#Reconnecting Final Chapter

[paramasqueradeva]

RECONNECTING - Final Chapter [ Deltarune Comic Dub ]

Comic Creator: @purplebehittindifferent

*Reconnecting Playlist* : https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6YKEdMxKey2c6A9aqimdZGtcpXIPKhO2

[valeisaslut]

⭒࿐COLLIDE - epilogue

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄

𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

𝐏𝐓. 𝟐 : 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓

← 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡.𝟷 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡.𝟹 →

⚢ pairing: Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ synopsis: You’ve seen your side of the story—now it’s time for Ellie’s. After losing herself in letting you go, she plunges deeper into chaos until she's left with nothing but the wreckage of her choices. But just as darkness threatens to consume her entirely, an unexpected lifeline appears in the form of someone she believed she'd lost forever. Forced to confront the devastating reality of her addiction and the damage it has inflicted not only upon herself but on those she loves, she’s ready to reclaim the pieces she abandoned. Through an intimate, raw, and brutally honest journey, we’ll see her rediscover her voice and reconnect with music, walking the fragile line between ruin and redemption. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 20,8k (yeah. ik)𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: angst, almost entirely from ellie's pov, very heavy themes throughout—detailed depiction of drug addiction, intense withdrawal symptoms, suicidal ideation, and emotional unraveling, AFAB!Reader, modern AU setting, multi-part series. MEN AND MINORS DNI. Likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated — thank you for supporting! 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Disclaimer: This chapter contains graphic, realistic portrayals of drug addiction, severe withdrawal, suicidal thoughts, and the deeply emotional process of rehabilitation. These scenes are presented with vivid intensity and careful authenticity, as integral parts of Ellie’s journey toward recovery and self-discovery. I've approached these difficult subjects thoughtfully and sensitively, doing the deep and intense research—but your mental health and emotional safety must come first, always.

If you feel these themes may negatively affect you, trigger distress, or harm you in any way, I strongly encourage you to proceed cautiously or skip entirely. Please prioritize your well-being above all else. Take care of yourselves, loves.

CLICK TO LISTEN - SPOTIFY FULL PLAYLIST - The Shape Of What I Lost !

CLICK FOR The Shape Of What I Lost POST !

Three years.

Three years since the night you left—after Ellie left you.

She had walked onto that stage, guitar slung over her shoulder, the spotlight slicing through smoke like a blade, and felt no fire in her blood. No rhythm in her chest. Not even the familiar hum of adrenaline. Just a numbness so thick it dulled the lights, the sound, the meaning of it all.

She stood there, frozen, dizzy, staring out at a sea of faces—thousands of people screaming her name, mouths wide with adoration, hands lifted in praise—and she felt absolutely nothing.

No tether to a world that used to love her back.

And that was the moment Ellie Williams sank into the grave she’d dug with her own hands. Not with shovels, but with choices, with every drug consumed, every bottle drained and every lie wrapped in a grin. 

The moment her mind finally screamed what her heart had always known, whispering it over and over like a curse.

You lost everything.

Music had been her one constant—the first love of her life, her refuge, her weapon, the only thing that made sense before anything else did. The only thing that made fame worth it. The only reason she ever agreed to sell herself to the world. The only thing that made the screaming fans, the sleepless nights, the tour buses and interviews and headlines and all-consuming spotlight even remotely bearable. 

The stage had always been where she bled and where she bloomed.

But that night, it felt like a sentence. The lights, a cruel interrogation. The mic, a noose tightening with every breath. The guitar strapped across her body—once an extension of her soul—now hung like dead weight she could no longer connect with.

And after ending the show by walking offstage with not even two songs played, after spending hours destroying the green room where she had already shattered everything, both material and not, after screaming until her throat tore ragged, after bleeding from her knuckles, after collapsing to the floor and crawling back to her feet, she finally opened the door.

And didn’t explain a single thing.

She walked past the crew like a ghost draped in her own skin—eyes hollow, shoulders tight, jaw clenched so hard it could’ve cracked. No one spoke. No one reached out. Not Dina. Not even Jesse. Because whatever was left of her in that moment wasn’t someone they recognized. Wasn’t someone they could save.

She disappeared into the night. Into the elevator. Into the hallway. Into herself. She locked the door of the hotel suite behind her and let the shadows devour what little was left.

The only instinct she had left was to isolate—an animal curling around their wound. To pretend that the world could go quiet inside four walls. That if she was still enough, small enough, nothing else could hurt her. 

She drank. She snorted. She swallowed. She poked. 

Anything to feel something. Or nothing. 

Anything to make the voices in her head shut up. Anything to blur the faces in the crowd, frozen in time behind her eyelids. Anything to dim the stage lights that still flickered in her skin. Anything to blur the headlines, to wash them down with whatever would make them sting less.

Anything to make the truth easier to swallow—because it was terrifyingly simple: she had proven them all right. Everyone who had whispered that she was a beeline for wreckage, a walking collapse in slow motion. She had become the prophecy.

Anything to drown out your voice, broken, aching, too real, from echoing through the hollow corridors of her mind. To stop your hands from reaching through the dark, from pulling her back to the soul buried beneath pills and powder and needles and lies and manipulation. 

Anything to erase the image of your eyes, glassy and heartbroken, staring at the version of herself she had fought as hard as she could to keep hidden from you. The truth she couldn’t bear to see reflected in someone who had once—and still—loved her like a saint. Blind to her chaos, faithful through her sins, willing to forgive everything. Even what she couldn’t name.

And anything rather than admitting her addiction had burned through everything she once was—until nothing was left but smoke and the shape of what she once had.

It had started as a party trick. A little edge-taker. A backstage secret. A shortcut to invincibility. 

Then it became a way to slip into the version of herself that people adored—louder, cooler, untouchable. The version everyone lusted over, cheered for, posted about. The version the world wanted onstage every night, no matter what it cost her offstage. The version she thought she had to become just to be enough.

And now, it became a thing she couldn’t live without—slipped into her bloodstream, settled into her bones, made itself at home. It filled every corner of her, inch by inch, cell by cell, until there was no room left for anything or anyone else.

The hands that used to tear through solos with a precision that made her legendary now trembled uncontrollably—shaking from regret, from the weight of everything she did and couldn’t undo. Her once unforgettable voice, the same powerful roars that had sold out stadiums and started riots, crumbled into hoarse whispers and dry, broken coughing.

She didn’t sleep. Didn’t dream. Didn’t eat. Just drifted from one blackout to the next. Convinced herself it was the only thing she still knew how to do.

But when Joel stepped through the glass doors of the hotel, everything slowed.

Every single soul there knew who he was. And he wasn't what they expected. Not a bodyguard. Not a manager. Not some industry suit sent to clean up the mess. He didn’t wear a lanyard or carry a clipboard. He wasn’t holding coffee or flowers or excuses. He wore worn jeans, a weathered jacket, and a stare that could gut a man in silence.

The staff went quiet. The concierge froze mid-sentence. Someone from the Fireflies’ touring crew, a kid barely out of college, stood up too fast and knocked over a coffee cup. Even the elevator dinged like it was afraid to make too much noise.

Because he wasn’t just her father.

He was Joel Miller.

The legend. The one she never talked about. The man sewed into the fabric of the music industry and into every song she wrote, whether she knew it or not. The reason her fingers knew how to play guitar before she knew how to name the chords. 

The man who raised a storm and let the world believe it had come from nothing.

He walked through the lobby without looking at anyone until he spotted Jesse, standing halfway down the hallway. A walkie gripped tight in one hand, speaking into static—fast, clipped, the kind of voice reserved for damage control. But the moment he turned and saw him, he stopped mid-sentence. His whole body went still. The color drained from his face like someone had flipped a switch.

Jesse looked wrecked. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. The exhaustion hung off him like he’d been carrying something for so long it was too heavy to set down.

Behind him, Dina stepped out from the room next to Ellie’s. Her hair was in a messy braid that hadn’t been redone in days. Her eyes were rimmed red, cheeks blotched. She looked exhausted too—pale and drawn and older than twenty-two should ever look. 

They froze when they saw Joel. Tried to pull themselves together. Straightened their backs. Lifted their chins.

But Joel saw all of it. Every crack in their armor. Every inch of what his daughter had left behind.

“Where is she?” 

No greeting. No explanation. Straight to the wreckage.

Jesse blinked. “You—wait, are you—how even—?”

“Where,” Joel repeated, slower now, voice rough but low, “is she?”

Dina stepped forward. She studied him for a moment, like she was trying to reconcile the legend in front of her with the silence Ellie wrapped around him like a bandage.

“She’s here,” she finally said. “Hasn’t left her room since the last show.”

Joel’s eyes darkened, but his mouth didn’t move.

“She hasn’t eaten. Barely spoken a word. We know she’s alive—we hear her pacing—but she won’t come out. We tried sending medics, tried knocking, pleading, threatening. Nothing works. She won’t open the door for anyone.”

Jesse glanced towards the suite at the end, and finally spoke too.

“It’s been a week. We thought—fuck, we don’t know what to do.”

A silence passed between them, thick with the weight of everything.

Then Joel looked down the hallway. Walked towards the door.

And knocked once.

Then again. Louder this time, but still steady. The kind of knock that didn’t come with threats or questions. The kind that simply said I’m here.

He stood with his hand still hovering, knuckles grazing the wood. Breathing quiet. Deep. Preparing himself.

Preparing himself to finally see with his own eyes everything he hadn’t been strong enough to acknowledge. Everything he’d kept at bay with stubbornness, with denial dressed up as distance. What the world had done. What the spotlight had done. What he had done—with his silence, with his absence, with every word unspoken. What all of it had carved into the girl who was his flesh and blood.

But behind the door: silence. No footsteps. No movement. No reply.

Just the kind of thick, unnatural stillness that only comes from the kind of room that hasn’t seen sunlight in days, were nothing is truly alive.

So he leaned his head in slightly. Lowered his unmistakable voice.

“…Ellie.”

A name he hadn’t let himself say out loud in years. Her name.

And from the other side of the door—a sound. The scrape of a heel against carpet. The faint drag of limbs too tired to move. The slight creak of bedsprings shifting under someone sitting up.

Another beat passed, longer than it should have, heavy enough to age him.

Then, the faint clack of a deadbolt turning.

The door cracked open fully and the hallway light poured through, slicing the shadows in half.

Ellie.

Or what was left of Ellie.

Joel didn’t move. Couldn’t.

It felt like the floor dropped out beneath him, like every bone in his body went hollow. If he hadn’t known her—the way you only know someone when you’ve built their childhood with your own hands—he wouldn’t have recognized the girl standing in front of him. 

Because the girl standing there wasn’t Ellie. She was the ghost of her. The remains. A flickering echo.

Her skin was the color of sickness. Pale in some places, blotched in others, faintly green where it wasn’t feverish pink. Her cheeks were hollowed out, sharp angles where softness used to live. The sharp, raw jut of bone beneath the skin made her look like a sketch of herself, hastily erased and redrawn in shaking lines. Her eyes were sunken, bruised with fatigue. The purple beneath them looked like it had been there for ages. 

Her lips were cracked, chewed raw—not just bitten, but torn, as if she’d been trying to silence herself from the inside out from pure self hatred. Her shirt was stained and damp around the collar. It clung to her frame in desperate patches, sagging everywhere else. 

She had lost so much weight it made Joel’s stomach drop even further. Her collarbones cut through her like knives. Her arms looked like they didn’t belong to her. Her tattoos, once bright declarations of defiance, had faded beneath grime and bruises. Some fresh. Some healing. All painful. 

But it was the look on her face that truly broke him.

Not pain. Not shame. Not surprise. Vacancy.

Her expression wasn’t empty. It was abandoned. Her irises, once so fiercely alive, had dulled to become cloudy and dim, like a storm had taken root behind them and never passed. Like the soul that had once lived behind those eyes had packed up and fled, leaving only a faint trace behind. 

The last time he saw her, she was still a teenager—hard edges wrapped in defiance, all spitfire and sharp laughter. Too much fire for one body, too much hunger in her bones. Reckless with hope. Starved to make the entire world hers.

Desperate to outrun the weight of the name before her and etch her own into history with nothing but a Les Paul, a voice full of thunder, and the loyalty of two high school best friends who followed her into that path like religion.

This wasn’t the daughter he’d raised. This wasn’t the stubborn, brilliant, furious and rebellious soul who had once held her heart out like a weapon and her music like a revolution. 

This was the ashes left after that blaze.

Joel couldn’t breathe. Could barely keep his knees under him.

Ellie’s lips parted. The sound that came out wasn’t speech. It was a dry, rasping exhale, like it hurt just to exist. She coughed—deep and wet and awful—and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The same hand that used to write songs like magic. The same hand that had held his with quiet, childlike trust.

Her eyes flickered over his face with disbelief—like he was just another trap her mind had set, another hallucination conjured by a body begging her to stop before it gave out entirely. 

"You're not real."

Her voice cracked as it came out, barely a thread of sound.

Joel stood frozen in the doorway. His hands didn’t move. His face didn’t change. But his heart split open in his chest, a soundless rupture he felt in his ribs and behind his eyes.

“I’m real. I’m right here.”

Ellie stared at him, blinking too fast, too hard, as if trying to reset her vision. To erase him. Then she took one staggering step back, as if his presence had struck her.

“What…” she croaked, eyes wide. “What is this?”

Her body started moving backwards, deeper into the room, like retreating might make him vanish. 

“They sent me,” Joel said softly.

“Who the fuck is they?”

He swallowed. The answer was already there, caught behind his teeth. He knew exactly who called. Who had begged him to go.

But he also knew he couldn’t say your name. Not now. Not like this.

“Didn’t ask for names,” he lied quietly. “Didn’t need to.”

She scanned the hallway behind him, frantic, sharp-eyed—like she expected flashbulbs to burst, a microphone to be shoved in her face, interviewers to question her. A trap. A punishment. Maybe even you.

She hadn’t slept in days. Reality had become slippery, warped at the edges. Paranoia threaded through every thought, tugging at the last shreds of her sanity. Her gaze skittered from shadow to shadow like something might leap out of them.

“You can’t be here,” she murmured. Her voice was sharper now, edged in fear. “You can’t just show up.”

“I’m not asking permission.” 

“So this is it?” she muttered. “Some fucked-up intervention? You think you can walk back in here after three fucking years and what—fix me?”

He didn't respond. He knew, deep down, that she was right. 

So he just watched her vanish into the dim corners of the suite, pacing like something caged for too long. Her hands dragged down her face. Her breath hitched. She didn’t cry. She had run out of tears long ago.

But the door remained open.

He stepped inside—slowly, carefully, crossing into a nightmare he knew he wasn’t welcomed in—and closed it shut behind him with a soft click.

The room was a graveyard. Everything looked tired of existing. A cave of rot and ruin, thick with the scent of everything that had decayed and nothing that had ever lived. No light dared to enter. The curtains, sealed with tape and stained with smoke, refused to let the world in. Day or night—it didn’t matter. Time had lost meaning. The only thing cutting through the gloom was the weak, flickering glow of a single bedside lamp. It cast a sickly yellow halo over the ruins, illuminating just enough to make it even worse.

The coffee table was buried beneath a chaotic sprawl of liquor bottles, half-empty and sweating glass. Prescription vials rolled into corners, labels smudged beyond reading. Rolled-up bills, limp and damp. A small pile of crushed cigarettes and half-melted lighters. Bent spoons blackened at their base. Scattered syringes. Fine dust of residue clinging to every surface.

The stench—alcohol, cigarettes, vomit, sweat, blood, melting plastic, something sour and sharp and sickeningly sweet—coated the air like paint.

Ellie’s voice came again, thinner this time.

“Why didn’t you just let me die?”

Joel turned slowly.

She was barely standing—shoulders slumped, arms hanging at her sides. Her head was tilted back against the wall, as if it was the only thing holding her up. Her eyes weren’t on him, they were fixed on a water stain spreading like rot across the ceiling.

She looked so small. So young. So far away.

He walked to her, slow but steady, like any sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile and divine force still held her upright. 

He didn’t tell her she was wrong. Didn’t tell her she was a disgrace or a failure or disgusting or a junkie.

He just stepped forward and pulled her into his arms.

And her body—rigid at first—slowly folded into his like paper softening in the rain. The soft weight of her breath stuttered against his chest. He felt his own heart breaking again between them.

It wasn’t the kind of hug you saw in movies. It wasn’t tidy or heroic. It wasn’t a triumphant moment. It was ruin, quiet and total. The kind of embrace that carries years of silence and every word left unsaid. The kind you only give to someone you thought you’d lost forever. 

Her arms didn’t lift, didn’t curl around him. They just hung there, slack at her sides. But she didn’t pull away either. And God, that was enough. That was all he needed to stay right there, holding her like the only thing anchoring them both to the world was the space they were occupying together.

Joel could feel the bones of her back through the thin cotton of her shirt—sharp, wrong, exposed. Her heartbeat thudded against his chest, frantic and fragile, an uneven rhythm struggling to hold itself together. It didn’t feel alive. It felt mechanical—like a rusted engine. 

But it was still beating. And in that moment, it meant everything.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Ellie murmured into his shoulder, voice muffled, brittle as dry leaves. “I didn’t want this.”

“I know,” Joel said quietly.

“I’m not going back.”

“You’re not staying here.”

“I don’t need you.”

“You need something,” he said. “And I’m here now.”

“But why now?” she whispered, so quietly it nearly vanished.

“They said you were disappearing,” his voice was thick, low, heavy with something he hadn’t let himself feel in years. “Said if someone didn’t come find you soon… there might not be anything left to find.”

“You’re late.” 

Joel tightened his arms around her. “Still here,” he said. A vow in two words.

Her palms lifted—slow, uncertain—and pressed flat against his chest. Not quite pushing. Not quite holding. Just there, as if trying to decide what he was. Real or not. Ghost or grave.

And then, without warning—she shoved him.

Joel took a step back. Not from the force, but from the feeling. Her palms left a ghostprint on his chest. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t reach for her again. He just looked at her as if seeing everything clearly for the first time.

Ellie’s shoulders were heaving now. Her eyes were glassy, stretched too wide, too alert, the way animals look right before they bolt.

“Go!” she rasped. “Fucking go. I don’t want this. I don’t need this. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t—I didn’t ask for you to come!”

“I don’t care,” he said, “You’re coming with me.”

“To what?” she spat. Her voice pitched higher, sharp and spiraling. “Some padded room full of people with name tags who hand me coloring books? Spare me, Joel.”

He flinched. Barely, but there.

Joel. Not Dad. Not even old man. Just a hard, flat syllable thrown like a stone between them. A line in the sand.

He nodded once. Took it in like a bullet.

“You’re going to rehab. Whether you want it or not.”

“No!” The word came fast. Violent. Like it had been living in her throat, waiting to escape. “No. No, no, no—you don’t get to do this! You don’t get to show up after three fucking years and act like you can drag me off somewhere. I’m not twelve anymore!”

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

He took a step forward. 

“But you’re not anything right now. You’re not living. You’re surviving in a place that’s rotting you and calling it freedom.”

Her jaw clenched. Her body was shaking, not just with rage, but with something underneath it. Sickness.

“Fuck you!” Her voice cracked again. “You don’t know me. Not anymore!”

“You’re right,” he never once raised his voice. “I don’t. But I remember the girl who would’ve ripped the sky open just to feel something. I remember the kid who made music like it was oxygen. I remember the look on your face when you loved something truly.”

“Well, she’s fucking dead.” 

“Then let me help bring her back.”

She exhaled, too fast, like air hurt her lungs. 

“I didn’t want to be saved,” she choked. “I still don’t. You should’ve let me fucking die!”

“I couldn’t, Ellie.”

“Then why now?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “Why not when it still mattered? Why not when I still wanted to live?”

“Because I couldn’t live with myself if I stayed away again. Not this time."

The silence stretched. And then, softer, almost afraid: 

“I know you’re not gonna heal overnight. I know this isn’t gonna fix anything. But I also know what happens if you stay here. And I can’t let that happen. Please, Ellie. I'm begging you.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll stay. I’ll stay in this shithole suite and I’ll sit on that goddamn carpet and wait until you’re ready. But I’m not leaving without you.”

She stood there, silent. Frozen in place.

“Please,” 

His voice broke on the word. His eyes were glassy and wet. She had never seen him like that. Not Joel. Not the man who never bent.

Something cracked then. Not a sob. Not a word. Just a sound, low and raw, torn from somewhere deep in her chest. A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. A surrender she didn’t mean to give.

And then, she moved.

Not towards him—but towards the corner. Towards the suitcase half-zipped and slumped against the wall, still full of clothes that smelled like sweat and cigarettes and days she couldn’t remember.

Because she knew Joel.

There were no more speeches left. No more mercy dressed up as choice. He hadn’t come to bargain. He hadn’t come to reason. He had come to claim what the world hadn’t yet finished killing. He had come to take her.

And she could feel it—time unraveling, slipping like sand between her fingers. Breath stretched too long beneath the surface. A match burning down to the quick. The edge of the edge. The final flicker before everything turned black.

Time had run out.

She crouched. Her hands shook as she zipped the suitcase closed. The sound was louder than it should’ve been, like a coffin lid snapping shut.

She picked up a hoodie from the chair. Oversized. Gray. A gift from Jesse. Two birthdays ago, back when birthdays still meant something. She tried to zip it up. The zipper jammed halfway. Her hands trembled too badly to fix it, so she gave up and let it hang open like a wound.

She pulled the hood up. Then down. Up again. Her fingers twitched at the edge of it. She didn't know if it was better to hide or be seen. Neither felt safe.

Joel didn’t say another word.

He just stepped forward. Picked up the suitcase and her guitar case. And without looking back, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

And Ellie followed. Not because she wanted to. Not because she was ready. But because she understood there were no other exits.

She either stepped through that door—or died. Simple as that. Final as that.

Jesse and Dina were already there. Waiting. Trying not to look like they’d been standing right outside the whole time. But Ellie saw the way Dina's face was blotchy, and how Jesse's hands were clenched too tight. A kind of expression you can only get from listening to that conversation.

Joel gave them a nod. Something between a farewell and a thank you. Then walked down the hall and without looking back.

And suddenly, they were alone.

No instruments. No cameras. No crowd roaring.

Just three kids in the hallway of a hotel that had seen too much—their silence louder than fate and the stadiums they used to fill. The kind of silence that doesn’t come from peace, but from aftermath. 

Three teenagers who once built a dream so big it swallowed countries. Who bled into microphones and howled into smoke machines. Who dropped school and poured their youth into amplifiers and rode adrenaline like it was enough to outrun consequence. They had stood shoulder to shoulder beneath lights so blinding, they mistook the heat for forever. Mistook the noise for safety. Mistook each other for unbreakable.

And for a while, they had it all in the palm of their hands. The fame. The critics. The awards. The fans. The world.

But then came the cracks —late arrivals, quiet fights, bruises hidden by sunglasses and lies. Then came the screaming matches. The missed rehearsals. The broken things. The insults. The lies. 

And now here they were. Not The Fireflies. Not legends. Just kids standing in a hallway, breaking beneath the weight of everything they lost. The tour was over. The music had stopped.

And the dream—that impossible, holy, feral dream—had burned to ashes.

Ellie could barely look at them. Could barely breathe through the guilt.

She was the one who lit the match. The one who crumbled first. And in crumbling, she had taken it all down with her.

And still, they stood with her. Not because they weren’t angry. Not because they didn’t hurt.

Because even when the dream died, something in them didn’t.

Jesse broke first.

His breath hitched, and in the next second he was moving, crossing the space between them in three long strides before Ellie had the chance to run away. He pulled her in, hard, arms locking around her like he was afraid she might shatter through his fingers if he hesitated longer. 

She stiffened at first—out of habit, out of shame, out of the muscle memory that told her she didn’t deserve forgiveness—but then her body gave in.

Dina followed without a word, her arms wrapping around them both, closing the circle, anchoring them together like she could hold what was left of the band in her embrace. 

“I’m sorry…” Ellie said, “God, I’m so fucking sorry. For everything, for every single thing I did to both of you. I…I wanted this to work. I did. With everything I had. I wanted to be better for you.”

Dina shook her head as tears spilled freely down her face. “We know,” she choked. “We know, Ellie.”

Jesse was crying too now, barely holding himself together. He pressed his face into Ellie’s shoulder and wept for the version of her that was gone—for that best friend who had vanished long before she ever left.

“We tried,” he said. “We tried so fucking hard, El. But you kept shutting the door. We didn’t know how to reach you anymore. We didn’t know how to help you. And we are so, so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said. Her throat burned like she’d swallowed a thousand unsaid things. “It’s not your fault I couldn’t find my way back… I did this to myself.”

“I’m gonna try,” she continued. “But I don’t know who I’ll be after this. I don’t even know if I'm still worth saving. But I’ll try. I’ll try to come back.”

Dina sobbed into her other shoulder, loud and broken. “You better,” she said. “You better come back. I swear to God, Williams, if you don’t come back—”

“I will,” Ellie said. Her voice cracked so badly the words nearly fell apart. “I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But I will.”

She pulled back enough to meet both of their eyes.

“But if I can’t reach you… if it takes longer than it should… just keep going. Please. Move on. Do what you have to do. Don’t wait for me.”

Jesse wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “We built something together, El. Something that was ours. And maybe it fell apart, but it was the best fucking dream I ever lived.”

“Me too,” Ellie whispered. “It was the happiest I’ve ever been. We really made it. And I was never alone until I made myself alone.”

Dina cupped her face gently, and her breath hitched the moment her hands touched her skin. Her thumbs tried to wipe her tears but froze mid-motion, eyes scanning every angle like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing—what was left.

“Oh, El…” she whispered, barely audible, like saying it louder might make it worse. She then swallowed, trying to keep herself together, “It was a dream. But now we woke up. You go get better, you go find your way. And when you’re ready to come back… we’ll still be here.”

Ellie nodded, once. Then again. Her whole body trembling. Her fingers clutched the hem of her sleeve like she was trying to hold onto something, anything, that still belonged to her.

She took a breath that sliced her open on the way down. 

“I love you both.”

“We love you more.”

And that was the end of it.

She turned. Walked down the hallway. Too long, too quiet.

And didn’t look back.

They didn’t talk on the jet.

Joel sat across from her, arms crossed, jaw set tight. He didn’t stare. Didn’t sigh. He let the silence hold. Let her sit in whatever she needed to sit in.

They didn’t talk in the truck, either.

The driveway was long. Joel drove with both hands on the wheel, steady and silent. The only sounds were the low growl of the engine and the faint hum of classic rock murmuring from the speakers—some band from the '70s Joel probably used to get drunk with in some Texas bar.

Outside, the world blurred by. Rain dragged its fingers across the windshield in thin, trembling lines. The sky was the color of steel wool, heavy and low, like it might collapse under its own weight. Trees passed in smears—tall, dark, skeletal things that looked more like memories than landmarks, clawing their way out of the earth and stretching towards a sky that wouldn’t bend.

Ellie didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t think.

She just watched the road disappear beneath them, mile after mile, like maybe if she looked hard enough, she’d disappear somewhere in the rearview.

When they pulled up to the gates, Joel rolled down the window. Told them her name. Told them she was here for long-term. He didn’t need to say a last name to make the gates open.

Rehab didn’t look like what Ellie expected. It wasn’t padded walls and flickering fluorescents. It wasn’t people screaming into the void or nurses in white coats pushing pills like candy. But then, she wasn’t even sure if that’s what she expected.

All she really knew was the feeling—that hollow, leaden silence that settles in your bones when you’ve run out of fight. The numb acceptance that came when you had nothing left to bargain with. 

When all the bridges were already ash. When even feeling became too much weight to carry. The moment you stop running. Stop asking. Stop pretending that you know what comes next. It was letting them take you by the arm and lead you wherever they thought you belonged—because you didn’t believe you belonged anywhere anymore.

The place was quiet. Almost unnaturally so. Rich, suffocating silence wrapped in beige walls and throw blankets that smelled like lavender and wood polish. The walls were cream and soft brown. Plants lined the windowsills. The kind of place designed to make broken people feel like they were healing simply by being somewhere expensive. Like grief could be curated. Like pain could be dimmed with scented candles and soft jazz.

She could feel the recognition hit the staff before they even got inside.

The receptionist looked up, froze, and blinked too many times. She didn’t say a word. Just stood. Just nodded. Just ushered them forward like they were checking into a hotel that only accepted the severely wounded.

Joel did the talking. Ellie kept her head down. She let them take her phone. Her lighter. Her blades. Her pens. Her pills. Her past.

Then it was time. They were taking her upstairs. One of the counselors stood to the side, smiling with polite detachment, ready to walk her to her new room.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there. Looking at her like he was memorizing the shape of her shoulders. The way her hair tucked behind her ears. The way her green eyes were so hollow they couldn't even reflect the soft light. 

And then he stepped forward. Reached for her shoulders, and pulled her in.

At first, she resisted—only in that way where her body had forgotten what it meant to be held. But then, slowly, she leaned in. Folded into him. And then, just above her ear:

“You be strong, kiddo.”

Ellie didn’t respond. Her lower lip trembled.

Joel pulled back. Just enough to look at her. There was one single tear tracking down his cheek. He wiped it before she could see, but she’d already seen.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “This place—it’s real help. Not noise. Not punishment. Help. Let it help you.”

Ellie nodded, just once. It was all she could do.

“Try, that’s all I’m asking.” He touched the side of her face, warm and rough. “I love you, Ellie.”

She nodded again. A little firmer.

And then he let her go.

Three months.

She spent the first five days in bed.

Not resting. Not healing. Barely surviving.

Her body had become a war zone—bone against nerve, memory against muscle, pain crashing through her like a wave with no shore. 

She didn’t eat. Couldn’t. Every attempt to swallow felt like dragging glass down her throat—jagged, raw, unforgiving. Her stomach rejected everything. Her body, so used to poison, couldn’t recognize nourishment without recoiling. She vomited every bite. In the sink, in the trash, in towels. It came up bile-yellow, bitter and acidic, her throat left scorched and trembling after every gag.

