#its half 1 in the early hours of the morning this will not make sense

[age-of-wonderbeasts]

on a rainy day i like to sit and think about the random rules society has created for itself. about how we're all just silly creatures on a planet trying to thrive yet we've confined ourselves into these little metaphorical boxes of rules and order we have governed.

if aliens came to earth they would be shocked at how limited we've created the chance to thrive. the functioning of societies based solely on money? what even is money? universal trade? it's just paper and metal that we've all collectively agreed has value, and that x object has x amount of value. and then we get greedy, so the trade changes and increased and we get inflation. and we just. go with it! like oh yeah ok! that's a system that's been in place for centuries even though it's completely futile and pointless and we might be better off trading like idk cavemen or ppl who existed before these governed societies who traded objects for objects.

another concept is like. inequality. there's so many of us and we are all uniquely different that we can't see how we are all human and I think that really goes against us. it's a silly system to be divided by class and these social rules that govern ones worth despite the fact we are all bits of tissue and cells and biological genius and, despite not looking the same, are all human.

jobs is one i think about a lot. we all have our jobs, which creates money, which is trade, which determines worth. jobs. more boxes really. I think about it. a lot. IM HAVING TOO MANY THOUGHT ABKUT THIS RN AS IM TYPING I CANT ARTICULATE. what happened to build shelter, hunt food, cook food, etc etc? ofc we may find that insanely barbaric in the 21st century. but how barbaric do you think someone ( who only knows the contexts I've just described) would find a job. do you think aliens would touch down on our planet and mock us for being our own gaelers? but then I think, some jobs are absoloutely necessary. and i think jobs have evolved. not everyone in the past would have gone hunting. henceforth, it's a job. just not in our colloquial sense.

adding on to this is the work schedule in general. who decided on 9-5? is it optimised for everyone? why then do schools follow a similar structure despite there being studies showing teenagers are nocturnal with different sleep patterns that do not comply with the timings of a school day. why are we making life harder for ourselves?

why are we making life harder for ourselves?

don't get me wrong these systems have been in place for yonks and if we tore them down I think society and us as a species would crumble, I think a world ending cataclysm would cause less damage than trying to reverse the weird systems society has in place that really limit our freedoms if you think about it in a meta kind of way. or maybe I'm not using my brain enough. anyways eat the rich, education should be free everywhere at every level and trans rights are human rights

[novaursa]

Between the Flames (Part 2)

- Summary: Gwayne and you rekindle your flame as a celebratory hunt proceeds.

- Pairing: Gwayne Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. If you want to read all the parts in chronological order visit my blog, the list is pinned to the top. The timeframe of events in both parts 1 and 2 is unspecified, place the plot wherever you wish it in your imagination.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 812

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The first light of dawn creeps into the camp as you step out of your tent. The air is crisp with the chill of morning, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and pine. You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders, taking in the stillness that clings to this early hour. The fires from last night’s revelries are mere embers now, and the camp is draped in a quiet so deep it feels like the world holds its breath.

Your eyes sweep over the clearing, searching for a familiar face, but Rhaenyra is nowhere to be found. Of course she’s not. Your sister has likely slipped away with Ser Criston Cole, her sworn shield, to chase whatever solitude she can grasp in this suffocating charade. Rhaenyra has always despised these hunts, the feasts, the endless parade of lords fawning over her as if she’s a prize mare. You sympathize with her distaste, but unlike her, you’ve remained tethered to these duties out of some misguided sense of loyalty to your father and the memory of your late mother, Queen Aemma.

A flutter of resentment stirs in your chest. You’ve followed the rules for so long, always the dutiful daughter, watching as your sister rides free while you remain in the gilded cage of expectations. Yet yesterday, when Gwayne Hightower had found you in the crowd of nobles and knights, that sense of duty had wavered for the first time in years. His presence had unraveled something in you, a thread of emotions carefully tucked away since your father denied him your hand. His smile was the same, a little boyish even after all this time, and his eyes held that familiar warmth as they met yours.

The memories from years ago flood back, his hand brushing against yours, the quiet exchanges between dances, lingers in your mind like the aftertaste of wine. You had long buried those feelings, or so you thought. Yet now, in the stillness of dawn, all you can think about is how his presence stirs a longing you’ve tried to forget.

For once, you allow yourself to act on impulse.

You move with a sudden resolve, heading towards the small paddock where the horses are tethered. Your chest tightens as you glance around, half-expecting someone to stop you. You see Ser Harrold Westerling, his gray hair wild with sleep, standing at the edge of the camp. He’s too far away to notice you yet, still groggy and unconcerned as he yawns and stretches.

Before he can spot you, you make your way to your mare, a beautiful dappled chestnut with a silky black mane. She snorts softly in greeting, stamping the ground with her hoof. You pat her neck, her coat warm and smooth beneath your gloved hand. "We’re going to do something foolish, my sweet girl," you whisper, a half-smile playing on your lips.

With practiced ease, you mount the mare, settling into the saddle. The forest looms ahead, its dark arms open and inviting, promising the kind of freedom you’ve denied yourself for too long. A breathless excitement quickens in your chest as you lean forward, giving your mare a gentle nudge. She responds instantly, trotting lightly across the camp, her hooves barely making a sound on the soft earth.

"Princess!" Ser Harrold’s voice rings out, sharp with alarm, but you’re already gone. The wind rushes against your face as you break into a gallop, the camp shrinking behind you as the trees blur past. The thrill of disobedience courses through your veins, each beat of your heart in time with the rhythm of your mare’s stride.

The forest is alive with the songs of morning birds and the rustling of leaves. Sunlight dapples through the canopy above, casting golden patterns on the forest floor. For a moment, you let out a breathless laugh, the sheer joy of riding unbound filling you with a wild sense of elation. You understand now, at least in part, why Rhaenyra flees these events; there’s something liberating in leaving behind expectations, even if only for a short while.

You slow your pace once you’re deep within the woods, guiding your mare along a familiar narrow trail framed by ferns and moss-covered stones until you reach an edge of a small brook. The peace of the forest wraps around you like a soothing balm. Here, away from prying eyes, from duties and titles, you can simply be.

But your thoughts inevitably return to Gwayne. You remember the way he looked at you last night, the warmth in his eyes tinged with something deeper. You can still hear his voice in your head, low and intimate as he leaned in close during the dance.

“It has been too long, Y/N,” he had said softly, his hand resting lightly on your waist. “I barely recognized you the day before… though you’ve grown only more beautiful.”

A faint blush warms your cheeks at the memory. For years, you had pushed thoughts of him aside, thinking them childish fancies, a promise he couldn't keep, but his presence has reignited a spark that refuses to be smothered.

Lost in thought, you nearly miss the sound of hooves approaching from another direction. Your mare’s ears prick forward, alert, and you turn your head just in time to see a rider emerging from between the trees. The sunlight catches on silver armor trimmed with green—Gwayne.

Gwayne Hightower woke with the first rays of dawn creeping through the canvas of his tent, the dim light casting long shadows across his face. Sleep had been restless and fleeting; the events of the previous night still clung to his mind like a shroud. He could still feel the weight of Daemon Targaryen’s gaze—a sharp, cutting thing that held a silent promise of retribution. Daemon had watched them dance, his eyes like twin embers, waiting for any excuse to ignite into something more dangerous.

But Gwayne hadn’t cared. Not then, and certainly not now.

All that mattered was you.

He could still feel the ghost of your hand in his, the way your touch sent a spark straight through him. You had tried to maintain a careful distance, the practiced grace of a princess who had long learned to hide her heart behind a veil of propriety. But Gwayne knew you better than that. He knew the way your eyes softened when you looked at him, the way your voice dropped ever so slightly when you said his name. You could hide your emotions from most, but never from him.

He’d known you since you were both children, and in all those years, nothing had truly changed between you. Even now, after all the time and distance, after the layers of courtly masks, you were still the same girl who had stolen his heart. And he would not—could not—let anyone take you away from him. Not Daemon, not even your father. The King could deny him the match all he wished, but it was a hollow decree. He knew, deep down, that you were his. You always had been, from the moment you’d shared your secrets and desires with him years ago, in the quiet, hidden corners of the Red Keep.

And when he had seen Daemon’s eyes on you, the dragon’s possessiveness simmering beneath the surface, Gwayne had only felt his resolve harden. Daemon could try to intimidate him all he liked, but he would never understand that what bound you to Gwayne was deeper than mere attraction or lust. It was years of unspoken promises, of shared dreams and whispered hopes, of a love that had grown in the shadows of duty and expectation.

Gwayne exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face as he pushed himself out of bed. The air was crisp, the early morning dew clinging to the grass as he dressed quickly in his riding leathers. His mind drifted back to the last time he had truly held you, before politics and power had pushed you both into your separate roles. Back then, you’d been freer, more open, before the weight of a princess’s crown settled on your brow. And yet, last night, in those fleeting moments when your eyes met his, he saw a glimpse of that girl again. The one who had wanted more than what was being offered to her.

He knew you would not remain at camp long today. You despised these hunts as much as Rhaenyra did, though you bore it more quietly. And as if the gods themselves sought to reward his patience, his instincts proved correct when he caught sight of you slipping away, mounting your horse with a grace and ease born of years of practice. Ser Harrold’s groggy warning echoed across the clearing, but you were already gone, disappearing into the forest with the wind in your hair.

Gwayne’s heart leapt in his chest, a sense of urgency and determination driving him into motion. He wasted no time, striding swiftly toward his own horse, a powerful black stallion bred for speed and endurance. He swung into the saddle with practiced ease, feeling the familiar weight of the reins in his hands. Without hesitation, he urged his horse forward, following the path you had taken into the woods.

The morning sun filtered through the trees, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the forest floor. Gwayne’s focus narrowed, his gaze trained on the faint trail you left behind—hoofprints in the soft earth, the occasional disturbed branch. He knew where you were headed; it was the same place you always sought when you needed to escape the world, a secluded glade hidden deep within these woods.

The sound of rushing wind and the rhythmic thudding of hooves filled his ears as he pushed his stallion harder, driven by a mixture of anticipation and longing. Every beat of his heart felt in tune with the ride, each breath drawing him closer to you. He couldn’t help but smile as he imagined the look on your face when he found you—the mix of surprise and exasperation that you could never fully hide, tinged with that unmistakable affection that lingered in your eyes whenever you looked at him.

Finally, the trees parted, revealing a clearing bathed in soft morning light. And there you were, seated on your mare at the edge of a small brook, the sound of trickling water a soothing backdrop to the scene. The sight of you, framed by the dappled sunlight, took his breath away for a moment. You were like a vision from a dream, your hair catching the golden rays as you gazed thoughtfully at the water. The serenity of the moment only heightened his determination to be by your side.

You must have sensed him approaching, for you turned just as he entered the clearing. The surprise in your eyes was quickly replaced by a familiar warmth, though you tried to maintain a composed expression. “And here I thought I’d managed to escape everyone,” you said with a hint of teasing in your voice.

Gwayne brought his horse to a stop beside yours, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Did you truly think you could slip away from me so easily, Y/N?” he asked, his voice low and edged with amusement. “You should know by now that I would follow you anywhere.”

Your expression softened at that, and for a moment, the carefully maintained walls you kept around yourself faltered. “And what brings you chasing after me, Ser Gwayne?” you asked quietly, your gaze locking onto his with an intensity that made his pulse quicken. “Surely you have other duties to attend to, other places to be.”

He leaned forward slightly in the saddle, his eyes never leaving yours. “I have no duty more important than being where you are,” he replied, the words simple but weighted with meaning. “No place I would rather be than at your side.”

You looked away, as if trying to hide the emotions that flickered across your face, but Gwayne knew you too well. He could see the struggle within you, the war between obligation and the desires you kept buried. He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against yours where it rested on the reins. “You don’t have to hide from me, Y/N,” he said softly. “Not here. Not now.”

You exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening around the reins as if grounding yourself. “And what if hiding is all I have left?” you whispered, a note of vulnerability slipping into your voice. “What if it’s the only way I can survive this game we’re all trapped in?”

Gwayne’s expression hardened with resolve. “You’re more than what they want to make you. More than a pawn in this endless game of power. You’re you—the woman I’ve loved since we were children, the one I would fight for, no matter the cost.”

You met his gaze then, something in your eyes softening. The walls you’d built around yourself cracked, if only for a moment, and Gwayne saw the woman beneath—the one who wanted more than duty and expectation, the one who longed for freedom, for love, for something real.

“Maybe you’re right,” you murmured, a faint smile touching your lips. “Maybe I’m tired of hiding.”

Gwayne’s heart swelled with hope, with the belief that maybe, just maybe, you were ready to stop running from what you both knew had always been there between you. He leaned closer, his voice a gentle whisper. “Then let’s take this moment for ourselves. Forget the world outside, forget the dragons and the thrones and the knives hidden in every smile. Let’s just… be.”

For a long moment, the world held its breath as you considered his words. Then, slowly, you nodded, the tension easing from your shoulders. “For a little while,” you agreed, your voice soft, a hint of relief in your tone.

And so, you rode together through the sun-dappled forest, leaving behind the weight of duty and the ever-watchful eyes of the court. In this fleeting moment, there was no war of crowns or claims, no dragons or scheming lords—only the two of you, and the promise of something that could be, if only you dared to reach for it.

In the quiet sanctuary of the forest, with nothing but the rustling leaves and distant birdsong to bear witness, you and Gwayne finally dismount from your horses. The sun has climbed higher in the sky, casting a warm, golden light across the clearing. There’s a silence between you—charged, electric—heavy with all the unspoken words and emotions you’ve held back for years. The bond you thought had frayed with time is alive once more, vibrant and undeniable.

You both step closer, drawn together by a force that feels as natural as breathing. Gwayne’s eyes are locked on yours, his gaze intense, full of longing and a possessive tenderness that makes your pulse quicken. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the tension in the small space between your bodies crackling like a fire about to be kindled.

His hand comes up, gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lower lip with a reverence that sends shivers down your spine. “I’ve missed this,” he whispers, his voice low and hoarse with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

You close your eyes briefly, savoring the feel of his touch, the way it melts away the years of separation, the walls you’ve built to protect yourself. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” you murmur, though there’s no conviction in your words, only a breathless longing. The ache in your chest is one you’ve carried for so long, buried deep beneath the layers of duty and decorum. But now, with Gwayne so close, it’s impossible to deny how much you want this—want him.

His thumb tilts your chin up, and you meet his gaze once more. “Perhaps we shouldn’t,” he agrees, his voice soft but edged with determination. “But I won’t let that stop me. Not anymore. I won’t let anything keep us apart again.”

And with that, the dam finally breaks. Your lips crash together in a kiss that’s searing, urgent, full of years’ worth of pent-up desire and emotions. There’s no hesitation, no holding back. The kiss is fierce, almost desperate, as if you’re both trying to make up for every lost moment, every day you spent apart. His hands are on you, one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist with a possessiveness that makes you gasp against his mouth.

Your hands roam over his chest, fingers fumbling with the ties of his tunic, the urgency mirrored in the way he pulls at the laces of your dress. Every touch is fevered, every caress driven by the need to feel skin against skin. Clothes are shed with haste, your lips barely parting even as you struggle to rid yourselves of the barriers between you. His breath is hot against your neck, lips trailing down your throat as he shrugs off the last of his garments. Your own dress falls away, pooling at your feet, leaving you both exposed to the cool morning air—but the heat between your bodies is enough to chase away the chill.

There’s no room for words now, only the rhythm of your breaths, the thrum of your heartbeats in perfect harmony. He draws you close, lifting you with ease as your legs wrap around his waist, your bodies fitting together as if they were made to do so. The first touch of him inside you is a heady rush, a mix of pleasure and familiarity that sends a shudder through you both. He moves with a gentle haste, his grip firm on your hips as he sinks into you fully, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

You cling to him, fingers digging into the muscles of his back as your lips find his again in a kiss that’s all heat and hunger. The rhythm comes naturally, an instinctive dance that’s both achingly familiar and exhilaratingly new. Even after all the time that has passed, your bodies remember each other, falling into a perfect sync that leaves no space for doubt or regret.

His movements are steady but urgent, each thrust a declaration of the need that has burned between you for so long. Your moans mix with his, the sound of your shared pleasure filling the secluded clearing. There’s a raw intimacy in the way your bodies move together, every touch, every gasp a reaffirmation of what you’ve both held onto all these years. You can feel his heart pounding against yours, his breath ragged as he whispers your name, the sound of it like a prayer.

“Y/N,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You don’t respond with words—there’s no need. The way your body arches into his, the way you tighten around him as pleasure builds in your core, says everything. You’re his, just as he’s yours, bound by a love that neither time nor distance could ever truly break.

The tension coils tighter with every thrust, every brush of his lips against your skin, until it’s too much to hold back. Your release washes over you in a wave of bliss, pulling a cry from your lips as you cling to him, every nerve alight with sensation. Gwayne follows you over the edge, a low groan escaping him as he buries his face in your neck, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.

For a moment, the world seems to hold still. The forest fades away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s embrace. Your breathing slows, and you feel Gwayne’s grip on you soften, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your back as he holds you close.

When he finally pulls back to look at you, there’s a tenderness in his gaze that makes your chest ache. “I’m never letting you go again,” he says quietly, his voice filled with a fierce kind of love. “Not for anything. Not for anyone.”

You reach up to cup his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I never wanted to be let go,” you confess, your voice a whisper. “I’ve only ever wanted this… us.”

In the silence that follows, there’s a peace that settles between you—an unspoken understanding that whatever lies ahead, you’ll face it together. For now, in this stolen moment, the world beyond the forest doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way your hearts beat in time, the bond between you rekindled and stronger than ever.

And in that quiet, sunlit clearing, you both allow yourselves to believe—if only for a little while—that the future might hold more than just duty and sacrifice. That it might hold a chance for the love you’ve both fought so long to protect.

Daemon Targaryen stood near the edge of the camp, eyes narrowed into slits as he watched you and Gwayne ride back into the clearing. The sight of you both—your hair disheveled, lips still slightly swollen from hurried kisses—made his blood boil. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles whitened, his jaw tightening as a cold fury settled into his bones. Gwayne’s smug look didn’t help; the Hightower knight sent him a knowing, defiant smirk as he rode past, one hand resting possessively on your waist. The message in his gaze was clear: I’ve won, and you know it.

Daemon’s lips curled into a sneer. Foolish boy, he thought darkly. You’ve no idea what you’re inviting.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what had transpired in the woods. He recognized the flushed skin, the barely concealed satisfaction on both your faces, the way your eyes avoided his as you dismounted. You carried yourself with that fire he adored—back straight, chin held high—but he could see through it. He could always see through you. There was anger beneath your proud exterior, frustration burning just as fiercely as his own. 

As you handed the reins to a stable hand, Daemon moved with predatory grace, intercepting you before you could disappear into your tent. He grabbed your arm, his grip firm but not bruising, his eyes burning into yours. 

“What were you doing?” he hissed, though it was more accusation than question. His voice was low, dangerously controlled, a seething threat simmering just below the surface. 

You jerked your arm free, glaring up at him with barely concealed fury. “I could ask you the same, Uncle. Spying on me as if I’m one of your lackeys?” Your tone was sharp, dripping with defiance. You took a step closer, your voice lowering to a venomous whisper. “What right do you have to question me? You’ve made it clear what I am to you.”

The words cut him, though he’d never admit it. His eyes darkened further as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “You were gone longer than a mere ride warrants, Princess. And you return with that Hightower pup, wearing a look that tells me everything I need to know.”

You bristled, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “And why do you care, Daemon? What difference does it make to you what I do or with whom?” Your voice wavered with barely restrained emotion—anger, frustration, and something more, something raw and wounded. “You never wanted me, not really. Not as anything more than a consolation prize because you couldn’t have her.”

Daemon’s gaze sharpened, the accusation hitting too close to home. He reached out, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Watch your tongue,” he growled, his voice laced with barely suppressed fury. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Oh, don’t I?” You yanked your chin from his grasp, your eyes flashing with contempt. “You think I haven’t noticed? You think I don’t see the way you look at her—my sister? The way you’ve always craved what you can’t have? You wanted Rhaenyra, not me. But Viserys wouldn’t allow it, wouldn’t let his precious heir fall into your clutches. So you settled for me instead, the lesser prize.”

The truth in your words stung more than Daemon cared to admit. His mind raced, fury and something far more dangerous swirling within him. You had never been lesser to him—never. But he had to grit his teeth against the admission. For a heartbeat, his anger faltered, replaced by a flicker of something deeper, something that threatened to expose him in a way he despised. 

His grip loosened, but his gaze remained intense, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. “Is that what you think? That you’re second to her?” His voice was lower now, softer but no less dangerous. “You’ve always seen yourself as Rhaenyra’s shadow, haven’t you? But let me tell you something, Y/N—you have just as much fire as she does. Maybe more.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Words, Daemon. Just more of your pretty words. You think they’ll work on me after all this time?” Your tone was bitter, but there was a note of pain beneath it that you couldn’t quite hide.

His eyes hardened again, his intensity returning full force. “You are not some replacement,” he snapped, each word deliberate, almost vicious in its conviction. “You’re mine just as much as she could ever be. Perhaps Viserys keeps me from her because he fears what we could be together—but he gave me you because he thinks you’ll be easier to control. And perhaps, for once, he’s right.” His eyes bore into yours, daring you to deny it. “But don’t ever think that makes you lesser, Y/N. You’re every bit as valuable as she is—to me and to this cursed family.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of unspoken truths and old wounds. The tension was nearly unbearable, a volatile mixture of rage, passion, and something neither of you wanted to acknowledge aloud. 

You glared at him, chest heaving as you fought to control your breathing. “You claim I’m yours, yet you push me away every time I get too close, every time I try to see beyond that mask of arrogance you wear. You want me just enough to keep me tethered, but never enough to make me truly believe it.”

Daemon’s expression softened just a fraction, the cruel edges giving way to something almost tender. He stepped closer, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, and his gaze softened, the fierceness replaced with an intensity that was somehow even more dangerous. “You’ve always seen through me, haven’t you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s why you’re the one thing I can never let go of, no matter how much I try.”

You felt your breath hitch, the admission hanging in the air between you. For a moment, the storm in your chest subsided, replaced by the ache of knowing that no matter what you said, no matter how much you tried to fight it, a part of you would always be drawn to him—like a moth to a flame, even if it meant getting burned.

But the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and the anger returned, raw and unfiltered. You pulled back from his touch, your voice tight with resolve. “I may be yours in your eyes, Daemon, but I refuse to be something you settle for. I’ll be more than just a placeholder for your desires.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned and stormed toward your tent, leaving Daemon staring after you, a storm of conflicting emotions raging behind his eyes. He clenched his fists, every muscle in his body tense as he fought to rein in his temper. He had always believed he could control everything, bend the world to his will—but in this moment, watching you walk away, he was reminded that some things, some desires, were far beyond his grasp.

But as he stood there, alone in the clearing, a dark, determined smile tugged at the corners of his lips. If Gwayne Hightower thought he could claim you so easily, he was sorely mistaken. Daemon had lost too much already—he wouldn’t lose you too.

One way or another, you would see the truth: that no one could ever truly have you but him.

The final day of the hunt dawned with an oppressive sense of inevitability. The skies were overcast, a muted gray that reflected the tension simmering beneath the surface of the festivities. Lords and knights milled about the camp, preparing for the last chase, but the air was thick with unspoken rivalries and hidden agendas. For Daemon, it was more than just another hunt—it was the culmination of days of mounting frustration and a terror he refused to name, all centered around one person: you.

He had prided himself on control—control over his ambitions, his desires, his enemies. But you were slipping through his fingers, and it clawed at something primal within him. The sight of you laughing, exchanging warm smiles with Gwayne Hightower, had become unbearable. It wasn’t just anger that churned in his chest; it was fear. The fear of losing the one person who had managed to burrow past his defenses, the one thing he had convinced himself was his.

As the sun climbed higher, the hounds were readied, and the nobles began mounting their horses. Daemon’s eyes never left Gwayne, who was exchanging pleasantries with his sister, Alicent. The Hightower knight held himself with the same confident ease as always, his armor gleaming, his expression serene. But beneath that polished exterior, Daemon could sense a defiant edge, a silent challenge that sent a pulse of fury through him.

He couldn’t stand it any longer. He swung himself onto his horse, cutting through the throng with a focused determination. The murmured conversations around the camp fell away as he approached Gwayne, who turned to meet him with a calm gaze, as if he had been expecting this confrontation.

“Ser Gwayne,” Daemon drawled, his tone laced with a false cordiality that didn’t reach his eyes. “It seems we find ourselves in each other’s company once more. How fortuitous.”

Gwayne’s expression didn’t waver. “Prince Daemon,” he replied smoothly, inclining his head in a respectful nod. “It’s always a pleasure to be in such esteemed company.”

The formalities hung in the air like a blade waiting to drop. Daemon leaned forward slightly in the saddle, his eyes narrowing, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Let’s not pretend, Hightower. You’ve been playing a dangerous game, and I can see right through it. You think you can steal away what belongs to me?”

Gwayne’s smile was subtle, infuriatingly calm. “I’ve stolen nothing, Your Grace. But perhaps what you think you own was never truly yours to begin with.”

Daemon’s hand clenched around the reins, his knuckles white. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hissed. “You’ve never understood what binds us—what we share. You think you can walk in, flash a few smiles, and she’ll forget everything?”

Gwayne’s expression hardened, the mask of politeness slipping away to reveal a fierceness that matched Daemon’s. “What binds you?” he echoed, his voice low and firm. “Do you mean the way you push her away, yet cling to her when it suits your pride? Or the way you try to control her, hoping that she’ll never see she deserves more than to be someone’s second choice?”

Daemon’s heart pounded in his chest, a mix of rage and fear twisting inside him. Gwayne’s words cut too close to the truth, exposing the very thing he feared most. He had convinced himself that he was the one who understood you, who could offer you what no one else could. But the thought that he had lost you, that you had found something in Gwayne that he couldn’t offer, was a poison he couldn’t swallow.

His voice was a growl, low and venomous. “You think you’re so righteous, don’t you? Like you’re the hero in some ballad. But you’re nothing more than a lovesick fool, blinded by a girl who’s outgrown you. Do you really think she’ll choose you when all is said and done? You’re a Hightower��nothing more than a tool for your family’s ambitions.”

Gwayne’s eyes flashed with anger, his composure cracking just enough for Daemon to see the fire beneath. “And what are you, Daemon? The rogue prince, the discarded brother who can’t win his brother’s favor, who takes whatever scraps he’s offered because he’s too afraid to admit what he really wants?”

The words hit like a hammer. Daemon’s control snapped, and before he could stop himself, he spurred his horse forward, closing the distance between them until they were nearly nose to nose. His voice was a low snarl. “You know nothing about fear, Gwayne. You don’t know what it’s like to feel something slipping from your grasp, to see the one thing that keeps you from losing yourself slipping away. I would burn the world to keep her, and you’d be the first I’d cast into the fire.”

Gwayne’s gaze didn’t falter, but there was a flash of sympathy in his eyes that stoked Daemon’s fury even more. “That’s where you and I differ, Daemon,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with pity. “You believe in owning, controlling. But I believe in letting her be free, even if it means losing her. Because what she needs isn’t chains or possessive declarations. It’s someone who sees her as an equal, not a prize to be won.”

Daemon’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, Dark Sister, fingers twitching with the urge to draw it and end this insufferable man’s righteous speeches once and for all. But he held back, knowing that doing so would only prove Gwayne’s point. Instead, he leaned in, his voice icy and full of dark promise. “You may have her now, but don’t mistake this for the end. She is mine, whether you—or even she—realize it yet. And one day, when you’re just a memory, she’ll see that.”

With that, Daemon yanked his horse’s reins and rode away, his heart a tempest of emotions he couldn’t fully name—anger, fear, desperation. It terrified him, this loss of control, the realization that he was losing his grip not just on you, but on himself. But he would not give in, would not let you slip away without a fight.

As he rode toward the front of the hunting party, his mind raced with dark thoughts and unspoken plans. He had lost control once, but he would not let it happen again. Whatever it took, whoever he had to destroy, he would make sure that when all was said and done, you would see that you were his and his alone.

And in the distance, Gwayne watched him go, his jaw clenched, his own heart heavy with the knowledge that this confrontation was only the beginning of the battle to come.

