#disposable as ever (delete)

[earl-grey-crow]

.

[itsahotminuteinbetween]

wait guys hold on what day is it

[the-vegetarian-artist]

I just cant have a normal period huh? Its gonna be the MOST painful everytime huh? Its gotta bleed HEAVY for 3 days straight go silent on day 4 and then START RIGHT BACK UP HUH????

[mylowmilo]

Realistic strap on with dual density core (hard in the middle, soft on the outside) was either the best purchase I ever made or the worst bc now when I’m doing work or grocery shopping or whatever in the middle of the day I just think about it. I have a dick in my bedroom. Just sitting there

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which tattoos aren't the only thing that leaves a mark

warning : sexual content included - minors dni

Your dorm smells faintly of antiseptic and coconut oil, dimly lit by a salt lamp you found at a garage sale and a few strands of fairy lights taped haphazardly across the ceiling. Your tattoo machine is humming gently on your desk, neatly cleaned and resting beside a lined-up set of sanitized needles, ink caps, and gloves. You’ve got a system — one that’s been perfected over the last year and a half — ever since your roommate dropped out and you turned her bed into your makeshift tattoo studio.

Under the name Inkling, you’ve built a quiet reputation on campus. No one knows your real name unless they’ve been in the chair. Athletes, musicians, a couple grad students — they’ve all come through that dorm door, usually through hushed referrals and cryptic Instagram DMs. You’ve never posted your face. Just close-ups of fresh ink, your gloved hands, or that one photo of your forearm covered in delicate, razor-sharp line work. That one got shared a lot.

You’re careful. Every DM gets deleted after a location drop. Every appointment spaced out. You’ve seen enough busted dreams to know UConn wouldn’t hesitate to bench someone — or worse, expel you — if they found out.

It’s a rainy Thursday when your phone buzzes with a new DM.

Hey. Someone told me you might be the person to talk to about a tattoo?

The username catches your attention: @/paigebueckers.

You lean back in your chair, eyebrows lifting. The Paige Bueckers. You’ve seen her on campus, walking with her hood up and headphones on. People talk about her like she’s royalty — or a ghost. Never really both.

You heard right. What are you looking for?

The typing bubble appears. Then disappears. Then comes back.

Something small. My first one. Maybe ribs.

I got you. Location’s in your inbox. Delete this after reading.

You wait.

And then — just like you asked — the message disappears.

You hear the knock on your door five minutes early.

Cracking it open just a sliver, you scan the hallway. Empty.

Then you see her. Hoodie up, eyes down, clearly trying to go unnoticed. You gesture her inside, and she slips in quickly.

She pauses in the doorway, scanning the room. Your tall frame leans casually against your desk, arms inked and folded across your chest. You’re wearing a fitted black tank and sweats, fresh from a lift earlier. Her eyes drift, lingering a little too long before she catches herself.

"You're Inkling?" she asks, raising an eyebrow, tone skeptical — but not unfriendly.

You smirk. “In the flesh.”

She blinks. You can see the recalibration in her eyes, like she wasn’t expecting you — tall, masculine, and somehow both rough around the edges and easy to talk to.

“I’m Paige,” she offers, finally meeting your eyes.

“Yeah,” you say, stepping aside to let her walk further in. “I know who you are.”

You gesture to the chair in the corner — clean, covered in disposable wrap, next to your station.

“So,” you say, pulling on a pair of black gloves. “What are we doing today?”

She tugs her hoodie down, suddenly self-conscious. “I was thinking something simple. Maybe… a small cross? Just here—” She lifts the hem of her shirt slightly, revealing a sliver of toned side. “Right under the ribs.”

You nod, already moving to draw the stencil. “Any style in mind? Fine line? Bold? Shaded?”

She hesitates. “Fine line. Clean. Simple. Kind of like… a reminder, y’know?”

You nod again. “I got you.”

Within a few minutes, you’re walking back over with the stencil, eyes flicking up to hers. “You’re gonna have to take your shirt off.”

You say it casually, but her cheeks tint pink.

She hesitates, then pulls her hoodie and tank over her head, folding them neatly and setting them on the chair. She’s in a sports bra, but even so, her posture stiffens a little under your gaze.

You kneel next to her, applying the stencil with gentle precision, fingers cool against her warm skin. “This okay?”

She looks down and nods, voice quiet. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

You pick up the machine, the buzz filling the room.

“First tattoo, huh?”

She nods. “Is it gonna hurt?”

“Little bit. But I’ll talk you through it.”

The needle meets her skin. She tenses at first — a sharp breath — but you keep your voice low, steady, as you work.

“You’re not gonna die. Promise.”

She laughs softly, tension easing just a little.

You fall into a rhythm — machine buzzing, your voice threading in between.

“So how’d you start tattooing?” she asks after a minute.

“Boredom,” you admit. “High school. I used to sketch on my friends with Sharpies. Someone dared me to buy a machine. I practiced on fake skin for months before I ever touched a person.”

“Weren’t you scared?”

“Terrified. But I loved it more than I feared it.”

She goes quiet. You glance up.

“What about you?” you ask. “Why basketball?”

“It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense,” she says softly. “It’s like… the court’s the only place where everything goes quiet.”

You hum in understanding, eyes flicking back to your work. “Same way I feel when I’m doing this.”

There’s a long pause. A comfortable one.

You finish the last line, clean it up, and wrap the fresh ink in clear bandage. You explain the aftercare — gentle washing, no picking, keep it moisturized.

She puts her shirt back on and hands you a wad of cash.

And then, just as she reaches for the door — she pauses.

“Hey,” she says, turning back, biting her lip. “Do you ever give your number out?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Why do you need it?”

Her eyes flick over your face, a little emboldened now.

“I wanna get to know you,” she says. “Not just the artist. You.”

There’s a moment of quiet — just the hum of your machine behind you, the buzz of electricity in the air.

You step toward her, pulling a pen from your pocket and gently taking her hand.

You write your number on her palm, slow and deliberate.

“Then start with a text,” you murmur, eyes locked with hers. “And we’ll see.”

Two weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Paige sat in your chair — stiff and unsure, her rib stinging under your needle while your voice calmed her nerves better than she’d ever admit.

She hasn't stopped thinking about you since.

Not just the way you looked — tall, confident, with inked knuckles and a crooked grin — but the way you spoke to her. Like she wasn’t just Paige Bueckers, UConn’s superstar. Like she was just... a girl in your dorm getting her first tattoo.

After she left that night, she stared at your number in her palm for a good half hour before finally texting.

hey. it’s paige. got one on the ribs.

You replied two minutes later.

hey ribs. glad you didn’t pass out lol.

Since then, it’s been constant.

Late-night texts. Memes. Song links. Half-flirty, half-real conversations about childhood dreams, favorite snacks, worst injuries, and best memories. She's gotten used to your name lighting up her screen — even looks forward to it. Maybe too much.

Right now, she’s lying on her stomach in the locker room, phone half-hidden under her forearm as she types out a reply.

P: would you ever tattoo your own face on someone as a joke?

You: only if they deserved it.

She grins, lip caught between her teeth, thumbs already flying over her screen for a comeback— when suddenly—

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” KK’s voice breaks through the quiet.

Paige fumbles, yelping a little and nearly dropping her phone. She quickly flips it over, shoving it under her towel.

“N-nothing,” she blurts.

KK lifts an eyebrow, towel slung over her shoulder, all mischief. “Nothing looks a lot like someone.”

“I was just—” Paige clears her throat, rolling over. “Twitter.”

“Ohhh,” KK says knowingly. “Yeah, same. I always giggle at tweets like they’re cute girls texting me too.”

Before Paige can defend herself, Azzi walks in mid-laugh and immediately picks up the vibe. “Wait. What did I miss?”

“Paige is hiding a crush,” KK sing-songs.

Azzi whips her head around. “You’re texting someone? Wait, is it that tattoo artist?!”

Paige goes red instantly. “What? No— I mean— not like that— we’re just—”

“Oh my God,” Azzi says, grinning like she just won the lottery. “You are! You went once and got hooked. I knew it!”

“She called her ‘ribs,��” KK adds dramatically. “I heard it. They have nicknames already.”

“Ribs!” Azzi cackles. “That’s gonna be her contact name in my phone for you now.”

“Shut up,” Paige mumbles, grabbing her towel and pressing it over her face to hide.

Then Aubrey walks in, adjusting her hair, immediately clocking the chaos. “Why is Paige buried like a corpse?”

“She’s in love,” Azzi says sweetly.

“With her tattoo artist,” KK adds.

Aubrey pauses. “Wait. Inkling?”

Paige lifts her head. “You know?”

Aubrey shrugs like it’s obvious. “Yeah. I got my latest one from her last semester. She’s fire.”

“She’s also hot,” Azzi adds. “Like, if I liked girls? I’d have gotten a sleeve just to keep going back.”

KK snorts. “I’d get her initials on my neck.”

“Okay, enough!” Paige yells, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Y’all are so annoying.”

But she’s smiling — wide, and a little dazed — because maybe, just maybe, she kind of loves that they can see what she’s trying to figure out herself.

Meanwhile, across campus, you’re sprawled across your bed, scrolling through Paige’s latest message with a smile playing on your lips.

She sends you a blurry selfie of her holding an energy drink with a caption:

P: this is either gonna power me through or kill me in the middle of practice

You laugh.

You: if you die i’m tattooing “dumb decisions” on your forehead. with wings.

A pause.

P: can’t wait 

Your heart stutters. Not just because she’s flirting. But because she’s still here. Still texting. Still choosing you — even if it’s just messages for now.

And that tiny seed of maybe?

It’s starting to bloom.

It’s just past 9PM when your phone buzzes again. You’re half-asleep on your couch, a late re-run of Ink Master humming in the background, one hand tucked behind your head, the other lazily scrolling through your camera roll.

P: hey! ribs needs a touch-up.

You grin, already sitting up straighter. You type back fast.

You: oh no. your tragic little cross fading already?

P: tragic? wow. ok.

You: come cry about it. you free now?

P: omw.

You glance up, blinking.

She’s coming here. Now.

You toss your hoodie on, adjust your sweats, and quickly wipe down your station — not because it needs it, but because you suddenly feel like everything has to be perfect.

You don’t even know if she needs a touch-up. You think the tattoo healed clean. You remember exactly how it looked when she left — skin flushed, ink crisp and sharp, your gloves ghosting her side as you wrapped her ribs with practiced care.

But if Paige wants an excuse to come back?

You’ll let her use all of them.

Fifteen minutes later, you hear a soft knock.

Three quick taps. Hesitant.

You open the door, and there she is.

Hair tied back in a bun. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Eyes flicking up to meet yours with that soft, unsure kind of confidence that’s been growing since day one.

“Hey,” she says, almost breathless.

You step back to let her in. “Hey, Ribs.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.

“I brought snacks,” she says, holding up a gas station bag. “Touch-up tax.”

You grin. “Bribery noted.”

She perches on the edge of your couch while you prep the machine again, glancing around like she’s trying to memorize every poster, every flickering light string, every shadow you cast across the room.

“So,” you say, sliding gloves on. “Let’s see the damage.”

She lifts the hem of her hoodie, then the tank under it, revealing her side again. She doesn’t flinch this time. Doesn’t hesitate. Just watches you carefully as you lean in to inspect the ink.

You blink.

“Yeah…” you say slowly. “You definitely didn’t need a touch-up.”

“Damn,” she says, tone innocent. “Guess I’ll go then.”

You catch her wrist before she moves.

“Nah. You’re already here.”

The tension builds like a tightrope between you — stretched thin but thrilling.

You lean in, dragging a gloved fingertip lightly over the healed tattoo, eyes never leaving hers.

“You been using the aftercare stuff I gave you?”

“Every night,” she murmurs. “Like a good girl.”

You pause.

You’re not sure who leans in first, but suddenly your faces are too close. Her knee brushes yours. Your fingers are still on her skin. Your heart’s somewhere between say something and kiss her now.

She breaks the silence first.

“You ever get nervous?” she asks softly.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“Stuff like this,” she says. “Being in someone’s space. Not knowing what happens next.”

You let your hand drop from her ribs, slowly peeling your gloves off.

“I used to,” you admit. “But then I started noticing the signs.”

“What signs?”

You lean back slightly, just enough to make her lean forward — chase the space you left behind.

“Someone shows up without needing a touch-up,” you say. “Brings snacks. Doesn’t take her eyes off you.”

Paige swallows, pulse fluttering in her neck.

“And what do you do when you notice?” she whispers.

You smile — slow, crooked.

“I wait until she makes the next move.”

There’s silence.

Then Paige sets the snack bag aside and shifts closer — until your knees touch again, until the air between your mouths gets impossibly thin.

She rests her hand lightly on your forearm. Testing. Waiting.

“I came back for more than a touch-up,” she says, barely audible.

“I know.”

And then?

You both move at once — like gravity finally gave in.

She almost kissed you.

You know she almost did.

That moment — the way she leaned in, her breath catching, your eyes locked — it was charged. One inch closer and she would’ve been in your lap, her lips pressed to yours, hoodie half-off.

But she pulled back.

Murmured something about practice tomorrow. Smiled that crooked little smile and slipped out like it didn’t shake you to your core.

And now you’re haunted by it.

By her.

The ghost of her fingers on your arm. The scent of her hoodie. The way her voice dipped when she said, “I came back for more than a touch-up.”

You haven’t stopped texting, of course. If anything, it's gotten worse.

P: i keep thinking about that stencil gel. why is it always freezing

You: so u remember the cold gel and not the way i touched ur body huh

P: i hate you

You: no u don’t

She doesn't deny it.

And neither do you.

Three days later, you're bent over your client, your machine buzzing as you work on a chest piece — intricate line work, shaded stars that bloom over his pec like smoke. You're focused, gloved hands steady, music humming low in the background. Your lamp casts a warm glow over your little setup. Three quick knocks. Just like last time.

You look up, brows furrowing. You're not expecting anyone.

You lower the needle and call out, “Door’s open.”

It swings open a moment later — and there she is.

Paige. In joggers and an oversized tee. Slightly flushed like she ran here, hair pulled into a high ponytail, holding a bottle of blue Gatorade like she needed a reason.

“Hey,” she says, eyes flicking around your room. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Her gaze lands on your chair — on the guy sitting shirtless, one arm behind his head, wincing through the sting of the needle.

“Oh,” she says quickly. “I can come back.”

You shake your head, pulling your gloves tight again. “Nah. Stay.”

Paige hesitates… then closes the door behind her and sinks onto your couch, pulling one knee up, tucking her foot beneath her. She stays quiet at first, just watching.

But you can feel it. Her eyes on you. The weight of them.

Your shirt rides up slightly as you lean over the client. Your chain glints in the light. Your forearms flex. There’s a streak of black ink on your jaw from where you scratched an itch and forgot you’d touched the cap first.

You glance up.

She’s staring.

Her lip is caught between her teeth. Gatorade forgotten in her lap.

You smirk slightly.

“You good over there?” you murmur without looking away from your work.

She snaps out of it. “Yeah. Just… observing.”

You don’t push. You keep tattooing. But your voice drops just enough to tease:

“Didn’t know I was part of the show.”

She doesn’t reply.

But out of the corner of your eye, you catch her shifting — crossing her legs tighter, cheeks a little flushed.

When your client finally hops off the chair and checks out the finished work in your mirror, you clean up and walk him to the door, chatting easily. You say goodbye, click the lock, and turn back around.

Paige is still on your couch. Still holding her Gatorade. Still not looking directly at you.

“You sure you’re not here for another touch-up?” you ask, voice low now that you’re alone again.

She looks up finally.

“I don’t think the tattoo’s the part that needs touching.”

Your heart stutters.

The silence swells again, thick and buzzing.

You take one slow step forward. Then another.

She stands up too, meeting you halfway.

Close. Too close.

You can smell her shampoo. See the freckles scattered on her collarbone. Feel her breath on your chin.

But she doesn’t close the distance.

Instead, her hand brushes your wrist as she walks past you — casual, smooth, intentional — and she murmurs over her shoulder, “Text me later.”

The door shuts behind her.

And you’re left standing in your own dorm, slightly ink-stained, jaw slack, stomach twisted up in tension so sharp it almost hurts.

She pulled back again.

And you're starting to think she's doing it on purpose.

It starts with a text.

P: u up?

You: what are you, a guy on tinder?

P: shut up. i’m serious. come to the gym.

You: it’s midnight.

P: exactly. no one will be there. come shoot with me.

You: ...u tryna seduce me with hardwood floors and fluorescent lighting?

P: depends. is it working?

You don’t even respond.

You just throw on your sneakers and a hoodie, grab your keys, and head out the door.

The UConn practice gym is dim when you walk in — only a few of the overheads are on, leaving the court glowing like a movie scene. Quiet. Still. And there she is.

Paige.

Ball in hand, ponytail high, shooting solo from the top of the key. She doesn’t see you at first — just lets the ball roll back from the rebound machine, catches it in one smooth motion, and fires again.

Swish.

You whistle low.

She turns, a smirk already tugging at her mouth.

“About time,” she says, wiping her forehead with the bottom of her shirt — giving you a full view of her toned stomach before it drops again.

You blink. “Sorry, I had to emotionally prepare for whatever pickup line you were gonna hit me with.”

“Oh please,” she tosses you the ball. “You think I need lines?”

You catch it with a grin. “You’re kinda full of yourself, Bueckers.”

“And you are kinda stalling. Let’s see if you can actually shoot or if you just look cool.”

You raise an eyebrow, then dribble once, twice, pull up at the elbow — clean jumper.

Swish.

Her mouth parts slightly.

