you were—it was impossible to ignore the fact that a part of you was starting to soften.

Jake seemed to sense that too, because his smile softened, and for a brief second, he pulled back just enough to look at you seriously. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop… for now,” he said, but there was a playful glint in his eyes that told you he was far from done.

“Good,” you muttered, turning to face the other side of the bed.

Jake’s voice suddenly broke through the quiet, whining as he flopped onto his back. “I’m bored!” he groaned dramatically, his arms thrown wide as he stared up at the ceiling. “This is so lame. Can we do something fun?”

The frustration that had been simmering inside you all night bubbled over. You were already feeling irritable from his constant moving around and messing with you, and now this? You turned on your side, facing him, opening your mouth to let him have it.

“What do you mean, bored? You’re the one who—”

Before you could even finish your sentence, Jake was already leaning in, his lips pressing urgently against yours, silencing whatever you were about to say. His kiss was sudden and intense, catching you completely off guard. The feeling of his lips on yours made everything in you freeze. You were mad, frustrated, confused—and yet your body couldn’t help but respond to him.

You pulled away, heart pounding, cheeks flushed. “What the hell, Jake?” you gasped, feeling a little more than just flustered.

Jake smirked, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice low and playful. “You were about to yell at me, weren’t you? I just had to shut you up for a second.”

Before you could even process what was happening, he kissed you again. This time, it was slower, deeper, and when he pulled away, your lips felt tingling, your mind a little hazy.

But Jake wasn’t done. His hands slid to your waist, and in one fluid movement, he was over you, his body hovering above yours. His eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race, and his breath was coming out in soft pants.

“Jake, wait, we can’t—” you tried to protest, but your voice faltered as his lips moved down to your neck, his body pressing closer to yours.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place. He kissed you again, more passionately this time, as his hands moved to pull you even closer. Every touch, every kiss, only seemed to stir something deeper in you.

And even though you were still mad, flustered, and unsure, you couldn’t deny how badly your body responded to his closeness. The kiss deepened, the air between you thick with tension and the weight of everything unsaid.

It was like you couldn’t breathe without him, even as your mind screamed at you to pull away, to think clearly. But all you could focus on were his lips, his hands, and the way his body made yours burn with the kind of heat you hadn’t expected.

And in that moment, everything else just seemed to fade away.

You pulled away from Jake just enough to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly. The heat between you was still lingering, and your heart was hammering in your chest.

“Jake,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “Don’t… don’t leave any marks.”

Jake paused, looking down at you with a mischievous grin. “What, are you worried someone’s gonna see? You know, it’ll just be our little secret.”

You felt the tension rise in your chest. “Jake, seriously. No marks.”

But he only smirked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Too late,” he said softly, pressing his lips to your neck again. His kiss was soft at first, but there was a quiet intensity behind it, his lips leaving a trail of heat.

You gasped, a shiver running down your spine. “Jake…” you protested weakly, but his lips were already moving with more confidence, his hands gently pulling your body even closer to his.

“Shh,” he murmured between kisses, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re just too irresistible, you know that?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to focus, but the way his mouth was slowly marking the sensitive skin of your neck made it hard to think. He didn’t seem to care about your protests, and in a way, you didn’t want him to. The moment was too intense for you to pull back now.

“Jake, I said no marks,” you breathed, but your voice wavered as his lips pressed harder against the skin of your neck.

But Jake’s grin never wavered as he kissed you once more. “I’ll be gentle,” he whispered teasingly. “But you know you like it.”

And before you could say anything else, he placed another kiss on your skin, and this time, it was more than just a light touch—it was deeper, more possessive.

You couldn’t help but groan, your body reacting in ways you hadn’t expected, and all of your careful reservations melted away beneath him.

Jake pulled away for a moment, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite place. He gave you a slow, almost predatory grin before sitting up slightly. Without saying a word, he pulled his shirt off over his head, tossing it carelessly to the side.

Your breat caught in your throat as your eyes involuntarily roamed over his toned chest. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him shirtless before, but now… this felt different. The way his body moved, the way he stared down at you with that same confident smirk—something about it was making your pulse quicken.

He watched you carefully, gauging your reaction. “You okay?” he asked, voice low, teasing.

You swallowed hard, trying to collect your thoughts, but they were all scrambled. “I—yeah,” you muttered, not entirely sure if you believed it yourself. You wanted to look away, to regain some control over the situation, but your eyes kept drifting back to his chest, his body in a way you couldn’t quite pull yourself away from.

“Good,” Jake murmured, leaning back down toward you, his body pressing against yours once more. “Because I’m not done yet.”

You barely had time to process his words before his lips were on yours again, pulling you into another kiss that made it harder to think about anything else. The way his bare skin felt against yours, the warmth of his body, everything seemed to blur into a haze of desire and confusion.

Despite all the hesitation still lingering inside you, your body reacted instinctively, leaning into the kiss and feeling that undeniable pull toward him. And for a moment, everything else—your worries, your reservations, your doubts—faded into the background.

Jake’s kiss deepened, the intensity of it making your pulse race, and you could feel every inch of him pressed against you. Your heart pounded in your chest, and despite your earlier protests, you couldn’t stop yourself from responding. He was so close now, his body hovering above yours, the heat from his skin making you feel both excited and nervous.

His hands gently moved to your sides, his fingertips grazing the skin just beneath your shirt, sending a wave of electricity through your body. You wanted to pull back, to stop it before it went any further, but every part of you—every instinct—wanted to stay.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” Jake murmured against your lips, as if sensing your hesitation. His voice was quieter now, softer, and you could feel the tenderness beneath the teasing tone.

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breath. “I know,” you whispered back, your voice trembling slightly. But the tension was still there, between you both, thick and palpable.

Jake shifted slightly, lifting himself up just enough to look down at you. His hands gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “I don’t want to rush you,” he said seriously, his eyes searching yours for some kind of reassurance. “But if you’re still unsure about anything… just say the word, and we’ll stop.”

For a brief moment, you felt the weight of your emotions, the confusion swirling inside you. You wanted to trust him. Part of you did. But then the doubt crept in—how much of this was him really caring about you? And how much was just him playing his usual game?

You tried to push those thoughts away, your hand reaching up to gently rest on his chest. “I’m just… trying to figure things out,” you confessed, your voice quiet but honest.

Jake gave you a small smile, his thumb now gently rubbing over your skin. “I get it. And I’m here, okay? Whatever you need.”

And for the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe, just maybe, there was a chance things could be different between you two. The trust you had been struggling to build was fragile, but it was there. And despite everything—despite how complicated things had gotten—you couldn’t ignore the warmth that spread through you when you were with him.

“Thanks,” you said softly, looking up at him. “I’m still figuring it out, but… I don’t want to let you go.”

Jake’s smile widened, his eyes softening as he leaned down to kiss you again, slower this time, as if trying to communicate everything he hadn’t said with his actions. It wasn’t perfect, and you weren’t sure where things were headed, but for once, you let yourself believe that maybe this could be something worth fighting for.

The air was heavy with the quiet aftermath, both of you lying side by side in the tangled sheets, the room still filled with the lingering warmth of the moment. You didn’t speak at first, unsure of how to break the silence. Your heart was still racing, the intensity of everything that had happened swirling in your mind, and a part of you felt vulnerable, exposed.

Jake lay on his back, one arm draped across his chest as he stared up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. He seemed calm, but you could see the subtle shift in the way he was holding himself, like there was more going on behind his relaxed exterior than he was letting on.

You turned your head to look at him, your heart still pounding in your chest. “Jake…” your voice was quiet, almost hesitant, like you weren’t sure what you needed to say. You wanted to ask so many things, to know where you both stood now, but the words seemed stuck.

Jake turned his head to face you, his eyes meeting yours with a softness that you hadn’t seen before. He smiled, though it was more subdued than his usual cocky grin. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and gentle, as if he was giving you space to process everything.

You nodded slowly, unsure of how to explain what you were feeling. “I think so,” you whispered, but the words still felt hollow, as if you didn’t fully believe them yourself.

Jake reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch surprisingly tender. “You don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready,” he murmured, his thumb lightly grazing your cheek. “But I’m here. And I meant what I said. I don’t want to rush you into anything.”

You looked up at him, feeling the warmth of his words sink in, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a little more grounded. Maybe you didn’t have all the answers, and maybe this wasn’t perfect, but you weren’t as afraid anymore.

“Thanks,” you said softly, your voice barely a whisper.

Jake’s smile grew, and he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You don’t have to thank me. I just want you to be happy,” he murmured.

For a moment, everything was still, the only sound the faint hum of the night outside. It was messy, and maybe you weren’t ready to give everything over just yet, but you knew one thing—things with Jake were no longer the same. Whether that was a good or bad thing, you weren’t entirely sure, but for now, it felt real.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe that maybe that was enough.

The peaceful silence that had settled between you and Jake was abruptly shattered by the sound of a door creaking open, followed by the unmistakable click of a lock being turned. You both froze, panic and confusion flashing across your faces.

The door swung open, and to your horror, Yuna and her boyfriend, Mark, stood in the doorway, eyes wide with shock. Yuna’s face was a mix of disbelief and surprise, while Mark’s expression was one of utter confusion.

“What the hell?” Yuna’s voice was sharp, but still laced with the shock of what she was seeing. “It’s three in the morning, why the hell are you two—?”

You scrambled to sit up, suddenly feeling exposed in a way you never thought possible. Jake, always cool and collected, sat up quickly too, his face just as surprised. He looked at you, then back at Yuna and Mark, clearly trying to gauge the situation.

“Yuna,” you stammered, your voice betraying the chaos that was suddenly consuming you. “I… um, it’s not what you think.”

Mark looked between the two of you, eyebrows raised. “Y/n and Jake…such a weird combo. What’s going on?”

Yuna stood frozen for a moment, then slowly closed the door behind her, her eyes never leaving you. “This is… Wow,” she muttered under her breath. “We should’ve knocked.”

“Yuna, it’s… it’s not like that,” you said, your words coming out rushed, a little too desperate for comfort.

Jake was the first to break the tension, his usual cocky grin slipping back onto his face. “No, actually, it’s exactly like that,” he said with a shrug, leaning back against the headboard, his tone casual as though it didn’t faze him in the slightest. “But, uh, a little privacy wouldn’t hurt next time, right?”

Yuna’s gaze flickered between the two of you, her face still unreadable, but Mark’s expression turned more thoughtful. “Alright, well, we can talk about this later,” he said, stepping back toward the door. “But seriously, next time, maybe lock it, yeah?”

Before either of you could respond, they turned and walked out, leaving you alone in the room again. The door clicked shut behind them, but the silence felt deafening now, far more overwhelming than before.

You let out a breath, your heart still racing. This wasn’t how you imagined the night going, but then again, nothing about this situation had been how you expected.

Jake leaned over, a playful smirk on his lips. “Well, that was a nice surprise, huh?”

You shot him a look, still feeling a little dazed. “I think I just want to sleep now,” you muttered, pulling the covers up around you, your face flushed with embarrassment.

Jake just chuckled, his hand resting on your arm. “I don’t blame you,” he said softly. “We’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

But even as you tried to settle back into the quiet, the strange events of the evening felt like a reminder of how everything between you had shifted. Whether it was for better or worse, you didn’t know yet. But one thing was for sure: it wasn’t over.

enha campus series

[anenbylittlepotato]

Okay first of all, do not pull the patronizing tone with me, I am not a child. Second of all, the only part of this that was directed SPECIFICALLY at OP was the first half. The rest of it about fighting back was directed at the people in the notes who are agreeing with OP many of whom probably ARE in the US. And even then, in that second half, I literally did not talk about anything that was US-specific, the only thing that could even KIND OF be construed as that is the "minimizing damage" line but even that's kind of a stretch. The political and economic crisis is not ONLY a US-centric issue, and, fun fact, that's partly due to Trump essentially starting a fucking trade war on the whole world (I won't say it's the only or even main reason bc I am aware that it's more complex than that, but you cannot deny that Trump is a contributor. And not just that, but Trump certainly is NOT just a threat to people inside the US. Third, there definitely are not things going wrong ONLY in the US right now, and the shit happening in the US was absolutely NOT the only thing I was referring to, and even if that were the case, there are still things people outside the US can do to help, like donating to charities and relief group, or promoting support groups literally ANYTHING else besides starting fights on the internet over whose fault it was that Kamala lost. You act as though I said voting was the way to fight back which is NOT what I said. Voting helps but it is not the end-all-be-all and is only one step in making things better. Thirdly, do not act like I MUST have some perfect plan in order to be frustrated at the people who are upset that Trump won when they either did literally nothing to stop it or straight-up ACTIVELY chose to vote for him. Obviously voting blue isn't going to fix things, but it at least help set us on a better path, and, y'know, keep us from letting literal fucking fascists into office? Idk just a thought. There are plenty of fucking non-profits to donate to, there's people in Palestine who are DYING that people could donate to, there's support groups that people could promote, there's protests and boycotts and ALL SORTS OF THINGS that people could be participating in to try and guide the world to being a better place. But no, instead we're fighting with each other on the internet about shit that happened in the past that we can't change that literally does not matter. Here, in fact, I'll find some examples of things people could be doing to fight back or, just as importantly, helping the people currently being harmed by how shit is going currently

Palestine Relief

https://x.com/careforgaza

https://gazasunbirds.org/

https://ceasefiretoday.com/

US Queer Relief, Support Groups and Lifelines

https://glaad.org/resourcelist/

https://maketheroadny.org/issue/tgnciq-justice/

https://www.refugeamerica.org/

https://gaycenter.org/

Climate Change Research and Progress Support

https://www.catf.us/

https://fcarchitects.org/

Biodiversity Crisis

https://www.worldlandtrust.org/?utm_source=pocket_collection_story

https://rewildingeurope.com/?utm_source=pocket_collection_story (this one had very mixed reception, but I didn't see anyone with solid proof that it was bad, it was mostly just a vibes thing, so if anyone has more info I'll take it)

Protests

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:2025_protests this is just a wiki page listing all current protests happening worldwide, do your own research on which ones of these are important to you

Boycotts

There's also a boycott being called for Nintendo and specifically the switch 2 due many factors, mainly the price of the console and more severely, the games themselves, but also things like there being a whole button on the console that is literally useless unless you're paying for a switch online subscription. Not to mention that they've decided to start pricing their games based on how much value THEY think it brings to consumers. Love it or hate it, video games and Nintendo are huge parts of our economical climate and these decisions will likely have major impacts of other aspects of the economy as well

Strikes

There are plenty of strikes happening, but I'm sure the one most people know about right now are the SAG-AFTRA strikes. And while I 100% agree with their cause for the strikes, I would advise you give SAG-AFTRA more scrutiny, as they have been pretty shady. They're a closed union, which isn't really all that great of news for the voice acting space, because it means that if any non-union voice actors are REQUIRED to join the union if they work a union job longer than a specified time limit. And this time limit is not reset between jobs, so if they can't join the union and run out of days to work a union job they can't work another union job. And this also means all union workers cannot work any non-union. I recommend doing your own research on this matter, but SAG-AFTRA is a lot shadier than people think and should not be trusted as readily as it is. And maybe put pressure on SAG-AFTRA to rethink the closed union thing.

And since you seem so pressed about me talking about all this on their post when they're Dutch, here, I even found some things going on in the Netherlands that people can be supporting to help people

(yes the ukraine thing is still happening btw I checked)

https://ukrainians.nl/

https://www.globalgiving.org/projects/empower-local-communities-to-restore-their-ecosystems/

But no yeah, keep telling me all about how "nothing will change." Sure nothing will change if we don't fucking work together to actually try and make change. Keep being patronizing and acting. I will not be interacting with this post any further after this except maybe to edit the resources I have listed bc I have said all I care to say.

Also, just a note, due to time constraints I was not able to do proper thorough research on how reliable all of these sources are. I did my best but I am sure there's things I missed so I HIGHLY recommend doing your own research before supporting any of these.

I think if the popular political party lost then it’s probably their own fault somewhat don’t you think

[ijustwannabecool]

The Wrong Letter

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary... A letter never meant to be read by Lewis Hamilton finds its way into his hands. What starts as a simple reply turns into an unlikely bond—one filled with letters, honesty, heartbreak, and healing. In a world where the wrong address led to the right person, what happens when pen meets paper, and two broken hearts begin to write a new ending?

Trigger Warnings: emotional manipulation, mental/emotional abuse (past), themes of abandonment and healing, language, grief, vulnerability, slow-burn romance, miscommunication A/N: I hope you enjoy it! I wrote it with lots of love for you guys. Enjoy it. Feedback is always welcome! Comment, repost, and like. Have a beautiful day!

THE WRONG LETTER

The Letter That Wasn’t Supposed to Be Sent

⸻

The flat is still.

There’s no dramatic thunderstorm, no flickering lights. Just the hush of twilight seeping through the windows and the low hum of your record player crackling out some melancholy tune you can’t remember the name of. You’re not sad, not really. Just tired.

Exhaustion lives in your bones now.

Not the kind sleep fixes, but the kind that hangs around long after someone has convinced you you’re too much and somehow not enough all at once.

You’re in your favorite hoodie—the soft, oversized one that smells faintly of lavender and school paint—and you’re sitting on the floor with a pen in your hand and a letter you’re not supposed to be writing.

It started as a thought. Then a sentence. Now it’s three pages in and your hand won’t stop moving.

You didn’t plan this. You were cleaning out the drawer next to your bed, the one filled with tangled chargers and expired coupons and that old blue stationery you forgot you even owned. Something about the blank page pulled at you. Like a dare.

You told yourself it was just a writing exercise. Closure. Nothing more. But now the ink is dry on your fingers, and the page in front of you reads like a confession.

⸻

Dear You, I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this. It’s not like you’ll ever read it. Which is probably for the best.

You don’t deserve this version of me—the one that stayed soft, even after you tried to strip her down to splinters. You were always good with words. Always knew how to rearrange a sentence so it sounded like care instead of control. Love instead of leverage.

I used to think your silences were deep. Now I know they were empty.

Still, part of me misses you. Or maybe I miss who I thought you were. The you I built in my head. The one who laughed when I danced barefoot in the kitchen and kissed my shoulder when I fell asleep during movies.

But that version of you never existed, did he?

No, the real you gave compliments like currency. Affection in measured doses. Love as a prize to be earned. And I tried. God, I tried.

I folded myself smaller. Smiled quieter. Disappeared gently. And still—you left.

So I guess this is me saying goodbye to a ghost. I’m letting go of you. Of the echo of you. Of the space you used to take up in my head. You won’t read this. But I need to say it anyway. I’m done writing stories where you’re the hero. — Me

⸻

You fold the letter carefully. You don’t know why. You could rip it up. Burn it. Drop it in the bin. But instead, you slide it into the envelope and write out the name almost instinctively.

M. Hamilton

312 Grafton Way London NW1

You stare at it. You don't even know if he still lives there. Then you frown. No—wait.

You flip the envelope back over. You wrote it wrong.

It says:

L. Hamilton

213 Grafton Lane London NW1

You groan. “Of course,” you mutter. “Because nothing in this chapter can be simple.” You set the letter aside, swearing you won’t send it.

But the next morning, in a fog of Monday autopilot, you grab a handful of outgoing post—bills, a birthday card, and the letter—and drop them all in the red postbox outside your building.

It’s only as the flap closes behind them that your stomach sinks. “Shit.”

⸻

A Week Later — Monaco

He notices the envelope right away.