She didn’t shower. Couldn’t stand the pressure of the water or the sound of it against the tiles. Couldn’t bear the sight of her own body in the mirror—shrinking, hollowing out, unfamiliar. The frame of a stranger she no longer recognized.

The nurses tried. Gentle voices, gentle hands. They moved like white ghosts through the room, soft-footed and full of mercy. They brought small trays with bland food she never touched. Offered medication—anti-nausea pills, muscle relaxants, sleep aids, things that might take the edge off the screaming inside her skin.

She acted like she did. But she never swallowed them.

You don’t deserve relief. This is the price. This is what you earned. This is what you get.

That was what her brain told her. That was the drumbeat in her ears. 

The few things she couldn't refuse to came through needles. IVs slid into the bend of her arm, saline dripping slow, cold, quiet. A half-measure of mercy.

But nothing touched it. The pain didn’t dull—it roared.

Every cell in her body screamed for the god she once worshiped—in backstage stalls, hotel bathtubs, and the hands of plugs who never asked questions, only offered more.

Coke, heroin, pills—they had rewritten her wiring, turned her nerves into a radio tuned to the wrong frequency. Without them, she was a body on fire with nothing left to burn.

The drugs had silenced her grief. Had numbed her fear. Had made her feel like she could float above the noise. That she was above everything living and not living. But now that they were gone, it was all crashing in. The noise was inside her now. Under her skin. Screaming through her bloodstream. Now she was beneath it all. 

She shook like something feral. Burned with fever. Her skin felt like it was blistering from the inside. Her bones felt too big for her body. Her mouth bled from clenching her jaw too tight.

She sweated through her sheets twice a night. They stuck to her back like it was her real skin. She stared at the ceiling for hours, the whites of her eyes stinging. The whole world slipped sideways. The corners of the room stretched and curved. The shadows grew bigger and darker, swallowed her and spitted her out. 

She sat for hours on the cool tile of the bathroom floor, arms around her middle, forehead pressed to her knees, rocking back and forth. Wondering if maybe she could choke on her own breath. Wondering if maybe that would be enough to make it stop.

And the nightmares didn’t come in dreams.

They came when she blinked. 

A hand she couldn’t see at her throat. Faces at the edge of her bed. The crowd, always the crowd, roaring with empty mouths and red eyes, thousands of phones raised, all pointed at her, all flashing, all recording, all screaming her name over and over again.

Jesse. Yelling behind her. His voice cracked and distant. Dina. Standing in the corner. Her mouth moving but the only sound Ellie could hear was liar. Liar. Liar. Liar. Liar.

Joel. Sometimes he stood in the other corner, silent and blurry, holding her guitar like a corpse. Sometimes he was on his knees on the side of the bed, younger and smaller than she remembered, whispering, I did everything I could, over and over again until he turned to ash.

But there was something worse—something that came after sleep, but before waking. That trembling, liminal state where the line between memory and madness blurs. The room around her was real—she could still smell the antiseptic, still feel the scratch of the rehab sheets against her clammy skin—but you stood at the foot of the bed like a phantom carved from guilt and need. Like her mind had conjured you out of the very air she was choking on.

You were lit from behind by a spotlight that didn’t exist, too bright to come from any lamp. It seared her vision, turned your edges soft and glowing, like you were holy. Your chest heaved. You were crying—openly, messily, the kind of crying that had no dignity left in it.

She blinked. You didn’t vanish. You were still there. Still weeping. Still looking right at her.

You are a fucking liar. You promised. I believed you.

She tried to move. Tried to sit up. But her limbs were heavy, pinned to the bed like they’d been nailed in place. Her breath turned jagged. The light behind you pulsed, then flickered, like a dying star.

You said you wouldn’t disappear on me.

The floor stretched. The bed tilted. The room distorted into angles that didn’t make sense. You were getting further away—not by walking, not by moving—but by some cruel force in her own head warping space and time and regret.

You told me you were going to fight. For you. For me. For this. For us.

Your voice cracked on the last word. It sounded like the green room. Like the final night. Like goodbye.

She whimpered. Just once. Just enough. Then reached toward you with a hand that didn’t move.

And then you disappeared into smoke. To light. To silence. 

And Ellie, drenched in sweat and trembling like a leaf caught in a storm, curled into herself and wept like she had that night—quiet, slow, full of the kind of pain that doesn't want to be heard. 

She bit the pillow until the fabric tore. Scratched her own arms until they bled. Her biceps were covered in raw, red claw marks for weeks. She didn’t remember making them. But the blood under her nails said otherwise.

Withdrawal wasn’t linear.

It was war. No other word for it.

Every nerve begged for a hit. Just one. Just something to dull the noise. Just a second of silence.

But there was no silence.

Only guilt. Only the knowledge that this was her fault. 

She convinced herself she deserved it. All of it. Every second. Every scream. Every sting. Every shard of herself breaking off, one by one.

That she had done this. To herself. To you. To Jesse. To Dina. To Joel. To her music. To her career. To the people who believed in her. To the girl she used to be.

She didn’t pray. Didn’t believe in redemption. 

She believed in nothing at all.

Day eight. 

Group therapy. She didn’t want to go. Said she wouldn’t. Said it over and over. Two staff members came anyway. Sat on the edge of her bed.

One of them—a woman named Hope, which felt like the universe was spitting in her face once again—talked in a voice so soft it made Ellie want to scream at her to shut the fuck up. She spoke to her like she was a toddler. For so long that Ellie finally stood, not out of agreement, but because that irritating ass tone was drilling holes in her skull. Her legs buckled the second she put weight on them. She nearly went down in the hallway. 

They whispered when she walked in. They knew who she was. Of course they did. 

She kept her hoodie up. Eyes down. Didn’t speak.

But a man across from her did.

Buzzcut. Sixty, maybe. Skin like creased paper and hands that shook even when they weren’t moving. His voice didn’t tremble from nerves. It trembled from memory. He didn’t sit tall in his chair. He sank into it like the story was too heavy to carry and the act of telling it required surrender.

"She was the love of my life," he said. "God, she was everything. Beautiful. Funny. Loud. Too smart for me. And I loved her more than anything I ever held in my hands."

"But I couldn’t stop. Not for her. Not even when our lights got shut off. Not even when I sold her record collection for a hit. Not even when our kid asked why mommy cried at night." He pressed a trembling palm to his chest. "I wanted to stop. I swore I’d stop. I meant it, every time. But meaning something isn’t the same as doing it."

A long breath. A broken one.

"She left me the morning I sold her wedding ring. Didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Just packed a bag and told me she loved me, but she couldn’t die beside me." His voice cracked. "I hated her for that. I hated her for a long time. But now that I'm clean I realize… she saved me. By walking away. She saved my life."

He looked up, eyes glassy and faraway.

"She never came back. But she saved me anyway."

Ellie didn’t cry. But her jaw locked so tight it sounded like bone on bone. Her throat swelled. She gripped the edge of the chair like it was the only thing holding her to the earth.

That night, she didn’t sleep.

Her mind spun a film reel of every second she ever spent with you—backwards, forward, in slow motion, in loop. Your voice in her ears. Your laugh in her neck. Your tears in that green room. The last I love you you said to her. And somewhere, under it all, the question she couldn’t silence:

What would I have done if she had left me first?

Day twenty.

She still couldn’t cry in front of anyone else. Mostly, she sat in therapy and stared at the floor. Gave short answers. Shrugged a lot. Refused to talk about fame. Refused to talk about the band. Refused to talk about music. That one felt like a bone still broken beneath the skin. Refused to talk about you. Especially you.

But they let her smoke.

In designated areas, away from the main building, near a cluster of thin trees that always looked half-dead. She went there every morning before breakfast. Eyes red. Hands still a little shaky. She’d stand on the cold patio and stare at the fog that drifted low between the trees, like the earth was still deciding whether to exhale.

That was where she met Thomas.

He was already there when she arrived that day. Leaning against the railing. A cigarette between his lips. Thin but sturdy. Soft-spoken. Big eyes. Twenty-five.

"I know who you are,” he said. Quiet. Almost an apology. “I’m a fan."

Ellie didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him. She was one second from walking away.

"But I also know what you’re feeling," he added. "So... I won’t ask for a selfie."

She snorted. Just once. A dry, surprised sound. It startled her.

The next day, he was there again.

They shared silence like it was holy. A language neither of them had to translate. They talked, eventually—not about anything real. About sci-fi. The new Dune movie. Favorite comics. A band she loved before she ever picked up a guitar. They argued about Batman. Laughed, sometimes, in short bursts that felt foreign to her mouth.

He never asked about her music or the band. Never asked about what happened. Never asked who she had written all those songs about.

He just smoked with her. Talked to her. Breathed beside her.

And something shifted. Not all at once, but slowly. Like light seeping in beneath a door.

Her appetite didn’t come back overnight, but she started eating half her tray instead of none. She started taking her meds. Let the nurse check her vitals without flinching. She showered every other day. Then every day. Let the water hit her neck. Let the steam open something tight in her chest.

She slept, sometimes. Still haunted, still twitching, but not as violently. Not as often.

And she wrote. God, she wrote.

They’d given her journals. Cream-colored covers and blank inside. She filled at night the same they handed her in the morning. Her handwriting looked like someone fighting their own hand. Crooked lines. Crossed-out verses. Scribbled lyrics. Poems that not even herself dared to read out loud. Pages torn, then taped back in. Fragments of thought. Lines that didn’t rhyme. 

Doodles of your hands. The shape of your mouth. Your smile. The soft space between your brows. The way your hands looked when they curled on a mic.

One day, she tried to draw your eyes from memory and couldn’t get it right. Couldn’t remember the exact curve, the shape of them, their glint. She sat on her bed for an hour staring at the half-finished sketch, then ripped the page out and tore it to pieces. 

But she wrote more after that.

Wrote letters she’d never send. Wrote songs she couldn’t sing yet. Wrote apologies that were too late and memories that hurt too much.

One afternoon, with trembling fingers and graphite-stained sleeves, she sketched the soft curve of your back from memory—every line tentative, reverent. Her hand slowed as it reached your shoulder. She drew the tiny mole there, exactly where it had always been. A landmark on a map she could still trace with her eyes closed.

And in the bottom corner of the page, almost too small to notice, she wrote:

A kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder.

Day forty.

In private therapy, the counselor asked: "What do you think your addiction was hiding?"

And something inside her finally caved.

"I don’t know. I think… that the crowd got bigger than the music. That I had to be brilliant even when I was empty. That no one noticed the difference between real and performance. Not even me."

And once she started, she couldn’t stop. She talked for hours.

About the band. About the noise. About the interviews and the eyes and the pressure to be a genius all the time. About the fear of being ordinary, of not being enough, of not even being a fraction of what Joel was—of what he built, of what he carried, of what he sacrificed. About how the drugs made her louder, bolder, brighter, filling a hole she didn’t know existed.

“It wasn’t about getting high,” she admitted. “It was about being who they needed me to be. And then about forgetting who I really was. And then… about surviving not being anything at all.”

She swallowed air like it might steady her.

"I thought they made me more. But really they just made me disappear."

The therapist didn’t speak. Just let her keep going.

"And I lost everything. The band. The sound. The one I loved the most. My fucking voice. I lost me." Her voice cracked. But she didn’t cry. "And I know I did it to myself. That’s the worst part."

That night, she touched the guitar.

Didn’t play it. Just held it.

She sat on the floor of her room with the lights off, cradling the body of it against her ribs like it was something living. She didn’t strum. Didn’t sing.

She just breathed.

And while Ellie fought her way back from the edge, Joel took the rest into his own hands.

Jesse and Dina left quietly a few days after Ellie checked into rehab. No press release. No airport sighting. Just quiet nods and long hugs. They were young, and they were tired, and they had families back home who’d been waiting—worried—since the night the final Fireflies show imploded into nothing. They boarded separate flights with sunglasses on and hearts shattered, stepping away from the spotlight and going back to their roots to mourn what they'd built together.

There was nothing more they could do.

The announcement of the Fireflies' indefinite hiatus hit the world like a meteor. It wasn’t just music news. It wasn’t just another headline. It was cultural collapse.

The biggest band of a generation, the revival of rock, the ones who had made stages burn again—gone. Not a break. Not a rest. A disappearance. One statement, stripped of detail, cold and final.

The entire planet had never seen anything like it. Cities paused. Billboards went dark. Fans lit candles outside arenas that would never hear them play. People cried on livestreams. Talk shows froze mid-sentence. 

And Joel made the kind of calls people don't forget. Not the kind you scroll for in your phone. The kind stored in memory, in blood. The kind reserved for debts owed from decades ago. For favors etched into silence. For names you only speak once.

He didn’t care about the cost. Within weeks, he moved more money than most people saw in ten lifetimes. But the result was total.

The headlines stopped. The paparazzi photos vanished. The rumors about the cause of The Fireflies’ disappearance shriveled into dust. Blogs were erased. Video uploads failed mid-buffer. Search results redirected to blank pages. Social media accounts were flagged, suspended, dismantled. Journalists were warned. Managers were paid off. Former assistants silenced. Every whisper turned into static. Whatever he couldn’t bury with money, he buried with power.

And you—on the other hand—got buried with it too.

The world didn’t go quiet for you. It got sharper. Meaner. Colder. Crueler. They turned on you like wolves. Blamed you. Made you the cautionary tale. As if loving her too loudly had lit the match. As if the fire was your fault.

And Joel didn’t think about that. Didn’t think about the tour you cancelled. The silence that wrapped around your penthouse like a second skin. He didn’t see the weight of being the only one left behind—visible, bleeding, blamed.

But we already saw that part of the story.

The girl left behind. The silence, the spotlight, the ruin. The way she took her own broken heart, stitched it back together with shaking hands, and conquered the world all over again—crowned not in gold, but in scar tissue. A phoenix with no flame left to borrow, so she built her own fire.

Now it’s time for the other side.

The girl who vanished. The wreckage she dragged behind her like a second skin. The addiction that gutted her slowly, quietly, while the world kept spinning. The spiral no camera caught, the withdrawal no headline wrote. The one who left, but never stopped loving. The one who got away.

Joel wasn’t looking for justice. He was looking for her. And so, he burned the world to the ground to shield what was left of his daughter—never once turning to see what the smoke did to you.

And then he packed up everything she owned. Her clothes. Her guitars. Her amps. Her notebooks. A copy of every Fireflies album, still shrink-wrapped.

And then he left, too.

He went back to Jackson. Back to the outskirts of the only place that had ever felt like his hands could rest. And there, at the edge of the woods where the air tasted like pine and the birds still sang in the morning, he found a cabin. Small. Weathered. No TV. No Wi-Fi. Not even signal. Nothing like the world Ellie had been eaten alive by.

He bought it in cash. Tore down half the walls. Brought in contractors who didn’t ask questions. Insulated the attic. Reinforced the windows. Built a fireplace from scratch. Laid new floors himself, every board smoothed with his own calloused hands. Planted rosemary outside the front door because she liked the smell when she was a kid. Painted the walls soft, lived-in colors—muted greens and warm browns and the kind of blue the sky only makes after the storm passes.

And built her a studio.

Not the kind she used to record hits in. No glass wall separating her from a producer. No overpriced espresso machines or assistants on call. No executives pacing with Bluetooth headsets. No stylists fixing her collar between takes. 

Just a room. Perfect soundproofing. A mixing board that hummed like it had a soul. Three guitars mounted on the wall—one of them chipped from a stage dive in Berlin. A bass. A drum kit with fingerprints still on the cymbals.

A place she could make music in. If she ever wanted to again.

He stocked the shelves with vinyls. Filled the kitchen with real food. Bought a fireplace grate shaped like a wolf. Found a lamp shaped like a crescent moon. A home, not a hotel. Quiet, but not empty. A place you could come back to and not feel like you’d failed the world.

He didn’t call it a new beginning. He called it waiting. Because he knew what Ellie needed wasn’t a rescue.

She needed a place to land.

Day ninety.

The last day.

She woke before sunrise, not from a nightmare, not from withdrawal, not from the weight of everything she had lost—but from something quieter. A strange stillness in her chest. Like her body had finally stopped bracing for impact.

She stood at the window for a long time, then reached up and opened the blinds without thinking. The sky was soft with early blue, mist rising like smoke. 

And for the first time since arriving, the light touched her skin and didn’t flinch.

She showered. Ate a full breakfast. Took her medication. Laughed at a joke Thomas made over oatmeal, something stupid about a dinosaur president and a war for Mars. She told him he was an idiot. He said she was the meanest person he’d ever called his friend. She called him a loser. They high-fived.

She walked the long hallway to group therapy and sat in her usual seat, but this time, she didn’t fold into herself. She didn’t stare at the floor. She looked up. And when they asked if she wanted to share something on her last day, she said yes. And her voice didn’t shake.

She told them what it felt like to lose everything. Her band. Her friends Her music. Her persona. Herself. About the stage that felt like home until it didn’t. About craving the applause and hating the attention and then hating and craving all of it at the same time. About the slow death of becoming everything people wanted and nothing she could survive being.

She told them about her experience with addiction. Not as a spiral, but as a silence. A quiet gnawing. A disappearing. She said it felt like becoming a ghost with good lighting. Said it felt like sleepwalking into your own funeral.

She then told them about the girl with the voice like velvet—the one she loved more than anyone, and losing her hurt worse than anything. She spoke about what it meant to break something that had once felt unbreakable. 

How it felt to love someone while the world was trying to swallow them both. How they had stood side by side, each unraveling in their own way, watching the other fade like breath on a mirror.

She talked about how your first love being your greatest loss wasn’t just something that happened to her—it happened to both. What it meant to be taught how to love by the very person she had to unlearn. How letting go of her wasn’t a decision, but a mercy. 

She didn’t say a name. She didn’t have to.

The shape of her sorrow carved it into the silence. And everyone in the room knew exactly who she was talking about.

The glitter-drenched popstar. The girl in the front row of every headline, every stage, every magazine. The other half of the spectacle. The one they photographed beside her, draped in designer dresses and smiles, always camera-ready, always polished, always posed, always perfect.

They’d seen you everywhere—billboards, red carpets, award shows, airport lobbies. But they never really looked. Never stopped to wonder if those smiles held. If your fingers trembled under the table. If your voices cracked when the microphones were off. 

If the two girls who lit up the industry like a supernova had ever been allowed to just love each other without the world clawing at their edges. The worst part was that, in the end, it got what it came for. It tore them apart. 

When Ellie cried, she didn’t hide it. And when she looked up, everyone else was crying too.

She then packed in silence. Folded her clothes slowly. Asked to keep all the journals, even the ones filled with illegible scribbles and coffee stains and blacked-out pages. Especially those.

The guitar Joel brought still leaned in the corner. Still never strummed. She didn’t mind. Not yet. Not today. It would still be there tomorrow.

She wasn’t whole.

There were still wounds inside her that hadn’t fully healed. Ghosts that would ride with her wherever she went. She knew the moment she stepped out of those gates, the world would be waiting. Joel would be waiting. And whatever came next was still terrifying.

But for the first time in years, Ellie didn’t want to disappear.

And for now, that was enough.

The sky was gray when she stepped through the front doors of the facility. Not stormy. Not bright. Just muted, like the weather had softened itself in reverence for this exact moment. Her face was fuller. Her steps were sure. Her hands didn't tremble.

Joel was leaning against the hood of his truck.

He hadn’t changed. Same flannel, same boots, same belt buckle weathered from decades of grit. But he looked older. Or maybe just more human. There were new lines around his mouth, his eyes. A kind of soft tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. A quiet sorrow that never said its name.

Their eyes met.

And then Joel opened his arms.

It was slow. Gentle. He didn’t step forward, didn’t call her closer. Just waited.

And Ellie—God, Ellie walked into them like they were the only thing left on earth. Her face buried into his shoulder. Her arms wrapped around him with more desperation than grace. A breath caught between her ribs and stayed there.

He held her back like he hadn’t let himself hope for this moment. Like it broke something inside him to finally touch her again.

One tear slipped down his face. He didn’t wipe it this time.

"You did it," he murmured. "You're here."

Ellie said nothing. But she didn’t pull away.

"We’ll go slow," Joel said softly. "Whatever you need. Whatever it takes. Just take the next breath, alright?"

Ellie didn’t ask where they were going. She didn’t need to. She knew he’d pick a place. Somewhere off the grid. Somewhere no one would find her unless she was the one that wanted to be found. The kind of quiet only Joel Miller could make safe.

They pulled up to the cabin just before dusk.

It wasn’t big. Not modern. No white marble countertops or cold glass walls. Just a low-roofed wooden house with ivy crawling along the porch and a chimney puffing soft smoke like it had been waiting for her all this time.

She walked inside.

It smelled like rosemary. The floors creaked. A fireplace cracked low in the corner. Vinyls lined a shelf in the living room. An owl mug sat clean beside the sink. A blanket was folded on the couch.

And in the back corner—a room made of music. Soundproof panels. A mixing board. Three guitars on the wall. Her old amp. A drum kit. 

She didn’t go to it, but she almost cried when she saw it.

She set her suitcase down in the bedroom. Looked at the bed. Sat on the edge of it like it might vanish beneath her. Like this was all too peaceful, too good to be true.

"You can stay as long as you want," Joel said. "And if you want to go—you say the word. No questions. No fight."

"You don’t owe me anything," he added. "Not one damn thing. But I’m so proud of you. I hope you know that, kiddo."

Ellie looked at him then. Her eyes rimmed red, but dry.

"Thanks for not giving up on me."

"Couldn’t. You’re my daughter."

She looked away, biting the inside of her cheek.

That night, she slept. Really slept. Her body surrendered without a fight—no twitching limbs, no cold sweats, no ghosts dragging her down into dreams she couldn’t escape. Just sleep. Heavy and whole.

And when the morning came, soft and slow, when sunlight spilled like honey through the cracked window, when a birdsong threaded its way through pine needles tapping gently at the glass—Ellie breathed.

Not a gasp. Not a fight. Just a breath. Steady.

Alive.

Twelve months bled into one another like watercolors—soft, pale, undemanding. In the quiet corner of a three-covered stretch outside Jackson, the house Joel had bought felt more like a memory than a place. There were no city lights. No interviews. No sold-out shows. Just the creak of old wood under her feet and the scent of firewood lingering on everything they owned.

Ellie woke with the sun. Not to vomit or sweat or claw at invisible ghosts. She simply… woke. She’d blink at the ceiling and listen to the silence for a while. Let it wrap around her like a second blanket. 

Most mornings, Joel would already be up. Coffee brewed. A single mug left steaming on the counter with her name scrawled in permanent marker across the ceramic. They sat together on the porch and watched deers move through the trees. 

They didn’t talk much. But it wasn’t awkward. It was restful. The kind of silence that never demanded to be filled.

She wrote and drew in the mornings. Scribbles and stream-of-consciousness poetry. Things she remembered. Things she didn’t want to forget. The exact placement of Dina’s freckles. The curve of Jesse’s laugh. The way your voice sounded in the morning and how your legs looked when crossed. What her own name looked like when she wrote it in red ink.

Afternoons were for painting. Joel cleared out the back shed and gave her the whole thing. She painted on cardboard, on loose wood, on the back of half-rotted cabinet doors. Portraits. Shadows. Skies that didn’t exist. A girl that always ended up looking like you. 

She ate. Three times a day. Joel made sure of it. Sometimes it was good—herbs from the garden, toast burnt just right. Other times it was just food. Fuel. But she ate. Slowly. Quietly. With gratitude. 

Her body began to remember itself. The bones softened. Her hair grew longer. Her eyes lost that yellow tint.

And Joel… Joel never pushed. He didn’t ask questions he didn’t need answers to. But he was always there. Always nearby. Fixing the porch steps. Sharpening tools. Sometimes he’d sit beside her while she painted and said nothing for hours. Sometimes he’d hand her a book and mutter something about it being “not too bad.” 

And sometimes—on those rare, quiet nights when the fire cracked just right and her chest didn’t feel like it was splitting in half—she’d lay her head against his shoulder and close her eyes.

Their bond grew back the way moss grows. Slow, delicate, unspoken. 

She would catch him looking at her sometimes with that ache in his eyes, the kind of sorrow only fathers can carry. And she would nod. Just a little. Just enough to say, “I’m still here.”

But the guitar stayed untouched.

He’d placed it on a stand in the studio—lovingly built and filled with warmth and light— but Ellie never stepped inside. She passed by sometimes, paused at the doorframe. Looked at it like a wound that hadn’t scabbed. But couldn’t even touch the doorknob.

Because music didn’t belong to her anymore.

It belonged to the version of her that had died under a spotlight. To the girl who collapsed in a green room with your voice in her head and heroin in her veins. It belonged to the wreckage and the worst version of herself.

And every time she tried to remember what it felt like to strum, she tasted blood and bile and screaming.

So she let it stay behind glass.

Sometimes—on the rarest nights—when the sky went purple and the pine trees whispered things that almost sounded like forgiveness, she wondered if this was real. 

If this house, this life, this quiet was just a hallucination her dying mind had conjured in a hotel room somewhere. If she was really just dead already, and this was what came after.

But then Joel would call her name, soft and simple. The way he used to when she was a kid. She’d look over her shoulder and see him leaning against the kitchen doorway with a flicker of warmth in his eyes.  And the air would return to her lungs.

The night air settled over Jackson like a held breath. Just cold enough to bite at the edges of skin. The porch creaked gently beneath them as they sat—Joel with his elbows on his knees, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. Ellie beside him, hoodie up, one foot tucked under the other.

The sky above was clear. Stars sharp. The kind of sky that reminded her how far away she was from the world. How far away she was from Jesse and Dina. How far away she was from you.

Joel exhaled smoke, watching it twist into the dark.

“You sleepin’ alright?” he asked finally.

Ellie shrugged. “Sometimes.”

He nodded, like he expected that. Crushed the cigarette into the ashtray on the railing. Another long silence.

Then—quiet, almost too quiet to catch:

“Ellie…”

She turned to him slightly. His face was shadowed by the porch light, but she saw the way his jaw clenched before he spoke again.

“You don’t have to answer this, but…” A pause. A breath. “Why didn’t you do it?”

She blinked. He didn’t look at her when he said it.

“Those nights you spent locked in that hotel room.” His voice was gentle, but firm. “You could’ve. God knows you had enough reason. Enough pain. But you didn’t.”

Ellie looked back out toward the trees. Her hands were in her sleeves, fingers curled into fists.

“Every day I thank whatever’s up there that you didn’t.” He continued, his voice rough and bare. “But I still… I still think about it. Wonder what gave you the strength.”

Her throat felt like sandpaper. But the words came anyway.

“I wanted to,” she said. “I thought about it all the time”

“And I tried.” She swallowed. “A couple times.”

The wind shifted. The trees rustled like they were listening.

“But every time I got close…” 

Her voice caught. 

“Her face came back.”

Joel turned then. Really looked at her. Ellie was staring down at her knees. Eyes glassy. Mouth tight.

“I kept seeing her, I kept hearing her voice,” she whispered. “The last time. Crying. Begging. And I thought—I can’t do that to her again. I can’t be the reason she breaks twice.”

Joel didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“I didn’t survive for me. I survived for her.”

Her voice cracked on that last word. 

Joel felt it like a punch to the chest.

He thought—God. He’d seen a lot in his life. Too much for only one person. Wars waged in cities and kitchens, grief stitched into the fabric of every year. Love that rotted under pressure. Love that left. Love that wasn’t really love at all. 

But this?

This kind of love—this raw, surviving thing that crawled its way through wreckage and blood and spotlight and distance, and still had enough breath to whisper her name—undid him.

He had never seen anything like it. Not in his youth. Not in the world. Hadn’t even believed it could exist—something so unwilling to die, blooming out of the kind of ruin most people never crawl out from.

He looked at her. Really looked.

And there she was. This kid—his kid, not only by blood, but by fire and stubbornness—wrapped in bruises and a kind of aching devotion that still burned in her chest.

She hadn’t made it out unburned. But she’d made it. And it wasn’t faith or hope that had kept her alive.

It was love. Not the clean kind. Not the kind with fairy tales and forgiveness. The kind that shattered you and still refused to let go. The kind that whispered through inside her mind and said don’t. The kind that looked like her.

And for the first time in his life, Joel Miller believed in something he didn’t have a word for. He only knew that it looked like Ellie. And that it sounded like a girl who still loved her, even after everything.

His voice was thick when he finally said, 

“You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Ellie didn’t answer. Just lit her own cigarette and took a slow drag.

It started to become a kind of ritual.

Not planned. Not spoken. Just something that happened—every few nights, when the moon was sharp and the woods were quiet, Ellie and Joel would sit outside on the porch. Two chairs. A pack of smokes. Coffee gone cold.

And then they’d talk.

Not always about the heavy things. Sometimes it was about the deer tracks Joel had spotted near the tree line. Sometimes Ellie would mutter something dry about the government, and Joel would scoff like he hadn’t been the government at some point. Sometimes they’d sit in silence for an hour before a single word was said.

But when the heavy came, it always came honest.

“You ever think about music again?”

Ellie didn’t look at him. She was staring out at the trees. Smoking slowly, the cigarette cupped in her hand like it was sacred.

“Sometimes,” she said. A beat passed. “And then I stop thinking real quick.”

Joel learned, over these months, that Ellie didn’t move for pressure. She moved when she was ready. And sometimes, when the dark was soft enough, she was.

“It just… it brings me back,” she admitted, eyes still fixed forward. “To everything. The tour. The blood in my mouth. The drugs. The lights that felt like they were trying to kill me. The silence that came after.”

Joel didn’t speak.

“And also, she…she was my muse,” Ellie said, quieter now. “She was in the best things I wrote. The songs that people liked the most… every chord I played right. She was there. And now it’s like… I don’t know how to do it anymore. Like I forgot the language.”

Joel breathed in through his nose. Nodded.

“I read some of your journals,” he said gently.

Ellie stiffened.

“Only the ones you left open,” he added. “Didn’t go snooping.”

“You’ve still got it in you, kiddo. You’ve just buried it under the grief.”

Her throat clicked as she swallowed. Still wouldn’t look at him.

“Music’s a way out,” Joel said. “And a way through. It’s how you’ve always spoken. Even when you didn’t have words, you had that.”

Ellie closed her eyes.

