about me: i've been a long time tumblr fanfic lurker and figured it was about time i transition over from wattpad/ao3 to here! below you will find my masterlist and my fic recs. i write mainly for tlou, but have my fair share of other special interests. im currently in a history and anthropology graduate program, thus my knowledge from those fields may bleed over into my writing.
while most of my writing won't be smut based, i do ask that MDNI (18+) with any nsfw posts. as always, ageless blogs will be blocked.
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currently working on: bound by bloodshed, please don't leave me (i'll always need more), sugar talking (tell me that you want me)
⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ "you having these epiphanies... aren't you tired of saying a whole lot of nothing? you tell me that you want me, but baby if you need me..." ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹
part one
content warnings: angst (apologies in advance), canon-typical violence/trauma, ptsd, grief, depression, religious symbolism
word count: 5k
additional tags: slow burn, friends to lovers, season 5 finale fix-it, mutual pining, will byers deserves better, mike wheeler loves will byers, reconnection
a/n: hiii everyone!! this is my very first byler fic, so any and all feedback is welcomed! will byers is my baby and he is so so so special to me. i grew up as a lesbian in a super conservative part of the midwest, so the duffer brothers better watch their mf back after the mess that was season 5. this fic is also cross posted on ao3, if anyone prefers that format. there will be more chapters. anyways, love ya - uh!
Will's face was smashed against his unmade bedspread, his hand tucked under the pillow, which was beginning to loose feeling in his fingertips. His eyes shot over to a geranium full of life on the windowsill, a promise of things that once were. The soft flowers reminded him of her hair — of the softness of her flushed cheeks when she smiled.
Looking past the plant, the grayness of the clouds infuriated him. He wished it would rain, that the sky would open up and drown him in it. For the reluctance to swallow him whole, that night beginning to fade from his memory. He sighed softly, his throat still raw from the intense panic an hour before, the death-grip his mother held on him still lingering on his limbs.
And then, it started; the rain began. He felt himself give in.
The rain gathered strength quickly, fat drops striking the window in uneven bursts. The sound filled the room, loud enough to press against his ears, loud enough that he didn’t have to listen to his own thoughts for a moment. He curled in on himself, fingers tightening in the fabric beneath his face, as if he could anchor himself there.
He thought of her again — not the way she’d looked at the end, not broken or bleeding or still, but the way she’d laughed when she beat them at cards, the way her nose crinkled when she concentrated. The way she’d stood in front of him without hesitation, like fear was something that happened to other people.
Jane.
He hadn’t said it out loud since. The name felt too fragile, like it might splinter if he tried to hold it. El had always been stronger than him. Everyone said so. Everyone had believed it so completely that her dying felt impossible, like a rule the world had broken by accident. His chest hitched, sharp and sudden. He pressed his face harder into the bed, muffling the sound that tore out of him anyway. The grief came in waves; hot and choking, then hollow, then sharp again.
The rain blurred the window until the world beyond it disappeared completely. Hawkins reduced to water and shadow.
Good, he thought distantly. Let it all wash away.
His door creaked open somewhere behind him. He didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. He knew the shape of his mother’s footsteps, the careful way she moved when she thought he might break.
“Will?” Joyce said softly.
He didn’t answer. The bed dipped as she sat beside him, her hand hovering for a moment before settling between his shoulders. Her touch was warm, grounding, real. This time she didn’t pull him close. She just stayed.
“What's wrong sweetheart?” Joyce whispered.
Will sucked in a breath that felt like it scraped his lungs raw. “She was just a kid,” he said, the words thick and uneven. “She didn’t get to—” His voice fractured, refused to go on.
Joyce’s hand tightened. “Oh, honey.”
The rain kept falling. Harder now. Relentless.
Will let himself cry once again, quiet at first, the sound swallowed by the storm outside and the steady presence beside him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a terrible thought settled in and refused to leave: If someone like her could be gone, then surely he didn't deserve to still be here.
And the world, soaked through and uncaring, kept moving anyway.
Joyce left eventually. She didn't say much, just pressed a kiss into his hair, told him she’ll be in the kitchen if he needs her. The door clicked shut behind her, careful as always.
Will rolled onto his side and stared at the wall until the shapes stopped swimming. His gaze drifted back to the desk in the corner, to the sketchbook half-hidden beneath a stack of old papers. He hasn’t opened it in weeks. Maybe longer. He pushed himself upright, head aching faintly, and crossed the room on unsteady legs.
The pencil felt strange in his fingers at first, like he’s forgotten how to hold it. He flipped past old drawings — monsters, faces, places that don’t exist anymore — and turned to a blank page.
It starts messy. Words crowding each other, slanting downhill.
Sometimes I’m convinced I can feel you. Does that sound crazy? It’s probably the denial, the intense guilt clouding my brain.
I scared mom the other day after mentioning briefly that I was having a hard time. Is this what it’s always going to be like? Constantly worrying my relatives about my well-being because you died? Cannot for a moment let others in on the rainstorm ravaging my thoughts. You would be scolding me, yelling at me to tell you how I feel. But you’re not here. And I can’t talk to Jonathan or Lucas because they’ll just give me a frown, followed by a subsequent “if you need anything I’m here.” How do you respond to that? It's been almost two years, I just don't understand why I can't let this go.
I find myself wishing to go back to sleep as soon as I wake up. The only time I feel relief is when I’m unconscious, when my eyes first flutter open and take in my surroundings; when the morning is hazy and it takes me a few seconds to reorient; when I recognize the birds on the trees outside my window and begin to recount everything. And then I remember. And the cycle continues.
He closes the book.
The cabin is quiet again, but it’s a gentler quiet now. The smell of coffee drifts down the hallway, warm and familiar. Will wipes his face on his sleeve, takes one last look at the window, at the rain-streaked glass, the geranium still standing. He opens the door.
The kitchen light is on. Joyce is at the counter, mug in her hands, staring out at nothing in particular. She looks up when she hears him and her expression shifts immediately, softening, relief flickering across her face.
“There you are,” she says. “Karen said Mike’s home for the weekend.”
A pause.
“You should see him.” Will nods, noncommittal. Joyce watches him over the rim of her mug. She doesn’t push. She’s been careful like that lately, like every question might bruise if pressed too hard.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” she adds, gentler. “I just thought you might like to know.”
“Okay,” Will says. His voice sounds like his own again. Thinner, maybe, but steady enough.
He drifts closer to the counter, perching on one of the chairs by the dining table. The coffee pot clicks as it finishes brewing, releasing a smell that wraps around him, familiar and grounding. Joyce pours him a mug without asking. She always does. He accepts it, hands curling around the ceramic, letting the warmth seep into his palms.
Mike’s name sits heavy in his chest. Not sharp like grief, but something duller. Complicated. He thinks of California, of long stretches of quiet, of words he never found the right shape for. Of letters folded too many times. Of the day he came out. And then that night on the radio tower. Joyce moves around the kitchen, wiping an already-clean counter, straightening a stack of mail.
“I might,” Will says finally, staring into the dark surface of the coffee. “I don’t know. I just—” He stops, exhales. "After our last campaign, when everyone left for college, we just kind of stopped talking again."