It’s the only one without a stamp, as if someone hand-delivered it, even though it came through the normal post. It’s pale blue and slightly wrinkled. The handwriting is neat, but unsure—like someone who learned to write letters in a hurry and never stopped.

L. Hamilton

He sighs.

Another fan letter, maybe. Or someone asking for money. Or advice. Or a favor he can’t give.

Still, something about it makes him pause.

He’s been restless lately.

Ferrari is new, and so far, it feels like trying to start over in a language he only half understands. Everyone wants a piece of him. A statement. A smile. A legacy.

And all he wants—quietly, stubbornly—is something real. So he opens the envelope. And reads. Once.

Then twice.

Then again—slower.

By the third read, he’s no longer just reading. He’s feeling.

The words dig beneath his ribs.

It’s not meant for him. Obviously. He’s never said any of these things to anyone. And yet—he recognizes the ache in every line.

The loneliness. The exhaustion. The delicate way she holds her own pain like it might spill if she’s not careful.

He stares at the letter for a long time. Then he folds it neatly and places it on the table.

He makes a cup of tea. Takes a shower. Paces the room. Plays part of a jazz album he’s never finished.

And still—he’s thinking about her. The woman who wrote to the wrong Hamilton. And made him feel more seen than anyone had in months.

⸻

He stares at the letter again the next morning.

He’d left it on the edge of his desk, tucked just under a book he hadn’t had the attention span to read. He told himself he wasn’t going to pick it up again.

But he did.

Twice.

And now—again.

He rereads the opening line: “I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this.”

Same.

Lewis exhales sharply and runs a hand down his face. He’s still in his sweats, hair barely tied back, a mug of lukewarm coffee in one hand.

The world outside his window is bright and red and fast. But in here, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

He doesn’t remember the last time someone told him something real without asking for something in return.

And this stranger—this accidental letter writer—didn’t even mean to.

She gave him honesty on accident. Gave him something that wasn’t for him, but somehow still fit him like a second skin.

She’d sent a goodbye, but it felt like a beginning. He hated how much he wanted to know more.

Was she okay now? Did she still make tea and leave the light on? Did she feel better after writing that letter, or worse?

He folds it again. Then pulls a fresh page from the drawer. Stares at it. Pen hovering. Waits. Then, finally, slowly, begins to write.

Dear Me, I read your letter three times before I let myself breathe.

It wasn’t meant for me—I know that. You probably wanted it to disappear. Or maybe just exist long enough to stop hurting. Either way, it landed here. With me.

And I don’t know what to do with that, except... write back.

I’ve been trying to remember the last time someone told me the truth without dressing it up first. Without asking for anything. Without spinning it for their own satisfaction.

You didn’t do that.

You just wrote.

And in doing that, you made me feel a little less like I’m walking through the world alone.

I won’t pretend I know your story, not really. But I know what it’s like to question yourself so deeply that you start to think your own reflection might be lying.

If you don’t mind—if it’s not too strange—I’d like to keep writing.

Not to fix you. Not to fix me. Just... to talk. I’ll go by L.

If you write back, I’ll know it’s okay. If not—I’ll still be grateful I got to read the first letter.

—L

He folds it carefully, slips it into a fresh white envelope, and handwrites the return address on the back.

Just an initial.

Nothing else.

No fame. No clues.

Just words.

He hesitates before sealing it.

He could throw it away.

He probably should.

But instead, he walks down to the private courier drop he trusts more than the usual post and hands it off without saying a word.

The next day, he checks his mailbox five times. Even though he knows better.

⸻

Back in London – Three Days Later

You find it wedged between an ASOS return and a flyer for a takeaway you swear you’ve blocked a hundred times.

It’s stark white. No stamp. No sender. No clue. Except the handwriting. Your heart skips. You open it slowly. Hands shaking. Breath caught. And when you finish reading, you sit on the floor in your hallway and cry.

Not because you’re sad. But because, for the first time in a long time, someone didn’t try to fix you. They just stayed.

You write back that night. Just one line:

Dear L, I don’t know what this is either, but I think I’d like to find out.

⸻

It becomes a ritual.

You come home from school, kick off your shoes, toss your keys in the bowl by the door—and check the mail.

Every day. Like a teenager with a crush and a fountain pen addiction. Most days there’s nothing. But some days— There’s him.

⸻

Letter #2

Dear L,

I didn’t expect a response. Honestly, I expected the letter to get lost, or burned, or laughed at over brunch. I didn’t think it would matter.

And yet... here we are. I’m not great at this kind of thing. Feelings. Trust. Vulnerability. Capital-L Letters. But there’s something about your reply that didn’t scare me. Maybe it’s because you didn’t try to solve anything.

You just witnessed. And maybe that’s what I’ve needed all along.

Tell me something unimportant. Tell me what you had for breakfast or the last thing that made you laugh. Tell me what your voice sounds like when you’re tired.

I think I’d like to know. — Me P.S. You said you go by L. Can I go by Y/I? Seems fair.

⸻

Letter #3

Dear Y/I, Okay. Something unimportant:

I had granola with almond milk this morning. Mostly because it was the only thing left in the fridge and I was too lazy to do a shop.

I forgot how much I hate almond milk.

As for laughing—yesterday I walked into a glass door while texting. My assistant pretended not to see it but I know he did.

My tired voice? It’s apparently lower than usual. Scratchy. My mum says I sound like a hungover jazz singer.

(...That’s probably too much information.)

This is already more personal than 90% of the interviews I’ve done in the last year.

And I think that says something.

Still writing, —L

P.S. Yes. Y/I fits you.

⸻

It keeps going.

Little things. Honest things. You start opening up without realizing you’re doing it.

You tell him about your favorite mug—the chipped one with a sunflower on the side. About the boy in your class who named his left shoe Kevin and insists it has a twin named Steve. About your best friend who makes you playlists with titles like “Songs to Emotionally Shatter You During Grocery Shopping.”

You don’t tell him about Marcus yet. But it’s there. Between the lines. In the way you talk about softness like it’s borrowed, not owned.

He picks up on it. Of course he does.

⸻

Letter #5

Dear Y/I,

I think we forget how brave softness is.

Everyone wants to be strong. Loud. Unbothered. But you—

You write like someone who’s still learning to trust her own voice, and I think that’s the bravest kind of loud there is.

Today I went for a run at sunrise. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t sleep. Something about the silence felt heavy. Then the sun cracked through the sky like it was begging to be noticed. I thought of your letter. The one where you said mornings make you feel both holy and hollow. I took a picture. It’s nothing special. But I wanted you to see what I saw when I thought of you. —L

(Polaroid attached: A sunrise over a quiet bay, light spilling gold over rooftops. In the corner of the frame, a coffee cup and one bare foot.)

You hold the photo to your chest like it might disappear.

You don’t know what this is.

But you know it’s becoming something you need.

You write back the same night.

⸻

Letter #6

Dear L,

It feels strange, how much I look forward to your letters. Like I’m building a home inside a mailbox.

I’ve started writing you in my head when things happen—like today, when one of the kids sneezed so hard he fell off his chair. Or when I saw a pigeon aggressively fighting a croissant on my lunch break.

I wanted to tell you.

And I don’t even know your face.

But I know your mind. Your voice. Your stillness.

So I’m sending you something too.

It’s small. But it made me think of you.

— Y/I

(Polaroid attached: A blurry photo of her windowsill at night, soft fairy lights glowing, a cup of tea, and a stack of letters—his letters—tied with ribbon.)

⸻

And just like that, the distance between you starts to shrink. Not in miles. But in silence.

You tell him about Marcus in your next letter. Not the full story. Not yet. But enough.

Enough for Lewis to fold the page twice before reading it again, slower. Like her words might bleed if he moved too fast.

⸻

Letter #12

Dear L,

I thought about deleting this letter.

I still might.

But if I don’t tell you this now, I never will.

There was someone.

He made me feel like love was a job interview. Like I had to be the right combination of soft and sexy and small in order to be kept.

He didn’t hit me. He didn’t scream.

But he rewrote the world in a way that only made sense when he was in it. And when he left, I realized I hadn’t heard my own voice in months. I’m still trying to find it again. Sometimes I think I only speak in whispers now.

But you hear me. Thank you for that. — Y/I

He sits with the letter for a long time. Long enough for the sky outside his window to shift from gold to gray.

He traces the edge of the paper. Imagines her, somewhere miles away, hunched over a desk or a kitchen table, writing these words. Brave and trembling.

He wants to say everything. Wants to fix it.

But knows he can’t. So instead—he writes her back.

⸻

Letter #13

Dear Y/I,

I don’t know if this will help, but...

You don’t speak in whispers anymore.

Not to me.

Your letters fill the room when I open them. Your voice has a weight I can feel in my chest. It lingers.

And I know we said this is just letters. Just words.

But when you trust someone with your story—even a part of it— That’s not nothing.

You’re not nothing.

I hope you never forget that

—L

And from that point forward— The letters change. They become a place to land.

Sometimes soft.

Sometimes raw.

Always honest.

⸻

Letter #15

Dear L,

I can’t believe how much I look forward to this. To you.

To the moment I get to peel open an envelope and see your words.

You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.

Between class sessions. In the quiet moments before sleep. In the sun through my window and the smell of clean sheets.

It scares me, how much I care. I don’t even know what you look like. But I know your mind. And your heart.

And I think... that’s more important.

— Y/I

⸻

Letter #16

Dear Y/I,

There’s this little alleyway near where I’m staying. It’s nothing—just old bricks, chipped paint, the hum of a neon sign in a language I don’t speak.

But it reminded me of your last letter. The part about “between spaces.”

I took a photo. It’s not good. I almost didn’t send it.

But then I thought—maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect.

Maybe it just has to be honest.

Like us.

—L

(Polaroid: A quiet alleyway at dusk, soft yellow light spilling onto cobblestones. A bicycle leans against the wall. There's no one in sight.)

⸻

You hold it for a long time. Wonder what he was thinking when he took it.

And realize— You want to ask him. Not through a letter. Not weeks later. But face to face. And that, more than anything, terrifies you.

⸻

You don’t set an alarm anymore.

Your internal clock is tuned to the sound of birds and buses and the small clatter of the kettle boiling in the flat next door.

You stretch quietly in bed, blink up at the ceiling, and smile at the faint sunlight creeping through the curtains.

It’s a Tuesday. That means circle time, two back-to-back art projects, and a high chance of glitter in your bra by noon.

You slip on a loose sweater and jeans, twist your hair up, and grab the sunflower mug you once mentioned in a letter. It’s chipped, but perfect. Familiar.

You sip your tea as you stare at the little wooden box on your kitchen shelf.

It holds his letters now.

You don’t read one this morning. You want to save it for later—like dessert.

⸻

Your day unfolds the way it always does.

You greet your students with that voice you reserve for them—bright, warm, steady.

You kneel beside Sophie, who’s crying because her banana touched her yogurt.

You high-five Theo for remembering to say “please.”

You tape two shoelaces and one broken crayon back together.

⸻

At lunch, your coworker Ana plops beside you on the bench outside.

“Big weekend plans?” she asks, unwrapping her sandwich.

You shrug. “Not really.”

“Still writing to mystery man?” she grins.

You fight the smile. “Maybe.”

“God, you’re such a romantic.”

“No,” you say softly. “I think I’m just... hopeful.”

She gives you a look but lets it go.

⸻

The school day ends.

You wave goodbye to the last kid and lock your classroom door. The janitor hums as he sweeps the hall.

And when you walk home—your steps are a little quicker.

Because you know. You know. You fumble your keys, heart skipping.

You open the mailbox. And there it is. White envelope. Familiar handwriting. Just your first initial on the front.

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you’re curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, tea steeping on the table, fingers trembling as you open the letter.

Inside?

A note.

And a photo.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

It’s been a week of motion. Too many cities, too many suitcases.

But I found a little moment of stillness.

I thought you might like it.

You feel like stillness, sometimes.

Like breath.

More soon.

—L

(Polaroid: A single red flower growing out of cracked pavement, light hitting it just right.)

You press the photo to your chest. And smile.

⸻

He wakes up in yet another hotel.

He has to blink twice to remember where he is. Barcelona. This week,

it’s Barcelona.

The light is soft, filtered through gauzy curtains, and the air smells faintly like salt and rubber and espresso from the street below. He can hear the hum of traffic already—low, constant, like a heartbeat.

He groans, presses a palm to his face, and drags himself out of bed. There’s a media briefing in forty-five minutes.

Another debrief after that.

Then sim work.

Then setup.

Then dinner with someone he doesn’t really know.

He pulls on a hoodie and sweats, ties his braids back messily, and pads barefoot to the table by the window.

There, tucked neatly under his notebook, is her letter. He’d brought it with him.

Always does now.

Wherever he goes.

Just in case.

He unfolds it like something sacred and reads the last paragraph again.

“You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.”

He smiles.

And exhales.

⸻

The paddock is chaos.

People. Cameras. Logistics. Language.

He answers questions without really hearing them. Shakes hands. Nods. Smiles.

He does the dance.

But his mind keeps drifting back to the letter.

Back to her.

To the way she described the way the rain sounded on her roof. Or the way her students pronounced “spaghetti” like “buhgetti.”

He tucks a small Polaroid camera into his jacket pocket before heading out to do the track walk.

⸻

He takes photos quietly.

A puddle reflecting the clouds. A half-eaten orange on a bright red barrier. The back of someone’s helmet with a quote in Italian sharpied on the side: “Chi trova un amico, trova un tesoro.” (He who finds a friend, finds treasure.)

He frames the shot. Clicks.

And hears a voice behind him.

“Since when do you take artsy photos, man?”

He jumps slightly, turning.

It’s Charles.

His teammate. Friendly. Sharp. Always watching.

“Oh,” Lewis says quickly, tucking the photo into his pocket. “Just something for a... project.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “A project?”

“Yeah. Personal one.”

Charles squints at him. Then shrugs. “Alright. You just looked like you were thinking hard about it.”

“I was,” Lewis admits, softer this time.

Then, without thinking, he adds:

“She writes about things like this. Ordinary stuff that feels... alive.”

Charles tilts his head. “She?”

Lewis clears his throat. “Just someone I talk to.”

Charles smirks. “You getting poetic on me?”

“Maybe,” he mutters, walking away. “Mind your business.”

But he’s smiling.

Because that’s what she does to him.

Makes the world feel quiet again.

Even here.

⸻

That night, after hours of meetings and late-night workouts, he finally gets a moment alone.

He sits on the edge of his bed, pulls out his worn journal, and slides one of the new Polaroids inside a letter he started days ago.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

Today was loud.

The kind of loud that follows you even after the noise stops.

But I saw something that made me think of one of your old letters—the one about how beauty is just borrowed stillness.

I think you’re right.

This isn’t much.

But it made me feel quiet.

And when I feel quiet, I think of you.

—L

(Polaroid: A reflection of clouds in a puddle shaped like a heart, partially stepped on, still beautiful.)

He seals the envelope and sets it by the door. It’ll go out in the morning. And when he gets home— Her words will be waiting.

He already knows exactly where he’s going to sit to read them.

⸻

The letters start arriving more often. No longer once a week. Now it’s every few days. Sometimes back-to-back. Sometimes overlapping. And they’re longer. Richer. Almost too much to hold in your hands.

⸻

Letter #28

Dear Y/I,

I don’t know what this is anymore.

And I don’t mean that in a bad way.

It’s just—somewhere along the way, I stopped writing to pass the time and started writing to remember who I am.

I don’t tell most people anything real. I give them smiles. Headlines. “Doing great, thanks.” But you ask me questions I don’t even realize I’ve been dying to answer. Like what my laugh sounds like when I’m tired. Or what I’d do if the world stopped spinning for a day.

(For the record, I’d sit in the sun and read your letters.) Sometimes I wish I could just... show up. Knock on your door. Ask you what kind of tea you’re making and sit in your quiet for a while. But I won’t do that.

Because part of what makes this feel real is that it’s not built on appearances or performance. It’s just us. Words. Trust.

Still yours,

—L

⸻

You read that letter three times.

Then again the next morning.

You walk through your day differently now. More alert.

More tender.

You find yourself watching the sky at red lights. Running your fingers along brick walls. Laughing longer at things that make you feel known.

⸻

Letter #29

Dear L,

You said you don’t know what this is anymore.

I don’t either.

But I know what it’s not.

It’s not nothing.

And sometimes I catch myself saying things like, “My friend said—” and I mean you.

Or when I see something beautiful, I reach for my camera, then stop, because I remember...

You already saw it.

You live in these spaces I didn’t even know I’d left unlocked.

And that scares me.

But it also makes me feel whole.

— Y/I

P.S. If you ever did knock on my door... I’d make chamomile. And I’d let you sit in the silence for as long as you needed.

⸻

Letter #30

Dear Y/I,

This week I was back somewhere familiar. A city I’ve been to a hundred times, for work.

I passed this bakery that smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, and I remembered something you once wrote—about how you used to bake on Sundays with your mum, just to fill the flat with warmth.

So I bought a pastry I didn’t even want. Just because it made me feel close to you. There were cameras, like always.

But I kept thinking—what would it feel like to walk here with you, no one watching? 

To just be a man next to a woman he respects.

Not a name.

Not a brand.

Just L.

(Almost slipped there. Guess I’m tired.)

— Still just L

⸻

You reread that paragraph.

“There were cameras, like always.” “Almost slipped there.”

Your heart kicks up. You don’t Google him.

You could.

But you don’t.

Because whatever this is—it’s enough.

And you trust him.

⸻

Letter #31

Dear L,

When I was with Marcus, I used to write things and hide them. Little notes to myself. Things I was afraid to say out loud.

“I am not difficult.” “I deserve to be chosen.” “I am allowed to take up space.”

I found them again last week.

And I cried.

Not because I felt that way again. But because I don’t anymore.

You didn’t fix me.

But you reminded me that I wasn’t broken to begin with.

You don’t know my face. My laugh. The shape I take up in a room.

And still—you see me.

More clearly than anyone else has.

— Y/I

⸻

He reads that letter after a long flight. Eyes burning.

The hotel is too cold. The hallway echoing. His muscles sore.

But none of it matters.

Because she just told him the one thing he’s been terrified to believe:

That he matters without being anyone else.

That she wants him, not the idea of him.

That she’s ready.

And just like that—

He knows.

It’s almost time to tell her who he is.

⸻

It was raining the day you wrote the draft.

Not the romantic kind of rain. Not the soft pitter-patter you loved with a mug of tea.

This was the kind of rain that felt mean.

That made the sky feel heavy and mean and too much.

It had been a rough week. The school was understaffed. A parent yelled at you for enforcing a food allergy rule. Your period came early. You felt bloated and stupid and small.

You were already crying before you picked up the pen.

And you shouldn't have written it.

But you did.

Not to him.

Just... to yourself.

A letter that bled frustration. Fear. That creeping anxiety that whispered what if he’s only being kind? What if you’re building a fantasy out of figments and metaphors?

You wrote:

Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words. If I’m just a soft place for you to land until you’re ready to walk again. If I’m falling alone, and you’re just watching.

You folded it.

Slid it into your drawer.

You didn’t sign it.

Didn’t intend to send it.

You wrote a new letter the next day. A good one. A hopeful one. You slipped a photo of your favorite bookstore at twilight into the envelope and dropped it in the post.

You didn’t realize... that you’d picked up the wrong page.

⸻

Four days later — Monaco

He gets home late.

The race weekend was long. Brutal. Not his best.

He drops his suitcase, toes off his shoes, and heads straight to the table.

Her letter is there. Waiting.

He smiles before he even opens it.

