I Don't Know What I'm Doing Here

Ella, 26•SHE/HER • NO MINORS (18+) ONLY TikTok: writer.darling • AO3: writer_darling ✅REQUESTS ARE OPEN✅ I never use “y/n” or anything like it in my writing

[writer-darling]

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FYI: I never use “y/n” or anything like it in my writing

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Started: 11/16/2021 • Last Updated: 01/22/2025

Total Works: 75 • Requests Status: OPEN • WIPS: 21

❤️: Ongoing | 🖤: Complete | 💜: Hiatus | 🌸: Work in Progress | ✅: Requests Open | ❌: Requests Closed 💙: Edited | ✨: Editing

Full Series

Prospect

Ezra

Northern Lights 💜

Part 1 🖤Part 2 🖤Part 3 🖤Part 4 🖤Part 5 🖤Part 6 🖤Part 7 🖤Part 8 🖤Part 9🌸Part 10🌸

Are You Ever Dreaming of Me? The Masterlist❤️

Werewolf By Night

Jack Russell

My Werewolf’s Keeper ❤️

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

“Once.”

Systems

About You

Make It Better 🌸

Head Cannons

Prospect

Ezra

Part 1 🖤

Part 2 🖤

Werewolf By Night

Jack Russell

Part 1 🌸

One Shots

Prospect

Ezra

Then Play On (70s AU) 🖤

Never Ever Getting Rid of Me (Waitress SongFic) 🖤

"She'll Eat Him Alive." (Almost Famous AU) 🖤

Plans Interrupted (Northern Lights AU) 🖤

A Comfort (Modern Day AU) 🖤

I Need My Girl (Northern Lights AU) 🖤

“In the Dark You Tell Me of the Flowers that Only Bloom in the Violet Hours…” (100 Followers Special) 🖤

Remedy🖤

In Sickness & In Health (1-Year Anniversary Special) 🖤

Soup for the Soul 🖤

Lay All Your Love (Dark AU & Halloween Special) 🖤

“How Do You Feel About Me?”

Eat Your Young

The Weight Within

100 Letters (University AU)

Take a Chance (University AU)

Triple Frontier

Frankie "Catfish" Morales

Campus Meet Cute (University AU) 🖤

Slow Dancing 🌸

Pretty Places 🌸

Bloodsucking Bastards

Max Phillips

Get Over Here (Bam, Snap! AU) 🌸

Deal with a Douche 🌸

The Last of Us

Joel Miller

Daddy Issues 🌸

The Great Wall

Pero Tovar

La Madrugada (The Early Morning) 🖤

Brothers and Sisters

Zach Wellison

Lumberjacks are Addicted to Coffee?

The Mentalist

Marcus Pike

Puppy Love

Requests

Prospect

Ezra ✅

You're a Fine Girl 🌸

Triple Frontier

Frankie Morales ✅

Bloodsucking Bastards

Max Phillips ✅

Mini Series

Prospect

Ezra

Bust Your Kneecaps

Part 1 🌸

Part 2 🌸

Part 3 🌸

Devil Woman

Part 1🌸

Part 2

Part 3

Triple Frontier

Frankie Morales

Drunk Shenanigans

Part 1 🌸

Part 2 🌸

Bloodsucking Bastards Max Phillips

“Bam, Snap!” 💜

Part 1 🖤💙

Part 2 🖤💙

Part 3 🖤💙

Part 4 🖤💙

The Mentalist

Marcus Pike

For All the Sad Mad Poets (Part 1)

Folie à Deux (Part 2)

The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent

Javi Gutierrez

Coleccionista de Canciones

Part 1 🖤

Part 2 🖤

Crossover

Rumor Has It (Javier P vs Ezra)

Extras

Podfics

In the Dark (Time: 40:28) 🖤

A Comfort (Time 9:02) 🖤

Collaborations

Ambedo (w/ @kayleezra) 🖤

Poetry

41,000,000 Eternal 🖤

Observation I 🖤

Observation II 🖤

Observation III

Edits

Soldier•Poet•King 🖤

Every Summertime 🖤

[fru1t4fr0gs]

Getaway Driver

Pairing: Andrew "Pope" Cody x Reader

Summary: When a job goes off the rails, Craig calls Pope’s wife for help.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of sex, Mentions of robbery (I mean, it’s Animal Kingdom), Heavy makeout, Pope being obsessed with his wife, Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: This came to me in a vision. I don’t know what to tell you. But, as always, please let me know what you think! I wrote this one quick because I’ve been in a bit of a writing funk, so feedback is always the best kind of inspiration!!

Word Count: 1.6k

-

The steering wheel is cool beneath your fingers. The midday sun is burning through your sunglasses. Anxiety is twisting in your stomach.

You don’t fight with your husband. Ever. Sure, you can bicker sometimes, but even then it’s always more one-sided on your end. Pope Cody would burn the world to the ground for you. He would kill a man without question if you merely asked him to. He loves you so much that it borders on obsession, and it might even be a little bit unhealthy if you weren’t as unbelievably in love with him as he is with you.

When you bicker, it’s usually caused by nothing more intense than one of you being tired and grumpy. And those tiffs more often than not end with you both apologizing, him hiding his smile with a kiss to your forehead, and then dragging you to the bedroom so you can take any lingering frustration out on each other in more…creative ways.

And so, despite it all, despite the obsessive way he loves you and the stress of his lifestyle and Smurf constantly trying to bring you into it, you don’t fight.

But this… he is gonna fucking kill you for this.

If you survive it in the first place, that is.

Deep breath. Grip the steering wheel a little tighter. Focus on the parking lot. Bite down the anxiety that feels like it’s ripping your stomach lining apart.

Five.

You shouldn’t be here. You know that. But…

Four.

You promised him you would never get involved. Not in any of this shit.

Three.

You kind of wish you had a coffee or something. Maybe a shot. The amount of adrenaline coursing through your system is nearly unbearable and you haven’t even started moving yet.

Two.

The passenger door is ripped open, and Craig Cody nearly knocks you into the window with how quickly he barrels into the car.

“Drive!”

“Nope.” Your voice is steady. Firm.

“What?!” What, indeed. You don’t care how they usually do this, but no one is jumping into a moving car today.

One.

Pope moves into the backseat like a wraith, sliding in with a duffel bag over his shoulder and Deran and Jay right behind him.

He opens his mouth, the word ‘move’ a sharp crack from his lips before his dark eyes land right. The fuck. Onto you.

“No.”

“Hey, honey.” Your voice is tight. Too bright. “Long day?”

He’s looking at Craig, now. Oh boy, he might kill him before he kills you.

“She’s obviously gonna get a cut.” Craig says, like that helps, and you grip the steering wheel a little more tightly. Check the rearview again.

“Get out of the car.” He’s speaking to you, and you don’t have time to tell him he’s being overprotective.

“Seatbelts.”

“Are you serious right-“

“Shut up, Craig. Seatbelts.”

You hear four clicks. A few grumbles. You feel Pope’s eyes burning into the back of your head.

You slam your foot on the gas.

-

Within about four minutes, the smell of burning rubber is making your eyes water. The flash of blue lights is making them burn. The feeling of your husband’s eyes locked onto the back of your head is making your skin prickle.

“Fucking - stop it!” You finally shout, whipping around another corner and risking two seconds of releasing the wheel in favor of putting your hand over his face. It’s a childish move, sure, but the weight of his gaze is too heavy and you’re moving too fast to deal with it right now. He catches your hand, squeezes it once in an almost painfully instinctive way, and releases it just before you whip around another corner.

“Jesus Christ! Where did you learn to drive like this?!” Deran shouts, hands braced on the backseat to keep himself steady and eyes blown wide as he looks at you like you just grew a second head.

“I don’t know! Grand Theft Auto?” You try, and you sound a little more shrill than you would like to.

Craig is laughing. Jay is silent. You think Pope might have an aneurism.

“Wall! Wall!” He suddenly shouts, and grabs at you like he might shield you from the inevitable crash.

You swerve out of the way with less than a second to spare, feel his arm locked around your chest from behind your seat, and giggle like an absolute lunatic.

This time, when he looks at you in the rearview mirror, you can barely read his expression. His eyes are wide, filled with panic and surprise, and you giggle again, the fear and adrenaline overflowing from you in what might be the worst form possible.

Yeah, he’s definitely gonna kill you.

-

The moment the car stops, Pope launches out of the back, and you know what’s about to happen before he even makes it to your door.

“You think he’s gonna kill me?” Craig asks, still grinning, still riding the same adrenaline high that’s making your blood hum in your veins.

You look at him, and grin right back. “Oh yeah. You’re dead, dude.”

Your car door rips open, and Craig even reaches forward to unbuckle your seatbelt for you before Pope Cody lifts you right out of the fucking car.

He carries you around to the other side of the building like you weigh less than a paperweight, placing you on your feet in the alley and caging you against the brick wall. His eyes are burning into yours, so intense you can feel the weight of his gaze like a fucking anvil on your shoulders.

“I know you’re mad, but-“

To your surprise, he kisses you. He kisses you so hard that, if it weren’t for his hand flying up to protect the back of your head, the force of it might slam you back against the wall hard enough to concuss you.

His body envelops yours. His hands slide over your cheeks to cradle your face in a way that’s almost more possessive than adoring, lips moving against your own with a desperation that has your knees shaking.

“I…” It is painfully difficult to think when his teeth are scraping over your lower lip, when his tongue is tracing the sting of it like it’s second nature. “Mm, I thought you were mad.”

His hands skate down your body, wrapping around the backs of your thighs and lifting you against him so he can press you more tightly against the wall and kiss you even harder.

“Furious.” He growls, pulling back to brush his nose over the hollow of your throat. “I’m fucking furious.”

“You’re sending some very mixed signals about it.”

His hips grind against yours, and he swallows your gasp of pleasure with another kiss. It’s all tongues and teeth, like he’s trying to taste the lingering adrenaline on your tongue while still trying to cling to his anger that you were driving the car in the first place.

“If Craig calls you on a job,” his hand is sliding up beneath your shirt, supporting you with one arm and still kissing you like you’re the only source of oxygen he’s ever tasted, “don’t fucking answer.”

“He said it was an emergency.”

“I don’t care.”

He hikes you up a little higher, hips grinding against yours, and cuts off your gasp with another rough kiss.

You smile against his lips, and his hands grip your thighs a little more tightly.

“I did good, though.”

He growls at that, pressing you tighter against the wall.

“I could have lost you.”

“But I did good.”

He kisses you again, like he’s trying to change the subject, and you catch his chin to keep him in place.

Because you know damn well why you’re up against this wall, and it isn’t just because he was worried about your safety. You can feel it in the quickness of his breath. In the tight grip on your thighs.

He likes to take care of you, but he knows you’re not delicate. Not breakable. And as protective as he can be, he fucking loves it.

“Say it.” You murmur, a smile still tugging on the corners of your lips. “I kicked ass.”

His eyes burn into yours, pushing forward to press his forehead against your own.

“You did…” oh, he doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to encourage this, but he knows you’re right and he doesn’t want to admit how much it’s turning him the fuck on, “…you did good.”

“I kicked ass.” Your lips brush over his. His hands tighten even more on your body.

“Don’t push it.”

You grin, and when you kiss him again he groans so low that you can feel it in your bones.

And he really might take you right there in the alley, if it weren’t for Craig.

“Yo, put your dick away for five minutes. We gotta get this shit packed up.”

You both turn your heads, both breathless, and whatever look Pope gives his brother has the larger man raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Just sayin’, a public indecency charge isn’t gonna make the rest of this shit look good.”

“Cockblock.” You grumble.

“Adrenaline junkie.” He quips back, smile widening.

Your husband makes a frustrated noise, lowering you to your feet and pressing his nose into your temple in that odd affectionate way he has. You smile, turn your head to kiss cheek, and feel him brush his fingers over your waist one last time before he reluctantly pulls back.

As you walk with him back into the alley, Craig throws his arm over your shoulder, squeezing you hard enough to make you nearly stumble. “You kicked ass.”

You laugh, and lean into his side as Pope turns to glare at him. “Do not encourage her.”

Craig ignores him. Squeezes your shoulders again. “Wanna help load up the car?”

“What’s my cut?”

“Atta girl.”

And, though Pope doesn’t turn around again, still emanating pure rage, you can see the corners of his lips twitch in the smallest hint of a smile.

Well, he may not have killed you, but you’re definitely in for it later, and you’re pretty confident you won’t be complaining.

And if Craig calls you on another job…you just might answer.

[czarina55]

man spread…..it needs plenty of room to breathe 👅👅👅👅👅👅👅👅

[writer-darling]

Soft Hands for Rough Choices

"Everythin' alright there?"