You shrug. “Told you I was more than just tattoos and biceps.”

She circles you, grabbing the rebound, bouncing it back your way.

“You are full of surprises,” she murmurs. “I didn’t expect you to have form. Or a jumper.”

You shoot again. Another swish.

“You know,” she adds, jogging over, “if I make this next shot, you have to give me a free tattoo.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And if you miss?”

She spins the ball on her finger, grinning. “Then you still give me one, but I pick where.”

You snort. “That’s not how bets work.”

“Shh.” She backs up behind the three-point line, sets her feet, shoots—

Clank. Off the rim.

You break into laughter, hands on your knees. “Yo—so confident. So dramatic. So short.”

“Okay wow, personal attack,” she says, chasing the ball. “We get it, you’re tall.”

“And humble,” you add with a wink.

She tosses it back. You shoot again. Net.

“You're seriously hot when you do that,” she blurts, then instantly freezes.

You pause mid-dribble, smirking. “When I shoot?”

“When you swish,” she mutters. “And like… do that half-smile thing after. You know what you’re doing.”

You walk closer, bounce passing her the ball again.

“Oh yeah?” you say, voice dropping just a little. “What else do I do that’s hot?”

She squints at you, stepping in too. “You wanna play this game?”

“I thought we were playing,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. Just breath and bouncing orange rubber.

Then Paige grins. “Okay,” she says. “Truth or dare, but gym edition.”

You laugh. “Why do I feel like this is about to go off the rails?”

“Pick one.”

You spin the ball on your palm. “Truth.”

She tilts her head. “Have you thought about kissing me?”

You hesitate — not in fear, but because damn, she really jumped right to it.

You take a slow breath.

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “Too many times.”

She swallows. Looks at your mouth for a second too long.

You step back. “Your turn.”

“I pick dare.”

You toss her the ball again. “Hit a three. If you miss, you owe me a date.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s not a dare.”

“Sure it is. Do it.”

She backs up, sets her feet, deep breath — and shoots.

It arcs high. Hangs in the air. And—

Rim.

Bounces off.

She stares at it like it betrayed her.

You bite your lip, trying not to grin. “Damn. That’s crazy.”

She groans. “That was so close.”

You step up to her, gently take the ball from her hands, your fingers brushing hers.

“A deal’s a deal, Bueckers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters. “You better take me somewhere good.”

“Oh, I will,” you say, dribbling lazily between your legs. “Just not to another empty gym at midnight.”

She grabs your wrist before you can turn — eyes locked on yours, soft and slow.

“But you’d come,” she says quietly, “anytime I asked, wouldn’t you?”

You don’t even pretend to lie.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I would.”

She lingers. Closer again. Inches. Seconds.

And then, like always — she pulls back.

Grabs her Gatorade. Spins the ball once. Looks over her shoulder with that damn smirk.

“Text me later.”

And she’s gone.

It had been four days since you and Paige shot around at the gym.

Four days since that charged truth or dare, since she missed the shot on purpose (you’re sure of it), since she got all up in your space only to walk away like she didn’t just set your heart on fire and leave it smoldering behind her.

You’d been texting still — the usual flirty banter and late-night teasing. But she hadn’t come by. Not since that night.

So when you hear a knock at your door around 7 p.m., your heart stutters.

Her?

You glance over your shoulder — already gloved up, your tattoo machine buzzing as you finish the shading on a delicate black rose. The girl in your chair is leaning back, her cropped tank pulled to the side to expose her ribs. She’s pretty — short brown curls, lip ring, soft eyes. You've tattooed her once before.

You lower the needle for a moment and call out, “Come in.”

The door creaks open.

Paige walks in.

And she freezes.

You swear you hear her swallow.

She takes in the scene — the girl, shirt hiked up, bra strap slipping down, your hand gliding carefully along the edge of her ribs. The soft music. The warm lighting. Your focused expression.

Her jaw clenches — subtle, but you catch it.

“Oh,” she says, stuffing her hands in her hoodie pocket. “Didn’t know you had company.”

You glance up and smile casually. “Just finishing up. Come in. You can chill.”

Paige hesitates, then steps inside and sinks into your couch, eyes lingering on the girl’s exposed skin.

You don’t miss the way she watches you — the way her knee bounces, the way she tugs her hoodie sleeves over her hands like she suddenly doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“Almost done,” you murmur to your client, finishing the last bit of shading. “You’re sitting like a champ.”

“Wouldn’t be my first time,” the girl says with a playful smirk. “You make it easy.”

Paige’s head snaps toward her.

You don’t look up, but you feel it.

She’s seething.

“Glad to hear it,” you say, smirking to yourself as you wrap the tattoo.

The girl sits up, pulling her shirt back down, glancing toward Paige. “Friend of yours?”

“She’s… someone,” Paige mutters, not looking away.

The girl raises an eyebrow, smiles slowly, and heads toward the door.

“Thanks again,” she says to you, hand brushing your arm on the way out. “You’ve got magic hands.”

As the door closes, Paige lets out a sharp, dry laugh.

“Magic hands, huh?” she echoes, voice tight.

You finally look at her — really look.

She’s not just irritated. She’s jealous.

And trying really, really hard to pretend she’s not.

You peel off your gloves, toss them in the trash, and sit on the edge of your desk.

“Something on your mind, Bueckers?”

She shrugs, eyes fixed on the spot where the girl had been. “Didn’t know you did flirty commentary with your clients.”

“She was being nice.”

“She was being obvious.”

You tilt your head. “So?”

Paige looks at you — and the mask slips just a little. Her lips part, then close again. She shifts on the couch, restless.

“So do you flirt back with all your clients?”

“Only the hot ones.”

She raises her eyebrows.

You smirk. “You didn’t seem to mind when you were shirtless on my chair.”

“That was different.”

“Why?”

She’s quiet.

You stand and walk over slowly, stopping just in front of her, hands sliding into your own hoodie pocket.

“Why, Paige?”

She looks up at you, eyes a little too bright, lips just a little too pouty.

“Because I actually care if you’re into someone else,” she finally says, voice low.

The room stills.

You exhale through your nose, taking a beat before you answer.

“You jealous, Bueckers?”

She lifts her chin. “You’re damn right I am.”

You don’t move — you just look at her. Let her feel it.

“You could’ve texted,” you say quietly. “Could’ve said something. Asked me to hang.”

“I didn’t wanna seem…” She trails off.

“What?”

“Attached.”

You take one slow step forward, between her knees. You don’t touch her — not yet — but you’re close enough for her to feel your presence everywhere.

“And what if I like that you’re attached?”

She blinks.

“What if I’ve been thinking about you just as much? What if that gym night messed me up? What if every time you leave, I want you back in the room five minutes later?”

She stares up at you, lips slightly parted, breathing shallow.

And then you lean down, close enough to feel her breath, close enough to kiss her — but you don’t.

You stop right there, noses brushing.

“Still jealous?” you whisper.

Her hand slides up your side, resting lightly on your hoodie — but still, you both hold back.

Barely.

“Only when I’m not the one in your chair,” she murmurs.

You grin. “You saying you want another tattoo?”

She looks at your lips. “No,” she breathes. “I want you.”

But still — no kiss.

Just that unbearable, perfect tension.

It starts with a simple text from Paige.

P: You busy tonight?

You: Not if you’re finally letting me beat you at Uno

P: Tempting. Come by my dorm? Girls are hanging out.

You: You sure? I don’t wanna crash the estrogen party

P: They’ll like you. I promise. Just don’t flirt with anyone but me.

You: Oh? Am I allowed to flirt with you now?

P: Only if you want everyone to know you’re obsessed with me

You laugh at your phone, toss on your hoodie, and head out.

By the time you get to Paige’s floor, you can already hear music and laughter bleeding through the cracked door. You knock once before stepping in.

It’s warm, loud, and full of energy. Sarah’s lounging on the couch with her socks mismatched. Azzi’s sitting cross-legged on the floor sorting cards. KK’s got her phone propped up against a candle jar, already live on TikTok.

“Heyyyy,” Paige grins, hopping up from where she’s been half-sitting on the armrest. She comes toward you, a glimmer in her eye. “You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you murmur.

The second you step into the room, every pair of eyes snaps to you.

“Ohhh, so this is the mystery guest?” KK calls, adjusting the angle of her phone. “Wait, wait—come closer, let the live see this. Who is this??”

“She’s a friend,” Paige says quickly, shooting KK a look.

Your eyebrow quirks at friend but you play it cool.

KK waves you over like you’re already part of the crew. “Come sit! Don’t be shy. We were literally just talking about Paige’s secret text buddy—”

“KK!” Paige cuts in, her tone a warning.

“What? I didn’t say their name,” KK teases. “Could be anyone.”

You smirk, sliding into the empty space beside Paige on the couch. Your knees brush. She doesn’t move away.

Azzi greets you with a small, knowing smile. “You play cards?”

“Better than Paige, apparently,” you quip, and she chokes on her drink.

KK cackles from the floor. “Oooh, you got jokes! I like them.”

You glance over and notice Paige is still looking at you — not saying anything, just watching you like you’re the only person in the room. The heat in her stare is something else.

“Okay, okay,” KK says, turning her phone slightly. “Live wants to know who you are. You look suspiciously comfortable over there.”

You flash a polite smile. “Just a friend.”

Paige snorts, and you bump her leg gently with your knee. She doesn't take her eyes off you.

Live chat starts popping off on KK’s phone.

“Who is that???👀” “Is Paige finally boo’d up???” “She’s kinda fine ngl” “They’re sitting HELLA close 😭” “They matching?? Are they matching??”

You glance down at the hoodie you’re wearing — black. Paige’s is black, too.

You lift your eyes to her, biting your lip.

“Matching hoodies, huh?” you whisper under your breath.

“Just coincidence,” she says softly. “Unless you wanna make it a thing.”

Your heart skips, but before you can answer, KK calls out, “HEY. Come on live with us real quick.”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re already famous in the chat. Might as well say hi.”

Paige gives you this amused little shrug, and Azzi’s smiling into her cup like she knows exactly what’s happening here.

You sigh playfully, scoot over to KK’s phone and lean in. Paige scoots right with you — now shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed, close.

KK angles the camera toward you both.

“Okay live,” she announces dramatically, “say hello to our very mysterious, very smooth, very not nervous at all guest.”

You nod at the camera with a mock serious face. “Pleasure.”

The comments explode again.

“THE WAY THEY’RE SITTING” “PAIGE IS SMILING SO HARD OMG” “Who is this suave mf I’m in love” “Are y’all dating or what???” “They keep looking at each other omg STOP”

You glance at Paige.

She’s got that look again — amused, glowing, and just a little smug.

You lean closer to the mic. “No comment.”

The room erupts in screams.

You stay on the live for a few more minutes, answering random (safe) questions — what’s your favorite cereal, do you hoop, how did you and Paige meet (you lie effortlessly — “through mutual friends”).

Eventually, KK ends the stream, still giggling.

“That was the most fun we’ve had on live in weeks,” she grins. “You gotta come back.”

“I’ll think about it,” you wink.

Paige gives you a long look as you both settle back into your original spot, her voice low when she says, “You handled that like a pro.”

“Not my first rodeo,” you reply, nudging her leg.

The moment settles in again — comfortable, warm, buzzing beneath the surface. Her pinky brushes yours on the couch cushion.

You don’t move.

Neither does she.

And still—no kiss. Just charged silence, quick glances, and the weight of everything almost happening.

Almost.

It’s late.

That kind of quiet hour where most of campus has gone still, windows dark, the night holding its breath.

Your phone buzzes on your desk.

P: that live earlier… you were kinda smooth ngl.

You smirk, staring at the screen for a moment before typing back.

You: kinda? thought i had you blushing.

P: you wish.

You: come over. prove me wrong.

You hesitate only a second before hitting send. You’ve been dancing around this thing long enough—teasing glances, flirty texts, late-night thoughts.

Tonight?

You want to know.

The reply comes quick.

P: omw.

Ten minutes later, there’s a soft knock on your door. You open it to find her standing there in gray sweats and a white crop hoodie that shows a sliver of skin. Her hair’s loose, no makeup, eyes soft.

“Hey,” she says, voice low, like she’s already matching the quiet.

“Hey,” you echo, stepping aside to let her in.

The lights are dim, a candle flickering on your shelf, casting golden shadows across your dorm. The same chair you tattoo in sits empty now. You gesture to the bed.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

She sits, legs crossing at the ankle, eyes tracking you as you close the door and lock it gently behind you.

“Still think I was only kinda smooth?” you ask, grabbing a bottle of water and tossing it her way.

She catches it, smirks. “I think you’re full of yourself.”

You chuckle, settling into your desk chair. “Nah. I just know how to read a room. And your face during that live?”

“I was not blushing.”

“You so were.”

She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling, teeth tugging at her bottom lip in that way that’s dangerous.

“So what,” she says slowly, “this is your move? Invite a girl to your room, make her talk about her feelings under low light and candles?”

“Only the special ones.”

That gets her. She exhales a soft laugh, cheeks warming in the glow. “You flirt like you tattoo. Confident. Smooth hands.”

Your eyebrow raises. “You thinking about my hands?”

A pause.

She doesn’t look away. “A lot more than I should.”

The tension punches the air out of the room. There’s no music, no noise. Just the sound of your shared breath and the rush in your ears.

You get up and move to sit next to her on the bed.

Close. But not touching.

“What are we doing?” you ask quietly.

She looks at you. Really looks.

“You tell me,” she murmurs.

“I think,” you start, fingers brushing hers slowly, “we’ve been circling this for weeks.”

You turn your body toward her, eyes scanning her expression. “And I think you’ve wanted to kiss me since the night I tattooed you.”

“I almost did,” she admits, her voice barely audible. “That night… when you leaned in.”

You nod. “I know. I felt it.”

You inch forward, just a breath between your lips now. She tilts her head slightly, like she’s inviting it—

And then, just as your lips graze hers, she pulls back.

A whisper of space.

Your pulse stutters. “Paige?”

Her smile is teasing, but her eyes are molten. “Not yet.”

You exhale, not sure if you’re frustrated or even more into her now.

“Cruel,” you mutter.

“Maybe,” she grins, “but now you’re thinking about it more.”

You lean back with a soft groan. “You’re evil.”

She shrugs, smug. “You love it.”

She stays for another hour, curled up in your bed, both of you side by side talking about nothing and everything—what music she listens to pregame, your favorite artists to ink, how she once tried to pierce her own cartilage and absolutely passed out.

You almost forget the burn.

Almost.

Because every so often, she shifts, and her shoulder touches yours. Her leg brushes your thigh. She looks at your mouth and then looks away, and it drives you insane.

When she finally stands to leave, it's after 2 a.m.

You walk her to the door. She hesitates there, hand on the knob.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” she says softly.

You lean against the doorframe. “Anytime.”

Her eyes flicker down to your lips again.

You don’t move.

Neither does she.

Then she leans in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth—a whisper of a kiss, not quite what you wanted, but more than you expected.

A promise.

“Goodnight,” she murmurs.

And then she’s gone.

You’re not sure when exactly she got so deep under your skin, but now you feel it in your fingertips, in the buzz behind your teeth every time her name lights up your screen.

It’s been a few days since that near-kiss.

Too many.

You’ve been playing it cool, trying not to push—waiting for her to make the move.

But tonight?

Tonight you don’t want to wait anymore.

P: gym in 15?

You: be there in 10.

The UConn practice gym is dark, except for one row of overhead lights glowing above the court. Paige is already there, ball in hand, hair in a messy ponytail, wearing a black tank and loose shorts. She looks unfairly good under the gym lights.

She looks like trouble.

“You’re early,” she says, tossing you the ball.

“Didn’t wanna keep you waiting.”

She smirks. “You sure about that? You’ve been making me wait for weeks.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

She starts walking backward toward the top of the key, still grinning. “You’re the one who talks all this game and then freezes every time I get close.”

You follow, dribbling casually. “Please. You’re the queen of pulling back last second.”

“Maybe I just like the anticipation.”

You stop at the arc and shoot. Swish.

She raises a brow. “Okay Steph, I see you.”

You shrug. “I told you I could shoot.”

She gets the rebound and tosses it back. “Let’s make it interesting.”

“What, horse?”

“No,” she says, stepping close, just barely toe to toe. “If I make my shot, you have to answer a question. Truth only.”

You grin. “And if I make it?”

“Same deal.”

“Bet.”

She pulls up from midrange. Net.

You groan. “Alright. Hit me.”

Her eyes glitter. “Have you thought about kissing me since that night?”

You blink. “Is that even a question?”

“Answer it.”

You step a little closer. “Every night.”

She swallows, the moment thick now. Her turn to shoot again.

She misses.

Your ball.

You catch it, holding it between you. “My question.”

She lifts her chin. “Hit me.”

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

She bites her lip. “Because I wanted to see if you’d break first.”

You chuckle, stepping forward again. “Well, congratulations.”

She tilts her head. “Why’s that?”

You don’t say anything.

You just step into her space, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something else—

And you kiss her.

No warning. No teasing. Just your lips on hers, firm and hungry, claiming the moment you’ve both been aching for. She gasps softly into it, hands finding your waist like muscle memory, and you deepen the kiss without hesitation, your fingers tangling in her ponytail.

It’s messy and hot and so full of built-up tension it practically cracks.

She pulls you closer, your body pressing hers gently against the padded wall behind the baseline, breath catching as your teeth graze her lower lip.

“God,” she whispers, head falling back just slightly, “finally.”

You grin against her skin. “I was gonna say the same thing.”

She kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth.