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 1 A Ghost Among the Living (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

Summary : The morning unfolds in quiet solitude, the apartment filled with stale air and remnants of your roommate’s late-night mess. At university, the day drags on, lectures feeling distant, classmates engaged in conversations that barely include you. A new animation project is assigned, but motivation is scarce. Eliott’s usual teasing barely registers, while Peter, as always, tries to pull you back into reality. He brings up a Stark-hosted event, sensing you need something to break the cycle. Meanwhile, home is no refuge—tension with Matthew lingers after an unspoken mistake changed everything. As night falls, the walk back feels heavier, each step pulling you toward a place that no longer feels like yours. Post aswell on AO3

word count: 6.9k

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The low hum of the alarm breaks the silence of the room—barely audible, yet enough to disturb the frozen stillness of dawn. It doesn’t truly ring, it vibrates — a discreet, rhythmic, almost organic pulse that makes the nightstand tremble faintly. A bluish glow escapes from its digital screen, casting the shadow of the furniture across the cracked wall. The numbers press themselves into the darkness: 5:42. Too early to live, too late to keep dreaming. But you stopped sleeping at normal hours a long time ago. Habit, or maybe necessity, drives you to rise before the first rays of morning kiss the gray sidewalks of the city.

You lie there for a moment, still, on your back, eyes open, staring at the fissured ceiling as if it might offer you an answer you’ve never known how to ask. Your body is numb, but your mind is already elsewhere, floating in that semi-conscious haze that precedes the gestures of the day. With a slow, almost deliberate motion, you slide the coarse blanket to the side. The cool air bites at your bare skin for a second, drawing a shiver. Your feet search for the floor, settle on the worn-out wood that creaks under your weight. Your hand disappears into your tousled hair, tracing an uncertain path through the knots formed by the night. Your fingers linger for a moment at your temple, as if trying to massage a thought struggling to be born. Then, without a word, without a sound, you get up. Your steps are soft, nearly silent—like an intruder in your own home. The apartment is steeped in warm darkness, disturbed only by the cold reflections of the streetlamp filtering through half-closed blinds.

As you walk down the narrow hallway, a muffled snore reaches you from the living room. You pause on the threshold. Your roommate is slumped on the couch, a blanket lazily thrown over one shoulder. His mouth is slightly open, his breathing uneven. A pale light blinks softly on his face from the TV screen, left on standby. He looks peaceful, almost detached from the very idea of discomfort. You watch him for a second, without animosity, without affection either—just that neutral, distant gaze you now reserve for everything that no longer truly concerns you.

You turn away, slowly making your way to the cramped kitchen. It greets you with its familiar coldness—worn-out surfaces, cracked tiles, cupboard handles hanging loose. You reach for the coffee machine, already prepared the night before, and press the button. A soft click followed by the low rumble of heating water fills the space. The sound, almost comforting, breaks the heavy silence of the apartment. For a few seconds, you stand still, arms crossed, watching the black liquid drip slowly into the carafe. The strong, bitter scent of coffee begins to fill the air, seeping into your nostrils, triggering a sensory memory you don’t try to name.

You open the fridge, its door groaning with a tired sigh. A harsh light spills out, brutally illuminating the remnants of a night you weren’t part of: empty beer cans stacked on the bottom shelf, a torn-open bag of chips, crumbs scattered everywhere, an overflowing ashtray resting directly on the glass, filled with a bizarre mix of cigarette butts and pen caps. A cold, acrid smell hits your nose. You close the door with your foot, irritated but not angry. It’s nothing new. And it won’t be cleaned either. You grab a mug—the same one as always, chipped, with the image of a black cat—and pour the hot coffee into it. The feel of the ceramic against your palm is oddly comforting, almost familiar. You sit on one of the two rickety chairs pulled up to the small table, set against the wall to save space. The room is quiet again, pierced only by the distant hush of a city waking up.

Through the slightly open window, the sounds of the outside world timidly seep in. A lone car horn in the distance, followed by indistinct shouting. You hear hurried footsteps, maybe a jogger, maybe someone rushing to work. The street is still pale, the air probably damp, thick with the fatigue of sleepless nights and the lukewarm promise of an ordinary day. You sit there, listening, watching, letting your thoughts unravel slowly into the diffuse silence.

Here, in this narrow apartment, you are just a blurred outline in a frozen frame. A silhouette among shadows. Background noise in someone else’s routine. You inhabit the walls without leaving a mark; you drift through days like a forgotten dream. You are invisible—even to yourself.

And at university, it’s not much better — just another shadow in the hallways, a figure that doesn’t make waves, a name nobody remembers. You’re alive, but without presence. You exist, but without grounding.

You raise the mug to your lips. The coffee is bitter. It burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch. You cling to the sensation, as proof that you’re still here. You sit there for a long moment, staring into your mug, as if the dark liquid might show you a direction to follow. The acrid smell slowly fades into the still air of the kitchen, replaced by a dull fatigue that nothing seems able to lift. Then, with a methodical gesture, you get up. Your movements are precise, almost devoid of intent—they follow a mechanical routine, as if your body, out of habit, knows what to do without your permission.

You walk to the small table against the wall, where your bag waits—slumped, the fabric tired from too many aimless commutes. You open it in silence, sliding in your sketchbook, its cover bent from too much handling, and your laptop—heavy and warm—handled with care. You check automatically for your charger, a pen, your tangled earbuds. Each object finds its place, like in an emotionless ritual. You head to the coat rack near the door and grab your jacket—the one you wear nearly every day, its elbows worn thin, marked by time and neglect. Before leaving, your eyes drift toward the living room, stopping on the inert silhouette of your roommate. He’s still there, slumped in an awkward position, mouth half-open, uneven breath escaping his dry lips. The blanket has slipped off his shoulder, pooling halfway on the floor like it gave up.

You feel nothing. No tenderness, no irritation. Just that quiet, worn-out indifference that settled between you from the very first day. Two people coexisting out of necessity, like silent passengers on a never-ending ride. You look away, gently close the door behind you. The dry click echoes briefly in the hallway, then silence takes back its reign.

Outside, the air is sharp, biting against your skin. A morning chill that seeps through your jacket and draws an involuntary shiver. You inhale deeply. The damp smell of asphalt, of trash still piled in the street corners, and the more distant scent of warm bread mingle in a strange urban harmony. A new day begins, identical to the last, identical to the one before. One more day where you’ll move among others unnoticed, leaving no trace. You walk down the stairs, your worn-out shoes hitting the concrete with regularity. Each step a note in the monotone symphony of your daily life. The walk to university is short. You know it by heart, but you don’t even look anymore. The same shop windows with the same displays, the same tired faces, the same impatient horns at the same intersections.

As you get closer, the street grows livelier. Students pour in from every direction, carrying the same bags, earbuds in, eyes ringed from short nights. They cross paths, sometimes greet each other in passing, laugh, yawn, call out. Their voices blend with the engines and the early birds. You walk among them, at their pace, but from a distance. You’re there, physically, but no one looks at you. Your existence slips between the cracks of theirs, like a quiet current that never disturbs the flow. You pass through the university gates, enter the main building, then the hallway leading to your classroom. The freshly cleaned floor still smells of harsh disinfectant. The walls display the same old project posters, warped slightly from humidity. You enter the amphitheater—a space with harsh lighting and a ceiling far too high, where the emptiness feels larger than the presence of the students already seated.

The room is half-empty. A few scattered groups talk in low voices, their faces glued to screens or bent over notebooks. You recognize a few figures, classmates whose names you’ve never bothered to learn. They’re part of your class, but there’s no real sense of group. Just a bunch of individuals vaguely gathered by the obligation of a shared curriculum. You pick a seat on the side, mid-height, where you can observe without being seen. You set down your bag, take out your notebook, a pencil. You wait. Around you, the conversations pick up again, mundane. Deadlines, due dates, hoping a teacher won’t show up, overpriced vending machine coffee. Colorless conversations that fill the space without feeding it. The professor eventually arrives, late as usual, walking briskly, a poorly tied scarf around his neck. He drops his bag with a sharp motion, opens his laptop, connects the projector. The screen flickers to life with a familiar hum. The image stabilizes, a title appears: Semester Project – Animated Opening on the Theme of Ecology. He clears his throat, adjusts his voice, then begins to speak.

You hear the words—visual storytelling, meaningful message, symbolic mise-en-scène. He talks about impact, emotion, creative responsibility. Some students jot notes frantically, others nod as if trying to absorb every word. A flicker of excitement rises in the room, barely perceptible, but there. Ideas are already flying. One mentions Japanese inspiration, another a vintage UPA style. Reference names pop up, techniques, color palettes. You stare at your notebook. The first page is still blank. Your pencil grazes the paper, writes a word, then another. Ideas that don’t quite stick, blurry fragments. You sketch a few abstract shapes, faceless silhouettes, lines without depth. Your mind is already drifting. The voices around you become distant, filtered through an invisible bubble. You hear without listening. You’re here, but elsewhere. Always on the edge, always apart.

Your gaze drifts beyond the lecture hall, drawn by the subtle movement of students below in the courtyard. From up here, they look like rushing shadows, their steps paced by habit, their gestures erased by the dull morning light. You watch them without really seeing, your thoughts floating elsewhere, far beyond the university walls. A harsh scrape—the sound of a chair dragged carelessly—pulls you briefly back to the surface. You blink, as if shaking off a dream, then your gaze drops back to your sketchbook. Your fingers, moved by some independent will, resume their slow, distracted dance. A few abstract lines appear on the page—without direction, without intent. They testify to your deep disinterest, that distance between you and the world.

The professor goes on with his presentation, his voice rising above the ambient murmur. The discussions multiply—some students speak without raising their hands, others comment on the projected visuals. The commotion brushes past you without touching, like a distant buzzing. Your pencil drifts again, carving out indistinct forms, like a sleepwalker tracing footsteps in snow. You’re not really there. Another day of class slips by, just like the others, your presence blending into the background. A throat clears, snapping you once more from your daze. You barely lift your eyes, just enough to spot a familiar silhouette settling beside you. Eliott. He makes himself comfortable as if he’s known you forever, elbow resting lazily on the table in perfect nonchalance. He turns his head slightly toward you, a smirk tugging at his lips, and blatantly peeks at your sketchbook.

He’s the kind of guy who stands out in a crowd like this. His sweatshirt outlines a discreet but solid build, maintained without showing off. His dark brown hair is always neatly trimmed, giving his face a near-military sharpness. But what really strikes you are his eyes—two piercing blue sparks, vivid, sharp, almost too bright to be real. When he looks at you, it’s like he sees right through you with unnerving ease.

— “So,” he says, voice laced with mockery, “did you crank out something revolutionary or still stuck in procrastination mode?”

You shrug, barely shifting your gaze. No desire to explain. You quietly turn the page of your notebook, hiding the aimless scribbles that would betray your lack of inspiration. You already know he won’t settle for silence, but you’d rather not invite commentary. He lets out a theatrical sigh, rolls his eyes like the weight of the world just landed on his shoulders, then slowly straightens to look at the professor’s screen.

— “Seriously, who thought giving us a project about ecology was a good idea? They want us to become tree-huggers or what?” His tone is loud enough to draw a few stares, but he clearly doesn’t care.

You stifle a small smile. Eliott often annoys others with his borderline provocative remarks, but you’ve learned to see through them. It’s a mask, a persona he wears religiously: the cocky guy, a bit macho, always ready with a jab to test reactions. A role he plays with almost artistic precision. He glances at you again, his blue eyes catching the pale light filtering through the blinds.

— “You got even a single idea for what you’re gonna do?” he asks, voice lower this time.

You sigh. You shake your head slowly, like even answering costs too much energy.

— “Not really. I don’t even know why I’m still here.”

He arches an eyebrow, mock-surprised.

— “Third year and still lost? Impressive.” He pats your shoulder briefly, almost affectionately, then bends over his own notebook, starting to sketch out half-formed shapes of his own, like he’s following you into the fog.

You let out a soft breath, barely audible, swallowed by the ambient murmurs. Another day pretending, faking progress while everything in you remains frozen. Around you, the project begins to take shape. Conversations become more concrete, ideas intersect, sketches multiply. The group moves forward, inexorably—even without you. You feel like you’re still standing on the platform while the train has already left, carrying with it the momentum you never managed to catch. The bell rings—sharp, metallic—signaling the break. A slight jolt ripples through the room, then everything speeds up. Students pack their stuff with the jittery eagerness of people desperate to escape for a few moments. Some laugh, chat in low voices about their projects, others are already on their feet checking their phones, planning a coffee break or a cigarette outside. You watch them without really seeing, their blurry excitement sliding off your vacant stare.

You stay where you are, arms crossed over your chest, as if that posture might hold your inner world together a bit longer. The amphitheater empties slowly, footsteps echoing off the metal steps, laughter fading. The door closes softly behind the last student. Silence falls again like a cold blanket. Only the low hum of the projector remains, still on, and the pale light bathing your abandoned notebook. You could go outside too. Feel the sun on your skin, watch the others live a simple, light moment. But what’s the point? That world feels distant, like you’re looking at it through thick glass. So you stay. You lower your gaze to your notebook, its pages half-filled with meaningless lines, unfinished sketches, fragments of ideas that died before they formed. You try to take a step back, to understand what you could possibly do with this project, with the coming months, with this degree you’re pursuing almost mechanically.

And there, facing the blankness, a quiet truth sinks in. You’re not really here. Not in this classroom, not in these studies. You’re following a motion without believing in its destination. Motion Design. Three years of learning tools, theories, techniques. Of faking motivation, pretending it all means something. But the truth is, you’re drifting—because you have to go somewhere. Because they told you it was better than nothing. Because you told yourself that maybe, with a diploma in hand, you could try something on your own. Freelance work, independence. But none of it sets your heart racing. None of it really drives you. You realize that sometimes, you envy the ones who have the spark. The ones who argue with passion, who stay after class to work on their projects, who take initiative, who talk in terms of style, narrative, rhythm—with stars in their eyes. You, you look at your screen with indifference. You open the software without conviction. You start things you never finish. And meanwhile, everyone else keeps moving forward.

And there’s that persistent feeling, always humming in the background—the sense that you were pushed aside. You weren’t always alone. You used to be different. You showed up. You went to parties. You brought drinks, food. You talked, you laughed. And then one day, it stopped. You never understood why. There wasn’t a fight, no dramatic gesture. Just the slow, quiet realization that you weren’t invited anymore. That you weren’t included. You went from being “there” to being “too much.” And since then, you’ve drifted. You go missing. You stop giving notice. You isolate yourself—not really on purpose, but not trying to stop it either.

Your mother doesn’t know any of this. She thinks you’re doing fine. That you’re serious. That you’re working hard to succeed. You never really lied to her—not exactly—you just left things out. You didn’t have the strength to disappoint her. So you keep playing your role. You get up every morning, you go to class, you come home late, you say you’re tired. And it’s true. You are tired. Just not in the way she thinks. You don’t even really have an appetite anymore. You don’t feel like cooking, even though it was one of the few things you used to enjoy doing for yourself. You can’t afford the cafeteria, or delivery. Your living situation wears you down, eats away at your energy a little more each day. You’re supposed to cook, eat properly, take care of yourself. But that takes a kind of willpower you just don’t have anymore. The idea of pulling out ingredients, chopping them, watching over a pan… it all feels distant, too complicated, too demanding for a mind already saturated. So you settle for whatever’s there. Leftovers. Cold meals. Packaged food. Anything that gets you through without requiring effort.

You could go out now. Get some air, feel something other than this lethargy clinging to you like a heavy blanket. But you’re still here, sitting. Staring at your notebook, searching for answers that won’t come. Hoping a line, a word, an idea will shatter the invisible wall between you and the person you’re supposed to be. But all you hear is silence. The door opens softly, and a warm draft slides into the empty amphitheater. You don’t move right away, still frozen in your quiet daze. A familiar figure appears in your field of vision. Peter Parker. His shoulder bag thumping against his thigh, his hoodie a bit too loose, sneakers squeaking on the smooth floor. He walks in like the place belongs to him, with that casual ease he brings everywhere. He spots you instantly, a playful smile on his lips, then approaches without a word. He sits next to you, drops his bag on the desk with an automatic gesture, then crosses his arms, watching you like he can read every thought without you saying a thing.

— “Bet you haven’t done a damn thing yet,” he says finally, his usual half-smile glued to his face.

You shrug with that slow detachment you’ve perfected when you don’t want to explain yourself.

— “I’m thinking about it.”

— “Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice in it. “You always think about it right up until the night before, and yet you still manage to hand in something decent.” He tilts his head slightly, raising a brow. “But you do know that’s a crap work strategy, right?”

You smile faintly, amused by his familiar honesty.

— “So I’ve heard.”

Peter shakes his head, mock-despair in his eyes, and leans over to glance at your open notebook. He squints, analyzes the forms without commenting, then asks, voice barely louder than a whisper,

— “What’s the project about again?”

You fold your arms on the table, head lowered slightly.

— “An animated title sequence. Ecology theme.” You pause, your tone laced with the soft irony you reserve for uninspiring assignments. “Inspiring, right?”

He lifts an eyebrow, pretending to be impressed.

— “Yeah, sounds like it’ll be packed with moral messages about saving the planet and recycling. Good luck with that.”

You nod silently, lips tight.

— “Thanks for the support.”

The silence that settles next is easy, obvious. You don’t need to fill the space between you with pointless sentences. Peter doesn’t either. He just sits there, perched on the edge of his desk, hands clasped, his gaze drifting between the dark screen and your notebook still lying open. He watches you calmly, attentive but never intrusive. He knows you. He knows you shut down when pressure builds, that you prefer irony to drama, withdrawal to confrontation.

— “You got even a rough idea of what you’ll do?” he asks again, his voice softer now.

You shrug once more. The gesture has become an answer in itself.

— “Not really. I don’t even know why I’m still here.”

Peter turns his head toward you, his expression shaded with a gravity he rarely shows. He looks at you for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then he sighs—a long breath, betraying a quiet worry.

— “You’re fed up, huh?”

You don’t answer right away. You stare at an invisible spot on your notebook, a fleck in the paper, a flaw in the ink. You could say yes. You could spill everything. But you don’t feel the need to. He doesn’t push. He waits. And sometimes, that’s enough. His presence alone serves as a reminder: you’re not completely alone.

You smile—brief, tired.

— “Anyway, you know how it is. I’m just here to survive the day. We’re here for the degree, not to make friends.”

Peter says nothing. He nods slowly, a compassionate smile brushing his lips. He doesn’t pretend. He accepts your cynicism, your exhaustion, without trying to fix them. You pull out your phone—a reflex, just to fill the void. You scroll through the news with a lazy thumb, not really reading. Until one headline catches your eye. You pause, frown, then tilt the screen toward Peter.

— “You seen this?” you ask. “They want us to go to some conference on new technologies.”

He skims the article quickly, his eyes darting from line to line with curiosity.

— “It’s hosted by Tony Stark. Could be cool.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-skeptical, half-annoyed.

— “Mmh. Not really sold on it.”

Peter turns to you, a little surprised.

— “Why not? Not your thing?”

You straighten a bit, sighing.

—“First of all, it’s in the evening. And I’m working that day. Not sure it’s worth the hassle.”

He shrugs, understanding.

— “Makes sense. But still... it’s Stark, y’know.”

You don’t answer. You let the silence stretch a little, then set your phone down face-down on the table, as if that would end the conversation. You stretch slowly, arms above your head, your shoulders cracking under the tension. The break’s almost over. Already, you hear voices in the hallway, footsteps approaching. The bell rings—its metallic echo cutting through the walls of the amphitheater like a sharp reminder. Peter stands up, grabs his bag in one smooth motion, then throws you a sideways glance—half teasing, half concerned.

— “All right, back to your class of ghost-shadows,” Peter jokes with a wink. “At least try to pretend you’re motivated.”

You stay there for a second, once again alone, in the fading echo of his voice. Silence returns, slowly reclaiming the space between the empty rows of seats. Your eyes linger on the now-closed door without really seeing it. It feels like Peter just took a fragment of light with him, leaving the usual shade of your day-to-day behind. Then, little by little, the calm is replaced by a growing murmur. Students return, one by one, in scattered clusters. Footsteps echo on the floor, voices rise again, chairs creak under rediscovered weight. The room fills up slowly—alive, noisy—but to you, it’s like it’s all happening behind a window. You’re here, yes, physically present, but none of it really reaches you.

You haven’t moved. Your arms still crossed, head slightly lowered, gaze lost in the spirals of your sketchbook, while others’ words float around you. But one conversation eventually pierces your bubble. You don’t really mean to listen, but their excitement makes it impossible to ignore. They’re talking about the event tonight. The conference hosted by Tony Stark. His name alone seems to electrify the air. Some are speaking with barely restrained enthusiasm, eyes already sparkling with anticipation, as if they’re hoping for some grand revelation. Others are more reserved, weighing the pros and cons with fake objectivity. There are those who see it as a networking opportunity, a possible step toward a real job. And those who don’t know if they’ll go, but talk about it anyway—just to stay part of the conversation.

You stay frozen in your seat, expression blank. You hear, but don’t listen. The buzz slides over you like rain on glass. Nothing catches. Even if Tony Stark himself walked down from the stage and handed you a personal invitation, you’re not sure it would make a difference. The thought of going feels pointless. Too far. Too loud. Too full of people. And anyway, you’re working that night. That’s what you keep telling yourself. Like a shield. A convenient excuse. A quiet sigh slips from your lips. You dive back into your sketchbook, as if it could serve as refuge, a barrier against the noise outside. You scribble without purpose—shapes without logic, fragments of thoughts barely formed. Just another day of being here, of pretending to function, while your inner self stays motionless. A blurred figure in a world too sharp.

A familiar clearing of the throat interrupts you again. You look up just in time to see Eliott plop down noisily beside you. He folds his arms on the desk, back slightly hunched, and flashes that trademark smirk of his. His piercing blue eyes glint with mischief, but not malice.

— “Come on, man, you can’t be that dead inside. We’re talking about Stark here! It’s not every day we get a shot like this. And we’re doing an afterparty too. Gonna be fun.”

You don’t reply right away. You glance to the side, your gaze brushing your phone. The screen lights up under your thumb, revealing another wave of unread content you scroll through without focus. Your thumb moves up and down, mechanical. Your eyes are here, but your mind remains somewhere else.

You let a few seconds pass before muttering, without even looking at him.

— “I’ll see… I don’t know. I’m working that night anyway.”

Eliott rolls his eyes, an amused grimace tugging at his mouth.

— “You always find an excuse, huh? Seriously, you should come. It might clear your head.”

You shrug vaguely. It’s not that you’re refusing the invitation—but you can’t bring yourself to imagine going either. His insistence doesn’t bother you. It barely touches you. Like everything else. You’re stuck in that bittersweet fog where every suggestion feels demanding, every movement a mountain.

And yet, a small voice buried inside whispers that he’s not wrong. That you’re just surviving. That you’ve been floating on the surface of everything for a while now—never diving in. You survive. You conserve energy. You say “no” by default. Or “maybe,” just to avoid saying “I’m too tired.” Eliott eventually gives up. He slouches against the back of his chair, arms crossed behind his head, looking resigned but still amused.

— “You’re really a lost cause, man. But hey, if you change your mind, we’ll be there.”

You turn your head just a little, a small smile flickering at the corner of your lips without staying. You nod—barely—but enough for him to know you heard. Maybe you’ll change your mind. Maybe not. The idea hangs there, suspended, somewhere between possibility and indifference. For now, you’re not there yet. For now, you’re still watching the world go by from the sidelines, unsure whether you even want to step into it.

The day stretches out slowly, weighed down by the stillness of the room and the constant hum of voices. The hours slip by without you really feeling them—punctuated by the tapping of keyboards, the scraping of pencils, tired sighs and the occasional burst of laughter. You’re still there, in your seat, notebook open in front of you, but your thoughts are somewhere else entirely. Every now and then, you doodle, scribble a word, a shape, a diagram you immediately erase. Nothing takes form. Nothing grips you.

Around you, the commotion continues, like a little self-contained world you only float through. The conversations loop endlessly. The Tony Stark event keeps coming up, again and again, like a magnet pulling all the room’s energy toward it. Your classmates talk about it with a mix of excitement and nerves, as if it were some pivotal moment in their careers. Some see it as a professional opportunity, others just want a glimpse of a celebrity. But what keeps coming up—what everyone seems most hyped about—is the after.

You learn it almost by accident, half-listening while pretending not to. The afterparty will be held in a luxury apartment, apparently lent by a student who’s clearly way more loaded than the rest. The comments pour in about the décor, the rooftop jacuzzi, the balcony views. They’re already talking about drinks, playlists, who’s bringing what. The mood is rising, energy building—and you remain still in your bubble. A few people vaguely call out to you, invite you again. Always the same polite smiles, the same hazy looks. Not because they really care about you being there. No—you know why. They remember the convenient version of you: the guy who, without saying much, brings a good bottle, the guy who always adds a little something extra to the vibe. They don’t know you. They don’t know anything about you. But they keep that blurry image: the quiet one, but useful.

That’s when you find out the event isn’t tonight. It’s tomorrow. The news slides over you like a lukewarm drop of water. Nothing changes. One more day pretending, taking up space without really inhabiting it. Another chance to stay on the outside while others make plans, carve out paths you won’t follow. The hours crawl. The afternoon drags like a never-ending rainy day. The professor comes back, still talking about the project. Some students show progress, share ideas. You pretend to listen, nodding now and then, taking a note here and there. But your mind is fogged. Nothing gets through. You’re there—but not really. And finally, the end creeps closer. The sun starts dipping behind the grimy windows, casting the room in a golden light that doesn’t warm you. One by one, voices quiet, things get packed away, bags zip shut in soft rustles. You finally move. Slowly. You close your notebook with almost ceremonial slowness. You tuck your pencil back in its case, your laptop into your bag—every motion precise, measured, meaningless.

Your movements are automatic, like a puppet repeating the same dance every day. You don’t look at anyone. You say nothing. No goodbye, no smile. You slip between the others like a shadow leaving before the room’s even empty. Only the dull sound of your zipper, the gentle scrape of your chair, and the weight of your bag on your shoulder remain behind you. Another day behind you. Another one ahead. Identical. Silent. Outside, the air barely surprises you, but it’s enough to remind you you’re no longer indoors. It’s cooler than the stuffy classroom, and it brushes your face, drawing a subtle shiver. The daylight fades, leaving behind that orange hue that marks the end of a season’s day. You take a deep breath, as if that one inhale might wash away the inertia of the day.

And then, the second your eyes sweep the plaza in front of the university—you see him. Peter. Leaning against a lamppost, hands stuffed in the pockets of his oversized hoodie, one leg bent against the painted metal pole. That eternal half-smile lights up his face—calm, grounded, reliable. He was waiting for you. When your eyes meet his, he straightens with a fluid motion, steps away from the post, and walks toward you with that quiet energy he always carries.

— “So,” he says, one eyebrow raised in a mix of amusement and gentle challenge, “still not convinced about seeing Stark live?”

You sigh, already tired just thinking about the subject again. You shrug lightly, not even slowing your pace.

— “Honestly? I don’t know. I don’t really have the energy for it. I’ve got work that night anyway, and showing up to a conference after… I’ll just end up more exhausted.”

Peter lets out a soft laugh, rolling his eyes, but his smile doesn’t fade.

— “I’ll pick you up after your shift if you want. We don’t have to stay long. Just check it out, feel the vibe, then you can crash.”

You glance sideways at him, a bit intrigued by his persistence. He knows you’re not the type to chase after big social events. He knows crowded rooms, inspiring speeches, charged-up atmospheres—they’re not your thing. But he keeps insisting. Not to be annoying. More like he genuinely wants to pull you out of this fog you’ve been sinking into day after day. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish into your routine without even noticing. You lower your gaze, eyes trailing the sidewalk. You feel the weight of your bag, the sound of your footsteps on the concrete, the breeze brushing your neck. Without thinking, you pull your phone from your pocket and scroll aimlessly. Pointless notifications. Unread messages. News that tells you nothing.

— “Yeah… maybe,” you murmur. “But I’ve got the project too. Not like I’ve got time to waste.”

Peter stops walking for a second—just enough to cross his arms and tilt his head toward you.

— “Dude, when’s the last time you did something just for you? Not for class, not for work—just… for you?”

You stay silent. His question catches you off guard. Worse—it hits home. That emptiness you feel every day has already been whispering the answer. But saying it out loud, admitting it to him—that’s different. That’s a step you’re not ready to take yet. You shrug faintly, a movement so small it’s barely there. You pocket your phone without a word, like that gesture could close the topic.

— “I’ll think about it,” you say eventually, your voice tired, uncertain—but not shut off.

