#how to make floating placeholder

[the-thing-inside-your-closet]

GhostKing!Maddie

Reveal gone right. Good parents Jack and Maddie.

Danny tells his parents that he’s Phantom and they accept him with open arms and hearts and the willingness to change their views. With this they start their research on Ghost culture, because that’s a part of their baby’s life (afterlife?) now so of course they’re going to make sure they understand their son so as to avoid potential culture clashes in the future.

(Did you know ghosts fight as a form of bonding?! Fascinating!)

At some point in their research they learn that the method of succession for the title of King of the Infinite Realms if for the former king to be defeated in trial by combat.

They learn that Danny defeated the former king tyrant Pariah Dark.

Their little Dann-o is the new King.

But he’s just a baby! Their baby! Cry his parents.

Danny is only 14, going on 15. Even if he’s a teenager he’s still their baby boy, and he is far too young to be forced to deal with politics alongside school and all the other dramas that come with teenagerhood.

They were young once, the Fenton parents remember how major some things were for teenagers and how stressful it could be. And Danny had already been through so much with protecting the town. And they wanted to make up for what they put him through before they knew it was him. Danny says it alright, they didn’t know but they do now and that accept him and that’s what matters! And oh do their hearts ache at the memories of shooting at their son and all the terrible things they said about him while he was right there.

No, they wouldn’t allow their son to deal with everything in his own when they could help him. Somehow. How do they help with this?

Then, Maddie demands an audience with the council. There, declares herself the King.

The Observants argue that she can’t possibly be the King as she is not a ghost, nor did she defeat the previous king to take the title. And anything else that they could use to oppose the idea.

Maddie counters that as her son isn’t even legally old enough to drive yet (the age is 16 in American right?) he cannot take on such responsibilities until he is of a certain age. Jack is nodding along enthusiastically as Maddie verbally eviscerates these floating eyeballs.

Clockwork is smirking in the corner. He likes Phantom’s mother. And he agrees with the Drs Fenton. He backs her up, and says that young Daniel had other pressing matters to attend to and that yes, he is in fact too young for the full responsibilities that come with being the King of the Infinite Realms. He is so young, and still of the living being a halfa that he would require education of the Realms laws before he could officially take up the crown.

But what about Maddie? She’s fully human, how could she possibly be placed in that position then without the same training?

Clockwork smiles as Frosbite or maybe Pandora, one of Danny’s other allies, states that the council could handle things until then, and that they would have had to have waited regardless for Danny to be up to speed before he could feasibly take on the role of King and confidently make decisions without the guidance of the council at every turn. With Maddie as a placeholder she could still sign off on things or act as a figure head, at least until Phantom could take on his role as the fully realised King.

Anyway, Maddie becomes the Ghost King. Or at least temporarily while her baby boy finishes high school and can decide what he wants to do. At least this is one less thing he has to worry about.

This however results in instances of cults and all manner of people trying to summon the Ghost King for one reason or another. But instead they get one Dr Maddie Fenton.

Sometimes it’s some kids that were fooling around at a slumber party, and she warns them on the dangers of summoning unknown entities without doing proper throughout research before hand and ensuring they have the proper protective measures if something were to go wrong.

And then there are cults and magic users and everything in-between that are trying to summon the Ghost King for personal gain.

These individuals are more often than not met with the sight of a bazooka, pulled from seemingly thin air, aimed directly at them as the very ominous sound of the woman counting down echos in the air. The ones with half a brain would book it.

All of this while maintaining the midwestern politeness would be both hilarious and a little ominous.

Then one day the Justice League, or any of the other teams, are breaking up a cult ritual that they got wind of to summon a powerful being for the purpose of destroying something or someone. I’m not to fussed on their motives.

But just before they can stop it the summing is cast and the air is filled with such a heavy sense of forbidding that it makes the hairs on the back of one’s beck stand on end.

The room darkens, the shadows seemingly converging in the centre of the summoning circle. It feels hard to breathe, and there’s a hint of something other in the air around them that just keeps increasing in intensity. It feels like reality is being around them, and just as quickly as it all began a crack appears within the circle. And a toxic green (Lazarus green) glow seems out of it as it opens like the unhinging jaw of a predator. There’s a blinding flash of green and then there is a woman, judging by her build, in a teal spandex suit with goggles fastened on her face.

She scans the room in silence before her eyes falls on the heroes standing in defensive positions before her. The cultists are all tied up or knocked out, or just frozen in place because holy shit the summing worked.

It’s never worked before.

But who is this woman?

And where is the Ghost King?

The head cultist, whom was still yet to be detained, demands to know who she is and where is the Ghost King?!

Maddie smiles as she pulls out her Fenton bazooka and says, “Oh bless your heart, I am the Ghost King!”

Where this goes from here, I’m not sure. This was all I had when is tarted writing this and right now I’m too tired to think. I just hope someone likes it and if you do, feel free to add anything! And if you have any critiques feel free to tell me!

(My apologise if I leave out a chunk of information, I’m writing this in my pyjamas half asleep and just trying to get it all written down. Also I’m not from the US, and haven’t watched Danny Phantom in a hot minute, so if I got something wrong pls forgive me.)

[gazemaizeisdead]

there’s a scene in fat albert 2004 where live action kenan thompson fat albert, who has accidentally escaped the fictional television world of his cartoon series and become real à la barbie, meets his creator, bill cosby.

it’s a unique film. i’ve seen it about thirty times. the opening credits are in comic sans.

it’s the worst film in the tiny but horrible microgenre of films in which an established, questionably marketable character with diminished cultural relevance is mysteriously transported to our reality. rocky and bullwinkle, harold and the purple crayon, garfield, enchanted (it’s disney, which at the time was only beginning to toy with the cloyingly affectionate self-awareness that has since swallowed it whole, so an expy blend of all stock princesses is used in the place of any particular ip). if you loosen up the parameters of that definition a smidge you can easily come up with another fifty or so awful, bizarre live-action adaptations of various properties with similar narrative structures and plot beats, but i’m curious about this very specific type of hyper-meta fish out of water isekai movie, stories that are less interested in the characters they are ostensibly about and more about the modern world’s current reactions to those characters, and choose to discuss that in the most convoluted, literal way possible.

this type of story is simultaneously extremely high-concept postmodernist analysis and the laziest paint by the numbers shit it’s possible to create. live-action adaptations even at their best betray an inherent disrespect for animation, implying it to be a secondary medium that exists as a temporary placeholder or poor man’s substitute for reality, that characters are only worth caring about if they look as real as we do or exist in a world like ours. there’s no genuine artistic reason to make a woody woodpecker movie, an avatar movie, a death note movie, a live-action pinocchio, they’re all cynical soulless cashgrabs but they at least do attempt to adapt and actually BE what they purport to be. dan aykroyd yogi bear and light turner and matthew lillard william afton for the five minutes they wanted to pay him to be in the fnaf movie are simply poor facsimiles of themselves and they suck because of that bad mimicry, we see and hear the contrast and know immediately it’s not the same. the project of live-actionization is misguided because even before awful executive-driven creative decisions (which all these movies have in spades) very often whatever is being adapted simply can’t be translated properly to its new medium. you could give a film a 500m budget and airbending will still not look as good as it does in 2d, where one can easily and stylistically show the movement of invisible wind and have a character float and defy gravity in a way that is instantly believable in a way that a real human being moved by CGI is not. neil patrick harris and hank azaria as hard as they try, as talented as they are cannot legitimately sell me on the idea that they’re actually being hardcore smurfed in the way that an animated gargamel can. these movies reach for a perceived authenticity and fail to reach it, not understanding that the mediums they are stealing from almost always allow for a greater seeming realness than live-action can, especially when portraying the fantastical.

the isekai movies go one step beyond this disrespect because they refuse to even play the part. yes we’ll make a rocky and bullwinkle movie but we cannot simply DO rocky and bullwinkle, we can’t do a scooby doo and just make a bigger irl version of the formula, we must have this elaborate meta routine so we can continually point to the audience and share a laugh together about how dogshit and unimportant rocky and bullwinkle are. the people who make these movies are so embarrassed by the concept of taking these ideas seriously that they must even in-universe create further removal from the realness of this to insulate us from the possibility of caring. rocky and bullwinkle must be a fake tv show even in the movie, even in pretend land they must be from a deeper pretend land. it’s fine if you want to do commentary on the property (preferable, in fact, that makes it more interesting!) but this commentary is almost never allowed to extend beyond the singular joke of every gamer webcomic ever made: wouldn’t it be fucked up if fictional thing were REAL?

wouldn’t it be fucked up if rocky and bullwinkle were in a REAL car? you bet it fucking would be. (robert de niro produced this movie and plays the main villain)

obviously we’re in a post-barbenheimer world and the only movie of this kind worth comparing fat albert to is barbie, which is notable for being the only good execution of this premise (i would call enchanted competent; it’s funny but a mess). the barbie comparison is especially interesting because fat albert is a cracked mirror to barbie.

like barbie, fat albert and the cosby kids exist in a cartoon world where characters are simultaneously performers and platonic forms of themselves, and where they operate with an unspecified degree of awareness of their own fakeness; a background character in fat albert’s philadelphia mentions having done guest spots on the jetsons. like barbie, al is snapped out of his usual routine by the personal crisis of one of his fans, when her single live-action tear falls on the remote as she watches his show and magically falls into his fictionalized philadelphia. the magic tear allows him to hear her crying and a portal is rended between the two worlds; he enters reality, naively tries to solve her social and emotional problems with platitudes, and is forced to grapple with the tenuous nature of his existence and mortality and the complexity of the real world. 

i’m just ken is replaced with fat albert performing an extended rap cover of his own theme song. fat albert spends as much of this movie trying to help the main character make friends as he does trying to fuck her adoptive older sister (“my big al”, she calls him).

without getting into “barbie politics” barbie works because it wants to be a movie about barbie, the thing it’s named after. it takes “barbie lore” seriously. at least half of barbie actually takes place in barbieland, a world that the movie cares about making authentically fake and different and weird. the mechanics and nature of barbie’s existence and barbieland are the most important part of the movie. all of these bad adaptations have the obligatory familial infighting/accidentally thwarting a jewel heist/stopping the evil CEO from demolishing the neighborhood to build a megamall/helping larry bird get his basketball talent back from the aliens plot and so does barbie but it’s an excuse to talk about more interesting abstractions. there is a subplot dedicated to barbie helping to reignite a mother and daughter’s bond but this isn’t the core of the movie, it really is about barbie, literally and metaphysically. fat albert too isn't "about" helping a girl make friends and find herself, it's about fat albert, but it resents that about itself.

fat albert 2004 has about six minutes of actual animation, it rushes to get kenan thompson on screen as quickly as possible and stays there as long as it can (presumably a factor of cost more than anything else, as with all of these films). in barbie the ideas and philosophies of barbieland and real life both naturally affect each other, are reflections of each other, which is an obvious worldbuilding choice that makes intuitive sense; the media we consume is a reflection of the real world and vice versa. there is nothing inherently wrong or bad about the link between the two worlds, says barbie, though it is often the conduit for harmful ideas.

fat albert’s philadelphia and our philadelphia do not share this connection, albert’s intrusion in the real world is a perversion of the natural order and, we later learn, a physical impossibility in the long term. halfway through the movie, the cosby kids begin to be influenced by the real world: mushmouth gains the ability to speak coherently (“don’t call me mushmouth anymore! just call me… mouth!”) and dumb donald removes his ski cap, learns to read, and goes to the library and speeds through 22 volumes of african-american history. this is portrayed as profane; as dumb donald says before jumping back into the TV halfway through the movie: “"i've become smart enough to understand that... we've entered into a world where we do not belong. if you try to become something that you're not, you lose the essence of who you really are."

albert, still on his love quest, at first refuses to rejoin them; he goes off on a date with protagonist’s older sister, which goes well until a child recognizes him and shames him for not being in the tv where he belongs. “we need you! what would mr. cosby think if you don’t go back?” al’s stunned by this; he has no response, but it inspires him to seek answers. in the next scene he decides to find out. he walks up to bill cosby’s house and knocks on the door.

in barbie the discussion barbie has with her creator, ruth handler, is the emotional climax of the film. when barbie tells her she wants to stay in southern california, ruth warns her of the dangers of being human, but does not ultimately stop barbie from doing so; she points out that she is incapable of doing so even if she wanted to.

fat albert mirrors this discussion; albert is told of his conceptual origins. as barbie is based on ruth’s daughter, he is based on a deceased childhood friend of cosby’s, the grandfather of the girl he is trying to help (which is why the movie is careful to repeatedly stress the point that the older sister he’s fallen in love with is only his granddaughter by adoption). there isn’t a parallel moment to the one in barbie where handler winks to the audience about her criminal conviction but that’s probably in the film’s best interest.

albert pleads with cosby in the same way as barbie. more than anything, he wants to stay in the real world. cosby, like handler, encourages him to recognize his own power as an icon, but informs him that his fate is inescapable. if he stays in the real world, his colors will begin to fade and he will soon “turn into celluloid dust” and die. how cosby knows this is not explained; presumably little bill also visited him in the past and suffered a similar fate.

even when done cynically (as it always is) to adapt or remake anything to reject the source material in some way. it’s a paradoxical relationship, because to do it you have to both like (or at least be interested) in what you are recreating but find some aspect of it unnecessary or outdated or lacking or worthy of change. the animation to live-action adaptation often must navigate the additional paradox of wanting to make the unreal real, and the end result, formed by people who don’t care and are only in it for a paycheck, is usually bad art.

in the end fat albert acknowledges his own unreality and crawls back in the tv. the final scene is a saving private ryan style ending where all of the real life elderly inspirations for the cosby kids leave flowers on the real fat albert’s grave. here it hits you: the only moral of the live action fat albert movie is that a live action fat albert movie is a really shitty idea that would kill fat albert.

i agree.

[meowingcookie]

TS1 inspired UI replacement (WIP TESTING)

Some of you might have seen my TS1 inspired UI floating around twitter, tumblr, discord etc. I've been having people test it in the Lazy Duchess discord but i've decided to upload it here for others to test and so no one else can claim they made it themselves lol. Sorry for the lazy photos but basically it's a recoloured version of the original UI. Pretty much all the elements are done. I'll keep updating until it is done basically. It's made to suit my resolution which is 1920x1080 but I will add the options for wider screens at a later date. Also not sure how well it works with Legacy editon so just be aware that it might display weird

Things to be added:

-Animated loading screens (yes I worked out how to do it ;) )

-Updating some of the existing recolours to make them cleaner

-Fixing any bits I missed lol

Install instructions

Place the TS1 UI folder into your downloads.

These are the main files needed

Download

Then place this file into your base game UI folder which should be in a directory similar to this "Program Files x86\EA Games\Sims 2\TSData\Res\UI"

This file replaces the background on the main loading menu as it looks weird without it. It is a placeholder.

Download

Do not delete any of the files in your UI folder. (Please)

If you are already using Clean UI or any other UI replacement, Please uninstall them first. They cannot be used together

Special thanks to @greatcheesecakepersona for their templates as they were insanely helpful

[mjbarrosart]

My Dragon Prince Boards season 7, episode 705, part 2: The Moonberry Surprise.

It's true, the Moonberry Surprise moment, it is my fault

I hope you can forgive me for my sins. Hahahaha.

Ok, let's talk about this little sequence. But first, some... context?

Ok, so, Dragon Prince was my first job as Storyboard Artist, before coming to DPR I was working as a Storyboard Revisionist in Lego NinjaGo Crystalized. So I applied to Dragon Prince with not hopes that they will hire me, and when the offered my the job I was in awe.

So basically, I arrived to work in season 4 as a Junior Storyboard Artist. They gave me little sequences during season 4 (I was mostly helping my unit director with revisions) they gave me more during season 5 and 6, working on my strengths, emotional moments, long talking sequences and some combat. You know what was not there? comedy, because it was not one of the things I knew well how to do. But after a year and a half working in the show, I was seasoned enough to be a proper Storyboard Artist, not a rookie anymore. So they finally assigned me a comedy sequence.

I was terrified. Today after years in the industry, I can say that I am not scared of comedy anymore. But when I read the script and I realized that they were expecting a big comedy moment from me , I knew I was in trouble. But as they say, "you fake it until you make it" I took a deep breath and smile to my unit director like "Of course I can do this!"

But ok, lets talk about the sequence. We start nice, with the moon fam enjoying some time together. Was an opportunity to work with Runaan and Ethari, and that is always cool! I love how Ethari is just happy of everyone being there, and Runaan just wants to kill Callum (in an affectionate way, like he is just a protective dad, you know, a no nonsense dude)

So yeah, they talk a little and Rayla handles Callum a slice of Moonberry Surprise. Is like this almost mythical dessert that is said tastes like nothing else in all Xadia. And Callum is so excited to try it!

So, the script did not call for anything you saw in that sequence. The script instructed to reveal the Moonberry Surprise like something out of this world, and then have Callum almost having an epiphany when he tries it. My first idea was to have Calum almost levitating on his seat while eating it, while the rest of the moon fam looked at them in confusion. But during the launch of the episode (this is the stage where directors and in the case of DPR writers, tell SB artist what they want for every sequence we will board, we pitch ideas, and so on) was more clear to me that they were expecting something more of an "out of this world experience". Like the "I love books" moment that Callum had on season 5, episode 2, but on steroids.