When she finally pulls back, her cheeks are flushed and her voice is rough. “You’re in trouble now.”

“Oh yeah?”

She nods, smirking. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

There’s no more pretending now.

No more slow-burn games.

She’s officially yours—and you?

You’re already all in.

She’s still catching her breath when you pull her by the hand—out of the gym, down the empty hallway, back toward your dorm like there’s no time left to waste. Because there isn’t. Not anymore.

Not after weeks of stolen glances, soft hands brushing thighs during shoot arounds. Not after that kiss that tasted like everything she’d been holding back.

You open your door, and she’s on you the second it clicks shut.

Your back hits the wall, her mouth claiming yours like she’s starving. Her fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt, tugging you closer, your hands already sliding up the back of her hoodie and under the hem.

You break the kiss just long enough to pull it off, revealing that toned stomach you’ve been sneaking looks at during practice. She's wearing just a simple black sports bra, but it might as well be lace with how fast your pulse jumps.

“Bed,” you mutter against her neck, kissing the warm skin just below her jaw. “Now.”

She obeys, backing toward it, climbing up without breaking eye contact. You follow, slipping your hoodie over your head, your shirt next, until you’re standing above her, toned arms flexing slightly as you kneel on the mattress between her legs.

She looks up at you like you’re something dangerous. And she wants to get burned.

“Still cocky?” she asks, breathless.

You smirk. “We’ll see who’s cocky in five minutes.”

Her laugh is soft, shaky, the nerves behind her bravado showing for the first time.

You dip your head and kiss her again—slow this time, tongue tracing her bottom lip, hands smoothing up her sides until your thumbs brush just under her bra. Her breath hitches.

“Off,” you murmur, and she arches up for you, letting you slip it over her head.

She’s so soft beneath you—golden skin, flushed chest, and already looking at you like she’s seconds from falling apart.

Your hand ghosts over her stomach, fingers tracing the top of her shorts. “This too?”

She nods.

You slide them down, along with her underwear, slow enough to make her squirm. Now she’s laid out under you, nothing between you but heat and air and the sound of her breathing.

“Fuck,” you whisper, dragging your eyes down her body like a prayer. “You’re so pretty like this.”

Her fingers curl into the blanket. “Then do something about it.”

You settle between her thighs, kissing slowly down her stomach, leaving a trail of heat in your wake. Her thighs tense as you press a kiss just above where she wants you most, but you pull back.

“You’ve been teasing me for weeks,” you murmur, mouth hovering over her, breath warm against her. “You really thought I wasn’t gonna return the favor?”

She whines, hand flying to your hair.

And then you give in.

Your mouth meets her with slow, devastating pressure, tongue moving with practiced ease, teasing her open until she’s gasping your name, hips rising from the bed. Your hands press firmly on her thighs, keeping her in place.

She’s so sensitive, so responsive, each moan rolling out of her throat like it’s been waiting in her chest for days.

When you add your fingers—slow at first, curling just right—she loses it, head thrown back, mouth parted, trying and failing to keep it together.

“Right there,” she gasps. “Fuck—please, don’t stop.”

You don’t.

You keep going until she’s trembling, legs shaking, eyes squeezed shut as she falls apart around you, fingers tangled in your hair like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.

You only stop when she’s tugging at your shoulders, breathless and wrecked.

You crawl back up her body, kissing her slowly now, her taste on your tongue, your hand resting on her stomach as it rises and falls.

“I told you,” you murmur against her lips. “I don’t miss my shots.”

She laughs, dazed and completely gone. “I’m never letting you near a basketball again.”

You grin. “Then I’ll just have to find other ways to wear you out.”

She’s curled against you now, legs tangled with yours under the warm sheets, skin still buzzing and kissed with sweat. Your arm’s draped over her waist, your fingers drawing slow circles along her back while her cheek rests on your chest.

The silence is thick with something warmer than lust.

You feel her chest rise and fall against you, slower now. Calmer. But every so often she lets out a breath like she’s still recovering—like you short-circuited something in her.

You brush your lips over her temple. “You okay?”

She nods, then looks up at you with the kind of smile that knocks the air out of your lungs. Messy hair, kiss-swollen lips, eyes too big and too honest.

“I’m… really okay,” she says softly. “Like… insanely okay.”

You chuckle and squeeze her waist, pressing another kiss to her shoulder. “Just okay? I’m offended.”

She laughs and hides her face in your chest. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”

There’s a long pause after that. A quieter one. One that has her fingers slowly brushing your side, like she needs to touch you to believe this happened.

“So,” she says after a minute, her voice lower now, careful. “Was that… like… a one-time thing?”

You blink down at her.

“What?” you ask, half-laughing. “Paige. I just took you apart on my bed. You think I’d do that and just ghost you?”

She shrugs, eyes still down. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to assume.”

You tilt her chin up with your fingers. “Then let me be clear.”

You kiss her—soft and slow, the kind of kiss that says everything you haven’t dared to say out loud yet.

“I want to keep seeing you,” you murmur against her lips. “Outside of tattoo sessions. Outside of gym rebounds. I want you.”

She exhales like she’s been holding it in for days.

“I want you too,” she says, her voice a whisper. “I have. For weeks.”

You smile. “Same.”

There’s another beat of quiet before she starts trailing her fingers up your chest again. “You’re really dangerous, you know that?”

You raise a brow. “How so?”

“You’re tall. Hot. Mysterious. You make art. And you’re insanely good in bed. It’s not fair.”

You grin and brush her hair back behind her ear. “And you’re a literal basketball god with killer eyes and an attitude. I’m the one in trouble here.”

She grins lazily and leans in again, kissing you like she’s falling into something she doesn’t want to stop.

Eventually, she sighs and buries her face in the crook of your neck.

“Can I sleep here?” she mumbles, her voice half gone.

You answer by pulling the blanket tighter around her and kissing the top of her head.

“Yeah, Paige,” you whisper. “Stay as long as you want.”

[strictlyfavorites]

George Carlin's wife died early in 2008 and George followed her, dying in July 2008. It is ironic George Carlin - comedian of the 70's and 80's - could write something so very eloquent and so very appropriate.

An observation by George Carlin:

The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider Freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships.

These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete.

Remember to spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going to be around forever.

Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side.

Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent.

Remember, to say, 'I love you' to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside of you.

Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person will not be there again.

Give time to love, give time to speak! And give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.

And always remember, life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by those moments that take our breath away.

George Carlin

[matts-girlfriend]

It’s You I Welcome Death With- Chris Sturniolo

TattooArtist!Chris and MakeupArtist!Reader

chapter 13

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

warning this series will contain, substance abuse, angst, arguing,tension,swearing, mentions of absent family, blood, abuse (not from chris). smut, oral, this is a warning for all chapters

Chris hadn’t seen her in a week.

A whole fucking week.

Seven days of nothing but silence. Missed calls. Unread messages. Showing up to her work like some pathetic ghost, only to find out she’d taken extra shifts elsewhere or wasn’t scheduled at all.

He was going insane.

He hated this. Hated the quiet. Hated the fucking ache in his chest. But mostly, he hated himself—for letting it get this far. For pushing her. For saying the one thing he knew would break her. For trying to act like she didn’t matter when she was all he thought about.

He sat hunched over in the back of the shop, rubbing at the bags under his eyes like it would help. His phone was in his hand again. Another message he wouldn’t send.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did. You didn’t deserve that.”

Delete. Re-type.

“Can we talk? Please.”

Delete.

“I’m sorry.”

Send.

No response.

Across the shop, Nick was pacing, chewing on the inside of his cheek like it might fix the guilt twisting in his gut.

“This is my fault,” he finally said, voice low. “I pushed you that morning. I fucking baited you, and you snapped.”

Chris looked up at him, eyes bloodshot. “Yeah, well, I didn’t have to say what I said. I chose that.”

Nick’s voice cracked. “But you didn’t mean it.”

Chris let out a bitter laugh. “Doesn’t matter if I meant it. I said it. And now she thinks I used her. She thinks she was just a way to kill time until someone better came along.”

Matt looked up from the back booth where he was sketching, his tone rough. “You hurt her. You get that, right? I know you’re sorry, but sorry doesn’t cut it this time. Not for her.”

Chris’s jaw locked. “You think I don’t fucking know that?”

“You called her disposable,” Matt said, flat. “To her face. After you made her think she meant something to you.”

“She did,” Chris said. “She still does. She’s all I think about. She’s—she’s it for me, man. And I ruined it. I ruined it for something fucking stupid I said to shut you up—” he cut a glare at Nick “—because I was fucking scared.”

Nick looked down, guilt etched into his face.

Chris swallowed hard. “She’s not like anyone I’ve ever known,” he said quietly. “She’s—fuck, I don’t even have the words. She’s just… it’s her. It’s always been her since the first goddamn time she walked in here with that smart mouth and that attitude.”

He exhaled like the words were burning his lungs.

“I had her,” he muttered. “For one second, I fucking had her. And I fucked it up”

Nick looked down at his shoes. “She won’t even answer my texts,” he admitted. “I tried.”

“Same,” Matt said. “She’s shutting everyone out. I don’t blame her.”

Chris stood abruptly. “I need to see her.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“No,” Chris said. “But I can’t sit here doing nothing. If she tells me to fuck off to my face, fine. I’ll deal with it. But I have to try.

⸻

Y/N hadn’t said a word about what happened.

Not to Ava. Not to anyone.

She came home, locked herself in her room for three days straight, and the only thing that got her out was school. She had an exam coming up for the social work program she’d worked so fucking hard to get into, and she was determined not to let a boy—even if it was him—ruin it.

But Ava noticed.

She noticed how Y/N didn’t sleep much anymore. How she’d get randomly quiet mid-sentence. How her shoulders tensed every time her phone buzzed. And most of all, she noticed how Chris’s name made her flinch like a bruise being pressed.

“What happened?” Ava asked softly, one evening while Y/N was reviewing flashcards.

“Nothing,” Y/N muttered, avoiding her eyes.

“You look like you’ve been crying for a week.”

“I said nothing, Ava,” she snapped, too sharp, too fast.

Ava flinched, and Y/N instantly regretted it. But she didn’t apologize. She couldn’t. Because if she started talking about it, she’d break.

So instead, she studied. She shoved everything down. Buried it beneath school and routines and quiet nights with the door locked.

⸻

Chris hadn’t even planned it. He just… ended up outside her house.

He didn’t think about the consequences, didn’t think about what he’d say. He just knew he couldn’t go another night without trying.

So he knocked.

And when the door opened, it wasn’t her.

It was him.

A tall, slightly stocky man with graying facial stubble and eyes that flicked over Chris like he was prey. His expression was friendly—but in that too friendly way that made the hair on Chris’s neck stand up.

The man smiled like he knew something Chris didn’t. “Can I help you?”

Chris cleared his throat, trying to stay calm. “Uh… is Y/N home?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “You her boyfriend?”

Chris hesitated. Froze. “No,” he said eventually, the word burning in his throat.

The man laughed, stepping aside. “Well come in anyway. I’ll go get her.”

Chris didn’t move at first, but something about the man’s tone sent ice through his veins. Still, he stepped in.

As the man disappeared into the hallway, Chris glanced around. Everything looked clean. Tidy. Normal. But it felt… wrong. The silence was too stiff. The air too thick. And when the man called out her name—

It wasn’t just a call.

It was a warning.

“Y/N!” he yelled, loud and sharp. “Someone’s here. Don’t be rude, girl.”

But Chris heard it. The way he said it. That don’t-make-me-look-bad-or-else tone. He’d heard it before. He’d seen it in old friends, in his own broken home. He suddenly realized exactly who he was standing in front of.

And he fucking hated himself all over again for not seeing it sooner.

⸻

Y/N heard it too.

That voice.

She froze at the top of the stairs, textbook in hand, her breath catching in her throat.

It was that voice. That tone. The one she heard before too many bruises and too many slammed doors.

But when she came down, it wasn’t a distant cousin or an old neighbor standing in her living room.

It was Chris.

And her heart dropped.

Everything stilled.

His eyes met hers, desperate, wrecked. Her mouth parted slightly, like she wanted to speak, but the words got caught.

He took a small step forward. “Y/N…”

Her stepfather loomed behind him, smiling like a threat.

And all she could think was: Not here. Not now.

a/n: god i hate her step dad...but only 7 parts left

@courta13 @m4gz-png @lezleeferguson-120

@h3arts4nat @izzylovesmatt @sturnioliolo @hsemeria @sturniqloo

@venusbabysblog @chrisslut04 @crazy4weeed @chriscokewhore @chrisswaffles @urfavvvnyasee @sturnzluv @freshluvr @mattthemunchh @poolover123 @pleasantdelusionbear @carpentersturns @emosexyvirgin @emillionaireee @shamelessmilkshakefest @xoxochrissgf @sturniolodollx @joyfulheartwhispers @cutseylady @oopsiedaisydeer @steph1106

@laylaluvsu2000 @lvrsturniolo @chloe444 @yamommmasman @55sturn @whenlovesaround @luvs-booksss @vampyyluv @snowysosturn @moth-feeet @mx7ka @amb-3-r @ncm9696 @alinagrace11 @cherryystemm @bblbilly @d3vwrlds

[lillaydee]

Shhh!!! Part 18

Celebrity!Joel Miller / F Reader

A reluctant celebrity contractor who has closed his heart for love meets a celebrity-hating Cafe on Wheels owner...

She HATES him. Thing is, he couldn't get enough of the coffee she makes...

Tag List:

@kirsteng42 @peelieblue @harriedandharassed @joelalorian @vickie5446 @inept-the-magnificent @maried01 @brittmb115 @peedrow @lovefreylove @jessthebaker @bunniboo0015 @demonsasss

Let me know if you would like to be added/removed from the tag list.

Dividers by the awesome @saradika

Header by Moi cause I learned how to use Canva! Yay me!

WARNINGS: Grumpy Joel (The Last of Us), Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Celebrity Joel Miller, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut, I'm Bad At Tagging, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Jealousy.

SERIES MASTER LIST

Part 17

“You were not supposed to receive that NDA, Joel. I was going to take care of it…” Angela tried, placing her hand on the younger man’s shoulder, the man actively avoiding Joel’s eyes, trying to get him out of her office.

Tommy took a step back, blocking the door.

“Aunt Angie? You realize this was the guy who assaulted Lily? You know him? He’s your nephew?” Tommy snarled, looking at Angela in disbelief.

“It’s a misunderstanding guys, it wasn’t supposed to escalate…” Angela finally answered, after a very long, tense, silence.

“What are you talking about? What was supposed to happen?” Tommy asked, seeing his brother unable to speak from his rage. Tess was staying close, worried the man might hulk out. Neither she nor Tommy had ever seen him this angry.

It turned out, Angela had called her financially strapped nephew, Eddie, after seeing the four of you at dinner that night. He was nearby, and Angela offered him free use of one of her low limit credit cards in exchange for doing that. He was only supposed to harass you and Joel verbally, basically annoy you, or maybe make Joel angry and show his ‘true colours’, make you think twice about spending time with him. But the guy got too excited, went too far, and got physical with you instead. When things went wrong, she made sure to use her resources to delete every single footage from the internet, steering Joel and Tommy away from probing into the matter further, seemingly succeeding before Tommy let slip that Sarah might have a copy. It was the reason she was so hellbent on getting her hands on Sarah’s phone. She even installed a malware on the new phone she got for Sarah to replace her broken one, intent on getting access to Sarah’s cloud. That went to pot, Tommy was too suspicious.

“All that because you didn’t want Lily to spend time with Joel?” Tommy asked, shaking his head.

“There’s something about her, guys… I just don’t trust her. I don’t believe she’s good for Joel!”

“You were all buddy-buddy with her lately, but she’s not good for Joel?” Tommy’s voice was rising higher and higher every time he spoke. “What’s that got to do with the NDA? Did you sign it?” he asked Joel, who simply shook his head, eyes still on Angela, looking as if he was plotting her murder and body disposal all at the same time. “So you forged his signature? You know that’s a crime, right? What did Lily say when you gave her the NDA? You told us you hadn’t seen her!”

Angela kept quiet.

Tess opened the door to the office. “Excuse me, what’s your name?” Tess peeked outside, asking the young man who gave Joel the NDA.

“Andrew, miss.”

“Will you come in here?”

Andrew walked in, looking bewildered.

“Who served this to Miss Stevens?” Joel asked, picking up the NDA.

“I did, Mr Miller. Ms Maddison asked me to deliver it and wait for her to sign it.”

If looks could kill, Andrew would be dead several times over, given how Angela was glaring at him.

“You saw her? Where?” Joel perked up a little.

“The hospital. She was taking care of her uncles. They were injured in the accident.”

Joel’s blood ran cold. “What accident? Her uncles were in an accident? Are they okay?”

“They had casts on their legs, if I recall correctly.”

“You knew this? And you didn’t tell me?” Joel asked Angela, who remained quiet.

Tess looked at Eddie who was still standing sheepishly at the corner of the room, his way out still blocked by Tommy. Her eyes were drawn to the cast on his wrist.  

“What happened to your wrist?”

The man hid his hand in his jacket.

“Angela?”

Angela looked at her feet, her hands fiddling with each other.

“I’m calling the cops, they’ll figure this out,” Tommy said, pulling his phone out.

“No! Wait! I’ll tell you,” Angela pleaded. She took a deep breath and leaned on her table, head hung down.

“I needed a way to stall Lily so she wouldn’t go to Texas, so, I asked Eddie to delay her uncles so that she would stay with them here.”

The three looked confused.

