#Bloodshot dead rails

[styxx-and-stones]

Happy Pride Month! 🎉🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

Warning: Gun

Took me a while to finish but I’m happy with the end product! Anyways enjoy Pride Month!

[zero-zip]

These two have been all over my TikTok fyp

[martianworm]

Just published a Dead Rails fanfic,, this one goes for the bloodshot enjoyers 👅

Next chapter will be posted soon 🙏 ENJOY

[layy00zz]

tbh how do yall ship this, I can't see the vision

[abbotjack]

Happy Father’s Day, Jack

TLWG bonus chapter (part 4.5 : in between phase six and phase seven of sticky fingers, quiet mornings )

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

a/n : part two to the prequel is still in the works, but thought I'd offer this bonus chapter for you all! wc: roughly 2,300

Father’s Day begins exactly twelve minutes after Jack Abbot walks off a trauma floor that nearly broke him.

It’s 7:12AM.

Pittsburgh humidity clings to the porch railing like breath. The street’s quiet. A dog barks three houses down. Somewhere in the distance, a train rolls through, low and steady. Your windows are cracked open, just enough to let the air in, not the heat. You’ve already brewed the coffee. Toasted the waffles. Set out the card. Tucked her handprint painting between the sleeves of the new Steelers sweatshirt you bought him, folded carefully, placed right on the arm of the couch where he’d see it first. Everything’s ready. You’ve been up since six.

You’re wearing a pair of biker shorts and his old PTMC long sleeve, the sleeves pushed to your elbows, the neckline slouching over one shoulder. There’s a small smear of pink paint on your wrist from when she wouldn’t stop “signing” his card with the side of her fist last night.

The front door opens.

And then he’s there.

Jack Abbot. Black scrubs, soaked in overnight shift fatigue, shirt clinging at the collarbone, badge unhooked, stethoscope looped tight in one hand. His eyes are bloodshot. One shoulder visibly lower than the other, like the weight of the shift is still hanging off him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sees you in the kitchen and stops like something hit him square in the chest.

You meet his eyes.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you say, quietly.

Jack blinks, stunned for half a second, then sets his stethoscope down like he forgot he was still holding it.

“You did all this?” he says, voice rough. “For me?”

You nod. “Of course I did.”

He rubs a hand down his face. “I was gonna pretend I didn’t care. Be chill about it.”

“You? Chill?”

“I had a speech ready.”

You look at him, curious. “For Father’s Day?”

Jack nods, smile barely there, just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, sleep still hanging off him like a second shift. He steps closer, the hem of his black scrubs brushing your hip as he leans against the counter. “Yeah. Figured you’d do something. Thought I’d try to be smooth. Say thanks, maybe kiss you slow. Try to talk you back into bed.”

You snort. “You practiced that in the trauma bay?”

He shrugs, cracking the faintest smile. “Tried. Didn’t get far. An intern asked me about marriage,” he says. “Like, dead-ass. During rounds. Whole hallway smells like blood and ketamine, and he goes, ‘Dr. Abbot, is it worth it?’”

You laugh under your breath. “And what’d you say?”

Jack’s hand comes to your waist, fingers curling in over the long sleeve's hem, thumb pressing into the soft skin of your hip like he’s grounding himself.

“I said—‘Imagine the worst shift of your life. Like, seven codes, backboarded GSW, a social worker crying in the supply closet, just hell. And you come home to someone who doesn’t ask anything from you. She’s just there. Coffee ready. Kid babbling in the crib. And you still get to love her like you’ve got time to spare.’”

Your throat tightens. “You said all that?”

He shrugs. “He’s lucky I was running on adrenaline. Any other time I’d have told him to shut the fuck up and chart.”

You grin. “That’s disgusting. I love you.”

“I love you more.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking down your body. “You wore this for me?”

“Maybe.”

“You trying to get me to cry or get me to fuck you?”

“Why not both?”

Jack groans softly and presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers. “And you’re making it worse.”

“I made waffles.”

“You’re trying to seduce me.”

“They’re heart-shaped.”

Jack mutters something against your skin that sounds like Jesus fucking Christ and then kisses your shoulder. Slow. Open-mouthed. Like he’s remembering you’re real.

Then—

Crackle.

The monitor hums. Both your heads turn.

And there it is.

“DAAA-DAAAA?”

Jack’s breath catches.

You wait.

Then her voice rises again, louder now, sweeter, almost like a song:

“DADA COME NOW. DADA COME.”

You glance up at him.

He’s frozen, eyes locked on the monitor. Silent. Like the sound cracked something open in him and he’s trying not to let it spill out.

Last year, she couldn’t even form the word. No teeth. No words. Just soft coos and gummy grins. Now she’s standing in her crib, gripping the rails, calling for him like he’s the whole damn sun.

You rest your palm over his chest. Feel the breath rise sharp beneath it.

“Go,” you murmur. “She’s been practicing. I caught her saying it to that photo in her room last night, the one of all three of us. She can see it from the crib.”

Jack nods. Doesn’t speak. Just takes one deep breath, like he’s bracing against the weight of it, and moves.

Then, just before he turns the corner, voice low without looking back:

“Don’t eat my waffles.”

You smirk. “No promises.”

You follow him down the hall. Quietly. The morning presses in around you like a held breath.

The nursery door swings open.

And your daughter, the light of your life, is standing in her crib, duck in one hand, hair in total disarray, cheeks flushed from sleep. She points at him like she’s been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.

“DADA.”

Jack drops to a knee like she shot him straight through the ribs. “Hi, bean,” he says, voice thick, eyes already glassing over. “I missed you.”

She lifts both arms like royalty, and he gathers her up like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen. Her little body melts against his chest, warm and heavy with trust, her curls sticking to the collar of his wrinkled black scrubs. He holds her like he never wants to let go—but when he turns to you, it’s different. Deeper.

He looks at you like you hung the stars. Like this, this home, this child, this morning, is something he still can’t believe he gets to have. His eyes are wrecked. His voice rough with everything he never says out loud.

“Best thing we ever made.”

And when he looks at you, it’s not just tired. It’s bone-deep love. That look he only gives when he’s too exhausted to keep the walls up, when all that’s left is the truth. That he loves you. Fiercely. Silently. Constantly.

For one long, breathless moment, the house is still.

Jack Abbot. In black scrubs. A baby in his arms. His whole heart in yours. A Father’s Day that actually fucking means something.

And not a single part of him takes it for granted.

You cross to him and lower yourself beside them, curling into his side like it’s the only place that’s ever made sense. His arm slips around you instantly. She presses herself between you both with a possessive little grunt.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you whisper again.

Jack closes his eyes. Breathes you both in. And then, softly, without opening them:

“I love you”

You lean into his chest. “I love you too. You’re the best thing we’ve ever had.”

His voice is wrecked when he says it. “Don’t ever let me fuck this up.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

Later that night, 11:42PM.

It’s almost midnight.

The waffles are long gone. The handprint painting’s been magnet-pinned to the fridge, slightly crooked, beside a gas bill and a grocery list Jack added to earlier—diapers, more blueberries, get her favorite tea. The new Steelers sweatshirt he pulled on after his shower this morning still smells like soap and daughter. You caught him wearing it again after dinner, toddler in his arms, rocking on the back porch swing with her cheek pressed to his chest like she’d been waiting all day for that exact configuration of time, weight, and warmth.

She was asleep by 8:40. Out cold by 8:49.

He hasn’t put his ring back on since work, but it’s there, on the nightstand. Next to the baby monitor. Next to the small black leather album he still hasn’t opened.

You told him about it during dinner, leaned across the table while he was chewing and said, “There’s one more gift.”

He blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. “I already got three. The card, the sweatshirt, the painting…” He tapped the side of his head. “That’s three. I counted. You’re done.”

You smirked. “I’ll have you open it when we’re alone.”

Now you’re in bed. Jack’s walking out of the bathroom, threadbare navy shirt, boxer briefs riding low on his hips. He’s blinking slow like he’s still catching up with his own exhaustion. But when his eyes fall on the album, he pauses.

“You’re really gonna make me cry three times in one day?”

You smile, heart already racing. “Just open it.”

Jack squints, scrubs a tired hand down his face, and mutters something like I’m too fucking soft for this. He sits beside you. Turns the album over in his palm. His hand is rough from work. Tape residue, fading ink, a healing nick on his knuckle that you know came from a trauma room cabinet door he forgot was broken. His thumb lingers on the spine. He flips the first page.

And then—

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice goes flat. Then quiet. “Oh, fuck me.”

You don’t answer. Just watch the slow unravel.

Jack blinks. And then blinks again. His breath leaves him like he’s been punched straight in the solar plexus. His mouth opens, closes.

“Is this—are you—this is you?”

You smirk. “Don’t act like you don’t recognize your own wife.”

He flips another page. The flush spreads from his neck to his ears. There you are, posed in soft golden light, black lace barely covering anything. His dog tags around your neck. Your hands behind your back, wrapped in his tie. One shot with your fingers curled in the waistband of your panties, gaze sharp, hair mussed, lips parted like you’re waiting for him to step out of frame and ruin the rest of the photo.

Jack swears under his breath. “When—when did you do this?”

“Last week. Took a long lunch. Studio near the firm.”

He flips the page again, and stops cold. His breath stutters. His fingers tighten against the edge of the leather.

You’re wearing his sweatshirt. Not the clean, fresh one you gave him this morning, but his sweatshirt, the grey one with the faded army logo that still smells faintly like old detergent, sand and him. The same one he left on the bed the first night you ever stayed over, when he didn’t want to make it a whole thing but didn’t want you cold either.

And now—Christ.

The hem sits just below your hips, riding up higher on one side, exposing the curve of your ass like a secret you wanted him to find. Your back is arched, thighs tucked, feet flexed like you shifted into that position mid-movement—like you’d just climbed up and waited for him to follow.

Your face is half-hidden in your arms, cheek pressed to the mattress, but he can still see the soft part of your mouth. The barest hint of a smirk. The slope of your spine. The suggestion of everything just out of reach.

Jack exhales like he’s been sucker punched.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “That’s my sweatshirt.”

His voice cracks on the word my.

Jack shuts the album fast, like if he looks at one more page, he’ll fucking combust on the spot.

“I married you,” he says, voice hoarse. “I fucking married you.”

“You did.”

“I thought the waffles were gonna break me. The new sweatshirt, the painting—she said Dada—and I kept it together. Barely. And now...” His hand drags down his face again. “Now you’re pulling this shit?”

You crawl closer, hand on his thigh, voice low, “Happy Father’s Day.”

He stares at you. Then laughs once, quiet, pained, wrecked. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

Jack turns to you. The look on his face is nothing short of reverent.

“Like it?” he repeats. “I want to frame every goddamn page. I want to staple it to the fridge. I want to show that intern from this morning what happens when you marry someone way too good for you.”

You laugh. “You wanna show him nudes?”

“I wanna show him you. I wanna show everybody.”

“Jack—”

“I’m so in love with you,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked, like it’s clawing its way out of his chest. “I walk around all night with blood on my shoes, palms aching from compressions, lungs full of hospital air, and all I do is think about you. Think about this house. Think about coming home. To waffles. To her. To you. To this life I don’t fucking deserve.”

You climb into his lap, slow and deliberate. His hands catch your hips without hesitation.

“I was trying to make this special.”

“You did,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You made it sacred.”

You lean in, lips brushing his. “You gonna thank me properly?”

Jack doesn’t answer. He just kisses you, slow, deep, aching. Like gratitude and lust and years of knowing your body better than he knows his own. His hands slide up your back beneath the hem of your shirt. You’re not wearing anything underneath.

He swears again. Then flips you back against the pillows, his body blanketing yours in one fluid motion.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of the night worshipping you,” he says into your skin. “Starting now.”

And when he finally slips inside you, hot, deep, full-body groan into your mouth, there’s not a single thought left in his head but you.

The woman who made him a father.

The woman who still wants him.

The only thing that’s ever felt like home.

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part forty: fallout

word count: 3.2k

warnings: this chapter contains themes of depression, loss, and violence. reader discretion is advised.

thirty-nine | forty | forty-one

Max kicked the front door open with the heel of his boot, muttering under his breath as he hauled in a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a half-finished espresso clutched in his other hand.

“Seriously, I’m gonna start mailing Logan his own damn knives if I find one more embedded in the goddamn stair rail,” he grumbled, stepping into the marble-floored foyer of the Circle’s mansion. “They’re throwing knives, not decorative art, psycho—”

The front door slammed hard behind him. He didn’t mean to do it — just had his hands full. Sauntering in with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a half-eaten protein bar in his hand, and the faint tang of gunpowder still in his hair from the range.

He flipped the light switch, the chandelier flickering on. Max stopped mid-step.

As the room illuminated, Lando’s figure apparated in one of the wingback chairs in the corner of the massive entryway, his frame half-swallowed by shadow. He’d been waiting there for hours, unmoving.

Max followed his gaze to where it was fixed on the floor. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that he was somehow entirely unaware that Max had entered the space at all. The leader appeared statuesque – still, silent. The only sound in the whole house was the low hum of the heating system and the way the lightbulbs buzzed faintly overhead

“…You scared the shit out of me,” he muttered, quieter now.

Lando looked up.

Max flinched, just slightly.

There was something wrong in the way his eyes didn’t focus. They weren’t bloodshot or wild — they were just quiet. Dead, in that way that meant something had been gnawing at him, slowly and constantly, until the bone showed.

“…Lando?”

The man before him didn’t answer – just blinked once. Max took a careful step forward. “You okay?”

Still, Lando didn’t move, didn’t blink.

“Okay. Cool,” Max said under his breath, reaching for the fridge again. “I’m just gonna—”

The glass shattered before he even saw Lando throw it.

It exploded against the wall behind him. Max ducked instinctively, pieces of it bouncing off the tile.

“What the fuck? Mate–”

“Where were you,” Lando hissed.

Max blinked. He wasn’t afraid, but even he wasn’t immune to the caution that had his heart speeding up in his chest. “The docks. Uh, cleanup from the Vos case.”

“I called.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You didn’t answer.”

Max dropped his bag. “What’s going on?”

Lando stood.

“You told her.” 

Max froze.

“You know I don’t use that name with her,” Lando said, voice still even. “You knew that.”

Max took a step back. “Wait—”

“You knew,” Lando repeated, louder now. “And you said it anyway.”

Max’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Lando crossed the room in two strides. “I asked you one thing,” he seethed. “One fucking thing.”

“Lando—”

“She looked at me like I was a stranger.”

Max’s back hit the wall. “I didn’t mean to—”

“She looked at me like she was afraid I’d kill her.” Lando’s hands curled into fists. “Like I was someone she didn’t recognize. Like you killed whatever chance I had left!”

“I didn’t know she answered—”

And that was when Lando shoved him. Hard.

Max stumbled, didn’t fall. No words came from his mouth – he didn’t even lift his arms. It pissed Lando off. 

Why won’t he defend himself?

So Lando shoved him again, harder this time. “Do you even get what you did?”

Max’s head jerked back from the force, but he stayed silent.

“You gave me away. You gave her every reason to– to hate me.”

Lando’s eyes searched for a reaction, desperate for something, anything. But Max’s face remained painfully neutral – his expression one of sympathy if anything. 

That pushed him over the edge.

Lando threw a punch.

It hit squarely across Max’s jaw, knocking his head sideways — but Max didn’t retaliate. He didn’t even flinch.

So Lando hit him again. Harder.

This time Max staggered, but still didn’t raise a hand. Lando delivered another blow to the ribs now, sharp and fast and angry. Max grunted from the impact, doubling over slightly but still never moving away.

“Fight back!” Lando yelled. “For once in your life, fucking fight me back!”

Of course, Max didn’t.

Who the hell did he think he was?

“Hit me back!” Lando snapped. He punctuated his words with yet another shove.

Max didn’t.