So I was ok, lets make it as trippy as possible. So we have this fast zoom in into Callums face, that lead us into this "dimension of flavor" he is being transported to.

And he opens his eyes and he is floating in this space of color and flavor, his spirit being lifted by this experience.

He is experiencing all this flavors, eating this huge blue berries (this was my Unit director idea, Thanks Katherine!!), when something catches his eye. A figure, looking to him from the above, almost like a god.

And Callums looks up, revealing... this:

So, I have a really particular sense of humor (not unique, because I feel a lot of people share it, particular because really specific things make me laugh a lot). I was born late 80's grew up on the 90's with all the weird cartoons and anime of that time. For me adding muscular arms to things is the best joke ever.

This is peak humor to me:

So I was like, what if, Callum does the Titanic spinning thing, with a muscular slice of pie? So I did that... And I was SURE they will reject it.

So I finished my roughs, and I sent them to my Unit Director. She was "this is so stupid" (in the best way) so, she added some placeholder music, and send it for review from the directors, while both of us were expecting to have it rejected.

A couple of days after, our Storyboards Supervisor was like "WHO DID THE MOONBERRY SURPRISE SEQUENCE??" And I was like "me?", and he was like "Aaron LOVED IT!" and I was like "?????" so, yeah, was approved.

So yeah, that is my legacy, I guess. I am Runaan in this shot:

So well, those are all my sequences in episode 705.

Sorry again for being responsible for the birth of that thing. But that is my son now, and I kinda love him, even if he looks like that....

Next post will be my last! So yeah, stay tunned for my last post about my boards in The Dragon Prince, episode 708!

[missaengg]

Missing You

Day 3 of Kinktober: Visions of Temptation hosted by @xxsycamore Featuring: Love and Deepspace | Rafayel x f!reader Tags: mdni, established relationship, phone sex, dildo, sex toys, masturbation, pwp Prompts: Phone Sex | "See this? It's going to go inside you." ao3 link here.

You stare morosely at your phone. Rafayel had left for an art exhibition in another city a week ago, and despite knowing that he has an insanely jam-packed schedule, you feel miffed he hasn’t had a chance to call even once during that time. 

Your face lights up when your phone starts ringing, the face of your boyfriend lighting up the screen. “Hello?”

“Hi, cutie. Miss me?”

You sigh, leaning back against the sofa. “Tons. When are you getting back?”

“Next week. Thomas has me touring the west side. I think I’ve got an exhibition almost every other day, interviews lined up in between, and gallery parties in the evenings.”

“I love and hate that you’re so busy.”

Rafayel chuckles, the sound tinny and flat through the phone speaker. “I hate being away from you for even a day.” 

“Me too…”

“I have a surprise for you to make up for how long I’ll be gone.”

Your ears perk at the word ‘surprise’, bolting up in eager anticipation.

“It should arrive right abooooooout… now.”

The doorbell rings as soon as Rafayel finishes speaking. Curious, you make your way to the door, opening it to a medium sized box on your welcome mat.

“Open it.”

You bring the box inside back to where you were sitting on the couch, ripping open the tape and pulling out the crumpled paper inside to… what appeared to be a dildo? “Um, Rafayel, what is this?”

"See this? It’s a mold of my dick. It's going to go inside you."

You gulp. For some reason, this replica seems much bigger than he is in real life. “Are you sure you didn’t make the dildo bigger? I could’ve sworn you’re not this big.”

“I–” Rafayel pauses, and in the most indignant tone he can muster, utters, “Of course I’m that big. How the hell are you remembering me?” An irritated sigh floats through the speaker. “I’m going to have to remind you just how big I am when I get home… but in the meantime, that’s going to go inside of you.”

“You want me to have sex with a dildo?”

“My dick shaped dildo. And we’re going to have sex using the dildo as a temporary placeholder until I get back.”

You squint your eyes, staring at the smooth, silicone dildo before you, tilting your head at how we would be having sex. “How?”

“Like this.” You can hear the mischievous twinkle in his voice even over the phone. “I kiss you lightly. My hands are on your cheeks, and they make their way down to your neck, over your shoulders, down to your chest, grazing your breasts. Touch yourself lightly there like I’m touching you. What are your nipples doing? Are they hard?”

You blink. Oh. You follow Rafayel’s instructions, lightly grazing your hands across the front of your breasts. Your nipples pucker under your clothing into firm nubs poking through the thin cardigan you’re wearing. “They’re hard. They’re… poking through my sweater.”

“Good, good. Now I’m placing my thumbs on them, applying pressure, rolling them underneath.”

You roll your thumbs over yourself, feeling tingles within your core from the stimulation. “That feels good, Raf.”

“Now give them a pinch for me.”

You squeeze with your pointer and your thumb, an involuntary gasp leaving your lips. 

Rafayel groans in response to your gasp. “Are you turned on yet? Getting nice and wet for me?”

“I’m not wet enough.”

“Hm… we’re going to have to fix that then, aren’t we?” You hear him shift on his hotel bed, the covers rustling from his movement. “I slide my hands down your torso – are you wearing a skirt or pants?”

You still when your hands reach the waistband of your bottoms. “I’m wearing a skirt.”

You swear you can hear Rafayel smirk over the phone. “Even better. I slide my hands down over your hips to your thighs until I reach the hem, and then I push the fabric up exposing you to your panties. My fingers–”

“– I’m not wearing any.”  

“...What?”

“I said I’m not wearing any underwear.”

Rafayel’s breath catches in his throat at your admission, and knowing your lovely boyfriend, you imagine his face is turning beet red. When he begins breathing again, his breaths are shallow and rapid, and his voice is strained. “Why aren’t you wearing any panties?”

“...iwasthinkingaboutyou…” you mumble into the phone, your own face now a brilliant shade of red mirroring the blush that has likely formed on your boyfriend’s face.

“What?”

“I–” you groan at having to voice this thought out loud, the flush on your face growing even darker, “I was thinking about you!”

A long guttural groan comes through over the speaker. “Naughty cutie,” Rafayel practically hisses. “You’re making this so hard for me.”

“Are you hard right now?” 

“Yeah, so hard for you.”

“Are you… touching yourself?” You ask Rafayel tentatively, feeling shy at being this vocally intimate for the first time.

“Of course I am.” 

Rafayel’s groans flood your core, tingles radiating throughout your lower belly, leaving you squirming in your seat. You don’t care that you might stain your couch with your arousal. All you care about at the moment is Rafayel’s desire for you.

“Fuck, play with yourself for me.”

“You mean my clit?” “Yeah. Imagine I’m touching you, and touch yourself for me.”

You press a trembling finger to your clit, rubbing it in a circle, feeling your nerves burn. You close your eyes, imagining it’s Rafayel stroking you. You moan with each pass, the fire in your core growing hotter.

“God, I wish I could see you touching yourself.” Rafayel’s grunting quietly. 

You can barely hear his grunts over the phone under your own moaning, but the sound is only adding to the throbbing growing between your thighs. “I wish you were here.”

“Me too, baby. Me too,” Rafayel croons. “Are you dripping yet?”

You slide your finger through your slick folds, toying with your opening. “Tons. I’m so ready for you.”

“Grab my dick.”

You grasp his dick-shaped dildo in your hand.

“I enter you slowly, sinking in all the way until I’m filling you entirely. Can you feel me?”

“Ngh.” The sensation of his dick filling you leaves you gasping, your walls sucking his replica in. “You’re so big.” You’re panting already, delighted at how much he’s stretching you out.

“God, I can almost feel you.”

“Are you sure you’re really this big normally?”

“Seriously? I’ll remind you just how big I am when I get home, multiple times. Now focus.” Rafayel sulks, his pout reaching you though you’re unable to see the expression on his face. 

You grin wickedly hearing your boyfriend flounder. “Multiple times. You promised.”

“Honestly,” he huffs, his voice strangled on the other end of the line. “I should cancel the rest of this trip and come home right now.”

“But you can’t,” you hum in faux sympathy.

Rafayel growls impatiently. “I thrust into you. Follow me, baby. Fuck yourself with my cock. Pretend I’m there fucking you.”

You pump the dildo furiously, the silicone dragging on your walls. Your body remembers your boyfriend’s shape, your walls greedily dragging him in deep. 

“Put the phone by your pussy. I want to hear it.”

You place the phone on the couch by your gyrating hips hoping the sounds of his replica entering and exiting you carry through. “Can you hear it?”

Rafayel sharply inhales, which he then exhales in a low, guttural groan. “Fuck. Oh, fuck, that’s good.” 

Desperate for more, you reach your other hand down to probe your engorged clit. Your eyes roll back in your head, ecstatic moans ripping from your throat, his name falling off your tongue.

“Say my name, cutie.”

“Rafayel,” you moan, drawing out the syllables of his name.

Hearing his name on your lips excites Rafayel, and you hear the slapping of his fist against his pelvis accompanied by the sound of skin against skin. He’s groaning, the pace of his pumping growing into a feral frenzy. “Are you… are you close?”

“Mmhmm…” Your butt lifts off the couch, all the muscles in your legs tensing from the electricity building in your core. “Close, so close.”

“Cum for me,” Rafayel commands.

You let go, the shockwaves of your ecstasy washing over you in waves, a passionate cry bursting from your chest. “Rafayel.” Feeling your walls convulse around Rafayel’s replica, you repeatedly cry out his name.

Rafayel follows soon after, his utterances of ‘fuck’ making you smile in your blissed out state. You sink to the soft cushions below you without pulling out the toy Rafayel sent you.

“Did you make a mess?” Rafayel’s voice floats to you, twinkles of laughter evident in the satisfied exhaustion.

“When have I ever not with you?” You sweetly chuckle, curling up next to the phone now by your head.

“Heh… we’ll have to make a mess together then when I’m back.”

You hum, smiling as you close your eyes. “I need to inspect how big you are compared to your dildo. I seriously still think you may have augmented yourself a bit.”

“This again? Cutie, I promise you I really am that–”

You shake with laughter at Rafayel’s indignant protests, interrupting him to say “I prefer the real you. I miss you.”

“Me too. One more week, and I’ll be home.”

“I may need to sleep with Little Rafayel until you get back.”

“Don’t replace me with him!” Rafayel falls silent, and in a little voice adds, “Please.” 

You shake your head. “Never. Only when you’re not here.”

“Good.” Rafayel clicks his tongue. “I have to go, I’m supposed to attend some dinner soon, but I gotta clean up first.”

You whine feeling empty at the prospect of having to hang up the phone. You hear Rafayel sigh from the other side.

“I’ll try to call you soon,” he murmurs, feeling forlorn himself. “Keep Little Rafayel on hand for when I do. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You better,” you tease, covering up how much you loathe to let him go.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Rafayel hangs up the phone. You stare morosely at your phone again, but this time, you feel a little less lonely knowing that you have a little piece of him – as reminded by the feeling of him inside you – to keep you company until he returns.

[changes]

Friday, February 16th, 2024

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[nethhiri]

Part 10:

Warnings: Sex, violence, graphic descriptions

For the past several hours, you had been sitting with Kamazo on the floor, leaning against him and holding one of his hands between yours. You stroked his palm with your thumb, noticing how small your hands were compared to his. His skin was rough and criss-crossed with silvery scars, a map of the life he lived. If you were a part of that map, you weren't enough to leave a mark. You were a freckle on his skin and he was a full-thickness burn on yours. You would never be as significant to him as he was to you, and you knew that. You had known that for a while. 

It was going to wound you deeply to let him go, but you were only causing him pain by forcing him to cling to this temporary life. Kamazo had promised to take care of you, and you worried that he was only struggling internally because of that. Killer was there and Kamazo was beating him back to keep his promise. Keeping Kamazo here would only torment him. You didn't want him to hurt anymore, to struggle anymore. You wanted to return him to his real family, where he belonged. He never belonged to you. You were a placeholder until he found his people again, a temporary comfort in his temporary world.

You moved to straddle his lap, taking his head in your hands again. "Kam?"

His eyes floated to yours, looking but not seeing. 

"Kamazo." 

The blue of his eyes brightened for a second. 

"Kam!"

"Sparrow..." 

You threw your arms around his neck, and couldn't stop the tears from coming. "I love you." 

Kamazo hugged you back, resting his head on your shoulder. He held you until your tears began to slow. His hand stroked your hair and rubbed your back in a comforting gesture. Even your own shoulder was slightly damp. 

"K-Kam. You have to let go." Your voice was raspy from crying. "Let me go. Your family needs you."

"You are my family." 

"We both know that's not true." Tears stung your eyes again. "It's okay, Kamazo. I've always known."

"I can't leave you on your own." He laughed anxiously.

"You have to." You gently pressed your lips to his. "....you have to."

"I made a promise." Kamazo kissed you back.

"I'm not the only one you made promises to."

Kamazo rested his forehead on your shoulder for a long time. 

"I'll be okay." You knew that was a lie. It was a necessary one. He likely knew it was, too, but it would make it easier to give up the idea of you. "Our time together was short, but I'll remember it until the day I die. I need you to know that." Those words were not lies. "Kam, you've given me so much. More love than I knew to exist. And that's enough for me. But you, you have so much more to live for, as Killer."

Kamazo picked his head up and stared into your watery eyes. He brought you into his chest in a tight hug, kissing the top of your head. When he released you, he clasped the back of your neck with his hand and kissed you deeply. Your lips moved together in an attempt to exchange enough love to last a lifetime. It was a passionate dance of lips and tongues. If Kamazo was going to let you go, he was going to make sure every inch of your skin would feel his lingering touch. No one would ever touch you in a way that mattered again. 

Every action was slow and deliberate. You were each trying to burn the moments into your minds as a keepsake. Neither of you wanted to forget, yet one of you had to. The memory would be like a thorn to you, a small painful reminder that was embedded in your body. Kamazo loosened the tie around your ruined clothing, letting the top half slip down your shoulders. His eyes memorized the curves of your body. His hands studied the softness of your skin and the way your body reacted to his touches. His features softened and he let out a sad laugh as his hands ran down the sides of your stomach. The back of his knuckles gently rubbed the almost imperceptible mound there. 

"I wanted this life with you. To take care of you." 

"You did. You did take care of me." You mustered a smile for him. 

The actions became more fervent and desperate as time wound down. You didn't have the luxury of time. You kissed Kamazo, putting the threats from his captain to the back of your mind. It was clear what you both wanted. Kamazo adjusted his clothes and pulled you down onto him. A heady sigh left your mouth as you were finally filled with him. You wanted to be intimately connected with him forever. In this moment, you were one being, and where you were connected felt like pure heat, not a burning heat, but a warm, loving heat. When you were with him in this way, it felt like everything would be okay.

You rocked your hips against Kamazo in the way he taught you to. All you ever wanted to do was please him, especially now, when it was your last chance to show him how much you cared for him and how grateful you were to him. You leaned back to give Kamazo access to your neck. He grabbed your throat with one hand, while the other was gripping your hip and guiding your motions. There was something about his hand on your throat that was thrilling. You knew he could end your life at any second, yet he chose not to. He was choosing to keep you. Belonging to him gave you purpose. And you wanted to experience that one more time. After this, you would have no purpose. 

Kamazo nipped at your throat. He kissed up the side of your neck and licked the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. Then his mouth trailed over your skin where he bit and sucked at everything he could reach. He marked you as his with purple and red blossoms across your breasts and over your neck and shoulders. With every new mark, your breathing grew heavier. Instead of your hips rocking on him, he was thrusting up into you. Your hips and thighs were decorated with blue-purple petals from his fingertips digging into your form. There was a searing, hot feeling in your lower abdomen that had been building over time. When Kamazo fucked into you, it stoked that fire until it couldn't be contained. You let out a wanton cry as the heat swept through your body until it was just a tingle at your fingertips. Kamazo greedily kissed you, swallowing your cries and keeping them for himself. Feeling your pleasure wrap around him, he came with a groan. You could feel his cock twitch inside and his cum leak onto your thighs. 

You stayed in each other's arms, still connected, for as long as you could. You knew your time was up when you heard faint yelling somewhere on the ship. You held Kamazo's cheek in one hand and gave him one last kiss. 

"Thank you. For everything."

All he could do was laugh, the tension being too stressful for him to say anything. 

"Goodbye, Kam. You can let go now." 

You fixed your clothes, pulling them back over your shoulders and tying everything in place. Your thighs were sticky, and you were trying to keep them together to keep any more of his cum from dripping down your legs. You hurried towards the door, unwilling to turn around for one last glance. If you did that, you knew neither of you were going to be able to give up. You rushed out and closed the door behind you, bursting into tears instantly. 

The captain came down shortly after, yelling something at you, but you didn't hear it. Someone was holding your arms to keep you from going anywhere. Part of you hoped Kamazo held on, even though you knew what would happen to you if he did. It hurt too much to know you were alone now. There were two voices coming from the room, only one of which you recognized. Kamazo had let Killer in. All that was left of him was his laugh. 

The captain came out of the room by himself, turning his attention to you.

"Aren't ya lucky... Killer's back in his own mind." He ran a nail under your chin. "Too bad. I thought we were gonna have fun with ya. If I ever see ya again or ya try to interact with Killer, I'll skin ya alive and I'll do it real slow, right in front of him, so he knows you're good and dead. I should kill ya now, but I'm a man of my word." He addressed Heat. "Take her as far away as possible. He can't see her face again."

