#Storm and Boulder

[colorstormx]

chillin with @finpai <3

this was my first attack for art fight 2023!

[xxplastic-cubexx]

i can't stress enough how this is probably like top five interactions between scott and charles for me its so silly

[X-Men Unlimited #1: "Follow The Leader"]

[annabelle-creart]

Boulder: Heatwave! Where is that bot...?

Dino-bot Boulder: Hi!

Boulder: you again?

Adventure Bots!Boulder: The portal failed again

Boulder: I can see that... that one is new

Muriel: Do you know how to get out of here?

Boulder: yeah, yeah. I'll search Graham

Dino-bot Boulder: Oh! Graham's with Heatwave... and Heatwave... and that weird guy with horns

Boulder: I'll go- horns did you said?! Heatwave!

Meanwhile, out of the house

Sissi: what are they doing?

Vlastomil: what they know the best

Volta: MATCH! MATCH! MATCH!!!

Belle: split or merry-go-round?

Vulgora: MERRY-GO-ROUND!

Adventure Bots!Heatwave: I don't know what's that but I like how that sounds!

Heatwave: Are you sure they will not kill each other?

Vlastomil: nah, they're resistant, they can with this. And don't underestimate, those scales are stronger than any human weapon

Heatwave: exactly, human, and that's not a human weapon

Boulder: HEATWAVE!

Heatwave: that's my call. Graham's not here! He's with the weird magician

Boulder: why you didn't told me they were here?

Heatwave: They wanted to stay a little bit

Adventure Bot!Heatwave: Oh, hi! We're about to have a match, wanna see?

Boulder: Two against one?

AB!Heatwave: I'm big enough!

Boulder: A common mercenary against a big basilisk-like magical lion and a giant beetle? I don't think so!

Heatwave: that's what I told him

Boulder: I'll better get Graham...

Meanwhile, near Boulder's garden

Asra: Can I borrow some of these?

Graham: what? The lavender? Sorry, the garden is not mine

Nadia: they're beautiful, and look healthy

Portia: yes! Whoever planted these has a good hand

Graham: Servo, actually. I still can't understand- how did you knew all that? Just by tarot cards?

Portia: what's a servo?

Asra: that's my secret- oh My-!

Nadia: Oh Gods

Portia: Wow! Is that your green friend you told us about?

Boulder: Graham, why didn't you told me the portal failed again?

Graham: sorry, buddy, I needed to check these cards, they don't have sense

Asra: yes they do! Is just- a different kind of sense. But that's why I'm a magician and you're a man of science

Nadia: if there's no problem to ask. Is this garden yours?

Boulder: it is, excuse me, what's your name?

Nadia: oh- please excuse my behavior, my name is Nadia Satrinava, countess of Vesubia... but Vesubia is not... in this universe

Portia: Name's Portia, or Pasha, whatever you prefer!

Asra: Asra, I'm a magician, and you are?

Boulder: Boulder, engineer and rescue bot

Nadia: oh, you dedicate to rescue work too!

Lucio: NADIA!!!!

Nadia: and there goes my peace...

Portia: Ahg, gods!

Asra: Just what we needed

Graham: Not again that guy!

Boulder: who?

Julian: PASHA!!!!

Violet: MAD CHARIOT MAD CHARIOR MAD CHARIOT!!!

Portia: Oh my- ILLYA, ARE YOU OKAY?

Nadia: Dear- Violet, Julian, what happen-?

Blurr: YOU!

Lucio: AH!!

Boulder: Blurr? Are you okay? What happened?

Blurr: I'll kill that fucking IDIOT!

Boulder: What did he do?

Blurr: HE TRIED TO TOUCH ME AND PAINT ME WHILE I WAS HAVING A NAP!

Lucio: I DIDN'T KNEW YOU WERE ALIVE!

Violet: WE'RE SO SORRY, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

Julian: WE DIDN'T KNEW YOU WERE AN ACTUAL... PERSON?

Blurr: FROM WHAT KIND OF ROCK YOU COME FROM?!?!

Boulder: from another universe

Blurr: ...oh

Nadia: That's why I told you to BEHAVE!

Asra: Violet, why did you do that!

Violet: It was temptating! I mean, that's not something you see all days! We didn't know she was alive!

Boulder: nobody knew... whatever, Graham, can you help me with the portal?

Graham: Ah- sure! Yeah, sorry-

Boulder: just to ask- how did you get here?

Violet: we were travelling for a picnic in my gateway, all together, but Muriel's gatedoor came from nothing and then mine became fussy, and then we all fell, and that's how we got here!

Boulder: ...Muriel's the big man?

Violet: yes!

Asra: you know him?

Boulder: the one of the short hair and boring look?

Violet: ...yes

Boulder: ...you kidding

Graham: I'm starting to think variants are unpredictable, don't ya think? Hehe

Boulder: or I'm destinated to suffer

Julian: Sorry?

Boulder: I'll better get that thing fixed before that kid-

Nani: HELLO HELLO!!! HOW ARE YOU?! BOULDER!! SISSI!!

Boulder: ...too late

Ali: everyone! Where are the guys that are not from here! Please on a line!

Mr. D: I missed this universe, what a cutie- OH, VIOLET, LUCIO-

Lucio: AHHHHH!!!

Violet: ARE YOU ALIVE?!?!

Julian: THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE

Asra: BUT HOW?

Mr. D: OH! NONONONONO! I'm not the same guy! I promise! Literally! Sorry! I confused the universe. Sorry! I promise I'm not the bad guy

Nani: Oh hi! I see you're not from here, wanna make me company getting you to your universe?

Ali: NANI, D., THIS GUYS ARE FIGHTHING AND THE BIG BEETLE IS WINNING!!

Boulder: really?

Violet: BETTLE DID YOU SAID?!

Asra: Agg!!!

Nani: SHOW ME SHOW ME SHOW ME

Mr. D: I wanna see that!

Boulder: aggggggghhhhhhhhh

...

Violet: Bye Bye!

Belle: see ya another time, kiddo!

Sissi: bye Belle

Nani: Not to be an idiot, Boulder, but you should-

Boulder: I'll fix the leaks, I'll do

Nani: thank you!

Ali: bye

Boulder: you were waiting for her? You wanted Nani to fix this?

Mr. D: See ya later!

Blurr: I hope not. I didn't liked these guys!

Heatwave: ah... are you okay?

Boulder: you should have told me

Heatwave: Genie! You have way too much things on your head! I didn't wanted you to have more problems. I was just waiting for her to come and take them out to take work from you

Graham: that's actually true. You had been weird since she came for the first time. You really need a rest

Boulder: ...fine... thanks. I'm actually tired

Sissi: well, if you need distraction, we're always here to help!

Blurr: I'll do the same but first I'll repaint this, that aft-pain scratched my paint

Sissi: I don't see anything, It's literally nothing!

Blurr: that's because you're half-blind!

Heatwave: hey! Stop with that you two!

Heatwave, Boulder, Graham Burns and Blurr are from the TV series Transformers: Rescue Bots

Sissi is my Transformer OC, she's a kid and transforms in a drone, she dedicates to Air Rescue and Asistance

Muriel, Vlastomil, Volta, Vulgora, Nadia, Portia, Asra, Julian and Lucio are from the visual novel game The Arcana: Mystic Romance

Violet is my The Arcana Apprentice MC, her Love Interest is Julian Devorak and Lucio and Vlastomil are like her brothers

Belle is a side character Demon MC, her Love Interests are Volta, Vulgora and Vlastomil, Nadia is her best friend

Dino-bot and Adventure Bots are TFRB Au's I made before

[amiablyinept]

How each rescue bot would try to comfort you during a storm.

Blades: Oh wow it's really pouring out there huh? You know this reminds me of the big acid storms back on Cybertron, the streaks of lightning were so large that the whole sky would light up.

Boulder: Hey, it's gonna be ok. Remember that after a big storm, always comes a rainbow, and then I'll take you out to the park where we can see the dewdrops on the flower petals.

Chase: The rain here is quite different than the acid storms back on Cybertron. It doesn't sting and it has a fresh scent, it's also feels refreshingly vibrant and this lightning is also very ephemeral.

Heatwave: This is what is making you afraid and cowering by me? It's only a little bit of rain, there's nothing to be scared of, the lightning isn't even that loud either.

[sibrownphoto-tumbl]

Burbage valley, October 30 2024.

Quietness, filled with autumn chillmists. For a handful of moments a patch of sunlight on stone.

[catboybiologist]

The year is 2030.

At the Cincinnati stop of her "world tour", Taylor Swift ends her set. As she walks off the stage, she leans into a nearby mic and says "oh by the way, I'm lesbian".

She's still milking a public relationship with a man named Chett Whitesman, so this is met with a combination of cheers and confusion. Immediately, the media mobilizes. They have to intercept her before she gets onto her private jet, and ambush her for an interview. Luckily, this has become much easier these days. Since the release of her 2027 album, "The Carbon Emissions of my Heart", T Swizzle has performed a ritual sacrifice of an endangered species on live camera every time she boards her jet, a #girlboss way of saying that her emotional pain can only be healed by the tortured screams of drowning polar bears.

(Since this practice started, a devoted faction of Swifties have started a carbon negative algae farming commune, with the express intent of negating taytay sweezie's contributions to climate change. Apparently "her tortured soul deserves to pollute without guilt". They haven't even come close to their goals.)

Taytor Twift is intercepted after this ritual, as she's walking up the steps of her plane. When asked what the lesbian statement was about, she nonchalantly says "oh, I thought it was clear that was a joke. Anyways, G T G!" , before biting into the still beating heart of an emperor penguin.

During her flight, discourse on the newly renamed twitter-X-ElonIsExtremelyVirile Corp goes nuclear like it never has been before.

There's a camp of swifties thoroughly convinced that her relationship with Chett is all a beard so that she can still keep touring in the New Christian Republic of Florida, and the interview at the plane was deepfaked.

A different camp of Swifties feels insulted and betrayed that she would be anything less than a paragon of allyship. To them, this is the worst slight the queer community has ever experienced.

A third camp of Swifties insists that she *is* dating Chett, and is also a lesbian. They get insulted that anyone would police Taylor's labels. Comparisons to the Boulder, Colorado shooter are made.

A group of non Swifties tries to point out that everyone is fucking insane and that 'ole taytay regularly tear gases pride rallies to make way for her promenade to stadium venues, and who the fuck cares about this shit and point out that what a billionaire celebrity does for five minutes of PR is not worth your attention or discourse, nor does it warrant harassing other people for the labels *they* use, and isn't it really fucked up that Taylor is making a joke of how people describe their identities? They are promptly doxxed, harassed, and banned.

Bi lesbian discourse is off the charts. Nothing Taylor said has anything to do with it, but it happens anyways.

A lone transsexual who actually goes outside once in a while tweets "hey guys isn't it kinda fucked up that 2.4 billion people have been displaced by mega storms this year that her jet contributes to and is also specifically designed to fly over" and is promptly doxxed and harassed off the platform.

After an exhausting 9 minute plane ride, Tailing Swiffer lands in Columbus for the next performance of her world tour. She unveils a new single that contains the line "ride my horse after dumping him, stepping up onto my SAD dle".

All is forgotten. All is quiet. The Swifties continue as usual, moving on to the next discourse about these lyrics.

[lesbiten]

uh. well i think chapter 29 was just a mistake. like i dont think it was meant to be in the book

[nekoashiii]

How’d Dragon sylus react to us being sick?

Pairings: Dragon!Sylus x Reader

Notes: I actually did not expect yall to eat dragon sylus up but here you go.

Click here for my Masterlist

The night the storm came showed that it was no weak, brief storm. It tore through the thick trees scattered across Sylus’s forest with violent howls, shaking the mountains, caves and flooding the valley paths. Sylus had gone out that night, scouring the woods for dry firewood and hunting to feed you. He had told you to stay in the den, the one lined with soft pelts and dragon-warmed stones—but the winds rattled the entrance, and rainwater slipped in through cracks in the cave mouth. You’d tried to keep the fire going, shivering despite your efforts. When Sylus returned, drenched and wild-eyed, you were already curled up in a thick blanket, coughing faintly and sniffling.

