#she was talking about us doing everything she says without question

[kannady]

do you remember me too?

pairing: sylus x mc reader

synopsis: love and deepspace was a newfound obsession of yours. you installed the game shortly after sylus was released as a love interest. it'd be safe to say he was the reason you installed the app. however, finals week was approaching and you had to say goodbye to your favourite game. not for long, ofcourse. but you decide to login for the last time to check the new event.

word count: 3.1k

a/n: hey everyone! i actually rewrote and reuploaded this chapter. tbh i wanted to write more now that i have time on my hands. i felt like i may be taking things a little slow, so i tried to fix that. overall, im more satisfied with this version. lemme know your thoughts!

check out all chapters here

Chapter Six

“I can’t believe we actually made it back!” Your sister panted, flinging open the refrigerator and gulping down water while you leaned against the door, lost in thought. Thinking about who was following you, thinking about what to do next.

Your parents weren’t around, so you could talk freely without worrying them. Numbly, you trudged to the living room, collapsed onto the couch, and drew slow, steady breaths. You could still feel the adrenaline rushing through your veins and your head started to hurt. 

After fifteen minutes of silence, your sister sat beside you and handed you a chilled water bottle. You took a sip as she finally unleashed the questions she’d been holding back. “Do you know who was following us? How are you sure they were the bad guys? Why were they following us? Do they know where we live? What if they followed us up till here?” 

The last question freaked her out. Peering the curtains, she started scanning the area for “unusual movement”. Maybe you had acted rashly. After all, how could you be so sure they were the bad guys?

“I honestly have no idea. About anything at all.”

She just stared at you, while you continued. “I’m gonna be honest with you because I think keeping you in the dark would be even more dangerous. I don’t think I’m safe here, okay? And as long as I’m around, you guys aren’t safe either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, you said a large amount of energy would be needed to get me here. So, obviously someone intentionally did this. And I think I know who they are. They’re dangerous people, (reader’s sister).”

You could see her expressions change from fear, to confusion, to nothing. Maybe she was understanding the gravity of the situation or maybe she was just too good at hiding her emotions. “So, you think they were following us? Because their experiment was successful?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t think it was them. Did you even hear them following us? Why would they let us go this easily?”

Frowning, your sister sank back into the couch, lost in thought. “Well, it is possible they were just two random dudes…” She trailed off, abruptly stood up and started pacing around the room. “Then, it’s official. We solve this problem.” She walked out of sight and ran up the stairs.

“Um… okay.”

A minute later, a cacophony of thuds and clatters echoed as she hauled something downstairs. When you got up to look, she was wrestling with a white board, notebook and several markers. 

“Alright. What the hell?”

“That’s how they do it in movies.”

She dropped the supplies, thrust the notebook into your hands, and began scribbling on the board.

“Let’s start from the beginning. You were on your way to…?” She looked up at you questioningly. “To the park.” Nodding, she jotted it down, muttering to herself. “And the you from here was on her way to the doctor.”

“What’s the point of all this?”

“Um, it’s a problem solving technique. You gather all the information you have, analyse it, find the root cause, eliminate it and find possible solutions. Simple.”

“Maybe you should’ve started with that.”

You sat down with her on the floor and narrated everything that had happened, while she described your predecessor’s day. After about an hour, the notebook was filled and the white board overflowed with little diagrams, bullet points and highlighted keywords. 

“Okay, I’ll repeat everything. Correct me if I’m wrong.” You nodded and she continued. “So you left for the park, sat under a tree to play that game, but your phone wasn’t working–” 

“No, it is working. See.” You unlocked your phone and swiped left and right. “Just the app wasn’t working.”

“She corrected the point on the board and continued. “Okay, okay. The app wasn’t working, then you came home and you were here. So, we can assume the soul-switching took place sometime after you left and before you came home. Did I get everything right?”

Your sister had asked you to tell her everything, no matter how trivial it seemed. And just then you remembered something. “Wait! I remember the park was empty this morning. But after I sat down, I saw this woman looking for her cat. So like, there were people then, but not when I got there.”

Your sister’s eyes bulged out and she lifted her lips into the biggest smile you’d ever seen. “So that’s where it happened. Sometime after you sat down and before you saw the woman. That’s probably when your soul was switched!” She practically started prancing around the room. The sight of it made you laugh heartily. 

After your little celebration, she switched back to the work mode. “Now, we have a very important piece of information. Anyway, after that you got home, did the whole drama. Then you went to the doctor. And everything went smoothly there, you say?”

“Yep, the smoothest it could go. Although, Zayne did say the results showed drastic changes. But we know why.” She tapped the marker against her lips, nodding grimly. “Then you got back home. We talked, went to the restaurant and were being followed by these weird dudes.”

“Weird, how? Because they followed us?”

“No, because their shadows were weird. Like there was something on their heads.”

That new revelation put you into deeper thought. Two guys with weirdly shaped shadows? It didn’t click anything, so you just shrugged it off. 

“We have all the information. We analysed it. We also know the root cause. The question is how do we eliminate it?”

“We can’t. At least, not yet. But the bigger question is do they really know their experiment was successful?”

“And why did they bring you here?”

That was something you hadn’t given your entire attention too. Was it because of the aether core? Your predecessor had it too so why bring you here? Was something wrong with her? But the MC had the ability to reincarnate, right? Nothing matched up. Nothing made sense. You weren’t even sure if EVER had brought you here. Maybe it was someone else or maybe it was accidental. But wait, did she have the aether core in her heart? After all, it was discovered as a result of illegal experiments.

“Hey, um… Was there something wrong with your sister?”

She raised her eyebrow and looked up at you. “Clarify.”

“Like, I don’t know. Did she spend most of her childhood in a hospital, you know? Surgeries and all that. Did she have any diseases or was she physically weak?”

She passed a very confused and worried look your way, but replied nonetheless. “We have a family album here somewhere. You can see, she was perfectly fine. And no, she was training to be a Hunter, remember? She wasn’t weak or sick.”

“Ugh!” You sighed and ruffled your hair. “Nothing makes any sense. I do have a few theories, but they don’t line up, considering the fact that your sister was perfectly normal.”

It had been a while since you played the game and now you were surely starting to forget things. You could only remember fragments of the main story. Maybe you hadn’t paid much attention to it? How could you confirm whether the old you had an aether core in her heart or not? After careful consideration, it clicked.

“Zayne!” He knew about the aether core in MC’s heart, but this one knows too.

“What about Zayne?” 

“In the game, the MC had something.” You tried your best to dumb it down for someone who had no idea about things from the get-go and whom you didn’t want to know more than they should. “It was powerful and it made her the target of illegal experiments and stuff.” 

You could see the horror plastered all over your sister’s face. “But Zayne knew about it. And I want to confirm if this one knows too. I don’t know if he’ll just straight up tell me. But it’s worth a shot, you know?”

She pursed her lips and a minute later she spoke up. “So, how will you approach the topic? Hey Zayne. Do I have something powerful and dangerous?”

“I haven’t thought about it yet.��� It was true, you didn’t have a lot of knowledge about the aether core. There were memory cards you couldn’t get, so you were just left with your imagination. But like your sister had said, not everything was supposed to be like in the game.  After all, this was the real world. By now, you were aware of some very obvious differences. You weren’t an orphan, although you and Caleb were close, you didn’t grow up under the same roof. And what if…  What if you didn’t share a tragic past with any of the love interests? What if things really were normal here?

But your sister snapped you out of your thoughts. “No, wait. Don’t ask him anything. In fact, just forget anything happened.”

“Why would I-”

“Let’s say some dangerous organisation brought you here. If you go around asking people questions about yourself, it would surely grab their attention. Even if it’s Zayne.”

As much as you hated to admit it, she was right. That earlier encounter had freaked you out enough. You really weren’t looking for actual attention from the culprits. So, now you had to lie low. Pretend everything was alright, that you were really the old you. To convince them that the experiment failed. 

Your fingers twitched at the thought of pretending. Could you really play your old self after everything? Before further worry and anxiety engulfed you, you felt a soft hand on your shoulder. It truly warmed your heart that your sister was doing everything she could to help you out, make you feel welcomed, and to let you know she wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.

A noise from outside startled you and you both jolted your heads toward the source of the sound. Slowly creeping up to the window, your sister pulled the curtain to the side, looked out and rolled her eyes. “That creepy crow again.”

You felt the hairs on the back of your neck rise up.

Was it keeping an eye on you?

“What is Mephisto doing here?”

“Mephisto? That thing has a name?”

“Yeah. He’s Sy-Skye’s pet crow.”

“Who the hell is Skye?”

Now, that rang a bell. You remembered how the MC had that very alias for Sylus. But if Mephisto was here…

“Wait a minute. You said weird shadows. What exactly was on their head?” You turned to look at your sister expectantly. “Like they were wearing cat headbands...” You’d been so oblivious.

“Oh, my god! I’m so, so stupid.” You sighed falling to your knees. Mephisto was right there. You would’ve looked so stupid running for your life earlier. But why were they following you? 

“The dudes we saw earlier were Luke and Kieran! They work for Skye.”

“Okay, but who the hell is Skye? Is he the bad guy?”

You turned to look at her. “No, he’s the fifth love interest. My favourite one. Skye, nickname Sy.” She made a little ‘o’ with her lips as she started understanding everything you threw her way. You were still peering out the window, while Mephisto’s eyes were locked on you. Who knew how long he had been following you around?

“But why is he here? At this hour.”

You didn’t know. Your temple ached as the myriad of questions kept rising up with every passing moment. You did not have the answer to anything at all. But maybe now you knew how to get them.

“We should bring it inside.” Your suggestion was met with utter shock and straight refusal. “What? The crow? Hell, no.” 

“That’s how we can get answers by not getting unnecessary attention.”

She thought about it for a moment then spoke up. “But since we don’t know who brought you here, we can’t rule out the possibility it wasn’t Skye. Remember he’s technically killed two people.”

And way more than that. 

After the explosion, MC though Sylus was behind it, but turned out he wasn’t. Maybe you were going through the same thing. Being made to believe Sylus did something he actually didn’t. But this wasn’t a game! Why did you keep forgetting that? 

Did Sylus bring you here? That would explain Mephisto following you around. Maybe he was checking if the experiment worked. But why would he do that? All you had to do was figure one thing out.

“We need to figure out how much things are different from the game. Because Skye isn’t a bad guy.” Technically, you were right. Skye wasn’t the bad buy. 

“Okay… And how do we do that?”

“I don’t know.” Your gaze once again fell on the crow outside. What could be a harmless way of figuring out if things were exactly like the game? Your sister couldn’t help you on this, so you were really just on your own. Think, think, think!

“Is anyone in our neighborhood a Hunter?”

“Sure. I don’t know his name. But I’ve seen him come and go.”

This was your only hope. You couldn’t help but feel a little relieved, but things were far from done. “What does he look like?”

“Uh, tall, fair skin, silver hair. I’ve mostly seen him in white, yellow or purple clothes.”

At that point, you felt as if you could die from happiness. You wanted to jump around, scream, but for now you resorted to a little ‘yes!’.

“Okay, that’s good. But I don’t think that’ll be enough.” You needed more, but you felt like your mind was going blank. Why couldn’t you think of anything else? Maybe something minor could help you out. 

At the whim of giving up and as a last resort, you asked, “Is Caleb an orphan?”

“Yes, Aunt Josephine adopted him.”

Josephine. 

As the shock set in, you put your hand on your mouth and slowly sank into the couch. Holy shit!

“What? Is something wrong?” Your sister sat down beside you and slightly shook you when you didn’t reply. But truth was, you’d had enough. You needed answers and the crow outside was your only hope. Yes, you were scared, but not knowing the truth and living in oblivion was scarier. 

Maybe at one point, you wished to be able to live in this fantasy, but now that you were here you were terrified. You couldn’t go to bed knowing an opportunity was right there but you were too hesitant to take a risk. You couldn’t go back, you’d acknowledged that truth. But you weren’t gonna sit back and let those assholes ruin someone else’s life too and presumably get away with it.

 So what was it gonna be? Curiosity had finally killed the cat.

You abruptly got up, opened the door, slowly crept up towards the crow and held it tightly right before it could fly away from your clutches. After what felt like an eternity of struggling, you brought it inside. Held it up till your face, maintaining constant eye contact.

“Okay, listen up, you little piece of shit. Tell your daddy to get his ass here and stop stalking me like a little pussy. I’m scared as fuck and if I find out that he did this, you’ll be sorry. Get it?”

You shook the mechanical crow violently prompting it to let out a low, strained caw.

Opening the door, you loosened your hands and let it fly away. That’ll do it.

“Are you sure that’s the dude you like?”

Lemme know if you wanna be on the taglist!

tags: @zenbutnotreally, @godoffuckedupcats, @noxus123, @madam8, @agustdxjiminx, @liz9898, @lemonn015, @tearydamsel, @diegojeanne, @alyssac9, @dummiebunny, @acesgarden, @bigclownshoes, @sylusgirlie7, @roseyjean, @poptrim, @pillarofsnow, @rxelarailuj, @brekkers-whore, @one17, @cchiiwinkle, @babyx91, @mourning-into-dancing, @yuhuahuaaa, @stxrrielle, @tapiokay, @glassandhoney, @animelover18, @paper--angel, @plzdonutpercieveme, @coffeedragonhobbyist, @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme, @harbingers-lullaby

[papayainsectorone]

teach me about feelings

════════════════════════

summary: Unresolved feelings, a rain-soaked night and an unspoken longing lead you and Oscar to finally choose closeness over fear.

content: angst, fluff, second-chance tension, mutual pining, unresolved feelings, physical closeness, gentle longing, rekindled connection, emotional honesty, bittersweet hope

word count: 3 k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: i appreciate you all so much — we just hit 500 followers (!!) and there’s even a post with over 1000 mentions and i’m honestly over the moon.

this series came (is still coming) so easily and i’m genuinely so glad i decided to start posting again after (not an exaggeration) literally ten years of not writing or sharing anything.

coming back to this space felt scary at first, but you’ve made it feel exciting and safe like something i actually missed without knowing it. (how fanfiction-y of me lol)

thank you again. truly. and since i’ve got a little stockpile of prewritten chaos, it looks like i can keep the updates coming pretty smoothly

also sorry in advance, i do not take responsibility for any feelings haha

teach me series

════════════════════════

You didn’t even want to come.

The group chat had been relentless all morning — heart emojis, guilt trips, caffeine bribes. You resisted until the guilt won.

Now you sit on a chipped metal chair outside a street cafe, letting the sunlight warm your hands, trying to pretend the ache in your chest is just leftover sleep. The coffee is decent. The company is easy. You almost forget you’re trying to forget.

After a part of the group had already left, you stayed behind talking and enjoying the last rays of sun, with clouds already nearing on the horizon.

But then your friend freezes mid-sip. “Oh my god. Is that—”

You follow her gaze and everything inside you stops.

Oscar.

Hood up, shoulders hunched, head down like he’s just walking, not expecting anything.

Your friend calls out before you can stop her. And suddenly, he’s crossing the street, like something inevitable.

He reaches your table. “Hey,” he says, his voice low. His eyes barely skim yours.

Your friend beams. “Oscar! Sit with us.”

He hesitates. Looks at you.

You don’t say yes. But you don’t say no.

He sits.

The conversation drifts, polite and surface-level. You stay mostly quiet, your fingers tight around the cup in your hands.

Then your friend checks her phone and stands with a flurry of apologies about trains and schedules. Just like that, she’s gone.

You and Oscar are alone.

