#Slab Crack Fix

[srjsteel]

Engineering Best Practices for Dowel Bars in Rigid Slabs

Dowel bars in rigid pavement are the unseen heroes of structural durability. Found across expressways, airfields, industrial yards, and bus lanes, they’re vital for smooth load transfer between concrete slabs. But their success isn’t based on guesswork—precision is everything. Coupled with innovations like construction rings and Super Rings, dowel bars have evolved from simple cylindrical inserts to engineered components in rigid pavement systems.

From the very beginning of slab installation, construction rings play a foundational role. These elements help maintain proper spacing, alignment, and position during placement, preventing misalignment that could otherwise lead to joint failure. Meanwhile, Super Rings—known for their high tolerance and performance in extreme loads—deliver unmatched holding power, particularly in high-traffic zones. These two elements, when integrated properly, elevate the lifespan and integrity of rigid pavement structures.

Why Proper Load Transfer Can’t Be Overlooked

Concrete expands and contracts. It cracks. It shifts. That’s inevitable. Without an effective load transfer system, these natural changes cause differential settlement—making one slab sink while the next holds. The result? A bumpy ride, early cracking, and costly maintenance. Dowel bars in rigid pavement solve this problem by linking adjacent slabs, distributing the wheel load evenly, and reducing stress concentration on the joint.

But even the best dowel bar won’t work if placed incorrectly or without adequate alignment support. This is where construction rings step in. These devices ensure precise positioning during installation, especially in repetitive paving operations. Super Rings, on the other hand, are engineered to keep the dowel in optimal alignment even when subjected to heavy vibration or shifting during the pour. Together, these components form a fail-proof trio.

Installation Techniques That Define Performance

Surface Preparation and Alignment

The foundation of rigid pavement success starts with a clean, compacted sub-base. Once formwork is in place, construction rings are used to hold dowel bars exactly perpendicular to the joint face. Misalignment by even a few degrees can compromise load transfer and cause binding.

Joint Width and Embedment Length

The spacing of dowel bars typically ranges from 300 mm to 400 mm, depending on load class. Embedment length is equally critical—ideally half the length of the dowel sits in each slab. The role of Super Rings becomes evident here, locking the bar into perfect position during curing, preventing any shift due to weight or concrete flow.

Benefits That Go Beyond Basics

Long-Term Pavement Performance Proper dowel installations drastically reduce faulting at joints, leading to smoother surfaces and fewer maintenance disruptions.

Cost Efficiency Fewer repairs mean less downtime and resource allocation. Integrating Super Rings early on may seem like a minor added cost, but they pay off in lifecycle extension.

Sustainability and Resource Optimization With longer service life, pavements need fewer reconstructions. Fewer reconstructions mean reduced use of concrete, fuel, labor, and logistics—a win for both budgets and the environment.

Common Pitfalls and How to Avoid Them

1. Misaligned Bars

A slightly tilted dowel may create restraint instead of freedom of movement. Using construction rings during placement eliminates such misalignments.

2. Floating During Concrete Pour

The buoyancy of steel in fluid concrete is often underestimated. This is why Super Rings—with their strong anchoring capability—are essential.

3. Inadequate Bar Length or Diameter

Cutting corners on dowel specs often leads to cracked slabs. Always consult pavement design loads and use recommended diameters.

Final Thoughts: Engineering That Lasts

Dowel bars in rigid pavement aren’t just optional accessories—they are a critical design element. When paired with construction rings for alignment and Super Rings for stability, they offer unparalleled longevity and performance in rigid slab systems. These practices aren’t just “best”; they’re essential. Long-lasting roads, safer industrial platforms, and stronger airport runways all begin with what lies beneath—precise, engineered connection.

[kapilasteel]

Dowel Bars in Heritage Site Restorations—A New Preservation Standard

Dowel bars, once limited to road construction and heavy-duty industrial flooring, are now rewriting the restoration rules for heritage architecture. Their seamless integration with robust materials like TMT saria bars and reinforcement solutions from trusted TMT bar manufacturers is quietly establishing a new preservation benchmark. As the conservation industry evolves, structural reliability is no longer a luxury—it’s a non-negotiable standard. And dowel bars are at the center of this quiet revolution.

From crumbling colonial buildings to ancient temple courtyards, structures born in a different era are demanding more than aesthetic touch-ups. What lies beneath—the skeletal integrity—defines whether a site can survive for another century. Here, TMT saria bar proves invaluable, offering reinforcement with strength and ductility. But when it comes to load transfer and stability between aged slabs and restored surfaces, dowel bars are irreplaceable.

Why Heritage Sites Need More Than Cosmetic Restoration

Centuries-old buildings face multiple challenges—soil settlement, climate damage, layered renovations, and structural fatigue. Often, these vulnerabilities manifest not on the surface, but in the core joints where time has eaten into cohesion. Surface repairs may offer a visual revival, but without embedded support, even the grandest restorations fail within decades.

Dowel bars address this need by acting as load-transfer anchors, especially in horizontal joints, pavements, or between floor panels. In sites where restoration teams must retain original materials, dowel bars provide a subtle but powerful solution. They do not interfere with the aesthetic, yet they introduce critical reinforcement. Combined with the TMT saria bar, the structural synergy is unparalleled. Reputed TMT bar manufacturers now offer specialized variants tailored for restoration-grade performance, minimizing corrosion risk while maximizing lifespan.

Functionality and Precision in Fragile Structures

Precision is not just technical—it's a moral responsibility in heritage work. Every intervention must be calculated, respectful, and as reversible as possible. Dowel bars provide this flexibility. Inserted between slabs or walls to connect new components with the old, they allow for controlled movement while maintaining alignment.

In earthquake-prone zones or high-traffic heritage sites, this functionality becomes crucial. Unlike continuous reinforcement, dowel bars don’t create unnecessary tension zones. Instead, they absorb movement, stabilize vertical shifts, and prevent differential settling. Their compatibility with TMT Saria bars adds to their merit, especially when working with hybrid reinforcement designs. Today, leading TMT bar manufacturers offer bars with surface treatments and rib patterns optimized for bonding with dowel-supported joints.

Bridging Time with Technology

Modern tools are enabling restoration experts to go beyond surface conservation. Ground-penetrating radar, digital modeling, and material mapping are identifying weak joints that traditional methods overlook. Here’s where dowel bars step in as the quiet saviors—placed with millimeter precision, guided by scans, and executed without visual disruption.

These bars create bridges between the past and the future. Whether it’s connecting weathered marble floor panels or anchoring restored beams into century-old stone, they work silently behind the scenes. Coupled with TMT saria bar, which continues to serve as the structural backbone, dowel-reinforced sites gain newfound resilience—unseen but unfailing.

A Silent Innovation That’s Here to Stay

No buzzwords. No sweeping claims. Just a simple, steel-forged solution working quietly beneath the surface. That’s the magic of dowel bars. Their unassuming design masks a future-proof capability to protect, preserve, and reinforce where traditional methods fall short.

When paired with the unmatched tensile performance of TMT saria bar and the advanced metallurgy offered by established TMT bar manufacturers, they form a restoration system that respects the past while securing the future. As more heritage engineers and planners shift toward scientifically backed methods, dowel bars are poised to define the new standard in structural preservation.

For those entrusted with restoring the irreplaceable, the choice is no longer just aesthetic—it’s structural. And in that decision, dowel bars deserve their place as guardians of heritage.

[shimmerandink]

Cell Block Chemistry

Prisoner! Vi x Prisoner! Reader

One-shot

Tags: Vi x reader, prisoner vi, prisoner reader, stillwater, sfw, flirting

The door to Stillwater slams behind you like a closing coffin lid. Cold steel, thicker than your arm, shuts out the last trace of sunlight you’ll see for a while. The cuffs around your wrists bite into your skin, your fingers twitching from the rush of adrenaline and exhaustion.

“You’ll love it here,” the guard says with a sneer, dragging you by the arm. “Great neighbors. Gourmet food. Real cozy beds.”

The fluorescent lights above flicker as you’re led through the corridor, passing cell after cell. Some inmates glance up, eyes hollow. Others watch you like you’re prey. You keep your head high, even if your heartbeat’s trying to crack your ribs. Fear is currency here, and you can’t afford to be broke.

They stop you in front of a rusted cell door. “213,” one of the guards mutters. “Right across from 214.”

The cell creaks open. They shove you inside, the force nearly sending you face first into the cement wall. No mattress, no privacy, just a toilet and a slab of metal for a bed. Home sweet home.

“You forgot to say please,” you mutter, but the guards are already walking off.

Then comes the voice.

“Fresh meat, huh?”

It’s casual. Amused. Confident in the way only someone who’s been here far too long can be. You glance toward the sound, and there she is.

Across the hall, leaning against her bars like it’s just another Tuesday, is a woman with short pink hair, thick arms, and a cocky smirk that says she’s more dangerous than anyone else on this block. Her eyes drag over you slowly, as if she’s already taking your measure.

You meet her stare with a blank one of your own. “You always greet the new inmates with shitty nicknames, or am I just special?”

That earns a low laugh. “You talk back. I like that.”

You walk up to your bars, gripping them just to stretch your arms. “Let me guess. You’re the big, bad boss of this place?”

She rolls her shoulders lazily. “Some say that.” She flicks her eyes toward a bloodstain on the concrete a few feet down the hallway. “Others stopped talking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So what’d you do to land yourself in Stillwater, Princess Pink?”

Her grin widens. “Punched a guard. Then his friend. And then, well… things escalated.” She shrugs. “Now I get a private suite and three square meals of regret.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. “I’m here for smuggling chemtech.”

Vi whistles low. “Damn. That’s spicy.”

“It exploded,” you add, because what’s the point in lying now?

Her eyes gleam. “That explains the scorch marks on your coat.”

You glance down and notice the blackened hem you hadn’t had time to fix. Shit. She’s observant.

A silence settles between you, comfortable, strangely. You both study each other through the bars. Like two wolves trying to decide if they’ll fight or run in the same pack.

“So,” she finally says, her voice lower now. “What’s your name, Fresh Meat?”

You smirk. “Give me a reason to tell you.”

Vi leans forward, resting her forearms on the bars, looking you dead in the eye. “Alright. How about this—I keep the other freaks off your back during shower time. You give me your name, and maybe later… your secrets.”

You stare her down, but you can’t help the grin that creeps onto your lips.

“…It’s Y/N”

Vi’s smirk turns sharper, hungrier.

“Welcome to Stillwater, Y/N. Stick with me, and you might just survive.”

————-

Stillwater doesn’t sleep.

The lights don’t shut off at night, just hum above your head in a constant flicker. Somewhere down the hall, a man coughs wet and sharp, like he’s drowning in his own lungs. Metal clinks. Someone swears. A fight breaks out in another block, but the guards don’t bother stepping in.

You lie on your bunk, staring up at the ceiling, arms folded beneath your head. It’s your third night in this concrete coffin, and you’re already learning the rules. Don’t look too long. Don’t talk unless you mean it. Don’t owe anyone anything.

But Vi’s been testing those rules from the start.

“Still awake, chem-bomb?” her voice drifts from the other side of the corridor.

You sigh. “Not in the mood for a bedtime story, princess.”

She laughs, low and amused. “Then how about a warning?”

You turn your head just enough to look at her. She’s sitting with her back to the bars, one knee bent, a toothpick between her lips. “The girl in the cell next to yours? Tamra. She’s been eyeballing you since you walked in.”

“So?”

“So,” Vi says, tilting her head, “she doesn’t eyeball people for fun. She stabs them.”

You blink. “That the warning part?”

“No, sweetheart,” Vi grins, voice dropping into something rougher. “The warning is—if she touches you, I’ll break her fingers.”

A pause.

Your heart skips, but you cover it with sarcasm. “How romantic.”

Vi chuckles and doesn’t deny it.

⸻

The next morning, you’re in the yard for the first time. The sky is a dull, lifeless gray, barely visible past the barbed wire. Inmates mill around, some lifting weights made of concrete blocks, others trading goods beneath the guards’ disinterested eyes.

You keep to yourself. You don’t owe anyone. But you’re aware of eyes on you, one pair in particular: Tamra.

She’s taller than you, buzz cut, twitchy. She’s circling like a shark, and you’re trying to look casual when she finally steps too close.

“You’re the chemie,” she says. Her voice is sharp, too sweet.

You keep your chin up. “That’s me.”

“I heard you blew up a whole stash run. Think I want that kind of firepower on my side.”

“I work solo.”

She clicks her tongue, disappointed. “That’s too bad.”

You don’t see the shiv until it flashes.

But you don’t have to.

Because Vi is suddenly there, grabbing Tamra’s wrist mid swing and twisting it until the blade clatters to the ground.

Tamra snarls. “Back off, Vi. This ain’t your fight.”

Vi steps forward, pushing you behind her with one arm and getting in Tamra’s face. “It is now.”

There’s something electric in the air. Like the whole yard is holding its breath.

Tamra hesitates. Vi doesn’t. Her jaw is set. Her eyes, burning.

After a long second, Tamra spits at the ground and backs off.

Vi waits until she’s gone, then turns to you. “You alright?”

You blink. “I had it under control.”

“Sure you did.” She smirks. “That’s why your hands were shaking.”

You scowl and shove her shoulder. She doesn’t move. Just laughs.

“Looks like you owe me,” she says, walking backward toward the gates.

You shout after her. “You’re keeping score now?”

Vi grins. “Oh, absolutely.”

[sparklystarrrr]

Well now that I’ve read your newest papa crewel fic I need one where Floyd is dating crewels daughter!!!

Meeting the parents prompts will genuinely never get old for me IT’S TOO PERFECT

Dinner Tension

Synopsis: Bringing your scary eel boyfriend over to your home to meet your dad is… interesting to say the least.

Contains: Floyd L. x Fem! Reader, Reader is Crewel’s daughter, crack and fluff, GUESS WHO GOT THE FLOYD MERMAN SSR CARDDDD

(Y/n) just hung up the phone call with her father. Her deeply distressed and worried father. Surprise surprise, they'd just gotten off a call where (y/n) suggested she bring over her boyfriend for dinner! Her boyfriend being none other that the infamous Floyd Leech~

Crewel was physically quaking in his expensive fur coat.

His most chaotic student, dating his dear daughter, COMING OVER FOR DINNER??!! IN HIS HOME??!!!!!! Absurd. His finest china plates would NOT be taken out this dinner. The call was full of papa Crewel repeating,”Pup, are you really sure you’d like to have him over for dinner??” And obviously (y/n) would respond with,”Dad, I’m bringing him over whether you like it or not! See you at 6pm!!” and hang up the call before he could argue it.

It took a while to fully convince him this would be at least a mediocre idea to have Floyd come over. A few hours and promising that she would take out the dogs on her own was sure to do the trick. When finally getting Divius on board, he was already making dinner two hours before the couple came. He created a deliciously expensive thick slab of steak garnished with various vegetables. A truly classic meal. He did have to chase off a dog or five from getting the food before anyone else did — they really were well trained, but any canine would jump at the chance to eat such well prepared meats!

Once he finished setting the table, the doorbell sang happily to the Crewel household. Divius sauntered over to the door. “Hi papa!” (y/n) smiled joyfully. “I brought Floyd just like I said!! Come here babe!" The young woman whispered while grasping the hand of her scarily tall boyfriend. He stood with a slanted yet cheery smile and in a clean navy blue hoodie and jeans. He even wore the sneakers he recently bought as opposed to the shoes he wore to his basketball practices. How fancy of him~

"Hey Beakfish, what's up?" Floyd spoke in his normal playful tone. Divius had developed an angry vein on his forehead."It is Master Crewel to you, pup. Just because you are in a relationship with my daughter doesn't mean the title will fall." -- Is what he would've liked to say had (y/n) not interrupted him before his mouth could open,"We should go sit down, right? We have lots of catching up to do!" The girl knew how her father was, and so in order not to have any mishaps or problems, she would have to interrupt... just a little bit...

The three sat at the table, Floyd a bit more clumsier than the Crewel family. His long muscular arm swung around the back of (y/n)'s chair lazily, ”This food looks real delicious~ Usually I only get ta have a chomp of this fancy stuff at the Lounge before givin' it to the customers!" He said with a toothy grin while practically salivating at the food before him. "Ah...Very interesting..." Divius grimaced. (Y/n) sweatdropped, ”You know, the dinner’s getting cold. Let’s eat and talk later!-“ “Dinner can wait Puppy.” Divius said, clearly not interested in eating just yet. His strict grey eyes fixed on Floyd who sat fearlessly in front of his girlfriend's father.”Enough of this small talk. What are your intentions with my daughter, Pup?” …Why is he suddenly gripping the butter knife next to his plate?

“Oh, Shrimpy over here? Oh yeah I like her, I think I’m gonna keep‘er forever!” He said ever so casually with a sharp toothed smirk. Divius was somehow caught up in his words, not expecting it out of the eel. It pleased him to hear the boys words, so much so that he ungripped the butter knife and swirled the glass of red wine in front of him before taking a sip. "Hm... And what are your plans for the future in terms of career paths? I should have you know my daughter will only be allowed to be in a relationship with a man able to fund her expensive lifestyle." "DAD STOP!-" "Oh hush Puppy, you know I will only ever allow you to live a rich and happy life drenched in designer," It was clearly no secret that Crewel enjoyed spoiling his daughter..."Anywho, back to the question." He said, turning to Floyd.

"Uhhh I dunno Beakfishy. Imma just go where the tide pushes me, y'know?" He spoke casually. This boy was going to be the death of Crewel. Oh... there he goes with the butter knife again... The man was biting his bottom lip to hold back any unsavory comments to his choice of lifestyle, Floyd is still his student after all. "I see... And what are your plans after graduating from Night Raven College?"

"Man I'm tired of all of these questions! Can we eat now or what?" Crewel froze up, looking like he was about to leap over the table. He quickly grabbed the bottle of red wine in the middle of the table and filled his cup to the brim."D-dad.. you can stop now..."(y/n) sweat-dropped. "I'm quite fine Puppy." He said firmly. He took a quick swig of wine straight from the bottle."Eat, the food will grow cold any second now." He waved. "Aw yeah Beakfish man, you're the best!" Floyd stabbed his fork into the juicy steak after scrapping the vegetables off of it. His sharp teeth chomped through the piece of meat quickly, leaving a bit of a mess around his mouth.

"Geez, this stuff's GOOD! How'd ya make this, do ya got any more? Babe, can I have yours?-" "NO! My steak..." (y/n) said defensively before scarfing down her own steak before Floyd could get his fork to it. It left a mess around her mouth, matching his own messy chompers. They looked at each other and cackled happily. Crewel just kept a loooong sip of wine going while watching his daughter and her impulsive boyfriend play fight over food, completely forgetting every lesson of lady-likeness he taught her. The man had to be drunk to be able to watch this and let out even the faintest sigh of a chuckle. But before his red wined descent, watching his daughter so happy with this rather odd merman boy made his heart flutter... just a bit...

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (to let go)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the hopeful

- Next part: the feast

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis

The Sept of Baelor was heavy with silence, the kind that seemed to seep into the bones and weigh down the soul. The flickering candlelight cast specters on the marble walls, illuminating the somber faces of the Seven carved in stone above. At the center of the Sept, Joffrey Baratheon’s body lay on a slab of white marble, his golden crown resting beside him. His once-smirking face was now cold and lifeless, his lips tinged with blue.

Jaime stood a few steps away from the bier, his gaze fixed on his son—no, the king. He forced himself to think of Joffrey as the king, as he had always been told to. But the boy lying there wasn’t just the king. He was also the child of his and Cersei’s forbidden union, the boy who had grown into something monstrous under their watch.

Cersei stood at the head of the bier, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her knuckles white. Her golden hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at her son’s lifeless form.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said finally, her voice low but cutting. She didn’t turn to look at him, her gaze fixed on Joffrey’s face.

“This is my place as much as it is yours,” Jaime replied, his tone calm but firm.

Cersei let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Your place? You abandoned your place the moment you left the Kingsguard. The moment you decided that she was more important than us.”

Jaime tensed, his jaw tightening. “Don’t do this, Cersei.”

“Do what?” she snapped, finally turning to face him. Her green eyes blazed with fury, and the grief etched into her face only made her anger more potent. “Speak the truth? If you had been where you were supposed to be, if you had done your duty, Joffrey would still be alive.”