Sylus was not a beast who feared much. Not man nor beast nor blade. But the sound of your cough? The paleness of your face? Those sniffles? That made his blood turn to ice. His claws, still wet from the storm, shook as he reached for you. His nostrils flared as he inhaled—too warm. Your body radiated heat, not the kind he loved and purred for in his sleep, but the kind that screamed of fever. His pupils dilated into slits as he stared down at you, a soft rumble building in his throat, protective, panicked.

Sylus wasted no time. The moment he realized you were ill, he sealed the cave with massive boulders from the outside. leaving only a small space for airflow and for him to squeeze through, No more wind. No more water. The den became a fortress. He reinforced it with clawed Fingers and scorching dragonfire. He even wove layers of thick leaves, moss, and hides over the opening to keep the storm’s icy breath away from your fragile human body.

He refused to leave your side. Not even for a minute. Whenever you coughed, his tail curled around you, trying to wrap you in his warmth. When you whimpered in your sleep, he huffed at the shadows. He didn’t sleep, His glowing red eyes stayed locked on you all night, unmoving, his breath shallow as he counted every rise and fall of your chest. Every time your fever spiked, he let out an anguished, low snarl, pressing his forehead to yours as if he could draw the sickness out of you and into himself.

The moment your fever drops, even a little, Sylus melts. You wake up to his heavy head resting against your stomach, wings tucked in and relaxed for once, breath even and calm. He still watches you, but the panic is gone—replaced by exhausted relief. He touches your face gently, claws careful not to scratch. “Better,” he rumbles. “You smell like you again.”

Once you’re well enough to sit up, Sylus becomes twice as clingy. He insists on carrying you to the nearby hot spring he guards in his free-of-humans territory, letting the mineral-rich water soak your muscles. He refuses to let you lift a single rock, fetch a single log, or even touch the cold floor barefoot. He builds a second fire beside the first. Reinforces the den with even more heat-holding stone. Stockpiles on plants that smell like herbs. every time the sky darkens or the wind howls, his body stiffens and he pulls you closer, whispering, “Not again.”

[colorstormx]

snuggles with @finpai <3

[capuccinodoll]

— A haunted body, part one: "When I close my eyes, it feels like home" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | next chapter

— Chapter summary: After the Millers saved your life, you became something of a miracle. Now you’ve been given a second chance, and the sweetness of your new home is overshadowed by the coldness of one of them: Joel. Unfortunately for him, Tommy assigns you to work by his side, as the assistant he claims he doesn’t need. wc: 7.1k

A/N: I hope you enjoy this one. I haven't been able to get this man out of my head since season two came out, and I just had to write it. Consider it my love letter to Joel Miller.

Don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN)

Jackson, 2027. Morning. The edge of winter.

The snow hadn't melted yet. It lay heavy and whole across the landscape, an unbroken layer of white pressed onto the earth. The mountains in the distance were pale and still, touched by the sharp blue light of morning. Everything looked hushed.

Joel rode next to Tommy along the eastern patrol route, their horses’ hooves muffled in the thick frost. It was their third day in a row covering the outer line. Last week’s storm had forced them to stay close to the center of town, so they were making up for it now, filling in the gaps. The sun was climbing with that late- winter defiance— bright and high, but not enough to soften anything.

They were already on their way back when Tommy spoke.

"The sun feels warmer today, doesn’t it?” he said, squinting at the horizon. His voice was casual, he wanted Joel to say yes. Like he needed proof they were moving toward spring.

Joel didn’t answer. He kept his gaze forward, where the snow caught the sunlight and bounced it straight into his eyes. His face was raw from the cold, red across the cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He shifted in the saddle, nudged the horse ahead with a quiet click of his tongue. Then he saw something, just a break in the white, a shape that didn’t belong.

He signaled with a small gesture. Tommy followed his line of sight.

There, off the side of the road, nestled in the folds of snow, was a shape that could have been anything. A boulder, a fallen log. But Joel felt it before he could explain it— something old and hardwired in his gut pulling taut.

He approached cautiously, letting the horse come to a stop a few feet away. There was a stiffness in his chest.

Tommy saw it too, and was already reaching for his rifle. Joel had his out first.

They dismounted in unspoken agreement, boots crunching against the crusted snow as they stepped closer.

A woman.

She was lying on her side, half -covered as if the weather had tried to bury her and nearly succeeded. Her skin was raw, her mouth pale and parted. There was a slash of red across her side, staining the snow like spilled paint

Joel crouched beside her. He took off his glove, his hand bracing against the cold. With the back of his fingers, he brushed snow from her face. Then he pressed gently at the side of her neck, feeling for movement. For warmth. For anything.

There it was— a pulse. Faint, but steady.

And then he looked closer.

His eyes traced her face first, then the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck, stopping just below the place where his fingers rested. It landed in him like a stone in deep water.

He jerked back, breath caught in his throat. As if something had reached up from the ground and grabbed him.

Tommy noticed.

“What is it?” he asked. “Joel?”

“She’s alive,” Joel said quickly. “Not infected. We need to get her up.”

Tommy hesitated, glancing between Joel and the woman. He didn't ask questions. Just helped lift her, following Joel’s lead.

They wrapped her in a thick blanket Joel pulled from his saddle. She felt light. Or maybe it was adrenaline that made her easier to carry. They positioned her on Joel’s horse, her head resting against his chest.

The ride back wasn’t quiet. The wind cut sharp between their shoulders, and Tommy had opinions he couldn’t keep to himself. Joel didn’t say much.

Jackson. Hospital. An hour later.

The room was small— bare walls, dim lighting, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to the corners. The woman lay on a gurney in the center, surrounded by too much space for someone so still.

Joel and Tommy had left her there.

When Maria entered, she didn’t speak right away. Two volunteer doctors followed behind her, both of them already pulling on gloves, focused, professional. Maria stood just inside the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching as they moved around the woman—checking her breathing, cutting away the frozen fabric of her clothes, revealing skin that looked cold to the touch.

They were searching for wounds, for the hidden things the snow might have masked. Her skin was bruised in places, pale in others. The slash across her side had started to clot, the blood a deep, dark red now. She hadn’t stirred once. No flinch. No flicker behind the eyelids.

Still, she was breathing.

They had checked her at the gates for infection— protocol, as always— and she had passed. No bites. No spores. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except that she wouldn’t wake up.

Tommy stood against the wall, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Joel didn’t say anything. He was near the window, watching the light catch on the frost-covered glass. His jaw was tense, arms crossed.

“I have no idea how she's still alive ,” one of the doctors murmured to no one in particular, his voice too quiet for comfort.

Maria finally spoke. “You did good,” she said, her gaze moving first to Tommy, then resting on Joel.

Joel didn’t respond right away. He nodded once, barely, and didn’t meet her eyes.

He turned and walked out a minute after that. The snow outside had hardened under the afternoon sun. His boots pressed into it, leaving uneven prints as he moved away from the building.

Jackson. Hospital. One month later.

Dr. Hale placed the chipped teacup back on his desk. The surface beneath it was scuffed, the wood worn smooth in places by years of use. He exhaled and raised his eyes to meet yours.

You were perched on the edge of the gurney. The fabric beneath you was stiff and clean. Your legs hung just above the ground, not quite steady.

“Well,” he began, his voice careful, “you’re officially discharged.”

Your body didn’t react. You just nodded, eyes fixed on the lines etched deep across his face.

“Everything looks good,” he continued. “There’s no sign of neurological damage. Your kidneys are doing what they should. Muscle tone’s coming back. You’re going to feel weak for a bit— especially in the cold— but that’s normal, okay?”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure what exactly normal meant anymore.

He reached for a sheet of paper, started scribbling something without lifting his head. His hands were large, knuckles like knots, fingers marked by time and use. His movements had a practiced efficiency.

“Eat well,” he said. “As much as you can. Rest. Come back in two weeks. And please—don’t go wandering around in the snow again. I’m not dragging you in a second time .”

You let out a soft laugh— small, startled by its own presence. “I promise.”

He stood then, with more ease than you'd expect from a man in his seventies. His height was solid, his frame still holding together in the way of someone who had decided long ago not to fall apart just yet.

He extended a hand toward you. His palm was dry, warm, reassuring.

“Good job surviving,” he said. “Not everyone can say the same.”

And he was right.

You knew survival hadn’t been something you did , not really. You hadn’t fought through the cold. You hadn’t rescued yourself. You had been unconscious for at least an hour before anyone found you.

Joel and Tommy Miller had pulled you out of the snow. That was the truth.

When you were brought in, the prognosis wasn’t good. Severe hypothermia. Dehydration. Hypoglycemia. A really bad combination that didn’t leave much room for recovery. But they acted fast— someone always did, in places like this. You had no memory of those first days. Only what they told you after.

You spent three days in intensive care. Five more in a shared ward. Somehow, you walked away with no permanent damage. No brain trauma. No infections. No organ failure. A miracle , someone had said. You weren’t sure if you believed in those.

After you were discharged, you didn’t have anywhere to go. So they found you a place.

The Rowells— an elderly couple with quiet voices and a spare room— took you in. Isabella, the wife, had met you in the hospital. She made tea the day you moved into their home. She told you stories about the town and her life before the pandemic. But she didn’t ask about your past.

You spent three weeks there, mostly horizontal. Reading when your eyes let you. Sleeping when you could. Waiting for your body to feel like yours again.

Tommy stopped by more than once. At least once a week, always with a bag of something— fruit, or socks, or gloves he claimed Maria had made. Sometimes she came with him. They never stayed too long. But they stayed long enough.

You knew other people had arrived in town recently . It made their visits feel even more meaningful— like they'd chosen to make room for you in a life already full of demands.

“You’re becoming a bit of a celebrity around here, you know that?” Tommy said, his voice light as he leaned back in the worn kitchen chair, a cup of tea balanced in his hand.

It was late afternoon, the sun folding softly across the window of the Rowells' house, stretching across the table in warm patches. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke. You sat across from him, the chipped rim of your mug pressed to your lower lip, your hands wrapped around it to soak up the heat.

You lifted your brows. “ Oh, yeah? Why?”

He grinned. “They talk about the woman who survived the snow. There’s a whole myth forming. Some folks think it’s a miracle your fingers didn’t fall off.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t,” he said, chuckling. “But you should hear them. They’re convinced. You know how many people around here have lost toes? A few have lost more. And you— nothing. Not even frostbite. You’re lucky.”

You looked down into your tea, watching the pale swirl of milk settle.

“You saved me,” you said, voice quiet. “You and your brother. If you hadn’t shown up, I’d be a frozen corpse halfway to town. A popsicle.”

Tommy made a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “A popsicle? ”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well,” he said, tipping his cup toward you in a mock toast, “you’re resilient. That’s something. Not many people survive that long in the cold, and with a wound? Actually, a few folks started calling you Snow. You know, mysterious stranger from the mountains, almost mythic.”

You laughed this time— an actual laugh, not the tight, polite kind. “Snow? Seriously?”

He shrugged, playful. “It’s catchy. Plus, the fact that no one’s seen you outside in a month adds to the intrigue.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

Four walls, three meals a day, hours spent under blankets or seated near a window watching the sky shift. That had been your life since arriving in Jackson. Recovery wasn’t linear. Some days you could walk for twenty minutes. Others, the cold made your joints ache and your stomach turn. But mostly, you stayed in. You rested. You waited to feel like someone again.

You cleared your throat gently. “I’ve been meaning to ask... do you think I could talk to your brother sometime? I haven’t had the chance to thank him.”

Tommy paused. The change in his expression was small— barely there— but you caught it.

“Joel?” he asked. “He hasn’t come by?”

You shook your head. “No. Was he supposed to?”

“No,” Tommy said, slowly . “But I told him where you were staying. Figured he might stop in.”

You nodded. “Right. Well... maybe he’s busy.”

There was a moment of stillness between you. Not awkward, exactly. Just thoughtful.