Peter’s smile softens—almost brotherly. He pats your shoulder with his palm, light but full of meaning. Then, without pressing further, he starts walking again beside you.

— “It’s cool. I know your ‘I’ll think about it.’ I’m still coming to get you though, just in case.”

You shake your head slightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. One of those smiles that doesn’t fully land—but Peter always catches it. He knows you. Too well, sometimes. No other words are needed. You walk on together in the fading light, in silence. The streets begin to come alive again. Shop windows light up one by one, people stream out of offices, bikes weave between cars. In the distance, you spot the glowing signs of the grocery store where you work. They’re already blinking faintly in the deepening dusk, dragging a sigh out of you. The world keeps spinning—noisy, fast. But in this quiet walk next to Peter, something feels suspended. Just for a moment. Like in all the background noise, you’ve found a breath of calm.

The walk continues in a lighter mood, almost peaceful. You and Peter exchange trivial things—stories that don’t matter, little observations—just to keep the weight off. Talking without effort, without pressure, without expectation. It’s simple. It’s soft. It’s rare. A moment where you don’t have to perform, or calculate your words. You can just exist—present, unguarded. Then, between two street lamps, between two muffled chuckles, silence settles in again. You let it. You don’t try to break it. And finally, without really meaning to, you sigh—almost under your breath—eyes drifting to the pavement sliding by under your shoes.

— “I don’t really wanna go home tonight…”

Peter doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t need to. You feel his gaze on you—steady, listening. You know he understood, the way he always does, with that silent kind of insight that never forces you to say more than you’re ready to. He doesn’t push. He waits. And you keep walking. He knows. Since you arrived in the city, you thought you had found balance. A simple living arrangement. No drama. Matthew was just that quiet but friendly guy, the one things just clicked with. Those late-night kitchen chats, shared beers, the unspoken ease of quiet routines. A soft kind of normal. Built from small gestures and unspoken understanding.

And then came that night. You don’t even know why you did it. A mix of exhaustion, loneliness, tension that had been building in every glance for weeks. That unspoken something that hovered over every meal, every laugh that lingered a bit too long. You kissed him. And everything stopped. Like a light switch flipped mid-motion. In seconds, everything you’d built collapsed. Since then, Matthew has become a bitter shadow in your everyday life. He doesn’t talk to you anymore—or only to throw passive-aggressive remarks. At first, he avoided you. Then came the little comments, the pointed looks, the sighs. He learned to aim right—straight at what hurts. You don’t know if it’s rejection, fear, or just cruelty in disguise. You don’t know. And you don’t want to figure it out anymore.

You rub your hand over your face, already tired at the thought of crossing that threshold, hearing another sigh, seeing his closed-off stare.

— “Matthew’s home tonight, and I just know it’s gonna be a mess again.”

Peter turns his head gently toward you, his gaze calm but touched with concern. He doesn’t judge. He doesn’t dramatize. He just extends the offer like he’s holding out a hand.

— “You wanna crash somewhere else tonight? I can take you in if you want.”

You hesitate. You even slow your pace a little. The idea is tempting. But you shake your head softly, almost automatically.

— “Nah, I’ll be fine. I just… needed to say it.”

He stays quiet for a second, then matches your pace again. His presence remains steady—comforting, but never overbearing. Exactly what you need. Still, he doesn’t drop it entirely. His tone stays gentle, but firmer this time.

— “You say that, but seriously… you don’t have to put up with a roommate like that. If he’s being an ass, maybe it’s time to just step away from it, y’know?”

You smile a little—a crooked, sad smile. The kind born more from irony than joy.

— “Don’t worry. I’ve been through worse, honestly.”

Peter shoots you a more focused look, and his expression shifts slightly. Something in your voice—or your eyes—must have caught his attention.

— “Yeah? Like what?”

You shrug slightly, your gaze drifting to the lit windows of distant apartment blocks.

— “I mean… outside of class, you don’t really know me that well.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. You can feel him processing that. Maybe for the first time, he’s realizing that everything he knows about you is surface-level. He knows the classmate—the quiet guy, sometimes sarcastic, often tired, always a bit distant. But not the rest. Not the weight behind the silences. Not the things you’ve run from to end up here. Eventually, he lets out a sigh, a sideways smile tugging at his lips.

— “You’re good at dodging serious questions, huh?”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow.

— “You just noticed?”

He lets out a quiet laugh—almost fond.

— “You’re a walking mystery, man. One day, you’re gonna have to open up a little.”

You don’t reply. You leave the sentence hanging in the air between you. It’s easier that way. He seems to understand—again. So he doesn’t push. The rest of the walk unfolds in peaceful silence, broken only by the sound of your steps on the pavement. The streetlamps cast their trembling halos, shop signs flicker as businesses close one by one. Evening settles in for real. The world slows down. At a corner, the two of you stop without needing to say a word. It’s habit. The natural end of the road. Peter slips his hands into his pockets, his gaze settling on you one last time, more serious than usual.

— “If anything happens—send me a message, okay?”

You nod slowly.

— “Yeah. Don’t worry. Good night.”

— “Good night, man.”

He walks off, his steps swallowed by the night. You watch him disappear without moving, then turn in the opposite direction, starting your way back. Each step toward your building brings back that weight you know too well. It’s not fatigue. It’s anticipation. The dread of walking back into that now-hostile space, filled with heavy silences and dodged glances. The air feels colder all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just the pressure sitting on your chest—the one that always finds you again, right there, every single night.

[nostalgicnarrator]

𝙾𝚞𝚝𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙻𝚊𝚠𝚖𝚎𝚗

───── ☾ ⍟ ☽ ─────

Word Count: 7736

Parings: Thorn X Bilbo

Description:

Thorin has had it with this outlaw.

───── ☾ ⍟ ☽ ─────

1 / 2 / 2.5 / 3

⚠️Warning⚠️

Mature content.

Note:

I put my cowboy hat on first this one, let me know if you want to see more. I might make it into a AO3 book if people want it enough.

───── ꧁✪꧂ ─────

The sun wasn’t even over the horizon when the knock came, loud and persistent, and far too early in the morning for Thorin’s liking.

He was in the middle of a deep, dreamless sleep. The knocks started quietly, just enough to stir him. But they didn’t stop. The knocking quickly turned to banging.

Thorin groaned loudly, dragging his hand down his face. And that’s how he found himself standing at his front door staring at a boy who shoved a paper in his hand.

Thorin half-expected some emergency, not some kid. The problem was that Ered was quiet most mornings, but it had its moments, so when someone comes banging on his door this early, it was usually serious.

Not for some paper. He raised his brow at the young man as he stood there, barely awake himself. The boy rubbed his eyes, swaying slightly as if he might fall asleep standing.

“Telegram for you, Sheriff,” the boy mumbled when he handed it over.

Thorin blinked at the offending piece of paper. It felt heavier than it should’ve, like it carried some kind of unseen weight. Something in his gut told him this wasn’t good, it felt… wrong.

He quickly read the message, his brow furrowing as his tired eyes tried to make sense of it.

꧁——————————꧂

꧁𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚖꧂

𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚗𝚝: 𝟻:𝟶𝟶…..𝚃𝚘: 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗 𝙾𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚍

𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍: 𝟼:𝟹𝟶……

𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙴𝚛𝚎𝚍.

𝙱.

꧁——————————꧂

Thorin stared at the telegram. “B,” he muttered to himself. Just a letter, no name. He turned the telegram over as if he might find some clue hidden on the back.

“Who sent this?” Thorin asked, glancing at the boy. Feeling about as annoyed as a wet cat.

The young man shrugged, still half-asleep. “Dunno. Just got handed it at the post office this morning. Told to deliver it.”

“Great,” Thorin muttered, running a hand through his hair. He shooed the boy away.

He all but slammed the door as he tossed the telegram paper on a table and stormed upstairs. His mind was unhelpfully loud and annoying.

He had no idea who “B” was, or why this person thought it necessary to bother him at this ungodly hour. And why a cryptic message about a train?

It wasn’t like trains were a rare occurrence in Ered. They’re not often eather, and when they did come through they had small shipments. But him getting the notice didn’t make sense. The mayor normally gets the notice about the trains, not Thorin.

He flopped over onto his bed and tried to go back to sleep. His mind rolled through thoughts of who could have possibly sent it.

At first his mind landed on Balin, but that makes no sense, first of all, Balin would’ve waited, second he wasn’t always needed when it came to deliveries. The few times he was, was when the bank got new bills in or gold shipments.

Besides, Balin didn’t deal in cryptic messages; he was direct, always to the point. So If it wasn’t Balin, then who?

He turned the letter over in his mind. Bofur? No, not likely. Bofur wasn’t much for secrets, the man would have blurted out whatever he had to say in the middle of town for all to hear. Probably would have burst into song about it if someone got a little liquor in him.

Bombur wouldn’t send it either, he got his shipments with his brother, and when he didn’t it came by wagon. Sure the man was shy but he knew Thorin and they’ve talked a few times.

Bifur? No, Bifur probably didn’t understand how telegrams worked, so it couldn’t be him. Thorin groaned and rubbed his face again roughly.

None of them would have done it. they all would’ve told him in person if they did actually need help, and at a more reasonable hour.

So it had to have come from outside of Ered. But who, in their right mind, would do this?

“First that outlaw,” Thorin grumbled under his breath. “And now this… I can’t catch a break.”

Thorin hadn’t even caught his breath from that whole disaster, the universe is out for his blood. He could feel it. Thorin sat back up with a huff, he decided to get ready for the day. It was clear he wasn’t going back to sleep any time soon.

And he could feel something was off about this whole situation. It nagged at him like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. The one thing Thorin had learned over the years was that trouble didn’t usually announce itself. It snuck up on you.

Thorin sighed heavily, he really didn’t want to deal with any more problems, he shoved his boots on and pulled his hair back before plopping his hat on his head. He was already tired, and the day hadn’t even started yet.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Thorin looked up from his desk when Dwalin walked in, the man looked as exhausted as Thorin felt, he vaguely wondered if the deputy got a Telegram too.

That thought left him quickly when Dwalin looked at Thorin with confusion. Dwalin tossed his hat on his desk, it landed with a soft thud. The man slowly walked around to Thorin before he leaned back against the table. He crossed his arms. Dwalin flinched in pain as he did.

Thorin cringed as he saw, Thorin knew Dwalin wasn’t fully healed, but the man wouldn’t stay home no matter how much he was begged, bribed or told to. So Thorin let him keep working, (more like didn’t have a choice)

“Well, I’ll be,” Dwalin chuckled, eyeing Thorin. “What are you doin’ here so early? You usually ain’t this eager to start the day.”

Thorin sighed, his fingers tapped impatiently on the desk. Without a word, he picked up the telegram card.

“I’ve been debating whether to burn this thing in the stove or not all morning,” Thorin grumbled, handing the telegram over like it was the most offensive thing in fifty miles.

Dwalin took it with a smirk, glancing at the Telegram. His eyes moved to the card back to Thorin, then down to the card again. Slowly, he snatched it up and read it.

After a few moments the smirk slipped off Dwalin’s face, replaced with something more serious.

“What do you make of it?” Thorin asked, already half annoyed by the silence.

Dwalin narrowed his eyes, holding the card up to the lamp light as if checking for anything else. “Thorin,” he began carefully, “do you have any clue who this is from?”

Thorin leaned back in his chair, throwing his hands up in frustration. “No! I’ve been rackin’ my brain over it, and I can’t figure out who this ‘B’ is supposed to be!”

Dwalin paused and slowly turned his head to squint at Thorin. He shot Thorin a look that made the sheriff pause and stare back. “What?” He asked after a beat of silence.

The deputy let out a long, exasperated sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you stupid, or are you just playin’ dumb?”

Thorin straightened in his seat, the irritation from before coming back ten fold. “Excuse me?”

Before Thorin could get another word in, Dwalin cut him off, shaking the telegram at him. “It’s Bilbo, you idiot.”

Thorin blinked, surprised. His expression darkened. “Bilbo?” Granted he had started to think the same thing but- “That outlaw’s not that dumb! And, even if you were right, why would he sign the telegram? It’s too obvious.”

Dwalin rolled his eyes, tossing the card back onto Thorin’s desk. “He clearly wants you to know it’s him! -You really think someone else is gonna go through the trouble of sendin’ your dumb ass a message like this?”

Thorin crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw clenched. “It could be anyone. What's the point then? Why tell me about a train?”

Dwalin let out a grunt, standing up and grabbing his hat. “I’ll tell ya what-he’s tryin’ to get under your skin or he’s just fuckin’ with ya. And by the look of it, he’s succeedin’.”

Thorin bristled. “Where’s your proof?! I'm tellin’ you! If it was Bilbo, I’d know!”

Dwalin raised an eyebrow as he fixed his hat back on his head. “Fuckin’ shit Thorin! Ya really think Bilbo plays by the rules? Outlaws like him, they make their own rules. Now, we can either sit here and argue about it, or we can head to the train station to see if I’m right.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, his pride burning in him. He wanted to prove Dwalin wrong, but he couldn’t deny that there was something about this that gnawed at him.

Thorin stood up, grabbing his own hat and putting it on his head with more force than necessary.

“Fine, We’ll go. If this turns out to be nothin’, I’m holdin’ you responsible for draggin’ me out there.” Thorin grumbled as he stomped out of the office.

Dwalin smirked and quickly followed. “Oh Sheriff, I’m sure it’ll be well worth the trip.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

They had been waiting for hours. Thorin checked the clock on the station wall and let out an impatient “tsk.” Dwalin, who was leaning against a wooden pole, glanced over at the noise.

“Ya gonna keep doing that every five minutes?” Dwalin asked, sounding frustrated.

Thorin got up from the bench he had been sitting on with a frustrated grunt. “We’ve been here for hours, and there’s no train. It's gettin’ hot, and I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast!”

Dwalin raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Ya sound like a child.”

Thorin shot him a glare, opening his mouth to retort. Another voice interrupted.

“Uncle!” Fíli yelled as he quickly came up the stairs. “There you are! Ma got worried when you two weren’t in the office.”

“Yeah! She brought lunch for you- unfortunately it must’ve mysteriously disappeared” Kíli said as he shrugged before he came over and stole Thorin’s hat.

The boy plopped it on his head and beamed at his brother. Thorin gave the boy an unimpressed look and snatched his hat back. “Uh-huh sure it did. Tell your momma I’m sorry, but we’re waitin’ on a train so-“ Dwalin interrupted.

“I’ll tell you what we’re waitin’ on, we’re waitin’ for that outlaw, Bilbo.“ the deputy said as he glared at Thorin.

“Ohh! That explains the telegram then!” Kíli said as he nodded very seriously.

Fíli paused for a second then slowly looked at Kíli. “What telegram Kee?”

“The one on uncle’s desk! The B at the bottom makes so much more sense now-” Kíli tried to say, but he was quickly interrupted.

“What?!” Fíli shouted and whipped around completely to glare at his brother. “You saw that and didn’t think to tell ma or me?! Kee!!”

Kíli put his hands up in mock surrender “Well if I did, I wouldn’t of been able to eat lunch! And it didn’t seem like a big deal!”

“It couldn’t have been a bigger deal! What if uncle had gone out after him! No one would have known anything! You know he doesn’t tell anyone anything!”

Thorin decided to stop them when Fíli’s hands started twitching. He knew his sister would like to keep both her sons in mostly one piece

“Alright-alright! you two that’s enough-” but then there was a distant screeching noise. Thorin turned to look.

There was a low rumble too, that started to fill the air as a train moved closer, Thorin could see the billowing of smoke in the distance.

Dwalin stood up straighter, adjusting his hat. “Here it comes,” he said, he tilted his head as he watched the train. “…it’s movin’ fast. Too fast-“

Thorin frowned, watching the approaching train. The rumble grew louder each second that passed, the ground beneath them trembling as the train neared.

Dwalin was right, the train was going too fast, Thorin was pretty sure trains didn’t come barreling through stations like that, unless something was very, very wrong.

The train rocketed through the station in a blur of steam and steel, the air whipping around them as it shot past. Thorin barely had time to catch his hat as the force of the train sent a gust of wind blowing through the station’s platform.

Then, Thorin caught glimpses of human shapes through the windows of the passenger cars, people, civilians- were trapped in that train.

“Hell,” Dwalin muttered, his eyes widening. “You don’t think…”

“Were those?” Fíli asked quietly by Thorin’s side.

Thorin’s jaw clenched, his anger flared. Dwalin was right. Bilbo had sent the message, but this wasn’t just some ordinary train coming through town. This was a hostage situation.

As the end of the train sped past, Thorin’s eyes locked onto a figure standing on the roof of the rear car. His heart lurched when he recognized the figure, he was standing tall and confident despite the speed.

Bilbo Baggins, tipped his hat and bowed with exaggerated enthusiasm. When the outlaw looked back up, his eyes quickly met Thorin’s and Thorin felt a surge of anger and adrenaline. Even though he couldn’t see it Thorin could feel the smug smile on Bilbo’s face.

Dwalin let out a low chuckle that immediately had Thorin glaring at him, this wasn’t funny. “Told ya it was him.”

Thorin clenched his fists. “We don’t got time for this, Those people are in danger!”

Dwalin’s smirk faded, his eyes narrowing. “Right. I’ll gloat later.”

Thorin turned to his nephews. “Fíli your honorary deputy till I get back! Understand?”

Fíli stuttered a bit before quickly shouting after them. “What- but! Uncle wait”

“What about me!” Kíli whined with a huff.

“Tell your mother she’s sheriff if I don’t come back!” Thorin yelled as Dwalin mounted their horses.

Thorin kicked his heels into his horse’s side, urging her forward, and Dwalin was right behind him. The sound of hooves thundered against the ground as they raced after the train.

“What do you think his plan is,” Dwalin called out over the wind, giving another flip to his reins as they sped along the tracks.

But Thorin couldn’t answer, his focus was on the retreating figure of the outlaw. how Bilbo had managed this, he’d probably never know.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Bilbo dropped down onto the Gangway, his boots hitting the metal with a soft thud. He straightened, dusting off his poncho unnecessarily.

The wind whipped around him still. With a quick motion, he stepped into the passenger car. And pulled his mask down. He took a deep breath and looked around.

The inside of the car was dimly lit, the lamps flickered as the train cars swayed dangerously. Bilbo took a moment to survey the “passengers.” Each seat was filled, but not with people, no, he didn’t want anyone to get hurt after all.

Instead the seats were occupied by dummies, dressed in old clothes Bilbo had managed to get from whoever he could, most only being shirts or old hats.

The figures sat still and lifeless, rocking with the cars their heads slumped forward as if they were sleeping. A few had faces sloppily drawn onto their cloth heads.

Bilbo smiled to himself, the sight of the dummies filling him with a sense of satisfaction. The ruse had worked perfectly. He had to give himself credit for creativity.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” He said as he glanced at the back of the car.

Bilbo’s eyes landed on his right-hand man, who was leaning back casually in one of the seats, his arms crossed. The man’s sharp brown eyes scanned the room with an approving nod.

“As impressive as it is crazy,” his right-hand man said as he shook his head. “Are you sure it worked boss?” The man’s tone was light, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes.

Bilbo nodded, walking down the aisle between the dummies inspecting his work. “Oh, it worked. Trust me, Thorin’s the kind of lawman who can’t resist a baited hook.” Bilbo nodded to one of the Dummies as he sat down across from his right-hand man. “Especially if it involves a train full of ‘innocent’ passengers. He’ll be on board soon enough.”

“… Is this all really just to see if those stories about the sheriff hold water?” The man asked quietly as he leaned forward, giving Bilbo a strange look.

Bilbo tapped the man’s hat. He quickly moved to fix his hat with a grumble. “You, my dear friend, worry too much,” Bilbo said with a sly smile. “You know how people love to blow things out of proportion”

His right-hand man smirked back. “I don’t have anyone else to worry over B, and you happen to be the most worrisome thing in my life”

Bilbo rolled his eyes and sighed. He leaned back against the seat, the smile fading from his lips as his usual bravado slipped away. “I’m sorry.” He muttered.

His right-hand man looked over, “What for, B?” He asked, he sounded concerned. “You didn’t do anything”

“For making you help me again… I didn’t realize so much of your old life was waiting for you in that town. If I’d known- I should have known…” Bilbo trailed off, glancing down.

The right-hand man waved it off, letting out a quiet sigh. “No need to apologize for that, boss man. Neither of us knew, and it doesn’t matter now. I’d, without a second thought, go back there if you needed me to.”

Bilbo looked up at the man, He let a smile slip back on his face “I won’t make you go back there again, not unless you want to.”

They sat in silence for a beat, a moment passing between them. Then, with a sharp inhale, Bilbo stood, his grin turning more playful. “Come on, if we don’t hurry, they’ll catch up.”

“Right.” His right-hand stood up and readjusted his hat again to hide his face more. He followed after Blibo as the two men began to make their way further up the train.

“I want Thorin and Dwalin to feel… welcomed when they finally decide to hop aboard.” Bilbo looked back and smiled at his right-hand.

The man nodded. “As welcomed as they can be on this train anyway, all the muscle is in place…”

“Good,” Bilbo said with a satisfied nod. “Let’s make sure everything runs smoothly. I don’t want anyone dying on my train”

“Yes sir boss man,” the man hummed. “Paid off the conductor yesterday. He’ll take us straight through without any interruptions, if he can help it. And the thugs owe us a favor”

Bilbo nodded, “good, then let’s get moving, we need to make sure we can get to the engine to escape.”

The right-hand man shook his head. “You really are crazy Bilbo.” With that, the two of them made their way to the front of the train, the dummies sitting silently in their seats as the train rattled on through the open plains, waiting for the inevitable.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The landscape blurred as Thorin and Dwalin raced behind the train, their horses being pushed to their limit. The wind howled past them, tearing through their clothes as they thundered over the open plains.

Thorin could feel his heart pounding in time with the rhythm of everything; the gallop of hooves, the rattling train wheels.

Ahead, the train barreled forward, the smoke from its engine trailing behind like a dark cloud. It cut through the open land, speeding forward.

Thorin looked ahead and saw a narrow bridge over a large river, he cussed under his breath and turned his head towards Dwalin. “Dwalin! We need to get on that train! Now!” He shouted as loud as he could.

Dwalin gave a sharp nod and spurred his horse, digging his heels into his horse’s side. His horse surged forward, cutting through the wind as Dwalin leaned low like a horse racer.

Dwalin reached out, his fingers brushing the iron handle on the back of the caboose car, he pushed himself forward, then the train’s wheels screeched loudly as it hit a sharp curve, the cars swaying dangerously from side to side.

He missed the handle and as he was about to fall, in a moment of panic, grabbed the railing with his other hand. The force pulled him out of his saddle, with a grunt of pain Dwalin hauled himself up.

The second his boots finally hit the metal platform with a heavy thud he had to use the railing to keep himself upright. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, wincing as he gripped his shoulder.

He looked behind him and turned. He shouted over the roar of the wind and train. “Thorin!” He reached out his hand and Thorin nodded.

Thorin's horse struggled to keep pace even before he leaned forward and spurred his horse to go faster. She tried to run faster but Thorin could feel her falter. He leaned out, reaching for Dwalin’s outstretched hand.

Dwalin surged forward, grabbing Thorin’s wrist, and with a powerful yank, he pulled the sheriff off his horse. Thorin’s stomach lurched as he left the saddle, but before he could process the motion, his feet slammed onto the platform of the caboose. He stumbled for a second, but quickly found his balance.

Their horses fell back. But they kept following the train at a slower speed. The train roared onto the narrow bridge and the horse broke off to cross though the river instead.

For a moment, the two of them just stood there, breathing heavily. Dwalin still leaned heavily against the railing, clutching his shoulder.

Thorin glanced at him. “You alright?”

“Yep.” Dwalin grunted, he didn’t even look up.

“You sure? That didn’t look-” Thorin tried to ask but snapped his mouth shut when Dwalin glared at him.

Dwalin gritted his teeth. “Ask me one more stupid question, and I’ll slap you upside the head.”

Thorin raised his hands in mock surrender, “Fine. Relax.”

They stood there in silence for a beat, the bridge speeding past beneath them, the clatter of the wheels filling the air. Thorin looked down at the tracks, watching the blur of the river below, before turning back to Dwalin.

“That was close,” Thorin muttered.

Dwalin let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “the word close isn’t the right word for what that was”

Thorin nodded, glancing toward the train. He exchanged a look with Dwalin, who took a steadying breath before pushing himself off the railing. “Come on, let’s move,” Thorin said.

With a little difficulty, they managed to budge the door that leads inside open. The car was a mess, crates and tools had been thrown around. They carefully made their way through the clutter, checking any would-be hiding places before heading into the passenger cars.

The moment they entered the passenger car, Thorin’s instincts kicked in as he dodged a fist, pulling Dwalin with him. The man was burly, his face set in a seemingly permanent sneer.

he swung again, his heavy fist straight at Thorin. He barely had time to react before the punch connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backwards. He forced himself to recover quickly.

The sheriff squared himself up and threw his own punch, landing a solid hit to the man’s gut. He quickly dodged the next punch and threw another.

Meanwhile, Dwalin found himself face-to-face with a different goon on the opposite side of the car, he was a lanky man with a crooked grin. Dwalin tried to square his shoulders but hissed in pain instead.

He grabbed at his shoulder but the goon lunged didn’t even give him a second to breathe as he swung at Dwalin hard, he quickly put his arms up and blocked.

Thorin, after a few rough exchanges, managed to kick the man in his stomach to force him on his knees before landing a hard jab at the back of the man’s head. The man dropped like a bag of bricks.

Thorin stood there for a moment breathing heavily, he turned to see Dwalin wrestling with his own opponent. Thorin rushed over, landing a quick blow to the man’s side, allowing Dwalin to finish him off.

As they caught their breath, Dwalin let out a sudden laugh. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

Thorin turned, confused, only to see what Dwalin was laughing at. stuffed dummies, dressed in old clothes, sparsely sat in the passenger seats. They definitely looked like real passengers from a distance.

Thorin growled and frowned. “Bilbo! Damn that outlaw! Damn him!” he muttered under his breath, stomping through the car, checking each seat as he went. He flipped over one of the dummies in frustration, gritting his teeth.

“Looks like you’ve been had, Sheriff,” Dwalin teased, his voice still strained.

Thorin decided to ignore his deputy, and he straightened up. “We need to keep moving.”

Just as the words left his mouth, the door behind them slammed open. A group of Bilbo’s thugs barreled into the car, guns drawn.

They all stood in stock still. Thorin blinked in surprise before barking, “Move!” As his hand darted to his gun. He shot at the wall behind the men and the goons ducked away. Dwalin and Thorin bolted past them and into the open car the men just came from.

They bolted through the cars as fast as they could, dodging bullets and scrambling over overturned dummies. The train jolted beneath them.

As they ran, Thorin’s eyes darted to the narrow gap between the gangway’s. He knew they couldn’t keep running like this if they didn’t shake the outlaws soon, they’d be overrun.

Thorin glanced back, then quickly shoved his gun back in its holster before grabbing hold of the lever that would uncouple the rear passenger cars. He heaved it downward with all his strength.

There was a metallic clank followed by a sudden lurch as the cars separated from the rest of the train. Thorin and Dwalin stood there catching their breath, watching as the uncoupled cars slowly drift away.

Thorin sighed heavily and turned to Dwalin, “Let’s go,” Thorin muttered, stepping back into the remaining cars. There were only a few more left now. The train began to pick up speed at the lost weight.

Inside, the car was eerily quiet. The stillness was unsettling, the only sound the faint creaking of the train as it rattled along the tracks. Thorin’s eyes scanned the room. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something, or someone, was watching them.

Dwalin stood beside him, his hand resting on the hilt of his gun. “This feels off,” he whispered to Thorin. Thorin nodded and took a step forward.

Then a low chuckle echoed from behind them, sending a cold shiver down his spine.

They spun around, Standing behind them in the doorway they just came from was Bilbo, his face covered by his handkerchief. His eyes gleamed with amusement, and he leaned casually against the wall, as if this were all just a game.

Thorin’s jaw clenched as he glanced toward the other end of the car, his stomach sinking when he saw Bilbo’s right-hand man standing there, blocking their only other way out. They were trapped.

Dwalin moved closer to Thorin, their backs pressed together, as they quickly drew their weapons. Bilbo and his right-hand man drew their weapons in return, both of them moving with ease, as if they had done this a hundred times before.

The four of them stood at a standstill, guns pointed at one another, the tension in the room thick enough to cut.

