#not only was that memory probably fresh in her mind when she was again cornered in tpot 9

[evilherehotel]

guys. guys the similarities. guys listen to me

[venusphoriia]

— Drunken Tears and Soft Confessions

;; ₍ # ₎ ⁀➷ Clarisse La Rue x Fem! Dionysus! Reader

─ you drink away the pain, hoping it will eventually fill the void. It never does.

cw ཿ⠀ friends to lovers (high key implied), self harm, alcohol abuse, depressive thoughts, hurt with comfort, angst to fluff, not proof read. 1.9k words.

ପ a/n ; requested! please read the cw! took a lot longer than I expected, sorry (＃＞＜)♡︎ The ending didn’t come out like I hoped (╥_╥) I hope you enjoy anyway !

The alcohol burns your throat bitterly, the taste just as awful. Normally, pouring yourself a glass would be in honor of celebration or simply a time to enjoy yourself—unfortunately, as of late these times have been different. Instead of laughing joyfully, tears slip past your eyes with each sip you take.

A dull, itching pain worsens as you mindlessly swish the liquid in the glass. Fresh bandages hide deep crimson cuts, results from practice you’ll say, but anyone with the patience to care enough would know better. A quiet sob leaves your lips as you pull your knees closer to your chest.

This torment nearly drives you mad. You drown yourself in liquor, praying it would fill this feeling of emptiness that plagues you each night. You try to cut away at the anxieties, the fear of wasting away into nothing. You try to pinpoint the source of your anguish. Perhaps it was the lack of the will to live, maybe it was the disappointment of never feeling like you’ve done quite enough—or maybe it was the yearning for acknowledgment from the only parent you had left.

You lean back against the wall, tossing back the rest of your drink—a burning distaste following after. It does so little to quell the depressing feeling. You felt pathetic. You stare blankly at the nearly empty bottle before you, your thoughts becoming louder—drowning out all other senses. You’re falling, back into a time you begged you could forget—back into memories you tried desperately to avoid.

Footsteps approach, but they don’t completely break you from your trance. You assume it’s one of your siblings checking on you like they always did. Perhaps, they came to snatch the bottle from you to stop you from sinking deeper into your despair.

“(Y/n)?” The oddly soft, concerned tone of voice pulls you back from your drunken stupor. You recognize her voice—how could you not? But for the sake of what little remains of your pride, you try to delude yourself into thinking it wasn’t. You probably misheard or maybe you’ve truly gone mad; hallucinating her as a form of comfort in such desperate times.

And when she doesn’t speak again, your delusion seems plausible. Your tense body relaxes a bit, and you begin to sink back into your drunken mind. That is until you see her hand gingerly grab the empty glass from your hand, placing it alongside the bottle of liquor. Her fingertips brief brush against yours as she does so and it’s then that you realize she was no figment of your imagination.

She takes a seat next to you, on your disheveled bed, mindful to keep a bit of distance out of concern for your comfort. Although, your comfort is very little as you become painfully aware of your own pitiful state. Your hair a mess, your body felt uncomfortably filthy—you wanted to crawl away into a deep, dark corner and never be found again. This embarrassment made your body language more tense and withdrawn, subconsciously moving a bit farther away to maintain more distance.

She frowns softly. You see her expression out of the corner of your eye and turn away. You’ve seen the same look far too often these days, it was the same one your siblings would give you every time they came to snatch the bottle from your hands. It was a look of concern, unsaid words that drove daggers in your heart. You want to ease their worries, you want to get better, but you can't find the strength within yourself.

A few moments of silence follows. She gently grabs your hand, but you’re quick to pull away. The shame of being seen in such a drunken state by her was too much to bear, “Clarisse, please—”

Your voice comes out weak, your pleading tone wraps around her heart tightly. When you quickly try to pull away, her hand wraps around your wrist firmly. The tight grip immediately makes you wince, a small hiss of pain slipping past your lips. Clarisse loosens her grip with a look of confusion on her face before looking down at your wrist.

She attempts to pull back your sleeve. You quickly reach out to stop her, your free hand grabbing her wrist, briefly stopping her movements. She looks at you, your eyes meeting hers for the first time since she’s walked in. Neither of you speak, but within the same breath, neither of you look away.

You can almost hear your heart beating loudly through the silence, your thoughts in shambles trying to figure out what exactly is she thinking about. Her perception of you is ruined—your mind is convinced—there is no forgetting something like this. The urge to cry is slowly crawling up your throat as her eyes finally break away from yours.

Your hold around her wrists has loosen greatly, she slowly pulls back your sleeve, careful not to hurt you like she did before. She turns your wrist over, seeing the fresh blood that stained the white bandages. She doesn’t need to remove them to know what’s underneath.

“It’s nothing,” You mumbles softly, breaking through the silence as you watching Clarisse stare wordlessly at your bandaged wrists; your intoxicated judgement finds it best to play naive, feigning innocence in hopes to repair this uncomfortable tension in the air.

Clarisse sighs softly, her brows furrowed a bit in irritation, but she remains mindful of her tone. She looks back at you, clearly not buying your words. Her voice is soft, yet firm as she speaks, “Bullshit.”

You roll your eyes, letting go of Clarisse’s wrist before trying to snatch back your own, “I’m fine, it’ll practically be healed by tomorrow.”

A lie. And you both know it. Clarisse allows you to snatch your wrist back, watching quietly for a moment as you gently rub it in a poor attempt to soothe the pain. Clarisse’s quietness breaks your attention away from your wrist, glancing towards her in confusion. You had expected her to say something, anything by now—perhaps even a small petty insult.

She doesn’t. Instead, she stares at you, patiently waiting for you to admit that your anything, but okay. You click your tongue in annoyance before mumbling a few curses under your breath. You realized it was pointless to keep up this act with Clarisse, knowing she could see right through your lies.

“I’ll be fine, this is just…a small setback,” You said perhaps a bit too lightly as you see Clarisse grow a bit more irritated at your poor attempt to lighten the mood. You force a small sheepish smile in hopes to ease the tension a bit. It doesn’t.

“A small setback? Is that really what you want to call this?” Clarisse retorts, a little harsher than she intended. Her eyes don't break away from you once, noticing every little change in your movements. Your gaze becomes much more avoidant, your hands fidgety, and your body language tenses—she realizes she’s coming off too harsh.

Another sigh leaves her lips and she looks away from you. You fall silent, feeling more awkward than anything at the moment. Clarisse isn’t sure of the right thing to say or do, she’s never been good when it comes to emotions or being vulnerable. She’s the daughter of Ares after all.

“You should speak to your father,” Clarisse advises, running a hand through her hair as she looks back at you. She can’t help, but glance between you and the self-inflicted wounds on your wrist. The soft look of concern and—perhaps even—sympathy.

You scoff, a bitter chuckle leaving your lips at Clarisse’s words. In all truth, you would rather be burned at the stake than to speak to him about this. There wasn’t a cell in your body that believed he would even care enough to pretend to listen, “Like hell I will.”

Clarisse finds herself getting annoyed at your dismissive tone, quickly becoming defensive like she normally does, “Well, it’s better than nothing.”

“Look—I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine,” your words sound far from grateful, completely falling short of how you truly felt. You become a bit harsher in return, building your walls higher as you wish for this whole conversation to be done with. You look down at your hands, biting back tears—not wanting to look any more pathetic than you already felt.

Clarisse falls quiet. She knows she’ll fail at words if she tries to speak and she doesn’t know what other words of advice to give. But still, she wants to comfort you, hating the fact that she’s been too ignorant towards your state for this long.

Hesitantly, Clarisse gently grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. You looked up at her confused, you had a feeling of what Clarisse was attempting to do, but you struggled to fully believe it. She watches you carefully for any sign of resistance or discomfort, you remain placid and she continues to pull you closer.

She hugs you close, wrapping her arms around you firmly. Your whole body tenses, you bite your lip harshly to silence the sobs clawing at your throat. The taste of iron is bitter on your tongue as you struggle to hold back your tears. Your drunken state only makes your emotions feel stronger.

“It’s okay,” Clarisse whispers softly, her voice oddly tender and endearing. Her touch is gentle and comforting, her body is warm as you listen to her steady heartbeat. She holds you tight enough as if afraid it might be the last—and yet her touch remains cautious as if you were the most precious thing she has ever loved, “I’ve got you.”

Her words break you. Your walls crumble completely as you begin to sob heavily. You grab onto her tightly as you cry into her shoulder. She quietly lets you, listening as your tears break through the silence. Her heart aches when she hears you try to mumble indistinguishable words through your broken sobs. Your pained filled rant simmers down into apologies, guilt washing over you in waves.

Clarisse remains quiet, her hand rests gently on the back of your neck—while the other rubs soothing motions on your back. Your cries begin to soften after a while, fatigue slowly creeps through your body. Your breathing heavy from the once harsh sobs that tore through you. Your voice was hoarse as you tried to weakly mumble one last apology.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing, pretty girl,” a small, sad smile slips onto Clarisse’s lips, she gingerly kisses away your tears. Your heart flutters softly at the endearing act, a soft chuckle slips past her lips and you swear your heart nearly skipped a beat, “It’s okay, I’ve gotcha.”

You smile softly, too tired to give a response in turn. A few quiet moments pass, your eyes feel a bit heavier and your breathing becomes a bit more relaxed. Clarisse doesn’t mind, shifting into a more comfortable position for you. You grumble softly, causing Clarisse to roll her eyes a bit before placing one last kiss on your forehead.

Clarisse leans her head back against the wall, sighing deeply. She feels your soft breath brushing against her skin, feelings she’s tried to keep buried crawl up to the surface. The words slip past her lips without her notice, a soft confession barely above a whisper. It wasn’t until she felt you smile against her skin that she realized you felt the same.

© venusphoriia 2024 — do not copy or repost any of my works on any other platform, please and thank you !! ( ˘ ³˘)♡

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Stevie Fic

This is a Stevie first meeting fic based on this amazing art and concept by @your-unfriendlyghost Like most of my stuff its not betaed. Enjoy!