Tommy broke it gently. “When you feel ready, we can move you into your own place. Maria picked it out a couple weeks ago. She’s been fussing over it— putting up curtains and whatnot.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Really?”

He smiled. “Yeah. I didn’t want to say anything until you were feeling better. It’s not huge or anything— two bedrooms, one bath. Just a short walk from the dining hall.”

A warmth started to rise in your chest. “That sounds... amazing.”

He held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Look, I’m not saying Maria plays favorites. But it’s a good spot. We thought you’d like it.”

You looked at him, and for a second something inside you softened. “Tommy, I haven’t had a home in a long time. Years, honestly. Decades, if I’m being real. You could’ve given me a shed and I’d still be grateful.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair again. “Well, it’s a few steps up from a shed. I promise.”

You smiled. For the first time in weeks, it reached your eyes.

“When you’re ready,” he said, setting down his mug, “ just say the word.”

Jackson dining hall. Two weeks later. Morning.

The sun was pouring through the high windows of the dining hall, catching in the steam that rose from bowls and mugs. The space hummed with life— forks knocking against ceramic, chairs scraping over wood, the thrum of conversation happening all at once and everywhere. Someone laughed in the far corner. Someone else said pass the salt .

The smell of beef stew lingered in the air and there was fresh bread, too. You could tell from the way the scent curled gently toward you. You closed your eyes and breathed in, letting the feeling settle in your chest. You let yourself pretend, just briefly, that none of this had ever happened. That the world you knew had not ended. That you were somewhere safe, and always had been.

For a moment, with your eyes closed, it felt like home.

Jackson did that to you. It had a way of disarming your fear without making a spectacle of it. The town felt steady, like it had grown roots and decided not to move again. There was kindness here. You saw it in the way people nodded to each other on the street, in how they lingered at the market stalls just to talk. No one looked over their shoulder while they walked. That was new.

You’d adjusted quickly, maybe more quickly than you expected. There was no guilt in that, though sometimes it hovered on the edges of your comfort like a shadow. But what else were you supposed to do? The bed they gave you was soft. The sheets were clean. You weren’t used to softness like that, not anymore, but you learned. You remembered how to fold your clothes. How to run a hot shower. How to breathe without urgency.

The little things were the most disarming: soap that smelled like coconut, almond oil on your skin, a room that belonged only to you. A window that opened onto a street lined with planters and signs carved by hand. No smoke. No screaming. Just laundry on lines and children running   between houses.

People were kind, too. Curious but never invasive. Last week, a few had approached you while you waited for your turn at the bakery or wandered back from the stables. Their questions were gentle: How’d you get here? Were you alone? Your answer didn’t change. A long walk, a bad fight, then nothing. You didn’t remember much after that.

No one pressed. That was something you respected deeply about this place. Everyone had their own version of silence, and they honored it in each other. Maybe that was the truest form of community you’d ever seen—understanding when not to ask.

They didn’t use your name. Not most of them, anyway. The Rowells did. Maria did. But everyone else, even Tommy, called you Snow . It had started like a joke, or a placeholder, and then it stuck. Not in a cruel way— it was never said with ridicule. If anything, it sounded like reverence.

You didn’t mind. After everything you’d lost, being called Snow felt oddly generous. A reminder that you were still here. That whatever had happened before you collapsed in the snow wasn’t all that you were now.

And maybe, deep down, you liked it.

Now, you were starting to feel something close to settled. It was subtle, the shift— more like a softening than a transformation— but it was there. The past week had been spent tucking small pieces of yourself into the new house: hanging the spare coat on its hook by the door, folding the same blanket each morning and placing it neatly at the end of the bed. A ceramic bowl filled with dried flowers sat on the windowsill now. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it looked like someone lived there.

You had energy again. Not the kind that came from adrenaline or necessity, but the steadier sort that allowed you to move . You were sure— quietly sure— that you were ready to work. To use your hands for something other than holding a warm mug or steadying yourself against the edge of a table.

You’d brought it up with Maria and Tommy earlier in the week, suggested helping out where needed. They listened carefully, as they always did. Tommy even nodded. But then Maria had tilted her head in that gentle, assessing way, and said something about letting yourself land fully first. Letting your bones catch up to your heartbeat. They didn’t say the word, but you could feel it hovering: fragile. Not quite visible, but not quite gone either.

This morning, though, everything felt lighter. There was sun pouring through the cracks in the clouds, the snow retreating like it had finally grown tired. Spring was arriving in slow intervals, a bud here, a patch of green there.

You put on the oversized wool coat Isabella gave you and walked to the dining hall with a quiet sort of purpose. Your legs didn’t tremble the way they had that first week.

Inside, the room was already full. It was a comforting kind of noise, the human kind. You moved along the edge, scanning for an empty seat, then slid into the corner of a long table, your tray balanced carefully in front of you. A bowl of stew. A heel of bread. And beside it, a small plastic container with a lid, something you'd packed yourself.

You weren’t eating yet. You weren’t even hungry, really.

You had seen him come in just before you. Joel Miller.

Tommy hadn’t told you much about him, only what directly concerned you— that Joel had seen you first, out there in the snow. That he’d been the one to check for your pulse. Beyond that, he remained a quiet, distant presence. He hadn’t visited while you were in recovery. He hadn’t said a word to you in passing. But you had seen him, more than once. Standing outside the stables. Walking the main road. Always looking ahead, always looking elsewhere. And each time, you waited for him to glance in your direction— just once— so you could approach him. But he never did.

And well, you only knew the basics. That he was 60 years old, and had a daughter. Not much else.

And yet now, here he was, seated alone at a small table against the wall. His elbows rested heavily on the surface, fingers laced together, gaze fixed on the plate in front of him.

You took a breath. Not a dramatic one— just enough to ground yourself.

Then you picked up your tray in one hand, and the small plastic container in the other.

You moved toward him. The rest of the room continued on around you, but the sound seemed to stretch out, soften, as if the distance between you and him was insulated in its own quiet.

He didn’t look up when you reached his table, though you had the distinct feeling he’d known you were coming from the first step you took in his direction.

His eyes stayed on his plate. Still, you stood there, a small, polite pause suspended between you.

“Hi,” you said quietly. “Joel?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just a flicker of acknowledgment— his eyes lifting to yours for the briefest moment, then dropping back to the plate in front of him.

“Yeah. Hi,” he said, his voice rough, gravel settled into each syllable, like something scraped across the floor of a long-abandoned room.

Up close, his eyes were darker than you remembered. You’d only seen him from a distance before— shadows moving across his face as he passed on the street. Eyes far away.

You swallowed, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth like it might steady you.

“I made these for you,” you said, setting the small plastic container down in front of him, careful not to let your fingers brush the edge of his tray. “They’re cookies. I baked them this morning. I’m not amazing at it, but... Isabella told me they turned out okay.”

Joel looked at the container, then back at his plate. He didn’t reach for it.

“I already got food,” he said plainly.

Your smile stuttered a little, but you held onto it. A sort of half-grin, the kind you give when you’ve already committed to being warm and don’t want to withdraw it too soon.

“Yeah, no, of course,” you said. “I just thought— maybe— you might want something sweet. And I wanted to thank you. For saving me. Tommy told me you were the one who—”

“You’re welcome,” Joel said, this time looking up fully. His eyes found yours and held, not unkind but unreadable.

And then nothing.

He looked away again, like the conversation had already happened.

You waited. A beat. Then another.

He didn’t speak again.

“Would it be okay if I sat?” you asked, your fingers brushing the edge of the opposite chair. 

Joel hesitated. “No, sorry.”

You blinked. Not from surprise— exactly— but from the sting of it.

“Oh,” you said, clearing your throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, voice softer now but no less certain. “ You don’t have to thank me. It’s done. We helped you. You’re safe. That’s enough.”

You nodded, eyes suddenly too aware of how exposed you felt standing there. You reached for the cookies, unsure whether to leave them behind or take them with you, not wanting to look like you were withdrawing a gift, but not wanting to leave something that wasn’t wanted either.

And then the sound of a chair scraping broke the silence. Sharp and clumsy. You turned toward the noise.

A girl was sitting next to Joel now. Her energy filled the space immediately, like she’d walked into a room she already owned. She was watching you with curiosity, her expression open and mildly amused.

“Hey,” she said, grinning. “You’re the almost-dead girl.”

“Ellie,” Joel muttered, giving her a sideways look.

“It’s okay,” you said, laughing softly. The tension needed somewhere to go, and humor was a better place than most. “I guess that’s one way to introduce me.”

“Joel hasn’t said much,” she continued. “Just what everyone already knows. You’re like a miracle. Good thing you didn’t die.”

You let out another laugh, lighter this time.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing back at Joel. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. “Good thing.”

You hesitated for one more second, hoping he might say something else. But nothing came.

“Well, I should go,” you said. Your voice was even, but you felt the warmth rush to your face. The sharp kind of warmth that comes with feeling out of place.

You reached for the container and picked it up again. The cookies. And then you turned away, walking back through the sea of tables, wishing you could shrink down into something smaller. 

Two days later, on a gray afternoon.

The sky had the muted tone of brushed steel, clouds hanging low and unmoving. The wind carried a chill that felt out of place for spring, like the season was unsure whether it had permission to stay. The air was crisp, not cold, but enough to sting faintly when it touched your cheeks.

You had thought about this a lot—more than you were willing to admit. Replaying the last conversation in your head, trying to see it from all sides. Maybe you should’ve said less. Maybe he’d had a bad morning. Maybe he didn’t even mean to come off that way. You hadn’t been able to stop circling the maybes. But you kept arriving at the same conclusion: you had nothing to lose by trying again.

You stopped in front of his house.

You’d seen it before from a distance. It was a modest place, sturdy- looking, with a front porch that looked like it had been swept recently. There was something careful about it.

Mrs. Rowell had told you Joel was good with repairs. “He rebuilt our staircase,” she’d said once, while pouring tea. “You can check them, he did a really good job.”

Now, you approached the door of his house  with a basket in your arms, wrapped in a clean cloth that fluttered slightly in the breeze. Inside: warm bread, still soft, and a handful of cookies. The same kind you’d made before. Something simple, something you would’ve given to a neighbor in another life.

You hesitated on the porch. One breath, and then another. And then you knocked.

Footsteps padded toward the door, soft and unhurried. A pause, and then a voice— lighter than Joel’s, quicker.

“Who is it?”

It wasn’t him.

The door opened. Ellie.

Her face lit up the second she saw you.

“Hey, Snow,” she said, with the easy familiarity of someone who had already decided to like you.

You smiled, though it wasn’t exactly a smile—more like the shape of one.

“It’s actually…” You told her your name, your real name, the one people hadn’t used much in Jackson.

“Oh— shit. Sorry,” she said quickly, her eyebrows folding together in a sincere expression of guilt. “Didn’t mean to—yeah. I didn’t mean to make it a thing.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind the nickname. People started using it and it just sort of stuck, right?”

Ellie nodded, stepping aside a little, her hand still gripping the door.

“That’s probably for the best. Would be kind of hellish if everyone called you something you hated.” She looked at you then, expectant, as if waiting for you to say something back. But the silence stretched longer than she anticipated, and she shifted on her feet. “ Oh— shit. Sorry. Did you, um, want to come in?”

Your eyebrows rose gently. “Oh, no. No, it’s not that. I just…” Your voice trailed off, unsure. You glanced at the basket in your hands like it might explain for you. “I was hoping to talk to Joel. If he’s around. If that’s even—” you exhaled, a little frustrated at yourself, “— if that’s okay.”

Ellie tilted her head and squinted slightly, like she was trying to gauge your intention. “He’s not here. Went out about an hour ago. Why, though?”

“I brought this,” you said, lifting the basket slightly. “Just to thank him. Nothing more.”

She watched you for a second longer than necessary, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, casual again.

“If you want, you can stay till he gets back. Or, I mean, I can give it to him .”

You hesitated. 

“I’ll wait a bit,” you said finally. You glanced down at the basket, then up at her. “Do you like cookies?”

