#the wounds... they never close... he finds it hard to process emotions and feelings... so the wounds keep seeping... he's always on guard...

[gay-dorito-dust]

Jason who’d make sure you ate and drink throughout the day but does it in the most nonchalant way, as though he had been doing it for ages, whether it’d be a greasy bag of junk food or something he made from scratch, all he’s going to leave you is with the stern command of ‘eat.’

He’s making sure you’re not skipping any important meals, and if you were then he was more likely to scold you while making you something to eat and drink. He’s confusing but he’s caring at the same time and had a unique way of showing it as you’d find from Roy.

‘He just wants you to be okay, he’s just rough with how he shows it but he means well.’ He’d say to you and from then on you’d watch as Jason’s eyes went from stern to concerned and how his posture completely changed into one that was eager to help you before it was too late, almost as though he was on a timer.

Even his stiff pats on your shoulder were oddly comforting and sweet coming from a man who didn’t think he was that hopeful and bright young man anymore, but he was, he very much was but he was just drastically altered to adapt to his new life.

Dick who will sit by you in silence when you least expect it, almost as though he knew you’d needed some comfort but not the talking aspect of it.

He’d stay close enough where you could feel his warmth, but keep a distance so you didn’t feel as though you were being suffocated by his presence.

He’s more then willing to listen to you speak about what you’ve been finding hard as of late and let you air out all your frustrations, not once offer any advice unless you asked for it and when you do it’s the most meaningful piece of advice you’ve ever been given. He’s been though a lot himself so he’s more then equipped to help you and would even offer you to a friendly spar to get the access aggression out.

Damian who’d secretly have a sketchbook dedicated to you that is filled to the brim with you doing the most mundane things possible, but he highlights you in such a way that it almost seemed as though he was romanticising your actions.

He never shows you it, not until you voice how you didn’t feel valued or loved or appreciated in the slightest and suddenly he’s expecting the most normal thing in his entire life; embarrassment incase you’d find him weird for having so many sketches of you.

He smiles when you smile and finds himself wanting to be more open with his emotions but only if it’s with you.

Bruce who’d always tends to your every injury himself, even if it was a tiny paper cut he’s treating it as though your finger was hanging on by a thread.

He’s had his fair share of injuries but they’re often more severe then the ones you get, but he treats them with the same level of seriousness, that you couldn’t help but smile at his furrowed brows as he tended to the small bruise on your upper arm.

He’s tender and calloused hands worked swiftly to preach you up and he would even give your plastered wound a healing kiss, claiming it would help speed up the healing process. He was sweet and doting with you and your minor injuries that he’s covering the corners of every countertop and table within your vicinity, and or helping you up from under things incase you’d hit your head.

[lrithill]

NSFW ARTphabet Headcanon: The Sacred Clown Porn Manuscript (A-I)

Welcome, faithful deviant, to the Sacred Manuscript of Underground Clown Porn.

This isn’t just any alphabet.

This is a ritual.

A love letter to the character.

A deep, filthy, sensual, and brutal exploration of the soul—and body—of Art the Clown.

Letter by letter, orgasm by orgasm, cumshot by cumshot.

In this chapter, you'll find tenderness, obsessions, bed monsters, cum (lots of it), dirty little secrets, dumb luck, emotional damage, genital torture, period blood, clown-level goofiness, Christmas lights… and yes—even Jesus makes a guest appearance.

Here you got the second part (J-Q):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/780916090799783936/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

And the third part (R-Z):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/781563844942249984/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

Enjoy, my doomed and blessed soul.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Sometimes, after the act, he just lies there—completely still, watching you. With those empty eyes that somehow, still say too much. You’re never sure if he’s processing what just happened… or deciding whether he should smother you with the pillow. After all, he’s deeply antisocial, and the idea of affection is something he doesn’t quite get.

But instead of leaving, he clumsily moves closer to you. The only thing he understands is that he likes the warmth of your body next to his, the feeling of skin against skin… it’s something entirely new to him.

It’s not a learned gesture, not romantic: it’s instinctual. Like an animal who doesn’t understand what he feels, but lets it guide him anyway.

All of this confuses and overwhelms him. Since he has no idea how to express emotion, he simply does what his body tells him to do—which is usually to bask in this strange sensation that makes him feel something, close to... peace?

In those moments, you might notice a slight tremble in his hands. Not out of fear, but from sheer sensory overload. It’s all too much. Too much heat. Too much closeness. Too much you. And yet, he stays.

And somehow, he’s warm. Shockingly so. He curls up beside you and pulls you tight against him, like he’s trying to fit two puzzle pieces together—pieces that don’t seem like they should fit, and yet… they do.

Until one day… he just doesn’t stay. Those emotions frighten him, wound him—like an arrow straight to the heart. It hits too hard, and all he wants is to flee back to the cold safety of his solitude (for his sake, and for yours).

But he always comes back—with heart still beating in his hands. As if to say:

“I don’t know how to love… but the idea of losing you scares me more than love ever could”.

B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Your hands. No doubt about it.

He adores your hands. Since he’s mute, he needs to interact with you in the most physical way possible—and that leads him to constantly reach for your hands.

He kisses them like a gentleman kisses a lady, in a gesture heavy with intention.

He takes your hand to lead you places; he likes walking hand in hand with you everywhere.

Even when you sleep together, his fingers search for yours in the dark—especially when you’re spooning.

Before you shared a bed, he used to sleep in the most unexpected places.

One of his favorites: under your bed.

Many times, you’d see his hand timidly crawling up to the edge of the mattress, climbing like a snake... just so you’d grab it.

Even if he was down there.

And you were up here.

(Art: the monster under your bed who just wants to hold your hand.)

And when you make love... feeling your hands clawing down his back while he loses himself in your body, your nails leaving red trails on his pale skin—that melts him.

And don’t even get started on when you go down on him: your hands take him straight to heaven. Stroking his length up and down, massaging his balls, touching his abdomen, pressing into him, squeezing— his eyes roll back in ecstasy. 

He can’t help but close them and moan, mouth hanging open in wordless pleasure, submissive under your touch.

(Bonus points if your nails are painted.)

As for the part of his own body he likes the most: His smile—or better yet, his whole mouth.

He’s fascinated by how many emotions he can express with it without saying a single word: cruelty, mockery, satisfaction, sarcasm, affection...

He has a blast doing his makeup. He’s an artist, and when he sees his masterpiece take shape in the mirror—in the worst way possible—he can’t help but grin even wider. He’s a simple, happy man. Just eager to go out and spread some fear.

He loves pulling faces at you, watching your every reaction. Most of the time it’s to make you laugh, but sometimes... he likes to scare you.

He doesn’t want you to get too comfortable—he likes reminding you who he is… and that you’re never completely safe around him.

But above all, he loves playing with his victims: laughing maniacally as they bleed out on the floor, begging for help in vain. Watching them freeze when he opens his eyes wide and shows all his teeth… He knows exactly what kind of nightmare his face is.

Though to you, it’s a dream.

(And needless to say… he’s very skilled with it. Every inch of your body can confirm.)

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Hot, thick, and absolutely obscene in volume.

He cums with force—shooting white ribbons of pleasure with abandon throughout his orgasm —which, by the way, is far from brief—, painting the walls of your pussy as you milk him dry.

He loves cumming deep inside you. At the height of climax, he presses his body against yours with desperate intensity, like he wants to fuse with you—like he wants to slam through your cervix and spill straight into your womb.

It’s his way of claiming you—because he’s going to be the first and last man you ever fuck—and he’ll make damn sure to own you in every possible way.

Of course, cumming inside isn’t the only way he marks you.

When you’re going down on him, he’s not letting you off easy. You’re going to swallow everything.

He’ll hold your head in place, press your face against his pelvis, savoring the way your throat tightens and gags around his throbbing cock as he unloads down your throat.

He’ll fuck you until you say stop.

Until his balls ache.

Until his cum turns almost clear…

And eventually, the only thing coming out of his cock sounds like a cry for help—if you listened closely, you might hear it whisper: “Help me…”

The only reason you’re not pregnant is because his sperm are so violent, they probably kill each other while still inside his balls.

But beware: if one of them does reach your egg… it’s only because it murdered all the others.

And whatever creature you give birth to… will definitely be worse than its father.

D = Dirty Secret (pretty self-explanatory—a dirty secret of theirs)

Total submission.

Art is dominant. Possessive. Aggressive.

Sometimes he acts submissive—like when you ride him or suck him off—but he’s always in control. He can put you in your place at any moment, and you know it.

But there’s a part of him—buried deep inside—that craves losing control. Completely.

He fantasizes about you tying him up. Wrists and ankles, bound and helpless. His mouth gagged. His eyes blindfolded. Whether it’s in bed or strapped to a chair—handcuffs, duct tape, rope… whatever it takes to keep him from touching you—or touching himself.

So obedient.

He’s obsessed with the idea of ruined orgasm:

You riding him, stroking him, sucking him—bringing him to the very edge and then… stopping.

Leaving him panting.

Twitching.

Desperate for a friction that never comes.

Dragging him back down from climax, again and again, for hours, until he’s nothing more than a trembling mess of nerves, aching for release.

And when you finally let him cum… it doesn’t end there.

You keep going.

Jerking him off without a second of rest. Not letting him breathe, not giving him his refractory period.

You punish him past the orgasm—milking him to the limit.

Chasing as many orgasms as his body can take, one after another, until he doesn’t know whether it’s pain or pleasure anymore.

And just to top it off: a Venus 2000 locked tightly onto his limp cock—sucking him relentlessly, with no mercy, no rest, no purpose but to break him.

Not for pleasure.

But simply to ruin him.

He imagines you using all kinds of toys on him.

Because that’s the other thing: secretly, he wants you to fuck him.

He wants you to peg him.

You, in a strap-on, setting the rhythm—pounding his prostate—while you jerk him off… or maybe not even that.

A chastity cage would be perfect too. Tight. Uncomfortable.

Making him feel… nothing.

His skin bristles just thinking about it. His cock leaks precum, twitching with each forbidden fantasy, trembling for a touch that never comes.

Sometimes, when you’re asleep, he watches you.

And he imagines what it would be like if you tied him to the bed.

If you said: “I’m going to turn you into a slut.”

And he hates it.

And he loves it.

And he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with any of it.

Just once… to be the tortured, instead of the torturer.

But then he gets up. Frustrated.

And digs his nails into his skin—punishing himself for having such weak thoughts.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He has no experience at all—at least, not with living human beings.

He was taught not to see people as potential partners.

Literally, when he saw an “attractive” woman—say, one with big tits—his first thought wasn’t “I’d fuck her.”

It was: “I want to rip those off and hang them on a clothesline.”

Like someone might hang a bra.

He’s always seen people as meat. As toys for his amusement. As prey.

“Can a wolf feel sexual attraction toward a rabbit?” That’s what it felt like for him.

But then you came along.

And no—it wasn’t love at first sight.

There was no miraculous, romantic awakening. Not even close.

You just had the dumb luck to cross paths with him at a moment when he was too weak to kill you.

Normally, he wouldn’t have hesitated: He would’ve sliced you open and eaten your body from the inside out.

But you got lucky.

And that, combined with the fact that you never asked questions, never challenged him… meant he started to tolerate you.

To use you for his own benefit.

And yet…

Turns out he did eat you after all—face buried between your thighs, not your organs.

F = Favorite Position (this goes without saying)

Art is very flexible when it comes to positions.

Literally—he can do them all.

He even invents new ones, like the inverted scarecrow (see under 'O'), his personal signature.

But he has a favorite.

Fucking you from behind.

(And no—we’re not necessarily talking about anal… though that’s certainly on the table.)

Whether it’s in bed, standing, bent over a counter, on all fours, against the wall— he doesn’t care, as long as he gets you like that.

And if there’s a mirror in front of you? Even better—watching your whole body as he takes you is an art form.

And if you’re on your period…

That’s the cherry on top.

Seeing your blood drip down your thighs, smearing it across your body like he’s painting his favorite canvas… it drives him insane.

From this position, he can do everything that unhinges him:

—Bite your neck, your shoulders, your back…

—Yank your hair back to expose your throat, watching your veins pulse beneath your skin.

—Grab you wherever he wants: hips, tits, neck, ass…

—Pin your wrists behind your back—or chain them above your head, anchored to the ceiling.

—Spread your legs open, sometimes with a spreader-bar.

—Stimulate your clit with his fingers and your G-spot with his cock at the same time.

—Kiss you and swallow the way your moans break against his mouth.

Sometimes it’s brutal.

Sometimes it’s slow and devastating.

And sometimes… he just wraps around you.

Like he doesn’t want anything in the world to touch you—except him.

It’s a simple position. Primal. Possessive. Intimate…

Because from behind, he can hold you. Push into you. Devour you.

And make you feel that—even when you can’t see him— he’s always there.

And that’s the most revealing part.

You can’t see his face.

You can’t witness the kind of pleasure that undoes him. The kind that shakes him from the inside out.

The kind that leaves him trembling.

The kind that doesn’t match the image of the irredeemable monster he wants you to believe in.

Because if you did see him— If you really saw his face when he moans, when he cums, when he softens with love he didn’t ask for…

He might lose some of his power.

Or worse: You might actually love him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Art is a clown.

And not just a clown. A professional one—he never breaks character.

So yes… expect him to be goofy in bed.

The horn is coming into the bedroom—whether you want it or not.

Since he can’t moan out loud, he uses it to simulate moans, perfectly timed to his thrusts.

Honk! Honk! Honk!

He’ll also bring in every kind of toy imaginable to recreate every sound possible—Art will make you question if stepping into that pet store was ever a good idea.

And of course, it always makes you laugh.

When he strips for you, he gives you a full-blown striptease.

He encourages you to play music—just don’t let him pick the playlist, unless you want a bizarre remix of crying babies and static noises.

He’s shameless when it comes to playing with “sexy outfits.”

“Is that a wig, Art?” you ask, barely able to breathe from laughing.

He shakes his finger at you, pops it in his mouth, then winks— while still doing the helicopter (with full sound effects).

Let’s just say: Art’s not a fan of synthetic hair. He likes it… natural.

He’s obsessed with roleplay.

So get ready for full theatrical productions between the sheets.

Since he got that Santa suit, you’ve already played an elf, a reindeer, a snowman, an angel, a bow-wrapped gift, a cookie (remember that scene with Lord Farquaard?), even Jesus (he literally wanted Jesus to suck his dick.)

And who knows what comes next…

Of course, you love every second of it.

You two joke about going to Broadway someday— maybe you’ll win a Tony… or kidnap one.

Either way works.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He has no body hair at all. Just a fine layer of pale fuzz, almost imperceptible—after all, his body is still human.

(He used to have hair on his head, too… until he died.)

Any other man might feel insecure about that. Might think it makes him look too feminine.

But he doesn’t care.

In fact, he likes it that way.

Hair would itch. It would get in the way. He’d have to shave constantly, and that would be a pain in the ass.

He doesn’t have time to worry about things like that.

He has more important things to do…

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

There’s an invisible line Art never crosses.

And while he loves pushing you to the edge—making you tremble, cry, scream his name like you’re about to shatter—he never actually breaks you.

He’s the kind of man who can drag you to the cliff’s edge… but he never pushes.

Not because he couldn’t.

But because he won’t.

Art wants you in a way he wants no one else: vibrant, happy, alive.

He wants you laughing between moans, begging him to stop and not stop at the same time.

He’s obsessed with watching you suffer from pleasure—and he knows that for every rough moment, he’ll make up for it with the best orgasms of your life.

But if the suffering stops being pleasure—if it ever becomes true pain—he stops.

He watches you with a terrifying level of focus.

Even when he seems distracted.

Even when he’s laughing.

Even when he’s completely absorbed in stuffing a 1000-watt string of Christmas lights up your ass so he can light you from the inside and turn you into a disco ball possessed by the spirit of holiday cheer…

He knows.

Your breath.

Your eyes.

Your pulse.

Your voice.

And when something changes—when the spark in your pupils flickers for even a second (yes, even with the lights inside you—it’s hard to see, but he sees it)—he stops.

He caresses you.

He kisses you.

He holds his personal holiday decoration abomination like it’s something sacred.

And he looks at you, with sincere tenderness and a crooked smile, as if asking:

“Am I still your worst best decision?”

If you say yes, he finishes decorating you with a star on top of your head.

If you say no, he takes the lights out.

He makes you laugh.

He makes you a post-sex milkshake.

Or he cleans you with a damp cloth, absurdly gentle—like you’re a marble statue.

Because at the end of the day, beyond the chaos, the sadism, the prop addiction… Art adores you.

And everything he does is to watch you enjoy yourself.

To hear you laugh.

To make you shine (literally).

Like you’re his favorite performance.

His light.

And when it comes to sex, there are days when Art gets unexpectedly soft—so sweet it takes you off guard.

You never know if he’s about to ask you to do something deplorable—like kidnapping children, fattening them up, and cooking them for next Thanksgiving—or if, by some miracle, he’s become the most romantic, domestic man on Earth.

He takes you in missionary.

Because he loves your mouth.

Because he loves kissing you while he fucks you like a desperate lover.

His arms wrap around you completely.

Your bodies melt together.

There’s no telling where one ends and the other begins.

You can hear him panting in your ear, breath wild—a faint whisper, almost imperceptible, that still says so much.

You can’t help but touch him the whole time—his scarred back, his soft arms, his beautiful face…

And you look into his eyes.

And he looks back.

And he doesn’t need words to tell you he loves you—in his way—but he does.

He doesn’t need words to thank you.

Thank you for surviving him.

Thank you for surviving his love.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end. I hope I made you blush, laugh, horny, suffer, or scream to the sky.

I'd love to know if you'd like to see any of these letters developed into future fanfics.

Would you like to see Santa Art spanking someone dressed as a reindeer, as if urging his sleigh forward?

Would you like to live out Art’s total submission fantasy?

Would you like Art to shove Christmas lights up your ass and turn you into his human Christmas tree?

I'm open to all kinds of requests, of course. Though I seriously doubt anything you suggest will top what’s already here… (and we still have a whopping 17 letters to go).

For those who just can’t wait, the full alphabet is already up on AO3. You’ll recognize it when you see it.

Here you got the second part (J-Q):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/780916090799783936/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

And the third part (R-Z)

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/781563844942249984/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

[jmliebert]

☆lovesick astarion☆

who has a voice like silk, luring you in with every whisper

who sips wine with you, even if it's bad, your arms touching

who hides himself behind wicked words and sarcasm, his heart wary

who is stargazing, lost in thoughts, yet his mind is always wandering back to you

who is self-confident, but also not confident at all

who desperately clings to his meticulously crafted facade of indifference, only for it to shatter when you offer him your kindness again and again and again

who laughs with you, only to realise he hasn't laugh like this for the longest time

who finds you weaknesses adorable

who lets you do his hair (!)

who visits your tent every night, craving not just the taste of your blood but also your company; he realises

who takes a long time to open up, but when he does it's heart-wrenching, soul-ripping, clawing at your insides type of experience

who seeks redemption in your eyes

who craves your touch, even if he's scared, even if he's conflicted

who cries in your arms

who sinks his teeth into your skin, breathing deeply, his longing reaching far beyond a simple thirst for blood

who cares for you more than he cares for himself

who longs to hold you close, quietly wishing he could stay in your arms for centuries

who falls for your gentle touch and knowing eyes

who often wonders how different his life could have been if only he had met you sooner, way sooner

who feels a deep need of your constant presence, but it's hard for him to admit it outright

who kiss your neck and lick your wounds

who wants to be strong so you never have to feel afraid

who would literally become ascendant, losing himself completely in the process, only to keep you safe

who is scared of how much he cares for you, how much power you have over him, you could crush him in the palm of his hand and the worst part is; he would let you

who gives you kisses that leaves you breathless

who lets you sleep with Halsin despite it not sitting right with him, only so you could stay close to him

who is learning his sexuality all over again with you

who appreciates your patience

who travels the world with you, trying to make up for the years he’s lost

who yearns with every fiber of his being to walk in the sunlight with you

who kneels at your feet, his lips brushing your hands with tender devotion

who lets his ears droop when you say something hurtful, his emotions showing despite himself, so vulnerable with you

who looks at you with a soul-piercing gaze, his crimson eyes haunting your thoughts

who would burn the world for you

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

about this part when I said he would let you crush him, I felt it so much during the quest(?) with the drows and this moment with a *thousand yard stare* and it fucking crushed me, okay? when i'll be romancing astarion again in my playthrough I wont even go there and this is the statement i'll live by

okay, anyway!

you can find more of my works about bg3 ♡here♡

[angellicxx]

Ricochet: Chapter 7- Splitting

Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter x Vigilante Reader

summary: Dex had to make sure you got home safe. His infatuation is killed when he learns a secret he wishes he never found out about his North Star.

warnings: stalking, tw: self harm, blood, bpd, bpd splitting, non consensual watching reader undress

a/n: omg so sorry this took way to long to post here’s a dex pov

-inspired by rooftop watcher

taglist @blxckwidxxw

wc: 2,200

Dex couldn’t understand.

His mind was bleeding for an answer. Trying to rationalize everything he did wrong.

It just didn’t make sense.

He got rid of the O’Connells. Ivan seemed happy about it. Fisk was proud of him.

But you weren’t.

He back tracked through scattered memories, trying to find the shift in the fault line, a place where he did something wrong to offend you and make you so mad. The moment you first spoke to him that night at the bar seemed like a fractured dream. The past few days spent separated from you almost made him spiral— just waiting for the next chance to talk to you.

It was a good thing Fisk assigned him a post in the Volochiy. Dex could maintain order while keeping an eye on Ivan. And he got to be close to you.

He couldn’t care enough to even pretend to be paying attention to the drunken rambles of Ivan when his mind was far off, in the warm lights of the bar. If he concentrated hard enough he could still feel your touch on his hand, the faint relief spreading towards the burning tear in his wrist. He cherished it. But when the idiot spewed his brilliant plan of sending you to the drug den to fend for yourself, the flesh began to burn again.

Those men were bad— evil.

You could be hurt.

An innocent, sweet girl like you couldn’t manage it.

That’s why Dex took great pride in tugging on the those brothers’ extra tightened cuffs, dragging them away before they ever had even a chance to lay a hand on you. He didn’t even care for the approval his fellow agents at the bureau gave him for the discovery— endless praises at how cunning he had been for picking up that unverified tip in the comms line as truth.

He just wanted you to notice.

To thank him for being so brave. For saving you all the trouble. Maybe even invite him back to the bar to share a drink. He didn’t even want the credit— he would have gladly told Ivan you were the one to take the O’Connells down if it made you like him more.

He just wanted to do something helpful for once, to gain your favor.

Maybe it was his fault. He shouldn’t have taken your job.

That was rude of him.

Dex dug his fingers into the still fresh wound on his wrist as punishment. His teeth almost shattered from being clenched so tightly.