He stared at her, unflinching. “You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?” Cersei hissed, stepping closer. “You left us, Jaime. You left me. For what? For her? For some pathetic notion of redemption? You’ve betrayed everything we were for a Stark—a Stark, of all people!”

“This isn’t about her,” Jaime said, his voice rising slightly.

“Isn’t it?” Cersei shot back. “You think I didn’t see the way you couldn't keep your gaze away from her? And now, you’ve abandoned everything we’ve built for her. You’ve made yourself weak.”

Jaime took a step closer, his golden hand glinting in the candlelight as he pointed it toward her. “You don’t get to blame this on me, Cersei. Not this time.”

“Why not?” she demanded, her voice cracking. “Everything else is your fault. Why not this too?”

“Because Joffrey wasn’t killed because I left the Kingsguard,” Jaime said firmly, his voice cold. “He was killed because he was a monster. And that wasn’t my doing, Cersei. That was ours.”

The words hit her like a slap, and for a moment, Cersei was silent, her chest heaving with the effort to contain her rage. Her eyes darted to Joffrey’s body, and for a fleeting moment, her face crumpled with grief. But she quickly masked it, turning her fury back on Jaime.

“You’re a coward,” she spat. “You’ve always been a coward, hiding behind that armor of yours. But now? Now you don’t even have that. You’re just a broken man clinging to a girl who will never love you.”

Jaime’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze steady as he met her glare. “And what does that make you, Cersei? A queen who’s lost her kingdom, her son, and her grip on reality? Blame me all you want, but it won’t bring him back. And it won’t change the fact that you’ve destroyed everything you’ve touched.”

The words hung heavy in the air, the silence between them thick and suffocating. For a moment, it seemed as though Cersei might strike him, her hands trembling at her sides. But instead, she turned away, her shoulders trembling as she faced Joffrey’s body once more.

“You don’t understand,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve never understood what it’s like to be powerless. To watch everything you love slip through your fingers.”

Jaime took a step closer, his voice softer now. “I understand more than you think.”

Cersei didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on Joffrey’s lifeless face. The room felt colder, the weight of grief and anger pressing down on them both.

After a long moment, Jaime turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the vast space of the Sept. The golden hand at his side felt heavier than ever, a constant reminder of the things he had lost—and the things he was still trying to hold on to.

But as he stepped into the fading light of the afternoon, Jaime couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of clarity. Cersei’s accusations stung, but they no longer cut as deeply as they once had. The strings that had bound him to her for so long were fraying, and he was beginning to see the shape of a life beyond her—a life he wasn’t sure he deserved, but one he couldn’t stop himself from wanting.

And for the first time, he didn’t look back.

The dungeons of the Red Keep were damp and suffocating, the air thick with the stench of mildew and decay. Jaime descended the steps slowly, his hand brushing against the rough stone railing as he made his way toward his brother’s cell.

He hadn’t wanted to come here. Seeing Tyrion like this felt wrong, unjust, and it stirred something bitter in his chest. But he had to see him, to hear from the man himself what had truly happened at Joffrey’s wedding.

When Jaime reached the iron bars of Tyrion’s cell, his brother was seated on a crude wooden bench, his hands resting casually on his knees. Despite his predicament, Tyrion looked remarkably composed, his eyes gleaming in the low light.

“Ah, brother,” Tyrion said, his voice dripping with mock cheerfulness as he leaned back against the wall. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit? Come to see the family disgrace wallowing in filth?”

Jaime ignored the jab, his expression neutral as he stepped closer. “I came to see how you’re holding up.”

Tyrion let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, splendidly, thank you. The accommodations are as luxurious as ever, and the company…” He gestured to the empty space around him. “…absolutely riveting.”

Jaime’s lips twitched into a faint smirk despite himself. “You’ve always had a way of making the best of things.”

“Ah, yes,” Tyrion said with a flourish. “A talent I inherited from our dear father, no doubt. Speaking of whom, I hear he’s been busy planning your grand wedding.”

Jaime stiffened slightly, but Tyrion pressed on, his voice laced with mock sincerity. “I must apologize, brother. It seems I won’t be able to attend. A shame, really. I’m sure Tywin’s been dreaming of this day for years—his golden son marrying the last Stark. A union to secure the North further and stroke his ego all at once. How wonderful.”

Jaime sighed, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t what I wanted, Tyrion. Not like this.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his tone softening slightly. “No? Then what do you want, Jaime? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re letting Father pull your strings just as easily as he pulls mine, now that you accepted to be his heir.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. “This isn’t about me. Or you. It’s about what’s best for the realm.”

For her. But the words stopped in Jaime's throat.

“The realm,” Tyrion repeated with a bitter chuckle. “Yes, of course. Father’s favorite excuse. Tell me, Jaime, do you really believe that? Are you just trying to convince yourself that you’re still the honorable one in this family? Or are you are still pretending not to have feelings for the daughter of late Eddard Stark?”

Jaime didn’t respond immediately, his gaze dropping to the floor. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “You didn’t poison Joffrey.”

Tyrion’s smirk faded, his expression hardening. “No. I didn’t.”

“And neither did Sansa,” Jaime added, meeting his brother’s gaze.

Tyrion leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re certain of that?”

Jaime nodded. “She’s gone. Disappeared from the Keep after the feast. If she were guilty, she wouldn’t have fled without a word. Someone helped her escape.”

Tyrion exhaled slowly, leaning back against the wall once more. “Gone, you say. I suppose that’s for the best. She’s safer away from here, away from Cersei.”

Jaime frowned, stepping closer to the bars. “Tyrion… who do you think did this?”

Tyrion let out a low, bitter laugh. “Oh, take your pick, brother. The list of people who wanted Joffrey dead is long and distinguished. Perhaps we should start with his dear, grieving mother. Or maybe his loving grandsire, who saw him more as a liability than an asset.”

Jaime’s frown deepened, but he said nothing.

“Don’t look so shocked, Jaime,” Tyrion said, his voice softening. “You’ve always known what this family is capable of. You just never wanted to admit it.”

For a moment, Jaime felt the weight of those words settle heavily on his shoulders. Tyrion’s accusations weren’t entirely baseless, but Jaime couldn’t bring himself to believe that Cersei or Tywin would stoop to something like this—not with Joffrey, at least.

“I’ll find out the truth,” Jaime said finally, his voice firm. “And I’ll make sure you’re not punished for something you didn’t do.”

Tyrion tilted his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Ah, the noble Jaime Lannister. Always trying to do the right thing, even when it’s too late. But thank you, brother. For whatever that’s worth.”

Jaime nodded, turning to leave, but Tyrion called after him.

“And Jaime?”

He paused, glancing back.

“If you ever figure out what you actually want, I hope it’s worth the trouble you’re going through for it.”

Jaime didn’t respond, his footsteps echoing softly as he made his way back up the stairs, the weight of his brother’s words lingering with him long after he’d left the dungeons.

The room was small and dimly lit, a faint haze of smoke curling in the air from a nearby lantern. The soft shuffle of cards broke the quiet, followed by the occasional clink of a goblet against the wooden table. You sat across from Bronn, your expression unreadable as you studied your hand. Jaime sat beside you, his golden hand resting heavily on the table, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as he watched the game unfold.

Bronn leaned back in his chair, his usual swagger on full display as he swirled the wine in his goblet. “Not bad, Stark,” he drawled, glancing at you over the rim. “But I wouldn’t get too comfortable. I’ve been known to wipe out entire armies at this game.”

You didn’t even look up, your tone dry as you placed a card on the table. “That’s funny. I didn’t know armies played cards.”

Jaime chuckled softly, earning a stern glance from Bronn. “Careful, Lannister,” Bronn warned, though his grin betrayed his amusement. “Your little bride-to-be’s got a sharp tongue.”

You finally looked up, fixing Bronn with a withering stare. “And you’ve got a big mouth. Pity neither one will win you this game.”

Bronn blinked, clearly caught off guard. He opened his mouth to retort, but no words came out, leaving him uncharacteristically speechless. Jaime leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the exchange as his smirk widened.

“Well, this is new,” Jaime said, glancing at Bronn. “You’ve actually managed to render him silent.”

Bronn recovered quickly, raising his goblet in mock salute. “Well done, my lady. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I didn’t think you had the ability to think at all,” you replied smoothly, placing another card on the table. “Seems we’re both full of surprises.”

Jaime laughed, shaking his head as he reached for his own goblet. “You’re wasting your time, Bronn. She’s not easily impressed.”

“Clearly,” Bronn muttered, his gaze narrowing at you before turning to Jaime. “I’ve got to say, you’ve got strange taste in women, Lannister.”

Jaime’s smirk faltered slightly, though he recovered quickly, his tone casual. “And yet here you are, sitting across from her, trying to win her favor.”

“I’m just here for the game,” Bronn said, raising his hands defensively. “And the wine. The rest is just entertainment.”

You rolled your eyes, returning your focus to your cards. “If this is your idea of entertainment, I pity the company you keep.”

Bronn barked a laugh, leaning forward as he placed his cards on the table. “I like her,” he said to Jaime. “She’s got fire.”

Jaime glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, his smirk softening into something almost fond. “She certainly does,” he said quietly.

You caught the look and frowned, shifting in your seat as you addressed him. “What am I doing here anyway with the two of you? Don’t you have better things to do than sit in a smoky room losing at cards?”

Jaime leaned forward to met your gaze. “Father’s orders,” he said simply. “He wants me to keep an eye on you. Especially after what happened to Joffrey.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you placed another card on the table. “Of course. Tywin Lannister, ever the vigilant warden. Tell me, does he think I poisoned Joffrey as well, or am I just a convenient excuse for his paranoia?”

Jaime’s smirk returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wouldn’t take it personally. He’s paranoid about everyone.”

Bronn laughed again, pouring himself more wine. “Well, if you’re stuck with him, Stark, you might as well make the best of it. Could be worse, you know.”

“Could it?” you replied, raising an eyebrow as you glanced between the two of them. “I’m not so sure.”

Bronn opened his mouth to reply, but you held up a hand, cutting him off. “And before you say anything, yes, it could be worse. I could be married to you.”

Jaime nearly choked on his wine, coughing as he laughed. Bronn stared at you for a moment before shaking his head, a wide grin spreading across his face. “You’re brutal, Stark. I’ll give you that.”

“I try,” you replied with a faint smirk, turning back to your cards.

The game continued, the banter flowing easily between the three of you. Despite yourself, you felt a small flicker of amusement at Jaime’s exasperation and Bronn’s failed attempts to rattle you. For a moment, the weight of your circumstances seemed a little lighter, though you knew it wouldn’t last.

But for now, you allowed yourself to enjoy the rare reprieve, even if it came at the expense of the two men seated across from you.

The mood in the room shifted subtly as Jaime leaned back in his chair, the smirk on his face fading into something more contemplative. He swirled the wine in his goblet absently. After a moment, he cleared his throat, drawing your attention.

“There’s something else,” Jaime said, his tone unusually subdued.

You placed your cards down, leveling him with a skeptical look. “Let me guess—another Lannister edict I’m meant to obey without question?”

He quirked an eyebrow, his lips twitching faintly. “You’re not entirely wrong. Tywin has started preparations for a feast.”

Your frown deepened. “A feast? For what? Joffrey’s funeral was hardly three days ago.”

Jaime hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly to Bronn, who raised an eyebrow in silent curiosity. “For our betrothal,” Jaime said finally.

The words hung in the air like an unwelcome specter, the weight of them pressing down on the room. You stared at him, your expression caught between disbelief and anger.

“A betrothal feast?” you repeated, your voice steady. “So soon after Joffrey’s death? Is your father so eager to celebrate while the rest of the city mourns?”

Jaime sighed, setting his goblet down with a faint clink. “You know my father. He doesn’t waste time on sentiment. This is about securing alliances, appearances, and ensuring the realm sees stability.”

Bronn leaned forward, his grin faint but amused. “He’s not wrong, Stark. Lannisters don’t dawdle, especially when it comes to marriage. They’ve already got a new king to crown, too—young Tommen. And you’d best believe they’re moving quickly to tie up every loose end.”

You folded your arms, your gaze narrowing at Jaime. “Tommen’s to be crowned already?”

Jaime nodded, his expression guarded. “Soon. Father’s made it clear that there’s no time to waste. The realm needs a king, and Tommen…” He hesitated, his voice softening. “Tommen’s a good boy. He’ll be a better king than Joffrey ever was.”

Bronn chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Not a high bar to clear, is it? And then there’s Margaery. The queen widowed twice over but still determined as ever to keep her crown.”

You turned to Bronn, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Bronn smirked, gesturing vaguely. “Oh, she’s not wasting time, that one. Already making eyes at the little king, I hear. Determined to go three for three in royal husbands.”

Jaime shot him a warning look. “That’s enough, Bronn.”

“What?” Bronn said, shrugging. “I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking. The Tyrells didn’t come all this way to leave empty-handed. Margaery’s no fool—she’ll do whatever it takes to secure her position.”

You snorted softly, leaning back in your chair. “Of course she will. And why not? It seems to be the way of things in King’s Landing—scheming, marrying, and killing your way to the top.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, though he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reached for his goblet, taking a slow sip before speaking. “It’s not always like this,” he said quietly. “Or at least, it shouldn’t be.”

You glanced at him, noting the faint shadow of regret in his eyes. “And yet, here we are,” you said pointedly.

The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of the conversation settling over the three of you. Bronn broke the tension with a low chuckle, leaning forward again.

“Well, Stark,” he said, his tone light but teasing. “Looks like you’re in for quite the celebration. A grand feast, a shiny new betrothal, and a front-row seat to all the madness this city has to offer. Should be fun.”

You gave him a withering look, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “I can hardly wait.”

Jaime sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Bronn, maybe you should focus on the cards instead of stirring the pot.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Bronn quipped, tossing a card onto the table with a grin.

You shook your head, returning your attention to the game, though your thoughts lingered on Jaime’s words. The idea of a feast in your honor felt absurd, especially with the weight of recent events pressing down on the city.

Still, a small, defiant part of you wondered how much chaos you could cause before Tywin Lannister’s perfectly laid plans unraveled.

The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet as Jaime escorted you back to your chambers. His steps were unhurried, his demeanor unusually light. He walked beside you, his golden hand resting casually at his side, and every now and then, he glanced your way with a faint smirk.

“You know,” Jaime said, breaking the silence, “I should probably be careful around Bronn.”

You raised an eyebrow, not bothering to look at him. “Why is that?”

“Because he might try to steal you away,” Jaime replied, his tone laced with amusement. “He seemed quite taken with you during that game. I’ve never seen him so… speechless.”

You scoffed, your tone dry. “Bronn isn’t the type to ‘steal’ anything unless it’s worth a considerable amount of gold. I assure you, I’m far from his idea of treasure.”

Jaime chuckled softly, his smirk widening. “I wouldn’t be so sure. You’ve got a way of leaving an impression, whether you mean to or not.”

You rolled your eyes, your voice laced with irritation. “If this is your idea of flattery, Lannister, it’s as unimpressive as your swordsmanship with your left hand.”

He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense, the gesture only accentuated by his golden prosthetic. “You wound me, my lady. And here I thought we were finally getting along.”

“Getting along?” you repeated, giving him a sidelong glance. “Let’s not get carried away. Tolerating your presence is a far cry from liking it.”

Jaime laughed, the sound softer and more genuine than you expected. “Tolerating is a start. I’ll take what I can get.”

You didn’t reply, your gaze fixed ahead as the corridor stretched into shadows. Despite yourself, you couldn’t entirely ignore the faint warmth in his tone, the way his usual sharpness had softened around the edges. It was… disarming, and you hated that it unsettled you.

When you finally reached your chambers, two Lannister guards were already posted outside, their expressions stoic as they stood at attention. Jaime slowed to a stop, turning to face you fully as you approached the door.

“Well,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I suppose this is where I leave you for the night.”

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “How gallant of you.”

Jaime smirked faintly, stepping closer, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made your stomach twist—not entirely unpleasantly, though you refused to admit it. “You know,” he said, his tone softer, almost hesitant, “you surprised me tonight.”

You frowned slightly, your guard instinctively rising. “How so?”

“You didn’t bite my head off as much as I expected,” he said with a faint chuckle. “I might even dare to say you enjoyed yourself, if only a little.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, your tone sharp. “Don’t mistake tolerance for enjoyment, Jaime. This doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to entertain this farce willingly.”

His smirk faltered slightly, though his gaze remained steady. “I know,” he said simply, his voice quieter now. “But… it’s nice to see you without your walls up, even if it’s just for a moment.”

Your chest tightened, the unexpected sincerity in his tone catching you off guard. For a fleeting second, you thought you saw something raw in his eyes—something vulnerable. But you quickly pushed the thought aside, straightening your posture.

“Don’t read too much into it,” you said curtly, stepping toward the door.

Jaime nodded, stepping back as you reached for the handle. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he said softly.

You paused, glancing back at him briefly before opening the door. “Goodnight, Jaime,” you replied, though your tone was more neutral than warm.

As the door closed behind you, Jaime stood there for a moment. Despite your words, despite your warning, he couldn’t help but feel the faintest flicker of hope.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

The chambers Jaime now called his own were vast and ornate, the sort of luxury befitting the heir to Casterly Rock. Yet, as he lay awake in the massive bed, staring at the carved canopy above him, the grandeur felt hollow. The gold-threaded curtains, the fine linens, and the roaring fire in the hearth offered no comfort.

His golden hand rested on his chest, its cold, unyielding weight a stark reminder of what he’d lost. The stump where his hand used to be ached faintly, a dull throb that seemed to echo the turmoil in his mind. He flexed his left hand absently, as though trying to remind himself that he was still whole in some way.

Jaime sighed, turning his head to look at the window. Moonlight streamed through the glass, casting pale patterns on the stone floor. The city beyond was quiet, but his thoughts were anything but.

He’d spent his entire life as Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, the golden lion of Casterly Rock. The son who had defied his father’s wishes, who had stood at the side of kings and queens, wielding his sword with confidence and precision. He’d been many things, but he had never imagined himself as this: a lord, a husband.

The thought made his stomach twist.

Jaime had never wanted to be Lord of Casterly Rock. That role had always been Tywin’s, looming over him like a shadow, the unrelenting standard against which he’d always been measured. And now, with Tywin’s decree, the title was his to inherit. He would oversee the Westerlands, the mines, the bannermen. He would bear the weight of the lion’s legacy, a burden he had spent most of his life avoiding.

But it wasn’t just the title or the lands that haunted him. It was the marriage.

You.

Jaime turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he stared into the flames of the hearth. He thought of your wit, your unyielding defiance, the fire in your eyes that never seemed to dim. You were nothing like the women he’d grown up around—nothing like Cersei.

And that was what unsettled him most of all.

Cersei had been his constant, his twin, his other half. Their bond had been unbreakable—or so he’d thought. But now, as he lay in this unfamiliar bed, he found himself thinking less of her and more of you. He still wasn't sure what he felt. But it was something, something he couldn’t quite name.

He thought of the way you’d looked at him earlier, your eyes full of anger and defiance. Even now, you refused to yield, to let him in. And yet, there had been moments—fleeting, fragile moments—where your guard had slipped, and he had seen something else. Something softer.

Could he truly be a husband? The idea felt foreign, almost laughable. Jaime Lannister, the husband. Jaime Lannister, the father. He let out a humorless chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

The door creaked open slightly, and Jaime turned his head, his muscles tensing. A servant stepped inside, bowing deeply before speaking.

“My lord,” the servant said quietly. “Do you require anything before the night’s end?”

Jaime shook his head, his tone curt. “No. Leave me.”

The servant bowed again and retreated, the door clicking softly shut behind them.

Jaime leaned back against the pillows, exhaling slowly. The silence of the room was oppressive, pressing down on him like a physical weight.

For years, he had lived without thought for the future, content to be the sword at someone else’s side. Now, the future loomed before him, uncertain and vast. He thought of Casterly Rock, the sprawling fortress he had left behind so many years ago. He thought of his father, of Tywin’s cold, calculating gaze as he handed down orders that would shape the rest of Jaime’s life.

And he thought of you.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth as Jaime closed his eyes, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Jaime Lannister dared himself to wonder if there might be something beyond the Kingslayer. Something worth fighting for.

