#This was all i had time for before the rain came in

[midniqhtt]

robert (bob) reynolds

masterlist • marvel • 05/16/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

𑣲 xerox pt2 pt3 I @ichorai

you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

𑣲 the fling I @sacredsorceress

bob finds out that you had a one night stand with bucky a few years earlier and feelings bubble to the surface.

𑣲 therapy I @/sacredsorceress

𑣲 mocha I @/sacredsorceress

yelena decides to make it her mission to set up bob with her close friend.

𑣲 let go I @sunskisser

bob avoided you, and you had no idea why — till the night you help him out of a frenzy.

𑣲 the woes of bowties and missing puzzle pieces I @websterss

One day Bob having a rough day and void jumps out, creating quite a chaos. She tries to talk him through it but void being void thinking she’s a liability for them, he “consumed” her. Few moments after that he turns back into Bob & other people came back from void but not her.

𑣲 the hand that’s forced pt2 I @/websterss

You hadn't meant to get attached to Bob, much less fall in love with him. You hadn't meant for things to slip out right from underneath your grasp. Out of your control, much like Valentina holding your love for one another over your heads.

𑣲 i see you I @cocastyle

𑣲 sneaking around I @callsign-swan

Bob doesn't mean to be sneaking around. But he can't help it. He's got a secret, and he wants to keep it that way. Too bad he's best friends with Yelena Belova.

𑣲 alone together I @/callsign-swan

For the last few years, Tony's daughter has been living out in the tower basement. She doesn't realise when Valentina buys the tower, not until she's being choked out by Sentry (turns out Sentry is a really sweet guy called Bob, who knew?)

𑣲 picnic day I @roanofarcc

when rain threatens a thunderbolts team bonding outing, per the request of Alexei, they turn to their resident weather-controlling team member to save their plans. 

𑣲 a bunch of teenagers I @mallory524

Bob has really started to like you, but he assumes you don’t feel the same way about him. You do though, and everyone seems to know that except Bob… and apparently also Walker, who really thought he had a chance

𑣲 going out I @/mallory524

You and Bob finally spend some time together one morning, but you find yourself rushing to defend him when he gets overwhelmed and people aren’t kind to him.

𑣲 in my arms I @woantohae

The Thunderbolts are constantly on missions, busy trying to do good and save whoever they can. One of them was Bob Reynolds, the defenseless yet powerful man who is part of this team and family. However, he doesn't participate in these missions so he can continue practicing controlling his powers. Despite telling them he's capable, the team prefers to give him more time to get used to them, until one mission, when a member of the team is injured. And all Bob can think about is the fury he feels when he hears Y/N being hurt. And how much he wants revenge on whoever did it.

𑣲 shadow I @/woantohae

Y/N loved the darkness because she could see the stars better. Void does everything in his power to make sure she can gaze at the starry sky, even if it means turning everything into darkness.

𑣲 only you I @/woantohae

Bob's dark, evil entity, The Void, appears when you least expect it. The rest of the team must be prepared to confront him and his prevailing malice. However, there is only one person on the team with whom he has a soft spot. And it's her.

𑣲 like real people do I @froggibus

Bob seeks you out following a bad dream

𑣲 misunderstanding I @strkly

you and bob were inseparable. until he begins to ignore you and you have no clue why. when you’re injured after a mission gone wrong you’re finally able to find out why.

𑣲 darling I @fireinmoonshot

You always call Bob darling in private... until you accidentally slip up and use the nickname in front of the rest of the Thunderbolts.

𑣲 unreal I @/fireinmoonshot

Bob offers for you to share his room while your room in the Watch Tower gets renovated... there's just one problem – he didn't think about the fact that he'd have to share a bed with you.

𑣲 control I @/fireinmoonshot

Bob always waits for you to come back from missions, but when you don't come back one day, his powers start to get a little out of hand.

𑣲 lethal touch I @hearts4johnwick

while training, all goes well until a move bob makes changes your concentration as you begin to relive your worst memory.

𑣲 stay with me I @scarletmika

Bob wants to feel useful, to truly be part of the team, but the others don't think he's ready. You take it upon yourself to teach him control, to guide him through. But mistakes will be made, and it might not be possible to keep the darkness from creeping back in once more.

𑣲 destiny or not I @/scarletmika

As The Darkhold foretold Wanda Maximoff's destiny, The Book of Vishanti foretold your own. You just didn't know how much of that destiny was intertwined with Bob Reynolds, until the day you met him in the vault.

𑣲 peace and quiet I @/scarletmika

Sometimes the tower is too loud, and Bob can feel himself getting overwhelmed. He's always found comfort with you, in your room, where he can find peace and quiet whenever he needs it. And you'll never turn him away, finding the same comfort in him.

𑣲 request I @lovebugism

you like taking care of bob on his bad days. he isn't quite sure why

𑣲 stitches I @skeltnwrites

Bob learns how to stitch a wound

𑣲 plainclothes man pt2 I @em1i2a3

Everyone at the compound knows Bob has a massive crush on you–except you.

𑣲 carry the zero I @/em1i2a3

You and Bob are sharing a room while the Avengers Compound is under renovations, which brings on a slew of new things to learn about one another.

𑣲 cherry waves I @/em1i2a3

You’ve been sick for a few days, so while the rest of the team goes out to do a recon mission, you’re on your own watching over Bob. One morning he comes to your room with a weird request.

𑣲 sailor song I @/em1i2a3

Bob is in love with you, but you can’t be what he wants.

𑣲 i wanna get lost with you I @/em1i2a3

After a rough night, you find yourself with a rare day off–the one that you take on the same day every year in memoriam for the fallen. So you head into the city to spend your feelings away on the only thing that makes sense to you: gifts for your favourite team of scrappy anti-heros…And Bob.

𑣲 it’s you i’m thinking of I @/em1i2a3

Valentina organizes a PR event for the Thunderbolts and during the event Bob realizes that he may want more out of life than just saving the world.

𑣲 signs I @/em1i2a3

You haven’t been able to sleep for the past four days, you’ve tried everything in the book, but tonight Bob has come to your room to offer you some help.

𑣲 a little bit of jam I @violetrainbow412-blog

𑣲 archives room I @owastie

you’re tasked with searching through the archives room to find some information on a new threat

𑣲 oh, scaling all your shadows I @swordgrace

plagued by nightmares, bob takes comfort in the one person who’s pulled him from the shadows time and time again — you.

𑣲 so high school I @pagesfromthevoid

𑣲 walk through darkness I @/pagesfromthevoid

𑣲 unfamiliar feeling I @ang3ltine

Bob was asleep for God knows how long, now that he has the chance at a better life. Who better to show him than you?

𑣲 admiration I @/ang3ltine

Being recruited by Valentina as part of the new Avengers (z) team was never part of your list of agendas. Yet here you were, doting on an awkward brunette.

𑣲 look what the cat dragged in I @eyelessfaces

you get bob a cat for emotional support; the cat adopts you as parents and is undeniably bound to bring the two of you closer.

𑣲 how to kiss I @worstghost

teaching bob how to kiss and accidentally slipping into a 20 minute makeout session

𑣲 the good side I @cosmictheo

bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it.

𑣲 fur-evermore I @ofstarsandvibranium

Because you're Bucky's assistant, you, and your service dog, Juniper, head to the tower to give him some files as well as meet the rest of his new team...including a very cute and slightly awkward, Bob.

𑣲 mr. oblivious I @/ofstarsandvibranium

Bob is sometimes oblivious to the fact that people find him attractive and/or like him. One of those people includes you.

𑣲 i dream of you even when awake I @deakyjoe

Your gift makes sleep difficult. Luckily, Bob is there to guide you through it.

𑣲 something special I @blank-potato

You’ve been the live-in doctor at Avengers Tower for a year, and Bob wants to get you something special to celebrate. Unbeknownst to him, that something special turns out to be a sex plant. 

𑣲 drabble I @undyingdecay

𑣲 peace in the darkness I @theonewiththefanfics

Bob knows Y/N isn't one to go back on her words. So when she doesn't show up to go through with their plans, he starts to worry. Luckily for him, Yelena knows how to break-and-enter. And doesn't mind invading her personal space.

𑣲 the ghost i left behind pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 I @brookghaib-blog

Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

𑣲 a pleasant inconvenience I @little-miss-dilf-lover

your cat likes to run out of your apartment when you return home. today she makes it further than usual but is luckily stopped by a stranger.

𑣲 run hot I @moon-fics

The heating in the tower has broken in the middle of winter. This leaves everyone trying to find warmth any way possible.

[c4shm0neyxxx]

“Only I Hurt You”

Oneshot were seong je finds reader in his bed after he was out handling a couple of guys who had fought her while walking home in an alley way (he told her to go home but she went to his house instead)

The front door creaked when he opened it.

Blood still clung to his knuckles, dried into the creases of his fingers. His hoodie was soaked with someone else’s sweat, maybe some of his own, and the adrenaline hadn’t fully left his bloodstream yet. It rarely did.

They’d laid hands on you. That was enough to make him see red. Enough to make him track them down like dogs.

But the house was too quiet now.

Geum Seong-je kicked off his boots and headed down the dim hallway. The rain hadn’t stopped — he could still hear it hammering against the windows. He told you to go home. Told you to listen.

You never listened.

And when he stepped into his bedroom, there you were.

Curled in his bed, soaking wet, blood streaked down one arm, your lip split and trembling. His sheets were damp. Your clothes were stuck to your skin like a second layer. Your shoes were still on.

“You walked here?” His voice came out low. Barely controlled.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t answer.

He crossed the room in two steps.

“You walked here. In the rain. After they touched you?”

You blinked. He could see the shiver you tried to suppress, your body reacting before your pride could hide it. The blood on your shirt wasn’t all dried. Some of it was still fresh.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” you whispered.

That cracked something in him.

Geum Seong-je didn’t speak for a long moment. He just stood there, fists clenched, chest rising slowly. Then, without a word, he knelt at the edge of the bed and started untying your soaked laces. You flinched when his knuckles brushed your ankle.

“I told you to go home,” he muttered. “But you came here, instead.”

Your voice was barely audible. “This is home.”

He froze. Just for a second.

Then he yanked your shoes off with more force than necessary and peeled your jacket away from your shoulders. It clung, resisting, your blood and the rainwater mixing into a mess that stained his fingers.

You tried to sit up, but his hand landed on your thigh — firm, grounding.

“Stay still.”

You didn’t dare disobey.

He left for a moment. You heard drawers open, the faucet running. When he came back, he had a towel, gauze, ointment, and one of his oversized shirts.

“Take the top off.” His tone left no room for argument.

You moved slowly, the sting in your ribs sharper now that the adrenaline was fading. He watched you, eyes narrow, jaw tight, like he was memorizing every bruise so he could repay them tenfold.

He cleaned the cut on your arm with terrifying gentleness, fingertips brushing over your skin like you were something fragile, breakable.

“You should’ve called me,” he murmured.

“You told me to leave.”

“You should’ve still called.”

Your eyes flicked up. “Would you have come?”

He paused.

Then leaned in.

“I’m always coming for you.”

The silence between you tightened, thick with something you didn’t know how to name. You winced when he pressed antiseptic to your split lip. He cupped your jaw to steady you, his thumb brushing your cheek, rough with callouses and blood.

“I handled it,” he said. “They won’t touch you again. They won’t touch anyone again.”

A beat.

“Did you kill them?”

His eyes didn’t flinch. “No. But I made them wish I had.”

The room went still.

“You scare me sometimes,” you admitted.

He brushed damp hair from your face. Then leaned forward and kissed your forehead — barely a whisper of contact.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m the only one who’s allowed to hurt you.”

You didn’t know whether to cry or kiss him.

So instead, you let him pull his shirt over your head, let him dry your hair with the towel like he’d done this a hundred times before. And when he climbed into bed behind you, one arm sliding under your neck and the other over your waist, pulling you close, you didn’t fight it.

You just let yourself be held. By the boy who broke bones with his fists and still handled you like porcelain.

Because somehow, in all this cold, bleeding chaos —

Geum Seong-je was the only warmth you had left.

[himasgod]

hey so can I have scenario where Lilia vanrouge realises he has found his first romantic true love in his s/o? (Like his past confessions to his previous loves didn’t work out and he was always so busy in the past. And then he finally gets a yes in this reader s/o). He makes s/o smile all the time, and his s/o is always doing little things for him like if he’s getting tired in the sun, s/o gives him a paper umbrella from their bag so the sun isn’t hitting him anymore? (Normally he’s the one taking care of others).

LILIA X READER

Where he realizes he has found his first true love in you

"Yes."

Such a simple word.

A word that had slipped through his fingers so many times across the centuries, like trying to catch moonlight on his palm.

Lilia had lived long enough to watch stars fade from the sky and rise anew.

He had waltzed through wars and lullabies, raised a prince, led armies, sung songs to lull mortals and fae alike into slumber.

Love?

Oh, he'd been fond of many.

He’d admired beauty, laughed with companions, flirted with charm so natural it melted resistance like sugar in warm tea.

But the truth was simpler, harsher: his confessions had always been too late, too soon, or too lost in the wake of his duty.

A warrior. A guardian.

A noble fae with too many burdens and not enough time.

He never blamed them—those he'd once looked upon with fondness. They saw him as a figure of legend. Or a friend. A commander. A ghost of the past. Not one had returned his feelings in full.

Until you.

You, who had stumbled into his life with no reverence for titles or age-old legacies.

Who laughed at his dad jokes and gently tugged him back down to earth when he floated too far into memory.

You, who didn’t care that he had danced with queens or outlived empires.

And it wasn’t the moment you agreed to go out with him that shattered something inside his ancient heart—it was every tiny moment after.

Like today.

Sunlight poured through the trees as you both walked together in a quiet corner of Diasomnia. The heat was mild for most, but Lilia had always been more comfortable under moonlight than midday sun.

He thought nothing of it—he’d simply endure.

But you noticed.

Without saying a word, you reached into your bag, pulled out a small delicately folded paper umbrella—hand-painted with lavender blossoms and starbursts—and popped it open above his head with a soft shk.

"There," you said, adjusting it with a little smile.

"Can’t have my favorite bat getting crispy."

His laugh came unbidden—light, airy.

"Crispy, am I? What a fate for a soldier of centuries."

"Even ancient warriors deserve little shade," you replied, matter-of-fact, and took his free hand like it belonged to you.

He stared at you for a long moment, the paper umbrella filtering light into a soft halo around your hair casting gentle shadows across your cheek.

His heart ached.

Something he hadn’t felt in centuries.

He had loved the world, yes.

He had loved many things.

But this… this was the first time someone had ever noticed his weariness before he even mentioned it.

The first time someone had taken his hand like it wasn’t a ghost of the past, but something very real, very now.

Very yours.

The paper umbrella, the gentle hand in his, the way your eyes softened when you looked at him—not with awe or reverence but affection.

That was the moment he knew.

You were his first true love.

Not a passing infatuation. Not a wistful longing across a battlefield or court dance. This was not born of adrenaline or mystery—it was slow, kind, human.

And fae.

And real.

He said, voice unusually quiet.

“Did you know… you’re the first person who ever said yes to me?”

You blinked.

“What?”

He chuckled, but there was a crack in it. A little tremor like the first drop of rain on a long-dry plain.

“I’ve lived so long. Far longer than anyone should, perhaps. I’ve confessed before. And every time… well, it wasn’t meant to be. I never begrudged them—it just… was. And then there was you.”

“You said yes. And more than that—you stayed.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Of course I stayed. Why wouldn’t I?”

He smiled then, but it was different.

“I think you’re the only person who’s ever really… seen me. Not the general. Not the legend. Just… me.”

You leaned into his side under the soft shade of the umbrella.

“I don’t see a legend when I look at you, Lilia.”

He tilted his head.

“No?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, right where his smile lived.

“I see you loving me. I see... my eyes loving yours trough the glimpse of them”

And that did it.

He pulled you in close, umbrella tipping slightly as he buried his face in your shoulder and let out a breath.

Lifting his head. Looking into your eyes.

Kissing your lips softly while caressing the back of your neck.

For someone who had always been the one comforting others, always the one standing strong and smiling and never quite needing—

—for once, he let himself be held.

He let himself be loved.

[theonottsbxtch]

WHEN THE CITY FALLS | OP81/LS2

an: hello! so this is what ive been cooking up behind your backs recently, a 14k logan? oscar? fic i dont exactly know who the love intrest is per say but its a spiderman!oscar au. so enjoy this story as it has taken a long long time to write lol

wc: 14.8k

summary: three close friends drift apart when one disappears for two years and returns with wealth, ambition, and a dangerous invention. as his creation spirals out of control, the city teeters on the edge of destruction. in the chaos, hidden truths emerge, and one of them may be the only hope left to stop it.

NEW YORK IN THE WINTER WAS ALWAYS A LITTLE CRUEL. The wind rolled in off the river with a bitterness that got under your skin, finding the gaps between scarves and sleeves, and the sky sat heavy above the skyline like it had nowhere else to go. Snow hadn't fallen yet, not properly, but there was the threat of it in the air, sharp and metallic, like something unsaid.

She stood at the corner of Delancey and Ridge, boots damp from the puddles left by yesterday’s half-hearted rain, a coffee gone cold in her gloved hands. Across the street, the lights of a bodega buzzed with the familiar, uninviting warmth of too-bright fluorescents. She could hear someone shouting in Spanish two blocks down, the rumble of the subway far beneath her feet, and above it all, the ceaseless, aching pulse of the city.

Logan used to say New York had a heartbeat. That you could feel it if you were quiet enough. But Logan was never quiet for long.

She hadn't seen him in months.

Not properly, anyway.

Logan Sargeant had always been too much. Too sharp, too quick, too beautiful in the kind of way that hurt to look at for too long. He’d grown into a man that mirrored the city. Cold on the outside, burning with something dangerous just beneath the surface. Blond hair, now cut short, framed eyes too blue to be kind. His childhood had carved out pieces of him, taken soft things and turned them to steel. And still, for a long time, he’d been theirs, hers and Oscar’s. Until he wasn’t.

Oscar Piastri was different. Always had been. Quiet, but not shy. He had the sort of presence that didn’t need to announce itself. A boy with calloused fingers from too many sketchbooks and eyes that saw more than they ever let on. He still lived two floors above her in the same battered brownstone they’d all grown up in, still fixed her leaky taps when she asked, still brought her takeout when she forgot to eat. Sweet, reliable Oscar. But even he was changing, these days.

There were nights he didn’t come home. Cuts he didn’t explain. That distant look she caught in the reflection of a window, right before he smiled and asked her how her day had been.

Everything was shifting, and she could feel it, like standing on the edge of something vast, something waiting to fall apart.

She remembered a time when the three of them had belonged to each other. Summers on rooftops with cheap beer and even cheaper laughter. Nights spent stargazing through fire escapes, hands brushing by accident. Secrets shared like promises.

But that was before Logan disappeared for two years. Before he came back stranger than before—richer, smarter, colder. Before Oscar started vanishing into alleyways and coming back with bruises and excuses.

Now, something hung between all of them. Not quite memory, not quite betrayal.

And she was standing in the middle of it, still hoping, naively, foolishly, that maybe she could hold the pieces together.

Even as they splintered around her.

The wind changed, and she caught the distant clang of scaffolding in motion, another high-rise going up on the Lower East Side, another piece of sky eaten by glass and ambition. She turned down a narrow street flanked by graffiti-covered brick and bins overflowing with city decay, the coffee still untouched in her hand.

There were footsteps behind her: light, familiar.

"You're late," she said, without turning.

Oscar fell into step beside her, his jacket dusted with street grime, hood drawn up against the wind. There was something restless in the way he moved, like his skin didn't quite fit anymore.

"Sorry," he murmured, giving her a sheepish glance. "Had to... help someone out."

She didn't press. Not anymore. The last time she’d asked, he’d lied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"You look like you've been in a fight," she said instead, eyeing the faint bruise along his jaw.

He gave a quiet laugh. "You should see the other guy."

It was a joke, but it didn’t land. The silence that followed was too familiar. Worn in, like old denim.

She paused at a crosswalk, watching as a cab tore through a red light like the rules didn’t apply. That was the thing about New York. It moved too fast for second chances.

"I ran into Logan yesterday," Oscar said, and the words hit like ice down the spine.

She turned slowly, the name sitting between them like a fault line.

"Where?"

"Midtown. He was just... there. Like he hadn’t disappeared for two years. Wearing some tailored coat and that look he gets when he knows something you don’t."

That look. She knew it too well. The one that made you feel like a puzzle he’d already solved and was just humouring.

Oscar shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw clenched. "He said he wanted to talk. Said he was back for good this time."

"Do you believe him?"

Oscar didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was soft. Tired.

"I don’t know. He’s not the same."

Neither are you, she thought, but didn’t say it.

They walked the next block in silence. It was colder now, the clouds thickening, and her coffee had definitely gone bad. Still, she didn’t let go of it. Something about the weight of it grounded her.

"He asked about you," Oscar said suddenly, his tone unreadable.

Her throat tightened. "What did you say?"

"That you were still here. Still... you."

She looked away. That word felt fragile these days. Like it didn’t mean what it used to.

They stopped outside her building, the stoop still half-covered in yellow leaves that no one had bothered to sweep. The same chipped door. The same rusted letterbox. A world still standing while everything else was quietly coming undone.

Oscar hesitated, eyes lingering on her face like he was memorising it.

"Be careful, yeah?" he said.

"With Logan?"

He gave a short nod.

She wanted to ask him what he knew. What he suspected. But the city was humming again, loud and unrelenting, and she felt suddenly very small beneath it.

Oscar left her with a quiet goodbye and the echo of footsteps on cracked pavement.

She stood there a while longer, staring up at the sky as the first snow began to fall, soft, almost shy, like the city had remembered how to be gentle.

But she knew better.

Some storms didn’t come with thunder.

They came wearing familiar faces.

The lift in her building had been broken since August. The landlord kept saying it was “on the list,” but she wasn’t sure he even knew what a list was. So she climbed the stairs. Twelve floors, each one creaking like it might finally give in under her boots.

By the tenth, her breath was shallow, and her limbs ached with the kind of fatigue that had nothing to do with the stairs. She reached the twelfth landing, paused to collect herself, and then pushed open the heavy fire door.

He was there.

Leaning against the railing of the communal balcony like he'd never left. Like he hadn't vanished without warning and taken something irreplaceable with him. The skyline was a blurred grey behind him and for a second she almost saw the boy he'd been. Grinning, brilliant, with a laugh that carried across rooftops.

"Thought I heard someone dragging their feet up here," Logan said without turning, his voice still that maddening blend of silk and smirk.

She crossed her arms, wary. "You're not supposed to be up here. They locked this level last year after the whole scaffolding incident."

He looked over his shoulder at her, blue eyes lit with mischief and something darker. "Good to know some things never change. You, playing by the rules."

"And you, breaking them."

He laughed, low and easy, and it stung how much of her still responded to that sound.

"Come on," he said, pushing off the railing and walking towards her, hands in the pockets of a coat that looked expensive, like everything he owned now. "I haven’t seen you in how long, and that’s the greeting I get?"

She tilted her head. "You’re lucky you’re getting anything at all."

He stopped in front of her, closer than comfort allowed, and for a breath she thought he might apologise. But Logan Sargeant had never been good with guilt. He just looked at her like he was still trying to work her out, still trying to stay two steps ahead.

"You look the same," he murmured. "Only sharper. Like the city’s finally caught up with you."

"And you look like you just stepped out of a stock portfolio."

He grinned. "Guilty. I’ve done alright for myself."

She narrowed her eyes. "Doing what, exactly?"

He glanced away, then back, the grin fading into something more deliberate. Calculated.

"That’s actually why I’m here."

"Right. You didn’t just come back to loiter on rooftops and haunt old friends."

He chuckled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I’ve been working on something. A project. Something big."

She didn’t answer, just waited, still as the concrete beneath them.

"It’s tech," he continued, leaning on the railing again, gaze drifting out over the city. "Osc—well, he wouldn’t get it. He’s got his whole... moral compass thing going. But you always saw things clearer."

"You mean I didn’t try to stop you when you crossed lines."

"No," he said, with a flash of sincerity. "You understood why I crossed them."

That silenced her.

"I need someone who can help me with the neurological interface part," Logan said after a pause. "It’s experimental. Military-adjacent, but I’m reworking the design. Smarter, more elegant. I’ve hit a wall."

"And you thought of me."

He looked at her again. This time, there was no smirk. Just that boy she used to know, hidden somewhere behind too many sleepless nights and bad decisions.

"I never stopped thinking about you."

The lights flickered above them, a thousand pinpricks in the corridor.

"I’ll send you the specs," he said, without much more, heading toward the stairwell. "Just have a look. That’s all I’m asking."

He paused at the door.

"I missed you."

Then he was gone.

And she stood there alone with her cold coffee and thoughts, because the boy she’d loved was still in there somewhere.

But something else was growing in him, too.

Something dangerous.

Her flat still smelled faintly of jasmine and burnt toast. Comfort and chaos in equal measure. She tossed her keys onto the counter, kicked off her boots, and tried not to think about how Logan had sounded when he said I missed you.

She failed, obviously.

The email came in not long after she’d switched on the little lamp by the sofa, its warm glow chasing away the creeping dusk. Subject line: Interface: concept files. No message, just the attachment. Classic Logan. All mystery, no manners.

She hesitated before opening it. Something in her gut twisted, instinct honed over years of knowing when things seemed fine but weren’t. Still, curiosity had always been her fatal flaw, and Logan had always known how to wield it.