*************

Evie really fucking wants to hit something.

It’s probably a bad idea considering hitting something-  well, someone-  is what got her here in the first place, but right now it feels like her options are fight or cry and she really doesn’t want to cry. 

The bench in the holding cell is cold under her bare legs, her skirt not long enough to properly cover them, but she can’t bring herself to care in the slightest, despite the fact she’s sharing the holding cell with two guys, one a drunk sleeping off a hangover in the corner, the other a tough looking greaser she vaguely recognizes from school, who’s flicking a lighter idly, clearly bored out of his mind. Her right hand is aching something awful, knuckles all split and bloody, but she clenches her fist tighter, letting the skin pull back, watches the small cuts reopen and the blood well up, filling the tiny cracks in the surrounding skin. It smarts something awful, but it’s kind of mesmerizing all the same. 

She focuses on the sharp sting, pretending the tears pricking her eyes are because of that instead of the fact that mom’s here talking to the police sergeant but she’s still never been further away. 

How did this even happen? A year ago her mother was her favourite person in the whole world. It was the two of them against the world, always had been, ever since dad died back when she was six. Mom never used to have a problem with how she dressed or did her hair, never used to care if she made lewd jokes or chewed with her mouth open because mom’s own manners were even worse and she liked them that way. A year ago if any man mom was seeing raised a hand to her mom would’ve punched him herself, fuck the consequences or the injuries, because she wasn’t ever gonna let a man know she was afraid of him, even if she was. A year ago if Evie had swung at someone for a good reason mom would’ve bailed her out and took her out for ice cream, smiled her crooked smile and told her she was right proud of her and her fighting spirit, made her promise to keep it close to her heart.

Now? Mom’s so different she might as well be a different person, and if this is the thanks Evie’s going to get for defending her, well, she can fucking fend for herself. If mom wants to simper and smile and bend over backwards for a man who treats her like dirt and Evie even worse she can fucking do it. If she wants to take his side and fuss over his broken nose while Evie’s stuck in this fucking cell then good riddance. But Evie’s never gonna throw a punch to defend her again, not ever. Hell, she might not even stick around the house. If mom’s gonna choose a man she met three months ago over the daughter she’s raised for the past sixteen years, why bother? Home hardly feels like home anymore anyway, what with Dean’s clothes in dad’s old dresser, and his presence sucking the air out of every room. Mom’s art supplies have been shoved into the closet to make room for Dean’s unemployment papers, and last week Evie got home from school to find he’d thrown out all her model airplanes. She’d sobbed- she’d been collecting them since she was six, and building the green one was the last thing she did with dad before he passed- but mom just told her to stop acting like such a child because they ‘were only toys anyway’ and went right back to cooking Dean dinner. As if she didn’t know those planes meant absolutely everything to her. As if she hadn’t scraped and saved to buy her one for her birthday every single year without fail. Like she didn’t even care.

A fresh wave of anger rushes through her at the memory, and the next thing Evie knows she’s on her feet, her fist connecting with the concrete wall. She feels more than she hears something in her hand crack, and the fresh wave of agony is definitely similar to when she broke her arm back in kindergarten, but she doesn’t even care. It feels good. She wants to hit something. She wants to hurt. She wants to throw punches the way her mother taught her in the hopes they will somehow help her forget said mother’s betrayal.

“Hey!” A cop with cropped brown hair raps on the cell door with his baton so hard the bars rattle, “knock it off!”

She glares at him for a second but drops back onto the bench. She tells herself it’s because she really does want to get out of here, preferably today, but deep down she knows it’s because the man’s cold eyes and the way he swings the baton make it clear he’d be all too happy to use it on her. 

“Crazy bitch,” she hears him mutter as he walks off,and she stiffens, suddenly wishing she’d spit on him while she had the chance. 

“What’d you expect?” A different voice answers, “These greasy chics are all the same. Wild as rabid dogs.”

A snicker. “And they dress just as poorly. My Adeline ever stepped outta the house wearing something like that she’d never be allowed back in.”

Their voices fade, getting reabsorbed into the racket of the precinct, but there words have already sunk into her skin, leaving cuts under her surface, making a home in the piece of her thats hates herself. She shivers a bit, hugging her jacket tighter around herself, and glowers at the linoleum floor, pointedly ignoring the prickling uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Between her outburst and the cop’s shouting it’s little wonder half the precinct is staring, but she refuses to give them the satisfaction of meeting any of their gazes. Besides, it’s not like she isn’t already used to being looked at like she’s a freak.

“--I mean?” Evie recognizes Dean’s voice easily, even over the din of the rest of the station, conspicuous due to its deep cadence and domineering tone, “that’s not normal behaviour, nice girls don’t do that. I really think I oughta press charges.”

Her head snaps up and she glares at him, snarling, despite the fact he’s pretending to ignore her. Even if he doesn’t see it, mom will, will know that Evie is nothing short of genuine in her hatred, that she regrets nothing. 

Besides, she knows the threat is an empty one anyway. Dean talks a good game but he knows better than to actually press charges for something like this. The cops hadn’t dragged Evieout for her side of the story yet and they’d been all too happy to put her in handcuffs- Dean’s ruined shirt and self righteous anger when he stormed in here had seen to that- but when she does get a chance to speak she’ll be all too happy to explain why she punched him in the first place, and that probably won’t go over too well with a judge.

Of course, mom could always lie for him, rendering her whole defense useless. But Evie’s trying not to think about that. Surely mom still loves her somewhere. Surely she won’t let her own daughter go to the cooler for a half baked crime even if she doesn’t. 

Right?

“It’s those friends of hers,” mom defends, letting out a trilling, fake laugh, smiling as placatingly as possible at Dean and the cop they’re sitting across from. Her eyes dart towards Evie's and away so fast she’s half convinced she imagined it, “they’re such terrible influences. She didn’t mean it.”

“She broke my nose.”

And I'd do it again, asshole, Evie thinks. Her hand is killing her, but if it wasn’t she’d have clenched her fist at the mere thought. That was the one upside of this whole situation: she’d finally been able to do what she’d been wanting to do for months. She’ll be dreaming of the satisfying crunch Dean’s nose had made when she deviated his septum for weeks. 

“She’s your daughter,” Dean continues, “Don’t you think she ought to be punished?”

“Of course I do,” mom simpers, cosying into Dean’s side, gazing up at him with such a sickeningly sweet look Evie wants to vomit,  “But don’t you think pressing charges is a little harsh? I mean, she’s never done anything like this before.”

“Well you have to do something, Caroline, she’s out of control. Talking back, giving me attitude, not listening to you either-”

He keeps going but Evie tunes him out, done listening to his bitching, God knows she already hears enough of it at home. She hates that he’s here, that he lives with them, that he’s ruined every good thing in her life. She hates the way mom looks at him. 

Most of all she hates that she only swung at him once. 

The guy across from her with the lighter is still flicking it rhythmically, the clicking sound oddly sharp, distinguishable even over the overlapping conversations in the precinct itself, but its owner doesn’t seem so bored anymore. In fact, he keeps glancing over at her and then quickly looking away every time their eyes meet. She has half a mind to tell him he’s gonna waste all the gas in his lighter if he keeps it up, or maybe offer him a cigarette in exchange for a light, but she figures the boys in blue might decide to take some issue with that and she isn’t about to get a full pack of marlboros confiscated when she only just bought them.

“Fine!” Dean is suddenly looking right at her, voice rising above the precinct for real this time, “I won’t press charges this time, but I’m sure as hell not paying her bail. She can rot here as far as I’m concerned.”

The rage is a tidal wave bursting through a dam, all consuming and back full force before she can even blink

“Like you could pay it anyway, asshole!” Her unbroken hand is slamming into the bars and he should be grateful for it because it’s the only standing between him and Evie wringing his thick neck, “Last I checked you were a broke, unemployed loser spending my mom’s hard earned money because youre too much much of a fuck up to have a single cent to your own name!”

He sneers, cruelly, but doesn’t rise to the bait. She’ll catch it for sure next time she’s in the house, and he’ll probably find something of hers to break in the meantime, but for the moment he manages to hold himself together.

“Enjoy the holding cell Evelyn.”

“Seriously?” She turns to mom, half desperate, half pleading, knowing it won’t make a difference and hoping foolishly, childishly, that it will anyway, “You’re just going to let him leave me here?”

“Evie-”

“You’re my mom.” Her voice breaks.

Mom flinches, but she hides it well. Evie notices, because she knows her tells, knows the slight trick of her left eye is her way of hiding heartbreak, just like she knows mom never really got over losing dad as much as she always tried to convince herself she did, knows Dean saw the loneliness that festered in mom’s heart and twisted it to his advantage. She knows that mom is strong in some ways but not all of them and that a part of her has given up. She just hadn’t realized until now that the part of her that gave up had given up on Evie.

“I did it for you,” her voice is shaking, and Dean could be screaming and the precinct could be burning around them and it wouldn’t matter because all she can see right now is her mother’s apologetic brown eyes and the fact that she has let her down for the last time, “for you. Not for me. And this is the thanks I get?”

“I’m sorry,” mom whispers, shame twisting her features, “but- but you did a bad thing Evie, and-and we don’t really have the money for bail right now anyway. They’ll only hold you for a day or two anyway and then you can come home and we’ll figure this out, the three of us.”

“Come home?” She can’t help the scoff that forces its way out of her throat, “You think you can leave me here, after everything, and I’ll just come home like nothing happened?”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Try me.”

“Dean’s right,” mom shakes herself and the glimpse of her true self is gone, replaced by the shell of a woman filled with Dean’s slimy thoughts, “you need a few days to cool down. You’re impossible to talk to right now.”

“Imagine how much more impossible to talk to I’ll be when I'm gone and your sack of human shit boyfriend won’t even let you try to find me!” Evie yells at her retreating back, “Huh? Huh, you fucking bitch! Fuck. You.” She punctuates the last two words with a weak rap against the bars, but as suddenly as her anger overtook her it has drained away, leaving nothing but misery in its wake.