Good.

He deserved it.

Dex just couldn’t understand why you were mad at him— like you hated him. He missed how sweet you were, how understanding you had been when you first met. Now you spoke with a tinge of disdain that pierced his chest and made him want to beg on his knees for forgiveness.

The blood on his fingers began to dry, sticking to the metal. His wrist began to throb again, but his grasp remained tight.

He hated how desperately he wanted your approval. He felt like a fucking loser. Like a teenage boy in need of his crush to like him back.

But it wasn’t like that.

Not really.

Dex didn’t understand those kind of emotions. Crushes, relationships, love.

At least not in the way he felt them.

When he did feel them they were like a grenade to his head— all too intense to process and hold in. No matter how hard he tried to shove it down it still bled through, an inescapable desperation he needed to claw out of his skin before it burrowed too deep inside.

What he felt for you wasn’t a crush.

It was obsession.

He tried to suppress his infatuation. Keep it buried. But the longer he tried to ignore you the thoughts only built up more and more. Daydreaming slipped through his mind like conscious thinking, pervading his mind like addiction.

He couldn’t help it that you were just so good— kind, pretty, smart. Somebody he could look up to. Nothing he did felt bad if a person as good as you was doing the same. You were both pawns for Fisk.

Partners.

A smile grew at the thought.

Dex felt like he knew everything about you despite only talking to you once. But he didn’t need to talk to you to understand you. You were easy to watch.

Dex was flattered to see how wide your smile was walking home that night after meeting him. Now he knew it must have been you were just excited Ivan had given you a job to deal with the O’Connells.

That must’ve been why you were mad at him.

You wanted that job. You were excited to be useful.

Oh, you were so cute— so innocent.

He was bad. Selfish. Terrible.

It was his fault you looked so hurt right now.

His fingers dug harder.

Dex ignored the blood trickling down his forearm from a snapped stitch, his eyes burning down the scope. It didn’t matter— your frustration hurt him more. The idea of you walking alone so late at night when there were bad people in the city made him sick. You disappeared so quickly he couldn’t even follow behind to make sure you got home safe. Thank God he remembered the route.

You were already there when he arrived, completely unharmed and pacing— which you hadn’t stopped doing since he had gotten into position on the roof across the alleyway a while ago.

Striding frantically, forearm clasped over your chest with an elbow propped against it, letting your chin rest in a trembling hand.

Even with the O’Connells locked away he was still worried someone might have followed you home; those bastards eyeing you from the bar, that one guy whose fingers brushed your coat when you walked by his table. He would have broke the guy’s hand if he wasn’t so set on reaching you before you got to the door.

It was bad enough you don’t close your curtains. He could see right through your windows perfectly. Imagine if someone else who wasn’t as careful as him wanted to look into your apartment. The thought made him shudder.

Not on his watch.

Dex rationalized it as protection. Ivan told you to get home safe. He was going to make sure of it. He blinked when the wind caught in his eye. Maybe lingering for such a long time wasn’t a good idea. He already knew you were home safe. But he just liked watching you. You really were interesting.

You kept to yourself, but always smiled at the barista and dropped your change in the tip jar. Your apartment was a bit messy for his taste, but he liked the charm. You liked to walk every morning in the park, although you were absent from your regular schedule today. Dex was worried all day until the moment you walked into Ivan’s study, glowing in the warm light, reassuring you were alright.

It wasn’t weird what he was doing. It was only the past few days since you met and he never got close enough for you to see him.

He just wanted to get to know you.

To study you, know what you liked, how he could be better for you. It wasn’t hard—being in the FBI and knowing your name had its perks.

Dex snapped back to reality when you stopped. Standing frozen, eyes flicking to the floor. Your shoulders moved with a deep breath before turning on your heel and revealing the furrow of your eyebrows.

You had an idea.

Dex smirked at his ability to pick up so quick on your mannerisms. The studying paid off.

His expression twisted as you left his view, frustration rising as you became invisible to him. He almost moved his scope to see if he could get a better angle when you suddenly came back, carrying a dark heap of fabric to your bed. He squinted to get a better look at what it was you just dumped onto your sheets, when your hands suddenly gripped the hem of your t-shirt, pulling it off in one fast swoop.

His breath hitched.

The circulation cut off at his wrist when his grip on the scope tightened.

Fuck.

Dex couldn’t tear his eyes away from your unclothed torso. Your stomach and arms flexed as you leaned down to fiddle with the button on your jeans, offering the perfect view of your cleavage peaking from behind a black bra.

Dex painfully forced himself to look away.

It was wrong.

Well, he knew it was supposed to be wrong, but it didn’t feel wrong.

Not like it mattered—the moment you shimmied down your jeans, all integrity was lost.

A look of annoyance smeared your pretty face as you struggled to pull your ankles stuck in the pant leg out, but Dex didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at your face anyways.

You looked good.

Better than he imagined. He adjusted the sights to get a clearer magnification of your body, an unconscious smirk growing in the shadow of his face.

Dex slowly trailed down your chest, over the flexing of your ribs and stomach. The outline of your hips and the faint show of the lace that hugged them. The show of the sweet curve of your thighs, all just for him. His eyes burned un-blinked over your figure, watching you— studying you.

The roof didn’t feel so cold anymore as heat swelled from his bleeding arm up to his thundering head. Blood dripping down his fingers as he gripped the brick laid barrier of the ledge.

You looked like something straight from a Calvin Klein ad as you threw the loose strands of hair out of your eyes and crossed a few steps over to the bed.

Dex didn't even care what you were putting on, his mind was too filled with corrupt thoughts and appreciation for how it only tightened around your form. It looked like a skin tight body suit, an idea that made Dex excited to see, but uneasy about your social plans for the night. He brushed it off— you’re weren’t one of those types of girls. He scoffed at the stupid idea and watched with hungry eyes. He’d be there to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid tonight anyways.

You pulled it over your legs, bringing it up to your shoulders where you wiggled your arms through. The sliver of skin disappeared behind a zipper you pulled from waist the neck, securing it with a belt.

It wasn’t until your gloved hands picked up the mask did his fantasy fall apart.

When you pulled it on you disappeared. His sweet girl (Y/N) was gone— replaced by the mask that haunted his dreams.

The realization hit like a grenade to the fucking head.

Blood dripped off his twitching fingertips.

No.

Dex staggered back, clutching his chest like he had just been shot point blank as the scope clattered to the freezing cold ground.

Blood smeared over his chest, staining his shirt— but that was the least of his problems.

It was you.

He held his breath as you disappeared off the fire escape, slipping into the shadows like you were never even there.

A scoff of disgust dragged out of his throat.

You fucking liar.

Stitches tore open, blood drooling to the floor.

Dex’s fingers clutched into layers of muscle, nearly tearing tendons as a strained groan of agony crawled from his throat.

The pain was blinding.

You caused it. It was all your fault. You were that fucking shadow that aimed glass at him that night— you made him hurt himself.

Dex’s entire world just shattered beneath him. His breathing grew erratic as he pounded a palm against his forehead, trying to get the vision of you in the goddamn suit out of his mind. He cursed himself for being so stupid.

He fucked it up all over again. He shouldn’t have been watching you, like a fucking pervert. This is what he gets for trying to make sure you were safe. Didn’t matter when you were the monster.

Every fantasized thought about you began to burn. The light in your eyes when you looked back at him replayed as a judgmental glare, your sweet laugh became a mockery of him. You were taunting him.

Fisk was right— nobody would ever accept him. He was a fucking fool to think you were ever good for him.

Things could have been so good for you two if you didn’t have to go and throw it all away. Dex steadied himself against the wall boundary, eyes dead set on the pavement far below him.

He should’ve killed you when he had the chance.

[koiiiji]

tw ; gn! reader, fluff

· ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ꕥ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·

Kwak Jichang sighed deeply as he unlocked the door to his apartment, the weight of the day's work still heavy on his shoulders. the quietness of the usually bustling hallway hinted at a peaceful evening awaiting him. he pushed open the door, expecting the familiar warmth and brightness of his living room. instead, he was greeted by an eerie, dimly lit space. the only source of light came from the television, casting a flickering glow over the room. on the couch, huddled together a trio of forlorn souls - Jibeom, Jihan, and you. all three of you were facing the screen, eyes glistening with unshed tears. the atmosphere was thick with emotion, and the only sound was the low murmur of the TV, playing a titers from the latest episode of "house of the dragon."

Jichang closed the door quietly behind him and approached the couch. he could see each tear rolling down your cheeks a testament to the intensity of the moment you had just witnessed. confused but concerned, he softly called out, "hey, what’s going on? why are you three crying?"

in unison, you turned to face him, tear-filled eyes locking onto his. there was a brief moment of silence, a collective breath held, before you all spoke at once, your voices choked with emotion. “they were just dragons… they did nothing wrong…” with that, you burst into tears anew, sobbing uncontrollably. Jichang, taken aback by the sheer intensity of your grief, could only stand there for a moment, trying to process what three of you had said. turning to the screen, he finally realized that this was the series that he couldn't find time to watch with you, all together, and apparently you started without him. the sad music ended, and a scene after the credits was shown. a wounded, huge creature lying on the ground, growling piteously in pain, and he finally understood. the episode had clearly hit you hard, the death of the dragon feeling like a personal loss. Jichang, though not as invested in the show, felt a pang of sympathy for the fictional creatures and a deeper one for the people he loved. he moved to the couch, squeezing in between his brothers, and wrapped his arms around you all. “it’s okay, it’s just a show,” - he murmured softly, patting Jihan’s hair. eventually Jibeom wiped his eyes and managed a small, sad smile. “it was just so sad, hyung,” - he said. “they were so majestic, and they just… died.”

“well, we still have more episodes to watch, right? maybe there will be some happy moments too” - Jibeom nodded, though he still looked devastated.

after sitting like that for a couple more minutes, Jibom was the first to suggest to finally have dinner together, and you smoothly moved into the kitchen, still discussing the latest episode. with the clinking of plates, loud screams and the general bustle in the kitchen, Jichang finally relaxed - the familiar homely atmosphere warmed his soul. a little chaos, the squabbles of the younger ones and the taste of the homemade food warmed the soul, and at that moment everything seemed to freeze... Kwak Jichang never been more happy than now, and he wanted to stay in this cocoon of warmth forever, next to his family.

· ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ꕥ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·

author’s note ; no, it’s not me crying, i just got s2e4 house of the dragon in my eyes🥹🥹

[heyitsghost57]

Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing 1

Pairing: Lamb x Narinder/The One Who Waits

Chapter: Chapter 1 | My darling’s betrayal

Chapter Summary: Lamb was excited to have their final meeting with their God, their beloved, their devoted. They’re upset that this reunion is soured with their followers tagging along, though they suck it up, doing anything to please their God. How will this meeting go, Lamb wonders?

Content Warnings: blood, gore, killing enemies, obsession, idealization, and injuries

Word Count: 3k

Author’s Note: credit to @maibel-mai for inspiring me to make this fic & giving me permission to post this! this fic is also cross-posted on AO3

Centuries ago, Lamb wasn’t like this. Past Lamb couldn’t imagine themselves as the cruel, desperate, insecure monster they were today. Standing in front of their mirror, it was hard for Lamb to recognize themselves as the docile creature they were before. The night before, Lamb had finally brought down the last god of the Old Faith, Shamura. Although Lamb was a skilled fighter, they weren’t left unmarked. There was a gash along their stomach, slicing their pretty wool, and their knees were scraped. A slight cut marked their face. Lamb was never known for their vulnerability and their cultist being able to see their injuries, so obvious on their face, felt like a failure to them. It would take a bit longer before their wounds healed. With bandages and their fleece worn tightly, Lamb hoped it wasn’t obvious. Before the prophecy was made, Lamb never entertained the thought of being a fighter, let alone a cult leader. Unfortunately for them, they had the perfect little mind that their God could manipulate to his liking. Back then, they had a loving family located in a tight-knit, small village. Lamb had an older brother and a younger sister, as well as kind parents. They adored their family and their quiet little life; it was simple and calm.

However, Lamb didn’t socialize well with others, resulting in them having very few close friends. It was always so hard for them to connect with those around them, though they tried their best. It was like Lamb could physically feel the distance between them and others, making it hard for them to form connections. Although Lamb loved their family, with them long gone, it was hard for them to trust others. Lamb forgot what they looked like and how they sounded, only remembering their names. The only one they truly felt a connection with was their beloved savior, The One Who Waits. Perhaps that was a warning sign of what they’d morph into all along?

Upon meeting The One Who Waits in the gateway, Lamb felt a swirl of many complex emotions. Hatred, fear, aching, and loneliness. When realizing their family was really all gone, Lamb was disturbed and their heart felt heavy. They had expected themselves to cry and pound the ground in heartbreak, though they felt too numb to do so. Tears threatened to spill, yet they were afraid of letting it happen in front of the creature towering before them. They were slightly snapped out of their state of panic when their God spoke. To Lamb, it was outrageous for him to request their life for his freedom. How could Lamb go on at all, after what had just happened? They stared at their chained hands, covered in grime with dirt caked into their nails. They wanted to scream and refuse, just wanting to be in the afterlife with their family, though they couldn’t find the words to do so. They hoped it was just due to the shock they were feeling. Certainly despite their fear, they could deny this request. This had to be the one time they could properly talk, when it mattered the most. They had survived execution and now they were met with Death himself. They could barely process the words he was saying; something about a cult and worship. They were still reeling in their head, trembling and panicking. Just seconds ago, they were laid before a blade, their hands painfully pinned to their back by chains.

However, it felt like something in them had snapped, cracking within their skull. It took them a second to collect themselves after this painful sensation, processing a change within them. Unbeknownst to Lamb, Narinder grew tired of their panicked state and used his divine powers to get them to focus on what mattered most: him. They hummed slightly, cocking their head to the side to look up at their God. Starting a cult seemed tiresome. They were never known for their social skills, but what choice did they have?

“I guess I could,” they answered, rocking on their heels and sighing. Their God narrowed his eyes at the lack of respect. Sensing his annoyance, Lamb cleared their throat and tried again. “I suppose I can, my Lord,” they mused, smiling a bit. It was a weak smile, as they were exhausted and numb. With little motion from The One Who Waits, his crown and powers were given to Lamb. Soon after they were resurrected, they felt phantom pains in their neck. There was a prickling sensation underneath their wool underneath the collar they wore. They had little time to react to this, stumbling to gain balance against the cracked stone. Their blood from moments ago stained the ground, warm under their hooves as their crown morphed into a sword.

It felt wrong to Lamb, to be killing these people. While they had just killed them or aided in it, it was hard for them to stomach emotionally. The screaming and resistance the skin gave before being pierced made Lamb wince. Their ears turned down at the sounds as they continued their slaughter. Once they were in the clear for the time being, Lamb stopped to catch their breath; they were protected by rocks preventing others from crossing without breaking them. While they did labor in the village as a woodworker, they never had to strain their body the way they did now. Their calves ached and their lungs burned. There was also the uncomfortable burning feeling of foreign energy coursing through their veins.

After catching their breath, Lamb cautiously continued to the next room. At the sight of something burrowing out of a hole, their sword was raised in defense. They were met with Ratau, a rat. He reassured them that he was an ally to their God. Lamb breathed through their nose in amusement. What did Ratau look like when he served their Lord? It seemed hard for Lamb to imagine. However, they didn’t look much better in comparison minutes ago, with a tattered tunic and their hands bound in chains.

Lamb sighed, a bit upset watching Ratau burrow underground again, before continuing their wandering through Darkwood. If Ratau knew of a way to safety, why didn’t he lead Lamb there through the ground? Their thoughts were interrupted with a chaser worm crawling towards them, trying to ram into Lamb. Their breath hitching, Lamb dodged as fast as they could. Their slow reflexes led to them getting slashed in their calf by the worm’s twigs. A low hiss came from their throat, their grip on the sword loosening briefly. They held it steady once more and cut through the worm, then the next that followed. Lamb cleared three more areas of heretics; it was already deep into the night by the time they had reached a chest. Upon opening the chest, it held a single gold coin. They huffed, looking up at the sky. They could hardly see, considering how dark it was. Their sword was covered in blood, invading the Lamb’s senses and gleaming against the red hue of the crown’s eye, so they wiped it against their cloak.

Already breathless and tired, Lamb rolled their eyes when met with heretics and a tied-up, lavender rabbit. They seriously debated leaving her there to be sacrificed by the heretics; however, they held slight sympathy for yet another victim to the Old Faith’s blade. They hadn’t noticed Lamb yet, looking through the bushes, and they convinced themselves to leave the heretics to their own devices. As they were turning back around, a sharp pain pierced their skull. It hurt much more than last time. Groaning in pain and stumbling forward, they numbly gripped their sword in front of them before lowering it when seeing Ratau. Tired, Lamb tuned out Ratau’s speech about indoctrination and fought against their foes quickly, hardly noticing Ratau moving underground again. They tried to make their work as quick and as painless as possible, as to not scare the poor rabbit more than she’d been already. It was more for their sake than hers; they couldn’t have a traumatized rabbit as their first follower.

Cutting the rabbit’s bonds haphazardly, Lamb supported her to her feet. They felt their speech failing them as it usually did, Lamb avoiding eye contact momentarily. They had to say something, though. The poor bunny was crying and whining in fear on her knees. “Don’t be scared,” they forced out, “I know of somewhere safe. You can rest there.” Their voice was meant to be comforting, though she only let out a whimper in response. The crown teleported her to safety and Lamb quickly saw Ratau again.

“We’re safe now. You’ve done well so far,” Ratau praised. Humming slightly, Lamb thought about how that praise would’ve meant more to them coming from their God. They had half the mind to ask why Ratau didn’t help them more, tired and grumpy, though they held their tongue. It was early into the morning by the time Lamb got to the cult, dried blood caking into their wool. The fact that they killed so many heretics and enemies made them sick. Exhausted from their first day as cult leader, they laid down next to the bunny, Nana.

They watched her rest. Ratau told them to order her to work. They tried doing so immediately, though Ratau argued she deserved a break. Bitter, Lamb wished they had gotten a break before getting sent to do The One Who Waits’ work. They watched her chest rise and fall as she rested, getting a much needed nap. Lamb felt emotionally tired, their limbs sore, though sleep never came to them. Groggy and opening her eyes slightly, she saw her savior and smiled briefly. Her paw grabbed their hand softly. Lamb held back a noise of disgust, their hand burning up at the unwelcome sensation. Begrudgingly, Lamb stayed still and already wished for Nana’s death.

Present day, that promise didn’t hold true. Despite it being centuries ago, Nana continued to work throughout the cult, a golden necklace clasped to her fur. She worked as a farmer and as one of Lamb’s disciples. She was one of his most loyal disciples, in fact. Lamb noted how they could use this to their advantage. Besides Lamb’s hesitancy in the beginning, they grew to be an amazing cult leader. They were kind, hardworking, and great in combat. Of course, Lamb only cared about The One Who Waits’ approval; they could care less if all their followers had fallen ill and died. It was so draining to keep up this persona. Their followers idolized them too much to the point it made them sick. Giving babies blessings, listening to the elderly’s confessions before they passed on, comforting the ill till their final breaths; it was all too much. Lamb often gave themself a pep talk before facing their cult, hyping themselves up to please their beloved.

Smoothing out their fleece and playing with their wool slightly, they sighed deeply before forcing a slight smile on their face. When Lamb rose, it was signal for their flock to rise as well. It was time for their daily morning sermon and this one was possibly the most special of them all. The night before, Shamura had fallen to their blade and their master had praised them. Just recalling it made Lamb’s heart race. Many followers gave greetings as Lamb walked past and with a saccharine smile, Lamb sweetly returned the welcomings; their daydreaming of their god was interrupted. A chime went off that rung within the common grounds, signaling everyone to gather for Lamb’s speech. Cats, deers, dogs, and many other animals huddled within the temple, watching Lamb elegantly take place in front of the altar. Their legs stilled and Lamb opened their prayer book, thumbing the pages till they found the desired scripture. Although Lamb smiled calmly at their flock, internally there was indifference. They all looked like insects to them, lesser beings that Lamb would kill to crush under their feet. It took control and strength for Lamb to not let their mask slip as they eyed their followers. It was a bit easier today, however, because they could be reunited with their beloved soon enough. A genuine smile stretched across their face at this, their heart fluttering.

“Good morning, my flock. As you all know, thanks to your devotion and our God’s blessings, I was able to kill the last of his betrayers, Shamura. With them being slayed, our Lord may finally be free from his capturing. Rejoice, for I couldn’t have done it without my devoted following,” Lamb spoke, projecting their voice so their followers in the back could hear them clearly. Animals cheered in excitement, clapping and praising their leader. The words were in one ear, out another. Their words felt so empty to Lamb, making the constant aching within themselves much more present. Swallowing down their internal hollowness, Lamb continued, “You’ll be delighted to hear that our Savior has requested your presence, as well.” Lamb smiled and let their flock express their excitement, lowering their ears at the tortuous sounds as they grimaced slightly, “I declare a Sabbath today, as it’s an important one. After years of dedication, you can finally meet our Lord.” Lamb smiled, though the thought of sharing him with others annoyed them, “That is all, my faithful. Please enjoy the Sabbath.”

Floating slightly, Lamb felt the familiar warm presence of their devotion overtake them. Their eyes turned white as they happily absorbed their faith. It felt so strong today, given their soon meeting with Death. Once it ended, their hooves met the hard floor again and they blinked until their eyes were normal again. Dismissing their following, they were quick to leave and don their Sabbath clothes. Today was important and they didn’t like keeping their Lord waiting, though to keep up appearances, Lamb let their flock enjoy themselves a little.

Before meeting with The One Who Waits, Lamb nervously breathed in. They made sure their fleece and collar were adorned properly and that their face had no blood on it from their previous escapades. They were pleased to see their past markings had healed, so they removed their bandages. For such a big achievement, Lamb had hoped for praise in private. However, he stated at least twenty of his followers had to be present for him to be freed. Begrudgingly, they complied, with their followers trailing behind them like ducklings following their mother. Though this wasn’t how they envisioned this meeting going, Lamb would hate to disappoint their lord. With all of them joined together, they prayed on the marked stone with Lamb in the center, transporting all of them to Death’s doorstep. No matter how often Lamb was sent to the afterlife, the blinding hues of whites and creams never failed to hurt their eyes. It always felt cold in here. Thankfully, Lamb had thick wool; it didn’t make it that much more comfortable though. Lamb was beaming with pride, awaiting their love’s sweet words. They felt giddy and butterflies filled their stomach, their face flushed while being in the same realm as their God. They were snapped out of their delusions when they noticed they were met with weapons and curses at their disposal. The sight of it made their stomach drop. While he had mentioned Lamb would “lay down their life for him,” they didn’t take it literally. They thought it meant they’d spend the rest of their life devoted to him, which seemed like a dream. Lamb’s hopes were being crushed before them.