The file was... extensive. Schematics, neural maps, prototype visuals. It wasn’t just “tech.” It was weaponry. Not in the conventional sense, but in potential. A sleek glider prototype integrated with AI feedback loops. A cognitive synchronisation helmet that could read and respond to neural signals in real time. And then there were notes in the margins, written in Logan’s exacting hand.

Emotional override needed. Current model reacts too strongly to fear.

Must correct aggression triggers. Still too unpredictable. Or not?

User = control. No limits. No interference.

Her heart beat faster the more she read.

It was brilliant. Unquestionably. Years ahead of what most companies were developing. But there was a coldness to it, a ruthlessness she didn’t recognise. Or maybe she did, and just hadn’t wanted to see it before.

She pushed the laptop away, stood, started pacing. There’d been late-night conversations once, Logan talking about power, about how the world didn’t reward kindness, about how if he had control, things would be different. Better. He’d laughed when she called him dramatic. Said she didn’t get it.

Maybe she hadn't.

Until now.

A knock rattled the door. Sharp. Three taps.

Her heart lurched, she didn’t know why, but she opened it without checking the peephole.

Oscar stood there. Hoodie up. Eyes wide.

“You saw him,” he said.

She nodded.

“He gave you something, didn’t he?”

She stepped back silently, let him in. He stalked to the kitchen like he lived there, which, in some ways, he always had.

“I didn’t open it right away,” she said, like it mattered.

Oscar didn’t look at her. His jaw was tight.

“He’s not just back to catch up,” he said. “He’s working with people. Dangerous ones.”

“How do you know?”

He finally turned, and there it was, that look again. Like he’d seen too much. Like he was balancing on a knife’s edge between exhaustion and something heavier.

“Because I followed him last night,” he admitted. “I saw him meeting with Oscorp defectors. People no one good wants to be seen with. And I found this.”

He pulled something from his jacket, crumpled, faintly singed. A test printout. Identical design language to the file on her screen. Same logo Logan had tried to scrub from the schematics. Only this version had a name scrawled across the top.

“Project Harpy.”

She stared. “Harpy?”

Oscar nodded grimly. “Old military codename. The original model was meant for field destabilisation, crowd control through terror. They scrapped it. Too unstable. Logan’s trying to rebuild it.”

She sat down, hard.

“So what do we do?” she whispered.

Oscar’s expression darkened. “We stop him.”

But she wasn’t sure if he meant to stop the project.

Or stop Logan.

She didn’t speak for a long time.

She just let Oscar talk while he moved around the kitchen like he needed to, like stillness might swallow him whole. He talked of what they could do with liminal information until the sunset. He had poured two mugs of tea even though she hadn’t asked, but at no point did she talk about the file, until she did.

The sun began to set through her small window when she pointed at her screen.

“He’s not building a weapon,” she said eventually. “Not just that. It’s like he’s building himself into it.”

Oscar’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” She hesitated. The words were thick in her throat. “He used to talk about it. Control. Power. Not having to be afraid anymore.” Oscar leaned against the side of the sofa, his shoulders taut. “He was afraid. All the time. You know that.”

“I know,” she said. Quiet. “I was there.” And suddenly she was back there. Fourteen, rain on the fire escape, Logan shaking with cold and rage after another row with his dad, her arms around him, his whisper against her skin: Don’t let go. Promise you won’t let go.  (By the way the devilish idea i have for this part)

And she hadn’t.

Not until he made her.

Oscar watched her carefully. Like he saw too much and said too little.

“You cared about him.” It wasn’t a question.

She didn’t deny it. She didn’t look at him either.

“It wasn’t just friendship,” she said finally. “But it never became anything, not really. Just moments.”

Oscar nodded slowly, like he was memorising the shape of that hurt. He didn’t push. He never did. 

“You should get some rest,” he said. His voice was gentler now. “You’ve been up since early this morning, and this isn’t something we’ll figure out in one night.”

She didn’t argue. Her limbs were heavy, and the anxiety had started to settle somewhere deep in her chest, too wide to dislodge. Still, when she walked toward the bedroom, Oscar followed, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It had happened before. Sleepless nights and old films, falling asleep shoulder to shoulder on the sofa when the city felt too loud. This was just that again. Except it wasn’t.

He hesitated at the door.

"You sure?" he asked, quiet.

She nodded. "Yeah. I don’t want to be alone tonight."

And he didn’t say anything more. Just stepped inside and laid down on the far side of the bed, facing the ceiling. There was space between them. Not enough, not really.

She lay on her side, back to him, staring at the wall.

Her mind was still on Logan.

On the way he’d looked at her, like she was still his. The way he’d said ‘I missed you’ and made it sound like a promise and a warning at once.

He wasn’t just back with a plan. He was back with purpose. And she knew, deep in her bones, that he’d find a way to use what they’d shared. Twist it. Weaponise it, like everything else.

Oscar shifted behind her. She could feel the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his breathing.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t try to.

But there was something unspoken in the air between them, like maybe he wanted to. Like maybe he had for a long time.

She closed her eyes.

And all she could see was Logan.

The morning came grey and low, clouds pressed against the windows like the city itself couldn’t quite wake up.

She blinked against the dull light, the bedsheets twisted around her legs. The other side of the bed was empty, cold already. Oscar was gone.

She sat up slowly, brushing her hair from her face, the weight of the night before still knotted in her chest. For a moment, she let herself wonder if she’d imagined him being there at all, just another ghost in an apartment full of them.

When she stepped out into the front room, the kettle was cooling down. A cup of tea waited in the microwave, hastily made, eliciting a small chuckle out of her. He’d always done the same thing in the past couple of months.

From the corridor she could hear her neighbour’s cat meowing for access to the balcony. She walked to the front door, turned the bolt then pulled, only to get halted by the chain still being on. 

She frowned.

Oscar couldn’t have left that on from the inside. Not unless…

She stopped herself. Told herself he’d maybe left through the fire escape even though he knew it was dangerous. 

But something about it itched at the edge of her thoughts.

Brushing it off, she let the cat out and walked back into the kitchen, pulling out the cold tea, not bothering to heat it.

Logan’s file still sat open on her laptop, the schematics staring back at her like a dare. She skimmed them again—lines and circuits, symbols she recognised from years of university lectures, annotated with little notes only someone who knew her would write.

You always hated redundancies. Fixed it for you.

Bet you’d tell me this is idiotic. (You’re probably right.)

It was the kind of thing he used to do. Tease. Impress. Show off. It used to make her laugh. Now it made her heart sit wrong in her chest.

She walked up to the laptop and noticed something she hadn’t earlier, then she grabbed her coat.

Fuck looking like a normal human being, she thought.

Then in her head she heard sixteen year old Logan in her head, “Who would even care if I walked out the house in my boxers, we’re in New York!”

The note had an address, the building across town where her and Logan went when Oscar was working. An old sublet on East 19th. Classic Logan.

She told herself she was only going to get answers, that she wasn’t seeking him out. 

The streets were quieter than usual. Maybe the weather had kept people in bed longer. Or maybe the city was holding its breath. 

She reached the building just after eight. Tall, red brick, windows like hollow eyes. The lift here did work, and she took it up to the aforementioned floor, her heart shuddering harader with every number that ticked past. It wasn’t normal for an office this big to be so empty.

When the doors opened, he was already waiting.

Like he’d known she’d come.

“Morning, love,” Logan said, barefoot, tousle haired, mug in hand. He looked too at ease in this makeshift studio. “Miss me already?” She stepped out slowly, ignoring the flutter in her chest. “Where is everyone?”

He tilted his head. “Funny thing about abandoned buildings. They tend to be, well. Abandoned.”

“You’re working out of this?” she asked, eyebrows lifting. “Seems dramatic, even for you.”

He took a sip of his coffee, unbothered. “Bit of peace and quiet does wonders. Besides…” He leaned against the doorframe, gaze trailing down her like a memory. “Nice of you to drop in first thing in the morning. Makes it less lonely.”

“You’re working out of this?” she asked, raising a brow. “Seems dramatic, even for you.”

He took a sip of his coffee, completely unbothered. “Bit of peace and quiet does wonders. Besides…” His gaze flicked over her, slow and deliberate. “Nice of you to drop in first thing in the morning. Makes it less lonely.”

She folded her arms. “You left that address on purpose.”

Logan didn’t deny it. Just smiled. “Wasn’t sure you’d catch it. But I figured if you did, you’d come.”

“I came for answers.”

“No, you came because you’re curious,” he said, stepping back into the open space of the studio. “Same as always. You can’t help yourself.”

She looked to her left where she could hear some whirring. The makeshift lab was cleaner than she expected, industrial, minimal. Wires looped neatly along the floor, diagrams pinned in lines along the concrete wall. In the centre, the table buzzed softly with low-power tech, a prototype glinting in the low light like something half-born.

She walked past him, slowly, keeping her distance. “Oscar said you’ve lost it.”

Logan gave a low laugh. “Oscar’s always needed someone to blame. You know that.”

“He’s not wrong about this.”

He came to stand beside her, not too close, just enough that she could feel the heat off him. His voice lowered.

“But you didn’t turn away either, did you?”

She looked down at the schematics spread across the table. Her fingers itched to move the pieces around, rearrange the formulae like puzzle pieces, solve it before he could ruin it.

“I’m not saying it’s safe,” she murmured. “But if I help you. If I take charge of the framework, maybe it doesn’t have to be dangerous.”

His smile deepened. “There’s the girl I remember.”

She shot him a sharp look, but he only stepped closer.

“I don’t need saving, you know,” he said, voice softening. “You’re not here to fix me. You’re here because part of you gets it. Part of you wants this.”

She swallowed. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like we’re on the same side.”

“But we are,” he said, and this time his hand brushed hers as he reached past her, innocent, almost, except for the way his fingers lingered. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

She could feel the pull of him then, quiet and dangerous, like gravity had changed its mind about how the world worked. Her skin was humming with it.

“I knew you’d come around,” he whispered.

Her breath caught, just for a second. His face was close now, the warm edge of his smile only inches from hers. Not cocky. Not smug. Something gentler. A softness that wasn’t supposed to be there.

And that’s what made it dangerous.

She should have stepped back.

That would’ve been the smart thing, the right thing. But her feet didn’t move, and neither did his, and between them was a silence that thrummed with everything unsaid.

Logan's eyes searched hers, not in that arrogant way he used to do when he knew he had the upper hand, but quieter. Something unreadable settled behind his lashes. Like he was trying to remember the shape of her from the inside out.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice barely above a breath.

She wasn’t. Not really. Just, wired. Overcaffeinated without the caffeine. Her nerves pulling taut in ways they hadn’t in years.

"No, I’m not."

"You are," he said, and there was something close to amusement in his voice, but not cruel. Just observant. Just Logan. "You always do, when you’re trying to make a decision too fast."

She looked down. At his hand on the table beside hers. At the blue glow of the screen reflecting off the metal. Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.

"You don’t get to do that. Pretend like nothing’s changed."

His head tilted slightly. "Who’s pretending?"

"You left." She met his gaze again, steadier now. "You disappeared and let us believe—"

"I didn’t want you part of it," he said quickly, not sharply, but with a force that startled her. "You and Oscar. You still see the world like it’s got rules. I see it for what it really is."

"You think that makes you better?"

"No." He paused. "I think it makes me prepared."

She stared at him. "You’re planning something you can’t undo."

He didn’t argue. Just leaned in slightly, enough that his breath hit the edge of her cheek. “Maybe. But if you’re there to build it with me, then maybe it won’t need undoing.”

The worst part was, a part of her understood. Not agreed. But understood.

And that part of her wanted to reach for the plans. To take the mess he’d made and drag it into something better. Safer. Less like him.

Her throat was tight. “This isn’t fair.”

"What isn’t?"

"You. Doing this." Her hands balled into fists. "Looking at me like that."

He smiled again, soft. Painful. “Like what?”

“Like you’re still sixteen and I’m still stupid enough to believe you'd never hurt me.”

That landed. She saw it flicker through him, fast, behind his eyes.

“I never meant to,” he said quietly.

Silence fell again, sharp-edged and too loud.

Then, softer this time, gentler: “You don’t have to say yes right now. Just don’t walk away.”

She should. She should. But instead she found herself sitting on the edge of the table, just beside him, her shoulder brushing his.

She didn’t look at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure,” he said, a little laugh curling under the word. “Of course not.”

His thigh pressed lightly against hers. The contact was nothing. Barely there.

The distance between them had dissolved without her noticing, and now it was all heat and unspoken things sitting heavy between them.

The blue light of the schematics cast soft shadows across his jaw. He looked almost gentle like this, in the stillness. Almost.

And then her phone buzzed in her pocket, she pulled it out.

They both glanced down at the screen.

Oscar.

She froze.

Logan looked too, and smirked. “Well, well. Speak of the boy scout.”

She hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen.

“You should answer,” Logan said, casual, but something about the way he leaned back slightly told her he was watching very, very closely.

She swiped to pick up, bringing the phone to her ear. Her voice came out thin, too even. “Hey.”

“Where are you?” Oscar’s voice was immediate. Concerned. “I’m at yours, doors open but unless you’re hiding from me I can't find you.”

She glanced sideways, heart pounding. Logan had turned away, giving her space, but not really. His head was tilted just enough to hear every word.

“I’m getting bagels,” she said quickly. “Sorry. Forgot my phone was in my pocket.”

A beat. Oscar didn’t sound suspicious, just soft. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… needed air. I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

She hung up before he could say anything else. The quiet in the room returned like a blanket pulled too tight.

Logan turned back to her, expression unreadable.

Then he reached out, slowly, fingertips brushing a strand of hair behind her ear before trailing lightly down to her cheek. The touch was maddeningly soft. Familiar.

“Some things never change,” he murmured, thumb grazing her skin. “You’re still covering for me.”

Her breath caught. She was furious at the way her chest responded to it.

“I used to cover for you when you skipped school or snuck out past curfew,” she said, voice sharp. “Or when your dad came asking where you were and I had to lie to his face.”

“This isn’t that,” he said, quiet now. “I know.”

She looked away, jaw tight. “Don’t make this something it’s not.”

His hand dropped, but the air still felt like it was holding its breath.

“I don’t have to,” he said simply. “You’re already here.”

Two weeks passed, just like that.

The city moved around her, traffic and sirens and steam rising from manhole covers, but it all felt quieter somehow. Like her world had shrunk down to two flats, a laptop, and a dozen unsent texts.

She was spending her mornings at Oscar’s, helping him track down fluctuations in the local power grid, strange pulses he swore weren’t natural, though he never quite said what he thought they were. Afternoons were spent in Logan’s repurposed studio, surrounded by circuitry, algorithms, and a headache that wouldn’t quite go away.

She told herself she was keeping both of them from doing something stupid.

Logan’s work had evolved. Rapidly. Too rapidly, if she was honest. The first few days were just sorting through the wreckage of what he’d built alone, poor shielding, over-ambitious neural syncing, feedback loops that would’ve fried the average person’s spine.

She’d streamlined it. Quietly, carefully. Introduced control parameters, adjusted the safety thresholds. He let her, too. Even seemed to enjoy having her close, watching over his shoulder like she was the only one who could keep him steady.

Sometimes he didn’t even say anything, just looked at her like he was memorising the way she moved.

Other times, he flirted like it was breathing.

“I still think the copper’s a bad call,” she muttered one afternoon, squinting at the prototype’s inner casing.

“Still bossy, I see,” Logan replied, crouching beside her. “Haven’t changed since you used to correct my spelling.”

“I was right then, too.”

He laughed, low and warm. “Yeah. You usually are.”

He was close again. He always was. There was always a reason for him to lean in, reach past her, touch her arm or shoulder in a way that felt like an accident and wasn’t.

And she let him. She told herself it didn’t mean anything. That this was about control. Keeping him from spiralling.

But when he looked at her, sometimes it felt like the ground wasn’t solid beneath her feet.

Meanwhile, Oscar…

Oscar had started keeping things from her.

She noticed it first in the small things. His laptop slammed shut when she walked in. A folder buried too deep in his hard drive. The time he said he was on a walk but came home bruised and didn’t explain why.

She didn’t push, not yet. But it stuck to her, that unease. Oscar didn’t lie. He never lied.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

“You’re working too hard,” he told her one night, curled up on her sofa, hoodie pulled over his head. “You haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. I can see it.”

He passed her a takeaway container without a word. She took it. Ate. Didn’t mention the thin layer of grime under his fingernails or the split on his knuckle.

She couldn’t be in two places at once. Couldn’t keep playing translator between two boys who wouldn’t speak to each other, both of them caught in some war she didn’t fully understand.

But she stayed.

Because part of her believed she could still save this—save them.

Even if it cost her something she hadn’t yet named.

The prototype pulsed with light now. Not constant—irregular, like a heartbeat gone wrong.

She sat on the floor of Logan’s studio, cables tangled at her knees, half a dozen failed failsafes spread out in a messy sprawl beside her. The heat off the core was stronger than it had been yesterday. Too strong.

“You pushed it again,” she muttered, pulling off her jumper and tossing it aside. The room felt like a greenhouse.

Logan crouched beside the desk, tools in hand, utterly unbothered. “Tweaked the resonance field. It’s stabilising, relax.”

“No, it isn’t,” she snapped. “You’re running through safeguards faster than I can write them.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, smirking. “Don’t sound so impressed.”

She didn’t answer. She was too busy running diagnostics on the regulator he’d overclocked while she was out yesterday. Again.

“Logan, if this field collapses, you’re not walking away. I won’t be able to stop it next time.”

His smile faltered, just slightly.

“You could always walk,” he said after a beat, soft.

She didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

Because he knew she wouldn’t.

That night at Oscar’s, she barely spoke. She sat at the window while he worked on his computer behind her, typing fast, a faint tremor in his right hand. She stared down at the streetlights blurring in the rain, her thoughts still half in the lab.

Oscar’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned, then stood.

“I’ll be back in a bit.”

She looked over. “Now?”

“Yeah. Just need to check on something near the subway. Weird power spike.” He shrugged on his jacket.

“Want help?”

He hesitated. “No. It’s… not that kind of thing.”

She nodded slowly. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

Oscar didn’t respond.

She found the first real clue two days later.

She was at hers, rummaging for the spare charger Oscar kept leaving behind, when she noticed his hoodie hanging on the back of her chair. Not unusual. But when she picked it up, something dropped out of the pocket.

A small, torn scrap of red fabric. Coarse. Like something from a costume.

And blood. Dried.

Her stomach turned.

In Logan’s studio, the tech was louder now. Humming, thrumming. Hungry.

“You need to slow down,” she said firmly, voice hoarse from too many sleepless nights.

He looked at her, really looked, and for a second there was a flicker of something that unsettled her.

“I can’t,” he said. “We’re so close.”

“Close to what?”

He didn’t answer.

She opened the interface, scanning the data. “You adjusted the neuro-link sequence without telling me.”

“I knew you’d try to stop me,” he said simply.

She stared at him. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is now.”

And still she didn’t leave.

The following night she didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Between the hum of Logan’s project, now an ever-present pressure at the base of her skull, and Oscar’s half-answers, dodged questions, and suspicious bruises, sleep had become more theory than reality.

The next time she saw Oscar, it was because she followed him.

She hadn’t meant to. She told herself she was just walking the same way. That she was being ridiculous. That the scrap of red in his hoodie pocket meant nothing.

But then he ducked down an alley. Pulled something from under his hoodie.

A mask.

Her heart stopped.

Not metaphorically. Actually, stopped.

She stepped back, too fast, her heel scuffing the concrete. A tiny sound. He heard it.

“Hello?” Oscar turned, eyes narrowing behind the red half-mask. The rest was still bunched in his hand.

She froze.

He stared. She stared back.

Silence swelled.

Then, quietly: “…You followed me?”

She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to breathe, let alone speak.

Oscar’s shoulders dropped. His hand dragged down his face. “Shit.”

“You’re Spider-Man.”

It wasn’t a question. She already knew. Knew in the pit of her stomach, where every late night and bruised knuckle and sudden disappearance made a sick kind of sense.

He didn’t deny it. Just looked at her, gutted.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?” Her voice was sharp. “Before or after I found your blood all over my living room?”

Oscar winced. “I didn’t want to put you in danger—”

She laughed. Bitter. “Bit late for that.”

She left before he could explain more. She couldn’t hear it, not then. Not while her phone buzzed again with another update from Logan’s build log, another late-night adjustment she hadn’t signed off on.

When she got back to the studio that night, the air felt wrong. Too charged.

The prototype was alive now. She didn’t know what else to call it. It moved, pulsed, responded.

Logan was there, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, eyes wild with possibility.

“You’re back,” he said, barely glancing away from the display. “Look at it. It’s listening to me now.”

“It’s not supposed to listen to you,” she snapped, storming in. “It’s supposed to run on code, not instinct.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “I rewrote the framework.”

“You rewrote the laws of physics, Logan. That wasn’t the deal.”

He finally looked at her. Really looked. And for the first time in days, he frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re asking me now?” she snapped. “After pushing this thing to near-collapse? After locking me out of your logs for twelve hours?”

“I knew you’d try to stop me.”

“You don’t get to cut me out and still act like we’re on the same team.”

The lights on the core flared, hot, blue-white. She stepped back.

“This isn’t what we started,” she said, quieter. “You’re not building something. You’re becoming it.”

Logan’s eyes softened, but it didn’t comfort her. It made her skin crawl.

“You sound like him.”

“Don’t,” she said.

“Why? He’s the hero now, yeah?” Logan’s voice was almost calm, but it carried teeth. “Little Mr Boy Scout. You going to run to him now? Tell him how to stop me?”

“I didn’t run to anyone. I tried to fix this.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

“But you knew. All this time, you knew you’d have to choose.”

She didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

And she hated that more than anything.

She didn’t remember getting home.

Her keys had slipped once at the door, hands shaking, and she’d stood in the hall for a full minute before trying again. Inside, the apartment felt alien, like she was walking through someone else’s life. Same chipped mugs in the sink. Same plant in the corner. But her breath wouldn’t steady.

She dropped her bag in the hallway, still half-zipped. Kicked off her shoes. Didn’t even bother with the lights.

She collapsed onto the sofa, knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight like she could physically hold herself together.

Then the tears came.

Silent at first. Just that awful stinging behind her eyes, the kind that made you clench your jaw until it ached. But then they spilled—fast and hot, her face buried in the sleeve of her hoodie, sobs breaking loose in sharp bursts.

She cried for Logan. For Oscar. For the version of herself that used to laugh when they bickered and dreamed about changing the world.

She cried because she didn’t know who to save anymore. Or if she could.

And eventually, exhausted, she crawled into bed and let the darkness take her.

Somewhere else in the city, Logan didn’t sleep.

He stood in the centre of his makeshift lab, hands trembling slightly with the excitement. He had done it. He had done it.

The prototype was alive. The neural interface he’d spent weeks perfecting hummed quietly beneath his fingertips. Every line of code he’d written, every sleepless night, all the warnings he’d ignored—he could feel it now, like a rush of euphoria. It was working. It was all working.

The helmet sat next to him, sleek, matte-black, perfect in its design. But that wasn’t the prize. No, the real victory was the neural link, the thing embedded deep into his spine now, fusing with him. The prototype wasn’t just a tool anymore. It was an extension of him. It was him.

He grinned, sliding the helmet onto his head with a steady hand. The system activated almost immediately, a soft pulse across his temples as the neural interface kicked in. He could feel it, like a second mind connecting with his own, feeding him streams of data in a way he'd never known before.

For a moment, there was only clarity. Pure, untainted clarity. He could see everything, every problem, every solution, unfolding right before him like an intricate map.

Logan’s breath was slow and deep, taking it all in.

“This is it,” he muttered under his breath, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. “I’m better than I’ve ever been.”

But something shifted in that moment. The device, still humming beneath his skin, pulsed again. Stronger. A sharp, sudden sensation rippled through his back as if a small surge of electricity shot through his spine. He flinched, but only briefly. It was... new. But it didn’t hurt. No, it was something else. Something... right. He wanted to feel it again. To keep pushing, to see how far it could go.

He let the neural link go further, feeling it sync even deeper. His movements were faster now, every thought sharper, more precise. His hands moved on their own accord, as if his body had learned a new language, a secret code he hadn’t known existed.

Then, with a sickening click, the mechanism inside him did something unexpected.

It shifted.

He froze as the connection between his mind and the device deepened, spreading like roots beneath his skin. His spine arched involuntarily. The sensation was so strong, like a burning thread threading into the base of his skull and down into his very bones.

“Shit,” Logan breathed, but his voice was strange to him. As if someone else were speaking through him.

The machine responded, not in words, but in need, an urgent pressure building in the back of his mind.

He could feel it now. A presence. Something more than just the tech he’d so carefully crafted. It wasn’t just a tool anymore. It was beginning to take control.

But there was no panic. No fear. Logan didn’t fight it. He welcomed it.

Because this... this was power. True, unbridled power.

The device shifted again. It was deeper now, rooted inside him, crawling into places his mind could no longer reach. He could feel something warm spread under his skin—a new sensation, foreign but thrilling. The neural link was more than he’d ever imagined, connecting him to a world of data, a world of control.

And that was when it happened.

The device, a part of him now, locked in.

A flash of metal. Then, suddenly, his back screamed as the device pressed itself fully into his body, sharp, invasive, but unmistakably his. He felt it—like a part of him had been replaced. A pulse of satisfaction rippled through him, and Logan gasped, arching his back with the sensation.

He laughed then. Giddy. Overjoyed.

“I knew you’d get it right, mate,” he whispered to himself, eyes wide with exhilaration.

Then, with an almost casual ease, he lifted his hand. The suit flickered to life around him, surrounding him like a second skin, sleek and dangerous.

Logan’s grin spread wider.

This was only the beginning.

It wasn’t long before Logan’s chaos began to bleed into the city.

