#easy harmonica

[alexander-ovdienko]

Wonderful Tonight – Eric Clapton - Harmonica Cover [with Tab]

[thankchaosforspellcheck]

random isat thoughts: I'm fairly certain Siffrin's able to play some random, easy-to-carry instrument & just straight up forgot about it because he lost it at some point (or it got stolen) and his wishcraft-induced amnesia kicked in.

At some point in the future the gang comes across the instrument (maybe Bonnie wanted to learn it or something) and he immediately is able to play it.

This feeds into the broader idea of mine that Sif should have like 50 million different random skills he picked up on the road that he's learned & forgotten in turn for the sake of busking & such.

Almost none of which he remembers when he runs into the gang bc he'd been in-between towns for long enough that it'd all slipped his mind again.

[iamfitzwilliamdarcy]

i've been listening to a lot of adhd podcasts lately because it helps me with my job and such but one of the things that they talk about is that these kids particularly don't like it when they're not good at something right away and quit and i'm like oh no that's me :/// and i'm annoyed about it so i'm learning New Thing to prove it WRONG

[eshaverse]

i got a harmonica :3

[deepseaphantom]

i wanna learn harmonica so i can do the harmonica solo from bruce springsteens "the river"

[kiwimintlime]

"Caitlyn is the daughter Ambessa wanted" Ambessa would never accept a daughter who was so easy to manipulate. the only thing Ambessa didn't like in Mel was her aversion to violence. Caitlyn's propensity towards it doesn't make up for all that she lacks that Mel has: diplomacy, experience, and the ability to tell when someone's playing you like a cheap harmonica

[gatorbites-imagines]

Sinners Remmick x male reader (preferably poc) where is a singer at the juke joint and Remmick sees him and tries to seduce him lmao. But male reader is low-key insecure of his singing tallent + kind of shy and Remmick finds out and is like "????? what do you mean" because male reader is like so good at music, and Remmick has to uplift him lmao.

you can make thiss smutty if your up to it

Remmick x POC male reader 

Headcanons 

Hate to admit, I dont know much about POC culture in America. I'm European, and we barely even mention America in history class. This also means I don't know a lot about African American culture, especially during the 30s and in the south. 

This means I won't be mentioning a whole lot about the times, cuz I don't know enough about it, and I wouldn't want to be disrespectful. I would love to read about it though, if yall know any good sources. 

Not as smutty as I had hoped, but hope it's good anyways 

You knew the Smokestack twins, as much as anyone around here did. Maybe you even knew them a little more than most, enough to know the truth about their father. 

Music had always saved you when times got tough. It started out as you simply singing to yourself, humming tunes that came from somewhere deep within. Then it became a harmonica that Stack had stolen as a gift. 

From there it advanced further, flutes, a banjo, a guitar, over the years you even learned the piano, and more devilish instruments, if Sammies father had to be believed. 

Music was all you had though, be it during the war you were drafted into it, and when you returned to the state to learn your mother had died, leaving you on your own. You didn't sing much anymore though, in public at least. 

You were still close with Annie after all this time, and you two would sing together at times. There were times she invited you over to sing for the very fact that you seemed to call only the good and wanted spirits. 

Part of you wanted to be mad when Smoke and Stack appeared, dressed as finely as they were and speaking of opening a juke joint of all things. For leaving, and all that. 

Stack had always been able to sweet talk you though, and when Sammie jumped into their truck, you followed, lugging your own guitar with you. It was old and patched in many places, but you loved that thing. 

The party was in full swing, and everything felt so alive. When you and Sammie sang together it felt spiritual, like something you couldn't put into words. It was an otherworldly experience. 

One that left you sweating and your legs shaky. It was easy to stumble over towards where Annie was serving up drinks, to let Sammie embrace all the attention for now. 

You were already known as the guy who could play most instruments, and could sing like his life depended on it, but that was all you could do. And even then, you never felt like it was good enough. 

You had been distracted with your drink and conversation to know what had happened at the door, of the white folk who claimed to hear your singing and had felt compelled to join. 

You hadn't caught how Remmick had craned his neck, trying to look above or around the group blocking his vision, trying to find “that other beautiful voice”, after he had paid attention to Sammie. 

Whatever Smoke saw on his face, he didn't like, and he had been itching to grab for his gun. It made an uncomfortable clammy feeling run down his spine, like it was something he wasn't meant to see. 

When the strangers left, the party returned to what it had been before, for the most part. You were still sweating and woozy, your shirt sticking to your back under the strap of your guitar. 

It was then that you decided that you needed some fresh air, all these people were making you itchy, and everything was starting to be too much. 

You waved at Stack and Mary as you passed them, giving them both a look up and down as if saying “just get on with it you two” as you trotted outside. Cornbread patted you on the back as you passed, as in his words, it had been too long since you let yourself go like that. 

Seeing the three white folks seated out by the front made you slow down though, there was something off about them. You were still far enough away so that you couldn't see Remmick's nostrils flare, or the way his pupils expanded at the sight of you. 

You were always weary when you knew you needed to be, you couldn't play white like Mary could. Somehow you still found yourself waved over, sitting down on the log beside the man you learned was named Remmick. 

“You must've been that other voice we heard all the way out here. You have a real gift” he said, voice almost reverent as he leaned in just a little closer, eyes boring into you in a way that made your hair stand on end. 

“Oh, nah. I'm not that good, it's all Sammie” you laugh, feeling flushed as you look down, hands messing with the strap of your guitar. Compliments always made your skin crawl, it didn't feel like you deserved them. 

“No, it was all you. Compared to him, you? You were like an angel” he exhaled, voice raw and raspy like a church goer who had been praying all day and night, Remmick's hand touching your upper back. 

Joan and Bert melted away into the night, not that you noticed, too busy staring at your feet as Remmick saddled closer, both his hands sliding over your body as he came so close. 

His breath was strangely metallic, it reminded you of the smell of old nails, or how it felt to chew on a fork for too long. “You bewitch me, how do you do it?” was murmured, his voice feeling... more. 

You should have gotten up, yelled, ran back inside the juke joint, anything. Not only were the both of you men, but he was white, it just made no sense. 

But still, Remmick's lips brushed against your neck, a shaky audible groan leaving him as he inhaled you. You couldn't have known that he was also feeling your racing pulse against his lips, and how it made him yearn and ache. 

“Sing for me?” he asked, voice thick like honey as he started kissing down your neck, Remmick's hands pulling your guitar into your own. It was sensual, the way he guided your fingers to the strings, intimate and heady. 

It was almost impossible to form words, this all felt like some kind of wild dream as Remmick's hands so expertly undid your belt and buttons, the Irishman sliding to his knees in front of you. 

Your eyes flicked from his burning look, towards the juke joint not that far away, but even as Remmick kissed at your growing hardness, nobody seemed any wiser. 

“Come on. Please? I'm on my knees beggin you and everything” he rasped, tongue flicking against your wet tip like one would a popsicle. 

All you could get out was a breathless yelp as he swallowed you down whole. Some sick part of your brain reminded you of a time where you saw a snake swallow a rat whole, that was the fervor he gulped you down with. 

Remmick held you there, throat flexing around you as he stared up at you, eyes so intense and unblinking, waiting for you to do as he asked. Sing, give him what he wants and needs so badly. 

Your fingers were shaking as you strummed the strings of your guitar. This was all wrong, this couldn't be real, but Remmick's mouth was so slick and hungry around you as the shaky words left your throat. 

If you had had any past experience, you might have noticed that his tongue was too flexible, or his mouth was too cold. It wasn't icy, but clammy, like waking up with a cold sweat.  

And it was wet, so incredibly sloppy and wet. Hearing and feeling him try to slurp up all his frothy drool around your length as you struggled to form verses and play your tongue was downright demonic. 

It seemed the more you sang, the hungrier he got. If you hadn't been shaking in your boots you might have worried about Remmick choking himself with how he gagged you down, his hands gripping the back of your thighs like a lifeline. 

There was no way the noises you were letting out sounded good, and the clumsy twitching of your fingers ruined any tune you tried, but it lit an unseen fire inside the man sucking the soul out of you, so you kept trying. 

Had you not been sitting down, you would surely have collapsed as you tumbled over the edge, your fingers scrambling at your guitar as your body locked up, a half-formed verse melting into an embarrassingly loud moan. 

But no matter how loud you got, nobody inside or outside the juke joint seemed to notice what you two had been up too, even as Remmick audibly gulped your release down, moaning like it was ambrosia and honey mixed into one. 

You hugged onto your guitar, like a blanket you would hug for comfort, as Remmick pulled back, moving slowly enough that you could feel the tight clenching of his throat a last time. 

“See? Gorgeous. Perfect” he gurgled against your thigh, looking at you the same way a cat looked at a mouse, licking your seed of his spit-soaked lips as he rose to his feet. 

“You just need to see it from my point of view, then you will see how great you are. Hold still for me” he whispered, moving closer until his lips hovered above your neck again. 

“W-whuh?” you get out, head still all steamy and thoughts all jumbled, your soft spit shiny length still hanging out of your slacks, trying to understand what had even just happened. 

You barely felt his lips kiss your neck before he struck, tearing into your sweaty salty neck like a vulture upon a carcass. Your scream as cut off with a gurgle as he pushed you back, pinning you against the ground as he feasted upon you. 

You should have trusted your gut, as much as you loved Smoke and Stack, they always brought trouble. It had never been like this though, being feasted on by a man who had just feasted on you in another way, just to hear you sing. 

A thought passed through your mind as everything was turning dark. Would you still be able to sing after the way Remmick ripped into your neck? But that was a dumb thought, you wouldn't need your voice anymore after you died. Right? 

[maugustiee]

Flour & Fire pt.2

Smokestack twins x baker!reader

People talked.

Of course they did.

Two men and one girl. Two brothers no less. And Lily the bakery girl? The one who’d never caused a stir in her life. Shy thing. Always wore lace at her collar and kept her eyes low when she passed men on the street.

Now? Folks said she walked different.

And she did. A little straighter. A little softer. Like somebody loved her good and slow.

Because they did.

Stack and Smoke weren’t easy men. Never had been. They fought dirty when they were boys and flirted worse when they got older. Stack with his grins and gold tooth flashing, always talking too close. Smoke with his silence and principles that had women wanting more.

They weren’t gentle. Not to nobody.

But with her… Lord. With her, they were something else.

⸻

At home, being with them felt was very different from what she was accustomed to.

Stack would pull her into his lap in the middle of the day, flour still on her arms, and kiss her and Whisper things that made her knees buck.

“You can’t say stuff like that,” she’d murmur, fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt.

He’d grin. “Why not? Ain’t it true?”

Smoke didn’t say much. He showed it instead. In the way he carried her to bed when she fell asleep in his lap. In the way he rubbed her feet after a long day.