He spoke of how with Lamb’s death, he’d finally be freed and stronger than ever. Thinking to himself, Narinder was proud of his vessel’s work. He decided he’d give them a merciful death and they’d have a peaceful ending before being resurrected again, always at his side. Although he didn’t like admitting it, he had grown attached to this vessel in particular. He grew fond of them and wouldn’t mind their relationship developing into more. He brought a single claw down to Lamb’s head, patting and stroking the soft wool softly. It made Lamb’s breath quicken and despite this betrayal, they couldn’t help feeling swooned momentarily. Lamb wished time would stop here, with their beloved’s affectionate touch being all they felt. He didn’t know what he did to them. Weak to his touch, Lamb wanted to drop to their knees and be held in his hand. Lamb let out a slight whine, sighing. They felt dizzy. Lamb usually welcomed their God’s touch, but now it felt slightly tainted. The idealization Lamb held for their savior lessened slightly due to this betrayal.

He didn’t seem that bothered by losing his vessel, which stung. It brought out an icky side of Lamb they tried hard to control. Although Lamb had died countless times before, sometimes to their own blade just to see their savior, this was different. If Lamb kneeled for their sacrifice, that meant their beloved would eventually get someone new to worship them. Not a new vessel, but perhaps a new disciple. The thought of that made them sick, their face flushing slightly as possessiveness overtook them. They couldn’t let that happen; they forbid it. Narinder was theirs, their God, their beloved, their savior. It was fate that Lamb was the last sheep to be sacrificed. It had to mean something; it couldn’t just be a coincidence. It was destiny for them to meet their God. No, Lamb thought, he doesn’t really want this, he just doesn’t know it yet. Staring up at their God, Lamb felt hurt. It was very similar to when they were first resurrected in his domain, with that familiar helpless feeling they hated. Lamb couldn’t let him be taken away from them. He was theirs and they were his. It was fate. Fueled by their need to have their God as their own, Lamb refused to kneel. Although they didn’t know it yet, this was the best decision Lamb had ever made; to Narinder, this was the worst outcome possible.

previous chapter | next chapter

[heyyoubuckaroo]

Displacement | 1.2k | AO3

I saw the 8.09 promo stills of Buck looking like a sad, wet dog in Eddie's house at night and ran with it.

Banged this out pretty quickly, so will almost certainly come back to stealth edit.

