#I'M SO REGULAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[miss-m-winks]

Yeah honestly, I just appreciate fantasy that puts thought into its world. I don't think every fantasy needs to go into detail about like, why there are potatoes there. A lot of the time, "potato" is also just an easy shorthand to tell the audience "starchy root vegetables exist here", like in LotR where a lot of the details you might consider anachronisms are very easily overlooked with the "this is a translation" explanation. And LotR makes that explanation work because of all the other unique details present in the worldbuilding.

The problems with anachronisms usually come in when they don't feel like they've been integrated well with the rest of the world. I can believe Hobbits have potatoes because of how much farming they do. Of course they've managed to breed their own starchy root vegetable they can call a potato. It's easy to picture them having every fruit and vegetable known to man, because they love food and they do a lot of farming. That's all it takes to make the potato and the cornfields fit into their world.

But if I'm reading a book set in a standard UK-ish middle ages/vaguely old fashioned time period, and out of nowhere they're using oranges as a casual common breakfast fruit, or coffee just shows up to be a regular morning drink, or cheap chocolate candy just exists now, all with exactly the same connotations they have in our real modern world, i find that weird. It throws me out of immersion.

I don't need the author to write a whole paragraph explaining where those things came from, but I am going to need a little more set up and a reason to feel like those details actually fit the world. They need to fade into the background, easily overlooked. If they stand out, they end up feeling weird. If your worldbuilding can't stand on its own enough for me to glance past the morning coffee, there's a problem.

I think the root cause is authors who just toss in details from their own modern life experiences without really considering whether or not it fits. They're not immersing themselves into the world they're writing, and you can kinda feel it. So authors just need to get into their own worlds and think about what it's really like to live there, and I think that fixes most of the immersion problems.

All it takes is a little description of a fantastical orchard and I can believe the oranges. Mention the import market and I can believe the coffee. Maybe give it a new cultural context while you're at it.

For the longest time I opted on the side of "no coffee, potatoes, etc" in fantasy writing, on the argument that if I was writing a pseudo-european medieval story, featuring elements brought to Europe by colonialism would imply the existence of colonialism, and if I was going to include that kind of elements, I could not just mention them casually, it would have to be a major theme of the story.

Then I scrolled past a post on tumblr specifically about "can you have potatoes in a fantasy setting for no reason" that had pics of Peruvian potato farmers and asked "are you really too much of a coward to not write these people into your stories?" (the tone was probably not that accusative, I paraphrase from my own perspective of this), and something clicked in my head, and this epiphany manifested in my head as Gordon Ramsay yelling

"IT WAS NOT THE FUCKING COLONIALISM THAT INVENTED THE FUCKING POTATO."

[kit-kat-katie]

Old Flame, New Sparks

a/n: After a year of silence, I have emerged with a new obsession that I just simply had to write about. Sue me for wanting to be in the middle of the Eddie-Volt sandwich. I giggle every time I see them, they're just so my type AHHHHH- (also ty @sanccharine for being just as insufferable about the breaker box boys as I am <333)

pairing(s): Eddie x Reader x Volt (romantic)

tw: implied sexual situations, reader has a toxic ex that demeans and belittles them, injuries sustained by electric shock

summary: After months of not contacting your ex, a moment of weakness causes you to consider going back to them. With the electrifying support of Volt and Eddie, you're able to close that chapter in your life for good. - 6.3k words!

“Cocktail or mocktail?”

“Mocktail, please.” You happily respond as Beverly grabs a strainer, shakers and mixing glass from the bar in front of her.

“So you're going to the Breaker Box tonight?”

Warmth floods to your cheeks - were your evening habits really that predictable? - but you try not to show it.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you only order cocktails if you plan on going to bed straight afterwards. Mocktails, on the other hand, are something you order if you have plans later…” She trails off with a light blush on her face. “I'm not trying to pry! I just heard that you like to visit the Breaker Box at night, so I put two and two together.”

You're in awe at the way Beverly masterfully pours your mocktail into a glass - bartending truly is an art, and she has refined her craft (minus the occasional broken glass).

She slides the glass over to you with an expectant look as you take a sip.

“Wow, Bev, this is really good!” You shower her with praise, which causes her to blush harder. “Don't worry - even though I'm a regular at the Breaker Box, you're still my favorite bartender.”

With a wink, you take another sip of your glass as Beverly does her best not to drop her bartender equipment. 

“Re-Really?” She shyly asks as you nod. “That means so much to me!”

As you finish the rest of your drink, Beverly cleans the bar and prepares to close for the night.

“I'll see you soon, Bev!” You wave to her before exiting the bar.

She happily waves back as you open the door, which pulls you from the interior of Bev's bar to the middle of your kitchen.

You quickly take your dateviators off as the sun sinks further into the horizon.

Although Beverly was right - you were going to the Breaker Box tonight - you just didn't feel like drinking tonight.

A familiar ding! from your phone causes a pit in your stomach to form as you check your messages.

???: Why do you keep blocking the numbers I text you with?

Just talk to me. That's all I want. One simple conversation with you so we can fully end our relationship.

You scoff at the thought of ‘fully ending your relationship’, since that has yet to be the result of one of these conversations. You talk, they somehow get all sappy and romantic on you, you take them back until you remember how toxic they were, and you block them until they manage to break down your walls, chip by chip. 

You ended things with them, permanently, six months ago, and it was the longest you had ever been without them since you met. You had felt yourself start to slip back into that toxic cycle when the dateviators arrived at your door.

Since then, you haven't had the need to check your phone for their messages, and if you happen to see them, you'd just block each number that came through.

Something about tonight, however, causes you to falter. Maybe it's the fatigue from the day, or the lack of sleep due to Nightmare's sudden appearance last night, but you're considering sending something back to your ex.

Damn, maybe I should've had Beverly make me a cocktail.

For now, you're able to gracefully slide your phone into your pocket. The urge to text them passes as quickly as you came, and you find yourself drained as the end of the day approaches.

I really need a spark to help me get through the rest of today.

With as much motivation as you can muster, you walk from the kitchen to the upstairs portion of your house, where the literal breaker box awaits you.

You gently place the dateviators over your eyes, and you swing open the breaker box door in order to get to the interior of the Breaker Box.

A gentle buzz surrounds the room, from the crowd and the lighting alike, as you step away from the door.

“Hello, love,” Dorian says from behind you, “Volt's wandering around and Eddie's somewhere behind the bar. They've been looking for you since they opened - Eddie especially. Just don't tell them that I said anything, yeah?”

“Of course, Dorian, and thank you.” You look back and offer him a friendly wave before walking further into the Breaker Box.

The crowd is a bit thicker than usual, due to the open mic night that's drawn in talent from all over your house, but you're thankful for the extra time to sit with your thoughts.

You encouraged Eddie and Volt to be open with you, but would they be just as kind as you were to them? Especially with such a vulnerable topic that made you feel so weak and queasy inside?

Part of you hopes that you'll run into Volt first - his flurry of affection and sweet nothings will melt your worries away and jolt your senses back to normal. He'll sweeten you up before he notices that anything is wrong with your demeanor… hopefully.

The other part of you wants to find Eddie at the bar, so he can make you a nice drink that can nurse your worries away. You'll throw playful jabs and small teases at each other until a smile lights up your face again. There's something comforting about the apparent coldness in his eyes - a calm wave amongst the wild sea - that pulls you in every time.

You're pulled out of your thoughts by another annoying ding! on your phone, and you feel the people next to you glare as you check your phone.

???: Please, baby, I'll do anything for another chance.

Can I see you tomorrow?

You can't help but roll your eyes before stuffing your phone back into your pocket, but not before you turn your ringer to vibrate instead.

With a sour expression, you turn away from the crowd and march towards the bar. As much as you'd like to drown in Volt's presence, you really needed that fucking drink right now.

A few bartenders catch your eye, but they quickly gesture towards the end of the bar, where Eddie sits.

A distinct coldness appears to radiate from him, where no one will approach or bother him, but it softens once Eddie notices you.

His posture shifts from lackadaisical to attentive and focused as you take a seat next to him.

“Drink?” He offers while not looking your way.

You hum in response, which causes him to get up from his seat and walk around to the bar area.

“Long day?”

You turn away from the crowd and stage to look at Eddie.

“Yeah. You?”

“Always.” 

You place a hand on the counter before resting your head on it.

“What are you making me?”

“Whatever you'd like, live wire.”

Volt's nickname for you still feels foreign from Eddie's mouth, but you certainly don't mind him using it.

“Surprise me.” 

To anyone else, your conversation would sound just like any other patron-bartender conversation, but there was enough subtlety between the two of you to suggest more.

It's in the way Eddie rolls up his sleeves excruciatingly slow, so you have all the time to ogle over his forearms and hands. When he notices where your eyes are focused, a small smirk forms on his face as he softly laughs, but he chooses to say nothing.

Or maybe it's in the way that you respond, by taking off your jacket to reveal a t-shirt that lands somewhere between tight enough to reveal what's underneath and loose enough to leave something to the imagination.

Eddie definitely notices the change in your attire, given the small blush on his cheeks, but he focuses on making your drink as you feel your phone vibrate against your pocket.

Can't you just take my silence as a no, for once?

Annoyingly, you're pulled out of the intimate moment, but you do your best to refocus on what's in front of you. You set your phone on the bar table, in an attempt to forget about your ex, as a drink is slid over to you.

The vibrant colors of the cocktail lure you in for a taste, and you're pleasantly surprised by how much you like this drink. Although you weren't one for cocktails, this one just so happens to incorporate your favorite flavors into a drink that you won't forget.

Despite not opening up about your alcohol preferences, Eddie still managed to figure out what you liked.

Or maybe he asked around the house?

“So?”

Despite not trying to look for approval, Eddie leans in and looks at you expectantly - he really wants you to like what he's made.

He definitely asked someone about my preferences.

“It's wonderful, Eddie. Thank you.” You offer him a warm yet tired smile, which causes a soft blush to appear on his face.

“You're welcome.”

He begins to clean up the bartending station as the guests settle in at various booths and tables in preparation for the show tonight. You still don't see Volt among the crowd, but somehow you can still feel his energy radiating off of every surface in the room.

As Eddie settles in on the bar seat next to you, you notice that he doesn't have a drink in his hand.

“Nothing for you?”

“I'd rather drink after the show, in case anything needs to be fixed up.” Ever-the-workaholic, Eddie refuses to indulge himself until everything is taken care of. “Are you going to stay after and help?”

“Of course.”

You'd like to say more, but you're interrupted by the intentional blinking of the lights, which signals that it's almost showtime.

This is the first time that you lay eyes on Volt, who is working on charming a customer into having just one more drink for the night, but you're too distracted by Eddie to say anything.

You notice that his arm is resting on the bar table, right behind you, but he hesitates on making contact with your skin.

You smile at the gesture - he's cute without trying to be - and you lean closer to Eddie until you're resting your head on his shoulder. Then, and only then, does his arm wrap around you to pull you even closer to him.

You decide to take it one step further, by nuzzling your head in your shoulder, which causes him to grumble.

“Comfortable?” Eddie grumbles in pretend annoyance.

He's enjoying this way more than he says he is.

You simply sigh contentedly as he gives your shoulder a light squeeze.

“Good.” He murmurs softly, only for you to hear.

You do your best to hide your laughter as Volt takes the stage. His magnetic presence draws every eye from every corner of the room as he introduces the first singer for the night.

Before he leaves the stage, his eyes find yours, and he offers you a flirtatious wink. Your face heats up from the gestures, and Volt smiles at the result.

The night flies by in a blur of music and people, and you're only aware of the passage of time when Eddie occasionally squeezes your shoulder, to see if you're still awake.

This would be far from the first time that you've fallen asleep in the bar - sometimes you and Eddie worked for a long time after the bar closed, and the combination of physical and mental exhaustion caused you to fall asleep before he could offer you a drink at the bar. Or you're listening to Eddie and Volt chat about the bar, while curled up against Volt's chest, and the mix of their voices and the soft thrum of electricity is enough to lull you to sleep.

Tonight, however, sleepiness seemed to avoid you. You were tired, sure, but your eyes seemed to be screwed open. Your phone was far enough away from you, for now, but it felt like a ticking time bomb was laying next to you as you awaited your doom.

Eddie notices - of fucking course he notices, he always does - and one-too-many glances to your phone causes him to say something between the second-to-last and last act of the night.

“Is there someone you'd rather be seeing?” 

You know he's teasing, but you can't help but internally gag at the thought of your ex-lover being as close to you as Eddie is right now. You don't even want them in the same house as you, or even the same neighborhood or city.

Normally, you'd shoot back with something like, “Nobody but you, loverboy,” and you'd delight as his face discovered a new shade of pink to display on his handsome features.

But tonight didn't feel like a normal night.

Instead, you let out a deflated sigh before looking up at Eddie.

“It's quite the opposite, actually. I'd do anything to not see this person again.”

And there it slips out.

There it goes, flowing out of your mouth like a river of shit headed downstream. Luckily, you manage to save any remaining grace you have by shutting the fuck up, but the bomb's already went off.

The concern etched on Eddie's features makes your heart pound, but you still feel horrifically bad inside.

Despite being in more… compromising positions with Eddie and Volt, this is the most vulnerable you've ever felt with one of them.

And it fucking blows.

You can tell he's trying to speak, trying to say something that'll make you feel better, but the words don't come out. This isn't as simple as cutting your hand on a broken bar glass or accidentally shocking yourself with a fuse - Eddie can't gently scold you while wrapping your wound with spare bandages he keeps on hand. You wish he would pull your hand to his face, just as he would in one of those moments, to place a small kiss on the injury so “you'll feel better soon so you can get back to work”. 

You steal the words from his mouth as you try to regain control of the situation and your emotions.

“Eddie, can you please make me another drink?”

You hate how needy, desperate, and distant you sound, but you need a quick pick-me-up, and if he's not going to offer it in words or affection, then you'll drown your sorrows in booze instead.

He says nothing, opting to press a very gentle kiss on your scalp before letting go of you.

“One more, then you're cut off. Can't have you trying to hurt yourself before we do any real work.”

You softly chuckle to yourself as you refocus on the stage. The final act is just wrapping up, and soon Volt will retake the stage to thank the crowd for coming tonight. 

You find yourself awaiting his arrival as Eddie slides you another cocktail. In return, you hand him your empty glass. He dutifully begins to clean the glass as you watch him work. 

You can't believe that you're letting some person from your past ruin what's in front of you.

You find yourself wanting to apologize, but the words won't reach your lips. Besides, what would you apologize for? Being a total fucking buzzkill?

Eventually, as Volt returns to the stage, Eddie retakes his seat next to you. His arm wraps around you again - this time, he holds you just a little bit tighter as you curl up next to him.

After Volt's ending remarks, people begin to file out of the Breaker Box. They mutter praises for the bar amid their scathing reviews of each performer. You always enjoyed the extra chatter that came with the bar, and part of you always missed that when you were closing up the bar. That, however, was made up in the fact that you had Eddie and Volt's undivided attention after the bar closed.

Just as you're about to see Volt, a wave of sleepiness finally washes over you, which causes you to rest your head on Eddie's chest.

“Live wire-” He gently warns you against further action, but you choose to ignore him as you press yourself against him.

“Stop squirming. You're making me uncomfortable.” You mutter as you hear someone walk towards you.

“You're uncomfortable? What about me?”

“You'll get over it.” You mumble into his chest, and you can hear him softly laugh as he adjusts his posture to make you more comfortable.

“Fine.” He begrudgingly says before moving his arm from your shoulder to your waist in order to better support you.

You feel yourself slip into the comforting embrace of sleep, but you force your eyes open when you hear Volt's voice.

“Live wire!”

You want to get up and greet him, but you are oh-so-comfortable where you are; however, you do weakly offer him one of your hands, which Volt gladly takes.

“Tired already, my spark?” Volt says before pressing a warm kiss to the back of your hand. “I should've caught you sooner, then.”

“I was looking for you, but I couldn't find you in the crowd, so I went and sat with Eddie.” You try to hide the disappointment in your voice, but it doesn't work on Volt.

“I'm sorry to disappoint, live wire. I'll happily make it up to you later, if you'll allow me to.”

“Please do.” You sleepily say as Eddie's other hand rubs up and down your back.

“They've been out of it all night, Volt. I got them to open up, but-”

“-But?”

“-it seemed like a sore spot, so I didn't want to pry.”

“Eddie, I'm sure you could've asked them something.”

“I didn't want to push them away after all they've done for us. What if I said the wrong thing and messed it all up? What then-”

You lift your head up when your phone starts to erratically buzz on the bar table.

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” You swear under your breath before laying your head back down. “Just leave me alone. I don't want to see you anymore.”

Eddie and Volt don't speak for a moment, and you're sure that they're sharing a questioning glance about what just happened.

“Are you talking about another object? If so, you'll find that Eddie and I can be very convincing-”

“Volt.” Eddie warns his other half, who chooses to ignore him.

“No, it's another human.” You softly say with a twinge of pain in your voice. “A human I should've let go of a long, long time ago.”

There's a beat of silence, between your confession and whatever reaction awaits you from Eddie and Volt.

“A human lover, I assume?” Volt asks with bated breath.

“Ex-lover, but yeah.” You feel a bit guilty after admitting all of this, but a weight feels lifted off of your chest.

It's enough to tempt you back into sleepiness, where you feel your eyes slowly shut as the world around you dims slowly into nothingness.

You can still hear Eddie and Volt, but they sound out-of-reach and far away, despite your closeness.

“My sweet, poor little wire… I suppose it wouldn't hurt to shock some sense into this human, right?”

“Volt.”

“Worry not, my sweet Eddie. It's nothing like you're thinking.” You can hear the smile in his words, but they still have some bite and agitation to them.

“Good night.” You murmur to no one in particular as sleep finally overcomes your body.

~

Your bed happily cradles your body as you awake from your slumber. You aren't hungover from the night before, but you still can't remember exactly what happened. 

You were with Eddie for most of the night, and you remember seeing Volt after the bar closed, but that was about it.

I'm sure I'd remember if it was anything important.

As tempting as it is to roll over and go back to sleep, you have a few promises to fulfill with a few special objects in your house.

Your dateviators await you on your nightstand, along with your phone and a napkin that displays the Breaker Box logo on it.

You reach for the napkin first, and you're happy to see a small message on the napkin, written in Volt’s handwriting.

Sleep well, live wire.

~ E & V

You open the drawer on your nightstand and place the napkin with the small pile of other napkins that you've managed to collect from your nights out.

You go to grab your phone, to see if Sam or that strange Tinfoil Hat character has texted you, but you're stopped by the ring of a doorbell.

Your doorbell is ringing.

You fly out of bed before assembling a quick outfit of something that is moderately presentable. You're mindful enough to store the dateviators in a safe place, in case your company is someone who's looking for their whereabouts. 

You grab your phone as the doorbell continues to ring.

“I'm coming. Hold on!” You yell before leaving your bedroom and descending down the stairs. 

Your hand grabs the doorknob, but it refuses to open despite you unlocking it a few seconds ago.

“Dorian…” You mumble under your breath, and the door opens before you start lecturing your door.

Your mouth hangs wide open as soon as you see who's on the other side with a bundle of roses in their hand. 

“Hey.” Your ex gives you a warm smile before handing you the flowers. “I got these this morning. They made me think of you.”

“Oh… um, thank you.” You awkwardly take the flowers from them as you try to figure out what they're doing here. “Would you like to come in?”

“I would, since you're the one who invited me over.”

You move out of the way as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion - you certainly would remember texting them, right?

Your ex heads further into the house as you shut your front door and pull out your phone to check your messages.

Surely enough, there's a plentiful stream of messages between the two of you, which only serves to confuse you further. The messages you sent don't even sound like you - they alternate between being too sappy or too passive-aggressive for your texting style.

It's almost like two different people wrote them…

You shake your head as you follow your ex into the kitchen, where they have already grabbed a vase and filled it with water.

“I still remember where everything is, as strange as it sounds. I don't remember the water in your sink being that hot - is there something wrong with your water heater?” 

They place the vase on your kitchen table, and you carefully position the flowers in the vase.

“Last I checked, it was working fine.” You shrug before gesturing for them to take a seat. “Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, please.” Your ex answers, and you happily oblige them as your mind tries to wrap itself around the predicament you're in.

It's blatantly awkward between the two of you, and you're not quite sure what to tell them about the situation you find yourself in. 

“Listen, I wanted to talk about us-” They start as you place a coffee cup next to them before you take a seat on the opposite side of the kitchen table. 

“-I do too.” You interrupt them before taking a deep breath. “I know I reached out to you last night and told you to come here, but I needed to tell you this in person.”

Awaiting your answer, your ex leans forward.

“We're done,” Your voice is shaky, but you manage to say the thing you've been wanting to say for years, “for good.”

Bewildered, they look at you before letting out a dry laugh.

“You're not serious, are you? You're just playing hard to get, right?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I'm serious.”

You want to shrink into nothingness when you sense their anger starting to emerge, but you have to stand your ground soon if you want to truly be done with this person. The part of you that would grovel and beg for their attention and grace has died, and a newfound sense of bravery emanates from you.

“You play with my feelings all night, getting all hot and cold with me, just to pull this shit?” They stand up suddenly, but you refuse to let them see any fear from you. “What is fucking wrong with you?”

You'd like to shoot that question back to them, but you don't feel like launching yourself into an argument that would make Dirk and Harper's fights look like child's play.

You, instead, turn your head away and begin to fiddle with your fingers from under the table.

“Is there someone else?”

Heat rises to your face, and your ex bitterly scoffs before slamming their hands on the table.

“I fucking knew it. You've been sleeping around, like a whore-”

“-I'm not a whore.” You respond with an equal amount of malice as you slowly rise from your seat. “And who would care if I was? We aren't together anymore.”

As the argument continues to heat up, you and your ex fail to notice the way the lights above you flicker and respond to your words.

“You're still mine-”

“-since fucking when? The last time you told me I was yours, you cheated on me three days later with my best friend!”

“That was a one-time mistake!” They scream before throwing their hands up in the air. “Are you incapable of forgiving and forgetting?”

“You broke my heart!” Your voice cracks as hot tears threaten to fall from your face. 

You're so close to cracking and allowing them to comfort you, and they know it. They just have to push your buttons a little more, and then you're theirs again.

“Fine. Go off and enjoy your other lovers. I can't wait for them to see how boring you are. When they dump you, you'll come crawling back to me, just like the pathetic little thing that you are.” 

A small tear runs down your face, and your throat is strangled by all of the words you want to unleash onto them. You feel - no, you are - a blubbering mess, and you will do anything for this argument to be over with.

A victorious smile appears on their face, but they're interrupted by the power cutting out across your house.

You thank your lucky stars as a convenient interruption will allow you to escape for a few moments. 

“Sorry, there must be something wrong with the breaker box. I'll quickly go reset the power-”

“-let me. You were always terrible with handiwork around the house.” 

Your ex brushes past you, and you take a moment to compose yourself before following them up the stairs.

“Where's the breaker box?” They ask as you reach the upstairs portion of your house.

“Second door on your right.” You say before grabbing your phone and turning on a flashlight for them to see with.

Although it was light outside, this part of your house didn't have many windows, so it was poorly illuminated without any ceiling lights.

Your ex quickly opens the door and proceeds to open up the breaker box as you provide them with enough light to work with.

“You're directing power to the wrong things. This switch should go the other way-”

As they reach out to touch a switch on the box, a forgotten conversation echoes in the back of your mind.

“My sweet, poor little wire… I suppose it wouldn't hurt to shock some sense into this human, right?”

“Volt.”

“Worry not, my sweet Eddie. It's nothing like you're thinking.” 

“Wait, be careful, you might get-” 

You try to reach out to them, but it's far too late. A loud crackle emerges from the breaker box once they touch it, and they recoil in pain.

“-shocked.”

“FUCK!” They screech as you cover your mouth with your hand. “What is wrong with your breaker box?”

“I don't know.” Choosing to play dumb, you shrug your shoulders. “Maybe you should try another switch?”

“Yeah, genius, I was planning on doing that.”

Resting their injured hand on their side, they take their other hand and attempt to touch another switch.

Your ex gets a similar result to their first attempt- a loud crackling sound followed by their howls of pain as they clutch both of their hands to their chest.

You can't help the laughter that escapes from you - this feels like sweet, sweet karmic justice after all of the times they've ripped your heart out of your chest and stomped on it.

“Oh, you think this is so funny, huh?” They grumble before hesitating to grab another switch. “Why don't you try touching a switch, jackass?”

“Sure!” You gleefully move past your ex as you shine your phone flashlight directly on the breaker box.

Instead of reaching for a switch, you place your hand on the side of the box.

A bit of electricity courses through your veins - not enough to mess with the beating of your heart, but enough to let you know that Eddie and Volt are there with you.

“Alright, show’s over, boys.” You mumble under your breath. “Help me out?”

Another jolt of power goes through your arm, which you take as a yes. Your hand goes to touch the first switch on the left, but the power turns on before you even have a chance to shock yourself.

“Thank you.” You quietly say before your ex pushes you aside.

“There's no fucking way that worked!”

You collide with one of the walls in the closet, and you grumble in pain. The hallway light flickers dangerously as your ex continues to investigate the breaker box.

“I mean, you didn't even touch anything!” 

They attempt to close the breaker box door, but you see sparks fly as their skin makes contact with the breaker box again.

They let out a loud, frustrated scream as you allow yourself to smile and laugh.

“You set this up to make me look like a fucking idiot, huh?” Your ex learns from their first three attempts as they look at the circuitry without touching it.

“I think you did that yourself, to be honest.” You mutter under your breath, and a small buzzing sound comes from the breaker box.

Almost like a nod of agreement.

“Whatever. I'm done with this shit. Where's your band aids?” They grumble to you.

“Downstairs bathroom, under the sink.” You say as they step out of the closet. “Just be careful, that door likes to get… stuck sometimes.” You give them a gentle warning about Dorian as they angrily march down the stairs.

Once they are fully out of earshot, you turn off your phone flashlight before looking at the breaker box.

“I hope you know that you would have actually killed them if you went any further,” You begin to scold Eddie and Volt, but you're powerless to fight the shit-eating grin on your face. “but that was funny and, honestly, well-deserved.”

A happy buzzing noise comes from your breaker box. They're pleased that you're pleased with their efforts. 

“I'll see you later, alright?” You quietly say before closing the breaker box for the day.

You swear you can hear a bit of buzzing, as if Eddie and Volt are chatting amongst each other, as you head down the stairs to say goodbye to a guest that has long overstayed their welcome in your house, thoughts, and heart.

Your ex seems more than happy to leave as they await your presence at the front door.

“Can't believe that the stupid band aid container closed on my hand.” They grumble as they look at their bandaged hands.

“I think it's time you go. For good.” You cross your arms and lean against the end of the stairway railing as they scoff.

“Yeah, I don't want to be in this shithole any longer than I have to.”

“Stop calling me and texting me from different numbers.” This harshness is cold and unfamiliar from you, but it seems to work as they pause before nodding and agreeing. “Get out of my house.”

“Don't have to tell me twice.” 

Your ex opens the door with ease as you stand and watch them leave.

“Don't let the door kick your ass on the way out.” You cheerfully say as they head through the doorway.

“What is that supposed to mean-” They're barely out of your house before the door slams shut in their face.

You can't help but let out a hearty laugh, one that rings all the way through your house. A weight that has been on your shoulders for years has finally been lifted, and you've never felt freer in your life.

I think it's time to properly start my day.

~

By the time night falls on your house, you're dressed in something a little more formal as you aim your dateviators at the breaker box.

You open the door to the panel of switches, and once again, you're pulled into the bar.

Dorian offers you a quick nod as you enter the bar.

“I didn't think you were coming tonight, considering today's events.”

“Oh?” You turn to face him. “You mean when you slammed the front door in the face of my ex?”