"Where is she?"

"Where is who?" 

"T-that girl I was with."

"There was no girl, Killer."

"Did you do something to her?"

"THERE WAS NO FUCKIN GIRL. YA HAVE US. YA DON'T NEED A FUCKIN GIRL."

Killer grabbed his head as a sharp headache hit him. It happened every time he tried to remember anything from the gap in his memory. He knew there was a girl. He could almost see her face. Every time he got close to picturing it, he could feel himself being lost to Kamazo. Being two people took a toll on him. He felt like throwing up when his mind spun back and forth between them. If he could just merge Kamazo with himself, he could remember everything that happened to him. He wanted to remember, even though it would hurt. There was something nagging him. He had a sense of responsibility for this person he couldn't remember. In his dreams he could see his hands over her stomach and flashes of a little blonde boy running around on the ship. 

"Kil, are ya okay?"

Killer touched his nose and his hand came away with blood. "It's the headaches again."

Kid angrily slammed his fist down on the table, muttering curses at someone who wasn't here.

In the days that followed, you struggled to survive. The man that took you away from the ship was at least nice enough to leave you with some food. Since then, you had scavenged and tried to find anyone that would take pity on you, trying to focus on survival as much as possible, instead of the deep loss in your heart. Today, that happened in the form of the Beast Pirates. They gave you a once-over and decided to take you to Onigashima for the big party that was about to happen. They promised you as much food as you wanted in exchange for your company. Of course, you didn't realize what they had meant at first. You were so hungry, though, you weren't thinking straight. As soon as they started drinking, they got progressively more handsy. You were lucky they were lightweights. They passed out not long after they started drinking and you were able to slip away.

Then all hell broke loose. There was fighting everywhere in a matter of minutes. You were frozen in fear, knowing you couldn't do anything to defend yourself. An image of Kamazo flashed across your mind, telling you to run and hide. That was the one thing you could do and the one thing you were good at. You ran into a nearby building, and continued running through hallways until you found a small gap in the walls. Then you tucked yourself back into it as far as you could go, where no one could see you. You were good at disappearing, being diminutive, being nothing. 

That worked for a while. The ground shook and there were a lot of loud noises happening around you. There was fighting everywhere. You could hear it. It stayed far away for now. A few men ran through the hallway you could see from your hiding spot. Out of habit, you went to pull out your wooden mouse to hold it. It had always comforted you. You had forgotten it had been destroyed though. You wished you had one thing to remember Kamazo by. There was nothing. Even the clothes he had given you were ruined and had to be discarded. Once the tendril had invaded your thoughts, you couldn't stop thinking about Kamazo. He dominated your thoughts. You sobbed, the noise drowned out by everything happening around you. He always came back for you, but not this time. 

You had either fallen asleep or entered a semi-conscious state after you wore yourself out with full-body sobs. Thick, black smoke roused you as it stung your throat and your lungs. You couldn't even open your eyes fully because of the sting. You got as low as possible and crawled to the hallway, hoping to get fresh air. You only got a few clean breaths before smoke filled this space, too. Through blurry vision, you could see flames licking at the walls and ceiling. The whole building was on fire. You attempted to stifle a coughing fit by breathing through the fabric of your sleeve. 

The floor shook. You thought it was the impending collapse of the hallway. The embers floated down. Then pieces of the ceiling and walls. They started catching on your clothes, glowing at first, then burning. You could hear yourself screaming as the flames ate away at your clothes and began to eat at your skin. You frantically tried to slap the flames away, to snuff them out. Every scream was more frantic and every breath threatened to end your life with the poison in the air. The vibrations of the floor stopped and a shape bent down to investigate you. 

"Well, well. We have ourselves a mouse. Didn't I tell ya what would happen if I saw ya again?" The shape's laugh boomed through the hall, what was left of it. "I'm a man of my word."

The shadow leaned on one of the walls as it creaked. The weight made it crumble under his touch, causing the burning rubble to bury you. Only darkness and his sinister laugh surrounded you. The flames had burned through your skin. You could no longer feel the pain because the nerves had been melted away with your flesh. Air became thinner as the oxygen was consumed by the fire. Your throat was swollen, and threatening to close, from the burning air being sucked into your lungs. Was it the asphyxia that would take you? Would it be the fire itself, burning you to ash? Or the weight of the rubble, crushing you? Maybe you should be grateful. You would be free from the memory of Kamazo. 

"Goodbye, little mouse."

If you want the angsty ending, congrats you've finished the fic!

If you want the happy ending, click here.

Tag List: @nocturnalrorobin @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @fendifendi @eustasscapitankid @iggy5055 @hannahbarberra162 @mapachito

[sprite-and-the-bunnydragons]

My first fanfic! I wanted to start out with a fluffy (and maybe a little crack-y?) oneshot featuring the lu boys. Link to the AO3 coming once my account gets approved later this week!

✨Magical Placeholder for Title Until I Figure It Out✨

Warriors stared down the strategy map, rubbing the pebble that represented him between his fingers. He’d battled unlikely odds before, but this was a whole new level of hopeless.

He had to try. For the sake of his brothers, he had to try.

“Captain?” Sky asked, fiddling with his sailcloth. “Are you sure we shouldn’t get the old man?”

“He’s compromised. Always has been for missions like this, he’s just better at hiding it now. We’re certain Hyrule can’t swim?”

“He shrieked when Wild went waist deep into the lake a few months ago,” Four said from Warriors’s other side. “I don’t think anyone in Hyrule’s world knows how to swim.”

That complicated things. Hyrule would be one of the most resistant to their plan, and they couldn’t just throw him in. Warriors considered using Legend to coax Hyrule into the water, but the veteran seemed to have a thing against water. Probably another secret. Legend seemed to have a lot of those.

Warriors rubbed between his brows. He sighed and looked up at the pine trees surrounding their campsite. He’d convinced everyone except Sky and Four—the only Heroes who would accept his desperate plan—to forage or collect firewood elsewhere. That had been an hour ago. They were out of time for finding other solutions.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll have to keep Hyrule in the shallows, then. Four?”

Four grinned, teeth glinting in the sunlight.

“Way ahead of you, Captain.”

Warriors nodded and turned to Sky. The Chosen Hero had already grabbed his gust bellows and gave him a grim nod.

“Good,” Warriors said. “There’s just one other part of our problem to solve.”

He placed his own pebble next to the river on the map and picked up the miniature wolf Sky had carved the other day.

“Not it,” Four and Sky said at the same time.

“I didn’t even—” Warriors turned from the map. Both his brothers had their fingers on their noses. The captain huffed. 

“Fine. I’ll wrestle the wolf. But you both are on laundry duty for this.”

“Small price to pay,” Four said.

“Yeah, I like my fingers right where they are.” Sky drummed his digits on the bellows with an apologetic smile. Warriors shook his head.

“Just get into position. Remember, quick and precise. We can’t afford mistakes.”

Four nodded. Coming from anyone else, Sky’s salute would have been sarcastic, but Warriors knew his fellow knight meant it. They both left, and the operation was on. Warriors took a deep breath, rolled up the map, and got his supplies from his pack.

He crept to the stream near their campsite, past the spot where Four had laid out everyone’s armor under the guise of repairing it later tonight. Good. Nothing would rust this way.

He crouched behind a bush near the shore and laid out his supplies. Three brushes for different hair textures, a pile of rags, a larger pile of fluffy towels, and the largest bottle of soap he’d ever seen. They hadn’t stayed in his world long enough to drag everyone to a bathhouse last week, but at least he’d had time to stock up. He lined up a smaller bottle of conditioner next to the brushes. Far as he knew, he’d be the only one interested in it.

A shout echoed across the forest. Phase One had begun.

Warriors grabbed the soap and squeezed a thick thread into the almost-still water. He wished he had one of Wild’s Korok leaves to stir, but a large stick he found near shore would have to do. He frothed the soap until a thick layer of foam sat on the water. Good thing Sky had offered to build a dam downstream so the soap wouldn’t wash away.

The lavender and eucalyptus soap floated into Warriors’s nose, making him relax. Another shout—no, that was a howl—jerked him into action. Four’s part of the plan must have worked. How the smithy knew what would provoke Twilight into transforming, Warriors had no idea. He didn’t want to know. Plausible deniability in case Twilight got mad. Warriors shuddered and returned to the bush.

Another howl. Footsteps racing.

Closer.

Closer.

Wheezing, Sky tore into the clearing. He spotted Warriors, nodded, and lined up with his back to a tree. Sky pointed his gust bellows at the water. No one approaching the stream would see him.

“Cheatin’ bilge rat!” Wind sprinted into the clearing after Sky, Legend and Hyrule just behind. “You’re shark bai—”

Sky turned on his gust bellows.

Wind screeched and flailed headfirst into the stream. Hyrule tumbled after him. Legend figured out what was going on and activated his pegasus boots, running against the gust. Sky’s bellows blew stronger. Legend lost his footing and splashed into the stream.

Warriors covered his mouth to hold back a snicker.

Three heads popped up from the water. Hyrule looked panicked. Legend looked torn between holding up Hyrule and dragging Sky in with them. Wind looked murderous.

The sailor lunged up to grab Sky’s ankle, but Sky gusted until Wind fell back into the stream.

“You yellow-bellied, lily-livered, octo-brained seagull splat!” Wind yelled, but Warriors could hear him covering up a laugh.

“I have no idea what any of those words mean,” Sky said with a grin and an extra puff of air in Wind’s face.

Wind sucked in a breath, probably to ‘educate’ Sky. Another howl and a high-pitched, unheroic scream cut him off.

“Sky!”

Four tore into view and tossed Wild’s Sheikah Slate to Sky before jumping into the water. Wild burst from the bushes and dove after Four with a splash. Wolfie raced after them, skidding to a stop before the shore. He took a step back and looked around.

Come on, Twilight. Just a little closer.

Four burst above the surface, only for Wild to tackle him deeper into the stream. Warriors had only seen that look on Wild’s face once—right before disintegrating the iron knuckle that had downed Twilight.

Maybe Warriors had miscalculated his plan.

“Wild! Wild, stop—” Four spluttered, treading water while stopping Wild from dragging him to the bottom. “The Slate’s fine. Sky has it, look.”

Sky flinched as Wild turned his glare onto him, but the Chosen Hero waved the Sheikah Slate to prove Four’s point. Grumbling, Wild swam back to the edge and made grabby hands for his prized item.

“Give it.”

Sky held the Slate out of reach, putting it at the base of a tree.

“You can have it back after your bath. The Captain can’t stand our smell anymore.”

Caught in the moment, Warriors stood up from his hiding place to argue how that wasn’t what he’d said—he’d thought it, but hadn’t said it—before realizing he’d blown his cover. Warriors caught Wolfie’s eye. Wolfie bolted.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Warriors lunged for Wolfie and shoved his shapeshifting brother toward the water. Wolfie stumbled, but didn’t fall in.

How was Twilight heavier in this form?

A burst of wind from Sky pounded against Warriors’s back, pushing the wrestling captain and wolf closer to the stream. Wolfie dug in his claws and growled. Warriors pushed against the wretched-smelling mound of dog with all his strength, but Wolfie didn’t budge.

A splash was all the warning he got before five sets of hands shot out of the water, grabbed Wolfie, and pulled him in. Warriors sailed through the air and hit the stream, water and bubbles shooting up his nose. He broke the surface, coughing and spluttering. Eucalyptus burnedthrough his sinuses.

When he could finally see and breathe again, he cackled at the sight in front of him.

Wolfie squirmed as Wild and Legend kept him from swimming to shore. A cloud of mud surrounded the rest of the Heroes, mostly coming from the wolf. Wind scrubbed soap into the fur. Four rubbed Wolfie’s paws, freeing wads of muck jammed between the pads. Hyrule clung to Wolfie’s back and made bubble hats for the wolf. 

Warriors had never seen the mighty beast so undignified.

Wolfie whimpered. A chime sounded and black flecks started to swarm around him.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Legend bopped Wolfie on the nose. The black flecks disappeared, and Wolfie growled. Hyrule added a pompom to Wolfie’s bubble hat. “Your smell’s going to attract monsters if you don’t clean up this version of yourself. Honestly, your fur crackles.”

“And it reduces the risk of us getting sick,” Warriors said as he waded toward the group. He shot a dirty look at Sky, dry and giggling on the shore. “Which is the real reason I organized this.”

“Did you have to throw us in?” Wild asked.

Warriors shrugged and rubbed soap into Wild’s hair. If his brothers were going to focus solely on scrubbing Twilight, Warriors could make sure everyone else got clean, too. Wild melted under the touch and almost lost hold of Wolfie.

“We needed to do laundry, too. This hits two ChuChus with one arrow. Besides, would you have taken a bath if I’d asked nicely?”

Wild shook his head, but caught sight of something on shore and grinned. Warriors followed his gaze and felt his eyes grow wide.

Time loomed behind Sky, who hadn’t noticed him yet. Sky squeaked as Time picked him up and hurled him at the other Heroes. All eight of them plunged under, legs, arms, and one tail tangling together. They finally surfaced, Hyrule still using Wolfie as a raft. Everyone piled on Sky to make sure he got as drenched as the rest of them.

“Stop,” Sky said between giggling and failing to push them away. “That—that tickles!”

Which was the worst thing to tell a group of Links, Warriors thought. Chaos and mayhem were vital parts of the Hero’s Spirit. Even Warriors splashed suds on Sky after that comment. After all, Sky had a great laugh.

A shadow blocked out the sun, too sudden and dark to be a cloud. Warriors looked up.

Oh.

Oh, no.

He’d definitely miscalculated.

Time cannonballed straight for them.

Later that night, while they dried off and teased each other over dinner, Warriors admitted he screamed like a little girl. If only because his seven other brothers did the exact same thing. 

[quillpokebiology]

Minior facts and/or care tips? Pls?

Minior Facts

-The scientific name for Minior is "Petra meteora" which roughly translates to "Rock meteor"

-Many researchers are confused about Minior's origins. They seem to be related to pokemon like Solrock and Lunatone, but many researchers still argue about this because of their flying type. Due to lack of evidence, Minior are classified with them, along with other rock types, as a placeholder

-While many people love witnessing Minior Showers (groups of Minior falling from the sky), Minior showers are also incredibly dangerous as they are heavy as Hell and WILL kill you if it hits you. Even if one falls next to you, the impact from the forming crater can still harm you

-Minior don't always die when they're shell comes off; a lot of the the death comes from the force of hitting the ground, which also causes their shell to break. Minior's shells can also break during battle, but they regrow back

-A group of Minior is called a constellation, a shooting, or a (meteor) shower

-Candy shaped like Minior is very popular in Alola

-To show affection to their trainers, Minior will float around their head in circles

-Because Minior grow up in clusters, a lone minior is a lonely minior. They need other pokemon around to be happy

-Minior can live for a very, very long time. The oldest Minior alive right now is estimated to be around a thousand years old, and lives in a sanctuary on Alola

-Minior can breed both sexually and asexually

-Minior eggs are small and look like their meteor form, but without the eye holes. Honestly, you'd be able to mistake it for poop. Minior do not stay to raise their young; instead letting the eggs float around in the sky until they hatch. Sometimes, the eggs will fall to Earth. Most don't make it, but some do and the Minior hatch here

-When Minior hatch, they are completely white. They change color when they start eating. Shiny Minior don't change color at all, and are born black

-They are conscious in their meteor form. It is a dumb debate

-Depending on the food they eat, they can change colors again. It's not one set color throughout their life time

-There've been instances of satellites breaking due to Minior hitting them either when their falling or floating through the sky. There compilations of it on Mewtube for anyone who is curious

Care Tips

-Minior eat dust floating in the stratosphere but, on Earth, they can eat pretty much anything. Preferably though, you should feed them foods with a lot of iron. They also like star candy, apparently

-When out of their cores, Minior are more sensitive to the elements. Please put them in their pokeball as fast as you can when it breaks or after a battle

-While Minior can be very melancholic about the fact that they'll never be able to return home, taking them to a planetarium can help them feel a bit better

-Do not underestimate how heavy these things are. The average weight for them is 88 lbs, but their rough, Rocky core can make lifting them yp painful. Rely on them follow you or put them in their pokeball if you want to take them places

[thirtysomethingloser92]

Chapter 8: You Wouldn't Last An Hour In The Asylum Where They Raised Me.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

Scott Summers had seen Remy LeBeau walk down the path of self-destruction before. He’d watched him spiral after Anna’s death, seen the reckless edge take hold of him in ways that were impossible to ignore. Back then, it was like Remy had some kind of death wish, throwing himself into more dangerous situations than even Scott could tolerate. He watched as Remy took risk after risk, making shady deals with people even he wouldn’t cross, diving headfirst into chaos as if he had nothing left to lose. It had been hard to stand by and witness his friend unravel like that, but Scott had let it go, hoping Remy would pull himself out of the darkness in his own way.

But now? Now, it was different.

Now, Scott wasn’t watching a man who had lost everything—he was watching someone who was trying to drown himself in something much worse. Remy wasn’t picking fights with the underworld anymore, wasn’t flirting with death. This time, he was drowning in something far more subtle, far more insidious: guilt. And Scott could see it plain as day.