“Joel you were moving at warp speed with her, it’s not good. I’m only trying to protect you, Joel. I keep telling you that, but you wouldn’t listen to me,” she looked at Joel. “He was supposed to instigate a small accident, a fender bender with the uncles, so Lily would get worried and want to stay and help them out, so she wouldn’t be in Texas with you.”

The three still looked confused.

“But… uh… he overdid it, and her uncles ended up badly injured. They’re fine, by the way, broken leg, fractured ribs, but…that was not part of the plan.”

“What the fuck, Angela. You could have killed people! You asked your nephew to do this to stop Lily from going to Texas? What else have you done?” Tommy asked disbelievingly, unaware how loaded that question was.

She looked to be contemplating for a while, but ultimately decided she had nothing more to lose. She knew they would find out anyway, now that they knew about her nephew, there was no hiding this.

She recalled that day in your truck. You had left your phone unlocked on the counter when you went to the bathroom. Her idiot nephew had texted her that the accident went a bit too far than planned, that he was sure the uncles were badly injured. She panicked, worried that the uncles would be able to identify Eddie and her involvement in this whole thing would come out in the open. But she saw the perfect opportunity then, one that she didn’t think she could pull off.

She had had the NDA drafted out since she saw you that birthday dinner night. She left when Tommy asked her to but stayed across the street, hoping to find out more. She saw Tommy and Maria leave with the girls, her heart breaking at the thought that you and Joel were completely alone in the house, that everyone was so supportive of this union that they left the house to give the two of you some privacy. Her jealousy reared it’s ugly head when she recalled how dismissive Sarah and Ellie were of her, so quick to question her presence, when she was the one who had been there all long for Joel. Yet, here you were, very much welcomed after a few months.

Tears began filling her eyes when she saw you come out to accept a delivery, wearing Joel’s flannel. She watched as Joel passionately kissed you in his doorway, lifting you up into his arms and kicking the door shut behind him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was happening behind that door. She drafted that NDA as soon as she got home. She knew she was going to use it against you. But she didn’t know how to get it to you without making you suspicious of her intents.

And now, luck was on her side.

So she picked up your phone and quickly changed the Millers’ phone numbers to the slew of disposable numbers she had on hand, the ones she used to tip off the paparazzi and such. She then deleted all texts from the Millers, blocked all their original numbers from your phone, calling Eddie, telling him to take Bill and Frank’s phones. He didn’t need to, evidently, the phones destroyed in the crash. She blocked Joel’s email address from your phone too, for good measure. She later logged into Joel’s email to block your email. She was doing whatever she could to make sure you and Joel couldn’t contact each other. She didn’t even know if it would work, but lucky for her, it did. You signed the NDA without protest, according to Andrew.

Tommy closed his eyes.

“So she didn’t ghost me?” Joel asked, looking hopeful.

“No. But she signed the NDA Joel. She wouldn’t have if she was really in love with you. I tried to warn you about her…” Angela tried.

“Wait… wait, wait, wait…” Tess said, taking her phone out. She googled something, finding it, and looked at the NDA again.

“This was signed on the day this article came out,” she told Joel, showing him the article ‘announcing their engagement’. She turned to look at Angela once more, “You arranged this, didn’t you?” When she couldn’t answer, Tess pressed, “Angela, you told me she was a gold digger, that she was after Joel’s money, that she was sleeping around on Joel. I believed you! And now I find out you did all this too? Why would you go through all this trouble to separate them? Because Joel didn’t want to renew? You know he had talked about that way before he met Lily?”

“That’s why you treated Lily like that?” Joel asked Tess. Tess looked regretful,

“She’s been our friend forever, Joel! I’ve known this woman over 20 years! I didn’t see a reason not to believe her! I’m sorry! I thought I was protecting you!”

“Why?” Joel finally managed to grit out to Angela, his chest heaving, his eyes lasered in on hers.

Her expression turned sour. Her eyes were filling with tears.

“Joel…” she whispered.

“WHY!!!???” he screamed, his face red, his neck taut.

Angela jerked, shutting her eyes for a while. When they opened, there was only anger in them.

She remembered the young man she met over 20 years ago, extremely good looking, polite, a great father to Sarah, a gentleman to everyone he came across. He was a great friend, a great man overall. She fell for him, hard. But the man was grieving. He made it very clear he was not looking for anyone to replace Laura. His focus was and would always be on Sarah, he didn’t have time for a relationship.

She remembered thinking he would get over his grief soon. And when he does, she would be there for him. She suggested a friends with benefits situation, telling him that she didn’t have time for relationships either. Just sex, no romance, none of that bullshit, she had told him. So they did, in the privacy of his shipping container makeshift office onsite. She swallowed her pride every time he refused to kiss her, every time he refused foreplay with her, every time he refused a date with her, every time he refused the suggestion of a hotel room, her office, his truck, her car, her home, much less his home with her. She swallowed it all, hoping that he would open his eyes and finally see her.

But he never did.

When she saw what she thought was clearly a double date at the sushi place that night, she got desperate. She eventually made nice with you, hoping to find things about you she could use to separate you and Joel. But when you excitedly told her Joel had asked you to move in with him, after only two months of dating, she snapped.

“Twenty years we’ve been friends, Joel. Twenty years. When we met, you were a lowly single father who barely made ends meet. Look at you now. Look at how successful you are now. I did this. I got you here. And after everything, you scream at me? Because of that lowly barista?”

The last smidgen of patience left Joel’s body. Tommy grabbed his arm, stopping him from moving towards the woman.

“Why?” he repeated.

“I waited for you, Joel. You made it clear, you were not ready for a relationship. So I waited. And waited. And then I waited some more. And then Bam! You’re ready! And instead of coming back to me, the woman who have stood by you all these years, who wanted you over 20 years ago, back when you had nothing, the one who helped you get everything you have now, you went to her! Why have you never asked me out to dinner Joel? Why have I never been invited to your house outside of work?”

“Do you think it was easy for me to watch you kiss her on the lips when I never got that? I watched you invite her to share your bed, practically live at your house, which I helped you choose, when all I ever got was an hour every now and then at your dingy office? Why do I get treated like some glorified sex toy and she gets to be loved by you? Why should I watch you move her in after two months together when I have been waiting in the wings for twenty years only to be pushed aside, Joel? Why her? What does she have that I don’t?”

She sobbed.

“The heart wants what it wants, Angela. And my heart wants her. Not you.”

Angela nodded weakly. “I know. I see that now. Even after everything, you still pine for her. Even when she left you without so much of an explanation,” she whispered, shaking her head, finally accepting defeat, watching helplessly as Tommy called for security.

Angela was gone by the time security called the cops, Eddie in their custody. She rushed home, packed up her bags and booked it out of LA. Eddie may have been an idiot, but she knew he would sing as soon as he was in custody. She knew, she just knew her life as she knew it was over. There was no way Joel and Tommy, even Tess, would keep quiet about this. Even if they did, Eddie would blab so fast if it meant he would get leniency for the hit and run. She was at least guilty for conspiring to cause harm, twice over. And even if she got off lightly on those charges, the fact that she forged Joel’s signature on a legal document was not something that would go forgotten and unpunishable by law. At the very least, she would lose this job. Her reputation would go to pot. She would lose every single thing she held dear.

Damn you, she thought, this was all your fault. Why’d you have to be so perfect for Joel? She did research on you. Cleo’s ‘exposure’ merely confirmed what she already knew - that you were a nice person who didn’t let money get to your head. She couldn’t even find it in her to hate you when she was pretending to be nice to you. Even when she was actively trying to sabotage you, she liked you. In a different world, she would be more than happy to be your friend.

She was so deep in thought, she didn’t realize she had run a red light. The sounds of screeching tires snapped her out of her stupor, and the last thing she saw was the shining logo of a huge pickup truck coming fast from her left.

“Hi Baby,” Tommy greeted Maria with a kiss, closing the door behind her. Maria walked into the living room, where the expectant faces of Joel, Sarah, Ellie and Tess greeted her.

“Sorry guys, not good news,” she said, giving the girls and Tess a hug, and a kiss for Joel.

“That’s not possible,” Tommy said, “Everyone leaves a trail these days.”

“Not her,” Maria said. “She was in LA until about two weeks after she was supposed to go to Austin, and then she just… disappeared. Two months - she didn’t use her card, didn’t withdraw any money, didn’t purchase anything, didn’t fly anywhere, didn’t rent a car, didn’t check into a hotel… she’s just… gone.”

“How the hell is that possible?”

Maria shrugged. “Frank didn’t make any purchase either, it’s just weird.”

“Are they…?” Sarah asked, not daring to finish the sentence.

“No obituaries.”

Joel, Sarah and Ellie heaved a sigh of relief.

“Are you sure you don’t know Bill’s last name? His condo and car are in Lily’s name.” Maria looked at the three expectantly, kicking herself for never asking either.

“No, I sorta forgot they were not really related, I assumed it’s Stevens too, and I just knew Jenny as Jenny, didn’t think of a last name,” Ellie said, banging her head on Sarah’s shoulder.

“Same.”

“Her LA bank account is active, Dave has been depositing his payments to her. But no withdrawal. Her phone number is disconnected. Tracking one Lily Stevens among thousands is not easy. It would help if we knew where Jenny lives,” she looked at Joel.

Joel rubbed his face, “The woman is a comedian. New York today, Tibet the next, she told me she was in the South Pole once. I never thought I needed to ask. She was coming here for Christmas,” he said, lips wobbling, thinking about Christmas without you. He even ordered a stocking for you, far too excited to have you and your family with him and his family during the holidays.

“I’m gonna go to the truck tomorrow, talk to Dave myself. See if I can get him to talk,” Maria said.

“I’ll go with you,” Tess offered, eager to help.

Joel was quiet. As he had been since you stopped communicating. God, he missed you so much. He knew you wouldn’t just leave for no reason. Even before he knew the truth, he couldn’t find it in him to hate you for leaving. He knew you, he may have only known you for a short time, but he knew you. He just did. Even the girls couldn’t be angry at you.

When he finally told Sarah the truth about Laura, Sarah was angry for him, but not for herself. She was angry for Joel. She had zero memory of her. To her, Joel was both Mom and Dad, so to know someone, even her own birth mother had hurt him as such, it hurt her. But with you, Sarah cried with him, trying everything she could do to help him find you. Not for one second was she angry at you, even as she was hugging her crying Dad. They just knew you wouldn’t have left for no reason. They knew you didn’t have a bad bone in your body.

But even after finding the truth, finding you was proving to be quite the challenge. Maria pulled all the tricks she had up her sleeves, but it was as if you had anticipated she would look for you, so you took steps to avoid her and her ways. But Maria was a determined woman. She had yet to fail in her endeavours. And by God, she was going to find you.

She and Tess went to the truck early the next morning, promising Joel they would bring a cup home for him, not that he was looking forward to it. He had long known it wasn’t the coffee he was addicted to. The cheap swill he got at the sites would taste like the most expensive coffee in the world if you had poured it for him. He just wanted you.

“Dave,” Maria called, the man smiling at her despite himself. “Can we have two cappuccinos please? And one americano, with…”

“Six shots of espressos to go… yeah, I’ll be right with you,” Dave answered, waving Maria’s card away. “Zach, do you mind getting some pastries from Betty? I’m kinda hungry,” he said.

Zach finished wiping the counter and jumped out of the truck, greeting Maria with a smile and a hug. He shook Tess’s hand, introducing himself.

Later, the four were sitting down, Maria filling Dave in on the news about Angela. The men looked uncomfortable, shaking their heads, shocked that someone would go that far to separate two people in love.

“Can’t believe she would do that to Lil, and Bill and Frank too… wow… I mean, they are the nicest people I know, and for her to hate Lil that much… phew…” Zach said, shaking his head.

“So, we know you promised Lily you wouldn’t tell her anything about her whereabouts, but could you please tell her what we just told you? We need her to know the truth,” Tess coaxed.

“No can do,” Dave said, looking apologetic. “She wouldn’t give me her contact info. Something about being traceable. I guess she was right,” he said, smiling at Maria.

Maria looked at Zach, who raised both his hands in surrender, “Hey, you know I would do anything for Lil, but like Dave, I have no idea how to contact her,” he said.

Tess was about to say something else, but Maria simply said she understood, picking up her coffee, thanking Dave and Zach for their kindness. She asked Zach if he was working for Dave now?

“Nah, it’s my off day, just hanging out here for the day.”

“How’s your job going by the way?” Maria asked.

“Great, couldn’t be happier,” Zach said, looking content.

“You manage an apartment building, right? Tess here is looking. Any vacancies?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s the kind of place a TV star lives in,” Zach said, smiling.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to keep her options open. You have a card?” Maria pushed.

“Yeah, here,” Zach handed the card over, hugging Maria goodbye.

Maria practically pulled Tess away from the truck. “What are you doing? I promised Penny I would look for a house! I can’t live in an apartment. We have dogs!”

Maria shushed her, dialling someone on her phone. “Chris? Need you to repeat the search, this time, look for anything under the name Zachary Wellison.”

“Here’s your coffee, thank you for coming!” you handed the coffee to the nice older lady who had now become your regular. You turned around to see Benny, your other regular smiling at you, asking for his usual.

“Come on, Lil, you said you’ll think about it,” he cooed. He’d been trying to fix you up for a while, first it was himself, then his brother Will, then his buddy Santi, and now, it’s Frankie, both of whom lived at the other end of the country.

“No, thank you! I told you, I’m not ready!”

“Come on, Lil, just one date, you’ll love him, I promise. He’s perfect,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Okay, he has PTSD. And maybe some other issues but… he looks like that contractor guy you were dating. Although… now that I think about it… that might not be the best idea, huh?” he said, cringing a little. You passed him his coffee and shooed him off, taking the rag to rinse, as the bell on the door chimed.  

“Can I have the largest mocha you have and ten minutes to talk please?” a customer asked. You turned around, your service smile at the ready, only to come face to face with Tess.

You felt you head go cold. You retreated, “I’m not supposed to speak to you,” you whispered, turning around to go into the kitchen. She caught up with you, gently taking your hand.

“Lily, please, ten minutes. He’s not here. You had the wrong info. I swear. Please, ten minutes, I’m begging you.”

“Go, Beanie, I have the till,” your Mom coaxed, pushing you gently towards Tess.

You sat across from her, your Mom placing a cup of latte in front of you and a mocha for Tess. You didn’t speak, just waiting for her to say her piece.

“First of all Lily, I want to apologize for the way I treated you back at Joel’s. I listened to the wrong person. I thought I could trust her, I’ve known her for 20 years, I never thought she would lie to me. Angela told me you were after Joel’s money, that you were sleeping around and Joel was too blind to see it. I believed her. I’m sorry. I admit I was rude to you on purpose. I wanted you to know I didn’t like you. I went o stay at his place instead of a hotel just because I wanted you to be insecure. I pushed the girls into spending time with me instead of you, I guilted them when they said you had plans, they didn’t do anything wrong. That thing with his flannel, the phone, I did it all because I wanted you to feel unwelcomed. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t respond, you simply looked at her, your face expressionless.

“See, I feel responsible for Joel, for his late wife breaking his heart.”

You frowned.

“I was Eddie’s fiancée. Laura was my best friend. I introduced Joel to her.”

Oh…

She took a sip from her drink, looking at you, as if trying to gauge your reaction.

“I was… not myself when I was with Eddie. He wanted me to be a housewife. Raise his children, cook his food, clean his house… I never wanted that. He kept comparing me to Laura. She was perfect, as far as he was concerned. I should have seen the affair coming, but I didn’t, I was too wrapped up in my own stuff, my own worries. If I had, I would have warned Joel.”

The doorbell chimed, a woman walked in, smiling at Tess. She joined the two of you after ordering a cup of coffee for herself.

“Lily, this is Penny, my fiancée.”

Huh? Oh.

Oh…

“Joel and I, we were never an item. Just old friends. I was with Eddie because I was hiding who I really was. But when he wanted me to be the little woman, I just thought… this was not the life I signed up for. This was not worth me hiding who I really am. So I left him. And Eddie, he just went straight for Laura. I read the letter she left him. She was just waiting for me and Eddie to split. And he took advantage of her obsession with him and just took her right from under Joel. Joel got his heart broken because I left Eddie. That’s why I am so protective of him, and any relationship he has. Even if the accident hadn’t happened, she was going to leave him for Eddie. I feel guilty, responsible, in fact, for his heart breaking. For Sarah not having a mother. Believe me, if not for Angela, I would not have treated you like that.”

“Angela did this?”

She nodded. She told you everything Angela did, the when, the how, the why. “The NDA was not legitimate in the first place. Angela forged Joel’s signature. It’s null and void. Joel didn’t know any of it, had nothing to do with it. He didn’t do anything wrong. He never gave up hope, Lily. He kept looking for you, waiting for you. Maria never gave up either. The girls, they scour LA at every chance they had, in case they would run into you. They were glued to their phones when they’re home, looking for any signs of you. They all love you, Lily, and if not for Angela, you and Joel would be so happy right now.”

Tess saw the anger in your eyes, quickly adding, “Angela, she received her karma. She tried to run, after her nephew was brought in for questioning. Her car got T-boned just as she was leaving LA. She’s paralyzed from the neck down. She’ll be living the rest of her days in a nursing facility. Joel and Tommy are footing the bills, a kindness for all the years they had been friends, despite everything.” She smiled when she saw your anger soften.

“He’s so in love with you, Lily, believe me, he is. The man hasn’t enjoyed a cup of coffee since you ‘ghosted’ him. Please give him a chance.”