“Just doing my job - keeping the bad ones out and the good ones in.” He cracks a rare smile that you happily reciprocate.

You don't have any more time to question Dorian as Volt approaches you with an alluring smile.

“Live wire, you look fantastic tonight!” He outstretches his hand, and you gladly place your hand in his.

He bends down and kisses your hand - an unusual approach, since he usually brings your hand to his lips.

“Volt-” You try to talk to him, but he's simply not having it.

“-my spark, I simply must assure you that today's antics were entirely my fault, and Eddie had not contributed at all-”

“Volt-” You attempt to use a tone similar to Eddie's, but he continues on.

“-though, if you do have some sort of punishment in mind, I'm sure Eddie wouldn't mind taking part of the blame from my shoulders so we can experience the punishment together-”

You place your free hand on his chest, and he finally pauses long enough for you to get a word in.

“Volt, I'm not mad. I know you're trying to protect Eddie, but I'm not upset at either of you.” A gentle sigh leaves your lips. “I'm just relieved that it's finally over.”

Volt seems a bit relieved with your admission, and he pulls you closer to his chest.

“I'm glad to hear that, my light.” He softly says. “It's a slow night, so I'll be able to give you my undivided attention.”

“I like the sound of that.” You tease him back before pulling him in for a kiss.

Electricity flows through every part of your body when you kiss Volt, and this time is no exception. You wonder how your heart can continue beating at the same rhythm when he's putting this much of himself into you.

You only part for air, and when you get enough air in your lungs, Volt recaptures your lips for another hungry kiss.

He pulls you to the side, away from prying eyes as your lips continue to meet with his again and again and again. 

You're only interrupted by a quiet scoff, which causes you to pull away from Volt and look right into Eddie's eyes.

He would look pissed, to any onlooker, but there's a bit of intrigue and want in his gaze.

“Volt, don't you think you should start the show before you attract any more attention to yourself?”

Volt simply laughs before pressing one final kiss to your lips.

“Of course, Eddie,” He pauses to look at you, “but we're not finished here, live wire.”

Volt pulls himself away from you before planting a kiss on Eddie's cheek.

“I'll see you two after the show.”

With a seductive wink, he heads towards the stage as you bite your lip and turn towards Eddie.

You're full of renewed energy from being attached to Volt, so you'd love to do nothing more than pounce on Eddie and smother him in kisses and affection.

“Don't look at me like that, live wire.” His face heats up and he looks away for a moment. 

You don't want to fluster him too badly, so you choose to wrap your arms around him and press a kiss to his temple.

“...You're irresistible.” Eddie says after a brief period of heated silence.

“But you love it.” You whisper as your face gets closer to his.

You can taste the whiskey sour on his breath as he breathes out for a moment, in an attempt to slow his beating heart.

You let him make the next move, and it doesn't take long for him to close the distance and gently kiss you.

The taste of whiskey coats your mouth as his hands tightly grip your waist. He parts from you much sooner than you'd like, but he still manages to make you breathless.

“You're feeling alright?” He asks as you try to form a coherent sentence.

“Never been better.” A genuine smile appears on your lips, and his smile matches yours, just for a moment.

“Good. I'll need you to help me with a few extra repairs, since we weren't able to work last night.” 

You whine softly at the thought of working after the day you've had, but you're quickly shut up by Eddie when he gently squeezes your hips.

“I promise that Volt and I will make it worth your while.”

With that, Eddie leaves you in a flustered state as you watch Volt briefly entertain the crowd.

Who needs to think about ex-flames when you have those two to light up your life?

[notimetoapologizecomic]

My goal with this comic is really to make everyone hug.

In writing this scene and thinking about how Taash would be handling all this, it really struck me that Taash is the youngest of the team (being around 20ish, with Bellara being 23 and then everyone else over 30) and goes through some of the most dramatic personal changes. They've lost basically everything, including who they thought they were before they joined the team. While that was definitely for the better, it's still a loss, and it takes time to move past it. They don't have the perspective and self-assuredness that can only come with age and experience.

So yeah this all just sucks particularly hard for them.

I finally got to update! I'm hoping to be a bit more regular after next week. Maybe. Hopefully.

[kokii-omii]

Flight Fest Race Event Story (part 1)

---------------------------------------------------

[ignihyde dorms - Pan's Room]

*RIIIING*

*RIIIIIIING*

🪽: helloooo?? oh! sup bro, ya need smth? wait what? wdym you want ME to do it??? you cant just drop that on me man- i- ugh....

🪽:

🪽: it was mom's idea..? aw man now i CANT bail out, she'd be so mad if i flake.....why? wellll i uh haven't exactly been replying to her messages....yeah....

🪽: k fine I'll do it, yeah yeah I'll talk to ya later, bye bye......

🪽:.......SIGHHHHH

🪽: ˢᵗᵘᵖᶦᵈ ᵈᵘᵐᵐʸ ᵇʳᵒᵗʰᵉʳ⁻ How are you an absolute unit of an athlete but get sick cuz someone sneezed near you??

🪽: guess i gotta find teammates...

[ignihyde dorms - Idia's Room]

💀: no the sequence is up down left right and then you spin

🫗: wait what button lets me spin????

💀: which controller did you pick u-

*DOOR BREAKING*

🪽: IDIA

🪽: Idia..Peyn...you're coming with me

💀&🫗: HUH????

🪽:Tldr; my brother signed me up for the race thats happening in my hometown and i need teammates

💀:Race?? as in like SPORTS???

🫗: like the Flight Fest? as in like FLYING??

🪽: yep

💀&🫗: HELL NO! / HELL YEAH!

💀: no- nah- nuh uh- NO WAY- am i gonna be participating in a sports event, racing against ATHLETES,

🫗: cmon boss! this is the Flight Fest! its like THEE biggest event in Feather-Fair city!

💀: thats EXACTLY why im not going- eughh so many people are gonna be watching you and they're gonna be clip farming that race and if you crash into something, and it'll be so over!!!

💀: i am NOT about to embarrass myself and have it be streamed to hundred and thousands of normies

💀: besides im the housewarden, so im the boss and i can't have both myself and the vice leave the dorm unattended

🫗:Boooo, no fair

🪽: guess it cant be helped... he used the housewarden card on us , we cant argue with that

🫗: why dont we take Ortho?

💀: wait yeah why dont you take Ortho with you- he'd love something like that- and he'd be WAYYY better for the race

🪽: nope- sorry Ids we cant take him, he'd be TOO good at flying with his rocket feetsies, it'd be unfair for the other athletes

🫗: guess that means we'll just have to ask from the guys at the other dorms then

[Cafeteria]

♦️: ooof bummer, that totes sound annoying, i feel rlly bad for you Panny

♠️: but a race? that sounds amazing!

♥️: and aw man not to mention we'd get cool suits and everything!

🪽: sooooo? does this mean you'll join??

♦️: sorry babes we unfortunately cant

♥️: me and deuce barely passed our quizzes, so the housewarden's making us do DOUBLE the work for preparing the unbirthday party

♠️: yeah...and we'll have to do that with our regular chores too...

♦️: and im in charge of watching these two so they dont slack off lol, but snap some cute pics for me kay? don't leave poor little cay-cay on read

🪽:aw man.. but i definitely will, you'll be the first to see the fit when i get it, guess all of heartslabyul is off the table for the entire week.... oh well gtg I'll ask some of the other guys

[Courtyard]

🍎: THATS SO COOL

🫗:RIGHT?? and it gets even BETTER, if we win then we get free food from the vendors for the WHOLE WEEK

🐈‍⬛: Mrah! Free food? like anything we want for a whole week?? I CAN GET AS MANY TUNA CANS AS I WANT???

🫗: that's IF we win the race, otherwise you still have to pay for it

🍎: I'm so down for this but we gotta convince Vil-san to give us his permission and let me participate first

🍩: Shishishi, what's this i hear?

🫗: Ruggie-senpai! this is perfect! do you wanna join us for the flight fest?

🫗:cuz ik you're really good at maneuvering in the air

🍩: well if a freshie from our spelldrive club wants my help then who am i to refuse?

🐈‍⬛: you're just here for the free food...

🍩: hey im not one to shy away from something like this, so I'm totally down

🫗: maybe we should get Leona-senpai as well, but we gotta find Pan first so he can convince Vil to let Epel go with us

[Botanical Gardens]

🪽: Pleaaaaaaseeee please please please please please please please

🦁: No

🪽: Cmon man we need a really good flyer in our team, and you're the best one i knowww

🦁: i said no, now leave me alone ya goddamn spring onion, why dont you go ask the Lizard or that damn Owl of his

🪽: malleus scares me... and i already asked Lucien and he said no

🪽: so pleaseeee Leona cmonnnnn, im running out of options here, im on my knees man- i wont leave til you say yes

🪽: PLEASEEEEE

🪽: PLEASEEEEEEEE

🪽:WAHHHHH LEONAAA

🦁: grr... ALRIGHT- just quit whining- god you're so annoying- If i go with you will you shut up now?

🪽: yes! and don't worry! i already asked the headmage and he'll let us skip class without our grades being affected by it

🪽: think of it as a vacation with a little outdoor activities

🦁: ugh, if we lose cuz of you im throwing you off one of the cliffs

🪽: noted-

🍩&🫗: Leona-saaaann/Leona-senpaaaaii

🦁: shut up im going

🐈‍⬛: wow that was easy

🫗: oh Pan's here, great! Now let's go cuz we gotta convince Vil to let Epel join us for the race, he's already at the pomefiore dorm waiting for you

🪽: well if Ruggie's in then i guess we got our team! you guys should get ready and stuff we'll meet all of you guys back at the mirror chamber after we get Epel

🪽: be sure to bring your essentials and we'll be back in like 15 minutes, let's go Peyn

🫗: yeah, see ya guys later

🐈‍⬛: cmon Yuu lets go get ready!

[Mirror Chamber]

🦁:..they're late

🐈‍⬛: mrah, we've been standing here for 10 minutes, how long is it gonna take?

🦐: dont worry they'll show up soon

🍩: cant blame em, its gonna be hard to convince Vil to let Epel skip class for a week, even if our grades wont get slumped

🫗: ugh...Man..

🍎:....

🪽: mm.....

🦐: you guys look beat, what happened?

🪽: Vil said yes but....

🫗:he made us do makeup for like 30 minutes and wouldn't leave til we got both sides of our eyeliner to be equal

🍎: my face hurts from the constant wiping...

🪽:okay okay enough of that lets just go-

🪽: to Feather-Fair City!!!

---------------------------------------------------

Part 2 (soon)

[kdh-tally]

Abby x Reader Headcannons

Prompt : Headcannons of Abby and his Partner

Author's Note : This was requested (i was gonna write it anyways) and the request was so adorable but I unfortunately deleted it cause the first post wasn't loading 😭 But to the anon that asked, please keep your soul!! I'm not like Gwi-ma ;P

For context, you work at a pilates place. It's mixed building so they're both multiple female and male customers (i forgot what u call people who do pilates)

It’s bright and sunny with colours like yellow and pink being in the main design. Opposite of you is this minimalist and dark themed gym.

Both places are more or less enemies in business.

Not necessarily boys versus girls but instead gym junkies and muscle heads vs elegant bodybuilders and core strengtheners. 

It had been a long day and you were not supposed to be working but your co-instructor called in sick, and now you were the only available trainer on site. 

The building would be closing in a few hours and you seriously hoped no one else was coming in. Then the door opened.

In walked a guy who looked like he belonged in a boxing ring. He was crazily muscular, tall, slightly intimidating but 100% cocky.

You knew who this was, kinda.

He recently started going to the gym next door (traitor!!) so it was odd as to why he was here. Other than his pink hair, this definitely wasn’t his scene.

You were also pretty sure he was some new Kpop idol but apparently his group had gone on hiatus or something?

“Hey,” he greeted. “I’m here for the pilates thing?”

You glanced at the schedule. There was no appointment listed under his name. You looked back up at him in confusion, his cocky smirk was starting to piss you off.

He grinned. “It was a last-minute thing. Manager said she’d booked me in for some stretches or something. Said I need to ‘loosen up’.” He even added air quotes.

You tried not to roll your eyes. 

“Right. Lucky you. I’m the only one available.”

“Perfect,” he said without missing a beat before eyeing you up and down. “You look like you know what you're doing.” Cue the smirk, then the flex. 

Even though you swore to be loyal to pilates, you had to admit his muscles were… 😋

Five minutes later, he was on the reformer machine (in a position that should not have been physically possible) and asking if he was supposed to be feeling core activation.

“Is this normal?”

By the end of the session, he was drenched in sweat and fully humbled. You handed him water with a smirk of your own.

“Still think Pilates is just stretching?”

“…No comment.” after a moment of silence “…When’s your next opening?”

He proceeds to walk in every day after his gym sessions.

At first you’re confused cause he never seems tired?

You made him hold a side plank for 20 minutes and watched his soul leave his body.

“I can do squats with 200kg,” he gasped, “why is this band killing me?”

“Because you’re not using your core, muscle-head.”

He swore he wouldn't return again but came back the very next day.

All of a sudden he’s a regular.

Slowly starts coming to Pilate’s instead of the gym.

Many of the members, men and women alike, are super hyped.

It boosts their ego when the muscle-head can’t do half of the things they can.

He meets a decent amount of fans and they (very respectfully) ask why he’s taking Pilates classes all of a sudden.

He tells everyone he’s training to be more flexible for the dances Jinu makes them do, but honestly, he just wants to see you.

Brags that you’re his private instructor to literally everyone, even though you told him to stop doing that.

Whenever you correct his form, he smirks and says, “You just wanted an excuse to touch me, huh?”

You threaten to make him hold a wall sit for 10 minutes.

Will flirt with you. ALL THE TIME.

“You know, your hands are really strong. Its kinda hot.”

“Are you checking me out?”

“Breathe through the stretch, Abby.” you’d tell him

“It’s hard to breathe when you’re looking at me like that, cutie.”

You’ve smacked him with a foam roller at least three times. 

He soon convinces you to hang out outside of Pilates classes. 

Fortunately for you both there's a smoothie and snack bar next door.

After every session, he insists on walking you there.

You always order something healthy but he orders the fruitiest, sugariest thing and insists you try it.

You say no. He forces the straw in your mouth anyway.

When he confesses to you, he doesn’t make it big and dramatic.

I lied. It's kinda dramatic.

It was supposed to be a normal session.

You had no idea what was coming.

Abby had stayed behind again, lounging shirtless on a mat like he owned the studio, which he absolutely did not.

He’d more or less stop going to the gym at this point.

He’d just finished a perfect cobra stretch, smirking the whole time, and now he was watching you clean, spinning a towel around his hands like a bored pet.

“You always stare at me when I stretch,” he said suddenly. You didn’t look up, already used to the teasing remark. “I stare at all my clients. I’m making sure your spine isn’t breaking.”

“That’s cute. You care about my spine.”

You did look up that time, only to see him already walking over to the front desk where you stood.

“Abby,” you warned, “if you break another foam roller—”

“I’m not going to break anything today,” he cut in, laughing as you rolled your eyes. “I’m here to ask you out.”

You froze. “…What?”

“You heard me, cutie.” He leaned on the desk. “You’ve been driving me insane since day one. Yelling at me, correcting my form, making me sore for days.”

“That’s literally my job.”

“And you’re really good at it.” He leaned in, voice dropping just a little. “But I want more than our little pilates dates. Let me take you out.”

You blinked. “You’re joking.”

He tilted his head. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

You wanted to say yes. But his eyes weren’t playing around. Not this time.

“You really want to date your pilates instructor?”

“Hell yeah. You’re hot, you’re scary, and you’ve forced me into a split. I trust you with my life.” A beat. “Also,” he added, smug as ever, "I know you’ve been checking me out since the first class.”

You opened your mouth and closed it. “…Shut up.”

“Is that a yes?”

“…Maybe.”

“I’ll take it,” he said, reaching over the counter and stealing one of the protein bars you were fiddling with. “First date’s on me. Dress comfy.”

He left with a wink and a flex, the bell above the door jingling musically.

Now that he has boyfriend privileges, he’s constantly barging into your sessions to “check if your clients are better looking than him.”

They’re not. He makes sure of it.

You keep telling him it would be physically impossible for you to find someone more attractive than him anyways.

He does not like when other guys flirt with you.

He’ll sit on a mat, arms crossed, glaring while you lead a class. He’d be closer to the front of the class, which is odd cause he normally remains near the center to show off.

“I'm just observing.” he’d excuse, but you know he’s truly just trying to block any other on-lookers from seeing you.

He’s secretly very soft, though. 

Brings you water. 

Wraps his jacket around you if it’s cold.

Packs your bag the morning before classes (yes he stays over)

He pretends not to care, but sulks if you forget to text him after a long day.

The boys would be shocked that he managed to find someone willing to date him.

They only thought he had love for his muscles

“You’re dating a human pilates instructor?? Since when did you do pilates?” Baby would glare at him curiously.

Romance tries not to die laughing. “Wait, so she told you what to do and you liked it? Bro…”

Jinu was just happy he didn’t have to be forced to go to the gym with him anymore.

Abby would just take you instead.

Mystery was quite impressed. He didn’t care so much about Abby dating but was really interested in the mixed pilates center.

Would probably book a session to see what the hype’s about.

He would call you things like:

Ma’am - Whenever you boss him around.

Star-fish - Your super duper flexible the way a starfish is.

Brat - The name he uses to “bully” you

Y/N - Drags it out whenever he wants something from you.

Cutie - What he calls you most of the time.

You would call him things like:

Muscle Head : Cause he’s all muscle no brain

Baby : Cause it’s Abby spelt differently. (It kinda threw him off at first cause yk his band mate is also named Baby)

Loser : Banter is a very prominent thing in your relationship.

Himbo : He’s really pretty, you’ll be the first to admit it, he just isn’t the smartest sometimes….

Sweetie : Cause he can be such a sweet guy sometimes.

[formulafanfics13]

Topped Up - LH44, GR63, Toto Wolff 🔥

masterlist

The Wolff house was warm in the way only old money homes in the mountains could be, dim light spilling from antique chandeliers, the smell of spiced candles flickering through the oak-paneled halls, and soft jazz humming in the background like a memory that wouldn't quite fade.

You were curled into the corner of their velvet dining bench, hoodie sleeves tugged over your fingers, legs tucked beneath you as you sipped from a glass of red that had somehow stayed full all night. Dinner had ended hours ago, long cleared plates, now replaced by mugs of tea and crumbling squares of dark chocolate. The fire crackled behind you. Susie was nursing her third Earl Grey. George and Lewis had undone the top buttons of their joggers. And Toto had been silently watching you for the last half hour, that unreadable, faintly amused glint in his eye, the one he got whenever he knew something no one else did.

It was a regular Thursday. This happened more often than most people would believe. Quiet dinners. Team bonding. The Mercedes inner circle, stripped of lanyards and radio mics and performance reports. Just family.

Which was why the silence that followed your next sentence was so loud. "I have an announcement."

George glanced up from where he was dissecting a leftover slice of cake. "Oh?"

Susie smiled warmly, settling her chin on her palm. "Go on then, love."

You didn't get a word out.

"Which team?" Toto asked, not even blinking. His voice cut through the room like a blade, cool, casual, sharp. Like he already knew. Of course he did.

You blinked, then smirked, lips curving slowly and smugly as you swirled your wine. "Ferrari. Fred called me this morning."

And just like that, everything shifted. Lewis sat up straighter. George stopped chewing. Susie let out the tiniest laugh, the disbelieving kind. And Toto... Toto clenched his jaw, flexing it once, twice, before exhaling through his nose.

"How much?" he asked, low.

You tilted your head. "Less than Mercedes currently pays me."

It was quiet for a beat. Then:

"What the fuck?" George said.

"Wait, hold on." Lewis was squinting at you like you'd just spoken in code. "Why didn't you say 'less than you currently pay me'?"

You smiled sweetly. "Because Mercedes pays me. Toto tops me up."

Toto's mouth curled at the corner. A smirk. Sinful. Like the secret was his and no one else's.

George blinked. "What-wait, what do you mean Toto tops you up?"

"Literally what it sounds like," you shrugged, reaching lazily for a piece of chocolate and popping it between your lips. "Mercedes pay me well. Toto just makes sure I'm comfortable."

Lewis tilted his head. "Comfortable how?"

You chewed slowly. Swallowed. Then looked him dead in the eye. "He pays for my apartment. And covers all my travel costs."

Lewis and George looked between each other, then at Toto.

Susie didn't flinch. She sipped her tea.

George let out a low whistle. "Fuck me."

"Why didn't I get that kind of deal?" Lewis grinned, nudging Toto with his knee under the table.

"Because you're not twenty-two and holding the spine of both of my drivers together," Toto replied evenly.

"You're joking," George said, eyes wide. "You've been paying for her apartment? For how long?"

Toto's voice was casual. "Since the last physiotherapist quit and Ferrari tried to poach her. It was cheaper than replacing her."

Lewis raised a brow. "And the flights?"

"I don't like her waiting at airports," Toto said simply.

You didn't bother to hide your grin. You loved watching them unravel.

George stared. "Mate. I knew you liked her but Jesus-"

"She's the best," Toto cut in. "They're not getting her. Not for less."

You lifted your glass. "Fred made a good pitch."

Toto's eyes flicked to yours, something dark glittering behind the lenses of his reading glasses. "And you said?"

You leaned back, licking red wine from your bottom lip. "I said I'd think about it."

George groaned, falling dramatically against the chair. "You're such a fucking tease."

"She's worse than you, mate," Lewis added, grinning.

"Why are you here tonight then?" Toto asked softly, eyes still on you. "To say goodbye?"

You shook your head. "To see what you'd say."

He didn't speak. Just stared. Quiet. Calculating. Then, slowly, "Do you want more?"

You raised your brows. "More?"

"Money. Car. Driver perks. Do you want more?"

You smiled. "Not sure. Depends on what you're offering."

Toto set down his mug. Slowly. Deliberately. "Stay with Mercedes, and I'll buy you a better apartment."

Lewis choked on his tea. George just gaped.

You went still. "What?" you asked, voice quieter.

"A three bedroom apartment isnt big enough really, youve got a bedroom, a physio room and a home gym," he said. "If we got you a bigger place, say a five bed, you could have a whole room as a wardrobe and a spare room. You've earned it. You're not going to Ferrari for a salary cut."

"Wait," George said, waving a hand. "You're offering her a flat?"

"A penthouse," Toto corrected.

"You're insane," Lewis muttered, almost admiringly.

You didn't move. Your fingers had tightened slightly around the stem of your glass. Your throat felt hot. Your stomach buzzed. "That's not... normal," you said softly.

"You're not normal," Toto said simply. And for a second, one long, razor-thin second, the rest of the room didn't exist. Not the laughter. Not the heat of the fire. Not even the shadows of George and Lewis half-horrified on the other side of the table.

Just you, still in your hoodie and fluffy socks, blinking at the man who had, apparently, been playing a game of chess with your life without ever needing to tell you. "You know this is fucked, right?" you said finally.

Toto smiled. Susie cleared her throat. "Darling, if you think this is the most fucked thing that's happened under this roof, you really haven't been here long enough."

Toto settled back into his usual armchair, long legs crossed, one elbow draped casually over the side. Susie took the far end of the couch, tucking her legs under a cashmere throw. Lewis, barefoot, collapsed into the opposite end like a king returning to his throne, hoodie hiked up just enough to show a flash of tattooed hip. And George? George took the floor like he owned it.

Sprawled across the thick Persian rug in nothing but joggers and a t-shirt, he sighed dramatically, arms flung overhead like he was auditioning for a cologne ad.

"Fuck, my thigh's killing me," he groaned.

You raised a brow from where you were perching on the edge of the armrest, sipping your wine with a smirk. "So stretch it."

"Can't. Hurts."

"Then rest."

"Or..." George rolled his head back, flashing you a slow, shit-eating grin. "You could be a good little physio and sort it out for me."

Lewis laughed under his breath, barely hiding his smirk. Toto didn't even look up, just muttered, "Here we go."

Susie sipped her tea, utterly unbothered. "You're so predictable, Georgie."

You rolled your eyes but set your glass down anyway. "Alright, alright. Get your pathetic ass in position."

That was all the permission George needed. In one smooth movement, he kicked off his joggers, stripping down to his boxers without a hint of shame, then lay flat on his back right in front of the fireplace, spreading his legs like it was the most natural thing in the world. You knelt between them, stretching your fingers out and cracking your knuckles, already regretting this, already knowing exactly how it was going to go.

Because this wasn't new. Not even close.

You'd fucked George more than once. Him and Lewis both. Sometimes together, sometimes not. Sometimes after race wins, sometimes after race losses, sometimes just because you were all bored in a hotel suite and the minibar was running low. It was never romantic. It was never planned. It just... happened. Over and over again. Like muscle memory. Like sin with a familiar face.

Your hands pressed into George's upper thigh, slow and firm, working deep into the tension while he let out a dramatic moan.

"Ohh my god-yes, there, fuck-right there-"

You snorted. "Jesus, George."

"You're magic," he groaned, eyes fluttering shut. "Fucking magic."

Lewis howled from the sofa. "Can you keep it down? Some of us are trying to digest."

Toto rolled his eyes without looking up from his phone. "He's always like this."

"He's worse when he's hard," you muttered.

"Am hard," George said cheerfully, eyes still closed. "Have been since you touched me."

Susie didn't even blink. "It's the wine. He gets like this when he drinks."

You looked down. Yup. Obvious. George had tented his boxers without shame, cock straining against the thin fabric like he was ready to fuck right there on the rug. His hips bucked slightly into your hands as you continued the massage, and you felt the shift, that flicker of heat behind the performance. He wasn't just teasing. He was aching.

His hand slid lazily into your hair. "Can you help me out or what?"

You tilted your head, amused. "Help you out how?"

He opened one eye. Smirked. "C'mon, sweetheart. You know how."

Lewis groaned into his hoodie. "He's shameless. You're so fucking shameless."

"She doesn't mind," George said, still petting your hair. "She likes me desperate."

You looked up at him, lips twitching. "I like you pathetic."

"Same thing," he muttered, rolling his hips again.

There was no protest in the room. No awkward glances. No tension. This was the fucked-up dynamic you all lived in, one foot in sin, one in safety. Everyone knew the lines had been crossed months ago. No one pretended otherwise.

You paused. Shifted forward slightly on your knees. Let your hand rest higher on his thigh, your thumb grazing the base of the bulge under his boxers. George exhaled hard, mouth falling open.

"Say please," you murmured.

He looked down at you, pupils blown wide, hair messy against the rug. "Please."

You let your palm press fully against him, slow and firm. He arched up slightly into the touch, one hand still tangled in your hair.

Lewis chuckled darkly. "So fucking predictable."

"He always begs," Susie added, voice light. "It's his thing."

Toto finally looked up, glasses low on his nose. "Can't even get a massage without needing to be milked like a fucking cow."

George didn't care. He was panting now, hips twitching up. "Fuck-come on, please-please-"

You pulled his boxers down just enough. Just to free him. His cock slapped against his stomach, flushed and leaking, twitching at the air. You stared for a beat. Took a slow breath.

Then you looked up at him and smiled, soft and wicked. "Be good, George."

His eyes fluttered shut as your mouth closed over him, hot and wet and slow.

The weight of George's cock on your tongue, hot and twitching and impossibly swollen, pulled every sound from him like a spell. His moans came loud, ragged, high in the throat — the kind of sound that would have gotten him kicked out of most hotels for public indecency. But here, in the heart of the Wolff mansion, with the firelight casting gold shadows across his bare stomach and your mouth stretched open over him, it was just another Thursday night.

He was falling apart fast.

"Fuckfuckfuck-" he gasped, hips stuttering up into your mouth, his hand still tangled in your hair. "You're-shit, you're so fucking good-don't stop, don't stop, don't you fucking-"

Your nails dug into the meat of his thigh, a wordless warning, and he whimpered like a kicked dog. You were still in control. You always were.