Ten minutes later, the two of you were perched on the front steps of Joel’s porch. The basket sat between you like a third guest. For some reason, you hadn’t stepped inside. It felt too intimate, too much like crossing into a place you hadn’t been invited.

The air was crisp, the sky still overcast. Every so often, a breeze tugged at your hair and made you pull your arms tighter around yourself. Ellie didn’t seem to mind the chill. She was working her way through a cookie, eating it in small bites.

Every now and then, she’d offer up a scrap of conversation—something about the newest group of people who had arrived in Jackson, about how one of them had apparently tried to barter using a broken guitar. You listened, grateful for her easy way of speaking, the way she didn’t seem to expect anything profound from you.

You nibbled on a cookie, not really hungry, just needing to do something with your hands.

Another ten minutes passed.

Then you heard the sound of footsteps, pressed fully into the ground, not rushed, not quiet either. Ellie stopped mid-sentence. You both turned your heads toward the sound.

It was Joel.

He was carrying a stack of firewood in both arms, his shoulders set in a way that made him look like he’d been holding tension. His boots were caked with drying mud. He didn’t see you at first— his eyes fixed somewhere ahead.

When he finally did notice you, just a few steps from the porch, he didn’t flinch or startle. But he didn’t smile either. His face remained unchanged, impassive.

He let out a quiet exhale—not dramatic, not performative. Just a sound that suggested he was tired. 

Without saying anything, he dropped the firewood next to the porch. The logs landed with a dull thud, some rolling gently before coming to rest against one another.

Beside you, Ellie was still chewing, still holding the half-eaten cookie in her hand.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

You tried to sound lighter than you felt. “Hi,” you said.

Joel looked at you, his expression unreadable, the same tired steadiness you’d seen at the dining hall.

“I told you it was okay ,” he said. His tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried a finality that pressed against your chest.

You parted your lips to answer, but he cut in before the words could form. “What are you doing here?”

Next to you, Ellie didn’t say anything. But y ou could feel her stillness, the way her energy retreated slightly.

You stood, brushing the back of your jeans with one hand, lifting the basket with the other. Both hands wrapped around it like an offering you weren’t sure would be accepted.

“I just wanted to drop this off,” you said. “For you. For Ellie too. It’s just bread and some more cookies. I thought maybe—”

“You don’t have to thank me again,” he said, cutting you off.  “What I did... Anyone would’ve done the same.”

You let out a breath through your nose, a soft sound, half amusement, half disbelief. “That’s not true.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, confused or unconvinced.

“You found me in the snow, barely breathing,” you said.  “You didn’t know me. You could’ve walked away. A lot of people would’ve. In this world... yeah.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, jaw tight, eyes focused on something just over your shoulder.

“I’m not trying to make it into more than it was,” you said, more softly now. “I just needed to say thank you. You saved my life. That means something to me.”

There was a long pause. Joel shifted his weight, then let out another breath— this one heavier, but quieter. He looked at you for a long beat. Then, finally, he nodded. It was so slight you might have missed it if you weren’t paying attention.

“I know,” he said. “And it’s okay. Really.”

Before you could think of how to respond, he stepped forward. His hand reached for the basket, and you instinctively pulled your fingers back so he wouldn’t have to touch you. He took it, eyes flicking briefly to the cloth over the top.

“Thanks for this,” he said. “We’re square. That’s it. You don’t need to come back.”

He turned away and stepped up onto the porch, his boots leaving faint marks on the wooden boards. His back was to you now as he reached for the door. But before opening it fully, he glanced back—just barely.

“Ellie. Inside.”

Ellie looked between the two of you. Her gaze lingered on you for a second, something unsure flickering across her face.

“See you around,” she said, smiling faintly, then she walked past Joel and into the house.

You gave her a small nod, your smile returning like a reflex.

Just before he stepped inside, Joel turned slightly, his profile outlined by the doorway.

“Thanks for the bread,” he said. “And the cookies.”

He disappeared inside, and the door clicked shut behind him.

You stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, long enough to feel the cold pressing in against your coat. Then you turned around, hands now empty, and started back down the path. You walked home.

Jackson dining hall. Four days later. Early morning

The dining hall was already halfway full. Conversations hummed softly around you—people passing mugs back and forth, chairs dragging against the floor, the scrape of metal spoons on ceramic. Outside, the light was still thin and cold.

Maria was seated across from you, her posture confident, comfortable. Her hands were wrapped around a chipped white mug, steam rising gently from her tea.

“I just don’t think you’re quite ready for that kind of thing,” she said, watching you carefully over the rim. “And it’s not about capability, necessarily. It’s about not risking further injury. If you really want to do heavier tasks later, the best thing you can do right now is keep healing.”

You rested your forearms on the table, fingers clasped. “I am healed,” you said. “Really. I feel strong.”

Maria set her mug down with a faint clink. She smiled, not unkindly, but with a kind of tempered amusement.

“All right, but what are you imagining?”

The question lit something inside you—like a switch being flipped. You sat up straighter.

“I’m a fast learner,” you said. “I mean—I don’t know everything, obviously, but I pick things up quickly. I’m not great in the kitchen, but I’m willing to learn. Or I could help at the hospital. I’ve had some first aid training, and I’d be happy to learn more. I could assist Dr. Hale, even if it’s just basic stuff. Triage. Organizing supplies.”

Maria tilted her head slightly, studying you.

“I just don’t want to be idle,” you continued. “I want to contribute. I’ve come out the other side of all this, and I don’t take that lightly. My body’s not perfect, but it’s holding up. I’m good at staying focused. I know how to be useful. And I'm really good following orders.”

As you were speaking, Tommy appeared beside Maria and slid into the chair next to her. He nodded at you in greeting, already catching the thread of the conversation.

“Good at following orders, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest.

You didn’t waver. “Yes. Very good.”

He gave a short laugh, exchanged a look with Maria—something half teasing, half impressed.

“Well,” he said, voice warm but steady. “That’s good to hear. I might have something in mind for you.”

An hour later, you were folowing Tommy.

The building stood tall and unassuming on the outside, like it had been stitched into place with care. It was two stories high, and smelled of sawdust and coffee.

Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you stepped in behind Tommy. Two men passed you near the entrance, one with a clipboard in hand, the other rattling off a list of supplies—nails, paint, tools.

The space downstairs was broad and functional. Three closed doors lined one side, and a narrow staircase climbed the other. You barely had time to take it in before Tommy was already ascending, and you trailed behind him, heart tapping against your ribs—not from the stairs, not really.

The upper hallway was quieter. A couple of the doors were cracked open, and you could hear soft conversations, the rustle of paper, someone laughing faintly behind one of them. You glanced in as you passed, catching glimpses of tools and shelves and people.

At the end of the hall, the last door stood open. Tommy didn’t hesitate. He knocked, three times, sharp and confident against the frame, then stepped inside before any invitation came.

You followed him without thinking. Without preparing yourself.

The room was spacious but spare. A large window covered nearly the entire far wall, framing the outsides of Jackson like a photograph. Through it, you could see the main path leading into town, a stretch of trees, the slope of the road. It looked quiet.

To the left of the room, Tommy had already made his way toward a desk. Your eyes shifted instinctively to the man standing behind it.

“Joel,” Tommy said, and your attention snapped.

He was bent over a wide sheet of what looked like hand-drawn map, the paper creased and worn from use. He wore a thick vest over a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled past his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted faintly with dirt or graphite. There were glasses perched on the bridge of his nose—something about that startled you more than it should have. 

Behind him was a whiteboard, and written in marker across the top were the words "Current Patrol Leads."

At first, he only looked at Tommy. His face lit up briefly in acknowledgment, a short-lived smile curving across his mouth. And then he turned his head toward you.

And the smile vanished.

“What’s wrong?” Joel asked, his voice low.

Tommy grinned a little. “I’m bringing you help.”

Joel’s brow creased immediately. He didn’t glance at you. “Help for what ?”

Tommy tilted his head. “Unless I’ve been hallucinating, you’ve been complaining every other day about how much you’re juggling on your own.”

“Well, you are hallucinating, then,” Joel said flatly.

“She needs work,” Tommy continued, undeterred. “And you need someone. She’s capable, pays attention, follows instructions. I thought the arrangement might make sense.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you trusted your voice. You stood still, fingers curled against your sides, trying not to fidget. Joel’s eyes found you, and the weight of that stare felt like being pressed between two panes of glass. Still, you didn’t look away.

“What exactly is she supposed to do?” he asked, now turning to Tommy again. “She’s not strong enough.”

A flicker of frustration crossed Tommy’s face. He exhaled, slow through his nose, then said, “She’s not here to lift beams. Delegate some of the admin work. Supply logs, shift schedules, volunteer lists. The kind of stuff you keep putting off. She can help organize, maybe join you when you walk the sites, keep things moving.”

Joel scoffed, a dry sound in the back of his throat.

“An assistant?” he asked, like it was a punchline.

Tommy nodded, amused. “That’s one word for it.”

Joel kept his arms crossed. His posture was rigid, but not angry—more like reluctant to entertain an idea he didn’t come up with himself. His eyes didn’t drift back to you. Not yet.

“Joel,” Tommy pressed, softer the name carrying just a thread of insistence.

“Tommy,” he said, imitating his brother's tone.

“Joel,” Tommy said again.

Joel blinked once, as if trying to clear something from his head. “Isn’t there somewhere else she’d be more useful?”

“She could be useful here,” Tommy said, shrugging. “You’ve got too much on your plate and you know it. Let her help, even if it’s just for a while.”

Joel sighed, the sound almost lost beneath the quiet hum of the building. His gaze finally moved—just briefly—to you. And then away again.

He looked at his brother, jaw set like he was chewing the words before letting them out.

“All right,” he said at last. “She can give it a shot. But she’s out the moment this stops working."

Tommy turned to glance at you, the corner of his mouth lifted in something that resembled a smile. “So? What do you think?”

For a moment, you didn’t say anything. The room didn’t feel like yours to speak in. There was a tightness in your chest that made speaking feel like too much effort. It was difficult not to notice the way they had been talking about you—like you were a very complicated favor being negotiated.

“I can work somewhere else,” you said finally, voice soft but clear. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t wait to see their reactions. You turned and headed for the door, your steps measured, not rushed. You barely registered the muffled conversation behind you—Tommy’s voice again, firm.

Your hand brushed against the banister as you descended the stairs, the wood familiar under your fingers. And outside, the air greeted you with a sharp inhale, and you stopped for a second to breathe it in, like it could steady something inside you.

Now that you’d left the room, now that you had space to think, it became painfully obvious that you’d misread everything. Joel hadn’t just been tired that day you showed up at his porch. It hadn’t been a matter of timing. This wasn’t about mood.

It was you.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t want you around. Not at his house. Not at his workplace.

You started walking, unsure where you were headed exactly, only that you needed to keep moving. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone away, but it dulled with each step.

Then you heard someone behind you.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice called out, catching up. You turned to see him approaching.

“Don’t mind Joel,” he said as he reached you, tone lighter than it had been upstairs. “He’s had a rough couple of days.”

“It’s okay,” you said, shaking your head. “Really. I can find something else.”

“He said yes,” Tommy replied simply.

“He didn’t mean it.”

“He’s just—being difficult. That’s all,” Tommy insisted. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

You pressed your lips together, unconvinced. There was too much evidence to the contrary.

Tommy tipped his head toward the building. “Come on. Let me show you around, get you familiar with what you'll be doing.”

And with that, he turned back without waiting for a reply, leaving you with little choice but to follow him.

Back inside, Joel was seated now, the chair creaking faintly under his weight. He looked up when you entered, his expression unreadable. He removed his glasses and set them down beside a notepad.

Tommy gestured toward the empty chair across from Joel’s desk.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Then he looked at Joel directly, something pointed in his expression. “Joel,” he added, like a warning dressed as a goodbye. “See you later.”

You watched him disappear down the hallway. And then, slowly, your eyes returned to Joel.

