#and the slow trickling dread that I finally did it

[beauty-grace-outer-space]

It's selfish time!

[trashmouth-richie]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 | steve x reader ; eddie x reader

summary: when your boyfriend dies as a result from saving you and your friends, you find yourself deep in the throes of grief. and in your lowest moment you find a new vice, something… or rather someone unexpected.

6.1k, reader is named “nellie” simply bc i refuse to use y/n, smut, 18+ only, multiple chapters, future drug use, mature themes, heavy depictions of grief/suffering leading to questionable decisions

big s/o & thanks to @rebelfell + @rxqueenotd for spit ballin’ ideas and beta’ing ❤️‍🩹

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His body laid for three days before Owen’s team braved that cold and eerie pit of desolate hell. Strong hands had pulled you away from his body, and you had tried to claw your way back to him, begging for death to take you instead. 

That night you watched him choke on his last breath, his lungs gurgling with a squelching pop of blood as hesmiled one last, and final time, his last words played over and over again. 

“I���m so lucky to have been loved by you.”

His skin was still warm when the others found you clutching onto him, laying beside him as if you were cuddling during another time. A time when monsters didn’t exist and all you had was happiness. Legs thrown over one another as you watched a movie in the Wheeler’s basement, or when your wet hair seeped into his skin after a late night of swimming at Lover’s Lake, or the feel of his fingers tucked into the nape of your neck while you kissed him at your lockers back in high school. 

Never. You’d never feel that from him again. 

Large arms wrapped around your middle hauling you away. And you scrambled, kicked and slapped to get back to him. Screaming his name over and over. Because they weren’t his hands, and they would never hold you again, he was dead, Steve was dead. 

The hours after were a blur, somehow the rest of you had managed to get away. Eddie jump started an abandoned military vehicle that a rescue team had left while under attack, driving back to the gate that reopened under the ruins of StarCourt. 

Your head laid in Robin’s lap the entire ride back while Eddie drove, silent tears falling down everyone’s cheeks, Dustin sobbing into Nancy’s bony shoulder. 

You all stayed together those first few nights, laying in a fortress of blankets and couch pillows in your living room. It all seemed to move in slow motion, a terrible aching dread filled your soul and refused to leave the hole in your heart. 

The house you and Steve had rented was large enough to accommodate everyone for a few days. Those days were spent telling favorite stories of him. Talking about the pride he had for everyone, the mother hen of the group. How he would lay down and sacrifice himself for everyone he knew and he did just that.

A solemn silence fell over everyone, after a kick to the chest of reality fell like a veil—that he would never again come walking in the door. That Robin lost her best friend and confidant. That you would mourn your boyfriend, lover, and friend until your dying days. That Dustin lost his first male father figure. It all came crashing down at once, and no one spoke much after that besides the occasional sniffle or to open the back door to chain smoke the anxiety away. 

Claudia eventually called to have Dustin come home. Jonathan stopped over with his long haired friend from California, and you were anything but friendly to them. How could you be? You watched in jealous rage as Jonathan pressed kisses to Nancy’s cheek and rubbed her back soothingly. 

She lost a friend. You had lost the only person who knew you from the inside and out, and it wasn’t fair. 

Everyone trickled out of the home you shared with Steve. One by one, silently not wanting to be the last to leave, to have to watch your eyes wet as you were left to your own vices, left in this empty house that held all of your memories.

You couldn’t blame them. Hell was here and you were swallowed by its warmth, the flames licking your neck as you fell deeper into it, succumbing to the heat.

Eddie was the last to go. He was oddly quiet during the last few days, leaving late after everyone had fallen asleep just to return again in the morning. He had asked to use the phone only once, quietly excusing himself to use the bathroom afterwards, coming back to the living room looking even more lost than he had earlier, his eyes wet with fresh tears. 

It was almost as if he wasn’t sure if he should be here or not. He didn’t know Steve as long as everyone else did, but over the last year they’d gotten close, as if they were almost family more than they were friends. 

You had come to know and accept Eddie and Chrissy well, over the last year you’d spent a few nights every couple of months double dating at Enzo’s or game nights playing Scrabble at your house. When the world flipped upside down again, all of the fun came to an end, and the last nine months or more had been spent strategizing… trying to find a means to end this real life hell once and for all. 

And it did end, but at what cost?

Eddie’s shadow lingered by the front door as you walked over, one of Steve’s button down shirts hanging loose on your shoulders, the sleeves damp with your tears. 

His dark eyes swam with something you hadn’t recognized at all the past week, it wasn’t fear like it had been when you were miles below in another dimension. But you couldn’t nail down what he was feeling as he asked, “are you gonna be okay?” 

You stared at him, raising an eyebrow with an exhaustive look. 

His fingers worked the rings on his left hand. “I mean, tonight… are you alright, alone? I can stay if you...” He paused for a while, his tongue pressed into his cheek as he stared at the blue rug, his boots pinching his aching feet. Raising his eyes to yours once more, “I— I know how it feels when someone you love dies, it’s…hard.” 

Tears welled for what felt like the hundredth time in twenty four hours, and you shook your head. You dreaded this night when things should return to normal, when your friends had to return to school, their jobs. Things had to go back to the way they were— but you couldn’t. Not now, Maybe not ever. 

You remember how Eddie had missed school for weeks years ago back in elementary. But you weren’t friends then so you never knew, and you felt like a bitch for never asking. “I’m sorry, I— I didn’t—.” 

He turned his face away, smiling and finding interest in the wood grain of the front door, “it was a long time ago, I’ve had time to heal, but it takes awhile.” 

All you had was time. Time without Steve. Time to mourn the loss of the only man you’ve ever loved. Silent streaks slid down the apples of your cheeks, and Eddie stepped forward like he might crush you into a hug, but he stopped short. Instead rubbing his hand lightly down your arm, “I left my number on the counter, call anytime. Okay?” 

You blinked back at him and nodded. If you wouldn’t have been crying you could have seen the turmoil stir in the caffeinated browns of his. 

“Thanks, Eddie… I might just take you up on that.” 

He smiled gravely, “I did— I didn’t know Steve for as long as everyone else did… but he was a really good friend to me.” 

You looked up at him, eyes welling with tears at the man all of Hawkins marked to be a Satanic Cult Leader.

“He cared about you and Chrissy a lot, Eddie.” 

He smiled sadly and turned away before you could catch him wiping his eyes, or notice the wobble of his bottom lip. 

“I know, I did too…take care, Nellie.”

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Steve’s cologne was still on the bathroom sink. Dried toothpaste was stuck between the bristles of his toothbrush left from his rush to leave that morning— the last one he’d ever have. 

His bar of soap in the shower still held dry bubbles from lathered skin the last night you’d spent together. You had shared the warmth of a shower, shampooing his hair and Steve attempting to help shave your legs, giggling between the spray of the water. Later he laid you down making you whimper as he kissed your neck, fucking you slow and deep, whispering in your ear how you were his entire world. 

You hadn’t slept in your shared bed since his death, and now that the chaos had dissipated, and the house was quiet outside of the usual clicks and hums from the refrigerator, you braved the lonely queen sized bed and slipped between the cool sheets. 

The sweet burn of cedar, clove and a tangy bit of citrus surrounded you. Steve’s aroma, his smell held you like a child as you cried into his pillow. Curling your body into his side of the bed, you imagined his large hands splayed across your belly as he held you close to him, pulling you tightly against him so there wasn’t a single inch of him not touching you.

But in the end it was just you alone, trying to find warmth in cold sheets with a wet pillow. 

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The alarm clock had scared the shit out of you.

The ringing turned to chimes in your dream, and when you woke— alone, it was in a puddle of sweat, the bed sheets wrapped around you like those horrible black vines had. 

The kitchen tile was cold on your bare toes as you padded to the coffee maker. Steve considered himself the best barista in Hawkins, and no matter how hard you tried to replicate it your pot of coffee never stood a chance next to his. 

Digging into the Folgers can, you dump two heaping dollops of grounds into the filter, pressing the ‘on’ button, mentally preparing for the worst cup of coffee you’d had since before you had started dating Steve. No hope to be found, optimism long gone. 

It took only a moment, a single sleep riddled half thought for you to slip up, your mind forgetting for just a second as you accidentally wondered what you and Steve would do for the weekend. 

Your nerves went into shock, you gasped in guilted embarrassment at the audacity to forget that. How? How how how how how! Pulling at your hair you scanned the kitchen table, eyeing Eddie’s number written on a pad of paper, but grabbing the phone you dialed a different one instead. 

She answered on the second ring, her voice sleepy and haggard as you whispered through choked tears, “h—he’s gone.” 

“Yeah,” Robin answered, sheets shuffling around, “he’s gone.” 

Tears fell in large drops down your face, as you nodded at the answer you already knew, silently needing the confirmation. 

How would you be able to walk the streets alone without Steve’s big hand crimped tight around yours? How could you live without ever hearing his voice, his laugh ever again?

When you hung up, Robin didn’t call back, and even if she had you wouldn’t have picked up. The day brought visitors trying to cheer you up. Rubbing your back as you stared blankly at the wall. Promising you things would get better, would be easier as time went on. Bullshit. All of it. 

As sweet as they were, how the hell would they know? How could they possibly hurt as bad as you did?

They had lost a friend, an older brother figure, but they didn’t know Steve on the intimate levels you did. They had no idea that he woke with terrors almost every night. Or that he had failed his driver’s test twice, or that he had a patch of light freckles on his nether region. 

Steve had been everything to you and now that he was gone you didn’t know how to cope in a world without him. If whatever higher power could grant Chrissy new life, and Eddie was spared from the bats, why wasn’t Steve? 

Your questions went unanswered as your mind reeled with pictures of him, flicking like a movie, your eyes stinging with anger. 

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Every night since he had died, you had slept in a pair of Steve’s boxers and a Hawkins High Prom 1984 shirt. 

From what you could tell, Robin was in the same shape you were in, unable to go back to work, barely sleeping. The only difference was she had Vickie at home to comfort her, hold her and wipe away her cries. 

You couldn’t help but feel nothing but jealous and sick to your stomach at the thought of how you were having to go through this alone. No matter how selfish that made you, you simply couldn’t care. 

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Nancy woke you the morning before the funeral with a sharp knock on the front door, and an armful of baked goods. She made coffee as you stared a hole into the kitchen floor, she vacuumed as you thumbed through Steve’s wallet, silently tearing up over his driver’s license picture. 

She folded laundry while you sobbed and screamed at a very surprised Keith when he called to ask why Steve hadn’t shown up for his shift. Nancy didn’t blink when the phone was pulled from the wall and sent flying across the living room as you pulled your hair in a fit because Steve is gone. Dead. Not coming back.

Nancy simply rubbed your back, pushing away hair from your wet cheeks after you fell asleep with your head in her lap. And when you woke, feeling worse than hungover with swollen eyes and a sore throat— she wouldn’t let you apologize. 

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Surprisingly, Steve’s parents found it in themselves to pretend they gave a shit long enough to plan his funeral. 

Everything was gaudy. Overdone and full of rich smells of roses so strong you wanted to vomit. 

Pearls clung to your ears and neck. The velvet of your black dress was warm on your body despite the cold gusts of wind that chapped your stocking clad legs. The sun wouldn’t shine today, or in your mind ever again. 

Robin showed up first, clinging to Vickie’s arm, a sad smile on her freckled face. She wore a dress, a sort of last laugh for Steve’s sake to see her dressed up. She throws herself at you, all legs and tear stained cheeks, squeezing your face into her shoulder.

“He would have hated this,” she sniffled after glancing around at The Harrington’s entourage, “look at her wiping her eyes as if she’d even talked to Steve within the last year.”

Steve’s mother stood in all of her Chanel No 9 glory, delicately dabbing a silk hanky to her dry eyes, as funeral goers grasped her manicured hand and spilled condolences. 

The sight alone made you sick. Mary could win an Oscar for her performance. Nobody but you and Robin would have any idea that Steve hadn’t spoken to his parents in over a year. Christmas to be exact. The first and last one you two had spent at their enormous home. 

What should have been a nice evening ended in harsh words and Steve’s father saying he was disowning him. Steve held his head high on the way home, apologizing for his parents and promising that he would never have anything to do with them again. 

And from there up until they were told of their only son’s death— The Harrington’s never once tried to make amends. 

“Always a show with her,” you sighed angrily. 

“How are you doing? Vickie asks shyly, “Is there anything we can do?”

“I’m fine, really. I—I’m okay, slowly but surely.” 

Vickie smiles and squeezes your hand, “He never loved someone as much as he loved you, Nel.” 

The words hit like a bullet. 

You knew.

Of course you had known. Steve told you that himself on more occasions than you could count, you didn’t need to hear it from someone else, didn’t need the reassurance that a man who literally died to protect you really did love you. 

It felt foreign—sounding horribly wrong coming out of a mouth that wasn’t his. Body on fire with something worse than rage, all you wanted to do was scream. Nodding your head once you excuse yourself, pushing out of the side exit and down some cement steps to the outside.

Air. You needed to force air into your lungs before you collapsed. Your chest felt as if it was going to burst into flames, suddenly everything felt so restricting. The air was frozen and bitter, resembling yourself lately and the outcome of the last few days. 

Gasping, choking on wailing cries you pulled at the neck of your dress, kicking your shoes into the dead grass. You yanked barrettes from your hair and pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes until you saw spots of gold and green. Anything to try to get some relief try to stop the sensation of being suffocated by something you couldn’t even see. 

“Nellie?” 

Tears poured from your face as you whimpered, struggling with the zipper on the back of your dress. 

It wasn’t fair. Why him? Why Steve? He was so good. Much better than you. He was kind and handsome, he loved big and treated everyone around him like they were the most important person in the room. 

He was the best friend, best boyfriend, best everything.

It should have been you.

A pair of warm hands land on your shoulders pulling you backwards and upright, frightening you before the warm tobacco spiced voice whispers in your ear.

“Breathe, Nel… c’mon sweetheart.” 

“I- c—can’t… Eddie…I—” coughing and clawing at the necklace of pearls, you desperately tried to unhook them, their weight feeling like boulders sitting on your chest, threatening to break you to pieces.

Eddie moved the hair from your neck, and in one little clink the necklace fell into your hands. 

“It’s off, it’s off— c’mon now, you gotta take a deep breath for me.” He spun you around placing his warm hands on your cheeks, sweeping away the icy tears. 

He was dressed in all black, his leather jacket tight on his arms. A frumpy, wrinkled tie loose around his neck looking like it had been tied and re-tied too many times before he just gave up. 

“In and out,” he instructed softly, taking your hand and placing it against his chest, “match it to mine. Feel it?”

It didn’t work, it wasn't helping. Eddie didn’t waste time before the cold leather of his arms wrap around you, delicately rubbing your back as you collapsed into him. 

The wind bit at his face as he held you close, stroking your hair. “It’s alright, ‘s gonna be okay, I’m here— we all are.” 

You let yourself break, let the sadness consume you before the funeral could start and you had to be brave for everyone. You wouldn’t let his parents see you this way, they already thought you were every bit of trash but Steve had always held you higher, placing you on a special little pedestal. And with him, nothing else mattered. 

Wiping your eyes, you pull back enough to see Eddie’s face, the dark sunglasses he wore were fogged up on the inside, shielding away his own turmoil, but his lip quivered slightly. 

“God, Eddie,“ you sniffed, voice wobbly as you murmur, “Sorry.. ‘m such a mess.” 

“Don’t do that,” he almost whispers, voice low and sensual, “don’t apologize.” 

If you could see his eyes you would notice how sad they were, how he was doing his very best to hold it together. How he had bags under his eyes from not sleeping. You’d see the guilt etched into the darks of his irises for being alive, for coming out of there alive.

The door swings open with a loud crack, caught in a gust of blustering wind, Dustin standing on the threshold trying to hold onto the handle for dear life, he winces when he sees the two of you. 

“Hey, it’s—” he looks at his watch, “they’re ready to start.” 

Eddie removes his hands from your arms and shoves them into his pockets, all the warmth leaving you as the wind creeps through the fabric of your dress.

“Be right there man,” Eddie answers tight lipped, trying to convey to Dustin that you needed a minute to collect yourself, “save me a seat.” 

When the door shuts with great force on Dustin’s end, he bends down to scoop up your discarded heels, holding them by the backs. He sets them on the ground between the two of you, gathering your arm in his hand as you steadied yourself with his body to balance while you slipped your feet in. 

Taking one last ragged breath, Eddie moves beside you looking up at the church, then back at you.

“I don’t think I can say goodbye.” 

Eddie swallows hard, reaching out with a cautious hand but deciding at the last minute to shove it into his pocket, “you don’t have to, y'know? My m— well, I heard once that a person’s spirit can live on as long as you need them.” 

“D’ do you believe in that kind of stuff?” you ask solemnly, “The afterlife? Reincarnation?” 

“I believe that Steve would want all of us to keep going, to be the best versions of ourselves…. and he would probably scold us for being late to his funeral.” 

You smile then, wrapping your hands around your arms rubbing warmth into them. “He definitely would, I can almost hear him fussing.”  

“Hands on his hips, no doubt,” Eddie said with a grin, “But he’d pull himself together…be strong for everyone, he was always good at doing that.”

You look at him, completely unaware of his own inner struggles. “That was Steve, always brave, always willing to defend someone.”

The door busts open again, this time it’s Hopper, his bristly mustache matching his thick eyebrows as he stares with annoyance at your tardiness. 

“Shit,” Eddie jokes, “better go before he calls the hounds.”

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It was a closed casket per your request, even though his mother argued to have it open. Wanting the sympathy from her friends of being a parent “burying-their-child” and to have people comment on how he looked like her, how beautiful they both were— it was sick. 

Dustin made a speech. His hair pushed back just how Steve had taught him back in high school. He shed a tear at the end when he referred to Steve as his best friend. Climbing down from the podium, he slumped in the pew next to Eddie, sniffling softly as his shoulders shook. 

Robin recited a light hearted poem, promising to keep the store running and to finally get her driver’s license. Her eyes sparkled as she recounted the laughs she and Steve had shared. 

When it was your turn, your heart felt like it was filled with lead, the walk up the ugly church carpet felt as if it drug on forever, and you had to take several deep breaths before adjusting the mic. 

Your poorly written speech talked about how Steve lit up every room, how he was adored by everyone at Hawkins High. But now, under the scathing florescent lights under the wet eyes of your closest friends, the jumbled words looked like nothing but bullshit. 

Tears rimmed your eyes and you felt the same death grip of panic rising on your throat. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, body shaking as you fumbled with the index cards, “I- I can’t.” 

It was Joyce who met you at the podium with a caring smile, and open arms guiding you back to the pew. She didn’t mind that you sobbed into her shoulder making a mess of her cotton dress. And when the service was over and it was time to go to the cemetery, she held your hand and led the way.

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You felt numb as you stood next to Robin. Her icy fingers laced with yours as you zoned out completely while standing at his gravesite. Someone was talking but you couldn’t register who it was or what they were saying. 

Your body was present but your mind was floating in a memory. 

“Should we have spaghetti tonight? Or do you wanna order a pizza and I’ll pick it up after I leave work?” 

Steve’s comforting voice filled your ear as you twirled your finger around the cord in the stockroom at Melvald’s. A common occurrence for the two of you, each sneaking off to call each other during the day. Eight hours away from him was too much. 

“Already got the noodles boiling for spaghetti, honey,” he practically purred into the phone, “tell Joyce you’re taking off for the night and come home to me.” 

Your smile squeaked through the receiver, your heart skipped beats at the thought of Steve Harrington wanting you… two years together it still seemed like yesterday that you had gone on your first date.

“Steve,” you giggled, “You didn’t have to.”

“Ah ah ah, I won’t listen to that,” Steve lightly scolded, “I like to cook and take care of my girl, we’re a team, Nellie.” 

You begrudgingly sigh and feel heat rise to your cheeks, you really were one of the luckiest girls. “Okay Captain, what kind of noodles are you making?” 