He shifts, his thumb tapping against his knee. “You look…” he starts, then trails off.

You raise an eyebrow.

His mouth twitches. “Like you’ve been laughing.”

You glance down. “You look like you haven’t.”

He huffs softly. “Fair.”

The quiet that follows isn’t awkward. Just heavy. Familiar.

“I’ve been trying not to text you,” he says eventually.

“Have you?”

“Every night.”

You say nothing. But your heart thuds like it remembers exactly how that used to feel.

“I figured,” he adds, “if you wanted to talk, you’d have answered.”

“I wanted to.” You finally meet his eyes. “I just didn’t know if I’d be able to stop once I started.”

His breath catches.

“Do you want to start now?” he asks.

You swallow. “I don’t know what I’d say.”

He leans in just a little. “Then let’s walk.”

You fall into step beside him, but not quite in sync. His hands are in his pockets. Yours fidget with the edge of your shirt, like the fabric might anchor you.

The street is quiet — golden with late sun, washed in a kind of hazy stillness that feels like the world is holding its breath. You can hear the scrape of your shoes against the sidewalk. The whisper of wind tugging through your clothes. The soft, unspoken weight of everything neither of you has said.

You glance sideways at him, barely.

He’s not looking at you. But you can feel him.

His shoulder brushes yours once, then again — not enough to be intentional, but enough to make your chest tighten. Every brush feels like a question he’s too scared to ask.

You want to say something. Anything. But the words curl on your tongue, sharp and uncertain. So you just walk.

You turn a corner. Then another.

Still no talking.

His hands itch to reach for yours, but his heart is louder. What if you pull away?

He slows near a small shop window. You pause too. Not to look. Just to breathe.

He exhales next to you. The sound is low, like it costs him something.

And suddenly, you know. He’s thinking the same thing you are — if he speaks first, it might break. If you speak first, it might be too much.

So you both stay silent.

But his shoulder stays close.

So close.

A breeze cuts through the space between buildings. Not sharp, but sudden and it slips under your clothes. You shiver without meaning to.

He notices.

Doesn’t say anything. Just stops, shrugs off his hoodie, and holds it out to you.

You hesitate for half a second — not because you don’t want it, but because accepting it feels like something bigger. Like saying yes to something you're not ready to name.

But your fingers close around it anyway.

You pull it on. It’s warm from his body, sleeves too long, the collar faintly smelling like him, like soap and skin and the faded ghost of the cologne you liked too much.

He looks at you.

Only for a second.

Then walks again.

You follow.

Your steps are slower now. Not dragging — just measured. Like you’re both waiting for the other to speak first, and neither of you will. There’s tension in it. Not anger. Just... care. Held tightly. Unspoken.

Another gust of wind and you curl your arms into the sleeves, burrowing deeper into the hoodie. You shiver again, smaller this time, but not unnoticed.

Then, the sky shifts.

A sudden scatter of cold raindrops. One, then three, then a soft, steady patter that darkens the concrete at your feet. The storm didn’t wait.

You look up.

So does he.

There’s no question in his voice when he turns toward you — just a quiet offering. A way out. A way in.

“My place is just up the block,” he says. “If you want.”

You nod before you even think.

His apartment is dim when you step in, the kind of quiet that feels intentional. Like he left it this way in case something like this ever happened.

You toe off your shoes by the door, water still dotting your shoulders. The hoodie clings slightly — it’s damp now — but you keep it on. It feels safer than anything else.

He disappears for a moment, comes back with a towel and wordlessly hands it to you. His fingers brush yours.

Neither of you speaks.

You dry your face and let the silence settle again. Not awkward. Not cold. Just full — thick with things that want to be said and haven’t been yet.

He gestures to the couch. You sit. Your knees nearly touch.

Rain taps at the windows, soft and rhythmic. Streetlights glow faintly outside, golden through the glass.

He disappears again, returns with two mugs and passes one to you. Your fingers brush again. You don’t pull away this time.

The cup is warm in your hands.

Still, you don’t speak.

He sits beside you, but not too close. Like he’s giving you the space to decide what this will be. What you want this to be.

You watch the steam rise from your mug. Let your eyes flicker to him and then away again.

He’s doing the same.

Breathing carefully. Shoulders tight. Like he’s afraid if he moves too much, it’ll scare you off. Like he’s still holding that version of you from months ago — the one who left before anything real could happen.

And maybe you’re still holding that version of him too — the one who was always a little too open, too ready to fall, too easy to want.

Your knees brush again. Neither of you moves.

He looks over at you, finally. Just looks. And this time, you don’t look away.

Still no words.

The question burns in your throat before it ever touches air. It’s the only thing you can think to ask. The one thing you promised yourself you wouldn’t.

But then it slips out.

“How was she?”

It lands harder than you expected. He doesn’t move at first—just stares. Like the words didn’t register.

You don’t look at him. Just tighten your grip around the warm ceramic in your hands. You add, voice low, bitter:

“The girl. In the picture I sent. Was she good? Did you like her?”

His body stiffens. You watch the flush crawl up his neck.

“Oh… uh…”

He hesitates, like he’s sifting through every possible version of the truth. Then his mouth twitches downward, jaw clenching.

“It was…” He shifts. “I couldn’t even—”

A sigh rips out of him. Frustrated. Honest.

You glance sideways. “Couldn’t what?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

You set your cup down slowly.

“Tell me.”

His throat works before his voice finds shape.

“I couldn’t even come. Not until I imagined it was you.���

Silence follows. Heavy and close. The air crackles.

You don’t flinch. Just breathe in.

And in that breath, something inside you shakes loose — a piece of pride, maybe, or guilt, or longing. Maybe all three.

He leans back suddenly, dragging both hands through his hair. The sleeves of his hoodie fall back, exposing his forearms.

“I remember everything,” he says, eyes flicking toward you. “Your lips. The way you kissed me. How your fingers curled into my shirt. The sound you made when I—”

He stops. A soft, broken noise escapes his chest.

“I still hear it. I still feel it.”

The silence that follows feels like a heartbeat.

Then, quieter:

“The smell of your skin,” he says. “Your voice. Your mouth on my—”

He stops again, pressing his lips together, trying not to say too much.

But it’s already too much.

And still not enough.

He leans forward again, elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms together slowly. You can see how tightly he’s wound. How hard he’s trying to hold himself back.

Your breath is shallow. You sit still, but inside, everything shifts. The weight of his confession presses against the hollow ache that’s lived in your chest for weeks.

Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

“No one was like you.”

His head lifts, eyes locking with yours instantly.

“I tried to forget,” he says, words trembling with truth. “I really did. I think they liked it. I know they did. But it never felt the same. Not like… with you.”

He doesn’t move—but his body leans in, almost unconsciously. Pulled by the gravity of your words. Of you.

Nearly whispering you say “I missed the way you looked at me. Like I was worth seeing.”

You’re not sure which of you reaches out first, but your hands find each other in the middle. Quietly. Like a promise too scared to say itself out loud.

His thumb brushes your knuckles.

“You were the only one who ever really listened,” you murmur. “Even when I didn’t say anything.”

His brows twitch—almost a wince.

“I tried to forget, ” he says. “I kept trying to… replace you. Make it easier. But it just made it worse.”

Silence settles between you again, but softer now. Shared.

There’s something new in the air. Not the storm, not the memory—just this moment.

And then, thunder rolls in the distance.

You both flinch at the same time.

You glance at the window. The rain now heavier. Fast. Cold.

“I should probably go,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.

He looks up quickly. “No. I mean—just wait until it passes. It’s not safe like this.”

You raise an eyebrow. “A little rain never hurt anyone.”

But he’s already standing.

“You can take my bed,” he says. “I’ll sleep out here. I swear.”

You glance up, startled by the way he’s already fussing—pulling pillows, finding a blanket.

And then his voice softens, breaking through the hum of rain:

“It’s not about the bed.”

You look at him.

He’s standing there, eyes shining with something you recognize and fear all at once.

“It’s not just the physical stuff,” he adds. “It’s you. Your laugh. Your silence. The way you knew when I was falling apart. You taught me how to be seen. That’s what I really miss.”

You feel that pull again. The warmth that isn’t memory.

“I’d give anything to feel that again,” he says. “Not just your body. You.”

You want to argue. But you can’t.

Because the storm has settled in.

And so have you.

You nod, quiet.

“I know it’s not like that for you,” he says. His voice is soft, almost too careful. “I know you don’t feel the same. And I’ve made peace with that.”

You flinch, barely—but he sees it.

“I just…” he runs a hand over his mouth, exhales. “If this is only physical for you, that’s okay. I’ll take it. Whatever you’re willing to give.”

Your fingers tighten around the hem of the hoodie. You can't look at him.

He hesitates. Then you ask, gentler, “Is that why you think I stopped?”

You finally meet his eyes. Something in your chest lurches, sharp and scared.

You open your mouth again. But nothing comes out.

He nods like that’s the answer.

The silence thickens. Fragile. Breakable.

Then he shifts, clearing his throat.

“I’ll get the bed ready for you.”

Later, you lie in his bed, changed into his clothes. His hoodie hangs off your shoulders like memory. Water waits on the nightstand beside a carefully folded blanket—his, not yours.

You hear faint movement from the couch. The door is cracked open, maybe on purpose.

His scent is in the sheets. Your thoughts won’t stop.

You lie still, curled into the silence.

From the other side of the wall, you can almost hear him breathe.

You turn onto your side, staring at the open door.

“Osc?”

A pause. Then, from the other side of the wall, his voice:

“Yeah?”

“Are you still awake?”

Another pause. Softer this time. “Yes.”

You wait, letting the quiet settle again. The storm has dulled into a steady hum, like the world is holding its breath with you.

You sit up a little. “That night... in the club. It was a mess.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. You can tell he’s sitting up too.

You can’t see his face, but you can hear the breath he takes. “Did I—did I cross a line?” he mumbles.

“I don’t know. I think we both did. Or maybe we didn’t.”

He nods, even if you can’t see it. “It felt like everything and nothing all at once.”

There’s a small sound from the other room. Maybe a laugh. Maybe a sigh.

“It wasn’t just the alcohol,” you say.

“No,” he whispers. “It wasn’t.”

More silence. Not cold, but weighty.

“I left because it felt too close,” you murmur. “Like if I stayed, I’d never leave again.”

It’s quiet for a long time.

Then, you hear footsteps. Soft.

He pushes the door open and leans against the doorway, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His hair is mussed. His expression unreadable.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, but there’s no sharpness in it. Just quiet confusion.

You sit up fully, blanket sliding down your arms. Your heart is beating way too fast.

“Oscar.” His name cracks as it leaves you. “I didn’t want it to be serious because I didn’t want to need you.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches.

“I thought I could walk away before it got too hard,” you whisper. “But I couldn’t. Not really.”

He takes one slow step into the room. Then another.

“I couldn’t make myself stay,” you say, “because I’d have to admit...”

His breath catches.

“Admit what?”

“Admit how I felt about you.”

For a second, he just stands there.

Then: “What are you saying?”

You finally look at him.

And everything in you aches.

He crosses the room like he’s afraid to scare you off. Careful steps. Bare feet on wooden floor. Like if he moves too fast, this will vanish.

He stops at the edge of the bed, searching your face. “Can I sit?”

You nod.

He lowers himself onto the mattress, close enough to touch but still giving you space. The air between you hums with everything unspoken.

For a long moment, neither of you says a word.

Then, softly: “You didn’t answer me before.”

You glance at him. “About what?”

He holds your gaze, changing the question “What if you stayed now?”

His voice is so tentative it sounds like a bruise. He blinks down at his hands, fidgeting with a loose thread on the blanket.

You swallow. “Do you want me to?”

His laugh is almost silent. “More than anything.”

You shift, inching just a little closer. His breath hitches.

“Would you still want me to” you ask.

He lifts his head, eyes wide. “It was never just physical. Not for me. So yes”

You hold that for a beat, your breath trembling.

Then, gently, your fingers graze his.

And he takes them.

His hand wraps around yours like it’s instinct. Like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

“I-I think.... I love you,” he says. Not a confession. A truth. Simple. Solid.

You stare at him. Everything inside you is soft and full and terrified.

But when you speak, it’s steady.

“I love you too.”

A pause. A quiet, shattered breath.

And then you lean in.

The kiss is slow—reverent. It tastes like memory, like longing, like home.

He moves closer, lips warm, hands framing your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. It isn’t desperate. It’s sacred.

Like he’s kissing you back together.

It doesn’t rush.

Your mouths stay close, breaths mingling in the hush. His fingers brush along your cheek, then trail behind your ear, slow and careful like he’s learning the shape of you all over again.

You shift, just enough for your thighs to touch. He draws in a breath, low and shaky.

Your hand slips beneath the hem of his hoodie—not out of hunger, but familiarity. Comfort. And when your fingertips find his skin, warm and tense beneath them, his eyes flutter closed.

Still no words. Just feeling.

He kisses you again, deeper this time. Still not fast, not demanding. Just more. His tongue slides gently over yours, like he’s asking permission for something he already has.

You nod into it—subtle, instinctive.

He moves, easing you back against the pillows, his body following yours. The weight of him settles over you like warmth, like gravity.

Your fingers curl in his shirt. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, your throat. The path is slow, reverent. Like each inch of your skin means something.

He whispers your name once, like he’s anchoring himself.

Then he stills.

A breath. A muttered, “Fuck.”

You blink up at him. His eyes are closed, forehead resting gently against yours. Like it hurts to stop. But hurts more not to.

“I don’t want to just have sex again,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I don’t want to rush this.”

Your heart kicks. Not from surprise but recognition.

You lift your hand, fingers brushing his jaw.

He looks down at you, like there’s too much in his chest to hold.

“I—I really want this to work,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I need it to.”

You nod. Slow. Honest. “Me too.”

Something releases in him at that. His body softens, not in disappointment, but relief.

So you just lay there, skin to skin, his head slipping down to rest half on your chest. His arm drapes over your waist, possessive but gentle, like muscle memory.

You feel the weight of him, steady and warm, blanketing you.

The storm still hums outside, but in here, it's quiet.

Safe.

You breathe together in sync. One beat. One rhythm.

And somewhere in the dark, between heartbeats and everything that was said, you both finally fall asleep.

v smol taglist

@sealife-for-life @notgirlsummerr @koalalafications @urmomsgirlfriend1 @wadupppp @elle-28 @saudianna @18lovers @kaworusgf @random-movie @lilasthoughtss @maiyaholics @theskinofakillerbella

[theonlyonesora]

The Third Rule

Lily x Oscar Piastri x You (Reader)

Chapter 22 - Home Sweet Home

It was summer in Melbourne, warm and golden, and the days passed like a dream.

Oscar’s family home felt like a safe haven—quiet, surrounded by eucalyptus trees and soft sunlight, far from the pressure of the paddock and the eyes of the world. You had been nervous when he took your hand and led you up to the front door that first night, heart pounding like you were meeting judgment itself.

But the judgment never came.

His mother had smiled at you in that sincere, maternal way that told you she already knew everything and had made peace with it. His father had been gentler than expected, offering you a drink and asking you questions that made you feel seen rather than interrogated.

Oscar stayed close through it all, a soft touch at your back, fingers brushing yours under the table, his eyes always drifting to you as if silently saying, You’re okay. You’re mine.

And he had told them the truth—not every painful detail, but the essence of it. That it hadn’t been clean. That it hadn’t been planned. But that it was real. That you were real to him.

“People our age,” his mother had said over dinner, “sometimes learn by running straight into the fire. What matters is if you come out of it stronger. And it looks like you two did.”

