#with whatever it envisions for their futures

[s-4pphics]

mourn. (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: grief: the curse of remembrance. 

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

WARNINGS: HEAVY ANGST—TW: MENTIONS OF DRUG ADDICTION, VIOLENCE, DEATH, AND EMOTIONAL/PHYSICAL ABUSE. be cautious and gentle with yourself pls.

retired*streetracer!ellie[envisioned as santabarbara!ellie], drugdealer!reader, lots of time skips, underage use of drugs, mentions of therapy/recovery and relapse, brief mention of weapons[knives, guns(future)], anxiety attacks, parental loss/grief, allusions to ellie having chronic insomnia, hurt/no comfort

A/N: uh. so it’s been over a year LOL. sorry💔. teaser and intro for context :) love u

She’s always loved the scent of burnt rubber. 

Tires have an acquired smell, much like the gas that gets them spinning. No matter how often racers get forced to inhale the scent of fire, their noses never adapt. 

Just hers, apparently. The odor brings an odd sense of comfort. Remembrance. Joel would get a crack at that if he knew: an estranged adoptee picking up his bad habit of secretly sniffing scorched oil. 

Even you hated the scent despite having always played backseat driver. Ellie secretly enjoyed listening to you rave about potential danger; the crashes, her dying from mechanical complications like an explosion. She found it funny. After all this time, it’s still just as satisfying to know that her allegations have always been right: you’re a fucking hypocrite, the last person that should be worried about danger. 

It’s what you embody. What you attract. All that you are. 

She had an inkling when she first met you, yet she still allowed you to bleed into her, overtake her own DNA, intertwine your cells until separation meant death. 

Temptations creep every once in a while to call and see if you’re still alive, especially in times like this. Sporadic, unpredictable. In a constant state of mourning. She’s known to be reckless no thanks to you; in and outside of her car, so what would a call hurt? 

She’ll always live the same way—the way you taught her; impulsive and dumb. Everything Joel instilled in her is long gone. 

She knows you miss her. It’s felt when the blinds welcome the sun into her bedroom in the morning, when she’s eating. Sleeping. Talking to no one. 

If the universe has written out that reunion, she’ll just have to accept it. She’s unsure if she misses you or not—a constant battle that she’s forced to internalize, she despises the topic. Linda only knows bits and pieces of your relationship, and with good reason. Ellie doesn’t have many great things to say whenever she remembers. Therapy is exhausting enough as it is. 

Her mother’s car, Joel’s driveway, the front yard, it’s all the exact same besides the dead plants. It feels like centuries have passed since she’s been outside. The summer air nearly suffocated her the second she locked the front door. 

After all this time, sitting in the driver’s side feels like a sin, keys nearly kin to a weapon. Overwhelmed with guilt; if Anna were here, what would she say about her only child? Her appearance? Her decisions thus far? One of the reason she hates driving this cursed fucking car; her mind reels into dark places, but she needs this. She’s dying for this release. 

So, she swallows whatever’s stuck in her throat and cranks all the windows down. She wants her skin to memorize the wind of her last drive. 

No music. Just her and her mom. 

The hot air always reminds her of the first time. 

Forced into battle with a bunch of strangers by you, but oddly enough, despite the bullshit… It was the best night of her life. The only birthday she remembers besides her first with Joel. 

The keys to the Supra felt like a nail bomb—sharp and cold, chain linked to a pocket knife that was linked to a dice block that was linked to something in another language. Micah’s most prized possession… she’ll never forget that son of a bitch. 

No one knew that you both were children: another thing you loved lying about. You loved feeling mature, fitting into a crowd you didn’t belong to. She doesn’t remember the last time you hung out with people your own age. It was always the two of you amongst college students, mid-aged fuckers, a few grandpas thrown in the mix at random periods. Fucking weirdos, but they never knew, because oddly enough, Ellie never snitched you both out. 

Sitting in Micah’s driver’s seat felt like getting stabbed with a thousand needles… while also being fed grapes like a king on a throne. The strangest sensations: pride, fear, jealousy, concern, fear. She had to adjust his seat multiple times just so she could reach the pedals. 

She studied the dashboard, just how she was taught: coolant temp, check engine light, mileage, brake systems. It was all there, shiny and seemingly futuristic, all while you strapped in beside her with your second cigarette, eyes filled with intrigue. You’d said something in your state of awe, but she doesn’t remember what. All she recalls was the reaction of her heart: thumping and eager to hear more. 

The keys shoved into the ignition, and the car roared like… 

Aslan. The door to Narnia unlocked to relinquish all fairytale creatures. She fell so deeply in love at that moment, the vibrations from the engine shook her from the inside out, hands squeezed around the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened and bones cracked. 

Surrounding cars had already revved up to pull out of the driveway, zoomed off to some fucking where; she blacked out with excitement on the way, but the destination had been wide enough to line up twelve rides. 

She’d been so timid, it’s laughable now. She purposefully missed the first countdown because spectators were snickering at her seatbelt being on and it scared her. That threat from Micah flashed through her head like floodlights. 

But they were kind(?) enough to let her start-up again. Maybe to laugh some more, she’s not sure. 

She lost that race—she lost all seven of them, but she drove, pedal to the metal through every single one no matter how the car spun out of control, going a minimum a hundred miles an hour, all while you screamed and laughed your head off with your eyes squeezed shut and hair wild from the wind. Ellie had never been so happy, never laughed that much, never had so much control. 

Dominance. A power she’d never experienced until that moment; the second she had it, it was hers, claimed for the rest of her life. 

No matter how high she’d gotten, the euphoria from that night was never found again. 

All nights lead to dawn, though. Soon enough, you two returned to that crummy garage on cloud nine. 

Only to crash back down to Earth with fear; you’d quaintly told Ellie to leave without you.

I’ll be fine, just go. 

I’m not fucking leaving you here! 

You never listen, do you? Just fucking go!

She prefers to block out the feeling when you shoved her away—pierced with negligence. Micah was on you like a shadow, lingering behind while his teeth glowed with that same sinister smile. 

Ellie called you a million times when she got home that night, but you never answered. Joel had to babysit her through two bone-rattling anxiety attacks. Because she was scared: of what would happen to you if she didn’t act, what would happen to her if you found out she sent the police to that same address of the party. 

Two weeks of radio silence. She couldn’t stop vomiting from nerves of unknowing: if you were dead or alive, harmed, injured, dead dead dead, that’s all she could think about. You were dead; that’s why her messages and calls went unanswered, why you weren’t in class, why she couldn’t sleep. Your soul was keeping her awake, punishing her with unrest for being a goddamn snitch. A rat. 

But that following Monday, you waltzed into third period like nothing happened. Like you weren’t missing. Just ridiculously bundled from head to toe despite the humidity that Spring. 

Whenever she asked of your whereabouts, she was met with laughter. Uncontrollable hysteria, beaming smiles before applying verbal band-aids. 

Just got caught up. Don’t worry about it. 

I’m fine, just had shit going on. 

I’ve told you a million times that I’m fucking fine! How many fucking times do I have to tell your ass—

… That was less of a band-aid. More like a knife to the chest, but you always patched up the wounds you left behind. 

Did you ever find out she called the police? Where are all those people now? How did you expect her not to worry? 

Questions that’ll forever go unanswered. 

After all these years, you’ve never reached out. Not to say happy birthday, not to give condolences when her dad died, never apologized for ruining her fucking life, nothing. You could be dead, who knows. She doesn’t dwell on the thought for too long, it sickens her all over again; she’s had enough loss to last ten lifetimes. So she settles: you were a figment of her imagination, her mind playing tricks on her, a mere hallucination that tempted her with man-made substances. 

It’s humiliating to acknowledge sometimes: what if she never got high with you that day? Would she still be overly passionate about cars? She likes to think so, just to feel her regret that much deeper: of meeting you, of allowing you to convince her that she’d be okay as long as she blindly followed. It’s a complicated punishment; she hates your guts, but you were her safe space for so long. 

…Will she ever really hate you? 

WINTER OF ‘19

Ay, Williams! 

Nerves sizzle underneath her nails at the sharp call of her name. If annoyance wasn’t already spurring in her chest, she would’ve welcomed any distraction. Anything to take her mind off her impending doom. 

But it’s Rodney. Fucking dipshit.

Her disdain gets masked to the best of her ability, but she’s agitated, lip curled with every scratch of his soles on the dirt as he chases after her. All these loud, rambunctious wranglers and somehow, she’s still his main spectacle. 

Darling! 

She almost vomits. The closer he gets, the more the wind wafts his scent in her direction. He smells like shit always, not to mention it’s fucking freezing, but she knows better than to voice her grievances out loud. The last time a minor objection was expressed, bullets went flying. No losses, thankfully. Only diminished trust and a busted windshield. Too many hotheads drive these plains. 

Why the hell did Ellie accept the offer to race in the fucking desert of all places? Every gust sends another whirl of rocky dust directly through her already blocked sinuses. The rough sleeve of her hoodie is scratching the skin below her nose. 

I know you hear me! 

A damning curse that she can. She slaps on the best toothless grin she can muster while envisioning his head stuck on a pike. One swift spin, and he’s already closer than necessary. It’s nauseating how comfortable people are in her space. 

I was callin’ you. 

Didn’t hear. My bad.  

Bullshit! His jolly laugh scratches her ears in an unpleasant manner. A large arm rests around her shoulders and she nearly gags. Ellie always feels like a hypocrite whenever her stomach churns at the smell of cigars. I needa ask you somethin’.

He’s dangerously close to her ear when he whispers, Where’s that girlfriend o’ yours, huh? Needa borrow her for a sec. 

Not my fucking girlfriend. I told you that. She’s stayed calm this long, but she’s seconds away from slicing his fucking neck with her pocket knife. She shoves a hand in there for good measure. She’s not coming. She masks her shame as best she can, eyes glued to her feet. 

Speckles of saliva spray on her ear when he bursts into laughter. Aww, c’mon! She never misses a race! Trouble in paradise? She doesn’t have time to threaten to gut him where he stands before a harsh squeeze on her shoulder sends her body into shock. 

His tone is dark. 

Or is she finally done missin’ out on revenue for you? Pills stopped workin’, eh? 

Such a fucking sucker. How enraging is it to know that he’s spot on and he barely knows you? Incredibly.

She uses all remaining strength to shove him off before the wind whisks her towards her vehicle. Rodney’s laughter is almost demonic where it obnoxiously dominates the air: more suffocating than the dirt.

She dodges other racers, women that dream of tearing her from the inside out, and spectators praying that their bids on her winning were worth it until she plops into the driver’s seat of her ‘19 Supra. 

She can almost see your fingerprints all over the gearshift. 

The small baggie—your trail, the one proof of your existence—picks at her from the passenger's seat. A taunting call that shields dusted white, maintains its purity just for her. Who were you to toss such a precious gift so carelessly? 

Don’t fuckin’ call me anymore. This is it, Ellie.

How does one trust a liar? 

The bag feels like diamonds brushing her fingertips, teeth grinding together in sonics when she pricks it open. It’s mechanical; the way her pinky scoops the last remnants of glittery snow, dumps it right there on her ID. 

Impulse leads her after that. 

One sniff. That’s all it takes for time to twist before melting. She, with excitement, gums whatever remains, tongue suddenly dry.

Numb nose, numb face. A pleasant thrum that rushes down her limbs like an electric shock. It took no time to awaken from her 48 hour slumber. She’s focused, on like a fully charged battery, the voice of doubt finally silenced for what felt like centuries. She’d give anything to yammer on about her past grievances, yet another impulse, but what do they matter now? What do you matter? 

She nearly forgets that was her last. 

Her foot stomps on the pedal in her adrenaline and her vehicle thrums, trembles—breaks still on. Her window comes down ingest the cheers, the shouts of her name, the air pungent with smoke. 

There’s our girl! Someone shouts, whistles at her. 

Rides sketched with flames and dead smilies pull up next to her, revving wild and alert, pushing to intimidate in her own dominion.

Ellie grins. There’s slime in her teeth. 

In her truest form. 

SUMMER OF ‘15

You’re gonna get me in fucking trouble. 

Ellie’s shitting bricks. Fat bricks. Her leg thumps with the speed of a jackrabbit’s, knee hitting against the passenger door as she nervously inspects her home. 

What if they weren’t quiet enough when they shut the front door? What if the stuffed animals and pillows they shoved under the sheets aren’t suitable enough to be her? What if Joel is awake right now and waiting to catch her? She’s fucked if he finds out what she’s doing right now. She’s fucked, she’s so fucking fucked—

You love trouble, Bear. 

Does she? Did she tell you that before? You sound so sure. She definitely wouldn’t lie in her mother’s car. Guilt would eat her alive. 

Your smile is catastrophic when she whips to face you, thumbnail caught between her teeth while her eyes cry out for fucking help—for some form of sanity from you. For once. 

Your eye roll is playful. Teasing when your hand reaches into your pocket. A box that fits perfectly in your palm is retrieved alongside a lighter. Ellie’s brows crease when you whisper, I think you need one. You’re stressed for no reason. 

What is this? 

Cig. Here. A small, white and orange stick is held between your index and thumb. Right in front of her face. Her mom used to hide those in the bottom drawer of the kitchen counter. And the bathroom cabinets. And atop the living room tables. You never answer her questions. The hell is this? 

Don’t make that face, Your thumb is reminiscent of a feather when it brushes her cheek, gently and aimed to soothe. Her brows halt their strain, but her heart races with the beat of a thousand drums. She feels she shouldn't be doing this, but your touch overtakes her consciousness. 

It’s okay, you say. It’s what you always say. It’s fun. Makes ya look cooler. 

Ellie remains unmoving. She senses your agitation. 

M-Maybe another time? She rushes. Anything to extinguish the flame that begs to enrage you. 

What better time to try than right now? 

To an unaware ear, you sound fine. Indifferent and decent, but Ellie knows you. You’re seconds away from exploding and turning her mother’s car into a clump of useless metal. 

Before Ellie can say anything, you’re shrugging with a huff. The… cig rests between your lips before you flick the lighter, bringing the lit flame to the white tip of the… what the hell is this again? 

When you answer, a sphere of smoke dissipates right in front of your lips. My uncle said it’s nicotine. It’s a… calming agent or whatever. His words, not mine. But you don’t wanna try, so. 

It doesn’t matter what cards are stacked against you, Ellie is always the one left feeling guilty for declining your invitations for things she feels uncomfortable with, no matter how gently. She knows what nicotine is now; the smell alone resurfaces unwelcome memories of her mom, the remnants of each blow sticking to her clothes like glue. Wafted in clouds wherever she walked. 

Ready to roll, Bear? With a voice that drips honey, you stick the key in the ignition. 

As ever. 

You’ll love it, Ellie. You trust me, right?

Yes, she wants to say proudly, without a doubt in her mind, but she can’t, declarations only meant to appease you: you’re sensitive. Her insecurities are hardly a priority. 

Always.

But her grip on the armrest says otherwise when the car zips down the street, pure acceleration. In a residential area, but you never care. Never. 

Drums beat through her mother’s speakers while you scream lyrics to a song she doesn’t recognize, hair blowing in the wind. The further you drive from Joel’s house, the more tense Ellie feels. 