He looked larger somehow from that angle—seated, yes, but his frame still imposing. His arms rested heavily on the desk in front of him, the fabric of his shirt creasing at the elbows. His shoulders were drawn forward in a way that made him seem both powerful and fatigued. Strands of grey curled behind his ears, his hair unkempt in a way that felt unintentional. His eyes were pretty dark, settled somewhere near yours, but not quite on them.

“You can use the other desk,” he said after a moment, gesturing vaguely behind you with a tilt of his head.

You turned. The desk leaned awkwardly against the wall, cluttered with a mix of papers, boxes, and what looked like layers of dust. It didn’t seem like anyone had touched it in weeks.

You glanced back at him. “You don’t want me here.”

Joel didn’t respond to that. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze shifted to the window beside you.

“You can get set up after we move that stuff,” he said, voice low, almost to himself. “Most of it’s junk. I kept it there thinking I’d want everything within reach while we were working. Guess that didn’t pan out.”

You said nothing. The silence grew between you. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, but after a beat, he glanced your way. There was something questioning in his expression, like he couldn’t quite figure you out—or maybe he just didn’t want to try.

Your hands were folded tightly in your lap. A quiet sigh escaped your nose. You could feel the static in the air between you, that sharp edge of someone growing less patient with every second.

You looked out the window, just to break the contact. He exhaled audibly.

“You should get a feel for the job first—” he started.

“I’ve done this before,” you cut in, meeting his eyes. Your voice was steady, not defensive. Just a fact. “A few years ago. Lists, schedules, checking inventory. I’ve done it.”

He didn’t move. “You don’t know how things work around here.”

“I’ll learn.”

Joel nodded, more to himself than to you. “Good.”

He stood up in one motion, the chair scraping against the floor as it slid back. You watched him cross the room, moving toward the coat rack without any sense of urgency. He grabbed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“I’ll send someone to walk you through how we do things. In the meantime, clear off that desk. Just—don’t throw anything away yet.” His voice was still flat, businesslike. Then he turned slightly at the door, barely looking over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You nodded. “Got it.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t say goodbye. He just opened the door and stepped out, leaving it open behind him.

divider by: omi-resources

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[annabelle-creart]

Do you remember when I told you Boulder has the fault of much of the Multiversal Problems? (I'm looking at you, Bagel, you literally insulted the guy, and Gelu, I still remember that funny reply, because is true)

It actually has its logic, I Promise

All started with Aaravos and Madrake

And yes, it has spoilers of both The Dragon Prince series and Epic (Blue Sky's movie)

You'll see, inside my bitchy weird ass multiversal thing, I have the hc that, yeah, Aaravos died, by fuck sake, but his soul remained, his magic made him able to "travel", why? Because of his essence. All souls, sparks or spirits have the hability to travel through universes, but just some have the actual hability of crossing the ones that materialize their souls, Aaravos did that, and Mandrake did too when he was imprisioned in the tree, they died that day, but they couldn't die, they're not mortals, they're forces of nature

And in fact, Boulder and Heatwave's essences are BY DEFAULT forces of nature:

All essences have three types, spirits, the originals, the powerful, the most pure physical essences; the souls, the mortal ones, the ones that will die and transcend; and the sparks, the artificial ones, they're created and will die with time, who knows if they will transcend, but they can learn, feel and love

Aaravos and Mandrake are the spirits, Boulder and Heatwave are Sparks, other characters like Arrrgh (Trollhunters) and Fink (Wild Robot) are common souls

But only spirits have the strenght on their sparks to do things like "trascend" universes

That's how they ended up in The Garden (watch my @/the-garden-mv blog for more info :D), Aaravos and Mandrake didn't wanted to be just existing, Aaravos was patient but curious, Mandrake is impatient and fearless, they ended up there by accident, and they couldn't go out because they were technically dead

But what has that to do with Boulder and Heatwave?

Boulder and Heatwave are Aaravos and Mandrake's variants, they share essence, and most of Boulder's variants are magical by default

And Boulder's magical variants love to play with their universes' fabrics

Variants as the mage of Adventure Bots have this really deep curious towards how much other things can be done with magic, and one of them is portals and spacial bridges

And Boulder LOVES to play with portals and spacial bridges

Tech is a good resource, and OG Boulder likes to make spacial bridges too, just as the other variants, with magic or tech, that includes the Dino bot from Shattered Glass, the Golem from From Stars and Above, and others

Boulder did the space bridge believing they could get some special things or even make travel shorter

But accidentally, Aaravos at the same time was out of his universe, his essence was unstable, and that unstabilized his variants, and unstable variant creates connections with other variants

Aaravos unstabilized essence made Boulder's variants enough unstable to create magical connections through the multiverse, which manifested through the portals

That's the story of how Boulder's spacial bridge and Aaravos unstable spirit created portals through the multiverse....

And yes, it affects Mandrake's spirit too but his spirit is not enough strong to affect sparks, Aaravos is way stronger than Mandrake in the magical sense, but Mandrake is more clever and has better combat skills (and a perfect aim)

And that's the reason why there's portals everywhere in Griffin Rock all the time, indeed, is Boulder's fault

[ghostlycamil4]

I just had to work up the courage to ask! Can I please have bakugo with a playful reader who loves play wrestling and tickle fights even though bakugo wins most of them and he’s just so smitten with her lion cub personality 🥹

𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜: 𝑊ℎ𝑜’𝑠 𝐿𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑁𝑜𝑤?

omg finally had the time to finish this one!! poor bakugo just wanted a peaceful night but ended up in a tickle war 🕸️ ghostly tag guide

The door shut behind him with a sharp click.

"I'm home," he announced, voice rough and tired. Patrol had been a damn nightmare: long hours walking, sticky heat, civilians crankier than usual. The only thing keeping him going was the thought of seeing you—knowing you were there.

But the silence was absolute.

No music, no sound of your voice calling from the kitchen, no hurried footsteps coming to greet him. He frowned, slowly taking off his boots by the door. His eyes went straight to the coat rack. Your coat was there. And next to it, your bag. He bent down suddenly, a sharp movement, as if looking closer might give him a logical explanation.

And then he saw it.

Your phone. On the dining table.

He moved through the apartment fast, like he was searching for an intruder to rip apart with his bare hands. He opened the bedroom door. Nothing. His eyes scanned every corner like you were gonna magically appear. The bathroom. Empty. The closet. Nothing.

His heart pounded, off-beat, like his chest wasn’t big enough to hold it.

Now he was torn between shouting your name or dialing 911. His hand was already halfway to his back pocket, trembling slightly, when—

A hand.

A damn hand shot out from under the bed and grabbed his ankle.

The scream he let out echoed off the walls. Instinctively, he jumped back, tripped on the edge of the bed, and caught himself on the doorframe before he could fall.

And then—your laugh.

That bright, shrill, mischievous laugh.

You slid out from under the bed, cheeks flushed from laughing and eyes sparkling with trouble. You were laughing with your whole body, bent over, shaking like what just happened was the funniest shit that had ever happened to you.

"You little shit" he yelled, no real bite to his voice, still shaken from the adrenaline spike.

You brought your hands to your face, still trembling with laughter.

"Katsuki! I swear your scream was… was glorious!" you choked out between laughs, trying to pull yourself together. "Are you pale?"

Bakugo didn’t know if he wanted to yell at you, hug you, or strangle you. His jaw was clenched so tight he could barely speak without spitting every word.

"Are you fucking insane? What the hell was that?! I almost called the damn cops!"

"It was just a prank," you shrugged, still wearing that bratty little grin. You bit your lip to stop another laugh, but the way your cheeks twitched gave you away.

"A prank?! I’ll show you a fucking prank!"

Your hands barely had time to press against the mattress before he shoved you down, just forceful enough, making you fall flat on your back on the messy sheets.

"Katsuki!" you protested, your voice going up in pitch, already knowing what was coming.

"Don’t you dare play innocent now," he growled, crawling over you with that dangerous glint in his eyes, a mix of cruel satisfaction and poorly hidden affection.

You scrambled backward awkwardly, trying to crawl away, but he was already straddling your hips—anchored, solid. You weren’t going anywhere.

"No, wait, wait!" you raised your hands in surrender, laughing before he even touched you. "It was a joke! A harmless joke!"

"Harmless, my ass."

Then he struck.

His hands came down like a storm—quick, precise, like he knew exactly where to hit. His fingers dug into your sides, targeting the spot between your ribs and waist with surgical precision.

"NO—NO! Katsuki! You fucki—AHAHAH!"

Your body snapped like a spring. You kicked, squirmed, tried using your hands to push him away, but it was like trying to move a boulder. He stayed on top of you effortlessly, legs locking you in place, while his expression grew more and more satisfied.

"Real funny, huh? Not so hilarious now, is it?"

"Stop! Please!" you screamed between gasps, voice cracking from the nonstop laughter, eyes brimming with tears. "I’m gonna pee myself!"

That only seemed to motivate him more.

His hands slid up your sides, switching pace, letting you breathe for half a second—just enough to trap you again. Your back arched, your fists hit him with no strength, and he just kept going, relentless.

"Fuck you…" you muttered through laughter, unable to even fake being serious.

"What was that?" he raised a brow.

Then he went down.

No warning. No time to prepare. He dipped his face into the curve of your neck. First came the heat of his breath, a soft exhale brushing over your most sensitive skin. Then his lips. His mouth. Not a kiss. Not a bite.

Tickles.

With his mouth.

"No! Not there! Katsuki, please!"

You thrashed like you were being electrocuted. Your legs slammed into the mattress, your hands tried to push him by the shoulders, but he had you exactly where he wanted. His lips brushed your neck as he blew gently, then pressed the tip of his nose right into the hollow under your ear. Sometimes he made a little sound against your skin, a ptchh with his mouth that drove you insane.

"What? Here?" he murmured in that low, gravelly voice, just before making you dissolve into laughter again, switching sides—this time just below your collarbone.

"I HATE YOU!"

"Liar," he whispered, and his lips touched your skin slower now, no tickling this time, just staying there… breathing with you.

You were panting, cheeks hot, eyes closed, a smile of surrender stretched across your lips. He lifted his head a bit, looked down at you, and let out a low, raspy laugh—like he couldn’t believe how stupid he felt… how fucking happy he was.

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

[fierykitten2]

Since I now group Ayumi in with Robert, the Proto Beasts and Neo Swords as my most wanted fighters, she’s in “does not have the ability to play god, has never considered playing god”

I had a meme I wanted to make this morning but I couldn’t find the right template so you get this mess instead (me making the meme template myself instead of finding one online). Here is “would my favourite (headcanon) Smash friendship group plus the guys I want in Smash play God” feat Falcon, Samus, Fox, Mewtwo, Lucario, Robert, the Proto Beasts and the Neo Swords

I decided I would scale everyone the same based on how tall the pngs were which results in some unusual height discrepancies, probably the most unusual one being (best F-Zero racer) Robert being the same height as (best Pokémon) Iron Leaves (bare in mind the average Iron Leaves is 1.5 metres aka 4’11” and a demo version of GX listed Falcon’s height as 1.9 metres aka (approximately) 6’3” (I’ll be honest up to a point I prefer to measure height in feet and inches so I only memorised Falcon’s height in feet and inches I just made the corrections after visiting the F-Zero Facts wiki. Only reason I know Leaves’s height in both systems is because I realised its exactly 2 metres shorter than Wake and at some point I discovered it’s the same height as Meowscarada, Delphox and Armarouge, all of which I know are 4’11”) plus Falcon and Robert tend to be around the same height, even SNES-era when Pico and Goroh were much smaller. Admittedly height isn’t very consistent in F-Zero, GX shows Goroh is taller than Falcon but if I trust that demo information Goroh should still be shorter than Falcon. Also that demo listed everyone as a year older than they actually are in GX so it’s probably not supposed to be taken seriously. I still like the idea of having a debatably-canon height for Falcon if anyone knows what that demos says about Robert’s height I’m interested hang on I found a link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BVaN9gi9BTk&t=476s it’s at 8:18 but I can’t read anything about a height and don’t even know if that information is on there (if this part sounds rushed, tumblr reloaded twice and both times it went back to “debatably-canon” and I had to start again just because I dared to be interested in the F-Zero Facts Wiki. I’m now taking steps to avoid that problem by saving this as a draft every so often) hang on, I don’t think it mentions his height bc I’ve seen where it’s supposed to be from Goroh and Falcon’s fact files but Robert’s one is shorter)

