#the art is not one of forgetting but of letting go

[neellscapsule]

My Heart — Part Six

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker

angsty chapter and reader is NOT happy. it is not implicated in the text but the tea is ADULTERED totally drugged.

word count | 4.6l

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13. conner looks 22 as well.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthattimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley @rowan-no-rizzz @hearts4mica @sillyheartmoonnyx @crumbs-and-covers @nininehaaa @ironsaladwitch @c4xcocoa @keyllsbk @welpthisisboring @redkarmakai @yuyuzi-ling @91-kya @mat5u0 @nymphzy0 @jeshomie @keysmashstuff @imsomniaccorner @rowan-no-rizzz @xoxoangellll @oliviaewl

previous. next.

It’s only been a few hours. Not even dinner yet. And your things — your life — are already bleeding back into the Manor like they never left.

Boxes stacked neatly by the stairs. Suitcases rolling in. Steph and Duke arguing softly over where to drop your art stuff. Cass ghosting through the hall, carrying your sketch portfolios like they weigh nothing. Tim? You don’t even know where he is, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he already hacked the Royal Resort, changed your room access code, and sent a digital notice of your “check out” to their front desk. Smug little bastard.

You aren’t even going to try fighting it. No one here listens to “no.”

Because the Waynes, God help you, never really ask for things. They consume them. They fold you back into the sharp jaws of their family, biting down until you realize that escape was never really an option.

You tend to forget you are a Wayne as well.

You stand in the middle of it all, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching them pull your belongings through the front doors like this is normal. Like they didn’t spend four years letting you stay gone.

“Annoyed?” Jason’s voice is far too entertained, standing beside you with a box balanced on one palm.

“Beyond,” you mutter, glaring as one of your easels is carried toward the stairs.

“You knew it was coming.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Jason smirks but lets it drop, wandering off with the box. You sigh, shoulders slumping, and turn toward the wing where your room still waits. Untouched. Too familiar.

And it is… different. Familiar in the bones of it, but stripped of its soul. The walls are bare where posters and paintings used to hang. The shelves mostly empty, save for a few stubborn relics that Alfred clearly refused to toss — old books, a cracked snow globe, a tiny bronze bust of Athena from your first Gotham art exhibit.

Damian’s already there. Of course he is. Smaller than the others, but somehow taking up more space than all of them combined, hovering at your side like a shadow that refuses to detach itself.

The kid hovers near your bed, arms crossed behind his back like a tiny, overly proper soldier on duty. His green eyes flick to you, guarded but… softer than usual. Like he hasn’t quite figured out how to stop being angry at the world when it comes to you.

“Need help unpacking?” he asks, tone clipped, but there’s hope there. The kind that coils tight in your chest.

You hesitate, torn between instinct and guilt, then nod, stepping inside.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Sure.”

He follows, eager despite his mask of disinterest, helping you tug open bags, sort clothes, stack books. For a while, it’s… weirdly peaceful. The steady rustle of fabric. The faint creak of the floorboards. Damian brushing past you without biting words, his fingers tracing over your old framed photos on the shelves — ones you left behind because they hurt too much to take.

You catch him pausing at the piano music sheets tucked beside your nightstand. His brows furrow.

“You still play?”

“Not often.” You shrug. “More painting now.”

Damian hums, thoughtful, gaze lingering. “You should’ve stayed.”

You freeze, the words hanging in the air like smoke. You glance up, meeting his eyes — so green, so much like Bruce’s it physically aches. But they’re not cold, not like your father’s can be. They’re… fractured. Full of sharp edges and careful walls, yes, but under that?

Longing.

Guilt gnaws at your ribs.

“Didn’t know you existed yet,” you say softly, fingers curling around the strap of an old bag. “Not really.”

His mouth presses thin. “That doesn’t change it.”

You exhale, standing, brushing invisible dust from your jeans. “I left the Manor, Dami. I didn’t just… leave you.”

“You left me,” he says, blunt, young enough to say it like a wound, like a scar carved too deep. “You all did. But you… You weren’t supposed to.”

God, you hate how your throat tightens.

The bitter ache behind your ribs.

You hadn’t been prepared for him — for this — when you came back.

Your fingers reach for another box, peeling it open just to avoid his stare, but it doesn’t help. His presence is overwhelming. Silent and sharp like his mother’s. Possessive like his father’s.

“I didn’t even know you,” you murmur, voice rough. “I knew… of you. Little headlines. Files. Cass tried to tell me. But I—” You pause, eyes shutting briefly. “I was so angry. I couldn’t even… I couldn’t come back.”

“Because of him,” Damian says. It isn’t a question.

You nod.

Bruce Wayne. The great Dark Knight. The man you once idolized, once bled beside as Huntress, as his partner. The same man who never quite looked at you the way he looked at the others. Not the way you needed. Never the way you begged for as a kid with bruised knuckles and desperate, reaching hands.

“Because of a lot of things,” you correct gently, placing your sketchbook aside, the worn leather cover heavy with memories. “But yeah… mostly him.”

Damian’s jaw clenches, the muscle ticking. His arms uncross, falling at his sides. He looks…

Small.

Despite the bravado, the stiff lines, the name of the Demon Head running through his blood… He’s thirteen.

Your baby brother. One of your younger siblings. The one you abandoned before you even truly met him.

You weren’t there for the first bruises on his knuckles. You weren’t there for the first nights he slipped into patrol. You weren’t there for his first real battle, the first time he realized that Gotham’s love is sharp-edged and cruel.

You weren’t there. You left.

And it’s starting to suffocate you— the realization that this boy, this brother, had spent years carving out his place in the family you abandoned, while you disappeared into the art galleries and the high-rise studios of New York.

You curse under your breath, stepping forward before you can overthink it, cupping the back of his neck gently, tilting his head toward you.

“You shouldn’t want me here,” you whisper, honest, broken. “I don’t know how to do this anymore.”

His eyes glisten for a second, the weight of his walls faltering. But only for a moment. His hands lift, fisting in your shirt, his brow pressing against your shoulder in a rare, vulnerable gesture he’d never admit to.

“You’re my sister,” he mutters, the words muffled but steel-strong. “I don’t care how long it takes. You belong here. You were the only one who was mine. Blood. Sister. Everyone else is just… attached.”

You swallow thickly.

Damian, for all his sharp edges and biting remarks, was still just a boy looking for someone who belonged to him in the same undeniable way that blood does. He wasn’t just a Wayne. He was yours.

“I’m here now,” you promise, voice soft, fragile. “For as long as I can stand it.”

He gives a sharp little nod, like that’s acceptable.

But you both know the truth.

It’s then, when you pull another box from beneath the bed, that you find it — old, dusty, edges worn, but unmistakable.

The Box.

The one that started this whole spiral, even if you don't know it. You pop the lid, heart stumbling when you see your old notebooks stacked inside. Your sketch journals. Poetry. Music sheets. Little scraps of yourself you never let them see.

Damian watches, sharp-eyed. “You wrote a lot.”

You smile faintly, fingers ghosting over the familiar covers. “Started around your age. Couldn’t… couldn’t really talk to anyone. So, I wrote.”

For a second, there’s something bitter in your throat. The weight of all those words that never reached the right ears.

“I saw that box,” Damian says, breaking your thoughts. His lips press thin, voice low. “Grayson and Father had it.”

Your head jerks up.

“What?”

He nods, glancing toward the door like they’ll appear at any second. “They read your letters. The invitations. That’s why some of those are missing.”

You frown, rifling through the papers. Sure enough… gaps. Missing slips of faded cardstock, soft with time. The ones with their names.

You straighten abruptly, box in hand.

“I’ll be back,” you say tightly, already halfway out the door.

Damian follows to the threshold, but wisely stays behind.

You stalk down the halls, passing portraits and shelves that mock you with their polished familiarity. Your boots echo over the marble. Your heart pounds heavier. The box is tight in your arms, fingers curled so hard around the edges your knuckles burn white. You don’t even hesitate when you reach your father’s study. You shove the door open without knocking, the hinges groaning under the force.

Bruce looks up from behind his desk, the same goddamn desk that’s always separated him from you. His eyes lift slowly, unreadable behind that ever-present mask of indifference.