“That girl you loved? I think she’d want you to make music again. For her. For you.”

That broke something. Not enough to collapse her. But enough to shift the weight.

She glanced at him. Eyes tired. Voice like gravel.

“I don’t remember how.”

Joel didn’t speak. He stood instead. Went inside. When he came back, he had it in his hands—her acoustic.

He held it out.

“Then we remember together.”

Ellie looked at it like it might bite her. Her breath caught.

“I can’t,”

“I’ll start,”

And he sat down, resting the guitar on his knee like it weighed less than memory. His fingers moved slowly, stiff from age, but so familiar. He strummed a slow, soft chord. Then another. The air shifted.

He played the opening notes of Wayfaring Stranger—old, worn, rooted in some deep Appalachian ache. Ellie’s breath hitched.

He nodded toward the space beside him. It was quiet.

Then she moved. Sat down. And her voice came.

Shaky at first. Rusted from silence. But real. Raw.

“I am just a poor… wayfaring stranger…”

Ellie didn’t cry. But when they finished—when the last note dissolved into pine trees and wind—she leaned her head on Joel’s shoulder.

Because in that moment, a piece of her soul returned.

A flicker. A chord. A bridge. A breath.

That night, Joel had gone to bed early.

He’d kissed her temple in passing, ruffled her hair like she was still thirteen, said something about needing to catch the sunrise. She smiled without answering, waited until his door clicked shut. Waited another twenty minutes, maybe thirty, counting the creaks in the old floorboards and the rhythm of his footsteps fading into sleep.

Then—quietly, carefully—she got up.

Her socks barely made a sound on the wood as she moved through the darkened house. The kitchen light above the stove still glowed like a nightlight. Outside, a late snow had started falling, brushing the windows with flurries that looked like static on a screen.

Ellie finally opened the door. Because tonight, something had shifted like thaw after a long, bitter winter.

The studio was still warm from the afternoon sun. The insulation held the heat. Her breath didn’t cloud the air. The soundproof panels still clung to the walls, dark and padded. The guitars hung where Joel had mounted them. The desk lamp was on, casting a low golden glow across the mixing board. And there, on the shelf, were her journals.

She walked to them.

Chose the one she hadn’t touched since she closed it, worn soft at the corners. The one with the sketch she’d done on day twenty-eight. Your back, your shoulders, that mole. The one she’d captioned with a line she didn’t even remember writing until she saw it the day before:

A kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder.

She sat. Flipped through pages of grief and ink-blotted apologies.

And she let herself feel it this time. The ache. The missing. The love.

And it wasn’t kind. It was raw. She remembered the way your voice cracked when you told her she was a liar. The way your hands trembled when you let her go. The last kiss.

Tears streaked down her face in silence. Her shoulders shook. Her chest cracked open, soundless and shaking, and she let the pages in her lap blur with salt.

Then—slowly—she pulled the guitar down from the wall. The acoustic one. Her first. The one Joel had taught her to play on.

Her fingers hovered for a beat. Then she strummed.

The sound came out warped, soft, imperfect.

But it came out.

She flipped through the pages. Pieced together verses from scribbled corners, from margins, from half-abandoned choruses. A line about her being hungry for your love with no way to feed it. A line about being too young to hold on and too old to break free and run. A line about you being the tear that will hang inside of her forever.

She built a melody. And when it felt right—when the bones of the song finally locked into place—she turned on the mic. The red light blinked once. Twice. Then held.

Her voice wasn’t what it used to be. It trembled. It cracked. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t powerful.

But it was honest.

And when she finished—when the last note hung in the air like smoke from a blown-out candle—she didn’t say anything. She just sat there. Breathing.

Then she saved the file.

lover_you_shouldve_come_over.wav

And after that, Ellie didn’t stop.

She lived in the studio like it was a second body—unwashed coffee mugs on the desk, blanketed in flannel shirts and cables. She slept on the floor most nights, curled up in half-buttoned clothes, a pencil still tucked behind her ear, dried ink smudged across her cheekbone like warpaint. She dreamed in melodies. Woke with her fingers still curled in phantom chords.

Sometimes she forgot to eat. Sometimes she forgot what month it was. Joel started leaving sticky notes on the fridge with things like Eat today or It’s Wednesday, dumbass.

All the songs were acoustic at first. Bare. Unadorned. Like bones washed up on a beach.

She wrote them from the wreckage—pages torn from old notebooks, grief tucked into the margins of rehab journals, fragments of lyrics she scrawled years ago when her hands still smelled like blood, whiskey, stage smoke and the perfume of five different groupies.

The studio felt wrong without Jesse and Dina.

Once, it had been chaotic—Jesse cracking jokes while playing the drums way too loud, Dina blasting bass lines over vodka-fueled all-nighters, all three of them arguing about reverb like it was life or death.

Now it was just Ellie.

Well. Ellie and Joel.

He sat in when she needed him. Plucked chords while she rewrote verses. Nodded or shrugged when she looked for approval. Sometimes he’d grunt out a melody while tuning and it would always be perfect, and she would curse him out like it wasn’t the best thing that happened to her all week.

They recorded Wayfaring Stranger together one night.

It was storming hard—rain on the roof like applause from ghosts. The cabin lights flickered once. Joel didn’t flinch. They sat with two old mics hissing soft static, the smell of rosemary in the air, guitars balanced in their laps.

Joel’s voice was cracked and low, worn-in like a denim jacket. Ellie’s was thinner, rawer, but sharp—cutting through the quiet like a blade through fog.

After the last verse, she lowered her headphones and frowned.

“That mic sounds like it’s dying, man.”

Joel kept tuning, didn’t look up. “It’s vintage.”

“It makes me sound like I’m stuck in the ‘70s.”

“You are.”

“I’m not! I’m—” She stopped. Tilted her head. “Actually… yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

She didn’t fight it anymore.

Joel’s music—his bare-bones honesty, his refusal to dress things up just to make them easier to swallow—it started to seep into her own. The way he played. The way he said something real and didn’t care if it sounded pretty.

She used to resent that. Spent years trying to polish the edges of his influence off herself. Now she understood. Now it sounded like home.

Then one morning, Joel walked in and said, “Happy birthday, kiddo.”

She blinked. “What?”

“It’s your birthday. You're twenty-five now.”

She’d forgotten.

She hadn’t left the cabin in over two years. Hadn’t seen anyone but Joel. Her hair was longer now, almost reaching her shoulders, uneven at the ends from the times she hacked at it with kitchen scissors. She never let it all the way down, always tied it up in a bun or a half updo. It wasn’t the messy mullet from before—it was softer now. Grown in. Like it had survived something.

Joel dragged her out. Said they were going for coffee in Jackson.

Incognito. Baseball caps, oversized jackets, sunglasses too big for their faces. He called her “Josh” the whole time. She scowled but didn’t correct him.

She clutched something in her coat pocket the whole time. A folded, yellowing page. It had phone numbers scrawled across it—names and addresses she’d written down when she was sixteen. Just in case she ever needed to reach someone. A page she never thought would matter again. 

But now, it felt like a compass.

“Can we stop at a payphone?” she asked quietly, her voice raw from too many takes and not enough talking.

Joel raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask questions. Just handed her some quarters.

The booth was cracked and rusty. It smelled like old pennies and rain. She shoved the page flat against the glass and started dialing.

She called Jesse first.

He picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

She almost hung up.

“...Hey,” she whispered. “It’s me.”

A silence. Then: “…Ellie?”

And then: “Holy shit—Ellie? Are you okay? Are you—”

“I’m alright.” She smiled, just a little. “I’m doing good, actually.”

“Jesus. Jesus, we thought you—Dina said—fuck, Ellie—”

She heard the shudder in his breath. The tears. She told him she was alive. That she was sorry. That she didn’t call because she didn’t know if she ever could.

He told her he’d been working with a few bands—nothing major, nothing that stuck, but enough to keep his hands busy and his heart half-healed. The Fireflies name still opened all the doors, even if it felt weird saying it out loud without her there.

"People still talk about you, you know. All the damn time."

Ellie didn’t know what to say to that.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, voice cracking, “I think about that show. The one where your amp blew out mid-set and you didn’t even flinch. Just screamed the whole damn chorus ‘til the crowd lost their minds.”

They cried together. Quietly. Like people who’d already cried a lot in private and didn’t need to explain why anymore. Then laughed about how fucked up everything was.

Then Dina. She picked up on the third ring.

She didn’t even said hello. She didn’t have to. Her gut feeling told her who called.

“…Ellie?”

Ellie nodded before realizing that it didn't translate through a payphone. “Yeah. Hey.”

The silence stretched for a second—then snapped.

“You asshole!” Dina was already crying. “You selfish, unbelievable—fuck. I missed you so much!”

Ellie laughed through her own tears. “I missed you too, D.”

Dina told her she’d been in Europe for months—spinning records in sweaty clubs, working late-night DJ sets in little places where no one knew her name or history. “I dyed my hair pink. I ate shit on a Vespa. I’ve been healing, I guess. Or fucking around. Same thing.”

Ellie grinned. Of course Dina was the one who turned grief into glitter.

“Sometimes I play Fireflies tracks,” Dina added, softer now. “Not full sets. Just… when it feels right. And every time I do, Ellie—” She stopped, breathed in. “The crowd goes still. Then they go wild. Like they’re remembering something holy. I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in our shows. Tears. Screaming. People grabbing strangers just to scream the lyrics together.”

That made Ellie’s stomach drop. Not because she wasn’t proud. But because it felt like looking in a mirror at someone who didn’t exist anymore.

The world hadn’t let go of her. But she didn’t know if she could ever go back to it.

“You still mean something to them,” Dina whispered. “You still mean something to me.”

Then—Ellie pulled in a breath. Deep and jagged, like it might get stuck on the way out. Her fingers found the last quarter in her pocket.

She didn’t need the crumpled page for this one.

Your number had never left her. Not when she was bleeding backstage. Not in the grey mornings in rehab when her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Not when Joel found her slumped against the studio wall, whispering lyrics like prayers to a God that couldn't even listen to them.

She could’ve dialed it blindfolded.

The rotary clicked under her fingers.

She pressed the receiver to her ear like it might hurt. Like maybe hearing you would split her open in a way she would never recover from.

It rang. Once. Twice. Then—

“The number you have dialed no longer exists.”

Static. Dead air. A silence so absolute it felt like the biggest punishment she had ever received.

Her hand hovered over the receiver. Then she slammed it down hard and tried again. Faster this time. Desperate.

“The number you have dialed—”

No. No, no, no.  

Her stomach caved in. Her lungs forgot what to do.

She didn’t move. Not for a full minute. Just stood there in the booth, wind pushing against the glass, her face slack and still. The receiver hung in her hand.

Her heart didn’t break loud. It didn’t explode. It sank. And when the tears came, they didn’t fall like before—not in storms, not in grief, not in the animal sobs of withdrawal.

A single tear at the edge of her cheekbone. Another clinging to her jaw. She didn’t wipe them away. She just let them slide, slow and steady, as if maybe they carried part of you. As if maybe they could make up for all the words she didn’t say.

She just wanted one second.

Just one second where she could hear your voice again.

She wanted to know if your hair was still the softest thing she had ever touched. If your laugh still cracked in the middle. If you still sang harmonies under your breath without realizing.

If you hated her. If you missed her. If you ever thought of her. If she haunted your music the way you haunted hers. If you still love her the same way she does.

She wanted to tell you she made it. That she didn’t die. She almost did, but she didn’t. That she didn’t want to anymore. Not since she started writing again. Not since she remembered who she was underneath the noise.

She wanted to tell you that you saved her.

Even if you didn’t mean to. Even if you wouldn’t care anymore.

She left the booth with her hands trembling from everything she did and could no longer undo.

Joel was waiting by the truck. He looked up when she approached, coffee gone cold in his gloved hands. He didn’t ask why she spent hours on that payphone or why she was crying.

When they reached the cabin, Ellie didn’t take off her coat. She didn’t speak. She just dropped her bag by the door, kicked her boots off half-heartedly, and went straight into the studio.

She sat down at the console and opened a fresh journal. Not one of the old ones—the wrecked ones with pages water-warped from blood and tears. A new one. Clean. Blank. Terrifying.

And she wrote pages and pages of lyrics.

She picked up the bass for the first time in over a year. The strings felt foreign beneath her callouses. Still, the weight of it grounded her—solid, real, unyielding.

She let it hum beneath her fingers. Slow at first. Then louder. Then louder still.

She played until her fingertips ached and stung raw, until the studio felt full again. Then she turned to the drum kit in the corner—still coated in a layer of dust like no one had dared touch it.

She didn’t know what she was doing. Didn’t care.

She wasn’t chasing perfection. She was chasing pulse.

She needed noise. She needed proof she was still here. She needed to fill the space before it swallowed her.

By morning, she had added basslines and makeshift drums to nearly every track. They were rough. Unpolished. Nowhere near what Jesse or Dina could’ve done.

But they were hers.

Joel found her in the studio one evening, back turned, sleeves rolled, headphones slung around her neck, mouth gently moving with the melody in her head. The soft glow of the monitors bathed her in blue, and he stood in the doorway for a moment too long, just watching. She didn't look twenty-five.

She looked twelve and thirty and ageless all at once.

He cleared his throat.

“You done?”

Ellie blinked, startled out of whatever place she'd been floating in, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. Think so.”

Joel stepped in, boots thudding against the wood. The place smelled like dust and coffee and burned wires—the scent of something born too fast and too bright.

“Mind if I—” He gestured toward the speakers.

She hesitated. Just a beat. Then reached over and hit play.

The room filled with her voice—unmistakable. Still raspy in places, sharp in others, but deeper now. Weathered. Like a field after fire. Still growing, but forever changed.

The first tracks bled in gently, acoustic at its core, but layered—drums like a distant storm, a bassline humming beneath it like a heartbeat.

And then—

Guitar.

Electric. Clean, furious, aching.

It slid in like it had been waiting all this time.

And Joel froze. Because that guitar wasn’t just good. Wasn’t just decent. It was her.

Not the kid who used to play for him on porch steps in Jackson. Not even the version of her who’d burned up on stages, who'd screamed into microphones like it could keep her alive and made magazines call her one of the greatest.

This was something else. This was someone who had crawled through ash and come out holding fire in her hands.

Some song sounded like heartbreak wrapped in honey. Others punched like fists through drywall. Others had violins and beats and sounds she found on the mixing board. And then came some solos—raw, wild, effortless. Like those fingertips still held the meaning of that second language she spoke when her lyrics didn’t find the right words.

She was holding the Les Paul again. The black one. The one she used to sleep next to during tour season, always afraid someone would steal it. It looked heavier now, older, like it had waited too. The final and most important piece of herself finally came back.

When the last song ended, Ellie exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the entire time.

Joel didn’t look at her. He just stared at the speaker, then shook his head a little.

“Jesus, kiddo.”

She glanced up, uncertain. “What?”

He turned to her. His voice cracked just once. “That’s the most heartbreakingly beautiful goddamn thing I’ve ever heard.”

She blinked.

“It’s so… you. Not you tryna be what people expect. Not you tryna prove anything. Just... you. In every chord. Every line. Your voice—hell, it sounds like it grew up with you. Got scarred with you. Got clean with you.”

“You don’t have to say that just ‘cause I’m your kid.”

“Ellie.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not sayin’ this ‘cause I’m your dad. I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I’ve heard a hell of a lotta music in my life, and none of it comes close to this. You got lightning in your blood. I ain’t just proud. I’m lucky. I got to watch a genius figure herself out.”

Ellie let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Genius, huh?”

Joel smirked. “Yeah. Turns out I gave birth to one.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

They both laughed. And then she stepped into him, forehead against his chest, arms curling around his waist.

“Thank you, Dad.”

He hugged her back, tightly. Like he’d been waiting for this moment longer than she had.

They stood there for a long time. No music playing. No words. Just the hum of everything that hadn’t been said over the years.

“So… what now?”

Ellie chewed her lip. Looked at the floor. Then finally back at him.

“I wanna come back.” Her voice was soft, but steady. “I wanna release the album. Independently. I mean, I doubt the label would touch me again. Not after everything.”

Joel tilted his head. “You let me worry about the label.”

“What?”

“I’ll handle it. When you’re ready.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You just keep doin’ what you do. Finish the tracks. Wrap it up right. When the time comes, we’ll put it out on your terms.”

“You’d do that?”

Joel shrugged like it was nothing. “Damn right. You think I’m gonna let the best thing I’ve ever heard rot on a hard drive in this cabin?” 

Something in her face cracked open. Not sadness. Relief.

“They will hear it, El. One way or another.”

And for the first time in years, future didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a door. She looked back toward the Les Paul, still slung against the chair like it belonged there.

Like it had been waiting.

But now, she was ready.

It was early, just after nine. The air still smelled like frost and wet asphalt. Ellie stood in the cereal aisle of the Jackson general store, her hoodie pulled low over her brow, fingers wrapped around the handle of a red plastic basket. She had a list Joel made folded in her back pocket: milk, eggs, bread, apples if they had the good kind. 

Joel had said it like a reward, “You’re ready. Just keep your head down.”

So she did. Josh. Quiet. Hoodie, sunglasses, sleeves pulled low over the tattoos that might give her away. Nobody recognized her. It felt kind of surreal, like pretending to be someone else was easier than being who she was.

The checkout line was slow, but Ellie didn’t mind. She liked watching people. A mom trying to control a sugar-high toddler. An old man counting coins like they were magic. The soft beep of the scanner. Life in motion. Life that wasn’t hers.

Then the cashier glanced up at the small, dust-covered TV mounted above the register. Volume low. A red banner on the bottom of the screen.

BREAKING: Eight-Time GRAMMY Winner Y/N Confirms Romance with Star Quarterback Abby Anderson

The cashier smiled, bagging a box of cereal. “I’m so glad that girl went through all that and still came out on top,” she said. “Good for her.”

Ellie turned to look. Just a glance. 

A mistake.

She had never felt her stomach drop like that in her entire life.

Not when the tour got canceled. Not when the pills ran out. Not even when she first realized she was in love with you.

This was different.

This was a freefall. No warning. No parachute. Just gravity dragging her heart straight to hell.

You.

You in a long velvet gown the color of midnight, standing beside Abby Anderson in a black suit with her hand on the small of your back. A camera caught you mid-laugh—head thrown back, eyes closed, glowing. The kind of laugh she used to get out of you when she whispered something filthy in your ear or caught you stealing her hoodie in the middle of a shoot.

But now—you looked different.

God, you looked different.

Your hair was darker. Longer. You stood taller, somehow. Not in heels, but in presence. Like the world didn’t get to touch you anymore unless you said so. There was something else too—an energy she couldn’t name. A kind of light that used to come from her. From the songs. From the love.

Now it came from somewhere else. Someone else.

The basket dropped itself from Ellie's hands.

It hit the ground with a clatter—milk carton bursting open, Cheerios rolling across the floor like gold coins. The cashier called something after her, but Ellie was already outside.

She barely made it to the truck. Door open. Head between her knees.

And then she threw up.

Right there in the parking lot gravel. Acid and coffee and guilt.

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and tried to breathe, but her chest was caving in. Not fast, but slow—like it had been waiting for this collapse.

She sat behind the wheel for twenty minutes before she could stop shaking.

Then she cried. Not loud. Not violent. A quiet, stunned kind of weeping—like the body trying to process a pain it didn’t see coming.

She couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe the way you looked. Couldn’t believe the world had been spinning like that without her. That you had became even more radiant and beautiful than she remembered—and she'd always remembered you like a wildfire.

She couldn’t believe she’d missed all of it. That while she was drowning in rehab and hollowing herself out into songs, you had survived. You had won eight grammys. You had become someone new. Someone braver. Someone who laughed like that with someone else’s hand on your back.

She leaned her head against the steering wheel.

She remembered how she used to trace every freckle on your shoulder like it was scripture. How you used to mouth the words to her songs before they were even finished. How you used to ask her what she saw in the stars when she couldn’t sleep.

And now she didn’t even know what time zone you lived in.

Ellie didn’t even park the truck properly. Gravel spit behind her tires as she slammed it into gear and killed the engine outside the cabin. She didn’t bother locking it. Didn’t bother breathing.

She threw the door open so hard it bounced back. The screen creaked, the wood groaned, and there was Joel—sitting at the kitchen table, tuning his old acoustic like nothing had happened. Like the entire goddamn universe hadn’t just exploded. Or at least, that's how ellie reacted.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” she hissed. “What the actual fuck,—why didn’t you tell me?!”

He didn’t look up. Just kept turning the peg. Calm. Steady. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb with me!” she snapped. “She’s with someone. You didn’t think that was something I should fucking know before I threw up outside the fucking grocery store?!”

Joel let out a long breath, one of those fatherly ones that said I’ve been waiting for this. He finally met her eyes.

“Ellie, don’t blame me for something you didn’t wanna see.”

She flinched.

“I’ve been just as disconnected from the world as you. We’ve both been ghosts in this cabin. You haven’t asked about her. Not once. You think that’s coincidence?”

Her fists clenched at her sides. Her jaw was ticking.

“You had months! You could have—”

“What?” he interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “Ripped the Band-Aid off for you? Showed you the picture and held your hand while you cried?”

Joel softened, his shoulders sagging. He wasn’t trying to hurt her. He never was.

“I didn’t keep it from you, kiddo. I just... didn’t go looking. Same way you didn’t. ‘Cause we both knew it’d hurt like hell when you saw it.”

Her throat was closing again.

“You don’t have drugs to drown it anymore,” Joel said gently. “Now you just have to feel it. Go to that studio. and don’t come out ‘til your voice is hoarse and your fingers are bleeding and you feel even a little bit better.”

Then added:

“You’ve got to learn how to go through your feelings. Not around them. Not under them. Through.”

Ellie didn’t say anything else. Just nodded once—sharply—and turned away.

The studio door slammed behind her like a warning shot.

She didn’t hesitate. Walked straight to the mic stand, flipped on the switch, and yanked the pop filter off like it insulted her.

She took a breath. One, two, three.

And then—

“ABBY ANDERSON YOU FUCKING BLONDE BITCH—”

The mic popped from the force of it.

“I’M GONNA FUCK YOU UP! I’M GONNA RIP YOUR STUPIDLY BIG FUCKING ARMS OFF AND USE THEM TO PLAY GUITAR BETTER THAN YOU EVER COULD—”

“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU AND THEN TEAR YOU APART AND VOMIT YOUR GUTS AND THEN SHOVE ‘EM BACK DOWN YOUR THROAT— YOU STUPID FUCKING QUARTERBACK BITCH—YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO THROW A BALL—”

Her voice cracked. She coughed. Then screamed again.

“YOU THINK JUST ‘CAUSE YOU HAVE A FUCKING JAWLINE AND A PANTSUIT AND AN ARM AROUND HER WAIST THAT MAKES YOU WORTHY? SHE WAS MINE, YOU FUCKING JOCK STRAP, SHE STILL FUCKING IS AND YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW—”

Her knuckles were white on the mic stand. Her voice went hoarse halfway through the next sentence.

“You don’t even know her,” she gasped. “You don’t know what she sounds like at 3 a.m. when she can’t sleep. You don’t know how she takes her fucking coffee. You don’t know that she sings when she’s nervous and cries when she’s mad and tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s about to lie and—”

And for the first time in almost three years, Ellie let herself mourn.

Not just you. Not just Abby. Not just what she saw. But all of it.

The missed years. The songs she never sang to you. The poems she burned. The way she’d clutched her sobriety like a gift she didn’t know what to do with. The way she thought maybe—just maybe—you were still holding her somewhere in your heart.

Joel didn’t sleep that night.

He heard everything through the studio wall—every scream, every screech of distorted guitar, every thundering kick drum and rattling snare. The bass bled through the floors like an earthquake held at bay. It wasn’t music, not at first. It was fury in waveform.

Ellie had started with a scream. He heard it cut the silence like a blade—sharp, ragged, gut-deep. And then came the noise.

Something harder than anything Joel had ever known. Harder than Slipknot. More brutal than Judas Priest. Louder, darker, filthier than anything she’d played before. Like metal had swallowed electronic and spit it back out in flames. There were no lyrics for a while. Just shrieking static, guttural breaths, beats that hit like punches, and one hellstorm of a guitar that sounded like the devil himself was grinding his teeth.

Then silence. Long, unsettling silence.

Then it started again. A different track. This one still metal—but now it was a song. A real song. Drums and guitars and layered vocals screaming over themselves, a wall of sound so thick Joel could barely tell where Ellie’s voice ended and the instruments began.

She had to go through it. And this—this was her going through it.

He made coffee at midnight and sat by the window with the lights off, listening. Hours passed like waves.

Around 4 a.m., the tone shifted.

The third track started and Joel didn’t need lyrics to feel the grief in it. Her voice was still screaming, but it was breaking, too—splintered and raw, almost childlike in its desperation. There was no rhythm. Just pain.

The fourth was slower. Quiet. A heartbeat on bass, distant guitar like wind through broken glass. And Ellie’s voice—barely a whisper now—singing something that sounded more like an apology than a song.

The fifth was melancholic. But still powerful. It had piano, brittle and off-key. And one line that sounded like it had been wept into the mic:

I know someday you'll have a beautiful life. I know you'll be the star in somebody else's sky. But why, why, why can't it be—

Why can't it be mine?

That last word stretched long, then the note broke in a painful scream.

Joel waited another hour, just to be sure. Then he stood, stretched his aching back, and walked to the studio.

Inside, Ellie was sitting on the floor, knees tucked to her chest, fingers resting on the neck of her black Les Paul like it was a lifeline. Her face was blank. She hadn’t slept. She didn’t look up when he entered.

“What did you do?” Joel asked gently, voice low.

She didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the wall. Then, after a long pause, her lips parted.

“I made five songs.”

“That makes thirty. Album’s supposed to release in two months, right?”

She nodded.

He reached over, gently took the flash drive from the interface, and plugged it into the old studio computer. The screen flickered, files loading.

Custer. A Match Into Water. Twilight. Undressed. Black.

He listened to them all. Quietly. No commentary. No judgment. When the last track ended, he leaned back in the chair and exhaled.

“Did I just listen to the five stages of grief?

“Yeah. They’re in order.”

He looked at her, not as her mentor, not even as her father—but as someone who knew what it meant to be broken and still build something out of it.

“You made it.”

"Yeah." She scoffed bitterly. “But do I look like I feel better?”

Joel shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting. “No. But you made it through your feelings. And that’s what matters.”

Another pause. Then—

“I’m proud of that.”

Ellie looked at him for the first time. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin pale, but there was something behind it—something still alive.

“Are you gonna add them to the album?”

“Yeah. They’re going in.”

Two months after the studio lights in Jackson dimmed, after Joel made the calls and opened the doors she thought had rusted shut, Ellie flew to New York .

It was strange being back—the metallic taste of smog, the haunted trace of fame hanging in the air like a perfume she didn’t want to wear anymore. But the studio Joel had found for her was perfect. Private. No flashing lights. No label execs breathing down her neck.

Just a producer who’d been given the raw files and said, after the first track, “This doesn’t need much. It’s already bleeding.”

They touched the recordings gently—leveled the vocals, pulled back the fuzz, let the breath between words stay. They didn’t try to smooth her edges. They let her sound jagged. Real.

And then one morning, without a countdown or a photo or a press release, without so much as a tweet from her long-dead accounts, Ellie Williams released her first single. With her own name. The name she wasn’t afraid of, not anymore.

It dropped into the world like a bomb in a library.

No promo. No interviews. Just one link. One song. No explanation.

And the world collapsed.

Within twelve hours it was number one in sixteen countries. Within twenty-four, it was the top-streamed track on every platform. People played it in clubs and churches and funeral homes. They called it sacred. They called it the second coming of Jesus.

And all of it takes us here.

To you.

Your breath left your body like a blade had been driven straight through your sternum—slow, silent, clean. No gasp. No warning. Just the kind of pain that doesn’t scream because it’s too old, too deep, too familiar.

You stared at the screen in Rachel’s hand.

#1: Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Ellie Williams

And your world cracked open.

Your fingers—those same fingers that once traced the shape of her spine like it was sheet music—trembled violently as you handed the phone back. Not a word. Not a whisper. You didn’t wait for Rachel’s face to fold into sympathy, didn’t hear her call your name, didn’t care how loud the room suddenly felt.

You walked through it like a ghost already halfway gone. Past the laughter. Past the questions. Past the life you had rebuilt with such careful and wounded hands.

You made it to the car before you could shatter.

The door slammed shut behind you and the silence inside rang louder than any applause you’d ever received. Louder than the Grammys. Louder than the sold-out stadiums. Louder than Ellie's voice at its prime.

The keys slipped into the ignition with muscle memory. The city rushed around you, its usual chaos blurring at the edges—streetlights dripping gold down your windshield, a world still spinning like it hadn’t just gutted you. Again.

You took the stairs instead of the private elevator because you needed the punishment.

Each step a question you couldn’t answer. Why didn’t she call? Why now? Why? When? How? Why? When? How? Why? When? How? Why? Why? Why?

You unlocked the penthouse like you’d done a thousand times. Like you hadn’t spent the last three years turning it into a mausoleum. You opened your bedroom door with hands that had once held her. Locked it behind you with the kind of finality that made silence gasp.

Everything was exactly the same. The bed still made the way she used to do it—crumpled, uneven, like someone had loved and left in a hurry. The chipped mug still sat on the desk. Her hoodie was still in the drawer. You told Abby it was just an old favorite.

But you were a liar.

You sank down onto the bed, and the mattress sighed under you like it had been waiting a lifetime to catch you in this moment.

Three years of silence. Three years of holding your breath. Three years of wondering if she was dead in a hotel bathtub or recovering or in a deserted island or lying on some stranger’s floor with a smile that wasn’t yours. Three years of clawing your way through grief while the world watched and speculated and fed on the pieces.

And now she was just here. No context. No warning. No apology.

And all the feelings you thought you had buried—beneath Abby’s calmness, beneath champagne and shows, beneath the chaos of returning to the spotlight—came crawling back like they’d been living under your skin this whole time.

You didn’t leave your room for a week.