It’s always like that with you. Adrenaline replaces fear or the other way around, it never fails. A curse you carry.

The drives to these random places are never too long, but this was the shortest it’s ever been. Her mother’s car seems so out of place trapped between giant SUVs and Supras. There’s a few million dollars parked in this random driveway. Ellie tries not to nerd out in her seat. 

Dude… whose house is this? 

Pretty unimpressive and small given what’s being driven. There’s some people walking around outside. 

Adults. Adults she doesn’t recognize from anywhere. 

You told me it was a party. 

Is this not a party? You laugh while purple lights flash through the windows; the silhouettes seem so haunting from out here. They’re too big—too calm to be anyone from school.

Do you know anyone here? She pins, and your eyes roll. 

‘Course I do. Why would I come if I didn’t? Who do you think invited me? You scoff, Not to spoil the surprise, but you’re the special guest. 

Her heart plummets. Just before anxiety can sizzle from her nails to her palms, her cheeks are engulfed in warmth, wafted with nicotine as you coddle so gently. 

I set this up for you. I didn’t wanna say ‘cuz I thought you’d get mad at me. You said you wanted your 16th to be unforgettable, right?

That was a joke. She just regained the joy for celebration a couple years ago after being forced to not care. She grapples your wrist, uses your stability as a stress ball.

Just stay with me. I gotchu, okay? 

Instead of her silence being a warning to turn back, it’s taken as an invitation to pull up the block, too far from the driveway. One of your hands free the key from the ignition, body twisting to open your door before reaching over to open Ellie’s. 

Couldnta parked closer? is the only fight she can muster. All you do is snicker. 

Why does she trust you so freely? Her mistake. It always is. 

She clenches your hand tight on the walk to the garage, not a complaint about her sweaty hands dispelled from your mouth. A loyal follower despite your smoke—and now the smoke of others, infiltrating her nose until it leaks from her sinuses, passing through bodies that move in slow motion until you reach your stop. 

A large group of unwelcoming men… holding thicker cigarettes. Great. 

Look who's here!

Ellie’s able to keep her cowering to a minimum when they approach: on contrast, you seem to belong, not shaken at all by the dinginess, the cracked walls, the fat stacks of cash that some of them hold and trade with. She liked your outfit when it was just the two of you driving around, now she can’t help but notice how exposed you are. 

Where’s the birthday girl? A man asks with no courtesy. 

Right here, You lay an open palm of her sizzling cheek, be nice, will ya? 

Aren’t I always? And you reply with a hum like you’re flirting. Ellie’s hand clamps yours: in need of stability, of reassurance of safety, but you don’t reciprocate.

Ellie… A large hand extends in front of her, letters imprinted on each of his knuckles. Braun is the only way to describe him. 

Name’s Micah, tone cordial. Nice to meet you. 

You, too, she replies despite feeling the opposite. She’s never too fond of strangers. 

Micah’s hand drops when she doesn’t accept, just holds yours tighter, but you’re just as giddy and bright. Not intimidated in the slightest. On the outside, at least.

I like her already. He notes to you. 

Join the club, you mutter, Your goons can’t say hello? 

You wanna ask them yourself? 

An underlying jab rests beneath the invitation, something’s there that upsets you for a second. She feels it in the light scratches from your thumbnail: insecurity. 

Good thing she hates seeing you upset. 

I’m not new. 

A mindless comment. The world seems to freeze for a minute. 

The bones in Ellie’s hand nearly shatter when you squeeze, a signal meant to shut her up, but her gaze never falters, glued to the man that oozes satisfaction at her indifference, completely unaware of the warfare that crashes and burns in her chest. His smile is twisted, eyes carnivorous where they drop down, all the way to her dirty shoes. 

Seem new to me. 

C’mon, let her spin. You promised me. You flue to him, purposefully interrupting the sizing, but Micah’s eyes never drop from hers. 

You know how much that fuckin’ car costs? She crashes it n’ I got her head. And yours. 

It’s Ellie's turn to break your hand. Only then do you give a reassuring squeeze. 

Did he just threaten to kill you both? 

She won’t fucking crash it! 

What’s in it for me? 

Finally, he looks to you. A semblance of silence, a kind that sizzles. A mutual communication between you and him, and all Ellie can do is watch with unease. This is when you falter; blinks rapid and stuttered and your palm feels clammier. Ellie matches your squeezes. 

I gotchu, okay? You say with a pout and glossy eyes and that buttery tone, your silent weapon. A last resort. 

Promise? He hums. 

S… Swear. 

Ellie stiffens when he leans down, waist cut a few inches to whisper something unheard by her to you. You’re nodding, accepting, choking the life from her hand before Micah retracts, last statement barely caught by her. 

Tell your uncle to call me back. 

The air tenses with Ellie’s curiosity. You agree silently, and with that, he seems satisfied enough to pull away. 

Micah may know you—he knows your uncle, a privilege Ellie’s never earned, but he exudes trust in you, for that toothy smile that strains at its corners before he rounds up his friends with the flick of a hand, ushering them outside. Her heart pounds at the jingles from decorative car keys, boosting louder than the speakers, above mischievous laughter from strangers. 

Adrenaline kicks, the strangulation of her hand is proof enough. 

Micah may know you, but not well enough. 

That’s the difference between her and him. Learning your deception is a skill she’s mastered.

Keys land in the center of your palm, Micah’s fangs conniving and thirsty. The wind he leaves behind is ghostly, cold and rushed. 

You turn to Ellie, keys passed like a steaming torch from him to you to her. Your final whisper brings no comfort. Just ice. 

Happy birthday, Bear. 

—

Humidity makes her car wear. 

It's at least five decades old, so she can’t be too upset about it; she hasn’t tended to her dire needs for a while, but she moves, drives smooth enough, even through the dirt and rocks. The broken and cracked streets. Gets from point A to B without too much of a hassle. The stutters often go ignored.

Even without a destination, she comes in handy. 

Time seems to fly when reminiscing. Despite the gloominess of the memorial, there’s an inkling of something that keeps Ellie’s chest warm. Could be you, your idea. Your imagery that marks her so deeply. She’ll always be unsure why, but your echoes rest there, tucked away safely. Protected, even if she failed to do so when you were still around.

The warmth never lasts too long; always overtaken by despair: a heat that hollows from the center. 

Open plains. Sand, dead grass, dirt. So many rocks. The farther she travels, the fewer trees. Just her and the beaming sun. There’s no use in wiping her sweat when the beads are replaced every three seconds.

Hilly areas were always her favorite course. Below seems so small from that high up, making the world that’s nearly impossible to grasp more digestible. For her eyes, at least. Her body still feels its weight with every shift and turn of the road. From up here, buildings are worthless and people hardly exist to the human eye. 

Her therapist hates her use of perspective. In Ellie’s eyes, nothing mattered—a twisted change after her brain chemistry rewired the first or tenth time. It was readily accepted, like her body embodied autopilot. There was no necessity to add weight to things, conversations, ideas that had no benefit to her. The world doesn’t spin for me, so what actually is the point of caring? Of wondering or thinking or trying to be? There wasn’t one. 

Her world was simple: her, you, and your litters of bags. 

Bags filled with what she used to view as treasures, something locked away and sacred, only to be shared by both of you(and clientele)when no one was watching. Although a rarity—someone was always watching. It's otherworldly how Joel never found out until he did. She wore highs on her sleeve for two years. He must’ve not been paying close attention. 

Or he had trust that his kid would never partake in something so harmful. She prefers to go with the latter. Makes her feel slightly less like shit. 

But that became her purpose. To use and take and lie, much like your purpose was to give at the expense of others around you; entirely unconditional in your mind. You’re a force that lives to feed. A match crafted by the universe. 

She didn’t know how deadly you were at the time. 

Forgiveness is strange—more complex than hate or grief or anger. Forgive them, forgive yourself, forgive this and that and fuck all, in words of her therapist. It’s complicated and takes time—the process of healing, an undetermined amount but she imagines it's lengthy because she finds herself at phase one very often; the hardest pill to swallow, she’s hardly made any progress, her only trophy being that her skin doesn’t feel like it’s growing tiny legs every ten seconds. 

Forgiveness is always first. She hasn’t seen you in years, but that emptiness whenever she thinks of you is still fresh and ghostly, tickling her neck whenever she recalls. 

Forgiveness is earned. Forgiveness is a privilege, one that no one in her life deserved. Not meant in an egotistical way—her refusal to do so was neutral, not spiteful or out of defiance, but because… 

Why? Where would that put her? Everyone that she loved is gone. Progressing isn’t worth the effort if no one she values can witness it. She thrives off of approval, even now. 

To quote Linda, “That’s your greatest weakness.”

—

Anna is always at the forefront of her mind.  

Not with affection… sometimes with affection. There were good times on occasion. Not the widest selection to choose from, but enough to keep her spirit alive in a way that isn’t entirely tortuous. 

They made fresh ice cream together when she was six, bought fish and decorated their tanks when she was seven, rode bikes down the block together a few times. 

She didn’t know her mother was high during all of it though. That knowledge always sours her appreciation. 

Ellie blames her unknowing on naivety. She was eight when she caught her mother in the act: barely anything for the eye to notice, but it was heard—a distant sniff, then cough, then a breath that felt like the first in ages. She blamed it on allergies at first, but when her mother’s words started jumbling together, she put two and two together. Her mother always did love mafia films. They had a lot of that white stuff. She thought it was sugar.

Catching users' use is particularly horrifying. There’s a look they always have: kin to shame but much worse, like they know hollowness isn’t enough to make them stop, even if it’s their own kid begging them to. 

Ellie never begged though. Never out loud: silently, in her mother’s room with her heart beating in her ear, when she was an optimist and believed in God, she’d think of angels sent to heal her mom, that’d she’d wake up and see her best friend, idol, smile like she used to. Maybe if she cried, hollered, screamed like she did at Joel all those times, she’d have a mother that wasn’t sick; painful that she’ll never know. 

The tears never came, and neither did that joyous morning. The start of her addiction was always blurry. All Ellie can recall was the end. 

She thought her mom was asleep. Why didn’t she check her chest for movement before she layed on it? She thought an extra blanket would make her mom warmer. 

Her body lurches forward when a foot plants on the brake, tires screeching to a sudden halt with her hands tight on the wheel, tightness forming in her chest. No traffic, thank the universe there’s no traffic. 

The first bits of a spiral are always the scariest; the last attempt from the brain to grasp reality before crashing. She feels it whenever she thinks of that next morning. Why does she always think of that morning? She’ll never forget that morning, ever ever ever. 

Any and all imagery is used as a distraction. How far had she driven? The land is unfamiliar but it's pretty. Lots of green. The tightness grows tighter when she twists and snatches the keys from the ignition, the car dying from exhaust. Irregular breaths and her brain won’t fucking forget. 

“You’re fine, you’re fucking fine, relax.” 

Whispers, whispers from every corner of her mind. 

My mother’s safe underground, her spirit’s in the car. My mom’s safe underground, her spirit’s in the car. 

She’s safe, she’s safe, she’s safe. 

She’s no longer in pain. 

In moments like this, she would’ve used whatever shit you crushed up and left for her. Anything to keep her quiet, she’d do anything to quiet: no more you, no more mom, no more suffering. Silence and rest, that’s all she ever needed—all you’ve ever supplied, and then you fucking left her to suffer by herself like the heartless bitch you’ve always been.  

… In moments like this, she’s very tempted to use. A quick flash across her mind, always left with immense guilt because the temptation has never—will never disappear; a constant itch under the skin. 

All she wants is to forget. What’ll one more time hurt? The last time, she promised herself over and over again. She’s quit and un-quit so many fucking times that her brain recognizes it as a pattern; use and stop then rehab, use and stop then rehab. 

If her vice was within reach, she’d be high by now. Phase one is never too far behind, just a fucking failure. 

Her mother was always her last thought before she got high, and Joel was always the first when she woke up sober and in pain. Could be why she’d grown so attached during her vulnerable years. Drugs, alcohol—substances kept her connected to both of her parents, souls trapped deep in her psyche instead of the piles of dirt that submerge their bones. 

Joel always told her it was okay to cry about whatever made her upset, no matter how stupid… or not stupid at all. The body can’t decipher what is and isn’t significant. It just feels and emotes accordingly. Her sobs are as ragged for her mother as they are for the Tiktoks of unhoused kittens with no food. 

Everything hurts just the same. 

—

—

—

WINTER OF ‘18

I need a favor. 

I need a favor. 

I need a favor. 

I need, I need, I need, please…

Everyday since her eighteenth birthday, like clockwork. But recently… you can’t pin it exactly, but there’s something new. 

She calls, you answer, like always. You call, she answers after a few rings, conversations doomed with the same pleasantry. 

Can I please…

But you’ve always delivered. You’ve never said no. Maybe you should start saying no, but she knew you wouldn’t. You owe her this, everything. 

Can I come over? I miss you.

No, but you’ll meet her somewhere. Your uncle’s home. She can’t be here when he is. No one can. 

How’ve you been? I feel like we haven’t seen each other in a while. 

You saw Ellie yesterday. And the day before and the day before that. She was high and you babysat like always, maybe that’s why she can’t remember. You’re always together, although now, she doesn’t visit solely because she misses your company anymore. 

Can you meet me, please? 

You’ve accepted her invitation twice already. She sounded about ready to cry—you’ll never deny her when she’s like this. 

Can you bring the ones from last time? I—I forgot what they’re called, I need ‘em. Needa see you. 

She corrects robotically, but you pretend to not notice. Need. A pierce through the eardrums, a shock that signaled alarms. Something about that word… it makes you itch this time. For some odd reason. 

But you never say no. And she knows you won’t. 

The walk to the pond feels like a voyage through the Sahara, feet heavy with the weight of sand in your shoes. The trail you follow is always the same but there’s something different. Something about you. 

Ellie would usually be sitting on the bench, anticipating your arrival with tapping feet, and you see her—smaller with your distance, but she’s up this time around, steps frantic where she paces back and forth in front of the bench. 

Something about you. Something about Ellie. 

Ay, Stranger!

You holler, ignoring your unease. Ellie's ears jolt like a fox’s, miming your smile. Toothless and agitated. At least she’s still. For the time being.

Missed you. She calls back, as always. This time, your smile’s genuine. Smaller, but real. I missed you more. You look tired. 

Aren’t I always? She sighs. 

Not too long before you’re face to face with freckles. Your skin frosts; she’s never hesitated to hug you. But you never pry. That’s not your responsibility. 

Where you been? 

Around. You didn’t answer last night. Subtly accusatory. She’s never questioned about your whereabouts before. 

So, you allow your instincts to embrace you. Ah, yeah, unc had my phone. Sorry. 

All good. He gave it back, all that matters. 

You hum nonsensically. 

This fucking tone. Something about it. Then silence. Nothing from either. She simply observes and you do the same to her. Right on your bag strap. 

Are… are they in there? 

Yes. You never forget to carry. 

Is what in where? Forced from your throat, out of place. What did you just say?

What I asked you to bring. Are they… Is it in there? 

Yes. Always. I always carry. For you…

… Is what you always say, but the air hangs empty. Unanswered. 