You didn't gag. You didn't choke. You knew how to relax your throat just enough to tease the edge of surrender, but never give it away completely. George wasn't just desperate—he was pathetic. Bucking his hips, gasping every time your lips slid to the base, cursing into the air as your spit dripped down his length and pooled beneath his tailbone.

Across the room, Lewis was silent.

But you could feel his eyes. The shift in the atmosphere. The static pressure of attention, not from George, not from Susie's amused glances, not from Toto's unreadable stare, but from Lewis. His presence was hot, magnetic, unmistakable.

You could hear him breathing.

George choked out a half-laugh as his thighs trembled. "She's gonna ruin me-Jesus-"

"She already has," Lewis murmured.

Your lashes fluttered. You didn't look up. Then Lewis moved.

You heard it, the creak of the sofa, the whisper of his sweats against skin, the subtle scuff as he crossed the rug. He didn't sit. He didn't kneel. He just lowered himself next to George's head, elbow on his knee, chin in his hand, watching.

"Getting comfortable?" Toto asked dryly, voice low and rich from the armchair.

"Yeah," Lewis said, eyes fixed on your mouth. "Don't wanna miss the show."

"She's got talent," George gasped, laughing, delirious, his chest rising too fast. "Fucking mouth of a god-fuck-"

"Mm." Lewis's eyes dragged over you, slow and dangerous. "She's definitely got something."

"You're both sick," Susie said mildly, but her tone held no judgment, only amusement. She unfolded from the couch gracefully, smoothing down her sweater, gathering her teacup. "I'll leave you boys to it. Try not to get bodily fluids on the rug, please."

George moaned even louder at that, which made her laugh. She padded toward the stairs, shooting you one last smirk as she passed behind you.

"You're the most expensive asset in Brackley, darling," she whispered in your ear. "Use it well."

And then she was gone.

You didn't stop. If anything, you slowed down, mouth working him with deeper suction, tongue curling expertly, hands pinning George's hips as he began to writhe beneath you.

Lewis shifted again. Closer. His knuckles brushed your cheek.

"You need a hand?" he asked, voice low, teasing, laced with a lazy hunger.

You hummed around George's cock, and the vibration made him cry out, a strangled, pleading sound. He was close. Soclose. One more flick of your tongue.

He came with a loud, broken shout, his whole body convulsing, fingers yanking your hair as his orgasm pulsed hot into your mouth. You held him down, took every drop. Swallowed. Then slowly pulled off, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

George collapsed into the rug like a man freshly exorcised. "Dead. I'm dead. I've seen God."

You sat back on your heels, breath steady, gaze flicking between the two men, Lewis, leaning in with that familiar glint in his eye, and Toto, who hadn't moved. Not even an inch. But he was watching. Oh, he was watching.

Lewis reached forward, hand brushing yours. "My turn?" he offered, cocky and casual.

You raised an eyebrow. "Your turn for what?"

He leaned in until your noses almost touched. "For some attention."

Your smirk curved slow and dangerous. "What, you want a reward just for watching?"

"I want dessert," he murmured, eyes dropping to your mouth.

And just as you were about to kiss him, Toto's voice cut through the room. "Careful." Both of you turned your heads. Toto was still in his chair, still composed, but his gaze was heavy. Not angry. Just... possessive.

Lewis chuckled under his breath. "Jealous?"

Toto didn't blink. "Just reminding her how well she's paid for her loyalty."

That word landed like a hot brand between your ribs. Loyalty. He always used it like currency. Like a chain. Like a game only he knew the rules to.

You tilted your chin. "Loyalty doesn't mean exclusivity."

Toto smiled faintly. "No, it doesn't. But it does mean knowing who bought you the keys to your front door."

Lewis let out a low whistle. "Damn."

George groaned from the floor. "Toto's such a fucking sugar dad. Can I marry him instead?"

"No," Toto replied instantly.

You laughed. Stretched out, reaching for your wine. You took a long, slow sip, tongue dragging along the rim of the glass. "I'm loyal," you said finally. "But I'm not tame."

Toto's smirk curved cruel and soft. "No, schatzi. You never were."

The fire crackled. George was still panting. Lewis was still close, still touching you. And somewhere upstairs, Susie was probably pouring herself another drink, shaking her head with a grin. Lewis's hand. Light on your wrist. Thumb dragging against your pulse point like it was counting something it already knew.

You turned your head just as he pulled you toward him, slow but firm, your wine glass slipping from your fingers as he guided you down beside George on the rug. The carpet was warm from bodies. From fire. From tension.

"Been dying to do this all night," Lewis murmured, voice low, already leaning in.

You didn't answer. You just let it happen, his lips crashing into yours, hungry and soft and hot. His hands cupped your jaw with almost reverent greed, kissing you like he wanted to taste George on your tongue. And you gave it to him, opened your mouth and kissed him back like it hurt, fingers knotting in his hoodie, pulling him closer, closer, until your thighs spread under the weight of him.

You felt George stir beside you, a lazy hand sliding over your hip, his nose nuzzling your shoulder.

"Mmm," he groaned, voice hoarse. "She's still warm."

Lewis broke the kiss just long enough to glance down. "You got one in you, Georgie?"

George grinned without opening his eyes. "I'll always make room for her."

And just like that, the rhythm shifted again.

Lewis leaned down to mouth at your neck, tongue wet and slow against your throat while George pressed soft kisses to your shoulder from behind. Their hands were everywhere, tracing, teasing, dragging over your thighs and waist like you were the last sweet thing left on earth. You felt their contrast in real time: Lewis, commanding and focused, pulling moans from you with firm fingers and filthy words; George, messy and needy, suckling at your skin and laughing breathlessly every time your legs twitched.

"Fuck, she's close again," Lewis muttered, thumb circling where it mattered most.

"Course she is," George said, voice thick. "She's always been easy for you."

You didn't even care. Not anymore. The shame had burned off in the firelight hours ago. You were bare, stretched, worshipped, their hands working in sync, tongues trading off along your ribs and breasts and thighs until you were writhing, panting, begging.

Your second orgasm hit like a punch, raw and full-body, back arching, voice cracking as you gripped Lewis's shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you tethered. George sucked a bruise into your thigh and Lewis kissed your jaw through it, murmuring nonsense against your skin while your body trembled beneath them both.

And then Lewis moved. He rose to his knees, breathing hard, eyes half-lidded and dark with hunger. His hands slid under your thighs and lifted you like nothing, your body pliant, boneless from release, dizzy with overstimulation.

"Come on," he murmured, low and hot. "Let's show him what his money gets."

You didn't even ask who he meant. Because there was only one man in that chair. Toto hadn't spoken in twenty minutes. But he was watching. Still. Unblinking.

And when Lewis carried you over to him, barefoot and smirking, your bare thighs pressed around his hips, your skin slick with sweat and spit, Toto didn't flinch.

He just looked up at you like you were a cathedral built for his pleasure. Lewis straddled you over him, placing you like a gift. Like a possession returning to its master. Your knees settled either side of Toto's hips, your chest flush with his broad chest, his hands instinctively settling on your ass as if they belongedthere. His grip was firm. Expectant.

"She's had two," Lewis said, voice gravelly. "Thought it was your turn."

Toto looked up at him, eyes amused. "How generous."

You were panting, still dazed. "You're not surprised."

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "Darling," he whispered, "I've been paying for this since the moment you walked through the door."

And then he kissed you, slow and brutal and owned.

The air had changed.

It wasn't just the heat, though the fireplace roared like a secret behind you, casting sweat-slick shadows across your skin and Toto's crisp black shirt. And it wasn't just the way Lewis had settled back onto the rug, cock out, lazily stroking himself as he watched you from below, his teeth worrying at his lip like he couldn't decide if he wanted to keep touching himself or touch you again.

No, it was Toto.

His grip on your hips was unforgiving. Not cruel. Not rushed. But intentional. One hand cupped the underside of your thigh while the other traced the curve of your ass with slow reverence, as though he were reacquainting himself with something he'd never really let go of. His touch burned with memory, with knowledge. Like he knew every way you unravelled. And tonight, he was going to remind you.

Because you were his. Not Mercedes's. His.

"You let them take their fill," he murmured, voice low and rich, his Austrian accent wrapping around every syllable like honey on glass. "But you still crawl back to me."

You tried to speak, some half-formed breath of a comeback, a moan, maybe a plea, but it disappeared as he gripped your jaw and turned your face toward him, eyes locked. His were darker now, sharper behind his glasses. Commanding. He didn't need to raise his voice. He never did.

"You don't come for Fred," he said softly, thumb brushing your bottom lip. "You don't come for a salary. You don't come for George, or Lewis, or praise. You come for me."

He lifted his hips just enough, just enough, to press the hard, hot weight of his cock against your entrance, and your body betrayed you instantly. You ached for him. Slick. Open. Wrecked from pleasure but somehow needing more. His presence filled every nerve, every cell, every hollow part of you the boys couldn't quite reach. Because they played. But Toto?

Toto owned. 

"Say it," he whispered, rubbing himself against your folds, maddeningly slow. "Say who you belong to."

You exhaled. A whisper. A crack. "You."

He pushed in. The breath left your lungs like a prayer as he slid inside, inch by inch, stretching you with devastating control. He didn't slam. He didn't rush. He claimed. One hand at your hip, the other resting gently on your spine, guiding your body to take him the way you were always meant to.

George groaned from the floor. "Fucking hell-she's still so tight-"

"She's perfect," Lewis muttered, still stroking himself. "Look at her-look how deep he's in-"

You weren't looking at either of them. You couldn't. You were locked onto Toto, forehead to forehead, your palms flat against his chest, legs shaking where they were folded around his waist. He filled you completely. Like he always did. Like he was built for the inside of you.

He rolled his hips once. Deep. Slow. Purposeful.

You whimpered.

"You let them play," Toto murmured. "But this-this is where you end."

You clenched around him. He grinned.

"Every time," he said, voice a growl. "Every time you act like you're theirs, and every time I put you back in your place."

You wanted to argue. But you couldn't. Because he was fucking you with goddamn precision, slow, brutal thrusts that lit every nerve like a fuse. You could feel your orgasm building again, shamefully fast, the oversensitivity making every drag of his cock feel like lightning.

Lewis was moaning under his breath. George had started stroking himself again, hand lazy and uncoordinated. But none of it mattered.

Only Toto mattered.

"Do you think Fred would fuck you like this?" he asked softly, punctuating it with another deep roll of his hips. "Do you think he'd learn your body the way I did?"

You gasped. "N-no-"

"Do you think he'd pay for your apartment and your flights and your silence-"

You whimpered. "Toto-"

"Say it again."

You clenched your eyes shut. "I'm yours."

"Louder."

"I'm yours."

His thrusts picked up. Still slow. Still cruel. But harder. Your thighs started shaking again, your nails digging into his chest, your cunt fluttering helplessly around him as the pressure crested again, your third orgasm boiling in your gut like it couldn't bear to be held back.

"Good girl," he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. "Come for me. Let them watch."

And you did.

You shattered.

You came around him with a cry, legs locking, head thrown back, your whole body twitching as he fucked you through it. Toto held you still, riding out your orgasm with steady, punishing thrusts until you were sobbing into his collarbone, too wrecked to move, too full to speak.

He came with a quiet grunt, one hand gripping your hip, the other fisting the back of your hair as he spilled inside you, heat spreading through your core in long, deep pulses. And still, still, he held you.

Slow. Possessive. Tender in a way that made it worse. You collapsed into his chest, shaking. George let out a groan beside you. Lewis whispered something that sounded like fuck, that was insane.

But Toto? Toto just smoothed a hand down your spine. And when he spoke again, it was so soft you barely heard it: "You'll never leave me."

[sirenontheloose]

we really need part 2 to Please Don't Clip This ❤️🥺👉🏻👈🏻

Here it is! I'm lowkey scared I’ll get obsessed and keep going until they start dating or something.

Please Don't Clip This pt.2

pt.1 here

Y/N didn’t go online after that day or the next. She saw the trending tags, the edits, the slowed-down clips of her blinking at Lara’s Instagram like she was being hypnotized, but she didn’t respond. It wasn’t embarrassment, not exactly. She was just... critically offline. So offline, in fact, that she didn’t even know KATSEYE was in South Korea promoting their latest release, Gnarly, while she was busy resting, cleaning, and ignoring the fact that her livestream crush might’ve actually witnessed the full collapse.

She thought it was over and everyone had their share of fun teasing her.

Until Friday night.

Y/N had just finished dance practice. Hair damp from sweat, hoodie slung over one shoulder, she followed the rest of Aespa into a nearby Korean BBQ place. It was one of those regular idol haunts. Casual, private, safe. She didn’t even think twice about it.

Until she sat down.

And saw the face.

The one she was swooning over in front of possibly hundreds of thousands of people.

Sitting at the next table.

With KATSEYE.

There she was, Lara.

Y/N froze mid-sit, hovering awkwardly over the cushion like her knees forgot how to work. Karina noticed first. She looked up, followed Y/N’s line of sight, and let out a quiet but sharp gasp.

"Oh my God. No way. That’s her, isn’t it?"

Y/N sat down so fast she almost knocked over the water pitcher. "No it’s not. I mean, what are you talking about? It could be anyone. Shut up."

Winter leaned across the table with a smug smile. "That’s definitely her. I saw that livestream, remember? We all did. That’s your Instagram crush in 4K."

Ningning giggled. "She’s even prettier in person. Y/N, you’re so cooked."

"I’m begging you all to be normal," Y/N whispered, face heating up. She reached for a menu like it could shield her from the world.

Karina grinned. "You were giggling at her selfies for ten minutes straight. Don’t think we forgot."

Winter nodded. "Should we say hi for you? No? Maybe just a little wave? You should ask for her number," she was practically scream-whispering.

Y/N groaned. "Please stop. I'm shaking."

From the other table, a burst of laughter rang out. Y/N risked a glance.

Lara was laughing at something Dani said, head tilted back slightly, eyes crinkled. Then she turned, just a bit, and made eye contact.

Y/N blinked.

And Lara smiled.

The kind of smile that said, yes, I saw everything.

Y/N turned back around and physically pulled her hood up. "Abort mission. We need to leave."

"You haven’t even ordered," Ningning teased.

"I can survive off air and shame."

Meanwhile, at the other table, the KATSEYE girls were not being subtle.

"She’s so your type," Megan said, poking Lara’s arm.

"She was literally blushing on livestream," Manon added, grinning.

"She looked like she was about to write a love letter," Yoonchae chimed in.

Lara tried to play it cool, swirling her drink with her straw. "You’re all exaggerating."

"We are not," Dani said. "She was gone, she looked like she was planning her future with you while scrolling through your page."

Sophia leaned in. "What are you gonna do?"

Lara glanced over again. Y/N looked like she was actively trying to disappear. Her hood was up. Her chopsticks were shaking. Her friends were giggling mercilessly.

Lara smiled again. "We’ll see."

Back at Aespa’s table, Y/N let out a long, silent scream into her hands.

A few minutes passed. Then footsteps were heard.

Y/N looked up just in time to see Lara approaching, casual but confident, hands in the pockets of her jacket.

And of course, she smelled good. Looked even better. Like someone who walked straight out of a perfume ad, all glowing skin and effortless charm, while Y/N looked like she just finished dumpster diving behind a dance studio.

"Hi," Lara said, stopping by their table. Her voice was calm, a little playful. "Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say... your livestream was really fun."

Y/N’s soul tried to escape through her hoodie.

Karina choked on her water. Ningning bit her lip to stop from laughing. Winter made the most dramatic gasp of the night.

Y/N blinked up at her, completely frozen. "Oh. Uh. Thanks. It was…yeah. Unexpected."

Lara tilted her head slightly, still smiling. "Well, it made my night. I’ll leave you to your dinner. Just thought I’d say hi."

She gave the table a polite nod, eyes flicking back to Y/N for just a second longer than necessary, and turned to walk back to her group.

Once she was gone, the silence shattered.

"OH MY GOD," Karina hissed.

"She came over and she said hi. She talked to you," Winter whispered.

"Y/N, you’re sweating," Ningning added.

"I’m aware," Y/N muttered, hiding her face in both hands.

This was worse than the livestream.

And somehow, so much better.

[reinstarnation]

when i tell any doc what level of pain i'm in I tell them "i will only take medication for it at a 7 on my scale. The traditional one doesn't account for chronic pain and how i'm forced to work and exist through high levels of pain to live."

my pain scale is:

1- i don't even notice it. background noise kind of pain. || example: small scratch/paper cut

2- still dont notice it most of the time. if the part that hurts is moved/touched/etc. i will notice it. || ex: larger scratch on my finger when i'm bending it.

3- i do notice it ambiently, may feel like stiffness or tightness. || ex: my ankles when i stand up after rest and they don't want to work right for like 5 minutes.

4- i am noticing it. i can recognise it hurts ambiently. starting to get distracting. || ex: sore throat when i'm not swallowing.

5- ouchy. This is my base pain level daily. I can function here. If i stay here i can do most of the things I want to on top of what I need to. || ex: mild period cramps/ week 3 after a scrape when the skin is still tender but i don't have too many scabs.

6- ouchy. this is where pain starts getting distracting. I can still function but I may adjust myself to try and accommodate pain here. || ex: post-workout pains, pain after walking for an hour with no breaks. average period cramp pain

7- i am taking medication now. this is annoying but i can power through it. I usually hit this level about halfway through my shifts at work during the school year. Usually my ability to work is a bit compromised and I might take more frequent smaller breaks. || ex: sinus headache, accidentally closed a door on your hand, week 2 after a large scrape where the scab keeps you from moving right.

8- this is the point where I start being able to not function right. My coworkers notice when i hit this point. If i am here for more than like an hour I can't do anything after work. If I'm here for longer then I'm still feeling it the next day. I get to this point regularly. || ex: week 1 after a scrape where the wound is scabbing and still leaking plasma so you can't keep it covered for very long, week 2 post-surgery (me referencing my gallbladder removal. and I subbed at a school after that.)

9- this is where I take double the amount of medication at level 7. level 7 is 2 extra strength (500mg) acetaminophen (so 1000mg of meds). level 9 is 2000mg of megs, 4 pills. usually that doesn't hit it nearly as much as i hope. I feel this pain more often than people are supposed to. || ex- dislocating my knee (which is a regular injury for me), week 1 post surgery still in the hospital, had to work extra areas in my 8 hour shift without overtime.

10- i am considering going to urgent care about this. I got here when the rock my gallbladder made STARTED lodging itself into the connection to the liver in april 2023. I STILL WAS TRYING TO EXIST SEMI-NORMALLY HERE. I was starting to get a little delirious with pain but denial is one hell of a drug.

and since my baseline is 5, which is like a 3 on the traditional pain scale.

11- Can't function normally. may be able to do some activities. severely limited. || ex: day 2 post surgery when they started making me get up and walk to prevent blood clots and i needed people to help me do that.

12- can't function at all. bedrest yay. can still eat and go use the restroom but will want help with that.

13- actively wishing for death to relieve me from this hell. can't move. can't breathe. can't eat. god forbid i have to pee. || ex: immediate post surgery. I woke up from anesthesia sobbing.

looking at chronic pain/illness scales i always get a little stumped on "it stops me from doing work/daily activities" as a descriptor because what if i'm just a wimp who cant handle a 2 yknow. what if i'm just a baby who doesnt know true pain.

[7-deadly-cats]

the bastard & the clown

★ P A I R I N G ★ boxer!rafe cameron x witty!barkeeper!reader + some platonic barry x reader

★ S U M M A R Y ★ you’re working a regular shift at the bar you run when rafe and barry drop by for a chill night out. but when a pair of men at the counter start running their mouths, rafe puts one specific bastard politely in his place.

★ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ★ rafe's pov, cursing / strong language, mildly suggestive language and themes, (verbal) themes of toxic masculinity/sexism/misogyny/domestic violence/tradwife, semi jealous!rafe, also flustered!rafe hihihi, physical violence (a punch) & mentions of blood

★ W O R D C O U N T ★ 6.4k+ (it was supposed to be 3k help)

★ A / N ★ been wanting to introduce this duo in a while now and thought they could fit @zyafics campaign. also, thought it'd be ironic if rafe got to put some asshole in his place who basically represents some of these twisted versions of him. a lot longer than intended but i got a little carried away. also only proofread twice so pls don't mind any context mistakes. anyway, hope you guys enjoy and lmk what you think <3

ps: idk if it gets clear throughout the fic (or the title hahahah) but each man at the counter is assigned a term. so don't get confused, 'clown' always refers to one guy and 'bastard' to the other.

xx ᓚᘏᗢ

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"Ahhh, now I get why you insisted on coming here, Country Club," Barry said with a fuckass grin as the bar’s wooden entrance door swung shut behind them.

The two of them just came back from a boxing session, freshly showered, and now in need of some time out.

Rafe followed that idiot's gaze, a scowl already forming on his face.

The Bastard’s Lighter was packed with a mixed crowd of shitty people, the air thick with smoke and the sharp bite of cheap whiskey. Round tables glowed under soft golden lighting, casting gentle shadows over laughing assholes and clusters of sweet girls beneath them.

Some of those girls had even turned their heads when the two of them walked in, flashing Rafe pretty smiles and giggles in their cute little summer dresses (god, how he loved this season for exactly that). They were probably hoping he’d come over and talk to one of them.

But he didn't give a shit about them.

Why should he? Because at the far end of the room, the bar awaited—a silver-lit, crescent-shaped counter with high stools offering seats with the view on the best part of this entire place.

You.

The hot bartender with the cheeky laugh and teasing smiles, the one who could outdrink any bastard who dared challenge you.

Or better: the girl Rafe had come here for tonight.

That scowl threatening to creep onto his face quickly disappeared, replaced by a faint smile and softened gaze.

"Come on, loverboy," Barry chuckled, clapping a hand on Rafe’s shoulder and nudging him forward. "Don’t wanna keep your lady waiting. Might be some other slick bastard trying his luck.”

And the scowl was right back.

Rafe turned around with a tilt of his head, eyes squinted, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he tapped Barry’s chest. “You fucker behave tonight, alright?”

“Me?” Barry raised his brows in mock innocence, shaking his head with an amused snort. “Dunno what you’re trynna tell me here, big boy, but I’m just here to drink and enjoy your delightful company. I ain’t ever—“

“Just keep count of your fucking drinks, yeah?”, Rafe said, brows furrowed as he held Barry's stupid grin. “You falling from the stool tonight, I’ll leave you there. I'm not dealing with the same shit as last time.”

Shit, Rafe had been so close to getting your number—hell, you’d already pulled out your cute little notepad and pen, that teasing glint in your eyes, the first two digits already written down—and then swamp rat Barry ruined this one-in-a-million chance by almost throwing up on the counter.

Idiot hadn't just embarrassed himself, trying to drink a dockworker the size of a bear under the table, but Rafe as well. And right in front of you on top of that.

Barry was lucky Rafe had even let him tag along tonight. He would’ve preferred bringing Kelce this time—that idiot at least knew how to be a decent wingman—but he was on some kind of detox bullshit and wouldn’t go near fast food or booze right now.

Barry let out a lazy chuckle. “Not my fault for—“

“I don’t give a shit”, Rafe cut him off, passive-aggressively fixing the crease he’d caused on Barry's tank top with a one-sided smile. “Don’t act like a clown, and I won’t treat you like one. Can’t be that hard, right?”

For a moment Barry just eyed him, mouth tugged into a downward smile, then he raised his hands in surrender. “A’right, a’right, Country Club. Relax your balls.” He nodded toward the bar. “Now get ya fancy ass movin', ya girl's been eyeing the wrong guy the past five minutes.”

Shit, what.

Rafe’s head snapped around.

Aw, hell no, fuck that.

There you were, a few meters down, chatting with some greasy fucker in his late forties, dressed in a cheap-ass Suitsupply suit (yeah, Rafe could smell that offense from across the room). And it wasn’t just one bastard you were serving with that practiced little smile—knowing full well they were disgusting pricks but also well aware you could squeeze some good profit out of them—but another one of this breed sat right beside him.

Rafe only saw the backs of their heads in those terrible excuses for suits, but he could still make out the balding patches from over here (not to mention the probably receding hairlines). He didn’t need to see their faces to know exactly how they were looking at you—lecherous grins and eyes creeping over places they had no business looking.

He knew their type. He'd seen men like these at business events of his dad.

Middle-class managers leading some irrelevant departments at some irrelevant company selling irrelevant shit. And when they weren’t sitting in their sad little three-square-meter offices, drinking bad coffee and pretending their phone calls were presidential briefings, they hit up country clubs and bars, puffing cigars and sipping whiskey, trying to make up for their miserable little lives by gathering in their self-proclaimed alpha circles.

And the worst part? They probably had a sweet wife and kids waiting at home, but instead chose to sit at a bar ogling the boobs and butt of a bartender in her twenties.

Pathetic losers.

Rafe's fingers were already twitching as he followed after Barry. And of course, as lucky as he was, only three stools left at the bar. Right next to those wannabe CEOs.

Fucking great.

Barry plopped down next to some sweet girl while Rafe had no choice but to sit down beside one of the pricks—at least one stool of space between them.

He would’ve loved nothing more than to just chase them off, but he didn’t wanna cause a scene in front of you. And, judging by the stack of glasses in front of them, you were at least making decent money off these pricks.

Besides, he knew you could handle yourself if you needed to. No reason to question that.

“Be right with you, boys,” you said with a cheeky grin, not even looking up as you mixed one of the losers a Jack & Coke (a pathetic drink for a pathetic clown).

God, but the way you worked the bottles so smoothly, not spilling a single drop. Rafe could watch you behind the bar for hours, soaking up your energy and that laugh.

“No worries, Boss,” Barry called back, matching your grin and already reaching for a peanut bowl next to him. “Got allll the time in the world.”

That stupid-ass nickname of his even made you laugh, making a soft smile creep onto Rafe’s face too.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” the clown next to Rafe slurred, voice already half gone, as you slid the glass toward him (Rafe could feel his blood pressure spike the second that fucker tried sneaking a look down your top).

You let out a light breath, pulling the drink back with a raised brow. “Aww, didn’t you see? ‘Sweetheart’ isn’t on the menu. Unless you’re cool with paying ten bucks for it every time.”

The clown had the audacity to gasp. “What? No way. Not happening.”

“Shame,” you said, pretending to pout. “You looked like a guy who could afford it.” You shrugged and started pulling the drink back again. “But I guess I was wrong—”

“I am!” the guy cut in, nodding like a maniac. “CEO of Bulk & Bloom. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Rafe almost burst out laughing. That fuckass health/gym/whatever store Kelce swore by? That's what he was CEO of? Most embarrassing shit Rafe had heard all month.

You tilted your head with a pondering expression, face all scrunched up like you were desperately trying to remember the sad little company he worked at (god, the way you played that clown, milking him for cash—shit was so fucking hot).

"Oh, yeah, I remember now," you finally said, fluttering your lashes at the stupid fucker (Rafe knew it was all an act, but that little gesture still stirred something vile in him). "Then I’m all the more confident that a man in such an important position won't mind coughing up a few extra bucks, right?" Without waiting for that pathetic clown's response, you slid the drink across the counter toward him, your voice slipping back into your true tone. "Just leave it on the bill later, sweetheart."

As soon as you turned to face Rafe and Barry, Rafe straightened up, unable to hide a smile as your pretty eyes landed on him for a second—

—before your gaze fell on swamp rat Barry.

“B!” A wide grin spread across your face as you leaned against the lower bar with one hand, the other resting on your hip. “Good to see you. You recovered from last time? Looked pretty rough.”

Acting as if Rafe wasn't here. Ha. Funny. Fucking hilarious.

Barry nodded, swallowing a handful of peanuts. “Sure as hell did, Boss. Shouldn’t have mixed my drinks so heavy.”

