#Trundling through life

[slacklining-the-razor]

flexing vs resting posture

Spot the difference and guess which picture I hate so much that I don't want to be recognised... should be pretty easy. This has taken a few attempts to write because I'm not sure how to say it but what I'm going to state is that most people try to post flattering but unrealistic images. Do not compare yourself to pictures of people online. The reality is I usually look like the bottom image rather than the top 2.

[iwriteyanderes2023]

Yandere Socialite (Fem! Yandere x Fem! Reader)

Divider credits: @/anitalenia

Trigger warning: Violence, drama between friends, profanity usage, yandere themes, name-calling, sexual harassment, power abuse. Choking, pet play, humiliation, drugging, sexual scenes, bondage play, female on female

(8941 words)

You regretted agreeing to this.

Your friends were raving about this massive party, where all the hottest celebrities and the wealthy go to flaunt or make a fool out of themselves. Obviously, it was an exclusive event, no mere commoners could simply walk in. To enter, it's either paying an extravagant fee or be (in)famous enough. Which, you were neither.

They claimed to know how to sneak in, undetected by the burly bouncers that you would rather not be the receiving end of their anger. It made sense to have some tight security, it is taking place in someone's mansion; someone's home, after all.

You, being new in this city and desperate to make connections to you could advance your career, said yes. You stupidly said yes, put on your best clubbing outfit and makeup, and went through with your friend's plan to slip in through one of the back doors while the other distracted whoever was around to hinder the plans.

Which leads you to be lost in a seemingly unending maze of hallways, you don't know where the other girls went and you don't know where you are. There wasn't a single soul wandering around the carpeted floor and chandeliered ceilings. Elegant paintings of men and women in dignified poses seem to peer at you in disgust; a filthy commoner dressed like a tramp. You didn't belong here, and it's only a matter of time before you were thrown into jail thanks to the recorded footage from the surveillance cameras you're sure were pointed at you.

You covered your arms with your hands as you moved onward, cussing under your breath about how silly it was to wear a ridiculously tall heel. It's already giving you blisters, so you decide to take them off and walk barefoot; silently and dryly sobbing about how humiliating this feels.

You continued trundling on, periodically looking back and trying to see where the life of the party is at so you could at least witness how it's like. Perhaps make a few connections, but you think that's unlikely. Most of them are probably drunk out of their mind or high off coke to care.

Actually, what are you even doing here? You're supposed to be networking at a classy, evening soiree, not a rich boy's messy party!

Before you could sigh again, you were interrupted by the sounds of yelling in a room nearby.

"Get off me, fucker!" You heard an enraged feminine voice shout out before the sounds of crashing reached your ears. Groaning could be heard as you assume the other party was shuffling to get up.

"You fucking bitch!" Retorted a masculine voice, followed by more stumbling. "What the hell is wrong with you!?"

"We're over. Get the fuck out of my sight!" She yelled, but it doesn't sound like she was too hurt over it. It's more anger if anything.

"What...? Just like that?! After everything that I've done-"

"All you did was embarrass me over and over again! Like, does it kill you to take a shower? Does it kill you not to be an entitled, gross loser all the time?"

You inched closer to the door and discreetly poked your head in. You saw the back of a woman with the most gorgeous blond hair draping down to her tailbone. She's wearing a silver sequin dress that barely covers the fold of her bum.

The male, slightly drunk and injured from the shove with debris around him, was glaring at the blonde.

"Shut up, slut! If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't get to live like this!" He threateningly pointed at her, but she didn't budge.

"Oh? You mean that monthly allowance of fifty bucks from you? Please, I pick up my dogs' crap with it. That's how worthless you are to me, I'm only tolerating you because I'm doing your mommy a favour." She fought back, her words enraged the man even further.

"You can forget the deal our families had! I'll make sure the Maciovelli name goes to shit, you will be living on the streets before you know it!" He yelled right in front of her face, getting up close and personal; and having his stray spit hit her. She merely wiped them away.

"Ugh, you're insufferable. Whatever, I'd like to see you try, bitch." She hissed before shoving him away again.

But this proved to be a dangerous move, as it provoked the man to lunge and swing his arm at her. Luckily though, it seems she has predicted it and dodged his attack on time.

You had to do something! And so, you looked around as the pair went on to physically fight. Though, it's more like she's doing all the defense while he does the offense. Sometimes blocking his hits with her red handbag.

There is a vase nearby, decorated with intricate, hand-painted flowers. Without thinking, you picked it up and chucked it at the man. The antiquity of that piece of art be damned, that woman is in danger and you have to do something to help her!

She visibly jolted when it flew past some strands of gold and crashed onto her assailant's head, spraying shards everywhere and making small cuts on her legs. He was thrown backward and rendered unconscious almost immediately.

The woman whipped her head back to see the source of it, staring at you with wide, baby-blue eyes. You stared back at her breathtakingly stunning face; she had thin, sharp brown eyebrows that accentuated her fox-like eyes. Long, black eyelashes framed her iris as smokey makeup made her eyes look much bigger and lively. Her lips were glossy and in a shade of pastel pink, with a dusting of sparkly glitter.

You stammered, not knowing what to do or say. You're not even supposed to be here. So you remained silent as you and her continued this staring contest, the woman's eyes were scrutinizing you from head to toe.

She began walking towards you, her heels menacingly clicking against the marbled floor of that room. You felt a surge of panic course through you, so you took a few steps back.

Only to be grabbed by the shoulder by someone else behind you. Chills ran down your spine when you heard the familiar sound of a walkie-talkie beeping. "I found one of the trespassers."

You started panicking even more, speaking erratically to try and defend your case. But the security officer wouldn't hear it, instead restraining you and pulling you away from the scene. You thrashed and screamed, not wanting to get caught and end your life as soon as it started. "I need backup!" Shouted the guard into his device as he tried to wrangle you into his grip.

You shouldn't have agreed to them, look what it has gotten you into. Your life is so over, you're going to be shoved into a jail cell and forced to move back to where you came from. If only you could-

"Hey, you fatass!" You saw her red, crescent handbag whack the officer in the arm, he flinched in surprise. "Hands off my best friend! And who the fuck do you think you are, calling her a trespasser!?"

A look of surprise crosses his face. "Miss Maciovelli? She's with you?" The officer took a look at you, there wasn't an aura of money emanating from you, not like how the woman was.

You looked back at the woman, now putting her hands on her hips. An irate expression adorns her face, "Um, yeah? I just said it, are you fucking slow? Let her go right now!" She demanded, raising the volume of her voice as her patience was running thin.

He sighed and released his hold on you. The man brought his walkie-talkie up to his mouth and said that it was a false alarm and that there wasn't a need for more of them to come over. They should focus on finding the rest of the intruders, which you can guess that they were referring to your friends.

"I'm sorry, Miss Maciovelli-"

"Yeah, you better be." She spat as she hooked her arm around yours. "Insulting my girl like that- why don't you all actually do your jobs and kick the real troublemakers out? Like that pig there, taking a nap on the floor. He tried to hit me and my best friend!" The blonde pointed her ivory-white acrylic nail to her bleeding ex, who seemed to be slowly regaining consciousness.

His eyes widened as he seemed to recognize the waking man. "O-oh! That's-!"

Before he could finish his sentence, the woman dragged you away from the scene. Pushing you by the shoulders and pulling you by the hand. You looked behind you to see the security guard entering the room while frantically speaking into his walkie-talkie.

"You're new. What's your name?" You were snapped out of your frazzled trance when she spoke. Her pace was slowing into a leisurely walk when she deemed it safe enough. The blonde's arm was still linked around yours, though.

Her baby blues curiously stared at you, all that malice and rage she held earlier was gone. Replaced with friendliness with a bit of wariness.

You told her your name and stumbled over your words trying to explain your situation as fast as possible. You made sure to thank her for saving you.

"Your friends are gross for abandoning you like that." She scowled. "I hate fake bitches like them, they should like, get shot in the head or something."

Your mouth gape open at her extreme remarks. Is this how socialites usually talk?

You defended your friends, telling her that they didn't abandon you. They probably just lost you as everyone scrambled to hide from security.

"Yeah, you're definitely new here. They knew what they were doing. You came with five others, at least one should be hiding from security with you." She brought you into a grandiose bathroom. The blonde finally lets you go and approaches the vanity. "Those sluts used you."

Miss Maciovelli pulled a tube of lip gloss from her mini handbag and began doing touchups. You simply watched her, not knowing what to say. Well, you should have seen it coming. Big city dwellers are known to be cutthroat, and you just met them.

"Sorry babe, but that's the reality here." She smacked her lip and wiped away any imperfections with her thumb.

You scratched the back of your head. You asked her if she could show you the exit, it's been a long night and you want to go home.

"You don't wanna stay for a little?" She asked, turning to you. "You're hot, I'm sure you'll have fun. I'll get rid of those snakes for you, if that's what's holding you back."

You shook your head, feeling exhausted after everything you went through today. You asked her if she's going back to the party, wherever that may be in this mansion.

"Duh." She bobbed her head.

There was a pregnant pause between the two of you. Until she decided to fish her phone out.

"Number." She extended her hand and brought her phone, numpad side to you.

You picked it up and entered your phone number. It's saved under your name, but you doubt that she will remember you after today.

"Oh, so that's how you spell it." She mumbled, looking at the contact name.

You watch her keep her device away before fixing her hair in the mirror again. She used a nail to adjust her eyelashes.

"Okay, let's go." She linked her arm around yours again, escorting you out of the bathroom.

You and she walked past numerous rooms and halls, some had excited shouts coming from them, some had salacious moaning and some had loud booming music. When you were nearing the core of the alcohol-fueled rave, the noise from massive speakers was nearly unbearable. You even had to cover your ears in order not to blow your drums out. But the woman didn't even flinch, she continued strutting along with you in tow.

You saw men and women feverishly dancing along to the beat, the surroundings were dark and illuminated by colorful strobe lights. Good thing you weren't epileptic.

"Heyy..."

You turned your head to see one of your friends. She's wasted beyond belief. "You... you made it! C'mere, I want you to meet-"

"Fuck off, whore!" Barked Miss Maciovelli, she yanked you along with her. Ignoring the expletives coming out from your friend's slurring mouth.

You asked if that was really necessary.

"Yep. They won't get the hint if you're this nice." She answered. "They'll keep trying until you're dragged down to their level. Don't ever disrespect yourself like that." She sternly warned you.

All you could do was nod meekly.

Eventually, you reached the exit. It's as grand and fancy as it was on the inside. You see a massive water fountain in the middle of a looped road. Yet, no cars could be seen but there were hoards of security milling around.

"Wait here." She left you on the marble steps as she approached a uniformed staff member. You watched them exchange some words before she marched back to you.

You thought that this was the end of your meeting with her. So you told her thanks and bid her goodbye while referring to her as Miss Maciovelli. She scrunched her nose up in disgust.

"Ew. That's so fake. Don't call me that." She crosses her arms over her chest, and you can see pale tan lines on her skin.

You asked what you should call her instead.

"Mercedes." She replied immediately. "You know, the car."

You told her that it's a beautiful name. She smiled and flipped her hair.

You told her that you better get going, it's late. Mercedes narrowed her eyes at you and grabbed your wrist.

"And how are you going to do that? It's an hour's drive from here to the city."

You said you were going to take the bus, that's how you got here in the first place. Worst come to worst, you would call a cab.

She shook her head defiantly.

"I'm driving you home, no way am I trusting those weirdos to bring you anywhere."

You told her that you would be fine and that you didn't want to be a hassle. To that, she rolled her eyes.

"Ugh, shut up." Mercedes punched your arm playfully.

A hot pink convertible then rolled up in front of the two of you. Its headlights are heart-shaped, you thought it was cute. "Miss Maciovelli?" Said the parking Valet.

"C'mon, don't be difficult." She urged you to get in through the passenger's side.

"This is your place?" She asked with a tone of incredulity. "Looks... plain."

You wouldn't call it plain. It's small but cozy. It's also all you can afford at the moment with your job, that's why you were planning to network around to get better opportunities.

"Hm." She hummed, releasing her grip on her pink, fluffy steering wheel to fix her hair.

You got out of her car and said goodbye. She didn't say a word but watched you get to the front door.

You look behind you to see her staring, so you wave bye. But she neither budged nor returned the gesture. Simply staring at you like a hawk. Feeling a bit creeped out, you went into the lobby.

Only then did she drive away. What a strange woman.

You sighed and trudged to the lift, pressing the button and resting your forehead on the cold, metallic panel. Well. There goes your only contacts in the city, they're all not good for you.

You didn't even get to know Mercedes's number, so until she texts you first, you're completely alone.

The lift opened to reveal no one. As usual. You don't think you've seen your neighbors yet, thinking they're either avoiding you, extremely busy, or extremely reclusive. Or living in an entirely different timezone.

When you reached your room, you decided to boot up your computer. While waiting for it to be functional, you did something else; preparing the things you need for a relaxing bath and boiling some water for tonight's five-star dinner: instant noodles.

You spent the night researching Mercedes, only searching her first name predictably bringing up results of the luxury car brand with the same name. But as soon as you searched for Mercedes Maciovelli, you began learning a lot about her.

She is the heiress of a very successful, multi-billion conglomerate company. Her family owns more businesses than you can count in two hands, they're also huge and famous companies. Banks, grocery stores, and even planes. It's scary how her family possesses this much power. That was such a silly thing for her ex to say, that if it wasn't for him, she would have been in poverty. Maybe it was just the heat of the moment.

However, she is no stranger to paparazzi as she frequently mingles with high-profile celebrities, gets into physical altercations, and goes wild in nightclubs. She is nothing like what was expected of her as someone who grew up in "old money". She's associated with words like "bitchy", "fiesty", "trashy" and "Messy". Whereas her peers barely have any information available about them online, they stay out of trouble and act too elegant for the paparazzi and tabloids to take any interest.

The most interesting bit about Mercedes was her dating life. Your eyes bulged out of your skull, seeing the seemingly unending list of boyfriends she had over the years. It's almost like she has a new one every month, but there are never repeats. Articles, gossip pieces, and smear forums about Mercedes are just so prevalent, that you think you're getting a cramp on your finger by just scrolling your mouse.

In the end, you're sick of seeing the public bash the blonde. It gets old and you're becoming tired. Perhaps aging has already caught up to you, but you cannot stay up past 12.

You decided to shut your computer off and head to bed.

It's been a few days since that party. Your "friends" kept texting you, trying to get you to join one more of their trespassing escapades. You gave them excuses upon excuses because you're not interested in such a lifestyle.

"Aw, don't be such a lame-o," Drawled one of the girls as she shook your shoulder. "Come on, it'll be fun! You had fun!"

The other girls continued egging you on in this expensive cafe. You were already uncomfortable meeting them here, as you can barely afford the cheapest of their pastries. At least the ambiance looks amazing in photos. If only you owned a digital camera...

You let out a nervous chuckle as you tried to decline as much as you could without offending them.

"There's another one tonight! You should totally come with us, I got like, the routes and everything already!"

"Yeah, think of the cute guys that's going to be there!"

"OMG, I heard Retro Rhymes are going to be there!"

"Really!? The rapper!?"

You sighed as they chatted amongst themselves. You silently picked at your muffin with your fork, that was the cheapest thing on the menu and the price was enough to give you eight of these back home.

Eventually, they must have forgotten your existence. Because they continued talking until they left the building. Not saying a bye or sparing a glance in your direction. Leaving you to sit at your table alone and brooding.

Well. You shouldn't expect much when it comes to friendships here. Many people come to the city solely to make money and have fun, after all. Not so much finding true, lifelong connections.

You took a sip of your black coffee. Again, the cheapest thing you could get from there. You couldn't even afford sugar or milk with it.

Suddenly, a manicured hand slammed a cup onto your table, shocking you and making you accidentally spill some of your drink onto your blouse.

"You should try this, it's so good. Way better than your boring-ass black coffee, I bet." You recovered from your initial shock to crane your head up to see Mercedes staring down at you from above, her soft, golden hair falling to your face.

You greeted her, asking what she was doing here.

"I could ask the same of you, seeing that you're pretty broke. But I saw how you still hung out with those sluts even after I told you not to." She cocked an eyebrow as an unimpressed look crossed her face.

Today, she wears a simple, lacey crop top and a pair of low waisted jeans. You got to know that she had her belly button pierced.

You sighed once more, burying your face in your hands. You told her you don't have a choice, it's a cold world out here and you need someone to fulfill that human need for socialization. Now that you have calmed down, you decided to take a better look at the drink she gave you.

It's a tall, plastic cup with a dome cover. It's an ice-blended, creamy mocha with chocolate syrup drizzled on the sides of the cup. It has a healthy dollop of whipped cream on top and a thick straw is sticking out of its opening.

"Um, hello? You have me." She moved away from you and took a seat next to you, she ordered the same thing. Mercedes shook it around before taking a sip. "You don't need them anymore, I'll be showing you the ropes."

You thought about it for a while. There is definitely a non zero chance that she will play you like a fiddle, but it's much better to have someone high up there in the hierarchy. Even though she isn't necessarily a mature businesswoman yet, you would still have a better chance to brush shoulders with relevant people. Not... Partygoers.

So then, you agreed. Picking up your cup and taking your first sip.

It was tooth-rotting. It was good, but you knew if it wasn't for sugar, this cup would not even be filled to half. The sheer sweetness of the treat made you grimace and pucker.

"What? Don't like it?" She asked, looking bored.

You said it was nice, but a bit too sweet.

"That's the point. I like it sweet." She took another sip from her drink. "Keeps me full for hours."

You... Don't think that's how it works. Isn't it usually the opposite effect? Whatever.

For the next few hours, you and her chat about almost everything and anything. Ranging from each other's histories, to each other's interests, to oddly philosophical questions and personal views on things. There were quite a few differences between you and Mercedes- obviously so, as she was raised by the uber rich and you were raised by... Your guardians, but you liked how she kept her mind open and was non-judgemental about you.

It was refreshing, really. Someone you could somewhat be real with, unlike your previous set of friends where you had to put on the most guarded mask in order not to feel like a pathetic lowlife around them.

You were curious about her dating habits, but you think it's rude to ask about it this early on in the friendship. Plus, it never came up, so you decided to save that question for another day. You bet if she's willing to open up, it will take more than just a few hours.

It's getting late, you should leave.

So you stood up, secretly in disbelief at how you finished the entire thing of diabetes. You told Mercedes that you have work tomorrow and you're going to need to leave soon.

She frowned. "Boo. Boring."

You said that you have to be "boring", you don't have her type of money.

"And it's literally just six in the evening. It's not like it's six in the morning or something." She huffed.

You said you have been in this cafe for seven hours.

"They don't close til 10."

Still, you have to get back home. You're tired.

She stuck her tongue out at you.

"Fine. But I'm driving you home."

You said there isn't a need for her to do that, you could take the bus.

"Let's go, you need your beauty sleep." She ignored you and grabbed you by the arm, pulling you along with her so quickly that you struggled to keep up.

Weeks would go by and you would meet Mercedes every Sunday in a different cafe of her choosing. And these meetings would increase in frequency each week, to a point where you were eating all three meals with her daily. She would always foot the bill and refused to let you pay for anything, talking about how you're so poor, that you're probably fighting rats for the scraps at the bottom of the dumpster. It's an absolute win for you; no cooking involved and you haven't eaten instant noodles for months now.

The five girls you originally started off with seem to lose interest in you, they never texted or called you again. And when you did bump into any of them, they would pretend not to know you.

It's extremely obvious that they're avoiding you for some reason, maybe it's because they've seen you buddying up with Mercedes: one of their sworn enemies and one of the most feared figures in this city.

It's... Surprisingly sad. Knowing that the friendship was doomed from the beginning didn't change the feeling of isolation and hurt in you. But at least you gained something that resembled a friend.

Mercedes would gradually increase the frequency of her texts and calls, hitting you up whenever she's bored out of her mind.

"Stop working letz go shopping"

"U r SO going blind in ur 30s"

"nerd :-P"

"im boreddddddddddddd"

"go clubbing with moiiii"

"letzzz goooo"

"stop ignoring me :-("

These were just some of the few text messages you would frequently receive, blowing up your phone even when you're in a meeting. You would usually need to turn it off entirely to keep yourself quiet.

But yes, you would go shopping with her. Mercedes seem to have a kick out of spoiling you with clothes, jewelry and other things you can only dream to buy.

You didn't like trying on clothes, because Mercedes would barge into your changing room however and whenever she liked.

"What's the big deal? We're both girls." That was what Mercedes would say when she slips into the cubicle, while you're mid-change without any warning. Of course, you would react negatively to that, especially since you don't know her that well.

In the end, though, you would just give up and let her come in. It's not like you could stop her and she isn't doing anything too weird... Aside from her vaguely longing stares at your partially or completely unclothed body. She would almost be in a trance, staring unblinkingly for long periods of time until you snap your fingers in front of her face. She just claims that you're just too hot for anyone to handle.

Mercedes would contact you via your phone, asking if you would want to go clubbing with her, or if you would want to be her plus one to an event. And each time, you would say no. And each time, she would whine about how lame you are but never pushed too far.

A temporary boyfriend would take your place, only for her to break up with them the next day and appear in another tabloid for some scandalous fighting or dating. When you asked her about it, she would get moody and irritable. She would rant about her feelings and problems with the world at large, finding the dating pool now repulsive and general standards insanely low.

"Ugh! Can you believe that he said that to me?"

You would have to nod, it would end her ranting faster. It's always the same phrase over and over again, with slight variation.

"I wish men were just like you, I would find it so fucking easy to commit to a guy. But they're not, so I rather shit my hands and clap. Oh my god, he was so pathetic and gross."

You could recite her words at this point, you got it the first time that she wishes she could date a male version of you. Mercedes didn't have to repeat that every single time you and her met up.

For her sake and yours, you pray hard that she finds what she's looking for. You don't know how much more of her repetitive complaints you can take.

All your other attempts to network and make connections fail. As soon as any of them knew you were Mercedes's "bestie", they would either run for the hills or become actively hostile toward you. She has made a lot of enemies and you don't think she has any girlfriends... Only orbiters or those who tried to get her approval but secretly hated her guts. Or die-hard fans who don't see her as a human, but as an object, whether for better or for worse.

She kept them around, just because she could benefit from them. Mercedes would bring them along to some of your many shopping sprees with her just so they could carry heaps of heavy bags for the two of you. While you and her get to enjoy the day, completely unburdened.

It unsettled you how she treated them like lowly servants, or even more degradingly so, like dogs. And not like one of her spoiled Pomeranians, but mutts that are bred to work and live off scraps of attention. You could be having a spa day at the city's finest specialist, sipping on complimentary champagne, and having your hair done with products that you cannot even pronounce; Mercedes would make her lackeys wait outside. Yet, they appear happy about this treatment from her. Eagerly following Mercedes and by extension, you, wherever you go.

It didn't matter who you tried to befriend, Mercedes's opinion of them would remain constant: They're all two-faced liars who are out there to kick you when you're down. It never changed despite never even meeting them or you made them up. She's fiercely protective of you, and always assumed the worst of everyone, even her own relatives when they tried being cordial with you.

Of course, the friendship has blossomed to the point where you would have a slumber party at her multi-million mansion every Friday. You wouldn't even need to bring anything, she would have everything ready for you; clothes, toiletries, hairdryers- anything you need to survive from day to day, you would have a more luxurious version of it. She definitely has an affinity for bling, as the tops that Mercedes provides always have rhinestones decorating them.

You were living in opulence, a lifestyle that can only be seen on TV, in magazines, or in history books. It's jarring and almost dreamlike how you got to experience such things just by chance. You didn't have to work hard for it, you just need to endure a spoiled blonde's clinginess to receive all these. What a steal. You had maids and butlers that would await your every order, personal chefs to whip up something delicious in a second, and hunky pool boys to ogle at when you tan with her outside.

You just wished that Mercedes wasn't so touchy, though...

"Like, sunburn isn't cute. C'mon, don't be such a hardass, turnover." You would groan and do as you were told, laying flat on your stomach and adjusting your sunglasses. Mercedes would then squeeze a handful of white sunscreen on her palm, and begin rubbing onto your exposed back and legs.

She would always take her time running her hands over your skin, sensually massaging from the base of your neck and down to your bum. Her flesh would glide against yours, reaching all that she could touch and occasionally squeezing your cheeks down south. Whenever you complained, she would say:

"What? Not my fault you have a bubble butt. No one can resist giving a squeeze." And continues fondling you under the guise of preserving your youthful skin from the harsh sun rays. You would sigh, slumping your head down as Mercedes continued doing whatever she wanted. It's her house, her money, and her influence after all. You're just riding on it for free. And it's not like anything is going to be too weird, you and her are both girls!

"Okay, I'm done. My turn." She would hand you the bottle of sunscreen and flip herself over. It's undeniable that she has a body that even Aphrodite would be envious of, thanks to a combination of genetics, her lifestyle, and other procedures. Mercedes does put in work in her personal gym, toning her body and alluring men everywhere. Her bikini would leave very little to the imagination, but it made sense why she needed much more sunscreen.

"Make sure to get it on here too." She would purr, playfully wiggling her plump rear. This would usually prompt an eye roll from you and a giggle from her.

She's soft to the touch. And you knew that not because you would have to smear sunscreen on her, but because she would often cuddle with you. It didn't matter what you were doing, you could be stretching in her living room, and she would wrap her arms around your waist. You could be curled up on her fluffy sofa, watching a sitcom, and she would crawl up all over your space. You could be sleeping, and you would wake up to her being the big spoon. And she would have the audacity to whine about how you ruined her sleep by moving around.

But you must admit, she is comfortable to cuddle with. Especially when you rest your head on her voluptuous breasts, allowing yourself to sink into them and inhale her sweet, floral perfume. It would be heaven squared when she would rake her long, acrylic nails through your hair. Mercedes would let you twirl with her golden strands, playing with them between your fingers.

You think, maybe it's because she's just lonely and a big fan of physical touch. It must be exhausting to constantly think every single person in the world is out there to get you. But does she have to be so... gross?

"I just want it." Mercedes would whine, demanding that she wants your drink. You would ask her why, you also drank out of this straw anyway.

"I didn't like my order."

You pointed out that you ordered the same exact thing as her.

"They didn't make it right!"

You asked her what made her think they made yours right.

"They just do!"

You said it's just going to be the same thing. Why not throw hers away and order another one, seeing that she has near infinite amount of money?

She would groan in frustration and stomp her heels on the ground. "It tastes better after you drank from it, okay!? I don't know what it is about your... fucking saliva that makes something so mediocre, tastes so good. Now, gimme!" Mercedes would snatch it out of your hands and swapped it with her one.

You drank more than half of yours while Mercedes barely touched her cup. Well, more for you, you guess. At least everyone is happy.

This habit of hers would extend to utensils, you knew she would purposely drop her dessert spoon just to eat from yours. Mercedes would steal your clothes, claiming that your outfits are always cuter than hers, and she's jealous.

But she chose and bought you these clothes...?

You were so used to her antics, that one day, Mercedes gave you a new brand of gum to try. However, when it touches your tongue, you immediately grimaced as it was the most atrocious flavour ever.

"Whaatt? Are you fucking serious? That's like, my favourite flavour!" She would look at you in disbelief. And you would look at her in disbelief, because this was the first time seeing her buying this brand.

You told her that you wanted to spit it out, it's awful.

"Don't waste it!" She hit you on the arm. "Spit it in my mouth." Mercedes would part her lips wide and bring her face close to yours.

Without thinking, you expelled the partially chewed up candy into her orifice... which she gladly accepted and began chewing on it. Sucking whatever flavour that was left on, including your fluids.

"What are you talking about?" You could hear her obnoxious chews between words. "It tastes fine, you're so dramatic."

Upon realizing what you just did, you would shudder in disgust. Quickly walking away as if you're trying to run from the memory.