You look up from the beer in your hand, the drink now flat and warm, but you haven't even taken one sip of it in the hour since you've ordered it. It takes a moment to realize you've been staring at nothing. The glance up is with a startle, and your eyes lock on a pair of deep brown irises that look schorl in the dim lighting of the bar that's a perfect reflection of the bartender in front of you.

It’s small, dim without being gloomy. In fact, warmer than you expected, lit by low amber bulbs and whatever neon bled in through the windows from outside. The wood behind the counter is worn smooth by years of elbows and waiting hands, the floors scarred in ways that tell stories without asking to be read. No loud music, just something low and steady humming through the speakers, enough to fill the silence without crowding it. Regulars claim their usual stools, jackets hang on the backs of chairs, glasses are untouched, while conversations stretch out slow and careful. The kind of place you go to disappear for a while, or to be seen without being questioned. On any given night, the air smells faintly of citrus, old whiskey, and rain tracked in from the street, inviting and heady. The man stands behind the counter like a fixed point; unshowy, dependable, watching over it all as if the room itself is something worth protecting with his life.

You weren't a regular by any means, only having been here a handful of times, but you needed the distraction tonight.

He pauses mid-wipe of a glass, tilting his head just slightly, and you realize he’s talking directly to you. "Now, miss," he says, voice low like gravel underfoot, "that drink's gone shy on you. You plannin' to court it proper or just let it sit there lookin' lonely?" He sets the glass down with a soft clink. "Or maybe you're after somethin' that don't come in a bottle?” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Either way, my ears ain't decorative." One corner of your lips quirks up into a reluctant smile, your first real hint of amusement all night. You glance around at the bar full of prospectors, taking a deep breath.

"Sorry, it was just a long shift today," you respond quietly. "But I'm fine, really," your tone dismissive. He stops his task, setting the rag over his shoulder as he leans against the hardwood, one eyebrow quirking higher than the other.

"Mmhmm. 'Fine' folks don't stare holes through their drinks," he says dryly, plucking the neglected glass away and replacing it with a fresh one: something amber and faintly steaming. "Spiced cider. Won't rot your teeth or your judgment. Now," he taps the counter twice, "you wanna tell me what's eatin' at you, or we gonna play 'guess the prospector's problems'? I'm good at that game, but it's damn tedious." Now a full smile does break across your lips, and you lean back for a moment on the barstool you’ve been occupying all night. You take a moment to look the bartender over, from his deep brown eyes, tanned skin, and dark brown hair to his black shirt and dark grey pants.

"Don't you have more important things tonight? Like making sure these other dipshits get their beers?" You ask, not quite wanting to direct his attention your way just yet. He chuckles, a sound like whiskey poured over ice.

"Oh, them?" He gives a jerk of his chin toward the rowdy prospectors without even glancing their way. "They'll holler when they're thirsty again. But you-" He folds his arms, the scars along his forearms catching the dim light, as silvery as the downturned curve on his cheek. "You're the kind of quiet that either means deep thoughts or bad decisions. And since I'm the one who'll have to scrape either off my floor later, well I reckon you've got my full attention miss..." A pause and another raised of his dark brow, clearly wanting your name. You give it and he gives a satisfied nod,

“Ezra,” he says, offering you a hand in greeting, which you take and feel him give a light squeeze, the heavy steady warmth of his palm grounding you in a way. You both let go after a moment and he smiles, continuing on, “'Sides, you're better company. At least you know how to wipe your boots." You laugh and nod finally, giving in.

"Alright, fair enough." You sigh and debate on where to begin, mulling over just how much to indulge. You don't know Ezra well, just the little you knew from the regular patrons here. Up until tonight, you've only exchanged maybe 5 words in all 3 months you've been coming here. He slides a bowl of roasted moon-nuts toward you, letting you take a moment to think.

"Start wherever sticks," he says, leaning his elbows on the bar. "Three months of drinkin' in silence buys you at least one good rant. Hell, make it two - inflation's a bitch." His mouth crooks at the corner. "And don't worry. Secrets here either die with me or get traded for equally ugly ones. That's the rules." He nods toward your untouched cider. "That's gettin' cold. Wouldn't want to offend it twice in one night."

“Sorry.” You apologize and take a big enough sip to be polite. The liquid is sparkly, warm, and just sweet enough to mellow the bite of the alcohol. Your eyebrows shoot up, impressed, and you take another sip after downing the first. "Wow, this is really good."

His responding grin was all satisfaction, like a prospector who’d just struck a vein. "Ain’t it? Secret’s in the moon-apple rind it ferments meaner than a jilted lover." He polishes a glass absently, watching you over the rim. "Now, I reckon that cider’s bought you at least three sentences of grievance. Spill ’em. Unless you’re savorin’ the quiet like it’s the last damn thing you got." His tone is light, but his eyes don’t budge from yours, as steady as a gravity anchor. You smile again and nod apologetically.

"Right, sorry." Another sigh, before you finally found your words. "Well, I wasn't kidding when I said it was a long shift. I spent all day in the Lau trenches trying to go over what my team and I scouted on the last run. I had to fight off another crew solo." He lets out a low whistle through his teeth, setting the clean glass aside beside a tower of freshly cleaned crystalline.

"Damn. And here I thought I had a rough day." He gives a pitying shake of his head, but his eyes express clear sincerity. "Fightin' off another crew ain't nothin' to sneeze at. You do alright?" Even through the easy tone, his gaze is watchful, his stance deceptively loose. You nod, but you’re not smiling anymore.

"I like being a prospector. Good money, steady work. But killing is..." You trail off, shaking your own head as the thought of what had transpired today leaves an acrid taste in your mouth like the smell of gunpowder. You take another long sip of cider to wash it away. Ezra nods, understanding that taste all too well, and especially the need to banish it.

"It ain't for the weak-stomached," he agrees, his voice now a low rumble. "There's a big gap between wantin' somethin' and bein' able to stomach what it costs." He pauses, his gaze drifting to a group of rowdy prospectors at the end of the bar, their raucous laughter a stark contrast to the sober tension between you. "You ever think about walkin' away?" You follow his gaze, watching the way the group of both men and women laugh with each other and joke through long drinks of dark beer.

You both suddenly wonder if maybe they went through similar things today, and if so, how could they stomach it so easily? Neither of you truly knows the answer. It makes your stomach turn all the same. You meet his eyes once more, finding them trained on you already. "Can't afford it. I put myself in a lot of debt when I was younger, got to pay it off somehow." He exhales slowly through his nose, a sound like wind through canyon cracks.

"Debt's a cruel bastard," he says, turning to pick up another glass that’s still got droplets of water coating the surface. "Got teeth in places you don't expect." He sets the glass down once dry with a quiet thunk.

“Hear, hear,” You respond sullenly, and his eyes soften.

"But listen," His voice drops, rougher now. "you keep carryin' that weight, it'll crush you long before the debt does. Seen it happen. Too often." He pushes the cider an inch closer to you. "You ever need a night off from bein' bulletproof, this stool's yours. No charge." You manage a smile again and are about to thank him but both of your gazes are drawn to a man at the far end of the bar, calling for Ezra's attention and holding out an empty glass.

He turns back to you and gives you an apologetic grimace, pushing off the bar and sauntering down to serve the impatient patron.

The bar’s busy tonight, but Ezra doesn't seem in a hurry. He takes his time, filling the glass with an amber pour from a bottle labeled "Devil's Kiss". All the while, his eyes keep flicking back to you, a quiet concern lingering in their dark depths. You nod at him just once and raise your drink a bit his way in thanks.

He seems satisfied with that, returning the nod and moving away, slipping into the rhythm of bartending like he was born to it. He works the bar efficiently, pouring drinks, settling disputes, and keeping things under control. You notice how he tends the bar the way he does everything else: quietly, with intent. He moves behind the counter in clean, economical lines: never rushing, never wasting motion, as if every reach and turn has already been practiced somewhere harsher than this room. He doesn’t talk too much, but people talk to him anyway. He listens with his whole body, and gives easy laughs to funny stories, disarming smiles to friendly banter. His eyes flick up at the door when it opens, hands steady as he pours, attention split effortlessly between the glass in front of him and the mood of the room. He remembers what people drink, how they like it, when to slow them down. When someone needs cutting off, it happens without spectacle: a hand pauses mid-pour, a look he holds just long enough, then a glass of water slides across the bar with no explanation. Trouble rarely reaches him, and when it does, it seems to lose interest once it realizes it’s been seen too early.

But as the hours tick by, his gaze occasionally flickers back to you. Every now and then, you catch him watching you, almost as if he’s checking to make sure you haven't vanished into the night. The times your eyes meet, you only give him a brief smile, returning to your drink, one that he returns politely.

As the night drags on you can’t help but find your own eyes drawn to him too, taking in the way he works: watching him do his duties with a disarming smile and drooling charm. You know being charming is a major part of the gig, but he moves with ease that’s enviable, owning the room in a way that isn't an easy feat amongst all these troublemakers and borderline criminals. It’s impressive. He navigates his space with the casual confidence of someone accustomed to being in charge. Yet amid the chaos, he always seems aware of your presence: a glance here, a subtle nod there, a smirk that you can't quite decipher. Each time, it feels almost conspiratorial, like sharing a secret in the middle of a crowded room. It puts you at ease, and you admire the way he can shift from politely flirting with the women in here to falling into a familiar rapport with a regular, to sternly kicking out a rowdy patron without so much as breaking a sweat.

He slides back your way after the latest batch of orders are settled, wiping his freshly-washed hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. "Sorry 'bout that," he mutters, shaking his head. "Place gets rowdier every damn night." He leans against the bar, gaze lingering on you just a second longer than necessary. "So," he says, voice dropping into something warmer, "you still holdin' up alright? Or am I gonna have to pour you another one of those ciders to keep you from broodin’ too hard?" There’s a hint of teasing in his tone, but beneath it, something genuine. Whatever it is, it makes your stomach flutter in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol. He’s pouring you a fresh glass already anyway.

You chuckle softly, a slight blush in your cheeks that you can't quite explain. Before you can muster up some clever response to his banter, he’s gone again, so you draw your gaze down to the cider he's placed in front of you and down the rest of your first drink before moving on to the fresh one as you try - and fail - to keep from ogling him again.

His eyes catch the motion as you swap out your empty drink for the fresh one, and you swear you see a barely suppressed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He keeps up his steady rhythm, serving and chatting with effortless ease, all while stealing glances in your direction. It’s like you’re the only calm point in a storm, a spot where the noise doesn't quite reach. Every now and then, you notice how he finds himself standing a bit closer to your end of the bar than necessary, like he’s drawn by an invisible thread. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

After another half hour, you’re on your third drink now, half of it gone, and you can feel the alcohol taking its toll, your muscles loose now, eyes a little glassy, and body as warm as the cider. You’re nowhere near drunk yet, but you can feel the effects of the buzz starting and so you set the drink aside, deciding you should probably switch to water soon. Ezra notices you pushing the drink away and gives a small approving nod as he approaches.

"Smart call," he murmurs, taking one of the clean, tall glass of chilled water and sliding it toward you, which you catch with ease. "Don't worry, still counts as 'keepin' your seat' if you're just nursing that." He smirks, leaning in just enough for you to catch the scent of citrus and something woodsy beneath the other usual bar smells. "Though I ain't complainin' if you decide to stick around a while longer." The words sound light, but there’s something deliberate you catch in the way he lingers, like he isn't just talking about the drink.

"Actually, I uh... should probably call a transport. My pod isn't too far from here, but I don't live in the safest area." You say, already taking a sip and feeling relieved when the ice-cold drink makes its way down your throat, cooling the heat stuck there. You can feel your body starting to break out into a light sweat, and you reach for your jacket's zipper, undoing it and starting to remove it.

His hand suddenly shoots out on instinct, catching the edge of your jacket before it slips off completely. His fingers linger for a heartbeat too long - calloused, warm - before he eases the material back onto your shoulders. "Easy now," he says, voice rough but amused as he glances around the room, his eyes sharper than they were moments ago. "Pretty specimen like you is safer in that thing, trust me." His grip loosens, but he doesn’t step back just yet, his breath mingling with the scent of spiced cider between you. You nod and zip the garment back up, and the muscles in his shoulders finally relax in response. "As for transport…" His eyes now shift toward the door, then back at you, weighing something. "Tell you what: gimme 20 minutes to close up. I’ll walk you to your pod." A beat. "No charge."

The touch sparks another flutter in your stomach, making you pause. You hesitate, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth pensively as you try to weigh your options, and try not to blush at him calling you ‘pretty’. Observant as ever, he notices the hesitation, watching your teeth worry your lip with a look he doesn’t try to hide, the smile on his lips honeyed.