[saturnyo]

Whiskey & Scars

Pairing: Tommy/Reader

Summary: Joel, the man you love, is dead. You were able to kill his attackers, but you were unable to save him in time. Reeling from the shock of losing him, you closed yourself off from the community, especially Ellie and Tommy. But after one nightly encounter, something new blooms between you and Tommy

WC: lil over 2.5k

Warnings: mentions of death, suicidal thoughts, mainly fluff

Grief in itself is strange. One minute you can be just fine, and the next you are a sobbing mess falling to the floor and unable to function. For you, you were numb. Everyone moved around you, helping Jackson repair itself after the onslaught of infected, while you felt as though you were stuck in place, unable to reconcile with the fact that Joel was gone. Anguish, regret, and sorrow are all that you know now.

The grey, morose sky explodes in anger as lightning and thunder crack like a whip, screeching into your ears. Dark clouds hover above, creating a moment of tranquility before the cold, jagged raindrops pelt down, slicing lines on your cheeks, red tears flowing ever so lightly. You stand right outside, knowing he is lying there on a table like a slab of meat. Thirty minutes have passed since you got here, and you haven’t gathered the courage to walk inside. The rain has drenched your clothes, making you feel weighted in the spot where you were standing.

Stinging pain is a jarring reminder of all that you have lost. Your heart fractures at the memory of Joel's bloodied, broken body lying there drained of life. You were supposed to be with him. You were supposed to be his patrol partner, but you switched places with Dina to try and help soothe the tension between Joel and Ellie after the New Year's party events.

Your last memory of him was the morning when it all happened. He was standing in his kitchen, messing with the coffee maker that had been on the fritz for a while. No matter how much you tried to tell him to see if he could find another, Joel was hellbent on trying to fix it. He’s a very determined and stubborn man, and you loved him for it.

The way his hands felt upon your skin as he whispered sweet words into your ears. How he cuddled you at night, holding you close, afraid that you’ll disappear. His lips worshipping your body in some form of a sacramental prayer as you moaned his name out into the darkness of your home.

If only you could reverse and freeze time…

The atmosphere was solemn in Jackson. Walls were still being repaired after the horde breached them, and many lives were lost, mainly to being bitten. The last few weeks were filled with funeral after funeral, mourning the losses of our fellow men. Ellie was still in the hospital, healing from the beating she took after the encounter with the unknown group. At first, you couldn’t stand to see her lying there in the hospital bed, injured but alive. Looking at her reminded you of the fact that she had almost died too. Reminding you of your morality and how easily it can be snuffed out.

Ellie became your comfort and your pain all at once. She was so much like Joel in the way she wouldn’t back down and how stubborn she was. You can’t imagine how she must be feeling with the way she and Joel left things and the argument they had on New Year's. The guilt she must also be racked with, consuming her until there’s nothing left..

The sound of horse hooves and hammers brings you back to focus, zoning in on the doors in front of you, taking careful steps as if you’d disturb what lies within. It isn’t anything evil or any monster you might read about in a children’s book, it’s something worse.

Dust dances in the air to the song of your pain as you see bodies lined up, white sheets draped over them to save anyone the pain of looking at the gruesome scene. On the right side of the room, you see Tommy. His head in his hands, staring at Joel as if he’s willing him to wake back up. His somber expression at seeing his brother just gone, as nature goes on around us, like nothing happened.

Tommy hears your slow footsteps thudding against the floor, looking up at you with a sign of understanding. He and you share the same pain. The pain of losing someone you love. You sit down beside him in silence, the void-like feeling is palpable, where neither of you knows what to say.

“They’re all dead,” you whispered, your voice deep and menacing. “We killed them.”

“Good,” Tommy muttered.

Silence falls over you two once more, a bit easier now. He stands giving you your space with Joel. His hand rests gently upon your shoulder, a smile comforting you in your suffering. Time stood still as if the world came to an end all over again. Seeing his body destroyed you, damaging your mind in a way it can’t be repaired.

Your trembling hands gently grip Joel’s, placing a light kiss upon it.

“In another life…I would have loved doing laundry and taxes with you,” you cried. Choking wet sobs echo throughout the building in a cacophony of misery. The overwhelming desire to end it all to be with him is strong. But you couldn’t. Not only did you not want to leave Ellie behind, but you also knew Joel wouldn’t want you to try the same thing he did when he lost Sarah. That’s the only thing providing you comfort right now, the fact that he finally gets to see her again.

Getting up, saying one last goodbye before walking out the door and into the world broken and shattered

The tipsy bison has become your second home in the recent months since Joel’s death. Each night, you wander into the familiar sight of Seth standing behind the counter. He spots you as he places a glass on the counter, pouring whiskey for you, a routine that both of you have become accustomed to. He’s become not a friend but an acquaintance as of recent. You still didn’t like him, especially after what he said to Ellie and Dina, but he apologized to them, and he seems genuine. Plus, Tommy asked you to give him a chance before you tried to beat his face to a bloody pulp. You and Tommy have been estranged more recently as well. With the weight of building Jackson back up and dealing with so much death surrounding you, it was hard to find time to sit down and take a minute. It was just you in the bar at the moment, as it was after closing, but Seth made an exception for you. The low hum of music played on the speakers a familiar tune that you used to love. Something from before the outbreak, which seems like a lifetime ago.

The door opened, cutting through your half-drunk state as Seth once again walks out from the back to tell who walked in that he was closed. You didn’t spare a glance and stayed focused on your glass in front of you. It made everything easy to forget and damn you sure wanted to.

“Oh hey Tommy, what do you need?” Seth spoke.

Hearing Tommy’s name made you finally glance away from the bar as you saw him standing there, a slight look of disappointment as he stared at you. You hated it. He and everyone else look at you in pity. You wanted anything else other than fucking pity.

Anger or even hatred

Just god forbid not pity.

“You can head home, Seth. I’ll close up for you,” Tommy answered.

Seth took him up on the offer and quickly started to leave. Before he walked out, he told you goodnight and to stay safe. His footsteps faded away, as you hoped Tommy would do the same and just leave you the hell alone. But of course he wouldn’t. He sure is a miller just like Joel.

So goddamn stubborn

“Are you here to lecture me?” you asked.

You heard him sigh deeply, obviously growing impatient at your antics. He recently had to take you off patrols for showing up drunk. An explosive argument happened between you two in front of Jesse and Dina, and Ellie. He yelled about how your reckless actions could get them killed. Your heart ached as he said that, feeling as though he blamed you a bit for his brother’s death. Ellie looked at you as you stormed off. You’ve grown distant with her as well, and your heart ached at the thought of it, but she just reminded you too much of Joel, especially Tommy.

“What are you doing y/n? This isn’t going to help,” he began to lecture you.

“You heal the way you want, and I’ll do it the way I want, ok?” you fired back.

Another song plays out through the bar, slicing through the tension between you and Tommy. Whatever anger you had between each other dissipated as the weight of the world seemingly fell onto his shoulders. The song is slow and intimate, charging the air with emotions that threatened to spill out. A weight settles between the now and before as you stand up, walking to the dance floor, as you start to sway to the music. You knew you probably looked crazy to Tommy, standing there as he watched you, but you needed the distraction.

Warm hands fall onto your hip and grip your hand as you see Tommy has started to slowdance with you.

He’s close. Way too close, but the overwhelming scent of his cologne and the warmth of his breath upon your neck as you gently lay your head on his chest is the first time you felt serenity in months. Stepping closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, no words are spoken, and none are needed. Anything that needs to be said is spoken with your eyes. The feeling of being within someone’s arms again feels like heaven compared to the living room couch you’ve been sleeping on. After Joel passed, you couldn’t bear to move out, but you also couldn’t bear to enter the bedroom that you two used to share. So the couch was your last option.

Tommy’s brown eyes hold an immeasurable amount of pain and responsibility as everyone looks to him for guidance. You know he’s barely been given to properly grieve, having to juggle people constantly coming to him on what to do. And there’s you. Adding more stress on top of it as you act out, drinking away your sorrows.

The soft sway of your bodies moving together in perfect sync as the world slowed down around you. If you could bottle up the feeling this moment has made you feel, you would keep it forever. It could sustain you for the rest of your days, making you feel safe and…wanted. His eyes crinkle at the sides as he gives you one of his signature smiles again, and this time, you aren’t sure if it was the alcohol or not, but the way his voice sounded made a certain ache start to grow between your legs.

“How do you think all of this will end?” You gestured to everything around you, distracting you from the growing feelings that have started to bloom.

“I’m not sure but..” he hesitates, “but what do know is that you aren’t alone. I have your back.”

His sincerity warms your heart. You begin to notice the way his hair is pushed behind his ears as his curls bend around them. His skin is tanned from hours of hard outside work, evident by the rough calluses on his hands. The lines of age show on his forehead as he starts to think deep in thought, and the lines that form on the corner of his mouth when he smiles widely. He’s handsome, a type that makes your mouth water and weak in the knees.

The sudden realization that you wearing a short sundress that falls barely below the curve of your ass and cupping your breasts pushing them up together as they sit there perfectly makes you slightly self conscious. You weren’t even thinking when you put on that outfit before you left your home earlier that night; you just grabbed the first thing you saw in your drawer. Tommy’s gaze follows yours as he takes you in, his pupils dilating and his breath hitches, wondering what the hell these new thoughts he had about you were.

Tommy couldn’t understand his feelings for you at first. You were his brother’s woman, his girl, so you were off limits. It’s not like he was waiting for something to happen so he could swoop in, no, he would never do that. But the last couple of weeks, seeing you walk around Jackson as your hair swayed behind you, the green of your eyes shining just right in the sun, and the look of your lips almost brought him to his knees. But you didn’t feel the same way. Both of you were still mourning, so he distanced himself away giving you your space to heal, but unknown to him, something was growing within you too.

Whether it was because of the alcohol or the music or both, you gathered to courage to kiss him. Your hands drift into his soft curls, holding on like he were your liferaft, preventing you from drowning underwater. Tommy didn’t kiss you back at first, making you feel as though you completely misread the situation. Embarrassed and ashamed, you start to pull away, heading for the door before he grabs you, pulling you back in and smashing his soft lips onto yours once more.

A moan escapes his lips as he backs you up against a nearby table. His hands hurriedly drift underneath your dress, gripping your thighs, making marks upon your skin. You hop onto the table, wrapping your legs around Tommy’s waist, urging him to continue. You were desperate, and so was he. You were oxygen, and he needed you to breathe until suddenly a bottle falling off the table snapped you two out of your daydream.

“I-I’m sorry,” Tommy stammered. “I shouldn’t have done this. Fuck-this isn’t right.”

He gently helps you back off the table as the lust you two felt goes away. The moment you two were in is gone as reality comes into focus. You straighten out your dress and fix up your hair as Tommy stares at you, a feeling of disappointment and sadness radiate within his big brown eyes.

“Tommy…” you whispered.

His hand cups your cheek as his thumb lovingly caresses your face. Savoring what’s left of the moment, you lean into his touch, not wanting it to end. You leaned in closer, your knees nearly touching, as if you and he were drawn together by an invisible force. A quiet chime of a clock nearby distracts both of you for a moment, making you giggle

He stops for a moment, looking at you in a way different from how he has ever before, at least not that you have noticed. Tommy stares at you as if the entire world begins and ends with you

“What is it?” you asked

“Nothing, it’s just…you are beautiful,” he whispered

In that moment, inside the rustic bar surrounded by music in the dead of night there was a still silence inside your mind. Not an uncomfortable one but peaceful.

“I’m here, baby, like I said, I’ll always be.”

You put your head in the crook of his neck, inhaling the cedar scent clinging to his shirt.

“Home,” you murmured silently to yourself. “I’m home.”

[dukestags]

Scrap and Smoke

Karl Heisenberg x Male FTM Reader

You woke up on a cold slab of metal, the ache in your bones screaming louder than any alarm. The ceiling above you was stained with rust and pipe residue. The air stank of oil, iron, and heat.

You sat up slowly, biting back a groan. Every part of your body felt used—like you'd been tossed into a blender and barely crawled out. You touched your ribs: fractured, maybe. At least two were bruised. Dried blood clung to your binder under your shirt, stiff with old pain.

Something hissed.

You looked around, startled.

The room was dim, lit by red emergency lights and sparking wire. Machines lined the walls—some looked half-human, half-metal, twitching unnaturally even while dormant. And standing just out of reach, leaning against a steel pillar, was him.

Karl Heisenberg.

Trench coat like a cape of smoke. Sunglasses hiding his eyes, but not the way he studied you. A metal hammer rested against his shoulder like a war banner.

"You alive, or should I start carving your name on a scrap pile?"

Your voice rasped. "Funny. You're a comedian."

He laughed—short, rough, like gravel sliding through gears.

"Smart mouth. Didn't think you'd make it past the front gate. The Lycans almost turned you into mulch."

You forced yourself to stand. Your legs shook, but you held your ground. "I don’t know where I am. I didn’t come here on purpose."

Heisenberg tilted his head. "No shit. Nobody comes to this dump for the scenery. You're in the village—Miranda's little sandbox of horrors. And this—" he motioned grandly to the rust-covered machinery, the echoing scream of unseen engines— "is my kingdom."

Your brow furrowed. “You live in a goddamn factory?”

His grin widened. “Better than a swamp or a haunted dollhouse. You’ll meet the rest of the freak show if you survive long enough.”

You glanced down. Your clothes were torn. Blood had dried along your side. You reeked of smoke and steel and sweat. You didn’t remember how you got here—just snow, panic, running from something. And now... him.

“I’m not part of whatever shit Miranda’s doing,” you said quietly. “I’m just trying to survive.”

He stared at you for a long second. Then another.

“You got balls,” he said finally. “I’ll give you that. Most people piss themselves when they see my pets.”

You glanced warily at a twitching torso of bolts and sinew mounted to the wall. "I might still. Give me time."

That made him laugh, full-bodied and wild. You didn’t smile, but you didn’t flinch either. He noticed that.

“Alright, kid,” he said, voice dropping into something almost thoughtful. “You wanna survive? Then get your ass up. You’re in the factory now. That means you work or you rot.”

...

Your first few days were hell. Heisenberg didn’t treat you gently—he tossed you into the scrap rooms with nothing but gloves, a dented welding mask, and instructions barked through a speaker.

But you worked. You fixed broken drones. Rewired panels. Even salvaged old mechanical limbs from the pile. You weren’t a genius like him, but you could keep up.

And he noticed.

Sometimes, he’d lean over your shoulder, muttering snide commentary. Other times, he’d catch you wincing from your cracked ribs and sigh loudly before tossing a painkiller your way.

One night, you were soldering parts together, biting your lip as your binder dug painfully into your bruised ribs. You shifted too fast—pain shot through your side. You hissed and leaned back against the wall.

Heisenberg caught the sound.

"You binding under that?" he asked suddenly, voice unreadable.

You froze. "...Yeah."

He was quiet.

Then: "You wanna... take a break? I can weld for once and let your masochistic little ribs breathe."

You stared at him, unsure whether to trust the offer. Then: “You gonna make a joke about it?”

He shrugged. “No. I don’t give a damn what’s under your shirt, kid. You pull your weight, you’re good in my book. Just don’t pass out on my damn floor.”

Your throat tightened.

“…Thanks.”

He lit a cigarette, handed you one too. "Don’t get sappy on me. You’re still on shit duty tomorrow."

But his tone was softer. And his eyes lingered just a little longer than before.

The factory was asleep.

Well, as asleep as a place like this could get—pipes still hissed, valves groaned, and unseen machinery churned in the depths below. But the usual barking orders and clanging metal had quieted. Even the Lycans had retreated to the tunnels.

You sat in the corner of the upper catwalk, legs dangling over the edge, watching the fog of your breath swirl in the freezing air. Your ribs ached, even through the new shirt Heisenberg had begrudgingly thrown at you yesterday.

It was oversized. Smelled like motor oil and cigarette smoke. Definitely his.

He didn’t say why he gave it to you. Just grunted, “Yours was useless. Try not to bleed on this one.”

You hadn’t taken it off since.

You heard the footsteps before you saw him—boots clunking along metal walkways, that familiar dragging hum of his hammer behind him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, coming up behind you.

You shook your head. “Didn’t even try.”

Karl didn’t say anything for a while. Just lowered himself beside you, the metal creaking under his weight. You handed him a cigarette from your pocket. He took it without a word and lit both.

For a moment, the only sound was your breathing and the quiet flicker of flame.

Then he said, “You been here... what? Three weeks now?”

“Give or take.”

“Haven’t tried to run.”

“Wouldn’t get far,” you muttered. “Besides, I don’t have a death wish.”

He smirked around his cigarette. “Could’ve fooled me. You showed up half-dead. Took on a welding torch with cracked ribs. Sleepwalk into the lower mines with the Lycans once, remember that?”

You let out a dry chuckle. “Still better than where I came from.”

Karl turned to look at you. Really looked. He took off the sunglasses for once, resting them on the bridge of his coat. His eyes weren’t what you expected—sharper, yeah, but tired. Human.

“Where was that?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Place that never let me be myself. Made me fight for every inch of who I was. And when I didn’t fit their box, they tried to break me to fit it.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t pity you. Just nodded.

“Same,” he said eventually.

You glanced at him. “Miranda?”

Heisenberg’s jaw clenched. “She tore me apart. Rebuilt me into her freak puppet. Thought giving me powers would make me loyal. Thought she could twist me into her little monster.”

He looked down at his hand—metal shrapnel pulsing under the skin, glowing faintly. “But I’m not hers. Never was. I’m my own goddamn machine.”

You nodded slowly. “She did all this to you?”

“She tried to turn me into a weapon. Forgot I could turn myself into a bomb.”

Silence stretched between you again. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence you only shared with someone who understood.

Then softly, without looking at you, Karl said:

“You’re the first person I’ve let stay here this long. Everyone else I either scare off or tear apart.”

“…Why me?” you asked quietly.

His lips twitched, but not in a grin. “Because you don’t flinch when you look at me.”

You swallowed hard, heart thudding like a faulty generator. “Maybe I should.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe. But you don’t.”

He stood up suddenly, flicking his cigarette over the edge. “C’mon. I want to show you something.”

You followed him through twisting catwalks and sealed doors, deeper into the back end of the factory—where the metal walls turned to old stone, remnants of a forgotten castle.

He brought you to a hidden chamber. A place even the Lycans didn’t go.

Inside, lit by a single buzzing lightbulb, was a makeshift workbench—and dozens of hand-welded objects scattered on shelves. Small metal animals. A warped sculpture of a wolf with red glass eyes. A pocketwatch with no face.

“These are yours?” you asked.

He nodded. “Projects. Shit I make when I can’t sleep. When I need to feel like I’m still... me.”

You picked up one of the pieces—a lopsided little figure made of bolts and wire. Looked like a man. One arm outstretched.

Karl stared at it. “…That one’s new.”

“You make it recently?”

His voice was low. “Yeah. After you passed out last week. Thought you were dead.”

You held the figure gently. “You built me.”

He grunted. “Don’t make it weird.”

But you smiled. And he didn’t stop you.

Before you left the room, he touched your shoulder. His hand lingered. Warm. Strong.

“You ever need something,” he muttered, “even if it’s just to breathe... you come here. Got it?”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Yeah. Got it.”

And for the first time since you arrived in this nightmare world, you felt something sharp and unfamiliar spark in your chest.

Hope.

[burner141]

My favorite movie genre is 2000s childrens movies (the clique, sleepover, 16 wishes, geek charming) very much girl, very much cliché. So here's what character trope I think the 141 guys would fall into.

The most obvious one to me is Johnny being in a garage band. Black graphic tees, washed denim pants. Occasional crop top. Bad boy charm. All the older women swore that he was a loud nuisance in the neighborhood, but secretly swooned when he gave them that toothy grin. You're not so different from them, it seems. He tried to impress you with his drum solo (bc ofc he's a drummer), but you just commented on how sweaty he was. He tried to rub himself all over you, claiming his scent would keep all the other boys away. You told him how gross he was, but you gave a delighted squeal when he finally lifted you up in those muscled arms. Safe to say, bro was always trying to get you to watch him at practice. Surprisingly, one day, he took the mic from the lead singer and started singing his own song. Your awe was slowly overshadowed by confusion, then shock. The lyrics were incredibly explicit, and he hadn't broken eye contact with you for two minutes. No more band practice viewings from you...