Late at night, she’d lie between them. Stack behind her, arm tossed across her hip. Smoke in front, watching her like he was making sure she was still real.

“You alright?” Smoke would ask, low and rough.

She always nodded.

But the truth was, sometimes she still couldn’t believe it.

⸻

She didn’t go out much. Not since folks started whispering about her, she wasn’t one with gossip.

But one Saturday, Stack looked up from tying his boots and said, “You comin’ with us tonight.”

“To where?”

“The juke,” he said like it was obvious. “Ain’t no reason you gotta stay hid.”

She hesitated, fingers tightening around the cup in her hands.

Smoke met her eyes. “Don’t worry ‘bout what they gon’ say.”

But she wasn’t worried about them.

She was worried about being seen. About standing in their world with her soft, unsure steps. About not fitting beside men like them.

Still, she nodded.

⸻

The juke joint sat on the edge of the woods the old saw mill. The night pulsed with music even before they reached the door. Harmonica and piano. Laughter and liquor.

Inside, filled with people and heat. Men leaned too close to women. Tables crowded with gin and cards men gambling they life away.

She shrank toward Smoke without meaning to, and his hand found hers immediately.

Stack was already grinning, slapping backs and laughing like he belonged to the place, which he did. Everybody in there knew them. Knew they were trouble. Knew they could fight if they had to.

But when Stack looked back and saw her still pressed close to his brother, he came back just as fast.

“You want somethin’ to drink?” he asked, voice softer than he used on anybody else.

Lily shook her head. “You know I don’t drink.”

He nodded, hand brushing her lower back. “I hear you baby.”

They stayed at her side, stack and Smoke behind her like a shadow. Men looked, of course they did. But not for long. Not with both twins standing near enough to make their intentions clear.

One bold fool tried to cut in while Stack was laughing with someone across the room.

“You don’t look like you belong with them boys,” the man said, leaning too close, voice thick with liquor. “Pretty lil’ thing like you oughta be treated gentle.”

Smoke stepped in before Lily could speak. Grabbed the man’s wrist in a way that didn’t look angry, but made the drunk freeze up all the same.

“She is treated gentle,” Smoke said, low.

Smoke whispered something to stack, but Lily didn’t catch it.

As smoke grabbed the man by his shirt she assumed to kick him out. Stack had distracted her, hand going to her waist.

“C’mon,” he murmured. “We dancin’.”

“I don’t dance,” she whispered, cheeks burning.

“You do with me.”

And he was right.

Because when Stack pulled her into the center of that room, it didn’t matter how many people stared. She didn’t care. Not with one hand on his shoulder and one held tight in his, moving to the rhythm of the piano and fiddle. Not with his mouth close to her ear, saying things only she was meant to hear.

She danced because he made her feel confident.

And later, when the night stretched long and Smoke drove them home, Lily rested her head on Stack’s shoulder and let her hand curl into Smoke’s lap, just resting there.

⸻

Back at the house, Stack peeled her out of her dress slow, mouth warm against her neck, murmuring, “You smell so good, sugar. It’s gon be a long time before we let you come out the house.”

Smoke kissed her shoulders, pulled her into bed like she was something sacred.

Stack then kissed her not like earlier, not playful. Deep. Slow. His tongue swept past her lips with no hesitation, and she let him in, hands trembling as they found his chest.

Behind her, Smoke moved steady. He let his hands wander over her stomach, up between her breasts, fingers tracing her skin, like he was memorizing the shape of her.

She gasped when his mouth found her shoulder, and Stack kissed her harder at the sound.

They took her to the bed together, Stack pulling her down onto the mattress while Smoke undressed behind her, moving without rush. She was caught between them again.

Stack’s tongue traced her skin Down her collarbone, across her chest, licking at her nipple until she whimpered and tried to close her thighs.

“Don’t hide from me now,” he said, grinning into her skin. “You so damn soft. Let me taste all of you.”

Smoke settled behind her, bare now, his hand spreading her legs.

“You wet already,” he murmured into her ear. “That for me or him?”

“Both,” she breathed, voice high and shaking.

Stack chuckled against her belly, his mouth trailing lower.

Until then his mouth was on her clit hot, wet,pleasing her with slow licks, his tongue working her until she bucked under him, helpless, the sound of her moans swallowed by Smoke’s mouth as he kissed her.

They took their time.

Stack went slow, lips and tongue teasing her until her whole body was trembling, her thighs clenched around his head. Smoke kept her grounded, hand rising to her jaw, mouth by her ear, whispering how good she was doing.

When she came, it wasn’t quiet. Her voice broke into a soft cry, her fingers in Stack’s hair, her body arched and shaking between both of them.

Stack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark. “You ready?”

Lily could barely nod.

They laid her back, and Stack took her first, slow, deep, his mouth pressed to hers while he filled her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands wrapped around him as he whispered filth and sweetness into her mouth, into her throat.

When she came again, it was with his name in her mouth and tears in her eyes.

Smoke didn’t rush.

He held her after, kissed her lips soft before easing into her from behind, one arm around her chest, holding her close to his chest as he pushed into her slowly, deeply.

She was sensitive, but she needed him. His breath stayed low against her shoulder, and she moaned, caught in the heat between both their bodies.

It was different with Smoke. He didn’t talk, didn’t tease. Just gave her everything she needed whether it was rough or soft.

When it was over, she was limp between them, heart thudding, lips parted.

Stack kissed her shoulder, her cheek, her hand. “You okay?”

She nodded, too tired to speak.

Smoke tucked the cover over her body, brushing her curls away from her face.

“Rest,” he said.

And she did, not just because she was tired, but because she knew she was safe.

Because when she lay in the center of their bed, she knew this was hers.

All of it

[twistedsistas-stuff]

The Ones The Delta Took

Warnings; Chile just full of angst. Get a tissue and a cigarette

His name hung in that Delta heat like the smell of fried fish and river smoke—heavy, familiar, unforgettable. Elias Moore. Folks whispered it like a warnin’, like a prayer gone unanswered. Most didn’t see him, but everybody felt him. A storm with a smile. Known for the wrong reasons—and remembered for every one of ’em.

But you didn’t care. Not back then.

That was your Elias . Same boy used to chase fireflies barefoot ‘til his feet bled. One who wouldn’t take an ounce of disrespect. But the cruelest thing ‘bout Elias wasn’t his temper—it was how easy he loved. How easy he left love.

His eyes ain’t settle. His heart ain’t land. That mouth used to whisper soft things to you under cypress trees now told them same lies to women up and down the Delta.

You and him was never official. But still—Sammie and Smoke kept you anchored. Y’all was cut from the same cloth—woven tight by years, kinfolk, and that back-porch kind of loyalty. You’d known Sammie long as you’d known your own breath. And Stack? Lord, Stack was a bottle you kept drinkin’ from, knowin’ it’d burn all the way down.

That’s how you ended up there—on the road with Sammie and Stack, huntin’ down Delta Slim, tryin’ to get him to play the twins’ juke joint. You knew better. Everybody did. The twins had dreams stitched outta desperation. But Stack? Stack had a way of makin’ nightmares look like postcards.

Smoke said go. You didn’t argue. You never did when Stack was involved.

They always talked like the Devil lived down here—hid out ‘tween the riverbanks and cotton rows of pews in churches. But if you’d ever laid eyes on Elias Moore, you’d know the Devil wore gold chains and that same half-smile he gave every woman he thought he could fix. Or ruin.

His name hung thick in the Delta heat. Infamous. Unseen, but everywhere. Known for all the wrong reasons.

But you didn’t mind. ’Cause that was your Eli. Same boy spit in the face of shame and walked through hell like he was born of it. Trouble was—his mouth belonged to you, but it wandered. Like his eyes. Like his hands.

The station buzzed—babies cryin’, trains screechin’, voices shoutin’ over heat and steam. But you only heard one sound: that harmonica. Slim didn’t just play. He testified. Every note a scar. Every breath, a memory.

Stack tried to talk business, but Slim wasn’t buyin’. He’d been down that road before—money, music, pain. Stack knew Slim better than that. Pulled out a brown bag, cracked the seal loud enough to shake the spirits. Slim’s head jerked up like a bloodhound caught a scent.

“What’s that there?” he croaked, eyes glassy.

“This?” Stack smirked. “Little Irish beer. Imported.” Held it out—then pulled it back. “Play for us. Forty a night. All the beer you can drink.”

Slim laughed. Not at the offer. At Sammie.

“I got socks older than this boy,” he barked, slappin’ his knee.

You turned toward the train, caught a chill. Not in the air—but in the way that woman stared at you. Skin like milk, hair curled soft, eyes locked on you like she’d seen a ghost.

You knew that look. Same one you wore the night Elias knocked on your door, mouth full of apologies and eyes full of nothin’.

Elias Moore didn’t know shame. But she looked like she did.

Steam and sweat mixed in the air like perfume and sin. Sammie leaned against the station post, cradlin’ that old guitar like it was part of him. Delta Slim—gray beard and glassy eyes—sat beside him, harmonica already to his lips. The second that beer cracked open, Slim’s soul came back from wherever it’d gone to die.

No one blew a harmonica like Slim. Played like he was speakin’ in tongues. And Sammie? That boy had a God-touched gift. Guitar sang like it was confessin’ somethin’.

Pearl was there too. She ain’t say nothin’, but the way she looked at Sammie—like he was the hymn she forgot how to sing—told a whole story of its own. You saw it the second he started playin’. She ain’t blink. Just stared. Eyes full of water and fire.

You leaned back, soakin’ in the moment—’til you felt her.

She stood a few feet off, arms crossed, lips puckered like she’d sucked a lemon through a straw. That fair skin of hers catchin’ every beam of sunlight, all high and mighty like the Delta didn’t spit out girls like her every decade or so.

Mary walked up to you abrupt, speakin’
“Well look at you, actin’ like queen of the goddamn Delta now, huh?”

You didn’t flinch. Just tilted your head and gave her that slow, razor-sharp smile.
“Must be tough watchin’ somebody else walk ’round with what you couldn’t keep.”

She stepped up close, eyes narrowin’.
“You don’t know what me and Stack had.”

You folded your arms ‘fore steppin’ closer to her
“Don’t gotta know. He don’t talk in past tense ‘less it’s worth forgettin’.”

She stared hard, jaw tight. Then, like a wasp with nowhere to sting, she turned on her heel and stormed off—headed straight for Stack.

Back at the Juke – low light, sweat glistenin’, music shakin’ the wood floor

You showed up dressed like trouble. Hair wild from the humidity. Eyes wilder still. The crowd swayed like an electric pulse, drawn together by the rhythm that bled from the stage. Sammie stood there, the guitar in his hands like it was part of him. His fingers moved across them strings, a melody born of somethin’ deeper, somethin’ older. The kind of music that made the air heavy, the kind that made you feel alive even when you was broke.

Pearl stood in the crowd, her eyes wide, locked on Sammie. Her expression told its own story—like she was seein’ him for the first time, her body swayin’, lost in the sound, lost in the way Sammie’s soul poured into the notes. Her mouth parted just slightly, her face glowin’ in the dim light. Every time he played, it was like they spoke without words, a conversation between their souls, intertwined in the music.

Sammie didn’t see it—didn’t see her watchin’ him—but you did. You watched how her eyes followed every movement of his hands, how the air seemed to charge ‘round them. The moment was raw. Beautiful, and dangerous.

Then you saw her. In that pink dress. Laughin’. Dancin’ a whirlwind of blond and pink. Lookin’ at Elias like he was her savior. You knew better. She didn’t. Yet.

You started toward her—’til Smoke caught your arm.
“What you fixin’ to do, woman?” he asked, half-smile curlin’ like a blade.
“Nothin’,” you said, sharp. Smoothed your dress, tucked your rage.

But it bubbled. You found Sammie, teased him ‘bout the pretty girl in blue on stage. Pearl. Lord, she could sing. Made grown men weep and young ones forget themselves.

You spoke in his ear
“She make you feel somethin’?”

Sammie looked down, smiled like a sinner fresh from the altar.
“Yeah. But it’s more than want. It's like—when she sings, I hear the life I shoulda had. Like home, if it hada’ been kind.”

You rested a hand on his shoulder, gave it a squeeze.
“She dangerous. But some danger’s worth it.”

The juke joint pulsed with energy, walls shakin’ with laughter, clinkin’ glasses, and that blues rhythm. Pearl stood on stage, her eyes fixed on Sammie, his fixed on her, singin’ in that deep, sultry, siren-like voice.

Out on the floor, you caught a flash of blonde in a pink dress. Mary, swayin’ through the bodies like a snake through grass. You pushed the crowd—but she was gone. Swallowed up by sweat, perfume, and poor decisions.

Your stomach twisted. Somethin’ was off.
Sometimes the Delta speaks in gut feelings—and this one had claws.

You go to find Elijah. Mary confronted Stack away from pryin’ eyes this time, her eyes blazin’ with a mix of anger and longing.

“You said you loved me, Stack. Then you vanished like smoke in the wind.”
Stack looked at her deep in her eyes

“Mary, I had my reasons. Things I had to sort out.”
Mary stepped back as if his words had slapped her.

“Reasons? Or just excuses? You left me to pick up the pieces.”

Their voices, though hushed, carried the weight of all them old wounds. Air got thick. Memories hangin’ heavy. Tension gave way and their mouths collided.

You found Smoke leanin’ over a busted poker table, holdin’ a man by the collar. Other dude bleedin’ from the lip.

You spoke low
“Somethin’s wrong, Elijah.”

He looked at you, brow knit like a storm was brewin’.
“What?”

You spoke hastily
“Ain’t seen Stack in a while. Mary’s been slippin’ ’round. I don’t like it.”

He knew his brother was hardheaded. Knew he wouldn’t handle her. He let the man drop, grabbed his piece, and nodded.
“Let’s go.”

Pearl’s voice carried through the walls like a ghost made of silk and sin. You and Smoke moved quiet down the hall, past barrels and jars, toward the sound of a creak.

Smoke threw the door open.

They was there. Stack on the floor. Blood spillin’ from his neck like wine out a broke bottle. And Mary—Mary was on top of him, knees straddled, hips connected, lips red with blood. She turned to face y’all, mouth smeared like a child caught in the jam jar, smilin’ like she’d won.

You ever seen Satan grin? In that moment, you’d bet every penny you had he looked just like her.

Smoke didn’t say a word. Just raised his gun and let her have it. She dropped like a bad memory.

The music stopped.


Ever heard a juke go quiet?

You ran. Sank to the floor. Held him. Blood on your dress. Hands shakin’.

Smoke and Sammie kneeled with you—Annie too. No words. Just sorrow. He was still breathin’—barely.

Smoke known for that cold demeanor, but seein’ his brother like this—his twin, the only soul he ever loved next to Annie—it melted that ice quicker than you could fathom.

You pressed hard on the wound with shaky hands, but it was too late. She’d bit clean through.

The music died. Like the night did. Like Elias did. Come daylight.

You, Sammie, and Smoke in the car. Dust risin’. Clothes stained. Eyes empty. Tires hummin’ like a lullaby for the damned.

The night had gutted you. Left you hollow. Lost. Y’all rode that road with ghosts in the rearview. Bo. Stack. Pearl. Grace. Annie. Slim. One by one, everybody y’all ever loved gone. Like the Delta didn’t just swallow bodies—but whole histories.

Sammie stared out the window, silent. Red scratches raked down the side of his face, raw and angry—Remmick’s last mark, clawed deep, like the vampire’s curse wasn’t just to kill, but to scar. His eyes was distant, lookin’ but not seein’. His mind replayed what Remmick preached. The scriptures twisted in his head, years of faith his father instilled into him just crumblin’ under the weight of what Remmick showed him.

He thought ‘bout Pearline. That laugh. Her voice. Her smile. The sound of her moans, their bodies twisted up in that small, dark closet. They had sung together, souls knotted up so tight it hurt.

He clenched his fist, eyes closin’, rememberin’ the way she left him—the light dimmin’ from her eyes as she died in his arms. That haunted him now, gnawin’ at his insides like they’d never let go.

His hands trembled in his lap, restin’ on what was left of his guitar—strings frayed, body cracked. Draped over it: Pearlines scarf. Soft, blood-smeared. Still smellin’ of jasmine and stage-light sweat.

Smoke kept his eyes on the horizon, jaw tight. It was all in his face—he was thinkin’ of Annie. The way she stood her ground. The way she trusted him. The way she turned.

He didn’t speak for a long time. Then soft, but sure—
“I ain’t proud of what I did. But she turned. Asked me to…”
A long beat. His throat tight.
“Did what had to be done.”

Car went quiet again, heavy with what couldn’t be taken back. Then—

“I’m takin’ y’all home. Best for y’all to be gone by time the Klan come.”

You and Sammie looked at each other. Just a glance. That old, wordless understandin’ between kin. No protest. No argument. Just the silence that comes after surrender.

The fields rolled by, golden and heartless. You thought of Elias. His lies. His voice. His love—what it gave, what it stole, what it left behind. And now, what it could never be.

You reached across the seat, touched Sammie’s arm. He ain’t look at you. But he didn’t pull away.

Annie once said you can kill a vampire’s maker, but the blood still hums. Maybe that’s what y’all was now. Survivors of somethin’ too dark to name.

The night took what it wanted.

And left y’all with each other.

And for me—after all we been through under the moon, in the span of sunrise to sunset—that was enough. Spirits shaken, but alive. That was good as it was gonna get.

———————————————————————

Omg yall hiii first time writing and post hopefully it doesn’t suck😭 might do another part who knows I’ll see.

[demie90s]

Vlogs of Pain

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: While on a modeling trip in Miami, you start vlogging about how much you miss your girlfriend… and T—who blocked you over a petty argument.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.7k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Comedy, domestic chaos, modern love, poly mess, vlog girl energy

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Light language, mentions of blocking/pettiness, reader is toxic but fine, sapphic clownery

🎥 VLOG TITLE:

“I miss my girlfriend (and T, unfortunately)”

Filmed in HD with vibes, posted from your hotel room in Miami

The vlog opens on you staring out the window dramatically, hair wrapped in a silk scarf, lashes on, lip gloss poppin’. You got an iced matcha in one hand, a fake tear running down your cheek from a setting spray squirt.

You sigh like the world just ended.

“Y’all…” You sniff, spinning toward the camera. “I miss my girlfriend.” You pause. “And T.” You suck your teeth. “But only a little. She blocked me over an argument. Which is wild, ’cause I didn’t even yell—I just said she built like a lunchable.”

You sip your drink and deadpan into the lens.

“That’s a compliment. That’s a snack. Be for real.”

Cue a smash cut to you pacing your hotel room in a two-piece Skims set.

“She really blocked me y’all. Like it’s giving daycare behavior. Like oh no, she called me a Capri Sun now I gotta go to my feelings corner.”

You plop down dramatically on the bed.

“And Court… Courtney… she just giggled like some shit funny. Didn’t defend me or nothing. Just laughed like a damn hyena.”

Cut to a zoom-in: your lips poked out, blinking fast, one tear falling like a movie scene. You sniff again.

“I’m too pretty for this.”

Cue another edit: You walking down the hallway in sunglasses and a hoodie, narrating in a fake deep voice.

“I’m on my way to court,” you say solemnly. “Not Court the person. Court the system. To press charges for emotional neglect.”

Final Clip: You flopped across the couch, looking up at the ceiling.

“Court if you watching this… tell your ROOM MATE unblock me. I’m tryna come home.”

Instagram Live

Court’s phone is SHAKY—she already giggling.

Court taps the screen. “Ayo y’all get in here cause this one…” gestures to T with the deepest side-eye known to man “…got us beefin’ with the internet again.”

T in the background, mid-eye-roll. “Okay y’all listen up—let’s clear it up cause people in the comments talkin’ ‘why you call her a harmonica.’”

Court wheezes. “DID YOU THO??”

“I never said she looked like no cross-eyed harmonica. I said I wouldn’t buy her an Easy Bake Oven cause she damn near burnt the apartment down last time—”

“YOU SAID SHE BUILT LIKE A HAHA!” Court SCREAMING. T trying not to laugh. Failing.

“I said she built like a punchline,” T admits, smirking. “Like she got jokes, but can’t take one.”

“NAH YOU SAID SHE BUILT LIKE A—She talkin’ bout ‘I miss my girlfriend… and T.’ Nahh she petty!”

Court wipes tears. “She gon’ cuss us out. I already feel it.”

T finally smiles, shaking her head. “That’s why I blocked her. Cause she be acting like I’m optional. I am a limited edition, ma’am.”

Court’s reading comments now: “Someone said ‘unblock her before she calls your mama’—OH MY GOD.”

T laughs but mouths she probably already did.

“T looked guilty. She did say harmonica.”

“Court laughing like she ain’t gonna be crying when shorty ignores her for 2 days”

“Not ‘I miss my girlfriend… and T’ 💀”

“Their breakups be funnier than my whole relationship.”

FACETIME

You don’t even say hello when they pick up. Just straight smoke.

“First of all? BOTH of y’all trashy hoes.”

Court immediately covers her mouth. T raises her eyebrows like, “this what we doin’?”

“You got the NERVE to laugh on live while I’m out here lookin’ like a single mother of three with no baby daddy in sight.”

T: “You said I was built like a—”

“You built like regret, T. Like a tax write-off that don’t clear.”

Court’s wheezing.

“And YOU” You point at Court like you pointing through the screen. “You think that lil laugh cute? Wait till I don’t touch you when I get back. You gon’ be in bed like ‘baby why you over there’ and I’mma be like ’who is you?’” They try to speak.

“Get tf off my phone.”

You hang up before either of them can respond. The screen freezes on T mid-smirk.

GROUP CHAT

Court: girl u dramatic as hell why u eat us up like that

T: you called me a lunchable I had to block you. it was for my mental health

You: should’ve blocked your barber first 😘

Court: NAHHH 💀

T: wow ok

T: since you hate me unblock me and let me pull up. Handle it in person

You: no.

Court: girl get home

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264

[chrissv4mp]

✮ THE WEIGHT OF IT ALL

INTRODUCTION ; PART 1 ; PART 2 ; PART 3 reading now...

warnings. angst, mentions of sa, asshole!billie the first half, language, fluff.

synopsis. after a long year of struggle, your parents decide to move back to the place you spent most of your childhood years: the old farm that they never had the heart to get rid of. however, after leaving a decade ago, they hired some help who you were never aware of until your arrival.

words. 7.3k

letters. buckle up for this one guys 💔. rereading this and realizing i might've self-projected just a bit ??

SERIES MASTERLIST ; NAVIGATION

you're wiping the corners of your eyes as you make your way across the lot, kicking up rocks and dust with every step.

it's dark out now—save for the dull, golden shine of headlights pulling in and out of the gravel parking lot, and the orange flicker from the bonfire across the way. the voices around you are muffled, a murmur of boots stomping on the ground, harmonies mixing with laughter and the crack of open beer cans.

but all you can hear is the echo of her voice. sharp, angry, unfamiliar. "maybe this would've been better if you didn't come to the farm at all."

your chest feels tight. your hands won't stop shaking, and you're walking but you have no clue where. maybe toward the road. maybe away. just anywhere that wasn't here. or your home. or the barn.

sniffing, you swipe at your face, and almost walk right into someone.

"hey, woah—easy there."

you look up.

he's tall. lean. looks your age, maybe a year or two older. the soft amber glow of a streetlamp illuminates the curve of his cheekbone, the slope of his nose. his light brown hair peeks out from beneath a baseball cap, tousled, and he's got a leather jacket tucked in his arms. the second he catches the way your fingers twitch on your forearms, he holds it out to you—a look on his face that's more curious than concerned.

"you good?" he asks, eyes a soft green, voice easy.

you try to brush past him, muttering, "i'm fine." but your voice cracks and you shiver, your body betraying you.

he cracks a small smile. "you don't gotta lie. here." he drapes the jacket over your shoulders without hesitation, so quickly you don't even have time to argue.

it's warm. smells faintly of laundry detergent and cologne. your guard lowers just a bit.

"i'm casey, by the way," he says, shoving his hands in his back pockets like he's trying not to scare you off. "figured you might need a minute. or a water. or someone to not ask a bunch of questions."

you blink. it takes a few seconds for you voice to work again. "you... you saw that?"

his smile fades just slightly, soft and crooked. "whole town probably did. but, hey—people fight. people suck," he shrugs, like he's used to this. "you gonna stay for the fire?"

you hesitate. the idea of maybe facing billie again—with savannah glued to her hip like a second skin—makes your stomach twist.

but you also don't know where to go.

"...i don't know," you say quietly.

"listen," casey says, nodding toward the fire in the distance. "you should stay just for the last part. the main event's about to start, and they save the best performers for last. not worth stormin' off before the good stuff."

you want to say no. you should say no. but the warmth of his jacket and the genuine look in his eyes kinda disarm you. so you nod. "fine. but i'm only staying for a few."

you let him lead you back toward the fire. not too close, just on the outer edge where the shadows stretch and no one really notices anything. people are pulling out guitars, harmonicas, even a banjo or two. it's sweet, rustic, something you swear you've seen in a movie. voices hum low as the first few take turns, laughter and clapping filling the space.

then, through the rundown speakers placed around the seats, you hear billie's name being called.

she walks into the center, guitar slung over her shoulder, boots kicking through the gravel. she doesn't notice you—not at first. but a few strums in, she lifts her gaze. her eyes land on you even in the shadows.

you tense up without meaning to, shoulders drawing tight under casey's jacket. something in the way her eyes, cold and blue, stare directly into yours makes your heart ache.

casey catches it instantly. he leans in, voice just above a whisper. "want me to get you some water?"

you nod, grateful, and follow him a few steps away from the crowd. behind you, billie stutters—just hardly, just enough that it pulls a few glances from some people. she fixes herself, tries to push through, but savannah's already leaned in, whispering in her ear.

"she's a waste of your time," she hisses, shaking her head.

billie doesn't respond, just keeps singing. her fingers strum the guitar strings, face tight. for the first time all night, she looks unsure. and she's still watching you, standing near the concession stand, wearing casey's jacket like it belongs to you. and that might just be the thing that ruins her night.

casey grabs two of the water bottles from a cooler beside the concessions table, thanking the person behind it and sliding over a few dollars before he goes to sit at one of the tables.

he hands you one of the bottles as you sit down, and you twist the cap open with a small "thanks" before sipping out of it. you watch as the flames flicker slowly, barely seen through the large crowd that formed just a few performances ago. people laughing like nothing's wrong.

"this always how it goes out here?" you ask quietly, trying to sound casual.

casey glances over at you, grinning. "pretty much. songs, drinks, bad flirting. drama, if you're lucky."

you laugh dryly, brushing your thumb along the rim of the bottle. "yeah, i've had far more than enough of that for tonight."

he doesn't press, just shifts to nudge his shoulder against yours. "looked like you needed to breathe for a second. glad you stuck around."

you're about to reply—until the sound of guitar strings stop and the applause begins. your eyes track back to the fire, catching billie just as she stands and cracks a small smile for the crowd. her eyes find you quickly, and she doesn't waste another second basking in the spotlight before she backs away, slinging her guitar behind her like she can't get out of the there fast enough.

she doesn't say anything to the crowd. doesn't not or acknowledge them—just turns and starts your way.

savannah scrambles after her, whispering something sharp under her breath. billie doesn't flinch, just rolls her eyes.

"babe, come on," she mutters. "just let it go, she's being childish—"

billie spins on her heel, voice loud enough to cut through the music. "go sit back down, sav. seriously. i don't need anymore of your clingy bullshit tonight."

you freeze.

casey's posture changes too, jaw tightening just slightly in alert. "she comin' over here?"

you nod, slowly. "seems like it."

and sure enough, billie stops right in front of you, hands in the pockets of her jacket, chest still rising and falling heavily like she hasn't fully come down from the fight yet.

"we're leavin'. now."

you blink. "what?"

billie inhales sharply. "we're leavin'. you don't have a ride if you wait any longer."

you scoff, raising your brows. "funny you think i'd still wanna ride with you."

the country boy beside you straightens up, twisting the cap back on his water bottle. "i told her i'd take her home," a lie, but he guess he was going to now.

billie's eyes snap to him like she's just now realizing he's there. "sorry, what?"

"s'no big deal," he shrugs. "we were talkin'. i got my truck, and i'm free all night."

you watch the tension pull taut in billie's jaw, the way her eyes flick from you to casey, then back again. for the first time tonight, you're in control. and it shows in how tightly her fists curl at her sides.

savannah's standing a few feet back, arms crossed, clearly waiting for billie to get her shit together.

but she's too busy staring at you. like maybe she's trying to read something you're not ready to show her, or maybe she thinks that if she stares long enough, you'll crumble under her gaze.

everyone's quiet for a few tense moments. you're still sitting uncomfortably beside casey, crumpling your bottle mindlessly between your fingers. billie's just standing there, eyes narrowed slightly, like she's trying to figure out how to word something without setting herself off.

finally, she speaks. and you think she's gonna curse out casey and walk away—but she doesn't. she just... grins. fake.

"never caught your name, prince charming."

he looks up at her with the same amount of composure he's had all night. "casey," he introduces, deciding it's best not to offer a hand. "and you must be... billie." if he heard your screams right.

she nods sharply, brows furrowing like she's sizing him up and already knows she hates the outcome.

"casey," she repeats, voice low. "how long you been in town?" she asks, like she's interrogating the poor boy.

"born n' raised," he smiles up at her, friendly. "my folks live out near the mill. and you?"

"m'from down in the northern area."

he nods, still calm. "figured. you don't talk like most of us."

you press your lips together, hiding a grin.

billie doesn't blink. "guess not."

savannah shifts impatiently behind her, murmuring something about leaving soon, stepping closer and brushing her fingers against the loops of billie's jeans. billie's not listening at all, eyes having never left you for a second.

casey stands, brushing the back of his jeans. "i was just about to walk her to my truck."

"yeah," billie grumbles, tone like a child. "bet you were."

casey raises an eyebrow but stays cool. "i meant what i said—i'll get her home safe."

"i don't remember asking you to," billie bites.

he pauses just long enough to let those words hang in the air, then dips his head lightly, still polite. "wasn't askin' for permission."

and that? that sets her off. you can see it—jaw tighter than before, nostrils flared, hands in fists so tight her knuckles bleed white. but she doesn't say anything.

"c'mon," he says softly, turning to you. "let's go."

you glance once at billie, who looks like she's seconds away from popping casey in the mouth. savannah's tugging at her sleeve now, practically begging her to walk away now. and then you turn, slipping your hand into the crook of casey's arm just for the fun of it as he leads you toward his truck in the floodlights.

behind you, billie doesn't move. but you can feel her eyes burning into the back of your head as you walk.

you jump into casey's truck when he unlocked it, strapping yourself in and sighing heavily like you're finally able to really breathe after the terrible events of tonight.

the inside of his truck hums to life just as turns the key in the ignition, fingers moving to mess with the buttonss on the ac before it spurs to life and a breeze starts to blow toward you, the setting turned down just enough to keep the windows from fogging. you're both quiet as he pulls out of the lot, the tires bumping across rocks and small pot holes, the road illuminated only by headlights and the occasional glow of a porch light or corner store as you pass by.

he drives slow, but with purpose—like he knows where every curve of the road is by heart. you're picking at the hem of your shorts when he speaks.

"she's kinda rude," he says, not harsh—more like an observation, amused and casual.

you glance at him, then through the windshield, biting the inside of your cheek. "she's not usually like that."

he raises an eyebrow but doesn't push.

"i mean..." you hesitate, then add. "i've only known her a week."

he hums thoughtfully, one hand resting loosely on the wheel while the other takes off his hat and brushes a hand through his hair. "still counts. lot can happen in a week."

you nod. and before you can stop yourself, the words just start slipping out, like the seatbelt across your chest is the only thing keeping you from unraveling entirely.

"my parent's dragged me here," you say, picking at a loose thread on your shorts. "i grew up here, actually. this old farm just outside of town. they didn't sell it when we moved. then, a few weeks before summer hit, they sprung the news that they were struggling financially and had to move back."

he doesn't say anything—just listens. and that's all you need.

"turns out billie's been the farmhand."

"seriously?" he says, not surprised—just intrigued. "how long's she been there for?"

"a while, apparently. i didn't even know until i showed up," your voice goes quieter. "i didn't know a lot, actually."

casey glances over, catching your eyes. "small world."

you laugh under your breath. "way too small."

he smiles gently, eyes back on the dark road. "not so bad, though. s'good to have someone who remembers what it's like."

"someone?" you raise an eyebrow.

he shrugs. "maybe two."

you catch his smile in the soft light of the dashboard—and maybe it's just the moonlight, but something about him feels safe. familiar. warm.

the drive goes on with quiet, comfortable conversation after that—so comfortable you don't even realize you've passed your road until casey turns down another street, pulling into a small gravel lot beside a neon-lit shack with a crooked sign that reads daisy's dairy bar. it glows soft pink and yellow in the dark, tucked under strung-up fairy lights and buzzing moths.

you look over at him, confused.

he puts the truck into park, then says, "just c'mon, you deserve it after everything that went on tonight."

you furrow your brows. "ice cream?"

casey grins. "it fixes more than people think."

and somehow, you believe him.

so you follow him inside, the place smelling of waffle cones and sugar. you order—something simple, because your brain's still processing things from earlier—and he orders his usual. you don't catch the name, but it's got caramel dripping down side and he hands you a couple of napkins like he knows you're gonna need them.

you both settle at a table outside, the wood a little chipped, but it feels charming in the glow of the lights.

you spoon your ice cream slowly, not really tasting it. but you're calmer now, more grounded, heart rate no longer trying to sprint out of your chest.

"so," you say, licking your spoon. "i just spilled everything, what about you?"

he leans back in his chair, lazy and thoughtful. "grew up here. always wanted to leave. never did. well, not yet."

"why not?"

he hums, not missing a beat. "got a dog, a little sister, and a mom who bakes too well to leave. and this town... it just grows on you. even if you hate it at first."

you nod slowly. "sounds familiar."

"your turn," he says.

cocking an eyebrow, you smile. "i think you already got mine back in the truck on the way here."

he grins. "fair. but i got the sad girl version. i want the real version.

you look down into your cup. "not sure those are all that different." casey sits up at your words, leaning over the table.

"maybe not. but still worth findin' out."

and he's right. so you say everything. from when you used to sneak into places you weren't supposed to be at to the real reason your parents brought you out here, to the middle of nowhere. and he listens, really listens to everything you say without even looking bored or uninterested. he nods, asks questions, even adds his own little comments every now and then. and it feels normal, like you've known him since the beginning of time.

you both finish your ice cream and jump back into the truck before the conversation even lulls. it's a strange sense of peace you haven't felt in a while, and you realize you're not looking to leave just yet.

when the truck turns back onto your road, you let out a small sigh, even if you're not ready to face whatever's waiting at home. you know you're gonna run into billie again at the barn tomorrow, whether you want to or not. but tonight, it's just you, your thoughts, and casey.

he pulls up to your driveway and puts the truck in park, killing the engine so that you could get out. the lights of your house look faint against the night sky, but they're too bright for your eyes, already tired from all the chaos the day had to offer.

"hey," you say suddenly, hesitating before you lean against the door. "think i could get your number? for, y'know... next time?"

casey raises an eyebrow, a small smirk pulling at his lips. "next time, huh? you really gonna put me on speed dial after one night?"

"not a bad night, though," you say, the edge of a grin curling on your lips. "i mean, i could use a little more... peace and quiet, away from everything."

he laughs, a low, easy sound. "i can't promise you peace. i can promise i won't ignore you though."

you find a chuckle of your own slipping past your mouth, but you've already got your phone in your hand, holding it out to him. "no promises, huh?"

he takes it from you, typing in his number. "nope. i'm a wildcard. ask anyone in town."

when he hands it back you, you take a breath before stepping away from the truck, glancing up at your house. there's something about the way the truck's engine rumbles, the way casey's laugh lingers in the cool night air, that feels so different from what you're about to face tomorrow.

you let out a small sigh, reaching out for the front door handle before casey calls out to you again.

"hey," he calls from his truck, voice light. "try not to let the night get to you too much. tomorrow's a new day, so try not to get stuck in your head too long."

you nod, a tired smile pulling at your lips. "i'll try."

and with that, he's gone—driving back down the road, lights vanishing into the distance as he turns. you stand there for a few beats, looking back at your phone in your hand, then at the front door, where you know billie will probably be waiting for you in the morning.

but right now, you're just grateful for the silence.

the door creaks open, and it's not the sound of your alarm that wakes you—it's the deep scrape of your dad's boots across the hardwood. you barely register the sound until the light flicks on, bright against your sleep-swollen eyes. you're curled up in bed, one leg hanging off the mattress, shorts unbuttoned and wrinkled because you couldn't care less to take them off last night. your crop top's draped over the corner of the bed frame. your hair's knotted and your mouth still tastes like sugar from the ice cream last night.

"up," your dad's voice is cold, firm. not yelling—he hardly yells—but it hits sharper than if he did.

you groan, turning your face deeper into the pillow. "gimme a few more minutes."

"no. now. that eilish girl has been out there for an hour now. you're late."

you blink slowly, trying to gather the strength to sit up, but your body aches. your heart aches even worse. "i didn't even think she'd show up."

he pauses at the foot of your bed, a little confused. "you think the world stops spinning 'cause you're in a mood?"

you finally sit up. slowly. painfully. "can't i have one free morning? i barely fucking slept."

your father grits his teeth at your words, crossing his arms over his chest. "don't care. you asked to stay on the—"

"i didn't ask for anything," you scoff. "you made me come. you dragged me here."

he looks at you hard then. like really looks at you for the first time since you arrived back here. there's something in his eyes that flickers—tiredness, maybe. disappointment, definitely.

"you think me and your mother dragged you here for fun?" he says. "because we wanted a moody teenager running around acting like she's better than all of this?"

you cross your arms defensively. "that's not what i'm doing."

"then what are you doing?" he snaps. "you ran from everything back in the city. from your therapist. from school. from that mess with your ex boyfriend that you still won't talk about. and we—your mother and i—we gave you space. we let you come here. we thought this would help you."

his voice isn't loud, it's cutting. like every word was chosen to hurt much more than the last.

"instead, you're late to chores almost every day, mouthing off to everyone who gives a damn, and now you're making her pick up your mess."

you swallow hard, blinking back tears. "i never asked her to."

he shakes his head. "i don't know what you're problem is with her suddenly, but you have one job right now, and that's to show up. not just here, but in your own life."

he leaves after that, slamming the door behind him so hard it makes you flinch.

you sit there for a few minutes, throat tight. then you drag yourself out of bed, change into a new shirt and a pair of jeans that you'll definitely regret putting on after being out in the sun, grab your phone off the floor, and step into a rundown pair of converse.

you find your old bike in the garage. it's dusty, the pink paint faded, the streamers long gone from the handlebars. it used to mean something to ride it. freedom, maybe. but it doesn't feel like that years later, now that you can actually feel things.

the ride to the barn is quiet, long. your legs burn as you pedal, but you keep going, jaw set.

when you get there, billie's crouched by the feed bins, arm deep in a bag of pellets. her flannel's tied up again, blue this time, skin glinting with sweat. her hair's shoved under her hat. she looks good. she always looks good.

but her face is unreadable.

she glances up, just once. "nice of you to finally show."

you sigh, leaning your bike against the barn doors and walking over. "i always do."

billie stands, finally turning to you with her jaw tight in irritation that's becoming far too familiar now. "figured you'd be too busy runnin' away with your new boyfriend."

you freeze for half a second. then, "are you seriously doing this?"

she shrugs, grabbing two buckets of water like they weigh nothing. "just surprised he didn't ride you in a horse like your knight-in-shining-armor."

a dry laugh emits from your throat. "you jealous or just bitter?"

that gets her attention. she turns, full-body, eyes sharp and cold. "don't flatter yourself, y/n."

you step closer. "you wanna talk about flattering? you were the one shoving savannah in my face like she was something special, something i should be threatened by."

her brows furrow. "oh, that's funny—coming from the girl who throws tantrums the second all attention isn't on her."

you flinch. "you don't get to say that."

"why? because cowboy casanova made you feel special for five minutes?"

that pushes you. "no. because my dad ripped me apart before even saying good morning, and i still dragged my ass down here to do my part. because i'm trying even if it's not perfect. and because i'm not gonna let you treat me like shit just because you're mad you got caught juggling girls."

silence.

the chickens rustle in their coop. domino huffs in his stall.

billie's eyes drop to the ground for a second before muttering, "he's not your type anyway."

you laugh—bitter, hollow. "and you think you are?"

she looks up. "i don't know what i am to you."

"yeah, me either."

she exhales hard. the kind of breath you take before everything crumbles or explodes.

after that, it's quiet. awkwardly, painfully quiet.

just the scrape of boots on the dirty barn floor, the occasional clink of a metal latch, the rustle of feed bags. every now and then, billie mumbles something like "water trough's low" or "you got the eggs?" and you answer with a flat "yeah" or a clipped "done."

none of you bring up the night before. none of you talks about your mornings. none of you say anything that really matters.

two hours pass. the sun's high now, warming the earth and your skin with it. you're sweaty, sore, and done—grabbing your bike and wheeling it toward the edge of the barn when you hear her voice.

"y'wanna get lunch?"

you stop. your back's to her, and you almost laugh. "why would i wanna do that?"

billie steps closer. "thought you might be hungry."

turning slowly, you narrow your eyes at her. "and i thought you said it'd be better if i didn't come here at all."

she blinks. her jaw tenses, like she's biting back words that'll dig her grave deeper. "i didn't mean it."

"sure sounded like you did."

you expect her to snap again, or roll her eyes, or crawl back into that cold shell she's been clinging to all morning. but she just... sighs. "look, i fucked up, okay? just—get in the truck. let me do this for you."

you pause, weigh it for a second. you could ride your bike home. burn the rest of the bridge. or you could climb into her old pickup and pretend the ache in your chest doesn't mean something.

with a sigh, you grab your bike and toss it into the bed of her truck, then you climb into the passenger seat.

billie gets in quietly after you, her fingers twitching on the wheel. she starts the engine, and the radio hums to life softly in the speakers, partially blown out because of last summer. she doesn't adjust the volume. doesn't say a word.

but you can feel her looking at you. every few seconds.

and you keep your eyes on the road, pretending you don't notice. but your stomach twists with each glance.

she drives to a nearby diner, the parking lot empty for the most part, save for a dusty van and an old truck similar to billie's. she turns off the car, jumping out and trying to keep up with your anger-fueled steps as you walk toward the entrance of the place. when you step in, the scent of freshly-cooked bacon and coffee fills your senses.

a waiter grabs you and billie quickly, seating you two at a small booth in the back near the kitchen. neither of you speak, just take small sips from your water.

billie's knee is bouncing under the table. she's hardly looked over at her menu. just turning the glass of water in slow, nervous circles between her fingers like she's trying to wring the tension out of the air.

you're pretending to read the menu. but not a single word is sticking. not when your dad's voice echoes in the back of your mind, every word like a nail through the floorboard you've been trying to balance on since the day you got back here.