Every night, it was the same story. Remy would stumble home with another woman on his arm, someone new every time, as if he was trying to scrub away the ghost of you from his life. The laughter that floated from his house, the soft murmurs that could be heard through the walls—it all felt hollow. It was a facade, a way to push the pain so deep down that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t feel it anymore. But Scott knew better. He recognized the haunted look in Remy’s eyes, the hollow grin that never reached his soul. The women Remy brought home were as varied as the faces in a crowded street—different in appearance, but all the same in purpose. They were temporary distractions, fleeting moments of flesh and heat that dulled the ache for a few hours. Each one was a new mask, another attempt to bury the memory of you beneath the weight of another body. But no matter how many times he tried, no matter how many different women he brought through his door, the emptiness inside him remained.

They came in all shapes and sizes, all walks of life—some tall and slender, others curvy or athletic. Their hair ranged from jet-black to platinum blonde, their clothes either sophisticated or barely hanging on. There was no pattern to them, no real preference. They were simply there, placeholders for the comfort he couldn’t allow himself to have. Scott noticed it, how he never brought the same woman home twice, as if seeing the same face more than once might force Remy to acknowledge what he was really doing.

The first few nights, it was easy to dismiss. They were pretty, they were eager, and they seemed to leave in the morning with no complaints. But as the days wore on, Scott began to notice the way Remy’s choices became more erratic, more careless. Some nights, he’d bring home women who couldn’t even remember his name by the time they left. To Scott,  it felt like Remy was inviting strangers into his home just to see if he could feel anything at all.

It wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about conquest. It was about punishment.

Scott could see it in the way Remy interacted with them. He wasn’t charming them the way he used to, wasn’t trying to woo them with his silver tongue or his easy smile. There was no playful banter, no lingering looks. Instead, Remy treated each encounter like a transaction, a means to an end. His eyes were cold, distant, as he led them up the stairs to his bedroom, like he was already planning how to get rid of them the moment they walked through the door.

He was trying to outrun you.

And with it, the crushing reality that no amount of women, no amount of mindless pleasure, could fill the emptiness in his chest.

Scott sighed, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he leaned against the doorway, watching Remy with his laptop placed in front of him, his fingers gliding easily across the keyboard. The man looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his movements sluggish. He was running on fumes, and Scott could see it—the weight of his choices, the self-inflicted torment that was eating away at him.

It wasn’t about the women. It never was. They were just another form of escape, another attempt to drown the ache that had been gnawing at him since the day he walked away from you. Scott knew that kind of guilt—the kind that sat heavy in your gut, twisting and turning until it consumed every part of you. Remy was punishing himself for something he couldn’t even fix, trying to wash away the memory of you, the way you had looked at him, the way he had felt when he left.

But the truth was, no amount of distractions could erase what was really tearing him apart. Scott could see it, even if Remy wouldn’t admit it—he wasn’t just grieving the loss of you. He was grieving the version of himself that had believed, even for a moment, that he could deserve you. That he could be something more than the man he had become.

And Scott knew, deep down, that until Remy faced that—until he stopped running—he would keep spiraling, keep destroying himself piece by piece. The women, the alcohol, the reckless decisions—it was all a mask for the one truth Remy couldn’t face.

That he missed you.

And no matter how many nights he spent trying to forget, the hollowness would always be there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for him when the morning light came.

Every time he closed his eyes, it was your face he saw. Every time he reached for someone in the dark, it was your absence that clung to him like a second skin. And no amount of bodies, no amount of fleeting pleasure, could change that. Scott realised that Jean had her own thoughts about what was happening.   She had had always been someone who saw through people's walls, who could sense the undercurrents of emotion even when they tried so hard to hide them. It was both a gift and a burden, and with Remy, it was no different. She had watched his slow unraveling with a mix of frustration and disappointment, her heart aching for the man who had once been so full of life and charm.

She watched as he buried himself deeper into his self-destructive spiral. There was a time when she might have tried to help him, to offer a kind word or a gentle nudge in the right direction. But now? Now she was just… disappointed. Watching him parade these women through the house like they were nothing more than fleeting distractions wasn’t just painful—it was infuriating.

Jean’s disappointment wasn’t rooted in judgment over his choices alone. It came from something deeper, something far more personal—because she knew what this was really about. You. She knew that every time Remy brought another woman into his bed, it was because he was trying to erase the memory of you. But what stung the most, what made Jean’s heart ache, was the bitter irony of it all: he would bring these women into his bed, into his home, but he would never bring you there.

And that was the cruelest part.

You—the one person who meant more to him than he could admit, the one person who had slipped past all of his defenses—had never set foot inside the walls of his home. Jean knew this because she had seen how he kept that part of his life separate from you, how he kept you at a distance from it, always finding some excuse to meet you somewhere else, to keep you at arm’s length. To keep you away from this side of his life, the side filled with broken promises and danger. The side that, despite being unintentional, had ultimately and cruely claimed you.

But these other women? They were allowed in. They walked through his front door like they belonged there, their laughter echoing through the house, their perfume lingering in the air long after they were gone. They were temporary, disposable, and that was exactly why Remy let them in. They didn’t matter. They weren’t a threat to the fragile walls he had built around himself. They couldn’t break him because they didn’t even come close to touching the parts of him that you had.

Jean had seen it happen too many times now. She’d heard the whispers in the halls, the quiet scuffle of footsteps as another woman tiptoed out in the early hours of the morning, her eyes half-lidded and her clothes wrinkled. She had seen the way Remy barely acknowledged them, how he let them drift in and out of his life like smoke, insubstantial and meaningless. And every time, every single time, Jean’s disappointment deepened.

It wasn’t just the recklessness that angered her—it was the hypocrisy. Remy could bring strangers into his life without a second thought, could share his bed with women whose names he barely remembered, but you? He had never let you in, not really. He had kept you at a distance, protecting you—or so he thought—from the mess of his life, from the scars he didn’t want you to see.

Jean had tried to talk to him about it once. She had tried to make him understand that what he was doing wasn’t just hurting him, it was hurting everyone around him—especially you. But Remy had brushed her off, that charming smile of his slipping into place like a mask.

“I ain’t hurtin’ nobody, Jean,” he’d said, his voice smooth but hollow. “They know the deal. It’s jus’ a little fun. Nothin’ more.”

But Jean had seen the truth in his eyes. She had seen the guilt, the shame, the way he couldn’t quite meet her gaze when he said it. He was lying to himself, to everyone.

Jean knew that, deep down, Remy didn’t believe he deserved you. That was why he had kept you at arm’s length, why he never let you into his home, into the part of his life that was messy and real. He was terrified that if you saw the real him—the man behind the charm, the man who was filled with guilt the man who had done unspeakable things—you’d turn away. He was afraid that you’d see him for what he truly was: broken.

But Jean also knew that by pushing you away, by trying to protect you from his darkness, he was only hurting you more. And it infuriated her that he couldn’t see that, that he couldn’t understand how much worse it was to keep you out, to let these other women into the space where you should have been.

So Jean watched, and she waited, hoping that one day Remy would wake up and realize what he was doing. Hoping that he would stop running from the one thing that could actually save him.

But as the weeks dragged on, as more women came and went, Jean’s hope began to fade. She saw the way Remy was slipping further and further away, the way the light in his eyes dimmed a little more with each passing day. And she wondered—how much longer could he keep this up? How much longer could he pretend that he didn’t care, that he wasn’t broken?

Because no matter how many women he brought into his bed, no matter how many nights he spent trying to numb the pain, Jean knew the truth.

There was only one person who could ever make him whole again.

And Jean was afraid that if he didn’t stop soon, there wouldn’t be anything left of the man he once was—the man who had loved you, even if he was too afraid to admit it. <><><><><><><><> It was a crisp afternoon, the kind of fall day where the chill in the air was just enough to make you pull your coat a little tighter around your body. The sky was a pale blue, streaked with wisps of clouds, and the city buzzed with its usual hum of life—people moving in and out of shops, the shuffle of feet on the pavement, the occasional laughter from a passerby.

Scott and Jean had been walking in comfortable silence when Jean first spotted you. It was a small café, tucked into the corner of a quiet street, the kind of place you might not notice unless you were looking. You were sitting at one of the outdoor tables, your back to them, your hair catching the light in a way Jean instantly recognized.

For a moment, she froze, her breath catching in her throat. She reached out and lightly touched Scott’s arm, stopping him mid-step.

“Scott,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She nodded to you.

Scott followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he focused on you, sitting there in the café, a cup of coffee in your hands. There was someone sitting across from you—a woman, around your age, who they assumed must be your sister. There was a striking resemblance between you, though the other woman’s expression was more animated, her hands gesturing as she spoke, while you simply listened, a small, tired smile on your face.

You looked… better. Not perfect, not fully healed, but better.  And though there was still a hint of fragility in the way you held yourself, it was clear you were on the mend.

Jean felt a wave of relief wash over her, but it was tinged with something else—guilt, maybe. Or perhaps sadness. Because while you were sitting there, alive and recovering, Remy was still a wreck, spiraling deeper into his own self-imposed isolation, haunted by the guilt of what had happened to you.

Scott glanced at Jean, sensing the conflict in her expression, and then looked back at you. He could see the same thing she did—the slow healing, the way you seemed to be finding your footing again after the trauma. But he also saw the hesitation in Jean’s eyes, the uncertainty about what came next.

“Should we…?” Jean began, her voice trailing off as she looked at him, her brow furrowed.

Scott sighed, crossing his arms over his chest as he considered the question. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean, what do we even say? It’s not like we can explain why we’re here. And after everything with Remy…” He shook his head. “I don’t want to make things harder for her.”

Jean nodded, biting her lip. She understood. You had been through enough—weeks in the ICU, recovery that was both physical and emotional. And then, of course, there was the fact that Remy had walked away from you, convinced that his presence in your life was too dangerous. How could they approach you now, after all of that? What right did they have?

But at the same time, Jean knew that Remy needed to hear how you were. He needed to know that you were okay, that you were healing, that you were alive and moving forward. It wouldn’t fix him—it wouldn’t undo the damage he had done to himself—but maybe, just maybe, it would give him a small measure of peace. Something to hold onto in the wreckage of his guilt.

“We should do it,” Jean said finally, her voice firm but soft. “Not for us. For him. He needs to know she’s okay.”

Scott looked at her, his expression torn for a moment, but then he nodded. Jean was right. Remy wasn’t going to see you himself. He was too wrapped up in his own guilt, too convinced that staying away from you was the only way to keep you safe. But that didn’t mean he didn’t care. That didn’t mean he wasn’t tormented by the thought of you suffering because of him.

So they stepped forward, hesitantly at first, as though they were intruding on something private. You still hadn’t noticed them, your attention focused on the woman across from you—who they now realized was your sister, based on the way she reached across the table to touch your hand, her expression soft with concern.

As they got closer, Jean could see more details. The faint shadows under your eyes, the way your fingers trembled slightly when you lifted your cup to take a sip. You were still recovering, still fragile in ways that weren’t immediately visible. But you were there. You were alive. And that, at least, was something.

Jean hesitated for a moment, glancing at Scott, who gave her a small nod of encouragement before she took the final step forward.

“Hey,” Jean said gently, trying not to startle you as she approached the table. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but… we just wanted to check in.”

You looked up, your eyes widening in surprise as you saw them standing there. For a moment, you didn’t say anything, your expression unreadable as you processed their presence. But then your gaze softened, and you gave a small, tired smile.

“Jean. Scott.” Your voice was quiet, a little hoarse, but steady. “It’s… it’s nice to see you.”

Jean smiled back, though there was a sadness in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide. “It’s good to see you too,” she said, her voice warm but laced with concern. “How are you feeling?”

You glanced at your sister, who gave you an encouraging nod before turning her attention back to her own coffee, giving you space to respond.

“I’m… getting there,” you said after a pause. “It’s been hard, but I’m doing better. Just… taking it one day at a time, you know?”

Scott nodded, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “That’s good to hear,” he said quietly. “We’ve been worried about you. Everyone has.”

You smiled again, though this time it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Your sister was the first to speak after the initial pleasantries. She gave Jean and Scott a polite smile, though there was a touch of exasperation in her voice as she said, “She’s not exactly taking the doctors’ orders seriously. They told her to rest, to take it easy, but you know how stubborn she can be.”

Jean’s brows furrowed, concern flickering across her face as she looked at you. Scott, standing beside her, let out a small, knowing chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Remy used to say the same thing,” he said, his voice soft but tinged with a kind of wistful humor. “He always said you didn’t know how to rest a day in your life.”

At the sound of his name, you felt a sharp pang in your chest, like a fresh wound being reopened. Your gaze dropped to the table, your fingers curling around the edge of your coffee cup as you tried to steady yourself. The world seemed to narrow for a moment, shrinking to the sound of Remy’s name hanging in the air, to the memories you had been trying so hard to push down. You went quiet, the words you wanted to say catching in your throat.

But your sister, oblivious to the storm of emotions raging inside you, kept talking, unaware of just how much it hurt to hear his name. “She’s already pulled two stitches since getting out of the hospital,” she continued, shaking her head disapprovingly. “I swear, it’s like talking to a brick wall. She won’t take care of herself.”

Jean’s eyes flicked to you, her expression softening as she caught the look on your face—the quiet anguish, the way your lips pressed together as if you were holding back something you couldn’t quite bring yourself to say. She knew, without needing to ask, what was going through your mind. She knew you wanted to ask about him. It was written all over your face—the conflict, the fear of what the answer might be.

And in that moment, Jean’s heart ached for you. She understood how complicated it was, how much weight the silence between you and Remy carried. She could see the question forming behind your eyes, even as you hesitated, too afraid of what the answer might make you feel.

Without saying a word, Jean reached out and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her touch light but reassuring. She gave you a tight, sympathetic smile, one that said more than words could. She didn’t push you to ask, didn’t force you to voice the question you were too scared to ask. Instead, she offered you her silent support, letting you know she understood, that she was there for you, no matter what.

“It’s okay,” she seemed to say with that look, her hand still resting on your shoulder. “You don’t have to ask. I know.”

You pressed your lips together, your fingers tightening slightly around your cup as you met her gaze. There was so much you wanted to say, to ask, but the words stayed locked inside. For now, it was enough that she knew. Enough that she didn’t make you ask the question you weren’t ready to hear the answer to.

Scott, sensing the tension, shifted slightly, his voice gentle but firm as he spoke to your sister. “She’ll get there,” he said, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “We all heal in our own way.”

Your sister sighed, clearly still frustrated, but she nodded. “I know. I just wish she’d take it slower. She’s always in such a hurry.”

Jean gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze before pulling her hand back, her eyes lingering on you for a moment longer. “Just… one day at a time,” she said softly. You nodded, though your mind was still somewhere else, turning over the sound of Remy’s name in your head, wondering where he was now, what he was feeling, whether he was thinking of you the way you were thinking of him.

And as Scott and Jean prepared to leave, you found yourself wishing you had the courage to ask about him. But for now, you stayed silent, holding onto the small comfort of knowing that, at least, they understood.

With a final glance back, Jean smiled at you, her eyes soft with unspoken understanding, and then they were gone, leaving you with the quiet hum of the café and the weight of the questions that remained unanswered. When Jean and Scott returned to Remy’s apartment, the air was thick with the unspoken tension between them. They had spent the whole walk back debating whether or not to tell him they had seen you that afternoon, sitting in that little café with your sister. It had been weeks since you’d left the ICU, and it was the first time they had seen you looking… well, not better, but alive, awake, and still trying to piece yourself back together.

“I don’t know,” Scott muttered as they reached the elevator, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Do you really think it’ll help? He’s not exactly in a place to hear that right now.”

Jean pressed the button, her jaw tight. She hadn’t stopped thinking about you since they left the café. The way your eyes had flickered with that brief, painful hope when Scott mentioned Remy. The way it had vanished just as quickly, replaced by the quiet resignation of someone who had been left behind—again. It had lit something inside her, a fire that had been smoldering for weeks but was now burning far too hot to ignore.

“He needs to know,” she said firmly. “Maybe it won’t fix him overnight, but he needs to hear it. He needs to know that she’s okay.”

Scott sighed, running a hand through his hair as the elevator doors slid open. “You know how he is, Jean. If he thinks it’s his fault, he’ll just spiral further.”

Jean didn’t respond as they stepped inside the elevator. Scott was right, of course. Remy was already drowning in his own guilt—about Anna, about the shooting, about you. But this wasn’t just about guilt anymore. It was about the way he was tearing himself apart, piece by piece, and how he was dragging everyone down with him.

When they reached the apartment, the first thing Jean noticed was the woman leaving. She walked past them in the hallway, her heels clicking against the floor, her hair a mess, the scent of perfume still clinging to her skin. She glanced at Jean and Scott briefly, giving a small, embarrassed nod before ducking her head and hurrying past them.

Jean’s stomach twisted. She didn’t even bother to glance at Scott, but she could feel his disapproval radiating from beside her. This had happened so many times now. Another woman, another meaningless night, another attempt by Remy to bury himself in someone who didn’t matter.

Scott sighed heavily, shaking his head as they reached the door. “Jesus, Jean,” he muttered. “How long is he going to do this?”

Jean clenched her fists. She’d had enough. She had been patient with him, tried to give him space to grieve, to work through whatever it was that was tearing him apart. But seeing you today—seeing the way you still hurt, the way you still carried the weight of what he had done—had broken something inside her. She couldn’t stand by and watch him destroy himself anymore.