Lando swung — an open-handed crack across Max’s jaw. The sound rang out in the room, echoing against the high ceilings. Max barely turned his head.

“Fucking do something!” Lando yelled, shoving him again. “You ruined it. You ruined everything.”

Max stood there and let Lando push, swing, throw his fists again and again until his chest was heaving, fury spitting from every part of him except his face — his face stayed blank, controlled, like he couldn’t afford to crack.

“She looked at me like she didn’ recognize me. Like I was somethin’ she regretted.”

Lando’s fists kept coming, now low, angry hits that never quite landed right, like he didn’t actually want to hurt his friend. Like he didn’t know what he wanted, but just that something had to break.

“I had her,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was safe there. I was fucking— normal.”

“She was going to find out one way or another,” Max finally spoke. There was no agitation in his voice, only a sad sort of acceptance. But still there was no regret.

Each hit landed in quick, precise succession, each motion borne of years of practice. 

He didn’t realize when his eyes had gotten misty. “Shut the fuck up,” he spat. Then, quieter, he confessed, “I didn’t want you to be the reason she did.”

The next hit landed higher, somewhere near the collarbone. Max flinched but still didn’t raise a hand of his own.

Lando hated it.

“You don’t get it,” Lando hissed, barely breathing now. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose the only good thing left and realize you’re the one who ruined it.”

Sweat dripped from his brow, running along his brow bone and into his eyes. His chest breathed with every breath. “Why won’t you fucking fight me?” Lando snapped.

Max finally stepped forward, not to swing — but to wrap his arms around him.

Lando froze.

“What the fuck are you doin’—”

Max didn’t let go. The older boy only pulled Lando in tighter, arms solid around his back, anchoring him like the only thing keeping his brother from falling apart. “I’m sorry,” Max murmured into the embrace, just loud enough to be heard. “I’m sorry she found out like that. I’m sorry it hurts. I’m sorry you feel like this.”

It wasn’t some soft hug or some gentle embrace. He’d wrapped his arms tight around his best friend like he was anchoring a bomb about to go off. 

Lando struggled—panicked, almost. His hands shoved Max back, his fists pressed against his chest, but Max didn’t let go. Lando thrashed then, resisting it — hands gripping the back of Max’s shirt like he couldn’t decide whether to shove him away or hold on for dear life.

Then, all at once, he sagged. His fists uncurled, his breath broke, and he just sank into Max’s chest.

The first sound punched out of him like he’d been holding it in for years. It wasn’t a sob, nothing nearly as clean. It was just broken air – a gasp that never made it to words.

His fists curled into Max’s shirt like a child’s, like a man clawing for something to hold onto before he drowned.

Max didn’t say anything else. He didn’t loosen his grip either. He just held Lando there, steady and quiet, while the boy who’d built an empire on blood and bones finally cracked apart in someone’s arms.

And all Lando could do was cry into Max’s shoulder, fists clenched in the back of his shirt, like if he held on hard enough, maybe this wouldn’t be real. Lando let himself grieve.

Not for the job.

Not for the reputation.

But for her — for the look in her eyes when she realized who he really was, and for the version of himself that could never exist again.

His friend offered him no empty platitudes, made no shallow efforts to fix it. Max didn’t say she’ll come back, or she loves you, or you’ll be okay.

Because any of that would’ve been a lie.

Lando stood there in the middle of his own house, in the arms of the only person left who knew what it meant to be both loved and feared — and for the first time in a very long time, he let someone hold the weight with him.

Even if only for a minute.

Lando didn’t remember how they got to the couch.

One second he was breaking apart in Max’s arms like glass on tile, and the next he was crumpled into the corner of the leather cushions, legs pulled up, face buried in his hands, his chest still shaking with the tail-end of sobs that had no words left in them.

Max sat beside him – not close enough to crowd him, just there like a weight keeping Lando tethered to the floor.

Lando didn’t cry often.

He knew how to punch a wall, knew how to stare into nothing for hours, how to work until his hands blistered just to keep the demons quiet. But crying? That was something other people did. Something weaker men did.

Max didn’t let go when Lando collapsed into him, hands clutched in the back of his shirt like a man going under. He didn’t let go even when the sobs turned ragged — the kind of sound Max had only ever heard once before, in that dark office after Daniel died.

He remembered that night too well — Lando drunk off his ass, hands shaking, gun cold and pressed against the side of his own head, whispering, “I tried. I really fucking tried. But it doesn’t work. None of it fucking works.”

Max had disarmed him without a word, yanked him off the chair, and stayed with him until dawn.

Just like that night, he sat with him. They had never been the type for overt friendship or long speeches or grand gestures. Max could only look at Lando, this unmovable force he’s seen rise through the ranks of Monte Carlo’s darkest empires. He watched over his friend like a guardian angel dressed in a black sweatshirt and washed jeans.

With both hands holding the side of Lando’s face, Max looked directly into his eyes, fixing him with a glare. He didn’t say I love you – they didn’t do that.

He’d said, “Do that again and I’ll kill you first.”

It meant the same thing.

The pendulum clock on the wall ticked softly, each tick beating monotonously through the empty of the grand living room. Minutes or hours ticked by, but Lando remained slouched on the floor, his back pressed against the wall and his head in his hands like it might all disappear if he didn’t look up. His breathing had steadied, but only barely. The hiccuping edge was still there, wrecked and uneven.

The sobs didn’t stop quickly.

They came in waves — deep, ugly, bone-shaking things that tore through Lando like his chest might cave in from the weight of them.

Max didn’t say a word through it.

He just held him, hands braced between Lando’s shoulder blades like he was keeping him stitched together by force. His shirt soaked through from tears and heat. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Not even when Lando finally sank to his knees, dragging Max down with him.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours — the mansion quiet around them. 

Max knelt a few feet away, eventually getting up to rummage under the bar cabinet for something that wasn’t a bottle. He came back with a hand towel before disappearing into the kitchen.

When he returned, the cloth was warm.

He crouched down in front of Lando, still quiet, and gently pulled his hands away from his face. Lando didn’t fight him, though he did flinch at first — some ancient instinct to push away help –to handle it alone, to bury it deep and move on.

He didn’t say anything — just gently wiped Lando’s face, brushing the warm washcloth over his temple, jaw, the trail of tears that had dried on his cheek. The warmth of the hot water emanated from the fabric like a patch of summer sun, warming Lando’s skin with its lingering tendrils. 

It was awkward and clumsy, but careful. Max had never been good at this kind of thing. He wasn’t the shoulder-to-cry-on guy. He didn’t have the gentle touch, didn’t know the right things to say, didn’t know how to make grief feel lighter.

But hell would freeze over before he left Lando like this.

So he did what he could.

“Sit still,” he muttered. “Don’t be a baby about it.”

Lando didn’t fight, didn’t speak. Just stared blankly ahead while Max knelt down in front of him and started wiping the salt tracks off his face. Gently, without making it weird.

There was something devastating about it — this man who’d snapped ribs without blinking now trembling like a kicked dog on his own leather sofa.

Max didn’t push, didn’t ask for the full story. Not when he already knew the shape of it.

She found out. She looked at him like he was a stranger. And it broke him.

“Hurts,” Lando rasped eventually, voice thin and distant.

Max didn’t stop wiping. “I know.”

“She looked at me like I was something to run from.”

“You are,” Max said quietly, wringing out the cloth. “We both are. But we never were to her. That’s the difference.”

Lando’s mouth twisted like he might start crying again, but he didn’t. Not yet.

“Would’a told her. I was gonna tell her. I just… didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Max said, standing. He grabbed the throw blanket from the side arm of the couch and tossed it over him. “I did.”

Lando didn’t argue.

Max ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath. “We’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to. We’ll figure it the fuck out anyway.”

He helped Lando out of the leather jacket he still wore, peeled off his overpriced watch, tossed it aside. Instead, he got him a bottle of water and pushed it into his hands when Lando wouldn’t look at him.

“You’re gonna need that,” Max muttered.

Lando took it, and sipped silently. Max sat down beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

Max wrung out the cloth and pressed it to Lando’s jaw, wiping away the salt trails and blood where Lando had split his own lip on Max’s shoulder. He moved slowly, methodically — not like a soldier tending to a wound, but like a brother. A best friend. The only person who’d ever seen all of him and stayed anyway.

Lando didn’t look at him. Instead, he just stared past Max’s shoulder, those grey-green eyes far too hollow.

“She looked at me like I was a stranger,” he eventually murmured.

Max didn’t answer. He just kept wiping, moving to Lando’s temple, the corner of his mouth, the hollow of his throat.

“I thought if I could just keep it quiet, like, just long enough or somethin’— I could… fuck, I dunno. Be someone else? Be Liam, I s’pose.”

He laughed once. It was empty.

Max set the cloth down.

“You loved her,” he noted aloud, not like a question.

Lando’s voice cracked when he spoke again. 

“She loved me too,” he whispered, a sinner in a confessional. “She trusted me.”

“She trusted Liam,” Max corrected, his tone far too gentle and patient for the dagger those words sent straight through wherever his heart used to be.

“Same fucking thing.”

“No,” Max insisted, more firmly now. “S’not. You made up a name and let her build a whole world around it. That world broke the second she found out you weren’t real.”

Lando flinched, like Max had finally struck him, the impact tangible.

Max sighed and sat beside him, arms resting on his knees. “But you were real,” he added. “That’s the messed-up part. You were real with her. Every minute you gave her? That was you, not some… persona. Don’t rewrite that part.”

“I can’t get her out of my head.”

Max nodded. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

Silence. 

Lando didn’t respond. His breathing was shallow again, too fast. Max didn’t miss it. He turned, sudden and sharp. “Lando.”

No response.

Max grabbed his wrist with a sense of urgency. “Lando. Look at me.”

Those eyes — glassy, gone — finally met his.

“Don’t do that thing. Don’t disappear.”

Lando didn’t argue, but the way his jaw clenched said enough.

Max didn’t let go. He lowered his voice, steady and cold now. “I swear to God, if you pull the same shit you did after Daniel—”

Lando’s face twisted. “That was different.”

“Bullshit.” Max’s grip tightened. “You locked yourself in that office with a gun and a bottle. You think I’ve forgotten that?”

Lando looked away. Shame flashed across his face like a scar re-opening.

“You try that again,” Max warned, “and I swear I’ll fucking kill you myself. That Daniel shit? That gun-in-your-mouth bullshit? I swear to God, Lando, I’ll kill you myself. You hear me?”

Lando blinked at him, then gave a weak, almost-scoff of a nod.

Max leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together.

“I mean it,” Max insisted. “I’ll strangle you, bury your body, give a shitty eulogy and then cry about it for a week. Don’t test me.”

That got Lando’s attention.

He looked up, bloodshot eyes sharp with surprise. When he looked at Max, at the furrow of his brows and the intensity of his glare, all he could see was care.

Care that he didn’t deserve.

His voice was barely there. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Max didn’t blink. “Do I look like I care?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “I already lost Daniel. I’m sure as hell not losing you.”

A beat.

Then Lando nodded, just once.

Max nodded, got up, reached over and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, tossing it into Lando’s lap with a grunt.

“Now go to bed, dumbass. You look like shit.”

Lando gave a breath of a laugh — hollow, but real. Max stayed on the floor for a while longer, just in case, but didn’t say another word. 

Once Lando’s eyelids fluttered shut, his body slumping into the mold of the sofa as it succumbed to the exhaustion of everything he’d been through, Max stood and pulled the blanket over him like he used to after night jobs when they were teenagers — before the titles, before the guns, before the blood.

Then he sat in the armchair across the room and stayed, just like always. Because sometimes loving someone — really loving someone — means holding their broken pieces until they can do it themselves again.

Even if it means bleeding a little in the process.

a/n: sorry for the extra long wait and a bit of a shorter chapter than we've been used to lately. hopefully you all still accept this as a thank you for all your patience while i was out.

not proofread, just wanted to get something out lol hope you enjoyed <3

[rogue-durin-16]

HEAD-TO-HEAD (part XXVI/?)

Summary: Joe thought she was pretty. Had he just said that, things might have been different for them. Maybe they wouldn't have gone head-to-head at each other for three years like it was a contest.

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x Reader

Genre: angst splattered with fluff/rivals to lovers

Tags:

Head-to-head: @derersketnoget @ladystardustfromarss @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @sxalbatf @jetjuliette @luvrottt @fromjupitertocentauri @ecompstolemysoul @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @bitter-post-millennial @gotxpenny @knight-of-thesun @scottstr3et @aliciax3

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: language, blood, gore, violence

A/N: GOD WE MADE IT. Okay I hope y'all enjoyed the ride, because GODDAMN IT'S BEEN SIX MONTHS. What are we gonna do now huh? I'm kidding, I see y'all's requests and I'll be working on them. Thank you for sticking around for this long ass fic that took over my Tumblr. Enjoy<3

Head-to-head masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

The wind out on deck had teeth, but I needed the bite. Inside the ocean liner, there wasn't a single noise I could stand anymore; laughter, yelling, crying. I knew it was time to bolt when I saw some of the boys exchanging addresses—one last attempt to postpone losing ourselves to the real world.

I had made up my mind about it long ago. Contact would just make everything worse. What the fuck would I write, anyway? 'Hey, I hope you're good. Everything still hurts.'

I leaned against the railing, one palm braced against cold metal, the other flicking my lighter under the lip of a bent cigarette I'd pull out of a half empty pack on my way out.

Flick. Nothing.

Flick. Nothing.

"Piece of shit." I muttered, shaking it once. I gave it one more try. Still dead. Two set of footsteps walked by and stopped right at the turn. I didn't care, so I didn't look.

"How did you manage to get through the war with that shit lighter?"

My heart just about gave out.

I turned slowly, disbelieving. Y/n's eyes meet mine as she retraced her steps and approached me, mouth curled around the ghost of a tight-lipped smile. It read as a bittersweet greeting, as much as an apology.

"Fuck." I breathed, frozen halfway through the motion. She snatched the cigarette out of my mouth, trapped it between her teeth and lit its end in the blink of an eye. Handed it back and stared at the side, overlooking the fact that she had knocked the air out of my lungs with what had become a mundane motion between us.

Because I couldn't remember the last time we had shared a cigarette, nor the last time I'd seen her smile. I couldn't remember much, I was realizing just now, aside from blood splattered on the hotel's hallway and sheer fear and white-hot rage.

Three Months Earlier

Fist met cheek with a wet crack. Ramirez didn't hold back. None of us were. Not after what this bastard had done.

The private—the fucker who'd pulled the trigger—was sagging in the chair, split lip pouring red, eye already swelling shut. I had a fistful of his greasy hair, yanking his head up harsh enough to tear it every time his head dropped.

"Where's the damn gun?" Bull insisted.

The private didn't answer. He had stopped answering around thirty minutes ago. Maybe he thought he could sit through this, take the beating, walk it out. So I leaned forward for him to hear me loud and clear.

"You're gonna give us that fuckin' gun," I hissed through gritted teeth, voice steady and mean. "Then I'm gonna shoot your brains out with it."

I meant it. Every syllable.

The bloodshot eye he could still open dragged away from me and over my shoulder, widening with sobering recognition.

"Do I ring any bells?" she asked, voice lethal, carrying through the room and straight into the replacement's ears.

My hand kept the iron grip on his locks as I spun to check I hadn't gone insane. Sure enough, there she was, leaning against the far wall of the lounge. Her tank top clung to her like gauze, stained with the dark crust of blood that hadn't quite dried. Barefoot. Pale. Skin slick with sweat or fever—I couldn't tell which.

I couldn't tell much aside from the fact that she shouldn’t be standing.

"You sonofabitch." in the blink of an eye, she was on the move, stalking across the floor like death itself in cotton and blood. The lightbulb made a flash of metal flicker in her hand. A blade.