Next is golden boy Gaz. He is the perfect son, friend, student, everything. He offers to help the younger neighborhood kids with homework and even offers to mow lawns. He chooses to mow your lawn for you on a particularly hot day, making a show of taking off his thin shirt and throwing it over his shoulder like a rag. Afterwards, as if there's no end to his stamina, he plays ball with the guys in the street, his every move perfect and precise - a parrot showing off his pretty feathers. When he lends a hand with taking in your groceries, your mom fawns over what a gentleman he is. You aren't so sure. Something about him is a little too perfect. Your suspicions only make him want to keep up his image more. If that's what it takes for you to pay attention to him, then he'll let you try and find a crack in his porcelain mask.

Now, Price, I'm not so sure how to fit him into this other than hot dad. Maybe he's a friend's dad or just the neighborhood dilf. He's just so nice to you, gentle with everybody, really. So, of course, you offered to babysit his kid. One day, you came up to his bedroom to offer him a small snack of sliced apples. You stopped dead in your tracks as you heard his gutteral laugh through the slight opening of the door. Uncharacteristically crass words flew out of his mouth as he laughed with a friend over the phone. You could't help but stand behind the bedroom door and indulge in every curse and innuendo that slipped out of his mouth. Once his call ended, you circled back to the stairs, grateful that the carpeted floor hid the sound of your footsteps. This was a secret you could keep. A side of him you'd personally heard. Not the other neighborhood ladies that pined for him, but you. Little did you know he could see you through the reflection of the window. Funny girl.

Ghost is... idk, some guy? Community pool lifeguard? Freelance mechanic? Weekend plumber? Nobody really knows what he does, but he somehow does it all. Local odd-jobber. He would most definitely do sumn strange for a piece of change. He comes over to fix your pipes, and you find yourself staring at him positioned under the sink. Is he... having trouble fitting under there? You reach out to ask if he needs help. He just grunts, pauses for a few seconds, then tells you to hold the flashlight over him so he can "see the bloody pipes." You can't tell if the encounter is more awkward or intriguing. Not often do you have a huge slab of muscle under you. Also, not often that you have to hold a flashlight at such an angle. You brain malfunctions for the next, um, 10 minutes? It could have been your determined focus with the flashlight or him bucking his hips upwards every now and then. You see him next week manning a lemonade stand.

[212-apricity]

siren songs and stolen kisses, the forbidden zone

ssask masterlist main masterlist

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

The Twinkie rattled and groaned as it made its way down the dark, winding path toward Redfield Cemetery. The headlights cut through the fog, casting eerie shadows across the crooked headstones and gnarled tree branches. It wasn’t exactly an inviting scene, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins made it impossible to feel anything other than excitement.

“Alright, we’re here,” John B announced, slowing the van to a stop.

JJ, sitting in the passenger seat, turned back to look at the rest of us. His face was lit with that mischievous grin he always wore when we were about to do something we probably shouldn’t. “Grave-robbing. Just another Thursday for the Pogues, huh?”

“Do you ever stop joking?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Never,” JJ shot back, his grin widening. “It’s part of my charm, Princess.”

Kiara rolled her eyes from her seat beside me. “More like part of your problem.”

“Don’t act like you’re not charmed, Kie.” JJ smirked before turning his attention back to me.

I glanced at JJ, who was sitting beside me in the van. He flashed me a grin, clearly unbothered by the spooky setting.

The six of us climbed out of the van, flashlights in hand, and made our way through the creaky iron gates. The cold, damp air seemed to wrap around us like a blanket, and the crunch of our footsteps on the gravel path was the only sound.

“Nervous, Princess?” he teased, nudging me lightly with his elbow as John B explained who Redfield was to Kie and Pope, I stopped listening while JJ talked to me.

“Not even a little,” I shot back, trying to sound braver than I felt. JJ’s smirk widened, his blue eyes glinting in the low light.

“Uh-huh,” he said, draping an arm over my shoulders. “Just stay close.”, he looked around.

I rolled my eyes, but my lips twitched into a smile despite myself. “I’ll be fine, JJ. Try not to get scared yourself.”

Kiara stepped forward, her gaze fixed on the old tomb at the center of the graveyard. “That’s it. Redfield.”

We stood in a loose circle around the entrance to the tomb at Redfield Graveyard, the cool night air heavy with tension. The ancient stone slab loomed before us, its surface cracked and moss-covered.

“Alright, so how are we gonna do this?” Pope asked, his hands on his hips.

“We can’t exactly just… bust it open,” John B muttered, running a hand through his hair as he examined the tomb. “It’s loud, and it’s stone. We need a better idea.”

“I can fit,” I said confidently, my voice cutting through the conversation.

JJ looked up sharply, his brows furrowing. “What?”

“I can fit through there,” I repeated, pointing to the narrow gap in the tomb’s side.

“That’s, like, half a foot wide,” JJ said skeptically, gesturing at the gap. “Y/n, you’re not a noodle.”

“Don’t need to be,” I shot back, already stepping forward to test the space. I turned to them with a smirk. “I used to do gymnastics, I’m flexible.”

“Yeah, well, flexibility isn’t gonna help if a snake bites you,” JJ said, crossing his arms.

Kiara stepped closer, inspecting the gap. “She might fit,” she said thoughtfully, glancing at JJ. “It’s tight, but it’s doable.”

JJ rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure. Let’s just risk Y/n getting wedged in a 200-year-old tomb. That sounds like a great plan.”

“Got a better one, Maybank?” I challenged, raising an eyebrow.

JJ opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again. “No. But that doesn’t mean I like this one.”

John B clapped JJ on the shoulder. “She’s our best shot, man. Let’s just keep watch while she goes in. If it goes south, we’ll pull her out.”

JJ sighed, shaking his head but stepping back. “Fine. But if you get stuck, I’m not crawling in there to save you.”

I smirked. “Noted.”

As I started squeezing herself into the gap, standing on JJ’s interlocked hands hoisting me up, he muttered under his breath, “You better not get bitten, I’ll lose my shit.”

After what felt like forever, I emerged, holding a parcel labelled, “For Bird”.

“Got it!” I said triumphantly, my voice cutting through the silence.

We all scrambled back to the Twinkie, fearing someone behind us, the atmosphere was buzzing as we sped away from the graveyard, the parcel sitting like a relic on the seat between John B and Kiara. The air felt electric, each of us buzzing with anticipation and pride for pulling off what felt like a legendary heist.

“Hell yeah!” Pope shouted, his fist pumping into the air. He turned to John B with a wide grin. “We’re unstoppable, bro!”

“Yeah, baby!” JJ added, his excitement infectious. His voice carried over the din of cheers, and I saw him glance my way, his grin lingering just a little too long before he turned back to the others. I thought nothing of it, too caught up in the energy of the moment.

We screeched into the driveway of the Chateau, all of us pouring out of the Twinkie like over-caffeinated kids. The parcel was carefully placed on the table inside, the reverence of the moment sinking in as John B opened it with careful hands. Inside was a tape recorder and a stack of notes, Big John’s voice crackling to life as John B pressed play.

Big John’s words echoed in the room, his instructions clear but cryptic, urging John B to follow the clues that would lead to the Royal Merchant and the gold.

The air was thick with emotion when the recording ended. For a moment, none of us spoke, the weight of what we’d just heard settling over us. Then, in true Pogue fashion, the tension broke with a cheer, each of us swept up in the joy of what we’d accomplished.

“Man, we’re really doing this,” Pope said, shaking his head in disbelief as he grinned at the rest of us.

Kiara pulled John B into a hug, her voice filled with pride. “Your dad was onto something big, JB.”

We all started hugging, caught up in the moment. JJ grabbed me, lifting me off the ground in his excitement.

“Put me down, you idiot!” I laughed, smacking his shoulder as he spun me around.

He laughed, his grin widening before finally setting me back on my feet.

When we pulled apart, his hands lingered on my arms, his blue eyes catching mine under the dim light of the kitchen. For a second, everything else faded, his gaze softening as he looked at me.

“What?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head like he was shaking off a thought.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

“Hey,” JJ said suddenly, coming up behind me as I was throwing the old moldy bread away, breaking the silence.

I glanced back at him. “What?”

“Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the door.

“What are you doing?” I asked, startled.

“Just come on,” he said, his fingers warm around mine.

As he led me outside, I could hear the others laughing behind us.

“Oh, this is happening,” Kiara called, her voice dripping with amusement.

“Finally!” Pope added, and I groaned.

“Shut up!” I yelled over my shoulder, my cheeks heating as JJ pulled me further away from the house.

“Let them talk,” JJ said, laughing as we made our way toward the beach.

The moon hung low over the water, casting a soft silver glow over the sand. We walked in silence for a while, the sound of the waves filling the space between us. JJ’s hand was still holding mine, his grip steady and warm.

Finally, he stopped, turning to face me.

“Okay, what’s this about?” I asked, my heart pounding as he looked at me, his usual smirk replaced by something more serious.

He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not great at this kind of thing, so just… bear with me, alright?”

“JJ…” I started, but he cut me off.

“No, let me say this,” he said, his voice firm but nervous. “I like you, Y/n. I’ve liked you since we were kids. When John B and I were running around causing trouble, and I’d see you hanging out with Kie and Sarah. You’re the one thing in my life that’s always made sense, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel this way.”

I stared at him, his words washing over me like a wave.

Finally, I found my voice. “JJ, I like you too,” I said softly. “I think I always have.”

The relief on his face was instant, and before I could say anything else, he stepped closer, cupping my face in his hands as he kissed me. His lips were warm and soft, and the world seemed to stop as I kissed him back.

When we pulled apart, I grinned at him. “You know this breaks your no Kook rule, right?”

“Shut up,” he said, laughing as he pulled me into another kiss. “You’re a Pogue now.”

I pulled back just enough to smirk at him. “What about the no Pogue-on-Pogue macking rule?”

JJ groaned, rolling his eyes before kissing me again, harder this time, effectively shutting me up.

Cheers and whistles erupted from somewhere behind us, and we broke apart to see the rest of the Pogues watching from a distance, grinning like idiots.

JJ groaned, burying his face in my neck. “They’re the worst.”

I laughed, grabbing his hand. “Yeah, but we’ll get them back someday.”

He laughed, lacing his fingers through mine and as we walked back to the Chateau, I couldn’t stop the smile on my face. For the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

The Twinkie was a moving disaster zone, as usual, bumping and groaning over the backroads. John B was at the wheel, one arm slung out the window as the wind whipped through his hair. Kiara sat in the passenger seat, holding the map, while Pope and I were squished in the back seat. JJ lounged across the floor of the van, his legs stretched out, his knife flicking open and closed in one hand, and the other hand working on rolling a blunt.

“Alright, so let’s talk this through again,” Kiara said, pointing at the map. “The coordinates lead to somewhere here,” she gestured vaguely at the red mark on the paper, “which should put us right in line with the wreck. But we need to figure out what these notes mean.”

“I mean, it could be anything,” Pope said, squinting at the faint writing. “Big John was cryptic as hell.”

“Understatement,” John B muttered from the front.

I was half-listening, leaning back against the van’s side panel with my legs crossed. JJ’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation.

“Hey, Princess,” he said, looking up at me with a grin that was both lazy and wicked. “C’mere.”

I raised an eyebrow but shifted closer. “What?”

He held up the blunt he was rolling, the paper balanced delicately between his fingers. “Lick it for me.”

I stared at him, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“C’mon,” he said, smirking. “Don’t act all shy now. You’ve seen worse things in this van.”

Pope groaned. “Can you not?”

Ignoring him, I laughed at JJ’s false joke, knowing it was directed to make Pope uncomfortable, but leaned in anyway, reaching the blunt in his hands. His gaze lingered on me, his smirk softening into something more teasing as I licked the paper not breaking eye contact.

“There,” I said, trying not to let the heat in my cheeks show. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” JJ said, his voice low. He took the blunt, sealing it with a quick twist, and lit it with a flick of his lighter. He took a slow drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled lazily in the small space.

He held it out to me.

I accepted it, taking a quick drag before handing it back to JJ. He winked at me as he took another hit.

“Alright,” John B said, breaking the silence as he squinted at the map. “So, according to this, the coordinates lead us… somewhere around here.”

“Great,” Kiara said, rolling her eyes. “Middle of the ocean. Super helpful.”

John B shot her a look. “It’s not exact, but it’s a starting point. We’ll figure it out.”

“Famous last words,” she muttered, leaning back in her seat.

JJ nudged me lightly with his elbow. “What do you think, Miss Cameron? You ready to join the ‘Shipwrecked and Stranded Club’ when this inevitably goes sideways?”

I smirked at him, crossing my arms. “Oh, I’m ready. Are you? Or are you going to start whining the second you get a little wet?”

“Touché,” he said, chuckling. “But if I drown, I’m haunting you specifically.”

“You’d haunt me anyway,” I shot back, laughing.

“Damn right,” he said, his grin widening.

“Can you two stop flirting for like five seconds? Please? Is that too much to ask?” Pope interjected, glaring at both of us.

I tried to supress, my laughter but locking eyes with JJ betrayed me.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

The Twinkie rattled to a halt near the edge of the salvage yard. The towering piles of rusted metal and abandoned cars loomed over us, casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. We huddled together by the side of the van, quickly hashing out a plan.

“Alright,” John B began, keeping his voice low. “Kiara, Y/n, you’re on distraction duty. Keep the security guy busy. The rest of us will grab the drone.”

Kiara raised an eyebrow. “Why do we always get the boring jobs?”

“Because you’re the least suspicious,” JJ chimed in. “And because John B’s too scared to do it himself.”

“Shut up,” John B said, smacking JJ lightly on the arm.

Kiara and I exchanged a look before heading toward the small security booth near the entrance. The guard looked up as we approached, his suspicious eyes narrowing.

“Hey there!” Kiara said, putting on her most innocent smile. “Our boat’s tyres burst, can you help us please?”

As Kiara spun her tale about how the tyers deflated, I chimed in with details. Meanwhile, the boys disappeared into the maze of scrap metal behind us.

When they finally returned, the drone tucked securely under John B’s arm, JJ’s expression caught my attention. His eyes were glassy, his lips trembling as if he were fighting to hold back tears.

“JJ, what’s wrong?” I asked, rushing over to him.

He sniffled dramatically, his shoulders shaking. “It’s just…Your…”

My heart sank. “What? JJ, my what?”

JJ couldn’t hold it in anymore. He burst out laughing, doubling over as I glared at him.

“You’re the worst,” I said, giving him a shove, though I couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

The Pogues were sprawled out across the Chateau, each of us busy with our own pre-party rituals. Kiara was rummaging through my pile of clothes, tossing items over her shoulder as she muttered about finding something decent to wear.

“Are you sure this isn’t a waste of time?” Pope asked, lounging on the couch. “It’s just going to be a bunch of Kooks, drunk off their parents’ liquor, pretending they run the island.”

“Exactly,” JJ said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Which is why we’re going. It’s a good alibi and we get in with no trouble thanks to Y/n. Also free booze, bad decisions, and maybe a good laugh or two.”

I emerged from the bedroom, zipping up a sundress and JJ’s eyes immediately locked on me, his smirk growing.

“Damn, Princess,” he said, pushing off the counter and walking over to me. His hands found my waist, his fingers grazing the fabric. “Who are you trying to impress?”

I grinned up at him. “Maybe I’m trying to outshine you for once.”

“Good luck with that,” he teased, leaning in to kiss me lightly.

“Alright, lovebirds,” John B said, appearing in the doorway with an exasperated look. “We don’t have all night. Let’s move.”

“Hold on, hold on,” JJ said, turning back to the mirror to adjust his hat. I grabbed it off his head, putting it onto mine instead.

“Much better,” I said, spinning around and heading for the door.

JJ caught up to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he said, tugging me closer.

The party was already in full swing by the time we arrived. The Kooks had outdone themselves, as usual, turning their sprawling estate into a sea of lights, music, and expensive liquor. JJ stuck close to my side, his hand resting lightly on my lower back as we navigated the crowd after a good hour of drinking and dancing.

I spotted Sarah near the drinks table and made my way over to her, JJ following closely.

“Hey,” I said, grabbing a cup of whatever questionable concoction was being served. “How’d you manage to sneak out this time?”

“Wheezie,” she replied simply, taking a sip from her own cup. “Blackmailed her.” She glanced at JJ, raising an eyebrow. “I see you brought the rebel boyfriend.”

“Nice to see you too, Sarah,” JJ said, grinning at the new title.

Before she could respond, Topper appeared, pulling Sarah away for something. I sighed, taking a sip of my drink.

“Wanna get out of here?” JJ asked, leaning down to whisper in my ear.

I nodded, letting him lead me up to the rooftop. The cool night air was a welcome relief, the noise from the party fading to a dull hum. We sat close together, sharing a blunt as the stars twinkled above us.

“What would you do with the gold?” I asked, resting my head on his shoulder.

JJ exhaled a cloud of smoke, his expression thoughtful. “Get out of here. Buy a boat, sail wherever I wanted. No more running, no more debt. Just… freedom.”

I smiled faintly. “That sounds nice.”

“What about you, Princess?” he asked, turning to look at me. “What’s your big dream?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I guess the same thing. Travelling.”

JJ shifted, lying down so that his head rested in my lap. He looked up at me, his blue eyes soft. “We’ll go together” he said simply, closing his eyes, “Surf trip.”

My heart lurched at his words, “As long a you wax my board J.”

I reached down, running my fingers through his hair, a content smile spreading across his face.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

The smell of eggs and toast filled the air as I cooked breakfast for the group the next morning. JJ hovered beside me, stealing bites of toast whenever he thought I wasn’t looking.

“JJ, if you eat one more piece of toast, I’m gonna stab you with this spatula,” I warned, swatting at him playfully.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned in closer.

“Try me.”

He laughed, his hands settling on my hips as he leaned in to kiss me. I felt a rush of warmth as his lips brushed against mine, but before we could get carried away, Pope walked in.

“God, can you two not?” he groaned, shielding his eyes.

JJ and I broke apart, laughing. “Jealous, Pope?” JJ teased.

“Not in the slightest,” Pope shot back.

JJ grabbed his keys from the counter, pulling me in for one more kiss before heading out with Pope to do Heyward deliveries while Sarah and I went to the mainland to shop, John B avoided DCS and Kie was at work at the Wreck.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔: 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

part three done!!

i dont wanna go to school tmrw omg

taglist: @harryssideboobz @onelonelybitch

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + six

authors note: i really like how this one came out. hope you guys do too.

i use some psych terminology, so just as a lil glossary: pt=patient, dx=diagnosis, hx =history, fx=functioning status (mental stability, essentially) and hopefully everyone can understand the rest with context clues.

if any cw/tw’s are missed, please let me know, and i will add them!

cw/tw: fluff, language, medical report following suicide attempt, discussion of sexual abuse, mention of torture

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

masterlist

words: 10k (i don't know how to write short chapters, clearly)

The last thing Solana expected to wake up to is a handwritten note left for her in the same journal she deposited on Roman’s bed despite her better judgment. She was filled to the brim with anxiety regarding that bold decision, asking him to do something she’s certain is miles outside of his comfort zone.

She expected him to ignore her. 

What she didn’t expect was for him to reply.

Reading over his words, Solana struggles with the ease of his acquiescence. He indicated it could be short term, but she’ll take that, because it’s a hell of a lot easier for her to talk to this man if it’s through written word.

And the last part. 

There’s nothing you can’t tell me.

There’s actually a lot she can’t tell him. A lot he can never know. No one can know, but the sentiment behind it…..it has her puzzled. He has her puzzled. 

Solana grabs the journal and scans the kitchen for a pen when a thought crosses her mind. She bites down on her bottom lip, forever battling with the idea of something vs the actuality of carrying out the plan.

In a plot twist, she sides with the plan and pulls out her phone, searching for Roman’s contact.

She types, deletes, and does so again at least three times before settling on a text that really could have been conjured and sent in seconds vs the solid ten minutes she takes to issue it out.

Solana: Hi. Thank you. Do you think we could text too? I know that writing is my thing, but I can text if that’s easier for you too….thanks.

Solana nearly tosses her cell phone on the large slab that is his granite kitchen island and moves around to figure out what she’s going to fix for breakfast. The perfect excuse for her to not think about the knots in her stomach at her message. It doesn’t stop the overthinking though.

What if she’s asking too much? Pushing him too far out of his comfort zone? It doesn’t take long for her to regret her decision, wishing it was still within the time limits to unsend her message.