“Well, well,” Bilbo said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Look what we have here. The fearless Sheriff Oakenshield and his trusty deputy, running through my train like children playing tag.”

“Fucking, god damn it,” Thorin cursed under his breath.

Bilbo’s grin widened beneath the handkerchief. “Now, now, Sheriff,” he said with a teasing lilt. “No need for foul language. Why don’t you be a good little lawman and take a seat? You look like you’ve had quite the day.”

“Not happenin’,” Dwalin growled, his voice low.

Bilbo sighs and rubs his forehead. “You two really are a headache, you know?”

Thorin kept his eyes locked on Bilbo, his mouth moved before his mind could stop him. “Why?” he asked, his voice surprisingly steady. “Why the train, the dummies? What’s your game this time, Bilbo?”

Bilbo’s eyes glinted with amusement as he let his hand drop away from his head, he raised a brow. Why?” he repeated back playfully. “I got bored, Sheriff. It’s as simple as that.” Bilbo shrugged.

Thorin felt the bubbling of frustration again. “You expect me to believe that? You risked all this just because you were bored?”

Bilbo chuckled softly, his eyes never leaving Thorin. “Well, when you’ve lived the kind of life I have, boredom is the most dangerous thing. I like to keep myself entertained.”

“Entertained?” Dwalin spat angrily. “By messing with people? By running around killin’ and stealin’ from innocent folks?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Innocent, not so innocent. It’s all a matter of perspective. I do what I have to.”

Dwalin growled and moved to face Bilbo, Thorin’s grip on his gun tightened and he shot his deputy a look. “Enough! What do you really want, Bilbo?”

Bilbo’s grin widened. “Let’s just say I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. The legend of Sheriff Oakenshield. The man who never misses. So far, not impressed sheriff.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, his patience was wearing thin now. “You think this is some sort of game, but it’s not going to end the way you think.”

Bilbo tilted his head, his words taking a more serious edge to them. “Oh, I’m well aware of how this ends, Sheriff. But I think we both know it won’t be-.”

Without warning, Dwalin bolted forward, charging straight at Bilbo. Unable to move faster enough to dodge Bilbo, the deputy ends up crashing to the floor.

The two of them tumbled backward, their guns clattering to the floor as they wrestled, Throin blinked in surprise at his deputy.

The two men grappled furiously, fists flying and boots skidding on the train’s wooden floor. Dwalin, despite his shoulder, was relentless, using brute force to pin Bilbo down.

Dwalin was scrambling for his gun. He was able to snatch it up. Then, just as fast as Dwalin was, Bilbo's right-hand man pressed his gun to the side of Thorin’s head, the cold metal digging into the sheriff’s temple.

“Drop it, Deputy,” the man ordered, his voice ice-cold. “Unless you want to see how fast I can pull this trigger.”

Dwalin froze, his brows furrowed as his eyes darted between Thorin and the gun, his breathing heavy. He looked at his own gun then he muttered a curse under his breath and let his weapon fall to the floor with a clatter.

“Good boy, Now, let’s make this easy.” Bilbo sneered as he got back on his feet, he rubbed his jaw where Dwalin had hit him. Bilbo grabbed Dwalin’s gun and pointed it at him. “Move to the back, nice and slow. Don’t try anything stupid.”

Dwalin glared at Bilbo, his jaw clenched, but he did as he was told, stepping backward toward the rear of the train car.

Bilbo turned to his right-hand man who still had his gun to the sheriff’s head. Bilbo scooped up his own gun and holstered Dwalin’s

“Keep an eye on him,” Bilbo said, nodding to his partner as he took the man’s place. “Make sure he doesn’t try anything else.”

The right-hand man gave a curt nod, he trained his gun on Dwalin as he walked over to the man, his expression hard.

Thorin remained still, the different but not new weight of Bilbo’s gun pressing against his skull. He looked around trying to think his way out. “Why, Bilbo?” Thorin finally asked, just hoping to distract the man. “What’s the point of all this?”

Bilbo chuckled softly, though there was a hint of something else beneath the laugh. “Why not? It’s fun, isn’t it?”

“You call this fun? You risk innocent lives for fun?” Dwalin spat, glaring at Bilbo with open disdain.

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head slightly, his finger hovering dangerously over the trigger. “I’d be careful if I were you, Deputy. One more word out of you, and I might just throw you off this train.”

Dwalin’s mouth snapped shut, but his eyes burned with fury.

Thorin glanced sideways at Bilbo, searching for any opening, anything. “You’re not going to get away with this if you kill me, you know,” Thorin said, his voice low.

Bilbo grinned beneath his handkerchief, his grip on the gun unwavering. “Oh, Sheriff, I’m not going to kill you-” But just as Bilbo was about to say more, there was a sudden commotion behind them.

Bilbo’s right-hand man grunted in pain, Dwalin had slammed his elbow into the man’s face. The force of the blow sent them both reeling backward, and before anyone could react, the two men went tumbling out of the back of the train car.

“Dwalin!” Thorin shouted, his eyes wide with shock.

Bilbo’s face twisted in a mixture of horror and confusion. “What the hell just happened?” he muttered, his grip on his gun loosening as he stared in disbelief at the open door.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Dwalin and Bilbo’s right-hand man tumbled to the ground in a heap, the impact knocking the wind out of both of them as they rolled to a stop in the dirt.

For a moment, they both just lay there, groaning in pain, trying to catch their breath.

The right-hand man rolled over onto his side, clutching his ribs. “What… the FUCK!” he gasped, dragging himself to his knees. “Are you fucking crazy or somethin’? You just threw us out of the back of a train!”

Dwalin was still trying to catch his breath. He spat on the ground and pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his shoulder twinged painfully. “I should be askin’ you that, outlaw,” he growled, “You started this mess!”

The right-hand man groaned, clutching his side as he staggered up. “Ugh! As pig-headed as ever! You could have killed us, you idiot!” He wiped some dirt from his face, glaring at Dwalin.

Dwalin squinted at him, feeling an unsettling flicker of familiarity. There was something about this man; his stance, his voice, Dwalin didn’t know, but it tugged at the back of his mind. “Who are you?” Dwalin demanded, his eyes narrowing.

The right-hand man made sure his mask was still covering his face, by some miracle it was but his hat was long gone. He huffed quietly. “Figured you’d have recognized me by now, Deputy,” he said, “Then again, I guess I didn’t make much of an impression back in the day.”

Dwalin’s jaw tightened, “You… I know you, don’t I?” Dwalin searched the man’s face, hoping to see anything familiar. He landed on the man’s wild Reddish brown hair but, He still couldn’t place it.

“Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t.” The right-hand man said, he cracked his knuckles. “It's too late now.”

Dwalin snarled and charged at him, his injured shoulder be damned. The right-hand man dodged, Dwalin’s fists were heavy, but the right-hand man was quick, ducking and weaving as best he could despite his own lingering pain.

They grappled. Dwalin landed a solid punch to the right-hand man’s gut, forcing the man to double over with a grunt. Before Dwalin could land another blow, the outlaw lashed out with a well-placed fist to Dwalin’s jaw.

The crack echoed as Dwalin staggered back with a hiss. Dwalin reached out for the man, the man scrambled back and made a dash for the distance tree line.

“Damn it!” Dwalin shouted, shaking off the hit and trying to give chase, but his body wasn’t cooperating. The outlaw disappeared as Dwalin stumbled and dropped to his knees, breathing heavily and cursing under his breath.

Wiping blood from the corner of his mouth, he groaned in pain and frustration, how could he let that outlaw slip away from him.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It hadn’t been more than a few moments since the two men had fallen from the back of the train car. Bilbo stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the open doorway, wide with shock. His heart raced, but his mind was scattered, unable to focus on anything but the image of his right-hand man and the deputy tumbling off the moving train.

For once, Bilbo couldn’t think clearly. The only thing he could focus on was the nagging concern. It was horribly foreign to him.

Dwalin and-… he couldn’t shake the uneasy worry of whether or not the two men survived the fall. He never left people behind, not if he had a choice. Even if they weren’t on his side.

Suddenly, without warning, Thorin slammed his elbow into Bilbo’s side. Bilbo yelped in surprise, the sudden pain knocking him off balance. Thorin punched him in the jaw, hard and Bilbo stumbled to the floor.

His gun slipped from his hand, clattering loudly onto the ground loudly. As it did the gun went off with a deafening bang. Thorin flinched, instinctively ducking, but the bullet never hit anything.

There weren't any bullets to hit things, Bilbo’s gun had been loaded with blanks, Bilbo could see the realization sparked in Thorin then the fresh wave of anger.

Bilbo held his face where Thorin had struck him, his mind reeling. His thoughts were muddled, he hadn’t expected this, not so soon. Pain throbbed through his jaw, his wide eyes locked onto Thorin’s.

“You-” Bilbo began, his voice rasping with both shock and disbelief, but before he could finish, Thorin was on him.

In a blur of motion, Thorin lunged forward, his hand gripping the front of Bilbo’s shirt with unrelenting force. Bilbo barely had time to react before Thorin slammed him against the nearest wall of the train car.

The impact made his brain rattle inside his skull, his back hitting the wall with a thud. A sharp, involuntary whine escaped him. Bilbo blinked rapidly, trying to catch his breath and clear his blurring vision.

Thorin’s grip on his shirt only tightened, hoisting him higher until his boots barely scraped the floor. The sheriff’s eyes were burning with a rage Bilbo didn’t expect, he could feel the anger radiating off the sheriff in waves.

For the first time in a long while, Bilbo wasn’t sure how to talk his way out of this. He wasn’t sure if he could talk his way out. Bilbo twisted in Thorin’s grip, kicking wildly as he tried to break free, cursing under his breath.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Thorin roared, his booming voice. Bilbo stared at him with wide eyes, “Do you ever take anything seriously?! Is this just some fucked game your playin’?!” Thorin’s eyes narrowed, “Answer me!” he demanded, giving Bilbo a sharp shake that left his head spinning.

But then, Bilbo felt a spark hit him. His struggling faded into nothing as he sized up Thorin, a calculating calm settling over him. He had an idea, it could either get him out of this or go horribly wrong.

Thorin loomed over Bilbo by at least a head or more, the sheriff had broad shoulders. Bilbo could feel every bit of strength in the way the sheriff held him pinned, like he weighed hardly anything at all.

There was no way he’d be able to overpower Thorin, let not like this. no way to just kick the man off him and run. So if brute force wouldn’t get him out of this, maybe charm would.

“Why, sheriff,” Bilbo purred, his voice low,“if you wanted to run me up against a wall this badly, all you had to do was ask.”

Thorin’s eyes widened, and Bilbo watched the sheriff’s grip falter, he let Bilbo down, a confused expression found itself in Thorin’s face. “What-”

Without hesitation, Bilbo drove his knee sharply into Thorin’s stomach. Thorin let out a grunt of surprise as the air rushed out of him quickly.

“Sorry, Sheriff!” Bilbo muttered, “nothin’ personal, really, your just not my type.” In one smooth motion, Bilbo scooped up his gun from the floor, even though he knew it was useless, and bolted for the door at the back of the train car.

Bilbo could hear Thorin cursing under his breath. He could also hear the pounding footsteps behind him as he climbed up the side of the train, hoisting himself onto the roof quickly.

The cold wind stung his face as he studied the hat on his head. Bilbo paused, glancing behind him, his gaze darting to where Dwalin and his right-hand man had tumbled off the train earlier.

Concern bubbled up inside him, worse than before. He didn’t want them to be hurt; he couldn't think about them being hurt.

“Bilbo!” Thorin’s voice carried over the roar of the train. Bilbo locked eyes with the sheriff, he was already running before the sheriff’s feet hit the roof of the car.

Bilbo’s heart pounded in time with the train’s wheels beneath him. His mind quickly searched for a way out. He briefly wondered if he’d survive if he jumped off. A little panic flickered in his chest as he glanced back, seeing just how close Thorin was.

Bilbo desperately wanted to push himself, to find some way out, but the roof was narrow, and there was nowhere left to go. His luck had run out, he had lost.

Thorin suddenly lunged, grabbing Bilbo by the arm, Bilbo twisted himself out of Thorin’s grip, he couldn’t just give up here, he couldn’t. He tried to duck under the sheriff's arms as he grabbed at the outlaw again.

The wind angrily whipped around them, the train car swaying beneath their feet.

Thorin managed to grab Bilbo’s poncho and gave a good yanked, dragging the outlaw backwards by the force. Bilbo twisted and kicked, but Thorin’s grip was relentless.

The sheriff had the upper hand. Bilbo grit his teeth as they continued to struggle atop the speeding train.

Then, without warning, Thorin’s foot slipped.

Bilbo’s eyes widened as he watched the sheriff lose his balance, his body teetering dangerously on the edge. Before Thorin could catch himself, he tumbled off the roof, hitting the tracks below with a heavy thud.

Bilbo froze, his breath catching in his throat as he scrambled to the edge, staring down at Thorin who was lying on the tracks. As the distance between them grew, all Bilbo could do was watch, his heart pounding in his chest.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎︎ 𐬾 ༅ ༅ 𐬾 ☀︎︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Thorin lay on the ground, groaning in pain, every muscle in his body burned and ached. Falling off a train was as bad as he thought it would be. His mind was still trying to catch up with what had happened when, faintly, he heard someone shouting in the distance.

“Thorin!”

It was Bilbo’s voice. There was an urgency to it, one that made Thorin’s heart skip a beat despite everything. He didn’t have time to think about why Bilbo was shouting at him, but instinct kicked in.

“Move!”

Without thinking, Thorin rolled to the side, just as the uncoupled passenger cars came speeding down the tracks, rattling by in a blur of metal. They hadn’t slowed down yet, and had Thorin stayed where he was, he’d have been flattened.

As the last car whizzed by, Thorin lay still, breathing heavily and trying to steady his pulse. He wasn’t sure how close it had been, but he wasn’t eager to find out.

Finally, he took a deep breath and sat up. His head pounded, and every inch of him hurt, but he was alive. His eyes drifted down to the tracks beside him, and that’s when he saw it, his hat. Or, what used to be his hat.

Thorin groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Another hat,” he muttered to himself.

With a wince, he forced himself to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain that shot up his side as he stood. His eyes scanned the tracks, searching for any sign of Dwalin. His heart pounded harder as worst-case scenarios flashed through his mind.

“Dwalin…?” He called as he limped down the tracks, his pace picking up despite the pain.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spotted Dwalin sitting near the edge of the tracks,he held his shoulder. Thorin hurried over, kneeling beside him.

Dwalin’s face was bruised up pretty bad, he had dirt stains all over him. Dwalin lifted his head when he heard Thorin. the deputy grunted in irritation more than pain.

“You look like hell,” Thorin muttered, quickly checking him over.

Dwalin rolled his eyes and grumbled. “Cause you look like prince fucking charming.”

Thorin frowned. “…Did you get him?”

Dwalin gave Thorin a look and tried to get up. “No. Bastard slipped away.” He winced as he tried to move his shoulder. “Got a good hit on me, and next thing I know, I’m eating dirt while he’s running off.”

Thorin cursed under his breath, glancing around. The train was long gone by now and the uncoupled cars were still slowing down in the distance.

Thorin offered a hand to Dwalin and pulled the man up easily, he couldn’t help but let his mind get muddled with thoughts. Bilbo tricked them, had them play his games. What was his angel, what was his plan.

But the loudest thought was one he couldn’t even begin to answer; Why did he save Thorin?

Dwalin noticed the look on Thorin’s face and shook his head. “You think too loud, Thorin. That outlaw’s not gonna slip away forever, we’ll get him.”

Thorin nodded. “Right, let’s get home,” Thorin said, he pushed down his frustration, he didn’t have time for it now.

With little difficulty, the two men limped down the tracks. Bilbo may have gotten away this time, but Thorin wasn’t going to let him for long. He had a plan.

───── ꧁✪꧂ ─────

And also, @shantismurf. Stop it, stop being so cleverly close. You don’t understand! You nearly put the nail in the coffin. You swong and you missed twice and if it weren’t for that, you would have put the damn nail in there.

@shurikthereject @midnightstar789

[For anyone Who didn’t want to @ for this please tell me or I will continue to do so till otherwise.]

[fantocbook]

Ambrose

Ambrose the wandering familiar

6’0”

Longer black hair

Well built, much larger than expected at first glance

Dark brown eyes

Ability to turn into whatever animal his current owner wishes for

Magical knowledge (spells, potions)

Slight Japanese accent; only knows a few words in the language. Deeper voice, takes many people off guard

Blunt, emotionless at face value, serious demeanor, untrusting, pessimistic, stubborn

Plot 1: Another unsuccessful date. Great. You had planned everything out, a lavish dinner with a view of the city, ice cream afterwards, a nice walk around the park. Now you’re sulking on your walk back home, ice cream melting in your hands since you insisted on doing everything on your own after being stood up. That seemed to be common now. People would act interested online or on those subpar dating apps, make plans, and then either call off or just simply fail to show up. The latter happened this time. You were too embarrassed to leave the restaurant without eating or else you would have been home ages ago.

With a deep sigh that released the last thread of pride you had hanging on, you reached the end of the parks trail, cut off courtesy of a fallen tree from last weeks storm blocking the rest of the way. Just my luck. Your self loathing turned into anger rather quickly and you chucked the half-eaten icecream cone at the nearest tree as if that would help. Saying it didn’t somewhat calm your nerves would be a lie. It did help even just the slightest. That is until you look to the ground where the discarded cone had fallen and guilt fills the place where the anger once rested.

Under the tree, now covered in ice cream, lay a black cat who looked less than amused by your actions. You’re surprised it didn’t run off once the icecream landed on it in the first place. As you take a careful step forward and crouch down, you can see exactly why the cat hadn’t run away. Its leg looked injured, pretty badly at that, and it just looked so tired, almost as if it were on the verge of giving up right then and there. Even more pride got swallowed as you peeled off your jacket and picked the cat up with it, wrapping it tightly to make sure it couldn’t attack but not so tightly that you would injure it before hauling it off to your house.

About an hour later, after you had made a makeshift bed for the cat, wiped the ice cream off of it, and placed it in front of the heater, you decided to care for yourself. The emotions felt through the day had finally taken a toll on your body and you desperately wanted a shower. You part with the cat with one more pat on its head and the promise of a trip to the vet early in the morning.

Your shower was calming, the warm water does wonders of washing away the poor excuse of a date, if you could even call it that, and the emotions that followed. You’re almost ready for bed when you remember the small companion you had picked up on your way and decide to do one final check up before actually trying to sleep. You drag yourself back into the living room where the cat was left, nearly half asleep before you find the makeshift bed empty. All that was left was a note on your coffee table, written in neat cursive on one of your spare journals.

‘Thank you for the help, but I prefer my ice cream not all over me.’

Plot 2: “Come on,come on… dammit!” You sit crosslegged on your bedroom floor, an old book in front of you as you lean over it for what feels like the eighth hour in a row. In reality, it’s only been about twenty minutes but you’re about ready to give up regardless. You’d found this book second hand, all the way up in the forgotten attic of your parents house as they moved to their new home, allowing you to grab some things that you wanted from the old house. The book interests you in ways you don’t exactly understand. It’s like it called to you when you saw it. The old leather with words from a different language burned onto the cover just brought a sense of mystery to you.

You’d gone through it a few times and only one of the pages was in English, some sort of ritual it looked like, one that required candles, salt, and a little bit of cinnamon. Not exactly a combination you’d expect, but it’s an old book of witchcraft. What should you expect? You aren’t even sure exactly what you’re summoning. A good search on the internet would do wonders, but you’re so stubborn that you decide against it.

A sigh. A hand through your hair. Another failed attempt. Is it really a failure if you don’t know what you’re doing? Yes. If nothing happens it is. Another sigh. Another attempt. Nothing. “Fine!” You yell and close the book with a defeated huff escaping your lips. Surely you would just have to try again later. Right now though, a coffee was in order.

You pack up your things, leaving the book on the floor as if it were some sort of punishment for not doing as you say, before heading out to your favorite coffee shop. The walk did wonders for clearing your head and the coffee did the same for replenishing your energy and will to try with the book one more time.

The lights are on when you arrive home. Strange considering you never leave them on, not trying to run up the electricity bill on your budget. The door is also unlocked. Even more odd. You push your way in regardless, just slightly lore alert than normal. Your surprise is unmatched when you see a tall man standing in your kitchen, back turned to you as he grabs a mug from your collection. You nearly drop your coffee in surprise, but the man just turns to face you with an unimpressed look on his face. What was that spell even for?

Plot 3: come up with something new or add to/take away from the first two! You don’t have to use one of these, they are just suggestions! (I do have the right to deny any plot I dont feel comfortable with)

💭Inspirations: @livealittleoc-cb @oc-empire

Possible rp partners: @favegirls-ocbot @moonlit-nights-club @violettaamore @timmburrton @folklore-cb @halloween-cb @nightskysing @badbf-cb @clubwnderland @multi-joong @dragonrider-cb @hybrid-babies @redlight-cb (dm to be +/-!)

Art and photos do not belong to me!

[mentallyisekaid]

「 ✦ Fatui Harbingers x La Signora's Sister! Reader, PART 3 ✦ 」

---

Part 1 Part 2 Part 2.5 [Part 3] Part 3.5

It's highly recommended to read the parts in order, otherwise few things will make sense!

A/N ~ hey there, if you're following this story but haven't yet seen my pinned post, you should go and read it since it's where I'll update general stuff regarding the fic~

---

Featured in this chapter, we have... a certain dubious duo?

Warnings: half-intentional ooc moments

Word count: 2.3k

---

A week or so had passed.

It's not that you were complaining about this endless 'trial period', per se. Still, just going through piles of boring documents, day after day - any immortal being would've lost their mind sooner or later.

Half a millennium dulled all shine there was to a mundane life, so seeking out a bit of excitement was crucial for maintaining sanity. But even making bets with Childe wasn't thrilling enough (though it did come close!)

Without a drastic change of pace soon, you might have just gone feral.

And your colleagues were quite aware of it~ In time, you better believe they would've even stolen the Moon from the sky for you if you only asked for it, but nevertheless, first, you needed to prove that they could trust you.

The Fatui took immense pride in loyalty - yet yours was very fickle, and they knew it. But rather than allegiance, what your Harbingers seeked for was sign of your devotion toward them, something that exceeded the boundaries of professionalism and demonstrated... a much deeper level of trust.

"Was revealing the secret of this stupid Vision a mistake, after all?" a thought that had plagued your mind.

Well, who could say... but apparently, it had been worth it!

No one could really fathom Pierro's decisions, but it seems that after hearing you'd confided a part of your past to some of them, the Director had thought you'd proved yourself enough. And maybe it was because he knew you just a bit too well, having been there all those centuries ago.

But did this mean that all of them now knew of your little conversation with Scaramouche, Columbina and Childe?

Well, such a thought hardly occupied you.

Because more importantly, you were finally about to get (*insert an ominous fanfare*)...

Your very first field mission!

Good riddance, eternal paperwork~

---

A sign of their trust, or... just another test?

You didn't care either way.

"Lady Harbinger," a Cicin Mage had bowed her head after entering your office. "The Jester has assigned you to an official errand with Lords Ninth and Second. You are to rendezvous with them at the gates. Effective immediately."

And girl, you couldn't have bolted out of that room faster! It made the poor Cicins squeak in alarm. The mage only sighed while shaking her head, not sure that you'd come out of this one with your sanity still intact.

So, your bored prayers had been heard. But by the gods, or a devil? A field assignment with this specific pair of Harbingers had the potential to turn out chaotic beyond belief...

and you were all for it!

It was daybreak in Snezhnaya.

The early morning air was even more frigid than usual, making your grip the coat on around you tighter as you waltzed through the snowy yard. From a distance, you could make out two shadowy figures next to the gates of Zapolyarny Palace, their menacing auras unmistakable.

When Regrator and Il Dottore were working together, anyone even remotely involved had better be on their guard...

Lest they wanted to end up in horrible debt.

Or as a part of human experiments.

But the shady banker and the heretic researcher had failed to intimidate you, and they found such fearlessness quite... captivating.

As you got closer, Pantalone offered you a warm smile.

"Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?"

"Hello... and no, *yawn*... it's impossible to get decent rest with these working hours. But," a smile made its way onto your lips, "I'm pleased to finally get to work outside of the palace~"

And with the two of you, it might just be twice as fun, a totally weird thought that you didn't voice out, and instead sighed:

"Though, at the cost of skipping my yummy breakfast pancakes..."

You took a bite from the frostbitten, red fruit in your hand. This earned a chuckle from Dottore.

"No, no, you won't get sufficient vitamins from that. How about trying the special pills I gave you? You'd help me with my research while you're at it, too..."

"I'm afraid your experimental supplements might end up turning me into a slime."

An apple a day hardly kept this doctor away. But much to everyone's surprise, you seemed to know how to handle his eccentric personality and... the segments. Even Scaramouche was impressed by this.

"Don't you look rather young today, Zandik?" you questioned with a hint of playfulness; a habit you'd picked up from Damselette.

The Doctor only replied with a smile, gently sweeping away a few snowflakes from your hair as if admiring a most precious specimen (no objectifying here, Dottore's just being Dottore~)

This one seemed to be of the more reasonable segments, if such a concept even existed - though regardless of the form, you were really quite fond of their antics.

Pantalone, too, was a difficult person in his own way, knowing how to both frustrate you to no ends, and yet make you feel so endeared.

As usual, the banker seemed just a bit too amused by everything.

That, and he found you adorable.

"Hehe, I must admit that dealing with the two of you off-duty is always rather delightful~ but we ought to leave duly," he stepped forward and offered you his hand. "After all, we wouldn't want to be late on Y/N's first mission, now would we?"

Dottore mimicked his gesture. "Indeed, off we go."

These two....

But on that note?

"Dare I ask," you raised an eyebrow, "what the mission might be?"

They only smiled at you - Pantalone while adjusting his glasses, Dottore with his expression half hidden by that asymmetrical mask, and both in a suspiciously mellow way.

You frowned. Pierro had definitely been up to something when sending you on a nameless errand, and with this dubious duo, no less...

and you were quite enjoying the suspense!

---

Three Harbingers waltzing through the snowy streets, a dozen of Fatui agents following close behind, was a slightly unnerving sight; one could only wonder who had wronged the infamous organization this time, and pray the lot wouldn't fall on them.

Someone sure was out of their luck today.

You tried to ignore the not so subtle gazes the citizens threw you as you walked past them, though understanding their curiosity.

It was the first public appearance of the rumoured 12th Harbinger, after all.

Feeling a bit self-conscious, you tried to distract yourself by focusing on the scenery. It had been over a month since you'd last set foot outside the palace grounds, but Snezhnaya's beauty never faltered...

At some point, you got a bit lost in thought.

Dottore's lazy comment, however, caught your attention.

"Now then, I've heard some interesting things about that Pyro Vision of yours…"

Pantalone smiled, as if oblivious.

You sighed. "Well, that's unsurprising. From Scaramouche, I reckon."

"Tsk, you have so little imagination." The Doctor clicked his tongue. "Then, allow me to ask you... How long do you think the oldest one of my segments has been around? Or, how efficiently all these clones are capable of gathering information? Or, how much more I can figure out just by knowing a few things about you?"

"Such roundabout hints, Doctor."

"What he's trying to say, of course," Pantalone chimed in, "is that the Second of the Harbingers has many... unconventional ways of finding out what his curiosity desires."

You sighed, "and he shares everything with you, because why not?"

Not very surprising.

It was granted that your secrets were never going to remain hidden from them forever, and frankly speaking, you didn't care. Pierro was already aware of every scandalous detail there was to your past anyway, so was there a reason for you to be so reticent about it?

Well, certainly not anymore...

but it was still a tad too early to completely let your guard down either!

A weird silence filled the air for a while, probably making the lower ranks behind you a bit uncomfortable.

But since Pantalone and Dottore didn't pursue on the topic, you thought, 'why should I either?'

Yet they obviously expected you to.

"Then," you sighed, giving in, "I assume you want to ask me about something? My Visions, no doubt."

Pantalone patted your head, "Only if our little Harbinger wouldn't deem it prying."

"I do, but go ahead."

Knowing them to be exceedingly shrewd characters, manipulating others so effortlessly, you realized these two could have easily lead you into a trap here. But somehow, this subtle controlling was always done gently enough not to hurt you.

And they never would, surely.

One way or another, though, they always found out what they wanted...

Pantalone gestured the Fatui agents to put some distance between them and the three of you - was it courtesy, or maybe... protectiveness? Either way, it would prevent bothersome rumours about your past from spreading any further, so you gave him an appreciative smile.