"Hey—no," I dropped the culprit's head to intercept her halfway. Her body crashed into mine, all heat and tremble, and I took the opportunity to keep the blade at bay by restraining her wrist. It felt wrong how easy that was. "What are you doing?"

Her breath came in short, hard puffs; her glare, glassy and furious, trained on the slumped man behind me as she spat, "I'm gonna bleed him like a pig."

"When you think she can't get more stupid," Martin muttered somewhere in my left, and God was he right.

She was shaking, too light and too hot, holding herself together by the same furious grief that had left my knuckles busted and my sleeves blooded.

"Let me go." She writhed in my grip, trying to push past me. I halfheartedly held firm.

"Not happening."

"Let her try."

"Shut up, Alton." Don jumped in, pushing himself off the chimney's corner. He moved closer, catching Y/n's elbow from behind to gently make her step back. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

Y/n shook him off hard. Too hard. She gasped and staggered, one hand flying to her side as if pressing the dressing would stop the stitches from pulling.

"Shit—" I cursed, catching her again before she toppled over. "Stop. Fuckin' stop, alright? Please." With one arm desperately wrapped around her waist, I walked her back a step. Two. She was burning through the cloth and I couldn't do anything to fix it.

Her forehead hit my shoulder for half a second, like she was just so goddamn tired.

The door flung open with a thud, grabbing our full attention. Speirs' boots stopped right before the beaten up soldier, who was still trying to look smug through a face that was more pulp than person.

"Where's the gun?" Speirs questioned, faux calm reining in his ruthlessness.

The bastard had the nerve to smirk as he threw the same quip that had been earning him the punches. "What gun?"

The back of Speirs' sidearm caught him across the face, splitting the other cheek clean open.

"When you talk to an officer," Speirs' tone lacked patience and dripped with danger. Not a good sign. "you say Sir." He raised the pistol. Pointed it directly at the private's forehead.

Everyone stepped back, almost unnoticeably. We all heard the stories. No one wanted to look. No one but Y/n, whose chin was tilted just enough to watch the scene over my shoulder, her free hand holding onto my jacket for support.

The room held its breath for a second or a minute, before our commanding officer spoke again. "Let the MPs take care of this piece of shit."

On cue, More and Bull got a careless hold on the private by his arms and dragged him out of the room, a chorus of muted grunts echoing behind them.

Talbert, who had trailed into the lounge after Speirs, asked tentative, "Is Grant dead?"

"Kraut surgeon says he's gonna make it." He announced while shoving his sidearm back into his holster. I released a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Y/n straightened up the best she could, her palm rapidly tapping my shoulder. "Joe, let go."

I didn't have time to react before our Captain entered my peripheral vision, his crimson splattered hand wrapping around Y/n's bicep to pull her away from my arms.

"The hell are you doing on your feet, Sergeant?" He inquired, sharp gaze scanning Y/n's covered ribcage. She didn't get to make up an excuse. "First Sergeant Talbert, why isn't Y/l/n in the hospital?"

Talbert hesitated. "Sir, Spina—"

"Spina's a medic, she needs a damn doctor." He peeled her away from me, aiding her with more care than the man would admit to later. "C'mon, we're driving you to the hospital."

Maybe I should've said something. To her, to Speirs, to anyone. Should've gone with her. I just stood and watched them carry her out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I willed my brain snap out of it, shaking my head imperceptibly as if to physically pull me out of the stupor.

"Thought you got shipped to the States." I attempted.

"Got shipped to England." Y/n corrected me. "Got word the Toccoa veterans were leaving, so I hitched a ride." She tucked the lighter into her pocket and leaned back against the railing, her moves obviously slower and more mindful despite her pretending otherwise. "Surprise."

I dragged hard on the cigarette, just to keep my hands busy. "No one said anything."

"Wasn't trying to make a big entrance."

"No shit." I turned back to the dark water, standing shoulder to shoulder with her, the sound of waves against metal echoing below. "Malarkey knows?"

"I'll look for him."

The Statue of Liberty was still a distant speck behind gray clouds.

"We won." she commented matter-of-factly, trying to build a conversation from scratch. As if that had ever worked with us.

Still, I indulged her effort.

"Yeah. We did."

"You hear about Japan?"

"Who didn't?" I flicked the ashes off board. "Whole world's gone to hell and back."

She nodded, foot tapping the planks. "Heard some of the guys stayed back in England."

"Can't blame them." I said, because 'I considered it' would arise questions I didn't want to answer. Not to her, not to anyone.

At the turn of the deck where Y/n had come from, movement caught my eye—someone lingering at a cautious distance, arms crossed, watching the scene. It took me a second to recognize Andrew. He looked different; older, duller. Out of place, just like we'd all be in a couple of hours.

"Where'd he come from?" I asked, nodding toward him, doing my best to keep my tone in check.

"He came to see me at the hospital." She threw a look over her shoulder, not so much to check what was I looking at as it was to make sure he was still there. "Found me pretty quick. Guess being the mail boy has its privileges."

I nodded, exchanging the sight of the man for the horizon's; the faint outline of New York parted the sky from the ocean.

I could've looked for her when we got to England. I should've asked around. Wouldn't have been too hard—tracking down a female paratrooper. Why didn't I?

"Why don't you go in?" I said after a while, mentally drawing a line in the sand. "Let the fellas see that pretty face of yours got the color back."

She shrugged, tugging at a loose thread on her fatigues' sleeve. "I'd rather stay here."

The silence stretched. Only the churn of ocean filled it, that and the creak of footsteps from restless soldiers wandering behind us. I glanced over at her.

"You going back to Norfolk?" I asked.

She breathed out a single laugh, almost amused. "Where else would I go?"

I bit back a reckless offering. 'You could come with me' wasn't something she'd like to hear. It wasn't something I'd like to lay out between us either, bare and desperate like a child begging not to go home yet.

What was home, anyway?

"You going back to San Francisco?" she echoed my question, her observant gaze skimming over me.

"We'll see about that."

Another pause. Another crack in the conversation we couldn't quite patch.

"Luz is asking for everyone's address," I said it like an afterthought, pretending I wasn't desperate to push her away before I spilled unwanted truths all over the outdoor deck. "You should go give him yours before he realizes you're on the ship and chases you for it."

"Maybe I will." She gave a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes. "What's your address, Liebgott?"

I looked down at the cigarette burning between my fingers. Hesitated. "Can't remember." That was a lie, yet it felt cleaner than the truth.

Her face fell when she put together the pieces, reading between lines what I'd already decided. She took a breath. Resignation. "Tell you what," she folded her arms over her chest, the words sticking halfway in her throat. "I think I'm gonna miss you."

A joke, most likely, but it didn't land like one.

"Don’t worry," I ran my free hand through already disheveled locks. "one month with lover boy Andrew and you won't even remember my name."

She stared at me like I had offended her. Maybe I had. Maybe I deserved to see her scoff, turn heel and leave me there.

With a sigh, she reached for my hand. Took it in hers. Pressed something into my palm.

Her lighter.

"Keep it," she said. "Or throw it overboard, I don't care. I hate smoking anyway."

She lingered for a beat, then leaned in and kissed my cheek. Quick. Chaste. Soft enough to fucking kill me. I tried to catch her lips with mine on instinct, but she was already pulling away. Like she knew. Like she had felt me move and decided to purposefully beat me to it.

She squeezed my arm, warm and final, and walked back to her friend without another word.

I stared at the lighter in my hand.

America grew closer, and I felt my heart break.

We'd run out of time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

READER'S P. O. V.

The noise at the docks was deafening, overwhelming—cheering, crying, shouting names into the chaos. The second our boots hit New York's soil, the world broke open in celebration.

We were being swallowed by the crowds. Men from Easy jostled shoulder to shoulder, some already sprinting toward waiting families, others standing still, lost. Flags waved, hats flew, the scent of salt and steel mixed with perfume from people who hadn't known the inside of a uniform. Someone threw a bouquet. A woman screamed someone's name and collapsed into his arms.

In the middle of it all, I felt a hand close around my bicep, forced gentleness barely masking urgency, and tugged me slightly away from Andrew before anyone could clock it. The ruckus swallowed the movement.

"What's the lighter for?" Joe's clipped question went right into my ear.

Thrown by a question I didn't expect to hear, I turned to face him. We were being pushed and pulled by bodies on all sides, but he kept me tethered. "Smoking, hopefully." I tried. "Don't burn shit up with it. It's got my initials."

He exhaled sharp through his nose, tugging on my arm just enough to pull something else out of me. I didn't have it in me to fight it, so I gave in.

"Don't want you to forget me." I confessed, fear, heartache and embarrassment bubbling to the surface all at once.

His grip tightened, and his voice raised. "Don't need a fucking lighter to remember you."

I opened my mouth, but someone bumped me from behind. I stumbled forward, into him. His hands caught me like it was second nature at this point.

"You don't have to keep it," I insisted, placing a hand on his chest as a leverage to push myself a step back. "I told you to throw it away if you—"

"I'm in love with you."

It hit harder than a gunshot, straight to the chest.

"Head over heels for fuck knows how long," he went on, not looking away from me for a second. "It's fuckin' pathetic. I don't need a lighter to remember that, alright?"

My pulse was too loud in my ears. A lump in my throat blocked any response I would have wanted to give him. Someone shoved through again, knocking him slightly off balance. His hand left my arm for a second.

"Keep it," was the only sentence I managed without having my voice shattering. "Please."

Joe muttered something under his breath—'fuck', maybe—and reached for his dog tags. Before I could ask what he was doing, he slipped the chain over his head, the rusted star of David glinting under the sun, and looped it over my neck instead. They were warm from his skin.

His hand lingered at the base of my nape for a second before he leaned in, kissed my temple, and spoke against my hair, "Take care of yourself."

I grabbed the front of his jacket. My fingers found his collar and brought him into a kiss, quiet, barely there, but enough.

Enough.

He kissed me back.

And then he let go.

I watched him disappear into the crowd, into a hundred people moving in a hundred directions, oblivious to yet another goodbye among all the reunions.

"Y/n! God, I thought I'd lost you. C'mon!"

Andrew's voice called behind me, so I walked back toward him on reflex, leaving my heart somewhere on the dock.

'I'm in love with you'.

Too late for it to matter.

[dollyzdaydreamz]

John Marston x Ballerina! Reader

All the Luck

Description: Set after the fall of the Van der Linde Gang. John Marston, aimless but trying, crosses paths with a ballerina who's also lost something. Both, in their own way, just try to make sense of what's left.

♡ inspired by rdr1 John’s personality :3

♡ fluff, sfw, kind of switches from John’s POV to Readers.

♡ no Jack or Abigail for obvious reasons lol

Warnings: mentions of injury, sickness.

The streets of town had long since gone quiet. It was that peculiar kind of late where the world felt like it was holding its breath, no chatter, no wagons, just the wind scraping softly along the dirt road and the creak of a sign swinging outside the saloon. The respectable folk were long home by now. What remained were the lonely, the reckless, and the men like John Marston, men who weren’t entirely sure which they were anymore.

He adjusted his hat, crossing the road with boots that left faint marks behind him. He’d just dropped off another sorry bounty, some thief who fought harder than he was worth, and now he was loitering, not so much searching for his next lead as he was avoiding going home. Whatever “home” meant these days.

Then he saw her.

She sat on the stone steps of the town’s modest theatre, a wilted thing in soft pink. Her legs were folded in, slippers still tied neatly around her ankles. A ballet costume, he guessed, clinging in places it shouldn’t in the cold as she was trembling. Her face was buried in her hands. Shoulders shaking.

John stopped like he’d hit a wall. He’d seen and walked past worse. But something about her stopped him dead in his tracks. Maybe it was the contrast, the delicacy of her attire in this godforsaken town, in a world that rarely had patience for anything soft. Or maybe it was the way her misery felt… private. And he was intruding just by looking.

Still, something rooted him to the spot.

He took a cautious step forward, slow like approaching a skittish animal, “Miss?”

She jolted and lifted her head slightly, and he faltered when her bloodshot and makeup smudged eyes met his,“What do you want?”

John lifted his hands so as to show he meant her no harm, “Just noticed you sittin’ there. Thought maybe somethin’ was wrong.”

You hesitated, feeling your eyes tear up at the memory, but the words tumbled out anyway, “I auditioned to be the lead in the show, but I didn’t get it.”

You paused, wiping your eyes as you held back more of your frustrated tears, “And then someone stole my damn horse!”

He blinked, “Both? Same night?”

“Yeah. Hell of a double-feature.” You murmured dejectedly as you uncrossed your sore feet and leaned your aching head on the column beside you.

He couldn’t help the chuckle that left him. He leaned against the railing beside you, shaking his head, “Some folks got all the luck.”

You exhaled, but couldn’t muster up a smile.

“You got anyone?” he asked, “Someone who can take you home?”

You shook your head, “Just my mother, but she’s sick. Can hardly move. That’s why I wanted the lead so badly, pays real good.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John murmured, quieter now.

He shifted his weight awkwardly, “Can I take you home?”

Your gaze drifted toward him, taking notice of the revolvers on his hip, the way he stood like he hadn't a fear in the world. He was tall with dark, deep set eyes and tan skin that underscored the jagged scars on his face. He was a little rough around the edges, but quite handsome. The realization made you flush and look away, suddenly more interested in a loose seam on your pointe shoes.

“You don’t look like the chivalrous type,” You murmured tentatively.

“Can’t say I am. Just figured a girl like you can’t be sittin’ out here all night,” He huffed, motioning toward the drunks staggering around the outside of the saloon.

A long pause. Your mom always told you not to take rides from strange men, but tonight you’d just have to make an exception.

Then you nodded, getting up and dusting off your skirt. You stumbled a bit as a wave of exhaustion hit you, grabbing onto the railing for support.

“Woah, easy.” He said, holding out his hands in case you fell.

“I’ll let you take me home, but if you kill me, I’ll be sure to haunt you,” You warned.

He chuckled, still staying close as you slowly made your way down the steps, “Fair trade.”

The ride back was quiet. Not uncomfortably so, just still.

Your arms rested around his waist, careful not to seem like you were clinging. But the truth was, you were clinging a little. To the strange sense of calm that came from the steady way he carried himself. Your fingers accidentally brushed a big scar along his rib through his shirt, and you swallowed, wondering where it came from.

“I never asked for your name,” You said.

“No, you didn’t.”

You rolled your eyes, “Well what is it? Mr. Enigmatic?”

He chuckled, “John Marston.”

“Why does that sound familiar?” You asked, more so to yourself, wracking your brain over where you might have heard the name before.

His posture stiffened.

“I guess it’s just a common name,” You dismissed with a shrug.

“Guess so,” he said curtly.

You yawned, trying not to let your cheek rest against his back. But it was hard not to lean into something when you’d spent the day falling apart.

“So,” he started after a beat, “What made you wanna be a ballerina?”

You exhaled, eyes on the barely visible stars in the clouded night sky, “I guess it's the one way I know how to tell a story. Without fumbling for the right words. You just move, and people feel things.”

He didn’t say anything, but you felt the way his back lifted with his breath. Like he understood that more than he’d let on.

You slumped a little, feeling a frown tug at your lips at the memory of your dance instructor’s frustration.

She kept droning on about how you needed to stop being so stiff, stop worrying about being perfect. You can admit perfection isn’t realistic, but you’d be damned if you didn’t try to get close to it.

All you could think about during your set was your mother, the debts, things that needed fixing. Eventually her frustration boiled over and she dismissed you in the middle of your audition altogether,

“But of course, Ballet can be a bitch sometimes.”

That got a chuckle out of him, “I’d trade my holster in for a pair of tights if it meant I didn’t have to chase after idiots all day.”

That made you jolt in shock. So he was a bounty hunter.

That explained all the weapons. You loved reading western novels, ones that depicted the adventures of bounty hunters chasing after criminals and bringing them to justice.

“You don’t enjoy it?” You asked.