To explain the second and third tiers, Samus and Fire’s tier means they can’t play God because they lack anything like Falcon’s belt, Robert’s medical knowledge and Mewtwo and the Neo Swords’ psychic abilities but would willingly play God if given the chance and means to do it while Crown’s tier means it can play God it just thinks sometimes it’s best to let nature take its course (ironically for a robot and not even the Grass-type of its trio, in fact it’s the Steel-type. If anything it’s the least natural (okay given Cobalion is also part Steel that part’s probably not true))

Yeah I think Leaves and Boulder are both quite impulsive just in different ways (Leaves in a “manic pixie dream girl” way and Boulder in a “tough guy” way, both gender-neutral. Fun fact, I made another meme about these twelve where I called Leaves a manic pixie dream girl but the post never made it out because I didn’t like my way of pointing out for some of the categories I didn’t take the entire category seriously, just the core details (specifically Leaves being female being implied by “manic pixie dream girl” and Falcon and Robert implied to be parents by “big titty dilf”. I’m less defensive against the whole Falcon and Robert being parents thing because I accept it is possible especially if you believe that Kent isn’t just doing it for attention and given how mysterious the Maximum Velocity gang is, I think he’s just doing it for attention. Speaking of the Maximum Velocity gang being mysterious, they should meet some Paradox Pokémon. Anyway I take the whole “genderless/gender unknown” category of Pokémon a lot more seriously than I should (I’m still calling Cosmog’s line and the Hero Duo genderless even though their Pokédex entries suggest Lunala and Zacian are female and Solgaleo and Zamazenta are male) and especially given Virizion is also listed as genderless (again in a sort of “we don’t have the means to study this Pokémon” way) I can’t see Leaves as anything other than genderless)) and they’d both be ready to play God if they felt like it. Leaves is literally a Grass-type it has an advantage here (uhh, in playing God. I swear I didn’t start a random conversation with myself resulting in me talking about who would win between Leaves and Boulder. That kind of stuff happens irl, it doesn’t happen in my posts)

[wonderlandwalker]

Hell hath no fury like a Buckley pt. II

𝐩𝐭. 𝐈 / 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 / 𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐈𝐈?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x buckley!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.8k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Steve’s patience is legendary (in his own mind). Too bad reality keeps rudely disagreeing. Spoiler: He’s about to lose it. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff, some hints to smut, robin who keeps interupting, later actual smut, me being a mythology nerd again

𝐚/𝐧: used scene cuts instead of transitions because I couldn't be bothered apparently, prolly a lot of repetitive synonyms I should fix but again apparently can't be bothered to. basically it's a bit of a mess but it's a bit of a mess I made with love. I might have had a bit of a mental meltdown, it's kingsday, I'm trying my best

Later was a fucking myth.

Not the cool kind—with dragons and sword fights and glory. No, this was the cruel kind.

The kind where Sisyphus wakes up every goddamn morning thinking, ‘Maybe today the boulder stays at the top,’ only to watch it roll back down again. 

The kind of hope that survives solely because no one’s brave enough to strangle it.

Everything started the night of the fucking party itself.

Because for one fleeting, blissful hour, he’d almost—almost—convinced himself he could forget. The way your mouth had felt against his in that dim bathroom light—hot and hungry, teeth scraping his lower lip like you were marking him, claiming him. The way your lips had brushed his skin afterwards, tender in a way that wrecked him more than the bruising grip of your hands ever could. But then—

His fingers brushed yours as he passed you a drink. A graze. A spark. And suddenly, the world narrowed to that single point of contact, to the electric current that shot up his arm and straight to his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Because it wasn’t just a touch. It was a revelation. A reminder that he’d been lying to himself. That no amount of pretending could erase the way your body had arched into his, the way your breath had stuttered against his mouth when he’d pinned you against the sink.

And you knew it.

He could see it in the way your eyes flickered to his, in the way your lips parted just slightly. You knew, and you were letting him drown in it, in the way his fingers trembled around his glass, in the way his chest rose and fell like he’d been running.

“Ahem.”

Robin cleared her throat like she’d caught him mid-sacrilege, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline, Steve jerked back like he’d been burnt, his drink sloshing precariously in his grip. “You two are disgusting,” Robin announced, her voice flat, and his jaw clenched. “We’re not doing anything.” The words came out rough, frayed at the edges—less of a defence and more of a confession: We’re not. But Christ, I want to.

Robin threw her hands up like she was appealing to an invisible jury. “Exactly!” Her voice pitched higher. “And yet it’s still too much! I mean, look at you!”  She jabbed a finger at Steve, who stood frozen, caught between guilt and longing, like some tragic, lovesick monument to poor self-control. “Harrington looks like he’s two seconds away from either proposing or spontaneously—”

Your teeth caught your lower lip, Steve’s gaze snagged on the motion, it's knowing, vicious—and just like that, Robin’s tirade dissolved into meaningless static. Because that look? That wasn’t just a smile. That was a promise.

So he let it go.

Let Robin rant; let her seethe.

Let her mutter something about “emotional damage” as she stormed off, because none of it mattered. Not when you were looking at him like that.

He could wait a little while.

Right?

He offered to drive you home as the party came to an end—obviously—because he was raised with manners. Because letting you walk alone at night would simply be irresponsible. Because the thought of you in his passenger seat—his fingers itching to bridge that impossible six-inch gap between the gearshift and your thighs—was the only thing that made the last hour of Robin's pointed coughing fits bearable.

He'd played the role perfectly: attentive but not eager, close but not crowding. The model of whatever-the-hell you were supposed to be now. Steve gripped the wheel like it might steady him, knuckles matching the pale dashboard. He'd been good. Patient. Certain Robin's campaign of terror would lose steam by sunrise when she realised her best friend's happiness mattered more than her flair for dramatic interruptions.

Right?

Because when he'd pulled up to your house that night, he had practically launched himself from the driver's seat to open your door like some over-eager Prince Charming, and Robin had just... blinked. No dramatic gasp. No sarcastic commentary about his pathetic display of chivalry. Just a slow, considering roll of her eyes like someone who'd seen this train wreck coming from miles away, before turning on her heel and disappearing inside.

So yeah, Steve had gone to bed that night with a dopey smile still plastered across his face, half-convinced Robin's silence meant reluctant acceptance, maybe even approval.

He should have known better.

Another day had slipped through his fingers in a sun-drunk haze of laughter and lukewarm beers, Eddie’s voice a distant hum in his ear about— Christ, he didn’t even know. Not after you’d peeled off your clothes in one effortless motion, tossing them onto the dock before diving into the water. Not after the sunlight had shattered against the lake’s surface just to worship you, turning every droplet on your skin into liquid gold.

Steve was pretty sure Eddie had been talking about dragons. Or dungeons. Or possibly the existential dread of minimum wage monotony —hell, it could’ve been a manifesto on the meaning of life for all he knew.

It didn’t matter. 

Nothing did.

Not when you were hauling yourself back onto the wooden pier, water falling off your body as you wrung out your hair with both hands, shaking it loose like some kind of mystic siren emerging from the depths, and he suddenly understood why ancient sailors crashed their ships against rocks.

He wondered if you knew.

If you noticed the way his gaze tracked your every movement like a man staring into the sun—knowing it would ruin him, but unable to look away.

If you enjoyed it, the way you’d caught him staring earlier as you stretched out on your towel, the straps of your swimsuit digging into the soft give of your shoulders as you arched your back—fuck—like a cat luxuriating in a sunbeam. He’d nearly choked on his own tongue, his beer bottle slipping through his fingers before Dustin snatched it with an exasperated, "Dude, what is your problem?"

But most of all, he wondered if you regretted that night at the party. If it had been nothing more than a drunken lapse in judgement, a moment of weakness you’d rather forget, and you were just too kind to say it.

Or maybe—

Maybe you felt it too. That electric, unspoken thing that crackled between you every time your knees brushed under the picnic table, every time you leaned in to murmur something just for him, your breath hot against his ear, your lips almost grazing his skin. Maybe you lay awake at night, replaying the same moments he does—his hands on your waist, your teeth at his lip, the way you’d gasped when he—

Yeah.

He was so fucking fucked.

It takes him another goddamn day to get you to himself again. The sun had begun its slow bleed into the horizon, staining the sky in hues of bruised purple, the summer air hanging thick between you, heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and the distant, drowsy drone of cicadas. Then—then—as you turned your head to find him already watching. His gaze dropping to your lips like he’d built them a temple in his mind, worshipping them with every stolen glance, his eyes holding that particular brand of devotion usually reserved for holy relics and half-court shots, as if even the act of blinking felt like treachery against the sacred privilege of watching you.

Then, you leaned in.

Slow.

Testing.

Close enough to watch his pupils blow wide. Close enough to feel his breath stutter against your mouth, warm and uneven. Close enough to—

"Don't mind me." Robin wedged herself between you like it was her assigned seat, the wooden steps groaning in protest beneath her. "Just enjoying this lovely summer afternoon," she chirped, her grin all malicious delight. "And by 'lovely', I, of course, mean physically painful to witness."

Steve's head dropped forward with a groan so guttural it might have been comical—if not for the way his fingers were currently attempting to fracture his own kneecaps, the veins in his forearms standing out like he was physically restraining himself from either screaming into the void or tossing his best friend into Lover's Lake. "Robin," he gritted out, voice fraying at the edges, "I swear to—"

"What?" She pivoted sharply, hand flapping between you like a malfunctioning windscreen wiper. "You'll what? Finally put us all out of our misery and end this"—she mimed an explosion with her hands—"three-day-long foreplay session? Because let me tell you, at this rate I'd genuinely rather—"

"Okay!" Steve barked, loud enough to startle a nearby crow into flight. His ears burnt scarlet, hand snapping back from your waist, and Robin smirked, hauling herself up with the triumphant air of someone who'd just single-handedly prevented a nuclear meltdown. "You're welcome," she stage-whispers to you, dusting off her jeans with exaggerated care before sauntering away, leaving only the faint scent of her shampoo and emotional devastation in her wake.

Steve stared blankly at the space she'd vacated, his jaw working like he was mentally composing his own obituary. You bite your lip to stifle a laugh as he tips his head back toward the darkening sky—either praying for patience or for the earth to swallow him whole—before his gaze slides back to you.

And this time, you're already watching him. Head tilted in that dangerous, familiar way—the same angle Robin struck right before dropping a truth bomb that levelled entire friend groups. The same tilt you'd worn seconds before your lips crashed into his. "Got something for you."

Your voice cuts through the air, yanking Steve out of his spiral of self-loathing and directly into a new, more dangerous one: You got him something?

Fuck. He hadn’t gotten you shit. Not flowers, not candy, not even a half-assed postcard from the Gas ‘n’ Sip—just a mountain of unresolved sexual tension and a concerning number of daydreams involving you, the backseat of his car, and significantly less clothing.

But then you rummage through your bag, pulling out a cassette tape. The label is blank. No track list. No heart doodles. Just the ghost of your fingerprints on the plastic case.

Is it a mixtape?

The thought sends a jolt through him. Mixtapes aren’t casual. Mixtapes are declarations. Mixtapes are the kind of thing you spend hours agonising over, second-guessing every song choice because what if they don’t get it? What if they don’t hear the things you can’t say out loud—

“Are you gonna take it or what?” You wave the tape in front of his face, and Steve snatches it a little too eagerly, his fingers brushing yours just long enough to make your smirk widen. “What’s on it?” he asks, voice rough.

You flash him that look again—the one that said he wasn't a participant in this game but a bystander. “Just a promise I made you.”

The drive home is torture. Every red light stretches into a personal hell, every stop sign a cosmic joke.

Why the fuck didn’t he leave his Walkman in the car like usual? But nooo—this time, he’d actually cleaned the damn thing thinking you’d notice.