All you can do is watch her crumble in slow motion as the silence widens. Her eye has an arrhythmic twitch like when the body’s dehydrated, but it translates downward. Her throat jumps with dryness, down to her chest that jerks with every breath, down to her arms that struggle to stay at her sides, to her fingers, to her knees that wobble and legs shake. 

Look at her. Are you stupid? Your brain is shouting signals to disengage. Have you never taken in how different she appears? Eyes sunken and red with dryness that matches her mouth that seems to be gnawed off, pale as can be. She’s worn those clothes for days now. No joy, no color. She’s so… small. Physically and…

Everything about her is small. Ellie’s never been small. She’s too large for life, too creative and spontaneous to be confined by whatever that is. 

You’re looking at her, but your brain doesn’t register familiarity. There’s a mental shock that’s earned whenever you see your best friend, but that didn’t happen this time. 

What the fuck is happening? What is that? Ellie? 

Can you just give—

Ellie—

FUCKING ANSWER ME! DID YOU BRING THEM OR NOT? 

Dry your throat is dry. 

Never once has Ellie yelled at you, ever ever. Not in her desperation, not in her sadness not in her disappointment with your dumb choices. Never. She’s never been upset with you—tone evident with conviction, never raised a hand to you, never touched where she shouldn’t never never never so why is she 

Dry. You can’t speak. Your mouth refuses. Hers takes up for yours—deep mutters as she paces. 

Fucking… fuck you. Why the fuck did you come if you didn’t fucking have… I needed you… One fucking job…

You always carry. They’re always on you. 

It crashes into you then. Something—still unpinned, but something is different. A bad kind. One that brings you unrest instead of adrenaline. Within you. Within Ellie. Your chest hurts strangely, too much to bear. 

That look on her face… so broken and hurt by your denial, your heart cracks. Whatever power you thought you had in this moment was faulty. Her baggie’s in your water bottle holder. You went out of your way to crush them for her.

When she sees it in your hand, she breathes like she couldn’t seconds prior, ragged and broken and painful sounding. 

Why the fuck did you lie? Said as a joke, accepted like a hot knife. You didn’t lie. You just didn’t answer. 

Why do her hands shake like that? She must notice your scrutiny because she sits right on the bench. Just like always. 

And you watch: watch her breathe powder that you crushed just for her as easy as oxygen, eyes shut in bliss. A sense of tranquility takes over her, she doesn’t shake as much: like her body whispers to her brain, finally. She laughs at your face, passes you the baggie. Tells you to relax. 

There’s a family playing with their dog not too far from you both. Why do you care so suddenly about its annoying barking?

Keep it. 

And she accepts without argument. She’d always acknowledge your hesitancy, your discomfort, why you won’t indulge with her. She read you better than anyone else. 

You never sit on the bench, and Ellie never asks why. 

Something about you. Something’s wrong with Ellie. 

—

—

—

FALL OF ‘15

…What does it feel like? 

You curious?

A gentle bite while you shove wads of cash into your uncle’s bill counter. Ellie’s interest is never short on you. It creeps up on her from time to time. It’s oddly entertaining, watching her struggle to understand why you do it. 

It’s weed. It feels like weed. Not much to it. 

Smells like shit. 

It smells good to me. 

You’re used to it. I don’t like it. 

Okay. Do you want me to waste it? The last bit was unnecessary: weed doesn’t waste unless you’re smoking with a fucking idiot, but Ellie doesn’t know that. Her brows crease with a jutted lip. 

No, ‘m just saying… 

Good. All it does is make you sleepy, You note casually, I think it’d do you some good. 

Are you insulting my irregular sleeping patterns? She jokes. 

Yes, you mumble between a grin. 

She just watches you toke and discreetly blow smoke into her face for an undetermined amount of time, all while the stutters of counted money slice through the air. You can’t help yourself; her upturned nose is adorable. If it really bothered her, she’d back away or go home. 

What if I do it wrong? 

Your brain’s emptying, draining out all wasteful thoughts from your ears until Ellie and her rampant curiosity are all that’s left. You snort. 

If you wanna try, just ask, n’ I’ll teach you. You mask the slur enough to ease her… you think. Or maybe she’s scared all over again. It’s hard to tell, your visions fuzzing at the corners a bit. 

Weeds for beginners, it’s not like… crack or somethin’. If that’s what you’re thinkin’. You’ll be fine. 

Pinched between your thumb and index, the half-smoked joint gets passed down. Ellie eyes it with alarm. 

Try not to think of bad things when you hit it. 

Wow, thanks. I definitely won’t be seeing the Boogieman anymore. Thanks, thanks a lot. 

Ellie flinches. Did you laugh too loudly? Probably. She’s funny. What’s expected?

Laugh with me, ya sucker. 

And much to your shock, after what felt like minutes of silent judgement, the joint is no longer in your hand. 

Your instructions don’t feel like they’re coming from you—more like an inner monologue. Your mouth moves but your brain doesn’t follow, doesn’t even know if the words being said are making sense. How much cash did you count? … did the machine count? 

You must be somewhat accurate because Ellie follows like a good student—that’s what she’s always been. A listener, an adapter. Faces challenges like a headstrong bull. All while you cower. Envy her in silence… 

Right before you teeter off into darkness, Ellie sucks in carbon until her cheeks are filled before… swallowing. Smoke glides from her nostrils. 

You don’t mean to laugh at her choking but her suffering has always been cartoonish. A bit silly. Her eyes bulge and water and she’s dry heaving like a Spongebob character desperate for water. 

She shoves the joint back into your grabby hand before dropping it into the ashtray, watching your friend shovel down water like drowning doesn’t matter, all while you gasp and choke on your laughter. 

The silence that follows is abrupt. 

Ellie’s quiet. You’re quiet. Even the money machine’s stunted with your room’s stillness. 

Your bestie’s adorable in this lighting, with the sun glowing from behind. Almost angelic. 

Your brain’s afloat, and based on her inattentive stare, Ellie’s there with you. She’s the coolest smoking virgin you’ve ever encountered. You despise tweakers. 

Sleepy? You think you say. 

Ellie says nothing, allowing herself to melt into your fluffy rug. Did you say something?

For an anxiety-riddled freak, she seems at peace. For once. Finally. 

You mimic her, shoving away stacks of money before laying out on your side, watching with intensity. Ellie often wears her heart on her sleeve: the easiest to read but now… 

You’re not sure what she’s thinking. She stares with voidness. 

You wanna sleep? You whisper. Ellie denies with a light shake of her head. 

How do you feel? 

She shrugs as much as she can with one shoulder. A grin pins your cheeks up. With a heavy arm, you twirl a loose bang behind her ear. 

She smiles then. Pretty. 

She’s always been pretty. She deserves this. 

She deserves peace. 

—

—

—

WINTER OF ‘19

I FUCKING HATE YOU! 

STUPID FUCKING BITCH! 

Please, baby, please open the door? Please, I need you, I’m hurting real bad, please… please… please? 

Fucking worthless whore, open the goddamn door, you—

I’m sorry, I love you so much. I didn’t mean any of it.

For three hours: berated and coddled. Then silence. After three hours, there's silence. 

With bloodshot eyes, you peer from the peephole. She’s gone. Or hiding. Waiting for the door to open so she can strangle you. 

You rush to close your blinds, dust flying from beneath their flaps. Protection. You’re too exposed. You need to hide, you need solace. 

No solitude. Not with that fucking bag sitting in the middle of your living room with an expressionless taunt, surrounded by glocks on the wall. All a mockery.

You killed your best friend. Sing-songy. The harder you sob, the louder it attacks. The voice that won’t quiet. 

You killed her, you killed her, you killed her. 

Your eardrums blow with your hollers. She sounded like she’s withdrawing and she’s alone because you refused to help her and if she dies or is dead it’s all on you, everything’s on you. 

Every sin signed by you. Every lie swindled and resold. You can’t calm down. The elastic snapping against your wrist isn’t enough, you can’t breathe, you can’t think. Your uncle isn’t here to compress you, to level you out, to nurture with knives for fingernails.

Ellie’s been alone, and now you are. 

Abandonment. It shouldn’t feel this painful. You’ve adapted for so long, it’s in your nature to be lonely. Why do you feel so damaged? Unfixable? This can’t all be on you, right? Ellie played her own part. You helped her, made life easier, gave her fun distractions because she deserved it. She deserved fun. Your uncle always told you kids should have fun, be free. 

Right? Your knees burn while you beg for confirmation from the universe. You’re always right. Your uncle’s always right. 

Please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die. 

Rushed and snot-filled and desperate. You should’ve opened the door, let her in. Made her happy. She would’ve at least been in your proximity. Watched incredibly close. 

She deserves happiness. She deserves, she deserves, and you supply. 

But there’s no succession this time. No internal praise, no elation, no adrenaline, no soul, no good. 

Dread. The purest form, the kind that tears from the inside, slashed to death by a thousand knives, surviving pieces left behind in a shell to suffer until their own end. 

Trapped with no one to call. 

Is this how Ellie felt around you all these years? 

Trapped. 

What karma. 

—

—

—

As long as it’s not cocaine. 

One little cigarette. Just as long as it’s not cocaine. Or acid. Or molly. Or that watery stuff. Cocaine, though. Especially that. 

Her tantrum is long forgotten, all because of one little cigarette trapped in the glove box. Like a baby sucking on their thumb, such an odd way to self-soothe. 

She’s parked even higher up now, car barricaded by a ragged freeway fence so she won’t drive off the green cliff. It looks weak and rusted. She probably could if she wanted to, she’s thought about it, but she’s a pussy. And she refuses to lose her last cig. 

She enjoys the last bits of it, ignoring her guilt, but not that much—it’s not cocaine—before tossing the butt out the window. Hopefully no fires start. 

Hours seem to fly with every shift of the ocean. The sun is barely peeking from behind the mountains, nearly dark out, yet it’s still just as hot. Her shirt is drenched, clinging to her; she can’t wait to shower. Or drown in the depths beneath her. 

Just a thought. She never learned how to swim. 

Joel is here if she doesn’t look at the passenger's seat, watching the moon slowly rise to dominate the sky. He loved night-watching, star-gazing… sky-staring? Inclined with mother nature and all that. 

Such a small thought has so much power over her. She just smoked, she shouldn’t be so ready to crumble. Not this quickly. Stop thinking about Joel, stop thinking about mom, stop thinking about… 

Somehow, trying not to think about you is so much harder. She wants to stop thinking. 

Fuck you for forcing her to mourn a quiet brain. Fuck you for everything.

The last bits of sun are telling her to go the fuck home, but she’s lost. She drove too much, too far. Followed her mother’s guide with no map. She can wait it out for ten, fifteen more minutes. Until the moon’s at her peak. 

…

Her mind always plays tricks on her. 

She vowed not to bring her phone on this trip. She had her wallet and keys in hand, so where the fuck is that ringing coming from? 

…

The passenger’s side. Underneath the coat she left in there a few months back… Did she leave her phone in here?

The device is yanked from her coat pocket. The call is marked unknown. 

Joel would’ve joked that the moon’s clocking into her shift. So stupid. A knot forms in her throat. 

She answers to distract. “Hello,” dry and cracked. She hasn’t spoken in a week. Maybe two. 

No response, but someone breathes on the other line. Stupid fucking kids prank-calling again. 

“Hello,” agitated. The breathing stutters, followed by another bout of silence. 

The universe is strange. Her thumb hovers over the red button right as a voice breaks through, cracked and timid and scared. Her mind… What a strong enemy. 

The screen frosts her ear. 

“… Hello?” 

A masked sob blares through her phone. Swallowed. Ellie feels the cliff beneath her crumble, trapped by her seatbelt, plummeting to her death, and somehow, that’s not as scary. Her heart crawling up her throat to splatter in her lap wasn’t as scary. Not as much. 

Not nearly as much as that buttery timbre that shakes with uncertainty. 

“Hey, Stranger.” 

[violent138]

It must be so unsettling for Bruce, in moments when the Batkids seem like they all know something he doesn't, or if he feels the pull of Gotham ensnaring all of the kids into something they're supposed to be getting him on board with. He wished the city didn't use those kinds of means, but the kids have moments of being more in tune with it than him, and he can never be sure what exactly is going on when they lie to him using tricks he doesn't remember from before, or hide information with skills he regrets teaching.

[taintedmind6669]

Do I have an ongoing Billy Batson fic that I’ve been avoiding working on for months? Yeah. Anyways heres this open-ended drabble I’ve been keeping in my notes app since November

Trigger warning for mildly graphic descriptions of life-threatening injury, its not super bad but if you’re sensitive to that kinda thing you prolly shouldn’t read this

SOS

No no no no no this could NOT be how he went out. Not from a stray bullet fired during a drug deal gone wrong. Billy clasped his hand to his stomach as he ran, gasping for air but desperate to get away lest the criminals turn their focus away from each other and onto the little kid who had been snooping on their business and had let out an unfortunate yelp upon having been shot directly in some very vital internal organs. Billy wasn’t sure how far he ran, time was beginning to swirl and slide away from his grasp with every heavy footfall and little black dots speckled the corners of his vision, threatening to take over his sight entirely.

   He hadn't even intended to investigate the pair’s shady dealings, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong form, seriously, the one time he wasn’t getting the scoop for his radio gig just had to be the one time he got mixed up in something genuinely life threatening. Billy’s rotten luck was starting to really get on his nerves. It took a lot to get Billy well and truly worked up, especially when it came to injustices enacted against himself as opposed to civilians, but come on? There was only so much bad luck he could endure before wondering if perhaps some other pantheon of Gods had it out for his patrons and decided to take it out on him. Most Gods weren’t exactly known for their emotional maturity.

   Minutes and seconds congealed into one mass of sticky uncertainty taking up space in the forefront of Billy’s mind, he couldn’t focus, the air in his lungs was leaving him faster than he could replace it with shallow shaky breaths.

   Fuck, he was really going to die in a dingy alley as Billy Batson, the homeless runaway that shoveled peoples driveways for a little extra food money. He bit back a cry of agony as he dropped down against the wall of a building, he couldnt tell what building his was leaned against, he couldn’t recognize the street, he could barely see through the dark fog circling his line of sight.

   He pulled his cold pale hand away from the bullet wound, his heart dropped at the fuzzy sight of blood gushing out, eager to vacate his body’s rapidly dying husk. His already red shirt turned a deep crimson-black in a wide circle around the hole. He couldn’t think straight, his eyes shook and pain pulled at every inkling of a thought he managed to form, somehow, he gathered just enough strength to pull his Justice League communicator out of his pocket.

With limited control over his trembling fingers and a weak grasp on consciousness Billy sent a message to the unofficial leader of the Justice League.

Billy’s last thought before the dark dreamless sleep pulled him under was that he should really look into luck spells if he happens to survive this.

…

A shout pierced the quiet Gotham night, like the chime of midnight, echoing and demanding attention.

Batman and his ward zeroed in on the sound that served as a verbal spotlight, the scuffle was relatively simple: a masked man grappling with a woman for her purse while stood on the doorstep of a skinny and sad looking apartment complex.

Robin looked up at Batman with starry eyes, Batman responded with a curt nod, allowing his sidekick to handle the situation on his own while he observed from the nearby rooftop.