“Truthfully? No,” he admitted. “But that's all I know. Ain’t a long list of things I’m good at.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe you’ve got some hidden talents. Singing maybe?”

He snorted. “Ah yes, my gravelly tones could rival the angels.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up out of you at his painfully dry humor.

John felt himself ease up at the sound, warm and honest, one he hadn’t heard in a long time, one he probably didn’t take advantage of enough a few years ago.

“What about dancing?” You teased, “Most people out here can manage a little two-step.”

He chuckled and shook his head, “Miss, I’ve got two left feet and both of ‘em are useless.”

When your house finally came into view at the edge of town, you let out a sigh of relief. The porch light was glowing softly, casting shadows across the wooden railings. It was a small house, old but well cared for, with a few wilted flowers still hanging in the boxes outside the windows.

Your mother sat bundled in a quilt on the front porch, curled into the old rocking chair you’d mended twice already. She stirred at the sound of hooves and slowly pushed herself up, one hand gripping the post for support.

“Mama,” you called as John brought the horse to a stop in front of the steps.

She blinked against the dim light, then frowned slightly as she caught sight of him.

“Who’s this?”

Before you could answer, her gaze flicked from his revolvers to the bloodstains on your tights, to your face, tired and smudged with makeup, but relieved.

“He helped me,” You said quickly, “I didn’t get the part…and then my horse got stolen, so he brought me home.”

Your mother’s shoulders eased almost immediately as she pulled you into a warm hug, “I’m sorry baby.”

“It’s alright.” You murmured, trying your best not to burst into tears yet again.

When you pulled away, she turned to John, “I can’t thank you enough, Mr…?”

“Marston,” he replied, tone firm but kind, “John Marston.”

She smiled, “Well, John, you’ll come in for some tea, won’t you?”

John hesitated. You could already see the excuse forming in his mind, some half-muttered “ought to be going,” but you gave him a quick nudge, wanting to repay him in the slightest.

He relented with a shrug, “Guess I could sit for a minute.”

Inside, the house was warm and a little cluttered, filled with trinkets from years past. You led him to the couch in the living room, and he sat stiffly, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed to.

The cushions gave a soft little sigh beneath him, and he looked mildly offended by how deep he sank into them.

From the kitchen, John watched as your mother moved slowly, gathering the tin of tea and setting water to boil.

You noticed the way her hands trembled as she reached up to grab the teacups, dainty little floral things passed down from your grandmother.

She tried not to show how much effort it took, but she never let you help her.

John saw it too.

He didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered on her hands as he leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees.

“She’s been sick for a while,” you whispered.

He only nodded, not wanting to pry.

Once the tea was poured, your mother handed him one of the porcelain cups.

“Thank you,” he said, careful as could be, taking it between two fingers like he wasn’t sure what to do with something that delicate.

You tried not to laugh at the sight. Scarred hands and calloused knuckles, holding a tiny rose-covered teacup.

He glanced at you sternly, “Somethin’ funny?”

“Nothin’,” you said, biting your lip. “Nothin’ at all.”

Conversation came slow at first. Your mother asked polite questions, what he did, how he ended up out this way. He dodged with vague answers, but there was a glimmer of honesty under it.

“Used to run with a rough crowd,” he admitted, staring into his tea, deep in thought. “Ain’t proud of most of it. These days, I just do what needs doin’.”

A quiet settled for a moment before your mother glanced toward the window, frowning faintly.

“That wagon’s still falling over,” she murmured, mostly to herself, “Been meaning to fix the hinges. Can’t seem to hold a hammer steady long enough these days.”

“I can try tomorrow,” you offered, though you already knew how it would go. You weren’t exactly handy.

John paused for a moment, then he stood up before either of you could say anything else, “I’ll take a look.”

“What?” you blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I ain’t doin’ much tonight,” he said, setting the teacup down on the coffee table, “Might as well make myself useful.”

And just like that, he was out the door.

After a few minutes, you looked through the window as he grabbed a few tools from the side of the house and rolled his sleeves up. The porch light caught on the scar along his forearm, the worn seams of his shirt, the muscles shifting beneath sun-bronzed skin as he adjusted the broken wheel.

Your mother sipped her tea, watching you quietly.

“…Do you like him?” She asked after a moment.

You blinked, whipping your head back to her, “What? No. I mean, he’s just—he was being nice.”

She gave you a look, the same one she used to give you as a kid when you snuck cookies from the tin. You huffed, sinking back into the couch.

Outside, John hammered the last nail in, then tested the wagon with a gentle push, it held steady.

When he came back inside, wiping his hands on a rag, you tried not to stare too long.

“Should be alright now,” he said, sitting down beside you again, a little easier this time.

Your mother had forced him to stay longer, eat a few biscuits and share a few more stories. About an hour later, John wiped his palms on his trousers one last time, then stood up from the couch with a small grunt. You stood too, not really wanting him to leave but knowing he probably would.

“As much as I’d love to eat some more a’ these, I really should get goin’,” he chuckled.

You and your mom walked him to the door, feeling an odd pinch in your chest you couldn’t quite name.

“Thanks again,” you said as he tugged his hat off the coat hook, “For everything. I owe you now.”

He paused, deep set eyes softening just a little, “You don’t owe me nothin’. Just glad you got home alright.”

You smiled, “Still. If you ever need something…a tutu, some pointe shoes, just say the word.”

John chuckled, and gave a slight tip of his hat. He stepped down the porch, the warm light casting along the dark tufts of hair poking out from beneath his hat, “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss.”

You watched as he mounted his horse, and then rode off into the dark, lingering on the step until the sound of hooves faded entirely.

Once you were back inside, you collapsed back onto the couch with a heavy sigh, staring up at the ceiling and letting the weight of the day sink in.

What the hell just happened?

You’d danced, cried, got your horse stolen, got a ride home from a bounty hunter, gave him tea, watched him fix your damn wagon, and somewhere in the middle of all that, you’d developed a stupid little crush on a man who was just being kind.

Great.

From the kitchen, you heard your mother’s slow, knowing footsteps. She didn’t say anything. Just gave you that same look. You groaned and tossed your arm over your eyes.

“He was just being nice,” you muttered, like you needed to remind yourself more than her.

A few days passed.

John hadn’t expected to see her again. But when he rode through town, something in him, something small and ridiculous, slowed near the theatre.

And there she was.

Through the tall windows, in the quiet of the dim studio, she twirled. Over and over like the world might end if she stopped.

He dismounted, drifting toward the open doorway, boots scuffing the wood. He leaned against the frame, eyes growing half-lidded from the dizzying repetition.

“You keep spinnin’ like that, I’m gonna hurl.” A raspy voice drawled from behind you.

You gasped and stopped mid-turn, but your face lit up just as quickly when you were met with the sight of a familiar cowboy, “John!”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, suddenly unsure why the hell he’d come in the first place.

“You’re fine.” You said, trying to steady your breathing, “I was just practicing for the show.”

He nodded, glancing around the empty studio, “Looks like you’ve been at it a while.”

“Since dawn.” You huffed, stretching out your ankles, wincing at a particularly sore spot.

He whistled, “I’d shoot myself if I had to stay in here that long.”

You jolted as thunder cracked. Rain began to thrum against the roof.

You looked out the window and sighed. “Great. Make sure that gun’s loaded, because we’re stuck here until it stops.”

John chuckled, but noticed the tightness in your jaw. The way your fingers flexed, restless. He figured you were nervous, or worried. About the show, or your mother maybe, he wasn’t the best at reading minds but he figured it was something along those lines.

He tilted his head, eyes glinting as he thought of an idea, “You know, maybe spinning like that ain’t helpin’ you much.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion.

“Maybe you just need to…” he shrugged, and let out a chuckle, “Let loose–I don’t know.”

“Let loose?” You asked, “I mean, I already stretched–”

“Not like that,” he groaned, though a mischievous little smile tugged at his lips, “C’mon.”

“Wait,” you laughed nervously as he took your wrist and began dragging you out the door, “but I still need to practice my pirouettes!”

“No. No more pirou…what’sits!” he said, tugging you into the street.

“Pirouettes.”

“Whatever. Just have fun for once,” He said, grabbing a hold of both your hands.

“I do have fun—“

You were cut off when he spun the two of you in a clumsy circle, boots sloshing through puddles. You nearly fell, laughing as he caught you. His grip was firm, but surprisingly gentle.

You looked down to see the dirt had muddled your once spotless pointe shoes, “Not my shoes!”

“I’ll get you new ones,” he chuckled absentmindedly, carelessly twirling you again, “Don’t think, just keep movin’!”

You danced, if you could call it that. He dipped you with the grace of a cowboy, none, but you couldn’t stop laughing.

“You’re terrible,” you chuckled between breaths.

“Excuse me?” He grinned, hat askew, hair wet and clinging to his forehead,

When John saw the perpetual furrow in your brow untense, like the weight had been lifted off your shoulders, he figured it was worth making a fool out of himself.

You eventually collapsed against the outside of the theatre wall, soaked and breathless, laughter trailing off into silence.

“Thanks,” you chuckled. “I feel… a whole lot better now.”

“Reckon you needed it,” he said as he took in his soaked attire, “Hell, so did I.”

The rain eased into a gentle rhythm above you. And for a moment, the rest of the world didn’t exist.

The sky was beginning to blush with sunset when you stepped off the wooden walkway, clutching the small envelope in your hand a little too tightly. It held a single ticket.

You weren't even sure why you felt nervous. You’d face entire theatres of eyes without breaking. But this? Bringing something to John, asking something of him, it made your heartbeat a little uneven.

He was always around the east side of town around this hour, by the hitching posts or the sheriff’s office. But today, the street was oddly still. Your steps slowed when you noticed the commotion ahead.

A couple men, perhaps lawmen, stood outside the doctor’s office, talking low and serious. One of them had blood on his sleeve.

Your stomach dropped when you heard the name “Marston.” Your legs moved before your thoughts caught up. You walked into the clinic, ticket still in hand, and nearly slammed into the doctor himself.

“Where is he?” you asked, catching your breath.

The old man looked you up and down before looking back at him in confusion, “You a friend?”

You didn’t answer. Just pushed past him.

John was on the cot near the back, shirt discarded, his side wrapped hastily with gauze and stained deep red. He was pale, jaw clenched even in unconsciousness, and looked like someone you didn’t recognize for a moment. Vulnerable.

You hadn’t expected to ever see him like this. John was always upright. Always strong, always helping everyone else. Carefully, you pulled a stool beside him and sat. You didn’t realize how hard you’d been chewing your lip until it started to sting.

He stirred and then his dark eyes blinked open, glassy but sharp enough to recognize you.

“…Hey,” he rasped.

Your heart skipped.

You scooched closer to him, “You got shot didn’t you? What the hell were you doing?”

He tried to get up but winced as he shifted, “Somethin’ stupid.”

You didn’t laugh.

His tired gaze drifted to your hands, hoping to find some way to deflect the attention off of him, “What’s that?”

You looked down at the ticket and blinked like you forgot you were even holding it.

“Oh–um,” Your fingers fumbled to smooth it out, suddenly embarrassed. “It’s a ticket. For my show.”

His brows lifted a little, amused. You could already hear what he might say, so you rushed to add,

“You don’t have to come. Obviously. Especially now that you’re injured and need to rest.”

He stared at you a moment, expression softer than before, then he reached out and took it from your hand. You face warmed when his fingers brushed yours,

“It’s in two weeks,” you added quietly as he held the paper to his face.

“I’ll try and make it.” He said, setting the paper down on his chest as his eyes began to droop again.

You visited him a few times after that, when he was drifting in and out of consciousness.

The doctor’s office was still, touched with the low golden light of early evening. The curtains filtered the sun into soft ribbons across the worn floorboards and across John’s bare chest, where the bandages wound firm around his ribs.

He lay propped against a few stiff pillows, his breath slow but steady, a faint crease between his brows as if even resting required effort.

You sat beside him again, curled slightly into the wooden chair, fingers idle in your lap. The ballet ticket you’d given him the other day was resting neatly on the side table, next to a glass of water and a few faded newspapers.

“Town drunk tried to dance with a scarecrow this morning,” you said after a moment, voice breaking the silence like a pebble in a still pond.

John opened one eye slowly, his lips twitching. “You serious?”

“Dead serious,” you said, biting back a grin. “Middle of the market square, arms wrapped around it like it was his long-lost sweetheart. Folks just let him be.”

He gave a quiet laugh, wincing slightly as it strained his injured torso, “Better than him tryin’ to fight it, I suppose.”

You chuckled too, leaning your head against the back of the chair. “Yeah. Sheriff just shook his head and said somethin’ about it being too early for all that.”

John’s eyes lingered on you a beat longer, then dropped again.

“How’s your mother doin’?” he asked after a pause, “She was real sick last I visited.”

Your expression softened. “She’s doing better. Getting stronger every day.”

He nodded, slow and tired, but a faint relief crossed his face. “Glad to hear it.”

John shifted slightly, exhaling like he wanted to say something else, but instead mumbled, “Thirsty…”

He started to push himself up with one arm, grimacing as the movement tugged at his side.

“Wait, don’t,” you said quickly, reaching out and placing your hand gently on his shoulder. “Stay still, I’ve got it.”

Your fingers barely pressed so as not to hurt him, but his body stilled instantly beneath your touch. The heat of your hand on his skin lingered, and though he didn’t say anything, his face flushed a faint red.

You stood quietly and crossed the room to pour him a glass of water from the ceramic pitcher, then returned and handed it to him. He took it carefully, fingers brushing yours.

“Thanks,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost shy. You supposed he wasn’t used to being helped like this, knowing it’s hard for most men to be seen vulnerable, put aside their pride like that.

You sat back down beside him, letting the silence stretch again. After a while, you glanced over at him again, watching his breath slow, eyes fluttering heavier.

“My instructor says I’m getting better,” you said softly, almost like a secret.

John opened his eyes a little. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. She said if I keep it up, I might lead next season.”

A small smile formed on his lips, tired but real. “That’s good. Real good.”

You looked down at your hands and then back at him, catching the way his gaze lingered.

He didn’t say anything at first, just let his eyes close again with a slow exhale.

“I’d limp all the way there if I had to,” he murmured.

You smiled to yourself, quiet and full.

You let him sleep, chest buzzing with something warm, a peaceful quiet settling in the air like the fading light through the curtains.

The night of the show came fast.

The theatre buzzed with nerves and perfume, ribbons tied too tightly, and the soft whisper of satin slippers against floorboards. You adjusted your hair, then peeked out through the heavy curtain.

No sign of him.

“Looking for your cowboy?” one of the other girls teased behind her, nudging her side.

Word got around this town fast, you’d only been seen out with John twice and your entire studio knew about it.

You tried to keep your voice level, “No!”

Another girl laughed softly. “He gonna lasso a bouquet for you after the final bow?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, cheeks pink.

The lights dimmed and the music rose, letting you know your cue came with the rest of the girls.

You moved like you were floating, but a small part of you was still somewhere else, checking the shadows behind the last row of seats.

And then, halfway through the second act, you saw the back door creak open, slow. A figure slipped in, leaning against the wall with the kind of quiet that didn’t want attention. His hat was low, and you watched from the corner of your eye as he eased into the farthest seat in the back.

Your heart leapt so fast you nearly missed a step.

After the curtain call, you changed quickly into a soft pink dress, one of the few nice things you owned.

You found yourself checking your reflection in a vanity mirror nearby, smoothing down your hair, adjusting your dress. You brushed a bit of lint off it and shifted your weight, trying to shake the nerves.

Then you froze.

God. What were you doing?

You looked at your reflection and sighed, well shit, you were trying to look nice for him.

But you shook your head and pushed yourself off the vanity, he was just someone who helped you. That’s all. You stepped out into the hall, scanning the crowd. Most were trickling out already.