You chuckled, a sweet sound Rafe wished had been directed at him. "Nah, you shouldn't have participated in a drinking game with Big Ol' Hank."

“Could’ve warned me about the guy’s skills. Man’s a bear,” Barry said, shaking his head with a lopsided smile.

You turned and pointed toward a portrait on the wall behind you—a big, grumpy-looking dude. Below him, a golden plaque read: Keeper of the Lighter since 1977. His fire never died, and neither did his thirst.

“I’m pretty sure that should've been warning enough,” you replied, amused, as you turned back to them, nodding toward Rafe. “Lucky your boyfriend walked you home that night. Would’ve been a real shame to find you washed up dead on the shore the next morning.”

"Fucker's not my boyfriend", Rafe said.

With a raised brow, you finally spared him a glance, that cheeky smile playing on your lips. “You sure? You two come in here every week, giggling like schoolgirls over god-knows-what, drinking the same kind of beer, and now you even got matching buzzcuts.” A chuckle escaped you. “Surprised you’re not wearing each other’s names around your wrists.”

Fuck that.

Rafe had the buzzcut first and a week later fucking Barry decided to chop off his hair too, for whatever fucking reason.

The worst part? You might actually believe Rafe was taken now.

“Boy’s lips probably taste like shit from kissing his daddy’s ass,” Barry said before Rafe could reply, and the fucker was lucky Rafe didn’t deck him right then and there. "Ain't wanna get involved with that mess."

Not a wingman. A fucking clipman, cutting off any chance Rafe might’ve had with you.

“I’m not—” Rafe started with a deep frown, but shut his mouth when some girl at the far end of the bar called your name.

“Coming!” you called back, then turned to Rafe with a teasing little smile in your eyes. “Sorry, Ralph, no time for—”

"Rafe."

“Right. Anyway,” you said, grabbing your notepad and pen from your waist. “The usual, I assume? Two Modelos?”

Barry nodded and motioned to the empty peanut bowl. “And refill this, would you?”

“For you, always,” you said grinning, scribbling something down, then looked up at Rafe with an expectant expression. “And you, handsome?”

Rafe blinked.

Wait, what.

Shit, why the fuck did he feel his cheeks heat up and why the fuck did you eye him like that? Like you were staring straight into his damn soul.

Rafe let out a baffled chuckle, scratching his jaw with furrowed brows. "Uh, PBR this time."

“Oh, feeling adventurous today, I see,” you teased with a grin, jotting it down. You quickly refilled Barry’s snack bowl and left with a “Be right back.”

Rafe’s eyes trailed after you, drinking up the way your hips swayed as you walked—sweet yet confident. That whole attitude of yours… shit was driving him absolutely crazy.

After Wheezie, you were probably the coolest girl Rafe had ever met. Always so unbothered, quick-witted, cheeky, and with the perfect flirt-to-roast ratio.

And Rafe still hadn't bagged you. Shit was starting to get embarrassing.

"Boy's in love."

Rafe’s gaze snapped to Barry, who was watching him with a way too shit-eating grin for someone who’d just narrowly avoided a punch to the face.

“You know if you’re trying to get your ass beat tonight, you’re on the right track,” Rafe said, tilting his head with a crooked smile.

Barry just chuckled and reached for another peanut, but Rafe grabbed the shitty-ass bowl and moved it out of reach.

“I’m serious, dude,” he said, gesturing to his chest with both hands. “Told you not to clown around tonight, and you go spouting bullshit like I’m not right here.”

Like, what the fuck was that ass-kissing comment about? Seriously.

“What?” Barry raised a brow, grinning as he leaned on the counter. “Don’t tell me Country Club’s scared I’ll shoo away his girl.”

More like cockblocking Rafe but yeah, same fucking thing.

“All I’m fucking saying is—” Rafe started, but Barry waved him off before he could finish.

"You’ve already almost won the race, bro, a’right," he said with that fuckass smile, jerking his thumb back toward where you were chatting with some other chick. "You think Little Miss Bar Queen would bother exchanging more than just your order with you if she didn’t already consider you rocking her world, at least a little?"

For a second, Rafe just stared at the idiot.

Could that be true? Were you actually interested in Rafe? Sure, you’d been cool enough to (almost) give him your number last time, but not even remembering his fucking name now… that shit felt like a punch straight to the gut.

Okay, shit, yeah, of course, you served all kinds of people every day, some shittier than others, and of course, there were guys in the mix who liked you just as much as Rafe did. A blind man could see how fucking gorgeous you were.

And of fucking course you'd flirt back. That’s just how you were. And as much as it gnawed at Rafe’s chest, as much as it stirred something deep and ugly in his gut, it wasn’t all that unlikely that you gave your number out to other guys too.

But swamp rat Barry claiming Rafe actually had a shot with you? That shit lit something in him. A wave of energy crashing through him, almost feeling as good as snorting a line (yeah yeah, Rafe was clean now, but the comparison still fit).

Shit, okay, so maybe he needed a new approach. Maybe he just had to—

"--beat up my wife if she'd dared talk to me like that", the bastard beside the clown said loud enough for Rafe to hear.

Shit, what the fuck?

"I'm serious," the bastard continued his bullshit, talking to the clown. "You let every woman talk to you like that, and pretty soon they start thinking they own you. When in reality, it's the other way around, ain't it?"

The clown nodded, letting out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah I guess you’re right, Tommy, I just—“

“What’s with the scowl, bro?” Barry said, ripping Rafe out of the braindead convo next to him. “Tried cheering your sulky ass up and here you are—“

Rafe shushed him with a wave, brows deeply furrowed. “Shut the fuck up for one second.”

"Man, am I glad I'm not your boyfriend," Barry muttered, reaching over to pull his snack bowl back and skimming the menu.

Fuckass.

“—that’s why it’s important to put them in their place, alright?”, the bastard continued preaching. “Women want someone they can follow. It’s natural they seek a man who protects them and cares for them.” He tapped the counter aggressively. “Wonder why there are no female presidents yet? Exactly! We are born leaders.”

Oh, Rafe was this close to getting up and smashing that fucker in the face, knocking a few teeth out, and giving him a pretty little black eye to match. His knuckles were still warm from earlier, would be a shame not to put that last burst of energy to use.

But nah.

He held himself back. Now he was curious. Let that asshole keep talking. Maybe he was witnessing the dumbest fucker in world history present himself right here, and Rafe wasn’t about to miss that celebration.

"Guess that makes sense," the clown slurred, swirling his half-empty Jack & Coke. "Harris is always bitching about me getting home late and not helping with the chores. I think I just gotta remind her of her role in this family, right?"

The bastard knocked on the wooden counter, a filthy chuckle escaping his lips. "You get it, man! She's working remote, right? So what's she complaining about? Got all the time in the world to prep the house for when you get home."

Rafe's blood boiled just beneath the surface. He hadn't heard this level of fucked-up nonsense in a LONG time. Last time, some cocky little shit at the boxing club thought he had a chance against Rafe. Like, was there something in the air lately making people extra fucking stupid?

The clown sighed, staring into his drink. "I just don't know how to—"

"Okay, beautifuls, sorry it took so long." The sweet sound of your voice yanked Rafe out of this braindead bubble. "Former high school friend decided to say hi."

With a soft thud, you placed two bottles of beer in front of the guys. The Modelo you slid over to Barry. "Here you go, B." And the PBR to Rafe, a bolt of lightning surging through him as you winked at him. "And this one for his cute boyfriend." You leaned back, drying your hands on the rag at your hip. "Anything else?"

Rafe blinked.

Cute!

Shit, why did that make the funniest feeling arise in his chest? He felt like some schoolgirl going insane over her crush.

Get a fucking grip, dude. Jesus.

"Get his fancy ass some ice," Barry mumbled, mouth full of peanuts, thumbing toward Rafe. "Boy decided to go gloveless at training today. Now he's hurting but too proud to admit it."

Rafe was gonna kill Barry the moment they stepped outside. Sure, his knuckles were still throbbing, but he wasn't hurt. What the fuck was that swamp rat even on?

Your soft chuckle melted Rafe's scowl, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah? Wanna let me take a closer look when I'm done here? I'm sure you could use someone to tape that up after such a session."

Oh?

A breathy laugh escaped Rafe as he raised a brow, nerves buzzing under his skin. "What, you some kind of part-time sports therapist or some shit?"

"No, but my aunt is," you said with a grin, tilting your head. "Picked up a few things from her. And I'm guessing it's real tough to reach your back on your own."

Fuck yeah. Now Rafe had officially been allowed in the ring.

"Alright," he said, smiling crookedly, fingers picking at the beer label. "When's your shift over?"

"As soon as the place closes down," you replied, grinning. "Guess you'll have to stick around for a few more hours."

Oh, you could bet your sweet little ass he would.

Rafe shrugged, corners of his mouth tugging down as he shook his head lightly. "I'm free." Then mirrored your grin. "Seats here are kinda shit, but I guess the view makes up for it."

And the genuine laugh that escaped your usually bold mouth felt like snorting three lines in a row (nah, fr, Rafe was clean, alright).

"Okay, then," you said, nodding at the beers. "If you need anything else, just holler. Got other customers to tend to."

With that, you spun your cheeky ass around and walked down to the other side of the bar where some old ladies were sitting.

"Shiiit, dude," Barry said with the biggest grin ever, gulping down a sip of his shitty-ass Modelo. "I think I just third-wheeled some telepathic sex right here. Might as well thank me for giving ya the nudge."

Rafe scoffed with a shake of his head, taking a sip of his PBR and immediately regretting his choice of beer. "You can thank me for not beating the shit out of you later."

A giggle left Barry's lips and whatever smart-ass reply he threw back, Rafe didn't register, because right next to him, three seats down, he caught the bastard tossing another comment to his clown friend.

"See, Frank, and that girl right there?" Oh, that fucker meant you, huh. "Pitiful. Probably no man at home to teach her not to swing her ass around other men in public. Sad what girls are turning into."

"Say that again." Rafe had now fully turned toward the two sorry-ass losers, head leaning forward, eyes locked on the bastard behind the clown.

Both looked up. The clown blinked, confused. The bastard raised a brow like he couldn’t believe someone had just interrupted their little alpha circle jerk.

"Sorry?" the bastard said, eyeing Rafe up and down like he was sizing up if the boy in a polo and shorts deserved to be taken seriously.

Rafe nodded, letting out a sharp scoff. "Yeah, you're gonna be sorry if you open that fucking mouth of yours one more time."

The bastard's face scrunched up and in that moment he seemed to decide Rafe was beneath him. "Boy, best not get involved in things that don't concern you."

That’s when Rafe knew for sure: this asshole was getting punched tonight. Just a matter of when.

"Bullshit’s spilling out of you like this place is a fucking stable," Rafe replied with a crooked smile. "So yeah, it does concern me when your shit's reeking all the way to my seat."

The clown was already sinking into his stool, but the bastard apparently thought Rafe was the joke here. He let out a disbelieving breath, not even looking at Rafe anymore as he turned to the clown, gesturing in Rafe’s direction. “See that, Frank? That’s what happens when a father doesn’t raise his son right. His mother was probably—”

“Finish that sentence, and your loser friend can go ahead and reserve you a hospital bed.” Rafe’s voice had dropped to a low edge, his expression far too calm for how close he was to dragging that fucker’s face across the counter.

The fucking audacity—not just dragging you and his dad through the mud, but now even throwing Rafe’s dead mother in too?

“Rafe, bro, come on,” Barry said from behind. “Idiots like him ain’t worth it.”

But Rafe spared him no mind, gaze fixed on the bastard three seats down.

The clown of the duo just looked between them, then down at his sad little Jack & Coke like he hadn’t just sat in the middle of all this shit, like he hadn’t co-signed every word his bastard friend had said. (Don’t worry—Rafe would deal with his sorry ass later.)

“I know your type, boy,” the bastard went on, eyeing Rafe’s clothes again (if only he knew Rafe owned socks that cost more than his entire outfit). “Dropped out of school, probably had some rebellious phase, and of course no real man around to beat you into shape. What a shame. Society’s raised nothing but soft little men these days.”

Rafe tilted his head slightly, brows raised in mock confusion. “Funny hearing that from a pathetic loser like you. Talking about ‘real men’ like you even qualify.”

As soon as the bastard started laughing, Rafe was on his feet, brushing off Barry's hand as he stepped around the clown. He let out an amused breath and rubbed his jaw with a shake of his head as he came to a stop in front of the bastard. "Not sure what's so funny about that."

The drunk clown nearly tripped over himself pushing himself off the stool, mumbling something about needing to piss as he staggered away. The bastard only furrowed his brow, watching his loser friend stumble off.

“What do you know about being a man?” he spat, turning back to Rafe, the wrinkles in his face bunching up like worn-out leather. He nodded toward Barry. “Your friend’s a pogue by the looks of it, and you...” His eyes dropped to Rafe’s sneakers. “Either the same breed or some kook who lost his crown.”

What the actual fuck was even going on in this fucker's brain? Fucking apes had more relevant shit to say than him.

"Yeah, talking reaal big for a guy with a knockoff Armani suit two sizes too big for a small fucker like you," Rafe snorted, eyeing the bastard down for a second. "Suit's fake, Rolex fake, shoes look like you got 'em from TKMinimum, and what's that?"

Rafe let out a disbelieving scoff, raising his brows as he gestured toward the fucker's feet. "Socks matching the color of your cheap-ass suit. Lemme guess: trying to appear taller to compensate for your poor little ego and tiny cock. I mean, shit", Rafe ran a hand over his buzzed hair, grinning crookedly as his gaze zeroed in on the guy’s forehead, "Even your fucking hairline’s running away from the bullshit coming out of your mouth."

Sure, Rafe could've given him some preaching about how to treat women and how fucking stupid his fuckass worldview was but that idiot was too far gone already and the only way to put him in his place was to question his entire appearance.

That's what guys like him actually cared about. Not morals, not decency, just how they appeared in public and whether everyone saw just how glorious and wealthy they were.

And the way that pathetic loser looked at Rafe now? Worth more than all the silver, gold, or diamonds in the entire damn world.

And then the cherry on top: your chuckle from behind the bastard—light and effortless, like the ring of a bell announcing Rafe's victory after a boxing match.

Rafe hadn't even noticed you coming up but now he felt like a fucking winner getting to put a fucker like that in his place in front of you AND getting that sweet sound out of you for the second time tonight.

And then, that bastard made the biggest fucking mistake of his entire pitiful life.

He turned his head back, eyes daring to look you over as he let out a disdainful scoff. When he made a hushing motion with his hand, he said "Do me a favor, woman, and--"

Rafe’s fist collided with the asshole’s face, a sickening crack echoing through the air—nearly as satisfying as your chuckle just right now.

The guy let out a sharp gasp as he stumbled back from his stool, hands flying up to his broken nose just in time to catch the blood now spilling over his fingers and lips. He crashed chest-first onto the seat next to him, bleeding all over the supposedly precious leather cushion.

The area around the bar went dead silent, except for a group of girls giggling about something in the back and fucking Nickelback playing on the speakers.

Rafe quietly met your gaze as he rubbed at his throbbing knuckles, while the bastard on the floor dramatically moaned like he’d been shot instead of just having his nose broken.

And you cheeky little thing only raised your eyebrows at Rafe, the faintest smile playing on your lips. “I’m pretty sure the house rules say no fights.”

Oh, how much Rafe loved that glimmer in your eyes.

"And I'm pretty sure it needs two for a fight", Rafe replied with a scoff and gestured to the sorry-ass loser clutching onto the stool. "Bastard's nowhere near to even be considered a walking vendor for a match, let alone a contestant."

“Shit, Country Club, this ain’t no damn boxing ring,” Barry chimed in with a chuckle, tossing the bleeding bastard a wad of tissues onto the stool beside him. “Bro, you’re staining the seats.”

The groaning bastard finally pushed himself up and knocked the tissues off the stool, one hand clutched to his nose, blood running through his fingers and dripping onto his knockoff suit and cheap-ass shoes.

Aww, and even a bloodshot eye—how unfortunate.

Now that was a picture worthy of being framed behind the bar. Gold plaque underneath: Biggest Dipshit in the Universe (since birth probably).

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, you little shit,” the bastard groaned, eyes watery from the punch, glaring at Rafe with a face so twisted, he looked like he was mid-way through busting the world’s saddest nut.

Rafe almost let out a giggle. Instead, he just nodded, lips curled. “Looking forward to it. Be so kind and address it straight to Thornton LLP, yeah?” And on the bastard’s delightfully baffled expression, Rafe piled on: “A very busy man, but if he sees my name on the envelope, I’m sure you’ll get priority.”

The bastard’s jaw clenched, and he let out another theatrical groan. “And that would be?”

“Rafe Cameron.”

Boom.

That was when it finally clicked in that baboon brain of his. Face pale, eyes wide as he realized just how far beneath Rafe he actually was in this little imaginary hierarchy of his. Fucker looked close to either pissing himself or throwing up just thinking about how expensive his own lawyer would be if he actually pulled through with his complaint.

A crooked smile played on Rafe’s lips as he raised his brows. “Need me to write it down for you?”

The bastard just stared blankly at him, and shit, even had the nerve to look over Rafe’s clothes again, like he couldn’t believe some dude in a basic polo and shorts was the CEO of Cameron Estates and Ward Cameron’s son.

“A'right, my guy,” Barry said, pushing off from his stool and grabbing the bastard’s shoulder. “Guess that was ya cue to leave. Pretty sure ya got plenty of paperwork waiting back at home now.”

“Get your filthy hands off me,” the bastard spat, shoving Barry’s hand away—and that alone nearly made Rafe punch him again, give him a matching bruise on the other side. “Fucking pogue. Thinks he has any say around here.”

“No, but I do.” Your voice rang out from behind the bar, hands braced on the lower ledge, an amused smile on your face. “Looks like you should call it a night, mister.” Grin deepening. “Not before you pay, though. For you and your sweetheart of a husband, of course.”

Barry said something like “I’ll get him, Boss,” and strolled off toward the restrooms.

The bastard’s chest rose and fell, face as red as the blood on it. “Back in my day, a bitch like you—”

“Shiiit, man,” Rafe chuckled low, grabbing the fucker by the shoulder and patting his chest. “You’re really asking for it right now, huh?”

Oh, and Rafe drank in that anger and fear in the guy’s eyes up like liquid coke, too scared to shove Rafe off.

Rafe nodded toward you with a crooked grin. “You’re gonna apologize to the nice lady now, pay for the drinks you and your loser buddy have downed, and then get your pathetic asses outta here.” He raised his brows with a smile. “Sound good?”

Bastard already opened his mouth but Rafe shook his head, tapping his chest with a finger, grip on his shoulder getting just a little firmer. “You’re lucky if all that bullshit earlier was just talk. Otherwise, I’m sure the cops would love a chat with that wife you bragged about beating.”

That silenced that fucker very quickly.

Rafe raised his eyebrows, waiting. “I mean, unless you need a second reminder—”

“I-I’m sorry”, the bastard blurted out.

“Nah,” Rafe said with a shake of his head, gesturing from himself to you. “Don’t tell me that shit. Apologize to her.”

A chuckle escaped your lips as the bastard finally met your gaze, brows scrunched into a pained grimace. “I’m sorry.”

Rafe let out an amused breath, clapping the bastard’s chest. “Shit, see? Easy. Now you do the same shit at home and question your morals and maybe hell’s promoting your room just a level.”

And the fact that that was apparently the scariest idea to this asshole? Not surprising. Guys like him always preached about God and then used it as an excuse for all the shit they did.

“There ya go,” Barry said as he came back in, dragging the drunk clown from earlier along. By the looks and stench of him, he’d just thrown up. “Now go over there and give the lady a generous tip, a’right?”

He did. Both of these fuckers, as a matter of fact.

Rafe and Barry both watched over their shoulders as each of the two reluctantly pulled out a $200 bill (surprised they even had those—then again, probably received them at some sad little business anniversary).

You flashed a big smile as you accepted that 60% tip. “Thanks, dearies. Hope you had a fun night.”

Rafe didn’t even let them respond, just politely kicked the bastard toward the door while Barry dragged the clown along after him.

Outside, the same clown stumbled forward and hit the pavement, landing on hands and knees in a puddle after Barry gave him a friendly shove. “Shit, bro, nobody told you the South Side ain’t no place for suits?”

“Don't think those cheap-ass knockoffs even deserve that term,” Rafe scoffed, then nodded at Barry to head back in. He didn’t want to spend another second around these losers.

Shit felt like a stain on Rafe’s evening.

Back at the bar, they were greeted by a bucket of soapy water, a pair of old gloves, and a sponge. The vibe in the place? Completely back to normal.

“You made the mess, you clean it,” you said firmly with your arms crossed—very clearly talking to Rafe only. Then, with that familiar amusement back in your voice, you added, “Want me to grab you an apron too?”

Rafe chuckled, mouth twitching into a downward grin. “You’d love that, huh?”

Oh, and that cheeky little laugh you let out? Priceless.

You tossed the rag in your hand over your shoulder, shrugging. “Nothing hotter than watching a man do chores.”

Honestly? For you, he’d probably even get on his knees and scrub the floor in an apron if you asked for it.

Fucking shit. What.

Alright, Barry had definitely hit Rafe too hard in today’s training. Now it was catching up to him, frying his brain into thinking shit like that.

“Yeah, nah,” Rafe said with a strained chuckle, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “I got this.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, nodding. “Alright. You two enjoy the rest of your night. I’ve got guests to take care of.”

“Wait!” Rafe called after you just as you were turning to leave. “Your offer—it still stands, right?”

Geez, what the fuck was up with his voice? Suddenly almost desperate. Even fucking Barry chuckled beside him.

And you? You just shot Rafe that signature teasing smile of yours, flashing your white teeth as a chuckle escaped you that made Rafe’s stomach tingle in all the right ways.

“The stool won’t clean itself, boxer boy,” you said, then turned that sweet ass of yours around and walked over to some new guests at a table in the back.

Was that a yes?

Shit, that had to be a yes. Otherwise, you’d have said No, right? Right???

"A'right bro, you have fun cleaning that shit up", Barry said as he patted Rafe's shoulder. "I'll go have a chit chat with the lady that's been eyeing me the whole night."

Rafe grimaced. "That just some bullshit excuse to dip?"

As much as Barry pissed him off, he did fuck with his ass. And now he wanted to bail after Rafe had allowed him to come along? The fuck was that.

Barry chuckled. “Ain’t goin’ far, Country Club. See,” he pointed toward a smiley redhead near the entrance—one of the girls who had turned around earlier. “I’ll be just around the corner. No need to panic about being orphaned." He smiled lazily. "Besides, I’ve had enough of third-wheeling ya and Little Miss Bar Queen eye-fucking each other.”

Fuckass.

Fine. Let him dip.

Rafe furrowed his brows and waved Barry off with a flick of his hand. “Aight. Go do your thing, then.”

After the swamp rat called Barry had strutted off, Rafe eyed the cleaning supplies on the bar with a deep frown. Never in his life had he cleaned up after anyone, let alone himself. Probably would’ve been easier to just buy a brand new damn barstool and maybe some new floor panels than to stand here looking like a damn idiot.

He could already picture the headlines if anyone actually cared enough to report it:

Rafe Cameron, CEO of Cameron Estates and local boxing champ, ready to start a new career path as cleaning lady? Inquiries welcome.

Yeah, whatever.

A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

And right now? That meant cleaning up the mess he’d made in your bar.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he walked up to the counter, stepping around the small crusted pool of blood on the floor (the bastard had bled like a goddamn pig for someone with just a broken nose).

And when Rafe stretched his fingers out to pull the gloves on, his heart skipped a beat as he spotted a little note. Torn straight from your notepad, by the looks of it.

He expected to find some numbers written on them but this was even better.

Rafe stared at the note for a solid minute, eyes locked on your pretty handwriting, lingering on the way you’d written his name.

Then, carefully, he folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket.

And just like that, the biggest motherfucking grin spread across his lips, feeling like he’d won the second round tonight.

If he played the cards right, the third was just right around the corner—set on a private stage reserved for just the two of you.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒂𝒕 ᨐฅ 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

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[karaeilish]

❝ mommy’s best friend . . . b. eilish ❞ . ◞

⭑ pairing :: military!billie × wife!reader

⭑ GENRE :: fluff !

⭑ SYNOPSIS :: every dog person mom needs a cat person daughter & wife.

⭑ WORD COUNT: 1k

"no cats in this house, ever. shark would never survive this!" billie sits on the couch, her voice rising in a commanding tone, making both you and lily flinch like little girls who've just been scolded in the principal's office. you both stand in front of her, pouting, but at first billie doesn't seem to be affected.

billie was a total dog person, and everyone in this family knew it. shark was her little baby, whom she loved like a full-fledged member of the family, who was always with you everywhere. and of course, both you and lily treated him the same, with love and affection. it's just that sometimes the thought of a small fluffy ball, whose mouth would not fit your head, flashed through your mind.

"mama—a, please!" lily pouts adorably, stamping her foot as a small grey kitten, all dirty, lies peacefully in her tiny palms, pressed tightly to her chest. you smile, standing next to her, one hand in your pocket, the other on your daughter's shoulder as a sign that you support her, because seeing how much your child cares about street animals was something magical, even if they were dirty and untamed.

"mommy, mommy! there's a kitten!" lily suddenly screams, her white dress completely forgotten, when in the alley near her house she noticed a meowing little kitten huddled in a corner. all dirty, shaking, but without a word and without a single hesitation she picked it up in her arms, pressing it to her body like a favorite doll; tightly, but carefully.

"mommy, we have to take it home!" the next second she's at your feet, looking into your soul with those big blue eyes she got from her mother. and now you don't even think about saying no.

"you know we need mom's permission to keep it?" you ask softly, but still supporting the idea.

lily opens her mouth in something silent that never comes out, giggles, and her next steps are skipping, while she babbles something about how mom will definitely allow it.

but mom looks at you like you've brought home an alien.

billie is silent for a few more seconds, but then she drops her hands to her knees, sighing heavily, bending down to take the kitten from her daughter's arms. "gosh and run a bath"

lily's face lights up with a bright smile, her cheeks turning red as she runs into the bathroom, stumbling and trying to reach the faucet handle and turn on the water. you look at billie as she picks the animal up curiously, bringing it up to her face to examine it.

"what are you doing, baby?" you laugh, watching intently as the kitten stretches out its paw, trying to reach billie's nose, which it finds very attractive.

"i'm trying to figure out if it's a boy or a girl." her eyebrows furrow charmingly, and you smile at her eagerness, then pat her on the back, hinting to hurry up and go see your daughter, who is clearly having a war with the faucet in the bathroom.

"let me help you, angel." you spread a small towel on the bottom of the tub, adjusting the water temperature to warm, then with practiced ease, sit your daughter on the edge of the tub so she doesn't splash around too much.

"i don't know how to wash cats" billie immediately tries to give in, but you quickly shut her up with a splash of water in her face, taking the kitten and almost ordering her to hold the shower head in a way that is comfortable for you. she doesn't dare disobey, muttering under her breath 'yes ma'am', earning a murderous look from you.

for the first time, you had to take regular shower gel, because no one expected such an unexpected guest to appear. lily's still sitting on the edge of the bathtub, swinging her legs and babbling something about different names, not caring whether it is a girl or a boy. she's in her own little world.

you slowly wash its small body, carefully feeling its fur to make sure that it does not have any fleas or other creatures. billie watches with about the same interest as your daughter, occasionally asking questions and then helping you carefully rinse off the foam, not getting it in the kitten's ears.

"angel, bring me a hand towel" you turn to lily, asking quietly and she nods her head with great enthusiasm, running to the other corner of the bathroom to grab a small white towel and bring it to you. you thank her, then picking up the kitten and wrapping it in the fluffy towel, patting away the wet fur.