Soon after, Mercedes would permeate through every aspect of your life. It seems like she had a chat with her parents about offering you a job at one of their firms. A high standing one at that, too.

You obviously accepted it and resigned from your previous post. Now, THIS is what you're talking about. A prestigious job with unbelievable benefits and tasks that doesn't seem too hard for you to do. It's everything you wanted you achieve, ever since you arrived at the city.

Well, minus the fact that your bestie who got you this position would intrude your office every chance she gets and talk your ear off.

"Ughhh... this is so boring... Let's ditch this place and go somewhere fun." She would rest her head on your shoulder while shaking you by the arm.

You said you can't. You have work to do.

"Says who?"

You said your boss.

"Who's your boss?"

For the fifth time, you told her the name of your supervisor. But instead of complaining, she would storm out of your office. At first, you thought she would leave you alone, maybe she's tired of bugging you and got the hint that you're a responsible adult with adult jobs.

But, ten minutes later, she would be barrelling in with your boss in tow. She had him in a very unsavoury grip, her hands tightly clutching his sleeve.

"Tell her!" She demanded.

"Y-you're free to go. Someone else can cover for you."

Your eyes would widen, asking if this will affect your pay.

"Not at all. Don't worry, I will have this... agreement in writing. Please e-enjoy the rest of your day." He would then quickly excuse himself from the room, avoiding Mercedes's fiery glare.

You looked at her. How could she just do that?

"My Dad owns this company, duh. Anyways, less talk, more walk." She hooked her arm around yours and dragged you out of the office.

It's as if her father was paying you just to babysit his bratty, adult daughter. You barely get to do anything for the company! You don't even know what you were hired to do in the first place anymore.

It gets extremely suffocating being her best friend, you don't know anyone around except her. The staff in her mansion is always rotating, so you wouldn't see the same face twice. You barely remembered your supervisor's names, let alone any colleagues'. All your free time is robbed by Mercedes, she saturates every single second of your life. You don't remember not seeing Mercedes's pretty face on the daily, yet it's astonishing how she would get the paparazzi on her for constantly dating a new roster of boys each season and getting into catfights with other women. Where does she find the time to do that?

It's rubbing on you, now you begin to crave a boyfriend. A 'boy toy', as Mercedes would call it.

It shouldn't be too hard, you know that you're good-looking; you have the clothes, the hair, the makeup and you can always steal from your filthy rich best friend. Your bank account is a little chubbier now thanks to Mercedes. If you just put yourself out there, you're sure boys will flock to you.

But you shouldn't tell this to Mercedes, you get the vibe that she would be jealous that you're stealing the spotlight. You aren't trying to do at all, you're just curious to know what it's like to live like Mercedes for once.

So you had to do it secretly. You would always decline her requests to join her clubbing, preferring to favor sleep over drug-fuelled parties. But recently, you would cover up your eyebags with concealer just so you could introduce yourself to the market. It goes without saying, that you're not tagging along with Mercedes, you went on your own and told not a single soul.

And it was a success! You have never received so many free drinks from men before, you even witnessed some of them fighting over you, all physical and mock-macho. It was hilarious and flattering, but the other girls would avoid you like the plague and shoot you nasty looks your way. It's much worse than you expected it to feel, you feel... rejected, alienated, and ugly. Was this how Mercedes felt? Is that why she thinks all other women are out for her blood? Well, you understand it now. And some of the boys would be really creepy towards you, it doesn't feel so good on the soul knowing the people who defended you from those weirdos are also creeps themselves. They just wanted a piece of you as if you were just a slab of meat in a cage of hungry wolves.

Though, it would be a big, fat lie to say you didn't feel free. You felt the freedom that died on the day Mercedes took you under her wing. It tasted so sweet, you wanted more and more. You were so addicted, that you took illicit substances just to keep you awake for longer, to party until the sun rises.

You were leading a double life: As Mercedes's goody-two-shoes bestie in the day, a bad girl gone wild at night. Make out with whoever you want to, drinking as much as you want and shaking yourself to the beat of the music until you drop.

You knew Mercedes was suspecting something was up, but at this point, you give no shits. This is your life, and you get to live it.

It didn't last long, though.

There was one night in particular; you remembered that they had a massive disco ball in the middle of the ceiling, reflecting every ray coming out of the projector. It was deafening, the smell of booze and sweat nauseated you but you didn't notice. The DJ was bopping his head to the rhythm and scratching records using his fingertips. The patrons were doing their own thing, some were dancing like no tomorrow, some were locking lips and some were snorting lines. It was one of those types of parties, the one where you first met Mercedes. Except this time, you successfully snuck in without your ex-friends and finally found the core of the rave.

Your hair was frazzled and you had a few wardrobe malfunctions, but why should you be bothered by that? It's not like everyone around you were dignified at all, you blend in and that's all that matters to you.

The details were fuzzy, but you remembered wondering what it was like to make out with a woman instead. Men had pretty rough lips and they smelled like crap. Why not experiment? You're here anyways, and no one is going to recognize you- whatever happens in this mansion, stays in this mansion. Plus, you already have a willing participant next to you, who has been hitting on you all night.

Later in the dark, you became bold from a mix of alcohol and whatever glowing pill you took from a giddy stranger. You pulled her aside to somewhere secluded, the two of you were clearly hot and bothered, deeply eager to explore each other's bodies. Nothing else matters in this moment, other than to satisfy each other's needs.

She pulled you in by the neck, pressing her full lips against yours. And you were correct, it was soft, fragrant, and delicious. A thousand times better than kissing stinky boys. You closed your eyes and melted into her touch, sinking deeper and deeper into the kiss. She's on top of you, straddling your hips and your hands are rubbing all over her body. The woman, who you didn't even know the name of, trailed kisses from your jaw down to your collarbones. Her slender fingers began to stray from your chin and roam downwards until it was dangerously close to the hem of your panties. You let out a muffled moan as she let her tongue taste every corner of your mouth, neither of you could speak. And neither of you wanted to, words weren't necessary.

However, your ecstasy was cut short when your lover was yanked backward. Confused, your eyes immediately shot open at the first taste of emptiness... only to witness something scaringly horrific.

"Fucking slut! How fucking dare you, how fucking dare you touch my girl!" Shrieked Mercedes as she had an iron grip on your lover's hair with one hand, and another was whaling on her non-stop. She was screaming in terror as your best friend inflicted as much damage as she could on her face. Scratches, punches, cuts, she had done it all. Mercedes pulled clumps of hair out from her victim's scalp and dodged every attempt of her to fight back. She was fast, fueled with the purest distillation of rage you have ever seen, mascara streaked down her face as she shouted until her voice was hoarse. Blood splattered onto her light-hued hair, her outfit was ruined and no doubt, a thousand dollars worth of acrylic nails were ripped from her nailbed as she threw brutal punches.

You panicked, trying to break the fight up but Mercedes was entirely immersed in anger that she didn't care that she lost her natural nails along with her false ones. She's also bleeding, scarlet painted her fingertips, knuckles, and up to her wrist as she went on tormenting your lover with more hits and pummels. At this rate, Mercedes might just kill her!

You attempted to restrain her, but she was too strong, easily overpowering you just so she could beat your lover to death. There was so much hatred simmering in her heart for this one stranger, this one woman you're sure she's never met. Why!? Why her!? Why would Mercedes attack her unprovoked!?

The fight, which was one-sided ended a few minutes later when your lover stopped moving and was covered in gruesome welts. Her eyes were swollen shut and there was blood pooling around her from her nostrils, scalp, and lips.

"You."

Growled Mercedes. She was breathing heavily and all her strands were out of place. Tears were flowing down her bloodshot eyes as she trembled.

You were speechless, you quivered in fear as you looked on. In the end, all you could mewl out was a meek "Why?"

This caused her to wail, scream, and sob. She brought her injured fingers to her head and gripped her hair, letting out all her frustrations and agony before composing herself enough to form a coherent sentence.

"Fuck you, Whore! Fuck you!" She pointed at you, her shrill voice was making your ears hurt, but you're glad she wasn't biting them off instead.

You said you didn't understand what was going on, why was she so upset.

"You were into girls all along! I-I-" She sniffled, ungracefully wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. Soiling her face with her own blood.

"I'm... in love with you..." Her voice quietened as it wavers, Mercedes choked on her own tears as she confessed. "Why didn't you tell me...?" She gasped erratically as she cried. Suddenly, there was a spike in her emotions. "Why didn't you fucking tell me?!"

You took a few more steps backward as she lost control over herself again, she had to kick your already unconscious lover with her heels to calm herself down.

"I wanted you! I..." She let out one last bloodcurdling scream before lunging at you.

You tried evading her, but she was just too experienced in this. Within seconds, her hands are tightly wrapped around your neck; Choking them until blood rushes up your head. You clawed and clawed on her hands, but nothing worked. She was determined to kill you.

She gnashed her teeth as she choked the life out of you, her salty tears rolled down her cheeks, taking some concealer along with it showing that she also had severe dark bags under her eyes.

You started seeing spots, and your thinking became redundant as your brain shuts down from the lack of oxygen. Is this it? Your death? Killed by a nepotism baby with her bare hands?

You took one last look at her face, it was filled with pain and anguish.

You regretted agreeing to come to the city.

She was yearning for you, ever since she bought you that first drink. If you knew the depth of her twisted, obsessive love she harbors for you, running for the hills would have been your immediate reaction.

Mercedes cried herself to sleep almost every night, suffering from a heartache that could never heal itself as long as she knew you were straight. She knew that you would never share her feelings, because she was taught that everyone sees lesbians as freaks of nature.

She tried distracting herself with parties, boys, booze, and coke. But nothing worked, all she ever thought about was you, you, you. She loves you and wanted nothing but to be your lovely wedded wife. Oh, how she longs for a life where it's just you and her. And no one else.

Mercedes couldn't let you go, no way in hell. That's why she would scare off anyone who got too close to you for her liking, that's why she sent out hit after hit to eliminate the competition. Because if she can't have you, no one can.

But now...

"Sit."

You frowned, refusing to budge from your spot.

Mercedes pouted, she cupped your cheeks and stared deep into your eyes.

"Bad puppies don't get treats, you don't want to be a bad puppy, do you, baby?" She cooed in a babyish tone but with heavy condescension.

You couldn't speak, because there was a ballgag between your lips. Yet, you stayed still in defiance.

She narrowed her eyes at your disobedience.

"That's how you're gonna be, huh." Mercedes lets go of your face and sticks her hand into the pocket of her bathrobe. You heard a click, and soon you felt insane vibrations between your legs, it's coming from the vibe taped to your clit!

You let out a muffled yelp as the stimulation made you buckle to your knees, and eventually, you were on the floor, helpless as your hands were tied up behind your back. Juices leaked from your slit and onto the cold, smooth floors.

"Good girl~" She praised in a sing-song voice. Mercedes happily clapped her hands together.

Your eyes rolled back into your skull as you were about to be overcome by pleasure, but... the device suddenly stopped moving. Leaving you incomplete and agitated.

You whined and whimpered, wanting your rightful climax but Mercedes only smiled at your pathetic, squirming state.

"Aww, what's that? Puppy wants to cum?" You feverishly nodded, face burning from the degradation.

"Well, only good puppies get their pussy eaten. Are you a good puppy?" She rested her hands on her knees.

You nodded and let out a muffled yell.

"Roll over."

You tried your best to do that, but the frigid floor is stimulating you further.

"Play dead."

You lay still for a few seconds, your sex is still throbbing in arousal.

"Good girl, good girl!" She praised, giggling at you.

You whimpered, having tears bead from the corners of your eyes. You need that release so badly, it's starting to hurt.

"Mmm... you're so fucking hot..." She whispered as she slowly got down to the floor, slipping her hands between your inner thighs to remove the toy. Her pupils are dilating at the sight of your naked, dripping crotch. "I can't wait to eat you out. You always taste so fucking delicious." Mercedes brushed your puffy lips with her fingers.

"Open your legs."

She didn't have to tell you twice, you granted her full access.

"Good girl..." She purred before dipping her head down to drag her wet, pink muscle over your pussy.

You writhe as she tongue fucks you, lapping up everything and not letting a drop of your sweet, sweet nectar go to waste.

You would spend almost every waking second being 'trained' by Mercedes. Her treats are sex and the overstimulation of your pussy until you faint. You never knew that she was such a nymphomaniac, or maybe she just is that for you. Mercedes just couldn't get enough of your essence, so you're subjected to such treatment.

Well, at least you don't have to work anymore. You get to eat five-star meals and sleep in a mansion, and you get to binge-watch all your favorite shows guilt-free. All you had to be was Mercedes's pet and have her eat you out whenever she wants.

Her beloved Pillow Princess; was embossed in gold, on the hot pink collar around your neck.

[jumpinginmuddypuddles]

svsss fic where shen yuan transmigrated without the knowledge of transmigration or the plot of pidw - instead the system gives him information of what is to come through some kind of prophetic visions.

like, he’s just some normal disciple (if that at this point) and he keeps getting smacked over the head with visions of the future. it starts of vague, with just scenes of war and suffering, before it specifies to the fact that the demonic and human realms combine (without knowing that it’s luo binghe’s doing). maybe he also gets random knowledge on plants and animals and people from convoluted wife plots and he gets kind of famous in the village he’s squatting in as some kind of seer.

and because this is pidw, someone would come hunting for him like lao gongzhu hoping for some fate-directed success. thankfully though shen yuan has the sense to apply to cang qiong where he’s taken up by shen qingqiu.

through coaching his visions begin to clarify and get more detailed. he sees specific events now, but bonus! it’s absolutely traumatising. and he hasn’t seen luo binghe’s face yet, but he knows that there is a man who crowns himself emperor and is the cause of all this damage.

on qing jing he also now gets visions of the first few chapters of pidw and their plot - he can prevent liu qingge’s death, he can give the mountain more prep time before the demons invade. thanks to his meddling, he’s pretty confident shen qingqiu isn’t going to go about abusing any disciples anytime soon, so phew he’s dodged a bullet there. time to keep trundling on while having weekly meetings with the peak lords to tell them what he’s learned to try and map the future and put preventions in place.

and then luo binghe comes along. maybe shen yuan has seen his abuse at the hands of their shizun, or knows he somehow ends up in the abyss. either way, he befriends this cute little guy who follows him around like a lost duckling. and shen qingqiu tolerates it, even though he’s fiercely protective because every time shen yuan leaves the peak there’s always an attempted kidnapping.

and then— just a scene. where shen yuan finally manages to see the face of the demonic emperor that has caused all this damage. so much bloodshed and loss of life. all these traumatic visions he’s received.

and it’s luo binghe. small, cute, naive luo binghe. how could his shidi become a devastatingly dangerous tyrant? the more he interacts with him, the more he sees. i think the pivotal moment would be seeing what he does to shen qingqiu, shen yuan’s shizun. does shen yuan risk trying to change fate (he already has) and how would his meddling cause his visions to change? would he be seeing alternate timelines, how would his character change if he can see the timeline changing based solely on his own actions? and don’t even get me started on if shen qingqiu found out.

just i have a lot of thoughts ok

[yandere-yearnings]

Contract-Bound Death (Yandere!Actor x GN!Reader)

feat. Viorel Dalca

♡ pt.0, approx. 1k words | next.

♡ post-specific warnings: (off-screen) murder, mentions of murder, mentions of blood, the entertainment industry, dark themes, implied use of contracts as a threat | series warnings: yandere themes, the entertainment industry, reader has a guilt complex

♡ a/n: we're pretending it's still 'around the end of october' so i'm not a liar. this is purely a work of fiction. yandere behaviour in real life is a cause of concern. unedited, not proofread.

♡♡♡

It’s the middle of the night, and the floors are still stained with blood when you arrive. Thin smears across marble, flaking up when the wheels of your suitcase roll over them. You'd convince yourself it was just rust that had formed over time, but the lie would die too easy for you to try. After all, now you were working for the devil — and who would he be without murder to his name?

You see him for the first time under the low lights, chandeliers casting dim orange overhead. The Vio before you looks so very different from the one you'd watched from the other side of your screen. Lacking his trademark blue, blonde to the roots and rolling over, wearing white as blank as the look he shot you, brow raised into a pinched arch. You tell yourself that his disdain is only so palpable because he's been through these exact motions a million times before. You tell yourself that it's only natural. 

His attention shifts quickly, back to his script and the lines highlighted in electric teal. It's at this point you realise he isn't going to give you the time of day, that he won't even consider it. All the training leading up to this moment has whittled away your hopes, and finally, they've diminished. Wiping away cold sweat for the promise of six figures lying somewhere in your future, praying that if you didn't last the week, you'd at least be fired instead of killed. 

Unlike the last man in your shoes.

The lump in your throat is firm where it lodges itself; you swallow once, twice and give up. Dry lips parting so you can speak, hoarsely. “Hey.” Already, the nerves have made formality slip your mind. “I'll be working with you from now on. Your new manager.”

Vio scoffs and flicks a page. you think you notice him glare. “Hey,” he mimics, “it’s been a minute and I already can't stand you.”

Wincing at the harshness and deciding that now isn’t the time — that there would likely never be one since the rumours about him had proven to hold — you steal away. Thankfully, Vio doesn’t give you a harder time for it. You suppose he wanted you out of sight, so he wouldn’t.

At least you had your room to look forward to. Back in the winding hallways that this job forced home to you, all your life packed up in the little fabric box that trundled on behind. These white walls made everything seem like they stretched on forever, made you feel awfully alone. A wide world you’d stepped foot on, it was funny how you had been so ready only to get lost so soon.

Tomorrow’s schedule was an early start, high rise at the break of dawn so the light felt more natural on camera. Vio was shooting a solo scene. He’d be the only actor on set. Somehow that did nothing to calm your nerves. Somehow it made them worse. Up velvet steps, your footprints pressed their marks. The choice of colour made you remember something that a producer had said to you before this: that scarlet covered scarlet well. Your stomach churned.

On the ceiling of the top-most storey, there was a brown door nestled in the far corner. You stopped and stared at it for a long while, at the string that dangled down, worn and frayed and used time and time again by different hands. Yours would be the next to pull it, and maybe you didn’t want to anymore. Over your shoulder, there was the winding staircase that you’d just traveled, leading back down to the entrance. The sight drew a sigh from you, it was choked and wet because no matter how much you were beginning to regret this all — you’d signed your life away. That entryway could never be an exit to you.

So you turned your back to it.

Pulling down and unfolding the steps didn’t take much effort, yet the hinges seemed strong. You hauled your luggage up first before you followed, just to stall a second more. Surprisingly, the attic was unlike the rest of the mansion. A largely wooden interior gave it character, and strung fairy lights around potted plants made it feel warm. For a single moment, you found your breath taken in a better way than it had been all week, and then it filled back into your lungs entirely cold because there was something you’d almost forgotten. A dead man had lived here before you.

The way the image kept haunting you, you were starting to convince yourself that it must’ve been your hands that wrapped around his throat and strangled the glimmer from his eyes. They never did, though. It was Vio who took his life. You’d watched it happen from a ways away, but it had still been in front of you. You’re not sure what you had been expecting after that, things were too late; before you could even breathe a word there were papers being held to your neck like knives and they all had your name on them. 

As you shut yourself in and sat there, in the glow you’d been greeted by and that had started to flicker, you finally broke. Your tears were hot but that didn’t make them any comfort. You were scared. Everywhere you turned you were met with the dead looks of people who had seen it all again and again and again. Unable to understand how you were the outlier in this normality. Terrified that Vio didn’t seem even the slightest bit remorseful. Terrified that you’d get used to it. 

World spinning, all a blur on your heavy bones. Fatigue settled and inside you knot after knot tied. You felt heavy, like you’d been flooded entirely in water. No matter how much you cried, the sensation did not ebb. Perhaps your guilt remained to save you. Perhaps it endured, on your mind as the last thing, so that you were still human when you woke up come morning.

[lindsay00000008]

Ghost x Fem!Reader

Part 1 (Next)

CW: panty-thief, suggestive fluff

DownBad!Simon Ghost Riley who just loves handling the frustrating, mundane, mildly-anxiety-inducing issues in JustAFriend!Reader’s life.

For a man who’s been through… everything, nothing phases him. Not the phone call to pressure your old landlord into giving you back your deposit, not the broken dryer and the giant pile of wet laundry that needs to be hung in increasingly ridiculous locations, not the stray cat birthing a mewling litter on your doorstep in the middle of winter, or the neighborhood’s package thief stealing your delivery of what may be something electric and flower-shaped.

If you didn’t know any better (you don’t), you’d say he gets a kick out of it, how easily he handled these things compared to you. His take-no-bullshit demeanor, coupled with the respect afforded to those who earn it, smooths things over fairly quickly with difficult people.

He’s handy and likes taking things apart — he’s sure you won’t miss the dusty lace panties he finds slipped under the dryer’s barrel when he bullies the metal frame open (they were your favorite, where on earth did they go??)

When the kittens are a few weeks old and Simon comes to visit with more supplies, they snuggle up under his chin as he slumps on the rug, the furious blush from your earlier teasing (“Daddy’s home!”) warming him from his cheeks to his toes and making him the most cozy spot in the room. He waves off the offer of a hot drink and tells you to “Open a window or sumin’, the lil’ bastards are smotherin’ me”.

When he catches the package thief red-handed on his way up to your door — a fourty-something woman who talks at him louder and meaner than anyone has in a long while — he gives his best impression of a bull at the edge of an unmarked field, making his territory known with a wild look rather than words. When he sets the package down on the kitchen counter, along with the ingredients for tonight’s Thursday Dinner Experiment, he prompts you to open it. “Wanna see what my hard work has earned ya.”

You slice the tape and pop open the cardboard before you remember — and slam the flaps back down. That has his attention. “Whatcha got there, lovie?” He crowds in behind you, looking over your shoulder and grinning, lopsided so you can only see the smirk on the left of his mouth when you turn your head to stammer, “uhh n-nothing, just this stupid book someone recommended me. Can’t let the gang know I fuck with hockey romance, haha.”

“Hockey, huh?” He huffs and leans his elbow on the counter, half of his body still behind you somehow. You pull the box close to your chest, hands shifting to best keep it closed.

“Lemme just take this to my room and we can start making-“

“You’d deprive a man of valuable literary experience?”

“No, nuh-uh,” you dance away as he grabs for it teasingly, fast enough to make you panic but not too fast you can’t get away. A play fight. Your pulse thrums fast in your chest, like it always does when he gets that calculating glint in his eye. It’s thrilling, the way his shoulders shift and settle low, and his touch comes gentle and fast, his face a terrifying mask with that piercing glint of playfulness just barely hidden. You usually love this game. But he cannot see this.

His hand rushes towards you as you skirt backwards into the living room, his fingers tangling in the tape hanging from the box. It tears away and you shriek a laugh at his efforts, leaving him with nothing but another opening as you twist to run to your room. But you don’t count on another opponent entering the ring: the rug — trundled up the stairs by the man himself, the previous one sacrificed to the God of Foster Cats — still new and curling at the edge.

He must not expect it either. Before you’ve fully turned you’re falling into the couch, catching his arm in a bid to save yourself. He goes down too, landing atop you. Your “Oomph”s mingle together in the suddenly still air. His big body makes it impossible to breathe until he lifts up on his arms and takes stock of the situation. He eyes snag on the box where it’s fallen, the shiny inner box and red packing grass spilled out on the rug. You attempt to wriggle out before he sees. Your legs are firmly pinned between his own. You wait for him to laugh.

“Well that,” he breathes, not a giggle in sight. He settles his eyes on you with a look of hot reproach. “That is not a book.”

He hopes it’s broken. That’s a problem of yours he’d love to have a hand in solving.

(Next)

[galaxiasgreen]

🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut [E-Rated, 3.6k words]

"It's hot." "No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service." "I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"

The freckled stranger has been visiting your pub for three months now, drinking to forget the worst times.

You might be the person he needs to remember the best.

[MASTERLIST][NEXT] [read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: swearing, alcoholism, grief, discussions of death.

1: stupid questions

The freckled stranger has been in your pub every day for the last three months.

It never matters whether it's windy, raining, or overbearingly sunny. It never matters whether it's busy, tables crammed, the counter sticky with spills, or if the tax on drink has gone up. It never matters if he's in a good or bad mood. Every day, right as expected, he shoulders inside Ye Olde Hen House, ignores the chorus of greetings from the tipsy regulars, lumbers to the bar and orders a drink. His choice is always the same: cold stout, brought over in as many glasses he can take before he's one whit away from passing out.

You're used to hauling out drunkards. In this part of the old city they trundle in after labour shifts, seeking to forget the day's worries, and wind up on the floor by hour's end. You pity them their weak constitutions and poor decision-making, and the wives who will have to suffer their company upon their brazen return in the middle of the night.

To his credit, the freckled stranger has never been that drunk.

Yet you pity him most of all.

The first time he steps foot inside the pub he immediately draws your eye. Most of the regulars are in their forties, pot-bellied and cheerful like Christmas adverts of St Nick – but the freckled stranger is around your age, five-and-twenty, with youthful skin, a smooth gait and broad, firm shoulders. His hair is a bed of chestnut curls, and the ends shadow his eyes, also a dark brown, like coffee. Stubble grows in patches over his sharp jaw. In the heat of summer he wears only a linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and you can see muscle there, and tattoos, though you force yourself to look away before you can determine what they are, burying your curiosity behind professionalism.

When he makes it to the counter, he slaps down a handful of change and sinks onto the barstool, looking at you, gaze burning expectantly but not with disdain.

"Pint of beer, please."

"Two pence."

He pushes all his coins over. You extract two pennies, then fill a glass to the brim. He drinks quietly but greedily, siphoning the beer like it's his first liquid in days, and when he finishes, every drop consumed, the glass clatters to the countertop in a white-knuckled grip, pronouncing the veins in his hands like cobalt forks of lightning.

"Another, please."

You raise an eyebrow. "Knock that back any faster you might see Heaven before you mean to."

"What makes you think I'm going to heaven?" He throws out a few coins – pennies and halfpennies this time. "Pint of beer, please."

He drinks slower and slower each time as the alcohol alleviates his worries. You feel pity, strong and true. Same age or abouts, and people would look down on you for having a peasant's job, but at least you're not wasting your life away like the freckled stranger.

At least of yourself you make a name, whilst the freckled stranger makes a fool.

By his fourth, sometimes fifth drink, he's spread-eagle on the countertop, playing with the pocket change between his fingertips, wide-eyed with fascination.

"Don't fall asleep," you tell him, squeezing a cloth over a soiled plate. "Or I'll kick you out."

"Not sleepy," he slurs, flicking a half-penny into a tailspin. "Am pensive."

"Pensive... right."

"Pensive about pennies." He chuckles to himself. "Your coins are so funny. What's the point of half-pennies and farthings?"

The use of your is unusual, but he's drunk, so what's new. "Why don't you ask King Edward?" you say humorously.

"You say it like he's only next door. Know him, do you?"

"'Course. We're best mates."

"Put me in contact. I'll change— more make sense."

You purse your lips. He's too drunk to respond coherently, though there's still about three fingers left in the glass, which he eventually works up the means to finish, leaving his lips sticky with cream. By this point it's almost closing time and he struggles to get to his feet. You don't help him. Why should you?

"Ta," he hiccoughs roughly in your direction, and staggers out the door, out of view. You wonder where he goes, what he does in the daytime, whether he has family, or friends, or a pretty girl who pities him too.

He's in a mood on a particularly hot June evening, when he walks into the pub with his shirt unbuttoned.

Do not look. Despite being a complete wastrel, the freckled stranger, you hate to admit, is extremely well-built, with a finely-toned chest and brawny arms that could easily win many wrestling matches, and many hearts too. Maybe he already has. The long stripe of flesh between the two front panels tease a wide chest tattoo, inked over his pectorals like fine canvas – what appears to be two runic symbols and the number 706.