The streets had always been a chaotic tangle of New York life, but now it was... different. A sense of purpose flowed through the air, heavier, more suffocating. The city had no idea what was coming for it.

First, it was the banks. Security systems shorted out, alarms blaring as vaults cracked open. But there was no robbery, just the vault doors hanging open in a strange, silent invitation. Then, the power grids flickered, like the entire city was breathing under his control. The hum of lights and machines warped, flashing erratically as if they were under a spell.

And then came the sky.

Logan hovered just above the city, a dark silhouette against the glow of Manhattan’s skyline. He watched as the skyline bent to his will, grinning, watching the chaos unfold. His body, still bound in that sleek suit, pulsed with the unnatural energy the machine had given him. His back burned with every pulse, but it wasn’t pain—it was power.

And the power tasted sweeter with every second.

Back at her apartment, she jerked awake.

A crash. Her eyes shot open. A sound too loud. Too close.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Just stared into the dark, trying to will the sleepiness out of her bones.

The next crash was louder. A thud against the fire exit door. Her heart skipped a beat.

She shot up, breathing shallow, slipping out of bed. She grabbed her phone for light, but instinct told her exactly what she’d find.

Her bare feet hit the cold floor, and she made her way towards the balcony, hesitating just before the door. The night air pressed against the glass.

She reached for the handle, taking a breath, and then—

The door swung open.

She froze.

There, standing tall and too at ease on the balcony, was Logan.

But he wasn’t the Logan she knew.

The suit he wore was alive with that strange pulse, glowing faintly like it was breathing. It wasn’t just a suit anymore. It was part of him.

He turned to her, a flicker of recognition behind his eyes, but it was distant. Cold. Something had shifted.

A slow smile spread across his face, but it wasn’t playful. Not the teasing grin from their past.

“Hello, love,” Logan’s voice was flat, empty. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

She swallowed. “Logan...?”

He stepped closer, his eyes locked on hers with an unsettling focus. Then, without hesitation, he reached up and pulled off the helmet, tossing it aside.

And for a moment, everything was still.

His eyes, empty. Hollow. Not a trace of the boy she used to know. No warmth, no playfulness, just this void.

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest as the entire suit shifted, shrinking away from his body. It detached slowly, too slowly, as if the suit was resisting coming off. But eventually, the black, sleek material slipped away, revealing his bare chest. His torso was toned, but marked with strange, angular scars, and along his spine, there was a faint glow beneath his skin. The machine inside him, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

Logan stood there, chest rising with the faintest of breaths, eyes cold as ice.

“It worked,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper. “You helped me make it work. And now…” He took a slow step forward, closing the space between them.

She took a step back. “What... What are you doing, Logan?”

His lips curled upward into something that was not quite a smile.

“Doing?” He stepped closer again, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. “I’m taking control. Taking what’s mine. This city—hell, the world—it’s mine now. And I’ll do what I want with it.” He gestured to the machine on his back, an almost reverent look in his eyes. “I’ve earned this, haven’t I?”

Tears welled up in her eyes. Her body trembled, unable to contain the sharp, raw sorrow that hit her all at once. “Logan, please, this isn’t you. This isn’t what we wanted.”

Logan chuckled, a dark, cruel sound. “This is exactly what I wanted. This is the future. The one I should’ve had all along.”

The pain in her chest deepened, and she couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. She stepped back, clenching her fists as sobs wracked her body. “I—I tried. I tried to stop you...”

Logan’s gaze softened for a moment, just a moment. But it was fleeting. He stepped forward again, closing the distance.

“Sometimes people just need a little... push.” He brushed a hand across her cheek, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the coldness in his eyes. “Thanks for helping me get here. I couldn't have done it without you.”

She flinched away from his touch. “Please, Logan... don’t do this. You’re not a monster.”

He didn’t reply. He only stepped back, looking at her one last time, eyes unreadable.

“You’ve got your own path now. And I’ve got mine.”

With that, he turned, stepping into the night putting his helmet back on, the suit forming back around him as he disappeared into the city’s skyline.

She stood there, trembling, heart breaking in her chest. The tears fell freely now, silent, unstoppable.

She collapsed onto the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, shaking as she let it all out.

And then, almost instinctively, she reached for her phone.

Oscar’s name flashed on the screen, a call already incoming.

She answered before she even thought about it. Her voice was shaky, tear-filled.

“Os... Oscar...” She couldn’t hold it together. “I—I need you.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice sharp with concern. “Where are you?”

“I—I’m at my apartment. But it’s...” She choked on the words. “It’s Logan. He’s... he’s gone too far.”

Oscar was quiet for a long moment. “What happened?”

“I couldn’t save him, Oscar,” she whispered. “He’s not the boy we knew. He’s something else. And I—I couldn’t stop it.”

Another beat of silence.

“I’m coming,” Oscar said, the urgency in his voice clearer now. “I’ll be there. Just hang on.”

But as she hung up, all she could do was sit there, hands trembling, staring at the dark, empty space where Logan had stood.

The city had just gotten darker.

She didn’t move.

The night had cooled, but she didn’t feel it. The city buzzed and breathed beneath her, unaware of the shift that had just taken place. The world looked the same, and yet everything had changed.

She stayed crouched, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes fixed on the spot where Logan had stood. The faint imprint of his boots was still on the concrete, the last ghost of him. The boy she’d known, laughed with, fought with, loved in some strange, quiet way, was gone. She’d seen it in his eyes. There was nothing left to reach for now.

The machine had taken him.

And worse, she had helped.

She didn’t hear him at first. There was just a breeze, a shift in the air, then the soft sound of the railing above just shifting.

Her breath caught.

She looked up.

There he was, silhouetted against the sky, crouched in that way only he could, black and red suit hugging to every line of him. The mask was off.

Oscar.

His brown hair was messy, eyes wide, searching. 

His expression dropped when he saw her.

“Hey,” he said, soft, like she might shatter.

She didn’t respond.

He stepped off the railing and landed with barely a sound, moving toward her like he wasn’t sure if she’d let him close. She watched him the whole time, as if she was trying to reconcile the boy next door with the man in the suit. She hadn’t let herself picture him like this, not really. But now, here he was.

Not a rumour. Not a hunch.

Spider-Man.

She blinked at him. “It’s really you.”

He nodded, a bit helpless. “Yeah.”

She let out a quiet breath, something bitter on her tongue. “God, of course it is.”

Oscar crouched beside her, close enough that their knees nearly touched. “I wanted to tell you so many times. I just, I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

She let out a small laugh, raw and humourless. “Oscar, I’ve just watched someone I love walk off my balcony with a machine in his spine and a war in his eyes. You actually being Spider-Man barely makes the top three things ruining my week.”

His face faltered, and she saw the guilt tighten around his eyes. She hated that it made her want to comfort him, when she was the one falling apart.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shook her head. “It’s not your fault. None of this is.”

Oscar hesitated, then reached out slowly, his fingers brushing hers where they rested on the cold concrete. She didn’t pull away.

“Was it really that bad?” he asked.

She turned to look at him then, really looked at him.

“It wasn’t Logan anymore,” she said. “He took off his mask and there was just… nothing. Like he’s not even in there. Just this thing. This machine. And he thanked me. He thanked me, Oscar, like I was the final piece he needed to destroy everything.”

Oscar didn’t say anything. He just took her hand properly now, fingers curling around hers. She let him. It was warm. Grounding.

“I tried to save him,” she whispered. “I thought if I stayed close, if I made the plan safer, I could stop it getting this far. I really thought I could pull him back.”

Oscar’s thumb brushed over her knuckles. “You don’t give up on people. That’s what makes you... you.”

Her throat tightened.

“I think I’ve finally lost him.”

Oscar looked away, jaw tense. “Then we’ll stop what’s left of him.”

She glanced down at their joined hands, then back at his face—open, earnest, a little scared. She saw everything now. The boy she grew up with. The man he was becoming. Spider-Man. Oscar. All of it.

“I didn’t want you to be this,” she murmured, more to herself. “Didn’t want you to have to carry this, too.”

His voice was soft. “I don’t have to. Not alone.”

The tears came again, but quieter this time. She leaned forward and let her forehead rest against his. He didn’t move. Just stayed there with her, in the quiet, in the heartbreak.

The city roared on below.

But for a moment, there was only the two of them.

Still.

Together.

Waiting for the dawn.

Logan was quiet for a few days.

Too quiet.

The news blamed the citywide power outage on a transformer fault in Queens. A minor fire, a bit of faulty wiring, easily fixed. No casualties. Nothing to worry about.

She didn’t believe it for a second.

She’d seen the look in his eyes that night. The machine in his back hadn’t just bonded, it had chosen him. The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was the kind of stillness just before the storm breaks.

She went through the motions. Helped Oscar with patch-ups, tracked minor disturbances around the city, and pretended, poorly, that she was sleeping at night. But the weight in her chest never lifted. It sat there, heavy and constant, like something had already begun to rot.

It was the fourth morning after Logan had crashed onto her balcony when she woke up with that feeling.

It wasn’t panic. Not quite. It was deeper. Older. Something primitive, instinctual. Like the way birds knew when to fly south. She blinked at the ceiling, her body still, her skin prickling.

She knew where she needed to go.

She didn’t shower. Didn’t dress properly. Just jeans, a hoodie, old trainers. The studio on East had been left untouched since Logan vanished into the sky, but the thought of it sat stubbornly in her gut.

She walked. No cab, no train. Just her and the cold spring wind, biting through her sleeves and keeping her sharp. The city was halfway between sleep and wakefulness, too early for full chaos, too late for quiet.

When she got to the building, the doors were jammed with a piece of scrap metal Logan had clearly wedged there. It took effort to get inside, but eventually, she slipped past the creaking frame and stepped into the hushed stillness of the lobby and up the stairs.

Dust floated in the light like falling ash.

The desk was as he’d left it. Blueprints scattered, wires half-soldered, bits of tech that buzzed faintly with residual charge. She moved carefully, like disturbing anything might trigger some dormant trap.

She pulled the schematics towards her, different from the ones he’d left on her laptop. These were earlier. Cruder. Full of aggressive red ink. One line circled in particular, over and over again: Adaptive neural integration interface.

She stared at it. Below, a note in his handwriting: If it bonds properly, it learns. Improves. Evolves.

She felt cold all over.

Then she noticed something else, a flash drive tucked beneath a paperweight. No label. Just a scratch down one side like it had been jammed into too many ports too fast.

She slipped it into her coat pocket.

That night, the city began to burn.

She didn’t see the first explosion, she felt it. The tremor in the air. The faint hum through the soles of her feet. Then came the sirens, the lights, the swell of panic rising like a tide.

People pointed at the sky. Phones were raised. Social media lit up.

A shadow swept across midtown, unnatural, too fast to be a drone, too erratic to be human. Police scanners scrambled to keep up. A laboratory in Tribeca collapsed in on itself. A substation in Brooklyn sparked, then died.

And then, at 1:07 a.m., she opened her window and saw him.

Logan.

Hovering, back arched with the pulse of the suit. The device on his spine glowed like an exposed heart, veins of light crawling up his neck, down his arms. He moved like liquid shadow, graceful, terrifying, wrong.

A building behind him erupted in a blossom of fire.

She gripped the window ledge, breath caught in her throat.

This was no test run. This was war.

She stayed by the window for too long.

Too long to pretend she wasn’t watching. Too long to convince herself she wasn’t hoping, praying, that he’d turn around and look at her. But Logan didn’t glance her way. He just soared higher, then dipped low toward the skyline, fast and sleek like a blade. The machine moved with him, or maybe he moved with it. It was impossible to tell where the man ended and the weapon began.

By the time the screaming sirens reached her block, she had already stepped back inside.

She didn’t turn on the light. Just the television.

Every channel was the same, static, noise, hysteria in different tones. Fires. Blackouts. Emergency services overwhelmed. Civilians told to shelter indoors. Then, on one of the live feeds, the camera caught it.

Spider-Man.

Oscar.

She sat on the arm of the sofa, staring at the screen like it might offer answers. He swung down from a rooftop, landed in the middle of a crumbling intersection, and caught a falling girder mid-air like it weighed nothing. There were shouts, flashes of red and blue. More drones, or things, shot past overhead. He flung himself after them without hesitation.

He looked small on the screen. Fragile, even. But she knew better. Knew how strong he really was. How he fought like it mattered.

Because it did.

Because it always had.

Her fingers twitched.

She stood up suddenly, heart racing now for an entirely different reason, and crossed the room to her coat. She pulled out the flash drive and stared at it, the scratch on its side catching the light.

Whatever Logan had left behind, whatever he hadn’t wanted her to see, it was on this.

She booted up her laptop on the kitchen table, fingers trembling slightly as the machine hummed to life. The screen blinked awake with a quiet whirr. She hesitated only a moment longer, then slotted the drive in.

It didn’t load immediately.

There was a pause. Like it had to think. Then the screen flickered, and a window opened on its own.

NEURAL LOG SEQUENCES – LOCKED

[Enter override credentials]

She stared at the prompt, breath held.

It was protected. Of course it was.

She tried the obvious first, his birthday, their old lab login, his mum’s name. All rejected. But then she remembered the sketchpad he'd carried around at university, the one he'd covered in graffiti-level drawings and handwritten equations.

There’d been a name on the back, in big crooked letters.

PYTHIA.

She typed it in.

The screen shivered, then shifted.

Override accepted. Begin sequence.

And then it began to unfold, video, files, half-recorded logs. Logan, speaking into a mic, wild-eyed, frantic, rambling. Diagrams of the neural link. Schematics she hadn’t seen before. And beneath it all, buried in subfolders, something labelled:

Secondary Protocol: Autonomous Control – ENABLED

Her heart dropped.

Autonomous?

She clicked into it, pulse quickening.

The code was dense, written in loops she couldn’t untangle on sight. But the gist was clear enough: the device was more than just a conduit. It was learning. Growing. Thinking. And if it ever deemed its host compromised...

Her hand flew to her mouth.

It could override him.

She stared at the screen, stomach twisting. Somewhere outside, the sky lit up again. The TV blared with the sound of sirens and glass breaking. Spider-Man’s suit flashed red across the screen as he leapt from another collapsing building.

She looked at him.

Then at the code.

Then back again.

Logan wasn’t the only one in danger now.

The whole city was.

She barely noticed the sun come up.

The screen cast her in blue light, soft and cold, as line after line of code scrolled past her tired eyes. Her fingers hovered above the keys, pausing only to scribble something down on a notepad already crowded with frantic, looping handwriting. There were equations she hadn’t touched since university, frameworks that were half-Latin, half-madness. Logan hadn’t just built this system, he’d buried it beneath ten layers of arrogance and desperation.

Some of it she recognised. Neural feedback loops. Power modulation. Synthetic stability thresholds. The kind of tech that could map a mind in real time and reroute its impulses. And then—

That secondary protocol again. Buried deeper than before, like it knew it shouldn’t be found.

Failsafe active. Host override requires dual-auth.

Failsafe. Dual-auth.

She exhaled shakily, raking a hand through her hair.

He’d written a backdoor. Somewhere, hidden in this madness, Logan had coded a way out, but it needed two keys.

Hers… and his.

A laugh escaped her, dry and bitter. Of course. Even in his descent, he’d tethered himself to her. Even now, when he was burning the city to the ground, he’d built the lock with the hope. No, the assumption, that she’d come looking for it.

That she’d come for him.

Outside, the chaos was escalating.

More sirens. The screech of tyres. At one point, a distant blast shook the windows in their frames, and dust from the ceiling rained down onto the table. She barely flinched. The TV was still on, the volume low, but the footage was relentless.

Buildings damaged. Streets overrun.

Spider-Man caught on every screen, swinging, diving, shielding people with his body, his suit scuffed and singed. And always trailing behind him, a blur of green and black and red, fast as hell and twice as cruel.

Logan.

Or what was left of him.

She pulled her focus back to the code. She couldn’t think about Oscar now, couldn’t think about the way his voice had trembled the last time they’d spoken. Couldn’t think about the ache in her chest when Logan had said her name like it still meant something.

All she could do was work.

She didn’t have a suit. Or powers. Or a symbol to rally behind. All she had were her hands, her brain, and the blueprint of a boy she’d once known, before the noise, before the machine, before the world shifted beneath their feet.

So she dug deeper.

Piece by piece, she traced the architecture. Tried to isolate the command lines. She could see where it had learned him, mirrored his rhythms, his instincts, his anger. It didn’t just amplify Logan.

It became him.

But it was still code.

And code, at the end of the day, could be broken.

She scribbled a new set of instructions. A loop. Something rudimentary. Crude. It wouldn’t dismantle the suit, but it might delay it. Mute the feedback for just long enough to slip in a second override. If she could get close enough.

If Logan hadn’t already been consumed entirely.

Her hands stilled.

And for the first time in hours, she allowed herself to feel something.

Not fear.

Not guilt.

Resolve.

She snapped the laptop shut, tucked the flash drive into the pocket of her jacket, and grabbed the notebook.

There was still time.

Not much.

But maybe, just maybe, enough.

She ran.

Half of Manhattan was still gridlocked from the chaos, so she took side streets, back alleys, her boots slick from rain and city grime. The wind had picked up, warm and electric, the kind that came just before another storm. By the time she reached the gates of the old university lab, dusk had begun to stretch long fingers across the skyline.

The side door was still jammed the way she remembered, too old to lock properly. She slipped inside.

It was all exactly as they’d left it years ago. Dust on the shelves. Faint smell of solder and burnt coffee. A poster on the far wall still read “Innovation Starts With Curiosity”, curling at the edges from time and apathy. She moved quickly, muscle memory taking over. Lights on. Equipment powered up. She opened her laptop, connected the drive, started reworking the patch code.

The room filled with the hum of machines, old fans stirring warm air as night fell thick outside the narrow windows. It was like stepping back in time, except everything was burning now, and she didn’t have Logan at the next station over making jokes under his breath.

She barely registered the sound of footsteps behind her.

Not until the door creaked.

She turned, already knowing.

Oscar stood there, mask in hand, hair sweat-dampened, face drawn tight with exhaustion and something close to fear.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low.

She didn’t look up from the code. “And you shouldn’t be out there alone.”

He stepped inside, glancing once around the room like it was foreign to him. “I was at the dockyard. He’s not slowing down.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” he said, more firmly now. “That thing, it’s not Logan anymore.”

She paused. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, just for a second.

“I can fix it.”

Oscar’s silence filled the space like smoke. She finally looked at him.

“I can,” she repeated, quiet but certain. “He built it with an override. I found it. I just need time.”

Oscar came closer. “He almost levelled a power grid and threw a firetruck into the East River.”

“I know,” she said. “But I can’t just, leave him. Not like this.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s too dangerous. You get close to him again and he won’t let you walk away.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, her mind flicked, uninvited, to a memory.

Summer. They were nineteen. Still cocky, still stupid, still full of fire.

She’d fallen asleep on the floor of this very lab, cheek against her notebook, and woken to find Logan sat beside her, hoodie half-off, legs stretched long in front of him. He’d scribbled something into her notes in his messy handwriting.

Don’t drool on the equations. It’s not cute.

She’d punched him in the arm. He’d grinned like he always did—sharp, dangerous, charming.

But then he’d looked at her.

Really looked at her.

“D’you think we’ll still be here in ten years?” he asked, quiet, for once. “Changing the world and that?”

She’d snorted. “We’ll be lucky if we haven’t blown up the chemistry block.”

He’d gone quiet again. Then: “If I ever do something stupid. Proper stupid. You’d stop me, right?”

She’d blinked at him, half-asleep. “Course I would.”

He’d smiled.

“Good. Then I won’t need to be scared.”

The memory faded, ripped away by the whirr of her laptop and the weight of the moment.

“I promised him,” she said softly, eyes burning now.

Oscar stood frozen for a long moment, then exhaled. “You’re not sleeping. You haven’t eaten. You can’t carry this alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Yeah?” His tone was sharp now, but not cruel. Just scared. “Because it feels like you’re walking into fire and locking the door behind you.”

She didn’t reply. She just turned back to the screen and started typing again, faster this time. She felt, more than heard, Oscar step back. The sound of the door closing behind him was softer than expected.

She didn’t cry.

Not this time.

There wasn’t time for that.

The hours bled together.

She barely felt them pass.

The world outside could’ve stopped spinning and she wouldn’t have noticed, except it hadn’t. It was spinning faster, spiralling downward, chaos growing in concentric rings. And every minute she didn’t find it, Logan moved further out of reach.

He was losing control.

She could feel it, see it in the footage that looped endlessly in the corner of her screen. At first, there’d been a strange precision to his destruction, almost deliberate. Now it was messier. Unpredictable. The drones no longer moved like extensions of him; they twitched erratically, glitching mid-air before launching into full attack. Bridges crumbled, rooftops sparked and smoked. People fled from shadows they didn’t understand.

He wasn’t just hurting the city anymore.

He was unravelling with it.

The code showed the same thing. She saw it in the neural sync logs, spikes and crashes in the feedback loop. Moments where Logan fought the system and lost, over and over again. The machine was still learning, evolving, tightening around him like a vice. Every time he lashed out, it pulled tighter.

God, Logan…

She didn’t sleep.

Didn’t eat.

She drank cold coffee from the faculty fridge and paced the lab like a caged thing, the override protocol always just out of reach.

And then, just past four in the morning, it surfaced.

Buried beneath three false folders, nested in what looked like corrupted code. A failsafe, just like she’d suspected, but not for stopping the machine entirely. That would’ve been too clean. Too merciful.

No, this was something else.

SYNC INTERRUPTION: Host Reboot

Her pulse kicked.

She opened the code and began skimming, fast, desperate. If she could isolate the connection for even twenty seconds, she might be able to destabilise the link between Logan and the core AI. That would give him time, her time, to force the manual override and reset the system.

It wouldn’t destroy the suit.

But it would give her a window.

She was shaking now. With relief. With adrenaline. With something dangerously close to hope.

She hit compile, shoved her hair out of her face, and turned to the TV as she reached for her phone.

The channel blinked into view.

Breaking news. Live feed.

Midtown skyline. Fires glowing like veins through the dark. Smoke curling into the morning light. Cameras struggled to keep up with the movement, drones dipping and swerving above a cluster of skyscrapers. Then—

A flash of red.

A figure swinging in low, catching the edge of a crumbling crane and launching upward again.

Oscar.

She stepped closer.

The camera jerked suddenly, and then, there he was. Logan.

Hovering like a shadow against the buildings, wind flattening his hair, the exposed machine in his back pulsing with frantic light. He wasn’t wearing the full suit now. His shirt was gone, and the interface curled like metallic vines across his spine, lit from within. His face was twisted, something between euphoria and rage, and for a second, even on screen, it looked like he was screaming.

She pressed a hand to her mouth.

The skyscrapers. It had to be downtown. She could get there.

She could end this.

She grabbed her drive, stuffed it into her jacket pocket, and ran from the lab without even shutting the door behind her.

The city was on fire.

Not literally, though close enough. Sirens howled through the dawn, lights ricocheted off glass towers, and somewhere above it all, two shapes danced a deadly arc across the skyline.

She sprinted through the last blocked-off street, breath ragged, shoes pounding against the pavement. Her lungs burned. Her head was ringing. But she could see them now, Oscar and Logan, silhouetted against the breaking light. The drone-suit glinted with a mind of its own, flaring whenever Logan lifted his arms, the neural plates at his back twitching like muscle.

He was slipping, completely.

She pushed through the crowd, ignoring the yells from NYPD, ducking a toppled barricade and scrambling over the scorched bonnet of a car. A figure swung low—Spider-Man—webbing across a collapsing crane, then launching himself up again.

Then he saw her.

He landed in front of her so fast the wind nearly knocked her over.

“You shouldn’t be here!” Oscar’s voice was muffled by the mask, but his posture was tight, shoulders hunched, heart in his throat. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’ve got it, Oscar, I’ve got the override, I can stop it!” she said, pulling the flash drive from her pocket, her hand trembling.

“You don’t understand,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s not him anymore, he’ll kill you.”

She shoved past him. “Then let me die trying to save what’s left of him!”

Oscar hesitated, but it was enough time for her to break into a run, heading towards the fire escape of a nearby tower.

“I’m serious!” he shouted. “You need to get back, now!”

Then: thwip.

A line of web shot past her, too fast to dodge, and stuck to her wrist, yanking her sideways. She screamed as her hand was slammed against a metal bollard, locked in place with a quick twist of white tensile silk.

Her chest heaved.

“Oscar!” she yelled, her voice shattering the air. “You didn’t—you can't—!”

He froze at the sound of his name.

It hung between them like smoke.

She realised too late what she’d done, called him that, here, in front of everyone.

His masked head tilted, almost slowly, like the moment itself had hiccuped. Then he backed away, leapt upwards into the fight again, vanishing behind clouds of debris and twisted scaffolding.

Her arm pulled at the webbing. It wouldn’t give.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck’s sake!” she muttered, kicking at the post.

A man nearby, mid-forties, in a delivery jacket, hovered awkwardly. “Uh—d’you want help with that?”

She looked at him, wild-eyed. “Yeah—yes—get it off!”

He reached into his satchel, pulled out a penknife. “Mate of mine works NYPD. Says these webs dissolve in acetone, but, don’t have any, so…”

“Just cut it!” she snapped.

With a few frantic scrapes, the fibres began to tear, and her wrist came free, red-raw but usable.

She was already running.

The rooftops. She needed height. A direct line of sight to Logan’s core. She dodged a toppled pylon, shoved open a cracked door, and started up the emergency stairwell of the nearest skyscraper.

Ten floors. Fifteen.

Her legs screamed.

But she had to get to him.

Had to make him hear her.