Bruce could tell the aggressor was young based on his stature, his body language hemorrhaged inexperience by the gallon, it seemed like a safe enough bet for his student of a little under 3 years to handle alone.

Just as Robin had finished tightening the zip ties around the perpetrator’s wrists Batman felt a buzz from his JL communicator. It wasn’t often that Batman received an alert on the device, he had made it very clear that the communicators were only to be used in the most dire situations or if there was an urgent matter the whole group needed to discuss.

Half expecting to find a message from Flash about the Watchtower being out of granola bars, Batman pulled the device from his utility belt.

He was mildly surprised to find that it was Captain Marvel who had messaged him, it wasn’t as though the hero was too proud to ask for help, it was simply that the “World’s Mightiest Mortal” didn’t typically need it.

The last time Marvel had needed the assistance of the Justice League on Fawcett business was when Mister Atom was on a rampage, exploding buildings faster than Marvel could evacuate them and the demigod had asked for help getting civilians to safety while he dealt with the robot.

Batman glanced back at his protégé, he watched Dick hand the woman her purse with that boyish smile on his face and he felt a warmth bloom inside of him. Robin could manage babysitting the would-be purse thief during the few minutes it took for the cops to arrive at the scene, in the meantime he could read the Captain’s message and determine the next course of action.

Upon opening the message Batman’s eyebrows furrowed and that warm sense of pride was washed away by a distinct concern.

“SOS”

The message was joined by a little square with a blinking red dot smack dab in the middle, matching red text underneath the dot displayed the hero’s exact coordinates.

As if on cue, red and blue lights illuminated the street, Bruce gestured for Dick to leave the man and follow him, the authorities were close enough that the man wouldn’t be able to run far enough to get away. Batman and Robin were never really known for staying to chat with Gotham PD, a pattern which would have to continue as now the two had somewhere to be, and a demigod to save.

[mywitheredloveslastforever]

If you look into the coping mechanism basket in my mind, this is kind of what you'll find inside at the moment.

[readymades2002]

trying to do some financial math for if i move out and getting sick to my stomach

[blackwaxidol]

"A desk would fix me" is such a simple but truthful declaration... I see it, the end is in sight...

Lumbar support...

[shimp]

"this character should kill their abuser" they're 12

“this character should kill their abuser” i agree. unfortunately they wouldn’t do that.

[missgayuniverse1998]

what's cool and awesome is that i went down on this one med bc i could not sleep and now other symptoms that i didn't notice had decreased are stronger again. tired as shit of this all and don't even know what i'm going to say to my doctor

[drdemonprince]

I worry that today’s generation of kids on the internet have never gotten to develop much digital agency or form safe, empowering relationships with older people. More broadly, I think our current culture of isolating children from all unrelated adults, supposedly in the name of their “protection” only causes them to become more ignorant, lonesome, and vulnerable to exploitation.

There are many ways in which restricting youth access to information technology and training adults to avoid all contact with children makes kids even more powerless and dependent.

If a child cannot post their sexual health questions on Ask Alice or go searching around online, then they have to believe whatever they hear from their parent or priest. If a young person longs to taste the freedoms of adulthood but aren’t given any room to explore, then the grown-up in their DMs telling them that they are so mature becomes a hell of a lot more seductive.

And if a kid never gets to search for sexual content online, learn about adult sexual experiences, or touch themselves and find pleasure in the privacy of their own minds, they may never fully learn that their body is them, for them to enjoy and express themselves however they see fit.

For queer youth, the dangers of isolation are amplified. A study published in the journal Child Protection and Practice in April of last year found that LGBTQI+ children face an elevated risk of grooming and sexual abuse because they are discriminated against by peers, preached against within their religious communities, and mistreated or kicked out of the house by their families — and also, because an adult with no respect for boundaries might be the only person offering to talk with them about queerness or sex.

It’s very difficult to know the difference between a healthy relationship and exploitation when a predatory adult is the first queer person a kid ever knows. If a relationship with an abuser is the only way that a teen ever gets to live out their queerness or explore their budding sexuality, then it becomes immensely difficult for them to walk away — leaving the groomer is like tearing off a crucial part of themselves that never gets expressed otherwise, or even seen.

This is also true of children who have the early rumblings of kinky sexualities, too — when you long to be controlled or tied up, you need a safe outlet to learn and fantasize about doing such things consensually one day. If you do not know that such options exist, you’ll settle instead for abuse. The more options that a child has to learn about sexual practices, to meet other queer people of ages, and to form appropriate relationships with unrelated adults, the harder they become to manipulate, and the more power they have to walk away.

...

Being a minor is a position created by legal oppression, but most people consider a minor’s lack of freedom to be so natural and morally correct they don’t even recognize it as oppression. Instead, they see it as protection, a healthy separation between the world of the human and the not-quite-human yet. Though they would never admit it, a minor is not the same thing as a person to them, for a minor can be thrown out of public spaces, locked away, silenced, disregarded, and left to rot in the ways full persons are not.

I believe that we queer adults are failing our younger siblings by refusing to play a part in raising and looking after them. We have chosen to privilege our individual safety from accusations of ‘inappropriate’ conduct over the need for queer youth to see their own sexualities and identities normalized, envision a diversity of possible futures for themselves, and seek aid and understanding when they are mistreated.

For those of us who’ve had the liberty to escape our ignorant hometowns, get on HRT, have joyous gay sex in dark rooms, or even just dance tenderly with a sexy androgynous stranger’s cheek pressed against our own, we have a responsibility to pour from our filled cups, and to remember what it was like to have no such access. As terrified as we are of losing our documentation, our access to medicine, and our legal rights, we must remember those queer people who presently have none of those things, and do all that we can to extend our aid to them.

I wrote about the troubling culture of the "MINORS DNI" bio, and how it contributes to the mass isolation of young queer people. You can read the full piece or have it narrated to you by the substack app for free here.

[helen-with-an-a]

You Hate Me

Hiiiii - so I thought I'd have a little break between requests and so I wrote this. It's angsty and I probably won't have a part 2 cos I like the way it ended and I'm not even sure where I would take it to be honest. Anyways, I hope you like it <3<3<3

Lucy Bronze x sister!Reader

Description: Lucy has always hated R and she just wants to know why

Word count: 7.2k

You felt like an outsider in your family your whole life. You were the youngest sibling by quite some way. Lucy was 12 when you were born. She didn’t really want another younger sister. She was happy with the way things were. She was the middle child - crazy and reckless with a passion for sport that would take her all over the globe.

Her parents already struggled with money. She and Jorge already had to do jobs around the neighbourhood to help out wherever possible. Sophie was thinking about what she could do when she moved up to secondary school. They couldn’t handle a baby. They couldn’t handle the extra costs you would bring. Would she have to give up football? She knew it was selfish to think of that, but football was her life. She couldn’t … wouldn’t … give it up without a fight.

For Lucy, football wasn't just a pastime; it was her escape, her freedom, and the one thing in her chaotic life that she had complete control over. On the field, she could be anyone she wanted – strong, fast, unstoppable. The thought of losing that terrified her. It wasn't just about the sport itself; it was about the future she had envisioned. Scouts had already begun to take notice of her, murmurs of potential scholarships floated in the air, and dreams of playing professionally, of leaving this small, suffocating town behind, had started to take shape.

But now, with a new baby on the way, everything seemed uncertain. The baby meant more bills, more attention diverted away from her, and likely, more sacrifices to be made. The prospect gnawed at her, a constant weight in the back of her mind. She didn’t want to be angry at you – after all, it wasn’t your fault – but the resentment was there, simmering beneath the surface. Every time she laced up her boots, the fear that it could be for the last time haunted her.

The pressure at home only seemed to increase. Her parents were stretched thin, their arguments about money becoming more frequent and more intense. The once-occasional requests for her and Jorge to contribute had now turned into expectations. It was no longer about just helping out; it was about survival. Lucy found herself picking up extra shifts at the local café, babysitting for the neighbours, and doing whatever odd jobs she could find, all while trying to keep up with her schoolwork and football practice. She was exhausted, but she refused to let it show.

At night, when the house was quiet and the weight of the day settled heavily on her shoulders, she would lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. She couldn't stop thinking about what might happen if she was forced to give up football. It wasn’t just a game to her – it was her way out, her shot at something better. Without it, she feared she would be stuck in this life forever, trapped by the same financial struggles that had plagued her parents.

As your arrival grew closer, the tension in the house became palpable. Her parents tried to reassure her that things would be okay, that they would find a way to make it work, but their words felt hollow. Lucy could see the worry in their eyes, the strain in their voices. They were trying their best, but their best might not be enough. And that terrified her.

Lucy made a silent vow to herself: no matter what happened, she would find a way to keep playing. Even if it meant waking up before dawn to practice on her own, even if it meant working twice as hard to make up for the lost time, she wouldn't let go of her dream. Football was more than just a sport to her; it was her lifeline, her hope for a future that didn’t involve the same struggles her parents faced.

She knew it would be a battle, but Lucy had never been one to back down from a fight. If keeping her dream alive meant fighting harder than she ever had before, then so be it. She was ready for whatever came her way, even if that meant taking on the world with the weight of her family’s struggles on her shoulders.

There were complications. Mum had felt something was wrong. You were born too early. That’s what her dad had said one Thursday afternoon when they got home from school. Lucy could see the strain on her parents' faces as they tried to stay positive, but the cracks were beginning to show. The early birth meant more than just an unexpected arrival – it meant weeks, maybe even months, of additional stress. There would be doctors' appointments, hospital visits, and possibly medical bills that they wouldn't be able to afford. Mum and Dad would need to take more time off work, and that meant even less money coming into the house. They were already stretched thin, barely making ends meet, and this was another blow they couldn’t afford.

For Lucy, it felt like the family was being pulled even further apart. She knew what more time off work for her mum meant – less money for groceries, fewer new things, and more unpaid bills piling up on the kitchen table. The thought of how this would affect them all was overwhelming. Dad’s tired eyes and Mum’s forced smiles told her everything she needed to know – they were worried, really worried.

And as much as Lucy tried to focus on her own life – school, football, friends – she couldn’t shake the growing sense of responsibility she felt. She saw how hard her parents were working, how much they were sacrificing, and it made her want to do more, to somehow lessen the burden that had fallen on their shoulders. She picked up extra shifts at her part-time job and offered to help more around the house, even though she was already stretched thin. She stopped asking for new things, for trips, for anything that might add to the growing financial strain.

But no matter how much she tried to help, the reality was inescapable. The early birth meant more than just financial strain – it meant that your health would be a constant concern, at least for a while. The house became quieter, the usual buzz of activity replaced by a tension that Lucy couldn’t ignore. Conversations were hushed, and there was a heaviness in the air, a kind of unspoken worry that everyone carried with them.

She remembered how, before all this, her parents would talk about the future with cautious optimism – how they would make it work, how they would find a way to manage. But now, the future seemed uncertain, clouded by the reality of hospital visits and medical expenses. The joy that had once been associated with your arrival was overshadowed by the fear of what might come next.

You had turned out fine. You were discharged from the NICU six weeks later. You were a little small, a little underdeveloped, but you were fine. The doctors’ visits still happened regularly until you were about three years old, but then you were declared fit as a fiddle. A perfectly normal, healthy child.

Except you weren’t, or at least you didn’t feel like it. From an early age, you could sense that something was off. You couldn’t quite understand it back then, but you felt it in the way Lucy would close her bedroom door just as you toddled over, eager to join in whatever she was doing. You felt it in the way she would snatch things out of your hands, things you just wanted to look at, things she was showing Sophie and Jorge without a second thought. The sting of rejection was something you became all too familiar with, even before you could fully comprehend what it meant to be unwanted.

You didn’t understand why Lucy seemed to dislike you so much. You were just a child, desperate for her attention, for her approval. But no matter how hard you tried, you could never seem to break through the wall she had built between you. You remember watching her from a distance, her laughter and excitement as she talked about football with Sophie and Jorge. You wished you could be a part of that world, but it always felt like there was an invisible barrier keeping you out.

Your parents, older than those of your friends, were tired. You could see it in their eyes, in the way they moved through the day with a sort of weary determination. They did their best, you knew that. But their best often wasn’t enough. They were stretched thin – between work, bills, and keeping up with the demands of raising four children, there wasn’t much left over for you. The attention you craved, the affection you needed, was often redirected elsewhere – toward Lucy’s burgeoning football career, Jorge’s new hobbies, Sophie’s interests.

You lived in hand-me-downs – clothes that didn’t quite fit right, toys that had lost their newness long before they reached you. You quickly learned to ask for little, to keep your wants and needs to yourself. Birthdays became a delicate dance of low expectations. You remember the time you asked for that big Barbie dollhouse when you were five. You had seen it in a catalog and had imagined how much fun it would be, but when you shyly mentioned it, the reaction was swift and harsh. Lucy shouted at you, her voice filled with anger and frustration. “Are you kidding? We can’t afford that! Stop being so selfish!” The words hit you like a slap, and you learned that day to make your wishes smaller, quieter, more manageable.

It wasn’t just the material things, though. It was the sense that you were always in the way, that your presence was more of a burden than a joy. The more you tried to blend in, the more you felt invisible. Your parents were simply too tired, too overwhelmed to notice the small things – like the way your face lit up when you finally mastered riding your bike, or how proud you were when you brought home a picture you had drawn at school. There was no one to share those victories with, no one to tell you that you were doing well.

Lucy’s disdain only seemed to grow as you got older. She was focused, driven, her eyes set on her future in football. Every spare penny went toward her training, her gear, her travel expenses for matches. And you, you were just there, existing in the shadow of her ambition. It wasn’t that she went out of her way to be cruel; it was more that she simply didn’t have the space in her life for you. You were the uninvited guest, the afterthought.

You remember the looks – the ones she would give you when you tried to talk to her, or when you reached out for some connection. They were cold, distant, as if you were a stranger in your own home. It made you feel small, insignificant, like you didn’t belong. You tried to be helpful, to stay out of her way, but nothing you did seemed to change how she felt about you.

It was confusing, the way you were treated differently. Sophie and Jorge seemed to get along just fine with Lucy. They had their own interests, their own ways of bonding with her, and you were always the odd one out. It hurt, more than you could put into words. You wanted to be close to them, to be part of the sibling camaraderie you saw in other families, but it always felt just out of reach.

As the years went by, you withdrew into yourself. You learned to entertain yourself, to find comfort in solitude, because trying to fit into their world was too painful. The isolation was lonely, but it was safer than risking the rejection that had become all too familiar. You built your own little world, where you didn’t have to worry about whether or not you were wanted, where you could be yourself without fear of being turned away.

You were thirteen when you were gifted something that changed your life. It came at a time when the house had finally quieted down, the once chaotic energy of your siblings replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. All three of them – Lucy, Sophie, and Jorge – had moved out, each one carving out their own path, their own life away from the confines of your childhood home. Lucy was about to move to Lyon, Sophie had landed her dream job in a bustling city, and Jorge was travelling, always chasing the next big adventure. They were all living their best lives, while you were left behind, navigating the echoes of their absence.