The rest of the summer was filled with small, intimate moments: walking hand-in-hand through markets, helping his dad barbecue in the backyard, laughing in the ocean, falling asleep on his chest after long drives along the coast. You met his childhood friends, saw where he used to race as a boy, and listened to stories about his karting days that he told only when he was truly relaxed.

There were still whispers online—some kind, others bitter. Photos of you two walking through the Sydney airport, matching sunglasses, your hand tucked into the crook of his arm. A video of Oscar buying ice cream for you, the two of you laughing as he wiped a drip from your chin. Always the same comments underneath:

“She really became his everything, huh?” “Whatever happened, they seem happy.” “It’s weird without Lily… but maybe this was always meant to happen.”

But none of that touched what was real between you now.

Lily had become a bittersweet memory—gentle and distant, like a faded photograph tucked in a box. You still thought of her sometimes. Oscar did too. But grief and guilt had become quieter voices in your hearts, no longer shouting between you, just whispering in the background.

This was a new chapter. One written in a city filled with Oscar’s childhood and your shared future. And you had made it through the storm—not perfect, not untouchable, but together.

Oscar watched you one night, curled on the couch with his hoodie wrapped around you, soft music playing from his speaker. He leaned down, kissed your forehead, and whispered:

“I’d do it all again… just to get to you.”

.

The clock read past midnight, and the house was cloaked in that quiet, heavy stillness only found in the countryside. The only light came from the muted flicker of the TV in the corner, casting soft shadows across the living room where you and Oscar sat curled up on the couch.

You had been talking about nothing—about the beach, about dinner, about the way his hair never seemed to sit right after swimming. Your legs were tucked over his lap, his fingers idly tracing along the hem of your shorts, his eyes more on you than the screen.

Then he leaned in, kissed the corner of your jaw, and slowly moved down to your neck.

You stiffened slightly, fingers pressing against his chest. "We shouldn’t do this here," you whispered, eyes darting toward the hallway where his parents’ bedroom was.

"Why not?" he murmured, his lips brushing your skin as his hand slid gently under your shirt, finding the warmth of your waist.

"It’s your parents’ house," you said, but your voice was already softer, breath catching.

"So?" Oscar chuckled against your skin, and you felt the smile form there. He looked up at you, eyes dark with mischief. "They’re asleep. We’re quiet. You look like you want me to keep going."

"Oscar…" you sighed, a quiet moan slipping out as he found that spot below your ear that always made you melt.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression one of complete amusement and desire. "Relax," he said. "They won’t hear. And admit it—it’s kind of exciting, isn’t it?"

You bit your lip, pulse racing, cheeks flushed from the thrill and the risk. "Yeah, you’re right…" you whispered as he pulled you gently onto his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist. "But what if they catch us?"

Oscar smirked, brushing your hair behind your ear. "They won’t. And if they do, I’ll take the blame."

You gave him a look, somewhere between exasperation and love. "Okay," you said, already leaning in, "but try not to make any noise."

He laughed softly, kissing you slow and deep. "You’re the noisy one here."

You rolled your eyes, grinning. "Yeah, I know."

The laughter faded into something softer, more electric—his forehead resting against yours as your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, your legs straddling his lap.

The house was dimly lit, only the faint glow of a lamp in the corner casting warm shadows across the living room. The TV played some documentary long forgotten, the low murmur barely covering the sound of your breath catching when Oscar's lips found your collarbone again.

"You drive me insane," he whispered, hands gripping your waist gently, possessively.

"And you're impossible," you murmured back, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

He smiled, that slow, teasing smile that always made your pulse skip. “You love it.”

You nodded, barely, fingers running through the curls at the nape of his neck. “Too much.”

The moment slowed, thick with tension and affection—desire pulsing just under the surface, yes, but so did love. The kind that made your chest tighten, the kind that made you forget the rules and the risks and where you were.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he whispered against your skin. “That you’re mine.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “I was always yours. You just took a while to figure it out.”

He exhaled a soft laugh and kissed you—deeper now, hands wandering, the night wrapping around you both like a secret. The kind you carry for a lifetime.

No footsteps. No interruptions. Just the creak of the couch and the quiet, stolen intimacy of a love that had been through fire—and still burned, quietly, brilliantly, in the dark.

And the room was filled with the hush of rustling fabric, soft gasps, and the tender sound of two people wrapped up in something that was finally, finally just theirs.

Tag List:

@freyathehuntress, @mimisweetz, @aleatorio1234, @totallynotluluu, @rorabelle15, @prongslena, @linnygirl09, @mangotaitai, @forensicheart, @devilacot, @lilorose25, @landofotographyy, @paolexsstuff, @sanctify-mp3, @emma-manuhpe, @virtualperfectioncat, @kopigivesup, @rikersmunky, @wolfbc97

[idkyetxoxo]

Nine | Beneath the Silence | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2k

Warnings - None

<- prev || series masterlist || next ->

Please let me love you.

Please let me love you.

Please let me love you.

The words echoed in my mind, a broken refrain with no beginning and no end, looping like a prayer to a god who no longer listened. They whispered through my bones, clung to the edges of my breath, etched into the cracks of a soul I no longer recognised.

I hadn't spoken to anyone since we'd returned from Dawn. Not to Rhys. Not to Cassian. Not even to Feyre and certainly not to Azriel. Especially not to Azriel.

Cowardice? Probably. But solitude, I'd found, was quieter than judgment. It didn't ask questions. It didn't try to fix me. It simply let me be.

I had vanished, into the warmth of Mor's cottage tucked deep in the curves of Velaris, surrounded by overgrown ivy and starlight. 

I curled into the corner of her living room, knees to my chest, clutching a half-empty bottle of wine like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to the world.

Mor sat across from me, her legs stretched out, golden curls a mess of firelight and rebellion. 

She had matched me glass for glass, shot for shot, without a single word of protest. Just her—steady, loyal, infuriatingly beautiful Mor, watching me unravel.

I had told her everything. 

Every breath, every shattered whisper, every damn thing I swore I'd keep buried. And she listened. Not as a warrior or a cousin, but as someone who understood what it meant to drown quietly.

Now, in the hush between our silences, she uncorked another bottle—whiskey this time. 

Rich. Harsh. Smelling of oak and things I didn't deserve. She poured two fingers' worth, but I reached across and stole the bottle from her hand, not bothering with a glass.

I took a long pull, the burn hitting my chest like penance. I welcomed it. At least it meant I could still feel something.

"Mor," I rasped, voice hoarse from the drink or the grief, I wasn't sure which. 

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand as she tossed a blanket over the both of us, cocooning us from the rest of the world.

"You want to know why I stayed?" I asked.

She tilted her head, that infuriating calm still in her eyes, even as the alcohol made her movements languid. She didn't push. Didn't prod. Just waited.

She knew I was talking about Daeron. We didn't say his name. It lived in the silence between us.

"I stayed because the pain was louder than the guilt. Because when I was with him, I didn't have to remember who I used to be. I could just exist in the ache. Be nothing but skin and silence."

A breath. Then another. I forced the rest out like poison.

"It made sense—twisted sense. To be touched like I was a thing. To be used. It felt... fitting. Like a punishment I could control. If I chose it, then no one else could hurt me. Not worse than I already was."

Mor's face didn't change, but her hand tightened slightly around the blanket between us.

"I didn't love him," I whispered. "I didn't even like him. But he made it easy to hate myself. And that was the only thing I knew how to do."

The truth tasted like blood and whiskey on my tongue. I took another swig, and another, until the edges of my vision blurred.

"You didn't have to punish yourself just to prove you survived," Mor said quietly. Her voice was soft, so soft, even as it cut through me like a blade. "Survival was already proof enough."

Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not yet. Maybe never.

"I'm a horrible person," I whispered, turning to the window. Velaris shimmered under the weight of night, the city alive with golden light despite the darkness that loomed above it. "I hurt and I hurt and I hurt."

"No, you're not," Mor said instantly, her voice firm now. Fierce. Like she could force the truth into my bones by sheer will alone.

"Yes," I hissed, cutting her off, fingers clenched around the bottle. "Yes, I am."

Rhys's face flashed in my mind, broken, haunted. The years he'd endured. The years I hadn't been there.

"Rhys suffered for years, and I— I couldn't stop it. And when he finally came home, he suffered again. Because his mate was with someone else. Someone who—" My voice cracked. "Someone who betrayed me. Betrayed all of us. Years ago."

"Tamlin weaponised your words," Mor said, heat lacing her voice now. "He used your kindness against you. That is not on you."

"My mother is dead." I turned to her, voice flat. Empty. "Dead. Because I told him where I was going to be. Because I trusted him with something as simple as a meeting. And I didn't go. I didn't go because I was too busy warming his bed while his father and brothers murdered her in cold blood."

"You couldn't have known," Mor said gently, reaching for me.

"I should have!" I snapped, jerking away. "I should have known! I should have—"

My voice gave out.

Silence settled between us, thick and suffocating. Only the fire crackled, indifferent to the ruin unravelling in its glow.

"Did you ever tell anyone about Briar?"

The shift in her was instant, so slight it was almost imperceptible. I knew her too well, the way her shoulders locked when something splintered behind her ribs, the way her jaw tensed just enough to keep the grief from slipping through.

She didn't answer right away. When she did, it was with a breath like a storm breaking.

"She's the only one I ever said it to," Mor murmured, voice barely above the whisper of the wind outside the cottage. "I love you. Just once. Late at night. When it felt safe."

I turned toward her slowly, the weight of that single sentence anchoring itself in my chest.

"I loved her," she said, and this time her voice trembled. Her eyes didn't meet mine, they were fixed on something only she could see. A memory. A ghost. "I truly loved her."

She paused, swallowing hard, as if saying the name might summon too much of the past.

"Viviane's sister," she whispered. "Briar."

The name dropped into the room like a stone, and the silence that followed was not hollow, but full—dense with things unspoken.

"She had this laugh," Mor said, a shaky breath leaving her lips, "like bells in the wind. It used to catch me off guard every time—like it shouldn't have existed in a world like this. But it did. She did."

I didn't interrupt. I didn't dare.

"She made everything feel... bearable," Mor continued, she smiled faintly, bitter and aching. "And I kissed her like she was the first thing I'd ever tasted that didn't turn to ash."

My throat tightened. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

Mor's eyes flicked to mine then, sharp, shimmering with pain.

"Because I was afraid," she said. "Afraid that if I loved her in the light, the world would take her from me. That it would turn her into a weapon. Or a target. Or a regret."

Her fingers curled into her lap, folded so tightly I wondered if they hurt. But she didn't let them go.

"I was afraid she'd break under the weight of what I am. What I've been through. What I carry."

I swallowed hard. The words felt heavy in my mouth, but I forced them out.

"Did she know?"

Mor let out a long, uneven breath. Her eyes drifted back to the fire, where the flames danced without care, indifferent to the weight in the room.

"She knew enough," she whispered. "She let me go."

A beat. Then another.

"And I let her," she said, the words hollowing out the space between us, "because I thought keeping her safe meant keeping her away. That if I didn't hold her too tightly, the world wouldn't notice her. Wouldn't destroy her just to get to me."

We sat in the thick of that shared sorrow, me and her, pieces of the same cracked mirror.

I heard the knock before I felt the dread.

It was soft. So soft it barely cut through the sound of rain lashing against the windows, of wind clawing like a thing starved and furious. But still—I knew. My breath caught the moment it landed. The moment that hush fell over the room like something sacred, or cursed.

Azriel.

His name bloomed like thorns in my chest, sharp and aching. My heart stumbled, then kept stumbling, trying to outrun the memory of him. Of everything I couldn't say.

My fingers tightened around the neck of the whiskey bottle until my knuckles went white. The warmth I'd stolen from Mor's arms had already begun to fade, leaving behind a hollow kind of cold. 

A silence that wasn't really silent. It screamed.

I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at the door like it might grow teeth and devour me whole.

Another knock. Gentle. Patient. Unrelenting.

He knew I was here. Of course he did. He always knew where I was, even when I didn't know myself.

I stood slowly, unsteady on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else. The blanket slipped from my shoulders and pooled around my feet, soft as surrender. Like a shield I no longer had the strength to carry.

I stopped just behind the door. Forehead pressed against the wood. Heart thudding where it met the grain, as though trying to reach him through layers of splintered oak and silence.

"Go away," I whispered. It was too quiet for anyone to hear. But it wasn't for him. It was for me. A plea. A prayer. A lie.

I didn't open the door.

And he didn't leave.

The rain didn't stop either. Not for hours. It poured like the sky itself was grieving. Like the world wanted to drown us both in its sorrow. It drummed against the roof like war drums, fierce and unrelenting, washing away everything but the ache.

I peeked through the window once. Just once.

He was sitting on the porch steps. Wings tucked in tight against his back. Shadows curled protectively around his shoulders, coiling and weaving like they were trying to shield him from the rain. As if they, too, couldn't bear to see him soaked and waiting.

His hair was slicked down against his brow, dark and glistening. His leathers clung to him, heavy and drenched, but he didn't shiver. Didn't flinch.

He didn't knock again either. Didn't call my name. Didn't try to coax me out. He just sat there. 

Still. Enduring. Waiting.

Mor had long since drifted to sleep on the couch, curled near the fire, her breaths soft and even. Her presence was a comfort but distant now, like she was part of another world. One I couldn't quite reach.

I didn't sleep. Couldn't. Not with the weight of him out there. Not with the war he waged just by waiting.

Why wouldn't he leave? Why couldn't he stop?

When the sun finally began to peel the darkness from the sky, the storm had passed. The air was new. The city beyond the trees glimmered with dew and faint gold light, like the rain had tried to cleanse it all, even me.

I opened the door slowly, as if it might still hurt. As if he might still be there, a ghost on the porch.

But he wasn't. Only the silence remained. That and the damp hush of dawn pressing in from every direction.

And then I saw it.

Right there, where he'd sat all night—a small, rain-damp bundle. A single cluster of roses. Deep crimson, their petals soaked but intact, vibrant even under the grey of morning. Tied around their stems was a simple length of twine.

Beside them sat a small box. Brown paper. Carefully folded. Tied the same way. I knelt slowly, hands shaking as I picked it up.

Brownies.

He made them. I could tell. They weren't perfect—edges uneven, a little burnt on the corners but they smelled like warmth. Like chocolate and cinnamon and something that made my throat close.

Tucked beneath the box was a note. Just one line, in that careful, even script of his.

"For when it hurts too much to speak."

I sank to my knees.

He wasn't asking me to explain. He was just... there. Loving me in silence.

Making me feel like I was still worth something, even when every breath I took screamed the opposite.

I hated it. I hated it.

Because Azriel—Azriel deserved sunlight. He deserved softness. Laughter. Joy. He deserved someone who wasn't splintered inside, someone who didn't recoil at kindness like it was a weapon.

He deserved better. And yet, he stayed through the storm.

Even when I locked the door. Even when I said nothing.

A/n - We finally see Mor knock some sense into reader with her own heartbreak laid bare. All the pieces are starting to fall into place, the full Tamlin explanation (i've been waiting for this since part 2), the layers of guilt, and why reader has been unravelling since the beginning!!