You were pottering about in your cottage, distracting yourself. They found you. You shouldn’t have used Zach’s name to make the bookings. You thought you were so clever, driving the 18 hours with your injured Uncles in the back of the spacious MPV all the way to your Mom’s ranch in Jackson rather than flying. You actually thought you did it, months passed and no one came-a-lookin’. And then, Tess was here. Damn Maria and her powers of investigation.

You hadn’t even used your cards or withdrew any cash, your Mom agreeing to foot the bills for a few months until you were convinced you were old news in their minds. She was just happy you and your Uncle Bill were finally here. She had spent years coaxing the two of you to move back in with her.

Well, she said move back in, by that she meant move into the cottages at the other ends of her vast property. She lived in the main house, overseeing the workings of your late grandparents’ properties and ranches. Lola, the lady who used to take care of Claire and Cleo’s family moved with her, married Carl the manager and now helped run the ranch. She opened a café, Lil’ Beans, named after you, out of boredom about a year after moving here. You managed it for her, your way of helping out, since you didn’t know which end of a horse was which.

Your Uncles were far too happy to be here. Once healed, they got right into country living, your Uncle Bill building and fixing everything he could get his hands on, Frank painting everything he saw. They were planning to move permanently once the situation ‘died down’, according to your Uncle Bill.

And you… you were just… living. You heart stopped every time someone came in to order an americano, worried that it would be followed by ‘six shots of espressos’. But as much as you were dreading those words, every day that you flipped the close sign at the end of the day, you were disappointed not to have heard them.

Listening to Tess today, you felt stupid. Stupid to not see Angela and her manipulation. She had been so nice to you. You wanted to kick yourself at how easily she managed this. You fucking left her in your truck with your unlocked phone for five minutes, and she turned your life upside down.

Your mind kept thinking about what would have happened if you just flew to Austin as soon as your Uncles were discharged. Dave was there, so was Zach, they could have helped, but you were too hasty, too clouded, too hurt by the NDA that you rushed straight into running, only to find out it was all a lie, that you could have had good night sleeps all this while in Joel’s arms.

God, you missed him.

And now that you knew the truth, what now? Do you go running back to LA? You couldn’t really see it anymore. You loved it here. It’s quiet, calm, relaxing. You loved your new, more relaxed routine with the café. You had staff to open early for you, roast the beans for you. You got to take long walks here, the air was fresh and clean here, you could hear your own thoughts here.

As much as you miss him, the girls and the life you had with them, you didn’t know if you wanted to go back to that city, the traffic, the smog, the noise.

The celebrities.

No… you couldn’t. That was not the life for you.

And would you go back to him, in the light of all this revelation?

There was a knock on the door. And then another. And then another.

Who was it? Your people didn’t knock multiple times. They knocked once as a warning and walked in. You went to the front door and opened it, your breathing caught in your throat when you saw who it was.

God he looked good.

And all the negative thoughts about going back to LA seemed to park themselves at the back of your head.

It was as if your body was pulled to him against your will. You didn’t want to go to him, trying hard to stay your resolve. No more. Life with a celebrity… there was too much drama. That life was not for you. Look what had happened in your life since he came into it. You got pulled out of a truck, fell on your ass and pulled in every direction, all of it caught on camera, filmed, for the whole world to see. Your personal life became public knowledge. Your Uncles almost died. And though everything else was not his fault, you couldn’t risk feeling like that ever again, feeling the way you felt when pictures of him and Tess holding hands flooded your screen every time you browse the internet. When Cleo pulled him into a kiss in front of the world. What if another Cleo came into the picture? No… you couldn’t possibly.

But he was here, in your doorway, looking tired and miserable, woe begone as a sad young boy whose favourite toy was taken from him. You leaned your head on the inside of the door frame, not wanting to invite him in, pulling your sweater close to your body to avoid the chill outside from getting to you. He placed his gloved hand on the wall outside your door, resting his head on the other side of the door frame, his other hand in his pocket.

Your eyes found each other.

He leaned in, as close as he could without touching you, nose just above the top of your head, inhaling deeply, eyes filling with tears as he took in the scent he had missed oh so much, taking more and more deep, stuttered breaths as he did, whispering how much he missed you. That he didn’t know Angela was doing what she did, that he would have done anything to turn back time, take it all back, that he would do anything to have you back in his life, even if it meant he would only be a friend. Please baby. I miss you so much. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. Please. Please. Please.

Against your wishes, your eyes closed, taking in the familiar scent of his old leather jacket, the way his breathing sounded, his musk, the phantom feel of his scruff against your skin. His whispers were so familiar, taking you back to the times the two of you would lie in bed wrapped up in each other, the times he would say something naughty into your ears while having meals with the girls, the times when you woke up to him pressed up against your back, saying good morning in his crackly baritone.

Fuck, you missed him.

You pulled back from him, looking him in the eyes that were full of tears, hope and yearning, the serious look he saw in yours beginning to fill his own with dread.

“I just have one question for you, Joel Miller.”

His eyes turned quizzical, a small, final, glimmer of hope still in them.

You took a deep breath, and with a slight stutter in your breath, you asked him.

“Little hug? Or big hug?”

Epilogue

[wileys-russo]

childhood sweethearts (11) II a.russo x reader

playlist one two three four five six seven eight nine ten

thought I’d be nice for once and give y’all something short and sweet

childhood sweethearts (11) II a.russo x reader

"thank you." you smiled appreciatively, taking your coffee and bag of food, making your way out of the cafe. you took a seat at a small table outside in the sun, dropping your sunglasses down onto your nose and basking in the warm glow of the early morning sun.

normally you'd take the opportunity of a saturday morning to sleep in, especially given the fact you'd hardly slept a wink last night. however this morning your body had been awake and coiled with anxiety far earlier than you intended.

so here you were hoping a coffee and a sweet treat might help to ease the grey cloud of nervous energy which hung over your body, and had done ever since your front door had slammed closed last night and the reality of your actions had sank in.

as much as you wanted to be angry at alessia for leaving you couldn't find it within yourself, knowing just as well that had the situation been reversed and you'd been at her home you'd have done the exact same thing.

the more you were left with your own thoughts to think it over, the more you began to realise you actually weren't angry with her in the slightest. if anything, you found yourself quite missing the feeling of kissing her and the way your head span.

you could still feel her hands as they roamed your body, your lips tingling at the thought of hers pressed against them soft and inviting.

the haunting memory of how it felt to have your skin touching hers and each inch of it feeling alight as if on fire, goosebumps peaking all over your body as your hair stood on end like bolts of electricity had ripped through you.

you missed her, you missed that feeling, and you wanted nothing more than to relive it over and over again. and that, that was much more terrifying a feeling than anything else at all.

finishing your coffee you pushed it aside, swallowing your mouthful of food and tapping on your phone, unlocking it and staring at the thread of messages, a million and one thoughts flitting through your head.

over and over again you typed a message to her, and then immediately deleted it with a shake of your head.

this routine continued until you'd finished your pastry, giving up with a sigh and slipping your phone into your pocket, standing up from the table and disposing of your rubbish, starting to slowly make your way back home.

you stopped by the market on the way deciding that you needed to keep yourself busy today in anyway you could and so without any real errands that needed to be done, and a small mountain of school work you knew you'd need to get to at some point you decided that a morning of baking might help to cease the unease which plagued your mind.

thanking the shopkeeper with a smile you slung the bag of groceries over your shoulder and slipped your sunglasses back down onto your nose, continuing your walk home and soaking in the warmth of a promisingly lovely weekend.

you hummed along to the tune which beat through you, one airpod tucked into your right ear as you rounded the final corner and headed home.

you found your eyes focused more on your feet than what lay ahead, a bad habit as you turned and suddenly looked up knowing you were now home, almost falling over at a sight you should have noticed a lot sooner.

"jesus christ!" you swore in shock, clutching at your chest in surprise as you almost tripped over alessia who was sat waiting on your front steps, pulling your airpod out and exhaling shakily.

"sorry! i thought you'd see me." alessia blushed bright red, scurrying to her feet and darting out of your way. "no sorry i was completely in my own world, that's not on you." you rambled out quickly, your own cheeks warm with embarrassment as you noticed a bouquet of flowers gripped tightly in the strikers hand.

"thought i'd wait around and hand deliver these in person this time." alessia forced an awkward smile at the memory of the last time she'd tried to apologise with flowers and been caught out trying to make a break for it before you'd seen her.

"do you want to...come in?" you offered, unsure really of how to progress as your head began to click into an overdrive of flurried nerves and uncertainty. "yeah okay." alessia nodded, seemingly just as flustered as you stepped around her and made a beeline up to your front door.

you dropped the keys and swore quietly to yourself, bending down to grab them and jamming them in the lock, twisting as the door unlocked with a sudden pop and you stumbled inside.

"seems we've swapped today." alessia joked, grabbing the back of your top to steady you as you forced a nervous laugh, unsure why your body was betraying you in such a way as she closed the door for you.

"do you want anything? tea? coffee? water?" you offered, dropping your bag carefully onto the counter and raising an eyebrow, trying desperately to calm yourself and even out your breathing. "i'm fine, thank you." alessia declined politely.

"for you." she countered quickly, again holding out the flowers as your face softened, now noticing of course she'd gotten your favourites. "they're beautiful less, thank you." you smiled, grabbing a vase from your cupboard.

busying yourself arranging them in the vase you cleared your throat, a thick silence occupying the room as clearly neither of you knew where to start.

"they aren't for anything either, they're well...they're just because." alessia broke first, cheeks flushed rosy pink as you spared her a glance over your shoulder, softening at the shy smile on her face at the confession.

"thank you." you repeated, your own neck warming up as again silence fell.

"about last night-" "we should talk about-"

you both stopped as the other started, sharing an awkward laugh at your shared intentions. "do you want to sit outside? shame to waste the sun." you offered gesturing to the small deck which lead out onto your backyard, alessia agreeing with a nod.

"i'm sorry i left." alessia started not long after the two of you had settled on the deck, a generous enough gap left between the two of you as you fiddled with the rings on your fingers. "you don't need to be, i'm not upset with you." you clarified, shooting her a small smile of reassurance before looking away again.

"it was, unexpected." you continued, referring more so to the kiss you both shared rather than her leaving, hoping she would pick up on it without you needing to clarify much more.

"yeah." alessia breathed out, picking up on what you were insinuating, exhaling shakily. an awkward silence fell after that as you both ticked over in your own heads what to say next, but without knowing what the other was feeling you were both too hesitant to lead the conversation.

"i wish i could read your mind sometimes." alessia admitted, biting down on her bottom lip as her knee bounced a little bit, body coiled with a nervous apprehension.

"one minute you're kissing me and then saying you just want to be friends, and i understood why and i tried so hard to respect that because i know you gave me a second chance i didn't deserve and i wanted you in my life selfishly in anyway i could." alessia continued as you looked away, ears burning at the truthful words which fell from her lips.

"getting us back on track well seems to be going well but then we're kissing again and i have no idea what you're thinking about it all." her voice became quieter at that, conversation left open clearly hopeful that you'd pick up where she left off.

"i wish you could read my mind too because even i don't know how to decipher it sometimes." a small smile curled into your features before you sighed heavily and alessia braced herself for the rejection she expected to be thrown her way, having tried her best all morning to prepare for what you'd have to say.

"there's a part of my brain that's terrified from what happened and what it means, and all those feelings of rejection and pain and hurt come flying back. when you were so ready to just leave me behind, i felt like i meant nothing to you and i think the dismissal of everything we went through together." you started, a frown creasing into your eyebrows as alessia's stomach lurched.

"but then i also don't think its a fair second chance if i dwell on that. i know you're not that same teenager anymore alessia and it would be wrong for me to hold that against you or over your head for the rest of your life." your voice softened and you chanced a glance toward her, seeing a frown not too dissimilar to yours etched into her features as she looked at the ground.

"i don't regret the kiss." you stated boldly, your voice seemingly a whole lot more confident than you really felt as the blondes head snapped up in surprise. her eyes catching with yours and suddenly your stomach clenched and all that confidence melted away, tips of your ears burning.

"neither do i."

"can you tell me how you're feeling please?" alessia continued, chewing nervously on her bottom lip. but she was taken off guard as you suddenly let out a groan, laying down on your back and covering your face with your arms.

"that bad huh?" the striker winced, that fear of rejection returning as she looked away. "no its not that at all its just..." you trailed off, words muffled against your arms, unsure how to even put it in words.

"just what?" "i feel like a hypocrite." "and why would you feel that way?"

"well i'm the one who kissed you the first time, and then i freaked out and made a firm point that it wouldn't happen again. that we couldn't be anything more than friends again because of how scared i was to go back to feeling how i had, and i don't ever want to be that hurt again." you started quietly, hands dropping to your sides as you stared up at the sky, feeling alessia's watchful gaze on you.

"but you only kissed me because i ambushed you with that big speech and i turned up to your house an absolute mess and you had every right to set those boundaries between us. it doesn't make you a hypocrite." alessia warned softly, reaching out to touch you but thinking better of it as her hand settled back in her lap.

"and last night...you can't take the full responsibility for that. it just, happened." her voice dropped an octave lower, wrenching her eyes away from you. "yeah." you agreed with a small sigh, still trying to unpack everything.

"okay i'm going to start speaking. but if you want me to stop, please stop me." alessia decided with a heavy exhale as you sat up again and nodded, waiting for her to continue. "okay this is sort of embarrassing but can we do the thing again, like when we were younger." she pleaded, cheeks flushed red with shame.

"you mean when we turn and-" "yeah." "okay."

hiding the small smile which wanted to curl into your features at her request you shuffled around so your backs faced one another, jolting ever so slightly as she pushed back a little, her body pressing lightly into yours.

you waited for her to speak, not wanting to rush her as clearly by your current positions this wasn't something she was finding easy to say, and you tried your best to swallow the nerves that caused to bubble up inside you.

"like i said, you had every right to set those boundaries with us given what happened and the fact we were starting over." alessia started, pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts. "but i don't think either of us can deny that clearly we aren't doing very well staying within them." she continued, your eyebrows furrowing into a slight frown.

"you can deny it if you want to but that kiss last night, it meant something, and i felt something. something that i tried to lock away when you said you wanted to be just friends because like i said, i'd rather have you in my life one way than not at all." alessia paused, again thinking out her next words as your heart started to beat a little faster.

"and i think you feel something too and thats probably terrifying given how things ended last time but i promise you i wouldn't ever dream of hurting you like that again. it scares me too just how much i care about you after so many years, how when i look at you everything that i thought was gone all just comes rushing back again and it makes my head spin. which is why i ran after the kiss last night, because i'd be lying if i said it didn't hurt to have to pretend i don't feel this way and that i don't want us to be something more." alessia continued confessing, biting her lip nervously.

"when i'm around you things make sense, we make sense. knowing how much i broke you the last time i had a chance to properly love you, it's the one thing in my life that I actually regret. seeing the pain in your eyes as you left, your inability to even look at me as you did. the not speaking to you or seeing you for so long, coming home and seeing you'd given back all my stuff, all the stuff i got for you, everything that symbolized us then symbolized that we were over for good, and of course i take responsibility for it but it hurt."

"you're the person i want to tell everything to, and the first one who comes to mind. when i got my first senior national team call up I just wanted to call you, text you, talk to you about it. but i couldn't, so i didn't. but now, now that feelings back and anytime something even tiny happens i find my mind wanders to what you'd think about it, what you'd say-" alessia paused again to take a breath as your heart hammered even harder in your chest.

"is this too much? god i feel like this is too much." the blonde stressed, doubt creeping in as you shook your head, forgetting momentarily that she couldn't see you. "no, keep going." you managed out once your senses kicked back in.

"okay, here we go.

"i like your eyes, i could look into them for hours and never get bored, they're comforting, they're beautiful and they're safe, just like you are. i like the little sun and moon studs in the corner of your ear, i like how the sound of your laughter can fill a whole room like a wind chime and how you stick your tongue out of that little gap in your teeth when you smile. i like the stupid little concentrating face you make when you think really hard about something, i like how you fall asleep during movie's, how you care more about other people than you do for yourself, you are a good person. a person better than i'll ever deserve another chance with, but you have no idea how badly i want to kiss you over and over again and for it to mean something." alessia's voice was barely a whisper as she finished, body riddled with anxiety as more time passed and you stayed dead silent.

"please say something."

"it is terrifying. when we kissed last night was different than that first time, all these emotions and feelings and memories came rushing back and suddenly i felt like that shy nervous lovesick teenager all over again. i was seventeen again laying in bed with you, both of us giggling like idiots and worrying about someone walking in on us." you started, trying desperately to make sense of how you were feeling despite how overwhelming it all was.

"i thought the kinds of feelings that came up when we kissed were long gone but its scary just how fast they all came racing back up to the surface. i think i really like you too lessi, no i know i do. but i think we still need to take things slowly, i don't want this to be something that crashes and burns out." you admitted, your stomach knotting over and over at the realization, your heartbeat now pounding in your ears.

there were no more words exchanged between you, and alessia jolted a little as she felt your hands inch backwards a little, seeking out her own. her every nerve tingled with a warm sense of calm as they found one another, your fingers intertwining with a gentle but now hopeful squeeze.

"okay, i can do slow. we can do slow."

with that said the two of you turned, again sitting side by side but much closer than before. "i know we just had like a big conversation but i really need to go or i'll be late for training and i don't particularly fancy running laps." alessia realised, giving you a guilty look.

"mmm i don't know, i'd kind of like to see you have to run some laps." you teased, a smile on your face as you tried to ignore the insane wave of emotions washing down on you, selfishly a little pleased she needed to leave which allowed you some time to sit and process them.