Enjoy!

~~~

Eddie feels the argument coming on before it lands. He’s been waiting for it, ever since Buck walked into the house and caught him looking at real estate listings for El Paso. These last few weeks, it’s like they’ve been prepping for a storm—shutting the windows, locking the doors, pretending the sky hasn’t already gone full dark.

“Why are you okay with this?” Buck demands.

He’s on the other side of Eddie’s living room, hands shoved deep inside his pockets. He hadn’t bothered to take off his shoes when he came through the front door, and he’s still wearing his faded denim jacket with the black collar—the one he throws on sometimes when he helps Eddie with the yard work on weekends. Eddie knows exactly what it smells like: Tide detergent, peppermint gum, a hint of juniper from the cologne Maddie bought Buck last Christmas.

“I’m not okay,” he says.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Buck is staring stubbornly past him. “You didn’t seem to have any problem saying goodbye to Chim or Hen or... Bobby.” His mouth twists. “It’s like you don’t even care that you’re leaving.”

Frustration wells inside Eddie, like blood to the edge of a cut.

“If you just asked how I felt instead of assuming, you’d know that’s not true.”

Eddie watches this hit. Buck’s breathing hitches, like he might back down for once. But Buck is Buck, so he barrels forward instead.

“When was I supposed to ask you, Eddie? Out of nowhere, you drop that you’re moving to El Paso.” He makes a soft, pained noise. “And I get it, okay? I get that it’s Chris, and he comes first. He should come first. But you never even told me you were thinking about it.”

“You had a lot going on.”

“Like what?” Buck’s eyes narrow. “Tommy?”

The thing is, they don’t talk about him—not really. Eddie is intimately acquainted with the small, mean part of him that will always resent Tommy for taking something that wasn’t his to take. He steps toward Buck, closing the distance between them, or maybe applying more pressure to the wound. He can’t tell the difference.

“Yeah,” he says. “Like Tommy.”

“I’m not allowed to be upset about my boyfriend breaking up with me?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Eddie stops beside the couch, and Buck just looks at him. Then, like flipping a switch, he squares his shoulders and pulls himself to his full height. It’s the day they met all over again: Buck posturing, scared of losing his place. Eddie, trying to find his footing.

Maybe they’re both scared now.

Eddie knows he shouldn’t push, but he can’t help it. “You didn’t seem to care until you were the one getting left behind.”

He’s close enough to track every emotion that flickers across Buck’s face—confusion, surprise, hurt. Buck’s eyes, grey shadowing the blue, lock onto his. And God help him, Eddie feels a rush of heat under the full weight of his attention.

Buck shakes his head. “I always made time for you when I was with Tommy.”

“You—” Eddie presses his fingertips against his mouth. “You didn’t even give me a chance to process it. One minute it was just... us, and the next you’re like, ‘Hey, Eddie, I’m dating your new friend.’ What was I supposed to do with that?”

“So... what? You weren’t okay with me dating him?”

“No!”

They both freeze, Eddie’s denial hanging in the air. In the silence that follows, he hears his own breathing, ragged and loud in his ears. He doesn’t know if it’s adrenaline or the ugly truth of what he’s said, but his pulse kicks up and his body braces itself—waiting for the impact.

Across from him, Buck’s expression crumples, something delicate giving way under stress.

“You said it didn’t change anything.”

Eddie did say that. He might’ve even meant it. It’s hard to remember now—seven, eight months later. All that time lost between, watching Buck experience the kind of joy Eddie doesn’t get to have.

He went back to St. James’ once, a few days after Buck and Tommy broke up. He’d been looking for the priest from the juice bar. Father Brian wasn’t hearing confessions that day, so Eddie sat alone in a pew halfway up the aisle of the church, working his left thumb into the soft space between the tendons of his right palm, pushing until it hurt.

Pain in place of guilt. It’s a trick he learned when he was young.

“I lied,” he says. Because whether he meant to or not, that’s what happened.

“Right.”

Already, Buck is withdrawing, his shoulders hunched and defensive. Eddie’s instinct is to course correct. To offer reassurances. To reel him back in.

“Good to know I made things awkward for you,” Buck says flatly.

And Eddie... Eddie is so tired of pretending.

“Evan.”

Buck drags in a sharp breath. Eddie’s only called him that once—sitting on a hospital bed with a bullet wound in his chest and Buck’s words, I think it would have been better if I was the one who got shot, driving straight through it.

Most days, Evan is just Buck: LAFD firefighter. Adored little brother and uncle. Eddie’s best friend.

They’re close now, drawn together by impulse or habit. Eddie’s socked toes touch the tips of Buck’s sneakers. He reaches out, his hand finding its place on Buck’s shoulder, thumb resting in the dip of his collarbone. He rubs it lightly over the fabric of his T-shirt, giving in to the urge to soothe.

“By the time I figured out what it changed,” Eddie says, quiet, “it was too late.”

The back of his free hand brushes against Buck’s, their arms pressing together from shoulder to wrist. Buck is shaking a little, the fine tremors passing between them. Eddie is aware he shouldn’t be doing this—not when he’s about to leave Buck alone.

He swallows down his nerves and leans in.

“Eddie,” Buck says.

Eddie gives in to his selfish desires. He pulls, and Buck, always willing to follow his lead, bends. His eyes drift shut as their foreheads meet, noses skimming. Buck’s hand turns, palm up, sliding against Eddie’s until their fingers catch.

He wants this. They both want this.

Buck’s phone rings.

It’s like a bucket of ice water. Eddie shudders, and Buck jerks back to stare at him, wide-eyed. The thread holding them together frays, then snaps. For a moment, neither of them reacts.

Eddie’s brain catches up to his body first, registering the ringtone.

“That’s the station,” he says. His voice sounds low. Wrecked. “You should get it.”

“Shit.” Buck bites his lip, leaving it flushed and pink.

Grieving the loss, Eddie forces himself to look away from Buck’s mouth. He steps back to give Buck space as he fumbles for his phone.

“Bobby?” Buck answers.

Eddie can’t make out the words on the other end of the line, but he can tell from the way Buck’s face falls, it’s bad news.

Years of training—as an army medic and a first responder—kick in. Eddie focuses, letting the emergency in front of him wipe everything else clean. It’s shockingly easy.

The call is brief. Buck hangs up, then blinks down at his hands, unseeing.

“What is it?” Eddie asks.

“Maddie.”

Buck sways where he stands, clutching his cellphone. When he looks up, his eyes are wide and lost. They settle on Eddie, and somehow, he knows what’s happened before Buck says it. He feels the storm passing over them.

“They took her.”

[cherry-holmes]

Glimpse of a life with Javier Peña

Chapter 11

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: After being attacked, Javier felt guilty for put you in danger. He would do whatever it takes to keep you safe.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Javier Peña x Female Reader

Word count: +5.4k

Warnings: Mentions of injures and blood. Mention to violence typical of the series. I prefer to not give more details to prevent spoilers, but this is +18. You’re on your own, kids.

A/N: Hello! Chapter 11 finally here! Sorry for taking so long, I’m on finals in college so I’ve been studying, doing lots of homework and starting my thesis!🙈😬 But here I am, I hope you like it!

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Javier had never felt such intense fear in his entire life. Everything around him seemed to fade into the background as he fixated solely on your motionless body. His world moved in slow motion as he rushed toward you.

No, no, no... everything except you. He can't lose you, he just would never survive such thing.

He dropped to his knees beside you, his heart pounding so hard it could make a hole on his chest. But when he put his hands on you, relief washed over him. Your eyes were widened with fear and disorientation. You were shaking, you had scraped your chin, and your hands were cut from when you fell onto the sidewalk.

But you were fine. You were alive.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest as you both sat on the ground. As he gently held your face, his heart sank again when he saw the blood on your mouth. Quickly, he checked you and discovered that you had bitten yourself, likely from when you let yourself fall to avoid a bullet.

Javier held you tightly, feeling a rush of emotions. He was relieved you were alive, but anger and fear still coursed through him. He looked around, making sure the area was safe, before helping you stand up.

"Come on, I need to get you out of here," he said urgently. He didn't want to stick around and risk another attack. Javier tried to pull you up, but when you attempted to stand, a sound of pain escaped your lips. "What is it?"

"N-no puedo," you mumbled. "Me duele mucho el tobillo." Without wasting more time, Javier leaned in to wrap an arm around your back and the other behind your knees, lifting you gently as he carried you into the restaurant; it seemed safer in there.

He sat you on the nearest table, still trembling from the shock. Javier crouched down in front of you, his eyes searching yours.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

You nodded weakly, trying to find your voice. "Creo... creo que si. Sólo asustada y me duele el tobillo, " you mumbled.

Javier took off your heel to check your ankle; it was already swollen.

As he focused on your injuries, you looked at your surroundings. People were scared, trying to process what had happened, the sound of police sirens growing increasingly closer. Then, you saw the truck, the bullet holes on the door, and the windows completely destroyed. If you paid enough attention, you could see the holes in the concrete wall of the building next to the truck. If you hadn't seen him before, you would be dead by now... Suddenly, the realization hit you like a ton of bricks.

"Javi?" Your quivering voice captured his attention, and then you broke down. The crying was unstoppable, you were shaking, sobbing, your heart racing with adrenaline.

Javier gently put his arm around you as your tears flowed. "Shh, it's okay," he whispered, his voice filled with reassurance. "I've got you. You're safe now," he held you for a while, letting you cry out the fear and stress that had built up.

By the time the police and paramedics arrived, you were calmer. You still had a slight tremor, but you had stopped crying.

Reluctantly, Javier left your side to speak with the police, who were already cordoning off the area. A young female paramedic began to tend to your wounds as you observed Javier's discussion with the authorities. He appeared so angry and frustrated, like a caged animal.

You noticed Steve and Trujillo, another colleague from the DEA, arriving and approaching to Javier, who engaged in an intense conversation with them, their faces etched with concern. You couldn't hear what they were saying, but it seemed like a heated discussion.

The paramedic continued her work, cleaning and dressing your minor wounds. She asked you a few questions, ensuring you weren't seriously injured, but mentioned that you would need an X-ray to assess the damage to your ankle. You answered her questions with shaky but coherent responses, explaining that you had fallen during the chaos.

As you sat there, you couldn't help but wonder what had just happened, it was all so surreal.

In less than a few minutes, your life seemed to became a completely chaos, you had seen your life passed before your eyes.

You didn't notice when the paramedic finally let you, you still had the metallic taste of your own blood on your mouth, turning your stomach, made you finally vomit. You moved to the side and began to throw up bile and stomach fluid. Javier returned immediately at your side, took back your hair and rubbed your back.

One of the employees of the restaurant gave you some water to rinse your mouth. You rinsed and spat out the bitter taste, feeling so embarrassed for all the mess you made.

"I'm-I'm sorry," you said, thick and quivering voice.

"It's okay, baby," Javier said, "Don't worry about that."

"I wanna go home, Javi," you pleaded, "Please let's just go home."

Javier continued to caress your hair as he finished helping you clean up. He couldn't bear the sight of you, broken and battered: the swollen bottom lip from the fall, your tired and scared eyes, your wounds on your face, and the stains of blood on your knees.

"I want to go home too, bonita, but we can't," he explained, and that caused you to start crying again. The fear and shock still had a tight grip on you.

"We have to go to the Embassy right now; it's safer," he insisted.

"She needs X-rays for her ankle, sir," said the paramedic, which prompted a brief discussion among the authorities and Javier. ''She must go to the nearest hospital.'' It was clear that you needed medical attention, but Javier didn't want to leave you alone in your fragile state, neither exposed you to another attack. After some deliberation, they decided that you could be transported to the embassy for medical care and further evaluation of your injuries.

Javier was relieved that he wouldn't have to leave your side. He continued to comfort you, whispering words of assurance and love as the paramedics prepared to transport you. It was a difficult and frightening experience, but you took solace in knowing that Javier was with you.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You spent the entire day at the hospital. While you needed to use bandages for your ankle and rest for at least two weeks, you were technically fine. The shock of the attack still weighed heavily on you. You couldn't help but wonder what might have happened if you hadn't seen it coming or if Javier had been in the truck...

Both the Bogotá police department and the DEA took the incident seriously, closing a section of the public hospital specifically for you. Their concern was evident, given the attack on one of their agents and the danger you had both faced.

When Messina and some other agents and police arrived at the hospital, Javier reluctantly left your side. He assured you that he had to talk with them in private but promised to return as soon as possible.

After the doctors determined the status of your ankle, Javier returned to your side, accompanied by Steve, Trujillo, and Messina, who looked stressed as always.

Javi moved closer to where you were lying in bed, one ankle elevated and bandaged. "Honey, we need to know exactly what happened. Can you do that?" His gentle and soft voice surprised everyone in the room. His colleagues from the police and DEA were used to seeing him as a tough and serious man, always focused on his job with a bad reputation as a playboy. However, you knew this sweet and caring side of him well.

"I was waiting for you in the truck," you explained, your hands sweating and shaking for recalling the traumatic event. "Everything seemed normal until a car stopped beside me. I don't know why I turned to look at it; I just did, and I saw this man pointing a gun at me." You remembered, "I reacted quickly, maybe by instinct, so I opened the door, and when I tried to step out, the gunfire began. So I just let myself fall."

Javier's grip thighening on your hand, giving you comfort.

"The man fired several shots, and I felt a sharp pain in my ankle as I fell to the ground," you said. "I was so scared and couldn't move. I thought he would come closer and finish me off."

Messina, Javier, and Steve, listened intently as you spoke, their faces a mix of concern and anger.

"Then, Javier came running, and he helped me get to safety," you added, your voice quivering with the memory.

Trujillo nodded and took notes as you described the incident in detail. "Was he driving, or was there someone else?" he asked.

"There was someone driving, but I didn't see him," you said.

"Did you identify the man?" Steve wanted to know, but you shook your head.

"Try to remember, sweetheart," Javi's hand caressed your hair, and his thumb brushed yours while holding your hand.

"He had a mustache..." you sounded like you were questioning.

"Okay," intervened Messina as she stood up, "If she doesn't remember, it could compromise the investigation," she pointed, and everyone agreed. "We are going to follow the lead Peña gave us, but we must manage this under the radar," she warned.

You furrowed your brow, and she intervened again, "The politics are clear: our agents and administrative employees shouldn't get involved with each other." You blushed. "I have to figure out how to manage with our superiors in the US while we solve this on our own."

Messina continued, "We can't jeopardize the mission by getting entangled in personal affairs. Our priority is to apprehend Pablo Escobar and dismantle the drug cartel." Her stern expression softened slightly, and she looked at you. "I understand that emotions can run deep in high-stress situations, but we must remain focused."

You nodded in understanding, despite the lingering sense of fear and unease from the attack.

When your boss and the other agents left the room, Javier, still by your side, gave your hand a reassuring squeeze.

Javier sat down beside you, taking a deep breath, trying to regain some composure. He watched you with deep concern, his eyes lingering on the wounds on your body. With a gentle touch, he brushed a strand of disheveled hair away from your face.

"You were really brave back there, you know?" he said softly, his voice filled with admiration for your courage.

You managed a weak smile despite the pain and anxiety still coursing through you. "I had a good teacher," you replied. His eyes softened, and he leaned closer to plant a tender kiss on your forehead; then, a soft and gentle kiss on your injured lips.

"So," you said when he straightened up, "You think this was Diego's, don't you?"

Javi sighed as he scratched his forehead. "There's something I have to tell you."

You were actually nervous about what he could say. No more secrets, you both had promised. The words he just said seemed to break that agreement. From the look in his eyes, you could tell he knew it too.

He took a deep breath and met your gaze. "You deserve to know, and I should have told you before." You frowned, concern filling your eyes. Javier hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "You know that I went to see Helena," he said, as if he were disarming a bomb. It was true; you knew he had gone to see her after your previous breakup. "She told me that Diego has been linked to some of the people associated with the Medellín Cartel. We've been monitoring him closely because it's obvious they're using him to obtain information about the DEA and the government, taking advantage of the resentment he expresses for being fired."

Your mind raced as you tried to process this revelation. "I was more focused on protecting the work that had taken us so much effort to establish. And I was also trying to protect you," his voice suddenly cracked, and hurt was clearly visible in his eyes as he looked at your still-red eyes and the injuries on your beautiful body. "I didn't want to worry you, but now I know it was a mistake to keep it from you. I failed to protect you."

The weight of the situation settled in as he reached out to hold your hand, seeking your eyes. "I-I'm sorry," he pleaded, his voice thick with emotions, guilt filling his chocolate-brown eyes. "Please, forgive me. I couldn't protect you."

"Javi, no," you answered quickly, catching his hand between yours, then caressing his cheek with your thumb. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't know he was going to do such a thing."

"When I saw you lying there, I thought... fuck, I thought I had lost you," he confessed, his eyes filling with tears that ran down his face. "It felt like my own heart was about to stop..."

You couldn't hold back your own tears any longer. Emotions flooded over you, and you pulled him into a gentle embrace, his head resting on your shoulder as he cried.

''I'm here, Javi,'' you consoled him, ''I'm okay, I'm not gonna go anywhere.''

Relief, overwhelming and comforting, coursed through him as he realized you were still there, breathing, alive. It was a profound relief that washed away some of the guilt, but it couldn't erase the trauma you had endured. Javier wasn't one to cry. He didn't even remember the last time he did. He had always been so tough, pragmatic, not letting his emotions take over him. Stress, pressure, guilt, disappointment, fear, frustration; were things he put aside to avoid being blinded in his duties. However, he felt a sense of freedom when he found himself letting off steam in your arms.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

After sending some police officers to check on Javi's apartment, you both were able to return home. It was already night, and you had a headache from all the shock, stress, and spending the entire day in a small hospital room. Javier hadn't had an car anymore, so Steve took you both on his own, and a couple of officials spent the night on the street checking for anything potentially dangerous.

You decided to take a soothing shower to wash away the stress of the day after brushing your teeth. However, with your injured ankle, you struggled to maintain your balance. The pain was a still sharp, and it was hard for you to stand for too long.

Javier, ever attentive, noticed your struggle. "What are you doing?" He rushed to your side, catching you when you were about to fell in the bathroom.

"I need a shower," you said as you couldn't bear your dirty, dusty clothes anymore.

He helped you sit over the toilet and get rid of the bandage. He was worried that you fell on the shower, so he proposed something. "How about we take a shower together? I can help you."

The idea brought a blush to your cheeks, but you couldn't deny that the prospect of sharing a shower with him sounded appearing. With a nod and a shy smile, you accepted his offer.

"That sounds nice," you said, feeling a mixture of shyness and anticipation.

He smiled, reaching out to take your hand. "Don't worry, I'll be very gentle," he gave you a playful wink.

Javier took off your clothes, one by one, gently, until you were completely naked in front on him. Then, he did the same with his own, and guided you into the tiny space of the shower.

Warm water ran over your body, relaxing your muscles, taking away the stains of soil and blood on your body. He took you by your waist to gave you balance as you washed your hair, and then his. You winced when the shampoo stung the scratches on your hands.

"Careful, baby," he whispered, his warm breath brushing your face as he looked down at you.

As you rinsed his hair, you couldn't resist tracing the path of the soap running down his body when he wasn't looking.

You couldn't resist the temptation to let your hands wander along his skin, tracing the contours of his body. He shivered slightly under your touch, and his gaze met yours with a playful yet longing look.

"You're a bit cheeky, aren't you?" he whispered, his voice tinged with desire.

A mischievous grin played on your lips. "Maybe."

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and your bodies pressed against each other in the confined space, under the water.

He leaned down to kiss your lips, and your hands found support on his shoulders. Wet kisses were exchanged, your tongues meeting halfway, and you could feel his masculinity pressing against your lower belly.

Although he had been helping you not to put all your weight on your injured leg, you started to grow tired on your other leg. Javier noticed it and broke the kiss. He, turned off the shower and guided you out of the shower, wrapping an arm around your waist to pulling you up and taking you to his bed, leaving a path of water all over the floor.

"Javi, wait," you protested between giggles, "we're going to make a mess!"

"That's what I intend to do, bonita," he said, gently placing your body on the mattress, a devilish sparkle in his eyes.

He lay beside you, gazing into your eyes with a mix of desire and affection. His hands traced a path along your body, exploring your curves. You felt a shiver run down your spine as his fingers danced across your wet skin. Javier's lips found yours once more.

His fingers found their way to your core, splitting your already wet folds, tracing firm circles on your swollen clit. A gasp escaped your mouth in a shaking breath, your hand wrapping around his forearm by instinct.

"You like that?" He asked, voice so thick and low, close to your lips. You nodded, looking at him with pleading eyes. "Talk to me, baby, I love hearing you."

"Ye-yeah," your voice quivered, feeling his expert movements giving you pleasure. "I like it so much."

"That's right. Such a good girl, as always," he whispered, his tongue tracing your lower lip as his fingers gathered your arousal. "Spread your pretty legs wider for me."

As soon as you obeyed, two of his fingers found the way inside your pussy. You cried out a moan, as his fingers were so thick. Just one had the power to ruin you; two of them felt like too much, but you loved feeling overwhelmed by his touch. Javier Peña was simply addictive.

"Ja-Javi...," you whimpered, moving your hips involuntary to find his touch halfway as his fingers bumped in and out of you, making a wetting, obscene sound that made you blush.

"I know, bonita," he whispered on your ear, causing a shiver run down your body, goosebumps painting your still-wet skin. "I want you to cum on my hand before I fuck you right," his words made you clench around his fingers, making him hiss. You could feel his warm, hard cock against the bone of your hip, twitching with every soft moan that left your throat, pre-cum glistening on the tip.

As his fingers speeded up their movements, his thumb began to work on your clit. You archer your back, your body getting closer to his as your hands took his face, your pelvis turning to meet his, but he never stopped torturing you with his hand.

"Ahhh... ¡Javi!... Ahhh, yes!" you claimed, consumed by the pleasure. His fingers curled inside of you, finding that sweet spot. ''Oh, fuck!''

''C'mon, baby, cum for me,'' he encouraged, as a knot formed in your lower belly, spiraling down to your very core until you detonated in a soundless cry, ''There you go, baby,'' your orgasm convulsing through your body. For a moment, you forgot the pain in your ankle, your knees, the stress of the earlier incident; it was all love and passion. ''Open your mouth,'' he ordered.

Your lips parted, and his two fingers, coated in your own honey, found their way into your mouth. A moan escaped when you tasted yourself on your tongue. "Suck on it," he whispered, his eyes darkened with lust as your tongue played with his fingers. "That little mouth of yours feels really nice, mi amor."

With a slurping sound, he exchanged his fingers for his own lips pressed against yours, savoring the lingering taste of your arousal on your tongue.

With a swift move, he positioned himself on top of you, planting kisses on your neck, descending through your skin, sucking your nipples, licking the soft flesh of your tummy.

Javi kneeled in front of you, between your legs, lifting one of them to place a sweet kiss on your swollen ankle. Then, he reached for your hands and did the same on the scratches in your palms. His lips continued to explore your body, leaving a trail of tender kisses from your knees to your thighs. You could feel the warmth of his breath, and each touch was a soothing balm to the ache in your body.

As his lips reached higher, he met your gaze, eyes filled with a mixture of desire and adoration. "Eres tan hermosa," he whispered, his voice husky with intensity. "Te amo demasiado." You felt a shiver run down your spine, a response to both his words and the gentle caresses.

"Yo también te amo mucho," you answered. A lump formed in your throat, overwhelmed by the recent events and the passion and love you felt for the man in front of you.

Javier's eyes softened with genuine affection. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss.

His hand reacher to his nightstand for a preservative and when he was ready, rubbed the head of his cock along your core. Soft sighs escaped your lips as he teased you. Your hands went to his ass, forcing him against you. "Ple-please, Javi," you pleaded, burning cheeks and pleasure eyes staring at him.

"What is it, baby?" he whispered, his voice thick. You whimpered, pulling up your hips to meet his. He grinned devilishly. He loved having you plead for his cock, his fingers lingering on the delicate skin of your inner thighs. A smirk played on his lips as he watched the anticipation in your eyes.

"I need you," you confessed, desire evident in your voice. "Please, I want to feel you inside."

Without uttering a word, Javier aligned himself with your entrance. You cried out a moan as he buried himself into you in one swift, effortlessly movement.

Your nails dug on his back, his face found a place on the space between your neck and your hair as he growled with pleasure, feeling your walls clenching around his length. He loved that sweet pussy of yours, so warm and tight, and all his.

He waited a few seconds for you to adapted to him, but he was so desperate to fuck you that it was almost painful. All the adrenaline rush of the day, all those emotions, and the love he felt your you culminated in that passionate moment.

Javier moved to find a most comfortable position and then, he lost it. His hips thrust almost desperately against you, making you whimper and moan with intense pleasure as you felt his cock moving in and out of your dripping cunt.

Furthermore, the sight you had of him was like that of a Greek god. His strong arms bulged from holding your hips up to meet his, water still dripping from his hair to his neck and chest, drops twinkling between the freckles on his shoulders. His breath quivered, groans and grunts escaped through his lips with every thrust of his hips.

You swore you could feel him on the entrence of your cervix, he was balls deep on you.

Javi was delighted with the view of your bouncing tits, your blushed cheeks and nose, your pleading eyes filled with pleasure. His heart was racing, his brain shut down for an instant and his world reduced to you. He was ruined by you.

Your bodies moved in sync in a dance of desire. His hands explored your curves, leaving a trail of warmth and electricity. The room filled with the sound of your whispered words and filthy noises.

"Javiii..." you whined, feeling an intense pressure on your core, your body squirming in the sheets. It was too much, you barely could breath. "Ahhh, Javi, I-I'm so... close!"

His hands spread your legs wider in a rough movement, to make space to himself as he let his weight fell over you as he continue with his thrusts. One hand grasped around your neck, applying enough strength to silence your moans, but it felt so fucking good that made you pussy clenched and dripped around his cock, "Fuck, I love your pussy. It's all mine, you're all mine."

"I am, I am," you uttered as best as you could, "My pussy is only yours, Javier."

"My good fucking girl," he whispered, his lips found your and you open your mouth, welcoming his tongue. "I'm yours too, forever."

As his movements became errants and messy and desperately, both of your found your orgasms in synchrony. Your eyes rolled as your back arched for its own will, your fingers tangled in his hair as you said his name like a prayer, over and over again. Javi's back muscles clench with his own release, grunting as he filled the condom, forcing the last thrusts into your cunt as his balls quivered.

The bed was, as he said he wanted, a completely mess. Sheets wet with your cum, and pillows wet with the water of both your hairs.

As you lay together, tangled in the sheets, you traced his jawline with your finger. His eyes were closed, but he was awake. You both were still naked, tired, the smell of sex still lingering in the air.

He opened his eyes, and you could see determination in them, his fingers gently brushed against your cheek. "I won't let him get away with this," he declared, his voice low and resolute. "Diego will pay for what he did to you. I promise you that, mi amor."

You looked into his eyes, finding comfort in his unwavering commitment. "Please promise me you'll be careful. I don't want to lose you or that you do something stupid and ruin your career."

"I promise, bonita. I'll be careful."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You woke up to a soft kiss on your lips and the delicious aroma of crumbled eggs and coffee. As your eyes opened, you found Javi's gaze fixed on you, a warm and affectionate smile playing on his lips. "Good morning, bonita," he greeted you.

You stretched and yawned, feeling a mix of soreness and comfort from the previous night. "Morning," you replied, a smile forming as you took in the sight of him.

Javier leaned in for another tender kiss. "I've prepared breakfast," he announced, gesturing to the tray adorned with eggs, toast, and a steaming cup of coffee on the bedside table.

As you sat up, he handed you a glass of water along with an ibuprofen pill. "First things first," he said. You took the pill, and then he presented you with a much-needed cup of coffee.

Before you could utter a word, he began tending to the bandages on your ankle. The swelling had increased, accompanied by a prominent bruise. A twinge of pain coursed through you as he gently placed it on a pillow, covering it with an ice pack.

"I hope to be back in action by tomorrow," you said casually, taking a sip from your cup.

Javier, on the other side, furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?" he asked.

You looked at him, "I need to return to work," you answered.

"Baby, the doctor said you need at least two weeks to rest," he insisted.

"I can't," you replied, "I haven't even recovered from my sickness leave two months ago, and I have bills to pay."

"Bills for an apartment you barely live in now." He brought your hand to his lips, placing a tender kiss on your knuckles. "Look, mi amor, I can take care of the bills. I don't want you rushing back to work, especially after what happened."

You sighed, appreciating his concern but still feeling the weight of financial responsibilities. "Javi, I can't rely on you for everything. I need to stand on my own."