Steve chuckles through the receiver, cream colored phone balancing on his shoulder as he adds salt to the boiling water. 

“It was a toss up between angel hair or fettuccine… fettuccine won, and I picked up some garlic bread from Enzo’s.” 

“Ohh, you’re spoiling me rotten,” you purr, imagining what you would do to thank him…something involving your favorite part of him and your mouth, “I’ll stop at Bradley’s for some drinks, what are ya thinkin’?”

Steve smiles, putting a dish towel on his shoulder, “surprise me.” 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The church basement reeked of furniture polish, clashing with heavy floral perfume to mask the smell of mildew from a previous heavy rainfall. 

The Women of Fellowship were serving ham on wheat buns with chips and a veggie tray. Their faces planted with a christian sympathy smile as they cut brownies and refilled the punch bowl.  

A bottle of champagne sat chilled in a bath of ice per Mrs. Harrington’s demands. No reason to be so down all day, might as well make it a special occasion! As if the death of her only son wasn’t enough, was too boring for her. 

You rolled your eyes and shoved your plate away as her obnoxious laugh erupts from behind you. Steve’s father telling his colleagues a dirty joke no doubt, his face red from stifling a laugh and the whiskey he clutched in a monogrammed flask. 

“Nellie?” Nancy chirped, adjusting her slim figure to whisper gently across the table your group of friends were sulking at,  “I have some frozen meals my mom and I put together, I can come over tonight and give you the instructions if you’d like?”

Nodding softly you meet her eyes, “Thanks Nance, that’d be really nice.” 

It went silent again, Max fidgeted with her hair, pulling it back in a loose ponytail. Will’s watch beeped but he clicked it off lazily, running his hands down his face. Nobody knew what to say or what to do. What do you say at a friend's funeral? 

“Are they always like this?” Eddie blurts through the quiet, cocking his head towards the Harrington’s. He was leaning back in his chair, one arm slung over the back of an empty chair beside him, his sunglasses were still on, just as they were through the church service and at the gravesite. 

Everyone at the table looks to you, expecting some sort of an explanation, but you simply shrug, “I- I don’t really know them very well.” 

“Steve’s parents?” Nancy questions, “they’re super sweet, when I—”

She stops then her mouth closing with a pop to remember that it probably wasn’t the time to talk about her long ago relationship with Steve at his funeral in front of his current girlfriend. 

“… they uhhh.. they were always nice.” 

It wasn’t her fault, she didn’t know. Mostly because you and Steve had never mentioned it to anyone besides Robin. But her words stung, hit your chest like a thousand mad bees. 

You stand on shaky legs, “I need—yeah…” Without giving anything more you walk away, almost taking the table cloth with you from it tangling in your purse. 

“Nellie,” Robin tries, her own eyes swimming with hurt, but you’re already two tables away, squeezing between padded shoulders and hands holding plastic cups of punch, bleary eyed to find anywhere to be but here.

Turns out a broom closet storing Christmas decorations stuffed right with the plastic light-up yard Bethlehem set, was the right place to have a breakdown. 

You were hiding for a solid ten minutes before you heard a soft knock and a quiet ‘Nell?’ And your unladylike sniffling gave you away as you wiped your nose on the blanket swaddling baby Jesus. 

“Rob,” you exhaled annoyingly, “I’m fine, okay? Tell Nance I’m sorry.” But to your surprise it was Eddie.

“Hey.” he says cautiously, clicking the door behind him and leaning against it. 

You looked from him to your shoes and muttered out a soft, “hi.”

“So… Mr. and Mrs. Harrington seem like real big pieces of shit… wow.”

You snort airily fiddling with the run in your stocking, “Yeah, they’re something alright.” 

Eddie slides down the door, sitting with his legs crossed in front of him, exhaling a deep breath,“It’s been a long day,” he finally said.

“I don’t know what to do next.” 

Eddie looks at you confused, and eyes you when you stand abruptly and start pacing around the cramped closet. 

You’re erratic, talking fast and crazed, “I told myself that all I needed to do was just make it to the funeral. Make it through the funeral and…and then I would figure it all out from there! Now here we are— and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do after, Eddie!

“After it’s over? And– when I leave… he’ll still be here in the ground, and I— ” you start to apologize but refrain, “.. I should go.” 

“Talk to me,” Eddie stands to his full height, reaching towards you, just barely grazing your elbow with his fingertips. His voice nearly breaking, “it helps to get it out.” 

You hiccup, and pull away, stumbling over a slew of strung together sentences that you’re barely breathing through to get out. 

 “..’s… shit, he was all I had. My parents are gone, I don’t have any siblings. It’s been… d’ you know that his parents have never approved of me, but Steve he— he fought for me, for us. Without him…I’m alone.” 

Eddie follows you his hands firm your biceps to try to calm you down. “All your friends are here. Robin, Vickie, the kids…” 

His words have no meaning to you, none of it mattered, your pain was demanding to be felt, and frilly words with no merit wouldn’t sugar coat this. “He’s gone, Eddie! He didn’t get to have a second chance he—died!”

He’s level headed but slowly losing his own battle, trying not to break thinking about his luck and the never ending guilt he carried. 

“We were all there, all of us are hurting, Nellie. You can’t shut people out and clam up.” 

You try to wriggle free from him, but he’s stronger, and all you can do is cry, “I— can’t keep going! Not without him!” 

Feeling the weight of survivor's guilt and the agony of never being able to be consoled by Steve again, you break. Sobbing uncontrollably. Eddie’s arms surround you, holding you tight and engulfing your cries with his own tears, and little shushes from his throat. 

“I’m sorry, Nellie. I’m so fucking sorry. Please don’t cry— it will take time but you.. we will be okay.” 

His voice is wobbly and his chest shakes as he cries silently grieving for his best friend. With tears running down your cheeks you pull away slightly to see his face. 

In the dim light you can make out that his nose is tinged red, and with unsteady hands you reach up and pry his sunglasses from his face.

His eyes were red, a little swollen from rubbing them and fatigued with lack of sleep. You could kick yourself for not recognizing how hurt he was, how self absorbed you had been. Both of you are crying together, clinging onto each other under the yellow light in that makeshift storage closet. 

Throwing yourself at him, your cheek presses into his chest as you both sob into one another. Meshing your suffering with his. 

His chin is resting on your head, hands wrapped in your hair. Your hands are clutching the opening of his shirt, fingers just barely grazing over his bare chest. Minutes passed and you exhale an exhausted sigh. 

Lifting your face up to tell Eddie that maybe you should get back, your nose brushes against his. And when you both should be moving away, straightening yourself up and wiping your eyes, neither of you pull back. 

Eddie’s breath fans against your cheek, a small shudder on your skin, the emotional hold of the day, his arms wrapped around you it was nice… it felt, good. Without thinking, without acknowledging what you’re doing you tilt your head and line your mouth up with his, pressing your lips to his. 

It’s unexpectedly tender, and what should startle him doesn’t, but all of that sweetness is quickly swallowed by a hunger you had never felt before. 

It’s nothing but grabby hands and needy mouths. His hands go from soft and consoling to roughly working his pants down in the same hastiness- that you’re hauling your dress up.

Eddie grabs you from the crook of your knees as if you’re weightless and shoves you up hard against the wall. Your mouth hangs open in a silent plea as your panties get ripped to the side. Tears are still flowing down your face and if you were to look at him, you’d see that his haven't stopped either. 

It’s desperate the way you’re clutching onto his shoulders. As if every ounce of pain was leaving you with every inch of him. You whimper with each pump of his hips and Eddie is doing the same, holding you impossibly tight, grunting into your ear. 

It’s raw and harsh, the shelves shuddering with the pace of him taking you, and you’re all in, moaning when you’re close. Holding the nape of his neck and wringing his curls as you start to unravel, your nails clawing into him as your mind explodes. 

When you finish, he’s close behind, groaning deep and biting his lip as he shakes violently with his release, pumping all he’s got into you. 

What’s left between you is gasping breaths and tear kissed skin, a set of broken Christmas lights under Eddie’s boot. 

His jacket is still in your clutches when you open your eyes, coming down from a high you clung to stay up on. But the weight of your decision comes crashing down when you realize what you had done.

Regret is painted thick on your face as the realization comes full force. You need to get out of here. What kind of grieving girlfriend were you to have fucked your dead boyfriend’s best friend in a church basement at his funeral. 

A whore is what you are. 

Eddie must have realized what kind of slut you were too because he sets you down and immediately turns away from you, shoving himself back into his pants. 

But, before he can say anything, before he can try to talk you off a cliff— you’re already out of the door, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, hiding the horrifying expression twisted onto your face. 

You don’t hear Eddie calling after you, or the way his face turned to fear as you threw open the door, practically sprinting away from him. 

Lucky for you, nobody questioned why you were darting up the basement steps, or why you looked absolutely wrecked. Your keys fumbled in your hands as you unlocked your car, terrified to look back, running from your mistake, from Steve from Eddie.

The road was a dangerous blur on your drive home, your eyes flooding over obscuring stop signs and headlights. Your cheeks were still stained with yours and Eddie’s tears. 

Tears that were shed in grief from the death of your boyfriend, the same ones that stayed on your face as you got fucked in a closet by his best friend. And more tears fell as you tried to comprehend why for the first time since Steve’s death, you felt comfort.

—

[cooneyscross]

I loved you Leah Williamson fic! I was wondering if you could do a Lucy Bronze x matildas reader where reader and lucy both player for barca and then they verse each other in the world cup semi final

Don't Be Sorry - Lucy Bronze

Lucy bronze x matildas!reader

summary - the Matildas lose to England in the semi final of the womens world cup and you take the blame.

warnings - death threats and hate comments

90+ minutes of you playing your heart out, the hope of a World Cup final promised if your team could get the result you desperately wanted slipped through your fingers as the dreaded sound of the full-time whistle rang through your mind. You collapse to the floor, face buried in your hands as you feel your tears wet the floor around you. The salty taste burned your already parched throat as you sobbed into your hand.

You were never an emotional person over football, but you had the weight of an entire country resting on your shoulders and you had let them down.

This was the moment you had spent your life working towards, ever since you were 4 years old, when you first watched a game of women's football you had made it your goal to one day be like the women you had seen on your screen. You promised yourself that one day you would represent your country in a World Cup, and now that dream had become reality you had stuffed everything up.

The haunting images of the ball flying past you and into the net still haunts you. You had the chance to stop the ball from going in but stuck your leg out too far and the ball went right past.

Not only did you feel like you had let down your fans, you had let down your teammates as well. It was your job as the team's main center-back to stop the goals and you failed. It was a stupid mistake for Tony to pick you to start, even more stupid that he'd kept you on the full game.

You felt the England player's hands patting you softly on the back, but you didn't bother getting up to congratulate them on their success not feeling up to facing other people.

'Hey, it's going to be ok y/n/n.' You hear the soft, comforting whisper of your captain, whose voice makes you sob even harder. You roll over onto your back so you can see her properly, out of everyone on this pitch you knew you owed her a proper apology.

'I'm so sorry Sam.' Your voice is hoarse and it pains you to see her tear-stained cheeks 'I let the whole team down, I know how much this meant to you. I'm sorry for ruining it, you deserved the win.' You burst into tears again as your captain pulled you into a warm embrace, rubbing your back to try and calm you down.

'This is not your fault.' She says, her voice is stern but you know she's not using the tone in a mean way, 'You played your heart out. I'm not allowing you or anyone to take the blame for the result. Every single person who has pulled on the green and gold jersey this tournament needs to be proud of everything they have done. We've made history this World Cup and that can't be forgotten because of one game. We still have the bronze medal match, we need to dust ourselves off and focus on winning that.' Your breathing slows down, knowing you were overreacting and that Sam was right. You needed to concentrate on the third-place game, there was still a chance to bring home some silverware for your country.

As you rose from the ground, extending congratulations to several of the Lionesses for their victory, you found yourself mid-conversation with Kyra and Mini. Suddenly, you felt the gentle embrace of two arms encircling your waist and a head nestling into the curve of your neck.

You turn around, enveloping your girlfriend in an embrace, the silent language of your intertwined bodies speaks more than any words could in the moment. It was a relief to be in the arms that felt more like home than anywhere else, her presence was all you needed to feel slightly better. Tears trickle down your cheeks again, a release from the flood of emotions that have become too overwhelming.

After a while the silence is broken 'I'm so sorry,' Lucy whispers into your ear 'I know how much this meant to you baby, I wish it didn't have to end this way.' You shake your head at her words, not wanting to ruin the special moment that she had also worked so hard for.

'Luc, don't be sorry. I'm not hearing it. Go and make the most of this moment. You deserve it.' You say pulling out of the hug, not wanting your disappointment to ruin her occasion, you knew better than anyone how much effort Lucy put into getting here in her career.

Lucy looks at you with sincerity in her eyes, you can see how excited she is to have made it to a World Cup final, but she still stays with you instead of celebrating with her team. You know you would've done the same thing if the roles were reversed but you still feel bad for keeping her away. 'Babe, go celebrate, I know you want to.' You tell her, your tone almost demanding.

But she doesn't leave your side and for the next 15 minutes she's constantly peppering your face with kisses and expressing words of admiration and respect, acknowledging the relentless dedication you had put into getting here. You keep trying to push her away but she refuses to leave, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and keeping you tucked as close to her as she possibly could not letting you free anytime soon.

Whilst you walk around the pitch together the fact that you two are rivals dissolves, no one would know that one of you had just lost to the other in a World Cup semi-final if it wasn't for the two different jerseys the two of you were wearing.

You gaze at her, and you know that you look like the biggest simp for her as you send her a loving look. The fan's edits after this match would be crazy.

The two of you were a popular couple that the fans adored even though you two had never properly gone public with your relationship, you just weren't the best at keeping it much of a secret.

Neither of you minded though, you found both the tiktoks quite funny.

After a little more walking around with Lucy, you know you can't let her stay with you any longer. 'You've poured your heart into every match, every training session,' you murmur, your voice barely a whisper against the loud atmosphere. 'You deserve this win more than anyone. This victory is yours, you've earned it through all your determination and hard work. Now please go and celebrate, I know that you'll be greatly missed in the changing rooms. I refuse to keep you to myself anymore, we'll have so much time just the two of us back in Barca. I love you, now enjoy your win' You tell her managing to wriggle free from her tight grip and place a light kiss on her lips, which she tries to deepen before you pull away laughing lightly at her clinginess.

'I love you sunshine.' She tells you blowing you a kiss before running over to her teammates who all bring her in for a large group hug. You smile at her almost forgetting how you'd felt only a short time ago.

Seeing Lucy happy made you happy.

'Hello, Miss Bronze.' Caitlin says standing beside you and you can hear the smirk in her voice. 'Care to join your team anytime soon or are you going to keep staring at your girl like a freak for the rest of the night?' She laughs and you shove her slightly.

'I'm coming, you can piss off now.' You tell the brunette, following her towards the team huddle not too far away from where you were. Steph and Kyra wrap their arms around you as you squeeze into the team circle.

The circle is quieter than your previous huddles, the energy gone from the disappointing loss and everyone exhausted from the game you'd just played.

Tony speaks to everyone, telling us it's not over yet and we can't stop working. The talk is coming to an end when he begins to talk about how we should all be very proud of ourselves 'You girls should all be extremely proud of what you have done,' he waves his hand across the sea of fans in green and gold, still screaming and cheering despite the loss. 'Every single one of you has won the hearts of a nation, you have inspired generations to come, and have changed the future of women's football in Australia. That is an incredible achievement.' A small round of applause echoes throughout the group and Tony finishes up the talk letting everyone head off.

All the girls do one more lap of the field, thanking the fans for their support before quickly getting changed and heading back to the hotel, everyone wanting a good nights rest after the long day.

The next day, the bright sun and Kyra's snoring wakes you up. You chuck a pillow at her, laughing at her annoyed grunts and swearing before getting out of bed, showering, and getting changed. You're quick, not wanting to be late for Lucy as the two of you had planned to go out for coffee this morning. You were excited to see how hungover she would be, you'd be surprised if she even managed to get out of bed this morning.

You weren't meant to be meeting Lucy until 10 and it was only 9:15 when you got out of the shower, so you took the extra time to scroll on your phone.

You had hardly thought about the game last night, knowing it would only affect your upcoming game if you worried about that too much. But as you open your phone, which you hadn't been on since before the game, your stomach twists and you feel like you're going to be sick.

A million notifications pop up on your screen. DM's of people telling you to kill yourself and posts that tagged you showing the two goals you couldn't stop yesterday. You tried not to read them but there were too many and you couldn't stop yourself.

Y/N L/N can go fucking throw herself off the Sydney Harbor Bridge for all I care. What a fucking joke this is, I knew women's football would suck. You're telling me that a 'professional' fullback can't stop the easiest goals. hope she fucking dies, let down a whole country.

Morning Y/N, hope you slept terribly last night. Let down a whole country with your shit performance. I'm sure many people would appreciate it if you took a break from football and found a job you're good at. I don't want to see you step foot on a pitch ever again and if you do I'll make sure you're sorry for it.

L/N just proves that female athletes are all just sluts, lost her team a world cup semi-final and all she did after the game was eye fuck Lucy Bronze, what happened to being a team player?

Hi Y/N, thanks to you my daughter cried herself to sleep last night, what happened to inspiring all the young girls, get a fucking life and get back into the kitchen. women like you don't belong on a football pitch. Never touch a football again thanks.

There were so many, all saying the same kind of things that it all just blurred together. Your thoughts from yesterday returned and all you could think about was about how all these people were right. You let down your country and you were a joke.

You were so caught up in everything that you hardly noticed the time slowly tick past 10:15 and all the notifications from Lucy asking where you were. You just sat on your bed, not quite sure what to do. You'd never felt more like a failure in your life, tears poured down your face they were practically choking you but you didn't mind.

You had let down your country and thousands of people agreed with you.

When you didn't answer Lucy's fifth call she got seriously worried. You always had your phone on you and you never ignored Lucy's calls. She called you one more time and when you didn't answer, she took matters into her own hands.

As soon as the Uber arrived outside your hotel, Lucy sprinted up to your room. Until security stopped her at the front desk, demanding that she prove that she was staying at the hotel before they let her in.

She was begging them for a good five minutes until it got to the point when she was offering money for them to let her in. Fortunately, Alanna spotted Lucy at the desk and after seeing her desperate expression she decided to go over and see what was happening.

'Is everything all right?' She asked both the receptionist and Lucy.

'She's not letting me see y/n/n' Lucy snapped shooting the desk lady a dirty glare.

'I need proof, I can't just let anyone in.' She says matter-of-factly causing Lucy to roll her eyes. Alanna ignores the lady giving Lucy all her attention.

'I thought she was going out to see you?' Alanna asked confused 'That's what Kyra told everyone.'

'She was meant to, but she didn't show up and hasn't been answering my calls, I need to know if she's ok.' Lucy's forehead creased with worry, her girlfriend was never late and always picked up the phone.

'I'm sure she'll be fine, I'll take you to go and check her room and see if she's there.' Alanna tells the brunette before turning around having a quick word with the receptionist who mumbles something under her breath before turning to Lucy and allowing her to go up, apologising for the trouble.

Her words aren't heard by the English footballer who is already speed-walking up the hallway despite having no clue where she is going. Alanna jogs lightly to catch up to her grabbing her wrist to stop her from walking. At first, Lucy tries to pull her wrist away but stops when Alanna drops it.

'Her rooms the other way.' Alanna says softly, causing Lucy to turn around and start power walking in the opposite direction. Alanna laughs lightly at her. 'Slow down, you're just going to get lost. I'll take you to her.'

You're curled up under the blankets in your bed. You'd been lying there for almost an hour. Your phone was on silent so you hadn't seen all the missed calls from Lucy, you felt guilty for not showing up but surely she wouldn't care too much. No one in their right mind would want to be seen with a mess like you, especially not the Lucy Bronze.