But the smile fades.

Line by line.

Word by word.

He reads the first sentence.

And stops.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words...”

It feels like a slap.

Like being called a liar by the only person who doesn’t see him as one. He stares at the page, willing it to turn into something else.

A joke.

A mistake.

A test.

But it’s just... her.

Questioning all of it.

All of him.

And he—

He doesn’t know what to do.

⸻

He doesn't reply.

Not right away.

Not at all.

He wants to write something. Anything.

But the words won’t come.

Because the truth is—he was afraid. That he was falling harder. That he was hoping for something real. That she might only be in love with the idea of him, not the messy, exhausted man who sits in hotel rooms and wonders if he's worth any of it.

So he doesn’t write.

He disappears.

⸻

A Week Later

You feel it before you know it.

The silence.

It’s louder than any rejection you’ve ever heard.

You check the mailbox obsessively. Refresh your phone, even though you’ve never texted. Wait for something. Anything.

And then it comes.

One envelope.

No letter inside.

Just a photo.

A paper airplane.

Caught mid-fall, fluttering toward a storm-gray pavement.

And on the back, written in familiar handwriting:

I didn’t know I was disposable.

You sink to the floor.

The kind of cry you can’t make pretty. The kind with hiccups and shaking hands and a voice that sounds foreign when you whisper, “No... no no no...”

Because it wasn’t meant for him.

That letter—

That damn letter—

Was a ghost you were trying to exorcise. Not a truth you meant to send.

You run to your drawer, flipping through everything.

And there it is.

The real one.

The one he was supposed to read. The one that said:

You make me believe in softness again. You make me want to be brave. You feel like coming home.

You crumble it in your hands, then press it flat again.

Too late.

You whisper to the empty room, your heart breaking into pieces:

“Please come back.”

⸻

Days pass.

Then a week.

Then two.

You don’t write.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because you don’t know how. What do you even say?

“That letter wasn’t meant for you”?

“I was scared and hormonal and bleeding and sad”?

“You’re the only thing that’s felt real in months, and I ruined it with my doubt”?

You sit by your window, tracing the rim of your mug with a trembling finger.

You haven’t opened the box of his letters since the paper airplane arrived.

But tonight—

You do.

You take them out. One by one. Lay them across your floor like constellations.

And then...

You write.

⸻

Letter #32

Dear L,

I sent you the wrong letter.

That’s the truth.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.

It wasn’t supposed to be you.

That page... it was something I wrote on a bad day. A page of fear. A draft I buried under better things.

But I sent it.

And I know how it must’ve sounded.

Like I didn’t believe you. Like I doubted all of this.

But I didn’t. I don’t.

I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you.

I’ve never felt seen the way I do when I read your words.

You gave me my voice back.

And I used it to hurt you. Even if I didn’t mean to.

I understand if that’s unforgivable.

But if by some miracle you’re still reading—please know this:

You are not disposable.

You never were.

You are everything.

And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.

Come back. — Y/I

⸻

You don’t send it.

Not right away.

You fold it.

Place it inside the box. And wait.

⸻

Meanwhile — Three weeks later, Monaco

He’s still carrying her last photo in his pocket. Even now.

Even though it hurts.

He’s been quiet too long.

Long enough that his friends have stopped asking.

Long enough that he’s almost convinced himself it was just a phase. A beautiful mirage.

But then—

He finds her real letter.

Not on purpose.

It’s tucked inside a notebook. One he’d left on the plane. One his assistant brought back and casually dropped on his desk.

He flips it open.

And there it is.

The handwriting.

His heart stops.

He reads it. He rereads it. His hands start to shake.

And in that moment, he realizes— She didn’t leave him.

She was trying to tell him the truth. He just didn’t listen.

And that—

That’s what finally breaks him.

He doesn’t write back this time. He needs time to think.

⸻

The sun is sharp over the circuit. The sky, clean and cruelly blue. Perfect for photos. Perfect for a podium.

Lewis Hamilton stands with champagne running down his fire suit and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The crowd is screaming. His team is cheering. His name echoes off the grandstands like something holy.

And yet— He feels like a ghost inside his own body.

He won.

But it feels empty.

⸻

TWO DAYS EARLIER

“Radio check,” Marc says through his headset as Lewis climbs into the car.

“Copy,” Lewis replies, voice flat.“Loud and clear.”

He hears Marc hesitate. “You good?”

Lewis adjusts his gloves. “Yeah.”

He’s not.

He hasn’t been for a while.

It’s been almost two months since her last letter.

Or rather, since his last letter.

The one he didn’t send.

He’s still reading her last one. Still keeping it folded in the inner pocket of his backpack like a bruise.

⸻

Back in the garage, everyone’s buzzing. There’s tension in the air. Good tension. Energy. Hope.

They’ve got a shot at pole.

Maybe more.

Lewis leans against a wall, sipping on an electrolyte pouch, pretending to scroll through data on the iPad in his lap.

His assistant, Natalie, walks up quietly. “You’ve been off today.”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m here.”

“That’s not the same as being present.”

He finally lifts his eyes.

She softens. “Still thinking about her?”

He swallows. Doesn’t answer.

“You know,” she says carefully, “you could always just reach out. Not with a letter. Just... talk to her.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. It never was. If she wanted to hear from me, she would’ve written back.”

Natalie stares at him for a second. Then says quietly, “Maybe she’s waiting for you, too.”

He looks away.

⸻

RACE DAY

The car feels good.

Better than it has in weeks.

Lap after lap, he pushes harder. Lighter. Freer.

Maybe it's adrenaline.

Or maybe it’s because for once, he stops trying to outrun the ache and lets it sit in the passenger seat with him.

He takes the win.

First place.

Everyone’s shouting, hugging, throwing their arms around him like he just saved the world.

And maybe he did.

But it’s not the world he wants to save.

⸻

That night, he sits in his hotel room, champagne unopened on the dresser, still in his race suit pants and a hoodie.

And he stares at a blank page. Then he starts to write.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

It’s been 52 days since I heard from you. I’ve counted every single one.

And for the first 20, I told myself I deserved the silence.

Because I was a coward.

Because I didn’t ask if that letter was a mistake. I didn’t trust you the way I should’ve.

But if I’m being honest? I

stopped writing because I was scared.

I didn’t want to fall for someone who didn’t exist outside of pages and polaroids.

I didn’t want to be seen so completely and still be left behind.

But you didn’t leave me.

I left you.

And I’m sorry.

I should’ve known better.

I should’ve asked.

I should’ve told you the truth.

—

I started writing this at 2am. Then rewrote it at 3. I’ve cried twice. Walked away once. But every time I try to give up—your words come back. You told me once I made you believe in softness again. You made me believe in real.

—

You asked once what my favorite part of the day was. It’s not the win. It’s not the champagne. It’s the moment I walk through my door, drop my bag, and see your letter waiting on the table. Even now. I still check. Even when I know it won’t be there.

—

I miss the way you see the world. I miss the way you write about rain like it’s a friend. The way you call yourself a mess but write with so much clarity it could split stars.

I miss you.

Not the idea. Not the version I created in my head. 

You.

Whatever name you wear.

Whatever face you have.

You are already mine in every way that matters.

—

I got something.

A tattoo.

I wasn’t going to tell you. But it’s the only thing that’s made me feel brave in weeks.

You wrote once: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”

I had those words etched into my skin. Because that’s what this has been.

A becoming.

And I want you to see it.

—

If you never write back, I’ll understand.

But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wants to meet—

I’m ready.

I want to hear your voice. I want to see your face. I want to know how you laugh and whether you still leave the bathroom light on.

I want all of it.

Not in fragments.

Not in metaphors.

You.

Please let me come home.

—L

(Polaroid enclosed: A close-up of his forearm. In clean, delicate lettering—I’m not broken. I’m becoming. Just below it, faint ink smudges. A fresh tattoo. His skin raw. Real.)

⸻

You wake up with paint on your hands.

Dried glitter on your temple.

Your hair is in a lopsided braid you forgot to take out the night before.

It’s been 51 days since your last letter.

52 since you heard from him.

You stopped checking the mailbox after the fourth week.

You told yourself it was over. That it was a chapter you needed to leave behind.

But still—when you brush your teeth, you glance toward the door. Still—when you pass the postbox, your heart skips.

You still miss him.

And it’s quieter now, the grief. But it never left.

⸻

8:02 AM — Your Classroom

“Miss Y/N! Look! Look what I made!”

You blink back into the moment and crouch down beside Ava, who is proudly holding a collage of cotton balls and sequins.

“It’s stunning,” you say, voice catching.

“It's a cloud!” she beams. “But a magic cloud. It cries glitter.”

You smile, and feel your throat close.

You used to write like that.

⸻

10:14 AM — Playground Duty

You and Ana walk the perimeter of the small playground while the kids scream joyfully into the wind.

Ana nudges you gently. “You good?”

You nod. “Fine.”

“Liar.”

You sigh. “It’s just... I miss someone I never met.”

Ana stays quiet.

Then: “Maybe they’re missing you too.”

⸻

12:45 PM — Staff Room

You’re eating cold pasta out of a Tupperware when the receptionist walks in.

“Delivery for you.”

You frown. “Here?”

She shrugs. “Postmarked from Monaco.”

Your heart stops.

You take the envelope like it’s a live wire.

It’s heavy. Dense.

Your name is written in careful, familiar handwriting.

Just your initial.

Your hands shake.

You excuse yourself. Walk down the hall. Sit on the floor beside the storage closet. And read.

Ten pages.

Ten pages that rip you open and stitch you back together in the same breath.

The moment you unfold the photo—his arm, the tattoo, your words etched into him—you break.

Tears fall silently.

You clutch the pages to your chest.

You whisper, “You didn’t leave.”

And for the first time in 52 days—

You let yourself hope.

⸻

6:04 PM — Your Flat

You sit at your kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, tea cooling beside you. You’ve read the letter five more times.

Your hands are still shaking.

You grab your best pen.

A blank page. And write.

⸻

Dear L, You said you didn’t know what this is anymore.

I think I do.

It’s real.

It’s two people finding each other in the most impossible, tender way.

It’s the ache in my chest when I check the mailbox.

It’s the way my fingers tremble when I write your name.

It’s the way I stopped being afraid of my own voice.

Because you heard it.

And then you answered.

You said you want to hear my voice.

You said you want to see my face.

So let’s.

Let’s stop hiding behind paper.

Let’s meet.

Let’s begin.

You’re not the only one who’s becoming. I am too.

And I think we’re meant to do it together.

— Y/I

P.S. I kept every letter. Even the hard ones. Even the ones I read in the dark. They were never just words. They were you.

(A Polaroid enclosed: Her favorite mug, steaming. His first letter curled at the edges. A blurred tear on the page. And in the background, a tiny sticky note on the wall. It says: “Come back.”)

⸻

Two Weeks After Y/N’s Reply

You don’t expect a response this fast.

But it arrives four days after your letter���postmarked Monaco. The envelope is heavier than usual.

You hold it for a long moment before opening it. You already know it’s him.

⸻

Letter #33

Dear Y/I,

I’ve been staring at this blank page for hours.

I’ve written a hundred versions of this and deleted every one.

But then I remembered something you said in one of your first letters—“Just be honest. We’ve both had enough lies.”

So here’s the truth:

I want to see you.

I want to hear your voice for real. I want to laugh with you without waiting two weeks for your reply. I want to hand you a cup of tea and see what your eyes do when you smile.

I want to meet you too.

And I think we’re ready.

So here’s the plan—if you’re still in London, I know a small bookstore tucked between a florist and a laundromat on Oakwell Street. Quiet. Forgotten. Perfect.

Saturday. 11AM.

There’s a little reading bench near the back window. I’ll sit there.

I’ll be wearing a black hoodie. Jeans. My favorite shoes—white with the red stripes on the sides. You said you liked stories that felt “lived in.” These shoes are just that.

If you’re still sure—wear the sunflower necklace. The one you said you forgot to take off for a week because it felt like protection.

That way... I’ll know it’s you.

And if you don’t come—

I’ll sit there for an hour.

I won’t be angry. Or sad. Just grateful I got to know you at all.

But if you do come—

Then maybe this story isn’t finished yet. —L

P.S. I’m scared too. That’s how I know it matters.

⸻

You press the letter to your chest.

Then you cry. Then you laugh. Then you read it again.

You don’t even hesitate.

⸻

The Night Before

You can’t sleep.

You try. God, you try.

You make tea. Breathe deep. Re-read every letter in the box.

Your mind won’t stop.

What if he’s not what you imagined?

What if you’re not?

What if it’s perfect?

You finally fall asleep around 3AM.

You wake at 6.

Put on your softest jeans. The green sweater that makes you feel like a walking hug. And the necklace.

The one with the tiny sunflower charm, warm from your skin.

⸻

Meanwhile — Monaco

Lewis stares out the window of the private jet.

His hands are shaking.

He’s held the last Polaroid from Y/N so many times it’s starting to curl at the corners. Her favorite mug. The first letter. The sticky note that said, “Come back.”

He’s still wearing his hoodie. Black. Comfortable. Familiar.

The tattoo is healing.

He touches it absently as he looks down at London coming into view. There’s a folded note in his pocket.

It’s not for her.

It’s for him.

Just four words:

"Be who she knows.”

⸻

Back to Present – The Bookstore

You arrive at 10:44 AM. Fifteen minutes early.

You don’t go inside right away—you pace. Breathe. Pace again. Your fingers won’t stop fidgeting with the sunflower charm around your neck.

You check your reflection in the bookshop window.

You look the same.

But you’re not.

Not since him.

Not since the letters.

The bell above the door jingles once as you finally step inside. The smell of old paper and sandalwood hits you like a memory you didn’t know you had. Warm. Safe.

You make your way to the back, to the little reading bench.

You sit.

And wait.

⸻

11:08 AM

He’s standing outside the shop.

His heart is a percussion instrument.

He walks past once.

Then again.

He almost turns back.

But then he sees it—

Through the window.

You.

Your hand resting gently on your knee, thumb brushing the chain around your neck.

And he knows.

⸻

The bell rings.

You look up. And the moment your eyes meet— It’s like

something tectonic shifts.

Your mouth parts just slightly.

He’s real.

More real than you ever imagined.

He stands just inside the doorway. Hood pulled down. Hands in his pockets. The sleeves of his hoodie pushed slightly up—and you see the edge of the tattoo.

His lips lift, soft and unsure.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” you whisper, standing.

Neither of you moves.

Then—he laughs once.

Nervously.

“This is weird, right?” he says.

“The weirdest,” you say, breathless.

He glances at your necklace.

“You wore it.”

“You told me to.”

He smiles wider. “You always did follow instructions better than I did.”

You laugh. It’s shaky. Full of disbelief.

You look him over. Slowly. Not because of who he is—but because of who he’s been. To you.

“I don’t know what I expected,” you admit, voice soft.

“Disappointed?” he teases gently.

You shake your head, eyes misty. “You’re... you.”

He steps forward. Hesitates. “Can I... hug you?”

You nod.

And when his arms wrap around you, the whole world exhales.

⸻

You sit across from each other in the corner of the shop, tea cups untouched.

He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

You’re trying to breathe normally.

“Do I look how you imagined?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No.”

Your heart drops slightly.

“You’re... more.” he finishes.

You smile. “That was a save.”

“No. That was the truth.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“You know what’s wild?”

“What?”

“I was terrified. Of this. Of us. I kept thinking... maybe it was only magic on paper.”

“And now?”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

“You’re better than magic.”

Your throat catches.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admit.

He blinks. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. What if I showed up and you were just—some guy?”

He nods slowly. “And what if I showed up and you weren’t her?”

You both sit in that quiet for a long moment.

“I still write to you,” he says suddenly. “In my notes app. On napkins. The back of boarding passes. It’s like... I can’t not.”

You grin. “Me too. I started a journal. Every entry begins with ‘Dear L.’”

You both laugh. It’s small. Intimate. Familiar.

Then you grow serious again.

“This... is real,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah. It is.”

You look down. “So what now?”

He reaches across the table. Takes your hand.

“Now we start again. Just not with letters this time.”

You glance toward the little wooden box of staff recommendations beside you and say, “Maybe just one more.”

He grins.

“I’ll write the first line.”

⸻

EPILOGUE – THE LETTERS NEVER STOPPED

The flat is quiet.

Golden hour spills across the countertops, and you’re wearing one of his old hoodies. You’re barefoot, sleepy, peaceful. He’s packing for a short trip. A two-day sponsor event, nothing major.

But the house always feels different when he’s gone.

He walks past you, brushes a kiss across your temple, and says, “Check the coffee tin before I leave.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He shrugs. Smiles. “Just trust me.”

You wait until he’s busy shoving socks into his bag, then pad into the kitchen, pop open the tin...

...and there it is.

A folded note.

His handwriting.

You already know what it is.

⸻

Dear You, I don’t write you as often anymore.

Mostly because I get to tell you now.

But this morning I woke up to your hand on my chest and your leg tangled over mine, and all I could think was—

God, I get to love her like this. Still. Always. So this is just a little reminder. Of who we were.

And who we still are.

You’re the beginning. You’re the becoming. You’re the entire story.

And I’ll write you forever.

— Me

⸻

You’re still smiling when he walks back in and sees you holding it.

He grins. “Told you to check the tin.”

You don’t say anything.

You just wrap your arms around his waist and whisper into his chest, “Write me again tomorrow.”

⸻

Later That Week

It’s raining.

You’re clearing out an old drawer, not really looking for anything.

And you find it.

Tucked in a notebook.

No envelope.

No note.

A Polaroid.

Blurry. Dim. A hotel room.

A letter on a table.

Lewis, caught mid-breath, back bent, hand frozen over a blank page.

You flip it over.

Two words.

“I waited.”

And this time—your tears fall without ache. Because now?

He’s here.

THE END.

⸻

THEIR POLAROID SCRAPBOOK

1. His First Polaroid

Sunrise over a bay. A cup of coffee in frame. One bare foot tucked beneath the window. → Back reads: "You said mornings feel holy and hollow. I finally understand."

2. Hers

A blurry photo of fairy lights, a cup of tea, and his letters stacked on her desk. → Back reads: "They keep me warm."

3. His – From Somewhere Quiet

A cobbled alleyway. Yellow neon glow. A bike leaning on the wall. Empty but alive.

→ No words. Just breath.

4. Hers – First Bookstore Mention

A tiny corner of her favorite bookshop. Golden light pooling at her feet. → Back reads: "Someday, I hope you’ll sit here with me."

5. His – The Near Reveal

A pastry on a napkin. A crowd in the background. Sunglasses beside the plate. → Back reads: "Felt close to you today."

6. Hers – Come Back

Her sunflower mug. His first letter. A sticky note on the wall. → Note says: "Come back."

7. His – The Tattoo

Close-up of his arm. Fresh ink. Red around the phrase: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”

→ No caption. Just the truth.

8. The Final Polaroid (Never Sent) Lewis in a hotel room. Your letter on the table. His hand paused over a blank page. → Back reads: “I waited.”

[bru5678]

homesick.

fluff. joel miller x fem!reader

summary: after the new year's party in Jackson and Joel's fight with Ellie, you can't help but worry about him, so you keep him company on that cold night.

...

The hum of guitars and laughter fades into the snowy distance as you walk toward the neighborhood. Each step leaves soft prints behind in the thick white layer blanketing the ground. Your hands stay buried deep in your pockets, too afraid to let them out—afraid the cold will sink into your bones and steal the feeling from your fingers.