He leans back, giving you space even as his fingers flex absently at his sides - as if resisting the urge to reach out. “You shouldn’t be walkin' through these streets on your own at this hour. Not on this goddamn moon." He doesn’t say it out of feigned chivalry. He just heard you tell him you took on 4 to 5 men by yourself. By your estimation, he’s just being a gentleman. You watch as he crosses his arms over his chest, the movement making the muscles in his arms flex and his pectorals shift. You drop your gaze almost immediately, nodding after another short moment, knowing that his concerns are valid.

"Ok, I guess it's better to be safe than sorry." He catches the quick flicker of your eyes and bites back a smirk. He knows he’s handsome. He’s clearly not arrogant about it, just aware enough to notice the looks. But there’s something about how you avoid his gaze when you realize you've been caught that makes him want to catch you again. He nods briskly, already grabbing another beer to fill a waiting order.

"Settled it is then," he says, his eyes flicking your way as he works. "I'll be done here soon. Just... stay put, alright?" You nod, giving a brief mock salute and bringing the glass to your lips again, taking another long drink as you watch him begin giving hints that he’s closing up. He gives a good-natured roll of his eyes at the salute but doesn’t hide the grin it earns you.

He moves through the rest of his closing routine with practiced efficiency. He cuts off the rowdier patrons, settles tabs, and tosses out the stragglers with a mix of charm and firmness that leaves no room for argument.

You linger longer than you really need to, watching him wipe down the bar like it deserves the same care he gives the people who came in here tonight. Sleeves rolled up, movements slow now, unguarded. Tired in a way that feels earned. The place is empty, lights dimmed, and there’s something intimate about seeing him like this, after everyone else has gone, like you’ve caught the quiet version he doesn’t offer on purpose. When he finally looks up from his last task, just briefly, it feels like being noticed by something steady and dangerous and kind all at once.

It’s quiet except for the hum of the overhead lights and the clink of him stacking glasses. He wipes his hands on his towel before turning to you. "Alright," he says, tossing it aside. "Let’s get you home." His voice is much quieter now, replaced by something softer that makes your pulse kick up just a little. You nod, and jump off the stool, forgetting to account for the height of the longlegs that usually sit in it. You stumble just a fraction.

Ezra is quick to catch you by the elbow before you can stumble too far, his grip steadying. "Easy there," he’s fighting back another smirk. "Steady on those feet." The grin wins out as he looks at you, one hand still on your elbow, the other bracing your back and you feel a flash of goosebumps race up your spine at the heat radiating from his palm, even feeling it through the fabric of your jacket. "You always this drunk after three drinks?" he teases, his voice a gruff mumble that’s almost fond.

You snort. "Thanks, I'm not drunk anymore, just a klutz." You mutter but smile anyway. "Are you sure you're ok with this? I think there's still time to call a shuttle out if I need to."

There’s the immediate shake of his head, his hand dropping from your elbow but still hovering close just for a moment longer to make sure you’re fine. "Not a chance. I offered, didn't I?" He walks away to grab his own jacket behind the bar, walking towards you as he slips it onto his shoulders.

His leather jacket is old yet deliberate, a dark brown - almost black in low light - softened by years of wear rather than neglect. You notice how the hide has gone supple at the shoulders and elbows, creased where his body naturally moves, polished dull along the seams by hands, doorframes, bar stools. It’s cut close without being tight, and looks practical enough to move in. The collar is simple and unadorned, usually worn open. You see how the lining has faded, with one pocket stitched by hand where it once tore, and he deemed it worth fixing. As he nears again, you catch the scent of smoke, cold air, and that same citrus that surrounded you earlier. When he shrugs it on, it looks less like a style choice and more like armor, something he’s learned to live inside.

"Besides, already locked up. You're stuck with me, I'm afraid." There’s a gleam in his eyes that says he doesn't have a problem with that.

You shrug in compliance, "Suppose you're right." You admit, taking one final look around the bar, surprised at how quickly he was able to clean up the mess of all the customers he had tonight. "So... you work here alone?" You ask as you begin making your way out.

He pushes the door open, his eyes scanning the street beyond automatically. It’s dark and quiet, with only the faint hum of distant machinery from the refineries. He waits for you to step out before following, shutting the door with a solid thunk. He grabs a ring of keys from his belt loop, and you finally notice another piece of leather on his body: a brown sheath on his belt that mostly conceals a rather large-looking dagger on his person, the handle of it hidden well enough inside his jacket as it sets on his black belt. You wonder how you didn’t notice it before, but you quickly realize you weren’t really paying much attention to his body as it was concealed by the bar top. Until now, that is.

"Mostly," he replies, starting down the street as your eyes can’t help but track his movement now. He’s still solid, still grounded, but there’s a looseness to him when he moves that catches you just a tad off guard. Broad shoulders, heavy through the chest and arms, his strength sits on him easy, worn in. When he walks, there’s a slow roll to it now. His hips and shoulders work together, confidence slipping through the caution. It’s not loud or cocky, just the kind of swagger that comes from knowing he can handle whatever’s in front of him. Like he’s stopped proving anything to anyone, including himself. It makes every step feel intentional, a little dangerous, and damn-near impossible not to watch. "I gotta couple of part-timers that help on busier nights." He glances at you from over his shoulder, keys trilling in his hands, just in time as you catch yourself ogling him again. "You sound surprised."

You shrug again, the movement subtle as the cool night air hits us. “I’m just impressed you’re able to handle some of the roughest people out here on the Outer Rim,” You say smoothly as you outpace him now, leading the way down the cobblestone street, the path barely illuminated by street posts and passing hovercrafts

"Rough, sure," he agrees, once again falling into step next to you. His gait is easy, long strides keeping pace with your shorter ones. "But mostly they’re loudmouths with more bark than bite. I’ve seen bigger fights in a moonling nursery." He smirks, glancing at you. "Besides, it usually stops at words or maybe some shoving. Most folks don't want a permanent ban 'cause they can't keep their goddamn fists to themselves."

You smirk, nodding in agreement. You’d been there on a night when a certain prospector, old and weathered, had been picking trouble and grating on Ezra's patience. "Like that old timer a few months back," He snorts at the memory.

"Ah, good ol' Jackass Jackson. Biggest noise, smallest brain." He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "Had half a mind to toss him through the door after the third damn time he called me a 'bartender bitch.'" He rolls his eyes. "That one definitely tried to throw hands." He shakes his head, his voice dropping a note.

"You were there that night, weren't you? Think he tried to hit on you, too."

"Yeah, I was, I think it was my first time actually," You recall with a small grimace.

His smirk widens. "Oh, I remember," his tone amused. "You shut him down so fast, I swear his boots squeaked when he spun around." He chuckles, giving another shake of his head. "Never seen a man get shot down that politely and still look like he'd been slapped." He looks over at you again, this time with something warmer in his expression. "That was the night I noticed you." The admission’s casual, but the way he says it makes your pulse jump. You try to play it cool, even as you two round the corner onto your street and you give him a long look.

"You noticed me?" The question is as casual as you can muster it, but you don't have that honeyed charm Ezra does, so it comes out a little heavier-handed than intended. He doesn't look like he minds though.

His eyes meet yours in the dim glow of the streetlights. He can see the surprise in your face, the way your breath hitches slightly.

He confirms it with a curt nod, the next words coming out a rough rumble. "Hard not to, really." There’s a pause as he holds your gaze, something flickering in his eyes. "You stood out. And not just cause you didn't try to flirt your way into free drinks." He’s teasing, but there’s a sincerity beneath the words that makes your heart skip another beat. You notice how he keeps a respectable distance in between you two as you walk, his hands shoved firmly in his pants pockets.

"What else then?" You ask as you draw nearer to your pod. You can spot your silvery terrarose hedges about ten paces away. But, for some reason, you aren't quite ready to say good night yet.

He slows his steps as your pod comes into view, hands tucked into his pockets. He glances at you sideways, that same half-smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "What else?" He hums, considering. "Well, for starters, you weren't noisy. You didn't try to pretend you were something you weren't. You paid your tab on time." He chuckles low. "And you never once spilled your drink." His gaze lingers on you before he shrugs. "Figured you were either smart not to piss me off... or real good at mindin' your own business without bein' rude."

A beat passes.

"Turns out," he murmurs, "you're both, in an attractive way."

You smile again, your face warm once more, but you can't dismiss it on an alcoholic buzz this time. "Well, you're not so bad yourself," You say, nudging his shoulder with yours just a tad, just as you reach your front gate. Ezra's smile deepens at the touch, his shoulder leaning ever so slightly into yours.

"Not so bad, huh?" He echoes, his voice warm with amusement. "I'll take that." You both stopped just before the gate now, standing under the soft glow of a nearby porch light.

He tilts his head, studying you, his gaze flickering up and down as if committing you to memory. "Gonna be alright from here?" The concern is mild, but it’s there, a slight furrow between his thick dark brows.

You step into the gate - him holding it open as you cross the threshold and latching it back into place himself as you now stand on opposite ends of it. You nod at his question, glancing back at the empty dwelling before meeting his eyes again.

"Oh yeah, I'll be fine. My only concern was getting here without finding any trouble, luckily I didn't. Suppose I should thank you for that." You say. He chuckles lowly, leaning on the fence in a casual pose tha’s at odds with the sharp intelligence in his eyes.

"I ain't in the business of lettin' trouble have its way with pretty creatures." There it is again, that teasing tone that’s been making your stomach flip-flop.

He pushes off the fence, hands disappearing into his pockets again as he takes a step closer, so close his boots brush the gate. The soft light of the porch makes him look younger, less hardened, even with that same scar. You notice now that while his eyes looked near-black in the dim lighting of the bar, they’ve actually got flecks of gold, just barely noticeable but close enough to be closer to a pair of Tiger’s Eye, and your heart gives another flutter.

"Well, now who's the one flirting?" You tease, dropping your gaze for just a fraction.

He gives a full laugh and the sound is just as warm as the rest of him, curling in your abdomen, as he leans his upper half over the top of the door. "Never claimed I didn't flirt," His tone a gravelly purr that goes straight to your core. "Just that I don't offer free drinks for it." His eyes are trained on you again, studying you in the low light. You catch that scent of citrus and spice again but now the accompanying scent of leather makes your head spin. "You're flushed." He points out quietly. Not as a tease, not as a challenge, just an observation.

"Damn cider." You respond as your eyes drop to his mouth, but it doesn’t have any real accusation behind it. You both know it isn’t that anyway, so what’s the point in acting like it? He smiles, gaze darkened as he notices where you were looking. His own gaze flicks down to your mouth and he leans in just a bit more, as much as the gate will allow, his body just inches from yours now. You can feel the heat radiating off him, mixing with the warm flush on your own skin, and your pulse is thrumming steadily now. He hums, low.

"Damn cider." He repeats softly, almost a whisper to himself.

The sound of men laughing snaps you both out of it, and both your gazes are drawn to the group of four heading your way. You reach for your thrower at your hip just as Ezra reaches for the sheathed blade at his belt. But, the men aren’t even looking your way, stumbling into a pod at the same corner you had passed through 5 minutes earlier. He lets out a slow, controlled breath, his jaw clenching as he keeps his eyes on the group, even long after they’ve disappeared.

He finally turns his attention back to you, his gaze flicking quickly over your body as if to ensure you’re unharmed. When he seems satisfied, some of the tension leaves his shoulders, and he shakes his head. "Reckless idiots…” Another muscle in his jaw ticks and that edge is in his eyes again, but you can see he’s trying to tame it when he speaks to you once more. “It’s late, you should head inside,"

“Yeah, yeah I should,” You reply, realizing how close you had been to asking him to come inside with you. And what a regret that would’ve been. You reach into your jacket pocket, pulling out your wallet. “Oh, I almost forgot. How much do I owe you?” You ask, but he shakes his head before you even finish the question.

“Nothin’, I’ll just put it on your tab.” You almost protest but his eyes tell you he’s not having it, though he does give a reassuring smile. You nod once, and back away from the gate as you put your wallet away. You feel his eyes on you as you make your way up to the front door, fumbling with your keys for a moment as you unlock it.

“Thanks again, Ezra, I really appreciate it,” You say as you take a step inside.

"It's no trouble." He says just loud enough for you to hear, the intensity from earlier almost forgotten. Almost. His eyes track your movements as you step into the house, and he raises a hand in a half-wave as you do. "Night." The corner of his mouth quirks up again, a ghost of that earlier smirk. "Stay safe." You smile back,

“You too; have a good night,” You respond before closing the door, the soft ache in your chest not lost on you as you move to the window to watch him go. You see how he watches as the door closes, a strange feeling twisting in his chest. He stands there for a moment, gaze lingering on the now-closed door.

