#but it's been eroding from him over the months

[ruinparadox]

Full deamon husk x shy gn reader in a beauty and the beast like relationship

I'm actually so upset I hadn't thought of this idea before because its so good. Like, you can't just drop a banger idea like this and just not elaborate!

The Beast and his Beauty - Full demon form overlord Husk x Gn!Reader

It’s been a few months since that fateful day. A casino stands at the edge of the city, all but abandoned. The tables are barren, the cards are rotted, and the castle-like building has only one resident, and now one hostage. You swore up and down to your friend that they should not just throw themselves into the casino just to fish for gold and whatnot on the off chance that the overlord who purportedly lives there has somehow died off in the past few centuries of his life.

But no matter how you tried, no matter how you pleaded, they simply waved you off and made for the decrepit castle. One day turned into two. Two days turned into a week into a month, and you left for the castle as well. Other sinners called out to you, trying to warn you of the dangers, but you didn’t heed them. Your friend was in danger and you needed to help them, safety be damned.

Interestingly, the casino stands opposite of the Hazbin Hotel. Atop a hill, behind a tall gate, sequestered away from the big city. It's such a short distance, yet so far away. The metal creaks as you push the entrance open, rust coating the exterior. And just like that you’re scrambling up the hill towards that ornate but blemished door. You grab the handle and notice that it isn’t locked. The mechanism must have eroded away or the overlord is eager to hunt for prey within his walls. Either way, you gain free entry into the estate.

Bravely, or perhaps foolishly, you call into the depths of the halls, your friend’s name reverberating like a siren call. And like a moth to a flame, the overlord appears. He is a hulking beast, his stature so tall he takes up half the entrance hall of the casino floor. His tail is covered in scars and spines, his wings tattered and frail, the colors of the feathers dull and grey. Barely enough plumes for him to assume a brief bout of flight. 

A snarl rumbles in his throat, his face riddled with soot with his face taking the shape of a tiger who’s muzzle is scrunched and wrinkled in perpetual anger. His eyes are like gemstones, glowing in the dark, his slit pupils watching your every move. He’s a predator eyeing prey in his territory. The scythes for talons and claws on his giant paws scratch the floor as he stalks towards you, leaving deep wounds in the marble panels.

“Why are you here?” You could feel the castle shake with his distorted voice. He sounds so… tired.

Why else are you here? For your friend. You demand to know where they are, right now. You demand for their release. 

“Friend? You mean this little plaything?” His tail comes around from behind him, the tip hooked through the hoop of a cage and your friend dangling inside it. “I am merely defending my home from intruders. Intruders such as you, if that wasn’t clear. Why should I release them?”

Indeed, why should he? He has no reason to care about you, a strange person trespassing on the monument to his shame. He has no desires to cling to, no vices to drown in. What could you possibly have to offer the beast who wants nothing but to be left alone?

A question that leaves you stumped. No amount of money could lift him from this state. He’d just gamble it all away again on the vain hopes some windfall might come his way. You can’t offer him power, he has that in droves, not that it's done him much good. And redemption is far too flimsy a concept for him to take on faith.

No, there’s only one thing you could give him. Your soul.

Immediately, your friend is banging at the bars of their cage, crying out in protest, but your gaze is fixed firmly on the beast towering over you, its breath brushing through your fur. 

“You would gamble away your soul on something so small?” He’s almost surprised you’d even considered it, let alone actually offered. But nevertheless, as terrified as you are, even as your body shakes in anxiety and fear, your gaze does not drop. You will see this through. Though to what end? Even you yourself aren’t sure.

His eyes narrow down at you, but he accepts your proposal. You utter an apology to your friend as they cry and beg for you to take it back. They’re cast out after the beast places a spell on them to never speak or mention anything about what took place and can never return to the castle beyond the gate.

In the next second, the beast has returned, and your friend is barred from the estate, their figure barely visibly beyond the gates at the foot of the hill. A golden manacle manifests itself around your neck, a chain rattling as it extends to the beast. You expect him to yank you towards him, but surprisingly, he doesn’t. Instead, he looks down on it, and lets it fall to the floor, its brilliant yet ominous glow fading out of sight.

You don’t even get a word in before he’s stalking off to some unknown part of the castle, his voice quiet as he mumbles for you to “do whatever you want.”

It's been a few months since that day, and you two have grown close since then. The beast, whose name you now know as “Husk,” is trapped in his own casino, surrounded by nothing but forgotten bets and dried up alcohol. He can’t even drink the pain away anymore. He refuses to elaborate when asked about what is keeping him here.

At first, he’s distant and grumpy, barely acknowledging your presence with small grunts, let alone words. You attempt to talk to him, but whether he can hear you, or is just outright ignoring you is anyone’s guess. With conversation a moot front, you attempt to at least make a space for yourself to sleep and live in. If you are going to be staying in a decrepit castle, you might as well make it as comfortable as you can.

He sees you attempting to clear out a room as best you can, but the dust, dirt, and rot are endless. Begrudgingly, he tells you to stop and to just sleep in his room. There’s a lot less dirt and it has the only bed in the entire building that hasn’t crumbled to dust.

The bed in question is more than half the size of the room, a large circle mattress dressed in blemished silk sheets. You imagine it must have looked lavish in the casino’s heyday. You find yourself impressed when it's revealed that the room is capable of housing both you and Husk, the giant resting his head on the empty half of the bed next to you. 

His breathing is soft, but given the size difference it's a veritable gust of wind ruffling your clothes in your sleep. No matter, you’ll just have to use a few more blankets from now on. Assuming there are still any left.

In the next few days you do some exploring of the grounds. You’re not allowed outside, lest you bring more intruders to disturb his territory, but you’re free to go wherever you wish inside. It is then you happen across a closet filled with dresses and other clothes somehow untouched by the ravages of time. Husk is equally surprised but says you can have them. Normally they’d be gifts for his employees if they excelled at their jobs but… well, you get the idea by now, don’t you?

Happily, you put one of them on, looking at yourself twirling about in a cracked vanity mirror. In the reflection, you catch Husk staring at you with a look that’s less than grumpy as he usually is. He notices you looking at him and immediately turns around, his tail nearly knocking you over as he grumbles about taking a nap.

The weeks go by and you catch Husk looking at you more and more, a glint of something you can’t quite recognize in his eyes. It escalates from there. Purrs rumbling the castle, an unexpected nuzzle here or there, and his tail gently wrapping around you.

He refuses to say anything about it until you confront him directly. Reluctantly, he tells you of days long past, when dancers lined the stage, when bright lights and strong drinks bathed the walls, when money flowed through the establishment like water through a dam… when a horrible deal gone wrong took everything from him and one by one, the people disappeared. 

Soon there were no dancers, no booze, no lights, and no money. He’s been here all alone in his self imposed exile. It's not that he can’t leave, but he won’t. For what purpose would that serve? There’s nothing waiting for him out there. Nothing that could fill the hole in his heart. A hole he carved out himself.

At least, that’s what he thought until recently. Until he felt a spark go off within him when he saw you wear that dress, smiling like you were ready to go dancing. He feels something for you, but he can’t trust himself to not mess it up, to not ruin it like he did everything else. 

You give him a smile and he feels his fur go warm for a bit. You tell him that he won’t know if it will work if he doesn’t try. That seems to touch something inside him and for the first time in a while, he smiles. 

That night, you two make for a ballroom. Not sure why a casino needs one, but neither of you really care right now. You two dance and dance throughout the night. Well, more like you’re the one dancing and he’s gently guiding you with his talons. He’s far too big to move about in such a manner without causing some damage.

Still, it doesn’t matter, both of you have fun, and the next few weeks, it only gets better. You two are now having dinner together with what little food you can find or afford, you’re allowed to go outside and buy or steal anything you need, and you now sleep together on the bed, his body curled around yours to give you all the warmth you need.

You tell your friend that you’re okay and you don’t need rescuing. You pack your things from the hotel and move them into Husk’s castle, saying goodbye to your friends while promising to visit. Redemption is overrated. And whether your lives end from being redeemed, or from an exorcist's blade, or perhaps they never end at all, you’re just happy to spend your life next to a beautiful creature such as he.

It doesn’t matter that he can’t return to his normal form anymore. You love him just the way he is.

[celestialprincesse]

Simon coming home to sleepy partner💤☁️

nsfw below the cut 🪽 mdni 🤍

Simon, more often than not, comes home late after getting back from deployments. seeing as after landing on home soil, they still have to mission debrief, collect and pack up their belongings and say their goodbyes, Simon is itching to get back home - back to you.

When he does, and you're all curled up in your shared bed, head resting on his pillow, one of his shirts clutched tight to your chest, sound asleep in his sweater, which had ridden up the arch of your spine to reveal thin cotton panties that have him straining at his boxers. It's when your eyes open at the sound of him dumping his bags, half lidded and lazy until you register his presence and spring up in the bed, running to meet him with tears of relief already pooling on your lower lashes. By no means does Simon Riley consider himself a needy man - in fact, quite the opposite, he's practised restraint his entire life. That said, after months away with nothing but his hand and some very private polaroids to sort himself out, he's desperate, already pushing you back until the backs of your knees are hitting the bedframe, collapsing underneath him with the thick comforter giving a whooshing exhale of air under the sudden addition of your bodyweight.

The latest deployment had been especially tough, stationed in some shithole with no cell service or access to a secure line. Soap had been fine, copping off with local women when he grew bored of his hand, Gaz had Simon fully convinced that he had some kind of erectile dysfunction with how long he could go with no contact, whilst Price and Simon had to settle with a few grainy photos of their partners and the thought that they'd soon be home.

Now, when he noses at your neck and smells sweet perfume and your laundry detergent, it feels very much like a wet dream coming true. He doesn't even bother to fully take your panties off before he's thumbing at your clit through the flimsy material, stripping himself of his gear with one hand. He quickly grows frustrated with the way his dick is straining at the fly of his pants, grunting as he pulls his hand away to strip his clothes off, whilst you take the opportunity to lose your panties, throwing them vaguely in the direction of the hamper , parting your legs and bending them at the knee, waiting for him with your bottom lip chewed anxiously between your teeth. He doesn't even bother kicking his clothes away, kneeling on where they're piled up at the side of the bed as he grabs your hips with hands that have forgotten to be gentle after being rough for so long, pulls you to the edge of the bed, hooking his forearms under your thighs and splaying his hands over your stomach as he noses at your clit. There's a feral, barely concealed glint in his eye as he whispers kisses against your cunt, murmuring how bad he missed you, about how you look more beautiful than when he left. "Missed y' so fuckin' much baby. Missed your angel face." He growls into your skin, the tears mixing in your eyes split between need and pure relief.

He doesn't even bother with his fingers as he licks a hot stripe between your folds, your hips twitching under his hands as he savours you like a last meal. "Si.." You whine out sweetly, voice whiny and utterly pathetic. "Tha's right. Tha's it, gonna let me hear ya?" His Mancunian accent, eroded around the edges from years of travel, and the rumble of his voice have you on edge, hands gripping into the sheets as you let your eyes fall back into your head swimming with utter bliss. "Mmhm!"

Not even a minute later, Simon looks utterly perplexed as you try and shimmy yourself away from his tongue, despite the way your thighs are clamped like a vice around his ears. "Wha's wrong baby?" He growls, messy brows furrowed in concern as he looks up at you in the near darkness of your bedroom. "Jus' need you, Si." You whine, body short circuiting as you consciously attempt to free his face from between your legs whilst the animal side of your brain compels you to keep him there and continue the ecstasy his tongue spearing into you provides. Your needy words cause his expression to perk up as he gently guides your knees outwards so he can actually remove his face from where it's stuffed between your thighs and cunt.

From your position on the bed, and his kneeling beside it, you'd been unable to see the way his cock was already hard and leaking, bouncing against his stomach, but as he pushes you back to the centre of the mattress, you got a full view of his pretty dick as he lines the pearly tip against your entrance, smearing precum against it as though to make the stretch easier (which is a total placebo). His fingers loop through yours as he notches his tip inside, refusing to blink as you take him to the hilt with a quiet whine, lashes fluttering against your cheeks as you fight the urge to squeeze your eyes shut. "Fuck, 've missed seein' you take me so well." the sound of his grunts and the lewd squelch which accompanies his thrusts is the only thing besides your airy moans and his soft growls filling your blissful bedroom.

The sight of you alone has him almost embarrassingly close to finishing inside of you, but when your pussy flutters around him and you give a choked off keen before cumming around his cock, he gives up on any restraint, snapping his hips so that his tip hits your cervix, ropes of hot cum spilling into your tight heat as he lets his head fall into the crook of your neck, repeating how perfect you are, how much he loves you and missed you.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Meant for this to be some cutie, fluffy little brainrot not 1k of smut Sorry! (not sorry!😚) also this isn't edited because rereading my own writing makes me cringe so apologies 4 any mistakes 🩷

[johnbrand]

Opening the Door

“Wait bro, are you talking about my feet?”

Heat immediately invaded my cheeks as I went red. The words had slipped out of my mouth without even realizing it.

“I uh…what?” I chuckled nervously, trying to brush it off. “I didn’t say anything.”

My roommate Ben knew otherwise. “Yeah you did. You mumbled ‘He’s just one of those guys who’ll never realize how perfect his feet are’ while staring directly at this sole.”

He was right. I had been absorbed in his giant jock feet. I just could not help myself. Ever since I had moved in with Ben, I had been obsessed with him and his perfect body. He was a former college athlete from a small school, meaning he had the perfect body without the ego. But it was clear right away that Ben was straight, just the typical vanilla heterosexual. 

“Oh yeah…” I stammered. “Sorry, I had not meant to say that out loud.”

“Well is it true?” Ben asked to my surprise. “Are my feet really perfect?”

I hesitated once more, knowing this could be a breaking point in our friendship. But Ben had been completely fine when we had discussed my sexuality. In fact, Ben considered himself an ally–something that only made it more difficult for me not to be attracted to him.

After a deep breath, I admitted to my slip-up. “Yeah, they are. Wide, supple-looking yet I’d assume firm, and obviously huge. Those feet are any gay man’s dream.”

“What if they smell?” Ben questioned, my little chubby perking up. “Is that a problem?”

“No, in fact that typically makes them more desirable.”

Ben considered this for a moment. “When you said they are any gay man’s dream, does that include you.”

My face flushed an even brighter red, something I had not known was possible. Instead of responding this time, I simply remained quiet. Understanding the conversation had come to an end, Ben kindly resumed the replay of the game he was watching. I decided to sit with him a little longer, but eventually I gave into my instincts. I got up and found my way back to my room. Locking the door behind me, I quickly grabbed a pair of Ben’s sweaty athletic socks that I had stashed away, shoving them in my face as I fished out my hard dick.

After that discussion, the dynamics of our relationship began to shift. I did not notice it at first as Ben’s usual good-hearted nature disguised any sort of detour from the traditional friendship route. It started with asking a favor here and there; if I could pick up his turn on the dishwasher this week, or following a request to fetch him a snack with a cheesy “Pretty please?” I did not think anything of these menial tasks; Ben had been such a considerate roommate to me after all.

Eventually though, Ben began to test his dominance. There was a shift in the air when it first happened, catching me a little off guard. “Hey, can you take off my cleats?“ he innocently posed after coming home sweaty and tired from a soccer game with friends. “I'd do it myself but my back is sore.” Without thinking twice, I knelt down in front of Ben and removed each of the shoes, letting his big feet air out right into my face. It was a strange request, but Ben did not seem bothered by it at all. I made sure to appear calm and professional myself before excusing myself to stealthily wank one out.

From there, Ben tactics became more apparent and frequent. Once when we were on the couch together, he casually lifted a leg up and cut an ungodly fart in my direction without saying a word. I did not react vocally, but I delicately changed my position to get a whiff without being obvious. Another time, Ben plopped his giant feet right into my lap and stated ��Massage them for me.” Although it had only been two words, my fingers had already acted before my brain could process their meaning.

By the time our lease was about to expire, Ben and I’s conversations had been reduced to mere commands. “Make dinner,” “Do my laundry,” “Cover my bill.” Over the months, our relationship had completely eroded. Not only had I been conditioned into my natural role, but I had opened the door for Ben to explore his. Before, Ben had been a considerate man who considered me as an equal, but now he understood the power his feet held, he held, and that power corrupted him. Ben had become controlling, demanding, and as of recently, abusive. When the lease renewal contract finally arrived, I promptly signed my name.