But then you found John standing near the exit, smoking a cigarette as his gaze lazily drifted around, waiting.

Your heart fluttered at the sight. He wore a black striped shirt and matching black pants. He was without the usual rifle and gun belt. It was odd seeing him without them, but he looked handsome, like he actually tried to dress up for the show.

You walked over, nerves fluttering in your stomach like you hadn’t just danced in front of hundreds.

“Well?” you asked, hands tucked behind your back.

He snuffed out his cigarette with a small smile, “You didn’t fall once. So I’d call it a success.”

You rolled your eyes, “That’s your review?”

He chuckled, “I wasn’t sure I’d like it. But… It was real’ nice. I’m no expert, but you did great.”

“Thanks for coming.” You grinned.

He gave a small shrug, “Figured I owed you, you know, for the ticket.”

You swatted him and he winced, clutching his rib,

“Oh God, I’m sorry, I forgot!—“

“I’m fine, just messin with you.” He smiled, leaning back up as though nothing happened.

“You should take on comedy,” you shot him a glare.

“Think so?” He asked, chuckling at the way you rolled your eyes and waved him off.

You stepped outside together, the theatre lights fading behind you.

“So, you really are feeling better?” You ask, worried he was concealing any pain.

“Yeah, ‘been shot enough times to heal pretty quickly.” He said, recalling every time he was marked during a robbery with the gang.

He cleared his throat a little, glancing at you from time to time,

“You look…nice.” He said quietly.

“Thank you,” you smiled, motioning to his shirt, “you look quite nice yourself.”

“Yeah?” He chuckled, looking down at his attire as though he didn’t believe you.

“Yeah, although I do miss all those death weapons strapped to you,” you sighed.

“I’ll be sure to bring them next time.” He replied, matching your sarcasm.

He glanced at your pink frilled dress, then down at his worn shirt and dusted jeans, still slightly wrinkled from the quick change.

“We’re a hell of a pair,” he started with a chuckle, “I mean, you look like you came from a picture book and I look like I crawled outta the saloon.”

You laughed, blushing a little as you noticed the contrast yourself.

“Do you…wanna get somethin’ to eat? There’s a diner down the way. Nothin’ fancy.” He asked, avoiding your gaze entirely.

You blinked. It took you a second, but then you grinned as the realization hit you.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

He looked away, muttering, “Guess I am.”

You smiled at his flustered state, all giddy that you made John Marston of all people flush like a school boy.

“I’d love to.”

Relief settled over his shoulders like a warm coat and he sighed, “Okay. Good.”

You walked in step down the quiet street, comfortable silence stretched between you. After a moment, he offered his hand, a little awkward and you took it.

His hand was rough. Yours were soft.

As you walked through the warm dusk toward the diner, your joined hands swinging slightly between you, a funny thought came to your mind,

“I’m glad I didn’t get the part and lost my horse.” You murmured with a little smile.

John's brows furrowed, looking down at you in confusion.

“Then I wouldn’t have met you,” you explained, looking away as you felt warmth rise to the tips of your ears.

“Huh,” John huffed, “I guess I’m glad you had an awful day too.”

You chuckled, swatting his arm.

You were two people from entirely different worlds. But somehow, just somehow, it made perfect sense.

Some folks really do have all the luck.

like if you think john is hawt '(*>﹏<*)′ 🍥lmk what you think by leaving notes, i love reading them. 🍥feel free to send in requests :3

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

So… I already have like 70 Sterek fic tabs open on my phone (there’s so many good authors in this fandom it’s not my fault!) but I was thinking that despite some fantastic tumblr posts about it I don’t think I’ve actually read a necromancer!Stiles fic.

I went through your fabulous tag page but I didn’t see one so hopefully I didn’t miss it. If you or your loverly followers have any recs I sure would appreciate it!

(And no rush, I seriously have so many tabs but I am greedy)

Hi @arora-kayd! @kevaaronday made this list for you.

Murder, Magic and a Masterclass in Denial by Noxnthea (9/9 | 41,940 | Explicit | Sterek) “No, seriously, I need to talk to you really quick,” Stiles interrupts. “Before Peter gets out here.” 

Derek braces himself. “Okay.”

“I need you to make sure I can be alone with the body for a few minutes.” 

Derek stares at him. “You get that that’s like…a really weird request, right?”

In the three months since Derek left the NYPD and joined the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, he’s gotten used to a lot of things: he’s learned to deal with seeing Peter every day, he knows how to hide his enhanced senses on the job, and he doesn’t mind the late nights and early mornings.

One thing he’s still not used to, however, is Stiles Stilinski.

You only Live Once… or Twice by WonderWolf (6/6 | 32,949 | Explicit | Sterek) “Anything,” Derek’s eyes are determined, boring into Stiles’. 

Stiles huffs a laugh, “Careful there, big guy. Don’t want to be promising anything to every necromancer you meet. Some might ask for your soul or someth—”

“I’ll give you my soul to bring her back,” Derek says, his voice steady and strong with resolve, “if that’s what you want.”

Stiles’ mouth gapes open for a moment before his brain kicks into gear and he stutters out, “N-no, I don’t ask for that. I only ask for money.”

(Or the one in which Stiles is a necromancer who needs help stopping a rogue alpha and Derek is the solution, but at what cost?)

I See Dead People by Asteria_Star (13/13 | 15,318 | Teen | Sterek) Stiles has been able to see Ghosts for as long as he could remember. Having a ghost tell you that you are a necromancer and that the supernatural exists was nothing. What isn't nothing is trying to navigate your best friend becoming a werewolf while trying to hide what you are. 

Features Stiles and Talia having a mother-son dynamic that I didn't know I needed.

Sarcasm, Suspicion and Raising the Dead: A Necromancer’s Guide to Getting the Guy (Your Murderer and/or Your Boyfriend) by Aerica_Menai (1/1  |13,917 | Teen | Sterek) Stiles met Derek’s blue, blue eyes - still striking, even bloodshot from crying - as he slid into the other side of the booth. Immediately, the request came tumbling forward: “Could - would you bring her back?”

“I can - I will - but only temporarily,” Stiles warned.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “Whatever extra time I get with her will be - “ He took a deep breath as his voice broke. “ - appreciated,” he finally choked out.

And that’s when Stiles knew he was in trouble.

formed in the very poetry of nature by frankie_31 (4/4 | 7,984 | Explicit | Steter) Stiles can raise the dead. Stiles can put them back down. But what happens when one of his undead minions stays up?

Peter Hale is back from the dead. Kind of. And he'd like to stay that way.

Burial Rituals by aurevell (1/1 | 4,989 | Gen | Sterek) The necromancer freezes halfway over the fence, stuttering to a halt the second Derek flashes his red eyes. It’s an awkward pose to hold: leg hiked up over the waist-high bars, hands gripping the rail for balance. The fence’s wrought-iron spears dig into his calf a bit as he settles, clearly caught off guard.

“Uh,” he says lamely, his face pale in the scant moonlight. “Shit.”

Derek guards an abandoned cemetery. Stiles is the necromancer trying to break in.

[her-power]

So Called Chaos (Part Three: Modern single dad! e.m x fem reader)

❤️‍🩹🚨‼️18+ Minors DO NOT interact ‼️🚨❤️‍🩹

Trigger warnings/content warnings: Talk of Grief, Child loss, Death. Description of a dead body. Description of suicide attempts. Strong language. Angst. Fluff. Comfort. Strong Sexual Content (not explicit MINORS AGAIN GO AWAY THIS ISN'T FOR YOU)

Summary: Full summary on Part One.

Word Count: 6.7k

Author's Note: If you or anyone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts/ideations, please please please reach out for help. Your life matters. You are loved. We love you.

Eddie could still feel the tingle of your lips against his hours after you parted ways. The way he could taste your tears as you held his head, curling your hands through his hair, kissing with so much passion and urgency. When you had your first kiss, you were kids, teenagers. This kiss was different, this kiss held so many different emotions, emotions that confused you, emotions that you were giving off of a terrible thing that happened to you. It had been so many years since you laid eyes on each other, but this felt natural. Like you’ve been together this whole time. You straddle him, moving your body against his, a moan escaping him as your hips grind against his. 

Hunter had started to cry in that moment, and the two of you never moved so fast. Eddie had driven you back to your car, and when you left it felt like the moment you two shared didn’t even happen. You only muttered a goodbye and didn’t even look back. Eddie had paced after getting Hunter down for bed, he was on the phone with Robin, explaining what happened. The loss of her husband, her chronic pain, their passionate kiss. 

“I shouldn’t have pushed to get so close to her like that, it’s my fault.” Eddie says groaning. 

“I mean, yeah, it’s a little fast but, she lost her husband. It’s probably weird for her to be kissing another man, especially one that she has known.” 

“She just seemed so sad. The only thing I know what to do when someone is sad is to make them feel better. It’s just impulse. Even if it’s been forever since we’ve seen each other.” He sighs. “I’m a fucking idiot.” 

“Just give it a day or two. Send her a message, tell you’re sorry if you upset her and that you would love to meet again. Go out to dinner, go see a movie. I’ll hang with the little love bug.” 

“Dinner equals date and I’m not sure either one of us are ready for that.” Eddie sits on the couch, looking at the monitor. He feels the air change and tenses up. “I have to go.” 

Robin could hear the change in his voice. “Are you okay?” 

“We’ll talk tomorrow. Love you.” 

He hangs up quickly, seeing Olivia’s form out of his peripherals. “What the fuck do you want?” 

“Whoa. Someone’s angry.”

“Yeah, and I’m not in the mood for you.” He turns to look over at her form, forgetting that he made a promise to himself that he never would again. Her pale face, blue lips, her eyes bloodshot. He almost vomits and he quickly looks away. The trauma of finding her that morning resurfacing to his throat. 

“Please leave me alone.”

“You need to call her.” 

“I said leave me alone!” He yells. “Fuck you! Fuck off!” 

Hunter’s wail reaches his ears, and he gasps sprinting up the stairs. Eddie opens the door to his room and Hunter is holding onto the railings of his crib, immediately putting his arms up to pick him up. Eddie pulls him out, cradling him to his chest. 

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to wake you.” Eddie says, rubbing his head and kissing his hair. Hunter’s fingers twirl in Eddie’s hair and he leans back, cupping both of his cheeks. He stares into Eddie’s eyes as if to say I’m sad too, it’s okay daddy. Eddie’s eyes fill with tears, and he presses them back with his thumb and forefinger as he slowly rocks Hunter. Hunter’s cries had turned to soft coos, but Eddie couldn’t stop his own tears from flowing. 

He hated her. 

Hated her. 

He hated that part of her that was in so much pain that caused her to ruin his family. He hated that he had to be the one to find her. A simple morning that turned into a nightmare. He had just got back on a walk with Hunter when he found her, she had kissed him goodbye when they were about to leave. A real kiss. He should’ve known then the way her hands held his waist, the way her body trembled as she pulled away. She had never kissed him like that before. The lingering kiss she left on Hunter’s forehead before they left. 

He should’ve known. 

Hunter was asleep by the time they got back; he had placed him in the bassinet in the living room. A weird feeling hit the pit of his stomach when he noticed the silence. 

“Olivia?” He calls out but had gotten no response. He double checks on Hunter who was still sleeping soundly in his sleep sack and makes his way towards the bottom of the stairs. “Liv?” 

He walks up the steps, his hands began to tremble. The bathroom was vacant. Did she go somewhere? No, her car was still in the garage. He peeks his head in Hunter’s nursery and doesn’t find her. He turns, looking down the hallway towards their bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. He slowly walks forward, saying her name again. He uses his palm to push the door open all the way and his knees immediately buckle and his back slams into the door. 

Olivia was laying on the floor, her head to the side away from him. She wasn’t moving. 

“Olivia.” He says, barely above a whisper. His heart is pounding as he walks closer. “Olivia!” He snaps. 

He slowly goes down into a squat and puts his hand out to touch her, but he stops himself. He falls to his knees, leaning towards her, his fingers touch her hand and she’s cold. 

So

Cold. 

His bottom lip trembles and he puts his fingers under her chin, turning her face towards his. A small scream escapes him and he’s scrambling backwards on his feet until his back hits the wall. He places his hand over his mouth, breathing heavily as he stares into her vacant eyes. Dried vomit was on her chin, so was dried blood. Her skin was almost white, her lips were blue. 

He pulls his hand away. “Olivia.” 

She still doesn’t move, her eyes still staring. A small sob escaped him, and he slowly crawls to her form. “Olivia this isn’t funny.” 

His fingers touch her wrist to check her pulse. 

Nothing. 

Silence. 

A gasp escapes him, and he’s sobbing. He pulls at his hair, looking around the room, spotting the empty pill bottle on the nightstand. 

It was her anxiety medication. Thirty pills. Take as needed. A controlled substance. 

“What did you do?” Eddie cries, staring at her unmoving form. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!” 

He crawls closer to her on his hands and knees, he hooks his arms under her waist, and hugs her limp form to him. “Why did you do this? Hunter needed you!!!” 

Her head lulls back, her eyes still vacant and bile rushes to his throat. He carefully places her down and stumbles out of the bedroom. His shoulder slamming against the wall as he takes his phone out of his pocket, he dials a number, walks down the stairs, pushing the front door open with his shoulder. 

“Eddie?” 

He couldn’t see straight, he falls to his knees in his front lawn, holding his stomach as he groans. 

“Eddie? Are you alright?” He had called Robin. 

“She…she’s dead…” A laugh/sob escapes him. “She’s fucking dead, Robin.” 

“What? Eddie, what are you talking about?” 

“I need you.” He mutters, letting the phone fall to the ground. He leans forward in a downward dog position and then leans back on his heels. 

He screams. 

And screams.

And screams.

Guttural. 

Broken. 

Sobbing. 

Sobbing. 

Sobbing. 

His hand trembles as he sits on his front steps, the cigarette dangling from his lips as the lights from the ambulance and police dance around his face. Robin was on the lawn with Hunter, moving around with him in a chest carrier, trying her best to make him laugh with tears in her eyes. 

He hears the sound of wheels hit pavement and looks over to see the gurney with Olivia’s body. Covered and strapped in a white sheet. Robin had pressed Hunter’s head to her chest, turning away slightly as they watch them load her body in the back of the coroner's van. Eddie wipes his face, inhaling on a cigarette as a police officer approaches him. 

“Is there anyone you can call for her?” 

Eddie doesn’t meet his eyes; he’s still staring at the van. “She…she didn’t have any living family. Just us.” 

“We found this.” He hands Eddie a folded-up piece of paper and Eddie stares at it like it’s a bomb. “It’s a note. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”  He begins to walk away. 

Eddie continues to look at the folded note, tears welling up in his eyes. “What do I tell my son?” 

“I’m sorry?” The officer turns back to him.  

“When he’s older…when he asks about her…what do I tell him?” He meets his eyes now. 

The officer sighs, swallowing hard. He hated calls like this; he hated having to look in the eyes of the family whose life got completely uprooted in one instant. “The truth.” 

He gently claps Eddie on the shoulder and after a few moments, it’s just him, Robin and Hunter on his front lawn. Eddie unfolds the letter. 

I’m sorry. 

Eddie crumples up the letter in his hands, he can’t read on any further, not right now. 

No, not right now. 

Hunter had fallen asleep on Eddie’s chest in his rocking chair, he carefully places him back in the crib and lets out a sigh. He goes into the hallway closet, taking a pillow and an oversized blanket. He puts the pillow and blanket on the floor next to his crib and lays down. He didn’t feel like sleeping on the couch tonight. He wanted to be close to Hunter. 

He hadn’t stepped foot in the bedroom since it happened. Robin was the only who had been in there to clean it. She had repainted it for him, got him new bed linens and painted his dresser, got him a new area rug. She wanted him to feel and see a difference and not be afraid. 