“That happens,” she says carefully.
“Yeah,” Will agrees, though it doesn’t feel that simple. “But it didn’t feel like drifting. It felt like… like I missed something. Like there was a moment I didn’t realize mattered, and then it was gone.”
He thinks of Mike’s speech to El that spring break in California, carried through a lie and fear. The words, while not directed towards him, had meant everything. They still do. Maybe that’s the problem.
Joyce comes to sit across from him, folding her hands around her own mug. She studies him the way she used to when he was small, when fevers came on too fast and she was afraid of what she couldn’t see.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says.
Will’s mouth quirks, just barely. “I know. Everyone keeps telling me that.” Joyce isn't sure what else she can say that will soothe her son, stuck between wanting to hug him again and giving him his space. She's always struggled with that, with knowing when she was being too overbearing.
Will finishes his coffee slowly. It goes lukewarm in his hands before he notices, the surface gone still and dull. Joyce stands, rinses her mug, sets it upside down on the drying mat. The sink gurgles. She excuses herself once more, mumbling something about checking on the laundry. Will stays where he is, elbows on the table, staring at the knot in the wood. His reflection swims faintly in the dark window — older than he feels, thinner than he remembers.
He thinks of the way Mike used to lean too close over their campaign notes, their shoulders knocking together, the smell of pencil shavings and basement dust. Of how Mike talked with his hands when he got excited, knocking over miniatures without noticing. Of how he used to look at Will when he explained things, really look, like the rest of the room had gone fuzzy.
He stands, carries his mug to the sink, rinses it. The water runs too hot. He doesn’t pull his hand away right away. In the living room, the recliner still has Eleven-shaped memories pressed into it.
Will immediately brushes those intrusive thoughts away before he can spiral again. Instead, he busies himself by picking up the stack of mail Joyce had straightened. Bills. A postcard from Murray, all caps and no punctuation. Nothing addressed to him.
He tells himself he doesn’t owe Mike anything. Not a conversation. Not closure. The thought doesn’t bring relief.
Will moves to the window again, presses his forehead lightly to the glass. What would he even say? Hey, sorry I disappeared. Hey, I think about you more than I should. Hey, I think I still feel something and hate myself a little for it. I can't stop, but does that make me a horrible person?
He’s tried to kill the feeling before. Buried it under distance and silence and years that were supposed to fix him. But it keeps surviving, humiliating in its persistence, proof that there’s something fundamentally broken in him.
"Friends? No thanks. Best friends."
The memory is sharp and sudden, leeching onto his skin. Warmth floods his face, hot and nauseating. He remembers the expression on Mikes face afterwards, the relief flooding his shoulders. The thought twists ugly now, after all, how do you apologize for loving someone who never asked to be loved like that? He tells himself it would have been easier if Mike had been cruel. If he’d drawn a clean line, said something careless, given Will a reason to harden around the absence. Mike acting like everything was normal — like he was normal — was infinitely worse.
And still, if Mike stood in front of him now and smiled that familiar, unguarded smile, Will knows his chest would crack open all over again. Knows he would let it.
The clock on the wall ticks forward. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. The rain thins to a mist. Somewhere in the cabin, a floorboard creaks — Joyce moving.
He exhales, sharp and shaky, standing before he can talk himself out of it. The phone sits on the end table in the other room, heavy and stupid and ordinary. His hand hovers over it, fingers trembling.
Don’t, he tells himself.
But the feeling is already alive in him, already clawing at his ribs. Every thought invading his mind is Mike, Mike, Mike.
He picks up the receiver and the dial tone hums, the numbers clicking into place one by one. The ringing starts and his pulse is blaring in his ears. He considers hanging up.
“Wheeler residence,” Mrs. Wheeler says brightly.
Will freezes. His throat closes.
“H-hi, Mrs. Wheeler,” he says, forcing the words out. “It’s Will. Will Byers.”
“Oh! Will, honey,” she says, instantly warm. It makes his chest ache. “It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you?”
“I’m — um. I’m okay,” he lies. His fingers dig into the cord. “Is Mike… is Mike there?”
There’s a muffled sound of movement, fabric shifting, her voice turning distant as she covers the receiver. “Michael! Phone!”
The seconds stretch, elastic and cruel. Will stares at the floor, at a scuff mark he doesn’t remember making.
"Hello?" Mike asks, clearing his throat.
“Mike!” Will says. “I just—” He stops. Breath shudders out of him. “I didn’t know if I should call.”
They don’t say much after that. Not really.
Mike asks when he’s free. Will says today, then immediately hates how desperate it sounds. Mike says today works for him too, quick enough that it makes Will’s stomach flip. There’s a brief, awkward negotiation over time and place.
When they hang up, the silence is worse than before.
Will stands there with the receiver still in his hand, listening to the dead line buzz faintly, as if the phone itself is disappointed in him. His heart doesn’t slow. If anything, it gets louder, more insistent, like it’s realized what he’s just agreed to.
He goes to his room, El's room, and changes his shirt twice, then a third time, all of them wrong in different ways. Too familiar. Too deliberate. He settles on the least offensive option and tells himself it doesn’t matter. That this isn’t a date. It's just Mike.
Outside, the air is damp and clean, the rain having scrubbed everything down to softer edges. Joyce offers to drive him into town, ecstatic that Will is leaving the cabin for the first time since he came home for holiday break. He politely declines, digging his bike out of the shed, the chain clicking softly as he lifts it over a root. He has half the mind to check the brakes or tires, but his nerves cloud his judgment.
The bell over the door rings when Will steps inside. It’s sharper than he expects, bright in a way that makes him feel briefly exposed, like everyone might turn and look. No one does. There's a radio humming low, Will thinks it might be a Springsteen or The Cure song; something slow, reverb-heavy.
Mike is already there. He’s sitting at one of the worn wooden tables near the window, hands wrapped around a mug that’s probably been too hot for too long. When he sees Will, he stands immediately — too fast, chair legs scraping softly against the floor. For a second, he just stays there, half-risen, like he’s waiting for instructions that don’t exist anymore.
“Oh, hey,” Mike says.
“Hey,” Will answers.
Mike glances at the chair across from him, then back at Will, then straightens his jacket for no reason at all. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to hug him or wave or sit back down, and the hesitation sits between them.
Will fills the space by walking closer. Mike exhales, something like relief passing over his face, and finally sits again. Mike gestures vaguely toward the table. “Uh, so. I, um.” He clears his throat and points at the second mug sitting across from him. Steam curls up from it, thin and patient. “I ordered you a coffee. I-I remembered you don’t like sugar. Or, not much. If that’s still—” He stops himself, wincing a little. “Sorry. You don’t have to drink it if it’s wrong.”
Something tight in Wills chest loosens slightly. He knows he might regret having another caffeinated drink later that night, he has trouble sleeping as it is.
“It’s fine,” he says. “That’s… yeah. That’s right.”
He pulls out the chair and sits, careful, like sudden movement might break whatever fragile truce has formed between them. The table wobbles slightly when he rests his elbows on it. He folds his hands together to keep them from fidgeting.