The brown haired cop doesn’t have to rap on the bars this time to make her behave. She slinks back to the bench, a woman defeated. 

She doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing. In fact, she still might. It’s taking a lot of harsh blinking and biting the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from falling, but she refuses to crumple here, to be weak in front of a room full of men who have already seen her humiliated and powerless, men who have actively participated in making her that way. They will not get the victory of seeing her cry too. They won’t. 

“Here,” suddenly the boy with the lighter is next to her, holding out a stained, but soft looking rag. She must have stared at him a beat too long because he clears his throat awkwardly, cheeks reddening ever so slightly, “for your hand.”

“Oh,” she’d all but forgot about her split knuckles and probably broken ring finger, but when she looks down she can see that it’s started to swell something awful, which has in turn increased how much she’s bleeding, “thanks.”

She struggles to wrap the rag clumsily around her knuckles. Without meaning to she makes the mistake of accidentally twitching her broken finger and drops the rag with a hiss, instinctively cradling her hand closer to her chest.

“Here, let me- I mean- I can wrap your hand for you? If you want?” Lighter guy offers. He’s endearingly awkward, and, Evie has to admit, kind of cute, with his thick dark hair and glowing bronze skin. He looks about as rough as most guys from their side of town, intimidating with his leather jacket and seemingly instinctual scowl, but he doesn’t seem scary. Not really. Not when he’s this kind.

Wordlessly she holds out her hand and he takes her wrist with a gentleness that’s unprecedented from such large callused hands, clearly used to hard work, as he carefully threads the cloth over and around her knuckles, covering most of the cuts without tying anything too tightly.

She’s almost disappointed when he pulls away.

“You’re real good at that.”

“Yeah well,” he grins, suddenly roguish and Evie can see how he could be mean if he wanted to, “it’s not exactly my first time bandaging bruised knuckles. Might be my first time bandaging them on a girl though.”

“Oh yeah?” Despite her misery she can feel a smile tugging at the corner of her own lips.

He nods. “You oughta join a rumble sometime, looks like that right hook of yours does some real damage.”

“He deserved it!” Evie snaps. 

“Looked like it,” The boy agrees, holding up his hands in surrender. He’s quiet for a minute, then adds, “Sounded like it too.”

Something about the way he says it makes her pause.

“He was gonna hit my mom,” she admits, shivering at the memory of Dean’s rage and the way mom had tensed, hands flying up to shield her face. She’d said after, when Dean was still screaming and everything had gone to shit that he’d never done it before, but her reaction had told Evie otherwise. “He was standin’ over her and I could see him pulling back and in that moment it felt like my options were hit or be hit. So I punched him.”

“Tuff.”

Evie blinks. “Ya think?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “I really do.”

Something in her chest relaxes at that, at not only his non judgemental assessment of her actions but his clear approval of them. She hadn’t realized how much she needed someone on her side until now.

She looks at him, really looks at him. Aside from his thick hair and smooth skin, he’s got slightly crooked teeth and a strong nose. His eyes are angry, but righteously so, not cruelly so, and there is kindness hidden in the curve of his cheek and the calluses of his hands.

“You’re Steve, right? I’ve seen you around school before with that friend of yours. The blond one.”

“Sodapop, yeah,” He gives her an odd look, slightly pleased but clearly taken aback, “I gotta be honest, I’m not used to people knowing my name and not his.”

“Oh,” It’s her turn to blush, “well, I-I guess he never really made much of an impression on me.”

“Well since you seem to know my name, does that mean I made an impression on you?” 

“No,” her cheeks are burning and she doesn’t sound convincing, even to herself, but if she’d seen Steve Randle doing pull ups when she walked past the boys gym class once and made a point of learning his name, that’s no one's business but her own. It didn’t have to mean anything. It didn’t mean anything before now. “Shut up.”

He laughs, and she should probably be annoyed because he’s definitely teasing her but it’s such a nice sound, carefree and inherently defiant, that it’s hard to do anything but enjoy it.

“Someone call for a jailbreak?” 

Before Steve can properly answer they’re interrupted.

Speak of the devil, Evie thinks, silently cursing Sodapop as he grins through the bars at Steve, flanked by an older boy wearing ascuffed letterman jacket and the brown haired cop from earlier. He couldn’t have waited to get here just a few minutes longer?

“Took you long enough,” Steve rises fluidly to his feet as the cop unlocks the cell, and nods at the other boy, “Hey superman. What’re you doin’ here?”

“Gotta be over 18 to bail someone out Steve-o,” Sodapop singsongs, before the older boy can get a word in, “an’ I figured you wouldn’t want me gettin’ mom or dad involved unless I had to.”

“Thanks man,” Steve pulls them each into one of those odd half hugs boys do, clapping the big one called Superman on the shoulder as he pulls away, “speaking of, any chance you’d be willing to sign for one more person? I’ll pay the bail, I just need your signature.”

He looks over his shoulder expectantly and Evie realizes with a start that he means bail for her.

“What? No! Steve you guys can’t- I don’t got the scratch to pay you back-”

“Well I ain’t about to leave you here by your lonesome all night, and it don’t seem like your mom’s fixing to come back anytime soon. Darry here won’t mind signin’ the papers since I’m vouchin’ for you.”

‘’Course not.” The older boy agrees.

Evie bites her lip, considering. She really, really doesn’t want to stay here, especially without Steve for company, but she also doesn’t have the funds to pay him back.

“I really can’t pay you back-”

“Listen, if you really wanna pay me back you could agree to go out on a date with me?“

“O-oh,” she smiles down at her feet, “I- yeah, I’d love to.”

“Really?”

He really shouldn’t sound so shocked. She’d basically been the one to admit to liking him, after all.

“Yeah. Really really.”

“I’m Evie by the way,” she tells him as she and Steve walk side by side out of the precinct, realizing she has yet to introduce herself, despite how long they’ve been talking.

“Oh,” Steve's grin is playful, “I know. I make a point of learning the names of pretty girls.”

“I guess I must’ve made an impression on you too, huh?”

He gently takes her non broken hand in his, twining their fingers together.

‘Yeah,” he agrees, “I guess so.”

[trashmouth-richie]

nothing kills you slower than, letting someone go

Eddie x Fem!Reader ; Steve x Fem!Reader

W.C 6k [whoops]

A/N: I’ve had this floating around my brain for weeks, based loosely on the song “Letting Someone Go” by Zach Bryan

TW: underage drinking/ drug use, drug addiction, driving while drinking, mean!Eddie.

💋💋

Searching your bag for the soft pack of cigarettes, you push your way through the heavy metal door leading to the back of Hawkins High.

You needed a cigarette and right the fuck now. This stupid fucking town, stupid fucking people at this asshole school—you had had enough. The heat of the day was at its peak as you made it over to the corner behind the wood shop. Heavily graffitied and coated in butts and ashes, this had been your secret smoke spot for the past few weeks. It wasn’t a picnic bench in the woods where he had brought you years ago, no this spot was yours, since you had broken up last month you had to find more than a few different things to make your own.

You didn’t frequent the Hideout on Tuesday’s anymore; he made sure of that. You dropped out of Hellfire, giving away your dice to Dustin and Mike as a parting gift; the trailer park you had spent so much time in was now filled with the ghosts of memories, and any time you had bumped into Wayne at the grocery store or pumping gas, you smiled shyly and waved. Wondering if Eddie ever told him why you weren’t around anymore. Why you didn’t surprise them anymore on Saturday mornings with almost stale, day old donuts.

This wasn’t a typical breakup, he didn’t have a new girlfriend and you didn’t have a new boyfriend. Eddie had been pushing you away for weeks, unthreaded the strings of your hearts from one another and drifted apart. It wasn’t easy seeing him around school, interacting with your mutual friends who were now only his friends, waving in the hallways to you as a sort of pity, eyes casted downward when they were with him, loyal to their DM.

The sting of the breakup and the events that unfolded that night were still fresh in your mind. The way the rain fell as you fought with him in front of his trailer, both drenched to the core, his curls lengthening from the heaviness of the rain, chin quivering, shoulders sagged. The pitter sound of the drops of rain hitting his leather clad arms. Seeping through the crooks of his rings, threatening to let them slip off his fingers, wetting the tape used to make them a bit smaller.

Exhaling a line of smoke through your mouth you shudder at the memory. You didn’t want to think about that night or even him. Long legs and baggy jeans stroll beside you, you know it’s her before she even says anything, passing her the cigarette you chuckle when her blue fingernails swing down to take it out of your hands.

“I swear Ms. O’Donnell has a stick up her ass.” Robin explains, “I hope her car breaks down on her way home tonight.” She huffs and throws her back against the brick, one foot folded upwards pressed against the wall.

“She does,” you blow a cloud of smoke from your nose, “it’s sideways.”

Robin snorts, smoke escaping her lips as she exhales, “So are we going to Steve’s party tonight or are you going to bail, again?”

Your response comes slower than you had hoped, you really didn’t want to see him there. Usually avoiding any opportunity you could have of running into him.

“It’s been a month,” Robin says softly, treading lightly on the sore subject hoping not to break the ice of your fragile sanity, “besides, he probably won’t even be there.” She was right, he didn’t hangout with that crowd. The hellfire boys wouldn’t be there so why would he?

“I know… I just— if I see him with someone else it would actually kill me.” Robin knows you better than anyone, she knows how hard it has been for you. Moving through the motions of these last few weeks as if they were on film and you were just a bystander. “Three years is a long time to have it just end over an argument.” The first few days of your breakup it was rumored that he was fooling around with Chrissy Cunningham. The thought of that alone was enough to get you to miss school for a week straight. Refusing to leave your bed, holed up around your sheets like a baby being swaddled. The pain was too much. Robin had stopped by multiple times and assured you it wasn’t true. But the idea of him moving on so quickly, hurt.

“It is—you’re right.” Robin says, turning to you resting her head on the wall, “And you have every right to be upset. What he did—I’m still mad at him for the way he treated you in the end.”

“Join the club,” you mutter, wiping a stray hair behind your ear flicking ashes into the wind.