Most of the houses are dark, their porches swallowed in shadow, except for one. A single light glows dimly above a familiar doorway. You recognize it instantly.

The soft strum of a guitar drifts toward you, sweet and aching. A smile tugs at your lips, faint but full of meaning.  You can see Joel sitting on his porch, strumming his guitar.

Gaze softening you continue walking toward him, and you recognize the notes being played on the instrument. You also recognize the look in his eyes, the same he held back at the party when the scene with Ellie unfolded. 

He continues playing slowly, his eyes fixed on the instrument but somewhat distant, clouded by thoughts. Your heart skips a beat as you remember his eyes, the way he looked around at that moment back at the party.

You step quietly up the path, the snow muffling your steps. Joel looks up as you near, his face softening the second he sees you. The guitar stills beneath his touch.

"Hey kiddo..." he musters quietly, in a tone he thinks he has reserved only for you. The nickname makes you warm inside.

Leaning your shoulder against one of the porch columns, you smile—small, almost apologetic. “Happy New Year.”

It’s been hours since midnight, but you hadn’t seen him during the toast, not after… well, not after everything. “You okay?” you ask, careful not to pry, because you know him.

Silence creeps in between you. You still keep your hands inside your pockets. Joel sighs, pulling his guitar from his lap and placing it gently on the floor beside his seat.

"Aint have t'worry 'bout me, darlin'..." The southern accent slipping through his tongue, but you know better than to not worry, not after what happened. "and happy new year to you too, sweetheart"

You smile again but you dont say anything, not like you would normally do in other ocasions. You draw your lips in a thin line as you keep looking at him. Your gaze turns worried again.

"Can I keep you company?" you finally ask, and you wonder why do you ask, and he does it too. He knows that even if he said no in that moment you will still stay there anyway.

Joel sighs and tries to look away from you. He tries to keep his façade on, but he knows... he knows you know. He knows you know he has grown soft. He tends to tell himself it's because of his age perhaps, but he can't even fool himself with that. He feels the weight of your gaze, expecting him to let you in.

Joel, even though he wouldn't dare to admit it out loud, feels like your eyes melt him inside, so he tries to gaze at the pitch black sky instead, but the flutter in his chest doesn't dissapear... it never does.

Maybe, just maybe, he says to himself, it's because he feels softer these past few months and years since he stablished himself in Jackson, and your eyes hold the warmth he's been craving. Or maybe, perhaps, it's the way he has felt so lonely lately, but... it's not like that. He has realized, or realizes there in that moment at least, that he doesn't crave any other kind of warmth that doesn't come from your eyes, and the way you stare at him.

Sometimes, in nights like these, while he lays in his bed, he thinks of you, and your eyes. And whenever he goes out, he secretly wishes he will see you before you go to your job, or run into you somewhere in town, just to see your beautiful face.

Things haven't been great lately for him, and tonight he feels the most empty after the party and everything that happened with Ellie. And you... you look so beautiful, he wouldn't have ever thought years ago, not even in his wildest and sweetest dreams, that he will be in the presence of such a beautiful girl like you, just the two alone. 

He feels it—the way your eyes look at him. The warmth in them that breaks past everything he’s built up.

"C'mere..." he only limits himself to mutter that. 

Your smile is soft—tinged with sadness—as you step toward him. Joel rises from his chair, waiting for you.

Once you are face to face, the space between you two is closed. You tell yourself it's because of the cold that you seek the closeness, but you know it's not. You pull your hands from inside your pockets, and you quietly reach for both of his hands. You watch as Joel's posture and gaze shifts for a moment as you take his calloused hands in yours. 

Your eyes turn concerned as you feel the coldness of his hands against your skin, bringing them to your face, trying to warm them up with your breath. Joel’s chest tightens. The way you do that—so tender, like he’s fragile—it hits something buried deep. He notices your hands are cold too, your nose and cheeks flushed pink from the winter. He resists the urge to cup your face right then and there.

“Let’s head inside,” Joel says gruffly, his voice dipping into that stern edge he wears when he’s worried. “Don’t want ya gettin’ sick.”

You nod and let go of his hands. He clears his throat and heads to his front door, opening it for you to get inside, where the warmth of his home welcomed you like a blanket. The scent of aged wood, faint tobacco, and something like old leather surrounds you. It smells like him.

The house is modest—lived in. A few stacks of books sit by the worn armchair, a record player rests in the corner, a flannel blanket folded over the couch. The walls carry warmth in their deep brown tones, and soft light from the fireplace flickers against them, casting golden shadow.

You move toward the fire, holding your hands out to it and rubbing them together. The relief is instant. Behind you, Joel steps closer, his shoulders brushing yours as he joins you. Even if you don't actually feel him because of the many layers of clothes you both have, it still feels intimate.

The warm light from the fireplace cast shadows against his rough features. You stare at the curve of his nose, the deep set of his eyes, the wrinkles, the silver at his temples and beard, and the bags under his eyes. You had never seen anyone so handsome. He has been the subject of your thoughts ever since you came to Jackson. And even though he didn't seem like it at first or to anyone but you, he was so sweet, the sweetest man. Contrary to what everyone in town had tell you or keeps telling you to this day.

“You weren’t at the toast,” you say finally. “I figured maybe…” You make a pause. “Just give her some time…” you whisper instead, the words slipping out.

Joel sighs and closes his eyes, a hand raking through his hair as he turns and sinks into the couch slowly, muscles and joints sore from days of work.

“‘M tryin’ my best,” he says, voice thick with something he’s holding back. You follow and sit beside him, removing your jacket as you turn to face him, looking for his eyes.

"I know..." you murmur. "It's your first time going through this, dealing with teens is not easy... but I can see you are always alone, and after..." you pause for a second before continuing, debating on how to put what you wanted to say with the correct words. "after what happened tonight, I- I get worried about you too."

His head turns to you once those words come out of your mouth. 

"'m fine darlin'" Joel says, one of his arms coming to rest on the back of the couch behind your neck. "'m used to being alone... stop worrying that pretty head of yours". He tries to muster up a smile, but only one of the corners of his mouth tilts up in a makeshift smile.

"Don't lie, I know you." you say as you lean your head against his shoulder. "You are always here with your guitar or working. I know you say you are used to being alone but... I also know you don't really want to." Joel swears his heart almost skips a beat when you wrap your arms around his torso, cuddling his side.

"Sweetheart..." He says, one of his hands tilting your chin up, trying to look for your eyes. "You ain't gotta worry 'bout an old man like me, you are so young—"

"Don't start Joel, because you know I dont care". You warn him as you roll your eyes at him. " Look me in the eyes and tell me to leave then..." Joel sighs at your comment, knowing he won't win. He groans as he adjusts his body on the couch to let you cuddle on his chest. A smile creeps up on your features once you know he won't lecture you.

His other arm comes to wrap on your front as you throw your legs over his. His chin rests against the top of your head as he exhales, getting comfortable. You nuzzle your head on his chest, the soft fabric of his flannel and his smell conforts you.

"Don't like seeing you like this... alone and sad, I- I can't stand it." You mumble against his chest. "Let me stay with you."

Joel feel his breath hitch at you request. He knows he can't deny you, and he tries to fight it but... tonight, tonight he feels exhausted. His heart cries out for you as much as his body does. Lips press on the top of your head, and Joel inhales the sweet scent of you shampoo. A knot threatens to form on the back of his throat, the moment snapping and pulling at his heart strings. He does not want to break down, not in front of you but it seems like you always know. Without warning he feels a single tear fall from his left eye. 

"Stay..." the words come out a little broken from the strain on his voice, and he mentally curses himself. He feels you reaching for his hand, placing yours on top of his. He moves it so your palm is against his now. His hands are worn out, big and calloused, thick skin from the heavy work and survival years. 

Joel takes away the hand to reach for your face, his fingers finding the soft skin of your cheeks, stroking it lovingly. Your eyes close as you relish on the closeness. 

He reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear as his eyes look for yours. You finally stare up at him, your face turning concerned at the sight of his teary eyes. You open your mouth to say something but just before you know it Joel speaks.

"Shh, 's okay... 's okay babygirl" Joel says as he watches your eyes full of concern threatening to fill with tears too. His fingers keep brushing the hair out of your face softly as he inches closer to your face.

"Darlin'..." he whispers, your lips almost touching, as his eyes bore into yours. "C-can I kiss you?"

The way he asks makes your heart melt, your gaze drifting to his lips. You only manage to nod before he connects your lips in a tender kiss. 

Joel is in cloud nine at that very moment as he relishes in the softness of your lips against his chapped ones, and the way it's all he imagined you would feel like. One of his hands stays in the back of your head, tangling in the strands of soft hair, the other holds your chin gently. You are all he has ever dreamt of.

He breaks the kiss slowly, and pecks your lips once, twice after. His forehead comes to rest against yours.

Joel watches the firelight flicker across your face like it’s something sacred. He hasn’t said much since you curled into him, but the weight of his silence is louder than words.

After a while, his voice breaks the quiet.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he says, barely louder than the crackling wood. “Shouldn’t want you.”

You look up at him, confusion flickering in your gaze.

He sighs, looks away, jaw clenched. “I’m not a good man,” he says flatly. “I’ve done things. Bad things. Things that’d make you look at me different if you knew the whole truth.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head, already bracing himself for what he thinks you’ll say.

“I look at you,” he cuts in, voice straining, “and I feel like I’m starvin’. Like you’re the first warm thing I’ve had in years and I don’t know how to hold it without breakin’ it.”

You reach up, gently touching his cheek. He flinches, just barely—like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be touched like this.

“I don’t care about what you’ve done,” you whisper. 

His eyes meet yours, filled with disbelief, hope, and something aching.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he admits, voice cracking. “But wantin’ don’t mean I deserve it.”

You lean in closer, forehead resting against his.

“Then let me decide what you deserve,” you breathe. “Because all I want… is you.”

Joel swallows hard, hands trembling slightly as they cup your face.

“I don’t know how to love without fear,” he says, honest and broken. “But if you’ll have me, I’ll try. I’ll try every damn day.”

Your lips find his—slow, tender, full of everything words couldn’t carry.

And when he kisses you back, it’s not as a man who thinks he deserves it. It’s as a man who’s been given something he thought he’d never feel again.

Hope. Warmth. A second chance.

You stay wrapped in each other’s arms, and though nothing outside has changed, Joel’s world has. Just a little.

Because tonight, for the first time in a long time, he lets himself believe. So that night, you stay.

[this-is-tiny-mia]

Reply All (H.S. Fic) | Chapter 3

General Masterlist

uni!harry x fem!reader PART 1 | PART 2

Summary: Y/N and Harry were childhood best friends, inseparable through every laugh, secret, and growing pain. But high school brought unspoken feelings and decisions that tore them apart, leaving both with unanswered questions. Years later, a class project challenges them to face their shared past and uncover the truths they’ve both been running from. And a wrong click unveils the past and what will be the future.

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: Angst, MAYBE GET A TISSUE, raw emotions.

“So, what happened next?” Juliet asked, her eyes wide with shock as you recounted the encounter.

“I left,” you said softly, avoiding her gaze.

“You what?” Juliet practically yelled, leaning forward. “You left?!”

“Yes, Juliet, I left,” you interrupted firmly, your tone carrying a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. “I can’t deal with so many emotions at once. It’s too much. We’re still the campus gossip, and I need time. It’s... it’s really hard to trust again,” you admitted.

Juliet paused, her arms crossing defensively. “Okay... yeah, I get it,” she said, lowering her hands in surrender. “But still…”

You looked away, the weight of the conversation pressing down on you. Trust wasn’t something you could give easily, not after everything. And while Juliet’s reaction was understandable, this was something only you could process in your own time. But as much as you wanted to avoid the elephant in the room, the project wasn’t going anywhere on its own. The deadline loomed like a shadow over you, and no amount of avoiding Harry or the situation would make it disappear. You needed to start on something.

Juliet noticed the shift in your expression as you stared at your laptop, the empty Word document staring back like a taunt. “Any ideas?” she asked, leaning closer to you.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Well,” Juliet said carefully, “you could always focus on your story. Forget Harry for now. Just... write about what matters to you.”

Her words made sense, but they also felt impossible. How could you separate your story from Harry when he had been such a huge part of it? The thought alone made your chest tighten.

“I don’t know, Juliet,” you admitted quietly. “What if everything I write just…feels like too much?”

“Then maybe,” she said, her voice softer now, “you’ll discover more about it.”

You took a deep breath, your fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment before they began to move—tentatively at first, then faster, until they flew across the keys. That was all it took: the first few words, and then suddenly the dam broke.

A torrent of emotions poured out, spilling onto the screen in raw, unfiltered sentences. Heartbreak wasn’t the only theme—it was trust, betrayal, forgiveness, insecurities, and fear. It wasn’t just a story about losing your best friend; it was about losing yourself.

It was about how you had let that happen, how the cracks in your foundation had spread so wide they felt impossible to fix. But it was also about the pieces you found along the way, the parts of you that you rebuilt, reshaped, and strengthened.

This wasn’t just a story—it was your story.

🌷

The classroom buzzed with quiet anticipation as the professor reminded everyone of the assignment: to share the opening lines of their stories. Your heart pounded as your turn grew closer. You’d spent so many sleepless nights pouring your heart onto the page, but now, under the glow of the classroom lights, it felt raw—too raw.

“Alright, Y/N, you’re up,” the professor said.

You cleared your throat, feeling the weight of the room’s attention. Slowly, you began to read:

“There was a time I thought loss meant only the absence of someone you loved, but I’ve learned it can also mean losing parts of yourself. Fear is a thief. It took my confidence, my sense of safety, my trust. I let it hollow me out until I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. But loss isn’t the end. It’s where I began to rebuild. Piece by piece, I learned to trust myself again. To love who I was becoming.”

Your voice shook slightly, but you finished the passage. It was short but enough for what you need to show. For a moment, the room was silent—respectful, but tense. You sat down quickly, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze, especially not Harry’s.

When the professor called his name you didn’t look up, but you could feel him standing, hear the slight tremor in his voice as he began to read:

“Mistakes are heavy things to carry.

They weigh down your heart, making it hard to breathe. I’ve spent years replaying moments I can’t take back, wondering if there’s a way to undo what’s already been done.

Regret doesn’t fix anything, but it’s all I’ve had for a long time.

Guilt is a shadow, always there, even in the light. But maybe shadows only exist because there’s still light trying to break through.”

Harry paused, swallowing hard before continuing.

“I built my own walls, thinking they’d protect me, but they only kept me from seeing what I already had.

I told myself lies—excuses, really—about why I couldn’t say what I felt, why I kept silent when I should’ve spoken up. I let fear drive me, and it drove me straight into the biggest mistakes of my life.

Hurting someone you love isn’t a single moment.

It’s a series of choices, small and selfish, and each one chips away at something you’ll never fully get back.

I didn’t just lose her. I lost the person I wanted to be because of what I did.

And I just wish I had more—so much more than five minutes. I wish I had a lifetime, and even then, I don’t think it would be enough to explain how sorry I am. I don’t think the right words even exist yet, but I hope someday I can find them—or invent them”

His voice softened, almost breaking.

The professor, who usually offered quick feedback, seemed to take a moment to collect their thoughts before finally saying, “That was... raw and honest. Thank you for sharing Harry.

The professor dismissed the class with her usual reminders, but the weight of the shared stories lingered. You stayed seated, your notebook untouched, while the room emptied around you. Juliet whispered something about waiting outside, giving you space.

Harry didn’t leave immediately. He hovered near the door, his backpack slung over one shoulder, casting quick glances in your direction. You felt his hesitation as much as you saw it, and for a moment, you thought he might walk over.

But he didn’t. He left.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and stood up, stuffing your things into your bag. The classroom felt unbearably small, the walls closing in with the weight of unspoken words.

🌷

The door to your dorm room clicked shut behind you as you entered, carrying the weight of that class. Juliet was sprawled across your bed, scrolling through her phone, the bright light illuminating her face, she looked up as you walked in, her eyes immediately narrowing in on your expression.e

“So, how did it feel?” she asked, pushing herself up from the bed and crossing her arms. There was no hesitation in her voice, just pure curiosity laced with a hint of concern.

You dropped your bag onto the chair by your desk and collapsed onto the bed beside her, your head sinking into the soft pillow. You stared at the ceiling, trying to collect your thoughts. Harry’s words from the class were still fresh in your mind, but they were so mixed up with everything else you were feeling—anger, confusion, vulnerability—that you didn’t even know where to start.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, rubbing your eyes. “It was... it was too much. I heard him, but at the same time, I don’t even know what to do with it.” You paused, your throat tightening. “I mean, he sounded so... real, Juliet. Like he was hurting. But I don’t know if that matters anymore.”

Juliet let out a sigh and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, so she was facing you now. “Y/N, you’re not just mad at him. You’re mad at everything he did—and didn’t do.” She raised her hand before you could protest. “And I get it. He hurt you, he fucked up. But you know that deep down, this is more than just a story for him. It’s not about redemption—it’s about him facing everything he never had the courage to face before.”

You frowned, turning your head toward her. “But why now? Why did he wait until everything was already so messed up to finally say something? Why couldn’t he just have talked to me before?”

Juliet’s voice softened, her eyes sympathetic. “You know why. You’ve always known why.” She leaned in closer, her voice quieter but more earnest. “He was afraid. He was scared to lose you, scared of what might happen if he admitted the truth. And now... now he’s just as terrified, but for a different reason. He didn’t just lose you as a best friend—he lost the chance to have you as anything more. And he might be the only son of a bitch that it’s acknowledging it”

You felt a pang in your chest at her words. It wasn’t that you didn’t understand. You had spent years trying to suppress the hurt, trying to move on without addressing the wreckage that had been left behind. But hearing it from Juliet it was something different.

“I don’t know how to forgive him for everything he did,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to forgive him right away,” Juliet replied, her tone firm but gentle. “But I do think you need to give yourself the chance to feel whatever this is. Don’t let it fester inside of you. Don’t shut yourself off just because you’re scared. You have every right to be angry, to be hurt. But you also have every right to heal.”

You swallowed, the weight of her words settling over you. “I don’t even know where to start. What do I even say to him now? After all of this?”

Juliet gave you a small, knowing smile. “Well, if you’re asking me, I think the first thing you need to do is stop running away from him. I know you’re scared, I know you’re hurt, but this whole thing—this mess, this history between you two—isn’t going to fix itself by pretending it doesn’t exist. You two need to come to terms with avoiding each other, that doesn’t mean you two will be best friends forever again right away, it’s just a peace flag, a flag that will let you say hi while he passes by, a flag that will let you both know each other again.” She paused, her eyes searching yours. “You’re stronger than you think, Y/N. And no matter what happens, you’ve got this. Just... be honest. Be real with him, and with yourself.”

The room felt heavy with her words, but somehow, you felt a sense of relief too, like a small knot that had been tying you up for so long was loosening.

“Thanks, J,” you said quietly, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

She smirked, looking relieved. “What are best friends for, huh?”

You laughed, despite everything, and it felt like the first real laugh you’d had in days. But the lingering heaviness of the situation wasn’t gone, not entirely. Still, you couldn’t ignore what Juliet had said. Maybe she was right. Maybe you had to face Harry—not just for him, but for yourself.

🌷

You found yourself wandering around campus the following morning, your mind still reeling from the conversation with Juliet. The weight of everything that had happened with Harry felt like it had settled on your chest, and while you wanted to avoid it, you couldn’t. You kept replaying his words in your mind, the way he sounded so raw, so genuine. But you also couldn’t shake the hurt, the years of silence and distance between you two. How could you just... let go of all that?