And Az… sweet, stubborn Azriel. Poor baby waiting out in the rain all night with brownies and roses :(

I’m so so excited for the next chapter though because it’s different, special, unlike anything I’ve ever written before... wink wink :))

Anyways, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed <3

(please do lmk what you guys think, sometimes I feel like I'm talking into the void with these a/n's, obvs this isn't for my loyal commenters, I love you guys sm and I always get so so excited to post cause i know I get to see what you guys think about the story ����😭)

Little Star tag list - @jaybbygrl @writtenbypavani @fall-winter-heart97 @coeurdeveea @lilg101010 @krazykangaroo712 @moonlitlavenders @lil-lupa @jasmineee05 @pinksnowtiger @yourdarkrose @nerdybee123 @bookwormysblog @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @suspicious-stain-in-spain @anainkandpaper @theflowerswillbloom @queenoffeysand @historygeekqueen @lexi-in-wonderland @tele86 @saamanthaag3 @whydohumansss @xlosttdreamss @bookishwondersworld @plants-w0rld @i-am-infinite @ly--canthrope @lreadsstuff

[bubblesgarden]

｡˚○ — witchy!reader & rafe cameron

requested ! doing a tarot reading on rafe

the night was thick with summer— humid and soft, like the air itself was holding its breath. 

rafe sat on the edge of your porch, legs pulled too his chest as he sat on the worn wood, trying to act like this wasn’t something. like he didn’t care, but the way his knee bounced, the way his eyes kept drifting towards you as you shuffled the cards said otherwise. 

you were cross legged on a blanket in front of him, a small beeswax candle burning in a chipped mason jar between the both of you, flickering against the grainy wood. the deck in your hands was old, well loved. each card had softened edges and the kind of weight that only came from years of use— like they’d absorbed all the questions people were too afraid to say outloud. 

you didn’t ask him what he wanted to know. you didn’t have to. rafe cameron didn’t come here to make small talk, he came because part of him was unravelling and he didn’t know how to make it stop. 

“three cards?” you asked softly, peering up at him, hands still shuffling the deck gently. 

he nodded once, almost like it hurt. 

you cut the deck without looking, then held it out to him. “pick three. any order. just go with your gut.” 

he hesitated for a moment, then one from the middle, one near the top, and one from the very bottom. 

you laid them down in front of you, face down. the air felt heavier now, and you noticed how the candle flame stilled between both of you. 

“what’s the first one?” rafe’s voice was rougher now, blue eyes completely focused on you, almost like he was too nervous to look down. 

“past,” you said, tapping it with your index finger before you turned it over. 

eight of swords.

your eyes flickered up to his. 

he looked at the card— a figure bound and blindfolded, surrounded by swords. trapped, but not by anything physical. it was often by their own mind. by fear. you didn’t sugar coat it, just sat there with your hands in your lap, eyes on him. 

“this is self imprisonment. feeling stuck. lost. like you’ve been living in a story where you’re the villain, but you don’t know how to stop reading it like that.” 

rafe exhaled, sharp and bitter. “accurate.” 

you watched him, but didn’t push. “the thing about this card, is that the ropes are loose. the swords don’t cage her in. she could move, if she wanted. it’s just that she doesn’t believe it yet.” 

he was quiet, but you hadn’t expected anything else, so you reached for the second card. 

“this is your present.” 

the tower. 

you exhaled through your nose, a tiny smile playing on your lips. “of course.” 

“what’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, leaning forward. “that bad?”

“it’s not bad,” you hummed softly, shrugging. “not really. it’s just inevitable.”

he squinted at the card, a finger lightly brushing over the edge before he pulled away. “looks pretty bad.”

you held it between two fingers, letting him study it: lightning crashing, people falling from a burning spire, chaos everywhere. “the tower isn’t about punishment. it’s about truth. breakdown. breaking free. everything you built on lies— it burns. but sometimes you need fire to clear the forest. you can’t build something real until everything false is gone.”

rafe stayed silent, saying nothing, but you noticed the way his jaw flexed. his silence wasn’t cold. it was concentrated, like he was trying to hold back the tide.

you turned over the third card. “future.” 

and then: the lovers. 

this time, he didn’t scoff. didn’t make a comment. he just… stared. 

“the lovers isn’t just about romance,” you said carefully, shifting in your spot. “it’s about alignment. choice. surrendering to something real, even when it scares you.” 

rafe didn’t speak, not for a long moment. but when he finally looked at you, his voice was lower than you’d ever heard it. “you think that’s where i’m going?

you met his eyes, a small smile on your lips. “i think that’s what’s being offered. you don’t have to be afraid of it,” you said softly, “of starting over.”

“what if i ruin it?” he asked, his voice cracking the tiniest bit. 

you smiled, sadness flickering behind your eyes. “then you try again. or you don’t. but pretending you don't want it— whatever it is? that won’t make the ache go away.”

the porch light buzzed above you, insects dancing in and out of the glow. rafe ran a hand through his hair and looked away, but only for a second. 

“read yours.”

you raised an eyebrow at him. “you want to try?” 

“i mean—” he rubbed the back of his neck. “i won’t know what the hell i’m doing, but…”

you handed him your deck, something so sacred to you. something you didn’t even let kiara or sarah hold. but with him, it felt right. “cut it however feels right.”

he did exactly that. clumsy. hesitant. like he was holding something fragile. 

then he picked a card and handed it to you, flipping it over like it might explode. 

the high priestess.

rafe blinked. “that good?”

you smiled— slow and knowingly. “it’s the witch card.” 

“fitting.” 

“she’s about intuition. secrets. inner knowing.” your smile faded slightly, turning soft. “she sees things no one else does.” 

he looked up at you, something raw tugging at the corners of his mouth. “yeah,” he nodded, “sounds like you.” 

you held his gaze, unflinching. open. “you think you’re hard to read,” you said quietly. “but you’re not.” 

that stunned him into silence. you took the card gently from his hand, slipping it back into the deck without a sound. 

the air between you felt electric— charged with everything unsaid. 

then he leaned it. 

and when he kissed you— it was soft. it wasn’t hungry or angry or desperate, the way people liked to imagine rafe cameron did everything. it was too soft, for someone who swore he wasn’t looking for softness. barely there pressure against your mouth, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask for more. like he’d been thinking about it for too long and still couldn’t believe it was happening. 

your hand reached up to brush the side of his jaw— just barely. and that’s when he stilled. not because he didn’t want it, but because your touch wasn’t demanding, or possessive, or trying to claim something. 

it was kind. 

and that undid him a little more than he expected. 

when he pulled back, his breath caught on the exhale. he didn’t move far— forehead still lingering near yours, noses almost brushing. and he didn’t open his eyes right away. 

you didn’t push. 

didn’t ask what it meant. didn’t ask if he regretted it. 

you just sat with him in the quiet, your fingers resting lightly on the back of his hand, like a reminder: i’m here. i see you. i’m not running. 

rafe’s voice, when it eventually came, was rough at the edges. quiet. 

“i didn’t plan that.” 

“i know.” 

he finally opened his eyes. “i’m not…” he shook his head, looking away like the words might burn. “i’m not good at this.” 

“at what?” 

“this.” he gestured vaguely between you. “being seen. being— fuck, i don’t know. good.” 

you tilted your head, studying him. not like he was a puzzle, but like he was something sacred. 

“you don’t have to be good,” you said softly. “you just have to be honest.” 

rafe looked at you then. really looked. 

no armour. no smirk. just a boy who’d been carrying too much for too long, blinking against the weight of being understood. he swallowed hard. 

“and what if i don’t like what’s underneath?”

you smiled, not sweetly, but like you’d known that question was coming. 

“then we face it together.”

something in him cracked. 

not shattered— just softened. melted, in that deep, aching place he didn’t let anyone touch. 

he reached for your hand again. this time, on purpose. 

he didn’t kiss you again that night. but he stayed— long after the candle burned out, long after the crickets quieted. until the night bled into morning, and even the stars seemed to hush themselves around you. 

and when he finally stood to leave, rafe hesitated at the bottom of your porch steps. 

“will you— uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “will you read for me again? the cards.” 

you leaned against the railing, that same knowing softness in your smile. 

“i think you already know the answer.”

and he didn’t. that scared him. but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t make him run.

i got a bit carried away with this, but i hope you guys enjoyed it !! lots of love my angels xx

please don't forget to like, comment, and/or reblog. i always appreciate the support x

requests are open !

[compress1repress]

procrastinating so here are some ramblings about sci-fi/horror tropes I would link the challengers trio with

art - I actually think art being a werewolf would be very thematically interesting to me, because he's all about repression and passivity I think it would be fun if every full moon he literally can't control himself so all his passivity is thrown out the window and he becomes a wretched aggressive beast and he would feel so much shame about it <3 also he would love to be self pitying over it too. he already walks around like ughhh im so doomed due to my curse #mycurse ... and so this would just exaggerate that (some of this stuff could work with a vampire thing and i know a lot of people talk about vampire art but I just think werewolf art would be more interesting even just visually, like his obsession with shaving takes on a whole new meaning. and also he's more about 'loyalty' than isolation I think. he's always latching on to someone).

patrick - ok this one is kind of obvious but patrick is SO haunted I can't help but make it literal. patrick + ghosts = yayyy <3 i just think he holds onto the past and has never in his life moved on, so that manifesting as him seeing an actual ghost (or ghosts) would be fun!! especially bc on the surface he's egotistical, selfish, self-centred etc but underneath he holds onto everything so tightly, and the guilt clings onto him, and he can't just shake it off, and the feelings won't go away and he is deeply (almost gothically) romantic in this sense. also thematically it's an interesting look at his flaws, his impulsiveness and sense that he can do whatever he wants bc nothing matters, whilst surrounded by these lingering reminders of pain that prove things do matter, and then he realises that in some ways the ghosts reflect himself!! just stuck in this miserable limbo with unfinished business, and without the tools to fix anything and move on. except he does have the tools but he still won't actually make any meaningful change (him seeing Tashi through the window in Atlanta and she's engaged now and Art is doing better than ever at tennis and Patrick is just stood there in the same outfit that Tashi last saw him in... he genuinely could've been a ghost at that point!!). i enjoy the ghosts as representing him BEING haunted yet also him DOING the haunting bc he has become a ghost himself essentially. he has to hurry up and DO something while he's still got life in him. change something (make the throuple happen yay)

tashi - ok she is why I made this post in the first place so it may be long but omggg Tashi and the clone/double/doppelganger trope would be sooooo interesting. I think identity is such an important theme with tashi, and also something she is very aware of. she knows she has to present in a certain way, and probably self-polices a lot, to the point where in some ways it does feel like there are two of her, the version she knows, and the version presented in society (shout out w.e.b du bois double consciousness), so to physically and literally manifest that in the form of a clone would be fascinating. also through a disability lens there is a certain sense that becoming disabled feels like having a new body, and (at least from my perspective) there can sometimes be an out of body type experience with that as you adjust to a different body physically, and a different self too (just to add, i am not saying this is necessarily negative either). so again tashi's link with versions of the self make the idea of a double sound so interesting. clone narratives often brings up the question of who is the 'real' version and who is the copy, or a fear of being replaced by a copy, which are all questions about the self and identity, what makes us ourselves, and which parts are the most important. I imagine tashi ruminates on this sort of thing quite often, especially post injury with the readjusting of her identity after that. how she has to create another version of herself essentially bc the sport she formed her identity around will no longer accommodate her. tennis won't change to fit her new shape (:/) so she must find a way to change her shape so that she can still participate somehow (creating another self = clone moment)... anyway I think a clone would be a point of anxiety and fear yet also could be very cathartic for her. the end.

[leafydory]

Why Must You Fallen?

(Fallen Angel Sylus AU x Mysterious Reader)

(This is Part 1 of Many)

(Sylus Focused, but Caleb is part of the story, soon the others will be too :3 )

(2.9k words in length)

This is good, he had enough of it anyway, the judgement of eyes holy enough to sentence is fall. None even look back and question why him? Why not the others who snickered and chuckled under their obvious deceit. Framed and now meeting his end? No… His feathers may blacken… his eyes may darken like the damned but he was the one taking the control of his life. Gods are foolish to let their children have this control, now he will get his vengeance once and for all.

“Oh? Finally, I have found you—” a voice… of a woman, soft and concerned, trying to lift up his limp body. What a fool indeed… does this woman even understood whom she is helping? Yes, No, maybe so… His eyes closed to slumber, oddly enough he feels that this mortal woman may not bring him danger

Or so he thought.

“Tara are you sure this man is a fallen angel?” Your Nun Best friend Tara around to identify the man you lifted out in the middle of the hot dessert earlier, even if she’s a nun never was, she to snitch her best friend on her obvious illegal shenanigans, right?

“Isn’t it obvious already? The halo on top of his head despite shattered and darkened, without a mistake the structure of it, heaven born yet fallen” she confirmed glancing at you with a narrowed gaze “What are you planning this time? You came all away back here just to confirm if this man is actually a fallen angel… to me? I’m breaking the church rules here you know” Tara can only sigh in disbelief, what’s next? She doesn’t want to imagine… if you can hold a fallen angel, surely you can hold more creatures far worse.

“Oh, you know me, aren’t you curious what will happen if I do something with his blood? You’re going to see different forbidden liquor made by yours truly” you smirked, smug, huffing in pride, Tara can only raise an eyebrow in sudden amusement “Better show me. I wouldn’t be snitching the church for nothing after all” she chuckled, nudging your arm with a grin, both of you stare at the evident unconscious fallen angel on the ground

“Are you sure about this though? You know that they are dangerous…” you cut off Tara, holding her shoulder, It meant to reassure any of her worries “I’ll be fine, I’ve already anticipated everything” grinning, you messed her habit with a laugh “Anyways get out—I’ll take care of this one, get out before anyone knows you talk with a shady woman in a shady tent” you held her shoulders pushing her towards the exit of the tent snickering under your breath “Out OUT!”

Tara rolls her gaze away, even if she warns you so many times about the dangers and costs of this endeavors of yours, she knows you never give up in any opportunity you take, simply she let’s herself be kicked out of your shady tent, pretending to be offended “I’ll definitely tell the church of this blasphemous display!”

You smiled, closing shut the exit of your tent, grasping on a cutting blade and staring down warily on the fallen angel near your feet, steeling yourself, ready to take blood enough to fill a chalice “Now that Tara is out of the picture—”

“Not only do you sharpen that blade of yours… Now you stare at me like you will skin alive a chicken… How barbaric little lamb.”  Sylus chuckles under his breath despite his circumstances, turning to face you, glancing at the said blade, using darken red mist to lift it out from the woman’s grasp. Your gasp says it all, taken off guard that this pale broken angel can still use his magic.

“That’s impossible… fallen angels shouldn’t be able to—” your words? Cut off with a dark cloth wrapped on your mouth, dark red mist keeping it in place, Sylus wasn’t done speaking, he takes charge now. “I decide my own predicament… starting with taking everything you have on this poorly made tent you call home” He stares around with a raised eyebrow, definitely judging the huge tent you established on the dessert town’s edge, filled with many vials and books. Yet that plan seems to be impossible for now… his hands, neck and feet are expectedly chained. “Seems like I was about to be skinned alive by a witch…”

You glare at him, hate your stuffs touched by anyone, even a creature like him, immediately choking out the cloth off your mouth, spitting it out hands clenched by the sides, you spoke strained “I am not a witch, and I only need your blood. You have no idea how much you cost in the black market” you huffed, explaining and correcting him “and stop calling me little lamb, do I look like a little lamb to you… flightless bird???”