You lay in silence for a while longer, nobody disrupting you as the do not disturb sign was up and all the girls were out for the off day. You were almost too caught up in your thoughts to hear the knocking on the door and Alanna's voice calling out your name.

'Y/N, are you in there?' She asked again 'Y/N?' You groaned pulling the blankets up so they were almost covering your head.

'Go away Lani.' You mumble only just loud enough for her to hear. You are shocked when she agrees and you hear her footsteps getting further away.

You roll further into your bed, groaning when you hear another knock on the door. 'Baby, are you alright?' Your girlfriend asks, your stomach flips with guilt.

'I don't want to talk right now Luce.' You tell her even though you know that's not going to stop her from coming to see you.

'I need to know that my girlfriends ok.' She tells you and you hear the doorknob twist, the bright light that fills your room makes your head pound and you bury your face into the pillow.

When Lucy sees you lying in the darkness she immediately rushes to your side and places a hand on your forehead, probably checking to see if you had a temperature.

'What's wrong my love?' She asks sitting next to you on the bed and stroking your back. 'Are you sick? Do you need me to get anything for you?' The brunette asks the worry evident in her tone. You turn around to face her, only seeing her concerned face makes you burst out crying.

As tears streamed down your cheeks, you poured your heart out to your girlfriend, the weight of disappointment and guilt heavy on your shoulders, you couldn't not tell her about what was going on.

The two of you told each other everything.

In the quiet of the hotel room, you confessed her insecurities, voice choking with emotion. 'I'm a failure,' you whispered, hands trembling as you recounted the mistakes that haunted you from the semi-finals and all the awful messages you'd received after the game. With each word, Lucy listened intently, offering comforting words of reassurance. 'You're not a failure,' she whispered back, gently wiping away your tears. 'You're brave for putting yourself out there, for giving it your all. Football doesn't define you; your resilience does. You are the best player I know, you didn't win Player of the Year for nothing. All the girls were talking about how well you played last night, just because the result didn't go your way it doesn't mean you're a failure.' She places light kisses over your face 'The people hating are all just dickheads, I can't imagine them doing even half of what you've achieved. Don't let them get to you.' She tells you, midway through your conversation she had laid down beside you, wrapping you in her arms. You had your head lying on her chest, the beat of her heart helping calm you down.

You don't know how you got a girlfriend like Lucy. But you were undeniably grateful for her no matter what. She'd been there for you through the worst and best parts of your life.

'I'm sorry Lucy.' You whisper to her.

'Don't be sorry.' She tells you placing a light kiss on your forehead 'You've done nothing wrong.'

'You're meant to be enjoying making it to the final, but instead you're stuck looking after me.'

'Yeah, but being stuck with my favorite person in the world is my kind of heaven.' She tells you softly causing a small smile to break out on your face 'I love you y/n/n.'

'Love you more.' You say back to her.

'That's impossible baby.' A small smirk appears on her face 'I'll always love you the most.'

[soupuurr]

𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑏𝑦𝑒 𝑝𝑡. 2 - matthew sturniolo

pairing. softdom!matt x sub!reader

genre. angst, smut, fluff

⟶ cw. explicit content, angst (matt and reader are kind of messy in this), abuse, slow-burn, fluff, unprotected sex, fingering, praise, creampie, aftercare. MDNI

⟶ summary. following never say goodbye, matt concluded that the relationship wouldn't work as both of you were engrossed in your own lives. however, would his feelings remain unchanged when he sees you years later? wc. 4.4k

note. here’s the long awaited ‘never say goodbye pt. 2’,i had such a brain fart while writing this, it was really hard to structure but i think it came out pretty well lolll enjoy mfs. (listen to smth sad, it’ll make the experience better ;))

both of you gazed silently at the line of cars ahead, observing the crowds of individuals gathering suitcases, bidding farewell to family members, and strolling hand in hand—a poignant reminder of what lay ahead of you.

the day you had dreaded had finally arrived, marking a time of new beginnings, yet also farewells to the people you spent your whole life with.

"you ready?" matt's eyes locked onto yours, slender hands still gripping the steering wheel tightly. he looked exhausted, prominent dark circles lay under his eyes—his pink lips chapped, and hair an absolute mess.

"no." you whispered honestly. you couldn't bear to meet his gaze any longer, afraid that if you did, you might risk everything and cancel the flight just to stay with him for the rest of your life.

matt's hand left the steering wheel and gently covered yours. his fingers curled around your clenched fist, thumb rubbing soothingly against your skin as he swallowed solemnly.

neither of you felt ready; leaving each other seemed impossible. but you held onto faith in your relationship, trusting that you would find each other again when the time was right—just as matt had assured you the night before.

you leaned in to kiss matt once more, your fingers slipping around the nape of his neck to draw him closer. he melted into your embrace—warm hands tenderly cupping your jaw. matt wanted the pressure of your kiss to be unforgettable, knowing it would be irreplaceable and he would yearn for it until the day he saw you again.

you held each other close once it was finally time to board your flight. matt's head rested comfortably above your own as a new wave of tears escaped his sore eyes and trickled down his cheeks. pressing your face against his chest, you sobbed silently, finding solace in his familiar cologne—well aware it would be a while before you could experience it again. you gently rocked together, savoring the fleeting embrace before parting ways.

"i promise to never say goodbye."

matt couldn't even see the road on his drive home, his vision blurred by painful tears streaming down his pale cheeks. a symphony of lights danced in his view—red, white, green, yellow—as he pulled his sleeve to brush the tears from his face. he couldn't believe you were gone just like that, and he cursed the universe for tearing you away from him.

he retreated to his room, tears accompanying him into sleep. matt struggled to imagine life without you after being attached at the hip for so many years. he refused to dwell on it, tired eyes coming to a close as he pretended that you were still right there beside him.

"matt, this apartment is insane! i love it—i mean—look at this view!" you gawked, flipping the face-time camera to capture the stunning city lights illuminating the area. matt's jaw dropped dramatically, his face beaming with delight at your infectious excitement.

"careful, kid, you're standing awfully close to the ledge." matt chuckled into the phone, and you rolled your eyes playfully.

"you're so extra, there's literally a window." you pressed your palm against the glass.

"AHH!" matt's sudden shout into the speaker startled you, prompting a shocked shriek from yourself. you breathed a sigh of relief as he burst into a fit of giggles behind the camera, what an asshole.

"what the fuck, matt!" you scolded, pushing yourself away from the window and plopping onto the couch.

"i'm sorry," he raised his hand in defeat before quieting down, and the room settled into a familiar, comfortable silence.

"i miss you." matt whispered on the other side, his longing blue eyes filled with love and admiration as they met yours.

"i miss you too."

you both made a habit of calling each other often, almost every single day. despite the increasing busyness of your new lives and schedules, you made it a priority to maintain these calls—even when they began to noticeably drain you.

over time, matt began to worry that he was becoming a hindrance to your well-being. you would join calls with dark eye bags, giving short responses and barely able to stay awake.

you began canceling meetings to make time for him, dismissing opportunities just for the chance to talk to him again—unknowingly ruining the future you had worked so hard to build.

as much as it pained him, matt began avoiding your calls, claiming that he was busy filming when in reality he would drop everything for you in a heartbeat.

... what's going on? why aren't you calling anymore?

you nervously glanced at your phone, reading your text message again before finally hitting send. you stomach sank once you saw the message marked as read at the bottom of your screen.

you wait expectantly for his response, heart beating against your chest with every passing second. but after waiting and waiting, you eventually gave up.

did he fall out of love? did he find someone new? the unwanted questions swirled around your brain, tears clouding your vision with uncertainty.

matt reluctantly shut his phone off after reading your text, reassuring himself repeatedly that this was for the best.

chris and nick watched helplessly as their brother slowly succumbed to depression. his inability to just text you shattered him more than anyone could realize, yet he endured it for the sake of your future.

matt barely left his room, making excuses to avoid filming just so he could lie in bed for hours. he didn't know what to do with himself; it felt like a part of him had died when you left, and he didn't know if he could ever revive it without you.

but he knew it would never work between you two. he had to let go.

"c'mon matt, we gotta film." chris poked his head through matt's doorway, drumming his fingers against the wood.

matt's gaze remained fixed on his phone screen, completely oblivious to chris's words.

chris groaned and pushed through the door. he scanned his brother's cluttered room before sighing in annoyance.

"matt, i know it's been hard but she's probably moving on bro, and you should to. we're in LA now—you need to leave her behind for our sake."

matt's clouded eyes finally met his brother's. he pushed himself off the bed and silently maneuvered past him, descending the stairs to grab his car keys.

matt's lips moved feverishly against the lips of a random instagram model he met at the club—hands sliding under her provocative dress before squeezing the flesh of her ass in his palms. her own hands slid down his chest and toyed with his belt.

red acrylic nails grazed his skin, evoking a strained hiss to slip past his mouth. matt moved his lips down to her neck, leaving heavy, open mouthed kisses on the supple skin.

he flipped her around, unbuckling his belt and slotting the hem of his shirt between his teeth. matt grabbed her hip, positioning himself at her entrance before slipping past—a low groan tumbling out of his swollen lips.

he snapped his hips against her, pushing her body further against the wall as she wailed in pleasure. matt brought his fingertips to her needy clit, rubbing tight circles on the bud before pulling out and releasing on her back.

he sighed behind her, pulling his jeans back to his hips and adjusting his prada belt.

"that felt so-"

the door abruptly slammed shut behind the blonde model, cutting off her sentence as matt had already left the room.

it quickly became a habit. matt would find himself hooking up with countless women to get his mind off of you, and nothing worked. not until he met her.

"matt, correct? my name is luna."

matt turned to meet her gaze before trailing his eyes down to her outstretched hand. he ignored her, turning away from her prying gaze to stare blankly at the wall in front of him.

"is that your dog? it's very cute." she remarked, pointing at the polaroid of him, his brothers, and his dog—trevor—tucked inside his see-through phone case.

"what do you want?" matt sneered, downing his drink and slamming the red solo cup onto the countertop. luna, annoyingly, smiled back at matt, as if his attitude didn't faze her one bit.

"just want to get to know you. i've never seen you around here and you piqued my interest." she said casually, leaning against the marble counter and sipping from her own red solo cup.

matt paused. his tongue poked at his cheek as he huffed irritably, torn over whether to give in and respond.

"i came with my brothers. we do youtube." he quipped, keeping his gaze fixed on the young, drunk influencers dancing underneath the strobe lights.

"triplets, right? people have been talking about you."

matt hummed before pivoting to meet her gaze, his icy blue eyes locking with a set of caramel-colored ones.

"you seem to know a lot about me already." matt raised an eyebrow, still visibly "perturbed" by her presence but willing to engage in her little conversation to pass the time.

"word spreads like wildfire out here." she shrugged as she pushed herself from the counter to mirror him.

"what are you doing tomorrow, matt?"

matt smirked and shook his head, finding her confidence amusing.

"nothing much." he fidgeted with his cup, rubbing the white rim with his thumb as he waited for her response.

this is what he's been needing.

"great. let's go out."

matt and luna hit it off exceptionally well. they settled for a cozy coffee shop, discussing basic interests, past love lives, and family before eventually fucking in the backseat of matt's car.

she wasn't just an ordinary hookup though; there was something intriguing about her that captivated matt. their spontaneous coffee shop dates, exhausting hikes, and riverside strolls began to put a smile back on his face once again—the kind of smile you used to bring out of him.

luna helped him take his mind off of you, It scared him initially, but he knew he had to move on. she was perfect for him. right?

before he knew it, he was engaged to her.

"i love the fall time. perfect weather to get married in." she hummed beside him, snuggling up against his arm as they strolled down the sidewalk.

matt closed his eyes peacefully, breathing in the crisp autumn air. he snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her into him as his gaze wandered over the orange trees.

it reminded him of when he proposed—leaving her awestruck beneath the autumn leaves as he dropped to one knee and presented the diamond ring.

but for some reason, it never felt quite right.

matt's smile faltered at the thought. he couldn't quite pinpoint it, but he had a nagging feeling that he was messing everything up.

it was as if the universe had given him a sign in that moment, because he saw you. standing at a nearby jewelry store merely feet away.

he felt his world collapse, as all the suppressed feelings, memories, and love he had for you surged through him like waves crashing on the shore.

his heart began to race the second your eyes met his. oh, your beautiful eyes. he realized how much he had missed them, a feeling that washed over him as he finally saw them again.

he wanted to rip himself into shreds once he noticed the tears of hurt welling in your eyes—tears that he had caused.

he moved instinctively, slipping out of luna's grasp and walking towards you as if in a trance.

"matt? matthew—" luna called out to him, but to no avail. she knew who you were—his ex-girlfriend, the one he was supposed to marry.

matt couldn't tear his eyes away from you; you were just as beautiful, if not more so than before. in an instant, he found himself standing behind you.

"hey, how have you been?"

you turned around, feeling a surge of electricity rush through your veins as you came face to face with your former lover.

"don't talk to me." you sniffled as your wrist came up to wipe your tear-stricken face—the lone drops staining the sleeve of your grey hoodie. you tried to push past matt, but he swiftly reached out and grabbed your shoulder.

"please don't walk away—i know i hurt you, and i just want to explain myself if you'll give me the chance." matt pleaded, his eyes darting between yours as he searched for a glimmer of acceptance from your shielded demeanor.

you shook your head, attempting to walk away before matt's rigid body blocked your path.

"please?" matt's brows furrowed in anguish. how dare he ask, after everything he had done to hurt you?

you stared at him skeptically. despite everything, you couldn't help but want to know what had actually happened—why he chose to leave the relationship behind.

"…there's a bookstore nearby. let's grab coffee tomorrow and talk," you didn't spare him another glance before brushing past him, your shoulder bumping his as you moved ahead.

you pushed open the glass door of the tiny, antique coffee shop—door chime sounding overhead as you glanced around for matt.

your body tensed upon spotting him, nerves tightening with each step toward the table nestled in the back of the shop.

he looked undeniably good—clad in a blue sweater and black washed jeans, with a thin chain and silver jewelry adorning his milky skin.

"hey," matt smiled as you seated yourself across from him. you responded with a quick, tight-lipped smile, your eyes locking onto his.

those blue eyes that once made you feel loved now held a fragile glass of past memories and broken promises. you hated his eyes now.

"how've you been, matt?" you placed your hands on the illuminated table, interlocking your fingers as you gazed curiously into his eyes.

"i-um, i've been good. you?" matt fidgeted with his rings, still in utter disbelief that you were sitting in front of him right now.

"good."

you tucked your hair behind your ear, a habit that matt remembered all too well. he knew you did that when you were anxious, and it broke his heart to see you feeling that way because of him, now.

"i finally watched that movie you wanted me to see—hereditary?"

"matt you have to watch it. it's my favorite horror movie!" you pleaded—tugging at his sleeve while he settled onto the couch.

"no, absolutely not," matt shook his head, pulling you close to his chest as he aimed the remote at the screen to switch it off.

"i'll make you watch it one day, you wuss." you huffed against him, legs coming to rest over his lap.

"not a wuss." he murmured before rolling his eyes. you giggled, planting a kiss on his cheek and pinching it lightly between your fingers.

"my little baby."

"i thought you'd be too scared." you smiled amusedly.

"told you i wasn't a wuss." matt smirked, teasingly gazing at you as he leaned closer.

you felt your old rhythm returning, the banter you had missed so dearly now finally within reach. you and matt ordered your drinks to go, strolling the glowing streets as you caught up on everything life had offered so far.

matt and his brothers had just hit 10 million subscribers, a milestone they celebrated back home. he filled you in on your high school friends in boston—recounting the shocking drama, marriages, and break-ups that left you absolutely astonished.

the night was over before you knew it. you walked to matt’s painfully familiar car, and he opened the door for you—just like the night before you left. you swallowed hesitantly before stepping inside.

"i had a good time." matt drummed his fingertips against the steering wheel, his gaze lingering affectionately on yours.

"me too." you smiled.

you pondered for a moment, before your curiosity got the better of you.

"why did you ruin this?" you whispered, the question hanging uncomfortably in the air as your hands settled in your lap.

matt's smile quickly vanished, replaced by a frown while he averted his eyes from your face and looked ahead.

"do you—do you know how much i fucking missed you? do you know how many times i cried over you? every fucking night matthew, and you're such an asshole because you just gave up on us, just like that!" tears of anger escaped from the corners of your eyes, nails digging furiously into the skin of your palm.

matt sighed irritably, shutting his eyes briefly before meeting your resentful glare.

"you were ruining your future—"

"i don't care matthew! i missed you so fucking much and you were never there. i thought you forgot about me." you sniffled, whispering the last sentence helplessly.

matt froze.

did he fuck up this bad? he never meant to hurt you, he did this for you.

"i never forgot about you. not a single day went by where i didn't think about you—fuck—you drove me absolutely insane, you know that? and you still do! i didn't know what the fuck to do, and i'd take everything back if i could." matt timidly brought his hand to your lap, taking your clenched fist into his own and gently unraveling it before placing it on his beating heart.

"i love you more than you could ever know." matt trembled, his tear-filled eyes fixed on you.

your gaze softened as you gingerly removed your hand from his chest.

"you have a fiancé, matt." you shook your head,

"i know. i don't want to hurt her, but there was something different—something unexplainable between you and me—"

"i have a fiancé too, matthew."

matt hesitated, tears slipping down his pink cheeks.

"it's not too late." he whimpered,

"yes it is. it's better to stay friends matt, we had our chance." you fidgeted, your gaze dropping to the dashboard as you sighed shakily.

"so this is it?" matt's hands defeatedly dropped from the steering wheel.

"i'm sorry." you whispered softly.

your shaky hands pushed open the car door as you began walking over to your front porch—quickly disappearing behind the wooden door.

a week passed before your phone dinged with a familiar name displayed on the screen.

matt??

...hey, could I take you to dinner sometime? as friends, of course. i want to have that, at least.

you stare at the bright words plastered on the screen, fingers coming to reluctantly type out a response.

don’t do it. don’t respond.

...sure.

matt slowly began to regain your trust. a casual dinner led to a movie, then an amusement park, and before you knew it, you were inseparable—fooling around and making ridiculous bets, just like you used to.

you felt so happy, and matt fell deeper in love. he would gaze at you, awestruck, while you did something as simple as holding a dragonfly in your palms. you were mesmerizing—your beautiful hair flowing in the wind, pretty pink cheeks, and perfect lips that curled so nicely when you smiled. oh, matt was so in love with you; again.

after spending time together, you would evidently come home late almost every night—and your fiancé couldn't help but suspect something was amiss.

"where were you."

you jumped upon entering your house, startled by the dark silhouette of your fiancé standing ominously by the kitchen counter.

"jeez, you scared me. I was out with a friend, you know matt?" you questioned before switching on the lights.

"you mean your ex?" you fiancé glared at you, arms coming to cross over his broad chest.

"c'mon. you know it isn't like that." you rolled your eyes playfully, striding towards him until he aggressively pushed you away.

"what the fuck?" you stumbled back, fingers pressing against the counter for support.

"you've been fucking behind my back, haven't you? you whore."

you paused at his words, he was reeking of alcohol.

you've never seen him like this before.

"don't call me that. he's just a friend, what's gotten into you?"

you gasped as he forcefully shoved the white porcelain dishes off your counter, the shattering glass piercing your ears.

"i know what you've been doing, hoppin' on his dick whenever you could. you're pathetic."

your heart raced at his malicious comments, pure rage coursing through your veins.

"shut the fuck—"

your face throbbed with sharp pain as it jerked to the side. you shuddered, bringing you palm to touch your sore cheek.

did he just slap you?

"get out." you mumbled,

your fiancé huffed, brushing past you as he slammed the door— shaking the entire house with its force.

you sat on your couch, replaying the hurtful argument over and over again in your head. was he right? were you spending too much time with matt?

thunder struck in the sky, lightning illuminating your dark living room with its glow. the droplets of rain tapped gently against the roof of your home as you leaned your head against the back of the couch.

a sudden, three knocks snapped you out of your trance.

shit—was it your fiancé again?

you hesitantly made your way to the door, cracking it open to find matt standing there, drenched. he looked cold and helpless, his chest rising and falling with every breath.

you pushed the door open all the way, gasping in disbelief.