His gaze held a mixture of understanding and determination. "I get that, but right now, your well-being is my priority. Let me take care of you, at least until you're back on your feet."

You sighed, a feeling of guilt lingering on you. "It's not fair that you pay for two apartments; you have enough responsibilities with your own, and I know you send money to your dad."

"Well, then I don't have to pay for two apartments," he said. Although you felt relief, it seemed weird that he settled for it so quickly. You knew him; he was stubborn like a mule. You looked at him as if he had grown a third eye.

"So, I can get back to work tomorrow," you said, and he shook his head. "Then how am I supposed to pay my rent?"

"You won't," he answered. "You won't pay rent for an apartment you don't have." He looked at you with a determination that hinted at a decision made. "Move in with me," he suggested.

Your eyes widened, caught off guard by the proposition. "Javi, I—"

He gently interrupted, "I want you to live with me. You already spend every day and night here, and even when you slept there, I slept there too. So no more worrying about rent or bills. Just focus on healing and being with me."

"Are you sure?" You set aside the cup and stared right into his chocolate-brown eyes. "It's a big step, Javi."

He sat closer to you, taking both your hands into his. When he looked into your eyes, you saw in them the most confident look anyone had ever given you. "A hundred percent sure," he answered. Then, he moved a bit nervously, but the determination in his gaze still lingered powerfully as he said, "Listen, I've been thinking about us a lot, and yesterday... it put everything into perspective. Life is too short, and I love you so much." As he said those words, you felt like you went pale.

Is he about to...?

"I want to do things right with you. Moving in together is a big step, and there's no one else I'd rather take it with than you, bonita."

You didn't want to actually ask if he was, well, proposing because he wasn't doing it per se. You didn't want to push him to say something he didn't feel or plan, but your delusional side was about to explode with excitement and love, and you could only think about floating down the aisle to him.

However, when he spoke again, you felt butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

"We're going to take things one step at a time. We've only been together for a few months, yet I already know that I love you," he assured you, and tears of love started gathering in your bright eyes. "You must know that I'm serious about us and our future. So, what do you say? Wanna live with me?"

You let out a nervous giggle, overwhelmed by his beautiful words, his willing to share a life with you. You were so damn in love with him.

"Yes!," you nodded and a big smile crossed his handsome features, "Let's do this."

He leaned in, sealing the agreement with a sweet and lingering kiss, and you couldn't help but feel that, despite the challenges, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Chapter 11.5

CHAPTER 12

[albatris]

rentalcar update!

it's been a hot minute since I did one of these!

today's word count is 75,595...... uh oh! "but it was over 100k a few weeks ago, monday!" yes my process is mysterious and unknowable

today I got a lot of work done due to the being at my friend's house where we just sit around and vibe together. I'm really happy with my progress!

today's mood is a severe lack of sleep and today's jam is "little lies you're told" by joywave

taglist and today's excerpt under the cut! it's jumbly and unedited sowwy

She settled on the couch and immediately sprawled herself out, bringing her legs up onto the cushions and cuddling right up to him, her head nestling down on his shoulder. Nat’s heart pounded in his chest in a rhythm he was certain she could hear. Was she coming onto him? What was this? Why was she so close?

The movie seemed to be about a zombie invasion of a small town in Pennsylvania, but Nat was finding it hard to pay attention. Partially tiredness from his night of work and the emotional stress he was under. Partially his hyper-awareness of Ripley’s presence. The longer the movie wound on, though, and the longer Ripley stayed like that, leaning herself against him all cosy, the more Nat suspected that she was simply just more physically affectionate than he was. What had the care package said about vampires and physical contact? They liked it, right?

Did he like this?

Maybe she would think his pounding heart was just exhilaration from the jump-scares, from watching so many zombie heads get blown off, so many entrails get ripped out. The movie was exceptionally gory. He was—uncomfortable. But he was almost always uncomfortable. He found himself wishing he was home cuddling his cat instead, but he almost always wished he was home instead of out. Even when he was enjoying himself, he was never truly enjoying himself.

Did he like this?

Nat tried to untangle his emotions. Fear, shame, guilt, stress, paranoia—oh, there was relief here, too. Relief and affection. Small flutterings of it. Nat exhaled and tried to release all his tension. He did like this. He hated it, but he liked it.

“What—what’s that thing called?” he asked during one of the movie’s lulls in action. “That thing that gets all up in your brain. The Greeble. The Gerbil.”

Ripley wheezed, laughing. “The Garble?”

“That’s the bastard.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Do you believe in it?”

“I don’t… not believe in it… I guess.” Ripley reached up to pat Nat’s face, ruffle his hair, playfully. “I mean, do I believe there’s something alive in vampire bodies? Like, wriggling around in the blood and stuff? Something that gives us our power and demands life force in return? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I believe in—in some big spiritual vampire hivemind god that connects us all? Not really. I think it’s just—a way certain people have of wrapping their heads around the physical. It’s like a comforting delusion, maybe." She stopped for a breath. "Do you believe in the Garble?”

“I don’t know,” Nat said. “I haven’t decided yet. It talks to me. I can feel a presence sometimes. It could be something alive in me, like a parasite. Or it could be a big hivemind god.”

Ripley nodded thoughtfully.

“My friend Alex thinks it’s a spiritual thing, I think,” Nat said. “I wouldn’t call it a delusion exactly. I’ve been delusional. Religion is different.”

“Does your friend think it has, like, a purpose?” Ripley asked. “That’s what I always ask that trips people up. If it’s a religion, if it’s spiritual, what’s the point? What does it all mean? What’s the higher purpose?”

“I dunno. I’ll ask next time I see him, maybe.”

“Here’s a hint: there isn’t a higher purpose,” Ripley said. “It’s all just—just a fucked up medical condition.”

“If it’s a medical condition, why is no one working towards a cure?”

“You think vampires are running around offering themselves up for medical research? We’re not human anymore. If we told people what we really are, that we’re monsters, we’d get cut up into teeny tiny pieces by the government for sure.”

To emphasise Ripley’s point, the lead of the movie ran a chainsaw through a zombie’s decaying chest.

“Yeah,” Nat agreed. “Best not.”

@transmasc-wizard @saturn-iidae @polyaubergine @tracle0 @goosemixtapes @valence-positive @the-one-who-makes-negative-noise @ambiguousfiction @afoolandathief @silverwarewolf @mecharose @vellichor-virgo @plasticseaslug @jetstargenderfuckery @multi-lefaiye @writeouswriter @junoshusband @writing-is-a-martial-art @midnight-and-his-melodiverse @sleepycaprine @cream-and-tea @gailynovelry @lefttigerobservation @indecentpause @somealienquill @cannivalisms @violetfoxsketches @approximately20eggs @mohluskiepedard @desastreus @kk7-rbs @cee-grice @northwyrm @xylophonicsynapse @careful-pyromancer @recapitulation @incandescent-creativity @whole-buncha-snakess @mysticalalleycat @thatonecrowguy @va-nila-bean @televisionjester @excessive-vampires @walkman-cat

[zukosdualdao]

a wound to close, the whole thing open

zutara month, day 2: journal/diary.

summary: when katara searches the attic of ember island, she comes across a journal, hidden away on an old bookshelf.

warnings: implied/referenced child abuse wrt ozai's treatment of zuko. what's referenced here is emotional abuse and i would say at show-canon levels.

other notes: title is from gracie abrams' "camden". also, this fic is very much 'picture taken moments before mild disaster', because i imagine after the end, katara still finds ozai's baby picture, thinking it's zuko, and her thought process is 'well that was sad but look at cute baby zuko!' oops!

Katara knows she’s wrong to snoop, but it’s just so hard to resist now they’re somewhere a young Zuko once lived for stolen weeks of golden summers at a time. For so long, she’d never wondered about him much at all—she’d had, after all, no reason to want to know the boy who chased them around the world in his pursuit of capturing Aang—but things are different now.

First, there had been the catacombs of Ba Sing Se, and she’d caught another glimpse of that boy, another side of him. Wearing Earth Kingdom robes two sizes too big for him, with grief and sympathy that matched hers shining in his eyes, saying strange things about destiny and curses and seeming so lost.

Katara had spent long weeks after the fact wondering whether any of it was true as she struggled to capture sleep on that stolen Fire Navy ship. 

Of course, that was far from the only anxiety on her mind. Wondering when Aang would wake up, if he would at all… Sokka’s growing plans for the invasion, and what it could mean for all of them… being with her father for the first time in years, how half of her wanted to light up at the comfort of it but the other couldn’t dare because he went away and what if it happened again?

And Zuko…

She would turn to her other side, her chin resting on a flat hand, and wonder about him. He’d seemed so sincere, but Katara had wondered often how that could be the case when just moments later, he was catapulting rage and fire in her direction. 

But then he’d come to them and begged for a chance to prove himself. 

And even before she wanted to, far before she felt ready for it, she’d started to come to know things about him. How he would get up at dawn every morning—rising with the sun, she’d thought bitterly—to practice his own firebending forms before his lessons with Aang. How he’d sometimes frown when making the first batch of tea for them around a campfire and then make a second and always seemed to light up when their meals had a little extra spice to them.

How he would sometimes squirm just a little and hesitate a beat and sometimes even bristle before smiling shyly when the others teased him, as though it took a moment to steady his footing and catch up to the fact that it was only teasing.

She had started to know him, to really know him, before she’d wanted to, before she’d forgiven him, before she decided it was safe to let the distance between them shrink.

But now they’re friends. And with the comet looming in the coming days, with things a little tense and strange between everyone since that disaster of the play, and with the vestiges of Zuko’s childhood right here, it’s hard not to be curious.

And, as she reasons to herself while setting the cooking pot of solid silver atop the bookshelf, at least she has deniability. 

The shelves are lined with old books, with gold thread traced through their spines, and old scrolls with white parchment coloring yellow, with shiny maps, and…

Katara’s brow scrunches as she catches sight of what seems to be an old journal, bound by leatherskins, poking out from behind one of the old tomes, clearly meant to be hidden away.

She reaches for it. It’s such a small, delicate thing, really, but it feels heavy in her hands.

When she flips to the first pages, she recognizes the symbols for Zuko’s name, written out in a long, intense, careful scrawl. She’s never seen his handwriting before, but it matches what she might’ve guessed it would look like, teetering between bold and delicate.

Katara flips past the first pages, which seem to mostly consist of Zuko practicing his letters, and comes across what seems to be a draft of a letter he’d written to Iroh, certain lines crossed out or words respelled after an ink-permanent error. He asks after when Iroh will return from the war—and she shudders to think that the kindly old man who'd helped them on more than one occasion had once been much different, the terrible Dragon of the West, laying siege to Ba Sing Se.

But in another line, Zuko writes to his uncle about a festival and paper dragons. Her heart swells to think he was once so young and even playful.

Atop the right corner of the page, there is a tiny, shaded-in sketch of a blooming fire lily. Katara smiles.

She flips through more pages, most of which are much the same as the first several, but then pauses. On this one, there are dark patches—the kind that she can tell came from water drying on the parchment, and it’s now wrinkled. Once, she might have been able to salvage the page with her bending, but the water has long-since dried up and left only deterioration in its wake.

It’s…

The page is tear-stained. He’d cried when writing this.

Gulping, Katara squints her eyes to read his small script, so much shakier than the previous pages had been. She can’t read most of it, for the smears and the wrinkling of the page, and she’s not sure she even wants to, anyway, because what she does manage to scan through makes her feel a little sick, her stomach clenching.

—don’t know what I can do, he had written, and it’s all too easy to imagine a much younger version of her friend with tears in his eyes, sobs wracking his shoulders, a lonely figure in a dark attic. — to better, to not so weak. 

There's a series of words Katara can’t make out, but she does catch Father and love.

And then, one shining beacon of hope:

But Mom says—

The writing stops there. She will never know what his mother used to say.

She flips through the rest of the journal, but the pages are hauntingly blank. There are no more entries after that. 

Katara places the journal back where it was tucked and has the vague sense that she’s back where she started.

A strange guilt gnaws at her. Somehow, she thinks she understands Zuko both better and worse than she did before.

[sylus-shivanika]

Hello, dear readers!

The myth in the original story left many of us with a heavy heart, its tragic ending lingering like a shadow in our minds. I found myself yearning for solace, for a version of the tale where love and hope triumph over despair. This fanfic is my humble attempt to rewrite that narrative—not to erase the original, but to offer an alternate ending that can ease the ache left by the tragedy.

Here, I imagine a world where our beloved characters find the happiness they deserve, where the bonds they share are unbroken, and where their love transcends all obstacles. If, like me, you wish for a happier resolution to their story, I hope this fanfic brings you comfort and a sense of peace.

Thank you for joining me on this journey. Let’s heal together through this short story.

A Love Rekindled.

Y/N wakes up from a nightmare, finding herself lying in the abyss.

Y/N: Why am I here? Where is my dragon? Sylus, where are you?

Tears stream down her face as fragments of  nightmare resurface. She remembers her nightmare Sylus was standing on the brink of death before she was plunged into the abyss. In her sleep, the echoing words of despair haunt her: "My dragon is gone."

Y/N: Is Sylus really dead? I...I couldn’t save him... No, this can’t be true...

Overwhelmed, Y/N begins to sob uncontrollably.

Y/N: Come back, Sylus, please... You can’t leave me! You promised our souls were bound together. How could you break that promise, my beloved?

Suddenly, a shadow appears, but this time it’s not the form of a beast. It’s a silhouette—human, yet enigmatic.

Y/N: W-who’s there?

Shadow: Don’t you recognize me?

The voice is deep and soothing, making her heart skip a beat.

Y/N: Why does your voice feel so... familiar?

Before she can process it, the shadow vanishes, leaving her shaken.

Y/N: Was that Sylus? If it was, why didn’t he appear fully? He wouldn’t just leave me like this…

Abruptly, the shadow reappears, encircling her waist and pulling her close. Her breath hitches as her eyes meet a pair of crimson-red ones.

Y/N: Sylus? Is it really you?

Her tears turn to ones of joy as she clings tightly to him, but Sylus winces slightly.

Y/N: Did I hurt you?

Sylus: No, my love. You could never hurt me. It’s just… the wound from the sword in my chest.

Y/N: What?! Someone tried to kill you? Why don’t I remember anything?

Sylus: It doesn’t matter, sweetheart. I’m alive, and that’s what’s important.

Her hand instinctively moves to his chest, caressing it gently. But as she does, flashes of a buried memory surface. She sees herself pressing a sword into Sylus’s chest, his guiding hands steadying hers. She collapses, trembling.

Y/N: No… It was me? I-I could never harm you!

Sylus: Shh, kitten. You didn’t kill me. I made you do it. It was the only way to end the curse. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it, so I guided your hand. See? I’m no longer a dragon. The curse is gone. I’m human now—completely yours.

Y/N breaks into uncontrollable sobs, burying herself in his embrace.

Y/N: Do you know how hard it was to stand there? I thought I lost you forever. I wanted to die with you.

Sylus: Our souls are bound, my love. We will live and die together. No one can separate us. Let’s leave this abyss. I’m taking you somewhere special.

With a kiss on her forehead, Sylus takes Y/N to a vibrant city filled with shimmering lights and lively streets.

Y/N: This city… It’s beautiful. Are we staying here?

Sylus: Yes, but first, there’s something I want to show you.

He leads her to a garden bursting with colorful blooms, reminiscent of a dream she once had.

Y/N: This… This was in my dream.

Sylus smirks, his voice soft.

Sylus: I know, kitten. I saw that dream too. We share the same dreams. But now, we can make it real.

Overcome with emotion, Y/N cups his face, but Sylus gently pulls her down, rolling with her into the field of flowers. She finds herself atop him, their laughter mingling with the scent of blossoms.

Smiling, she places a flower in his hair and another on his chest.

Y/N: Only this flower and I are allowed to touch you here.

Sylus chuckles, plucking a flower and tucking it into her hair.

Sylus: And only you can touch my heart.

Blushing, Y/N feels her heartbeat quicken. She leans closer, their lips meeting in a deep, passionate kiss. As they pull apart, Sylus kneels before her, holding a ring.

Sylus: Will you marry me?

Y/N: Is that even a question? Of course, I will!

Sylus lifts her into his arms, spinning her like a princess.

Sylus: You’ve made me the happiest man alive, my love. I adore you.

Y/N: And I love you too, Sylus.

And they lived happily ever after!

[thirtysomethingloser92]

Chapter 9: The Water Filled My Lungs, I Screamed So Loud, But No One Heard A Thing.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

The air between you was thick with tension, with the weight of everything that had happened, everything left unsaid. You sat there, trying to steady your breathing, your eyes fixed on the floor because looking at him felt like too much. Because you knew if you looked into his eyes, into the desperation and the guilt and the love you could feel radiating from him, you might break.

He watched you move closer to him, taking the seat your mother had occupied only minutes before. The sight of you wincing as your hand instinctively went to the still-healing wound on your stomach made something inside him twist with guilt. His jaw clenched as the wave of shame and regret crashed over him, threatening to drown him. It was a reminder—a painful, visceral reminder—of how close he had come to losing you. Of the danger he had dragged you into. Of the life he had tried, and failed, to keep you safe from.

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice, trying to find the right words in the storm of emotions swirling inside you. When you finally spoke, your voice was soft but shaky, like you were holding yourself together by the thinnest of threads.

“I never blamed you. I never blamed you for any of this,” you said, and for a moment, your words hung between you, fragile, like you might take them back. You felt your chest tighten, the emotions building up inside you, threatening to spill over. But then your tone shifted, hardened, as you looked up at him—really looked at him—and the anger, the hurt, bubbled to the surface. “I blame you for what happened after, though.”

Your words hit him like a blow, but you didn’t stop there. You couldn’t stop.

“I don’t trust you, Remy,” you continued, your voice trembling, but there was steel in it now. Your jaw clenched, your hands tightening in your lap as you fought to keep the tears at bay. “I don’t trust you when you say that you’re trying. And…” You paused, sucking in a breath as your eyes locked onto his, the intensity of your gaze burning into him. “I don’t trust you when you say you love me.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The weight of your words hung in the air, heavy, crushing. You watched as the color drained from his face, his breath catching in his throat. He looked at you like you had just punched him, like every word you spoke was a blow he hadn’t seen coming. You could see the pain in his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell rapidly as if he was struggling to breathe, to process what you had just said.

And as much as it hurt to see him like that, a part of you needed him to feel it. Needed him to understand just how deeply he had hurt you.

He had left. He had walked away when you needed him most, and it had shattered something inside you. The trust you had in him, the belief that he would always be there, that he would choose you—that was what had been broken. Not the love. The love was still there, buried beneath the pain, beneath the anger and the fear. But the trust? The trust was gone.

Remy’s hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles white as he tried to steady himself, tried to find something to hold onto in the whirlwind of emotions that were tearing him apart. He felt like he was drowning, like the walls were closing in around him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. But he couldn’t lose you. Not again. Not like this.

“I’ll do anything,” he said, his voice raw, rough, barely audible through the tightness in his chest. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table between you as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes were wide, desperate, searching yours for something—anything—that would tell him he hadn’t lost you completely. “Please… anything. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll show you that I love you. Just… just give me a chance.”

You felt his words hit you like a wave, overwhelming, pulling you under. Your heart ached with the sincerity in his voice, the desperation in his eyes. You could hear the love in his words, feel it in the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. But that didn’t erase the pain. That didn’t change the fact that he had left. That he had walked away when you needed him most.

And that was the part that hurt the most. The part you couldn’t just forget.

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw the cracks in his armor. The guilt, the shame, the fear. He had always been so strong, so sure of himself, but now he looked broken, vulnerable in a way you had never seen before. And it terrified you.

Because you knew how much you still loved him. You knew that if you let yourself, you could fall right back into his arms, back into the life you had once imagined with him. But you also knew that love wasn’t enough. Not anymore. Not after everything that had happened.

“I don’t know if I can do this again, Remy,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you looked down at your hands, feeling the weight of your own words. “I don’t know if I can trust you again. Not after everything.”

His breath hitched, and you could see the panic flash in his eyes, the way his body tensed like he was preparing for the worst. “I know I screwed up,” he said, his voice shaking now, his hands reaching across the table, as if he was trying to bridge the distance between you. “I know I hurt you, and I can’t take that back. But I swear to you, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right. Just… please. Don’t walk away from this. Don’t walk away from us.”

You closed your eyes, the tears finally spilling over, hot and heavy as they rolled down your cheeks. You wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that he could change, that things could be different this time. But the fear was still there, gnawing at the edges of your heart, whispering that it wasn’t enough. That love wasn’t enough to fix what had been broken.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you repeated, your voice trembling. “I don’t know if I can survive losing you again.”

He flinched at your words, his face crumpling with pain, but he didn’t pull back. Instead, he leaned closer, his eyes pleading, his voice cracking with emotion. “You won’t lose me,” he whispered. “Not again. I swear to you, I’ll never leave you again. Just… just give me a chance.”

The room felt impossibly small, the air thick with the weight of everything left unsaid. The space between you and Remy was filled with more than just the physical distance—it was filled with weeks of silence, of unanswered questions, of anger and hurt that had festered like an open wound. You had tried to move on, to push it all down, but seeing him here now, hearing him say the things you had once longed to hear… it was like everything you had carefully buried was clawing its way back to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged.

You looked at him through your tears, your heart torn between the love you still felt for him and the fear that it wasn’t enough. That it would never be enough.

But that fear—no matter how deep—wasn’t the only thing that had been growing inside you these past weeks. There was something else, something darker, something colder. The anger. The resentment. The way you had spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering how he could just leave you like that, how he could walk away when you had needed him most.

The shake of your head was slow, deliberate, each motion a refusal, each refusal a small, sharp cut. You could see it in his eyes—the way your rejection sliced through him, the way it shook him to his core. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

“Have you ever had consequences before, Remy?” you asked, your voice flat but laced with the bitterness you had been holding back for too long. “Or have you just shot and punched your way out of everything, then begged when that didn’t work?”

The words hung in the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. You watched as his composure faltered, the confident, charming mask he had always worn slipping for just a moment. For once, he didn’t have a quick answer, didn’t have some smooth line or half-hearted apology to throw at you. He flinched, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw it—the crack in his armor. The vulnerability.

But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

Because this? This wasn’t something he could fix with a well-placed punch or a sweet-talking apology. This was real. This was you sitting in front of him, broken and bruised—not just physically, but emotionally—reminding him that he couldn’t run from this. That he couldn’t fight his way out of this.

You had given him everything, every vulnerable part of yourself, and when things had gotten hard, he had left. He had left you to bleed, to pick up the shattered pieces of your life alone. And now, here he was, asking for a second chance like it was that simple. Like words could erase the scars he had left behind.

“I…” he started, but his voice faltered, the words dying in his throat. For a moment, he just stared at you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as if he was trying to hold himself together, trying to find the right thing to say. But what could he say? What could he possibly say that would heal the damage he had done?

You could see the panic in his eyes, the way he was scrambling, trying to find something—anything—that would make this right. But there was nothing. Because this wasn’t just about the words. This wasn’t just about the promises he was making now, in the heat of the moment. This was about the weeks you had spent alone, the nights you had cried yourself to sleep, wondering if he had ever felt the same kind of pain. Wondering if he had ever really loved you at all.

“I’m not proud of who I’ve been,” he said finally, his voice trembling with the weight of the truth. His hands unclenched, and he leaned forward slightly, his eyes pleading, desperate. “I’m not proud of the things I’ve done. But I swear to you, I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right. I’ll face whatever consequences come my way. Whatever you want, you’ve got it.”

But you didn’t look convinced. You weren’t convinced. How could you be? After everything, after all the promises you had heard before, how could you trust him now? You gave a bitter, half-hearted laugh, the sound hollow in your own ears.

“You say that now,” you said, your voice low, your eyes hard as they met his. “But what happens when things get hard again? What happens the next time you get scared? Are you going to run again? Leave me to pick up the pieces?”

The accusation hung heavy between you, and for a moment, you could see the impact of your words on his face—the way his shoulders slumped, the way his eyes darkened with something like shame. But it wasn’t enough. Because this wasn’t the first time he had made promises. This wasn’t the first time he had told you he would change, that things would be different.

And yet, every time things had gotten too hard, every time the walls he had built around himself started to crack, he had chosen to run. He had chosen to leave you behind.

“Do you even understand what you put me through?” you asked, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you had held inside for so long. “Do you even know what it felt like to wake up every day and wonder if you were okay? To wonder if you were ever coming back? I waited for you, Remy. I waited for you, and you didn’t come.”

You could feel the tears burning in your eyes again, but you blinked them away, determined not to cry in front of him. Not again. You had cried enough over him. You had bled enough for him.

“I loved you,” you continued, your voice breaking on the words. “I love you, and you left. And now you want me to believe that you’ve changed? That things will be different this time?” You shook your head, your heart aching with the weight of it all. “How am I supposed to believe that?”

Remy’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he looked like he might crumble right in front of you. His eyes were wide, desperate, full of regret and pain, but you couldn’t let that sway you. You couldn’t afford to let him back in, not unless you knew—really knew—that he was telling the truth this time.

“I know I don’t deserve your trust,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know I’ve done nothing but hurt you. But I can’t lose you. Not like this. Please, just… just tell me what I need to do. Tell me how to make this right.”

And there it was—that desperation, that need to fix things, to somehow undo all the damage he had caused. But the problem was, you weren’t sure if he even understood the depth of the hurt. You weren’t sure if he even could understand.

“You can’t just fix this, Remy,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “This isn’t something you can patch up with an apology or a promise to do better. You broke something in me. You broke the part of me that trusted you, that believed you would always be there when I needed you.”

He flinched at your words, his hands clenching into fists again, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t try to defend himself. He just sat there, staring at you like you were slipping through his fingers, like he didn’t know how to hold on to you.

And maybe that was the truth. Maybe he didn’t know how to keep you, how to love you the way you needed to be loved. Maybe he never had.

“I don’t know if I can ever trust you again,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “And without trust… what do we have?”

Remy’s face crumpled, and for the first time since he had walked into the room, you saw real fear in his eyes. Not the kind of fear that came from danger or violence, but the kind of fear that came from realizing you might lose the one thing you cared about most.

“I’ll earn it back,” he said, his voice shaking. “I swear to you, I’ll earn it back, no matter how long it takes. Just… don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on us.”

You stared at him, your heart aching with the weight of his words, with the love you still felt for him and the fear that it would never be enough. And in that moment, you realized something.

You shook your head, your breath catching as two tears slipped down your cheeks. The weight of everything—the pain, the hope, the shattered trust—pressed down on you, making it hard to breathe. You swore you wouldn’t cry over him again, swore you were done feeling sad, done letting him have this kind of power over you. But hearing him now, standing there, begging for you, pleading with you—it was like reopening an old wound that had never fully healed. The sting of it was unbearable.

You wiped the tears away quickly with the back of your hand, but the ache in your chest remained. “I love you,” you whispered, your voice trembling, thick with emotion. “So much.”

The words felt like a confession, like you were giving a piece of yourself away all over again, even after everything. You hated that you still loved him, hated that no matter how much he had hurt you, that feeling wouldn’t die. You wanted to let it go, to let him go. But you couldn’t.

Remy’s heart clenched painfully at your words. The guilt, the regret—it hit him like a wave, drowning him. He had known this conversation would be hard; he had known he’d hurt you more deeply than he could ever put into words. But hearing the pain in your voice, seeing the tears in your eyes—it was worse than he had imagined. He had done this to you. He had left, thinking it was the right thing to do, thinking he was protecting you. But he had just broken you.