Mike watches him over the rim of his own mug, eyes flicking up and away too quickly to be subtle. He nods once, relieved, then immediately looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that relief.
“Cool,” Mike says. He takes a sip of his coffee, winces when it’s clearly too hot, then pretends nothing happened. “So. Uh. How long are you in town?”
“A few weeks,” Will says. "Classes start the second week of January."
“Right. Yeah. My mom said something about that.” Mike nods again, like he’s checking boxes off in his head. “She’s — your mom’s doing okay?”
“Yeah,” Will says. “Better.” He hesitates. “She worries. Still.”
Mike huffs out a soft, familiar laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.” There’s a beat of silence. Will isn't sure it's the comfortable kind. He grimaces slightly, taking a sip of his drink.
Mike sets his mug down and rubs his thumb along the handle, eyes fixed on the table. “I’m really glad you called,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to… I mean, I thought about reaching out, but I didn’t know if you—”
“Me too,” Will says, too fast. He reins it in. “I mean. I thought about it.” Mike looks up at him then, really looks at him, and something shifts. Recognition, maybe. Or just the weight of guilt pressing in all at once. Will is convinced that his feelings are plastered all over his face, so much so that he regrets this whole interaction. He wants to scurry away, to retreat back to Hopper's cabin, and continue sulking until well into the New Year. Better yet, to hide under blankets until the world stops asking him to feel.
“So,” Mike says finally, voice careful. “How’ve you been?”
Will opens his mouth. Closes it again. “I don’t know,” he says instead.
Mike nods like that makes sense. He leans back in his chair slightly, like he’s trying to make the space between them feel less loaded, though it doesn’t. The mug warms his hands, the steam curling up between them like a thin, temporary barrier.
“You look… different,” he says finally, hesitant. “I mean… not different, different. You know what I mean.”
Will shrugs, but his stomach twists. Of course he knows what he means. He’s always known. He doesn’t need Mike to spell it out.
“Oh,” Will says quietly. “I guess… I don’t know. Growing up, I guess.”
Mike hums, noncommittal, like that explains something and nothing all at once. He stirs his coffee absentmindedly, eyes flicking to the window and back to Will, trying to gauge where this conversation can even start without detonating.
“Yeah,” Mike says back, like repetition might make the moment easier to handle. “Growing up.” The word hangs there. Will watches it drift between them and dissolve.
Will stares down again, the surface of the coffee has gone still again. He furrows his eyebrows, tongue caught between his teeth. “I keep thinking,” he says suddenly, surprising himself, “that it’s supposed to feel different by now.”
Mike’s hand stills around the spoon in his hand. “Different how?”
“Lighter,” Will says. The word tastes wrong in his mouth. “Like everything that happened should’ve… settled. Like grief has an expiration date or something.”
Mike doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay on Will, but softer now. “Does it?”
Will lets out a breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t hurt so much. “Apparently not.”
Mike shifts in his chair once again, the wood groaning in response, his anxious jitteriness not going unnoticed by the boy across from him. “I—” He stops. Starts again. “I think about her a lot.”
Will nods. He expects the name to sting, for the pain of the morning to come crashing back at full force. He bites the inside of his cheek to still the swirling of emotions begging to be released. He can't cry here, not in front of everyone, in front of Mike. He palms his mouth instinctively, elbow hitting the edge of the table.
“I think about you too,” Mike adds quietly.
Will’s gaze falters, sneaking a glance up. His breath hitches, heart pounding roughly against his chest. He's been so good at pushing down the unnerving feelings, the guilt, the shame. Mike cannot say these things to him, especially considering he knows about Will.
Unfortunately, Mike seems to realize what he’s said a second too late. “I mean— not like— I just mean—” His words tangle over each other. He looks down, cheeks flushing faintly. “You kind of disappeared after… everything. And I didn’t know if I was supposed to follow or leave you alone.”
Will swallows. His hand drops back down to his lap, finding a loose piece of his sweater to fiddle with. He watches it twist around his skin, watches how easy it would be to pull it loose completely.
“I didn’t disappear,” he says, though the lie feels thin. “I just… didn’t know how to keep up with everyone.”
Mike looks up again, searching his face like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. He's had several conversations with Dustin and Lucas about the lack of contact from Will. At first he assumed it has just been him, given their awkward stint in the beginning of High School. But after the rest of the party confirmed his suspicions, he knew that Will had retreated.
“You didn’t just disappear from me,” Mike says quietly. “You disappeared from everyone.”
“I know,” he murmurs. If he stayed, he would have had to keep pretending he didn’t love him, and pretending had almost broken him.
Mike studies him, something conflicted in his expression. He’s not angry. If anything, he looks deflated — like someone had punched him in the gut.
“We kept asking you to hang out,” Mike continues. “Dustin, Lucas— even Max, before… before everything. You always said you were busy. Or tired. Or that you’d call back later.”
Will swallows hard.
“I didn’t want to ruin it,” he says.
Mike blinks. “Ruin what?”
“Everything,” Will says, too fast. “You guys were fine. You were laughing. Going to school. Talking about normal stuff. And I—” His voice falters. “I couldn’t do that. I didn’t know how to be normal anymore.”
Mike’s gaze softens. “You didn’t have to be normal.”
Will lets out a breath that sounds almost like a scoff. “Yeah, I did.”
“Why?” Mike leans forward slightly. Will finally fully looks up at him.
“Because if I wasn’t,” he says quietly, “then everyone would’ve had to look at it. At what happened.”
Mike doesn’t interrupt.
“At me,” Will adds, barely audible. Sometimes, when he was alone, he wondered if the possession had changed him permanently. If the part of him that had been invaded had never healed, only learned how to hide. He learned to distrust his own body.
He never confided in anyone about this. Not Jonathan. Not Joyce. Not even Mike.
Especially not Mike.
Loving Mike felt too close to the same violation.
It wasn’t violent or cruel the way Vecna had been, but it was just as uncontrollable. It bloomed in him without permission, without logic, without any way to shut it off. He didn’t choose it, let alone ask for it. It bloomed inside him like a second consciousness, whispering things he didn’t want to hear, asking for things he didn’t know how to give. He tried to starve it, silence it, scrape it out of himself the way he used to scrape dirt from his knees as a child.
Sometimes he felt like his head was cut off from his body — his mind preaching rules and scripture and shame, while his heart screamed something entirely different. He felt split down the middle: half boy, half sin; half survivor, half contamination.
He wondered if Vecna had left something behind. If the monster had hollowed him out and filled him with something else entirely.
Church made it worse. He tried going a few times, to see if there was a way to get rid of the insanity he felt clawing at him.
The sermons about purity and temptation crawled under his skin. The pews felt like splinters pressed into his back. He sat with his hands folded, palms burning with imaginary crosses, imagining himself as an offering laid out for correction.
He wondered if love was just another kind of possession. He hated how, when Mike smiled at him, warmth flooded his chest in the same way cold had once flooded his lungs. Will's guilt stemmed not only because he loved someone he wasn’t supposed to love, but because the love felt holy and disgusting at the same time.