"you ran from everything back in the city. from your therapist. from school. from that mess with your ex boyfriend that you still won't talk about."

your stomach twists. that word. mess. as if it had been a misunderstanding. a bad breakup. as if your silence had made it any smaller.

you clench your hand in your lap just thinking about it, fingernails digging crescent-shaped indents into your palm.

billie looks up. she's trying not to be obvious, but you feel her eyes on you—curious, unsure, still full of yesterday's tension, maybe even nervous.

there's a bitter taste in your mouth as swallow, what you imagine acid might taste like.

your father didn't know what happened. no one really did. not the full story. not the way you'd been dragged upstairs at some party by a boy you trusted, a boy you loved with all your heart, just to be left on the host's bed like something disposable. not the way you tried to convince yourself that it was normal. not the way he acted normal the next day at school, laughing like nothing had happened. not the way you found out he recorded it. not the way he posted it after a week. and definitely not the way no one believed you.

you grip the menu tighter, wishing it would just crumble in your hands. wishing you would.

"you okay?" billie finally asks, voice careful, softer than before. the kind of careful that feels like someone walking barefoot on broken glass.

no answer.

"hey," she tries again. "you—uhm. you look like you've seen a ghost or somethin'. is every—?"

"don't," you snap, sharper than you mean to.

her brows raise, but she doesn't push or shoot back. she just leans back in the booth, arms crossed. "sorry. didn't mean anything."

silence again. thicker. more uncomfortable than before.

you hate this.

hate that you're here. that you came to this stupid town. that everything inside of you feels like it's about to crack open in public. and worst of all, you hate that billie's the one who sees it—because she's not allowed to, not after last night.

not after she made you feel like you were nothing.

she glances at you again. "still mad at me?" her voice is quieter now. guilty.

you don't look up, just set the menu down. "i'm mad at everything. you, especially."

billie shifts. "i deserve that," she murmurs. "is it your parents as well?"

"don't ask me that."

"you're allowed to be mad, y'know," she says. "but... you don't have to just sit there in silence, waiting for it to blow up into something bigger."

you finally meet her eyes—and there's a flicker of something raw there, something real, but you don't let yourself soften.

"stop acting like you know me," you say. "we've been around each other a week."

her face stiffens, like you slapped her.

and maybe you did, emotionally. but she doesn't pull away.

you look away again, blinking hard, swallowing. your throat is tight, your voice even tighter when it comes out, quiet. "my dad, he said... said that i ran away from it. my ex boyfriend. that whole 'mess.'" your fingers tremble in your lap. were you really doing this? "but he doesn't know what it was."

billie tilts her head, expression falling into something softer. something unreadable.

you shouldn't be saying any of this so soon. but the words are slipping out now, broken and slow.

"it wasn't a mess." you whisper. "he... he hurt me. at a party. and then he made sure everybody saw it, everybody who cared."

billie doesn't speak. doesn't move. but her jaw clenches.

"i was fifteen," you say, voice quieter now. "and then it got posted. and i couldn't even walk into a room without feeling like everyone thought i was disgusting."

the confession sits there between you two, raw and sharp and loud even in your quiet voice.

"i didn't tell anyone. not even my mom. not my therapist. i just... shut down, and, god—i fucking hate myself for staying silent." you finally exhale. "so yeah, maybe i'm mad. maybe i'm cold. maybe i'm a brat in your eyes. but that's because i don't trust anyone to care."

her eyes are wide, glassy. her lips are parted like she wants to say something—but nothing comes out.

you sniff. push back in your seat. "and that includes you."

you don't mean the last part.

but maybe you do.

billie looks like she might cry. but you're too tired to care. or maybe you care too much.

she just stares at you for a few minutes, so still she looks like she's not breathing. like the world's tipped sideways and she's scrambling to find her footing.

you can see it—the way her chest rises and falls slower than before, like the air got thicker and heavier between you both. her fingers, which had been resting around her glass, curl into the edge of the table like she's trying to hold herself together.

"i didn't..." she stutters, voice cracking. "i didn't know."

you roll your eyes and wipe your cheek quickly the with the back of your hand. you didn't even notice the tear. stupid.

"don't," you mutter.

"don't what?" billie's voice is quiet again, but firmer now. less careful. more real.

"don't do that."

she swallows. "do what?"

"say shit that sounds like you pity me."

she flinches at the word. "i don't," she says after a beat. "i swear. i don't pity you."

you look at her, and your face is unreadable—but the ache behind your eyes isn't.

"then what do you call this? treating me like glass all of a sudden?"

"i'm treating you like someone who deserves more than what she's gotten." she bark, but there's no bite behind it.

that shuts you up. not because it's dramatic. but because it's true. plain and unflinching and heavy.

you look down, blinking fast.

billie exhales slowly, dragging a hand down her face. "look, i was a dick yesterday. i know that. i got mad and jealous and said stuff i shouldn't have and made it all about me. it's not. it never should've been."

you don't speak.

she leans forward, voice so low it's like she only wants you to hear it. "but this? what you just told me?" she pauses. "you didn't deserve any of it. none. and it doesn't make you weak. or dramatic. or broken. it just makes you... someone who went through some real shit. and you're still standing."

your lip trembles before you can stop it.

then you glance away, hating how warm your face is getting. how the shame is still so fresh, like it happened yesterday instead of years ago.

"you're not glass, okay?" billie says softly. "you're nor fragile. you're just... tired. scared. and you've been carrying something far too heavy for way too long."

you press your lips together, knuckles white from how hard your clenching your fists under the table.

then, so quietly you barely hear yourself, "why do you care now?"

billie winces, like that question hurt her more than she expected. but she doesn't dodge it.

"because i've been watching you hold it together since the day you got here. and i didn't get it before. i just thought you were bitter. angry. and yeah, you are." she smiles a little, almost fond. "but now i know why. and i care because i want to. because i should've cared a lot more."

her voice wavers near the end, and it does something to you. melts something.

you fold your arms, slouching into the booth, head tilted. "still don't want your pity."

"good," she says. "wasn't offering that anway."

you look at her again. she's staring down at her hands, the stubborn tilt in her jaw still there—but there's a softness now. something slow and steady and patient. your heart twists.

and against your better judgement, you lean into it.

just a little.

you pull your water closer and take a sip, and she doesn't comment when you sniffle and wipe another tear away.

"s'doesn't mean we're good again," you mumble.

"i know."

you glance at her. "you still suck."

billie snorts. "figured."

then silence. a different kind, this time. one that feels like a bandage instead of a knife.

and it's quiet like that for a while—just two opposites in a roadside diner, sitting across from each other, both still healing in places they haven't dared name. but for the first time, it doesn't feel unbearable.

you finally nudge the menu across the table toward her.

"i want fries," you say.

she smirks, eyes flicking up. "yeah?"

you nod. "you're paying."

billie laughs. and this time, it actually sounds real.

billie unlocks the car and holds the door open for you like always, a quiet habit she never seems to think about. you slide into the passenger seat, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as she closes the door behind you and circles around.

the engine hums to life. her hand lingers near the shifter. you haven't buckled up yet.

"you alright?" she asks, finally glancing your way.

you stare out the window, then mutter, barely loud enough for her to hear, "i don't wanna go home."

it hangs in the air. heavy. loaded. honestly.

her eyes flick to yours. there's no teasing smirk or sarcastic quip this time. she just nods once, short and understanding, then shifts the car into drive. she doesn't ask questions. doesn't make a big show of it. just starts driving somewhere else.

the ride is quiet except for the gravel under the tires and the faint strum of some folk song playing low from the stereo. the sun's starting to dip, the sky all pink and orange and soft like it's trying to apologize for how hard the past couple days have been.

she pulls into her driveway. the house is just as you remember, modest, weather-worn but warm. maggie's car is parked out in front, and the porch light is already on.

"finn is home," billie says as she parks. "dad's probably still stuck at the mill like always."

you nod.

"y'sure?" she asks.

you turn to her. there's something open in her face. not pushing, just offering.

"yeah," you murmur.

she leads you inside, calling a quick "hey" toward the kitchen. maggie's voice answers—light, distracted, cooking something. her brother gives a lazy "yo" from somewhere down the hall.

but billie's hand finds yours again as she tugs you gently up the stairs.

her room smells like cedar and fresh laundry. you take a moment to look around since you didn't get the time before, noticing all the different posters from different bands and various singers, a small bedside lamp, her bed messy like she didn't bother making it this morning. there's a hoodie thrown on the floor and a guitar propped by her dresser, the one from last night.

you hover by the door.

"you can sit," she offers, motioning toward the bed. "or lie down. steal my pillows. whatever."

you drop onto the edge of her mattress, exhaling into it like your body just realized it's allowed to be tired.

billie walks over and picks up her guitar, plopping into the desk chair across from you. her fingers hover over the strings, eyes flicking up to you.

"gonna try to redeem myself from last night," she says, brows raised.

you manage a faint smirk. "what, planning to stutter through it again?"

billie laughs. "yeah, real funny."

then she starts to play.

and it's soft.

no lyrics at first. just chords, warm and deliberate. her fingers glide over the strings like muscle memory, like second nature. it's not flashy like the other night, not something to impress—it's quiet, pretty. it fills the space between you both like something safe.

you lean back into her pillows, letting your eyes drift toward her open window, where the sunset is spilling in orange light across the floor and her walls.

and in the middle of her playing, you realize something you didn't expect to feel again so soon.

calm.

safe.

wanted.

billie glances up once, and her eyes meet yours—really meet—and for a second, you forget about the house you don't want to go back to. about your dad's words. about that night from years ago that still sticks to your ribs. because right now, it's just you and her and this song she's playing like it's just for you.

she keeps playing.

you don't know the song—if it's one she wrote herself or something she's turning into her own. her foot taps quietly against the wooden floor like a silent metronome, her fingers moving like they're not even thinking anymore. like they know exactly where they're supposed to go. like they were made to do this.

you tuck your legs up beneath you, arms wrapped around a pillow that smells faintly like her shampoo. outside her window, the sky has folded itself into the night, thick and blue. a few dogs bark down the road somewhere, wind rustling the trees near the window.

and still, billie plays.

you wonder if she's doing this just so she won't have to talk. so she won't say anything else rhat sounds like pity. you wonder if this is her way of giving you space, but also not leaving you alone. not yet.

when the last chord rings out, there's a pause. but it's not awkward. it's full.

you look at her. she's looking at the guitar, her calloused thumb brushing over a string like she's thinking about playing again.

you swallow. your throat feels dry.