"could use them, might help you realise how long your legs are so you stop tripping over them." you continued, the blonde shoving you lightly before the two of you stood and headed back inside.

"so..." alessia trailed off, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet by the door. "so..." you mocked, crossing your arms as you hovered by your front door. "when can i see you again?" alessia asked, trying her best not to sound too eager, well aware you'd just had the conversation about testing the waters again.

"depends." you shrugged. "on?" alessia questioned, a little confused by your response. "you should get going, there's laps waiting for you." you reminded, opening your door and gesturing for her to go, the blonde stepping onto your front porch.

"depends on what?" the girl huffed impatiently, crossing her arms and staring you down. "whenever you ask me on a date. bye lessi!" you smiled, leaning up to softly kiss her cheek, closing the door quickly before she had a chance to respond.

~

you smiled at the good morning message on your phone, simple but sweet enough to have made your day just a little brighter as you texted alessia back.

she was quick to respond, making fun of you for the fact it wasn't technically morning anymore as you rolled your eyes, still still present on your lips as you sent her your own reply, wishing her good luck for the game today.

biting down on your lip your eyes scanned the contents of your fridge, willing some sort of inspiration to strike about what you could possibly cook yourself.

grabbing out some eggs you settled for those and a couple pieces of toast, your motivation low as you glanced over to the untouched pile of marking on your table.

you'd just finished cooking and hadn't even been able to sit down to eat before your phone rang. placing down your forkful of food you sighed and clicked answer.

"you better have a good reason for calling me on a sunday." you warned your brother. "wow its just so lovely to hear from you too." his voice dripped with sarcasm, and you winced at the loud music blaring behind him.

"what can i do for you dear harold?" you questioned, knowing him well enough that there was always an ulterior motive to his calls. "what are you doing today?" he asked, seemingly innocent as your eyes narrowed.

"why?" "always so suspicious! do you really not trust me?" "i could give you one hundred reasons why i don't trust you harry, need i remind of the santa incident? the how babies are made story? the sleeping bag accident?" "all just harmless childhood fun! lighten up. now are you busy today?" "not particularly, just have a small mountain of school work to mark through."

"perfect! we'll pick you up in an hour." harry cheered happily as your frown deepened. "sorry?" you questioned unsure if you'd heard him correctly. "alessia's game is at three and luca's sick so gio and i have a spare ticket, we'll be at yours in an hour. be ready!" and with that he'd hung up before you could even say another word.

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

twelve

[thyfleshc0nsumed]

Okay I need honesty, do I sound fucking insane. like do I sound crazy. like do I sound cookoo dumb stupid crazy ass who should delete this and stop wasting their time on this or like am I making some snse

‘The pedophile’ is a scapegoat and boogeyman. It is an individualist, carceral, and fascist framing of childhood and adolescent sexual abuse. The individualist nature of this widely-accepted phenomenon functions to provide cover to the material basis that allows and creates such abuse, and is beloved by fascists for its malleability and galvanizing effect. Individual and carceral solutions are fundamentally incapable of stopping sexual abuse; if we truly care about the issue, we must abandon these frameworks altogether.

What is ‘the pedophile’ as a framework?

‘The pedophile’ is an attempt to provide anatomy of the problem. In this view, the cause is simple: for whatever reason, there exist a number of intrinsically sick, or more likely, evil individuals who lust after children and adolescents and make it their life’s goal to rape and defile them. With this framework, the solution is just as simple–dispose of the problemed people. If something about them is incurably evil, then what else is there to be done?

I understand the appeal of this framing to the majority that buy into it; a few years ago, I was caught up in the fervor myself. It’s a fairy tale; there exists a possibility of a ‘happily ever after.’ Evil is singular, and discreet from the world around it. The question of ‘why did they do it’ is conveniently irrelevant and inexplicable–evil is evil because it is evil; we must only know that it is evil and we (who could never be evil) must expel it. 

Unfortunately, evil does not exist. But harm does, and harm is necessarily based in the material, not the moral, or spiritual, or metaphysical. Material results have material causes–that is to say, there are ‘whats,’ ‘whys,’ and ‘hows’ to every meaningful harm.

First, the ‘what’: What happened, and what detrimental material impact did it have?

Second, the ‘why’: Why might the person who did the harm have done so?

Third, the ‘how’: How was the harm made possible?

To view sexual abuse in terms of ‘bad people do bad things,’ we shut down the second question with the thought-terminating idea of evil, and entirely ignore the third question. By doing this, we fully close ourselves off from any ideas that could meaningfully deal with the issue outside of individual instances of it. If we don’t know how harm comes to pass, we are utterly powerless to stop its furtherance. 

Childhood sexual abuse, like all forms of abuse, is made possible through unequal relationships to power. To understand this, we must understand ‘the family,’ the role of children within it, and the way capitalist society uses the family as an economic unit.

What is ‘the family’?

‘The family’ is capitalist society’s primary organizational method through which individuals meet their material needs. No matter a society’s methods of distribution, it is labor that is the animating essence of survival. Food must be cooked, children must be raised, waste must be taken out, and in a capitalist society, labor power must be sold so that the rent gets paid and the cabinets stay stocked. 

Ignoring the production chains that produce the commodities that are foundational to our lives, it is exceedingly difficult to run a household single-handedly. If someone is not able to leave a situation because they would lack the financial means to subsist otherwise, the person providing those financial means holds power over them. This is a neutral

[lyssophobiaa]

Half spelled promises & cigarette burns.

Rusty Key Motel, Alabama.

May 22nd. $39.00 – cash only

Room 12. You left the door open while you showered.

Back:

I saw the scar on your hip.

I wanted to ask.

I didn’t.

You said I looked tired.

I wanted to say “I miss you,” but you were right there.

Isn’t that stupid?

—T

Marathon Gas, Louisiana.

May 25th. $7.03 – matches, Dr. Pepper, one cheap disposable camera

You took a picture of me while I wasn’t looking.

I almost deleted it.

Didn’t.

You said I looked like someone who still had hope.

You’re a liar.

—T

Motel 8, North Carolina

June 1st — $38.00

Receipt is torn at the corner, creased and over-folded.

You left the window open again.

I watched you fall asleep to the sound of trucks on the highway.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so peaceful while being so loud.

You talk in your sleep.

You said my name.

I wanted to say it back.

Maybe next time.

—B

7-Eleven in Kentucky

June 18th — $6.63 (Slim Jims, sunglasses, one purple Slurpee)

You were asleep when I almost left.

Keys in hand, boots on, heart in my throat.

But you twitched in your sleep and muttered “Stay.”

So I did.

Just this once.

Maybe again tomorrow.

—T

Waffle House – 2am

June 26 — $17.89 (coffee, scattered hashbrowns, pecan waffle)

You stormed out after three bites.

Said I was “acting like a savior again.”

I didn’t follow you.

But I paid your tab anyway.

You’re not the only one who knows how to run.

—B

Motel 9 – Room 109

July 1 — $39.75

You slept with your back to me.

But you pulled the blanket over my shoulder at 3am.

I think that means you forgive me.

Or maybe you just didn’t want me cold.

Either way, thanks.

—B

Circle K – Tennessee border

July 27 — $5.31 (lighter, beef jerky, orange soda)

I came back, didn’t I?

You didn’t say a word. Just passed me the soda like we hadn’t just ripped each other in half.

That’s the closest we get to sorry.

—T

BP Gas Station, Mississippi

July 28 — $15.20

You said you didn’t need me.

Then you asked if I had a cigarette.

So which is it?

You either hate me or you’re scared to lose me.

I hope it’s the second one.

—B

Seedy Motel, unnamed town

August 6 — $36.99

You cried.

You never cry.

I didn’t know what to do.

So I held your hand like we weren’t both falling apart.

I said it was gonna be okay.

I lied.

I’m sorry.

—T

Motel 10 – Room 208 – August 24 – $41.70

Blood on the edge. Not enough to be alarming. Enough to wonder.

We fought.

Like, really fought.

I said things I didn’t mean. You did too.

You hit the mirror. It hit back.

I cleaned your hand.

You said, “Why do you always stay?”

I didn’t answer.

But the answer’s written all over this room.

—B

Rusted gas station on Route 53

August 30 — $6.12 (Red Vines, Twinkies, two packs of Marlboros)

I said I hated you.

You didn’t flinch.

Just said “okay.”

I didn’t mean it.

I just wanted to know if you’d fight for me.

You didn’t.

—T

Motel 11 –September 5 – $38.20

You kissed me in the shower like we weren’t drowning.

Like the water could wash the fear off.

It didn’t.

But God, you were warm.

—B

Motel 12, last one they stayed in together

October 15 — $41.11

You finally said it.

“I love you.”

Like it burned your throat on the way out.

I wanted to bottle the moment and drink it for the rest of my life.

I said it back. You looked scared.

I kissed you anyway.

You didn’t run.

That’s how I’ll remember you.

—B

Waffle House – October 16 – $18.04

You said, “We could stop running, you know.”

I said, “We can’t.”

But I wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

You make impossible things sound easy.

—T

Abandoned rest stop – February 7 – $0.00

You said, “Promise me you won’t leave without saying goodbye.”

I said, “I promise.”

I lied.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t know it’d be the last time.

I didn’t know you’d be the last thing I’d think about.

You always were.

—B

Motel receipt – found in Brian’s glovebox, never given to Tim – March 4 – $38.40

I’m scared.

Not of what’s out there.

Not even of dying.

I’m scared you’ll forget me.

Like I was just a pit stop on your way to burning brighter.

But God, I hope you don’t.

—B

The last one – no receipt, no amount. Torn corner of a map. Mud-stained. Ink smudged from rain. Tim’s handwriting. Unmistakably his. —

I looked for you in every motel hallway.

In every flickering sign.

In the static.

You’re nowhere.

But you’re everywhere.

I’m sorry.

I love you.

—T

[dontbesoweirdkira]

A/N: I love platonic yandere Johnny Cage so much. Here’s Johnny obsessing over a new and upcoming talent. He wants to protect you and boost your career but he ends up going overboard with it.

Inspired by

Warnings: Yandere themes (stalking, murder, physical abuse and manipulation) blah blah blah it’s a very fun time for you!! :D

Request: open 24/7

Masterlist

I think we as a community all agree that Yandere Johnny Cage is absolutely batshit insane…I mean he’s already operating on a certain kind of time usually but it’s just cranked up to 1000% with you.

Everything in his life just has to be picture perfect, his hair, movies, cars, house, and…you. Especially you! He sees himself in you, full of life and absolutely beautiful! You will have the absolute best if you just do exactly what he says.😀👍

Don’t get me wrong, he absolutely adores the crap out of you and he truly means well. He’s trying his absolute best to take care of you, he’s just an emotionally unregulated fuck.

When Johnny saw your audition tape he just knew you were destined to become America’s next sweetheart. It’s so hard to come by a natural like you in today’s world so he’d be a fool to just let you go.

His career is steadily on the decline so why not try to save it by living vicariously through you. If his name is attached to the new hot shit then he’s sure to skyrocket back into fame.

Johnny coming to you with this deal at first glance was the dream! THE JOHNNY CAGE LIKES YOU?! He thinks you’re star material?? Who wouldn’t take up this one in a lifetime opportunity.

Press conferences, interviews, red carpet and product reviews…Johnny kept you booked with little to no free time.

There was no saying no to this aswell. Take a good look at what you signed sweetheart! You’re his property. You have a script to follow and you better follow it.

What you wear, the way you walk, talk and dress are all under his creative direction.

Just smile at the camera, y/n and say how he’s the best co-star in the entire world and how perfect it is working with for him!

He’d flip out so fucking bad if you even suggest you wanted to leave the spotlight.

He’s the main reason anyone ever even looked your way! Johnny is the “only one” who cares for you, don’t you think that he knows what’s best for you?

He brought the shirt on your back and the food in the fridge and if you want to be an ungrateful little cunt, he’ll take it away from you.

He’ll tell you how if you really didn’t want to be here, he’d just hire someone else to take your place. And not just as America’s sweetheart…as his too.

Yeah you're an adult and he technically has no legal rights over you once your contract is up but imagine the constant conditioning that you’re going to be nothing without him.

He set up everything in a way where you can’t escape. The house he “gifted” you is all under his name, so is that fancy car and even your cell phone.

Even though he consistently threatens to disown, replace and ruin you, he will go absolutely psychotic if you decide to ignore him.

Oh and that cell phone I mentioned earlier? He’s constantly tracking you with it. Has access to personal files and even a parental mode at his disposal.

The revival of his career is crumbling in front of his eyes…worst yet, the entire WORLD.

He’ll blow up your phone with tons of texts and voice messages, spend copious amounts of money on gifts to bribe you back, kick up the charm too and tell you he didn’t mean what he said and that he’s such a terrible mentor.

He cries how he just wanted a better life for you and how he just wants to do something great and if all of this work fails he’ll become even more of a joke.

If that doesn't work he’ll even go as far as to try to manipulate you by saying he’s going to terminate all of his projects, delete his social media and tell the world he’s such a horrible man and that he doesn’t deserve any of the fame he has because he’s hurt you.

Of course you come back and start doing as he says again, only for the cycle to repeat.

Johnny isn’t the absolute worst, he does protect you from any potential dangers out there. He works extremely hard to keep your image very clean and pure even though you’re in your 20's . As much as you hate basically being stuck in a girl next door persona, he explains how once you start becoming a sex icon like him…the exploitation becomes worse.

Johnny definitely has been through and seen a lot of shit so he’s got the right spirit but wrong execution.

He even beat the shit out of a producer and got arrested because he tried forcing himself on you.

Speaking of getting arrested for fighting, this is such a common occurrence for him that you hold onto some of his credit cards just in case you have to bail him out on any given day.

Has threatened to murder multiple people in great detail for making you uncomfortable…now I’m not saying he’s ever carried out those plans but have you ever seen any of those co-stars ever again? Eh..Johnny said they just weren’t working with the camera.

He will vet any jobs you want to take and hand pick the safest sets and crews for you to work with. Your real manager doesn’t even argue with him anymore, he just accepts the fact Johnny is the self proclaimed one.

Hey well at least your idol doesn’t interfere in your romantic life! He just has to run background checks, stalk their socials and inner circles, be there on the date…nothing major….

You just can’t hook up with anyone, y/n. Can you imagine what this would do to your image??

Don’t bring up the hypocrisy of him practically dating most of the tri-state area….in the past year!

Has thought about getting a conservatorship over you but has been rejected because if anyone needs one, it’s really him.

[ladysouthpaw1213]

How I got into the Call of Duty Fandom thanks to Adler x Bell 🕶️🔔

(Header Image created using Kyoumeikaitou’s Neka C.C: Click)

As you all know, March 15 has a certain event associated with it. There is of course the backstabbing of Julius Caesar on this date. But Call of Duty fans(especially Black Ops fans) will recognized this date as the event of Call of Duty: Black Ops Cold War’s two endings(Final Countdown and Ashes to Ashes). Fitting considering that someone is getting betrayed in either of the two endings. And I decided that this is a perfect date to go into how I got into the Call of Duty Fandom and specifically how I got into the AdlerBell ship.

Before 2020, The closest I gotten to Call of Duty was watching a friend of my mom’s son and his friends play the original Black Ops(I don’t remember they ever manage to complete a mission. They either keep dying or someone kept accidentally hitting the turn off everything switch in his room when trying to turn on the lights). One day in 2020, I had notice that a favorite streamer of mine had did a stream on twitch for Cold War. Watching him played it, something about the game just drew me in to the point I was thinking about it after the stream was over. My mind soon connected that it was the dynamic between Adler and Bell that drew me in. Went on Tumblr and AO3 soon after for Fanart/Fanfiction of the two and I was hooked and I wanted more. So many amazing reader inserts where Reader is a Fill in for Bell(R.I.P to some of my favorites that got deleted over the years though. Skyfall I still miss you) as well as Bell OCs.

You may been wondering,”Why was it these two specifically that I latched on this paring?” If you ask me, I can give several answers. First being that Adler is Hot, sue me. But also that there is just so much possibles to explore in this ship for me. Maybe they were always doomed but maybe as well against all odds, they manage to work(not exactly the very model of a major modern stable relationship but still…) or maybe they kinda form a love hate relationship. Perhaps things would have been different between the two had they meet under different circumstances(Like if Bell had willing deflected in the first place). What if they were in different settings(like say a royal au)? Had they been together or reunited in 1984(Multiplayer), what would change and how would Bell react to Adler’s capture or would have they been able to rescue him at the mall where it all began? If they had kids, what would they been like? Would they had gone on the run together in 1991? Maybe one believes they are more alike than one thinks. And then there’s exploring the more darker aspects/implications of their relationship. What happens when you once view someone as disposable and a means to an ends becomes an obsession? What exactly is the relationship between puppetmaster and puppet? Did some of those so called false feelings did become real or were genuine in some form at the get go? Did Adler grew to or did care (in a sense) about Bell? So many questions that so many amazing Fanfiction/Fan artists have asked and answered about these two. And it’s always been fascinating to see what they conclusions they drew from what they interpreted 

It’s helped me break of my shell on Tumblr too, I used to be pretty shy about commenting and reblogging as well as making posts(I liked and maybe comment once in a while but that’s it). But this ship and the community helped me open up. I started talking to people that I once was scared to talk to because of my nervousness and shyness) You would not believe that my own posts used to be around 7-9 in total before I started to reblog and makes my own posts(whenever is aesthetic boards, fanfic idea rambles or just taking about My Bell). This ship and the community in general also helped me during a rough period in 2023 when my grandpa had passed away suddenly in November and my grandma spend December in the hospital. It in a basic sense, bring joy to me and thanks to everyone out there for such amazing stuff(if I named everyone, we would be here all year. Shippers, Nonshippers, you all rock). And I’m excited to see what comes of this ship or just Black Ops in general next in fanon.