And now, face to face with the consequences of his decision, he didn’t know if he could ever make it right.

You shook your head, your arms wrapping around yourself as if you could physically hold the pieces of your heart together. “Remy, you didn’t just break my heart. You made me question everything. I thought I wasn’t enough. I thought maybe I didn’t matter to you as much as you mattered to me. I thought I was the reason you left.”

He felt like he couldn’t breathe. The idea that you had blamed yourself for his cowardice, for his fear—it crushed him. His hands trembled slightly as he reached out, desperate to touch you, to hold you, to somehow make you feel the truth of what he was saying. But he stopped himself, unsure if you would even want that right now.

“It wasn’t you,” he said, his voice hoarse, raw. “It was never you. It was me. I was scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d just bring more danger into your life, and I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you because of me.” He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration and regret bubbling to the surface. “But I see now… I see now that leaving didn’t protect you. It only hurt you more.”

The room felt colder than it had just moments ago, as if the weight of your words had sucked all the warmth out of the air. You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, your eyes searching Remy’s face for any sign of the man you had once loved so deeply—the man you had believed would never hurt you like this. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that he was telling the truth now, that he was genuinely sorry, that he wouldn’t run again.

But the pain was still too fresh, the scars too deep. Every time you looked at him, you felt the ache in your chest deepen, a raw wound that refused to heal. There was so much you hadn’t said yet, so much you had kept buried, trying to protect yourself from the full force of the pain. But now, standing here with Remy in front of you, pleading for another chance, the words started to slip out before you could stop them.

“I know about the other women,” you said quietly, your voice trembling slightly but steady enough to carry the weight of the accusation.

The words landed like a blow. Remy froze, his eyes widening in shock, confusion, and something darker—something that looked a lot like guilt—flickering across his face. He stared at you, his lips parting as if he couldn’t quite process what you had just said.

“What… what are you talking about?” he asked, his voice rough, hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he had heard you correctly.

You swallowed hard, your jaw tightening as you gathered the strength to say the words that had been clawing at you for weeks, the words that had kept you awake at night, twisting the knife deeper into an already bleeding wound. “The women you’ve been with. Since you left.”

His face paled, the blood draining from his cheeks as he took a small step back, his shoulders sagging under the weight of your words. His lips moved, as though he wanted to say something—to deny it, to explain it away—but no words came. He blinked, his eyes searching yours, desperate for some kind of explanation, some way to make sense of what was happening.

“How… how do you know?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if he was afraid of the answer.

You let out a bitter, short laugh, the sound harsh and jagged in the tense silence between you. “New Orleans may be a city, Remy, but it talks. Especially when you know the right people—and I know the patrons. I’ve been working in that bar long enough to hear things. To know things.”

He flinched, his jaw clenching as the guilt and shame settled into his expression, his eyes glassy with the realization that there was no way to deny it. No way to take it back. He had tried to drown his pain in distractions—in other women. He had thought that maybe if he lost himself in their arms, in their warmth, it would numb the ache of losing you, that it would make him forget, even if just for a few hours. But it hadn’t.

And now, standing here, he was faced with the consequences of that choice.

“I was hurting,” he said softly, his voice trembling with regret. “I didn’t know what to do. I thought… I thought if I could forget for a little while, if I could just stop feeling, it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

You nodded, but the movement was small, stiff. Your arms wrapped around yourself, like you were trying to shield yourself from the sting of his words, from the image of him with someone else. You had imagined it a thousand times, and each time it felt like a fresh wound, a fresh betrayal.

“And did it work?” you asked, your voice tight, your heart pounding in your chest as you forced yourself to ask the question that had been eating away at you.

He shook his head, his voice breaking slightly as he answered. “No. It didn’t. It never worked. They didn’t mean anything. I didn’t… I didn’t feel anything.”

You stared at him, the anger and the hurt rising up inside you like a tidal wave, threatening to pull you under. You had spent weeks—months—feeling everything. Feeling the pain of his absence, the loneliness, the betrayal. And now he was standing here, telling you that none of it had mattered. That none of them had mattered.

“But I did, Remy,” you said, your voice shaking with the force of the emotions you had been holding back. “I felt everything.”

He winced, his face crumpling as if your words had physically struck him. He opened his mouth to speak, to apologize, to say something—anything—that would make this better, that would make you believe him, but you held up a hand, stopping him before he could speak.

“I know you were hurting,” you said, your voice firmer now, though it trembled with the weight of your own pain. “I know you thought you were doing the right thing by leaving, by trying to protect me. But that didn’t give you the right to… to do that. You know what it’s like to hear that the person you love left you but then chose to fuck half of New Orleans instead?”

Your voice broke on the last word, and you hated how vulnerable it sounded, how exposed it made you feel. But you couldn’t hold it in anymore. You couldn’t keep pretending that it hadn’t ripped you apart, that it hadn’t left you feeling like you were drowning in your own grief. “Was I not enough?” you asked, your voice quiet now, barely more than a whisper.

Remy’s eyes widened, horror and regret etched into every line of his face. “No,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “No, it wasn’t like that. It was never about you not being enough.”

“Then what?” you demanded, your voice rising, the anger bubbling to the surface now, raw and unfiltered. “What was it, Remy? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you left me to rot while you tried to fuck the pain away. So tell me—what was it?”

He took another step back, his hands trembling at his sides as he struggled to find the words, to explain something that was, frankly, inexcusable. “I… I was scared,” he admitted, his voice almost breaking. “I was scared of losing you. Scared of being the reason you got hurt. And instead of staying and fighting for us, I ran. I thought if I could just… distract myself, if I could drown it all out, I wouldn’t have to face what I’d done.”

You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “And did it work?” you asked again, your voice sharp, cutting. “Did fucking them make you feel any better? Did it make the pain go away?”

His face twisted in agony, his eyes glassy with unshed tears as he shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “It didn’t. It never did. It only made everything worse. It made me hate myself more.”

You stared at him, your heart aching, the pain almost too much to bear. You had imagined this moment so many times—what it would feel like to confront him, to finally say the things you had been keeping inside for so long. But now that it was happening, now that you were standing in front of him, hearing him admit to everything, the reality of it was even worse than you had imagined.

“Every night, while you were with them, I was here alone,” you said, your voice soft, but filled with the weight of your pain. “I was here, waiting for you, hoping you’d come back. And you didn’t. You didn’t even call. You just… left me. And then I find out that while I was breaking, you were out there trying to forget me. Trying to forget us.” Remy’s face crumpled, his expression collapsing under the weight of everything he had done, everything he had lost. A tear slipped down his cheek, slow and heavy, as if it carried a fraction of the guilt he was drowning in. His eyes were red, full of regret and sorrow, the kind you couldn’t fake, the kind that seemed to bleed out of him. His voice was barely audible, thick with emotion, as he tried to speak through the weight of his guilt.

“I never wanted to forget you,” he said, his voice trembling. “I could never forget you.”

You wanted to believe him—God, a part of you still wanted to believe him—but the pain was too raw. His words, no matter how sincere, couldn’t undo what had been done. They couldn’t erase the nights you had spent alone, the nights you had cried until there was nothing left, wondering how someone who claimed to love you could have hurt you so deeply.

“Then why did you do it?” your voice shook, the words escaping before you could stop them. You felt the burn in your throat, the sharp edge of your anger and hurt fighting to break free. “Because fuck, Remy, you keep apologizing and saying you love me, but you’ve shown me nothing.”

Your hands clenched on the table in front of you, fingers digging into the wood in a vain attempt to anchor yourself, to keep the storm of emotions from consuming you. You were trying to hold it together, trying not to fall apart in front of him, but the words kept coming, the dam inside you breaking piece by piece.

“You left me in that hospital bed, Remy. You walked out on me when I couldn’t even stand on my own. And then what? You fucked other women in some place where you wouldn’t even take me—and I was supposed to be someone you loved? I was supposed to be the person you couldn’t forget?”

Your voice cracked, the weight of your own words hitting you as hard as they hit him. You had tried to piece it all together in your head over the last few weeks, tried to understand how someone who claimed to love you could have done what he did. But every time, the answer eluded you. Every time, the pain was just as sharp, just as unbearable.

Remy’s face twisted in agony, his lips parting as if to speak, but you didn’t give him the chance. You weren’t finished. Not yet.

“If this is how you treat someone you love,” you continued, your voice low, barely more than a whisper, “then I’d hate to see how you treat your enemies.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. You could feel the tension in the air, the weight of your words pressing down on both of you. Remy’s hands trembled at his sides, his entire body tense, as if he was barely holding himself together. You watched as his chest rose and fell with ragged, uneven breaths, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, but for once, you didn’t care. You didn’t care that he was hurting, because you had been hurting for so long, and he had been the reason.

You closed your eyes, your chest tight with the weight of everything between you. You wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that you were the one who mattered, that the others were just a way for him to numb the pain. But trust was a fragile thing, and Remy had broken yours more than once.

When you opened your eyes again, his face was filled with remorse, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his guilt. He looked like a man who had lost everything, who was standing on the edge of something he wasn’t sure he could come back from.

You stared at him, the weight of everything still pressing down on you, suffocating, as the silence between you stretched. He had admitted it—the other women, the nights he had tried to forget you by losing himself in someone else. And it made your heart ache in ways you hadn’t expected, reopening wounds you thought had started to heal.

But as you stood there, staring at the man you had once loved so deeply, a thought crept into your mind, sharp and cutting.

“What would you have done,” you asked quietly, your voice trembling with suppressed emotion, “if I had done the same? If I had gone out and slept with other men after you left?”

Remy’s body tensed at your question, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicked to yours, a flash of something dark crossing his face. He didn’t answer immediately, but you could see the storm brewing inside him, the way his fists clenched at his sides, the way his shoulders stiffened.

He knew exactly what he would have done.

He would have gotten angry. Furious. He would have gone straight to every man who had walked out of your house, straight to whoever had dared to touch you, and made it clear to anyone watching that you were his.

He could already feel the heat rising in his chest, the thought of another man touching you, kissing you, making you smile the way he had once made you smile—it tore at him, igniting a possessiveness he couldn’t quite suppress. He knew it wasn’t rational, knew he had no right to feel that way after everything, but the idea of you with someone else… it drove him crazy.

His jaw clenched as he struggled to keep his voice steady. “I would’ve lost my mind,” he admitted, his voice low, rough. He didn’t sugarcoat it, didn’t try to hide the truth. “I would’ve gone after them. All of them. Anyone who laid a hand on you.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief, your heart pounding in your chest. “So, it’s okay for you to go out and sleep with other women, but if I had done the same, you would have lost your mind?”

Remy flinched at the accusation, he couldn’t deny that if the roles had been reversed, if you had been the one with someone else, he would have done the same. Hell, he might have done worse.

His jealousy, his possessiveness—they weren’t enough to erase the hurt he had caused. They weren’t enough to make up for the fact that while he couldn’t bear the thought of you with someone else, he had still chosen to be with other women.

“So, it’s okay for you to break my heart,” you said softly, your voice trembling as you fought to hold back the tears threatening to spill over, “but if I had done the same, you would’ve hurt people?”

Remy’s chest tightened, guilt and regret swirling inside him. “It’s not okay,” he said, his voice rough. “None of this is okay. I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you, and I’d give anything to take that back. But I swear, none of those women meant anything. I was just… I didn’t know how to handle losing you.”

You shook your head, wiping away the tears that had started to fall. “You didn’t lose me. I was still here, waiting for you to come back. But instead, you chose to be with strangers.”

Remy’s heart ached at your words, the truth of them cutting through him like a knife. He had made the wrong choices, over and over again, and now he was standing in the wreckage of what he had done, unsure if there was any way to fix it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you let me.”

But even as he said the words, he knew they might not be enough. He had broken something between you—something fragile, something that might never be fully repaired.

You took a shaky breath, your eyes searching his face for any sign of the man you had fallen in love with, the man you had thought would never hurt you like this. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that he was telling the truth, that he wasn’t going to run again, that he had learned from his mistakes. But the pain was still too fresh, the scars too deep.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I don’t know if I can trust you not to leave when things get hard.”

Remy’s chest tightened, the weight of your words crushing him. He had broken something between you—something fragile, something irreplaceable—and now he wasn’t sure if he could ever piece it back together. But he had to try. He had to.

“I’ll do anything,” he said, his voice trembling with desperation. “Anything to prove to you that I’m not going anywhere. I’ll fight for us. I’ll fight for you. Just… please, give me the chance to make it right.”

But even as he said the words, he could see the doubt in your eyes, the uncertainty that lingered just beneath the surface. You wanted to believe him—he could see it—but you were scared. Scared that he would hurt you again, that he would leave again, that this time, it would be too much to bear.

And in that moment, both of you stood on the edge of something fragile, something that could either heal or break completely. The decision wasn’t just his to make. It was yours too.

You swallowed deeply, your throat tight, trying to blink away the tears that were threatening to spill over. The familiar sting burned behind your eyes, and you cursed yourself for being so close to breaking down in front of him again. Your cheeks flushed, your nose tinged red, and you quickly looked away, trying to gather yourself, trying to keep it together for just a little longer.

But Remy saw it. He always saw it. He could read you better than anyone, and he knew how hard you were fighting this—how hard you were fighting to keep from crumbling in front of him. He could see the battle in your eyes, the way you were holding yourself so tightly, not giving him an inch. And as much as it hurt him to see you like this, to see the pain he had caused, he understood. He knew that there was only so much hurt one person could take before they couldn't take anymore.

He had pushed you too far. He had broken something between you, something fragile and precious that he wasn’t sure he could ever fix. You didn’t trust him. You didn’t even believe him when he told you that he loved you. And that realization hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of his lungs.

He wanted to say something—to beg, to plead, to tell you again that he was sorry, that he would spend the rest of his life making it up to you if you gave him the chance. But the words caught in his throat, useless and heavy, because he knew… God, he knew that no matter what he said, it wouldn’t be enough. Not now. You swallowed again, the lump in your throat growing, and you felt your stomach sink as you whispered the words you never thought you’d have to say. “You need to go.”

Your voice was barely audible, and the moment the words left your lips, your heart shattered a little more. But you knew it was the right thing to say. You knew that you couldn’t keep doing this—couldn’t keep sitting in front of him, torn between love and pain, between wanting to hold onto him and needing to let him go.

Remy stood there, rooted to the spot, every muscle in his body tensing as your words hung in the air between you. You need to go. It was such a simple sentence, but it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken truths, of every fight, every tear, every quiet moment where things had slowly unraveled between you. He could feel his heart pounding, his pulse thrumming in his ears as he tried to make sense of what you had just said—of what it meant.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. He could barely breathe. It was as though the world had stopped spinning, leaving just the two of you frozen in place, caught in the unbearable tension of what was happening. You were asking him to leave—telling him to leave—and all he could do was stand there, staring at you, his mind racing, torn between two impossible choices.

Part of him wanted to fight. God, he wanted to fight. Every instinct, every beat of his heart screamed at him to stay, to push back, to tell you that he wasn’t going anywhere. He wanted to grab your hands, to pull you into him, to make you see that he still loved you, that this couldn’t be the end. He wanted to tell you that he could change, that things could be different, that he would do whatever it took to make it right. He wanted to beg you to give him another chance, to remind you of all the good things between you, of the love that had once burned so brightly.

But the other part of him—the part that had been watching you slowly slip away from him over the last few months—knew that fighting wouldn’t fix this. He could see it in your eyes now, the exhaustion, the sadness, the way you couldn’t even meet his gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. He could feel the finality in your voice, the quiet resignation in your words. You weren’t asking him to leave because you wanted to punish him or because you were angry. You were asking him to leave because you were done. Because you were tired of fighting a battle that neither of you could win.

And that realization hit him harder than anything else. It was like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him, leaving him breathless, his chest aching with the weight of it. He had always thought that if this moment ever came, he would be the one to walk away. He had always imagined that if things got too hard, he would be the one to make the decision, to pull the plug, to end it before it got to this point. But now, standing in front of you, hearing those words come from your lips, he realized just how wrong he had been.

This wasn’t his decision to make anymore. This time, it was yours.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he tried to find the words to say something—anything—that could make this hurt less. But nothing came. Every thought, every plea, every argument he wanted to make caught in his throat, tangled up in the mess of emotions swirling inside him.

He wanted to tell you he loved you. That he still loved you, despite everything. That he had never stopped. But he could see now that love wasn’t enough. Not this time. Not with everything that had happened, with everything that had been broken between you.

So instead, he just stood there, his eyes searching your face for some sign that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mean it. That maybe this was just another fight, another rough patch that you could both get through if you just held on a little longer. But the look in your eyes told him all he needed to know. This wasn’t just another fight. This wasn’t a rough patch. This was the end.

You didn’t want him to leave. As much as the pain had torn you apart, as much as his betrayal had cut you deeper than you ever thought possible, there was a part of you—a desperate part—that wanted him to stay. That wanted him to fight for you, to show you that he could still be the man you had once believed he could be. You wanted him to take you into his arms, to hold you tight like you were the most precious thing in his world.

But he hadn’t. Not yet. He just stood there, torn between his guilt and his love, his hands trembling like he didn’t know how to reach for you, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to anymore.

And yet, even knowing all that, even seeing the pain in your eyes, he couldn’t stop the words from bubbling up inside him. He couldn’t stop the desperate need to try one last time, to hold on to whatever fragile thread still connected you. His voice cracked as he spoke, barely more than a hoarse whisper, as if the words themselves were too painful to say.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

You looked up at him then, your eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments, and in that split second, he saw it—hesitation. That flicker of doubt, that crack in your resolve. It was small, barely noticeable, but it was there. You looked away just as quickly, and he watched as you fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, your hands trembling ever so slightly, your fingers grasping onto the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

He could see it all in your expression—the turmoil, the pain, the war waging inside of you between your heart and your head. You looked like you wanted to scream, to cry, to run. And for a second, just a fleeting second, he thought maybe—just maybe—you would change your mind. Maybe you would take it all back, reach for him, tell him that you couldn’t let him go either. That you needed him as much as he needed you.

But then you swallowed hard, your jaw tightening as you shook your head, your voice so quiet that it barely reached him, but it was enough to break him all the same.

“I can’t… I can’t keep doing this, Remy.”

The words felt like a knife to his chest, sharp and unrelenting, as if you had physically struck him. He felt something inside him break, a sharp, searing pain that spread through his chest like wildfire, consuming him from the inside out. He had always thought that if this moment ever came—if you ever asked him to leave—he would respect your choice. He had told himself that he would walk away with his head held high, knowing that it was for the best. That he would let you go if that’s what you needed.

But now, standing here, hearing those words come from your lips, he realized just how impossible that was. How could he walk away from you? How could he let go of the one person who had ever made him feel like he was more than just his mistakes, more than just the mess of a man he had become?

“I don’t know how to do this without you,” he whispered, his voice cracking as the words tumbled out before he could stop them. “I don’t know how to be anything without you anymore.”

You closed your eyes, and he could see the way your shoulders shook, the way your breath hitched as you tried to hold yourself together. He knew you were hurting, knew that this wasn’t easy for you either, and that knowledge only made it worse. Because even now, even after everything he had done, you were still trying to protect him. You were still trying to keep yourself from falling apart in front of him.

“I’m not asking you to do it alone,” you said, your voice barely holding together, a tremor running through each word. “But I can’t keep being the one who’s hurt every time you get scared. Who gets left behind every time your life catches up to you.”

He took a step forward, instinctively reaching for you, but you didn’t move. You didn’t pull away, but you didn’t move toward him either. You just sat there, your arms wrapped around yourself, like you were bracing for impact, like you were trying to shield yourself from the inevitable blow.

“I won’t run again,” he said, his voice desperate now, pleading. “I swear to you, I won’t. I know I’ve messed up. I know I don’t deserve your trust, but please, just… give me a chance to prove it to you. I’ll stay. I’ll fight. I won’t leave—you know I won’t leave.”

But you shook your head again, and this time, the tears were already starting to spill over, sliding down your cheeks in silent, painful streams. You didn’t wipe them away, didn’t even try to hide them. You just sat there, staring at the floor, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“But you already did, Remy. You already left.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of your words settling between you like a wall, impossible to climb. He could feel the distance now, the way you were pulling away even when you were standing right in front of him. He could see it in the way you held yourself, the way your arms wrapped tighter around your body, like you were trying to hold yourself together, like you were afraid that if you let go, you might shatter.

“I’m still here,” he said softly, his voice trembling as he took another tentative step forward. “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You looked up at him then, your tear-streaked face full of so much pain, so much anguish, that it took his breath away. And in that moment, he realized something—it wasn’t just about the words. It wasn’t just about him promising to stay this time. It was about everything that had come before this moment. It was about the nights you had cried alone, the nights you had waited for him to come back, the nights where you had been left wondering if he had ever truly loved you at all.

“I don’t want you to stay just because I’m asking you to,” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “I want you to stay because you want to, because you choose to. But I don’t know if I can trust that anymore. I don’t know if I can trust you anymore.”

He felt his heart break at your words, the last fragile pieces of hope slipping away. He wanted to tell you that he would stay, that he would fight for you every day for the rest of his life if that’s what it took. He wanted to take you into his arms, to hold you so tightly that you’d never doubt him again. He wanted to kiss you, to remind you of all the reasons why he loved you, why he had always loved you.

But he couldn’t. Because nothing he said, nothing he did, could erase the past. Nothing could take away the pain he had already caused you.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’ve always loved you.”

You let out a soft, broken laugh, shaking your head as more tears fell. “Love isn’t always enough, Remy. It’s not enough to just say the words.” He took another step closer, each movement slow, deliberate, as if he was afraid that you might vanish if he moved too quickly. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he thought it might explode, his hands trembling as he crouched down in front of you. He rested his palms on your thighs, his touch featherlight, hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to close the distance between you. His eyes searched your face, desperate, pleading, his voice raw and vulnerable when he spoke.

“Then let me show you,” he begged, his words thick with emotion. “Let me show you that I can be the man you need me to be. Please, just… let me try.”

For a moment, you were frozen. His hands on your legs felt like fire, like they burned through the fabric of your jeans, straight into your skin. You didn’t move, couldn’t breathe, your eyes locked on his. And in that moment, he saw it—the flicker of something soft, something fragile, something that hadn’t completely died yet. He saw the part of you that still wanted him, the part that still believed in him, even now, after everything. He clung to that flicker, praying it might be enough to pull you both back from the edge.

But then you blinked, and it all disappeared. The walls you had spent months building slammed back into place. You pulled away, just slightly, but enough for him to feel the coldness creeping back into the space between you. You shook your head, wiping at the tears that had begun to spill over, your breath hitching in your throat.

“I don’t know if I can,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but the words hit him like a hammer. “I don’t know if I can let you in again.”

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. His hands slipped from your thighs, falling uselessly to his sides. He could feel the ground crumbling beneath him, the last vestiges of hope slipping through his fingers like sand.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, trying to gather the strength to stand there while his heart shattered in his chest. His hands shook as he ran them through his hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as if the physical act could somehow keep him from falling apart right there in front of you. He wanted to beg. He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab you and hold you until you couldn’t push him away anymore. But he knew—he knew—that if he really loved you, if he really cared about you the way he said he did, he had to respect your choice. He had to let you go.

He stood slowly, each movement heavy, as if his body was weighed down by the gravity of what was happening. His eyes lingered on you, memorizing every detail of your face—the curve of your lips, the way your lashes were wet with tears, the way your shoulders shook as you tried to hold yourself together. He wanted to remember you like this, even if it was killing him. He wanted to remember the way you looked at him, even if it wasn’t with the love he so desperately craved anymore.

With one last look, one final, heart-wrenching glance at the person he had loved more than anyone else in his life, Remy nodded. His voice was barely a whisper when he spoke, as if the words themselves were too painful to say out loud.

“Okay,” he whispered, his throat tight, his heart breaking. “I’ll go.”

It felt like the world stopped in that moment, the silence between you thick and unbearable. You watched as he turned, his shoulders slumping in defeat, each step he took away from you like a knife twisting deeper in your chest. You had wanted him to stay, hadn’t you? You had wanted him to fight harder, to push through the walls you had built, to prove to you that he wouldn’t leave again. But he was leaving. He was walking away, and with every step, you felt yourself unraveling.

And yet, even as the words left his lips, even as his back turned to you, every part of him screamed to turn back. To say something—anything—to make you stop him. To make you call out, ask him to stay, to fight for you one last time. He wanted to believe there was still a chance, still a part of you that wanted him as much as he wanted you.

And for a fleeting moment, you wanted to. Oh God, you wanted to. Your heart clung to the idea that if you just said the word, if you could just swallow your pride and let your walls fall for one second, maybe he would turn around. Maybe he would drop everything and come back to you, and this unbearable ache in your chest would dissolve. Maybe you wouldn’t have to feel this way—broken, shattered, like you were losing the most important part of yourself.

You pictured it so clearly in your mind. You could see yourself standing up, calling out his name, asking him to come back. You could see him turning, his face lighting up with hope, rushing back to you, pulling you into his arms and holding you like he’d never let go again. He would kiss you, and in that kiss, you would feel everything—the love, the regret, the promise that he would never hurt you like this again. And for a moment, the pain would disappear. The betrayal, the hurt, the loneliness—it would all fade away, and you would be wrapped in him, in the only place you had ever truly felt safe.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t stand up. You didn’t call out his name. You didn’t move.