“So why not just get out and have a good time, maybe you’ll meet someone?” Her lips twist into a shit eating grin. You give her a look as if to say, ‘spit it out’, lowering your eyes to her, eyebrows raised. That’s what you loved about Robin, her emotions were worn on her sleeve and she couldn’t hide anything from you, “Okay fine! I’m like 96% sure that Steve has a crush on you, and if you were to tell him that I would deny everything so don’t even try it.”

A year ago, you wouldn’t have hung out with Steve Harrington, but since you and Robin started working with him at Scoops a few months ago, you had all gotten close. The past month you had become a recluse, only agreeing to go to places that you 100% knew Eddie wouldn’t be. Robin was the one who plucked you from your decaying shell, forcing you out into the sun, watering you like a flower watching you blossom.

Maybe getting out there and even putting on a fake smile would work. Maybe bring some happiness back into your life. “Fine, but I’m not drinking that witch's brew shit Vicky makes.”

The party was like any other one at Steve’s. Music flooded the streets, the thumping of REO Speedwagon could be heard from blocks away. Cars lined every square inch of the driveway, and the surrounding side streets. Beer cans were littered in the front yard, a very drunk Jonathan Byers was laying in the cool grass, taking pictures of the sky, red cups surrounding him and puke starting to dry on his denim jacket.

Having taken a few shots at Robin’s house while getting ready, you were already feeling yourself relax a bit as you entered the Harrington house. Steve was wearing sunglasses inside, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as his hair moved with the music. Surrounded by people taking long pulls from their cheap beers dancing along to the latest hits.

“Robin, Y/N!” Steve yelled above the crowd. He raises his arms above his head and begins making his way towards you through the maze of drunk underage teens. He sweeps you into a hug, pulling you in close and grinning into your hair, “you made it!”

“There were terms to her coming here ya know,” Robin stated, lifting a beer from a freshman’s hand and claiming it as her own, “no dancing, no drinks made by Vicky and no Eddie Munson lurking around.” A quick glance around calms your nerves seeing that Eddie wasn’t here, the tension in your shoulders subsiding.

“No dancing?” Steve presses, a look of fake shock on his face, “I was just going to put ‘Thriller’ on!” The three of you laugh as you look around the living room. People are packed into every corner, some making out, others swaying like bowling pins after an almost strike— trying like hell to not fall over. “Hey dickwad, put that down!” Steve rushes over to a guy in your grade and as attempting to put a lampshade on his head.

“Just give him a chance,” Robin whispers in your ear, “I’m telling you he’s got it bad, just nervous about if you still have feelings for Eddie.”

You did. You wouldn’t deny that. But those feelings weren’t reciprocated. Not anymore. He had made that clear the night he broke it off. Saying he was going to be too busy for a relationship, that you needed to move on from him, find someone else. He was leaving Hawkins and not returning.

Steve returned with the lampshade, setting it down in the corner as he grabs your hand in his, rubbing your knuckles softly with the pads of his thumbs. “And as for Munson? He won’t be here, I promise.” A smile breaks on his face as he pushes his sunglasses into his hair. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

The kitchen is oozing with the smell of spilt beer and strong liquor. The countertops are sticky like candy—a half assed attempt of cleaning has napkins stuck to them like cement. People are crowded around the kitchen island concocting mixed drinks of pop and various liquors, a game of tippy cup is being played in the dining room. “Pick your poison,” Steve says above the crowd, gesturing to the array of drinks on the counter.

“Personally, I wouldn’t touch the punch, Vicky emptied more than half of the liquor cabinet into it. Byers had about three cups and hasn’t been seen since.”

You laugh and a grin spreads across Steve’s face, “we saw him on the way in actually, he’s laying in the front yard, taking pictures of the sky.” You grab a beer off the counter, cracking it open, suds surrounding the aluminum top of the can you slurp them up and tilt it back into your mouth the iced pale ale flowing down your throat like a wheat river. Steve’s eyes haven’t left you since you got here.

“That looks good on you,” he says, taking a sip of his own beer, brown honeyed eyes pouring into yours.

You give him a confused glance, “the beer?”

He laughs and gestures to your lips, “a smile.” Your cheeks heat with a blush, you weren’t good with flirting. You and Eddie had only gotten together because you spun the bottle in his direction that summer night between 8th grade and Freshman year in Namcy Wheeler basements. Steve holds your elbow and looks at you through his lashes. Of course he was good looking, he was tall, hair always perfectly positioned, strong facial features and those dreamy honey eyes could make anyone fall for him. You smile shyly at him and take another sip of your beer. “Wasn’t sure if I’d ever get to see it again,” he whispers into your ear, pulling back closer than he was before.

Steve had known the ins and outs of your breakup just like Robin had. You had spent countless nights sitting on the floor of Scoops sampling the flavors while you delved out the inner workings of why Eddie did what he did. You were heart broken, no other way to say it. And it had hurt Steve to see you so low. You had done your best to avoid Eddie entirely, and Steve would do anything to try to help.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, looking down at your shoes and back up to Steve, “I wasn’t sure either.” Maybe it would be easier to get over Eddie if you just moved on from him, finding comfort in someone else, even if just for a night.

“I, uh— can’t believe he’d be that stupid.” Steve says, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. Your brows knit slightly together as Steve continues moving a strand of hair from your face, “Eddie I mean. Cause if you were mine, I would never let you go.”

A shy smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you look up at Steve. Those nights at Scoops had made you all closer, the three of you spilling your guts about relationships gone bad, secret hookups, etc. Not in any of those nights did you put together that Steve liked you more than a friend. Usually you were too busy daydreaming about a time where Eddie was still yours, still the sweet Eddie you had known and fallen in love with. Now he would hold his head high above yours in the hallways, never even glancing your way. You search your mind trying to remember if Steve talked about any girls during that time but you can’t think of any.

“Oh come on Steve, you don’t mean that,” you shake your head, Steve gently placed a finger under your chin positioning your face towards his.

“I mean it,” he says sternly with a hint of softness, “I care about you, a lot.” His eyes show sadness, your stomach flutters at his words. Maybe it’s the alcohol making this easy for you, or maybe it’s the way he’s staring so deep into your soul your whole body is tingling, but you feel safe with Steve. You can’t help yourself when you lean into him, licking your lips slightly and closing your eyes.

“Jesus H. Christ Henderson, why the hell are you making me do this?” Eddie huffs as he jumps out of the van and stomps up the sidewalk to Steve Harrington’s house.

“You’re the one who kept saying you were bored,” Dustin says, “listen I know you’ve never hung out with Steve before, but once you do you’ll see he’s a pretty cool guy.” A mouthful of braces smiles up at him.

Hellfire had ended early since none of the boys could defeat Eddie’s sadistic campaign. They were out of Doritos and Family Video didn’t have any new releases this week. “Yeah I doubt that,” Eddie scowled. He was finding it more and more difficult to be happy this last month. He thought breaking up would push him in the right direction of where he wanted to go, leaving Hawkins for good after graduation, getting a record deal, maybe. But so far all he had was one more failing grade before he was held back, again. He was annoyed beyond belief, hating himself for being so naive.

Agreeing to go with Dustin so he wouldn’t get himself into trouble, Eddie walks faster to the party, his Reeboks squeaking beneath him. Dustin makes it to the door first, “should I take my shoes off or should I leave them on? There aren’t any shoes here, are they somewhere else?”

Eddie chuckles at his younger friend, “keep ‘em on, easier to run if the cops come,” he says, eyes wide to scare Dustin.

“Come on man, don’t say that.” Dustin says, following Eddie as he made his way up the steps to the split level home. Maybe a few beers would help his mood. Not fair to Dustin that he has such a shitty attitude lately, the kid worships Steve so he could hangout for a bit, drink a few beers and then go home. Landing on the top step peering into the kitchen, Eddie stops dead.

Watching your lips move with Steve’s has Eddie feeling sick to his stomach. He’s convinced his heart stops beating. Blood rushing to his cheeks, this shouldn’t hurt the way it does. He had been the one to end it, the one who shoved you away. But you looked so happy with Steve. “Oh shit,” Dustin says behind Eddie’s shoulder, “uhh.. drinks? We need drinks!” Dustin pushes Eddie forward through the kitchen and out to the patio, finding the kegs, he pours two of the worlds foamiest beers and thrusts them into Eddie’s hands. “Here,” he says, raising Eddie’s hand to his mouth to get him to drink, “swear to God that’s not at all what I— ”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eddie says, slamming the beer and refilling it, foamy suds running down his chin, “I’m fine Dustin, really.” His eyes were dark with anger, rubbing his jaw with the heel of his hand he walks back inside the kitchen and grabs the closest bottles of whiskey he can find— noticing you and Steve are now gone— and waltzes back out. Throwing himself into a lawn chair and pressing his lips to the open bottle, stewing in his own misfortunes.

This was his fault, he broke up with you for no particular reason other than his own stupid ideas. You were each other's first kiss, first time, first everything. Of course he wanted to know what it felt like to kiss someone else, feel a body that wasn’t yours. But he had always considered you to be his. Seeing you lip locked with Steve was worse than a punch to the gut. Pull after pull on the bottle of whiskey, Eddie’s eyes got darker, he slumped further into the seat. He had no idea what Dustin had even been saying. The only thing he could focus on was you.

The way your hair smelled like coconuts when you were cuddled up against his chest, wearing his shirt when you slept over. You were his everything back then, he didn’t just love you he admired you, worshipped the ground you walked on. He had been regretting the breakup since it happened, but couldn’t find the heart to tell you that. He saw the way you cowered away from him at school, changing your schedule to avoid any contact at all with him, your locker used to be next to his now it was empty. He fucked up bad, but all he was trying to do was save you.

He stands up, his tall figure swaying slightly with the help of inebriation. He stumbled into the sliding door, face pressed flush with the glass, scanning the kitchen. You still weren’t in sight, but Robin was.

Throwing the door open a little harder than it should have been, it bounces slightly at the force. Eddie climbs in all legs first, “Robin! Robin!” Eddie yells above the crowd, maneuvering around drunk teens.