"matt? what are you—"

"i told her."

the soft pitter-patter of the rain accompanied the silence that followed.

luna?

"told her what?"

"that i'm in love with you."

you stilled as matt shivered in front of you, tenderly pushing your door wider before stepping inside. your eyes never left his as your chest resided merely inches away from him.

his hands hovered diffidently over your waist, and his brows furrowed once he saw the red mark on your face.

"what happened?" matt's thumb ran over your bruised skin, concern flashing over his features.

you stayed quiet, shifting your gaze to the hardwood floor.

"did he hit you?" matt whispered,

his hands ran cold at your meek nod, he hit you?

"that fuckin' asshole." matt drew you close, wrapping you in a tight embrace. his lips brushed gently against the bruise on your cheek before pressing softly against your forehead.

uncontrollable tears slid down your cheeks as he held you against his chest—not because you were sad, but because you missed this. so much.

your arms wrapped around him tightly, nails gripping his sweater as you both tumbled to the floor.

"i missed you matt." you cried out,

matt shushed you, tilting your chin up before planting a tender kiss onto your lips.

your fingers threaded through his hair—inhaling his scent as you drew him nearer.

matt wiped away your tears and placed you on his lap, his cold fingertips resting beneath your shirt while he passionately moved against your puffy lips.

matt wanted to worship you, make you feel like you were the only woman in this world—because to him, you were.

"you're so, so beautiful."

you smile against his lips,

"you always tell me that, matt." you slid your hands under his sweater, your tender touch sending shivers down his spine.

"yeah? that's because it's true,"

matt peeled the cotton shirt off of your body before caressing your sides beneath his fingers.

"fuck."

matt's cock strained against your thigh as he gazed lovingly at every inch and crevice of your bare skin.

he brought his lips to your chest, slotting your nipple between his lips. you were like a drug—so addicting—he felt like he couldn't live without tasting you.

matt picked you up, never parting from your lips as he brought you to your bedroom and placed you gently on the silk sheets.

his hand made its way down your body, leaving flames in its path before sliding down to your needy pussy. matt rolled his wrist, fingertips rubbing deliciously against your clit.

"i need you matt." your legs wrapped around his back, pulling him into you. matt kissed your forehead before slipping his fingers under his belt buckle, pulling his length out of his boxers and sliding his pants past his hips.

he stroked his cock, hissing as it leaked shiny beads of pre-cum. he pressed his lips against yours once he finally buried himself inside of your cunt.

matt made love to you. kissing over your face, shoulders, collarbone, breasts, everywhere.

matt loved you more deeply than you could comprehend, and he wished you understood the struggle he faced just to make it through each day.

matt's cock brushed against your cervix while you clenched around him. you brought your hands to his hair, pulling him into your neck as his lips gently rested against the skin.

his hips faltered under your legs, low moans and groans slipping past his lips before he finished with an 'i love you'

a smile graced your lips as you came soon after, heart fluttering at his heartfelt confession.

“i love you too.”

you paced frantically, ensuring every detail was perfect for your upcoming wedding.

thankfully, the decorations were exactly as you had envisioned. you sighed contentedly before settling into a lone chair.

you were getting married tomorrow and you couldn't believe it.

the day of the wedding, you stood hand in hand. gazing lovingly into each other's eyes.

matt retrieved a piece of paper, his fingers trembling as he glanced over its contents, he cleared his throat before reading aloud.

"y/n.

from the moment our paths crossed, I knew my life was forever changed. today, I choose you to be my partner, my love, and my best friend. I promise to support you, to laugh with you, and to comfort you in times of sorrow. I vow to cherish our love and respect our differences. I promise to be faithful and honest, to listen and to learn with you. with my whole heart, I pledge to you my love and devotion, now and always, and I pledge to never say goodbye, no matter the challenges we face."

matt kept his promise.

tags. @mattssluttygf @mennick4life @sturncakez @sturniolocatrinaa @mattswhore-44 @kingdomswifft @mattshighway @sturniluvr @jamiesturniolo @slut4chrisnmatt @jassysturniolo @lvrsw1ft @m0r94n @mattsturnioloswifee @themattgirl17

[ghostchems]

sacred blasphemy - catholic priest!copia x f!oc

chapter one: blood!

in another world, copia has become a catholic priest after being drawn to it during his childhood in an orphanage. he is content with his life, finally feeling grounded and like he belongs -- until a new face in his flock captures his attention.

author’s note: this is the project i’ve been talking about for the past few weeks! eventual smut, my friends, but nothing too spicy here. this story came about because a lot of fic i’ve read and also written have the papas as the seducers, the ones who draw “innocent” people to join the satanic church with their charm and sexiness so i thought what if i did it the other way around. about 4k words. ao3 link!

The young boy stood motionless in the schoolyard, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest in a protective embrace. He remained there, a still figure amidst the bustling playground, his heart pounding with anticipation. Time seemed to slow as he waited, knowing full well what was coming but powerless to stop it.

Suddenly, the air was split by the unmistakable sound of rubber against skin. A dodgeball, thrown with cruel precision, struck the boy squarely in the face. The impact was immediate and intense, causing his nose to erupt with blood. As it trickled down his face, a strange sense of relief washed over him. The nuns, alerted by the commotion, rushed to his aid, their habits fluttering as they escorted him swiftly to the infirmary. Despite the pain and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the boy felt a small spark of triumph. His plan had worked – he had successfully escaped the dreaded dodgeball game, just as he had hoped.

He found solace in the quiet sanctuary of the infirmary. The gentle care he received there was a balm to his battered spirit. The nun tended to his injury with practiced hands and he felt a sense of peace wash over him. Seeking further comfort, he reached for the Bible that lay nearby. It really should have been his by now. He opened its well-worn pages. The ancient words spoke to him, offering wisdom and solace in equal measure. He immersed himself in the sacred text, allowing its timeless messages to soothe his troubled mind and provide a temporary escape from the harsh realities of his daily life.

Every trip to the infirmary ended with wondering when this would all be over. When he would be free of this place. The thought both terrified and excited him. The infirmary, with its antiseptic smell and quiet atmosphere, had become a strange sort of sanctuary. Here, at least, he was safe from the chaos of the playground and the cruel taunts of his fellow orphans. he'd always felt like an outsider, never quite fitting in anywhere. His appearance didn’t help. He was a gangly child, oddly proportioned child and his eye certainly didn’t make people want to be friends with him.

But he knew he couldn't stay here forever. Sooner or later, he would have to face the world outside these walls. He turned another page of the Bible, his eyes scanning the words without really reading them.

***

This has been a long time coming for the priest.

He surveyed the parking lot as members began to arrive for mass, a content smile on his face.

Copia's journey to this moment had been a long and winding one. The sense of displacement he felt as a child led him to seek solace in faith, eventually finding his calling in the priesthood. The path hadn't been easy - there were moments of doubt, struggle, and loneliness that echoed his childhood experiences. But now, standing before his congregation, he felt a sense of peace and belonging he'd long yearned for, a stark contrast to his rootless beginnings.

As more people filed into the church, some stopping to shake his hand, Copia reflected on how far he'd come. The hardships of his past had shaped and guided him here. He felt settled, grounded in a way he never had before. This small church, this community—it was home. Though it had taken some getting used to on their part. He was the strange priest with the ghostly white eye. The one who sometimes had dark circles around his eyes, rumored to be from any number of things. Definitely not your typical priest. His appearance had initially raised eyebrows and sparked whispers among the congregation. Some had even questioned whether he was fit to lead their church in the wake of beloved Father Acosta’s retirement. But Copia's genuine compassion and unwavering dedication to his flock had gradually won them over. Very gradually. Still, he couldn't help but notice the occasional curious glance or startled reaction from newcomers, though that wasn't very often.

He shook the thoughts off, focusing on the message he was about to deliver. Copia was excited to share his homily today, having worked on it for the last few days. The message he had prepared felt particularly poignant, addressing themes of acceptance and unity within the community, drawing inspiration from Ephesians 4:2-3: "Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace." He hoped his words would resonate with the congregation and foster a sense of belonging for all members - a belonging that he would gladly provide after being deprived of it for so long in his own life. The irony wasn't lost on him; the outsider now creating a space of inclusion for others.

“Father Copia!”

Copia spun around at the sound of his name, a warm smile spreading across his face as he recognized the pair approaching him. Mark, a single father who had become a regular at the church, was gently guiding his daughter Maisie forward.

"Ah, good morning, Mark! And hello there, Maisie," Copia greeted them, his voice softening as he addressed the shy little girl. Maisie, usually hesitant to make eye contact, was clutching something in her small hands.

"Go on, sweetheart," Mark encouraged, giving her a gentle nudge. "Show Father Copia what you made."

With a deep breath, Maisie stepped forward and held out a piece of paper. Copia knelt down to her level, his mismatched eyes twinkling with curiosity. "What's this, little one?"

Maisie's voice was barely above a whisper. "I... I drew you, Father."

Copia carefully took the offered drawing, his heart swelling with emotion as he examined it. There in bright crayon strokes, was an unmistakable portrait of himself. Maisie had captured every detail - his black cassock, his graying brown hair, and most notably, his distinctive eyes. One was scribbled a deep green, while the other was left white.

"M-Maisie," Copia breathed, genuinely touched. "This is beautiful. Th-thank you so much." He looked up at the girl, who was now beaming with pride. "This is, ehm… this really is me."

Mark chuckled, resting a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "She's been working on it all week. Wouldn't let me see it until it was finished."

Copia stood, still holding the drawing carefully, almost unable to tear his eyes away. “This is going straight to my office. I'll treasure it always, piccolina." The little girl's shy smile grew wider, and Copia felt a warmth spread through his chest. He was so touched by Maisie's gesture that he felt a lump forming in his throat. He tried to mask it with a cough, urging them to get to their pews. "Thank you again," he managed, his voice slightly rough. "Please, take your seats. We'll be starting soon." As Mark and Maisie moved away, Copia took a moment to compose himself, touched by the unexpected kindness. He carefully folded the picture and tucked it into his pocket.

The last few congregants entered the church with Copia watching, taking a deep breath to center himself. The moment had arrived. With a final glance at the sky—a calming ritual he'd long practiced—he turned and strode towards the entrance. His mind was already racing with anticipation. He could feel the weight of his responsibility, the trust his congregation had placed in him. As he stepped into the church, the familiar scent of incense and old wood enveloped him, grounding him in the present moment. Even so, the chasuble always felt heavy on his shoulders. It was green today — to represent the 17th Sunday in Ordinary Time. He let it drape over him, heavy yet calming. Copia took his place at the altar, ready to begin the service.

His eyes swept over the congregation. The familiar faces of his flock brought comfort, but a new presence caught his attention. A nun he hadn't seen before sat in one of the back pews, her head bowed in prayer. Something about her struck him as... different, though he couldn't quite place why. His gaze lingered on her as the words to his introduction fell effortlessly from his lips until a sudden, sharp pain flared behind his left eye — his white eye. The sensation was entirely new, a stinging that made him blink rapidly. Copia faltered for a moment, taken aback. He'd never experienced anything like it before, especially not during a mass.

He recovered quickly, his hands flying into motion as he continued his sermon. His fingers danced through the air, emphasizing key points with dramatic gestures. The congregation seemed to lean in, captivated by his animated delivery. His Italian heritage shone through in every sweeping motion and expressive flick of the wrist.

"And so, my dear brothers and sisters," Copia proclaimed, his hands spread wide, "we must remember that our faith is not just words, but actions." He brought his palms together. "It is in our deeds that we truly show our love for God and our fellow man." As he spoke, Copia found his natural rhythm, his earlier discomfort fading into the background. His hands continued to paint pictures in the air, bringing his message to life with each gesture.

Throughout the service, Copia found his gaze drawn back to the mysterious nun. Her posture, the way she held herself during the hymns, it all seemed slightly off-kilter for a woman of the cloth. He shook off the feeling, chiding himself for being distracted during mass. As a priest, his focus should be solely on the service and his congregation. Yet, there was something undeniably intriguing about this newcomer. Copia silently admonished himself, refocusing his attention on the sacred rituals at hand. He took a deep breath, centering himself in the familiar rhythms of the mass.

When it came time for communion, Copia's heart rate inexplicably quickened as the line of parishioners moved forward. The new nun approached and he felt an odd tension in the air. She raised her head, and their eyes met. Copia's breath caught in his throat. Her eyes were a striking shade of blue, almost luminous in the church's dim lighting.

"The body of Christ," Copia intoned, his voice steady despite his inner turmoil.

"Amen," the nun replied, her voice a low, melodious whisper that sent an unexpected shiver down Copia's spine. To his surprise, she opened her mouth instead of raising her cupped hands as most parishioners did. He exhaled slowly, steeling himself, momentarily thrown by this deviation from the usual practice.

He placed the communion wafer on her tongue, his finger brushed it ever so slightly. A jolt of... something... passed between them, leaving Copia momentarily stunned. The nun's lips curled into the faintest of smiles as she turned away, leaving Copia almost shattered. Shaking himself mentally, he continued with the communion, but his thoughts kept drifting back to those piercing blue eyes and that enigmatic smile.

The last of the parishioners returned to their seats, Copia moved back to the altar, a place of safety for him. He carefully cleaned the sacred vessels, his movements deliberate and reverent. The familiar ritual helped to calm him, pushing away the lingering thoughts of the nun. He felt like he was in autopilot for the rest of Mass, not his favorite feeling in the world but he was at least able to get through it. He raised his hands, inviting the congregation to stand for the prayer after communion. “Let us pray," he intoned, his voice carrying through the church. He recited the prayer, asking for God's continued blessings and grace upon those who had received the Eucharist.

After the prayer, Copia shared his usual weekly announcements with the congregation. He reminded them about the upcoming parish potluck and called for volunteers for the food bank drive. The attentive parishioners responded with nods and murmurs of agreement. These community events and opportunities to give back were truly Copia's favorite aspects of his role—even more so than having an audience for his sermons. Such initiatives held a special place in his heart; after all, he'd benefited greatly from them during his own upbringing.

Finally, it was time for the Concluding Rite. Copia spread his arms wide, his voice warm as he spoke the familiar words: "The Lord be with you." The congregation responded in unison, "And with your spirit." He then gave the final blessing, making the sign of the cross over his flock. Mass drew to a close, members began filing out of their pews and Copia felt a mixture of relief and lingering unease. The service had gone well, despite the unexpected distraction. Yet as he watched the congregation file out, his eyes couldn't help but search for a glimpse of blue eyes and a nun's habit among the departing crowd.

He lingered in the pull for a moment longer then made his way into the crowd, exchanging warm greetings and engaging in light conversation. He found himself particularly drawn into a chat with Margot, a cherished elderly parishioner who never missed a Sunday service.

"Father Copia," Margot beamed, her eyes twinkling with excitement, "I can't wait for the potluck! I'm planning to bring my famous lemon tarts. Everyone always seems to enjoy them so."

Copia's face lit up at the mention of Margot's renowned dessert. "Ah, your lemon tarts are truly a blessing, Margot. I'm looking forward to them myself." He leaned in conspiratorially, "I'm thinking of making pasta for the event. I, eheh, got the new Martha Stewart cookbook and..."

Their pleasant exchange was interrupted by a gentle tap on Copia's shoulder. He turned to find Sister Laura, one of the regular nuns, standing beside the mysterious newcomer he had noticed earlier.

"Father," Sister Laura began, her voice warm but formal, "I'd like to introduce you to our newest member, Sister Veronica."

Copia's breath caught in his throat as his eyes met those striking blue ones once again. Sister Veronica offered a small, shy smile. He took her in, trying to be discreet. She was petite, with wisps of dark hair escaping from beneath her habit. Her posture seemed self-protective, arms wrapped around herself. Copia couldn't help but notice how her blue eyes sparkled with an inner light, a contrast against her pale skin. He quickly averted his gaze, reminding himself of his position and the impropriety of such thoughts.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Father Copia," Sister Veronica said, her voice carrying the same melodious quality he remembered from communion.

Copia reached out to shake her hand as he felt a familiar stirring within him - a temptation he had grappled with before. The touch of her hand sent a jolt through him, reminiscent of their earlier encounter during communion.

"Welcome to our parish, Sister Veronica," Copia managed, his voice steady the discomfort that warred inside him. "I hope you'll find a home here with us."

Sister Veronica's smile widened, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Thank you, Father. I already feel welcomed." She glanced around the church, her gaze lingering on the ornate stained glass windows. "It's a beautiful parish you have here."

Copia nodded, his eyes following her gaze. "Indeed, we are blessed with such beauty. Perhaps… I could, eh, give you a tour sometime, show you some of the hidden treasures?" The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and he felt a flush creep up his neck. Sister Veronica's eyes widened slightly, a hint of something unreadable flickering in their depths.

Sister Laura, sensing the tension, cleared her throat softly. "Father, perhaps you could tell Sister Veronica about our upcoming potluck? I'm sure she'd love to contribute."

Copia blinked, grateful for the interruption. "Ah, yes, of course," he replied, his voice a touch higher than usual. "We'd be delighted to have you join us, Sister Veronica. It's a wonderful opportunity to meet the congregation."

Sister Veronica nodded, her blue eyes sparkling with interest. "That sounds lovely, Father. Perhaps I could bring my grandmother's secret recipe for cannoli?" She glanced at Sister Laura, who nodded approvingly. Copia felt a flutter in his chest at the mention of the Italian dessert, one of his favorites.

"That's perfect, Sister Veronica," Copia said, his tone polite but brief. "I look forward to trying it." He nodded to both nuns. "If you'll excuse me, I have some matters to attend to. Sister Laura can help you with any other questions."

With that, Copia turned and walked briskly towards his office, his mind spinning with frantic thoughts of what he was feeling. In almost a blink of an eye, he had arrived, quickly seeking the solace. He leaned against the closed door, his heart racing. A panicked laugh escaped his lips, echoing in the silence of his office. "Why?" he whispered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "Why do I feel this way?"

The image of Sister Veronica's piercing blue eyes flashed in his mind, causing a shiver to run down his spine. He shook his head vigorously, trying to dispel the thoughts. This wasn't right. He was a man of the cloth, dedicated to his faith and his congregation. These feelings... they were inappropriate, forbidden even.

Copia pushed himself away from the door and paced the small confines of his office. His hands fidgeted restlessly, a nervous habit he'd never quite shaken. "Get a hold of yourself," he muttered, his Italian accent thickening with his distress. He paused by his desk, his eyes falling on the worn Bible that always sat there. Guilt washed over him in waves. Copia sank into his chair, burying his face in his hands. He needed to pray, to seek guidance and strength. But for the first time in a long while, he felt off kilter.

Copia shook his head, trying to dismiss the worry. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper - Maisie’s drawing. A deep sigh fell from his lips.

This was why he had chosen this path. This was his purpose - to guide, to protect, to be a beacon of hope for those who needed it most. The innocence and trust reflected in that simple drawing grounded him, reminding him of his vows and responsibilities.

"I will stay the path," Copia whispered to himself, his resolve strengthening despite the lingering worry about his eye. With renewed determination, he clasped his hands together and bowed his head in prayer, seeking the guidance he so desperately needed - not just for his spiritual dilemma, but now also for this unexpected physical concern.

As Copia he began, a sudden, sharp pain lanced through his eye. He winced, his hand instinctively reaching up to touch the affected area. The world around him began to blur, his vision swimming in and out of focus. Panic rose in his chest as he struggled to make sense of the plan.

He felt a warm trickle from his nose. Copia lowered his hand, his eyes widening in shock as he saw the crimson stain on his fingers. Blood. He was bleeding. In a daze, he fumbled for a tissue, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. He pressed the cloth to his nose, his gaze fell upon the drawing in front of him. His entire body went rigid, a mix of anger and despair welling up inside. Droplets of blood had fallen onto the paper, marring the innocent crayon strokes with stark red splatters. Copia stared at the ruined drawing, his heart sinking. With trembling hands, he carefully folded the bloodstained paper and tucked it into his pocket.