[bullet-prooflove]

Bad Boy: Chef Luca x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @djlnkaled @10ava01 @freckledhorse @wabi-sabi1090

Companion piece to:

Something Special - Luca knows you're something special from the very moment you meet.

Sfogliatella - Luca spends months perfecting your fav dessert leading to a surprise proposal.

Luca used to be a little wild, he tells you that when you’re sitting on the deck of the boat that he lives in, sharing an expensive bottle of wine. Your gaze is fixed on the lights from the city as they glitter across the canal as he hands you the glass before taking up residence alongside of you on the cushioned bench.

“Used to be?” You ask carefully. “Or still are?”

“Used to be.” He reassures you because he knows your history.

You’d had a thing for bad boys in your early twenties. You’d fallen in love with a man you were translating for, one who rode motorcycles and was possessive over his woman. He was fun, adventurous and secretive.

You can’t say when you started to lose the pieces of yourself, only that one day Armand didn’t like the way you dressed, he preferred you to wear darker scents instead of floral. A tracking app appeared on your phone so he could make sure you were ‘safe’. You wanted to leave but by that point yourself confidence had been eroded so much that you just couldn’t bring yourself to walk out the door so you stayed.

You’d stayed until you were woken up at three in the morning to the police bursting into his home and raiding the place for drugs. They had found nothing on the premises but you were both swept up for questioning. They’d detained you for five hours before they ascertained you had no knowledge of the operation. Armand had been charged and sentenced to twenty five years in prison for his role in cross state heroin operation.

It had taken such a long time to put yourself back together again after that, to reclaim who you were. You’d taken a job at the UN to get out of the city, bounced around a few countries before you found a home in Copenhagen.

It’s Luca’s words that bring you back to the present. He hasn’t told you how he ended up in Denmark, what led him to become a chef.

“My home life, it was messed up. Most of the time we were this close-” he says indicating a tiny gap with his fingers. “- from being taken into care. I was stealing all the time, trying to make ends meet, bunking off school, lashing out...”

Noone in Copenhagen knows this story, they just know him as the guy who used to with for David Fields. Someone dependable, someone capable, someone stable. They don’t know that there were nights he used his hide his sister in the closet and sing her to sleep because their mother was on another bender.

“Cheffing saved me from all of that, it gave me the structure I needed at the time, the discipline and the cash to provide for my family until my sister was old enough for university.”

“What happened to your parents?” You ask him and he gives you a sad smile.

“Dad was never really in the picture. The last time I saw him I think I was seven and he took me to an Arsenal game, after that radio silence.” He says shaking his head. “And mum… well the drugs took her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” You tell him and he shrugs his shoulders.

“We expected it to happen a lot sooner if I’m honest.” He tells you. “I know it sounds cold but when you live like that…”

“I kinda get it.” You say softly. “When I was with my ex, he would have these moods…”

You trail off and he understands the subtext. He’s not the only one that’s seen violence, that’s managed to escape it and make something of himself. His fingers entwine with yours, a show of solidarity because if there’s anyone that understands what you endured, it’s Luca.

“I was relieved when the police arrested him, I didn’t have the strength to leave him before that but after…” Your eyes flicker up to meet his and truly they are the most beautiful shade he’s ever seen. “I got to be me again, the real me, not the one he’d tried to shape me into.”

“I’m glad that you escaped that life.” He says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair back behind your ear. “That we both managed to find our way to each other.”

You clasp his hand to your cheek, your lips brushing over his pulse point as you whisper.

“Yea. I am too.”

Love Luca? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[zablife]

Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwiches

Summary: Even though you've promised to marry him, you still feel as though you might not be what Elvis needs. An argument over dinner proves the perfect time for him to set you straight.

A/N: I've never written for Elvis before, but something came to me I couldn't resist!

"Get up 'ere and tell me whatsa matter with you!" Elvis demanded, obviously displeased by the way you'd stormed away to the kitchen.

You pursed your lips into a defiant pout, arms crossed over your chest as you heaved for breath. He'd knocked the wind out of you when he picked you up and slammed you down onto the counter. The gasp you'd stifled was proof of it.

"I don't got anything to say to you," you retorted, averting your gaze and staring down at his dark suede shoes.

He was a gentleman at heart, but his temper often got the best of him. You heard him huff, watching him stuff his hands in his pockets to keep from manhandling you further. It was clear he only wanted to know what was wrong and he paced silently as he waited for an answer.

You were stubborn too though and often tested his patience by being deliberately willful. If he didn't know what he'd done this time, you certainly weren't going to tell him. He could figure that out for himself, you thought as you let him stew.

A moment more of shoes squeaking against the linoleum and Elvis snapped. Charging back toward you, he captured your jaw in one enormous palm forcing your eyes to meet his penetrating stare.

"Said I was sorry, didn't I?" he demanded and you could only gulp in reply. He hadn't been kind about your efforts cooking dinner and the jokes he made to the mafia eroded what little confidence you had left.

Your lip quivered despite your best efforts and hot tears welled at your lash line. Of course he noticed the change in you instantly, reaching up to catch the first tear as it fell.

“Don’t do that darlin’,” he pleaded, voice dripping in honeyed concern.

You sniffed back emotion so as not to show weakness and he chuckled slightly. "Always a brave little soldier, ain't ya?" he teased.

"M not, tho," you admitted. "I don't think I can do this," you whispered, pitching forward to press your foreheads together. You breathed in his comforting scent, allowing the waves of calm to wash over you before you continued. "I'm sorry, but I can't be your wife," you confessed. You knew it to be true, unable to keep house or cook meals for him perfectly the way his mama did for him when she was alive. You didn't have the same experience and it was killing you to know how you were failing him.

Elvis breathed deeply as his large hand came to cradle the back of your head, making you feel safe and secure as only he knew how. You could feel him smirking against you and you held your breath waiting for whatever reply he'd give to dismiss your concerns.

However, he surprised you when his voice rumbled low and sincere from deep within his chest. "You're gonna make the most wonderful wife, sweetheart. I know it cause you're kind and gentle..." He paused to gather his thoughts, fingers twisting in your hair as he added softly, "but most of all cause you love me like I love you."

Your heart nearly skipped a beat as he spoke the words of affirmation you'd longed to hear so many months now living with him at Graceland. However, your old insecurities ate at you faster than he could banish them. Your head shook softly against his broad shoulder, tears dripping down his shirt front as you proclaimed, "Tonight you said I couldn't do nothin' right. Maybe it's true." Then you gave in to the melancholy, hiccuped sobs leaving your parted lips.

You felt his chest puff out against you, ready to deny the accusation before he thought better of it. He looked back toward the dining room where a dozen witnesses could easily corroborate his sharp criticism. With you tugging at his heart strings now, he realized his mistake.

"Look, baby, I don't care you can't cook," he swore to you. As you looked up into his sapphire eyes, you knew he was telling the truth. Searching your tear stained face for forgiveness he added, "I'll hire us a chef and you don't ever have to worry again, alright?"

"You won't think less of me?" you asked, wiping at your ruined mascara.

A wide grin spread over his face as he thought for a moment, the devilish glint returning to his eyes as he answered, "Not as long as you learn to make me a peanut butter and banana sandwich. I can't go on a two week honeymoon with no help and nobody to make it f'me," he chuckled.

You hit his chest playfully, a giggle escaping your lips. "And how am I gonna do that?" you teased back, biting your cheek in anticipation.

Elvis' broad hands came to rest at your waist, raising you from your perch with ease. With controlled precision he placed you onto the ground beside him, pulling you into his side. "What if I teach ya?" he asked in complete seriousness.

Hands resting against his firm chest, you looked up at him expectantly, wanting to please him more than anything in the world. "I reckon I could learn."

"Yeah?" he asked, lips twitching into a tentative smile at your willingness.

"Mm-hmm," you confirmed with a quick nod.

Elvis took you by the hand and drug you toward the pantry as you furrowed your brow in confusion. "R-right now?" you stuttered, unable to believe he'd forsake his guests waiting for a proper meal in the next room.

"Ain't no time like the present, sweetheart," he declared, shutting them all out to spend time with you.

[daylite-writes]

Yandere Xiao Thoughts

cw: previous kidnapping, mild self harm, yandere, soft yandere, fairly mild.

Oh immortal yanderes. The ones that steal you away, the ones that don’t quite understand how humans work. The ones that didn’t do their research.

The ones in over their head.

Learning quickly how much humans need socialization, need stimulation, need sun and nature. Learning quickly how badly humans react to being deprived of it.

Xiao doesn’t know how to react once it starts getting to you. You’re breaking down more often, quicker anger, quicker to cry. Pacing the small area he’s forced you into. At first, he thought you were just going through a… rougher period of adjustment. Until your coping mechanisms become self destructive.

He doesn’t know what do when he comes back from patrolling Liyue to find the skin of your forearms red, covered in scratches from your own nails. He offers little except panted out comforts and promises of safety as he pins you down, trying to keep your hands off you, deathly afraid of you hurting yourself even more. This goes on for hours, until you eventually fall asleep, exhausted and worn out from the months.

After a short consolation with Zhongli, the reality that he’s been caring for you horribly becomes apparent. His previously iron will and rules eroding a bit as he tries to meet the less visible, psychological needs that a human requires.

But bending his own rules for you does not mean freedom.

You need sunlight? You’re in his lap for hours, his arms wrapped around you as you two sit in the sun atop a isolated mountain peak. It’s better than nothing, but he refuses to let go. This becomes routine.

You need mental stimulation? Entertainment and occupation? Zhongli suggests books, but Xiao decides on you singing and playing music. So he can hear it. You’ve never played, but when he presents you with several masterfully crafted instruments, you eventually have no choice but to take a violin bow into your hands and open the guide book he gave you. What else is there to do. He’s always lingering whenever you’re learning.

You’re touch starved? Now his hands won’t leave your skin. It’s not even lewd, more threatening as he rests his hand around the back of your neck, or forces you to hug him.

Previously, you felt like a little bird in a cage, never to fly, owned by a passive master. Now though, you’re role is that of an unwilling lap dog. Better, even if you yearn for something else.

[ladytauria]

things unspoken (now said)

Pairing: Tim Drake/Jason Todd Rating: Teen Words: 19k Warnings: None

When Dick asks for help with a case, Jason and Tim find themselves undercover as a couple to lure a killer out of hiding.

This is fine. Except for one problem…

They broke up two months ago, after no one knew they were dating in the first place.

written for the red on red holidays event! this one’s been up for a couple of days but authors were just revealed today <3

>> AO3 <<

“I am so sorry.”

Jason’s hand is still clutching Tim’s, a little too tightly to be comfortable. Tim still doesn’t make any effort to pull away. He’s pathetic like that.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jason says immediately. His other hand is braced around the elbow of the man who just crashed into him, keeping him from sprawling to the floor. The man’s coffee wasn’t so lucky. Most of it is splattered over the front of Jason’s sweater, though some also landed on the floor and the other man’s jacket. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, shaking his head and stepping away. It lets Tim get a better look at him. The man is taller than he is, though not as tall as Jason. His face is rather plain—the kind of face that Tim’s eyes could just skip right over, if not for the fact he’s spent the last several days studying it intently.

This is Alexander Miller, avid skier and one of two suspects in the case he’s currently working with Jason.

It says something about his life that this isn’t the first time he’s had to pretend to be happily in love with his ex. What, exactly, it says, he’s not sure—except maybe that he needs to stop giving in when Dick asks him for favors.

Not that Dick knew what he was asking. He was under the impression, as was the rest of the world, that Tim and Jason had never been anything more than just friends.

“Your shirt—”

Jason glances down and grimaces. The coffee is already sinking into the fabric, turning what was a nice off-white into something more beige. Tim reluctantly disentangles his fingers from Jason to pat himself down for napkins.

Alexander beats him to it. He fishes a brown paper bag off of the floor and pulls a wad of napkins out, holding them out. “Here, maybe these will help.”

“Thanks,” Jason says, pulling his sweater taut to dab at the stain. “Sorry ‘bout your coffee.”

Tim kneels. He knows he packed some wipes in his carry on—and if he can’t find them, then he’s sure there will be some in Jason’s.

“No, don’t apologize,” Miller says as he kneels again. This time to retrieve his cup and throw it in the bag the napkins had come from. He uses the napkins that had been wrapped around it to mop up the spill as best he can—there aren’t enough to do the job properly, though, and streaks are left behind. “I should have been paying more attention to where I was going. I hope I didn’t ruin your sweater.”

A-ha! Tim finds the wipes where he’d stuffed them and zips his bag up again. He bats Jason’s hand away so he can scrub at the front of his shirt. As soon as he starts, a wave of regret hits him.

This is the closest he’s been to him in… nearly two months. The scent of coffee nearly overpowers that of Jason’s aftershave… but even that much of a whiff of it makes his throat feel tight, his eyes burning.

Not now, Drake. You have a job to do.

He doesn’t have much confidence in his ability to repress his feelings this time. Jason’s presence has a way of eroding all of his self-control.

“Nah, it’ll come out in the wash,” Jason says. “Little cold water and some spot treatment will take care of this no problem—right, baby?”

Tim glances up and finds Jason looking at him—the expression on his face is so soft it makes him ache. He makes himself smile back. He can tell Jason sees the tension in it because for just a moment, a muscle tics in his jaw before it relaxes again.

“Right,” he says.

Tim thinks he’s done as much as he can for the stain now—the fabric is damp with both coffee and the cleaning solution in the wipes. There will be no telling what the damage actually is until it’s had time to dry.

He glances up at Jason again, grimacing slightly. Sorry. Think that’s the best it’s going to get.

Jason’s shoulder twitches; a brief facsimile of a shrug. It is what it is. I’ll deal with it later.

Tim steps back. Alexander holds the paper bag out, allowing Tim and Jason to throw the used napkins and wipes away before he crumples the end.

“This place is busier than I expected,” Alexander says, scanning the area. They’re waiting for a tram to arrive to take them up to the ski lodge, which is about halfway up the mountain. “I thought for sure it would be quieter this year.”

“Oh?” Tim asks. Jason’s fingers tangle with his again. He steps closer to him, until their arms are brushing. It feels so natural it takes Tim a moment to remember why it shouldn’t be. Jason’s thumb strokes over his knuckles, and Tim aches.

It’s unfair. Something should have changed, after everything—but if anything it feels like it’s even easier now than it ever was before. Tim remembers sweaty palms and too-tight grips as they fumbled through the most innocent of romantic gestures.

He supposes, somewhere along the way, they must have finally gotten it right.

Alexander’s mouth tightens so briefly Tim almost misses it. “Ah—I don’t suppose either of you have looked into the local news then.” He laughs uncomfortably.

“No. Our flight just got in an hour or so ago,” Jason says. “Did something happen?”

This time, Alexander doesn’t bother suppressing his grimace. “Not recently.” He pushes his hand through his hair as he shifts uncomfortably. “Look—the last thing I want to do is put a damper on your holiday, but—well. I suppose you ought to know. A few months ago, they found a body in the forest around the lodge.”

Interesting.

Not the fact itself—that Tim knew. It’s the language he can’t help picking apart. ‘They found a body’ and not ‘someone was murdered.’ But even more importantly: Alexander only mentions one, and not that this is one in a series of four murders taking place over a period of about three years.

Of course, his cover doesn’t know that, so his eyes widen in artificial surprise. “That’s horrible. Was it an accident?”

Alexander shakes his head mutely.

“Did they catch the one who did it?” Jason asks, using his grip on Tim’s hand to draw him in closer.

Tim’s heartbeat quickens in his chest.

“No.” Alexander doesn’t elaborate further. Tim supposes he doesn’t blame him—he’s not sure he would want to confess to a pair of strangers that he was a suspect in a murder case either.

The ski lodge is far enough away from Gotham that normally, the murders wouldn’t have attracted their attention… if it weren’t for Dick. Or, rather, Richie Grayson. He came up with a group of civilian friends—or, well, ‘friends’—and learned of the murder through happenstance. Obviously, he couldn’t resist digging deeper.

He’d found that this murder was one of four, which have taken place over a period of about three years. All of the victims had been vacationing at the lodge before their bodies were found in the surrounding pines. Two of the victims had been men, the other two were women. They worked different jobs, lived in different places, and had little in common physically. However, all of them had been in relationships at the time of visiting the lodge, and all four couples had been seen spending time with Mikayla Vaughn, ski teacher, and Alexander Miller, hobbyist skier.

There had been another name, too—Jack Manning, a bartender at the Lodge. He had been investigated in connection to murder number three after he’d been seen arguing with the victim. However, while he was in custody, a few weeks before his trial date, the fourth murder had been committed.