"let me" billie suddenly gets excited and takes it out of your arms before you can even get out of the bathroom, clutching him to her chest. lily can't stop giggling, happily following her until they reach the large sofa in the living room, settling down on it. the baby climbs into her mom's lap while they both gently dry the kitten, and billie finally proudly declares that it's a boy. lily immediately explodes with a new stream of name ideas, hesitating and hesitating, but eventually settling on 'sam'.

you notice movement in the other corner of the room, turning your head to watch as the shark finally peeks out of the bedroom, clearly displeased and caught by the new smell in your home. he slowly makes his way over to the shared sofa with great interest, first examining the kitten from a meter away, and then moving closer. sam's eyes widen, looking at him like he's the death, ears drooping. it doesn't take more than a few seconds before he's looking around, backing up desperately, scrambling up billie's leg and scurrying into her wide pocket so that only his ears stick out.

both you and lily burst out laughing as billie writhes, feeling his sharp claws digging into her thigh through the fabric of her sweatpants.

"i think he likes you," you whisper.

"if he ruins my pants…"

౨ৎ tags; @billiesbabygirll, @amara-eilish, @st0nerlesb0, @bxllxebxtch @mystiquemm, @bilswifee, @dragoneyelashart, @bilssturns, @chrissv4mp, @allyeilishh, @bitchesbrokenpromises, @too-sapphic-to-function, @thefeverburningalive, @peytonglazesbillieeilish, @1nn3rthOughts, @thebluediner, @xiletay, @eilishsfantasy, @ariieeesworld

[ventique18]

No Riddle, you don't understand. It's just a regular day at the Vanrouge's to add another little brother to their family tree.

🐉: "Lilia, at this point, perhaps you should have a biological child of your own; if you enjoy childrearing this much."

🦇: "No, no. The rest of my energy is reserved for taking care of your children. Do you know how much more difficult it is to raise a dragon? I'm sure you'll be having a dozen wyrmlings, so how am I to take care of another child on top of that?"

🐉: "I will not burden you with my prospective children, so you should feel free to have your own--"

🦇: "No. I WILL take care of your children. You will have me babysit all dozens of them."

🦇, whispering to himself: "If you hand them over to Lady Maleficia instead, they'll grow up rotten like your mother..."

🐉: "A dozen-- if it comes to that point, I do not think having one or two of your own children would make much of a difference. Perhaps we should build a kindergarten for you instead..."

🦇: "That's a wonderful idea! Then I can have more room to take in Silver's children as well! Perhaps even Sebek's! Oooh how exciting all of this is!"

🐉: "Lilia......."

[vamplvs]

TOO YOUNG (TO KEEP LOVE FROM GOING WRONG)

INCLUDES -> bob reynolds x ex!reader WARNINGS -> depression, addiction, past drug use, just really bad relationships/significant others all around (only in the past, i promise. they're both working on themselves), panic attacks, angst, hurt/comfort, getting together (again), reader has some undisclosed/implied mental health issues WORD COUNT -> 6.5k SUMMARY -> your history with bob is from a past he'd rather forget, one that haunts him every day, and it all comes crashing back when he runs into you at a coffeeshop.

NOTES -> this fic is my baby, and i've been working on it for nearly a month now. there have been so many revisions and rewrites, but i'm so excited to finally post it! i promise it's not all as sad as it seems, but pls keep the warnings in mind. as always, comments and rbs are much appreciated! also if anyone wants to ask abt my hcs for bob’s scars and such my inbox is VERY open and i have thoughts

every day that bob gets out of bed is a good day, he tells himself. well, that's what yelena and his therapist tell him, so it must be true. it's a good day when he works a brush through his hair, when he makes himself breakfast, and when he does his laundry.

it's a good day when he gets through another chapter of that new book he picked up last week while he was out. he has it marked up with sticky notes, reminders of passages he liked or things that made him think—and, as much as he is loathe to admit it, definitions written in the margins. it's already lovingly worn, and he's only halfway through it. but he can't resist the urge to go back through it sometimes, just looking back at what he took note of and why. it's like his own personal window into his mind. he's sure that dr. fieldstone will have a field day with that if she ever finds out.

it's an even better day when bob finds the energy to go out for the day. he's discovered bookstores, record shops, and even the occasional restaurant he likes. there's a vietnamese place only a few blocks away from the tower that's become a regular take-out spot for the team. a block away from that place is a cat shelter with the sweetest old maine coon named maximus. he belongs to the owner, and bob always takes the time to pet him when he's in the area.

bob's been enjoying running small errands for the team. sort of, anyways. it's not like he likes the errands themselves—there's nothing particularly exciting about picking up groceries, after all—but it's that he gets to do something for the team. it's that he gets an excuse to go out. while they're all off saving the world from this week's supervillain, bob is out getting sugar, eggs, some garlic, and whatever else the kitchen appears to be missing.

today's task, however, is coffee. last night the team arrived worn and ragged after the mission valentina sent them on, and bob's current mission is, hopefully, cheering them up with overly expensive coffee from the place yelena and walker both like down the street. they never seem to go together, but he recognizes their takeout cups with the logo printed on the side. walker would never admit to it, but bob knows he was the one to find it.

the coffeeshop is familiar, even though he's only really been there once or twice with yelena. it's a cozy, hole in the wall kind of spot—just hidden enough that it hasn't been overrun by the hustle and bustle of manhattan. it's got warm lighting and a wall covered in old magazine cutouts and framed pictures that date back decades.

he's got everyone's orders typed haphazardly in his notes—shit, he can't remember if walker wanted his drink iced or not. usually, walker's got a cold drink when bob sees him with one, but the weather's been strangely cold recently, so maybe he's changed his mind. bob certainly would.

 just as he's about to step in line and make a last minute decision, a voice pulls him back.

"that you, robert?" and it's a voice he only just recognizes after years of putting it out of his mind.

he turns and sees you. his heart nearly stops. what are the odds that you're in new york? especially now during his "recovery," as dr. fieldstone puts it. you still look like you, but you've grown now, changed in some way that bob can't quite define. you're still just as beautiful as the last time he saw you. by the time his mind catches up to his ears, discomfort is starting to bleed into the air.

"y-yeah! hi," he puts a hand out awkwardly to shake yours. the weight of your hand in his is familiar, almost nostalgic. the thought nearly makes him recoil.

"long time, no see." you say it with a gentle smile, but he recognizes the way your smile dips when you're trying to be polite. he recognizes the way you scan him for signs, the same way you used to. "you look... good, different."

"yeah, um, getting sober does that, i think." he winces at his own words, remembering the fight you had the last night he saw you through the haze of some cocktail-from-hell he had conjured up with some people he certainly shouldn't have been around. it had seemed like a great idea at the time.

—

though the memory is foggy, he remembers you coming home to him tearing apart the kitchen and yelling about spies and malware.

bob was wired. it's like he was dialed up all the way to 100, and man, was it good. until it wasn't. until he was sure that his phone was tapped, and that there was a camera in the apartment watching his every move. every cabinet in the kitchen had been flung open and searched through, a mess of pots, pans, and cutlery decorating the once neat countertops.

"can't stay sober for a day, can you?" your words were harsh and grating, and it only sent bob further into an emotional free fall. that quiet voice in the back of his mind, the one that lingered when he was high no matter how desperately he tried to erase it, hissed that you weren't supposed to see him like this. he was worked up, angry and scared, and there was no going back.

"you don't understand! they're-" he had gestured wildly around the kitchen, as if that proved anything. as if you could see the government's secret eye on the apartment if he just yelled about it loud enough.

"they're not fucking watching you, robbie, you're high!" there were tears in your eyes, he remembers that now. "you said you'd get sober. two nights ago, you promised." and he remembers how defeated you sounded, the way your voice broke.

"you knew i was like this when we started going out." bob remembers the rage he felt and how sick it made him the next morning when he finally sobered up.

"yeah, but- i mean, jesus, robbie, this is going to kill you someday!" you were across the room from him, and he vividly recalls the way you had backed up when he stepped towards you like it's happening in real time all over again.

"maybe i want it to!" he had shouted. he had shouted at you, the last person in the world who deserved it. the person he called the love of his life. it felt so right to say in that moment, and that's what scared him the most. "finally put me out of this misery."

your face had dropped, and it was the only time that night you had taken a single step towards him. "don't say that-"

"why not? it's true." he had laughed in your face, and god, that made him nauseous now.

"don't you dare fucking say that."

you had left that night, telling bob you wanted him out of the apartment within the next day. he found out later that you were holed up in a friend's place bawling your eyes out.

bob doesn't remember if he ever put your kitchen back together, or if he left that to you.

he's not sure where he was in between your apartment and his own, either. there's a week of missing time that bob woke up from dazed and hurting.

—

you simply laugh, and at least this sounds more real than your smile looked. he's not sure how you're laughing, honestly. he was awful- "i'm glad you're doing better."

"me too." silence settles between you two as bob debates the merits of literally shoving a foot in his mouth. it might be better than everything he's said so far.

"saw you were with that new avengers crew on tv, and i couldn't believe my eyes." he laughs, but it's stilted. do you know about the void, too? "i mean, the robbie reynolds bunking with congressman barnes and the, uh, the knock-off captain america?" you gesture vaguely at the mention of walker, like you're trying to remember his name. "it's totally wild."

"y-yeah, i'm- i got lucky."

before he can say anything else, the barista calls your name. you bid him a quick goodbye, and his palms are sweating by the time you walk out.

the rest of his day goes by in a haze of remembering, a walk down memory lane he'd rather not take. he stammers his way through the coffee order, and nearly gets run over by a very angry taxi driver on his walk back to the tower. the drinks get dropped off in the kitchen with a brief text to yelena telling her he's back, and then he's off to his room to read.

because today is a good day, he tells himself.

today is a good day, and he's going to get through another chapter of that book if it's the last thing he does.

his footfalls are loud in the wide hallways of the tower. they echo gratingly back at him, getting louder as his heart rises in his throat. god, it's been how many years now? he remembers that part of his life through highs and lows, through the way his breath still whistles out his nose from a perforated septum, and the track lines left on his elbows and thighs. he still can't wear short sleeves, and-

the collar of his sweater is constricting, he realizes. too tight against the skin of his neck, and he can't breathe.

he can't fucking breathe.

his lungs are tight, held close by ribs he's all-too aware of. and his sweater- it's choking him. the once soft fabric slices at his neck like it's a tourniquet. his hands find the cold wall of the hallway to guide him back to his room. he can hardly see past the black spots that speckle his already tunneling vision.

breathing. air. he needs that.

he takes a shaky lungful and pushes forward, stumbling until he finds the door to his room.

the doorknob is icy in his hand, the only solid thing he feels around him. the floor is starting to slip away from under him, and the walls only get closer and closer until they're pressing in.

it's a miracle he makes it to his bed before he collapses outright.

but he does. and it's still a good day because his book is sitting on his bedside table.

if he can just get his hands to stop shaking, he'll pick it up and flip to the next chapter. if he can just get his breath to stop coming up so fast, or get his vision to focus on something in the room, it can stay a good day.

but he doesn't, and he can't. he's frozen in place, trapped within his own too-tight skin, as he lays on his bed, staring out at the wall in front of him. that look in your eye—the one of terror, concern, and worst of all, love—infiltrates his mind unbidden.

the sound of the door opening is muffled, or far away. bob can't quite tell. it should be right there, but it isn't. and he can't get his head to turn to see who's walked in.

"bob?" comes yelena's voice, still miles away from where he is in the vast expanse of his bed. "you've been here for ages." has he? he only just got back.

he makes a small sound in the back of his throat when he feels a weight at the end of his bed, a hand on his knee. yelena doesn't move for an eternity. she just sits, gently rubbing his knee until he can force air in and out of his lungs again.

"bob, can you talk yet?" she says eventually, and that's the reminder he needs to move again. that she's been sitting for so long he needs to explain something.

"i saw someone i knew when i was-" he cuts himself off with an unsteady breath. when i was still using, goes unspoken but heard all the same. he's cold, so very cold—is that why he's still shaking? yelena's warm hand on his knee is only doing so much.

"who?" her voice is so gentle when she says it, like there's something quiet in the air she doesn't want to break. bob wishes she would.

"my- um, my ex." his whole body tenses when he looks at her, but he finds nothing but care and worry in her eyes. "i was horrible when we-"

"hey," she interrupts before he can keep spiraling, "you've changed. i know you have." her hand is heavier on his knee now, a grounding force. but has he? he still itches for that high every day. he misses it. yelena interrupts his train of thought again. she could be a mindreader, and bob wouldn't be surprised. "did they seem uncomfortable?"

"who wouldn't be?" he mumbles into his pillow, a pitiful little sound.

"did they talk to you, bob?" she presses, pragmatic as always.

"y-yeah, they said hi. said they were glad i was going better." at least his voice is less shaky now. small victories, like dr. fieldstone tells him.

"then they don't hate you," and she says it with such finality that he almost takes her at her word. yet, there's a lingering thought: you'd seen bob at his worst, and you don't know the half of what he's done now. hell, even he doesn't really know.

"but-"

"no one talks like that with someone they hate" yelena pauses like she's still searching for the right words, "or someone they're scared of. i wouldn't." she pats his knee a final time before standing. "walker is making dinner, if you want to join us. or i can bring you something-"

"yeah," he says, without letting her finish her offer. the thought of being in a room with walker and alexei makes his head spin.

yelena hums, and bob knows it's a promise that she'll be back.

—

bob returns to that coffeeshop nearly three weeks later. yelena had urged him to go again, and dr. fieldstone agreed. he likes the coffeeshop, and he shouldn't be afraid of seeing his past there. this time he brings his book with him. he's determined to find the small space safe again. so he sits in the corner with a warm drink and his book propped open on his knee.

it's peaceful. there's quiet music playing throughout the shop, and people head in and out in their own worlds, leaving bob to his own devices. he marks up the pages, using his color-coordinated sticky notes to keep track of where he is. 

he's glad he started reading it. it's complicated and makes it brain work overtime, trying to catch up on the words he's lost. dr. fieldstone says having trouble reading and understanding is just one of those things using did to him—and, more importantly, that it's something he can get back. so he picked up a dense fantasy novel, the kind with a million made-up names and places, to start on that.

dr. fieldstone was proud of him for it, and he's proud of himself.

"you're back," he hears you say, and his head shoots up, taking him out of his train of thought abruptly. you're standing across from him with your drink in hand. this time he's sure his heart stops beating. "mind if i sit?"

before he thinks twice about it, he nods, dumbfounded.

"i thought i might've scared you off," you say sheepishly, like it's your fault at all.

"no! no, that was-" he fumbles his way through a halfhearted excuse. the skeptical brow you raise is more than enough proof it doesn't work.

"so... you a fan of this place?" your voice is so gentle, deceptively so. 

"my friends are." he neglects to mention that the friends in question are walker and yelena.

"thought you'd just give it a try, then?" you flinch when the words come across more confrontational than you intended. "sorry, i am glad you're back, i don't know why i said that so..." you trail off.

"it's okay," he mumbles back. silence settles like a weight between you again.

"what have you been up to outside of, y'know, the whole super team thing?"

he doesn't tell you he's not really on the team. he can't. if he does, that opens up a conversation about the void, and the thought alone has him sweating. "um, therapy, mostly, and some reading." he points to his book with all it's uneven notes poking out of it and dog-eared pages.

"that's good, man! i'm happy for you."

you're- what? you smile at him with so much honesty it's hard to look at.

"what about you?"

the conversation carries on, and it's easier than he expected. it isn't smooth, not by a long shot, but you're still sitting with him, still inviting more conversation.

small victories, he hears dr. fieldstone say in his head.

he can tell you're still wary around him, your smile flickering just enough any time his past comes up. you dodge any response that might be a reminder of your relationship or those several months you spent together. but you're talking and laughing with him, and it's good. it's really good.

it's so good it scares him. his heart's been pounding since you sat down with him, and he hopes you can't see the sweat that's starting to bead on his brow.

it's been an hour by the time you finally check your phone. 

"i'm glad we got to catch up, robert," you say with a smile.

"it's just bob."

"right. bob," you amend, trying the new name out. "i have to go, but... think we could do this again some time?" 

—

he finally brings you by the tower after several months of meeting up for coffee—several months filled with what started as carefully navigated conversation, that has now turned into something new. you tell him about your own therapy and the steps you've taken to be better. he eventually tells you about dr. fieldstone and the void. he nearly cried when he did it, but you smiled and nodded like he hadn't told you he was responsible for all of new york reliving their worst memories. you had repeated that same, "i'm happy for you, bob. i'm proud of you for doing all this."

he had been ignoring the growing warmth in his chest every time you spoke to him like he was worth something, too.

you're nearly vibrating with excitement as the tower comes into view. when he brought up learning how to cook, you demanded he show off a little. and if his heart raced when you said you wanted him to cook for you, that's a secret he will forever hold tight to his chest.

"walker's an asshole, but he's sorta nice once you get to know him, and yelena's real sweet. she's just a little scary at first-" he spends the walk from the coffeeshop giving you a run down of the team in case any of them are home when you get there. 

"so, yelena, huh?" you ask when he's finished with his spiel.

"yeah, what about her?"

"nothing, just- you're so excited when you talk about her." there's something indecipherable in your voice that almost sounds like jealousy, but bob knows better than that. he knows better than to hope for something that won't happen ever again.

and what's he supposed to say to that? any real reason makes his throat go dry. she helped me through one of the toughest things i've ever been through, and i can't even remember most of it? she's become one of my closest friends and understands me like no one else does? except, maybe, for you. 

"she's great, you'll see," is what he settles on, and the way your smile stays stiff tells him that isn't the right response.

the tower is blessedly empty when you get there, which gives you and bob ample time to spread out ingredients around the kitchen. he's settled on a fairly simple pasta dish—comfort food—and you've taken up a seat at the island.

"so, what's it like in the tower?" he can feel your eyes on his back as he sets a pot to boil on the stove. his sleeves are pushed up to his forearms, not daring to go any higher despite the heat from the fire.

"empty, a lot of the time." you hum, and then he adds. "not lonely, though. it's just a big space, y'know? when everyone's back from missions or press or whatever, we all have our spaces. it's kinda nice."

"right, yeah." he hears you stand up, and you're by his side in a flash. he doesn't miss the wary glance you send his arms. "anything i can help with?"

"well, uh, the garlic needs dicing." he pulls out two cutting boards and knives—one set for you to dice the garlic on and another for him to chop up onions.

it's quiet as you both work, and a few weeks ago bob would have been desperately trying to fill up the silence with some kind of conversation—if only to keep from having to suffer through your unresolved history. now, though, it's different. it's almost comfortable.

almost.

he's just too aware of your presence next to him, of the way you glance over occasionally. it has goosebumps dancing across his skin. he pointedly stares down at the onion he's slicing, careful not to cut himself. not that he can really get hurt anymore, he has to remind himself.

"how's that new book you picked up?" you ask abruptly, like you can't stand the quiet anymore.

he does his best to breeze past the thought that maybe it wasn't as comfortable as he thought and launches into an explanation of the world and its characters—explaining why he likes the main character, but the villain is sympathetic, too. he still gets caught up on some of his words, like the word he's searching for is hidden behind some mental block, but you don't seem to care.

you listen to all of it with rapt attention. you ask all the right questions to keep him talking, and nod at the right times.

but there's a part of him that can't quite shake the thought that you're doing this for your benefit somehow, that you don't really care. he thinks about the way you kept looking at him, how your eyes landed on the crook of his elbow.

something cold flares in his chest then.

it's only interrupted by yelena's voice from the door.

"bob! you didn't say you were bringing people over."

"you must be yelena! i'm-" you put a hand out to shake hers, but she brushes past you to get to the fridge. bob notices the way you bristle.

"oh, i know who you are," she says with something akin to a feral grin, picking out a bright can of soda, "bob talks about you often."

"does he?" you raise an eyebrow at him, something unreadable in your gaze.

bob shrugs one shoulder sheepishly. "yelena asks about the coffeeshop a lot." he leaves out the part where yelena asks to check up on him, to make sure that he isn't spiraling about it like he was in the beginning. but he's good now, scarily so.

"it's one of my favorites."

"so you're the reason i ran into him months ago!" the harsh look in your eye fades to kindness with a wide smile to match. "i have to say, i'm pretty glad you showed him that place. you've got good taste."

"so does bob," she replies, giving you a brief once over, and you laugh something awkward and stilted.

bob has never wanted to melt into the floor so badly.

"i'm, uh, making some pasta," he says, before yelena can say anything else stupidly revealing, "if you want some after."

"oh, no," yelena shakes her head in mock deference, "i wouldn't dare disrupt the date. besides, i have a mission tomorrow morning." then, she disappears down the hall.

bob hears you make a quiet, choked off sound by his side, turning quickly to get back to dicing the garlic. his ears burn.

"she's nice." you sound so strained that bob nearly laughs.

"yeah, she's..." he trails off, looking for any decent way of describing her. "yelena," he finishes lamely.

you laugh at that, and something uncomfortable and scalding settles in bob's chest.

"so..." you're leaning against the counter, now, looking at bob, but he can't bring himself to return your gaze. "you talk about me?"

"i mean, yeah, uh, i guess." he very nearly winces at his own fumbling. "yelena knows about... us, and everything. she's curious, i think." and she's determined to meddle with his carefully crafted bubble of sanity he's finally managed with you, apparently. it must be a good sign that he's better, though. he knows yelena, and she wouldn't do that if she still thought he was struggling like he was all those months ago.

"right, of course." he catches your eye for just a moment, and sees that same, frustratingly unreadable expression. "and she's the type to joke about this being a date?"

his ears go hot, and he looks back down to the cutting boards in front of him, making quick work of gathering up the diced garlic and onions and tossing them into a pan with some oil. "i guess so, yeah."

tense silence settles over you, and it makes his skin prickle.

"so, if this were a date-" bob makes a concerted effort not to choke at the thought, "would she still be making jokes?"

"probably. she's like that," he manages, voice thin.

"okay, good to know."

he doesn't know what to do about the softness of your voice, or the racing of his heart, so he focuses his attention back on the stove instead.

—

yelena nearly doesn't come home from the next mission.

there's blood pouring from a wound in her side that the others refuse to tell bob the details of. her steps are uneven, breath too ragged, and bob can't think straight enough to be of use in the med bay. alexei is the one to carry her there, while bob stays frozen in place.

it's one of those missions where valentina makes sure to rub in just how useful bob would be if he was smart, or maybe strong, enough to manage being sentry—and the void. if he had been out there, would she have gotten hurt? could he have stopped a bullet or a knife? why won't anyone else tell him what the hell happened?

"bob," comes bucky's voice from behind him, and a heavy hand presses on his shoulder.

"yeah." his voice is rough, unsteady. it takes effort not to flinch away from bucky's hand.

"this isn't on you." how bucky's able to read him so well, bob will never understand. "she'll be fine."

there's something soothing about the low rumble of bucky's voice that has bob retreating to his room, footfalls heavy on the tiled floor. the image of yelena covered in blood plays through his mind again and again, superimposed over valentina's incessant urging for him to crawl back into the suit.

but he swears, just out of the corner of his eye, that he can see black, wispy tendrils of the void clawing at his skin and the walls.

he sits at the edge of his bed, picking up the thick hardcover on his nightstand. he can't quite read anything on the pages, eyes darting over words that warp and twist in front of him.

dr. fieldstone is only a call away, he knows that. she's on call for a reason, for moments like this where it feels like months of progress slip through his hands like sand. but his phone is already buzzing in his pocket when he pulls it out with numb fingers.

he sees a missed call from you and a series of texts:

we're still on for coffee right?

hello?

it's been an hour where are you

everything ok?

bob can't move. he stays frozen, looking down at the already dimming screen of his phone. shit.

his hands won't cooperate. they won't open his phone, shaking too badly to type in his passcode as nausea climbs up his throat.

shit, shit, shit. he was supposed to meet with you for coffee, like always. before yelena came back with a hole in her side, before his knees locked in the common room, before valentina's whispers of failure wormed their way through his head. before the shadows in the corners of his room had started to grow faces.

he can still make it out to you. it can still be a good day, despite yelena laying in the medical bay or your missed call or bob's rising panic. dr. fieldstone can tell him as much, if his fingers will just dial the number.

but that means months of work with you gone. that means you seeing him like this again, breathing hard and fast, tears burning in his eyes, and the sting of bile in the back of his throat.

—

"robbie?" came your voice from somewhere in the apartment, but bob couldn't lift his head up from the bathroom wall. his body ached. "hey, where are you?"

he let out some kind of garbled sound halfway between a grunt and a sob. you were in the doorway moments later, eyes wide with panic. they softened upon seeing him curled up against the wall, and you were kneeling by his side before he even saw you move.

"hey, you're okay," you muttered, tugging him tight against you. "everything's okay, now."

"n-no, it's- fuck." his hands scrabbled for purchase against your back, like that would keep him from falling further into a spiral. he couldn't speak, couldn't find words or put them in the right order, like they were blended together in a horrible smoothie of vowels and consonants.

it was always like this when he came down. the panic, the incoherence. and you were always patiently waiting for him to start taking deep breaths, to think.

it was two weeks later that you left him in that kitchen.

—

it takes bob a week to respond to you.

he feels guilty, a pit settling in his stomach every time he thinks about it. he didn't mean to ignore you, but with yelena out and valentina's taunts lingering like always, he barely finds his way out of his room at normal hours.

sorry. yelena's hurt

his screen is already dimming when he decides to send another text.

can we still do coffee next week?

you don't text back for hours, not that bob expects you to. you have a life, things to do outside of respond to bob and go to coffee with him. he understands that, even if his chest hurts every time he thinks about you. he knows that your probable anger is justified, and logical, but it doesn't stop the chill at his fingertips that spreads down his spine.

he spends his day frantically doing anything that needs to be done in the tower, buzzing with nerves. he makes quick work of the dishes that have been sitting in the sink and his laundry. he's done laps around the building, exploring nooks he's never seen before—and finds a great empty office with soft chairs, one of them facing the westward window of the room.

his phone goes off somewhere between one task and the next—when he's still buried in the need to do something before he tears his own skin off.

yeah sure

two simple words, and they have his head spinning.

—

street lamps flicker above him as bob walks through manhattan and towards the coffeeshop. it's later than usual for the two of you—at your request. bob's usual exploration of the city typically happens during daylight, when there's an endless hustle of people for him to fade into. 

the city at night time is a different sight entirely. the streets aren't quite empty—they never seem to be, here—but they're quieter than the usual bustle of midday. and everything seems to glow. neon signs, street lights, the cozy warmth of indoor lamps in apartment windows. despite it all, it's still loud. there's a group of college students ahead of him laughing with their bags slung over their shoulders, sirens a block over, and the ever-present honking that pervades the city regardless of the hour.

it's nice in a way he can't quite define—certainly nothing like florida, and for that, he's grateful.

he finds you sitting at a table by the window watching people pass by. you've got a warm drink in your hand, and he's not sure you see him approach until you raise an eyebrow at him and gesture to the drink sitting on the other end of the table.

you ordered for him.

"thanks."

"sure." you pause, and bob lets you have it. "what happened last week?" his stomach dips.

"yelena got hurt." he still sees flashes of that dark red staining the floor, the lingering fear that his best friend could have died and he couldn't do anything to stop it.

"yeah, you said."

"she's okay now. it was scary for a few days, though."

"i bet." every response from you is clipped, and it sends him fumbling for more to say.

"yeah, um, it was rough, y'know? i thought i was gonna lose one of my best friends."

"i know the feeling." even you wince at your tone, no doubt remembering the same things that bob is. your eyes scan over his face for a moment, taking in flashes of an expression bob isn't entirely sure he's making. "sorry, i didn't mean-"

"it's okay. i get it." 

but that must be the wrong response, because your brow furrows, and you're standing before he can figure out what the right response could be.

"i should go. this was a bad idea."