More blood spilled from his nose, splattering on his desk. Panic ripped through him, his head feeling light and heart thundering in his chest. He stumbled to his feet, his vision still blurry, and rushed out of his office towards the restroom.

He collided with someone on the way because of course he did. Looking up, his heart skipped a beat as he recognized Sister Veronica's concerned face. The sight of her caused another surge of anxiety, and to his horror, he felt a fresh gush of blood from his nose.

"Father Copia!" Sister Veronica exclaimed, her blue eyes widening with alarm. "O-oh goodness! Here, let me help you."

He wanted to protest, to tell her he had it handled but the words refused to leave him. Sister Veronica gently guided him to a nearby alcove, away from prying eyes and he followed silently. She produced a clean handkerchief from her pocket and began to dab at the blood on his face with a tenderness that made Copia's heart race even faster.

"Tilt your head forward slightly," she instructed softly, her warm fingers on his chin sending an involuntary shiver through him. "It'll help stop the bleeding." Copia complied, feeling a mixture of gratitude and unease at her proximity. The scent of her - a subtle mix of incense and something floral - filled his senses, making it hard for him to focus on anything else.

"Thank you, Sister," he managed to mumble, his voice muffled by the handkerchief. "I... I don't know what came over me."

Sister Veronica's eyes met his, filled with genuine concern. "It's alright, Father. These things happen. Just take deep breaths. Are you feeling any better?"

Copia nodded slightly, acutely aware of her gentle touch as she continued to tend to him. The bleeding seemed to be slowing and he was grateful. He took a deep breath and a wave of nostalgia washed over him. The gentle care and the clean scent of the handkerchief transported him back to his childhood days in the infirmary. He remembered the kind nuns who had cared for him then, their soft hands and soothing voices a balm to his young, troubled soul. The memory brought a bittersweet ache to his chest.

"It's... it's been a rather strange day for me," Copia finally spoke up, his voice slightly shaky. He met Sister Veronica's concerned gaze, feeling a mix of vulnerability and unease. "I apologize for troubling you with this, Sister."

Sister Veronica's expression softened, a gentle smile gracing her lips. "There's no need to apologize, Father. We all have our difficult days. Is there anything else I can do to help?"

Copia felt a warmth spread through his chest at her kindness, even as he struggled with the conflicting emotions her presence stirred within him. He shook his head slightly, careful not to dislodge the handkerchief. "Your assistance has, eh, been more than enough, Sister. Thank you." Copia gave a deep sigh. "I'll make sure this is spotless when I return it to you, Sister." He tugged at the handkerchief.

Sister Veronica shook her head gently, her blue eyes warm. "Please, keep it, Father. Consider it a small token of welcome to your parish."

"Thank you again, Sister," he whispered, raising his hand to hold the handkerchief to his nose. As their fingers brushed, Copia felt a familiar jolt course through him.

Sister Veronica's expression softened further. "I'm here if you need any assistance, Father. Please don't hesitate to ask." She lingered for perhaps a moment too long, then turned to leave, her footsteps echoing softly in the hallway.

As Copia watched her retreating figure, he felt a twinge in his chest - a mixture of gratitude, confusion, and something else he dared not name. He took a deep breath, relieved to find that the blood flow had finally stopped.

Lowering the handkerchief, Copia leaned against the wall.

A strange day indeed.

[7grandmel]

Rip of the week: 12/08/2024

I Gotta Feeling, Sung by EVERYONE!

Season 6 Featured on: Transmission Archive ~ The SiIvaGunner All-Star Nuclear Winter Festival Collection

Ripped by Vincent Mashups, Jp, Grambam36

Requested by Corb, uwustepanne and an anonymous reader! (Request Form)

I worry sometimes that I talk up the atmosphere and feeling of Season 6 a bit too much on here. To me it is still undoubtedly SiIvaGunner's most underrated Season, a period of the channel where even I was beginning to tune it out yet was left enamored once I realized what it was doing - its meaning being something I've covered endlessly in posts like Totally Shaaking Out Right Now, Bramble Blast Collab, The End of HHGregg, and far too many more. The overall picture I've painted is that of a Season with a sort of dour moodiness to it the whole way through, an aura of something that's all about to change, a slow trickle towards the end - yet, like with any SiIvaGunner Season, it's never possible to make such a cut-and-dry assessment of things. That's part of why following the channel is so much fun: There can be a broad idea for what the channel is currently doing, yet so many rippers can put their own spin and interpretations on said idea as to morph it into something far more layered. Because while on the whole Season 6 represents the ideas of letting go of the past and moving on through a sorrowful lens, I Gotta Feeling, Sung by EVERYONE! spins that mood into something worth celebrating - a last hurrah, a final festival, and one big show to send us all off into the apocalypse.

With that context in mind, it really shouldn't have been surprising to me that multiple people wound up requesting this rip for coverage. Indeed, it's also one that I've had sitting in the back of my head for a very long time, as a faint memory of what it was like to follow the channel back toward the final months of Season 6. That feeling of things coming to a close was gradually creeping up on us - or at least, it had begun feeling that way to me - yet for the longest time we didn't quite get WHAT was happening, what terrible fate that we were supposed to be dreading. The Christmas Comeback Crisis? The King for a Day Tournament series? Wood Man? The SiIva AI? The SiIvaGunner channel ITSELF? There was a lot of uncertainty swirling around, yet it was a ride that we couldn't really do much about other than just go along - a feeling that was only emphasized more and more with the start of the Nuclear Winter Festival, or DoomFes.

As the festival went on, we got to see Wood Man and friends meet and pass all sorts of people in the nuclear wasteland, like a slow gathering of stars on the verge of fading - it was becoming more and more clear that the event wasn't just some inconsequential one-off like Season 5's WesternFes, but would be having...SOME sort of impact, a trip down memory lane but with a looming abyss at the road's end. And in the midst of all of those feelings, underneath the atmospheric artwork and writing being done throughout the entire event - I Gotta Feeling, Sung by EVERYONE! drops. A spark of such joy, nine days before Christmas Day, in the middle of the apocalypse. Where did this all come from?

Well, obviously, it came from the brilliant minds of rippers Vincent Mashups, Jp, Grambam36 - all three of which I've covered on the blog before with some of the channel's greatest rips, such as Gate Happy, Bowser is Coming. and SUNGORE. But more to the tune of the channel's lore and the narrative of Doomfes, the retro-YouTube aesthetic and seemingly boundless energy of childlike whimsy and joy always stems from one more of SiIvaGunner's many stars met along the way - Unregistered Hypercam 2 of the King for a Day Tournament fame. And while it's certainly an assumption to say that I Gotta Feeling, Sung by EVERYONE! was specifically made to be a tribute to Hypercam, I could personally think of no better way to represent him for this event, as the glowing spark of internet joy that helps keep the SiIvaGunner channel afloat.

And it's that spark of joy that the rippers captured so excellently within the rip in particular - I Gotta Feeling isn't quite on the level of old-internet anthem as songs like Never Gonna Give You Up or Dreamscape of How 2 Do Anything fame are, yet its still a song I vividly remember hearing tons of back in 2009-2011ish YouTube, a theme bumping with optimism and happiness for the days ahead. It might seem a bit odd to be using it for the context of a Nuclear Apocalypse event at first brush, yet nostalgia is hardly ever a purely joyous thing - for as much joy as I Gotta Feeling brings me, it is at once also a bittersweet joy, with an understated sadness over the fact that things have changed so much since those days 15-plus years ago. It's that bittersweetness, I feel, that I Gotta Feeling, Sung by EVERYONE! runs with.

The rip is built on having the song be performed by voice clips and sentence-mixings of a vast pool of online memes - yet unlike what you may initially expect, it's not kept isolated to just nostalgic early-internet memes. The song title isn't being facetious: Everything from Zelda CDi Ganon, to Gangnam Style, to Friday Night Funkin', to Smosh, to Crash Bandicoot Woah, to even a sprinkle of classic SiIvaGunner memes like We Are Number One. The rip is distinctly different from rips like Corridors of Vine or even most other Hypercam rips, which focus on nostalgia for one specific era of online culture - instead, I Gotta Feeling, Sung by EVERYONE! reaches across the entire internet for one collective, massive embrace, a hug the size of 20-something years worth of online jokes. It's a bit silly to get sentimental over, maybe - but that goes for the entire channel, doesn't it?

It's of course all helped greatly by the rip itself being executed perfectly from that concept. The sources are more than just a greatest-hits of old memes, as they all fit their chosen lines near perfectly, all pitch shifted and sentence-mixed just enough to fit the lyrics yet never to the degree of making them unidentifiable. They're all here in full force, all introduced by the video opening with the most Unregistered of Unregistered Hypercam 2 YouTube editing. It sets the stage for something oh so easy to love, yet to me I Gotta Feeling, Sung by EVERYONE! inspires a feeling so much more complex than love. It was a moment that brought us all together, not crying because it's over, but smiling because it happened.

[phos-phorus]

Simi!

And again it’s dramatic hurt and angst (kinda) but they are happy (but bruised) in the end I promise.

I wrote this at 4am and haven’t proofread it but I’m sharing it anyway bc I love y’all.

Hope you enjoy my mindless drabbles!

And quick disclaimer: this Drabble contains depictions of a crash and light wounds. The content is purely fictional and this crash did not happen irl

It happened so quickly. Kimi doesn’t even remember stopping his car. He still feels how his heart stopped when he ran towards the crash. As he was sitting in the hospital he looked down at his bandaged arms before leaning back against the wall with a deep sigh. The events that had happened only a few hours ago replaying behind closed eyes:

Approaching the upcoming turn, Kimi saw Sebastian's car twitch violently, the rear tires losing grip on the unforgiving asphalt. The Ferrari spun out of control, veering sharply and slamming into the barriers with a deafening crash.

Time seemed to slow as Kimi's heart lurched in his chest. His breath caught, his pulse thundering in his ears. The sickening sound of metal crunching and the sight of Sebastian's car crumpling like a soda can filled him with a dread he had never known. His instincts took over, and he eased off the accelerator, his mind solely focused on his best friend.

"Kimi, maintain your position! Are you hearing us? Maintain position!" A voice barked over the radio, but Kimi barely registered it. He pulled his car to the side of the track, ignoring the frantic commands blaring in his ear.

Fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins, Kimi vaulted out of his cockpit and sprinted towards the crash site. The acrid smell of burning rubber and the sight of the smoking wreckage fueled his desperation. He pushed past marshals and safety personnel, his usually calm demeanor shattered by raw panic.

"Sebastian! Seb!" Kimi shouted, his voice strained with fear. He reached the car, the twisted metal and shattered carbon fiber a horrific sight. The medics were trying to extract Sebastian, but Kimi couldn't stand by and watch. Without wasting any more time on useless thoughts, he dove in, heedless of the jagged debris that tore at his suit and skin.

Ignoring the searing pain in his arm where a piece of sharp metal had gouged him, Kimi focused on freeing Sebastian. He grabbed the edge of the cockpit, his hands slipping on the slick surface as he pulled with all his strength.

"Seb, can you hear me? Stay with me!" Kimi's voice cracked with emotion, his vision blurring as sweat and tears mingled on his face. He could see Sebastian's eyes flicker behind his visor, a small, dazed movement that gave Kimi the strength to keep going.

Suddenly, flames erupted from the rear of the car, licking hungrily at the exposed fuel lines. The sight of the fire caused his breathing to stop and despite the growing heat Kimi’s body went cold with fear. Sharp edges of broken carbon fiber and metal cutting through his gloves and skin. Kimi’s hands, now bloodied and trembling, fumbled with the buckles and straps of Sebastian’s harness.

He pulled with all his might, finally yanking Sebastian free from the smoldering wreckage. With a final, adrenaline-fueled burst of energy, he dragged Sebastian away from the car, just as the fire engulfed it completely.

As safety crews finally extinguished the flames and lifted Sebastian onto the stretcher, Kimi’s vision blurred from exhaustion and pain as he collapsed to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Blood trickled down his arm, the pain a distant echo compared to the relief flooding his system.

"Kimi, there is a second ambulance arriving shortly for you but we need to get Sebastian to the hospital right now” one of the medics said firmly, but Kimi shook his head, his bloody hand clutching Sebastian's gloved fingers.

"I'm coming with you, I’m not leaving him" Kimi insisted, his voice a determined rasp. The medics relented, allowing him to sit beside the stretcher as they hurried to the hospital simply because they couldn’t waste any time.

Inside the hospital, the chaos of the track seemed a world away. Kimi hovered near Sebastian, his injured arm throbbing but his attention solely on his teammate. He watched as the medics assessed Sebastian, telling doctors to fuck off and concentrate on Seb whenever they tried to assess Kimi’s wounds as well.

The tension in his body slowly easing as they confirmed that Sebastian was shaken and bruised but largely unhurt. Only then he allowed the doctors to treat his cuts as well.

Sebastian turned his head, his eyes finding Kimi's. "You look worse than I do," he murmured, a weak smile playing on his lips.

Kimi let out a shaky breath, a smile of his own breaking through the worry. "Just making sure you’re okay, Seb" he replied, his voice thick with relief.

In that moment, surrounded by the beeping monitors and hushed activity of the medical team, Kimi Räikkönen, the unflappable Iceman, felt the warmth of his emotions thaw his usual reserve. He had risked everything to be there for Sebastian, and as he held Sebastian’s hand, he knew he would do it again in a heartbeat.

[madamsnape921]

Direct Payment 3

<Direct Payment 2

Pairing: Nevada Ramirez x female reader 

Note: Violence, Christmasy fluff; This makes more sense if you’ve read Direct Payment parts 1 & 2,  but it’s not necessary.   

WC: 1462

Winter Bingo square: Decorations

Taglist: @storiesofsvu @beccabarba @alwaysachorusgirl   @prurientpuddlejumper  @welcometothemxdhouse @thatesqcrush @itsjustmyfantasyroom @lv7867 @word-scribbless

@plaidbooks @navalcriminalimagines

You were strolling along the sidewalk, heading towards your apartment when suddenly a man leaps out of an adjacent alleyway and snatches you up, covering your mouth with his hand.

“YN, it’s been a while. Where’s my brother?” You recognize him as Jared, your ex-boyfriend John's brother.

"I have no idea, Jared. We broke up," you reply after he removes his hand. "Now let me go."

"Not until I find out where John is."

"I'm not the one who can help you with that. If you want to know where your brother is, talk to his boss...the King of the Heights."

"You bitch! What did you do?!" Jared demands, yanking on your hair painfully.

Before you can answer, he spins you around and delivers a powerful punch to your stomach.

You doubled over in pain as Jared's fist connected with your stomach, the force knocking the wind out of you. Gasping for breath, you struggled to regain your composure as Jared loomed over you, his expression twisted with anger and suspicion.

"I'll ask you one more time," he growled, yanking you up by your hair. "Where. Is. John?"

The alleyway seemed to close in around you, the dim light casting eerie shadows across Jared's face. You could feel the bruises starting to form where he had struck you, and a growing sense of fear clawed at your insides.

"I already told you, I don't know!" you managed to choke out, desperation coloring your words. "Why would I lie about something like this?"

Jared's grip tightened on your hair, his eyes narrowing as he stared you down. For a moment, everything hung in tense silence before he suddenly released you, shoving you violently to the ground. "I'll figure it out," he snarled, giving you a swift kick before running back down the alley from where he had appeared.

As Jared disappeared into the darkness of the alley, you lay on the pavement, gasping for air. The intense pain from his blows and from ripping your hair out left you trembling, but you couldn't stay there. You knew you had to get to the hospital after that last kick.

You slowly pushed yourself up from the ground, wincing at the stab of pain that shot through you. The back of the alleyway seemed to swallow Jared, and his fury just as quickly as he had emerged, leaving you alone and hurting. You glanced around, shakily making your way towards the exit.

"Help!" you called out to passersby, desperate for someone to find you in this deserted part of town. But no one came to your aid; everyone was preoccupied with their own lives, too busy or uninterested to help a lone woman in distress.

Stumbling forward, you reached a crossroads. A signpost loomed in the distance, with flickering lights casting eerie shadows across its surface. You knew the hospital wasn't far from here, but your battered state made it difficult to even think straight. With renewed determination, you staggered towards the lights in the distance.

As you approached the signpost, you could finally discern that it read "New York-Presbyterian Hospital: 5 blocks." Dread and determination fought for dominion within you; dread at the thought of facing the long journey, but determination to get help quickly and minimize the risk of Jared finding you again. You gritted your teeth and forced yourself to move forward.

The first two blocks were agonizingly slow as you staggered along, each step a struggle against the desire to collapse. The pain in your abdomen was constant. Your heart pounded in your ears and sweat trickled down your forehead, further blurring your vision.

As you reached the third block, your phone fell out of your pocket, the screen cracking as it hit the pavement. Gasping at the sight, you hesitated for a moment before realizing what you had to do. With a swift move, you picked up the device and started dialing 9-1-1.

"9-1-1 what’s the location of your emergency?" came the voice on the other end.

You choked back a sob as you stammered through your situation, squeezing the phone tightly in your hand for comfort. "Please," you begged, "the hospital is only a few blocks away—I'm too hurt to make it."

"Help is on its way," assured the operator. "Stay where you are, and we will send an ambulance to your location."

Relief washed over you like a wave, and you felt a renewed sense of hope surge through your body. As the sirens drew closer, you finally collapsed onto the pavement, too weak to stand. Tears streamed down your face as you waited for the ambulance, your body shaking with both pain and gratitude. The operator stayed on the line with you until help arrived, their voice a calming presence in the darkness.

Finally, the wailing of the approaching ambulance pierced the silence, and relief flooded through you. As the vehicle came into view, its lights illuminating your face, you smiled through your tears. The paramedics quickly assessed your condition, their professional demeanor a comforting contrast to Jared's cruelty.

They loaded you carefully onto the gurney and wheeled you away towards safety, enveloping you in their care. You closed your eyes, grateful to be alive and finally getting the help you so desperately needed.

After being rushed to the hospital, you received treatment for three broken ribs and a collapsed lung. Spending Christmas like this was not at all what you had imagined. As soon as they settled you into a room, you pulled out your damaged phone and sent a message to Nevada.

YN: You’ll never guess where I am

Nevada: No but can you be in my bed in half an hour?

YN: Not even close… I’m at the hospital

Nevada: Room?

YN: You don’t need to come here

Nevada: Room number, YN. Now.

YN: Ugh, 394

An hour later, Nevada barged in. “What happened?”

He sat down next to your bed as you began recounting the events of the evening.

“John’s brother Jared showed up, beat the crap out of me, and now I’ll be spending Christmas in the hospital. They said I could go home tomorrow.”

Nevada excused himself momentarily to send a quick message on his phone. When he returned, he had several bags in hand.

"First things first, dinner," Nevada handed you a bag from your favorite burger place, along with a chocolate milkshake.

"OMG! Thank you, Vada!" You eagerly took the bag and began digging in.

As you ate, Nevada pulled out a mini Christmas tree from one of the bags and placed it on your side table. He then proceeded to unpack various decorations, creating a cute little Christmas tree on your table.

"Vada...you really didn't have to do this," you said with genuine appreciation.

"Nonsense. This is nothing. Now close your eyes for a surprise," he instructed.

You followed his lead and closed your eyes tightly.

After a couple of minutes, he said, "Okay, open your eyes now, cariño."

“Where did you get all of this mistletoe from?”

“Ha! The tree was a set up for the important stuff. Now I think you owe me a kiss, hermosa.”

You leaned forward, grinning mischievously as you pressed your lips against Nevada's. The taste of his lips mixed with the sweetness of the shake was intoxicating, and you pulled away, leaving him slightly breathless.