💜💙🩵💜💙🩵💜💙🩵💜💙🩵💜💙🩵💜💙🩵💜💙🩵💜💙

(Likes, Comments and Reblogs are always appreciated)

[strictlyfavorites]

George Carlin's wife died early in 2008 and George followed her, dying in July 2008. It is ironic George Carlin - comedian of the 70's and 80's - could write something so very eloquent and so very appropriate.

An observation by George Carlin:

The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider Freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships.

These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete.

Remember to spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going to be around forever.

Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side.

Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent.

Remember, to say, 'I love you' to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside of you.

Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person will not be there again.

Give time to love, give time to speak! And give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.

And always remember, life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by those moments that take our breath away.

George Carlin

[plsdontseemeeeee]

Safe are the Ghosts

Pt 1/ ???? Summary: In post-apocalyptic Jackson, you work as a medic and navigate tense relationships—especially with Ellie and your father, Joel. Despite the past, grief, and unspoken wounds, you figure out how to continue in a world that seems to love nothing more than ruining your life. - based of the HBO television series, currently in Episode two Authors note: um... so I had a tumblr since 2023 and I somehow deleted it...so reposting my latest series. Parirings: Joel & daughter! reader, Ellie x Reader (it will happen just give it TIME) Abby x reader (I'm a simp)

Jackson was known as a haven, or perhaps more accurately, as a living testament to the virtues of freedom and community—a sanctuary steadily blossoming into one of the largest and most hospitable enclaves around. In this unique place, life moved with an air of unencumbered possibility; unlike the strict rigidity of QZs, here people were free to wander in and out as they saw fit. There was an unspoken agreement that every person who arrived, regardless of their background or training, would contribute in some way, enriching the fabric of the community.

Over time, the spirit of Jackson grew contagious. The town’s ethos was built not on enforced conformity but on an organic, ever-evolving tapestry of contributions. Mechanics diligently kept the essential machinery humming, ensuring that the gears of progress never ground to a halt, while construction workers transformed raw materials into dwellings and communal spaces that stood as monuments to collective effort. Medical personnel offered healing and hope not merely through their expertise, but through a gentle, empathetic touch that reassured the weary and infirm alike. Even educators, nannies, and chefs played their parts, each role a crucial thread in the narrative of resilience and self-governance.

The diversity of skills and the willingness to share them imbued Jackson with a vibrancy that transcended conventional societal boundaries. Patrols, manned by those trained to maintain order without suffocating freedom, roamed the streets with a sense of duty tempered by compassion. Beyond these watchful guardians, gardeners coaxed life from the earth in communal plots, turning barren scraps of land into flourishing oases, while artists and builders reimagined the urban landscape into a living canvas of creativity. In Jackson, every contribution—be it technical expertise or a humble act of nurturing—was celebrated as a step toward a more cohesive, supportive society.

Community life here was expressed through everyday rituals that reinforced a deep sense of belonging. Evening gatherings around crackling fires, spontaneous street festivals, and shared meals brought neighbors together, transforming simple acts of daily living into opportunities for collective celebration. In Jackson, the freedom to come and go was matched by an enduring invitation to give back, creating a cycle where each newcomer soon discovered that their efforts were valued, their skills indispensable, and their individuality a vital ingredient in the communal stew. 

Even then, if someone crossed into the city walls—those same walls painstakingly erected by the founders, the original survivors whose very hands were stained with the gore and sweat of the outbreak—they were met not with exclusion, but with a measured welcome. Even if such a person appeared to lack the talents or qualities that could immediately contribute to the thriving community, the citizens would not cast them aside. The true measure of a town was not merely in the sum of its skills, but in the spirit of inclusivity that defined its very nature. If the inhabitants were to dismiss those who did not prove their worth at once, what remained would be less a town and more a grim penitentiary—a place where the weak were all too easily deemed disposable, left to be metaphorically fed to the wolves.

In the heart of this sanctuary, every soul was seen as having inherent potential. The founders had built these walls not as barriers to keep humanity at bay, but as a shield against the relentless chaos outside—a testament to their belief in redemption and transformation. Here, every newcomer, regardless of their immediate utility, was afforded the opportunity to grow, learn, and eventually contribute to the collective strength of the community. This unwavering commitment to nurturing latent potential was what set the town apart. It was a place where value was not measured solely by apparent skills but by the capacity to evolve and to enrich the community in myriad ways. 

“I’m sorry,” you force out a laugh as you spin around on your creaking chair, your eyes narrowing playfully at the man slumped across the makeshift treatment station. “You broke your wrist…”

“Pottery,” he deadpans, his lips curling into a rueful grin that hinted at a lifetime of misadventures and unforeseen consequences.

“Pottery,” you echo with a gentle nod, as if acknowledging both the absurdity and the stubborn pride behind his words. Rising from your seat, you retrieve a well-worn, sanded-down piece of wood and a faded, yet dependable, bandage from your improvised kit. The room—once a humble bedroom now converted into a rudimentary clinic—smells faintly of antiseptic mixed with the lingering aroma of burnt wood and memories of better times. You push the rolling chair aside with deliberate care and reach for his very…very broken wrist. Despite the inflammation and bruise marring its surface, nothing in the injury screamed for an invasive procedure; a sturdy splint would suffice.

“Whatcha make?” you ask, half in curiosity and half in an effort to distract him from the pain etched across his weathered face.

The man hums thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to a small, uneven crack in the wooden wall as if seeking counsel from its silent testimony. “Whatever is wanted. I mostly do it for free, though that’s not getting me very far these days,” he confesses, the lilt in his voice mingling gratitude with resignation. His words carry the quiet weight of countless sacrifices in a world that rarely rewards kindness.

“Kind man,” you chirp, securing the bandage with practiced precision, winding it around itself until it snugly supports his splinted wrist. Your tone is both affectionate and admonishing—a reminder that even in suffering, there is dignity in compassion. “Kindness will always end up coming back around for us, you know? Now, I want you to come back in two weeks so I can see how it looks. If it gets worse or starts aching more than a little, if you feel even a hint of sickness—come back sooner. And if I’m not here, just head over to the Miller house on Main, okay?”

With a small nod, he agrees and walks out of the clinic room, leaving you alone with the sterile hum of machinery and the soft shuffle of wounded survivors. You finish scribbling down your notes with deliberate precision, carefully tucking them into the aging hallway filing cabinet—a repository of stories, failures, and small triumphs. Stepping down the creaking stairs, your boots sink slightly into the muddy residue of neglect, each step stirring memories of the days when this place pulsed with hope rather than a quiet resignation.

At the base of the stairs, you reach for a sheet of paper suspended on the hanging system—a crude schedule for check-ups that, despite its makeshift appearance, speaks volumes about the effort to hold on to some semblance of order. Your eyes scan down the list, and as you reach the next name, your smile falters, your breath catching on the syllables written on the paper. The name shimmers in faded ink, and with a sudden jolt, you exclaim, “Ellie!”

You quickly read over the note that trails below her name and age, your heart thudding as old worries and new concerns battle in your chest. Your gaze snaps toward the waiting area—a cramped room where survivors sat huddled on an overstuffed sofa and scattered benches. There, amid the low murmur of anxious conversation, Ellie had popped up like an unexpected ember of defiance. A stupid grin plastered across her face, her features marred with smears of dried blood that she wore almost as a badge of honor.

The room held a stark collage of vulnerability and resilience. Faces etched with weariness offered fleeting smiles at the sight of someone who defied the odds, and the quiet banter of patients waiting for both you and the nurse filled the space with tentative life. Ellie’s grin, despite its crudity, was infectious—a silent rebellion against despair.

You set the paper down with a soft sigh, the weight of responsibility anchoring your thoughts. Stepping forward, you navigate through the crowd, your eyes locking with hers. In that brief, charged moment, time seemed to pause: you saw not just a patient, but a fighter whose spark illuminated the dullness of the day. “Ellie,” you call gently, your voice a blend of concern and warmth, “let’s get you taken care of.”

The corridor, the faded notes, and the murmurs of those waiting all faded into the background as you led her toward the clinic. She happily settles onto the bed, a spark of mischief in her eyes despite the scars life had etched on her. You watch as she relaxes, her posture betraying the rough resilience of someone who’s seen too much yet still manages to smile. You retrieve the bottle of alcohol and a threadbare towel from the counter—a silent arsenal against both infection and despair—then sink into the chair before drifting over to sit directly across from her.

“Should I ask?” You teases, tone light despite the battered evidence of a recent tussle lingering on your face.

“Eh, it was a scrimmage,” She reples, y voice carrying an amused skepticism as you unscrew the cap and dampen the cloth for a cleaning. 

Your eyes narrow with a half-grimace as you bring the wipe close, studying the smear of dried blood and the careless smudges that told their own story. With a scowl, you add, “And it looks like you got fucking owned. Poor Dina—her girlfriend is a dumbass.”

A flash of indignation crosses her features, a blend of anger and hurt pooling in her eyes. “Did not?! And! And Dina is not— I’m not—” she begins, words tumbling out in a rush before she stops, caught in the weight of her own frustrated laughter and the absurdity of the situation.

You pause, your gaze holding hers steadily as if waiting for her to find solid ground in the storm of teasing and reprimand.

 The silence thickens the space between your jabs and gentle care. Finally, leaning back slightly and softening just a hint, she retorts, “Shut up, I came here to check in, haven’t seen you in like a month.”

To that, you fall quiet, the kind of silence that stretches—grows heavier the longer it lingers. You shrug after a moment, not out of dismissal, but because the weight of what you want to say sits awkwardly between your ribs. You double-check your work with mechanical precision—swelling, signs of infection—anything to delay the next part. Then you scoot back to the supply table, the legs of your chair scraping softly against the scuffed wooden floor. You reach for your clipboard, jotting down post-meeting notes and marking off the medical supplies used, all while your mind pieces together the words you’ve kept tucked under your tongue for weeks.

Finally, as the pen slows in your hand, you say it—soft but honest. “Well, Ells… you’re the one who stopped coming by.”

Ellie falters, visibly, her fingers twitching against her thigh as she huffs and leans back against the wall, her expression tight. “Fuck. Yeah. I guess so. But c’mon—you can’t blame me for that.”

Your eyes flick up to meet hers, and for a long second, neither of you looks away. “No,” you admit quietly, “I don’t. We’re growing up. I…I get that. And maybe part of that means splitting off. Becoming our own people.” You pause, bracing yourself with a shaky breath before continuing. “But even I know I’m not gonna magically stop being ‘Joel’s girl.’ That’s not something that washes off, y’know?”

Ellie shifts in place, her brow creasing, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“And like it or not,” you say, voice catching a little, “you fall into that same category. Whether you like it or not, you’re his, too. Maybe not by blood, but it doesn’t matter. He called you ‘kiddo.’ He loved you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your voice steady. “I don’t know what happened between you two. I don’t know what he did or what you did or why it broke everything so bad. All I know is one day you just… stopped talking. Family dinners stopped. Movie nights became ‘read alone in your own damn corner’ nights. And I didn’t say anything because I figured maybe you’d come around.”

You swallow. “I get it if you hate him, I do. But he’s my dad, Ells. And I can’t choose between you and him. I won’t. It’s not fair. And… and I’m sitting here spilling my heart out like this is some kind of therapy session, so—”

“Eh,” Ellie cuts in, trying to soften the blow with a shrug and a small, forced grin. “Good place to do it. Soundproof walls, right?”

You snort a laugh through a sigh, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Yeah. Best perk of this makeshift clinic, honestly. No one hears me yell at my patients.”

“Or cry,” Ellie offers quietly, and it’s said in a teasing tone, but there’s something raw underneath it. Something vulnerable. “ I just… when it all happened, I didn’t know how to be around you without seeing him. So I avoided it.”

You nod, fiddling with the edge of the clipboard like it holds all the answers you wish you had. “Yeah. I figured it was something like that.”

There’s a pause, a thick kind of silence that settles after something honest has been said. Neither of you really knows what to do with it. It lingers long enough for you to notice the distant hum of conversation downstairs, boots scuffing wood, someone laughing too loud in the hallway. Then, you clear your throat, unsure if you're ready to break the fragile moment but doing it anyway.

“I’m going on a patrol,” you say, quietly at first. “There’s a chance… I mean, there’s word that there might be a pharmacy further out—past the ridge. I’m heading out with a couple others. I haven’t… told my dad yet.”

Ellie immediately sits up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Joel? Letting little baby Starshine out of Jackson?” She grins, devilish and teasing. “Dude, he’ll have a stroke right there on the porch.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you groan, smacking her leg lightly with the clipboard. “Don’t say shit like that, seriously, you’re gonna jinx me. But for real—I’m trying to be smart about it. If there’s even a chance we can find stuff—antibiotics, insulin, trauma meds—anything, it’s worth the risk.”

Ellie’s smile fades into something softer, more thoughtful. “Yeah. It is.”

You glance over at her, hopeful. “Do you guys know what medications we’re low on? I figure if I’m going, I should at least grab the right stuff—wait, you are still on the patrol rotation, right?”

Ellie hesitates. That twitch of her brow, the way her mouth presses into a thin line—dead giveaways.

“I’m… talkin’ to Tommy about it,” she says vaguely, avoiding your eyes.

You blink, eyebrows rising. “Right. So what—you think Joel’s gonna let you go gallivanting past the ridge when you’re not even cleared for patrol?”

She looks at you, jaw clenched, and for a second you can see the storm gathering behind her eyes.

“He is not my dad,” she snaps, a little too loud, a little too fast. There’s that fire again—half hurt, half fury. All Ellie.

You stare at her, then say, softer but firm, “He might as well be.”

Her mouth opens like she’s going to argue, to throw something sharp and final at you—but the words die in her throat. Instead, she scrubs a hand down her face, frustrated. “It’s not that simple,” she mutters.

“I know it’s not.” You lean forward, elbows on your knees. “But you can’t keep pretending like he’s just some guy who happened to keep you alive a few years ago. You know damn well that man would burn Jackson to the ground if something happened to you.”

Ellie huffs, not denying it, but clearly wrestling with the weight of it, “Yeah well he’s a piece of-...He’s Joel, he’s your dad….still figruing out how I play into this.”

You nod, understanding more than you let on. “You don’t have to have it figured out. But don’t shut him out because you’re scared of what forgiving him means. Or what not forgiving him means.”

Ellie tilts her head at you. “Since when did you get all wise?”

You smirk. “I treat bullet wounds and dislocated shoulders for a living. Comes with a side of unsolicited life advice.”

She laughs at that—a real one this time—and then leans back on the bed, arms crossed behind her head. “So… you’re really going?”

“Yeah. Day after tomorrow. Early.” You hesitate. “You could come, y’know. If Tommy signs off. It’d be… nice. To have you there. Plus…I’m pretty sure Dina is coming.”

“I was already sold you didn’t-” 

“Oh but I wanted to, I so so sooooo wanted to.”

-

“I come bearing gifts!” you call out as you shoulder the door open with a little more force than necessary, the wood groaning under the pressure. Your voice carries through the room like sunlight filtering through a cracked window—familiar, teasing, and just enough to disrupt the quiet.

Turning around, you find your father exactly where you expected him: hunched over that overstuffed desk in the far corner, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, eyes squinting down at paperwork covered in numbers, scribbled timelines, and blocky handwriting that looked like it hadn’t changed since the outbreak. The desk itself is a mess—organized chaos, really—with loose files, maps, ration logs, and the occasional empty coffee mug that had seen better days. A few knick-knacks are scattered around—an old photo in a cracked frame, a pocket knife, a carved wooden elk. It’s the kind of clutter that says someone lives here. Someone stayed.

Despite the dried blood that still lined your sleeves and the faint yellow stain of iodine on your fingertips, you carry the Tupperware container full of cooked meat into the room like it’s a peace offering to two war strategists. Probably because it is.

Joel glances up at the sound of your voice, brow lifting just slightly in that way he does when he’s half-expecting trouble and half-hoping it’s just you being dramatic. With a casual flick of his hand, he motions for you to come closer.

You oblige, setting the Tupperware down on the nearest clear corner of the desk. Then, with a grin, you lean over and press a kiss to the top of his head, the way you always have—since you were little, since before Jackson, since before everything. He grunts at the affection but doesn’t pull away.

Your eyes trail over the cluttered mess he’s buried in: outlines of patrol shifts, expansion routes, stockpile inventories, and timelines for the repairs. You squint at the fine print and mutter under your breath, “Y’all should print these in English next time.”

Across the room, your aunt Maria stands by the wide-paned window, arms folded, gaze locked on Main Street below. She hasn’t said anything yet, but you can tell by the tension in her shoulders and the way her jaw tightens that whatever conversation had been happening before you walked in wasn’t exactly a fun one. She doesn’t look away from the view, but her presence fills the room just the same.

With a small hum, you tilt your head toward the desk, eyes scanning the mess with feigned interest. “You guys look like you’re in the middle of a very interesting conversation,” you remark, voice dipped in sarcasm but light enough to pass for a joke.

JJoel lets out a short, humorless breath—almost a laugh. “If ‘how the hell are we gonna stretch five gallons of gas across three outposts’ counts as interesting, then sure.” He rubs the back of his neck and leans forward, squinting at the latest update scrawled in rushed handwriting. “But back to it—the school and the library by spring, right? Both need new roofs. With the manpower we’ve got, I don’t see any of this gettin’ done ‘til summer, at best.”