The curtains stayed drawn. The phone stayed off. The only thing you ate was a handful of grapes you didn’t remember buying and some cereal, and the only time you spoke was to whisper “Ellie” in your sleep like a secret your soul never stopped keeping.

Everything felt exactly like those weeks after she left—when the world went mute for her and louder for you and every morning felt like a nightmare you couldn't wake up from. You thought you’d moved on, that you had grown, that you had gotten better. That no sorrow would ever be bad enough to keep you in bed again. But grief doesn’t age. It just waits.

The days passed like a open, bleeding again wound. And then it was Friday.

And you had dinner with Abby.

Because you always had fucking dinner with fucking Abby.

So you got up. Got in the shower. Tried not to cry. Failed. Got out. Tried not to look in the mirror. Failed. Tried to do your makeup like nothing had happened. Cried. Removed it. Started again. Cried again. Removed it. Started again. Until it stayed, barely, through the trembling of your hands.

You wore the black dress she liked. The one that fit too well and showed too much cleavage and said too little. You showed up on time. You smiled. You pecked her lips. You laughed at her jokes—too loud, too long, too late.

When she slid the velvet box across the table, you already knew. Diamond tennis bracelet. Flawless cut. Another gift you didn’t ask for and couldn’t wear without thinking this doesn’t belong to me. But you said thank you. Let her put it on. Let her beam like she’d won something. 

Later, at the hotel, you let her undress you. Let her kiss you. Let her believe your moans are real. Let her fill the silence where your soul used to be. Let her touch your body while your heart sat elsewhere.

And before you knew it—

Her strap was buried deep inside you. Abby’s breath was hot against your throat, shallow and frantic, like she was trying to chase something she didn’t realize had never been hers to chase. Her hands gripped your hips tight—anchoring, claiming, desperate—like if she held on hard enough, she could keep you here.

And for a single second, you closed your eyes.

And she was there.

Not a thought. Not a memory. A presence. Immediate. Intimate. Crushing.

Her face flashed behind your eyelids like lightning. 

Her eyes—green and wild and sharp, burning like fire. Her hands—calloused and careful, etching into your skin like they’d carved your body from the inside out. Her voice—all smoke and wreckage, echoing through your chest like a song you will never stop humming.

She filled the dark like a storm surge, rising fast, drowning everything else. 

Ellie. Ellie. Ellie. Ellie.

And then Abby moved. Shifted just enough. Angled herself in a way that once used to make you see stars—back then, back with her.

And your body betrayed you.

A single wrecked, loud enough word.

It rose from somewhere deep—below thought, below shame, below breath.

It wasn't your mouth who said it.

It was your heart calling out the name of the only one who ever owned it.

“Ellie!”

Time didn’t slow—it stopped.

You froze.

Abby stilled.

The air turned solid. Heavy. Like the word had cracked through the drywall, the ceiling, the night. Like the word had struck both of your spines, straight and sharp, paralyzing something deep inside.

Then, without saying anything, she pulled out.

Rose to her feet like she was finally waking from a dream she didn’t want to admit was never hers.

And started getting dressed.

Like this—you—had always been temporary. Because you moaning that name—Ellie—wasn’t just a slip. It was the last drop. And the glass was already overflowing.

“Abby—fuck, fuck, I’m sorry! I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to what?” she snapped, but her broad back stayed turned. “To moan your ex’s name while I was inside you? Fucking spare me.”

“I’m just—” you sat up, reaching for the sheet like it could save you “I’m going through a lot lately, and I—”

She spun around.

“Stop lying!”

You froze.

“You think I don’t hear you whisper her name when you sleep?” Abby’s voice trembled now, edged with a hurt so sharp it cut through the air between you like broken glass. “You think I don’t hear you crying in the shower? That I don’t see how you stare at the gifts she gave you like they are relics?”

Her eyes burned into yours, “You think I haven’t caught you reading her letters at three in the morning, fingertips tracing every fucking word? Or replaying your old videos together when you thought I was asleep?”

Her voice dropped to a harsh whisper, each word laced with accusation. “You think I don’t see how you choke up and cry on stage when you sing the songs you wrote for her?”

Every sentence landed like a blow, striking harder each time, the truth cutting deep into your bones.

And that's when it hit you: Abby had always known. Every single moment, every quiet sob, every desperate memory. She had just been waiting for this moment. For you to slip and finally say Ellie’s name out loud in front of her face.

“Look, I don’t know what the fuck happened between you two,” she said, anger rising up like bile, “But I am so goddamn done being treated like I’m stupid.”

“I care about you,” you whispered. “I really do.”

She stepped forward.

“But do you love me?” she asked. Her voice didn’t rise. It dropped. “Because I do love you. And you never once said it back.”

“I...I feel the same way.”

She stared.

“Say it.”

“Abby…”

“Say that you love me.”

“I—I care—”

“Say. That you. Love me.”

And then, brokenly—

“I… I can’t.”

The silence after was worse than screaming. Abby’s jaw clenched. Her nostrils flared. And for a second—just a second—she looked like she might cry. But she didn’t. She blinked too quickly, like she was trying to trap them before they reached the surface.

“You are so fucking pathetic,” she said, barely louder than a breath—but it hit like a punch straight to your chest. “Biggest popstar in the world, and you still can’t get over your ex.”

She let out a dry, humorless laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “We are so fucking done. Go and write a damn stupid song about it.”

You swallowed hard. Met her eyes with a calm that didn’t come from peace—it came from truth.

“Oh, Abby.” You almost smiled. Almost.

“I will never write a single song about you.”

And that was the kill shot.

Without another word, she grabbed her coat. Walked to the door. And slammed it shut behind her. The sound echoed through the room like an aftershock.

You didn't flinch. Just stood there in the wreckage—still naked, the bracelet still gleaming mockingly on your wrist, the name Ellie still burning in your throat like acid you couldn't swallow.

The sheets beneath you were soaked in sweat and guilt and the ghosts of everything you had tried to bury. The air in the room felt thick, sour, heavy with everything left unsaid, unhealed, undone.

And then it cracked. The numbness. The performance. The lie. A tremble in your shoulders. A shallow inhale. The whisper of something fragile beginning to splinter.

Then it broke wide open.

You collapsed back onto the bed like your spine couldn’t hold the truth anymore. Your knees curled into your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like maybe you could contain it—but there was no containing this.

You cried.

Not for Abby. You barely thought about her now. Her voice, her touch, her anger—all of it already evaporating, disappearing into the static.

You cried for Ellie. For your Ellie.

The one who held you like her life depended on it. The one who touched you like you were the last song she’d ever play. The one who called you baby in the dark, who kissed you with apologies on her tongue, who broke and rebuilt you with the same pair of hands a million different times.

You sobbed for every second you spent convincing yourself you were fine. You weren’t. You never were.

Because you still loved her. With every part of you. With every scar she left. With every lyric you wrote, and every lyric you never dared to write.

And no matter how many cities you conquered, no matter how many stages screamed your name, no matter how many diamond gifts Abby clasped around your body—you never moved on.

And now she was back. Back.

Her name trending in every country. Her voice spilling from every speaker like a memory you never asked to remember.

And she hadn’t called. She hadn’t written. She hadn’t even fucking tried. Maybe she never would.

That was what broke you most. Not her silence. But the fear that it might last forever.

That she had healed. That she had closed the door you kept propped open with grief.

You screamed into the pillow. Bit down so hard you tasted blood. “Fuck you, Ellie!” “Fuck you for coming back and still staying gone.” “Fuck you for writing a song and not sending it to me.” “Fuck you for loving me and ruining me and leaving me.”

You cursed her. And then you cursed yourself. “Fuck me for waiting.” “Fuck me for still loving you.” “Fuck me for pretending I ever stopped.”

Tears soaked the pillow. Your wrists shook. Your breath came ragged.

You wanted her to disappear again. You wanted her to knock on your door. You wanted her to scream your name back.

You hadn’t listened to the song. 

Because if it was about you— If her voice cracked in that familiar way, if she said the things you never stopped needing to hear, if the guitar curled up into that shape only she knew how to play when her fingers were on your skin—It would kill you. Utterly. Unforgivably. Like the day she left.

And if it wasn’t about you? If she had given that voice, that intimacy, that love and pain to someone else? That would kill you in an even slower, impossibly more merciless way.

So you cried until your body gave out. Until your limbs went numb. Until your voice went hoarse from whispering the name that wouldn’t stop haunting your lips and your soul.

And a week later, Ellie released the album.

No warning. No press tour. No album rollout meticulously planned by agents in pastel offices. No teaser posts, no pre-saves, no comeback photoshoots in designer jackets that never felt like her. No features. No thank-yous.Just a thirty tracks posted at midnight.

The Shape Of What I Lost — Ellie Williams

The title alone was enough to break the internet.

No one had heard from her in three years. Just speculation, whispers, one single grainy shot of her walking into Joel’s truck with her hood up. Some thought she’d quit music. Others thought she was dead. Some hoped she was. Fame was like that. Fickle. Devouring.

But the truth was simpler. She hadn’t vanished. She had been bleeding. Recovering. Building something unbearable and beautiful out of everything she could no longer say out loud.

When the album dropped, the planet collapsed. Twitter imploded. TikTok went silent for a full hour. Journalists pulled all-nighters trying to write about something they didn’t understand. Critics used words like “devastating,” “seismic,” “a once-in-a-generation exorcism.” People stayed up all night listening. And crying. And relistening. And crying again.

But Ellie didn’t care.

She didn’t care that it was number one in thirty-two countries by sunrise. Didn’t care that it broke records previously held by people she used to idolize. Didn’t care that everyone was calling it a masterpiece. Because the only thing she cared about—the only number she was waiting for—was one. One stream.

Yours.

She didn’t care if the album was played a billion times. If that billion didn’t include you, it meant nothing. Because it was for you. Every bridge and breakdown and backmasked lyric. She didn’t even try to be subtle. She wanted everyone to know. She wanted you to know. 

That she had never stopped thinking about you. That she had never stopped writing about you. That she had never stopped loving you.

But she hadn’t listened to your album either.

She knew it existed. Joel told her over coffee a week ago, voice low like it might hurt to say out loud. He said it was called Supernova. Said you dropped it two years after her disappearance. Said it was brutal. Brilliant. Said it sounded like someone trying to build a cathedral out of ash. She never asked to hear it.

Because the thought of you pouring your voice into songs she would never be able to respond to—of hearing her name in a melody meant for closure, or worse, not hearing it at all—was something she didn’t think she could survive. 

So she stayed away from it. The same way you stayed away from hers. Two people too afraid to open the door, even when the key had always been each other.

Until one night.

You couldn’t sleep. The air in your LA penthouse felt sharp, like memory had a scent and it was everywhere. You lay on the floor of your bedroom, the same room that had held your rebirth and your ruin, clutching your phone like it was going to detonate.

In the same hour, across the country, Ellie was parked in Joel’s old truck. The windows fogged. The night holding its breath. The city lights flickering like your name spelled out in Morse code.

You both pressed play. At the same time. Without knowing. Without planning.

Thirty songs each. Thirty lifelines cast into the dark.

You listened to The Shape of What I Lost alone, in the dark, your body curled under the weight of the silence you had built around her name. The moment the first track started, something inside you snapped—not cleanly, not even loudly. It broke in slow, silent fractures, like a mirror spidering beneath a fist.

And then there she was.

Her voice was raw, unfiltered, unfinished in the most intimate way. It wasn’t studio-perfect. It was real. It was midnight and sweat-soaked sheets and breathless arguments and love too big to name. You heard her unravel in real time—angry, apologetic, addicted to you and terrified of hers. She didn’t hide behind metaphors. She let the truth bleed straight through the verses.

She sang about the way she left. The way she never stopped dreaming about you even when the drugs made dreaming unbearable. The night she almost didn’t wake up. The days she didn’t want to. The guilt that wrapped around her ribs like wire. The things she never said, and the way it ruined her voice when she tried to say them too late.

She sang about what addiction took from her: the music, the meaning, the way she could no longer hear a melody without seeing your face at the edge of the stage. She sang about you. In screams, in whispers, in sounds that didn’t even feel like language anymore.

And across the country, she was sitting in the dark, too.

And when she finally pressed play on Supernova, she exhaled like someone about to break a lifelong silence.

You came back in pieces. Your voice, your breath, the way you used to talk in the morning before you remembered the pain. She heard her own name buried in the harmonies—disguised, bent into rhyme, tucked inside the melody like a secret you still weren’t ready to say aloud. But she knew it. She recognized the shape of it. The ache of it. And she realized: every song you had released since her had been a love letter you were too proud, too shattered, too human to send.

And now, hearing it, she wept.

In the truck. One hand on the wheel. The other pressed to her mouth like she could hold the sound in, like crying out loud might summon you by accident. Each lyric was a wound she’d forgotten she had. Each chorus a reminder of the love she once held like a match between her fingers.

But what was the point? you were with someone else now.

Meanwhile, you were falling apart in your bed. Your face buried in your hands, the sheets damp with tears that had waited years to be cried. Your body curled like it had been struck. You weren’t just crying—you were keening, the kind of sound that only comes from love that was never buried properly.

Every line she sang brought you closer to the edge of yourself. Because now you knew. She had never stopped loving you. She had never stopped writing about you.

But what was the point? she never reached out.

You had both lived in silence, and that silence had been filled with thirty songs. Each.

Two albums, born in isolation. Two solitudes. Two hearts that beat like they were trying to find their way back through lyrics alone. Sixty tracks total. Composed in built in studios. Written in grief, carved out of silence. Sung through cracked voices and saltwater lungs.

Released not with fanfare, but into a void. At a time when the world had stopped looking for your faces. When the lights had dimmed on stages you once ruled. When both of you believed—quietly, privately, bitterly,  that the world had already moved on.

Forgotten you. Forgotten her. Forgotten both of you. Forgotten what you were together.

But the songs remembered, and they never stopped waiting. And for the first time in three years—you were both listening. To the truth. To each other. To what was never lost.

And maybe it was too late. Maybe too much had happened. Too many years. Too much silence.

But for those sacred, fragile two hours, you were both listening

To each other.

And to the love that never died, only waited to be heard.

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࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ Damn… Collide Nation, are y’all.......breathing...? I’m not exaggerating when I say this was the hardest chapter I've ever written; I immersed myself in documentaries, interviews, and extensive research because I desperately wanted to portray how genuinely heartbreaking and devastating addiction truly is. know this chapter was intense—maybe even shocking, painfully raw.

To anyone sensitive to these themes: please know I approached this with absolute care and respect, ensuring it remained realistic, grounded, and never exploitative. Your well-being matters most to me, so my DMs and inbox are always open if you need someone to talk to. I’m here for you. ♡

see ya'll May 30th for the FINAL part, stay tuned ;)

[vunblr]

Toy Soldier (part 5)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags and Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Smut. Canon-Typical Violence. Dark Content: Sexual Assault Wounds (Bucky). Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Mentions and depictions of Non-Con (both characters as victims).

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 7.3k

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The next day, she messaged Sam, asking if he could stop by her house before the briefing. His reply came quickly, surprised but agreeable, suggesting a time two hours before the meeting. When the knock finally came, she took a deep breath, bracing herself for whatever reaction he might have.

She opened the door to his familiar, easy smile, but the knot in her stomach didn’t ease. “Hey,” he greeted casually, stepping inside when she gestured for him to come in. “This feels serious. What’s up?”

She led him to the couch, motioning for him to sit. Her palms were clammy, and her fingers twitched slightly as she sat across from him. “It is,” she admitted, “And... I need you to hear me out before you say anything.”

That wiped the smile from his face. Sam leaned forward and clasped his hands loosely between his knees. “Okay. I’m listening.”

She inhaled deeply, and then, she started. From her life before Hydra -her simple, ordinary life in the 60s- to the day everything changed. The kidnapping. The endless, suffocating years as a prisoner, a tool. Her voice faltered as she described the barest surface of what she’d endured and what she’d been forced to do regarding the Winter Soldier. She tried to keep the focus on herself, omitting the details that might betray Bucky’s privacy, but it was impossible to completely separate their pasts.

Sam listened without interrupting, his expression shifted with every new revelation: concern, disbelief, pity, before being replaced with something softer. Compassion.

When she finished, she let out a shuddering breath, slumping her shoulders. “I’m sorry I never told you anything about... this. For giving you my manufactured past. For lying to you about who I am.”

He shook his head immediately. “Don’t apologize for that. It’s your story, and it’s yours to share whenever you’re ready. Or not at all. I get why you didn’t say anything. Hell, I can even understand why the government kept it locked up.” His gaze softened, leaning back slightly. “But it doesn’t change a damn thing. I never doubted our friendship. Not for a second.”

Relief bloomed in her chest at his words. She managed a small smile, twisting her fingers nervously in her lap. “Thank you, Sammy”.

Sam nodded, and then his expression grew thoughtful. “So... that’s why Bucky knew you couldn’t heal yourself?”

“Yeah.” She gave a short, almost bitter laugh. “The information was never given by Hydra to him, but there were... moments. Times when he saw me.” Her eyes drifted downward. “And I guess he connected the dots. If I could heal myself, why would I walk around for days with a bruised lip, or limping?”

Sam exhaled slowly, his brow furrowing. “Damn.”

She nodded, tightening her hands together. “Yeah.”

“And... I didn’t tell you this either,” she hesitated, twisting her fingers in her lap. “Bucky and I... we’ve been seeing each other. After Poland.”

Sam’s brow quirked, a small, curious smile tugging at his lips. “Oh?”

She exhaled, searching for the right words. “Just... reconnecting. Or connecting. I don’t know exactly what to call it yet. Our relationship -if you can even call it that- back then didn’t precisely involve normal conversation over coffee.”

He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “So, the Winter Sulkier talks to you over coffee?”

That drew a chuckle from her lips, lightening the tension in the air. “Yeah. I mean, he’s more of a listener most of the time, but yeah, he talks.”

Sam’s smile softened as he observed her, but she dropped her gaze to her hands again, and her expression turned more serious. “Thing is... he was here yesterday when you called me about the mission. And when I mentioned Argentina and a large crew heading there...” She paused, tightening her fingers together. “He got all worked up. I think he intuits there’s something to do with them.”

Sam’s expression darkened, and his easy demeanor faded. He shook his head slowly, dropping his gaze to the floor. “He isn’t wrong.”

Her chest tightened at the confirmation, but she continued. “He left immediately after that. Told me to talk to you about... us.” She hesitated, then added, “And, that he’s coming.”

Sam let out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. “Of course he did.”

“I tried to tell him it wasn’t his decision to make,” she said quickly, “But…”

“-there’s no stopping him,” Sam finished with a faint shake of his head, a flicker of exasperation in his tone. “Yeah, I know.”

----

Sam drove them to the briefing at the DHS Strategic Operations Center, a heavily-secured government facility that handled covert international assignments. The building loomed large, with its sleek gray façade and high-security checkpoints manned by armed guards.

To her surprise -or not-, when they entered the briefing room, Bucky was already there, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. He looked calm, but the tension in his posture told her otherwise.

Sam quirked a brow at him, gesturing vaguely toward the entrance. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Bucky just stared at him in response, with an unreadable expression.

“Seriously, man,” Sam pressed, muttering something under his breath, shaking his head as he took a seat. She, on the other hand, couldn’t help but smile faintly at him, though the knot of worry in her stomach hadn’t eased.

The room began to fill with agents and operatives, and a few heads turned toward Bucky, with flashing recognition across their faces. It was clear that having both the Winter Soldier and the Falcon in the operation was a major bonus for the mission and a point of fascination for everyone in the room.

She slid into a chair beside Sam, sneaking a glance at Bucky, who had claimed a spot near the corner of the table. He caught her eye briefly, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them.

“Looks like the government’s thrilled to have their star players,” she murmured under her breath to Sam.

----

The room fell silent as the operation leader stood at the head of the table, pointing to a digital map of Ushuaia Province projected on the wall. “As suspected, there’s an active Hydra facility in the region. Thanks to intel provided by Argentina’s military forces, we’ve identified its exact location. It’s heavily fortified, with multiple levels of security and a significant number of personnel. Resistance is expected to be strong, and casualties are a possibility.”

The words hung heavy and foreboding between the crew.

“As we continue,” the leader said, turning toward her, “your role is crucial. Due to the expected resistance, we need you on the field, embedded with a group of agents. Your abilities may be needed in the heat of the fight. Even some casualties won’t be avoidable, your presence could make the difference between life and death for many of our operatives.”

Bucky’s body tensed immediately, snapping his sharp gaze to the leader. He didn’t wait to be addressed, didn’t wait for permission to speak. “No,” he said firmly, his voice cut through the room like a blade. “I don’t agree.”

The leader’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Excuse me?”

Bucky straightened from his spot, squaring his broad shoulders. “Sending her into a live combat zone? With Hydra? It’s a mistake. She doesn’t belong on the front lines, she belongs somewhere safe. She can work from a plane or a secure location if you need her. Putting her directly in danger is reckless.”

She could feel the weight of his words pressing against her like a physical force, but her focus was on the leader, not him.

“Barnes,” the leader started, “with all due respect, this isn’t your call-”

“No, but it’s common sense,” Bucky cut in, hardening his voice. “If things go south, she’s the one they’ll target first. Do you really think they wouldn’t recognize her? That they wouldn’t know what she can do and what she’s worth to them?”

Her heart clenched at the words, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she stood, scraping her chair softly against the floor as she rose to her feet.

“Enough,” she said sharply, interrupting him.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and his gaze snapped to her, but she didn’t look at him. Her eyes were locked on the operation leader, unwavering and resolute.

“I’m in,” she said firmly.

“You don’t-” Bucky’s voice carried a mix of frustration and concern, but she turned to him before he could say more.

“I said I’m in, Bucky,” she repeated, in a softer tone this time but no less determined. “This is my choice.”

The room was silent again, the tension thick in the air as the leader gave her a small nod. “Good. Then we’ll move forward as planned.”

Bucky’s hands flexed into fists at his sides, but he said nothing more. She could feel his eyes on her, the weight of his disapproval and concern, but she didn’t falter.

This was her fight too. And she wouldn’t let anyone -not even him- take that from her.

The operation leader continued detailing the roles while pointing to the screen. “Barnes, your job is to breach and clear one of the facility’s entrances. You’ll be working with a tactical unit to infiltrate and eliminate the immediate threats on the perimeter.”

Bucky crossed his arms, flexing a muscle in his jaw. “I’ll go with her team.”

The room collectively turned to look at him, as the team leader narrowed his eyes in displeasure. “That’s not your assignment.”

“Well, I’m making it mine,” Bucky said, sharp and unwavering.

Sam let out a low scoff, raising a brow at his partner. “You’re just great at following orders.”

Bucky shot him a sidelong glare but ignored the jab, turning back his attention to the leader. “Let’s be honest,” he said, his tone bordering on cocky. “I’m the best asset you’ve got going in there. If she’s on the field, it makes sense for me to stay close. She makes sure I keep going, and I’m the one who can get her out in one piece.”

The leader leaned forward slightly, clearly distressed by the audacity. His hands fell flat on the table. “You’re overestimating your authority here, Barnes. This isn’t a solo mission.”

“I’m not saying it is,” Bucky replied “But if something goes wrong, I’d rather she have me at her back than anyone else.”

Another agent, seated further down the table, cleared their throat. “With all due respect, Sergeant Barnes, you’re probably not the one who’d need her help. You’re a super soldier. You’ve got advanced healing, stamina, and the works. If she’s in the field, she’ll be more useful to the non-enhanced units who’ll be taking the brunt of the fight.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue but stopped short. He knew she was right, as much as he hated to admit it. He didn’t need her assistance. He wanted her nearby for reasons that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the protectiveness that burned in his chest.

His jaw tightened again, but he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, forcing himself to back down. “Fine,” he muttered, though the word sounded like it was dragged out of him.

The operation leader’s gaze lingered on Bucky for a moment longer before he turned back to the room. “Then it’s settled. Everyone knows their roles. We leave in three days. Dismissed.”

As chairs scraped and the room began to clear, Sam caught up to Bucky near the door. “So, what’s the plan now, guard dog? Gonna give her a tracking device or a leash?”

Bucky shot him a look that could kill. “Not now.”

Sam grinned, unbothered. “Just saying, man. You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Bucky ignored him, drifting his gaze to where she stood by the table, gathering her things. She glanced up, catching his eye, and offered a small, reassuring smile.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He might not be able to stay by her side during the mission, but one way or another, he’d make sure she came out of it safe. Even if it killed him.

----

They didn’t see each other again until they boarded the plane. She spotted him immediately, seated at the far side of the hold, inspecting one of his many weapons with mechanical precision.

Bucky was fully geared up, every inch of him screaming Winter Soldier in a way that made her chest tighten uncomfortably. His tactical suit, dark and imposing, seemed like it was made to swallow him whole, to erase every ounce of humanity she knew was there. Knives, pistols, ammo, -there were more weapons strapped to him than she thought possible-, and Sam, seated nearby, muttered under his breath as he caught sight of him.

“Jesus, Buck,” he quipped, leaning back in his seat with an incredulous look. “Where do you keep all that? Got a secret pocket dimension you haven’t told us about?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t even glance up, focused on the rifle in his hands as he loaded it with a meticulousness that bordered on obsession.

She hesitated before sitting down, diagonal to his, close enough to see the taut lines of his jaw and the cold set of his features. He was somewhere else entirely, locked inside his head in a way that made her stomach twist.

Her fingers tapped lightly on her knee as she debated. Eventually, she mustered the courage to try and break through the wall he had so obviously put up. “Bucky,” she started softly, testing the waters.

He didn’t look at her. “What?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said curtly and dismissive.

She tried again, leaning forward slightly, lacing her tone with a touch of warmth this time. “You’ve been quiet since the briefing. I just... wanted to check in.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said flatly. He finally looked up, but it was brief, just a glance before he turned back to the rifle.

She bit the inside of her cheek, and the pang of melancholy deepened. He was shutting her out, retreating into himself in a way that felt impenetrable. She wanted to say something more, to push through the wall he’d built around himself, but every clipped answer was like a door slammed in her face.

Eventually, she leaned back in her seat, slumping her shoulders slightly. Sam, catching the shift in her demeanor, leaned over and nudged her gently. “You good?”

She gave him a tight smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. Just... tired.”

Sam didn’t press further, but his gaze flicked between her and Bucky, knitting his brows together in thought.

The hours of the flight passed in uncomfortable silence. She stopped trying to talk to Bucky, resigning herself to the fact that he wasn’t in a place to let her in. Instead, she found herself leaning on Sam, who kept the mood light with his casual banter and stories, though she knew he could see the strain on her face.

----

After 22 long hours of flight, the group finally arrived at Ushuaia, skipping any rest stops and heading straight to the location marked on the map as the Hydra facility. The biting -7°C temperature hit them the moment they stepped off the plane, but no one said a word. Adrenaline and focus were locked firmly on the upcoming assault.

As the team deployed, spreading out to take their positions, she adjusted the straps of her gear, ready to follow her assigned group, when she felt a hand wrap around her forearm, halting her steps.

It was Bucky.

Before she could say a word, he gently tugged her closer, his steel-blue eyes piercing through the dim light of the icy morning. Without hesitation, he dipped his head, resting his forehead lightly against hers. The gesture was intimate in a way that caught her completely off guard.

“Stay safe, doll,” he murmured, barely audible over the wind. His other hand slid to her lower back, a solid and steadying touch that sent warmth spreading through her chest despite the freezing air. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, it felt like time had paused around them.

Before she could respond, he pulled back, slipping his hand from her back as he released her. The touch lingered like an imprint on her skin, a phantom sensation she couldn’t shake.

He gave her a small, firm nod, and then turned, walking away to take his position. She stood frozen for a moment, her heart racing and her thoughts spinning in a blur. She didn’t notice the tiny tracker he’d deftly pressed onto the back of her jacket, concealed in one of the seams.

She exhaled deeply, shaking her head as she regrouped with her team. It was only after they began their cautious advance toward the Hydra’s den that she realized she hadn’t said anything back.

----

Bucky's moves were methodical and relentless, bordering on terrifying. His rifle barked sharp bursts of gunfire as his entry key. The initial resistance barely had time to register what hit them before he had breached their defenses with precise and purposeful shots, clearing the way with deadly efficiency. Once inside, the rifle was slung across his back, and he transitioned to pistols, twin bursts of fire that cut through the dimly lit hallways.

When a close-range ambush came at them, he didn’t falter. A knife was in his hand before the first attacker could barely move, and the blade moved in a blur as he parried, slashed, and dropped him in seconds. His other hand went for another approaching assailant, and the dull thud of his fist meeting flesh sickly reverberated down the hallway. The third guy went down with a savage elbow strike to the jaw, that sent the man crumpling against the wall.

The facility was a maze, and he navigated it with an almost preternatural awareness, dispatching any Hydra remnants that dared to cross his path.

Behind him, his team could barely keep up. “Does he even need us?” one of them muttered under their breath, clutching their assault gun tightly as they followed, watching Bucky tear through Hydra’s defenses like a one-man wrecking crew. They focused on providing cover and securing the areas he left in his wake, though it felt almost redundant.

He wasn’t reckless, he was purposeful. Every move was efficient, calculated like a finely tuned machine operating at full capacity. And beneath that precision, was a driving force, a singular thought that fueled him: finish this, finish it fast, get to her.

He turned a corner into a wider room where a group of agents had set up a defensive line. Their gunfire erupted the moment they saw him, but he was already moving. His body twisted as he sprinted toward them, weaving through the barrage with inhuman speed. A flash grenade from his belt bought him the split second he needed to close the distance. When the deafening pop and blinding light cleared, he was in the middle of their formation.

One went down with a knife to the gut, another with a pistol shot to the temple. The third tried to grapple him, only to be met with a swift blow from his vibranium arm that sent him sprawling. Bucky didn’t stop. His fists drove into ribs and jaws, his knives carving through the last line of resistance like it was nothing. Blood splattered onto the cold floors, and the once-deafening room fell silent except for his steady breathing.

The radio on his team leader crackled. “Barnes, status?”

“Clear,” he grunted, wiping the blade of his knife on his sleeve and sheathing it in one fluid motion. His team moved in behind him, sweeping the room as they murmured amongst themselves about the inhuman force of his assault.