And then her phone dings.

Solana nearly drops the egg she was about to crack over the skillet. Swallowing, she places it back in the bowel as her feet slowly carry her to the phone that has now dinged a second time. Her fingers dance against the sides of her pants, stretching and scratching the cotton. 

Lifting her phone, she unlocks her phone and heads straight to his thread.

Roman: Yes.

It’s a simple response that makes sense for him and is beneficial for Solana who sighs in relief at his agreement. She stews on how to respond, eventually settling on a simple thank you as well as answering his question. The least she can do. 

Solana: Thank you…

Solana: And I don’t work this weekend. 

Solana: Can I ask you something?

Solana again starts chewing on her bottom lip as she mentally berates herself for bombarding him with messages when he’s probably in the middle of working.

But even so, that doesn’t stop him from replying almost instantly.

Roman: You don’t have to ask if you can ask me something, Solana. Just ask. 

It’s hard not to imagine the frustration on his face at answering her question while also having to remind her of what he’s already stated at one point or another. 

Solana: Okay…

Solana: Where are we going?

She’s unsure if he will respond and has accepted that he may not, which is okay with her. He’s already being more responsive than she initially anticipated he would. And Solana is barely able to put the skillet on the fire before her phone is buzzing again.

Roman: You’ll see.

His answer makes her frown. It’s not what she wanted to hear, but it’s also not a complete disregard or verbal lashing for asking a simple question.

Solana prepares to leave it as is when Roman’s voice is in the back of her mind, nudging and reminding her of his desire for her to communicate with him more.

Nervous fingers type out an expression of said nerves.

Solana: Okay….surprises just make me nervous. 

She doesn’t have time to put her phone down when those three dots appear, indicating he’s typing.

Roman: It’s nothing bad.

Roman: I wouldn’t lie to you. 

And for some strange reason, Solana believes that. Roman doesn't seem like a man to lie in general, because he’s too blunt for that. 

Unless….

Unless it’s one of his mind games, because he is notorious for that. Still, she can’t find a reason why he would waste his time playing one of those with her. 

Solana: Okay. Sorry to text you while you’re working.

Roman: You’re apologizing again.

Roman: And I don’t care. 

Roman: I’d rather talk to you than listen to the twins bullshit.

Solana tries to not put too much into his words, into him saying that he wants to talk to her. It’s not that he directly wants to speak to her, more she’s the lesser of two evils. Nothing to get into her head about.

Solana: They’re kinda funny….🙈

Roman: You’d feel differently if you had to deal with them all the time. 

Solana: Fair.

The exchange is so in the moment, back to back, that she doesn’t put her phone down again until her last message. She then returns to preparing her breakfast. 

Solana is frying her eggs, adding in seasoning when her phone dings again. Wiping her hands on her apron, she expects a message from Bayley or even Naomi.

Especially Naomi. She needs to talk to her about what happened, apologize for putting her in what must have been an awkward situation.

It’s neither of them.

Roman: How’d you start writing?

Roman continuing or prolonging the conversation isn’t something she saw coming. But, the message is right there in white writing against that gray background.

Solana briefly debates how honest to be in her answer, deciding to step a bit out of her comfort zone in offering more than just her usual three to five word responses. 

Solana: My mom. She spoke English, but she wasn’t fluent, so she’d write letters to me in Spanish, and I’d have to respond in English so we both could learn.

Solana: My dad wouldn’t let her teach or speak it around me and Wes so that was the only way I/she could learn.

He stops replying after that, and Solana feels stupid for being so open, for not just giving him a simple answer with all of the unnecessary verbiage.

And then her phone goes off.

Roman: Not surprising. 

When he doesn’t say anything else, Solana debates on whether to end it there or follow up with another question given that he asked one first. It feels like returning the favor or reciprocating manners.

Hence, she decides on texting him again. 

Solana: What is that language you speak to the twins sometimes?

Roman: Samoan. I’m fluent. Italian and English as well. 

That’s not entirely surprising. Roman is obviously a well educated, well rounded man. 

Roman: You’re more perceptive than you let off.

Solana: Maybe. But no one ever cares what I have to say or think, so it doesn’t make sense to share it. 

He stops replying after that.

And Solana tries to not think too much about her disappointment, moving around the kitchen to finish fixing breakfast as a distraction.

A poor distraction, because not even twenty minutes later, she’s ready to check her phone again even if it hasn’t made the special sound that makes her belly flutter. However, the sound of the doorbell pulls her from that premature excitement.

Solo comes to meet her in the kitchen informing matter-of-factly, “it’s Naomi and Bayley.” 

Solana stills. That’s definitely not someone she expected to see so soon. Neither of them.

“Invite them in?” Solo’s voice tinges with borderline irritation, which she can understand.

Cheeks reddening, she apologizes. “Yes. Sorry. Of—of course.”

Solana hears Bayley before she sees her. “Damn. This is how it’s like to live as the Tribal Chief's wife? Maybe shit isn’t so bad after all.” The two walking in wearing friendly smiles brings back Solana’s grin.

“Hey there. We wanted to come check on you.” Naomi introduces, the first to ask, “is it okay if we hug you?”

Solana doesn’t hesitate as much as she would expect herself to. “Yes.” 

Naomi also doesn’t hesitate and steps forward, hugging Solana in such a sincere way she’s not sure she’s experienced in years. Since her mom. 

And Bayley does the same, maybe even a little tighter.

The three of them sit down at the kitchen island as Bayley asks in a sympathetic tone. “How you doing, lady?”

“Better.” It’s an honest answer, and Solana can’t help but think about the additive that it’s largely due to Roman. But, she keeps that part to herself. She looks at Naomi. “I’m so sorry—“

Naomi lifts a manicured finger to silence her. “Girl, you have nothing to apologize for. If anything, I’m sorry I didn’t know what was going on. You could have told me too, but I get it must have been hard for you.”

This part had Solana deeply nervous, the part where she’d have to ‘face’ Naomi after causing such a scene and getting the whole place shut down for an entire day, So, for the woman with the penchant for bold colors that look delightful against her complexion to be so understanding and empathetic, it means a lot to Solana.

It means a lot that Bayley would also even tag along when she wasn’t even part of that chaotic ordeal.

“Just know you can tell us anything. We’ve got your back,” Bayley affirms, adding with a smirk. “And clearly your big bad husband does too.”

We’ve got your back.

Solana doesn’t even know where to begin comprehending and swallowing that. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t have too long to be in her head, because Naomi starts talking again. “That was wild,” she comments with a shake of her head and then looks at Solana. “Oh shit, you probably don’t know, do you?”

Solana’s stomach does the opposite of butterflies, the uncomfortable clenching and twisting that accompanies anxiety. “Know what?”

There’s no delay with the answer.

“Theory and Waller are dead.” Solana wasn’t sure what to expect to hear Naomi say, but even if she tried to guess, that would have never been one of her options.

Confusion is painted all over her face. “Wha—what?”

Dead.

The two men who just yesterday caused her to breakdown and revert back to her teenage years where dissociation was her coping mechanism, the men who’d been sexually harassing her with zero regards for her as a human and even more, as Roman’s wife….are dead.

It feels almost impossible to be true. 

Bayley backs up Naomi’s assertion, adding, “yeah, he had their bodies, or what was left, displayed at the Warehouse this morning.”

Chills travel up her spine. “W–why?”

It’a a word aimed towards a lot of the questions Solana has unanswered. Why are they dead? Why did Roman kill or have them killed? Sure, she expected there to be some form of punishment, merely for the simple fact that messing with her was a clear sign of disrespect toward him, which the Tribal Chief would never tolerate. But, for them to be killed, in such a what sounds like a gruesome manner, and their remains to be left for all to see?

Why?

Bayley answers with a shrug of her shoulders. “To send a message.”

Solana is surprisingly fast with her follow up. “W-what message?”

Naomi is quick with the answer, but in general, she seems to be knowledgeable about a lot of things Bloodline. “You’re Bloodline now. No one messes with us. And you’re Roman’s wife? Yeah, he’s making sure everyone knows what happens if they even think about fucking with you.”

It lines up, Solana reflecting back on Roman’s departing declaration the night before.

“I told you. No one lays a hand on you. I’m gonna make sure everyone understands that shit from here on out.”

She just never expected such a….big message. 

“Honestly, they were fucking creeps anyway.” Solana cannot and does not disagree with the first part of Bayley’s statement, the second part, however, is iffy for her. “They got exactly what they deserved.”

Solana neither agrees or disagrees with that.

“I’m thinking we do your training from here for a little while,” Naomi suggests. While her initial response is to apologize for any inconvenience this may cause Naomi, Solana can’t deny the fact that just the thought of walking back in that building right now makes her physically ill. “I know Roman got a state of the art gym here and that massive backyard of yalls? This will do just fine.” 

“Oooh, I gotta see this.” Bayley then asks, “Solana, are you working today?”

“No, I called out.” Solana needs at least a day to get her mind right, hence taking today off.

Bayley then suggests, “Naomi and I were gonna go shopping. Why don’t you come with us?” 

It's an interestingly timed question given one of Solana’s text exchanges with Roman not even an hour ago included him informing her that the stack of envelopes on the kitchen island earlier were her new set of cards, all linked to his accounts. 

And he made sure to reiterate again that there is no limit. For any of them.

Bayley then decides and declares, slapping her hand on the island. “Matter of fact, we’re not asking. We’re telling you that you’re going shopping with us.” That is something Solana is familiar with, never being asked, always being told.

It’s just rare, if ever, it’s something that isn't entirely bad or terrible she’s being told she needs to do. 

“I’ve been wanting to take you shopping for forever anyway. Because as sweet and great as you are, Solana, you dress like college freshman meets Billie Eilish.” Before Solana can ask what exactly that means, Naomi explains. “So much neutral and dark colors. And everything is oversized. I can tell you’re kind of insecure about your body, but you literally have no reason to be because you have an amazing shape.”

Solana doesn’t say anything, but her hand naturally goes to one of the scars on her arm from that night. 

Naomi notices this and advises in a gentle voice, “we all have scars, Solana. Some you can see and others you don’t.” Solana has both, and it’s a miserable experience. “That doesn’t mean you have to hide them and be ashamed.” 

“Naomi is right.” Bayley agrees, and something tells Solana she’s going out shopping today whether she wants to or not. “We are going to help you learn to embrace your curves one better fashionable choice at a time.” 

________

Solana can probably count on one hand how many times she’s gone shopping in person over the past couple years. Maybe longer. She mostly sticks to online shopping when she is in need of a couple new pieces, always sizing way up so she can assure that it fits. More so drapes over her body, but that’s always been the preference.

She’s also never shopped at stores where the price for a single item can be upwards to three to four figures, which apparently isn’t the case for Bayley and Naomi.

Cause one of the first items they pick up for her is a single blouse that reads $650.00 on the price tag. Solana nearly faints when she reads that. That’s probably the entire cost of her wardrobe put together. 

She’s starting to regret telling them about Roman adding her to his accounts. Naomi especially seemed thrilled at that, and she seems to be the one piling the cart with more and more items. Bayley also offering her fair share of contributions.

All the while Solo keeps a safe but comfortable distance, wearing that infamous stoic expression, Solana can’t help but wonder how he must be feeling about this, about having to spend his time watching her while she shops. It can’t be enjoyable for him at all. She feels sort of bad. 

“Oh my god, you have to try this on.” 

Feeling bad for someone else morphs into feeling bad for herself, to a certain extent, when Solana sees the dress that Naomi is holding up for her. 

In all interactions, Solana does her best to be polite and kind, to never invite a volatile or mean response. “Ummm, I don’t—I don’t think that’ll look good on me.”

It won’t look good for a lot of reasons, the main one being it’s too small. Solana can see the thin sleeved dress is intended to be form-fitting—another major red flag—but even with that, it’s obviously a size, or eight, too small.

Naomi makes a sound. “Girl, that’s just how it looks. It molds to your shape, and with all your curves, I know it’s going to be a killer look.” She then pushes it in Solana’s direction again. “At least try it on. You never know unless you try.”

But Solana does know. She knows this dress is going to draw attention to all of her flaws. The rolls, the pudge of her belly, her big arms, and those damn scars. But, she also doesn’t want to be rude, so she agrees, disappearing in the dressing room before emerging a couple minutes later, never once checking her reflection before doing so. 

She walks to where the ladies are waiting, asking with an awkward shrug of her shoulders, “well?”

Naomi gasps. “Holy shit, that looks amazing on you, Solana!”

“Of course it does. You see that body?” Bayley joins in on gassing her up, adding, “it really does look good, Solana. We wouldn't lie to you.”

Huh. That’s the second time today Solana has been told that. 

Bayley then instructs her to look at her reflection in the full body mirror of the dressing room, a dreaded task but one she makes herself complete. 

Solana does her best to try to be as neutral and not negative towards her appearance, but it’s hard when she keeps honing in on the scars on her arms, the one on her face, not to mention her weight and how, to her, it just seems too much. 

Her father’s sharp and consistent criticism starts to return to the forefront of her mind when she notices Naomi snap a photo. Turning on her heel, she asks with a level of nervousness, “w–what are you doing?” 

“Helping you to realize how bad as hell you are.” Naomi says it so casually, so calmly, turning her phone toward Solana. “See.”

It’s a thread, a group chat, and along with the picture Naomi just snapped, there’s an accompanying text.

Naomi: Solana is being stupid and thinks she looks bad in this dress. Please prove me and Bayley’s point. 

Solana’s eyes go wide when she realizes just who is in this group text. Jimmy, Jey, and Roman. 

Her stomach is twisting all over again. “Naomi, I—I don’t think—”

Naomi’s phone chimes, and a smile grows on her face as Bayley moves closer to Solana. 

Naomi starts laughing and then smirks as she flips it so Solana and Bayley can read. “I rest my case.”

Jey: Damn, Soso 👀 Hell yeah, she look good. Goddamn! 😫

Jimmy: I GYAT to start coming over to ya’ll house more, Uce. 🍑

Bayley makes a wolf sound, playfully shoving Solana whose cheeks are reddening by the second after reading the surprising response from the twins. She definitely either expected no response or an either kind or unkind disagreement. “We told you, girl. You look amazing.” Bayley then comments, directing her statement to Naomi. “Man, you and Jimmy definitely have a strong ass relationship, cause I’d be ready to kick his ass.”

Naomi shrugs, simply responding. “We trust each other. I know it stops at just looking for him. Same for me.”

Her phone makes a sound, and she reads whatever the latest incoming messages are, instantly rolling her eyes. “Roman is such an ass sometimes.”

Solana’s ear perks up at the mention of his name as she asks, “what did he say?”

Naomi turns her phone again so Solana can read for herself, her stomach twisting with anxiety when she reads his trenchant reply.

Roman: Shut the fuck up.

Roman: Unsend this shit, Naomi. Now.

But before Solana can panic about his response, her phone dings and she pulls it out to see his name on her lockscreen. Instead of delaying the inevitable, she unlocks to read his response, anticipating the worst.

Roman: You look good.

Roman: But you always look good. 

Solana has to read his text a couple of times before it actually registers. He thinks she looks good. Roman thinks she looks good. Even more, he thinks she always looks good. Solana doesn’t know how to take that, even though there really is only one way to take such a message.

Bayley and Naomi being the bit of nosy Nancy’s that they are, sneak a peek at Solana’s phone and also read his text. Bayley is the first to speak, displaying that knowing dimpled smile. “Ha! See. The Tribal Chief himself has spoken.”

Naomi and her share a laugh as Solana finds herself also with a small smile. Roman had told her the night of WarGames that she looked beautiful, and she hadn’t really known how to take that either, chalking it up to the face full of makeup and fancy updo.

But this photo Naomi snapped and sent shows her without a lick of makeup on, hair messily pulled back and out of the way. It’s literally just her in a dress, a dress she normally would never dare to brave, but something Roman apparently thinks she looks good in.

“Does…..does he really think I’m beautiful?” It’s a question she never intended to leave the safe confines of her mind, but it’s a rebel, sneaking its way out and landing on the doorstep of the two women before her.

Bayley, as per usual, is the first to speak. “Is that a serious question? Of course he thinks you’re beautiful, because you are. You’re absolutely stunning, Solana. You have to see that.”

“Most of the men at your wedding kept commenting on how pretty you are. And your boobs, of course, because men have no couth.” Naomi rolls her eyes but continues. “And as someone who has had the displeasure of knowing Roman literally since we were in elementary school, I can tell you that you’re 1000% his type.”

Solana doesn’t believe that Naomi has reason to lie to her. Bayley either. And as Naomi has been around the family for so long, her word has to be true. But, Solana has a hard time separating the fact that Roman, who has someone as beautiful and unflawed like Samantha, in the same vein, could think someone like her is beautiful. 

Samantha is beautiful, and someone he can actually touch.

Because regardless of how he views her, it all comes down to that. Physical intimacy. One of many things that Solana can’t give him.

But Samantha can.

Samantha does.

That’s why she was in the house that day, doing what Solana should but can’t because she’s too fucked up, too damaged, too broken. 

Bayley reaches over with a comforting hand, switching to Spanish. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, don’t. You’re beautiful, Solana. That’s it. Nothing more. Nothing less. Fuck anyone who’s ever said different.”

Solana isn’t quite sure how to describe how grateful she feels in this moment, to have such support, to have people be so genuinely and sincerely supportive. She hasn’t had that in so long, she’d almost forgotten that it was possible.

Emotion thick, she responds in the same language, “thank you, Bayley.”

“Okay, now that’s just not fair. I wanna know what’s going on too.” Naomi’s protest and almost childlike pout makes Solana smile, a nice break from the heavy emotional experience going on in her head. 

“Just some girls supporting girls shit.” Bayley shrugs and claps her hands together. “Okay, now let’s see what sexy little red pieces we can find for you��.”

________

Texting and writing with Roman on and off for the rest of the week was never on Solana’s agenda, but it’s exactly what’s been happening. 

And she has no idea what to make of it. 

Every time there’s a delay with his response, she assumes that’s it. That’s the end of the conversation. Only for her phone to buzz with not only a response but usually a follow up question.

It’s almost as if he wants to keep the conversation going, but that can’t be it. She can’t see why he’d want to speak with her.

Even if he literally stated that he’d prefer to talk to her than listen to his cousins bicker. Still, his entire day can’t involve their presence. There has to be some separation at one point or another. 

But even with that, he’s consistent with eventually replying, acknowledging her messages even if the responses come hours after her first one was sent. 

And for the life of her, Solana cannot find a good or logical reason as to why her stomach flutters with a modicum to medium level of excitement every time her phone dings. 

Because she thinks it’s another text from Roman.

Because she’s enjoying speaking with him. Because she seeks out opportunities even while working to check her phone and see if he’s text her. It’s not traditional communication, and she’s certain there’s no way in hell she’d be able to talk to him this freely, this comfortably if it was verbal. 

Not a chance.

But in texting, she finds a level of ease that makes it significantly easier to get to know him. And maybe that’s what it is, she has some level of desire to get to know him more. If this “marriage” is to last, whatever that looks like, it feels like she needs to know more about him other than that he’s big, strong, and a killer.

Those traits more than speak for themselves, but there’s gotta be more, and there is. Like her now knowing he speaks three languages fluently and would like to pick up another someday if he ever has the time. Or that he works out at least twice every day and doesn’t feel right if he can’t get in at least one workout.

Similarly, Solana finds herself reciprocating his sharing of information, small facts that aren’t major but make a smidge of difference. Like her love of books and words. The few shows she enjoys. She especially doesn’t understand where that comes from. The sharing on her end. It’s something similar like her growing relationships with Bayley and Naomi. 

But that’s different, so so different, for a variety of reasons. One, they’re women, and while anxiety is something she struggles with in interactions with all individuals, regardless of sex, it’s much easier with them than men.

And Roman is not the average man, far from it.

He scares her.

Or does he? 

Solana has been struggling to make sense of the fear that often cripples her and the behavior he’s shown her thus far. They don’t add up. Sure, he’s expressed irritation and a level of anger towards her, but both were more than warranted. And even in those moments, there was still a level of control and composure. He didn’t scream at her. Didn’t belittle her. Didn’t hit her. 

And his words from earlier that week circle back around to the front of her mind.

Even that day at her job.

He’s made it clear now two times that he has no plans or desire to ever hit her. Initially, that didn’t mean anything to Solana, because she’s never known a man in her life to never beat on her. The second time, it made her start to wonder if he was telling the truth.