"no, wait-"

you're out the door before he can finish, but he's already racing after you. he knows he fucked up by ignoring you, that he should've just come clean, but he doesn't want to lose you over it.

"wait, i'm sorry!"

"bob, enough!" you whip around to face him. the glow of a street light illuminates the planes of your face, casting harsh shadows across it. "just, stop, okay? stop apologizing, stop being nice, stop all of this."

"w-what?"

"we can't do this again. i can't do this again." bob's body goes cold. "this was a cute little fantasy while it lasted, but- we won't be good for each other."

"no, you don't-"

"don't tell me i don't understand, or that you're better now. this isn't about you, bob." 

but it is. he knows it is.

"jesus, you're doing it again. enough with the self-flagellation. you're terrified when you're around me, and i can't-"

"i'm not!" his outburst is so sudden that it silences you. "i'm not terrified of you."

"you didn't see the look on your face just now."

"listen-" frustration bubbles in his chest something vicious.

"no," you growl, stepping closer to him. "i see the way you are with yelena, and-"

"is that what this is about?"

"no! it's about the fact that i haven't seen you in a t-shirt, and it's the middle of the summer. it's about the fact that we haven't had a single conversation about us without you veering the topic away like it'll kill you just to think about it." the accusatory finger you jab into his chest burns him.

"okay, fine! you scare the shit out of me," he yells over you, and that keeps you both quiet for one long moment. hell, it seems to hush the whole city. "i just don't want to hurt you." his voice is devastatingly quiet.

"i don't want to hurt you, either," you say, voice cracking around every word. silence settles over you like a cloud. it must be an odd sight, the two of you standing, breathing hard, in the middle of a sidewalk in manhattan. "god, i must be crazy for how much i still care about you, huh?" you run a hand over your face, looking away from him like it hurts.

"yeah, probably." he makes a miserable sound that's something like a laugh.

but you join him, and for a brief moment, he dares to think that maybe he can fix this. 

"if we do this, it's-" you suck in a sharp breath, "we can't undo history, okay? that's not how this works."

"i- i know, and i'm sorry, i-"

"no, god, bob, i don't need you to apologize. not again. i just-" you look into his eyes and it's horrible and revealing. "we were both shitty, and we can't undo that."

"you didn't-"

"bob, i left you high, panicking, probably on the verge of some crazy, self-mutilating bender in my apartment. you were scared, and i left you there. and you know what's worse? it felt so right. i was so angry, and i said so many terrible things to you when i was like that."

"that's not your fault."

"yes it is." you sigh. "then you disappeared, and the next time i heard about you, it was on the news. i spent years thinking i hurt you, or left you to die, or something."

bob's heart breaks. none of this is your fault, at all, and it never will be.

"i was so scared for you, and i didn't know what to do about it." you pause, like there's more you want to say to him. he doesn't fill the silence, just lets you find the right words. "and then you disappeared again for a week, and i couldn't stop thinking about what happened to you. if- if you were back on some bender, or hurt, and i thought it was because i made that stupid comment about a date."

"i didn't mean to," he says in that same, quiet tone. 

"i know."

"i was scared, too." you look at him with eyes so wide his heart hurts. "i was scared for me, too. and you." he whispers it like it's a secret.

"i know, bob, i know." you pull him into a hug so tight he swears he can hear his bones creaking, superpowers be damned. his hands pull you close, grabbing at the material of your shirt. he realizes, now, that his eyes are stinging with unshed tears.

"can we try again? if- if you want you, i mean," he mutters into your neck.

"yeah, i'd like that." you pull away from him, and the hand you put on his cheek is so gentle that it sends his tears over the edge. you don't say a word about them as you wipe them away. "we'll take it slow, yeah?"

—

the sun sets steadily, lighting up bob's room in the warm glow of sunset. he's learned to love slow days at the tower, where there isn't any pressure to do anything but the things he wants. he takes time to read, to catch up on the movies that have come out in recent years, to lay wrapped around you, of all people.

he's still not sure you're entirely real, if he's being honest. historically, he hasn't had the best luck with the way his life unfolds. it's usually one great disaster after the next—even if his ideas seem great at the time. but with you tucked into his side, maybe things can still turn around for him. maybe they already have.

"i'm glad we found each other again." your eyes are impossibly soft when they look at him. "my friends called me crazy when i said you were the love of my life, but look at you now."

bob flushes, and your laugh is light and airy.

"you're beautiful, always have been. but this version of you? yeah, he's even better." your fingers card through his hair and end up on his jaw. "i can't believe i get another shot with you."

you're telling me, he almost says. instead, he just hums, pulling you closer.

[certifiedsexed]

hey i'm just curious: is this blog religiously tolerant of christians? not like Mormons or any of those freaks but like: are you fine with regular Christians without trying to tell them to abandon religion or convert, I've just had bad experiences (don't say "only if you aren't racist or homophobic" don't assume I am its low key very offensive to assume i'm a bigot off the bat)

Given mormonism is an off-branch of christianity, I don't think you have any room to be calling them freaks. Nor should you be, just to be clear.

Also, I do think its funny to find it offensive someone might question how tolerant you are because your religion has, for hundreds of years, been involved in pushing and institutionalizing colonialism and homo/transphobia but that's separate.

To be clear, no, I don't give AF about your religion, I don't know enough about you or your life to give any encouragement on leaving, converting or continuing with your religion, though I will warn you that I already pissed off the catholics by celebrating pope francis' death so like, if you'd be pissed off by something like that, it might only be a matter of time before I manage to do the same to y'all.

[flixpii]

Never Not Yours (i)

part one

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 15.1k

link to part two

A/N : Okay...the full thing is 30.2k, so I'm splitting it into two parts. Originally, I was going to do three parts, but after rereading it so many times, I couldn't find a good way to cut it. Reading part one before part two is mandatory to understand.

synopsis : set in the south—reader meets a quiet, strange man with a past he doesn’t talk about. there’s tension, something off beneath the surface, but something tender too. it’s emotional, kinda eerie, lots of yearning. just trust where it takes you.

He's had those fuckass clothes for a while (don't ask)

warnings (MDNI 18+ because of eventual smut) : takes place before the events of the movie, fluff remmick is lowkey domestic, intense yearning, blood/blood drinking, vampirism & supernatural themes, sexual content (no actual smut until second part), emotional manipulation, angst, religious themes & questioning of faith, themes of loss & abandonment, mind-link shit

----

The wind moves gently across the porch, stirring the leaves like restless dancers. They skitter across the worn wooden planks, some catching under your bare heels before your broom shoos them off with a dull scrape. Each sweep is slow, thoughtful—like a rhythm only your body knows, passed down through the quiet motions of women before you.

A hum curls in your throat, soft and easy, the kind you don’t notice until it fills the silence around you. It floats into the evening air, joining the sound of crickets and the far-off rustle of the trees, like it belongs there.

You had been gone all day—your hands busy beneath the oil-lantern light of your father’s shop, serving regulars with familiar smiles and strangers with careful ones. Your brother hadn’t stirred from bed since morning, fever-warm and muttering in his sleep. With your father needing help and your brother too weak to stand, everything else had fallen on you.

And while you were gone, the house waited.

Chores collected in corners like dust and shadows. The garden sat thirsty. The porch gathered leaves.

So now, beneath the soft hush of nightfall, you work. The moon has begun to rise—silver and swollen, casting light across the steps in pale slants. Its glow kisses the back of your neck as you move, cool against the heat still lingering on your skin from the day.

It’s quiet. Not heavy. Just still.

As your hum carries on, low and steady like an old lullaby, your eyes fall shut for just a moment. The cool air draws into your lungs—clean and earthy, touched faintly by woodsmoke drifting from some distant hearth. The chill soothes the warmth clinging to your cheeks, to the back of your neck. It’s the kind of night air that settles deep in your chest, makes you feel something like peaceful. Almost.

Your hands don’t still, and neither do your feet. They keep sweeping, shuffling, nudging away the dry leaves and twigs that gathered like whispers on the porch. But your mind—your mind begins to wander. Carried off by your hum, by the quiet rhythm of your body.

Then—

A crack.

Sharp, brittle.

Your hum stops.

It came from the woods.

Dense, shadow-thick woods. The kind that swallowed up the last of the sun and didn’t give it back until morning. The kind your father always warned you not to stare into for too long after dusk.

Your eyes blink open, slow. No real fear yet. Just awareness. Curiosity. You’ve heard worse on this porch before. Possums. Raccoons. The occasional stray dog poking through the garden fence.

Still, you pause—broom held mid-sweep—listening.

Another sound.

Closer this time.

You frown and move toward the edge of the porch, the old rail creaking beneath your hand as you lean slightly over it.

Then, from behind a cluster of bushes, a small armadillo scurries out, its claws clicking softly against the dirt as it barrels forward in a panic.

You exhale through a laugh, voice spilling out light and worn.

“You damn animals.”

It’s not angry. Just tired amusement. The kind of thing you say when your nerves were quicker than your logic.

You almost laugh at yourself—almost—already shaping the words in your mouth, something about being a scaredy cat. But then—

Something shifts.

Not a sound this time. A presence. A weight entering the air to your left.

You feel it before you see it. The way stillness deepens. The way the hairs on your arms lift without reason.

Your body reacts before your mind does—snapping back a step with a sharp inhale. The broom handle is tight in your grip, your knuckles aching white.

Then a voice, smooth and low, cuts through the hush.

“Sorry. Ain’t mean to scare ya.”

Your breath stumbles. That voice—there’s nothing unusual about it. Not really. But something in the way it lands sits wrong. Not cruel. Not threatening. Just… off. Like hearing a familiar song played in the wrong key.

“‘Ain’t mean to scare me’?” you echo, breath catching on a laugh that’s more tension than humor. “You appeared outta goddamn nowhere.”

You’re still staring, still breathing like your lungs forgot how for a moment. He nods, and in that subtle movement, you get a clearer look.

He stands a few feet away in the moonlight, his features finally sharpening in the silver wash of it. Dark pants hang loose over worn boots, held up by thick suspenders. The pale blue of his button-up looks nearly gray beneath the night sky, its collar undone just enough to show the soft white edge of a sleeveless undershirt beneath. Dark coat encases his body.

His hair is brown and cropped short, but loose curls fall just enough to kiss his forehead. And his eyes—dark, almost black in the moonlight—don’t leave your face. They study you the way someone studies a flame: close enough to feel the heat but never quite blinking.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he says again, and this time, your eyes catch on the shape of his mouth.

His teeth flash faintly in the low light—mostly straight, mostly normal. But there’s something… different. A few crooked edges. One or two that seem longer. Sharper. Not enough to be sure. Just enough to make your stomach turn oddly, like you’ve just remembered a name you never learned.

“You need something?” you ask, voice steady but edged with something dry. “Or do you regularly stand outside women’s homes like some creep?”

The words leave you too fast.

Your tone isn’t sharp—more exasperated than anything—but as soon as they’re out, a cold flush rises up your neck. You shouldn’t’ve said it. Not like that. You know better.

You’ve heard too many stories.

Women who spoke with less nerve than you, and still ended up with bruises blooming along their jaws. Girls who went missing after speaking too plainly. You swallow hard, trying to keep your face from shifting, but it’s there—the flicker of regret in your eyes, in the way you grip your broom a little tighter.

But then, he lets out a low chuckle. Quiet. Unbothered.

It rumbles from his chest like he actually found your words funny, not threatening. The sound unwinds some of the tension in your ribs, loosening your shoulders just enough to let breath flow easy again.

He has humor, you think. That’s something.

Still, you don’t look away. You keep your eyes on him, even as he brushes at his coat—though you’re almost certain there’s no real dust there. Just a motion. Something to do with his hands while he thinks.

“I was just passin’ by,” he says, his tone smooth again, a little slower now. “Heard your humming. Sounded nice.”

His voice dips a little at the end, not like a compliment, not quite—but something close. Something softer. Like the words held a memory.

You say nothing, not yet. Just study him.

The way the moonlight shapes him now feels different than a moment ago. He’s not moving toward you. Not threatening. But there’s something deliberate in his stillness. In how his eyes take you in again—slower this time. Not rude. Not leering.

Just… like he’s remembering.

Then he says it, almost like he’s answering your thoughts.

“You kinda remind me of someone.”

\\\\\\\\

“Who?”

The question slips from your lips before you can think twice, quiet but sharp with curiosity. Your fingers freeze mid-stroke, the piece of charcoal in your hand stuttering against the paper and smudging the corner of your sketch. A rough breath pushes from your nose.

‘A man out near the riverbank.’

His voice threads through your mind—low, calm, almost casual in the way he says it. But the words land heavy. You shake your head gently, trying to keep them from sinking too deep, to keep your focus grounded here, now.

“Remmick…” you murmur, a note of warning in your tone, or maybe worry.

‘I know.’

A pause stretches in the space between your thoughts and his voice, like a breath being held.

‘He deserved it, ya know? He couldn’t—wouldn’t keep his hands to himself.’

Your eyes narrow without meaning to. You glance up at the sun dipping low in the sky. Even as it sinks toward the treetops, its light still burns hot and bright, stinging your eyes until you wince and look away. Your gaze falls back to the page in your lap, to the lines your charcoal had drawn.

You don’t say anything for a moment. You don’t have to.

‘Still there?’

The voice comes again—gentler this time. Like he’s leaning closer, brushing the words he spoke through the strands of your mind instead of speaking it aloud any longer.

Your lips tug, just slightly, into a crooked smile.

“You miss my voice already?”

There’s another pause. And then another.

The charcoal dust clings to your fingertips as you drag the side of your hand across the paper, wiping away excess and softening the shadows. A breeze slips past the open window, stirring the loose hairs at your temple.

‘I miss you.’

Those words come softer. Rawer. They settle into you like warm hands sliding around your middle, like something deeper than sound curling low in your chest.

You let out a slow breath—didn’t even know you were holding it.

“I’ll see you tonight,” you whisper.

‘I wish I was there now.’

His voice is a whisper now, like it’s being carried from far off and wrapped in something aching.

You rub the back of your nose with the heel of your charcoal-coated hand, leaving a smudge behind.

“You just gotta wait a little more, yeah?” you murmur, turning the paper slowly, holding it up in the late light.

The sketch is rough, but it holds something of him in it. Something of how he lingers in your mind even when you try to focus on anything else.

“I have a surprise for you when you get here.”

He doesn’t answer this time. But you don’t need words to feel it. It moves through the tether between you—an almost tangible pulse. Warm, steady, full.

Devotion.

The sun has long dipped below the horizon by the time a knock echoes through your small home—sharp, but not rushed. Measured. Expectant.

For nearly an hour now, you haven’t moved much, just shifting from chair to window to doorway and back again. The sketch rests across your lap, its edges curled slightly beneath your fingertips. You’ve wiped your hands on your apron more than once, but faint stains of charcoal still cling beneath your nails and settle into the grooves of your knuckles—proof of time spent trying to capture something delicate. Something he might see and recognize as his.

God, you hope he understands it.

Not just the way the lines curve or how the shadows fall—but what lives in the stillness between them. You drew it slow, with smudged fingertips and patient strokes, not to capture detail but memory. A moment stilled.

You hope he doesn’t look at it for what it is, but for what it offers. For what you can’t give him with your hands or your words.

Another knock sounds, and your head lifts.

You don’t call out. You don’t rush. You rise slowly from your seat, your nightgown whispering against your skin as it sways around your ankles. Bare feet pad across the wooden floor, each step unhurried. He’s already here. You can feel it in your chest before your hand even reaches the door.

Then his voice slides through the wood—warm, easy, touched with teasing.

“Gonna make me wait all night?”

There’s no pressure in it. No impatience. Just the lazy drawl of a man who already knows your answer. A man who feels your presence the same way you feel his—always, even before your fingers meet the doorknob.

Your lips curve. You let your voice rise in reply, light and falsely thoughtful.

“I don’t know… I’m thinkin’ on it.”

A pause follows. Still and comfortable. The kind that stretches sweet between two people whose bond was sealed long before this moment.

Your fingers close around the doorknob and twist it slow.

The door creaks open, and you lean into the frame with a crooked smile, eyes catching his shape in the porch light.

“Well, hello, sir,” you murmur, voice thick like honey over gravel. “Are you sure you’ve got the right house?”

He stands just beyond the threshold, dusk outlining his form in soft shadows. His mouth quirks with a grin as he tilts his head slightly.

“Ma’am, I just came by to warn you—there’s a wild animal prowlin’ around out here.”

You blink, playing along, smile growing wider.

“Oh? Should I be afraid?”

You don’t get the chance to finish the tease.

He moves forward in a fluid, practiced motion, arms sliding around your waist. You yelp through a breathless laugh as he lifts you off the ground like it’s nothing. Your toes skim the floor once, twice, before you’re fully cradled in his arms.

“They say,” he murmurs, lips near your ear, “the animal’s got a thing for women who keep it on its toes.”

His breath is warm. His hold is steady. And you melt into him without thought—like muscle remembers before the mind catches up.

Then his mouth lowers to the tender skin beneath your ear, pressing a deliberate, lingering kiss.

Followed by a faint scrape of teeth.

“It also likes to bite,” he whispers, every word drawn out slow, letting them sink into your skin like heat.

You laugh, breath catching on a sound you didn’t mean to let slip, arms curling tight around his shoulders. 

“I think I’ll keep it,” you whisper, grinning against his throat.

And you swear—you feel him smile, too.

The night deepens around you, slow and quiet. The oil lamp flickers low on the side table, casting warm golden light across the room, leaving the edges in shadow. The kind of light that makes everything feel gentler—closer.

You’re curled into him on the couch, your back pressed to his chest, his arms wound around your waist with a familiar weight as his back rests against the arm. His breath brushes the crown of your head. Steady. Calm. His fingers rest lazily against your stomach, and your own hand fidgets with the cuff of his shirt, folding the fabric, then unfolding it again.

“I still remember the first night we met,” he says, his voice low and slow, rumbling deep in his chest.

The sound of it thrums through your back—warm and vibrating through the bones of you like a soft drumbeat.

You let out a playful, exaggerated sigh. “You bring this up every other week.”

He lets his chin settle atop your head. A soft, absent motion that makes you smile despite yourself.

“It’s adorable,” he murmurs.

“You scared me half to death,” you remind him, voice tilting up into something mockingly indignant.

He only shrugs behind you, his laugh rolling low from his throat. No apology. Just amusement.

Silence drapes over you for a moment, long enough for the house to settle around you. The wood creaks softly, and the outside hum of insects builds and fades with the wind. You sink deeper into him, the beat of your heart quieting against the shape of his.

Then his voice slips out again—lower now. Different. Threaded with something distant and fond.

“Do you know what really sticks with me?”

You hum, barely a sound, your hand still tugging gently at the edge of his sleeve.

“The second night.”

You groan, the sound full of heat and laughter, your spine stiffening against his chest. “Not this again…”

“I just had to interrupt your performance with the squirrels,” he chuckles, voice full of the grin you don’t need to see to know is there.

“They were trying to take the bird’s food,” you argue, a hint of pride in your voice.

“You practically chased them off with a broom,” he teases, drawing circles against your collarbone with the tip of his finger. “I swear your father had to come help you.”

Your breath hitches with the motion of his touch, but you still manage a scoff. “You stood there like some creep,” you mutter, turning slightly to glance back at him. “You could’ve at least been a gentleman and helped.”

He laughs again—louder this time, but not harsh. It fades slowly as he looks at you, something quieter blooming behind his eyes. His gaze holds yours, soft and still.

“Do you remember the third night?” he asks, voice lower, more careful now.

You watch him for a beat, the memory flickering behind your eyes like a distant spark.

Then you nod—slow, certain—and turn back into his arms.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I remember.”

An owl calls from the trees above, its song low and long, echoing gently across the yard like a lullaby meant only for the night. The grass beneath your bare feet is cool, still damp from the afternoon rain, and freshly cut—sharp and green-smelling as it brushes against your ankles.

You move with the wind, not to any melody made by man, but to the soft, layered rhythm of the night. The hum of crickets, the rustle of leaves, the breath of the earth beneath you.

Your eyes are closed.

Your hands sweep through the air—out, behind, above—fingertips carving patterns through nothing. The energy of it all coils in your belly and unfurls through your limbs like light, like water. It pulses through you, ancient and steady. You don’t dance to be seen. You dance to be felt.

And still—he sees you.

He stands at the edge of the yard, silent in the shadows.

You don’t open your eyes. Not yet. But you feel him. The weight of him. The awareness. The way his presence folds into the air like heat rising off stone. It doesn’t startle you. Doesn’t stop you. You’re too far gone in the rhythm to care. You dance as if he isn’t there—because in truth, everything in that moment belongs to something older than either of you.

But when you do finally stop, breath feathering from your lips, you turn your head slowly—and he’s still watching.

His mouth is parted slightly. His eyes are dark, drawn in, like they’re trying to memorize what they just witnessed. Like they’ve forgotten how to blink.

“That was beautiful,” he says, voice hushed and full—like anything louder might shatter the air between you.

The words curl around your ribs, nest there. A stranger’s compliment shouldn’t warm you like this. Not on the third night of him appearing without warning. Not after the way your father squinted suspiciously at him from the porch light the evening before.

And yet—

“I know,” you reply softly, gaze pulling toward the moon overhead. Its light turns your skin pale silver, glinting off your cheeks and collarbones.

Behind you, he lets out a quiet sound—half-laugh, half-exhale. Barely audible. But it reaches you all the same.

You turn then. Finally look at him. Really look.

And what you see in his eyes stops you.

Not hunger. Not mischief. Not charm.

But something older.

Something searching.

“Beautiful.”

His voice breaks the quiet with a tone that feels almost sacred, and the word lands like a ripple through still water—pulling you gently out of the memory you’d been floating in.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers pause against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, the words slipping out too fast, too sudden.

Behind you, Remmick shifts, his head tilting slightly. He hums, a soft note of confusion, the sound curling into the space between your neck and shoulder.

“What you sorry for?”

You look down, eyes falling to the hand still idly fussing with the cuff of his shirt—folding it, smoothing it, folding it again. Your teeth graze your bottom lip before you catch yourself.

“For not bein’ able to bring them back,” you whisper. The words sting in your throat more than you expected. “Your family.”

You feel it the moment it hits him—his body tenses behind you, the quiet inhale that doesn’t quite reach his lungs. He doesn’t speak right away.

But before he can gather something to say, you’re turning, twisting in his arms to face him. The words tumble out fast, too full, too heavy to hold back.

“Maybe I wasn’t what you were looking for—maybe I—”

“No.”

It cuts through clean. Not sharp. Not scolding.

Just certain.

His hand closes around yours, fingers wrapping tight—not desperate, just firm. Grounding. His eyes search yours, and his head shakes once, like he’s banishing the thought from both of you before it can settle.

“You are what I was looking for.”

He says it like a vow.

And then, softer—softer than anything else he’s said tonight, as his thumb brushes over your knuckles and his brow draws slightly:

“Love, I’m so happy to have found you.”

The silence that follows doesn’t ache.

It holds.

And when you breathe again, it feels like you’re finally letting yourself believe it.

“I have somethin’ for—somethin’ to show you.”

The words stumble out, your breath catching in your chest as you untangle yourself from him. A rush of nerves spikes through you, making your hands shake as they hover for a moment before finding their purpose. Your feet carry you over to the dining room table, where the sketch waits, neatly folded and lying there like something fragile.

You glance back over your shoulder at him, catching the way he watches you, still lounging on the couch but sitting straighter now, his feet brushing the floor.

“What is it?” His voice is low, but his eyes are full of something—something expectant, even intrigued.

“It’s just a little drawing,” you murmur, the paper suddenly feeling much heavier in your hands as you move back towards him.

His brow arches, eyes flicking to the ink stains along your fingertips.

“Is that why your fingers look like you’ve been diggin’ in ink?”

You swat his arm gently, a soft laugh escaping you as you push the nervousness from your throat. “It’s small—honestly—it’s nothing big. But I wanted to give you a clear, or as clear as it can get, image.”

You sit next to him on the couch and extend it toward him, heart thudding in your chest.

He takes it slowly, his brows furrowing slightly as he studies the sketch. His eyes trace the strokes and shadows, lingering on the curves of the lines, as if trying to piece together the story you’ve captured. The silence between you both feels thick, heavy with anticipation, and you brace yourself for a reaction you’re not sure you’re ready for.

But then, his gaze shifts back to you, and your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes are dark, a quiet storm of emotions swirling in them—confusion, curiosity, but most of all, longing. Desperate longing.

It hits you all at once, like a soft blow to the chest, and for a moment, you almost wish you hadn’t drawn it at all. You almost regret giving him this piece of you, this representation of something he can never have in the same way again.

But then, before you can pull back, before the doubt can settle in, he leans forward. The paper still in his hands, not forgotten for a moment as his lips find yours.

The kiss is urgent, the kind that pulls at your soul as much as it pulls at your body. Your hand rises instinctively to cup his cheek, the cool of his skin grounding you in this moment. You melt into him, the tension in your shoulders unraveling as his touch deepens the kiss.

And then, just as quickly, he pulls away, his forehead resting against yours, breath coming fast.

“The sun,” he whispers, the words barely audible but laced with something raw—something that echoes in your own chest.

———————

It’s been twelve full moons since the night you gave him the sun.

Since you handed him something he hadn’t seen in so long and watched it catch in his throat. The sun—captured in your lines, your hands, your memory. A light he could never touch again, offered to him through you.

Now, the nights are quieter, warmer.

And now, even after all these months, he touches you like that moment never left him.

“Remmick…”

Your voice spills out in a breath, soft and undone, as his lips press against your neck again and again—slow, lingering kisses that melt into the hollow of your throat and the curve of your collarbone. He’s kneeling between your parted thighs, the weight of him grounding you, steadying you.

Your hand is tangled in his hair, the dark locks soft against your fingers as they tighten just slightly. He groans at the feeling, low and deep, like it stirs something in him he never meant to let loose.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, light and quick—but it catches, twists, becomes something else entirely when his mouth opens against the spot just beneath your chin and he sucks gently, leaving a mark that makes your toes curl.

One of his hands grips your hip, firm but worshipful. The other guides your leg higher, wrapping your thigh around his waist. You can feel the flex of his muscles through the fabric of your clothes—always clothed, always drawn out like this, as if undressing fully would tip the balance into something neither of you could undo.

He moans against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones as your hand tightens in his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath catch.

His tongue drags a slow line up the length of your throat—hot, wet, lingering—until it reaches the corner of your mouth. He kisses you there, not quite on your lips. Just close enough to make you shudder.

Your thighs tighten around him, urging him forward.

“Give it to me,” you whisper, panting softly now, your voice thick with need that’s become almost ritual.

Remmick’s eyes shift—darker now, pupils dilated, hunger swimming through them, but not for flesh. For this. For you.

He brings his wrist up to his mouth and bites. Not gently. His fangs tear into the skin with practiced force, piercing just deep enough to make the blood run freely. Thick, dark, it begins to fall—hot drops staining the front of your dress.

You don’t wait. You never do.

You grasp his wrist and pull it to your mouth, lips parting as you begin to drink.

Slowly.

His blood pours across your tongue like smoke—rich, metallic, ancient. It coils down your throat, and you moan around his wrist, hips pressing down against him in a slow grind that sends heat lacing up your spine.

It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t kill. Not like it should.

His blood was meant to destroy—corrode, rot from the inside out. To anyone else, it would have been poison. But to you?

It settles like firelight in your chest.

No one, not even Remmick, understands it. How your body takes his blood and lives. Hungers for it. How it makes your senses crackle and your thoughts slip sideways into his.

He watches you now, still holding your leg in place, his wrist slack in your grip as you drink. His mouth parts slightly in awe, eyes half-lidded.

It’s not just the pleasure of it—it’s the connection.

A tether forged in something older than touch.

And as the blood pulses through your veins like a slow current, you feel the familiar shift begin.