“You could’ve told me,” Mike whispers, bringing Will back to earth and away from his intrusive inner-monologue.
Will almost laughs. “Yeah. I know.”
The problem is that telling Mike things has always felt like stepping too close to a cliff edge.
Mike leans forward slightly, elbows on the table now, mirroring Will without realizing it. “You don’t have to, like… explain everything,” he says. “I’m not— I’m not asking for that. I just—” He hesitates, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I didn’t like not knowing if you were okay.”
Will’s chest tightens. There it is. The thing he’s been afraid to hear and afraid not to hear at the same time.
“I’m not,” he says softly.
Mike’s jaw tightens. “Yeah,” he says. “Me neither.”
Will looks up at him then, really looks at him. Mike’s hair is a little longer than he remembers, falling into his eyes the way it used to when they were kids. There are faint shadows under his eyes, exhaustion he never used to carry.
Their eye contact settles around the silence, a soft smile beginning at the corners of Mike's mouth. He missed his best friend, his Cleric, his Will. He felt so foolish for the way he handled things when he was younger, so stupid and oblivious.
He notices the way Will offers a nod in response, watches the slight tremor in his fingers, and something inside him twists — wanting to reach out, to steady it, even though he knows he can’t.
When they stand to leave, Mike hesitates as though weighing something invisible, then closes the distance between them. The awkward hug is stiff and overly careful. Will’s hands hover before settling against Mike’s jacket.
The hug ends too quickly.
Upon stepping outside, the winter air bites at their cheeks. Will fumbles for words, muttering thanks for the coffee, his voice small against the emptiness of the street. They begin walking, side by side, toward Mike’s car. How did he convince Karen Wheeler to let him drive?
Will teases him lightly about the station wagon. Mike laughs softly, and it’s enough to make Will’s chest unclench just a fraction.
When they reach the corner, Will gestures toward his bike. Mike pauses, hesitates, then offers another hug. This one is longer, worse, their bodies pressing closer than before. It leaves a heat behind in Will’s chest that he can’t quite name.
“I’m glad we did this,” Mike says, voice low.
“Me too,” Will replies
They mean different things.
That night, Will lies awake with his hands folded over his chest, feeling the slow, stubborn rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his palms. The house is quiet in the way it only gets after midnight, with Joyce working a night shift (Hopper was busy visiting Jonathan in New York, which took a lot of convincing on his mother's end).
He thinks about the hug.
About how Mike’s hands had lingered, just barely.
About the moment Will had felt the urge to turn back, to say something reckless, something impossible, something that might have split his life open down the middle. He lies there, counting the cracks in the ceiling, letting memory press against him until it becomes difficult to tell where the present ends and the past begins.
The phone rings.
The sound is sharp and sudden enough to tear through his thoughts, jolting straight through his ribs. His heart leaps violently, instinct screaming that no one calls after midnight unless something is wrong. For a moment, he just sits there, breathing shallowly, as if moving too fast might make the sound vanish, might undo whatever is about to happen.
The phone rings again.
He swings his legs over the side of the couch and reaches for the receiver, fingers brushing the cold plastic before curling around it. His hand feels unsteady as he lifts it to his ear
“Hello?”
There’s a breath on the other end. Familiar.
“Hey. It’s me.” Mike sounds different. Not steady this time. Like he’s been pacing.
“I’m sorry to call so late,” he says. “I just— I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said.” Will presses the cord between his fingers. “I just didn’t realize,” Mike continues, quieter now. “How much I… left unsaid.” Will closes his eyes. Mike exhales again. “I don’t want this to be… it.”
“What do you mean?”
Mike hesitates, then: “I mean — us. Talking. I don’t want it to just be today. I don't want to go back to how it was these past six months, back when you were in California.”
Will doesn’t trust his voice at first. “Okay.”
“I keep wondering,” Mike says slowly, “if there were moments I should’ve noticed. Things I just… didn’t.”
Will leans his head against the wall.
“There were,” he admits. “But you weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“That doesn’t really make me feel better.”
Will huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Yeah. I figured.”
“You know,” Mike says, “when everything ended, I thought I’d feel better. Like I could finally breathe.”
Will waits.
“But now it’s just… quiet,” Mike finishes. “And I keep thinking about stuff I didn’t have time to think about before.”
Will’s heart stutters.
“Like what?”
Another pause. Longer.
“Like you.”
Will waits for him to take it back, to stutter, like this morning. But he doesn't.
⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ "you having these epiphanies... and aren't you tired of saying a whole lot of nothing? you tell me that you want me, but baby if you need me..." ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹
post season 5 (mostly canon compliant) byler fix-it-fic
“Yeah, well. You’re not exactly easy to read.”
“Excuse you,” Will says, deadpan. “I’m incredibly obvious.” Mike laughs, a real one this time, and the sound makes Will’s chest ache in a way that’s almost good.
“Okay,” Mike says. “Maybe obvious if you know what you’re looking for.”
Will’s smile falters, just slightly. “Do you?” The question slips out before he can stop it. There’s a moment — too long to be nothing, too short to be dangerous.
“I think I’m starting to,” Mike breathes. Will’s fingers tighten around the phone cord again.
coming soon...
a/n: so basically i'm pulling a joyce byers. im full convinced that if Leigh Janiak was in the writers room then byler would've been endgame. this story is me coping!!! will eventually cross post on ao3 when enough is written (still drafting, much like my new steve! fic)...
work in progress series (cross listed under same name on ao3)
potential content warnings: there will be mentions of blood and gore, explicit language, sexual content, dark thoughts, violence against women and children, body horror, torture, religious symbolism, typical 1980s bullshit... inspiration taken from "janie" & "waco, texas" by ethel cain
pairing: steve harrington! x afab oc/reader
word count: n/a (currently drafting)
✎ Summary: You learned early how to disappear; how to follow instructions, accept consequences, and never expect praise for surviving. Hawkins taught you that usefulness was temporary and affection was conditional, lessons that linger long after the lab is gone. Afterall, they didn’t need you to open the gate – they needed someone to blame when it did.
Steve Harrington meets you at a point in his life where he’s already questioning everything he was supposed to be, and something about you makes him stop questioning and start deciding. What begins as proximity turns into choice, and then into something neither of you were prepared to name.
or
The one where you (005) were molded to believe that you weren't special; you were the margin of error. Unsurprisingly, Steve Harrington has never been good at believing what he’s told.
hi guys. sorry for constantly going on hiatus! i had a close friend of mine pass away and that effectively turned my life upside down. i'm finally in a place where i have found my creative spark again. that said -- i will be branching out and writing about different fandoms/ships, as i feel restricted otherwise. i don't want to burn out again, so this is my solution. i will probably cross post on ao3, especially longer works that i am in the process of picking up again. i can't promise anything (knowing my track record), but i really want to be involved with the writing community again.
⇠ part three
word count: 3.7k
potential warnings: explicit language, mean!ellie, mild sexual content, fluff at the end??
pairing: seattle!ellie x female reader ☾ mood board
authors note: this is more of a filler chapter than anything else, so i apologize. theres been a lot of changes in my life over the past few months -- so i've been trying to deal with that. regardless, i have a lot more free time now that ive graduated form college & moved (yay!), so hopefully (fingers crossed), i'll be more active on here :)
FREE FREE PALESTINE!