And now, in a week of genuine and okay interactions, maybe even good interactions, that wondering of the truth is gradually meshing into believing.

Especially because something tells her Roman’s not a man to lie, not unless he’s playing one of his infamous mind games. And what reason would he have to play a mind game with her of all people?

She’s nobody.

But not enough of a nobody for him to end the conversation, which she’s expected all week but yet to see happen. Even more, a part of Solana feels like he’s also wanting to keep the conversation going, matching her with the questions vs just responding and leaving it as is. 

And Solana appreciates it a lot, maybe even to the point where she’s gradually starting to appreciate him.

If she doesn’t already.

It’s why she doesn’t mind waking up earlier than she already does to fix breakfast and get ready for work to do something for him that she hopes he views as nice while he gets in his morning workout in the home gym.

Finished and almost too nervous to stay around for his response, she grabs the notebook, leaving a quick message before heading up the stairs to get in at least another hour of sleep as there’s still leftovers from yesterday’s breakfast.

Roman,

I noticed you tend to start off your breakfast with a protein shake. I saw how you make it, so I figured I’d just make it for you. Less for you to do.

Hope that was alright.

Solana

________

Roman didn’t plan to text and write Solana as often as he has. It just…..happened.

She was right in that communication does seem smoother and even easier through this channel. It’s also nice to “hear” her communicate without all that damn stuttering and stammering. Her texts and letters read so much better than actually listening to her speak aloud.

Not that her voice isn’t pleasing to some extent. It is. Soft and almost melodic, minus the fucking stutters. 

Roman is in the middle of reviewing income spreadsheets when Jimmy walks into his office and

drops a stack of paperwork on top of Roman’s desk. He then plops down in one of two chairs opposite his cousin. “Solana’s medical records.”

Roman is pleased, thankful to the Wise Man for his promptness regarding his request.

“There is something you should know though.”

Instantly, Roman is annoyed, because he recognizes that tone of Jimmy’s. The tone that lets Roman know he’s not going to like what he’s about to hear. “What?”

“Apparently, information is missing.”

“What do you mean it’s missing? Find the fucking hospital that has them. I want all of her records.” Roman’s orders were clear as day, and he fucking hates when even with comprehensible issuance, there’s still a fucking problem. 

“That’s all that’s available. Paul said the records indicate shit was deleted or something. Like cleared out of the system.” Before Roman can express his dissatisfaction and suggestions, Jimmy explains, “He said he consulted with Pearce to see if he could retrieve the files, but even he couldn’t get them. Something about systems changing over time and not being compatible. You know, all that tech shit Pearce be talking.”

Roman was right. As always. He’s annoyed.

Because he knows exactly who would have had a hand in something like this.

Xavier.

He expresses as such. “It was Xavier. Son of a bitch probably had it deleted somehow.” Roman knows Miller has hands and ties in the medical community as well as social services, though that power and leverage has definitely dwindled over the years due to Miller’s mounting financial problems. However, around the time Solana was a kid was very much the peak of Miller’s paltry empire. 

“What exactly are you looking for, man?” Jimmy asks, trying to get a read on his cousin, never an easy feat. If at all possible. “I’m not trying to be mean, but it’s obvious Solana been through some shit. You really need to know all of it?”

It’s a sound question that Roman isn’t certain he has the answer for. Knowing just what Solana has been through could be helpful in helping him understand her better, but there’s also a part of him that doesn’t know why he’s even bothering with that. Why does he even need to understand her better?

“I mean, just what happened to her mom could be the reason for a lot of her….struggles.”

“That’s part of it.” Roman’s certain of that, but he also knows there’s more. “Her father and brother were abusive.”

At that, Jimmy appears shocked. “What?” His expression quickly turns into a scowl. “That’s why you had us handle up on ole’ boy? You should have said that was why. Would have broke that bitch left hand too.”

“I’m going to kill them both before all is said and done.” And that’s a fucking promise, an oath. Their days are numbered. “But until then, I’ll keep them away from her.”

“That must piss them the fuck off.”

“Exactly.” Beyond making sure they don’t fucking touch Solana, Roman recognizes flexing his power and authority by cutting off all contact between them is something Miller and his boy must find infuriating. They’ve clearly thrived on controlling and torturing Solana, but that shit is over. 

Solana is Bloodline now.

No one fucking touches her.

“Well.” Jimmy blows out a big breath and shrugs his shoulders. “I just hope you know what you doing, Big Dog.” 

“Don’t I always.” Roman mutters, opening the manilla envelope to start going over the files. “Jimmy.”

“Yeah?”

“Have Naomi continue to do Solana’s training from the house.”

“Come on, man, my girl is already on that. She said Soso’s been getting better and better too. ” Jimmy answers, explaining, “I think she and Bey should be over there right about now anyway. Feels like they always over there these days.”

Roman wouldn’t entirely disagree. He gets regular updates from security regarding any and all happenings at his home, which includes a list of visitors, and Naomi and Bayley have been consistent on that list. 

Roman also understands now why Solana hasn’t replied to his latest text.

Not that it bothers him. A lot, at least. He has shit to do anyway. 

A couple minutes later, Jimmy leaves, and Roman is left alone to venture into the next task on his to-do list. 

As expected, Solana’s medical records consist of a lot of emergency visits for accidents. Sprains. Broken bones. Fractures. Endless bruising, hematomas even. The visits eventually die down, but Roman suspects it’s not because the abuse stopped or paused. More likely they stopped taking her and she tended to her wounds herself.

But, the largest section of her records is the most telling.

Subjective: PT is a 16 y/o mixed race female currently admitted following SI attempt. PT was reportedly found in bathroom by family maid and transported to ER by ambulance where she was formally admitted. PT does not appear fully oriented to person, place, and time. PT offered minimal responses to questions and would only speak when prompted. PT denies auditory and visual hallucinations. PT reports wanting to be with mother who is deceased. PT reports no will to live. PT indicated yes with a head nod when asked about hx of sexual trauma. PT observed to become teary eyed following this acknowledgment and would not speak on nature of trauma. PT began to cry and moved into fetal position after being asked reasons for attempt. PT was heard repeating the question, “why didn’t you let me die?” PT became unresponsive after this exchange.

Objective: PT does not appear stable enough to be released from care. Fx is severely impaired. I suspect a long history of complex trauma, confirmed sexual abuse, and suspected physical abuse. Medical records from client’s initial admission indicate “numerous” pre-existing cuts on PT’s inner forearms, indicating repeated incidents of self-harm. I deem PT to be an imminent danger to herself and suspect a release would result in another SI attempt.

Assessment: PT presents with flat affect and depressed mood. Presents with poor insight and impulse control. PT’s wrists medically wrapped. Faded scars and bruises observed on PT’s arms, legs and partially faded bruise on left eye. PT also has scars on both arms and face, reportedly from knife attack during childhood.

Plan: I strongly recommend client be transferred to an adolescent residential facility or kept inpatient at hospital where she can be monitored and placed on medication regimen as well as participate in intensive individual and group therapy to assist in mood stabilization.

If released and left untreated, it is my belief and professional opinion that PT will eventually be successful in efforts to end life. 

Diagnosis: F43.10 Posttraumatic Stress Disorder w/ Dissociation 

Roman keeps reading over this section of the file, but there’s one part that stands out the most.

PT indicated yes with a head nod when asked about hx of sexual trauma. 

That’s the part that Roman can’t seem to move past. He’s read it all. Every fucking word. And it’s all horrific. But, it’s that one sentence, that one damn sentence that confirms what he’d started to suspect, had gradually started to put the pieces together to see the much larger, darker picture.

She’d been touched. He doesn’t know to what extent, but regardless of the specific nature, at fucking sixteen years old, she’d already been violated.

A single swoop of his big arm across the desk sends all of the items once neatly situated sprawled across the cherry wood flooring. Roman stands up and slams his fist down on the table, head down as he tries to calm his suddenly shot nerves.

Livid. He’s livid.

The Bloodline is a lot of things but that has never and will be one of them. It only took one time for some fucking piece of shit to even suggest the Bloodline enter the world of Human Trafficing to increase their reach and profits even more for everyone to know that’s where the line in the sand is drawn.

Roman’s never put a fucking bullet in someone’s head so fast. 

The same urge he has currently.

An urge that’s almost instantly lessened by a small amount when his phone lights up and a name appears across his lock screen.

Solana

Eyes shutting, Roman runs his hand over his face and snatches the phone, unlocking it to view her text.

Solana: What time will you be home tonight?

Instantly, Roman feels a lessening of his anger, reading her message, almost hearing said message in her gentle voice. It’s a distraction but both a reminder of why he’s all upset. Solana’s softness doesn’t equate with the violence she’s experienced, the violation, the pain. Especially as a fucking child. Roman has never understood and has always been especially infuriated by violence against children. There’s wrong and then there’s immoral. 

That’s beyond immoral.

Roman will never deny he’s committed his fair share of sins, earning a VIP spot in hell when that time finally comes, but that is something he could and will never get behind.

Solana: Just so I know what time to have dinner ready by…..

Her follow up is typical, always explaining what she doesn’t have to. 

Roman gives her the best reply he can muster up at this moment in time.

Roman: Not sure. Don’t worry about that. Probably won’t get in until late.

And he truly doesn’t know, because going home in this state of anger won’t do her any good. He told her he’d try to be mindful of his temper around her, and this is just that. He doesn’t want to scare her. 

He needs an outlet.

But, here lies the fucking dilemma. 

Since he was a teenager, Roman’s outlet has always been sex. He’s the type to fuck away his feelings. Working out also helps, but sex always took the cake, helped out sometimes just a smidge or a shit ton more. 

And in a different kind of world, he’d do just that working out with the same woman he finds himself infatuated over. His dick stiffens in his pants thinking back on the picture Naomi sent and wisely unsent to his disrespectful ass cousins. 

But not before he could save it to his camera roll.

Roman has never and will never deny his physical attraction to Solana. She checks every box for him in that category, but she’s not an option. He can’t touch her. He can’t touch her because some fucking piece of shit did just that to her when she was essentially a child, and now she can’t stand to be touched because of it.

Roman finds himself returning to his previous level of rage. 

He needs to work this off him.

And he knows just how.

Grabbing his phone and switching from Solana’s thread to hers, he shoots out a simple text.

Roman: I’m coming over.

________

True to his word, Roman gets back late after an…..interesting visit to see Samantha. Somewhat worth it, but mostly now just another irritating thing he has to handle. Not that her being upset bothers him in the slightest.

She can fuck off and ride off into the sunset for all he cares. 

Granted, the non-asshole side of him, more a small section than a side, can understand why she was upset with him.

He just can’t find it in him to give a fuck.

What he does find, however, is something else.

Roman steps into the living room and sees none other than Solana sleeping on the sofa. Confused, he quietly moves closer in her direction and sits opposite of her on the sturdy, mahogany wood coffee table.

And he watches her, studies her sleeping expression, wondering if she had another nightmare. The possibility drags him back to his earlier disposition, the reason he didn’t allow himself to come back to the mansion at a more reasonable time.

He didn’t want to expose her to that. To that side of him.

Without much thought, he reaches for her face, fingers gently caressing the smooth skin of her cheek. She feels so soft, a stark contrast against his roughness.

In more than one area. 

He’s not sure if she felt his gesture or, like him, is just a light sleeper because her eyes slowly start fluttering open. He waits for her to become more aware and cognizant, and she does, whispering, “hey.”

He matches her low volume. “Hey.” Roman studies her, asking, “you alright?”

She nods, gradually sitting up, and he tries not to notice how instead of wearing the type of baggy shirts he’s noticed she likes to sleep in, she’s donning a thin sleeved top that accentuates her chest. “Yeah, I—” She closes her mouth, and he can tell by the way her brows furrow slightly that she’s trying to figure out how to word whatever she wants to say. “You seemed off. I just—just wanted to make sure you were okay, but I guess I fell asleep….”

It’s Roman’s turn now to not quite understand or make sense of what he’s hearing, so he asks, still in that subdued voice, “you waited up for me?”

Roman can’t recall the last time anyone cared when and even if he made it home. He doesn’t know how to feel about this. At all.

With a sheepish expression, she nods, “tried to, at least.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” And it’s the truth. He doesn’t know why she would in the first place anyway. “It was just….a long day.”

Solana nods, “I get that.” He also takes note of the fact that she’s not stammering as much, doesn’t seem as jittery as he’s used to seeing her. “I should—I guess I’ll go to bed now.”

Roman doesn’t say anything, just sits back so she can stand up without him being too in her space. He especially understands now why that’s such a big thing for her.

But, it’s when she stands that his gaze seems to travel to her inner forearms, faded scars now having an even bleaker meaning as he now has the full story.

Another sentence from her medical report whizzes back to him.

If released and left untreated, it is my belief and professional opinion that PT will eventually be successful in efforts to end life. 

He should write it. Roman knows this. Knows that she’d probably respond better and be more comfortable writing, but he also knows it makes him feel almost physically uncomfortable with having to wait to get a response.

He’s much too impatient for that shit. 

He needs to say this shit now.

“Solana.”

She’s halfway to the staircase and turns around, “yes?”

Roman’s never been one to beat around the bush, so he gets straight to the point. “You used to cut, right?”

Always perceptive, Roman sees the shock in her face at his question, the unease that brews as she nervously runs her hand along the side of her cardigan pajama pants. “I—yes, but—not since….it’s been a long time.”

He half expected to have to ask her about the last time she actually did it, though he can tell by how faded the scars are that it has been quite some time, so he believes her. Knows she’s telling the truth.

Still, he needs to make something perfectly clear.

“Any of those thoughts come back, you tell me. I don’t care if you have to paint it on the fucking wall. I want to know.” His intense expression is set right on her, needing to make sure she understands what he’s asking of her. “Understand?”

Solana looks just as confused as he feels as to why this is suddenly important to him, important that she knows she can come to him if those dark thoughts and urges occur. But still, she agrees, acknowledging in that same small voice.

“I understand….”

________

The breeder is only about a half hour out from the mansion, allowing for a drive that’s on the shorter side than what Roman was initially anticipating.

Just like he successfully anticipated Solana’s nervousness throughout that entire drive. She keeps looking out the window, most likely trying to navigate where they’re going. And if not for the unexpected but necessary business call he had to take that lasted almost the entirety of the drive, he would have tried to calm her nerves.

He’s realizing he doesn’t like seeing her so on edge.

When they arrive, Roman is the first to exit the SUV, circling around to open the door for her. She offers a nervous smile and steps out, Roman’s eyes darting to her ass, the sway of it in her yoga pants as she moves a bit away, taking in the average two story house in front of them.

She looks back at him, and he redirects his focus to her eyes, big, brown, and just as innocent as the rest of her. “Where—where are we?” 

Paul also steps out of the car, almost immediately coughing and waving at some flying insect that whizzed at him. “In the middle of nowhere.” He then sets his cautious gaze on Roman. “My Tribal Chief, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I have terrible allergies—”

“I don’t care.” Roman cuts him off, speaking to Solana, gesturing with a nod of his head. “Come with me.”

A part of him wonders if she’ll hesitate, freeze up on him, maybe even refuse. But she instead moves closer to him, walking along his side as he leads them up the steps of the porch. He reaches for the doorbell and is almost instantaneously met with the sound of barking. Interestingly enough, one glance down at Solana and he sees a spark of excitement that chips away at her nerves. 

A couple seconds later, the door opens revealing a middle aged white woman wearing an inauthentic smile. The kind of smile someone forces for a business meeting or possible transaction.

“You must be Mr. Reigns?” She correctly guesses, eyes then landing on Solana. “And you must be the Mrs?”

Roman places his hand on the small of Solana’s back, noticing how she initially tenses but, surprisingly, relaxes just a few seconds later. “My wife, Solana.”

Solana offers a small wave and polite hello but nothing more.

“I’m Beverly.” She introduces, but Roman doesn’t care. He doesn’t need to know shit about her except whatever her price is. She steps aside, motioning for them to come in. “Please.” He allows Solana to walk in first, followed by himself. When Paul doesn’t also follow suit, Roman turns around. “Wise Man.”

Paul, complexion starting to become pinkish, politely declines. “I’ll just wait here—”

“Wise Man.”

“Coming, My Tribal Chief.”

Once all three are inside, Betty or whoever, offers something to drink which all three decline, shortly after which the woman asks, “so, are we looking for—”

“It’s for her.” Roman motions to Solana who looks at him still wholly confused as a teenage girl, who looks like the spitting image of her mother, descends down the stairs. “Whatever she wants.”

Betty’s eyes light up as she directs the teenager. “Honey, can you take her outside to see the puppies?”

“Sure.” The teen’s voice is annoyingly preppy, like nails on the chalkboard, like a fucking cheerleader or something. “Follow me.”

Solana again looks at Roman, as if for guidance, but he only nods, encouraging her to follow. She’s still reluctant—he can see as such—but ultimately follows the blonde out the backdoor. 

As soon as she’s out the door. Betty starts with the irritating sales pitch, talking to him about the history of Pomeranians, the benefits of that breed, dietary guidelines and other things he couldn’t give two shits about. It’s why he doesn’t hesitate to take the business call the minute his phone rings and instead advises Paul to listen to the woman talk. 

He moves to the front of the house, securing another layer of privacy and doesn’t even hesitate to walk right past a wheezing Paul to head out back where Solana is once the call is over.

Roman finds her outside in the spacious yet somehow closed in yard. She’s sitting in the grass, legs open as a tiny dog, a puppy, moves back and forth between sitting in Solana’s lap and running in a circle before coming right back to her. Roman realizes she’s playing with the freakishly small animal, but beyond that, she’s smiling.

And laughing.

Roman can’t recall the last time, if ever, he’s seen her do the latter of the two. Even her smile is much larger, much more genuine than he’s seen her offer in the short time he’s known her..

“That one.” The woman, Bonnie, who came outside at one point with Paul, moves toward Roman. “She wants that one.”

Bonnie steps forward and frowns, slapping on that disingenuous smile he’s learned how to read all too well with years of experience working with people. “Oh no, that one’s not supposed to be out there. My daughter must have forgotten to pull her.”

Roman really does try sometimes with people, but they always end up fucking annoying him one way or another. “She wants that one.”

The woman stutters. “I–I’m sorry, but that dog is already under contract.”

Rolling his eyes, he asks, surprisingly calmly, not wanting to necessarily cause a scene in front of Solana. “How much?”

“Pardon?”

Roman does his best to hide his irritation at having to repeat himself. “How much?”

Betty releases a nervous smile, crossing her arms across her badly built body. “I—I can’t sell you a dog that’s already under contract, sir.”

Politics. It’s all politics. Roman knew the second Betty’s smile grew as her eyes landed on his Hublot watch that she saw this as a great, unexpected windfall. And she’s not entirely wrong. “Everyone has a fucking price, lady. Name yours.”

She stutters again. “Sir, I—I appreciate the interest, but that dog comes from a champion bloodline. The buyers intend to show her, so they’re paying a pretty penny.” She throws out casually, as if he can’t tell what she’s trying to do, the deal she’s trying to see if she can score. “They’re paying $10,000—”

There it is. The sin of greed that gets us all at one point or another. 

Without second thought or guess, Roman states, “I’ll give you $20,000.”

As expected, her eyes nearly bulge out of her head, the expression highlighting excessive crows feet no doubt caused by unnecessary time spent under this scorching sun. “$20,000?” He doesn’t even have to counter again. “Well, I suppose I could offer them another puppy—”

“Good.” Roman knew right away “negotiating” with this woman wouldn’t take much. She’s in it for a clean, high profit, which is fair considering one could say that for all business owners. But, if all else failed, he had…..other strategies. But those are much messier, and he’d rather just throw a stack of cash her way so they could be on their merry fucking way. “Wise Man.”

Paul steps forward, pudgy cheeks reddened and eyes watering. “Yes, my Tribal Chief?”

“Pay the woman.”

Paul swallows. “But, my—”

“Wise Man.”

Paul’s cheeks redden as he nods and motions to the house. Roman doesn’t need to say anything else. “I will handle the sale. Shall we?”

As Roman allows his counsel to handle the closing of the deal, he walks over to Solana who looks over at him with that same smile. He crouches down near her, observing, “she seems to like you.” And it’s the truth, seeing how the other puppies are content with playing with each other, this one is sticking with Solana.