With them gone, the purse strings had loosened a little. The financial pressures that had always weighed so heavily on your parents seemed to ease with each sibling's departure. There were fewer mouths to feed, fewer expenses to cover. For the first time, there was a little breathing room – a bit of space for something more than just the basics. And in that space, something unexpected happened.

On your thirteenth birthday, your parents handed you a small, neatly wrapped box. The excitement you had long suppressed bubbled up cautiously, a mix of anticipation and doubt. You had learned to keep your expectations low, to shield yourself from disappointment, but this time, something felt different. As you carefully peeled away the wrapping paper, your heart skipped a beat. Inside was a camera – an old, second-hand one, but to you, it was a treasure beyond measure.

Your parents had saved up for it, they explained, seeing how much time you spent doodling and drawing, how your eyes would light up whenever you saw something beautiful. They wanted to give you something that was just yours, something that could help you express yourself, to capture the world as you saw it.

The camera became your constant companion. You took it everywhere, eager to capture the beauty you saw in even the smallest things – the way the light filtered through the leaves of the trees in your backyard, the subtle smile on your mother’s face when she thought no one was looking, the old, weathered buildings in town that seemed to whisper stories of a time long past. Through the lens, you began to see the world differently, noticing details and moments that had always slipped by unnoticed.

But more than that, the camera gave you a voice. It allowed you to tell your own stories, to frame your own experiences in a way that was meaningful to you. It was your way of processing the complicated emotions that had built up over the years – the loneliness, the longing, the sense of not quite fitting in. With each click of the shutter, you were able to capture a piece of yourself, to express feelings that had always been too difficult to put into words.

And as you delved deeper into photography, something else began to happen. You started to see yourself differently. The shy, withdrawn girl who had always felt like an outsider was slowly transforming into someone with a purpose, with a passion. The camera gave you confidence, a sense of control over your own narrative that you had never felt before. It didn’t matter that you had grown up in the shadow of your siblings, or that you had often felt neglected and overlooked. With your camera, you were finally able to step out of that shadow and into your own light.

Your parents noticed the change in you. They saw how the camera brought you out of your shell, how it gave you something to look forward to, something to be proud of. They encouraged you, in their own quiet way, to keep going, to explore this new passion. For the first time, they seemed to truly see you – not just as their youngest child, but as an individual with your own dreams, your own talents.

At fifteen, you were asked to participate in the local exhibition. You had won a competition for the local paper, and this was the prize. ‘Alnwick by the Locals’ – it was to be put on display up at the castle. You had asked Lucy if she could make the trip over from France.

Lucy had been away for so long that you weren't sure if she'd even come. Her life in France was a whirlwind of training and matches, and the little requests you made felt insignificant against the backdrop of her bustling career. Still, you hoped – hoped that this time, she might see things differently.

When the day of the exhibition arrived, you could hardly contain your excitement. The castle was adorned with your photographs, each framed image capturing slices of life in your small town. You stood by your display, anxiously scanning the crowd for any sign of Lucy. Your heart raced with a blend of nerves and anticipation.

As the afternoon wore on, there was still no sign of her. You tried to push the disappointment aside, focusing instead on the visitors who stopped by to admire your work. They complimented your eye for detail and the way you had managed to capture the essence of Alnwick. Each positive comment felt like a small victory, a validation of the passion and effort you had poured into your photography.

You were losing hope fast. She wasn’t coming. Of course she wouldn’t come. She hadn’t responded to your text message asking her to come and giving her a date. She hadn’t responded to the email you had sent with her ticket attached. All she had to do was book the flights. It had been luck that it landed on a free weekend for her. You wouldn’t have asked otherwise.

As the afternoon stretched on, your excitement began to wane, replaced by a creeping sense of disappointment. Each passing minute seemed to amplify the absence of the one person you had hoped would be there to witness your moment of triumph. You forced yourself to stay positive, engaging with the visitors who complimented your work, but the empty space where Lucy should have been felt like a physical ache.

You wandered through the exhibition, making small talk with guests and answering their questions about your photographs. The praise for your work was a small comfort, but it couldn’t fully compensate for the gap left by Lucy’s absence. The castle, once a place of eager anticipation, now felt like a grand but empty stage, highlighting the solitude you felt.

By the time the exhibition was winding down, the weight of Lucy’s no-show had settled heavily on your shoulders. You packed up your things with a mix of resignation and sadness, feeling the sting of what could have been. Your parents, who had come to support you, tried to lift your spirits with kind words and encouragement, but their efforts fell short of erasing the feeling of emptiness. Your other siblings had turned up. Your sister-in-law had appeared, holding a bunch of flowers and looking around the space in wonder. Why couldn’t she have been your actual sister?

In the quiet of the car ride home, you tried to focus on the positive aspects of the day – the success of the exhibition, the connections you had made with people who appreciated your work. But it was hard not to remember that Lucy hadn’t turned up.

Back at home, you retreated to your room, muttering something about being tired and disappearing upstairs before anyone could stop you. Your room was covered in photographs. You didn’t have many of you as a child – a downside of being the youngest of four to very tired parents you supposed. There was one that you kept pinned above your bed. It was the day you were brought home from the hospital. You were in Jorge’s arms as Lucy and Sophie stood either side of him, all of them beaming brightly. You were fairly sure it was the only photo you had of Lucy smiling at you. The rest of the photographs were taken by you. Jorge and your father. Sophie and your mother. Your parents in the stands waiting for Lucy to play. Narla chasing a ball. Your grandparents looking out to sea.

You knew opening social media wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was the third picture you saw. Lucy, sitting next to Keira and Georgia – wide smiles and happy faces. She was in Manchester. She had made the trip over to England after all. Just not to see you. The image was a punch to the gut. Lucy, in a casual outfit, her hair pulled back, was surrounded by her friends, their joy on full display. You could almost hear their laughter through the screen, see the ease and comfort of their togetherness. The pain in your chest grew even more.

You hadn’t been told she was moving back to Manchester. Mum had mentioned it in passing, commenting that she was so excited to finally be able to see her daughter play with comparative ease. You had lied when she asked you why you looked confused – making up something about homework you had remembered you needed to complete. The pain was something you were so used to by now, that you were surprised it still hurt. The last time you saw her at home was Christmas. She had missed your birthday completely – again. But that was fine. You could play happy families for a few weeks whilst she was back. You had been to a few football matches for hers – only the big ones. The Champions League finals mainly. The rest of the time you made up excuses. Homework was a reliable one. You were just too busy. Exams were around the corner, you couldn’t afford to take the time off, even for just one weekend.

You had become adept at masking your feelings, but the truth was, each time you saw Lucy’s life in the media, each time you heard about her successes and adventures, it reinforced the distance between you. It was as if she existed in a different world, a world where you didn’t quite belong. Even when she was physically present, her mind seemed to be elsewhere, her focus entirely on her career and her own life.

You hadn’t been told that Lucy would be moving to Barcelona either. Another thing she failed to mention. You knew that Lucy and your parents met up in Manchester regularly – it was easier for them to make the trip to watch her games that it was for her to travel to you. But you would have thought she would’ve mentioned it at the Euros. The night after they won was the longest you had spent in her presence since you were about twelve. She had willingly drawn you into a side hug as your parents snapped a photo of all their children. Looking back, it was clearly the alcohol in her system, and the adrenaline high she was still running on.

You had been dragged over to Australia too. Not that you let your parents know about your distaste in going. You couldn’t do that to them. They knew that Lucy and you had a strained relationship, but not how deep the cuts ran. You would not be the one to tell them that either.  It would break their hearts to find out that their favourite daughter, and their youngest child barely co-existed together. No, you were more than happy to put up a front for them. They had given you everything, it was the least you could do.

“Hi, I’m Ona, it’s nice to meet you.” She smiled amicably, a bit nervous perhaps, but she seemed nice enough.

“Hola, Soy la hermana de Lucy … o la llamas Lucía?” She blinked, startled by your Spanish.

“Tú hablas español?” she asked impressed.

“Un poco, hice español A-level en la escuela. Pensé que sería una buena manera-” You joked, ignoring the strange looks from Lucy.

“Ona, c’mon, I think your parents want you.” Lucy’s voice cut through yours, effectively cutting you off.

You had been so hopeful, so eager to make a connection, but the moment had been abruptly cut short by Lucy’s interference. At the time, you had shrugged it off, thinking it was just Lucy’s usual impatience. Now, however, it seemed like yet another piece in the puzzle of Lucy’s world that you never fully understood.

The news of not-quite-breakup with Keira, and her new relationship with Ona reached you indirectly, through snippets of social media posts and the occasional mention by your parents. They were often caught up in their own busy lives, struggling to balance the constant demands of work and home. Conversations about Lucy's new life was interspersed with discussions about their own challenges, leaving little room for deeper insights or personal connection.

Ona, who you had briefly met in the whirlwind of the World Cup, was now a fixture in Lucy’s life. The contrast between their lives and yours felt even starker. While Lucy was jet-setting across Europe and building a new chapter in Barcelona, you were back in your small town, navigating the complexities of your own world through the lens of your camera.

It was the biggest day of your young life. You had been asked to put up ten photographs on display in London. Your photographs were going to be seen in London. By paying members of the public. The significance of the event was almost overwhelming. You had worked tirelessly to curate the best of your collection, selecting pieces that told a story, captured emotions, and showcased your unique perspective.

The morning of the exhibition, you arrived at the gallery with a mixture of nerves and excitement. The building was impressive – an elegant space with high ceilings and large windows that let in natural light, perfect for showcasing art. You were greeted by the curator, who showed you to your designated space and helped you set up your work. It was surreal to see your photographs hanging on the walls, each one carefully framed and lit to perfection.

You had only met Ona a few times, when she had been brought to England to meet your family. She was kind and sweet. Maybe it was because you were relatively close in age, but you couldn’t shift the familiar sting. Why couldn’t she have been your sister instead? It was the summer, the Olympics in full swing, so you knew it was too much to ask for her to be there. But you couldn’t help the small bubble of hope that Lucy would turn up.

You had it on good authority from Keira, Leah and Georgia that she had agreed to go. Ona’s game was due to finish at 4 pm the day before opening night. The journey would probably be tiring for Lucy, but she had promised her friends she would be their. If not for you then to see them before pre-season started up again.

The day of the exhibition arrived, and you were enveloped in the excitement of seeing your work displayed in such a prestigious venue. The gallery buzzed with activity as people streamed in, their voices a mix of appreciation and curiosity. The atmosphere was electric, and you tried to focus on enjoying the moment, even though the small, nagging hope that Lucy would show up lingered at the back of your mind.

Hours passed, and as the evening drew closer, you began to accept that she might not make it. The crowd was engaged and appreciative, and the positive feedback was reassuring, but the absence of your sister was a constant ache. You tried to push it away, concentrating instead on the connections you were making and the compliments you were receiving.

Your parents had come, and their pride was evident in their smiles and the way they spoke about your work. They marvelled at how far you had come and how talented you were. Their support and encouragement were the best comfort you could have asked for, and you felt a sense of accomplishment in sharing this achievement with them.

Just as the event was winding down, you were approached by Keira, Leah, and Georgia, who were all beaming with excitement. They had come to show their support and to catch up with you after the event. Why couldn’t Lucy do the same thing? Did she really hate you so much that she couldn’t even fake it for a few hours for the sake of her sister?

“We told Lucy about the exhibition,” Leah said, her eyes twinkling with excitement as she looked around the space.

“She said she would come back for it.” Keira added, her tone warm but carrying a hint of concern.

Keira had always been the one who was more in tune with the undercurrents of relationships, and she knew how complicated things were between you and Lucy. She was the only one who truly understood the depth of the tension that simmered beneath the surface. She had offered to take you and Lucy out for lunch – letting your parents rest after the long day of travel.

During that lunch, Lucy’s walls were visibly up, and her responses were curt and distant. The conversation often felt forced, with long pauses and polite but empty exchanges. It was strange Keira had watched with a mix of frustration and disbelief as Lucy struggled to engage, offering only grunts and monosyllabic words in response. She had never seen Lucy like that. She was usually great with kids. She usually revelled in making them laugh and enjoy their time with her. She had watched you sink further and further into yourself, until she was the only one speaking, a far cry from how dinners with Lucy’s family normally looked.

When the subject of family came up in conversation, Keira’s knowledge of the strained dynamics between you and your sister was never far from her mind. Keira’s attempt to mend the gaps had been a sincere effort, but it usually just ended in a fight between Lucy and her girlfriend. You often wondered why you couldn’t have had Keira as a sister instead.

“But … we haven’t heard anything from her today.” Georgia confessed; her voice tinged with concern.

Keira, ever the perceptive one, gave Georgia a sharp nudge, a silent reminder to tread carefully. She glanced over at you, who had been trying to mask your disappointment with a forced smile, though the tightness around your eyes betrayed your emotions.

“I’m sure she’s just caught up with something,” Keira said, trying to sound reassuring. “She’ll be here soon, I promise.” Her words were meant to comfort, but Keira couldn’t shake the worry that Lucy’s absence might be more than just an oversight. You knew otherwise, Lucy wouldn’t be coming.

Leah, sensing the shift in mood, quickly changed the subject. “Your photos are absolutely stunning,” she said, her enthusiasm genuine.

“Thanks, Le,” you smiled back at her. “Did you see the one of you guys?”

“What? I’m … we’re in here?” She clearly hadn’t made her way to the back of the room yet.

“Yeh, it was after the Euros.”

Leah and Keira were standing together on the makeshift dancefloor, a vibrant space that had been hastily set up for the occasion. Their laughter and the rhythm of the music filled the air as they danced with uninhibited joy. Wrapped around their shoulders were colourful flags, their bright hues fluttering with every movement. The flags added an extra splash of festivity to their energetic performance.

Amidst the swirl of movement, Georgia bounded up to them with infectious enthusiasm. She launched herself into the scene, her head playfully peeking out from between Leah and Keira. Her excitement was palpable, adding a new dimension of liveliness to the group. The trio's shared joy and friendship were evident in their spontaneous and carefree expressions.

“Wow,” Leah breathed. She was in genuine awe. She remembered that day like it was yesterday, she remembered the moment she saw the camera being aimed at her, a quiet but smiling you behind it.

Keira joined her, leaning in to get a closer look. “You really captured the energy of that moment. It’s like I can hear the music just looking at it.”

You smiled at their reactions, feeling a sense of satisfaction wash over you. “I’m glad you like it. That was one of those moments where everything just felt perfect, you know? The music, the people, the atmosphere. It was one of those nights that you just want to hold on to forever.”

Georgia nodded, her smile widening. “And you’ve done just that. It’s not just a photograph; it’s a piece of that night.”

Keira looked around at the rest of the exhibition. “Seriously, all of your work is amazing. You’ve got such a unique perspective. It’s like each photo has its own story.”

“Thank you, Kei. Coming from you … that means a lot.” Keira was the closest thing you had to a sister that cared. Not that Sophie didn’t care, but she had a similar indifference that Lucy had. It wasn’t as bad, but you only really saw her on the holidays and if she ever came home for a weekend.  

As the night came to an end, you couldn’t shake off the lingering disappointment. The exhibition had been a success, but the empty space left by Lucy’s absence felt like a heavy shadow. Another milestone in your life had come and gone, and once again, you hadn’t been important enough for her to show up. You couldn’t fathom why she hated you so much. She showed up to Sophie’s things, and Jorge’s. Why not yours?