You walked aimlessly for a while, the cool breeze against your skin doing little to calm the storm inside you. You thought about what Juliet had said—how you didn’t have to forgive him right away, but how you needed to stop running from the situation. She had a point. You’d been avoiding Harry for so long, pretending he wasn’t there, pretending that the years of memories didn’t exist.

But how could you reach out to him after everything? What could you say? How could you show him that you were open to starting something—anything—again?

As you walked by the campus art supply store, a flash of pink caught your eye in the window display. You froze.

A pink crayon.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the bright color through the glass. It was so simple, yet in that moment, it felt like the answer. Your heart skipped a beat as you remembered. The pink crayon. The one you never lent to Harry when you were kids in kindergarten. The one that, for reasons you couldn’t explain back then, you kept as your favorite, even though he had asked for it countless times.

He had always tried to borrow that crayon, but you never let him. You didn’t want to share it because it felt like something special. And Harry? Well, he didn’t exactly understand at the time why that crayon was so important to you.

But he learned quickly, didn’t he?

He learned that you loved pink, that it wasn’t just a color, but something that made you feel safe and comforted.

You shook your head, a small, nostalgic smile forming on your lips. 

A flag of peace.

A deep breath escaped you as you pushed open the door to the store. The bell above the door jingled softly, and the familiar scent of wax and paint hit your nose. You made your way to the art supplies section. After a few moments of searching, you found it—the pink crayon, sitting in a small, brightly-colored box. You picked it up carefully, holding it in your hand like it was something precious. It wasn’t just a crayon. It was a memory. It was a symbol of a time when things were simpler, when you and Harry had been just two kids in the world, sharing crayons and laughter.

As you stared at the crayon in your hand, you felt a strange sense of calm wash over you. Maybe this was the way to reach out to him. Maybe, in giving him something as simple as this crayon, you could show him that you weren’t ready to forget, but you were willing to start again.

You paid for the crayon and slipped it into your bag. You didn’t know how or when you’d give it to him, but you knew it would happen. You’d find a way to extend that olive branch. Maybe it wouldn’t solve everything, but it would be the start. The first step toward healing, toward understanding, and—maybe, just maybe—toward friendship again.

🌷

You weren’t sure how it happened. One moment, you were walking to class, the pink crayon tucked securely in your bag, and the next, you were standing in front of the familiar space near Harry’s dorm. You had told yourself you wouldn’t overthink it, but that was nearly impossible. What was this, really? A truce? A first step? A peace offering in the form of a crayon? You weren’t sure, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the right thing to do.

The campus was bustling as usual, students hurrying past, some chatting, others on their phones. You spotted him by the bench outside the dorm, his back to you, scribbling something in his notebook. He was alone.

A nervous flutter filled your chest. This was it. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself before walking toward him. Each step felt like an eternity, but your feet carried you there, propelled by something inside you that wanted—no, needed—to do this.

When you finally reached him, you hesitated for just a second, watching as he didn’t immediately notice you. He was too absorbed in whatever he was writing, but the sound of your footsteps must’ve given you away. His head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly when he saw you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. There was still so much unsaid between you two. Harry shifted nervously, closing his notebook. His expression was unreadable—almost like he wasn’t sure how to react. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but the words seemed to get stuck.

“Hey,” you said, breaking the silence, your voice softer than you expected it to be.

“Hey…” Harry breathed, looking almost surprised that you were standing there. “I’m sorry if th..”

You didn’t give him the chance to finish. Reaching into your bag, you pulled out the pink crayon, holding it out to him with a steady hand.

He blinked, his gaze dropping to the crayon in your hand, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. His eyes slowly lifted back to yours, a small smile appeared in his face. The crayon.

“You remember this?” you asked quietly. “From kindergarten. The one I never let you borrow.”

Harry’s lips parted, and he almost looked like he was choking on his words. A tightness in his throat.

“Yeah… I remember,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He reached out slowly, taking the crayon from your hand with a soft touch. It felt like so much more than just a simple gesture. This was… history. This was you.

“I remember you never let me use it,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, a smile flickering at the corners of his lips. It was weak, almost a sad sort of smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. “And that’s how i learned that you love pink, that this was your favorite crayon”

A small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips, even though the heaviness of everything lingered. “It was my favorite. But now…i think i’m ready to let you use it”

Harry’s gaze softened, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled more genuinely this time. There was a silence between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t full of questions or expectations. It was just... there. Just the two of you, standing in the quiet.

“I don’t deserve this,” Harry muttered after a few moments, looking down at the crayon in his hand. “But thank you.”

“You don’t have to deserve it,” you said, your voice steady. “I don’t know what we’re doing yet, Harry. But I’m not running away anymore. Not from you.”

He nodded slowly, as if absorbing your words, but then he looked at you with something that felt like genuine gratitude. “I’m sorry. For everything. I never meant for it to go this far. I just… I was scared. Scared of what I was feeling, and scared of losing you.”

“I know,” you said, almost as a whisper, meeting his eyes. “But we don’t have to be scared anymore. Not if we’re honest with each other.”

There was another long pause. Then, Harry took a deep breath, holding the pink crayon tightly in his hand, as if it was a symbol of something he wasn’t ready to let go of.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “We don’t have to be scared anymore. Not if we’re... if we’re really going to try.”

You nodded, feeling a quiet sense of hope settle in your chest. The tension between you had finally started to break. And maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something new.

“I’ll see you around, Harry,” you said, turning to leave and with that, you walked away, but the knot in your chest was gone now. The one that had been there for so long. There was still work to do, but for the first time in a long time, you felt like it was possible. Everything wasn’t fixed yet, but it was a step forward. And that was enough.

Tag list: @hermionelove @mads3502 @cherryloveshs @harrystyleshotwife @familyshow-orisit @fadingcherryblossomblaze @lunaharrygurl @gem1712 @millsadoresyou @prettydelilah @sassamanda77

[lbjeff]

Then the Bats realize Davey who can use his words is more terrifying than when he not.

In the past he only terror people by dying in the most horrible ways. Now Davey torture them with BOTH his murdered body and his words

For examples

Flash: Wow, I hear that your child, Davey can talk now! Congratulations, B!

Davey, whom Flash didn’t see that he also there, appears behind him: Do you know what could happen to speeder when he trips on a rock? Their bones may be break though their skin, especially the knees

Then Davey chances his bones to make them peaks out of his skin.

Flash, hear the clack of bones and turn his face back like a classic horror movie character: Ahhhhhhhh!

But Flash doesn’t run cause he fear he would tripping latter

P/s: Flash Kid doesn’t believe him so he invite Davey to his house to prove his point. He would regret it latter

Or:

Hal just got back from his space mission and is talking about an alien he had met, who he had a quick fling with but broke up cause she wanted kids immediately. Davey happened to appear at Tower that day. This time Superman is doing the babysitting for Lois so he brings Davey along

Hal: In her planet, the woman is super hot while the male looks like slime in video games. It kinda weird

Davey: I see them before, in Clark’s files on endangered aliens at Solitude Fortress

Hal, still a little scared from the last time they met but is surprise that Davey could talk in sentence now: Wow, good job kid. What do you know about them?

Davey: They reproduce by the female put the eggs into the male’s body by kissing, then the eggs get bigger until it break the male’s stomach. That is the reason the female often look attractive based on universal standers while the male looks like slime. This way, the male mainly could find mate in their planet when the female could find mate in other planets

Hal, now a little afraid: Woah, your memory is good

Davey ignores him: If the female reproduce with other species, the eggs will break the father’s belly and may kill them in process. Like this.

Then Davey’s belly gets bigger and then bom, like the flesh bomb and cover everybody in blood and organs. It happens so fast so it take everyone a whole minute to processing what was happening

Davey, with his head lands on a table: And the time for eggs to hatch is maximum 1 month

Hal: OMG! That is the reason she gave me a funny look when I say see her next month and kissed her good bye

Davey: And the things that similar with their abortion drug is human’s liver. You are welcome!

Hal: No, I rather die than eating a humen liver! Batman, do something or I would die because I refused to eat your kid’s liver

Batman: Calm down, Hal. If it has similar structures with human’s liver then I would make make one for you, artificial one. And Davey, I believe Lois has talked to you about blood on people and furnitures

Davey: Sowey

Then he regains his human forms, claps his hands, open his sharpened fangs monstrous mouth and all the blood, organs “come back” to his body, through his mouth. (He does it for a show, the bloods on clothes and ground just disappeared). He didn’t take back the liver

Davey: You can keep it

P/s:

Clark: B, as you can see, Davey could talk pretty well now so you may take him home soon. Like today

Bruce: Well, I promise him to stay with Lois for a weekend. And he still didn’t say sorry right so guess I still need Lois’s help

Clark: Lois thinks he’s cute when he says his “sowey” so she hasn’t fixed him yet

Bruce: Fair enough. I would send Damian to your house to have a play date with Jon, he will help take care of Davey

Clark: Why do you think send another child to my house would solve things? And don’t pretend you don’t do it because you just has a fight with Robin and need to get him somewhere out of Gotham

Bruce: And Mr.Wayne will make time for journalists Kents for a special interview about his new kid

Clark: Well, I alway happy to help you to mentor your kids, especially Davey and Damian

Hal: Hey guy, I still need my “special” medicine

Bruce: Well, good for your health, you are not pregnant. Their specie only impregnate other species by sex, not just kissing like their own specie

Hal: Well, Not good to say, I still need those medicine

In galas that Bruce and Tim bring Davey along, to make him “socialize” more (it is Bruce’s idea)

Davey is chilling in his conner. A creep come near him to be “friendly” with Wayne’s kid

Creep: You are Davey Wayne, right? Well, everyone had thought your fist appeare in Gotham elite’s world would be your welcome gala. Guess Bruce isn’t paying attention to his strays like he did in the past

Davey looks at him, slowly change his lips into a “lunatic horror creature’s smile”, his pupils go wider until his eyes are two void black holes with green mist pour out and wandering around him.

Davey: And you will die in the basement in your house, the near lake one where you buried your hobbies. Being tearing apart by the “beasts” you keep

The creep too scared that he frozen in his place. And Davey chances to another conner to chilling and wait to terror another creep

Later that creep, fears of Davey’s words being true, planed to “erase” the guy he keeps to guard his “have fun” house. But he was killed by being chopped into pieces by those guys. Then he being burned alive in the lake house where he did tortured and buried his “ex hobbies”

And the Bats know about it after Batman do the investigation on a creep’s missing case

Tim: I said we should not break up Davey and Cocomelon. Now see what happens when Davey recovers his attention span

Dick: In his defense, he only said some words, the rest can’t be blame on him

Damian: Davey doesn’t need to be defended. He is just proving his crime solving talent, by killing the criminals before they could do more crime, with just his words

Bruce: That should not be encouraging!

Jason: What? Davey is just doing his innocent child thing and saying some “innocent talk”, everything happened to those creeps were because they were cowards

Bruce: They have been murdered

Jason: Yes, just like their victims

Davey Speaks

Davey: *hovering over the bed* Father. What is my purpose?

Bruce: *just woke up from a 15-minute nap after 48 hours of work and is sure he is hallucinating* What?

Davey: Why do I exist?

****

Davey: Candy! Candy!

Duke: You can get an apple.

Davey: Do you think this is a game? Candy. I want Candy.

Duke: What the fuck? You can talk?

Davey: No one will believe you.

****

Davey: Cookie!

Alfred: Master David, please refrain from shouting when you want something. Ask properly.

Davey: May I have a cookie?

[womenlovee]

Always

paring: maggie greene x fem!reader

summary: unfortunate circumstances brings someone you thought was gone back to you. and eventually the unfortunate circumstances become fixed

warnings: MINORS DNI fingering (r!recieving), soft sad shower sex, baby maggie, season 2 maggie, carl getting shot, slight panic attack, hurt/comfort, and smut ofc

word count: 3.9k

author’s note: first fic posted! maggie is my baby and for all my svu lovers, casey novak fic is next!

“Help!” You shout, your voice hoarse from how much you’ve been crying.

Rick runs beside you, Carl’s limp body cradled in his arms, while Shane drags a man you recognize as Otis behind the both of you.

“Somebody help!” Rick yells, picking up speed as you approach the large farmhouse.

A family rushes out, startled by the commotion—an unusual sound in a world gone so quiet. Your vision is too blurred with tears to make out their faces, but you keep running, desperate for help.

“Are you Hershel?” Rick asks the older man desperately, panting with his son still in his arms.

“Yes, I am. Oh dear, what happened?” Hershel’s eyes widen as he sees the bloody boy.

“He’s not bitten—he was shot.” You say breathlessly, determined. There’s no way in hell you’re letting someone with the ability to help walk away.

Your body collapses into the grass as everyone rushes inside. Maybe you’re in shock. That would explain the tingling in your limbs and your blurred vision. In your panic, you don’t notice one of the family members hesitating at the doorway, eyes lingering on your motionless figure.

“I didn’t mean to shoot him!”

“Shut up!” Shane snaps, dragging Otis by the shoulder of his jacket.

You don’t bother to spare a glance at the two men stomping past you into the house. Your mind is on Lori and the others. They have no idea what happened. They must have heard the shot echo through the woods.

Maybe if you’d stood your ground more about taking Carl along with the others, none of this would have happened.

It’s not until someone rides out to find Lori and bring her back that you snap out of your dissociative state.

Walking into the cozy home, the atmosphere doesn’t match the aesthetic of the house. You can hear Lori’s sobs—something you’ve never grown used to, even after growing up together.

When your gaze falls on the young boy lying on the bed, your lip trembles, and your vision blurs again. You rush into the kitchen, gripping the counter to stay steady on your feet.

Soon, arms wrap around you and pull you into a comforting embrace. You don’t even bother to look—you’ll take any comfort you can get.

“You’re okay, darlin’.”

The soft southern accent makes your eyes snap open.

You know that voice. It’s been weeks since you last heard it—weeks since you thought you ever would again. You pull back, your hands resting against her chest.

“Maggie?” You whisper in disbelief.

Your teary eyes meet hers. Your hands rise shakily from her sternum to her face, cupping the warm skin of the girl you never stopped thinking about. Maggie leans into your touch instinctively, her own eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I thought you were dead.” Maggie mumbles, her voice cracking.

“Oh god.” You breathe, before throwing yourself back into her arms. Maggie’s grip tightens around you, as if afraid that if she opens her eyes, you’ll disappear.

Before the world went to hell, you and Maggie had been neighbors. Not quite house-to-house neighbors, but in a town that small, everyone was basically everyone’s neighbor.

You met at a local convenience store in the middle of the night, both bonding over your late-night cravings for sweets. The two of you walked through town for a while but ended up leaving without exchanging numbers or names.

Maggie couldn’t stop thinking about your smile and your soft nature, so when she saw you again in town, she was ecstatic. That time, she made sure to leave with your number—and a date on the calendar. She figured if she didn’t ask then, she’d regret it if the world ever went to shit.

Little did she know it would happen sooner than later.

You had been dating for six months when you had to travel to your sister Lori’s house, after Rick was shot in the line of duty.

Shane took you in along with the others when the walker population exploded, starting with small towns and quickly devouring big cities. You’d traveled with the group, believing the love of your life and your brother-in-law were both dead.

Now, it feels like the world’s cruel joke—that only when your nephew is lying at death’s door, does fate finally bring Maggie back to you.

“Who is that little boy?” Maggie asks softly from across the small table, where the two of you have chosen to sit and take a breath.

“My nephew.” You whisper, biting your lip to keep the tears at bay.

Maggie rests her hand on your fidgeting ones, gently taking them in hers, her thumb brushing slow circles along your skin.

You sit in silence for a moment before taking a shaky inhale. “Is he good?”

Maggie’s green eyes lift to meet yours, her brows furrowing in confusion.

“Hershel.” You clarify quietly.

Maggie nods after a moment of understanding, then looks away toward the far side of the room, her thumb slowing over your hand.

“Daddy’s the best we got. The best you can get out in this world.”

“Is he a doct—”

Both of your heads snap toward the hallway as sudden screams erupt from the other room. In a split second, you’re on your feet, heart pounding, rushing toward the sound of horror.

You stand frozen just a few steps inside the room. Carl is pale, scrambling, and so small on that bed. Blood is everywhere—on the sheets, on Rick’s hands, on the tools laid out in front of Hershel. Lori is sobbing, Shane is pacing, and Rick… Rick looks like his world is ending.

Your legs won’t move. Your body won’t move. You’re locked in place, watching your nephew fight for his life. You can’t do anything. You’re useless.

Then you feel a gentle hand slip into yours.

“Hey.” Maggie’s voice is low, her breath warm against your ear. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You blink hard, as if doing so will keep the tears in, but they still fall. Your eyes turn toward her—Maggie, with her steady hands and tired, green eyes. She’s scared too, but she’s holding it together. For you.

“I—I can’t.” You whisper, voice barely there. “I can’t watch him die, Mags.”

“He’s not goin’ to die.” Her hand squeezes yours. “My daddy’s gonna do everything he can, y’hear me?”

You nod, but it’s shaky. Your knees feel like they might give out, wobbling profusely. Maggie notices because in the next breath, she pulls you to sit with her on the floor, just outside the chaos but close enough to feel the tremble of tension in the air.

You rest your head on her shoulder, and she wraps both arms around you, grounding you as the world spins too fast.

“I should’ve—he shouldn’t have even come with us.” You choke out, guilt clawing at your chest.

“No.” Maggie says firmly, pulling you closer. “No, this isn’t on you.”

“But it feels like it is.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then her lips brush your temple. “I know it does. But it’s not. You’re not alone in this.”

The sound of Carl crying out in pain breaks through the room, and your whole body tenses. You try to turn, to stand up again, but Maggie holds you in place.

“Don’t look, baby.” She whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Don’t make yourself watch that. Just hold onto me.”

You bury your face into her neck and do exactly that, squeezing your eyes shut so tight that it causes a slight pain in the back of your head.

Behind you, Hershel’s voice stays calm but commanding. Rick mutters frantic prayers, Lori sobs uncontrollably, and the room continues to buzz with desperation.

But in Maggie’s arms, just for a moment, you find something solid to hold onto.

—

Your nerves and panic spurts have come and gone all the way until Shane and Otis finally came back with the necessary medical equipment to save Carl.

Maggie didn’t leave your side for one second—coaching you through anxiety attacks, stopping you from biting your nails, and whatever else she caught.

Once Carl was all stitched up, you were quick to sit on one of the now free chairs just to watch over your nephew. Maggie helped her father clean up the blood soaked fabric and everything else that shouldn’t be in eyesight.

You now sit, biting your thumbnail almost all the way to its bed as you watch the little boy’s deeper breathing than it was just hours ago. Rick and Lori sit on each side of their son, resting their heads on the bed to relax from such a stressful moment.

“Would ya stop that?” Maggie scolds lightheartedly, smacking your hand away from your mouth.

“Sorry.” You murmur with the best smile you can conjure up, which you’re not sure if it can even be considered small.

Maggie can see the fear in your eyes along with the twitch and hesitation of your lips. Deeply sighing, she offers you her hand, expecting you to grab on with not many questions.

“How about you take a shower? We still got hot water for now.” She grins, hoping it will cheer you up even just the slightest.

You glance toward Carl again, the smallest part of you afraid that if you take your eyes off him, something might change. That his chest might stop rising. That the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing might disappear.

But then you look back at Maggie and the way she’s offering her hand, steady and sure, it’s like a lifeline.