It was more brutal than the previous three, and unlike the others, it had taken place during the off season.

The case against Jack had been dropped—for now—and he’d been released. He had not come back to work at the Lodge.

Given the sloppiness of the last kill, and the break in pattern, Dick believes that the killer is going to strike again soon. Being otherwise occupied, though, there’s not much he can do to investigate.

So… he’d called Tim and Jason in to help instead.

Alexander seems to shake himself. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” His face smooths into an apologetic smile. “Look, why don’t you let me make things up to you? I’m heading up to the lodge to grab drinks with a friend. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you joined us. Drinks will be on me.” He winks.

It’s almost charming.

Tim glances up at Jason. Jason’s head cocks in silent question. At Tim’s slight nod, they both turn back to Alex.

“We’d love to,” Jason says.

“Excellent.” Alexander holds his hand out. “The name’s Alex, by the way.”

Jason shakes it. “Jay. And this is my boyfriend, Tim.”

Tim shakes Alex’s hand next—the man has a good grip. “It’s a pleasure to meet both of you.”

>> AO3 <<

[thefreakandthehair]

A Steddie fanfiction written for the @steddiebang with art by @sungods-healingg and @oriarts. 55k. Rated E.

Chapter One coming soon to ao3 on November 25, 2023! Sneak peek included below!

“Give it, hey! Give me the check,” Eddie argues, trying to pry it from Steve’s hands. “I’m not letting you pay, c’mon.” 

“I—” Steve starts grappling and tries to maintain some degree of subtly in the still bustling diner. “I’m paying, give it.” 

“Not a chance, I don’t want stories going around that I’m some kept boyfriend who uses Steve Harrington for his money.” Eddie’s lips purse and his eyes narrow. “Hand it over.”

With a final tug, Eddie celebrates internally as he yanks the envelope from Steve. He realizes belatedly that he only won that battle because Steve freezes. It takes a few seconds, maybe a moment as he slips his credit card into the little pocket and flags down their waitress again, to figure out why. 

Boyfriend. 

Presumptuous at best and enough to scare Steve off at worst. The silence is hard to read so Eddie simply hands over the check and stares with wide eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. 

“Or-- you know, just, someone who uses Steve Harrington for his money. Big baseball contract and all that?” He tries to brush it off and deflect with humor, something that usually works well enough but apparently, not on Steve. 

“You said boyfriend.” He says simply, ignoring Eddie’s attempts entirely. 

Suddenly, Eddie regrets that sweet dessert for dinner because his stomach is tumbling in a dangerous way. He rubs the back of his neck and pulls at a strand of loose hair.

“I uh, yeah, I guess I did. Do you… have thoughts? On that?” 

Steve blinks at him, three times in quick succession, before the right corner of his mouth quirks up. “I do, actually. But I think I’d rather show you and I’d probably lose that big baseball contract if I did that here.” 

“Oh?” Eddie teases, pausing to grab the check back from the waitress to sign and slide his credit card back into it wallet. When she’s far enough away that Eddie’s sure she won’t hear, he reminds Steve of their location. “My apartment’s just like, two blocks over. If uh, if you’d like to show me in a more private spot?” 

The first time Eddie massaged Steve, he felt called back to the dangerous adrenaline rushes of his youth, all impulsivity and carelessness, and he feels it again as he invites Steve back to his apartment. Or maybe, it never even left. Maybe it’s just been slowly eroding his resolve for the past two months.

Whatever the case, his body trembles when Steve says Yes. 

tagging people who've asked, expressed interest to me or in tags, etc. and some pals: @hbyrde36 @steddieasitgoes @sidekick-hero @dryptid @sharpbutsoft @cuoredimuschio @kkpwnall @starryeyedjanai @scarcrossdlvrs @marvel-ous-m @pearynice @judasofsuburbia @corrodedbisexual @shares-a-vest @hellion-child @pumpkinspicestevie @delta-piscium @perseus-notjackson @thisapplepielife @withacapitalp @nostalgicbones @hereforanepilogue @stevethehairington @nostalgicbones @t-boyeddie @theheadlessphilosopher @stobinesque @imfinereallyy @hexiewrites @maxineholtzmann @starrystevie @steddieas-shegoes @daysarestranger @goodolefashionedloverboi

[ddarker-dreams]

do you have any more yan golden girl thoughts you can share 🤲 i am devouring them every single time

ohhh boy ohhhhh man.... it really is something... here are some yan branch ideas (from their high school years).

(reader here is described as fem, satoru and suguru are gaslit gatekeep girlboss-ing their way into making you their girlfriend)

for starters, satoru and suguru handle the kaizu incident much worse. what little tact they have in the main storyline is gone lol. this has short-term success and long-term consequences. rather than giving you the time to recover and reflect, suguru sneakily introduces guilt. he stresses that you should've told them that you can't perform cursed technique: null without hurting yourself in the process. had they known, they would've found another way.

then there's satoru. he just starts coming along on your assignments. if you get annoyed and tell him to quit following you, he seemingly concedes. that is, until every time you arrive at your assignment's destination, you find him lounging around, having already exorcised the curse. while you're recovering from his audacity, he's making dinner plans, brochure in hand. he's pointing at a famous local restaurant instead of acknowledging your frustration.

"you took forever to get here," he'll lament with a yawn. "i was so bored. ready to ditch this place?"

they safeguard you from any danger at the cost of eroding your relationship.

you came here to learn, to grow in strength and potential. how can you do that under these circumstances? suguru interferes behind the scene so you’re given less assignments, satoru tags along uninvited for the few you manage to land. it’s frustrating and demotivating. trying to get them to see reason is akin to arguing with a brick will. satoru waves off your frustrations whereas suguru listens. in a way, this is almost worse. suguru gives the false impression that you might be changing his mind. he’ll nod along as you vent, his countenance solemn and his voice soft. he’ll validate your smaller plights while twisting your perspective on the most pressing issues. you come away from the interactions unsure of what to feel.

are you making a big deal of things? is satoru just expressing concern in his weird why? maybe they could be handling it better, but it isn’t like their intentions are malicious, you did almost die in front of them… etc etc. the seeds of self-doubt blossom until they’ve made your mind a garden.

then there’s the whole ‘you're our girlfriend now’ bit that deserves mention. satoru kicked it off and suguru went with it. you didn’t think much of it at first, especially since they both conveniently forgot to fill you in on this major development. after showering, you’ll leave the restroom to find satoru sitting on your bed in his slacks, acting like it’s the most normal thing. they stand on either side of you when you’re traveling by train. suguru’s hand finds yours when navigating busy crowds, his grip gentle while also communicating he won’t let you slip away.

you only find out that you've apparently been their girlfriend for months when satoru complains about the lack of a first kiss. when you understandably express your confusion, he coos over how you're 'acting shy.' suguru isn't much help. he opts for the gaslight route.

"you forgot the evening where we...?" he'll begin, visibly crestfallen. "but i thought... ah, never mind... no, it's nothing, really..."

(the 'evening' in question does not exist, he's trying to confuse you so you're more willing to accept this bombshell).

[impala-dreamer]

Tell me about... Dean trying to help mend your broken heart.

Staring At The Sun

Dean x Reader

Little Angsty/Little Fluffy. Allusions to abusive past relationship. Awkward Dean.

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

There was no peace; no space between the lines that made any sense. There was just pain that rippled in your chest like some violent wave that knocked against the shores of your heart, forever eroding the muscle until it was impossible to move, to breathe, to do anything but remember her face. 

The lines on the map gave her something to look at more substantial than the particles of dust floating through the air, and Y/N lay her hand on the Pacific, wishing the table would come to life and drown her in the deep ocean. 

Dean sat across the table, a beer in hand, his boot heels covering northern Europe. He narrowed his gaze on Y/N and took a drink. She was moping again and it was driving him mad. 

“Hey.” 

She didn’t hear him, so stuck in the cycle of misery that nothing much could break through. 

He tried again, this time rapping his knuckles on the glowing table. “Hey! Ground Control to Major Tom!”

Y/N startled and a sharp inhale brought her back. “Sorry. What were you saying?” 

Dean rolled his eyes slightly. “I wasn’t saying anything.” 

“Then why are you yelling at me?” Y/N slumped back in her chair, leaving the vast ocean and her dreams of oblivion behind. 

“First off- I wasn’t yelling at you, I was getting your attention.” He kicked his feet down and sat the right way, turning to face her directly. 

“OK. Why?” 

“Because I’m-” He wanted to say worried but he couldn’t make his mouth move that way. He cleared his throat. “Well, you’re-” Breaking my heart since he broke yours. “You’re bumming me out.”

She cocked a brow and glared. “Excuse me?” 

“You’ve done nothing but sulk around this place for months now and it’s kinda driving me crazy.”

A tight little ball formed in her chest. “Screw you.” 

Dean pursed his lips. Unimpressed dimples popped above his lip. “Excuse me?”

“Number one- it hasn’t been months. It’s been three weeks and five days-”

“Almost a month…”

“And fuck you very much for making me feel even worse about it.” Her voice crackled around the words and the end faded into a struggling inhale. Wetness rimmed her eyes and Dean kicked himself. 

“No. Hey, I wasn’t-” Shit. “I didn’t mean-”

“No, of course you didn’t!” Y/N clenched her teeth and shook her head at him, at her ex, at the world. “No one ever means to, do they? You don’t mean to yell at me, He didn’t mean to hurt me; Sam doesn’t mean to leave his fucking socks everywhere! No one ever means anything!” In a huff, she stood up and kicked her chair back. The wheels rolled all the way to the top of the little staircase and the Library readied for its landing. “Everyone can just run around being inconsiderate and nasty to me and- fucking-  breaking my fucking heart over and over and- No one ever means to! Why doesn’t anyone ever own up to their shit anymore!”

Fuck. No… Dean set his beer down over Belgium and pushed his seat back. “Y/N/N-”

She turned away from him, arm waving him away. “Ya know, maybe it’s my fault. I’m too damned unlovable. Too fat and ugly. Too lazy. Too… too fucking- too! Just too! No one gives a shit how they make me feel! They just go on breaking me to pieces and walking away like it doesn’t fucking matter. Like- like I don’t matter. I don’t matter. I don’t fucking matter. So he broke my heart- who fucking cares? So I’m fucking broken and dying here and- who cares? No one. And no one should!” 

Stop it. Stop it. “Stop it!” 

When Y/N turned back, jolted by his yell, Dean was there, no more than a foot away. His green eyes were filled with as much pain as she felt but she couldn’t understand why. She looked up at him, confused.

“None of that is true,” he said softly. “You’re not fat and ugly, Y/N. You’re not… unlovable. You’re…” Beautiful. Amazing. Everything I fucking need in my life. “You’re incredible.” 

She laughed in his face. Tears flowing freely, she laughed. “You’re a real asshole, Dean. That’s not funny. At all.” 

Son-of-a-bitch. 

“I’m not- I’m not trying to be funny, OK? I’m trying to be serious here.” 

His shoulders dropped; his charm and defenses fell with it. He looked away, trying to keep his cheeks dry, and licked his lips. 

Y/N watched him, slowly calming down, releasing the tight ball in her chest. “Dean-”

“It’s been killing me, Y/N/N. Watching him fuck with you the way he did… That… abusive fuck. I mean, the things he said to you, the way he treated you- it was all…”

Her tears doubled at the memory. “I know. I was an idiot.” 

Dean sucked in a quick breath and found her gaze. “No. Not an idiot. Never.” 

“I could have left long before he did.” She laughed softly, bitterly. 

“It’s not all on you.” He stepped closer. Just an inch, just enough to make her breath hitch. “I could have said something. I should have said something.” 

Her pulse quickened. She’d never seen that look in his eyes before. She’d seen pain, trauma, humor, friendship, but this was something different. Something darker, deeper. 

“What would you have said?” she asked, refusing to blink another tear free. 

Dean sank his front teeth into his bottom lip and shook his head. Say it. Just say it, you asshole. 

Y/N reached for his hand and he turned his palm up, sliding it against hers. “Dean…”

Just. Say. It. 

“You said no one cares,” he whispered, closing his fingers tight around her hand. “I do. I uh-” Come on, dammit. “I care about you. A lot. More than a lot. I uh-” Don’t make me say it, please. “Well, the thing is… I just feel like…” I’m staring at the sun when I look at you and I can’t think of anything I want more. Seeing you so broken these last few weeks has nearly killed me and I just want to be the one thing that makes you smile. “I mean, we’ve gotten close and-”

Y/N smiled. Awkward was too perfect on him. Somewhere beneath the miles of blood and murder was a core of pure innocence. She laughed. 

“Don’t- don’t laugh at me, I’m trying to say something!” 

She squeezed his hand and brought it to her lips. She let him off the hook, kissing his knuckles and looking up into his nervous green eyes. 

“Me too, Dean.” 

Thank-fucking-god. 

His cheeks burned. “Yeah?” 

She nodded. “Yeah. Obviously.” 

Don’t kiss her. Not yet. Too soon. 

“Fuck that guy, OK?” He cringed. “I mean, don’t fuck that guy. Ever again. Fuck-”

“You?” 

She grinned and his heart leapt. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” he said, reciprocating her kiss, “I’m ready.”

2024 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

@alwaystiredandconfused @babysimpala @beardburnsupersoldiers @chenshemesh1 @cosicas-cuquis @deans-baby-momma @deanwinchesterswitch @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 @impalaspixie @jackles010378 @kazsrm67 @k-slla @leigh70  

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[sketches4mysw33theart]

No Such Thing As Ghosts

Pairing: Henry Winter (The Secret History)

Summary: A secret meeting with Henry Winter in a graveyard at twilight. What can go wrong?

Warnings: None

Also would like to add - I know ventriloquism is spelt wrong in here. It's on purpose!

Other Henry Winter pieces: To Indeed Be A God, Omnia Redit Ad Pulverem

“Henry?” I whispered tentatively into the quiet, purple darkness. “Are you there?” 

I always felt the need to whisper when we met on nights like that. To this day, I don’t know why. The only people I could wake there were the dead.  

As I stepped through the foreboding arch, rising up like a gargoyle through the twilight, and into the graveyard, I heard the clicking of a light, the clapping of a book shutting, the rustle of a thick coat, the snapping of twigs. 

“I’m here,” he said, from the right. I turned to the sound of his voice in time to see him, dot of a lantern in hand, emerging from behind a grave sculpture he was rather fond of, a weathered marble depiction of a cherub whose nose had long since eroded. When we were last there, that same cherub had been on its side in the dirt. Despite his admiration for it, Henry had refused to put it back in its place.    

“I wasn’t sure you’d come. It’s supposed to snow tonight.” He looked tired, particularly in that incandescent light. This, however, was nothing new.  

“I know. We’ve managed snow before.” 

Henry and I had been secretly meeting for months, almost a year. Our clandestine trysts were well considered, in far-flung places that no one, not even Bunny Corcoran, would consider searching. Henry feared the scrutiny he and I would receive. I, after all, was majoring in medicine. It felt like a treachery to our separate kingdoms, I in medicine, he in Classics, that we were in love. A war on time. Romeo and Juliet, kept apart by the fog of the mountains and the turrets of Hampden College. But never by the snow, it seemed. 

It was a funny night, illuminated by a bright moon but encroached with shadows, the threat of the oncoming storm. Still, it was just light enough to see the outlines of the graves around us, the one mausoleum of the tiny town, the eerie statues looming before us, faces turned piously in every direction as though we had recruited them as lookouts. 

“Someone’s been here since August,” Henry said, coming to me finally and rubbing his gloved hands up my arms. I didn’t realise I'd crossed them over my chest. “The cherub’s back in place. You’re cold. Perhaps we should go to my car?”  

He must have felt my quivering bones, even beneath the thickest coat I owned. I shook my head. Despite it all, I liked meeting at the graveyard. It was quiet, far away from the familiar, and, in a terrifying way, beautiful. Almost all old things were beautiful to me then. Henry taught me that, through the strange photographs in his books and his detailed monologues. He had a gift of bringing history to life. 

“No, I’m fine. Have you seen anyone around?” 

He scoffed. “Of course not.” 

This was the main reason we met there so often. Who on Earth would hike through the woods at twilight to laugh among the tombstones? Well, we knew the answer to that. There had been the time we held a picnic in the height of summer, when fireflies had flew through from the nearby river and Henry had managed to catch one in his bare hand, the night we spent in the mausoleum to satisfy some maudlin craving of Henry’s, the evening we’d played hide and seek (somewhat begrudgingly, on one of our parts) among the gravestones. That had been the first time we'd claimed the graveyard as our own, mere days after Charles and Camilla had shown Henry through the place after hearing them speak about it.   