The weight of this realisation grew heavier with each passing moment. As you the taxi took you back to your hotel, the quiet of the car only seemed to amplify your sadness. By the time you arrived, you were in no mood to face the evening alone with your thoughts. Maybe ordering a bottle of the strongest thing they had from the hotel bar wasn’t your best idea. But you were alone and sad after what should’ve been the best day of your life.

The hotel room was big and expensive – your one treat to yourself in congratulations. A luxury suite in a five-star hotel in London. The alcohol burned your throat, but you didn’t care. You didn’t want to sit with your emotions any longer. You wanted to stop feeling. Anything to numb the pain that had been a constant your whole life.

You weren’t sure when the idea came to you. One minute you were on the hotel balcony, wallowing in your sadness with the bottle in your hands, the next you were pulling out your phone. You weren’t expecting her to answer. You weren’t even sure she had your number saved.

When her voicemail finally picked up, the sound of her voice – a cheerful and upbeat recording informing you she couldn’t make it to the phone and to leave a message for her – felt like a final slap in the face.

“Luce … Lucy … Lucia Roberta. It’s me,” you giggled, the alcohol making you feel oddly detached from the situation. “By me, I mean your sister. Not Sophie, your other sister. Y/N … you’re probably not even going to listen to this, so I can probably say what I want to.”

You took a deep breath, struggling to keep your words coherent. “I don’t know why you couldn’t make it tonight. Actually, no that’s a lie. I do know why you didn’t come tonight. You hate me. That’s why.”

Your voice wavered, and you wiped a stray tear from your cheek. “Remember that time you said you’d come to my year 6 school play? You didn’t make it. And the Alnwick Castle exhibition thingy? And my GCSE results meal? And my A-level party? And my uni send-off? I know you didn’t want another sister. I don’t think I even appear on your Wikipedia page. I know ‘cos I use it to keep updated on your life. You never tell me anything so.” You took another shuddering breath and a swig from the bottle.

“What was it this time? Did Ona need you? I know you’re at the Olympics for her. I like Ona. She’s really nice. And funny. And pretty. I wish she was my sister instead of you. Or Keira… Keira was good… is good. She actually cares about me. She showed up today.” A bitter chuckle escaped your lips, and you shook your head, trying to push away the tears.

“I don’t know what I ever did to you, Lucy.” You stared at the dark hotel room around you. “I don’t know why I even bother sometimes. Maybe I should just stop pretending that you’re ever going to be there for me. Maybe I should just stop hoping for something that’s never going to happen.”

Your voice softened, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “I’ve tried to be understanding, to see things from your side. I know you’re busy, and I get that life doesn’t always align. But it’s like I’m always on the outside of your world, never really part of it. It’s exhausting, waiting for something that never comes.”

A long silence followed as you struggled to gather your thoughts. “Anyway, I don’t expect you to call back. I don’t expect you to make any grand gestures or anything like that. I really need to stop expecting anything from you. I just needed to say it. I needed to get it off my chest, even if it’s to your voicemail.”

You let out a long sigh, feeling a strange mix of relief and sadness. “Take care, Lucy. I hope things are going well with you, even if I’m not a part of it and you hate me for the rest of your life. I really do.”

It was another hot day in France. The sun beat down on Lyon, the heatwaves fogging the horizon. The cobblestone streets shimmered in the intense light, and the usually bustling markets were quieter than usual, with vendors seeking refuge in the shade of their awnings. The air was thick with the scent of fresh baguettes and ripe fruit, but even these familiar aromas seemed to waver in the oppressive heat.

Outside, the rhythmic clatter of a bicycle's wheels on the pavement was one of the few sounds cutting through the heat. The cyclist, a young woman with a wide-brimmed hat, pedalled slowly, her face glistening with perspiration. She was on a mission to find a place where the heat was more bearable, perhaps a hidden garden or a cool courtyard where she could rest and escape the relentless sun.

Ona looked back towards Lucy, who was still in bed, her dark hair splayed out over the pillow like a cascade of midnight. The room was filled with a soft morning light that filtered through the thin curtains, casting a warm glow on the walls. Ona smiled, feeling a sense of contentment that she hadn’t experienced in weeks.

Last night had been exactly what they needed. The weight of the Olympics had finally lifted, if only temporarily. She had underestimated how exhausting the Games could be – Lucy had been right when she described it as a marathon. The endless competition and pressure to perform had taken their toll, and last night’s reprieve from it all felt like a much-needed breath of fresh air.

She leaned over and gently brushed a strand of hair from Lucy’s face. Lucy stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open. She gave Ona a sleepy, contented smile, her hand reaching out to rest on Ona’s.

“Morning,” Lucy murmured, her voice thick with sleep but warm with affection.

“Bon dia,” Ona replied softly, her heart swelling with the simple joy of being beside Lucy.

Ona let her fingers dance across Lucy's face, across her brow and down her nose before delicately tracing the outline of her lips. The soft morning light filtering through the curtains painted a serene glow across the room. Everything felt calm and intimate, a stark contrast to the intensity of the past weeks.

Just as Ona leaned in to place a tender kiss on Lucy’s forehead, the piercing ring of her phone shattered the quiet. Ona’s eyes fluttered open, and she sighed, glancing at the screen with a frown. The phone buzzed insistently on the bedside table.

“Mmmm, who, who is it?” Lucy grumbled sleepily.

“No n'estic segur,” Ona muttered back.

“Too early for Catalan,” the Brit groaned, twisting away to pick up the phone

“Oh,” her demeanour changed abruptly.

“Who is it?” Ona asked, her voice laced with curiosity and concern as she reached over to peek at the phone.

“Just a voicemail,” Lucy said, her voice distant and troubled. She rolled over in bed, clearly unsettled by the message.

“From who?” Ona persisted, her brow furrowing. She was trying to understand the sudden shift in Lucy’s mood.

“My sister,” Lucy replied, her voice flat and weary. The mention of her sister’s name seemed to weigh heavily on her.

Ona’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why would Sophie be phoning you now? It’s only 6 am in England.”

“It’s not Sophie,” Lucy clarified, her tone tinged with a mixture of frustration and resignation. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes as if trying to wake herself from a troubling dream. “It’s Y/N.”

Ona’s expression softened with empathy. She was aware of the strained relationship between you, though the reasons behind it had always eluded her. She had heard bits and pieces about their complicated dynamic but had never been given a full explanation. She wasn’t even sure Lucy had a definite answer for her.

“Maybe you should listen to it?” Ona suggested gently, her voice filled with concern. She reached out and placed a comforting hand on Lucy’s shoulder.

“No,” Lucy’s answer was abrupt and to the point. She seemed almost angry with herself for letting the voicemail disturb her morning. She threw the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her movements sharp and restless.

The movement managed to throw Lucy’s phone off the bed as well. She must not have locked it properly. Before they could react, your voice filled the room.

The voicemail had begun to play on speakerphone, and Lucy’s heart sank as your words echoed around them. “Luce … Lucy … Lucia Roberta. It’s me,” your voice slurred slightly, you were clearly drunk. “By me, I mean your sister. Not Sophie, your other sister. Y/N … you’re probably not even going to listen to this, so I can probably say what I want to.”

Ona’s eyes widened in surprise, and she looked at Lucy, whose face had gone pale. The voicemail continued, your words growing more emotional and raw. “I don’t know why you couldn’t make it tonight. Actually, no, that’s a lie. I do know why you didn’t come tonight. You hate me. That’s why.”

I hope you enjoyed it <3<3<3

[nkjemisin]

Fiction is not reality

Got three or four asks lately about an old Le Guin-inspired short story, "The Ones Who Stay and Fight." Did somebody post an article or something? I haven't gotten any alerts that would explain the sudden interest. (Did see one annoying AI-written summary that hallucinated new characters into it and said I'd written it in 1973, when I would've been one year old. Don't use AI for lit crit, folks.)

Anyway, rather than answer them individually, I'll post this as a collective response.

All of the asks were about the story's meaning, in one way or another, so I'll start there -- but. Y'all. The author is usually the worst person to ask about what their work means; haven't you heard that the author is dead? We're too close to our own work to do good analysis. I can tell you what inspired it, or what I was thinking while I wrote it, but that doesn't mean I put all that into the story, or successfully got across whatever did make it in. Pretty often my writing doesn't mean anything; it's just something I need to get out of my head.

The asks seem to center on whether I actually intended Um-Helat to be a utopia, and -- no. I thought it was pretty obviously a dystopia, actually, like Omelas... but then I constantly run into people who describe Omelas as a utopia, so maybe the problem lies with people's definition of "utopia." (Personally I don't believe utopias are possible IRL. Anytime you've got more than one person in a society, their respective visions of an "ideal" society will vary, and sometimes conflict.) I was exploring my own struggle with envisioning a society free of bigotry, and Le Guin's narrative -- which gently pokes at the reader's skepticism and jadedness -- spoke to me in that moment of need. So I decided to do some poking of my own, from a different angle, to see if that helped clarify anything for me. I liked the result enough to publish it in How Long Til Black Future Month, tho it's since been reprinted in many places.

That said, a couple of the asks went to a weird place, and I feel like I need to address it. You folks do know that a story's narrative voice is not the same as the author's voice, right? So for example, in "The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas," the omniscient first-person narrator of the story is not Le Guin. What that narrator believes is not necessarily what Le Guin believes, or vice versa. She didn't tell you about the abused child in Omelas because she thought it was A-OK to abuse kids as scapegoats/representations of the evils of the world. Likewise, I didn't tell you about the traumatized child in Um-Helat because I think it's A-OK to stab possible bigots. The narrator is another part of the story. It's fiction, not an essay, or a confessional.

It feels weird to have to say this, because it seems so obvious to me... but we are on the "piss on the poor" site, after all, in a time when critical thinking is under literal attack from The Powers That Be, so I guess I gotta. I do not stab people, not even bigots. I am not pro-stabbing or pro-childhood trauma. I am somewhat pro-transdimensional-travel, but that's neither here nor there.

Oh -- and sidenote, but I've been ridiculously busy lately, and I'm working through the backlog of asks very slowly. If you've sent in something, I will hopefully get to it within a month or two. Hopefully.

[hgfictionwriter]

Revelations: Part Five

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: Tensions and emotion have been building for weeks and weeks. You're still trying to reconcile what your relationship - and your future - was, and what it is now. Everything comes to a head.

Warnings: Angst. Mention of masturbation and sex. Language.

A/N: Rest of the series can be found here.

"How's my beautiful girl? I can't wait to see how gorgeous you'll look."

You sighed inwardly as you read Jessie's text as you and your friends waited. You were wedding dress shopping today and this was your first booking of the day.

Jessie's text sparked a smile, however it was brief as your eye was drawn to the prior messages from the other day.

------

"Hey, I know it's [y/friend's] birthday dinner on Friday and the reservation is at 6:00. Do you know if we're all starting right away or do you think there'll be drinks first and then dinner later?"

"I'm not sure. Why?"

"Well, it's just that Zoie starts swimming Friday and her class starts at 5:30. I'm just trying to sort out how I might be able to do both."

"Babe?"

"I don't have to go to her class. It's totally fine. There'll be others."

"It's fine Jess. Just show up when you can."

"No, it's okay. They probably won't even do much day one. I'll go to the next one."

"Jess. Go to Zoie's class. She'd want you there."

"You sure? It's not too, too far from where you guys are meeting. So I shouldn't be overly late. I'll bring [y/friend] a bottle of her favourite wine."

"All good. We'll be happy to see you whenever you get there."

-------

You sighed again as you finished rereading. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard and you found it difficult to muster up the energy to respond. You did though.

"You know you're not supposed to see the wedding dress until the actually wedding, right? lol"

You name was called and your head snapped up and a polite smile crossed your face as you stood. You tucked your phone away and your friends ushered you along after the consultant.

"It says here you have a December wedding," the consultant remarked as she turned to you with a warm smile while you walked.

"Oh, yeah," you answered tepidly, somehow caught off guard by the comment.

"Winter weddings are nice! And we don't get quite as many of those," she commented lightly as she continued to lead you and your friends to the room at the back.

"Oh. My fiancée is a footballer, so we scheduled it during her off season."

"Very nice," she said. "Now, what kind of a style were you thinking for your dress?" She asked as you reached your destination and she turned to you with clasped hands awaiting your response.

Your mind went eerily blank. You'd envisioned a dress, or at least a couple, several times before. You'd pictured Jessie standing at the end of the aisle, tears in her eyes as she watched you walk down the aisle. You'd pictured how tenderly she'd hold your hands as you said your vows. You'd pictured her slipping the band on your finger. The kiss.

But right now you just felt tired and you mind slowly churned as it tried to conjure up a vision.

You blushed in embarrassment. "Um, I don't really know. Whatever looks good, I guess," you said with a laugh you hoped didn't sound too forced.

Your friends immediately jumped in with ideas and for that were you thankful.

Soon you were offered option after option after option. One dress held up after another, each awaiting your approval or disapproval, everyone watching you closely. You could feel your nerves starting to fray as this whole exercise began to overwhelm you.

Eventually, to put a stop to the carousel of dresses, you picked the one that actually stayed in your mind throughout the barrage of options. Everyone chattered excitedly as the dress was retrieved and the consultant opened the lush curtains to the fitting room.

You stepped in and she began to prepare some things for you. Subconsciously you retrieved your phone, looking for some kind of distraction and reprieve from the way your heart was beating loud in your chest.

You opened Instagram mindlessly and the first story on your feed was one Sara posted.

You hadn't wanted to add her. But she extended an invite, and, well, Jessie had her now too, so you might as well be in than out.

You vaguely noted the consultant talking to you over her shoulder, but you were more focused on the clip of Jessie and Zoie kicking a soccer ball back and forth at the park, laughing and running together. The caption, "She wants to be just like her mama" sent a searing pain through your chest.

"Okay, you're all set."

"Hm?" You asked blankly as you looked up from your phone to the woman. Your eyes darted between her and the dress and you plastered a smile on your face. "Oh, great. Thank you."

"Don't worry much about fit right now. It's probably going to feel bulky and not quite right, but that's all stuff we tailor and sort out as part of the alterations. Now, do you want to call one of your friends in to help with the dress?"

"Oh, yeah," you said as you shook your head out with another practiced smile while you tried to stay present.

Your friend helped you step into the dress and you even managed to have a laugh during the whole process as she zipped you up. A soft smile was still on your face as she turned you towards the full-length mirrors. She rested her hands on your shoulders as she took you in, a smile of awe on her face.

You looked at your reflection as you stood there in what could be your wedding dress. You were smiling in the mirror, a smile of yours that had become second nature the past few months and one that you were oh so sick of. This image before you - you smiling in this gorgeous gown, a vision of you at the alter - it felt distant and foreign. You didn't recognize this person.

"You look stunning. What do you think?" Your friend asked. You smiled further.

"I like it," you lied.

As she unzipped you later, you purposefully made a request that drew her away and left you to stand there quietly in front of the mirror alone as you held up the dress with one hand.

This should've been a joyous moment. Instead, you felt like you were mourning a future that never came to be.