“Eddie,” Robin spins on her heel, a glare to her blue eyes, “you look— like shit.”

“Aww,” Eddie scoffs, “thought I was your favorite.” He takes a big swig from the whiskey, too drunk to even taste the amber liquid sliding down his throat, the burn barely there.

“You were, until you hurt my best friend, and became a giant dick.”

“Well now that just hurt my feelings Robby.”

“What’s the game here Munson, Vicky’s waiting.”

Swaying more than he would have liked and holding onto the kitchen island Eddie lets his guard down, “where is she?”

“Listen, you weren’t there. You didn’t see the way she trapped herself in her room for a week after you broke her heart. She’s trying to get over you— you can’t just pretend like you’re still her boyfriend.” Robin lights a cigarette and blows smoke directly in Eddie’s face.

“I just wanna talk to her. Tell her congrats, I’m sure she’s happy with the upgrade from Prince of the Trailer Park to King of Hawkins thassall.” He says with a shrug of his broad shoulders, leather creaking with his movements.

“I mean it— leave her alone, you already did it once, shouldn’t be too hard the second time.” Robin ashes her cigarette into a discarded cup and saunters off to find Vicky.

Eddie takes another swig, rolling the liquor around his teeth, before swallowing when he hears it. Your laugh coming from the living room. Long legs moving like he’s on ice skates with the help of the walls bearing the brunt of his body weight, he enters the living room with a frown. You're sitting on Steve’s lap, his face is nuzzled into your hair the same way Eddie’s used to when he surprised you by your lockers. You haven’t noticed him yet. Your eyes are pinched shut and you’re laughing at the way Steve’s fingers dip into your sides tickling you.

Always one for theatrics, Eddie starts to clap.

Steve’s lips are like silk, smooth and warm against yours, the taste of beer mixed with carmex on the tip of your tongue as you drag it across his bottom lip. His hands move into your hair, holding you closer to him as he slots his mouth against yours. Kissing Steve comes naturally, as if you have done this before. For the first time in weeks you feel at peace with the breakup. You hear the sliding door open and close as Steve deepens the kiss, moving his head in a slant to paint your mouth with his tongue. He tastes like cheap beer and a smidge of cigarettes and mint gum. You pull back from him, “whoa.”

“Shit, I’m sorry— just you were leaning in and I thought you wanted me to kiss you—fuck I just messed this up didn’t I?” Steve pushes his fingers into the inner corners of his eyes, you pull his hand away looking confused.

“No,” you giggle, holding Steve’s hand in yours, the other pressed against his chest. “It was good, great even— I haven’t felt like that in weeks,” you admit to him, “don’t apologize.”

A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth as he brings you into a hug, kissing the top of your head and wrapping his large hands around your back, moving them across your shoulders as he ushers you to the living room where Robin and Vicky are dancing. Steve pulls you into the couch with him, whispering into your ear about how pretty you are, how long he has been waiting until you were ready to say anything. The sweet gestures make you blush again and again. When he asks to take you out for a date tomorrow night you tease him.

“I think I’m busy, yeah definitely busy.” A sheepish grin lands on your face and Steve’s face goes from concerned to mocking mad as he tickles your sides you squeal and use his full name as if that were to somehow deter him away from you. A noise is growing louder in the living room and it’s not the music— is someone clapping? You slowly open your eyes and take note of the very drunk barely standing Eddie Munson making his way towards you, eyes black as tar a look of maniacal madness plastered on his face.

“Well well, what do we have here?” Eddie slurs as he steps cautiously towards you. Steve stops tickling you and moves his face away from your hair, you can hear his heart beating against his chest as he moves you off of his lap and onto the couch, protective hands on your legs as puffs out his chest.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, panic rising from your chest.

“Well I just thought I would wish the happy new couple many years of blissful togetherness, looks like I missed the knighting ceremony— sorry about that.”

“Eddie, you’re drunk,” Steve interjects, “let me take you home”

“Not really my type Harrington,” Eddie says, looking only at you, “ ‘m not leaving until she talks to me, alone.”

“Come on, man. You’re making a scene and she’s uncomfortable.” Steve places a hand on your jittering leg squeezing it tight to let you know it’ll be okay, a gesture that Eddie doesn’t miss.

“Oh is she?” A false expression of concern clouds Eddie’s face, “how dare I? Turns out,” he says, inching closer and dropping down to stare into your eyes, your eyes burning from the aroma of whiskey on his breath. “I know how to make her very comfortable when it comes to that, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you!” You yell, slapping his face.

“Now now sweetheart, poor Steve doesn’t need to hear how vulgar that mouth can get, you usually leave that for a second date at least right?.”

Steve stands from the couch and is toe to toe with Eddie, both fuming. You try to shove your way in between them before they start swinging. Luckily Eddie stumbles backward creating space between them, you turn to Steve just as Dustin runs into the living room, holding Eddie back as he grins wildly, shoving devil horns onto his head and throwing his tongue out.

“I’m gonna go talk to him Steve, he’s clearly just upset, I’ll be okay. I promise.” Steve gives you a look of concern, his eyebrows knitted together.

“Be careful.” He says, eyes glaring into Eddie’s from across the room. You press a kiss into his cheek and squeeze his hand.

“Let’s go,” you scowl, grabbing Eddie by the elbow and dragging him out to the front yard.

“Ow!” Eddie whines, “Christ, cut it out, babe!”

“Okay first and foremost, enough with the pet names, they were cute when we were together but they’re not now, so knock it off.”

Eddie salutes you like a soldier saluting his lieutenant.

“Secondly, what the hell is your problem?”

“My problem?” Eddie preens, “what’s that supposed to mean? I don’t have a problem, I’m just a, a concerned friend is all.”

You scoff, “we are not friends, this is the only conversation we have had since you dumped me that night, and look at us—we’re fighting again! Last I knew you hated my guts, so don’t come at me with this ‘concerned friend’ bullshit because it’s nothing but a fucking lie.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Really? Could have fooled the fuck out of me when you made me quit Hellfire and told me to stop showing up to your shows. You forget they were my friends too! Did you even tell Wayne that we broke up? Cause every time I see him he looks more and more confused as to why I’m not around!”

That hit deep. “It’s not his business who I’m fucking.”

“So that’s all I was to you, huh?” Tongue in your cheek ready to slap his stupid perfect face, “You’re un-fucking-believable!”

“You look good tonight.”

“Shut up Eddie— don’t fucking start with me. I can’t believe you have the nerve to show up here and try to make an ass out of me, in front of my friends!” You poke a finger into his chest and glare up at him.

“Oh, now look who’s all high and mighty, well I’m sorry, your excellency, to interrupt the clever mind of King Steve—but I didn’t come here to fucking win you over. Dustin wanted to be here so I drove him. I didn’t even know you would be here! First person I saw was Steve Harrington and he was all over you. So yeah, it hurt to see you move on with someone else.”

“I’m only doing exactly what you told me to do!” You can’t help the tears from falling, “or did you forget that part?” You close your eyes remembering the way his mouth moved the way the rain fell against his leather jacket, how it felt sticking to your shirt soaking you to the bone. “You were the one who told me to find someone else, so I did, just so happens that you were around to see it happening. We aren’t even dating— that was our first kiss.” You wipe your tears as they fall, pulling away from Eddie as he tries to mimick your motions, his hand falling down to his jeans.

“You fucking think it’s easy for me to see you with him?” Eddie asks, looking at you through his lashes, “I felt like someone shot me in the chest when I watched him kiss you.”

“What did you expect? Me to wait around for you after you basically told me to go fuck myself?” You yank at the hair closest to your scalp, pulling in frustration, “you dumped me Eddie! Not the other way around.” You’re yelling at this point, so beyond pissed off that he’s making this seem like it’s your fault for the way he acted.

“Did you act like it was me? Wish it was my lips on yours instead of him?”

“Grow up, Eddie.”

“Oh come on baby,” his voice dripping seductively, “don’t you remember what it felt like to have my lips on your neck,” he sweeps your hair off your shoulder, “or when I was between your legs, making you come with my t—“

“Don’t— do not finish that sentence! You think insulting me while you’re hammered and a half ass apology is going to fix what you did? Think the fuck again.” You turn on your heel in a huff and try to head back into the house.

“I know your body better than any tweedle dick in Hawkins ever could, sweetheart.”

“God you are so fucking infuriating! Here you are again, acting like I ended this, like I was the one who ripped your heart out that night and stomped all over it. Leaving you to walk home in the rain. I fucking hate you Eddie Munson! I hate everything about you— now leave me the hell alone!” You turn on your heel, huffing as you walk the sloped grassy hill past a blacked out Jonathan Byers.

“Baby please,” Eddie has you by the waist pulling you closer to him. “Please just hear me out, I’m sorry, okay? I fucked up. That’s the only thing I’m good at is fucking everything up. I’m sorry I said those things when we broke up—I’m sorry for being an asshole tonight. I just—seeing you with him, letting you go— is a pain I’ve never felt before. And I’m sure the bottle of whiskey I drank isn’t helping that.”

You fish in your pockets for your keys, realizing Robin drove, “Give me your keys, I’ll drive you home.”

Climbing into the driver's seat of the clunky hunk of metal, you are met with the all too familiar scent of him. The cheap cologne you gifted him for his birthday last year, Marlboro reds, the spice of his deodorant that he kept in the glove box, all hitting you at once. Turning the key you press your foot to the accelerator to give it a little oomf to turn over.

“You gotta give it a little—”

“I know. Not my first time driving it.”

“Sorry, forgot I guess.” The van roars to life and you flick the lights on, Eddie is leaning with his head on the headrest, one long leg thrown across the dash the other stuffed under the glove compartment. You speed down the road, heading towards Forest Hills Trailer Park. Silence is golden but not if you’re Eddie Munson, “remember when you almost fought that guy at The Hideout?”

A chuckle breaks from your lips sighing at the memory, “he was talking shit about Corroded Coffin, specifically you.”