Dottore was walking leisurely with his hands behind his back, giving you sidelong glances.

"Then, tell me, Y/N - why do you think Celestia grants Visions so heedlessly? Why is it that even some of the strongest individuals never receive one?"

The vapor from your breath formed clouds in the cold air as you took a few deep breaths before answering.

"Well, I can only speak for myself. I've always been ambitionless and ran away from all my problems rather than facing them. So, thinking back, I never should've received a Vision in the first place, fake or not."

You sighed, "Rosalyne, on the other hand... I think she had every right to get a blessing from those crafty deities. She was assertive, gifted - a bit of a diva at times - but somewhere beneath lied a gentle soul."

And here you were again, talking about her; she haunted you when she was alive, and haunted you as dead.

Pantalone raised an eyebrow. "My, I've never heard anyone say such things about the Fair Lady?"

Dottore, too, seemed reluctant to accept these praises you directed at your sister, as he'd only seen her as a shallow, crude woman.

"Don't get me wrong, though," you commented, "she was no saint..."

"But?"

You shrugged, "...nor was I."

The two Harbingers had quietly moved closer to you, now walking on your both sides. You only noticed this when their arms slightly brushed against yours.

"After my father created this... thing and gave it to me, and how I greedily accepted it, I always wondered if we had angered the gods so thoroughly that they didn't grant my sister a Vision out of pure spite."

Pantalone brushed a loose strand of hair from your face.

"Perhaps... you shouldn't be so merciless toward yourself."

"I'm not. Rosalyne and I were very similar, after all."

Dottore raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"We both wanted what we felt we deserved - power, attention... acceptance. I don't know whose yearning was greater, but neither one of us settled for any less. So, I tied a manmade Vision on my hips, and Rosalyne left to study the art of liquid fire in the Akademiya; the divine refused to acknowledge us, so we searched for our due elsewhere."

Pantalone stroked his chin, seemingly amused. "Well, what a pair of blasphemous sisters?"

"However," the Doctor chuckled, "what you did surely made those self-important gods grit their teeth in frustration. I find such heresy quite commendable. Bravo, truly~"

"And then you went and became a Fatui Harbinger," Pantalone sighed. "Poor Celestia, they couldn't shackle you..."

You didn't know whether to laugh or cry at their comments.

"Though, I am curious about one thing," Pantalone continued. "You said Celestia 'rejected' you, yet here you are, with a bona fide Cryo Vision? Isn't that a sign that the gods did, in fact, accept you?"

It was something you'd been wondering ever since that day as well...

And the lamentable conclusion was this:

"Perhaps Celestia just took pity on me. Or, perhaps the Vision was intended as a warning."

"A warning?" Pantalone smiled eerily. "For what reason exactly, my dear?"

To keep your mouth shut?

To not cross such lines ever again?

And yet... "That's a story for a later time," you told them as well, smiling.

Dottore and Pantalone were adept at concealing how they really thought and felt about things, so you couldn't quite decipher their reactions to your cryptic words.

Still, a fleeting sentiment had flashed across their faces - resentment, perhaps. Not toward you, though.

Suddenly, they both stopped walking.

You took a few steps more before noticing and stopping as well, glancing at them over your shoulder.

"Well, would you look that? Time flies so pleasantly with Y/N around." Pantalone checked his pocket watch. "It seems we're here a bit early."

...and where was 'here', exactly?

It looked like a small, secluded village, somewhat. There were no proper houses, just some dilapidated cottages and cabins, and only a few of them. The people outside, wearing clothes way too ragged and light for this type of weather, had quickly fled inside once seeing the Fatui had arrived.

You knew there was a lot of poverty in rural Snezhnaya, but this was... well, it reminded you of the times when you'd struggled to get by as well - memories you'd rather never have had brought up again.

Dottore mumbled something about "these ones" being "too malnourished for test subjects" as he walked past you.

Pantalone had also went ahead with his subordinates, discussing some questionable economics that apparently concerned this place.

But you lingered behind them for a moment, lost in thought.

The people here have surely lost enough, so why choose to bring themselves even more misfortune by getting involved with the Fatui? I understand the way humans think less and less with every decade that passes...

Just now noticing that you hadn't followed them, the two Harbingers strode back to your side.

You quickly hid any remnant of hesitance from your face, giving them a smile.

"Time to prove myself, no?"

Dottore chuckled, "You don't seem too anxious about your first field mission, my little Harbinger, even though you don't know what's waiting up ahead..."

"Well," you sighed. "For the Tsaritsa, and all that... you know? And I reckon I've faced worse anyway."

"I'll ask you to elaborate on that some other time~ On a similar note," Pantalone mused, playing with your hair softly, "we all saw something in you that day, at the funeral, and it seems... you really won't disappoint us?"

You shrugged, "We should hope so."

And with their arms loosely linked around yours, the two Harbingers started leading you toward a particular cabin...

(to be continued)

[animeniacss]

heyyyyy bestie it's wonuwrites xo

Soooo I have a request for you~ like I told you in messages I have a drabble/oneshot idea with a Taylor Swift song + Wonwoo because of course it's Wonwoo <3 So the song is the 1 by Taylor Swift. Specifically this lyric: "But we were something, don't you think so? Roaring twenties, tossing pennies in the pool And if my wishes came true It would've been you In my defense, I have none For never leaving well enough alone But it would've been fun If you would've been the one."

I am excited for this <33

Thank you for waiting! Sorry it took longer than I hoped!

Synopsis: After a year and a half of being broken up, you and Wonwoo reunite briefly. You think back to those days and what could have been different.

Tags: Ex!Wonwoo, Angst, Coffee Shop!AU, T.Swift Inspired Lyrics

Length: approx. 1.8k words

Wonwoo x Reader - The One I Couldn't Be

         The café was always empty this early in the morning, and that was how you liked it. It took a few hours for the real foot traffic of the morning commuters to make its way to your work, and that meant a few hours of peace. The only sound was that of the oven whirring behind you, heating up for the string of breakfast sandwiches you were bound to start on.

         You were dusting off the top of the display cases when you heard the sound of the bell ringing at the front entrance. Immediately, your head snapped up and you smiled. “Welcome, can I help you?”

         When a familiar deep voice uttered your name, your eyes settled on a familiar set of dark eyes behind rimmed glasses and a warm smile.

         “Wonwoo.” Despite how much time had passed, you breathed the name with so much familiarity. “Good morning!”

         “Good morning.” He said. “Am I early? Are you open yet?”

         “Barely. But that’s okay. What can I get you?” You turned towards the machines behind you. “The usual?”

         “You still remember?” he chuckled at the realization.

         How could I forget? You thought to yourself. “Of course. I only made it for you fifteen million times.” When Wonwoo laughed again, you felt yourself inhaling an extra deep breath. “So, what brings you in? I feel I haven’t seen you around here in a while.”

         “I don’t have a reason to be around this part of Seoul anymore.” The comment tugged at your heartstrings, pulling them in the opposite direction and tightening your chest, like when a child tugs furiously at the laces of their shoes and squeezes their foot inside a bit too tight.

         “What brings you today, then?” You watched the coffee brew into the pot. “It’s not to see me, is it?” Finally working up the courage to turn back to Wonwoo, you caught a small smile on his lips. His eyes cast down to the display case. “Do you want something to eat? I can pop a sandwich in the oven to warm up.”

         Wonwoo shook his head. “I’m okay, thanks.” You approached the register and punched in the order. “How has everything been?”

         “Good. You?”

         “Fine. Still here.” You motioned to the muted brown walls decorated in florals that boxed you in. Wonwoo only hummed in response, and the both of you fell into awkward silence.

         How else could it be with Jeon Wonwoo? Nothing other than awkward felt like it made sense anymore. It was expected really, when you’ve been broken up for almost a year and a half. It was a whirlwind, really, not even long enough for you to process that going forward any interactions with the one person you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with would feel awkward.

         Maybe that was why it felt impossible to breathe; as if you were sitting at the bottom of the ocean for the entirety of that year and a half.

         As you turned to the coffee machine and began assembling his drink. “Do you remember-.” You paused for a second, wondering if going down memory lane would add to the awkwardness. “When you and I would go to the mall and before we went shopping, we would toss a penny into the fountain outside?”

         Wonwoo’s eyes shot up in your direction and he smiled. “Yeah. Of course. To make sure we could find what we were looking for that day.”

         “Those were fun times.” You said, just loud enough for him to hear. Even if he gave a curt, one-word reply or a verbal nod, you would feel content. You would feel content knowing that those memories were just as dear to him as they had been to you – still were to you.

         “Do you still do it?” You caught a slight tease in his voice though it was masked with a bit of shyness. It seemed even he was treading a tightrope of nostalgia in this moment, neither of you wanting to say too much and risk falling into the depths below.

         “Do you?” Wonwoo only chuckled as you passed him his drink. He offered a small thank you. You smiled. “Are you taking this to go?”

         Hesitation as Wonwoo scanned the area. “I think I can sit for a minute.” You nodded, watching as he took the first seat in the café; the one closest to you. He even faced you, and it felt like a year and a half ago for a second. Wonwoo sipped his coffee and smiled while you both talked until the café got busy and he was ultimately left for the morning to head to his own job. That is, until you two would see each other in the evenings and everything felt right again.

         That part didn’t happen anymore.

         “How’s the family?” You asked.

         “They’re good. My parents are still my parents.”

         “Workaholics?” You hummed, and Wonwoo’s laugh confirmed enough. “What about Bohyuk? Still in the whole fashion model business?”

         “Took a break to finish his degree, but he said he wants to get back into it.”

         Even in only a year and a half, a lot had changed in Wonwoo’s life. You couldn’t help but wonder how things would be different now if you had left well enough alone, bit down the things that felt so major at the time, but make you cringe in regret now. Did those things really matter? Would they have mattered to you now? The distance between the both of you is so big you’d need a boat to cross it and see him again just to fight about how long the trip took in the first place.

         You could have left well enough alone because now all of those moments felt pointless, but not the same kind of pointless as watching two copper pennies drop to the bottom of the fountain’s water. A different, emptier kind of pointless that makes you regret.

         Wonwoo decided to break up. While sitting on his bed, a movie idly playing in the background, he had mentioned it.

         “We should take some time apart. I think it’s good for both of us.”

         That time was a year and a half, a changed social media relationship post, and an ugly cry into the tub of ice cream Jeonghan bought you ago.

         Pulling yourself back to the present with talk of life updates, dawning the mask of a sociable customer service worker, you choked out a: “What about you?”

         “Me?”

         “Yes, you.” You snorted. “Still at the same job? Still playing the same games? What’s new?”

         Wonwoo was silent for a beat too long so you finally turned back to face him despite what your facial features might convey about your feelings. Wonwoo had the coffee cup to his lips, eyes cast at one of the decorative paintings hung up on the wall beside him. It had been changed twice since he was here last, and he seemed to notice.

         “Different painting? I liked the old one.”

         “Oh, you’re changing the subject? That must mean you have something juicy to hide?” Wonwoo didn’t chuckle or laugh under his breath this time. That made your teasing smile fall. “Sorry, maybe it’s not my business. I shouldn’t push.”

         “Ah, no.” Wonwoo shook his head. “I was just debating on if I wanted to tell you when I came in here for coffee.”  

         “Tell me what?” You asked.

         Wonwoo seemed a bit unsure. “I feel like it’s inappropriate. After all this time.”

         “Is it some kinky thing?” Wonwoo finally laughed again, shaking his head. A bit of blush formed on his cheeks.

         “You’re terrible. No.” You were silent despite a small smile on your face, watching as Wonwoo shifted in his seat. “I met someone.”

         “Ah.” You didn’t intend for the sound to escape your lips, but when it did your chest deflated. “That’s lovely. Is she nice?” Of course, she is. You thought. Wonwoo only attracts nice people….

         “She is.” He said. You could see the fondness in his eyes. “We met at this party Mingyu took me to about six months ago. We’re meeting up today about 15 minutes down the road.”

         “The aquarium?” Wonwoo nodded. “Aw, that’s really nice.” Wonwoo’s eyes relaxed a bit, as did the rest of his body. “I’m happy for you.”

         “Thanks.” He seemed to have finished his coffee since he didn’t lift it up for more sips. “What about you?”

         “Pah.” You scoffed. “Nothing but men looking for hook-ups, or the guys who won’t leave you alone when you’ve politely turned them down.”

         “Ah, sorry to hear that.”

         You shrugged passively because it didn’t bother you. “I’ve taken a break from all that. This-.” You motioned to the four walls and the display case in front of you. “-Causes me more than enough stress.” A beat of silence, and you added. “I’m happy for you, though.”

         “Thank you.” He got up from his seat and walked back over to the display case. For a second his eyes dropped to it, scanning the contents. “I think I might take something to eat for the trip.”

         “Okay.” Hands reached into the case and pulled out two muffins, chocolate chip and blueberry. “Here.”

         “Ah. Two?” He blinked. “I’m Mingyu, you know. I don’t eat that much at once.”

         “It’s for your girlfriend, Wonwoo.” This had been only the second time you said his name this morning, yet it felt so natural escaping your lips yet again. “That’d be kind of rude of you to not show up with anything for her.”

         “Ah, you’re right.” Wonwoo smiled. When he reached into his pocket, you stuck your hand out. He looked confused as his eyes met yours again.

         “Don’t worry. On me.” You said.

“What? I couldn’t.”

“Too bad.” You said. “I insist. Thanks for coming to visit.”

Reluctantly Wonwoo put his wallet back in his pocket and nodded with a grateful thank you. In a few minutes, Wonwoo would be out of your café once again, this time heading to see someone else rather than to kill time before being in your arms once again.

The thought hurt, but it hurt less seeing Wonwoo smile the way he did. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Mm. You too.” Wonwoo fixed his glasses, waving his hand as he headed out of the café. You watched his back get smaller and smaller, turning as he passed by the window and down the street. Just like that, you were left alone in the café like you had been ten minutes earlier. Only now, you heart was heavier.

As the day went on, serving customers and cleaning tables, your mind weighed heavy on the topic of: what would be different now if I had been the one? Could I have done anything differently to keep Wonwoo in my grasp?

Were we always destined to grow apart this way?

As evening pulled over the city you locked up the café and stepped onto the street, bag slung over your shoulder and cap pulled over your sleepy eyes.

With the moonlight as your only companion, you made your way home, your mind finally quieting down with questions a year and a half too old to be answered. Well, one question you had today was answered.

He didn’t come back to town just to see you. 

If you want to request something, post in my inbox and check my requests post!

[noona-clock]

Heart of the Ranch - Part 3

Genre: Cowboy!AU, Slice of Life, Fluff

Pairing: Namjoon x You (Female!Reader)

Warnings: None

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 | Words: 3,111

Yesterday evening, after Namjoon had accepted your involvement in helping get his ranch back on its feet, you'd been about to voice some of the many thoughts that had been circling around in your brain.

But then Namjoon had yawned, though he'd quickly tried to cover it up behind his arm.

It had hit you then just how much work this man did. Someone else did all the cooking, but he did literally everything else -- including the finances (which he obviously had no business doing). You hadn't been sure exactly when he woke up in the morning, but it had to be incredibly early. And considering how much of his work was manual labor? No wonder he was yawning not even two hours after dinner!

"How about we call it a night and pick this back up tomorrow morning," you'd suggested, standing up from the desk chair and raising your eyebrows expectantly at him.

Noticing how sleepy he was had made you want to reach out and squeeze his arm comfortingly -- but, of course, you hadn't. That would've been awkward. (But really, really nice.)

"Sounds good," Namjoon had agreed, reaching around you to shut off the computer.

His pine-scented soap had, once again, invaded your senses, even though it hadn't been quite as strong as earlier in the day. You'd known right then and there that you wouldn't be able to smell pine again for the rest of your life without thinking of Namjoon.

"I'll be working outside with the animals all morning if you want to meet me," he'd murmured, interrupting your thoughts (thankfully).

You'd nodded quickly and stepped away from the desk -- and him. "Sure."

"Make sure you wear jeans," he'd told you with a half-smirk. "And shoes you don't mind getting dirty."

Your cheeks had warmed at the thought of stepping in cow poop, but you hadn't been able to keep from laughing gently. "Of course. Don't worry, I will definitely step more carefully from now on."

A quiet chuckle had rumbled in Namjoon's chest, and then the two of you had bid each other good night.

And now here you were. The next morning. Standing in front of the mirror in your bathroom in jeans and a t-shirt, clothes you were certainly not used to wearing these days.

Unfortunately, the only shoes you'd brought besides the sneakers you'd worn yesterday were sandals and slippers, so you'd had no choice but to don them yet again.

You would just buy new ones when you got home if you had to.

"Should be good enough, I guess," you muttered to your own reflection, lifting your shoulders in a shrug before heading to the door.

It was early -- you woke up early for work every day, so you were used to it at this point. As you tiptoed down the stairs, you realized the rest of the house was quiet. Your friends were definitely still sleeping... what if Namjoon was, too?

But as soon as you set foot on the very bottom step, the aroma of coffee hit you.

Okay, first -- perfect. A steaming mug of coffee was always what you needed first thing in the morning. Preferably with vanilla creamer, but you weren't that picky. Second -- this was a pretty sure sign that Namjoon was awake, right? You'd seen on the website that breakfast wasn't served for another hour from now, so surely the person who did the cooking wasn't already here.

But there was still no sign of Namjoon, so you had to assume he was already working outside. And, honestly, you admired his work ethic. He worked even longer hours than you, and the work he did was a lot more physically demanding.

That was super attractive.

Not that it mattered how attractive he was... Obviously.

Once you found the coffee station set up in the dining room, you rushed over and grabbed the first mug within reach. Focusing on pouring yourself a cup of hot, liquid perfection was exactly what you needed right now. And, to your surprise, you spotted a glass jar filled with little individual tubs of vanilla creamer.

Hallelujah!

After gulping down your coffee (and taking the mug into the kitchen to quickly wash it, wanting to leave the least amount of work possible for you-know-who), you snuck out the side door, assuming you would have to wander around a bit to find Namjoon. But to your surprise, the side door in the kitchen led almost straight to the stables, and lo and behold -- there he was.

"Good morning!" you called out, hugging your arms against the slight chill in the air.

Namjoon's gaze snapped to yours, his brow furrowing. "Hey," he greeted. "You're up early."

"I told you I'm a workaholic," you replied, approaching the horse he was brushing. "I'm used to getting up early for my commute to the office."

A barely-there smirk tugged at his lips, and he shook his head. "I guess I can't say anything. I do nothing but work, too."

You were about to point out that, in his case, there was no clear difference between his work and his personal life, but he spoke again before you got the chance,

"There's a jacket hanging up in the stable if you're cold," he said, nodding toward the stable entrance about fifty feet away. And then his gaze shifted to your feet. "And some boots. You're definitely going to want to change those shoes."

"The only other shoes I brought are even less practical than these," you told him with a guilty smile. Before you started toward the stables, though, you eyed Namjoon's cowboy hat and added, "What about a hat? Can I wear one too and feel like a true cowgirl?"

Truthfully, the main reason you'd said this was to try and coax the dimples into making an appearance. And, thankfully -- luckily -- mercifully! They did!

Namjoon's lips curved into a smile, and he breathed out a laugh, his cheeks dimpling and making you want to squeal with delight.

"Yep, there's a hat in there, too," he told you. "Knock yourself out."

"Thank you!" you sang as you hurried over to the stables, ducking in and quickly spotting a jacket hanging on a hook with a few hats on neighboring hooks and several pairs of boots lined up. The jacket and hat were a bit too large for you, but you were able to find a pair of boots in your size, and once you were properly outfitted (and feeling pretty good about yourself, you weren't going to lie), you headed back out.

"Why are there so many pairs of boots in there?" you asked, tilting your head up slightly to peer underneath the brim of your hat.

Namjoon paused, turning his head to look at you... and you could've sworn you saw his cheeks turn ever so slightly pink.

"I, uh --" he began, stopping to clear his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was as smooth as it always was. "I knew you were coming, but I wasn't sure your size, so I just bought a bunch."

Now it was your turn to pause. "...What?"

A grin curved his lips, and he said, "Joking. I do group trail riding when the weather's nice, so I keep some in case someone shows up wearing sandals or heels or bright and shiny white sneakers."

You exhaled, relieved -- but really, why had you believed him? It was clearly a joke!

Not only were you learning that you needed to step away from work just a little bit more, but you were also learning that you needed to lighten up!

You also knew you needed to change the subject -- if you tried explaining that you hadn't realized it was a joke even though it clearly had been, you would only make a fool of yourself. So, once you got close enough to the horse Namjoon was still brushing, you said, "Got it, totally makes sense. So, what are we doing?"

"Well, since today is Tuesday, it's grooming day," he answered. "For the horses. I'm just brushing them down and checking their hooves for anything out of the ordinary."

"Do you have a spare brush?" You'd never done this before, but it couldn't be that hard.

Namjoon temporarily disappeared behind the horse, and when he reappeared a few seconds later, he reached one arm out to hand a brush to you.

You murmured your thanks, turning to the horse nearby and timidly swiping the brush across its back.

After a few more sweeps, you heard Namjoon take in a breath.

"No, you've gotta be a little more forceful. Broader strokes, too."

Your brow furrowed, and you turned around to face him. "Really? It won't hurt --"

You quickly bent down to look underneath the horse.

"---Her?"

"No," Namjoon chuckled. "Here, let me show you."

And before you knew it, he had come around to stand behind you, placing one hand over yours on the brush, his fingers grasping you firmly but still gently.

Oh, no.

No, no, no, no, this was a bad idea. The smell of his soap -- a smell that was now all too familiar even though you'd met him literally yesterday -- was so strong, it was nearly overwhelming.

But in a really, really good way.

His hand was rough but warm. His chest was broad and rock solid. You could even feel his breath on your cheek, and the fact that you could tell he'd also had a cup of coffee before coming out here made you feel far too giddy.

"Like this," he murmured, pushing the brush more firmly against the horse's back and sweeping it in a much wider range.

You nodded. That was all you could get yourself to do right now.

After guiding you through a few more brushes (though it seemed like almost an eternity had passed), Namjoon stepped away and went back to brushing his own horse again.

"You've never done this?" he asked, though his tone was one of pure curiosity -- not judgment.

You couldn't stop a laugh from bursting past your lips, and you glanced over your shoulder at him. "I spend five, sometimes six, out of seven days a week wearing a power suit and heels, sitting in a cushy office in front of a computer calculating numbers. Do you think I've ever groomed a horse before?"

"Well, when you put it that way," Namjoon chuckled. "There's a first time for everything, huh?"

This, of course, made you curious about how long he'd been doing this. It was your first time, sure, but it could be his thousandth time grooming a horse for all you knew.

"So, what's the story of BTS Ranch?" you asked, trying your best to keep your tone casual so he wouldn't learn just yet how nosy you were.

You thought you heard Namjoon let out a sigh, but it was so soft that it could've just been your imagination. Or simply a slight breeze! But then he answered you with, "It's a long one," so you figured maybe he had sighed.

"I've got all day," you replied.

You could feel his hesitation in the air -- it sounds weird, but just trust me.

"Okay, how about this?" he began after a few silent moments. "Ride around with me to check the fences, and I can give you a tour along the way."

Obviously, your instinct was to immediately accept his offer.

But then you backtracked.

Because you realized he'd said 'ride.' And since the two of you were currently standing in front of horses...

"Ride as in... ride them?" you asked, turning around to face Namjoon and nodding toward the horses.

Namjoon replied, "Yeah," like it was no big deal.

Your stomach jumped up into your throat. "Uh... this shouldn't come as a surprise to you that I've never ridden a horse before."

"Do you know how to ride a bike?" he asked as he took the brush he was using and tossed it into a nearby bucket.

"Yes..."

"Do you know how to drive a car?"

"Yes..."

"Then you can ride a horse," he assured you.

"I hate to be a Debbie Downer, but neither a bike nor a car is a living, breathing creature," you pointed out, watching as he came around to join you. He delicately took the brush from your hand and threw it gently into the same bucket.

"I promise you can do it," Namjoon assured you, reaching out one hand to rest it on your horse's back and patting her. "Frida here is about as docile as a horse can be, and I'll be riding right beside you the whole way."

You would be lying if you said that didn't make you feel better. There was just one small problem you deeply didn't want to admit out loud.

Obviously, your expression was still rife with anxiety because Namjoon lifted an eyebrow and asked, "You're not afraid of heights, are you?"

Well, he'd just given you the perfect opportunity to admit out loud what you deeply didn't want to admit out loud. You had no choice!

"No, not heights," you answered, shaking your head. "I'm... I'm afraid of doing things I'm not good at."

And now doesn't it make sense why you'd been so reluctant to come on this vacation? You were really good at working -- incredibly good at working! But you were not good at not working. Basically every vacation you'd ever taken had turned into a working vacation because you just weren't good at relaxing and taking time for yourself, and you were too anxious to practice.

"I'm not asking you to compete in the Olympics," Namjoon chuckled as he smirked over at you. "We'll just be walking at a very leisurely pace. It'll take less than two minutes to learn."

Out of all the different ways Namjoon could've handled your admission, what he just said was probably the perfect response. He was challenging you without questioning your ability.

And you were just proud enough to take the bait.

"All right, fine," you agreed, squaring your jaw and lifting your chin.

The grin that curved Namjoon's lips (and the dimples that appeared, of course) made it completely worth it.

"Come help me get the saddles, and I'll show you how it's done," he requested.

As you followed him to the stables, you let out a slow, deep exhale, your eyes widening. This was definitely going to be interesting.

Okay, you had to hand it to Namjoon: he had been right. Once you got past the first obstacle of actually getting on the horse (something you didn't quite want to think about since Namjoon had stood incredibly close to you and held your waist as you swung yourself up), it had taken hardly any time at all to get the hang of riding it.

The reins were really just the steering wheel, and your heels were the pedals. Plus, Frida did seem as sweet-tempered as Namjoon said she was.

...It also helped that Namjoon was riding Diego not even three feet away and basically guiding Frida where to go without you having to do anything.

But you were still having fun!

Namjoon had given you a few minutes to get used to riding before delving into the story of BTS Ranch and how he'd ended up where he was now.

He'd started working here during school as a part-time job, but had eventually made himself invaluable to the previous owner (he blamed his insane work ethic for this, but he assured you he really did love this job). When the previous owner decided to retire, she'd handed the reins (pun intended) over to Namjoon -- and she'd made no Plan B. Either he took over or the ranch shut down.

"Turns out," he said as he was wrapping up. "I'm much better at the manual labor side than the business side -- as you so politely pointed out yesterday after looking through the books."

You shouldn't feel guilty because what you said was the truth, but you still felt your cheeks warm slightly. "I want you to know that I've never once claimed to sugarcoat things."

"I don't doubt it," Namjoon chuckled. "So, what do you think? Can I save this sinking ship or not?"

It was clear he wanted an honest answer because he'd asked you. You'd literally just told him you weren't one to sugarcoat. If he was asking you, that meant he wanted the truth, even if it was brutal.

"I think you can," you answered after a few moments of careful consideration. "I don't think it will be easy, but something tells me you don't care about that."

"Yeah, I don't think 'easy' is in my vocabulary," he replied with a soft laugh. "Or yours, for that matter."

"No, for me, I think the word you're looking for is 'relax.' That’s definitely not in my vocabulary."

"Which is why you're here, yeah?"

"Mhm," you nodded. "And because my friends are far too good to me. I mean, I'm on this vacation they so lovingly planned, and here I am, offering to help you with your business and not spending time with them."

Did you feel guilty? Of course! But you still had five days left. That was plenty of time!

"Maybe that's just what you need right now," Namjoon pointed out.

You wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but for some reason, you felt that would be a little too dangerous. What if he said something about listening to your heart? Your heart was pretty busy thinking about Namjoon's dimples, and that's not something you should really be listening to!

So, instead, you did what you did best: you changed the subject to work.

"Speaking of what you need right now," you said, forcing a grin onto your lips. "I was thinking about marketing."

Namjoon frowned, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. "Marketing?"

"Yeah, this place is sorely lacking in that department. I did a quick search last night, and the only thing that came up was your website.

"Hey, I worked really long and hard on that website, I'll have you know," Namjoon defended teasingly, smirking at you.

"I don't doubt it! It's a nice website," you assured him. "But where are the customer reviews? Where's your social media presence? You could make so much really great short-form content and draw in a huge audience."

He nodded slowly, taking in your words and mulling them over.

"The only thing is," he began. "I don't know how to do any of that stuff."