You kick at the dirt with the rubber sole of your shoe, feeling the grit shift beneath your feet, a tiny cloud of dust puffing up like a sigh too weary to lift off the ground. It’s the same sigh that escapes your mouth, the sound barely more than a breath of resignation. Ellie pretends not to notice – or maybe she does and just chooses to ignore it – her determined stride carrying her further ahead, her silhouette hunched slightly under the weight of the days and miles. It’s infuriating how stubborn she could be, how she can walk right past you, eyes set on the distance, as if the tension between you doesn’t hang in the air, thick and unyielding.
It’s been two days since you’ve tasted each other, two days since that frenzied collision of lips and limbs. Two days, and Ellie is still reeling in the aftermath, the memory of your shared warmth now a cold space between you. The military base should only be a few more days out, but every mile feels like it’s dragging the earth with it, the ground itself conspiring to keep you from reaching any sense of normalcy.
“Up there,” she mutters, digging around in her bag as she gestures up ahead to the remnants of an storefront – Walsh’s General written in faded ochre lettering above the door. Ellie goes to mess with the front door only to be met with an unmoving lock.
“Hold up,” you say, lightly pushing past her to kneel in front of the latch. A disordered piece of discolored metal slips from your front pocket, your fingers pushing the shiv into the lock with practiced ease. The familiar click of the tumblers falling into place is a small victory, a sound that seems to echo in the stillness of the abandoned street. You push the door open, and it creaks in protest, the wood swollen and warped from years of neglect.
Ellie steps in first, bravado always hindering, eyes scanning the dim interior. The air inside is thick and stale, filled with the scent of old dust and decaying wood. Shelves stand half-empty, their contents long since looted or ruined. A few cans of food, some faded clothing, and a scattering of other forgotten items are all that remain.
"Let's see what we can find," Ellie says, her voice low but determined. She moves deeper into the store, her movements careful and deliberate. Despite the tension between you, there's a sense of unspoken understanding; you both know what needs to be done.
You follow her lead, moving to the back of the store where a set of stairs leads to what was once an office or storage room. The floorboards groan under your weight, and you have to tread lightly to avoid falling through. Ellie remains on the ground floor, rifling through the shelves, while you ascend the creaky staircase.
At the top, you find a small room, its walls lined with dusty boxes and old papers. A single window lets in a thin beam of light, illuminating the dust particles that dance in the air. You approach the window, peering out at the deserted town beyond. Outside, the world is a tableau of decay, the buildings slumping like weary travelers, their facades peeling away in layers. A deer cautiously steps out from behind a crumbling wall, its sleek body almost ghostly in the fading light. For a moment, you watch it, captivated.
The deer suddenly freezes, its ears twitching as if it senses something you can’t see. Then, in a blur of movement, it darts back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. The stillness that follows is almost suffocating, and that uneasy feeling in your gut tightens once again. You turn away from the window, pushing the momentary distraction out of your mind. There's nothing to gain from dwelling on what you can't change. Instead, you focus on the task at hand; the room offers little in the way of comfort or safety, but there’s a chance it might hold something of value.
Your eyes land on a particularly large, dust-covered box in the corner. It’s sealed with old packing tape, its once vibrant logo now faded and peeling. Curiosity, or perhaps the need for something to distract you from the growing tension, drives you to your knees, your fingers carefully peeling back the brittle packing tape that holds the box closed. The box gives way with a soft crackle, revealing a jumble of items inside.
You sift through its contents, finding old rags, a few yellowed notebooks, and a tarnished ring. Nothing of immediate value, but then your fingers brush against something cool and metallic. You pull it out, revealing a small, rusted tin canister. The label is barely legible, but you recognize the symbol – it's an old military supply canister, the kind that usually held emergency rations or medical supplies.
Excitement flickers in your chest as you twist the lid open. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, is a small stash of medical supplies – a roll of bandages, a few vials of antiseptic, and a couple of syringes. It’s not much, but in your world, it’s a treasure.
“Ellie’s going to be thrilled,” you whisper to yourself, carefully tucking the canister into your bag. A crumpled up piece of paper drops from the canister – a curious predicament.
You unfold the paper, its edges fragile, and find not just a note, but a letter that seems to have been written in a rush. The handwriting is small and neat, though the ink is slightly smudged, as if the writer’s hand had trembled. Nestled within the folds of the letter is a small, faded photograph of a man and a woman, standing close, their expressions solemn but tender. They aren’t smiling, but there’s a quiet intimacy in the way they lean into each other, a shared understanding.
Annabell,
I’ve fought against everything that’s kept me from you. I tried, Annabell, I really did. But trying wasn’t enough, and that will haunt me. Of all the choices I've made, the one that keeps me awake at night is not being by your side. We were always more than just two people – more like threads spun together, impossible to separate without unraveling completely.
This letter isn’t a goodbye, though I fear it feels like one. We were never ones for dramatic gestures or tearful farewells, were we? So I’ll spare you that. If you find yourself heading north, there’s a place that might offer some safety. Look for the old oak in the front – the one with the hollow trunk where we used to hide our notes when we were kids. I left something there for you. I hope you find it. I hope you make it.
And if you don’t… well, if you don’t, then at least know this: Every decision I made was to try and make the world a little less cruel for you. For us. Maybe I failed, but it was never for lack of trying.
If someone else finds this letter, I hope you carry it forward. Maybe it’ll mean something to someone. Maybe it won’t.
I'm sorry Annabelle.
Matthew.
The letter hits you with a quiet intensity, the words measured and grounded, stripped of any romanticized finality. You gently pick up the photo, studying the faces of the couple. Their faces are looking at one another, a knowing look passing between them like a punch to the gut, raw and real in a way that makes the dusty room around you seem even more desolate.
When you make your way back downstairs, Ellie looks up, her gaze curious but wary. You pull out the letter and the photograph, handing them over without a word. She doesn’t react much at first, just taking in the words and the faded image. After a moment, she hands it back, her expression a little more thoughtful than before.
“Did he make it?” she finally asks, her voice subdued.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” you reply quietly. Ellie shifts slightly, moving her weight from one foot to the other. She doesn’t meet your gaze, her eyes instead fixed on some distant point in the room, as if looking directly at you might break the fragile peace that’s settled over this moment. The tension between you has been a constant companion, a silent third party in your journey, but now it feels different, heavier, more present.
“They were holding on to something,” she says, her voice quieter than usual, almost as if she’s speaking to herself rather than to you. There’s a sadness in her tone, a kind of weariness that you recognize all too well – the exhaustion that comes not just from the miles you’ve walked or the battles you’ve fought, but from carrying the weight of memories.
“Seems like it,” you reply, slipping the letter back into your pocket. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. Ellie’s gaze lingers on you for a second longer than usual, her eyes searching yours for something – understanding, perhaps, or maybe reassurance that the words you’ve just exchanged mean more than they seem. But before you can offer anything, before you can even think of what to say, she looks away, the moment passing like a brief pause in the rhythm of your steps. It’s a fleeting connection, a moment of vulnerability that’s here and then gone, lost in the vast expanse of everything else that remains unsaid between you.