“He was at least 6ft 8, 400 lbs, a fucking caveman,” a smile forms on his mouth, showing his pearly whites, “he could have easily beaten up the entire bar, and you just stood there poking him in the chest giving him an earful.”

“And I’d do it again, too.” you smile widely back at Eddie.

“I fell in love with you that night,” he admits, “I already knew I was but that just put the nail in the coffin for me.”

Your smile fades at the memories of Eddie once being in love with you, being yours.

“Can I ask you something?” He blurts.

“You already did, but go on.”

“Why Harrington?” He’s facing you eyes droopy with drunkenness as he fiddles with a lighter. “Out of all the ass clowns of Hawkins, why him?”

“I told you, we aren’t dating, we just kissed. We got close after the— a month ago, and— why does it matter?”

“Easy..”

“No, I'm being serious. Why does it matter to you that much?”

“There’s road construction up ahead, take it easy!”

“Don’t change the subj— “

“Fuck! Fuck! The bridge is ou—”

Eddie wakes up a week later in the hospital. He suffered a concussion and broke his right femur, 4 broken ribs and a broken nose. His spleen had ruptured as well. Doctors thought he wouldn’t wake up due to the severity of the accident. The first thing he asked about was you. Dustin couldn’t tell him. He tried but when the machines hooked up to Eddie started beeping and he started ripping IV’s out of his arm— the nurses ran in to push more pain meds, making him drowsy again.

It was Wayne who ended up telling him what had happened. The van nose dived into the creek bed, the van’s exterior was nothing compared to the jagged rocks and old slabs of concrete at the bottom. The force of the fall crushed the front of it like a pop can. Ambulance crews from 3 counties came to assist with the crash, nobody on either crew had seen anything like it before. He was lucky to be alive, Wayne had said.

“Wayne— don’t bullshit me, where is she?”

The warble of Wayne’s lower lip was enough answers for Eddie. He shook his head until a headache blurred his vision. He threw anything around him he could get his hands on, ripping every single IV out of his arms, punching the cast on his leg, screaming until his lungs gave out and his ribs ached even more. He was sedated. Sent to the psych ward where he was kept on an involuntary 72 hour hold. Refusing to eat, refusing to talk to anyone. He was released into Wayne’s care. Roane County Hospital was thankful to get rid of him.

The Hellfire boys visited, each giving their condolences. Heads hung low like the dwarfs from Snow White after she bites the poisoned apple and is in a death/sleep limbo. Robin and Steve came next, offering to take Eddie to see your headstone. The ride home was quiet as Eddie’s tears fell silently. A red eyed Robin rubbed Steve’s back as he put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry.” Eddie finally said, “I didn’t mean for this to happen, I— ” his voice breaks as he clutches for sanity.

“It’s not your fault,” Steve muffled through his hands, “it was an accident Eddie, could have happened to any of us.”

Eddie’s grief wore him down, he barely left his room, his senior year came and went, returning to school was too much for him, the anxiety creeping through his veins surging panic anytime he was somewhere you would have been, should have been. If only he had drove that night, maybe he would have been dead instead of you. He would gladly take your place, nothing here for him, you had friends, family.

He found the only solace he could.

“I don’t usually make house calls but I guess I’ll do it for you Munson,” Rick croaked into the phone.

The high was fast, his breathing evened and he fell asleep quickly. The addiction was even faster, hitting him like a freight train against the rails, he was a shell of his former self.

One night it went too far.

The taste of grease coated fingers in his mouth jars his eyes awake, vomit fills his mouth as he hurls all over the shower. The beads of water beating down on his chest as Wayne places his fingers into his mouth again, making him puke again and again, the long coiled cord of the telephone dragging and bouncing across the bathroom linoleum as Wayne holds the receiver with his shoulder wedged against his ear.

That was eight years ago. A night that scared the absolute shit out of Wayne Munson and aged him at least 15 years. Eddie had been sober since that day, making a vow to himself and to you to live for the both of you. He did escape Hawkins, taking Corroded Coffin to the top of the billboard charts, and making Wayne quit that God awful factory job and go on tour with him, never to lift a finger for anyone but himself again. Tonight was the anniversary of your death. Corroded Coffin was performing a memorial show in your honor at the Hideout.

Eddie addresses the crowd, “this is for the sweetest girl I’ve ever known, she’s gone but never forgotten, living on through the people who knew her and loved her…” a teary eyed Steve wipes his eyes beneath his glasses, holding Nancy tight against him, resting his head atop of hers. “…sweetheart, this is for you.”

[hephaestn]

It’s been a long time since Steve left Hawkins behind, since he left the summer of 1985 tightly locked in a corner of his mind.

He was happy in New York City, loved his apartment with Robin, loved the friends he had made here, breathed and exhaled warmth for this city which had so caringly taken him in. But, he felt hollow some days, especially the days where that lock would loosen and the memories would come back.

They were happy memories, for the most part. He cherished those ones, the ones which still made him smile to himself in the middle of the street. Though, when the bad ones hit, it was still unbearable.

He couldn’t think of Billy, of the way he could still remember the taste of his lips, the shape of his waist underneath his hand. He couldn’t think of how Billy left him one night with only a note to remember him by.

I had to. I’m sorry.

Those five words were still imprinted in Steve’s mind, forever echoing even after being torn apart and thrown into the trash that very morning.

Steve doesn’t really know why today his thoughts have traveled back in time to sunny days and endless love making nights. He needs a distraction, whichever it might be.

That’s why he accepts to join Robin and her coworkers for dinner. They’ve chosen a tiny place which had just recently opened in Greenwich Village. It’s cozy; wooden furniture and fairy lights, black leather chairs and artsy painted walls. Steve likes it, feels calm in it.

All of Robin’s coworkers are nice, they keep up the conversation, always making sure Steve feels included, which he greatly appreciates. Dinner is incredible, probably one of the most tasteful meals he’s had in… years.

As a starter the waiter brings out an assortment of bruchette, each one topped by ingredients from all the parts of the world; Italy, Greece, Mexico, Thailand, Morocco. Steve can’t help but lick his fingers after each bite.

Main course is hearty; a fresh sea urchin pasta. It tastes like the sea, like the infinite summers he’d spend as a child in Positano with his parents.

They get asked if they’d like a second course which everyone at the table is quick to deny since they’re all full and ready to leave some room for dessert. The waiter tells them the last course and liquors will be presented to them by the chef which lifts whispers of curiosity amongst them all.

Steve is enjoying himself, laughing with Robin as she goes into extreme detail about her last failed date night. The thoughts have gone away, he’s free of them again, for a while at least. Until he sees him—white chef jacket, tight around his arms, his hair is tightly pulled back, leaving his face to shine under the warm light of the restaurant.

Steve’s vision goes blurry for a second, disconcerted by the shock, by the confusion of if this is really happening or not.

“Robin,” Billy says, and there’s a long pause. “Steve.”

He can feel Robin’s eyes on him, Billy’s eyes on him, but he can’t look at either of them, instead he buries his face in the glass of wine in front of him. The world seems to be crumbling around him, every person becoming faceless, every light in the room becoming distorted. His heart is pounding incessantly, looking for a way out of his chest.

Steve doesn’t really know how or why he does it but he looks up and meets Billy’s gaze. And, there’s something in his eyes, a mix of sorrow and longing Steve wasn’t prepared to face.

“So, uh.” Billy clears his throat. “Here we have, the Sailing Lovers. Eclair filled with a rose and elderberry crème pat with a glaze of Madagascar vanilla bean, accompanied by an Amaretto liqueur.”

Steve is entranced as Billy explains dessert, too in his own mind to notice the glisten in Billy’s eyes as he makes his way back into the kitchen.

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @somethingclevermahogony!

OC Questionaire

My questions:

What is one embarassing memory from your childhood that you can't shake?

What would you take with you if you were trapped on a desert island for one week?

What is your favorite animal?

Hm, let's do the Outcasts quartet for this one

.

1. What is one embarassing memory from your childhood that you can't shake?

Izjik: "Oh spirits, there was this one time back when I was a kid, I'd just started my apprenticeship as a hunter for my enclave, and one of our patrols found a drakeling carcass. Now, that's a pretty big deal - a drakeling will feed the enclave for weeks - and this one was really fresh, as it'd just been killed in the spring rut. So, Dzako - my old mentor - decided it'd be a good thing for me to learn to butcher it. ...Let's just say I didn't listen super well to where he told me the acid glands were. I'm lucky I didn't lose my hands, but damn if everyone wasn't mad at me. A whole week of fresh meat, gone in one mislaid swipe of a cocky teen's knife..."

Sepo: "Ugh, just one? I wasn't the most attentive child, so be it romantic or malevolent attention, I usually didn't notice. There was this one boy - I was maybe eleven at the time - who kept leaving notes in my bag. I'd usually toss them out, but the one I happened to read held a place and time to meet. I asked Saius about it, and he said the other boy probably wanted to hang out because he wished to be friends. I thought that was stupid, but Saius pressured me into going. A day later, I went to this random park, and turned out, it was not a friendly invite. Apparently, according to the other boy, I had 'marred his honor' by implying his sister was a prostitute and then repeatedly ignoring his confrontational notes. To be perfectly honest, I don't remember saying that about his sister, but then again, I might’ve not meant anything by it. Growing up in a high-end brothel tends to warp a child's view of things. Anyways, long story short, the other boy beat my ass. I never let Saius live that one down, even when he shaved the other boy's head in the dead of the night for me."

Twenari: "I mean, I'm twelve, so I have some more childhood to go, but I do remember one incident from when I was very little. I was probably around seven, so before I'd started working for my mother. She and I were on the deck of The Promise and I was showing her the magic I'd been learning. I'd just figured out the ice sigil and I was terribly excited. Excited enough that I ended up freezing her shoes to the deck. Imagine it - the most terrifying smuggler to ever stalk the Janazi Sea, swearing up a storm as her seven-year-old giggles because her mom's shoes are stuck. Yeah, I'm really not surprised my training doubled after that."