Because if she didn’t, he’d be gone forever.

The door to the rooftop flew open with a slam that echoed off the concrete.

Wind slapped her in the face, hot with smoke and static.

Below, the city churned like something alive, sirens and screams, the low thrum of failing power grids, the crackle of burning air. But up here, it was clearer. She could see everything. The skyline was broken in half, and above it, like a god gone rogue, Logan hovered.

The machine in his back pulsed, erratic now, convulsing in jagged beats. It glowed an unnatural blue, veins of energy crawling up his spine like lightning caught mid-strike.

She dropped to her knees near the roof’s edge, tugged her laptop out of her bag, jammed the flash drive into the side. Her fingers flew.

The code opened like a wound.

Override sequence. Neural interrupt.

Come on. Come on.

Far above, Logan turned mid-air.

The suit twitched.

Her screen glitched. Static burst across her files, like interference from a signal too close, too aware.

She gasped as her laptop jolted in her hands.

The machine had noticed her.

“Oh, shit.”

A whine built in the air, low and sharp like feedback from a speaker. Logan’s silhouette flickered, just for a second, and then he dived.

Straight for her.

She scrambled to her feet, laptop tucked against her chest, backing towards the roof’s water tank. Her heart beat so loud she thought it might break through her ribs.

He landed like a thunderclap, skidding across the concrete.

The metal across his body sparked and shuddered, the plates shifting of their own accord, iridescent and alien. But his eyes, when she dared meet them, were still blue. Still his.

Almost.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice came out raw. Filtered. Like the machine was speaking through him.

She gritted her teeth. “Finishing what I started.”

The interface on his spine whirred, and without warning, a drone peeled off from his shoulder, slicing the air between them. She ducked, just as it fired, blasting a chunk from the water tank behind her.

The shockwave threw her sideways, her laptop skidding across the gravel.

She reached the device just as Logan’s boots crunched against the roof behind her.

“You’re clever,” he said. “Always were. That’s what I liked about you.”

His voice faltered for half a second—glitched again.

She clicked into the override field, half-blind with panic. “You still like me, Logan?” she whispered, not looking up. “Or is that just the parasite talking?”

A pause.

Then a guttural sound—half-laugh, half-growl.

Another drone rose beside him.

She had seconds.

Fingers flying, she bypassed the firewall. The override sequence popped into place—final confirmation blinking red.

“Don’t,” Logan said, stepping forward. “You do this… I might not be able to stop what comes next.”

She looked up. Her face was streaked with tears, hair whipped wild by the wind.

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’m still going to try.”

And she hit enter.

The override hit like a jolt, Logan staggered, a distorted scream tearing from his throat as the neural plates along his back sparked violently. One of the drones spun out mid-air, crashing into the neighbouring rooftop in a shower of metal and flame.

She crawled forward, watching in breathless horror as the machine writhed against him. It was peeling, slowly, like something alive being torn from flesh. Wires sparked where metal met spine, smoke curling upwards into the dawn.

And for the first time in weeks, she saw him.

His chest heaved. His eyes flickered—blue, clear, human.

“Logan?” she breathed.

He looked at her. And for a second, just a second, it was him. Her Logan. The boy with the bright smile and sarcastic mouth and stupid drawings in her notebooks.

Then another drone swooped low overhead and she ducked, heart hammering. Across the sky, Oscar was still fighting, swinging between cranes and girders, webs snapping taut as he tore drones apart mid-flight.

The machine shrieked through Logan’s mouth, and suddenly he turned on her again.

She scrambled backwards, nearly tripping over loose cabling. Her laptop was fried, screen cracked down the middle, override incomplete. He stumbled after her, his movements disjointed, like the machine was losing control but still fighting to keep him moving.

Her hand hit something cold.

A metal pipe. Bent and rusted at the end.

She didn’t hesitate.

With a cry, she swung it, hard. It caught him across the side, knocking him sideways. Sparks flew from the exposed tech in his back as he dropped to one knee, groaning.

“You have to fight it!” she screamed. “Logan, please, you have to fight it!”

His face twisted, not rage, not pain. Fear.

Then the parasite’s voice came, warped and layered, more hiss than speech. “You should’ve let him die.”

He stood, half-dragging his limbs, half-possessed by the thing trying to survive.

And then, it happened.

The edge.

The roof was crumbling under the chaos. A drone hit one of the girders supporting the fire escape, and Logan, caught in the aftershock, stumbled backwards, right to the ledge.

His heel slid.

He tried to steady himself, but the machine spasmed, twisting his body the wrong way, making it worse.

She bolted forward without thinking.

He slipped.

“No, Logan!”

Her hand snatched his wrist just as he went over the edge.

They teetered there, weight balanced on the brink of nothing.

His eyes locked on hers.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, voice cracking.

He was trembling. The machine twitched violently across his spine, cables whipping against the wind. For a terrifying second, it looked like it might rip him out of her grip.

Then, in the quiet, broken like a breathless memory, he said it.

“Don’t let go,” he choked. “Promise you won’t let go.”

Tears streamed down her face. “I won’t,” she said. “I never would.”

Her fingers ached with the strain, the sharp bones of his wrist slipping against her grip. The metal was hot, burning hot, sparking and writhing as the machine fought back, twisting Logan’s body unnaturally, trying to pull him down.

“No—no, I’ve got you—Logan, hold on!”

He was trying. God, he was trying. His free hand clawed at the ledge, feet scrambling against thin air. But the parasite wanted free, it wanted to fall, to vanish into the wreckage, to consume him entirely.

And he was so tired. She could see it in his face.

He looked up at her, lip bloodied, eyes filled with a kind of quiet terror. “I don’t— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can!” she sobbed, whole body shaking. “You’re not going to die down there! Not like this!”

But the slick of oil and blood and smoke was too much. Her grip slipped.

“No—no, no, no—”

And then he fell.

“LOGAN!”

The scream tore from her like it ripped something inside her open. Raw and ragged, it echoed across the rooftops, down the streets below, every inch of heartbreak threaded through the sound of her losing him.

Oscar, mid-air, froze.

He turned toward the sound, toward her scream, and saw Logan drop like a stone through smoke and broken glass.

No hesitation.

Oscar dived.

He twisted through the air, webs snapping out towards building edges, traffic lights, anything he could latch onto.

The wind howled in his ears.

He reached out, arms outstretched—

Come on, come on—

And just before Logan vanished into the chaos below, Oscar caught him.

The impact jostled them both hard, nearly yanking Oscar’s shoulder out of its socket, but he held on, webbing them into the side of the nearest tower, both of them swinging low before slamming into a scaffold.

Above, she collapsed to her knees, gasping for air, hands still out like she was trying to grab him back from the edge.

She didn't realise she was still crying until the salt hit her lips.

Her voice was hoarse now, the scream still lodged in her chest.

But he was alive. Somehow.

They were both alive.

She didn’t remember how she made it down. She flew through the stairwell, lungs burning, knees nearly buckling with each turn. Her ears rang with the sound of her own blood rushing, feet slipping on concrete, heart pounding so violently it felt like it might give out altogether.

The scaffolding came into view at last, twisted and dented where they’d landed.

And there—

Oscar was kneeling beside Logan, the mask torn halfway off his face, chest heaving. His hands were slick with blood and oil, arms braced around Logan’s body as he leaned in and yanked.

A wet, sickening crack echoed out as the machine tore free from Logan’s back, an unholy thing of metal and wire and exposed circuitry, screeching as it detached. Logan let out a strangled cry, barely conscious.

“Jesus—” Oscar swore, tossing the machine away like it burned him. “I need a medic! We need, someone call an ambulance!”

She sprinted the last few steps, nearly falling onto her knees beside them.

Logan was sprawled out, blood spreading beneath him. His chest rose in shallow, stuttering breaths, skin pale, eyes fluttering.

She reached for him, cradling his face in shaking hands. “Logan—Logan, stay with me, yeah? It’s me, I’m here—just stay with me, please—”

Her voice cracked, a sob breaking free as she pulled him against her, his blood soaking into her sleeves. He didn’t move much, just the faintest turn of his head toward her, like he knew.

“I couldn’t save you,” she whispered. “But I’m here. I’m still here.”

Behind her, Oscar stood frozen.

He watched as she held Logan, rocking him gently like they were sixteen again, back before any of this, back before wires and drones and masks.

His hands, still trembling from the fight, curled into fists at his sides.

This was the girl he’d grown up with. The girl he’d loved quietly, patiently, always from the corner of the room. The girl he thought, maybe, one day.

But here she was. Crying into Logan’s chest like the world had just fallen through her hands.

Oscar looked away.

The sirens wailed in the distance now, growing closer.

And all he could do was stand there, watching her stay for someone else.

Oscar didn’t wait for the medics.

Didn’t wait for her to say anything, or even glance back.

He just pulled his mask down over his face again, jaw tight, breath sharp. The webline hissed as it latched to the edge of the building. And then, he was gone. One smooth motion, vanishing into the skyline with a thud of wind and fabric.

She didn’t even see him go.

One week later:

The hospital smelt like antiseptic and regret.

Late afternoon light filtered in through the blinds, striping the floor in gold and grey. Machines beeped steadily, too steadily, and the occasional murmur of nurses bled in from the corridor beyond.

Logan lay still in the bed, tubes in his arm, bandages pressed tight across his ribs. The scars down his spine were fresh and angry, burnt-in reminders of the thing that had burrowed into him. He hadn’t said much since they’d pulled it out. Mostly, he just stared.

The door creaked.

Oscar stepped in.

No mask now. Just him. Shoulders tense beneath his hoodie, one hand still faintly grazed and bandaged. His eyes flicked to Logan’s, but neither of them spoke straight away.

It was the first time they’d been alone in weeks. Maybe months.

Logan gave a faint smirk, dry as dust. “Thought you’d swing in through the window.”

Oscar didn’t smile.

“I wanted to look you in the eye when I asked why.”

A beat. The machine beeped in the silence between them.

Logan’s gaze drifted back to the ceiling.

“You wouldn’t get it.”

Oscar stepped closer, brows furrowing. “Try me.”

For a long time, Logan didn’t speak. He looked… small. Not physically, Logan was still tall, still built like he could hold the weight of the world, but there was something hollow behind his eyes now. As if the parasite hadn’t just burrowed into his body, but had found the last untouched bit of him and snuffed it out.

“I was tired,” he said eventually. “Of being nothing. You remember what it was like. Always someone better, always someone smarter. I thought… I thought if I made it mine, I could control it. The chaos. My name would mean something.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “So you built a machine that nearly levelled the city. Brilliant.”

“She was trying to help me.” Logan’s voice was quiet, bitter. “She believed in me. Even when I didn’t.”

Oscar looked away at that, just for a second.

Then he stepped closer to the bed, eyes hard.

“You used her.”

“I loved her,” Logan snapped, voice cracking like brittle glass. “And maybe that makes me worse. But don’t stand there pretending you didn’t want her to choose you.”

Silence. Electric. Sharp.

Oscar’s fists were tight at his sides now, but he didn’t move.

“You broke her heart,” he said, softly. “And you’re not the only one who has to live with that.”

He turned toward the door, one hand already reaching for it, before pausing.

“She’s not here,” he said without looking back. “Because she’s tired, Logan. Because she nearly died trying to save you.”

Logan didn’t respond. He just lay there. Staring at the ceiling. Staring at nothing.

The door clicked shut.

And Logan was alone again.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132 @mercurymaxine

[milfshotss]

Title: The Wolf and The Ghost

Pairing: Ambessa Medarda x Reader

Summary: After the war ends, Ambessa is left haunted by the loss of the one person she truly loved, Reader, who vanished after she chose ambition over their relationship.

Warnings: None

MEN & MINORS DNI: 18+ ONLY!!!

————————————————————————

The war ended, and the world kept turning. Cities rebuilt. Alliances were redrawn in blood and ink. Monuments went up to honor the dead. And Ambessa Medarda stood in the center of it all, a general, a strategist, a war hero.

And utterly alone.

She had the world’s respect, yes. Power in abundance. But no one to share it with.

Because you were gone.

You left her before the final siege. You’d watched too long from the sidelines as she let ambition carve the warmth out of her. You gave her warnings, soft at first, words by candlelight, hands on her cheek, begging her to choose you. But war always came first.

You left without ceremony. No goodbye, no note. Just vanished. She came home from council chambers to an empty apartment and a silence so complete it roared.

She told herself you’d come back. Of course you would. You loved her.

Didn’t you?

⸻

Weeks turned into months. The war ended, but she didn’t go home, what was left of home, anyway, with your scent long gone from her sheets?

Instead, she went looking.

First, she sent letters to your family. No answer. Then she sent soldiers. No sign.

After that, she went herself.

She walked through mud-soaked markets and highborn halls. She questioned people who hadn’t seen you in years. She hunted you like an enemy, her desperation barely hidden beneath sharp words and colder threats.

“Tell me where she is,” she hissed to a man in Piltover who claimed he once sold you paints. “I’ll burn this district down if you lie to me.”

He hadn’t lied. He just hadn’t known.

She searched for you in cities scarred by war, in the ruins of Zaun, in the red-lit brothels of Navori, even in the temples of Ionia, hoping maybe you’d gone there seeking peace, something she’d never been able to give you.

But every time she thought she was close, the trail went cold. You were always one step ahead, like you knew she was coming.

Sometimes, she thought you were punishing her. And maybe she deserved it.

⸻

She began to see you in dreams. Not the gentle ones no, Ambessa didn’t get those. Hers were jagged. You stood at the edge of her battlefield, drenched in blood and rain, whispering, “You never chose me.” She always woke with your name on her lips and her hands clenched in her sheets, furious with herself for dreaming at all.

She kept your locket in her coat pocket. The one you gave her the night before you left. She never opened it, she couldn’t. It felt like a grave.

⸻

Then came Zaun.

A diplomatic mission, they said. Negotiations, they said. But Ambessa didn’t give a damn about the papers. Something told her, intuition, maybe that you were here.

It was raining, because of course it was. The city always seemed to weep.

She wandered for hours, cloak soaked through, eyes burning from smoke and memories. And then, down a crooked alley with flickering lights and the smell of tea and burnt bread, she saw a shadow behind a rain-streaked window.

And her heart stopped.

You were sitting at a low table, face half-lit by a lamp. You looked… different. Softer, quieter. You had lines around your eyes that hadn’t been there before. But you were still you. Still her.

Ambessa didn’t enter like a general. She entered like a ghost.

The bell above the door didn’t ring. Or maybe she didn’t hear it over the roar in her ears.

You looked up.

She watched you freeze.

No tears. No smile. No embrace. Just silence.

“I heard you were alive,” you said.

“I was,” she rasped, voice wrecked. “But not without you.”

You blinked. Looked down at your tea.

“That’s dramatic. Even for you.”

She didn’t laugh. She couldn’t.

“I looked for you,” she said.

“I didn’t want to be found.”

“I know.”

You looked up at her then, eyes tired. “So why are you here?”

“Because I don’t want to win if I have to do it without you.”

You exhaled, slowly. “That’s not how it works, Ambessa. You made your choices.”

“I made the wrong ones.”

You nodded. Said nothing.

She sat, uninvited, desperate now. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do it. You want me to leave the empire? I will. You want me to beg? I—” her voice caught, “—I’ll kneel. I’ve done worse for far less.”

You stared at her. Something in your expression cracked, and your voice came quieter than before.

“You think I wanted you to suffer? That I left to punish you?”

Ambessa said nothing.

“I left because staying was killing me. Because I loved you, and you loved war.”

She bowed her head. The rain outside seemed to hush, waiting.

“I don’t know how to be what you deserve,” she whispered. “But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

You were quiet for a long, long time.

Then, slowly, you reached across the table. Your hand touched hers.

Her breath caught like a sob in her throat.

“I’m not who I was, Ambessa.”

“Neither am I.”

A beat.

“…Then maybe we can meet again. As who we are now.”

Your fingers tightened around hers. And for the first time in a year, the storm in her chest began to calm.

————————————————————————-

[oopsiedaisydeer]

ꜱᴛᴜᴄᴋ ʙʏ ɢʟᴜᴇ

…𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦

slow burn, angst, secret identity, unrequited love?, flirting, longing, vulnerability, intimacy, anonymous relationship, crush, love square?

word count - 1k

His phone was dead.

“FUCK,” Chris exclaimed loudly in the empty street, taking his cap off to run his hand through his hair. A nervous habit he’d never quite grown out of. 

He couldn’t believe how wrong the night had gone. Everything had slipped from his control so fast. He struggled to maintain his breathing, desperate not to haave a fucking panic attack right outside a party with all his peers.

He shoved his phone into his pocket and pushed the worried thoughts of Daisy from his mind, and before he knew it, he was sitting alone on the late-night bus, hoodie up, head leaning against the cold window. The city outside blurred by, wet with leftover rain, streetlights flickering like they were unsure if they wanted to stay awake.

The night had gone sideways. Not in a dramatic, movie-scene kind of way. Just quietly, a slow unraveling. One moment he was talking to a girl who laughed too easily and touched his arm like it meant something, and the next, he was staring at a message he hadn’t seen in time.

He still felt sick about it.

He wondered where she was now. Daisy. If she’d panicked when the call cut out, like he had, or just accepted it from him. If she’d messaged him, tried to call him back, anything. Chris wanted her to be worried, but not too much. She was his calm in the storm.

The bus rocked gently as it turned a corner. Chris looked up. A few rows ahead, a girl sat curled near the window, chin resting on her hand. There was something about her posture that made him pause, something soft, and his eyes traced her for a moment. She wasn’t looking at him. And before he could place why she caught his attention, she was standing up, pressing the stop button, and stepping off into the dark.

He was left alone on the bus.

When he got home, the lights in the kitchen were off. Everyone else still out. Chris plugged his phone in with shaking fingers, and as soon as it lit up, the guilt surged.

3 messages. 1 missed call.

He didn’t hesitate. He called her.

The line rang once. Twice. Then, a soft “hello?” came through the speaker.

She sounded tired. Not upset. Not exactly. Just… quieter than usual.

“Daisy,” he breathed, sighing deeply as he sank onto the couch. “God, I’m so sorry. My phone died, and then I…”

“It’s okay,” she said.

Chris blinked. “Wait — what?”

“You don’t have to explain, Sun. I’m… I’m not mad.”

“Oh, Daisy,” He sat forward. “Shit. I was a proper asshole. I hate how tonight went and I’m really sorry. This isn’t how I wanted tonight to end at all.”

He heard the slight shuffling of her moving on the other end. “It’s alright.”

“Still. I want to apologise. That’s not how– that’s not how friends should act.”

Silence. Then, gently…

“Who were you talking to?”

He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t know. Just some girl. Camila. She came up to me, started talking, flirting. I thought maybe she was... you. At first. But obviously she wasn’t. And I didn’t stop it. That’s on me.”

She didn’t say anything right away. He could hear the faint sound of a blanket shifting on her end.

“I was excited to see you,” she said simply, the soft sound of her voice soothing him. “Mostly scared though.”

His chest tightened. “I wanted to see you too. I really did. I just… I messed up. I got caught up in something stupid, and I missed you. That’s... on me.”

A pause.

“Can I make it up to you?”

She laughed tiredly, the sound rippling through his nervous system.

Chris blinked, voice earnest. “Please. Anything.”

“Okay.”

“How about a movie?”

He swore he heard her smile as she asked him, “Through the phone?”

“Obviously. I’ve got some chips and a can of pepsi. You?” He glanced at the kitchen, standing up to grab the food already. 

“Popcorn, iced tea and some chocolate.”

“Romantic.”

They both laughed. The call felt lighter after that.

“If you were actually here,” she said teasingly, “I’d make you give me the good pillow.”

Chris grinned. “Joke’s on you. I’d already have it behind my back.”

“Rude.”

“Comfortable.”

They counted down then and hit play at the same time. Chris lay back, phone on speaker next to him, their shared commentary crackling through the line — giggles, gasps, groans about cheesy dialogue. Like they were side by side, not miles apart.

Halfway through, during a lull in the film, she said it. Not accusingly, just honestly.

“It kind of hurt. Hearing that you had been with someone else.”

Chris closed his eyes. “I know. And I’m sorry. I wasn’t really with her. I just... got distracted. I didn’t mean to let you down.”

Another long silence fell between them.

A question that had been bubbling in his chest for weeks now kept threatening to spill from his lips, especially after what had happened. He pushed it down again and again, instead mumbling or laughing softly in response whenever she spoke.

As the film neared its end though, he couldn’t help it.

“Daisy, d-did you, um even r-really want to meet me?” he couldn’t help the stutter, a childhood mannerism that he hated.

She didn’t reply right away. He thought maybe the call had dropped again, but when he checked the screen, it was still connected. It tore him open, the silence, making him feel more and more vulnerable as he waited for her answer.

“I think maybe we should wait,” she said at last, her voice quiet. “A little longer. Before we try again.”

“Okay,” he said, her reassurance spreading slowly like warm water. “I’m okay with that.”

They said goodnight not long after, her voice soft with sleep. A sharp feeling prodded his guts as he heard her yawn, the sound dulling the pain just slightly. He lay back, picturing Daisy curled up in bed, what it would be like if they were together, just like he did most nights. 

The movie credits rolled on, the screen a soft blue glow in the dark.

Chris hated lying.

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws ꨄ

a/n: i forgot to post this last night because i passed out but here u go

[gullemec]

The Great Divide

Bitten - Part IX

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You and Joel navigate your relationship, your continued journey, and survival together, now with the addition of Ellie.

Warnings: canon-typical gore & violence, description of injuries, infected attack, more angst because this angst train is going to keep on rolling up until I decide it's time to throw smut into the mix

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 12.8k

A/N: I'm very sorry for going MIA for so long - turns out a masters degree is really hard and no one told me?? (jk lol)

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

This girl, foul mouthed and scrappy, tucked under your arm like a little duckling. Clinging to you the way lost things do, like she already knew you’d keep her safe.

She couldn’t have been older than Sarah was when…

Joel clenches his jaw, shaking the thought loose before it can take root.

Since leaving the Fireflies’ compound, you’d barely said a word to him. The silence gnawed at him, worse than any wound, worse than the burn in his muscles from days of relentless walking. He could still see the heavy plumes of smoke rising behind you, curling into the sky like a funeral pyre.

Good, he thought. Let it burn to the fucking ground.

He’d fought like hell to get to you. Laid traps, cut supply lines, picked them off one by one like a wolf thinning the herd. He’d drawn Marlene’s people out and, when there was no time left to lose, stormed in and took you back.

He’d saved you.

And yet, here you are, alive and safe, and you still won’t look at him.

Had he really thought that was all it would take? That dragging you out of there, carrying you through fire and blood, would undo everything? That it would make things right between you again?

What the hell had he been expecting? That you’d throw yourself into his arms, press your face into his chest, whisper a broken, breathless thank you? That you’d see what he couldn’t say, that it was more than obligation, more than survival, that he —

Joel huffs a breath through his nose. Foolish.

Instead, the distance between you remained, like you were a thousand miles away instead of two feet behind him. You spoke more to the girl than you did to him. Soft, murmured comforts, whispered reassurances, your arm thrown protectively around her shoulders as you walked. When she shivered, you rubbed the chill from her arms, tucked her close into your side.

And Joel… Joel watched.

If he was being honest, watching you with her cut him right to the core.

The way you held her close, the way your touch soothed without hesitation, like it was second nature. Like you were made for it. It was a painful reminder of everything the world had stolen from you. Of the life you should have had.

Caring for someone vulnerable came so easily to you. And once, a long time ago, it had come easily to him too.

Joel had been a good father. He could admit that, even from beneath the crushing weight of guilt and grief he carried. He’d made mistakes, sure, but Sarah had always been safe, loved, and happy. And in the years after losing her, that knowledge had been the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

But that part of him was long gone. Rusted over.

He had no business around a kid now. Wouldn’t even know where to begin.

And yet, watching you now, watching the way the girl gravitates toward you, how she clings to you like you’re the only sure thing in this broken world, he feels an already broken part of him shatter.

Another wedge driving itself between you. Another reason for you to pull further away.

…

You should be grateful.

You should have thrown yourself into his arms the moment the last Firefly hit the ground, let relief crash over you like a tidal wave.

You should be grateful that he followed you, through rain and snow, through blood and wreckage. That he fought, killed, and bled for you. That he put a bullet in Marlene’s head without hesitation. For you.

This shouldn’t be so fucking hard.

And yet, every time you look at him, every time those dark eyes flick up to meet yours, you have to look away. Because you can’t bear to see it again.

The fear, the discomfort, the disgust he tried and failed to hide. And beneath all that, something else, something worse.

Hurt.

You don’t want to face it. You don’t want to face him. Because to do that, to reach across this great divide between you, means opening yourself up to the possibility of him hurting you again. And you’re not strong enough for that.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And then there’s Ellie.

She clings to you like a lifeline, and you to her. The trust she’s placed in you is staggering, unearned, and yet you find yourself desperate not to let her down. You don’t know why she’s latched onto you so quickly, but you think, maybe, it has something to do with the fact that you’re both members of the world’s most exclusive, most wretched club.

And so you pour yourself into taking care of her, into comforting her, protecting her. It’s easier this way, easier to focus on her than to deal with the mess that lies between you and Joel.

Easier to pretend you don’t still love him.

…

The sun is grazing the peaks of the mountains by the time you finally stop to rest. The air is thick with the damp chill of evening, the scent of wet earth clinging to your clothes. A light breeze rustles the treetops, whispering through the branches like ghosts.

Joel moves through the motions of setting up camp with practiced ease, the kind of efficiency that reminds you just how long he’s been doing this, how survival has become muscle memory to him. He barely speaks, only the occasional rustling of gear and the snap of twigs beneath his boots filling the silence.