"Merry Christmas," you whispered when you finally pulled away, feeling a warmth spread through your body.

"Merry Christmas," Nevada echoed, his gaze never leaving your face. "Now try to get some rest. I'll be right here."

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of conversations with Nevada, calls to your family, and catching up on missed texts. The following day, Nevada helped you pack up your belongings and said his goodbyes to the nurses with a charm that left them all enchanted.

You made it home just in time to catch the sun setting, casting a warm glow over your living room. The decorations you had put up earlier looked even more magical now. Nevada helped you inside and settled you comfortably on the couch, blanket and all.

"I'm going to make us some hot cocoa," he said, disappearing into the kitchen.

You settled into the warmth of your home, feeling grateful for every little thing. Nevada's presence, the Christmas tree still standing strong, and even the twinkling lights of your neighborhood outside - everything felt like a small miracle.

As darkness fell outside, you joined Nevada for some much-needed comfort food: hot cocoa with extra marshmallows. You sat huddled together on the couch, wrapped in a cozy blanket watching a Christmas movie. Sipping your cocoa and feeling warm inside, you knew that this was a Christmas you wouldn’t soon forget.

[modern-day-bard]

Worth The Feeling

Content Warning: 18+

This story includes explicit smut, intimidation, and an age gap relationship (MC is 26, Javi is in his 40s). Minors, do not interact.

Chapter 10

I had to change my shirt twice before leaving for the airport. Every time I thought about getting onto the plane, I started to sweat so much that I must be dehydrated several times over by now. And maybe I was, maybe that's why I felt so lightheaded standing in front of my gate. That combined with the fact that I refuse to sit down. I feel like hopping from foot to foot will keep my anxiety at bay.

I start to see some familiar faces trickle in, which helps a little. Most of the hair and makeup team are here now. I gave a weak wave to Sophie who returned it, but didn't seem to take it as a friendly enough invitation to come over. I see a few other PAs, most of whom are trying to sleep on the floor before we board. Maybe I wasn't the only one who took advantage of the lack of call time this morning. Their green-ish hue screamed 'hangover'. I know that I don't look much better, though my green has nothing to do with alcohol. By the time it's ten minutes to board, my anxiety is kicked into overdrive. I haven't seen anyone from the sound crew come over to our terminal. I take out my phone and notice I have three missed calls from Lana.

Shit. I call her back immediately.

"Ava?" She sounds worried as soon as she answers.

"Hey!" I do my best to sound cheerful.

"Shit, you're freaking out. Ava, I am so sorry. I've been trying to call you. They switched sound and lighting's flight last minute. I have no idea why."

I do. I mean I must have done something horrible to have this much bad karma back to back. I feel my arms go tingly. I had been dreading the flight enough, even knowing that Lana would be next to me to hold my hand. Now what do I do?

"I did what I could but...you know. I don't exactly carry a lot of power around here." She lets out a small, curt laugh. I know she's trying to ease my tension, and my heart squeezes at her effort, but it hasn't slowed down.

"Are you okay?" Lana asks, softer now.

"Oh, yeah. Thank you for letting me know. But, you know, I can find someone who can, you know. Yeah."

"Okay you don't sound good."

"I'm sorry, um...when are you going to get to Italy?" I feel like I'm going to cry, and I should probably ask something else if I want to prevent that from happening.

"I'll be there tomorrow at the earliest. I think Lloyd will have the airline's head on a stick if the crew isn't there by tomorrow night."

"Right," I take a deep breath.

"You know how much I wish I could hold your hand. But you've done this before. You have a lot of the crew with you. You'll be okay."

"Right," I repeat.

"Is Barb there?"

"She was supposed to be, but I don't see her." I do a quick glance at the other people waiting at my gate, but I don't really register any faces.

"Well maybe she'll be nearby. And at the very least, you know she's there with you and I'm right behind you."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll look for Barb. Thanks Lana...I'm sorry your flight is switched."

"Me too, babes. Good luck and I'll talk to you when you land. You've got this."

"Alright, bye."

As soon as I hang up the phone, boarding begins. At this point, I'm wondering how badly I need my shitty PA salary. Pretty badly, since I live alone and am currently paying for school. Could I drop out? Could I walk to the other side of America and take a ferry over to Europe? I've always wanted to go to Italy, truthfully. But getting there is a whole other story. And as they call my section for boarding, my legs get increasingly shaky with each step I take toward the plane.

I don't hear the flight attendants as they welcome me, and I feel like a zombie walking past first class. I'm almost all the way at the back of the plane, and by the time I finally see my seat, it's the first time I feel like I really want to sit down. I think I need to sit down, because the longer I stand the tighter the walls seem.

I settle in, putting my backpack under the seat in front of me before resting my head back. I close my eyes and try to picture a wide open space and soft, safe ground. Ground that will soon be about ten thousand feet below me. I feel like I'm going to be sick. I squeeze my eyes tighter and grip the arm rests. I know one of these seats would have belonged to Lana, and I'm not sure if her seat would have been sold. I hope not. I think I would rather be alone than flying next to a stranger.

I can hear an attendant begin the safety announcements, and I think it's best to tune it out. I can barely function when the plane is on the ground, so I have no hope for myself in a disaster scenario, even if I do pay attention now. Maybe I should put my headphones in or something to drown it out. But then I remember the rule about turning off cellphones during take off, and I decide just to stay frozen in the position I'm in, my hands straining against the plastic.

But then I hear shuffling next to my little row, and I send up silent prayers that whoever it is won't be joining me on either of the seats beside me. I don't have to pray for long, because my hopes are dashed when I feel someone settled next to me on my left. Great. Now I might have to give up one of the arm rests, relinquishing my stress toy. Maybe that would be a good thing, my hands already feel sore. I take a deep breath and try to focus on easing my grip, and I get a waft of something alluring and familiar. Something musky and... cedarwood.

I crack my eyes open just to peek, and sure enough, a pair of very concerned brown eyes are watching me carefully. My eyes fully fly open now.

"I thought you might need some company." Javi says softly.

"I...you're in first class. You...I didn't even know talent was on this flight." God, it was already hard to breathe before he was here. I try looking at him out of the corner of my eye instead.

"I was in first class, but I felt like making a trade today."

"A trade?"

Javi nods, "With Barb. I would have been here sooner but the airline gave us a hard time about switching."

"I bet she was ecstatic."

"She had already finished two mini bottles by the time I left first class." His smile is playful, and despite my nerves, I laugh.

"I'm not sure which seat was Lana's, but the one I actually swapped Barb for is a few rows back. I'm assuming Lana isn't coming though."

I nod, laying my head back again as I remember that we're about to take off.

"You don't want the window?" Javi asks.

I shake my head. "I would like the opposite of being reminded of how high up we're going to be."

"In that case..." Javi steps over me, sitting in the window seat, and promptly closing the blind. He then positions himself in front of the covered window. "There. Now you only have to deal with this," He gestures to his face and gives me a devilish smile. I start giggling, but that quickly makes tears spring to my eyes.

"Hey, hey..." Javi leans toward me, and gently pries my right hand off of the arm rest, placing our then entwined hands in his lap.

"I know it's ridiculous," my voice is sputtery, and I'm trying really hard not to let the tears overflow now.

"It's not." He whispers.

The plane starts to move, and I close my eyes again. I can feel us bumping along the tarmac, and I know the worst part, takeoff, is coming up. Subconsciously, I squeeze Javi's hand. He gives me three light squeezes back before running small circles across the back of my hand with his thumb. We start picking up speed, and with it my breathing hitches. I'm worried this is going to turn into a full-blown panic attack now.

"Ava," Javi says quietly.

"Mhm?" My lips remain a tight line, my eyes still screwed shut.

"Did I ever tell you I can read palms?"

"Um, what? No..." Why is he talking about this right now?

"I can. I'm really good at it." He flips my hand, resting it in his left palm. He separates our fingers, and brings his right hand on top of mine. "I was on location for a film a few years back, and one of the locals taught me and my co-star. She said that the art of palm reading had been passed down from generation to generation in her family. It's a very old art, and they believe it to be one of the most accurate ways of telling one's future."

He starts drawing indecipherable shapes on my palm with his forefinger. The movement makes me open my eyes, curious if I can figure out what shape he's drawing if I can actually see it.

"This right here," He draws a line at the top of my palm, "is your heart line. Yours is quite long, meaning that you will have many friends and possibly lovers throughout your life. It also means that you have a big heart, lots of compassion."

I just stare at him, confused. He barely looks up before he continues, unfazed.

"This," he draws a line vertically, "is your health line. You will have excellent health, but suffer from the common cold a lot more often than those around you."

I let out a brief laugh. "That's true, actually."

"I told you I'm good." He gives me a brief, sly smile. "Finally, this is your life line. It's also quite long. Meaning that you will land safely in Italy and all of this will just be a silly memory."

He continues to brush his fingers over my palm, and I narrow my eyes at him.

"You made all of that up."

"Oh, all of it," he says matter-of-factly.

"So you're a liar?"

"No. I'm a damn good distraction."

I look at him, puzzled.

"You did it, Ava. You're in the air. It's all smooth sailing from here."

I look around, not like that will necessarily help me discern where we are, but when I take in the feeling of the plane around me and the seat underneath me, I realize that we are in fact flying. We're not even climbing at a steep rate right now, it feels like we've almost leveled out.

I feel like I can look at him now without having an onslaught of heart palpitations.

"Thank you." I say sincerely.

He just gives me a knowing smile.

"How did you know?" I ask.

"You mentioned it to me when we went to dinner."

I hadn't even remembered that. I must've said it in passing.

"Oh my god, and Barb mentioned you had asked about what plane the crew was on. You're sneaky."

"All I'm hearing is that you and Barb were talking about me." His smile turns flirtatious, teasing. My heart tugs, remembering our last conversation before this one. And how nothing has changed. We still can't risk each other's careers, and it's probably not even wise of us to be holding hands on a flight with at least one hundred strangers surrounding us.

He must have noticed that my face fell, because he pulls my chin toward him, making me look him in the eyes.

"Let's not think about it," he whispers. "At least not for now."

I search his eyes for a moment, trying to figure out why he would even bother doing this for me. Why give up his fancy first class seat? Why risk watchful eyes seeing our entangled hands? Why play with my heart if we both know how this ends?

Despite all of those things, I still find myself nodding. "Okay."

"How do you think you're feeling now? Still anxious?" He asks.

"Oh yeah. I'll be anxious the whole flight, that's usually how it goes."

"It's a redeye. Can you sleep on planes?"

"Usually no, but sometimes I think my body gets so tired of being anxious that it will shut down."

"Ahh," He presses his lips together, nodding. "In that case, I'd like to distract you a little longer if that's alright with you."

I smirk at him. "What distractions did you have in mind?" I don't mean it to sound suggestive, but it's like my vocal chords protest against an appropriate tone when I'm talking to Javi.

"Tell me about your parents," he looks sincere and relaxed, leaning back in his seat a little. His hand is still holding mine.

Okay, that question will definitely keep things PG.

"Oh. Um...they're pretty great, actually." I smile to myself.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I don't get to see them as much as I'd like. Flights across the country aren't exactly cheap and with work and school I probably wouldn't have the time even if I had the money. But we call each other every so often. They're both accountants so it was a very creative household," my voice drips in sarcasm, "They don't really understand my love for the industry. But they're supportive, they ask questions."

"How'd they feel about the move to California?"

"They weren't thrilled. New York was a lot easier to stomach for them than the other side of the country. They also really loved John, so they weren't thrilled with that situation either. I think it was kind of like losing a son for them. They'd known him for a long time."

Javi's gaze hardens for a minute, but he nods, still looking to take in information.

"Do you have any siblings?" he asks after a moment.

"Nope. I'm a spoiled only child."

"I don't get the spoiled vibe from you."

"What tipped you off? The fact that you've already seen me rewear the same five outfits about twenty times?" I do a little shimmy, referencing downward to my classic PA wear of jeans and a t-shirt.

He chuckles lightly. "I was more so thinking of the way that you treat people. Barb spoke very highly of you."

I scoff, "I'm not buying it. Barb doesn't speak highly of anyone."

"Okay fine," he chuckles again, "It was more of what she didn't say. She can complain about anyone on set, but she had nothing bad to say about you. And she did say you're a hard worker and she's never heard you complain. She said the last part in sort of an irritated way though."

I laugh a little now, too. "She would probably like me more if I complained with her. And if you ask Lana, she'll tell you I complain plenty."

"You two are really close, huh?"

I nod, "Lana's my family out here. I know she felt horrible that she couldn't come with me today, but it's not even her fault."

Javi's thumb starts rubbing circles on my hand again, looking a little bit concerned. I imagine he's hoping I don't start with the tears again. But strangely, that feeling seems really far away right now.

"It's your turn," I say.

"My turn for what?"

"To tell me about your family. You always want me to do all the talking," I tease.

"Not true. And you still haven't Googled?"

"Nope. I told you, inhumane."

He smiles, maybe even a little relieved that I hadn't researched him still. Not that any of that would matter to me. There couldn't be anything online about him that would alter the man in front of me. I bet they didn't even know he could read palms.

"Well, they're also pretty great," His face brightens, smiling to himself about memories only available to him. "They're also in New York, and I also don't get to see them very often. Not in pursuit of a master's degree, of course, but this job can get sort of hectic. As you know. But we talk on the phone a lot, too."

"Siblings?"

"Two of them. Two sisters, and I have three nieces now, too."

"You're close with them." It wasn't a question, I could tell by his expression and how his voice softened mentioning them. His soft voice was starting to lull me a little, and I felt a yawn creeping up on me. I didn't want to release it in fear that Javi would think I didn't want to know about his family. Truthfully, hearing about them was relaxing. Hearing his voice talk about something he loved was soothing, and I feel like my body was finally coming out of fight or flight.

"Very much so."

"They must think you're pretty cool, first class tickets and red carpets." That yawn is really threatening me now. My lip trembles.

"Would you just yawn already please?" I look up at him, embarrassed, but his smile is full of affection.

"No, I want to hear your stories."

"I can see your eyelids drooping."

"You just don't want me to know all your secrets. You're trying to force me to Google you."

"I'm glad you haven't..." he starts to brush his fingers up and down my arm, and I worry that I'll get goosebumps. "But I would still like you to try to sleep."

At the mention of the word, I finally let my yawn come out. I rest my head back against the headrest once more, finally out of exhaustion instead of panic.

"Who said I was even tired?" I joke.

"You'd feel better if your first day in Italy wasn't consumed by jet lag. You know I'm right." I can hear the smugness in his voice, but my eyes continue to drift shut.

"Fine. You're right." I fully shut my eyes now, already feeling my head nodding to one side. Javi continues brushing his fingertips up and down my arm, and I sigh.

"You are wrong about one thing though," I say, fighting sleep.

"What's that?" I can hear his smile even in his whisper.

"This won't be a silly memory... You remembered I was afraid of flying... And you helped me."

I'm vaguely aware of my head drooping to my right, and landing on Javi's shoulder. And I swear I hear him murmur something against my temple, but sleep has already found me.

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Series Masterlist

[buck-up-buck]

Summary:

"Buck?" Blinking his eyes open, he looked up to see Buck's bright blue eyes looking so softly down at him. The man was crouched at the side of Eddie's bed, smile so gracious that Eddie felt his heart skip a beat. God he had missed that smile.

Or

Buck comes to say his final goodbye.

Eddie threw himself face-first onto the left side of the bed, his energy seeping out of his bones as he melted into the mattress.  The new probie had muttered the Q-word right at the start of their 24-hour and the bell was nonstop, the calls getting weirder and more tasking as the day went on.  Eddie was never one for superstitions but he could have killed the kid with his own bare hands as the shift came to a close. By the time he made it home, Chris was already asleep and Eddie was about ready to sleep for the entire 48 hours he had off.  Chris had finally started sleeping through the night again and Eddie was entirely grateful for it, even if he struggled sometimes. But with how bone-deep tired he was, he knew sleep would come a lot easier than usual tonight.  He doesn't even remember falling asleep, his shoes still untied, loosely hanging off his feet that weren't even on the bed properly, but boy was he sleeping deep.  Until he breathed in deeply and his brain short-circuited, the scent of an earthy cologne trickling up his nostrils. Then, a hand carded through his hair, so softly, he could barley feel it, but it was there.  "Eddie, baby, you have to wake up." Surely not, because Buck wasn't- he was-  "Buck?" Blinking his eyes open, he looked up to see Buck's bright blue eyes looking so softly down at him. The man was crouched at the side of Eddie's bed, smile so gracious that Eddie felt his heart skip a beat. God he had missed that smile. "Hey, baby."  "How are you here?" Eddie didn't understand, how long had he been asleep?  Buck looked as gorgeous as the last time he saw him, still wearing his white v-neck t-shirt that was just a little too tight around his biceps, his light blue denim jeans with the one rip in the left knee that Chris always insisted looked stupid and misplaced, whereas Buck just thought he looked trendy. Eddie never had the heart to disagree with him, even if he did agree with his Son.  But Buck was also so beautiful in Eddie's eyes no matter what he wore.  "You need to wake up baby."  "I am awake. I've missed you." Eddie was still lying face down on his bed, cheek mushed into his pillow, a little bit of drool sliding down his chin that Buck wiped away with his thumb, a giggle escaping his lips. "Chris will want to see you." God Chris has missed him so much, he will probably latch onto Buck's leg and never let go, not that Buck would mind.  "He's still asleep. He is going to need you, Eddie."  "He needs his Buck." A sad smile lessened the glow in Buck's blue eye.  Eddie let out a wounded sound from the back of his throat; he hated seeing Buck so sad. "I love you so much."  "I love you too. I don't want you to ever forget that, okay?" Buck ran his hand down Eddie's cheek with a sigh, a lone tear rolling down his cheek. "You are so strong, Eddie, and I am so sorry."  "Sorry?"  "I need you to wake up." Leaning down, Buck tenderly placed a kiss on Eddie's lips, the man turning his head off the pillow to kiss him back, a content sigh slipping past his lips. It was slow, passionate, and everything that Eddie had missed. "Wake up baby."  Eddie's ringtone caused him to jolt off the bed, almost rolling off the side. His lips were tingling and he fumbled around to grab his phone, mind slowly coming back online. He looked around confused, hadn't- no? But he was so sure.  "Hello?" Eddie didn't even look at the called ID when he answered, voice groggy from sleep.  "Eddie-" Athena's voice cracked down the line, an icy feeling of dread sending a chill down Eddie's spine. No- he couldn't- "You found him." It was more a statement than a question, his feet numb as they hit the floor, shoes still on.                 He is going to need you, Eddie. You are so strong, Eddie. I love you too. I am so sorry. I need you to wake up. "Athena-" "We found his body. Eddie, I am so sorry." 

read on ao3

[sapphireshineauthor]

My brain has decided "horror route: go"

(minor warning for mention of blood and violence, as well as potential descent into madness.)

Alan locked the door to his room and collapsed to the ground. 

He heard the song during the festival he attended with his sister. 

That's what he was going to say, but that didn't make sense, he didn't have a sister, they didn't have a sister, there wasn't a princess in the family… yet why did the memory feel so nostalgic and familiar to him? Why did an odd mix of anger and dread fill his body when he recalled that festival? 

He heard the song during the festival he attended with his sister. 

He heard the song during the festival he attended with her sister. 

He heard the song during the festival she attended with her sister. 

She… heard the song during the festival she attended with her (jealous) sister.

Alan held his head, what were these thoughts? 

He recalled the sounds of the sanshin instrument. She remembered the red umbrella her sister used that day. He remembered the jealous rage. She remembered the odd feeling of time slowing down. 

He remembered the rain. She remembered the warm blood on her hands. 

He remembered smiling. She remembered grieving. 

She remembered the umbrella piercing her abdomen. 

He remembered the full moon. 

(She) remembered hugging her sister's body as it bled out. 

He remembered… a line. 

I am me, you are dead… 

Dead? Who was dead? 

I was dead. 

I was alive. 

She killed me. 