You take her hand.

She leads you gently through the house, careful not to pull too fast or speak too loudly, like she knows you’re on the edge of unraveling. And maybe you are.

The bathroom up the stairs is small, but the pattering and warmth of the water starting from the shower is comforting. Maggie grabs all the necessities you need and place them on the shelf next to the curtains.

“I’ll be right outside.” She murmurs, squeezing your hand before going to let go.

As Maggie takes a step, she feels the tug of her arm from your hand still gripping onto hers. Looking back at you, she sees your head tilted down and directed at the tiled floor.

And she waits.

“I don’t want to be alone. Will you join me?”

Maggie wants to protest, but when she sees the desperation in your eyes, she decides against it. Stepping forward, she wraps her arms around your waist and nods before kissing your temple.

Her hands find the hem of your shirt, helping you strip out of the clothes that almost suffocate you from today’s events. The smell of blood and sweat that once clung to your skin now drapes onto the floor, though it doesn’t stop the churning of your stomach.

“Go ‘head.” Maggie nods her head toward the running shower, but when she notices your hesitation, she quickly assures you. “I’ll be there in just a minute, sweetheart.”

Your movements stutter for a moment before you nod, stepping into the unfamiliar warm water. Not sure what to do with yourself, you remain standing still under the showerhead, letting the water drip and trail down your skin.

Eventually you hear the soft rustling of fabric beside you before the sound of the curtain pulling back gently. Maggie steps in quietly, her presence immediately grounding, even though neither of you speaks at first. The water mists her skin, darkening her hair as it falls around her cheeks, and she closes the curtain behind her with care, like you might jump if she moves too fast.

She steps close—close enough that you feel her warmth before she even touches you. Her hands lift slowly, brushing back the hair matted to your forehead before curling her index finger under your chin, lifting your gaze to hers. Her other hand trails down to reach yours.

“You’re shakin’.” She says gently, feeling your hand tremble under her touch.

You hadn’t even noticed until now. You lift your hands, placing them on either side of her face. Your thumbs rub over the apples of her cheeks as your eyes soak in every ridge and pore on her skin.

“I thought I lost you.” You finally whisper.

Maggie inhales deeply as her hands slide to your hips, desperate to feel your skin. Looking into your eyes, she watches as tears begin to build, causing her own throat to tighten at the sight.

“But ya didn’t. ‘M right here and that’s all that matters now.” She assures you gently.

You nod rapidly, reminding yourself that she’s really here. In front of you. Touching you. Holding you. And yet it still doesn’t feel close enough.

Your hands still tremble against Maggie’s face, but it doesn’t stop you from finally pulling her lips down to yours, connecting for the first time in what feels like centuries.

Your lips are slightly chapped—neither of you had the time nor mind to care about something like chapstick—but to you, hers feel as soft as clouds.

Kissing Maggie had always felt cliché, like two puzzle pieces slotting together. But now? Now it feels like two branches that have finally reached one another after years of growing apart.

Her hand trails from the curve of your hip up to the back of your neck, pulling you even closer, noses bumping harshly in the process, but neither of you care. Your grip tightens on her cheeks, your shoulders rising from how tightly you’re curled into her.

“Don’t ever leave me again.” You murmur against her plump lips.

“Never.”

When your lips quickly slot back against hers, tears finally begin to trail down your cheeks. You were already incredibly sensitive before the shower, but now—overwhelmed by the kiss, by her—the feeling consumes you entirely. You’re basically a pile of mush.

Even though the water is pouring over both of you, Maggie can still see the difference. She notices the way the drops fall differently from your eyes. She feels the quiver of your lips and pulls back slightly.

“Honey—”

“Please. Please, I just need to feel you. I need you close.” You practically beg, your hands now flat against her chest.

Maggie’s eyes scan yours, reading every unspoken word written in them. After a pause, she nods and leans back in, crashing her lips into yours once more. This kiss feels like more than a reunion—it feels like a promise to stay.

Your hands slide up from her chest to the back of her neck, your arms coming to rest loosely over her shoulders. Maggie’s fingertips trail down your stomach, and your body twitches instinctively at the touch.

Though she doesn’t want to part from your lips, Maggie shifts to the side, kissing your cheek, then slowly moving to the soft skin of your neck. Her kisses remain tender and loving, but there’s a lingering edge of need—an ache born from all the time lost and the fear of losing you again.

She knows that in both of your fragile states, moving too fast or too rough would only unravel the moment. But after believing you were both gone to the world, it’s hard not to blur the lines.

You gasp softly when her lips trail across the sensitive skin just below your ear, your fingers tightening slightly at the nape of her neck. The water continues to pour down, steaming around the two of you, blurring everything outside the embrace.

Maggie’s hands settle at your waist, thumbs brushing slow, deliberate circles against your skin. Her mouth moves with the kind of patience that says she’s in no rush—like she’s memorizing the taste of you all over again.

“You feel real.” You whisper, your voice trembling against her temple.

She pulls back just far enough to look at you, brushing her thumb gently across your bottom lip.

“I am.” She says, barely louder than the sound of the water. “And so are you. I’ve got you now.”

Your lips meet again, slower this time—deeper. The kind of kiss that leaves you breathless, the kind that makes your knees feel like they’re seconds from buckling. Maggie’s hands slide up your back, fingers splayed, grounding you like she’s anchoring you to the present.

Her lips trail to your chin, then lower to the center of your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin. Then lower still—to your collarbone, then your sternum. You feel her top lip drag lazily down your body, her kisses messier now, more desperate. She keeps going until her knees nearly touch the floor.

But before she can sink any lower, your hands reach down to grab her biceps, steady but firm, guiding her back up until you’re face to face again.

“I need you here.” You urge, your voice low, your hands remaining on her arms.

Maggie smiles softly, something tender flickering in her eyes, before leaning in once more to capture your mouth with hers. This time, instead of moving lower, her right hand drifts from the curve of your waist, down over the swell of your ass.

Your breath hitches when her fingers slip to the inside of your thigh, dragging upward with agonizing slowness, stopping exactly where your body aches for her most. You’re practically pulsing with need, so overwhelmed it feels like you might shatter from the sensation alone.

Maggie pauses only for a moment, eyes searching yours, waiting for permission.

You nod—once, twice—then tug her mouth back to yours with urgency. You could kiss her for hours and never grow tired. You want to. But right now, you want more.

Her touch is gentle at first, just the slightest pressure of her fingertips against your nerves, enough to make your breath catch and your knees buckle. Maggie wraps an arm around your waist, steadying you before you can fall.

“I’ve got you.” She whispers against your lips, steady and sure. “Always got you.”

She continues, circling your swollen clit with a tighter, more deliberate rhythm, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips as your hips jerk into her hand. You’re so sensitive now, every nerve in your body on fire. Your forehead presses to hers as your breathing deepens, your body leaning into her like she’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. Every brush of her fingers, every kiss to your mouth, your neck, your shoulder—each one feels like a promise.

Maggie’s eyes clamp shut at the sound of your whimpers, grounding herself so she doesn’t go too far, too fast. You need this moment. She needs this moment. And the beautiful sounds spilling from your lips remind her of everything she thought she’d lost forever.

Soon, her hand drifts lower, the tips of her fingers lingering at the swell of your entrance. She hesitates for a second, but it’s all the confirmation she needs when your forehead presses against her cheek and you nod, quick and sure.

She starts slow, her middle finger easing in, pumping gently in and out as you stretch around her. When a shaky moan escapes your lips, she slips in her ring finger beside the first, curling them in perfect rhythm.

Her free hand finds the underside of your knee, lifting your leg to curl around her waist, adjusting the angle. She doesn’t dare let go, holding it there firmly so you can stay connected, supported, held.

You cling to her like a lifeline—hands tangled in her wet hair, body arching toward every point of contact, desperate for more. Each thrust of her fingers ripples through you like waves. One rolls out, and another crashes in stronger, deeper, and more intense.

When your hips begin to subconsciously grind with each pump of Maggie’s fingers, you reach out, placing your hand behind her neck and pulling her back toward your mouth, connecting your lips as the pressure builds in your core.

Between the small gaps in your kiss, breathy moans escape, brushing against Maggie’s lips and urging her to move faster. She can feel your wetness grow, dripping down her wrist, and with your moans becoming more consistent, she knows you’re close.

“I love you, Mags.” You gasp, your head falling back against the wall as the coil in your stomach starts to snap.

“I love you so much, sweetheart.” Maggie mumbles along the column of your throat, having made her lips busy there with your head cocked up toward the ceiling.

You try to contain your whines and moans the best you can as your orgasm crashes over you, not wanting anyone to overhear this deeply private, intimate moment.

After a minute or two of deep breaths and sweet kisses, you both agree to finish washing up quickly before someone comes knocking about hogging the hot water.

—

“That girl was crazy as all get out.” Maggie says, shaking her head with a smile as she picks a card up from the pile between you two. You’d both decided to play Go Fish to pass the time.

After your shower, Maggie had offered you one of her shirts—the t-shirt you used to constantly steal from her back when you stayed at her apartment. When you returned downstairs, Carl was awake and okay, just tired and needing rest, which helped ease the worst of your worry.

Now, the two of you sit at the small table by the windows leading out to the porch, where the others are gathered. Otis plays his guitar softly while you and Maggie reminisce about old times.

“I missed that most about you.” You admit after a fit of giggles.

“And what’s that?” The older girl asks, quirking an eyebrow dramatically over the hand of cards she’s holding.

“Your accent.”

Maggie’s jaw shifts to the side before she places her cards face-up on the table. “You’ve got one too, y’know.”

“Yeah, but yours is thicker.” You shrug. “Oh, and by the way—I can see your cards.”

“You cheater!” Maggie scoffs, reaching across the table to swat at the cards held in your hand.

You laugh, leaning back in your chair, eyes glinting. “Not my fault you place ‘em like a damn billboard.”

“Oh, now you’ve got jokes?” She says, narrowing her eyes in mock offense. “Maybe I oughta take my shirt back.”

You gasp, clutching the fabric at your chest like it’s sacred. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Maggie chuckles, eyes softening as they rake over you, like she’s memorizing the image—your damp hair, your legs curled up in the chair, her shirt hanging off your frame like it belongs there.

“No.” She murmurs, her tone gentler now. “Wouldn’t dare.”

The table falls quiet for a moment, save for the muffled sound of Otis’s guitar outside and the soft rustling of the wind against the porch.

You glance over toward the window, then back at her. “Kinda peaceful here, huh?”

“Yeah.” Maggie agrees, sliding her foot under the table to nudge yours. “Almost makes you forget the world’s gone to hell.”

You nod slowly, fingers fidgeting with a card in your hand. “I don’t need the world to be perfect. Just need you.”

Maggie stares at you for a beat before reaching out and lacing her fingers with yours across the table. “You’ve got me.”

“Always?” You ask, quieter this time.

She squeezes your hand. “Always.”

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

Last Buzzer.

synopsis: Karina was your everything, she’s your comfort person, your girlfriend, your partner in crime, your number 1 supporter but one night you fought about basketball that left quite a mark on her, 2 weeks of no contact and your championship game on the line….what will happen?

word count: 900+

The locker room was quiet, bearing the weight of anxiety before facing the last hurdle that distances you from being champions. Your team is on a 3 game win streak, even with the momentum you can’t help but feel the anxiety that’s looking down on you, your enemy is a 3 time state champion and the people’s champion.

You sat at the edge of the bench, head bowed, thumb tracing the tape on your wrist. Underneath it, the Sharpie still bled through faintly, Under all this stress one thing has been doubling it down, Karina. you two haven’t spoken in weeks after the fight, no responses, no messages, no interactions, not since she said “maybe you’re better off with basketball, you love it more than me right?” your mind went blank at that moment not knowing what to answer so, you didn’t. Ever since that…silence, not even coming to see your past 3 games. But something in you still hoped—still needed—her in the crowd tonight.

Because winning meant nothing if she wasn’t there to see it.

The game was brutal, you tried everything in your power, spin move there, dribble here, cut to there and even stealing until your last breath. Every three you missed felt like a failure she could feel from across campus. But you kept going. Not for the team. Not for the scouts.

For Her.

as you wipe your sweat and looked at the score board, Tie game with 6 seconds to spare, this is it, your moment, your ball.

Coach drew up the play, but your mind was somewhere else—her smile, her silence, her hoodie folded on your chair two nights ago.

Inbound. Quick Pass.

Everything was slowed down, all you can think of is making the shot even under every circumstance, body was thrown at you, the opposing team doing everything to hinder your shot.

Spin move to a fake and that slight millisecond delay was enough for you to perform a fade away, the defender doing everything to lunge himself and swat the ball but it was left ineffective.

All you can hear was the ball graze through the net….and the silence was quickly followed up with the eruption of the crowd.

People were screaming your name. Your teammates tackled you, the coach was tearing up, your phone was probably blowing up—but none of that mattered.

Because then you saw her.

She was there.

Karina stood at the front of the crowd, eyes wide, hands pressed to her chest like she didn’t believe it either. Then she smiled. Big. The kind that hit you in the ribs and made it hard to breathe. She ran to you, weaving through the chaos, laughing, glowing. You dropped your gear and caught her mid-step—arms around her waist, forehead pressed to hers, like a damn movie scene.

“I knew you’d win,” she whispered.

You wanted to tell her everything. How none of this meant anything without her. How you thought of her before every shot. How you were going to fix this.

But then—

Her smile faded.

Her hands slipped from your neck. “I wanted to see you win before I left.”

The noise blurred into static. “…What?” She glanced away. “I got the transfer,” she said, voice barely above the chaos. “I’m leaving tomorrow. Out-of-state.” You felt your breath catch. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She looked away again. “I didn’t want to mess this up. You deserved to have your moment.” You took a step back, numb. “So that’s it?” Karina reached up, touched your face like she was memorizing it. “I���ll always be proud of you.” She smiled again—tired.

[bradleysass]

before - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 553

The clock ticks gently in the corner of the room. Rain slips down the windows in slow rivulets, turning the world outside into a watercolor blur—grey, green, a smudge of gold where the streetlight flickers. The fireplace crackles softly, its glow dancing over the worn rug and the pages of the open book in Regulus’ lap.

James shifts beside him on the couch, a blanket draped haphazardly across both their legs. He’s not reading. Hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes. Instead, he’s staring into the fire, brows drawn together like he’s trying to untangle a knot in his chest.

Regulus doesn’t say anything. He’s learned not to poke at James when he’s quiet like this. He just lets their shoulders touch and listens to the storm outside.

Until James speaks.

"I can't remember a time before I met you."

Regulus stills, his thumb paused halfway through a turn of the page.

The words settle into the room like dust, soft and heavy. Not loud, not urgent. Just true in the way only something broken open can be.

Regulus closes his book slowly, gaze fixed on the flames. "That’s not true," he says, not unkindly. "You’ve known Lily since you were eleven. Sirius since before that."

James shakes his head, a slight, almost imperceptible motion. “I don’t mean like that. I mean... not in a factual way. I know things happened. I remember birthdays, school, Quidditch matches. I remember Sirius pushing me into the lake and Remus hexing my eyebrows off.”

That earns a ghost of a smile from Regulus.

James turns to look at him then, eyes warm but far away. “But it’s like… all of it’s muted. Like someone turned the volume down on my life until you walked into the frame. And then suddenly, everything was—"

He exhales, frustrated. “God, I sound like a complete sap.”

"You are a complete sap," Regulus murmurs, but there's no bite to it. Only affection. “Keep going.”

James huffs a laugh, grateful. “It’s like I was watching everything in black and white, and then I saw you—really saw you—and colour happened.”

Regulus stares at him, and for a moment, his expression wavers—like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how. So instead, he leans into James' side until their arms press flush together. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks.

“You do remember, though. You just don’t want to.”

James looks over, startled. “What do you mean?”

Regulus’s eyes are distant now. “You remember before. You remember what it was like to not need someone the way you need me now.”

James is silent. The fire pops.

Regulus swallows. “You were freer, then.”

James reaches for his hand, threading their fingers together. "No," he says softly, but with certainty. “I was lonelier.”

Regulus flinches, just slightly. “You had friends. People who loved you.”

“I still do.” James squeezes his hand. “But none of it felt as real until you. None of it lasted the same way. And maybe it’s selfish—maybe it’s wrong to love you this much—but I do. I love you in a way that rewrote my past and redefined my future. So no—I can’t remember before. And I don’t want to.”

Regulus doesn’t speak for a long time. The rain keeps falling.

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

He lied about being a superhero. You lied about not having freaky ass mind powers. You broke up- bitterly. End of story. No shot Invincible and some superpowered grunt for Machine Head would ever work out in any reality. Except. When he comes in droves, hoards of himself, brokenhearted and wanting, wrecking cities for a chance to get one last glance at you. 

[Invincible Varients x Reader] [Ao3]

[6.7K, part one of ?]         Took a lot of liberties with this. Wanted the variants to be more distinct. Please excuse formatting issues, tumblr is actually ass. Buckle up, I write like a bad girl with a hope for better days.         TW: Lots of death, bad things, worse people. 

       1 * Buck Fifty

Where I think that we’re all gonna die, Just to get fucked in some parallel life, While a strange martian fungus sprouts, From our sexier parts. Canoeing on Mars - Go Hang Music

        Semantics are a funny thing, really.          You say, “Go jump off a bridge,” most people do just that. Jump.          Here’s the not so fun part, some people, they go, “Well, what bridge?” And it’s a back and forth, you pushing, them pulling until you find that magic sweet spot in their logic and they finally jump.          So because you were chatting with this asshole for the better part of ten minutes, people run to you asking questions. “Did you know him? Is he okay?” Clearly, he wasn’t. The guy’s brains were dashed on a rock, blood following the runoff stream, too shallow to break the fall.  Your attention slides off the body. To the couple that pulled over the second he went over the ledge. Early thirties. Medium-ugly man, pretty girl with her hand on her swollen belly. Engagement rings glinting under the spring sun.             “Get back in your car.” Power rolls off your tongue. Thick, heavy, and sour. “And drive away.”         Concern leeches out of their eyes. Glazing over the moment the words meet their ears. The woman gets in first, shutting the passenger and sliding a seatbelt over herself. The man steps around the car, into steady traffic flowing carefully away from their car. He’s nearly clipped by the side mirror of a sedan that blares it’s horn. Swerving away, scraping the opposite side of the bridge’s barrier.         He gets into the car. Unblinking as car after car rams into the sedan. A pileup in the making but he looks nowhere but straight ahead. The couple’s car, a buggy, pulls off the narrow shoulder. Catching a pickup in the side, sending it careening into the sedan’s front. You watch the sedan driver pop like a pimple and the buggy drive off.

        You look back down, to the target, the only one supposed to get hurt here. He’s dead alright. Job’s done. Collateral doesn’t matter, not here anyway. Pileups happen all the time for no good reason at all.         Still, you tug up your hood and make your way down the side catwalk of the bridge. Going the opposite direction of the pileup. Smoke thick in your nose.          Air displaces, a woosh overhead. You’re at the bridge’s end, at the corner of Park and Main when the spandex clad cavalry arrives. You know that pink glow anywhere. Atom Eve sprung into action. Resetting metal, fixing tires. You make yourself watch her, not the blue-black blur that’s scooping civilians out of cars to safety.          You catch a look at him anyway. Still at last, because the job was done that quick. Your gut tightens, brows press together, a sour lemon frown on your lips. He’s smiling at her as they talk about money. The city of New York a brand spanking new client of Invincible Co.          Payday for them. You too. So stop being such a dill, and get a move on.         You turn before Mark can see your face. He wouldn’t think of you as the culprit. A long ago thing of the past, pre-powers. Good, it’s better if you’re not on his shit list. The best if he had no idea you were still rolling with Machine Head.          He’d seen you in his superhero skin at Machine Head’s side. God, how that ended.          No longer seventeen. No longer needing desperate money for college. No longer innocent or wanted.          When they start asking questions to bystanders, you’re already halfway down Main. You walk fast, you’re late. Twenty minutes out from the tower on foot without a car when the meeting was in five fucking minutes. Wasn’t your fault the guy had to be persuaded to kill himself.         