You try to help, gathering branches for the fire, shaking out spare blankets to make something resembling a bed for Ellie, but your body betrays you. Your cast knocks awkwardly against things as you move, your fingers stiff and clumsy as you try to tear branches off a dead tree. Every task takes twice as long as it should, and by the time you drop a bundle of kindling near the fire pit, your hands are aching, fingers burning from overuse.

Joel doesn’t say anything, but you feel the burn of his eyes on you when you fumble with the blankets, struggling to smooth them out. His eyes flick to your hands, assessing. Then, without a word, he steps in, finishing what you started. Not unkind, not impatient, just efficient, like he’s used to doing things himself. Like he doesn’t expect anything from you.

The silence between you stretches, and it gives your mind all the space it needs to run wild. You don’t know what you want from him. An acknowledgment, maybe. A sign that things are okay, that you haven’t ruined everything. That what he did back there, back at the Fireflies’ compound, meant something.

Your mouth is dry when you finally force out, “I can help.”

Joel barely glances up from where he’s securing the blankets. “Already got it.” His voice is quiet, flat, like he’s answering just to answer.

The conversation dies right there.

You hesitate, then hold your tongue and retreat, dropping onto a fallen log at the edge of the campsite beside Ellie. She sits with her knees tucked up, picking at bark on the log, watching Joel work with wary curiosity.

After a few moments, she leans over to you and murmurs, “So… Who is he?”

You stiffen, your fingers curling into the fabric of your jacket. The answer should be simple. It isn’t.

“He’s…” You steal a glance at Joel, crouched near the fire coaxing the flames to life with a practiced hand. His face is unreadable, half in shadow, half cast in flickering orange light. You swallow. “He’s just an old friend.”

Ellie frowns, clearly unconvinced. “Yeah? You don’t seem like friends.”

A quiet, humorless huff of laughter escapes you. “What do we seem like, then?”

She tilts her head, considering. “I dunno. Strangers? Enemies? Exes?”

Your throat tightens. You don’t have an answer for that, not one that makes sense, not one that doesn’t unravel everything inside you. You are none of those things, but what are you, then? Before you can even try to come up with something, Joel grunts from across the camp.

“C’mon.” He doesn’t look up. “Let’s eat.”

You and Ellie make your way back to the fire, the warmth licking at your cold fingertips as you sit across from Joel. He hands out the food, canned beans and stale jerky, the kind of meal you don’t even taste anymore.

The three of you eat in near silence, the only sounds the crackling fire, the distant bark of a coyote, the occasional rustling of leaves. Ellie, in an effort to fill the void, asks Joel a few questions; where he’s from, how long he’s been on the road. He answers in clipped, vague sentences, not rude, just uninterested, the way a man does when he’s spent too many years not wanting to be known.

At some point, she glances between the two of you and mutters, “Jeez. You two really know how to bring down a meal.”

Joel ticks his jaw, shaking his head. You don’t respond. You just stare at your food, appetite all but gone.

Eventually, the fire burns down, casting dim, flickering shadows over Ellie and Joel’s faces. You think distantly of telling ghost stories at summer camp, huddled around a fire just like this one. But that was in another life, when stories of spectres and ghouls were benign fodder for an eleven-year-old’s imagination instead of your daily lived reality.

Joel stands with a grunt, adjusting the rifle slung over his shoulder. “I’ll take first watch.”

You don’t argue.

Ellie is asleep in minutes, curled up in the blankets you struggled to arrange. You shift to your feet, moving to squat beside the dying fire, watching it shrink to embers.

“What happened to your wrist?”

His voice is low but it disrupts the silence between you like a stone dropped in still water.

You blink up at him without thinking, caught off guard by the question, by the fact that he’s asking at all. The firelight has all but died now, leaving you both in darkness, but his eyes are steady on yours. Not angry. Not cold. Just… watching.

There’s no malice there. No disgust. Only something quiet and burdensome, like sadness. 

You clear your throat, looking away.

“Slipped on some ice trying to cross a stream,” you say, voice tight. 

Stupid. That’s what it was, what you want to say. Stupid. You should’ve known better, should’ve found another way, should’ve been able to tell the difference between the sounds of a fox and something worse. But you were scared. You were alone, and by your own doing.

“Storm hit not long after,” you continue. “I holed up in a hunting shack. That’s when the infection got me, I think. I was out of it… Hallucinating some pretty crazy shit.”

You hate admitting this. Hate the way the words feel in your mouth, like confessions, like proof. Proof that you weren’t as strong as you thought. That you weren’t as capable without him. That you had left, thinking you could survive without his protection, and you had almost died for it.

It’s a quiet kind of humiliation.

But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t twist the knife.

Doesn’t say I told you so.

Doesn’t say You shouldn’t have left.

He just sits there, gaze heavy, holding the silence with you.

You force yourself to keep going.

“I was half-dead when I made it to this pharmacy, looking for antibiotics.” A pause. You swallow hard. “That’s where they got me.”

Images flash behind your eyes.

The moment you felt hands grab you, lifting you off the ground. You remember the desperate, delirious relief that hit you like a hook to the ribs. Because you thought it was him. Because for a second, your fevered and broken mind had believed he’d found you.

That relief feels like a cruel joke now.

The fire pops, embers sparkling in the ash. Ellie shifts in her sleep beside you, mumbling something incoherent before settling again.

And Joel still doesn’t speak.

You risk a glance at him, at the way his hands are clenched in his lap, at the hard line of his jaw, the muscle ticking there. His shoulders are stiff, his whole body wound tight as a tripwire. Not angry. Just holding something back.

You wonder if it’s guilt.

Or if it’s something darker. If it’s anger.

Or if it even matters.

Joel gestures for you to come closer, nodding toward your hands. You hesitate for half a second before shifting toward him, extending them palms up. He takes them carefully, turning them over in his rough, calloused grip, the firelight casting deep shadows over the bruising and scabbed over scrapes.

"They look bad," he mutters, reaching for his pack. "But they should heal okay."

He pulls out a bottle of water and an old rag, soaking it before running it over your knuckles. You wince at the sting but don't pull away.

"You feelin’ alright?" he asks after a moment. "Any fever?"

"I'm fine," you say, but he doesn't look convinced. His fingers skim over the tender skin at your wrist, just below the edge of the cast, his brow furrowing.

He looks at the state of your hands, the rough, puckered skin around your knuckles, the bruising that extends out from under your cast. The sight sticks him in his gut, the all too familiar tendrils of guilt beginning to unfurl. He could have prevented this. If he’d been kinder, if he’d confronted his own vulnerabilities, his own fears, would you have been driven away from him? Was there something he could have said that would have made you change your mind?

"Why’d you —"

But he cuts himself off, jaw tightening, shaking his head like he's trying to shove the question back down behind the walls it crawled out of. Not the time or place. 

You sigh, looking past him into the dark woods, just needing to look anywhere but at him. "You should let me take over watch," you say. "I don’t have a sleeping bag anyway.”

Joel scoffs, already reaching for his pack. "Took one from the compound," he mutters, pulling it free and tossing it toward you.

For a second, you just stare at it, your fingers digging into the fabric like it's something foreign. A biting retort claws up your throat, something about how you can take care of yourself, about how you're not some kid he needs to look after. But it dies before it ever leaves your lips.

Why do you do that? Why do you push back against any act of care like it means you’re weak?

“Drink,” Joel says, nodding at the bottle in his hand, and when you don’t move, he presses it against your thigh like he’s daring you to argue. ”Like you’re damn allergic to taking care of yourself.”

It should be annoying. The gruff bossiness, the way he talks like you're some reckless burden he’s always got to account for. It should piss you off.

But you just feel like weeping.

You take the water, swallowing a few mouthfuls before handing it back.

Joel leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, watching the dying fire. His voice is quieter when he speaks next.

“Ellie,” he says, and you don’t need to look at him to know what he’s asking. “What’s her story?”

You huff a soft laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “If I told you the truth, you’d never believe me.”

“Try me.”

You glance at him, and something about the way he’s looking at you, all steady patience, makes the words come easier than you expect.

“She’s immune,” you murmur. “Like me.”

Joel lets out a slow breath, rubbing a hand down his face. He nods, his wildest suspicions confirmed. She was the kid Marlene wanted him to bring to Utah. What kind of fucked up plan did the universe have for him?

You hesitate before asking, "What do you think it means? Do you think there might be more of us?" You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, suddenly nervous, glancing at him. "Marlene thought there was a cure. She said it could be the start of something, that… that what happened to me might actually mean something."

Your throat tightens, and you hate the way your voice wavers at the end. You liked the sound of it, the idea of being part of something bigger, of your suffering having some kind of purpose.

But Joel doesn’t want to hear this right now. Doesn’t want to listen to you romanticize your death like that. You getting your brain ripped out of you wouldn’t mean a damn thing. You being here, being alive, getting safely to Wyoming, that meant something. Nothing about your life being snuffed out like the flame of a candle could ever mean anything other than the loss of the one thing that Joel still had a tenuous grasp on in this world.

"Marlene was sick." His voice is a dull blade, pressing too hard. "She was gonna kill you. Kill a kid. All in the name of a vaccine we both know was bullshit."

The words land like a slap, and you flinch.

It’s not the anger that gets you. It’s the way he dismisses it outright, like it’s not even worth considering. Like you’re not even worth considering.

You shift away from him, turning toward where Ellie lay sleeping, fingers curling into your palms. "Right," you mutter.

Joel knows he fucked up the second the words leave his mouth, but it’s too late to take them back.

"You wouldn’t understand," you say, willing your voice not to crack. "No one but me and Ellie could understand how this feels."

He watches as you watch over the girl, still curled up in her blankets, her form rising and falling in steady rhythm. You unroll your sleeping bag next to the fire, crawling in. There’s a heaviness in your voice when you continue. "She’s a good kid. And she’s my responsibility now."

Joel’s stomach twists. The words hit him right in that shattered place inside him.

He remembers when you were his responsibility.

Back when it was the two of you against the world, before everything got so fucked up. When you leaned on him without hesitation, when he could look at you and know, without a doubt, that you trusted him to take care of you.

But he knows he lost a piece of that.

Lost it when he let his own fear get the best of him, when he let the rough edges of his walls scrape against your softness until they left wounds too deep to ignore.

He wants to tell you he understands more than you think. That he knows what it means to hold something fragile in your hands and be terrified of breaking it. That he sees you.

But before he can figure out how to say any of that, your body sags, exhaustion overtaking you like a wave.

It only takes a minute before your breathing evens out, your limbs slack and heavy with sleep.

Joel sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. Regret pools like oil, thick and dark. He should’ve apologized. Should’ve told you he was sorry for dismissing you, for snapping at you when you were just trying to make sense of everything.

But he can’t wake you up for that now, can’t disrupt the first real rest you’ve had in God knows how long.

Instead, he watches the embers die one by one, listens to the quiet sounds of the night. And when the first hints of dawn creep over the horizon, casting the world in hesitant pools of light, he finds himself shifting closer to you without really thinking about it.

Carefully, almost hesitantly, he reaches out, pressing his palm lightly to your forehead. Checking for fever, that’s all. Just making sure you’re okay.

His hand lingers longer than it should.

Ellie watches from her makeshift bed, silent and still, eyes barely peeking over the edge of her blanket.

She doesn’t say anything.

She just watches the way Joel looks at you, like he’s carrying something too big for words, something he can’t seem to get a grip on.

Something she doesn’t think she’s ever seen up close before.

And when you wake before the sun a couple of hours later, Joel is right there, dozing beside you, arms crossed as if he’d been keeping watch all night. You don’t know what to do with the warmth that spreads through you at the sight. You don’t know why it hurts as much as it soothes.

…

Morning arrives in gold.

The sun is unseasonably warm, pressing down on you with a gentle heat that seeps into your skin, loosening the stiffness in your bones. It’s almost pleasant, and if you close your eyes and tilt your face toward the sky, you can almost pretend, just for a second, that the world isn’t what it is.

The fire has long since burned out, leaving behind the smell of smoke in the air. You sit back on a log, feeling useless as Joel moves through the familiar motions of breaking down camp. He doesn’t ask for help, doesn’t expect it from you, not after last night. You hate the feeling of being dead weight, of watching instead of doing, but you know better than to push yourself past what your body can handle.

A metal travel mug appears in your line of vision, held out wordlessly.

You blink at it, then up at Joel, who doesn’t meet your eyes.

The gesture is so familiar it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

You take the cup, fingers curling around the warmth of it, and for a fleeting moment, it almost feels normal. Like no time has passed at all. Like this is just another morning on the road, him handing you coffee the way he always used to.

You don’t thank him, and he doesn’t expect you to.

To your surprise, Joel calls out to Ellie.

"Come on, kid. Give me a hand with this."

What surprises you even more is that instead of scoffing or making some snippy remark, she jumps up, eager to help.

You watch as she moves to his side, waiting for direction. He shows her how to roll up the sleeping bags, how to tie them down so they don’t come loose, how to strap them to a pack in a way that won’t throw off balance.

Kids like to be wanted, you remember. They like to feel important.

She listens intently, taking the task seriously. It’s small, but it’s something. A way to contribute. A way to matter.

By the time everything is packed up, Joel reaches for your pack.

Instinct kicks in before you can think better of it.

"I can do it," you say, grabbing for it at the same time he does.

You can’t, actually.

Your wrist is throbbing, your fingers stiff and sore. Your side aches from walking for miles, and your head still hasn’t fully recovered from the exhaustion of the past forty-eight hours. You didn’t sleep that first night after Joel found you, none of you did. Not until you’d put enough distance between yourselves and the smoldering wreckage of the Fireflies’ compound, the plumes of black smoke rising high into the sky.

You eye the pack, heavy with pilfered supplies. Courtesy of Joel.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bark at you to just let him do it, doesn’t sigh in frustration like he would have before. Instead, he stands there, hands held in front of him like he’s approaching something wild. He’s not pushing. Not pressuring.

Just… waiting.

The silence stretches between you, your pride sitting heavy on your shoulders.

Then, finally, you drop your gaze to the forest floor.

"Okay," you murmur. "You can carry it."

Joel just nods, hoisting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

And to your surprise, you don’t feel guilty.

You only feel… surprised.

Surprised at yourself, for letting him do this for you.

Surprised at him for not throwing a barb your way about it.

Maybe you’re both learning something.

…

The Beartooth Pass snakes its way up into the mountains, winding higher and higher, each step a burn in your legs. But the view is enough to keep you from complaining. The land stretches out below, endless pine forests rolling into craggy peaks, stubborn bits of snow clinging to the frosty ground. The sky is an impossible blue, the kind that almost makes you forget the world has gone to hell. Almost.

Joel, leading the way, suddenly slows, scanning the roadside before nodding toward a dirt road that juts off from the highway.

"Map says there should be a freshwater lake up this way," he explains, holding it up for you to see.

You don’t bother looking. 

"I believe you." 

He’s always been better at reading maps than you, and you trust him to get you where you need to go.

An hour later, the cracked pavement gives way to gravel, then dirt, and then a weathered wooden sign emerges from the trees. Lily Lake Campground.

Joel lifts a hand in warning. "Stay put. Lemme check it out first."

You and Ellie wait as he vanishes into the trees. Birds chirp somewhere above, and a breeze rustles through the branches, sending a spray of pine needles careening toward you, landing at the toe of your boot. It’s peaceful here, untouched in a way most places aren’t anymore.

Joel returns a few minutes later with a nod. "All clear."

Nothing could have prepared you for the sight of the lake.

For the first time since crossing into Wyoming, you really see it. The beauty of it. You’d been too exhausted, too cold, too lost in your own head before. But today, the sun is shining, the sky wide and open, and in front of you is a pristine, glassy lake, the surface rippling serenely in the breeze. The water is so clear you can see straight to the bottom near the shore, smooth colorful rocks catching the light beneath the surface. Pines crowd the edges, looming reflections cast long and unbroken over the water.

No one speaks.

Then, as if by silent agreement, the three of you start stripping down to your underwear, kicking off boots, peeling away layers until the cool air kisses your skin.

Ellie is the first in, launching herself forward with reckless enthusiasm, barely pausing before plugging her nose and disappearing beneath the surface.

You hesitate, dipping a toe in before stepping further. It’s cold, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like a long drink of water after walking in the heat. It wakes you up, reminds you that you’re alive.

Joel lingers at the shore, arms crossed, eyeing the water with deep suspicion.

"You coming in, old man?" you tease.

His glare is half-hearted. "I don’t like cold water."

You laugh, watching as he finally steps in, wincing with each inch of skin that submerges. For all his gruffness, all his strength, this is the thing that undoes him. Cold water.

You don’t see Ellie creeping up behind him until it’s too late.

With both hands, she slaps the surface, sending a wave of water crashing against his entire back.

Joel’s whole body stiffens. He spins, eyes wild, only to see Ellie already kicking away, cackling.

"You little shit!" he bellows, lunging after her.

Ellie shrieks, ducking beneath the water to escape, but Joel isn’t done. He plunges under, disappearing for a second before bursting up again, shaking his head like a wet dog, sending a fresh spray of water in all directions.

You shriek as the cold droplets hit you, shielding your face.

"Okay, enough," you laugh, retreating toward the shore. "If I get this cast wet, I’m screwed."

Joel, catching his breath, watches as you wade back onto land. You grab an old towel from your pack, drying off before slipping back into your clothes, the afternoon sun warming your skin.

Eventually, Joel joins you, dropping onto the shore beside you, running his fingers through his wet hair with a grumble. Ellie stays in the water, drifting lazily on her back, eyes closed, soaking up the moment like it’s the first time she’s ever really felt peace.

You watch her, then glance at Joel.

For once, there’s no urgency. No fear.

Just this.

A moment carved out of the world as it used to be.

He sits beside you, close enough that if you weren’t thinking too hard about it, you could mistake the two of you for something. Companions, maybe. Friends. But you know better.

You aren’t sure what you are anymore. Old friends? Reluctant allies? Strangers with too much history to be strangers at all?

Joel exhales through his nose, nodding toward the water. “Kid’s like a goddamn fish.”

You huff a quiet laugh, the sound unfamiliar in your throat. It doesn’t belong here, doesn’t fit into the broken mess of whatever sits between you now. But it comes anyway, drawn out of you by the sight of Ellie floating on her back, arms splayed wide, completely at peace.

“She’s something,” you agree.

Joel shifts beside you. You can hear him breathing, steady and even, but you swear he’s thinking so loud you can almost hear it. He wants to speak. You can feel it.

You do, too, if you’re being honest.

But what do you even say?

Thanks for saving me. By the way, why did you do that?

… Is it the same reason you couldn’t pull the trigger that day on the river?

Joel clears his throat. “I… I heard about her. Back when we were in the QZ.”

You turn to him, brows furrowing. What?

“What?” you ask, blinking at him. “You…?”

“Ellie, I mean.” He doesn’t look at you, his eyes locked on the water where she drifts lazily, letting the sun warm her face. “I went to see Marlene for a job. Back when we were just talkin’ about leaving. I knew she could get me supplies we needed. I’d done runs for her before.”

You stay silent, waiting. Joel never gave up information freely. He was a locked safe, in the heart of a maximum security prison, and getting anything out of him used to be an art. But now, here he is, offering something up unprompted.

And you’re not about to interrupt him.

“I never brought you along for jobs with the Fireflies. Too dangerous,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face, voice quieter now. “And this time when I went…” 

He seems to consider his words for a moment.

“She mentioned a kid. A girl who was immune. I thought she was full of shit. She wanted me to bring her to Utah so they could— ” His jaw clenches. You can see the tension in him, the way his shoulders tighten, his throat bobs with a hard swallow. “They were gonna kill her.”

There’s a rawness in his voice, like it’s scraped open, bleeding.

You swallow, staring at his profile, at the way he keeps his eyes fixed forward, unwilling to meet yours. He isn’t just talking about Ellie.

“You knew they were going to do the same to me,” you murmur. “And that’s why you came to get me.”

It isn’t a question. It isn’t even an accusation.

Just a fact. A recognition of what he’s done.

Joel thought you were going to be killed, and he put himself between you and the hands of fate. Again.

But Joel shakes his head. 

“I was comin’ for you anyway,” he says, and his voice is steady now, sure in a way that makes your breath catch. “Didn’t even realize they were around ‘til I saw the logo spray-painted nearby. They do that, try to scare raiders off. Got a bad reputation.”

You stare at him. His words filter through your brain slowly, piece by piece.

I was comin’ for you anyway.

You hadn’t been sure what he would do after you left. Maybe go back to Boston. Maybe stay, start over, let go of the weight of you, the burden of your needs, your curse.

You’d assumed he would want that. That he’d find peace in the quiet of Wyoming, without you there to complicate things.

But instead, he’d gone looking.

Not because of duty. Not because of some misplaced sense of responsibility.

But because relief for him wasn’t found in the emptiness you left behind.

What if Joel didn’t want peace?

What if peace, for him, wasn’t something Wyoming could offer, only you?

The thought lingers, curling itself around the messy, broken edges of everything else between you. You don’t know what to do with it. Don’t know how to hold it alongside all the other things you carry, the hurt, the anger, the distance.

Because for all of this, for everything he’s done, there was still that look in his eyes before you left. Still the anger in his voice, the cold way he pushed you away.

How do you hold both things at the same time?

…

That night, as you sit around the campfire, you listen to the stillness in the air.

If it were warmer, there’d be crickets, the distant sounds of life in the forest waking under the moonlight. If it weren’t the apocalypse, there’d be the sounds of other campers, families murmuring, kids giggling as they roast marshmallows, someone playing a guitar off in the distance. The kind of quiet life you once took for granted.

Instead, there’s just you, the child you’ve quasi-adopted, and the man you’re in love with who also makes you want to rip your hair out half the time, splitting a can of vintage baked beans and jerky over the fire.

You’ve learned that Ellie has never been one for silence. She’ll do anything to fill it, whether it’s with half-baked theories, crude jokes, or god-awful puns. Tonight, though, she sets her sights on Joel.

“You know, if you keep making that face, it’ll get stuck that way.”

You glance over at him, catching the deep furrow in his brow, the ever-present scowl that looks like it’s been etched into his face since birth. Something about it makes you laugh, small but genuine, bubbling up before you can stop it.

How the hell did you ever survive these awkward silences with Joel before Ellie came along?

He doesn’t dignify her with a response, just grunts, shaking his head as he stirs the fire. But before he can grumble too much, she throws a question to you both.

“What was your favorite movie, from before?”

You freeze, caught off guard. That’s something you haven’t thought about in… years. More than years. It’s been so long since movies were even a part of your world. The last one you saw was back in the Chicago QZ, crowded around a battery-operated portable DVD player, watching The Phantom Menace with a group of strangers, pretending for a couple of hours that the world outside didn’t exist.

Joel, however, doesn’t hesitate.

“Curtis and the Viper 2.”

You blink, then snort before you can stop yourself.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, brows knitting together.

You shake your head, grinning. “Those movies were cheesy as hell. That’s your favorite?”

Joel lifts his hands in mock offense. “Hey now, those movies had heart.”

“Oh my god, you’re serious.”

Ellie giggles, eyes flicking between the two of you. 

“Damn right I’m serious,” Joel says, poking at the fire. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little action and adventure.”

You smirk, leaning back against a fallen log. “I just pegged you as more of a Western kind of guy.”

Joel huffs, but there’s amusement behind it, like he’s almost pleased you even gave it that much thought. “Alright then, smartass, what’s your favorite?”

You hesitate, rifling through half-buried memories before grinning as one finally surfaces.

“The Blair Witch Project, for sure.”

Joel’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “Your parents let you watch that?”

You let out a giggle. “Jesus, Joel, how old do you think I was?”

Ellie, watching the exchange with barely contained amusement, grins wide. “Wait, wait. What's the Blair Witch?”

You and Joel exchange a glance before turning back to her.

“A horror movie,” you say.

“A damn stupid horror movie,” Joel adds.

You gasp, clutching your chest in mock offense. “Oh, come on, it was terrifying.”

Joel scoffs. “Terrifying? It was a bunch of idiots running around the woods with a camera, scarin’ themselves half to death over nothin’.”

“That’s what made it great. It was all about the suspense.” You wiggle your eyebrows at him.

He just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about kids these days.

For a moment, there’s an easiness about this, a warmth, reminiscent of how things used to be before everything went to hell. Before he did what he did. Before you ran.

The fire crackles, throwing shadows across Joel’s face, softening the hard edges. He’s watching you, but not with the guarded distance he’s kept since you left. Just… watching.

You swallow, glancing away.

The moment is fleeting, slipping through your fingers before you can grab hold of it. 

Because then Ellie throws a grenade into the air. 

“What was the happiest day of your life?”

A log on the fire pops, sending embers swirling into the night, but everything else stills. The air thickens, pressing in on you, on Joel.

Your eyes find his, and he’s already looking at you.

Because he already knows your answer.

You told him, back when you laid all your cards on the table. When you thought you had nothing to lose.

The closest thing to happiness I’ve felt since… since before the world ended.

A day suspended in liquid gold. Where for a brief, foolish moment, you believed you could reach out and take love in your hands, hold it like something real, something lasting. When words spilled between you in the flickering firelight, when the proximity between you vanished, leaving nothing but warmth and breath and the unspoken promise that maybe, just maybe, there could be something more.

But you can’t tell Ellie that. You can’t even bear the thought of retelling it to Joel.

And Joel… How is he supposed to answer? How does he tell you that the happiest day of his life was the day his baby girl was born? How does he put into words the million little moments that followed - the first time Sarah wrapped her tiny fingers around his, the way she’d laugh until she snorted, the feeling of her arms wrapped around his neck after a long day - without inviting questions? Without unraveling himself right here, in front of both of you?