The world stills at the edges.

Your breath synchronizes with his.

And then—faintly—like a whisper in a dream—

‘Can you hear me?’

The words aren’t spoken.

They’re felt.

From somewhere inside.

From him.

You close your eyes and lean into the warmth of his body, lips still pressed to his skin.

‘Always.’

You don’t stop drinking right away.

You stay there, lips pressed to his wrist, your breath ghosting hot against his skin with each swallow. His blood fills your mouth in steady waves, pulsing with something ancient and strange, tasting of earth and copper and thunderclouds ready to break. It spreads through your limbs like warmth pulled from the deepest part of a hearth.

You can feel the weight of him above you—his chest heaving slowly, his arm trembling just faintly in your grip. He’s watching you, you know he is. You feel it in the way his hand tightens on your thigh, his fingers digging in just enough to anchor himself. His hips shift closer, slow, a near-imperceptible grind that tells you he’s just as drunk on this as you are.

Your body shivers in response, the sensation of him—his scent, his heat, the deep thrum of his power—curling into you, winding itself around your breath like a silk thread being pulled tighter and tighter.

Finally, you release his wrist with one last lick, blood still slicking your lips, glowing faintly in the lamplight. You press your face to the inside of his arm, inhaling the scent of his skin, letting the quiet of your joined bodies settle back in.

He exhales slowly, forehead lowering to rest against yours.

“Every time,” he whispers, voice roughened, breath warm against your cheek. “It never gets easier, needing you like this.”

You smile, lips brushing against his skin.

“I don’t want it to get easier.”

Your hand, still tangled in his hair, slips down to cup the side of his face. His stubble grazes your palm. He leans into the touch like it’s the only thing keeping him together. His free arm slides around your back, holding you fully, folding you into him like he wants to memorize every inch of your shape.

You tilt your head, guiding his mouth back to yours.

The kiss is slow. Saturated. It tastes faintly of blood and something far sweeter—familiar, claiming, home. He groans softly against your lips, his body sinking deeper between your thighs as if he could disappear inside you if he just moved close enough.

Your bodies don’t rush.

You never do.

This has always been about something more than hunger. More than flesh.

It’s about the space between the blood and the breath.

It’s about the way his fingers tremble when they trace the curve of your back through your dress. About the way your mouth parts for him even before he asks. About how his voice breaks just slightly when he murmurs your name like a prayer, spoken only for you.

Your legs curl tighter around his waist.

His hand cups the back of your neck.

And for a long, suspended moment, you just exist like that—pressed together, pulsing with the same rhythm, your minds still softly tangled in that shared tether.

His mouth parts from yours, slow and reluctant, as though breaking the kiss costs him something. But then he’s lowering—pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the bare skin at the top of your chest, where your collar dips just below your throat. Each kiss grows messier, wetter, trailing heat in their wake as his breath thickens against your skin.

You feel his lips move back up, soft and deliberate, until he’s at your throat again. He sucks gently on the flesh there—right where your pulse flutters closest to the surface—and your head tips back instinctively, a moan slipping from your mouth, low and unguarded.

You close your eyes, drowning in the sensation, the way his mouth worships you like you’re sacred. You melt into it, hips rising just slightly, your whole body humming.

Until—

A pressure.

A shift.

A sharpness.

It presses, faint at first, then firmer. Something cold, glancing the curve of your neck.

“Remmick?”

Your voice is a breath at first, confused but not panicked. Not yet.

But then you feel it again—definite now—the unmistakable drag of a fang against your skin. Not playful. Not soft. A warning. A threat.

“Remmick,” you say louder this time, a tremor threading through your voice.

No answer.

Only a low growl—feral and guttural—rising from his chest.

Your heart stutters.

You push at his chest, sudden and firm. “Remmick—!”

His body jerks back as if he’s been doused in cold water, a choked sound tearing from his throat. His eyes, once half-lidded with desire, now burn red—crimson—staring past you, unseeing, his breath ragged and uneven. But as you stare, you see the color begin to fade—slowly, then all at once—retreating like a tide.

You sit up, the moment shattered. The air between you now cracked and sharp.

Your hands tremble as you adjust the sleeve of your dress, fingers fumbling. You don’t look away from him. You can’t. Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths as the last of the heat bleeds from your skin and leaves something colder in its place.

His mouth is parted. He looks dazed—like he’s just woken from something he didn’t want to be in. His gaze finally meets yours, and what you see there is no longer hunger.

It’s guilt.

And fear.

And something else he’s too afraid to name.

The room is quiet—too quiet.

Just the sound of your breath, ragged and quick in your chest. Just the soft ticking of the old wall clock, the distant chirp of crickets outside the window. The warmth from the oil lamp still glows, but it doesn’t reach your skin like it did before.

You stare at him.

And he stares at you.

Neither of you moves. For a long, trembling moment, you’re both frozen in the wreckage of what almost happened.

Then—he shifts.

Only slightly. A small movement forward, the start of reaching out.

But your body responds before your mind can soften it. You tense, your spine pulling back like a thread snapped tight. It’s not dramatic. Not a jolt. But enough. Enough for him to see it.

He freezes mid-reach, then withdraws—slowly, deliberately—his hands falling to his thighs. He nods once to himself, almost like he’s answering a question you didn’t ask.

With a heavy breath, he lowers himself to the floor, sitting back against the foot of the couch. His legs stretch out in front of him, shoulders hunched, head bowed. One hand comes up to rub over his face, dragging from brow to jaw like he’s trying to wipe away the moment.

“Fuck,” he mutters, low and hoarse. His fingers dig into his temples. “Fuck, fuck—”

You watch him. From where you sit. From the place where his touch had just been.

He curses again, quieter this time. Not angry. Not cruel. Just broken. Cursing himself, not the world.

And you feel something shift in your chest—not the fear, not yet. But the knowing. The understanding.

So you move.

Slowly, carefully, you rise to your feet. The hem of your dress brushes your knees as you walk, cautious and bare-footed, toward where he sits in shadow. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t hear you coming until you’re already there.

When he does lift his eyes, it’s quick, almost reflexive.

And still—you flinch.

It’s the smallest thing. A flicker of muscle, a pull at your shoulders. You don’t mean to. But it’s there.

And he sees it. All of it.

The guilt that floods his face is instant, undeniable. Like something in him collapses. He turns his head slightly as if to hide, like he doesn’t want you to see the part of him he’s just shown.

But you kneel anyway.

You sink down in front of him, the floor cold beneath your knees, and you reach out.

Your hands come up slow, hesitant—but sure. You cup his face gently, thumbs brushing the sharp cut of his jaw, coaxing his gaze back to yours.

His eyes flicker up, full of something wild and wounded. He opens his mouth—and the words fall out in a rush, cracked and frantic.

“I’m sorry—”

His breath shakes.

“I didn’t mean—”

He swallows hard.

“I would never—God, I’m so sorry—”

“Shhh…”

Your voice breaks through softly, warm and steady.

You press your forehead to his.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

He doesn’t believe it. Not yet. Not fully. But he closes his eyes, and he lets you hold him anyway.

And for now, that’s enough.

Minutes pass, but they stretch long and aching, like time itself is unsure how to move forward.

You’re both seated on the couch, the air between you thick with what almost happened. Close enough to reach for each other, but neither of you does. Not yet.

You sit still, your knees drawn in slightly, eyes on the floor. Remmick leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, his fingers twitching at his knees.

Every few minutes, he swipes at his pant leg—dusting off nothing. Just a nervous habit. You’ve seen him do it a hundred times across three years. He does it when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s scared he’s hurt you, when his guilt starts to choke the words in his throat.

“You didn’t mean it,” you say softly, trying to fill the silence with something true.

But he cuts across your words—not sharp, not cruel. Just quiet. Defeated.

“It still happened.”

His voice settles into the room like a stone dropped in still water.

You don’t respond right away. Because you can’t lie—it did happen. This isn’t the first time. You’ve been here before. These moments where the instinct in him overwhelms the man you know. When something ancient stirs in his blood and almost—almost—makes him forget who you are.

Who he is.

And still… you stay.

Because it is instinct. Because it’s him. Because he’s tried so hard to be gentle, to be careful with you, to never take more than you offer.

But your humanity doesn’t always understand.

There are flashes. Of fear. Of your body screaming to move, to run. Even when your heart knows better.

Your hand rises slowly, brushing off your shoulder—not because anything is there, but because your body needs something to do, a motion to match the quiet storm inside you.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Remmick watching you. Just barely. Just for a second. Like he’s afraid to look too long.

“I’m not scared,” you say quietly, still brushing at nothing.

Your voice trembles—but not with fear.

“I promise.”

That part is steadier. More certain. Like you’re not just telling him, but yourself too.

He turns to look at you, eyes catching yours for a brief, flickering second. Then he leans back into the couch again, sighing as he drags both hands up over his face and into his hair.

His elbows rest wide, shoulders curling in, and for a moment he looks less like the creature who nearly lost control—and more like a man unraveling under the weight of being that creature at all.

There’s another beat of silence.

Heavy.

Full.

But not suffocating.

And then—you move.

You shift slowly, inching closer, careful not to startle him, not to break the fragile calm settling between you. His hands are still tangled in his hair when you press your body flush to his side, your knees drawing up gently to rest near his thigh. You let your head fall onto his shoulder, the weight of it soft but certain.

He tenses.

He always does, after things like this. After the hunger, the loss of control. Like he’s afraid your touch might break him. Or that he doesn’t deserve to be held after what nearly happened.

But when you exhale—a long, steady breath that says I’m still here—he softens.

Slowly, his shoulders lower. His body eases against yours. And then his chin dips to rest on the top of your head, the warmth of him grounding you both.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes.

Then his eyes fall to your chest.

To the thin gold chain and the small cross nestled in the hollow between your collarbones.

His fingers move before his voice does, brushing lightly against your skin. He picks it up with careful hands, like it might burn him.

“Why do you still wear this?” he murmurs, thumb ghosting across the little symbol. The question isn’t mocking. It’s softer than that. Almost confused.

You shrug, barely a motion, your cheek brushing the fabric of his shirt.

“Sometimes,” you say softly, “it’s better to be comforted by the familiarity of it… than to sit in the discomfort of knowing you were raised by people who heel to an if.”

His thumb keeps moving over the metal, slow and thoughtful.

Then—quietly—he asks, “Even after what happened?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer right away.

You feel the memory press up behind your ribs, the way some people spoke for God while hurting you in his name. But you shake your head, voice gentle but certain.

Your voice is quieter now, but not weak.

“I can’t blame God for the actions of men.”

Remmick lets the cross slip from his fingers.

“They’re his creations, though,” he says. Not accusing—just flat. Like stating a flaw in a story he’s never quite believed.

You pause. Your body shifts just slightly to glance at him.

His eyes aren’t sharp. But they aren’t soft, either. They look like someone who’s stood too long in the rain of something he used to want to believe in.

“Where is this coming from, Remmick?” you ask, reaching to touch the necklace again, your fingers now resting where his had been.

He’s quiet. Then his gaze meets yours.

“Because I’m not.”

Your brows draw slightly. “Not what?”

His throat bobs, and he exhales through his nose before answering.

“Holy.”

The word leaves his mouth like something unwanted. Like it tastes wrong.

You shake your head without hesitation, leaning back into him, fingers curling at the side of his shirt.

“I ain’t ask for holy.”

There’s a pause.

Then his arm slides around your waist, drawing you close—not fast, not rough, but sure. His hand rests flat against your back, and he holds you like you’re the only thing left in a world that never offered him much to believe in.

The room settles around you again, the stillness no longer tense, but warm in its hush. The lamplight flickers low, casting soft gold across the floorboards, the corners of the room melting into shadow.

Remmick doesn’t speak, and neither do you.

He just holds you.

One arm wraps around your waist, the other hand resting along your spine, fingers splayed wide, keeping you close like he needs the weight of you to stay grounded. Your cheek presses to his chest—cool and still beneath the fabric of his shirt. There’s no rhythm to lull you, no beat beneath your ear.

But it doesn’t matter.

You’ve long since stopped searching for it.

His stillness is its own kind of comfort.

The way he holds you, the way his body curves instinctively to shelter yours—it tells you more than a pulse ever could.

Your fingers fidget lightly with the hem of his shirt, not out of nerves but instinct. He shifts just enough to pull a blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of you in a quiet offering. His movements are careful. As if he thinks too much noise might startle the moment away.

“You always run cold at night,” he murmurs, just above your ear.

“I do not,” you whisper back, half a smile in your voice.

He hums in amusement, dipping his head slightly to press a kiss into your hair. Not rushed. Not wanting anything. Just the kind of kiss someone gives when they think no one else is watching.

Your breath begins to slow.

Your hand, once gently moving across his chest, grows still. He feels the change in you almost immediately—how your weight softens against him, how your fingers twitch once, then relax completely. Your body melts into his side, trusting, safe.

And he stays still.

He couldn’t sleep, even if he wanted. Not anymore. 

He just watches.

The way your face tips toward him, lashes brushing the tops of your cheeks. The rise and fall of your chest beneath the blanket. The cross glinting faintly against your skin as the lamplight burns itself out.

His hand strokes once down your back, slow and steady. A silent promise. A grounding.

He doesn’t dare move.

Because this—the weight of you against him, the quiet peace that followed the chaos—is something he doesn’t ever take lightly.

And though the house has fallen silent and your breath is deep with sleep, Remmick remains awake, holding you like you’re still asking to be protected.

———————

“I can’t stay here.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade—sharp, absolute.

You chase after him, feet bare against the old wooden floor as he moves too fast, too frenzied, like if he stops for even a second, he’ll fall apart. Your hand brushes the edge of his shirt, just barely, but he’s already beyond your reach.

“Remmick—wait,” you call, breath catching, the words tumbling over themselves. “Can’t we just talk about it?”

He doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t look at you. His voice rises, tight with frustration and something dangerously close to despair.

“I need to get out. I need to find someone—someone who actually knows what the hell they’re doing. Someone who can help.”

“Help with what?” your voice breaks slightly. “You said it didn’t matter anymore. You said no one could conjure them, that it was impossible—”

“We have talked,” he snaps, spinning to face you. And when he says your name—he says it in a tone you’ve never heard from him. Not even when you were fighting. Not even when you were afraid.

You freeze.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

He sees it—the way you recoil just slightly, how your fingers twitch like they don’t know whether to reach for him or pull back entirely. And still, you try. You step forward, eyes wide, jaw tight.

“You said it didn’t matter anymore,” you plead, anger bubbling up beneath the desperation now. “You said you couldn’t find anyone who could conjure them, and we—we moved on, Remmick! We—”

Your voice shakes. You hate the way it does. You hate the way your chest aches from chasing him, not just through the house, but through the months that led to this.

He turns to you fully now, eyes scanning your face, your posture, your hair—longer now, pinned back in a way that’s already half-fallen from place. There’s something about your appearance that makes him still. Like he’s seeing not just the person in front of him, but all the time you’ve weathered together. All the nights. All the blood. All the silence.

He says your name again.

Softer.

And then he closes his eyes.

“I tried,” he breathes, voice quiet, almost tender in its regret. “I really did.”

When he opens his eyes again, they’re empty of hope.

“But being with you…” He pauses. Swallows. “It reminds me of the part of me that still wishes I was human. That part that wishes I could connect with people again.”

You flinch, like you’ve been struck. But you don’t back down.

“You connected with me,” you say sharply, your hand flying up in disbelief, gesturing to your own chest. “You said that. You said I made you feel like—like you were still something.”

He breathes hard through his nose, jaw clenched. And then—

A pause.

A beat that goes on too long.

Too heavy.

His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours.

“That was a mistake.”

The silence that follows is loud. Deafening.

You stare at him. Waiting. Daring him to take it back.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, full of that distant kind of grief that’s been killing him slowly long before this moment.

Another long beat of silence.

The kind that presses into your chest and makes it hard to breathe. The kind that makes the room feel smaller, heavier—like the walls are listening, holding their breath along with you.

Your vision blurs slightly. Tears swell hot at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t let them fall. You won’t. Not in front of him. Not after this.

You swallow hard, jaw tight, voice trembling as you force the words out.

“How dare you?”

His eyes snap to yours, startled—not by the volume, but by the weight of it.

You take a step forward, fists clenched at your sides to keep from shaking. He glances away, quickly—like looking at you is suddenly too much—but you don’t give him the out.

“How dare you say that,” you repeat, louder this time, voice cracking beneath the fury that rises like a wave behind your ribs, “after everything we’ve been through?”

He turns back, but you’re already staring him down, eyes wet and burning, teeth gritted so tight your whole body aches with it.

“You think you can just throw all this away? Call it a mistake?” Your voice quivers, but it doesn’t falter. “We survived things together. You shared blood. We—” you stop yourself, shoulders trembling as your breath comes fast and shallow. “Don’t you dare rewrite what we had just because you’re scared.”

His lips part, but nothing comes out.

And all you can do is stand there, every part of you pulled tight like a thread about to snap, holding on for dear life just to keep from crumbling at his feet.

You don’t even realize how still you’ve gone until he turns his back on you.

That simple motion—silent, final—makes something inside you break.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Just a slow, spreading crack through the center of your chest.

Your throat tightens. Your limbs go cold. You press your lips together hard, trying to stop the trembling in your jaw. But your eyes burn, and your vision sways, and something deep inside starts to unravel like thread being pulled from the hem of something sacred.

He’s facing the door now. Ready to leave you in ruins.

“Look at me,” you say, voice trembling, barely more than a breath.

He doesn’t move.

Your stomach twists. Your fingers curl against your sides, and you take a step toward him, your voice rising—

“Remmick, look at me.”

He turns.

Fast. Too fast. Like he’s been waiting to snap.

You flinch before you can stop yourself, instinct pulling your body backward a half-step.

And that’s when he says it.

“You aren’t special.”

The words are plain. Cold.

His eyes don’t blink, don’t soften. They bore into you like he’s trying to make you believe it—like he needs you to.

“You weren’t special enough to conjure them,” he spits, voice stripped of all the softness it used to hold for you. “All this time, all this blood, all this hope—and it was wasted. On you.”

You feel the breath knock out of you, a rush of silence ringing in your ears. It’s like your body hasn’t caught up yet to what your heart just heard.

And then he says it.

“Meeting you was a mistake.”

Your face crumples—just a flicker. You try to hide it. Try to stand tall. But the ache comes too fast. Too deep.

He stares at you. Daring you to fight it. Daring you to say he’s wrong.

But he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t know he’s already won.

Because he’s broken the one thing that held you both together.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

The words hang between you like smoke, thick and suffocating, refusing to clear. He watches you—still, unreadable—but something shifts.

Just for a second.

A flicker.

It passes through his face too quickly, but you catch it—guilt. The barest crack in the mask. A subtle falter in the set of his jaw. The tiniest twitch of something human behind his eyes. Something that wants to take the words back.

But then he straightens. Withdraws.

His shoulders pull back, chin lifts slightly, and the mask returns. Cold. Detached. It slips back over his face like armor—like he needs it to stand here and not fall apart.

You stare at him, still frozen, your breath caught so tightly in your chest it hurts.

And then, finally—you exhale.

A soft, trembling sound escapes your lips, the breath breaking as it leaves you. It unravels into a quiet cry—small, raw, but cutting straight through the hollow ache inside you.

Your knees don’t give out. Your voice doesn’t rise.

You just… break, quietly.

The tears fall before you can stop them, hot and unrelenting. They spill down your cheeks like something you’ve been holding back for far too long, and your hand comes up—uselessly—to catch them. But they keep coming.

You’re not sobbing.

You’re just grieving.

Grieving what he just said.

Grieving that he meant it.

Grieving the part of him that once held you like you were the only thing keeping him in this world.

You take a step back.

Just one.

But it says everything. The distance grows in more ways than one—and for a breath, you see it in his eyes. The way they flicker. The way his fingers twitch. Like he’s about to follow you.

For a split second, it looks like Remmick might reach out—might step forward.

But he doesn’t.

He stills himself. Draws his hand into a fist at his side. Locks his body in place like it’s the only way he can keep from unraveling.

You stare at him through the blur of tears. Your breath is uneven, your chest tight with every word he’s thrown at you, and still—still—you look at him like you’re trying to see past all of it. Like you’re still trying to find him underneath the cruelty.

And when he finally speaks again, his voice is lower. Less certain.

“I meant what I said,” he tells you.

But it lacks the venom now. The edge has dulled. There’s something buried beneath it—something fragile. And he tries to hide it, tightening his jaw, avoiding your eyes. It’s the kind of lie someone tells when they need it to be true. When the alternative would break them.

You drag the heel of your hand across your cheek, wiping away the tears, though the dampness clings to your skin. Your eyes don’t leave him.

And then, after a long, aching silence, you say it:

“Turn me.”

His eyes widen. His head jerks slightly, like he misheard you. For the first time since he turned away, his composure shatters just a little.

“No,” he says immediately, shaking his head like the word itself might undo something. “No.”

But you’re already stepping forward. Slow. Certain. The pain in your chest rising like a tide.

You close the space between you until you’re right there—nearly brushing against him, close enough to feel the cold tension radiating off his body, close enough to make him hold his breath.

“Turn me,” you repeat, firmer now, eyes locking with his. “Do it—so you won’t leave.”

His face twists. “You don’t know what you’re asking—”

“Yes, I do.”

Your voice doesn’t shake now.

“Because I know you, Remmick. I know what this is. You don’t mean what you said. You’re pushing me away because you’re scared, because you think you’re protecting me—but I see you.”

He doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, stunned, struggling to hide the storm behind his eyes.

“And yes,” your voice softens but doesn’t lose its edge, “your words hurt me. But I’m still here.”

You lift your chin, breath shallow. “So if this is the only way you’ll stay—then do it.”

Remmick shakes his head again, more forcefully this time, jaw clenched, eyes glinting with something wild and frayed.

“No,” he mutters, barely more than breath. “No.”

But you press closer to him anyway.

You’re almost flush against his chest now, breath mingling with his, your hands reaching for the front of his coat—gripping the worn fabric in tight fists, like if you hold hard enough, he won’t disappear.

“Please,” you beg, voice cracked, raw. “Remmick, please—just turn me. Don’t go. Don’t leave me like this—don’t say those things if you don’t mean them.”

His hands twitch at his sides, knuckles pale with restraint. He looks down at you, expression dark, unreadable—but there’s something breaking behind his eyes.

“No,” he says again, louder this time, harsher. “No.”

He moves—tries to back away—but your grip tightens, frantic now, fingers curled tight in his coat like you’re afraid he’ll vanish the second you let go.

And then the sobs come.

They ripple through you like a storm, wracking your body as your knees almost buckle beneath the weight of everything—his words, his distance, the unbearable ache of loving someone who keeps pulling away.

“Please,” you choke again. “Please…”

Your voice crumbles. You’re not begging for the turning anymore—you’re begging for him. For the Remmick who held you at night. Who pressed kisses to your shoulder while you slept. Who whispered that you made him feel alive again.

And that’s what shatters him.

His face crumples—just for a second—and then his hands are on yours, trembling.

“I can’t,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I won’t.”

He grips your wrists gently but firmly, peeling your hands from his coat with heartbreaking care, as though touching you too harshly might undo you completely.

“I won’t do that to you,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours, swimming with sorrow. “I won’t damn you.”

His words tremble. His hands linger on your wrists even after he’s pulled them free.

His grip on your wrists lingers, trembling, as if some part of him doesn’t want to let go.

But he does.

He peels away from you slowly, like it hurts to break the contact. Your hands fall limply to your sides, empty now. Cold. His touch still clings to your skin even as he steps back, gaze flickering down before he forces himself to look away entirely.

You stumble a step after him.

“Remmick—” your voice is barely there. A breathless sob tangled in his name.

But he turns his back to you.

One hand rakes through his hair, gripping the strands tightly, like he’s trying to pull something out of himself. His other hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles cracking as he breathes heavy through his nose—too steady for a man this undone.

You stand there, frozen in place, a hollow thing trying to find footing on a crumbling floor.

“Remmick,” you say again, louder, more fractured, the plea cracking down the middle.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look back.

He moves toward the door, each step sharp, deliberate. You want to run to him, to grab him again—but your body won’t move. It’s locked in place by too much—rage, grief, love, disbelief—too much.

He reaches the door, and his hand clamps down on the knob so hard it groans beneath his grip.

Metal warps under his palm, the shape bending slightly from the pressure. He closes his eyes.

He could stay.

He wants to.

But if he does, he won’t leave at all. And that terrifies him more than the sound of your voice breaking behind him.

With a harsh exhale, he yanks the door open.

Outside, the night air spills in—cold and wide and merciless. He stands there for a moment, held still by something invisible. He hesitates.

Just one second.

The ache in his chest blooms again. A bloom with no heartbeat, no blood. Just hollow space where your voice used to echo inside him.

But then—he steps forward.

Down the porch stairs. Into the dark.

And as the distance grows, he tries—tries—to drown out the sound of you crying behind him.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

Your body is still frozen in place, chest heaving with sobs that feel too big for your ribs, too old to cry. Your hands tremble at your sides—empty, aching, reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.

Then, like instinct—like the last spark of hope clinging to a thread—you reach for him the only way you still can.

Through the link.

‘Remmick…’

You don’t speak it aloud. You don’t need to. You close your eyes, press your hand to your chest, and focus everything—everything—on him. The ache. The longing. The sharp panic rising as his presence starts to feel distant.

‘Please… come back.’

No answer.

You try again, harder this time, your mind pushing past the pain, straining through the space between you.

‘Remmick, please. Don’t do this.’

Still—nothing.

Not a whisper.

Not even the faint echo of thought.

You feel him.

You feel him walking away. Each step pulling the tether tighter, drawing it out like a thread unraveling at the seams. He’s walking into the woods now, into the dark, and you can feel the earth swallowing his presence inch by inch.

‘Answer me,’ you plead, the thought barely holding together under the weight of your grief.

He doesn’t.

He keeps walking.

And as he moves deeper into the trees, your link with him—so often warm, so steady it felt like breath—begins to fade.

Fainter.

Fainter still.

Like fog slipping through your fingers.

You press your forehead to the wall beside the door, tears spilling again, lips parted in a silent gasp.

There is nothing now.

Just the dark.

Just the cold.

And the silence where his voice used to be.

———————

Your feet brush against each other beneath the quilt as you tug it higher up your shoulder, chasing warmth that never quite stays. The winter air creeps in through the cracks in the wood, biting at your arms, your neck, anywhere the blanket doesn’t reach.

You nestle deeper into the bed, letting the stillness settle over you. It’s a familiar kind of cold now. Quiet. Lonely, but bearable.

Your eyes grow heavy, breath evening out as sleep pulls at you.

Your hand rises absently to scratch your scalp—fingers dragging through the short strands before you wince, quickly remembering that you’d cut it just the morning before. A change. Something new. Something yours.

But then—

A cry.

Loud. Restless. Piercing.

You bolt upright, rubbing at your eyes as your feet find the floor, already moving.

The old boards groan beneath your steps as you hurry down the hall, the sound of her cries swelling with each stride, high and sharp and full of tiny, desperate frustration.

You push open the door to the guest room.

The soft glow from the lamp you’d left on filters across the bassinet—your sister’s, now yours for the week since she dropped off your niece. Just until she sorted some things out. You’d said yes before you could even think twice. 

The baby’s cries fill the room now, bouncing off the walls in wild, wordless protest. You step forward, peering into the bassinet, and there she is—flushed-cheeked and determined, trying to shove her fist into her mouth.

“Girl,” you murmur, exasperation bleeding into affection as you tilt your head and reach in, “you a handful.”

She wriggles as you lift her, her little body warm against yours. The moment she’s in your arms, her cries soften to hiccupped whimpers, mouth still working, cheeks damp. One tiny fist rubs beneath her eye, and she lets out a pitiful little sigh that nearly breaks your heart.