Sylus can’t help but laugh, low and smooth, enough to send shivers down your spine “You look like someone who easily get sacrificed.” He trailed off with a smirk, wielding your blade, the sharpness cutting his own wrist blood pouring to a chalice and gave it you, so assured that it made you confused, why would he suddenly give his blood now willingly? “And a blade doesn’t suit you. Wield your books instead little lamb”

You scoffed, staring at the chalice filled with his holy blood on your hands, unsure if it would wither tomorrow or will it stay long enough for you to brew that liquor that you need, Years after now you obtained the last ingredient that can start change, based on what was written on the forbidden text you uncovered years back from a worn down church you scavenged, proving to everyone that traversing the unknown, knowing what needs to be known, adventure from different lands, isn’t foolish. It’s been your purpose, if no one dares to uncover, then you’ll be the one. No way where you a little lamb of anyone, especially when you hold the life of this fallen angel in front you.

“I wield both if I wish to get what I desire” determined, you held the hidden chains that keeps him on his feet, he sure doesn’t look helpless despite his fate wielded on your hands “You? What do you desire? Surely you wouldn’t give me your blood so willingly without a bargain with the same weight as that” skeptical, you tightened your hold on the chain near his neck earning a rough cough from Sylus.

“Not easily sacrificial after all.” The fallen angel hums in amusement, chains suddenly broken, dark red mist emerges from his palms, suddenly he holds control of the bargain “My desires are none of your concern, though I’ll join your quests… surely you wouldn’t mind a powerful ally around?” smug, so sure, that it grates to your nerves, definitely along your pride too “You would only bring misfortune and—”

Jinxed. Suddenly the voice of holy knights calls forth outside, a presence of a man dignified and fiercely loyal. “My Dove, I have been informed that you have returned?” Caleb, removing his helmet his sword on his side, a holy knight general on his knees by the door of your poor tent, smiling and happy for your sudden return, surely it reassures you? But now really? — Not now that you literally hold a fallen angel in your tent

“Haha—You can’t be serious Holy Knight General Caleb enough with the formalities…” You pointed out opening the firm cloth of your tent only your head peaks out to see him, he can’t know a fallen angel is by your grasp, he would only end your chance with keeping angel’s blood, and your only chance to know more about the peculiar creature you now control… somehow.

Your sudden awkwardness, Caleb can catch up any unobvious changes about you, this man? Understands you like no one else, you’re an open book to him, easily readable and he knows when you hide something, someone, that can endanger you somehow “Dove… Is there anything wrong? Are you hurt? Or…” he paused, thinking of any situation, suddenly his eyes glinted a dangerous edge “Did someone hurt you? Is that why you returned to see me? Returned back to our home town? Do you need me to finish them?”

His words made you face palm yourself, shook your head “No? what the heck?” he’s so quick to think of any situation that you might need his help, so eager to be at use to you, so like him. A deep long sigh escapes you instead “It’s just…” you think through, any excuse, any reason that can make the concern and worry on his face be gone immediately “It’s bloody around here because—I killed a chicken—Yes yes, indeed chicken, and I’m cooking you a comfort meal for you” Jesus- what was that lazy excuse-

“Such a comedian…” You heard Sylus chuckle, even an angel can’t be convinced with your poorly made excuse, trying to hold his laugh over your stupidity or obnoxiousness certainly it was enough to entertain him for a whole day, you back kicked him silently in response “So wait, okay? Surely you don’t want a carefully constructed surprise be ruined now…” Lying like this to Caleb, karma will surely hit you soon, he’s been nothing but honest with you, at least that’s what you understood from how he acted.

The holy knight general can only nod and sigh long in relief “So it’s a surprise then? I’ll look forward to that my dove” he’s elated, just like that a man in bliss, happy in smiling, the feared holy knight general? Getting all giddy by a shady woman in a tent? It made the other holy knights blink in confusion but they can’t question him. No one questions him, none if they want to stay alive more. "Simply call me when you are done, I'll be waiting..."

When Caleb eventually left, you glared darts at Sylus, striding towards him and smacked his head with your fists “We almost got caught, did no one tell you Holy knights doesn’t do mercy on fallen angels like you?” You pointed out with a frustrated sigh, reigning control with your emotions before you ‘accidentally’ kill him “If Caleb knew you were around—he would have ended your life in a second”

Sylus scoffs arms crossed and sitting down there unfazed “You were the one who had taken me, and now blame me if you ever get caught? You reason like an imp human” Sylus corrected so, eyes glinting into a dangerous edge “and mortals who thinks they are above heaven or hell are simply pompous fools who take pleasure on control.”

“Speak for yourself”

“I’m not a mortal little lamb, nor do I see myself above others.”

Strange, he acts like he’s powerful, dark and so full of himself, contradicting his own words, or maybe… he’s very confident to turn the fate to his favor or he’s lying on his very teeth, you can’t really read this man ���Is that why you want to travel with me?”

“Not necessarily, but I am not familiar with this world, so you’re going to be my map, or you can entertain me like earlier” He lazily pulled you close with his dark mists, looking up and down over your small frame

“None of that conversation was for your entertainment.” You corrected, cheeks flushed in embarrassment, trying to back walk away from him to distance, yet it was effortless, you eventually gave up and grunted “And if you want to stick around with me, better be useful. Many say fallen angels like you bring misfortune, so don’t bring bad luck on my business and quests” Such saying was said to be true, whispers of the elders and warnings of the church, you just can’t help but be cautious now when your so close to achieving your goals.

“If I was a misfortune, shouldn’t you be in your brink of death by now?”

“That doesn’t correct the rumors at all.”

A laugh, deep and amused “Ahh… so you’re a merchant? A shady one?”

“Don’t change the subject!” humiliated, yet you can’t escape the snarky mouth of this damned angel. “It’s a disguise, if I want to uncover many secrets, many unknowns, then I must know how to blend in” You clarified, grabbing the chalice filled with his blood and encased it securely where you may start your rituals and liquor making, then threw a cloak at his direction “Besides you need to also, you can’t be running around with a broken halo on your head, many will surely capture you in exchange for a hefty amount of gold”

“And I’m certain you wouldn’t do the same little lamb?”

“Because I’m also the one of the people who would buy you for a hefty amount of gold” You corrected with an irritated flinch of your eyelids, one more… one more line and you swore to yourself that he’s dead

“So would I consider myself lucky then?”

“Not in the slightest” You held the blade again, this time so sure to throw it that it would hit his sarcastic big brain, if he dodges? You still have a whole stock of it “Look, can I at least know your name before I end you with these blades?”

“A game? That sounds amusing” he smirks, leaning closer, face inches closer, your sure you smelled his scent, like dying lilies under the harsh heat of the sun, exquisite and unique, halo flickering broken and lost like he was, tall physique, bare and open under torn cloth that his shadow covers your whole frame, making your grip by the blades falter, falling down the ground with a resounding clink “None of this is a game. You will be with me until I am done and I am far from done with you”

“Why should I give my name to you then?”

A challenge, yet you know what he’s after for

“Because I’m setting you free after all of this. Anyone deserves that, even you”

His smirk falters, turning to an impressed smile, seems like he stumbled upon a very interesting mortal

“Sylus” his name lingers to your thoughts, locking so

“What a peculiar name…” indeed it was, one of a kind, first time hearing it, gazes locked as he spoke his name, a sudden thread of connection over many you already made, yet this one float so close to your thoughts, through many people you have met, many creatures you have made a uncuttable thread with yet his now steadies itself weaving himself deep into your soul.

“And yours?”

“Well call me…”

“The thread maker” Caleb’s words lingered throughout the corridors of the church, it’s been long since he’s been investigating the mysterious figure, one who makes threads of connections all over across many nations, he can’t seem to capture such individual, at this point the name lingers like a legend, a daredevil of the norm, the defiant being with a greed for knowledge of the untouchable unknown.

“We can’t let this individual roam around any longer, if they are around here, then we must—” his words were cut off, the wooden doors of the church slam open, a sight of a holy knight holding a blackened feather, Caleb’s eyes glinted dangerously staring at the sight of such in front of him “Sir—A feather of a fallen angel, we found in the middle of Geisza dessert northwest from where we are right now—”

“Prepare the other knights.” He instructed firmly, the other knights kneel down over his words, it was justice, it was law “Enter every home, every corner where they could hide, We will track them down once and for all. For sure that fallen angel lingers to that deviant… we can’t let the safety of the people be in danger anymore” the holy knights saluted, instruction clear and they hastily left fulfilling the words of their general, the fallen feather stayed on his palms, eventually it flew to the ground with the wind.

Caleb stood still… clutching on a pendant you gave him, your name and existence kept tight like how his fist clenched in determination, eyes staring devotedly “I’ll keep you safe no matter what, my dove” a promise, he was loyal to you, never to the church, never to the people, and definitely never to the divine, but you. He strides forward; the feather crumpled on beneath the soles of his boots thumping the quiet space. The Thread maker and the Fallen Angel. They will meet their end, with his very own blade.

(woah, a cliffhanger, bear with me I'm still writing the rest-)

(Stay tuned for the other 3 to appear hehe)

[xvazx]

The Beauty of Our Chaos

Part 11 - Cold Feet

Prev. Part / Next Part

The door creaked open softly. I didn’t need to look up—I knew the shuffle of their shoes, the way Kaylee always dropped her purse too loud, the little humming Mariel did when she had sugar in her system.

“Babe?” Mariel’s voice was gentle as she sat on the edge of my bed.

Kaylee hovered in the doorway before walking in with a pint of cookie dough and a plastic spoon.

They took one look at my red eyes and didn’t ask questions—not right away.

Mariel lightly touched my hair, brushing it back from my damp cheek. “What happened?”

I exhaled, sitting up a little. “It went to hell.”

So I told them—everything. The way Luigi brought up those rumors, how he wrapped his questions in charm and curiosity but made me feel like a case file. How he tried to research my life like it needed decoding.

“I just…” I wiped under my eyes. “What if I overreacted?”

“You didn’t.” Kaylee sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, her face serious for once. “He took a bad approach.”

“But he’s not wrong about one thing,” I admitted quietly. “Nobody here really knows anything about me. Mostly Mariel.”

“And it took me months to gain your trust,” Mariel said with a nod. “You’re not a glass cabinet. You’re allowed to have boundaries.”

“It’s just… I thought maybe this one would be different,” I whispered. “And I was this close to letting my guard all the way down.”

Kaylee leaned forward, flicking me on the forehead. “You could be an alien and I’d still defend you. You’re the coolest chick I’ve ever met. Martian or not.”

I gave her a small, watery smile. “Thanks, Kay.”

“Anyway,” I muttered, rubbing at my eyes again, “I think that’s it. I knew it would crash eventually. Too good, too fast.”

“Let it cool for a while,” Mariel suggested. “You’re both too heated to talk right now. Give it time.”

Kaylee grabbed the paper bag and pulled out more pints of ice cream, all slightly melty.

“And in the meantime,” she said, offering me one of them, “we eat our feelings.”

Great.

“Should we add Criminal Minds to the healing plan?” Mariel asked, already rising from the bed. “I say Gubler-directed episodes only.”

Perfect.

“Now that is dirty talk,” I joked, finally cracking a real smile.

Kaylee scrunched her nose. “Are those the scary ones?”

“Oh babe,” I said, standing up and taking the ice cream from her. “They’re absolutely the scary ones. Come on.”

We migrated to the TV room. Mariel queued up an episode, and soon enough, we were half crying, half gasping as the BAU solved impossible cases with creepy UnSubs.

“Okay but seriously,” Kaylee said between bites of mint chip, “Reid is too hot to be fictional. It’s unfair.”

“Indeed,” Mariel chimed in, “men are not made like that.”

“Watch it girls,” I said, licking rainbow sherbet from my spoon and using it as a weapon to point at the girls. “I love you but is my man you are thirsting over.”

Midway through episode two, the inevitable came up.

“So… tomorrow,” Mariel started, avoiding eye contact. “Are you gonna be okay?”

I sighed. “The con wedding?”

“Yeah.” She bit her lip.

“Still banned from the social event of the semester,” I said sarcastically.

“It’s so dumb,” Kaylee said with a mouthful of ice cream. “You helped organize half of it and they’re still punishing you for something that’s barely scandalous.”

“Rules are rules,” I said with a shrug, though the bitterness in my voice betrayed me. “Delta Nu can survive without a mildly controversial first year sister.”

There was a long pause. A heavy silence fell over us, one filled with unspoken questions.

“Do you think he’ll try to talk to you?” Kaylee asked gently.

I shrugged. “Probably. But I don’t know if I want to hear it.”

Another silence.

“I mean, what if…” Mariel started cautiously, “What if he tries to apologize, would it change anything?”

I considered it.

Maybe.

Mariel reached for the remote. “Let’s pretend tomorrow doesn’t exist for just one more episode.”

“Make it one with Reid in a vest,” I said.

SATURDAY. 8:00 AM.

The alarm on my phone screamed like a dying robot. I smacked it off the nightstand and buried my face in the pillow for one more second of peace. One second before today’s absurd circus took over my life.

I rolled over, groggy and dry-eyed. Notifications lit up my phone like Times Square—several missed calls from him. I ignored them. No time for drama or apologies this morning. I had a checklist to bulldoze.

I threw on a faded sweater and my most forgiving jeans. No formalities if I was going to stay in my room all night.

As I shuffled into the kitchen, still damp from the fastest shower of my life, I found Georgina already standing at the counter like a soldier.

“Missy wants her matcha,” she explained before I could even ask.

“Don’t forget the weird fat free organic nut milk,” I muttered, opening my laptop. “She swears it will give her that Vampira waistline.”

Georgina snorted. “She says it curbs cortisol. I think she just likes saying ‘cortisol’ in public.”

I tuned her out and dove into the real work. Emails, confirmations, tracking numbers. The money for the charity deposit had come through. The books were scheduled for FedEx delivery.

One by one, I ticked off the boxes.

“Can you check if I get emails?,” I said, grabbing my phone. “I’m going to call the boys.”

Which, of course, meant call him.

I sighed hard and dialed Luigi’s number. He picked up immediately, his voice uncertain—like he wasn’t sure if I was calling to reconcile or report a crime.

“Hey,” he said cautiously. “I—”

“Hi, did you get the chairs, the booze, the tables, the fake rings, and your matching blazers?” I cut him off like a project manager on deadline.

There was a pause. “Yeah. Yeah, we got that.”

“And Missy’s bouquet?”

Another pause. A longer one. “Crap.”

They forgot.

“Perfect.” My voice was flat. “Bye.”

“Wait, I—”

Too late. Someone yanked the phone from my hand.

Missy.

Still in rollers and sipping her matcha like it was a martini, she leaned into the phone with a grin.

“Luigi Mangione, you better not be late this time,” she said in her chirpiest tone. “See you at the altar!”

Then she hung up and turned to me with that smile—the one that always meant she was about to insult me with designer precision.

“Nice jeans,” she said, with the subtle horror of someone witnessing a fashion crime.

“Thanks,” I deadpanned. “Where’s the actor officiant’s number? He’s the only one I haven’t confirmed.”

“He confirmed.” She rolled her eyes.

That was a red flag in bold italics, but I decided to pick my battles. No more drama for now.

12 PM

A few hours later, the pink altar was up and draped in enough chiffon. Cupids, candles, confetti—the full Vegas little chapel dream. The cake arrived. The snack catering team was halfway through setup. I had earned my nonexistent paycheck three times over.

And then, like a pack, the boys arrived with the tables and kegs. I guided them toward the patio, clipboard in hand, trying to suppress the growing tension in my stomach.

And that’s when I felt it.

The soft nudge of a flower against my arm.

I turned.

There he was. Luigi. Holding a single yellow rose.

“Missy clearly said pink,” I said without missing a beat.

“This isn’t hers.” He held it out gently.

I stared at the flower—slightly chilled from the florist fridge, petals curled like shy fists.