You quickly glance away. That's already too much. Just because a man is attractive doesn't mean you should be staring. You compose yourself and make your way over before he reaches the bar.

"Shirt," you say. "Button it up."

He halts, drinking in the sight of you. Up close, all you can smell is his musk, salty like the sea, and just as powerful. His hair is soaked with it too – there are dirt marks there, like he's been in a scrap, but he appears uninjured.

"It's hot."

"No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service."

"I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"

"Do up your shirt," you grind out, "or get out."

The mischief dissipates as his eyes narrow, but he reluctantly buttons up the front. The shirt is ratty and torn at the elbows, but still smells enticingly like him, and he doesn't bother going up all the way, leaving an annoying glimpse of that unusual scrawl of symbols.

"Happy now?"

You go around the counter, ignoring him. "What do you want?"

"What do you think?"

Your eyes narrow. "You know the cost."

A hand slips into his pocket and produces a handful of coins, which he dumps out flippantly. They clatter to a stop in a wide arc.

Impertinent. Your lips flatten. Two can play that game.

"You've been here enough times to know the correct change by now."

He snorts. "Every bloody coin looks the same."

"It has Britannia wielding the trident on one side."

"Who the hell is Britannia?"

You roll your eyes. "Edward is on the other. Know who he is or have you really been living in the Arctic?"

"I remember your best mate." Finally he takes two pennies from the pile. "You could've just said it was the biggest bronze coin and saved yourself the hassle."

You could've also told him it literally says penny on the rim, but who knows if he's able to read – or whether he can right now. "You don't learn if you don't figure it out for yourself." You take them from his proffered hand. "Pint or half-pint?"

"Another stupid question."

"In that case, I won't serve you—"

"Wait." He grunts in annoyance and holds out the pennies again. "One pint of beer, please."

"That's better."

He takes the drink, and your gaze dips to the hand clenching the glass – you've never seen a drunk with such... muscle definition before. His frame is broad, his chest like full barrels of whiskey. He looks like he knows how to handle his body – how to use it to full advantage.

Shame. If only he didn't have the personality of a wet rag.

You serve another few people before he motions for you again, and this time you pour him the drink without saying a word. He exchanges the right money for the glass.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, before you go away again. "I've been rude."

You hesitate, suspicious. "Yes, you have."

"You're just doing your job."

"Yes, I am."

"Can you forgive me?"

That same glint of mischief there, except this one is charming – this one prods a little more insistently at your mental walls. You snort.

"This time."

He takes a sip, leaving a trail of foam on his mouth – he thumbs it away and licks the tip.

Hastily you look away.

"How long have you been working here?" the freckled stranger asks one Tuesday night, when the pub is dead.

You slap your cloth to the countertop, soaked with wood polish. You've talked to him a few times now, but this is the first that's been more than polite greetings, menial chatter, and get out, you're completely sozzled.

"Why?"

"What d'you mean, why?"

"Why d'you want to know?"

He leans back, lips tugging upwards. "I know you but I don't know you, if that makes sense."

"And it should stay that way."

"I just think it would be nice to properly appreciate the woman who serves me drinks every day."

You roll your lips. He's a good talker when he wants to be – when he's sober. "Been working here longer than you've been drinking here, that's for sure."

"A year? Five years? How old are you?"

"Careful."

"I'm twenty-six."

"Didn't ask."

His gaze on you is lowered but penetrating when he braces his chin in a hand. You can't help but feel a little flushed.

"Do you own this fine establishment?"

"I do."

"Not your husband?"

"Not married."

"But you're so old."

"Do you want to get kicked out?"

His smile curls. "Put-off marrying because it will mean handing all your assets to your undeserving husband?"

You pause to glare at him. "So you know the lack of women's rights but you can't figure out which coin is a penny?"

"Women's rights makes sense. The coins don't. Why do all the bronze ones look the same? I'm still waiting on a meeting with Ed about that, by the way."

"Oh, the lack of women's rights makes sense, does it?"

"I said women's rights makes sense. I'm on your side."He shrugs. "Personally, though, I'm more of a supporter of women's wrongs."

A laugh gutters out of you, and with a self-satisfied, feline grin, he drinks.

Something is very wrong when he comes in on his four-month anniversary.

If rain could embody a person, the freckled stranger would be a barely-contained hurricane. He looks the worst you've ever seen – dark crescents beneath red eyes, skin frighteningly wan, burst blood vessels webbing across his cheeks like crinkles on a flattened wad of newspaper. He glowers at anyone who looks at him askance, a clear signal to stay the fuck away.

He slumps bodily onto his normal barstool – and there comes the pity, an avalanche crashing through your body.

"Beer."

You don't move.

He lets out an annoyed sigh. "Pint of beer, please."

You pour it. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

"Fine. All the same to me." It's not all the same – he looks like the truth might kill him from the inside. "Stout's out. I've got porter."

His eyes flash. "Porter's weak shit."

"That or ale. Take your pick."

"Porter then."

You pour it. It's infamously dark in colour, like his eyes right now, black and molten and unforgiving of a world that has cut him up and left him to die. When he takes the glass he doesn't thank you, just jams the rim between his teeth and gulps ravenously. The slam on the countertop reverberates.

"Another."

"Seem to be missing a thank you and please—"

"Can you just—" He catches himself. "Not today. Just not today."

"Today is a regular ol' Thursday for me," you point out coldly. "If you want some leeway for your absent manners you're going to have to give me a reason."

He mumbles something inaudible.

You lean forwards. "Didn't catch that."

Finally his gaze settles on you, and it's guarded, striking, like steel.

"My twin sister died four months ago today."

When people turn to drink, it's mostly because of one of two things: grief, or loneliness. Now you know the freckled stranger is both. You can see it in the shadows that cling to him, in the trembling of his cracked knuckles, grasping the glass like it's the only thread between him and sweet oblivion.

It doesn't surprise you to hear it, nor see it with your own eyes – but a death of a twin... now that's something you've never heard before. Especially not from someone so young.

"Sorry to hear that." The condolence softens your disdain, just a little. "I can't imagine—"

"No, you can't imagine what it must be like, yes, it's awful, is there anything you can do? Sorrows and prayers, sorrows and prayers!" The laugh is hysterical. "I don't want that. I didn't come here to listen to your pity."

Strange... until this conversation, pity was all you felt.

Now you're just angry.

"Why'd you tell me then?" you shoot back, as your temper builds in your belly. "You blurt your sob story and, what, expect me not to say anything?"

"I came to drink, so that's what I'll damn well do."

"Then shut your cakehole, drink your damn porter and stop fishing for sympathy."

Something cracks along his expression. He splutters. "Like hell I'm fishing—"

"Four months, you said? Yet here you are, sulking. You look like she passed only yesterday. Is this what she would've wanted, for you to drink yourself into stupor every bloody day?"

Genuine anger clouds his face. "You don't know what she would've wanted."

"I know you care for her deeply, so I can guess she cared deeply for you too, and I don't know a single loved one of mine who'd want me to live in this hell you've created for yourself."

He stands to his feet – nearly stumbles. "You can't talk to me— like— you don't—"

"Look at you, too drunk to even stand. You drank before you came here, didn't you? You've been drinking all day, feeling sorry for yourself. If you won't accept my condolences, fine, but you better heed this warning instead: if you ever talk to me like that again, I will have you chucked out and barred not just here, but every damn pub this side of the city, and I won't give a rat's arse about your grief or your shitty coping strategies. Do you understand?"

Something lifts and vanishes from his eyes, like a dark shape that flees arrest in the cover of night. The crack in his façade widens, and maybe it's the reek of him, of old stale drink that wisps out of him in short breaths, but something makes you lean back, give him space to process your words, to process his mistake in crossing you.

You were yelling all that, and the rest of the pub has quietened in response. One of the regulars stands up and makes eye contact with you, but you wave him away. You're all right. The freckled stranger understands now.

The look on his face is not just defeat... but clarity.

"Understood," he rasps out eventually.

"Good." Your heart races – you fight to control it. "Now, I've got other customers waiting, so if you don't mind keeping your voice down?"

But he knocks back the rest in one go and leaves without saying a word.

Maybe you were a little harsh.

You stew on it the next morning as you prepare for a busy day. Wiping the surfaces, preparing the stock, checking the tills, rallying the other staff and replenishing the taps – so much to do and occupy your mind, yet there you are, face creased as you think of the freckled stranger and his grief.

He needed the push, you don't regret that, but you do regret, just slightly, how you delivered it. It could've gone so many ways – he could've complained to the police and tarnished the pub's reputation, could've destroyed furniture, glass, could've hurt you. You might own Ye Olde Hen House but at the end of the day you're a glorified barmaid – a wench, some of the older patrons sometimes use against you derogatorily. Who are you to offer the freckled stranger life advice?

You thought he might not appear that evening, but at eight o'clock, he shoulders through the door and takes the same bar stool, right in front of you, as always.

"Pint of beer," he murmurs, "please."

You pour it for him, making it extra frothy, but say nothing when you slide it over. This time he pays the correct coinage, no fuss. So he's capable of using his brain just as much as you're capable of feeling guilt. His knuckles blanch over the glass, clenching it hard – you find yourself distracted by his hands, solid and engulfing, like he would never yield anything in his grip.

You let out a scathing sigh. "Look, I'm sorry."

He raises a finger and tips the glass back until all the porter has slid down his throat.

"Can't have this talk sober," he says, using his muscled forearm to wipe his mouth messily. "Another. Please."

He sets out the coin, you pour him the drink. He doesn't say a word until the next one goes down, and the next. Eventually he massages the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry myself," he forces out, even though the drink softens the consonants. "You shouldn't have to apologise."

"I was harsh."

"You were an arsehole."

"Funnily enough that's why I'm saying sorry."

"No, but... it was nice, your bluntness." He sags on the counter, but his gaze is still locked on you. "Every bloody person I know has been coddling me for months. Sorry about Anne this, I'm sad for you that. The condolences and sadness and hugs and well-wishes has never stopped. Even my best friends Ominis and Garreth keep tiptoeing around me like I'm as fragile as a Remembrall."

"A what?"

"Glass," he amends swiftly. His thumb presses into the curve of his jaw, protruding the strong cords of his neck. "I'm so fed up with it. So fucking fed up."

"You know you're not helping yourself, right?" you say, hoping this doesn't cross a line again. "Coming in here to drink—"

"Every day, I know. I just need it. I need to drink. I need to— to forget what I did—" He shakes his head and grasps his temple fiercely. "Tell me something. Quick."

"What?"

"Anything. Your favourite book, how your parents met, the drama of whoever you're shagging at the moment, I don't care. I don't want to think. Just – give me anything. And another beer. Please."

So you tell him your favourite book – you don't get to read very often, you're lucky you can read at all – and you tell him the less-than-exciting story of how your parents met. You're not 'shagging' anyone at the moment, which you say with a roll of your eyes, so you're relatively drama-free. Your life is utterly mundane, as you like it.

You don't leave him with nothing, however.

"I've been at this pub since I was eighteen, seven years ago. Inherited it off my parents now that they're too old to work."

He must do the maths as he squirrels away another beer.

"You must enjoy it."

"It was either here or the match factory. You must know how that went."

He smiles indulgently. "Expert in women's rights, remember?"

You huff a snort.

"You get how this place works, then."

"I've been helping out here since I was a tot, so yes, I know everything there is to know. Plus it pays well and keeps me mostly protected, and I get to be part of the community and meet new people."

He lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Like me?"

You tip your head.

"Yeah, like you, I suppose." You gently pry the empty glass from his hand. "Another?"

"Stupid question."

But he smiles fondly this time, so you make a face and pour his fourth beer without complaint.

You don't talk much from then. You're busy with other customers and he's probably tired of chatting, though you meet his eye several times during the last hour, like a hook on a thread that catches by accident – or fate. It's those coffee eyes that you're drawn to. They dance like fingers on skin, to a rhythm as constant as ocean waves, cascading down your spine even when you turn away.

By the time the other patrons have left and the gramophone has run out of records to play, all that's between you and closing is the freckled stranger.

"What's your name?"

You glance his way. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd you want to know?"

"It's not an interrogation. It's just so you're not the bar girl in my head."

"In that case," you smile sweetly, "it's none of your business."

"You drive a hard deal, bar girl," he says, taking it in his stride. "My name is Sebastian Sallow."

"Didn't ask."

"Trade you? I'll even throw in a middle name as a bonus."

"No thanks." You flick towards the door. "Now, it's nearly one o'clock and my pub is about to close, so you better skedaddle before I toss you out by ear, Sebastian Sallow."

"That's a lot more effective now that you can use it against me." The barstool scrapes – Sebastian Sallow manages to make it to the door without stumbling once. "Will I regret telling you?"

You hold the door and smile indulgently as he steps out.

"Stupid question."

You shut it in his face.

[MASTERLIST][NEXT] [Gorgeous art by FlamboyantJelly][Divider credit]

[chelseeebe]

mercy on me

18+. no smut but minors are not welcome on my blog. themes of fighting and violence. eddie munson x fem!reader. no use of y/n!

a/n: hey all!! i don’t think i really like this on reflection but it has been a couple weeks since i last posted so wanted to squeeze something out before my life gets crazy<3 shoutout to the person on tiktok that made an edit of eddie to strangers by ethel cain bc that’s what spurred this entire thing

eddie’s addicted to the pain, the sting of the punches, the utter thrill of it all. but maybe it’s time for him to realise that that wasn’t the only thing worthwhile to him.

eddie tries to live a good, clean cut life, he’s got a nice job that pays pretty well for hawkins, basically has full reign of the trailer now that wayne has a girlfriend, and shit, he’s even got friends. but something, some terrible voice in his head, keeps him coming back to this.

stood circling the burly man, wondering when, not if, he’ll end up on the floor.

it comes quicker than expected, a fist to the stomach knocks the air from his lungs, doubling over in pain.

eddie doesn’t let him knock him down without a fight completely, throwing a jab at his opponents chin.

only to be quickly forgotten by the man’s fists connecting with his jaw and the searing pain rushing through his face.

the floor is cold, the ceiling just as eddie remembers it.

the kids carry him back to the trailer park, holding his weight on their spindly little bodies.

erica pounds her tiny fist on the door, a routine he’s done a thousand times over, waiting for the disgruntled, yet completely gentle face to appear on the other side.

you do, as expected, groan when your eyes lay on the bloody mess that was his face, ushering them inside and rushing to find your abused supplies.

eddie staggers in, heading straight for the sink to spit the metallic liquid that had gathered in his mouth. clutching onto his ribcage as the kids stand watching. he finally collapses onto the couch, sinking into the cushions with a guttural groan.

“jesus christ,” you remark, trundling him over to the sofa, “what’s wrong with you?” dabbing the cold fabric on his eye, a stern frown on your face.

“you should see the other guy,” he chuckles, quickly interrupted by a sharp hissing sound, your usually timid fingers brush over his wounds, harshly this time.

you knee his legs apart, sliding in between to get closer to his face. eddie loves it, no one had ever been so tender and careful with him before. using your time to care for him. it was perhaps the most intimate he’d ever been with anyone.

“i don’t wanna see you in here again,” running your thumb over his split lip, “you gotta stop doing this.”

“what? you don’t like me visiting?” looking up at you with your damn chest in his face, smirking only slightly so you wouldn’t see and scold him further.

“i’d rather you came to visit me without any blood on your face.”

your hand trails down to his neck, rubbing the tiny lilac marking on his collarbone that really could be either or.

“who’s the lucky lady?” you remark, full of sarcasm and what eddie hopes is a hint of jealousy.

his hand travels up, resting above your fingers still lingering on the mark, “you, if you want,” brazen in his flirting, ignoring the two kids still stood in your living room.

your eyes roll back, snatching your hand away to continue cleaning his lip. though he thinks he sees a hint of a smile, buried deep somewhere beneath your disgust and annoyance.

“alright,” you sigh, throwing the last bloodied cloth onto the pile on the table, “all done,” stepping from between his legs to tidy the mess he’d inadvertently made.

“thank you,” he says, with all sincerity, “no one else is gonna look after my good looks like you do,” quirking his lips to the side in a brazen smirk.

you scoff, throwing the bloodied cloths into the trash, “you’d be more good looking if you stopped getting your ass beat.”

and maybe one day he will, all this fighting has to pay off somehow. eddie’s just waiting for the day he remembers to also block punches, not just give them.

-

eddie’s just about to venture over when he sees you rushing out of the door, slinging your bag hastily over your shoulder as the door bangs shut.

“where are you going in such a rush?” he calls, sauntering over without a care in the world.

“school, i’m late,” speed walking past him to the bus stop that sat just outside the entrance.

“wait, i can drive!” producing his keys to jangle about in the air.

you stop, turning on your heel before nodding, “yeah, you can actually,” bounding over to his beat up van.

eddie slides into the drivers seat, knowing he’ll probably be late to work for this, but he doesn’t mind.

you drop your bag on the floor, sitting impatiently in the passenger seat, “i’m really late,” looking at the watch on your wrist, “so if you could drive as fast as you can, that’d be great.”

“yes ma’am,” he laughs, not like he didn’t owe you much more in compensation anyway.

you turn his music down which normally eddie would hate, but it’s you and there’s not a chance he’d ever cross the one person still kind enough to look after his dumb ass.

his tires screech, pulling up outside the tiny community college that sat just outside hawkins. once upon a time, eddie had planned to go there, learn something useful for once. but high school hadn’t been easily done, being held back from graduating once or twice had squashed any dreams of ever going to college.

“what time d’you finish?” he asks as you collect your things, not wanting to hold you any longer.

“my last class is at five,” you rush, hopping out of the van.

“i’ll come get you,” reaching over to open the door for you, “five,” echoing your words.

you pause, looking back at him before nodding, “alright.. see you later,” slamming the door shut with your hip before you scurry off into the building.

eddie sits, watching you disappear before the sudden realisation that he was now also really fucking late dawns on him.

-

sure enough, he’s parked outside at five on the dot. talking his way out of staying any later to make sure he was here when you got out.

you look exhausted walking through the crowd, slightly shocked to see him waiting though it quickly extends to a smile. grateful to not have to squeeze onto the rusting bus alongside everyone else.

he reaches over, opening the door before you get the chance, dumping your bag on the floor and releasing the most exhausted sigh he’s ever heard.

“good day?” eddie asks wearily, unsure of whether to even go there or not.

you hum, “not really.”

“wanna talk about it?”

“nope.”

turning to flash him a tight-lipped smile, elaborating no further.

eddie doesn’t dare push it, “alright.. y’hungry?”

your eyes narrow, turning his radio down once again, “only if you’re paying.”

he nods, cackling as he starts the engine.

a free meal was the least of what he owed you.

-

it takes everything in him not to just sit across from you and stare. you usually crossed paths in extenuating circumstances but now he has the chance to actually get to know you. noting the tiny cross necklace that sat on your chest, the pins on your bag and the way your name is scrawled over the front of all your books.

it’s endearing in a way. he’d put you on some kind of pedestal, this holy being that cured all his ails only to find that really you were just like him. with messy handwriting and tattered clothes.

eddie had lived at the park for years before you ever moved in, turning up one day a few years back with nothing but a small suitcase and the clothes on your back.

your grandmother owned the trailer you now lived in, the sweetest old woman that always seemed to have candy to spare, or a cigarette if things were really bad for him.

you’d taken it over when she died, with really nowhere else to go and a blossoming nursing career, you’d had no other choice.

he admired you, from afar at first, too in awe to say anything until you were practically forced into tending to his wounds.

as much as you grumbled, he could tell you didn’t really mind all that much. caring was just in your nature, which couldn’t be said about many people in hawkins.

“where’s wayne nowadays? i don’t see him much anymore,” unashamedly reaching over to steal his fries.

“he’s got this fancy new girlfriend up in loch nora,” pushing his plate towards you, “spends most of his time there,” shrugging it off, eddie preferred the quiet if he was honest.

“oh. well, must be nice on your own.. can do whatever you want,” raising your brows.

he knows what you’re hinting at but he doesn’t really know why. surely it was not only obvious to you but also to everybody else in the room that he’d jump at the opportunity to be with you.

“hm.. i guess,” leaning over to talk directly to you, complete tunnel vision, “there’s this one girl though,” clicking his tongue, “she keeps ignorin’ me and like.. i drive her to school.. take her out for dinner.. still nothin’,” hoping maybe now you’ll have got the hint.

“oh yeah?” quirking your brow, “she sounds nice, you’ll have to introduce us,” sitting back against the booth.

“i think you’d like her, i know i do.”

you don’t honour him with a response, rolling your eyes like you always did when he’d pushed his luck too far.

instead, you take his hand into yours, pulling it closer to inspect his bruised but healing knuckles, “they look better.. you’re not fighting again are you?”

eddie shakes his head, “not this week.”

you drop his hand though your fingers still linger around his, “i know you don’t care but i really hate that you do this..” swallowing harshly as your eyes meet, “you’re so much better than that,” with full sincerity, “if you ever want me to take you seriously, you have to stop that shit.”

he blinks, a harsh truth that perhaps he needed to hear. the club had been something he’d fallen into as a juvenile teen, a way to express his rage at the world without ending up in jail. it had escalated from there to what it is now, a humiliation ritual that occasionally lead to an extra couple hundred dollars in his pocket.

“yeah,” eddie gulps, “yeah. it’s enough, i get it,” shrinking in defeat. he wanted that more than anything, for you to look at him without that dismaying gleam just once.

he was getting older, bruises didn’t heal as fast as they once did, his bones ached and his head pounded for days. on top of all that, he wanted you to see him as something other than the dope that stumbled to your door.

if giving up fighting was all he had to do to get that, then he’d do it.

your lips curl, smiling gently over the empty plates, “plus, you’re so much better looking without a black eye,” dropping his hand to lean back in your chair all smug.

now he doesn’t want to get too cocky, but knowing, hearing, that you were even remotely interested in him was enough to boost his ego higher than any petty fight ever could have.

-

“you comin’ tonight?” tommy laughs, lighting his cigarette. they stand in the courtyard of the garage, sun beaming down on eddie’s tired shoulders, he just wants to get home so that he can contemplate maybe sneaking over to your trailer later.

“ah.. no,” shaking his head, rubbing his oily hands on his jeans instead of the rag in his back pocket. your words echoing in his otherwise empty head, he deserved better, he was better than this.

“thousand dollars on the line tonight man.. be a shame if you missed it,” tommy pushes, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

shit.

a thousand fucking dollars.

he could take you somewhere real nice with that, god knows you deserved it. maybe he could help with your school bills, books or something.

“shit..” eddie inhales, your words suddenly seeming pretty inconsequential now, “against who?” slotting his own cigarette between his lips.

“new guy, billy something,” tommy shrugs, “i think you’ve got a pretty good chance you know?” goading him further, really leaving him no other option but to accept.

eddie puckers his lips, contemplating whether it’d be worth it to piss you off again. at least when he stumbled in, he’d have a thousand dollars to soften the blow.

fuck it.

best case scenario, he’d be grovelling for your forgiveness with a thousand bucks in hand. worst case scenario? well. probably best not think about that.

“alright, shit.. i’ll be there,” already willing to bet that he’ll be eating his words later, too far gone to really care anyway.

-

eddie more than eats his words. damn near swallowing his teeth by the time he’s helped up from the floor.

billy, as he had learned, was not one to be messed with. on reflection, eddie hadn’t ever really stood a chance against him and maybe if he’d thought for a little longer than two seconds, he wouldn’t now be dropping in and out of consciousness.

erica does her usual pounding of fists on your door, though this time her worry is palpable, making even eddie fear for how his face must look.

you open the door, looking exhausted, too tired to deal with his shit after a long day at school.

“what’d you do?” taking his weight from the two kids holding him up, “what the fuck? you told me-,”. cutting yourself off, not allowing yourself to get too angry in front of the petrified looking children.

you sit him down on the couch, moving faster than he’d ever seen you before.

dabbing the cotton on his face with a quiet, disappointed sigh. you look more hurt than anything else, like all your well meaning words had meant nothing to him.

“oh god eddie, this is really.. this is bad,” pressing the cold cloth to his bloodied cheek bone. you look back towards the ragtag kids that had dragged him here for the hundredth time, “you two get going.. it’s late and i don’t want your mom at my door again,” still patting the sore area. they didn’t need to see you patch him up yet again.

lucas and erica nod along in synchronicity, shuffling towards the door with the heads hung back towards eddie, “is he gonna be okay?” wary to leave him in such a state.

you nod, smiling softly at the two, “he’ll be okay.. promise,” shooing them off, “i’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

they nod, hesitant to leave though they do eventually trail out of the door, leaving you and him alone.

rather quickly, your smile becomes a scowl, tilting his chin up towards you without so much as a word. you were pissed, eddie could sense that much.

“hey..” squeezing his eyes shut as the sharp sting of the cloth prods his eye, “i’m sorry,” his words small and defunct now. not sure how else he can truly convey his feelings, apologies running on deaf ears.

you don’t reply, purposefully not meeting his eye despite his desperate attempt to just get you to look at him.

“yesterday i told you that i couldn’t take you seriously until you stopped this and now..” exhaling angrily, “were you even listening to me?”

“yes,” eddie nods, “i was,” hissing through his teeth at the sharp sting in his cheekbone, he’d be lucky if nothing was broken. your words had resonated so much so that they rang through his ears as he lay on the cold floor.

you sigh again, the same sigh wayne used to give him when he’d arrive home in the back of a cop car. making clear your thorough disappointment in him.

he doesn’t speak again, allowing you to sort the mess that was his face out before he ruined whatever slim chance he still had. he would t blame you if you turfed him out this instant, never to speak to him again.

silently going about your routine, a pitiful glint in your eye that he hopes he’ll never see again. if it wasn’t obvious before, it was crystal now.

“i’m trying to be good.. i am,” looking at you through hooded eyes. fuck, he hurt. not just his broken skin, but his chest ached. repeating the image of your hurt eyes again and again.

“i know,” you breathe, breath catching in your throat, “you are good, i know you are..” sighing softly, “you’re also stupid,” tracing your careful fingers over his cheek.

eddie wanted to do right by you more than anything, feeling like maybe that was actually possible now.

“i know it probably doesn’t help now..” he groans, gazing into your glassy eyes, “but i wanted to take you out with the winnings.. nice dinner or somethin’.”

you frown only grows further, “eddie.. i don’t want your money,” finally meeting his gaze just to glare angrily back at him.

his pathetic shoulders shrug, skin running cold as your fingers leave his face. the couch dips as you sit next to him, chewing on your bottom lip.

“i won’t do this again,” a serious, unsettling tone, “if you want to fight then you can, but you can’t come crawling back here every time..” reaching over to trace the cut in his lip, “i’m not gonna sit back and watch you almost die every week- not anymore.”

eddie nods, understanding now more than ever that this had to end. if not for his health, then for you. it’s not as if he liked narrowly avoiding death week in week out, it was the adrenaline. the only time in his life that felt worthwhile, drawing a crowd, people that wanted to see him, albeit to see him end up on the floor.

“i’m sorry,” meaning it, genuinely. “i know that you think i’m not serious about this but i am- really, i think you might just be the only person in the world who’s opinion i care about,” you were at least the first person to get through his thick skull.

“then start acting like it,” putting your hand over his bruised and bloodied knuckles, leaning over to touch his cheek again, tender movements that make him shiver.

eddie’s eyes break from yours for the first time this evening, descending to your lips almost on their own, “i really wanna kiss you,” mumbling into the abyss.

your thumb traces over his bottom lip, narrowly avoiding the still throbbing cut, “you can.. if you promise me that you’ll stop ruinin’ your pretty face for me.”

he nods, allowing you no time to back out before he leans in, clutching at your waist as your lips connect, eagerly pulling you closer with every last bit of energy he could muster.

the black wife beater is torn around the collar, exposing the purple tint to his chest, the dried blood that had wept down his neck. it doesn’t mean much now but eddie feels terrible that this is how he looked for your first kiss.

he was really in no position to be doing this, adrenaline pumping through his veins, mostly keeping him upright.

his body wants more, disappointed in himself for not being able to do this properly. after months of off-handed flirting and this was all he had to show for himself?

you’re doing all of the heavy lifting, fingers knotted into his loose, knotted bun, sighing softly as your lips lock. his chest instinctively knocking into yours, as you lean further back on the couch.

any other time and he’d have been clambering atop, doing everything he’d ever dreamed of. an unfortunate lead up of events that had left him too exhausted to treat you as you deserved.

if that weren’t enough incentive to get his shit together, he’s not sure what else ever would be.

you pull back, eyes drawn to the corner of the room, “grandma’s watching us.. i can’t,” falling into a fit of giggles as you nudge him back upright, eyes flitting to the portrait of your grandmother that hung on the wall.

his eyes follow, giving a strained laugh, clutching his ribcage as he does so, “ow fuck.”

“alright,” you stand, nodding down the corridor, “you can have my bed.. i’ll take the couch so i can keep an eye on you tonight,” stern but still confusingly comforting.

eddie stands, not without a chorus of complaints, shuffling after you to grab onto your fingers, “stay with me,” spinning you around gently.

you nod silently, bundling him up the corridor to your room. your trailer was a hell of a lot tidier than his, now that wayne was more of a passing guest than a resident, he’d really let the place go to shit.

he stops in the doorway, turning to face you with your fingers still interlocked, “thank you.. again,” running his thumb over the back of your hand, “i mean it.”

you nod, reluctant but still somewhat sincere, “please don’t prove me wrong about this,” your eyes a glaring warning, one he’d never forget.

there are no words in the english language to truly convey to you how badly he wanted, or needed, to prove you right.

so eddie just grips your fingers a little tighter, as much as his bruised knuckles allowed, leading you back into your room in silence, vowing to treat you as you deserved.

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 11 - Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none really... a little bit of kissing interruptus.

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is a slightly transitional chapter after the seismic events in Chapter 10. Our couple have no regrets but cannot get time alone as our intrepid trio journeys to Aubrey Hall. Yes, here beginnith our latest trope: secret relationship! Thanks as always to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Portsmouth, UK, September 1939

Waking up in Benedict’s arms for a second time is a thoroughly different experience, a handsome smile creasing his face.

“Good morning,” he rumbles, and you feel it buzz in your cheekbone resting on his pectoral.

“Good morning,” you whisper, tilting to kiss his lips.

You want to burrow into his warmth, his naked body, curl around him like a vine. Forget the world; just exist with him here in this warm cocoon. His hand slides up your back, pulling you snugger into him as you kiss - languid, sensual, tongues touching, a stirring you can feel between your legs and in him where your thigh is draped over his lap.

Just as you are about to get lost in this, in him, there is a rapid-fire knocking on the door.

“Wakey, wakey, lazy bones! Let me in!” Eloise’s voice calls, muffled in the corridor outside.

You both swing your heads towards the door, then back to each other in almost comic unison, jumping apart as if burned, exchanging panicked looks as you scurry out of bed.

“Give me a minute,” Benedict grouses loudly for her benefit.

Then, there is a flurry of hushed movement as you fling open suitcases and rapidly throw on the nearest clothing. ‘Bed!’ you mouth, signalling for him to help. You work together in unison to make the bed, not to the point it doesn't look slept in, but certainly not the tangle of sheets from tumultuous lovemaking that it was. Belatedly, you realise you should have put a makeshift pile on the floor as if he slept there.

It's less than a minute from when you were naked in each other’s arms to Benedict opening the door to Eloise, you on the other side of the room attempting nonchalance. She wanders in, looking blissed out but also a little worse for wear, an apparent hangover clinging to her edges as she retrieves a hairbrush from her suitcase. You want to ask how her night was, but her frown stops you. 

“Doesn’t look like anyone slept on the floor…” she comments suspiciously as she pulls up to the mirror. 

“I am, in fact, capable of tidying away blankets and pillows after I use them, sister,” Benedict sighs and rolls his eyes, looking out the window. “It is what I was doing when you so rudely woke up half the hotel, in fact,” he lies.

Eloise sticks her tongue out at him in the mirror, which he roundly ignores.

“Your brother is a true gentleman,” you defend, staying intentionally vague, standing behind her and using the mirror as well to touch up your appearance. 

It's your turn to receive the Eloise look of scornful derision before you steer to a new, safer topic. 

“So, how was your night with Phillip?” you tease affably.

“Oh, he’s wonderful,” a wistful look claiming her face. A secret little smile you have never seen before. “We had such a memorable night.”

“Aaaand I don’t need to hear this,” Benedict deadpans. “I’ll see you ladies downstairs for breakfast…” is his parting shot as he heads for the door. 

But as Eloise leans down to grab a hairpin, launching into a whole story, he winks at you in the reflection, and your heart skips a beat.

——

“So, ready to party your life away in London?” Eloise chirps as the train trundles through rural Hampshire a few hours later. “It's not Paris, but it will do….”

“I thought we were going to your country home?” you frown.

“Well, yes, for a few days. But we can head back up to Bridgerton House for the weekend,” Eloise grins. “Phillip might be in town by then….” You chuckle at her lack of subtlety. “And we can find you a nice man!” she adds.

There is a scrunch of a newspaper diagonally across from you as Benedict’s grip tightens on the broadsheet he is holding, his face wholly obscured behind it.

“Oh, I don't know..” you attempt to laugh it off. “I think I might give that whole party lifestyle a rest.”

“Nonsense! You are not really a married lady, you know,” Eloise withers, rolling her eyes. “And you can take that off now,” she nods to your ring finger.

“Oh…” you fumble, touching it instinctively, the soft lamplight within the compartment making the gold glint brightly. “I thought it safer to wear it while we are still in transit,” you bluff, knowing Benedict is paying full attention to your conversation now, even as he hides behind The Times.

She frowns. “You have your residency now. The British government will not bother tracking you down with this war effort. You could get divorced tomorrow, and literally, nothing would happen,” she opines imperiously as if suddenly an expert on immigration matters.

“Better safe than sorry, Eloise,” Benedict pipes up, folding down the paper and removing his reading glasses with that lecturing elder brother air. His ring catches the sunlight as he does, making something bloom in your ribs to see it.

Just as Eloise goes to dispute it, her face instead lights up from the passing trolley service. “Oooh, snacks!” she exclaims distractedly, craning to look out into the corridor, allowing you to smile your thanks softly at Benedict unseen. His responding lopsided smile has your stomach vaulting.

Then Eloise is on her feet, chasing the attendant that rumbled past your compartment, apparently keen for refreshments. As soon as she is out of sight, you reach a hand across to him. He leans forward and grasps it with both of his.

“We will have time alone at Aubrey Hall, I promise,” he whispers earnestly, his eyes imploring, bringing your hand to his lips and making you stutter as he brushes warm lips over the back of your fingers.

“I want to touch you, Benedict…” you confess ardently, “all the time. So very much…”

His face is a storm of bridled intensity at your words, his pupils dilating rapidly. “As do I….” his words impassioned, even as his expression clouds wincingly, and you know where his thoughts have slid.

“But, Eloise…” you nod, understanding, reluctantly withdrawing your hand and sitting back, a tingle still on your fingers from his lips.

There is no way either of you wants to raise what is happening or what has happened yet. Neither of you is sure of anything except this magnetic pull between you—yearning to be together, alone.

“Yes…” he sighs, pained, slumping back into his seat just as the lady in question twirls back in, hands full with Cadbury's bars and a Fry’s Peppermint Cream.

“I thought you hated Peppermint Cream?” Benedict frowns as Eloise hands you both a Cadbury and immediately unwraps the Fry’s bar for herself, taking a big bite.

“I may be reassessing its merits,” she sniffs before leaning in to whisper to you, muffled around her mouthful. “It’s Phillip's favourite,” she divulges before staring dreamily out the window.

You have never known Eloise to change her mind about anything in the time you have known her, especially not from a man’s opinion. You just shrug at Benedict, conveying your equal surprise. Clearly, this one might be a serious contender.

—

Walking the connecting overhead path to Waterloo Junction for your onward train to Kent, you are startled when Benedict grabs your hand and places it into his coat pocket. You soon realise in the glass reflection ahead that the swish of the open fabric means the connection of your hands is unseen. 

Your heart pounds in your ears as you walk beside Eloise, her none the wiser as your palms grip each other, fingers laced. When you glance up at him briefly, you see the ghost of a smile at the corner of his lips, but he keeps looking ahead as if nothing unusual is happening. 

You want to kiss the little dimple right there at his sheer genius.

—

The onward leg only takes an hour and is filled with amiable chat, mostly about books and films. Soon, you are alighting the train at a charming rural village stop, the platform ablaze with neatly potted late summer plants of reds and yellows.

But you are struck with a sudden wave of nerves as a sleek car awaits you. You are not long away from meeting the rest of the Bridgerton family. Strictly, your family now too.

“Does anyone know?” You ask Eloise as the driver loads your cases into the boot.

“Know what?”

“That Benedict and I are married…?” You spell out, surprised she didn’t follow your train of thought. 

“Oh. Well. I didn’t call or telegram,” she twists to look at Benedict as he places your day bag on top of his. “Did you tell mother?”

He scoffs. “God, no. Not something I could begin to explain over the phone.”

“So what do we say? Or do?” You ask, subconsciously toying with your ring.

Benedict walks over and places comforting hands on your shoulders. It takes all of your willpower not to lean into him. “Don't worry. Follow my lead. I don’t think we can or should lie.” 

Less than a minute into the car ride, you sandwiched between the siblings, Eloise’s eyes flutter closed, face lolling against the glass. You signal to Benedict, and when he twists to see, his hand grabs your kneecap, fingers wrapping around and caressing the ticklish skin near the crease at the back of your knee. Something about this stolen moment is exciting, elicit, and endlessly arousing.

“I cannot go more than an hour in your presence without wanting to touch you,” he whispers, leaning close, his words a hot gust into your ear that has you melting.

“Same,” you murmur back, your hand sliding over his, mapping the raised veins with your fingertips, memories of the last night tumbling through your mind, those strong hands running over your naked flesh, grasping. It makes your breath hitch audibly.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice is a honeyed rumble that makes every hair on your forearms stand on end. He probably knows, but you confirm it anyway.

“Last night…” you mouth, turning your face into him so his lips brush your cheek. His grip tightens, and his breath rags into your hair.

“It's all I have thought about since…” he confesses; your chest flutters as his hand slides a fraction higher on your leg, playing with your hem. Every fibre of your being is calling for him. You want him to keep going, slide all the way up your thighs and touch you… but Eloise stirs, and instantly, his touch is gone, and you are left bereft. 

—

To call Aubrey Hall a country house is ridiculous. Your jaw drops as the car sweeps up a long gravel driveway to an enormous, handsome pile of a manor estate.

“Oh my god, Eloise,” you smack her arm lightly. “How rich are you!?”

She laughs. “What, that my brother is a Viscount doesn't give that away?” she guffaws.

“Well, I thought maybe it was an honourary title or something…” you mutter, feeling slightly embarrassed you don't know the full ins and outs of the British aristocracy you have clearly married into, entirely without knowing.

“Don't be intimidated,” Benedict soothes. “We are just a large family who inherited a big pile. I promise we aren't stuffy or cold.” You want to squeeze his hand for being so empathetic and reassuring.

“Or inbred!” Eloise cackles as the car stops, and you notice a beautiful, elegant middle-aged woman waving from the steps.

“Our mother,” Benedict elucidates before Eloise throws the door open and jogs up to hug the lady, who looks overjoyed to be reunited with her daughter after months away. You can tell Eloise is happy, too, even if her joy is more understated.

Benedict is by your side when you are out of the vehicle. A pillar of support, even if not touching you.

“Mum…” Eloise pulls her down the steps. “This is y/n!”

“Oh, it's wonderful to meet you!” the lady greets, pulling you into a welcoming hug that smells lavender and lilac. “I have heard so much!”

“Same!” you chime back.

Then it is Benedict’s turn to hug her; you swear there is an extra glint in her eye as if he is her favourite. However, you notice he keeps his left hand in his pocket throughout.

“Thank you for bringing them back safe, darling,” she reaches up and pats his hair affectionately as if he is still a child, not a grown man in his late twenties.

“We would have made it home perfectly safe without him, mother,” Eloise gripes with her trademark mettle.

“Eloise Bridgerton, you would have absconded to Saint Tropez if your brother were not there. Don't even lie about that,” Violet chides lovingly, and you can't help but giggle.

“Don't take her side!” Elose decries.

“Come on, it's true,” you laugh, bumping her gently with your shoulder as you walk in through the doors.

It is a beautiful stately home, but at the same time, it seems less imposing on the inside; it looks lived in and loved. A house that is full of family and life.

“You will meet the rest of the family later today,” Violet advises. “Well, minus our brave Viscount, who is in London with Churchill, and Daphne, who lives with her husband.”

“And Fran,” Eloise adds.

“Yes, Francesca is staying with her cousins in Bath,” Violet counsels as she guides you into their parlour.

“She’s barely my sister,” Eloise jests, dropping onto a sofa and grabbing a glass of water from a carafe on the coffee table.

Violet just shoots her an exasperated look while offering you a seat, too. “Eloise told me you were engaged, not already married,” Violet addresses as you get comfortable.

Benedict springs from across the room. “Ahhh, about that….” he placates with his left hand aloft.

“Is that also a ring I see on your finger, Benedict Bridgerton?!” Violet splutters.

“Mother, I can explain….”

And thus, he recounts the events of the last few days. Violet listening intently, looking, in turn, shocked, dumbfounded and proud. Of course, Benedict omits the whole part of the fact you are together romantically. Well, sort of. You think. You are dying to be alone with him so you can talk. Or perhaps do other more exciting things. That idle thought makes your cheeks flush.

“I am so very grateful to your son, Viscountess Bridgerton,” you jump in as much as to steer your own wayward thoughts away from dangerous waters. “Without him, I would likely still be stuck in France, all alone.”

His eyes dance with warmth as you glance at him, wanting to grab his hand and lace your fingers. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Violet has the most intrigued look as she observes her son carefully—the all-knowing eye of a matriarch.

“Well, I am so grateful you are safe, my dear,” she turns to you. “And please, for goodness sake, call me Violet. You are welcome to remain with us as long as you need or desire. You are family now, after all. At least for as long as you wish to be considered such,” she concludes, seeming to choose her words very carefully.

“Thank you, Violet,” you murmur, so grateful, already feeling a warm glow from her hospitality. “I could not be more honoured to be here for as long as you will all have me,” your eyes drifting back to Benedict as you say it.

The tender look on his face makes you touch your wedding ring idly with your thumb, and your heart leaps as he does the same. Although you swear you can feel the weight of Violet’s stare as you do so.

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[thevampiremarie]

THE KNIFE OF MUAD'DIB (Paul x OC!Reader x Chani)

Wherein na-Duke Paul Atreides is not the Bene Gesserit's only prospect for the Kwisatz Haderach. Raised by Paul's side as his playmate and servant, Chryse, the Bene Gesserit's cuckoo child, will forge a new future for her master.

(previously posted on AO3 as Themis)

PART II: PAUL

He pressed play on the filmbook viewer again. Before Paul’s eyes, the swamps of Ecaz came back to life, the projected mist swirling through his room so thick he could barely see his hand through it. The boy could almost taste the sweet moss and rich earth on his tongue if he breathed in.

What would it be like, to wander those marshes and see the fogwood bend to his thoughts? To watch weavers knot krimskell rope with their practiced, scarred hands?

Paul swallowed thickly. He’d never be allowed to go off-world until he was older. He passed his hand through the fog again and pretended he could feel beads of water gathering on his palm.

Father had started him that day on his lessons with Hawat. He remembered the weight of the Duke’s hand on his shoulder as his father brought Paul to the study chamber where the old Mentat waited. Before he could turn and ask his father to stay, he was gone. Not even the Duke had time enough now for his heir.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Paul felt ashamed of himself. Father had enough on his plate. What sort of son did he make, gathering resentment? A poor one.

The filmbook switched to the glittering gems that miners could find on Hagal. He sagged back into his chair and watched the images flicker on his wall.

Mother liked to smooth his hair back with a single palm and say in that still-water calm tone of hers that he would be greater than his father someday. Paul brought his knees up to his chin. The lonely dunes of Arrakis replaced the scenes of shining jewels trundling from the depths of Hagal mines.

No one could be greater than Father.

He’d watched the Duke turn down the dimly-lit hallway before the Mentat retainer rapped the table with his wizened knuckles to call his attention.

Thufir Hawat was pleased as always to see him, if a bit gruff in his mannerisms.

He’d set Paul to a variety of tasks that were difficult, at best. Thinking that felt like admitting defeat.

How was he supposed to be the heir to House Atreides when he couldn’t even memorize the endless formulas and calculations Hawat laid out in front of him?

Mother always told Paul he was good at remembering and liked to play games with him over breakfast. What had changed in their dining room that day?

She had endless patience and endless persistence. Thufir had comparatively less of the former and about the same amount of the latter.

He bit back the urge to throw the cup next to him filled with day-old tea at the wall.

Day in, day out. Filmbooks, lessons, meals with Mother.

Even if Paul wanted to leave the compound to explore the same pastures and beaches he’d wandered a hundred times over as a little boy, the chafing security team his father insisted upon would have followed him around.

He wasn’t a little boy anymore. Paul was too old to play around in the sand like a baby.

Last week, he’d pestered Duncan to start his combat training. “I know you think you’re old enough,” the swordmaster had said. “But you’ll have to wait a little longer, Paul.”

It wasn’t fair.

Paul unfolded his lanky frame from the chair to carelessly pick through the steel toy figurines of an Atreides legion on his side-table, now arranged in a battle against a battalion of porcelain Imperial Sardaukar.

The Sardaukar, crouched behind their defense of a stack of filmbooks, were losing.

He could imagine how glorious the battle would be!  Paul Atreides with Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck by his side, victorious, a field of felled enemies before him-

With a random twitch of his hand, he accidentally swept the Atreides soldiers onto the floor.

Paul despised his occasional clumsiness.

The boy bit back a sigh as he bent to collect the fallen figures.

He studied one of the toy soldiers, the battle lance in its hand and the shield on its wrist. Perhaps he ought to steal a shield from the training room. The weapons were kept separately, locked up where only the swordmasters could get them, but the swordmasters kept the shields in locked cabinets. If Paul could show Duncan he knew how to use a shield-

A conspiratorial smile came to his face. With a shield, Duncan would have no good reason not to begin his combat training. The Ginaz swordsman might even cheer him on for his ingenuity.

With that pllan in mind, the young boy turned off the filmbook viewer and slipped out of his chamber, careful not to make a sound as he padded along the gray stone hallways towards the closest training room. The cupboard that housed the shields was only loosely padlocked; shields were hardly the most dangerous things in this wing of the manor.

There was no key to be had nearby. Not that Paul expected one - it wouldn’t be nearly as impressive if he’d simply unlocked the cupboard with little fanfare.

Mother liked to repeat odd little sayings to him with an expression on her face that told Paul he really ought to understand them more than he did. He figured it was some sort of weird Bene Gesserit thing. Sometimes the sayings stuck; other times, they didn’t. “My mind controls my reality.”

He’d come to resent that one. It’s not like if he thought hard enough, Father would see him more often, Duncan would start his combat training, and Thufir’s games would come easier.

The padlock was standard, with knobs and buttons that had to be arranged in precisely the correct pattern and order for it to open. Each time it closed, the pattern and order would change.

Paul had opened these dozens of times if he thought about it.

In his hands, the lock came apart quickly. The remnants were put to the side softly so no servant walking past could hear him rummaging in the cabinet.

Some of the wrist units were dusty, old things probably made in the year he was born. The new shield units were… there!

He reached out and grabbed one that looked like it might fit.

Paul was far too intent on measuring his prize to his wrist to hear the barely-there sounds Duncan made as he snuck up on the boy.

“Paul.”

The swordmaster’s voice, low and rumbly, scared him. Paul tried to hide his instinctive twitch, but from the self-satisfied look on Duncan’s face, he hadn’t succeeded.

Oh no. The shield. The Atreides retainer had already seen it in his hand. He tightened his grip on it and tried to square his shoulders to look Duncan straight in the eye. Much to his dismay, Paul had to tilt his gaze up.

His voice sounded tinny and high in response. “I got it, didn’t I?”

“I’m impressed. You did.” The older man made no move to take the shield from the boy’s death grip. Duncan looked at him sternly for one long moment. A fond chuckle followed, and he reached out to ruffle Paul’s hair. Paul hated it when he did that but could never duck out of the way fast enough. “And you thought stealing this would be a good idea… why?”

He set his jaw and tried for some of Father’s severity and larger-than-life presence. “I know how to use the shield. I’ve got one. You needn’t worry about my safety now, and you have to teach me how to fight.”

One of the man’s scarred eyebrows raised. “Do I?”

“You do!” Why wasn’t Duncan taking him seriously? “I order it.”

“Young master, when you can look me in the eyes without looking up, and your voice drops lower; I’ll consider following your orders. In the meantime, I only follow the orders of your father, the Duke.” The good-natured tone in his gruff voice did little to mitigate the sting of his words.

Paul slammed the shield down on the empty weapons table in frustration. “It’s not fair. I’m not a little boy anymore. And- and if you don’t teach me to fight now, when will I learn? How long do I have to wait?” No, it wasn’t enough for the swordmaster to chastise him like he was a baby. Of course, Duncan had to just stand there and not say anything back to him at all. The lack of response made the boy feel infinitely worse.

“For my father, the Duke, to decide I’m ready? He doesn’t- he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even see me every day.” Paul’s words hung heavy in the air between them, and he knew instantly that he’d made a mistake.

He’d gone too far to back down now.

The warrior broached the distance between them in two long strides.

His large, scarred hand clasped Paul’s jaw in a tight grip, forcing the boy to look up at Duncan’s face instead of staring, shamefaced, at his bare feet.

“You’re a good kid, Paul, so I’ll say this once, and we’ll be done with it. Duke Leto Atreides, your father, is the best man I have ever known. Everything he does, he does for the prosperity of House Atreides. For your prosperity.” Unbidden, tears began to form in the boy’s eyes. He did his best to will them to stop.

“You don’t know anything about what your father, my lord, has done. What he’s sacrificed.”

Even in Duncan’s grasp, Paul kept his jaw tight and shoulders back. His pride wouldn’t allow him to do anything else.

“The Duke may be too busy fending off the Harkonnens to chastise you properly, but I’m not. I’ve allowed you to be a little shit right now in my training room. Do not expect me to permit this behavior going forward.” His tutor let go of him suddenly, and the boy staggered back. “You will sit your studies. You will behave. You will learn how to fight when we deem you ready to learn. Above all, you will not disrespect your father like that again.”

Resentment bloomed in Paul’s chest, hot and heady. He tamped down on it with the control Mother taught him. “I understand.” The bitterness was replaced by painful embarrassment. How immature must he have seemed to the great Duncan Idaho, lashing out like the baby he professed not to be?

Father… Shame coated his throat. His father was out there somewhere in the Imperium, risking his life fighting Harkonnens, and Paul was here in his mother’s wing, throwing tantrums.

The swordmaster’s bearing softened slightly at the sight of Paul’s embarrassment and shame, scrawled plainly across his charge’s face. “I get it. I understand what you’re feeling.” Duncan clapped him on the back. “You’re the heir. One day I’ll serve you. Better you get that outburst out of your system now than let your father see any of it.”

The floor suddenly became very interesting.

He tucked his chin to avoid the older man’s regard.

“I don’t reward bad behavior. You know that. I am, however… impressed that you managed to get into one of the cabinets without the code.” Paul caught a glimpse of the shield in Duncan’s hand as he lifted his head.

He caught the shield band in one hand before he had even realized the man had tossed it at him.

“Get used to wearing that all the time, as we do. You’re smart. You’ll figure it out. We won’t be starting live edges. I will see you in this training room every day for practice on your sayaw forms. If you behave, we’ll spar with bokkens.” Elation ran through him. Paul had thought himself well and truly in trouble for a moment there.

Forms training every day was a far better outcome than nothing. He would make Duncan proud. And Father would be proud if Duncan gave him good reports on Paul’s progress.

The Ginaz swordmaster strode from the room. Before he exited, he stopped in the doorway. “Paul…” The boy could see no traces left of sternness left on his rugged, tanned face. “You’ll be alright, kid.”

Paul watched him go.

He thought of the filmbooks. Ecaz. Hagan. Arrakis. All the places he could go one day. Paul looked at the shield in his hand. He would do his best in the classroom with Thufir. He’d show Duncan that he deserved to fight with live edges. Resolution formed in the depths of his mind. Paul would surpass them all.

-

Mother had found him later that week in the same training room. Duncan left much earlier, while Paul elected to stay behind. Pattern after pattern, he whirled on the training mat, weaving around imaginary opponents. The sayaw forms were the foundation upon which the Atreides Eskrima rested.

His skinny limbs ached, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back under his loose tunic, but Paul kept going. Duncan had called the forms a type of dance. While he hated the dance lessons his mother kept him in, the rhythm of the sayaw forms was far more appealing.

A fight had the same beats as a live pulse, he’d found.

The new training regimen gave Paul something to do, a goal to work for. But when he wasn’t training with Duncan or struggling through Thufir’s mind games, the emptiness would creep back in.

Paul would watch filmbook after filmbook on the countless planets of the Imperium. Even anything with information of what lay beyond the Imperium. Anything but the hollowness of the Atreides manor.

Even the promise of live-edge dueling shortly did little to stave off the immense pressure Paul faced when he was alone with himself or the lingering fear that he would never live up to that pressure.

He attempted to take Duncan’s words about his father to heart. The bitterness that welled up inside Paul remained. The Duke deserved a better son, he thought. But he would have to make do with me.

When Mother came to him that afternoon, he could feel the tiniest bit of terror emanating from her serene countenance. Her face was calm as always - yet the slight razor-edge of her fear sent a chill down Paul’s spine. “Paul.”

“Mother,” the boy said, pulling out of his lowered stance to stand up straight, wiping his brow with the edge of his tunic.

She pressed her lips together. “Come. There is someone you must meet.” Without another word, his mother turned away from him sharply.

Curiosity and dread warred for dominance in Paul’s thoughts. His mother, Lady Jessica, was Bene Gesserit and fearless. What could frighten her?

Dutifully, he followed after her. Just as Duncan had taught him that week, he took extra care to make his steps as silent as possible.

The lady stopped abruptly in front of her presence-chamber. Paul could see his mother’s reluctance to enter, though she conquered that reluctance after a moment and pushed the door open. A slip of a girl sat on the bench by the far wall. Her face was blank and hollow under the light of the glowglobe. He thought she looked awfully skinny, even more so than him.

“Paul, this is Chryse. She will be joining our household as my new handmaiden, though she is still in training.”

The boy looked over Chryse once more. His mother rarely took on new handmaidens and always ones that came to her fully trained. Perhaps that knowledge should have put him on guard, but Paul somehow knew he had nothing to fear. The girl’s dark almond-shaped eyes, too large for her face, met his gaze.

He straightened up under her scrutiny. Paul wanted her to… be impressed. “Hello.” The boy tried for the deep resonance of his father’s voice but only sounded gravelly. He winced.

“Hello.” Someone else might have been daunted by the expression on Chryse’s face - like a frozen-over lake on Lankiveil. Lankiveil’s eternal winter was inconceivable to Paul. He’d only seen snow in the filmbooks.

Even around him, his mother’s own look never defrosted. The boy was used to it.

Lady Jessica stepped forward as if to come between them. “She will be joining you for some of your lessons. I’ve already spoken to Duncan. I hope you will come to regard her as a… companion.”

A new sparring partner! Well, that made the girl’s presence chafe less. Paul disliked his mother’s implication that he required a companion. He was doing just fine without one. Then an unexpected wave of giddiness swept away his dislike. Sparring with Duncan was unfairly one-sided. Paul enjoyed the thought that he could have an opponent against whom he might win. Maybe when she wasn’t attending to his mother or in lessons with him, Chryse would watch filmbooks with him. Paul could show her everything he knew. The girl might command his Sardaukar figurines while he fought her with his Atreides legions. He wasn’t entirely sure how girls acted typically, but his mother’s new handmaiden seemed like she’d be willing to play with him.

Thoughtlessly, he darted over to her and grabbed her hand. Paul dragged her with him as he skipped towards the door. Mother made an odd choked sound in her throat at the sight of the two of them, but he ignored her.

The girl stopped suddenly just before the doorway. He turned towards her and his mother. Why the delay? “Well, come on! You haven’t explored our wing much, have you?”

Chryse looked to his mother for a moment as if silently asking for permission. When she received a nod, the girl turned to look at him once more. “No, I haven’t.” Her voice quavered. To Paul, she sounded like she didn’t speak often. Weird.

“Let’s go!” His mother let them leave her chamber without any words in protest.

The younger girl’s hand was cold in his, but as her palm warmed, she began to match his tight grip.

 When Paul looked back to see if she was paying attention to him, he saw the slightest smile on her face directed at him.

Man tumblr was tweaking when I tried to post this the first time. I had three chapters of this story completed before I dropped it and I'm now writing the 4th. Thanks for reading!

Tagging: @redskull199987 @itsemy01 @blahzaiblahsheep @herebereblogs

[chronicowboy]

The ambulance carrying Chimney trundles away, and Hen retreats to where Buck and Eddie are huddled for a breather. She gives Eddie a light tap on the back as she joins them, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders in what she assumes is half reassurance and half leverage to keep himself upright.

Honestly, Hen is just impressed he's still standing. Its been one hell of a day.

"How'd he look?" Buck asks, face locked tight into careful neutrality.

"Well, he was cracking jokes with Julie." Hen smiles shakily, the feel of her best friend's blood on her hands making her skin itch.

"He'll be okay," Eddie tells them both, quiet conviction in his voice. "He's got too much to live for."

Hen watches the look Buck and Eddie share with curiousity. Its a loaded look full of unspoken words Hen could never hope to understand. But then Buck nods, his shoulders lose just the slightest bit of tension, and he turns back to the rubble.

"We've got more work to do," he says gravely. His eyes flicker to Eddie's hand where its pressed against his ribs. "You can sit this one out, Eds. I really think you should."

"We need all the help we can get, Buck." Eddie shakes his head and pushes off Hen to steady himself. "I'll take frequent breaks, but I'm not stopping until I have to."

Buck clenches his jaw, but before he can protest their radios crackle to life.

"Firefighter Diaz, do you copy?"

"Linda?" Eddie frowns, and Hen feels a sickening stone of dread drop right through her stomach.

"Eddie." Linda's voice wobbles, and Hen's chest tightens. "Eddie, I'm so sorry. I just got a call from Christopher."

For a moment, the scene goes deathly silent. Hen can only hold her breath and remember the way the world had dropped out from under her when she'd got the call about Karen's lab.

"W-what?" Eddie croaks, eyes wide and unfocused.

Hen reaches out to grab Eddie's hand, glances to see where Buck's comfort is, always the first one to be at Eddie's side. She knows its a mistake the moment she looks at him. Captain Buck has vanished, replaced instead by the sodden, dirty, bloodied Buck they'd found in the aftermath of a tsunami. Tiny, shaking, frozen with fear.

"Christopher was under the bridge when it collapsed," Linda carries on, words trembling. "He's stuck in there."

"Is he-" Eddie chokes back a sob, chest heaving with his breaths, and rolls his eyes up skywards. "Is he still on the line?"

"Yeah, do you want to talk to him?"

"Please," Eddie rasps.

But before Linda can patch him through, there's an almighty grumble like the earth itself is growling and another section of the bridge collapses in on itself.

Hen throws her arms out on instinct, unwilling to lose anymore of her team to this goddamned bridge, but its useless. Eddie's too weak with pain and shock to do much more than nudge her, and Buck's still frozen in place. But Eddie's scream. Well, that's not something Hen will ever be able to forget.

She'd thought the way he screamed Buck's name on the ladder had been bad. But now Eddie's half hunched over as he screams his lungs out, a thing so primal that Christopher's name is almost unrecognisable where it falls from his lips. Hen feels his grief all the way down to her bones as she catches Eddie before his buckling knees can hit the floor.

He's heavy, too heavy for her aching arms, and she looks to Buck for help only to find an empty spot.

"Please," Eddie whispers over and over, voice wet and raw.

Hen follows his gaze and finds Buck at the fresh wall of rubble, tearing chunks of debris away with nothing more than his bear hands. She blinks, expecting to find herself in darkness and soaked to the bone by rain, but Buck is screaming Christopher's name not Eddie's.

Hen lowers Eddie to the floor, propping him up against the car and making sure he has a clear view of Buck's frantic work. She turns just in time to watch Buck bark orders at a group of gathered firefighters, but then he's right back to scrabbling through the rubble and screaming his lungs out.

"Linda," Hen murmurs into her radio, "is Chris still with you?"

There's a pause. Too long. Hen squeezes her eyes shut tight.

"T-the call hasn't ended, but..." A deep breath. "He's not answering me."

Hen curses quietly to herself, sends a prayer up to a god she doesn't believe in, then turns back to Eddie, his eyes still fixed on Buck with something desperate and pleading. Her eyes drop, unable to stomach the expression of pure anguish on his face, and she finds Eddie's gloved hand wrapped around his St Christopher medallion.

She wants to promise him that Christopher will be okay, wants to promise him that he'll make it out the other side, wants to make a hundred promises that she absolutely shouldn't. But Hen loses her own voice when she thinks about how she'd react if it was Denny under tonnes and tonnes of bridge.

The next thing she knows, Buck is calling out for a gurney with a hoarse voice and diving into a hole in the wall of rubble. Hen wonders if he realises he doesn't have a helmet on or if he just doesn't care. She watches the small opening with baited breath, gripping Eddie's hand as tight as she can possibly manage.

Its a long five minutes before Buck emerges from the hole with a dust-covered body in his arms. The sob that bubbles out of Eddie is almost as haunting as his scream. Buck cradles Christopher against his chest like he's the most precious thing in the world as he picks his way through the chaos towards them. Sooner than Hen can comprehend, Buck is falling to his knees by Eddie's side, his own eyes glassy with tears.

"Hey, buddy," Buck chokes out, "told you I'd get you to dad."

"Chris," Eddie sobs, reaching out for him. Buck doesn't miss a beat, manoeuvring himself and Chris closer so that Eddie can hold his son without aggravating his injuries. "Hey, Chris. Hey, I'm here."

"Dad?" Chris mumbles weakly, but for the smile that breaks across Eddie's face you'd think it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

"Yeah, mijo, I'm here." Eddie shakes a glove off to brush the curls off of Christopher's forehead, and Hen waves the paramedics with the gurney over. "I've got you. You're gonna be okay."

Hen makes the mistake of looking at Buck again, and her eyes fill with sharp tears at what she finds. Buck, the gentle giant, cradling Christopher with the most care in the world, and looking down at father and son like they're the reason he's still breathing, his heart is still beating. Buck watching Eddie murmur reassurances to Christopher like he's just found faith for the first time in his life, like a resurrection, like this is why he came back from the dead.

The gurney breaks them from the moment, and Hen helps Eddie to his feet as Buck lays Christopher down. Eddie takes his hand the moment he's upright and he's staggering along with them to the ambulance before he's even steady on his feet.

Hen watches them roll Christopher into the rig, watches Eddie climb in after him, watches as Eddie turns to catch Buck's eyes just before the doors close between them. Hen doesn't have to know Buck and Eddie's secret language to know that that look meant thank you. She turns to Buck, a few steps in front of her, suddenly looking lost in all the debris. When she lays a hand on his shoulder, he clears his throat and sniffles before composing himself.

"Back to work," he mutters and then he's off again.

Hen hears her own voice echoed in her head: are you capable of being a father and walking away?

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Wow, I just came across this old post of mine. I didn't know that it didn't sell. The residence isn't that nice, but it can be decorated, the dinsaurs are the main attraction. The 2019 house, in Washougal, WA has 3bds, 2ba and they're asking $1.15M. They rent it out as an Airbnb.

Now, are these animatronic figures meant to be outside in the cold, heat, rain and ice?

This is the residence. The thing is, that what do vacationers do once they get here? Apparently, they can play w/the dinosaurs. They "are life-size motion controlled dinosaurs, they roar & move at the touch of a button, so much fun is to be had for all who seek adventure on this wonderful property."

I don't know if it's such a great idea, letting everyone and their kids play with these. They must be insanely expensive.

There are quite a few of them. Now, these are the original real estate photos from when it was first sold in 2018 for only $145K (that's incredible, but maybe it was just for the land). So, what do they look like now, after going thru at least 3 winters?

It was sold last January 2023, so the current owners haven't had it that long and it's on the market again.

This is the interior of the lodge. The most interesting decor is the big head. I would imagine that the vast area and high ceiling would be hard to heat, especially in the Washington winters. I don't care for the chandelier - doesn't really go with the theme.

The decor is kind of dull for a vacation house. It should be more fun and colorful.

Dining area.

There's a another sitting room through the double doors.

Full kitchen.

There's a side door out to the property.

Bath #1 is a shower room.

The 3 bds. and 2nd bath are upstairs.

Large room for the adults.

The 2nd bath is a shower room.

The other 2 bds. have bunks with trundles, so they sleep 3 each.

I don't know if I would want all the miscellaneous guests playing with the dinosaurs. And, do they get to also use the Jeep? I think that I would fix up the house and make it a residence.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/61-Joy-Ln-Washougal-WA-98671/249038340_zpid/?

[mysticstronomy]

WHERE DID MARS ATMOSPHERE GO??

Blog#441

Wednesday, October 2nd, 2024.

Welcome back,

New research suggests the atmosphere of Mars may be hiding in plain sight, having been absorbed by minerals in the Red Planet's clays. If Mars' envelope of gas did "go to ground" over 3 billion years ago, this could explain how Earth's neighboring planet became so different from our world, potentially losing its capability to host life.

Scientists know that the Red Planet wasn't always the arid and barren landscape that the Mars rovers Perseverance and Curiosity trundle across today.

Both of NASA's rolling robots have uncovered evidence that abundant water flowed over Mars early in its 4.6 billion-year history. But for Mars to have had liquid water, it must also have possessed an atmosphere to stop this water from freezing. The big question for decades has been: where did this atmosphere disappeared?

A team of researchers think that the answer has been under the noses (or the tracks) of Curiosity and Perseverance all this time. In a paper published in Science Advances, they argue that while water was present on the Red Planet, it may have trickled through certain rock types and set off a slow series of reactions that slurped carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere.

This would have then been converted into methane, a form of carbon, and locked up in the clay surface of Mars.

Scientists know that the Red Planet wasn't always the arid and barren landscape that the Mars rovers Perseverance and Curiosity trundle across today. Both of NASA's rolling robots have uncovered evidence that abundant water flowed over Mars early in its 4.6 billion-year history. But for Mars to have had liquid water, it must also have possessed an atmosphere to stop this water from freezing. The big question for decades has been: where did this atmosphere go when disappeared?

A team of researchers think that the answer has been under the noses (or the tracks) of Curiosity and Perseverance all this time. In a paper published in Science Advances, they argue that while water was present on the Red Planet, it may have trickled through certain rock types and set off a slow series of reactions that slurped carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere. This would have then been converted into methane, a form of carbon, and locked up in the clay surface of Mars.

"Based on our findings on Earth, we show that similar processes likely operated on Mars and that copious amounts of atmospheric carbon dioxide could have transformed to methane and been sequestered in clays," team member Oliver Jagoutz, professor of geology at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s Department of Earth, Atmospheric and Planetary Sciences (MIT EAPS), said in a statement. "This methane could still be present and maybe even used as an energy source on Mars in the future."

Working within his group at MIT, Jagoutz and colleagues didn't begin their investigation with Mars but with our own planet. The scientists were attempting to determine what geological processes drive the evolution of the hard yet brittle outer shell layer of Earth that encompasses the crust and the upper mantle, and is known as the lithosphere.

The researchers concentrated on a type of surface clay mineral called "smectite," which is very efficient at trapping carbon. Just one grain of smectite is composed of many folds in which carbon can sit and remain for billions of years without being displaced or disturbed.

Originally published on https://www.space.com/

COMING UP!!

(Saturday, October 5th, 2024)

"CAN HUMANS LIVE ON JUPITER'S MOON EUROPA??"

[honorarysimp]

Epilogue: Heavy with Hoping

series masterlist

(for those of you who want a happy ending)

Two Years Later

The rhythmic sound of the stock room door's latch clicking behind you fades into a soft hum as fluorescent lights flicker to life. A comforting chill greets your skin, a stark contrast to the summer heat outside.

A sense of familiar ease washes over you as you stride through the rows of shelves, boxes in hand. The motions of restocking the shelves are second nature, like a practiced dance. This is your comfort zone, a place where routine and solitude intersect, a silent sanctuary.

The hum of the lights rises and falls in volume as you make your way through the maze of shelves. The air is cool, and the faint scent of medical supplies lingers, reminiscent of countless hours spent here.

Each item finds its place on the shelf, its label facing outwards for easy recognition. Your fingers dance along the edges of boxes, slipping items into their designated spots with an almost unconscious grace. This is a routine you've repeated countless times, and the comfort it provides is grounding.

The repetitive hum of the stock room is interrupted by a sudden gruff voice that echoes from the open doorway. "Hey, quit taking your time in there! We need to get moving or you’ll be late!"

The bluntness of the voice jolts you out of your routine. You glance at your wristwatch, realizing that you've been lost in your own world of restocking, minutes ticking by without notice.

You roll your eyes, a mix of resignation and amusement tugging at the corners of your lips. The final supplies find their places on the shelf, neatly organized. As you dust off your hands and turn to face your boss, Earl stands there, tapping his foot impatiently.

There's no need to ask if he's ready to leave; his impatient demeanor makes that abundantly clear.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you boss”.

You can't help but muse about how your boss, Earl, fits the description of an impatient old man perfectly. As you hang up your lab coat, you hear his gruff response.

"If you bothered to fix that damn car of yours, I wouldn't have to play the part of your personal taxi driver."

Earl's bluntness is always to the point, no sugarcoating, even when he knows it’s not your fault why your vehicle is in the state it is.

You trail behind Earl as he leads the way out of the supply room and through the main pharmacy area. As you walk, you offer a half-joking remark, "you know, if you really hated playing taxi driver for me, you wouldn't insist on mentoring me to take over this store someday."

Earl shoots you a sidelong glance, his expression a mix of irritation and amusement.

The fresh summer air contrasts with the coolness of the pharmacy as you step outside, closing the door behind you. Earl trundles to the car, fumbling with his keys as he walks.

Taking the moment to yourself, you lean against the door and reflect on the journey you've shared with Earl. You recall the countless hours working side by side, his gruff but knowledgeable guidance shaping you into a competent pharmacist.

Never did you think you’d end up here, giving out drugs to people to help them rather than an illegal means of surviving.

So what if you don’t have the schooling or degree? You’re probably the most knowledgeable person in a hundred mile radius that’s willing to be underpaid just to stock shelves.

Or at least, that was how it started, and Earl just… started giving you more and more responsibilities. You never questioned it, and he never brought it up, and thus now here you are.

The trust he must have in you to entrust his life's work is not lost on you, and a wave of appreciation washes over you. Not only that, but the simple fact he took a chance with you what feels like just yesterday.

You’ve spent every day since doing everything you could to make sure he wouldn’t regret that decision. It’s turned your life around for the better, and you couldn’t be more grateful for the old grumpy man.

The low rumble of the engine breaks the momentary silence, signaling that it's time to get going. You take a moment to mentally prepare yourself for the storm of nerves and anxiety waiting for you at the engagement party, savoring the few quiet moments while you have them.

Earl's gravelly voice calls out from the driver's seat, a hint of anticipation in his tone, "you all set, or you planning on standing there all night?"

You roll your eyes at Earl's grumbling, a small sigh escaping your lips as you push away from the door. With a determined stride, you make your way to the passenger seat and slip into the car, shutting the door tightly behind you.

As you buckle your seatbelt, you mutter, "let's get this over with, old man."

Earl grips the steering wheel tightly, his eyes fixed on the road as the car begins to move. A few minutes of uncomfortable silence pass by before he finally breaks the ice.

"So, uh... what are you gonna do when we get there? You know... when you see her?" His voice is laced with an awkward gruffness, clearly struggling to breach the topic.

A soft, almost amused laugh escapes your lips as you look over at Earl. Despite his grumpy exterior, there's a glimmer of concern in his eyes. It's moments like this that remind you that beneath all the gruffness, he does care.

"You're actually trying, huh?" You reply, a trace of humor lacing your words, "I guess there's a heart under all that bark after all, old man”.

Earl grumbles under his breath, seemingly uncomfortable with the compliment "yeah, yeah, just answer the damn question”.

The light of the descending sun on the horizon dances across his aged face as he keeps his gaze fixed on the road, waiting for your response.

You take a deep breath, the air in your lungs becoming heavy for a moment as you reflect on the distance that has developed between you and Mabel over the past two years.

The lack of communication, the infrequent phone calls... it's like witnessing a rare astronomical event in your daily life.

The weight of unresolved feelings and words left unsaid sinks in, adding to the anticipation of the reunion ahead.

You give a nonchalant shrug, attempting to conceal the true depth of your emotions. "I've gotten over it," you assure Earl, though your words are tinted with a hint of resignation, “as long as she's happy, I'm happy for her."

It takes a conscious effort to keep the tone of your voice steady and unbothered, as if the matter is trivial. Deep down, however, the wounds of the past still ache, stubbornly refusing to heal completely.

As you sit in the passenger seat, the landscape of memories plays behind your eyes. The day you decided to let Mabel go stands out like a vivid painting in a gallery of recollections. You recall how she walked away, how the mutual understanding between you had made the decision feel almost inevitable.

Both of you had known that your paths were diverging, that the timing was all wrong. The pain of that realization, the weight of those unspoken words, lingers in your chest as the car carries you closer to the engagement party.

Earl brings the car to a halt in front of a familiar house, the neighborhood triggering a wave of nostalgia. He shifts the gear into park and turns to you, the gruffness in his voice softening slightly.

"You want me to come in with you?" He asks, a hint of concern in his tone. His gaze is fixed on your face, assessing what you could be feeling yet reluctant to reveal.

You shake your head, summoning a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. As you open the passenger door, you reassure him briefly, “I’ll stick with Rach and the boys. Just enough time to not seem rude when I leave early”.

Earl nods his understanding, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer. It’s as if he knows the toll this evening might take on you but respects your choice anyway.

Earl fidgets in his seat as you get out, a hint of discomfort on his gruff face. He clears his throat awkwardly and offers a gruff comment, “call me if you need anything”.

You lean in through the roll-down window, mustering another attempt at a reassuring smile. It feels strained, but you hope it communicates the sentiment. “Will do,” you reply, a tinge of resignation in your voice.

You pat the frame of the rolled down window a few times, a silent sign of appreciation for his support, before stepping back from the car. You raise a hand and offer a lighthearted salute as the car pulls away, disappearing down the road.

You take a moment to gather yourself, the silence of the evening sinking in as the taillights fade into the distance.

You stuff your hands into the pockets of your jeans, a subtle protective gesture you’ve always had a bad habit of, maneuvering your way through the open fence gate into the backyard. The sound of laughter and chatter grows more pronounced as you approach, hinting of an animated gathering in progress.

As you step fully into the backyard, you can't help but survey the sea of familiar faces, nodding and responding to the occasional greeting. The scent of the grill wafts towards you, mingling with the sounds of laughter and conversation. It's a familiar scene, but the atmosphere seems different tonight, charged with anticipation, and a hint of melancholy.

You continue to scan the crowd, the flutter of your heart betraying your composure. Internally, you chide yourself for being so apprehensive, but the truth is you're searching for her. Yet, she remains elusive. The unease in your chest intensifies as you fail to spot her among the gathering of familiar faces.

Your eyes land on Nunes, and a genuine smile spreads across your face as you approach him and the lovely woman at his side. The sight of their happiness eases some of the tension in your chest, and you move toward them with a newfound sense of warmth.

As you draw closer, you offer a heartfelt congratulations, “Nunes, you motherfucker! I still can’t get over how great the two of you look together”.

Nunes and his fiancée brighten up as you approach, their faces lighting up with joy. Nunes grins widely and exclaims, "You made it! I didn't think you'd come”.

Without wasting a moment, he clasps your hand and draws you into a quick, warm hug. The familiarity of the greeting is both comforting and bittersweet.

You return the smile apologetically as you pull away from the embrace. "I wouldn't have missed this for the world," you reply sincerely.

His fiancée Jamie, still radiating happiness, steps forward and surprises you with a brief but warm hug. There's a sense of familiarity and acceptance in the gesture, further easing your nerves.

Her cheeks flushed with joy, turns to you and says, "I'm so glad you came. Rachel mentioned earlier that you were coming."

She then playfully smacks Nunes on the arm, likely in response to his light-hearted teasing.

You chuckle and rub the back of your neck, your eyes subconsciously scanning the crowd once more. With a hint of distraction, you offer an absentminded apology, "sorry for being late. I was helping Earl with inventory and stocking the new delivery."

Your focus is torn between the conversation and your search for her presence in the crowd.

Nunes, sensing your distraction and its cause, gently nudges you with his elbow. His expression softens into a sympathetic one, and he utters quietly, "they aren’t here yet."

His tone is laced with understanding, likely sensing your tension and anticipation. The news isn't an unwelcome one, giving you a bit more time to mentally prepare before the inevitable reunion.

You express your gratitude to Nunes with a more genuine smile, and he responds with a reassuring pat on your shoulder.

He and Jamie then move on to chat with other guests of theirs, which you’re happy to exempt out of. Now left alone, you make your way through the crowd, your mind still spinning with thoughts and anticipation.

You're on a mission to find your sister-in-law, Rachel, hoping her and the boys’ grounding presence will help to calm your nerves.

Moving through the throngs of people, you scan the faces, trying to find Rachel. The noise of the gathering seems to fade into the background, replaced by the thrum of your own heartbeat. You're desperate for her comforting presence, a calm in the storm of emotions you're feeling.

Eventually, you spot her near one of the food tables, casually chatting with some mutual friends.

A wave of relief washed over you as you approach, and the moment Rachel spots you, she smiles warmly and politely ends her current conversation. She rises to greet you, wrapping you in a familiar and reassuring hug.

Rachel's arms envelope you in a warm embrace, her presence alone providing a modicum of comfort to your overactive mind. Her smile is genuine as she pulls back, a knowing look in her eyes. "I'm glad you decided to come," she says, her voice a gentle and soothing balm to your anxiety.

You respond with a shrug, your hands instinctively seeking solace in your pockets. However, Rachel catches the action and you quickly cover it, offering a casual excuse, "I wasn't going to miss it."

Her eyes narrow slightly, aware of your nervous gesture. She knows you too well to be fooled by your attempt at nonchalance.

Rachel looks at you for a long moment before saying, "the boys aren't here, by the way. They're staying with their grandma tonight."

Her words hit you like a wave, and your shoulders sag visibly at the news. A mix of disappointment washes over you, leaving you a jumble of emotions.

You pout dramatically, making a sound of mild protest. "Boo, why am I even here then?" you grumble in a playful yet petulant tone.

Rachel laughs and smacks your chest lightly in response, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Stop," she teases, gesturing for you to follow her as she heads towards the keg.

You follow along, Rachel's playful banter helping to elevate your mood. However the habit is hard to shake, and you find yourself subconsciously scanning the crowd again. Your gaze darting from face to face, searching for the one person you're simultaneously wanting and dreading to see.

Your momentary distraction is broken when Rachel suddenly shoves a cup into your hands. A reflexive “shit" escapes your lips as beer foam spills over the rim, splashing your hands. You hiss as the cold liquid dribbles down your fingers.

Rachel continues to serve herself a beer from the tap, her smile full of laughter. She glances at you with a mixture of amusement and sympathy as she questions, "did she not tell you when they were going to be here?"

Her words hang in the air, the implication obvious. She knows you've been waiting for her, and her question gently prods at the delicate nature of the situation.

You switch the cup to your drier hand, shaking off the excess beer from your wet one. In response to Rachel's question, you offer a nonchalant shrug, accompanied by a sarcastic mutter, "what do you think?"

The question is rhetorical, the answer obvious. Mabel's lack of communication in the days leading up to the event is painfully apparent.

Rachel rolls her eyes and lets out a soft huff, her sympathy clear. She knows the strained state of your relationship with Mabel, and her concern for you is palpable. Taking a drink of her beer, she regards you with a firm yet gentle look “you ever going to talk to her about it?"

You remain silent for a beat, sipping your beer. Rachel observes you carefully, her gaze lingering as she continues, "you know she's graduating next week, right?"

You don’t comment on the fact Rachel still keeps tabs on Mabel and how she’s doing.

The mention of Mabel's impending graduation punctuates the tension in the air. There's a loaded pause before you finally respond.

You mutter, "she's mentioned it," your voice tinged with a hint of resignation. Then, the thought of potentially attending the graduation crosses your mind, followed by the uncertainty and doubt, "I don't know if she'll want me there—"

Rachel looks at you with an ‘are you kidding me’ expression, her disbelief obvious. She interrupts you before you can continue your self-deprecating thought.

"Don’t even play with me right now. Seriously?" she inquires incredulously. "Of course she’s going to want you there," her words are firm and confident, as if she can't believe you're even questioning such a thing. Her expression is a mix of disbelief and annoyance, almost insulted on both your behalf.

You can't help but smile, a mixture of bittersweet nostalgia and comfort washing over you. The fact that Rachel still dotes on Mabel after all these years despite everything that's happened, is a bittersweet reminder of the complicated ties that binds you together. It's simultaneously heartwarming and unsettling, the back and forth of the dynamics between you.

About that moment, a voice rings out from the crowd of partygoers, calling out to Rachel. She turns her head in the direction of the voice, her expression conflicted as she glances between you and the person calling out to her.

You take a sip of your beer, offering a reassuring smile and giving a slight tilt of your head, silently telling her to go.

As Rachel backs away, mouthing an apologetic ‘I'm sorry’, you wave your free hand dismissively. She lingers for a moment longer before reluctantly turning to disappear into the crowd.

You shove your free hand into your pocket, subconsciously repeating the nervous habit. Your gaze once again scans the crowd, searching for any familiar faces.

A swear rolls out in a muttered expletive as you start moving through the sea of people. You're determined to find someone, anyone, that you can talk to that’ll keep you occupied.

You force on a few polite conversations, exchanging pleasantries with people you recognize. Your phone feels like a weight in your pocket as you sneak glances at it here and there, hoping for a message that never comes. After about an hour, your social battery starts to drain.

The chatter and forced smiling are becoming harder to maintain, and the waiting game is taking its toll on your patience.

A brief eruption of cheers from your left draws your attention, and your stomach drops as you spot Tom entering the backyard.

And right behind him, Charlie.

The sight of them together has a jolt of adrenaline coursing through your veins, a mixture of nerves and anticipation.

Your breath catches in your chest as you wait for her to follow after, your heart pounding wildly in the silence. A moment passes, then another. She doesn't appear. Confusion and disappointment wash over you, replacing the expectation with a pang of unease.

Where is she?

Your gaze meets Charlie's for the first time in almost two years, and a pang of guilt and regret hits you. Your history together wasn't exactly marked by animosity, you both are civil after everything, but friendship wasn't the most accurate description either. He is dating the one woman who holds your heart, after all.

Your gut clenches, a mix of emotions flooding you as you lock eyes. Time seems to stand still for a brief moment, the weight of the tension hanging between you both.

To your utter surprise, Charlie nods in acknowledgement, his eyes then looking past you as if searching for someone else. The gesture is unexpected, leaving you slightly baffled.

The action leaves you a bit puzzled — perhaps he's searching for someone else, or maybe he doesn't want to engage in a conversation.

You shake off the feeling, watching as Charlie vanishes into the crowd of people. The sudden wave of emotions washes over you, making you feel overwhelmed. You decide to detach yourself from the crowd, taking refuge alone for a moment.

Setting your still-full beer on a nearby table, you quietly slip away, the music and chatter from the party becoming a distant hum behind you.

As you make your way around the house, the sounds of the party fades into the background. The vehicles line the street, and as you reach the front, you find yourself in a familiar place. Your thoughts are consumed by a single, repetitive question.

Why didn’t she show up with Charlie? Where is she?

Your fingers tremble slightly as you retrieve your phone, and your heart thumps wildly in your chest as you locate her contact. The internal debate rages on— do you call her, text her, wait for her to reach out first?

Your heart jolts in your chest as your phone suddenly rings, and a mix of shock and anticipation washes over you. Seeing her name flash on the screen makes your stomach twist in nervous knots— a strange coincidence, as if she knew what you were debating in your mind.

There's a moment of hesitation as you stare at her name on the screen, a battle of hope and fear warring within you.

After what seems like an eternity, you finally swipe the screen to answer the call. Your heart is racing, a million thoughts swirling in your mind as you lift the phone to your ear.

The sound of her voice, her familiar tone, washes over you like a wave. The first words out of her mouth, “took you long enough" ring through the phone, prompting a mixture of relief and disbelief.

A laugh escapes you in response, and almost unknowingly, your gaze begins to sweep the street.

"That's rich, coming from you” you reply, a mix of amusement and annoyance in your tone as you stride across the front yard towards the street. "You're late," you add, the words carrying a hint of tension. Your steps quicken, propelled forward by the mix of emotions that the phone call has set ablaze within you.

The evening air feels charged with anticipation, the sound of crickets and the distant murmur of the party a faint backdrop to the steady thump of your heartbeat. With the phone pressed to your ear, you continue your stride, your gaze still darting around the street, searching for any sign of her.

Her voice over the phone is slightly sardonic, and she responds something along the line “fashionably late, as always.”

You stifle a smile at her cheeky remark, finding it inexplicably endearing. As you step into the middle of the street, the sound of your footsteps on the pavement echoes around you.

You pose the question, curious about her absence alongside Charlie. "So, I noticed you didn't show up with Charlie," you comment, trying to keep your tone casual.

She responds over the phone with a hint of mockery, "Oh, you noticed that, did you?"

A smirk forms on your lips as her sarcastic reply rings out through the phone. Your eyes wander upward, taking in the beauty of the setting sun.

The vibrant colors in the sky momentarily distract you, but her cryptic response snaps you back. You respond with a mix of irritation and curiosity, "don't bullshit me, sunshine. What are you playing at right now?"

Her voice continues on the phone, saying "we have a lot to talk about" at the exact moment you hear a car door open just down the street. Intrigue and curiosity flicker in your eyes as you hear the noise, and without thinking, you pivot your head in its direction.

Your heart skips a beat as your gaze falls upon her, the long-awaited moment finally arriving as you drink in her familiar features.

Those captivating brown eyes and the smile that has haunted your thoughts, it all comes rushing back. She’s as beautiful as ever, and the sight of her makes your breath catch in your chest. It occurs to you then just how much you craved this, how much you missed her.

As the sight of her hits you, your body reacts instinctively— a mixture of relief, excitement, and an overwhelming surge of feelings you couldn’t quite describe washes over you all at once.

Time seems to slow, and for a moment, the world recedes into a blur, leaving you and her alone in this instant. The sound of the party fades, replaced by the rush of your own heartbeat in your ears. It takes every ounce of willpower not to run to her.

Your smile widens as she closes the car door and ends the call simultaneously. The sight of her approach, coupled with the act of hanging up, triggers a powerful mixture of emotions. Your heart thumps wildly in your chest, and you feel an almost magnetic pull towards her. Summoning all your willpower, you begin to close the distance between you two, forcing your feet to move forward.

The setting sun casts a warm glow on her figure, emphasizing her natural beauty. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, but even in that casual style, it’s effortlessly perfect. As she approaches, her dimples and freckles stand out against her sunkissed skin, enhancing the natural radiance that seems to emanate from her.

Your arms extend outward, a mixture of disbelief and joy etched onto your face. Your words hold a deeper meaning as you utter "what the hell, dude?"

The phrase carries a heavier weight, beyond just the surprise of her impromptu appearance. It’s a question of all the moments of doubt, the days of missing her, all packed into one bewildered question.

Mabel’s eyes light up with a familiar grin you thought you may never see again, reminiscent of the first time you met years ago.

She almost skips the final few steps before launching herself into your waiting arms. Her legs and arms wrap tightly around you, and you instinctively catch her, holding her close. Being so close to her, feeling her warmth and being surrounded by her scent, stirs up emotions you’d almost forgotten.

Who are you kidding? You couldn’t forget even if you wanted to.

You keep her securely in your hold, spinning around with her in your arms. Her joyous laugh rings out, filling the air and igniting a spark of warmth in your chest.

Holding Mabel like this, you can feel every movement, and it brings back memories of all the times you’ve longed for this closeness. Your chest aches with a mixture of emotions, both bittersweet and exhilarating.

As you slowly set her back down, her hands gradually glide down from around your shoulders and come to rest upon your chest. Her face is flushed, cheeks rosy, and the smile she gives you is significantly softer. Gazing at her, her eyes meet yours, and your heart clenches involuntarily.

Her voice is hushed as she utters a soft "sorry," a simple word carrying an unprecedented amount of unspoken significance.

The memory of all the times you’ve longed for her to come back rushes through your mind, but in this moment, those past years of missed chances and lost contact are suddenly unimportant.

You murmur a response, your voice tender and heartfelt, responding with a simple and honest "me too."

Her lips part slightly as she wets them, a hint of uncertainty in her expression. You can sense her hesitation, struggling to find where to begin. Though amidst her nerves, she surprises even you when the first thing that spills from her lips is, "Charlie dumped me."

The statement takes you off guard, and surprise flashes across your face. Confusion worms its way into your thoughts as you begin to understand why Charlie arrived alone. Trying to make sense of it all, you ask, "wait, what? Why?”

Her fingers absentmindedly fiddle with the fabric of your shirt, an unconscious motion, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. As she speaks, her gaze momentarily averts to the side, her voice far too calm as she reveals, "he broke up with me at the end of my freshman year last year."

The revelation hangs in the air, and your heart sinks upon hearing her words. The fact that she's kept this to herself for an entire year tugs at your emotions.

Why didn’t she tell you?

Your expression softens slightly as you process the information, and you gently urge her to continue with a quiet "why?"

Her hesitation is evident, and you notice her cheeks caving slightly as she chews on the inside of one. She takes a deep breath and starts with, "he was pretty convinced my heart wasn’t in it, that it never would be”.

Mabel’s gaze then meets yours, a quiet determination laced within the myriad of emotions in her eyes. Her voice trembles a little as the final words leave her lips, "he was right."

The weight of her words hangs in the air, and suddenly, everything feels heightened— the sound of your own heartbeat, the feeling of her hands on your chest, the distant background noise— all of it blending into a moment of heightened awareness.

As the pieces fall into place, a sense of both understanding and terror washes over you. Every moment spent apart, every missed opportunity now glaringly obvious.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, your hands moving to cover hers. Your eyes never wavering from hers, a moment of stillness in the midst of it all.

Instead of asking the more important questions, softly, you murmur, "you live, and you’ll say the wrong things… do the wrong things… make so many mistakes, but… people will love you anyways."

Your heart beats furiously in your chest, which you’re sure she can feel under her palm, each word carrying a silent plea for her to understand the depth of your feelings.

The evening air seems to still, a shared moment crackling with intensity as your words linger between you. Your hands encircle hers, a silent reassurance that you are there, that you care. Your eyes locked on hers, searching for any sign that she understood the message behind your words.

Mabel’s eyes, already holding a mix of vulnerability and hopefulness, soften even further as they remain fixed on yours. A flicker of doubt flashes in them, but your words seem to spark some sort of silent realization. A breath catches in her throat, and her gaze trembles with a surge of emotions that she attempts to keep buried.

For a brief moment, you see a hint of understanding, the walls she’d built around her heart slowly beginning to crack. Mabel’s voice is barely a whisper when she finally responds, "I think I was waiting for you, I think I always was”.

Your eyebrows draw together in a slight frown, confusion and surprise lacing your expression. A mix of hope and uncertainty mingles within your mind, and the question escapes your lips.

"What do you mean? Waiting for me for what?" Your voice is softer, a hint of curiosity and bewilderment in your tone.

Your mind struggles to piece together her meaning as she says, "I wanted to finish college first, I didn't want to risk the distance hurting us, now it won’t."

That’s why she didn’t tell you? Or, maybe you should’ve known, but how could you have? Considering how little you two have talked.

The response, classically Mabel, is both perplexing and strangely logical. The reasons she gives make sense, in a roundabout way.

It's a mixture of caution and a desire to find the right timing, and somehow, it resonates with you.

But then the words sink in, rolling around in your mind, and you start to understand. Two years ago, you allowed her to walk away for a reason. You didn’t want to rush things, to risk losing her.

It gave you both the time you needed.

And now, hearing her own reasons, it all clicks into place. She wanted the same thing, to do it right with you. The realization strikes you like a wave, a quiet surge of hope and conviction taking hold in your heart.

Despite the hope and conviction swelling within you, a hint of humor seeps into your voice as you respond, the corners of your lips curled into a smile.

Your voice is soft and bittersweet as you whisper, "that’s selfish."

The words come out slightly broken, tinged with a hint of resignation mixed with affection.

Her laugh, soft and melodic, rings through the air. Her hand rises to gently cup your face, and the slight tremors in her touch send tingles down your spine. As she replies, there's a hint of vulnerability in her voice, but she owns it with a simple admission.

"I know."

The words, spoken with a mixture of acceptance and defiance, hang in the air between you.

Her voice starts to express her apologies, the words of needing you to know and the regret at taking so long flowing out of her. But your hand rises swiftly to cut her off, gently but firmly covering her mouth. The action is instinctive, a silent plea for her to let you speak.

You intercede with a simple, firm response, a playful tone underlying your words as you start with, "don’t."

Before she can say anything more, you give her a playful look, and she instinctively swat your hand away. The gesture is lighthearted, a silent confirmation that she gets it, that she understands not to linger on apologies.

As you continue, your fingers gently brush away strands of hair from her face, a natural gesture betraying your desire to be near her. You casually follow up with “how long will you be in town for?”

The question is laced with a hint of subtle pleading, hoping the answer is not ‘a few hours’ or ‘a few days’.

Mabel’s response hits you like a punch to the gut “just the weekend" she says, and your heart sinks in your chest. A mixture of disappointment and resignation washes over you, the reality of her limited time here settling in. Yet, even as she gives you a somber but knowing smile, you can't help but appreciate her honesty.

Her voice breaks through your thoughts once again, a quiet hope in her question. "I was wondering if I could crash at yours while I’m in town... if that's okay?" Her eyes meet yours, silently pleading for your acceptance.

The request takes you off guard, but only for a moment. Your heart skips a beat, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips.

This. This is your Mabel. This is who you fell in love with, who you’re still in love with.

In truth, both of you already know the answer before it can even be spoken. The answer is a silent yes, a silent invitation to come closer, to be with you as long as she can, as long as she’s willing to linger.

To stay.

Your hand tentatively reaches out, gently taking hers, and she allows you to clasp it in yours. With a soft tug, you begin leading her back towards the party, your voice breaking through the moment.

"Come on, everyone’s waiting," you say. It's a simple statement, a reminder of reality, but also a silent admission that things may have changed, but life still goes on.

But maybe, just maybe this time, that isn’t a bad thing.

Her laughter rings out, a beautiful and familiar sound, as she easily interlaces her fingers with yours, falling into step beside you. Her voice carries a hint of playfulness as she responds, "can't they wait a little longer?"

The question is light-hearted, a hint of a tease in her tone, and the feeling of her hand in yours sends a jolt of electricity through your veins.

As your gazes meet, a moment of silent understanding passes between the two of you. You can see it in her eyes, a mirror of your own thoughts.

It's almost painful how well you can read each other, how you both just get it, how instinctively you know each other even after so much time has passed. The look, shared silently, says more than words ever could.

Mabel gives your hand the most subtle squeeze, a silent ‘we’re going to be okay’.

There is still so much to talk about, so many things to work out, but at least for now that’s promised. Time has allowed you both to grow, to heal, to find your way back to each other.

But deep down, you knew that was never a doubt, if anything it was merely a matter of time.

So you reply, giving her hand a gentle squeeze that coveys ‘I know’.

____________________________________________

You lay back on a creeper, its metallic frame rolling slightly as you work on the underside of your car. The familiar scent of motor oil and metal fills the open garage, along with the faint sound of the radio playing in the background.

With each movement, you tinker with something, but your focus is split between the task at hand and the subtle but unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching.

Your heart skips a beat as you hear her distinct voice give a soft "hey" just loud enough for you to catch over the music.

Turning your head, you catch a glimpse of her distinct boots at the front of your car, right where your legs stick out. Mabel’s presence alone is enough to make your heart flutter, and a small smile tugs at your lips.

You should hate how easily you’ve gotten accustom to having her around again in such a short amount of time. But you don’t.

You chuckle softly as you feel her boot nudge the creeper just to the side of your thigh. A moment later, the bottom of a beer bottle suddenly appears in your line of vision, hovering just inches off the ground. She knows just how to coax you out, knows just how to get you to take a break.

With a smile, you give in. Grabbing a bottom porting of the car frame and scooting yourself out from underneath it.

As you stand up, your eyes meet Mabel’s, an instant connection sparking between you. The grins that form on both your faces are goofy, but endearing all the same. As you take the beer, you purposefully stand a little too close, the proximity igniting a subtle current of electricity between you two.

You raise the beer in a silent thank you, your gazes locked on hers. She meets your gaze intently as she taps her bottle against yours.

The gesture feels intimate, a quiet agreement that proceeds to hover between you. You both take a long swig from your bottles, the taste of the cold beer mingling with the undeniable tension in the air.

The last two days with Mabel staying at your place have been a mix of familiar comfort and restrained electricity. There's an unspoken agreement between the two of you not to push anything, a mutual understanding that the timing needs to be right.

However, you’re pretty sure you’re both starting to get impatient.

You both navigate around each other, dancing around the lingering feelings and unsaid words as you both relearn one another. Even the most mundane tasks are imbued with a charged energy, a silent acknowledgement of the connection between you.

Every coincidental touch, every glance, carries a weight of unspoken desire and longing.

Mabel breaks the tension by clearing her throat and gesturing towards your work in progress. Her voice is soft, a hint of admiration in her tone as she speaks.

"It's really starting to come together," she says, her gaze taking in the sight of the car.

The break in the tension is subtle, yet palpable, the small act of interest shifting the focus away from the magnetic pull between the two of you, and towards the tangible thing in front of you.

You take a moment to collect yourself, your gaze shifting from her to the car. You nod in agreement, your voice holding a note of determination and acceptance. "It won't be the same," you admit, "but that's alright. It just makes more room for something new."

Mabel looks at you, her perceptive gaze catching the underlying meaning of your words. Her response, delivered casually with a sip of her beer, is playful, yet hinting at a deeper understanding.

"Does this mean I need to invest in another sticker for your dash?" she asks, a smile tugging at her lips. The comment hints at a memory of a time when even a simple sticker held heavy significance between the two of you.

You look at her, sipping your beer before resting it on your tool bench. A subtle smile plays on your lips as you respond, "well, that depends. Are you reclaiming my passenger seat?"

Your voice is light, but there's a hint of challenge in your words. It's a playful jab, a reminder of the space she once occupied in your vehicle, both physically and metaphorically.

She mirrors your action, setting her beer down and crossing her arms, a determined look in her eyes. In response to your question, Her eyes fix on yours, pinning you with a look and her response comes quick and assured, "well, that depends. Are you coming to my graduation next week?"

The question hangs in the air, a challenge wrapped in an invitation. More so, it’s a silent plea for you to be there, to be a part of her milestone moment.

In the past, you might have made her work for it, given her a hard time for not being explicit. But this time, things are different. You know better now, you've changed, improved. The urge to be playful, to tease her, is still there, but you don't act on it.

Only now, you see past your old charade and respond with "Mabel, you already know that I'll be there” your voice is firm, sincere. It's a promise, a silent affirmation of your dedication to being there for her.

That you won’t make the same mistakes.

Her eyes widen, a soft, vulnerable expression flickering across her face. It's a subtle change, a glimpse into the deeper emotions brewing beneath the surface.

You've noticed it happen more and more as you two are reacquainting yourselves with each other, and the sight of it tugs at your heartstrings.

Or just maybe, she’s realizing more and more just how much you’ve changed, how much you’ve grown.

The vulnerability, the honesty in her eyes, speaks volumes silently, echoing the connection that's reforming between you both.

Your response is laced with honesty as you continue, "I'll be honest, I wasn’t sure if you wanted me there, just with how things were before”.

The words are a direct, candid admission of your doubts about your presence at her graduation. You lay bare the uncertainty that has lingered, a reflection of your complicated history.

Your eyes meet in a moment of intense chemistry, her lips parting to reassure you, but before she can utter a word, you jump in to finish your thought.

"That was before," you say, "but now? Not even God himself can keep me from you”.

Your declaration is spoken with an air of finality, an unwavering promise that no force could prevent you from being there for her.

Mabel's emotions get the better of her as she moves closer, her gaze searching yours intently. In a whisper, she utters words you never thought you’d hear come from her mouth: "I consider myself lucky”.

The words hang between you like a tangible thing, the weight of them echoing in the space around you both and wrapping around your heart. The vulnerability in her voice, the sincerity in her eyes, leave no doubt to the depth of her feelings.

Mabel's voice softens further, the intimacy between you growing like a living thing as she speaks. She draws closer, the words falling from her lips like a benediction.

"Somehow, I manage to exist within your time of being. I stand on the same ground as you. I breathe as you breathe."

The rawness in her voice, the intimacy in her gaze, feels almost like a declaration, a confession of her connection to you, woven into the very fabric of time and existence. Every word is filled with a profound and unspoken meaning.

Driven by the intensity of the moment, you make a bold move. Your fingers find the belt loops of her pants, and with a gentle tug, you pull her forward closer to you. Mabel, in response, smoothly steps into the gesture without protest. The action feels natural, like a dance that your bodies can still remember by muscle memory alone.

She looks up at you from under hooded eyes, her gaze heavy with a mixture of emotion. Her hands come to rest gently on your abdomen, the fabric of your motor oil and grease-covered shirt bunching in her grasp.

It's a gesture filled with familiarity, and from the way her fingers clutch the fabric, it becomes apparent that some things haven't changed. The act of touch, of grounding herself to you, feels natural, comfortable.

Mabel's voice is soft as she looks up at you, her hands idly tugging the fabric of your shirt.

In a quiet, vulnerable tone, she asks, "you gonna to stick by me?"

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with the weight of all that's happened and unspoken. It's a question that she's been silently asking all this time, a need for reassurance as she holds your gaze intently.

The question itself is simple, but the weight behind it, the hope and uncertainty, is palpable.

Your fingers involuntarily tighten on her waist, holding her just a little closer. You respond without hesitation, your voice steady "ride or die, right?"

Her lips quirk at the cheesy catchphrase, "ride or die," she repeats regardless, the words carrying a weight you both know all too well. Her hands, still grasping the fabric of your shirt, give a faint tug, pulling you even closer.

Pushing up on her tiptoes, hesitantly grazes her lips against yours, the contact fleeting but electrically charged. Your response is immediate, your lips parting involuntarily, as if they too are responding to the pull of hers.

A rush of thoughts, feelings, and emotions fill your mind– the familiar yet thrilling sensation of her touch, the unexpected tenderness, the connection that still thrums like a heartbeat beneath it all.

She draws out the moment, her lips lingering just millimeters from yours. A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth as she brushes her lips against yours again, a playful comment falling from her lips.

"If you still taste like motor oil," she teases, her voice a low whisper “I’ll fucking kill you”.

You respond with a smirk, leaning in to fill the gap between you. "You never minded it before," you murmur against her lips, your voice rough with suppressed desire. Your response is instant, a retort fueled by the chemistry between you.

The words are a statement, a fact that holds more weight than either of you can acknowledge right now. Before Mabel can respond, you're unable to hold yourself back any longer. You close the remaining gap between you, claiming her lips with yours after so long apart.

Mabel responds without a beat, her fingers burrowing into your hair at the base of your neck as she pulls you down even more. Her kiss is hard and full of an undercurrent of desperation, as if she's been yearning, aching for this moment.

The kiss is filled with a hunger and intensity that speaks volumes of the emotions bubbling just below the surface for you both. It's a kiss that screams of missing you, of needing you.

The kiss is electric, a rush of sensations and emotions that feels like art made flesh. The taste of her, faintly sweet with a hint of beer, reminds you of a summer rain after a hot day. This kiss, this moment, is the culmination of longing and desire, finally merging into something tangible and real.

The softness of her lips, how her teeth graze your bottom lip, the way her tongue invitingly curls into your mouth. The heat of her breath against your skin is a familiar, yet thrilling sensation that feels like home.

This time, you’ll both get it right.

Because a door means nothing, when a person is your home.

And now? You’ve both come home.

previous.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Shadows at Dawn

Summary: After surviving Cranstead Fields but haunted by it's trauma, Billy finds comfort in the allure of alcohol and blurred faces of the women he's been with, desperate to find something that feels good | Word Count: 3k~ | Warnings: smut, alcohol abuse, trauma related behaviour, emotional distress, casual sex

A/N: based off the song 'Good Luck, Babe!' and the Billy brainrot continues 😅

The dreaded banner of a text at the top of his mobile phone screen stole his attention.

Mum: Billy, love, please ring me xx

Billy stared at the message, the screen's glow harsh against the dim light of the bus. He hadn’t been home much lately, hadn't seen much of anyone who knew him before it all went wrong. His mum’s words weighed heavily on him as the bus trundled through the city, a mix of guilt and defiance brewing in his chest. He knew she was right to worry. He was spiralling, his life a blur of lost weekends and forgettable faces.

Every unreturned number, every empty morning was another stamp pressed into an already soaring depression. He set the phone down, resolving to ignore the message, just as he had ignored the signs of his own unravelling.

He felt awful at first for ignoring his Mum, knowing that she was just worrying, as mothers do, in their own loving way. But there was a tight squeeze about her love. Almost controlling in its intentions, as if she had nearly let her son slip from her grasp once and didn't want to let it happen again.

But he'd had enough of screaming matches with his Dad every time he went over for a chat and a cuppa. Not that he expected him to understand the flurry of anxiety and self-hatred that marinated in his head.

It was the same script every time anyway.

Always 'I know it's been hard but you need to get yourself on your feet' and 'you had something stable and good with Becky and now look at you now that she's gone'. When really, Becky had been the one to insist that it was all too much for her after Cranstead, his sleepless nights, his fearful eyes at the slightest sound that pulled him back into that car on the hot July afternoon, were all seemingly beyond the compassion and care she was willing to give.

Billy had known it was over the second her eyes shifted from comforting and caring, to unnerved and weary. And it was all downhill from there.

As he turned away, watching the smear of red and amber street lamps as the bus clanged over a speedbump, a flicker of memory from the previous night came unbidden. Her face blurred, the girl from the club, looking at him with the usual detached amusement and fleeting interest. It was unsettling how a simple look could feel like a lifeline thrown into his roiling sea of numbness.

An interest from someone, whether marred by the effects of alcohol or not, felt like a small victory. But she was attractive, and in the moment, her willingness to be with him had been enough.

For a while, it made him feel something, anything other than the pervasive numbness that had become his constant companion. It was a shallow, fleeting sensation, a reminder of a life where not every emotion was dulled or darkened by the shadows of his past.

This spark, however minimal and fleeting, was a small victory. It wasn’t about her, not really, it was about the feeling of being seen, of existing for someone else, even if just for a night.

Billy had developed a habit, almost ritualistic in its regularity. Each time he left the club with someone, as morning closed in on that spark once again, unable to face them when they woke up, he’d scribble his name and number on a scrap piece of paper, leave it at their bedside and disappear to wallow in the inevitable shame that would soon follow after. It was an offer, a possibility for something more, something beyond the heat of their bed. 

But morning after morning, his phone remained silent. No calls, no messages. Each non-response solidified the growing emptiness inside him. It was as if with every unreturned call, the world reaffirmed the futility of his attempts at connection. These gestures, meant to bridge the gap between loneliness and companionship, seemed to only widen it. He began to think perhaps that he was just as forgettable as the nights he’d left behind, and wondered briefly what the point was in surviving Cranstead if this was the life he was supposed to lead after.

This cycle had become part of the bleak rhythm of his life. He wondered sometimes why he still left his number, why he continued to make a gesture he knew would likely be ignored. Perhaps it was a test, a way to keep proving to himself that he was still trying, still reaching out despite the numbing predictability of disappointment.

He needed to feel like he was still making an effort, otherwise the spiral would quicken even further. It was akin somewhat to feeling drunk, just not the nice kind.

Billy walked into the pulsing heart of the club, the thudding bass mirroring the beat of his heart, as familiar and oppressive as the tightness in his chest. The strobe lights sliced through the smoky darkness, the smell of cheap perfume and sweat humid in the air. Billy slipped into the crowd, his movements automatic and practiced. He had perfected the art of seeming available but never truly being present.

He approached the bar, ordering a drink he didn’t really want. As he leaned against the polished surface, his eyes scanned the room, not in search of someone specific but out of habit. The faces blended into one another, each one a potential story, a possible escape from his own spiralling thoughts. Yet, he made no real effort to engage. It was easier, safer, to remain aloof.

Billy knew the type of girls who gravitated toward him. They were often drawn by the same melancholy that pooled in his dark eyes, mistaking it for depth or perhaps recognising it as a kindred spirit in their own reflections of loneliness. His height and lanky frame, combined with the perpetual shadow of sorrow that draped his features, painted the picture of a troubled soul, romanticised in a way that was both alluring and cautionary.

As if written from a script, a girl who'd been separated from her mates leaned beside him in some dark corner of the club, leaning against the wall, a double vodka and coke sipped through a tiny straw, and big eyes looking up at him as if they were in the privacy of a bedroom already.

She was exactly his type, or rather, he was exactly hers. Billy could see it in the way she tilted her head, her gaze sizing him up, as if she could peel back the layers of his façade with just a look. There was an undeniable appeal in that recognition. Here was someone who did not need him to smile or pretend. She sought the mystery in him, even if it was only for a quick, interesting fuck.

He thought with some hatred pointed inwards, that that was all he was good for. For a girl to brag to her friends the next day about this mysterious, romantically sad creature she'd let have several minutes of heaven between her thighs.

And after the initial excitement had faded, he would once again fade into ambiguity. Nothingness. Nothing more than just a subject of a story that he had both not heard, and yet somewhat at the butt of a joke he didn't know about.

“I'm doing my PhD this year. I feel like one of those in between girls, half of my mates are married with kids and buying houses and the other half are drunk getting pissed and shagging anything with a heartbeat-”

Billy listened, nodding along, but his responses were sparse. He couldn't shake the feeling of performing.

She spoke about herself, too hazed with alcohol to ask him about himself. Or perhaps it was that she wasn't particularly interested in that. She seemed interested in him, or at least, she imagined herself in bed with him later.

As the night wore on, she continued to monopolise the conversation, filling every silence with stories and questions. She seemed to latch onto him, her laughter a bit too loud, her proximity a bit too close. Billy recognised he was a few drinks deep, like her, and feeling dizzy, but half aware at the same time.

"I swear I’ve seen you somewhere," she insisted, the third time she'd said it that night, squinting as if trying to place him in her memory. "Were you at that concert last month? Or maybe at the park during the summer festival?"

Billy shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Just one of those faces, I guess," he murmured, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned by her fixation.

She hummed, a playful glint in her half-lidded, tipsy eyes. After a sharp grimace at the harsh taste of the vodka dregs in her glass, she set it aside and leaned closer, her voice a sultry whisper.

“Fancy coming back to mine?”

Billy didn't even feel the tug of impulse. He just did as he had always done, and left with her.

Her apartment was a small, unremarkable space, sparsely decorated and functional. As soon as they entered, she tossed her keys on a table and gestured vaguely towards the kitchen. “I’m just going to grab something to drink. Make yourself comfortable, I guess.”

The transition from the club to her bedroom was brisk, businesslike. And as he walked to her bedroom, he instinctively pulled a condom from his wallet and shoved it into his pocket so that he wouldn't have to awkwardly find it later.

The sex was just as unremarkable. 

Actually, no.

The sex was okay, serviceable but largely fueled by the alcohol coursing through their veins, which lent an exaggerated intensity to their movements. Their mutual inebriation made them more enthusiastic than the encounter warranted, each responding more to their own heightened sensations than to any real chemistry.

At least this made him feel something.

In the humid air, he watched with a dreamy gaze as they changed positions and between ragged breaths, her breasts moving with every push into her, she slurred.

“I know where I recognise you from…” she started, “...didn't I see you on the news a few months ago…”

Though Billy didn't stop, the question hit him, overshadowed the buzz of intoxication and jolted him back into a brief moment of complete sobriety.

She'd recognised him from the Cranstead Fields coverage.

His heart beat rattled with a guilty rhythm, not from the shame of this soulless one night stand to boost his fractured confidence, but from the sudden intrusion of his other life into this detached moment.

Instead of forming a reply, he pulled her towards him by a hard grip at her waist, lifting her as he renewed his anxious energy into sex, hoping she wouldn't either bring it up again or remember.

And as she moaned loudly, throwing her head back, he closed his eyes in relief and attempted to focus on the feeling creeping up his spine. But the seed of discomfort that had been planted wrestled with his pleasure, and when he finally let out a choked whimper and came hard into the condom, it didn't feel the same.

It was hollow, this feeling. Like shame.

That was the first time Billy started not leaving his name and number. Even leaving her apartment the next day, the embarrassment and vulnerability he'd felt when she'd asked, haunted his eyes and tortured his already withered soul.

He no longer kept track of days of the week, only doing so by how busy or empty the local clubs and pubs were on any given evening. The place where Billy could find some semblance of belonging, even if it was to find some girl who looked at him the right way, now felt like a shackle. Casual sex became a monotonous task. Each time chipped away at him and became less and less effective, like growing resistance to a drug.

The usual pleasantries, once peppered with the possibility of future contact, were now clipped, impersonal. Billy moved through these spaces like a ghost, visible but insubstantial, his presence noted but not remembered. He'd always introduce himself, but doubted they would actually remember who he was.

The girls’ faces, names, voices. What were they anymore? They changed so often, and usually the only sound that came out was a faked moan.

The highs of sex were no longer enough to calm the worsening storm within. Alcohol became its counterpart, often holding hands and guiding him through drunken conquests. And though his performance was heavily affected, he could not bring himself to care. 

One Sunday morning felt a chip more peaceful than the average day. After another gruelling phone call with his Mum, Billy felt the shame and guilt nibble at the edges of him. The worry in her voice had made him briefly think, paired with the unusually sunny autumn day, that he should get out and let the warmth kiss his skin for a change.

Although, Billy wasn't perfect. He found himself at the local pub not 20 minutes later at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, moving towards the bar area, fishing in his wallet for his card and licking his lips, thinking of the pint he was about to have and how it would calm the flurry of anxiety in his heart. Even if it was brief.

A young woman rushed in to stack the glasses, hair up and bright faced. An employee he didn't recognise as his regular barmaid, but recognised her from somewhere he couldn't place in his mind.

She smiled warmly, in a way that made his heart flutter.

“Sorry about that. What can I get you?” 

He found himself just standing there, silent, for a long moment. His brain ticking away, trying to pin her in his memory.

“U-uh, just a pint of house lager, please..” he replied quietly, looking down to avoid her eyes, non-judgemental and kind. 

He watched in his periphery as she pulled the pint, eyes vaguely roving over her as if against his will. There was something familiar about the curve of her hips, the slope of her neck. Had he been close enough before to see these details?

She places it in front of him, and smiles, narrowing her eyes playfully, “I know you,” she muses, “Billy, right?”

His heart skipped. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Panic tightened its grip as he feared the worst connection. She knows Cranstead Fields. Shit.

"U-uh—" he stuttered, scrambling for an explanation or an excuse. But her next words cut through his panic. 

"Don't worry, I'm not holding a grudge about you sneaking off. It happens, right?" Her tone was light, dismissive of any offence. Relief washed over Billy, mixing with disbelief. 

"Yeah, I—Sorry about that. I didn't mean to, uh, leave like that," he managed, his voice steadying as the initial shock wore off.

She waved off his apology with an easy flick of her wrist, the ambient light catching the playful glint in her eyes. "Honestly, don't fret. We're all adults here, right?”

He let go of a breath, looking at her as if she were speaking some foreign language.

"Yeah…thanks for being so cool about it," Billy admitted, his guarded demeanour softening as he sensed no judgement from her. He ran a hand through his hair, a half-smile beginning to form. "It’s been a...well, it’s been a complicated time for me."

"Hey, no explanations needed," she replied, leaning forward on the bar, her tone reassuring. “We've all got our stories.”

"Right, right," Billy nodded, his response slightly halting as he processed her dismissal of the situation. He took a deep breath, feeling the tightness in his chest begin to ease, yet a trace of guardedness lingered. "I guess it's just been a while since I didn't wake up to some kind of drama."

She leaned against the bar, her posture relaxed and open, which seemed to soften the space between them. "Sounds like you could use more drama-free mornings," she said, her voice low and teasing. "Or maybe just better endings to your nights."

He chuckled, the sound more relaxed now, realising her intention was not to chastise but to lighten the mood. "Better endings would be a start, yeah."

"Consider this a step in the right direction then," she replied with a warm smile. She moved to pour another drink for a different customer, her motions fluid and confident, but her attention still partially on him. The casual ease of her demeanour helped dissolve some of his lingering tension, making the space around him feel less constricting.

Eventually, she tore off the receipt from the register, scribbling something on the back before sliding it across the bar to him. 

“Here’s your receipt, and a little something extra,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. Billy picked it up, turning it over to find her number scrawled in neat digits. “No sneaking off without saying goodbye this time,” she added, her tone playful yet sincere.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Billy responded, a genuine smile breaking through his usual reserved facade. He pocketed the receipt, feeling a lightness he hadn’t expected to find that night. 

His eyes lingered as she moved behind the bar, serving various customers, her smile ever-present and her laugh just as addictive. He felt a flip in his stomach, his skin tingling as if the sun had come out for the first time in the cold, long winter of his soul.

Billy found himself surprisingly content to just sit at the bar, watching the rhythm of her movements, the easy interactions she had with everyone. He sipped his beer, slowly, occasionally chiming in when she threw a casual question his way or made a joke that included him.

She’d loop back to him between orders, keeping him anchored to the moment, to the bar, to her. It was comfortable and unfamiliar in a way that both excited and soothed him. As the night waned and the crowd thinned, Billy found himself enjoying the lightness of their exchanges, feeling a spark of hope ignite within him. 

He willed the world to slow, even just for a while, so that he could keep talking to her, keep looking at her gorgeous warm face, to keep a little piece of who he used to be alive the more she eased her way into his life.

Perhaps, if someone could remember his name, perhaps he could start remembering himself too.

dividers by @cafekitsune

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[slippinmickeys]

The Unseelie Court (12/16)

As the clock drifted closer to 5:00 pm, the air in their office became a little thinner, a little less fraught. They had both come down from the excitement in Skinner’s office and had finally settled into a comfortable silence. One that Mulder eventually mustered the courage to break. 

“Do you want to come over tonight?” he asked, feeling somewhat sheepish. He could think of nothing better than spending a Friday evening with Scully, of waking up late, whiling away the day in bed for the whole of the weekend. 

Scully smiled at him. “I wish I could,” she said. “But I promised my mom I’d head up to Baltimore tonight. She committed to bringing the baked goods to St. Agatha’s on Sunday and I promised I’d help her bake.” 

Mulder’s heart fell and it must have shown in his face. 

“I might be able to get out of services if I tell her I have to work,” she said. “Maybe I can get back into town tomorrow afternoon.”

That would still give them an uninterrupted 24 hours. 

“I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“I’ll remember you said that.” 

***

“Do you remember Teddy Abernathy?” Her mother asked in a delicate tone that meant that she was meddling and was more than aware she was doing it. “He’ll be at church on Sunday, and I thought I might reintroduce you.”

They sat at Margaret Scully’s small kitchen table, having eaten a casserole and a simple green salad. Nevertheless, her mother had set out her good china, and a vase of cut hydrangeas overwhelmed one end of the table, the flowers having turned from pink to green in the light of the late summer sun. 

“Is he the one with male pattern baldness or the one with the weird underbite?” Scully asked cheekily, standing up to collect the two delicate plates and trundle them to the frothy sink. 

Maggie scoffed. “He’s the ophthalmologist with a summer home in Rhode Island,” she said tartly, reaching for her glass of chablis. “He’s also a very nice man.”

‘Nice,’ was usually Mom code for ‘devout.’ 

Scully began scooping the leftover casserole into tupperware so that it could cool. It wasn’t the first time her mother had tried to play matchmaker, but it was the first time she’d done so while Scully was in a relationship with Mulder. 

“Mom, I appreciate you looking out for me,” she said from the sink. “But I’m not in the market right now.” A spoon she was holding slipped from her hand and disappeared into the suds. 

It felt odd to be on her own after several consecutive days and nights spent in Mulder’s company. Coming to Baltimore had been a rapid depressurization from the immersion, and she found herself suffering a kind of nitrogen narcosis, fumbling her way through a conversation she didn’t want to be having, her fine motor coordination on the fritz.

“You work too much,” her mother went on. “It doesn’t have to be anything serious, but there’s no harm in seeing what’s out there. If you want a family—”

“Mom—” she said, the word coming out more sharply than she'd meant it to. 

Maggie pulled back, miffed, and Scully sighed and walked back to the table, sliding back into her chair with an eye to making amends. 

“I know you’re just trying to help,” she said, reaching out and giving her mother’s hand a brief squeeze. 

“I shouldn’t have mentioned your having a family, Dana,” Maggie said, accepting the olive branch. “That wasn’t fair of me.” Scully pressed her lips together, remembering her mother’s reaction to Emily. “It’s just–I want you to be happy. I want you to have a full life. Dating someone can—”

“I am dating someone.” She wasn’t sure why she said it. Maybe to just get her mother to stop, maybe because it was nice to actually say out loud. 

Her mother’s face changed from one of concern and sympathy to pleased curiosity. Scully instantly knew she should have kept her mouth shut. 

“How did you meet?” 

There was no getting out of it, now. 

“Work,” she said, standing up once again and busying herself, grabbing the last of the dinner dishes to take them over to the sink. 

“Dare I hope it’s a charming prosecutor with his sights set on the gubernatorial office?” her mother joked. 

“It is not,” she said, knowing she was committed now to having this conversation. 

“Is it—” her mother started, and then stopped. “Oh. Dana.”

Scully turned to her mother, confirming her suspicions with a look. 

Margaret Scully took a deep breath and then set her glass of wine onto the table with calm precision. 

“How long?” she asked. 

“Not very,” Scully answered, leaning back against the countertop. 

“And does he make you happy?”

Scully didn’t have to think very long before answering. “Yes,” she said, her head dipping down to look at the floor.

“He loves you,” her mother said, a statement. 

Scully nodded, unable to meet her mother’s eye. 

A moment later, Margaret was standing in front of her, had reached out and had her hand on Scully’s cheek, lifting her head so that she could look her in the eye. 

“Loving a man like that…” her mother started, then sighed. “I knew a lot of Navy wives. A lot of Navy pilots. They were all good men, but some of them…some of them flew too close to the sun.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “Be careful.”

***

Discomfited, Scully retired early. She wanted some time to herself, and she was also expecting the blood test results on Daly Carmichael from the state crime lab. She fired up her laptop, but nothing had yet come in. Maybe tomorrow. 

Her mother’s guest room was an amalgamation of furniture from each of her children’s past. The wardrobe in the corner had been Charlie’s, the dresser, Bill’s. She lay back in the brass queen bed trying not to think about all the nights her sister had slept in it. 

Without really thinking about it, she grabbed her phone and called Mulder. He picked up after the first ring. 

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm as soft flannel. “You make it up there okay?”

“Yes,” she said. “The beltway was a nightmare, but I got here in time for dinner.”

Her mother’s house had a quiet, homey atmosphere, insulated from the greater world. It gave an air of being muffled and warm, where the loudest thing was the ticking of a mantle clock and the oven light gave a reassuring yellow glow even at midnight. It was a place that always smelled like paraffin wax candles and roast chicken, a place that felt like a hug the moment you stepped into it.

“How’s your mom?” Mulder asked politely. 

“Good,” Scully said, settling back to listen to the pleasant drone of Mulder’s voice. “She wants to set me up with an ophthalmologist.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad idea,” he said. “Your last firearms qualification score was 98. Not your usual 100. Might be time to upgrade those specs.”

“You’re a riot,” she deadpanned. 

Downstairs she could hear her mother turn on the dishwasher and moments later pad up the stairs and past Scully’s door. 

“Let me guess,” Mulder went on. “Upstanding churchgoer? Drives a Benz?”

“Catholic as the Pope,” Scully confirmed. “Not sure about the Benz, but he’s got a summer house in Rhode Island.”

“So do I,” Mulder breezed. “If that’s the sum total of necessary qualifications to date a Scully woman, I could—”

“I told her about us,” Scully interrupted him. 

“You…did?” he seemed genuinely taken aback. 

“It was either that or agree to an Italian dinner in Inner Harbor with a balding eye doctor.”

Scully imagined sitting across the table from a quiet-spoken and affable Teddy Abernathy. He’d make polite conversation and cover the bill, but he wouldn’t request a table so they could both see the door. He wouldn’t call her with a random bit of esoterica in the middle of the night, wouldn’t lift a string of barbed wire so she could scoot under, wouldn’t wordlessly hand over a Red Vine the very moment her blood sugar dipped below 70.

“You’re going to make your own decisions, but personally I would have taken the free branzino for a week or two before breaking the bad news to my mom. Prescription sunglasses ain’t cheap. And it’s not like you’d have had to put out. Good Catholics save themselves for marriage, you know.”

“Someone should have told me that a few weeks ago. Now I’m never getting into heaven.”

Mulder chuckled drowsily in her ear. 

“How’d she take it?” he asked kindly. 

Scully sighed, didn’t want to tell him that her mom had been a little reticent. “She’s worried Bill’s going to take a swing at you at Thanksgiving.”

“All I’m hearing is that it went well enough that I’m invited to Thanksgiving.”

“That’s your takeaway?”

“I’m an optimist.”

Scully smiled into the receiver and yawned. “Listen,” she said. “Mom and I are going to get started here early. I got out of Sunday mass. I was hoping to get on the road around noon.”

“You want to come directly here?” His voice was tender and rumbly. 

“I was told it would be worth my while,” she said suggestively.

There was nothing but hissing silence for a moment. She could picture him on his couch with his phone to his ear, the front of his jeans getting tight with pressure. 

“Shit, Scully.” 

She smiled. “I’ll call you before I leave, give you an ETA.”

“Okay,” he said, all his clever quips used up. 

“Goodnight, Mulder.”

She pressed the button before he had a chance to respond, smiling to herself. It was fun to be on the giving end of teasing for once. 

Looking one last time at the display on her phone, she frowned. It was nearly out of battery. And she’d left the charging cord she normally traveled with at the motel in Adrian County. Sighing, she turned off the phone in an effort to preserve whatever battery life remained. It would be an analog weekend until she got to Mulder’s.

***

Scully was frosting the final cupcake as her mother slid the last two pies into the oven. 

“You were always the most efficient of my children,” her mother said. “But that would have impressed even an admiral.”

Scully smiled and set the finished cupcake on the paper shopping bag her mother was using to receive them. It was 11:45 am. 

“Are you sure you can’t stay for the afternoon and help me carry all these into mass tomorrow?” her mother asked hopefully. 

“I need to get back,” Scully said, and her mother smiled knowingly. 

“How about I box up a half dozen of these and you can take them to Fox,” she said, nodding toward the cupcakes. 

“Mom—”

“I want to!” her mother said, all enthusiasm. 

She’d been downright chipper about Scully’s new relationship all morning long, no doubt trying to make up for her lack of enthusiasm the night before. 

“Let me grab one of the Christmas tins. I think they’re in the basement.”

Maggie was down the stairs before Scully could argue, and she heard her banging around and opening various boxes. 

Scully’s overnight bag and laptop case were packed and next to the door waiting for her. She’d slept terribly the night before, her rest beset by nightmares from the fairy grove. Not only had Mulder been branded in her dreams by the Unseelie courtier’s symbol, this time he had been chained to the tree, his two different colored eyes boring into hers. “Stay away!” he’d warned her when she tried to get close to free him. She’d startled awake and considered calling him, only to remember that she barely had any charge on her phone. 

Another bang echoed up from the basement.

“Mom, can I give you a hand?” she called down the stairs.

“No, I know right where it is!” came Maggie’s muffled voice. 

If the sounds drifting up the stairs were any indication, that probably wasn’t the case. Scully sighed. Then, eyeing her luggage, she grabbed her laptop and set it up on her mother’s kitchen table, figuring she had at least enough time to check her email to see if the Carmichael bloodwork labs had come back. Mulder would want her to walk him through them, even if they showed nothing. 

Sure enough, there was a new email waiting for her from the state crime lab. She opened the attachment and scanned the results, her brow creasing more and more as she read each line. 

“Found it!” Her mother said from the top of the stairs, startling her. She was holding a small Christmas cookie tin. When she looked at Scully’s face, her smile faded. 

“Dana?” she said. 

“Mom,” Scully said. “I need to use your phone.”

[jackiequick]

What If Bucky Barnes saved a life that day? | MARVEL Fanfic

Pairing: Jason Grey Underwood & James ‘Bucky’ Barnes

Setting: Flashback to December 16, 1991

Summary: It was a old winter night when a crash happened that would swirl the weekend for a world wind, as both eyes met in the chaos of it all. Becoming a interesting sight of secretive events. An old memory coming back to life?

Characters mentioned: Howard Stark, Maira Stark, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Elizabeth Stark, Daniel Sousa and Peggy Carter

Marvel Au fanfic

Warning: Angsty fic with some fluff

———

Gravel crunches under the tires of the Rolls Royce as it trundles up the country road. The Winter Soldier peers through the scope and adjusts his grip, his finger ghosting over the trigger. He's been in position for hours, has watched his targets for over two weeks before this. He knows their routine.

Inside the car sat Howard driving as Maria chatted on the phone with Peggy and Jason trying to figure out a way to nap quietly. Tony was at home he refused to go and stay with his godmother Peggy Carter instead.

This is the first day of a long weekend in the Stark Family country estate. They were meant to meet some people there in the upcoming weeks.

But no one will think to look for them until at least Monday.

The Soldier takes careful aim. If he misses, he will have to eliminate his targets individually. This is much cleaner.

He fires.

With the silencer, the shot is noiseless, but the blown tire is not.

The expensive Rolls Royce had been on the final turn before a wide country driveway. It skids onto the soft shoulder, and flips on its side to slide down a steep ravine. Having the family gasping for air, shielding themselves for comfort and deeply coughing as the car takes a spinal shock.

Screaming and yelling were silence soon enough. Groans can be heard from Jason squeezing his eyes shut as a trickle of blood ran down his forehead and a few shards of glass scarred around him, his pain increased. He felt dizzy, nasty feeling twirling in his stomach and his airways feeling like they shut down for a moment.

Snapping in and out of consciousness at whimpering and soft yelling he recognized. However you could’ve sworn he was dead by his chest not puffing.

Carefully, the Soldier packs away his rifle and makes his way down the slope, dragging piles of dry brush behind him. No one will see the wreckage from the roadway.

The Soldier sees that the woman has been ejected from her seat. Maria Stark. She is dead. He mentally crosses her off his list.

Ripping away the car door from its hinges, he peers inside. Howard Stark trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth waking up in soft mumbling, alerting the others in the car.

Howard Stark opens his eyes, glances over an somewhat conscious Jason as he looks at the Soldier. There is no anger or fear in his gaze -- but something else. Something that gives the Soldier pause. This is not an expression he has seen from his targets before.

Jason’s eyes flickering open falling onto the Howard, before looking at The Solider in pain, trying to search for his gun under his seat.

He locked eyes with the Solider seeing right into his soul. His steel blue eyes deep in an unknown word he can’t trace. The pain behind the lifeless face he gave, pausing at their actions. He doesn’t pull his gun on him, one bit. It was unspoken line between both parties.

"Bucky," Howard muttered. His hands fumbling weakly at his seatbelt, but his gaze is unfocused and vague. Dying, Jason knows it. But he hears his friend say, "Don’t hurt my son if he’s next…”

The word rattles around in the Soldier's head for a few moments without purchase. Jason waits for him to make a move, trying to figure out what happened that his last breath hasn’t come. But nothing.

Howard however takes a battling breath, then his shoulders lower. He dies with his eyes half open.

His attention snaps back at his words, knowing he meant every word as Jason weakly kicked open the door. The Solider finished the job for him tugging him out of the car, scooping up the blondes hand in his. Both men locked eyes once again, confused about the quick actions.

He could snap his neck, pull a gun on him or something.

In the Soldier's pocket is a lighter -- the authorities will assume the fire sparked from the car crash and caught dry brush. The flames will cleanse all evidence he was here.

Bucky... don’t hurt my son if he’s next..

Finish the assignment, the Soldier thinks. However a part of himself couldn’t murder the blonde. He didn’t have it in him to do it. None of them would know. He wondered why the man didn’t say a word to him yet, just staring at him a glint of trouble in his eyes as he felt his hand.

Jason just he recognizes those blue eyes, allowing the man to grab his bicep now as the other was occupied by a handheld gun trying to comprehend why he wasn’t dead yet. Then it hit him, his target included him in the flesh with the dog tags around his neck or at least his wristwatch, for extra evidence of his job being completed.

His eyes wet as all he could do was follow the instructions the Solider—Bucky—gave him. Then he turns and walks into the forest with him. The Solider’s work is not complete. He will be expected to end him.

It's only then he realizes he doesn't want to. His memories felt like they were split in two when they reached a hotel. Jason told him before entering that they will need to straighten up they’re hair and clothes, coming up with a cover story to tell the recipients. Bucky refused to comment on the request but eventually gave in.

An odd couple who needed to stay the night and thankfully she brought it.

Once entering the hotel room, Bucky finally let go of his bicep not realizing he might’ve left a bruised on the blonde. The room was somewhat cozy with beds, the lights were deemed reasonable, tiny kitchen, table with chairs and a bathroom. His eyes flicker titled his heads getting a better look at the man who sat down in one of the chairs.

It rattled Bucky’s brain at the moment seeing him again in full lighting, having not seen him in the longest time. He hasn’t aged a day! It pained him as he watched his movements, trying to remember the night they met. It came in patches across the entire trip here. The memories.

That night and the morning afterwards. It stunning. His smile and glimpse of joy in his eyes.

Everyone dressed in their finest whites and browns laughing teasing one another across the room. But Bucky’s eyes stayed that weekend on the blonde man chuckling with his buddies sharing a beer. With Howard Stark.

His pals were having fun. So, all he wanted was some alone time with the man, ready to enjoy himself and he did.

His voice brought him back to the present day.

“You can take a seat, you know? Get comfortable. I’m not your handler or anything. You took me as your hostage tonight. And for what, Bucky?” He said, his tone was calming but slightly bruised feelings. Tired and hurt.

“Okay..” Bucky replies softly taking a seat, unzipping his suit a bit to allow himself to breathe, “…my mission seems to not be complete. I was expecting to end everyone in that car.”

“So why didn’t you? For the last half hour I have been trying to comprehend why you did pull the gun on me? We were in the forest, you could’ve done it..”

“Because I couldn’t. The look in both of your eyes…I didn’t’ want to. Why didn’t you defend yourself, hmm? The whole time you were silent.”

“I couldn’t defend myself assuming your actions, so I waited for you to make your decision. Now your keeping me safe, why?”

“I don’t know..”

“Yes you do. You don’t remember right? But when my—Howard said your name…you paused. I saw a look in your eyes, you regret it. You heard what he said about his son and you paused. Then looked at me.”

They locked eyes again. Jason hitched a breath, his eyes scanning every feature his face. The look of confused as if he wanted to admit something but couldn’t due to his orders. But he didn’t need to know why he murdered, the only other man to look at with such kindness and the women who took him into her heart with so much love.

The dead know everything. He would just have to accept that one day, but that didn’t mean he decided to not get a swing at Bucky for his actions. He just needed some satisfaction, some answer. By the second swing to the face, his body crumbled in pain from accident. The brunette guided him back to his seat holding his wrist.

He glared feeling weak as he looked up at Bucky again. Some urgency in his face to tell him. Both men knew it. It was silent. It was only then Bucky’s mouth opened and shut, hesitate to say it even though both men knew it all too well. He remembers all of it.

~~~~~

Hours came and went. Jason went on to take a shower after Bucky did. It was a kind offer. It was his only time to actually think.

He was flabbergasted at the sight standing underneath the water that fit his face. In that room held the face of the man he didn’t expect to see. He remember it all too well.

That weekend after that mission, he just met Howard thinking he would never see that man ever again in his life. But he was very wrong! Jason had tears in his eyes missing him so badly, the smell of his cologne still in his nose.

He remembered Howard and him being brought up to a bar. The 107th and 106th gang was there. He was talking with his buddies, along with Howard who was more interested in the bartender. She was hot.

But his eyes fell onto the one of prettiest brunette around. Sergeant Barnes.

Hell he would’ve dated him.

Honestly Jason always had a thing for brunettes since he had Howard and Violet but he loved Angie more than his life itself. As well as his darling Maria, he loved her so much.

Damn the respect people, including himself had for that man.

He remembered both men chatting afterwards enjoying each other’s company. Laughing and teasing one another every once in a while. He looked at him with such kindness and respect. It felt good.

Then he remembered the words that kickstarted the rest of the night and morning after.

Hey, Barnes stole a jeep! Yelled Howard so loudly half of bar heard it.

Next thing he remembered was all three of them riding across the streets, dropping the genius off once he saw the bartender from earlier clocked out, leading him and Barnes alone. The two rode off into the night, passing through street lights and stores glancing over at each other every so often. It felt like a breath of fresh air, laughing the whole time.

They talked about life after the way, family they were waiting for them, and hopefully new opportunities to take upon once it all over. Seeing each other again and heading to vacation for a while. He asked Bucky if he had a lady waiting for him at home and his response was a simple no. Jason remembered his eyes perk up hearing that teasing him on any lady would love to have him.

He remembered the jeep coming to a stop near a park bench on a high hill. Nobody around, just pure sliver dollar silence as the cloudy skies cleared up to reveal the moon and stars. The smell of the flowers and air as he followed the brunette up the hill, sliding over to seat next to him at the benchmark and nice autumn breeze that blew past them.

The way Bucky teased him asking if he had a chance with a girl. His reply was a honest, ‘No, i don’t know if i will settle anytime soon.’

‘Why not?’ Was his response with a smile.

‘I feel like I forgot what normal is meant to be.’

‘I get that. I feel like I didn’t really know how to live before.’

‘Hmm. Maybe, we shouldn’t settle for normal.’

The next morning. It was a sight to see. The sun was coming up, the orange light turned the field into liquid gold shining down on both men. Bucky’s head rested on his shoulder as his hand placed on his shoulder snoring softy. His own head nuzzled against the brunette humming in his sleep, waking up as the sun hit his eyes.

Jason smiled at the memories.

Since it was weekend full with sightseeing, training with his pal and meeting new ones. Sneaking off with Bucky and Howard to the stores then heading off to the restaurants for a quick bite. It was a delightful surprise how comfortable he felt about Barnes, the sweet warm in his eyes and the charming smile that he portrayed everywhere they went.

———

But now in that very room sat the brunette with longer hair, deep blue eyes and a body language that said an unknown things. He barley cracked smiled however he remembered it all. The memories that were made and he actions he took.

To anyone who knew Bucky Barnes, would say he was a bit of a distant distraction from the normal life. He dated plenty of men and women in his time. Always had a thing for people with a respectable background. Something he would come to apparently appreciate in the future.

His mind flew back to that weekend with Underwood. The laughter they shared, the drinks, the running from the bar onto the jeep that night and the hopes to see one another again.

Bucky even gave the man his number and a cheeky wink before he took off to return fight the war.

But he didn’t get the chance to call him. Or even received a phone call since he fell off that train…

The last thing he remembered before waking up to that laboratory full of scientists was dreaming about that weekend. That smile and laughter that escaped Jason’s lips. The grin he gave everyone and the wink he returned to the night.

God! If he wasn’t in this situation, he would run over to the blonde and tell him everything he knew.

But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t. He spared his heart by letting him live.

Bucky Barnes cared way too much to murder the man who gave him, a lifetime of memories.

He felt stupid.

But he shouldn’t. He deserved to smile. To see the man he cared for again.

“Bucky..?” Asked the blonde, coming out of the shower with wet hair and a white t-shirt giving him, a gentle smile.

“Hmm.” He responded, sucking a breath flickering his eyesight towards him.

“What’s going on that pretty little head of yours? You can tell me..”

“I um..you won’t like what you hear…i can’t..sorry.”

“I can tell enough. Your working for the other side against your will..you’ve been manipulated by them. I don’t know why you killed my..doesn’t matter.”

“…did you love ‘em?”

“Yeah..with all my heart..”

“I’m sorry..I’m so sorry.”

Bucky stood up, he wanted to run. He tried to escape the room, his hand was on doorknob as his voice hitched. He was tired. Annoyed. Sad. Hurt. He looked over his shoulder to look back at the blonde.

The kindness in his eyes. He paused, letting go on the handle as he turned around to face the man. His head dropped in sorrow, facing the floor as he felt light fingertips crawl up his chin, lifting his head to meet the green eyes. Bucky wouldn’t admit it but he missed the starving touch of someone’s warmth against his cold face.

That comforting gaze that would soften his cheeks.

His blue eyes met the green eyes once again. He wanted to let his shoulders fall but he feared it would show weakness. He wanted to let out a sob, but he feared he would let his guard down. But he wasn’t with anyone who would hurt him.

He hoped that Jason wouldn’t try to hurt him, yeah sure he killed his friend however, he could see something else in his face. Sorrow and compassion. Comfort. He was in a vulnerable position.

They both were.

Jason didn��t think he would admit the words that slipped his lips but they did.

“I’m not gonna hurt..i can’t blame you for what you did. It wasn’t your fault. You hear me Bucky? It wasn’t your fault...i just missed your voice..i wish i gotten your call..” The blonde admitted with a soft gaze.

He needed to hear those words.

The brunette shoulders finally fell as his guard fell down, tears slowly shaking down his cheeks. He wouldn’t expect forgiveness for what he did, but he gotten caught up in a tingled mess. Bucky’s head fell onto Jason’s shoulder as the blonde run a hand across his back, whispering softly to his ear that he wasn’t his fault.

Never was his fault. It was a guilt they would be have to carryover until the end of time.

He’s not the villain here, he’s the victim of a crime scene. He didn’t want to do it, but he knew the whole mission had to be done.

And now, here he stood in the arms of the man who showed him some kind of love. Compassion. Reassuring words. Kindness towards him after all the mistakes he did.

He wasn’t in stupid Russia. He was in the arms of someone who treated him like a human. Not a weapon to be experienced with.

“I missed you so many times…” Jason told him, his feelings were hurt but his heart was beating quickly for the brunette in front of him.

Feeling that reached up to the surface again after years of forgetting that heartbreak. It was a weakness inside him, when he looked at someone like Bucky Barnes.

Love? Was it some kind of love? Lust?

Possibly. It was a single weekend they both shared but it felt good. Freeing from the issues the world has been facing. A war.

Bucky eyes were pooled as a sob reckoned his body, he crumbled into Jason’s arms. He remembers the warmth and kindness theses are showed him that late night.

All he wanted now, was to faced him and beg for the blonde to help him with the hidden wound he tried to patch up eariler but failed to do so. However he knew he didn’t need to beg for help, he was already getting it. He was allowed to let his guard down for once in a long time.

It felt good, real good.

“J..JJ..I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry for what I did.” Bucky admitted with a chocked sob, “I didn’t expect to see you again after all theses years..and I have to return back soon…but I don’t want to..”

“I know you don’t…I know you have to return but when you do, I want to know that you survived so long and I’m proud of you. You did the hard part and one day you will get a better break..” Jason told him, trying to find the words to express how he felt.

“When..?”

“I don’t know when or how you will get a chance to breathe again but you will Bucky, all I could hope is for you to be happy one day...and for now, I’m going to give you one.”

“Huh? JJ I can’t let you do that..I’m already in so much trouble soon..”

“Let me fix your wound..like I used to?”

“I’ll like that…uh, are you okay?”

“I will be..”

Jason gently guided Bucky to the edge of the bed, waiting for him remove his jacket so he saw the badly cleaned wound. He found a first aid kit and started to clean it correctly, with such ease and gentleness asking if it stings every so often. Bucky started to smile down at the blonde who cleaned his wounds. He noticed the cuts and bruises on his face and arms.

Bucky winced as he softly muttered, “Sorry…”

“Don’t be..I’ve been though worse.” Jason said with a soft smile.

“You got better at this..”

“Yeah well, with the plenty of injuries I kinda had to..”

“You’ve been injured before?”

“Fights and missions in my own line of business..”

“How are you still alive?”

“Same as you, my body is frozen in time. But that’s a story for another time…”

“…are you uh, married? Kids?”

“Oh? Um, no. I couldn’t find anyone who could deal with my burdens. I mean I loved and lost before but i wouldn’t want anyone to suffer a lie that isn’t theirs..”

“Do i wanna ask?”

“I think it’s best not to. I mean, I’m not asking for anything about your line of work or lifestyle. We don’t need to talk about it.”

“Where are you going after this?”

“I uh, don’t know yet..I need to keep the wounds on and build another cover story. But I’ll figure it out later..”

“And now?”

This time, Jason looked up with a soft smile once he finished cleaning and patching him up correctly, as he shrugged. His green eyes burden so much hurt, love and confusion that carried so much depth behind that. Bucky would’ve loved to take that away, anyone would have given him a chance to breath during this time.

He doesn’t know what he did to describe or even deserve this one thing from him.

But sure as hell he was grateful for it.

“Do you ever…wonder what life would’ve been like if none of this ever…uh..um, happened?” Bucky asked, sounding kinda stupid the way his words slurred, “.. I would’ve loved to hang out with our buddies a lot more and date around..”

“Well I would’ve been married, with a kid or two..we would’ve lived closed by to your house..” Jason said with a small smile taking a few pauses as he thought, “…maybe you and me would sneak off for a night at the bar..”

“…I would’ve married Dot..god I loved her..and you would’ve gotten Angie..that was her name, right? I remember her eyeing you a lot..”

“Yeah, Angie Martinelli..I loved her way before I knew she would’ve been friends with Peggy Carter..but times change.”

“You haven’t..”

“You can say that…”

“What about us? If I wasn’t Hydra…where d-did you work after the war?”

“Uh, the SSR..now it’s SHIELD..you would’ve loved it. Hell, I think you would’ve loved Elizabeth.”

A smile crept up Bucky’s lips at the reminder of Elizabeth Stark’s name.

She was smart, sweet as candy, gorgeous, a wildcard and a total badass in his eyes. He got flashes of her face and the moment they met after he was rescued by the others. She was one of the most beautiful and kindness ladies he ever met, greeting each other with so much respect.

She teased him about a dates and he gave her his number. As they were spending night just chatting on the phone at hotels and campsites available for calls. He remembered promising another date before the war ended.

But never did live up to that promise. He hoped she was alright.

Jason noticed the look on his face and gave him a gentle smile, “Hey..it’s alright. We all miss her.. and i know you did the best you could do with the time we had in the war..”

“I know..I know..sometimes I wish I didn’t fall into the woods and that I held onto that railing…but it wasn’t my intention for any of it..it never was. I had a clear goal that day and it got turned into something else…I’m sorry for everything..” Bucky admitted looking down for a moment.

“It wasn’t your fault, okay? None of us could’ve predicted any of this to happen to our lives..but we are surviving and that’s all we can do..”

“I can only imagine what you’ve seen and been though over all theses years..”

“Don’t worry about me..I can handle it…or so I hope I can….what else do you remember?”

“A lot of it..sometimes it comes in flashes..”

“Such as?”

“…this blonde haired man..tall..blue eyes..”

“Ohh..”

“There was a old knock off comic book, I saw it a few days ago…Captain America, I think it is was?”

“Yeah, a lot of countries and states still sell them…and? You remember anything..?”

“I um..I know him, I think i do? I know I do…who is he?..Rogers…”

“...he was your best friend, Bucky…Steve Rogers.”

The name rattled in Bucky’s brain for a few short minutes as he stayed silent. Searching his eyes waiting for a sign as he stayed biting his bottom lip, sniffling trying to remember.

He remembers it. The face, the name, and the sound of his voice.

His best friend til the end of the line…

Jason took out his wallet, rummaging though the brown leather until he pulled out a small picture. A tiny one of the night at the bar that a photographer grabbed. He handed it to Bucky, as his fingers crossed the old photograph as his eyesight got blurry. Fresh tears came rolling in.

“Steve.” The brunette muttered, as the flashes of memories came back better than ever, like someone clicked the undo button.

“You have this?” Bucky asked mumbling about the picture in his hand.

Jason nods, “I like to keep old photographs in my wallet..that one was supposed to be for Peggy, uh Carter, to keep..she wanted it framed.”

“He looks..i look..oh god Steve..how could i—? How could I forget his face of all people?”

“It’s not your fault. HYDRA..they did it. They don’t want you to remember of this, because they know something might happen..”

“…did they ever take you..?”

“They tried. Once. In the 40s, a lot of Russian men and women. They kidnapped me during a mission..they almost wiped my mind..i mean, they kinda did..”

“..you don’t remember a lot either?”

“Some memories came and went..just like you, the situation it feels a little fuzzy. But I’m okay. We’re both okay…do you remember anything about Steve?”

“I remember a lot..before and after the war when i fell, I remember the memories of him..”

Bucky had a look in his eyes as if he’s reliving a memory. He let out a light chuckle and sniffled, “..he’s a little punk. I told him to not do anything stupid…”

Jason just watched Bucky in that moment. He didn’t say a word. Just listen to him as he mumbled and muttered softly with a light smile at his memories. A look in his eyes seemed to return as he watch him.

Some lightning of gentle glee in the brunette’s eyes as he talked, running his fingers crossed his long brown hair and catching the other man’s eyes every now and then.

“..do you remember your full name..?” The blonde asked softly, after being silent for so long leaning against the bed.

“Mhmm…more or less..i don’t like it..” The brunette admitted, matching his soft tone.

“..James Barnes..I always liked Bucky better..”

“..i think i was a good friend, right? I was good enough that it became my nickname..?”

“Well, I remember you did say that Steve gave you that nickname when you were kids..so i think you were a great friend..”

“..and was i good to you?..am i good to you?”

“What do you think?”

“..i think i was good to you?..i hurt you though..i hurt a lot of people’s feelings..i know it..”

“It wasn’t you. I can’t blame you, for hurting me or those people..”

“..why are you so good..to me? The world has been cruel to me..”

The blonde gave him a small smile, tugging some hair out of his face for a second and let out of a breath before standing up. Jason knew why he was good to Bucky Barnes. The world is a cruel place fulled with cruel people and niceness isn’t something everyone gets. He should know.

In his eyes, the brunette deserves some kindness and attention after everything.

“The world is cruel and hard and if it sees any bit of light..it will crushes it. And you deserve a chance to feel cared for, not be seen as a weapon. Or an experiment..” Jason said with a soft gaze.

His words meant more than he lead on.

“It sounds like your talking from experience..” Bucky replies, fumbling with his sleeves.

“I sorta am. And how i seen it, your more than what they made you to be.”

“You know…your the only thing that makes sense right now to me..thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

———

The rest of the night went as follows. The silence of fallen snow along with the sound of plates clanging together then dropped into the small sink. They were able to get food and water from the hotel, and able to find some form of entertainment on TV.

Hell, they found some extra clothing left in a closet to borrow for some time.

Both of them stayed in comfortable silence, giving all smiles and having conversations.

It was late. Very late into the night when tiredness started to take fold. It was mostly Jason who was tired, trying to nurse a tiny headache meanwhile Bucky was just resting his head on a pillow.

“You should rest..” Bucky said softly, resting his head against his curled in arms.

“You first.” Jason replied with a soft tease in his voice, looking over his shoulder.

“Hilarious..at least take a nap.”

“I’m fine..”

“What’s wrong?”

“Should i be the one to ask you that?”

“Jason. What’s going on?”

“..how can i rest knowing what i know now..? I’m not mad about anything, just sad and tired..surprised.”

“Why?”

“It’s Christmas time, Bucky. I lost a lot my friend beforehand..my nephew hates his father..and some others are god knows where..”

“..i’m sorry. It’s my fault your gone..they’re gone.”

“No it’s not..our Christmas was already a messy one, before you showed up..no one really cares about the holiday too much anymore.”

“So i sorta saved your Christmas?”

“I guess you did.”

Both men let out a small chuckle at the last comment. It was the holiday season and here they are in the mist of it all, hiding out til morning or early afternoon. It wasn’t so bad, per say since they weren’t alone in the slightest bit but they would’ve liked it to be in better circumstances. Jason knew he wasn’t gonna enjoy this holiday season as much as he used to, and seeing Bucky was a surprise to say the least.

But a serious secret he would have to keep, like other things he kept secret from the world.

He knew he would have to return back home soon, change his whole identity once again and transfer any information onto new documents, like he did every December reach the end of a decade.

Bucky watched him, move across the room to reach forward and grab a few dusty books from the small group of shelves. It confused Bucky onto what he was he doing, seeing the man pick up a napkin and a pencil. He watched him scramble and scribble onto the napkin, crossing things down as he went. He justified his own actions against the questions he had, leaning over to get a closer look at the actions Jason silently took.

It made him wonder how much times he did this in pure silence as the TV played as background noise. His bets were 15 times a day, once every couple of months? He saw titles of different types being scripted on the napkin, but it wasn’t clear to him because of subtle it was written, where it look like a small riddle or rhyme in a children’s book.

He watched Jason pick up on the paused that he made, looking over at the TV Christmas movie that was set up on the screen.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Bucky muttered, turning the volume of the movie up to an 8.

“Hm?” Jason answered, resting book against the bedside table.

“The napkin. The books. You look like a mad man.”

“Hilarious, Barnes. I’m just tinkering with something, a new theme..”

“N-new theme?”

“Uh, new alias, I guess..”

“Walk me through this, for I can understand what you mean..because I think I get it.”

“You were sent to murder Mr and Mrs. Stark, not knowing they would have an extra passenger seated in the back, right?”

“HYDRA assumed that Stark would have a party or something following him to his drive but they didn’t confirm that being the case. They want anyone who was in the car, as witnesses or something to be dead..you were there.”

“Exactly. I was there, they didn’t even bother to confirm if Stark would have another passenger there like his son or his best friends. But they want evidence of the murder, you shot the sirens and cameras right?”

Bucky gave him a look as if he was stupid or something, of course he shot the cameras. Jason cleared his throat after that look he received, getting his answer. That was also when Bucky realized what he means and where he’s getting at. A new cover story, an alias and everything after tonight. It made him wonder how many times has he done this routine before.

Bucky sighed, “I see what you’re doing. I get it, I do and you won’t tell me anything about the alias to keep you safe..for HYDRA doesn’t ask me question, they might as well wipe my mind after this mission is over..”

“Hm, yeah. I’ve done this before and I’ll do it a million times over.” Jason repiled, handing the brunette an old school pin from his jacket marked with dried up blood and sighed, “This is mine.”

“What the hell is this?”

“Old school SSR pin, every single agent had one. Howard had copy in his jacket pocket that you didn’t take, they won’t know the difference between the signs of the pin, that’s your evidence.”

“Ja-I can’t take it. It’s yours..it’s evidence but still..”

“They might want evidence, Bucky. I won’t need it, not where I’m going. I have everything else at home..I’m glad Howard died with his pin in his pocket, it meant he created everything he could for the organization’s future and I would have to return back to SHIELD without mine..”

“You’re an idiot. They will know you don’t have yours, won’t they?”

He shook his head this time, he had that one covered. With all the years he lived, he made sure he had a copy of everything he could possibly own and could be used for travel tucked away in a small area at his house. Certain items stayed within that box and others were thrown away, to not stir any controversy over him. Jason wasn’t that stupid.

It made Bucky wonder however, if he didn’t murder Jason Underwood allegedly since it seemed like that name died for the public a long time ago, then what alias did he take down within that flamed car earlier? It was better he didn’t know that particular name until later, when asked. He just nodded instead with a soft sigh.

The rest of the night was spend a rather sleepless one, due to Bucky wondering and reloading his equipment, packing up everything needed to return back to work soon. Meanwhile Jason stayed sat on the bed, trying to rematch up his own wounds and rewrite in his mind the way to get back home without any deep questions. His cover was the easiest part, he was badly hurt which was truth and wasn’t thinking straight due to having an unlimited amount of time.

His mind ran across to only responsive person he knew who would grab him what was needed was Daniel Sousa, no questions asked, without Peggy on his back door for too long pondering what happened.

Bucky was half asleep, his head rested on the pillow with a soft smile watching the blonde chuckling softly to himself. Jason was resting in his bed with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling humming a soft tune as his eyes glanced over at the brunette who was staring right at him. His piercing blue eyes connected with his green ones in a shimmer of the bedroom lights. If it wasn’t for the night he wouldn’t have blushed more easily as he should have.

“What? Can’t find the confidence to look me in the eyes, Underwood?” Bucky said with a grin, chuckling as he let out a sigh he didn’t realize he was holding. He might as well be flirting.

“Watch it, Barnes. Last person who looked at me that way, i ended up on a hill in France.” Jason added shaking his head, returning the effortlessly warm grin.

“Ohh who was the lucky one?”

“You know who. For someone who just finished a murder mission, you’re awfully flirty with me.”

“I didn’t want to do it..you know that. It’s just seeing you all relax..makes me forget about everything, you know?”

“I know..despite that whole look of yours, I’m actually digging the number you’re wearing..it’s stupid..I’m delusional.”

“If you’re delusional then I’m sure as gone.”

The two of them softly chuckled.

Jason softly smiled, “Hey.”

“Hm?” Bucky replied staring back at him again.

“You look..good.”

“I uh..I feel good.”

They shift in their respective positions, rolling over in bed to face the other person in a more comfortable manner. Despite all the stress and frustration that they feel about tonight, the moment they looked at each other’s faces, it all melted away.

Hydra, being on the run, Shield, keeping lies to themselves and begging for the truth not to come back to haunt them—all of that? It drifted over to the back of their minds like it was nothing.

Funny, how seeing someone who you missed so much time with can do to a person.

As if, it was written in stone by the gods above to somehow be interwoven in each other’s life one way or another. Jason and Bucky shouldn’t be allowed to share such a secretive moment together, tucked away in some hotel room after such a harsh encounter, yet here they are. Both cold and alone in the mist of the night, despite the central heating system wrapping around the ground, it seems like it would barely survive the hours up ahead.

“I missed you..” Jason admitted, as his voice lowered to a whisper but the brunette heard it.

Bucky was taken back by his words as he melted a little and returned to confession, “…so did I. I uh, I missed you a lot..”

“It was some silly night but I remember it, you know?”

“You remember the rest of the week? We sneaked off to every other store to find the best souvenir but ended up at a ice cream parlor instead.”

“Didn’t we share an ice cream together?”

“Cause they only had a couple scoops of Rocky Road left! You do remember.”

Bucky roared a laugh as Jason grinned.

The Winter Soldier wasn’t in his eyes, nor was the Agent at SHIELD in his own.

Just two old men, Jason Grey and James Buchanan.

There was a lot bending on their hands with the horrific incident that occurred in front of their eyes, yet neither side had the slightest intention to bring it up again for a long time. Yes, Jason could’ve shot him while stuck in this hotel and Bucky could’ve done the same at any point, but they didn’t dare to do so.

Jason knew if he did, HYDRA would’ve been after him in a matter of weeks and it would take longer for him to recover and return home to his life in California. Bucky knew if he killed him, it would’ve been another kill in his books that would haunt him forever and he made a silent promise to Howard Stark to not go after his son, in response he needed the blonde to return home alive.

Aside from the obvious mess brewing upon them and lack of self respect, if it was up to Jason and Bucky, the two would run away together. Be hidden away from the world until everything died down and they could start somewhere else, have a better chance to escape the chaos and breathe.

Yet, it wasn’t in the cards for either of them.

Instead both men ate whatever snacks found in the refrigerator and vending machines in the halls, watching the crappy old movies on television as they stayed chatting until dawn…

…the morning sunlight peaked through the shades of the hotel that very first alarm to strike upon the room, cracking open the notion that this wasn’t a dream, everything that happened last night was just fact.

The second clue to this alarming trend was that the other bed was emptied out, paneling over the bed closes to the door as glimpses of the blonde and brunette snoring calmly. Fully clothed, wearing some fabric they found in one of the closets comfortable enough to rest in. Bucky’s hand lay across Jason’s chest as the blonde hummed in his sleep with his fact turned toward the brunette’s direction.

Both curled underneath the blanket for warmth, breathing deeply into the air surrounding the room. The pillows were soft, the mattress kept itself polished and comfortable, as blankets were stacked one over the other beneath the pair.

The third striking feature of the set was the moment Bucky slowly turned to his left, letting out a soft groan as he fluttered his eyes open. He squeezed his eyes for a second to breathe in the silence and light that filled his senses, meeting the sleeping gaze of the blonde man.

He only felt a slight smile reaching his lips, as the memory of last night slowly wired in his brain, where the two were watching on a movie then nodding off on his bed unexpectedly, the temperature dropped as it resulted in finding a couple more blankets to keep warm. A part of him should shiver and regret this folding turn of events that took place.

But he couldn’t shake off the pressure of leaving him in the hotel alone after all of this is over. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t think twice and find a way to escape this situation, bringing the other with him for just a little while. Despite the high urge to do something about it, he couldn’t get himself to disappear from the bed and leave the key behind.

Instead he stayed, watching every tall tale feature the blonde had to offer his memories.

“..mornin’..” Mumbled Jason softly and ever so gently as his eyes stayed closed.

It almost startles Bucky at the sudden voice reaching his ears but nonetheless he smiles, “..m-morning.”

There was a peaceful silence that drafted between them.

“How did you sleep?” Asked the blonde, slowly opening his eyes turning to get a glimpse of the brunette.

And by god, James Barnes wasn’t allowed to look this well at the crack of dawn. His long dark locks curled around the edges of the pillow, his blue eyes shining in the sunlight and the cool metallic hand rested on his chest just as comfortably.

After a long second, Bucky responded, “I uh, I slept well actually..”

“I bet.” Jason joked, bringing a light smile to his face.

That caused a crash of light chuckle to fill the air.

The morning went pretty well. The two stayed in bed staring at the ceiling and stealing glances half of the time, enjoying the light banter. Eventually Bucky crawled out of bed and got himself in the shower, then soon went Jason’s turn to freshen up.

After a long period of time of declining interest in food, Jason’s stomach growls as he grabbed himself a sandwich from the hotel bar and a couple of drinks from the vending machine. He may or may not have taken a couple of bucks out of the brunette’s wallet that morning.

But he repaid him with a sandwich and a bottle of water, despite Bucky’s light glares he couldn’t be bothered to give a remark as hunger strikes. He just ate calmly and hummed a small smile to the man.

Sadly enough, the time they had spent together came to a close. Items were packed, stitches were wrapped and clothing was tucked away for any cleaning lady to come in later. Jason sat on the bed buckling his bootstraps and cuffing his socks into place, as his gaze turned to the man who was fumbling with his jacket once more. Bucky nodded, getting the last clasp secured on his jacket and swung his bag over his shoulder.

The two had a seamless idea to leave the hotel one after the other, in order to not stir up any wondering eyes or glimpses of controversy in the air. Yes, the thought was more than simple for anyone to follow along if they were looking too closely but neither was willing to take that chance.

Barnes was first to leave.

Neither said a word, just kept their gaze afar from another.

As Bucky stood by the door, his hand hovering over the doorknob, a sudden wave of emotion washed over him once his gaze fell on Jason for the 5th time this morning. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving without expressing the depth of his feelings and gratitude towards the man.

He didn't know if he would retreat or regret this later on, however at the moment, he didn't care to dwell on those thoughts.

With a swift and decisive movement, Bucky turned around, closing the distance between them in an instant. A finger hung under the blonde's chin, staring into each other's eyes. Without a second later, his lips met Jason's with a gentle and tender touch, a silent testament to the unspoken words that lingered between them.

For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still as they shared the intimate embrace, the weight of their emotions hanging heavy in the air.

Jason's initial surprise quickly melted into a reciprocal response, his body instinctively leaning in to meet Bucky's kiss. Their lips moved together in a dance of longing and affection, each moment filled with a sense of warmth and belonging that neither wanted to let go of.

When they finally parted, there was a softness in their smiles, an understanding that transcended words. It was a silent agreement, a shared moment of mutual affection and longing that bound them together in ways they couldn't fully comprehend.

A couple of milliseconds past, standing there in pure silence.

Bucky once turned to leave, a smile graced his lips, his heart filled with a newfound sense of peace and contentment. The door closed behind as he turned towards the steps leading himself to the first floor of the hotel.

Jason watched him go, still slightly breathless from the unexpected kiss, a part of him couldn't help but chuckle softly to himself, shaking his head in disbelief at the whirlwind of emotions that had swept over them both.

And as they went their separate ways, the memory of that fleeting moment lingered in the air, a reminder of the small yet somehow profound connection they shared...

//

Ahhh! Couldn't resist writing for this unexacting pairing, this has been in my drafts for a year now and decided to finally post it. Anyways let me know what you think. Remember to like, comment and share

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