You killed me. 

I am the one who's dead! 

"Stop!" Alan screamed, he clutched his head. Tears ran down his face as the noise in his head finally lessened. He curled up slightly. 

What… what was going on? He didn't understand any of it anymore… these memories. He knows he didn't experience them, and yet… they feel as natural and normal as any other. Why is that? Why can he remember these things… these memories… 

I remember…

I remember…

I remember… 

~~~

((When memories you know are not yours trickle into your head... why do they feel as natural as the ones you know? If they are truly your memories yet not then... who are you really?))

[softguarnere]

Like A Girl (Like A Man)

Like A Dream (Like A Plan)

Shifty Powers x OFC

Five: How Zenie Met Bobby

Summary: Bobby nods quietly. “Don’t worry Zena, I’ll keep your secret.” He offers her a kind smile. “Not like I have anyone to tell, anyway.” A/N: Finally, the Zenie and Bobby content we've all been craving Warnings: brief mention of ongoing Indigenous genocide, Zenie's dad cameo Taglist: @dcyllom @liebgotts-lovergirl @latibvles @mads-weasley @ithinkabouttzu @lady-cheeky @lieutenant-speirs @hxad-ovxr-hxart

North Carolina, 1941

It is the time of year where nature balances on the precipice between winter and spring. Warm afternoons give way to chilly evenings. Mornings begin with frosted grass blades and sweaters but end with romps in the creek to cool off by the time school lets out. The temperature is unpredictable, yet it only lends to the sense that something is happening, that the world is waking up and about to burst into bloom before your very eyes. Possibilities hang in the air like dandelion fluff.

Frost laces the windows of the kitchen, a cloud of condensation separating the warm world in the house from the chill waiting for her outside. She will need a sweater over her uniform, or a light jacket.

From across the table, Mama reaches over and squeezes her hand. The gesture does nothing to block out the tirade from the other room, though. Neither does Zenie’s intense focus on the frosted glass, how she tries to take in every detail of it, tracing it over and over with her eyes and memorizing it for lack of anything else to do – other than scream in frustration.

“Look at him out there,” she says suddenly, making Granny jump where she sits beside her at the table.

Mama leans closer to the window, squinting. “Who?”

Teddy, the old Paint horse, mills about in the pasture, nose creating small clouds as he huffs warm air over the cold grass. Old, stubborn Teddy. He likes to be scratched behind his ears. And he doesn’t mind giving rides, not really, as long as you let him truly open up and run at top speed at least once because he likes to show off his speed.

Teddy, the horse who no one has been allowed to ride since Matthew left for the Air Corps. Not even if they need a way to get to their first day at their new job.

“He’s like some kind of metaphor for all of us,” Zenie mutters into her coffee cup. “Perfectly capable, but useless because of the way he’s treated.”

“Zenie!” From her tone, Mama is either shocked or hurt. Maybe both. But is it because of what Zenie said, or because she knows it’s true? Of course she knows it’s true – they would have to be deaf to not hear Zenie’s father ranting in the next room about how the horse isn’t going to leave the pasture.

Before she can cause any more upset, Zenie stands, pushes in her chair so angrily that it squawks against the floorboards. “I better go. If I’m walking, then I don’t want to be late on my first day.”

The cold morning air does nothing to dampen the white-hot anger that boils in her veins as she takes off towards town, gravel crunching under her shoes. Her shoes, which were so nice. The one’s that Marilyn used to wear when she was a waitress in high school. They’re too small for Zenie, but she forced her feet in anyway, determined to look as nice in the uniform as her sister did. Though at this rate, the shoes will be scuffed and dirty by the end of Zenie’s first week.

Her first day goes well enough. The owner makes it clear that he only hired her on account of being Marilyn’s little sister, so she’ll have to prove herself. As if half her life hasn’t already been an epic struggle to free herself from her older sister’s shadow anyway.

The morning is slow. She doesn’t mind. Old folks come in and chat while she pours them rich coffee so strong that the aroma alone keeps Zenie herself awake. Lunch is about the same, although dread slowly begins to pile itself in her stomach like heavy stones whenever she thinks about the after-school crowd that will trickle in a little before the school day officially ends.

Before all too familiar faces begin flowing through the door, one that Zenie did not expect comes trapsing in – wearing one of the diner’s uniforms.

Bobby Dills from next door nods to her in acknowledgement as he makes his way to the back to deposit his belongings. There is no formal introduction – at least not that either of them will ever remember, anyway. It seems like they just fall in sync, waiting tables, helping each other carry out large orders, and offering each other the occasional encouraging smile.

She knows from living next door to him that Bobby is younger than her, but that’s about all that Zenie knows about Bobby himself. That, and that he has a limp that every now and then a customer will crack a joke about. Although Bobby smiles and laughs along with them, Zenie recognizes the look in his eye whenever he finally escapes their presence, coming back to the counter to wait with Zenie for the next round of guests to whisk one of them away.

 Bobby, however, seems to know something about her.

“You walked here,” he says matter-of-factly. The diner has been locked up for the evening, and the two of them stand in the fading light outside, waiting.

Zenie nods. “I did.”

“Why?” It’s not mean or judgmental. Just a genuinely curious question.

Should she tell him? Zenie has never told anyone about the strangeness that exists inside her house in the form of her father.

“Because I don’t have a car,” she finally answers after a moment of hesitation. “And my dad wouldn’t let me ride the horse like I had planned.”

“It’s cold,” Bobby notes. “You shouldn’t have to walk every day.”

“I don’t mind,” Zenie lies. The too-small shoes pinch her feet.

“Well, I do.” Bobby removes a set of keys from his pocket and makes his way over to a red truck parked in the corner of the diner’s parking lot. He looks back at Zenie after a few steps. “Are you coming?”

With you? She stops herself from saying. There’s nothing wrong with Bobby, or any of the Dills, that she’s aware of. But Mama has always made it very clear not to go accepting rides from anyone if she can help it. Too many women get taken right off the street just for being an Indian, and Zenie isn’t eager to become one of them.

Her feet throb, and the steady heartbeat she can feel in her cramped toes drowns out every warning that Mama has ever given her. She climbs into the truck.

It will feel silly one day, to look back and think that she was afraid of Bobby Dills, even for just a second. He’s a sweet kid, if not a little shy, but he makes polite enough conversation, and in a tone that makes you want to keep talking to him. Because unlike most people, Bobby talks to you, not at you. And he seems to want to get to know her, and maybe even enjoys her answers to his questions.  

The ride doesn’t feel long enough. Before she knows it, Bobby is idling the truck at the top of the drive, the place where the little gravel roads split off, one leading to the Dills’ house, the other to the McGlamery’s.

“Right here, tomorrow morning,” Bobby says. “I’ll pick you up on my way to school.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist.” Bobby smiles. “I want to.”

No one has ever said something like that to her before. Zenie can only nod. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” As Zenie gets out of the truck, Bobby rolls down his window, not yet allowing the conversation to end. “I don’t understand why your dad would make you walk like that. You would think he would have an appreciation for modern transportation, in his condition.”

In his condition. She almost snorts. “Because of his limp?”

Bobby’s brow furrows. “Because he’s missing a leg,” he supplies.

Now it’s Zenie’s turn to be confused. “What?!”

“Your father. He only has one leg, doesn’t he?” When Zenie only gives him an even more befuddled look in response, he rushes to explain. “He lost his leg in the war. That’s what I’ve heard him say around the farm store, when the old men stand around and tell war stories while buying their chicken feed.”

“My father wasn’t in the war. He was never even in the military. He limps because he fell out of a truck when he was eighteen. He’s nothing but a liar and a deadbeat.” The last part escapes her without her permission. She slaps a hand over her own mouth as if to contain the flood of words, but they’ve already escaped her. Bobby looks stunned. “Sorry,” she says when she feels safe enough to lower her hand. “I didn’t mean to say all that. Please don’t tell anyone.”

Bobby nods quietly. “Don’t worry Zena, I’ll keep your secret.” He offers her a kind smile. “Not like I have anyone to tell, anyway.”

There it is again – that same loneliness that Zenie recognizes from seeing it so often in herself. To think, she’s almost always felt so alone, yet there was someone right next door who might feel the exact same way.

“You can call me Zenie,” she offers. “Most everyone does.”

He smiles. “Sure thing. And you can call me Bobby.”

Zenie’s eyebrow quirks. “I was already calling you that.”

“Yeah,” Bobby replies, still smiling. “But you’re the only one I’ve given permission to.” He slaps a hand against the truck door to punctuate his own joke. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Zenie steps away to let him maneuver the truck down his driveway. She waves, then starts down her own.

Granny is waiting in the kitchen when she steps inside. “Who was that?”

“Bobby Dills, from next door. He works at the diner. Gave me a ride home.”

Granny hums. “He seems like a nice boy.”

“He is.” She hasn’t known him that long, but she feels certain in saying it.

And the next morning, when Bobby’s truck is waiting for her at the top of the drive, she knows that her assumption was correct.

[heniareth]

The Battle of Ostagar

Chapter 5: Flemeth’s Hut

In which Astala discovers she's not dead, but many others are, and now they have to deal with this.

Wordcount: 3653

WARNINGS:

- discussion of death - mention of cannibalism - abuse from parent to child in action

(Read the whole chapter on AO3 or down below)

Somebody screamed.

Astala bolted upright, reaching for her weapons. Only then did she realize that it was she who was screaming.

Where was she?

The interior of the hut was unfamiliar. Astala sat up to try and get a better look at her surroundings but didn't get far before she registered pain. It was dull, a throbbing to the rhythm of her heartbeat accompanied by tightness in her shoulder and belly when she moved. It sat deep. What had-

The tower.

Right.

Tentatively, Astala finished sitting up. She could do that. That was good. Going by everything she remembered—arrows, darkspawn and the Archdemon—she should be dead. She should be very dead. How was she not dead? How had she arrived... here?

She had just enough time to take a proper look around—she saw a pot over the fire, smelled stew coming from it, felt fur below her hands and spotted drying herbs hanging from the wooden beams above her—before the door opened and a young woman entered. Dark hair pulled into a bun, patchwork leather skirt and deep purple tunic... Astala blinked.

"Morrigan?"

Morrigan turned to her with a small but genuine smile. “Ah! You are awake! Mother shall be pleased.”

She crouched down in front of the pot, lifted the lid and stirred the contents. The smell of meat intensified. Astala’s stomach growled loudly.

“What happened?” Astala asked.

“You were injured, and Mother rescued you,” Morrigan answered, throwing her a glance crowned by a small frown. “Do you not remember?”

“I…” Astala strained her memory, trying to recall what exactly had happened at the tower. “There were lots of darkspawn. And a dragon! How did your mother do that?”

“I suggest you ask her,” Morrigan answered. “She may even give you an answer.”

Astala tried swinging her legs over the side of the bed. It worked just fine, apart from the pull and the fact that the throbbing sensation in her abdomen intensified. But she’d be able to make her way back to Ostagar.

A trickle of cold dread ran through her veins. Was there an Ostagar to make her way back to?

“What happened to the king’s army?” she asked.

“Your teyrn Loghain quit the field,” Morrigan said, trying a bit of the stew and adding some herbs. “The darkspawn won your battle.”

“So…” Astala said and got all words stuck in her throat. Defeat. At the hand of darkspawn. “The king’s army?”

“Massacred. There are no more Grey Wardens, other than you, the dwarven girl, and the human boy.” She paused and glanced back at the door. “He… is not taking it well.”

Astala stayed seated. She stared into the slow, licking flames below the pot and tried to wrap her head around what Morrigan had just said.

“All of them?” she finally asked. “Duncan? Our commander?”

“Dead,” Morrigan simply said, not without sympathy.

“Everybody?” Astala asked again. Jerome, Onastas, Martin with his huge pot full of food, Palla with the intimidating grey eyes…

Leonard.

Khêd.

Ilanlas.

 “Did… you say your mother only saved us three? Could the others have survived?”

Morrigan closed the lid of the pot with a firm clack of metal against metal. Then she stood up, and only then she turned to Astala.

“I am afraid I do not know,” she said. “You do not want to know what is happening in that valley.”

“Why?” Astala asked. “What's happening?”

“Are you sure you want me to describe it?” Morrigan asked.

Astala pushed herself off the bed. She could stand, fine even. She crossed her arms; she was feeling cold. Blood loss, probably.

“Please, tell me.”

Morrigan exhaled sharply, but she leaned against the hearth and spoke: “I had a good view of the battlefield. ‘Tis a grisly scene. There are bodies everywhere, and darkspawn swarm them… feeding, I think.”

She took a careful look at Astala. Astala swallowed but nodded.

“Continue?”

“The darkspawn are also looking for survivors,” Morrigan said. She wasn't enjoying this conversation. “They drag them down beneath the ground; I cannot say why.”

Sand against her cheek, slipping uselessly through her fingers. Claws wrapped around her ankle, pulling, the screeching darkspawn dragging her into the cave that had swallowed Ilanlas’ friend.

Maker save her, and may his gods watch over Ilanlas. The cold dread in her veins spread.

“Thank you for helping us, Morrigan,” Astala managed to say, dragging herself back to the present.

“I…” Morrigan hesitated. “You are welcome. Though Mother did most of the work. I am no healer.”

“Still.” Astala gave her a weak smile. “Can you tell me where Alistair and Sulri are?”

“Outside,” Morrigan said. “Mother wished to talk to you as well once you woke up.”

“Thank you,” Astala said again and started walking. She could walk. Good.

Once she was outside of the hut, she took a deep breath and just stood there for a moment, soaking in the light of the afternoon sun.

She was alive.

She was alive.

-

She found Alistair at the edge of the lagoon that surrounded the hut, staring out over the murky water. He didn't say anything when she approached and stood next to him. Neither did she. What could words do in a moment like this?

For a while, they stared over the water together.

Finally, Alistair heaved a heavy sigh, shoulders rising and falling like a mountain shrugging.

"Sorry," he sniffled and wiped his nose. Then: "You're alive, Maker's Breath!"

Before Astala could stop him, he enveloped her in a tight hug, the kind that slowly squeezed the air out of you. Astala tensed her back against the pressure and awkwardly patted Alistair on the back.

"You also look… alive," she said when he finally let her go.

Alistair smiled, let out a little huffed laugh. The smile dissolved almost immediately.

"Duncan and… Everybody. They-"

"I know," Astala said, and patted this huge shem on the arm once more. "I know."

Alistait accepted the comfort, poor as it was. He stood there for a while longer with his head bowed. He really wasn't taking it well.

"Well," he finally said. "We are here. And Sulri is here. That has to count for something."

Astala thought of Ilanlas, and Khêd, and nodded for appearance's sake. The inky clouds that had preceded the darkspawn still swirled above them. The sun didn't quite manage to break through.

They went to Sulri, who was sitting at the back of the hut, where the roof jutted out from the wall, throwing pebbles into the lagoon. The rhythmic plitch of the stones hitting the water disturbed the dead silence around them. Astala found herself scanning the horizon for darkspawn, and was relieved when she saw none.

She crouched down next to Sulri and waved hello. Alistair sat down on Sulri's other side. Sulri didn't acknowledge either of them. Instead, she took a larger stone and lobbed it into the lake.

Sploosh.

Cradled by the circular waves from the stone's impact, the cadaver of a fish rose to the surface.

Sulri wrinkled her nose, sat the next stone in her hand down and scooted away from the water.

Astala sat down next to her.

"I'm sorry about Khêd," she said.

Sulri was still staring at the dead fish, expression between mildly disgusted and outraged, as if the poor thing was to blame for all of this. Astala tapped her knee to get her attention.

"I'm sorry about Khêd," she repeated. "Did you know him for long?"

Sulri shook her head and then waved her off. She didn't want to talk? That was okay. Astala had seen worse responses to grief.

Alistair heaved another big sigh. "What do we do now?"

Astala bit the inside of her cheek, waiting to see if any of them would come up with a brilliant solution.

"Well…" she said tentatively when nothing happened. "I would… It might be a good idea to take things slow. We almost died, after all."

"There's no time for taking it slow!" Alistair threw his hands into the air. "We've failed! The darkspawn will overrun Ferelden and all Grey Wardens are dead!"

"Are they?"

Astala scrambled to her feet. Flemeth had stepped around the house, followed by Morrigan. The elderly woman crossed her arms.

"And here I was under the impression I had saved three of the order."

"But we- I'm sorry, ah… madam," Alistair stammered. "What do we call you? You never gave us your name."

"Names are pretty, but useless," Morrigan's mother said. "The Chasind call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do."

"The Flemeth? From the legends?" Although still soft, Alistair's voice was briefly filled with awe instead of sadness before he caught himself. "Daveth was right. You're the Witch of the Wilds, aren't you?"

"And what does that mean?" Flemeth answered flatly. "I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"

Astala doubted there had been only a bit of magic involved in getting them out of that tower and dragging them—her?—back from the funeral pyre.

"If I may," she ventured. "I- Thank you for saving us, really. I'm very grateful to still be alive. But… why did you save us?"

"Well," Flemeth said as if it was obvious. "We cannot have all the Grey Wardens die at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn."

"Yes, but…" Astala hesitated.

It didn't do to anger a powerful witch. Certainly not by questioning her motive and reason behind saving them instead of… well, anybody else.

"We aren't the most experienced," she finally said.

"Does that matter?" Flemeth answered, absolutely unperturbed. "It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the land in the face of a Blight. Or has that changed while I wasn't looking?"

Astala didn't like her tone. Save her or no, she hadn't almost died only for this woman to be needling her. As if Flemeth was her supervisor on a job!

"I don't know if the Grey Wardens are the best candidates to unite the land," she said, carefully but firmly. "They didn't manage to do so at Ostagar, at least."

"No thanks to teyrn Loghain," Flemeth said, nodded and waited expectantly.

"It doesn't make any sense!" Alistair said bitterly. "Why would he do it?"

"Now that is a good question," Flemeth mused and nodded. "Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature."

Alistair visibly sat up straighter at the witch's approval.

"Perhaps," Flemeth continued, genuinely serious from what Astala could gather, "Loghain thinks the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see the real threat that lies behind it."

"Is it too much to expect that a tainted Old God will be taken seriously?" Alistair muttered.

Astala cast a glance around. She still didn't see any darkspawn, but that didn't set her at ease. The monsters weren't gone. Or, rather, they were, but in the wrong direction.

She had tk warn her family.

"Maybe we could try to contact the other Grey Wardens," she ventured. "There are more elsewhere, right?"

Alistair shook his head. "The nearest Grey Wardens are in Orlais, and it would take far too long to gather them and an army. Not to mention that nobody wants Orlesians here. We would be kicked out before we could say hello, and not just by Loghain."

Sulri tapped Astala's leg and started signing. She slowed down when Astala asked her to, made her gestures as broad as possible. Still, Astala understood absolutely nothing.

"I'm sorry," she finally said. "I don't think this is going to work right now."

Sulri lowered her hands with an expression that could have frozen flames.

Astala shrugged apologetically and turned back to Flemeth. "So what do we do then?"

"Why do you ask me?" Flemeth answered and blinked owlishly. "I am just an old woman who lives in the Wilds. I know nothing of Blights and darkspawn."

Morrigan, who had been silently standing behind her mother, turned abruptly and left. Flemeth paid her no mind, not even when the door to the hut shut rather loudly.

"At the very least, we have to warn everybody," Alistair said, answering Astala's question. "Teyrn Loghain may think the darkspawn are just a minor threat, but we can't leave everybody else exposed to danger!"

Flemeth turned her attention to him, head cocked to one side. "And who will believe you? Unless you think to convince this Loghain directly of his mistake?"

"He just betrayed his own king!" Alistair jumped to his feet. "If arl Eamon knew what Loghain did at Ostagar, he would be the first to call for an execution!"

Astala frowned. "You know an arl? Personally?"

"I…" Alistair hesitated.

"I suppose," Flemeth quickly intervened, "that this arl Eamon was not at Ostagar."

"That's right!" Alistair looked from Flemeth to Astala, and brightened up for the first time in the whole conversation. "He still has all his troops. And he was Cailan's uncle! He's a good man, respected in the Landsmeet, of course!"

In the shadow cast by her hut, Flemeth's eyes gleamed.

"We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!" Alistair finished the thought.

"Now, wait a moment-" Astala started, but Flemeth was quicker.

"What happened to the treaties I kept safe? Have you managed to lose them as well?"