Even though Maria stood by the window like she was listening, it was painfully obvious her thoughts were elsewhere. Her fingers tapped anxiously against her arm, and her voice cut in abruptly. “This window isn’t keepin’ the cold out anymore.”

Joel blinked at the sudden shift, his brow furrowing. “Chalk—it’s high up on my list,” he replied, gesturing vaguely toward one of the lists you’d been flipping through. “We’ve been burnin’ through a ton of it patching the new residential stretch—”

“We need to build faster,” she interrupted.

That caught your attention. You looked up from the supply logs you'd been scanning, the ones filled with crossed-off names and absences—reminders of the last flu outbreak and the dwindling labor pool. Even with good weather and no new crises, the odds were steep. You didn’t need to be a genius to know that “build faster” wasn’t a request grounded in reality. It was desperation, plain and simple.

Joel straightened in his chair, eyes flicking to the page you’d been reading before settling back on Maria. “Faster?” he repeated, voice low with disbelief. He tapped the edge of the desk once, then again, as if grounding himself. “Sure. How much faster? See, we got this dial called the constructo-meter.”

“Joel,” Maria warned, not even turning her head.

He grinned—just barely—but kept going. “The more you turn it, the faster we go.”

“Joel.”

You had to bite your lip to keep the laugh in. The way his voice dipped into mock-enthusiasm and the faux-serious glint in his eye made it worse.

Maria turned slightly, catching your expression out of the corner of her eye. “Starshine, do not egg him on.”

You raised both hands in mock surrender, forcing your grin into something that resembled composure. “Yes, ma’am,” you said, a little too obediently, and Joel snorted behind his hand.

—

The sky had already dimmed by the time you and Joel made it back home, the golden wash of sunset giving way to the soft gray hush of evening. The walk back had been quiet, not in a tense way, but the kind of comfortable silence that settles between two people used to surviving side by side. Jackson had quieted too—doors shutting, boots scraping porches, the faint hiss of fires being started in hearths. It felt like the town was exhaling after a long day.

Joel pushed open the door to your shared home and stepped aside to let you in first. You kicked your boots off at the threshold, flexing your aching feet with a tired grunt before hanging your coat on the hook near the door. Joel followed behind you, rubbing the back of his neck, already drifting toward the small kitchen.

“You hungry?” he asked, already reaching for the pan you’d left drying on the counter.

“I brought meat earlier, remember?” you said, flopping onto the couch and letting your head fall back against the cushion. “You and Maria were too busy arguing about the constructo-meter.”

Joel snorted. “Right.” He set the pan down and turned back to look at you, arms crossed over his chest now. “You did good, bringin’ that in. Whole damn town’s been stretched thin. That kinda help… matters.”

You gave him a soft smile, one that flickered briefly before your expression shifted. You sat up straighter, elbows resting on your knees as you stared down at your hands. They still bore faint traces of iodine and dirt under your nails, the stubborn signs of clinic work that wouldn’t fully wash away.

Joel noticed the shift immediately. “Alright,” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. Tried to find the right tone—something between don’t freak out and I’m not asking for permission. You settled for honesty.

“There’s a patrol heading out tomorrow,” you began. “Northwest ridge. There's a possible pharmacy out there. Might be looted already, but it could have some meds we’re low on—antibiotics, insulin, maybe even some old morphine. Tommy signed off on it.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away, and that silence hit harder than any words could’ve.

You took a breath. “I’m going with them.”

His jaw worked, but he kept his arms crossed, like he was holding himself in place. “The hell you are.”

You blinked. “Dad—”

“No,” he cut in, voice firmer now. “You’ve been patchin’ people up all week. You’re still limping from that last run. You don’t need to be out there riskin’ your neck when we’ve got actual patrol units trained for this kinda thing.”

“I am trained for this kind of thing,” you snapped, standing up now, tension threading into your spine. “And they need me. If we find anything useful, it could save lives. You know that.”

Joel shook his head, the line of his mouth tightening. “We also need you here. What good are you gonna be if you end up six feet under some collapsed shelf or with a clicker tearing through your back?”

You stepped forward, closing the space between you. “You don’t get to keep me wrapped in cotton just because the world scares you, Dad.”

His eyes flared at that—hurt, then anger, then something deeper. Something raw. Unfiltered. Like you’d struck a nerve that had never fully healed. He turned away from you for a second, running a hand down his face like he was trying to physically wipe the emotion off of it, like if he just pressed hard enough, the truth might stay buried where it had always been safer.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, rougher. It scraped out of him like gravel being dragged over stone.

“It ain’t the world that scares me. It’s the thought of losin’ you.”

That stopped you in your tracks.

Your mouth opened and closed once, twice. You blinked hard, because your vision had started to swim, and you couldn’t decide if it was from rage, guilt, or the sudden ache in your chest. Maybe all three.

“Damn your fuckin’ therapist,” you said, laughing through a crude huff. “The hell was that? You been rehearsin’ that line in the mirror or something?”

But the crack in your voice betrayed you.

Joel turned just slightly, catching the flicker of tears you were trying to blink away and the trembling laugh you were barely keeping under control. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you from under that furrowed brow of his, expression unreadable—because that’s what Joel did when the feelings got too big. He locked down. He stayed quiet, like silence could protect the both of you.

You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, exhaling hard. “Fuck, that was... that was mean,” you said, voice muffled. “You don’t get to drop a line like that and expect me to just pack my damn bag and leave without feeling like shit.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to make you feel like shit,” he said softly, stepping closer. “I’m just… tellin’ the truth.”

You let your hands fall and look at him, really look at him. The years carved into his face. The tired eyes that had seen too much. The way his shoulders never fully relaxed. The man who had survived everything except peace. And the man who had, somehow, learned how to love again in the middle of it all.

“Yeah,” you muttered, voice quieter now. “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Of grief, of love, of a thousand things neither of you had said in all the days and nights spent in each other’s company. You crossed your arms tight over your chest, suddenly unsure if you should stay or go. If the distance between you was safer than the closeness.

Joel rubbed at his jaw, then sat heavily on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. “You remind me so damn much of her,” he said after a beat. “Of Sarah.”

Your breath caught.

You lowered yourself onto the armrest opposite him, resting your hands in your lap, unsure if moving would make it worse. “You’ve never said that before.”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t say a lotta things. Doesn’t mean I don’t think ‘em.”

Another silence, softer this time.

“I’m not her,” you said, not cruelly. Just gently. “I know you know that. But you gotta let me do this. You gotta let me …people need medicine.”

Joel looked at you, and whatever had hardened in his expression before—whatever wall he’d built to keep the world out—it cracked just a little. His voice came out low.

“I know I can’t stop you. And I ain’t tryin’ to keep you caged in. I just… wish I could give you a world where you didn’t have to be this brave.”

You smiled, sad and warm. “Yeah.”

He nodded, slowly. “So… you packin’ tonight or in the mornin’?”

“Tonight,” you replied, standing again with a shaky sigh. “You still gonna check my gear?”

Joel smirked faintly. “Damn right, get the rouger out I’ll clean ‘er for you.”

And just like that, the moment passed—but not forgotten. Not buried. Just quietly folded up and stored between you, like a well-worn blanket you’d both pull out when the nights got too long.

--

four years before

You always felt like the weather was almost taunting; the most beautiful of days could be overclouded with the harshest of emotions, and the harshest of days would be overcast with glee—perhaps, you assumed after a while, it was God’s humor. After all, in a world where your creations morph themselves into cannibalistic tree-like abnormalities, wouldn’t you, as a God, require something to keep the show you watch funny?

And yet, as you lingered under skies that shifted as abruptly as the moods of a capricious deity, you couldn’t shake the feeling that every element was part of an elaborate cosmic punchline. The brilliance of dawn might conceal under its golden glow an unexpected melancholy, while dusk’s deep purples and reds often brought with them a reminder that even decay could be beautiful. It was as though the universe itself delighted in a paradoxical jest—a scenario where profound sorrow twined effortlessly with unbridled joy.

Such as it was on that sun-filled day, the desolate greenscape of what had once been a large, bustling city sprawled before you, a poetic testament to nature’s inexorable reclaiming of human ambition. The urban skeleton, long abandoned to the march of time, was now overcast with the veins of earth—cracks and fissures mapping the rise of wild, unruly greenery that had stealthily woven its way through every crevice of once-proud architecture. The remnants of pavement and forgotten alleyways served as canvases upon which nature painted its slow, deliberate masterpiece.

Beams of light, bold and resolute, pierced through the dense canopy of trees in sporadic intervals, their shafts providing little but precious relief from the relentless summer heat. Each ray illuminated pockets of decay and remnants of history—a rusted sign swaying in a gentle breeze here, a shattered window catching the sun’s gleam there—reminding any observer that even in abandonment, the vestiges of the past could still whisper forgotten stories. The interplay between light and shadow cast intricate patterns on the overgrown facades, as if the city were sharing its silent secrets with the day. 

With a short, measured sigh, you carefully hang the necklace upon the last of the crosses—a lone tribute in a barren memorial, too slight an offering to encompass all the lives lost in the relentless struggle, yet significant enough to avoid attracting any further, ironic power plays from those who thrive in chaos. The bronze pendant caught the sun’s dying rays, its engraved symbol quivering in the wind as if to mock death itself, whispering that even in their silent, dismembered state beneath the soil, the fallen still carried remnants of defiance.

For someone all of 15 years old, you had witnessed more sorrow than most could bear—a harsh education in grief wrought by a world undone. You had lost your mother to a bite, a merciless act of fate that, even in its pre-infected horror, shattered the fragile grasp you held on hope. It was a cruel irony: she had given up everything to chase a promise—a promise that the man who now lay cold and forgotten could save your irredeemable world. Her sacrifice, her desperate leap towards a better future, lingered in your memory like the fading notes of a long-forgotten song.

And then there was Gary Anderson—a doctor who had taken you under his wing, briefly intertwining his fate with yours in a world void of certainty. His care, given when you felt your own blood had abandoned the very idea of you, had been a beacon amidst the desolation. In his quiet acts of kindness, you saw the embers of a humanity that refused to surrender to despair, a courage that blossomed even in the darkest hours. He had trained you in survival, not just in the physical sense, but in the art of carrying on the legacy of hope, even when the world around you had already succumbed to decay.

“Why would he do this?” The words barely registered in your mind, yet you still heard them. You forced yourself to react—a slight turn of the head from your hunched position on the makeshift grave, where bodies had been burned and the dirt hastily overturned to bury the ashes. Names blurred together in your memory—other Fireflies who had stood by that harrowing night when the only hue in the chaos was a relentless, ominous red. Even if their names had slipped away, their grief, raw and uncontained, resonated with you. And if Abigail found comfort in their silent presences, then you, too, would strain to remember every one of them.

“I heard rumors. It was some kid he took that was supposebly—” “That wasn’t true… it’s not possible.”

Your eyes, still adjusting against the glare of a sun that seemed to mock the grim scene, swept over the line of people gathered in muted solidarity. They were scattered like shadows in the brightness of day—each lost soul marked by recent calamities and eternal regrets. As your gaze trailed over to her, a small huff escaped you as you rose unsteadily, wincing as you moved against the bandaged bullet wound on your jeans, the fabric as worn as the weight of your past.

Abigail was older than you, around 16 if memory served right—her stature slight but her resolve unmistakable. Despite the grim chatter that lingered in the air like smoke, your focus was drawn to her. 

“You feeling okay?” You asked, tone carrying the unspoken concern of someone who had weathered too many storms. The look in her eyes was all the answer you needed, so you nodded slowly, tucking your hands into your pockets. “I…I can stay. I’ll stay. Get you guys settled, I mean—it wouldn’t hurt to have someone who could stitch y’all up.” Your attempt at humor was cautious, yet genuine; for a fleeting moment, you saw a spark of light return to her eyes.

Abby shook her head firmly. “You need to leave. We can’t both be fatherless—that would just be pathetic.” The words stung, and your eyes widened in a silent plea for reassurance. Sensing your discomfort, she softened her tone with a groan. “Fuck you, man, that was a good dead dad joke.”

You managed a small laugh, the sound brittle yet sincere. “Oh, thank God; yeah, no, that was good.” You ran a hand over your face, trying to dismiss the pain behind your smile. “But I’m serious—I’ll stay, help get you all settled. I feel…fuck, Gale, I feel like I can’t leave now. You… you’re basically all I got, and if—”

“You know I’m not coming with you,” she interrupted softly, the finality in her voice echoing the truth of your shared losses.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Even though Jackson is suuuper nice and there are cookies, and there's a wall, so it's safe, and my Aunt Maria is kinda cool—” You started in a half-joking tone.

“Sparrow,” she reminded you, her voice laced with both affection and exasperation.

“Right, sorry, Jackson is always open for you guys, Gale.” You repeated, the words a familiar refrain in your endless attempts to drag fleeting moments of normalcy out of desolation. Every conversation felt like a desperate negotiation with fate—if only you could humor the memory of Gary and the rest of the Fireflies long enough to leave, grab a truck or a horse, go back, get your uncle, and then maybe... then maybe. But he hadn’t come for you. It was safer to assume he was gone forever. Either way, Jackson was the closest thing you had to family.

“I’m serious. I don’t want to wake up in 30 years and think, ‘God, I wonder what happened to Gale.’”

“Bold of you to assume you’d make it to thirty years,” she teased, the irony of the moment hanging between you like a fragile truce.

You scoffed lightly, “Shut up. I’ll make it to sixty years old, just you watch—and it’d be nice if you popped by so I knew that you too made it past that prehistoric age.”

A long silence stretched out, filled only by the distant rustle of wind in the ruined trees and the soft murmurs of other survivors tending to their wounds. Then Abby’s eyes softened further, and she nodded. “Yeah. Of course, I’ll come by.”

“Okay.” The word hung in the air, laden with promises too heavy for one generation to uphold on its own. You exhaled slowly as you met Gale’s steady gaze, the unspoken understanding between you palpable against the weight of a world crumbling into dusk.

“I…I guess I should go, the horse is ready and I need to get out of the city before nightfall.” Your voice carried a blend of urgency and quiet resignation—a reminder that every moment wasted in this broken landscape increased the risk of yet another nightmare. The distant lowing of the horse, patiently waiting in the murky edge of the makeshift camp, underscored the relentless march of time toward darkness.

“That’s smart. You got guns? Ammo?” Abby asked, her tone a mixture of genuine concern and the dry humor that had become your shared lifeline in a world where such trivialities could mean the difference between life and death. The question, though simple, resonated like a mantra in the face of unyielding uncertainty.

You managed a wry, deadpan smile, shaking your head as if to ward off the grim inevitability of fate. “No.” Then, with a slight tilt of your head that betrayed both pride and fatigue, you added, “Not stupid, Gale. Course I do.” The brief interjection carried the irony of a desperate world—where survival often meant defying expectations even when resources were scant.

Abby’s eyes softened at your response, the corners crinkling with a mix of worry and reluctant admiration. “Don’t get bit, Sparrow.” Her words were both a command and a benediction—a small spark of warmth amid the encroaching gloom of an unforgiving reality.

A chuckle, dark and full of brittle humor, escaped you. “Wasn’t counting on it.” The remark wasn’t so much a joke as a bitter acknowledgment: in a landscape where every shadow hid potential peril, every step was a gamble with fate. Yet, within that irony lay a stubborn ember of defiance—a promise to fight for another day, against all odds.

With a small nod you take a step away and you look to your side, just to see everyone staring at you, “Uh…Innvation is open? But, I really-” You take a quick look to Abby, who simply nods and you look back to them, “Stay safe, guys.” 

It was always terrfifying on how easy it is to turn around and walk away from something, especially when you know that you probably will never see them again.

uhhh yeah, anyway, thanks so much for reading! Any feedback would be super super appreciated!!!

[olderthannetfic]

I'm beginning to realize that my closest fandom friend is... not a good friend, for me.

When they're doing well, they're awesome -the best beta reader, hype man, partner-in-shipping-crime you could wish for. The first year we knew each other, we'd talk every day, some days for hours on end, often getting really personal. I never before had anyone in my life who encouraged my creativity like that; they supported me in learning to draw, wrote pages and pages of concrit on my fics, seemed to genuinely enjoy my work... it was kinda heady. Addictive.

When they're not doing well however, they... disappear. And they have a habit of ghosting people, deleting their account, and creating a wholly new identity in a fresh fandom when they're "good" again. They didn't do it last time they went through a depressive episode... but they did do a big disappearing act for a bit, and the realization of how little our connection meant to them and how easily they could cut me out really... damaged something.

I've tried to let it go. But... their new "happy stuff only" boundaries (never share anything too personal or real -something they insisted on post-latest depressive episode), their habit of disappearing for days (even weeks) on end with no word (leaving me worried AF for their health), the fact that I clearly care more about them than they care about me... it's like salt in a wound.

And yet, I feel like I can't cut them out -their "good self" is the best friend I've ever had in my life. I just... feel incredibly disposable, and like receiving that amazing friendship and support depends on me having no needs, no sorrows, and existing at their convenience only.

I don't really know what to do.

Sorry for the giant text block T_T (Thank you for having open asks)

--

Drop them.

I think you're wrong about them not caring as much as you do. The pattern they're displaying is someone whose life is spiraling out of control, not someone who just doesn't care.

However, people who have a ghosting problem do not get better.

Not without multiple years of offline stuff changing and probably some hard work on their part that has nothing to do with you and that you cannot affect in any way.

You will not go back to the honeymoon period even if they decide you can talk about non-happy things again, and more to the point, they're going to ghost you again and again and again.

The way to make that stop is to stop being in contact with them.