But he still couldn’t go in there. He pulls the blanket up to his chest after pulling off his shirt and groans, getting himself comfortable. His phone lights up on the ground next to him and he leans on his side to check it. 

I’m really sorry about earlier. I had a great time. Can we do this again soon? I promise my body won’t fall apart. 

Eddie smiles at your message and replies to it. 

Hey I get it. Don’t be sorry. Yes I would love to see you again, maybe dinner? We don’t need to call it a date just two old friends getting together. A reset lol. There’s a really good Italian place that just opened up. 

You reply. That sounds great. I haven’t had Italian in awhile. Thank you for being understanding. Have a good night. 

Eddie types up the last message and puts his phone down: You too, sweetheart. 

Eddie sighs, running his hand over his face and closes his eyes. He feels something warm brush on his cheek like a breeze and smiles a little. 

A few days later you had woken up earlier than usual. Today was one of those days where you didn’t dread waking up. You hadn’t felt like that in a long time. And some part of you felt guilty for feeling some sort of happiness. 

Don’t feel guilty. 

“Shut up.” You say with a smirk on your lips. 

The stone is ready. 

You pause at the calendar and look at the date. You had forgotten that you had a memorial stone made for them at the local cemetery and had already buried parts of their ashes in the ground when you moved back. You sigh, and smile. 

“I bet it’s beautiful.” 

Go look. 

You had driven to the cemetery and pulled in front of the row of stones. The spring air was a little chilly, so you pull Sam’s zip up tighter around you as you scan the stones. The tote bag on your shoulder bounced against your hip as you walk. 

The black granite reaches your eyes, and you see the engraving of the sun and moon below the last name:

Murphy

Samuel James

1988-2019

Lily Michele

2016-2019

Loving son, father, husband and friend.

Loving daughter.

Together forever dancing in the universe.

You kneel in front of the stone, smiling at how beautiful it looked. You pull out the potted wildflowers, digging a small hole with your hand to place them in the ground. You take a small ceramic statue of a teddy bear and place it next to Lily’s name. You wipe the dirt on your jeans and stare at their names. 

It bothered you how long it had been. It bothered you that Lily would’ve been turning 8 at the end of this year, and that every year you got older she stayed the same age. You place your hand over your belly, remembering the feeling of her in there, the way Sam’s face would light up whenever he felt her move. It was something you can’t explain, the feeling of your child inside you. How it was just the two of you for so many days, so many weeks, so many months. How selfishly you didn’t want to share her with the world yet. 

But when she was here, you wanted the whole world to see this beautiful human you created. How wise and smart she was for only being three years old. 

You groan, the tears pricking at your eyes, your stomach turning. There was a time after she died that you wanted to be with her, that you tried and tried everything to just hug her one more time, to be with her for all eternity. Your visiting nurse had found you the first time, barely conscious and high out of your mind from the alcohol and the pills. The second time you had stabbed yourself in the arm with scissors in front of your therapist, you were restrained and sedated as you were dragged from her office, had spent a couple months in the psychiatric hospital, lying to your case workers, and your doctors that you were ready and that you were feeling better, which was a lie. 

The third time was after the driver got out of prison. The third time was different, because in the moment when you were sitting in your garage while the car was running, something happened to you, you could feel their presence. And they were telling you no more. 

No more, mama. No more. 

You had never felt as strong as you did in that moment, your body was still weak and adjusting to life from the accident after two years but in that moment, you didn’t feel any of your ailments. And when you pressed the button to the garage, gasping in the clean air as the sun rose. You fell to your knees and cried. Cried and cried. You called for help. Help came, and you’ve been trying your best since then to heal day by day. 

And by chance, on one of your off days where the grief was too much, and everything seemed to be going wrong. You ran into, quite literally, an old friend. A friend you thought about a lot throughout the years. 

There he was. 

And he was broken too. 

You lean forward, kissing the stone gently. “I’ll come visit again next week.” You whisper. 

Getting to your feet was a bit of a struggle, but you had tried your best to remember what your physical therapist said when it came to tricking your brain to redirect your pain somewhere else. It was still a learning process, but after a few moments the pain was gone and you’re sitting comfortably in your car. It was still early morning; you had a few hours before you had to get ready for the dinner with Eddie. He said the restaurant was very eclectic with its visitors and that you didn’t have to dress fancy. The wife of his partner Chuck, Allison, had owned the restaurant and had already set up a spot for the two of you. 

When it came time to get yourself ready, you had no idea what to wear. It was supposed to rain later tonight, but it was a little humid out. A simple black t shirt dress would suffice, and your docs. You had rubbed CBD oil on your joints, the muscles in your legs and your arms. Most of your tattoos were visible on your arms, legs, and you were suddenly curious if Eddie had gotten more throughout the years. 

You let your hair hang in waves, place a little bit of mascara and red lipstick. Your doorbell rings and you’re suddenly nervous. You weren’t sure why, you kissed him the other day. Taking your purse, you double check yourself in the mirror and walk to your front door. 

You swear as soon as you open the door the setting sun was illuminating Eddie’s form like a halo. He smiles at you, his black button up shirt unbuttoned at the top, his sleeves half rolled up, exposing a full arm tattoo sleeve on his right and a half sleeve on his left. 

He’s been busy, you thought. His black jeans were ripped at the knees, and you were curious if they were the same ones you remember from high school. He wore some nice boots, and you can’t help the feeling that swims to your lower belly when you look at him. He was so handsome. 

“My lady?” He says with a grin, extending his arm to you. 

You hook yours in his and giggle. “Still such a dork, I see.” 

“That would never change, we still meet for D&D campaigns at my house once a month.” 

“Is it still Hellfire?” 

Eddie laughs as he opens the passenger door for you. “Hellfire part two.” 

“Metal.” You say with a laugh, and he holds your hand to help you get into truck. 

The restaurant wasn’t too far from your house, you could walk if you wanted to. The dark clouds loomed above as you pull into the parking lot. As soon as you walk in, the aroma of Italian food hits your nostrils and your stomach immediately rumbles. The table where you were seated was in an intimate spot towards the back by an electric fireplace, the heat was comforting. The server asks for your drinks, you order a red wine and Eddie settles with a draft beer. 

“This is a nice place, I feel underdressed.” You laugh. 

“No, you look great.” He smiles. He spots your tattoos on your arm. “Great artwork, how long have you had those?” 

“I wanna say early 20s. I would go and get one at least once a month.” She laughs. “I’m surprised you’re not fully covered.” 

He waves his hand over his chest, pulling down his shirt a little and you spot the top of a chest piece. “A lot are hidden. This one hurt so bad.” 

You blush, sipping your wine. “Still sacrificing kittens and speaking Latin in public?”

“Oh yeah all the time.” He smiles. “And it’s not kittens anymore, it’s birds.” 

You choke on your drink. “Somehow that sounds more fucked up.” 

Eddie laughs. “Oh, to be branded the town freak again. Now I’m just the town sad boy.” 

You cringe. “Neighbors bring over casseroles and desserts and send flower after flower arrangement?”

“Oh yeah, my fridge was stocked for weeks. One of them gave me a bible.” He chuckles. “It was a nice gesture, but I donated it to the church.” 

“I got self help books on how to have sex after your spouse dies.” You laugh, and Eddie chuckles loudly. “I can’t even remember who gave it to me.” 

“Was it informative?” Eddie smirks. 

“No, it read like stereo instructions ‘you may cry but try to turn the tears into pleasure’.” 

“It did not say that!” Eddie cackles. “No way did it say that!” 

“I’m so serious, I was mortified.” 

The two of you continue to laugh and the server comes over to take your orders. Eddie ordered a chicken parmesan, and you ordered chicken Alfredo. It was one of the best meals you’ve had in awhile and it was even better with Eddie sitting across from you. 

“Okay, let’s play a stupid game. It’s been forever since we seen each other so let’s get to know the basics.” Eddie says, sipping his beer. “Favorite color?” 

“Right now? Or in general?” 

“Right now.” 

“Purple. Yours?” 

“Green.” 

“Okay, last movie to make you cry.” 

“Oh god, The Whale.” 

“That movie destroyed me.” Eddie laughs. “And I don’t cry much. Mine was My Girl.” 

“And you’re torturing yourself why?” You laugh. 

“It was on HBO, so I had to watch it. I think I cried for a good half an hour after it was over.” 

“You’re such a softy.” You laugh. “Okay my turn. Favorite song at the moment?” 

He sips his drink. “Damn, that’s tough. Suffocate by Knocked Loose.” 

“Is that the one with Poppy?” Eddie nods. “I love her, mine is Truly Madly Deeply by Savage Garden.” You giggle loudly at Eddie’s face. “What? It’s catchy and a staple of our childhood!” 

The banter continued on all the way to the parking lot and into the truck. The rain began to pelt down hard, and a sudden thought passes your mind as you pass the part of the woods that lead to the lake where you last saw him. In that moment as he pulls in front of your house, the song by Savage Garden comes on the radio and Eddie stares at it in awe. “Are you kidding me?” 

You laugh loudly and open the passenger door. “Keep it on, turn it up.” You jump out of the car, immediately getting soaked as you step down from the car and run to the middle of the street. 

Eddie rolls his windows down, the rain guard on his window avoiding drops. “What are you doing?” He laughs. 

“Come on, dance with me!” You laugh spinning with your arms out. Your hair was sticking to your face and you keep twirling. “It’s not cold. Come on!” 

Eddie sighs, turning up the music a little and jogs over to you. He watches as you close your eyes, kicking puddles and letting the water splash all over you. In that moment, you looked so beautiful to him, and he could just watch you the entire time. You do another twirl but slip on the sole of your boot and you fall into Eddie’s chest, you both laugh, and you straighten yourself out, taking his hand. 

I want to stand with you on a mountain. 

Eddie laughs at the over exaggeration of your singing voice to the lyrics, and he twirls you around as the rain hits you harder. You hadn’t felt this peaceful in a long time, the rain felt grounding to you, and it had been a horrendous journey trying to find this part of yourself again. Eddie was bringing that side out of you, even though you knew deep down it was in there, his presence alone was making you feel more alive. 

You walk up to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he hugs your waist and rests his head in your shoulder, gently swaying to the music. “This feels familiar.” He mutters in your hair. 

“Running from the cops that night…the down pour. We didn’t dance in the rain though.” You lift your face, gazing up into his eyes. 

“I wish we did.” He smiles, curling a piece of wet hair behind your ear. “I still never found out who it was.” 

“Well, he’s dead now so I guess I can tell you.” You giggle. “It was Jason.” 

Eddie pulls back to look at you, his eyes widen. “Now I know why you didn’t tell me.” 

“Because you would’ve killed him, and I wasn’t about to go down as an accessory.” You smile and he smiles back at you, shaking his head. He hugs you to his chest again as the rain picks up and the song ends. You pull away from him and smile at him. 

“This was one of the best nights I had in awhile.” You whisper. “Thank you.” 

He gently cups your cheek. “Let me walk you to your door before you freeze.” He smiles and you nod, he follows you up your steps and you squeeze the water from your hair. He shakes his hair like a dog, and you laugh, gently pushing his chest away. You open your screen door, pausing before you push the other door open. You lean up, kissing his cheek gently and he blushes. 

“Have a good night.” You tell him. 

“You too.” 

He smiles and watches as you close the door. You pause in your foyer. What was this feeling? Has what you had suppressed for him for so many years finally bubble its way up to the surface and now all you want is him? You fell in love with him the night he helped you, but when you think really hard about it, you might’ve loved him the entire time you’d known each other but it didn’t click until you stared into his eyes that night. 

You swing open your door, and he’s still standing there, looking more drenched, behind the screen door. He holds up your purse, giving you a sweet smile. “You forgot this.” 

You smile, slowly opening the screen door and you place your hand over the purse, but he doesn’t let go right away. You stare into his eyes, pulling the purse closer to you and he slowly moves closer and closer until he’s in front of you. The purse falls at your feet, and you pull him into you by the back of his neck, your lips crash against his and he’s lifting you up, flush against his chest. The screen door slams shut, and Eddie uses his other hand to close the front door, not breaking the kiss. The water droplets from your hair fell onto his skin, both of you were soaking wet and it was causing a small puddle to form beneath your feet. He tightens his hold on you, the two of you crashing into the wall near the stairs as the kiss grew more intense. His lips were so soft, and as soon as his tongue slipped in your mouth you didn’t want it to stop. You wanted more. 

You pull away from him, catching your breath as you stare into his eyes. You pull your dress over your head, letting it fall with a plop, and he swallows hard as his eyes scan your body while he held you. He leans forward, kissing the spot between your breasts and your head falls back, a soft moan escapes you. He sets you on your feet, and you stand in front of him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt that now stuck to his skin. You peel it off of him and watch as the droplets from his hair slowly fall down his chest, over his beautiful chest tattoo and down his abdomen. You run your hands over his chest, and he shivers, you kiss his chest gently, moving your lips up to kiss his throat. His hands find your hair and he’s kissing you again, his hand gripping your backside over your panties, and you mutter the word couch to him. He hoists you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and sets you down on the couch. He kneels in between your legs, his fingers gently going over the fabric of your bra and you stare at him lovingly. His finger gently moves its way down your stomach, and he stops when he sees the large scar that starts under your breast and around towards your back. His eyes meet yours and you prepare yourself for him to run away screaming but instead, his kisses the spot softly and you gasp. His lips move gently around the scar, and you do your best to hold your tears in, you didn’t want your tears to ruin this moment. His lifts his head to yours and kisses you, his fingers dancing against your inner thighs. A soft whimper escapes you when you feel his hand gently palm you over the fabric of your panties. You hadn’t been intimate with a man like this since before Sam died, but this was different. Your body was reacting in such a way you weren’t sure how to process what was happening next. 

He moves your panties to the side, kissing you deeply and he stares at you. “I’ll stop if you want me to stop.” He whispers, his voice raw. 

You shake your head and smile. “No. No I don’t want you to stop. Just touch me.” 

You craved that touch. You craved that feeling of someone gently caressing your skin. Of course you didn’t want him to stop. He smiles, kissing you passionately and you gasp, feeling his fingers move their way inside you. Your head falls back against the couch, his lips kiss your neck as he gently teases you. Your hips buck as he goes deeper, and you moan loudly. He kisses your throat, his breath hot on your skin as he whimpers softly at your noises. You pull him to you by his shoulders, feeling close to release and you kiss him deeply. He moves his fingers faster, and you tremble beneath him. Something like this hadn’t happened in so long, and it was bringing you to an imaginary place of where it was just the two of you. You two and this feeling of pure fucking ecstasy. You claw at his back as your orgasm rocks through you and you clench hard around his fingers. He hugs your waist with his free arm, kissing your cheek, your neck, while you ride out the euphoric sensations that were coursing through your entire body. He gently pulls his fingers out of you and kneads at your thighs as you catch your breath. You find his lips again, in desperation of wanting more of him, wanting to feel more, touch more. You hold the back of his head, the kiss getting sloppy and you bite his lower lip. He grabs your hips and lifts you, so your legs are wrapped around his waist and he’s on top of you. He groans, feeling your hands glide down his back, to the buckle of his belt. 

Eddie told himself it wouldn’t move this fast, but he knew you could feel it too when you looked into each others' eyes, when you danced in the rain. You stared right into his soul, and your heart grew three sizes. Kissing you brought him to a place he never thought he’d be again. And now here you were, naked underneath him, and he was awestruck by your beauty, the way your nose crinkled when you smiled at him, the way your eyes fluttered close when he gently pushes himself inside you. He held your hands together above your head, kissing you deeply, rocking his hips as you whisper at him to go faster. When you came for a second time, Eddie held you close, following you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he rocks his lips slowly and lets out a trembled breath. He lifts his face to look at you, running his finger over your lips, your cheek, kissing you softly. 

Eddie strokes your hair as you two lay naked against each other on the couch, you had started a small fire in the fireplace, and you let your head lull against his chest as his fingers massages your scalp. He kisses your hair softly. 