Because even though every part of you wanted to believe that he had changed, that he could be the man you deserved, the man you needed, there was another part of you—a deeper, darker part—that was terrified. Terrified that if you let him in again, if you opened yourself up to him one more time, he wouldn’t stay. He would leave again. He would break you all over again, and this time, you weren’t sure you’d survive it.

So you stayed silent. You stayed still.

And as he walked out of the door, as the sound of his footsteps faded into the distance, you felt the ache in your chest grow deeper, heavier, until it felt like you couldn’t breathe. You pressed your trembling hands against your face, trying to hold back the sobs that were threatening to break free, trying to convince yourself that this was the right thing, that this was what you needed to do.

No matter how much love still lingered between you, no matter how much you both wished things could be different, it didn’t erase the hurt, the mistakes, the walls that had been built between you over time. Love wasn’t enough to fix this. And that was the hardest part—the part that tore you apart from the inside. The love was still there, burning quietly in the ashes of what you used to be, but it wasn’t enough to make things right.

It wasn’t enough to keep you together.

You had told him to go. And he had listened.

The door clicked softly as it closed behind him, the sound so final, so devastatingly quiet, that it felt like the world had stopped for a moment. The apartment felt too big, too empty without him in it. The air was thick with the silence he left behind, and it pressed down on you, suffocating, unbearable. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold the pieces of your heart together, but they felt like sand slipping between your fingers, impossible to catch, impossible to hold onto.

There was no relief. No sense of victory. No weight lifted from your shoulders. You had thought that maybe, once you made the decision to let him go, you would feel some kind of peace—some sense of closure. But there was none. There was only a deep, hollow ache that stretched through your chest, through your bones, through every part of you that had once been whole.

It was another kind of heartbreak, the kind that didn’t come from a single moment of betrayal or loss, but from the slow, painful realization that sometimes love isn’t enough to save you. That sometimes, despite how much you want to hold on, you have to let go, even when it feels like giving up on the one thing that makes you feel alive.

And now, as you sat there, alone in the quiet, with nothing but the sound of your own uneven breathing and the distant hum of the city outside, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had made the right choice. If letting him go had been the right thing to do, or if it was just another way to protect yourself from the possibility of more pain.

You buried your face in your hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but they tore from your throat anyway, raw and jagged, like they had been waiting for this moment to break free.

The echo of your own words—You need to go—rang in your ears, haunted you. You had said it because you believed it was the right thing, because you thought that maybe this time, the only way to heal was to be apart. But the ache in your chest made you question everything. Was it really the right choice? Or had you just pushed away the one person who had ever truly seen you, who had ever loved you in a way that scared you because it felt so real, so fragile?

You pressed your hands to your face, trying to breathe through the pain, trying to convince yourself that this was what you needed—that the space would be good for both of you. But all you could feel was the emptiness. The gaping hole where he used to be. It was like a part of you had been ripped away, leaving you raw and exposed, bleeding in the quiet of your apartment.

And yet, despite the pain, despite the heartache, you knew deep down that this was the only way forward. You couldn’t keep living in the in-between, caught between loving him and resenting him, between wanting him and needing to protect yourself. You couldn’t keep pretending that things would magically get better, that the wounds would heal on their own if you just held on a little longer.

So you let him go.

And now, as the tears continued to fall, as your sobs filled the empty space where his voice used to be, you tried to hold onto that thought—that it wasn’t about giving up, but about letting go of something that had become too broken to fix. That maybe, one day, the ache would fade, and you would be able to breathe again without feeling like your heart was being torn apart.

But right now, all you could feel was the heartbreak. Right now, all you could do was sit there in the quiet, trying to find the strength to keep going without him.

And that, more than anything, was the hardest part.

<><><><><><> 

It had been weeks since that day—weeks since the last time you’d spoken to Remy, since you’d told him to leave. But no matter how much time had passed, the memory of it all still clung to you like a shadow. You could still feel the weight of that moment—the way your heart had shattered as you sat at the kitchen table, the words slipping from your lips, final and irrevocable. You had known, even as the syllables formed, that you were making the right choice. But doing the right thing didn’t make the pain any less suffocating.

The heartbreak that followed was unlike anything you’d ever known. It was a deep, consuming ache that gnawed at your chest, leaving you feeling raw and empty. Every morning you woke with the same heaviness in your heart, and every night you fell asleep to the same hollow ache, wondering if it would ever fade. Nights were the worst—the silence, the stillness—it gave your mind too much space to replay every moment, every look, every word exchanged between you and Remy. You had cried—God, you had cried so much. And for the first time in your life, you felt like the tears were endless, that they would never truly stop.

You had kept it together for as long as you could after he left, holding in the pain like a dam straining under pressure. But eventually, even the strongest dams break.

Your mother and sister had come home that day, finding you where you’d been for hours—sitting at the kitchen table, your face buried in your hands, the sobs wracking your body so violently that you could barely breathe. You hadn’t meant for them to see you like that. You had wanted to be strong, to grieve quietly, in private. But the second they walked through the door, the fragile walls you’d built around yourself came crashing down, and the flood of emotion poured out of you all at once.

Your sister was the first to reach you. She didn’t say anything—there was no need for words. She just knelt beside you, wrapping her arms around your trembling frame, holding you as if she could physically keep you from falling apart. She hugged you so tightly, her own breath hitching as she fought back her own tears. “Shh,” she whispered, her voice shaky but soft, her fingers stroking your hair. “It’s okay. We’re here. I’m here.”

But it wasn’t okay. It didn’t feel like it would ever be okay again.

Your mother stood beside you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, her presence steady and strong. She didn’t try to tell you that it would get better, didn’t offer any platitudes about time healing wounds. She just stayed there, silent, offering comfort in the only way she knew how—by being there, by holding space for you, for your pain, for the heartbreak that felt like it was swallowing you whole.

You had never felt heartbreak like this before. Not even the first time Remy had walked out of your life. That time had hurt—God, it had hurt—but it was nothing compared to this. This was different. This was deeper, sharper, more final. Back then, you had cried, but you had held onto hope, a quiet belief that somehow, some way, things might still work out. This time, though, there was no hope left. There was only the cold, hard truth that love—no matter how deep, no matter how fierce—wasn’t enough to fix what had been broken between you and Remy.

That night, after hours of crying until you thought you had no more tears left to shed, you had done something you hadn’t done since you were a child.

You crawled into bed with your mother.

It felt strange, almost surreal, to slip beneath the covers beside her, like you were a little girl again seeking comfort after a nightmare. But this nightmare was real, and it wasn’t something you could wake up from. The moment your head hit the pillow, the sobs started again, shaking your body with a violence that scared you. But your mother didn’t flinch. She just wrapped her arms around you, pulling you close, letting you cry into her chest like she had when you were small. She held you tightly, her hand rubbing slow circles on your back, her own breathing steady as she murmured soft reassurances that you barely registered.

Your sister joined you as well, curling up on the other side of the bed, her hand resting on your arm, anchoring you. Together, they held you, their warmth surrounding you, their presence a lifeline in the dark. They didn’t say much. They didn’t need to. They just stayed with you, letting you break, letting you fall apart in the safety of their embrace.

And that night, as you lay between them, your body exhausted from crying, your heart feeling like it had been ripped open and laid bare, you realized something.

This heartbreak wasn’t just about losing Remy. It wasn’t just about the love you had shared and the future you had once envisioned with him. It was about losing a part of yourself, a part of you that had believed—naively, perhaps—that love could conquer anything. That it could heal any wound, bridge any distance, fix any problem. But the truth was, love wasn’t always enough. Not in the way you had hoped. Not in a relationship like yours and Remy’s, where the damage ran too deep, the scars too jagged to ever fully heal.

As you lay there, the room dark and quiet except for the soft sound of your mother’s breathing and the occasional sniffle from your sister, you felt the weight of that truth settle over you, heavy and unrelenting.

You had told Remy to leave because you knew it was the only way to save yourself. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. That didn’t mean you didn’t still love him, didn’t still ache for him in ways you couldn’t explain. It didn’t mean you didn’t still miss him—miss the sound of his voice, the feel of his arms around you, the way he used to look at you like you were the only person in the world. But loving someone wasn’t the same as being able to build a life with them. And that was the hardest lesson of all.

So that night, for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself cry until there was nothing left. You let yourself mourn the love you had lost, the future you had once dreamed of, and the part of yourself that had believed in something that was never meant to be.

And when the tears finally stopped, when your body was too tired to keep going, you lay there in the dark, wrapped in the quiet comfort of your mother and sister, and you let yourself feel the hollow ache of knowing that sometimes, love just wasn’t enough.

When you finally returned to work, it felt like stepping into a dream—familiar yet distant, like a place you once knew but could no longer claim as your own. The bar was exactly as you had left it. The same worn wooden stools lined the counter, the same low chatter of regulars hummed through the air, and the same soft rock music played from the old jukebox in the corner. Everything was the same. Perfectly unchanged, preserved as if time had stood still.

But you weren’t the same.

You had spent weeks away, hidden from the world, trying to mend the pieces of yourself that had shattered in the aftermath of everything that happened with Remy. You had been broken, and though you had managed to put yourself back together, it wasn’t the same as before. The cracks were still there, visible to anyone who cared to look closely enough. You felt like a puzzle that had been hastily reassembled, the pieces forced back into place but never quite fitting the way they once had. You were different now—more fragile, more guarded, more distant from the person you used to be.

As you stood just inside the doorway, taking it all in, a part of you wanted to turn around and leave. The bar wasn’t just a place of work anymore. It was a place of memories, of ghosts that lingered in every corner, in every booth. It was where you had met Remy, where you had first fallen for him over shared drinks and stolen glances. It was where your laughter had echoed off the walls, where your fingers had brushed against his across the bar, where your heart had started to beat for him without you even realizing it.

And now, walking back into it felt like walking straight into the past—a past you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

But you had to. There was no more hiding. No more running.

You gave yourself a moment to draw in a slow, steadying breath, forcing your heart to calm its frantic pace. You could do this. You had to do this. Life didn’t stop just because you were hurting, and the world wasn’t going to wait for you to heal. It was time to move forward, whether you were truly ready or not.

“Look at you, Ironwoman!”

Kate’s voice rang out through the bar, pulling you back to the present with a jolt. You looked up, startled, as she made her way over, her wide grin full of mischief, but her eyes soft with a concern that she didn’t bother to hide. She was always like that—blunt, playful, but with a heart that could carry the weight of the world if you let her. A few patrons glanced up at her outburst, but most didn’t seem to notice, too wrapped up in their own conversations, their own drinks.

You forced a smile, though it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. “Back at it,” you said, trying to inject a note of lightness into your tone. But the words came out too stiff, too rehearsed. Like you were trying to convince yourself as much as her.

Kate wasn’t buying it. She stopped in front of you, crossing her arms over her chest in that no-nonsense way of hers, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked you up and down. Her grin faded, replaced by a more serious expression as she studied you, really looked at you. “You okay?” she asked, her voice quieter now, more careful. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy and loaded with meaning. Were you ready for this? You honestly didn’t know. The truth was, you weren’t sure you’d ever be ready. You had spent weeks trying to patch yourself back together, trying to make sense of everything that had happened and everything you had lost. But being here, in the place where it had all started, made it feel like none of that mattered—like the scabs were being ripped off, the wounds still too fresh to be exposed.

But you couldn’t stay away forever. You couldn’t keep hiding from the world, from your life, from the memories that seemed to haunt every corner of this bar.

“I have to be,” you said softly, your fingers gripping the edge of the bar a little too tightly, like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I can’t stay away forever.”

Kate didn’t respond right away. She just watched you, her eyes filled with the kind of understanding that made your throat tighten. She wasn’t the type to push too hard, but she wasn’t the type to let you off easy either. “No, you can’t,” she said after a moment, her voice gentle but firm. “But you don’t have to pretend you’re okay when you’re not.”

Her words struck something deep inside you, something raw and vulnerable that you had been trying to bury for weeks. You felt your breath catch in your throat, your chest tightening as you blinked back the sudden sting of tears. You weren’t okay. You were far from okay. And you didn’t know how to be. No matter how much time had passed, the pain still felt fresh, still felt like it was tearing you apart from the inside out.

“I just need to keep moving,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. “I need to keep going.”

It was all you had left—the forward motion, the constant distraction of routine. If you stopped, if you let yourself think too much, the weight of it all would crush you. You had to keep going, had to keep pushing forward, even if you weren’t sure where you were heading.

Kate’s expression softened even more, her eyes filled with sympathy that you weren’t sure you could bear. “You don’t have to do this alone,” she said quietly, reaching out to gently touch your arm. “You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed her. Carrying it by yourself was all you knew how to do. It was the only thing that made sense when everything else felt so out of control. You had learned to rely on yourself, to hold yourself together, because the idea of leaning on someone else—of letting someone else see how broken you really were—was too terrifying to even consider.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, forcing the words out even though they felt like a lie. You weren’t fine. You didn’t know when you would be fine. But saying it felt like a shield, like a way to keep the world at arm’s length.

Kate sighed softly, her hand giving your arm a gentle squeeze before she let go. “Alright, Ironwoman,” she said, her voice lighter now, though the concern in her eyes hadn’t faded. “Just remember—you’re allowed to not be okay. You’re allowed to fall apart if you need to.”

You offered her a weak smile, but the truth was, you didn’t know how to fall apart anymore. You didn’t know how to let yourself feel all of it—the hurt, the anger, the grief—without being afraid that it would swallow you whole. So instead, you did what you always did. You straightened your shoulders, took a deep breath, and stepped behind the bar, slipping back into the motions of work like they were a second skin.

The familiar rhythm of pouring drinks, wiping down counters, and exchanging small talk with the regulars helped. It gave you something to focus on, something to distract you from the ache that still lingered in your chest. But even as you moved through the motions, even as you forced yourself to smile and nod and pretend like everything was fine, you could still feel it—the weight of everything that had happened, the memories pressing in from all sides.

But you kept going. Because that’s all you could do. The night filled up quickly, the bar humming with its usual energy. It was a familiar kind of chaos—the kind that used to feel like second nature to you. The low thrum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter from the booths in the back—it was all the same. But as you moved through the crowd, taking orders and pouring drinks, it was impossible to ignore the feeling that you weren’t the same.

You had spent weeks in the quiet of recovery, both physical and emotional, trying to find your footing after everything that had happened. And now, being back here, in the place where it had all started, it felt like you were walking through a memory—familiar, but distant, like it belonged to someone else.

The patrons were the same too—many of them faces you had seen for years, regulars who knew your name and your drink preferences, who made small talk like you were part of the furniture. But now, their eyes lingered on you a little too long, their smiles a little too sympathetic, as if they were trying to gauge just how broken you really were beneath the surface.

“I heard what happened,” one of the regulars said as you slid a glass of whiskey across the bar. His voice was gentle, careful, like he was afraid he might shatter you with the wrong tone. “Glad to see you back on your feet. You’re a tough one.”

You forced a smile, though it felt stiff, like your face wasn’t quite sure how to make the expression anymore. “Thanks,” you replied softly, your voice steady even though the weight of their concern seemed to press down on you with every interaction. “It’s good to be back.”

And in some ways, it was. The rhythm of working—of moving through the motions of pouring, mixing, and serving—was grounding. It gave you something to focus on, something to do with your hands and your mind. But at the same time, every corner of the bar reminded you of things you weren’t ready to face. Of nights spent with Remy leaning against the counter, his eyes following you with that quiet, unreadable intensity. Of whispered conversations in the alley out back, of stolen kisses and shared laughter in the dim glow of the neon lights.

You shook the thought away, forcing yourself to focus on the present. You had to keep moving. You had to keep going.

The evening passed in a blur of drink orders and half-hearted conversations. It wasn’t until a couple of hours in, when the bar had settled into its usual rhythm, that you realized James had come in for his shift. You didn’t notice him at first, too caught up in the automatic motions of your routine. But then, out of nowhere, you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you into a tight, familiar hug.

“Look who’s back,” James said, his voice warm with that teasing lilt he always used on you. “The Ironwoman herself.”

You let out a laugh, the sound catching you off guard with how natural it felt, even after everything. You turned to face him, shaking your head with a smile that came a little easier this time. “Hey,” you said, your voice light, though your chest still ached with the weight of it all. “You’re late.”

James grinned, leaning his hip against the bar as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What, you think I’m gonna work a full shift without making a grand entrance?” He looked you up and down, his expression softening slightly as he took you in. “Seriously though, it’s good to see you back. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about us.”

You rolled your eyes, though the easy banter felt like slipping into something comfortable, something you hadn’t realized you’d missed until this moment. “Please,” you teased, grabbing a glass from the shelf behind you. “As if I could ever forget about you. I was just hoping I could avoid seeing your face for a little longer.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for a tray of empty glasses. “Well, sorry to disappoint. You’re stuck with me now.”

The two of you fell back into your usual rhythm, the back-and-forth banter that had always made working with James so effortless. It felt good, in a way, to be here with him, to have something to distract you from the heaviness that still lingered in your chest. For a little while, it almost felt like things were normal again.

But even in the middle of the laughter, there was an undercurrent of something heavier, something unspoken that hung between the two of you. James was careful not to push, but you could feel the weight of his concern in the way he kept glancing at you, as if trying to figure out how much you were really holding together.

“So,” he said after a while, leaning against the bar as he wiped down a glass. “Your mom and sister flew back home yesterday, huh? How’s that feel? Finally getting your independence back?”

You smiled, though there was a twinge of sadness behind it. “Yeah,” you said, glancing down at the drink you were mixing. “It’s weird. I got so used to having them around, making sure I didn’t overdo it, fussing over every little thing. Now it’s just… quiet.”

James nodded, his expression softening as he looked at you. “Yeah, I get that. But hey, at least now you don’t have your mom watching you like a hawk every time you move a muscle.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re not wrong. She was driving me crazy toward the end. Every time I tried to do something, she was right there, telling me to sit down, rest, take it easy.”

James grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Classic mom move. But hey, now you can do whatever you want. No more getting told to sit down every five minutes.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking at him. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m still ignoring all the doctor’s orders. I’m just doing it without an audience now.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he grabbed a tray of glasses and headed toward the back to restock. “Just don’t go getting yourself shot again, yeah? I don’t think I can handle the drama.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face lingered as you watched him walk away. The banter with James felt good, like slipping back into something familiar and easy. It was a reminder of who you were before everything went wrong, before the shooting, before Remy, before the heartbreak.

But even as you joked and laughed, a part of you still felt heavy. The weight of the last few weeks—the pain, the loss, the near brush with death—was still there, just beneath the surface. And no matter how hard you tried to push it down, to pretend that everything was fine, you knew it wasn’t going to disappear so easily. <><><><><> You and Kate stood behind the bar, shoulders brushing as you worked in tandem, laughing and bantering over something as simple as pouring a drink. The night had been easy so far, the kind where everything flowed smoothly, the kind you used to love. Kate had been teasing you relentlessly about your pouring technique, calling you “too slow” and “too precise,” while you shot back that she was “reckless” and “spilled more booze than she poured.” It was the sort of playful back-and-forth that came naturally between the two of you, a rhythm you fell into with ease.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt light. Free, almost. The weight of the last few weeks—the heartbreak, the long, sleepless nights, the constant ache in your chest—felt distant, like it had happened to someone else. You almost didn’t recognize yourself in this moment of laughter, of ease.

Kate nudged you with her elbow, smirking as she slid a perfectly poured drink across the counter. “See? That’s how a real bartender does it.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Please, I could pour that with my eyes closed.”

“Oh yeah? Prove it,” she challenged, crossing her arms with a playful grin.

You were about to respond, your lips already curling into a wry smile, ready to throw some cheeky retort back at Kate. But just as the words were about to leave your mouth, something—or rather, someone—caught your eye. The sound of your laughter died abruptly in your throat, and your entire body went still, your fingers tightening around the glass in your hand until the cool surface pressed uncomfortably against your skin.

It was Scott.

He had just walked in, his presence unmistakable even in the dim, crowded bar. He wasn’t with Jean or anyone else, just him, dressed in his usual leather jacket and dark jeans, his eyes hidden behind those signature ruby-quartz sunglasses. He moved with that quiet confidence you’d always associated with him, but tonight, there was something different in the way he carried himself—something heavier, more deliberate. He walked straight to the end of the bar, sitting down without a word, as if he had been waiting for you.

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. What was he doing here?

Kate, still oblivious to the sudden tension that had settled over you, continued talking, but the words blurred into background noise. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from Scott. He wasn’t looking at you just yet, but his posture—his stillness—made it clear that he was here for a reason. And you had a pretty good idea what, or rather who, that reason was.

“Hey,” Kate’s voice cut through your daze, pulling your attention back for a moment. She had noticed the change in your expression, the way you had gone pale. “You okay?”

You forced yourself to blink, to nod. “Yeah,” you managed, though your voice didn’t sound quite like your own. “I’m fine. Just… need to take my break.”

Kate’s brow furrowed, clearly picking up on your shift in mood, but she didn’t press. “Alright. I’ll cover for you. You good?”

You nodded again, setting the glass down with a little more force than necessary. “Yeah,” you muttered, more to yourself than to her. “I just need a minute.”

Without waiting for her response, you moved from behind the bar, weaving through the crowd until you reached Scott. He didn’t look up immediately, but he must have sensed your approach because he let out a quiet sigh, his broad shoulders relaxing just a little, as if he had been holding his breath.

“Scott,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, neutral. “What are you doing here?”

He finally turned his head, his expression unreadable behind those red lenses. He didn’t answer right away, just gestured toward the back of the bar, where it was quieter, more private. “Can we talk?” His voice was low, steady, but there was an edge to it—a seriousness that made your stomach twist.

You hesitated, glancing around the bar. James was still wiping down glasses, Kate was busy handling orders, and none of the patrons seemed to have noticed Scott’s arrival. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this conversation wasn’t one you wanted to have out in the open.

“Yeah,” you said after a moment, your heart pounding in your chest. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

You led him through the back hallway, past the restrooms and into the small break room that you and the other bartenders used during long shifts. It was cramped and dimly lit, but at least it was quiet, and more importantly, it was away from prying eyes.

Once inside, you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to brace yourself for whatever was coming. “Alright,” you said, your voice a little sharper than you intended. “What’s this about?”

Scott didn’t sit down. He just stood there, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his posture deceptively relaxed. But his eyes—those sharp, unreadable eyes—never left you. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the low hum of the bar outside, the occasional clink of glasses, the distant murmur of conversation filtering through the walls. Inside, the silence between the two of you was thick, heavy, broken only by the sound of your own uneven breathing.

You didn’t know why he was here, not really, but deep down, you had a feeling. And that feeling was already tightening in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

“It’s about Remy,” Scott said at last, his voice calm, measured, but with a weight behind it that made your heart stutter.

The sound of his name—Remy—felt like a jolt to your system, like someone had reached inside your chest and squeezed. You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze away from Scott’s piercing eyes, your arms instinctively wrapping around yourself like you could protect yourself from whatever was coming next. Scott had decided to come talk to you himself after he watched Remy slowly shut himself off from everyone, even him and Jean. It wasn’t like Remy to be an open book, but this was different. This was a complete withdrawal. He was all business, all the time—no jokes, no smirks, none of the charm that usually masked whatever storm was raging inside him. He’d become a shadow of himself, and Scott knew exactly why.

Scott stood in front of you, his posture stiff, his arms crossed over his chest as if he was bracing himself for a difficult conversation. His face was set in a way that made you uneasy, like he was weighing his words carefully, trying to figure out how to tell you something that neither of you really wanted to talk about. You knew Scott wasn’t the type to sugarcoat anything, and you braced yourself for whatever was coming.

"What about him?" you asked, your voice tight. You regretted asking the moment the words left your mouth, because you knew this wasn’t going to be easy to hear. But you needed to know. You needed to know what Remy was like now, how he was coping. Or not coping.

Scott sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his mouth pressing into a grim line. He glanced at you briefly, then away, like he was trying to find the right place to start.

“He’s not the kind of guy who begs or pleads for anyone,” Scott began, his voice steady but softer than usual, like he was sharing something he wasn’t sure you were ready to hear. “That’s just not who he is. Remy… he’s always been the type to keep things close to the chest. Doesn’t let people in easily. Hell, even when he cares about someone, he’s got a way of keeping them at arm’s length.”

You felt your throat tighten, an ache building in your chest that you had no way to push down. You already knew this. You had always known this about Remy. He was a fortress, his walls impossibly high and thick, and he only let you in so far. You’d seen glimpses of the man he kept hidden behind those walls, the man who was kind and passionate and loyal, but it had always been just that—glimpses. He never let you in completely, and you had learned to live with it. Or at least, you thought you had.

But hearing Scott say it now, so plainly, felt like a fresh wound being ripped open. It was one thing to know it, to experience it firsthand, but it was something else to hear it from someone who had known Remy far longer than you had. It made it real in a way that you weren’t sure you were prepared to handle.

Scott shifted again, his eyes softening just a fraction as they met yours. But his tone remained as direct as ever. Scott wasn’t the type to dance around the truth.

“When he makes mistakes, he owns them,” Scott continued, his voice steady but carrying a weight that made your heart sink. “But he doesn’t chase after people to fix them. He doesn’t run after someone once they’ve made up their mind. It’s not in his nature to beg. It’s not in his nature to plead.”

You bit down hard on your bottom lip, trying to keep the emotions welling up inside you from spilling over. You knew this, too. You had seen it. Every time things got hard, every time his demons caught up with him, Remy would pull away. He wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t let you in to help him. He’d retreat into himself, shutting you out, even when you were right there, desperate to help him bear the weight of whatever it was that was drowning him.

But he never let you. Not really.

“He’s been like that since the beginning,” Scott said, his voice quieter now, like he was talking more to himself than to you. “He’s been through a lot—more than most people will ever know. And that’s how he copes. He pushes people away before they can hurt him, or before he can hurt them. It’s not something he does on purpose, but it’s… it’s who he is.”