You both know the score, the unspoken agreement that binds you – survival first, everything else second. But something has shifted in the dynamic between you, even if neither of you is quite ready to acknowledge it yet.
Then, without another word, you both move on, the creaking floorboards underfoot the only sound that accompanies you as you head toward the exit. But as the door closes behind you with a soft thud, the mood shifts, subtle at first. You can sense it before she even speaks; Ellie’s demeanor changes, her shoulders tense as her steps grow more deliberate, more forceful.
“Was that all you found?” she asks, her voice sharp and laced with impatience. The softness from just moments ago is gone, replaced by a hard edge that catches you off guard
You’re taken aback by the sudden change in tone, but you quickly shake off the surprise and respond with a controlled voice. “I mean, there were just some old rags and useless company papers up there, if that’s what you mean.”
Ellie’s eyes narrow, the frustration in her gaze intensifying. “So you didn’t actually find anything useful, then? Great. Just great.” Her tone is dismissive, almost accusatory, and it stings more than you’d care to admit. The way she says it, the implication that you’ve somehow let her down, it’s like a slap in the face after everything you’ve been through together.
You raise an eyebrow, your irritation growing. “I didn’t see you finding anything of value. Maybe you should’ve gone up there yourself if you thought it was so easy.” The sharpness in your voice reflects your own mounting frustration.
Ellie’s face flushes with a mix of embarrassment and anger. Her hands ball into fists at her sides, her posture rigid. “It’s not about the supplies,” she snaps. “It’s about you acting like you’re doing everyone a favor by finding something we already knew was probably useless.”
You throw your hands up in exasperation, your frustration boiling over. “I’m not acting like I’m doing anyone a favor. I’m just trying to make sure we’re prepared for whatever comes next. But if you’d rather sit around and wait for something to magically appear, that’s fine too.”
Ellie shakes her head vigorously, her voice rising with each word. “You know what? Maybe I would if you didn’t keep making everything so complicated. You’re always trying to prove something, and it just makes everything worse.”
“Prove something? What are you talking about?” You shoot back, your patience wearing thin. “I’m just trying to survive, same as you. If you stopped making everything a competition, we’d actually get somewhere.”
Ellie’s laugh is bitter, her frustration palpable. “God, you love to pat yourself on the back. But I guess that’s just your thing – acting like you’re the hero when you’re really just making a mess.”
You’re silent for a beat, fully taking in her jab. Is that what she really thinks of me? Sure, you had exasperated your fair share of insults; but that seemed over the line. It’s one thing to clash over strategies or tasks, but her comment feels like a personal attack.
At this point, you can feel the argument spiraling into pointless bickering, the tension in the air thick. “Fine! If it means that much to you, I’ll let you handle it. I’ll let you handle everything. I’m done trying to help. ”
Ellie scoffs, the exasperation clear in her voice. “I never asked you to.”
⭒⭒⭒⭒
Ellie and you sit on opposite sides of the campfire, the darkness amplifying the unspoken frustration that lingers between you. The day’s patrol had been grueling, and the tension between you two is nearly unbearable. Ellie glances at you from across the fire, the glow from the flames dancing eerily on her freckled face.
You chance a glance at Ellie, her lips tightly pursed, and her knuckles white as she grips the edge of the rock she's sitting on. She seems lost in her own thoughts, and it's clear that she's just as uncomfortable with the situation as you are. Ellie breaks the silence first, her voice harsh and cutting. “You know, you really have a talent for pretending everything’s fine. How do you manage it? Acting like you don’t care about anything except what’s right in front of you?”
You shoot her a sharp look, the accusation hitting hard. “Oh, don’t even start. It’s not like you’re any better. You’ve been walking around with this chip on your shoulder, acting like I’m the cause of all your problems!”
Ellie's eyes widen slightly, her grip on the rock tightening even more. Her jaw clenches as if she's holding back a flood of retorts. "Excuse me? Me? I'm the one with the chip on my shoulder? That's rich coming from you." Her voice is laced with both anger and hurt. She leans forward, the fire casting shadows across her face. "Ever since we got paired up, it's like you've been counting the days until we're done. Like I'm nothing more than a nuisance."
“And you’re just so perfect, right?” you snap back, standing up, your frustration boiling over. “You act like you’re handling it all, but you’re the one pushing everyone away because you’re scared of actually dealing with it!”
Ellie stands as well, her voice rising. “Scared? Scared of what? Dealing with your endless stream of excuses and half-assed attempts at being a decent partner? Newsflash: I’m not here to babysit your emotions!”
“You know what? Fuck you,” you shoot back, stepping closer, your anger palpable. “You’re so sick of me? Tomorrow I’ll be gone.” The argument is raw and unrelenting, every word a dagger. The emotional weight of the day, combined with the unresolved tension, erupts between you. Ellie’s frustration and your own anger collide in a chaotic, volatile mixture.
And in a moment of impulsive recklessness, Ellie grabs your collar, yanking you closer. It’s not a gentle kiss, but a clash of emotions and raw need, driven by the tension that’s been simmering for so long. You respond with equal fervor, your hands finding their way to her face, pulling her closer.
The kiss is a desperate release, a tangled knot of emotions unraveling in a moment of primal need. It’s messy, rough around the edges, but it’s also real and unfiltered. You push her back against a nearby tree, the rough bark pressing against her back as the kiss deepens. The pain blends with the heat of the moment, and despite her internal conflict, you find yourself returning the kiss. Her hands rest on your waist, unable to decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.
“You’re so fucking annoying,” you manage to utter, fingers running through auburn locks. The other girl scoffs against your mouth.
"And you're just as annoying," Ellie snaps back between kisses, her fingers digging into your hips. “Insufferable... Aggravating... Impossible..." She mutters, the words lost in a clash of kisses and tongue.
“Say you need me,” you demand, holding her face. Ellie pauses, the words caught in her throat. She hesitates, her eyes locked on yours. The admission hangs in the air, caught between desire and pride. But slowly, reluctantly, she concedes. Her breath shivers slightly as she speaks.
"I need you.”
She unfastens the buttons on your shirt, one by one, her movements deliberate and filled with barely contained need. Hesitantly, you capture a stray piece of hair between your knuckles and brush it behind her ear. Ellie's attention flickers to the touch, leaning into your hand and expression softening for a moment. You swear she could feel the fast pace beat of your heart against her chest, breath hitching in your throat. You pathetically whimper as she palms your stomach, wanting nothing more in that moment for her to do inappropriate things to you in the middle of the fucking forest.
A hushed moan left Ellie as she traced patterns onto your lower abdomen, the other woman getting off on your body’s reaction. In turn, your skin felt on fire, Ellie’s touch igniting a blaze within you; as if she was the match and you were burning. Her kisses move from your mouth to your jaw, then down your neck, each one like a scorching brand against your skin.
"Ellie... you're maddening," you pant, a needy edge to your voice. "I want to strangle you... and kiss you senseless."