He’d told you about Sarah before. More than he ever told Tess. More than he ever told anyone. You asked, and Joel, hesitant, careful, had given you those pieces of himself, knowing you would hold them gently.

But he can’t do that now. Not here. Not in front of Ellie.

The silence stretches, growing heavier by the second. Ellie glances between you both, her face scrunching in confusion, then softening with worry.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asks quietly.

You shake your head, only then noticing the tears perched precariously on your waterline. You blink them back and slip an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into your side.

“No, not at all,” you murmur, keeping your voice smooth, steady. Comforting. “It’s just hard to think about sometimes. About everything we lost, you know?”

Ellie doesn’t answer, but you feel her lean into you, just a little.

Across the fire, Joel remains still, gaze fixed on the flames.

It’s like you can read his mind, and he doesn’t like it.

The night wears on, the fire burning lower, the cold creeping in. Eventually, Ellie curls up in her makeshift bedroll, her breathing slowing, evening out.

And then it’s just you and Joel.

The quiet between you isn’t painful, it’s unbearable.

You want to say something.

So does he.

Neither of you do.

The silence stretches like an unseen presence, pressing against you like a bruise you don’t want to touch.

You want to ask Why did you come for me? Really? but the words stay stuck in your throat.

Joel wants to say I’m sorry I pushed you away. Wants to tell you that being without you had felt like severing a limb, that he hasn’t stopped feeling the ghost of it since. But instead, he just grunts and mutters, “You should get some sleep.”

And so you do.

…

You wake early the next day, the chill of dawn clinging to your skin as you set off up the mountain. The world feels greyer today, the cloud cover making the lake look like a giant silver mirror. The air is crisp, but the tension between you and Joel remains, hanging in the air like a fourth traveler.

Unspoken words. Stolen glances. Moments where one of you starts to speak but stops short, swallowing whatever had almost been said.

Ellie senses it, that unseen current passing between you and Joel. She does her best to cut through it, keeping up a steady stream of chatter, throwing out silly jokes, pointless observations, anything to keep things light. But there’s a distance between you and Joel that she can’t quite bridge, a history neither of you are willing to acknowledge out loud. 

After a while, Ellie groans dramatically, pressing a hand to her forehead like a tragic heroine.

“Ugh. My legs. They’re dead. Completely useless. Guess you guys are gonna have to leave me behind.”

You smirk, glancing over at her. This kid has no business being this funny, not after everything she’s seen, everything she’s been through. You admire that about her, the way she refuses to let the world harden her completely.

She turns to Joel with wide, pleading eyes. “Joel, you gotta carry me. It’s the only way.”

You fully expect him to scoff, to grumble something about how she’s not a baby and she can walk just fine. But to your utter astonishment, he stops.

He raises an eyebrow at Ellie, then shifts his backpack around to his front, loosening the straps. With a groaning sigh, he drops to one knee and waves a hand expectantly.

“C’mon, then.”

Ellie’s mouth falls open in disbelief before she whips her head toward you, like she needs confirmation that this is really happening.

And then, with an elated shriek, she scrambles onto Joel’s back.

He grunts as he stands, adjusting her weight before trudging forward. “You ain’t exactly light, kid.”

“Yeah, well, you aren’t exactly young,” she shoots back, grinning against his shoulder.

And you laugh. A real, genuine laugh, already filling the air before you can stop it. Ellie laughs too, and after a moment, even Joel, despite himself, lets out a quiet chuckle.

For a moment, it feels almost normal.

In another life, maybe this could have been yours, properly. A life where Joel is yours, where the world isn’t shattered and unkind, where you’re just walking together on a crisp morning, laughing with a little girl who shares your features, perched on his back without a care in the world. In this fantasy, there’s no weight in Joel’s eyes when he looks at you, no past that threatens to pull you under, no unspoken words wedged between you like a blade. In this fantasy, he loves you back.

You let yourself stay there, just for a second. Suspended in it.

Then the moment shatters.

It happens fast, too fast.

Your breath catches, laughter dying in your throat as something up ahead snags your attention. A shift in the landscape, a movement in the distance. At first, you think it’s just a trick of the light, a shadow cast by the trees. But then you see it.

A wreck.

The mangled remains of an RV, half-sunken in a roadside ditch, its windows shattered, its frame rusted and warped from time and decay. For a second, it’s just another ruin, another forgotten remnant of a world long gone.

But then the movement registers.

Not the wind. Not the trees.

Bodies.

A small horde, circling the wreckage like vultures, dragging rotted limbs, heads jerking in sudden, unnatural twitches. You don’t have time to count them before one stops mid-step, its face snapping toward you, hollow sockets locking onto distant movement. Then another. And another.

Your blood turns to ice.

Joel reacts before you can. Pure instinct.

Ellie barely has time to squeak out a question before he’s dropping her to the ground, shoving both of you toward the brush on the far side of the road.

“Stay down. Stay quiet.”

Ellie nods, wide-eyed, scrambling into the undergrowth, but you hesitate.

Because you know Joel. You know what he’s about to do.

And you can’t help yourself.

Once you’re sure Ellie is hidden, you crawl back up to the road, pressing yourself against the rough bark of a tree, watching his six.

Like old times.

And God, he’s mesmerizing.

He moves like something honed and deadly, all precision and brutal efficiency. A weapon crafted by time and hardship, cutting through the infected like they are nothing, because to him, they are. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stumble. Every swing of his knife, every crack of his boot, every bullet that leaves the chamber, it’s methodical. Practiced. 

God’s perfect killing machine.

But God’s perfect killing machine has a bad right ear, and he doesn’t catch the flurry of movement behind him.

You watch it slither from behind the overturned RV, moving low, silent. A stalker, its body half-decayed, bones jutting through torn flesh, its milky eyes locked onto Joel like a predator that’s finally caught the scent of its prey.

He doesn’t hear it.

You realize it too late.

A cold sweat spikes down your spine. Your heart kicks into a frenzy, pulse thundering in your ears. You could call out to him, but you know what that would mean. You know how fast these things move. One sound, one wrong step, and it’s over.

For all of you.

But you’re not about to watch your nightmare unfold in front of you. Not again.

The fingers of your good hand close around the hilt of your knife, yanking it from its sheath in one fluid motion. There’s no time to think, just to move. You crouch low, every muscle coiled, and slip toward the stalker as quietly as you can.

Close enough now.

You throw your casted arm around its neck, the thick plaster shielding you from its snapping teeth, and drive your blade deep into its skull. You ignore the way your bone screams from the pressure.

But you’re not steady on your feet yet, not fully healed, not fully back in fighting form. Your balance falters. The dead weight of its body drags you down, and before you can stop it, you’re falling.

A sickening gurgle rattles in its throat as its body spasms against yours, collapsing atop you. You twist the knife deeper, teeth gritted, until the movement ceases.

Silence.

For a second, the world stills.

By the time he’s finished off the last of them, Joel’s head is whipping around, eyes scanning wildly. His ribs are heaving, lungs burning, adrenaline screaming through his veins.

But then it’s like all of that fades into silence, replaced by the feeling of the earth giving out beneath him.

Because when Joel looks back, all he sees is you, sprawled next to the body of a stalker, still as death.

A rush of ice floods his veins. His heart lurches painfully, breath strangled in his throat. A sound, ragged and broken and desperate, tries to claw its way out of his throat.

Not again. Not fucking again.

A half second before his knees give out, you move, body shaking with adrenaline. A wince as you yank the knife free, blood smearing across your fingers. Very much alive.

And something inside him snaps.

It should be relief. It should be gratitude. Instead, it erupts as fury.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

You blink up at him, still catching your breath, thrown by the anger written across his face.

“What?”

It’s not fair. You were helping. You weren’t just standing around, waiting to be saved.

Joel’s jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it might shatter. He gestures wildly toward the corpse beside you, toward where you had been lying so fucking still just moments ago.

“You sneak up on a goddamn stalker like that?” His voice rises. “Do you have a death wish?”

Your pulse is still hammering from the fight, and now it spikes with anger.

“I was helping, Joel,” you snap, stepping forward. “That thing was coming up behind you. I saved your ass.”

He growls, drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his beard like he’s trying to ground himself. “You should’ve stayed put.”

You scoff. “Right, I should’ve just stood there and let you get torn apart?”

Something flickers in his expression, dark and pained, but you don’t let yourself falter. You shove past the fear curling in your gut, past the way he’s looking at you like he’s seen a ghost.

“I handled it,” you grit out. “I’ve been handling shit like this since before I met you.”

Joel doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, breaths coming out erratically, like he’s still trying to convince himself that you’re standing here. That you’re not bleeding out on the forest floor.

That he didn’t almost lose you.

Joel’s eyes flash. “That ain’t the damn point.”

“Then what is the point, Joel?”

“The point is I turn around and see you on the goddamn ground, and for a second, I thought —”

He cuts himself off abruptly, like the words have lodged in his throat, choking him. His jaw tightens, fists clenching at his sides.

You stare at him, your breath still coming hard. There’s something in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s barely keeping himself together. The tick of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the way his fingers curl and uncurl like he needs something to hold on to.

And it hits you.

He thought he lost you.

Your stomach twists. The blaze of your own anger dies, just a little. But you don’t know how to soften things between you. You don’t know how to dull the double-edged knife that’s lodged between you both. Not when he’s spent so long keeping you at arm’s length. Not when he’s pushed you away again and again.

So instead, you say, “Well, you didn’t.” Your voice is flat. “I’m fine.”

Joel sighs, but it’s not relief, it’s frustration. He shakes his head, turning away like he can’t look at you anymore, but then he turns back just as fast, like he can’t not look at you either.

“You don’t get it, do you? You don’t get what that did to me.”

Your lungs constrict.

“Joel…”

“I thought you were dead.” He says shakily. He steps closer. “For one second, I-” He swallows hard, like the words physically pain him. His gaze pins you in place. “You don’t know what that feels like.”

The words tear out of you before you can stop them.

“Yes, I do.”

Joel freezes.

Your throat tightens. You weren’t going to go here. You weren’t going to bring it up. But the dam has broken, and there’s no stopping it now.

“Yes, I do know what it feels like.” You bite. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone? The only one who’s had to watch someone they care about die?”

Joel’s expression darkens. “That ain’t what I said.”

“But it’s what you think, isn’t it?” Your heart is hammering now. “That you’re the only one who gets to feel like this? Like you have permission to treat everyone like shit because you’re hurting?”

“That’s not —” He stops himself, jaw locking like he’s fighting with himself. “That’s not what I meant.”

You’re both standing too close now, neither of you willing to back down. The heat of the fight, of the near miss, of the way things were going so good right up until now, crackles between you, thick like a brewing storm.

Joel clenches his jaw again, shoulders rigid, like he’s holding something back.

“I ain’t losin’ you again.”

Oh.

It’s so quiet, the way he says it.

It’s the closest he’s ever come to saying the thing he won’t let himself say.

You don’t know what to do with this, don’t know how to hold it in your hands without breaking it, without breaking yourself.

So you do what you always do. You deflect. Because it’s easier. Because it’s safer.

"Losing me. Like you weren’t the one who pushed me away?"

His face crumples, like something inside of him has snapped in two.

Then, like an act of God, the sky opens up. A torrential downpour crashes over you, drowning the moment before it can fully take shape.

You don’t think, you just move.

You sprint toward the brush where Ellie is still waiting, pulling her hood up over her head, grabbing her arm. You don’t stop as you run past Joel, past the wreckage, past the bodies. The rain is deafening, hammering against the pavement, but you can just barely hear the heavy thud of his boots behind you. You don’t look back. You can’t look back. You don’t want to see whatever’s on his face right now.

Up ahead, just off the main road, a small dirt lot appears, more old, rusted RVs scattered across it, long abandoned.

You rush into the nearest one, sweeping your eyes over the space, assessing. Empty. Safe enough. You pull Ellie in after you.

The walls are thin, the rain pelting against them like a thousand watery bullets.

A beat later, Joel steps inside, slamming the door harder than necessary. He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, dripping, arms crossed, jaw set like stone.

At first, there’s only silence, save for your heavy breaths and the downpour raging outside. You shake the water from your hair, peel off your soaked jacket. The space is small, musty, thick with old dust and mold. You take stock quickly. Nothing much useful left behind, but at least the place is mostly intact.

Ellie, sensing the tension, slips toward the back of the RV. She mutters some half hearted excuse about looking for books before disappearing into the bedroom, door latched quietly behind her.

The silence stretches, tight, loaded.

It would be so easy to let it go. To let the rain wash the fight away.

But neither of you are that kind of person.

Instead, you shake your head, scoffing as you remove your wet sheath. “You always do this, you know that?”

Joel growls, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“No, seriously.” You turn to face him fully, arms crossed and eyes aflame. “You always have to be the one making the calls, telling me what I should or shouldn’t do —”

“Because you don’t think!” He cuts you off, words like dynamite. “You throw yourself into danger without a second thought, and I gotta be the one picking up the pieces every goddamn time.”

You bristle. “That’s bullshit.”

“No, what’s bullshit — ” he takes a step forward, “ — is me turnin’ around and seein’ you on the ground like a goddamn corpse.” His face twists, like the image is still burned into his mind. 

“I thought — ” 

He stops short, shakes his head like he can’t even bring himself to say it out loud. His jaw is clenched so tight you can hear the grind of his teeth. 

“Do I gotta spell it out for you why that scared me?”

Your pulse is still hammering from the fight, from the rain, from him. You stare at him, eyes boring a hole into his, trying to shove down the twisting thing in your stomach. “You’re acting like this because I fucking scared you?”

Joel doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

Your jaw tightens. “I don’t need you to be scared for me, Joel. I can take care of myself.”

Joel laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah? That how you ended up with the Fireflies?”

The words land like a slap.

You blink.  The storm outside rages, wind and rain hammering the metal walls, but it’s nothing compared to the whirlwind inside you.

Joel sees it. Sees the crack in your armor. And like a hunter who’s caught the scent of blood, he runs with it.

“You’re so damn sure you don’t need anyone, but you ran straight into their hands, didn’t you?” He barks. “You left, and look what happened.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t stop.

“You think just ‘cause you survived one bite, you can’t die? Immunity won’t stop a horde from tearin’ you to pieces. Won’t stop livin’, breathin’ people who’ll think up a million worse ways to hurt you.”

And he’s right, isn’t he?

Joel doesn’t even realize how deep he’s cut until he sees your face change. The fight bleeds out of your expression, replaced by something hollow, something stricken.

For the first time tonight, you have no comeback. No fiery retort, no quick-witted barb to throw back at him. Just a quiet, stunned look, like he’s finally broken something that won’t be so easily put back together.

Joel’s stomach drops.

He fucked up.

You don’t say anything. You just turn and push past him, yanking the camper door open and stepping out into the storm.

Joel reacts immediately.

“Shit.” He’s out the door before he even thinks about it, boots sinking into the mud as rain bears down in sheets. The wind howls, whipping through the trees, drowning out everything but the pounding of his heart.

You’re already walking away, shoulders hunched against the downpour, your body a rigid line of anger, on the verge of combustion.

Joel catches up in a few strides, grabbing your good wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop you. 

“Wait!”

You rip yourself free, spinning on him so fast he barely has time to react.

“Don’t.” Your voice shakes, though whether it’s from anger or exhaustion, you don’t know. Your clothes are soaked through, hair dripping, rainwater running down your face. You wipe at it roughly, but it doesn’t stop the sting behind your eyes.

“I can’t do this anymore, Joel.” You’re nearly shouting over the roar of the storm.. “I can’t stand you acting like I’m a fucking liability. Like I’m a mistake you made.”

Joel’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “I don’t —”

But you don’t let him finish. You’re too wound up, too desperate to get the words out before your courage fails.

“You must regret it. Not shooting me when you had the chance.”

Joel’s face darkens, his whole body tensing like a drawn bowstring. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Say it out loud?” Your voice is almost shrill now, though you’re past the point of caring. “Say that your life would be easier with me gone? Or that I left you and maybe things would’ve been easier if I never came back?”

His eyes flicker like a dying light, wounded and volatile all at once. His breath is heavy, his shoulders tight with restraint.

And when he speaks, it’s quiet. Lethal.

“You really think that little of me?”

You falter. Just for a second. But you can’t stop now.

“You tell me, Joel.” Your voice wavers, but you keep going. “Because you’ve sure as hell been acting like it.”

Joel groans, his hands braced on his hips. “Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe this conversation is happening, like he can’t believe you’re happening.

Then, quieter, “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it just fine.” The words snap out before you can stop them. 

“No,” he snaps, stepping forward. “You don’t.” 

The rain lashes down, thunder rumbling in the distance.

“You got no goddamn clue what it was like, wakin’ up and findin’ you gone. What it’s been like since.”

Your breath catches in your throat. But he’s not done.

“You think I resent you?” His voice is bitter now, his brows pulled in disbelief. “No. I’m mad at you. I’m so goddamn angry I don’t know what to do with it.”

You swallow. “Why?”

“Because you left.” 

And he breaks like a frayed rope snapping. Like the words he’s been keeping tethered all this time have finally broken loose. 

“Because you didn’t even give me a goddamn chance to tell you how fuckin’ sorry I was. How sorry I still am, every goddamn day.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

You don’t know what to do with an apology from Joel, don’t know how to hold it in your broken hands. You shake your head hard, rejecting it.

“I had to go,” you murmur, throat tight, barely able to force the words out.

Joel shakes his head, rain flowing in rivulets down his face, as if coming from the storm in his eyes. “No, you didn’t.”

He’s quieter now, but somehow it cuts deeper, right through the places you’ve tried so hard to keep impenetrable.

You don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to stand under the weight of this moment, how to breathe around the ache tightening in your ribs. 

So you do what you’ve always done when things get too hard. You run.

You push past him into the trees, feet fighting for traction in the mud, heart hammering against your ribs. The rain is endless, beating down in thick sheets, soaking through every layer of you. You don’t care. You just need to get away.

Joel curses under his breath and follows, his boots splashing through puddles. “Damn it, would you just stop?”

And then he’s somewhere else.

The sun, golden, peeking from behind a distant mountain. The warm drizzle on his skin, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and late summer. You, laughing, spinning through the rain with your arms wide, the fabric of your shirt clinging to your skin, your hair dripping down your back. The way you looked at him then, like maybe he wasn’t as ruined as he thought he was. Like maybe, just maybe, he deserved something good.

Then the night you left.

The haunted old house, the sound of rain against the leaky ceiling. The warmth of you in the room, the way his body had finally, finally, relaxed after so many nights on edge. The rare kind of sleep that only came when he let himself believe, just for a moment, that you were safe.

Then waking up to nothing.

The gut wrenching silence, the hollowness where you should have been.

The way it felt like losing everything all over again.

Now.

Joel’s heart clenches so hard it hurts. His breath is ragged, throat tight, stomach churning.

Not this time.

“Hey!” He shouts, cutting through the storm.

You freeze, spinning around to face him.

Joel steps closer, his frame so broad and unaffected by the torrents soaking you, like you could crawl under him for cover.

“You don’t get to do this again.” The rain plasters his hair to his forehead, those dark curls framing his frustrated face. “You don’t get to run like that. Not again.”

You’re drenched, blinking rain from your lashes, but he sees it all in your face. The hurt. The anger. The fear. The weight you’ve been carrying all alone, the one he neglected to help shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracks, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, you have no idea.”

You don’t move.

His jaw clenches. He shakes his head, his throat working. “I never wanted to push you away… I never wanted you to go.” 

It feels like lightning the way it shatters something between you. The fight leaves you.

Your shoulders drop, your lips part like you might say something, but you don’t.

Slowly, cautiously, like he’s afraid you might break under his touch or disappear with the rain, Joel reaches for you. A hesitant brush of his fingertips on the slope of your shoulder, a question unspoken.

And you let him.

You let him pull you into his arms, let yourself fold against him, let yourself be.

In this embrace you find shelter in the storm, against everything that’s threatened to pull you apart. His shirt is soaked, his lungs heaving something terrific beneath your cheek. And here, pressed against the thundering beat of his heart, shielded from the downpour, you weep.

For all that you’ve lost.

For all that you and Joel have left in your wake.

For the ugly truths neither of you can take back.

Joel presses his face into your hair, his arms locking around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers again. His lips graze, barely there, against your temple.

And when you finally find your voice, it’s quiet.

“I’m sorry, too.”

He just nods.

“Can we go back inside?” He asks.

You nod against his chest.

Joel keeps an arm slung over your shoulders as he leads you back to the RV. His touch is steady, solid, and you let yourself lean into it. Not because you need to, not really. But because, in this rare moment of honesty you’ve carved out together, there’s a part of you that wants to.

Wants to need him.

Wants to lean on him without the guilt, without the shame that’s rooted itself deep in your bones. The kind that twenty years of survival has carved into you, the voice in your head that says relying on anyone means weakness, means death.

Because maybe that voice is wrong.

Maybe, just this once, you don’t have to listen to it.

Inside the RV, the air is still thick with lingering tension, the scent of damp earth and mildew settling around you both. The rain still beats against the thin metal walls, but it’s quieter now. Muted, almost peaceful.

Joel lowers himself onto the bench seat at the dinette, exhaling as he leans back. That’s when you notice the way his mouth twitches, the way his fingers tighten briefly on the table’s edge.

“You’re hurt?” you ask, eyes narrowing.

He hesitates, but then sighs, dragging the sleeve of his jacket up to reveal a nasty scrape along his forearm. The wound is raw, angry, streaked with dirt. “Got myself on the damn door earlier. I’ll be fine.”

You shoot him a look, arching a brow. “Let me clean it up.”

You expect refusal, annoyance, a trademark scowl.

But Joel doesn’t argue. He just nods, resigned.

You gather the supplies, sitting across from him at the table. He rests his arm between you, his skin warm beneath your fingertips as you gently push his sleeve further up. Your movements are careful but clumsy, your cast making everything harder, your fingers still stiff and uncooperative. Joel could probably do a better job himself, but neither of you acknowledge that. There’s an unspoken understanding between you now. You have to let each other help.

Because it’s not about whether you need it, or whether you deserve it.

It’s about trust. About allowing yourselves to take care of each other, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it feels like a risk.

You work in silence, dabbing antiseptic onto the scrape, your touch light but deliberate. Joel barely flinches, watching you with an unreadable expression. You press a bandage over the wound, then reach for the roll of gauze to wrap it in place, securing it with slow, precise movements.

Joel still doesn’t speak, just watches you.

Watches the way your brows pull together in concentration, the way your damp hair clings to your cheeks, the way the soft evening light catches on the delicate slope of your nose, the curve of your lips.

You look beautiful like this.

And Joel wants to tell you. Now. Because what does he have to lose? Because the words have been clawing their way up his throat since before you left, since before you broke him that night, and he hated himself for not saying them when he had the chance.

But something stops him.

A promise.

He made a promise. To get you somewhere safe first, to let you decide, openly and freely, what you wanted.

He has failed you in so many ways, so many times.

But this promise, he will keep.

…

Joel tells you you're still a few days out from where he thinks the Wyoming safe haven is.

The truth is that you’re closer than that.

But there’s somewhere else he wants to take you first.

He’s banking on your inability to read a map to pull this off. And despite what he’s muttered in moments of frustration, he knows you’re capable, fiercely so. But you both know geography isn’t exactly your strong suit.

Still, you sense something is up.

"Joel, why are we going this way? We should be heading —"

"Just trust me."

That earns him a pointed look, one that says really? But the thing is… you do trust him.

Ellie, on the other hand, can barely contain her excitement. She keeps sneaking glances at Joel, smirking, dropping hints that only fuel your frustration. You hate not knowing things. And whatever this is, it's something.

Joel is different, too. Not softer, exactly, but focused. Like this matters to him. And maybe it’s because this is the first time in a long time he’s leading without it being about survival.

Since that night in the rain, something between you has shifted. The sting of old wounds still lingers, but there’s something else now, too. Something smoothed over and soothed by your shared apologies.

You don’t know that it’ll ever be the same. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe something stronger can be forged here.

You’re deep in thought when Joel crests a hill ahead of you. He turns back, raising a hand, motioning for you to follow.

And then you see it.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to move.

Yellowstone.

Untouched. Preserved. Alive.

For years, you'd feared it would be lost, just another casualty of the world’s ruin. That the image you clung to, the dream of this place, would shatter the moment you laid eyes on it. But it’s here. Whole. The geysers still erupt, steam curling into the sky. The hot springs shimmer in the afternoon light, deep pools of blue and green. A herd of bison gather in the distance, unbothered. The land is still theirs, always has been.

You think about the destruction and the decay and the rot, the way that’s what the world was for you for so long. The desperation of persistent existence in a hostile world. But that’s just human creation, isn’t it? Things that were always unnatural, always a blight on the land. So it makes sense that Earth would reclaim what was hers, what humans tried to make theirs. But here, this beautiful place… This has always belonged to her. Things that are meant to survive, do. 

And then, you understand.

Joel didn’t just bring you here as a detour.

He brought you here for you.

It’s not about survival, or obligation, or guilt.

This is kindness.

And it scares you a little.

Joel is watching you carefully, hands braced on his hips, his expression unreadable. He won’t admit it, but he’s nervous. He doesn’t know what you’ll do. If you’ll say something. If you’ll shut down. If you’ll run.

But you don’t run.

You let yourself have it. The moment, the quiet, the peace.

And then you smile. Wide, real.

Joel’s heart flutters, skips a beat. He’s seen you smile like this before, but only once. In a way that makes you look light, a way that lets him imagine how you might have looked had the world never ended. Like for the first time in a long time, you’re not carrying every awful thing that’s ever happened to you on your shoulders.