“Y/N,” he greets simply, setting down a pen.

You march in, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling with the weight of it all, and slam the box down onto the dark wood of his desk.

“They’re mine,” you snap, teeth bared around every syllable. “The invitations. The letters. The pieces of me you ignored for years. Give them back.”

His gaze drops to the box, lids lowering slightly. Calm. Too calm. Always calm when you’re coming undone.

“You left them here,” he says quietly, like that’s supposed to be some kind of explanation.

“That doesn’t mean you get to—” your voice cracks— “to keep them. To— to read them like you suddenly give a damn.”

“I’ve always cared.”

The words are so simple. So detached.

It’s laughable.

You laugh— bitter, sharp, ugly.

“Yeah? You cared while I was bleeding under that Huntress mask? You cared when I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen— when I was killing myself trying to be enough for you? I was practically breaking my ribs to breathe in this house, Bruce—”

You use his name like a blade.

And for the first time, his expression shifts. The faintest flicker of hurt behind those unreadable eyes.

“Don’t—” he starts, but you’re already unraveling.

“No, I’m talking,” you hiss, voice cracking with the sheer force of holding it together for too long. “I begged for your attention. I broke myself for your pride. I learned to throw knives before I learned to drive, I broke bones before I got my period, and the only thing I ever wanted—” your throat tightens, eyes burning— “was for my dad to fucking look at me like I mattered.”

His mouth parts— an interruption, maybe. You don’t let him.

“You looked at Dick,” you spit, pacing now, heat climbing under your skin, nails digging crescent moons into your palms. “At Jason. At Tim. Hell, you adopted half the city because they were broken and brave and you saw them. But me?” Your voice cracks, and it slices through the room. “I was standing right here. Your kid. Your first daughter. And you never— you never looked.”

“I saw you.”

The words fall from his mouth like they should mean something.

You stare at him, chest heaving, that dangerous, shaking, bitter-laced laugh creeping out of your throat.

“You saw me when it was convenient. At galas. On patrol. When I played the part. But you didn’t see me when I cried myself to sleep in this house. When I begged Alfred to remind me why I even existed in this family.”

“Y/N—”

“No!” Your fist slams onto the desk, rattling the box, the notebooks inside shuddering under the force. Your shoulders curl forward, that trembling, raw ache choking every syllable. “You read my words, Bruce. You read every pathetic, desperate thing I wrote to get your attention, and you didn’t say a damn thing. You just kept them. Like— like souvenirs of how badly you failed me.”

He stands now, slow, careful, like he’s trying not to spook a wounded animal.

“I kept them because they mattered.”

You flinch. Because that— that doesn’t make it better. That makes it worse.

“Then why didn’t I?” you whisper, voice cracking so thin it’s barely audible.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. And for once, Batman looks speechless.

The lump in your throat crawls higher, the weight of everything clawing through your ribs until you can’t stand it. Your vision blurs with unshed tears, the room suffocating, the walls pressing in—

Jason’s voice cuts through the static, smooth but laced with warning, not to you.

“Hey— hey, sweetheart—” His hand catches your elbow, tugging you gently away from the desk, away from the storm brewing in your chest. His eyes flick to Bruce, sharp, protective. “That’s enough.”

Your father doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t argue.

“Later,” he murmurs, tugging you. “Let’s not explode the whole house on your first day back, yeah?”

You let him guide you, too raw, too frayed at the edges to resist, the box clutched to your chest like it holds your last shred of pride.

He doesn’t take you far. Just out, through the side door, past the old stone threshold that still smells faintly of ivy and rainwater. The gardens stretch ahead of you, green and alive, overgrown in some parts, perfectly manicured in others. Like everything in this family — halfway wild, halfway curated.

The cold air bites when the door to the garden swings open. The scent of wet grass and the sweetness of the last lingering roses hit you like a ghost. The gardens haven’t changed. You could close your eyes and walk these paths blind, could still find the cracked stone where you used to sit, where you used to hide.

It shouldn’t affect you the way it does. But it’s been years. Years since your boots walked these cobbled paths. Since you brushed your fingers along the rosebushes, memorized the stone statues of long-dead Waynes, listened to the wind thread through the hedges and wondered if maybe, just maybe, you belonged here.

You stop by the little wrought-iron bench. The one you used to curl up on with a book or sketchpad when Alfred scolded you for pacing the halls like a restless cat. Your knees threaten to buckle.

Jason’s still beside you. Silent for a beat, his blue eyes scanning your face like he’s cataloging every fracture in your armor.

“You good to sit?” he asks finally, voice stripped of its usual cocky charm, softer, older, gentler.

You nod, throat tight, and collapse onto the bench. The box lands beside you, your arms falling limp at your sides as exhaustion crawls under your skin like a sickness.

Jason leans against the backrest, arms crossed, one leg kicked out lazily in front of him. But his gaze never leaves you.

“I thought you’d punch him,” he says after a moment, like it’s some normal conversation.

“I thought so too,” you rasp, voice barely holding steady. Your fingers twitch, nails biting into your palms.

Silence settles between you, heavy and humming with unsaid things. The garden is quiet, save for the rustle of leaves in the warm Gotham breeze and the faint chirp of birds that have somehow not abandoned this cursed place.

You bite your cheek, hard, tasting iron at the back of your tongue. The weight in your chest grows unbearable.

“He had no right to keep them,” you whisper, more to yourself than him. “Those letters—those words were mine, Jay.”

Jason nods, slow, his eyes dark with understanding. He tilts his head, letting the silence stretch, giving you room.

It cracks something in you. Your walls cave in on themselves, and the words spill out, raw and broken.

“You’re my family,” you breathe, voice cracking on the confession. “And I love you. I love all of you. But you’re— you’re terrible.” You swallow around the knot in your throat, eyes burning, vision swimming with tears you’ve tried so hard to swallow. “You’re all terrible.”

Jason’s brows pull together, faint lines creasing between them, but he doesn’t interrupt. He exhales slowly, raking a hand through his hair. “Yeah. We are.”

“It’s not fair,” you choke, the sob clawing its way up your throat, unstoppable now. Your hands cover your face, shoulders shaking, breath hitching as it pours out of you, ugly and too real. “It’s not fair— I was here. I was here and I tried— I tried so damn hard to make him proud. And he— he just—”

You can’t finish the sentence. It shatters in your chest before it reaches your lips.

Jason exhales softly, the sound rough at the edges. Then, gently, he shifts, his hand reaching to curl around the back of your neck, tugging you toward him.

You resist for half a second, pride prickling. But you’re exhausted. Hollow. And there’s something in Jason’s touch — that stubborn, protective, reckless love he’s always carried for you — that breaks you down completely.

Your forehead bumps against his shoulder. You curl into him, tears spilling freely now, staining the worn fabric of his jacket. His hand stays at your nape, grounding you, his other arm curling protectively around your frame.

“I know,” he murmurs, chin resting against your temple. “I know, Birdie.”

“It’s not fair,” you croak, rubbing your palms over your eyes, as if that can stop the burning. “It’s not fair that I spent years begging for you all to see me, to just—just be there. And now you’re all here like you never left. Like you didn’t forget me.”

Jason tilts his head toward the sky, his lips twisting like he wants to argue, but he can’t.

You don’t let him. The flood’s coming now, and you can’t hold it back.

“You died, Jason.” Your voice sharpens, cuts through the garden like glass underfoot. “You died, and it ruined me.”

His head snaps down to you, breath caught in his throat.

“I was fourteen. I was fourteen and you were dead and no one—no one even noticed that it broke me.” You glare at him through the blur, the tears slipping, unwanted and hot. “And then you came back, and you—you didn’t come to me. You stayed away. You built walls. You left me behind again.”

Jason’s throat bobs. “I didn’t know how to come back to you.”

You shove your hands into your hair, tugging hard at the roots like it can ground you, like it can make you stop shaking. “I waited for you.”

“I know.”

“You were my favourite person,” you choke, the words ragged and small. “You were my brother and you were my best friend and you just—just left.”

His breath trembles out of him like a cracked apology.