He parks crooked in the driveway, tires screeching against the curb, barely kills the engine before he’s out of the car. The house is empty, thank fuck, no parents to witness their son taking the stairs two at a time like the hounds of hell are on his heels.

The Walkman is buried under a landslide of junk in his desk drawer—old mixtapes labelled in Robin’s messy scrawl, loose batteries that may or may not be dead, and a condom wrapper he swears he didn’t leave there. His fingers close around the familiar plastic, the weight of it suddenly heavier than he remembers. And for one paralysing second—thumb hovering over play—Steve feels terrified. What if it’s nothing? What if it’s everything?

The cassette clicks into place.

He presses play.

Silence. A vacuum of sound so complete Steve can hear his own pulse roaring in his ears. The kind of silence that comes before lightning strikes, before car crashes, before the world splits open and nothing is ever the same again.

Then—

A hiss of tape.

Static crackling.

The faintest hitch of breath—your breath.

Your voice.

Not the one you use when you tease him by the pool, lazy and sun-warmed. Not the one that laughs at his shitty jokes with an eye roll he can feel. Not even the whisper you reserve for when he's close enough to count your eyelashes.

A gasp fractures the silence – raw, unfiltered, and obscene. A moan follows, punched-out, and Steve's stomach plummets straight through the floorboards.

Holy fucking shit.

Your breath stutters in time with the unmistakable sound of skin on skin—his traitorous brain helpfully supplies the images in brutal HD: the way your thighs would fall open, the flush crawling up your chest, your fingers working in frantic circles.

A choked-off whimper.

The creak of bedsprings.

The slick, filthy noise of you fucking yourself—

"Steve—"

His name spills from your lips like a sacrament, like a damnation, syllables trembling at the edges like you’re coming apart just from the thought of him, and—

Christ.

He rips the headphones off like they've electrocuted him, but it's too late. The damage is done.

Your voice echoes in the hollow of his skull, in the marrow of his bones, in the aching throb of his cock straining against denim. He grips the edge of his desk until the wood creaks under his palms, trying and failing to unhear the way your voice shattered around his name—

Fuck.

Fuck.

The numbers on his alarm clock bleed together in the dark,

2:37 AM;

3:12;

4:49;

Each minute stretching into eternity as he lies there, wired and restless.

Sleep might as well be some distant continent he'll never visit again. Not when every time his eyelids grow heavy, his body betrays him with perfect recall, the memory plays mercilessly behind his closed eyes: your lips parting on a silent gasp as he leaned in, the way your breath hitched when his fingers found bare skin. How, for one crystalline moment suspended between heartbeats, he'd never been more certain of anything.

And then there's the goddamn tape.

It sits on his nightstand like some sacred relic and cursed object all at once, the plastic casing still warm from how often he's turned it over in his hands. He'd lasted exactly twenty-three seconds—just long enough to hear your breathy sighs and the rustle of sheets—before slamming the stop button.

He can imagine all he wants—the way your muscles might twitch under his touch, how your back would arch when he finally— 

Fuck.

He needs to see it. Needs to see the exact shade of pink that blooms across your chest when you're flustered. Needs to catalogue every micro-expression that crosses your face when he—

The ceiling fan creaks above him, its lazy rotations doing nothing to cool the restless energy under his skin. Steve Harrington — brought to his knees by a cassette and what-ifs. 

He debates his next move like a general strategising for war:

Option One: Throw caution to the wind. March up to your front door, push you against it, kiss you again—properly, this time—no hesitation, no interruptions. Just his hand on the back of your neck, your chest flush against his, and finally —finally— discovering if you taste as good as you sound on that godforsaken tape. Consequences and Robin’s inevitable shriek of horror to be damned.

But what if you push him away? What if he's misread everything?

Option Two: Play it cool. Wait for you to make another move, to give him some undeniable sign that this isn't just some one-sided fantasy cooked up by his sleep-deprived brain.

But what if you're waiting for the same from him? What if you both end up stuck in this purgatory of almosts and not-quites?

Option Three: Seek counsel from the devil herself. Ask Robin for advice and resign himself to a lifetime of mockery and possibly a commemorative plaque titled "World's Most Desperate Man".

He snorts, dragging a hand down his face. That's not happening.

At 5:27 AM, he makes a decision.

The bouquet of zinnias and baby's breath sits on his car hood like an indictment; he should've gone with something edgier. A single rose, maybe. Or just shown up shirtless with a six-pack like a normal person.

But the clock's ticking.

He grabs the flowers and forces his legs to carry him up your walkway. 

The doorbell's chime might as well be a gong announcing his impending doom. What if you're not home? What if Robin answers instead? What if you take one look at him and his sad floral peace offering and just— 

The door swings open. Time stops. There you are, leaning against the frame like you've been counting the minutes since he left last night, like you knew exactly when he'd crack. That sundress—the pale yellow one with tiny white embroidered flowers that clings to your hips like it was personally commissioned by God to test Steve Harrington's self-control—should be classified as a lethal weapon in at least five states.

"Well," you drawl, eyes dancing over his dishevelled state. "This is a surprise."

Steve's brain whites, all higher functions crashing. "I was, uh—" His throat clicks like a jammed record. Some distant, rational part of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Robin yells: Focus, Harrington! So he thrusts the bouquet forward like it's a live grenade. "Wondering if you'd want to go out with me."

You blink at the flowers, then back at him, that damn smirk playing at your lips. "If I want to go out with you?" Oh God, abort mission— 

"On a date," he blurts, voice cracking. Smooth. "Like. Dinner. Or a movie. Or—fuck, I don't know, mini-golf?" Mini-golf? 

The window above you explodes open with enough force to rattle the frames. "OH MY GOD," Robin's voice shrieks like a banshee, her head popping into view. "Dingus, if you stammer any longer, I'm invoking my best friend veto. This— "She karate chops the air between you two so violently Steve instinctively flinches “—is a hostile work environment for me." Steve's left eye develops a concerning twitch. "We're not at work, Robin."

"It feels like work!" she wails, draping herself dramatically over the windowsill. "The emotional labour of watching you two eye-fuck?  Unpaid overtime!" She fake-sobs into her hands. "I need hazard pay! And possibly witness protection!"

You laugh — that bright, unfiltered sound that does dangerous things to Steve's circulatory system—and suddenly the flowers, Robin's theatrics, and even his own bone-deep embarrassment all fade into background noise. There's just you, smiling at him like he's something special, like maybe this is exactly what you’ve been waiting for. You tilt your head as your eyes spark with mischief. "Do I get that mini-golf date or not, Harrington?"

He spends the entire next day tearing through his closet like a man possessed, as if some divine intervention might suddenly produce a garment bag labelled: Outfit That Screams Casual First Date But Also Low-Key Says I’d Follow You Into Hell If You Asked.

He rejects: the navy polo—too "meeting your parents"; the leather jacket—too "trying too hard"; the stupid fucking Hawaiian shirt Eddie got him as a joke—actually, no. That one was never an option.

By the time he settles on light jeans and a soft grey Henley—rolled-up sleeves, one button undone, hair perfectly imperfect—he’s worked himself into such a state that it’s a miracle he didn't drive his Beemer straight into Lover’s Lake on the way to pick you up. You slide into the passenger seat, all golden warmth and that fucking perfume that's been haunting his dreams with the tenacity of a poltergeist, and suddenly he forgets how lungs are supposed to function.

You smile at him — that slow curve of lips that says you're fully aware of the devastation you're causing— and Steve's brain promptly abandons ship. His mouth, the traitorous bastard, keeps working without supervision: "Turns out the closest mini-golf place is, like, a fifty-minute drive," he blurts. "We can still go—we can definitely still go—but, uh, if you wanted to do something else, we could—maybe—I don't know—"

"Steve—" His head swivels so fast he's lucky his spine doesn't snap. The seatbelt locks with an audible click, which feels vaguely humiliating. "Let's go to your place."

Error 404: Steve Harrington.exe has stopped responding.

His heart flatlines.

His palms go damp.

The entire universe narrows to microscopic focus: the way your teeth worry your bottom lip, the faintest blush creeping up your neck like a slow sunrise. Some distant part of his mind registers that he should probably breathe at some point. "Unless your parents are home," you add quickly, eyes flickering down. Suddenly uncertain. Suddenly vulnerable in a way that cracks Steve's chest wide open. "Or you don't want to." And just like that, his system reboots. "No! I mean—yes! I mean—" He exhales, shaky, running a hand through hair that's already hopelessly dishevelled. "That sounds nice. Maybe we could pick up some Thai food on the way?" Your nose scrunches in immediate, visceral disgust, and it's the most adorable thing Steve's ever witnessed. "Absolutely not. It's Chinese food or I'm leaving."

And just like that—under his hopelessly adoring gaze—you're you again, all sharp edges and soft laughter. The nerves evaporate from his system like morning fog burnt away by the sun.

It's easy.

It's simple.

It's everything and nothing all at once.

And now the dining room is bathed in warm light, the kind that makes everything feel softer, more intimate.

You’re drinking the overpriced wine he "borrowed" from his parents’ cellar, presenting it to you with the second-hand expertise of a man who’s absorbed exactly one wine tasting seminar by sheer osmosis.  Steve holds it with the reverence of a man who doesn’t quite know what he’s doing but is determined to look like he does; he swirls it, smells it, and—after a theatrical pause—lifts it to his lips.

"Notes of…uh—" He squints, as if the answer might materialise in the wine. "Grapes. Definitely grapes."

The laugh that escapes you is bright, and you press your hand to your mouth like you’re trying to smother it. His chest tightens, his ribs suddenly too small for the way his heart swells. He cannot help but watch as the dim light flickers in your eyes. "I was thinking," he starts, voice low, fingers tracing the stem of his glass and you tilt your head, lips curving. "Hmm?"

"Since you got to choose dinner…"

Your grin widens. "Yes?"

He leans in, just slightly, close enough that he can see the way your breath catches. "...I get to choose dessert."

Your eyebrows lift up.

His stomach drops.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

"Shit—I didn’t—" he groans, dropping his face into his hands. "I meant the ice cream maker," A crimson flush travels up his neck. "We have this stupid fucking ice cream maker, and I wanted to—Christ, I’m terrible at this." But then your fingers find his jaw, tilting his face up. Your touch is grounding, and when he finally meets your gaze, you’re looking at him with something unbearably fond. "I know what you meant," you murmur, thumb brushing over his pulse point. "But for the record?" You lean in, close enough that he can feel your breath against his lips. "I like both options."

For one agonising moment, he waits. Waits for Robin to kick the door in, for the phone to ring, for the universe to rip you away like it always does. But nothing comes. So he closes the distance.

The taste of you—cherry gum and Riesling—is dizzying. Addicting. Perfect. And every doubt evaporates. Certainty slots into place, a puzzle piece he’s been searching for all this time. His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your neck as he kisses you, savouring the way your breath hitches when he tugs just enough to tilt your head back—until you’re arching into him with a gasp that goes straight to his dick.

He’s not hesitant anymore.

He's determined.

His free hand skates up your thigh where the fabric gives way to fever-warm skin. Every inch higher is a revelation written in scripture only he can read: the soft crease of your hip that makes you arch when he brushes it, the violent shudder that wracks your body when his thumb finds the lace edge of your underwear and strokes past it once. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs against the swell of your breast, lips dragging damp heat across flushed skin. His voice is rough enough to scar, the words vibrating through you like a struck chord.

The contradiction of it—his hands saying "mine" while his mouth offers a way out—makes your pulse stutter wildly under his touch. But you don't tell him to stop. You moan his name instead, and something primal in him finally fucking snaps.