He barely heard them. His mind was already elsewhere. His heart was pounding, not from exertion, but from the worry that ate away at him. The sooner his end of the mission was done, the sooner he could ensure she was safe.

----

As Bucky cleared the last room in his assigned sector, he took a final sweep, ensuring no hidden threats remained. The bodies left in his wake weren’t his concern, only the safety of his team, and more importantly, her. So he turned around and started walking away.

He moved like a shadow through the corridors, silent and methodical, operating on pure instinct. The tracker he’d slipped into her clothes pulsed steadily on his HUD, leading him through the labyrinth of sterile hallways and flickering overhead lights. Hydra never changed, their bases were practically carbon copies, and he used that to his advantage, cutting through shortcuts only an old ghost like him would know.

Gunfire crackled in the distance, shouts echoing through the steel walls, but none of it mattered to him.

He picked up the pace as he neared her location, tightening his grip around the pistol in his flesh hand, his vibranium fingers twitching in anticipation. Then, finally, he reached her sector.

The sight before him sent a cold fury ripping through his chest.

The fight was still ongoing and it was clear her team was barely holding on. Some were down, some wounded, and the rest were outnumbered. But Bucky’s eyes only locked onto one thing: the asset trying to restrain her.

She was struggling. He could see the way her limbs lagged just a second too slow, the way her stance wavered ever so slightly, she was exhausted. She’d burned herself out healing the others, and now they were trying to take her.

The bastard restraining her was big, armored, and clearly enhanced. Bucky already knew the type, one of Hydra’s modern knockoff attempts at recreating him. The man had his arm locked around her middle, wrestling to subdue her, while his other hand reached for a syringe strapped to his vest.

Bucky didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

His pistol fired once. Clean, direct. The bullet punched through the asset’s wrist, making him snarl and drop the syringe before he could use it.

Before the man could react, Bucky was already on him.

The Winter Soldier resurfaced with brutal efficiency. He grabbed the man by the vest and threw him off her like a ragdoll, sending him crashing into a nearby crate. The asset barely had time to groan before Bucky was on him again, landing a punishing strike to the ribs, then another to the jaw.

The bastard recovered quickly, swinging at Bucky’s head, but he dodged with ease, catching the incoming arm and twisting sharply. The asset howled, but Bucky silenced him with a savage punch that sent him sprawling.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

He didn’t stop until the man stopped moving.

When he finally turned, he found her staring at him, breathing hard. Her hair was disheveled, her face marked with sweat and dirt, but she was alive.

Still his.

High on adrenaline, Bucky turned toward the dantesque scene unfolding around him. Her team was struggling, pinned down by the remaining opposition, outnumbered and exhausted.

So he moved.

The first man barely had time to register his presence before Bucky’s knife found his ribs, twisting with brutal precision. The second one lunged at him, and Bucky let him, sidestepping at the last second and slamming his elbow into the man's throat, crushing his windpipe. They kept coming but the room was cleared in minutes. Efficient. Lethal. Over.

His feet carried him forward before his brain even fully registered it, his hands reaching for her the second he was close enough. He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her tightly, his chest rising and falling against hers as he tried to steady himself.

His face found the crook of her neck, and he inhaled deeply, calming himself with her scent. She was real, she was safe.

She was trembling, whether from exhaustion or leftover adrenaline, he didn’t know. Didn’t care. He just held her tighter, curling his fingers into the fabric of her tactical gear, pressing her against him like he could shield her from everything.

He didn’t speak. He just held on, waiting for his heart to stop hammering, for the instinct to fight, to kill, to protect, to settle into something quieter.

He didn’t let go. Not yet. Not for a long while.

----

She let him hold on, basking in his unrelenting grip. But as the minutes stretched, something felt wrong in her chest, a creeping worry she couldn’t shake.

“Bucky,” she breathed against his ear, trying to pull back just enough to see his face.

He didn’t answer.

Her hands skimmed over his back, searching for wounds, for anything out of place. “Bucky, are you hurt? Let me see you.”

Nothing. No response. If anything, his arms locked tighter around her.

She leaned back slightly, shifting her hands to his face, ready to insist -look at me, talk to me- but then she saw it.

The empty stare. The idle, blank eyes she knew too well.

Her stomach dropped.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, gentle but firm. She inhaled deeply before trying. “Soldat?”

A barely-there shudder ran through his body. His grip twitched, tightening before loosening just the slightest bit.

She swallowed hard. She knew exactly where he was, adrift in the space between past and present, somewhere dark, somewhere cold. She cupped his face,  sweeping her thumbs over the sharp lines of his cheekbones. “Listen, everything is fine now. We are safe, you did good. You can rest.”

Her breath hitched as his grip slipped down and tightened around her thighs, and the world tilted violently as he hoisted her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

“Soldat-” she started, but he moved with single-minded purpose, boots echoing heavily against the bloodstained floor as he strode down the corridor.

The others tried to move after them, with evident concern. “Stand down,” she called over her shoulder, her voice firmer than she felt. “Don’t- don’t interfere.” Because if they do…

They hesitated, but obeyed, exchanging wary glances as the two disappeared around a corner.

“Soldat,” she tried again. “Put me down. I’m fine. Where are we going?”

No answer. Not even a flicker of recognition. His grip remained firm, arms locked around her legs, his vibranium hand pressing against the small of her back to keep her steady.

The hallways blurred past in a dizzying, all-too-familiar pattern. He knew where he was going. Of course he did. Hydra never changed their layouts, never altered their twisted efficiency.

And then he stopped. A metal door loomed ahead, slightly ajar, the faded remnants of a red cross still painted on its surface.

The infirmary.

Before she could speak, he shoved the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside. She staggered slightly as he set her down “What are you-“

But he wasn’t listening. Not really. He pressed his back against the door, sliding down until he sat on the cold floor with one bent knee and the other stretched out. His head tilted back against the cold metal with a dull thud, and his eyes flicked shut for just a second before snapping open again. His chest rose and fell in deep, measured breaths. His gaze landed unfocused somewhere in the distance.

She took a cautious step forward, lowering her voice. “Soldat?”

His fingers twitched.

The only thing she could think to do was play along. Her pulse hammered in her throat, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. First, she pressed a hand to her comm, switching to Sam’s channel. Keeping a steady voice, she whispered, “Sammy, I’m fine. My side of the facility is clear, but there’s… a complication with Bucky. My teammates will fill you in. Just don’t come looking for us. Please. I need you to make them understand.”

There was a long pause, before Sam’s voice finally came through the crackle of static, lower, graver than usual. “…You sure about this?”

Her gaze flicked back to Soldat, watching the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, coiled like a spring. She swallowed hard. “Yes. Let me handle it.”

Another pause. Then, a resigned sigh. “Alright. But if you need backup-”

“I’ll let you know.” She shut off the comm before he could argue, pushing the outside world aside.

----

She clasped her hands in front of her, standing straighter, adopting the crisp authority she’d seen Hydra’s handlers use a thousand times before.

“I need a mission report.”

His fingers twitched again. His gaze flickered -just slightly- but it stayed distant, unfocused, locked somewhere behind her rather than on her.

A long beat of silence.

Her stomach clenched.

She took another step closer. “Soldat,” she repeated, keeping her tone firm but even. “Mission report. Now.”

His jaw worked, and a slow inhale expanded his chest.

“…Facility neutralized.” The words came rough and automatic, like a reflex. His voice was lower than usual, mechanical, like the syllables were pulled from his throat against his will. “Threats eliminated.”

She swallowed. “And my status?”

His breath stuttered slightly. His fingers flexed, curling into loose fists before releasing.

“Secure,” he said after a pause.

She exhaled quietly, steadying herself.

Her mind raced for the next step. She couldn’t just order him out of this. She needed to guide him back. She took a slow breath, crouching down to his level, careful not to make any sudden movements. “Good,” she murmured. “So… mission’s over now, right?”

Another twitch. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

She hesitated, then reached forward, brushing featherily his vibranium knuckles. No sudden moves. No pressure. “Remember what happens when a mission is over? You let me check on you and I get you all better.”

He hesitated. His brows knitted together as though sifting through fragmented, conflicting commands buried deep in his mind. But then, after a long, tense beat, he gave a single, curt nod.

A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding slipped from her lips.

“You did good,” she said again, keeping a reassuring voice. “Go sit on the stretcher and let me see you.”

He stood immediately at her command, a well-oiled machine running on deeply ingrained instinct. With precise, practiced movements, he removed his rifle, his sidearm, and every knife tucked into his gear. Each weapon clattered softly onto the nearby tray, in a quiet, chilling symphony of steel.

Then, without hesitation, he stripped away his tactical vest, shrugging out of it like armor no longer needed. His Henley followed, baring his torso under the harsh, sterile light of the infirmary. His skin was streaked with sweat and blood. The deep, ugly wounds carved into him were the only indication that he wasn’t invincible.

He sat on the stretcher with squared shoulders and rested his hands on his thighs as he stared ahead. Silent. Waiting.

Her breath hitched when she saw the extent of the damage. Two large-caliber bullet wounds, one grazing his ribs, the other embedded deeper near his shoulder. A deep stab wound on his side, red and angry. The blood had slowed to a sluggish trickle, but the damage was undeniable.

She inhaled heavily, steeling herself, knowing she was running on fumes. She had drained so much of herself in the fight, trying to keep others alive, trying to be useful. But she couldn't stop now. Not when he was in front of her, hurt because of her.

Her hands hovered over the worst wound, shaking slightly before she forced them to steady. Focus. Do what you have to.

But as she pressed her glowing fingers to his skin, and the warmth of her power seeped into his body, another weight settled over her. Guilt.

He came here because of her.

He got hurt because of her.

And worst of all… his mind was slipping, because of her. Regressing into something she wasn’t sure she could pull him back from. She choked on a sob, and her vision blurred as she fought to keep her hands steady, mending his torn flesh.

The sound made his jaw tick, and something shifted in his expression. Slowly, he turned his head to her, knitting his brows together as he took in the sight of her tear-streaked face. His gaze flickered toward the door -searching, assessing-before settling back on her.

The hesitation flickered in his usually unwavering demeanor. Then, with a slow movement, he lifted his flesh hand and cupped her cheek.

“Why?” he rasped, his voice was rough, uncertain.

That made her sob harder, but she didn’t stop mending him. She leaned into his palm, pressing her cheek against the warmth of his hand as she sniffled, trying to regain control of herself.

“S-sorry,” she managed, her voice unsteady.

“You are always sorry,” he countered, in a neutral, almost observational tone.

Something about the way he said it made her pause. It rang a bell. The Soldat never spoke to her before. Not when they dragged him into the med bay, not when she pleaded with him to respond in those stolen moments of quiet, not when she whispered apologies he couldn’t acknowledge.

But this wasn’t Bucky either, not completely. This was a fractured version of him, a Soldat pulled from the depths of his mind, not the same hollow shell she remembered. He was speaking to her, processing things in a way he never had before. How much of him was in there? How much did he understand?

“It seems so,” she conceded, in barely above a whisper, more to herself than to him.

He studied her, tilting his head slightly, the way he used to when something puzzled him. “You should stop before the handlers come in here,” he said, not harshly, but matter-of-factly, as though it was the most natural conclusion.

Her heart clenched. His mind was caught in the past, in a time when her presence at his side had always been followed by pain, by orders, by unseen eyes watching their every move.

She forced a small, steady breath, keeping her hands moving as she knitted his skin back together. “There are no… handlers here,” she said softly, keeping her tone careful, controlled.

His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t argue. His thumb brushed absently over her cheek, like he was still trying to place her, to make sense of the moment.

She swallowed hard. “Do you know where you are?”

He blinked, and his eyes flickered toward the corners of the room as if searching for cameras, for listening ears. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter, like he was telling her a secret.

“I know I was sent to retrieve you,” he admitted. “You are the one who fixes me. Always do.” A pause. “You shouldn’t be talking to me. I know what happens to you every time you talk."

Her throat closed, and suddenly, it felt impossible to breathe. A sharp twist of nausea coiled in her stomach, memories slamming with brutal force. Her hands trembled slightly where they pressed against his wound. “No one is going to come,” she whispered.

His brow twitched. His head tilted slightly, and his eyes scanned hers, as if searching for something, truth, deception, an explanation that made sense in the fractured landscape of his mind.

“They always do,” he said again, quieter.

She swallowed hard and lifted a trembling hand, resting it lightly against his jaw. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips. “Not this time, radnój,” she murmured.

His breath stilled.

His flesh hand, still cradling her cheek, stiffened slightly before his grip loosened as if he wasn’t sure whether to hold on or let go.

The endearment shocked him. That word had never been meant for him. He had heard it before but never directed it at him. His fingers flexed uncertainly against her cheek. She always had spoken to him before -soothing words in hushed tones, quiet reassurances when no one was listening- but never this.

His brow creased, and his gaze searched hers as though trying to make sense of it. “You don’t-” The words caught on his lips, and he shook his head slightly. “You shouldn’t.”

She exhaled shakily, brushing her thumb over his jaw in soft defiance. “I do.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his features. Soldat did not hesitate. But something about her -about this- was pulling him somewhere he didn’t understand.

“…Why?” he finally rasped, in a quiet, rougher tone.

His eyes searched hers, as a storm of confusion and something else swirled in them. His hand still hovered near her face, as if caught between instinct and reason.

“Did I overstep?” she deflected softly.

His gaze dropped, and the furrow between his brows deepened. “No,” he mumbled after a long pause, almost contemplative. “I just don’t… understand.” His brows drew together further, and his expression was caught somewhere between confusion and something deeper, something close to longing, buried under years of conditioning.

She took a slow breath, before carefully asking, "Is it okay to hug you?"

She and Bucky hugged a lot, usually with him being the one to start the embrace. But this man in front of her was not entirely him, not yet. And she wasn’t sure if Soldat would welcome such physical contact.

He blinked at her, and the hand in his thigh tightened briefly before loosening again. His brow creased in thought, like he was trying to decipher a foreign language. Hugging. That wasn’t something that belonged in his world. Contact had always been a means to an end: restraint, punishment, control. Not this.

She waited, patient and open, making no move to force it. Just offering.

Finally, after a long beat of silence, he gave the smallest nod.

Carefully, she leaned in, moving slowly, telegraphing every motion as she wrapped her arms around him. He tensed at first, but she didn’t pull away. She just held on, warm and calm, resting her cheek lightly in the top of his head.

His breath shuddered out of him, and after another beat of hesitation, his metal arm came up around her. Not crushing, not desperate, just holding her.

It was different from Bucky’s embraces. Bucky clung, seeking comfort he didn’t know how to ask for. But Soldat? This was uncharted ground. He wasn’t seeking, he was discovering. Testing the weight of the contact. Trying to understand why something so simple could feel so foreign.

She squeezed him just a little, in silent reassurance. “See?” she murmured. “Safe.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t let go either.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, wrapped in silence. She felt his chest rise and fall in measured breaths, as if he was trying to calibrate the sensation of being held. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested against her back, flexing as if testing their own freedom to move.

She exhaled softly, rubbing slow, deliberate circles against his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, so much of it, always there, always braced for the next order. But no command came this time. No mission awaited.

“You can let go if you want,” she whispered, though she made no move to pull away. “But you don’t have to.”

His grip tightened, just barely. A silent answer.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, just enough for his forehead to ghost against her temple. The breath he released was deep and measured, like he was recalibrating himself against her presence.

She closed her eyes. This was Bucky, somewhere underneath, even if his mind was still tangled in old wires. And if she had to be his tether back to himself, she would be.

“I’m here,” she murmured, not expecting a response.

But after a moment, barely audible, he rasped, “…I know.”

She leaned in just a fraction more, tilting her head so their foreheads pressed together, brushing her nose against his. A barely-there touch, light as a whisper. He was so still, caught somewhere between the past and the present, between instinct and something softer. His vibranium hand flexed at her waist. She whispered his name. Not Soldat, not a title, just his name. A soft reminder. His grip on her tightened, slightly curling his fingers into the fabric of her clothes. His breath became uneven and shallow. “I know,” he murmured again, in a rough, almost pained tone. He didn’t let go. And neither did she.

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, wide and uncertain. The flickering light overhead cast shadows over his face, deepening the exhaustion etched into his features.

“I need to keep taking care of those wounds, hm?” she murmured softly, gentle as the touch she brushed along his back.

“Later,” he rasped, slightly tightening his grip at her waist.

She sighed softly, ghosting her fingers over his temple, pushing back a stray strand of hair. “I know you’re in pain, just-“

“And you’re drained,” he cut her off, tightening his jaw. His voice dipped lower, rougher. “Always… drained. Always crying. Always good. Even if I don’t deserve it.”

There he was again, stuck in the past, tangled in guilt and old wounds that refused to close.

Her heart clenched, but she didn’t let go. Didn’t move away. Instead, she cupped his cheek, brushing her thumb just beneath his eye.

“You deserve kindness,” she said firmly. “You always have.”

He turned his face slightly into her palm, as if hiding from the weight of her words. “…I don’t believe that,” he admitted.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, tightening her fingers against his skin. “Then let me believe it for you.”

Slowly, cautiously, she leaned in.

His breath hitched and his fingers flexed against her back, but he didn’t move away. Didn’t stop her.

She hesitated just before closing the distance, stopping her lips a whisper away from his. A silent offering, not a demand. He could pull back. He could reject it.

But he didn’t.

His grip on her tightened ever so slightly, barely perceptible, but she felt it, the smallest tug, a subconscious need.

So she closed the gap.

The first touch of her lips against his was featherlight, hesitant. The kind of kiss given when neither person was sure if they were allowed to have it. When the past weighed too heavy, when the present was too fragile.

He stiffened at first, as if his body didn’t know what to do with the warmth, real warmth. The softness of her lips against his, the tentative press of her fingers against his cheek, all of it felt foreign, too delicate for someone like him. But then, something in him cracked. His fingers curled against the fabric at her back, then tightening his grip and for a second -just one second- he leaned into it.

Then a sharp inhale. A shudder. His grip twitched, his body went rigid again, and she felt it, felt the exact moment the weight of too much history, too much instinct, too much them came crashing down.

She pulled back immediately, searching his face. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, his breath shallow. His lips parted, as if trying to form words but finding none.

She gently stroke her thumb along his cheekbone. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re okay.”

His throat bobbed, and his fingers ghosted at her waist, barely touching, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. His gaze flicked down, lingering on her lips for the briefest moment before darting back up to her eyes.

Then, barely above a whisper, rough and unsure-

“…Again?”

A request. A plea. A fractured man grasping at something good, something warm, something he never thought he could have.

She smiled softly, before leaning in once more, giving him exactly what he asked for.

Next Chapter

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Dividers by @/strangergraphics

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

I was wondering if you could do a batfam x isekaid neglected fem reader. I only read one so far and I NEED more 😔👉👈

I love this ask !! Been wanting to write one :D

summary :reader comes from a post - apolyptic world where mankind was wiped out due to nuclear warfare and deadly disease . suddenly she is awaken in a world where humanity is thriving yet this weird family behaves so strangely toward her??

I coughed my lungs out - it's been exactly 498 days since my lungs have tasted oxygen . My restless body trudge on - I keep moving - keep moving despite the sore blisters on my feet that pulse and bleed with every step I take.

I don't know where I am - I don't even know if there's anywhere to go anymore - all there is is ash and yellowish fog that cover the land as far as the eye can see. I groan - throwing up bile - I grimaced as my body wasted water so unnecessary .

I was like an ordinary kid - I went to school and came home one day to a news reporter saying there was no school for two weeks - I was so blissful - no more tests for me ! Oh how much I wish to go back - those two weeks were the dawn of a nightmarish hell.

A sudden infection began spreading rapidly on a international scaling and due to poor government decisions - it continued developing , our population began depleting and there was no cure left .

Governments argued back and forth , the people rioting, and sooner than later, the world we knew fell apart . Suddenly there was no more electricity, no more running water and few surviors began to worry.

I remember vividly - ma and pa hugging me before departing with the elders to the nearest cell tower miles away in an attempt to reconnect with humanity. It was on that God awful day - I witnessed a giant flare descend into the blue skies of Alaska and touched down onto the distant cell tower with a loud explosion .

The explosion engulfed everything in its fuery, and what it hadn't burnt it had blown away and covered the skies in a perment yellow fog.I remember screaming , crying out their names helplessly I waited at that abandoned shelter for months - naively awaiting their arrival, but they never came.

Helpless , I was forced to move on without them . Now, as I trudge through ash and fog , I feel my legs give away beneath me, and I feel myself come crashing down onto the ashy floor . I choke and helplessly bang against the ground as a war cry escaped me .

No ! NO - I refuse to end it like this - I refuse to go like this - not when I haven't figured out what happened to my ma and pa - not now . I feel my lungs closing in on me as if someone has grown tired of this chapter and decided to cut the story shut.

I greedily inhaled like a drowning man , my lungs give way, and it's then my eyes flutter close for the last time.

Name awakes - her eyes met by blinding light . Immediately, she closes her eyes - her head throbs in retaliation, and she groans as she curls herself into a fetous position - a pathetic attempt to shield herself.

A long sullen moment passes before name finally grasps the situation she is in - she is alive - when she shouldn't have been . She jolts from the bed - eyes frantically as she intakes her surroundings. Her room is a luscious rich blue - it has dark oak furniture that definitely screams money .

This is not her room - not even remotely - she distinctly remembers her old room having soft pink walls filled with posters of all her nerdy things but here - this room is too dull - to void of anyone living in it.

A knock is heard on the door and name watches in horror as the knob turns , the door opens to reveal an elder male in a tux ? Name is taken aback - exactly where is she ?.

"Master Name, you missed breakfast, so I brought it for you " . Name tilts her head in confusion . Why would anyone miss food ? Food is something sarce and critical- it's precious and it's not meant to be wasted - whoever body this is surely was stupid.

Name nods her head . " Thank you ...." She trails off, realizing she doesn't know who he is whatsoever. The elderly man raises an eyebrow at her , " Alfred madam," he finishes. Name nods - taking that name to memory . " Thank you Mister Alfred," she thanks as she graciously accepts the food. Alfred excuses himself - leaving her to her own devices .

Name hops off her poster bed and waddled her way to the nearest window and sure enough the outside world looks that of her own before the incident - before life ficked everyone over and took ma and pa away from her.

Silent tears roll down her face , hands scrunched against the window sill tightly- she swore she would reunite with them no matter what. After staring into the neighboring houses for a long minute , name returns to her bed and shovels the scrambled eggs in her mouth.

Name no longer questions if her food is poison, slat on or cursed - after all food is food - it is a blessed and sacred resource that she will happily indulge in. Moments pass before her door is barge open again - this time so loud it collides with the door harshly, almost snapoingbit in half.

An angry child ? She assumes storms up to her , face red . " Name how dare you skip out on breakfast do you think k of yourself above us all ?" The child accuses her , pointing his sword at her.

Name immediately kicks him , square in the chest - sending the boy clashing into the expensive hairdresser . Name states at him and then her foot eye wide - it's only natural her body reacts that way - it's how any wounded animal would if threaten .

So why does this bratty child look so disturbed ? Suprised ? The child begins screaming his head off and another adult walks in and embraces him. Name feels herself choke up - how can anyone possibly get so close to another without risking catching the disease ?

Name holds her stance - clearly, these people are psychos and have no regard to anyone’s safety . " Name how dare you kick him he's just a child" the adult ? Starts berating you but you held your fork in front of you - tightening your grasps around it .

"Leave or I will impale you with this" name threatens darkly - leaving no room for hesitancy - only confirmation of their damnation if they dared to cross her . The adult states in her eye wide and opens his mouth, but you are quicker . You swiftly leaped from your bed and launched the fork at the adult full speed , ensuring you rolled the opposite way .

The adult barely dodges. " Name what the fuck-" They curse but you were already out the door. You had to get away from these psychos they're too loose - they're too idiotic.

Name is halfway out a door when a much older man grabs her by the shoulder and spins her around . Name stares at him - all she feels is the dread building inside her akin to the time the dread she felt when she witnessed her parents' demise. Whoever it is grabs her by the shoulders harshly and puts his face in front of hers - immediately making her feel small . The elderly man glares at her before demanding her , " Name exactly what do you think you're doing ?"

please like + share + comment !!!

sorry if this is short this was written at 1 am

[astraeus-tree]

Chapter 3

『The Dark Sea Gets Deeper As You Approach』

Disparities Between Our Souls You're forced to make some decisions you'd rather not do and have a bittersweet goodbye with your aunt Disclaimer(s): N/A

Chapter 2 <- Chapter 3 -> Chapter 4

The silence of the comms held countless unspoken words that piled up over the years you were gone. It was finally interrupted by Cass’s voice.

“As in our [Name?]” Her voice was full of disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Where are you. Damian could hear the urge and hope in her voice through the comms.

“I’m on a rooftop near their aunt’s house. They’ve just gone in with the other supposed-hero and the rogue.”

Finally, Damian heard the sound of Dick’s voice through the comms. “Robin, stay there and follow them if they go out. I’ll come over after dealing with some stuff in Bludhaven. Oracle, alert B when he comes back from his mission with the JL.”

“Copy.” Both Damian and Barbara replied.

“I’m coming over Robin.” Cass spoke up again, determination laced in her voice.

“Red Robin.” Dick called out.

“Yes?” Tim’s voice sounded surprised, like he had been lost in thought.

“You’re in charge of finding any information about [Name] and their partner.”

“On it.”

Throughout the whole conversation, many members of the group stayed quiet. Amongst these people was Jason Todd.

Jason had many regrets, more than he could count. Yet, one his biggest ones was his relationship with you. When you had gone missing, Jason was devastated. He was forced to confront his feelings. Forced to realise how his actions had caused you more harm than protect you, like he intended.

Those who had the misfortune of going against him the first few of your disappearance had instantly regretted it, but they did not have the pleasure of being granted mercy by the crime lord.

He thought he had finally accepted this outcome—you were gone, never to be found and you two would never have the chance to reconcile. This surprise turn of events had disrupted this mindset of his.

Jason didn’t know what to feel. On one hand, he finally had another opportunity to reconnect with you. On the other, he didn’t know how to go with his new-found chance. Clearly, you were not the same person you once were. Not the old [Name] who didn’t have any fighting knowledge. It almost made Jason laugh at how similar you and him were, but this wasn’t the time for that. He had a decision to make, to got or to not, and he had to make it quick.

The three of you of you had been at this for what seemed like hours at this point.

With such little tools and no idea why they were even broken in the first place, no progress had been made in fixing the gizmos. At times like this, you wished you were half as resourceful as Hobie Brown, but unfortunately, neither you, Miguel or you aunt were.

With it still being the middle of the night, you decided it was best for your aunt to get some rest. You did eventually persuade your aunt to go to rest, but not without some reluctance and white lies that you’d also go to sleep soon.

It was now only you and Miguel—excluding the anomaly— in the living room of your aunt’s. The silence made you uneasy, like something would pop out of the dark corners and scare you. With your adrenaline finally coming down from its high, you were left to deal with the overwhelming emotions that it left in its wake.

Mentally, you recounted the events that had occurred in just the past few hours; firstly, you were unexpectedly dropped into your home universe with no way to return to where you were before. Then, you and Miguel find an anomaly. You were ready to open the can of worms this knowledge came with so you moved on. Finally, you met your aunt after not being able to see her for 5 years, a seemingly invisible force stopping you every time you had attempted before.

So many emotions coursed through you that you honestly didn’t know how to feel.

Another problem to add to your pile was your family. You knew it was inevitable for your family to find out about you and your new identity, in fact, they probably already knew you were here, but you just weren’t ready to face them. Your habit of avoiding confrontation was always weakness of yours.

You wanted to stay away from them as much as you could. It wasn’t that you hated them, it was just that you grew to live a life without them and had almost completely forgotten what it was like to be with them and you wanted it to stay that way.

You decided to focus your thoughts back to the gizmo. This was your priority, not avoiding your family. You needed these gizmos working, stat. You and your husband had a HQ to run and an anomaly to send back to its universe.

Speaking of the HQ, hopefully it was doing alright without its leader. “Miguel, do you think the HQ is doing well?”

He nods. “Lyla’s most likely already informed the others of our disappearance. She can handle most of my responsibilities, and those that she can’t will be handled by Spiderwoman and, regrettably, spiderman.” You sighed, you knew you could trust Lyla and Jess with those responsibilities. Peter, maybe not as much, but hopefully the others will keep him in line. “Our main concern right now is to get our gizmos working again so the anomaly can be sent back.”

You felt defeated. All you had was a lack of new discoveries, useless tools and broken gizmos in your hands. Your train of though was interrupted by a familiar sound—distortion, like that of a TV. You swung your head towards the anomaly and then back to Miguel.

Shit.

You had forgotten about the glitching. You knew it was there but with so much happening, you were too busy to even remember that detail. Glitching was a painful experience, and as much as you didn’t like Doc Ock in any universe, you didn’t wish the pain of glitching upon them.

You really were on a time crunch now, unless you found a way to temporarily stop the glitching. Wait.

You did have one, and it was wrapped around your wrist right now; your gizmo. Although the portals weren’t working, you knew it still at least stopped the glitching. After all, your husband was standing perfectly fine with no glitches. As for you, this was your universe, you wouldn’t glitch at all as a native to the world.

“Should I give him my gizmo?” You stared down at the Doc Ock as you asked Miguel. His brows furrowed almost instantly at your words.

“I’m sorry? Did I hear that right mi vida?” Miguel was flabbergasted, in full doubt of your words.

“I mean, the portals aren’t working, communications are down, we’re in my universe and he’s glitching. I feel like the pros outweigh the cons right now.” You reasoned with not only him, but also yourself. You could see that Miguel was genuinely thinking through this plan of yours. You knew it was risky, but with the two main risks not working, you felt it would be fine.

Apparently, so did Miguel, as he nodded not even a minute later. “Alright.”

You took the watch off your wrist as you walked over to the Doc Ock and strapped it around his. “This’ll stop the glitching for now. Once we get back to the HQ where we can transport you back to your universe, I’ll take it back.” You spoke softly to him.