Djek: "Gods, this must've been... my first year on the street? No, my second, cause I'd had some teeth knocked out by then. I was out hunting rats with my little shiv. Fayuki rats are good eating, I'll have you know. Nice and fat, but as mean as dogs when you have them cornered. I was chasing this really chunky one through the alleyways, and I was super intent. Not only were rats food, but there was this guy I knew who'd buy the pelts off of you for two whole tuec. I chased this thing for almost a quarter mile before it squeezed its fat behind into a building. Of course, I followed it, not realizing that the building it had ran into was a fancy boutique. Yeah, you can imagine. A whole flock of uppity ladies started screaming as I ran out of a storage closet after this massive godsdamned rat. Someone got a hose from somewhere. Don't even know why they had one in the first place, to be honest. They tried to force me out with the cold water, but frankly, that was the first bath I'd had in months, so I didn't mind. It was the dye they threw that was kinda fucked up. I caught the rat in the end, but when I turned in that pelt, it and I were both splashed in a lovely permanent spring green hair dye. The kids on the street called my Greenie for months."

2. What would you take with you if you were trapped on a desert island for one week?

Izjik: "My washava. It's a weapon and a tool, great for hunting and trapping. It's been a trusty companion of mine for many shitty situations."

Sepo: "Only a week? Some books. I can drink seawater and fish for food in my siren form, so if survival is no issue, I'd love a quiet week to catch up on my reading."

Twenari: "A boat. Then I wouldn't be there for a week. Duh."

Djek: "Cucumbers. I think those count as food and water, so I bet I could survive off those for a week."

3. What is your favorite animal?

Izjik: "I like a lot of animals, but probably leopard seals are my favorite. Twenari told me about them and I'd love to see one in real life!"

Sepo: "Landhorse, but just her though. All other horses can get fucked."

Twenari: "This is going to sound stupid, but seagulls. They're so fun to watch fly and play, and if you see one over open ocean, that means land is close by, which is always welcome indeed."

Djek: "Pine martins. You ever seen one of those little bastards? They're just so damn cute!"

.

I'll tag @mk-writes-stuff @tryingtowritestuff24 @sergeantnarwhalwrites @bunnymermaidwrites and anyone else who wants in :)

Your questions are:

1. What is (or would be) your favorite subject in school?

2. Have you ever played a prank on someone?

3. If you could swap bodies with anyone you know for a day, who would it be?

[elmundodeflor]

If there's anything Levi Ackerman's learnt, is that things never go as expected.

He was born in a place where every day he was put up to challenge. He had lost his mom and friends.

He found it ironic— some kind of tragedy one almost wants to laugh at. Each time he thought he could finally sit back, get comfortable, relax, life showed him how wrong he was for it.

"Farlan and Isabel, right?", Hanji's voice makes him startle. Their words turn to drawings in the air— figments of ice that spiral through the night. "Were they your siblings?"

Levi shrugs it off. It's been a year since that day, but the memories still make his chest hurt. Like a wound that has yet to get closed.

"None of your business.", he says. Hanji looks at him through the corner of their eye, then lets out a soft giggle. He never understood them; — how they could still be light-hearted in a world so heavy. He was harsh and closed-off. They could have gotten offended at him for his distance— shouted at him for being this cold. But they hadn't. They hadn't and, instead, they could only graze him bright smiles in turn.

"You know...", they speak. They're in the headquarters' rooftop, watching the snow. It's New Years Eve; the first one where they can see the yard turn this pristine shade of white. "My father used to tell me that, upon celebrations, our big, big family table didn't start where he sat, nor ended where I was sitting."

Levi raises a brow. He can see their hair, poking out of their hat, dusted off with snowflakes. The slightest tinge of pink that burns on the bridge of their nose.

Hanji continues.

"He said that the table kept going, and going, and going, until it wrapped around the world and appeared right behind him.", they say. "That everyone we knew was sitting there besides us. Grandpa, my mom... even Farlan and Isabel could be there, too!"

Levi scoffs. He can frame the picture in his mind, actually; vivid, and wild, and colorful. He didn't know Hanji's family, but he imagines them, as well; all with their same brown eyes and glasses. The table's filled with food; warm rice, roast-beef, potatoe soup. He can taste the sweet and spice on his tongue, smell the veil of smoke that comes from the kitchen. His mom sits next to him, graceful as she's always been. She wears a white shirt, a silver necklace ducked underneath.

He turns to her and smiles; a small tug at his lips that resembles hers. He's dying to tell her something, to ask her questions, to introduce her to Hanji.

"It's nice, I guess...", they say, once more. They're leaning on the railings, staring over at the skies. "Dad used to say that, in order to meet everyone again, we had to pretend that we were little kids. That it was important for us to believe in magic..."

Levi stays silent; his eyes closed when the wirlwind blows. He had always expected for miracles, back when Kuchel would return home late. He had always hoped for some force to make her warm again. To fill the tiny holes that'd crack his heart.

Now, little there's left of that child he once was. But he can play pretend, as Hanji's father would say. He can see, instead of just look.

Farlan and Isabel bicker over who'll take the spot next to him. There's a bouquet of flowers, front and center, surrounded by dry leafs and candles. He can hear Erwin's voice, as he pours up some wine for him. He can watch over at his squad, who he's proud of, all passing down the plates and drinks.

It's a sight he grows fond of. An image that's warm and makes him bubble up with joy. He feels less alone, now that he's allowed himself to believe. That he's let kid-Levi have this one wish turn true.

"Hey", Hanji elbows him, almost as if to wake him from his daydream.

He blinks at them, still dizzy, and his breaths swirl into white clouds. Now, they'll go downstairs to have dinner with everyone else, and there won't be roast beef or potatoe soup. The table won't have fresh flowers. There probably won't even be wine. Still, he thinks, Erwin will be there. And Mike. And Nanaba. And his squad, too.

They'll light candles, and there will be a trail of smoke coming from the kitchen. And so, when the clock hits twelve and everyone cheers, he swears, he'll believe in magic. He'll be a child all over. He'll see, and not just look.

He'll sit next to his mother, and ask her the questions he'd been dying to. He'll let Farlan and Isabel take turns on the chair besides him. He'll have champagne with Hanji's dad.

It's okay with him, really— that he'll only get to have this, a small portion of them, for the rest of his life. He's finally come to terms with one's own, human fatality. Erwin's the big brother he's never had, Hanji has that same grace of his mother's.

"Beep-boop", they wave a hand in front of him. "Earth calling Levi?"

He rolls his eyes at them.

"What is it now?"

They pout, then drag him by the sleeves of his parka.

"Have you even been listening? We have to get going!"

Levi stares at them, — at how their glasses have almost frosted. Petra tells Oluo that his cravat's ridiculous. Moblit's rushing over with the food. There's the clink of porcelain and the smell of bread. It all floats up to the roof, where they both have been, then fades off with the snow.

He's aware, this year there won't be dessert, or champagne, or his mother, either. But he has this, instead— these people he considers family. A big, big group of misfits that somehow fit together.

He feels less alone, now that he's allowed himself to believe, that love can take shape in such cruel world. This is what kid-Levi would have wanted, he tells himself. The warmth. The company.

"Let's go, then.", he says, and Hanji laughs at him, dragging him further down the stairs.

Truth is, spending New Years like this— being a Scout— comes as a complete surprise to him. That this isn't at all how he expected things to be.

Then again, he figures, however, he's alright with it. This, — Hanji, the family he's found, being a Scout, even—, is the one choice he won't ever regret.

[wyattjohnston]

need a little company - nick blankenburg

summary: morgan hasn't seen nick in years and her strongest memories of him are the crush he had on her in college. when he gets signed to columbus after years apart, morgan realises that maybe she should have given him a chance.

chapter word count: 700

n/a < table of contents > next

Living and working in Downtown Columbus hadn’t been Morgan’s goal as a kid growing up in Commercial Point, Ohio. She didn’t think she ever had much of a goal besides ‘Get Out of Commercial Point’, so at least she could tick that off her list.

Deciding to go out for dinner was an unwise decision for her bank account but not for her mental well-being, so she detoured on the way home from work—so much later than she should have been finishing—to her favourite Italian restaurant.

It had been a long time since Morgan felt embarrassed about dining alone, and the restaurant had come to expect it of her. She sat at a private little table at the back of the restaurant, ordered crab linguini, put in her earphones and opened up TikTok. It was the same as any other time before.

Except for what happened when she was walking out of the restaurant, and a hand wrapped around her wrist as she passed a table. She flinched, pulling her arm back to herself as she spun around, taking out an earphone as did.

“Morgan. Hey,” the guy who grabbed her wrist said, looking at least a little apologetic for having caught her attention in the way he had.

Morgan nodded and greeted him as she had done for the two years they’d run in similar circles: “Freshman.”

The guy he was with snorted out a laugh and earned himself a glare.

“I graduate in a couple weeks, you know,” ‘Freshman’ retorted, amused but happy. “You can probably call me something else by now. Blanks. Nick.”

The other guy at the table, who Morgan knew as Kent Johnson only because she was into hockey, excused himself, telling Morgan she could have the seat for a minute if she wanted—she stayed standing even if it meant having to step closer to the table every so often so that somebody could pass.

“So,” she said slowly to Nick, “did you follow me or the sick looking kid to Columbus?”

He looked back towards where Kent had disappeared to and laughed, before saying, “Neither. I got scouted.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, lowered her head and her voice so she could say, “Sorry it was to the shithole that is Ohio.”

“It’s not that bad,” he said, an all too familiar quirk at the corner of his mouth.

Morgan straightened up, uncrossed her arms and shrugged, “I suppose it might be okay if you live in the rich parts.”

Nick’s brow pulled together in confusion, and he played with his hands on top of the table before gesturing vaguely out the door to say, “I’m staying in a hotel near the arena.”

She wasn’t all that surprised. He’d be in Columbus for about two minutes before the season ended.

Kent re-joined them, his eyes flickering between the two of them as if he hadn’t expected Morgan to still be standing at the table.