You turn to him, your heart so full it almost hurts., but not in that familiar way that wounds.

“Thank you.”

Joel doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know how to say you don’t have to thank me, I wanted to do this for you. So he just nods.

You look at him, and for maybe the first time, you see him.

Really see him.

You let yourself look, let yourself hold his gaze without fear of what you’ll find. And what you do find nearly brings you to your knees.

Because there’s no anger there. No pain, no regret, no sorrow.

Just joy.

Your joy, reflected back at you, in Joel.

Your fingers twitch at your side before you reach out, hesitating for only a second before taking his hand in yours. Your fingers entwine, squeezing tight.

He squeezes back, two quick pulls.

You linger, just for a moment, before letting go.

Ellie, as always, chooses the perfect time to interrupt.

"Okay, so what do we think? Jumping into one of those colorful pools or a geyser explosion first?"

The answer, of course, is neither, because, No, Ellie, that shit will boil you alive.

Even as you explore the land, watching the geysers erupt into rising plumes of steam, admiring the bison as they graze in the golden light of dusk, feeling the earth itself pulse with life beneath your feet, you can’t stop looking at Joel.

You try to take it all in, try to commit every detail of this place to memory. But more than the mountains or the rivers or the impossibly colorful pools, it's him you can't stop staring at.

For so long, you'd avoided really looking at him, expecting nothing but sharp edges, harsh words, cold indifference, the naked truth of your own fears reflected back at you like a broken mirror. And now that you've let yourself look, really look, and found none of that, you don’t want to look away.

You want to keep watching him in the same way he watches over you, with quiet intensity, with fascination and care and warmth.

That night, you make camp beneath the vast, endless stretch of stars. Yellowstone is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels untouched, sacred. The fire crackles between you, sending embers up into the night sky like sacred offerings. You shiver when the temperature cools, and without a second thought, Joel shrugs off his jacket and hands it to you.

You don’t argue. You just take it, curling it around yourself, breathing him in.

“I never thought I’d actually see it,” you admit, voice soft in the rich stillness.

Joel watches you for a moment, then offers a small, reassuring smile. “Plenty more ahead.”

It surprises you, but you believe him.

But as the fire flickers between you, illuminating his face in warm, shifting light, something else inside of you shifts too.

You’re almost there. Almost to the supposed safe haven. Almost at the end of this journey together.

And you can’t help but wonder, what happens then?

What if it’s real? What if it’s peaceful and quiet and safe and everything you dreamed about?

… And what if Joel gets restless?

Can a man who hasn’t stopped moving in twenty years ever really settle down? Will he stay? Or, once he’s satisfied that you’re safe, will he move on? Will he go back to Boston, back to the life he knew before you?

And if he does stay, if you both do… What then?

Without the forced proximity of survival, without shared danger or a destination binding you together, will he become a stranger again?

Will you?

Across the fire, Joel sees the way your expression shifts, the way uncertainty flickers through your eyes. You watch him warily through the glow of the flames, and something about it makes anxiety flicker inside of him.

He wants to say I don’t want to lose you.

But he doesn’t.

Because saying it out loud makes it real. Makes it something that could be lost.

So instead, he stares into the fire, jaw tight, trying not to think about what happens when you get there. Trying not to think about you finding safety and realizing you don’t need him anymore.

About you meeting someone else, someone better, someone softer, someone who can protect you without hurting you in the process.

He stays quiet. So do you.

And though neither of you says it, neither of you sleeps easily that night, both staring up at the stars, feeling something precious slipping, slipping, slipping through your fingers.

[karaaeilish]

౨ৎ the last leaf; b. eilish

౨ৎ angst & fluff ` ౨ৎ artist!billie x ill!reader ⋆˙⟡ when the last leaf falls from the old ivy — your life will end. you’ve clearly decided this, until a miracle happens before your eyes

in a little district west of washington square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called “places.” these “places” make strange angles and curves. one street crosses itself a time or two. an artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

so, to quaint old greenwich village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and dutch attics and low rents. then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from sixth avenue, and became a “colony.”

the small studio you shared with your friend ava was located on the third floor of a five-story brick building. the view from the window, alas, wasnt a masterpiece of nature, pleasing the eye every day when the first rays of the sun illuminate the streets soaked by the night's rain.

all you saw was a dull, dim courtyard and a blank brick wall twenty steps away. old, old ivy with a gnarled trunk rotten at the roots had twined halfway up the brick wall. the cold breath of autumn had torn the leaves from the vines, and the bare skeletons of the branches clung to the crumbling bricks.

your languid, almost forcibly lifeless gaze had been directed at the window for the last twenty minutes, while ava was quietly but persistently discussing something with the doctor who had come to you for the third time this week. perhaps she thought that you would want to somehow eavesdrop on their conversation, but you, in fact, frankly did not care. you've decided everything for yourself. and maybe your pessimistic view of this situation was stupid and desperate, but it's the only thing that gave you hope. hope to calm down and finally go to a better world. where there is no fear, bitterness and illness.

quiet muttering under her breath becomes clearer, louder, and ava's gaze becomes more worried when she comes into your bedroom, saying something to you, most likely asking about your well-being for the hundredth time that day, as if at one moment something will click in your head, and a thin thread of light will frame your upset mind.

“twelve,” you said, and a little later “eleven”; and then “ten,” and “nine”; and then “eight” and “seven,” almost together.

ava looked out the window, puzzled. what was there to count?

"sweetheart.." she asks softly, quietly, almost maternally. her light hand falls on your shoulder, but at first you don't react, looking at the exhausted old ivy through a veil of approaching tears.

"six" you whisper, barely pausing between the quiet words. "five", then "four", and then you finally look at her. "when the last leaf falls, i must go, too"

for a brief moment, a suffocating silence hangs in the room, while ava tries to process your words, which are nothing more than the feverish delirium of a sick person. even if it was so, you sincerely wanted to believe in it. the disease will soon win and you’ll finally be able to rest from all this.

"you mustn’t, stupid" she abruptly jumps away from you, walking from one corner of the room to the other, then again approaching your bed, on which you lie motionless, only watching her every movement with your eyes. "your chances of recovery will increase if you finally understand that you’ll survive"

her eyes are mixed with anger and irritation, but also with a huge concern that pours out in every gesture of her hands. and you can't be angry with her. she clearly wants to see you alive more than you do yourself. and sometimes it’s worth using radical solutions to achieve this.

"and you know what? i'm going for billie. maybe at least she can set your brains straight" your eyes widen, your body finally shows noticeable signs of life when billie's voice appears in your head. a grumpy girl, unbearable to the point of foaming at the mouth and eternally angry at the whole world. but something about her fascinates you. you fidget awkwardly, carefully sitting up and leaning your back against the soft pillows. "you can't call her. ava, she can't see me like this!"

you raise your voice, but regret it a few seconds later when you start coughing and ava holds your shoulders, helping you stay in a sitting position. you know how hard and painful it is for her to see you like this.

“if she’s the only chance you have to believe in your recovery, i swear i’ll send her to hell after you.” ava pokes your shoulder lightly, not causing any pain but clearly driving home her point.

maybe you weren’t able to argue with her, maybe you just wanted to see that grumpy face you’re in love with too much.

billie appears in your room like a storm, barging in with a worried and at the same time terribly displeased face. her hands and clothes are heavily stained with oil paint, her hair is tied up in a high bun, but she managed to get even that dirty with light paint, causing a few stray strands of her bangs to stand on end. she still smells the same — sweet peach, oil, some kind of mix of different types of professional paint, and a hint of the bitter black coffee she drank in the morning. honestly, it's only now that you've realized that you have no idea what time it is.

"you're delirious," her voice shakes. you always know what that means. and it always makes you sad.

"and you’re trying to write your 'masterpiece' again?" her face goes from angry to more upset, and you realize you've hit the nail on the head.

for months now billie's been saying she's about to paint a masterpiece that will change the world, but every time she has nothing to show for it other than a torn canvas in the trash and some wasted materials. "i'll paint that picture, you'll see"

her face softens slightly when she sees the small smile on your face, unaware that it's her own.

"i'd like to see it" you whisper as she finally moves to sit carefully on the edge of your bed, trying not to get the un-dried paint on her pants all over the place.

the first minute passes in quiet, as you both watch the three swaying leaves on the green ivy. your thoughts are unconsciously intertwined, hers, about your kisses on her plump lips, yours, about her hands caressing your face in the morning. and billie made you believe without a word that you could beat the disease.

in the second minute her hand goes down to yours, fastening your fingers in a strong, but such a gentle lock, giving bright hope in the impenetrable darkness. billie could rarely be seen like this — calm and affectionate, not shouting at anyone, not trying to annoy everyone, just because she had a bad character. no, with you she was different. completely different. a girl in love.

"the last leaf won’t fall. never" she says quietly, but confidently, that her whisper cuts the cool air of your room. pure thoughtfulness is written on her face, as if she is drawing her self-portrait in her head, knowing exactly how much her eyebrows are frowning, or her lips are pursed. although, it was more like the brush was in your hand. you painted every bit of joy on her face, and she let you take over her mind, capturing portraits of you.

"you're talking nonsense. strong winds and rain are forecast for the night." you protest, but your words don't seem to impress billie at all, because not a single muscle twitches on her face. as if she was absolutely certain of what she was saying. the last leaf won’t fall.

and she was… right?

the first thought that runs through your head the next morning is that you are alive. but what about the ivy? feeling a sudden surge of strength, you kneel on the bed, resting your palms on the wide windowsill, decorated with some silly pictures that billie drew during one of her visits to your apartment.

your eyebrows rise in surprise as you look at the brick wall and notice that the very last leaf, which was not promised life, remains on. still dark green at the stem, but touched along the jagged edges with the yellow of decay and disintegration, it hung bravely on the branch twenty feet above the ground. you cannot believe your eyes, but it’s there, it’s there! that last leaf was the one that meant your life.

but how? everything around you had suffered from the relentless wind, the endless rain, but not the ivy. a smile comes to your face, and hope comes into your heart.

the first day passed, and even in the twilight she could see the single ivy leaf hanging on its stem against the brick wall. and then, as darkness fell, the north wind rose again, and the rain pounded the windows incessantly, rolling down from the low-hanging dutch roof.

and still the ivy leaf remained.

after the first day passed the next few, which have more effect on your life than the last few months and heaps of medicines. your body blossoms like a lily of the valley, and a sincere smile plays on your face every day. ava's eyes sometimes tear up, seeing a spark of hope in every look you give her.

the doctor came again, examining you and proudly telling you that you can get better. and you could ask for nothing more. only to see billie's face again, to thank her. to finally dare and feel the sweet taste of her lips with a hint of cigarette smoke.

but that same day, in the evening, ava came to the bed where you lay, happily finishing knitting a bright blue, completely useless scarf, and hugged her with one arm - along with the pillow.

"i need to tell you something, dear," she began, hesitating slightly before continuing. "billie died today in the hospital from pneumonia. she was only sick for two days"

your body shrinks, your chest becomes heavy, and your breathing is difficult.

"on the morning of the first day the porter found the poor girl on the floor of her room. she was unconscious. her shoes and all her clothes were soaked through and cold as ice" pause. long, silent. "nobody could figure out where she had gone out on such a terrible night, but then they found a lantern that was still burning, a ladder that had been moved from its place, some abandoned brushes and a palette with yellow and green paints"

a clear picture is beginning to form in your head, but you are still in a state of denial and numbness. ava gently touches your chin, forcing you to look out the window.

"look at the last leaf of the ivy. haven't you ever wondered how it doesn't tremble or move in the wind? yes, my dear, thats billie's masterpiece — she painted it the night the last leaf fell"

based on "the last leaf" o. henry

౨ৎ tags; @billiesbabygirll, @amara-eilish, @st0nerlesb0, @bxllxebxtch mystiquemm, @bilswifee, @dragoneyelashart, @bilssturns, @chrissv4mp, @allyeilishh, @bitchesbrokenpromises

[porcelainbirdss]

hiii! i love your blog omg

Can you please write about reader x anaxa, reader coming to him after a long day bc they need his presence to relax? tyy

summary: there weren’t many things in this world able of easing the burden off your shoulders. work was never easy, however a certain man’s presence always managed to tame your agitated senses — and for that, you were forever grateful.

cw: gen. neutral reader, fluff, a bit of hurt/comfort if you squeeze, relationship not established, Anaxa might be in denial, i suppose it can be also read as platonic? || wc: 1.4k

today was a disaster.

it all started out with you getting up from your bed, still half-asleep, and tripping over your own limbs, entangled through the chaos of sheets. your knees hit the ground painfully, rapidly snatching you out of your dazed state. that evoked a prolonged chain of curses — and then, you were sure the rest of the day would be the same.

after eating your hardly satisfactory breakfast, you rushed to work, panicked by the late hour. you loved your profession, and wouldn’t exchange it for anything else, but the people you were working with… ugh, must you really say anything?

a multitude of problems piled up — it is only logical that being a dromas’ caretaker wasn’t overly easy, however this time, you felt beyond fed up. one of the large animals got sick, which was manageable. before you finished checking up on its health, your fellow coworker ran up to you, sputtering something about the unstable condition of the fresh hatchling.

it was a pity, but you were one of the few people who were actually qualified, so you had no other choice but see to it immediately.

the remaining of your work hours was equally demanding. you continued to bustle around the space, seeing to other dromas’, and jumping between the sick one, and the hatchling. in the meantime, you had to scold a few of inexperienced people — they were new additions to your team, obviously still foreign to many concepts. you didn’t mean to snap on them, but alas, your nerves caved in.

when evening came, and everything seemed to be under control, you gathered your stuff, eager to finally go home and rest. unfortunately, the gods wanted to poke some more fun at you, graciously bestowing your being with a rapid downpour.

you seethed under your breath, angrily stomping towards the familiar house. you didn’t mean to, but for whatever reason, your own feet led you to Anaxa’s place — and perhaps, you acted simply on instinct. it was common knowledge to you that his presence worked like a charm, soothing every one of your ires. it was definitely a better decision than locking yourself up, and dealing with your own emotions alone.

you stopped in your tracks when you finally reached your destination, knocking a few times. after one minute or so, the door opened, Anaxa’s face being the first thing to greet you. his expression was amused, but at the same time painfully unimpressed.

he lifted one eyebrow at you, sending a quizzical look when you kept silent, furiously wiping at your brow when droplets of rain continued to seep into your eyes. "why, hello. you don’t look happy.” he commented in a flat tone, stepping aside.

you huffed in exasperation, shivering when the clothes clung to your body uncomfortably. "ever so perceptive, i see."

"it’s not hard to deduce, looking at your dismayed bearing." the man responded, sighing when you wrung your soaked attire. "why didn’t you go straight home, [name]? i don’t have any spare garments for you."

you offered a shrug, quickly taking off your shoes. "i don’t know. i just—" you paused, eyebrows narrowing into a frown, "i had a bad day."

Anaxa nodded in understanding, beckoning at you with a wave of his hand as he started to stroll towards the living room. you followed in tow, your limbs still trembling from the coldness. seriously, you were completely out of luck today — but his mere presence already caused you to relax your stiff shoulders. maybe you were right to come here.

you observed him pull one of the drawers open, digging through the bottom before tugging out two towels. "here you go. dry yourself off, and tell me what caused your woes." he handed you the things, and you smiled at him weakly.

"well," you began, sitting on one of the leather-bound chairs, "generally speaking, my morning started out really bad, but i won’t bore you with that."

Anaxa hummed under his nose, seating himself as well. the look on his face remained unchanging, but something managed to soften the corners of his eye. "if you want to tell the full story, go ahead. i won’t stop you."

you wiped your face dry, hiding the wide smile stretching your lips behind the shield of cotton. "i tripped and fell when i was getting up from my bed."

"how intelligent." he remarked sarcastically, though it lacked in any real bite.

you ignored the comment, moving on. "then the breakfast i made tasted bland, and i was almost late for work."

Anaxa’s two-color iris kept fixed on your form, and he huffed out a brief chuckle. "i suppose things of such nature happen to everyone, once in a while."

"but that’s not all!" you retorted, attempting to squeeze the water out of your hair, "we have new people on the team and, ugh—!" you grumbled, ire prickling at your still-wet skin at the mere thought of them. "who even let them work there?"

he crossed his legs. "and what did they do?"

"first of all, i had to check up on one of the dromas’. it was sick, so that made me worry enough as it is…"

"sick?" Anaxa interrupted your rant, leaning in with interest — or maybe something closer to anxiety — because, as you know, he was a rather big fan of those creatures.

"yes, sick. it had some digestive problems, so i examined it, and issued a special diet." you explained, smirking at his sudden change in demeanor. "we had all the food we needed in stock, but those morons didn’t listen."

he breathed in exasperated astonishment. "they didn’t listen to you? what a display of folly. you are far more qualified than majority of them."

you nodded, thinking that you were, indeed, qualified — but surely not as much as Anaxa. no matter how much you educate yourself on dromas’, you won’t ever be able of besting his immense knowledge. "i know, right? i lectured them, and even then, they still made simple mistakes. anyway, you know of the newly hatched dromas, i assume?"

the man’s eyebrows furrowed together, as if he somehow managed to deduce your next words. "that i do."

"guess what," you sighed, folding the damp towel on your lap, and reaching for another one, swiftly drying your clothes, "it’s not exactly healthy either. it’s condition wasn’t the best, but it only got worse during the night."

Anaxa’s expression shifted into something pensive as his fingertips drummed against the armrest. "i trust you took care of that?" he asked, but before you could answer, he spoke again, "if its well-being remains bad, you can reach out to me. actually, i will go see to it as soon as—"

"woah, easy there." you chuckled, amused by his waterfall of words. he was always rather verbose, but when it came to dromas’… "i took care of everything. the little one already feels better."

he fell back into the chair with a relieved exhale, and you thought it’s a good thing you stopped him, else he’d burst out of his house in the middle of a downpour. "you are a blessing for those poor animals, [name]. without you, i’m sure they would all perish.” he scoffed bitterly.

"well, somebody has to keep everything in check, no?" you laughed quietly, satisfied once you were done with drying yourself off. your attire was still wet, but there was as much as you could do. "anyway, i’m sure you’re busy. i won’t take up any more of your time."

Anaxa pulled himself up from the chair, taking the towels from you, and putting them away somewhere else. then, he turned to face you. "actually, i would prefer you to stay."

"why’s that?” you inquired, surprised. he was never overly keen on people, and for all this time, you were convinced he merely tolerated your presence.

"it’s raining, and you are cold. obviously." he explained, as if you weren’t fully aware of your current state. "if you get ill, who will take care of the dromas’?"

you cracked a smile, leaning back into your seat. "alright then. if you insist."

"i’ll give you something warm to eat. you need to keep your body healthy." Anaxa continued, now turning towards the kitchen, his slightly stern words leaving no room for protest.

you hummed to yourself, watching him get busy by the stove. the man possessed an undeniably kind spirit — though it was a rare display, usually masked by scoffs and huffs, veiled by inconspicuous excuses. still, you couldn’t help but chuckle silently, moved by the careworn tone of his voice. Anaxa could be sweet… sometimes.

[skyrim-forever]

It's WIP Wednesday somewhere

Hi everyone! It's another Wednesday :) Thank you to @umbracirrus and @silly-little-diary for tagging me, awesome to see your wips <3

Tagging: @theoneandonlysemla @pocket-vvardvark @dirty-bosmer @sanzas-reverie @changelingsandothernonsense @thequeenofthewinter @friend-of-giants @labskeever

@firefly-factory @sulphuricgrin @scholarlyhermit @ladytanithia @saltymaplesyrup @lucien-lachance @heavy-metal-dick @hircines-hunter @pyre-of-pages @captain-of-silvenar @chiqita

Ayem is done and now it's on to Seht, I also have decided to add some good accents to each of them even if the gold thread is making me insane

And I havee been getting some writing done, here's a excerpt from chapter 2 of my new fic Changing Tides (Chapter 1 is on ao3 now). We get some backstory on how the mysterious mer Odile found washed up came to be there:

“And what, pray tell is the idea of the crew?” Visdros was not the type of mer to avoid a question, not the sort to dance around an answer with flowery language, he was direct to fault. 

“I confess I did not come on behalf of the crew.” The other’s shoulders tense and he spots him bit his lip, only an arms length away as they both grasp the window pane, the sound Qraalaro’s nails make as he digs into the dark wood audible. 

“No, no you didn’t.”

“You are not yourself, lately.” He pauses for a moment to gather the right words as not to condem Neisha. “There are concerns, I wonder for your wellbeing.”

“You do, do you, Brother?” He nods. 

“If you need time away or free from your responsibilities then-” A violent cackle comes from deep inside the other, his voice yet not entirely. Not as it was on nights they laughed with too much Cyrodiilic rum. “Have I offended you?” It’s all he can think to say. 

“You want me to take time away, do you not? Perhaps you could leave me at some port, take all that is mine for your own?” Another guttural laugh. “Why do you not just kill me here, Visdros? Like she has said you would.” What? As the initial shock that Qraalaro would, could ever imagine his brother harming him in any way, further confusion sets in around this she. 

“Brother, you are kin,” he appeals to their earlier discussion, “my captain. I could never oppose you, no matter what.” His pupils dart across the other’s figure, trying to hold in the panic and pain threatening to break through like a dam bursting. Yet, the other’s eyes do not reach his own, instead fixated on the dark sea, the clouds from before have returned and the Gods have decided to lightly spit on them. With great care, the younger broaches the difficult truth. “She. Who is she?” Who has poisoned your mind as such to believe I would betray you, that I could forsake the other brother I have still breathing? Lie to rest another of my kin by my own hand instead of an enemies? 

He doesn’t say any of that, the anger rising along with the panic and pain but they can all be kept at bay. Like when any ship comes to harbour, they must wait for there to be space at port. Ushering in pain, he pleads with his brother. Seems they were both not themselves today. 

“Who has you convinced I am capable of harming you?” As the rain increases, no longer spitting but making an effort to drown them, Qraalaro conjures a spear. 

“She said you would say that too, say that you are not able to yet I know what you can do. We trained in the same halls, by the same soldiers, you gutted your first man before I did. Do not lie to me so flippantly.”

“Who is she?” Thunder has begun, but the volume of Visdros' voice eclipses the brewing storm beyond the bay window. “Who, Brother, who?” Another dark, deep cackle, as though it was arising from the depths of the ocean, leaves Qraalaro’s mouth and he wonders if this was still his brother or had something stolen his skin. 

[talahsaudiobooklibrary]

title: where it wasn't supposed to be (Part 2)

synopsis: the aftermath of the assignment.

a/n: Here is the next part and thank you so much for reading! I will say that nothing super major happens in this part as it's more of a place holder to set up the next one. Also, I know that the first part was in third person but this part, as well as the rest of the parts, are dual POV (I just didn’t want to have to rewrite the first part though). This is my own original story so please do not repost as your own or plagiarize.

warnings: mentions of a gun

word count: 3 k

previous parts: part 1

Natalia:

Natalia gasped and opened her eyes. She breathed heavily, trying to catch her breath. Her heart was racing and she felt a pressure on her chest, threatening to suffocate her. The dream came to her in her sleep like always. Her parents’ screams. The man in black. The gun. 

The gun. Her gun. The memory of the night before washed over Natalia. The palace. The diamonds. Her gun in his hands. Damian. How he had found her, she had no idea. But the reality that he did, that he found her in the middle of an assignment, sent a chill through Natalia.

Everything that happened after she ran out of the palace was in a haze in her mind. She didn’t remember how long she was running through the streets, but she somehow made it back to her hotel room. Natalia knew that she had to leave Austria, it was too dangerous for her to stay in the country. But she was so exhausted last night that she didn’t even bother to change her clothes. She was still in her black jeans and sweater. And anyway she couldn’t leave, not when she still had a job to finish.

Natalia groaned as she sat up in her bed, her body sore from the amount of times she fell the night before. The clock on the bedside table read that it was noon. Perfect. She still had a few hours to clear her head. Natalia dragged herself out of bed and to the bathroom. She turned the shower on, making the water as hot as it would go. As steam filled the bathroom, Natalia stared at her reflection in the mirror that was starting to fog up. Her long brown hair was a mess, all tangled up in a nest on top of her head. Eye bags hang under her eyes. But it's not her appearance that Natalia paid attention to. She looked into her own eyes, wondering where the little girl she once was went. The past seven years have been a struggle, but that struggle only made her stronger. 

Tears threatened to make an escape but Natalia wiped them away. She will not cry. She wasn’t allowed to cry. Crying was for the weak. She was not weak. That’s what Natalia always told herself.

When the water got scalding hot, Natalia stepped into the shower. The water reminded her of the rain, but a hot one instead of cold. She looked up, letting the water spray on her face. The steam that filled the room made it hard to breathe, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about the way the hot water burned against her scars either. All she wanted was to wash last night away from her, let all the feelings she felt go down the drain. But no matter how hard she tried, no matter how long she stood there, she couldn’t wash away the words Damian spoke. 

“Is this really the life you want?” 

Natalia tried to ignore the raw emotion in Damian’s voice when he first said those words. She tried to ignore the way his eyes locked on hers in that moment. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t ignore the voice that uttered the seven words that cut deep into her heart, nor the blue eyes, no matter how much she wanted to. 

After several minutes of letting the water beat against her back, Natalia turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. After fishing through her bags in the main room, she changed into black leggings and a beige hoodie. That’s when her phone rang. 

Natalia checked her phone that she left charging on her bedside table. As a woman on the run, it was risky for her to have a phone, as anyone could track her through it. She left it on airplane mode almost all the time, and never took it with her when she had assignments to do. She only had four contacts, so Natalia didn’t have to think too hard about who was calling her. When the familiar name flashed on the screen, the ends of her lips ticked upward. She answered, her heart full with relief when the voice on the other end of the line spoke.