Although he couldn’t move due to Miguel’s paralysing venom, you could see his eyes light up and you took that as a thank you sign. You nodded at him before standing up again and facing your husband. “We really need to get back home soon.”

“Agreed, but we don’t have the right tools in reach to do that.” You both sighed and stayed quiet for a few seconds, letting each other try to come up with solutions. “Do you think we could go to your-”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.” You glared at him.

“It’s really our only option right now, corazón. Unless we suddenly had money, our only other choice is to steal. They’ll be able to help us, they’re your world’s greatest detectives, are they not?” Damn it, why did Miguel have to make such a compelling argument.

“I don’t want to talk to them though.” You saw Miguel’s demeanour soften at your mumbled words.

“I know mi corazón, but let’s think about it this way. They’ll be able to help us finish what we need to faster, and after we leave, you won’t ever have to talk with them again. Don’t you want at least some closure as well? How they felt about your disappearance?” You stayed quiet, biting your nails. Your mind was in a war with itself right now. “I’m sure they’ll be relieved to see you alive and well.”

“I hate how you’re probably right.” You slump in defeat, placing your head on his shoulders. You felt his arms wrap around you, comforting in every way and you melted into his embrace.

“I’ll be by your side the whole time. You don’t need to be worried about anything.” You clung to him tighter.

“Thank you my love. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You mumbled, words even more muffled by that fact that your head was still leaning on his shoulders.

“Yo también te amo.” You smiled at the familiar phrase.

…..

The sunrise came far quicker than you liked it to. With it came a new day with tasks you had to fulfil. One of which was the bittersweet goodbye with your aunt.

You waited anxiously for her to wake up. As you did, you walked around the house, nostalgia heavy. You stopped at the entrance of your bedroom.

Your room looked like it had remained untouched throughout the years. You remembered when you were younger, this room—the whole house, actually— was a lot more ruined, with paint peeling and bugs crawling everywhere. As much as you didn’t like Bruce, you were thankful that his money was able to grant your aunt with better living conditions.

You head a familiar pattern of footsteps approaching your room.

“Do you miss it?” Your aunt asked, voice soft.

“I do. I always miss when it was just us two.”

“Me too.” You stayed silent, it felt like she wanted to say more and you were right about that. “When you first disappeared, I was devastated, you know? I would sleep in your bed, letting my tears dry there. I was too scared to touch anything else in this room. This was all I had left of you.”

She put her hand on your shoulder, and suddenly, it felt like you were a little kid again, afraid of what the big world had in store for you. “I know you’re leaving today. Don’t worry about me darling. I know you’re alive and happy and that’s all I’ll ever need.”

Tears welled up in your eyes. She turned you around to face her and cupped your face. “Don’t cry. I’ll always be here whenever you need me.”

You held her hands gently. “I promise to have back to you auntie. I’ll find a way.” You were filled with determination. Once you made it back to the HQ, you would do everything in your power to find a way to visit your aunt without some random rogue portal.

“I’ll be here waiting for as long as that will take.” You smiled at her and she returned it. It hurt you to break apart, but you knew you eventually had to.

You walked to the living room, where your husband was and nodded at him. He stood up, understanding the message. He easily picked up the anomaly and headed towards the front door. You slowly followed, reluctant to leave this place once again, but you pushed yourself.

You turned around to see her one more time before leaving. “We’ll be going now auntie. I’ll see you again.”

“Be careful out there darling.” You smiled and nodded before walking to Miguel who was waiting outside the door. You took a deep breath and stepped outside.

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I'm sorry for another late chapter guys 😭

This chapter gave me a lot of trouble, I can't lie. I started getting writer's block and then I started hating my writing so that was fun

I'm also starting to regret starting this story without a proper plot so we'll see how that goes lmao

Also, most of Batfam finally makes their appearance, yippee!!

Anyways, I watched AOT: The Last Attack in the cinema yesterday and oml I was sobbing the whole way through. I won't spoil anything just in case some of ya'll watch it but it was just so sad

As usual, mistakes are free to point out! They will be fixed as soon as possible

This week's song comes from the English translation of Black Sorrow from Alien Stage

Have a great day/night everyone! <3

[saudianna]

💥 love is papaya orange ᝰ.ᐟ

ੈ✩‧₊˚ : word count : 1.1k proofread once ahah ੈ✩‧₊˚ : synopsis : after oscar's first championship win, his ego clashes with you- lando's lifelong best friend—when they're forced to work closely at McLaren. what starts as hate turns into secret tension, messy feelings, and a tangled love triangle that neither sscar nor lando saw coming… until it explodes into something no one can control!! ੈ✩‧₊˚ : featuring : oscar x engineer!reader x lando ੈ✩‧₊˚ : author's note : my first fic!!! ive been on tumblr for a year and a bit now, and ive finally gained the courage to post something. constructive criticism is very appreciated, enjoy!! also this is set in 2026 ੈ✩‧₊˚ : genre : smut, smut and more smut!! theres some fluff and angst in the midst of it all ੈ✩‧₊˚ : tws : oral (f receiving), fwb, overstimulation, love triangle, fingering, lands neglected in this chapter, praise, degradation if you squint real hard,

<- previous | part 2 | forwards ->

part 2. meeting 🐅

It was a quiet, airy evening in Woking, the McLaren dinner awaiting you. The luxurious limo picking you up and dropping you off at a visibly expensive restaurant, you headed inside. Unfortunately a bit late, but hey, punctuality wasn't really your thing anyway. You spot Zak, waving and processing the new faces, and old! You waved all big to your big time childhood friend, Lando Norris! He stood up to greet you and you sat inbetween him and another familiar face. You had obviously always watched F1 so you had recognized him almost immediately.. except he rather looked a bit bleek. Oscar Piastri. The 2025 WDC winner, multiple grand prix winner and to you at least, McLaren's number 2 driver. You put out your hand to shake his, but instead he looked you up and down and gave you an obviously fake, and rather weak smile as he shook your hand inattentively. You raised your eyebrows as he turned around, rather appauled by his disrespectful and honestly pathetic attempt to try and disregard you! Had he not known you were the new Race Engineer? 

Already having somebody look over you and your abilities was short of your expectations. You weren't particularly surprised, always having people feeling disdain about you and credentials. But maybe you were expecting for something to change here. You tried to enjoy your dinner with the rest of the welcoming crew, but had a pit in your stomach, feeling you had already made an enemy, he shot you dirty looks the entire night, But why? You didn't understand exactly why orwhat you did to make him feel this way about you already, maybe he was upset that Andrea Stella had left, but either way it was evident that he did not enjoy your presence.

The ride home was settling, Lando's arm draped over your shoulder as you guys caught up and he comforted you about the Oscar situation. It had been 2 years since you had seen the lifelong best friend, so it was nice to reconnect. You guys had been friends with benefits before and the last time you saw each other had ended up with a rather.. passionate send-off. You lock eyes with him and he grabs your jawline softly. "Can i?" he cooed, and you nodded a bit. He pulled you in for a deep kiss and you melted into it. "Its been so long, I've craved you so much..." you smiled and laughed gently, he tucked your hair behind your ears and scooted to the other side of the limo as it slowed down on your street. Lando rushed to get out and open you door, like the true gentleman he was. You giggled as he took your hand and kissed it and pulled you up. He walked over to your hotels lobby door, opening that for you as well. 

You basically crashed into his arms as soon as your hotel room was open, he undressed you, high heels and silky black dress dusted to the side. He smirked at the sight of you. "Good lord.. I missed this view." he grinned and pushed you off him, he removed his suit and crawled over to you on the bed. "So gorgeous huh? You missed me?" you nodded but that wasn't enough for him. "Use your words. Or ill punish you.. and we all know what happens then." you quivered and responded, "Y-Yes I missed you Lando.." you stammered out. "Awh, so nervous for what baby? Or is it excitement?" he chuckled and dipped his fingers down to where you needed him most. "Fuck. So wet for me darling." he groaned at the moisture encasing your panties. He grabbed the waistband of your lacy panties, pulling them and letting them snap back to your hip. He looked up at you, one thigh bent and your hand in his hair and he sneered. "Beg for it baby." you gulped and parted your lips, "Please Lando.. i want your tongue on me so bad.." he snickered to himself "Good girl baby, so eager for me" he pulled your panties down teasing you. 

He pressed a small kiss to your clit and you wriggled, he grabbed your thighs. "Are you sure this is okay baby? We don't have to.." you cut him off- "No please- i need you so bad!" and he giggled to himself. "Alright.. just lay back and enjoy it baby." without warning, he slid his tongue, flatted out, and licked a long stripe up the soaking folds, a slowness to it that was just right. You moaned at the feeling and he breathed out, happy to know you were enjoying it. "You liking it gorgeous?" he gasped out and you nodded frantically. "God.. Lan.. feels so good." you moaned embarrassingly loud as he eased two fingers into you and sucked softed on your sensitive nub. He lapped at your cunt, savouring the sheer gloss that covered his face and your pussy. 

"Fuck.." he stuttered out and pulled you closer, spreading your legs open and covering your cunny in spit and drool. Your legs quivered and you let out a breathy moan. "F-Fuck! Lan! I'm so close p-please" You gripped the covers, and he giggled agains your cunt, causing vibrations to run through your body. He pushed through and sent you tumbling over the edge with your climax. But to your surprise, he didn't stop, he just pushed you through and after. "L-Lan! Fuck t-too much!! Please- god-!" he chuckled out sinisterly and carried on lapping at your poor overstimulated cunt. You came for a second time, wailing so hard you were sure you were gonna receive noise complaints. Tears prickling your eyes, you let out a breathy sob as he held your waist. 

"Are you okay baby?" you nodded frantically. "Yes.. fuck.. thank you Lan.." you heaved and tried to catch your breath. He smiled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Im glad you enjoyed it but don't worry about returning the favour now. I know you're tired." you smiled and he pulled you up into his arms. "Just sleep. We have a long day at the HQ tomorrow." you nodded and let out a small 'mhm' and he pulled the duvet up over the two of you, acting as your bigger spoon. You drifted off as he stroked you hair and let out little praises of doing so well for him.

<- previous | part 2 | forwards ->

a/n; I really hope you enjoyed this I was so scared to post this, but ive finally done it!! and dont yall worry cuz chap 3 is already in the making and ive planned all of the rest, im expecting there to be around 10 chapters, but honestly i dont know. so wish me luck!! mwah xx - sau

[wendichester]

Hear me out

Soft smut with Sam for the first time since reader gave birth to their baby

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ baby momma,

summary. the first time in a while ୨ৎ

pairing. sam winchester x mommy!reader

wordcount. 524

notes. i wanted to bang my head against a wall, because sam is so precious. i can't for the life of me ever stop loving this man

The house is quiet, save for the faint hum of the baby monitor on the nightstand. Your little one has finally fallen asleep after a long day, and the peace of the evening feels like a balm to your soul. You stretch out on the bed, exhaustion pulling at you, but it’s a good kind of tired—the kind that comes from love and care.

Sam steps into the room, his tall frame silhouetted by the soft glow of the hallway light. He’s already in sweats and a plain t-shirt, his hair slightly tousled. There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes your breath catch—a mixture of love, admiration, and a spark of something deeper.

“You’re still awake?” he asks softly, sliding into bed beside you.

“Barely,” you admit with a small laugh, turning to face him.

His hand reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch is gentle, reverent, as though he’s afraid to disturb the fragile calm of the moment. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You roll your eyes, though his words make your cheeks flush. “I’m just doing what any mom would.”

“No,” he counters, his voice firm but tender. “You’re doing so much. Taking care of her, taking care of me… You’re incredible.”

You look away, embarrassed, but Sam tilts your chin back toward him, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. “I mean it,” he says softly.

The sincerity in his voice melts something inside you, and before you can second-guess yourself, you lean forward, pressing your lips to his. The kiss starts slow, sweet, but there’s a quiet intensity behind it, a hunger that’s been simmering beneath the surface for weeks.

Sam’s hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer. “Are you sure?” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and full of unspoken questions.

You nod, your fingers tangling in his hair. “I’m sure.”

His lips find yours again, deeper this time, as his hands trace gentle patterns along your sides. He’s careful, as though he’s hyper-aware of your body’s changes, but you tug him closer, reassuring him without words.

“Sam,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly as his kisses trail down your neck.

He pauses, looking up at you with those soulful eyes. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he says softly.

“It’s perfect,” you reply, your voice steady despite the rush of emotions flooding through you.

The rest of the world fades away as he moves with you, every touch and kiss filled with love and reverence. He takes his time, his focus entirely on you, as though nothing else exists.

It’s not just about physical closeness—it’s about reconnecting, about rediscovering each other in this new chapter of your lives. And when you finally collapse into his arms, your breaths mingling in the quiet of the room, you feel a sense of peace that goes beyond words.

Sam presses a soft kiss to your temple, his arms wrapping around you protectively. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

“I love you too,” you reply, your head resting against his chest as sleep begins to pull you under.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @whereiwakewarm ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume

[class1akids]

"I like food"

I saw many posts people saying how random Shouto's line is about praying at Touya's altar and realizing that he likes food - and I wanted to point to how it helps wrapping up his arc.

Shouto is saying: "When I was praying at Touya's butsudan (Buddhist altar), I suddenly realized something, I liked eating food. I realized there's more to me than just the person I want to become."

Food was a "negative space in the Todoroki family, so liking food was not evident to Shoto growing up.

In Shouto's flashbacks with his family, we never see him eat food. His only memory tied to the kitchen is the kettle incident. We know from Natsuo that Shouto ate alone, a diet prescribed by Endeavor, no doubt all geared towards maximum performance, rather than enjoyment. Not even knowing your siblings favorite food is the ultimate symbol of how dysfunctional the household was.

2. Food was a positive space in Class A - tied to comfort, bonding, friendship

In class A, Shouto starts eating with Iida and Midoriya after the Stain incident. Food becomes comfort, connection, sharing, caring, teamwork, etc. He experiences things like using his fire to prepare food together, eating together, cleaning up.

Many memorable Shouto-scenes are tied to Class A eating together (e.g. heroes cry too) and he connects to Inasa over a discussion about favorite foods (udon vs soba) which is a theme that carries over to his endgame with Touya

3. As the Todoroki family tries to reconnect, food plays a central role

As the family changes, they attempt to reconnect around the family dinner table (the famous sluuurp scenes). But Todoroki dinners end in a disaster - still they are useful bringing to the surface important conflicts and trying to communicate about them (another important theme discussed in Shoto Rising).

There is more in the light novels: Shoto's and Rei's decade late reconnection as Rei offers him a little kid strawberry milk that she remembers he liked when he was 5, and their attempt to connect with Natsuo ending up in a mush of ruined soba - it's all out of sync.

4. Food as a symbol of lost time and broken futures

Food is also very central for the hopes of a happier future: Enji's dream of his family at the dinner table, Natsuo's regret about years of missed meals, Shoto wanting to share noodles with Toya, all culminating in the heartbreaking realization that they have the same favorite food they'll never get to share.

5. Food as a symbol of processing grief and healing

Praying at the butsudan (the Buddhist altar at home set up for a deceased loved one) involves the preparation of offerings of food and drinks, which then the family eats afterwards. We see this practice referenced in Ch 249 when Enji prays at Toya's altar.

So Shouto making a reference to it is a shorthand for telling us that Touya died at some point, Shouto is still grieving him and just like Deku and Ochako, he's trying to make sense for himself out of their short encounter. So wanting to learn how to make chopsticks and bowls (a traditional Japanese craft of woodwork and applying lacquer, often involving intricate patterns) implies that he wants to bring Touya the perfect offering, but also that he's finally stepping outside fully of the framework Endeavor created for the family, where children are cast into roles of heroes, villains and by-standers, masterpieces and failures but never human beings. He's thinking about what connects him and Touya together and who they would have been in a different story.

6. Shouto's personal arc

Shouto's character was always about balance. Balance between past and future, ice and fire, duty and family, etc. So crafting chopsticks and bowls to elevate good food connects the grief and survival guilt with healing and growth. It is both a tribute to Touya's memory and a new possible hobby to express still undiscovered sides of himself.

It fits the theme of the chapter "More" - as it focuses on what lies beyond being a hero, reaching a goal, working hard and how Izuku, Ochako and Shouto have been transformed by their experiences of trying to save their villains.

But it also fits Shouto's personal arc that was about discovering who Shouto really is. Earlier in the chapter, Shouto refers to being constrained into the framework of a bigger story, where his choices are bound to happen. As a hero of the sidestory of that manga, Shouto has no choice but decide what kind of a hero he wants to be (not-Endeavor, like All Might, reassuring, family hero). Encounters with his family helped crystallized this image of himself.

But now that he's being released from this story, he can look outside of the framework of a hero manga and discover those "more sides than just a hero". And Touya was the last encounter - the last piece of that puzzle. I think there is a parallel in how Tomura destroyed much of hero society - Touya also destroyed the foundations of the Todoroki family, so something different can maybe built.

Without Touya, I think the family would have kept at trying to piece themselves together in a tense, fake kind of peace to keep up appearances. If nothing else, Touya's actions tore through that need of saving face - leaving them all exposed and grappling with the harsh realities of their actions. But I think it also allowed the younger siblings to step outside the cage their parents created for them and build things better from scratch. It allows them to find more sides to themselves outside of the logic of the Todoroki household.

[rika-mmendmethings]

Interdimensional Epiphany l Rafayel

CHAPTER 2

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Summary: A fortnight of compensated leave from your company was supposed to be a rejuvenating experience. Things take an unexpected turn when Rafayel, your choice of ML, starts becoming self-aware. His love knows no bounds, not even interdimensional ones.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. For the prologue, currently none. Though story has major character deaths, subdued manipulation, heavy angst with a happy(?) ending, slight yandere themes, fluff, did I mention angst? (I'm so bad at tagging send help)

Word count: 2.0k

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: As promised, chapter 2 is released on Wednesday and you can expect every new chapter every Wednesday. Keep in mind, that as cute and a total man-child Rafayel is; he can also be vengeful and undeterred from what we've seen in his anecdotes. If you feel that this is too serious for him, then you simply need a better understanding of the red-flag side of Rafayel shown in some parts of the game. This story circles partially around that side of his as well, so I don't feel it should be that much uncharacteristic. Mikayla is the name of the mc in this fic and aside from Rafayel no-one else is aware of being a video game character. Anyways, hopefully you enjoy the read and stay tuned for the series. Lmk if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

Taglist: @loveanddeephistory @lyssandraxo @micasosa34 @ittybittyfanblog @hyein21 @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @blessdunrest @altair718 @3fg7 @froleineeeee @mikachux3 @aiehtta

You were thoroughly enjoying the first week of your compensated leave. You spent an entire day sleeping, waking only for a few hours to eat and freshen up before drifting back into restful slumber. After weeks of relying on takeout and fried foods, you finally went grocery shopping. You reconnected with a few friends, had meaningful conversations with your parents, and allowed yourself to indulge in a long, relaxing skincare routine. Your headspace was beginning to feel clear and at ease.

You even treated yourself to foam roller workouts, easing the tension in your sore muscles. You’d start a session with Rafayel in Quality Time, and for the next thirty minutes, your focus would be entirely on stretching and relaxing. It was the perfect way to unwind and restore balance to both your body and mind.

Rafayel found himself pausing every now and then and it wasn’t even because of the programming, he had long broken out of that. He never particularly enjoyed exercising on land anyway because it made him all sticky and gross but he sure as hell liked you exercising. He would pedal mindlessly on the gym bike, dusky eyes trained on you as you rolled the foam roller up and down the length of your hamstrings. He felt like a Victorian man seeing ankles whenever your shirt rolled up slightly and he would see a sliver of your waist. He banged his head on the handle of the bike, ears red as the soft, blissful sounds of your relief filled the room, signaling that most of your muscle tension had been eased.

When you grabbed your phone after the 30 minutes had passed, you were completely rejuvenated, and Rafayel was far from it. You tied your hair into a ponytail, and Rafayel drank in the sight of you — a pink scrunchie perched between your lips, beads of sweat trailing from your forehead down your collarbone and disappearing wholly after reaching your cleavage. He was accustomed to adjusting his footing every so often due to his Lemurian nature, but now, he found himself losing his balance for an entirely different reason. And it wasn’t just because of the gorgeous woman before him. No. Yes.

After freshening up following your workout, you grabbed a bag of chips and made your way to your bedroom, practically melting into the satin sheets as soon as your back hit the mattress. With no plans to leave the house today, you decided to spend a few hours indulging in your favorite game. You had even charged your phone in advance for this moment. Logging back in, you claimed the rewards from your daily tasks. Rafayel was sitting in the Destiny Café, casually inspecting his nails.

You went to change the lead character on your screen to Sylus, but a bug prevented you from doing so. Every time you clicked on his character, the game’s main interface reappeared, with Rafayel still sitting in the chair. Frustrated, you tried selecting Zayne instead, but you were met with the same result — the now agitated, purple-haired man.

He tapped his foot impatiently, his eyebrows furrowed and lips pulled into a frown. It almost seemed like he was annoyed by something. You dismissed it as something characteristic of him and muttered with a smile, “What? Only want me for yourself?”

“Yes.”

His tone carried a sense of finality, and once again, his words didn’t appear in the usual white speech bubble, as they always did. This unexpected shift left you momentarily stunned. Was it the strange behavior of his character, or was it the flutter in your chest that unsettled you? You weren’t sure, and frankly, you didn’t want to delve into how delusional you might be getting. So, like you often did with your past, you ignored the problem and clicked over to the memories tab.

Earlier, you’d purchased the "Poised Elegance" outfit from the lunar shop and were excited to dress up Sylus’ Goodcat Code memory using Illusio.

The moment you pressed the button, the screen went black. You waited a few seconds, tapping on the screen, but nothing happened. Just as you were about to check your internet connection, the interface of Destiny Café reappeared. You huffed in disbelief and tried using Illusio on the other characters, but aside from Rafayel, the game would reboot every time. 

Already frustrated by the situation, you decided to pull for Caleb’s myth using the 20 free wishes. You nearly dropped your phone in disbelief as you saw that all ten cards were Rafayel’s four stars and three stars. This had never happened before. Sure, you’d occasionally pull two or three additional cards of a specific lead, but all ten cards being from one character, out of five possible options, was nothing short of perplexing. You gulped, using the remaining 10 wishes as well, and your soul almost left your body as you stared, wide-eyed, at the new set of 10 cards — every single one of them a 5-star and all of them Rafayel’s.

Just last week, during Rafayel’s "When Tides Echo" myth rerun, you had spent every last one of your dias and still hadn’t pulled a single memory of the pair. And now, all ten cards from that myth were what you had managed to get. You couldn’t believe it. You had seen players joking about miracles like this in the candle circle memes, wishing for such luck to happen to them, and now here you were, pulling for Caleb — and getting Rafayel.

You were many things, but ungrateful wasn’t one of them. So, you immediately rushed to the memories tab and ranked up his myth cards before awakening them. Once you were done, you found yourself back in Destiny Café, facing Rafayel. You finally let out the squeal you had been holding in and pressed a kiss to your screen. Rafayel’s ears turned red once again, and his lips curled into a gentle, sincere smile at the sight of your infectious joy.

“I love you so much, Infold,” you chirped, and Rafayel’s smile faltered. He should’ve been the one that line was addressed to. 

You logged out of the game, humming to yourself as you went over to your kitchen to prepare a celebratory dinner of some good ol’ spaghetti, leaving a spluttering Rafayel stuck in his spot at the Café. 

"Rafayel, I'm not letting you go first on the claw machine this time." Mikayla flashed him a playful wag of her finger, signaling that she wouldn’t be giving in to him today. She practically bounced over to the machine, her hands hovering over the buttons.

Rafayel, however, was leaning lazily against a wall, his dusky eyes focused on his nails rather than the bubbly woman in front of him. He replied, "Sure, MC. I’m not in the mood anyway."

Mikayla paused, glancing back at him over her shoulder with a raised brow. Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she wiggled her eyebrows. "What? No ‘miss bodyguard’ or ‘cutie’ this time? You wound me."

Rafayel didn’t bother to look up. Instead, he nonchalantly dropped onto one of the nearby couches, crossing his legs and throwing an arm over his eyes as though blocking out the world. His voice, laced with indifference, carried over to her. "Let me know when you’re done, Mikayla. I’m resting my eyes for a bit."

And with that, he drifted into the land of dreams, leaving Mikayla standing alone by the claw machine, frowning.

She couldn’t make sense of his behavior. Mikayla knew Rafayel was often a bit petulant, but she had never seen him act quite this distant. For the past week, while he had helped her gather information for her new mission, he’d seemed more aloof — dismissing her attempts to make plans or even join her for a casual meet-up. Something had shifted, and Mikayla was determined to figure out what it was, though she knew she’d need to wait for the right moment to get to the bottom of it.

Rafayel didn’t intend to come off as rude, but he was too exhausted to lift a finger now. The past week had been nothing short of grueling — exhausting with a capital E. By day, he had to watch you log in, then rush around performing tasks and maintaining an act of normalcy to avoid raising suspicions. And when you slept, he scoured the darker corners of the world for information on what was truly happening. Yet, every person he approached simply advised him to see a psychiatrist, urging him to keep his — and he quotes — "barely sane, childish thoughts" to himself and not bother them. 

Somehow, by the end of the week, you had unwittingly become his source at the end. He had overheard you ranting to yourself about someone named 'Infold,' expressing a strange mix of hatred and affection — how they were both the bane of your existence and the love of your life. Who was this Infold? And why did you harbor such a paradoxical relationship with them? Why did you refer to them as the love of your life? 

From your scattered monologues, Rafayel had picked up on a few peculiar phrases. He had even started a list in his journal — strange words like “stamina,” “ascend,” “daily login,” “deep space trials,” and others filled the pages, each followed by large question marks. Thomas — bless him — had noticed Rafayel scribbling these words down and informed him that most of these terms appeared to be related to the controls of a game.

At first, Rafayel had dismissed the notion, but then one day, he overheard you venting as you worked on something beside him during "quality time"—another strange term. He recalled the way your lower lip wobbled slightly as you taped and glued some paper together. “I hate Tyler so much,” you muttered with disdain. “He didn’t even consider the money I spent buying this and just tore it all up like that.” A tense silence followed until you held the paper aloft, your expression shifting to one of subtle satisfaction. 

What he saw on that sheet forever altered his perception of reality. It was a poster of himself in one of his outfits, and in the left corner, emblazoned with bold text, was the label: *“Rafayel: Character of Love and Deepspace.”* He was a game character. Fully alive in his own universe—breathing, thinking, existing—but nothing more than a programmed entity in yours. He felt a deep conflict, struggling to comprehend the full implications. Was this some kind of curse? Has he truly gone insane over the years? If all of this was real, if he really was merely code in your reality, then what cruel twist of fate had disrupted the natural order of things? 

Why was he the only one who had been granted this interdimensional epiphany? 

No-one other than him seemed aware of whatever was happening with him. No one knew that they were all game characters in a different reality. He knew that he could choose to ignore your uncanny existence yet something about you drew him in. It made him wish to escape the world he calls home and just enter yours without a care. Your eyes held all the love and warmth he had ever wanted and some selfish part in him intended to keep it that way. It baffled him further how you were aware that he was a mere programmed character in your world yet you never viewed him as such. 

He wanted to be real for you. 

And he would. He’ll make sure of it.

He was brutally shaken out of his reverie when Mikayla woke him up, showing him the plushies she got. He felt his eyebrow slightly twitch in annoyance when she grabbed his cheeks and squished them. On any other day, he would have let himself be pampered by her affections but this wasn’t just any other day and he was completely not in the mood to entertain her. He watched her retreating figure as she went to play another round on the claw machine. There was only one thought in the front of his mind: He couldn’t get to you in his weakened form. He needed to unlock his full potential once again.

He needed to awaken the seas and restore Lemuria.

And he’ll be doing just that no matter what the price or sacrifice.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[flyingwargle]

may fanfic recs!

some of these fics are rated e!

sakuatsu

The Hard Stuff e. 6.5k. the premise is sakusa wants to give atsumu a bj but it's more than that - it's a relationship study about boundaries and reciprocating for one another. a really wonderful read!

a star in the face of the sky (or, PROJECT: HOW TO GET ATSUMU A BOYFRIEND) t. 7.7k. atsumu admits to osamu that he's finally going to chase after his long-time crush and osamu, the one in an actual relationship, gives him a list of steps on how to do it. very cute read!

i got you (all figured out) t. 10.1k. bokuto is the team's big brother and when said big brother gets sick, who has to care for him? sakuatsu (and hinata). fun dynamics and dialogue, and of course, the confession is absolutely worth it.

the rhyming of the rain e. 25.8k. sakusa has been pining for atsumu since high school but never did anything about it, especially after atsumu gets a boyfriend. the pining is so, so strong in here. sakusa is so whipped for him, it makes you feel like you're not good enough for atsumu. (there's only one nsfw scene if that isn't your cup of tea but interested in the pining!)

over the edge of my bones m. 47.9k. 5/5. single dad atsumu with softy omi is an agenda you need to experience at least twice in your life, and the prose is absolutely immaculate. hikaru is a treasure that deserves to be protected.

iwaoi

Red, red, red t. 4.2k. at a sleepover, a survey is conducted on which seijoh player everyone would date. everyone chooses iwaizumi, and only one person chooses oikawa. i wonder who did 👀

Circle of life t. 6.8k. iwa vs. buying pads for his daughter. i love girldads, especially girldads who'll do anything for their girl, like buying pads. made me nostalgic about my own experience when it happened to me.

tooru and hajime (and ushiwaka) go on vacation t. 8.6k. oikawa and iwa go on vacation and somehow, ushijima is there as well. very funny, and very fluffy.

tejano blue g. 12.4k. you have not read godly setting description until you've read this fic. it's iwaoi at the beach and iwa being utterly in love with oikawa. what's not to love? (this fic is part of a series but i believe you can read them separate, as i've only read tattoo your name across my heart so far and you should, too!)

the courtship ritual of the hercules beetle t. 66.3k. 3/3. it took me a long time to start this fic because of the word count-chapter ratio (i have a lot to say about word count-chapter ratios) but i went for it and i. do not. regret it. this focuses on oikawa as an entomologist reconnecting with iwa, pro volleyball player, after his marriage is called off. lots of bug imagery and symbolism, depictions of parental expectations, and top-class pining. highly recommended.

bokuaka

Behind Bricks e. 60.4k. 14/14. au where akaashi works as an escort and falls head over heels with bokuto. akaashi is so self-sacrificing in this fic, and his gradual acceptance that he can be loved is so, so satisfying. also, it's deathbelle. you cannot go wrong with deathbelle, ever.

sun, duck, and silence t. 61.6k. 5/5. THE PROSE IS IMMACULATE. lots of loving side characters, amazing akaashi character development, with a touch of magical realism. the result is this beautiful fic.

kagehina

promises to keep t. 4.5k. for kageyama's birthday, hinata makes a bunch of coupons for him to use. incredibly cute premise and increasingly fluffy prose. be prepared for your teeth to rot.

can’t help (helping you) t. 7.7k. college au where hinata and kageyama compete to see who'll score higher on their final exam, except they help each other out and discover something else about their affections along the way.

waking up with you m. 8k. hinata wakes up naked next to kageyama and they didn't actually sleep together and he forgot, right...? kageyama agrees. until their teammates tell them otherwise. absolutely hilarious with top-notch dialogue.

plain as day t. 9.3k. in which kageyama notices hinata and continues to notice him over the years. i just loved the flow of this fic, all the different ways affection are explored, and kagehina getting together. very cute (can you see the trend where i like cute kagehina fics)

The Subtle Art of Getting Caught t. 83.7k. 11/11. thank you to @sorainhere for the rec! this was so damn cute to read - following kagehina's journey from high school through adulthood and retirement was so, so satisfying and fluffy. one of my favorites <3

other

denial t. 4.8k. 4 times tsukishima denies he cares about his teammates and 1 time he's called out for it. i just enjoy reading about the salty dinosaur showing he cares, even if he doesn't think he does.