Machine Head wouldn’t see it that way.          You caught somebody by the arm. Alone, in nice enough clothes. They turn, lip curling, about to yank their arm away. “Give me your wallet.” You say low. 

        Fear doesn't breach their eyes. They simply pluck the leather bound thing from their jeans, detach it from a chain, and hand the whole thing over. You hold a thumb out until a taxi pulls up.          You didn’t have to pay. With powers like these, you could’ve done anything. You could be living large. Countless pretty things on your arm, willing to do anything at your say so. But you’re here. In debt. A criminal. Because you don’t know where to go or what else to do or what else you’re good for. They’d find you anyway, you could tell them to go and forget you existed but somehow, through mental gymnastics, you told yourself they’d come back. Kill you for trying to leave.         You pay the taxi fair out of courtesy because you once worked a shitty customer service job. You’re a killer, not evil. Consider it a good deed for the day.         You run through the double glass doors. Careful not the leave prints on the glass. Machine Head was very particular. An evil megalomaniac, but particular.          You know you’re late by the time you push open the Italian maple doors. He’s standing, ramrod straight, back to you, machine eyes (cameras you supposed?) scanning the city. His city. For a time it wasn’t. He was usurped, locked in the same jail house as you. You thought that your difference in sex would keep him away from you. But no, you were still working for him in the slammer to keep your back shank-free. He got out, took The Order by the throat, and now you were out too and-         “Fifty-three seconds. You made me wait fifty-three seconds. Do you know how much money I could’ve been making in those fifty-three seconds, (Y/n)?” He turned to you. Suit crisp. Metal shining.         You feel drastically under dressed in your sweats and hoodie. Lightly stained from cheap takeout. But you wouldn’t change it, it was practically the uniform of the average New York streetwalker. Not noticed. Perfect for the casual assassin, burglar, and occasional drug mule.          You don’t apologize. Don’t explain. Because that’s more time wasted, more money piled onto your dept. “Granger is dead.”         “Yeah, of old age.”         You swallow back the anger. After five years of cat scratches like that, you’re more than used to keeping your feelings in check. “My next assignment, sir?” 

        His circuitry clicked. “Nothing. Maybe I’ll give you something next time if you aren’t so inconsiderate with my time.” You turn for the door. No argument there. “Oh and, (Y/n)?” You stop, hand on the polished knob. “Be here twelve tomorrow. Sharp. Or I’m adding another month.” His threat is real, but hollow. Another month under his thumb means nothing when you’re too useful to ever let go.         Shallowly, you nod and slip out the door.      ***         Another two hundred. A month after the last raise in rent. You could kill her. Tell her to jump off the complex roof while doing a hand spring.          “Miss Neighbor?” A voice behind you makes you look down, down, down.          She’s a tiny thing. A sprout though she’s supposed to be eleven. “Caligula got out again.” Her arms piston forward, presenting the fluffy thing. Eyes slited and soft belly exposed.          You sigh, taking him into your arms where he melts and purrs. “Thanks Cecelia.” You say, foot kicking open your ajar door. Caligula figured out how to turn the knob last year. Ever since you’d been vigilant about double locking the door but some days you were in a hurry and too stressed to worry. Like today. “I owe you one.” Your hand slipped into your hoodie, pulling out the last remaining dollars and coins stolen from the stranger. You spot a fifty in the wad that her eager hands wrap around. You hold on a little too long before letting go.          There’d be more pockets to pick tomorrow. You could make rent with a few extra hours. Though, man, you didn’t want to. You were tired enough as it was.         Her eyes glittered as she thumbed through the cash, the little capitalist. She slipped a single dollar and two quarters into one hand. The rest of the fat stack in the other. Ah, reward money for giving her money. Child’s logic.         She holds out the wad to you. “Thanks Neighbor lady, but I just need a buck fifty for the vending machine down the hall. Gonna get me a Reese's Pieces.”          She yelled a thanks more heartfelt than yours and toddled down the hall, knees awkwardly bowed. You watch her turn the corner. Slack jawed. For a change, somebody let you keep something. Something good happened, even after you made a stupid decision.

        You push inside the studio and push away all thoughts of killing Cecelia’s greedy bitch mother. Who would find Caligula if she had to move to her aunt’s? Plus, if you got rid of her mom another, greedier landlord would probably replace her.          There wasn’t a point.          Early dinner was phoned in because you were so frazzled after this afternoon you’d forgot to grocery shop. Pizza. You waited, splayed on the couch, Caligula purring away on your knee. A Youtube stream pulled up on your junk laptop because you didn’t bother with a TV. News was a good thing to keep an eye on when you were a criminal.          A knock at the door. You rise. The pizza boy looks about the age of minimum wage. Still, you tell him, “Give me your wallet and the pizza.” Before shutting, and locking, the door in his face, no tip. Good deed already done for the day.         Another knock should come. Him demanding payment and his wallet. Instead, footsteps recede. He’s already forgotten. He’ll remember vaguely later, making a regular delivery. Losing his wallet, maybe in his car on while packing pizzas. He’ll panic, pause his debit card that you’ll never touch out for fear of being tracked. Working for Machine Head meant cash only.         You’re back on the couch, indulging. Caligula licking grease off your fingers. You skip from one news stream to the next. Looking for yourself. You weren’t the costume and flashy mask type of supervillian. If you considered yourself super at all. No inhuman strength or speed or shape shifting. Just, talking and making people listen.         You were lucky. Only caught the once. It was the second time Mark saw you rolling with Machine Head, a month after your cataclysmic teenage breakup. A year in the slammer, slap on the wrist. Machine Head paid your way out of papers and records.          It was three months later, after a particular fuck up, Machine Head revealed to you that Mark came to the prison the day you were supposed to be released. You’d been let out a day early. At the time you thought they just wanted you out because of overcrowding. But Machine Head knew Mark would come. Would try and persuade you to his side of things. Maybe make up and be sweethearts again. By then, through prison and three months of being an official card in Machine Hand’s deck— you’d crossed lines Mark wouldn’t forgive. You couldn’t go running back, saying you saw his side now. Because you didn’t.          Imagining what Mark would say if he saw you again, if he knew you stayed with Machine Head, it was enough to make you cry right in the middle of Machine Head’s office. He didn’t even have to rub your nose in the shame when you’d do it yourself. You were so angry. At Mark for putting you in jail, playing you right into Machine Head’s hands. At Machine Head for never letting you out from under his thumb. At everything, all of the time.

        Working for Machine Head wasn’t all bad. Got his endless supply of grunts to teach you a thing or two about tact and not getting caught. Things like not abusing the pizza boy every day. You saved it for once every few months. Never the same boy twice. Any repeats would be begrudgingly paid.         Another slice finds it’s way between your fingers. You’re mid-groan as your attention catches on the latest stream. Not ten minutes ago you were bored out of your gourd. Now, “A devastating attack has left Seattle’s space needle— gone.” The camera panned up, up, not that far up because the iconic slab of concrete was fucking leveled.          Your brows raise but you make no move. Not your circus, not your monkeys.          The camera raises further. “And it seems the destruction was at the hands of—“ The stream cuts, going blue on your computer scream. You scoff, lean forward and beat the corner as flashes of blue and yellow mock you. Finally, it clears, and you see somebody. Decked in white. Hovering hundreds of feet about the needle.          The pizza turns sour in your stomach but you lean forward, elbows on knees. Unable to see a face but so familiar with the shape of that body. For every time you saw it, on the news or overhead, your stomach went sour. “What the fuck is he doing without his mask on?” You squint. Just seeing the dot of tanned skin that was his head, no details beyond.         Caligula yowled, crossing over your laptop keys to get at your fingers. The stream changes. “—le are evacuating Universal Studios Hollywood in droves. Authorities are unsure what’s caused the majority of the studio to collapse.” A crash off screen. The camera pans. Smoke rises from the skyline. Wind carrying it down to pollute the central valley. There’s that shape, that body again. Silhouette dark in the smoke, with something else, something you hadn’t seen. A new low. A fucking cape?         Caligula takes another step. The stream changes. “This just in, Big Ben is gone.” An anchor takes up the screen, pale and balding forehead shining with sweat.         “Sorry, Keith, uhm, what do you mean gone?”          “I mean it’s gone, Jared. Cut— Cut to the footage!” The stream flickers. There’s the London sky. Gray and dreary. Clouds overshadowed by pillars of smoke. Chunks of rubble litter the street. Cars with their horns still blaring, engines burning crushed beneath. People squashed like grapes. 

        There he is again. But. No. Not really. This shape in the sky, this man had the same makeup but wider, thicker. You lean closer to the screen, sure you’re seeing things and not his old super suit.          Your phone vibrates in your pocket. The news is forgotten, half eaten pizza slice thrown to the pen box where Caligula pounces to lick pooled oils off the cheese.         You don’t have to look to know it’s work. Nobody calls you for anything but work and you only work for Machine Head.         “Boss is feeling generous.” Isotope’s voice grits through the speaker. “Get back here on the double.”         Seeing what you mistook for your ex on so many streams has soured your mood. Spiked your daring. “You can’t just teleport me?”          He scoffs. “You’ve got legs don’cha? Use ‘em.” Machine Head’s voice spiked the other end of the line. Isotope sighs. “Don’t move.”         You wipe your hands off on your pants before he’s in your apartment. Appearing through a haze of radioactive green light. You don’t even get to stand before his hand is on your shoulder and you’re zapped into Machine Head’s sprawling high rise.         You stumble but straighten. Isotope leaving your side to stand at attention by Machine Head. Who was currently heaving over his desk.         Papers, pens, and pretty mugs dashed to the floor.          It’d only been a few minutes. Did Granger survive? Did somebody see you? Report you?  Is Machine Head going to have you killed, right here, right now?         Power coils in your throat. Words ready to shoot like bullets to protect yourself.          “Tell me, Dregs.” The word spits off his electric voice box like sparks. Your stomach cinches. In this room, on the street, in the normal world, you were (Y/n). On jobs with fellow grunts you didn’t trust, in Machine Head’s scant paper trail, you were Dregs. He reserved calling the insult of a ‘villain name’ for when he was particularly unhappy with you. The name wasn’t your doing. It was a nasty nickname that stuck when Machine Head, near dead, overheard Invincible, breaking up with you in the shattered remains of his office all those years ago.         “You— you’ve been— you’re—“ His lip quivered under his mask.          “I did this for us.” You’d said. “I needed money to go to college with you. It’s just a one time thing!”

“They tried to kill me. He hired you to help kill me.” His voice had changed then, matured a fraction. Gone was the boyfriend that called you dude. Here was the man, mask held in his hand, identity shocking you to your core.          “I didn’t know it was you!”         “So you were fine with killing somebody?”         “I thought it was all talk!” You’d pled with him. In the middle of this very room, now reconstructed and shiny.          “Well it wasn’t!”          “I saved you.” You’d protested. “Without even knowing it was you— I saved you!” Because you had thought it was talk. You thought it was an easy paid security guard gig and you weren’t ready to kill someone for money. How times would change.         “You— How long have you been working with these—“ He gestured to the room at large. The dead. The dying. The bloody. He wasn’t looking great himself, but you spared him most of the pain with your words. A few suggestions here and there could save lives. You could’ve been a hero. His face sucks in then the word comes flying out, “Dregs of society— these fucking—“         And it stuck.         Hearing it always made you want to hit something. Though your punches weren’t particularly affective. You could tell Machine Head to jump out his shiny bay window but you don’t because there’s always a bigger thumb.         “Why-“ You’re back to the present, “the,” staring down your shitty bosses back, “fuck,” thinking about killing him, “is,” again, “your ex boyfriend tearing apart my city!?”         “What?” Now that, was not what you were expecting.          “You heard me!” His voice synthesizer spiked, turning the words into a melody. “Use your eyes!”         You look past his heaving form. So focused on the idea of being murdered you neglected the city scape. Sky scrapers were sliced in half. Twisted metal supports reaching for the sky. Smoke billowing, fire brewing. You heard it now, the screaming from below.          A black streak cuts the horizon. Blasts straight through the empire state building. The top half of the building groans, hitting nearby buildings as it comes down, shaking the city. People fall out the windows, go splat on the ground. Others are crushed under fresh rubble.         Standing up in the air was unmistakably Mark. Wearing his Invincible skin, the new blue and black one that made you angry with how good it looked on him. But he wasn’t wearing his mask, which was unlike himself. He also had a mohawk, which was also unlike himself.

        “Jesus.” You say. Thinking of clones or illusions or shape shifters. Villain of the week type of bullshit.         “Is that you trying to fix things? Stop him!” Machine Head’s hands go to his head, gripping metal like hair. “Now!”         That’s how you ended up here. Standing on the roof of Machine Head’s high rise. Jerry-rigged megaphone in hand. No ordinary Walmart megaphone would do in a situation like this. Had to be a ‘roided up version of the original. Double speakers on the sides with complicated volume amplifiers in its guts.          You’d been here before. Ontop a building, shouting into a megaphone. There was almost nothing ridiculous you hadn’t done to get someone to hear you. To do what someone wanted you to do. Usually it was ontop of a bank, shouting at police to leave, to forget about the robbery, to forget your face.         This was new enough that your palms were slick with sweat around the plastic handle. Mark sliced through more buildings with his body. They went down like soft butter. His laugh cracking and wrong as people burst open on the streets.          The cavalry had arrived. Nobody low-levels on the city’s payroll. Mark cut through them easier than the buildings. Not Mark, you tell yourself. Mark didn’t kill. You did. Mark wasn’t bad. You were. That’s why things didn’t work out.         You breathe in. Anger surging. Whoever or whatever this loser was— was going down, hard.          “Hey!” The megaphone twisted your voice from one to multitudes. From a shout to a building shaking scream.          Not Mark paused midair. Holding a half dead hero against him. Fists beating his cheat while their guts spilled out their midriff. He was half a mile away, a spec, but you still felt his eyes on you. Hard and boiling a dot through your skull.         “You! Yeah, you!” Getting their attention was always the worst part. If he didn’t think you were talking to him, your power would fall flatter than a popped balloon. One of the many drawbacks that’d nearly gotten you killed time and time again.         The hero dropped. Still falling. You didn’t see him coming, human eyes too weak to see faster than light. He’d be on you before the hero hit the ground.         “Stop!”          The air cracks. You stumble back. Eardrums crackling. One good thing about having powers? The littlest, stupidest things are enhanced. Not your hearing, no, but your ability to not go deaf. You literally can’t. Sure, you could’ve had a naturally amplified voice, super speed, healing, but nope! You get— anti-deaf powers, if you could call it that, as a cherry on top.

        Not Mark is suspended midair, a flower preserved in resin. Fist reeled back ready to punch a hole through your head. A grin that’s more of a snarl on his lips. Black piercings shining in the light of nearby fires. Brow, bridge, cheek, lip, like lizard spikes. Mohawk flattened against his head. Blood on his teeth, on his knuckles.         Close up, he is Mark. A clone or deft shape shifter, but so close to your Mark it throws you off balance. Worse is the no mask part. Your ex-boyfriend stares at you will his full naked face. Eyes brown but darker, more sunken than you remember. With bags beneath, like being evil is so fucking exhausting.         Shape shifter for sure, and a bad one.         He blinks. Still in air. Eyes sharp on your features as you lower the megaphone. Something about those eyes scare the shit out of you. You expect glazed complacency. You except no expression at all. But he’s looking at you with so much emotion, too much to be really under your control.         There’s no time for machinations. You knew aliens or other powered individuals could give you trouble. But nobody was able to fully resist, not yet.         So you say, “Kill yourself.”          Just as he says, “It’s you.”         You’re both surprised.          You double down. Power leaden on your tongue. “Break your own neck, now.”         His arms move like an animatronic. One hand poised on his sharp jaw, the other poised on his shoulder for purchase. There’s no snap, death groan, and falling five stories. He is staring at you like you’re actually precious to him. Like he misses you. Like he didn’t dump you then throw you in jail a month later. Like he didn’t see other people, like Atom Eve and him weren’t going steady.         It pisses you off. Power roils in your throat. You growl this time, “Rip out your throat.”         His hands fall to his sides. You’d met resistance before but a rephrase, a second or third command always did it. He wasn’t dead and that was a very, very bad thing.         “You made it.” He says. Soft but voice gruff. “To New York.”

        “Die!” You command. Though your power didn’t work on vague words like die. “Die, right now!” His feet touched down on the ledge. You step back. “Stop breathing.”         At those words he sobers. A smile, sharp toothed and easy and so un-Mark-like stretches his face. “Guess we want each other dead in every reality.” The words are an inside joke that make him laugh. “I almost respect the forwardness.”         "Break your legs.” You spit, taking another step back. Megaphone falling to the floor. “Break your arms."         “I think-“ He follows you in slow, languid strides. “You shouldn’t talk to your emperor and boyfriend like that.” Your words like bullets on kevlar armor, on viltrumite skin. They make him pause momentarily, shudder, then he breaks right though your hold and keeps coming.         Boyfriend? Boyfriend!?         You couldn’t have a boyfriend working for Machine Head. You’d seen what he threatened Titan with. You couldn’t have Mark, of all fucking people, as a boyfriend because of what he did. So you couldn’t let yourself have a boyfriend because you were so scared you’d get the same fucking reaction. And if things got to be too much you’d tell them forget, find someone else.         You see red.         “Eat your heart and shit it out.”         “Jeez, did I really fuck up this bad here?” He chuckles, and it sounds like Mark. Your Mark.         “Now!” The power forces out of you in waves. His step wobbles but he just keeps coming.         “You really must want me dead! What’d I do, take over your planet? You know a man’s got needs, baby. No biggie.”         The door to the stairs bursts open. Machine Head heaves with the effort of racing up the flights. Isotope behind him, less winded.         “Dregs!” Machine Head hisses. “Fuckin’ kill him already!”         “Dregs?” Not Mark tests the name on his tongue. “Is your name here fucking Dregs? Do- oh shit-“ His eyes alight, “Now I geddit. You’ve got powers in this universe!” He says like it wasn’t obvious. “That’s like your hero name, right? Oh (Y/n), baby, that’s so stupid it’s cute.”         “Fly into the sun.” Power rips out you, sizzling through the air.          He actually hovers off the roof. You wait for him to blast off and become a solar flare.          His muscles tense and untense. “So that’s what that is. Shit, I thought it was just like, true love and stuff.” And he was going to kill you. “Man, that feels… weird. Do it again.”