He shakes it off after a beat; he has no reason to feel like this. He barely knows you, just a pretty girl who visits his bar every once in a blue moon. He turns away, hands back in his pockets as he starts down the street again, trying to forget the feeling in his chest and the image of your flushed face.

As you get ready for bed that night, you can’t stop seeing his deep brown eyes, the plush of his bottom lip, the silvery curve of the scar on his cheek. Maybe it was time to become a regular patron after all.

******

I'll fix the tags and headings to this later, I'm way too lazy and unmotivated to do so right now. Might also continue this but we know how I am about continuing stuff so we'll see. m'kay byyyyye

Read it on AO3

[writer-darling]

Soft Hands for Rough Choices

"Everythin' alright there?"

You look up from the beer in your hand, the drink now flat and warm, but you haven't even taken one sip of it in the hour since you've ordered it. It takes a moment to realize you've been staring at nothing. The glance up is with a startle, and your eyes lock on a pair of deep brown irises that look schorl in the dim lighting of the bar that's a perfect reflection of the bartender in front of you.

It’s small, dim without being gloomy. In fact, warmer than you expected, lit by low amber bulbs and whatever neon bled in through the windows from outside. The wood behind the counter is worn smooth by years of elbows and waiting hands, the floors scarred in ways that tell stories without asking to be read. No loud music, just something low and steady humming through the speakers, enough to fill the silence without crowding it. Regulars claim their usual stools, jackets hang on the backs of chairs, glasses are untouched, while conversations stretch out slow and careful. The kind of place you go to disappear for a while, or to be seen without being questioned. On any given night, the air smells faintly of citrus, old whiskey, and rain tracked in from the street, inviting and heady. The man stands behind the counter like a fixed point; unshowy, dependable, watching over it all as if the room itself is something worth protecting with his life.

You weren't a regular by any means, only having been here a handful of times, but you needed the distraction tonight.

He pauses mid-wipe of a glass, tilting his head just slightly, and you realize he’s talking directly to you. "Now, miss," he says, voice low like gravel underfoot, "that drink's gone shy on you. You plannin' to court it proper or just let it sit there lookin' lonely?" He sets the glass down with a soft clink. "Or maybe you're after somethin' that don't come in a bottle?” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Either way, my ears ain't decorative." One corner of your lips quirks up into a reluctant smile, your first real hint of amusement all night. You glance around at the bar full of prospectors, taking a deep breath.

"Sorry, it was just a long shift today," you respond quietly. "But I'm fine, really," your tone dismissive. He stops his task, setting the rag over his shoulder as he leans against the hardwood, one eyebrow quirking higher than the other.

"Mmhmm. 'Fine' folks don't stare holes through their drinks," he says dryly, plucking the neglected glass away and replacing it with a fresh one: something amber and faintly steaming. "Spiced cider. Won't rot your teeth or your judgment. Now," he taps the counter twice, "you wanna tell me what's eatin' at you, or we gonna play 'guess the prospector's problems'? I'm good at that game, but it's damn tedious." Now a full smile does break across your lips, and you lean back for a moment on the barstool you’ve been occupying all night. You take a moment to look the bartender over, from his deep brown eyes, tanned skin, and dark brown hair to his black shirt and dark grey pants.

"Don't you have more important things tonight? Like making sure these other dipshits get their beers?" You ask, not quite wanting to direct his attention your way just yet. He chuckles, a sound like whiskey poured over ice.

"Oh, them?" He gives a jerk of his chin toward the rowdy prospectors without even glancing their way. "They'll holler when they're thirsty again. But you-" He folds his arms, the scars along his forearms catching the dim light, as silvery as the downturned curve on his cheek. "You're the kind of quiet that either means deep thoughts or bad decisions. And since I'm the one who'll have to scrape either off my floor later, well I reckon you've got my full attention miss..." A pause and another raised of his dark brow, clearly wanting your name. You give it and he gives a satisfied nod,

“Ezra,” he says, offering you a hand in greeting, which you take and feel him give a light squeeze, the heavy steady warmth of his palm grounding you in a way. You both let go after a moment and he smiles, continuing on, “'Sides, you're better company. At least you know how to wipe your boots." You laugh and nod finally, giving in.

"Alright, fair enough." You sigh and debate on where to begin, mulling over just how much to indulge. You don't know Ezra well, just the little you knew from the regular patrons here. Up until tonight, you've only exchanged maybe 5 words in all 3 months you've been coming here. He slides a bowl of roasted moon-nuts toward you, letting you take a moment to think.

"Start wherever sticks," he says, leaning his elbows on the bar. "Three months of drinkin' in silence buys you at least one good rant. Hell, make it two - inflation's a bitch." His mouth crooks at the corner. "And don't worry. Secrets here either die with me or get traded for equally ugly ones. That's the rules." He nods toward your untouched cider. "That's gettin' cold. Wouldn't want to offend it twice in one night."

“Sorry.” You apologize and take a big enough sip to be polite. The liquid is sparkly, warm, and just sweet enough to mellow the bite of the alcohol. Your eyebrows shoot up, impressed, and you take another sip after downing the first. "Wow, this is really good."

His responding grin was all satisfaction, like a prospector who’d just struck a vein. "Ain’t it? Secret’s in the moon-apple rind it ferments meaner than a jilted lover." He polishes a glass absently, watching you over the rim. "Now, I reckon that cider’s bought you at least three sentences of grievance. Spill ’em. Unless you’re savorin’ the quiet like it’s the last damn thing you got." His tone is light, but his eyes don’t budge from yours, as steady as a gravity anchor. You smile again and nod apologetically.

"Right, sorry." Another sigh, before you finally found your words. "Well, I wasn't kidding when I said it was a long shift. I spent all day in the Lau trenches trying to go over what my team and I scouted on the last run. I had to fight off another crew solo." He lets out a low whistle through his teeth, setting the clean glass aside beside a tower of freshly cleaned crystalline.

"Damn. And here I thought I had a rough day." He gives a pitying shake of his head, but his eyes express clear sincerity. "Fightin' off another crew ain't nothin' to sneeze at. You do alright?" Even through the easy tone, his gaze is watchful, his stance deceptively loose. You nod, but you’re not smiling anymore.

"I like being a prospector. Good money, steady work. But killing is..." You trail off, shaking your own head as the thought of what had transpired today leaves an acrid taste in your mouth like the smell of gunpowder. You take another long sip of cider to wash it away. Ezra nods, understanding that taste all too well, and especially the need to banish it.

"It ain't for the weak-stomached," he agrees, his voice now a low rumble. "There's a big gap between wantin' somethin' and bein' able to stomach what it costs." He pauses, his gaze drifting to a group of rowdy prospectors at the end of the bar, their raucous laughter a stark contrast to the sober tension between you. "You ever think about walkin' away?" You follow his gaze, watching the way the group of both men and women laugh with each other and joke through long drinks of dark beer.

You both suddenly wonder if maybe they went through similar things today, and if so, how could they stomach it so easily? Neither of you truly knows the answer. It makes your stomach turn all the same. You meet his eyes once more, finding them trained on you already. "Can't afford it. I put myself in a lot of debt when I was younger, got to pay it off somehow." He exhales slowly through his nose, a sound like wind through canyon cracks.

"Debt's a cruel bastard," he says, turning to pick up another glass that’s still got droplets of water coating the surface. "Got teeth in places you don't expect." He sets the glass down once dry with a quiet thunk.

“Hear, hear,” You respond sullenly, and his eyes soften.

"But listen," His voice drops, rougher now. "you keep carryin' that weight, it'll crush you long before the debt does. Seen it happen. Too often." He pushes the cider an inch closer to you. "You ever need a night off from bein' bulletproof, this stool's yours. No charge." You manage a smile again and are about to thank him but both of your gazes are drawn to a man at the far end of the bar, calling for Ezra's attention and holding out an empty glass.

He turns back to you and gives you an apologetic grimace, pushing off the bar and sauntering down to serve the impatient patron.

The bar’s busy tonight, but Ezra doesn't seem in a hurry. He takes his time, filling the glass with an amber pour from a bottle labeled "Devil's Kiss". All the while, his eyes keep flicking back to you, a quiet concern lingering in their dark depths. You nod at him just once and raise your drink a bit his way in thanks.

He seems satisfied with that, returning the nod and moving away, slipping into the rhythm of bartending like he was born to it. He works the bar efficiently, pouring drinks, settling disputes, and keeping things under control. You notice how he tends the bar the way he does everything else: quietly, with intent. He moves behind the counter in clean, economical lines: never rushing, never wasting motion, as if every reach and turn has already been practiced somewhere harsher than this room. He doesn’t talk too much, but people talk to him anyway. He listens with his whole body, and gives easy laughs to funny stories, disarming smiles to friendly banter. His eyes flick up at the door when it opens, hands steady as he pours, attention split effortlessly between the glass in front of him and the mood of the room. He remembers what people drink, how they like it, when to slow them down. When someone needs cutting off, it happens without spectacle: a hand pauses mid-pour, a look he holds just long enough, then a glass of water slides across the bar with no explanation. Trouble rarely reaches him, and when it does, it seems to lose interest once it realizes it’s been seen too early.

But as the hours tick by, his gaze occasionally flickers back to you. Every now and then, you catch him watching you, almost as if he’s checking to make sure you haven't vanished into the night. The times your eyes meet, you only give him a brief smile, returning to your drink, one that he returns politely.

As the night drags on you can’t help but find your own eyes drawn to him too, taking in the way he works: watching him do his duties with a disarming smile and drooling charm. You know being charming is a major part of the gig, but he moves with ease that’s enviable, owning the room in a way that isn't an easy feat amongst all these troublemakers and borderline criminals. It’s impressive. He navigates his space with the casual confidence of someone accustomed to being in charge. Yet amid the chaos, he always seems aware of your presence: a glance here, a subtle nod there, a smirk that you can't quite decipher. Each time, it feels almost conspiratorial, like sharing a secret in the middle of a crowded room. It puts you at ease, and you admire the way he can shift from politely flirting with the women in here to falling into a familiar rapport with a regular, to sternly kicking out a rowdy patron without so much as breaking a sweat.

He slides back your way after the latest batch of orders are settled, wiping his freshly-washed hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. "Sorry 'bout that," he mutters, shaking his head. "Place gets rowdier every damn night." He leans against the bar, gaze lingering on you just a second longer than necessary. "So," he says, voice dropping into something warmer, "you still holdin' up alright? Or am I gonna have to pour you another one of those ciders to keep you from broodin’ too hard?" There’s a hint of teasing in his tone, but beneath it, something genuine. Whatever it is, it makes your stomach flutter in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol. He’s pouring you a fresh glass already anyway.

You chuckle softly, a slight blush in your cheeks that you can't quite explain. Before you can muster up some clever response to his banter, he’s gone again, so you draw your gaze down to the cider he's placed in front of you and down the rest of your first drink before moving on to the fresh one as you try - and fail - to keep from ogling him again.

His eyes catch the motion as you swap out your empty drink for the fresh one, and you swear you see a barely suppressed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He keeps up his steady rhythm, serving and chatting with effortless ease, all while stealing glances in your direction. It’s like you’re the only calm point in a storm, a spot where the noise doesn't quite reach. Every now and then, you notice how he finds himself standing a bit closer to your end of the bar than necessary, like he’s drawn by an invisible thread. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

After another half hour, you’re on your third drink now, half of it gone, and you can feel the alcohol taking its toll, your muscles loose now, eyes a little glassy, and body as warm as the cider. You’re nowhere near drunk yet, but you can feel the effects of the buzz starting and so you set the drink aside, deciding you should probably switch to water soon. Ezra notices you pushing the drink away and gives a small approving nod as he approaches.

"Smart call," he murmurs, taking one of the clean, tall glass of chilled water and sliding it toward you, which you catch with ease. "Don't worry, still counts as 'keepin' your seat' if you're just nursing that." He smirks, leaning in just enough for you to catch the scent of citrus and something woodsy beneath the other usual bar smells. "Though I ain't complainin' if you decide to stick around a while longer." The words sound light, but there’s something deliberate you catch in the way he lingers, like he isn't just talking about the drink.

"Actually, I uh... should probably call a transport. My pod isn't too far from here, but I don't live in the safest area." You say, already taking a sip and feeling relieved when the ice-cold drink makes its way down your throat, cooling the heat stuck there. You can feel your body starting to break out into a light sweat, and you reach for your jacket's zipper, undoing it and starting to remove it.