“I’m done,” she said, her voice firm. “I’m done watching him wallow in this. He’s not the only one who’s hurting. She’s still out there, Scott. She’s still broken, and it’s because of him.”

Scott looked at her, his brow furrowed with concern. “Jean…”

But Jean didn’t let him finish. She pushed open the door to the apartment, her steps quick and purposeful as she stormed inside. The familiar scent of smoke and alcohol hit her as soon as she walked in, the air heavy with the remnants of last night’s chaos. She didn’t pause as she made her way down the hall, past the dimly lit living room and into Remy’s bedroom.

There he was, sprawled out on the bed, shirtless, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling slowly as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. His hair was a mess, his face shadowed with the stubble of someone who hadn’t bothered to shave in days. He looked peaceful, almost, but Jean knew better. This wasn’t peace. This was resignation. This was a man who had given up.

She stopped just inside the doorway, her heart pounding in her chest as she took in the scene. The sheets were rumpled, the faint scent of perfume still lingering in the air. The woman had barely been gone five minutes, and already he was back to pretending like nothing mattered.

Jean’s eyes narrowed, her anger rising to the surface as she stepped further into the room. Remy didn’t react, didn’t even open his eyes. He probably thought it was Scott, or maybe he just didn’t care.

She didn’t say a word as she marched past him, her footsteps heavy as she crossed the room and headed straight for the walk-in closet. She knew exactly where to find it. The safe. The one he never touched anymore. The one that held the few things he couldn’t bring himself to look at, the things that reminded him too much of everything he had lost.

Anna’s photo album.

Her hands were trembling as she punched in the code, the soft beep of the safe opening echoing in the quiet room. She didn’t hesitate as she pulled out the leather-bound album, the weight of it heavy in her hands. She had seen it before, years ago, when things were still raw, when Remy had clung to it like a lifeline in the weeks after Anna’s death. But now? Now it was just another reminder of the life he had left behind, the life he refused to move on from.

Jean felt a lump form in her throat as she stared down at the album. It was old, worn around the edges, the leather soft from years of use. She could almost hear Anna’s laugh, see the way her eyes had sparkled when she smiled. For a brief moment, the memories threatened to overwhelm her, but she pushed them down, swallowing hard as she turned and walked back to the bed.

When the album landed on the bed with that heavy thud, Remy’s heart skipped a beat. His eyes snapped open, muscles instantly tensing, but he stayed still, his cigarette halfway to his lips, frozen in the sudden atmosphere Jean had dragged into the room. The sight of that photo album—Anna’s album—sitting just inches away from him made his chest tighten. It was like a punch to the gut, all the air sucked out of the room in an instant.

He knew exactly what it was, what it held—the memories, the moments, the life that had ended too soon. His fingers twitched around the cigarette, but he didn’t reach for the album. Couldn’t. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, his pulse thudding heavy and slow in his ears. He hoped if he didn’t look at it—if he didn’t acknowledge it—maybe it would all just disappear. The weight of it, the guilt, the grief.

But Jean wasn’t going to let him escape that easily.

“She would be ashamed of you if she saw what you were doing,” Jean said, her voice low, cold, and cutting.

The words hit him like a slap. His chest tightened, and something ugly twisted in his gut. Ashamed? He almost laughed, except there was nothing funny about it. Shame was practically all he felt anymore. Shame for how he had failed you. He had spent every day since your shooting dragging himself through the muck of his own guilt, trying to drink it away, fuck it away, smoke it out of his mind—but it never left. that had never healed.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to see her pity or her anger. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his breathing shallow, but Jean’s words kept digging into him like a knife. Remy’s jaw clenched, his cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling up toward the ceiling before he flicked the cigarette into the ashtray beside the bed. His eyes finally snapped to hers, dark and furious.

“Don’ ya dare bring Anna into this,” he growled, his voice rough with barely restrained anger. “Ya don’ know what she’d think.”

Jean didn’t flinch. She held her ground, her arms crossed, her gaze steady. “What, you think I’m wrong?” she shot back, her voice sharp, unwavering. “You think if she saw you dragging woman after woman through this place, drinking yourself half to death, she’d just smile and nod? You think she’d be okay with you tearing yourself apart because you’re too much of a coward to confront what’s right in front of you?”

Remy shot out of bed, the photo album sliding slightly as he moved. He didn’t even bother covering himself, his bare chest rising and falling with the force of his rage as he stormed over to her, closing the distance between them in seconds. His face was inches from hers, his eyes wild and burning with fury.

“How th’ fuck would ya know what Anna would think, huh?” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. His hand balled into a fist at his side, his whole body trembling with barely controlled emotion. “She’s dead, Jean. She ain’t here. So don’ stand there and act like ya have any clue what she’d say. Y’ don’ know shit.”

Jean didn’t back down. They were chest to chest now, the tension between them crackling like static in the air.

“Yeah, she’s gone,” Jean said, her voice steady, even as her heart pounded in her chest. “But that woman—the one you’re running away from? The one you’re too fucking terrified to love because you think you’ll lose her the way you lost Anna? She’s still here, Remy. She’s still there, and she’s still heartbroken.

Remy felt like he couldn’t breathe. Jean’s words hit him harder than the rage that had boiled up moments before. He stood there, trembling, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had turned white. The anger that had flared so hotly inside him was already giving way to something colder, something more dangerous: fear.

You were the one he was running from now, but it always came back to Anna, didn’t it?

His mind shot back to that day—that fucking day—when everything had changed. He hadn’t been with her when the drunk driver hit. He hadn’t been there to hold her hand or whisper that everything would be okay. He hadn’t even known what had happened until he’d gotten the call. The surgeon had met him in the cold, sterile halls of the hospital, his face grave, his voice low. Remy hadn’t even been able to process the words at first.

Dead on arrival.

Those words echoed in his mind even now, years later, still as sharp and brutal as the first time he heard them. He had rushed to the hospital, thinking maybe there was still time, maybe there was a chance. But he’d never gotten to say goodbye, never even had the chance to hold her one last time. Instead, he’d stood in that empty hallway, his body numb with shock, as they told him she was gone. Just like that. One moment she was alive, vibrant, full of life, and the next—she was nothing but a memory.

He hadn’t been able to save her. He hadn’t been able to protect her.

And the guilt of that, the helplessness, had eaten away at him ever since. It had burrowed deep inside him, festering like a wound that never healed. So he’d built walls around it, around himself, to keep the pain at bay. To keep everyone at bay.

But then you came along.

And for the first time in years, he’d started to believe that maybe he didn’t have to be alone. Maybe he could let someone in again. Maybe you could be the exception. You had this way of looking at him, of making him feel like he wasn’t completely broken, like there was still something worth saving inside him. He had started to let his guard down around you, let himself feel something again.

Until that morning.

The memory of it hit him like a punch to the gut. You had begged him to stay in bed with you. You’d been wrapped in the sheets, your hair tousled, your eyes still sleepy as you’d pulled him close, asking him to stay just a few more hours, to forget the world and stay in the warmth of your bed. He remembered the way your voice had been soft, playful, the way you smiled at him like he was your whole world.

But he had been the one to suggest the market.

He knew how much you loved them—how walking through the stalls, smelling the fresh produce, the flowers, and browsing the little trinkets always made you light up. So he’d kissed you on the forehead, told you the market would be fun, told you the day would be perfect.

And then you’d gotten shot.

All he could think about was that he was going to lose you, just like he’d lost Anna. And this time, it was worse—because he’d been the one to suggest you go. He’d been the one to send you into danger without even knowing it.

The guilt had consumed him. He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the thought that you’d gotten hurt because of him. That you might have died because of him.

So he’d done the only thing he knew how to do: he ran.

He had told himself it was for your own good. That being with him was too dangerous, that you deserved better. That if he stayed, you’d only get hurt again—maybe next time, you wouldn’t be so lucky. He had convinced himself that walking away was the right thing to do, that he was protecting you. But now, as he stood there, Jean’s words cutting into him like a knife, he couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

He hadn’t left to protect you. He’d left to protect himself.

Because the truth was, he was terrified. Terrified of losing you the way he’d lost Anna. Terrified of watching someone else he cared about slip away because he wasn’t strong enough to keep them safe. And in his fear, he had done the very thing he swore he wouldn’t—he’d hurt you. He’d shattered you. He’d walked away when you needed him most, and now, all that was left between you was the wreckage of what could have been.

Jean’s voice cut through his thoughts again, sharp and relentless. “You think you’re keeping her safe by leaving? You’re not. You’ve done more damage to her than Eric ever could. You’re the one who broke her, Remy. You.”

His chest felt like it was caving in, the weight of her words pressing down on him until it was almost unbearable. He had broken you. He had thought he was doing the right thing, but all he had done was tear you apart, just like he’d been torn apart by Anna’s death.

And now? Now he didn’t know if he could fix it. He didn’t know if there was anything left to save.

His hand shook as he ran it through his hair, his mind racing with regrets and what-ifs. He thought of you, of the way you had looked at him the last time you’d seen him—your eyes filled with hurt, with confusion, with betrayal. He remembered the way you had reached for him, your voice breaking as you asked him why. As you tried to fight him on his words. Words he didn’t want to speak, and words you didn’t want to hear.

He hadn’t had an answer then. But now, standing here, the truth was staring him in the face.

He hadn’t left because it was the right thing to do. He had left because he was a coward.

Remy’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as he tried to keep it together, but the weight of it all was crushing him. Jean’s words kept echoing in his head, relentless and unforgiving.

You’re the one who broke her.

His eyes dropped to the photo album on the bed, but it wasn’t Anna he was thinking about anymore. It was you. You were still out there, still hurting, and he had been too much of a coward to do anything about it. Too afraid to face the possibility that maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time.

Maybe he could be different this time.

Jean’s voice softened, but it still held that edge of truth. “You want to fix this? Then stop running. Stop hiding behind your guilt. Stop pretending like you’re doing her a favor by walking away. You’re not. You’re just being a coward.”

Remy swallowed hard, his throat tight. His mind was racing, his heart pounding, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something stir inside him. Something that had been buried beneath the fear and guilt for too long.

Hope.

Jean’s eyes softened slightly as she took a step back, her voice quieter now, more measured. “I saw her today,” she said, watching Remy carefully, gauging his reaction. “She was with her sister.”

Remy froze. His thoughts stopped dead in their tracks.

“She looked… fine, as far as I could tell,” Jean continued, though her voice dipped with uncertainty. “But, god, Remy. She needs you.” Her voice trembled slightly, revealing the weight of her own worry. “She’s hurting, and you’re the person she needs right now. Do you understand that?”

The words hit him like a sledgehammer. She needs you.

His mind raced. You were out there, walking around, living your life—wearing a brave face, no doubt—but underneath it, you were broken. And it was his fault. He had left you to deal with the pain, to heal alone, and now Jean was standing here telling him that you weren’t okay. That you were just surviving without him, not living.

“She needs you, Remy,” Jean repeated, her voice firm but full of something else—pleading. “Maybe she hasn’t said it, maybe she’s trying to be strong, but I saw her. She’s not fine. Not really. And she’s not going to be until you stop running and face this.”

His chest ached, the weight of everything crashing down on him all at once. He had done this. He had hurt you, abandoned you, and now you were out there, trying to piece yourself back together without him. And all the while, he had deluded himself into thinking that walking away was the right choice, that it was better for you.

But it wasn’t.

She turned on her heel, her shoulders tense, and started walking toward the door, her steps heavy with the weight of everything she had just said. She had tried to be patient. She had tried to let him grieve, to let him drown in his guilt if that’s what he needed. But this? This self-destruction, this endless parade of women and alcohol—it wasn’t helping him. It was killing him, slowly, piece by piece.

Just as she reached the door, she heard the sharp sound of something hitting the wall behind her. She didn’t turn around, but she knew it was Remy kicking something across the room, probably the ashtray or a bottle. His frustration, his pain, his anger—it all exploded in that one violent action.

But she didn’t stop. She didn’t turn back. She had said what she needed to say, and now it was up to him to decide whether he was going to keep destroying himself—or finally face the truth.

As she walked down the hallway, the sound of Remy’s ragged breathing followed her, and she could only hope that somewhere, deep down, her words had broken through the wall of guilt and anger he had built around himself.

She hoped, for his sake—and for yours—that it wasn’t too late.

Remy stood frozen in place, his fists still clenched at his sides. His chest heaved with each breath, his mind spinning as the sound of Jean’s footsteps faded down the hall. The apartment felt like it was closing in on him, the walls pressing tighter, suffocating him. He stared at the door she had just walked out of, his emotions tangled in a storm of anger, guilt, and something deeper—something more painful and raw.

His gaze flicked back to the bed.

The photo album sat there, untouched.

He hadn’t looked at it since the day he brought it to your house. Since the day he realized that maybe—just maybe—he could risk letting someone in again. That you were worth that risk. He had thought he could keep his two lives apart: the life he had as someone to be feared, someone dangerous and the life he was beginning to build with you. But the memories inside that album—the photos of Anna’s smile, her laugh, her life—were too much. Too heavy. Too painful.

But that day, when he handed it to you, the weight had felt… different. It wasn’t about the past anymore. It wasn’t about Anna. It was about you. About the way you’d started to break down the walls he’d spent years building. About the way you made him feel things he thought he’d buried.

The first time he realized he was falling in love with you was the night he showed you that album.

He had placed the album in your hands, his fingers trembling slightly as he sat down beside you. For a moment, you had just stared at it, your brow furrowing in confusion. And then, slowly, you opened it.

The first page had been a photo of Anna—laughing, vibrant, alive. So alive. His chest had ached when he saw her face again, the familiar pull of grief and guilt rising up, threatening to drown him. But then you had looked at him, your eyes filled with something he hadn’t expected—understanding. You hadn’t said anything. You hadn’t asked questions or pried. You had just… looked at him. Like you saw him. Like you understood.

And that was when he knew.

He was falling in love with you.

It wasn’t the way you touched him or the way you smiled at him or even the way you made him laugh on the rare occasions he let his guard down. It was the way you saw him. The way you looked at him, even now, after he had laid his past bare in front of you. The way you accepted him—flaws, scars, and all.

He had watched you flip through the pages, his heart in his throat. Part of him had been terrified that you would react differently—that you would see the depth of his guilt, his pain, and decide you didn’t want to be a part of it. But you hadn’t. You had reached out instead, your hand resting gently on his knee, your touch grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Thank you,” you had whispered, your voice soft and full of emotion.

He hadn’t known what to say. Maybe there were no words for it, for the way you had made him feel in that moment. For the way you had taken something so heavy, so painful, and made it feel lighter. Instead, he had just nodded, his hand covering yours, his grip tight—desperate, almost—as if holding on to you could keep him from falling apart.

That night, after you had looked at the album and closed it, you had kissed him—softly, tenderly. It was gentle. Healing. And in that moment, he had felt something shift inside him. Something he hadn’t thought he would ever feel again.

Hope.

He had stayed the night. Not just physically, but emotionally. He hadn’t run. He hadn’t pushed you away. He had let himself be vulnerable with you in a way he hadn’t been with anyone since Anna. And it had terrified him. But it had also made him feel something he hadn’t felt in years.

Alive.

But now, standing in this apartment, with Jean’s words still echoing in his ears, that feeling of being alive felt far away. Distant.

Jean had no right to bring Anna up like that. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand.

Remy stormed across the room, kicking the ashtray hard enough that it clattered against the wall, scattering cigarette butts and ashes across the floor. His hands were shaking as he ran them through his hair, cursing under his breath. He wanted to punch something, break something, do anything to release the pressure building inside him.

But all he could think of was Jean’s voice, ringing in his ears.

She would be ashamed of you.

The words cut deeper than anything else she had said. Anna had been the only person in Remy’s life who had ever really seen all of him—the good and the bad, the light and the darkness. She had loved him despite it all, and even though she was gone, her memory still weighed on him like a chain he couldn’t escape. He had made a promise to her, hadn’t he? To keep going. To live. But here he was, drowning in the same guilt and fear that had haunted him since the day she died.

And then there was you.

Jean’s words about you hit even harder, echoing in his mind as he paced the room, his hands still shaking. He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not since he had walked away, convinced that leaving you was the only way to keep you safe. You didn’t deserve to be dragged into his world, didn’t deserve the danger that seemed to follow him, the chaos that always surrounded him. He had convinced himself that staying away from you was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. But then Jean had laid it out so plainly, so brutally:

You did more damage to her than Eric ever could.

It was like a punch to the gut. He could still see the look on your face that last day, the hurt in your eyes as he had turned his back on you. He had thought he was protecting you, but now… now he wasn’t so sure.

He stumbled back to the bed, sitting down heavily on the edge, his elbows resting on his knees as he let his head fall into his hands.

You had been different from Anna. Where Anna had been light and fire, you were something quieter. Steadier. But that didn’t mean you were any less important. If anything, it made him fall for you even harder. He had thought he had nothing left to give, that his heart had died the day Anna did. But you had proven him wrong. You had shown him that he could feel again, that he could love again.

And that had terrified him.

He reached out, his hand hovering over the photo album. His fingers trembled as they brushed against the leather cover, but he still didn’t open it. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not like this.