“I never thought I’d be here.” You whisper, gazing up at him. “With you. Like this.” 

“Makes two of us.” He says sweetly, his curls messy around his face, still damp from the rain. 

“I don’t know why we never saw each other again, I guess our paths weren’t meant to cross at that time.” 

He nods in agreement, entwining your fingers. 

“What was she like?” You whisper softly and Eddie freezes, knowing who you meant. You meet his eyes. “You don’t have to talk about her, I’m just curious.” 

He smiles sadly. “She was…a force. Stubborn. We fought all the time, over dumb shit. We didn’t even want to be together but when she got pregnant with Hunter, we decided we had to put our differences aside and just be parents. She was a great mom.” He stares into the fire; you watch his jaw clench. “She had other plans when it came to that though.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Eddie realizes that he never told you how she died, or that you didn’t even know, just that she had died. He swallows a lump in his throat. “She uh…she killed herself. When Hunter was six months old. I was the one who found her.” 

Your breath hitches as you stare at his face, his jaw still set, and you immediately cover your left forearm to hide your scar. He doesn’t notice, you just stare at him until he speaks again. “She wrote a note. It took me probably about a year to finally read it. She was in so much…fucking pain.” He clenches his teeth, holding back tears. “And I’m angry at her for not coming to me about it, for not seeing the beautiful being we created that loved her so much. I don’t think that will ever go away.” 

“I’m sorry, Eddie.” You whisper, biting your lower lip. Leave that part out for now, leave those horrible parts of wanting to die out. 

He shrugs, gently rubbing your arm. “It is what is it, unfortunately. She may have explained herself in her letter, but I still don’t understand. And the hardest part is having to explain that to Hunter when he’s older. How do you say that your kid? Mommy loved you but she was in too much pain to stick around for you. I don’t want him to think that he wasn’t enough for her.” A tear slowly falls down his cheek and you gently wipe it away with your thumb. 

“He won’t.” You say gently. “He won’t because you show him everyday that he is enough…he’s more than that. 

“It just hurts, you know?” He sniffles back tears and you nod. “It hurts that she didn’t think she had any other way out.” 

You stare into the fire, knowing that feeling. He sighs, squeezing your arms gently and kissing your forehead. “I should probably get home to him.” You nod, smiling and he gets up from the couch, stretching. You stare at his naked form, blushing a little and shielding your face with the blanket. He catches your eye and smirks, cupping your cheek, kissing you once, twice. “Touch base with me tomorrow?” 

You nod, patting his face. “Thank you again for an amazing night.” 

You walk him to the door after he dresses, his clothes still a little damp and you wrap yourself in a throw blanket. He stands in the doorway, leaning down to kiss your forehead, lingering there for a moment. He wanted to tell you that he had fallen in love with you all over again, that being with you healed a part of his soul that he thought was lost. But instead, he kisses your lips, smiling sweetly at you, and shuts the door. 

When he arrives home, it was a little after midnight. Robin was sound asleep on the couch, her long legs halfway on and halfway off on the couch, the monitor clutched in her hands. Eddie gently takes it from her, and carefully moves her up on the couch so she’s more comfortable. He takes the blanket and throws it over her, she mutters something in her sleep, and he stifles a laugh. He gently kisses the top of her head and goes to walk away.

“Did you have fun?” She whispers. 

“I had a lot of fun.” He smiles. 

“Good.” She whispers, turning on her side. “I’ll leave soon.”

“No, go back to sleep.” He whispers. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay.” 

He waits until he hears her soft snores and sighs, making his way up the steps. He hovers at the top of the stairs, holding tightly onto the banister. He looks down the dark hallway towards the bedroom, and he moves. He hovers outside the bedroom door, his hands trembling. He swallows hard, quietly turning the knob and pushing the door open. He stands in the doorway, the dim light from the hall was giving off an eerie glow. The room still smelt sterile to him, and he remains frozen. His eyes land on the spot where her body laid, he has to immediately squeeze his eyes shut when he gets a flashback of her fixed stare, her lifelessness. He walks to the nightstand that was on his side of the bed and opens the drawer, he takes a folded piece of paper out from the drawer, shuts it, and immediately leaves the room without looking back. 

He sits out on his patio, a rolled joint in his fingers, the fire pit going and looks at the folded note in his hands. He puts the joint to his lips, and flicks open his zippo lighter, inhaling deeply. He unfolds the note, his hands shaking as the light from the fire illuminates her handwriting. 

I’m sorry. 

Eddie’s bottom lip trembles: he’s read this note over and over again and it still pains him just as much as it did the first time he read it. 

I tried. I really did. I know you probably don’t see that now, but it’s the truth. I tried to hold on, I tried to make it work and to be the mother I was supposed to be for our son. But I wasn’t enough. In my eyes, I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t who I was supposed to be. I wasn’t the mother I should’ve been. And the last thing I wanted for him was for him to grow up to see me in constant pain day after day after day. 

“You didn’t try hard enough.” He says through his teeth and continues to read. 

Hunter was the best thing that happened to me. And watching you grow into an amazing father these last six months made me realize that I do love you. Even if I barely showed it, I loved you. I know that doesn’t matter now. It hurts too much, Eddie. Surviving. I’ve been in survivor mode my entire life. I’m so tired. I’m so so tired. It’s not fair to you or him to watch me like this. I hate myself for letting this go on for so long. There is so much wrong inside my head that I don’t even know what thoughts of mine are real. 

I’m so sorry for the pain I will cause you. I’m so sorry for the answers I can’t give you. Whatever you do with this letter, even if you burn it, or throw it in the dumpster – please, please tell Hunter that he was the best part of me. That this isn’t his fault. That I will be with him his entire life even if he can’t see me. Please don’t ever let him think that I didn’t love him. I loved him with my entire being. 

Please for the love of everything, Eddie, please…just be happy. Find someone that gives you the happiness that I couldn’t give you. Find someone that makes you laugh, that wipes your tears away when you’re sad, that loves Hunter just as much as we do.

Please. 

For me. 

Xx – O

Eddie crumples the note in his hands, sobs shake his entire body as he holds his stomach. He opens it again, wiping the snot and tears away from his face. He stands up, gazing into the fire, and throws the note into the flames. 

(Taglist - thank you for all your support my beauties, it means the world) @mysticpeachobject @kellsck @eddiesguitarskills @fearless-wretch-insanity @darknesseddiem @amberolivia666 @amandahobblepot @sxdghxstsbxxkshxlf @sariahs-stuff @trixyvixx

[theyellowhedgehog]

Candy Cigarettes

Ripple Effect Au

An AU of reverse robin where Damian is the oldest, and became a hero Gotham need. Tim is the second oldest that became the Grandmaster of Court of Owl. Jason in the middle and Dick the youngest. None of them became robin, except for Dick.This is the a parallel universe of reverse robin.

Timeline Setting :

After the joker incident, where Tim came back and had became the Grandmaster of Court of Owl. Tim is 21, Damian is 23.

Character description :

#reverse robin #damian is the oldest #Tim is the second #Dick is the only robin #Jason todd #parallel universe #complicate feelings #Bruce never adopted Tim

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

6 Years ago, April

Damian entered the furnished penthouse on the 32 floor building. Damian was 23. He walked into the messy penthouse, all the spreadsheet, everywhere, disorganised on the desk, the floor, the coffee table and the kitchen island.

"Tim?" He called out to his best friend. Damian walked over to the balcony to see the younger man taking a smoke break. Tim turned around as acknowledge and went back to smoking.

Tim's hair was starting to grow back black, it no longer grew the toxic green, and the color of his skin returned as well.

Damian walked over to his younger brother/ best friend, plucked out the cigarette from his mouth and replaced it with something else.

Tim's eyebrows went up in surprised, "Strawberry milk flavour?"

"Yeah," Damian took out two more packet of candy cigarettes. "Sour apple and yoghurt. Take two each day, once in the morning and once in night. They could ease the pain like nicotine but just less deadly."

"You know," Tim leaned on the balcony railing as he chewed on the strawberry flavoured candy. "Shouldn't you be doing something more important than making candy cigarettes for me?"

"You are something important to me, Tim." Damian didn't miss a beat in answering.

Tim's thin lips wobble, and turned his head to the view, "Well, your other siblings didn't think that at all."

"Tim, look at me." Damian seriously looked into his brother's eyes.

"When I first arrived at Gotham, I had no one. My father observed me with doubt in his eyes as if I was a ticking time bomb. The society treated me as I was a trail of gunpowder waiting to go off. The school treated me as I was a freak. It was because of you that make everything much bearable."

Damian went silent as he watches Tim eyes, sincerely he said, "So, I would rather you live and make my world bearable than died from lung cancer in 20 years or so."

Tim just huffed a laugh, "You just don't want the children (Jason, Dick and Barbara) to get second smoking."

Damian smirked, "That too."

----

6 Years ago, July

"This has to be a joke..." Damian slowly sat on a lonely patch of land. It had no grass, no mourning bouquet nor a gravestone to identify which dead person laid here.

"Tim." He crouched down, hands white from fisting the dirt, and mourned--with a shaking voice, "I rather you lived 20 years and died of lung cancer!"

"Fucking come back to me Tim!"

----

Now , July 19th

"Please," A man with a lab coat and beard whispered into his hands.

The digital clock read 5:00, 19 July

The scientist bloodshot eyes looked at the clock, "I will make sure you live a life you deserved Tim." He pressed the button.

In front of him, the experiment capsure lit up. The capsule was filled with green fluid as the bubbles raised to the tops. Amidst all the fluid was a boy, he was bare of clothes. The skin was pale from long exposure without sunlight, his hair as dark as the night.

The green eyes' of the scientist observed the reaction of the boy closely, not daring to take his eyes off even for a second. However, the boy never opened his eyes.

Damian Wayne is accomplished in many fields. He created vaccines against fear gas and joker venom. However, he struggle to create a boy.

No, that was wrong. Creating a human is easy.

Damian approached the capsule, put his hands on the cool glass. He is now 29. It had been 6 years since that day.

"Cloning experiment, 06 Failed." His crisp voice cut through the quiet lab. The man fell to his knee, hands balled his dark hair tightly. "Why won't it work!" The back of his head bang against the glass in frustration as he looked up the white fluorescent light.

"All the previous five experiments failed because recreating a clone from the original DNA was not possible. This time I made him just like the league had made me," His fist banged the cold metal flooring.

"Why hasn't he woken up!"

"Tim!" Damian called to the clone in despair, "Please, I cannot do this, you need to wake up!" a grown up man curled up under the foot of the capsule, "Brother, please wake up for me."

Damian shut his eyes in resignment--leaning against the capsule, facing away from it. He looked at his messy laboratory. Damian's lab was never messy. It used to be always clean and neat, every research and test tubes were organised. But for the last 6 years, papers and spreadsheets are everywhere, broken pile of glass on the floor still not cleaned up, some unknown substances spilled on the desk, on his coat. But the mourning man couldn't care for it.

"You know," He talked to the unconscious boy, " The reason you are experiment 06 is because, I have only tried cloning you six times. Each experiment for each year, with a hope that you would wake up on your birthday. Just like a rebirth."

"One day, I will perfect you, Tim. So don't you worry." The scientist turned to face two bright blue eyes staring at him.

"Shit!" Damian clutched his chest as he jumped back from the capsule. Inside, the boy was fully conscious--waving at him, with a small smile.

----

It has been 3 days since Tim woke up.

Tim, now all dressed, sat on the couch. It was pretty weird if you asked him because he was 10 years old again.

The young boy watched his older brother busied himself in the kitchen, humming along the tune of the cartoon show Tim had had on the TV. Tim looked down at his real and warm hand.

Yeah, it is pretty weird.

He's still getting used to being alive again. It took time to adjust his new self, he had a head full of black hair on his head and his face, there was no scar.

Tim thought for a moment, "Hey, Damian." Tim continued when Damian replied with a hum, "How did I still have my memories when you don't have Bruce's memories?"

Damian turned around with a grey apron tied around his neck, "That's because I modified the original. While I do not have Father's memories, I do have his muscle memories."

Tim huh-ed at the explanation. "Then I guessed we are now blood related now right? Real brothers?" As he gave a cheesy grin.

Tim pointed at his older brother, "You also have like 94% of Bruce's DNA, and I" He pointed at himself, "You also made me with 5 % of Bruce's DNA."

"5.99%" Damian corrected.

"Well," Damian stalled as he plated their breakfast, "Biologically, yes... Legally?" Damian glanced at Tim, "He didn't give me consent to make you with his DNA."

"WHAT?!"

FINISHED

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

Extra : "It's fine, I'll gaslight him into accepting you as his son...somehow." Damian placed the plate to the other corner of the table, "Now, come eat. You body still need food." "Dami-an, " Tim ate the pancake, and tried to talked with a full mouth. "Don't take with your mouth full. It's disgusting." The older brother tsked. Tim swallowed his food aggressively and said with a mischievous grin, "Do you want to play a prank on Bruce?" Tim raised his fork to the middle of the table. Damian smirked at the thought, and raised his own fork and clank it against his younger brother. You better watch out, Bruce. Your oldest children are scheming.

A/N

2024 Fanfic Prompt Bingo : Clone

This is also part of my ripple effect au, killing two birds in one stone.

I don't think I will finish this bingo, but I have a feeling I will carry on to 2025. I have draft up prompts for power rangers and Pacific rim, but I haven't published it because the plot is not to my satisfaction yet. Hopefully, the stories will have a beautiful tied up end.

See 2024 Fanfic Prompt Bingo Post for my other bingo fics.

[timbrhead]

metanoia. | pt 03 - forcing a smile and waving goodbye

𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨:

>> welcome, my name is 𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐚, and i‘ll be your scriptwriter (^‿^✿). my story will be kind of an choose-your-own-adventure story with a poll at the end of every part, where you can vote how the story continues.

This will be honkai star rail x f!reader story with these elements: reincarnation, slow burn, i gave reader a proper personality (sry, not much customisation there), does not follow the original storyline

previous part <<< >>> next part

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 (this is important) ;

>>> none!

the first thing you noticed was comfort. you felt good, like you were finally back in place. like you were finally back. did you really die?

you look down, looking at your skin, your hands. you caressed your face, mapping out the unique features you had. you were finally you again. but after the initial joy, came the confusion. you looked around. it was mostly empty space surrounding you, and when you looked down, you could see that you were standing on a thin layer of water, reflecting the blue sky stretching through seemingly infinity. the place was barren, naked, laying all of their secrets directly in front of you, urging you to just go on. it will be okay.

was this the border, between the life and death? did you really perish?

it was quiet here, something you so desperately missed.

but after locking your eyes with a figure, the air suddenly shifts. you didn’t know the figure, you have never seen this person in your entire life, you were so sure of that. but despite that, you still felt a connection to the weeping person as you approached them.

they had brown, choppy hair, and their attire was similar to that of the locals of the xianzhou luofu. you hesitantly step forward, trying to catch their attention. they didn’t notice you. You press your lips together, before clearing your voice.

„ are…are you okay? “

you ask, causing them to lift up their head. she looked like she was crying for a long time, her eyes bloodshot, and you could make out a light trembling in her body.

upon further inspection, you notice that she also had similar golden cracks like you. they were on her arms, and legs, like the first layer of her skin was simply … shattered. the woman clearly had way more golden cracks than you, to the point that it looked like their whole body could fall apart and crumble to the ground. Maybe that is what will happen to you. Maybe it has happened already.

„ you… “

the figure spoke, shaking. her hand slowly moved to the ground, pushing herself off the floor till she stood before you. she looked…similar. like you have seen her before. but you couldn’t quite remember where. she looked at you, a solemn expression on her face.

„ so, you are the one housing my body… “

she spoke, making you flinch. what was she talking about? you tilt your head in confusion. just as you wanted to speak up, she interrupts you, tears brimming in her eyes.