She looks at Roman, petting the top of its head carefully, looking back down with that happy smile.“Thank you for taking me—”

“She’s yours.” 

Her head snaps in his direction, right as the dog climbs into her lap. “W–what?” Solana blinks, face painted in plausible confusion. “M–mine?”

Roman chuckles. “It’s certainly not for me.”

“Really?” Roman watches the hairy ass creature stand on its legs, as if demanding her attention. Attention whore ass.

“Yes, if you want her—”

“Yes,” she answers almost immediately, suddenly. And true to her nature, she’s already backtracking. “I mean—“

“You want her, so she’s yours,” he reiterates his previous statement, but there’s a tone of finality that lets Solana know he’s not open to a discussion or debate.

It’s a sure thing. 

“She’d be your dog. Not mine.” He clarifies. Solana can tell it’s also his way of telling her he’s not doing shit to help her take care of this dog, which is more than fair since Solana would bet he had no plans to purchase a dog anytime soon.

So why is he? 

She just has to ask again. “You don’t—-you really don’t care?”

It feels unreal. Too much like not an option. Not a reality. Why would he allow her a pet? Buy her a pet? 

He eyes the animal that’s seemingly already taken so well to Solana. “She’s so damn small I’ll probably forget she’s there half the time.”

There’s that laugh again, and Roman finds himself with a small smile of his own, not as big, nor as genuine, but a smile nonetheless. But just as quick as it’s there, it’s gone. Clearing his throat, he asks, “what are you gonna name her?”

Solana looks down at the puppy in her lap, nestled so comfortably against her stomach, eyes fluttering close like she’s about to fall asleep. With a soft smile and gentle caress of her coat, she answers. “Dulce.”

Roman’s thick brows arch together as he asks, “is that Spanish?”

She nods, glancing over at him just long enough to answer. “It means sweet.”

He makes a sound. That lines up. For both of them. 

The dog's eyes then land on him with as much disinterest he feels about it, quickly focusing back on Solana. “I suppose we’ll have to get supplies and shit for her.”

Roman doesn’t consider himself having a childhood, so he refers to what most call just that as his ‘formative year.’ And during those formative years, he never had a pet, so this is new to him as well, outside of just the common sense parts of owning a dog.

She’s petting the sleeping puppy “Aren’t you busy today?” 

Yes. Always. Roman’s to-do list is on subscribe and save, constantly delivering him new shit when he’s still working on the old shit. It’s just a part of the job though.

“No,” he answers. “It can wait.”

________

A couple of stops at different stores to pick up all of the shit Solana needs for Dulce along with getting the first vet appointment scheduled for the puppy takes just under three hours, which still grants Roman plenty of time to head into the office. Not until, though, he makes sure Solana is good to go, good with being left alone with the dog.

He meant it when he said it was her dog and he wouldn’t be helping out and shit, but given it’s the first day, he can see how there could be some nerves there.

But, there’s not. She’s good to go, hence his okayness with leaving for a little while to get some work done.

She doesn’t text him as much during the day, a noticeable thing that he understands is because she’s spending time with the dog. 

But, he does come home for lunch to get in a workout where he finds an entry in the notebook.

Roman,

Thank you so much. 

I promise I’ll take care of her and keep her out of your way. Paul’s too. I’ll keep her in the room with me when he’s over.

I always wanted a dog, but my dad hates them, and even if he didn’t, I was always too scared Wes would do something to it or worse….just to hurt me. He hates me, if you didn’t notice….

Solana

Roman doesn’t take much, if any time, to reply. He’d prefer to talk to her in person, but Bayley and Naomi are over, the three women in the backyard playing with the dog. So, he allows her that time, settling for a written response. 

Solana,

You’re welcome. 

Don’t worry about Paul. He won’t fucking die from allergies, and if he does, oh well.

I noticed. It’s why I’ll never leave you alone with him or your shitty father. Ever.

Why does he hate you?

Roman

Solana is partially upset when she realizes she missed Roman coming home for a workout, not that she wanted to bother him, just maybe….see him. Maybe even talk to him. Possibly tell him thank you again in person vs writing it in the notebook, but after Naomi and Bayley are gone and she’s fed Dulce her dinner, Solana sees Roman replied, leaving the notebook on her bed this time.

Most likely for privacy.

The first part of his note makes her laugh, even if she doesn’t enjoy Paul clearly suffering from his allergies. The second part, however, Solana struggles with.

She doesn’t know how honest to be with Roman, doesn’t know where she should draw that line in the sand. However, it’s not missed upon her that everything she’s shared with him, he’s been surprisingly okay with. Never having such a major reaction that it made her second guess her sharing.

And the man just bought her a fucking dog, something she’s always wanted. For no apparent reason.

Maybe….maybe she can be a bit more honest, a bit more forthcoming, even if it is a somber truth.

Roman,

I don’t want to inconvenience Paul. That’s not fair to him….

Wes blames me for our mother’s murder, says it was my fault.

And he’s not wrong.

She is dead because of me.

Solana

The minute Solana brings the notebook to Roman’s room, she regrets it. She regrets opening up, regrets being so vulnerable with him. Just because he answers her questions and bought her a puppy doesn’t mean he gives two shits about her trauma.

She’s so tempted to sneak into his room and take the journal back. It keeps her up, makes her toss and turn as Dulce sleeps peacefully in her pink dog bed beside Solana’s. 

But, it’s when Solana wakes up at 4am and notices the notebook on her nightstand, her anxiety reaches another level. Instead of avoiding it until morning, she sits up and snatches it, flipping to the page they’re on.

And her stomach achieves a new level of butterflies when she reads his response. 

Solana,

It’s not your fault.

Also, you were wrong.

I care what you have to say and think.

Roman

[srjsteel]

Should Dowel Bars Be Used in Rural Road Construction?

Rural roads are more than just pathways—they’re lifelines. They carry not only vehicles but also the hopes of farmers, the daily commute of schoolchildren, and the pulse of local economies. Yet too often, these roads tell a familiar story: endless repairs, unexpected cracks, and surfaces that don't last a season. Harsh weather, poor drainage, and weak construction joints take a silent but steady toll. This is where solutions like dowel bars and HR coils become crucial—not as afterthoughts, but as essentials for building roads that endure.

Why Rural Roads Fail Differently

Unlike urban highways, rural pavements often suffer not due to traffic overload but from improper joint handling. Many fail not because of high volume but because of what lies beneath—unstable subgrades, erratic water tables, and inconsistent slab bonding. This leads to joint deterioration, faulting, and slab displacement, quietly eroding the strength of the pavement over time.

The Role of Dowel Bars in Road Longevity

Dowel bars in road construction address the core of this issue—they offer a stable connection between adjacent slabs, enabling them to share loads evenly. This means when a wheel crosses a joint, the load doesn’t fall entirely on one side. Instead, it’s distributed, reducing stress concentration and minimizing wear. For roads that see tractors one day and water tankers the next, that’s a game-changer.

How HR Coils Complement the Structure

What adds even more resilience is when HR coils are introduced into the slab framework. Known for their tensile strength and flexibility, HR coils help the concrete accommodate temperature fluctuations and minor ground movements without cracking. Together, dowel bars and HR coils form a structural duo—one anchors, the other flexes.

Why It Matters for Rural Settings

The synergy is particularly vital in rural settings where monsoons swell the soil and winters harden it. Roads built without these reinforcements often display early signs of slab shifting and joint misalignment. In contrast, those using dowel bars in road designs maintain their geometry for years, with only minimal maintenance required.

A prime example lies in rural Karnataka, where test sections using dowel bar-jointed slabs showed 40% fewer cracks after three years compared to traditional methods. Engineers on site observed reduced faulting even with consistent agricultural vehicle movement. These are real-world outcomes—not theoretical assumptions.

Dispelling the Cost Myth

Still, there’s hesitation. Some believe dowel bars are suited only for expressways or expensive urban projects. But modern civil engineering proves otherwise. With newer installation methods and modular reinforcement designs, rural contractors can adopt these systems without overshooting budgets. What once seemed "overbuilt" now fits smartly into cost-effective, sustainable planning.

In fact, the upfront investment in dowel bars and HR coils translates to fewer repairs, reduced downtime, and lower life-cycle costs. Instead of spending on patch-ups every monsoon, the funds can go toward road extensions or drainage improvements. For local authorities working with limited resources, that shift is monumental.

More Than Materials—It's a Commitment

Beyond the technical benefits lies an emotional one—reliability. Villagers begin to trust a road that doesn't disintegrate under their daily journeys. Children reach school safely. Farmers deliver produce on time. That’s not just engineering—that’s impact.

So, should dowel bars be used in rural road construction? Without a doubt. Their presence ensures that roads don’t just exist—they endure. When paired with HR coils, the result is a reinforced promise: a path built not just to connect but to last.

Conclusion

Rural roads deserve more than makeshift fixes. They need structural foresight. Dowel bars and HR coils offer that foresight—a solution rooted in strength, experience, and long-term value. These elements transform vulnerable stretches into robust lifelines, empowering rural communities to thrive with confidence. The next time a road is planned in a village, let it be more than just concrete. Let it be commitment, reinforced.

[kitkatscabinet]

Whumptober - 05: Buried Alive

Simon Riley x gn! reader

A/N: Laptop finally fixed but now I'm sick!! Motivation at zero too but I hope y'all enjoy.

You woke gasping for air, coughing as your lungs filled with dust particulate. Taste was the first of your senses to return, an unpleasant mix of ash and plaster stuck to the linings of your mouth. 

Your head aches something fierce and though your vision is still slightly blurry you can still see the blood that covers your fingers from after you’d touched your hairline. The ringing in your ears is almost unbearable and it makes your head ache even more.

Your memories are even hazier than your vision and it takes more than a few minutes before you remember where you are. You remember Gaz’s voice, far more frantic than was typical of the usually cool man, as he’d yelled at you to get out of the building. 

You think you’d only made it about halfway down from the top before the bomb went off. In hindsight, it’s probably the reason you’re still alive and not completely buried under five floors' worth of building materials. 

Some might call it lucky that you hadn’t been outright crushed or even blown up in the initial blast. But as you lay there in pain unable to do anything but slowly die you can’t find it in yourself to agree. 

Though you’d probably die soon, whether from blood loss or lack of oxygen, there’s a sudden groan from the structure surrounding you and for a brief moment you think you might just get crushed after all. 

Tears slip from your eyes both from the pain and despair. You don’t want to die, not like this, cold and alone buried beneath tonnes of cement, but you know you will. 

The little movement you have in your neck is used to try and orient yourself to your surroundings, the darkness and dust greatly hindering your efforts. Any more attempts to move are instantly thwarted by a mix of sharp pain and weight bearing down on your body. Specifically your left leg, it’s too dark to see all that well but you can tell your leg is pinned by a slab of what used to be the wall. Or maybe the ceiling.

It was so painful that you quickly gave up, not wanting your last moments to be spent in that much pain. All in all, you were fucked. 

As you lay dying you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering to your lieutenant. You wondered how he’d react to your untimely death. As terrible and selfish as it was for you to even consider, you hoped he’d mourn at least a little. 

Simon Riley had wormed his way into your heart and you doubted he’d ever leave. You just wish you could have told him, told him that to you, he was the sun. 

There’s a slight crackle and through the ringing in your ears, you hear what you think is Price’s baritone echoing around the space. Somehow your radio has survived the blast, but as you try and pinpoint its location it quickly becomes clear you won’t be able to reach it to respond. 

You almost don’t even try, it’s not until you hear Simon yelling that an ounce of your energy returns. Maybe if you could just reach the radio… then you could tell him how you felt. 

Reaching out, you stretch your fingertips through the darkness, your muscles straining and shaking in protest. There’s a concerning creak and more dust and gravel sprinkles over you in another shower as your movements unsettle the collapsed pile surrounding you. 

Still, you refuse to stop and eventually, your fingertips clasp over their target and you pull it close, even as something in your pinned knee cracks and you let out a shriek of pain. Dragging the radio towards you shakily you manage to form two words before the pain catches up once more. 

“East stairwell.” Instantly there's chaos over the coms once more, hardly anything you can make out over Price barking orders and Soap’s colourful swearing. Black dots are splotching in your vision and your lungs work in overtime to collect air once more. 

The pain is blinding and you want so badly to just pass out and be free from it all but your traitorous body won’t let you. 

Above you, Simon is digging through the rubble furiously, blood roaring in his ears as he screams at his teammates to help him. His throat is raw and his fingers are bloody but he refuses to give up, continuing to speak through the comms, to let you know that he was coming for you. 

Simon has had a lot of shitty, earth-shattering moments in his life but as he sifts through cement and rubble in a desperate search for you he thinks this might be the worst. From the moment it had become clear you hadn’t made it out in time it was like the earth had been pulled from beneath his feet. 

His face is wet, and it’s not until Soap and Price collectively manhandle him away from the rubble that he realises he’s crying. He’s screaming at the both of them, words he can’t even hear and Soap’s right eye is already starting to blacken from where Simon had socked him. 

They’re trying to talk him down, getting him to sit and breathe but Simon doesn’t even feel like he’s in his own body anymore. He can’t hear anything through the ringing and pounding, can’t see anything except the image his brain conjures of you lying dead or dying and so alone. 

He wonders if you’d called for him. You always did, even if nobody else realised. Whenever you were overwhelmed, stressed or in danger it was his name that came to you first, and he always answered. Always. 

He’s standing once more, trying to push past his captain and Soap who are still trying to corral him away from the site. He didn’t understand why they were preventing him from helping you. Simon would always come when you called, he needed you to know that he’d come to save you. He needed-

Gaz is shouting something and it takes the two men holding him back by enough surprise that Simon manages to muscle his way through. He doesn’t hear what Gaz said, but as he gets closer he realises it doesn’t matter because he can see you. 

Bruised, bloodied and covered in dust and ash but he can see you. 

He drops to his knees by your side, ignoring the sting of whatever sharp object he’d landed on and cups your face with shaky hands. Gloved fingers run delicately over your skin as he wipes away the grime. He’s begging you to open those pretty eyes, to let him see that you’re ok. 

You don’t hear or answer his pleas, and Simon remains rooted to the spot, desperately taking in every last inch of your face and committing it to memory, even as your blood stains his pants and gloves. 

[tinyraptorhands]

Just A Spark pt. 9

-A Heavy Thing-

It all happened in a blur.

You were loaded up onto the back of the paramedic van, a flurry of activity around you. They concentrated on your leg, mostly. Apparently, the slab narrowly missed the superficial femoral artery in your leg by a hair-but would leave some nerve damage. And of course, it broke your leg-because fate liked to fuck with you.

Fabulous.

And here you thought being a Pro Hero was the most dangerous job ever.

So. There you were. Only a month into teaching, and you were sitting on a hospital gurney. The smells of antiseptic and bleach burned your nose and the constant beeping of machines made you want to claw your ears off.

Doctor's offices always made your skin crawl, constantly being brought to quirk specialists as a child made you hate them.

Hospitals were like giant doctor's offices...magnified.

But there you were. Your arms were folded across your chest as you chewed the inside of your cheek. Your leg ached, having been put into a heavy cast. You got more and more annoyed with what it would all mean.

A few months in a bulky as hell cast, rehab, constant management of the wound itself...you took a breath in, then out through your nose.

Well, not so much the initial wound.

A paramedic with a healing quirk took care of the superficial part-you remembered watching them knit the skin, veins and muscle back together like magic, their hands glowed gold.

"I was specifically ordered to make sure it didn't scar..." they had said. You were confused by that, but they didn't say more. They told you to just make sure it didnt reopen.

Fair enough.

You picked at the edge of the cast, a small sigh escaping your lips. You heard a light knock on the door. "Come in." You called.

Izuku stumbled in, still in his hero attire. And of course, his arm seemed to be pulling in...

A disgruntled Katsuki.

You withheld a groan. Poor Izuku probably thought you'd want to see your 'savior'.

"(L/n) sensei! I'm so glad your'e okay!" His boyish grin made you smile a little. He let go of Katsuki, who stumbled slightly, but righted himself quickly.

"Tch. And why'm I here?" The blonde grumbled.

"C'mon, Kacchan. You know why..." Izuku grinned, poking him in the bicep. "You were wor-"

"Shut it!" He hissed out. You gave a small chuckle. "You too, gajin!" He shot back at you. Izuku looked back at you, chuckling lightly at his rivals behavior. You smiled a little.

"So, you're gonna be in a cast for a bit, huh?" Izuku said, frowning. "I'm sorry, this usually doesn't happen and I shoud've rescued y-"

"Its okay, really." You gave him a smile to reassure him. "It'll heal quick, the doctors said its an easy fix." Your eyes flicked over to Katsuki.

You noticed he looked a little less tense when you said that. You then added, "they also gave me pain meds. So...the pain won't bother me...or you." You looked pointedly at him now.

Izuku looked at him as well. "Ah, right. The soulmate bond."

Katsuki huffed. "Sure. Whatever." His eyes looked towards the floor.

There was a moment of silence.

Izuku suddenly looked like he had a thought. "Oh, (L/n)! You won't believe what Katsuki did to get to U.A.-"

"Izuku, I swear-" Katsuki looked perturbed, as Izuku continued.

"He had one of his newest sidekicks-she has this amazing portal ability, he had her teleport him and a few of our friends from Chiba-"

"Chiba? Isn't that like...a few hours away?" You looked at Katsuki. He blushed.

"Look, I didn't do it for you-U.A. was in danger and-"

"And you then asked where she was! And when we told you the building still hadn't been completely evacuated-" Izuku was shut up by Katsuki's hand, a small explosion going off as he slapped it over his rival's mouth.

"Shut. Up." He said lowly, eyes narrowing at him. Izuku coughed under his hand, a small puff of smoke leaked from the cracks of Katsuki's fingers.

"Mmphmnmhm!" Izuku's muffled voice made you chuckle.

Katsuki sharply turned his head to you. "And you," he growled. "You better take real good care of yourself. I ain't dealing with your pains." He shoved Izuku away, and stormed off, slamming the door behind him.

A weighty pause followed.

Izuku rubbed his jaw, soot covering it. "Kacchan...he cares, y'know?" He looked over at your unimpressed face. "He does!"

"That doesn't concern me either way." You said softly, looking down.

Denial, denial, denial.

He gave you a small sympathetic smile. "Right...of course. Uhm..." he rubbed the back of his head, other hand on his hip. He remembered what you had told him.

You were never going to be interested in your soul mate.

Ever.

No matter what.

Izuku cleared his throat, trying to ease the awkward tension.

"Did you need help getting home? I think your bicycle is still at the school, and..." he looked pointedly at your leg. "I can help, if you want?"

You sighed softly. "Yeah..." you said quietly. "That'd be great, Midoriya sensei. Thank you." You rubbed your arm, looking at the cast on your leg.

"Alright. When you're given the all clear, we'll head out."

You nodded, smiling.

But in the back of your mind, the ride in Dynamight's arms as he rescued you played in your head. His strong arm locked around you. That grin he had as he soared through the sky.

The smell of burning nitroglycerin, sweet and cloying.

Shit.

You didn't know who, or how-but your bike was neatly parked by the door of your apartment. Even Izuku looked a little shocked. "Oh..." he was behind you, holding your things from the hospital, you in crutches. "Thats...huh."

"Yeah," you couldn't help but think of a certain explosive pro hero, "...strange."

It didn't take too long for you to settle back in. Izuku was kind enough to help you, and even called his grandmother to let her know of the situation.

Well, at least yours. The news already highlighted the attack.

Apparently, it was four older teens-rejected by U.A. previous years ago. They felt scorned for not passing, apparently.

It still didn't add up, though. How could four young adult men have the ability to bypass such tight security?

You didn't buy it for a second.

But, alas.

You were just a teacher.

Quirkless, no less.

You sighed.

Maybe you were in over your head? As you sat there on your couch, leg propped up-you couldn't help but think of a certain pro hero.

He was a smart guy. There was no way he didn't feel the same about the situation.

You huffed.

"No, we are not thinking about this." You muttered to yourself, crossing your arms over your chest.

You looked over at your leather suitcase at your side. The school had been temporarily closed for a few days. It gave you ample amounts of time to grade papers.

A welcomed distraction.

You reached over, dragging the suitcase to your lap, unlatching the clip.

A faint whiff of sweetness hit your nose.

He touched this bag.