She drags her lips back up to yours, capturing them in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as it is a surrender. It’s rough and needy, like she’s trying to prove something, trying to make you understand just how deep you’re both in. You clutch at her shirt, desperate for something to hold onto, feeling like you might fall apart if you don’t.
But beneath the rawness, there’s a tenderness that neither of you can deny. It’s there in the way her hand trembles slightly as it trails up your side, in the way she hesitates just for a fraction of a second before deepening the kiss, as if she’s afraid of breaking something fragile between you.
There’s a softness in her eyes that wasn’t there before, a vulnerability that takes your breath away. “Don’t leave,” she says quietly, almost like a plea.
Within minutes, Ellie was on her knees.
⭒⭒⭒⭒
Ellie’s face is soft in the dim light, her features relaxed in a way that you rarely see anymore, the hard edges of survival temporarily softened by the quiet peace of the early morning. There’s a hint of a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, a subtle curve that you catch out of the corner of your eye, and you turn to her, curious.
“Hey,” she begins, her voice low, almost hesitant, as if she’s not quite sure she wants to break the spell of silence that has settled over you. “Remember that time we tried to make a treehouse out of scrap? We thought we’d live in it and everything.” Her words are light, almost playful, a stark contrast to the usual tension that accompanies your conversations, and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your own lips in response.
The memory she’s conjured is vivid, a flash of color and sound that washes over you in an instant, transporting you back to a time when things were simpler, when the weight of the world hadn’t yet settled on your shoulders. You can see it clearly in your mind’s eye – the two of you, younger, more carefree, standing in a sun-dappled clearing back in Jackson, surrounded by the scattered remains of what was supposed to be your masterpiece. The air had been thick with the scent of pine and freshly cut wood, the sound of your laughter echoing through the trees as you hammered and sawed, your hands sticky with sap and dirt.
You laugh now, shaking your head at the memory, the sound of your voice startling in the stillness of the morning. “Yeah, and we ended up with a pile of broken wood and a lot of splinters. Didn’t exactly turn out like we planned.” The words are tinged with nostalgia, a warmth that spreads through your chest as you recall the look of determination on Ellie’s face, the way her brow had furrowed in concentration as she tried to fit the mismatched pieces of wood together, her tongue poking out slightly in that way it does when she’s really focused.
Ellie’s laughter joins yours, a light, genuine sound that fills the space between you, breaking through the tension that has lingered there for so long. It’s a rare moment of levity, a brief respite from the seriousness that has come to define your lives, and you find yourself savoring it, the sound of her laughter like a balm to your weary soul.
“Yeah,” she agrees, her grin widening, her eyes bright with the memory. “But it was fun. And it was ours.” There’s a note of pride in her voice, a quiet satisfaction that comes not from the end result, but from the effort itself, from the shared experience of creating something together, no matter how imperfect.
You look at Ellie, really look at her, and in the soft light of the approaching dawn, she looks younger somehow.. There’s a lightness in her gaze, a vulnerability that she rarely allows herself to show, and it makes your heart skip a beat, a quick, fluttering sensation that catches you off guard. It’s not just the memories that have stirred something within you, not just the shared experiences that have brought you closer over the years – it’s the way she looks at you now, the way she allows herself to be open, to be seen, if only for a moment.
“Yeah,” you say softly, the word barely more than a breath. “It was.”
new chapter to Bound By Bloodshed will be up sometime tomorrow!!! just putting the finishing touches on it. i'm so sorry for being MIA for basically the entire summer oops
i hate my part time job (food service sigh) so hoping this can become the outlet it once was for me again
so i think we can all agree that My Lady Jane is one of the best new series on any streaming platforms. like, enemy-to-lovers tension, arranged marriage, magic (sorta), history (sorta), knives, and Dominic Cooper being the villain: it as it all!!
In Yemen the death count stagnated at 15,000 until the war ended and the people were able to count their dead. Today, it's commonly accepted that over 300,000 Yemenis have been killed by war and famine. We will see a similar situation in Gaza after a ceasefire.
pairing: cowboy!ellie williams x afab!reader (she/her pronouns used)
music: california love - 2pac etc. OR devil wears a suit and tie - colter wall (tysm angel @lissanovak)
word count: 1.7k
summary: ellie takes good money where she can get it. turns out there's a desperate runaway who will stop at nothing to fill her coin purse. well, and run away.
warnings: blood, gun use, minor injury, slight ageism towards joel, bounty hunter!ellie kinda, outlaw behaviour forrealsies
an: the start of cowboy!ellie and reader's love story <3 how i met ur mother actually. yk when u write a word so much and it doesn't look real anymore thats how i feel abt the word flower.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
“is the money good?”
her eyes trace the faded ink that paints your jawline. her fingers itch in her gloves, tapping along the flimsy paper. she shifts quickly, cigarette smoke swirling and fading in the air, a sweet smell.
your father was a desperate, desperate man.
‘please, please, bring her back to me.’
‘my sweet child, my only child.’
honestly, ellie wasn’t paying much attention to the blubbering until the mention of a payout.
the drag was long, smoke settling her stomach, and spilling out from her lips in a rasp of a laugh, “yeah, it’s real good.”
this was clearly your first time running from home.
your name on her lips, nearly everyone she met was itching to tell ellie what they had seen, for a stray coin or two. you weren’t exactly quiet, rushing off with kicked up dust and curses rolling off your tongue. the easiest money they’ve ever made, joel jokes.
ellie had your photograph in her pocket, the one your father gave her. it had felt almost unlawful to take it, your smile too intimate, your laugh too familiar. you wore the ornaments of high society, silks and velvets finding their comfort in the contours of your body, but your look was something unknown, untamed, something scarcely to be found. it was something that she deemed herself unworthy of. a sick perversion it was, to look at a capturing of you and imagine something more. she swallowed it.
“y’seen her or not?”
His eyes lingered a fraction longer on your face, the ghost of his breath circling the rim of his glass, sinking into the beer at the bottom. ellie dug her fingernails into her palms. she hated this man.
“maybe. y’got something f’me?”
“how much?”
“twenty.”
jesus.
“ th’s higher than last time, butch.” joel’s calm, albeit tired. the rasp in his throat echoes into the jovial sounds of the saloon. the old crook chuckles, sags of skin rising and falling with his molasses, gap-toothed smile.
“business is business, old friend. consider it a family discount, jus’ for you two.”
ellie makes sure joel feels the fire of her gaze as he counts out the bills. there’s little comfort in knowing the reward is sweeter, as she watches half their year’s savings slide across the table.
“a friend of a friend seen her in valentine. in that pretty dress too.”
her breath rots in her throat, palms itching as she takes back the photo, settles it back in her pocket. joel leads her out with a dishonest smile.