His hand suddenly shoots out on instinct, catching the edge of your jacket before it slips off completely. His fingers linger for a heartbeat too long - calloused, warm - before he eases the material back onto your shoulders. "Easy now," he says, voice rough but amused as he glances around the room, his eyes sharper than they were moments ago. "Pretty specimen like you is safer in that thing, trust me." His grip loosens, but he doesn’t step back just yet, his breath mingling with the scent of spiced cider between you. You nod and zip the garment back up, and the muscles in his shoulders finally relax in response. "As for transport…" His eyes now shift toward the door, then back at you, weighing something. "Tell you what: gimme 20 minutes to close up. I’ll walk you to your pod." A beat. "No charge."

The touch sparks another flutter in your stomach, making you pause. You hesitate, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth pensively as you try to weigh your options, and try not to blush at him calling you ‘pretty’. Observant as ever, he notices the hesitation, watching your teeth worry your lip with a look he doesn’t try to hide, the smile on his lips honeyed.

He leans back, giving you space even as his fingers flex absently at his sides - as if resisting the urge to reach out. “You shouldn’t be walkin' through these streets on your own at this hour. Not on this goddamn moon." He doesn’t say it out of feigned chivalry. He just heard you tell him you took on 4 to 5 men by yourself. By your estimation, he’s just being a gentleman. You watch as he crosses his arms over his chest, the movement making the muscles in his arms flex and his pectorals shift. You drop your gaze almost immediately, nodding after another short moment, knowing that his concerns are valid.

"Ok, I guess it's better to be safe than sorry." He catches the quick flicker of your eyes and bites back a smirk. He knows he’s handsome. He’s clearly not arrogant about it, just aware enough to notice the looks. But there’s something about how you avoid his gaze when you realize you've been caught that makes him want to catch you again. He nods briskly, already grabbing another beer to fill a waiting order.

"Settled it is then," he says, his eyes flicking your way as he works. "I'll be done here soon. Just... stay put, alright?" You nod, giving a brief mock salute and bringing the glass to your lips again, taking another long drink as you watch him begin giving hints that he’s closing up. He gives a good-natured roll of his eyes at the salute but doesn’t hide the grin it earns you.

He moves through the rest of his closing routine with practiced efficiency. He cuts off the rowdier patrons, settles tabs, and tosses out the stragglers with a mix of charm and firmness that leaves no room for argument.

You linger longer than you really need to, watching him wipe down the bar like it deserves the same care he gives the people who came in here tonight. Sleeves rolled up, movements slow now, unguarded. Tired in a way that feels earned. The place is empty, lights dimmed, and there’s something intimate about seeing him like this, after everyone else has gone, like you’ve caught the quiet version he doesn’t offer on purpose. When he finally looks up from his last task, just briefly, it feels like being noticed by something steady and dangerous and kind all at once.

It’s quiet except for the hum of the overhead lights and the clink of him stacking glasses. He wipes his hands on his towel before turning to you. "Alright," he says, tossing it aside. "Let’s get you home." His voice is much quieter now, replaced by something softer that makes your pulse kick up just a little. You nod, and jump off the stool, forgetting to account for the height of the longlegs that usually sit in it. You stumble just a fraction.

Ezra is quick to catch you by the elbow before you can stumble too far, his grip steadying. "Easy there," he’s fighting back another smirk. "Steady on those feet." The grin wins out as he looks at you, one hand still on your elbow, the other bracing your back and you feel a flash of goosebumps race up your spine at the heat radiating from his palm, even feeling it through the fabric of your jacket. "You always this drunk after three drinks?" he teases, his voice a gruff mumble that’s almost fond.

You snort. "Thanks, I'm not drunk anymore, just a klutz." You mutter but smile anyway. "Are you sure you're ok with this? I think there's still time to call a shuttle out if I need to."

There’s the immediate shake of his head, his hand dropping from your elbow but still hovering close just for a moment longer to make sure you’re fine. "Not a chance. I offered, didn't I?" He walks away to grab his own jacket behind the bar, walking towards you as he slips it onto his shoulders.

His leather jacket is old yet deliberate, a dark brown - almost black in low light - softened by years of wear rather than neglect. You notice how the hide has gone supple at the shoulders and elbows, creased where his body naturally moves, polished dull along the seams by hands, doorframes, bar stools. It’s cut close without being tight, and looks practical enough to move in. The collar is simple and unadorned, usually worn open. You see how the lining has faded, with one pocket stitched by hand where it once tore, and he deemed it worth fixing. As he nears again, you catch the scent of smoke, cold air, and that same citrus that surrounded you earlier. When he shrugs it on, it looks less like a style choice and more like armor, something he’s learned to live inside.

"Besides, already locked up. You're stuck with me, I'm afraid." There’s a gleam in his eyes that says he doesn't have a problem with that.

You shrug in compliance, "Suppose you're right." You admit, taking one final look around the bar, surprised at how quickly he was able to clean up the mess of all the customers he had tonight. "So... you work here alone?" You ask as you begin making your way out.

He pushes the door open, his eyes scanning the street beyond automatically. It’s dark and quiet, with only the faint hum of distant machinery from the refineries. He waits for you to step out before following, shutting the door with a solid thunk. He grabs a ring of keys from his belt loop, and you finally notice another piece of leather on his body: a brown sheath on his belt that mostly conceals a rather large-looking dagger on his person, the handle of it hidden well enough inside his jacket as it sets on his black belt. You wonder how you didn’t notice it before, but you quickly realize you weren’t really paying much attention to his body as it was concealed by the bar top. Until now, that is.

"Mostly," he replies, starting down the street as your eyes can’t help but track his movement now. He’s still solid, still grounded, but there’s a looseness to him when he moves that catches you just a tad off guard. Broad shoulders, heavy through the chest and arms, his strength sits on him easy, worn in. When he walks, there’s a slow roll to it now. His hips and shoulders work together, confidence slipping through the caution. It’s not loud or cocky, just the kind of swagger that comes from knowing he can handle whatever’s in front of him. Like he’s stopped proving anything to anyone, including himself. It makes every step feel intentional, a little dangerous, and damn-near impossible not to watch. "I gotta couple of part-timers that help on busier nights." He glances at you from over his shoulder, keys trilling in his hands, just in time as you catch yourself ogling him again. "You sound surprised."

You shrug again, the movement subtle as the cool night air hits us. “I’m just impressed you’re able to handle some of the roughest people out here on the Outer Rim,” You say smoothly as you outpace him now, leading the way down the cobblestone street, the path barely illuminated by street posts and passing hovercrafts

"Rough, sure," he agrees, once again falling into step next to you. His gait is easy, long strides keeping pace with your shorter ones. "But mostly they’re loudmouths with more bark than bite. I’ve seen bigger fights in a moonling nursery." He smirks, glancing at you. "Besides, it usually stops at words or maybe some shoving. Most folks don't want a permanent ban 'cause they can't keep their goddamn fists to themselves."

You smirk, nodding in agreement. You’d been there on a night when a certain prospector, old and weathered, had been picking trouble and grating on Ezra's patience. "Like that old timer a few months back," He snorts at the memory.

"Ah, good ol' Jackass Jackson. Biggest noise, smallest brain." He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "Had half a mind to toss him through the door after the third damn time he called me a 'bartender bitch.'" He rolls his eyes. "That one definitely tried to throw hands." He shakes his head, his voice dropping a note.

"You were there that night, weren't you? Think he tried to hit on you, too."

"Yeah, I was, I think it was my first time actually," You recall with a small grimace.

His smirk widens. "Oh, I remember," his tone amused. "You shut him down so fast, I swear his boots squeaked when he spun around." He chuckles, giving another shake of his head. "Never seen a man get shot down that politely and still look like he'd been slapped." He looks over at you again, this time with something warmer in his expression. "That was the night I noticed you." The admission’s casual, but the way he says it makes your pulse jump. You try to play it cool, even as you two round the corner onto your street and you give him a long look.

"You noticed me?" The question is as casual as you can muster it, but you don't have that honeyed charm Ezra does, so it comes out a little heavier-handed than intended. He doesn't look like he minds though.

His eyes meet yours in the dim glow of the streetlights. He can see the surprise in your face, the way your breath hitches slightly.

He confirms it with a curt nod, the next words coming out a rough rumble. "Hard not to, really." There’s a pause as he holds your gaze, something flickering in his eyes. "You stood out. And not just cause you didn't try to flirt your way into free drinks." He’s teasing, but there’s a sincerity beneath the words that makes your heart skip another beat. You notice how he keeps a respectable distance in between you two as you walk, his hands shoved firmly in his pants pockets.

"What else then?" You ask as you draw nearer to your pod. You can spot your silvery terrarose hedges about ten paces away. But, for some reason, you aren't quite ready to say good night yet.

He slows his steps as your pod comes into view, hands tucked into his pockets. He glances at you sideways, that same half-smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "What else?" He hums, considering. "Well, for starters, you weren't noisy. You didn't try to pretend you were something you weren't. You paid your tab on time." He chuckles low. "And you never once spilled your drink." His gaze lingers on you before he shrugs. "Figured you were either smart not to piss me off... or real good at mindin' your own business without bein' rude."

A beat passes.

"Turns out," he murmurs, "you're both, in an attractive way."

You smile again, your face warm once more, but you can't dismiss it on an alcoholic buzz this time. "Well, you're not so bad yourself," You say, nudging his shoulder with yours just a tad, just as you reach your front gate. Ezra's smile deepens at the touch, his shoulder leaning ever so slightly into yours.

"Not so bad, huh?" He echoes, his voice warm with amusement. "I'll take that." You both stopped just before the gate now, standing under the soft glow of a nearby porch light.

He tilts his head, studying you, his gaze flickering up and down as if committing you to memory. "Gonna be alright from here?" The concern is mild, but it’s there, a slight furrow between his thick dark brows.

You step into the gate - him holding it open as you cross the threshold and latching it back into place himself as you now stand on opposite ends of it. You nod at his question, glancing back at the empty dwelling before meeting his eyes again.

"Oh yeah, I'll be fine. My only concern was getting here without finding any trouble, luckily I didn't. Suppose I should thank you for that." You say. He chuckles lowly, leaning on the fence in a casual pose tha’s at odds with the sharp intelligence in his eyes.

"I ain't in the business of lettin' trouble have its way with pretty creatures." There it is again, that teasing tone that’s been making your stomach flip-flop.

He pushes off the fence, hands disappearing into his pockets again as he takes a step closer, so close his boots brush the gate. The soft light of the porch makes him look younger, less hardened, even with that same scar. You notice now that while his eyes looked near-black in the dim lighting of the bar, they’ve actually got flecks of gold, just barely noticeable but close enough to be closer to a pair of Tiger’s Eye, and your heart gives another flutter.

"Well, now who's the one flirting?" You tease, dropping your gaze for just a fraction.

He gives a full laugh and the sound is just as warm as the rest of him, curling in your abdomen, as he leans his upper half over the top of the door. "Never claimed I didn't flirt," His tone a gravelly purr that goes straight to your core. "Just that I don't offer free drinks for it." His eyes are trained on you again, studying you in the low light. You catch that scent of citrus and spice again but now the accompanying scent of leather makes your head spin. "You're flushed." He points out quietly. Not as a tease, not as a challenge, just an observation.

"Damn cider." You respond as your eyes drop to his mouth, but it doesn’t have any real accusation behind it. You both know it isn’t that anyway, so what’s the point in acting like it? He smiles, gaze darkened as he notices where you were looking. His own gaze flicks down to your mouth and he leans in just a bit more, as much as the gate will allow, his body just inches from yours now. You can feel the heat radiating off him, mixing with the warm flush on your own skin, and your pulse is thrumming steadily now. He hums, low.

"Damn cider." He repeats softly, almost a whisper to himself.

The sound of men laughing snaps you both out of it, and both your gazes are drawn to the group of four heading your way. You reach for your thrower at your hip just as Ezra reaches for the sheathed blade at his belt. But, the men aren’t even looking your way, stumbling into a pod at the same corner you had passed through 5 minutes earlier. He lets out a slow, controlled breath, his jaw clenching as he keeps his eyes on the group, even long after they’ve disappeared.

He finally turns his attention back to you, his gaze flicking quickly over your body as if to ensure you’re unharmed. When he seems satisfied, some of the tension leaves his shoulders, and he shakes his head. "Reckless idiots…” Another muscle in his jaw ticks and that edge is in his eyes again, but you can see he’s trying to tame it when he speaks to you once more. “It’s late, you should head inside,"

“Yeah, yeah I should,” You reply, realizing how close you had been to asking him to come inside with you. And what a regret that would’ve been. You reach into your jacket pocket, pulling out your wallet. “Oh, I almost forgot. How much do I owe you?” You ask, but he shakes his head before you even finish the question.

“Nothin’, I’ll just put it on your tab.” You almost protest but his eyes tell you he’s not having it, though he does give a reassuring smile. You nod once, and back away from the gate as you put your wallet away. You feel his eyes on you as you make your way up to the front door, fumbling with your keys for a moment as you unlock it.