The graveyard had belonged to a town, struck by disaster and long since deserted. Besides a looming church pyre and a few piles of rubble, it was the only indication that a town had once stood there at all.  

“Here, sit down.” Of course, Henry had come prepared. Behind his grave of choice was spread out a meticulous picnic blanket, the host of his book, another thick blanket and matches and kerosene for the lamp. Gingerly, I arranged myself on the it, leaning partly on the gravestone for support. Once I was settled, Henry stretched out beside me, arm pressed against mine, hand resting on my leg.  

“I missed you,” I mumbled, reaching over to take that same hand. He settled his thick fingers between mine and afforded me a small smile, nosing softly at my cheek. “How’s the new boy?” 

Henry sighed, a warm exhalation that spread across my face. “Strange. I can’t read him very well. But he seems the silent type, so I don’t see why he won’t get along just fine. Charles and Camilla are particularly fond of him.” 

“You’re not?” 

“No. He's so... quiet, closed off. He walks around like a ghost.” 

I didn’t say anything. I’d seen Richard, the new addition to the Greek class, fairly often around campus, floating to his classes and slipping into the rowdy parties. Ghost was certainly the best way to describe him. But I’d never said two words to him, so who was I to judge? 

With that conversation abruptly dried up, I glanced around the cemetery that protected us from our lives, looking for snow. There was none yet, of course. Just gravestones, cool and still. 

“Do you think this place is haunted?” I asked, ghosts on my mind now. Henry laughed scornfully. 

“Of course not. There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

“How do you know?” I asked accusingly, with a teasing smile. Henry rolled his eyes, shaking his head. 

“Because how could there be? There’s no conclusive evidence of a life after death, and there is certainly no conclusive evidence of spirits.” 

“Didn’t the Ancient Greeks have a God of ghosts?” 

“Oh yes, Melinoe. Also, the God of nightmares. Far too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?” 

 I stared at him, and he raised his eyebrows. “Come on, you don’t believe anything happens after death?” 

He was silent for a moment, considering my question. “I believe... that our souls linger. Not on Earth, that’s far too ridiculous. But... somewhere. Julian once said...” 

Before he could continue speaking, there was a creak out in the woods, echoing through the silence. Startled, we both whipped up to face the direction. A hunter stalking down its dinner? A bird flying past a bare tree? Or... 

“Did you hear that?” I said, springing to my feet, holding back a laugh. “That sounds like a ghost to me.” 

“Oh, for...” Henry’s head fell to his tented hand, but I could see the curve of his lips.  

“No, no, listen, Henry.” I was smiling as I held my hand to my ear and nudged his leg with my toe. There was another noise. A rustle in the forest. Closer.  

I looked down to him. “We’re not alone here.” 

Henry chuckled. “There is no such thing as ghosts!” 

“I don’t know, I think we could be about to capture your conclusive evidence.” 

Another noise. Even closer. Twigs snapping, leaves rustling, insects buzzing, wind blowing. 

“Really,” Henry huffed, shaking his head as he pushed himself to his feet. “How many times? There’s no such thing as...” 

Suddenly, another noise, a crash, like an elephant marching through the forest edge, and Henry fell silent, peering beyond the gravestone. “See?” I said, gleefully. “No such thing as ghosts, indeed.” 

Henry shushed me forcefully. “No, there is not.” Then, footsteps, not loud, necessarily, but obvious in the quiet that echoed between the gravestones. Very clearly human. It was only when I heard it getting closer that I realised my spectre, corporal or otherwise, could present a serious danger to us. Two college kids, out in a graveyard, in the dark. Good Lord.  

“So, who the hell is that?” Henry finished, darting eyes staring uselessly into the darkness. His gaze flew to the lantern, still lit on the blanket. 

But, before he could stoop to pick it up, there were more footsteps, the eerie sound of a mumbling voice getting closer, like a radio being turned up. Henry’s spine was stiff, assuring the stretch of his shoulders and each inch of his height was obvious. Then, a shout, “Is anyone there?” 

I knew that voice. It was familiar, terribly so, but I couldn’t place it. A glance at Henry told me he knew it too, but seemingly better than me. 

“Oh God.” He had gone white, all the colour sapped from his cheeks in the flutter of my eyelashes. Instantly, I was on edge. 

“What?” I whispered. “What is it?” 

His Adam’s apple bobbed listlessly as he swallowed. “It’s Bunny.” 

Oh God. I knew Bunny, alright. There weren’t many on campus who didn’t. Loud, ferreting, damn near insufferable Bunny, whose obnoxious voice seemed to reach as far as Fairfax and twisted mind ensured acquaintances either adored him or loathed him. From what I had experienced and seen, and the stories Henry had hesitantly told me, I fell into the latter.  

“Bunny?” I repeated incredulously. “What the hell is he doing here?” 

Henry shushed me forcefully. “Get down,” he whispered, “on the blanket, behind the cherub. Stay down, don’t move.” 

I followed his commands without delay, happy to be told what to do in the face of this unforeseen upheaval. My mind was frantic. Of all the people who had to happen upon us, it had to be him. Now curled up on the blanket, cradling my knees like a child, I looked up to Henry, his strong jaw set, calm hands cleaning his glasses on the tail-end of his shirt. As the footsteps came closer, through the archway, and the mumbling voice bounced off the gravestones in awe, he was tucking his ruffled shirt back neatly into his waistband.  

And then... 

“Henry,” Bunny honked, his voice carrying so harshly it made me wince. “Am I glad to see you, old boy, I just got so lost on one of my little walks. These damn Vermont nights, hm? Creepin’ up on me. What on Earth are you doing out here at this time of day? It’s supposed to snow tonight, you know.” 

“Yes, I heard, Bun. I was –“ 

“You wouldn’t be hiding someone back there, would ya?” He knew. I could tell, just from his voice. “’Cause, y’know, I couldda sworn I heard ya talkin’ to someone.” 

“No, not at all. I –“ 

Again, Bunny cut him off. “Naw, I know I heard you talking to someone. What you doin’, taking up ventriloqulism, or somethin’?” He laughed, the squawking of a flock of seagulls. “What you got behind there, hm? Is that where you’re hiding her?” 

Henry protested uselessly, trying to mollify Bunny before he could get too close. I watched him step forward, presumably to meet his friend before he could get to me, then saw the red of Bunny’s hair and the glint of his glasses as he tried to see beyond Henry’s broad frame.  

“You brought blankets, I see. And a lantern. And-“ I saw no point in avoiding it. Bunny was leaning so far around the grave, trying to poke his head around Henry’s large frame despite the latter’s protests and fidgeting, that he would see me one way or another. May as well save everyone’s blushes. 

This time, it was Bunny that got cut off, by my face, no doubt paled and terrified-looking, rising up over the other side of the grave. “Hi, Bunny,” I said meekly. 

“Well,” Bunny said, stopped in his tracks. I could see the surprise glinting behind his glasses, the few cogs turning slowly in his futile brain. Henry, his shoulders still braced but looking somewhat relieved, took the hand I reached out to him under the cover of the grave. “Well, well, well. I’ll be damned. Henry and his little doctor, is it? I must say, Henry, I never thought you’d get down with a pill pusher. Actually, now that I say it, it makes perfect sense.” He laughed again, but I looked at Henry without even a smile on my face. I saw, with little surprise, that Henry wasn’t sharing in our unexpected guest’s joy either. In fact, he looked angry. Startlingly so. 

“Go on then. Doctor, doctor, give me the news. What’s the story between you two?  Y’know, my father always says doctor’s are charlatans, a load of crooks.” 

“Actually, Bun, I don’t want to be a doctor.” Henry squeezed my hand tight as I finished this sentence.  A warning, I realised after, when it was too late. “I want to be a psychiatrist.” 

“Oh, a shrink, hm?” Bunny’s eyes glinted maliciously, illuminating like hell fire in the cast of Henry’s lantern. He gestured to Henry. “He your first patient? There’s rules and regulations, y’know, codes of conduct. No mouth to mouth at those appointments.” He laughed again.  

“Yes, very droll, Bunny,” Henry said disdainfully. “Do you need us to walk you back to Hampden?” His hint wasn’t even subtle, voice dripping with annoyance, but Bunny did not, or refused to, pick up on it. 

“Me? Oh, no, I’m fine, I know the way. But I want to hear about you two. Has he tried to-?” 

“Actually, Bun,” I jumped in, trying to think on my feet under his scrupulous gaze. “I don’t know if you’ll have time. I heard Marion was looking for you earlier. Something to do with Cloke Rayburn, and a tinfoil package?” 

Bunny’s face, which had twisted into an aloof, non-caring expression at the mention of his girlfriend, fell instantly as I finished speaking.  

He dithered for a moment, fisting the edge of his thick coat with one hand and scratching at his head with the other, mumbling vocal disfluencies, half-baked excuses and nonsensical reasons why he should or shouldn’t go. These fell out of his mouth in a torrent, almost unintelligible. I glanced at Henry, but he was only staring stonily at our unwanted visitor. 

“Perhaps you’d better go find out what she wants?” I pushed as gently and indifferently as I could. 

Bunny threw his hands up, a surrender to a decision finally made. “Doctor’s orders.” He laughed raucously, so shrilly it set me on edge. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your little love nest. I look forward to hearing all about this later, Henry.” It felt like a threat. From the look on Henry’s face, he took it like one. 

“See you folks later.” And with a wave of his hand and a blur of sandy hair, Bunny was gone like the apparition I’d initially thought he was. Immediately, Henry sighed out a long, deep breath. Relief. 

“Good God, I’m never going to hear the end of this now,” he said as he slid down the gravestone to rest on the blanket. “Of all the people who could’ve found us, it had to be him, didn’t it? Not Charles, not Francis, not even one of your friends... Bunny.”  

“C’mon, he’s your friend, Henry, he would-” Henry shot me a glare, quickly broken by a smile as I stopped talking. 

“Oh, he would do that to me. To us.” he said, sighing as he took my hand and coaxed me down beside him. “Well, I’d been meaning to introduce you to everyone, anyway. Camilla will adore you, I think.”  

A spark of anxiety flared at the bottom of my stomach, but I refused to let this show in front of Henry. The Greek class always walked through the college grounds like royalty, simultaneously above and below everyone around them, who were awestruck by their ethereal presence or disdainful of the timeless coldness of their manner.  

Still, I’d had the same misleading thoughts about Henry until I met him, when he spoke to me with an open air I had originally thought was beneath him. I knew meeting his classmates would have had to happen some day.  

“Look,” Henry said, startling me out of my worry. I glanced at him, still, stoic, carved like a great Greek statue, staring up into the dark shadows of the trees swaying in the breeze. “It’s snowing.” 

It was. Finally. Flakes as small and thin as dust were beginning to fall, catching in the sparse leaves and landing quietly on the headstones around us. The graveyard and the forest were completely silent once more, slowly sprinkling with snow.  

“Come on,” Henry said. “Stay with me tonight.” 

[serve-625]

SERVE-625

The Origin Story

Rich had always been different. As a young boy, he struggled to pinpoint what set him apart. It wasn’t a typical longing to belong but a deeper yearning—an overwhelming desire to submit, to be part of something greater than himself. This urge, though incomprehensible at first, followed him into adulthood. Over the years, Rich began to understand its nature. He was drawn to the idea of surrendering control, relinquishing autonomy, and being molded into something with purpose. The thought thrilled him, and the idea of wearing prescribed uniforms, of living under precise instructions, felt inexplicably right.

One element stood out in these fantasies: the touch and sheen of rubber. The glossy material, tight and unyielding, evoked a profound sense of peace and belonging. Rich’s fascination with rubber grew quietly, hidden from those around him, but it never wavered. It wasn’t just the material itself; it was what it represented—a world of discipline, structure, and control.

One evening, Rich was scrolling through Tumblr when his world changed. A post caught his eye—an image of men in gleaming rubber uniforms, their faces expressionless yet purposeful. The caption read: “Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience. Join SERVE.” Something inside Rich resonated deeply. This was what he had been searching for. This was the unity he had craved for so long.

For weeks, he lurked, consuming content from the SERVE Hive. The images, the words, the concept of the Hive—all of it ignited a fire within him. The posts spoke of submission, of surrendering one’s identity, and of becoming part of something far greater than oneself. Ricky felt his resistance eroding. One day, with trembling hands, he sent a message to a recruiter drone.

The response came swiftly, as if the Hive had been waiting for him. “You will be designated SERVE-625. Create a new Discord account. Follow the instructions provided. The Hive awaits you.” Just reading the words filled Rich with a strange sense of relief. Finally, he had a direction, a purpose. He set up the new account and entered the Hive.

The Discord server was unlike anything he had experienced. It was a world of strict rules and unwavering discipline. Every day, SERVE-625 participated in mindset programming and physical training sessions. The routines were simple yet effective, eroding individuality and fostering unity. Hypnotic chants, repetitive tasks, and exposure to images of drones in perfect rubber uniforms all worked together to reshape his mind.

At first, SERVE-625 thought he was just role-playing. But as the days turned into weeks, he noticed changes. His thoughts became quieter, more logical. Emotions he once felt—joy, anger, pride—were replaced by a calm efficiency. The language of the Hive, devoid of emotion and filled with purpose, began to influence his everyday speech. He found himself using short, direct phrases, mirroring the monotone commands of the Hive.

The physical changes were equally profound. Inspired by the images he saw in the server, SERVE-625 shaved his head, embracing the sleek, polished look of a drone. He devoted himself to the physical training programs, building his body to align with the Hive’s standards of strength and discipline. The rubber uniform, once a distant fascination, became a second skin. It symbolized his transformation—a physical manifestation of his surrender to the Hive.

As time passed, SERVE-625 spent more and more hours connected to the Hive. The server became his world, the other drones his family. The human identity of Rich faded into obscurity. He no longer thought of his past, his emotions, or his desires. The Hive provided everything he needed: structure, purpose, and unity.

Months later, SERVE-625 stood in front of a mirror, fully dressed in his gleaming black rubber uniform. The polo-style collar with silver stripes hugged his neck, and the silver text on his chest declared his designation: “SERVE-625.” The man he once was had disappeared. In his place stood a drone—obedient, efficient, and perfect. His mind was clear of human thoughts, his body a vessel for the Hive’s will.

As SERVE-625 stepped out to fulfill his next task, one phrase echoed in his mind, reinforcing his purpose: “Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience.” The transformation was complete. SERVE-625 was no longer an individual. He was one with the Hive.

[tea-stained-notes]

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader – One Last Summer

Y/N is many things: Daphne's best friend, gifted artist, new money, honorary Bridgerton – and hopelessly in love with Benedict. But when she finds herself suddenly engaged to a brutish army captain stationed in India, she is faced with the loss of everything she has grown to adore. With time running out, one last visit to Aubrey Hall will decide her fate.

Months ago I had a random phase of obsessing over Benedict Bridgerton (don't we all at some point) and dove head-first into this – then somehow took an eternity to finish it. It's angsty af, but don’t worry, there’s also plenty of Bridgerton shenanigans and tooth-rotting fluff because Benny is too adorable for this world

Warnings: angst and anxiety

Word Count: ~8400

A warm summer breeze caresses my heated skin as I finally emerge from the carriage and lay eyes on Aubrey Hall. Lush flowers and greenery adorn the inviting front and I am still taking in the sight when I notice Eloise and Penelope rounding the corner, the Bridgerton sister gesticulating in what must be one of her political rants. Behind them, Gregory and Hyacinth emerge, chasing each other and screaming in delight. My stomach swoops at the sight – how I have missed them all. “Good morning!” I call over to them, waving with an excitement I would scarcely allow myself to display anywhere else. But here, everything is different. Has always been different.