That image of Jessie laughing and running around with Zoie - knowing that it was Sara watching on, not you - flashed through your mind.

There were two parallel worlds happening. Jessie your fiancée. Jessie, doting parent to a daughter that wasn't yours, dedicated co-parent and partner to someone who wasn't you.

You stared at yourself for a few moments before your eyes began to sting and your lip trembled. You immediately turned away and took a deep, shuddering breath.

You had a choice to make. Or rather, whether you liked it or not, it felt like the choice had been made for you.

---------

You heard Jessie's key slide into the lock and the bolt turn before the door opened. Her voice carried down the hall as you heard her taking off her shoes, bags rustling in hand.

"Hey, you didn't get back to me, so I just picked up some stuff for stir fry. Is that okay?"

You didn't reply.

Instead, you remained seated at the kitchen table, shoulders slack and body listless as you stared vacantly at the shining diamond ring you'd set in the middle of the table. This ring that she'd bought and given to you with love, with promise, intent and dreams.

You absently rubbed your ring finger that now felt naked. In the grand scheme of things, the ring hadn't been on your finger for all that long, but you felt something akin to phantom sensations despite it.

"Oh, there you are. Are you-"

Jessie's words died off as did her steps as she came to a stop a couple of feet from you. You didn't have to look up to know her eyes were fixed on the ring as well.

You room was heavy with silence before you finally forced yourself to look up at her. You could feel tears forming behind your eyes already. Her gaze shifted from the ring to you and you immediately noticed the shimmering of her eyes.

She visibly swallowed and when she spoke her voice trembled just so despite the faint smile she tried to force. "Hey, what's going on?"

You inhaled as you shifted in your seat to face her. You went to speak, but your throat constricted with impending emotion and your lip began to quiver as tears threatened to fall.

"I'm sorry," you managed to say as you looked up at her. She dropped your gaze, eyes shifting to the floor and you noted how her hands balled tightly into fists as she tried to control her emotions. Her eyes remained transfixed on the floor and you repeated yourself, your voice wavering this time. "I'm sorry, Jess."

She didn't say anything right away and you were about to speak when a tear fell from her, catching the light from the room before it hit the ground.

She looked up at you, eyes brimming with tears and looking so crestfallen. Her cheeks were flushed red; you reflected idly on how there was a time when you'd have inspired that in her as a blush, now here you were breaking her heart.

Your shoulders shook as your own tears began to overtake you. You sniffled and began to speak, feeling the need to explain and to fill this aching silence.

"It's not that I don't love you. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. You're everything I could ever want," your voice rose in pitch as your vocal cords strained. "But I just feel like every day - at one point or another - my heart is getting broken over and over again. I thought I'd be able to fix things. To just get over things. But I haven't. And I'm just starting to feel numb. I-I just don't know what to do anymore."

Jessie's breathing hitched as she began to muster a response, but you forged on feeling like if you didn't say everything you needed to now, you'd just fall back into her arms and that's where you'd stay.

"You have a new life. A new family-" You saw her ready to interject and you cut her off "-it's true, Jess. I know I'm your family, too. But so is Zoie. And Sara. I know you try to dismiss your connection with her, but you are tied to her forever. And I know you don't want to give her precedence over me, but reality is, she's the mother of your child and always will be. You need to put Zoie first, and by proxy, at times Sara - and I can't fault you for that. Your duty and your dedication to your loved ones is one of the many things about you I fell in love with," you forced a laugh as tears fell. You looked at her sadly.

"You gained a family. And I feel like I lost one. It's no one's fault. Maybe that's what makes it so hard." You took a shaky breath. "I think I would've handled this better if I'd come in knowing you had this. But for it to come up the way it has...it's turned everything upside down for me and I just don't know how to right it. I wish I did," you said remorsefully as you dropped her gaze and blinked through more tears. Your hands shook as you wrung them before looking up at her.

"I just don’t feel like I fit anymore. I’ve been trying. I want nothing more than a future with you, but it just doesn’t feel right anymore.”

Jessie had been crying quietly as she listened to you speak. Her face was red, her cheeks tear-stained as her chest hitched now and then with unsteady breaths.

Surprise flooded your system and she knelt in front of you. Here she was, on bended knee, taking your hands in hers, sorrow in her eyes and such a contrast from when she knelt before you in much the same way many months before, except that time with unhindered hope and love as she asked you to be hers forever.

“Please don’t do this. I know it’s hard right now. But we can find a way. It’ll get better. And easier. I promise," Jessie beseeched as she looked up at you from her position on the floor.

You didn't know what to say. There wasn't really anything to say. So you just smiled apologetically, hoping she could see how much this was breaking your heart as well.

Jessie searched your eyes and you saw her expression fall furthermore as she cried anew. She clutched your hands as quiet sobs began to take her.

“I’m so sorry. For everything. I never wanted this to happen," she said through her cries. It tore you apart seeing her like this, but in some bizarre way it actually affirmed your decision. You squeezed her hands, caressing the back of them tenderly with your thumbs.

“I know, baby. But I guess this is just how life is. Things can be unexpected. And they don’t always go the way you planned. And this is exactly why this won’t work. You shouldn’t have to feel sorry. You shouldn’t have to apologize. You have a gorgeous, sweet little girl. And there’s nothing wrong with that. At all. She deserves all of you and you shouldn't have to choose. And I know I'm the one who's been forcing you to."

You paused, trying to gather your composure, but your voice was still taut as you spoke.

"I'm sorry I'm so selfish. But I also know I'd never forgive myself if Zoie got even the slightest sense that any of this...strife, or difficulty, was because of her. She doesn't deserve that and it's certainly not her fault."

Jessie looked ready to protest. You forged on.

"I truly wish the best for you and for Zoie. And even Sara," you added with a watery laugh before you sniffled. "I know it hasn't been easy navigating things, Jess. I know how hard you tried. And it meant so much that you tried." You let out a brief sob. "Thank you for loving me." Jessie's face collapsed in tears as you said that and she reached up to cup your cheek. You couldn't resist leaning into her touch, but you had to finish what you had to say.

"I stopped wishing that I had gotten to you first. Then you'd be mine, and we could have our old life, or God, that it would be our child we're raising. But even that didn't feel good, because then Zoie wouldn't exist. And that's not right. She's added so much light and love to your life, to your family's - and despite the complications, mine too. I just can't embrace everything the way you have. I can't let go of what I wanted."

You took a shaky breath.

"To be honest - I just don't like who I am right now. How I've been feeling. What I'm bringing to our relationship. So," your features screwed up as you tried to put on a brave face, "it's time for me to go."

Jessie shook her head with a pained expression.

"No, you don't have to. Babe, please," she pleaded as more tears fell, "we can figure this out. I know you feel like you don't fit anymore, but you really do. What can I do to help you see that?" You let her question hang and she stared at you expectantly. She tried to smile, but it flickered with the heartache she was feeling. "We belong together. We love each other."

She said it with such finality it almost convinced you that it was enough.

You looked at her with the first real smile in what felt like so long. You were crying through it, but it was real.

"You deserve so much happiness," you said.

Jessie searched your eyes as she absorbed your words. A sob escaped her and she looked down. A moment passed and she leant her head down and kissed your hand, her lips lingering on your skin for several seconds before she pulled back.

She swallowed visibly as she brought her other hand to yours now as well, clasping yours in both of hers. Her eyes were still trained down as she nodded once. A beat passed and she looked up at you, brown eyes glistening and mournful, but somehow still full of love. She nodded once more as she gave you as brave a smile as she could, no matter how heartbroken she was.

"You deserve all the happiness in the world, too," she whispered, voice breaking.

She rose up higher onto her knees and you both met in a soft, tight embrace. Cries wracked your body and hers as you clung onto one another. You inhaled her scent, eyes closing as you willed yourself to remember it; to remember the feel of her hair, the sound and feel of her breath, the feel of her body against yours - you engrained it all.

---------

Sometimes, when a relationship ends, you don't know how the other person will be. Someone who you felt you knew so well can become a stranger overnight. But, that wasn't the case with Jessie.

She was gracious and loving despite the breakup. So much so that sometimes you had to remind her - as painful as it was - that you didn't belong to each other anymore.

"Hey, I'll be home late night. Midfielders are doing some extra technical work this afternoon. I'll text you when I'm done though. I could bring you home dinner or something though?" She'd asked hopefully one time as you both readied for the day.

"That's sweet of you to offer, but it's okay. And it's considerate, but you don't need to keep me apprised of your day. You don't owe me that," you gently reminded her. She gave you a tight, pained smile as she nodded her acceptance.

"Right," she said with a weak laugh. "Well. I guess I'll see you later, then. Um. Have a good day."

The few weeks until you could take possession of a new apartment had been awkward and delicate. You offered to move in with a friend in the interim, but Jessie had convinced you not to. Well, she wasn't wrong that living out of a suitcase for that long would be unnecessarily annoying, and there was certainly no point in moving all of your things twice. So, you'd stayed, with Jessie insisting on relegating herself to an air mattress in the living room. You'd argued with her, but she'd dug her heels in.

The days went by slowly, and at the same time, your move in date grew steadily closer and the pit in your stomach grew just the same. You'd had cold feet several times, but knew it was just some misguided part of you looking for the easy path and short-term pay-off.

It was hard to not have doubts when - despite everything - you and Jessie still got along so well. While it was undeniably hard to be in the same room as her and not be with her, it was still easy in a way. When you allowed yourself, you could chat about your days, even laugh.

What caused the most confusion was probably the fact that you didn't know how to be Jessie's friend. Even when you and her had been just friends at the beginning - a lifetime ago now - there was always something underlying. You had chemistry from the get-go and it was near impossible to deny.

And now, after everything, how could you possibly pretend to just be friends. How could you pretend you weren't in love with her? How could you pretend that this woman sitting a couple feet from you on the couch didn't preoccupy your every thought and could make or break you with her words.

Hell, that not only did she own your heart and mind, but your body, too. That as you laid there lonely in this bed you used to share, that your hand strayed as memories flooded your senses. Of all those nights, mornings, stolen moments, where she made love to you so passionately and desperately. The feeling so intimate and tender, like you were the only person on this earth with her and you the only one who could give her what she needed while she was the only one who could make you whole.

And with the way she looked at you - sometimes unabashed, sometimes fleeting - how could you pretend that she didn't feel the same way?

During moments of weakness, it seemed a silly thing to fight. In a world as dark and lonely as this one could be, why would you leave someone you loved and who loved you back?

But when Jessie spent nights coordinating things with Sara and then went out with her and Zoie on others, you remembered.

The day came when you took possession of your new apartment. You'd initially resisted her offer to help you move, but your resolve weakened and failed.

She'd worn a bright smile all day as she cheerfully tackled every task. You knew her well though; she was trying far too hard.

She helped you arrange furniture, move boxes around, check all the fixtures in the new place, the list went on. Even after you'd dismissed your friends, she'd insisted on sticking around and began helping you unpack.

Her eager assistance carried on into the night. Each time she finished one task, she readily started on another and good-naturedly dismissed your offers to let her stop.

As she chatted fast and constant throughout the night, hitting any and every topic she could, you saw this woman before you - the woman you well and truly loved - making every excuse to not leave. And truthfully, you were happy to delay the inevitable goodbye.

So for now, you both knew what she was doing, but neither of you vocalized it.

You eventually checked your phone. 12:30 am.

"Okay, so I was thinking of unpacking your books over here for now. I saw this really nice bookcase online the other day - I can get it for you over the weekend if you like. I think it could go really well over here. And-"

"Jess."

Her movements stilled and the room grew silent and heavy. She slowly turned to face you and you could see her thinly veiled trepidation.

You offered her a regretful smile as you fought back emotions and grief that began to bubble up inside of you.

"You should go...," you said gently.

She held your gaze for several moments, seemingly teetering on the edge of whether to protest or not. She nodded sadly and forced a smile that faltered as her eyes began to fill with tears.

She forced a laugh as she closed the space between you.

"It's a nice place. Could use some colour, but I know you'll take care of that," she said as she scratched nervously at the back of her neck and gave another weak laugh.

"Thanks for all of your help. Truly," you said.

Her eyes brimmed with tears and her mouth quivered faintly. "Anytime," she said, voice thick with emotion.

She stared at you a moment longer before exhaling, puffing out her cheeks before trying to choke back tears. "I know we're not together. But," she paused, debating her words, "I really do love you. I know you can't make any promises, but, if you're open to it I want you in my life." A quiet sob veiled as a laugh escaped her. "I don't know what my life looks like without you."

"I love you, too, Jessie," you said. You couldn't lie about that.

She embraced you and you held each other tightly in a lingering, tearful hug. Neither of you wanted to be the first to let go.

You eventually conceded and gingerly, regretfully, extracted yourself from her arms. Her fingers lingered as long as she could let them before you stepped back.

You gave her a watery smile.

"Take care of yourself, Jessie."

The statement seemed to wound her, but she covered it up with a tight smile.

"You too."

As you stood before her, a brief recollection came to you of a time long past; your first date. Even then, you knew with absolutely certainty you were going to see her again. As soon as possible if you could help it.

For the first time since the beginning, you didn't know if or when you'd see her again.

You gave her another quick hug, yet again committing her and everything about her to memory.

"I'll see you," you said softly as you hugged her. "And we'll talk soon. Good night, Jess."

Her cheek brushed against yours as she slowly pulled back. Her eyes shone with fresh tears. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it, offering you a renewed smile instead.

"Good night, Y/N."

----

A/N: I did say that things would get a lot rougher before they got better. Let me know your thoughts.

Tag requests: @marvelwomen-simp @valuyhh

[fishnapple]

12 months forecast for your 2025

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost Book a reading with me - KO-FI (→ personal reading)

WILLOW

January: You will start the year with planning and preparation for the months ahead. You have the resources and opportunities to make whatever plan you're having into a reality. The year starts bountifully, you might receive some money or see your financial situation getting better.

February: Lots of gatherings, family, friends, colleagues. This will be a social month for you. You will meet, work with, and care for many people. Family responsibilities could be the focus of this month. Home decoration or cleaning will be the idea you entertain.

March: Continuing from February, you will need to take steady steps this month. Things might move slowly for you. Consider things carefully before making a decision, especially one involving finance, health, family or your living space. You will want to work hard, to get over the grind, steady wins the race.

April: It seems your effort of the previous months will finally reach a conclusion. Maybe a project will end and now you can celebrate and relax more. This month will also be about socialising, but of the celebratory kind, you might go to a fair, a concert or somewhere with lots of people to have fun.

May: As you relax more into May, your emotional space will also expand and be more open. Leaving the door open to let more opportunities for connecting come in. A new bud of attraction will be there. You feel that you're ready to give and receive love and affection.

June: The bud of attraction will bloom in this month, you will meet a person that you find very compatible with you, or you will have the opportunity to get to know someone on a deeper level and feel a new attraction towards them. For some of you, a connection will take the next step, commitment will be offered.

July: Summer will be a joyful period for you. You will feel very inspired this month and begin to envision more plans for the future. You're excited to start, but this month should be spent for building a picture in your mind about the things you want to do with careful details rather than jumping straight into action.