“Natalia? Natalia, are you there mia cara?” the man’s voice asked. His Italian accent was heavy and it sounded as if he was tired.

“Yes, I’m here, padrino,” Natalia said. Her smile widened when she spoke to her father’s best friend. Giovanni Rossi wasn’t really her godfather, but he was as much of a father to her as her real one. He was the one she went to when she was fifteen, and he was the only one alive that cared. He would call her every week, to make sure she was not in jail and still alive.

“Aye yai yai Natalia you’re going to kill me with all this worry!” Giovanni exclaimed. “Do you know how stressful it is for me to constantly wonder where you are?”

“You don’t have to worry about me, padrino. I can take care of myself,” Natalia reassured him, sitting on the bed.

“Where are you now?” Giovanni asked.

“I’m in Vienna, so you don’t have to worry, I’m not so far from Italy,” Natalia said.

“Well, are you going to come back, mia cara?” The older man asked.

“You know I can’t yet. Going home would be too risky, even now. And I still have a few things to finish here before I can leave,” Natalia said. It pained her to say those words. She would give anything to be back in Naples, to be back in Giovanni’s flat. But at the moment, her life didn’t give her that luxury. 

“Well be careful, Natalia. I’d hate to see you in a bad place,” Giovanni said. 

Natalia could hear the pain in his voice, how desperately he wanted her to return. Her eyes threatened to fill with tears again and she knew she had to end the call to stop the wave of emotions. But before she could, Giovanni spoke again.

“Where are you planning on going next?”

Natalia pushed down the heaviness rising in her chest and answered. “I don’t know yet. It depends on how well things finish here. But I’ll call you before I leave. I promise.”

“Ok mia cara. But just remember: Non tutte le ciambelle riescono col buco,” Giovanni said. He said goodbye to her, and she ended the call. 

The proverb Giovanni said ringed in Natalia’s head, and she couldn’t help but smile. The Italian saying sounded very random when translated: Not all doughnuts come with a hole. But it's the meaning behind the words that fill Natalia’s heart with hope. The saying is used when talking about life. Just like doughnuts, life is unexpected, but Natalia should accept what comes her way and make the most of it. She shouldn't sit around her hotel room and mope about the challenges life throws at her. And that’s not what she planned to do. 

Natalia opened the closet of her hotel room. The metal briefcases and leather bags she owned stared back at her. She punched in the code of the small safe in the closet. She remembered tossing the bag of diamonds inside the night before. Dumping the diamonds on the bed, Natalia counted. Eighty-four in total. With each one being worth around a hundred thousand dollars, she’ll easily be able to get a few million out of her share. Natalia smiled to herself at the prospect. 

Her phone rang again, and Natalia picked it up. Besides Giovanni, there were only three other people that could be calling her. The men that she worked for. Her sponsors. Her managers. Her smile faltered when the name of the head flashed across her phone screen. Natalia took a deep breath and answered the call. 

Damian:

Damian lay in the bed of his hotel room, staring up at the ceiling. His mind went over the night before. The palace. The diamonds. Her gun in his hands. Natalia. 

He closed his eyes and pictured her. The look on her face when he asked her why she started a life of stealing was engraved into his mind. There was a reason she got so defensive when he asked her, he knows it. But he had no idea why. The possibilities that went through his mind were endless. Was someone forcing her? Was she being paid? 

Damian didn’t know, but all he knew was that Natalia wasn’t a bad person. He’s tracked her movements long enough to know that she wasn’t evil. Sure, she was a thief, but Damian noticed how Natalia was always careful. She would go in and out of places like a ghost. Even though he knew she carried weapons, she never fatally used them on anyone, even if she was on the verge of getting caught. When she pointed her gun at him last night, Damian knew she wouldn’t pull the trigger on him while it was aimed at his chest, no matter how much she loathed him. 

But there was a reason why Natalia lived her life the way she did. Damian knew it. It must have something to do with her life, her past. Damian opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling again. Whenever he encountered Natalia, his brain would go back to thinking about her. It was a vicious cycle. He would clear his head and focus on getting the job done. He would tell himself he was just catching a thief. But then he would see her again and all the feelings he tried to forget came crashing back.

Damian grunted as he sat up in the bed of his hotel room. His ribs still ached from when Natalia drove her elbow into him. His nose still burned from the kick but the blood stopped. Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, on his bedside table. He leaned over and grabbed the lone AirPod. Looking at it in his hands, Damian couldn’t help but smile. The single AirPod was sort of like his saviour. 

Damian was at the airport in Barcelona, on a layover, a week ago. He was walking toward his gate to return to London when he saw her. He stopped in his tracks. All he saw was the side of her face, but he knew instantly that it was her. Natalia didn’t even notice him five yards away, she just kept walking with the flow of traffic, moving perpendicular to him. 

Damian could see she had her AirPods in. As he watched, Natalia approached a TSA officer, reaching a hand to her ear and taking out a headphone, holding the tiny AirPod between her two fingers. She spoke to the officer for a few moments then turned to continue walking. Just then a man pushed into Natalia and ran her foot over with his carry-on bag. Distracted from the man and the force of the push, Natalia didn’t notice as the lone AirPod slipped between her fingers and fell on the floor, getting kicked to the side by the people passing. But Damian did. As Natalia continued walking with the flow of traffic, Damian walked over to the spot where the AirPod rolled and knelt to pick it up. He placed the headphone in his bag and continued in the direction Natalia went. It wasn’t until he saw her sitting at the gate for the plane that would take her to Vienna, that he knew he couldn’t return to London just yet. 

He had used the AirPod to track the other one as well as the case. With the connections and resources that Damian has, it wasn’t that hard for him to track the headphones partner. But it was clear to him. Where the headphones were, Natalia would be. When he narrowed where in the city Natalia was staying, it was easier for him to follow her. It didn’t take long for Damian to figure out what she was up to, he noticed from the start that she kept visiting the Schonbrunn Palace and taking tours of the interior. The past week he pieced together her reason for coming to Vienna, determined to find her and catch her once and for all. 

But based on the events from the night before, things clearly did not go as planned. 

Damian put the AirPod back on his bedside table. He didn’t even know if Natalia knew that it was missing. He climbed out of bed, and opened the glass doors, stepping out on his balcony. He leaned against the railing and sighed as he stared out at the sea of buildings, the air chill against his skin from the crisp February air, his thin black t-shirt doing little to keep out the cold. 

A cluster of Austrians and tourists moved below him. A black Range Rover maneuvered its way through the street, coming to a stop right at the front doors of the hotel below Damian. Curious, he watched as the driver exited the car and stood next to it, as if waiting for someone. Just then, the doorman of the hotel opened the front doors for a woman. She walked towards where the driver was waiting and started speaking with him. Damian couldn’t help but watch them from four floors above. There was something familiar about the woman, in the way she walked, the way she stood next to the car right now. Damian could see she was wearing all black; the skirt, the top, the short leather jacket, and the black boots. As the woman talked with the driver, Damian could see her adjusting the bag hanging on her shoulder. The bag was made of black leather. 

Damian froze on the balcony and it had nothing to do with the cold. Even though he was mainly seeing the top of her head, he knew it was her. He would recognize that leather bag anywhere. He knew he was staying at a hotel that was close to her, but what were the chances that they were staying at the same one? He honestly assumed that she would’ve left by now. Based on past experiences, Damian knew she would leave the country the second she knew he was close by. 

Damian ran back into his hotel room and flung the doors of his closet open. He didn’t have enough time to get dressed and make his way outside before she left in the car. Damian grabbed one of his metal briefcases and opened it on the bed. He picked up one of the little black disks inside. It was a tracker, about one inch in diameter, that could stick on nearly anything once it was activated. Damian ran back onto the balcony just in time to see the driver open the door to the driver's seat. He dropped the tracker from the balcony and watched as it landed on the roof of the black Range Rover, automatically sticking to the metal.

Damian went back inside his hotel room and put the briefcase away. He changed into black trousers and a white dress shirt, pulling a dark gray wool sweater over his head and slipping on his black leather jacket and black boots. Damian opened another silver briefcase and took out the gun he took from Natalia the night before. He put the weapon in his jacket’s inside pocket, picked up his black biker helmet from the desk, and left his hotel room. 

Outside, the black Range Rover was nowhere in sight. But that didn’t worry Damian. He walked a few yards and stopped at a black motorcycle that stood on the street. He climbed on, adjusted his helmet on his head, and took his phone out of his pocket. He opened the tracking app and watched as the black dot moved deeper into downtown Vienna. Damian started up the bike and began driving in the same direction the black car went. 

After fifteen minutes of following the black dot on his phone, Damian spotted the Range Rover ahead of him, moving backwards to park on the side of the street. Damian parked his motorbike on the opposite side, watching as Natalia stepped out of the backdoor. She thanked the driver who opened the door for her, and then began walking down the street. Damian followed her, not taking his eyes off her figure as he moved through the sea of pedestrians.

Natalia turned a corner and walked the length of the long street, passing St. Stephan’s Cathedral. Damian continued tailing her, the gothic architectural building towering behind them. Finally, Natalia stopped in front of a row of buildings, each one home to a designer store. Damian stopped a few yards behind her, watching as she entered one of the stores. He didn’t follow her inside since she would most likely notice him. 

Instead, Damian walked a few shops down, stopping at Cafe Demel. A waiter approached him as he sat at one of the outdoor tables. He ordered a coffee and waited, his eyes scanning the front of the designer stores. 

After about an hour, Damian spotted her walking out of the store, holding a long bag. As Damian followed her back the way they came, where the Range Rover was waiting, he studied the long bag in her arms. 

What could she have bought? What could have fit in the long bag?

The answer came to him as Natalia approached the black car and he crossed the street to where his motorcycle stood. There was only one thing that could be in the bag. A dress. And Damian could bet good money that it was a fancy dress. A formal one. What other type of dress could she get from a designer store? 

But why would Natalia get a designer dress? Damian pondered the question as he put his helmet on and started up the bike. There was only one explanation. She was going to a party. And there was only one formal party this time of year in Vienna that would require a dress of that status. It became clear to him, in that moment, that Damian would have to go to the Vienna Opera Ball.

Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate it 🫶🏻

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[amirsnothere]

Friendly Neighborhood Cardinal

Bucky Barnes X Reader

(Found Home series (part 1))

A/N - Just like everyone else, I watched Thunderbolts and I'm back on my Marvel loving shit. It's been a few years, but I'm excited to be back in it! I definitely had to take time to revisit all the Bucky content in preparation for this series though! Right now, the series is intended to be timeless, but I personally sorta picture it being before/around FATWS timeframe.

The first part is set in Bucky's POV, but all the rest of the parts will be Reader POV

Series Warnings: slow-burn, swearing, shouting, slight violence, pregnant reader (with another man's baby), Bucky's trauma, reader has trauma, mentions of verbal & physical abuse (let me know if there's more!)

Summary: Bucky has loud neighbors. One day he decides to pay them a visit.

Word Count: 695 (following parts will be longer)

Bucky minded his own business. After everything, he had earned his peace. Or what semblance of peace he could get.

The nightmares hadn't stopped, everyone who may have once loved him was dead. But he had a consistent place to call "home" at night, and he even had a regular visitor at the bird house he had attached to the dining room window. The bird house was a gift from Sam, a man Bucky thought he might consider as a friend, he said to remember him by. Three solid wood walls, the fourth replaced by the window itself, allowed Bucky to see anytime he had a visitor.

Bucky had named his little bird friend "Sam Junior" in his memoriam. When Sam heard, he protested, but he was laughing the whole time he begged Bucky to change it. After a bit of bribery, Sam was able to convince him to just to call the bird SJ, so that no one would know that his entire legacy lay in a cardinal.

The occasional visit from SJ to his window often felt like the best of sense of "home" Bucky had had in a very long time. Unfortunately, SJ didn't stick around for long when the yelling was happening.

Bucky didn't want to get involved in other people's problems. Hadn't his own parents had the occasional fight? Well, when he moved in, maybe it was just occasional, but since then, the fighting became more frequent, and much harder to ignore.

Bucky saw the women who lived next door almost every day. She usually left for work around the time he went on his morning run. They'd often walk down the stairs together, sometimes commenting on the landlord's ridiculous new policies, or making small talk about the weather. Bucky noticed she seemed to always run cold - whether it was raining, snowing, or 90° out, she always wore a sweater. He couldn't help but be impressed by her collection.

When she came home from work, he was often making his own way back from errands or meetings or whatever else he did to occupy his time. They'd walk back up the creaky stairs together and he'd listen as she mentioned the latest gossip from her job or what she planned to make for dinner. Sometimes they ran into each other outside of this predictable routine - maybe he would offer to help carry her groceries - she would always politely decline.

He almost never saw her partner. Bucky heard his loud, usually angry, voice frequently enough, that he knew the man still lived there. The ring on her finger suggested she was at least engaged, if not married, but he wished she would just dump the guy already. He sounded like a bully at best.

But Bucky really was trying to mind his own business, and if it was anyone's place to bring up their concerns, her ex-assassin neighbor certainly wouldn't be at the top of the list. Sometimes after a bad night, he would really consider saying something more forward to her, but the look in her eyes and the sharp corners of her smile warned him not to. So he stuck to talking about the weather.

Bucky could hear the yelling from outside of the building when he got home later one evening. Usually, he would just hear the man shouting at the woman. Occasionally she would let out an exhausted cry of protest, but it normally just sounded like a the typical argument she had likely grown used to losing.

As Bucky climbed the stairs to his floor, a deep feeling settled in him. Something about tonight did not feel normal. Reaching his floor, he paused, clenching the handrail until it started to warp under his grip.

Bucky was used to the man sounding angry. Somehow the word "furious" seemed more fitting now. She usually sounded frustrated. Now, he couldn't help but hear fear.

Bucky took a deep breath, a deep strech in his chest as he tried to steady his exhale. He flexed his fingers as he let go of the handrail. So much for minding his own business.

He walked up to the neighbors’ door and knocked.

Pt 2

[dandylion240]

Squinting up into the dark sky watching the lightning illuminate the dark rolling clouds scuttling across the sky. The wind whipped the trees around, reminding him of a scene from a movie he watched as a kid that had given him nightmares for days afterwards. Swallowing he turned from the window “are you sure about this? Wouldn’t it be better if we went another day?”

“It’s a little rain,” Jayden said, grinning at him, “besides it’s not every night your dad agrees to babysit for us.”

“I know,” Evan rubbed his hands up and down his arms chilled from standing by the window. “What’s this house you want me to see? It’s got to be special for you to drag me out in a storm like this.” He’d asked before in various ways hoping Jayden would tell  him something. So far all he’d gotten out of him was the house was everything he’d dreamed of. Forcing a smile to his face wanting to give the appearance of being somewhat excited to see it. 

“What’s the matter babe?” Jayden asked, noticing the forced smile and the way it didn’t light up Evan’s pretty green eyes. “If you want me to, I’ll cancel.” As he talked he pulled his phone out “we can stay home, light a fire…”

“Tempting,” Evan laughed a little, feeling a little ashamed that he was so worried about a little storm. Although the look in Jayden’s eyes left no doubt where this evening would wind up, which wasn’t a half bad idea. “No it’s okay. I want to see this house.”

“You're sure?” Jayden asked his phone out and he was ready to dial the realtor. “We can see the house another day.” The more he thought about it the more he liked the idea of a night of cuddling.

Thunder rumbled outside rattling the pictures on the wall. Lightning cracked nearby making Evan jump as the house was plunged into darkness. “We should probably wait,” he said leaning into Jayden as he felt his arms slip around him. His breath caught as Jayden’s fingers slipped beneath his sweater making the storm and house hunting a dim memory. “Make the call” he murmured, pushing Jayden away before he lost all ability to think.

Moaning in protest Jayden stepped back “the one time I forget I have a phone is the one time you want me to use it.”

“I’ll start the fire while you call” he chuckled, turning to light the fireplace, wincing a little at the sudden brightness as the lights came back on. 

Focusing on his phone Jayden muttered “do you have any idea what you do to me?” From the look he caught on Evan’s face he knew he definitely knew what effect he had. “We’re in luck the realtor sent a text to reschedule for next Saturday at five.”

“But that’s Spooky day” Evan groaned “it’s Josie’s first time trick or treating. She looks so cute in her costume.”

“We can still take her trick or treating,” Jayden said “looking at the house won’t take all night.”

“I guess,” although he agreed, he sounded unconvinced.

“How about we do this,” Jayden suggested moving to sit beside him on the floor. “I’ll take a half day from work. That way we can take our lil dragon to all the relatives before we go.”

“Did you peak?” Evan asked, looking at him suspiciously.

“I didn’t have to,” he chuckled softly leaning in to give Evan a kiss. “What else was she going to be but a dragon?” He rolled Evan over on the floor “enough talking. We have the whole evening to ourselves. I don’t want to waste a single moment of it.”

A week later they were on their way to look at the house the realtor promised was everything Evan ever dreamed of in a house. “She said it has the white pillars and veranda around the front?” Evan asked with excitement in his voice.

“That’s what she said,” Jayden turned to look at him with a soft smile on his lips. They had gotten a later start than they had planned. Stopping at everyone’s house had taken longer than they thought with everyone wanting to take pictures and talk. They had hoped to arrive before the realtor did so they could see the house in the light. Leaning forward he tried to see through the thickening fog that even the headlights couldn’t penetrate. “Where did all this fog come from?” he muttered aloud.

“Maybe you should slow down,” Evan suggested with a nervous quiver as he squinted out the window. “There’s probably deer…”

“Horsie,” Josie giggled pointing excitedly out the window from her car seat in the back.

“Where?” Evan tried to see what his daughter was pointing at “I don’t see…” When he spotted the rearing horse his heart dropped to his stomach “Jayden” he cried pointing frantically at the horse.

“Oh shit,” Jayden gasped, slamming his foot on the brake. The car swerved spinning out of control. The car came to a sudden abrupt stop with a loud crunch and shattering glass. Moaning Jayden lifted his face up from the deployed airbag, blood smeared its white surface from his busted lip and throbbing nose. “Evan,” he croaked “hon, are you alright?”

“I think so,” his voice was thick like he had just woken up. “Josie,” he tried to twist around in his seat, crying out in pain when it pinned him to the back of his seat, choking him.

Releasing his seat belt with trembling fingers Jayden stretched across the seat to help Evan with his seat belt. “Stay still” he urged “I can’t get you loose with you struggling like that.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he brushed Jayden’s hands away. “Check on Josie. Is she alright?”

Leaning between the seats Jayden gasped as he took in the empty car seat and open back door. “Josie,” he called, eyes wide as he tried to see where she might have gone in the fog. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he brushed Jayden’s hands away. “Check on Josie. Is she alright?”

Leaning between the seats Jayden gasped as he took in the empty car seat and opened the back door. “Josie,” he screamed, eyes wide as he tried to see where she might have gone in the fog. 

Struggling in his seat Evan tried to pull the seat belt loose with his bare hands. “Is she hurt?” he asked, feeling sick to his stomach. What if she was hurt? What if she were…no no no she had to be alright. Please please please let her be alright, he begged to anyone who could hear his silent pleas.

Pushing himself away from his daughter’s empty car seat Jayden turned to his panicking husband. “Sit still. I’m going to cut you loose.”

“What about Josie?” he demanded yanking on the belt causing it to tighten even more. Panting from the strain it put on his ribs he looked into Jayden’s somber eyes “she’s dead isn’t she?”

Slamming the glove compartment door shut he took hold of Evan’s face between his hands. “Josie’s not dead.” He let his words sink in “you know how she’s been able to get out of her car seat for a while.” Evan nodded but the anxious look in his eyes never abated. “While we were knocked out she got out.”

“What?” Evan croaked, twisting around to look out the window. Fog was swirling around thick and impregnable. “My baby could be anywhere in that. How are we going to find her?”

“Listen to me,” Jayden held him “we’re going to find her. I promise we’re going to find her.”

“You’re going to have to climb out on this side,” Jayden said after watching Evan ty to force his door open. 

“Alright” he grunted as he crawled across the console in the middle. He tried to move carefully but the movement made his sore ribs hurt even more. His face went several shades paler by the time he reached the other side of the car. Stumbling through the open door he tried not to pass out as his world grew dim around him.

“I’ve got you,” Jayden said, putting an arm around Evan to help support him. “I think you might have broken a rib or two.” Reaching for his phone, frowning as he tried to make a call. Turning to Evan “are you getting a signal?”

Fumbling for his phone Evan stared at it in confusion “nothing.”

“Must be a dead zone,” Jayden shrugged, putting the useless device in his pocket.

Shivering Evan held his arms stiffly to his sides. “Don’t say things like that,” he muttered looking around the fog covered landscape. “Which way do you think she went?” Silence greeted him “Jayden?” He hadn’t realized he was alone until he received no response to calls. Holding onto the car he took a few unsteady steps. “Jayden” he called his voice coming out in a squeak that was swallowed by the thickening fog.

Squinting he thought something was moving towards him. “Jayden, is that you?” The silhouette stopped. Evan stepped in the direction of the shadowy figure “Jayden? This isn’t funny.” The words were no more than a whisper. Swallowing Evan looked from side to side, stepping backwards as the figure crept closer. His scream shattered the silence as a cold icey hand touched his shoulder sliding along his bare skin along his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Jayden apologized holding his hands to his ears “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Blinking he turned to find Jayden looking at him in concern. “You almost gave me a heart attack,” his scowl slowly fading to a frown “weren’t you just over there?” He pointed in the direction he’d last seen the silhouette. 

“No,” he squinted in the direction Evan was pointing “was someone over there?”

“I thought so,” Evan squinted in the direction he'd seen the silhouette but the swirling fog made it impossible to make out anything. “I thought it was you.”

“Maybe it was whoever was riding that damn horse down the road” Jayden suggested sounding as if he wanted to give the rider a piece of his mind.

“Then why didn’t they come over to see if we were alright?” Evan asked.

“I don’t know,” chuckling a little, Jayden grinned “maybe you scared him. Shit you scared me with that blood curdling scream of yours.”

“Maybe,” he said, sounding unconvinced. He gave the area one last look not sure if he really wanted to see anything there or not.

“I think I found where our little dragon went,” Jayden said, taking his hand “I found an open gate over here.”

Previous/Next

[namelessghoul-omega]

Rain quiets himself with a slow nod and falls into the chair behind him. Omega was curling up on himself. It felt like only a few days to him down there. It may have been a week. He didn't even know. All he knew is that his Terzo was in front of him and he was trying not to cry.

Ifrit came in at that moment, his own uniform on again as he pressed down the belt panicked. He heard the yelling and he had to hurry back. "Terzo...don't be mean. He did just dig himself up yesterday. The poor guy slept all this time to even be able to stand fully."

Omega eyes brimming then. Hot tears were in his eyes. It was honestly the first time he saw his fellow ghoul also. A few slipped down his cheeks and he moved to fall into the couch instead. His Terzo. His love. Worry and pain was all he could feel. "I'm sorry...i searched for you for weeks down there. When I heard you weren't there I knew you had to be elsewhere and I needed to find out. I tried and tried to come back here to start my search. I searched every way I could in the old stacks. I even begged the Olde One with my life on the line to let us back earth side to find you..."

He leaned on his knees and clasped his hands together. "I loved you to much to give you up. Until I got a message from Rain. He said you were alive. It said he had been searching for a way to get me to you again. It said he found a way for me to get up here but it may take a long time. I didn't care. I started. Followed his directions. When I found my way up on the banks of the lake I knew I made it. I reached the Oasis he called it. I wanted to start searching for you. But couldn't yet. I wasn't...me. I wanted to look perfect for you. I didn't realize how much the climb exhausted me. I was covered in dirt. I cleaned up and thought I would rest for only a moment. It was the next day before I knew it. Rain was here next to me waiting. He said you were out and about. I didn't believe him. I still didn't that you were alive. But he smelled of you."

His voice broke then. Long held back pain and mourning poured over him. He openly sobbed then into his hands, body wracked with pain as it shook with each cry. "Terzo please believe me...please..."

👀

@nameless-ghoul-ifrit

Your muse accidentally walks in on my muse while they’re changing, and your muse seems to really like what they see. Send in “👀” for a response from my muse!

It wasn't often that Terzo went to the Ministry gym in the daytime. Or at all, seeing as he could easily keep his body in shape using the equipment he had in his quarters. But something told him to go out that day. To go have a few rounds of boxing at the gym. Was it his intuition, maybe? The possibility was there. He was known to have a fairly sharp intuition, though he didn't always see his own path as well as he saw the path of others.

This day, he had definitely not foreseen what he'd encounter.

He was two rounds in, at this point covered in sweat, his paints smearing around his eyes and temples. He would fix it, before he left. He was vain like that. His breath was heavy as he stepped back from the boxing bag, using his teeth to loosen the gloves, letting them drop to the ground. He exhaled slowly, moving to pull his black tanktop over his head, discarding it on the ground, by the rest of his belongings.

His body was toned, well built, considering his age. Yes, one could tell that he wasn't a young man anymore, but everything considered, he looked good. One hand went up to rub at his shoulder as he turned to go fetch his water bottle, but he paused, stopped dead in his tracks as he saw a familiar shape before him. He stood frozen for a moment, barely remembering to breathe. What left him was more akin to a whisper than anything else.

"Ifrit..?"

@nameless-ghoul-ifrit

[fidgetspringer]

The first page of a sketchbook is like the first pancake. Always a bit fucked.

[pixelatedraindrops]

Yuma Month: Day 28: Death

“ B A D E N D”

TW // Blood

TW // Suicide