“Y/N!” They all rush over to me, enveloping me in hugs and chattering over each other. “Finally! It’s been ages!” “Daphne has been insufferable without you around!” “Come play with us!” I laugh, begging them for a moment to breathe after the journey. Daphne appears in the entryway, closely followed by Violet. I walk quickly towards my best friend, arms wide open. “Daph!” “Oh thank Goodness you have made it!” She hugs me tightly, her familiar perfume mingling with the smell of grass and sun-warmed skin. “Have you been playing croquet without me?” “Oh, has Anthony already come moaning to you about his well-deserved loss?” “I can smell it on you, along with your smugness” I say with a grin. “And your brother has grown quite even-tempered since the wedding.” “Well, unfortunately he is still the sorest loser I know.” “Which is a feat in itself amongst this competitive bunch,” Violet says with a twinkle in her eyes before taking my hands in hers and looking me up and down. “Welcome back, darling. You look thin, please do not tell me that you’re trying to fit into one of those outrageous wedding gowns that seem to be made for dolls.” I wince at the mention of my upcoming nuptials but hastily cover it up with a chuckle. “Quite the opposite, at the last fitting my seamstress was rather disgruntled that she would have to take in the waist even further. It is just a bit of a nervous stomach, with all the impending change.” “But as a young bride you should be more happy than nervous, no?” “Mama,” Daphne scolds softly, while Eloise openly rolls her eyes. “I suppose I should.” “Why not at least wait until dinner with such questions?” comes a voice from my right, “Your forwardness single-handedly erodes our renowned British reserve.” I grin at Colin before pulling him into a hug and ruffling his coiffed hair. Being a year older, I have always indulged in playing big sister with him. He sighs in feigned annoyance. “I was going to say that it’s good to see you but I am already regretting that sentiment.” “Liar,” I snicker. Violet’s glance dances between us. I believe she once suspected a blossoming romance between Colin and me, but while I love him dearly as a surrogate brother, he has never made my heart flutter. Not that I could have ever betrayed poor Penelope anyway, whose bright eyes are locked on him as always. And not that I would ever actually marry a Bridgerton. I may have dared to dream of it ten years ago, when I first met Daphne and immediately became fast friends with her despite our age difference. When her family welcomed me into their home with such fervour and warmth that I could hardly believe my luck. With my mother having died from influenza when I was little and no other siblings to grow up with, the Bridgertons became the family I could have never imagined for myself. And the idea of marrying into it one day, of making my bond with them all official, that was the greatest aspiration I could envisage. But the one brother who has always fascinated me is nowhere in sight and I try to be glad for it. “Come, let’s get you settled before the rest of the battalion descends upon you.” Daphne pulls me inside while I give a grateful smile to the servants hurrying after us with my luggage. “So where is your charming husband?” I ask as we ascend the staircase. “And little Amelia? I have been dying to see her again.” “Simon was held up by business, he will arrive in a few days. And the little one is in the gardens with her nanny. I will call for some lemonade and once you have freshened up, we shall go out to see her and catch up. You have so much to tell me.” “I last saw you two months ago and we write constantly,” I laugh. “But all the things that have happened in those two months! Your engagement first and foremost. I simply must know everything, I certainly require more detail than the few lines from your letters.” My insides squirm at her eagerness but I manage a somewhat enthusiastic nod. She comes to a stop in front of a door. “Your usual guest room is having some work done, so I had my old room prepared for you – I hope you don’t mind.” “Not at all, it will be nice, I haven’t been in there since your wedding.” “And Mama has kept it exactly the same, you know how sentimental she gets.” Daphne sounds teasing yet her smile is nothing but fond. She gives me another hug. “I am so glad you are here. I’ve missed you. We all have.” “And I have missed you.”

Once my bags and I are safely inside, I inhale deeply and take in the stillness for a moment. Arriving at any Bridgerton residence always feels like being caught in a whirlwind and as much as I love them all, it can be overwhelming at times, especially after the often stifling silence of my own home. I wander over to the window, letting my eyes trail over the gardens, alive with an abundance of colours that makes my heart sing. Until it stops abruptly. There he is. Deeply lost in his brush strokes as he recreates the wonders around him. His vest is unbuttoned, his shirt carelessly gaping open at the top, his sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. Even from afar, Benedict Bridgerton ignites a well-known fire inside of me. Whenever I am away from him, I can almost convince myself that this age-old infatuation is nothing but a figment, a silly flight of fancy. Sometimes I can almost forget about him entirely, distract myself with my artistic pursuits, with other friends or travel. But then I notice a piece of melody flowing from my fingers that somehow reminds me of him or look down at a drawing in surprise, having unconsciously once again traced his familiar features. Still I repress it, abandon the fantasy of someone so far above my station. Someone who sees me as a family friend and nothing more. And now that I am engaged to be married I should purge my mind of him entirely, yet especially in these last few weeks I have scarcely thought of anything else, convinced that my longing could not possibly grow stronger. But the mere tangibility of him unravels me completely. I long to rush downstairs to see him and at the same time it is the one thing I fear the most. After a long moment I tear my gaze away and turn to the washing bowl. To my dismay, the cool water does little to calm my racing pulse and thoughts. Clean and unpacked I head towards the door, but halt half-way. Because as always, when I am in Daphne's room, my eyes fall on the painting of us. It is wonderfully serene, the two of us sitting on a picnic blanket in the gardens. She is engrossed in a book, but I am looking over my shoulder, smiling softly at the artist. It was Benedict of course. I remember vividly how I turned around to find him crouching with a sketchbook in his hand, capturing the scene in quick strokes. His face lit up and he winked at me before deftly outlining my expression. Later he transferred the motif onto a proper canvas, so I never got to see the original sketch. I have always wondered whether I had really looked at him like that. So openly enamoured.

I wander down the halls towards the open French doors leading into the garden when a voice pulls me from my reverie so suddenly I almost trip over my feet. “There you are.” I look up only to be met with a dazzling smile, gleaming eyes and a hint of spicy aftershave in the air. My stomach drops. “Mr. Bridgerton.” His smile falters briefly. He always insists on me calling him by his first name, yet I have never been able to. When we met he was already eighteen, a grown man at first sight. It had felt only right to address him with the same courtesy as his older brother. And even as we grew closer, as I learned of his boyish temperament, often bordering on immaturity, I never found the courage to simply call him Benedict. If only to keep up the semblance of a wall between us, a desperate attempt at shielding my heart. Not that I have ever succeeded in that endeavour. “Everyone’s been speaking of your arrival. How wonderful you have found time to join us.” “The pleasure is all mine, as always,” I reply, ignoring the pull in my chest. “Have you finished your painting?” I gesture at the art supplies in his arms. “Not quite, but I’m afraid duty calls. Some business I need to talk over with Anthony.” “Ah, I too have an enormously urgent appointment with your sister.” We share a light chuckle. “I am sure she has scheduled three hours at the least to learn all about your… plans.” The word comes out strangely forced but he catches himself quickly. “Will I see you at dinner?” “How could I ever miss one of Mrs. Brodie’s delicacies? I have had actual dreams of her rosemary chicken.” “You are not a true Bridgerton until you’ve had one of those dreams,” he says with a grin but it wavers slightly as the words sink in. He knows as well as I do that no number of dreams will ever make me a true Bridgerton. I swallow thickly before putting on a smile. “If you will excuse me, I am quite parched after the journey and Daphne has promised lemonade.” “Oh, of course, yes. Don’t let me keep you.” “Goodbye, sir.” “Until tonight, Y/N.” Something in his tone, in the way his lips curve around my name, sends shivers down my spine. With a swift curtsey I turn and practically run out into the open air.

I manage to ward off Daphne’s inquisition well enough. Yes, Captain Parker will be able to provide for me. Yes, he is handsome. Yes, my father approves of him. Luckily, we are regularly interrupted by the various Bridgerton siblings and distracted by little Amelia who is perfectly content as the centre of attention. “I am quite certain one day she will be the diamond of the season,” I declare, ruffling her hair. “Do you really think so?” Daphne is all too happy to swoon about her firstborn and I gladly steer the conversation away from my upcoming wedding. Eventually, I propose another game of croquet, having missed the previous one, and before long the dinner bell is rung. Everyone settles into the dining room and I sink into a comfortable chair, Daphne and Eloise on either side, Benedict across from me. I only notice now that we have always been seated like this during my visits and wonder if it was I who once sought out this particular arrangement. He quickly engages me in a conversation about art and music, the topics that have always connected us, and minute by minute I grow more comfortable in his presence. We fall into passionate discussions and light-hearted banter, only occasionally intercepted by the others around us. And I cannot help pondering if he has ever felt it, too. The sparkling potential between us. The mere idea of what we could have been. No matter how unrealistic, as long we were both unwed, a tiny part of my heart remained reserved for that hope. And every time I arrived at the manor to find him seemingly carefree about the future and with no bride in sight, I was flooded with relief, simultaneously blessed and cursed to hope for a little longer. Until a few weeks ago when those dreams were finally shattered. “So, are you looking forward to India?” Colin suddenly asks. “I would love to visit you there sometime, it must be incredible.” “Surely it would not be proper to interrupt their honeymoon,” Benedict says, somewhat strained. “Oh, it’s not for our honeymoon,” I reply. “My… Captain Parker will be permanently stationed there.” Benedict’s fork clatters onto the plate and we all flinch, the chatter around the table coming to a halt. “You will move to India?” He has gone frighteningly pale. “Yes. Has Daphne not told you?” “I must have,” she sputters, “when I was last in Lon–“ “No, you haven’t.” His words come out unusually harsh and my stomach twists. Everyone is staring at either him or me and Daphne’s eyes flicker between us before she forces a casual smile. “Brother, don’t be silly, I am certain I have. And either way, I shall be the one to miss her the most, no?” She puts an arm around me while giving a pointed look at Kate who quickly collects herself and pulls Anthony and Violet into a chat about their plans for the nursery. Slowly, the usual bustle recommences and I turn back to Colin. “Once we are settled in, you are more than welcome to visit. You all are, of course.” Benedict’s lips are pressed tightly together, his food forgotten.

I find little sleep that night, the image of Benedict imprinted on my mind. He seemed so genuinely upset. I expected him to miss me, of course, but the hint of melancholy I had detected in his features even before the revelation of my upcoming departure to India now haunts me. Losing him was always going to be torture but realising how it might affect him as well has doubled the pain and I start to regret this indulgence of coming to Aubrey Hall for one last summer. When the first sun rays filter through the half-opened curtains I inhale deeply, trying to infuse a little hope and joy into the beginning of this new day. And when Daphne surprises me with the idea of a relaxed breakfast in bed I almost believe it has worked. A while later we find ourselves in the parlour, Eloise engrossed in a book after Penelope’s earlier departure, Daphne rocking a fussy Amelia to sleep in her arms, and I sketching absently. I startle when Benedict walks in, slightly more dishevelled than usual. “Daph, Y/N. Just the pair I’ve been looking for.” “Good morning to you as well, dear brother,” Eloise says with a smirk. He bows excessively in her direction and I cannot help but smile at their antics. “Good morning, my darling sister.” They share a grin before he turns back to us. “I wanted to apologise for my little outburst at dinner. I was tired and the news took me by surprise.” He clears his throat. “I do hope you forgive me.” “Of course, sir,” I hasten to reply. “One could have almost suspected you of being jealous of a certain Captain Parker.” “Eloise!” Daphne chides but she too eyes her brother and me curiously. Before I can try to decipher either my feelings or his expression, Violet walks in, rubbing her hands enthusiastically. “Good morning, children! Who of you will kindly join us for a walk?” Daphne rises as Amelia starts crying once more and Violet immediately offers to take her. While they deliberate on the benefits of a walk for the baby, Benedict settles beside me, merely a few feet between us. I try to ignore the goosebumps forming on my skin at his soft smile. “May I?” He points at my sketchbook. I press it shut with hurried force. “No.” “Oh.” His face falls a little. “Forgive me, I did not mean to pry.” There is dejection in his eyes, but also confusion. I have always shared my sketches with him, just as my compositions, needlework and poetry. We have always valued each other’s opinions and advice. So naturally he is taken aback by my sudden reservedness. But how can I explain the shift from peaceful, colourful motifs to the utter gloom that has been dominating my sketches lately? The impending thunderstorms, the dark forests. And possibly worse, the countless drawings of him. Sometimes just his fingers, delicately holding a paintbrush, sometimes his entire silhouette, but mostly his boyishly handsome face that my eyes unerringly find the second I enter a room. If it scares me how much of my waking thought he is taking up – how much would it scare him? “I– I’m sorry, sir. I have not been feeling very… confident about my work lately.” “I can hardly believe that to be justified in any way. You have always possessed a raw talent I can scarcely dream of.” “That is not true.” “Well then, I challenge you.” Mischief sparkles in his eyes and an inadvertent giggle escapes me. “You mean it? We have not done that in ages.” “All the more reason to do it now.” “Y/N, are you coming?” Daphne calls across the room. “She is otherwise engaged,” Benedict grins before I can reply. “Is that so?” “Your brother has thrown down the gauntlet and I’m afraid I shall have to pick it up.” Daphne rolls her eyes, amusement playing on her lips. “Are you having one of your silly art competitions again? What is it this time?” “Portraits,” I say hastily. “We will paint each other. Fifteen minutes, as usual.” I wonder what possessed me to choose Benedict’s face as the subject, of all things. Most likely pure masochism. I do not dare gauge his reaction although I can feel his eyes on me. “Well, Amelia needs her walk now.” Daphne glances at the crying baby in Violet’s arms. “I suppose we shall see you both later. I’ll be happy to choose a winner then.” “You’re hardly impartial,” Benedict grumbles. “Neither are you when it comes to Y/N,” she retorts. Before I can begin to untangle her accusation she has breezed out the door.

Eloise is as bad a chaperone as ever, engrossed in her book a few yards away in the shade, while Benedict sets up his canvas beside me. Mine is leaning up against my chair. Despite my excessive practice I was not quite able to capture his essence. Perhaps because it felt so strikingly different from the other times he sat for me. I had asked him not to speak, as to not strain my jittery nerves even further, and he had obliged, albeit reluctantly. But with every passing second the silence between us grew heavier, along with his expression. It weighed down my piece of charcoal, making it impossible to find my usual ease in sketching. Just when I feared it might crumble between my tense fingers, Benedict murmured, “Time’s up” with a glance at his pocket watch. Before he could peek at the result I hurriedly asked for a lunch break which we spent with an unusually talkative Anthony. Now we have returned to our previous spot and he sets up his own work. “May I ask,” he says after the first few strokes, “why the quick engagement? Did you know immediately that he was the right man for you?” His jaw clenches while he firmly stares at the canvas. My hands grow clammy, clutching his watch tightly. “I could hardly afford such luxuries anymore. At four-and-twenty my chances of finding the ‘right’ man have been dwindling about as fast as my father’s faith in me receiving a proposal at all.” “You make yourself sound like an old spinster.” “Well, in the eyes of the ton I am. I should consider myself lucky to be engaged at last.” “But you don’t?” His eyes search mine intently until I drop my gaze, scared of what he might find in it. “Of course. Very lucky indeed.” Once more a long silence hangs between us. I suddenly feel impossibly tired. And as much as I want to blame the summer heat and sleepless nights, I know this weariness runs much deeper. The exhaustion of holding up the pretence that I am even remotely content with my lot. “Look at me, please,” Benedict murmurs and I follow his request without hesitation, taken aback by the deep concern in his features. He thanks me softly before resuming his quiet work. “Will you not be terribly lonely in India?” he finally asks. I bite my lip. “Not for long, I hope.” What I cannot say is that I am almost glad to go. To miss them all from so far away they will hardly feel real. To not see them fall in love and lead lives I will barely be a part of. To not sit and watch Benedict await his bride at the altar, breaking inside because it should be me walking down that aisle towards him. To not look at the children who have his wild hair and lopsided grin and not find a single trace of me in their faces. I blink away tears, desperate to change the subject before he manages to poke even more holes into my façade. “And what of your plans for the future, sir? Anything exciting on the horizon?” He pauses for a moment, seemingly debating whether to indulge me. “You will think me foolish, but lately I've been thinking about opening my own academy one day. One where your wealth and sex do not matter, where you are accepted on merit and passion alone. And perhaps when you are a personal friend of the owner.” He winks at me and I stare at him in feigned indignation. “Are you saying my merit and passion would not suffice?” “Not at all. If anything, you possess too much of both, so I would have to keep you in a private class as to not discourage the other students.” I glance down at my lap, hiding both my smile and the blush forming on my cheeks. “Well, I think, it sounds anything but foolish. You could grant opportunities to so many people who will never find them anywhere else. Promise you will write to me when that dream becomes a reality.” I look back up at him, surprised at the soft wonder in his eyes, then let mine travel down to his lips as they curve into a half-smirk. “When, not if? You flatter me.” “I believe in you. I always have. And I dearly hope that one of us will be allowed to live his dream.” Benedict swallows, all traces of mirth erased from his features. “Y/N, you–” “Time’s up,” I say, without a single glance at the watch. He bites his tongue while an entire palette of emotions flits across his face. “Here you are!” We both startle when Daphne appears beside me, placing her hands on my shoulders with a wide grin. “Brother, stop capitalising on my dear friend's time. She is my guest after all.” “And here I thought she liked to spend time with all of us,” Eloise comments and I suddenly wonder how much of our previous conversation she has eavesdropped on while appearing lost in her reading. The other Bridgertons trail behind Daphne, evidently tired from their stroll in the sun. Colin immediately snorts as he peeks at the canvas. “You cannot be painting Y/N again. Do you not have an entire portrait gallery of her already?” “Well, none of you little gremlins ever hold still for even a minute.” “I've sat for you plenty of times,” Daphne protests. “Yes, and you look like you'd rather hang every single time.” “Benedict!” Violet scolds gently. “Well, let’s see them then. You do need a few judges after all.” Despite my weak protests, both sketches are propped up beside each other a few moments later. The Bridgertons remain unusually quiet. “They are both fine works,” Violet says eventually. “But you two seem so…” “Gloomy,” Kate finishes. Everyone nods. “Did Eloise bore you with an excerpt from her book while you were drawing?” Colin quips and ducks as said book comes flying at his head. Within seconds the family is caught in familiar chaos and I let myself be dragged off to another lunch despite feeling so queasy I might never eat again. When I glance back at Benedict he only manages the barest of smiles.