Administer Mouth to Mouth m. 10.5k. sunaosa. au where osamu falls head over heels for suna, the sleepy receptionist at atsumu's gym. as someone who goes to the gym, i find these fics fun to read, and the dynamics are also hilarious.

a captain, a corner, and a parisian chocolate shop not rated. 10.8k. ushiten. ushijima (and nearly all of the jnt) visit a particular chocolate shop in paris during the olympics to help ushijima make a move on the redheaded chocolatier. very funny and cute!

Song of the Fireflies g. 17.7k. this is written by the same writer as Below Destiny, an ennoshita character study i very much enjoyed, and this is (not related) a tsukishima character study. it explores his arc during the tokyo training camp very well, and it reminded me a lot of my own mindset when i played sports (very brief but memorable). give this a read if you're a tsukki fan!

[ruewritesoccasionally]

The Reunion | Aaron Pierre

Pairings: Aaron Pierre x Black Reader

Warnings: none

Series summary: Aaron and YN’s friendship has stood the test of time, but when the chance for something more comes, will they risk everything for a love that feels impossible—or keep circling around the truth of their hearts?

Chapter summary: A night of nostalgia and reconnection at a high school reunion stirs old emotions, leaving two friends questioning the boundaries of their relationship and the possibilities they’ve always left unspoken.

Word Count: 2.5K

a/n: i wanted to try my hand something really cliche and fluffy like a friends to lovers trope - this will be a slow burn (my own fault lol) - writing a series has never been my strong suit so you'll have to bear with me

The smell of something warm and savoury hit YN the moment she stepped through the door of Marcus and Aisha’s townhouse. She could hear the faint murmur of voices and the clink of glasses before the hosts themselves emerged from the kitchen, their faces lighting up in unison.

“Finally! The last piece of the puzzle,” Marcus declared, spreading his arms wide in an exaggerated gesture.

“YN, you look gorgeous, as always,” Aisha chimed in, giving her a quick but warm hug. “Come in, food’s almost ready, and we’re all starving.”

“Let me guess,” YN teased as she slipped off her coat. “Nobody wanted to wait for me, but Marcus said it’d be rude to start without the whole group.”

“She gets me,” Marcus said with a wink, ushering her into the dining area. The room was alive with laughter and chatter, every familiar face instantly making her feel at ease. There was Michelle, always animated, waving her wine glass like a conductor’s baton as she told some wild story. Isaiah, who leaned back in his chair with that quiet grin, nodding along. And Aaron, seated at the end of the table, his presence as steady as ever, offering her a small, knowing smile when their eyes met.

She settled into the open seat beside Aaron, her heart giving the faintest flutter. It wasn’t the kind of flutter that screamed attraction—not outwardly, anyway. It was more like the warm ache of familiarity; the gravitational pull she’d always felt toward him.

“Glad you made it,” Aaron said, his tone easy, like they hadn’t seen each other in a while even though it had only been a week.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she replied, her voice light.

The evening unfolded effortlessly. Plates of food were passed around, stories from their university days resurfaced, and the wine flowed as freely as the laughter. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Marcus raised his glass dramatically.

“Alright, team,” he began. “Before we subject ourselves to the chaos of tonight’s reunion, I propose a toast. To surviving high school, thriving in adulthood—”

“… and for surviving the reunion without resorting to violence,” Michelle cut in, raising her glass higher.

“Exactly,” Marcus said with a grin. “Cheers!”

Glasses clinked, and someone muttered, “We’re gonna need more drinks if we run into Kevin Thompson. That man never learned how to shut up.”

“Amen to that,” Aisha added, and the group erupted into laughter.

By the time the limo arrived, everyone was buzzing—part excitement, part nervous energy. YN had just texted Trey to let him know where to meet them, and now she found herself fussing with the hem of her dress in the mirror by the door.

“You’re good,” Aaron said as he passed by, his tone so casual it almost sounded indifferent. But she caught the faintest softening in his expression, like he’d been paying closer attention than he let on.

“Thanks,” she replied, her smile shy. She adjusted her earrings and turned back to the group, who were gathering coats and handbags in a flurry of last-minute preparations.

“YN, you need to teach Trey our trick for changing the subject when Kevin inevitably tries to corner us,” Isaiah teased as they stepped into the limo, his tone light and teasing.

Aaron, seated across from her in the limo, greeted Trey with a handshake and a brief but polite smile. There was no tension, no lingering looks that might give anything away. Aaron played his part with impeccable grace, though YN knew him well enough to notice the way he carried himself—a quiet, measured restraint that only someone who knew him intimately would pick up on.

The reunion venue was alive with energy, laughter echoing through the halls as old friends reconnected. The music thrummed softly in the background of the high school reunion; a curated playlist of throwbacks meant to stir nostalgia. YN adjusted the strap of her dress and smoothed down the fabric for what felt like the fiftieth time since walking through the doors. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor as she made her way into the main hall, her date trailing slightly behind her, holding two glasses of champagne. But it wasn’t long before someone approached their group, drink in hand, eyes glinting with curiosity.

“Wow, YN,” they said, their tone light but laced with something else. “I always thought you and Aaron would’ve ended up together by now. Guess a lot’s changed, huh?”

The comment hit like a stone skipping across water, rippling through the group. YN’s smile faltered for just a second, but it was long enough for Aaron to notice. He said nothing, his face a mask of calm as he took a sip of his drink. Trey’s hand rested lightly on her back, a gesture meant to steady her, though she wasn’t sure if he even caught the shift in atmosphere.

“Life’s full of surprises,” Aaron said smoothly, breaking the silence. His voice was even, his smile cordial, and yet there was a weight to his words that lingered even after the moment passed.

As the group moved on, the comment left a faint but undeniable tension in its wake. YN couldn’t shake the unease that settled in her chest, and Aaron noticed the slight change in her posture, the way her laugh felt a little more forced. He stayed quiet at first, letting the others fill the space. He’d always been good at observing, at reading the room. But he said nothing, keeping his thoughts locked away, as he always had.

The night seemed to stretch in an oddly suspended way, time moving both too fast and too slow as the reunion came to a close. Laughter still lingered in the air, the sound of glasses clinking faintly from other groups still enjoying their night. YN stood with her friends just outside the venue, the cool evening air a welcome contrast to the warmth of the party. Her fingers tugged at the straps of her clutch absentmindedly, her mind flitting between Trey’s steady presence beside her and the earlier comment that seemed to have shifted something imperceptible in the air.

One by one, the group made their way to the limo parked at the curb, the energy mellowing into a comfortable buzz. Aaron leaned against the vehicle, his frame effortlessly commanding as he exchanged a few light-hearted remarks with Marcus and Aisha. YN caught herself glancing his way—his smile, the casual ease in his posture. He looked entirely at peace, and yet, something about him tonight had her questioning if that was entirely true.

As they piled into the limo, conversation resumed, though quieter now. Marcus cracked a joke about one of their old classmates that earned a ripple of laughter, but the words barely registered for YN. Trey sat beside her, his arm draped loosely across the back of the seat, while Aaron settled in across from them. The confined space, while luxurious, felt heavy. Every glance, every movement seemed magnified.

YN found herself hyper-aware of Aaron’s presence—of the way his gaze flicked out the window, his fingers tapping absently against his knee. If he noticed the way Trey’s thumb brushed against her shoulder, he didn’t show it. Instead, he remained composed, even offering Trey a polite, “Good meeting you tonight.” Trey nodded in return, the exchange brief but cordial. It was Aaron’s restraint that struck her most—not a flicker of jealousy, not a hint of bitterness. Just that quiet, unreadable strength he carried so well.

The ride stretched on as the limo began its route of dropping everyone home. First was Marcus, who exited with a lingering grin and a playful, “Don’t forget, we survived high school, but some of these people definitely peaked.” Aisha rolled her eyes but laughed as she climbed out next, pausing to hug YN tightly. As she leaned in, her voice dropped to a whisper only YN could hear.

“Call me in the morning, okay? We’ll talk.”

YN tightened her hold just slightly in response, the gesture subtle but enough to convey her agreement. When Aisha finally pulled away, she offered YN a small, knowing smile before disappearing into the night.

Now, it was just the three of them—Aaron, YN, and Trey. The tension in the car shifted again, more noticeable in the absence of their friends. Trey filled the silence with a comment about the night’s playlist, oblivious to the glances YN kept stealing toward Aaron. When they finally reached Trey’s stop, he gave her a soft kiss on the cheek and promised to text her when he got home.

The moment he left the car though, it felt as though the very air changed. YN and Aaron sat in silence as the limo pulled away, the city lights painting fleeting patterns across their faces. She could feel his eyes on her, though she couldn’t bring herself to look his way. Her chest felt tight, her thoughts too loud in the quiet.

“You okay?” His voice broke through, low and steady - his question layered with a deeper meaning, eluding to her happiness.

“Yeah.” She forced a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just tired.”

Aaron nodded, his expression unreadable. “It was a good night.”

“Yeah,” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The limo finally came to a stop outside her flat. Aaron moved to open the door for her, his movements deliberate and smooth. She stepped out, the cool night air brushing against her skin. Turning back, she met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them in the quiet.

“Goodnight, Aaron,” she murmured.

“Goodnight, YN.” His voice was softer now, almost tender.

She walked to her door, feeling his eyes on her until she stepped inside. As the door clicked shut behind her, she leaned against it, letting out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. Her flat felt too quiet, too still compared to the night’s events. Kicking off her heels, she made her way to the bathroom, mechanically removing her makeup and letting the cool water centre her.

Yet, as she climbed into bed, her mind refused to settle. The reunion, the comment, the limo ride—it all played on a loop. And Aaron. Always Aaron.

Across town, Aaron sat in the back of the limo, his thoughts similarly restless. His elbow rested against the door; his fingers pressed to his temple as he replayed the night. The smile on YN’s face, the warmth in her laugh—he wanted her to have that happiness, even if it wasn’t with him. But the ache in his chest told him what he’d been trying to ignore for years.

Some truths, no matter how deeply buried, had a way of surfacing. And tonight felt like the beginning of something neither of them could quite name yet.

The morning after the reunion was slow to rise, the early rays of sun filtering through YN’s curtains, casting gentle streaks of light across her bed. She lay still, her duvet tangled around her legs, as fragmented memories of last night played out in her mind like an unfinished film. The laughter, the faces she hadn’t seen in years, the subtle tension that had wrapped itself around her chest like a second skin.

And then, Aaron.

Her eyes fluttered shut again as her thoughts drifted back to the weight of his gaze, the warmth of his laugh. The way he’d greeted Trey with that effortless grace, as though it didn’t cost him a single thing to see her on another man’s arm. But it wasn’t just that moment—it was the echo of words she hadn’t even spoken aloud, the unshakeable ache of wanting something that felt impossible. Her chest stirred with a confusing mix of nerves, regret, longing, and compassion, each emotion vying for space in the quiet of her bedroom.

She sighed, her arm draping across her face as if she could block it all out. This was why she hated reunions. Too much digging up the past, too much pretending things were simpler than they were. Just as she turned over, trying to will herself back into the sanctuary of sleep, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. The name flashing on the screen was a welcome distraction.

Aisha.

“Hey,” YN answered, her voice still heavy with sleep.

“You sound like death,” Aisha teased, the warmth in her tone softening the jab. “Late night?”

“You were there, you know it was,” YN replied, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

“True, but I wasn’t the one with a date,” Aisha countered lightly, her words skimming just close enough to the edge of teasing to make YN’s stomach twist.

“Trey’s not... it’s not serious,” YN said quickly, sitting up and pulling her knees to her chest. Her voice was quiet, but even she could hear the uncertainty laced in it.

“Hmm,” was all Aisha said in response, a non-committal hum that spoke volumes. “So... you’ve been thinking about last night, haven’t you?”

YN’s silence was answer enough. She stared at the wall, her mind already wandering back to the moment in the ballroom when someone’s offhand comment had shattered the fragile bubble of normalcy she’d tried to build.

“We always thought you and Aaron would’ve been together by now.”

The words had lingered like smoke, choking the air out of the room. YN hadn’t even looked at Aaron then; she couldn’t. Her heart had clenched too tightly at the thought of what could’ve been, what should’ve been—but wasn’t. Aisha’s voice brought her back to the present.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Aisha asked, her tone softer now, almost tentative.

“No,” YN lied, too quickly, and the weak conviction in her voice betrayed her.

“YN,” Aisha pressed gently, “we’re all rooting for you two, you know that, right? We stopped pushing the agenda a long time ago, hoping you’d find each other in your own time. But... we don’t want it to be too late. We don’t want to see you both settle for less when you could have each other.”

YN swallowed hard, her throat tight with unspoken emotion. “On paper we work, but we’re people, not paper,” she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper. The words felt heavier than she expected, like they carried the weight of years of doubt, fear, and unacknowledged longing.

Aisha was silent for a moment, letting YN’s words settle. “You really believe that?”

YN didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her mind was already drifting again, back to the countless moments over the years that had tethered her and Aaron together. The stolen glances, the inside jokes, the quiet understanding that didn’t need words. The way he could read her moods with a single look, how he’d always known what to say—or what not to say—when she needed it most.

Practically soulmates, she thought bitterly. Always orbiting, never colliding.

“You’re not answering me,” Aisha said, her voice pulling YN back to the present again. “You know, for someone who’s so good with words, you get awfully quiet when it comes to Aaron.”

“I’m just tired,” YN said, though even she didn’t believe it.

“Mhm,” Aisha replied, clearly unconvinced. “Well, get some rest. But we’re talking about this. Properly. Tomorrow.”

There was a pause before Aisha added, “And YN? Just... think about it. Really think about it. What’s scarier: risking the friendship or never knowing what it could’ve been?”

YN tightened her grip on the phone, her heart hammering in her chest. “Goodbye, Aisha.”

“Okay, babe,” Aisha said softly, and the call ended with a quiet click.

YN sat in the silence that followed, Aisha’s words echoing in her mind like a haunting melody. What’s scarier: risking the friendship or never knowing what it could’ve been?

She exhaled shakily, leaning back against the headboard and letting her head fall back. The weight of the question settled over her, heavy and unrelenting. Because deep down, she already knew the answer. She was just too afraid to admit it.

taglist: @writingsbytee @venusincleo @nickidub718

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

[illyrianshadow]

Lost in Shadows (pt. IV)

Summary: Will you finally be able to reconnect with Azriel know that the truth of your connection has been revealed?

Warnings: don't think there really are any, though there might be a lot more coming in the next chapters 👀

A/N: It took me a while to write this one, I hope I did it justice. I don't know what possessed me to make these two so sickeningly sweet and tortured. I hope you enjoy, please let me know your thoughts!!

Word Count: 2.6K

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

———————

Your hands wrap around the ice cold glass of water Azriel has placed in front of you. You relish the feeling of the cool material against your skin, willing the sensation to bring you back to reality. You need to focus, clear the haze in your head so you can properly face the male in front of you. 

You curse the mother for being this stupid, struggling to remember why you thought being drunk for this moment would solve all your problems. Now that you are actually facing Azriel, now that you know that he’s your mate, all you wish is for the effects of the alcohol to disappear as quickly as possible. 

Your hands are shaking as you lift the glass of water to your lips, the refreshing liquid taking away some of the burn the many drinks have left in your system. 

You urge the alcohol in your bloodstream to dissolve and try and force your head to clear. You don’t want to be drunk for this moment. You have waited too long for this. 

Luckily your Illyrian heritage sees to it that any alcohol you consume evaporates at a fast pace once you stop drinking, and it’s already been a little while since you had your last shot.

As you continue to drink your water, you can feel your drunken state easing off. The cool liquid mingled with the leftover remnants of alcohol lowering its effects to a soft buzz. This you can work with. 

You turn back to Azriel, savouring the feeling of his hand still resting on top of your own. You can feel the outline of his scars on your soft skin, the weight providing a comforting warmth. You feel dizzy, heart rate speeding up as you recall the words he’s just spoken to you. 

I can’t believe you’re finally here. 

Silver pools in your eyes and relief floods through you as you process their meaning. He remembers. 

A single teardrop starts to make its way down your cheek. One of Azriel’s shadows frantically reaches out to wipe it away before it can reach the bottom of your chin and drop onto the bar. 

He is still studying you. Worry clouding his handsome features as he tries to decipher what you’re feeling through the jumble of emotions now ablaze in his chest. With the bond now fully awake it’s hard for him to separate your emotions from his own. 

One of his hands reaches out to wipe away a fresh tear, a small gasp leaving your lips at the sensation of his skin replacing the soft touch of his shadow. He rests his hand on your cheek and tilts your face towards his own so he can study your eyes. 

“S?” His nickname for you falls from his lips, barely more than a whisper, and another tear threatens to fall from hearing it after so long.

He always used to say you were just as much a part of him as his shadows. He’d teasingly started calling you “his shadow girl”, “shadow” or simply “S”.

The mere memory is enough to make you feel fuzzy inside. 

You’ve not felt like this in centuries. 

You drink in the sight of the male in front of you, letting your eyes roam over his form freely now that he’s finally close enough to you for you to really take him in.  

He definitely looks… intimidating. You look down to the expanse of his chest, studying the exquisite muscles you can see underneath the stretched fabric. Letting your eyes wander to his broad arms, you notice the tattoos peeking out from underneath the short sleeves of his shirt and wonder how much more of the black ink is hidden underneath his clothes. You quickly look away before it becomes obvious that you are practically undressing him with your eyes. You let your gaze wander to his wings instead, and your eyes widen slightly at the size of them. 

You feel a slight flush beginning to form on your cheeks as you stare at the soft looking membrane. You can’t help but wonder if it’s true what they said about Illyrian males and their wingspans as you study them. You blame the hint of alcohol for your brazen thoughts. That and the overwhelming primal need to claim the male in front of you as yours. 

After a few moments of unapologetic staring your eyes shift back to his face. You find him examining you intently. Shadows swirling around him as he’s looking you over to make sure you are okay. 

He might be one of the most intimidating Illyrian warriors in history, but in the way he is looking at you right now, all you can see is that little boy staring up at you from the forest floor, eyes wide and vulnerable, all of his emotions readable in his open expression. 

One of his shadows wraps itself around your wrist in a comforting touch and you can feel some of the tension you’ve been feeling leave your body in relief. You’re really here, home, with him. 

You realise you have not said a word to him since he’s spoken the words you wished to hear for so long.  

“I told you I would find my way back to you.” you say softly, voice rough and trembling slightly from the lump forming in your throat. 

You lean slightly closer to him, the instinct to touch him overwhelming you. The golden thread connecting you is screaming for attention, begging you to get out of here as fast as you can and get lost in each other. To claim him. 

“I never doubted it for a second.” he whispers back, his hazel eyes burning with intensity. You can feel all of his emotions, the magnitude of both your feelings threatening to overwhelm you. 

You notice the hand that is not on yours moving toward your knee, but Azriel seems to stop himself, seemingly not quite sure if he’s okay to touch you. You give him a small smile and reach out, moving his hand back toward your leg. The comforting touch makes your skin feel like it’s on fire. 

Your position feels very intimate considering your current surroundings and you wish there was somewhere you could go to be fully alone. 

You’re suddenly very aware of being watched. You look around and a rush of anxiety floods through you. People are looking at the pair of you, clearly wanting to know more about the female engaged in an obviously intimate conversation with the Spymaster of the Night Court. 

When you came back to Velaris a couple of days ago you promised yourself you’d lay low until you were absolutely certain it was safe. Seeing Azriel and making the decision to approach him had thrown you off balance, made you careless.  

You notice some of Azriel’s shadows wrapping around you both as if they share your need to be alone with him. Even after all these years they still seem attuned to your thoughts and feelings. 

Grateful for the illusion of privacy, you move your chair slightly closer to his until your legs are touching, the leather of his trousers resting against the soft material of your own. 

Azriel’s shadows wrap around you even tighter, sheltering you from the rest of the bar and creating a familiar blanket of comfort. 

“Is there somewhere private we can go to talk?” you whisper. 

The sentence has barely left your lips before you feel a familiar coolness wrapped around your form, followed by a sensation that makes you feel as if you’re being pushed through darkness. 

Not long later you feel cold air on your skin and cobblestones under your feet and realise you’re in an alley outside the bar. 

A soft laugh leaves your lips as you wonder what else his shadows can do now that Azriel has fully learned to control them. 

He smiles at you, stepping slightly closer. “I know somewhere we can go, do you trust me?” 

You just nod your head and before you have time to process what’s happening, his arms wrap around you as he lifts you up from the ground, cradling you against his chest. You squeal at the unexpected movement, a sound that draws a soft laugh from Azriel’s lips. 

You’ve not been in the sky in centuries. When you both got older and Azriel properly mastered his flying, he used to take you out sometimes. The trips were few and far between as he was only able to take you when it was dark and you were sure you couldn’t be spotted by the camp below. 

You used to live for those short trips. Being Illyrian, you’d always loved the feeling of being in the air. You hated being stuck on the ground, your instincts always causing you to look upwards, towards the sky. It had taken years to get over the grief of not having wings of your own. 

You look up at him from the position in his arms, a big smile now on your lips. 

“Hi.” The word leaves your lip in a soft giggle. 

“Hello.” He whispers back, an equally big smile plastered on his own face. It’s a funny sight, this big intimidating Illyrian male wearing such a giddy expression. 

He presses you closer to him, and you lean your head against his chest as you close your eyes and breathe in his rich scent. 

“Ready?” His warm breath touches your ear as he asks the question and the sensation sends a shiver down your spine. Being this close to him makes you want to rip his clothes off and do very bad things to him. You pray to the mother that he doesn’t notice how this is making you feel. 

“Ready.” You reply, and you can feel him push off from the ground. 

As you soar through the air above Velaris you feel happier than you have in centuries. You forgot what it felt like to be airborne. You take in the view of the city from the top and marvel at its beauty. The sidra looks like liquid starlight and the little lights scattered through the streets below make the city look like the night sky. 

It’s breathtaking. 

“As are you.” 

Your eyes widen at the sound of Azriel’s voice echoing in your mind and you feel a soft blush on your cheeks from the sentiment. Another part of your connection that you’ll have to get used to. You must have let your guard down enough for your thoughts to reach him through the bond. 

After a short flight you touch down in a small forest clearing and Azriel carefully puts you down, smiling at you sheepishly. 

Of course he brought you to the forest, it’s only fitting to do this in the place you both feel most at home in. 

You take in your surroundings. You can’t be too far away from the city. The trees are different from the ones in the forest surrounding Windhaven, but the environment is not any less peaceful. It’s perfect. 

As he sits down and pats the ground next to him, tears start to fall down your cheeks once more. You weren’t sure you’d ever get to do this again. You are overwhelmed by the fact that you’re here with him. 

The knowledge that he’s your mate, combined with both of your emotions ablaze in your chest, shatters the walls you put up to stop yourself from crying. You have not cried this much in centuries, normally taking pride in your ability to compose yourself and keep your emotions steady. 

As you start sobbing you lower yourself on to the ground next to him. He immediately pulls you close to his chest, shadows engulfing you both to block out the world from view. Your own secret hideaway. 

Sobs rack through your body as Azriels hands stroke your hair with a softness that makes you feel like it’s okay to show him your emotions. He’d always made you feel like it was okay to be vulnerable. 

When your breathing evens out and you feel like you can form words again, you lean into his side and take his hand in your own. 

“I was worried you wouldn’t remember me.” you say softly, not daring to look at him. The shadows are providing the same comfort they used to when you were younger, making you feel like you can whisper your deepest secrets into the darkness. 

You hear his breathing catch at that, a soft whimper leaving his lips. You feel agony flair through the bond and as you sit up to look at him, you notice tears streaming down his face, mirroring your own expression from not too long ago. 

“My love..” he says softly, and your heart swells at the term of endearment. “I could never forget you.”

He moves his hand towards the top button of his shirt, undoing it to reveal a thin gold chain. Attached is a small tube that looks like it can fit something inside. He unscrews it and shakes it softly to reveal a bit of rolled up paper. 

“My most prized possession.” 

He hands it to you, and as you unroll it reveals familiar handwriting. Your own. It’s the note you left him the day you fled to Velaris. How has it survived all this time? 

Azriel points at the little golden tube when he detects your puzzled expression. “It’s enchanted.” You notice a small blush starting to form on his cheeks. “I had to make sure I could keep a part of you with me. I wanted to keep a piece of you close to my chest. Close to..” he takes a deep trembling breath before speaking his next words. “Close to the bond. I think it comforted it somehow, relieved some of the ache.” 

The meaning of his words hit you. He’d known. All this time he’d known you were his mate, and had to deal with the knowledge by himself. Your heart breaks at the thought of the mating bond sitting unanswered for centuries. All you want is to feel him close. To show him you are here now, that you are his. That you’re not going anywhere. 

The all-consuming need to claim him overwhelms you once more. 

You’re sure the complete adoration you feel for him has to be written all over your face as you stare at him. You move closer, needing to feel his lips on your own. You’re about to close the distance between you when his eyes go vacant, as if all of his focus is projected inward. 

When his expression clears again he looks at you, all the colour drained from his face. “That was Rhys.” 

Anxiety starts to build in your chest. You know of the High Lord’s daemati abilities, and given the feeling of Azriel’s overwhelming fear building in your chest, you know whatever he’s about to reveal cannot be good. 

“There’s unrest in one of the Illyrian mountain camps. He’s worried there might be a rebellion coming.” 

You’re scared to ask the question burning on your lips. “What camp Az?”

He stays quiet for a moment, scared to reveal the truth to you. “Az?” you press. 

You feel like the world disappears from underneath you at the words that leave his lips.  

“Frost Edge.”

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[midnightquips]

What We Never Were

Jake Seresin x Reader

Summary: Y/N needs a fake boyfriend for her sister’s wedding. Jake Seresin, her childhood best friend, is all too happy to play the part—until pretending starts to feel dangerously real. One bed. Old feelings. A week of dancing around the truth. She thinks he’s out of reach. He’s just been waiting for her to see him.

Themes: fake dating, bestfriends to lovers, pining, slow burn, fluff

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, jealousy, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

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Chapter 2

Part I - Where the Lie Lives Easy

“So tell me again why Rooster can’t go with me?”

Jake doesn’t even bother looking at you. He keeps his eyes on the road, one hand lazily on the wheel of his truck while the other taps on the steering column like a ticking clock. 

You’ve been agitated since you landed, wondering if you actually have the guts to pull off this ruse. The idea of Jake telling everyone that he had suddenly fallen in love with you after all these years, had stirred feelings of insecurity you thought you’ve successfully overcome.

Moreso, it made you uneasy how Jake seems to be at peace despite the situation you were both entering. It was as if he had fully accepted the situation that you would be lying for a week to basically everyone who knew the two of you since childhood.

“Because,” he says calmly, “I’ll tell everyone the truth.”

You blink at him, mouth falling open. “You wouldn’t.”

It baffles you that Jake had been so stubborn about this. Had you successfully convinced Bradley to play the doting boyfriend, you assumed Jake would take the opportunity to make fun of the situation. 

“Oh, I absolutely would.” He glances at you then, eyes gleaming with the kind of smugness that only years of history could cultivate. “I’ll walk up to your mom, your aunt, your grandma—hell, even the DJ—and tell them all how you begged Bradley Bradshaw to play pretend with you so no one would remember you were dumped by a marine biologist who lives in a boat.”

“First of all, Mark lives in a houseboat—”

“Which is just a moldy studio with plumbing.”

You groan and smack your hand against your face. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the most qualified,” he corrects. “And I’m the only one who won’t make it look like you paid someone off Craigslist to smile for family photos.”

You glare at him. “You’re so confident it’s sickening.”

Jake grins like it’s a compliment. “And yet, you still almost asked Rooster.”

“Okay, but to be fair, he does look like the type to show up with a tux and flowers.”

Jake scoffs, pulling into the gas station on the edge of town. “Oh sure, if the flowers were from a strip club parking lot.”

You smile despite yourself. And then sigh. Loudly.

“So tell me, what’s the plan then? How do we explain this sudden whirlwind romance?”

Jake parks, turns off the engine, and finally gives you his full attention. “You let me handle it.”

“Oh god.”

He leans his elbow on the back of your seat and grins like a fox. “We’ll say we reconnected when you came to visit me last year in Norfolk. You came for a weekend and just never really left me alone after that.”