You swallowed hard, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. You had known. You had always known that Remy carried more than he let on, that he had scars that ran deeper than the ones on his skin. But that didn’t make it any easier. It didn’t make it hurt less to know that no matter how hard you had tried, no matter how much you had wanted to be the person he could lean on, he had never fully let you in.

“Why are you telling me this, Scott?” you asked, your voice barely audible. You weren’t sure you wanted to hear any more. It was enough to carry the weight of what had happened between you and Remy without being reminded of how impossible things had become—how distant he had grown, how he had slipped through your fingers like sand despite all your efforts to hold on. You had lived it. You didn’t need anyone to spell it out for you.

Scott stood there, silent for a moment, his gaze steady and serious, as if he were carefully choosing his next words. He was never one to mince words, but right now, you could see the struggle on his face—the weight of what he was about to say. He drew in a deep breath, his expression softening just a fraction before he spoke.

“I’m telling you this,” he began, his voice low but clear, as though he wanted to make sure you didn’t miss a single word, “because I think you need to know that just because he walked away, it doesn’t mean he didn’t care. It doesn’t mean he didn’t want to fight for you.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat, the ache in your chest growing heavier, sharper. You had told yourself so many times that Remy had left because you didn’t matter enough to him. That if you had meant more—if you had been more—he would have stayed. Would have fought. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t chased after you, hadn’t reached out to try and make things right. He had let you go, and in the silence that followed, you had convinced yourself that maybe you had never really had him in the first place.

Scott’s voice softened, but his words hit hard. “It’s not that he didn’t want to fight for you. He just… doesn’t know how.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of you. You had to look away, your eyes burning with tears you refused to let fall. You had wanted him to fight for you. You had needed him to show you that it was worth it—that you were worth it. That you were worth breaking down those walls for, worth all the complicated mess that came with loving him. But he hadn’t. He’d let the walls stand. He’d let you walk away, and you had taken that silence as confirmation that maybe you hadn’t meant as much to him as you thought.

Maybe you had been wrong about everything.

“He’s hurting,” Scott added after a long pause, his voice quieter now, as though he was speaking more to himself than to you. “He’s hurting more than he’ll ever let on. And yeah, he’s not going to chase you down or beg for another chance because… that’s just not who he is. He’s not built that way. You told him to leave, and he respects you enough to listen. But don’t think for one second that he doesn’t care. Because he does. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest, the knot of emotion tightening with every word. You had spent so many nights wondering—obsessing—over whether Remy had ever really loved you at all. Whether you had just been another person he kept at arm’s length, someone he could walk away from when things got too hard. But now, hearing Scott say that Remy was hurting, that he cared more than he let on, it felt like both a relief and another layer of heartbreak.

If he cared, why hadn’t he shown it? Why had he let you walk away?

Scott took a step closer, his expression softening as he watched the way you struggled to hold yourself together. “He’s not—” Scott hesitated, his jaw tightening for a split second, like he was weighing whether to keep going. Finally, he continued, his voice low and steady, but laced with something that almost felt like regret. “He’s not used to needing anyone.”

You blinked, the words sinking in slowly, like they were too heavy to process all at once. Not used to needing anyone. You had always known that Remy was guarded, that he kept his heart locked up behind walls thicker than you could ever hope to break through. But hearing it laid out like that… it made something inside you crack open.

He wasn’t used to needing anyone, not even you. The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You could feel the tears burning at the back of your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. You didn’t want to cry in front of Scott, didn’t want to show just how deep the wound went. But you couldn’t stop the way your chest ached, the way your heart clenched painfully at the truth of it all.

Scott’s voice softened, just barely, as he took a step closer, his presence looming but not threatening. “He’s not going to come back here, you know. Not unless you ask him to.”

Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought. The idea of Remy out there, somewhere, waiting—but not coming back unless you reached out first—made your heart ache in a way that felt unbearable. You didn’t know if you even could reach out. You didn’t know if you had the strength to open that door again, to risk everything, only to have him push you away like he had done so many times before.

But the alternative? The thought of never seeing him again, of letting this be the end… It felt like a weight pressing down on your chest, suffocating you.

Scott must have seen the conflict on your face because he sighed again, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not saying this to make excuses for him. You’ve got every right to be angry. Hell, you’ve got every right to walk away if that’s what you need to do. But…” He trailed off, his eyes flickering with something close to understanding. “But I’ve never seen him like this before. He screwed up, yeah, but it’s eating him alive.”

You clenched your fists at your sides, your nails digging into your palms as you tried to keep yourself together. You didn’t want to hear this. You didn’t want to know that Remy was hurting, that he was out there suffering just as much as you were. It would have been easier if he didn’t care. It would have been easier if you could just let him go without looking back.

But of course, nothing about this was easy.

Scott exhaled slowly, like he was debating whether to say more. “He’s not going to come back and plead his case,” he said quietly. “That’s not who he is. But if you still care about him… if you still want him in your life… then you’re going to have to be the one to make the first move.”

"Scott, I don’t know if I can—" Your voice cracked before you could even finish the sentence, and you felt the familiar tightness in your chest, the lump in your throat making it nearly impossible to breathe. The idea of reaching out to Remy, of confronting everything you’d been avoiding, was terrifying. What if it only made things worse? What if he didn’t want to see you? What if he had already moved on, made peace with the idea of you not being in his life?

What if this was all for nothing?

Scott’s eyes stayed locked on yours, unreadable, but there was a flicker of something—frustration, maybe—behind them. You could feel the weight of his stare, feel the unspoken words hanging in the air between you, but it was too much. You shook your head, unable to meet his gaze any longer, your arms wrapping around yourself as if that could somehow shield you from the pain that felt like it was suffocating you.

“I have to make peace with it,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I have to make peace with the fact that Remy and I… we’re not meant to be. It’s over, Scott. I can’t keep holding onto something that isn’t going to work. I can’t keep hoping that one day it’ll magically get better.”

Scott didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, his expression hardening. And then, after a long pause, he scoffed. A low, frustrated sound that made you flinch.

“Peace? You’re telling me you’re going to make your peace with this?” His tone was sharp, laced with disbelief, and he shook his head, narrowing his eyes at you. “You’re not fooling anyone with that bullshit, least of all yourself.”

Your heart clenched painfully at his words, and the ache that had been simmering in your chest flared up, sharp and raw. “Scott, I—”

“No,” he cut you off, stepping forward, his voice rising slightly. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to stand here and pretend like you’ve accepted this, like you’re ready to just walk away and be done with it. Because it’s clear as day you haven’t. You’re not at peace, and you sure as hell aren’t fooling me into thinking you are.”

You blinked, taken aback by the intensity in his voice, the way his words cut through the air like a knife. But more than that, you were taken aback by the truth in them. Because deep down, you knew he was right. You weren’t at peace with it. You hadn’t accepted it, not really. You were just trying to convince yourself that you had, because maybe if you said it enough times, it would hurt less. Maybe if you could just believe that letting go was the right thing to do, you wouldn’t feel like you were tearing yourself apart.

But you were. Every day, every minute that passed without Remy, you felt the weight of it. Felt the emptiness where he used to be, felt the gnawing ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

Scott’s eyes softened just a fraction, but his voice remained firm. “You’re scared. I get it. You’re scared of what happens if you reach out, of what happens if you put yourself out there and it doesn’t go the way you want. But don’t stand here and lie to yourself about being ‘at peace.’ Because if you were, you wouldn’t be looking at me like that. Like you’re still waiting for a reason to fight for this.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it nearly impossible to speak. “It’s not that simple, Scott,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “What if he doesn’t want to fight for us? What if he’s already moved on? What if I’m just holding onto something that’s already gone?”

Scott exhaled sharply, his expression softening as he watched you, his eyes filled with a strange mix of frustration and understanding. “You think he’s moved on? After everything? You think he’s just sitting around, perfectly fine, while you’re over here breaking yourself into pieces?”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because a part of you did think that. A part of you was terrified that Remy had already made his peace, that he had already accepted that you weren’t a part of his life anymore.

But another part of you—a part that you had been trying to bury—knew that wasn’t true. Knew that Remy wasn’t the kind of person who could just let go without a fight, even if he didn’t show it the way you needed him to.

Scott let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Look,” he said, his voice calmer now, more measured. “I’m not saying you have to go running back to him. I’m not saying you have to fix everything and pretend like none of this happened. But what I’m telling you is, don’t sit here and lie to yourself. Don’t talk about ‘making peace’ when all you’re doing is running from the truth.”

He reached out, gently placing the slip of paper with Remy’s address on the counter between you. “You don’t have to do anything with this. You don’t even have to think about it right now. But if you’re going to walk away, at least do it with your eyes open. Don’t do it because you’re scared of what might happen if you fight for him.”

You stared at the paper, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a physical force. Your heart was pounding so loudly in your chest that you were sure Scott could hear it, and you felt like you were standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down into an abyss that you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

“I don’t know if I can handle it again,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “I don’t know if I can handle another heartbreak. What if I reach out, and it’s not enough? What if he’s still the same Remy, still keeping me at arm’s length?”

Scott sighed, his gaze softening as he watched you. “Yeah, maybe he’s still the same. Maybe he’s not ready to let you in the way you need him to. But you’ll never know if you don’t try. And if you don’t try… well, then you’re just going to be stuck here, wondering what could’ve been.”

You bit down on your lip, hard enough to taste blood, your eyes burning with unshed tears. You wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that it wasn’t that simple, that there were too many things standing in the way. But the truth was, you didn’t have the strength to argue anymore. You were too tired. Too hurt. Too scared.

But Scott was right. You weren’t at peace with it. And no matter how much you tried to convince yourself that you were, the truth was, the thought of never seeing Remy again—of never knowing if there could be something more—was tearing you apart.

Scott waited, his eyes searching your face, but he didn’t push. He didn’t need to. His words had already hit their mark.

Finally, you reached out, your fingers brushing against the slip of paper. You didn’t pick it up—didn’t make any promises—but simply touching it felt like a step. A small step, but a step nonetheless.

“I’ll think about it,” you whispered, your voice shaking.

Scott gave a short nod, his expression unreadable. “That’s all I’m asking.”

And with that, he turned to leave, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the quiet room, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your fears—and the paper that now felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

You stared at it for a long time, your heart racing, your mind spinning with everything Scott had said.

Maybe you weren’t ready to make peace with this. Maybe you weren’t ready to let go.

But the question was, were you ready to fight?

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure.

[skyclan-funny-name-squad]

I keep sending asks to troutfur about their "take on ships" open season but it's getting to a point im starting to write essays about rare pairs that I could in fact, just post on here so anyway im going to ramble about Crowleafpool! leafmothcrow? crowleafmoth? crowmothpool? is there an actual consensus on this?

mothcrowpool is peak, yes I know, but I think mothwing and leafpool would balance out well with crowfeather

crowfeather helps give them a yearning edge and brooding appeal that I think would resonate with them both of the idea of having destinies dictated and your past used against you and trying to prove something and crowfeather would actually get them to talk about and actually think beyond just "oh but we're medicine cats" with his introspection. He would be a dose of a dreamer they would really benefit from. He would be able to settle down more with the guidance of both of them, calm his restless soul a bit, have a place he can just talk about his emotions he can't in windclan.

I especially think he'd have a very interesting talks about starclan as he was a chosen cat but honestly it seems like it ruined his life more then helped it. I think he'd be a fascinating breath of fresh air between "starclan is great" "starclan doesn't exist" as "starclan exists but they're kinda dicks"

While mothwings gentle but absolute take no shit attitude to the point of being rude at times would absolutely smack crowfeather on the back of his head when he gets TOO into his head and brooding, she would be willing to let him air his wounds, but she would also not let him linger too hard on them, pushing him more. She would be able to both empathize with crowfeather in some interesting ways, but also counter him in interesting ways.

Hell, maybe you could add some angst of her seeing some of hawkfrost in him, that need for approval, attention, the willingness of lengths to get it if pushed. Especially because i see them as not dating each other but both being there for leafpool. Trying to process her own grief and mixed feelings about her brother through crowfeather. Grieving her brother when he dies but also have her confront crowfeather about the path his own behaviors are leading him down. Giving her a sense of closure of her own voice being meaningful when she sees her words resonate with him.

However, since they'd never naturally seek each other out and definitely wouldn't get this level of closeness on their own, we get to leafpool.

Leafpool gets the breath of fresh air of options and choices and a sense of agency in the relationship, she's the glue, the lynchpin, both mothwing and crowfeather love her, they are there for her, they learn to adjust and compromise for her. She gets the agency of knowing she has choices, she can speak up, and the feeling of being chosen and desired she seems to crave. She gets to dream with crowfeather and encourage mothwing to join in. Then she can find that stability with mothwing and encourage crowfeather to trust as well.

She gets to have a visible notable impact on the relationship, she gets to be leafpool in her entirety, because she knows that even if she has to be mean and loud for her job one day, mothwing will be there to understand even if crowfeather can't, but if another day she wonders what it would be like to run, to never look back, crowfeather can understand that even if mothwing can't, she doesn't have feel like she has to choose parts of her personality, because even if one partner has to step back, the other one can step closer. She gets to know more firmly she's wanted, and worth putting the effort into.

I just think they could work if they put some effort into it to have it work, maybe it would last, maybe it wouldn't, but I think they have a lot of potential. Plus it's funny to imagine mothwing seeing crowfeather brooding too hard and then sitting on him with all her giant fluff while leafpool grooms his head to calm him down so they can talk more calmly. bisexual leafpool and her gilboss wife and boyfailure husband.

Hell maybe it could even encourage Crowfeather into becoming a medicine cat himself if you wanna get REALLY funky because he clearly isn't happy where he is in clan life and maybe being a medicine cat would have an interesting impact.

Also this essay destroyed my wifi can I get an f in chat?

[dirtsoilmulch]

Guide/Dryad hcs??

anon. i have a lot to say (this ended up like a ramble fic more than headcanons) (oopsie) (hope you like anyway)

prehardmode:

- they don't start out very close, but it's obvious to the both of them that they will at least talk occasionally. the guide is constantly looking for more information on the world around him. (information which i assume is journaled, categorized in different ways. like if the beastiary covered every single aspect of terraria.) the only reliable source of the past is the dryad

- he reaches out to learn more, especially when it comes to skeletron's defeat and the clothier's return.

- she just. sucks. at talking.

- it isn't on purpose or anything. her tone just ends up flat and dry, her expression rarely changes (other than to frown). the dryad is insanely difficult to read. she'll spend most of her time staring and frowning at him than actually speaking.

- she does get along with him much better than anyone else (which isnt saying much). most people can't hold a conversation at all. at the very least, the guide can do small talk.

- he'd push on the unknowns more, but doesn't like the fact that it all has to be explained. it definitely doesn't help that the dryad seems like shes talking down to everyone when saying anything.

- she can't give him much information on world guardians and the guide's responsibilities before the wall of flesh fight. she's given vague information, but anything more is hard to talk on.

- part of her doesn't want to scare him and doesn't want to make him feel like an idiot for not knowing his true purpose. the other part wants him to understand the gravity of what is happening. the safety of the world lies in his hands. if the world guardian falls, they will only be exposed to more and more horrors.

- the dryad couldn't name the feeling even if she wanted to. but she understands how it feels to be a sole savior. and, by extension, how it feels to fail

hardmode:

- the same guide comes back once the wall of flesh is defeated. now he understands, he realizes that he's failed when he sees the hallow. the first person he seeks out is the dryad.

- he doesn't even let the nurse tend to his wounds. he's realised the dryad understands him. in a way nobody could possibly try to unless they had failed in the way that he did (and the way she did 500 years ago)

- with everything that changes at the start of hardmode, the guide feels the overwhelming need to write and document it. but with the burn scars, he's in so much pain that he can't move.

- the dryad helps him with it. she writes for him, making some of the journals half clean penmanship and half light, loopy chicken scratch. sometimes he'll speak and she'll copy it down. other times, she writes on her own and he rereads and edits it.

- this whole process doesn't actually end even when he's recovered. and it's not an act of pity from the dryad (though it never was). she enjoys it. spending time with him, looking over his work and seeing the very essence of the guide within everything he writes- she likes it. she likes him

- feelings develop between the two. even when he doesn't need her help, she's by his side. i imagine they've discussed what happened during the wall of flesh fight once or twice. late at night.

- neither can express any kind of emotion very well. the dryad still struggles with tone, but she's making an effort to try harder. to say what she thinks instead of what she needs to say.

- the dryad tries to tell jokes. mostly bad tree puns. she's very lucky the guide likes her because no one finds them funny but him

- she teases a lot more often. still, the guide struggles to tell what she even means in the first place, but he's getting used to it. they are able to joke back and forth

- slowly, overtime, they've got this weird thing going on. not dating, not friends, but a weird thing in the middle.

- they're closer to each other than anyone else. and when more romantic shit happens, it's all very incredibly awkward.

- they are bad at kissing. bad at saying i love you. (they still attempt these things. from the outside, it probably looks like the worst experience of anyone's life. but they enjoy it together despite the weirdness)

- i think the most they can do successfully is hold each other and stare. it comes easier than traditional romantic stuff does

- the guide does make more of an attempt at the traditional romance things as the plot begins to cool down. big acts of service person, dabbles in gifts and physical touch but relies on words of affirmation from the dryad (which she is content to give because she likes to see him speechless)

- they do all kinds of things with each other. hikes, patrols around corruption/crimson/hallow.

- he enjoys reading aloud his own writing to her. she listens, even to the simplest of things. (i imagine the guide is the most well-versed in forest creatures just because he lives there. she's not stupid, she knows what a bunny is. but she'll let him talk anyway)

- the dryad scares him. not on purpose, she just walks quietly and doesn't say anything until she's right behind him. (she would alert him better, but she finds it funny)

- i've always imagined the guide and dryad to be relatively immortal beings. the dryad can live for around a thousand years, but can also enter the static, disguise state where she exists as a tree. all without a consciousness or aging.

- the guide title is something that's existed forever. guides can only die by their own hand (which is what i think the guide's father did before telling him anything), or by failing to protect the world. but plot armor or something.

- so they do live for a while. no matter how many generations pass through, everyone still points out the way she looks at him. with her head tilted slightly to the side and the tiniest smile on her lips. and the guide stares in a similar way, though his adoration tends to be more obvious.

- your honor. theyr in love

[clarkeyzzz]

Photographs and Ashes

Part Four

george clarke x fem!oc

summary: george’s discovery of charlotte’s hidden past forces them to confront old wounds—and in the midst of emotional turmoil, they find renewed hope for a future together.

warnings: grief, loss, references to past death, angst

note: two parts left!!!

Part Five - Series Masterlist

₊ ˚ ˚ ₊ ‧ 。☆ 。‧₊ ˚ ˚ ₊ ‧ 。☆ 。‧₊ ˚ ˚ ₊ ‧ 。☆ 。‧₊ ˚ ˚ ₊

They settled on the couch, Charlotte curling her legs beneath her, George resting an arm along the back. The minimal distance between them felt monumental after the tension of the previous day. She took a moment to compose herself, pressing her palms together.

“I met Lucas in uni,” she began, her voice subdued yet determined. “I was a first-year studying English Lit. He was in his third year of Mechanical Engineering. We literally bumped into each other in the library, and I spilled his coffee. I offered to buy him a new one, and… well, that was that.”

George tried not to let the pang of jealousy derail him. Instead, he focused on listening. This is her past, he reminded himself. It doesn’t negate the present we share.

She continued, “He was funny. Ambitious. He had this way of making everything feel like an adventure, even mundane stuff. We started dating, and it got serious pretty fast. By the time I was in my second year, we were talking about getting a flat off-campus, traveling together after graduation… I even thought we might get married someday.”

Her voice caught on the word married, and George saw her jaw clench. He squeezed her hand lightly, a silent encouragement to proceed at her own pace.

“We had four years,” she said, “before… it happened. A brain aneurysm.” She spoke the phrase as if reciting a line from a nightmare she’d replayed too many times. “No warning. We were in our flat, talking about what to do for dinner. One minute he was standing there, laughing. The next minute, he collapsed. By the time the ambulance came, he was gone.”

George let out a shaky breath. He glanced at her, seeing the tears threatening to spill again. Every trace of anger he’d felt vanished in the face of her agony. How could he resent her for holding onto that kind of pain?

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, placing his other hand over hers.

She nodded, tears now slipping down her cheeks. “Everything changed after that. I left uni for a semester, traveled alone, tried to outrun my grief. But it followed me, obviously. I came back eventually, finished my degree, got a job. Then I met you. And you were a breath of fresh air, George. You were so… fun, so open. I didn’t want to taint it by bringing all that darkness with me.”

George felt tears burning at the back of his own eyes, but he held them back. “You’re not tainted,” he said softly. “Grief is… it’s just part of life. It doesn’t make you broken.”

She let out a humorless laugh, brushing tears off her cheeks. “Tell that to everyone else who treated me like I was made of glass after Lucas died. My friends, my parents… I couldn’t stand the pity in their eyes. I didn’t want that from you.”

George inhaled, trying to maintain composure. “I don’t pity you, Charlotte. I mean it. I’m just… sad you went through that. And that you had to keep it locked away because you were worried about what I’d think.”

She swallowed hard. “I know. But can you see why I was scared? You’ve never lost anyone like that. I didn’t want you to feel overshadowed by a ghost.”

He took a moment to process that. “I do feel overshadowed,” he admitted quietly. “But I also realize it’s not fair for me to hold that against you. You lost someone you loved. It doesn’t mean you don’t love me too. Right?”

Her eyes softened, and she reached out to cup his cheek. “Right,” she whispered. “I do love you. I’m sorry if I ever made you doubt that.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into her hand. In that moment, the tension in his chest loosened, replaced by a tenderness that bordered on heartbreak. She’d been through an ordeal that left scars, and his reaction might have pried those wounds open. But she was here, being honest now, and that had to count for something.

Once the wave of raw emotion ebbed, they decided to face the box together. Sitting on the living room floor with the box between them felt simultaneously daunting and therapeutic. Charlotte gently lifted the lid, peering at its contents.

“I haven’t gone through this stuff in ages,” she said, tracing a finger along the rim of the box.

George watched, noticing how her shoulders tensed. “You don’t have to show me everything,” he said. “Only what you’re comfortable with.”

She nodded, pulling out a small stack of photographs. On top was the beach photo George recognized from the day before. “We took this at Brighton,” she explained. “It was a spontaneous trip—Lucas had a free weekend, and we decided to hop on a train. It was windy, the seagulls were everywhere, and we spent most of the day eating doughnuts and fish and chips.”

Despite himself, George smiled at the mental image. “Sounds nice.”

“It was.” She looked fond but pained. “We had so many moments like that… carefree, you know?”

He offered her a gentle nod. “I’m glad you had that.”

She flipped through more photos: a New Year’s Eve party with sparklers, a visit to the Eiffel Tower, a group hike in the Lake District. For each one, Charlotte offered a snippet of memory, her voice dipping between nostalgia and sorrow. George realized he was witnessing the pieces of a life she had never shared with him, perhaps out of fear that he would reject it or feel inadequate.

As she pulled out a letter, she paused, fingers trembling on the paper. “These were notes we wrote to each other. Silly ones. We used to leave them around the flat—on the fridge, by the coffee maker, places like that.”

George wasn’t sure if he should read them or not, but Charlotte handed him one. He carefully unfolded it. The handwriting was neat, affectionate:

Char, Woke up early for class but wanted to say I love you. Don’t forget we have dinner with your folks this weekend—try not to let your dad scare me off, yeah? Love you even when you snore. –Lucas

George’s throat tightened. The note was so normal, so ordinary, and that made the tragedy sharper. One day, Lucas was alive, leaving notes. The next, he was gone. He glanced up at Charlotte, who stared at the letter with glistening eyes.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, though her voice shook. “I want you to see.”

He placed the letter gently back in the box. Then, without warning, Charlotte reached for his hand. “George… do you still think you’re just a placeholder?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know. I’m trying not to think that way.”

“Because you’re not,” she said firmly. “Lucas was my past. You’re my present. I can care about both of you in different ways.”

George nodded, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers. They stayed like that for a long moment, allowing the quiet to speak for them. Then they carefully packed the photographs and letters back into the box. Charlotte set it aside, not hiding it, but placing it on a shelf where she could acknowledge it without letting it dominate her living space.

That night, George and Charlotte found themselves on the couch again, arms wrapped around each other, the television playing some forgotten show in the background. Neither was paying attention to it. Instead, they whispered fragments of thoughts and confessions.

“How are you feeling?” George asked, keeping his voice soft, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile peace.

“Drained,” Charlotte replied. “But also… lighter. Like I’m not sneaking around with my past anymore.”

He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, thinking how vulnerable she looked. “Thanks for telling me,” he said. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

She shifted to face him, her eyes glistening. “You deserve to know. And I deserve to not hide.”

They kissed gently, a small act of reassurance. It wasn’t passionate so much as it was soothing, a silent exchange that said: We’re in this together.

[lily-ohfally]

Mild 7.1 spoilers and mentions of IRL death

This is more or less just me rambling about thing I love about Dawntrail🤗

Keep in mind, I JUST started 7.1 MSQ and did not get far, though I wanna ramble a bit about Sphene's funeral and how Gulool Ja talking about his father hit a bit too close to home, not to mention Erenville and Cahciua...

Also, I am not looking for sympathy, I just want to talk about my experience with the whole loss thing.

In the beginning of this year, I lost my mother. I'm still trying to find ways to cope, but XIV has helped a lot in terms of putting my mind off things.. until everything with Alexandria and Solution 9 came around.

My first hard hitting moment was when Erenville learned of Cahciua's passing. The way he dealt with it felt very similar to my own reaction shortly after my mother died. She didn't suddenly die, there had been a lead up, but it was difficult to process nonetheless. The inability to process the information and then the emotions that came with it, it wasn't great. So seeing Erenvilles cold reaction to it at first felt familiar. You need time to think about it, whether you knew or not, suddenly losing someone you love so dearly doesn't elicit an immediate response from everyone, some of us need a little extra time to figure out how to react. I don't have much more to say about this particular part, other than I felt very seen during this part of MSQ.

I briefly went over this on my bsky, but the pensive child and Gulool Ja, both talking about how much it hurts knowing you'll never see someone again, then going on to say things like "I wish I'd forgotten" and such got me thinking.

Would I wanna forget?

No. Absolutely not. The pain never goes away, nor does it get lesser over time. It will continue to hurt me till the day I die. But the love, happiness and joy I have from my memories together with my mother will one day outshine the pain I feel now. It doesn't get easier, but it does get more manageable. Time wont ever heal this wound, the scar will ache just the same. But knowing I loved her and she loved me, my mothers death wont leave me in shambles. I will continue to move forward, with her watching over me. I will live a life I will be proud to tell her about if we reunite in what lies beyond. I will live the life she would've wanted me to live. A happy one.

On a more positive note, seeing Wuk Lamat in MSQ again makes me so happy. I love her so much, thank you for coming to my ted talk