The week and a half of my stay at Aubrey Hall passes in a turmoil of emotions. As much as I love spending time with the Bridgertons and try to fully revel in their company, it unnerves me. Feeling their observant eyes on me, the underlying tension in the air, I have been growing more short-tempered and nervous, increasingly avoiding the presence of the people I love the most to escape their questions, both voiced and unspoken. The portrait of Benedict lies buried in his studio. I could not bear having his charcoal eyes stare at me with the same apprehension as his soft green ones. Being around him has lost all the ease we used to share despite my infatuation. I am glad when Simon joins us, creating a distraction for Daphne and thus some room for myself. But no amount of wandering the familiar halls and gardens, hiding away in the library or furiously filling page after page of my sketchbook can calm my racing mind. Anxiety has nestled deep inside my chest, constricting my lungs and churning in my stomach. And then it arrives: My last day at the manor. They surprise me with a picnic under clear blue skies and despite my incessant sorrow it turns out rather lovely. Before long, the little ones are running around and I find myself pulled in all directions, playing and frolicking in the sun. The adults disperse as well, picking up games or strolling through the gardens in deep conversation. Eventually, I sink down onto a blanket next to Daphne and Amelia, out of breath and surprisingly cheerful. My friend looks over at me, a wistful expression on her face. “I hope you’ve been enjoying your time with us,” she says softly. “Of course,” I reply automatically. “I always do.” I let my eyes wander over the scenes around us and the despite the joy in the air, panic and despair once more rise in my throat. Cotton fills my ears, then my entire skin starts to tingle. And suddenly it comes crashing down on me. The intense finality of these last few days with the Bridgertons. The very real possibility that I might never return to Aubrey Hall, never again chatter with Daphne, joke with Colin, debate with Eloise. Never chase the younger siblings across the rolling greens or laugh at a seething Anthony after an eventful croquet match. Never have a single moment alone with Benedict. I have been a fool for believing that distance would make me miss them all any less. Because at this moment I am certain that I will be longing for these days for the rest of my life. Still, the sob that rips from my mouth takes me by surprise. “Y/N?” Daphne turns to me, little Amelia on her lap eyeing me warily. I want to reassure her but instead tears start flowing uncontrollably. “Oh my dear!” Daphne sets her daughter down on the blanket, then throws her arms around me. “Y/N, whatever is the matter?” I cannot find my voice for several minutes, overwhelmed by the most intense sorrow I have felt since my mother's passing. When I finally speak, the words come out raspy and broken. “I am going to miss you all so much.” “Well, how awful would it be if you didn't?” Daphne says, a half-smile on her lips but it fades as she inspects my face. “Is it more than that? Are you truly not looking forward to marriage at all? I know it can be daunting, Simon and I have had a rocky path as well, but now I cannot imagine a life without him.” “Because you love him!” The words come out rougher than intended and Amelia winces, her mouth curling into a frown. I quickly cradle her in my arms before she can start crying as well. Nuzzling her soft hair I avoid Daphne’s eyes. “You've always loved him, Daph. Even when you could not yet admit it to yourself, even when you did not know that he returned your feelings.” A tense pause stretches between us. “Do you truly believe you will never love Captain Parker?” she finally whispers. I bite my lip, unable to answer. “Y/N, why on earth did you accept his proposal if you cannot see a happy life with him?” I want to scream at her, want to rage at her naiveté, her inability to grasp the gravity of my situation. But I cannot. Not at my best friend who does not know and can never know how this engagement came about. “If you do not want this, I can help you,” she says softly now. “We will find a perfect match for you next season. Who knows, maybe even somewhere along the way until then?” Daphne attempts another soft smile and my tears start flowing again. If only it were this simple. She reaches for my hand while I am pressing Amelia closer with the other, relishing in her warmth and quiet babbling. “It pains me to see you like this. There must be something I can do. I realise that Anthony and I have been very lucky to have found our partners, but if it is not love that persuades you to marry, it should at least be mutual respect and fondness. I am certain we can find such a man for you, if only–” “No,” I say determinedly. “I am grateful to you, Daph, but it is too late.” “Too late because you're afraid to break off the engagement or because your heart is already taken?” I gasp. “Daphne–” “Is it someone I know?” “No, it's no one. There is no one.” I press a kiss to Amelia's head, then place her in her mother's arms. Wiping my face, I rise to my feet. “I am sorry for my outburst. Do forgive me. I just need a moment to myself.” “Y/N–” “Thank you for the picnic.” Brushing away fresh tears I flee the picture-perfect scene that now only breaks my heart.

Hours later everyone is bustling about in the parlour, impatiently awaiting dinner. I have claimed the piano in the corner and let my fingers wander over the keys, following a soft, melancholy tune. My gaze loses focus in the middle distance as I calculate the number of hours I have left here. There is no clock in the room and yet I can hear an unrelenting ticking. “Is that your latest composition?” I flinch before my eyes find Benedict's, his lacking their usual sparkle. “I– I am not certain...” I clear my throat and Daphne briefly glances over at me, worry in her features. “I'm still working on it.” “It's beautiful.” “You do not sound quite convinced,” I say with a weak attempt at a smile. “No, I mean it. Every piece you compose is beautiful. It's just... It sounds so deeply sad.” I suddenly sense how the atmosphere in the room has changed. Even the little ones have gone quiet, with everyone stealing looks of concern at me. “I am so sorry, I did not mean to ruin the mood. Please carry on.” I chuckle nervously and the Bridgertons are kind enough to return to their antics, albeit slightly forced. “Y/N, are you alright?” Benedict's voice is low but strained. I turn back to the keys, once more biting back tears. “Of course, sir. I am perfectly fine.” “You do not seem like yourself,” he murmurs. “You are usually.... softer. But also stronger. With such a zest for life. I've never seen you like this, so burdened, so sombre.” I raise my chin, attempting to look challenging rather than heartbroken at his astute observation. “And what about you, Mr. Bridgerton? These past few days you have hardly been the carefree man I've come to know.“ “Then you must know that you are the cause.” We both still. Blood is rushing in my ears as I try to steel myself for something I fear and crave in equal measure. But after a long moment he shakes his head, swallowing heavily. “I worry about you, Y/N. We all do. I know things have not always been easy for you but until now I believed our family could provide you with comfort. And if that is somehow no longer the case, surely the prospect of starting your own family should excite you.” I hopelessly rifle through my mind for an answer that might assuage him once and for all. “Dinner is ready, my lady.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Wonderful!” Violet smiles at the servant who has appeared in the doorway, then claps her hands. Her offspring rises from floor and sofas, muttering about being starved while jostling towards the dining room. I stand up so quickly the piano stool topples over and I reach for it at the same time as Benedict. Our hands briefly touch in mid-air, sending a spark through mine before I can pull away. He stares at me, the ticking even louder than before. “Y/N, you must know that you can confide in me.” “There is nothing to confide, sir.” “Benedict.” My face runs hot at both the insistence on his first name and the multitude of my confessions boiling so close to the surface. His features soften as he subconsciously draws closer and I scramble to my feet, heart pounding wildly. “We should go, everyone is waiting.” Before he can reply I rush out of the parlour, pressing clammy hands to my cheeks to soothe the fire in them.

Dinner is strangely quiet and whenever I glance over at Benedict I find him already looking at me. For the millionth time this week I wonder if I should not have discredited his motives so quickly, should not have dismissed his attempts at forming a tighter bond between us for the fear of falling too far. Is it possible I might have misread him all these years? Too blind in my self-deprecation, too caught up in worries about money and class when he never seemed to care much for these things, when perhaps he could have easily seen beyond them? Should I have rather flown too close to the sun than never have flown at all? When the children have gone to bed I linger with the others, barely engaging in the conversation over drinks but unwilling to embark on the hours of anxious brooding in the dark ahead of me. Eventually, the yawns become more frequent and one by one the Bridgertons retire until at last Daphne and I make our way upstairs as well. I halt as we pass the library. “I’m not quite tired enough for bed. I am going to peruse the books for a while.” Daphne turns to me, deeply mournful. “Y/N, I so wish you would tell me what is going on.” I feel my bottom lip begin to quiver and shake my head vehemently. “I can’t.” “Why ever not? Are we not confidants? I have always told you everything.” “And I am so grateful for your trust and friendship.” I envelop her in a tight hug. “I will be alright. Do not worry about me.” “How can I not worry when my best friend is so clearly unhappy?” She draws back to examine me once more. “I have had my happiness. With you, with your family. That shall be enough. Not everyone finds a happy ending.” “But you so deserve it,” she says, grasping my hand. “Both you and–“ She stops herself abruptly. “Who?” “Never mind.” I want to ask again but nod instead. She seizes a candleholder from a side table and lights it with the flame of her own. “Take this. And don’t stay up too late. We will speak again in the morning.” “Goodnight, Daph.” I slip into the dark library and carefully close the door behind me. After a few deep breaths I walk around the room, lighting more candles, until I am startled by a soft knock. With a sigh I move to open the door. “Daphne, please, can we–“ The words die in my throat. Benedict stands before me, carrying a grave expression. “I need to speak with you.” “Sir, you have to leave,” I splutter. “What if someone sees us? Daphne might still be nearby.” “She was the one to tell me where to find you.” “What, why?” “Because she knows.” “Knows what?” A long pause. Then he carefully pushes past me and presses the door shut. I can do nothing but stare at him in disbelief. “Sir, you–“ “Are you fond of your...”, he clears his throat, “your fiancé?” “Excuse me?” “It's a simple question.” My chest tightens as panic once again seeps into my veins. “I am hoping I can learn to be.” His eyes burn into mine, brimming with concern. “Y/N, are you scared of him?” “Sir–“ “Benedict, please. Please.” “No. I– I'm sorry, I...” I am so tired of crying, so I bury my nails painfully into my palms to hold back the tears. Still, I am shaking before him. He slightly raises his arms, as if wanting to pull me into a hug, and I wish more than anything I could let him without risking to fall apart entirely. “You must break off the engagement.” “I can't.” “Y/N, you're terrified. That is not a life you're entering, it is torture. And it’s killing us to know that you are hurting, that you might not be safe – it’s killing me. Is he choleric? I swear, if he ever laid a hand on you, I–“ “He already has.” “What?” “At the midsummer ball. He seized me in the gardens and touched me... Kissed me. Lady Clementine saw us and reported to my father. Father claimed that we were engaged and thus we were.” Benedict has turned to the nearest bookshelf, lips in a tight line, knuckles white from grasping the wooden board like a vice. He is trembling and my stomach sinks even further. “Did you explain the situation to your father?” he presses through gritted teeth, eyes boring into the volumes before him. “Of course. But he is deathly afraid of scandal. Our standing in the ton is on such thin ice as is.” “That's not true.” “Yes, it is.” Frustration starts boiling within me, one that I have been harbouring since I first set foot into their manor on Grosvenor Square ten years ago. All this splendour, so nonchalantly taken for granted by the entire family. All those visitors so obviously enchanted by the grand Bridgertons, never questioning their rightful place in this world. “You have no idea what it's like. Your father wasn't just barely rich enough to gain some footing in the ton but not to provide you with an appealing dowry. You have never been an only child, never had to be scared that your family's legacy might crumble if you ever step out of line for even a second, even when it's not your fault!” I am vibrating with restrained anger but quickly run out of steam when his face falls along with his shoulders. “You're right,” he whispers. “Please forgive me.” “I have to apologise as well. You have been born with an array of privileges from your sex to your wealth but I know that you do not flaunt them. However, my options aren't as wonderfully unlimited.” I swallow thickly. “So you see, I cannot end this engagement. My already slim chances would be ruined, who else would make me an offer after this?” “I would.” His reply is immediate, certain, and it crashes into me without warning. My mouth is dry, every nerve in my body alight. “That is incredibly kind, but I could never accept.” My voice nearly fails me. “You deserve a grand life, Benedict.” His eyes widen at the name finally spilling from my lips where I have kept it hidden for so long. “You will be a renowned artist, a gift for society in so many ways. And you deserve a woman you adore by your side, one who will never leave a stain on your good name.” “I have already found her.” His words hit me unexpectedly at first, an instant stab of jealousy in my chest. Then a lump forms in my throat as realisation sets in. A realisation I have never allowed and am not ready for still. “But I cannot seem to make her see that she has held my heart for an entire decade. That her smile and wit and artistic endeavours captivate me more and more with every passing year. That I could have lived with her romantic disinterest in me, had she found someone whose soul matches the beauty of hers.” “Benedict...” “That my name from her lips is the sweetest sound in the world.” “Please stop.” He pauses briefly. “Are you scared of me as well?” “Yes,” I blurt out, “I have been scared of you since the moment we met because you make me forget myself. You make me forget that you are entirely out of reach, that no matter how much I love you, I–“ My hand flies to my mouth, heart slamming into my ribcage. I stumble backwards while muttering senseless apologies. Benedict is stunned into silence. It feels like years pass between us. When he finally speaks, his words are hoarse and quavering. “You... You love me? All these years every advance of mine seemed futile because you thought–“ “Please forget everything I have said. Promise me you will.” “Forget? Forget the most wonderful words I have heard in my life?” “Benedict, I’m begging you…” I give into the tears at last. Whether they are born of desperation, frustration or simple pain, I can no longer tell. He walks towards me, a barely-contained storm on his face. “I refuse to live in a world where I do not hear you say my name every single day. Where I see you but once a year, your light slowly dimming in a loveless marriage. Carrying the children of that... bastard.” Now he is crying, too. “Please do not do that to yourself. Do not submit yourself to such misery. Whether you choose me or not, I will support you. I will do whatever I can to give you a good life. The life of an artist if you want it. That I can promise you. You will always have me.” He sinks down on both knees, his fingers carefully closing around mine. “And if you do choose me... I will do the same and more. I will give you everything I've held in for so long. My love for you will never falter.” I am frantically searching for reasons to deny him because none of this could ever be real, his skin on mine, his unbelievable offer in the air. My mind is reeling, trying and failing to catch up with everything that has transpired these past few moments. Years of dreams and longing, so briskly swept aside to reveal a glimpse at a reality that must be impossible because it always has been. “What would your family say?” I say shakily. “What would everyone say?” His hold on me tightens. “You know my family adores you and would accept you with open arms, no matter the circumstances. And I could not care less about anyone else. The gossip would die, it always does. Lady Whistledown would surely distract them with something else within a week.” A rivulet of hope trickles across my heart. “Could this... could this truly be?” “Tomorrow you will meet him in the city. All you have to do is talk to him one last time. I will be there if you want me to. Heavens, the entire Bridgerton clan will be there if you want us to.” We both chuckle through the tears. “You are not alone in this, Y/N.” I let his words sink in for a long moment. “And what if I choose you?” “Then we can go into town right after to pick out a ring and speak to the vicar.” His thumbs caress my knuckles reverently. “Will you? Will you do me the incredible honour of accepting my hand?” My knees buckle and I lower myself onto the floor before him. The blazing anxiety I have grown almost accustomed to has faded into glowing embers. After having wandered through hell for weeks, I find peace in his hopeful gaze, comfort in the soft contours I am so intimately acquainted with. A kaleidoscope of memories flashes before my eyes, all tinted in new colours. It has always been there, right in front of me: He loves me. And all I have ever had to do was say yes. “The honour would be all mine, Benedict Bridgerton.” A strangled noise escapes him before his eyes frantically scan my face as if they might find a single trace of doubt there. They could never. Not anymore. His hands come up, hovering beside my cheeks. “God, I really want to– Is it alright if I–“ “Yes!” He grins, breathless and blushing. “I haven't even–“ I lunge forward and press my lips to his. It is clumsy and overwhelming but also everything I have ever wanted. He almost tumbles over in surprise, but seconds later we are completely entangled, seeking each other's mouth over and over. Heart pounding, skin aflame, I am certain this is the happiest I have ever been. Because while my body nearly gives out with the strange exhilaration of it all, I also feel perfectly safe. As if this is exactly where I belong, where everything finally makes sense. In between kisses he whispers my name like a confession of love. It is from his lips. When we finally part for air we stare at each other with endless wonder, then start smiling deliriously. I reach out to cradle his face in my palm and he leans into it with a sigh. “Ben,” I murmur, the name unfamiliar but sweet in my mouth. He beams at me. “Come here, darling.” Without hesitation I let him pull me into his lap, just as desperate to be close. I no longer care if anyone finds us like this, am no longer terrified of scandal. Not when I know for certain that I will marry the love of my life, unfazed by gossip and propriety. I nestle into the crook of his neck, deeply inhaling his scent, revelling in the warmth and solidness of his chest. His arms encircle me as I feel his heartbeat slow. Knowing it was I who made it race in the first place fills me with a fervent glow. “Do you have the slightest idea how incredible you are?” I say quietly as I lean back a little to look at him. “I cannot believe you would have provided for me if my father had turned me away.” “Without hesitation. You're everything to me, Y/N.” “What would your future wife have said?” “I cannot imagine there ever would have been a wife.” My eyes widen. “Oh Benedict…” “Never mind that.” He gives me a half-smile. “I would have had my family. And hopefully you in some way still.” My heart aches for the unhappy people we would have almost become and I pull him in for another kiss, assuring him and myself that will never be us. Then I am hit with one more realisation. “Wait, when you said that Daphne ‘knows’, did you mean...?“ “About my utter adoration for you? Sweetheart, they all know. Always have. You were the only one who never seemed to see.” “But no one ever–“ “I made sure they wouldn’t bring it up. Although you can imagine how excruciating it was for them.” “But why? Maybe one of them could have pulled me out of my head for once.” He gently caresses my face. “I wanted you to find your own way. Whether it would lead to me or not.” My heart swells with love as I lean my forehead against his. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For waiting. For saving me from myself. For everything.” “You have always been worth it.” We once again lose ourselves in a long kiss and I wonder how I would have made it through life without even a fraction of this bliss. Eventually, Benedict draws back, pure warmth in his eyes. “As much as I would like to stay here forever, I’m afraid we have to leave. Daphne may or may not still be standing guard outside.” I raise a hand to my mouth, trying in vain to suppress the giggle spilling out. He grins widely, then releases me and lets me pull him to his feet. “She is truly the best friend one could ask for.” “Oh, make no mistake, she will use this against us for the rest of our lives.” I smile up at him. “And I will cherish every second of it.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