His hand fists in the fabric at your hips, hiking your dress up. He drops to his knees like a man starved for communion, the hardwood biting through his jeans as he drags you to the very edge of the chair. The first swipe of his tongue is a revelation—hot and wicked and perfect—and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively, heels digging into the small of his back as you gasp. He groans, the sound filthy and low, vibrating against you as your fingers knot in his hair hard enough to hurt. He likes it—the sharp sting, the way you hold him exactly where you want him, the helpless little noises you make when he sucks just there—

He stands so fast the chair screeches against the floor, nearly toppling. You whimper at the sudden loss, lips parting to protest, but he's already hauling you up by the thighs. With one sweeping arm, he clears the table—glasses shattering, plates clattering. The polished wood is cold against your back when he lays you down, but his mouth is already back on you like he's been granted a single taste of salvation and intends to make it last forever.

His hands are everywhere—roaming, memorising. He licks into you like he's trying to learn you by taste alone, each desperate sound you make another stitch unravelling in his self-control. When your hips jerk up against his mouth, he pins you down with a forearm across your stomach. "Steve—" you choke out, back arching off the table.

He lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze, lips glistening, pupils blown black with want. "Yeah, sweetheart?" His hand digs into the soft swell of your ass, kneading hard enough to pull a gasp from your lips, and Christ, the way your muscles jump under his touch is going to haunt him for the rest of his goddamn life. His fingers slip lower, teasing, and when he finally pushes one inside, your eyes flutter open—wide and dark and only for him—before drifting shut again as he crooks it just right. But God—

It’s not enough.

He's fucking ravenous—a man possessed, a sinner on his knees, drunk on the punched-out whimper you make when his teeth graze your clit. Every sound you give him, every shudder, every desperate roll of your hips against his tongue just feeds the hunger, making it gnaw sharper at his ribs until he’s certain he’ll die if he doesn’t ruin you in every way imaginable. So he lifts you up again, and your legs lock around his waist, fingers tangling in his hair, your lips tracing his skin with filthy promises and sweeter vows.

He carries you to his bed like a man on a holy fucking crusade—shoulder clipping the doorframe hard enough to bruise, hip smashing into the hallway table with a crash that sends some forgotten heirloom —a vase? a statue? something his mother will interrogate him about later— tumbling to the floor. His shin connects with that goddamn antique trunk, pain flaring bright and sudden, but it barely registers.

He doesn’t care.

Couldn’t possibly care.

Not when you’re rolling against him like that, not when your teeth are at his pulse like you want to drink him whole, not when every ragged, punched-out breath you take is his name, his doing, his to devour. The world could be burning down, and he wouldn’t notice—not when you’re here, not when you’re his, not when—

Finally, you’re beneath him on the mattress, and Christ, he’s exactly where he wants to be. He’s made it to fucking Bethlehem. He worships you like a dying man at his last confession, like every taste could absolve him of every sin he’s ever committed. His hands bracket your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you down as you squirm, as your fingers twist in his hair again hard enough to make his dick throb. The groan it pulls from him vibrates through you, and fuck, the way you writhe at the sensation—

"That’s it," he murmurs, lifting just enough to watch your face contort—eyelids fluttering, lips parted. "Being so fucking good for me." His tongue drags a slow, filthy stripe over your clit. "Please—" It’s barely more than a whimper, your entire body trembling with the effort of holding back. And fuck—

Who is he to deny you?

He doesn’t think he’s capable of the fact. Not when you look like this—wrecked and wanting, your skin slick with sweat, your chest rising and falling. His teeth find the soft skin of your inner thigh, biting just hard enough to make you jerk up into him. "Cum for me," he growls against your skin, the command rough with want, with need, with something dangerously close to consecration. And when you do—when your hips stutter and his name tears from your throat—he thinks, distantly, that he gets it now.

That he understands Sisyphus

Some things—the salt-sweet taste of you on his tongue; the way you clench around his fingers like you're trying to keep him there forever; the broken way you gasp his name like it's the only word you remember— are fucking worth eternal damnation.

He lingers, drinking it in. He could spend perpetuity like this, unravelling you piece by piece, learning the cadence of your gasps, the rhythm of your pulse beneath his tongue, the spasms of your chest as your breath steadies. He really fucking could.

But at the same time—

He still wants more of you.

His hips stutter forward that next inch before he means to, his composure cracking like thin ice under the sheer, overwhelming rightness of it.

Holy.

Fucking—

—Fuck.

It's just the head of his cock inside you, but you clamp around him like a vice, like you're terrified he'll disappear. As if he could ever walk away from this—from you. A groan tears from his throat, his forehead dropping to yours as he struggles to breathe. His hands—usually so sure, so steady—shake where they grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin there.

"Jesus," he grits out, voice wrecked. "You—fuck—you feel—"  But language fails him, because how the hell is he supposed to describe this? The way you take him, like you were made for it. And when you clench around him again, when your legs lock around his waist to pull him deeper— he has to bite his own tongue hard enough to taste copper to keep from unravelling completely. Because if he doesn’t get a fucking grip, this’ll be over before it’s even really begun, and that would be a goddamn tragedy.

He wants to defile you properly—wants to catalogue every broken sound you can make, every way your body trembles beneath his. So he slows down, even though it fucking kills him, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in with measured thrusts. His hands find yours, fingers intertwining as he pins them down, using the leverage to angle himself deeper, harder, until you’re moaning like it’s prayer, like it’s absolution, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this earth. "Look at me," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, and when your eyes meet his—dark and hazy and pleading, pupils blown so wide he can barely make out the colour—he knows he would do anything to keep this—to keep you. 

He would find a way to lasso the fucking moon if you asked.

Would dive off a cliff after you without a second thought.

Would push that fucking boulder up the hill forever.

[magical-regical]

Put Your Hand In Mine

Leona Kingscholar x gn!Yuu

Word count: 576

Leona with an s/o who just loves to hold and be held. Hugs him every chance they get and they especially love holding his hand.

The two of them were in the greenhouse one day, Leona using their lap as a pillow, as he tends to do, when they reach for one of his hands. They slip a finger underneath his glove and thought they felt his body stiffen. They look down but the lion still seemed to be fast asleep so of course they kept going, slowly taking of his glove.

The hand hiding under the glove was rough and had calluses on the base of its fingers from long hours of spelldrive practice. Among the usual palm creases everyone has, Leona's palm also had several small, faded scars on it. To them, the scars resembled the nail marks from a fist clenching a little too hard. The thought left a pang of sadness in their chest. They pressed a kiss to his palm.

Suddenly his hand moved to cup their cheek. They look down to see Leona wide awake, looking at them with a softness in his eyes.

"Having fun, sunshine?" He asked.

Yuu nodded, nuzzling into his hand.

He got up and pulled them on to his lap, giving them full access to both his hands. They wasted no time pulling off his other glove and fiddling with his other hand. They seemed to find an immeasurable amount of joy just by tracing the lines on his palms.

"You're really not ticklish huh?" they muttered, "Why do you wear gloves anyway? Is it a house warden thing?"

He shrugged, "It's just a habit I picked up at some point. I can't remember when I started."

That was an obvious lie. He remembered very clearly the day he received his first pair of gloves. It was a few days after he awakened his unique magic.

Yuu seemed to realize that as well but decided not to push him, turning their attention back to his hands and pressing a kiss on to his knuckles.

"You should wear your gloves less. I want to hold your hand. Actually hold your hand."

"I'll think about it."

He buried his head in their hair, taking a long sniff. Their scent was familiar, grounding. It helped calm the storm of thoughts that whirled in his head, hidden beneath his lazy demeanor.

His mother had told him the gloves were there to protect him. It made some sense at the time, when he didn't have good control over his UM but overtime they became more of a placebo for everyone else. People started flinching away every time he reached out to grab something or tap someone without them on.

'As if a thin layer of leather could stop me.'

The person in his arms was so much smaller and softer than he was but they've always forged ahead with a mysterious, unrelenting drive. That same drive had pulled him out from under the boulder that trapped him and through every kind of absurd, sometimes life-threatening, incident that could possibly happen in the span of a year. Through it all, not once did their hand let go of his.

Now here they were, humming a tune he didn't recognise as they pressed a kiss to each of his fingers before measuring them against their own (theirs were an entire joint shorter). Utterly unbothered.

'What an amusing fool you are.' he thought as he rested his chin on their shoulder and closed his eyes, making a mental note to keep his gloves off whenever they were alone.

[madrone33]

Number 1 Rule of adapting the Odyssey into EPIC is: if it can be more dramatic, it will be more dramatic.

The Greeks decide to throw the infant Trojan prince from the walls because they're scared he'll try to avenge his family? No, Zeus comes down to personally give Odysseus a vision of being killed and says his family WILL die. Kill the baby that reminds you of your son right now, it's the gods will.

Odysseus goes to greet the inhabitants of an island and gets trapped in a cave for two days by the cyclops that's eating his men one by one? Nope, we got BOSS BATTLE 30v1 in the Ithacans' favour until BAM fourteen pancakes are made by Polyphemus' club and oh shit Polites is DEAD-

Athena is just vaugely absent for the whole journey until the end? We got emotionally charged platonic breakups instead, with yelling and insults and "well I'm breaking up with you FIRST!"

Smooth sailing to Ithaca? STOOOORM-

Odysseus' great-great-great-grandfather giving him a speed boost to help him on his way home? Get ready for trickster wind gods, mischievous winions, and a game that was rigged from the start.

Random-ass suspicious and greedy crew mates open the bag? It's Eurylochus, his second in command, his brother-in-law, the man he trusted, Eurylochus WHYYY

Parking in the wrong harbour and getting boulders thrown at the fleet by angry man-eating giants while Odysseus backs away veeery slowly? Nah Poseidon himself pulls up to dunk on them, and Odysseus has to make a last minute getaway using the power of STOOORM to avoid being curbstomped like his fleet.

Odysseus gets some stronger drugs from a god to make him immune to the other drugs of a goddess? Well these drugs actually give him magic powers which he uses to engage in a Pokémon/Yu-Gi-Oh style BOSS BATTLE!

Get some closure with dead loved ones and acquaintances, and be the first interviewer of the fallen heroes of past ages? Nope, we just got TRAUMA and a whole boatload of guilt!

A neat outline of what the rest of the journey will look like, a warning against an island of cows that will slow him down, and the way to appease Poseidon? This Tiresias just says "Y'know there used to be a world where you made it home, BUT I DON'T SEE IT NO MORE. IT'S GONE. IT'S OVER. Also, your palace is fucked."

Sailing past the sirens while getting to be the first mortal to hear their song and live? M U R D E R

Sailing past Scylla to avoid Charybdis and accidentally getting six men eaten because he thought he could totally take Scylla, even though Circe said he couldn't, and then he realised he, in fact, cannot take Scylla? ... Eurylochus, light up six torches.

Eurylochus waits till Odysseus is out hunting and then goes behind his back to mutinously rally the crew and feast on some sacred cattle? Betrayal on both sides, stabby stab, K.O., and then Odysseus helplessly watches them make the greatest mistake of their lives as they ignore his pleas.

Quick clean and easy lightning-strike to the ship, leaving Odysseus to cling to some driftwood and paddle away? Zeus himself appears to the mortals, monologues, makes Odysseus be the one to choose, and then smites the whole ship leaving Odysseus to nearly drown anyway.

Telemachus gets advice from a disguised Athena to yell at the suitors and then sail away to look for news of his missing father? Telemachus gets into a full on beatdown with the suitors and gets FIGHT CLUB TRAINING from Athena!

Athena goes "dad I want my favourite mortal back? Did you forget about him? I think you forgot about him" and Zeus instantly replies "nonsense. How could I have forgotten that funny little mortal? Of course you can have him back my sweet favoured child <3" and then Athena skips off to Ithaca? "Father please-" "LIGHTNING BOLT! ANOTHER LIGHTNING BOLT! LIGHTNING BOLT TO THE FACE HOW DARE YOU ASK ME OF SUCH A THING!"

Poseidon does a double take "wait they let him go?? Oh hell nah!" and then sends a giant fuck off storm for Odysseus to swim through until he reaches the Phaeacians? No, Poseidon's just been there on Ithaca's shores, waiting for eight years, now get in the water BITCH- except Odysseus is just like "oh yeah? Fucking FIGHT ME"

You thought the suitors in the Odyssey were bad? Jorge really just said "dial that shit up to ELEVEN"