“Thanks again, Ezra, I really appreciate it,” You say as you take a step inside.

"It's no trouble." He says just loud enough for you to hear, the intensity from earlier almost forgotten. Almost. His eyes track your movements as you step into the house, and he raises a hand in a half-wave as you do. "Night." The corner of his mouth quirks up again, a ghost of that earlier smirk. "Stay safe." You smile back,

“You too; have a good night,” You respond before closing the door, the soft ache in your chest not lost on you as you move to the window to watch him go. You see how he watches as the door closes, a strange feeling twisting in his chest. He stands there for a moment, gaze lingering on the now-closed door.

He shakes it off after a beat; he has no reason to feel like this. He barely knows you, just a pretty girl who visits his bar every once in a blue moon. He turns away, hands back in his pockets as he starts down the street again, trying to forget the feeling in his chest and the image of your flushed face.

As you get ready for bed that night, you can’t stop seeing his deep brown eyes, the plush of his bottom lip, the silvery curve of the scar on his cheek. Maybe it was time to become a regular patron after all.

******

I'll fix the tags and headings to this later, I'm way too lazy and unmotivated to do so right now. Might also continue this but we know how I am about continuing stuff so we'll see. m'kay byyyyye

Read it on AO3

[practicalghost]

Self Moodboard

Search on Pinterest: lyrics, colour, character, place, outfit, aesthetic

Thanks for the tag @grogusmum !

Hm feels pretty accurate..

No pressure tags: @writer-darling @the-blind-assassin-12 @flightlessangelwings @supernaturalgirl20

[writer-darling]

@practicalghost Thank you for the tag, Lia! I LOVE yours! 💙💚

Mine is my faves 😌💜

NPT: @kayleezra @amandanik23 @queen-of-disasterr

[insomniamamma]

Favourite movie tag game !

rules: without naming them, post a gif from ten of your favorite films, then tag ten people to do the same.

Thank you @greenwitchfromthewoods

Let’s start!

NP tags: @oonajaeadira @grogusmum @quicax3 @honestly-shite @fromthedeskoftheraven

and anyone else who wants to play! If you see this tag! You're it!

[grogusmum]

Thanks for tagging me, J! There's a lot of overlap, my friend!

Okay, as always no presh tags:

@writeforfandoms @trulybetty @prolix-yuy @dawn-petrichor-world @ezras-channel-rat @onlythegentle-survive @pagannightwitch @chaoticgeminate @littledragonlady @practicalghost

AND YOU! TAG YOUR IT

[practicalghost]

Aw thanks for the tag Hazel! Soooo sorry for getting to this so late 😩

I love so many of the ones you added, finally someone else who loves Stranger than Fiction! So many people don't know how lovely that movie is!

Here's a few of my favorites:

No pressure tags: @flightlessangelwings @writer-darling @swiftpascal @the-blind-assassin-12 and anyone else who wants to join in!

[writer-darling]

@practicalghost Thank you for tagging me, Lia!

Here is my list:

NPT: @kayleezra @supernaturalgirl @lowlights @littlemisspascal

[littlemisspascal]

New Writers added to The Pedro Library 🐼

Been a busy and hectic week *heaves a sigh* hopefully this one is calmer!

New Works Added ✨

Many fics aren’t appearing in the tags when searching. If I miss yours, please let me know 💗 Or add me to your taglist cuz I love being tagged 😊

As always, if you would like me to remove your work from the rec list, please let know and I’ll remove them asap 😊

@toomanystoriessolittletime Frankie Receipts / Javier Risky

@the-blind-assassin-12 Frankie Unbirthday

@jolapeno Frankie Good Morning

@almostfoxglove Javier Read It Again

@absurdthirst @storiesofthefandomlovers Javier The Photo Booth

@writer-darling Ezra The Weight Within

@milla-frenchy Joel Close-Up

@whocaresstillthelouvre Joel A Firm Partner

@backtothefanfiction Joel Because She Believed 

@oogaboogasphincter Joel Peace Offering

@burntheedges Marcus M Hold Me Like Water

@secretelephanttattoo Marcus P The Genuine Article

@coulsons-fullmetal-cellist Max Your Vampire

[writer-darling]

Thank you much! @littlemisspascal 💕

[writer-darling]

The Weight Within

Rating: E - (Everyone!)

Characters (No pairing): Ezra (Prospect), Cee (Prospect)

Warnings: Mentions of the body/body parts but nothing descriptive. Mentions of prescription medication (and possible misuse if you squint). Hints of PTSD. Depression. Anxiety. Overall stress. But, happy ending! If there are any that I missed, please inbox me to let me know and I will add them in (:

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary!: Ezra struggles with constant anxiety and a growing sense of isolation, his thoughts consumed by worries for Cee. The weight of their past trauma makes it hard to focus, sleep, or find comfort in their new reality. Depression and stress drain his energy, making even simple tasks feel overwhelming. But his young companion might provide some relief to ease his mind.

A/N: I live in the U.S. (enough said), and I needed something that is going to make me cry in a good way!

******

Stress is an invisible weight that presses down on the chest, a restless tension coiling in the gut and creeping into the muscles. It whispers doubts and what-ifs, turning thoughts into a tangled web and making every breath feel too shallow, every second too short. Sometimes, it hits like a sudden storm on the unfamiliar terrain of an ancient planet, scattering focus and tightening its grip; other times, it’s a slow, rising tide that drowns without warning. It tastes like the metal of a thrower - sharp, metallic, pungent, and sounds like the ticking clock of an alarm that jolts you into frantic hyperawareness. It lives in the space between what is and what could be—fueling action or burning everything to ash. 

Ezra is stressed.

Quite frankly, he’s been stressed for days, weeks. Months possibly. It’s hard to tell now. Living on Puggart Bench makes the days blur, he’s trapped in this small residential pod that’s made steel chains of claustrophobia curl around his heart. He’d been in this sort of state before, suffocating on the acrid spores of the Green, treading under the roaring waters of Laou. Which was usually a trap for tourist folk, but he’d been under contract to harvest gems at the depths of the sea’s marina trenches.

His neck throbs again with tension; pain, and stress radiates to the lower part of his skull and the tops of his shoulders. Instinctively, his right arm reaches up to soothe the ache, but when he doesn’t feel the relief of his fingertips, he looks down with disdain at the stump that protrudes from his right shoulder. The disappointment tastes like iron in his mouth.

Before he can delve deeper into the abyss of anger, self-loathing, and pity that he’s become frustratingly used to these past few months, the lock of the front door jingles. He straightens up, his left hand going for the nonexistent thrower at his hip - a reflex - but he relaxes when the door opens and Cee walks through the door. 

The girl has grown at least two inches since they’ve been here. Her blunt, blonde bob has lengthened just as much. She turns and smiles at him, schoolbooks cradled in her arms like precious gems.

“Little bird, you’re home early,” He greets, forcing his lips into a smile of his own. “I haven’t had a chance to make us some grub yet.”

“It’s ok,” She responds, setting her books and schoolbag on the nearest couch. “My last class got let out early; Amy invited me out to lunch with her and her friends.” His smile is genuine now. He’s also been stressed about the girl’s adjustment to a life without prospecting or her father, but she’s seemingly handling it better than he could’ve hoped for. Better than he was at least. At least she didn’t spend her nights waking up from a fitful sleep, or linger at the boards of the Pug to scan the many contract posters in search of a new expedition she knew she’d never be able to trek on. 

“Who’s this Amy then?” He asks, and they both notice the slight protectiveness in his tone. He can’t help it, ever wary of strangers. But, he doesn’t comment on it, and neither does she. 

“She’s a girl in my English class; I told you about her last week.” His mind scans his memories.

“The one that’s obsessed with the Brontë sisters?” He asks. She nods.

“Yeah, her friends all have this book club thing going on, and they think I might enjoy it.” Her right shoulder rises and falls in a nonchalant shrug as she turns and moves to grab her wallet and a jacket from the coat rack by the door. But that simple action makes Ezra pause. Something seems off, he can just feel it. Call it paranoia, cabin fever, or perhaps all his years living in hyperobservance. His eyes narrow slightly but rationale quickly kicks in. Cee was so young; she deserved to have a life. To enjoy her studies on the Ephrate, to have friends, and to live without the worries that plagued him. After all, isn’t that what they’d both fought so hard on Bakrohma for? For independence? For the freedom to live as they pleased?

“Hey, you ok?” Cee’s questioning snaps him out of it, her crystalline eyes swimming with uncertainty as she looks at him. “I can stay here and hang out with them another day?” She offers for his sake. He fights off a sigh and shakes his head, trying to make the pause seem momentary.

“Nah, you go ahead kiddo, just promise me you’ll be careful, yeah?” His dark eyes meet hers, weary yet tender. They hold a quiet plea that words can’t fully capture—soft with love but edged with an unspoken fear. There's a shine to them, not quite tears, but something close, a reflection of all the worries they try to hide. They search the girl’s face, desperate for reassurance, for a promise that can never truly be guaranteed. Beneath the gentle gaze lies a flicker of something deeper—months of silent prayers to a being he doesn’t truly believe in, sleepless nights, and the unwavering hope that she will always find her way back home.

Even then, young as she is, she understands. She stops fully in her reach for the doorknob and nods, looking at him head-on. 

“Always am.” Her words are simple but sincere. With a reluctant nod, he smiles again,

“Alright then,” She smiles once more, opens the door, and she’s gone. 

It’s been three hours. Three goddamned hours and Ezra’s never felt a worry like this. This isn’t like her at all. She’s usually great at keeping him updated on where she is. He’d sent her a comm after an hour and a half, just to check in. Her simple reply had done little to ease his stress: “I’m good, be home soon” He’s heard jack-all from the young girl since. 

He has half a mind to call her and find her location, but he knows he’s just running on pure anxiety right now. Kevvasake is this what being a parent is like? He’s been stewing with questions. Maybe she’s just having fun with that book club. He knows she’s capable of being social when she wants to be. Or, maybe the girls had gone to have other plans somewhere else on the Outer Rim. Surely she would’ve mentioned that to him by now. How could he have been so dumb? He should've asked for the names and information of the other girls - at least their parents. All he knows about is Amy, and that's just a first name and a hyperfixation of some authors. He doesn't know anything about where exactly they were going, or for how long, or even how many girls she's out with. She hadn't told him much at all, he realizes. Maybe she just didn’t want to be here, stuck with him as she’d been all this time.

That thought stings.

He's struck with the memory of their liftoff from the Green. How her lips had pulled up into the smallest, yet brightest smile he'd seen on her face since they'd met. Her blue eyes scanned the atmosphere of Bakhroma as they jostled to freedom.

He glances over at his pain med prescription on the kitchen counter and almost makes a grab for it. One pill or two will ease his racing thoughts, or at least knock him out before they have a chance to form. But that familiar jingle of the lock makes his gaze shoot up towards the door. 

“Cee,” He sighs with relief and almost moves towards her, scanning her frame for anything out of place, but her turning towards him stops him dead in his tracks. 

The deep brunette strands frame the right side of her face, just a patch of her bangs. It’s almost onyx color that perfectly mirrors his own. It suits her, oddly enough, complimenting her dark brows and fair skin. She looks up at him, sheepish.

“Sorry I took so long.” Is all she says. It takes him a moment to respond.

“New hair?” He asks, and he sounds almost breathless. She smiles, looking relieved that he isn’t upset at her.

“Yeah, new hair.” She responds, and heads to her room without another word. 

Ezra stands there for a few more minutes, just looking at the space she occupied minutes before. He doesn’t feel the warm trail of tears running down his face until they pool on his t-shirt, the stress that’s been curling around his heart now replaced with a warm relief that spreads throughout his entire body. 

She’s home.

******

This was written in the span of one Prospect rewatch. I've had it in mind for a while now but the writing bug barely got to me while I am at my mental lowest. 🤙🏼

Tag List:  @luz-introvertida @castleamc @moralesfish  @december-gal1 @castleamcc @hillarymurray4 @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20 @sherala007 @littlemisspascal @practicalghost @donnaa @scorpio-marionette @kayleezra @amandanik23 @maxpbxtch97 @lowlights @shadesofnerdlygrace @harriedandharassed @carefulnowprincess @amneris21 @horton-hears-a-honk @xdaddysprincessxx @trickstersp8 @mandy-sings @mswarriorbabe80 @permanentlydizzy @teddy2510 @bitchwitch1981 @jedi-in-crocs @ezras-girl @theredwritingwitch @thesoftdumbass @readingiskeepingmegoing @pedropascalposting

Links!

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[writer-darling]

The Weight Within

Rating: E - (Everyone!)