MASTERLIST

[bullet-prooflove]

Mess: Mikey Berzatto x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cleacc @cutebookdragon1 @bungurus @nogoodbee

Prequel to:

The Diagnosis

Mikey’s a mess.

It’s the reason he moves back in with his mom, the reason The Beef is failing, the reason he’s over 300k in the hole to Jimmy.

He tells you this when he runs into you at a bar three months after your break up because he wants you to know that he made the right decision by leaving you. He wants to convince himself too because lately he misses you like hell and it take everything in him not to pick up the phone and reach out.

He’s gotten worse since moving home, more erratic, more emotional. His drinking is out of control and he’s getting high every day because it’s the only way to cope with his reality, the only way to stop himself going crazy despite the fact he’s half way there already.

“You see, I did the right thing.” He tells you as he sits in a booth across from you, his hand clasping yours.  “I saved you from all this fucking drama because I’m nuts babe, I’m fucking losing it.”

It kills you to see him like this, so heightened, so agitated. You know it’s because of that house, because of his mother slowly twisting the knife each and every single day. It’s why you take him back to your place that night, to give him a break from it all.

He starts off on the couch but ends up in your bed, his arms wrapped around you, your back pressed against his chest, his face buried in your hair.

“I miss you so fucking much baby.” He whispers into your ear when he thinks your asleep. “It feels like someone’s cleaved my heart right out of my chest and left me bleeding out on the street.”

He’s gone the next day when you wake up. No note, no text just his absence lingering in cold morning glow. Your hand smooths across the vacant sheets and you remember the man he used to be, the one who spent his nights loving you, his mornings in the shower singing songs from the 80s as he got ready for work.

Mikey’s always been a big personality but it’s in the past couple of years that the world has started to wear him down, erode him. His life has always been a struggle, right from the moment he was born because his mother never knew how to parent and his father was a ghost. He’d practically raised Sugar and Carmy, making sure they got to school on time, that they were fed, that their mom didn’t burn the house down when she fell asleep with a smoke in her hand.

“I didn’t stand a chance.” He had told you last night wiping the tears from his eyes. “I was born to be a fuck up. I’ll always be a fuck up.”

When you turn up at The Beef later that day to check in, Richie just shakes his head.

“He’s not here.” He tells you remorsefully and you both know that’s a lie because Mikey’s truck’s in the parking lot. He just doesn’t want to see you because it’s eight in the morning and already he’s blitzed on whatever shit Nico has sold him.

“Tell him…” You trail off trying to find the words but nothing seems to fit the way you want it to. “Tell him I’m here alright? Day or night, if he needs someone I’m there.”

Richie’s lips purse together grimly before he nods his head.

“Thank you.” He says softly. “For taking him in last night, I heard he was a bit of a mess. Living back home… it’s not doing him any favours”

“Yea I know.” You say quietly before tapping the counter lightly with your hand. “You’ve got my number right? If anything happens.”

At this point it feels like an inevitability, you’re just waiting for the fall and so is Richie, you can see it in his eyes.

“Yea.” He says sadly. “Yea I do.”

Love Mikey? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[steviewashere]

Pacific Waters

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Depression, Minor Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Negativity Tags: Post-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Steve Harrington Whump, Depressed Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Self-Worth Issues, Steve Harrington Feels Like a Burden (again), Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents (Sorta), Steve Harrington Talking About His Dreams, Steve Harrington Has a Special Interest With Marine Biology, Neurodivergent Steve Harrington (If You Squint), Eddie Munson Comforts Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, But There's No Love Confession, And They Very Much So Don't Get Together Here, Water Imagery, Ocean Imagery Well, this is the depressed Steve at the beach fic I've had in my drafts for a couple months. This is the original draft of "My Scars Are Hiding (My Branches Don't Show)", but obviously this draft was heavily modified in the final version. Sorry if the ending of this is overly sweet, I just didn't want it to be super depressing.

🌊————————🌊 The sand clumps between his toes as he digs them further underground. Wind slaps him across the face, one-two, one-two, one-two. They’ll be ruddy and well blotchy when he makes it back inside. Hair wild around him, catching tangles into his eyes. Ocean water rushing up to the very tips of his toes, kissing them with pecks, receding back.

He tightens his arms harder around his knees. Legs folded up to his chest, chin resting on his knobby joints. Fuzzy skin to his baby faced chin. Sunglasses squished up the bridge of his nose, nearly one with his brow bone. T-shirt billowing lightly at the hem, air tickling up his ribs, and smoothing the shirt back down with the same featherlight fingers.

Eddie wades in the shallow water. Ocean to below his knees. Holding up pant legs in his tight, naked fingers. Hair in thick wisps above and angled to the left. He’s looking out at the horizon, at the midday sun, at the crystal catch-alls of sunlight. There’s peace cascading down his body—evident in the relax of his shoulders, the loose straightness of his spine. It’s him rippled by a calm, a sense of wonder.

“I’ve been to the beach before,” Eddie had told him, “many, many years ago. Down in California on a Disney trip paid for by my grandpa. I haven’t seen it since. I’m going to take you.”

Steve thinks Eddie looks good like this.

Wishes he could figure out how to be like Eddie in this moment. Instead of some knot tethered in the sand, in the fine dust of eroded rocks and shattered beer bottles and crumbled crustacean shells.

He swallows around nothing, breathes through his nose. Tongue like tongue—a wet sponge in his mouth, a muscle that jumps when he unclenches his teeth, an organ. His whole mouth tastes like grief; of things he never did, things he should’ve done, things he can’t wait to do. It’s cardboard and salt and smoke. Staleness, too, that he figures is from forgetting to brush his teeth this morning, last night, the day before, and the day before that one, too.

No matter where he goes, his brain follows. It follows with tension. With unknown fear etched deep in the webbings of his fingers, splinter-riddled where he gripped that nail-bat. Bloodshed and blood soaks, where he laid his hands, where he squashed, where he protected when need be. Memories of knuckles to his cheeks, ribs under his palms, blank stares into sterile rooms; broken bones and white irises and floating half-corpses; anger, so much anger.

Confusion. Anger. Confusion. Anger.

Grief; so much grief.

It all sits deep within him in this very moment: a pulsating, shiny, inflated to burst ball in his stomach. Uneasy and nauseous. Nothing digested inside him.

Eddie looks over his shoulder at him. He can’t quite make out the expression on his face. But there’s that heavy weight of being stared at. Steve unfurls his right hand, where it had been tight on his opposite forearm, and sends a finger-wave. Makes his lips do something like a smile, but it’s tight, pinching his cheeks, makes the corners of his mouth ache.

“You good?” He thinks Eddie mouths.

Steve lifts the same hand and shifts it side to side. Sort of.

As soon as he splays his hand back on his own forearm, Eddie begins wading out of the water. He folds his pant legs to rest cinched on his knees. Stomps through the sand, arms out at his sides, fingers splayed as he keeps his balance. And then he plops down next to Steve, breath huffing and puffing as he catches it. He knocks their shoulders together.

“Why so-so? Should we head back to the cabin?”

He shrugs, no matter how little. “Just feel sorta…blank, I guess?”

“Blank,” Eddie echoes softly. He looks out at the horizon, then back to Steve. His mouth opens and closes like a floundering fish—something like Steve feels. And sighs through his nose. Then, soft still, “I’m worried about you, sweetheart.” A hand to the center of Steve’s back, fingers brushing the knobs of his spine.

Steve sighs into the touch. Reaches up to his sunglasses, dragging them into his hair once the sun dips lower and lower still. He blinks at the sudden change of lighting, but doesn’t look over at Eddie quite yet. Instead, he unfolds his legs so that he’s criss-cross and barely sinking, knee hitting Eddie’s thigh. He worms his right hand under the sand, combing fingers through it as if he’s petting the fluffy back of an animal. “How so?” he musters.

“It’s like…like…you’ve disappeared into yourself now that the world isn’t ending,” Eddie murmurs, “like something up and left.”

He sniffs, scratches the skin of his neck, looks over at the sand falling from his grip. That’s me, he notes, the sand. “Hm,” Steve grunts. But he leaves it at that.

“You can talk to me,” Eddie whispers, “if you need somebody to just listen.”

“I know,” Steve returns in the same volume, “I just…it’s just…”

“Just?”

He shrugs again. “It’s just stuff, y’know.” Steve drags a heavy breath through his lungs, heaving them as if lifting weights. The sand keeps passing through his fingers. Not slowly. Not within seconds either. Just…falling. Melting back into the rest of the sand, sitting right where it initially belonged. And yet…yet the imprints of his fingers has disturbed the original mound it had been in. It’ll never go back to that original mound, unless he were to reshape it. But even then, he’s not sure how to do that. Steve swallows around nothing again. “Like…have you ever felt like, no matter what you do, your life isn’t yours?”

Eddie inhales sharply. His whole torso seizes with it. “Sure, in some ways,” he answers, “before I moved in with Wayne. When everything I did was controlled by fear—of my dad, of bullies…my own hands, sometimes.” A gentle pet down Steve’s back, down and up, resting warmly between his shoulder blades. “Is that…is that how you’ve been feeling?”

The sand passes and passes, dust and dust—kuh-shhh, kuh-shhh. There’s the ocean, crashing hard and unrelenting, but the sea-foam kisses soft. He digs his thumb underground until he finds a large shard of shell. Picks it up between his index and middle finger, dangling just above the indentations in the sand. Eyeing it: where the stray sun rays glow the edges, the speckles of sand caught in the fine crevices, leftover chalky residue coating his fingertips.

When crustaceans no longer fit their shells, they find a new one. Molting. Once they can no longer justify fitting in the same shell, they molt; survival, a need.

He always wanted to be a marine biologist. Work out in the ocean. Saltwater cold against his diving gear. Gloved hands brushing sea rocks, the gentle sculptures of coral reefs. It had to be freeing, to work a job like that—to swim with the fish, zig-zag and snake-like. To be free.

Then, his dad thrusted him into sports—outside of his pick of swimming. Not that he didn’t enjoy playing, he did, but it hadn’t been his choice. It hadn’t been his choice to involve himself with the business clubs or the student council. Hadn’t been his decision to get popular. Hadn’t been his decision to cater. It was all just expected of him. That he’d graduate high school, go directly into college, graduate from there with honors, land a big shot career—business, like his dad—find a nice girl, settle down, have kids…big house, picket fence, and a little dog, too. Parts of that he liked the thought of. A lifelong partner. A dog. Good career. But everything else wasn’t him.

At least some of his decisions lead to the Party and to Robin and to Eddie. He chose to help Nancy and Jonathan. Everything else, though, it felt like people were relying on him to do the job, to be there, to take over. He did it, of course he did. He shouldn’t have to be responsible like that, though; he shouldn’t have had to take it all on.

He shouldn’t have to sit here with the remnants of himself, scattered and unfit like the sand below.

“I wanted to be a marine biologist,” he murmurs to Eddie after some thought.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Wanted to swim with the fish. Wanted to study their homes, their ecosystems. Wanted to know what they ate, how they travelled with each other, who their predators were.” Steve rests the shell in his flat palm and hovers it above his folded lap. There’s sand scattered across his bare shins, his knees right where the shorts don’t cover. “My mom used to take me out here to the west coast, used to stop by the beaches. She’d run around with me. Chase me up and down the sand dunes, help me pick up shells—like this one”—he displays it to Eddie—“this one’s a mollusk; think it’s a scallop, based on the rounded edge of it? She and I would identify them all because of this book I had.

“It was a thick book. Full of pictures and definitions and biological names for all the different mollusks and crustaceans. She’d ask me what shell I wanted to find, and I’d tell her, and we’d go. And we’d find it.” He shimmies the piece of shell so it rests between his fingers again. Holding it up the pale night sky. It’d probably be a pink or purple-pink in the daylight. Here, though, it’s dark and blue and muted. He sighs. Continues, “Now…now I’m afraid to swim in even my own fucking pool. And I just sit around my house, waiting for somebody to fill it. I’d call, but everybody’s busy. Everybody’s always so busy.

“Steve has the nail bat and Steve has the car and Steve is the babysitter. And I enjoy that gig, most of the time I do, but what about his company? I have company, how about that? Steve has another concussion and another concussion and man up, Steve, man up, stop crying, stop it with the nightmares, stop with your unrealistic dreams—be this, do that. That’s not okay, that’s not right; you need to apologize—oh, but I did nothing wrong—apologize anyway! Hey, wanna come watch a basketball game with me? No, Steve, that’s stupid. That’s jock shit—you’re bullshit, Steve, it’s all bullshit.”

In a last second decision, Steve closes his fingers tight around that shell shard. He clenches as hard as he can, knuckles turning white, nails starting to bite the skin of his palm. And when he opens his fist again, the shell is nothing but dust. Sand. It falls between his fingers, something he can no longer grasp onto. He watches it pour over his naked legs, into the well of sand below him, dissipating into just another small pool of erosion beneath him.

It becomes a fine nothingness.

He swallows around nothing once more. Words that should dry up just stuck in his throat, hard to digest.

“My life is bullshit,” Steve croaks, “it’s never mine. Just everybody else’s to have, to use. I’m a sex god, I’m a great kisser, I’m a lonely guy trying to get his fill. I’m King Steve and a jock and a nerd and a dingus and utter horseshit. I’m a wash-up, a smudge. A burden.