“I read that yellow roses are significant in Latin America,” he said while pulling his notes to read with a terrible accent. “Flo-ri-cien-ta, right? Is like your Cinderella”

‘Ella sabia que el sabia, que algun dia pasaria. Que el vendría a buscarla, con sus flores amarillas.’

(She knew, he knew, that one day it would happen. He would look for her, with her yellow flowers.)

He just hit me with nostalgia. Bastard. How am I supposed to stay mad?

“You’re a few months late,” I said flatly, not taking the flower. “And correction, ironically, it’s more like The Sound of Music.”

He hesitated. “Alright, I crossed a line. I know that. It’s just—sometimes I feel like you won’t let me in.”

“And my gut was right,” I said, turning to leave.

He followed and lightly grabbed my arm. “Are you seriously going to ignore me all night?”

I tensed at my seized arm. “Should be easy. I’m not allowed at the wedding.”

“What?” he pulled me closer.

“Yeah. Turns out, me going to your bachelor party compromised my membership in Delta Nu,” I said, voice sharp. “I’m suspended.”

His face dropped, stunned. But before he could respond—

“And you’re about to earn your second strike.”

Missy.

She appeared like a banshee in full glam: fake lashes, spray tan, and those big curls.

“You really are a full-time whore,”

Ya estuvo bueno. (I’ve had enough with you.)

I stepped toward her—but someone beat me to it.

“Missy stop, we’ve all had enough with your tantrums.” he confessed, holding onto his last straw of patience.

“Tantrums?!” her voice reached decibels only dogs could hear. “I’m protecting the image we need to portray.”

This bitch is crazy.

“Are you actually delusional enough to think this whole circus is real?” Luigi snapped. “I only agreed to do this because is my duty as president.”

Everyone froze. The air felt electric.

Missy blinked. “God! Can’t you see? Campus loves us. We’re perfect…”

And then… her voice faltered.

Her face turned pale, almost green. Her eyes lost focus.

“Are you okay?”

I stepped forward just as her body went limp. She blacked out in front of all of us. I caught her mid-collapse, her body shock-stiff and ice cold.

“Ayudame” I yelled. Luigi rushed to my side and grabbed her shoulders. (Help me)

We laid her on the couch as people swarmed like ants. Bella, Julia, all the sisters.

“Missy,” Bella said, gently tapping her face. “Can you hear me?”

She blinked slowly. “What… happened?”

“You fainted,” I said.

She blinked again, processed the situation, then gave me the dirtiest look she could muster.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, trying to stand.

“You should get checked out,” Julia said, concerned.

“Shut up! I’m fine!” she barked.

“You really don’t look fine,” I said cautiously.

“I swear to God, if you keep talking—” she started to yell.

But then…Boom.

She threw up. Every-thing

Right on the white rug. Right in front of everyone.

“A la madre.” I took a step back. (Fucking hell)

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Kaylee squealed. Damien let out a chuckle.

“I’m taking you to the clinic,” Bella said, already grabbing her. “Julia, come on.”

I stood there, dazed, as they carried Missy like a dizzy pageant queen. The room buzzed in confusion and awkward murmurs.

“Well,” Mariel finally said, stepping beside me. “What now?”

I looked at her, then at the mess in front of me.

“We clean and… we wait,” I said, dusting invisible stress off my sleeves. “We’ll see if they call and say she can come back.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Luigi asked.

“No clue,” I said.

@nosebeers @mrs-cactus69 @iinfinitelimits

hi i’m Vaz, this was just a product of my active imagination, free time and the need for a better outcome. Hope u enjoy xxx

The day has come. The whole wedding shenanigans will be a thing on its own instead of a chapter. But obviously will be the next part.

I kinda went overboard with context, so it got long.

[dandylion240]

Jayden stared out the nearby window as the therapist’s words washed over him. Near death experience. She kept using that phrase to describe what he’d gone through. It was more than that. Deeper. Grinding his teeth so hard his jaw ached with the effort to keep from interrupting her. He knew what he’d experienced was real. He should have known better than to mention the conversations he had with a ghost and then with a reaper who allowed him to go back when he’d been so close to crossing over. It didn’t sit well to be told it was his mind’s way of processing the trauma he’d gone through. It was real. 

When her droning voice ceased to assault his ears, he turned to face her. “Can I go home?” he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. It was the only question that mattered.

“I’d like to continue our discussion,” she said without answering his question. Scrolling through her notes she’d taken on her tablet she continued “perhaps after the holidays…”

“Why not now?” he demanded as panic shot through him like a bolt of lightning. Sighing he shook his head “I followed hospital protocols in talking to you. I want to go home.”

“That wouldn’t be advisable at this time,” she drummed her fingers on her desk humming a little. “Tell me why you’re so resistant to talking to me?”

He stared at her a moment “I don’t like being told what I experienced was all in my head. I’m not crazy.”

“No one said you were,” she sat back in her chair “you experienced something very traumatic. You’ve just come out of a coma. You almost died several times in the past few weeks. I don’t think you’ve begun to realize how difficult this will be for you to heal from.”

A corner of his mouth lifted into a sardonic smile. “What I need is to be with my family. Something normal.” He let his gaze roam around the room “this isn’t normal. Being in this chair isn’t normal but I’m accepting it.” His hands gripped the wheels preparing to leave “what I want…no what I need is to be with my family.”

“The real question then is…are they ready for you?” She stared back at him almost as if she knew something he didn’t.

His breath caught in his throat “what do you mean?”

“Mood swings. Anger issues. Depression,” she ticked them off her fingers like she was keeping tally. “That’s just a few things. The bottom line is you need to be under psychiatric evaluation before going home.”

A muscle ticked in his cheek as his head began to throb. “Are you telling me you think I’m a danger to my family?” He kept a tight lid on the anger he felt making his stomach churn with acid.

“Well…no…not exactly,” she looked down at her tablet, pressing a few keys. “It’s much more likely that you’re a danger to yourself. Would you really want to put your daughter through that trauma?”

“No,” he could feel himself shaking from head to toe.

Good then I’ll make up a schedule…”

“No,” he said in a loud firm but calm voice.

“I really must insist,” she glowered at him from across her desk.

“Go right ahead,” he said, “however the last time I checked I’m capable of choosing what care I deem necessary and with whom. I came to you as you were the only one available before the holidays and I promised my husband I would. I came. I have no intention of coming back. To you that is.”

“Why I never…”

Jayden didn’t listen to anything else she had to say as he let himself out of the room. He couldn’t deny he needed to talk to someone about his experience but it wouldn't be with her. He needed Evan. To feel his arms around him, telling him everything was going to be alright. He needed his sweet baby girl giving him sticky kisses every night as he put her to bed.

Jayden focused his glare on the ceiling. Every detail of his disastrous therapy session replaying itself in his head. All the things he should have said and didn’t. Worst of all was the way he let her get under his skin. What was he going to say to Evan? Christmas was only a few days away and he couldn’t go home, all because he couldn’t sit on his feelings for a few minutes… He was the destroyer of dreams, that’s what he was. He didn’t even look when the door opened and someone walked in. 

“Are you ready?” Evan asked walking up beside his bed.

“Ready?” Jayden asked wishing he could slide beneath his bed and never come out. “I um…” taking a deep breath he steeled himself for Evan’s reaction to his news.

“Why haven’t you packed?” he asked, glancing at all the cards and flowers cluttering his room he had received from family and friends.

“Um about that,” he picked at the rough sheet beneath him. “Therapy didn’t go very well…”

“So I’ve been told,” Evan gave him a soft smile as he moved around the room starting to take things down and store them in the box he brought just in case.

Frowning at him Jayden said “you know.” He lifted his eyes making eye contact for the first time since Evan walked into the room. “And you still,” he voice cracked “want me to come home?”

“Of course I do,” he leaned over placing a kiss on Jayden's forehead. “I know you. She doesn’t. She means well but she really didn’t listen to you. We’ll find someone else. Right now though, you need to be with your family and we need you.”

“Evan I…” he stopped not knowing what to say. “I guess I do need therapy. I’m never at a loss for words.”

“Yeah you do but we’ll deal with that later,” he said matter of factly “what you need right now is to come home.”

“There’s no other place I’d rather be,” Jayden sighed, feeling all the churning emotions stirring inside him, making him want to shout for joy and cry at the same time. He couldn’t believe he was actually getting his Christmas wish. Taking Evan’s hand he held it against his chest over his heart “you’re all I want for Christmas.”

Evan’s eyes misted a little at the familiar words of their favorite Christmas song. It had taken him a while to listen to the song again but he refused to let Jasper’s memory taint it. In a low husky voice he said “you’re the best present I could ever ask for.”

Grinning up at him “that’s good to know because I don’t have anything else to offer but myself this year. Seeing the tears well up he squeezed Evan’s hand “don’t cry babe. I’m here and I’m coming home.”

“I can’t help it” he sniffed “I was so close to losing you forever…”

“Well I’m still here.” Jayden said, rubbing his legs “I may not be the person I was before but I’ll take this over the alternative. It’s worth it to be here with you.”

“And you’re perfect just the way you are,” he slipped his arms around Jayden holding him tight, savoring the feel of his arms round him. There was no better feeling or place he’d rather be. Pushing back, sniffing a little “we better get all this stuff packed up.” Looking around he smiled “I don’t know about you but I’m kind of tired of this place.”

“You’re reading my mind,” Jayden chuckled, moving from the bed to his chair. “I can’t wait to put this place in the rearview mirror.”

Patting a large dragon toy “I know a little girl who will be glad to have her dragon back. He handed the large plushie over to his husband.

“Just between you and me I think our little dragon lover was right. Dragons do heal.” 

“She told you that too,” Evan said, closing the box after putting the last of Jayden’s things into it.

“She did” he grinned “it makes as much sense as everything else that has happened to us.”

Previous/Next

[callme-abby]

At least Abby was upfront about her nosiness. Some people tried to hide it, and would use it to then gossip to others. She had very little intentions of blabbing everything she'd heard today; less there was something world shattering, of course. "Of course," she nodded, innocently, though the smirk that crept over her lips told otherwise.

"Oh, how sweet!" Abby was fascinated by children. They were just as curious as she was, but more blunt. "Do you not have someone to watch her while you get some time to yourself? You know, to eat, or sleep, or god forbid just exist, without having to worry? Well, maybe without worry is the wrong way to phrase it.... but I think you know what I mean."

In all honesty, Abby didn't think that she would find someone as interesting after this. Sure, people had things to say and topics to talk about, but for some reason she just enjoyed this man's energy. "That's alright, I quite enjoy it," she nodded, trying her best to sound sincere, since she meant it. "Well now I feel like it's not fair,' she laughed. "Not that I'm conceited or searching to talk to myself, but it's only fair if you'd like to ask me questions."

"Nosy....I dig it." Jim said, then added with a smirk, "That's part of the fun of working at the Diner.....you get to talk to a ton of people everyday, and eavesdrop on even more....between you and me."

Jim was not too sure how to take the woman's curious nature, but he was certainly not against it. All the more fun to talk with someone who had a lot to say.

"Yup, that's me, local single dad." Jim said. "Got a little girl, she's almost two years old. Her name's Bonnie, after the pirate Anne Bonny. Sweetest lil pirate princess......balancing it all sucks...a lot. I'm pretty much always running on four hours of sleep and a whole lot of coffee. But I love helping my mom with her diner, I love learning and getting an education, and I'd do anything for Bonnie, she's the best part of me and raising her is probably the best thing I've ever offered to the world, if I'm gonna get a little sappy with you. Since you're nosy and all, you can get some backstory lore drops from me."

[uchiha-gaeshi]

I would never wish growing up in a hyper religious African house on my worst enemy. The cognitive dissonance is insane especially if you grow up in the West yet your family (and other African families around you) insist on clinging on to asinine “traditions” that are really just covers for abuse.

[narmothewraith]

How I imagine myself (aka want to be)

Vent in the tags (sorry in advance)

[victusinveritas]

Story below the cut to avoid a paywall.

There was no explanation, no warning. One minute, I was in an immigration office talking to an officer about my work visa, which had been approved months before and allowed me, a Canadian, to work in the US. The next, I was told to put my hands against the wall, and patted down like a criminal before being sent to an Ice detention center without the chance to talk to a lawyer.

I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, a small town in the northernmost part of Canada. I always knew I wanted to do something bigger with my life. I left home early and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where I built a career spanning multiple industries – acting in film and television, owning bars and restaurants, flipping condos and managing Airbnbs.

In my 30s, I found my true passion working in the health and wellness industry. I was given the opportunity to help launch an American brand of health tonics called Holy! Water – a job that would involve moving to the US.

I was granted my trade Nafta work visa, which allows Canadian and Mexican citizens to work in the US in specific professional occupations, on my second attempt. It goes without saying, then, that I have no criminal record. I also love the US and consider myself to be a kind, hard-working person.

I started working in California and travelled back and forth between Canada and the US multiple times without any complications – until one day, upon returning to the US, a border officer questioned me about my initial visa denial and subsequent visa approval. He asked why I had gone to the San Diego border the second time to apply. I explained that that was where my lawyer’s offices were, and that he had wanted to accompany me to ensure there were no issues.

After a long interrogation, the officer told me it seemed “shady” and that my visa hadn’t been properly processed. He claimed I also couldn’t work for a company in the US that made use of hemp – one of the beverage ingredients. He revoked my visa, and told me I could still work for the company from Canada, but if I wanted to return to the US, I would need to reapply.

I was devastated; I had just started building a life in California. I stayed in Canada for the next few months, and was eventually offered a similar position with a different health and wellness brand.

I restarted the visa process and returned to the same immigration office at the San Diego border, since they had processed my visa before and I was familiar with it. Hours passed, with many confused opinions about my case. The officer I spoke to was kind but told me that, due to my previous issues, I needed to apply for my visa through the consulate. I told her I hadn’t been aware I needed to apply that way, but had no problem doing it.

Then she said something strange: “You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not in trouble, you are not a criminal.”

I remember thinking: Why would she say that? Of course I’m not a criminal!

She then told me they had to send me back to Canada. That didn’t concern me; I assumed I would simply book a flight home. But as I sat searching for flights, a man approached me.

“Come with me,” he said.

There was no explanation, no warning. He led me to a room, took my belongings from my hands and ordered me to put my hands against the wall. A woman immediately began patting me down. The commands came rapid-fire, one after another, too fast to process.

They took my shoes and pulled out my shoelaces.

“What are you doing? What is happening?” I asked.

“You are being detained.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean? For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That would be the response to nearly every question I would ask over the next two weeks: “I don’t know.”

They brought me downstairs for a series of interviews and medical questions, searched my bags and told me I had to get rid of half my belongings because I couldn’t take everything with me.

“Take everything with me where?” I asked.

A woman asked me for the name of someone they could contact on my behalf. In moments like this, you realize you don’t actually know anyone’s phone number anymore. By some miracle, I had recently memorized my best friend Britt’s number because I had been putting my grocery points on her account.

I gave them her phone number.

They handed me a mat and a folded-up sheet of aluminum foil.

“What is this?”

“Your blanket.”

“I don’t understand.”

I was taken to a tiny, freezing cement cell with bright fluorescent lights and a toilet. There were five other women lying on their mats with the aluminum sheets wrapped over them, looking like dead bodies. The guard locked the door behind me.

For two days, we remained in that cell, only leaving briefly for food. The lights never turned off, we never knew what time it was and no one answered our questions. No one in the cell spoke English, so I either tried to sleep or meditate to keep from having a breakdown. I didn’t trust the food, so I fasted, assuming I wouldn’t be there long.