"They- I have them!" Alistair pulled them out from under the breastplate of his armor. "How could I forget about them?"

He pressed the treaties into her hands and looked down at her expectantly.

Astala leafed through the old, yellowed pages and looked back up at Alistair. "I don't-"

"Grey Wardens can demand the help from dwarves, elves, mages! They're obligated to help us during a Blight!" Alistair said.

Sulri snatched the treaties out of Astala's hands. Astala let her.

"Alistair…" she said. "There are three of us."

"Exactly!" Alistair said and nodded emphatically. "We need an army, and there we have it!"

Astala must've made the wrong kind of expression, because he went on.

"This is our only chance! There's nothing holding the darkspawn back from marching into Ferelden and burning it to the ground. We have to do this!" He took a deep breath and gestured at the three of them. "We are the only ones who can."

Astala stared at him and then at Flemeth. Flemeth looked back. She didn't blink. Her mouth didn't curve, but in her eyes there was a mad sort of smile.

Astala looked back at Alistair and saw only determination scrawled over a canvas of grief.

Oh Maker.

Oh, fuck.

-

Flemeth was of the opinion that they better leave if they wanted to keep avoiding the darkspawn. So they went and got their things. What things they still had left. Astala pulled on the gambeson—she'd have to clean the blood out of it, and mend it—and decided to leave the chain mail behind. It was broken, she had no way to fix it, and it would only weigh her down. She kept the breastplate. It had the Grey Warden's griffon on it, and that might be useful.

Everything else was still in that ruin now occupied by darkspawn: her pack, hurriedly assembled and then lovingly stocked up by her father; her blanket, bought with the money Ilanlas had gotten for her; the scrap metal she'd feverishly collected from darkspawn corpses in hopes of selling it and maybe getting something good out of her conscription. She still had her weapons, her coin pouch, and a contract with an order that didn't exist in Ferelden anymore. Save for the three of them, of course. What a grand fucking team. She supposed she should be grateful for the fact that she still had boots and that it was summer, not winter.

Speaking of boots, she had absolutely ruined them. Her mother might even have been proud, covered stains from darkspawn blood as the boots now were. The worst kind of irony.

Morrigan reappeared briefly to provide them with pack rolls and provisions, and then disappeared into the inside of the hut again. Astala tied her pack with her meager belongings to her belt. Alistair carried the bulk of everything. Sulri needed help with her pack and took a long time to ask for it. But, at some point, they were ready to go.

Astala turned to Flemeth. "Thank you again for helping us."

"Thank me once all of this is over," Flemeth answered curtly. "And, before you leave, I do have one more thing to offer you."

The door to the hut opened and shut. Flemeth stopped speaking and her eyes left Astala to fix on Morrigan, who was approaching them, ignoring their group in favor of her mother.

"The stew is bubbling, mother dear. Shall we have three guests for the eve or…" She glanced at their packs. "... none?"

"The Grey Wardens are leaving, girl," Flemeth said gravely.

"Oh," Morrigan said in a mocking tone, "such a-"

"And you will be joining them."

"What!?"

"You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears," Flemeth said and laughed at her own joke.

Astala couldn't say she found it funny. Not when Morrigan was growing visibly pale.

"Thank you," she said tentatively when neither Alistair nor Sulri said anything. "Really. But if Morrigan doesn't want to join us…"

"Nonsense." Flemeth cut her off. "Her magic will be useful. Even better, she knows the Wilds and how to get past the horde."

"Have I no say in this?" Morrigan protested, her voice raised in alarm.

"You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance," Flemeth simply said. "As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives."

"Excuse me?" Astala burst out. She must've misheard.

"Not to… look a gift horse in the mouth but…" Alistair said, absolving Flemeth of the need to answer Astala. "Won't this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she's an apostate."

"If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower," Flemeth replied.

"Point taken," Alistair said, none too happy.

"Mother…" Morrigan turned to the old woman. "This is not how I wanted this! I- I am not even ready-"

"You must be ready," Flemeth said forcefully. "Alone, these three must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight." She paused to give her words the appropriate weight. "Even I."

"I… understand…" Morrigan said with a strained sigh.

"And you, Wardens?" Flemeth turned her full attention to them. "I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you must succeed."

Morrigan was staring back at the hut, where the stew was probably still bubbling, and she wouldn't eat it.

"Hey, you'll be okay with us," Astala said quietly to Morrigan.

Morrigan threw her a cold look, as if it was Astala who was dragging her into an adventure she didn't want to go on. Then she turned around.

"Allow me to get my things, if you please."

When she left, Flemeth didn't look after her; she was back to staring at Astala with those unsettling golden eyes. She didn't say anything, either. The one who broke the increasingly uncomfortable silence was Alistair, who leaned closer.

"What a shock, right? 'Three guests or none', and then, poof! She leaves with us."

Astala eyed Flemeth, and was struck by the absolute certainty that Flemeth was hearing every word Alistair said.

"She's a bit… dramatic, don't you think?" Alistair went on. "'Shall we have three guests or… none'. Why that long pause?"

Astala took a deep, steadying breath. "She was looking at our packs and putting two and two together."

Alistair hesitated, then nodded as if considering this, and backed away again.

Flemeth kept looking at Astala. Astala refused to look away.

Finally, Morrigan returned, a pack slung over her shoulder with a bedroll, blanket and fur jacket tied up on top of it. Her mouth, drawn into a thin line, relaxed in a very deliberate way as she approached.

"Farewell, Mother," she said with a casual sigh. "Do not forget the stew on the fire. I would hate to return to a burned-down hut."

"Bah!" Flemeth barked. "'Tis far more likely you will return to see this entire area, along with my hut, swallowed by the Blight."

Morrigan physically recoiled, and her expression crumbled.

"I-" she stammered. "All I meant was-"

"Yes, I know," Flemeth answered gently. "Do try to have fun, dear."

Morrigan turned away abruptly and joined their group, which had waited a few steps away. When she reached them, her expression was impenetrably neutral.

"I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. 'Tis not far, and you will find much you need there." She crossed her arms. "Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide."

Astala tore her gaze from Flemeth, who was still staring at her, and waited for Alistair to take the lead and answer.

That didn't happen, and the silence started to become uncomfortable.

Finally, Astala cleared her throat. "I like your idea."

Morrigan looked at the other two. Sulri gave a shrug so exaggerated it swam in sarcasm, and Alistair said nothing.

"Very well then," Morrigan said, a few degrees colder. "Follow me, if you please."

She led them to a new path, neither the one by which they had come to nor the one by which they had left the hut before their- her Joining. Astala fell in behind Morrigan, Alistair and Sulri joined… and, just like that, they were off.

To gather an army.

One uncomfortable conversation about Morrigan's cooking skills later, Astala already had enough. This was the stupidest thing she had ever signed up for in a long time.

[dayfourwmv]

THAT DREAD, THAT HORRIBLE PRESENCE. CLOSER AND CLOSER STILL. This time was overcome with helplessness. Desperation. Panic. Despair. His body couldn't do anything but, finally, vomit — its cold sweat being the only relief from hellfire. He gasped for breath as those heavy chains felt they were melting into his bones.

Each step grew heavier as his pace began to crawl. The monster's silhouette, highlighted by magma, rushes newfound adrenaline into his already pulsing veins. The foundation shook as rubble from above trickled down on his already broken body. His legs quake as he stands. His knuckles turned white hot as he watched every slow and meticulous step. It's a useless attempt to save face. He's already seen what he needs to see.

The demon reached out a hand.

Like a child hiding under a blanket, he shut his eyes.

...He can't close his eyes?

The hand grew closer.

He tries to duck,

but

he can't move he can't even shout

WHY CANT I FEEL ANYTHING? WHY CANT I BREATHE? WHERE AM I? DID IT WORK? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? CAN ANYONE SEE ME? SOMEONE HELP ME. DONT TURN THE GAME OFF. DONT LEAVE ME LIKE THIS. SOMEONE HELP ME. PLEASE. I'M SO SCARED.

—CRRRRACK!

BEN felt his neck snap too cleanly. The force was deliberate, agonizing; drawn out for every second he could spare. Every fragment that split from his body and fell into the lava pricked at him like boiled needles. His soul choked and cried and wailed as the statue remained stagnant as ever. Without a say in it, he'd die as quietly and as helpless as before. Where no one could hear him scream.

When HE ripped the body clean from its host, he let it fall from his grasp. His manic smile contorted more impossibly than before, mocking the boy with every wrinkle. HE stared into the statue's blank eyes of unresolved terror until BEN's body sunk deep beneath the magma.

and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND

IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT

BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS AND IT BURNS

Ben's head is the next to go, slipping carelessly from his gloves like a useless toy. The RINGING in his head, HIS LAUGHTER, is maddening. The pressure makes his brain want to pop. His eyesight was an unreliable blur. The heat grew closer by the millisecond.

i think about my dad i think about rosa

i think about the nothing i was and

the nothing i

will return to

i think

i've wasted my existence.

[grandma-susan]

The soft squelching sounds filled the room with the occasional little ring of glass and metal striking one another. The room was dark and the air was bitter from various bottles that had been opened and used, their corks and lids laying askew. Balled and torn ribbons of linen sat soaked in blood or hanging off the dusty chairs in the room, quietly dripping on to the floor and spreading into an exquisite lace-like pattern. There was an old thick book opened to a page about lacerations and puncture wounds. Deft old hands dug into the warm, soft, wet flesh of the cowboy. A cannibal's delight. Teeth bared and face glistening with concentration, it would be so easy to.... If one wanted to... with the wounds left in this man would have made a great spot to grip and lift his lifeless body to your lips for a nectarous bite. His body was long, slender and lean, not a hint of idle fat underneath that red ruby skin. Even his skin was quite thick. Hardened by the elements and marred by passed battles. It had a ....ornamental look to it. It stretched over his lean muscles like a well fitted suit, and what a provocative suit it would have been. A disgruntled huffed escaped the elder as she reached over and pressed her wet fingers against his neck, feeling the slow pulse under her finger pads. Still breathing, this man could take much more than he let on, as they said, Imps were a hardy breed. A knife was tossed into a tarnished silver plated tray with a loud clatter, along with three smaller pieces of metal and with a heave, a sickening bone crunching pop bounced off the walls of the room. "Hneeh." Susan grumbled as she flicked her hands clean, blood spraying onto the floor behind her. Almost done. She reached over to an amber bottled, uncorked and it poured its contents into a basin of water and grabbed a fresh cloth and began to clean up her work. There was only four more things to do, sew, pack, set and bind. All the while a steady trickle of blood tainted liquid trickled onto the floor pooling and seeping into the aged wood. She wrung out the cloth and did a final wipe down before she reached over, and unfurled a roll of needles. Rummaging through an old drawer she pulled out a roll of sinew. She dropped the spool into another bowl reached in and cut a length off before threading her curved needle and began closing up the flaps of skin, her eyes watching the glistening blood seep though her stitches. It wasn't long before she was done and stood back to admire her work. The man who had laid in a messy heap in her yard was now laying bare on her table, with the crafty bindings and dressings of an expert. All she had to do now was to clean up and put his this serpent into a bed. But before she could finish cleaning, she heard a rattling stir and she looked over. Slits of amber eyes blinked into the darkness. A long, dreaded moan slipped through the imp's mouth, before he said his first words. His body jerked in an ugly fashion and his unfocused eyes began to wildly dance around the room. His body how twitching in an unruly fashion and his secured tail thrashing against the wooden table. Susan clicked her tongue as she watched blood starting to seep though the dressings she had worked hard to pack. "Quit your thrashing." She said with a lowly hiss, as she reached over for a bottle and cloth. With each step, her heels clicked closer to him. "You come ambling into my yard, making a mess of things...." Her disembodied scowl flashed in the dark. "I was hoping you'd stay asleep a while longer, so I could finish working on you, but your peabrain just had to wake up didn't it." She muttered, the sound of her final step making a splash, would fill Striker's ears before her hand cupped forcefully over Striker's mouth and nose, firmly holding down the chloroform soaked rag. "Go. Back. To. Sleep!"

His limber body bucked for a moment, but with the weight of his splints, stitches and bindings effectively held him down. "That's it. Close your eyes~, nothing to see here~." she purred as she watched those wild spiral eyes dim and his muffled protests go silent and his body weakening into a frantic tremble until it went limp once again. Now, it was time to move the body. There weren't many places in her home to stash such a wild man and a man of his size in his home. But after some thought she had the perfect place. With a bit of adjusting and planning, this frail looking woman managed to move the cowboy imp to a more suitable room. In he went. She tucked his less injured limbs in close to his body, adjusted his head onto the pillow and wiped off a smear of what looked like grease and ash on his cheek then lastly threw a light yet warm blanket over his frame. And left a bell on the side table for when he would wake up. Though, it was highly likely she'd know before he could figured out how to move his fingers again after the damage he took. "Now to boil an burn all the crap he made."

A few hours passed.

The young man slowly regained consciousness, the dim crimson light filtering into the room revealed a nightmarish scene.

He felt the weight of restraints binding him tightly to a makeshift table, his limbs immobilized by the crude yet effective contraptions. Panic surged through him as he took in his surroundings—a dingy room adorned with tattered and bloodstained furniture, an unsettling array of surgical and kitchen tools scattered nearby, and shelves filled with bottles reminiscent of those found in an embalming facility. He felt a chilling breeze against his skin. Looking down, he realized he was completely naked, adding to the overwhelming sense of vulnerability.

"What...What in the actual fuck...oh Satan..."

Cold sweat beaded on his forehead as he attempted to move, only to be met with searing pain coursing through his body. His eyes darted around, searching for clues, for any hint of escape. A book of anatomy lay open nearby, its pages filled with diagrams and descriptions that sent shivers down his spine. A tapestry depicting the intricacies of the human body hung ominously on the wall, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

He was going to get sick.

The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and decay, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. Struggling against his restraints, he noticed jars filled with preserved organs and body parts, a chilling reminder of his dire situation.

Yep, definitely going to get sick.

Fear gripped him as he realized the gravity of his predicament. Someone had not only subdued him but had also subjected him to this grotesque imprisonment. With each futile attempt to break free, the weight of his confinement bore down on him, amplifying his sense of helplessness.

In the midst of his terror, a single thought persisted—he needed to find a way out, to escape the clutches of whoever orchestrated this macabre ordeal before it was too late.

He tried to break free from the leather straps holding down his wrists, ignoring the throbbing pain of his whole body.

"Come on, come on..."

[treescape]

This was going to be a longer oneshot, an alternate ending to episode 5, but the pacing isn’t working out, so here’s the bit that I most wanted to write in the first place 😆

Context: Obi-Wan surrenders to Vader to ensure the escape of those on Jabiim. They discuss the sparring match from their memories.

~1k, Rated M for discussion of sexual fantasies, below the cut.

-----------

The cell where Obi-Wan has been confined is empty, barren, but it wouldn’t matter if it weren’t. Vader is all he sees, tall and unmoving through the transparisteel of the walls, his shoulders an obsidian screen.

There is everything between them and almost nothing at all, ten years of hatred and pain and a bare handful of inches. Obi-Wan says nothing. There are no words for the things he wants to say, not in any language he knows.

Vader watches him for a long moment. Obi-Wan can feel the weight of his eyes through the thick lenses of his mask, through the regulated air of his ship and the thin barrier between them.

“This time you must concede my victory,” Vader finally says, and the words are mechanical, inflectionless, but Obi-Wan’s traitorous mind is all too quick to lend it the cadence of Anakin’s voice, to reach fingers into memory and dredge forth the precise beat of it.

Obi-Wan forces himself to breathe through the memory, and when he catches himself automatically matching the heavy hiss of Vader’s lungs, he makes himself breathe slower, makes himself cast off the rhythm.

It isn’t the same one long etched into his heart, he tells himself.

“I think perhaps you don’t remember that day clearly,” Obi-Wan replies. The skies of Coruscant flash in his mind, and the blue of Anakin’s saber, and the blaze of Anakin’s smile. They expand in his chest, threaten to burn through his bones and his muscles and his veins. They threaten to wither him whole. “The lesson was not in prowess or tactics, but rather in the forbearance of pride. As that is a lesson you have yet to learn, you have won no more this day than you did then.”

It’s a wonder that his voice can sound so calm when inside he is crumbling to ash. How easily he slides back into the guise of instruction with the one who stands before him.

“*I* don’t remember clearly,” Vader says, and for all the simmering darkness that Obi-Wan can feel roiling off of him, Obi-Wan thinks he’s almost amused. It’s like a kick to the gut, a saber through the heart, how quickly his mood changes. How much like Anakin he still is. “You know less than you think about that day, or what I remember of it.”

“Is that so?”

A beat of silence, only the harsh inhale-exhale of Vader’s breathing. “Do you know what I did after we finished sparring that day, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan ignores the sound of his own name, lest it cut him to shreds. “I must assume you didn’t go to the gardens to perform the meditation exercises I assigned.”

A harsh laugh, discordant and loud. “I went back to my chamber,” Vader agrees, and there’s a note of triumph in his voice. “I sat there in my bed and remembered the feel of you, the smell of you as we fought. I held the saber you had used to defeat me and pretended I could still feel the heat of your hands.”

“Much less productive than the meditation would have been, I’m sure,” Obi-Wan says, a trickle of apprehension from the Force, a relentless certainty that he knows what is coming next.

Not this, he thinks. Don’t make me face this, not here. Not now.

“I imagined that you had one least lesson for me that day,” Vader tells him, the string of his words ruthless and unyielding, in that voice that is Vader but echoes like Anakin in Obi-Wan’s mind. Obi-Wan forces himself to stare with mild curiosity at that implacable mask, not to reveal the slow dread churning through his veins. “I imagined that you would tell me to kneel. You would instruct me to loosen your belt and pull you out. I thought about you teaching me to take you in my mouth.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t think it’s his imagination that there’s a hint of heat in that cold voice—not when he can feel the tangled fever of it in the Force, the vindictive twisting of a youthful fantasy.

He had always suspected his padawan nursed a crush; it wasn’t uncommon at all for such things to happen.

“And then,” Vader says, “once you’d had your fill of my mouth, I thought about you telling me to get on the bed. You would instruct me to open myself up for you with my fingers. You would watch until I was begging you to do it for me. I would have begged you to show me how to do it the way you wanted me to. And then—”

Vader falls silent for just a moment, only the sound of his breathing in the air, and Obi-Wan knows he wants only to wind the moment tight, to string out the tension before the victorious finale, the strike he expects to fell Obi-Wan  with ease.

Obi-Wan won’t let him have it, even if it costs him the truth.

“I could never,” he says mildly into the pause.

If Vader is thrown off, he doesn’t show it, but Obi-Wan can feel the hot flash of impatience, the burn of his ire. “Of course,” he sneers. “The great Master Kenobi would never have stooped so low as to want his own padawan.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says, and then, before Vader can sneer again, can claim that denial for his own use, can exploit it to shore up his own counterstroke, Obi-Wan forges ahead into the greatest shame of his life as if it is of no matter. “I could never, as you put it, have had my fill of your pretty little mouth. I would have had to keep you on your knees all day, at the very least. Would you have liked that?”

If nothing else, Obi-Wan tells himself, the cost of those words is not in vain. Vader stares at him—inhales, exhales, an endless moment that teeters on the brink of collapsing.

Then, he turns and strides away, cape flaring behind him, fury scorching in the Force.

Match to me, Obi-Wan thinks, his heart a leaden weight in his chest.

He knows, deep in his bones and through the ache of memory, that it’s going to be a long, long battle.