„ please… let me through the border. find my siblings and bring them back to safety, away from the suffering we endured till the end… “

suddenly, you feel a hand gripping yours, refusing to let go.

„ you will soon return, back feeling like you do not belong, so please don’t forget, okay? “

-

you feel the sunlight peeking through the curtains, tickling your face and softly urging to wake up. your vision was blurry at first, before the mapping of the ceiling slowly appearing in front of you.

a weight shifted beside you, and as you turned around, you gazed into a pool of green, softly mixing with soft tunes of yellow. he looked perplexed, eyes a bit wide, looking at you like you just came back from the dead. and well, if your dream told you anything, you really did, in some way.

for a while, you said nothing, basking in the silence, before the blonde opened his mouth.

„ fascinating… “

he muttered under his breath, observing you as you squirmed, slowly sitting up. he followed, before gently grabbing your arm, showing it to you. and you couldn’t help but gasp as you saw it;

it was completely fine. no golden scars in sight, it was almost like you were reborn. like it had regenerated. you look up to luocha.

„ it…“

„ it‘s gone, yes. “

he said, chuckling, like he himself couldn’t believe it.

„ i admit, this is nothing like everything i have seen in my entire life. you regenerated…perfectly. it‘s scary— it‘s almost like you have turned back time.“

he muttered, his hand gliding over your arm. you gulp, doing nothing but nod at his statement.

but even though this revelation surised ( and frankly, also terrified ) you, you couldn’t help but come back to the dream you had.

that crying figure…you were almost sure that it was mei lian. the real mei lian. you confirmed that when you stepped into the bathroom to freshen up, looking into the face you saw weeping in your dream last night.

siblings… she spoke of siblings, you recall. you needed to find them and bring them to safety. mei lian‘s house, you assumed. back to her family. you dried off your face, before exiting the bathroom with a now made up plan, or at least, a string to follow.

as you ventured back through the streets, luocha asked about a hundred times how you felt, if you felt anything out of the ordinary. you understood— having you turn into a mara-struck monster in the middle of the street wouldn’t be good at all. what happened last night, you two didn’t mention, a seemingly invisible contract between the two of you to not speak about that night.

after a while, you two finally made your way into the realm keeping commission. you admitted, you felt nervousness bubbling up in your soul, stepping through the door to get insight into a life you never lived.

but the moment you two stepped inside, all eyes were suddenly on you. and before you could ask what was wrong, you were immediately interrupted by a voice booming through the commission.

„ mei lian! what—“

and before you knew it, a woman stormed towards you, hugging you aggressively. you awkwardly reciprocated.

„ where have you been?! it’s been, what, two months? where—what—“

the woman sputtered, stumbling over her words, before she began to shake. you at first thought that she was angry, so you took a step back. but after closer inspection, you saw her tear strucken face, with snot dribbling from her nose. she sniffled, before embracing you again.

„ i missed you so much! “

she practically sobbed out, making you stumble slightly back from the weight being draped over you. you gulp. was…was she your friend? probably, judging from her reaction.

you let her cry for a while, all the while several people from the commission came up to you, saying how much they missed you, how glad they were that you were back.

„ it‘s good to see you again, mei. “

a young man said, patting you on the shoulder.

„ losing the personal servant of the jing yuan has been a hard blow on every single one of us. “

he said, joking about how the general of the cloud knights wanted to sent out multiple search troups to find you, only for him to be bombarded with another crisis after the other.

you gulp, letting out an awkward chuckle. so you were a servant, huh. seemingly of a very high class individual too, it seems. you gulp, before turning to luocha. You noticed that he had an unreadable expression on his face, before locking eyes with you and nodding towards the door. signalling to come outside.

you gulp, before detaching yourself from everyone, saying that you needed to speak with luocha, the man that found you in cloudford. the others just nodded, thanking the blond and promising him a bountiful reward for finding you.

you just awkwardly chuckled, before stepping outside, looking up at luocha. he had scrunched up his eyebrows, looking at you.

„ you didn’t tell them about your condition. and from my observation, it didn’t look like you remember anything either “

he said, crossing his arms. you nod. he was right. you didn’t remember any of those people, nor that jing yuan person they spoke of who you supposedly served.

„ mei lian… are you sure that you can able to return to your old life again, after such a long time? “

he asked, making you freeze. what…you-you guessed that would be hard, yes, but you could at least try, right? for mei lian? for her family?

„ plus, there is still your…special condition. if i can be honest with you, i would like to research it a bit more. we could travel together, and possibly find a cure, even, that would—i…won‘t pressure you though, don‘t worry. “

luocha exclaimed, a small smile gracing his face. you gulp. the longer you thought about it, the more you realised that he was right. you could never be the real mei lian, and do your job like her. being jing-yuan‘s personal servant is bound to be difficult as well, you presumed.

but on the other hand, you also had the real mei lian‘s request, one you need to fullfill to properly cross the border. you gulp, weighing your options.

sorry that it took so long! i have been working on a new project…but i have big plans for jing yuan and reader, so stay tuned… and please don’t forget to vote on what the reader should do next!

taglist; @shadowypeachsweets

- xoxo, laina

[martianworm]

BLOODSHOT NATION,, CHAPTER 2 OF MY VAMP X OUTLAW FANFIC IS NOW OUT 🤑 eat well,,

I try to update every 3 days..,, depending if I'm busy or not,, writing is hard sometjmes 🤞 my brain hurts but these dumbasses keep me alive

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65332594/chapters/168327733

[zrisewrites]

used as a weapon - An Agent 14 drabble

used as weapon is a concept drabble for one of my side characters, Agent 14. It's inspired by the @whumpay challenge, for day 1... "used as a weapon". Little bit of a no duh.

Word Count: 900

Content Warnings: hospital setting, restraints, injury, mention of corpses

~*~

This is the way things always go.

I step into a room, with some mishappen prisoner locked to the bed. Usually by the time they call me in, they’ve exhausted all their methods. The prisoner still has some fight in them, by some miracle.

It hurts to know what will happen next.

Today, it’s a girl, with dark hair in torn streaks around her face. The usual torn hospital dress, patches of bandages on her knees, her legs, her arms, peeking through the tattered blue plastic. Her eyes are bloodshot with fury, with pain, with pure hatred.

And fear.

Only a hint.

Only, for now.

She’s cuffed to the bed by her ankles and wrists, but is still straining against the rails, curses flying from her mouth in a constant flurry.

I stand at the door, face in a trained blank stare, as I keep my eyes on the wall.

The leader steps in beside me, her heels smooth and sharp against the cold tiles. “Dearest Katrina… we need not do this again. You’re using too much of your energy on things—words—that don’t matter. That do you no good.”

The girl—Katrina—just curses at her again, yanking hard against the railing. The leader sighs. 

The same way she always does. The same way she does, right before I’m called in to do my piece.

She waves one clear, manicured hand in my direction, and I have no choice but to step forward, to pull my stunner from my belt, to pull clippers—for metal, for bone, for whatever is needed—from my pocket, and step towards this girl. The girl’s eyes narrow, and she goes still for a moment, her gaze darting all over my figure. Assessing, like they always do. Planning. Analyzing.

But none of them ever analyze as well as I can. None of them could ever analyze quick enough.

I step forward, in a practiced—forced—trained—guided motion, clip the cuffs from their connection to the bed, grab new cuffs from my belt, sling them around her wrists, behind her back, and before she can let loose another one of her creative curses, I’m dragging her up into the air to fall onto the cold tile.

She lets out a strangled yelp as her elbow hits the ground, a wet crack combing the air. Her face is white as she rolls over, her arm strewn in an unnatural matter against her side. My struggle internally, at having to do this, is shut down with a whisper and a promise at rest and a hiss of cool blue gas inside my brain as I lean down, grab her twisted arm, and drag her to her feet.

She screams, gasping as she limps to her feet, weak against the pain and the fear. how she lasted this long against their methods, yet broke at a broken arm, I don’t know. But the leader looks satisfied. With a sweep of her hand, she sweeps from the room, heels clicking. Clattering, echoing down the hall. I hear those in my sleep, and the girl must too, by the way she flinches, scowls, then whimpers as I drag her after our leader.

She doesn’t struggle for long. All it takes is a few harsh yanks of her arm from me. 

She stumbles every five steps, almost exactly, like her adrenaline keeps hiking and then failing and then hiking and then dying.

She’s far too pale, far too weak, and my heart stills in my chest as we approach what I only can call the room I never pull people from. Only corpses.

Mottled and torn and dead before their heart stops beating.

My heart starts pumping again, due to the machine hooked into my chest.

The leader only watches. as always. Watches her dirty work get done while she props her clean hands on her hips. I drag the girl forward, drag two heavy chains from the ceiling with a hook, and then—

Click. 

Click.

The girl’s too dazed to realize what’s happened so far, or maybe the pain is wiping her energy, or maybe she’s already died and saved herself the agony.

I step back, releasing my support, and wishing I could turn off my auditory processing for the next week.

The girl lets out a ragged gasp as the chains yank on her arms, stretching them up over her head. It barely leaves her enough space to stand. She has to teeter, on her tiptoes, on the toes of her worn combat boots that they somehow let her keep, to not release raging pressure on her broken arm, that has swollen, round and red and raging with pain, I’m sure.

I remember.

“You’re free to go, 14. Thank you for your assistance.” The leader says, her voice crisp.

I pretend I don’t hear the girl’s muffled whimpers, trying to get herself under control, as I walk away form her.

I pretend I have control of myself, fantasize that I can actually do anything, hurt anyone other than the weak, as I walk towards my leader.

I pretend I am a perfect weapon with no thoughts or doubts or rebellious energy as I walk past my leader, as I feel her eyes on my back.

I pretend I’ll actually get those whispers of rest like the voice promised me.

That’d be nice.

[puppypopcornpizza]

Melancholy

Warnings ➳ depression, disordered eating

Pairing ➳ Daryl Dixon x F!reader

Word Count ➳ 556

It hit her worst during the day. When noon would come - like clockwork, Daryl would watch the desolation bleed into her features.

This was quiet, a numb kind of melancholy he'd come to recognise in her. Life seeming to have been drained, her voice monotone and eyes like she hadn't slept in weeks. Movements slowed that he'd almost mistaken her for a walker on more than one occasion.

They started subtle, her smile seeming forced or fading with empty eyes. He'd find her staring off into darkness, like the world around her had left. It was like she didn't have any fight left in her.

Daryl stayed quiet because he understood. The consistent loss surrounding them; not knowing if they'd make the night or ever find safety - he understood why her emotions left her. It was easier. But they walked through the gates of Alexandria, he thought it would help. Months passed and she drew further away from who he knew.

"Ya gonna eat?"

"I'm okay," he chewed his lip watching her slump against the post. She stared off into the darkness.

"Haven't seen ya eat in a while."

He didn't get a reply, rather a scoff and her knees pulled closer to her chest. Front door clicking shut and cutlery clinking on the plate as he set it down.

Daryl understood, but he wished he didn't. Because he knew how heavy everything felt, only being able to assume how much it hurt. The ache deep in her chest as soon as she woke up, becoming a shell because the thought of allowing those emotions free reign was terrifying. She didn't cry anymore.

"Why the fuck are you on my back? You're not my fucking mother, Daryl."

"I fuckin' asked if y'were okay."

"The world's gone to shit and everyone I love is dead - or they're gonna be soon. What do you think?"

If they weren't arguing, she'd ignore him. Subtle nods and murmurs in place of beams and sweet laughter. He could only watch her struggle with drowning as misery slowly took hold.

Nights seemed easier. She'd sit out on the porch stairs, eyes fixed to the sky like a plea for help from the stars. Daryl's eyes stared holes into the ceiling until he heard the door click and footsteps toward her room.

"Full moon."

"Yeah."

"I ever tell ya 'bout the chupacabra?"

"Merle never shut up about it," she scoffed but it wasn't dismissive.

"Right." His nails dug into the railing, full weight onto his arms. Talking to her felt precarious but he didn't want to leave.

"Why are you doing this?"

Her voice was vulnerable or genuinely confused and she kept her gaze from him. He couldn't remember when last they locked gazes and it wasn't out of hostility.

He thought for hours about what he would say yet he couldn't think of an explanation. Words failed to express the emotion, how he'd felt exactly what she did.

"'Cause I know."

"You know," she echoed bitterly.

"Yer angry. Feel like shit but ya also don' feel shit."

Daryl hadn't gotten a good look at her until then - skin pale with her eyes bloodshot and sunken. She looked like a ghost.

"Yeah."

He pushed off the railing, fingers resting on the door handle as he turned back to her. They'd lost too much.

"I ain't losing you too."

[justaguywhowritesstuff]

We Were Never Meant to Happen- Chapter 3 (repost because I fucked up a little)

Daryl Dixon x Y/N story

You've known the Dixons since middle school, well at least you knew of them. You went to school with the brothers before they dropped out, or were pulled out, or got arrested, or whatever rumor you heard that day. But you knew what happened. You were there, you were the reason and you thought you would never have to see them again. Now many years later, they stand in front of you bloodied and covered in zombie guts. Begrudgingly, you let them in your small group that you had managed to join early on in the apocalypse. As time goes on, it becomes clear Merle hasn't changed much and in the ways he has, he's gotten worse. But Daryl doesn't seem as bad as he was. He was still a dick but he wasn't as bad as Merle. Once Merle disappears you see a big change start to happen. He doesn't call you names as much, he doesn't look at you in disgust as you walk past him and slowly he starts to talk to you. As even more time passes you slowly become more comfortable around Daryl, something you never thought was possible. You knew this was never meant to happen and yet here you are, with Daryl Dixon.

I do not own any of the characters or plot points that are not my own creations, all credit for those goes to the owners and writers of The Walking Dead.

Full story on Wattpad

As I get situated up in my watch tower, I look over the dark fields. My mind slowly wanders back to the start of this all, finding our group, slowly growing and moving. It almost feels like a dream as I mull over all the choices and decisions that lead us here. A secure prison, fields of food, a now empty stable and pens, and a yard for kids to play in. The fact that I can say kids, multiple kids. I lean against the iron rails of the watch tower, gazing off at the life we created for ourselves.

But as soon as I begin to smile at the thought of finally feeling safe, I feel my smile falter as I hear the growling of the walkers and the clang of the dead bodies pushing against the fence. I think back to how I was at the start, barely able to even hold a gun, to how I was able to take down walkers with just one bullet and now, now I don't even know if I could shoot and hit one. My attention moves to the gun given to me for this watch, semi-automatic, with enough ammo to gun down a whole army of walkers if I shot well enough. But looking at the gun it seemed so foreign now, sure every once and a while I'd go out and shoot some walkers with a pistol so as not to get too rusty, but I knew even that wasn't enough.

I slowly sit down, leaning on one of the support beams of the rails. I have to go on the next scouting mission, I can't let what happened earlier today happen ever again. Even with how quickly I moved I still managed to lose my balance and let the walker overtake me, a few months ago I would have been able to just throw it against a wall and stab it with no problem. I close my eyes, and the image of the walker burns onto the back of my eyelids. Then bloodshot eyes, the flesh ripped from its fingernails as it dug into my skin, the smell of death on its breath as it pinned me down, the deep red of the now coagulated blood dripping from its jaws, the spray of its still partially warm blood as Daryl's arrow went through its head. I opened my eyes as a shiver slowly crept its way down my spine.

I pull the book out of my pocket and head into the glassed-off part of the watch tower, lighting up a lantern we had in there and taking it out to the little landing of the tower. I try my best to keep my mind at ease, trying my best to get lost in the world of my book. But every time my mind wandered all I could think about was how it was Daryl who saved me, how panicked his eyes looked, how angry he got that I didn't leave the fight when he told me to. It all felt so strange, I mean I know he cares about me, but it's the same way he cares about anyone from our group.