On the third day, I was finally allowed to make a phone call. I called Britt and told her that I didn’t understand what was happening, that no one would tell me when I was going home, and that she was my only contact.

They gave me a stack of paperwork to sign and told me I was being given a five-year ban unless I applied for re-entry through the consulate. The officer also said it didn’t matter whether I signed the papers or not; it was happening regardless.

I was so delirious that I just signed. I told them I would pay for my flight home and asked when I could leave.

No answer.

Then they moved me to another cell – this time with no mat or blanket. I sat on the freezing cement floor for hours. That’s when I realized they were processing me into real jail: the Otay Mesa Detention Center.

I was told to shower, given a jail uniform, fingerprinted and interviewed. I begged for information.

“How long will I be here?”

“I don’t know your case,” the man said. “Could be days. Could be weeks. But I’m telling you right now – you need to mentally prepare yourself for months.”

Months.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was taken to the nurse’s office for a medical check. She asked what had happened to me. She had never seen a Canadian there before. When I told her my story, she grabbed my hand and said: “Do you believe in God?”

I told her I had only recently found God, but that I now believed in God more than anything.

“I believe God brought you here for a reason,” she said. “I know it feels like your life is in a million pieces, but you will be OK. Through this, I think you are going to find a way to help others.”

At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. She asked if she could pray for me. I held her hands and wept.

I felt like I had been sent an angel.

I was then placed in a real jail unit: two levels of cells surrounding a common area, just like in the movies. I was put in a tiny cell alone with a bunk bed and a toilet.

The best part: there were blankets. After three days without one, I wrapped myself in mine and finally felt some comfort.

For the first day, I didn’t leave my cell. I continued fasting, terrified that the food might make me sick. The only available water came from the tap attached to the toilet in our cells or a sink in the common area, neither of which felt safe to drink.

Eventually, I forced myself to step out, meet the guards and learn the rules. One of them told me: “No fighting.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I joked. He laughed.

I asked if there had ever been a fight here.

“In this unit? No,” he said. “No one in this unit has a criminal record.”

That’s when I started meeting the other women.

That’s when I started hearing their stories.

And that’s when I made a decision: I would never allow myself to feel sorry for my situation again. No matter how hard this was, I had to be grateful. Because every woman I met was in an even more difficult position than mine.

There were around 140 of us in our unit. Many women had lived and worked in the US legally for years but had overstayed their visas – often after reapplying and being denied. They had all been detained without warning.

If someone is a criminal, I agree they should be taken off the streets. But not one of these women had a criminal record. These women acknowledged that they shouldn’t have overstayed and took responsibility for their actions. But their frustration wasn’t about being held accountable; it was about the endless, bureaucratic limbo they had been trapped in.

The real issue was how long it took to get out of the system, with no clear answers, no timeline and no way to move forward. Once deported, many have no choice but to abandon everything they own because the cost of shipping their belongings back is too high.

I met a woman who had been on a road trip with her husband. She said they had 10-year work visas. While driving near the San Diego border, they mistakenly got into a lane leading to Mexico. They stopped and told the agent they didn’t have their passports on them, expecting to be redirected. Instead, they were detained. They are both pastors.

I met a family of three who had been living in the US for 11 years with work authorizations. They paid taxes and were waiting for their green cards. Every year, the mother had to undergo a background check, but this time, she was told to bring her whole family. When they arrived, they were taken into custody and told their status would now be processed from within the detention center.

Another woman from Canada had been living in the US with her husband who was detained after a traffic stop. She admitted she had overstayed her visa and accepted that she would be deported. But she had been stuck in the system for almost six weeks because she hadn’t had her passport. Who runs casual errands with their passport?

One woman had a 10-year visa. When it expired, she moved back to her home country, Venezuela. She admitted she had overstayed by one month before leaving. Later, she returned for a vacation and entered the US without issue. But when she took a domestic flight from Miami to Los Angeles, she was picked up by Ice and detained. She couldn’t be deported because Venezuela wasn’t accepting deportees. She didn’t know when she was getting out.

There was a girl from India who had overstayed her student visa for three days before heading back home. She then came back to the US on a new, valid visa to finish her master’s degree and was handed over to Ice due to the three days she had overstayed on her previous visa.

There were women who had been picked up off the street, from outside their workplaces, from their homes. All of these women told me that they had been detained for time spans ranging from a few weeks to 10 months. One woman’s daughter was outside the detention center protesting for her release.

That night, the pastor invited me to a service she was holding. A girl who spoke English translated for me as the women took turns sharing their prayers – prayers for their sick parents, for the children they hadn’t seen in weeks, for the loved ones they had been torn away from.

Then, unexpectedly, they asked if they could pray for me. I was new here, and they wanted to welcome me. They formed a circle around me, took my hands and prayed. I had never felt so much love, energy and compassion from a group of strangers in my life. Everyone was crying.

At 3am the next day, I was woken up in my cell.

“Pack your bag. You’re leaving.”

I jolted upright. “I get to go home?”

The officer shrugged. “I don’t know where you’re going.”

Of course. No one ever knew anything.

I grabbed my things and went downstairs, where 10 other women stood in silence, tears streaming down their faces. But these weren’t happy tears. That was the moment I learned the term “transferred”.

For many of these women, detention centers had become a twisted version of home. They had formed bonds, established routines and found slivers of comfort in the friendships they had built. Now, without warning, they were being torn apart and sent somewhere new. Watching them say goodbye, clinging to each other, was gut-wrenching.

I had no idea what was waiting for me next. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.

Our next stop was Arizona, the San Luis Regional Detention Center. The transfer process lasted 24 hours, a sleepless, grueling ordeal. This time, men were transported with us. Roughly 50 of us were crammed into a prison bus for the next five hours, packed together – women in the front, men in the back. We were bound in chains that wrapped tightly around our waists, with our cuffed hands secured to our bodies and shackles restraining our feet, forcing every movement into a slow, clinking struggle.

When we arrived at our next destination, we were forced to go through the entire intake process all over again, with medical exams, fingerprinting – and pregnancy tests; they lined us up in a filthy cell, squatting over a communal toilet, holding Dixie cups of urine while the nurse dropped pregnancy tests in each of our cups. It was disgusting.

We sat in freezing-cold jail cells for hours, waiting for everyone to be processed. Across the room, one of the women suddenly spotted her husband. They had both been detained and were now seeing each other for the first time in weeks.

The look on her face – pure love, relief and longing – was something I’ll never forget.

We were beyond exhausted. I felt like I was hallucinating.

The guard tossed us each a blanket: “Find a bed.”

There were no pillows. The room was ice cold, and one blanket wasn’t enough. Around me, women lay curled into themselves, heads covered, looking like a room full of corpses. This place made the last jail feel like the Four Seasons.

I kept telling myself: Do not let this break you.

Thirty of us shared one room. We were given one Styrofoam cup for water and one plastic spoon that we had to reuse for every meal. I eventually had to start trying to eat and, sure enough, I got sick. None of the uniforms fit, and everyone had men’s shoes on. The towels they gave us to shower were hand towels. They wouldn’t give us more blankets. The fluorescent lights shined on us 24/7.

Everything felt like it was meant to break you. Nothing was explained to us. I wasn’t given a phone call. We were locked in a room, no daylight, with no idea when we would get out.

I tried to stay calm as every fiber of my being raged towards panic mode. I didn’t know how I would tell Britt where I was. Then, as if sent from God, one of the women showed me a tablet attached to the wall where I could send emails. I only remembered my CEO’s email from memory. I typed out a message, praying he would see it.

He responded.

Through him, I was able to connect with Britt. She told me that they were working around the clock trying to get me out. But no one had any answers; the system made it next to impossible. I told her about the conditions in this new place, and that was when we decided to go to the media.

She started working with a reporter and asked whether I would be able to call her so she could loop him in. The international phone account that Britt had previously tried to set up for me wasn’t working, so one of the other women offered to let me use her phone account to make the call.

We were all in this together.

With nothing to do in my cell but talk, I made new friends – women who had risked everything for the chance at a better life for themselves and their families.

Through them, I learned the harsh reality of seeking asylum. Showing me their physical scars, they explained how they had paid smugglers anywhere from $20,000 to $60,000 to reach the US border, enduring brutal jungles and horrendous conditions.

One woman had been offered asylum in Mexico within two weeks but had been encouraged to keep going to the US. Now, she was stuck, living in a nightmare, separated from her young children for months. She sobbed, telling me how she felt like the worst mother in the world.

Many of these women were highly educated and spoke multiple languages. Yet, they had been advised to pretend they didn’t speak English because it would supposedly increase their chances of asylum.

Some believed they were being used as examples, as warnings to others not to try to come.

Women were starting to panic in this new facility, and knowing I was most likely the first person to get out, they wrote letters and messages for me to send to their families.

It felt like we had all been kidnapped, thrown into some sort of sick psychological experiment meant to strip us of every ounce of strength and dignity.

We were from different countries, spoke different languages and practiced different religions. Yet, in this place, none of that mattered. Everyone took care of each other. Everyone shared food. Everyone held each other when someone broke down. Everyone fought to keep each other’s hope alive.

I got a message from Britt. My story had started to blow up in the media.

Almost immediately after, I was told I was being released.

My Ice agent, who had never spoken to me, told my lawyer I could have left sooner if I had signed a withdrawal form, and that they hadn’t known I would pay for my own flight home.

From the moment I arrived, I begged every officer I saw to let me pay for my own ticket home. Not a single one of them ever spoke to me about my case.

To put things into perspective: I had a Canadian passport, lawyers, resources, media attention, friends, family and even politicians advocating for me. Yet, I was still detained for nearly two weeks.

Imagine what this system is like for every other person in there.

A small group of us were transferred back to San Diego at 2am – one last road trip, once again shackled in chains. I was then taken to the airport, where two officers were waiting for me. The media was there, so the officers snuck me in through a side door, trying to avoid anyone seeing me in restraints. I was beyond grateful that, at the very least, I didn’t have to walk through the airport in chains.

To my surprise, the officers escorting me were incredibly kind, and even funny. It was the first time I had laughed in weeks.

I asked if I could put my shoelaces back on.

“Yes,” one of them said with a grin. “But you better not run.”

“Yeah,” the other added. “Or we’ll have to tackle you in the airport. That’ll really make the headlines.”

I laughed, then told them I had spent a lot of time observing the guards during my detention and I couldn’t believe how often I saw humans treating other humans with such disregard. “But don’t worry,” I joked. “You two get five stars.”

When I finally landed in Canada, my mom and two best friends were waiting for me. So was the media. I spoke to them briefly, numb and delusional from exhaustion.

It was surreal listening to my friends recount everything they had done to get me out: working with lawyers, reaching out to the media, making endless calls to detention centers, desperately trying to get through to Ice or anyone who could help. They said the entire system felt rigged, designed to make it nearly impossible for anyone to get out.

The reality became clear: Ice detention isn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare. It’s a business. These facilities are privately owned and run for profit.

Companies like CoreCivic and GEO Group receive government funding based on the number of people they detain, which is why they lobby for stricter immigration policies. It’s a lucrative business: CoreCivic made over $560m from Ice contracts in a single year. In 2024, GEO Group made more than $763m from Ice contracts.

The more detainees, the more money they make. It stands to reason that these companies have no incentive to release people quickly. What I had experienced was finally starting to make sense.

[risingshine]

"That is what I am saying about you - no respect for what protected us. What protects her. Do you know that Iya has died before? Heart stopped. She was dead for 4 seconds - before her heart suddenly started beating again. Without anyone touching her chest. That was uThixo, not your sciences.

But no, you need things to be measured out. Everything on a spoon to be believed. You claim to meet gods, in which either you lie on or they do, and decide that we are wrong. You cannot meet the creator of all things unless he invites you. And he only invites the dead."

"Children are foolish - yes, some children have done great things. But it is not by ignoring everything their elders have said. If we let all children off into the wilds to do as they please, they will all live short, painful lives. That shows that elders are not always wrong either.

You should push, question, understand, but not ignore what your elders taught you entirely because you think you know better."

"But there is only so much one should be able to sacrifice for what they want. If I am to starve for years, or rob a bank to get a fancy house, that is not a want that is worth going after.

If I give up my hands for a ring, then I have no where to keep it. Becoming an adult is learning which wants are something to actually go for, and which ones to leave away. Being a parent is doing your best to impart that on your children."

"You are like Iyana - doing what you wish and then deciding that it is a responsibility. If it is a good to the world, have you helped anyone with your food? With your biology?

Iyana tells me that you could cure cancer, but do not want to, so you do not. Do the people who suffer not deserve your food and biology? Are you not responsible for them paining?"

"Then what is it you are teaching her? You pull her into your den, talk about big things that she does not understand, blame her for not understanding things.

Then you kick her back out to make her go return to her work and pretend that it will not make it harder for her.

Is she the kind of woman that asserts things to you? Have you seen her prove anything? You say yourself - she is not you. So why teach her the way you would teach you?"

"In this, we agree. I tell her often to focus; that if she tries to catch two birds at once she'll get neither of them. She's too easily swayed by things; too quick to get swept up in distractions. But this, I would say is because she does not want it badly enough."

"I would debate with you on whether the charm in question has power, and whether that is measurable, or if you are simply believing that the world is flat, but that's another debate entirely."

"Instead, let us focus on the rest of what you said, hm? If you want a mansion, the question is merely how badly do you want it? Children are remarkably inciteful, as they lack the boundaries that are taught to them by people who knew less than they do. If every generation only listened to their elders, humanity would never progress; that the future is better than the past tells us that the wisdom of the past is not always good or true."

"But, back to the question of want. You want a mansion, there are many ways to acquire one. Many paths to walk to get it. You could try to buy one, try to build one, try to steal one, try to marry into one. But you don't, and not because you have put your desires aside. You simply want something else more. And if you really wanted that, you could and would starve perhaps, in order to do whatever you could to get what you want. After all, is it not true that to get what you want, you must be willing to sacrifice?"

"In any case, if we focused on such an idea of need, then we would still live in caves. It is because we want people to be better that we work so hard, so that one day they can take for granted what we struggle for now. You claim destiny is fixed by god, but I've met gods, and I can tell you that I am not simply a lump of flesh brought forth by a mother and father."

"And as for responsibility... I put the benefits of the world above my own benefits. Is this not a responsibility greater than yours? It is different, but it is one all the same. Those that came before me brought us to space and brought us medicines. I will do the same with food and biology."

"The difference between us is not in our will. The difference between us is that you cannot see beyond the boundaries of your home, and my gaze is focused beyond our horizon. If you are as good a judge of a person as you claim, you understand that unlike Iyana, I am not timid or hesitant. I am also not a liar, and I do not dislike confrontation. You may think I am the Hyena, but I have not told her how to do what she wishes, even though I know how to do it."

"Instead, I am teaching her as my teacher taught me; if I wish to assert something, the burden of proof lies with me. I try to show her what is possible, whether or not she learns to trust in herself and gets what she wants is up to her. No good teacher simply tells someone the answer."

[verstappenverse]

All Over You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Touch has always been your love language, until one overheard conversation makes you question everything. When you start to pull away Max realises just how deeply he’s come to need it.

2.7k words / Masterlist

Max always says you’re like a blanket come to life.

You cling. You cuddle. You drape yourself across him the second the opportunity arises. If Max’s lap is free you claim it without hesitation. If he’s stretched out on the couch you’re pressed against his side before he even blinks. Your hand finds his thigh during dinner, your fingers sneak into his back pocket when you’re walking together, and every morning, like clockwork, your nose tucks into the curve of his neck.