To be honest, you didn't either.

...But you were now planning a way to both help the ranch and spend time with your friends.

Part 4

[deceptive-daydreams]

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 | Ch. 14 |

Smoke Signals

Chapter Five - Cold Eggs

W/C: 6K

Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader

Warnings: Anxiety attack, mentions of drinking

Some early morning honesty on the rocks. Eddie is fucked. In every sense other than literal.

A/N: I'm getting giddy over these two please tell me yall feel the same

Masterlist

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The Munson bachelor pad wasn’t as boyish and messy as you initially thought.  You were sober enough to make that observation.  It was cozy, much like your own home and was around the same size.  The kitchen was probably the messiest part of it however you didn’t get a peek at the bedroom which you assumed could also be very disheveled.  There were cereal boxes left open on the counter, Cocoa Pebbles being the one that caught your eye along with a neglected box of Rice Krispies that laid on its side.   

A few too many pots and pans cluttered the stove top and some empty cans of soup and Spaghettios were left to collect dust near the sink.  His refrigerator held a collection of magnets, some being letters from the alphabet, although quite a few were missing, and others were ads from a pizza place and a few fruits and vegetables with cartoony faces.  Among the mess on the counters, you also noted a few empty liters of soda and some crushed beer cans.  Budweiser to be specific.

Other than that, the living room you’d been sitting in was tidy.  There was a clearly used checkered blanket bunched up on the corner of the couch you’d been occupying for the past several minutes and a few car catalogs littering the coffee table along with a copy of Lord of the Rings, bookmarked with a coupon for ground beef clipped from the local ads.  Next to that, an ash tray nearly overflowed.  

His wallpaper wasn’t as ugly as yours, which you envied.  It was maroon with even darker stripes alternating, creating a dark but homey atmosphere.  The wall sconces on the other hand, we’re tacky.  They looked more medieval than anything, almost like torches.  The light wood floors contrasted with the walls and at your feet was a frayed rug that looked like it had seen better days.  Not dirty, just tattered.

In the corner sat an acoustic guitar painted with the words ‘this machine slays dragons’ and next to it was an electric guitar, red with cracks of black.  You’d never seen one like it before and it seemed to be well loved from what you’d heard every day, the endless guitar solos bleeding into your eardrums daily.  At least he was getting his money's worth out of it.

You continued eyeing your surroundings, taking in the habitat that was Eddie Munson’s home when your gaze lands on a particular object that piqued your interest.  It sat atop a shelf near the door, a lonely Garfield mug.

Before you could further examine the mug or even think of reasons as to why it was displayed, if it was even displayed, or perhaps it was abandoned in a hurry out the door, Eddie emerges from the bathroom just off the living room.  His curls are now wet ringlets toward the bottom, and instead of wearing your puke, he wears a red sweatshirt that reads ‘Indianapolis, Indiana’ on the front along with some baggy black sweats.  Despite his comfy clothes, his face is still decorated with that grouchy frown you’d grown used to.  Did this man ever relax his face?  His eyebrows were still pinched together either in thought or in irritation.

“I-um, I’ll wash the shirt and um the–the boots.”  You stutter, rapidly standing from your perch at the edge of his couch.

Though still a little tipsy, more coherent thoughts flooded your mind.  Guilt plagued you as you thought about the blanket of barf that coated his shirt and boots about a half hour earlier, abandoned on the front porch.  You were smart enough to avert your gaze when he lifted his shirt off of his torso just to let it wrinkle up on the wood planks to be dealt with later.  It wasn’t your fault that you’d caught a glimpse of the tattoos that adorned his body, some kind of dragon if you remember correctly, wound from his waist up to his ribs.  The others you didn’t have long enough to distinguish their imagery, though there were several along with what appeared to be some scarring of some kind.  You couldn’t be sure, the darkness from the night not allowing you a clear picture along with your hazy mental state.

“Don’t worry about it.”  He dismisses while you bashfully sit back down on the edge of the couch.

It was hard to grasp whether he was pissed at you or just at life in general.  You would take full responsibility for the vomit but everything before that was on him.  Yelling at you over a pile of broken plates seemed far more degrading based on his tone, the way he reprimanded you and painted you as this stupid girl, unable to stand your ground.  Maybe it was better that he fired you, you wouldn’t be subject to his obnoxious mood swings where he seemed to take everything out on you when shit hit the fan.  

You continued watching Eddie move about his surroundings, taking in how he interacted with his day to day environment.  What did he look like fully relaxed?  Lounging around, playing his guitar without a care in the world.  It was difficult to picture; the image of a moody man with a tensed facial expression the only one you could seem to conjure up every time rather than the vision of him with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, enjoying coffee out of that stupid Garfield mug.  You wonder if takes his coffee with cream and sugar.  Maybe just cream?  Or just sugar?  Maybe he drinks it black, that would be the most sensible option if you were going by his grouchy nature.

“Gonna find my keys, then we’ll go back to the bar to get yours.”  Eddie decides, shuffling through some items on the kitchen counter.  

The irony.

Agreeing with a hum, you allow yourself to lean further into the couch while trailing your finger over the faded plaid pattern, lines of beige crossing over white that temporarily held your focus.  The clinking of empty beer cans against the linoleum counter can be heard, and then footsteps into the bedroom just off the living room to your left.  Two idiots with misplaced keys under the same roof.

It feels as if the couch begins to mold around you, welcoming you into its springy cushions that otherwise wouldn’t be very comfortable but considering the night you had and the state you were in, you felt like you were on a cloud.  Your thoughts drift back to curious visions of Eddie.  What did his hair look like first thing in the morning?  Was it as wild as you imagined?  Curls sticking up every which way, frizzy and matted?  Or was it somehow still perfectly messy?  Boyishly messy.  

Did he take those chunky rings off every night, leaving them on his nightstand until the morning?  How many more tattoos did he have?  What movies did he watch?  What did he do for fun?  You suppose plucking at his guitars was a main contender with the way it would constantly invade your ears.  Obviously he read, your eyes catching that copy of Lord of the Rings on the coffee table again.  Maybe he worked on cars too, based on those car part catalogs.  

The image of him working under the hood of a car, all sweaty in some kind of tank top occupied your brain, his usually tense face hard at work with grease smeared along his cheek.  And his hands.  His hands would be coated in oil and he’d pull a rag out from his back pocket to wipe them off.  Then he’d smile and reveal those deep dimples framing his face so perfectly.  And then you would–

“Uh, Bambi?”

Eddie’s voice doesn’t do much other than cause you to stir in your sleep, snuggling a pillow while curling into yourself.  You were nearly drooling, completely content.  He couldn’t help but stare a little longer than necessary before realizing what a creep he was being.  Was he supposed to wake you?  If he was, he felt wrong doing so with how peaceful you looked.  He rolled his eyes but truthfully, he didn’t mind having a guest for the night.  

Maybe he’d be able to get some sleep for once.

–

Tossing around as the springs beneath you squeak, your mouth feels like it had previously been filled with sand.  Not an ounce of saliva coated your tongue, you were severely dehydrated.  You flung the knitted blanket that had rested on top of you off–when did that get there?  You don’t remember grabbing a blanket before drifting off into a deep slumber.  

This wasn’t even your house.

Collecting your thoughts, you recall that you had been sitting on Eddie Munson’s couch before apparently falling asleep.  It was still dark outside, signifying that it had to be early in the morning which meant you’d only slept for maybe two or so hours.  A lamp set atop a beat up side table in the corner was the only thing illuminating the room now.  Sitting up and stretching, your bones ached from the way they were piled on top of each other in the position you had been sleeping in.  Your right arm had pins and needles running up and down it from being cut off from circulation for so long.  

The groan that threatened to escape you was held in your throat as you scooted forward, only to find a full glass of water right there on the coffee table.  This was beyond embarrassing, this was humiliating.  If you could scurry out the door and across the yard back to your place you would, but you were in this predicament due to your own negligence.  

With no other options available to you, you gulp down the lukewarm water, just grateful that your tongue was no longer dryer than the Sahara desert.  But it still wasn’t enough.  Your thirst seemed unquenchable, at this rate you’d need approximately five more glasses.  So you stood yourself up, legs shaky and stomach a tiny bit queasy, and wobbled over to the kitchen.  You’d have to pace yourself to avoid throwing up a bunch of water since your stomach was so sensitive right now.  Food was out of the question but water was a necessity.  

Twisting the sink handle with a small screech of the metal, you fill the glass with a shaky and weak arm before sipping away.  

Slowly.  You remind yourself.

It must have taken around eight minutes to finish that second glass of water, coaching yourself through it the entire time.  You grew tired of drinking it but persisted anyway.  As you reach to fill a third glass, you’re startled by a figure in the doorway to Eddie’s room, unable to make out any features in the dim lighting.  With a yelp, you manage to drop the glass in the sink, it clanking around noisily but thankfully, not breaking.  

“Shit, why are you awake?”  Eddie asks, hands raised in surrender as he emerges from the shadows.

“Why are you awake?”  You counter.

He raises a brow, clearly wide awake.  He didn’t even have that gravelly, sleepy voice.  Maybe he hadn’t even gone to sleep at all.  There was no evidence that his hair was any frizzier than before and his face didn’t have that puffiness to it when you wake up.  It’s also possible that he just looked perfect when he woke up but if you’re being honest, no one really woke up perfect.  

“I, uh, I was reading.”  He admits, scratching the back of his head.

“Oh.”

An awkward silence trickles in, causing you to cross your arms as a means to close in on yourself, steadily backing up until you hit the counter behind you.  Eddie maintains eye contact with you as he retrieves his own cup from one of the cabinets, filling it up and chugging it down with ease.  You suddenly feel so out of place, like you were supposed to leave but there was nowhere else to go.  

“I, um, I’m sorry for…for the puke.  A-and for falling asleep.  I didn’t mean to intrude.”  You tell him honestly.

He only nods.  

“I can go…sit on my porch until you go into the bar.  And I’ll get my keys and be out of your hair.”  

A few drops of water roll down his chin as he continues drinking, the back of his hand coming up to swipe the liquid away.  He appears to be lost in thought, eyes concentrated on the counter in front of him where a few rogue Rice Krispies live.  You let your legs carry you a few feet away, your goal being the front door until he speaks up again.

“I’m not gonna be responsible if you get eaten out there.”  He grumbles.  

“Eaten?”

Eddie looks you up and down as if to say ‘are you serious?’.  To be completely honest, you hadn’t taken into account the wildlife that thrived throughout the area before you moved in.  Now you were looking more and more dumb by the minute.

“Bears?”  He offers an anxious head tilt.  “We have fucking bears here, Bambi.  You can’t just wander around in the middle of the night.”

“I wouldn’t be wandering.”  Why were you trying to make an argument?  Out of all the things you could fight him on, why were you choosing whether or not you’d get eaten by a bear?  “I would be sitting on my porch.”

You felt like the dumbest woman on the planet and you knew you should’ve stopped talking but the words just…came out.

“Bears can reach your fucking porch, you know that, right?”  

His large eyes bored into you in disbelief, his mouth slightly hung open as he awaited your answer.

“Y-yeah.”  You gulp.

“God.”  He scoffs, turning away from you, perplexed before muttering something under his breath that you happened to also catch.  “Christ, they shoulda turned you away.”

“Who?”  You pipe up, feeling a bit daring.

For a moment, he turns to stare at you blankly.  It’s almost as if you’re the only two people awake and if either of you happened to raise your voice in the slightest, it would awaken the town.

“The assholes that sold you that house.”  He just about whines, his voice an octave higher, frustration obvious in his tone.

The refrigerator light briefly appears over the blue and green tiled floor as Eddie opens it, reaching for something before turning around toward the stove and kicking the door shut.  

“What–what do you mean?  Turn me away?  What’s that supposed to mean?”  You ask in offense.

“I mean…”  He cracks an egg into a pan, followed by another.  “They shouldn’t have sold it to someone so clueless.”  Another egg.  

The shells are discarded in the sink, further cracking into smaller pieces at the impact he’d thrown them.  

“What?  Were they just supposed to reject me until someone more ‘qualified’ came along?”  You try to catch his gaze, ducking your head as he reaches for the salt and pepper.  “And–are you seriously making eggs right now?”  

You earn a scowl from him as his pan begins to sizzle, his hand quick to grab a spatula from one of the pots on the stove to flip the eggs.  This had to have been some weird dream or manifestation.  And there they were again, those three numbers falling from his lips in a whisper as his eyes shut temporarily while his eggs simmered.

“I was already qualified before you came along!”  He raises his voice, not quite to a yell but not very quiet either.

Silence. 

Your eyes must have bulged out of your head, Eddie’s features softening by the second.  Regret settled in his eyes, your face the vision of pure horror and all because of him.  

He got impatient.

His therapist would be disappointed in him.  And so would Wayne.

“I-I just…I was going to, um…”  He starts calmly.  “I was gonna buy it.  And, and I was—”  His breathing is now shallow, his eyes wet and pleading.  “It–it was–I don’t–”

“Eddie.”  You whisper, trying to break through whatever trance he was in.

He seemed stuck in his own head, eyes darting back and forth while he struggled to find words.  The eggs were on the verge of burning which prompted you to reach over him and turn the stove off.  The spatula he previously held clung against the tile.  

“I-I–um, I was–”  

It’s as if he isn’t even in the room, totally removed as the same few syllables fell from his tongue.

“I’m–I-I–”

“Eddie, it’s okay.”  You attempt to soothe him.  “Do you wanna sit down?”  You ask, trying to catch his eyes but failing as he squeezes them shut.

Again with the counting.

One, two, three.  One, two, three.  One, two, three.  One, two, three.

All under his shaky breath.

“I-I’m fine.  ‘M fine.”  His voice cracks, eyes opening timidly.

When you go to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder, he flinches, a gasp leaving his lungs.  Forcing yourself a few steps backward in order to provide him the space he needs, you recognize a hint of fear within him.  It’s not of you, it’s something else yanking at his thoughts.  

“Sit down, let’s sit down, okay?”  You instruct, gradually lower yourself, waiting for him to follow your actions.

Nodding, he slowly slides his back down the side of the counter, falling into a position where his knees were to his chest, hands resting against the floor.  You join him, still keeping your distance but wanting him to know that despite the previous tension, you were being supportive through his episode.  Whatever it may be.

“Breathe.”  You tell him, just as he had done with you back at the bar.  “In…and out.”  You encourage him.

He follows, his breathing still labored but improving.  Continuing for a minute or so, his shoulders finally loosen up, his face relaxing.  You let him guide the situation from here, if he wanted to talk or remain mute.  Either was okay.

Moments pass, the hard kitchen floor causing you discomfort that you willingly take, not daring to shift around too much as to keep the tranquility finally falling over the two of you.  Instead, you take interest in the wood grain of the cabinets, eyes wandering around each curve like a maze, sometimes identifying shapes along the way.  A dog’s face, a ghost, and occasionally the haunting silhouette of a human.  

Sneaking a glance at Eddie, you find that his eyes are shut as he rests his head against the cabinet behind him, his hands fidgeting with the strings on his hoodie, tying little knots and then undoing them just to repeat the process.  Your watch indicates that it’s 4:03 AM.  You would usually be sleeping however you can’t really offer yourself much sympathy when it seems this is the norm for Eddie.  He always had tired eyes though you’d never put much thought into it until now.  He must not be sleeping.  Which could also be a contribution to his moodiness.  

“I’m gonna lose the bar.”  Eddie speaks up from beside you, eyes still shut as he continues to fidget.  

“Hm?”  You turn your full attention to him.

There’s a pause, a moment of thinking.  You can tell as he opens his eyes and side-eyes you, not with malice but more so to collect his thoughts.  Lips pinched in between his teeth roughly, you could almost wince at the way blood surfaces from the poor abused skin.  Not too obvious, but obvious enough as you await clarification, the tiniest bit of crimson seeping out from behind his teeth only to be left to dry out on his perfectly shaped lips.  Then he breaks the silence with a heavy exhale.

“I, uh, I’m pretty close to losing it.  Can barely pay the bills on the damn place.  Been going downhill for a few months now.”  He elaborates, spinning a ring around his finger repeatedly .  “I was gonna use the rest of my savings that my grandpa left me to buy that house.  Rent it out.  I talked to a friend who’s really good with all that financial shit and he said I could get a steady income and most likely keep the bar running and profiting again.”

“Oh.”  You whisper, a huge sensation of guilt overtaking you.

“Not your fault.”  He sighs.  “Guess I’ve been kinda taking it out on you.”

Now he avoids your gaze, far more interested in the cracked tile beneath him.  A curse can be made out from just under his breath while he buries his head in his hands, running them up and down his face, almost as if to relieve some of his stress but having no such luck.  His admission catches you off guard, not at all suspecting that this morning would turn into honesty hour.

“No.”  You reply quickly.  “I mean…yes.  But I-I didn’t know.  If I knew–”

“Don’t give yourself a stroke, Bambi.”  He cuts you off, turning to look at you.  “I’m not proud of how dick-ish I’ve been.  It’s nothing personal though.”  Eddie confesses, seemingly annoyed with himself.

Sincerity floods his eyes, a cry for help.  But how were you supposed to help him?  Before you can muster up some kind of response to his almost-apology, he continues.

“I-uh, I just can’t lose this bar.  I inherited it from my grandpa and he had been running it for…years.”  Behind his persistence, there’s hints of defeat.  A bitterness that you’d come to recognize in the last few weeks.  “And, uh, I didn’t know ‘im for very long but, I kinda feel like it’s my responsibility.”

“Didn’t know him for very long?”  You asked before even calculating the consequences.  You had no right to pry into his personal life.

His hands begin to move up and down his shins, a self-soothing gesture from what you can tell.  Eddie was very fidgety, and you’d only just started noticing.  

“Yeah.”  He whispers.  “I moved here like four years ago.  Some bad shit happened back home and I–”  There’s a moment of hesitation, a sudden panic lurking behind his gaze.  “I can’t go back.”

You want so badly to ask him where ‘home’ used to be but decide against it.  He had already willingly offered you more information than you would have originally been brave enough to ask for.

“Anyway, I never really knew my grandpa until I came here to live with him.  He died last year.  I’ve been trying to keep things afloat since then.”  He explains, pinching the bridge of his nose with a shaky hand.

“I’m so sorry.  I-I didn’t know.”

Genuine sympathy drips from your voice, the kind that felt like hot honey running down a sore throat during flu season.  During the moment it feels…good.  Comforting.  In the way that only his mother ever was in the brief time they had together.  And then the sting returns.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”  The walls are rapidly raised once again and god knows when you would get to peek through the cracks again.  “We should, uh, we should get to the bar so you can get your keys.  And your car.”  He suggests, pulling himself up from the floor with a groan.

“Wait–what about your eggs?”  You mention, gripping the edge of the counter for leverage as you stand.

The eggs were long forgotten about, now all sad and cold in the pan.  Unappetizing.  One of the yolks had somehow broken among the commotion of Eddie’s panic and left a disgusting coating around the gaps, that eggy-wet-dog smell nauseating you.  They were trash in all honesty but Eddie didn’t seem to mind, quickly lifting the pan and grabbing a fork to shovel them into his mouth.

You can’t fight the urge to stare, cold eggs and runny yolks being tossed into his mouth without a second thought.  

“What?”  He glances at you in irritation.

“You could’ve at least heated them up.”  You complain, nose crinkled in revolt.

He rolls his eyes but his annoyance quickly melts away, a fraction of a playful smirk pulling at his lips, eyes gleaming with something captivating.

–

The scent of tobacco and motor oil invades your nose, the smells of Eddie’s truck, much different than the little pine tree air freshener in the car he’d driven you in last night.  The engine rumbles down the road, startling the birds as he drives by.  Some kind of guitar riff blares through the radio, his ringed fingers tapping along against the steering wheel.  Instead of his sweatshirt and sweatpants, he now wears a long sleeve covered with his leather jacket along with some ripped up blue jeans.  As far as you’re concerned, he’s way underdressed for the brisk morning air, only getting colder and colder by the day.  Though, he may run hot and the drop in temperature just doesn’t faze him.  Even so, it’d make you feel better if he at least put on a heavier coat.

Regardless, you can’t seem to control the shivers that rattle your body, your teeth nearly chattering, jaw clenched tightly.  You were mentally scolding drunk-you for forgetting your jacket at the bar and though you were on your way there now, it didn’t do you any good with the way you were practically an ice cube.  It was apparent that the heater of Eddie’s truck wasn’t very efficient as the air coming out was slightly warm but not warm enough to relieve the cold nipping at the exposed skin of your arms.  You could see your breath, only further reminding you of how cold you truly were.

Attention was the last thing you wanted as you subtly moved your hands that rested politely in your lap, up your arms to offer the tiniest bit of skin-on-skin warmth.  Any kind of relief would do.  You only hoped he wouldn’t notice as you began to move your hands back and forth as a means to create some friction, more heat.

Buy a large, fuzzy, soft coat, ASAP.  You note to yourself.

As a distraction, you begin to identify objects within the truck, a solo game of ‘I spy’ if you will.  At your feet, there’s a small crate of cassette tapes.  An impressive collection, mainly metal and rock from what you can see.  Maybe a few folksy ones behind those based on the labels, John Denver being the one that stood out to you.  Then, another car parts catalog on top of the dash.  An empty can of Dr. Pepper in the cup holder.  Or what you assume to be empty.  A definitely empty cigarette carton abandoned in the other cup holder–

“Shit, here.”  Eddie says, reaching behind into the back seat only to magically pull out a denim jacket covered in several patches and pins.  

Evidently, you weren’t playing it as cool as you thought, clearly somehow exposing that you were in fact freezing.  He showed no emotion as he urged the jacket into your reach, eyes still focused on the road.  Your hesitation only had him pushing the denim into your hand, wordlessly cautioning you that he wouldn’t have your modesty or insistence that you were fine.  Clutching the rough fabric in your hand, you pause to stare at him, as if he was going to change his mind any second.  He doesn’t.  Only keeps his eyes forward, brows furrowed in that grumpy manner.

His nose is pink again and you were willing to bet that the tips of his ears matched if they hadn’t been hidden by his wild hair.  Even his cheeks were dusted with the lightest rosy shade.  Fall looked good on him.  You couldn’t even imagine how amazing Summer would look on him.  

Quickly, you undo your seatbelt and shrug the jacket on.  It’s cold from living in the truck all night but warms you up regardless, much cozier than your bare arms out in the open.  And it smells like Eddie, a smell you can’t quite pinpoint to one specific thing.  A little bit like cigarettes, maybe a hint of cologne, spicy but not overpowering, and a whiff of rubber.  It almost smelled like a garage.

The sun was just rising on the horizon, the lake coming into view perfectly as if to put on a show.  Hues of orange painted the sky, birds chirping and squawking as they announced the arrival of a new day.  An apricot dream accompanied by peachy tones.  

–

The Bourbon was a shell of itself at 5:00 AM.  The morning was bright and early though the bar wasn’t ready to awaken just yet, not until the evening when it thrived.  Until then, it slept peacefully throughout the day, forgotten about until Happy Hour.  Ribbons of light snuck in through the blinds, illuminating the smallest sections of the tables and the floorboards.  

The lights quickly took over that magical early morning feel as Eddie emerged next to you, hands tucked into his pockets while you scanned the room.  And there they were, your keys.  Sat right on top of the bar just as you had remembered.  Your jacket, however, was nowhere to be seen.  

Bummer.

You could’ve sworn you grabbed it from the back lockers before you declared war on Eddie last night.  It wasn’t there either, your locker devoid of your belongings other than a pad of paper and a pen.  

“Have you seen my jacket?”  You ask Eddie, checking the barstools just to be safe.  Nothing.

He had slipped right back into work mode, even at the crack of dawn.  You suppose it's fair though, the information he had shared with you in the quietest hours of the morning resonating in your mind.  Work never stopped for him.  

“Hm?  No, I haven’t seen it.”  He answers, collecting the dirty rags from their designated bin behind the bar to start them up in the wash.

With a soft pout, you trace your steps in your head but can’t seem to recall where you’d left it, your brain failing you.  Maybe it would eventually pop up again, it wasn’t anything special anyway.  It just happened to be one of the heaviest jackets you owned so you would have to remember to stop by one of the shops to search for something equivalent.  Beginning to pull your arm out of the sleeve of the jacket you currently wore, Eddie’s voice stops you.

“Just–keep it ‘til you find yours.”  He says.  Like he knew.  

Were you that obvious?  Girl moves to a random town miles and miles away from home only to be unprepared for the weather conditions in which you would think she would be aware of before committing.

“No, it’s–”

You immediately shut up when you see his expression, something that says ‘for the love of god, just listen’ with glaring eyes and furrowed brows.  Instead of fighting him on it, you offer your gratitude in the form of labor.

“Um, I could stick around…and help.  If you need.”  

Your words float in the air, so delicate it makes him want to vomit; not out of disgust but out of confusion for whatever feeling was swirling around in his head, making him dizzy.  Each word was too sweet, cavity inducing sweetness that he wanted to lick up like icing.  He wasn’t used to being presented with such regard, a candied offer delivered right from your pretty lips to his ears.

“If I still have a job.”  You add.  Sugary syllables pouring from your lips unintentionally.  He may have a heart attack from the amount of sugar.

Eddie collects himself, clears his throat as if to also clear his conscience, not succeeding.  You’re so unlike everything that he knows.  He knows of friendly conversation and boyish banter, endless nights followed by endless days without sleep, he knows of his shitty attitude that comes around more often than not, but he’s never been one to know pure kindness, a certain tenderness radiating from you and seeping into him.  Sure people are kind to him, especially here.  But you’re something else.

“Yeah.  Yeah, ‘course you have a job.”  He affirms.  

The small smile you grace him with makes him want to jump off of a bridge.  Because he is such a cruel being, such a monstrous man awaiting further punishment from the universe for being much less than gentle with such a sweet-tempered, sympathetic human that may even be a gift from god himself if Eddie believed in all that.  

And then Chrissy crossed his mind.  He could not endure another loss.  Chrissy was never even his but he used to mourn what could have been had she lived.  Perhaps she was his first love.  A miserable little middle schooler pining after Hawkin’s Sweetheart all the way up until highschool.  And the moment he got close enough, she was gone, right in front of his poor traumatized eyes.  It was enough for him to swear off love for good.

For some reason he was finding himself wanting to dial back on that promise.  He had only known you for around two weeks and was going back on his own word.  It was freaking him out, making him want to yank his hair out from the roots and collapse onto the floor.  He felt like a teenage boy again, going through puberty and trying to work out all of his jumbled feelings and hormones.

You were staring at him expectantly and it was only then that he realized he had been lost in thought.  A pool of thoughts actually.  Maybe even having a revelation?  

“You can uh…”  He clears his throat, nearly hacking up a lung.  “You haven’t…you haven’t eaten, have you?”  

Internally, he’s scolding himself.  

You’re gonna get hurt before you can even get close.  People are not meant to love you, Munson.  It’s been proven time and time again.  Quit while you’re ahead.

He was too far ahead anyway.  Would he ever learn his lesson?  

People are not meant to love you.

“No.”  You answer sheepishly.  “But I-I’m fine!”  You try to say convincingly.  The reality was that your stomach was swallowing itself, the fact that your dinner had been four tequila shots was not favoring you.  

“Bambi.”  Eddie says sternly.

God she’s gorgeous.

He was fucked.

“Okay…fine.  I haven’t eaten.”  You admit.  “But I can help out a little and then–”

“C’mon.”  He demands, abandoning the bin of dirty rags to head for the kitchen.  

And on the way, he reasons with himself as you follow.

Just be friendly.  There’s nothing wrong with being friendly.  We can be friends.  Stop scaring the shit out of yourself.  She wouldn’t even like you beyond that.  No one would.  

“So, what are you feelin’?”  He asks, knocking his knuckles against the metal worktop.

“Oh, I-I don’t know.  Whatever is easiest.  You know what, I can just go get something from one of the shops, I’m sure that little pancake place is open by now.”

“You don’t trust my cooking?”  He jokes, amusement written all over his face.

To be fair, he hadn’t given you much reason to trust him since you arrived.  But somehow, layers were starting to peel back and you were getting the tiniest glimpses of his true self.  And you’d be stupid not to indulge when he had practically propped the door to his mind right open.  At least for the time being.

“Should I?”  There’s a huge grin on your face, a stupid grin that you try to conceal but can’t.  “I dunno, you kind of have me wondering if you’re gonna spit in my food or something.”  You quip.