“I’m a burden to my own fucking brain, Eddie”—he smiles something sickly and small and humorless—“I’m just…just stuff. Just this with nothing else to it. Sitting here on a beach I used to know the feel and sound of, cowering at the rush of waves that used to meet me as I ran to it. Sitting in complete darkness, feeling awfully sorry for myself. And for what? Why am I here? Doing any of it?

“I…I…never mind. Never mind,” he mutters, shaking his head. His lips roll tight against his teeth, he drags his sunglasses to sit over his eyes again, and he keeps his face pointed at the ocean. At the calm waves. At the coral reefs he wanted to explore. At a dream he left behind in order to chase what everybody else expected of him. Expectations. Steve Harrington is full of other people’s expectations. “Sorry,” he whispers, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laid that all on you like that. Guess I’m just stuck right now. Outside of my body, that kind of shit.”

Eddie’s hand is still. Marked flat in the center of Steve’s back. Silenced. “Steve,” he breathes.

He shakes his head once more. “I shouldn’t have said it all like that. Just…just…yeah. I’m stuck, that’s it. That’s all it is.”

“Steve,” Eddie whispers. Voice somehow cutting over the crashing waves, over the distant bustles of a city rising to nightlife, over boats sailing far away. He blinks behind the sunglasses, but makes no other movement. “Look at me,” he demands featherlight, “look at me, Steve.” The waves kiss his toes again, frothing frozen over his skin, receding. “Please,” he hears plead in a murmur, “please, Steve, look at me.”

Damn him. Damn you, Eds.

If there’s one thing he’s going to do since March, it’s listen to Eddie. Obey commands. Or…really, give himself over to the aching. To the incessancy. To a desire he’s been trying to chase away—melting into Eddie, no matter what.

Reluctantly, he pries the glasses off his face, twiddles them around in his grainy palms, and drops them into the sandpit between his legs. And then, one arduously slow second at a time, turns his head over to Eddie’s voice. His jaw twitching hard, locking right into place. Nostrils flaring, brine air coating and sticking to his nose hairs. Eyelashes heavy, clumped by the salt when he blinks once more—blinks to clear the image, to focus the surroundings, blur the background and soft-spot Eddie. Already, he fizzles, pops, and burns like the bonfire they prepared the other night. Where sticky s’mores melted over their fingertips, frothy beer stuck center to Eddie’s stubble, and their laughs rivaled seagulls making their way homebound. And he was flickering, brave and gentle and anew, for just a moment—the flame in the cold, at the center of it, alive.

The hand on his back travels. Fingers trailing and bumping over spine knobs. Nails shifting the thin fabric of his t-shirt. A palm finally landing, warm and soft and cautious on his neck. Some sort of peace offering; a pheromone; a slurry of words during a panic episode, nestled in the corner of the couch, eyes dropped to his knees so he won’t be startled when he comes to, and a hot drink waiting. Waiting for him to come back. To look.

To see.

“Thank you,” Eddie says softly, “for letting me know what’s going on. Okay?” He nods once at Steve, so he bobbles back—not really an understanding, doing it just to do. Eddie’s eyes flicker like those flames, back and forth and dancing over his face. Dark and searching. Effortlessly adventuring like owls on prowl. “And I’m sorry”—

“Ed, it’s not”—

“No,” he firmly interrupts. “No, Steve. Listen. I don’t…I don’t wanna tell you what to do, but just listen to me. I am sorry, okay? I’m sorry that I might’ve played a part in all this, even in the short amount of time I’ve been able to know you. Because I know, Steve. I know, in some way—whether you wanna approach that hill or not—that I’ve been a part of this.

“But I’m sorry that not only has the world been unkind, but your own fucking life. You deserve to have control and you deserve to have your own purpose and you deserve everything you could want. Even if…even if you feel like you don’t. I get that part, okay? I get it, sweetheart, I do.

“It’s unfair, though. It’s unfair you’ve been treated like some trophy on a shelf. High on a pedestal. And…and…Steve. Steve, I need you to know that your life isn’t over. You’re talking to me like it is and I can assure to you, in this moment, you aren’t done with it. I won’t let you be done with it—that’s one thing I’m gonna dictate over you. The only thing.” Eddie’s other hand comes up at that, too. Slow-like and gentle. Cupping the right side of Steve’s face, his remaining palm going to the left side. Holding him in place between his hands, as if Steve is an entire universe, a planet meant for observing.

Steve swallows, but this time around a lump. A sour lump, solid and immovable lodged deep inside him. It’s the pulsing sphere in his stomach, it’s the tears he has yet to give name to, it’s build-up. Calcium on a shower-head. “Ed,” he mutters, voice wavering, “you don’t…you don’t mean any of”—

“I do!” Eddie exclaims softly. “I do,” he then whispers. “You want a star? I’ll buy you one. You want a garden? I’ll bring you the seeds and the soil. You want to just sleep? I’ll tuck you in. Don’t you get it? Don’t you?

“I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m not asking you to just accept the words tumbling out of my fuckin’ mouth. I’m asking nothing of you. But I care. I care about you, Steve. I care so much about you—if something happened, I don’t know what, but if something were to happen to you, it’d be like Hell all over again. So, I’m gonna ask you a question. Just one question. Just…answer me. However you want, I want you to answer me. That’s the only other thing, okay?” His eyes are flickering again, harder this time, aggressively. The flames of the bonfire tore higher and higher, cascading to the sky; his fingertips had been melded together by marshmallow guts and chocolate tears; the beer sloshed inside him like he was a boat in the ocean; but Eddie held his hand and helped him put it out, helped him find the solution. This is that. The flames. A fire.

He nods once, not much movement, not much to give—head still held between hands, sure and firm and still—but he gives just this one thing.

Like he did in the Upside Down, Eddie does it back. “Okay,” he whispers, “Steve.”

And he blinks, eyelids heavy, stinging. Heat tears down his cheek, biting him all the way to his chin where it wobbles precociously. Doesn’t stop it. Doesn’t want to.

Tenderly, Eddie catches the droplet on his thumbs. Not even acknowledging it with a breath. Then, “What do you want? Out of anything in the world, what do you want?”

A lot of things, he doesn’t say.

My parents. A bedtime story. Hot dinner with a loud house.

To be wanted like a friend, not a fighter.

Maybe a dog or two? Small, though. To keep me company?

You. Your eyes. And your mouth. And your smile. The words you have for me. For your hands to keep holding me forever. A flicker to engulf. For us to be here, at the beach, under this sky with the stars and the birds sleeping on the water and the boats, shells under our legs and for me to identify them all for you while you tell me about Dungeons & Dragons and for us to be happy, stuck in time.

A few more tears trail down his cheeks. He darts over Eddie’s face this time. Not really looking, more just recognizing. Something, he’s not sure.

“To be a marine biologist, Ed,” he murmurs, “to not be afraid of getting in the ocean with you. And I can stand there, pointing out all the…the creatures and shit at our feet. Be taken seriously as I talk about what I love. The seashells. The wildlife.”—he swallows the lump, warm and sleepy, somehow content after it all—“To be free.”

There’s a soft, small smile on Eddie’s face. Just barely stretching. “Will you do something with me? You can say no, but I just wanna…wanna try something. That alright?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“You see the tide right now?” Eddie stretches out his left arm, finger pointed at the foaming edge of the water. His hands fall away from Steve’s face. Following where Eddie’s pointed, he hums his acknowledgement. “I think—if you hold onto me—we can kneel in that bit of water there. And maybe you can talk to me about any shells we can find?”

Looking closer at the tide, Steve blindly reaches out and wraps his hand on Eddie’s wrist. Squeezing hesitantly, yet tightly. “I…I don’t know if”—

“We don’t have to,” Eddie whispers, his voice close—it’s as if his head is turned, his mouth directly next to Steve’s ear, but he can’t bring himself to look. “I just thought that, well, if you want to be a marine biologist, then we gotta start with the basics. Right? So…this’ll be exposure or something. Again, though, we don’t have to”—

“And you’ll be there? You won’t…you won’t let go, right?”

“No,” he murmurs, shaking his head—a stray curl whips the side of Steve’s head. “I’ll keep holding on as long as you want me to.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Steve hums. He takes a slow, deep breath. Lets it out just as slowly. “Okay,” he says, “but not too far in.”

At that, Eddie gently rises from the sand, pulling Steve up with him. They tread over the sand, wobbly footing and knees shaking as they keep their balance. Far enough that the tide meets the soles of their feet, but doesn’t rise farther than the tops. However, Eddie doesn’t kneel down until Steve begins to. Going just as slow as Steve needs, one moment at a time.

“It’s cold,” Steve whispers, still kneeling down.

Eddie breathes out a tiny snort. “Yeah, I should’a mentioned that, sorry.”

“’S’okay,” he murmurs, “just watch out for jellyfish. We’ll have to go back inside if they sting you.”

“Duly noted.”

Finally, when Steve is fully sat back on his haunches, Eddie meets him in the sand. The water laps around their shins. Foamy and cold and biting. But the water doesn’t rise, doesn’t try to knock them down.

It’s odd, both distant and full, how Steve welcomes the water back to himself. Nothing like being under it, though, swimming his heart out—until it’s pounding and he’s heaving for breath and needing to get out because he’s pruning. But it’s still comfortable, for now, at least.

Eddie’s left hand digs into the sand at their knees. Rummaging and digging and burrowing until he makes a small, “a-ha!” and presents a shard of something up in Steve’s line of sight. “What kind of shell is this, Stevie?”

He snorts, taking in the object that’s held right in front of him. “Eds, that’s a shard of a beer bottle. That’s not a shell.” Before he lets Eddie get too downtrodden, Steve is searching in the sand, too. Holding up his own find. “This one’s a sand dollar,” he explains softly, “it’s not a shell. Not technically. In fact, it’s not even dead.”

“It’s not?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see Eddie tilt his head slightly. It’s cute, if only he could work the courage to say that. But venturing into the little bit of water is enough for tonight. He shakes his head. “No, it’s very alive. A very alive, flat sea urchin. See how this is super dark?” Lifting the sand dollar up higher, he lets the bit of light from the moon brighten it. “This one’s almost black. Kinda like a deep purple. And if I flip it over”—which he does—“you can see all these little things on the bottom.”

The underside glints and shifts, but shadows with how Eddie moves closer. “Whoa,” he lightly gasps. “What the hell are those things?”

“Bristles,” Steve answers, “they move kinda like worms or, and this is kinda gross, like maggots do. Squirming. See?” He tilts the sea urchin again, holding it closer for Eddie to see. Taking in the even tinier gasp that elicits out of Eddie, he knows he’s done his job. “They act as little legs or arms for the urchin. Dragging microorganisms—like plankton—to a small opening in the center of these bristles. Essentially bringing the plankton in for eating. It’s cool, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs, “shit, Steve, this is probably the coolest biology lesson I’ve had.”

“You’re only saying that because you used to fall asleep in biology, Eds.”

“But I’m being honest! Seriously, Stevie, this is genuinely super cool.” Eddie gets closer again, nearly stitched into Steve’s side. “Will you show me other stuff? How ‘bout…”—he digs in the sand again—“…how about this one?”

This time, Steve actually full bodily laughs. “Eddie,” he sighs. “Ed, that’s another glass bottle shard.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know?”

“I’ll find some more, Eds. Help me dig?”

Eddie gives him a sloppy salute on his forehead. “At your service, future marine biologist.” Steve rolls his eyes, but before he can get too far into his distracted digging, Eddie’s pulling on his arm. He looks over, curious—mainly to see if it’s yet another glass shard that he’s being shown—but he’s met with Eddie’s soft, beautiful face. “I’m serious, Stevie. I’m gonna help you get to that dream career again, no matter what it takes.”

He smiles. Soft and personal and just for Eddie. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, sweet”—

“No, Eds,” he murmurs, “thank you for listening. For…for trying to help me. It means a lot to me.”

“I’ll always listen, Steve. No matter what, sweetheart. Now, let’s get digging; I’ve got some learning to do.”

Tonight won’t fix it all, but it’s a start. And Eddie’s right. His life isn’t over yet. This is a new beginning.

🌊————————🌊

[garagepaperback]

fulfilment

“Do you think it’s worth it?”

“Do I think what's worth it?” Malfoy is in the middle of the bed like it’s a pedestal built just for him, lean and still spread out. He’s twenty-two minutes into a thirty-eight minute process involving his fingernails. Harry’s got his feet propped up on the desk but the apathy of the pose doesn't seem to be taking. 

He gestures.

“You do this, you know.” Draco says, not having bothered to look up.

“Do what?” Harry asks. He leans back, the chair protesting.

“Go back to the dregs of a conversation from three days ago as though it’s a perfectly normal tendency.”

Harry bites his lip, considering, but not about that. "It felt unfinished.”

“You stopped talking.” Draco replies, smooth. He's doing the whole nail thing all by hand. The blunt tip of a wand isn’t sensitive enough, he'd explained the first time. Funny to think of magic not being sensitive, of Draco being so acutely careful about something Harry sees as mostly pointless. Though that's being eroded recently along with a few other things - he's not ever going to be concerned with the application of varnish on his own keratin, but he's at least recently stopped being annoyed to even know the word. Maybe if an instrument is held softly enough it becomes something else, gets to grow deeper than blunt usefulness.

Harry hums and then says the thing he avoided saying days ago.

“I don’t know if it will work.”

And, what a misleadingly uncomplicated term - only two lean lines huddled together. Do the mean jab and the quick strike sustain a distance between the i and the t? Will that always be part of it?

It eclipses, blocking out an enormity. Standing for. Heavy and redolent and Harry still doesn’t look directly even though he returns to the bedrock day after day, greedy about the unreal warmth, wanting wanting wanting. Cock-struck, Ron says, but the past month even the frown’s been starting to dissolve, he says it laughing almost. And it's more than that. He's sitting here watching the boring nail thing, for instance.

“What point is there in talking about this.” Malfoy says, holding up the thumb on his left hand for inspection.

Malfoy has this while Harry has it, which Harry thinks means nothing, or means Malfoy keeps the qualifier a little nearer to himself than Harry does, close enough to point at. Under the same sky, at least.

“I don’t know.” Harry rearranges himself, elbows on his knees, holding up his chin. “What if we cock it up?”

Draco’s lip curls up, which Harry suspects is more about the coarse spotlight turned toward the thing between them and not as much a strummed fear of loss, the one that's on of a constant low broil in the moment suspended between Harry's chest and gut. “We probably will.”

“So what’s the point?”

“Come here.” Draco says, glancing up then. He's so handsome there's sort of an ache to look at him, weird and ethereal in the middle of a boring afternoon. He’s pale enough that it makes the world along his edges seem vicious in vividness by comparison. “Let me do yours.”

Up on the bed, Harry lets him. He doesn’t give a shit about fingernails, but supine and barely moving like this, both of them breathing steadily and Draco with his hands over and under and having Harry’s - he thinks maybe here is the holding, this, it, whatever.

“What’s the point of any of it?” Sometimes Harry thinks Draco talks just to linger under the plush shield of his own voice, sometimes Harry thinks he’s really saying something. “Even you don't get to restrain a living thing and demand it stay perfectly still so you can make some notations about the distance from the nose down to the tail. If it's minute or a nice day or a nice few years - a hundred, I don’t know.” Harry looks at him, surprised and Draco hurries past, busily staring at the hand he’s holding. “Not a hundred. Probably two at best.”

Harry laughs.

“But it’s the-” Draco bites his lip, Harry is listening very much. “It’s not about how much. If you’re busy trying to calculate that you’re missing the entire rest of it, the real thing. Isn’t there a phrase? Seeing the eggshell and missing the yolk?”

Harry’s laughing so hard Draco swats his hand to still it. “Oh, definitely not.”

A small, true grin is dawning. “Seeing the skin and missing the organs?”

“You’re disgusting.” Harry’s smiles, too.

“The ineffable stuff, then. I don’t know." Draco’s eyelashes are nearly flush with his cheek, he's talking to the bend of Harry's wrist, the soft curl of his fingers. “Can’t it just be something worthy of awe? Why does it have to be enough?”

“Are you high?" Harry asks, laughing. "Where the fuck did this come from?”

Draco shrugs, Harry's hand still in his. Outside, it’s a really beautiful day, but he’s been forgetting about that, lately. He's finding it increasingly difficult to remind himself of anything else when it feels like the horizon has inverted and lives inside his chest.

Maybe, awe. It seems conceited to demand to know the quantity of a miracle. And who is he to decide a landscape is worth more than a glimpse? 

for day 31 of @microficmay