It’s not something you think about, it’s instinct. It’s how you express the things you sometimes struggle to say. How you offer comfort. How you say I love you.

And for the longest time Max never says a word about it.

He lets you curl up beside him during movie nights. He leans into your touch when you rub lazy circles into the back of his neck while he’s gaming, or when you lace your fingers with his under the table at dinner.

So you think, this is us. You think, this works.

Until one night, when you overhear something you weren’t supposed to.

It’s nothing serious. At least, not really.

You’re padding back from the kitchen with a cup of tea, bare feet muffled by carpet when you hear Max talking on the phone on the balcony. His voice is low, casual. He’s talking to Daniel you think. Laughing at something.

And then you catch it.

“Yeah, you noticed huh? No she’s super touchy, always has been. Like, always on me.”

A beat.

“No, I don’t mind it. It’s just... I’m not really used to it, you know?”

You freeze, feet still against the carpet. The tea sloshes slightly, forgotten in your hands.

He laughs again, easy and relaxed. “She’s like a human magnet. If I’m sitting, she’s sitting on me. I swear sometimes I think she’d climb into my skin if she could.”

Daniel says something you can’t hear. Max chuckles. “No, she’s not annoying. She’s just... really affectionate.”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

Your fingers tighten around your mug as you quietly retreat, heart a little heavier than before. You curl back into bed without saying a word, staring at the ceiling while your tea goes cold on the nightstand.

You’re not angry. He didn’t say anything cruel. Not really.

But for the first time questions being to lodge in your chest like a thorn... do I touch him too much? Does he just tolerate it because he loves me?

And just like that, something in you begins to shift.

You're still beside him. Still laughing at his jokes, still making him breakfast. You kiss him good morning and smile across the table. From the outside nothing changes, but the little things in all the tiny invisible places, the things that used to come so naturally they stop.

You don’t climb into his lap while he’s watching race replays, don’t tuck your face into the slope of his shoulder like you used to. You don’t slide your hand beneath the hem of his hoodie when you hug him from behind in the kitchen, fingers sneaking against warm skin. You don’t curl into his side when the movie starts, don’t tuck yourself under his arm like you belong there.

Instead you sit beside him on the couch with your legs tucked neatly under you, wrapped up tightly in a blanket like armour. A careful distance. A subtle retreat.

You keep your hands in your lap at dinner. You nod and listen and smile, but your fingers don’t find his thigh. You don’t reach for his hand beneath the table.

You still want to. God, do you want to.

Your whole body aches to reach for him, to run your fingers over his jaw, to smooth back his hair, to trace lazy shapes across his stomach. You miss the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

You miss being held without thinking twice, but now that you’ve heard him say it out loud, that he’s not used to it, that he’s not like you, you can’t unhear it. It loops in your mind when the silence stretches between you.

Slowly you start to convince yourself you’ve been suffocating him. That maybe the way you love is too much for him. That maybe softness, when it clings like yours does, feels like smothering.

So you pull back, quietly, carefully, and hope he doesn’t notice how much it hurts. Or worse that he does, and lets you do it anyway.

Max doesn’t say anything at first, but after a few days he starts to notice.

A few inches of space on the couch. Your hand not finding his like it usually does. The way you don't crawl into his lap during breakfast, don't lean into his side during movies, don't rest your hand on his leg during long car rides.

At first he tells himself maybe you’re tired from work. Maybe it’s just one of those quiet moods that passes like the weather. He gives you space, the way people are always saying partners should.

But the distance doesn’t fade.

It expands.

One morning he slips behind you in the kitchen to steal a piece of toast. Normally you’d laugh, you’d wrap your arms around his waist and bury your nose in his hoodie, but this time you step aside without touching him.

He frowns, just a quick flicker, then hides it, but his stomach twists violently anyway.

It’s not like Max to spiral. He’s not wired for emotional uncertainty he prefers problems he can fix with strategy, planning, control.

But this?

This isn’t a problem he knows how to solve.

The way you sit on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling on your phone like it’s more comforting than him. You barely brush his arm when you slip into bed at night. When he tries to kiss your neck absentmindedly like he always does you duck away, not unkindly, but enough to make him panic

He tries not to panic, but that’s what this feels like panic.

It gnaws at him over the next couple days. The silence between your fingers and his. The distance that didn’t use to be there. The way you won’t look at him for too long, like he might read too much in your eyes.

Max isn’t good with emotional guessing games. He’s never been the type to bottle things up or pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t. He doesn’t do insecure. He confronts things. Fixes things. Puts it all on the table and makes it make sense.

And Max doesn’t know how to read silence the way he reads telemetry. He doesn’t know how to fix something when he doesn’t know where the break is.

He replays your interactions hunting for the mistake. Did he forget something important? Miss a signal? Are you sick or bored?

Is she pulling away because she’s planning to leave?

The thought stops him in his tracks. His chest aches with it, sharp and sudden. He sits with it, stunned, rubs at his sternum like he can soothe the ache.

You’re still sweet. Still say good luck before he gets into the car. Still text him updates about your day, what podcast you listened to, what ridiculous thing your coworker said. Still fold his shirts when he leaves them in a pile at the foot of the bed. Still laugh at the stupid jokes he makes when he’s overtired. You're still there.

But it’s different. Your body has gone quiet, your touch has gone still. Less warm. Less you.

And Max, who never thought he’d crave something so soft, so intangible starts to feel the absence like a phantom limb, it feels like someone turned off the sun and expects him not to notice. And it terrifies him because he doesn’t know what he did to lose it, or how to ask for it back.

You can feel the ache in your chest growing stronger every day.

You don’t want to stop touching him. You miss touching him. You miss his warmth, the way he instinctively leans into your touch even when he’s focused on something. You miss curling into his lap without thinking, his fingers combing through your hair like it’s second nature.

But now? Every time your hand so much as twitches toward him, doubt rushes in like cold water.

Am I smothering him again? Is this too much? Is this what he meant?

You thought you were just adjusting. Giving him the space you assume he needs. You told yourself it was mature, respectful, kind, but it’s starting to feel less like an adjustment and more like a punishment.

Every second you don’t touch him? It hurts. In tiny, deceptive ways like a thousand paper cuts.

By the end of the next week, you’re sitting on the hotel bed in Jeddah, scrolling through your phone in silence, without reading a word, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells like his aftershave. Max pauses when he sees how far you’re sitting from the edge of the mattress. From him.

That’s when he finally speaks.

“Did I do something?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve been...” He trails off, eyes searching yours. “Distant.”

You hesitate. “No, I’m just tired.”

He studies your face for a long moment hoping you’ll offer somthing more, but when nothing comes he doesn’t push. Just nods slowly, then climbs into bed beside you.

You don’t cuddle him that night.

You face the other way, pretending to scroll while your chest feels like it’s being wrung out.

Max doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift, the slight dip of the mattress, the warmth of his body inching closer in the dark, not quite touching. He stops just shy of you, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, like he’s hoping you’ll turn around and meet him there.

It takes until Sunday night, after the race for everything to crack open.

You’re both back at the hotel. Max steps out of the shower, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, sweatpants slung low on his hips. You’re perched on the window seat, knees pulled to your chest, phone resting forgotten in your lap as you stare out over Jeddah’s lights.

You think maybe you’ll just go to sleep early. Then Max sits beside you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits close enough to feel the heat off your arm. He’s never been good at this part, the vulnerable bit. The what if it’s in my head bit. The what if I’m asking for something she doesn’t want to give me anymore bit.

The part where he has to name the thing that’s been gnawing at him for weeks. The part where he has to admit he's scared he’s already lost something and just hasn’t caught up to it yet.

He’s spent enough time memorising the way you speak when you're lying. You don’t flinch or fumble. You just get quieter. Softer. Like you’re afraid the truth will hurt more than the silence.

But he needs the truth now, because he’s been tying himself in knots trying to figure it out. Replaying conversations in his head, wondering if he forgot someone’s birthday or crossed a line or said something he shouldn’t have.

And now all he wants is to be close. To be touched. Held. Seen.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

“Yeah…” you say, trailing off.

And then, when you don’t say anything else, something in your eyes flickers and he just knows.

Max’s heart kicks hard in his chest, the kind of lurch he only gets right before lights out. He swallows, throat dry, like he’s one bad move away from losing something he doesn’t know how to live without.

“I miss you,” he says, voice quiet. “Even when you’re right here.”

You close your eyes. Then you look at him, really look, and something in you gives. Like you’ve been carrying a weight for days and it’s finally too much to hold, too much to hide.

“I heard you,” you say.

His brow furrows. “Heard me?”

“On the phone,” you clarify. “With Daniel. A couple of weeks ago”

Max’s pauses for a second, trying to remember, and then his stomach drops.

“You heard that?”

You nod slowly, eyes still on the window. “You said I’m always on you. That I’m really touchy. That you’re not used to it.”

His expression shifts, jaw tight, eyes suddenly filled with something that looks a lot like guilt.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I wasn’t trying to. But after that...” You pull your sleeves over your hands, voice quieter now. “I started wondering if I’d been overwhelming you. If I was too much—”

“Wait, baby—”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, force you into something you don’t want.” you rush on. “So I’ve been trying to give you space. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Max’s heart actually hurts.

He didn’t even realise how it might’ve sounded. He remembers the conversation now, half-distracted, casual, him laughing while Daniel joked about your human magnet tendencies. It hadn’t meant anything to him, just a passing comment… but it had meant everything to you.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for your hand. “Look at me.”

You look up. Max’s brows are drawn together. He looks devastated.

“I swear I never meant that in a bad way,” he says. “I wasn’t complaining. I was just… explaining it. I’ve never been with someone as affectionate as you, it caught me off guard at first sure. But I love it. I love the way you love me.”

A beat. His voice softens.

“When you stopped reaching for me, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been going crazy wondering why it felt like you were slipping away.”

You bite your lip, blinking quickly. “I thought I was just annoying you, that you were putting up with it because you love me, not because you wanted it.”

His forehead drops to yours, hands sliding to your waist, holding tight. “No. God, no. Baby, it’s the best part of my day. You crawling into my lap, always reaching for me. It makes me feel wanted... like I matter, like I make you feel safe.”

He leans back just slightly, fingers sliding to your jaw, cradling it gently.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “If I made you feel like you were too much. If I made you doubt what we have. That was never what I meant. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that you thought you had to pull away from me just to make me comfortable.”

Your lips part slightly, like you're shocked by the weight of his words.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he admits. “Watching you pull away, thinking maybe I’d done something. I was scared I lost you and didn’t even know when it happened.”

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I swear I wasn’t pulling away from you… at least not like that, I just thought I was doing the right thing.”

“I know that now,” he says. “But please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop”

Your arms are around him before he finishes the sentence.

He exhales into your neck, like he’s been holding his breath for days. Pulls you into his lap like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again. His hands spread across your back, and for the first time in a while something in him settles.

You crawl further into his lap like it’s where you belong. Arms around his neck. Fingers threading into his hair. He exhales like someone finally handed him back something precious.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin.

“I’m right here.”

He pulls back, eyes soft. “Don’t stop being you, okay? Promise me.”

You nod. “Promise.”

Later, curled up in bed, you trace lazy lines across his chest with your fingertips.

“You really don’t mind?” you ask sleepily.

“Mind?” he echoes, mouth brushing your forehead. “I crave you.”

You smile into his skin, small and shy.

He kisses your hair again. “You ruined me.”

“Good,” you murmur, already drifting.

You’re here. Wrapped around him, where you belong.

And Max? Max feels like he can finally breathe again.

[mostly-imagines]

Banished

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason misses his girlfriend

warnings: extremely mild angst, he’s just mopey (he’s fine)

Jason sits slumped over the kitchen island, head lying in his crossed arms. His now soggy cereal disregarded after barely a few bites.

Dick’s been rummaging through the cabinets for the better part of twenty minutes while Tim has sat atop of the nook table shoving donuts in his mouth for the better part of thirty.

Damian trudges into the room, past them and onto the nook bench, taking out a knife and beginning to whittle away at a block of wood.

He glances at Jason with a scowl. “If you’re going to be so miserable, can’t you do it in your own home?”

Jason just grunts.

He wishes. You and Bruce had conspired to trap him at the mansion for the week so he could heal from injuries sustained during the last mission without risk of him suiting up and sneaking away from you in the middle of the night.

But it’s not even the fact that he’s basically being babysat that’s got him so disgruntled. He secretly wouldn’t really mind it at all if you were here too. But you were dead set that the manor was too far out of your way for work, so you’d stayed behind. A lose-lose for Jason.

“He’s just mad his girlfriend kicked him out,” Dick teases, swiping through the fridge.

Tim snorts from the doorway, “Me too. He’s a lot more depressing on his own.”

Jason keeps his head down as he blindly reaches for the spoon in his cereal and chucks it at Tim’s head.

Tim catches it without thought, continuing, “A lot more irritable, at least. Why isn’t she here?”

“She’s gotta work,” Dick says, scanning through the pantry.

Damian peeps his head up from his project. “But Todd has a rather large supply of less than legally obtained money, does he not?”

“Yeah, but she said she wants to pay her own rent, I think,” Dicks hums, finally giving up on his quest for a snack.

Damian pauses.

“So she wants to live in a tiny apartment?” He asks, a mixture of confused and horrified.

“Watch your mouth,” Jason mumbles.

“It was a genuine question!” Damian protests, face screwed up.

Jason finally lifts his head up, turning to his little brother with a raised brows. “And I’m genuinely going to break your nose.”

It’s an empty threat, maybe. But it was enough to shut Damian up anyways. Jason turns back to his cereal and swishes the bowl around.

Dick rests his arms on the counter across from Jason and speaks lowly. “You know, it is just a few days. She’s coming back.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Jason was never one for showing his feelings—let alone talking about them.

He misses you, plain and simple. Dick could see that much clearly, though the longing looked unfamiliar on Jason.

Bruce lingers in the hallway, just past the island, listening.

He’ll admit (to himself) that he’s worried about Jason. It’s been three days and Jason has yet to show a crack in this demeanor. And while it’s not uncommon for him to stow himself away, there is something quite wrong with the way he hasn’t countered his brother’s jabs at him or teased them.

And while he could do without the blatant threats, he’s proud to hear his son defending his girlfriend, even over trivial things. It’s one of the few moments where he feels like he did right by him as a father.

And now here’s his son, caring about someone else more than he cares about himself. Someone who’s a good person, no less. It had been your idea to trick Jason into staying at the manor, you were scared that he would push his body past its limit when you couldn’t do anything to help.

Bruce knew you didn’t feel great about basically banishing him for the week but he could see that you just wanted what was best for Jason. He could see it so clearly. Maybe Bruce could never have been a perfect father, could never have given his son everything he needed despite having more money than he could ever use. Maybe he couldn’t help him, even now.

But you could.

Bruce peers around the corner, leaning up against the doorframe.

He watches Damian give up on carving at his block and start into the leg of the table.

He watches the bickering that broke out after Tim grab the last glazed donut, which was apparently the only thing Dick could possibly fathom eating.

And he watches Jason.

As Jason’s phone lights up on the counter next to him. He glances down at it with a frown before his face absolutely lights up.

He scrambles to pick the phone up and starts typing away. A quiet action that catches the attention of all of his brothers.

He types and types, waits for ten seconds for a response and types and types again—smile on his face.

The Waynes didn’t need to be the greatest detectives in the world to know who he was texting.

✨ reblog fics or face the block button ✨