        “Kill him!” Machine Head insists behind you.         “Kill yourself.” You can feel a migraine on it’s way, pounding in your temples. Powers are like a muscle. They can only do so much before giving. “Do it. Die.”         Not Mark shivers, letting out a delighted laugh. “Man, you could’ve really gotten me if I wasn’t full apeshit mode. But…” He hovers closer, leering, “You didn’t, so I guess it’s my turn now.”         “Isotope, take me to Seattle!” You speak before you think. Before his hand can clasp your throat. Isotope is next to you in a millisecond. Then you’re gone. Machine Head’s raging protests gone from your ears.         The streets of Seattle are wet with blood and rain. Isotope stands beside you, in a haze he’ll come out of any minute. Coming here of all places was a horrible idea but you hadn’t thought. The city came off your tongue, fresh on the mind.          “Help.” A voice croaks. A broken hand paws at your feet. Orange and gloved, once a defender, now an arm peaking out rubble. “Help me.”         You stare at it because what the fuck?          The air whips. You look overhead. He’s a hundred feet up, maybe more. Looking right back down at you. He’s more imposing than he was on your laptop screen. Broader of shoulder, uniform crisp white except where it wasn’t. Where glistening sinew chunks clung to his chest.         He stares you down like shit under his shoe. You wait for sudden death that never comes. Whoever this was. Mark, Not Mark, some hot guy, he wasn’t hurting you though he clearly just killed a metric fuckton of people; and you didn’t know why and honestly? It scared the shit out of you.         The hand finds your ankle. “Help. Help.”         Not Mark comes down then like an anchor. Arms crossed, legs tight. Crushing the rubble beneath his feet. Making the hand go limp, blood framing around it.         You knew at a distance and were even more sure now. It was Mark but wrong, again. Face too symmetrical, too sharp. Your Mark had little imperfections, a crooked nose from his Omni-Man induced beat down, ache scars on his hairline. This version was trophy husband material, mocking you in it’s image for what could’ve been.         He’s taller. Why is he taller? 

        Not Mark number two’s eyes are cold, rock brown slates that slide to Isotope. The shift in his muscles are subtle but you know violence is coming.         You weren’t staying to watch it happen. “Take me to Hollywood.” And it was done.         You were in a outdoor walkway by studio six. Isotope on your arm, stupor elongated.          The decision again proved to be bad, made from a sick need to check, to run. Studio six was burning and you could smell the bodies.          “Take me to the road.” You command. A flash, and you’re there. Outside the heart of Hollywood, watching Universal crash and burn. The rest of the city was no better. You knew Hollywood was worse in person but you never imagined it a gray flattened husk.          This couldn’t be real. You were dreaming, going to wake any second.         A shadow passed overhead. You look up, nothing but smoke and sun.          From behind, “Need some help, friend?”         You turn. He’s back in black (and yellow), grinning with his mask on. Cape billowing stupidly in the breeze. A scar indented to his face from chin to lip. A sliver of lip gone, exposing half a tooth before the scar meandered up, under his mask.         “Oh shit.” A laugh rips out of him. “(Y/n), you old so and so. What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”         Like the others he’s splattered with the lives of others. Reveling, practically glowing in it.          “Tell me who you are.” You say, holding tight to Isotope in case he sobers and decides to zap away. No way you were being stranded with this… thing.         His body goes ridged at the command. You think he’ll resist like the other, then it comes pouring out. “Mark Grayson.” He says. “But not the one you know.”         Your head pounds. He’s not lying, people can’t lie when you’re prying information out of them. “More than that. Details.”         “I’m here to destroy everything I see. I’ve been…”  He shakes his head, body loosening. You feel your control snap away like a cut cord. His lips seal then pull back in a wicked grin. “Oh, you’ve got different tricks here. Tell me, have I taken hold of this useless planet yet? Do you see me as someone to rise up against? Have you given up yet? Have you saved your own life by sucking my—“         "Tokyo.” 

        You’re somewhere you’ve only dreamed of going and it’s destroyed. You thought, since you hadn’t seen it on the news it’d be a safe bet. You could figure things out, come up with a game plan, but no. You couldn’t think with your head pounding and nose starting to bleed, power waning with overuse on too many overpowered targets. The muscle was straining. You weren’t used to this much. To resistance. To using         Isotope, strong in his own right, like a puppet. It was exhausting.          Isotope was wobbling on his feet. He could teleport over and over but being under your control so long as well? Wasn’t good for him.          Clearly, the apocalypse was nigh so you couldn’t give a shit about anybody but yourself.          You snapped back to reality standing over a pair of women, curled on the ground in fetal position.         “Tell me what happened.” You say.         The blonde one doesn’t unfurl but speaks, accented and injured, “He destroyed everything.”         “Who?”         Her arm unfurls, shaking finger pointing up. You look up, expecting. The sky is clear. The woman’s arm re-latches to her brain dead best friend.          “I wasn’t expecting you here.” The voice is a river smoothed stone. Dark and solid— as a rock can be.          You already know who it is before you can look. A sight you were starting to get a little more than tired of. Though you didn’t expect a red and white suit splattered with blood.  He’s thicker, like the others, hair taller and spiked with gel.          He steps forward, over the dead girl and her whimpering friend. The sounds catch his attention, the next step he takes crushes the living girls head. Brains dying his white boot pink. “It’s unfortunate you had to see this, but it’s better you did. We’re on the same page now.”         “What the fuck does that mean?” Your power comes out weak, involuntary. You hadn’t meant to strain yourself but there you go, fucking up again.         “I want you to understand that what I’m doing is necessary. I don’t understand why you fought me before. So… unneeded. You’d know you’d never beat me but you…” His brows press together through his mask. His lip twitches, “I’ve said too much.” And your hold falls away.  Out comes his hand, fabric originally white but now red. “Come with me.”          “Sydney.”

        You stood across the water from the flaming opera house. A scream of frustration comes out as a cough, blood and mucous splat onto the cracked sidewalk. Your balance tips and wavers but you cling to Isotope who is barley upright himself.          You really needed to stop going for capital cities.          This one you see. Black and blue above the hundred foot tall fire. Watching it burn quiet as the night which it now was, across the world from your starting point.          The mask completely covers his face, but knowing how today is going. It’s Mark, again.          He disappears. You open your mouth, power rising up your throat. Air breaks. You’re thrown off your feet. He’s before you. Feet off the ground, staring you down though blue lenses. Same stupid spandex this time with a thick tool belt strapped round his waist and left thigh. A harness strapped to his chest, surely hiding things that could tear though your soft human flesh. Slight armor padding hiding his muscles.         He hovers over the broken fence separating you from the water. Your panicked eyes reflected back at you through polarized blue goggles.         You scramble to Isotope, splayed on the ground, bleeding from the back of his head. “Take me home.” His eyes lolled back into his head. You shake him, looking frantically behind you, to the unmoving phantom then back to him. “Hey! Wake up!” You watch the shape of a man. Terrified he’d come closer when you weren’t looking but there he stayed. Watching. Isotope’s eyes flutter. “Dregs.” He groans. “I… I can’t…” Sweat shines on his brow.         You slap him hard across the face. Palm stinging. “I don’t give a shit! Take me home!”         His pale narrow fingers wrap around your wrist. Green light grows slowly around you both. Not instant as if it would be if he weren’t fucked up.         “Faster!”         A sound from behind. You turn, finding something whipping toward you. You flinch, expecting a punch but instead find some cuff clapping onto your ankle. Thick and dark, matte finished. You don’t think of clawing at it as you’re teleported away.         Yet you take one last look. He is still. Waiting.         Your hovel of an apartment is like a church. You throw yourself to the unvacuumed floor, reverent. Caligula doesn’t come to love on you. When you peel up from the ground, Isotope is gaining his bearings. Eyes hazy with distaste as he zaps away, without you. 

        Leaving you alone in your tilted apartment. Everything was a little off skew. When you stood you stumbled back, partly from exhaust, partly from the floor literally not being at the right angle. It was then the building decided to creek. Letting you know of it’s incoming collapse.         

Most of New York City had been ripped apart, so with your luck, why not your apartment?         You’re out the door. Racing down flight after flight, two steps at a time. Beams whine in the walls. Pipes crack, spilling water from the ceiling into the lobby.          You’re barley out when the building goes down. You run down the sidewalk, between crashed and burning cars. Hopping over bodies, bodies, bodies. When the world stops shaking, you look at the damage. Creeping closer, finally remembering your cat.  The creeping gives way to frantic running. Tripping back over the bodies, screaming, “Caligula!” At the mountain of what used to be your home.          You throw yourself to the most manageable bit of rubble. Throwing stone size pieces tossed away in hopes you’d reveal your cat. You didn’t have much besides the clothes on your back and this goddamn power of yours— but Caligula kept you going. Kept you hoping. Because if he could come up in life, going from a neglected stray to spoiled in a twenty-something year olds apartment. You could do the same thing.          “Ca-“          “Cecelia?” You look up. Climbed to the apex of the disaster was your greedy landlord. Tossing concrete more frantically than you were. You climb up, carefully avoiding exposed leaking pipes. She had the right idea. Higher up meant maybe a better chance of survival. You search together, but separate. Calling different names. Kicking down different chunks. Waiting for heroes to come but after what you saw earlier— you doubted it.         “Rrrrow?” You know that sound anywhere. Your head snaps. Watching the gray go from rock to a fuzzy back.          “Oh God, Caligula!” You skid down to him and he jumps up to you. Meowing. Dust in his fur but otherwise okay. He’d gotten out again. This time all the way to the outside. He was okay. He was okay and you were so happy you cried into him.         “Cecelia! Ce— Cecelia?” You shouldn’t have looked. Watched the landlord crack her back as she moved the largest piece of debris she had yet. Just to fall beside the severed arm of her little girl. Fingers curled around a buck fifty. 

        She threw herself on the arm. Dirty fingers clawing at the window ledge that covered the rest of her little girl’s body. Opening her nails up on broken glass. Screaming a scream so horrible you’d never forget— and you killed people for a living.         A dent split open the back of her head, a waterfall of blood you hadn’t noticed before. The dent exposed her hind brain, though she didn’t seem to care, still screaming for her dead baby girl.          You weighed the options. Leave. Help. Have a better chance of finding help for yourself. Put the bitch down like you’d dreamed. Survive. Chance being found by the monster that did this.          You chose both. Not getting any close to her but turning. Power weak, watery but you didn’t need much. Not for the average person, distracted and distressed. “Lay down. Sleep.”         She did just that. You climbed down from the rubble. Careful with Caligula in your arms. Retracing your steps away from the building. When you look back, she wasn’t breathing.         ***         “Where is she?” THUNK!          Machine Head didn’t so much as feel pain. More so, felt his circuitry being shifted inside him. Any more of this and he’d stop working. Repairs on a piece as intricate as himself didn’t come cheap.         “Probably in fucking Seattle, asshole!” He said for the fifth time. He’d explained, best a robo man could while his ass was being beat by his grunt’s now blood thirsty (or would it be oil thirsty?) ex boyfriend. “He can teleport and she took ‘im!”          “Seattle’s gone idiot!” THUNK! Another punch dented the side of his head. Devastating for Machine Head, but nothing close to the skyscraper shattering power he’d seen before. The motherfucker was beating the circuits out of him but still holding back. Something was sparking and smoking within him. His camera eyes were starting to static.          “What—“         “Boss!” Zip, zap, Cadillac.          He was out of one man’s arms, into another. But not anywhere near far enough away from the little freak.          Isotope managed to get his boss away, about thirty feet. Holding him up just barley, eyes still frosty with the mind fog that Dregs cunt had inflicted on him. He tried splitting reality again, just to fizzle out and land them right back in the same spot.         Said little freak’s gaze slid to Isotope. Voice more dangerous than before. “She was just with you.” It was more of a question, a demand. Isotope was about to pass out but that didn’t leave him stupid. “At her place.” He breathed.          The freak stepped forward. “Where?”

[greenbunny7]

Prequel to this

Featuring a very confused smol Stan, for a number of reasons. And a Ford who keeps on getting interrupted, or should probably be interrupted someone please interrupt Ford

Zap

And just like that, the sea grunks were no longer on the Stan o'war ll. In fact, the sea was nowhere to be fond

"Wh- The basement? How did we?" O,Ford says perplexed

O,Stan tapes on O,Ford's shoulder, to get his attention. "Uh Ford, look." he ponts to a younger man who was too preoccupied to notice the new arrivals "he kinda looks like you." O,Stan says

"Those time agents really need to keep better track of their stuff. We're in the past. And that's clearly you Stan. Now we should probably hide befor-" O,Ford is interrupted

The younger man finally releases his not by himself. "Who are you?" Y,Stan questions, turning his attention away from the portal, and towards the older men

"Uhhhh, we're pirates/figments of your imagination." they try to say at the same time, tripping over each other's words

"...riiiight, how'd you even get down here, and why are you..." Y,Stan gives the intruders a once over, looking to see if they had any weapons. His eyes wander to their hands. Wait, it almost looked like one of them had "you have six fingers." Y,Stan says bluntly

O,Ford quickly hides his hands behind his back, out of habit. "How very observant of you. Well, we should really get going now." O,Ford says

"Wait! sorry, I just, I have a twin brother he-" Y,Stan released how similar the two men in front of him looked "Wait are you also twins? What's going on?"

"I didn't realize I was such a detective back then." O,Stan says "kid listen, we don't want to create any paradoxes, so just pretend you never saw us, ok?" O,Stan grabs the time tape O,Ford had been holding, and pulls out the measure to what should be the right time. And holds on to O,Ford's arm

Zap

Nothing happened

"Oh, great! things busted." O,Stan says

"Lit me see that." O,Ford takes the time tape back from O,Stan, and examines it. "Ugh, curse you time agents! And you're easily breakable technology!" O,Ford yells

"I'm still here, by the way." Y,Stan says. "Paradoxes? Time agents? Care to tell me how you got here, and why one of you has six fingers! Then there's the twin thing- who even are you?" Y,Stan is so confused. One minute, he's trying to fix the portal to get his brother back, and the next, there's two random old guys in the basement fighting over what looks like a measuring tape

"Ah, well, since we appear to be stuck until I can get this thing to work. I suppose we could answer a few of your questions, just nothing about the future. I'm... let's go with hmmm," O,Ford tries to think of a good alias

Ya know, the more Y,Stan hears this guy's voice the more it almost sounds like, "Ford?" But it couldn't be, Ford was (definitely alive) in the portal

O,Ford stops thinking and flinches at the name. A moment of silence passes.

"Ooohhh busted." O,Stan says

"You really were a little detective." O,Ford sighs. Deciding it's probably best to just tell the truth "Yes, it's me. Stanley, I-"

But before O,Ford could continue, Y,Stan rushed towards him, smashing into O,Ford, and holds onto him tightly, in an embrace. "H- how" Y,Stan didn't really care how. He pulled back enough to look at O,Ford's face, it really was him. He looked a lot older, but this guy was definitely Ford

after a moment O,Ford puts the time tape in his pocket and returns the hug. "Stanley, are you alright?"

Y,Stan just berries his face in O,Ford's shoulder, and holds him tighter. "I- I thought I'd never see you again." Y,Stan's voice catches. Why was Ford worried if he was alright? That wasn't like him

"Oh, come on kid, don't embarrass me." O,Stan says. It was kinda awkward watching his younger self hug his brother

If this was an older version of Ford, then the other guy that looked almost exactly like O,Ford, "Then you must be me?" Y,Stan finally stops crushing O,Ford's ribs

"Man, I just don't miss. You got it in one mini me." O,Stan shoots fingers guns at Y,Stan with a wink

"We're a bit time-displaced at the moment-" Just then, O,Ford's hand brushed up against the burn on Y,Stan's back

"Aaagghh!" Y,Stan let out a blood curdling cry

"Stanley! Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry. I should've remembered you were hurt." O,Ford says. "Come on, there's gotta be something in this house to treat that wound." O,Ford starts leading Y,Stan to the elevator

O,Stan put a hand on his shoulder over the scar. "I remember that easily enough." he followed the others to the elevator

Why was O,Ford being so nice to him? Y,Stan didn't know what to make of O,Ford. Everything was confusing. "So time travel?" Y,Stan brakes the awkward silence that had befallen the elevator

"Yes, it's actually quite fascinating, we found this old measuring tape with an hourglass symbol, encased in resin. The kids had told us about their adventures through time, so we brought it back to the Stan o'war ll for further research." O,Ford says, to caught up in talking about the time tape

"Ford, we're trying to prevent time paradoxes." O,Stan says

"Wait, wait, wait, kids!? The Stan o'war ll?!" Y,Stan finds it extremely hard to believe, there's kids? Who's kids are they? Are they his kids? And the Stan o'war ll he couldn't believe, that was just his dumb dream that would never come true, tho in the future apparently his dumb dream has a sequel!

O,Ford puts a head over his mouth. "You didn't hear that." he said quickly. "nooo I can't have already messed up the timeline. Has Fiddleford invented the memory gun yet?" O,Ford releases a second to late what he said

"Who? The what now?" Y,Stan says. He's getting tired of being so confused. This strange Ford is talking nonsense

"Never mind, forget about it." The elevator door opens, saving O,Ford from further messing up the timeline. "Okay, first things first, that wound needs medical attention right now." O,Ford walks out of the elevator without another word

"Well, that was hard to watch." O,Stan says

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what any of that meant." Y,Stan says

O,Stan just shakes his head no

O,Ford came back with the med kit. And they all made their way to the living room, or what was once the living room at least. "I forgot how much of a mess this place was- or is I suppose." He pulled out the disinfectant. "This is only gonna sting a little." he lied

"I can do it myself-" Y,Stan tried, but it was no use O,Ford was already pouring disinfectant on a rag and then holding it on the wound. "aaaggh!! A little warning next time! Ow."

"I did give a warning, though?" O,Ford says

"Not warning enough." Y,Stan says bitterly

"Stanley, did you take care of this at all? It looks, really bad." O,Ford says, concerned as he starts to wrap bandages over the wound

"As a matter of fact, he did not." O,Stan says. Though he understood why

"Look, I've been kinda busy trying to reverse engineer an interdimensional gateway. I was gonna get around to it... at some point." Y,Stan says

"He was not." O,Stan says with an innocent smile

"Hay, aren't you supposed to be on my side." Y,Stan says. "Wait, if you're Ford and you're old," O,Ford, gives a look that says 'don't call me old' "then that must mean I succeed in getting you back! right? -Ow! careful with that." Y,Stan says hopeful

O,Ford finishes wrapping the bandages. (He was extremely gentle. What are you talking about)

"Yeah, speaking of the portal, I've been thinking, and well, we need to shut it down. permanently." O,Ford says

"What?! Absolutely not! no way." the Stans say, confused

[deus-ex-mona]

farewell, my idiot son…

[regular-lord-reckoner]

so i took my car in today because i thought it might just need some more brake fluid and although i tried to just look at it myself i couldn't for the life of me figure out which part under the hood was the brake fluid reservoir without having to lean all over my car and get all dirty, so i figured i might just have to pay a service fee and whatever for the fluid itself...

turns out i need all new brake pads !!

ahaha

haha

ha

yay

[indestinatus]

why is life so hard

[deadrlngers]

thinking how funny it is for violante and gale to be in baldur's gate since she keeps meeting ex lovers there like. not only u fucked the tyrant, now who's this bard woman you're about to fall on your knees for, couldn't you just fuck some powerful entity so there's no big chance we'll run into them too

[aria0fgold]

Got distracted and I ended up working on my drawing But then I realized a major mistake on it when I thought I was done with the star veil (yes, again. I changed up the stars at the tips of it, this veil is kicking my ass) and I was erasing stuff already so when I realized I'm like: FUCK-- undo undo undo undo und o un do u n d o. And now I gotta... move All those new lil designs at the tip, Again, so I'm like: Okay... alright... I'll do that Later. I'll write now cuz god Forbid I do anything in that design, it's all mistakes!