"that was nice," you compliment.

she huffs a laugh, but it's quiet. humble. "thanks."

another pause.

then, "you okay?"

you breathe in slowly. you could lie. it would be easy, especially with how many times she's asked that already. but something in your chest feels too tired to lie. too raw.

"no," you huff.

her eyes flick up to yours, but she doesn't rush to fill the silence.

you add, "but i don't wanna talk about it anymore tonight."

she nods, like she gets it. "that's okay."

you shift on the bed, pulling your knees tighter to your chest. her room is warmer than yours. safer. less full of ghosts and past memories.

"thanks for bringing me here," you mumble, tired.

"thanks for comin'," she replies, then leans the guitar against the side of the chair. "d'you want a blanket or—?"

you shake your head. "i'm good."

"you're shaking."

"am not."

"liar." but there's no bite in it.

she stands, crosses the room, and grabs a hoodie from the back of her door as she shuts it softly. she tosses it toward you and you catch it midair.

"put that on before i come over there and tuck you in like a baby."

you roll your eyes but pull it over your head anyway. it smells like vanilla and peppermint gum. like her.

she sits down at the edge of the bed beside you, close but not crowding. not touching you unless you ask for it.

neither of you say anything for a long time. just breathe. exist.

"you're not a mess," she says quietly. out of nowhere.

you frown. "what?"

"your dad. the stuff he said." she glances down at the sheets. "he doesn't get to call the situation that. doesn't get to act like this place is a cure when it's just... a change of scenery."

you study her face. the slope of her nose. the curve of her jaw.

"you remember all that?" you say, trying to force a laugh.

"i'll never forget." she shrugs. "but i'll keep it our secret. no matter what. even if i'm held at gun point." she jokes.

you let out a soft breath. it's almost a laugh.

then you say, "i don't... hate it here. don't love it, either."

"i remember that too."

"but you make it suck a little less."

her eyes flick to yours. there's something swirling in them. surprised, maybe. or proud.

"you suck a little less, too," she grins.

and this time, when you laugh, it's real.

you sit together in the quiet for a while. the weight of everything still hanging in the air, but not crushing you like before. it's not fixed. it's not forgotten. it still lives in your bones and under your skin. but you're not alone with it.

not tonight.

eventually, billie offers to sleep on the floor, but you pull the pillow from behind your back and toss it at her head.

"shut up and get in bed."

she does, and you lie back beside each other. not touching, but not miles apart either. you fall asleep to the soft sound of her breathing, the wind outside her window, and the faint echo of her guitar in your memory.

and for the first time in what feels like years, you don't dream about that party. you dream of firelight and a cowgirl with calloused fingers. you dream of a slow, soft song.

you dream of someone staying.

tags. @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @mxqdii @livvydunneness @dyingbymistake @wiidfi0wer33 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @mybluebossanova @strwberrybils @justtr @greenbttrflyy @billsbaby @bilsova @lottiepierce @northlndnisred @asterisk-eyes @dragoneyelashart @xxangelfarrlzxx @ilomiloblohshh @kittymarrow @meliciousmel13 @jul3esz @rightarion @svelish @eilishssiennaa @eeuni @dragoneyelashart @thinkshespretty @cnnibalize @canthelpit0 @hailwiggly @karaaeilish @bilswifee @drunkinyourbenz @astr-0-wrld @lovesturni0l0s @umadirectioner @lanabrock @drunkinyourbenz @aka-persephone

[arthursfuckinghat]

There's a certain emptyness in the camp after Charles leaves to help the Wapiti tribe in chapter four. Despite Charles being a relatively quiet person most of the time, there's a different kind of quiet that's brought into the camp without him there.

You notice that his usual place around the fire is empty, his usual position on guard duty is replaced by someone else, his name by his usual donations slowly disappears from the ledger, his usual smoking spot away from camp is unoccupied, his usual harmonica playing at night is replaced by silence, his usual friendly greeting as you walk past him isn't there, and he doesn't come and get you when you've been away from camp for too long.

It's so easy to miss Charles when he's away, so much that it makes me wonder if he ever felt the same way when Arthur leaves camp.

[crepesuzette2023]

Before I forget: Paul live in Paris, Dec 4, 2024

At some point, there was real life and having to take care of 1001 things in order to come here, but I can't remember. The Stadium is enormous, the view clear, the sound sublime. As the venue fills, a DJ creates a set of deep cuts and remixes from Paul, Beatles, & Wings that paints a broad but incomplete mural of the man's music. On the screens, an endless building scrolls past: a castle or a tower, inhabited by all these friends and lovers—only to culminate in the birthing of two Höfner basses from—flowerbuds? Star nurseries? I don't remember. Anyway, it's appropriately lusty Gemini symbolism. Earlier, my seat neighbor @i-am-the-oyster spots an angry skull in the QR code innocently leading to Sir Paul's website. Also with us are @packyourromanticmind, @s-l-martin a little further away, @crumblingcookies down on the floor, and next to me Mr. Suzette.

Can't Buy Me Love. We're underway. It's over almost before it begins. More more more. • Junior's Farm. My God, that figure down there is really him. These delicate wrists, bright white shirt, but also — these hands on the strings? Above all, a musician. • Letting Go. Red Lights, throbbing beat, sleazy bassline thrumming. I bet this is a personal favorite of his. • Drive My Car. The thrill of singing Beep Beep M Beep Beep Yeah in sync with thousands. • Got to Get You Into My Life. Damn, his voice his soaring. • Come On to Me. What? My fiction brain supplies so many "everyone comes on Paul, and Paul returns the favor"-scenarios. • Let Me Roll It. The first taste of actual ecstasy. Paul switches to guitar. Too far below me, a sea of people is swaying and singing. He gave me loving in the palm of my hand.

Getting Better. How dare he jump from the churning vortex of Let Me Roll It into the happy, skipping optimism of...this? Of course it works, and he sings it well. • My loudest scream of the night goes to Brother Michael in Let 'Em In. This one feels like a sibling of Getting Better—that relentless, easy rhythm, stripped of Lennon's edge. • My Valentine. Elle est ici. This one's for you, Nance. Dark, old, honest love song in black and red, with the voice just this side of breaking on this love of mine. • Still behind the piano, Sir Paul feels the need to bounce on it, and does so with Nineteen Hundred and Eighty Five, no holds barred. • Since we're going insane, why fight it? Maybe I'm Amazed, absolutely a highlight so far—the piano, the shredding guitar. The screams and falsettos.

And then he's suddenly standing in front of the stage singing I've Just Seen A Face. Infuriating. • In Spite of All the Danger. This holds up, lifting the entire stadium with its gentle melody—until it's time to lose it when Paul plays George's guitar solo. McCartney—Harrison. • Love Me Do. George Martin name drop! No more audition nerves; this is a now a singalong tune. Excellent harmonica playing by Wix Wickens. • Michelle. In Paris! Makes me think of Ivan Vaughan's wife, who helped with the French. So much history in this room, in this work. The I Love You's are for everyone present. • Dance Tonight. That's right, get up and shake it! Palate cleanser.

Blackbird. I know: a forever song. The simplicity of him with a guitar. His hands. This is still that body. • Here Today. His voice is more firm singing this than it was in the past, not as close to tears—but if anything, it makes the line I Love You even better: strong, sure. Let's hear it for John. (Applause.) (Demanding gaze.) (More, louder applause.) That's right. • Now And Then. I miss John's voice. The vibes of this song are: It was beautiful, now it's over. Oof. Thank you, John, for giving us the beautiful song.

Enough of this. Sir Paul escapes behind the colorful piano. Lady Madonna time! • And right into Jet. Why not? A bit jarring, but hey. Triumphant fucking song, and just what we need now. • Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite! At this point you're just fucking with us, Paul, and we let you. Disturbing to discover the lyrics to this song reside in the same brain that seems to be incapable of remembering actually crucial information with real life consequences. • Something. And like that, the heart is pierced again. It's just Paul and the ukulele at first, and thousands of voices singing for George. The man was loved. And the song is genius.

Me, before the concert: I could do without Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da. Me, during the song: goes nuts. • Band on the Run is a cool song, and it makes you feel good inside. It's time we all admit this. • Ram it home Paul, we want it: Get Back. What a song to play live. Gift of the gods.

Another change of pace as Paul sings Let It Be, surrounded by glowing wish balloons and the stars of the audience phone lights. Incredibly gorgeous and cathartic. My mother's second name was Mary and she died much too young; don't expect me to be normal about this song. • Live and Let Die. Okay then. Time to just surrender to the insanity of it all. I had *heard* of the fire show, seen it on small screens. I am not prepared. Not to mention the musical...orgy. • Hey Jude. This is my chance to come down a bit. What a peaceful melody. And then he screams and hollers during the ad lib section like the One Hand Clapping sprite he is...!

Encore: I've Got A Feeling. Paul and John sound crisp together. John looks so, so beautiful. Also, Paul still has the energy to almost scream in tune at this point. • Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band Reprise. Nooo, don't go! Also, Sgt. MF Pepper's exists because of this man and his bandmates. And it's just one song of the encore. Have to make choices, right. • Time to pull all the stops, and there's so much left. Helter Skelter. No, we will not take it down a notch. • Golden Slumbers. Damn you, Paul. • Carry That Weight. The first signs of the voice possibly being done for the night, but who cares when everyone sings along? • The End. The guitar solos! All this man wants to do is make music, either alone or in a good band. Both are fine with him, really.

When he's done, he's pretending to be humbled by the applause while actually soaking it up, and leaves the stage with a spring in his step, waving coquettishly at the camera that follows him for a bit. Is he kissing the camera? I forget. I think I remember the end. We see it all on the big screens: that lithe, white-haired figure, weaving past others until he's truly gone. Touch Me. Not a chance.

[pearlthedoll]

Wedding Bells for Dolls!

CW: Dolls.

The dolls have decided to get married! All of them! They aren't quite entirely sure what marriage is, and they're not quite sure about all the intricacies of a wedding, but what they do know is that Miss had one very recently and now she has a Wife! All of the dolls decide they want a Wife too! How do they get a Wife? Well, Miss's Wife is a human like she is, so a doll's Wife should be a doll!

They all gather together in the garden and decide to hold a wedding! One of the dolls remembers an important-looking person that stood next to Miss and her Wife during the wedding, they said a lot of words before Miss got to kiss her Wife, so they must be important! A doll volunteers and takes its position at the end of the aisle. The person at the wedding was holding a book, so it brings along its favorite cook book to hold.

Oh, and there was a person there that played a violin too! Or was it a viola? The dolls could never manage to remember what the difference was. None of them could play the violin or viola, but one of them had a harmonica, so it volunteers to be the viola person! Or violin person!

Another doll points out that it remembers there was a huuuuuuge cake at the wedding! At least three dolls tall! They have to have a cake too to have a wedding! A trio of dolls look at one another and nod. They know how to bake! They've made Miss pancakes and biscuits and cookies before! A cake should be easy! They all run off towards the kitchen, ticking loudly with glee.