Your feet carry you back down the hall without needing to think, swaying with her as you walk.

You move through the kitchen with practiced ease, one hand on the bottle, the other keeping her tucked close, even as she squirms.

The quiet of the house wraps around you again.

Not the same quiet it used to be.

Not the same ache.

But quieter still.

You bounce her gently against your hip as the bottle warms in the pot of water on the stove, her head tucked under your chin, cheeks flushed with the aftershock of her crying fit. The kitchen is dim, lit only by the glow of a single hanging bulb that hums softly above.

Outside, the wind groans low against the windows.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just… present.

You press a kiss to the baby’s head, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath, the kind of words meant only for soothing, not meaning. Her small fingers clutch at the collar of your nightshirt, still rubbing at her face now and then, whimpering with discomfort, but quieter now. Contained.

You sway with her, barefoot on the chilled wood floor. It creaks beneath you with each step. Familiar. Lived-in.

But something about the quiet feels different tonight. Not wrong exactly, just… off.

The wind shifts again, brushing against the side of the house like fingers trailing across old wood. You glance toward the window, frowning faintly, but don’t stop moving.

“You don’t even like the cold,” you whisper to the baby, rocking side to side. “Don’t know why your mama insisted on that thin little blanket…”

Your voice trails off as your eyes linger on the dark glass of the window.

There’s nothing there.

Just your reflection. You and her. The slow rise and fall of her breath against your chest. The soft flicker of the light swinging just slightly above.

Still—you find yourself listening harder.

To the house.

To the air.

To the quiet between sounds.

The bottle clicks lightly against the side of the pot as you reach for it. You test the heat on your wrist, then bring it to her lips. She latches, her little mouth greedy, like she hadn’t just cried the walls down.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

Steady.

But you don’t stop watching the window.

There’s something in your chest—nothing sharp yet, just a whisper in the gut. Like being watched. Like the moment just before thunder. A pressure that builds but hasn’t broken.

You shake your head.

You haven’t felt that way in a long time. Not since—

You blink. Your fingers brush over the back of the baby’s head. Her eyes flutter closed slowly as she suckles.

You stare into the window a second longer.

Just your reflection.

Just the wind.

But your fingers curl tighter around her.

And you don’t move far from the stove.

Her tiny breaths come slower now.

The bottle hangs at an angle in your hand as her mouth relaxes around the nipple, no longer sucking. Just resting. The tension in her little body has gone limp with sleep, one arm flopped across your chest, the other curled under her chin. Her lashes flutter once, then still.

You watch her.

Your niece.

Small and warm in your arms, her cheek nestled just over your heart. It calms you—being her anchor. Being needed, even in the quiet. Even when your own heart has been patchwork ever since he left.

You sigh and gently ease the bottle from her mouth, slow enough not to wake her. It comes free with a faint pop, and you hold it loosely in your hand, cradling her a little closer with the other. Her lips twitch slightly in her sleep, like she’s still dreaming of something sweet.

You press another kiss to her temple and begin to turn, shifting your weight toward the fridge.

Then—you freeze.

He’s standing in the kitchen doorway.

Remmick.

The air leaves your lungs so quietly you don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move.

He just stands there, tall and still and real, like he never left. Like he could’ve always been there, just at the edge of a memory, just out of reach.

The low light from the overhead bulb flickers faintly, casting soft shadows across his face, half of him cloaked in darkness. His eyes are locked on you—not the baby. Not the bottle. You.

He looks older somehow. Or maybe not older—just tired. Worn. His clothes are damp at the hem, boots mud-dusted from the woods. The air around him is cold.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

The bottle dangles in your hand.

The baby sighs in her sleep.

And all you can do is stare, heart stuttering in your chest like it’s trying to remember how to feel everything it buried.

He doesn’t speak.

And God, you’re not even sure if he’s here to.

But he’s here.

Your lips part—

But nothing comes out.

The words catch in your throat, stuck behind the tide of disbelief and something deeper, something aching. Your gaze stays locked on him, searching for a reason, for any kind of explanation etched into his face.

But Remmick only stares.

His eyes, once soft only for you, now guarded, flicker downward to the bundle in your arms. His expression doesn’t shift, not fully—just enough to register something unreadable.

“…She yours?”

It takes you a moment to process the question. Not because it’s complicated. But because he asked it. Because he is standing there, like he didn’t disappear without a word—like two years didn’t pass in silence.

A scoff escapes before you can catch it. Sharp, tired, disbelieving.

“You’ve been gone, what—two years,” you say, voice low and tight as you rock the sleeping baby in your arms. “And you show up asking if I got knocked up?”

The bitterness is subtle, tucked beneath a layer of false steadiness, but it’s there. Your fingers tighten slightly on the bottle in your hand.

You try to sound even. Indifferent.

But the truth is, the weight of him being back—just standing there like the past didn’t happen—is pressing on your chest like a hand. And you’re doing everything you can not to fold beneath it.

He doesn’t answer. Not yet.

Just watches you with those dark eyes, unreadable in the low light, like he’s still catching up to the sight of you. Of what he left behind.

And maybe, just maybe, what he’s already regretting.

When he doesn’t answer, something in you shifts.

Breaks.

Not loudly. Not all at once. But in pieces—one word at a time.

“You don’t get to ask questions like that,” you say, still low, still sharp, but your voice thins with every breath. “You don’t get to show up after years—after walking away from me, from everything—and act like you still have any right to know what’s mine.”

He stays still.

Silent.

Watching.

“You left me begging,” you whisper, your arms tightening around the baby now asleep against your chest. “I begged you not to go. I told you I wasn’t scared. That I was still here, and you—you just turned your back like none of it mattered.”

Your words grow quicker, more desperate.

“I tried to call to you—through the link—we shared that. I tried every night for weeks. You didn’t answer. Not once. Not even to say goodbye.”

Still, he doesn’t say a word.

Just watches.

And that’s what finally makes something snap.

“Say something, damn it!” you nearly shout, but the sound trembles with pain more than rage. “Don’t just stand there like a ghost in my kitchen—like you didn’t rip me apart and vanish like I was nothing!”

Your voice breaks completely now. Your throat burns. Your eyes sting again despite all the tears you thought you’d already spent on him.

And still—he says nothing.

But he moves.

Quiet. Intentional.

One step.

Then another.

And another.

Your breath hitches as he closes the space between you. Reflexively, you take a step back, shaking your head.

“No—Remmick, don’t. You shouldn’t be here.”

But he keeps coming.

Until he’s standing right in front of you, the baby nestled safe between your arms and your chest, sleeping through the weight of everything around her. His presence so close, you can feel the cool air that always clings to him pressing against your heat.

Then—slowly, almost as though he’s afraid you’ll shatter beneath it—he lifts a hand.

You don’t stop him. You want to. You think you should.

But you don’t.

And when his palm finally meets your cheek—his thumb brushing softly beneath your eye—your entire body caves inward.

Not physically.

Not visibly.

But everything inside you folds.

You melt into his touch like you were made to. Like nothing’s ever felt more real, more grounding, more right—even now. Even after everything.

Your eyes close. Just for a second.

The quiet between you hums like a wound.

His hand stays at your cheek, steady, thumb grazing the corner where your last tear dried. Your eyes stay closed, not because you trust him—but because the moment you open them, you’ll have to feel everything all over again.

You breathe in, slow and shaky.

He breathes out, slower.

Then—

He speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words.

So small.

So late.

Your eyes snap open.

You pull back—not far, not entirely—but just enough to see him. Really see him. His face is drawn, tired. Not just from time. From regret.

You part your lips. The words rise fast in your throat, fueled by every long night, every unanswered cry, every bitter second he left you alone with all that love and nowhere to put it.

“Your sorry doesn’t mat—”

“I know.”

He says it before you can finish, the words low and plain.

Not defensive.

Not performative.

Just… true.

Your mouth hangs open for a moment, the rest of the sentence dissolving on your tongue. There’s something gutting about the way he says it—how fast it comes, how quietly.

He knows.

He knows he can’t fix it.

He knows it’s not enough.

He knows he left something in you that never stopped aching.

And somehow, that hurts worse than if he’d tried to argue.

You stand there in his grasp, his hand still at your cheek, eyes searching yours with that old ache—the one you used to know so well. The silence lingers again, thick and full of everything unsaid. And then—

Your voice cuts through it, quiet but steady.

“…Why are you back?”

He flinches. Not visibly. But you feel the tension ripple through his fingers, still resting lightly against your skin.

He hesitates. You can see it—the way his jaw works, how his eyes lower to the floor between you. For a moment, you think he won’t answer. That he’ll leave you in the dark all over again.

But then, just barely above a whisper—

“I think I’ve found someone.”

He looks at you again. “Some people. Who might be able to help.”

Your chest tightens. You nod once, slowly, the motion tight and mechanical. And before the silence can grow unbearable again, you let out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—bitter and tired.

“That’s good for you,” you murmur.

And then, you move.

You turn your face from his hand and gently pull your head out of his touch. The loss of his presence against your cheek feels colder than it should, but you ignore it. You shift the baby in your arms, her little body warm and boneless against yours, one tiny fist curled near her mouth.

“You should leave,” you say softly, not cruel, not even angry. Just… done.

You take a step toward the hallway.

But his hand finds your wrist.

Not hard. Not forceful. Just enough to stop you. To ask without words.

“Don’t,” you say, voice barely audible.

But before either of you can move again—

Your niece lets out a small, whimpering sound.

A soft whine, pained and restless, as she begins to stir against your shoulder. Her gums, still tender from teething, are clearly giving her grief again. You instinctively bounce her, soothing.

But it’s the sound—that tiny, human ache—that breaks him.

You feel it.

Something changes.

You glance back, eyes narrowing in quiet confusion, only to find Remmick… crumbling.

His expression falls apart all at once—like a dam finally giving in. His eyes close, jaw clenching as he sucks in a breath too shaky to steady. His shoulders drop, and he lets go of your wrist like it burns.

“Remmick—?” you start, brow furrowing.

But he’s already there—standing in the ruins of whatever wall he’d tried to keep between you. His hands tremble as he drags them over his face, voice breaking in the back of his throat.

“I shouldn’t’ve come back,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “I thought—I thought I could just come in, tell you what I found, and walk away again.”

His eyes meet yours, red-rimmed, wet.

“I didn’t think it’d feel like this.”

You don’t move.

You feel the tremble in him, the rawness beginning to leak out of every word, but you don’t step forward. You keep your distance—not out of punishment, but because if you move now, if you let yourself soften, you don’t know if you’ll be able to hold yourself together.

He’s the one breaking this time.

And you’ve broken enough.

“I didn’t think it’d feel like this,” he says again, voice thin and cracking, like he’s choking on the very thing he’s fought so long to suppress.

You say nothing.

Your arms tighten just slightly around your niece, who shifts again with a small whine before nestling back into your shoulder. The quiet hum of her small discomfort is the only sound in the kitchen for a long moment.

Remmick’s hands shake as he pushes them into his hair, like he’s trying to rip the feeling out of his skull.

“I thought I could handle it,” he goes on, his voice a hushed blur. “Thought I could just see you, tell you what I found, and leave. Be… grateful, even. That you moved on. That you looked okay.”

You blink, your stare sharp.

“I’m not okay,” you say simply.

He freezes at that.

“I wake up every night thinking I’m still waiting for your voice in my head. Still hoping you’ll answer. I spent months checking the woods for you like a fool. I tried to forget you, and every time I thought I had—I’d dream of you.”

Your breath hitches, but you keep your tone even. You don’t raise your voice.

“I am not okay,” you repeat, softer now. “But I lived.”

Remmick looks at you like you’ve just slapped him, and maybe, in a way, you have.

He nods slowly, eyes lowered.

“You should go,” you say again. Not unkind. But firm. “You said what you came here to say.”

His mouth opens—but no sound comes.

For once, he doesn’t argue.

He just stands there in the kitchen he once haunted, in the silence he left behind.

And you don’t reach for him.

You don’t fold this time.

Because you’re still bleeding from the last time you did.

He doesn’t follow you.

You don’t even hear him move.

Just the quiet behind you, the kind that settles in when someone’s made the choice to stay still instead of chasing after what’s slipping away.

You walk back to the guest room without a word, her small body pressed close to yours, the way babies always seemed to mold themselves into you like they trusted you with every part of them. She stirs, lips parting in a sleep-heavy pout, but she doesn’t cry. Not this time.

You kneel beside the bassinet and lay her down gently, smoothing your hand over her soft curls, fixing the thin blanket to cover her—tucked just enough to keep her warm, loose enough not to make her squirm. The room is quiet but not empty. It is full of her steady breathing, of your own heartbeat finally slowing, of the warmth that lingers in your chest even through the ache.

Then you leave her.

Walk through the halls that still hold a whisper of his presence, as if the walls remember his shape, his shadow, even when he is gone.

And when you make it back to your bed, you don’t hesitate.

You slump into it—face buried in the pillow, arms limp at your sides—and let a few tears finally slip free. No heaving sobs. No gasps for breath. Just a quiet spill of sorrow that doesn’t ask for permission.

You can’t feel him anymore.

That connection, that strange tether that once ran like a livewire between your ribs—it has gone still. And you know, without needing to check, that he isn’t here anymore.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t come back.

That’s the cruelest part of loving someone like him.

They always return just when you’d started to believe they never would.

And as you drift off to sleep,

you dream.

It begins with the sound of wind—soft and low, brushing through tall grass that doesn’t exist anywhere near your home. The air is warm here, golden. Drenched in late-afternoon sunlight that sways with the trees like it’s dancing. Everything glows. Even the shadows.

You stand barefoot in the middle of a field you don’t recognize. But somehow, it feels familiar. Like something from a childhood you never lived. The sky is streaked with honeyed orange and rose-colored clouds, and the breeze hums low, tugging at your dress like it’s trying to guide you somewhere.

You turn slowly—

And he’s already there.

Remmick stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of a long coat you’ve never seen him wear, his expression unreadable but softer than he’s ever looked. His hair is a little longer. His eyes… not quite the same. Warmer. Human.

You want to speak, but your voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. Because he’s already moving toward you, quiet steps through the grass that doesn’t bend beneath him.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t touch you right away.

He just looks.

Looks at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he’s trying to memorize you again. Your face. Your mouth. The soft glint of your necklace as it catches the dying sun.

And then—he lifts a hand. Presses the back of it to your cheek.

It’s warm. He’s warm.

His thumb runs beneath your eye, so gently it makes your breath hitch.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice barely above the breeze. “That I could miss something before it ever left me.”

You close your eyes.

It’s a dream. You know it.

But in this moment, it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not a vampire here. Not a shadow. Not a man made of memory and regret.

He’s just him.

And for a moment, just long enough, you let yourself lean forward—

And rest your forehead to his.

Your forehead rests against his, breath mingling. It’s soft. Still. Timeless.

But the warmth of his hand begins to fade.

Not suddenly. Gently—like dusk rolling over daylight.

And before you can stop it, the field dissolves beneath your feet. The grass melts into wooden planks. The orange sky darkens into candlelight flickering against old wallpaper. And your bare feet… they touch floorboards you recognize.

The dream has shifted.

But it hasn’t abandoned you.

You know this place.

Your sitting room.

The one before the wallpaper peeled and before winter made everything too quiet.

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed to the couch. Remmick is across from you, legs sprawled out, his shirt sleeves rolled up and suspenders hanging at his hips. There’s a record spinning low in the background, some jazz tune that always made your foot tap.

He’s smiling. Really smiling.

That rare, crooked grin that used to only appear when he was completely unguarded. When he forgot to be what the world turned him into.

“You gonna play fair this time?” you hear yourself say, younger, teasing.

He narrows his eyes at the worn deck of cards in his hands. “I always play fair.”

“You cheat like you’re allergic to honesty.”

“And yet,” he says, laying a card down with a flourish, “you keep comin’ back to lose.”

You’re laughing now. The sound echoes in your dream like it’s something sacred.

Then—he leans forward. His eyes drop from your eyes to your lips. The moment stretches.

“You wanna know the truth?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

“I don’t care about the cards.”

He reaches over, fingers brushing yours as he plucks a stray card from your lap.

“I just like watchin’ you laugh.”

Your dream self softens. You remember this night. The scent of warm wood. The way his fingers ghosted over yours longer than necessary. The way he kissed you an hour later like it was a confession he didn’t have words for yet.

You blink—and it’s like the moment folds in on itself.

The music distorts. The candle flickers once—

Then dies.

You’re left in silence.

And slowly, your dream-self turns to find the room empty.

No Remmick. No warmth.

Just the echo of what once was.

You don’t try to speak into the quiet.

The room around you stills—dim, waiting. You expect to wake up now, maybe with that ache in your chest again. That emptiness that always followed dreams of him.

But instead, you feel it shift again.

Not the space. Not the light.

You.

It begins in your chest, like a second breath filling your lungs. A memory rising not from your mind, but from your body. A sensation before a thought.

And then you’re there.

Not in a room this time, but in the woods just behind your home. Summer hangs thick in the air—humid and fragrant, cicadas buzzing in the distance. It’s night, but the moon is full. Bright enough to see the glint of his eyes across from you.

He’s standing close. Too close.

Your fingers hover just above the cut on his wrist.

“I told you,” Remmick says, voice quiet, not angry, “it’s not safe.”

You remember this.

Not just the words. The pull.

Your dream-self looks up at him, gaze steady. “You told me everything about you wasn’t safe. But I’m still here, ain’t I?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You reach for his arm before he can stop you, fingers brushing the blood that beads along the open wound. It’s still fresh—dark, and viscous, and wrong in color—but you’re already bringing it to your mouth.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

But it’s too late.

You taste him.

The blood is bitter at first. Cold and alive in a way that makes your tongue go numb. It slides down your throat like fire threaded with frost. And then—it happens.

The world bends.

Not violently. Not with force.

But like silk pulled tight over your ears, like your body isn’t yours anymore. The trees go silent. The wind cuts off. And your breath—

You gasp.

Your hands go out to steady yourself but he’s already there, catching you before your knees buckle.

And in the space of a blink, you’re in him.

Not in his body—but in his mind.

You see flashes.

A house fire. A laugh.

Hands reaching for him and pulling away in the same breath.

A name he hasn’t said aloud in years.

Your own face.

And you feel him—

The grief, ancient and echoing.

The hunger he’s tried to chain.

The fear that you’ll vanish like everyone else before you.

It crashes into you.

He sees your thoughts, too—your quiet wondering, your ache, your stubborn belief that he could still be loved.

He stumbles back, eyes wide, breathing like he’s just surfaced from underwater. You sway, dazed, a smear of his blood still wet on your bottom lip.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“You linked us.”

You blink slowly, heart rattling in your ribs.

“I didn’t mean to.”

And yet—

You both know something sacred just snapped into place.

You remember the way he touched your face afterward—like it was a thing he’d dreamt and didn’t believe could be real.

You remember how you didn’t sleep that night.

You just listened—to the new quiet that settled between your thoughts.

[kakusu-shipping]

Guys I'm so cooked.

[donutdrawsthings]

why is your doctor called the one who shone?

✨Character Tag

Might as well write out what her whole deal is! I never did because I wanted to write her "introduction episode", but I'm really not a great writer. I'm just an ideas guy, really!

She's called "the one who shone" because her regeneration existed briefly, yet joyously! Her energy was infectious when she existed and brightened everyone's day. This regeneration also existed briefly for atypical reasons. She is a paradoxical regeneration, a regeneration that exists, but isn't supposed to.

The Master had created this Frankenstein's Monster type of Weeping Angel... called The Impossible Angel. Unlike regular angels that feed on "unlived potential" time energy, THIS Angel feeds on the impossible. It feeds on what never should be, paradoxes! paradoxical time energy! You are send to several time periods at once, split into pieces but still visibly whole. You are an impossible part of time and with every breath you take, time decays around you, changing things in ways that were not meant to be.

This creation had touched the Doctor and pulled out a regeneration that was never meant to exist. And since the Doctor is so old, and can live for so very long, her existing in and of itself as a paradox, is enough for the impossible angel to keep on growing stronger and collect more paradoxical time energy than it's actually able to hold.

It is a time bomb, literally! And when it goes off, it resets the entire universe!

Since THIS Doctor is the reason the whole universe is at risk at all, she figured she should find a way to focus this reset on her regeneration alone. Make it so that she never existed in the first place. With some tinkering and quick, smart thinking, she succeeded with her plans, resetting the universe to before she was created and destroying the poor, Impossible Angel in the process.

Elisa still remembers her. Very well, in fact. Every minute she'd spend with her. But when she encounters the Doctor again and sees him stepping out of his TARDIS, she is quickly walked past, making it clear that the woman she knew is truly, gone forever.

I had way more ideas for her story, like her introduction and other episode ideas, but I'll leave those under the cut!

For the Doctor's introduction, she wakes up after regenerating, finding herself crashed in London with no memory of what happened before. Nothing unusual sofar, but then she sees some suspicious activity at a school and starts investigating. This is where she meets her companion, Elisa!

Elisa gets bullied/outcasted heavily at her school and it has her feeling all types of low. She's alone in the girl's bathroom, crying, and a perfect next victim to add to the list of kids with a mysterious sickness that leaves them bedridden. Then the Doctor barges in with this little doohickey she'd build out of a branch. It tracks the source of an alien metal, and the source of said metal would make itself known only seconds later.

It's a Panagralid, otherwise known as a data worm! It chases after the two all over the school, but it's only visible to Elisa, so everyone thinks she's just acting up. They manage to throw it off their scent by literally throwing her school blazer with her scent at it and hiding in a closet.

The doctor catches her up to speed on what's going on, Elisa being frustrated at the Doctor for almost being excited about this horrifying thing, and they discuss what it wants. Data worms feed on information, and the females have these metal plates on their body to store info on for their young. Other species often keep and train female data worms though to obtain certain bits of information in secret (because it can cloak itself!). The doctor has all these plans to combat things, but then gets hit by a wave of post-regeneration sickness unlike anything she's ever felt before, and she briefly blips out of existence. Well, to her it was brief. in actuality she's disappeared for hours, leaving Elisa to go home alone and wonder why the data worm wants HER specifically.

Well turns out, it didn't want her specifically, and she isn't as special as she thought she was.

This trio of aliens has actually set up shop at the school and have trained the data worm to specifically harvest negativity. Apparently, negative emotions are a currency on their planet, and a human school is essentially the perfect place to farm it and become rich. It doesn't matter to them that it leaves the victim basically bedridden with exhaustion.

Anyways, I never worked out exactly how the Doctor would work this out, but it ends in the school basically having exploded and the 3 aliens picked up by space authorities. This leaves Elisa without a school and the lingering hurt still left from being called "not special". So when she sees the opportunity to sneak into the Doctor's TARDIS, she does.

This brings us to the next story: THE PHANTOM SUN

The Doctor discovers Elisa has sneaked in, which is perfectly timed with the TARDIS being dragged towards this space ship from the future. A strong gravitational pull has pulled them in and they can't leave. The Doctor is really frustrated with this because she's not keen on endangering a 15 year old with her travels, while also still struggling to figure out how she came to regenerate and what made her "blip" out of existence.

The ship itself is inhabited by Dutch people (hence why the ship looks like a collection of different styled houses)

The people on this ship are just regular people, a lesbian couple, a family with kids, an eccentric artist, some college students, two doctors and a teacher. The landlord of all these houses is this robot called Larry 4410, and it is created by the same company that build this collective space ship and ultimately the party that will receive all their rent.

Little facts aside, the space ship is also stuck in a strong gravitational pull. Well actually, they're not being pulled towards anywhere, they're stuck in space. It's like they're at the centre of said gravitational pull, but nothing's there. On top of that, something terribly strange seems to be happening on the ship. Furniture goes flying, strange texts appear burned onto the walls, and scariest of all... people seem to get possessed.

When they get possessed, you can't comfortably look at them. your eyes will start watering like you're looking at a bright light, when that's not the case... and within a few second of possession, the possessed person bursts into flames from the inside out. It is up to the Doctor to solve this horrifying mystery!

While the Doctor digs into the technicalities and alien aspect of the scene, Elisa is sat with the residents and venting to them about feeling useless. She's comforted by the family, when she wonders out loud how she can understand these Dutch people and the text on the wall. The Doctor explains that the TARDIS translates things for them, and then Elisa tells her that the residents couldn't understand what it had said before, meaning what the TARDIS had translated, wasn't Dutch. The Doctor goes to turn off the automatic translation feature, and it turns out she was right!

It's an ancient language from a planet that has been absorbed by a dying sun long long ago. This is when the Doctor puts together that the sun used to be alive, much like episode "42", and that they're literally being haunted by the ghost of a long-passed sun that used to be worshipped by a loving planet and cannot find peace after having consumed it. The doctor then teaches the residents the ancient sun worship ritual, and the phantom sun can finally rest in peace.

Suspiciously though, the person the kids have been calling "the teacher" in English, has vanished. Elisa tries to ask about it in broken Dutch, but doesn't know the actual Dutch name for "teacher". the kids help her out and ask if she means "de Meester", which startles the Doctor briefly, before she turns on the translation feature again. The Dutch word for "teacher" can also mean "master" for masculine teachers.

Yup! It was the Master all along. They would from this point on become a frequently recurring character in the Doctor and Elisa's lives, just hanging out with them and seemingly appearing obnoxiously harmless.

(They're not doing anything to the Doctor because they've already done it. The Doctor's existence already feeds their Impossible Angel, so the Master is just along for the ride!)

I also had this story idea that features another scenario with the theme "things that aren't supposed to exist, existing anyways"

These are the Kirios! They are descendants (and visually inspired by) the balhuticaris and come from a timeline in which the creatures of the Cambrian Period never went extinct!

The Doctor goes to this time period to excitedly show Elisa the start of earth life, when they get arrested by 2 Kirios. Turns out, the Kirios created a piece of technology that creates a form of time travel called "pinpoint timetravel". It can only go to 1 specific point in time, essentially putting a "pin" in the timeline and allowing Kirios to travel to it, no second earlier or later.

They do this to protect their existence and world. Their world has a lot of natural disasters and dangers, so the Kirios species is naturally wary, but when they learned that their existence is even more fragile than they thought, they decided to also guard the very start of their life on earth!

I also had some other loose ideas for this Doctor :o)

I designed various aliens for fun. I figured the guy on the bottom right would be the one to tell the Master about the vulnerability of Angels when they're not looked at, since it is a blind creature. Like, that they CAN indeed be harmed!

I also created this alien called "Xor Voncus", which is an alien created to work as a sort of hand puppet :oP its species specialises in 1 skill and then throughout the years they hone their skill more and more, until they're basically the best in the universe for getting the job done! this makes them targets, sometimes </3 when they're really just creatures of passion.

I also had this idea that this ginger cat called Jim would tag along to adventures with the Doctor, even if she didn't want it to. The TARDIS would start taking a liking to it and accommodate more and more to Jim living in the TARDIS.

Then there's also the case of the Blind Teen and the Friendly Angel. Liam and Korstmos!

Liam is Elisa's only friend and basically her handyman when she needs to get anything done without the Doctor, with him being a pickpocketer and lock picker and all. He is a sarcastic jokester type of character, always messing with people for a laugh and using his quick wit to defend himself at school.

Then there's Korstmos, a friendly Weeping Angel with seemingly no need to feed. This of course raised the Doctor's suspicions that it might be up to something, when in actuality it really isn't. It just got caught in the crossfires of what the Master was up to, having touched a human paradox and fed on their time energy. With the hunger of a wild beast no longer aching in her stomach, she found other things to do and began to enjoy the world in a whole different way. That isn't to say that she'll live happily ever after, though... She's dying. Much like the Impossible Angel, she's crumbling under the extreme pressure of all this Wrong Time Energy, it is literally killing her where she stands, veeeery slowly.

When time resets, she's also back to how she used to be, hunting people like a regular Weeping Angel