“Ouch.”  Eddie feigns hurt by bringing a hand to his chest.  “You think I’m that scummy?”  He asks, raising his brow playfully.

“Oh, the scummiest.”  You banter back.

“You’re breakin’ my heart Bambi.”  He frowns before disappearing into the walk-in freezer, discarding his leather jacket on a hook on his way.

Truth be told he was breaking yours too, with his handsome face and his dumb smile, deep dimples you could think about for hours, and those eyes.  They told a story, a tragic story that maybe he would never care to share.  And that’s what broke your heart.  Suffering in silence.  You knew that feeling all too well.

“By the way…”  Eddie shouts from the freezer before appearing once again.  “I’m Eddie.”  He sticks his hand out toward you, two eggs held in his free hand.  

You look up at him, bewildered.  

“I never asked for your name.”  He reminds you with a shit-eating grin.

The Eddie you met weeks ago was gone as far as you were concerned.  All within a few hours, he seemed to warm up to you.

The scary dog was rolling over…for you.

~end~

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[rocketturtle4]

Be My Favorite - When is the present actually the future?

I’m pretty sure writing this is about to consume my entire Saturday but by the time I wake up tomorrow La Pluie will have been out for 6 hours and my Sunday brain will have other things to think about! (it actually only took about half of it so I'm considering that a win)

I have read through my Tumblr feed for people’s thoughts on the latest Be My Favorite episode and I absolutely have to share because I found that while ideas and themes explored mirrored my own thoughts, the conclusions people were putting forth about where the show might be going were completely different.

(Posts I don't specifically reference in this but that which I definitely read and you should too include @syrena-del-mar and @shouldiusemyname here and @chickenstrangers here )

Also shoutout to @bengiyo because I used your sarge watches to reduce how much I had to go back and watch things.

LETS CLOWN

(am I, am I using it right? I have so many questions about the LINGO and I don’t know who to ask)

My Hypothesis: Kawi is going to be faced with the ultimate choice of remaining in the past or the present when the crystal ball runs out of charge and he will choose to remain in the past where he must face his uncertain future.

Okay, stay with me please

Question 1: When is Kawi actually in the present?

Last week I made a throw away post about the time travel being a metaphor for being unable to skip ahead in life without consequences. In particular this scene (a flashback at the very end of episode 4):

Got my brain thinking about how Kawi and the people around him freeze in their character development whenever he jumps forward, so maybe his present is actually in the past.

EVIDENCE

Timeline 1: OG Future

In this timeline Kawi essentially froze the moment the crystal ball was broken. In the OG Future he is distantly acquainted with classmates, sad for the death of his father (from whom he was distant), distant from Max and has never drunk any alcohol. This is all directly reflective of where he was at the time he broke the crystal ball.

Timeline 2: Future 2 – He’s Pisaengs best man

In this timeline he’s been back in the past, and acted very unlike himself because he assumes he's dreaming. At the end of this timeline he ends up in the very early stages of becoming Piseang’s bestie. We have not yet had serious (feelings) tension between Piseang and Kawi, only a single night of bonding and I would argue that in this particular future timeline, Piseang is not in love with Kawi. He has become a platonic bestie (something that could never happen without the time skip) because these were the emotions Kawi and Piseang had for each other in the past even if these were pretty fledgling emotions when Kawi left. (Also, Kawi now drinks heavily, something he did for the first time in this immediate past when he thought it was a dream).

Timeline 3: Future 3: Piseang is in love with him and abandons his own wedding.

In the past Kawi is more intentional with his actions to change things. We also see his confusion around how he became Piseangs best man because as Kawi continues to grow and learn this option doesn’t make sense (But as a frozen version of the previous past's future…) (I'm losing track of the tense I can feel it)

In this timeline we have only progressed slightly further through the past but all the development was around Kawi and Piseang and Piseang’s growing feelings  (Piseang getting Kawi the plushie happens in this Future’s linked Past). And we come forward to Piseang finally giving into his feelings and kissing Kawi. This scene is very similar to Piseang almost kissing Kawi in the past in the following episode (episode 3) when they fall over because in Piseang’s arc these things happened at a pretty similar point in time, its just that in this future he was frozen at his point of realization until Kawi’s consciousness returned to his body on the morning of Piseang’s wedding. He could only act after Kawi was back to being old!Kawi, because of things being frozen.

Timeline 4: He’s Famous and it’s a mess

In the linked past here, Kawi has JUST debuted as a lead singer, has turned down Piseang kindly but Piseang has made his devotion clear, has decided to date Pear ‘because he’s in love with her’ BUT Pear is feeling uncertain about her place in Kawi’s life (evidence: both the bar scene with Not, and the hospital scene) and is friends with Max again. (Also I'm not sure if I already linked @lurkingshans post with Kawi 'interupting his own growth arc midstream.' it definitely kicked my brain into gear)

In the future he is a famous singer, distant but close to Piseang, and friends with Max (why has Max stuck with him huh?) also Not and Pear and Kwan provide, in my opinion, strong evidence for their frozenness because we’ve just seen in the past that Not has feelings for Pear and Kwan has feelings for Not, and this is the exact feelings scenario we get in the future. There has been no change. They're frozen in their feelings from 12 years ago.

We also have had posts about the idea that Kawi has gotten drunk and kissed Piseang multiple times through this jump. (Which makes perfect sense if you freeze his character at this exact point of uncertain feelings that are being ignored) (@piningintrovert here) (also this post where for some reason my @ won't let me tag dropthedemiurge IM SORRY) (also here) @becomingabeing

Also his alcoholism is spiralling because he has not learnt anything about drinking responsibly in the (mere days/weeks) it’s been since episode 1 started (and alcoholism is definitely more complicated, but in this specific context you have an individual that’s just started drinking heavily because they’ve discovered alcohol and their life is super confusing and these habits aren't checked or changed because his growth is frozen, there are simply the consequences) (not saying this is the case just the case in the context of this theory)

Counterpoint

Kawi’s dad has survived surgery in the past but is still dead in the future.

I don’t necessarily think this is strong evidence against my point but it’s worth mentioning.

Question 2:

How does Kawi’s Memory Work in these Futures?

This is a separate thread but it’s related to my theory because in Timeline’s 2 & 3, Kawi appeared to have no memory of the intervening years. (Inference: He hasn't really lived them)

Timeline 4 was a little different but the memories seemed to need specific triggers (speaking aloud, seeing a person) to come back. We saw in his arguments with Pear and Piseang that he DID seem to gain and settle into his memories more as he thought about the intervening past (intervening past = the time between when he left the past and arrived in Future 4).

We see 2 different flashbacks of the ‘Pear leave’s Kawi’ moments. 1 seemed to be Kawi remembering (trigger is when he sees Pear for the first time). 2 seems to be Piseangs own memories (flashbacks are always so frustrating because who is remembering? Is Kawi remembering this too?.

Kawi also just slips into being less jaded and work focused than his (frozen) future self apparently is. (Sudden carfree metaphorical ocean romp definitely relevant here)

ALSO Kawi freaks out about his own memory in episode 7 3/4 10.30 (re Piseang’s new number) (this almost felt like young!Kawi was overlayed with old!Kawi and so we were getting conflicting reasons for the memory lapse (is he sick? did he call Piseangs old number as young!Kawi without thinking?)

Counterpoint

The scene at the very end of episode 7 threw a small but solid spanner in the works of my brain because when does this scene take place? Piseang says eight years, original jump forward was 12 (I think) so therefor this is in the intervening years. Which I kind of thought of as frozen/fairly nonexistent (Except specifically when a character thinks about them) so I am not sure how this scene fits in.

This could be something Kawi will specifically think about before going back in time

(see this post for more clowning @sparklyeyedhimbo)

(side note, his jacket looks super similar to the flashback jacket in this counterpoint scene - it's not the same one though)

How old is Kawi’s brain?

I also made a throw away post about this last week, I have no clearer thoughts on this except that it’s intriguing to ask how old the Kawi traversing between the past and the future actually is? This post is so long I’m just going to link it. It’s not very fleshed out.

Side Point

One thing that floated into my brain while thinking about all this was the recent Step By Step episode and the dissatisfaction everyone felt about the time skips. So often used as a means of progressing a characters life while rarely showing meaningful character growth.

Could this whole show be a commentary on time skips and their conceptual flaws as a means of fast-tracking character growth?

I think it’s a bit of a reach, but I also don’t tend to read into directors/creators intentions as much so I thought I’d put it out there for people to chew over.

Additional hypotheses/questions I’m chewing on:

Q: Will his dad survive if he chooses to stay in the past to take care of him?

Q: How many sets of memories does he have, does he remember any of the intervening past between main past timeline and future 2 and main past timeline and future 3? Are the memories getting overlayed?

Conclusion

 As @lurkingshan pointed out, Kawi interrupts his character growth when he jumps forward in time. We have to go back in time to keep growing. Yet we’ve gone back and forward and back and forward 4 times now and the future is always messy because the characters can’t live on without change for 12 years and still grow together. I could absolutely see the show choosing to go in the direction put forth by @wen-kexing-apologist and @stuffnonsenseandotherthings here also @lurkingshan and @ginnymoonbeam have interesting thoughts about Kawi having to stop trying to change the future and live with his choices to move forward.

It's just that I think he is going to do that in the past giving up his chance to jump forward without growth. Because he has to choose not to know where he is going, to truly live in the present.

Savy?

(please point out all the holes in my theory, I am so invested I need some PERSPECTIVE)

[hbyrde36]

No Vacancy

Chapter 8: Reservations

WC: 4437 | R: Explicit | CH: 8/12 | AO3 | Now Complete!

Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch4 Ch 5 Ch 6 Ch 7

*STEVE*

The reality of being with Eddie, really being with him, was even better than Steve could have imagined.

Each night, as soon as the bar closed the other man would rush home, shower away the sweat and stale beer from his skin, and slide under the covers next to Steve in whatever bed he had chosen to fall asleep in that night. 

Usually whichever one they hadn’t wrecked the night before. 

Steve truly was a heavy sleeper. It wasn’t unusual for him to snooze through the entire process, waking only when he felt the press of Eddie’s naked body against his own, or on one memorable evening, waking to find Eddie already between his legs, teasing him with lips and tongue until he was begging for more.

After, they would spend a little time together cuddling in the dark, with Eddie quietly telling him about his night, or sometimes delving into heavier topics when the past started to weigh on his mind, until Steve inevitably dropped off to sleep again. He always tried to fight it, to stay awake as long as he could, to spend as much time with Eddie as possible, but his daily early wake up calls for work made it a losing battle.

Steve didn’t mind the interrupted sleep. He was more than happy to endure a little tiredness in the afternoons, easily offset by the occasional nap. It was worth it for the new sense of happiness in his life. 

Eddie seemed to feel the same, waking early to simply watch from beneath the sheets as Steve got up and ready for the day, and to accept a kiss goodbye before he rushed out the door.

Not only that, but—as Eddie eventually admitted one day—that particular habit wasn’t a new thing. The kissing was, obviously, but apparently Eddie had taken to watching Steve in the mornings in secret while he was still, quote, “working his shit out.”

Eddie called himself a creep for it but Steve thought it was cute, incredibly sweet, and he  promised to only tease the other man about it a little.

Steve went back to having his lunch breaks at home in their room. 

Until Eddie had a night off It was their only time to catch up while both of them were fully awake and coherent. Though, sometimes—most of the time, talking turned into flirting, which led to making out, which led to Steve being late back to the beach when he couldn’t resist getting on his knees for his ridiculously hot boyfriend. 

A boyfriend who wouldn’t let him leave until he came too. 

Steve wasn't used to being met even halfway with his level of intensity and devotion by partners in the past, but Eddie—for all his talk of being new at this, and nervous that he would fuck up being in a real relationship—was happily and effortlessly meeting him exactly where he was.

It was perfect.

Except for the fact that the very first night, when their relationship was mere hours old, Steve accidentally found out something that had the potential to ruin it all, and he was kind-of really fucking stressed out about it. 

He hadn’t even been snooping!

It was a complete accident that he’d noticed at all. 

He’d been sitting in the back, at the desk in Chrissy's office behind the check-in counter, reading and minding his own business, when the fluorescent lights overhead began to hurt his eyes. As he looked away from his book, blinking hard and stuffing a blank sheet of receipt paper between its pages to hold his place, he just so happened to glance down at the open register sitting in front of him on the desk, and he couldn't help noticing that a few of the names listed under reservations sounded—familiar.

Anne Elliot, Frederick Wentworth, Charles Musgrove…

Steve furrowed his brow, setting his own book aside to examine the ledger more closely. He flipped to the next page, and the next, encountering more and more familiar names as he went.

Charlotte Lucas, William Collins, Charles Bingley, Jane Bennett, George Whickham.

More than half of the rooms in the Buckingham were supposedly spoken for by famous literary characters.

Steve’s pulse quickened as he considered the implications. 

The chances of these being actual paying guests who just so happened to share their names with the cast of several romance novels was extremely slim. 

Zero. 

The chance was zero, if he was honest with himself.

Frantically, he rifled through Chrissy’s top drawer until he located the keys she had shown him earlier—the housekeeper set that would let him into any room in the motel—and after jotting down a few of the corresponding room numbers on a post-it note ran from the office, through the lobby, and out into the courtyard. 

He slowly approached the first door, knocking on it with shaking hands. When there was no immediate answer he tried again, this time announcing himself as a member of staff and praying that someone would come to the door. 

Predictably, they didn’t, and Steve held his breath as he fitted the key into the lock and turned the handle. 

The room was unoccupied, its air stale. No signs of life. No unmade bed. Everything neat as a pin, and not so much as a drop of water in the bathroom sink. 

He quickly stumbled back out and made his way to the next room, already knowing what he was likely to find, a conversation he’d had with Robin a few weeks ago about the motel’s broken no vacancy sign running back through his mind. 

The second room was, unsurprisingly, in the same state as the first. 

Steve locked it back up and trudged back to the lobby, not even bothering to check the rest.

It’d been a lie. 

A set up, from the very beginning. 

Robin, and clearly Chrissy was in on it as well, had set him and Eddie up, forcing them into close proximity in the hopes that–

In hopes that what?

That they would magically click and get together… like they were now?

It’d been a torturous route to get there, and Steve could feel the beginnings of anger towards his best friend start to come to life in his belly, but at the same time…

At the same time, it’d worked, hadn’t it?

He could have done without having to watch Eddie hook up with other men, but if they hadn’t been made to coexist like this, Eddie might never have given him the time of day, might never have looked past Steve’s hair and his old reputation and saw someone worth knowing. 

Steve tried to remain calm.

He could imagine a far off future where one day he might look back on this situation and laugh about it. Things had worked out in the end. He was happy. They were happy. Maybe this wasn’t the big deal his rising panic kept trying to tell him it was.

Except he was pretty sure Eddie wouldn’t see it that way. At least not at first. He was pretty sure Eddie would freak out about this, actually, and it might destroy everything they were building between them before the first layer of cement had even dried.

For the final hour of his time covering the desk, Steve agonized over what to do. He wanted to scream at Robin for putting him in this position almost as much as he wanted to thank her for it.

The part of him that valued open and honest communication was telling him he needed to come clean to Eddie at the earliest opportunity, while the more pragmatic and insecure part of him was sure the best thing to do was pretend he never noticed, not say a word about it to anyone, and just hope Eddie never found out. 

He locked the door at 9pm on the dot and went back up to their room, doing his best to stay awake until Eddie got home from the bar, all the while trying to put when he’d learned far out of his mind. 

It would be fine. 

They’d both been gullible enough, and distracted enough to have not figured it out for this long.

Surely he could continue to keep Eddie distracted long enough to figure out a plan.

It worked for a while. 

Even with the challenges of their off-schedules and the fact that Eddie hadn’t had a night off since they became official, they were somehow managing to build a relationship that was only getting better, and deeper by the day. It was all too easy for Steve to forget that they were sitting on a knife’s edge. 

It was almost two weeks before Eddie finally got a break. A coworker who’d been down with a nasty cold was finally feeling better, and to make up for the rash of back-to-back shifts his boss offered him a long weekend off, as long as he was back for the 4th of July holiday when the bar would be overrun with patrons looking to pregame the town’s annual fireworks display. 

Steve had just gotten in from work himself, surprised to find Eddie still home and felt awful when Eddie excitedly told him the good news, that they could finally go out on a real live date! Unfortunately, Steve had already agreed to watch the motel again so Chrissy and Robin could go out. 

He expected Eddie to be upset or disappointed, but the other man was just as invested in the girl’s relationship succeeding as Steve was, and didn’t mind putting his plans for them off for one more night. 

“As long as you don’t mind me coming with to keep you company. I could even pick us up some dinner. Bring the night-out to you?” Eddie asked.

In answer, Steve threw his arms around Eddie's shoulders, pressing their lips together—a move that was more smiling against his mouth than an actual kiss, but he couldn’t help it.

“Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” Steve asked when they pulled apart. 

Eddie tugged him right back in by the waistband of his swimsuit to nip at his bottom lip. “What, kissing?” He teased, grinning. “No, I've got a good amount of experience with that.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, baby. I’m sure.” Eddie laughed softly, reaching up to push a stray piece of hair behind Steve’s ear. “Why do you always ask me that?”

“Because you’re kind-of incredible at the whole boyfriend thing.”

“Doesn’t mean I know what I'm doing. It just means you make it easy to l-l-like you.” Eddie stuttered, a light blush blossoming across his cheeks as he paused to clear his throat. “You are very likable, Steve Harrington. Fuckable too, so it’s in my best interest to keep you happy. I’m just being selfish really.”

“Lucky for me I like it when you’re a little selfish.” Steve leaned in to kiss a line up the side of Eddie’s neck, stopping only to breathe his next words into the other man’s ear. “Using me for your own pleasure.” 

He slid a hand down Eddie’s front, palming him where he was already growing hard in his jeans.

Eddie shuddered, a low groan slipping out of his throat.

“Don’t start something we can’t finish, sweetheart. I know you want to shower before you relieve Robin from her post.”

Steve hummed noncommittally, nosing along Eddie’s skin. “If you got in the shower with me I’m sure we could manage.”

Eddie huffed a laugh, his own hands beginning to wander down Steve’s back. “You’re insatiable.”

���Only when it comes to you.”

The night was going well.

So well that Steve was thinking crazy shit, like maybe it wasn’t insane to want to tell his boyfriend of a whopping two weeks that he was in love with him. 

Too well. 

He should have known everything was about to blow up in his face. 

Eddie had gotten them takeout from a nice Italian place not far from the motel. Chicken parmesan, pasta, and the most amazing garlic bread, all eaten picnic style on the floor while they sat on a blanket Eddie had pulled from the back of his van. They were inside the lobby of course, Steve had a job to do and needed to be able to hear the phone, but Eddie still made it feel romantic as hell– dimming the lights and lighting a few candles. 

Steve couldn’t remember any of his exes ever going to this much trouble for a simple date night. 

When they were just about done with their meal Steve’s plate slipped sloshing red sauce all over the front of his softest baby blue polo shirt. He cringed knowing he’d never get the stain out. 

“Club soda.” Eddie said. 

Steve quirked a brow at him. 

“What? You bartend long enough you learn a few things.” 

Steve was still skeptical, and a little curious. It must have showed.

“The girls at work do it all the time when they get ketchup and shit on their white uniform tops. It works, trust me.” Eddie slapped a hand over his heart. “There's a bottle of soda water in the fridge in our room, why don’t you go splash some of that on there and get a fresh shirt? I can keep an eye on things here for five minutes.”

Steve smiled softly and gave his very thoughtful boyfriend a kiss on the cheek before heading off to do just that, completely forgetting that it might not be the best idea to leave Eddie in there alone.

He was gone a little longer than he meant to be, but the shirt he’d been wearing was now practically stain free and currently soaking in detergent in their small bathroom sink. When he did return, the remains of their dinner as well as the blanket had been cleared away and Eddie was nowhere in sight—probably off in the back throwing their trash away.

Smiling to himself, Steve stepped around the counter to look, only to stop in his tracks at the doorway to the back office when he spotted Eddie sitting at Chrissy's desk, surrounded by stacks of paper and the register book sitting open in his lap.

No. No-no-no. 

Steve’s heart stopped, his chest growing painfully tight.

Eddie didn’t notice him at first, and Steve’s eyes scanned again over the papers as he tried to think of a way out of this. It took a moment for him to realize what he was looking at—an overflowing stack of bills, many of which were printed on pink paper and read Final Notice across the top in big bold lettering. 

Steve sucked in a breath. Was the motel in trouble?

Eddie spun suddenly at the sound, and any hope Steve had of salvaging the situation died as he looked into the other man’s eyes and found—not the warm, soft, inviting gaze he’d grown accustomed too—but something much sharper, guarded and closed-off.

“Did you know about this?” Eddie hissed.

He was trying so hard to project anger, but Steve could see what else was there too, swimming just under the surface—fear, mistrust, heartbreak. 

Eddie had seen the book. He figured it out just like Steve did and was taking it exactly the way he feared. 

Still, Steve tried to play dumb. 

“Are those all overdue bills?” He asked, and didn’t even have to fake the puzzlement in his voice because this he had definitely not seen. 

“Yes, Steve, as a matter of fact they are, which begs the question—if our friend's motel is doing well enough to be overbooked then why are they having so much trouble keeping the lights on?”

“I… I don't know.” 

Again it wasn’t really a lie. Steve truly hadn’t known Chrissy and Robin were having so much financial trouble until this exact moment. Robin had made an offhand remark that they could use the money when he insisted she let him pay, but he never dreamed it was this bad.

“Okay.” Eddie narrowed his eyes, slamming the register shut with a loud snap as he scrutinized Steve's face. “And what about this? Are you gonna try to tell me you don’t know about this too?” He waved the hefty book around as he spoke, before tossing it at Steve’s feet.

“It’s not what you think.” Steve blurted out quickly.

No lie was going to help him get out of this. All he could do was tell the truth, and hope for the best. 

Eddie’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my god, you did.”

“Eddie, please, I–”

Steve stepped over the book, rushing forward into the room, ready to plead with Eddie to hear him out but found the other man shrinking away from him. The sight of it made his eyes burn.

“What kind of game is this?!”

“It’s not! Eddie, listen to me–please. I didn’t know until two weeks ago, okay? I promise, I didn't know until that first time I watched the office for them.”

“Right,” Eddie snorted.

“I swear to you that I had no idea. This was all the girls.” 

Steve was begging him to believe, to understand. He raked both his hands through his hair in frustration. It was all falling apart right before his eyes and he had no idea how to stop it. 

“What does it matter anyway?” Steve went on, trying to reason it out with him. “We've been having a good time together, haven't we? We’re happy—It worked out!”

“A—good—time.” Eddie repeated, dragging each word out. “Is that all this is to you, a good time?”

“You know it’s not.”

“I don’t know anything, Steve.” Eddie spat. “I told you. God, I fucking told you everything—this is why I don’t trust people!” He dropped his head into his hands, rubbing at his face hard before looking back up to meet Steve’s eyes again. “If that's… If it’s true that you only just found out, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Steve never felt so powerless. All he wanted to do was take Eddie in his arms, hold him, tell him how much he meant to him, but he knew his touch wouldn’t be welcome right now. 

“Because, I… I was afraid you'd react like this.”

Eddie scoffed, turning away. He started gathering up all the paperwork he’d pulled out, trying to shove it back into a drawer but no matter how he turned the pile it just wouldn’t fit.

Steve tried again. “I didn’t want to lose you when we only just–” 

“Fuck it.” Eddie snapped, letting the mess fall to the floor. 

Steve wasn’t sure if the comment was aimed at him or the stack of unwieldy documents but he did know that if Eddie walked away, he might never get him back.  

“Eddie, please don’t do this. I…” Steve trailed off, the rest of his words–his confession–dying on his tongue as he saw the tears in Eddie's eyes. 

“You what, Steve?”

Steve’s mouth fell shut, his own sight beginning to blur. He didn’t know what else to say, but he could not tell Eddie he loved him for the first time in the middle of a fight, no matter how much he wanted to. It wouldn't be right. 

“I don’t know what’s worse, my boyfr—you lying to me? Or my supposed best friend lying to me and setting me up like this. You know she wouldn't let me pay? Why wouldn’t she take my money if they needed help? I would have… “ Eddie cut himself off with a hard shake of his head before pushing to his feet, stepping wide around Steve to throw himself through the doorway. “It doesn’t matter. I-I gotta go.” 

Steve hurried after, following him all the way to the lobby door, shouting at his back. “Please, I’m sorry!” 

Eddie paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Yeah, me too.” He said, and walked out without ever looking back. 

Steve stood frozen, watching through the big front window as Eddie stomped up the stairs to their room, only to come back out a minute later with a bag slung over his shoulder before climbing into his van and speeding away.

He was still standing there staring out the window at the parking lot when the girls appeared, walking back from their date. It had to be getting late. Steve should have locked up a while ago but he couldn't seem to move. 

Robin spotted him through the glass and came rushing inside with Chrissy not far behind, all smiles and giggles until they saw his face. 

“What’s wrong?” Robin said, her eyes searching the room around them. “Where's Eddie?”

“He left,” Steve said, and even to his own ears his voice sounded far away and hollow. 

“What happened?”

“What do you think happened?!” Steve yelled, finally coming back to life as he threw his hands up in the air. “He found out! He knows this whole room sharing thing was some scheme to set us up, and worse he thinks I was in on it!”

Robin gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh my god, Steve–”

“It’s my own fault. I should have told him when I figured it out, but I didn’t, and now I lied to him too.”

“Wait, you knew?” Chrissy asked.

“Word of advice? Use made up names next time, not characters from Jane Austen novels.”

“H-h how was I supposed to know you'd recognize them?” Chrissy sputtered.

Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Rob, why didn’t you tell me how bad things were? I’ve got savings, you know I'd do anything to help.”

“I mean, we’re a little slow but it's not that bad.” Robin said a wrinkle forming between her brows. “I let you pay, didn't I?”

“I’m sorry, obviously Eddie shouldn’t have been going through your stuff, but I've seen the stacks of bills. You don't have to keep hiding it from me.”

“Stacks of… what do you mean?”

Steve kinda wanted to shake her. “Seriously?”

“She doesn’t know, Steve,” Chrissy said quietly, turning to face Robin with wide worried eyes. 

“I didn’t want to worry you. You were already so stressed about running this place. That's why I've been taking meetings at so many different banks. The loan isn’t just for improvements, it’s to pay off all these other bills too. I think if I could just consolidate it, I could manage it, but we keep getting denied and I…”

A sob fell from her lips as Chrissy’s face crumpled, and Robin didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around her. “Babe, you should have told me. I hate that you've been dealing with this alone. We should have been trying to solve this together.”

Chrissy buried her face in Robin’s neck. “I know, I know and I'm so sorry.”

Steve tried to fade into the background and let them have a moment, waiting until they pulled apart before he said anything more. 

“Eddie was upset about that too, that you didn’t tell him you were in trouble, didn’t let him pay or help. I think he was as upset about that as he was about the–uh, the other thing.”

“Oh god. He probably feels like we both betrayed him,” Chrissy cried. “This is all my fault, Steve, I’m the one who pushed for this. I should have known better. I just—I wanted to see him happy, and I really thought you two…”

She trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished though Steve heard her perfectly.

“I know. So did I.”

“What do we do now?” Chrissy asked. 

“About Eddie, or about the motel?” Robin said.

Chrissy nudged her in the ribs. “Both!”

“I’m gonna go after him.” Steve said, it’s all he’d been able to think about since the moment the other man drove away.

“Do you even know where he went?” Robin asked.

“I have a pretty good idea, yeah.”

Steve locked eyes with Chrissy and saw the moment it occurred to her too. 

“Uncle Wayne’s,” they both said at once. 

Robin chewed on fingernails as she looked between the two of them. “Steve, are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, you already had to chase him down once and that was before you were even together. If he ran away from you again…”

Steve understood what she was getting at, and he couldn’t blame her for it. If someone runs from you, twice, you should probably let them go—if only for your own sake. 

But she didn’t know Eddie like he did. 

She didn’t know the way he’d open up to Steve in the early hours of the morning about his greatest fears, or how he’d witnessed the abuse of his mother at the hands of his father as a child. How bittersweet it had been for him when she left. Because deep down Eddie had known it was for the best—-for her, but she’d still left him behind. His mother, the one person who was supposed to love you no matter what, had left him behind like a least favorite sweater, too worn out and with too many holes to be worth mending or salvaging. 

Chrissy went quiet, looking torn between wanting to somehow defend her best friend who wasn’t there to defend himself, and supporting her girlfriend. 