Jean’s words kept echoing in his head, cycling over and over again until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He had pushed you away because he thought it was the only way to protect you, but all he had done was tear both of you apart. He had been too much of a coward to face the truth, too afraid to love you because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone else. He had built walls around himself, convinced that isolation was the only way to survive.

But now? Now he wasn’t sure whether he had been protecting you—or whether he had just been protecting himself from the pain of loving you.

He stood up suddenly, knocking the album off the bed as he grabbed his shirt from the chair. His hands were still shaking as he pulled it over his head, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. He couldn’t stay here. Not like this. Not after what Jean had said.

He needed to move, needed to get out. The apartment felt like a prison.

As he reached for the doorknob, Jean’s words came back to him, louder now, clearer.

I saw her today.

His chest tightened. He hadn’t seen you in weeks, but the image of you flashed in his mind. Jean had said you were with your sister. That you looked… fine. But he knew better. He knew the kind of pain his absence would have caused you. He had seen it in your eyes that last day, the way your voice had trembled when you begged him to stay.

God, Remy. She needs you.

He stopped, his hand frozen on the doorknob.

You needed him.

Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still time to fix things. To make things right. He had been running for so long—running from the pain, from the guilt, from the fear of losing someone else. But maybe this time, he didn’t need to run.

Maybe this time, he could stay.

Remy took a deep breath, his heart pounding as he opened the door. The hallway stretched out before him, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid of what came next. <><><><><><><> It was the sharp knock on the door that made your mother look up from the stove, her hand pausing mid-stir as the sound echoed through the small apartment. For a moment, she stood still, listening, as if expecting the knock to repeat. Her heart gave a familiar, anxious flutter as she wiped her hands on a dish towel and made her way toward the living room, the air thick with the scent of roasting vegetables and simmering broth.

She had been here for weeks now. Ever since that night when she had received the gut-wrenching call that nearly stopped her heart. The night they told her you had been shot. The hours long drive to the hospital had been a blur of fear and disbelief, her hands shaking as she gripped the steering wheel, her mind racing with every worst-case scenario. Even now, the memory of it was enough to send a fresh wave of panic through her, that cold, sinking feeling of almost losing you.

The doctors had said you were lucky. Lucky. That word had rung in her ears like a cruel joke as she stared at you lying in that hospital bed, pale and fragile, hooked up to machines that beeped and whirred around you. You had been unconscious for what felt like weeks but it was barely even days, your mother sitting vigil at your bedside, refusing to leave—even when the nurses gently suggested she get some rest. But how could she? She needed to be there. She needed to see your chest rise and fall, to remind herself that you were still breathing, still with her.

In the weeks since, she had taken on the role of caretaker with a kind of fierce determination, tending to you as if her love alone might somehow heal those wounds faster. She made sure you rested, made sure you took your medication, made sure you ate enough, even when you didn’t have much of an appetite. But more than that, she stayed close because a part of her still couldn’t shake the fear that if she let you out of her sight, she might lose you again.

Your sister had arrived a week after that fateful day, barely giving herself time to breathe before booking the first flight out, leaving her baby in the care of her husband. She had called your mother from the airport, her voice trembling with a frantic kind of urgency, demanding to know how bad it was, how you were holding up. Your mother had tried to reassure her, but her voice had cracked when she said, “She’s alive, but…” There was always a but. The kind of but that left a lingering shadow over every moment, as if the danger wasn’t quite past, even though the worst had already happened.

When your sister arrived, she had rushed into the hospital room, her eyes wide with worry, her arms wrapping around your mother in a fierce embrace. She had taken one look at you, lying there with blood still on your face, so pale and her face had crumpled. The baby she had left behind, her life back home—it all seemed so far away, irrelevant, when her sister was lying in a hospital bed, fighting to recover from something so violent, so senseless.

Since then, the two of them—your mother and your sister—had worked together in quiet, unspoken solidarity. They had taken turns watching over you, making sure you had everything you needed, making sure the apartment was stocked with food, making sure you rested when your stubbornness tried to push you too hard, too fast.

It wasn’t just about taking care of your wounds, though that was a large part of it. It was also about reassuring themselves, about proving to themselves that you were still here, still alive. They couldn’t forget how close they had come to losing you, how your fate had hung by a thread in those first few hours. Though the doctors had said you would recover, the trauma of that close call lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken.

Your mother, especially, had taken to hovering. Every time you winced or moved too suddenly, she was there, asking if you were okay, if you needed anything, if the pain was manageable. She couldn’t help it. She needed to see you, to touch you, to know that you were real, that you were healing, that you hadn’t slipped away from her.

And you, in your own quiet way, allowed it. You didn’t complain when she fluttered around you, didn’t protest when she brought you meals or fussed over your bandages. Maybe you understood that she needed this—needed to mother you, to care for you in a way that soothed her own fears as much as it soothed your pain.

Your mother stepped into the living room and opened the door cautiously, her heart still uneasy.

And then she saw him.

Remy.

He stood there, just outside the door, looking nothing like the man she had met in that hospital waiting room all those weeks ago. She remembered that day clearly. He had been tall, composed, and intimidating, the kind of man who seemed to carry the world on his shoulders without ever flinching. He had been arguing with James, the tension between them palpable, but it had been controlled, restrained. Even then, she had sensed the danger in him, the kind of danger that came from a man who was always a few steps ahead, always calculating, always prepared to do whatever was necessary.

She had learned more about him later, from whispers and rumors and things people had told her. The mobster. The king of New Orleans. The man who ruled the streets with an iron fist and wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone who got in his way. She had known her daughter was involved with someone dangerous, but it wasn’t until after the shooting that she fully understood who Remy really was.

But now, standing in front of her, he was a shadow of that man. His clothes were rumpled, his face unshaven, and his eyes… His eyes were dark and hollow, filled with the kind of regret that seemed to weigh him down with every breath. He looked lost, broken in a way that shattered the image she had built of him in her mind.

She had been right all along, though. Her daughter had a power over him, even if you didn’t realize it. You had brought him to his knees, in ways neither of you fully understood. The man who had ruled the streets, who had inspired fear in everyone who crossed him, was now standing on her doorstep, looking like he didn’t know what to do next.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Your mother’s heart was still heavy with anger over what he had done—how he had walked away when you needed him most, how he had left you to face the aftermath of the shooting alone. But seeing him now, like this, that anger softened just enough for her to do something she hadn’t expected.

She stepped aside.

“Come in,” she said quietly, her voice steady even though her heart was racing. “I was just making lunch.”

Remy blinked, clearly surprised by the invitation. He opened his mouth as if to protest, to say something about not wanting to intrude, but your mother shook her head.

“She won’t be back for a while,” she continued, gesturing toward the kitchen. “You look like you need something to eat.”

For a moment, he hesitated, as if unsure whether he should accept. But then, slowly, he nodded and stepped inside, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

Your mother closed the door behind him, her heart still conflicted, but her mind set. She didn’t know what would happen next, didn’t know if you would be ready to see him when you returned. But for now, she could offer him this one small kindness—the same kind of kindness she had always offered to those in need.

Because even though Remy was dangerous, even though he had hurt you, he was also just a man.

And right now, he looked like a man in desperate need of something more than what she was offering. Remy stepped inside, his body moving on autopilot as the door clicked shut behind him. The apartment was small, quiet, but it held a weight he wasn’t prepared for. Every step he took felt heavy, as if the memories that lingered in these rooms were pulling him down, dragging him under.

It was strange how easily the past came rushing back. The scent of home-cooked meals still hung in the air, blending with the faintest trace of your perfume, even though you weren’t here. It was enough to make his throat tighten, his heart clench in his chest. He hadn’t been in this apartment for weeks—hadn’t let himself think too hard about it, about what it would be like to return here after everything.

But now, as your mother led him quietly toward the kitchen, the memories hit him, one after another, relentless and vivid.

He could see you, clear as day, sitting on the kitchen counter just a few feet away, laughing at him while he cooked dinner. You had always teased him about how serious he looked when he was cooking, how he could go from the hard-edged mobster everyone feared to someone so focused on making sure the sauce didn’t burn. He remembered the way your legs would swing back and forth as you watched him, the way your eyes would light up when you tasted what he had made, leaning down to steal a kiss as if you couldn’t help yourself. He’d playfully swat you away, but only because he knew if he kissed you back, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

His eyes drifted to the living room, and there it was—the couch. The same couch where you had curled up against him on countless nights, a blanket wrapped around you as you laid your head on his chest. He could still feel your weight on him, the warmth of your body seeping into his as he stroked your hair absentmindedly while you dozed off. You were always so peaceful in those moments, and it was in those quiet hours that he had let his guard down, had let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have something good in his life. Something pure. Something that wasn’t stained by the blood on his hands.

And then his gaze caught on the open bedroom door.

His heart skipped a beat.

He couldn’t stop the flood of memories that came crashing through him. The nights he had spent in that room, the way your nails would dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him deeper, as if you needed him just to breathe. He could still feel the ghost of your lips on his skin, the way you kissed him like he was the only thing that mattered, like he was the air you needed to survive. Those nights had been filled with passion, with a hunger that neither of you could ever seem to sate. But they had also been filled with something more—something he wasn’t used to. Something he couldn’t name but felt in every touch, every kiss.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away from the bedroom door. His chest ached with the weight of it all. The memories, the loss, the guilt. And beneath it all, a longing that he didn’t know how to deal with.

Your mother gestured toward the kitchen table, her voice soft but firm. “Sit.”

He obeyed, sinking into the chair, though his muscles felt painfully tight. His hands rested on the table, but he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He felt out of place, like a stranger in a home that had once been his second home.

She moved around the kitchen with a quiet efficiency, pulling out plates, setting utensils on the table, all the while keeping an eye on him. He could feel her watching him, studying him. Judging him, maybe. He couldn’t blame her for that. Not after everything he’d done.

There was a brief silence as she ladled soup into bowls and placed them in front of him. The smell was warm, comforting, but he had no appetite. His stomach churned with nerves, a sensation he wasn’t used to. He, who had faced down enemies and stared death in the face more times than he could count, was now sitting in a kitchen, feeling like a lost boy.

Your mother sat down across from him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes sharp and assessing.

“What are you doing here, Remy?” she asked, her voice calm but direct.

He stared down at the bowl in front of him, watching the steam rise. He didn’t have a good answer—not one that would make sense. Not one that would explain why he had shown up on her doorstep after disappearing for so long. He had told himself that you were better off without him, that leaving you was the only way to protect you. But that had been a lie, hadn’t it?

“I don’t really know,” he said quietly, his voice rough and low, like the words were being dragged out of him against his will.

Your mother didn’t respond immediately. She just sat there, watching him with those knowing eyes, the kind that saw more than you wanted them to. She didn’t press him for more. She didn’t need to.

And in the silence that followed, he realized she already understood. She knew what he was struggling with, what he couldn’t bring himself to say. She knew that he was lost, that the man who had once walked so confidently in and out of your life was now broken, unsure of how to fix what he had shattered.

“You’re trying to figure it out,” she said softly, her voice gentle but firm. “Trying to figure out if there’s a way back.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. The truth was written all over his face, in the way his shoulders slumped, in the way he couldn’t meet her eyes for more than a few seconds at a time.

She sighed, a long, slow breath, and picked up her spoon, gesturing for him to do the same. “Eat,” she said quietly. “You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in days.”

He hesitated for a moment, then picked up his spoon and took a small sip. The warmth of the soup spread through him, but it didn’t take away the ache in his chest. Nothing would.

Your mother set her spoon down gently, the soft clink of metal against porcelain barely breaking the quiet that had settled over the kitchen. Her eyes lifted to meet Remy’s, searching, as if trying to find something in him that wasn’t immediately visible. She had been talking for a while now—telling stories about you, about your childhood, about the way you had always been so full of life, so eager to escape the small town where nothing ever seemed to happen. Remy had listened, absorbing every word, but now the focus had shifted.

She leaned back in her chair, her fingers lacing together on the table in front of her, her gaze steady and unflinching.

“How did you get caught up in all this, Remy?” she asked, her voice soft but direct. “How did you become a part of that world?”

Remy’s chest tightened, the familiar weight of the question settling over him. It was a question he had been asked before, but never like this. Never by someone who was looking at him with both understanding and judgment, with both sympathy and a fierce protectiveness for the daughter she loved. He shifted in his seat, his hands resting awkwardly on the table, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

He hadn’t come here to talk about himself. He hadn’t planned on explaining anything. But now, with your mother sitting across from him, her eyes locked on his, he felt the weight of her question pressing down on him, demanding an answer. And for some reason, he felt like he owed it to her. Maybe because of the way she had welcomed him in, despite everything. Maybe because she had fed him, listened to him, offered him a kind of understanding he hadn’t expected.

Remy sat there for a moment, his eyes drifting down to his hands, which rested loosely in his lap. He could feel your mother watching him, waiting patiently for him to answer. He wasn’t sure why he was even telling her any of this. Maybe because she had opened her door to him, or maybe because, in some way, she reminded him of the kind of mother he never had.

He took a deep breath, finally looking up to meet her gaze. “I wasn’t born into this life if that’s what you mean,” he began, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. “I was… adopted.”

Your mother’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She just waited, quietly urging him to continue.

“I don’t remember much about my birth parents,” Remy said, his mind drifting back to the hazy fragments of his early childhood. “I was too young when they gave me up. I was in foster care for a while, bouncing from one house to another. It was… rough. I guess I was a difficult kid. Angry, confused. I didn’t understand why they didn’t want me.”

He paused, the old bitterness rising in his throat, but he pushed it down. He wasn’t here to wallow in self-pity.

“Eventually, I got adopted by this couple. Seemed like good people at first. They had money, stability. I thought maybe things would finally get better, you know? But… it wasn’t like that.” He shook his head, his jaw tightening as the memories came flooding back. “They weren’t bad people, but they weren’t ready for a kid like me. I was already too far gone by the time they took me in. Too angry. Too broken.”

Your mother’s face softened slightly, her eyes filled with something close to understanding, but she stayed silent, letting him tell his story.

“I fell in with the wrong crowd when I was about thirteen,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “Started running with kids who were older than me, kids who didn’t have much to lose. We got into trouble—small stuff at first. Skipping school, stealing from corner stores. But it escalated fast. By the time I was fifteen, I was doing things that no kid should ever have to do. Selling drugs. Running errands for people who had real power in the city.”

He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening as the memories churned inside him. “I thought I was tough. Thought I didn’t need anyone. But really, I was just trying to survive. I didn’t know how to be anything else.”

He looked up then, meeting your mother’s eyes. “By the time I realized how deep I was in, it was too late. I had already crossed too many lines. Made too many choices that I couldn’t take back.”

Your mother nodded slowly, her expression softening, though there was still a hint of sadness in her eyes. “It’s hard to break free from something like that,” she said gently, her voice filled with the kind of wisdom that came from years of seeing people make mistakes, from knowing how hard it was to find redemption.

Remy nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah. It is. Once you’re in that world, it’s like quicksand. The harder you fight, the deeper you sink.”

He paused, his voice lowering as he forced himself to admit the part that hurt the most. “And by the time I met her... your daughter… I was already too far gone. I thought I could keep her away from it. Protect her from who I really was. But I couldn’t. And now…”

He trailed off, the weight of his own failure hanging heavy in the air between them.

Your mother sat quietly for a moment, her hands resting on the table, her expression thoughtful. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but steady. “You can’t change the past, Remy. But you can decide what kind of man you want to be moving forward.”

Remy sat back in the chair, his eyes dropping to the floor as a tension settled over his shoulders. He had already said more than he planned to, already laid out pieces of his past that he wasn’t used to sharing with anyone, let alone your mother. But there was one more thing, one more truth that felt like a weight pressing down on him. If he was being completely open with your mother, showing her that he wasn’t what she perceived him to be, then she needs to know everything. Know the reasons why he is like he is, to gain her acceptance in a way that only a mother could give.

He took a slow breath, then forced himself to meet your mother’s gaze. “I’ve been married before,” he said quietly, the words coming out rough, like they were scraping against his throat.

Your mother didn’t react immediately. She just stayed still, her eyes narrowing slightly as she processed what he said. Remy watched her closely, waiting for the judgment, for the disappointment, for something that told him he had just made things worse. But it didn’t come.

Instead, your mother’s lips curved into a soft, almost bemused smile, her eyes glinting with an understanding he hadn’t expected. “So was I,” she said, her voice light but tinged with the weight of her own memories. “Twice, in fact.”

Remy blinked, surprised. He hadn’t known that. You had mentioned your childhood, your mother’s second marriage, but you hadn’t gone into much detail. He hadn’t thought to ask.

Your mother leaned back in her chair, her expression shifting to something lighter, though Remy could still see the weight of past experiences in her eyes. She took a breath, her lips curving into a small, almost mischievous smile.

“My first husband,” she began, her tone casual but laced with dry humor, “was an idiot. Couldn’t keep it in his pants if his life depended on it.”

Remy blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness. He tried to hold it together, but a grin tugged at his lips, threatening to break into a full laugh. It was the first time since he’d walked into your house that he felt the tension lift, even if just for a moment.

Your mother noticed, her smile widening as she leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “Oh, don’t worry,” she continued, her voice warm but matter-of-fact, as if she’d told this story a hundred times before. “It didn’t last long. I was young, thought I knew everything. We had my oldest together, and I tried to make it work for her sake. But… well, we just weren’t right for each other. Didn’t take long before we were more like strangers living in the same house.”

Remy stayed quiet, unsure how to respond, but the way she spoke—with such calm, as if she had made peace with it long ago—made it easier for him to listen. There was no bitterness in her voice, just the kind of wisdom that came from living through it and coming out stronger on the other side.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he finally let the smile fully form on his face. “Sounds like you’ve been through it.”

Your mother smirked, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh, honey, I’ve been through more than you can imagine. But I learned a lot along the way.”

Remy nodded, his smile lingering. “Guess life has a way of teaching you the hard lessons.”

She nodded in agreement, her gaze softening. “It does. But sometimes, those lessons are exactly what you need to figure out who you really are—and what you deserve. When I met my second husband,” she said, her eyes softening at the memory. “I wasn’t looking for love. In fact, I was pretty sure I’d never fall in love again after the first marriage. But the universe has a funny way of proving you wrong.” She chuckled softly, a sound that carried both amusement and affection. “It’s like it just knows when you need something different, something better.”

She paused, her gaze drifting for a moment, as if she was lost in the past. Then she looked back at Remy, her smile turning just a little mischievous. “Sometimes, the universe lets you fall in love twice.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, settling over him like a blanket of quiet reassurance. He hadn’t expected her to respond like this—to take what he had said and turn it into something softer, something that didn’t feel like a confession weighed down with guilt. There was no judgment in her eyes, no disappointment. Just a quiet acceptance, as if she had seen enough of life to know that love wasn’t always neat, wasn’t always perfect the first time around.

Remy exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest loosening just a little. He hadn’t talked about his marriage in years, hadn’t let himself think about what it had meant, or what it hadn’t. But sitting here, with your mother looking at him like she understood more than he’d ever expected her to, he found himself speaking again, the words coming out before he could stop them.

“Her name was Anna,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. “My first wife.”

Your mother’s expression softened, her eyes watching him closely, understanding that this wasn’t something he spoke about lightly. She didn’t push, didn’t interrupt—just let him talk.

“She… she died,” he continued, his voice catching slightly on the words. “Drunk drivin’ accident. She wasn’t the one driving… but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

He paused, his throat tight as the memories rushed back—memories of that night, of the phone call, of the shock that had ripped through him like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping for air. “She was on her way home from a friend’s place. Some guy blew through a red light, hit her car. She never had a chance.”

He clenched his jaw, fighting against the familiar surge of guilt that always came with thinking about Anna. “I wasn’ with her that night. I should’a been. But I was workin’ a job—deep in my life with the crew. Thought I was doing what I needed to. And then she was gone."

Your mother’s face softened with sympathy, her hand resting lightly on the table between them. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice filled with the kind of quiet understanding that only someone who had lived through their own losses could offer. “Losing someone like that… it’s not something you ever really get over.”

Remy nodded, his chest tight. “No, it ain’.”

They sat in the stillness of the kitchen, the air thick with the weight of everything Remy had just laid bare. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was filled with the kind of tension that only comes when someone’s past is laid out raw and vulnerable. Your mother didn’t rush to fill it, didn’t push him for more. She simply sat, her fingers lightly drumming on the edge of the table as she processed his words.

But after a moment, her expression softened, curiosity flickering in her eyes as she shifted the conversation. “How did you meet my daughter?” she asked, her voice gentle, steering them into safer territory.

Remy looked up, his throat still tight from the weight of his earlier confession, but the mention of you brought a flicker of warmth to his chest, something that softened the edges of his guilt and regret. He couldn’t help but smile, just a little, as the memory of that first night came rushing back. “At the bar she works at,” he said, his voice quieter now, a touch lighter. “I was there one night. Saw her and James. She was… different. Strong. Unafraid. But there was something else in her eyes, too. Something that drew me in.”

He paused, the memory playing out in his mind like a scene from a movie. “She was on her break, I think,” he continued, his smile widening slightly. “Sittin’ on a crate, eatin’ her dinner. Just… completely comfortable in her own skin. I don’t know, there was somethin’ about her. The way she carried herself. How she didn’t take life too seriously, even though it’s clear she’s been through some tough stuff.”

Your mother raised an eyebrow at that, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smirk. “Bloody James,” she said with a playful roll of her eyes. “I swear that man is a bad influence on her.”

Remy chuckled softly, but he could see the fondness in your mother’s expression. She didn’t mean it. If anything, Remy could tell she trusted James, maybe even saw him as a kind of protector for you.

“So, that’s how it started?” she asked, leaning forward slightly, her interest clearly piqued.

Remy nodded, his gaze softening as he thought back to that night. “Yeah. I overheard her badmouthin’ her boss to James.” He smiled a little at the memory. “But it weren’  jus’ what she said. It was how she said it. She wasn’t angry, she was laughing about it, like nothing could really get under her skin. I don’t know… there was somethin’ about her. The way she seemed so unbothered by the world, but at the same time, so aware of it. I couldn’ stay away.”

He hesitated then, his expression growing more serious. “She had this… way of lookin’ at me, like she could see past everythin’. Past the life I was in. All the mess, all the mistakes. Like she saw somethin’ in me that I ain’ even know was there. And I didn’t know how to handle that.”

Your mother’s eyes softened as she listened, her hands resting lightly on the table, but there was a flicker of something else in her gaze—something sharper, more protective. “James told me about the night you pulled a gun on someone harassing her in the club,” she said, her voice steady, though there was a slight edge to it.

Remy winced, his gaze dropping to the floor. He knew that story had spread around, and he wasn’t surprised that James had told your mother. He wasn’t proud of what had happened that night, but he wasn’t about to deny it either. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low. “That happened.”

He could feel her eyes on him, sharp and assessing, weighing him in a way that made him feel exposed all over again. “Is that what you do, Remy?” she asked, her tone firm but not harsh. “Pull guns on people to solve problems?”

Remy’s jaw tightened as he looked down, shame twisting in his chest. He hadn’t wanted to be that guy. Not in front of you. Not in front of anyone. But that night… that night had been different. “I ain’ proud of it,” he admitted, his voice rough. “It ain’ something I’m proud to say I did. But…” He paused, his hands tightening into fists on the table as he forced himself to meet her gaze. “But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Your mother’s brow furrowed slightly, her gaze hardening as she tried to make sense of his words. “Why?” she asked, though there was no accusation in her voice—just a mother’s concern. “Why would you think that was the right thing to do?”

Remy took a deep breath, feeling the familiar tightness in his chest. “Because I couldn’t just stand there and watch it happen,” he said, his voice low but steady. “That guy… he wasn’t just harassing her. He wasn’ gonna  stop. I could see it in his eyes. He was going to hurt her if I didn’ step in. And I wasn’ going to let that happen. Not to her.”

Your mother stayed quiet, her expression unreadable as she considered his words. But there was something in her eyes that shifted, something softer, though still guarded. “You know,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, “she’s not someone who needs saving. My daughter’s been through a lot. She’s strong. She can handle herself.”

Remy nodded slowly. “I know,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I know she don’t need me to fight her battles. But that night… I wasn’ thinkin’. I just acted. I couldn’ let her get hurt. Not when I could do something about it.”

Your mother leaned back in her chair, her gaze softening slightly as she studied him. “You care about her,” she said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact.

Remy swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his own feelings pressing down on him. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

Your mother’s expression softened even more, a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “I suppose there are worse things than a man who’s willing to protect the people he loves. Just… no more guns, alright?”

Remy let out a soft chuckle, though there was still a heaviness in his chest. “I’ll do my best,” he said, offering her a small, tentative smile in return.

Your mother nodded, her smile lingering for just a moment before she turned her attention back to the table, her fingers tracing the edge of her mug. “Good,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that hadn’t been there before. “Because my daughter… she deserves someone who’ll stand by her side, not someone who’ll fight her battles for her.” The quiet inside the house was suddenly broken by the sound of a car door slamming shut outside, followed by the unmistakable sound of laughter—your laughter, joined by your sister’s, floating through the cool evening air. It was the kind of sound that carried warmth, the kind that spoke of inside jokes and years of shared memories.

Remy’s entire body tensed at the sound. His breath hitched, and his gaze flicked toward the front door as if he could see through it. He knew it was you. He knew the sound of your laughter anywhere, the cadence of it, the way it lit up a room. But here, now, it felt like a punch to the gut—a reminder of everything he had been running from and everything he had returned to face.

Your mother noticed the shift in him immediately, the way his shoulders stiffened, how his hands clenched slightly on the table. She reached across the space between them and placed her hand gently over his, her fingers warm and firm. The gesture was small but grounding, drawing his attention back to her.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said softly, her voice steady and filled with a quiet, maternal reassurance that cut through the tension in the room. “Thank you for talking to me. For opening up… about all of it.”

Remy swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. He hadn’t expected your mother to look at him like this—to see him, really see him, and still meet him with understanding instead of judgment. He nodded slowly, dipping his head as if he could absorb the weight of her words.

“And thank you,” she continued, her eyes softening as she held his gaze, “for loving my daughter enough to come back.”

Her words landed like a quiet challenge, but not one meant to intimidate—more like an invitation to step up, to be the man she believed you deserved. Remy let out a slow breath, the tension in his chest loosening just slightly, though the weight of everything still hung heavy on his shoulders.

“I ain’ sure I’m the man she needs,” he admitted, his voice low and rough, like the words were scraping their way out of him. “I don’ know if I’ll ever be. I don’ wanna drag her down.”

Your mother’s grip on his hand tightened for just a moment, a silent insistence that he listen to her. “You’re here now,” she said simply. “That matters. It means something.”

Remy nodded again, his brow furrowed, his mind racing with everything he wanted to say, everything he didn’t know how to say. He wasn’t sure what being here would fix, wasn’t sure if he had already done too much damage. But sitting across from your mother, seeing the way she still had hope for you both, something inside him shifted. A quiet resolve, a determination that maybe—just maybe—he could try. He could be more than the man his past had shaped him into. He could be the man you saw in him.

“I know,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m tryin’.”

Before your mother could respond, the sound of the front door opening filled the room, followed by your sister’s voice, still mid-laugh. “Okay, but you cannot tell me that Bangerz wasn’t a cultural reset,” she was saying, her words punctuated by the thud of shoes being kicked off.

You followed her inside, your own voice teasing as you countered, “Plastic Hearts is superior, and you know it. Miley’s rock era is—” “Yeah but you’re biased aren’t you miss I-Never-Let-Go-Of- My-High-School-Emo-Phase,” Your sister countered earning a snort from you.

But then any retort you had froze on your lips the moment you looked up and saw him. Remy. Sitting at the kitchen table with your mother.

Your eyes locked onto his, and in that instant, the world seemed to narrow. The laughter, the lightness of the moment, evaporated, replaced by a sudden rush of emotions you weren’t ready for. Your heart hammered in your chest, and for a second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Remy stood slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. There was a mixture of emotions written across his face—hesitation, guilt, relief. He looked like a man caught between apology and hope, like he wasn’t sure if you wanted him there, but he couldn’t walk away again.

Your mother rose from her seat as well, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the room. She glanced between the two of you, her expression soft but knowing. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder as she passed, leaning in just enough for you to hear her quiet words. “We’re going back out for a bit,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Your sister, however, wasn’t so easily convinced. “But we were just—”

Your mother shot her a look—a single, sharp glance that silenced the protest before it could fully form. Your sister huffed, her frustration evident, but one glance at the tension between you and Remy was enough for her to understand that this wasn’t the time to argue. With a sigh, she followed your mother out the door, leaving you and Remy alone in the kitchen.

The door clicked shut behind them, and for a moment, the silence was deafening. You stood there, still frozen by the sight of him, your heart racing as a swirl of emotions warred inside you—relief, anger, confusion, hope. You couldn’t quite figure out which one was winning. All you knew was that he was here, after everything, standing in your kitchen like a ghost from a past you hadn’t fully let go of.

Remy took a small step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours, his face a mixture of hesitation and something deeper. “I—” he started, but the words seemed to catch in his throat, like he wasn’t sure how to begin.

Your chest tightened as you tried to process what you were feeling. Part of you wanted to rush across the room and demand answers—why he left, why he hadn’t called, why he thought he could just walk back in now, after all this time. But another part of you… another part of you was just relieved to see him. To know that he was still here, still trying.

“You can’t keep doing this Remy. You can’t keep walking in and out like this.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, your voice soft but laced with the confusion and hurt you’d been carrying since the day he walked out.

Remy flinched slightly, as if the words stung more than he expected. He looked down for a moment, his hands flexing at his sides before he met your gaze again. “I came back,” he said simply, his voice rough. “I… I couldn’ stay away. Not anymore.”

Your heart clenched at the sincerity in his voice, but you weren’t ready to let the walls come down just yet. “And what makes you think you can just come back?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly. “After everything?”

Remy swallowed hard, his eyes pleading as he took another step closer, his hand reaching out but stopping just short of touching you. “Because I love you,” he said quietly, the words raw and unguarded, like they had been waiting on his lips for far too long. “And I’m sorry. For all of it. For everythin’.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his confession hanging heavy between you. You wanted to believe him—God, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that this time, things could be different. That maybe he could finally be the man you needed him to be. But the hurt was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, the scars from the last time he left still fresh and raw.

You could still remember how it felt when he walked away. The emptiness, the sense of betrayal, the hours you’d spent staring at the door, waiting for him to come back. But he hadn’t. He had left you to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart alone, while he disappeared into the shadows, convincing himself that leaving was somehow better for you. And now, here he was, standing in front of you again, saying all the right things, looking at you with those eyes that once made you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

But could you trust him? Could you trust that he wouldn’t do it again, that he wouldn’t break your heart all over the second things got hard?

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice breaking slightly as he took another step closer, his hand hovering between you like he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. “I don’ know if it’ll ever be enough, but… I’m here. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

His words were soft, almost pleading, but they couldn’t erase the doubt that gnawed at you. You wanted to believe him, wanted to throw yourself into his arms and let everything else fall away. But you couldn’t ignore the voice in the back of your mind—the one that whispered that this wasn’t the first time he’d promised to stay. That he had said similar words before, only to walk away when things got tough.

What if he left again? What if, the next time the world got too heavy for him, he decided you were better off without him? What if you let yourself believe him, let yourself hope, only for him to shatter you all over again?

You took a shaky breath, your heart pounding as you stood there, torn between the pain of the past and the fragile hope of what could be. You could see the sincerity in his eyes, the raw emotion in his voice. But sincerity wasn’t enough. Not anymore. The decision wasn’t just his to make. It was yours too.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Remy,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you hadn’t said. “I don’t know if I can keep picking up the pieces every time you decide you’re too scared to stay.”

He flinched, the pain in your words cutting deep, but he didn’t look away. He didn’t back down. “I know,” he said, his voice rough. “I know I hurt ya. And I don’t expect you to forgive me jus’ like that. But I’m willin’ to do anythin’.”

You closed your eyes, your chest tight with the flood of emotions swirling inside you. You could feel the pull of him, the way your heart wanted to believe him, to trust that this time would be different. But trust wasn’t something you could give so easily. Not after everything.

When you opened your eyes again, he was still there, standing close, his face etched with the same conflict that was tearing you apart inside.

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” you said softly, your words barely audible, but you knew he heard them. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. He just nodded, as if he understood that this wasn’t something that could be fixed with a few words, no matter how much you both wanted it to be.

And in that moment, you realized that the decision wasn’t just about whether he stayed. It was about whether you were willing to take the risk. Whether you were willing to open yourself up again, knowing that he could still walk away. Knowing that loving him meant facing the possibility of getting hurt all over again.

The decision wasn’t just his to make. It was yours too. And you weren’t sure if your heart could take it. Not yet.

[allisonrw96]

TL;DR: it's not my ship, but they were done dirty

I always always always come back to that weird little reveal that when they were first floating the idea to bring Tommy back, they said it was to do a storyline with Eddie and it got switched to Buck because it was too weird or tricky to have them both break up with their LIs offscreen but only one actress could come back.

Because a stepping stone relationship makes perfect sense for Eddie. Something short and intense with angst and softness for him to get to this moment of letting himself feel joy and to taste how truly good it can be. He didn't need an endgame relationship right now. He did need to have his "first."

Buck didn't need that. Buck is absolutely ready for his forever and he has been for a while and giving him the "inviting Natalia to move in and then catching his own bad habit for once and backing out" would have been great.

But that didn't happen. Instead Eddie had to sit like a hot dog on one of those rolling warmers for a season while Buck started the queer dominos falling (and I admit this is a little bit from a Buddie endgame perspective because it doesn't feel to me like the show was deciding to explore the a character's sexuality just for exploratory purposes and I'm willing to admit I have a blind spot here.)

And honestly I think the fact that Oliver cares so much about Buck and telling this story well both for the character and everyone who sees himself in him and that Lou met that energy turned the storyline and the relationship into a more beautiful beginning than it would have been in the hands of other actors.

Which gave the show it's next problem. Because we can all see that Buck is ready for his forever love and you introduced a new love interest and then instead of sticking to a few episodes of awakening and moving on, I think they saw that people were starving for it and latched onto it and Tommy harder than they expected. So it's an easy thing to do to milk that for a little bit longer, but it was absolutely the wrong choice because people got invested in a way they wouldn't have if this had ended after the original number of episodes we expected.

And Buck and Tommy worked! I think you can nitpick relationship things if you weren't that into it and write a breakup narrative using those seeds, but their puzzle pieces absolutely fit together. So much so that they definitely had forever after potential that everyone could see and a lot of people were excited about and investing in and oops wait that wasn't the plan.

So what do you do? You either abandon the plan and embrace the accidental beauty that you discovered and let it ride or you write your way out of it. Give them some hurdles, some angst. Give them a tear-jerking breakup that respects what you built and the viewers who are invested in it and slowly work your way back to where you wanted to be.

They didn't write their way out of it.

And I so don't want to believe that after the work the actors put in and the viewer feedback that they were still viewing the relationship as a placeholder ready to be yeeted once Eddie's arc got back in position again, but I'm not sure what the alternatives are?

Either it's being talked about that this is the last season and so if they're really doing buddie then it's now or never? Or actually the internet is not a valid reflection of the viewership as a whole and someone from on high said the plug should be pulled?

Or the storyline was stumbled into and fumbled around from the beginning and never treated with as much care by the people in charge of it as it was by the people who loved it.

IDK it's just messy messy storytelling and I say that as someone who is not a multishipper but who does value a good story and a good narrative. They let the relationship go on for too long to end it so abruptly. If there was going to be a breakup, there was a better one to be had and it doesn't make me feel good that my preferred happy ending could come from one that breaks the heart of so many of my friends. And if it isn't in the service of a bigger, already in motion endgame, literally what the fuck?

[thiings-with-wings]

Thinking about how Squishy (temporary placeholder name for Zenith’s world) would probably have a different directional view outside of North, East, South and West. Since everything can follow both a horizontal and vertical plane because Squishy’s landmasses are all floating islands that rest on different altitudes. So I’m wondering if inhabitants would also have different words to describe the altitude. Like, instead of saying North-East you would say something along the lines of Higher/lower-North-East (Does that make any sense..?) to also specify the altitude said location would be at. I feel like in doing that, there would also be a “base” altitude in which an intersection is decided.

I dunno my brain is starting to hurt a bit

[lgbtqlegends]

avalance fic dump ask game!

so i saw @puppetsoftomorrow do this the other day, and i'm pretty sure i've done it at least once before as well, and it was fun then so. here's a list of my current WIPs and if you wanna know more, send in an ask with one of the titles (most of which are just placeholders or shortened versions of the actual titles), n i'll chat a bit more about them, maybe try to figure out how to make them work more! i may even put in a lil excerpt from them! (i cannot promise that for all of them though, as some of the ones i've decided to include are ones that i haven't actually Started yet but the idea is floating around and i Plan To lol y'know?)

those three words: my avalance 100 Ways to Say I Love You fic collection! just soft fluffy mostly-unrelated oneshots, usually anywhere from 400-1000 words, of avalance just loving each other and being in love! cute and fun thing to work on in between other writing projects!

nightmare scape: one that i've been teasing/promising for a long time. i swear it'll get done! i just need mod choco to help me flesh out the ideas for the rest of the chapters before i can make good on it. basically all the legends (at least. the ones we're doing anyway) are having a Terrible time. lots of angst, but there'll also be plenty of comfort in the aftermath as well. definitely one that i've been very excited about for a long time!

how to return home: smalltown legends, ptsd!sara au! she returns to her hometown of Starling Heights after ~13 years of being away and has to figure out how to exist around everyone that knew her before all the trauma she's endured, if she even can. ava moved to Starling Heights a few years before sara returns and made friends with the legends, so now that sara's back they're around each other pretty often and of course they fall in love!

high school: exactly what it sounds like, a legends/avalance high school au! there's nothing actually Written for it yet but choco and i planned so much of it Extensively that it deserves to be here! i definitely would love to fully write it someday, though i feel choco and i need to plan a bit more of the stuff that isn't just Angst so- after we get to that, i will for sure try to start it! it's gonna be a Big one though

tattoos & coffeshop cuties: tattoo/coffeeshop au! sara and charlie are tattoo artists who run a shop, and ava and z1 run a coffeeshop right across from them! lots of flirting between avalance and zarlie, and the four of them being absolute gay/bi Disasters. also one that i haven't technically started writing yet but i still think it deserves to be here

firefighter: legends firefighter au!! sara's a firefighter captain, ava's a 911 operator. they meet on a call and ava develops a crush on sara from there (which is very much requited ofc) and they fall in love! i Have started writing this one but it's still in the very early stages while i work out more of the details of the call that sara and ava meet on

zombies: legends zombie apocalypse au!! sara is a badass loner who rescues a seventeen-year-old sin and (kind of begrudgingly at first) lets them tag along with her. the two of them meet ava months later and what starts as just an offer of shelter for one night turns into the three of them sticking together and becoming more of a family as sara and ava fall in love, and sara slowly starts to open up and let them in more. (the rest of the legends will show up too, eventually. but sara sin and ava are the main focus). this is the one i'm currently working on the most!! got about 6k words so far with still a Lot to go!

icu/guardian angel: avalance guardian angel au!! ava is sara's guardian angel and reveals herself to sara in an attempt to save her life when sara almost succumbs to the darkness. pretty much going to be based on/inspired by a song called ICU by my favorite band (citizen soldier). another one that i haven't actually started writing yet but i definitely do plan to bc i love the idea!

porch: soft domestic fluffy avalance, post-retirement. waking up late or watching the sunrise together. coffee on the porch in the morning, bourbon sunsets on the porch in the evening. a dog. possibly half wild west/farmhouse type fic. another one i haven't technically started yet but one i've been meaning to, for sure. possibly the one i'll try to work on after my zombie apocalypse and firefighter AUs?

aaaaaaaand, as a bonus: it's not a wip, it's finished and posted on ao3 already But. if anyone feels so inclined, they are more than welcome to drop an ask about my 19.5k fic survive the story cause the ending changes everything and i will Happily chat abt it and answer questions!

anyways!! send in asks! let's chat! i will Happily talk abt any of these fics!

[danganronpa-v3-reimagined]

Greetings, to all Ultimate Students of The Ultimate Academy of Gifted Juveniles' Class 8-A.

My name is SaberCatProductions, but please, call me Saber for simplicity's sake. I am neither an enemy nor a friend, simply an individual with the ability to communicate with you. I cannot hurt you but unfortunately, I am also unable to assist you in any significant manner. For the most part, my capability to interact with you is limited to verbal means only.

In the future, there might be others like me who visit you. They may wish to ask you questions, check on your condition, or provide their thoughts and theories on your current situation.

Good luck and stay safe, Saber

OOC Notes:

Ask Number: 0 (Introduction).

Note/Notes: The sprites used in this response are placeholders and do not represent the sprites that will be seen in-game. The response to this ask does not spoil any aspect of the story.

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

[Kiyo] How remarkably intriguing. It would appear as though we have been visited by some kind of harbinger or herald of spirits. I wonder what messages its protégés will bring?

[Kaito] S-Spirits!? No way! Ghosts aren’t real!

[Kiyo] Now, now, no need to be so defensive. Besides, I did not call this entity a ghost, did I? Although modern sightings of ghosts, especially those within the western world, are often described to be small, glowing orbs such as this entity, there are many other entities from a wide array of mythological origins that match these characteristics, too. For example, in Celtic folklore, there exists a creature known as a will-o’-the-wisp, which…

[Angie] Nyah-ha-ha-ha! Don’t be silly, Kiyo! This must be the work of God! Praise be to Him for providing us with company during our confinement!

[Tsumugi] Or maybe, its the astral form of an ancient monk, here to lead the worthy to their destiny, just like in journey arc of...

[Kaito] Look, I don’t care if it’s a ghost, ghoul, ghast, or otherwise, this thing isn’t supernatural or paranormal or whatever you want to call it! This… this is just one of Himiko’s things, r-right? Right!?

[Kokichi] Ooo, was that a voice-break I heard? Didn’t take much to strip the “Luminary of the Stars!” of his bravado, huh?

[Kaito] Shut up, Kokichi!

[Kirumi] Kaito does raise a good point. Himiko, is this one of your magic tricks?

[Himiko] Nyeh… they’re not tricks, they’re real magic!

[Kirumi] I apologise. Allow me to rephrase: is this the result of your magic, Himiko?

[Himiko] Lumomancy and sonomancy aren’t particularly powerful spells, but my mana is too low to cast them at the same time right now. Probably just one of Miu’s inventions…

[Miu] Dumbass! You really think I’d waste my time making this floating piece of sh#t!? This gorgeous girl’s brain has way better things to do!

[Ryoma] I don’t think we should be insulting this… “Saber” thing, especially not to its face. There’s no telling what its capable of.

[Kokichi] No problems there, then! This thing doesn’t even have a face! It’s just a little ball of light!

[Gonta] Gonta thinks it looks little like firefly! But... not see any wings or legs or mouth... how it speaking?

[Kiibo] Hmm… I think I can see two small dots within the orb’s structure. They could well be eyes, so it may have some kind of face after all.

[Tenko] What if this thing is working with Monokuma? It might be the secret sixth Monokub!

[Monokuma] That’s Mr. Monokuma to you!

[Tenko] Gah! Where did you come from!?

[Monokuma] That doesn’t matter right now! How did this thing get in here!? This place is supposed to be sealed, nothing in, nothing out! Away! Shoo! Vamoose! Hey! Are you listening!? I’ll chase you out of here myself if I have to!

[Rantaro] Didn’t you just say that there was no way out?

[Monokuma] …

[Monokuma] I just remembered that I left the oven on! Toodles!

[Rantaro] *sigh* Off he goes again… well, at the very least, it’s comforting to know that this creature isn’t with the bears. That’s one less thing we have to worry about.

[Maki] Whatever this thing may be, Ryoma is right. We need to be careful around it as well as anything like it. Afterall, it said itself that it’s not our friend.

[Shuichi] But it also said that it wasn’t our enemy, and even though it stated that it was, “unable to help us in any significant manner,” it still might be able to help us somehow. We should try our best to keep it and others like it on our side.

[Kaede] I agree! We should answer their questions whenever they’re asked and with any luck, they might be able to answer some of ours! Let's give this a go, everyone!

[bluemooncove]

Some potential character ideas for the future in a bit more depth. None of them may make it off the cutting room floor but they've been ideas floating around in my head for different periods. Figure talking about them will force me to think more and maybe start talkin' about 'em.

Miss Mary

Someone for the Machina setting but I cannot say too much on her presently as I've not quite worked out the mechanics on how her mechanics function. I'll say though that she's meant to be used to further explore Yaogui in the setting and to establish how they're not inherently hostile. An organizer for some of the non malicious monsters that exist with a bit of mystery to her.

The Lhamo Sisters

A set of triplets that are setting agnostic. They may exist in the Machina setting but, if so, are far removed from the main magical girl stuff or the cyberpunk anything. Instead they're pretty much contained in their small village (Lhamo). It's not a full setting of it's own but the world outside the village doesn't matter to their story. It's meant to fit my love of folk horror. A small village in the middle of nowhere. A bit of influence from my own rural Appalachian upbringing combined with different Japanese folk horror works I've read. Because I've been reading Tibetan history recently I'm also incorporating some of that, most notably into the placeholder names, but the village is not meant to in any sort of specific place. Just a strange village somewhere with strange traditions.

Anyways the three Lhamo sisters are the daughter of the village's matron. Tenzin (Left), Dawa (Center), and Pema (right). They're a bit mysterious and their mother + the villagers keep them rather aloof and distant from any foreign visitors. Still, they've ventured out from the village a few times before. A bit more exposure to outside culture than the others. Which makes them not fit in to either world. Oh but they are destined for great things, I'm sure.

There's a little bit of Call of Cthulhu in them and some Siren. Though people may be more familiar with Silent Hill or the latest resident evil.

Lhamo

The matron of Lhamo village and the leader of it's folk religion. Always refined and regal. The village nearly revolves around her and her sacred family. At the center of the village is a lonely hill and on the top of that hill is a creaky old church. In that rustic little place is where Lhamo lives and where the Lhamo before her lived. There always has been a Lhamo as long as everyone remembers but this one is quite unusual. After all, all the previous Lhamo only had a single daughter.

Spirit Caller

One I have been thinking on for a long time. She has a form of ancestral spirit that merges to her body to empower her. Right now I think a big deer could be cool so I've got Viviana as a place holder face claim before but I'm considering if there are other animals that'd be cool. Someone with shark powers may be a neat alternative. Part of one of B&B's outlander groups.

Monk

An Ascetic monk that serves in the B&B guild. One of the captains of their outlanders who maintains the natural temples of the outlanders. As an Aelf she's one of the oldest members of the guild at over 150 years old. Typically these would be middle aged for an Aelf but the rigorous care she gives to her body makes this unclear.

Plague Priest

A member of the guild's Crossroad chapter. She is a devotee of a gnomish god of disease, fire, and healing. The magic that this grants her makes her capable of healing or worsening illness. Despite the ominous title (and similarly stern appearance) she's one of the sweetest members of the entire guild.

[acertainmoshke]

Okay now that I've gotten to do the surprise book review bit, 7 Days for Fae questions

What was the process of getting the cover like/where did the cover come from?

This is such a dumb question, but font size. Do I just read books with tiny fonts or did you make your font bigger than normal. If so, was that intended as an accessibility thing?

Where did the idea from this book come start? Like, there are a lot of moving pieces (Brownie, Aunt Lana, the school stuff) and I'm curious if you started with one of them and expanded outward or something different.

Did you ever behind-the-scenes decide which Zelda game Brownie was playing? Totally cool if not, but as someone who played a lot of Zelda on her 3DS, I was curious

I'm curious where fairy theming with Fae came from? It's such a cool part of her identity and personality and stuff and I'm curious where that idea came from. If that makes sense as a question.

Oh wow, Heartshaven, thank you!! These questions are so great! I don't get to talk about this story much because I was almost done drafting it when I started this blog, so this is my chance!

One: The cover. I use getcovers.com, which sounds shady af but is in fact not. Their covers are cheap because these use cheaply (or free?) licensed images and put them together in kind of a...collage thing? None of that is how to say it right, but they basically photoshop a cover you can legally make money off of, which is cool. You go in with an idea in mind and pay differing amounts based on if you need a back cover for physical books and how many images it uses. I've done this for almost all my books, actually, even the ones that won't need them for years. I like visuals.

Two: The font was definitely bigger than normal, which was 90% because that was what the formatting pages suggested for kids books and 10% because I was fighting with formatting and kept having blank pages because the page break itself took up a line so I may have made it one size bigger to stop that.

Three: This book's story is...different. Usually I have an idea floating around for ages as daydreams, like I'm playing with dolls, and eventually plan it into something coherent. This one wasn't even an idea. It just happened. But you have to understand a few things: it was 2020 (self explanatory), I had just moved out of my parents' house for the first time (...don't do the math on how old that made me, I've always been a little behind), I was a senior in college (overwhelmed constantly so that I was barely learning anything, just trying to pass), and despite knowing for almost a decade had just decided to get an autism diagnosis.

Suddenly I was writing this story to deal with how I was never accommodated as a little autistic kid, and the way my parents treated me, and it was a wish fulfillment. And then I needed a b-plot and hadn't made Fae trans because that felt like too many things, so I made her parent trans. I was actually homeschooled until high school so the story isn't at all about me, but the vibes are what could my life have been like? I don't usually relate to books about autistic kids so I wanted one that was like me, and I never see my full disabled experience represented.

(Fun fact: in the first several drafts, Aunt Lana's name was my mom's middle name as a placeholder, which I think says a lot about how much stuff I had to work out)

I did change two major things when I projected onto Fae. First, I do have ataxia and based her symptoms on mine, but mine is episodic, ranging from a baseline of general clumsiness and poor balance to really bad spells of being barely able to walk, but often with spells in between, at the level I describe for Fae. But that is complicated for a short book, and I wanted it to be clear and understandable for kids, so I made hers consistent. I stretched reality here a little: episodic ataxia is one of the very few genetic kinds that is not progressive. But it's a story, so.

And second, I aged her down. I based her off of what I was like around 13. This is partly because an elementary school story is easier to tell than a middle school one, but also I know that despite being precocious I was emotionally young and on paper this story makes more sense for a slightly younger kid.

Four: I am so sorry, I know nothing about Zelda. I wanted a 3DS but never had one. We got a PS3 when I was like 16 and I played Batman on that and Diablo on the computer, but before that it was mostly PC games like Oregon Trail. Feel free to project whichever game you like.

Five: That was actually me. Mostly. As a kid who never felt like I belonged in the world I was in, I had a bit of a Fae obsession myself. Even more so when I learned about the changeling-autism connection. Cold Iron, my Fae book, has had some version in my head since I was like 14. It's just kind of my thing, between the beauty and terror and isolation and...well, and ice magic because I'm also overheating all the time.

Bonus fact no one asked for: The original story was called Fae and Brownie because I thought it might turn into a series where future books would be like Fae and Brownie Do Things. But several beta readers pointed out that he's one of several aspects in her life so it needed to be named something just centered around her.

Bonus fact again: One person thought it seemed like she was developing a crush when she commented on his hair but since the rest of the book didn't go there I should change that. I thought about it and decided not to because noticing sensory things and wanted to touch them isn't related to sexuality or romance for me, and since that's how I think that's how Fae gets to think.

Thank you, this was awesome!! I hope it isn't too long.