You leer, tempted to smack him, “Excuse me?”

“THEN I visited New York. Slept on your terrible couch. That was when I knew I couldn’t live without you.”

You cross your arms. “This is already sounding like a rom-com Netflix would reject. Why am I the one who seemingly flocks over you?”

Jake smiles smugly, “Because I like it.”

“Well, I don’t.”

He simply shrugs, “Too bad, because your cousins are going to love it. Especially the part where you tell them you seduced your childhood best friend with a Yankee candle and a bowl of cereal.”

You groan, pressing your forehead to the dashboard , when a question comes to your mind, “Why cereal?”

“It’s believable.”

Seduction over cereal is believable than two friends who wake up one day realizing they’ve always been in love with each other.  Right. 

You’re quiet for a moment, watching the sun dip lower in the sky through the window. It bathes Jake’s profile in orange, casting soft shadows along the bridge of his nose and jawline.

Jake knows you’ve been on edge about this whole idea so he lets you go through the motion. To be honest, he’s not quite sure himself about what’s going to happen. All he knows is ever since that night in his truck, when you made the ridiculous suggestion, every fiber in him simply refused to entertain the idea of you and Bradley even playing pretend. 

“It’s not real though,” you mutter. “None of it is.”

Jake reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. “No,” he agrees softly. “But we’ll pretend so damn good, they won’t even have time to question it”

You hadn’t been back home in two years.

You stand outside your childhood house for a few minutes just staring at it. Your parents still lived in the same two-story house in your quiet little Texas suburb, two doors down from where the Seresins used to live. The street hadn’t changed much—same mailboxes, same oak trees, same peeling basketball hoop at the end of the cul-de-sac that had seen one too many failed dunks.

Carefully approaching, it takes a few more seconds for you to brace yourself. 

”Hey, we got this.” Jake’s voice soft in your ear

You nod firmly. This was it, no turning back. 

The moment your dad opened the door, it was as if someone had shouted “Action”. Jake stood behind you with that dumb, charming smile on his face while your mom looked nearly ready to burst into tears.

“Oh my god, Jake!” she exclaimed, pulling him in for a hug. “You still smell like cologne and trouble.”

Jake chuckled. “Hi, Mrs. Y/L/N. Good to see you too.”

Your mom had always loved him. Jake didn’t turn charming overnight, he was born with that charisma. The kind that developed by being doted on all his life, which his own mother did since he was born, then and later on the entire town. 

Your dad just stood behind her, nodding once. “Boy hasn’t aged a day.”

That was as rich as a compliment could be coming from your dad. He never said it out loud but just like every dad in town, your own was no different in capturing his approval when Jake became the highschool football star then got into top gun. A true hometown hero.  

It was apparent that Jake was far more at ease seeing the familiar faces than you did. You, on the other hand, felt like you’d aged ten years the moment you walked through that door.

After the greetings and motions were exchanged, your sister comes charging down the stairs before throwing herself at you.

”Thank GOD you’re here! I told you to come a week ago!” Celine whines 

You knew she was stressed by the preparations and your mother severely aggravated this because they were so similar it was truly laughable that they didn’t realize it. 

Celine takes a look at Jake, warmly acknowledging him before she says, “Well, at least you’re not balding.”

Jake barks out in laughter. He was always fond of your little sister. He remembers how bratty she was as a child but was a nice kid overall. It was obvious that if there was something you taught her well it was a signature sense of humor, “You finally tricked some man into marrying you?”

“Successfully.” She grins

She pulls back and takes you both in, eyebrow raising inquisitively at the way Jake held your hand. Sisters have a way of communicating and the message was clear: What’s this? 

You shrug. Jake understands and decides to take lead. “Darling, have you told them yet?”

Your parents and Celine look expectant. No need to prolong. Just rip off the bandaid. 

”Uh well, so yeah.  Jake and I have been seeing each other.”

Your mom is seemingly perplexed. An exaggerated surprise comes from your sister Celine. “What the hell do you mean you’re dating now?”

Another shrug. You say, “It just happened.”

Celine is suspicious but doesn’t push. Some awkward minutes later, after the announcement has been made, your family reluctantly lets you and Jake settle in. It was clear no one quite knew what to make of it. There were too many questions forming but a silent agreement that it’s too soon for an interrogation.

But just because there were no answers, doesn’t mean the seed didn’t propagate. 

The aunts know. A simple text from Celine confirmed it.

The lie spread like butter on toast. Fast. Easy. Warm. 

You and Jake decided to walk down the street that night—no destination in mind. A breather from the chaos. Just two old sneakers moving in sync across the sidewalk, nostalgia creeping in the air. You had your hands in your coat pockets, while Jake’s were stuffed into the front of his jeans.

“It’s weird being back,” you said.

“I know.”

You haven’t really talked. Since the revelation was fresh, your mom initially set you both up in separate rooms. Being separate from Jake was a relief. He had not let go of your hand since you had gotten off the truck, intimately intertwined that it was starting to prickle your skin. Thankfully Jake has also not said much.

You glance to your right. There, just beyond the fence, was the house you’d grown up in. And beside it—the place you had basically also grown up in. The Seresin house.

“Remember when we used to climb that tree?” you ask, nodding at the giant oak in your old backyard.

Jake grins, nostalgic. “Yeah. You fell out of it once and I cried harder than you did.”

“You thought I died.”

“You looked dead.”

You both laugh as the memory floods in fast.

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

FLASHBACK — AGE 6

“JAAAAKE!”

He heard you before he saw you—a loud thud, mud smeared on your knees, tangled hair half-covered in grass, holding up your scraped elbow like you’d just been stabbed.

He gasped so loud his mom ran outside.

“She fell!” he shrieked, fussing around you, feet stomping in panic. “SHE’S BLEEDING, MAMA!”

His mom was checking for any serious injury. Luckily you had none. With bright eyes, you looked up at him with your little round face, an assuring tone as much as a 6 year old can. “Don’t worry Jake. I’m okay.”

He had cried anyway. You didn’t. You never did when it counted.

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

Back in the present, you nudge his shoulder teasingly. “You were such a crybaby.”

“Still am,” Jake replies lightly. “Only now it’s in the shower with a bottle of whiskey and a sad country playlist.”

It makes you chuckle, “God, you’re depressing.”

Jake smiles softly, “Nah. Just honest.”

The walk takes you past your old elementary school. You slow down when you reach the playground fence.

“You remember when you punched Chase Keller in the face for calling me a whale?”

Jake’s jaw clenches. “Still one of my proudest moments.”

You smirk. “You broke his nose.”

“He deserved it.”

Your smile fades as the warmth of the memory gives way to something quieter.

“He didn’t even apologize. Just cried and told the teacher I sat on him.”

Jake sighs. “I hated that shit. People never saw you the way I did.”

You pause, heart stumbling over itself. Why did he have to say things that trigger your fragility?

Don’t read into it. It had become a mantra. 

It was just Jake. The boy who defended you. Who stood by you. Who always made you feel like you were enough… even when you didn’t believe it yourself.

And yet—the ugly truth was there, he dated everyone but you.

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

FLASHBACK — HIGH SCHOOL

You sat in the bleachers, books in your lap, watching Jake make his way down the hallway in his letterman jacket. Tiffany Holden had her arms around him, laughing at something he said. He grinned, tugging her in for a kiss.

He didn’t even see you.

You looked back down at your books, reminding yourself that Jake always looked out for you—but not like that.

Never like that.

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

“You okay?” Jake’s voice brings you back to the present.

He notices the faraway look in your eyes. Pulling you back to him before you get too in your head.

You nod and offer a weak smile. “Yeah. Just a lot of memories, you know?”

Jake gently bumps his shoulder against yours. “We’ve got a lot of good ones.”

You hum. “And a lot of confusing ones.”

He stops walking. “Which ones?”

You turn to look at him. “Well, this whole thing when it becomes one for starters”

He stares at you, “ Should it?”

You sigh dejectedly, “I think it already is.”

Jake doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smirk. He just looks at you, eyes unreadable.

“We’ll be alright.” He hums

You’re not quite sure it will be.

Taglist: @kvmitchell @mrsevans90 @natureartisian @purplefluffycows @eolsens

[youngsadlesbian]

THREADS OF FATE | chapter 05

chapter summary: the bond between you and wanda deepens as she quietly supports you through your grief. slowly, without force, you begin to reconnect with her, finding comfort in her presence.

a/n: hope you like it!

word count: 3,6k

warnings: mentions of murder and death.

The day started like any other. The sun filtered through the massive windows of the Avengers Compound, casting golden streaks across the polished floors. You had just returned from a sparring session with Sam, your muscles still aching from the relentless training. Natasha had been pushing you harder lately, claiming you were getting soft.

"You good?" Sam had asked as you both wiped the sweat from your brows.

You had laughed, punching his arm lightly. "I'm fine, Wilson. Worry about yourself."

That was the last moment you remembered feeling like yourself.

Because after that, everything shattered.

You were about to hit the showers when Steve approached, his usual composed expression replaced with something that made your stomach twist—concern, hesitation, maybe even pity.

"Hey," he started gently. "Can we talk for a second?"

Something in his tone made your heart pound, but you nodded, following him toward one of the quieter hallways. As soon as you saw Tony waiting there, arms crossed, his jaw tight with unspoken words, you knew.

No.

It couldn’t be.

"Your parents just called," Tony said, voice measured, controlled. "It's about Daniela."

The air left your lungs. Your world tilted.

"No."

"She—" Steve hesitated, eyes flickering to Tony, as if silently asking him to continue. But you didn’t need to hear it. Your hands were already shaking, the dread sinking into your bones like ice.

"Daniela was attacked," Tony finally said, and the next words hit you like a blade to the heart. "She didn’t make it."

The walls of the compound felt like they were closing in on you.

Your ears rang. Your body locked. A distant part of you registered Natasha stepping closer, as if ready to catch you.

But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

"No… No, no, no," the words tumbled from your lips in rapid succession, but no one corrected you. No one told you it was a mistake.

"Lo están inventando," you murmured under your breath, shaking your head violently. "No puede ser verdad. No, no puede ser verdad…"

No one in the room had ever seen you like this—lost in your mother language, lost in sheer disbelief. But the way Tony looked down, the way Steve placed a hand on your shoulder, it only confirmed the truth.

Your knees buckled.

The world blurred.

You didn’t even realize you had collapsed until Natasha was gripping your arms, keeping you from hitting the ground.

"Hey, hey," she murmured, her voice steady, grounding. "Breathe."

But how could you? How could you when your sister—your best friend, your other half—was gone?

You gripped Natasha’s arms like she was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

"Dios mío, por favor, dime que esto no es real," you sobbed, the Spanish pouring from your lips in broken gasps. "Por favor, dime que es una mentira… Daniela… mi hermanita…"

Your voice cracked into something unrecognizable, something shattered beyond repair.

"Get her to her room," Tony muttered, and then you were being half-led, half-carried down the hallway, but none of it felt real.

Nothing felt real anymore.

You weren’t sure how you made it back to your room.

One second, you were standing in the hallway, drowning in the weight of Tony’s words. The next, you were on your bed, curled up on your side, staring at the wall.

Everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, your fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt. You felt… empty. Like your body was moving, existing, but you weren’t really there.

Somewhere outside your door, you could hear the hushed voices of the team. They were talking about you, probably trying to figure out what to do. But you didn’t care.

You didn’t care about anything.

Daniela was gone.

She had been walking home from work. That was all. Just walking. She wasn’t supposed to be a target. She wasn’t supposed to die.

But she had fought back. Of course, she had. Daniela had never been the type to just hand over what was hers.

And because of that—because of a stupid, senseless act of violence—she was dead.

The thought made you sick.

A knock at your door broke the silence, but you didn’t move.

"Hey, it’s me," Natasha’s voice was quiet, cautious.

You swallowed hard.

Another knock. "I’m coming in."

You didn’t respond, but the door creaked open anyway. She sat beside you on the bed, not speaking at first.

Then, softly, "I’m sorry."

You turned your face into the pillow, biting your lip so hard you tasted blood. "I can’t—" You choked on the words. "I should have been there. I should have protected her."

Natasha exhaled slowly. "This wasn’t your fault."

But you didn’t believe her.

And you didn’t say another word.

Wanda had noticed the change in you the moment she laid eyes on you, standing in the shadows of the compound with your eyes red-rimmed, your body rigid in a way that made you seem like you were trying to disappear.

It was strange, watching you.

She had always seen you as someone with light in their eyes, someone who was almost perpetually bright and warm, like the sun on a cold winter's day. But today—today was different. Today, you were a shadow of that person.

Wanda hadn’t known your sister, but she could see the impact of Daniela’s death in the way you moved, in the way your shoulders were hunched, in the glassy, distant look in your eyes whenever someone spoke to you.

You hadn’t really spoken to anyone since the news hit. Not to the team, not to Natasha, not to anyone. You had retreated into yourself. And it was killing Wanda to see it.

She had been watching you for days, ever since you first shut yourself off. She knew that grief like this wasn’t something that could be fixed with words, but she couldn’t help but feel the pull to be near you. It was like a magnetic force, this need to be close.

But what could she say?

She had no idea how to approach you, no idea how to ease your pain. But she couldn’t stand seeing you like this.

It was the day of Daniela’s funeral when Wanda finally decided to approach you.

She had seen you from the window of the compound, standing alone at the edge of the garden, your hands in your pockets, your head bowed low as you stared at the ground.

It felt wrong, seeing you like that. You were always so full of life, full of warmth, and now you were like a shell, hollowed out and unrecognizable.

Wanda took a deep breath before walking over to you, her footsteps slow but purposeful.

You didn’t notice her approach until she was standing directly in front of you. Your eyes lifted slightly, but you didn’t speak.

The silence between you two stretched for a long, painful moment.

Finally, Wanda broke it. "I—I’m sorry," she said quietly. "I know nothing I say will make this better, but I just… I wanted you to know I’m here. If you need anything."

Your eyes flickered to her, then away. "You don’t have to be here, Wanda," you murmured, your voice a fragile whisper. "I’m not… I’m not in the mood for company."

Wanda didn’t move. "I understand," she said softly, not taking offense, her gaze softening with empathy. "But that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you alone."

You stayed silent for a long time, as if contemplating whether or not to tell her to go away. But then, unexpectedly, you spoke.

"You were right," you said, your voice thick with the weight of unspoken emotion.

Wanda blinked. "What?"

You inhaled shakily. "You told me that I’d lose the people I cared about. That no matter how strong I was, I wouldn’t be able to save them."

Wanda froze at your words. She had never wanted you to understand that kind of pain. Never wanted you to have to feel what she felt after losing Pietro. And yet, there it was, in your eyes—that look.

"I wanted you to be wrong," your voice broke. "But you weren’t. I lost her, Wanda. I lost her, and I couldn’t do anything."

She swallowed hard. "I didn’t mean for you to go through it, though," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "I never wanted you to understand. I just… I wanted you to stay happy. I didn’t want you to feel what I’ve felt."

"But I do now," you whispered. "And I hate you for being right."

Wanda looked away, her jaw tightening.

You closed your eyes, shaking your head. "I used to think I could protect the people I loved. That if I was strong enough, fast enough, smart enough… they’d be safe."

You exhaled shakily.

"But you were right. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t do anything."

Wanda’s heart ached at the rawness in your voice. She didn’t know what to say, how to fix this. She wasn’t sure if anything could fix it.

"I never wanted this for you," Wanda whispered, her hand reaching out hesitantly toward you. She stopped just short, unsure if you wanted her close. You didn’t pull away, so she gently placed her hand on your shoulder. "I never wanted you to feel this kind of loss."

You looked up at her, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I know you didn’t," you whispered, your voice soft but thick with sorrow. "But now that I’m here… I understand why you were so distant with me. Why you hated seeing me so happy all the time. You couldn’t stand it."

Wanda flinched, a pained expression crossing her face. "I didn’t hate you for being happy," she said quickly, her voice trembling. "I hated it because it reminded me of everything I lost. I hated that I couldn’t be like you—so full of life, so full of light."

Your brow furrowed, confusion sweeping over your features. "But you never told me that. Instead, you made me feel like something was wrong with me."

"I know," Wanda said, shaking her head. "I know I was cruel, and I regret it. More than you’ll ever understand."

For a moment, the world around you fell away, leaving just the two of you in the quiet garden. The weight of the conversation hung heavily in the air, but there was something about it—something about this moment—that felt like it could break the silence between you two forever.

You took a deep breath, your voice barely above a whisper. "I think… I think I was wrong too. For not seeing it. For thinking I could just go on being the same after something like this happens."

Wanda’s hand tightened slightly on your shoulder, the warmth of her touch grounding you in this shared sorrow. "It’s okay," she said softly. "We don’t have to pretend to be okay."

For the first time since Daniela’s death, you allowed yourself to lean into Wanda’s presence, feeling the weight of everything you had lost and everything you were still struggling to carry.

And maybe—just maybe—you realized that, even in the midst of the deepest pain, there was a small spark of connection between you and Wanda. Something fragile, but real.

A connection that had always been there, even when neither of you were ready to see it.

In the days that followed Daniela’s funeral, the team kept their distance—understanding that grief was something no one could rush. You had pulled back into yourself, but there was a change, however subtle, that didn’t escape Wanda. It wasn’t that you were talking more or acting like your old self; no, that was far from it. But something between you had shifted in a way that couldn’t easily be ignored.

At first, Wanda had been cautious, careful to respect your space. She didn’t want to push you too far, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from checking in on you. Sometimes it was just standing in the doorway of your room, watching you for a moment, but there was something about it—something unspoken—that made it feel like you were silently letting her in.

It wasn’t a dramatic change. Nothing happened overnight. You were still distant, still broken in ways that couldn’t be healed with a simple conversation. But little by little, you started to let her into your world in ways you hadn’t allowed anyone else to see.

One afternoon, Wanda found you sitting on the roof of the compound, legs dangling over the edge as you stared at the horizon, the sunset casting a soft orange glow across your face. The wind had picked up, pulling your hair back from your face, and you seemed lost in thought.

She hesitated at the doorway, watching you quietly. There was something about this moment that felt private, like a scene from a dream—your sorrow, her distance. And yet, there was a flicker of something in the air, something that made Wanda feel like you weren’t as alone as you seemed.

She cleared her throat softly. "Mind if I join you?"

You didn’t immediately respond. Your gaze was fixed on the horizon, your expression unreadable. But then, after a long beat, you shrugged, a gesture that somehow seemed like an invitation.

She stepped forward, sitting down next to you without saying another word. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves in the wind and the distant hum of the compound’s activity.

Wanda watched you from the corner of her eye, trying to gauge whether you’d open up at all. She had no expectations, no agenda. She just wanted to be there, silently offering her presence in the way she knew how.

"You used to like to watch the sunsets with Daniela, right?" Wanda asked quietly, breaking the silence but not pressing for a response.

You glanced at her briefly before nodding. "Yeah," you said softly. "She always used to say the sunset looked different when you watched it with someone else."

Wanda’s lips curled into a faint smile. "I guess she was right."

You didn't say anything after that. But the conversation wasn’t what mattered—what mattered was the quiet companionship that settled between you two. The way Wanda simply sat beside you, her presence calming in ways that words couldn’t reach.

Over the next few weeks, you and Wanda had more of these quiet moments—small exchanges that felt less like a burden and more like a gentle reminder that you weren’t completely alone in your grief.

Sometimes, it was a simple gesture—a shared glance when the team was gathered around the dinner table, or Wanda offering you a soft smile after a particularly difficult mission. You didn’t speak much, but there was a comfort in the space between you, in the way that Wanda never pushed you to talk but seemed to understand when you needed silence.

It was a slow, natural process. You still kept most of your pain to yourself, but with Wanda, it felt easier to breathe. Easier to be around someone who didn’t demand answers or explanations.

One evening, the two of you were assigned to go over some security plans for the compound. It was a late night, the rest of the team already long in bed, but Wanda had asked you to stay back and help her. The task was tedious, but there was something almost peaceful about the way the two of you worked together in the quiet of the war room.

You were seated at the table, papers spread out in front of you, your pen moving across the paper as you made notes. Wanda was beside you, leaning over a map, her brow furrowed in concentration.

For a while, there were no words. It wasn’t necessary. You were both lost in the work, but the proximity was comfortable. And when you looked up from the map and met Wanda’s eyes, there was a brief flicker of understanding—a shared moment of peace in the midst of the chaos.

"Do you ever get tired of all this?" you asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Wanda’s gaze softened as she considered your question. She didn’t immediately answer. Instead, she met your eyes with an intensity that felt like it carried the weight of everything she had been through—the loss of Pietro, the isolation, the battles, both physical and emotional.

"Sometimes," she admitted, her voice quiet but honest. "But I think I’ve learned to live with it. I don’t know how else to be."

You nodded slowly. "I get that," you said softly.

Wanda didn’t respond right away, but she didn’t need to. The exchange was simple, but it was real. You both understood each other in a way that had taken time to build but had grown undeniable.

It wasn’t long before Natasha noticed the change between you and Wanda. The two of you had always been distant, at least as far as Natasha had seen it. But now, there was something different.

It wasn’t obvious at first, but Natasha was perceptive. She could tell that the little moments between you and Wanda had become more frequent, that you were no longer as withdrawn when Wanda was around. There was an ease in the way you interacted with her now—something she hadn’t seen before.

One evening, as the team gathered for dinner, Natasha watched you and Wanda quietly pass the salt back and forth, exchanging a few brief words, before Wanda leaned in to show you something on her phone. It was small, but Natasha could see the difference in your posture. You were leaning toward Wanda now, your body language more open, more at ease.

"Interesting," Natasha murmured to herself, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

She hadn’t seen you smile much in the past few weeks, but there you were, almost laughing at something Wanda had said. Natasha caught your eye for a brief moment, and you quickly turned away, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

It was subtle—small moments that anyone else might miss—but Natasha didn’t miss a thing.

She leaned over to Clint, who was sitting across from her, and whispered, "Have you noticed how close they’ve gotten?"

Clint raised an eyebrow, following Natasha’s gaze to where you and Wanda were now sitting. "You mean, like… closer than usual?"

"Yeah," Natasha said. "It’s more than just proximity. They’re actually talking."

Clint grinned. "Well, it’s about time."

Natasha didn’t respond, but she couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. You were finding your way back to yourself, piece by piece, and it was clear that Wanda was playing a big part in that.

The days passed, and although the grief would never fully disappear, you felt like a small part of you was coming back to life again. It wasn’t all at once. It wasn’t a grand, sweeping transformation. But it was real, and it was happening quietly, like the gradual breaking of dawn after a long, dark night.

And Wanda was there, in the background, offering you her presence, her strength, without ever demanding anything in return.

You didn’t know exactly when it happened, but one day, you realized that Wanda had become a part of your world in a way that no one else had. Not with words, not with grand gestures. Just by being there.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

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[yourwitchygoblin]

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ Different types of spirit guides & their roles ♥

Actually I must admit I am not the most educated on this topic, however I still do know quite a bit so if anyone has any information that I'm missing out on then feel free to comment and correct me or reblog with corrections and additional information

I also want to say that additionally the spirit guides I talk about here exclude deities like Gods, Goddess, demons, angels, demi-gods and demi-goddesses, or dragons, mer-folk (including sirens and mermaids as well as other sea spirits like selkies), the fae and other known spirits.

Spirit guides are beings that support, protect, and guide us through life’s journey. They can show up in subtle nudges, sudden clarity, dreams, signs, or strong gut feelings—and they each have their own vibe and purpose.

Not all guides stick around forever. Some are here for a lifetime, some for a specific chapter, and some show up, drop a lesson like a cosmic mic, and bounce once their job is done.

🌙Types of Spirit Guides (and what they’re great at)🌙

🕊️Lifelong Guides🕊️

Your main ride-or-die(s). They’ve been with you since birth (or early life), and they usually:

Offer big-picture guidance

Help shape your path

Ground you through spiritual changes They might feel super familiar, like you’ve known them forever—and you probably have, soul-wise.

🦉Lesson Guides / Temporary Guides🦉

They appear when you’re learning something specific or going through a major transformation.

Help you grow and shift

Teach you hard (or soft) lessons

Leave once their purpose is complete You might not even realize they were there until they’re gone and something inside you feels… wiser.

🔥Protector Guides🔥

Here to defend you—especially energetically.

Warn you about unsafe people or spaces

Help block spiritual attacks or curses

Sometimes feel very strong or even intimidating They’re the “don’t mess with my person” type of energy.

🌿Healer Guides🌿

These guides help with emotional, physical, or spiritual healing.

Often step in during illness, grief, or burnout

Might guide you toward helpful people, habits, or spiritual tools

Can be very calm, gentle, and nurturing

🪶Messenger Guides🪶

They help pass along information from your spiritual team, dreams, ancestors, or deities.

Deliver messages, signs, and synchronicities

May work through animals, numbers, dreams, or random “coincidences”

You’ll often feel like something’s trying to tell you something when they’re around

🧚Nature & Elemental Guides🧚

Connected to forests, rivers, animals, or elements like fire, water, air, and earth.

Grounding, inspiring, and deeply connected to nature

May guide you through shadow work, intuition building, or reconnecting with your roots

Great for witchy folks, animists, or pathworkers

My Final Thoughts

Spirit guides come in many forms: animals, ancestors, human-like beings, energy forms, or even abstract symbols

Some people meet their guides through dreams, meditation, automatic writing, or divination

You don’t have to know their names or see them clearly for them to be helping you

Your team changes as you change. Trust that the right guide shows up when needed

They’re not here to control your life. They’re here to support your growth, remind you of your power, and help you find your own way.

[mashtatosworld]

drama

summary: the timeline of the 'back to you' series

*not an accurate representation of real-time - im a human that's bad at maths

Step into the world of y/n and Gdragon - featuring the highs and lows of an idol couple.

The Start:

The couple first captured headlines in 2015, when y/n starred as the lead in BIGBANG’s dreamy Let’s Not Fall in Love music video. At the time, y/n was still carving her own path, a fresh face in the industry with more potential than recognition.

That all changed just a week after the video’s release, when the pair surprised fans by announcing their first collaborative track. The song was an instant sensation, earning them multiple awards and solidifying their status as both artistic partners and the industry’s newest power couple.

Later that year, the 2015 Melon Music Awards became the stage for their highly-anticipated first public appearance together - a moment that sparked endless headlines and fan theories about their off-stage romance.

Though they toured separately, the two couldn’t seem to stay apart for long. Fans were regularly treated to surprise appearances at each other’s concerts, moments that only added to the couple’s mystique. Behind the scenes, insiders revealed that GDragon and y/n were secretly engaged for three years - a private promise that was repeatedly delayed by their demanding schedules.

By 2018, the strain of their global fame and conflicting commitments appeared to take its toll, leading to the heartbreaking end of their whirlwind romance.

The Separation:

As 2018 drew to a close, GDragon offered fans an unfiltered glimpse into his world with the release of a raw and intimate tour documentary. Gone was the invincible K-pop icon - in his place stood a man unraveling, visibly fragile in the wake of both creative exhaustion and personal heartbreak. It was clear to the world: GDragon was at his lowest.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the spotlight, y/n's career was blazing brighter than ever. Her post-breakup album became a global phenomenon, striking a chord with millions of heartbroken souls who found solace in her words. With every award she accepted and every chart she topped, it was evident - the pain of her past was fuelling her rise.

Despite their individual successes, it was obvious that both stars were mourning the same love story, albeit in very different ways.

The Song:

As y/n’s career flourished, GDragon disappeared from the public eye to complete his mandatory military service - a quiet two-year stretch punctuated by rumours and speculation. During this time, y/n faced growing pressure from both media and fans to address her relationship status. After months of silence, she finally confirmed: there would be no reunion with her ex. She was seeing someone new.

Just two months after her public statement, GDragon released Still Life, a hauntingly reflective track that left fans dissecting every lyric, searching for traces of their once-iconic love story. And then - silence.

For both stars, the world went quiet.

The Speculation:

For years, their story seemed to have ended - until 2024 reignited the flame.

It remains unclear whether the former couple reconnected before that year’s MAMA Awards, but rumours exploded after the two were spotted making a swift and discreet exit from the afterparty - hand-in-hand.

Fans’ suspicions only grew weeks later, when GDragon introduced his newest family member to the world - a cat named Zoa. In the photo, a glimpse of a mystery woman sparked immediate speculation. Longtime fans were quick to draw comparisons to y/n, especially since the pair had famously adopted their first cat, Iye, together back in 2016.

The internet was buzzing - was this a new chapter, or the revival of a love story once thought to be over?

The Secret:

Then the world went into shock.

After years of piecing together their love story through cryptic lyrics, subtle stage moments, and whispered rumours, fans were finally gifted the ultimate confirmation - and it was a moment no one could have predicted.

Seven months after their unexpected reunion at the MAMA Awards, y/n returned to the stage alongside GDragon. Stepping into the spotlight, y/n's growing baby bump was impossible to miss, as was the sparkling diamond ring adorning her finger.

The revelation sent shockwaves through the industry, though perhaps the biggest clues had already been there for those willing to see them.

Just months earlier, GDragon had made a rare appearance on bandmate Daesung’s YouTube series, ZIPDAESUNG, where he teased his long-awaited comeback tour and album. During the chat, the rapper hinted at “major life changes” - and eagle-eyed fans couldn’t help but notice the simple wedding band now sitting comfortably on his finger. After years of playful hints and carefully guarded secrets... the world finally had its answers.

The couple then gave fans a performance for the ages - returning to the very song that first sparked their romance in 2015. This time, they weren’t just co-stars or collaborators. They stood side-by-side as husband and wife, performing their love story in front of the fans who had followed every twist and turn.

In August, the pair welcomed their daughter into the world - a new muse for their ongoing love story. Though they’ve shared glimpses of their life as parents on social media, they’ve chosen to keep their daughter’s face private, protecting her from the spotlight they know all too well.

Now, as they step into this new chapter together, one thing is clear: after years of heartbreak, healing, and finding their way back to each other, GDragon and y/n's love story is far from over.

We're glad to see that the two are happier than ever.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

starting to like making these social media posts but bOY do they take time

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