“I hear you, Robin. Okay? I do, but I know him.” Steve wrapped his arms around his own waist, as if he could hold himself together by physical force if nothing else. “He feels tricked, betrayed, lied to. We did lie to him—all of us. And maybe it’s not the right thing to do. Maybe I'm being an idiot going after him and I'm only going to get hurt, but I need him to know that he's worth going after. I need him to know it was real, even if it’s over.”

Chapter 9

Thanks forever to @penny00dreadful for being the best friend, cheerleader, and beta in the whole fucking world 💜

Taglist: @manda-panda-monium @hellion-child @dreamwatch @brbsoulnomming @epiclazershark @estrellami-1 @lokfae @raisedbylibrarians @impala314 @meganwinchester @kacatshi @warlordess @eddie-munsons-lunchbox @garden-of-gay @meela86 @gregre369 @finntheehumaneater

[turtlemagnum]

so it turns out that the steam version of the sega genesis classics collection has steam workshop support, where apparently you can just... upload roms, into the official steam workshop, and it just works because at its core it's just an emulator that you paid for the right to play them legally. fucking mario 1 is on here. i can't believe i can play mario 1 on steam without any actual piracy on my end, it's fucking amazing. honestly wish nintendo would release their old games on steam, though frankly i can only see that happening if and when someone like me (or just me) becomes a rich asshole with more money than geoff bombos and buys nintendo just so they can force them to actually make their older fucking games available, like jesus christ nintendo just let me buy mario 1 on steam normally i'd pay at least a dollar for it, probably more like 5 dollars given how that shit tends to get priced. let me buy pokemon red and just put up pokemon bank on steam. just have that shit use the standard steam cloud save infrastructure or something, i don't give a shit man. i wanna play ocarina of time on PC and have my saves be backed up online so i can pick up and play from device to device and never lose progress!!! it would make you guys sososososoososososososoooo much money, and yeah it'd technically make piracy easier but piracy of nintendo games is already piss easy, which is why i DEFINITELY DON'T have hundreds of gigabytes worth of nintendo games on my PC, do NOT sue me i believe copyright infringement is a VILE EVIL and everyone who does it is DEFINITELY GOING TO HELL. my copy of ship of harkinnian uses COMPLETELY LEGALLY DUMPED VERSIONS of ocarina of time, and you can't legally prove otherwise. hey did i mention that i've slept about 2 hours in the past day? like from around 5 to 7 this morning i tried to sleep and woke up and went to mcdonalds because i was so fucking hungry, like god dude i was starving by 5 but mcdonalds only opens at 7 on the inside so i had to wait until then. since then i've essentially been running off of my ADHD meds and the moderate amounts of caffeine i've drunk 2day. like me saying "moderate amounts" isn't me doing a little haha funny misnomer i only drank like two full cups of pop today, once at mcdonalds and once at dinner with my grandparents. side note but i'm glad that i had the sense to look up the actual BDS website and see that mcdonalds either stopped being boycotted or never was in the first place, because apparently they're a lot more selective than social media people about that sorta shit, who'd'a thunk. anyways i'm glad because it's the only food place in the area open that early and what i order is relatively inexpensive, at least by modern fast food standards. i'll never understand people who get mcmuffins with egg when the ones with just the sausage are half the goddamn price and the egg is nasty anyways. like i'm not an egg hater or anything i'm just pretty sure fast food eggs are less so Actual Eggs and moreso solidified sulphur given marginal nutritional value. i xhould Fucking sleep. good nigh.....

[anonsally]

Days 0-1 of L.A. trip

With one very major exception, Day 0 of the trip went well.

I was fully packed and ready to go well before my planned time to leave the house. I had time for a good healthy lunch and then still had almost half an hour left, so I took out my computer. I had packed it when it was a bit warm and its fan was on, but since I'd closed it I figured it would just go to sleep. However, I had put it in a synthetic laptop bag, which meant the heat hadn't been able to dissipate. When I took it out, the fan was still running and it was burning hot. ...And it wouldn't wake up or turn on.

I tried not to panic--after all, once it had time to cool down, perhaps it would be fine. So I packed it directly in my somewhat breathable backpack without the laptop bag, and hoped for the best.

I left about 20 minutes early and took BART to the airport (this involved changing trains twice and waiting each time, but the last segment is a driverless double funicular (it changes cables halfway through), which is very cool, other than the fact that constructing it was hugely expensive and perhaps not the best use of funds). There was a short story dispenser in the airport, so I got a little story to read while waiting to board. The flight was on time, uneventful, and short; my aunt picked me up on the other end and we came home and ate dinner with my uncle.

Then I plugged in my computer and tried to start it up, to no avail.

I've had this laptop since November 2017, and it is definitely wearing out; I've known for a while that I should be preparing to buy a new one. But I was not expecting to need to buy a new computer on this trip, and I was afraid my data might not be recoverable. I made an appointment at a nearby Apple Store for the next day.

On the morning of Day 1, my aunt and uncle and I visited a Japanese garden associated with a water treatment plant. It was beautifully landscaped and had several ponds, so there were a lot of good birds. My uncle and I took photos of several of them. Back at the house after lunch, I did some backyard birdwatching, including trying to get photos of the Allen's/rufous hummingbirds at the feeder. I also did a little research about prices of new computers.

Finally, my aunt and I went to the mall to see if anything could be done to resuscitate my computer or at least recover the data. I tried not to get my hopes up. But the technician had some special tricks and miraculously managed to boot it up! He ran a couple of basic tests (which came back fine) and said that they could run more extensive tests for free but that I should first buy an external drive and back up my data (kids, please back up your data regularly! I hadn't done it since 2019 due to some software incompatibility and inertia). He also explained that repairs, if needed, would cost $500 and only come with a 3-month warranty, which would not make sense for such an old computer. So I will likely buy a new computer next week (I can get some credit for trade-in as well as an education discount), but at least this computer is not fully dead. I picked up an external drive to back up to and we came back home. I spent the evening catching up on 2 days of Tumblr and email, and then backed up my data.

[welcomeindiajourney0]

Jaipur Day Tour

Jaipur Day Tour: Experience the Pink City's Royal Charm in One Day

Thinking about a brief getaway full of history, color, and culture? A Jaipur Day Tour is ideal if you want to see the breathtaking charm of Rajasthan's capital without staying overnight. Jaipur, also known as the Pink City, is a vibrant city that combines palaces, forts, bustling bazaars, and delectable cuisine.

Let's look at what makes this one-day trip of Jaipur so memorable.

Why Choose a Jaipur Day Tour?

Quick trip from Delhi or adjacent cities

Ideal for history and architecture buffs.

Perfect for photography, shopping, and food.

Can be modified to your pace.

Whether you're traveling alone, with friends, or family, Jaipur provides a regal experience that is both enriching and enjoyable.

The most popular route for visiting Jaipur for a day tour is from Delhi.

By car: 5-6 hours (approx. 280 km via NH48).

By Train: 4-5 hours (Shatabdi Express or Ajmer Shatabdi).

By Air: one-hour flight plus local transportation

To get the most out of a day tour, choose a private car or an early morning train.

Top Places to Visit during a Jaipur Day Tour

1. Amber Fort: A Rajput Masterpiece.

Start your day with a visit to Amber Fort (Amer Fort), located just outside Jaipur. Explore the fort by riding up on an elephant or jeep.

Sheesh Mahal (mirror Palace)

Diwan-i-Am and Diwan-i-Khas

Stunning courtyards and hilltop views

It transports you back to the days of Maharajas and epic battles.

2. Jal Mahal - The Floating Palace

On your journey back from Amber Fort, stop by Jal Mahal, a palace located in the middle of Man Sagar Lake. While you can’t walk inside, the views from the lake’s shore are breathtaking—especially in the early morning light.

3. City Palace: The Heart of Jaipur

The City Palace, located in the old city, combines Mughal and Rajput architectural styles. Explore its museums, courtyards, and art galleries. The Chandra Mahal and Mubarak Mahal inside the compound are spectacular.

4. Jantar Mantar - Astronomical Marvel

Jantar Mantar, located near to City Palace, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site that includes the world's biggest stone sundial and other astronomical equipment created in the 18th century. A must-see for science and history buffs.

5. Hawa Mahal: The Iconic Wind Palace.

No Jaipur tour is complete without a photo opportunity at the Hawa Mahal. This honeycomb-like five-story façade was designed for royal women to observe street life without being noticed. It is one of Jaipur's most iconic landmarks.

Local Markets: Shop Like Royalty

Spend some time exploring Jaipur's busy bazaars:

Johari Bazaar is famous for jewelry and gemstones.

Bapu Bazaar is ideal for handicrafts, textiles, mojris (traditional shoes), and gifts.

Tripolia Bazaar: Traditional goods and lacquer bangles.

Don't forget to negotiate; it's half of the fun!

What To Eat On Your Jaipur Day Tour

You cannot visit Jaipur without trying the rich and savory Rajasthani cuisine. Here's what you can try:

Dal Baati Churma: The Royal Rajasthani Trio

Ghewar: A delicious treat for dessert lovers.

Pyaaz Kachori is a spicy snack that you'll want more of.

Laal Maas: A fiery meat curry (for the brave-hearted)

Many excursions include lunch in a heritage restaurant or palace hotel, providing a real sense of Jaipur.

Cultural add-ons (if time permits)

If you have a little more time, consider these quick excursions.

Albert Hall Museum is Rajasthan's oldest museum.

Nahargarh Fort offers magnificent views of the Pink City.

Anokhi Museum: For block printing and textile art.

Best Time for a Jaipur Day Tour

The best months to visit are October through March, when the weather is temperate and pleasant. Avoid the summer heat (April-June), when temperatures can get above 40°C (104°F).

Packing Essentials for Your Jaipur Day Trip

Sunglasses and sunscreen

Hat or scarf?

Comfortable walking shoes.

Water bottle

For Instagram-worthy images, use a camera or your phone.

Is one day enough for Jaipur?

While Jaipur deserves more than a day, a well-planned day tour hits all of the highlights, offers you a taste of royal life, and leaves you wanting more. With the correct plan and an early start, you'll get a good sense of the city's appeal.

Conclusion

A Jaipur Day Tour is like stepping into a royal fairytale for the day. Jaipur is a dynamic cultural treasure that offers a comprehensive experience in only a few hours, with impressive forts and stately palaces, colorful markets, and scrumptious cuisine. It's ideal for those who wish to see Rajasthan's magnificence without devoting too much time or money.

So pack your luggage, charge your camera, and prepare to fall in love with the Pink City!

FAQ: Q1: Can I visit Jaipur in one day from Delhi?

Yes! Start early (about 5 a.m.) by vehicle or rail and return in the evening. Private trips make this easy and simple.

Q2: Are Jaipur day trips good for children?

Absolutely. Children like the beautiful castles, elephant rides, and street food.

Q3: What is the optimal time to begin the Jaipur day trip?

Leave between 5:00 and 6:00 a.m. to enjoy the most sightseeing without feeling rushed.

Q4: Is Jaipur safe for single travellers?

Yes, Jaipur is relatively safe. For a hassle-free trip, use a reliable guide or tour provider.

Q5: Is it necessary to reserve entrance tickets in advance?

Not usually, but reserving combo tickets or guided tours in advance can help you save time and avoid long lineups.

[trkking]

Kayaking in North Goa: The Perfect Escape for Mind and Body!

Kayak activities in North Goa are becoming increasingly popular, providing visitors with a range of exciting options for fun, fitness, and relaxation. This water sport combines the best of both worlds – allowing participants to paddle through scenic coastal and river areas while soaking in the area’s serene beauty. North Goa’s diverse landscape of beaches and backwaters makes it a haven for kayaking enthusiasts. Imagine gliding over clear waters, flanked by lush greenery and breathtaking views. Let’s explore the best kayaking experiences that North Goa has to offer and see why this activity is a must-try for anyone looking to rejuvenate both mind and body.

Kayaking in North Goa: Discover a World of Peace and Beauty

When you’re kayaking in North Goa, you’re not just engaging in a sport but immersing yourself in the region’s natural wonders. One of the best places to experience this is Baga Beach, which provides a stunning backdrop for kayaking. 

Kayaking here opens up a world of adventure and freedom, where you’re surrounded by scenic beauty, calming waves, and golden sands. Baga Beach allows you to paddle through tranquil waters, connecting you deeply with nature. It’s not just a physical activity; it’s a soulful experience that offers peace of mind, beauty, and a sense of escape. 

Paddling through these waters, you’ll feel a renewed bond with nature, which is truly one of the best kayak activities to indulge in. Whether you’re an adventure seeker or simply someone wanting to bask in the natural beauty, kayaking on Baga Beach is an unmissable part of North Goa’s adventure offerings.

Back Water Kayaking Goa Package

Another unforgettable kayaking experience is back water kayaking Goa, which provides a serene paddle through the quiet backwaters. This activity is perfect for those looking to explore nature at a slower pace, giving you a tranquil escape from the hustle and bustle.

Here are the details of popular backwater kayaking packages:

River Kayaking (30 Minutes)  

   Duration: 30 minutes  

   Price: ₹499 per person  

This half-hour kayaking option is perfect for beginners or those with a tight schedule. It’s an easy way to explore Goa’s rivers and appreciate the beautiful landscapes.

River Kayaking (45 Minutes)  

   Duration: 45 minutes  

   Price: ₹649 per person  

If you want to spend more time on the water, this 45-minute option offers an extended exploration of North Goa’s lush backwaters. Perfect for those who want a longer, immersive experience.

Each package allows you to enjoy Goa’s backwaters, with scenic views and a peaceful environment that provides an ideal setting for relaxation and rejuvenation.

Kayaking in North Goa Tips

To make the most out of your kayaking adventure in North Goa, here are some helpful tips:

1. Dress Appropriately: Wear lightweight, quick-dry clothes and bring a hat or cap to shield yourself from the sun. Sunscreen and sunglasses are also recommended.

2. Safety First: Ensure you’re wearing a life jacket and that you’re familiar with the basic safety guidelines. Listen carefully to your instructor’s briefing.

3. Choose the Right Time: Kayaking is best enjoyed early morning or late afternoon when the weather is cooler and the waters are calmer.

4. Stay Hydrated: Kayaking can be physically demanding, so be sure to drink water before you start and bring some along in a waterproof bag.

5. Practice Your Paddling: If you’re new to kayaking, take some time to learn the basic strokes. Proper paddling techniques will make your experience more enjoyable and less tiring.

What About Kayaking in South Goa?

While North Goa is known for its diverse kayaking experiences, South Goa offers some exceptional opportunities. Known for its quieter and more relaxed vibe, South Goa is ideal if you’re looking for less crowded waters and a more laid-back kayaking experience.

In South Goa, you can enjoy kayaking in locations like the Sal Backwaters and Palolem Beach, where the surroundings are lush, peaceful, and perfect for nature lovers. These spots provide a calm and scenic kayaking experience, allowing you to explore mangroves, observe wildlife, and enjoy South Goa’s tranquil beauty. For those who prefer a slower-paced, intimate connection with nature, kayaking in South Goa is the perfect destination.

Conclusion

Kayaking North Goa is an exceptional way to enjoy Goa’s natural beauty, offering both adventure and relaxation. Whether you’re paddling through the scenic waters of Baga Beach or exploring the serene backwaters, this activity will leave you refreshed and inspired. Don’t miss out on the chance to rejuvenate your mind and body through one of the most fulfilling kayak activities North Goa has to offer.

[biblenewsprophecy]

‘Hezbollah fires over 100 rockets across a wider and deeper area of Israel,’ Israel sends massive ‘mystery bomb’ into Lebanon, and future terror?

COGwriter

Notice the following:

Hezbollah fires over 100 rockets across a wider and deeper area of Israel

September 22, 2024

NAHARIYA, Israel — Hezbollah launched more than 100 rockets early Sunday across a wider and deeper area of northern Israel, with some landing near the city of Haifa, as Israel launched hundreds of strikes on Lebanon. The sides appeared to be spiraling toward all-out war following months of escalating tensions.

The rocket barrage overnight set off air raid sirens across northern Israel, sending thousands of people scrambling into shelters. The Israeli military said that rockets had been fired “toward civilian areas,” pointing to a possible escalation after previous barrages had mainly been aimed at military targets. …

The barrage came after an Israeli airstrike in Beirut on Friday killed at least 45 people, including one of Hezbollah’s top leaders as well as women and children. Hezbollah was already reeling from a sophisticated attack that caused thousands of personal devices to explode just days earlier.

The Israeli military said that it carried out a wave of strikes across southern Lebanon over the past 24 hours, hitting about 400 militant sites, including rocket launchers. Lt. Col. Nadav Shoshani, an Israeli military spokesman, said those strikes had thwarted an even larger attack.

“Hundreds of thousands of civilians have come under fire across a lot of northern Israel. They spent the night and now the morning in bomb shelters,” he said. “Today we saw fire that was deeper into Israel than before.”

The military also said it had intercepted multiple aerial devices fired from the direction of Iraq, after Iran-backed militant groups there claimed to have launched a drone attack on Israel. …

Until recently, neither side was believed to be seeking an all-out war, and Hezbollah has so far stopped short of targeting Tel Aviv or major civilian infrastructure. But in recent weeks, Israel has shifted its focus from Gaza to Lebanon and vowed to bring back calm to the border so that its citizens can return to their homes. Hezbollah has said that it would only halt its attacks if there is a cease-fire in Gaza, which appears increasingly elusive.

The war in Gaza began with Hamas’ October 7 attack into Israel, in which Palestinian militants killed about 1,200 people and took around 250 others hostage. They are still holding around 100 captives, a third of whom are believed to be dead. Over 41,000 Palestinians have been killed, according to Gaza’s Health Ministry. It doesn’t say how many were fighters, but says women and children make up more than half of the dead.

Families of the hostages have raised fears that a war in the north would distract from their plight and further complicate the negotiations over their release.

The U.N. envoy for Lebanon called on all parties to pull back.

“With the region on the brink of an imminent catastrophe, it cannot be overstated enough: there is NO military solution that will make either side safer,” Jeanine Hennis-Plasschaert said in an X post.

Israeli media reported that rockets fired from Lebanon early Sunday were intercepted in the areas of Haifa and Nazareth, which are farther south than most of the rocket fire to date. Israel canceled school across the north, deepening the sense of crisis.

Hezbollah said that it had launched dozens of Fadi 1 and Fadi 2 missiles — a new type of weapon the group hadn’t used before — at the Ramat David airbase, southeast of Haifa, “in response to the repeated Israeli attacks that targeted various Lebanese regions and led to the fall of many civilian martyrs.”  …

Hezbollah has vowed to retaliate against Israel for a wave of explosions that hit pagers and walkie-talkies belonging to Hezbollah members on Tuesday and Wednesday, killing at least 37 people — including two children — and wounding around 3,000. The attacks were widely blamed on Israel, which hasn’t confirmed or denied responsibility. https://www.voanews.com/a/over-100-rockets-fired-from-lebanon-into-israel/7793765.html

In the past several days we have seen an expanded regional war.

Notice also:

Israel Unleashes… On South Lebanon With Giant Mystery Bomb As War Escalates

Massive escalation along the southern Lebanese border is very clear at this point, as Israeli jets have pounded Hezbollah positions …

Another indicator of the escalation is that Israel is apparently beginning use much bigger bombs compared to much of the past nearly year of internecine fighting. The below widely circulating footage shows a large flash and skyscraper-size fireball, resulting in some viewers speculating it was likely a heavy bunker-buster bomb, or possibly even a tactical nuke of some sort. Whatever it was, there’s never been anything like it used on Lebanon (that we know about).

09/21/24 https://www.zerohedge.com/geopolitical/idf-says-180-targets-eliminated-southern-lebanon-us-lauds-good-outcome-beirut-strike

Could we be seeing the prelude to the following prophecy in the Book of Isaiah?

6 Elam bore the quiver With chariots of men and horsemen, And Kir uncovered the shield. 7 It shall come to pass that your choicest valleys Shall be full of chariots, And the horsemen shall set themselves in array at the gate.

8 He removed the protection of Judah. You looked in that day to the armor of the House of the Forest; 9 You also saw the damage to the city of David, That it was great; And you gathered together the waters of the lower pool. 10 You numbered the houses of Jerusalem, And the houses you broke down To fortify the wall. 11 You also made a reservoir between the two walls For the water of the old pool. But you did not look to its Maker, Nor did you have respect for Him who fashioned it long ago.

12 And in that day the Lord God of hosts Called for weeping and for mourning, For baldness and for girding with sackcloth. 13 But instead, joy and gladness, Slaying oxen and killing sheep, Eating meat and drinking wine: “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die!”

14 Then it was revealed in my hearing by the Lord of hosts,”Surely for this iniquity there will be no atonement for you, Even to your death,” says the Lord God of hosts. (Isaiah 22:6-14 NKJV)

Elam is a reference to at least some in Iran. The old Worldwide Church of God published the following:

Iranians comprise nearly 70 percent of the country. Iranians, though Islamic, are totally distinct from the neighboring Arab peoples of the Middle East. They are a mixed people of the remnants of Media and Elam and other ancestors of Semitic and Hamitic stock. (Stump K. South Asia in Prophecy. Plain Truth, July/August 1986, p. 5)

The Bible tells that after Tiglath-Pileser king of Assyria took over Damascus, he moved Syrians to Kir (2 Kings 16:9-10). God’s word has the expression “the Syrians from Kir” (Amos 9:7), which is basically confirmation that Kir of Isaiah 22 would include Syrians. The Bible also tells of a time when Kir will be destroyed (Isaiah 15:1b) and also says that Syria’s capital Damascus will be destroyed (Isaiah 17:1).While this does not mean that Kir must (or must only) be a reference to Syria, the fact that Syria is an ally of Iran is interesting.

In Isaiah 22: 8, “Judah” is a reference to those in the land commonly called Israel–God will allow Israel to be attacked! In Isaiah 22:9, consider that “the damage to the city of David” is a reference to at least part of Jerusalem–and notice that the damage will be great.

The “House of the Forest” was anciently located in Lebanon (e.g. 1 Kings 7:2, 10:17,21; 2 Chronicles 9:16,20)–see also A Discourse on the House of the Forest of Lebanon, pp: 111-134 in Bunyan J. Stebbing H. The Entire Works of John Bunyan, Volume 4. Virtue and Company, 1860.

Here is the Catholic Public Domain Version translation of Isaiah 22:8:

8 And the covering of Judah will be exposed, and in that day, you will see the weaponry of the forest house. (Isaiah 22:8, CPDV)

A way for Judah to “see the weaponry of the forest house” would be a massive attack by Hezbollah. Today it showed that it can reach deep into Israel.

In Isaiah 22:1-14, the Bible shows that God will allow something that appears to be an Iranian-Syrian-Southern Lebanese confederation, to strike the nation of Israel.

Israel’s ‘Iron Dome’ and other defenses will not be able to protect Jerusalem against enough of the coming attack to prevent great damage.

The Continuing Church of God (CCOG) just uploaded the following Bible News Prophecy video on our Bible News Prophecy YouTube channel related to some of what has been happening:

14:30

Israel Intensifies the War

European Union foreign policy chief, Josep Borrel, has been brokering the nuclear negotiations involving Iran and said that he thinks the deal is “in danger.” Iran blames the United States, whereas the USA says they are not delaying it. Israeli sources stated that Israel will stop Iran from getting a nuclear bomb. Joe Biden says the USA would use its own military power to prevent Iran from getting such a bomb if need be. In 2021, Iranian lawmakers have submitted a bill seeking the government by law to commit to Israel’s destruction by the year 2040. Does the 22nd chapter of Isaiah point to damage coming to Israel from Iran and possibly Syria? Might Iran be concerned enough about limited progress with the USA to launch some type of attack? Is Iran the prophesied ‘King of the South’? Is it reasonable to think that the prophesied peace deal of Daniel 9:27 will not happen until after a military conflict. like a regional war? Should Christians watch the Middle East? Dr. Thiel and Steve Dupuie discuss these matters.

Here is a link to our video: Israel Intensifies the War.

We are in a time of wars and rumors of wars as Jesus foretold (Matthew 24:4-8).

A reader sent me the following:

September 22, 2024

Israel’s brazen attacks on Hezbollah last week, in which hundreds of pagers and two-way radios exploded and killed at least 37 people, graphically illustrated a threat that cybersecurity experts have been warning about for years: Our international supply chains for computerized equipment leave us vulnerable. And we have no good means to defend ourselves.

Though the deadly operations were stunning, none of the elements used to carry them out were particularly new. The tactics employed by Israel, which has neither confirmed nor denied any role, to hijack an international supply chain and embed plastic explosives in Hezbollah devices have been used for years. What’s new is that Israel put them together in such a devastating and extravagantly public fashion, bringing into stark relief what the future of great power competition will look like — in peacetime, wartime and the ever expanding gray zone in between.

The targets won’t just be terrorists. Our computers are vulnerable, and increasingly, so are our cars, our refrigerators, our home thermostats and many other useful things in our orbits. Targets are everywhere.

The core component of the operation — implanting plastic explosives in pagers and radios — has been a terrorist risk since Richard Reid, the so-called shoe bomber, tried to ignite some on an airplane in 2001. That’s what all of those airport scanners are designed to detect — both the ones you see at security checkpoints and the ones that later scan your luggage. Even a small amount can do an impressive degree of damage. https://www.nytimes.com/2024/09/22/opinion/israel-pager-attacks-supply-chain.html

Yes, we may see future terror involving things we normally consider to be fairly safe.

Future terrorism is prophesied (e.g. Deuteronomy 32:25; see also Why Terrorism? Is Terrorism Prophesied?).

Cell phones anyone?

Related Items:

Islamic and Biblical Prophecies for the 21st Century This is a free online book which helps show where biblical and Islamic prophecies converge and diverge. Here are links to related sermons: Seeing Christianity Through Islamic Eyes, Imam Mahdi, women, and prophecy, and Terrorism, Iran, and Fatima, Dajjal, Antichrist, Gold, & Mark of the Beast?, and Jesus and God’s Plan for Muslims.

Seeing Christianity Through Islamic Eyes This article has information from the book, Islamic and Biblical Prophecies for the 21st Century, as well as from the old WCG and other sources. Here is a link to a related sermon: Seeing Christianity Through Islamic Eyes. Here is a related sermon in the Spanish language: El cristianismo visto a través de los ojos islámicos.

Iran in Prophecy Is Iran in Bible prophecy? If so, what does the Bible teach? What names, other than Persia, may be used to describe Iran? There are also two related videos: Iran In Prophecy and Iran and Israel Conflict.

Gaza and the Palestinians in Bible Prophecy What does the Bible teach about Gaza and the fate of the Palestinians? Here is a link to two related videos: Gaza and Bible Prophecy and Gaza and Palestine in Prophecy.

Damascus and Syria in Prophecy Will Bashar Assad hold power as he has it? Does the Bible show that Damascus, the capital of Syria, will be destroyed? What will happen to Syria? Will the Syrians support the final King of the South that the Bible tells will rise up? Which scriptures discuss the rise and fall of an Arabic confederation? Does Islamic prophecy predict the destruction of Syria. This is a YouTube video.

The ‘Peace Deal’ of Daniel 9:27 This prophecy could give up to 3 1/2 years advance notice of the coming Great Tribulation. Will most ignore or misunderstand its fulfillment? Here is a link to a related sermon video Daniel 9:27 and the Start of the Great Tribulation.

The Arab and Islamic World In the Bible, History, and Prophecy The Bible discusses the origins of the Arab world and discusses the Middle East in prophecy. What is ahead for the Middle East and those who follow Islam? What about the Imam Mahdi? What lies ahead for Turkey, Iran, and the other non-Arabic Muslims? An item of possibly related interest in the Spanish language would be: Líderes iraníes condenan la hipocresía de Occidente y declaran que ahora es tiempo para prepararse para el Armagedón, la guerra, y el Imán Mahdi.

Is the Future King of the South Rising Up? Some no longer believe there needs to be a future King of the South. Might Egypt, Islam, Iran, Arabs, or Ethiopia be involved? Might this King be called the Mahdi or Caliph? What does the Bible say? Two videos of related interest are: The Future King of the South is Rising and The Rise and Fall of the King of the South. Here is a version the Spanish language: ¿Esta Surgiendo el Rey Del Sur?

Why Terrorism? Is Terrorism Prophesied? What does the Bible teach? Which nations may be affected? Here is a link to a related sermon: Terrorism, Christianity, and Islam. Here is a shorter video: Afghanis: Potential terrorists?

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