So a book doll, a music doll, and three cake dolls. That's important. The dolls put their heads together. What else does a wedding need? One remembers that Miss and her Wife held bouquets at the wedding, and it runs off to go pick flowers. Another remembers how Miss called it a 'flower girl' and asked it to spread petals down the aisle, so it follows the one that went to make the bouquet. A third pipes up, pointing out that they still haven't picked out which dolls will be married!

It is a tough decision with much deliberating, but eventually, the matter is settled! Two dolls step forward, one the tallest of all Miss's dolls, and the other the shortest of them all! Miss is taller than her wife, so the dolls conclude this pair makes the most sense!

Thus the dolls scatter and begin their preparations in earnest, until finally they all convene back in the garden where Miss's wedding was held. The doll in charge of bouquets hands each of the future Wife-dolls a handful of roses, pansies, and daisies, bundled together by strings of yarn tied around their stems. The 'flower girl' doll emerges soon after with a basket full of all sorts of petals of numerous colours and varieties.

The music doll begins to play its harmonica in an off-key tune, and finally the cake-dolls return with a towering stack of flapjacks. Miss told them not to mess with the oven unsupervised, so they couldn't make a proper cake, but when they realized that pancakes have the word "cake" in their name, they knew just what to do!

Finally, the preparations were complete, and together, the tallest doll and the shortest doll walked together down the aisle, bouquets in hand, trailing after the 'flower girl' who scattered the petals of lilies, dandelions, snapdragons, and many more in their path. When the two of them reached the book doll, it briefly panicked, unsure what to say, but it quickly settled on reading is favorite recipe from the book: spaghetti bolognese.

When the doll finished its recital of its recipe, it repeated the only words it actually remembered from the wedding: "You may now kiss the bride." The tallest doll and the shortest doll both blurted out the words "I do," half-certain those words were important when Miss and her Wife said them, before pulling one another into a nice, tender kiss.

And thus, two dolls were married! They were Wives! They weren't entirely sure what that meant, of course, but they were happy about it nonetheless! They celebrated, they cheered, and they shared many a pancake together. A doll wedding! A joyous occasion to behold!

[unlucky-phantom]

The reunion

A little writing piece about my OC reuniting with Mr6

No warnings

Maybe spoilers for The Final shape of you haven't played it

Phantom stepped through the old tower with the same confidence she carried everywhere, her black armor gleaming faintly in the strange light of this place. Midnight, her Ghost, hovered close at her side anxiously waiting for the next threat to pop out. She scanned the area, head tilted slightly at the faint sound of a harmonica, a familiar tune weaving through the ruins

Following the sound, her steps measured and deliberate, even now, she moved like a shadow, her presence a ripple in the air. It's like the whole area held its breath as she rounded a corner, stopping suddenly as her gaze landed on the source of the music.

Cayde-6.

He was standing leant against a railing, harmonica in hand, leaning like he didn’t have a care in the world. He hadn’t noticed her yet, too focused on the tune he was playing.

Phantom froze. Her entire body stiffened, like she’d been struck by lightning. For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Tension radiated off her as she took in the sight before her. She takes a tentative step forward, her usually silent footfall anything but that in the moment.

"You gotta get better boots crow. I could hear you coming a mile away" The gunslinger chuckles "Now uldren? He could sneak up on a fella"

When cayde didn't hear a response, his brow furrows.

"*You're not Crow*"

Cayde suddenly spins on his heels, his harmonica flying through the air like a makeshift weapon. Phantom caught it effortlessly, her reflexes as sharp as ever but made no move to retaliate.

The ex vanguards posture straightenes and he lowers his drawn gun as he recognises the figure before him was a guardian. “Whoa!” Cayde exclaimed, his hands going up in mock surrender. “Easy there, stranger. That thing’s not exactly lethal, but I’d hate for you to break it.”

Phantom didn’t respond. She just stood there, holding the harmonica, her head tilted slightly as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

Cayde frowned, his usual swagger faltering as he looked her over. “Not much for conversation, huh? What’s with the spooky armor? You with Crow?”

Still, she said nothing. Her hands shook slightly as they moved toward her helmet, heart racing as she slowly, carefully pull it off.

Her red hair spilled out, framing a face few had seen only glimpses of—pale skin, faint freckles across her nose and cheeks, and those eyes. Her green eye shone with intensity, but it was the iridescent white one, scarred and piercing, that gave her away completely.

Cayde stared at her, his glowing white eyes widening in recognition. For a rare moment, he was completely silent.

“Cayde,” she whispered, her voice trembling, raw with emotion.

“...Aurora,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. The name rolled off his tongue like a memory he’d carried for lifetimes.

Phantom stiffened at the sound of it, the faint tremble in her hand betraying the storm raging within her. She raised her weapon—his weapon. The Ace of Spades. Its barrel leveled squarely at Cayde’s chest as her face hardens and her posture stiffens. “No,” she said, her voice sharp but unsteady. “You’re not him. You’re not real. You’re just another lie conjured by the Witness to get in my head.”

Cayde didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. Instead, he took a slow, cautious step forward. “Aurora,” he repeated, his tone steady and calm. “It’s me.”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracked as she took a step back, the Ace trembling in her grip. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t you *dare.*” She looked ready to pull the trigger, but there was something in her eyes—a flicker of doubt, of hope—keeping her from following through.

Cayde didn’t stop. He took another step forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “I get it. You’re scared, and honestly? I’d be too. But it’s me, Aurora. I swear.”

“Stop it,” she hissed, her voice shaking. “You’re not him. You can’t be. I watched you die, Cayde. I *buried* you.”

“And yet here I am,” he said softly, taking another step closer. He was now only a foot away from her. “You know me, Aurora. You *know* me.”

She shook her head, tears pooling in her eyes as her face twists in a pained grimace. “No. No, you’re just some twisted creation meant to toy with me. I’ve seen the Witness’s tricks before. You’re *not* real.”

Cayde lowered his hands slowly and reached out, his touch impossibly gentle as he cupped her face. “Look at me,” he said, his voice firm but kind. “Look at me, Aurora.”

Her breath hitched as his thumbs brushed over her cheekbones. She didn’t pull away, but her grip on the Ace tightened. He slowly pulls down the gaiter that hid half of her face, his gaze softening. "There she is..."

Phantoms head twitches, conflicted between leaning into the oh so familiar touch and pulling away.

“You’re stubborn,” Cayde said with a soft chuckle, though there was a tremor in his voice. “You always were. Stubborn and scrappy, like the time you tried to punch a Shaxx because he stepped on your cloak. Remember that? I told you it was a terrible idea, but you just *had* to prove me wrong.”

She didn’t answer, her lips pressed into a tight line. But it was there—the flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“And then there was that time we got stuck on Titan because someone,” he said, giving her a pointed look, “thought it’d be a good idea to see if Hive knights could swim. Spoiler alert: they can’t”

A shaky exhale escaped her, almost like a laugh. Almost.

“And what about the time we played poker with Drifter? You cleaned him out. Guy wouldn't play with me if you were around. I don’t blame him though, I think you cheated.”

“I didn’t cheat,” she said before she could stop herself, her voice barely a whisper. "He's just bad at poker"

“There it is,” Cayde said, grinning. “That’s my girl.”

Her eyes squeezed shut as if hearing those words physically hurt her. “Stop,” she said, her voice breaking. “Stop doing this.”

He ignored her, his hands still cradling her face as he leaned in closer. “Remember how you’d always sneak off to the Tower’s rooftop because you said it was the only place quiet enough to think? And how I’d find you there every time, sitting in the same spot, staring at the City lights?”

Her trembling grew worse, and the Ace dipped slightly in her grasp.

“And what about the song?” he continued, his voice softening. “The one you used to hum when you thought no one could hear you? That old tune from before the Collapse? You don’t think I remember, but I do. It was your favorite. You said it reminded you of home.”

Her lips parted, a shaky breath escaping her as her walls began to crumble piece by piece, the cold, clinical mask she wore splintering under the weight of his words.

“Cayde…” she whispered, her voice fragile and raw.

He nodded, his glowing eyes locking onto hers. “It’s me, Aurora. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but I’m here. I’m *here.*”

Her grip on the Ace faltered completely, and the weapon clattered to the ground. She didn’t move to pick it up. Instead, her hands slowly rose to rest against his, her fingers curling around his wrists as if anchoring herdelf to him. Phantom—Aurora—looked small, vulnerable, like the weight of centuries had finally caught up with her.

Cayde pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers. “I’ve missed you,” he said softly, his voice breaking. “I’ve missed you so damn much.”

Phantoms quiet sniffles broke the silence, the sound carrying through the strange expanse like a ripple. She clung to Cayde’s wrists as if letting go would make him disappear. Her tears fell freely now, tracing the scar that marred her pale skin. The scar that seemed to tell a story of battles fought and losses endured.

But even through the tears, there was doubt. Cayde could see it in the way her eyes darted between his face and the ground, like she was searching for some crack in the illusion.

“What…” Her voice trembled, soft and fragile. “What did I say to you that night… the night on my balcony?”

Her words hung in the air, a challenge wrapped in desperation. She wanted to believe, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Not without proof.

Cayde didn’t hesitate. He leaned closer, his glowing eyes never leaving hers. “That night,” he started, his voice low and steady, “you told me that the stars felt too far away. You said they were cold and distant, just like everything else. Just like the Tower. Just like everyone around you.”

Her breath hitched, and her hands tighten against his wrists. She wasn’t breathing. She was waiting.

“And I told you,” Cayde continued, his voice softening, “that the stars weren’t cold. They were just lonely. That’s why they shine so bright—because they’re looking for someone to see them.”

Phantom’s lips parted, but no words came. Her tears fell faster, her head shaking slightly as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“But that’s not all, is it?” Cayde pressed, his voice warm and teasing now, like he was pulling her back into the memory. “I said that if the stars could feel, then they’d be lucky to have someone like you around to keep them company. And you laughed, Aurora. You laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.”

Her hands flew to her face, covering her mouth as a soft sob escaped her. Cayde reached out, gently pulling her hands away, cradling them in his.

“And then,” he added, his tone dropping into something softer, something raw, “you told me that I was your star. That I was the only light you could still see.”

Phantom broke then, her body shaking as quiet sobs wracked her frame. Cayde pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her like she might shatter if he held her too tight.

“I missed you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I missed you so damn much.”

Phantom clung to Cayde like he was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. And maybe he was. For once, she didn’t look like the cold, unshakable Guardian who had truged through centuries of loss with just a blade. She looked like someone who had finally found the one thing she thought she’d lost forever.

And Cayde? He wasn’t the legend, the Exo everyone admired and remembered. He was just a man who had been given a second chance to hold the person he loved.