Characters (No pairing): Ezra (Prospect), Cee (Prospect)

Warnings: Mentions of the body/body parts but nothing descriptive. Mentions of prescription medication (and possible misuse if you squint). Hints of PTSD. Depression. Anxiety. Overall stress. But, happy ending! If there are any that I missed, please inbox me to let me know and I will add them in (:

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary!: Ezra struggles with constant anxiety and a growing sense of isolation, his thoughts consumed by worries for Cee. The weight of their past trauma makes it hard to focus, sleep, or find comfort in their new reality. Depression and stress drain his energy, making even simple tasks feel overwhelming. But his young companion might provide some relief to ease his mind.

A/N: I live in the U.S. (enough said), and I needed something that is going to make me cry in a good way!

******

Stress is an invisible weight that presses down on the chest, a restless tension coiling in the gut and creeping into the muscles. It whispers doubts and what-ifs, turning thoughts into a tangled web and making every breath feel too shallow, every second too short. Sometimes, it hits like a sudden storm on the unfamiliar terrain of an ancient planet, scattering focus and tightening its grip; other times, it’s a slow, rising tide that drowns without warning. It tastes like the metal of a thrower - sharp, metallic, pungent, and sounds like the ticking clock of an alarm that jolts you into frantic hyperawareness. It lives in the space between what is and what could be—fueling action or burning everything to ash. 

Ezra is stressed.

Quite frankly, he’s been stressed for days, weeks. Months possibly. It’s hard to tell now. Living on Puggart Bench makes the days blur, he’s trapped in this small residential pod that’s made steel chains of claustrophobia curl around his heart. He’d been in this sort of state before, suffocating on the acrid spores of the Green, treading under the roaring waters of Laou. Which was usually a trap for tourist folk, but he’d been under contract to harvest gems at the depths of the sea’s marina trenches.

His neck throbs again with tension; pain, and stress radiates to the lower part of his skull and the tops of his shoulders. Instinctively, his right arm reaches up to soothe the ache, but when he doesn’t feel the relief of his fingertips, he looks down with disdain at the stump that protrudes from his right shoulder. The disappointment tastes like iron in his mouth.

Before he can delve deeper into the abyss of anger, self-loathing, and pity that he’s become frustratingly used to these past few months, the lock of the front door jingles. He straightens up, his left hand going for the nonexistent thrower at his hip - a reflex - but he relaxes when the door opens and Cee walks through the door. 

The girl has grown at least two inches since they’ve been here. Her blunt, blonde bob has lengthened just as much. She turns and smiles at him, schoolbooks cradled in her arms like precious gems.

“Little bird, you’re home early,” He greets, forcing his lips into a smile of his own. “I haven’t had a chance to make us some grub yet.”

“It’s ok,” She responds, setting her books and schoolbag on the nearest couch. “My last class got let out early; Amy invited me out to lunch with her and her friends.” His smile is genuine now. He’s also been stressed about the girl’s adjustment to a life without prospecting or her father, but she’s seemingly handling it better than he could’ve hoped for. Better than he was at least. At least she didn’t spend her nights waking up from a fitful sleep, or linger at the boards of the Pug to scan the many contract posters in search of a new expedition she knew she’d never be able to trek on. 

“Who’s this Amy then?” He asks, and they both notice the slight protectiveness in his tone. He can’t help it, ever wary of strangers. But, he doesn’t comment on it, and neither does she. 

“She’s a girl in my English class; I told you about her last week.” His mind scans his memories.

“The one that’s obsessed with the Brontë sisters?” He asks. She nods.

“Yeah, her friends all have this book club thing going on, and they think I might enjoy it.” Her right shoulder rises and falls in a nonchalant shrug as she turns and moves to grab her wallet and a jacket from the coat rack by the door. But that simple action makes Ezra pause. Something seems off, he can just feel it. Call it paranoia, cabin fever, or perhaps all his years living in hyperobservance. His eyes narrow slightly but rationale quickly kicks in. Cee was so young; she deserved to have a life. To enjoy her studies on the Ephrate, to have friends, and to live without the worries that plagued him. After all, isn’t that what they’d both fought so hard on Bakrohma for? For independence? For the freedom to live as they pleased?

“Hey, you ok?” Cee’s questioning snaps him out of it, her crystalline eyes swimming with uncertainty as she looks at him. “I can stay here and hang out with them another day?” She offers for his sake. He fights off a sigh and shakes his head, trying to make the pause seem momentary.

“Nah, you go ahead kiddo, just promise me you’ll be careful, yeah?” His dark eyes meet hers, weary yet tender. They hold a quiet plea that words can’t fully capture—soft with love but edged with an unspoken fear. There's a shine to them, not quite tears, but something close, a reflection of all the worries they try to hide. They search the girl’s face, desperate for reassurance, for a promise that can never truly be guaranteed. Beneath the gentle gaze lies a flicker of something deeper—months of silent prayers to a being he doesn’t truly believe in, sleepless nights, and the unwavering hope that she will always find her way back home.

Even then, young as she is, she understands. She stops fully in her reach for the doorknob and nods, looking at him head-on. 

“Always am.” Her words are simple but sincere. With a reluctant nod, he smiles again,

“Alright then,” She smiles once more, opens the door, and she’s gone. 

It’s been three hours. Three goddamned hours and Ezra’s never felt a worry like this. This isn’t like her at all. She’s usually great at keeping him updated on where she is. He’d sent her a comm after an hour and a half, just to check in. Her simple reply had done little to ease his stress: “I’m good, be home soon” He’s heard jack-all from the young girl since. 

He has half a mind to call her and find her location, but he knows he’s just running on pure anxiety right now. Kevvasake is this what being a parent is like? He’s been stewing with questions. Maybe she’s just having fun with that book club. He knows she’s capable of being social when she wants to be. Or, maybe the girls had gone to have other plans somewhere else on the Outer Rim. Surely she would’ve mentioned that to him by now. How could he have been so dumb? He should've asked for the names and information of the other girls - at least their parents. All he knows about is Amy, and that's just a first name and a hyperfixation of some authors. He doesn't know anything about where exactly they were going, or for how long, or even how many girls she's out with. She hadn't told him much at all, he realizes. Maybe she just didn’t want to be here, stuck with him as she’d been all this time.

That thought stings.

He's struck with the memory of their liftoff from the Green. How her lips had pulled up into the smallest, yet brightest smile he'd seen on her face since they'd met. Her blue eyes scanned the atmosphere of Bakhroma as they jostled to freedom.

He glances over at his pain med prescription on the kitchen counter and almost makes a grab for it. One pill or two will ease his racing thoughts, or at least knock him out before they have a chance to form. But that familiar jingle of the lock makes his gaze shoot up towards the door. 

“Cee,” He sighs with relief and almost moves towards her, scanning her frame for anything out of place, but her turning towards him stops him dead in his tracks. 

The deep brunette strands frame the right side of her face, just a patch of her bangs. It’s almost onyx color that perfectly mirrors his own. It suits her, oddly enough, complimenting her dark brows and fair skin. She looks up at him, sheepish.

“Sorry I took so long.” Is all she says. It takes him a moment to respond.

“New hair?” He asks, and he sounds almost breathless. She smiles, looking relieved that he isn’t upset at her.

“Yeah, new hair.” She responds, and heads to her room without another word. 

Ezra stands there for a few more minutes, just looking at the space she occupied minutes before. He doesn’t feel the warm trail of tears running down his face until they pool on his t-shirt, the stress that’s been curling around his heart now replaced with a warm relief that spreads throughout his entire body. 

She’s home.

******

This was written in the span of one Prospect rewatch. I've had it in mind for a while now but the writing bug barely got to me while I am at my mental lowest. 🤙🏼

Tag List:  @luz-introvertida @castleamc @moralesfish  @december-gal1 @castleamcc @hillarymurray4 @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20 @sherala007 @littlemisspascal @practicalghost @donnaa @scorpio-marionette @kayleezra @amandanik23 @maxpbxtch97 @lowlights @shadesofnerdlygrace @harriedandharassed @carefulnowprincess @amneris21 @horton-hears-a-honk @xdaddysprincessxx @trickstersp8 @mandy-sings @mswarriorbabe80 @permanentlydizzy @teddy2510 @bitchwitch1981 @jedi-in-crocs @ezras-girl @theredwritingwitch @thesoftdumbass @readingiskeepingmegoing @pedropascalposting

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[writer-darling]

The Weight Within

Rating: E - (Everyone!)

Characters (No pairing): Ezra (Prospect), Cee (Prospect)

Warnings: Mentions of the body/body parts but nothing descriptive. Mentions of prescription medication (and possible misuse if you squint). Hints of PTSD. Depression. Anxiety. Overall stress. But, happy ending! If there are any that I missed, please inbox me to let me know and I will add them in (:

Word Count: 1.4k

Summary!: Ezra struggles with constant anxiety and a growing sense of isolation, his thoughts consumed by worries for Cee. The weight of their past trauma makes it hard to focus, sleep, or find comfort in their new reality. Depression and stress drain his energy, making even simple tasks feel overwhelming. But his young companion might provide some relief to ease his mind.

A/N: I live in the U.S. (enough said), and I needed something that is going to make me cry in a good way!

******

Stress is an invisible weight that presses down on the chest, a restless tension coiling in the gut and creeping into the muscles. It whispers doubts and what-ifs, turning thoughts into a tangled web and making every breath feel too shallow, every second too short. Sometimes, it hits like a sudden storm on the unfamiliar terrain of an ancient planet, scattering focus and tightening its grip; other times, it’s a slow, rising tide that drowns without warning. It tastes like the metal of a thrower - sharp, metallic, pungent, and sounds like the ticking clock of an alarm that jolts you into frantic hyperawareness. It lives in the space between what is and what could be—fueling action or burning everything to ash. 

Ezra is stressed.

Quite frankly, he’s been stressed for days, weeks. Months possibly. It’s hard to tell now. Living on Puggart Bench makes the days blur, he’s trapped in this small residential pod that’s made steel chains of claustrophobia curl around his heart. He’d been in this sort of state before, suffocating on the acrid spores of the Green, treading under the roaring waters of Laou. Which was usually a trap for tourist folk, but he’d been under contract to harvest gems at the depths of the sea’s marina trenches.

His neck throbs again with tension; pain, and stress radiates to the lower part of his skull and the tops of his shoulders. Instinctively, his right arm reaches up to soothe the ache, but when he doesn’t feel the relief of his fingertips, he looks down with disdain at the stump that protrudes from his right shoulder. The disappointment tastes like iron in his mouth.

Before he can delve deeper into the abyss of anger, self-loathing, and pity that he’s become frustratingly used to these past few months, the lock of the front door jingles. He straightens up, his left hand going for the nonexistent thrower at his hip - a reflex - but he relaxes when the door opens and Cee walks through the door. 

The girl has grown at least two inches since they’ve been here. Her blunt, blonde bob has lengthened just as much. She turns and smiles at him, schoolbooks cradled in her arms like precious gems.

“Little bird, you’re home early,” He greets, forcing his lips into a smile of his own. “I haven’t had a chance to make us some grub yet.”

“It’s ok,” She responds, setting her books and schoolbag on the nearest couch. “My last class got let out early; Amy invited me out to lunch with her and her friends.” His smile is genuine now. He’s also been stressed about the girl’s adjustment to a life without prospecting or her father, but she’s seemingly handling it better than he could’ve hoped for. Better than he was at least. At least she didn’t spend her nights waking up from a fitful sleep, or linger at the boards of the Pug to scan the many contract posters in search of a new expedition she knew she’d never be able to trek on. 

“Who’s this Amy then?” He asks, and they both notice the slight protectiveness in his tone. He can’t help it, ever wary of strangers. But, he doesn’t comment on it, and neither does she. 

“She’s a girl in my English class; I told you about her last week.” His mind scans his memories.

“The one that’s obsessed with the Brontë sisters?” He asks. She nods.

“Yeah, her friends all have this book club thing going on, and they think I might enjoy it.” Her right shoulder rises and falls in a nonchalant shrug as she turns and moves to grab her wallet and a jacket from the coat rack by the door. But that simple action makes Ezra pause. Something seems off, he can just feel it. Call it paranoia, cabin fever, or perhaps all his years living in hyperobservance. His eyes narrow slightly but rationale quickly kicks in. Cee was so young; she deserved to have a life. To enjoy her studies on the Ephrate, to have friends, and to live without the worries that plagued him. After all, isn’t that what they’d both fought so hard on Bakrohma for? For independence? For the freedom to live as they pleased?

“Hey, you ok?” Cee’s questioning snaps him out of it, her crystalline eyes swimming with uncertainty as she looks at him. “I can stay here and hang out with them another day?” She offers for his sake. He fights off a sigh and shakes his head, trying to make the pause seem momentary.