Your stomach flipped. Your hands jerked away from it, tipping it over by accident. Papers and pens scattered, your chest rising and falling rapidly.

Fuck.

This wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Get a grip. Its just a weird smell." You breathed, body trembling.

Fuckfuckfuck.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

-Yet here we are...-

((Sorry this one was so short! My brain was not cooperating with this one. Next one will be better!))

@crimsonrubie

[small-pleasures]

So I started writing this before today's episode aired but I wanted to finish it anyway

Vic finds him in front of Jack’s grave again. As much as she loved her dad, it feels like she’s been to his grave more since Robert came back than she has in the last year combined.

“You know, when I said you might need to deal with everything you went through inside, this isn’t really what I had in mind.” she smirks as she walks over.

He just stares ahead, taking a large swig out of the bottle of whiskey he has hanging by his side.

She comes to stand beside him, staring down at the grave herself, at the neatly placed flowers she put there last week. 

“Does it help?” she looks up at him, “you being here. Does it make you feel better?”

Robert huffs out a laugh, but she notices the shine to his eyes as he lifts the bottle to his lips again. 

“No,” he finally gets out in a small voice, “No, it doesn’t help. It just makes me feel…”

She doesn’t look away. “Makes you feel what, Robert?”

Unwilling, or unable, to finish the sentence, he shakes his head, bottle to his lips again as his eyes scan the rest of the graveyard. He doesn’t catch it at first, his eyes glancing at it then moving on quickly, only faintly registering in his slightly tipsy brain as a name he should recognise. His eyes dart back and, no, they weren’t playing tricks on him. 

Olivia Louise Flaherty. 

He drops the bottle, cheap whiskey spilling out and soaking into his dad’s grave. It takes a second for Victoria to follow his eyeline, to figure out why his face has gone slack. 

“Wait…” but he’s already marching towards it, more determined that she’s seen him since he’s been back. “Robert, wait!”

It can’t be true. He’d know, he’d know if Liv was dead, wouldn’t he? 

But there it is, literally written in stone in front of him.

Olivia Louise Flaherty

19th October 2022

He feels like his brain is going to explode.

“Robert…” Vic finally catches up with him, trying to put an arm around him. “I’m so sorry.” 

But it means nothing, he barely hears her. It’s too much and he’s on his knees and the tears are streaming and and…

He has to go. He has to leave, because he feels like if he stares at that slab of stone any longer, he’s going to stop breathing.

Aaron’s just fixing a sandwich when the doorbell goes, trilling around the apartment. He’s barely halfway to the door when it goes again, and again, desperate for attention.

“Alright, alright I’m coming!” he mutters under his breath. Pressing the button, “Hello?”

Some heavy breathing, and then, “Aaron.”

He lets out a sigh. He’s really not in the mood to have to deal with Robert today. At least John’s not in right now.

“Robert, seriously? I really don’t have time for this…”

“Aaron. Please.” His voice cracks, tinny over the intercom. And Aaron hears the pleading, the desperate edge in his voice, can tell he’s been crying.

And he hates how quickly his resolve is broken, how little hesitation he has before he presses the button to let him up.

He opens the door to a different Robert than he’s seen since he’s been back. He’s slumped against the wall with a tear stained face and muddy knees. Aaron can only assume the worst.

“Robert? What’s wrong? Has something happened?” 

He looks up, wiping a hand over his face, only achieving dragging a smudge of mud further down his cheek.

“Three years? She’s been dead three years and I didn’t know?”

And the realisation hits him like a moving truck, of course Robert didn’t know. How could he? He didn’t even think. He takes the taller man by the arm, surprising himself by pulling him into a hug. And they stand like that, Robert’s slumped form eventually molding into the shape of Aaron’s arms. He can feel Robert sobbing against him, and feels the tears start to come for himself. 

“I’m so sorry,” Robert slurs against him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for her. Or for you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I really did think I was doing the right thing, you know? I thought you’d be better without me, I thought…”

At this Aaron detangles himself from Robert, looking up at him.

“Yeah, you thought a lot of things. But we needed you Robert, I needed you. And you weren’t there.” It’s more resentment than Aaron realised he had. He sees Robert’s defeated look, knows it’s not fair. “I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry you found out like this, it wasn’t fair. But you need to go.”

Robert slumps back against the wall. “Aaron, please…”

“We can talk about her another time, yeah? We’ll go visit the grave, together, I promise. But I can’t do this right now.”

Roberts nods slowly, lifting himself from the wall and turning to walk away. 

“I’ll be better.” Robert says. “In the future, when you give me another chance, I’ll be better.”

Aaron doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t really know what to say. He just stands, watching as Robert walks away, waiting for the front door to close.

John arrives home after work, complaining about something Liam said, or did, or whatever. Aaron's not really listening. He dug out all of his photos of Liv, been looking at them all afternoon.

John comes to sit beside him, picks up a few of the photos. "Hey, what's brought this on? I haven't seen you looking at these for a while?"

"What, I need an excuse to look at pictures of my sister?" Aaron snaps back at him, instantly regretting his tone.

"No of course not," John takes his hand. "Just want to make sure everything is alright. Did something happen?"

Aaron pauses, thinks about Robert, about comforting him. That despite the circumstances how right it felt to have Robert in his arms again. About telling him to leave despite the fact, no because of the fact, that all he wanted to do was tell him to stay.

"No." He lies. "Nothing happened."

[hexcorenova]

The end is the beginning (1/2)

DISCLAIMER

this is a work of fiction. it shouldn't be taken too seriously, it's just my interpretation of an alternate story, written for fun. no claims to canon, just a desire to explore and tell a story. also, i'm not a writer, and english is not my first language, but i'm trying my best. this isn't really a fanfiction but more of a structured summary and missing moments to help piece together of what happened in the AU with old viktor. also, i admit i didn’t expect this to become so long. It really got out of hand!

Jayce has never seen anything like this.

Below him, Piltover and Zaun are dead. The city is a landscape of crystallized statues, frozen in the exact moment disaster struck. The streets are filled with bodies caught mid-action, mouths open in a scream that never faded, hands reaching for something they never grasped. And yet, here, at the top of the Hexgate, time is not dead.

Jayce, after falling to his knees, looks up. The sky here is clear, a deep, unwavering blue. The air is warmer, free from the suffocating weight of stagnation that looms over the rest of the city. And around him, on the dark iron slabs of the platform, there is life.

The Hexgate has become a garden.

Plants climb up the metal structures, the wind stirs the thin branches of small shrubs that shouldn’t exist in a condemned world. Violet and yellow flowers bloom through cracks in the iron, golden moss spreads in luminous streaks along the beams. And at the center of it all, stands Viktor.

He moves slowly along the Hexgate’s perimeter, his cane brushing against the metallic surface with a rhythmic, hypnotic sound. At first, he doesn’t even seem to notice Jayce. His long, slender fingers glide along the trunk of a curved branch, his touch light, almost reverent.

"Strange, isn’t it?" he murmurs finally. Jayce remains still. He says nothing. "I never imagined it would grow like this." He’s talking about the garden. Or at least, Jayce thinks so.

"Why?" Jayce finally asks, his voice tense. "Why only here?"

Viktor barely smiles, a faint shadow of something that might be nostalgia.

"Perhaps because of you." he says it while looking at Jayce’s petrified form, standing just a few steps away. The carcass is right there in front of them. His hands still grip the Hextech hammer, his body stiff, but there is no fear on his face. Only determination. Resolve.

Jayce feels a shiver run down his spine. He has seen impossible things, but seeing himself dead, trapped in time, is something he cannot explain. And Viktor, the real Viktor, the one who has lived through all of this, does not look away.

"You’ve done this before, haven’t you?" Jayce’s voice is rougher than he intended.

Viktor slowly closes his eyes, his eyelashes trembling slightly. His fingers brush against the statue’s rough surface, tracing the contours of the face as if trying to memorize every detail.

"Every time I try to fix things, it ends the same way."

Jayce takes a slow breath, as if gathering all the oxygen left in this dying world. Then, he grips his left wrist, holding onto the object wrapped around his skin. A bracelet, once polished, now worn by time. Embedded at its center, a small blue rune glistens under the motionless sky.

Viktor notices it and finally turns to look at him.

"Why did you give it to me?" Jayce stares into his eyes. He does not ask out of pity or anger. He asks because he needs to know.

Viktor does not respond immediately. His iridescent eyes shimmer under the sunlight, reflecting a million shifting shades. But the moment his gaze lands on the bracelet, something happens.

Viktor's eyes turn golden again. A warm, vivid color. Too human. Too full of emotion. Jayce never realized how much he had missed seeing them like that.

Viktor slowly lowers his gaze to the rune, then to his own hands, as if seeing something he lost long ago. His breath weakens. It seems like he wants to answer immediately, to explain everything at once. But then he stops.

"I thought I could bring an end to the world’s suffering." Jayce remains motionless. "But when every equation was solved, all that remained were fields of dreamless solitude." there is no anger in his words. Only the unshakable weight of truth. "There is no prize to perfection, Jayce. Only an end to pursuit." Jayce slowly lowers the bracelet. This is not the answer he wanted. But he no longer even knows what he wanted to hear. "In all timelines, in all possibilities, only you can show me this." his voice is calm, heavy.

Jayce feels his breath catch in his chest. "Show you what?"

"That there's beauty in imperfection." this time, Viktor truly looks at him. And for the first time, Jayce wonders if it is already too late.

"This is our last chance, isn’t it?"

Viktor observes him for a long moment. An instant that feels eternal. Then, he smiles. But in a very sad way. "You deserve to know what happened." Viktor makes a small movement with his hand, almost absentmindedly, as he speaks.

Jayce closes his eyes for a moment. And when he opens them again, he is already teleported somewhere else.

---

For a moment, the light blinds him. His mind wavers, his body feels rigid, suspended between present and past. The air around him is dense, warm, as if reality itself is breathing. But he is no longer on the Hexgate. He is watching. He doesn’t know how he got here or if his body ever truly crossed a physical threshold. Yet, he finds himself immersed in another time, another place. He is no longer a spectator of the end.

Now, he is a spectator of the beginning of the Commune who stands around him, alive, thriving. There is no death here. No ruins, no broken statues. Not yet. The structures are tall, slender, built with an architecture that is neither Piltover nor Zaun but a perfect hybrid of the two. Glass, metal, and roots intertwine, technology fuses with nature. Streets illuminated by pure energy weave through the city like arteries in a living organism. People walk without fear, without hurry, immersed in an unnatural calm.

Jayce takes a slow breath. He is not really here. The ground beneath his feet is solid, yet intangible. When he reaches out to touch something, his hand passes through it like a shadow. But it is real. Everything is real. And at the center of the main square, stands Viktor. Jayce recognizes him immediately.

This is not the Viktor he left behind on the Hexgate, worn down by years and regrets. This is not even the Viktor he knew in Piltover’s laboratories. This Viktor is young. No longer sick, no longer weighed down by his condition. He moves with a cane but doesn't need it, his body slender but steady, draped in a long blue shawl that brushes the ground. And his iridescent eyes, those eyes that have not yet seen the future. He moves gracefully among the gathered crowd, his face illuminated by an inner light that Jayce hasn’t seen in years. Here, in this moment, Viktor is not just a man. He is a prophet.

Jayce watches as he steps onto a floating platform, the crowd silent around him. Every face turned toward him with devotion—not with fanaticism, but with something else. Hope.

"Piltover reduced you to numbers. Zaun abandoned you to die. I want to free you." Viktor’s voice rings clear, strong. Jayce shivers. He has never heard Viktor speak like this. The crowd murmurs, people press closer to one another. Some nod, others remain still, uncertain. But all of them listen. Because Viktor knows how to speak. He knows how to convince. "I don't ask you to obey me. I ask you to believe in something greater, an evolution."

Jayce clenches his fists, his gaze fixed on the scene. He is looking for a sign. He is trying to understand if this is happening in his world too, if this Viktor is the same Viktor he knows. He does not know what to expect. He does not know where this story diverges, when they will become two men who can no longer stand on the same side.

"This is your new home. A place where no one will be left behind, where no one will be forgotten."

Jayce forces himself to look away from Viktor and at the crowd. He sees their faces. Normal people. Zaunites fleeing oppression. Piltovans who renounced their city for something better. Young, old, sick, outcasts.

Time moves forward, not in great, sweeping events, but in subtle changes, the kind that creep in unnoticed until they settle in place like they’ve always been there. Months pass, and then he sees himself. He does not expect it.

His younger self steps into the Commune as an outsider, dressed in Piltover’s refined clothing but with the disheveled look of someone who has stopped caring for himself. He stands out against the world around him. His expression is full of distrust, calculation. Someone must have convinced to be here.

Jayce, looking at himself, holds his breath. He does not remember living this moment. He does not know what is about to happen. How many times has he told himself, that he would never come looking for Viktor? Yet, here he is.

Viktor notices him immediately. And he smiles. "Jayce…"

Jayce’s heartbeat quickens. Viktor approaches him with calm strides. There is no hostility in his gaze, no wariness, only absolute trust and the desire to share this moment with him. "I knew you would come."

Jayce watches the scene with his lips pressed together. He still does not know if this is his past. He does not know if this is another world, another possibility, a path Viktor walked without him, but he wants to know where it all breaks. And now he is forced to watch.

The vision shifts again. Jayce is no longer standing in one place. The Commune unfolds before him, time moving forward like a fast-forwarded memory. Days. Weeks, again months. Jayce watches his past self become part of the Commune. He sees himself talking to the inhabitants, working alongside Viktor, immersing himself in the construction of this dream. And slowly, the suspicion in his gaze fades. Conviction takes its place. The Commune is real. It works.

Here, people do not get sick, do not suffer, do not fear. There is no hierarchy, only something new, something that Viktor built with his own hands. A place where no one is abandoned.

Jayce watches as his trust in Viktor rebuilds itself. They are partners again, as they once were. They work, argue, challenge each other, and complement one another, just like in the laboratories of Piltover. It is so easy, so natural, that the present Jayce feels a tightness in his chest.

When did it all fall apart? He waits for the answer.

And then, something changes. Jayce notices a small, imperceptible detail at first. The people of the Commune no longer disagree. Ideas are no longer debated. Opinions never truly diverge. Every conversation, every thought, moves in a single direction: Viktor’s. At first, younger Jayce does not notice, neither does present Jayce; until he sees his younger self hesitate. A look exchanged in silence.

Viktor speaks to a group, explaining a new theory about Arcane energy. Jayce stands beside him, nodding. But he is not convinced. It is not an immediate realization, but it is a crack in the perfect surface of the Commune. And that is how it begins.

Jayce watches himself grow quieter. He sees the way he starts looking at people differently. The change is gradual, subtle. At first, it’s just a shadow of doubt, then it becomes a certainty, and finally, a fear. There is something Viktor is not telling him.

Jayce spectator feels his pulse quicken. The moment is coming. He is about to see where everything breaks. And then, it happens.

Jayce watches as his younger self walks into the Commune’s greenhouse. Viktor is there, seated on a stone bench, his gaze fixed on a plant he's tending to. The space is filled with warmth, light filtering through the glass ceiling, reflecting on the leaves of vines that have grown too thick to be natural. Jayce stands there for a moment, watching him in silence. Viktor doesn’t seem surprised to see him.

"You had a realization, didn’t you?" Viktor finally says, not even lifting his head. Jayce clenches his fists.

"It’s not a realization. It’s the truth." this time, Viktor looks at him. His iridescent eyes shimmer under the light, but they do not hold the same certainty they once did. Jayce takes a step closer. "The Commune isn't a dream, Viktor." his voice is firm but not harsh, just exhausted.

"Then what is it?" Viktor asks, finally setting down the tools in his hands.

Jayce swallows. "Another utopia that’s consuming us both." a long silence stretches between them. Then, Viktor smiles. But not in the way he used to. It is a sad smile.

"I knew you’d reach this conclusion. Sooner or later."

Jayce spectator feels his breath catch. He finally understands. This is the separation. There was no sudden catastrophe. No betrayal, no violent rupture. Just a truth that Viktor had always known and that Jayce had taken too long to see. The Commune is no longer a place of free will. Maybe it never was.

People aren’t Viktor’s slaves, but they are prisoners. And he, the one who built all of this with his own hands, never intended to stop himself.

Jayce spectator feels a hollow emptiness settle in his chest. His younger self looks Viktor in the eyes. And for the first time, Viktor looks away.

"I'm sorry, Jayce."

Jayce’s fingers tighten into fists.

"No. You’re not."

The world shatters around him. The vision fractures. The images blur, the Commune twists in on itself, faces dissolve, structures deform. The past is rejecting him. Jayce staggers back, his breath uneven. He's being pulled away. But before everything vanishes, Viktor looks up. For an instant, it feels like he truly sees him. Not the Jayce of the past.

HIM.

And Viktor smiles.

"Welcome back, Jayce."

that's all for now. i've actually written a bit more beyond this point, but i'm not entirely sure if i managed to make things clear or easy to follow, so I think i’ll wait for some feedback before continuing. i ended up choosing a more narrative way to tell this story because o thought it might be easier to understand that way, but who knows. thanks for reading if you made it this far!

[whumplump]

Broken

Whumpee woke to the sound of the bed creaking. It was their own foot, restless, moving on the edge of the bed as if it had a mind of its own. Beside them, Caretaker was still asleep. Outside the house, the rain pounded on the roof, as if it were penetrating the slab and hitting the flashing directly. The constant tapping of the drops was nerve-wracking. It seemed as if the roof might give way at any moment and let the rain flood into the house. Whumpee pushed their arms away from Caretaker and sat up in bed. They had asked, no, begged, to sleep next to their friend. The anxiety caused by the rain was impossible to contain on their own. Across the room was a dresser, displaying three half-open drawers. Caretaker never closed the drawers all the way. Whumpee didn't know if it was because they were too sloppy, or if the wood was somehow flawed and made it impossible to lock. Whumpee got up and walked over to the dresser. On the furniture, an open Bible, a bottle of perfume, the keys to the car and the house, and framed photos. Whumpee spent a few seconds staring at the pictures. The image of them and Caretaker. Sometimes smiling, sometimes angry, but because of pranks, not misunderstandings. Good times.

Good, before they disappeared. Wonderful, before they fell and the consequences of their suffering. When Whumpee still smiled at the people they loved. When they were still willing to welcome them, to love them. Caretaker was the only one left. They were still the same. But it wasn't enough. Because Whumpee, in turn, was not. Everything was beautiful before Whumper came along and took all the light from Whumpee's eyes, all the empathy from their heart. All the warmth from their body and the beauty from their soul. Whumper made them into a worthless porcelain pot, carelessly handled as if they weren't fragile. To be thrown to the ground, picked up and thrown in the trash. Picked up by the garbage man who would come by the next day. Sent to a dump with thousands of other pieces like them, but always with the memory of the one who broke and discarded them. Whumpee was nothing more than that. A piece of waste.

They looked at the Bible. The object had been in the same position for years, ever since it was first placed on the dresser, giving the open pages a yellowish color. Old and constant. Like Whumpee. But a Bible cannot be broken. It can be torn, twisted, burned. Just like Whumpee had been before they were discarded. The portraits, the photos. They can be broken. What good were sacred words, in the midst of so much misfortune that was not prevented by the mercy of a deity?

Whumpee looked at their hands. To them, the lines on their palms were cracks. If they clenched their fists, the porcelain pot would give way and break. As if a message had been sent to the garbage man, Whumpee had been returned to Caretaker's house. They had arrived broken. They had been mended. Scars on their body and stains on their soul, like hot glue that restores an object. But they were a broken object nonetheless. They picked up the Bible and drew a line forward, knocking the frames over. Caretaker woke to the sound of smaller wood against the wood of the floor. They sat up in bed. Whumpee, their back to them.

“Whumpee? Is everything okay?" they asked, their voice exasperated with fright.

Whumpee didn't answer. They turned slowly, their arms in the air. They released the grip on their fingers and let the Bible fall to the floor with a heavy thud. Caretaker got up from the bed and walked over to their friend, leaning closer and placing their hands on Whumpee’s shoulders.

“Did you knock down the pictures? Why did you do that?"

Again, there was no answer. Whumpee rested their head on their friend's chest. For a moment, they felt fixed. The happy portraits were now broken, just like them.

Whumper should be out there in one piece, breaking other pots and throwing them in the trash.

The garbage man would come by tomorrow to collect them.