“I didn’t mean to leave you,” he says, and his voice sounds like it’s breaking. “I didn’t mean to die on you.”

“But you did. I needed you,” you whisper, voice fraying apart at the edges. “I needed you and you— you just disappeared.”

Jason’s hand tightens slightly at the back of your neck.

“I know,” he says again, pained and low. “I’m sorry.”

You stay like that for a while. Your breathing slows, the storm inside your chest quieting to a simmer, though the ache never fully leaves. Jason lets you cry, lets you shake, doesn’t rush you to pull yourself together like the others always do.

hated myself for staying away from you when I came back. I thought—I thought you’d hate me for what I became. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

Your breath shudders out, a laugh cracked in half by grief. “I’ve always seen you. Always.”

He finally, finally looks at you, really looks, his eyes raw, his walls caved in.

“You were the only one who ever really saw me,” he admits, a little too late, a little too soft.

Your ribs collapse under the weight of it. “And you left me anyway.”

Eventually, you straighten, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your sweater, sniffling quietly. Your throat is raw, your eyes glassy.

Jason watches you, patient, still.

“Not exactly the grand return I wanted,” you mutter bitterly, half a laugh, half a sob.

Jason snorts softly. “No one expected you to waltz in all sunshine and rainbows, Birdie. You’re still a Wayne.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch faintly, the first ghost of a smile threatening to break through the grief.

Jason taps the box at your side. “You keeping those?”

“Yeah.” You brush your fingers along the worn cardboard, the ache settling in your chest like an old friend. “They’re mine.”

“Good.” He pushes off the bench, offering his hand. “C’mon. You’ve caused enough drama for one morning.”

You hesitate, eyes flitting to the Manor behind him. The looming walls, the endless expectations, the memories stitched into every corner.

Jason squeezes your hand gently.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promises, eyes steady, blue and familiar. “I’ve got you.”

“. . . You’re not allowed to leave me again,” you mumble, voice raw.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

You kick at his boot, just enough to make him huff a little more. “Promise.”

His gaze flicks down to you, and there’s something fierce, something broken in the way he answers. “Promise.”

And you believe him. You have to.

Even if it’s not fair. Even if you still want to scream. Even if the ache never quite leaves.

You love them.

They’re terrible.

But they’re yours.

You don’t eat dinner with the rest. You don’t have the energy to push yourself into another room where their eyes would watch you like you’re some fragile puzzle they’re trying to solve. You don’t want to play at the table, pretend you belong there just yet.

The library is quiet, save for the low, steady crackle of the fire devouring its own weight in the hearth. Shadows climb the walls, curling over the spines of leather-bound books, tracing old portraits, creeping across the floorboards like they know this house better than anyone ever could. You don’t bother to look up when you hear the door open. You already know who it is.

The sketchbook rests on your lap, half-finished lines scrawled across the page—limbs bent in motion, a face tilted in anguish, the sharp angles of a cathedral stitched into human skin. You’ve been working on it for hours, your pencil dancing through the strokes like your hands know grief better than your head does.

Lines bleed from your fingers, chaotic and gentle all at once, spinning a face you can’t quite hold in your head, features that slip just as you start to form them. Maybe it’s Jason’s nose. Maybe it’s Bruce’s jaw. Maybe it’s no one.

Bruce says nothing as he crosses the room. His footsteps are quieter now than they were when you were a child. Lighter. Older. Worn thin by years of carrying everything and everyone but you.

You still don’t look up.

The cushion beside you shifts when he sits, the same space on the same old couch where he used to read to you, back when things were simpler. Back when you thought love came in the shape of bedtime stories and scraped knees bandaged with rough, clumsy hands.

A porcelain cup clicks gently against the coffee table. You glance at it, finally, the faintest twitch in your brow when you notice the color of the tea, the faint aroma curling toward you.

“Raspberry,” Bruce says quietly, settling back into his seat, eyes fixed on the fire. “Three sugar cubes.”

You stare at the cup, steam curling like ghosts into the dim light, and then at him. His jaw is sharp in the flicker of flames, his mouth set in that unreadable line. You don’t thank him.

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence settles, heavy and familiar, stitched together with old tension and years of too much and not enough.

You sip the tea anyway. It’s perfect. Just how you’ve always taken it. It only makes you angrier.

Bruce leans his elbows onto his knees, watching the fire like it holds all the answers he never found in you. “You used to climb onto the piano bench before you could even walk properly,” he says, voice low, rough with memory. “Alfred was terrified you’d fall. But you never did.”

You don’t interrupt, fingers tightening around the sketchbook, pencil still clutched between them like a weapon.

“You’d sit there,” he continues, “banging on the keys with your little hands. No sense of melody. Just noise. But God, you looked… happy.”

Your jaw locks. You keep your eyes on the flames. Let him speak.

He exhales slowly, shoulders heavier than you remember them. “You always found ways to make your presence known.”

You laugh once, quiet and bitter. “Didn’t seem to work very well.”

You can feel his eyes on you, waiting, holding, but you keep your gaze fixed on the flame. You don’t want to see his face. You don’t want to see the weight he carries, because it’s the same one suffocating you.

“I do not forgive you,” you murmur, voice soft but sharp enough to draw blood. The fire crackles, swallowing the quiet like kindling.

His eyes don’t flinch. His mouth doesn’t twist. He just nods, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “I know.”

The admission sits heavy between you, thick as the smoke curling from the hearth.

For a long time, the only sound is the breathing of the house itself. Old beams creaking. The pop of burning wood. The distant hum of the world outside, too far removed from this broken little moment.

Bruce’s voice, when it comes again, is quieter. Almost lost to the flame. “Is there anything so undoing as a daughter?”

You blink, startled by the words. His eyes drift back to the fire. “Alfred said that,” he adds, lips curving faintly at the memory. “When you were a baby. You’d cry in my arms and quiet the second I’d hold you close. Clung to me like you never planned to let go.” His throat works. “I didn’t know then how much I’d… ruin that.”

You stare at the flames, but your mind drifts elsewhere—to the old halls of this house, to the forgotten rooms and creaking stairwells, to the years spent watching the people you love blaze bright for the world while you flickered, silent, unseen.

The halls, the rooms, the garden paths—they carry your shape, your scent, the laughter you left behind. But it’s not you who haunts them. It’s them who haunt you, the people, the memories, the versions of yourself that used to dream inside these walls.

You are not a house haunted by a ghost. You are a ghost haunted by a house.

Every corner of this place still echoes with pieces of you. The forgotten toys buried in the attic. The old recital photos tucked between bookshelves. The faint scratch on the bannister from your first Huntress grappling hook, never sanded out, never fixed.

And yet, it was never your home the same way it was theirs.

You breathe in deep, the warmth of the tea settling in your hands, doing little to thaw the cold buried deep in your chest.

“I’m tired,” you say at last, the words stripped bare of all the fight. “I’m so tired, Bruce.”

His eyes soften. His posture shifts, the wall of Batman faltering, the edges cracking just enough to let the father show through.

“You don’t have to stay,” he tells you quietly. “Not if it hurts you.”

You snort under your breath, shaking your head. “You all made that decision for me already.”

His jaw clenches. You don’t let him argue.

The fire burns, and the house breathes, and for a little while, you both just sit there, surrounded by everything unsaid.

“He was right,” Bruce adds, voice low, fractured at the edges. “Nothing in my life has… undone me the way you have.”

Your chest twists, breath catching, vision blurring faintly at the corners. But your expression doesn’t break. Not in front of him.

You sip your tea again, letting the warmth sting your throat, drowning the lump rising there.

The room stretches long with silence. The fire burns. The shadows breathe. The ghosts stay quiet, for now.

Neither of you apologize. Neither of you move. But for the first time in years, you sit in the same room, quiet together. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

For now, you let the halls remember you again.

For now, you let the ghost haunt its house.

You blink once, twice, before your lids drop against your cheeks — exhaustion pushing you into silence, into sleep, into the soft surrender of someone who trusted again.

In the flicker of the firelight, you drift. Eyelids flutter as you realize you’re curled on the sofa — the sketchbook clutched loosely, the fire dimming, the tea unmoved. Bruce’s silhouette stands guard in the shadows, and you breathe — finally — like you’re safe.

[rainrot4me]

i love your stuff so, so much! i always forget that creepypasta is a dead fandom so going to look for content on it is a literal fight

with that said, everyone always forgets about clockwork being an artist... do you have anything on her being an artist? i don't even care what at this point

AHHHHAHHAAH YES. These are copied straight my my headcannons doc I’ve had open on Nat, forgive if there are typos.

── .✦

Mixed media queen. Clockwork isn’t loyal to just one art form. She has a sketchbook filled with everything—graphite sketches, inky anatomy diagrams, charcoal-streaked pages, bits of pressed flowers taped next to journal entries. She’ll get fixated on embroidery one week and blood-red watercolor the next.

Uses art to process. She doesn’t talk much about what she went through—being tortured, changed, reborn into violence—but you can see it in her work. Shaky hands rendered in ink. A self-portrait where one eye is normal and the other is an open wound with gears blooming out of it. A girl floating underwater, peaceful, and alone.

Paints on her walls. Her room in the Mansion isn’t cutesy or edgy—it’s hauntingly beautiful. Splashes of oil paint across the wall. Tall figures with blurred-out faces. A whole corner is filled with clocks she’s half-painted and never finished, like time is melting there.

Surprisingly delicate with fine detail. Her hands may be stained with violence, but she’s so careful with a brush it’s almost reverent. Fine linework. Gentle shading. She loses herself in the tiny motions. You’d never think the same fingers that can crush a windpipe could also thread a needle or paint eyelashes.

Art is her version of crying. Nat doesn’t break down or rant or scream when things get bad. She sits down, turns off the world, and draws something with shaking fingers until it hurts less. Headphones turned all the way up, too.

Tried realism, hated it. She doesn’t want things to look “real.” She wants them to feel true. That means strange perspectives, dreamy colors, disjointed anatomy, like how memories look when they’ve been replayed too many times. The realest her art gets is in sketches of scenery or random anatomy studies she does of Toby. She has dozens of blurry, smudged sketches of Toby aiming her shotgun or asleep in the back of her truck.

Embroidery on leather jackets. Sometimes she gets hyperfixated on textiles. She’ll sew into the sleeves of her clothes: anatomical hearts, broken hourglasses, hands reaching toward each other but never touching. The texture calms her, the needle in and out. A rhythm she can control. Any excuse to patch up the tears in her jeans with pretty colors.

Art with violence woven into it. Not in a creepy edge-lord way, but in the way that says: I have seen pain. I am made of it. Let me show you, safely, on paper. There’s a sacred honesty to her darkest pieces. They say what she can’t.

Would 1000% give a handmade sketchbook as a gift. She binds it herself. Stitches the spine. Maybe even adds little doodles or notes in the margins:

“Sketched some while I was away. You can look if you want.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[ohburgee]

Helloo, my stars! It’s been a while, I’ve been gone for four days, hahaha. But this isn’t an announcement about coming back. As much as I don’t want to make any of you feel sad, I’ve decided to quit and stop making Block Tales fanfics. I’ve made up my mind after talking with my best friend, and I know it’s sudden, but this is my choice.

I’m going to focus fully on that dream now, I’m slowly making progress on it, and it makes me smile :D I hope you all understand my decision. I’ll miss you all, I’ll miss the memories I’ve made while writing for this beloved game and fandom. To all of you who supported me, I’ll cherish it in my heart, and to those Anons and anyone who sent requests, your ideas were always beautiful and majestic. Please keep sharing your ideas with other writers.

I’m not going to delete this blog or any of the fics I’ve made. I’ll just let this blog stay. I’m going to abandon it. Maybe someday I’ll come back and use this blog for something new.

Please promise me this, my stars, I don’t care if we’re strangers, you’re like stars to me, lighting up my path, and I’m so grateful for every one of you.

@brain4stew, thank you for your non-stop support and for reblogging my posts; you make my day every time. You're the reason why I'm here in the first place. You’ve truly inspired me, thank you. <3

@lynnie-s3all, you too, also thank you for your beloved cute arts you made for me, I very appreciate it, I won't forget you Lyn <3 (even you're not active here but when you comeback and see this :>)

@sourle, thank you so much for supporting me. I deeply appreciate it.

@amoracreations, you’re one of the sweetest followers I’ve ever had. I hope you write your own fanfics too.

And to those lovely Anons and followers here who made me smile with your messages, support, and love, thank you; you made every moment brighter.

One last promise, everyone, please take care of yourselves. Be kind, be hopeful, stay hydrated, eat well, and rest. Your health is my priority. To all the writers out there, don’t force yourself to write. Take your time, focus on yourself, and remember, it’s not your fault if followers get mad when you don’t post. It’s your choice, your time, and your voice.

That’s all I want to say. Lastly, thank you, everyone, my stars. Maybe one day we’ll cross paths here again.

Thank you.

(Sorry for tagging you :>)

[astraljedi]

Baby Daddy (Jesse- The Last of Us)

Summary: Summary: Everyone in Jackson rooted for them—childhood best friends, first loves, and young parents. Now they’re just co-parents. But you don’t forget your first love. Especially when he’s your baby daddy, who still makes you laugh, nervous, and is the best father to your daughter. Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, MDNI, Only 18+, Young pregnancy (F&M are twenty), mention of weapons, blood and injuries. Some fighting, aggressive arm pulling, thigh riding, gore (clicker descriptions), thigh riding, suggestive shower scene (masturbation interrupted), jealousy, minor verbal altercation, one aggressive arm grab, unprotected sex (implied). Word Count: 5.1K Song: Slow Burn by Kacey Musgraves A/N: In a world where Jesse is a father, Joel is alive and well and nothing bad happens. Let me know what you think of my first Jesse fic, reblog and ENJOY! 😭🤗 Masterlist | This is for you, my love @illyrianbrat 🥰 -

Will they or won't they?  That’s the constant chatter in the small town of Jackson, Wyoming. 

I don’t remember a moment in my life without Jesse, he’s always there. When we’re kids and Frankie West pushes me into the muddy snow after school, Jesse’s the one who punches Frankie in the nose and then helps me back up, not caring if he gets muddy too.

Then we’re seventeen, the school arranges a small dance for the older kids finishing school, just a small celebration. Jesse’s dancing with a girl he’s been seeing for a while, and I’m dancing with Tyler, a guy in my art class. Tyler’s hands are on my waist, pulling me close, grinding his hips against me—wanting more than just a dance. I shove him away, uncomfortable, but he grabs my arm roughly and yanks me back to him.

The people around us don’t flinch, not noticing my struggle in Tyler’s grip. But Jesse’s there in seconds, shoving Tyler off me and pulling me behind him.

“Don’t you dare touch her like that!” Jesse growled, hovering over Tyler’s smaller figure. Tyler stumbles back, stuttering an apology before running off. 

“You okay, sweets?” Jesse faces me, his voice softer now, the nickname he gave me a few years back rolling off his tongue. His eyes fall to my arm, red fingertips marks surface on my skin. “I’m going to kill him.” His face shifts back to anger, but I grab his hand and hold him there. 

“Don’t, please.” 

When we finally turn eighteen, we start training and joining patrols during the day. Jesse and I are always paired together with Tommy, who teaches us everything we know now.

One day, after our shift ends, I’m almost done putting my horse back when Jesse appears by the stable. 

“I have something to show you,” Jesse whispers, a mischievous smile on his face. 

We sneak out and take his horse—it’s easier to go through the back gates during shift change. The ride isn’t far, only a thirty minute trail up the mountains. When we reach the top, my lips part open at the scenery. 

The spot is gorgeous. 

Wyoming’s mountains on the horizon, a big blanket laid out on the grass, sandwiches we grabbed in town, even fresh strawberries. 

I wiggle out of my jean jacket, getting too hot under the noon sun.

“It’s so hot,” I say, tossing the jacket aside. I’m down to my tank top and shorts now, resting on my elbows, throwing my head back to let the sun bake my skin. It feels good—after a horrible, long winter, this warmth is a privilege.

“Yeah,” Jesse mumbles.

I glance over and catch him staring—his eyes trail from my lips to my chest. Suddenly, the air shifts and my chest tightens. I glance at his body. He’d taken off his jacket earlier when he helped me off the horse, and now I can see the shape of his muscles under his shirt.

I lick my lips, wondering how they’d feel under my touch. Has he always looked like this?

Then Jesse launches forward, crashing his lips into mine, eagerly. I slide a hand around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his jet-black hair. I taste strawberries on his tongue as he slips it between my lips, and I whimper, tugging at his hair harder.

Jesse growls, claiming my mouth. I wrap my leg around his waist, pulling him down against my body. His lips leave mine, trailing kisses along my jawline until he’s ravaging my neck.

I grip his shoulder, nails sinking into his shoulders. “Jesse,” I sigh, eyes fluttering shut as his lips drift down to my chest. His hand roams my side, then slides it beneath my shirt, palming one breast with his huge, burning hand. I arch my back, leaning into his touch. 

His hips rock into mine and a moan escapes my lips, heat rushing through my body. 

“Shit, you sound so pretty like this.” He pants, lowering himself towards my waist. His fingers open the button on my shorts and I grab his forearm, stopping him. 

He doesn’t hesitate, he pulls back and leaves space between us. It's like he wakes up from a daze, blinking hard. “I’m sorry—fuck, I don’t know what got into me.” 

“It’s okay, I just haven’t done this before.” I sit up, cheeks flushed. 

“No one’s ever touched you?” Jesse flinches, like it physically pains him. 

I pull my knees to my chest, resting my chin on top. “None of them felt right,” 

“But you do.” I admit, my heart racing against my chest. 

“Jesus, sweets.” Jesse’s voice cracks. His gaze burns hotter than the sun above us, but they soften as he leans in. He cups my cheek and I lean into his touch. “Let me take care of you.” 

This time, the kiss isn’t desperate or hungry— It’s slow, almost featherlight. He leads the pace. Jesse spreads my knees apart and settles between them, lowering me to the blanket. His lips rake my neck, steady as his fingers slip into the open waistband of my jeans. 

His moan rumbles against my skin, fingers slick with my arousal. I buck my hips, but he pins me down with his other hand. “We can stop whenever you want, just say the words.” He whispers, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. 

No one’s ever had me, not like him. 

I feel safe in his arms, under his touch and control. 

“Don’t stop,” I stutter, my hands trembling as they slide under his shirt, brushing the muscles of his back. 

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to my navel before dragging down my jeans and underwear. I rest on my elbows, following his movements. My body shakes, adrenaline buzzing through me. 

His hand grips my thigh, fingers digging on my skin as he glides wet kisses along the inside. My chest rises and falls, eyes locked on his as he finally latches onto my heat. My head falls back, a shaky gasp slipping out. 

Jesse grabs my hips, pulling me closer to his face. He groans as his tongue laps on me, my thighs trembling. 

After the picnic, people start to notice the way we glance at each other. The way his hand always finds my waist, doesn’t brush but lingers. Sneaky kisses in the middle of town that have me giggling. Even at the bar we dance close, hands all over each other. And when someone’s eyes lingers too long on me, Jesse’s death stare is enough to scare them off. Not new—but now, the way it makes me feel? That’s new.

I want to kiss him constantly, feel his soft lips everywhere. I need to hear his laugh echo through the woods or in my bedroom, tangled in my bed sheets. And I want to watch his eyes disappear when he smiles the moment I walk into a room. 

I start to see him, really see him. 

The veins on his arms, the way his biceps flex under my grip and the way his broad, tall body makes me feel protected, safe. 

He softens, too. Jesse starts bringing sweets for our patrol shifts, ties my boots when the laces come undone or saddles my horse, beating me to it. 

Then, when we reach twenty, we face one of the scariest moments of our lives and it becomes the day everything changes.

Jesse and I stare at the positive pregnancy test in my hand. I go pale, the wave of nausea creeps in and my head spins until Jesse grabs my hands, pulling me back to reality. 

“Sweets,” he whispers, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. 

“I’m scared.” I admit, tears burning my eyes. 

“I know,” He pulls me into his chest, arms wrapping safely around me. “But I’m not leaving your side, ever. We’re a team.” He kisses the top of my head, and I believe him. I close my eyes, shoulders slowly relaxing. 

Emily is born nine months later, after nearly ten painful hours of labor—but Jesse never leaves my side. He holds our little girl in his arms, swaying next to our bed as Emily coos. 

The first months of parenthood are sleepless. Maria and Tommy stop by often with food and anything else we need. Dina comes by as well, watching over Emily downstairs so Jesse can help me shower. Labor really did a number on my body.

 “I got you,” he whispers, guiding a soapy cloth over my skin as I brace myself against the shower tiles. 

Those early months are hard. But watching Jesse step up, Emily sleeping on his bare chest and taking care of me, pulls at my heartstrings every single day.

We’re just two kids in love, with a whole town rooting for us, thinking that love is enough to make a relationship work.

But sometimes, love isn’t enough.

Things and feelings shift. Jesse’s barely home—always on patrol, always helping Tommy and Joel build new structures in town or fix houses. He’s working hard for our family, but I can’t help but resent him. I’m stuck in the house with a baby—when not that long ago, I was a kid. 

We’re forced to grow up fast. And even though I’ll never regret having Emily, it weighs heavy on my heart that we didn’t get more time to just be young.

Eventually, the love turns into something else—anger, guilt and loneliness. 

Our co-parenting relationship doesn’t start easy, especially with a teething, almost two year-old. It takes us months, maybe even close to two years, to get to a place where we don’t constantly fight or struggle with our different schedules. But our priority is always Emily. Her comfort, happiness, health and safety. 

Now, Emily is sixteen years old—seventeen in a couple of months. She’s a mini version of her father, the jet black straight hair, identical smile and same deep brown eyes with one exception: she has my nose. The only similarity we have.

Ten hours of labor, nine months of carrying her—and all she gets is my nose. 

How rude.

When I got back on patrol a few years ago, Jesse and I sat down with Tommy to arrange not being placed on the same shift. Not because we couldn’t stand each other—the opposite, really. We didn't want Emily to lose both her parents if something ever happened outside these walls. 

It was for the best, and Tommy didn’t mind. He actually supported it. 

But when I arrive at the stables for my shift, my horse is already saddled—Jessie tightening the stirrups the moment I walk in.

“Hey, I thought you were free today.” 

“Tommy changed my shift, something about someone calling out.” Jesse shrugs, holding the lead out for me. “I had a little free time and got Clementine ready for you.” 

Our fingers brush when I reach for the lead. Even through his thick gloves, hot electricity jolts through my whole body. 

“I know we agreed not to put you two on the same patrol shift, but Marcus broke his arm and will be out for a while,” Tommy says, rubbing his temples, the weight of the town heavy on his shoulders. 

“Don’t worry about it, Tommy,” I press my hand to his forearm, reassuring him that it’s no bother. “Let’s see if Jesse can keep up with me after all these years.” 

“Is it too late to change shifts?” Jessie jokes as we lead the horses out of the stables.

“Y’all used to have so much fun back then,” Tommy says, holding Clementine steady as I swing into the saddle, “but try to remember you’ve got a daughter waiting back here.”

“Wilson Valley, right?” Jesse asks. Already mounted on his horse. 

I pat Clementine’s neck. “Are you going easy on us?” 

“It’s usually quiet, but keep your eyes open,” Tommy replies. “And Maria still doesn’t believe you’re the true troublemaker of this duo,” he adds with a laugh.

“Be safe. Keep your radios close, and stay together.”

“You know we’re thirty-five, not kids on our first solo patrol?” Jesse grins as we wait for the wall to open.

“Don’t make me regret pairing you up again,” Tommy calls over his shoulder, shoulders shaking with laughter as he walks away.

“Ready, sweets?” 

I glance at Jesse, a playful smile on my lips. 

“Race you.” I dare—nudging Clementine’s side to a sprint through the snowy field outside the walls. 

It’s no surprise my sweet Clementine and I beat Jesse, but we slow down the moment we ride through the thick forest. 

“Did you see Em’s painting of the meadow? The one not far from the walls?” I ask, Jesse trailing behind me. 

“She showed me. Did you take her to the meadow?” 

“I did. She wanted to do something different with the paints you brought back from that supply run a while back.” 

“She is really talented, huh”

“She is.” I smile, proud of our talented little girl. 

“How is it going with you and Sam?”

“It isn’t going anymore,” I don’t look over my shoulder, not wanting to meet his eyes. “I ended things. I thought I told you.”

“I’d remember if you told me.” Jesse gallops to my side. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. He’s nice, but I wasn’t feeling it,” I answer as we slow down on the path. “I tried, but it felt like I was faking it most of the time with him.”

Jesse dismounts, boots meeting the snowy bed. He leads his horse and Clementine to tie their leads. 

“Faking it, huh?” Jesse snorts, holding Clementine while I jump down. I smack his shoulder, trying not to laugh. 

“You think you’re funny, jerk.” I tie my horse off, securing the rifle to my back. 

“What are you saying? That you also fake it with me?”

My mouth goes dry. I part my lips to speak, but nothing comes out. 

“I meant fake laughing at my jokes, sweets.” He walks around me, his chest brushing my back. His fingers graze mine at my side, and I swallow hard. “I know you didn’t fake it.” He whispers, rough and close, and then suddenly he’s gone, already waiting for me by the narrow trail. 

“You coming?” 

The trail isn’t quiet. Birds chirp high in the trees, the sound of our boots against the muddy snow, and the faint sound of the waterfall hums ahead. This is the point where we go on foot, the trees are too close together, too tight and small for two horses. 

“Jesse,” I halt, Jesse almost crashes into me. 

Blood is everywhere—on the trees, torn-up flesh on the ground, and a pair of campers dead in the snow a few feet away. The smell is horrible, a smell you never forget and can’t get over.

I grip my rifle, ready to aim if I have to. 

“Jackson, this is Jesse over at Wilson Valley, close to the waterfall point.” Jesse says into the radio. “We have two dead campers, torn into shreds by infected. We’re going to scout the area, but this is fresh.” 

“Quiet trail, my ass.” I mutter, eyes scanning between the trees. 

“Don’t stray away,” Jesse orders. “They could be around the area.”

We move slow, backs pressed to each other, eyes and ears searching through the trees for any sound or movement. 

“It’s too quiet.” I whisper, realizing the birds are silent. 

The clickers come out of nowhere—from the right. I aim and shoot the first one in the head, it’s crumpled body falling a foot away from me. Patrol logs said they’ve been moving in small groups lately. At least, this one is small, but they are fast.

I don’t have time to shoot the second one coming at me. I lift my boot and kick it hard, sending it flying backwards into the snow. I fire twice, making sure it doesn’t twitch.

“That was close.” Jesse pants nearby, the other two clickers dead. 

“Too close for my liking.” I admit. “I’m already picturing Tommy’s face when we get back.”

Jesse chuckles. “He’s definitely regretting putting us togethe–” 

Another group of four screeching clickers attack us from the side. I spin and shoot the one too close to Jesse, it’s rotting body collapsing close to him. I hear one behind me before it launches, and smack the back of my rifle in the chest, but it manages to push me off my feet.

I stumble down a small hill, landing hard on my side and losing the rifle in the snow. I hold my side, gasping for air. 

The clicker jumps down from the hill, body crouched low. It lets out a high-pitch scream when it spots me and charges, blaring its teeth at me. 

I stand on my wobbling feet, dagger already drawn.

I slash its shoulder, but it isn’t enough to stop it. I throw the blade, landing a decent blow to its neck, but it doesn't kill it. Still, it gives me time to scramble through the snow, hands searching for my only solution to survive this. 

I feel the cold, heavy metal of the rifle and yank it out just in time as the clicker hovers over me. I use it to block its snapping teeth inches from my face. I groan, trying to shove it off, trying to regain control, but my body is trembling with adrenaline and fear. 

“Jesse!” I scream, my shaky voice echoing through the trees. I hope he’s alive, that he’s close and finds me. I hold on to it, he always finds me. He’s always there.

The clicker stretches its neck towards me and I try to shove it off with my boot—

The sound of a gunshot rings through the woods. 

The clickers jerks and I push it to the side with the rifle. I crawl backwards on the snow, shaking and heart pounding. 

I struggle for air, my vision blurs, but I see Jesse’s silhouette racing down the hill, rifle close to his chest. 

“I’m not bit,” I blurt out, standing up slowly with my hands raised. “I’m okay.”

“I need to see.” His hands tremble on the zipper of my jacket, roughly yanking it open, pushing it off my shoulders. The rough pads of his hands running over my sides, my hips and then my neck–-desperate, terrified.  

“Jess–” 

“Fuck,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to mine. “I thought I lost you, I-I couldn’t find you, and then I heard you scream my name.” 

His hand stays on my neck, keeping me close. 

“Jess, look at me.” 

But he doesn’t. He shakes his head, like he’s trying to wake up from a nightmare.

“How was I going to tell Emily that her mother was gone? That I couldn’t save her.” He rambles, squinting his eyes shut, pushing back the image. 

“I wouldn’t have been able to do it,” he goes on, barely audible. “I know that comes with this job. But I wouldn’t have been able to do it.”

He doesn’t have to explain. I know exactly what he means.

Shit–if it had been him, I wouldn't be able to do it. 

“Jesse, please. Look at me.” I beg, I grab his jacket with both hands and shake him hard. 

He opens his eyes and our noses brush. We haven’t been this close in years, and one look into his glassy brown eyes melts the wall I’ve put up years ago. The wall crumbles, no fight to it. 

Jesse closes the gap between us, his cold, soft lips crashing into mine after what feels like an eternity. The kiss is hard, desperate and rough. I gasp into his mouth, fisting his jacket tighter as he shoves me up against a tree. 

He pushes his body into mine, one hand firm on my jaw, keeping me pinned between his body and the tree with no escape. I haven’t been kissed like this in years–well, since him. He’s the only one who can knock the air out of me with a single kiss. Fuck it, he does it even when he’s looking at me—from across the bar, or when he drops Emily off after his week, or when he fixes something at my place even if it’s not his house anymore. 

I taste the sweet berries we snacked on earlier on his tongue, his tongue exploring every inch of my mouth, just like he used to do. I let myself sink in, get lost in the touch and feeling of Jesse. 

“Jesse, what’s your status?” The radio goes off from his chest. J

He breaks the kiss, enough for us to breathe, but his forehead remains on mine. Eyes locked on mine, he clicks the mic to speak. 

“Group of eight infected. All put down. Send backup for cleanup.” The radio falls against his chest. 

Jesse reaches for the metal zipper of my jacket, pulling it closed again. He fixes the collar with calm fingers, but then he hesitates. 

I stare at him, eyes wandering over his face and his body. 

I try to read him—but he’s already shut down, his face unreadable.  

A week has passed since the incident in the woods, and the part of almost being gutted by an infected stays between Jesse and I. When we came through the gates, Tommy wasn’t happy, but he was more relieved than anything when he saw us unscathed. 

I step into the shower, the refreshing water landing on my skin. I throw my head back, letting the water soak my hair, thoughts storming in. 

My hands trail up to my lips—the memory of Jesse’s lips on mine burned in my mind. The way he looked when we broke apart, his swollen and red lips, cheeks flushed, eyes full of relief. I don’t know when it happens, but my hand travels from my tense shoulders to my breast. I cup it, fingers twirling my nipple as I imagine Jesse’s mouth instead.

I rest my back on the cold tiles, my hand disappearing down my body. In my mind, Jesse sinks to his knees, nose brushing my mound, pressing a teasing kiss before his lips crashes into where I need him the most. 

“Jesse,” His name escapes my lips in a low whisper. 

I circle my clit, fingers slick from my arousal and the heat in my belly builds—

“Mom?”

My eyes fly open, yanking my hand away. 

Emily’s voice comes muffled behind the door. “Can I go to Aunt Dina and Ellie’s house for movie night?”

“It’s no problem! Make sure you come home before midnight.” I say, hiding the shakiness of my voice. 

“Thank you! Love you!” She exclaims. I hear her footsteps head downstairs, then the front door closes.

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. 

I need a beer—maybe something stronger. 

There aren't a lot of places in town to get a drink, but The Tipsy Bison vibrates with music, chatter and people line dancing. Usually, I’d join them, but tonight I want a drink and then head straight to bed. 

An hour passes, and I’m still by the bar nurturing my third and final beer. I can feel eyes burning into my back—and I don’t need to turn to know it’s Jesse. He walked in about twenty minutes after I did. I gave him a small smile as he passed, watched him join his friends at a table in the back. 

“Teenager free for the night?” The barstool beside me creaks, Sam sits down with a beer in hand. 

“She’s at a movie night,” I say, taking a sip of my lukewarm beer. 

“That’s nice,” he nods. He’s wearing a pair of light denim jeans, boots and a godawful yellow shirt under his jean jacket. He places an arm on the small of my back and leans closer. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the break up.”

“I’m sorry about that, Sam” I start, but he cuts me off. 

“I can see It’s hard being a single mom and I know men don’t usually go for that,” he says with a soft laugh, like this is a joke to him. “But I’m not like that. I don’t mind a little baggage.”

I turn my head slowly, blinking at him. “Baggage? My daughter isn’t baggage, asshole” I remove his hand from my back and slide off the barstool. “I broke up with you because I simply wasn’t attracted to you.” 

“Calm down, don’t need to overreact. Jesus.” 

“Don’t you ever refer to my daughter as baggage. And don’t you ever talk to me again.”

I storm out boiling with anger and disbelief that someone I allowed near me–near Emily—could talk about us like that. Like he had the right to do so. 

I don’t even notice I’ve left my jacket behind at the bar, not until I feel the cold nipping at my arms. Fuck, I want to scream, break or punch something. My boots stomp hard into the snow as I walk down the empty streets in the middle of town.

Everyone else is either home or still inside the cozy and warm bar. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to shield my body from the cold and keep walking. The walk back to the bar isn’t worth it for my jacket. If I go back and see Sam’s stupid face, I’m going to claw at it until someone—probably Jesse—pulls me away. 

I can survive the walk. 

“Sweets.” Jesse calls, his voice calm. He jogs towards me, my jacket on his arm.

“What do you want?” It comes out a little harsher than I intend. 

He stops, soft and confused eyes focusing on me. 

“You forgot your jacket. It’s freezing out here.” He holds it out, and I snatch it, throwing it on immediately. The warmth seeps into my arms, and I’m silently thankful.

“I saw you leave—wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I honestly don’t want to talk about it, Jesse.” 

“What did he say?” 

“It's not something you have to worry about.” I argue.

I tuck my hands into my pockets, looking for warmth.

“Fuck that. When it comes to you it does matter to me.”

“Oh yeah?” I snap. “Because this is the first real conversation we’ve had since what happened.”

“You don’t get it, sweets. Every time I look at you, all I see is your frightened face fighting off that clicker. When I sleep, I hear your scream—your voice calling my name. I’ve heard it every night since that day.” He takes a shaky breath, stepping closer. 

“Every time I look at Emily, I picture her face finding out I had to shoot you. That I couldn’t protect you when it’s my job to protect my girls.”

“Jesse.” My face softens, hand reaching for him. 

“You and Emily are my life. Don’t ever say otherwise.” he breaths, hovering over me. “I hate the way he touched you—like you were his.” 

“I didn’t like it either.” I whisper, brushing my hand against his freezing cheeks. “He isn’t you.”

Jesse growls, gripping my wrist as he pulls me into a narrow alley between two buildings. He shields me with his body, pinning me between the brick wall and his broad frame. For a moment, he just stares at me—jaw clenched, hands strong on my hips. The streetlights don’t reach us here. If someone passes by, we’re hidden in the shadows.

Then Jesse captures my mouth into his, like he’s starved. And fuck—my knees buckle with how badly I’ve wanted this, needed him again. The kiss is rough, eager and it ignites the fire loose inside me. 

His hand slides up my jaw, angling my face just the way I like it so he can explore my mouth deeper, slow and consuming.

He pulls back slightly, the tip of his nose on mine. “Did he kiss you like this? Did he have you whimpering just from a kiss?” 

“N-No” I stutter, breathless. 

“Only I get to make you feel like this.” Jesse finds my lips again, this time in a slower, heated pace that has me whimpering with each pass of his mouth. I can tell, feel that he’s enjoying this, taking his time to savor every inch, remembering how it used to be.

I slide my hands to his shoulders, gripping tight at the muscles there. Jesse places his knee between my thighs, pulling my hips forward until I’m straddling his. I gasp as he guides me back and forth, rocking me against the thick muscles of his thighs. 

A needy sound leaves me as his lips find the sweet spot on my neck. “Jesse–”

I tug at his hair, his beanie falling to the ground. The denim under me is rough, the friction alone making my eyes roll back.

“You always sound so perfect.’ He groans, his nose brushing up the curve of my chest. 

My hips move at a quicker desperate pace as I chase the high building low in my belly. 

“Only I can make you come like this, you hear me, sweets?” He whispers in my ear. 

I clench around the aching emptiness, his words burning through me.

“Jesse—fuck.” I whimper, louder. 

He holds me tight, rocking me through my release as the wave crashes over me hard and hot. My body trembles, mouth open against his chest, whining and breathless. 

I haven’t come this hard in a while. Shit.

“Good girl. You did so good for me, sweets.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head, hand smoothing down my back. My chest rises and falls, legs shaking as he removes his thigh gently. 

“Fuck. Thank you.” Genuinely, it’s all I can say. 

He fixes my clothing, zipping my jacket back up. 

Jesse laughs, brushing away the hair from my face. “Is Emily home?”

I nod, biting my lip. I want more. I don’t even remember how he feels deep inside me. The thought alone makes me spiral silently.  

“Let’s get you home,” he whispers against my ear. “I’m giving you more. And you’re gonna take everything.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulders and walks us out of the alley.

We don’t say anything on the walk home. I let him guide me, my legs still feeling like jelly. When I glance over at him, his eyes are dark and forward, deep in thought.

This changes everything—us. The relationship that took us a while to get to a civil, friendly state. And it scares me, just a little.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem.

[wolfertinger]

"Anon please!

Let's get this straight: you can reblog your art a trillion times but it's "too stressful" to reblog people who are trying to escape an ACTIVE GENOCIDE? Imagine how stressed they are, Salem. I don't even like getting mad at his shenanigans anymore because it's pointless (everyone knows he will likely never change) but shit like this is BOUND to ruffle some feathers. Don't forget the post where he said he doesn't want to "clog his blog". Sorry that this bums you out, Salem. Sorry that people aren't constantly catering to your comfort, Salem. Like the blog owner said: "You are the number one victim, aren't you?"

He talks so much about activism and allies 'never doing enough' and tells everybody to focus on highlighting systemically oppressed voices, but when it comes to reblogging a Tumblr post, it's suddenly 'too stressful' and 'overwhelming'. Pressing a button is just sooo hard :(!!! He's so hypocritical that I'm surprised he actually has an audience at this point. Sorry for the long post, but Jesus Christ!"

realistically. i understand his life is bad. but how can he not see what he does, and recognize the privilege he DOES have, over others. he is safe, in a warm and comfortable home, with food, clean water, internet, and a guaranteed place to sleep.

i am aware, those are the bare minimums of survival. but when you go without one of these things, for ANY amount of time, you begin to understand how truly precious this is.

[forgetmenotnympho]

it's so damn hot out holy shit

tags?

@nozhdyved @imurmommynowbitch

notes?

some nsfw!, domestic atp in a heatwave, they all lov3 each other and it's only a little toxic :3

the ac isn't nearly cool enough. Tashi walks around their house in exclusively a t-shirt and thin panties

Patrick's in boxers not bothering to put on a shirt or pants

Art is wearing shorts, he just abandoned his t-shirt.

Patrick still has the nerve to be handsy, he can't help himself, but Tashi's pissed everytime he lays a finger on her.

"it's too hot, Patrick. I'm not entertaining you right now."

she's always preferred cold showers, but now they're a must.

Art gets extra bitchy in the heat. he snaps easily and rolls his eyes over every little comment. He might even get snappy with Tashi. (don't worry she'll teach him a lesson later in bed)

Tashi still makes time for her home work out. the boys watch her in her sports bra and shorts as she stretches. Patrick makes a vulgar comment, and Art hits the back of his head.

"i always forget how flexible she is... baby, why don't you ever show off in bed?"

Art and Patrick sharing everythingg, even that popsicle even though there's plenty more. Patrick just loves to watch Art's tongue drag across the frozen sweet. something about how his lips wrap around it and he hums softly. his lips making a soft pop sound when he pulls it out of his mouth. Reminds Patrick of something.

Art kisses his cheek when Patrick gets the popsicle back and squeezes his hips gently before leaving him alone in the kitchen. they both try to ignore their growing boners.

Tashi can't get a moment of peace. lounging by their pool she's interrupted when Patrick throws Art in, getting water everywhere because of course he had to throw him in right there.

even with it much shorter now, tashi ties her hair up with a claw clip to keep it off of her neck. stray strands frame her face as she sits on the floor by their sliding glass doors trying to decide if it's worth tanning or not.

patrick, as if he can't go more than an hour without it, touches himself in the shower with the ice cold water running down his body. one hand on the wall to keep himself steady. Tashi watches him. she wanted to see what was taking him so long.

as it cools down even slightly as the sun disappears into the night, Tashi straddles Art, distracting him from whatever tennis match was on their flat screen. he needed this distraction. Tashi was getting off to the soft grunts and smacking of the tennis rackets. Of course, Art's bulge was helpful.

no one wants to cook. they search for something quick and cool to make because Tashi won't let them eat out. I mean, they can if they want, but they don't.

when they're finally in bed it's sweaty and sticky with the three of them routinely piled onto each other. Tashi in the middle, Art on the left and Patrick on the right. this feels familiar.

Patrick says something about how they should make out. the other two agree.

𐔌 . ⋮ bye ty .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

[ferallafemme]

Self Love & Healing 💗

There was a time I measured my worth in broken pieces - moments I didn’t handle right, people I couldn’t hold onto, dreams that trembled under the weight of fear and doubt. I thought healing would look like forgetting, or perfection, or arriving at some flawless version of myself. But instead, it came quietly, like dawn stretching across a cold room, warming the corners of me I thought were too far gone.

I began to see myself differently. I started listening to a softer voice I had long buried beneath the noise. It didn’t shout. It whispered gently, “You are still becoming.” That truth opened something in me. I am not behind. I am not broken beyond repair. I am simply blooming, slowly, honestly, in a rhythm that cannot be rushed.

With time, I’ve learned to hold space for every version of me. The one who wept quietly in the dark. The one who doubted her own reflection. The one who dared to keep dreaming, even with shaky hands. And that’s the part I cherish most… I still dream. Even when the world feels heavy. Even when comparison knocks on the door. I tend to my dreams like wildflowers, growing quietly in the fields of my soul. They don’t need to be loud or perfect, they just need to be mine.

Healing hasn’t come in grand gestures. It’s been in the smallest choices: choosing to rest instead of push, choosing gentleness over judgment, choosing to walk away from what no longer loves me back. And the art of letting go. it’s been a quiet, steady revolution. I didn’t forget the pain, but I released the grip it had on me. I laid those heavy stones down at the river’s edge, and over time, they softened.

Self-love, I’ve come to believe, is not about being flawless. It’s about meeting myself with tenderness, even when I stumble, especially when I feel unsure. It’s the deep, unwavering reminder that I am not a project to fix. I am a soul to be loved. Just as I am. With the cracks and the light, with the past and the promise.

I have nothing to prove. I am enough in the stillness. Enough when I try. Enough even when I begin again. There is beauty in the becoming, in the honest, messy, miraculous unfolding of who I am. And so, I choose to stay close to myself. To protect the quiet sparks of hope still burning in me. To offer grace to the parts of me still learning to trust again. To believe, deeply, that I am worthy - not because I’ve earned it, but simply because I exist.

Maybe the most powerful thing I can do is love myself into wholeness. Keep walking forward, heart open and soul soft, trusting that every step is shaping something beautiful. I am still healing. I am still dreaming. And I am already enough.

Fine Art Prints available in my Etsy shop. ✨️🌈

https://www.ferallafemme.etsy.com

[gorimbaudandgojohnnygo]

from Reckless Chants #20: A Field Guide to Vanished Things (May 2014)

I have a print by Corina Dross hanging above my desk. It is a print of the six of spades from her Portable Fortitude deck. It is a black and white image of a freight train rolling down the tracks, steam coming out of the engine and obscuring the trees in the background. There is text displayed on two of the boxcars: protection from forgetting, it reads.

I used to wonder how I could ever let go of the past, because I have never been able to forget anything. I used to think that remembering was dichotomous to letting go, but then I realized it was a false dichotomy. The art is not one of forgetting, but of letting go, as Rebecca Solnit said.

I can’t forget anything, I don’t want to forget anything. I can let go of the past because I remember it. I tell the stories, I put them out into the world. I am not hoarding my stories, I am sharing them. And sharing these things does not take them away from me. I have lost friends and lovers and family members, I have lost places and possibilities, books and records and bicycles, but their ghosts remain. All of those vanished things live in my heart.

[clowns0up-felix]

loz doodles i did on magma with @wowa-bublord !!! :D

Bubby's part here , it is oh so good

[rystiel]

that annoying moment when getting left for dead in the trunk of a car in your 20s comes back to haunt you 40 years later (take a shot every time ford says “stanley”)

[b6d11f]

at my best, I'm a sacrificial lamb at my best, I am something you could handle

[confusedmothboy]

you'll never guess what i wasted four hours on

i think. so much about my rewritten finale

heres the still pictures btw

[itadooori]

yea i rewatched the s1 finale. did a lil doodle about it

[wmiescieinazumy]

guy inflicted with kirino fever since. very long

doodled this while listening to "when the world was mine" on loop, from the count of monte cristo musical. he could belt out the lyrics i can see it with my mind's eye-

[devilboycomic]

Noodles

[chibishortdeath]

I love making Simon my personal dress up doll <3

These are a bit old now, it’s been in drafts for a while cause I forgot about it, but eh.

Random explanations under a cut for funsies—

First one is pretty standard Simon fit stuff, belts armor, a tank top, boots with the fur, etc. Inspo mostly came from just looking at random pictures of belts on Pinterest and finding one with a cool like flail head on it! Which is just neat in general, I’d imagine Simon would probably find it convenient to have the different end attachments for the whip to be easily switched out, so yeahg sure he’s got it on his belt now lol. I tried looking through my boards to find the belt image but I think it may have gotten deleted :(

This one is an outfit I ran into that said “draw ” thing, also saw it on Pinterest, but it took a bit to track down the original artist of it: the artist is “ HEAVEN . “ on Pinterest, also @/luffydguzzler on Twitter. Hopefully drawing Simon and not one of my OCs in this outfit was alright, unfortunately when I ran into the post it was from someone on Pinterest who straight up stole the artwork (;_; ). That being said, if I find out that this is against any boundaries at all, I will take this drawing down. But related to the art itself, I drew him in it because the outfit ratio fit him perfectly. Tight shirt, something on the lower arms, midriff showing, tiny skirt, belts, furry chunky boots— these are all combinations he’s had in his designs before. :3

This one I also just saw a little caplet thingy on Pinterest and went “wow he’d look cute in that” and yeahg. I actually have a Pinterest board that’s entirely for random clothing I think he’d wear! Which is such a uh very normal about a character thing to have 💀.

He’s working out— POV you are Simon’s sparring partner (he’s very happy about it) (also you’re about to get kicked you might wanna block tha— oh no eee— on your left— ooo aaa oof yowch yikes—). Anyway I feel like I made his head a little awkwardly small in this hmmm. Either that or I took the photo of it at a weird angle. But yeah now you have seen Simon with leg warmers, you’re welcome!!!