“Nah, you go ahead kiddo, just promise me you’ll be careful, yeah?” His dark eyes meet hers, weary yet tender. They hold a quiet plea that words can’t fully capture—soft with love but edged with an unspoken fear. There's a shine to them, not quite tears, but something close, a reflection of all the worries they try to hide. They search the girl’s face, desperate for reassurance, for a promise that can never truly be guaranteed. Beneath the gentle gaze lies a flicker of something deeper—months of silent prayers to a being he doesn’t truly believe in, sleepless nights, and the unwavering hope that she will always find her way back home.

Even then, young as she is, she understands. She stops fully in her reach for the doorknob and nods, looking at him head-on. 

“Always am.” Her words are simple but sincere. With a reluctant nod, he smiles again,

“Alright then,” She smiles once more, opens the door, and she’s gone. 

It’s been three hours. Three goddamned hours and Ezra’s never felt a worry like this. This isn’t like her at all. She’s usually great at keeping him updated on where she is. He’d sent her a comm after an hour and a half, just to check in. Her simple reply had done little to ease his stress: “I’m good, be home soon” He’s heard jack-all from the young girl since. 

He has half a mind to call her and find her location, but he knows he’s just running on pure anxiety right now. Kevvasake is this what being a parent is like? He’s been stewing with questions. Maybe she’s just having fun with that book club. He knows she’s capable of being social when she wants to be. Or, maybe the girls had gone to have other plans somewhere else on the Outer Rim. Surely she would’ve mentioned that to him by now. How could he have been so dumb? He should've asked for the names and information of the other girls - at least their parents. All he knows about is Amy, and that's just a first name and a hyperfixation of some authors. He doesn't know anything about where exactly they were going, or for how long, or even how many girls she's out with. She hadn't told him much at all, he realizes. Maybe she just didn’t want to be here, stuck with him as she’d been all this time.

That thought stings.

He's struck with the memory of their liftoff from the Green. How her lips had pulled up into the smallest, yet brightest smile he'd seen on her face since they'd met. Her blue eyes scanned the atmosphere of Bakhroma as they jostled to freedom.

He glances over at his pain med prescription on the kitchen counter and almost makes a grab for it. One pill or two will ease his racing thoughts, or at least knock him out before they have a chance to form. But that familiar jingle of the lock makes his gaze shoot up towards the door. 

“Cee,” He sighs with relief and almost moves towards her, scanning her frame for anything out of place, but her turning towards him stops him dead in his tracks. 

The deep brunette strands frame the right side of her face, just a patch of her bangs. It’s almost onyx color that perfectly mirrors his own. It suits her, oddly enough, complimenting her dark brows and fair skin. She looks up at him, sheepish.

“Sorry I took so long.” Is all she says. It takes him a moment to respond.

“New hair?” He asks, and he sounds almost breathless. She smiles, looking relieved that he isn’t upset at her.

“Yeah, new hair.” She responds, and heads to her room without another word. 

Ezra stands there for a few more minutes, just looking at the space she occupied minutes before. He doesn’t feel the warm trail of tears running down his face until they pool on his t-shirt, the stress that’s been curling around his heart now replaced with a warm relief that spreads throughout his entire body. 

She’s home.

******

This was written in the span of one Prospect rewatch. I've had it in mind for a while now but the writing bug barely got to me while I am at my mental lowest. 🤙🏼

Tag List:  @luz-introvertida @castleamc @moralesfish  @december-gal1 @castleamcc @hillarymurray4 @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20 @sherala007 @littlemisspascal @practicalghost @donnaa @scorpio-marionette @kayleezra @amandanik23 @maxpbxtch97 @lowlights @shadesofnerdlygrace @harriedandharassed @carefulnowprincess @amneris21 @horton-hears-a-honk @xdaddysprincessxx @trickstersp8 @mandy-sings @mswarriorbabe80 @permanentlydizzy @teddy2510 @bitchwitch1981 @jedi-in-crocs @ezras-girl @theredwritingwitch @thesoftdumbass @readingiskeepingmegoing @pedropascalposting

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[mearchy]

On my rewatch of TLOU it emerged that there were some details that I missed before that help to paint this huge picture about the importance of the preceding Tess/Joel relationship. The first and most obvious is that Joel mentions passingly that he and Tommy met Tess pretty early on, and it sounds like she stayed with him when every other group they were in fell apart, and even when his own brother left. So they’ve been surviving together for at LEAST 15 years, probably longer than his daughter was even alive, which is a length of time I just didn’t fully process before.

We never hear the full goodbye/suicide letter from Bill, but a lot of people have pointed out that over Joel’s shoulder you can see Tess’s name mentioned at least twice at the end — including something about her deciding what to do. We know that basically every time we saw Tess directly interacting with Joel before she died, she was the one giving him directives and making the final decisions. She says outright that he listens to her. This is not a man who trusts fucking anybody after everything he’s been through. But he trusts Tess. She comes up behind him in bed while he’s sleeping, and in a world of raiders and robbers where hypervigilance is a necessity, he barely even stirs.

Now, one of her last lines before she dies is “I never asked you for anything, not to feel the way I felt—“ and he tries to say something and she shuts him down. But here’s what gets me: before that, before they realize she was bit, she turns around and in her dying frantic anger she yells “that is NOT MY HOME!” about the QZ. And it’s like okay… where else could she be thinking about, if she’s spent all these years on the road with different groups, with Joel, and then at least a decade in the QZ? What is she defining as home right now? Why is this correction so intense? And it could be about Detroit, about where she came from and isn’t (apparently) attempting to go back to. But then. But then she turns and she looks directly at Joel. And she’s got the most tragic expression on her face. And I wonder if in that moment Joel knew she meant that he was her home, even if she had never said it that openly before. Wherever he went, she would go. Haring off on a wild chase after his brother across the country? She’s there. She’ll do anything to make it happen. She’ll beg and barter and kill for this truck battery, for a mission she doesn’t even have half the same stakes in. She was his direction and his driving force and a safe place for him, but he was her home.

Thinking about this almost changed the tenor of the remaining story with Joel and Ellie to me. The hospital massacre felt perfectly in character the first time I watched, but when I rewatched with both the Sarah and the Tess story in the forefront of my mind it felt even more fucking inevitable. Joel is Orpheus. This couldn’t have gone any other way. He could never have done anything else. He has failed the two most important women in his life. He has failed a daughter and he has failed a life partner twice over- first by letting her die, and second by letting her die believing she was unloved. How can he fail Ellie now? He has to burn the entire world, tell any lie, just to keep her alive. There is no other option, no other outcome. There is no living Joel post-canon without the hospital massacre.

And the revenge for it will be what kills him.

[hypnotisedfireflies]

Bill's letter in full.

The T changed to a J is verrrry interesting.

[guelyury]

Geez I...

[writer-darling]

Got bored; made this (my electricity is faulty at best rn so hopefully this posts 🤞🏽💚)

Tag List:  @luz-introvertida @castleamc @moralesfish  @december-gal1 @castleamcc @hillarymurray4 @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20 @sherala007 @littlemisspascal @practicalghost @donnaa @scorpio-marionette @kayleezra @amandanik23 @maxpbxtch97 @lowlights @shadesofnerdlygrace @harriedandharassed @carefulnowprincess @amneris21 @horton-hears-a-honk @xdaddysprincessxx @trickstersp8 @mandy-sings @mswarriorbabe80 @permanentlydizzy @teddy2510 @bitchwitch1981 @jedi-in-crocs @ezras-girl

[magpiepills]

This is so pretty! I can picture Cee making something like this to process everything that happened.

[writer-darling]

@magpiepills I hadn’t even thought of that, but I love that interpretation! 💚💚

[writer-darling]

Got bored; made this (my electricity is faulty at best rn so hopefully this posts 🤞🏽💚)

Tag List:  @luz-introvertida @castleamc @moralesfish  @december-gal1 @castleamcc @hillarymurray4 @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20 @sherala007 @littlemisspascal @practicalghost @donnaa @scorpio-marionette @kayleezra @amandanik23 @maxpbxtch97 @lowlights @shadesofnerdlygrace @harriedandharassed @carefulnowprincess @amneris21 @horton-hears-a-honk @xdaddysprincessxx @trickstersp8 @mandy-sings @mswarriorbabe80 @permanentlydizzy @teddy2510 @bitchwitch1981 @jedi-in-crocs @ezras-girl

[writer-darling]

Got bored; made this (my electricity is faulty at best rn so hopefully this posts 🤞🏽💚)

Tag List:  @luz-introvertida @castleamc @moralesfish  @december-gal1 @castleamcc @hillarymurray4 @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20 @sherala007 @littlemisspascal @practicalghost @donnaa @scorpio-marionette @kayleezra @amandanik23 @maxpbxtch97 @lowlights @shadesofnerdlygrace @harriedandharassed @carefulnowprincess @amneris21 @horton-hears-a-honk @xdaddysprincessxx @trickstersp8 @mandy-sings @mswarriorbabe80 @permanentlydizzy @teddy2510 @bitchwitch1981 @jedi-in-crocs @ezras-girl

[writer-darling]

hi ella!

i’m back with another “gentle reminders” ask. it goes in line with one of my personal goals this year of trying to work on my kindness and how i show that kindness to others.

the beginning of a new year is always a bit tough for many people, for many reasons but at the scale of the fandom, i have noticed some negativity starting to spread. maybe it’s bound to happen on any social media but i always considered tumblr to be different, to be over the kind of discourse you could find on other apps. this place has been a true haven for many of us and i would like to keep it that way, so i thought, as a way to counterbalance this negativity, i could compensate with a nice message for one of the driving forces in the fandom: our dear writers.

i would like to begin by saying thank you.  thank you for dedicating your time, your energy, your love and sharing pieces of yourself with us. the fandom wouldn’t be what it is without you: just like a body needs a brain or a heart to function properly, fandoms need writers like they need others contributing. thank you for offering diversity, engaging with different tropes and characters to reach as many readers as possible. i will admit, some things proposed are not my cup of tea but i know they can be enjoyed by others, the same way some of my favorite fics wouldn’t necessarily attract others. so thank you for giving a chance to everyone to find what they enjoy, to discover, to learn, to cry, to laugh, to love and to be able to do so in an open, safe space. thank you for interacting with us as well. thank you for responding to our questions, sharing snippets when we get impatient, teasing us with your new ideas and making life a little more fun and exciting every day. and of course, thank you for doing all of this for free. for expecting so little in return when you give us so much.

now a few things i want you to remember: 

although we’re all thankful for having access to your art, your first fan should be yourself. write what you enjoy, write that self-indulgent fic, write your favorite trope, an improbable duo or crossover because you’ve always wanted to. do it for yourself. in the same way, have fun with it. writing is a hobby, it’s not your job, it’s not supposed to be a chore. so do what makes you happy. don’t worry about updating fics, about being slow, about posting too much or too little. some things might take time, some might need an hour to be posted but in the end, they all matter just the same. they’re worth being read and cherished and we will appreciate them. whether you have thousands of notes or barely a few hundreds, you have your place here. you’re still an amazing writer, you’re still an artist regardless of the stats. 

whether i've had time to binge-read your stories or just discovered you. thank you. i love you. i’m grateful for you. i see and appreciate your work. your efforts. you.  i’m sorry if you’ve ever been received with negativity but i hope this can make up for some of it.  you deserve nothing but kindness and appreciation and i hope you know how much you matter here.

sending you all my love,

anna 💗

Anna, I am floored by this gentle reminder! 🥹 I learned a long time ago that I have to write for myself first and foremost but I always struggle with not hyperfixating on numbers and popularity. It helps to know that writing is in my bones, it’s been a part of me since I was a kid and when I lost it for a while, it was like I had lost a close friend, and I was worried I’d never see it again. But, thankfully, it’s back and while I step away from it (even though I don’t want to, but need to sometimes), writing will always be my first love and I am sure I’m not the only one amongst us.

It’s lovely to be recognized with messages, comments reblogs, and being added to various writer/fic recommendation lists. It’s a true honor, and it’s a delicate balance to be grateful but to not get so wrapped up in the glory of it. I do what I do because I love it, not because I want to be this writing superstar. Writing is like breathing to me, and yes, more interaction would be nice. And some days I wish I was more popular. But I know who I am, I know my craft and I’m proud of the work I’ve done so far.

All that to say: THANK YOU, for this reminder. I desperately needed it and I’m grateful you took the time to send it! And an additional thank you to everyone who interacts with me/my stuff. I’ve said it before I’ll say it again: I love my little corner of the internet where I can do what I love most! 💚🌻

[writer-darling]

I forgot to post these here, whoops