August: This is when you need to start putting your plan into action. This will be a prime time for you to build more structure in your life, take more control and be more responsible, you might also be put in the position of authority or be the one who makes major decisions. You will need to be firm and stay clear headed, because someone or something will create a distraction for you.

September: The result of your actions in the previous month will show itself in this month. It will feel like a reward. You will feel emboldened to do many things that you've been shy to do. Life seems much more lively and colourful for you. You could hear some joyful news or you just feel generally in good spirit.

October: As the months get colder, your spirit will also cool down a little bit. Maybe the good news of September will now make you feel doubtful, you need to reconsider some choices. You could have a tense situation with someone and you don't know how to solve it successfully, it seems whatever you do, the outcome would be the same, so you will hold off making a move in this period.

November: You will become much clearer headed in decisive. You might lean on your rational side more when it comes to approaching situations. You will think you need to cut something out of your life. It might not feel good, but it's necessary. Someone will act a little cold or less emotional, they will judge the actions of other people. This person could be you, but I feel it's likely someone else, they might be older than you.

December: The way you act in November will help make this month more light for you. You will be in good spirit again, ready for a new year, with many things you want to execute. I see many hangouts with friends. You will have the opportunity to freely share your feelings and what you've been looking forward to. I also see a concert, lots of singing and talking.

ROSE

January: New year will mark a new transition for you. The cold weather will leave you feeling a little chilly inside. You might have to give up or change something that you've been familiar with for so long. But you realise that it no longer serves your growth, so you want to change. Travel could be possible for some of you, to go on a trip to heal or to get away from the stress you've been feeling.

February: You will feel a little uncertain about the change you made in January, you feel like you're going blind into an unknown future. But the freedom of endless possibilities entice you to keep going. You might find yourself suddenly being interested in a new project, a new hobby, or anything new, really. Some people will be there to welcome you to the new stage of your life.

March: The feeling of uncertainty still lingers, if not even more heavy than before. You keep being distracted by all the things going around you, your mind is unclear in this month, being too occupied by mundane tasks and respite. You will feel like there's not a moment of rest for you, that you're stuck in this endless cycle.

April: You will have more time to clear your mind and think things through carefully. You're unstuck and will now put on your thinking cap to strategise. A new information will arrive to help you. Every puzzle piece will fall into place, you will know what you need to do. This is the best time to make a decision or to start learning something.

May: You will make slow progress this month, but the faith has been restored, you now have solid goals that you will be working towards, no matter how slow it it. Avoid the urge to compare, just focus on your current work.

June: Help and support will come to you. You're not alone in your journey. A woman or someone with motherly qualities will help you. Children might be around. Also, you need to take care of your stomach and be mindful of what you take into your body.

July: I wonder if the person who appears in June will be someone whom you feel attracted to. You're a lot more inspired and joyful this month, like a new creative energy is blooming. Making yourself appear attractive to that person or just people in general.

August: There are several possibilities here. One is that you will get to see the results of your hard work and actions of the previous months. The other is that you will want to consider returning the favour. If there is something unresolved between you and another person, you will likely want to solve that unfinished business this month. The thought about commitment will also be heavy on your mind.

September: Whatever action you choose to take in August, it will have a positive effect on this month. You will feel fulfilled and happy. Maybe you will establish a more solid connection with the person you're attracted to. There could be a trip to somewhere with lots of water.

October: If you decide to commit to someone, this will be the topic of gossip for some people. Also, your work and what you're doing will be scrutinised. Don't let people's words get to you.

November: There could be a conflict this month. Either with the people who don't have great opinions about your life or an inner conflict. You want to do many things, but they all require your time and effort, so you will need to prioritise more.

December: A surprise or a secret awaits you this month. You could be aware of it through your own detective work or through divination. If an elderly woman gives you some guidance and advice, you should listen to her.

DOLPHIN

January: You might not start the new year with much of a celebratory mood. Someone might do you wrong, and you feel really stuck in the feeling of hurt and fear. You feel like you have the worst luck and need to be wary of the people around you.

February: But you will recover from this month, a new day has arrived. You no longer feel stuck anymore, you will slowly gain back your confidence. You will snap out of the blaming mode and start to take care of yourself more.

March: In an effort to turn the wheel, you might bite more than you can chew in this month. Avoid taking on many things at once. If you feel it's too much, best to ask for help. Don't be in a hurry and running when you're holding something.

April: The busy mood of the previous month will prompt you to take up learning management skills or skills that help you be more efficient.

May: Beware that someone might go behind your back, or try to trick you when you leave the door open. Selfish motives are there. You will want to be more discreet and not disclose your plans to people too openly. Some actions are best taken silently. Also, there can be a bad influence from someone, even if they are not intentional, you need to examine what you're doing with them is truly good for you or not.

June: A success or happy story will inspire you to make changes. You want to learn from examples, but you feel like you still have a long way to go. Be in nature will inspire you more.

July: You will be more relaxed and do things at a more leisurely pace this month. Though generally feeling good, you might be putting off making some major decisions, wanting to just enjoy the present moment.

August: Now the decisions can't be put off any longer. You will have to make a choice. The choice might be related to an emotional matter. It's not a heavy choice, and you're calm. You can listen to other's takes but don't take them to heart too deeply. It's important that you make this choice yourself.

September: You will decide to be bold in this month. Ready to offer your affection. You could start a new friendship or enjoy talking to someone more this month. Companionship is the highlight.

October: Festive feeling. You will feel more connected to people in general and want to go out more. Picnics, camping, and parties are around the corner. You will also feel the urge to join a community, a different world from your usual interactions. The community could be about shared interest, you will feel that you really belong there.

November: A new opportunity for financial gain or career achievement is there. It may be something you've been eyeing for a while but feel too unprepared for. But in this month, you will feel just right, that you're capable of more. Cooking and eating will bring a lot of joy to you.

December: You are finally able to grasp what you wished for and more. This chance is fleeting and doesn't come often, so be sure to keep your eyes open and catch it. You will also feel more playful and adventurous, so take good care of your health to enjoy this moment.

CORAL

January: Someone will be there to support you, they're generous and very warm. When you feel uncertain and frail, they will give you the right dose of affection that will get your strength back. In turn, when you see people who are in the same difficult situation as yours, you will want to act similar to that supportive person.

February: You will get inspired by the person from January and want to emulate their way of living. You look up to this person and want to chart your life in the same direction as theirs. This month will be a crucial step that can determine the course of the following months for you.

March: You will look around to see what you're lacking, what needs to be improved, what you have, what you can offer. Though you feel that you're not yet at a comfortable level, you're hopeful. You might embark on a new journey in this month with a mentality of a student, still have many things to learn.

April: Whatever you're doing, some people will not react kindly to that. You might face ridicule or outright bullying behaviour. Being timid and silent won't help you in this case, you're asked to stand up for yourself more.

May: Either you're fed up and start to come to your power, or someone with more power will intervene and protect you. Their energy is very soft yet protective. You're safe with them. Similarly, you will want to nurture a softer side of yours, let your ideas feel safe enough to run freely.

June: This will be a busy month for you. You have so many things you want to do and are asked of. Proper planning is needed if you don't want to see everything stays in WIP status. Also, be mindful and focused when you're driving and travelling to avoid any accidents. Don't put yourself in a hurry mode.

July: It seems the effort you spent in the previous month won't be paid off well in this month, you feel like you've wasted a lot of time and effort only to see things crumble. Which begs the question, is your foundation solid? Think carefully about what you invest in. Also, pay attention to your living space to avoid leaks, floods, or appliances malfunctioning.

August: Another busy month, this time, you will start to learn to balance things more, you will still do many things at once but you're getting the hang of it and be more skilful, make sure to surround yourself with supportive people. You still need to be careful when travelling, though.

September: You seem to have mastered the art of balancing. You're extra patient this month and willing to take a slower and more sustainable approach. You will also care more about your overall health and want to cut out unhealthy habits. Green juice and nature will do wonders for you in this period. Avoid any excessive behaviour, whether it's in the name of health, betterment, or work.

October: I see a potential lover on the horizon, or someone who can work with you effortlessly, a match for you, whether it's a romantic, platonic, or professional connection. You will want to adorn yourself more beautifully, pay attention to the beauty surrounding you. Rose and butterfly might be symbolic.

November: If the person you meet in October is a romantic potential, you might have some competition there. Also, you will feel a little conflicted about them, like you're not sure what exactly your intention is, or you have so many things you want to do that it's hard to organise the schedule.

December: I see that you will stay home a lot in this month, or prefer to be in solitude, which is probably what you need. To gather your thoughts and do some soul searching. You might want to search for new reading materials. Don't stay up late too much.

[sundew199]

The comfort of you

Tags: zoro x f!reader, fluff

Zoro loves watching you sleep, loves watching the way your guard falls easily when you’re alone with him, like the only source of comfort is his presence. He considers it an honor to know you feel safe and comfortable enough to sleep, even more so when he finds out you force yourself to stay awake around others. He smiles to himself when he traces your soft cheek with his finger, how your brows twitch at the touch, pulling a soft laugh from him.

You sleep so deeply on his chest, a trail of drool beginning at the corner of your mouth, never quite reaching his own skin. Zoro refuses to sleep when you do, his mind racing with thoughts as he looks at you. How pretty you are, how kind and accepting, how you fell for him of all people. That part is still a mystery, remembering how closed off and brash he was to you at first, honed in on his goal. But his heart kept pulling you to him, like a magnet in the vicinity of the opposite pole, stretching to connect.

Zoro often wonders of the life he can give you outside of piracy, when his life long goals have been met, when he succeeds in aiding his captain in his. Will you still want to be with him? Would you consider a slow normal life where he could teach the art of the sword to young minds? Would your love inflame or dwindle now that thrill of life on the sea was over?

He likes to think it won’t, but he’s never been sure, he can’t place all his eggs into one basket, even if he yearns to. All he wants is to grow old together, tell stories to the students that’ll learn from him or maybe even the children he’ll give you. He’d like that actually, a couple of copies of you and him, something he was once so adamantly against, but you had such an odd way of softening his hard nos.

His mind races with possibilities when he watches you sleep, the good and the bad. There are things he wants to tell you that dance in his mind but fear of jinxing it if he says it out loud. Like how he wants to seal his love for you in a ceremony, make you his wife and let the world know that the famed pirate hunter now vice captain of the straw hat pirates has a heart softened by only you. Or how he wants to end his night with you in a home over tea and sake, let you lean back into his chest and you watch the sun set over the sea and the wind rustle the cherry blossoms.

Zoro allows himself to feel when you sleep on or next to him, feel how your beating heart synchs with his and how real you are against him. His life is filled with uncertainty that is almost certain, but he never questions you or the lengths he would go to ensure you’re in his life till the end. Zoro can’t imagine you not rolling over in bed to greet him with a kiss, whether on the sunny or the home he brings you too after this adventure has closed.

Anticipation for a future with you is so sweet, so sought after by him that he has to remind himself to cherish each day, because he knows he’ll miss the lapping waves outside of his cabin on the sunny as you curl into his chest, resting up for whatever the crew gets into on the next island they��ll land at. He’ll miss the way you’ll drag him away from a party thrown by their captain for a private kiss or two, pressing you to the wall with a bottle of sake in his hand or yours, drunkenly giggling as your lips find each others. He’ll miss the way you smile at him when he joins you in Nami’s orchard, forcing you to nap under the sun with him. But he also can’t wait for the quiet slow life of just you and him and a possible family.

Watching you sleep and envisioning the future has become so dear to him, he just can’t bring himself to close his eye and join you, making up for the lack of sleep during the day. He sees everything he wants with you in the content expression on your face, tracing your features with a calloused finger and dotting your moonlit skin in feather light kisses.

“I love you.”

Is what he says into your ear as he settles in finally beside you, his body no longer able to stay awake like he wants. Carefully adjusting you so you’re heart will beat on top of his, lulling him into a dream that he can’t wait to have, knowing it’ll be filled with your bright smile and warm eyes, pulling him along to wherever the future with you holds, hoping to experience it outside of his mind one day soon.

[sapphorror]

The Narrator's perspective only gets more horrifying the longer you think about it. Like, imagine being an Echo of yourself—one of many, all made to serve a very particular purpose and knowingly living on borrowed time, if 'living' is even the right word for your current state of pseudo-existence.

You've inherited the mission of a dead man—it's literally the only thing left that you can do before fading, so you sure as hell better believe in it; the alternative would be unbearable. Only you keep failing. With every loop that you don't remember, your lack of agency in this situation becomes starker—you can influence small things, sure, but it becomes increasingly clear that you have no real power, no matter how personally invested you are in the events unfolding in front of you. You are, after all, only an Echo. You've forfeited the right to meaningfully engage with the world.

Worse—every loop you're made aware of is another time you've failed, with unimaginable consequences, though you had no control over these previous iterations of yourself and can't even learn from their mistakes. Everyone around you is operating on a shared perception of reality that you are not part of, will never be part of. After a few repetitions, you are, ironically, the least informed person in the room. All you have left to go on is an evidently outdated script. At the same time, everyone else is experiencing a contiguous version of you, comprised of parts that are, in some sense, also you, while at the same time existing at a complete remove from your current perception of self. Whatever you don't know you did—that's you now. You are, after all, only an Echo. You've forfeited the right to define your own identity, never mind know what it is.

Even worse—this has trapped you within a stagnant hell of your own creation. Nothing you say or do really matters in terms of your own self (the rest of the world is a separate issue entirely). Anything you've come to believe—say, for totally hypothetical example, that you were wrong actually and your envisioned paradise is really a hell beyond any you had the capacity to envision—has about as much permanence as a drawing in the sand. 'You' will continue, exactly as you were, no matter how much you might like to change your behavior. Every possible future has already been set in stone. You are, after all, only an Echo. You've forfeited the right to say anything you haven't already said.

For some reason, no part of any of this has made you feel more comfortable and at peace with the general concept of finality.

The really, truly absolute worst part, though?

There is no one for you to blame but yourself. And that's exactly what turns your story into such a tragedy.

[oristian]

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“Something sparked in Azriel’s chest, but he only nodded his thanks and left. He could picture it, though, as he ascended the stairs back to the House proper. How Gwyn’s teal eyes might light upon seeing the necklace. For whatever reason … he could see it.  

But Azriel tucked away the thought, consciously erasing the slight smile it brought to his face. Buried the image down deep, where it glowed quietly. 

A thing of secret, lovely beauty.”

— A Court of Silver Flames, Azriel Bonus Chapter

A mating bond is a tether between souls; a connection deeper than the eye can see. Based upon the language and foreshadowing that has been laid out so beautifully, it is without a doubt that Azriel and Gwyn are fated mates and they share that deeper soul connection. For this piece, I envisioned Gwyn being able to feel what Azriel feels and their bond allows her to offer him that comfort—that healing. Yin and Yang.

This piece is also a play on the abilities that Gwyn may have in future books, especially once she feels comfortable enough to wear her invoking stone headpiece once more. As Azriel’s shadows react in such a way to both his and her voices, I wonder if her light can do the same. After all, like calls to like.

Happy Winter Solstice—the night that became a catalyst for it all!

ART CREDIT @lulybot-blog

COMMISSIONED BY @oristian

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