“easiest money we ever made.” it’s a mocking closing statement, before the heavy breath of horses fills a dripping silence.
you’re not far from a fallen angel, when ellie spots you. completely separate from the delicacy of your photo, now, you’re wild. your hair looks softer, less abused with pomade and twists to make stiff curls, capturing the sun and shining it like fragmented glass. a warmer, kinder glow falls on the dust of your skin, your rich silks abandoned for something looser, free. she feels a tragedy nick at her head when joel doesn’t hesitate,
“miss,” he stops you on the step of the general store, your grocery basket swinging from your arm, change echoing in the pocket of your skirt, “we’re friends of your father’s. he’s asked us t’bring you on home now.”
you weren’t smiling before, but something fell on your face that made you hard to describe. something echoes and ellie can almost watch the moment everything clicks.
“damn!-ellie!”
apples roll down the steps, abandoned. joel is old, and slow. ellie isn’t.
she’s on you before you can even breathe a getaway, her hands a rough burn against your skin as she pins you, cheek flush against the wood paneling of the store. softness forsaken, your breath is heavy, a monster slipping from your lips as you kick and bleed,
“i won’t go back-y’can’t make me! bastard!”
the blade is cold fire, foreign on your neck, “trust me flower. we can go easy,” pressure. “or hard,”
the silence between you deepens, your breath swirling together as the heat from her chest ripples on your back. this isn’t how ellie thought you’d be.
“how the fuck did you think that was gonna go, joel? ‘oh, you’re my daddy’s friends? why, of course, let me go and pack my beloved valuables and we can ride home together while i sing a tisket, a tasket for your enjoyment.’”
your voice is a rough, searing anger, as it echoes from where you’re bent over on ellie’s horse, hands tied behind your back, “cunt.”
“that ain't a very ladylike mouth you got there, darlin’.”
your father is wringing his clammy little hands on the front porch when joel and ellie’s horses are spied up the road. working himself up, he runs to meet you with a blabber of words. joel lifts you gently, much kinder than he was back in valentine, and cuts the sandpaper ropes from your wrists. your mother appears with a scowl,
“come on then. you need a bath, you’re filthy.”
it’s a walk of shame back down the road to your eyesore of a prairie home. the money feels sickeningly heavy in ellie’s hands as she watches you.
oh, she’s home. home, home, home. your father mutters in relief.
it doesn’t last long.
the second time is almost as painful as the first. tears stain the suede of joel’s jacket, a manic grip as the older man wailed and cried,
“she’s gone, again, again! please!”
they found you wandering a mountain pass, the sand of the red desert rock smeared across your cheek and dusted in your hair. you’d stolen a pony of your father’s, skittish and small, ellie almost laughed.
but fuck, you were learning to put up a good fight. even had a knife on you this time, smart girl.
but your dumb horse didn’t fight much, flying off at the first sound of a gunshot, throwing you violently into the dirt, winded and dazed. ellie shaded you from the beating sun with shit-eating grin, “howdy stranger.”
your voice is a coughing fit, “fuc-k you.”
by the fourth time, they started taking payments up front. the fifth time, your mother delivered the news, your father too bed-ridden with worry to see through the mess of tears and snot.
“back so soon, friend?” it’s mean to be a laugh, but it’s a rasp, dying wind scratching at his throat as his brow furrows.
ellie’s not interested in his dance, counting out the money and running it along the bumps of the scarred bar table, “same girl, y’seen her?”
he tuts, his voice high and mighty and too drunkenly happy, “dunno. think i forgot what i’m lookin’ for. might need t’see that photo again.”
“watch it.”
the silver of her hunting knife twinkles like a star in the warm light, the point slowly digging an edge into the aging wood. he shrinks and wisps the money up before it disappears, “last i heard she hitched a train up north. all i know, i swear.”
“always a pleasure, butch.”
the glow of your dying campfire wasn’t an easy beacon to follow from below the cliff face, smoke easing off the edge and falling into the moonlight. ellie eased her horse quietly up the incline, her eyes trailing your silhouette against the amber coals. a horse was tied to the tree you were camping under, not yours.
didn’t take you long to settle into the wild.
you were a completely different creature, something unknowable. ellie rounds the thicket on her feet, watching you. your eyes melt with the starlight, windswept and sweet in the air of the hills. you belong here.
fortunately, god makes it clear that ellie does not. the crack of the stick calls and echoes off the distance mountains, and, fuck, when did you get a revolver?
her hands are up as she steps out, cursing under her breath as her pants snag in the bush.
“you even know how to use that, sweetheart?”
your thumb clicks the safety, it echoes in the silence,
“i know well enough.”
“and what?” it’s teasing, and at some point, as ellie ponders her life down the barrel of a gun, your gun, she wonders if maybe, it’s not the right time. fuck it, “you gonna shoot me, flower? you gonna try?”
“i ain’t going back to that house, ellie.”
however tense, and full of pure hatred, her name on your lips is something god-given. she fights to revel in it.
“clearly.”
ellie steps, hoping to bridge the distance between you with something kind, something deserving of you. you panic.
blood. warm and sticky, seeping through the scratchy fabric of her shirt, the burn spreading through her body like a parasite. her hand flies to her arm, “you fucking shot me?’
had you seen blood before? had you shot someone before? your aim wasn’t guided by god, but fuck, you didn’t exactly expect it to hit her, and ellie knows.
“you’re th’one who fucking came at me!”
“i was walking!”
the ride home was horribly reminiscent of the first time you met. except, somehow, the ropes were tighter, and ellie had two guns in her saddle bag.
your mother scrubs the dried blood from your side in a cold bath, muttering about the witching hour.
you wait a few nights in restlessness, listening to your parents argue about your disobedience, before packing yet another satchel.
the outline of her jaw was lit by a dying cigarette, the soft scratch of her boots on the dirt echoing in the cicada rhythm of midnight. you watch her carefully as you drop from your window, wishing you had grabbed the shotgun this time.
“what? you hoping to cash in without actually doing any work?”
she’s quiet, leaning against your back picket fence. flicking her cigarette down, it briefly lights the white tourniquet splitting her bicep.
“i’m real sorry about that.” it’s quiet, remorse.
she tuts, without care, “just a graze. y’have terrible aim.”
she’s watching you, enforcing a silence between you as she studies you, almost unsure.
a sharp whistle bounces off a distant hill. you can vaguely make out the glow of a lantern, and joel.
i just dont get it i feel like im losing my fucking mind actual real human beings are being starved to death and facing a genocide and people are still raving about the met gala and eurovision and useless extravagances of the west the disconnect is sickening i feel like throwing up how many people have to die for the world to fucking care like at all
...i begging yall do not get desensitised to reading these. this is horrific. this is evil. children... were shredded... SHREDDED. do you understand what that means? do you get how evil someone has to be to do that to another person? can you process that sheer malevolence and wickedness it would take to do that??!! to a child?!?!!!
"Al Jazeera's Hani Mahmoud from Rafah, southern Gaza: About seven people, a mother and her children were killed earlier today. We’ve seen video from the hospital where their bodies were taken. The children’s bodies arrived in plastic bags. They were shredded in the air strike on the home. The only survivor of the attack is the father.
"This pattern of killing entire families is nothing new after nearly seven months of war. Entire families have been obliterated in Israeli air strikes. Just in the past 30 minutes, there was a strike at the Nuseirat refugee camp in central Gaza. We’re trying to get more updates on that attack." from Al Jazeera English, 03/May/2024:
