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leirastar · 2 months ago

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new world | chapter 1

Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: A tragic accident left you unable to use your wings and, with that, claimed your father's life, leaving you in the care of your noble uncle. In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 4.2k | 18 minutes A/n: I wrote 2 draft for this and after a lot of contemplating i've decided on this one. i hope you enjoy it! Warning: blood/injury, violence (mentions of fighting), medical procedures. poisons, storm

The sun hung low in the sky, painting the field in muted hues of gold and green as a chill crept through the air. You knelt amidst the tall grass, your nimble fingers carefully plucking fragrant herbs from the earth.

The air, sharp and brisk, carried a chill that hinted at an approaching storm.

Humming softly to yourself, you tightened your coat around your shoulders and pulled your cape closer, shielding yourself from the biting wind. Your basket was half-filled with herbs you had carefully selected—lavender for calming teas, chamomile for soothing salves, and a few sprigs of arnica for your uncle’s pain medicine. The breeze carried the sweet scent of the harvest as it rustled the wildflowers around you, though now the wind's sharper edge made your hands move faster.

The day, though peaceful, had taken on a sense of urgency. You couldn’t help but notice the gentle rustling of the wind seemed louder now, almost ominous as the skies darkened in the distance.

Satisfied with your haul, you stood, brushing dirt from your hands and skirt. Hefting your now-overfilled basket, you began the familiar walk home. The chill made your steps quicken as you hummed a soft tune as the village rooftops coming into view through the gathering gloom.

You resided on the town's far outskirts, away from the bustling markets and vibrant city lights, and close to the east border of Caius. It was a short walk, no more than ten minutes, but the icy gusts and the scent of rain in the air made it feel longer. As the smell of distant cooking fires greeted you, a comforting reminder of the simple life you cherished, you cast a wary glance at the clouds above, quickening your pace to reach the safety of home before the storm arrived.

But as you neared your small cottage, something felt...off.

The front door was ajar, its hinges creaking slightly in the breeze.

You paused.

You knew you had closed it.

Heart pounding, you set your basket on the steps. Your finger closed around your herb knife to calm your anxiety as a mean of protection. From inside came the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by a muffled grunt. Your heart raced as you pressed your hand against the doorframe, leaning just enough to peek inside.

The sight made you gasp.

A man was slumped against your kitchen table, his dark clothing torn and stained crimson with blood. His breathing was ragged, his face pale and slick with sweat. Broken pottery lay scattered on the floor near his feet, evidence of his struggle to stay upright.

Albeit the pain that contorted his face, he was undeniably beautiful, as though the gods themselves had sculpted him. Shaking off the fleeting daydream, you steadied yourself and pointed your knife toward the stranger, your grip firm despite the rapid beat of your heart.

“Who—who are you?” you demanded, stepping fully into the room.

The man's head snapped up at your voice, his sharp eyes narrowing despite the pale exhaustion pulling at his features. Pain was etched into every line of his face, but it did nothing to dull the rigid posture he held, a silent, almost haughty declaration that he refused to surrender to his circumstances.

“I—” He winced, his hand pressing firmly against the gash at his side, blood seeping between his fingers. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” His voice was low, steady despite the strain, with an edge of reluctant apology—one that came as though it pained him to admit he might need help.

“I’ll be gone as soon as I… catch my breath.”

Even now, weakened and injured, he carried himself with a quiet dignity, as though he were more offended by his situation than the injury itself. There was no demand for pity, no pleading in his tone—only the undeniable weight of a man who was unused to seeking aid and found the very act distasteful.

You hesitated, your grip on the knife tightening. There was something about him that felt dangerous—his strong, lean frame and the way he held himself, even in pain, spoke of someone used to commanding attention. But there was also vulnerability in his gaze, a desperation that softened your wariness.

“You’re hurt,” your voice firm but calm, setting the knife on the counter but keeping it within reach.

His jaw tightened, as though bracing himself against the sting of his pride. “I’ll manage,” he muttered, but the slight tremor in his stance betrayed him. The stubbornness in his tone didn’t match the pallor of his face or the faint, uneven breaths he tried to suppress.

You sighed, exasperated but unmoved. His stubbornness didn’t surprise you. It was written in his posture, in the hard line of his mouth, in the way he refused to meet your gaze.

“Well, you’re doing a poor job of it,” you shot back, sharper this time.

That caught his attention. His gaze snapped to you, dark and piercing, as though offended by your audacity. For a moment, silence stretched between you, but gaze flickered there, almost reluctant amusement. His lips pressed into a thin line as though trying to decide whether to fight you on this or accept the inevitable.

“I don’t… need your help,” he said stiffly, though his voice wavered just slightly as his strength faltered.

“And yet you’re bleeding all over my table,” you countered, your tone calm but firm. “Please, sit down. You’re only making it worse.”

His eyes warred visibly against your words, his hand tightening into a fist where it gripped the edge of the table. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he muttered, “This is… unnecessary.”

“It’s necessary if you want to survive,” you replied, already moving to his side.

When you slid an arm under his, he stiffened, his body going rigid as though the very act of being supported grated against him.

“I can walk,” he grumbled.

“You can barely stand,” you replied dryly, guiding him carefully toward your bedroom. His weight pressed against you for only a moment before he forced himself to stand taller, his stubborn pride refusing to let him lean on you more than absolutely necessary.

Easing him down onto the edge of the bed. His shoulders stiffened as if being placed there was yet another blow to his pride, but he didn’t protest.

“I’m… sorry for the intrusion,” he said again, his tone quieter this time, as though apologizing was both foreign and uncomfortable. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“Apology accepted. You’ll be better off lying down,” you said, your voice steady despite the flurry of nerves coursing through you.

He exhaled sharply, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the mattress. “I don’t need—”

“Stop talking,” you cut in firmly, kneeling beside him. “You do need help, whether you like it or not.”

He glared at you for a moment, though the fire in his gaze was dimmed by exhaustion. “Stubborn woman,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no real malice in his tone.

“And you’re not exactly a model of reason yourself,” you replied.

Stepping back briefly, you crossed the room to close the windows, the glass panes rattling faintly from the wind outside. The storm was growing, the wind howling as it clawed at the shutters, and you latched them firmly to keep the cold at bay. The room immediately felt quieter, warmer, though the tension lingering between you and the man remained palpable.

You quickly gathered supplies: clean linen strips for bandages, a basin of water, and a flask of pain medicine from the nearby cupboard, you turned to him, your eyes scanning his pale, sweat-drenched face.

"I need to see the wound," you instructed gently. He hesitated, then nodded, removing his hand to reveal a deep gash.

Your breath hitched.

The gash was deep, inflamed, and stained with a purple sheen. You sighed softly, this is not an ordinary wound.

“This will hurt,” you warned, dipping a clean cloth into a mixture of strong wine and vinegar, the sharp tang filling the air. Carefully, you began to cleanse the wound. He winced, a sharp breath hissing through his teeth, but his silence held.

Once satisfied, you reached for the flask of pain medicine. “Here,” you said firmly, holding it out to him. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

He eyed it with suspicion, his pride flaring visibly as though the very idea of accepting medicine offended him. “What is it?”

“Something to keep you alive,” you said flatly, pushing the flask closer. “Stop questioning everything and drink.”

Reluctantly, he took a small sip, grimacing slightly as the bitter taste settled on his tongue. After another swallow, his shoulders eased, the tension in his posture slowly melting as the medicine began to dull the sharp edge of his pain.

Placing the flask next to the bed, you reached out instinctively, placing a hand over his to offer quiet comfort. It was a small, unthinking gesture—one you often did for your uncle’s patients.

But the moment your hand touched his, his eyes snapped open, and for the briefest moment, they glowed vivid blue. A faint luminescence bloomed across his forehead, like the trace of some ancient mark, and you gasped softly, your heart stuttering.

Startled, you glanced toward the window just as a flash of lightning lit the room, the storm raging outside. You told yourself it was the storm’s light playing tricks on your eyes. It had to be.

But when you looked back, his eyes had returned to their original goldish-brown hue, the glow vanished as though it had never been. He was staring at you now—his expression unreadable, though softer, almost hesitant.

“What… was that?” you whispered, withdrawing your hand quickly.

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. Whatever walls he had erected earlier now seemed to falter, as though something in that brief exchange had shifted. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“You’re kind,” he murmured, surprising you. “Far kinder than I deserve.”

The vulnerability in his tone startled you almost as much as the glow had, but you masked it, straightening in your seat. “You’re still a terrible patient,” you replied lightly, though your voice was gentler this time.

After washing your hands, you cleansed the wound with water, then applied a thin layer of honey before covering it with the linen bandages. "This should help prevent infection," you explained.

As you worked, you noticed his features more clearly—sharp jawline, dark hair sticking to his sweat-dampened forehead, and piercing eyes that watched you with a mix of caution and gratitude. He wasn’t a common traveler; his clothes, though damaged, were of fine make, and the insignia on his belt hinted at nobility.

“What happened to you?”

As you peeled back more of his torn shirt, the full extent of his injuries came into view—dark bruises blooming across his ribs and smaller cuts scattered like a map of violence. You furrowed your brows in concern, but your hands remained steady.

“Bandits,” he muttered. “On the road. They... didn’t expect me to fight back.”

You studied him closely, the flicker of doubt plain on your face. You didn’t press him, not yet, but you weren’t a fool. This far from the city, you've never heard of such bandits. The wound, telltale sheen of poison—this wasn’t the work of ordinary bandits.

Still, you asked, “You fought them off?”

He gave a weak, humorless chuckle. “Not well enough, apparently.”

You shook your head, setting to work cleaning the wound. “You’re lucky you made it here. Another hour, and this might have turned fatal.”

“I suppose I am,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on you, though the defiance from earlier had softened to something quieter. Something thoughtful.

For the first time, he seemed to regard you not as an inconvenience or an intrusion but as someone who had saved his life. His expression was still guarded, but the edges of it had shifted—less sharp, more yielding.

“Why were you traveling alone?”

He hesitated, as if debating how much to reveal. Finally, he said, “I was trying to avoid... attention.”

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. “Well, you’ve certainly gotten mine.”

For the first time, a small, tired smile tugged at his lips. “Lucky me.”

You huffed, securing the bandage with perhaps more force than necessary. “You’re far too stubborn for your own good,” you added, brushing your hands off and rising to fetch a fresh cloth.

His tired smile lingered faintly. “Takes one to know one.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “I wouldn’t call saving your life stubborn. Sensible, maybe.”

He exhaled a soft huff, something between amusement and exhaustion. “Sensible,” he repeated quietly, as though testing the word on his tongue.

As you laid a damp cloth on his fevered forehead, his gaze tracked your movements—sharp but softened, no longer the cold and aloof glint from earlier. There was something new there now, as if he were seeing you through fresh eyes.

“You’re skilled,” he remarked, his voice quieter, more measured.

“I’ve had practice,” you replied simply, brushing the damp cloth lightly over his brow.

As you observed him resting on the bed, your attention shifted to his tattered, bloodstained coat draped loosely over his shoulders. The fine wool and intricate stitching caught your eye—unmistakable signs of noble craftsmanship, the kind of attire far beyond the means of a mortal Aetherions.

“Your clothes are dirty,” you remarked, crossing the room to fetch clean garments. You hesitated for only a moment before offering them. “I have, um, clothes you can use.”

His cold gaze glanced at the garments, then back at you, his expression clouded with an emotion you couldn't quite identify.

"Your lover's or something?" he asked, his voice laced with something unreadable—disapproval, maybe, or curiosity.

"Or something," you replied, maintaining composure.

"I'll help you."

“I can manage on my own,” he muttered instinctively, pride flaring again like a reflex.

“You’ll tear open the bandage if you try,” you replied firmly, setting the clothes on the cot beside him.

For a moment, it looked as though he’d refuse outright, his pride warring with the exhaustion tugging at him. But then, as though resigning to his limits, he gave you a slow, reluctant nod.

“Fine,” he muttered.

You approached carefully, your hands steady as you helped him remove the soiled coat. Beneath the dirt and blood, the fabric was rich, its quality unmistakable—a silent confirmation of his noble status. You discarded it into the enchanted basin at the corner of the room, where water rippled and swirled, magic working to cleanse the garment, a convenient aid in your otherwise rustic setting.

The act of dressing him felt oddly intimate. You tried to remain professional, your movements efficient and practiced, yet you couldn’t ignore the way his skin, warm and solid beneath your fingertips, sent faint sparks fluttering through you.

The tension in the room seemed to shift, subtle but undeniable. It seems that the spark however, not only resolve to you but to the man in front of you. His breathing slowed, a low, almost imperceptible sound escaping him—a contented hum.

You glanced up just in time to catch the faint dilation of his pupils, his golden-brown eyes softening as they met yours-you surmised he felt the same feather-light sensations that danced across your skin.

He nodded slightly, feeling content, His eyes, already heavy with exhaustion, drifted closed.

"You'd better get some sleep, my lord. You need the rest," you advised, pulling the blanket up over him.

As you turned away, his hand shot out at the last moment, catching yours in a gentle grasp. his voice barely above a whisper.

"Stay."

His voice barely above a whisper but enough to root you in place. A shiver traced your spine, feather-light but persistent.

What is this?

Your breath caught. He was already half-asleep, his hold loose but firm enough to keep you there. Slowly, you sank to the floor beside the cot, your hand still cradled in his as his breathing deepened.

As the storm continued to rage outside, you sat in silence, watching him drift into a fitful sleep,. The quiet hum of his breath filled the room, a stark contrast to the battle-worn pride and defiance you had seen earlier. Now, in sleep, he seemed almost fragile—something you doubted he’d allow anyone else to witness.

A peculiar sensation washed over you as you sat there—an electric and feather-light touches across your skin. You glanced around, startled, blaming the chill in the air or perhaps lingering adrenaline from the unexpected encounter.

As the storm continued its relentless howl outside, you remained by his side, his hand still loosely curled around yours. The room was quiet now, save for the soft rhythm of his breathing and the distant patter of rain against the window.

You rested your head against the edge of the bed, the tension of the day finally catching up to you. The warmth of the room and the steady rise and fall of his chest seemed to lull you, exhaustion washing over you like a heavy tide.

Before you knew it, your eyes fluttered closed, and sleep claimed you.

The first light of morning crept through the shutters, rousing you from an unexpectedly deep sleep. Blinking groggily, you took in your surroundings— the familiar wood-paneled walls of your room—and realized you were in your own bed.

A heavy quilt had been draped over your shoulders, and as you slowly sat up, the events of last night came rushing back.

The stranger. The injury. His touch.

Where was he?

Heart skipping a beat, throwing the quilt aside you rose quickly, disoriented. The sound of soft clinking and faint movement drew your attention to the kitchen. Padding toward the sound, you rounded the corner and froze.

There he was, standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up, his tall frame at ease despite the faint signs of exhaustion still etched across his face. He moved with surprising ease preparing something—bread, it seemed, with slices of dried fruit laid out neatly beside it.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” you said, your voice cutting through the quiet. He turned, his expression calm but faintly amused.

“I’ve rested enough,” he replied, his tone steady.

You crossed your arms, arching an eyebrow. “Resting in my bed apparently wasn’t enough. How did you even manage to get me there?”

He smirked faintly, gesturing to his side. “ You’re not as heavy as you think.”

Rolling your eyes, you moved to rekindle the fire, the faint flicker of flames crackling to life. “You should have stayed put. You’ll tear your wound open again.”

“And leave you sleeping on the floor?” he countered smoothly. “That wouldn’t be very polite, would it?”

The wit in his tone caught you off guard, and despite yourself, a quiet chuckle escaped. “Well, you didn’t give me much choice last night. You’d have bled out on my floor.”

“Fair,” he admitted with a faint smile, leaning against the counter.

As the tea brewed, the fragrant aroma filling the air, you placed two cups on the table and motioned for him to sit. He hesitated momentarily, then complied, easing into the chair with a grace that seemed almost practiced.

As you poured the steaming liquid into a mug, you stepped closer to hand it to him. The motion brought you near enough to catch his scent, and it stopped you in your tracks.

Crisp and refreshing, it carried the essence of ice and snow with a subtle hint of salt. It was a scent unlike any you’d known—both ethereal and grounding at once.

For a moment, the room felt smaller, the space between you almost suffocating. He took the mug from your outstretched hand, his fingers brushing against yours briefly-another fluttering feeling surfaced in the base of your heart. His gaze, steady and unreadable, held yours for a beat longer than necessary before he broke the silence.

“I must apologize for imposing upon you," he said after a while, his gaze meeting yours. "I had little choice but to seek refuge here."

You shook your head, offering a small smile. “There’s no need for apologies. I’m glad I could help.”

“I never caught your name,” you said as you poured the tea.

“Yunho,” he replied, his tone casual but his gaze studying you carefully.

You nodded, tucking the name away in your thoughts. “Yunho,” you repeated softly. For a brief moment, his golden-brown eyes shimmered faintly—an almost imperceptible flash of vivid blue that made your breath hitch. You blinked, dismissing it as a trick of the light.

“I’m—”

“Y/N.” he interrupted, his lips curling into the faintest smirk.

You tilted your head, surprised. “I don’t remember telling you that.”

He glanced down at his cup, “I… read your name,” he admitted, his tone casual, but something about the way he said it felt carefully chosen. “You left your herb journals open.”

You arched an eyebrow but chose not to press further. “All right, Yunho,” you said after a moment. The two of you settled into a quiet, tranquil morning together.

As the morning light spilled across the room, Yunho finished the last sip of his tea and set the cup down gently. Without a word, he rose and walked toward the door, his steps composed and deliberate. You watched him silently, curiosity swirling within you as he paused, his hand resting on the wooden frame.

“Where are you going?” you asked cautiously, stepping forward.

He stood there for a moment, his gaze distant as though he could see far beyond the village. The faint morning breeze swept through the slightly open door, tousling his dark hair, which fell forward to cover his forehead.

“My lord-”

Before you could finish, a sudden shift filled the air, he shifted his shoulders, and in one fluid motion, his wings unfurled. Rich, indigo feathers stretched wide, filling the space with a quiet, breathtaking power that left you frozen where you stood. Morning light poured through the door, catching the hues of his feathers, making them shimmer like liquid twilight.

Your breath hitched as you stepped forward instinctively. “You’re leaving,” you said, your voice ragged.

Yunho’s expression softened slightly, though his voice carried a firm edge. “It seems I’ve overstayed my welcome. ”

His expression unreadable, “I have matters to attend to.”

“But it’s only been a few hours, my lord,” you protested, your tone pleading. “You should rest.”

He turned slightly, allowing you to glimpse his side where the wound that should still be open was now completely healed. Your breath caught as you stepped closer.

“That’s… impossible,” you whispered, reaching out instinctively, your fingers hovering just above where the bandage had been. “It should still be open.”

“I heal quickly,” he replied, his tone casual, though his posture suggested he was ready to depart. “I really should be leaving.”

You swallowed, the inexplicable weight of his departure sitting heavily in your chest. Acting on impulse, you picked up his robe from the table nearby and stepped closer, gently draping it over his shoulders.

“Wait,” you murmured, your hands lingering for a moment as you adjusted the fabric, your gaze meeting his with unspoken intensity.

The movement brought you closer, your eyes locking with his. The tension between you felt almost tangible, as though the very air crackled with energy.

You couldn’t lie to yourself—it felt good having someone around. Someone who wasn’t family.

It had been so long since you’d shared your space with anyone else, and the quiet presence Yunho brought, despite the questions surrounding him, filled an emptiness you hadn’t known was there.

“You... you don’t have to go yet,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure what had come over you—only that the thought of him leaving felt strangely unbearable.

His gaze softened, and for a moment, it seemed he might stay. He craned his neck down, his face close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. The soft rhythm of it sent a shiver down your spine, the quiet intimacy of the moment leaving you rooted in place, as though the air between you had become something tangible.

“May I come back, my lady?” he asked, his voice low, almost intimate.

The question sent a shiver through you, and for a heartbeat, you couldn’t find the words. Your grip on his robe tightened for a heartbeat before you let go. Without a word, you gave him a faint nod, a strange feeling settling over you.

His lips curved into the faintest smile as he stepped back, his wings spreading wide once more. The morning light caught the rich indigo of his feathers, casting a glow that made him seem otherworldly. The breeze stirred again, carrying with it the faint, crisp scent of snow and salt.

And then, with one last lingering glance, he was gone, leaving behind the faintest trace of snow in the air and a heart that raced long after he’d disappeared into the sky.

You stood there long after he was gone, the air still tingling with the remnants of his presence. A single indigo feather rested on the floor where he had stood, and as you picked it up, eyeing the indigo feather, you couldn’t help but smile, a quiet warmth settling in your chest.

and already, you found yourself counting the breaths until you would see him again.

Masterlist

Prologue | 2

Taglist (OPEN):

@pinkpearlstar @deltamoon666 @kyra1205 @hecateslittlewitchling @dumplingsyum @caratiny-latte @seongwars @halloweenbyphoebebridgers @angelqueendom @ffenjoyerdazme @lostxxgirl @xh01bri @neemaxx @furfoxsake22 @Thejentheredhead @soulphoenix1618

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woso-dreamzzz · 11 months ago

Text

Hi Barbie II

Jana Fernández x Vilamala!Reader

Summary: Bruna interrupts

"Oh my god! Hands where I can see them! God!"

Jana jumps out of her skin at her best friend's voice, nearly landing on the floor as you tilt your head back to look at your sister.

"We're cuddling? Can't we cuddle anymore?"

"Not with Jana!" Bruna laughs as Jana's face burns red. "She might just combust! Did you know how many years she's been dreaming about doing this with you? Who knows what will happen?"

"Leave us alone, Bruna," You grouse," What are you even doing here? This is my place."

"Which is another thing," Bruna says as she goes straight into the kitchen to grab some food," You're living in London until the end of the season. Why have you still got this place?"

"The loan isn't long term," You reply," I needed a place to come back to. What about you? You don't even have a key."

Bruna shrugs. "I had one made when I house sat. You're got good sunlight here."

You roll your eyes and turn to look back at Jana. "Sorry, I didn't know she would be stopping by."

"It's okay." Jana's voice is barely above a whisper and her face is still red. The embarrassment seeps into her bones and settles there as she readjusts her position.

This whole afternoon was like something out of the most perfect of daydreams. She'd had the day off from rehab and you weren't needed at Arsenal until next week so you picked her up from her apartment to have lunch.

You went from lunch to the market to a cute coffee shop and then back to your place to mindlessly watch tv as you talked.

Jana has been on cloud nine all day. She can scarcely accept that this was truly her life, that her long-term crush was dating her and you were having nice domestic moments like this.

Trust Bruna to bring her straight back down to earth.

"Don't you have training?" Jana asks and Bruna flashes her a smile.

"Why? Don't you want to see me? Aren't we best friends, Jana?"

Jana can feel her cheeks turn even more red than before (something that she wasn't sure was even possible) as Bruna hops over the back of the sofa and tries to squish her way between you both.

"Hey!" Jana complains as Bruna tries to push her out of the way, shoving her right back in annoyance.

She keeps fighting before breaking off when you throw your head back to laugh. She's star-struck for a moment.

Sun is filtering in through the windows and hitting you just right for it to look like you're glowing and Jana can do nothing but stare even as Bruna keeps swatting at her.

"You're so gross!" She was complaining but Jana isn't listening as she focusses on you.

You're still laughing, head thrown back and you tilt it to make eye contact.

It causes Jana to smile too and you reach over Bruna to grab Jana's hip, pulling her up and over your sister to settle on your lap.

The movement is unexpected but the feeling is nice and Jana feels herself go completely limp as you manoeuvre her the position you want.

Bruna pretends to gag but, thankfully, doesn't comment as she grabs the remote to channel surf.

You don't even glance at her as your whole attention goes to Jana, whose brain has finally caught up with her body when she realises the position that she's in.

Again, Jana thought it was impossible to grow even redder than before but it's like her body doesn't believe in its own limits and her blush grows ever deeper.

You're still smiling at her, eyes never straying, and your hands are still on her hips.

Jana smiles back before growing embarrassed and looking away.

"You're so cute," You whisper, chasing her lips with your own and giving her a soft peck.

You both chance a look at Bruna, who hasn't even noticed, so you steal another and then another.

"Should we get out of here?" You ask," There's this nice coffee place that Ingrid showed me last year."

Jana bites her lap. "And Bruna stays here?"

"Definitely."

"Let's go."

Jana is loath to leave the safety of your hands on her hips but she laces your fingers with hers and suddenly feels settled again.

"Bruna," You call out when you're by the door," Me and Jana are heading out."

"Why? Can't make out with me here?"

You roll your eyes. "No but we might do that when we come back. I'll text you so you can leave in time."

"Ha! As if!"

You shrug and pull Jana through the door, swinging your joined hands. "It's on your head if you see something you don't want to."

#woso x reader #jana fernandez x reader #jana fernandez #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

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rottenpumpkin13 · 5 months ago

Note

I imagine that AGSZ would get into a Hangover type of situation with Cloud missing in the Wall Market and had to retrace their steps.

The Wall Market Hangover Debacle

• After a night of partying in Wall Market, Sephiroth wakes up in Zack's apartment, of all places. He has a pounding headache, his mouth tastes like pizza, his hair is a mess, he's missing a shirt (concerning when he remembers putting one on), and everything is just wrong.

• And then he notices the baby chocobo in his lap.

• Sephiroth is instantly placated and cares for nothing else.

*Angeal wakes up beside him, equally as confused and bedraggled*

Angeal: Why are you in my bed?

Sephiroth: We're on the floor.

*Angeal notices the random phone numbers and "call me"s written all over his arms*

Angeal Oh my god. Are we in Zack's apartment!? What happened last night? I can't remember anything!

Sephiroth: Are you aware that you're covered in lipstick marks and that your breath smells of kerosene?

Angeal: Are you aware that you have a baby chocobo?

Sephiroth: Extremely aware, actually. The moment I encountered an orphaned infant, my protective instincts kicked in, just like how many mammals are biologically wired to care for vulnerable young.

Angeal: It's too early for this.

Sephiroth: It's 16:00.

Angeal: WHAT?

*He gets up quickly. Sephiroth follows him (with the baby chocobo) and they run over to the kitchen. Zack is laying spread-eagle on his kitchen floor, snoring*

Angeal: ZACK!

*Zack wakes up screaming*

*The baby chocobo kwehs, unsatisfied*

Sephiroth, holding the chocobo close: Your screaming is upsetting the child.

Zack: What happened last night? My head is pounding, I can't remember anything, and—is that a baby chocobo?

Angeal: I can't find my phone! Zack, go get yours and check your camera roll, call history, everything. There's a good chance we got robbed!

Sephiroth: Why do you believe we got robbed?

Angeal: Because this place is a mess! Paint splatters on the walls? A pile of energy drink cans? Glitter everywhere??

Zack: Actually, it was like this before we left last night.

Zack:

Zack: I'm trying out art therapy and collecting energy drink cans for recycling :)

Angeal: PHONE.

Zack: On It!

*Zack stumbles into his room to grab his phone*

• Sephiroth is tending to the baby chocobo, fussing over it as a mother would.

• Angeal is watching Sephiroth tend to the baby chocobo, wondering whether or not he's dreaming.

*Zack stumbles out of his bedroom*

Zack: THERE'S A GIRL IN MY ROOM!

Angeal: What did you do!?

Zack: Nothing! I don't even know her!

• All three of them run into Zack's room and sure enough, there's a girl in a pretty, red dress and long red hair sleeping in his bed.

Zack: She's beautiful, but I fear she'll think lowly of me now that she's woken up in my bed.

Angeal:

Zack: I didn't even make her breakfast. Should I make her breakfast?

Angeal: That's GENESIS.

*Upon hearing his name being yelled, Genesis wakes up*

Genesis: Why am I in the puppy's room?

Zack: Dude, why are you wearing a dress!?

Genesis: What? *he looks down* Oh. OH? Who's the scoundrel who did this to me? Which one of you dolts thought it would be funny to dress me like a doll?

Angeal: It wasn't us. We all woke up out there and I can't remember anything.

Sephiroth: And I woke up with this adorable infant chocobo, carrying all the joy of life in its heart, and it brings me a sense of peace I never knew I needed.

Genesis: Where's Cloud?

*There's deafening silence as they all realize Cloud isn't there*

Genesis: We forgot Cloud in Wall Market!?

Angeal: Shit! Sephiroth, put that chocobo down and call Cloud!

Sephiroth: Notice how I’m cradling the chocobo with one arm while using the other to reach into my pocket and pull out my phone—an action that reflects the care of a devoted parent.

Zack: Man, nice!

*They high five*

Angeal: WHAT PLANET ARE YOU TWO ON!? CALL HIM!

• They try to call Cloud several times but he isn't picking up, which means that there's only one way to go about this: They need to retrace their steps back in Wall Market to find him.

Genesis, while everyone else is getting dressed: I’m still in disbelief that someone snuck up on me while I slept and dressed me in this. The shade of red isn’t even close to what I usually wear, and I would never style my hair pin straight like this—I prefer it curled! Plus, this push-up bra is incredibly uncomfortable.

Sephiroth: Then go get changed.

Genesis: No.

Sephiroth:

Angeal: Okay, I'm ready. Grab your stuff and let's go.

*Sephiroth walks towards the door with the baby chocobo*

Angeal: Seph! Leave the chocobo!

*Sephiroth puts the baby chocobo down but it immediately follows him and jumps back into his arms*

Sephiroth: It’s settled, then. I am now the chocobo’s guardian. From this moment forward, I embrace the role of parent to this delightful creature. I shall nurture it, guide it, and cherish it as if it were my own.

Genesis: I think that if you talk to Lazard you can get paternity leave.

Sephiroth: I already checked, and it appears only maternity leave is possible.

Genesis: I'll help you fake a pregnancy.

Sephiroth: You're a good friend.

Zack: Guys? Guys?? Angeal is having a panic attack!

• Once they reach Wall Market, they go to Madam M first because the last thing Zack remembers is getting a massage before he blacked out.

• It turns out that there's a reason why.

*Zack walks through the door and Madam M throws a shoe and starts screaming at him in Wutaian*

Zack: !?

Angeal: Excuse us, Madam M? We're looking for our friend? Cloud Strife? Have you seen him.

*Madam M is still throwing items at Zack and screaming in Wutaian*

Zack: !!!??

Angeal: He's 5'7, spiky blond hair....

*Madam M is still screaming in Wutaian but now she's doing impolite hand gestures*

Sephiroth: She's calling you a, quote, cheapskate hillbilly with ugly hands.

Zack: Rude.

*Madam M is still screaming*

Sephiroth: And now she's cursing your bloodline both past and future.

Zack: ....

*More screaming*

Sephiroth: And now she said something that if I were to repeat, I would have to empty my life's earnings into Angeal's swear jar.

*Screaming*

Sephiroth: She said that you came in here last night, asked for the finest massage, and then tried to pay with a friendly hug.

Zack: Oh yeahh! I remember now. I was trying to see how far positivity stretched.

Genesis: So you robbed an establishment.

Zack: Hey, the hug was enough for the hot dog stand guy! It was enough for the dude selling counterfeit Sephiroth plushies!

Mandam M: I haven't seen your friend. You weren't with him yesterday. Try Andrea. The loudmouthed one in red was very instant last night that your little group go to the Honeybee Inn next.

*They all turn to Genesis*

Genesis: Oh please. What are you all implying by those judgemental looks? That I dragged us to the Honeybee Inn for a night of sin that resulted in Cloud's disappearance??

• At the Honeybee Inn.

*Andrea runs up to Genesis and embraces him as soon as they walk through the door*

Andrea: My darling! I thought the day would never come when you’d grace us with your presence again! You are the very essence of radiance in this establishment! Never has there been a soul more attuned to the fluidity of gender, the artistry of theatrical performances, and the tantalizing allure of rebellion!

*Everyone looks at Genesis, long and hard*

Genesis: I've never seen this man in my life.

Andrea: I see you're still in the fabulous outfit I gifted you last night.

Genesis:

Angeal: Really, Genesis? Honestly, I’m relieved I don’t remember a thing, because I can’t even begin to imagine the shame I’d feel knowing what you did here.

Andrea: Ah, Angeal. You came to pick up your wallet and Shinra ID, I presume?

*He hands them to him*

Angeal: Oh, wow. That's dangerous. I can't believe I'd lose track of these.

Andrea: Yes, well, when you started stripping you threw your pants into the crowd and the wallet went with it.

Genesis: HAAA!

Angeal, irritated: Where's Cloud?

Andrea: Your friend was never here. You were only a group of four when you were sat at one of the tables, and I do believe Commander Rhapsodos mentioned that you were coming from Sam's Delivery Service.

Zack: The chocobos!! That makes so much sense! Come on guys!

• At Chocobo Sam's

Zack: Excuse us, sir! We're looking for our friend, Cloud. Andrea said that we were here last night, but we can't remember anything.

Sam: Yeah, you were here to rent a chocobo to ride around the market on. But you came here as a group of four. There ain't no Cloud here.

Everyone: WHAT?

Sam: Yeah, but from the way you returned Goldie, all covered in glitter and trinkets, I take it you took her for quite the ride around Wall Market.

Angeal: Goldie??

*Chocobo Sam points at one of the chocobos and suddenly everything makes sense*

Zack: Ohhh, that's right! We never came here with Cloud! It was a chocobo all along!

Genesis: I cannot believe we were fooled by our faulty memory.

Angeal: Yeah, I guess in all the confusion, everything got mixed up, and we ended up thinking the chocobo was Cloud.

Zack: An honest mistake.

Sephiroth: Which he would kill you for if he knew. Excuse me, sir, but I have a question. Would this adorable creature happen to be Goldie's child?

Chocobo Sam: No, son. We ain't got no baby chocobos here. That one there belongs to you.

Sephiroth: I see. It seems this chocobo has become my responsibility, and I wouldn’t dream of parting with it. It’s more than just a creature in my care—it’s my child now, and I’ll protect and nurture it as such.

*The chocobo leaps from his arms and runs to play with the other chocobos, leaving him behind*

Sephiroth:

*Sephiroth drops to his knees*

Sephiroth: BETRAYAL. DISLOYALTY. ABANDONMENT—

*They grab Sephiroth and haul him off kicking and screaming*

Zack: We'll get you a puppy!

Sephiroth: I DON'T DESIRE A PUPPY.

Zack: SLANDER. DEFAMATION. INSULTING—

*Chocobo Sam watches them walk away and disappear around the corner*

Chocobo Sam: This day cannot get any weirder.

*The spell wears off and the baby chocobo turns back into Cloud*

Cloud: SONS OF BITCHES.

Chocobo Sam:

#storytime #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #zack fair #cloud strife #crisis core

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gloomlet · 2 years ago

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Gloomlet’s TS4 Script, Gameplay & Replacement Mods

So I decided to compile a list of all the script/gameplay mods that i use or have used in my game. This was mainly made for my personal use, but i am sure it could be helpful to other people too!

Fully Updated - 1/22/2025

Basic & Recommended!

TS4 Mod Manager ui cheats extension mc command center Carl's Sims 4 Gameplay Overhaul Relationship & Pregnancy Overhaul Wonderful Whims The Mood Pack Mod First Impressions Contextual Social Interactions Simulation Lag Fix Teleport Any Sim Better Exceptions

CAS Mods

Stand still in CAS More Traits in CAS Tidy details in CAS More CAS columns Lifetime Aspirations Child Aspirations Set Housewife - Aspiration Unlimited Likes + Dislikes Preferences Plus Homebody - Preferences 100+ CAS Traits Resized Facial Piercings More Teeth!

Replacements & Retextures

Fan Art Maps Map Replacements Overhaul Clean UI Sims 1 & 2 Font LIS Fonts Fluffy Clouds (Ghibli Clouds) Feet replacement Hand replacement Bra + Panty Replacement better babies Baby bottle replacement Default Cutlery! Cute Kitchenware Replacement Boxing Gloves Aquarium Fish Recolor paint it up mod A brighter mop Selfie Override Phone call animations Extended Phone Calls

Objects Phone Replacement Another phone replacement Phone wallpaper & icons Smaller dollhouses Switch Controller + console Game controller PS1 console pc game override Remote control sponge & spray override Another Sponge & Spray override

Electric Toothbrush Razor Bassinet override infant rug + infant tub child drawing replacement more drawing replacements weather controller Cats & Dogs Fireplace Headphone/earbud override Old-fashioned Suitcase The slightly nicer Tree House Fireplace Lil Campers Light

Replaced + more Interactions Bed Cuddles Better Woohoo Reactions Realistic Reactions Brush Teeth From Toothbrush Holders Wake-up animation Greetings Offer Rose override

Visuals & effects No overhead effects No zzz No object highlight no plumbob please Smaller Mosaic Minimalist CC Icon More Holiday icons

Gameplay!

Playable Pets Slower infant needs Expanded Mermaids Who's Knocking More Visitors No Bad Microwave Buffs Memory Panel Smarter Pie Menu: Searchable Smart Sim Randomizer Play Chess on any computer Strangerville Story toggle

Careers & Jobs Career Overhaul New Careers Simdeed Recruitment Services Flex Part-Time Recruitment Agency Game Developer Career Ultimate Nursing Career Modeling Career Tumbling Tots Daycare Career Shear Brilliance - Cosmetology Seasonal Odd Jobs - Autumn Odd Job Overhaul Modeling and Makeup Odd Jobs Babysitting Gigs Freelance Chef

Education Uni Tweaks Education Overhaul Uni Application Overhaul University costs more Choose Your Roommate Long Distance Learning No Uni Housing Restrictions Uni Aspirations School Lunch Override Longer or Shorter Degree Requirements

Cooking + Food Food Retexture Pack 1, Pack 2, Pack 3 Breakfast Retextures Dinner Food Retextures Pizza Retexture Grannies Cookbook Oni’s Recipe Pack + more recipes Chef Buffet S’more Options Srsly's Complete Cooking Overhaul Dine Out Reloaded Delivery Services Sims Eat and Drink Faster Porto Luminoso Market Cutouts Buyable Cakes Functional Mixer HCH Mixer & Cookbook Functional Air fryer Functional Blender Functional Cookie jar Another Cookie Jar Functional Toaster Functional Cake Stand Functional Rice cooker Functional Pressure Cooker Boba Tea Add-ons Functional Beer Functional Frozen Ice Cart

Pregnancy Realistic Pregnancy Cherished Moments - Pregnancy Science Baby Tweak

Services & Apps Sim National Bank “SimDa” Dating App Exchange Store

Interactions Meaningful Stories Cute Romance Drama Mod Autonomous Go Steady and Propose Autonomous Break Up and Divorce Dynamic Teen Life Parent-Child Relationships Let's Get Fit Modpack Sumba Fitness

Functional Items Playful Toddler Pack Toddler Play Telephone Little Chef’s Toy Kitchen Void Critter Tablet Functional Pool Slide

Functional Toy Bin Functional Hopscotch Functional Broom Functional Paper Sketchpad Functional Drumkit Functional Spiral Staircases In Your Safe Piggy Banks Film Reaper Movie Theater Left End Counter Dishwaser

Random Small mods

Loading and CAS screens

Free Sims 4, Free Loading Screen Bonehilda Loading Screen Custom Color loading screens Lights Out Loading Screen The Blues Collection Loading Screen Lin Sims Loading Screens San Sequoia Loading Screens Abstract Art + Landscape Loading Screens H-O-B & Sulani Loading Screens Autumn Loading Screens Pink Kitten Animated Loading Screen Life is Strange Loading Screens Cloudy TS2 CAS Background Ocean Waves CAS Room Old School - CAS Room Modern Minimalism CAS Room Plumbob replacements Crystal Loading Screens

lighting mods

sunblind lighting + installation Milk Thistle Better in-game lighting Gentle CAS lighting

#ts4 mods #ts4 mod list #gloomlets mod list

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phantomrose96 · 2 years ago

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Savit-e

My host mother is a woman with long twirling hair and more floral-patterned sundresses than I’ve seen in my entire life. She throws open the closet each morning to flick each dress along its hanging rail, sharp squeaks. “What can I even wear?” The dresses sway like summer willows. I sneak in behind her and grab a t-shirt and jeans from my tiny pile at the bottom.

She loves earrings that swing and she loves stain-glass windchimes which clink and muse while she pours me the bitterest cup of tea I’ve ever had in my life. I fill it with sugar and she chides me. I remind her of all the spicy dishes I make that she cannot eat, and she says, “Okay, I’ll let it go this one time.” She sips her tea black. The birds titter at her joke. We’ll have the same conversation tomorrow.

My host mother is Jira and I wonder how closely we might be related every time I catch that glimmer in her eyes like my mothers’. Jira is too tall to be my mother and her hair is not quite dark enough, but I like to believe I see it. I like to believe Jira’s country and mine are related, that maybe her great-great-grandparents and mine were friends before the records were scorched and the lines were redrawn. Or maybe our countries bore no relation to each other. Maybe they were friends anyway. Maybe they were enemies. I’ve heard every opinion.

Jira has a worry-face like my mother, but she uses it for different things, like plum prices at the market and rain clouds blundering through like clumsy creatures. It used to surprise me, since my mother reserved her worry-face for only the dourest things in her mind. I saw more and more of it from my mother before I left. “Baby maybe you should spend the summer home. Maybe you can get your money back.” She said she’d been reading things in the news. I told her not to worry. I would be safe in my travels. I feel stares pressing into my back while Jira leans over the plums. I notice Jira receives the stares too.

She hums a tune and busies herself in the kitchen in a dress I’ve never seen. She’s been in a great mood since her daughter came home this morning. I didn’t get a good look at her daughter at first because Jira swallowed her right up in her arms. But I got to see her better when I helped bring her bags in. Savine is lithe, baby-faced and a head shorter than Jira, and her eyes carry the same arch and slope as Jira’s. She has the same dimples and she moves in the same way, tilted forward, as if to let gravity do the work of carrying her momentum.

Savine is napping from her trip, and Jira seems to have forgotten all the slow and patient syllables she usually saves for me. She speaks in her rapid pace and I jog to keep up. Too many words slip through my grasp. One in particular I hear too many times. Savit-e.

“Savit-e?” I ask.

Jira puckers her lips as if to think. Her eyes rove. Footsteps tap gently closer behind me, and Jira’s eyes light up as she looks past me.

“Savit-e!” she says, motioning forward as Savine rounds the counter and pulls her mom into another hug. Savine is only 10. She’s been away almost 6 months for school, according to Jira.

A nickname, I note. Savine wears earrings like windchimes as well.

…

Jira has offered to charge me no rent if I babysit Savine for the summer and cook dinner in the evenings. Savine’s summer classes are early and short, as are mine, so I pick Savine up every day at noon. “This is Reb. She’s my mom’s friend this summer,” Savine tells her school friends. I gather that Jira does something similar every year, taking in an au pair while she works the summer.

There is a park Savine likes in particular, with the tall slides and the cold water fountains and all her friends. It takes me a few days to realize her friends are new to even her. Any child at the park becomes her friend by nature of needing two to play the teeter-totter. I meet parents and I practice my clumsy language with them. They don’t stare strangely at me like the man in the plum aisle.

Three times over the summer, I hear a parent at the park ask me. “Who is Savit-e?” I point to Savine every time. I don’t think too much about it, because they always like the answer, nodding along. Savine’s friends do not use the nickname, but I experiment with it here and there. Savine lights up when I do. “Savit-e,” I call to her from the school lawn, and she squeals and bounds forward to wrap me in the kind of hug she gives her mother.

I pick up a copy of the newspaper from the corner store every day on my way to pick up Savine, and I read what I can of it at the park. The newspaper is not a person, and it does not stilt its vocabulary to be simple and clear the way people do when they notice me struggling with the tongue, so oftentimes I gather just the concepts from articles. It is my fourth week of doing this when one article stops me. I see the spelling of what Jira says out loud so often.

Savit-e.

The article is hard, but I recognize the word for murder, and the words for three men. Three men murdered, and Savit-e. I would ask Savine, but I’m afraid the article may be something upsetting.

I ask Jira that night, after Savine has gone to bed.

“A man killed three others,” Jira says, brow slightly scrunched as she skims the paper and distills its contents to simpler words I know. Her eye creases are deep by the evening lamplight. “He is not charged with a crime, because he was protecting his Savit-e.”

This sinks in slowly, and a red flush of embarrassment makes itself known on my cheeks.

“Savit-e… as in ‘daughter’?”

I use my own word for it, since I don’t know Jira’s word for daughter. Or at least, I did not know, until now.

Jira’s brow scrunch tightens, which she does whenever I’ve used one of my words she doesn’t know.

“Like Savine is to you. Savine is your daughter.”

At this, Jira nods slowly, then more quickly as she lets the meaning sink in. “Yes… Savine is my Savit-e… my daughter.”

I thank Jira for the explanation. I lie awake that night thinking too much about the parents at the park who think Savine is my Savit-e.

…

I start to dislike the newspaper. I’m not sure if it’s the summer heat sewing aggravation, or some deeper unrest, or maybe my own growing vocabulary, but more and more I notice articles that leave me unsettled. I read about the arrest of a man who looks like the man in the plum aisle. Maybe there’s no resemblance at all. Maybe any man with those piercing eyes in a mug shot feels like the man in the plum aisle. There are still many words I don’t know, but country and nation come up often. And Savit-e. More articles of someone acting in protection of their Savit-e.

My mother isn’t here to protect me. I walk more cautiously when I’m alone at night, as a woman, as a Savit-e with no parents here to protect me.

I’m in the kitchen with a knife shunking through the angled cuts of scallion. The pot for the noodles is boiling and I’ve halved the spices as I do every night for Jira and Savine. I don’t even hear the front door kick open.

I do hear Savine scream.

My heart is in my throat and my blood is cold, and I move, because in the moment I have forgotten I am a Savit-e far away from home. All that matters is Savine’s scream.

And my sockless feet are light as I snake through the dining room and round the corner to the living room, entering from the same door as the two men who now stand there, backs to me, both eagerly teasing the handles of a gun. One has Savine in a chokehold, and the men stare at Jira, pressed flat against the wall. I realize Jira does have a worry-face she reserves for the truly awful things.

And the men with their backs to me are plum-men, in ways I understand without knowing what fast and clipped words they’re shouting at Jira. The one holding Savine presses the barrel of his gun against her ear, and the windchime titter of her earrings is drowned under her scream of fear. The plum man barks a demand at Jira, and she watches with moon-plate eyes.

He barks it again.

Jira raises a trembling hand. And her digits curl, and her palm pulls inward, and her earrings clink with the slow stuttering shake of her head. She points her index finger firmly against her own heart, and she declares ‘Savit-e’.

Jira runs out through the second living room door.

“Mooooom! Savit-e!!” Savine screams, and her words choke, and she wriggles under the hold of the man. And suddenly sense returns to my body at the sound of Savine’s screams.

I am still holding the scallion knife.

I don’t remember what I do next, but the knife does.

…

There is a drawl of radio static that seems to dominate my ears. The sirens and flashing lights are background noise to me now. They’ve taken Savine away with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. They’ve assured me I’ll be able to see her, but later, once she’s been looked at, once she’s calmed down, once I’ve been spoken to.

“You are not in trouble,” the detective tells me in my own tongue with a slight accent rounding her words. She’s the only one who speaks my language. They called her in when it became clear I didn’t know enough of theirs to give a report. “You were protecting your Savit-e.”

I flinch, a little bit, somehow still capable of embarrassment with a mind that’s gone completely numb. “Savine isn’t my Savit-e.”

The woman detective frowns. I remember we’re in my own tongue.

“I mean, she’s not my daughter. She’s Jira’s daughter. She’s Jira’s Savit-e.”

The woman’s frown lessens some. “Your daughter, no. Your Savit-e, yes.”

I hold my hands near my face. They still smell of garlic and scallions. “The pot’s gonna boil over. I have to go turn off the stove,” I say, urgently, and unhelpfully, as the thought suddenly strikes and I push myself standing.

The woman’s hand is on my shoulder, and she presses me down. “The pot is not boil. The stove is off. It is okay. Who is Savit-e?”

And the question sits weird. I realize she asks it like those parents at the park.

I don’t answer. The detective chews her lip, and I see her eyes searching for a word she can’t find. “Who is your… The Most? Who is your The Above? Who is your The Most of All?”

“My most what?”

“Who is your Protect Over Everything?”

And from her face I can tell she is frustrated with her own words. There is more she is saying that I cannot know in my own language.

Protect Over Everything. I think about the scream that pulled me from the kitchen.

“I think… Savine… is my Protect Over Everything.”

And this satisfies the woman. And she nods the way the parents at the park do. “You are not in trouble. You always protect Savit-e. You must always. There is no trouble for what you did. Good job, that you protect your Savit-e. You will have her back soon.”

I go stiff.

“Jira needs her back, not me. I go home in a few weeks. I only started—” I falter. “Savine is Jira’s Savit-e.”

The detective shakes her head. “Jira is Jira’s Savit-e. Jira does not come back.”

…

I postpone my flight home. I tell my mother it’s because my studies are going long. I’ll tell her more, later, when I’m ready.

I pick up Savine every day from school as always. She doesn’t smile, and she pulls me into a hug that is too tight and lasts too long. She doesn’t want to go to the park. She comes grocery shopping with me, because it’s better than being left home alone. I look over my shoulder whenever I grab the plums.

I cook dinner and I eat with Savine, and we do this at the counter because when I sit us at the kitchen table, Savine looks too long at Jira’s empty place. I tried calling Jira once, after Savine went to bed. Her phone rang from the next room. I watched it ring until it cut to voicemail.

There’s an article about me in the paper. I can’t read most of it. Or maybe I just don’t try to. I see Jira’s name. I see the plum man words. I see Savit-e written 14 times.

I don’t know what happens to Savine if I leave. I’ve tried asking and I get too many words I do not know, and no one who can explain them better to me. But their expressions stay with me. Like the looks of plum-men and worry-faces and now this new look, which is rooted in something deeper about a country which I know too little about. It’s a sad look. It’s something I can maybe understand without the words attached. I tell my mom I might like to extend my study through the fall.

Savine has started calling me “Savit-e.”

#writing #original writing #i had a thought and it became a thing

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writerfae · 2 months ago

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Christmas movie au Advent Calendar 🎄

Day Nine: 🍪Baking🍪

Christmas special tag list: @bunnymermaidsblog @deadlycupid @dustylovelyrun @ladywithalamp @sleepy-night-child @theguywithnonickname

Talon couldn’t remember the last time he ever baked.

He must’ve been a kid back then, helping his mother and sister with Christmas preparations. He hadn’t done that in a long time.

He was no talent in the kitchen, but as he told Aiden and Maya, the two had told him not to worry about it.

“Making cookies is easy, everyone can do it.”

Besides, they said, he had two experts with him.

“Baking is literally part of my job,” Maya reminded him. “And Aiden here has been helping me and my mother with making the cookies for the Christmas market ever since we were children.”

When Halea would find out that Talon was helping to bake cookies, she’d probably fall off her chair laughing.

She was absolutely convinced that her friend could set fire to cereal and she had more than one reason to believe that.

Luckily he wasn’t as much of a disastrous baker as he had anticipated.

He would lie if he said he wasn’t at least a little daunted when he was sat in front of a massive bowl and told to make a portion of dough all by himself, cause apparently they needed so much of it that that one bowl - or even two - won’t do.

But beside the fact that the flour he dumped into the bowl left behind a cloud of dust that made him cough and covered half his face, which resulted in Aiden clinging to Maya in laughter, it all went rather smoothly.

Okay, maybe Talon did throw some flour at Aiden about laughing at him and maybe that did result in a little flour battle that Maya later scolded them for, even if it was in a fond tone that gave away she wasn’t actually mad.

Nearly the whole countertop was covered in rolled out Christmas cookie dough.

As they started to cut out the dough in the form of stars and Christmas trees Talon was sure that they could feed the whole town plus reindeer population with the amount of cookies they were making.

“That’s the goal,” Aiden said laughing, when Talon voiced his thought to the other two. “They’ll be sold at the Christmas market after all. You’d be surprised how fast these cookies are gone.”

They chatted about this and that while they cut out the cookies and Talon had to admit to himself that he indeed had fun, something he didn’t expect.

Though he should’ve guessed, because with Aiden everything turned out to be more fun than he expected it to.

He was just fun to be around with his jokes and stories and the occasional friendly touches that never failed to make Talon’s heart react to it - and it made Talon feel content.

In fact, he hasn’t felt as good, as happy in a long while (if you left out the big elephant in the room, that was).

After the first few batches were in the oven. Maya excused herself because of an appointment she apparently forgot about.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” she had told them. “Remember to melt the chocolate for the topping, the first load should be done in a while. And Talon, make sure the chocolate actually ends up on the cookies and not in Aiden’s stomach instead.”

With that last warning she was gone.

Aiden pouted. “Killjoy.”

Talon laughed. “Come on, let’s do what she told us. Maybe I’ll let you have some of the chocolate if you tell me how we’ll best get it to melt.”

Now it was Aiden who laughed. “Deal.”

The batches were done right on time as they finished melting the chocolate.

They got them out of the oven, put in the next few batches and once the cookies had cooled down a little, began to decorate them with the chocolate and all kinds of other stuff.

As most of the melted chocolate was spread out on the cookies, Aiden took a spoon and began to scrape up the rest that was still in the bowl.

As he found Talon looking at him, he chuckled. “What? You said I could have some of the chocolate.”

He offered Talon the spoon full of chocolate. “Or do you want some, too?”

Instead of answering, Talon simply leaned forward and took the offered spoon into his mouth. Aiden’s eyes widened in surprise, but he held the eye contact Talon maintained throughout it all (in strange rush of confidence) until Talon leaned back into his seat again.

“Thanks,” he said with a grin on his face. “That tasted good.”

Aiden swallowed, then he nodded. Loading the spoon with chocolate once again, he lifted it to his own lips this time, not at all seeming to mind that this was the same spoon Talon had in his mouth seconds ago.

Talon couldn’t stop his eyes from staring down at Aiden’s mouth as he licked the spoon clean.

Oh, he was so gone for this boy, who was he even trying to kid.

Aiden’s gaze flickered up to Talon watching him and for a moment they only stared at each other, spoon and chocolate and everything else around them forgotten.

Talon could swear Aiden was leaning forward slowly and he was pretty sure he did the same when suddenly the ringing of the oven startled the two and the moment was over.

“I’ll get the cookies,” Aiden said, clearing his throat.

Was he blushing or did Talon only project his own bashfulness onto him?

Would they have kissed if the oven didn’t disturb them?

Or did he maybe inhale too much flour?

But ever since that moment there was a certain tension in the room and Talon was almost glad when Maya came back and he wasn’t alone with Aiden anymore.

He suspected that Maya could feel it, too.

When Talon excused himself later, claiming that he had an important call to make, she let him go without much complaint, thanking him for his help.

And Aiden, too, didn’t try to get him to stay.

Maybe he was just as shaken about their almost-kiss or whatever you would call the moment they shared as he was.

Talon left, taking the scarf with him despite his better judgment. He had barely sat a foot into his room when he already dialed Halea’s number.

“Halea, I don’t know how long I can take this anymore.”

#writer speaks #writeblr #wip: the knights of the alder #Christmas movie au #Christmas movie au: Advent calendar 2024 #writing #my writing

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dhampling · 1 year ago

Note

ASTARION GETTING INTO BAKING AND ASKING YOU TO SAMPLE ALL OF HIS BAKES

this was such a fun one i love it he is simply a silly guy who wants to be a man of many talents thank you for the request avo I LOVE YOU

He looks at you expectantly.

The small wodge of cake on the plate in front of you crumbles to dust as you squish it. Astarion pinches his nose. Eyes closed, a beleaguered sigh.

“Too much sugar.” You grimace.

“It’s going to disintegrate if you do that.”

You quirk a brow. Astarion looks down at his creation pitifully.

The sweet smell of fresh-baked goods, now somewhat marred by the unimpressive result on the counter in front of you. Kitchen scattered with cooking implements; his apron smattered with still billowing clouds of flour.

“Clearly the recipe was incorrect, that’s all.” He hums. Looks at the cake for a moment with a stewing resentment in his eyes then turns on his heel.

“You followed it exactly?”

His head moves from side to side in a deliberating err.

“Kind of? Not really?”

Over the coming weeks he spends endless nights in your small kitchen working to figure out the art of baking, driven by the underwhelming response to his initial offering.

Astarion argues that it’s his prerogative. With the tadpole so newly gone he wants to broaden his horizons, he purrs, glass in hand; now that he can try anything, why shouldn’t he?

The obvious answer here is that he can’t taste the fruits of his labour.

No matter the freshness of the produce, nor the quality of the flour grain; it all resembles ash past the threshold of his fangs.

You’re frequently dispatched to the market to gather more treats for Astarion to experiment with - the textures, the smells, the way they come together in the binding heat of the stove - and despite a rocky start, you find yourself more and more impressed with the results.

He observes each time he comes to you with a platter of treats, notebook in hand; eyes glued to your face whilst you meticulously try each and every little morsel.

What began as plain muffins and oat biscuits evolves quickly into bites of his own creation.

He figures out how to make a creme filling; the perfect ratios for butter pastries, how to temper chocolate and the best ways in which to use it. You use the best descriptives you can manage to help him understand the texture, the taste; the consistency of everything that makes its way into your mouth as he fervently jots every last word down.

The big one - which he absolutely succeeds with - is your birthday cake. Richly decorated and built on the densest sponge you’ve ever tasted, topped with raspberries, almonds, fresh cream, vanilla. The anticipatory stare across the table as he watches the first forkful lift to your mouth and the sweetest kiss he receives as you smile into his.

He enjoys it. A hobby, definitely. Not the kind of thing he’d pursue for gold - if only for the fact he can’t enjoy a single bite of his own creations - but if he can keep you in the finest of baked goods then he considers every delighted groan from your starving mouth a success.

#astarion #bg3 #astarion x reader #my writing #astarion headcanons #astarion imagine #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #request

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millyh23 · 3 months ago

Text

Bound By Love

Jana Fernandez x Reader

Word count: 7.5k

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Y/N was greeted by the warm, soft light of the Barcelona morning filtering through the blinds. She blinked awake, stretching slightly before realizing that Jana was still wrapped around her, her face nestled into Y/N's shoulder, breathing peacefully. A smile tugged at Y/N’s lips as she ran her fingers gently through Jana’s hair, savoring the quiet moment.

A few minutes later, Jana began to stir, lifting her head and giving Y/N a drowsy smile. “Buenos días,” she murmured, her voice still soft with sleep.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Y/N replied, brushing a loose strand of hair from Jana’s face. “I thought you’d never wake up. I might’ve had to eat breakfast without you.”

Jana gasped dramatically, pretending to look scandalized. “You wouldn’t dare! Who would make sure you don’t burn the toast?”

Y/N laughed, giving Jana a playful nudge. “I’d manage! Barely. But let’s just say the toast would be a little… extra crispy.”

They lingered in bed a little longer, chatting and laughing about nothing in particular, before finally heading to the kitchen. Y/N reached into the fridge for the ingredients to make pancakes, feeling Jana’s arms sneak around her waist from behind.

“You know,” Jana said, resting her chin on Y/N’s shoulder, “watching you cook is pretty cute.”

“Yeah?” Y/N grinned, flipping a pancake. “I’m not so sure about that. The last time I tried, you were the one who saved us from the smoke alarm, remember?”

“Maybe, but it’s cute that you try.” Jana planted a kiss on Y/N’s cheek before grabbing a plate to start setting up the table.

Once breakfast was ready, they sat together, sharing the pancakes and stealing bites off each other’s plates. The kitchen was filled with laughter and teasing over who could make the better pancake, though both of them secretly knew Jana was the reigning champ.

Later, they strolled through the local market, hands entwined as they browsed the stalls, picking out fresh fruits and chatting with the vendors. Every now and then, Y/N would catch Jana looking at her with that soft, adoring smile that made her feel like the luckiest person in the world.

At one of the flower stalls, Y/N suddenly stopped. “Stay here,” she said, letting go of Jana’s hand for a moment and selecting a small bouquet of yellow and white daisies. She handed them over with a playful wink. “For the most beautiful girl in Barcelona.”

Jana’s cheeks turned pink as she accepted the flowers. “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling Y/N in for a quick, gentle kiss.

When they returned to their apartment, Jana found a vase for the daisies while Y/N took out a sketchbook. She’d been practicing her drawing lately, inspired by all the colorful architecture and art around Barcelona. Sitting by the balcony, she began a sketch of the view, and after a moment, Jana came over, resting her head on Y/N’s shoulder and watching as she worked.

“You’re really getting good at this,” Jana murmured. “Maybe I should frame this one when you’re finished.”

Y/N chuckled, setting her pencil down. “It’s not that good yet, but maybe one day. I have the perfect muse, after all.”

Jana laughed, then tilted her head up to kiss Y/N, both of them wrapped in the simplicity of the moment. They spent the rest of the afternoon lounging on the balcony, sharing stories, watching the clouds drift by, and just basking in each other’s company.

As the sun began to set, they took one last stroll through the city before settling in for a cozy night at home. Curled up together on the couch, Y/N felt a deep sense of peace and happiness, knowing that every little moment—whether it was cooking pancakes or just watching the world go by—felt perfect as long as she had Jana by her side but was she being loved or suffocated.

Y/N had always prided herself on being resilient, especially since joining Barcelona and finding a place she could finally call home. But every now and then, the lingering doubts and insecurities from her past found their way back, like whispers she couldn’t ignore.

Today was one of those days. She’d been scrolling through social media earlier, catching sight of comments from Arsenal fans criticizing her transfer, questioning her loyalty, and downplaying her accomplishments since moving to Spain. Their words were biting and harsh, hitting her harder than she cared to admit.

As she walked into the living room, she took a deep breath, plastering on a smile as she saw Jana setting up a movie on the TV, all cozy with blankets and snacks. Jana looked up and beamed, patting the spot next to her on the couch. “I thought we could watch that new movie you’ve been talking about.”

Y/N nodded, forcing herself to focus on Jana’s excitement. “Sounds perfect.”

But even as they settled in, she felt a heaviness in her chest that was hard to shake. She rested her head on Jana’s shoulder, silently trying to calm her mind, but the negativity gnawed away. She felt like she didn’t deserve any of this—the love, the support, the fresh start in Barcelona. What if the people doubting her were right? What if she was just fooling herself, and it was only a matter of time before everyone here grew tired of her too?

“Hey, you okay?” Jana asked suddenly, breaking Y/N from her thoughts. She looked down, her brow creased with concern. “You’re quiet.”

Y/N blinked, her heart skipping a beat. “Oh, yeah. Just tired, I think. Training was intense today.” She offered a small smile, hoping it would be enough to ease Jana’s worry.

Jana seemed to accept her answer, though she still watched Y/N carefully. “Alright, but if there’s anything on your mind, you can talk to me, you know that, right?”

“Of course,” Y/N replied, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. She wanted to tell her—she really did—but the words just wouldn’t come. She hated feeling this vulnerable, especially with someone she cared about so deeply.

Throughout the movie, Y/N tried to immerse herself in the plot, but the insecurity loomed large, like a shadow she couldn’t shake. She could feel Jana glancing at her every so often, probably sensing her distraction. Y/N silently scolded herself. Jana deserved her full attention, not the doubts that threatened to consume her.

When the credits rolled, Jana turned to her. “Do you want to go for a walk? Clear our heads a bit?”

Y/N hesitated, knowing it was Jana’s gentle way of checking in. But she forced a bright smile, hoping it looked more genuine than it felt. “Actually, I think I might just turn in early tonight.”

Jana’s face softened with understanding. “Alright,” she said quietly, brushing a hand over Y/N’s cheek. “Just know I’m here whenever you want to talk, okay?”

“Yeah,” Y/N replied, trying to keep her voice steady. She placed a gentle kiss on Jana’s forehead before heading to the bedroom.

Once she was alone, she let out a sigh, sinking onto the bed. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror on the opposite wall, and she felt an ache she couldn’t quite name. She thought she’d left all this behind—this fear of never being enough, of disappointing the people around her. But tonight, it felt as raw and present as ever.

As she lay in bed, Y/N closed her eyes, trying to push away the thoughts. She knew she couldn’t keep hiding this from Jana forever. But for now, she would. She didn’t want Jana to see her like this—unsure, vulnerable, and trapped in her own head. She would work through it alone, just as she always had.

The night was quiet, with only the soft hum of Barcelona beyond the apartment windows. But in Y/N’s dreams, things were anything but peaceful.

In her mind, she was back on a field—her old team’s voices echoing around her, harsh words spilling from fans she didn’t know, and her every attempt to kick the ball met with stumbling mistakes. She could feel their eyes on her, each look laced with disappointment and disdain. Her teammates, including Jana, were turning away, leaving her behind as she reached out, unable to find her voice.

She bolted awake, gasping as her surroundings came into focus. She was still in bed, the comforting warmth of blankets around her, but her heart was pounding, and her chest felt tight, each breath growing shallower than the last.

It took her a moment to realize that she was hyperventilating.

“Y/N?” Jana’s voice was gentle but filled with concern as she sat up, reaching for her. Her eyes widened as she took in Y/N’s state. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Look at me.”

Y/N tried to ground herself, but the rush of anxiety was suffocating, her mind spiraling back to the images of disappointment and rejection from her nightmare. She couldn’t get air into her lungs, her hands shaking as she gripped the bedsheets.

Jana’s hands were warm and steady as they gently cupped Y/N’s face, tilting it so their eyes met. “Breathe with me, okay? Deep breaths, just like this,” she instructed, taking a slow, deep breath for Y/N to mirror.

Y/N tried to follow Jana’s steady rhythm, her breathing shaky at first but gradually slowing as Jana kept murmuring soft reassurances, her touch grounding and safe.

“That’s it, you’re doing great,” Jana whispered, her voice calm and full of love. She brushed a few stray strands of hair from Y/N’s forehead, her thumb tracing soothing circles along Y/N’s cheek. “You’re safe here. It was just a dream, okay?”

Y/N’s breathing finally evened out, though her heart was still racing. She felt a fresh wave of embarrassment wash over her as she realized she’d woken Jana with her panic. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“Hey, there’s nothing to be sorry about,” Jana replied, scooting closer until she was fully wrapping her arms around Y/N, holding her close. “You’re going through a lot. It’s okay to let it out.”

Y/N buried her face in Jana’s shoulder, letting herself lean into her warmth. For so long, she’d tried to keep her insecurities hidden, but in that moment, it felt like every wall she’d built around her fear was crumbling.

“It’s just…” She took a shuddering breath. “Sometimes I feel like… like I’m not enough. That everyone’s going to realize I’m just… a disappointment.”

Jana pulled back slightly, just enough to look Y/N in the eyes, her gaze full of understanding and tenderness. “Y/N, you’re not a disappointment. Not to me, not to the team, and certainly not to anyone who knows the real you.”

Y/N managed a shaky nod, but her throat still felt tight. “I just… I’m scared. I don’t want to let anyone down, especially you.”

Jana’s expression softened even further as she leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/N’s forehead. “You could never let me down, cariño. You’re strong, and you’re talented, and you deserve to be happy and loved just as you are.”

She hugged Y/N close, whispering comforting words, each one like a balm to Y/N’s frayed nerves. Gradually, Y/N felt her muscles relax, her breathing steady as the remnants of her panic faded in Jana’s embrace.

They stayed like that for a long while, with Jana holding Y/N and rubbing her back until she could feel Y/N finally begin to settle. The once-tense silence was replaced by the soft sounds of their breaths, now calm and even, filling the stillness of the night.

When Y/N was ready, Jana pulled her gently back to bed, never letting go of her hand as they lay down together. Y/N felt a peace she hadn’t known in a long time, her head resting against Jana’s shoulder, feeling the steady beat of Jana’s heart.

“Thank you,” she whispered, feeling the weight of her gratitude, knowing she wasn’t alone in facing these fears.

“Always,” Jana whispered back, brushing a kiss over Y/N’s hair. “We’re in this together, no matter what.”

Y/N tried to shake the creeping unease that had settled in the pit of her stomach. Training had been rough today—one missed shot, one fumbled pass, and suddenly, she was convinced everyone was watching, waiting for her next mistake. She could feel her confidence wavering, her doubts coming back louder than ever.

When she got home, Jana was already there, she got to leave before the media team grabbed her for some tiktoks, cooking dinner with music playing softly in the background. As soon as Jana saw Y/N, her face softened with concern.

“Hey, love,” she greeted, setting down a wooden spoon to give Y/N a warm hug. “Long day?”

Y/N hesitated, trying to put on a brave face. “Yeah, just… one of those days, I guess.”

But Jana could tell that something was weighing on her. She took Y/N’s hand and led her to the couch, sitting down beside her and pulling her close. “What’s really going on?” Jana asked, her voice calm and gentle.

Y/N sighed, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “I just… I feel like I can’t get it right. Like I’m going to mess things up, and everyone will realize I don’t belong here.”

Jana listened patiently, her eyes never leaving Y/N’s. When Y/N finished, she didn’t say anything at first, just gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not alone in feeling like this,” Jana said after a moment, her tone soft but full of conviction. “And I get it. It’s hard, carrying these doubts. But you know what? You’re one of the most talented, driven people I know.”

Y/N offered a small smile but still looked unconvinced. Jana didn’t push, instead shifting closer, keeping her hand on Y/N’s as she spoke.

“I know what it’s like to feel the pressure and to think that every little mistake means the end of everything,” Jana continued, her thumb rubbing gentle circles over Y/N’s hand. “But you don’t have to be perfect to be worthy. You’ve earned your place here, on this team, in my life, in everything.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath, her eyes drifting to their joined hands. “I just… sometimes, I feel like people are just waiting for me to fail.”

Jana nodded, her gaze thoughtful. “Maybe some people are. But those people don’t matter, Y/N. They don’t see you the way I do, or the way your real friends and teammates do.” She paused, making sure Y/N was following her. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, her voice barely above a whisper. “What?”

Jana’s eyes softened, filled with a warmth that made Y/N’s heart ache. “I see someone who’s resilient, someone who doesn’t give up even when things get tough. I see someone who makes everyone around them better. I see the woman I’m lucky to love every single day.”

Y/N felt the tension in her chest loosen, a sense of relief washing over her. Jana’s words weren’t just comforting; they were real, genuine, and full of belief in her.

“But I know it’s hard to silence those voices in your head,” Jana added, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to Y/N’s forehead. “So whenever you feel them creeping back, just remember: I’m here, and I believe in you. And maybe… maybe it’s time to start believing in yourself, too.”

Y/N nodded, feeling a surge of warmth and confidence. Jana’s presence grounded her, reminding her of what truly mattered. She knew the journey wouldn’t be easy, but with Jana by her side, she felt like she could face her fears head-on.

As they sat there in comfortable silence, Jana looked at her with a soft smile. “Tomorrow, let’s go back to the basics. You and me, one-on-one training. Not because you need it, but because I want you to feel the joy of it again—the part of football that’s just about you and the ball, not about anyone else’s expectations.”

A smile finally broke through Y/N’s serious expression. “That sounds perfect.”

Jana kissed her hand. “Good. Because you deserve to feel proud of yourself. I’m proud of you, and I always will be.”

Y/N was accustomed to keeping her guard up, to relying on herself and offering her love carefully. But when it came to accepting love in return, that was a different story. Every time Jana showered her with warmth—whether through a simple compliment, a thoughtful gesture, or even something as small as a soft look—it stirred something complicated within her, like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Tonight was no different. They’d just finished dinner, a quiet evening spent together. As they cleared the dishes, Y/N felt a warmth on her shoulder and turned to see Jana’s hand resting there, her expression soft and inviting.

“You know,” Jana began, her voice light, “sometimes I think you don’t fully believe me when I tell you how much I love you.”

Y/N’s breath caught. She tried to brush it off with a smile, but Jana’s gaze was steady, and Y/N could feel her walls wavering. “I… I know you love me,” Y/N replied, her voice uncertain.

Jana nodded, her eyes understanding. “But I don’t think you believe that you deserve it,” she said gently.

Y/N looked away, feeling exposed. “It’s not that I don’t want to believe you,” she admitted. “It’s just… sometimes it feels too good to be true. Like maybe if I let myself believe it, it’ll slip away.”

Jana’s grip on her shoulder tightened, reassuring. “Love isn’t something you have to earn or prove you’re worthy of, Y/N,” she said. “It’s something I give you because I want to, because I see you for who you really are and I love every part of that.”

Y/N’s gaze softened, but the self-doubt lingered in her expression. Jana noticed and took her hands, guiding her to the couch, where they both sat in the quiet comfort of their shared space.

“Think about all the times you’ve been there for me,” Jana continued, her voice gentle and grounding. “The times you’ve given me love and support without me ever having to ask for it. I didn’t question it because I know your love is real, and that’s how I want you to feel about mine.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath, looking down at their intertwined hands. “It’s just hard to feel… enough,” she admitted, barely above a whisper.

Jana moved closer, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear. “You are enough,” she said, each word steady and full of conviction. “You’re more than enough, and I’m so lucky to love you. And I’m even luckier that you’re here, willing to be with me, too.”

A small smile crept onto Y/N’s face, and she felt her resistance melting away. Jana was patient, warm, her presence like a steady flame that refused to falter. “It’s not just about letting me love you, Y/N,” Jana continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about letting yourself see what I see.”

Y/N felt the emotion swell in her chest, her heart pounding as she allowed herself to truly take in Jana’s words. “And what do you see?” she asked, her voice vulnerable, almost childlike.

Jana’s eyes softened as she spoke, her hand gently brushing Y/N’s cheek. “I see someone brave, who doesn’t let fear stop her from going after her dreams. Someone who cares deeply, even when she tries to hide it. I see someone who’s strong and kind, who’s been through so much but keeps going.”

Y/N blinked, feeling her throat tighten with emotion. She realized she wanted to believe Jana, to let herself lean into the love offered to her.

Seeing her hesitation, Jana leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to Y/N’s forehead. “Just… let me love you, Y/N. No conditions, no expectations. Just as you are.”

For the first time, Y/N didn’t argue or try to hide. She let herself lean into Jana’s touch, feeling her walls come down one brick at a time. As they sat there, Y/N felt an unfamiliar but comforting warmth settle over her, a feeling that whispered she was safe, she was enough, and she was loved.

And this time, she let herself believe it.

Two years had flown by since Y/N and Jana first became something more. Y/N could still remember the nerves, the initial barriers, the slow process of letting herself be loved. But now, after countless memories, adventures, and quiet mornings together, she couldn’t imagine her life without Jana. It wasn’t just that she loved her; it was that she wanted to love her forever.

The realization hit Y/N one quiet afternoon. Jana had been laughing at something on her phone, sprawled out on the couch in her favorite hoodie, her hair loosely tied back. Y/N watched her with a fond smile, feeling warmth bloom in her chest. Suddenly, she knew. She wanted to propose.

As Jana headed out to training later that evening, Y/N got to work, her mind whirling with possibilities. She wanted to make it perfect. But how? Jana deserved something meaningful, something that spoke to their journey and all they’d built together. She pulled out her notebook, jotting down a few ideas.

1. A quiet, intimate proposal: Just the two of them in their favorite spot by the coast. They’d often take weekend trips to the seaside, a place where they could escape the noise and simply be together. Y/N imagined them sitting on the sandy shore, the waves crashing softly in the background as she got down on one knee.

2. A football-themed proposal: Football was something that had brought them together. Maybe she could plan something on the field, but after hours, when it was just the two of them under the stadium lights. Y/N could already picture Jana’s face, laughing and surprised, realizing that this was not just another training session.

3. A surprise with friends and family: Jana’s friends and family were incredibly important to her. Y/N knew how much Jana loved sharing her joy with those she cared about. Maybe she could organize a small get-together disguised as a regular gathering, only to turn it into the moment where she asked Jana to be hers forever.

But as she wrote each idea, she found herself going back to the first. There was something beautifully personal about it, just them and the world around them, with no expectations or pressures. It felt like their entire relationship wrapped up in one simple, perfect moment.

Over the next few weeks, Y/N carefully crafted her plan. She picked a weekend when they both had time off and quietly reserved a cabin by the coast, somewhere secluded but scenic. She spent evenings writing down her thoughts and rehearsing what she’d say, though every time she tried to practice, she ended up flustered, laughing at herself in the mirror. Somehow, she knew she’d end up just speaking from the heart when the moment came.

And then, there was the ring.

Y/N wanted it to be special. She found a jeweler who custom-designed rings, and together, they crafted a simple but elegant band, with a subtle engraving on the inside: "Siempre, mi amor"—"Forever, my love."

The ring was beautiful, and holding it in her hands, she felt the weight of what it symbolized: a lifetime of love, laughter, support, and growth. She could already picture sliding it onto Jana’s finger, the look of surprise and joy in her eyes, the moment they’d share that would mark the beginning of a new chapter.

Finally, the weekend arrived, and Y/N could hardly contain her excitement. She had packed their bags, planned the perfect dinner, and slipped the ring box into her coat pocket, hoping Jana wouldn’t notice.

As they drove along the coast, with the sun dipping low and casting warm hues over the ocean, Jana reached over, giving Y/N’s hand a squeeze, her face soft and happy. Y/N felt her nerves settle, a smile breaking across her face. She was ready—more than ready—to ask Jana to spend forever with her.

And as they arrived at the cabin, with the sound of the waves just beyond, Y/N knew that the moment she’d been waiting for was finally here.

The sunset over the coast was breathtaking, casting golden hues across the waves as they broke against the shore. The cabin was tucked away just a short walk from the beach, and as soon as they’d arrived, Y/N suggested a stroll along the sand before dinner. She could feel the ring box resting in her coat pocket, its weight both thrilling and grounding.

Jana seemed relaxed, happily taking Y/N’s hand as they walked toward the shoreline. They walked in comfortable silence, with only the sound of the waves and the calls of distant seabirds. Y/N glanced over at Jana, her heart swelling as she watched her take in the scene, looking utterly content.

“Do you remember the first time we came here?” Y/N asked softly, stopping to take in the view.

Jana nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. “Of course. I’d never seen you so at peace before,” she replied. “It was the first time I really felt how much you trusted me.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered at her words, the reminder of how far they’d come. “I think… it was the first time I let myself trust anyone,” she admitted. “You’ve given me more than I ever knew I needed.”

Jana turned to her, her brows knitting slightly, sensing the weight in Y/N’s voice. “Is everything okay?” she asked gently.

Y/N took a breath, her hand slipping into her pocket to feel the ring box. Her heart was pounding, and she knew there was no perfect moment beyond this one. With a small smile, she nodded.

“More than okay,” she whispered. And before she could overthink it, she slowly lowered herself onto one knee in the soft sand, pulling the ring box out and holding it up toward Jana.

The expression on Jana’s face was one Y/N would never forget—a mixture of surprise, joy, and a love so pure it nearly took her breath away.

“Jana,” Y/N began, her voice thick with emotion, “you taught me to love myself, to trust, to open my heart when I didn’t think I could. You’ve given me laughter and comfort, and there’s no one I’d rather face life with. I want to be by your side, through all of it. Forever. Will you marry me?”

Tears welled in Jana’s eyes as she looked down at Y/N, her lips curving into a smile as she whispered, “Yes, Y/N. A thousand times, yes.”

Y/N’s heart soared as she slipped the ring onto Jana’s finger, feeling a rush of happiness as she stood, only for Jana to pull her into a deep, heartfelt embrace. They stayed there, holding each other close, swaying slightly in the sand as the sun continued its slow descent.

After a long moment, Jana pulled back slightly, looking at the ring, her fingers tracing it with reverence. “I love it,” she murmured, meeting Y/N’s gaze. “And I love you.”

“I love you too,” Y/N replied, her voice barely a whisper as she leaned in, capturing Jana’s lips in a soft kiss.

The world around them faded away, leaving only the two of them standing by the shore, two hearts joined in a promise of forever.

Excitement buzzed between Y/N and Jana as they walked into the Barcelona training facility the morning after their engagement. They’d spent most of the night talking, still a little in awe of what had just happened. Now, they were ready to share the news with the people they loved.

Y/N gave Jana a sideways smile as they stepped into the locker room. “Ready to drop the bombshell?”

Jana grinned, squeezing Y/N’s hand before they split up to join their teammates. “Let’s see how long it takes them to figure it out.”

The morning training session was like any other—or at least, that’s what everyone else thought. Y/N couldn’t help the smile that kept creeping onto her face, and she caught Jana beaming at her from across the field more than once.

It wasn’t long before their friends started to notice something was up.

Bruna, always the observant one, jogged over during a break, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Okay, what’s going on with you two? I don’t think I’ve seen either of you stop smiling all morning.”

Jana tried to look innocent, shrugging. “Can’t a girl just be happy?”

Bruna raised an eyebrow. “You’re practically glowing. Both of you are.”

Y/N exchanged a quick look with Jana, her heart racing as she pulled off her gloves, revealing the subtle but beautiful ring glinting on her finger. She held her hand up casually, watching Bruna’s face as realization dawned.

“Oh my god!” Bruna’s eyes went wide, and she let out a shout of excitement that immediately drew the attention of the rest of the team. “You’re engaged?!”

By now, all of their teammates were gathering around, eyes wide with curiosity and excitement. Jana held up her own hand, showing the matching ring on her finger, and the locker room erupted in cheers, laughter, and squeals of excitement.

“Oh, you two are perfect together!” Mapi exclaimed, pulling them both into a tight hug. “Finally, someone made a good decision!”

Patri shook her head in disbelief, hugging Y/N tightly. “You kept it a secret for a whole day? How did you manage that?”

“It was hard,” Y/N admitted with a laugh, glancing over at Jana. “But we wanted to surprise you.”

In true team fashion, the celebrations continued well into their break, with their teammates insisting on hearing every detail about how Y/N proposed, where it happened, and exactly how many times Jana had cried. Laughter filled the room as Jana recounted the proposal, her cheeks turning pink as she tried to give Y/N a playful glare every time she shared one of the sappier details.

Finally, Alexia called for a group picture, gathering everyone around Y/N and Jana. They stood arm-in-arm, their teammates cheering and throwing their arms around them. In the photo, Y/N and Jana stood in the middle, holding each other close, both of them smiling as if they couldn’t quite believe this was real.

As they headed back to the field, Y/N looked around at her teammates, each one congratulating them with hugs and kind words. It felt like she and Jana weren’t just building a future together, but that they had the support and love of everyone around them too.

As the session wrapped up, Y/N caught Jana’s hand, leaning in to whisper, “Looks like our family just got a little bit bigger.”

Jana smiled back, her eyes shining with love. “And I couldn’t be happier.”

A few weeks after their engagement, Y/N and Jana found themselves sitting at a cozy café with wedding magazines scattered around their table, notepads filled with ideas, and a checklist that seemed to grow by the minute. They’d spent hours talking about their vision for the wedding: a celebration of love and friendship with their closest family and friends, somewhere beautiful yet intimate.

Jana leaned forward, flipping through one of the magazines and pausing at a picture of a rustic, coastal venue. “Imagine getting married by the sea,” she murmured dreamily, her fingers tracing the photo.

Y/N smiled, reaching across the table to take her hand. “Wherever it is, it’ll be perfect. As long as you’re there.”

Jana chuckled, squeezing her hand. “Sappy already. You’re getting an early start.”

They laughed, flipping through more pages and discussing color schemes, flower arrangements, and their favorite foods to serve. But there was one thing they both agreed on from the start: they wanted their friends by their sides, especially the ones who’d been part of their journey.

Later that week, after training, they gathered a small group of their closest teammates in the locker room, hearts racing with excitement. Jana looked around, grinning as she started, “So… we have something to ask you all.”

The teammates—Alexia, Mapi, Patri, and Bruna—looked at each other, curious expressions on their faces. Y/N took a breath, meeting Jana’s gaze for a moment before turning back to their friends.

“We’d be so honored if each of you would stand with us as bridesmaids at our wedding,” Y/N said, her voice warm and genuine. “You’ve all been there for us through so much, and it wouldn’t feel right without you by our sides.”

For a moment, there was silence as their friends processed what they’d just asked. Then, all at once, excitement erupted.

“Oh my god, yes!” Mapi practically shouted, pulling both Y/N and Jana into a bear hug. “You’re not getting rid of us now!”

“Are you kidding? I would be honored!” Patri said, her eyes shining as she hugged Jana tightly. “Thank you for including us.”

Bruna beamed, looking genuinely touched. “This is going to be beautiful. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Alexia, ever the sentimental one, pulled them both in for a quiet hug, smiling softly. “I’ll be there, every step of the way. It’s an honor, really.”

The rest of the evening was filled with laughter, ideas, and plans as they all talked about dresses, music, and their own hopes for the wedding. Each of the soon-to-be bridesmaids shared their ideas for everything from the bachelorette party to the types of flowers they’d love to see, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude. This was her family, a group that had seen her through thick and thin, and now they’d stand beside her on one of the most important days of her life.

As the night wound down, Y/N looked over at Jana, her heart swelling as she took in the sight of her fiancée laughing and chatting with their closest friends.

This wasn’t just about the wedding—it was about the life they were building together, surrounded by people who loved and supported them both. And for Y/N, it was more than she’d ever dreamed of.

The sun peeked through the trees, casting a warm glow over the seaside venue where Y/N and Jana’s wedding was set to take place. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the soft sound of waves crashing against the shore. It was the perfect day for a celebration, and everything felt magical.

Inside the venue, the atmosphere was buzzing with excitement. Y/N stood in front of a large mirror, her heart racing as she took in her reflection. The white suit tailored beautifully, delicate embroidery with lilac details shimmering in the soft light. She felt beautiful, but more importantly, she felt ready to commit her life to the woman she loved.

As she turned to her bridesmaids, a smile broke out on her face. “Can you believe this day is finally here?”

Mapi, in her lilac dress, nodded enthusiastically. “We’ve been waiting for this! You two are going to be incredible together.”

Alexia was busy adjusting Y/N’s tie, laughing and teasing her in the process. “Just remember to breathe,” Mapi said, her own excitement evident. “You’ve got this!”

Meanwhile, Jana was in a nearby room, surrounded by her own bridesmaids. The atmosphere was equally filled with joy and anticipation. She wore a stunning dress that hugged her figure perfectly, her smile radiant as she reflected on everything that had led to this moment.

“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this!” Jana exclaimed, looking at her reflection. “I’m about to marry my best friend.”

“Just remember, when you see Y/N, you’re going to lose it,” Bruna teased, giving Jana a playful nudge. “Make sure to keep it together!”

As the ceremony approached, Y/N’s nerves began to kick in. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, envisioning the moment she’d finally say “I do.”

When it was time, the bridesmaids walked down the aisle, each of them looking stunning and filled with joy. Finally, it was Jana’s turn. The music shifted, and she took her first step, the world around her fading away as she focused on the love of her life standing at the altar.

Y/N's eyes lit up the moment she spotted Jana, her breath hitching at the sight of her. It was as if time stood still, and all her worries melted away. With every step Jana took, a smile crept onto her face, and her heart swelled with love.

As Jana reached the altar, they exchanged soft smiles, an unspoken understanding passing between them. The officiant began the ceremony, and Y/N could hardly pay attention to the words, lost in the depth of Jana’s gaze.

They shared personal vows, each pouring their heart out in front of family and friends. Y/N’s voice trembled with emotion as she spoke about their journey, the struggles they’d faced, and the unwavering love that had brought them to this moment.

“I promise to always support you, to encourage you, and to love you fiercely, no matter what life throws our way,” Y/N vowed, her eyes shining with tears of joy.

Jana reciprocated with equal passion. “You’ve taught me so much about love and acceptance. I promise to always be by your side, to cherish every moment we share, and to grow together through everything life brings us.”

When they exchanged rings, it felt like the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of them in that moment. The officiant pronounced them married, and they leaned in for a kiss, sealing their vows with laughter and tears of happiness. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, and it was as if the world had exploded into colors and joy.

After the ceremony, the reception was filled with laughter, heartfelt speeches, and dancing. Their friends celebrated their love, and the atmosphere was electric with happiness. Y/N and Jana shared their first dance as a married couple, the world around them fading as they focused only on each other.

As they swayed to the music, Y/N whispered, “I can’t believe we made it.”

Jana smiled, her eyes glistening with joy. “We did, and it’s just the beginning.”

The night continued with dancing, laughter, and endless celebrations. Y/N felt like she was living in a dream, surrounded by love and joy. As she looked around at the people who had supported them throughout their journey, she realized just how lucky they were to have each other and their amazing friends.

Later in the evening, Y/N and Jana took a moment to step outside, the cool breeze brushing against their skin as they looked out at the ocean.

“Look at us,” Y/N said, wrapping her arms around Jana’s waist. “Married.”

Jana chuckled softly, leaning her head against Y/N’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Underneath the stars, surrounded by the sounds of waves and distant laughter, they shared a gentle kiss, knowing that this was only the beginning of their beautiful journey together.

The sound of waves gently lapping against the shore filled the air as Y/N and Jana stepped onto the sandy beach, hand in hand. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over everything and creating a picturesque scene. They had chosen a secluded island for their honeymoon, a place that felt like paradise, where they could bask in the warmth of their love without a care in the world.

As they walked along the shoreline, the soft sand beneath their feet, Y/N turned to Jana with a playful smile. “Can you believe we’re finally here? Married and on our honeymoon?”

Jana’s face lit up, her eyes sparkling with joy. “It feels like a dream, doesn’t it? I still can’t believe how perfect the wedding was. And now… this.” She gestured to the breathtaking view around them.

They stopped for a moment, the sun setting behind them, and Y/N pulled Jana into a tight embrace. “I’m so grateful to be sharing this with you. You make every moment feel special.”

Jana snuggled closer, resting her head against Y/N’s shoulder. “And you make me feel loved, every single day.”

After a leisurely stroll, they settled on a cozy beach blanket, surrounded by fluffy pillows and a small picnic basket filled with their favorite snacks and a bottle of champagne. Jana uncorked the bottle, the sound echoing in the stillness of the evening, and poured them both a glass.

“To us,” Jana said, raising her glass with a smile that made Y/N’s heart flutter. “To our love, our adventure, and a lifetime of happiness together.”

Y/N clinked her glass against Jana’s, her heart swelling with emotion. “To us,” she echoed, savoring the moment.

They sipped their champagne, laughing and chatting about everything and nothing at all. As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, Y/N felt a sense of peace wash over her. It was as if the world had faded away, leaving just the two of them in their own little paradise.

After finishing their snacks, Jana leaned back on the blanket, her fingers tracing shapes in the sand. “You know, I can’t believe we’ve come so far,” she said softly. “From friends to lovers to… this.”

Y/N lay beside her, propping herself up on one elbow to gaze into Jana’s eyes. “I’ve loved every moment of our journey. You’ve made me a better person, Jana.”

Jana smiled, her cheeks flushing. “You’re perfect just the way you are, Y/N. I fell in love with you for all the reasons you doubt yourself. You’re strong, kind, and so talented.”

Y/N felt her heart swell at Jana’s words. “I just… I can’t help but feel lucky. I get to spend my life with you.”

As night fell, they lay together on the blanket, the stars twinkling above them. Y/N pointed up at the sky, excitement in her voice. “Look at all those stars! It’s like a blanket of diamonds.”

Jana chuckled, glancing up. “You know, I read somewhere that the best time to make a wish is when you see a shooting star.”

“Then let’s make wishes!” Y/N exclaimed, closing her eyes tightly. “I wish for endless happiness with you.”

Jana smiled, squeezing Y/N’s hand. “I wish for every dream we’ve ever had to come true.”

The two of them lay in silence for a moment, basking in the comfort of each other’s presence. The soft sounds of the waves created a soothing background, making Y/N feel as if they were the only two people in the world.

Eventually, Y/N turned to face Jana, her expression serious yet soft. “Jana, I want you to know how much you mean to me. You’re my everything, and I promise to love you fiercely every day for the rest of our lives.”

Jana’s eyes glistened with tears of happiness. “You have no idea how much that means to me, Y/N. I feel so blessed to have you in my life. You make me feel alive.”

With a gentle hand, Y/N brushed a strand of hair behind Jana’s ear, her touch tender. “I will always cherish you, always support you, and always be your biggest fan.”

Jana leaned forward, capturing Y/N’s lips in a sweet kiss, their hearts entwined in that moment. It was slow and tender, a promise of forever sealed between them. As they pulled away, they rested their foreheads against each other, their breaths mingling in the warm evening air.

“Let’s make this honeymoon unforgettable,” Jana suggested, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Y/N laughed, intrigued. “What do you have in mind?”

Jana grinned, her excitement infectious. “How about a midnight swim? Just you and me, under the stars.”

“Sounds perfect,” Y/N agreed, her heart racing at the thought of sharing such a magical experience.

They stood up, hand in hand, and made their way toward the water. The moonlight danced on the waves, creating a shimmering pathway as they entered the cool ocean. The water embraced them, and they laughed, splashing each other playfully, feeling the exhilaration of being alive and in love.

As they swam, Y/N pulled Jana closer, their laughter echoing across the water. The connection they shared felt stronger than ever, solidifying their bond as they splashed and twirled in the waves.

After what felt like hours, they finally emerged from the water, breathless and full of joy. They wrapped themselves in soft towels, the night air warm against their skin.

As they lay back on the beach, gazing up at the stars once more, Y/N turned to Jana, her heart full. “I can’t wait to create a lifetime of memories with you.”

Jana’s smile was radiant. “With you, every moment is an adventure. I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Jana,” Y/N replied, her voice soft yet filled with conviction.

And as the waves continued to roll in, carrying their laughter into the night, they knew this was just the beginning of their beautiful journey together.

Bound by love, bound for life.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End

#offside story #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso #woso soccer #jana fernandez

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kayharrisons · 4 months ago

Text

It's getting dark, darling, too dark to see [Bjorn x afab! Reader] [Part 2 of ?]

The first night is the hardest.

A/N: omg I can't believe the reception on the first part of this!!! I had to start working on part two right away :) there will be MAJOR angst but a happy ending, I promise!! Also this is going to be more than one part, yay!!!!

Warnings for the series (updated, not necessarily for this chapter but for future ones): general alien themes, MAJOR character death, blood, graphic depictions of violence, trauma, trauma bonding, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unprotected sex (wrap it up folks!), technical cousin incest (Kay/Bjorn), childbirth and pregnancy, implied nsfw content, Bjorn and reader get a lil co-dependent I can't lie guys, protective Bjorn and reader

Yvaga is so green.

You both stand at the windows in the cockpit, staring out into the trees, the bright sky, the fluffy white clouds.

It looks like a dream.

"I've seen it," Rain had said, what feels like a lifetime ago. "In my dreams." she had smiled sheepishly, ducking her head down in that endearing Rain way.

She's been dead for almost ten years, now. They all have.

Turns out Cryo-sleep doesn't speed past the grieving process. Their deaths still feel raw and agonising, an open wound that's just had rubbing alcohol doused all over it.

"...they'd be nine, now," Bjorn says, his voice a whisper, a shadow of himself. His eyes are dark, stormy, glued to the bright blue sky. "My kid. The baby. If we'd never left home it... it would've been... should've been nine now."

You don't know what to say to that, so you settle for reaching over, squeezing his shoulder comfortingly. His hand comes up to meet yours, giving it a squeeze, before his head ducks down.

"Thank fuckin' god autopilot can land itself," he laughs, bitterly. "We were always the fuckin' worst at flyin'."

You hiss through your teeth, rubbing the back of your head at that memory. You'd forgone your seatbelt the first time Bjorn had tried flying under Navarro and Tyler's watchful eyes. Bjorn had panicked at the crush and swerved, you'd gone flying right out of your seat and earned a hefty ten stitches in your scalp for your trouble.

Bjorn had apologised profusely, you'd gotten him back by struggling with the throttle on the damn hauler.

Thank god for autopilot indeed.

You land near a forest, programmed to be about two hours away from civilisation.

You can't help but feel thankful for that, not sure how up to people either of you are at the present moment. People meant questions. Questions meant talking about your crew, what had happened.

"So," Bjorn claps his hands together, speedwalking past his grief for now, as he leads you to the small kitchen. "Got enough rations for about a year, that's with six of us, though-" he pauses, wavering a little, before clearing his throat. "-so, we've got plenty of time to figure out whateva the fuck it is we wanna do next. Won't go hungry any time soon."

You nod, scanning over the cabinets and shelves. Well stocked, clearly the others had been hoarding their rations for some time in the hauler, or making trades on the underground market. It's where Bjorn and Navarro used to get the good cigarettes, after all.

"I imagine we'll step out eventually, right? See exactly what Yvaga has going for it beyond a nice sunset." you remark, plucking out a packet of dehydrated corn bread. You rip it open, popping a chunk in your mouth, before offering the bag to Bjorn, who immediately tears into it.

"Could use a nice sunset," he huffs, shrugging at you. "Not like we've got any immediate plans for the evenin', right love?"

You relent with a grunt, taking the bag of cornbread back from him when he offers it. "Right." you agree, looking at him. He's leaning against the counter, arms crossed firmly across his chest, his head ducked down ever so slightly. You glance down, lips twitching at the sight of his bare legs.

Somehow, that feels like the most alien thing you've seen lately.

"We should probably put pants on, huh?" you remark, and Bjorn blinks at you, eyes darting down to your own bare legs, then back up to your face.

"...I dunno. S'kinda freein', innit?" he jokes, shaking one of his legs at you. A snort makes its way out of you, and he grins, putting his leg back down. "Probably, though. Don't wanna get told to fuck off for runnin' around in our skivvies, we just got here an'all."

"It'd be such a pain in the ass," you agree, nodding your head. "Would have to plot a whole new course and everything, then fuck about with the cryo fuel. Easier to just put on pants and avoid the risk."

Bjorn groans, all the way back to the locker room as he rummages around his backpack to grab another pair of pants to shove his legs into. You follow suit, sliding an old pair of cargo pants up your legs.

Neither of you talk about the five other bags and sets of personal belongings hanging up on hooks and shoved into lockers.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

It doesn't take long for Bjorn to get a fire going.

The hauler's doors remain open as you both sit outside, perched on a log before the little firepit Bjorn had put together. You've had your rations for the night, and some old-Earth song plays from the cassette player that Tyler had brought on board. Everyone had brought a varied mix of tapes.

This one was Bjorn's favourite, though, full of a bunch of rock songs he'd always had playing in the background as he helped Navarro with her tinkering, or when he was having a drink or two at home.

You both stare into the flames, cans of untouched beer in your hands. Aspen, you fucking hate the stuff. Bjorn had brought it onboard, though, and it was the only booze you had.

"...is it horrible that I kind of just want to go to sleep?" you ask, and Bjorn snorts, head lolling over to look at you. The flames dance over his pale face, illuminating it in the dimming daylight.

"Haven't had enough of that have ya?"

"Doesn't feel like it," you sigh, leaning your head back and closing your eyes, breathing the clean air deep into your lungs.

Bjorn grunts, looking away from you and focusing his eyes on the orange sky. "Know whatcha mean. Doesn't feel like any time's passed at all. Which is the point, I know, but..."

"Kind of wish it had, a little."

"Yeah," he agrees, before finally cracking open his can of beer. He holds it aloft, looking at you pointedly. You follow suit, and he taps his beer can against yours. "To the others."

Your throat feels tight at that, your eyes well up. Bjorn's own are misty, but you'd never dare remark upon it.

"To our family." you correct, gently, and he inhales sharply, before nodding.

"To our family."

You both take sips of the shitty beer, legs lightly touching as the sun sets, as the sky darkens.

You can't find it as beautiful as people described it, however. Not with the heavy weight of loss upon yours and Bjorn's shoulders.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

You take the top bunk at Bjorn's insistence. He slips into the bottom bunk, the electric stun baton clutched tight in his fingers, his back to the wall and eyes staring out at the open space.

You don't comment on it as you clamber up to the top bunk, staring at the metal ceiling. Years of etched doodles, of signatures, of stickers and posters. All there for you to see.

You roll onto your side, facing the opening of the bunk. Your breathing slows, evens itself out, and yet the sleep you've desperately been craving evades you.

The ship is quiet. Everything all locked up and turned to off. The only sound is your breathing, Bjorn's too quiet for you to pick up on from the top bunk.

You don't know how long you lay awake, staring at the metal vent across from you, head aching more and more as you lay there unable to sleep. It's frustrating, sure, but you're rather numb to feeling anything else but grief.

Despite the grey of the ship, all you can see is red.

Red, as Navarro's chest burst open. Red, as Kay's blood splattered the glass. Red, as Tyler's warm, thick blood dripped down onto you. Red, as Kay's life drained from her. Red, as Rain's helmet was broken and she screamed for you to leave her.

Even Andy, as he twitched on the floor, choking on the white of his blood.

The silence is what kills you.

The ship has never been so quiet in all its life (of course, save for those 9 years you and Bjorn had been in cryo). It's unnatural, it makes your skin crawl.

Until, that is, you hear some muffled noises from the bottom bunk. You shift, propping yourself up on your elbows as you listen.

A sniffle, a shaky exhale, a shuddery inhale. A muffled cry.

Your heart twists as you realise what it is.

Bjorn is crying.

There's some shuffling from beneath you, and the noises muffle themselves. You're sure if you looked down, you'd spy Bjorn with his head buried in the pillow, trying to silence himself.

The urge to get up and comfort him is overwhelming. To hold his hand and grieve together, to try and get through this first night.

But you know him.

You've known Bjorn since you were eleven, both gangly awkward children. You've known him nine years, seen him at his best and worst. Seen him when grieving his mother, how he'd shut down towards everybody barring Navarro and... Kay.

You roll back over, electing to face the wall as the muffled cries continue. He doesn't need comforting, now, as nice as it would be to help him through it. No, he needs to grieve, needs this private moment to himself. You know he'd just end up clamming up with embarrassment if you tried to talk to him now, probably spout some bullshit about how men don't cry, fuck off.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, clutching the blankets tightly.

Neither of you sleep that first night.

#alien romulus #alien #bjorn alien romulus #bjorn alien romulus x reader #bjorn x reader #x reader #spike fearn

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passivenovember · 7 months ago

Text

This just fell out of me, team. I hope you enjoy it!

Steve’s wearing a sunhat.

Billy spots it on his tromp down the front steps, a nondescript canvas bag balled and clutched in one hand like wilted butcher’s paper, and thinks it could be a dinner plate on top of Harrington’s quaff. A trick of the early morning light slotting an obvious hole in the world.

It’s a sunhat, though.

The bag crinkles in Billy’s fist. Its folds and edges could draw blood. He tugs Steve’s passenger door open with his free hand and settles into the cab. Catches his breath. Says, “Why are you dressed like that?” When Steve only stares at him.

“We’re going to the Farmer’s Market,” Steve says. “It’s a special occasion.”

They go to the Farmer’s Market every weekend, Billy doesn’t say. Since March, stretching all the way to last summer; off and on while Billy settled into it like a drowned cat, Steve eventually snapping, “We can do this,” Hands on his hips. Jars of pickled vegetables fresh from his little tote bag, glittering on Billy’s kitchen counter. “We can have this.”

“Non FDA regulated vegetables?” Billy had asked, grinning when Steve flushed, turning to dump Billy’s half of the loot into the refrigerator.

Billy never asked what ‘this,’ meant. What they could have. Thinks he has a decent idea.

“You didn’t need to put a fuckin’ hat on,” Billy says now. Didn’t need to wear that hat. Particularly.

He’s cute, though. Younger, where its wide, formless brim hides the salt and pepper that’s been slinking up Steve’s temples for the last couple of years, reminding Billy of the decades that rest like rain slickers on their backs. Floppy hats on their heads.

“It’s supposed to be in the low hundreds today.”

“It’s seven-thirty, pretty boy.”

“I’m not taking any chances,” Steve says. He throws the car into reverse, but really it’s more a gentle nudge of the gear-shift until the car rolls with gravity into the street. Harrington always driving like a fifty year old man long before he was one. “I read an article that sunscreen isn’t enough anymore,” Steve says bluntly.

“Isn’t enough to what? Keep you celibate?” Billy digs around in his jeans pocket for his cigarettes. The white lighter that Steve had had an aneurysm over when he first saw it.

“No, to stop skin cancer. These days, how the Baby Boomers fucked up the Ozone, you’ve gotta wear sleeves, and sunscreen, and sunglasses, and fuckin’, sunhats,” Steve yanks the lighter out of Billy’s hand before he can spark up. Ignores the punch Billy lands on the one that came, fresh from 1993, with the car.

America used to be a country. Smoking used to be good for you.

Steve shoots him a side-ways glance, as if reading his mind. “You’re gonna kick rocks at sixty, Bill. Way you smoke.”

“They don’t make sun hats for lungs yet,” Billy says. The car lighter pops free so he snags it, waiting patiently for the hot-plate coil to catch his cig. When it does, he puts it back. Inhales slowly, peering out the window as the early morning shoots by at 30 miles per hour, a dying star.

He can feel Steve watching him. Now. Always.

“You could stop,” Steve says softly. “Smoking. You’re still young.”

Billy snorts. “Yeah, and you could mind your business.”

“Fuck you, you are my business.”

Billy’s stomach flips. He’s surprised, still, that his guts aren’t knotted and non-functional after all this time. Decades of friendship; career changes and new houses, new wives that slip steadily into ex wives. Kids. One kid. Billy’s. Decades of Steve, worrying about Billy’s diet and nagging at his bad habits, and. Saying shit like that. Flipping Billy’s stomach over on itself.

Billy puffs on his cigarette, rolling his eyes when Steve coughs dramatically into one elbow. He blows a huge cloud, just to be an asshole.

“Dude,” Steve says, leaning away so the car jerks suddenly to the left.

Billy yelps, jostling against his seatbelt, “Harrington, you’re driving.”

“This is your lungs on nicotine,” Steve says, “A shitty old car driven by a lunatic middle-aged divorcee. Out of control. Veering into a ditch, or–”

“--It’s just a goddamn cigarette–”

“--With every pack you’re killing babies,” Steve tells him. The next streetlight turns gold. Steve runs it.

Billy hangs on. His heart thumps with every twist and turn of the road. Hawkins races by, a blur of neon green oak trees and dark, supple earth. The grass is burned away in some places. Steve’s ancient car groans in the rising heat, its tires buff their tread against hot pavement.

At the next stoplight, Steve slams on the breaks.

Billy almost flies through the goddamn windshield. He sits back against car seat leather. He breathes through his nose, counting to ten before he realizes that he’s covered in cigarette ash. His cigarette isn’t lit anymore.

Steve watches him evenly, soulful brown eyes calm.

Too calm.

Billy frowns. “What the fuck is going on with you, man?”

Steve shrugs.

“It’s just a cigarette,” Billy presses forward, turning in his seat to give this his full fledged fucking attention. “You’re acting like you did when I was moving back home and you thought you couldn’t ask to come. Right before you broke Tommy Hagan’s nose when he said–”

“I know what that asshole said, I’m fifty, not a hundred,” Steve snaps. “I’m not acting like anything.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, shifting, “Yeah, you are. Like that time Alice wouldn’t let you come visit because she was doing that bullshit Home for 40 Days thing after Serena was born,” Billy tells him. He watches Steve’s face. Notices the crack before it happens because they’ve been friends for decades.

It hurts him. “Steve–”

“I asked to come eventually,” Steve says, voice soft as feather down, neglecting to mention that he didn’t stay in California. “You moved back after the divorce. When Alice–”

“The light’s green,” Billy says.

“I’m fine,” Steve tells him. “It’s fine.” He breathes through his nose, pawing at the brim of his dorky sun hat like he forgot it was there, for a moment. Like he wants to rip it off.

Suddenly, with the force of a riptide, Billy misses the wave of Steve’s hair, still impossibly thick even into their middle age. He wants the hat gone, the sun free of all its massive danger.

“I won’t smoke anymore,” Billy says, “If you want me to stop, I will.”

The moment hangs between them, and then, behind, someone honks.

“I want you to live forever,” Steve admits. Soft. Sweet.

Billy almost breaks in half. Isn’t sure why they’re talking about this now, in a car, on their way to the Market. But that’s what happens when you get older. Every moment like an oak leaf on the wind, slipping like water through clenched fists.

He frowns, asking, “What about you?” Because. He wouldn’t want to spend forever alone.

“Why else am I wearing a fucking sunhat, Billy?”

Billy’s stomach knots. He opens his mouth to admit that he’s been in love with Steve for forty years, and he’ll always be the kind of man who burps and says the wrong thing and pushes too hard and smokes cigarettes, but.

He loves him.

Steve waits. When the second honk comes, he turns away, pulling his shitty old car onto Menard Street without another word.

Billy swallows love, the movement as familiar to him as their friendship. It tastes like cigarette smoke. He tosses his unlit fag out the window, feeling like the shit hole scum of the earth when Steve reports that 30% of wildfires start with a carelessly discarded cigarette.

There’s a drought, too, Billy doesn’t say.

He should’ve thought it out. But it’s Steve. He only wanted to suck the wound.

–

Steve’s been twitchy for as long as Billy’s known him. It’s worse when he has something to say, when the skeletons in his closet regrow their ligament to stand on knocking knees, banging on the door, asking for an escape.

Billy’s been around long enough to know that it’s best not to push, even when that’s all he does, all he’ll ever do. But. When it comes to Steve Harrington, things are different. Always.

“What should we do first,” Billy asks. Knowing Steve’ll talk when he’s ready.

Harrington parks his car, the last in a long line of hybrids and hatchbacks, near the edge of the park. “I’m looking for honey,” He says, voice pulled tight like an out-of-tune string instrument. In a hurry. One wrong stroke and he’ll snap.

“‘Kay,” Billy says.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands once they’re out of the car. He resists the urge to lick his palm for a breath check, knowing he’ll find coffee and burnt toast and filmy pink love; tries to stop himself from tucking his shirt into the waist of his jeans, unfurling into the type of man that stops smoking and goes to Farmer’s Markets every weekend because his best friend asks him to. Against all odds.

Billy trots with Steve over the hill and into the market, his heart in his throat. They find the honey booth quickly and wait in line together, Steve tapping out an impatient rhythm on the cobblestone.

“You’re so squirrely today,” Billy says. He claps a hand on Steve’s neck, trying to squeeze out the tension. Wanting to touch him.

Steve shrugs him off.

Dick.

Billy rolls his shoulders and crosses his arms for safe keeping, having learned long ago that his hands will gravitate to Steve Harrington if given the chance. Billy aches for a cigarette, squints into the strengthening sunlight, yearning for his sunglasses, sunscreen, a sun hat–

“Lot of Pride Flags,” Billy says gruffly. His palms sweat, tacking unhelpfully to the hair on his forearms. It’s like he blinked, came up for air, and Indiana got progressive.

Steve stiffens next to him, “It’s June first, I think,” He says, hiding something.

“No shit?” Billy turns just in time to catch Steve watching him, a weird look in his eyes. “Should call Serena this afternoon.”

“Let’s go lesbians,” Steve says, a soft, pink smile on his face.

Billy wants to ask about Robin, even though he just spoke to her on Wednesday when she called to demand how he keeps his tomato plants blooming into November. He wants to grab Steve by the face and say see, I’m alive. I’m here. I have a garden, and a daughter, and Robin remembers how I used to drink shitty Miller Lite and blast Elton John when you went out with girls. She remembers how much I wanted you. I would carve your name into every piece of driftwood that I threw into the quarry because my skin would scar over. Useless. Old and bereft while the driftwood would float forever, dissolving into the earth with your name sheathed in its very matter, bright and evergreen—

Steve buys two jars of honey.

He buys two of everything, at the Market, one for himself. One for Billy. Billy tries not to think about it.

“Where should we go next,” Steve makes room in the folds of his bag for the first of their loot.

Billy only ever buys books at this thing. He raises one eyebrow, sidestepping a pair of lesbians that send a shock of tenderness down his spine. Heather and Robin in ‘87. He bites his tongue, though, thinking through their usual haunts. “What about the corn booth?”

Steve loves sweet corn. He’s a cliche, shrugging his shoulders, “Could do that. We could try something else, too.”

Billy looks at him, grinning, “Okay, what do you have in mind?”

“Well. We started with honey.”

“Yeah.”

“The bakery booth is supposed to be out this week, I heard.” Steve hasn’t shut up about the orange-cranberry muffins he got on a lunch break two weeks ago. He shrugs, thinking better of it. Feigning nonchalance. Billy would fall for it if they hadn’t known each other for years. “Or we could go to the book stand,” Steve says.

Dangling hope in the starched summer air.

Billy startles a laugh, “Already? We haven’t done your grocery shopping for the week.”

“It’s hot, we don’t have to stay long,” Steve says, watching the crowd thrall around them, “You deserve something for coming out with me today.”

“I come out with you every weekend.”

Steve groans, “C’mon, I’m trying to be nice. Either we go to the book stand, or we’re getting muffins.”

“I’m trying not to eat so much sugar,” A blonde boy skitters into the Market lane, turning to grin past the swell of Billy’s shoulder. There’s a pride flag painted on his cheek bone, smeared delicately by the slide of lips. Billy tries to look away, “Gluten, either.”

Steve gapes, “So you’re not eating sugar or gluten anymore but you’ve never met a cigarette you didn’t like?”

The blonde waits in the sunlight, fingers stretched out in front of him until a boy with huge, soft brown hair knits into all his boyfriend’s empty spaces.

They kiss.

Billy looks at Steve, flushed.

Steve holds his gaze. Finally, “Let’s go to the book stand,” He says, catching Billy off guard. Throwing him a bone.

–

Hawkin’s Public Library was forced, a screaming, tantrum filled child, into the new millennium about a month after Billy and Alice divorced and Serena told the judge she wanted to move back home to Indiana.

To be with Uncle Steve. That’s what she’d said to the judge. “Daddy and me want Uncle Steve,” Billy had noticed how Alice went ram-rod straight at the name. Like she always did, sour by the way Billy and their daughter, both, couldn’t seem to live without him. “We want to go home.”

So, they went. Alice didn’t try to stop them.

Really, home in the textbook sense was always California. Serena was born in Long Beach. She could stand on a surfboard by the time she was two years old and she abhorred the winter, any item of clothing that sat too close to the base of her neck. The smell of barley. None of that mattered, in the long run.

Hawkins was home to her. Their clumsy, earnest, well loved vernacular to the court’s stuffy, clinical language.

It didn’t matter to Serena that Indiana was a relic in Billy’s history. She had never moved past sleepy summers spent landlocked, running through sprinklers with Max and Lucas’ wheat-fed kids and eating bomb pops in the swimming pool with a slew of found family aunts and uncles, her halo of blonde ringlets crunchy from too much chlorine.

Even into her adolescence, the only person she let brush her hair straight out of the pool was her Uncle Steve. The only person she cried to was Uncle Steve. The adult she loved most in the world, except her dad. Maybe.

Billy’s own memories of that time were worn thin. Throbbing with heartache, like a damsel who was bound to find her way back home at the end of some terrible, cruel romantic comedy. He ached on the plane ride to Hawkins. Burned when they moved into the new house. Crumbled as he slept alone every night, grateful in tiny, hidden places that Serena had seemed to process her parent’s divorce and their subsequent move across the country before the first box had been unpacked.

For Billy, things weren’t so easily digested.

He needed time to let the guilt swallow him. The sting of hurt to lick at his fingers. Alice and the tattered flag of their loveless marriage paled in comparison to the way Steve had slipped wordlessly into her place.

It almost killed Billy that they were happier, here. That neither one of them had tried to hold on to their life back in California.

–

Point is, they used to take Serena to the library together.

Billy’s own mom had believed that books were the key to everything. Children learn by watching colorful characters trail their way through the hills and valleys of friendship. They’re introduced to death and loss in the fold of a page, the monochrome glint of words on yellowing cardstock. They learn to let go by watching someone else do it first.

Really, Serena hadn’t needed the library. Even at that age she was more level-headed than Billy had been in his entire life, but Steve suggested they go, anyway. “We have to raise a reader, like you.” He’d said. As if Billy was the best thing a person could be.

We.

We have to raise a reader.

–

Hawkins Library sells used books at the Farmer’s Market these days. Budget and funding cuts forcing their hand, Billy caught in a violent spell of fifty-cent paperbacks.

The memory of Serena holding Steve’s hand, trailing excitedly down every aisle. Even the grown-up ones. Scowling when Steve would snatch every book from her hand, spitting they were, “inappropriate for little girls, Serena.”

Demanding to know when she’d be old enough to read anything with vampires in it.

Billy smiles at the memory, heart fluttering as Steve trails in front of him now in his dorky sun hat, calloused fingers dancing over the spines of every book on the Memoirs shelf.

Without his salt and pepper showing, and if Steve’s face wasn’t furled in concentration so that his laugh lines gouged deeper into the split around his mouth; Steve looks the same as he always has.

Billy side-steps another pair of lesbians, running head-first into the LGBTQIA+ Romance section. His heart thuds. He looks around, trying to catalog this territory. Pride flags, Cher playing over a pill-sized bluetooth speaker.

The portable shelf has a flier stuck to it. A disco ball with rainbow streamers falling like wet rags from the words Hawkins Community GSA Presents: Queer Prom. Get Your Tickets at the Booth!

Billy turns, heart in his throat. He watches Steve mouth along to the back of whatever book he’s holding. Catches sight of some president, or something, staring nobly through the break of Steve’s fingers.

Some twink, sandwiched between the next row of shelves, laughs, and Steve looks up. Catching Billy. He deposits the memoir back on the shelf. “You drug me all the way over here and you haven’t even looked at anything.”

Billy swallows the lump in his throat. “What’s going on, Steve?”

“I don’t know–”

Billy rips the flier from the book shelf, thrusting it into Steve’s wide, waiting palms.

Steve mouths along to the words. Like he did with the memoir. Like he always has, with the instructions on Betty Crocker Cake Boxes, and the confusing swirl of the How To’s for little girl’s play sets, stretching all the way back to the spring of 1985 when he would pay Billy in saccharine smiles to read Kafka out loud. Write Steve’s essays for him.

“Huh,” Steve flushes bright pink across the bridge of his nose. “Get your tickets at the booth,” He says, artfully avoiding Billy’s gaze, “Cool idea. The instructions aren’t very clear, though, there’s so many booths–”

“You said today was a special occasion,” Billy accuses flatly. It’s getting harder to breathe. “You said you weren’t acting weird, but you’re acting weird, and I–”

“--Will you go to prom with me?” Steve says. Then, Immediately, “I don’t want to freak you out.”

Billy snatches the flier back from him, shaking all over.

“Okay, alright,” Steve swallows, fingers splayed like Billy’s a junkyard dog who’s backed into a corner. Who’ll attack any minute now. “Look, I just. I thought if I was gonna grow a pair of balls, like. If I was ever gonna do this, I should do it here.”

That doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.

Steve inches closer, his lined, aging, familiar, beautiful face open like a sunroof. Like a hole in the sky. “Billy,” Steve says, “Ever since I met you–”

“--What the fuck is going on–”

“--Stop, okay? Just. Let me say this?” Steve waits, patiently, for a confirmation. Billy doesn’t move or breathe or blink. Steve presses forward, “Ever since I met you when I was seventeen years old I thought. You were someone I could spend the rest of my life with.”

Someone exhales all the wind in their lungs. Billy.

Steve bristles at the sound. He pulls inward, seeming to notice that people are looking at them over the bookshelves with the kind of intensity that puts a basketball court under Billy’s feet. That reminds him of how Steve would defend Billy to the world before he got better.

Before he was worth anyone’s love.

“So,” Steve lifts a hand to his forehead before realizing he’s still in the sun hat. He takes it off, “I had a speech,” He tells the sun hat, folding the brim between two fingers. Hair a mess but still perfect. “Do you wanna hear it?”

“I think I’ll pass out,” Billy admits earnestly.

“I’d catch you,” Steve says, so. Billy takes a timid step forward, flinching out of his skin when Steve looks up and says, “I’m in love with you.”

Once upon a time, Billy thought the world would collapse if they said those words out loud.

It doesn’t.

“So,” Billy rasps, wringing the flier in his fist, “You thought. You could ask me to prom?”

“We didn’t get to go to prom when we were kids.”

“You went with Nancy,” Billy snaps, strangling the flier. “You danced. I watched you dance–”

“--We didn’t get to go together.”

“You wanted to go to prom with me?”

“Of course. Billy, I moved to California because I was in love with you.” Steve says, like just saying it out loud points to the bread-crumb trail of what they’ve been dancing around for all these years. Like ah-ha. Checkmate.

Billy sniffs. Something wet on his cheeks. “You left California.”

“Because I was in love with you.” Steve nods slowly, “You. You met Alice, and. I thought–”

“--I can’t go to gay prom with you, Steve.”

He doesn’t even bat an eye, used to Billy’s flair for the dramatic. “Why not?”

“Because,” Billy says, looking around desperately. All he finds are lesbians and twinks weaving in and out of the aisles, caught in their own little crystal-clear worlds, useless. “Because I’m in my fifties. And so are you.”

“The event is all ages,” Steve tells him, bored, “Well. Really it’s for old people. Because we never got to have one.”

And.

The fact that Steve went to prom with Nancy, that he bought flowers and pinned a satin pink corsage to her dress, holding her hand while they danced under seafoam lights, but it wasn’t what he wanted.

Who he wanted–

Billy sniffs. Trying to stamp out the fire in his chest. “I have a mortgage and and a tomato garden, and a daughter in New York–”

“--This was Serena’s idea,” Steve admits suddenly. “She’s the one who sent me the information on Facebook.”

Of course.

Billy nods, “You’re wearing a sunhat.” His chest, opening like a springtime rose. Stupid. “You can’t say you love me and then ask me to prom when you’re wearing–”

“I took it off,” Steve says. A smile in his voice.

“I stopped smoking for you,” Bill accuses.

Steve snorts, “Like you aren’t gonna finish the pack first.”

Billy laughs, and it’s wet-sounding. It rattles in his chest and then bursts into the air between them, somehow pulling Steve across the cobblestone. He pushes Billy’s hair back from his face, fiddling with the same earring that’s been there for forty years. Changed only once, for prom.

Billy looks at him. Catalogs the years, the love that grew like ivy over everything else. He hiccups, “I never thought you’d love me back.”

“Of course I love you back.”

“But,” He says, thinking of how their lives could have been so different, “Why–”

“--We can have this,” Steve tells him, pulling Billy close. “We deserve this.”

Another thing Billy will have to settle into.

It’s nice. He wants to kiss Steve, so he does, because Hawkins has turned into the kind of place that hosts gay prom, where lesbians and twinks roam freely in their little rainbow outfits.

Steve licks into Billy’s mouth and they melt into each other, gone soft by the years, and the heat of June. When Steve pulls away, his lips press like stamps to Billy’s forehead, his chin, both eyes, his mustache–

Billy giggles. “We should get our tickets.”

“I already have them,” Steve says.

Billy pulls back, gawking.

“I ordered them online.”

“You know how to order things online?”

“Serena ordered them,” Steve says, shrugging.

And.

Billy grunts. Wanting to say that he could’ve said no. He’s still himself, after all, smoke free organic or not, but. Steve knits their fingers together, “C’mon,” He says, and Billy doesn’t ask where they’re going next. It doesn’t matter.

They’ve been in love since they were seventeen. Billy’s just happy that it gets to live out in the open, now. Glittery with pride.

#harringrove #fluff #fluff and angst #pride #elder gays falling in love #or admitting they're in love and have been forever #anyway!

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watchyoubloom · 6 months ago

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like i’m falling into you | drw x sfk x reader

2K words | all fluff | lots of kissing | title from “honey” by chance emerson | sometimes you want two boyfriends and you want those boyfriends to be boyfriends, okay? and so what?

summary: you and sam cook dinner while you wait for danny to come home. the three of you get a little distracted catching up.

(this is dedicated to @hearts-hunger , my fellow “i want two boyfriends” brainrot haver, mainly bc i love her but also to cheer her up. maddie, ily ❣️) (and a special thanks to @allieisacrybaby for the read through and encouragement to post even though i was nervous! ily forever ❣️)

A/N: a very gentle reminder that this is fiction and does not in any way translate to reality or my actual thoughts on the two pretty best friends this is about. kapeesh?

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

“Are you sure I can’t help?” You ask Sam again, watching him chop the veggies you’d picked up from the farmer’s market earlier that day from where you’re perched atop the counter. “I feel bad, just sitting here.”

You and Sam had decided to whip up dinner for when Danny got home from his round of golf. You had already prepped everything else, the timer on the oven counting down, and Sam had taken over prepping the fresh veggies for a salad.

“Nope,” Sam answers you, making sure to put extra emphasis on the ‘p’. He gives you a faux-serious look and points at you with the tip of the knife he’s using. “You already did most of the leg work. Just sit there and look pretty, please.”

“I will try my best,” you fake mild concern, giving him a little salute and earning yourself a wink.

Sam finishes cutting the bell pepper in front of him and sets the knife down, stepping over so he’s in front of you. He eases in between your legs, your knees bracketing his hips, and reaches up to twirl the strand of hair that’s fallen loose from behind your ear around his finger. “And look at you, succeeding already,” he says, his eyes drifting from your own down to your mouth. “You know what sounds good, though?”

You quirk an eyebrow up and dance your fingers along the nape of his neck, having draped your arms across his shoulders the second he got close enough. His hair is thrown up in a loose bun to avoid it getting in his way while he cooks, but there’s the ever-errant strand at his nape, and you twirl it in the same way he’d played with your hair. “What’s that, Sammy?”

“A kiss.” His hands have found your hips and smooth back to your ass, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter. Closer to him. “Or a few kisses, maybe.”

“Is that right?” You ask, but don’t give him the chance to answer. You cup his face in your hands and draw him to you, and he kisses you sweetly. His hands make their way under your t-shirt, smoothing up your back, and then he grasps your waist, thumbs stroking along your ribcage.

You kiss soft and slow, with no real intent behind except to be close to each other. Sam’s hands wander, as do yours, and your legs wrap around his waist to keep him as close to you as you can.

Neither of you hear the front door open, or Danny’s amused chuckle when he finds you in the kitchen. It’s only when he says, “Oh, hello,” that your brain comes back to Earth long enough to realize he’s home, and you pull your hand from where it had been cupping the side of Sam’s neck to reach for him, continuing to kiss Sammy while you do so.

Danny sets his things down and walks over to the two of you, taking your hand as soon as it’s in reach. He stops once he’s behind Sam, banding his free arm around Sam’s middle and resting his chin on his shoulder.

You pull away from Sam then, a little dazed, and grin when your eyes land on Danny.

“Hi, Dan,” you greet him, pulling your hand from his to cup his face in your palm. You’ve got a hand on each of their cheeks, now, and the way both of your guys are looking at you has your head in the clouds. You lean in and give Danny a quick kiss. “How was golf?”

“Pretty good. Shot two under.”

“Course you did,” Sam says, turning to press a kiss to Danny’s cheek. He pulls back and looks at him for a second, taking in his appearance, before turning back to you. “Someone didn’t wear his sunscreen,” Sam sing-songs softly, telling on Danny, and it’s only then that you finally notice the tell-tale smattering of freckles across his nose, the tint of red across the tops of his cheeks.

“Daniel,” you pretend to be stern, but can’t help but smile when he turns his face and presses a kiss to your palm.

“Oops?” He says, and Sam laughs as Danny tickles his side in retaliation for pointing out his sunburn. “I was gonna wear my hat all day.”

“Would that be the one that’s sitting on your head backwards?” You ask, and Sam laughs again, earning him another squeeze of Danny’s hand at his side. He jolts and giggles a little, but can’t get away with Danny bracketing him against you and your legs still on either side of him. You take pity on him and distract Danny by tracing the pad of your thumb faintly across his cheekbone. “Does it hurt?”

“Nah,” he says, shrugging his shoulder. “Now. Let me in on these kisses, please.”

You oblige immediately, leaning in to press your lips to Danny’s. His free hand, the one not currently resting on Sam’s stomach, joins Sam’s on your hip. You feel their fingers interlock, Danny’s fingers squeezing Sam’s gently. Sam’s other hand is still cupping the side of your face, and he holds you like he’s the one kissing you, holds you like Danny would if it were his hand on your face.

You feel Sam’s lips at your cheek, your jaw, your neck, and you pull away from Danny to capture them with your own. Danny copies what Sam was doing, starts littering Sam’s neck, his jaw, the sensitive spot behind his ear with little kisses. After a second, you withdraw and nudge them towards each other, watching as Sam cranes his neck enough to be able to meet Danny’s mouth from over his shoulder.

“Sammy,” you murmur after a moment, your thumb stroking along the side of Sam’s neck. “Come here.”

He thinks you mean for another kiss, which you give him, but then you turn him so his back is to your chest and he’s facing Danny. You hook your chin over his shoulder and kiss his cheek, then turn your gaze to Danny, who’s smiling softly at the two of you.

“There you are,” Danny says, his eyes flitting between the two of you. He copies what you did earlier and takes each of your faces in a hand, his touch gentle and warm. “Missed you guys today.”

“We missed you, too,” you reply, and Sam nods his agreement, your face moving with his as he does, since your cheeks are pressed together. “Maybe we’ll go with you next time.”

Danny’s face lights up, and you know right then that no matter the early hour, the next time he asks you two to join him, you’ll both be there. Neither of you are very good, but every now and then you like to go join him for a round and catcall him while you sip drinks in the cart, or let him try to adjust your swing or explain the types of clubs to you. You know it can feel a bit chaotic when it’s all of you, so you give him the chance to have a serious round most times- going with his dad or uncle or buddies who are actually decent at the game- but it’s still an occasional fun date for the three of you.

Danny’s pressed all the way against Sam’s front, now, and his hands drop down to rest on your upper thighs, bracketing Sam in. “I think that sounds great,” Danny says, and leans in to drop a kiss to Sam’s bottom lip before doing the same to you. “And I’m gonna hold you to it when neither of you wants to get out of bed to get to the course.”

“Could schedule a later tee time,” Sam grumbles, but he’s unable to hide his smile as he says it. His fingers dance up Danny’s chest and he hooks one behind the strip of buttons of his golf polo, the weight of his hand tugging the collar down a bit and exposing the patch of dark chest hair there. Sam’s head is still leaned back against your shoulder, and you kiss him on the cheek again. “Doesn’t have to be at the ass-crack of dawn.”

Danny laughs, not bothering to point out at eight in the morning isn’t quite the ass-crack of dawn. Sam has never loved early wake up calls- considers anything before ten to be too early- and is well known for his tendency to cut off his alarm and roll right back over in bed.

“I’ll see what I can do, Sleeping Beauty,” Danny replies, one of his hands coming up to cup Sam’s face again, thumb stroking across one of Sam’s now slightly pinker cheeks. “Anything else?”

“Don’t think so, no,” Sam replies, as primly as he can muster with the smile still tugging at his lips.

“I have something,” you interject, raising a finger in the air. You turn it and crook it towards you in a come hither motion when Danny’s eyes find yours, and then pucker your lips expectantly.

Sam and Danny both laugh and oblige immediately, with Sam turning his head to kiss your jawline while Danny leans in and presses his soft lips to yours. You reach over Sam’s shoulder to cup the side of Danny’s neck, and feel as Sam leans in to kiss the other side, always an active participant.

Danny takes turns kissing the two of you, soft and sweet and slow, until the timer going off breaks all three of you out of your haze.

“What’s-“ You start, still a little drunk off kisses. The timer beeps again and brings you back to Earth. “Oh.”

“Oh, damn,” Sam says, sliding out from between you and Danny. He looks over his shoulder at you. “Good thing we remembered to set that timer, hm?”

“Mhmm,” you say, watching Sam put on oven mitts and take the dish out to sit on the counter. Danny slides into the spot Sam had been occupying between your legs, leaning down so his elbows are on the counter on either side of your thighs. It puts you at a slight height advantage over him, and you grin, taking his face in both hands and kissing the tip of his nose before pressing your lips to his again quickly. “We were clearly all very distracted.”

“Don’t go getting too distracted again,” Sam replies, a teasing lilt to his voice as Danny pulls you into yet another kiss. You can hear him puttering around the kitchen, grabbing plates and cutlery, and you start to pull away, to slide off the counter and go to help.

You’re stopped by two big hands at your waist, keeping you in place.

“Dan,” you try to say seriously. “Let’s go help Sammy.”

“Yeah,” Sam chimes in from the dining room, where you can hear him setting the plates down on the table. “Come help Sammy.”

“Or,” Danny offers, and his eyes are on you still even though he speaks loud enough for Sam to hear, too. “And hear me out. We let the food cool for a few minutes and Sam gets his cute ass back in here so I can kiss you two some more.”

There’s silence for a beat, and you grin, your eyes dancing from Danny’s mouth to his eyes and back.

Sam appears back in the doorway to the kitchen. “We should wait for it to cool a little, actually…” He flits back over to the two of you, kitchen towel over his shoulder. Danny turns in your arms to face him, leaning back against you, and Sammy points at you, then at Danny. He steps in between Danny’s legs as he does so, and then drops his hands to rest atop your thighs, now on either side of Danny’s body. “But no getting too distracted.”

Danny salutes and you follow suit, nodding solemnly. “Ay-ay, Captain,” you say, and then reach your hand out to Sam. “Now come here, please.”

Sam is more than happy to oblige, taking his turn as the one doling out kisses.

(And when you end up having to reheat dinner in the microwave later that night, nobody really seems to mind.)

#sammy kiszka x reader #sam kiszka x reader #gvf fan fic #gvf fic #danny wagner fic #danny wagner x reader #sanny gvf #sanny x Reader #greta van fleet fic #greta van fleet fanfiction #mine

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saintsandsorcery · 1 month ago

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“We’re a long way from Waterdeep”

About Gale and Tavs relationship and how quickly it progressed…

He wonders whether Tav is as anxious as he is. Do they lie awake at night and ask themselves if he really wants to be right there, beside them, or if it’s just a habit? A habit established from fear and uncertainty and instability. The one thing each of them knew back then was that the other was waiting at the end of the day, would cast aside their weapons, their amour, find the familiar body beneath - what else were they supposed to do? They were in this together.

And the role they had been forced into, the immense weight of the world on their shoulders – he would have done anything to ease their burden.

He glances at them, their calm, serene features, and asks himself if they wanted this the way he did. Do they ever fear that he will have left in the morning, never to return? Do they ever hold their dirtied, bloodied travelling clothes and whish to be dresses in them instead of the clean, soft silk they tended to choose now? Tav was a wild and lovely thing, untameable, loud. His own life up until meeting them – well, until Mystra – was one he simply couldn’t imagine Tav enjoying.

Waterdeep, the city he had lived in all his life seemed almost bland compared to his beloved. He could have spent hours listening to Tav haggle with the merchants at the market down by the docks, could easily pinpoint ever little thing he loved about them in every interaction, every movement. He adored how straightforward they could be, he learned to love the way they left little notes and comments in his books – every trace of them being there in the first place brought him joy.

Tav hums to themselves as they check over the leafs of one of their plants. They keep them on the windowsill in the library, Gale gifts them a new one every now and then. It became another little habit – he used to being them bouquets but after watching the sad look in Tavs eyes as the flowers wilted, he chose potted plants instead. Since they settled in the tower together it has almost become an indoor garden. Tav adores caring for the flowers, watching them bloom. The one they turn their attention to has deep red petals. “Gale? What do you think?” they ask, lifting the flowerpot and presenting it to their husband. “Should we place in in the bedroom or in the kitchen?”

All perfectly normal. As if they had never saved the world, as if it wasn’t common knowledge what Gale and Tav were capable of. What they could do if they whished to.

It doesn’t take long for Tav to notice, of course - that grey cloud hanging over his head, the eye contact that doesn’t last, the uncharacteristic silence. When they ask him what’s wrong he almost expects it. Almost. Despite all the preparation he stumbles over his own words, every worry that had gnawed at him the past months surfacing and Tav sitting across from him, listening patiently. “I love you,” he whispers as they hold him close. “Did I ever tell you?”

“A few times, maybe.” They smile at him, brushing their lips against his. “But I’ll never get tired of hearing you say it.”

#baldur's gate 3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #gale x tav #bg3 gale #baldurs gate gale #galemance

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sundew199 · 6 months ago

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Do I deserve this?

What it would be like with Reiner Post-Rumbling,

Tags: angst, slight mention of suicide, trauma, healing. No specific p/n’s used.

A/N: can't get post-rumbling Reiner out of my head, I miss him :(

Immediately after the rumbling it would take a while for him to grasp that he's alive, stuck in limbo while also trying to help everyone else get somewhat adjusted.

Reiner wouldn't understand why he feels empty, why he can't cry even though he wants to.

You would be his grounding force, holding him when he'd jump awake from a nightmare, later learning he they were variations of his most traumatic days. He wouldn't sleep after waking up, burying his face in his hands and muttering about how unworthy he still felt, questioning why he lived when he swore death was all he deserved.

in the mornings, after an intense nightmare, Reiner would be numb. Forcing himself to get through the day, taking on the ambassador duties even though it only added more to his internal turmoil.

Nothing felt real, even when he held you back at night. Your warmth wouldn't penetrate like he wished it would, he couldn't find comfort in the heat of your body when you rested your head on his chest, like he used to before all of this.

His thoughts would calm when you'd talk about anything, your day at the market, the walks you'd take down by the water. Knowing you were finding little joys in the day helped him remove the blinders from his eyes, slowly. Though it wouldn’t last like either of you hoped.

A year post-rumbling is when everything came crashing down at once. You came home from doing a quick market run to find him collapsed by the small kitchen, crying and breaking down in the temporary housing you and him shared.

Panicked and afraid, you ran to his side none the less, taking him in your arms and letting him cry until he could speak.

But even then the words were drowning in his sobs, incoherent and blubbering. His once sun colored eyes were so clouded with sorrow and guilt, pleading for understanding of everything that led him to here.

Reiner confessed he didn't want to live, he couldn't stand the pain of knowing all the lives lost in the rumbling, how he caused all of this when breaking wall Maria. How the other warriors would be alive; Bertholdt, Colt, Porco and Marcel would be here if he wasn't born.

At a loss for words at his confession, you could only hold him and repeat to him how that wasn't true, that it wasn't his fault he was born, nor the actions of a brainwashed twelve year old couldn't have been helped in the end.

You feared even more for his well-being, seeking out the deserpate advice of the other five. You hated asking them what to do to help Reiner like they weren't suffering as well, but you couldn't bare the thought losing him.

Armin and Jean informed you Eren spoke with everyone individually through his titan, everyone gaining their memories back when he was defeated. Reiner would've gotten one as well, prompting you to ask and see if it were true.

Eren did speak with Reiner, promised him that all of this, breaking through the wall and everything after was all intended, all put into motion by him and Ymir. But Reiner didn't believe it, refused to believe it as he tearfully told you.

Never before had you felt so useless, so out of arm's length from the man who held your heart from the very beginning.

Two years post-rumbling and Reiner's emotional and mental state were a rollercoaster that never stopped.

After the floodgates opened, Reiner opened up in a way you never wished to see again.

The nightmares were worse, the breakdowns were frequent and the desire to grant himself an early death was strong.

Night and day you remained by his side, even as he tried to preform his duties as an ambassador of peace. Holding him and wishing the resources he had when he was a warrior were still available. Reiner desperately needed someone more adept to wrangle the emotions of a traumatized man, who suffered from his own regretful actions.

Everything took a turn when Reiner found a proper outlet for the guilt. He journaled every word that entered his mind, channeling it into paper and burning the journal when all the pages were full. Pieck had made the suggestion one day and you couldn’t be more thankful to her.

Five journals were filled and burned and that's when you could see the cocoon breaking to give birth to the man who deserved the life he fought for in the very end.

The progression of his metamorphosis was slow, almost agonizing but you and everyone else could see the changes. Light in his beautiful golden eyes were returning as the days went on and the will to heal from the past flowed through him.

Three years post-rumbling and Reiner was a man in the process being reborn.

Sleeping through most nights now but not escaping the nightmares all together. Healing would never be linear, but at least now it were on an upward streak.

Reiner took a real passion to his work as an ambassador of peace, turning the tragedy of the world into an opportunity to mold it into something everyone at one point dreamt of.

Paradis was still a fear that lived in the back of his head, unable to escape the fear of a possible retaliation, ruining the progression him and the other five had made so far.

His self pity and guilt turned into devotion when it came to you, making promises to further become the man that deserved your love. After all you had done for him, this was the least he could do for you.

It was hard not to walk on eggshells with him at times, knowing how easily triggered he still was but at least now Reiner had developed better coping mechanisms to deal with the stress and trauma that came from surviving the rumbling and saving whoever survived the destruction.

Coming to terms that the events leading to that fateful day would always live with him, even if he wished there were a way to erase them from memory. But he learned that what he endured provided the melding to who he was today.

Reiner Braun would probably never fully heal from his life as a warrior or saving the world from Eren, but if it weren’t for you and sticking beside even on the hardest of days he wouldn’t be able to appreciate the new world he was building. A world he felt safe and at ease at, one where he experienced the desire to raise a family with you, safe enough to live a boring simple life when he could.

-----

“Are you sure this is something I deserve?” He would ask randomly one evening, sitting beside you in a bench he built for the back porch, watching the sun set below the horizon.

“Yes, every part of you deserves this. You're worthy of a life free of pain and guilt, to live through your second chance, I can't think of anyone more deserving than you Reiner.” Responding back soothingly, interlocking your hand with his and pressing it to your cheek. Reiner slightly turned to look at you, expression blank then turning soft at the sweet reassure he would never grow tired of hearing.

“Thank you for showing me that I do, I don’t know where I would be with you.”

#reiner braun #attack on titan #snk #aot reiner #reiner x reader #angst #angst with a happy ending #healing #reiner braun deserves the world and more for everything he went through

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artficlly · 7 months ago

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smog & spirits: pony club (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, angst no comfort, previous abuse, domestic violence, curses and hexes, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, possession, mediums, ghosts, hauntings, horror, smoking, brothels, pubs, gambling, alcohol, cults, death/violence/torture, bucky barnes has issues, bucky barnes is a dick, police brutality, vaguely british setting??, sexism, classism, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 10.1k!!! oh my god someone help

A/N: god this has been on the go for awhile. it got so long but i have a worm in my brain that told me this had to happen before i can get onto the juicy stuff. next part will be a lot more bucky heavy im so sorry this didn't have much of him, needed to build up that loreeee. anyway i actually hate my writing in this, if i have to reread this one more time im gonna go crazy so i'm just gonna post it and go to bed lol!! sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

taglist: @nash-dara

main masterlist | series masterlist

To be lulled into the false security that you would never see Bucky Barnes again was a foolish thought.

Two months passed rather uneventfully. The handsome payment Bucky left you after your favour to him was far beyond your normal rates. A mixture of the gangster having deep pockets and, you suspected, an indication that all that had unfolded was to be kept quiet.

So you had done just that. Your mouth had been sown shut, an invisible thread keeping your lips bound. There were so few people left in your life anyway that you didn’t feel like spilling details of a sex-based ritual with the limited relatives you had left. You weren’t particularly fond of them regardless; most you had not seen in years.

You embraced the winter months as they settled across the city of Blackstone. The fog would roll in thick and dense, the clouds lingering over the port as Sootstone was cast into days of hoarfrosts. Icicles as long as your forearm hung from buildings and lamp-posts and was salt scattered across the wooden docks, where slippage was the worst. The homeless gathered in crowds around the Smokestack district, leeching off the warmth the factories produced. The ice and frosts were never white, unlike the country estates or wealthy garden districts. Smoke and ash continued to pour into the skies, tainting everything with a layer of black grit.

You would see the Smog Boys in the streets often. Teams of the lower-ranking, younger lads would roam in packs, dipping in and out of the alleys. Even dressed in black, you could not make them out through the fog when they intended to disappear. Maybe it had been your brush with Bucky, but you began to notice them everywhere. Lurking in the markets, smoking by the docks, or sauntering by the smokestack factories. A small, stiff, knowing nod would be bestowed upon you if your gaze locked with theirs or if you lingered too long. As if they knew who you were. As if they had been instructed to keep an eye out for you.

You could never leave the Smog Boys once you were inside. Whether you liked it or not, your fates were inextricably linked. You never knew when you might be needed. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to find one in your home. It is what you ought to have expected by now. It was only a matter of time before they came calling.

You could only find one word to describe the woman in your kitchen. Beautiful. Beautiful in a hauntingly, terrifying way. She was stylish, with a blouse tucked into tailored, high-waisted suit pants. A lavish fur coat was draped over her shoulders, and her red hair was in a fashionable, blunt bob. Her lips, painted a deep red, were curved into a disgusted sneer as she assessed your residence.

She had to be with Bucky because only a Smog Boy could illicit such an aura.

“You should invest in better locks.” The redhead comments with a sniff. You haven’t even had a chance to process her presence; instead, you are standing with your lips parted in shock. “It wouldn’t be hard to rob you… or worse.”

You’re unsure if that was a thinly veiled threat or genuine advice.

“Most don’t make habit of breakin’ into witches' homes.” You mutter, regaining your composure. You whip your headscarf off, abandoning it on your dining table. “They’re scared of being cursed.”

Your fingers unknot the woollen scarf around your neck now, tugging it free with a flutter of ash. The woman arches a well-manicured brow at you, looking you up and down. She doesn’t try to hide her judgement. She didn’t seem the type of woman to shy away from stating her opinion. Your clothing was noticeably different from hers, which was made of luxurious fabrics. The Smog Boys were well known for their finer suits—just because they lived and worked in the slums didn’t mean they dressed for it. Bucky seemed to like to keep certain appearances and had the funds to do so. You, however, were dressed for practicality. Heavy, cheap textiles that kept in the warmth.

“Cursed.” The woman states, tone sharp. “You don’t seem the type to throw curses. You’re too… sweet.”

You don’t miss the condescending nature of how her sharp lips curve into a smile. You shoulder the insult. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Natasha. Romanoff.” The name was vaguely familiar to you. She was definitely one of Bucky’s inner circle. Possibly she worked closer to the shadows—a brain rather than brawn like Steve and Sam. “Barne is in need of your particular set of skills again.”

You pause, your fingers frozen over the pin in your mantle. Again? You knew to expect this, but still, you felt your heart uptick a beat. So soon? The question of which skills hung heavy in the air. Your abnormal skill to summon and banish spirits? To break curses and sense the otherworldly? Or to get your brains fucked out by Sootstone’s most notorious gangster?

From the way Natasha was eyeing you, it seemed she knew all about your little sex ritual.

“What if I’m unavailable?” You test hesitantly.

The redhead isn’t amused. “It wasn’t a request.”

You nod slowly, hands falling to your sides. One should know when not to test Bucky Barnes or his men; it always ended rather unfavourably. Plus, you didn’t want to wake up tomorrow to find your kitchen filled with any more gangsters.

Maybe Natasha was right about the locks.

—

Bucky and a pack of his dogs congregated in the streets outside the pub known as The Anchor. The establishment sat across from the docks, with tinted, lattice windows facing the port. On a clear day, one who sat in the window booths might be able to see the ocean. Though, throughout your life, you could recall about as many clear days as the fingers on your right hand. The Anchor had been in the Barnes family for years, originally bought by Bucky’s father when the Smog Boys first rose to infamy.

The building was well cared for, a luxury not many of the surrounding establishments were familiar with. The building was decorated in a nautical style, with netting and flags adorning the walls and rafters. Fish and ships were painted onto the siding, with gold and blue accenting the furniture inside. Even the sign out front was a small, steel anchor engraved with the pub's name.

The Anchor was mainly stocked with whiskey, which the Smog Boys ran an underground distillery for. They offered other spirits, wines, and ales, but the main vice of The Warrens was whiskey. Bucky had several underground or even legal businesses dotted throughout Sootstone, including gambling dens and brothels. You knew he made his office in a gambling den not too far from The Anchor—the dock-side streets were prime spots for high traffic from the sailors and dockworkers coming and going like the tide.

As you and Natasha approached, the pack of adolescent gangsters surrounding Bucky scattered, disappearing into the thick fog and alleyways like wraiths.

“Your witch, as requested,” Natasha announces with a sigh, her brows arched. Bucky glances at you, acknowledging you with little more than a grunt. He takes the last drag from his cigarette before crunching it beneath his shoe.

“Thank you, Nat.” Bucky replies, smoke escaping his lips as he speaks. “Sam’s lookin’ for you inside.”

Natasha doesn’t offer you a farewell as she pulls her coat tighter around her lean body and ducks inside the pub with a tsk. You and Bucky are left in an odd silence, with only the faint call of seagulls and the lapping of waves joining you. You had never seen the dockside street so quiet, but you could confidently assume his presence was responsible.

“I trust Nat didn’t scare you too bad.” The gangster breaks the silence. His dark eyes wander across your frame, seemingly disappointed that you were thoroughly covered to prevent the cold from seeping in. “Would’ve come to get you myself, but I had some business to attend to.”

In retrospect, the thought of encountering Natasha in your kitchen again seemed more daunting than Bucky. You weren’t too sure how to interpret her malice and cool charm. She did give off the impression that she would kill you if you even breathed in her direction. As for Bucky, maybe he would kill you, but given his reputation, he was far more likely to fuck you up against the nearest available surface.

“She said you've a job for me?” You ask, watching as the gangster tucks his large, bruised hands into his pockets.

He cocks his head to the side. “Walk with me.”

You obey wordlessly.

Bucky navigates the streets with ease, ducking through alleys and blindly striding into the fog with unquestionable confidence. The few people you encounter in the winding streets dart out of the way, mumbling apologies and casting their gazes down as they stumble over their own feet. Your breath comes in clouds as you exhale, salt and ice crunching beneath your feet as you keep pace with him.

“There’s an establishment I own, it’s been losin’ business these past months. The girls reckon it’s cursed. Or haunted.” He elaborates, and you frown.

“You think a spirit’s attached?” You ask, and the gangster huffs out a short, bitter laugh.

“I don’t fuckin’ know. I don’t have a sense for that stuff.” His lips are set in a line as he casts his sight down at you. “That’s your job, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t help but gulp and hope that his issue was indeed a spirit. One did not want to disappoint the gangster out of fear of the consequences. Your mind drifted back to months ago, to when he sat in your kitchen with that cursed necklace. He hadn’t noticed that curse—not until his sister apparently spelt it out for him. You couldn’t imagine carrying that thing around when it had reeked so badly that you tasted rot.

“What about your sister?” You suddenly interrupt.

Bucky gives you an incredulous look. “Becca? What about her?”

“You said she has a sense—”

“You think I’m lettin’ my sister near a brothel?” He snaps over you. His body turns to face you as you are both left motionless in the empty, ashy street.

“Oh— I didn’t realise it was… You just said— I just assumed—” Your cheeks grow pink—this time not from the cold—as you stumble over your words. Flakes of ash slowly amble down from the sky, twirling in your mingled breath as the gangster looms over you. Several emotions flicker over his face—insult, disbelief—before finally settling on an eerie amusement.

“Shy ‘bout a brothel? You’re not far off bein’ a whore yourself, doll. You certainly let me fuck you like one.” He leans closer to you, the scent of tobacco fanning across your skin. You clamp your jaw shut, your cheeks growing hotter by the second. The gangster smirks at you with a wickedness that rivals the devil.

—

The Pony Club was not creatively named, like most things in Sootstone. You were sure there was an innuendo about riding or mounting buried in its origin. The brothel was buried deep in the busy streets of the Smokestack District. The crowd of workers parted with hushed whispers as you, Bucky, and Steve approached the establishment. You had bumped into the other gangster during your walk, and he had thankfully filled the tense silence hanging between you and Bucky.

The Pony Club was neatly tucked between two stores. Ice covered the tiled roof, and grey-stained icicles dripped melted water from the front balcony. The ash falling from the sky was thick in these parts. Street sweepers patrolled the roads like small armies, brooms in tow, ensuring the roads were clear for carriages, waggons, and those on foot.

The three of you paused before the building. Your eyes swept over the painted sign, an illustration of a pony alongside the cursive lettering. The building looks well up-kept like many of the Smog Boy establishments; it put its neighbours to shame. You couldn’t help but notice how, despite its busy location, the building was eerily empty. It was as if its walls stood outside of time, cursed to live an existence outside of perceivable reality.

There was a twinge in your gut, a knowing.

Steve grimaces beside you, the gangster scowling as he tucks his hands deep into his pockets. At first, you think he is simply cold from the frigid fog sitting over the city, but only as he speaks do you realise he senses something more. “I hate this place.” He utters.

Bucky hasn’t reacted. He truly didn’t seem to have a sense for anything otherworldly.

“How does it make you feel?” You pry. Steve blinks at you in surprise, as if he hadn’t realised he spoke aloud. It would be useful for you to know how a non-magical person might feel; it could also give you insight as to what haunted the halls of the brothel.

“Doesn’t encourage me to put my cock in some bird, that’s for sure. Bad for business, ‘cause that’s the whole point.” Steve grumbles, and you swear Bucky rolls his eyes. “How does it make you feel?”

The two men look at you with curiosity as you consider your words. Terrible? Awful? Yes, you felt unnerved, but you were accustomed to spirits and hauntings. Most places in this city had ghosts, whether they were malevolent or just lost. You had become unnervingly comfortable with the creeping sensation that you were not alone. It was an entirely different feeling to curses—no, curses, they twisted your gut in wicked ways—hauntings you were at ease with. There was an odd familiarity to them, it sparked a warmth in your soul.

“Best I not say.” You land on. It would be better not to mess with the egos of gangsters, especially if they were afraid of a little ghost.

The two men follow you as you step into the building. The inside is lavish, with a large, grand set of stairs that lead up to the mezzanine. Draperies hung from the balcony railings, and plush furniture, and decorations were artfully placed around the foyer. Despite its luxuriant appearance, there was an isolation that clung to the bones of the building. It was as if dust hung in the air, floating undisturbed. Not a breeze could get through the thick walls, nor could a breath of life. A place that was supposed to be rowdy, a den of sin and pleasure… silenced. As if it were a mausoleum.

The building and those inside were lost in time, caught between a past that did not exist and a future that had not yet come.

The peace is interrupted by a thundering noise, then shrieking. “Mr. Barnes! Oh, Mr. Barnes! So nice of you to come visit us!”

A few curious observers watch from over the bannisters. Beautiful women with tired eyes, hair swept up and curled into coiffures, and revealing dresses that clung to their curves. You suddenly felt rather overdressed in your winter clothes.

An older woman descended the stairs in a frenzy, grinning from ear to ear. Her eyes were lined heavily with kohl, a bright pink blush across her cheeks, and lipstick to match. Her blonde curls bounced around her smooth face, a few longer strands following the dip of her dress. The madame of the brothel.

Your lips purse together, and Bucky lets out a quiet sigh. “Madame Voss.”

“I trust you are here about the ghost?” The madame asks. She is rather excitable, like a puppy or a young child. Even Steve has grown uncharacteristically quiet, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and dread. “I told my girls you would be back to help! I said you were a busy man, but not to worry. We’ve lost a few since you were last here, Rose, Amorie, and Vivinne… but that is nothin’ to worry about. They were traitorous at heart—”

“Yes, I quite understand.” Bucky snaps over Madame Voss. Steve tries to hide a snort, and the madame is left momentarily speechless. “I’ve brought a witch.”

You feel the madame’s gaze rip from Bucky to you. She looks you up and down in one exaggerated sweep, then offers you a somewhat forced smile. She looks as if she is gritting her teeth as she drinks you in. You were left wondering if the madame had some type of unrequited infatuation with Bucky. Many of the women of Sootstone seemed to share such an attitude, especially if they did not have the wit to sense the danger attached to the handsome gangster.

“She’s a bit too pretty for this business, don’t you think? I suppose all those witch women are a bit pretty. It’s usually glamours though, isn’t it?” There is an underlying spite to her tone as she assesses you, arms coming to fold over her chest. Her bosom is exaggerated, and her waistline is pulled pencil-thin by her corset. You are surprised the woman can breathe. “Well, are you wearin’ a glamour, girl?”

You hadn’t realised the madame was questioning you; actually, you found yourself rather overwhelmed by the whole display. Your lips part as you struggle to find your tongue and eventually stagger out a confused reply. “What?”

Madame Voss murmurs in annoyance, her arms uncrossed and hands coming to move in spirited gestures as she speaks. Bucky is staring at the ceiling as if bored out of his mind. “A glamour? You can’t tell me you normally look like that, all wide-fuckme-eyed?”

Steve makes a choking noise somewhere beside you while you gape at the madame. “No?”

“Huh.”

“I work with spirits, not—” You cut yourself off, clearing your throat, and decide it was not worth the argument. “I’ll need some time to walk around ‘n get a feel for things. Maybe talk to some of the girls, if that is alright?”

“Fine by me.” Madame Voss waves you off, attention hastily pulled away as she turns to Bucky. “In the meantime, Mr Barnes, can I get you anythin’? Tea, biscuits… something else? You know my girls will always give you a discount—”

“Somethin’ to drink, perhaps. Somethin’ strong.” Bucky cuts off the Madame and claps Steve on the back. “What do you say, Steve?”

You got the impression that neither Bucky nor Steve liked this Voss woman.

—

It did not take you long to explore the brothel in its entirety.

The establishment was compact and efficient. Downstairs was made up of the main foyer room, which was extended into a room similar to a drawing room. Tables made up the majority of the space, with playing cards and strong Smog Boys branded liquor decorated around the room. Comfortable furniture and suggestive art lined the walls. Out of view was a kitchen, a washroom, and madame’s office space, which Bucky would occasionally take residence in if dealing with business for the Pony Club.

Upstairs was dedicated to private spaces, where the girls lived and worked. They were hesitant to speak with you, guarded and quiet. You did not get the sense that they were being abused or held against their will, but rather haunted by whatever spirit clung to the brothel.

As the Pony Club slowly spiralled due to the haunting, many girls left. Business had grown to a standstill. The girls were plagued with nightmares and anxieties. The few that spoke to you recalled dreams of a dark figure who prowled through the halls, standing at the edges of their vision. At night, they would see the figure in the corners of their room, sitting on the edge of their bed. One girl even claimed the spirit sat upon her chest, that the mass had no face but two sets of shining white teeth that grinned down at her as she struggled to breathe.

When the girls were not targeted by this mysterious figure, they were afflicted with memories of their past. Dark images would replay before them every time they closed their eyes until they awoke sweating and screaming.

You bid farewell to an exhausted working girl by the name of Hanna. She sat on the bed, a woven blanket pulled over her shoulders. There was a distant look in her eyes as you quietly pulled the door shut, forcing yourself to inhale a deep breath as you stood on the empty mezzanine. There was an oppressive energy to the building, one that weighed down your chest as if someone were purposely crushing your ribcage. You knew your feelings were exaggerated due to your knowing, but there was certainly something potent enough here that even those with little to no sense could feel it.

You slowly rotated around the mezzanine in thought, unsure where to begin. Most spirits had an anchor—an item, person, or space—that they bound themselves to. They used it to draw energy, recuperate, and recharge. In rare cases, a spirit might bind to an entire house, causing lesions and pus to drip from the walls. But in your experience, those houses had sat abandoned for years, decades, or even more. The house itself would become sentient, dripping with malice and blinded by rage for those who created it, only to leave it abandoned. That was a festering type of haunting, one of anguish and loneliness, but this… this brothel was active. There had once been clients, and multiple women still lived within its walls. So, where was the anchor? Nothing had screamed out to you; nothing had made bile churn in your stomach or your hair stand up on end—

You froze.

You were a few paces away from the staircase, your mind swimming in thought, and—

A dark mass stood on the top step.

It watched you.

You couldn't make out the eyes or the shape of any humanoid body part. It just stood there, a black cloud over the staircase. But still, you could feel it watching.

And then it smiled.

It smiled wide, yet it did not seem to have a jaw. There was no skull, nothing solid within its mass. Several pearly white teeth smiled at you, spiralling into a gaping hole. The pungent smell of decaying meat filled the air as the mist contorted and pulsated in a sickening rhythm while observing you.

Before you could even consider speaking or moving, the mass had swept down the staircase, disappearing from your view. You raced to the bannisters, leaning over as far as you could without launching yourself over the edge. Loose strands of hair danced around your face as you darted your head. You could still not make out the spirit.

By the time you gathered your skirts and descended the staircase, you found the foyer empty. You could hear the distant trill of Madame Voss's voice deeper within the building, near the kitchen.

There was still that lingering oppression, an uneasiness that squeezed your chest. Regardless of how many times you whirled around, blindly scanning the foyer, you were unable to find a trail where the sensation intensified.

Clenching your teeth together, you let out a sharp sigh and balled your hands into fists. You paused in one of the corners of the foyer, allowing the blood pumping in your ears to calm and your muscles to relax. You blocked out the distant voices, instead focusing on the hum of the environment. You were frustrated, yes, and maybe a little scared. Not of the spirit, but rather how Bucky might react if you told him that you couldn’t banish this ghost. Not because you were too weak or unaware of how to handle it—you were very much prepared in both areas—but because you couldn’t find it?

You were skilled at finding hidden anchors, but it was difficult to focus when you felt immense pressure on your shoulders alone. You closed your eyes and listened intently. You could feel each speck of dust swirling through the air and hear every small sound the walls and floors made as the wood settled. You could hear each fibre of the rug rustle as you gently tip-toed across the room, following an invisible line.

The string was knotted in a complex pattern, similar to a spiderweb. You could feel it brushing over your skin as you moved, growing taut as it tangled around your body. You pushed through the sensation as if wading into a pool of water, stepping deeper and deeper into its strands as they layered over your skin and clothes.

Then, a tug.

A slight tremor, a warbling as a single line was set alight in your mind. The spider—your ghost—was circling you like prey.

You grasped the string, following its current blindly through the foyer. You stumbled around furniture, tripping over the edge of a rug and—

The floorboard creaked beneath you.

It wasn’t a typical creak—not one of an old building or a settling house. No. The creak resonated through your mind, deafening you. Your hands rose to your ears, the shrieking growing louder and louder as you fell to your knees, wincing. The fibres of the rug bit into your skin, sending a rush of electricity coursing through your veins. Under the rug, the floorboard made a hollow thud, loud enough that your ears were ringing from the volume.

You gasped in a breath, violently ripping yourself from your secondary state until you crashed back to reality. Panting, you found yourself crouched over the rug, fingernails dug into the fabric as you wheezed and panted. A cold sweat covered your body, your head aching as you tried to roll the discomfort from your shoulders.

“I think there’s somethin’ wrong with your witch, Mr Barnes.” Madame Voss spoke in a sing-song fashion as she entered the foyer, a condescending look in her eyes as she stared down at you. You wiped the sweat from your brow, forcing your wobbling legs to rise.

“It’s underneath,” was all you were able to reply, your voice raspy as you stalked to the corner of the rug.

"Ominous," the madame retorted, her brows arched. Her gaze cast back to the two gangsters who watched from the entrance to the room. There was a curiosity in their stare, hands tucked in their pockets as you worked. You gripped the corner of the rug, peeling it away from the floor. Underneath, everything looked perfectly in order, with well-polished hardwood panels lined up in unison. Carefully, you walked the length, tapping your shoe on each floorboard.

“Well, you do know what they say… with magic comes madness!” Voss announced with a sly grin, her hands moving to flourish her words. Bucky cocked his head to the side, emitting a sharp exhale through his flared nostrils.

"Let her work," he spoke up, and the tension in the room mounted. The madame's disapproving scowl only added to the oppressive atmosphere. The room fell into an almost palpable silence, broken only by the sound of your tapping as you methodically sought out the hollow board once more. You could sense the growing impatience of the group as you painstakingly worked, with each floorboard sounding as solid as the next.

Just as Bucky appeared poised to call off your efforts, the floorboard beneath you emitted a hollow thud that reverberated through the space below. You tapped again, feeling the same hollow thudding from the adjacent boards. Looking up at Bucky, you gestured toward the floor, affirming, “It’s underneath.”

Madame Voss gaped in astonishment at you and then turned her incredulous gaze towards the two gangsters. “Underneath? Underneath! This must be some kind of magical trick—in all my years working in this establishment, I have never heard of a basement or cellar!”

As Bucky waved at the woman, he made a disdainful noise in dismissal. The madame fluffed up, muttering under her breath in flustered embarrassment, and then stalked away a few paces. Bucky and Steve soon joined you, watching intently as you blindly felt around the edges of the wooden panels. As you investigated, your fingertips discovered finely carved grooves hidden within the wood—imperceptible to the casual observer but discernible to those who sought them out. The edges of the indents provided a perfect grip for you to dig your nails into the wood, allowing you to pry the board from the floor with little effort.

The three of you peered into the space below through the thin gap. It was pitch black, but you could make out some rickety stairs descending into the inky dark. A thick layer of dust sat upon the steps, a musty smell hitting your nose.

You sat back on your haunches, peering closely at the board you had just managed to pry up. The wood was marred with deep gouges as if some kind of wild animal had relentlessly scratched and clawed at the panel. As you tentatively ran your finger across the rough and battered surface, a sense of unease settled in the pit of your stomach, sending a sickly shudder up your spine.

“Did you know this was here?” Steve mutters to Bucky from somewhere above you.

You continued peeling up each of the loose boards, using the indents to grip the wood with your nails. The disgusting, nauseating feeling intensified as it became apparent that every panel had identical deep gouges carved into the wood.

“No,” Bucky replies, his voice hushed.

When the hole is completely visible, you sink onto your knees. Now that light was flowing in, you could see more clearly. The dusty, ancient stairs descend to a stone floor. The stone appeared dry but extremely dusty. What appeared to be large, old wooden barrels and the beginnings of shelving against the walls were visible in the beam of light. You peer up at Bucky and Steve, who tower over you, and resist the urge to squirm as Bucky meets your gaze.

“This is the anchor.” You explain, and Steve’s face twists, perplexed.

“The pub—?”

“No. Spirits they… they bind themselves to something. An object, a person, a room. This is where the haunting originates.” You clarify and gradually rise to your feet, taking care not to collide with either of the men.

You take a hesitant step down, the stair beneath groaning under your weight. You swallow hard, then spin in place to look back up at the gangsters who watch you expectantly. “I might need a candle.”

Without glancing back, Bucky clicks his finger at Madame Voss, who is attempting to peer into the mysterious room from her perch. “Voss. Candle.”

The madam, clearly exasperated, lets out a loud huff before turning on her heel and disappearing into one of the adjacent rooms. There is still a distinct taste of tension in the air.

“Looks like your old man's been a naughty boy.” Steve teases, a boyish smile emerging. Bucky remains silent, choosing not to dignify the gangster's comment with a reply. Their dynamic left you contemplating the depth of their relationship, especially since you had heard that Barnes was not particularly kind to those who mentioned his father. While Bucky's gaze remained blank and unmoving, you couldn't help but notice a subtle twitch in his jaw, betraying a suppressed reaction.

The Smog Boys were infamous for their cruelty towards their enemies, anyone who crossed them, and those who betrayed their trust. Bucky, in particular, was known for his ruthless approach to dealing with anyone who stood in his way. He carried out his actions silently and brutally, and by the next morning, everyone in The Warrens knew that Barnes had spilt blood. Despite the fear he instilled in others, Bucky remained calm and collected. He was a strategic thinker and planner, and he took pleasure in the sadistic ways his plans unfolded. Despite his fearsome reputation, he was still not as notorious as his father.

His father exhibited a striking lack of cunning, care, or thoughtfulness in his approach. The Warrens endured a dreadful existence as George Barnes succumbed to alcohol-induced rampages. He embodied sheer strength, a fierce warrior whose white-hot rage could melt the most hardened of hoarfrosts. He instilled fear without cause, displaying psychopathic tendencies and craving notoriety through any means necessary. He bolstered the Smog Boys fostering terror through street attacks, gang wars, or burning entire buildings down as a message. Upon Bucky's ascension, the business adopted a quieter and more devious approach. Bucky was all about making money in a quick, quiet, and dirty way. His enemies didn't fear him because they knew what he was capable of, but rather because they never knew, and Bucky knew how to up the ante each time.

Around seven years ago, George had been arrested. He had been too loud and confident in his approach, and the coppers had snagged him. Bucky ran the business for his father, and the Smog Boys boomed with success. His father was set to go on trial, and it wasn’t an unknown fact that the judge had paid off. George Barnes was set to walk free and take over the business again.

Two days before the trial, he was discovered dead in his cell, his body bearing the marks of a brutal, mysterious beating. There was no trace of evidence to scrutinise, and the guards remained silent, neither admitting guilt nor pointing fingers. The law turned a blind eye to the demise of a notorious criminal under their watch, and the incident was quickly swept under the rug, forgotten within hours. Bucky vehemently denied any involvement. He put on a public display of mourning, cursing the authorities and vowing vengeance, though his threats never materialized. It's also worth noting that Bucky shared a particularly close bond with his mother, Winnifred, who herself was not spared from the brutality of her husband. It was common knowledge that, behind closed doors, Winnifred, Bucky, and his younger sister Becca endured all manner of cruelty at the fists of George Barnes.

Years had passed since those fateful events, and Bucky's ascension to power remained unquestioned. No one dared challenge his authority, fearing both the brutal consequences and because The Warrens had silently celebrated in the wake of Senior Barnes' untimely demise.

The sound of Madame Voss' heels clicking against the hardwood floor signalled her return. You took the candle gratefully, eager to escape the awkward tension, and descended into the gloom.

The old wood stairs protest with every step, emitting squeaks and groans under your weight. Your sweeping skirts brush a fine layer of dust into the air, shimmering in the weak candlelight that struggles to pierce the shadows of the small, dimly lit room. You could only describe the space as a cellar, with its stone walls and floors exuding an eerie, uncomfortable atmosphere. Thick metal bolts secure wooden shelves laden with countless large glass bottles, while large barrels, shrouded in heavy blankets of dust, crowd the square room. In the dim corners, dense cobwebs collect. A place long forgotten.

Bucky and Steve carefully made their way down the creaky stairs as you delicately balanced the flickering candle on the edge of one of the dusty barrels. As you wipe away the accumulated grime, you uncover a label imprinted on the lid: Property of SMOG BOYS—George Barnes. You squinted at the words in the low light, moving to the next as you tried to understand what was in these barrels.

Behind you, Steve had grabbed hold of one of the large glass bottles and uncorked it with a sharp pop! He raised it to his nose, took a sniff, and then emitted a loud holler. "Shit, Buck. This is moonshine."

Bucky let out a grumbling noise of recognition, inspecting one of the barrels. “It must’ve been a storage space from the distillery. These barrels look like whiskey.”

The two gangsters gathered near the barrels, muttering between themselves.

“You sure he never mentioned this to you?”

“I’m sure. Don’t know why he was so determined to hide a bit of liquor. We have plenty of warehouses for this—”

You rounded the barrels, venturing deeper into the room. A row of shelves faced the centre of the room, with a narrow space between them that you could slip through. The candlelight barely reached the other side, obscured by the layers of barrels and bottles. You blindly stumbled into the empty space, feeling a familiar, thrumming sensation.

Invisible strings tangled at your ankles as you pushed deeper into the darkness, the warm flicker of candlelight barely illuminating what lay within. There, in the centre of the room, stood a solitary chair—a simple wooden chair. The thrumming grew louder, your heart pulsating as you gaped down at it. Thick sailor ropes coiled tightly around each arm and leg, faded remnants of blood splattered across the cold stone floor beneath. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to close in around you, the air heavy with a sense of foreboding—

You jumped out of your skin as a hand rested on your shoulder. Bucky had followed you through the shelves. His eyes mirrored the unease that churned in your stomach, his face etched with a deep, troubled frown. You felt urged to speak up and console the man but you knew better than to fall into that trap. His presence was disturbingly comforting as if the dangerous gangster were not the apex predator in the room. All you could do was gape, tearing your vision away from the chair as you stumbled back a few paces.

As quickly as you had found solace in the man, it was torn away. He stalked toward you, finger pointed as he jabbed it into your sternum. His eyes had glazed over, a thunderous rage taking shape. You sensed it was a defence mechanism, a way to intimidate you because you had seen something you weren’t supposed to—something that shocked even him.

“Not a word. You understand?” he hissed, his large, sculpted frame towering over you. You shrank back, your spine meeting the shelving, causing the moonshine bottles to clink together.

You knew what this place was. A hidden place. A forgotten place. A place where torture and death had been carried out. An echo from the past. A whisper on the wind that spoke the name George Barnes.

This was the kind of business Bucky kept meticulously hidden—a necessary evil shrouded in secrecy. Bodies were found only if he wanted to send a message. You were certain there were countless other hidden, unmarked graves. Bucky was too clever to be undone by a rogue body or misplaced trust. Every action he took was calculated to ensure it could never be traced back to the Smog Boys. Of course, everyone knew it was them, but legally proving their involvement was another matter. Despite the gang's reputation for being untouchable, the coppers constantly searched for any loophole to bring them down. Bucky's entire operation could unravel if the wrong person discovered incriminating evidence.

For all your understanding, The Pony Club was one of the few legitimate businesses under the Barnes name. If an enemy of the Smog Boys discovered a way to link this grim scene to the underground crime network Bucky managed? It could spell disaster.

“Do you understand?” Bucky repeated, his voice dripping with venom. This was a side of him you had heard rumours of but had never witnessed yourself. This was the leader of the Smog Boys. This was the Bucky that made Sootstone cower.

You swallowed hard, nodding as you huddled against the shelves.

The gangster ran a hand through his hair in frustration. You could sense the conflict in his eyes as they darted between you and the chair. After rubbing his chin and jaw, he finally settled on resting a hand on your shoulder again, an oddly tender touch. His head dipped, and he muttered in your ear, “I need this ghost gone. Now, doll. I think it's best no one else sees my father’s handiwork.”

“I can—I can do that,” you stammered. The gangster gave you a slow nod, exhaled sharply, and then turned on his heels.

In the sudden emptiness, the thrumming in your ears became deafening, a relentless pulse that drowned out all other sounds. Your ears rang with a piercing intensity, and your breath quickened, coming in short, ragged gasps. The room seemed to close in around you, now suffocatingly tight. The walls pressed inward, and the air grew thick and heavy as if it were pushing against your chest. You felt an overwhelming sense of dread creeping into your bones, a cold, insidious fear that wrapped itself around your heart. Somewhere in the background of it all, Steve yelped.

At first, you could not hear his distress, not over the noise in your head. It was only as Bucky paused by the narrow opening between the shelves, his eyes snapping to yours, that you heard Steve again—frantic shouts piercing through the deafening roar of a fire, overwhelming even the clamour in your head.

You move quicker than Bucky, darting through the shelves back into the candlelight.

Except it wasn’t the candlelight that lit the room in a blinding glow, but instead a figure engulfed in flame. You could make out bludged eyes and an agape mouth through the tendrils, which licked up the figure in a violent blaze. Steve was pinned with his back against one of the barrels as the figure, screaming and writhing, hurtled towards him.

You hurry forward, positioning yourself between Steve and the burning figure. Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you closer as he shouted, "What the fuck?!"

The fiery figure hesitates, its swollen, bloodshot eyes flitting between Steve and you in confusion. Bucky had pulled what appeared to be a knife from his pocket and was circling the scene. Your brows furrow as you give him a puzzled look and free yourself from Steve's grip.

“Put it away!” You bark over the roar. Bucky cocks his head to one side, both of you mutually surprised that you had found your voice. As you approach the figure, it retreats, the flames quickly extinguishing. Your ears ring as silence falls. The spirit has transformed into a black mass again, its shape twisting and jittering as it swings its gaze between the three of you.

“It can read your memories. It feeds off fear and pain.” You explain to the two gangsters, hesitantly stepping forward once more. The spirit centres its eyes solely on you. “It shows you your darkest memories, the ones you've buried. It’s tryna scare you.”

You do not dwell on whatever memory Steve was plagued by.

The spirit shifted once more, the dark mass disappearing into the shadows. You shallow your breath, quickly scanning the room before turning to Barnes. “The chair is the anchor. The spirit needs to be unbound.”

“And how do you do that?” He asks in reply, nostrils flaring. You step into the centre of the room, peering through the shelves into the dark space. Dread curled in your stomach as your eyes roamed the chair.

“I could destroy it or cleanse it—”

“Where's your mother, girl?” A familiar, slurred voice reverberated through the dimly lit room, sending shivers down your spine. Your entire body tensed, and your heart seemed to clench in your chest as a surge of fear momentarily halted you in your tracks. The acrid scent of alcohol mixed with the pungent odour of sweat hung heavy in the air. The heavy, unsteady footsteps of a large man reverberated over the stone floors.

“She’s sick.” A child's voice replied. Your voice.

In front of you appeared a vivid scene. Your father, in a state of intoxication, stood before you. His body was angled in such a way that only the profile of his face was visible. His clothing was tattered, and the floors bore marks of mud and filth from his worn boots. His hair was dishevelled and sprinkled with ash, and his flushed face glistened with sweat. Facing him was a much younger version of yourself. You estimated her to be around eight years old, judging by the length of her hair and the ragged dress clinging to her emaciated frame. The child cowered against a door, her limbs trembling in fear.

“Sick? That damn woman is always sick. Get out of the way, girl, I need to speak with my wife.” Your father slurs, lurching forward. The child held steady, her back pressed defiantly against the door.

“You can’t, she’s sleeping—”

A resounding crack echoed through the room as your father’s palm connected forcefully with her cheek. The impact sent her sprawling to the floor, a soft whimper escaping her lips as she fell. Tears shimmered in her wide, frightened eyes, reflecting the harsh light as they welled up and spilt over her cheeks. The room seems to hold its breath in the aftermath, the sharp sound of the slap lingering.

“What’s this? Who’s that?” Steve spoke up from beside you. You had almost entirely forgotten that the two men were still in the cellar with you. Bucky watches on with morbid curiosity, but you do notice how the muscles in his jaw tighten.

“A memory.” You mutter back. You urge your feet to move, but you feel as though you are wading through waist-deep water.

“Some gall you have to be telling me what I can and can’t do in my own home, girl!” Your father charges through the door, his eyes wild and unseeing as he drunkenly stumbles over your younger self's frail body. Ignoring your cries, he leaves her sprawled on the floor, the door slamming shut with a jarring finality before she can react. Muffled shouting and screaming rise from beyond, chaos that drowns out her sobs. The child curls into a ball on the cold floor, trembling and sobbing as the shrieking grows louder. The walls thud and shake with the force of his rage, each violent sound echoing through the small room, amplifying the terror that grips her small frame.

“You’re not welcome here, spirit,” your voice cuts through the unfolding nightmare with unwavering authority. You can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, but you tilt your head defiantly. Momentarily sucked into the horror of it all, but now you stand unshaken. The scene pauses, and the child freezes in place as the shouting and banging abruptly stop. The spirit seems to contemplate your words, its image flickering before dissolving into a dark fog that settles in a dense layer across the stone floors.

“I think destroying it would be easiest.” You mumble to the gangsters. Bucky’s lips were set in a fine line, his jaw still clenched, while Steve eyed you warily. “Burning it would be the best way.”

As if in response to your comment, the room burst to life once more. The two men stand on either side of you as if their curiosity is too much to dismiss as they realise it is another of your memories.

This time, the version of you was older. A teenager. She perched on the edge of the docks, her legs dangling into the waters below. Next to her sits a boy roughly the same age. The two of them laugh and indulge in a shared bag of colourful, sugary treats.

“My dad keeps askin’ after you.” The boy says. Michael. Your gut twists. You knew what was to come.

“I’m not joinin’ your dad’s weird cult.” She giggles, popping a boiled sweet into her mouth with a lopsided grin. Her hair was loose, uncaring as the breeze tangled it and ash fell from the skies.

“He keeps goin’ on about how you’re some saviour—”

“Ew.” She replies, nose scrunching. The teen leans back on her palms with a sigh, looking across the docks. “You know me and my mum aren’t interested in that stuff. I’m not desperate like those other witches he tricks into joining. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve held on this long, you’re what? Seventeen? Why don’t you just get a job in one of the factories and get the hell out of there?”

Michael appears displeased by her response. You had never previously noticed, despite replaying the memory in your mind numerous times. In the past, you believed you were being helpful, perhaps even clever. You could see the wrinkle of discomfort in the boy’s face now. You knew all too well that breaking free from his father's control was never as easy as moving out. You had been naive to believe that. Michael had not called you a fool, which was probably a small act of kindness on his part.

“How’s your mum?” He asks, gaze cast to the side to look at the teen’s profile. She shrugs, sucking on the sweet in thought.

“Still sick. We saw that healer in the Smokestacks, said he might be able to do somethin’ about it.”

“You know my family could help—”

The teen gives him an irritated look. “You know my mum doesn’t want your help. She doesn’t even want me hangin’ out with you.”

The tranquillity of the scene had captivated you to the point where you lost awareness of your surroundings. It was only the looming sense of dread for what was about to unfold, the feeling of Bucky's sleeve brushing against your arm, and the audible, sharp intake of breath from Steve that jolted you back to reality.

“Oi! Lookie here! It’s—” The shout of a copper was warbled as you strode forward, the memory rippling like a pool of water.

You had to prevent what was about to happen. You couldn't let Bucky see how everything truly unfolded. You knew you should have stopped it before it went this far. You shouldn't have allowed yourself to get pulled into this memory. Yet, there was a bittersweet comfort in seeing him again, remembering him as he was before everything went so wrong.

“Probably shouldn’t burn it down here. Those barrels catch and this place will explode.” You mutter under your breath, trying to ignore the sickness churning in your stomach as you approach the chair. As you draw closer, your eyes catch the gruesome details etched into the wood. Dark, crusted blood is splattered across the seat, each fleck and smear a silent testament. Streaks of crimson have seeped into the grain, staining the wood in a macabre pattern. The iron tang of old blood hangs in the air, mixing with the musty dampness of the room. Your hair stands on end and your nerves tingle as a shiver runs down your spine. The closer you stand, the more uneasy energy pulses through you. Summoning your courage, you grip one of the chair's arms and yank with all your strength—only to find it bolted firmly to the floor.

Your stomach drops.

You needed to get the two men out of this cellar and defeat this spirit yourself. You couldn’t stand their gazes upon you, waiting expectantly. You roll your shoulders, twisting your neck as a tight, itching sensation settles over your skin. You weren’t afraid of the memories, but rather the reaction to them. You didn’t want sympathy. Most of all, you didn’t want to be feared—to be viewed as a weapon.

You knew that was what the Smog Boys truly desired—a tool to complete their dirty work.

The memory came to life around you once more, stronger and more vivid. Michael was sprawled on the floor, beaten and bloodied, his face a mess of bruises and cuts. The coppers, young and full of arrogance, stood above him, their laughter echoing in the confined space. They were eager to prove themselves, and they relished every moment of his suffering, laying blow after blow into his broken body. Their cackles filled the room, mingling with the sickening thuds of their fists and boots against his flesh.

“Let me go!” Your head swivels as you look to the other side of the room. There, the teenage version of you is held back by two men with bruising grips, their hands digging painfully into her arms. Tears streamed down her face, carving glistening tracks through the grime and dust. Her eyes are wide with terror and helpless rage as she struggles and screams, her voice raw and desperate. The men restraining her exchange smirks, their expressions cold and indifferent to her anguish. The room seems to close in around you now, the walls reverberating with the echoes of her cries and the relentless thudding of blows landing on Michael. You were powerless, trapped in a living nightmare.

You needed to stop this—

There was a loud crunch, the agonising sound of bone snapping and shattering under a steel-toe boot. Michael has grown still, his body is no longer convulsing with pain. His face was unrecognisable—a grotesque mask of bruises and blood, the features obliterated by the relentless assault. His skull is misshapen, cracked open against the stone curb, a dark pool of blood is spreading beneath him.

Somewhere in the distance, the past version of you wails, a heart-wrenching sound that seems to come from the depths of her soul.

She was scrambling on her knees over the filthy streets, her body shaking with sobs as she gripped Michael’s lifeless form. Her fingers, trembling and desperate, searched for any sign of life, but you knew now that it was pointless. Michael was dead. He had died the moment they cracked his skull open. Blood smears her hands and clothes as she clings to him, her tears mixing with the grime on the ground.

She shakes his body, begging him to wake up. The coppers continue to snicker amongst themselves. They are unphased by the blood and flesh painted across their boots, their faces twisted in smug satisfaction.

“That’s enough now.” You spoke up in the present, tone low and warning. The spirit hesitates, and the teen pauses, her body relaxing as the sobbing stops. Her head twists around, her eyes a milky white as she looks directly through you.

“I know what you are.” The spirit spoke through the memory of you. Her gaze shifted to look at the coppers. Their figures are silent, but their shoulders shake with laughter, an amused indifference as they watch the suffering before them. “Spirit-raiser…diviner…light-bringer.”

Her eyes start to glow, a bright white that blinds the room. You know what is to come. You know what happens next. The shelves and barrels begin to rattle around you, and dust is stirred up into clouds. You could hear Steve swearing somewhere behind. Her sights move to the coppers, a knowing smirk fading into a cruel frown. Her hand raises into the air, fingers moving to snap—

Your hand has subconsciously raised. The ground trembles beneath you. It isn’t from the past; it is present. It was you at this exact moment, touching your fingers together. The ceiling above you groans, bottles of moonshine shattering across the floors as they fall. Behind you, Bucky and Steve yell over the commotion, calling to you. You can feel the crackle of electricity in the air and map every particle that flutters in the air. The chaos rises in your chest as you summon it forward. The crackle of energy grows higher and higher until the tingling sensation meets your fingertips.

You snap your fingers, and a deafening crack echoes through the cellar. For a moment, everything grows still. Your body begins to glow, emitting a bright white light that fills the room, even stronger than the spirit's light. The intensity of it is blinding, obliterating every detail with a searing brilliance.

The room explodes around you.

Bits of wood splinter, torn from their fixtures and launched through the air. Barrels explode with a thunderous roar, whiskey gushing out in torrents that splash and pool around your ankles, the potent scent of alcohol overwhelming your senses. The entire room shudders and rocks from the impact, the walls groaning under the strain. You were momentarily assaulted by the barrage of debris—sharp shards of shelving and glass raining down around you. Until Bucky grips you. Amid the chaos, he seizes your waist, pulling you into the shelter of his chest to shield you from the storm.

Steve has vanished up the stairs, the floorboards above rattling with each of his hurried steps as the earth finally settles. The room falls into an eerie silence, the only sound being the gentle sloshing of liquor around your feet.

There is a large crack in the stone floor where the chair used to be.

You pull yourself from Bucky’s grip rather unceremoniously, frowning as you pull shredded wood from your hair. The gangster eyes you cautiously, clearing his throat as he retreats backwards. “Are you gonna explain what that was?”

You were unsure what he was specifically referring to—whether it was the haunting memories or the raw power you had just unleashed. Regardless, you didn’t feel up to explaining either. A deep weariness had settled into your bones, your muscles aching from the exertion of channelling such immense energy. A thin trail of blood had begun to leak from your nose, the metallic taste of copper lingering as you absentmindedly licked your bottom lip in thought.

You should not have done that. But they would have found out either way.

Your fingers instinctively came up to rub your temple as you let out a sharp sigh of annoyance. With magic weariness came a tinge of irritation and snarkiness—it was a familiar companion after such displays of power. At that moment, you couldn't summon the will to care about how dangerous Bucky was or how he could ruin your life. All you craved was the simple comfort of lying down and perhaps indulging in a strong drink or two to ease the embarrassment of the situation.

Above, Madame Voss's shrill shrieks pierce through the ceiling, amplifying the headache pounding behind your skull. You knew the entire row of buildings would have felt the surge of energy you had just unleashed. One could only hope that the coppers wouldn’t investigate too closely into the disturbance.

Ignoring his previous question, you speak up. “You should invest in gettin’ your buildings properly cleansed.”

Maybe that would make him and his men shut up about your faulty locks.

You go to walk away, but Bucky's firm grip on your forearm halts your movement, holding you back. His head cocks as he looks you up and down, his eyes sharp and calculating. “I don’t know much about magic, but I know witches don’t just summon shit like that out of thin air.”

If you were one of his dogs, your hackles would have raised, teeth bared. You look him down defiantly with a scowl. “Respectfully, Barnes, you don’t know shit about magic. I keep your secrets; you keep mine. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”

His lips curl into an astonished smirk, pleased as equally as he was stunned by your tone. His head dips down, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, his voice a low murmur. “You know, doll, if you weren’t growing on me, I would have you killed for speaking to me like that.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath tickling against your skin, his proximity stirring a mix of emotions within you—wariness, curiosity, and a hint of something deeper that you couldn't quite define. You knew better than to let the boundaries between you blur. You give him a mocking pout, wrenching your arm from his grip. “I know you won’t kill me, if you wanted to kill me, I would be dead already. You’ve decided I’m valuable, haven’t you? Who would break your curses and scare away the skeletons in your closet? You must know that I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I don’t want to help you, we’re not friends.”

His jaw tenses slightly as he processes your words, and his voice is flat as he speaks. “The most valuable thing a woman like you can offer is what’s between your legs. And you gave that up pretty easily.”

His lips curl into a sneer. “I suppose the magic is a bonus. But I know you’re little more than a whore beneath it all.”

Several emotions flicker through your chest. Pain, frustration, disillusionment. You should have known better. You knew better. You don’t dignify the gangster with a response, instead turning on your heel to march out of the cellar.

“I’ll have someone come fetch you when you’re next needed, spirit-raiser,” he calls after you, his tone mocking.

You ascend the stairs without looking back.

PART THREE

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