“It was good to see you again, Freshman,” Morgan said to Nick before speaking to Kent, “and actual freshman. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”

She was halfway to putting her earphone back in her ear when she saw Nick’s mouth open, so she kept it out to wait for him to speak.

“Do you want—” he cleared his throat. “We can hang out?”

It was easy to wish he hadn’t said anything at all. The hopeful look on his face made it difficult to even think about what she would say next. She just knew she had to say it.

“I don’t think so.” When his hopeful expression immediately disappeared, she tacked on, “Sorry. It’s not personal. I just—I can’t—It’s not a good time to let new people into my life.”

“I’m not new,” he argued, his laugh much sadder than she’d been expecting.

“Fresh—Nick—not right now.”

He nodded silently. Morgan nearly changed her mind right then and there but she held strong, putting her earphone back in her ear and finally getting out of the restaurant. On her way out, she tried not to kick out the stiffness in her knee until she was well out the door.

[bluemidnightmelody]

lover/fighter - my favorite moments

[Little snippets from my Finnick/OC longfic that are stuck in my head]

From Chapter 43 - My crying hero

Finnick licks his lips and sighs softly before facing the icy sea of her eyes. "It's not quite over, but for us it is," he explains. It is both doom and salvation. He constantly longs for it to finally be over, but the end always means defeat in a way, a failure for him.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry." Rhea suddenly seems to forget her own worries and all that remains is sympathy. Even if his wording was more than vague, it can only be interpreted in one way. Hector has died. If she was feeling better, she should have realized it sooner, because if he was still a mentor, he wouldn't be here, he would be fulfilling his duties.

"Yes, me too," he replies weakly. It came as such a surprise after he'd spent the last three days preoccupied with nothing but Hector. Of course, he always takes his task seriously, but this time the fact that he needed to somehow distract himself from Rhea was also a factor. To stop his thoughts from running amok in his head, he poured all his energy into Hector and convinced himself more than ever that he would get the boy out of the arena alive. It all looked good until the wind suddenly changed.

"It only happened just now, and I couldn't bear to go back. Then somehow I ended up here." He has to turn his head away as his self-control threatens to go. Saying it out loud makes it so much worse, plus the overwhelming exhaustion and still very fresh emotional stress from the service he's done for Ambrose.

The only person who has seen him cry in years is Mags, but that could be about to change as his eyes are already getting moist. Even in front of Annie he pulls himself together, because there's no way she needs to see him like this, but at home in District 4 it's usually easier than here.

Otherwise, he manages to escape into some dark corner, at least for such weak moments. Now he has neither the opportunity nor the strength to run away while Rhea pulls him close this time. The result is that they are now sitting intertwined on the sofa, with her half-sitting on his lap, hugging him to her chest and gently running her fingers through the soft hair above his neck as he is wrapped around her, both to keep her from falling off and to keep himself grounded.

"It's not your fault," she whispers somewhere near his ear. She doesn't need to know what's really going on in his head, because the guilt he's radiating is almost palpable. Somewhere in the back of her mind is the question of where exactly he came from when he says he didn't want to go back. What could have prompted him to leave the Victory Building despite the mentoring, especially while Hector's situation is uncertain? The answer is pretty obvious and only makes it worse.

Finnick can just about hold back the emotional outburst but balances on the very edge of a ledge. He feels his fluttering breath, which he can't calm, and stammers with difficulty, "But it kind of is." His tribute needed him, and he wasn't there.

Rhea bites her lip, and she feels the trembling in his back as she strokes it gently in an attempt to calm him. The worst state she has seen him in so far was when she had to rescue him from that nightclub, but tonight probably supersedes that memory. When she reviews it all again, it's actually amazing how often she's seen him in such weak and vulnerable moments, but he's never been as close to her as he is now. It's not that she felt any less sorry for him back then, it's just different now.

Now and here, she has to admit to herself once and for all that there is nothing professional about this relationship anymore. There is not a shred of distance left, which is proven by the fact that Finnick is now emotionally closer to her than any of her friends. That doesn't mean they're any less important to her, it's just not the same.

"No. It isn't. You tried to save them and if you couldn't, no one else could have," she replies with honest conviction. Anyone would be lucky to have him as a mentor, as distorted as that may be, because she knows by now that there's probably nothing he wouldn't do to fulfill this task. She may not like it, but it is a fact that he will never be able to blame himself for not living up to his responsibilities.

"You are amazing. You have no idea how much."

They have already strayed so far from the path of a healthy relationship between doctor and patient that it makes no sense to hold on to it any longer. She'll happily leave the field entirely to Linus because, if she's honest, he's probably already doing most of her job as far as Finnick is concerned. It's certainly better this way, because otherwise it could all go in an unpleasant direction very quickly. On paper, everything can remain as it is, but the simple truth is that this has become something thoroughly personal and there's no point in trying to put any useless labels on it. There is no definition and therefore no standard procedure or behavioral protocol to follow or hold them back.

Finnick slowly understands what has actually brought him here. Getting the comfort he craves feels good and there seems nothing wrong with burying his face in her soft sweater. It's nice to be treated so tenderly, the way she plays with his hair, just the way he likes it, the way she smells so sweetly of vanilla, just like her whole home. "At the risk of coming across as conceited, can you please say that again?"

It doesn't sound the slightest bit conceited. It just sounds like someone who desperately needs some words of encouragement to avoid succumbing to the feeling of worthlessness that haunts them. She used to sound like that herself, and probably still does from time to time. "You're amazing, and trustworthy, and selfless, and anyone who thinks you wouldn't have done everything for this is an idiot," she says openly, and with enough emphasis to make it clear that these are not just empty words. "That also includes you, by the way. So, if you don't trust yourself, then believe me. I promised not to lie, and I know you've really done absolutely everything." And she comforts herself with the fact that it's really not a lie, even if she doesn't dare to speak the whole truth.

He has done truly everything, even if it means throwing away his own self-esteem for it. It's admirable in the most horrible way, what he willingly sacrifices for a game he knows no one can ever win. He deserves so much better than what this life is forcing on him.

She can feel it on her shoulder even before she hears it in his voice. Finnick has lost the battle with himself and can't stop the tears dampening the fabric of her sweater. "You're not so bad at this anymore," he replies, even if he has trouble getting the words out because of the lump in his throat.

Rhea remembers the conversation in District 4 when she told him how bad she was at comforting people. The truth is that it depends on the reason why someone feels bad. She's actually very empathetic, it's just that when it comes to topics where her eloquence fails, she sometimes looks a bit lost. But it is much more significant that he still remembers this. She doesn't realize it for the first time, but he seems to remember everything she's ever said to him, and she likes it when people can listen, really listen. "Yeah, and I don't know if you can tell, but I'm not even at my best right now," she remarks in an attempt to lighten the mood. He's usually so good at it, but today she has to take it from him.

It actually elicits a small laugh from Finnick, even if it almost sounds like a sob. "You've been practicing in secret, haven't you?" he asks, and you can detect the tiniest bit of amusement in his voice beneath the heavy layers of sadness, but that's enough for now.

"Just for you. You can feel honored," she counters the assertion with a light laugh. She can laugh again, she feels so much better, even though tears are now welling up in her eyes as well. It's so easy to make her cry at the moment, but this time she's not even sure if she's crying because she's sad or if something else has triggered it. What does it really matter?

Links to all the chapters: lover/fighter - Chapter Index

fanfiction on ao3 and wattpad

[cobbssecondbelt]

Dincember 2023 - Day 1: Snow

There has been a time, in an era long past, where Din loved snow. It was a rare sight on Aq Vetina, an event exceptional enough to ignite wonder within the child and the elderly alike. 

Din remembered the spectacle they were given on one particular Life Day morning, when the entire valley had been draped in a thick white blanket. He had seen frost coating the grass fields before, nearly every morning during the cold season, but this was a completely different picture Mother Nature had had yet to paint. The lands of the familial farm and the mountains above were sparkling under the shy sun like a sea of diamonds so fine they could be worn by fairies. If his mother was still here, the story of how he was so obnubilated by the scenery that he refused breakfast and forgot about his unopened presents would be one she’d retell often. She would probably have the same smile upturning only the right corner of her mouth and the same gleam in her eyes that she had that morning, watching her only son be so amazed that he might finally begin to believe a little bit in magic.

It wouldn’t be long before the fresh snow would turn sloshy under the hooves of their cattle, and Din almost wanted to pull his father back inside by his pant legs so he wouldn’t startle awake the perfectly peaceful life outside with his footsteps.

When his grumbling stomach eventually pulled him away from the window, he hugged his mother and declared this was the best Life Day ever, unaware it would be their last. 

Over time, snow would rather rhyme with hostile planets, busted ships and hellish monsters. The cold started to make an old back injury ache. Grogu didn’t like snow and would get upset whenever his feet got wet, so Din stopped bringing him along on his travels that involved frosty climates. Sometimes, the memory of that Life Day morning would resurface from an obscure corner of his mind, the scene clear as day but his mother’s face now a blurry mirage, and he would replay it in his head over and over again, trying to remember her features. Every time, the snow got shinier.

For those who prefer to read on Ao3:

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Chapter 9

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

If you like this fic, please remember to reblog so that others may also see it!

Pairing: Melot x OFC (Tamsyn)

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: Angst, some more angst. Shenanigans. Historical inaccuracies, probably.

A ray of sunlight fell on your face, waking you up from your slumber. It irked you, at first, as you had been in the middle of quite the pleasant dream. Slowly, you became aware of the hands on your thigh. By now, you knew they were hers without having to even open your eyes to look at her – although you could always tell by the fact she was singing. Today, however, she was silent, which struck you as odd. Carefully, you opened your eyes, groaning as the sunlight hurt them.

“Tamsyn?” you muttered, your voice steadier and stronger than it had been a few days before. “Why aren’t you singing? I like it when you sing.” As your eyes got used to the sun, you saw her face clearly, her eyes full of sorrow, and the trail of a single tear running down her cheek.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said. It was always strange to hear her speak to you like that, but you knew she had no other choice when in the company of others.

As you pondered the possible reasons for her apparent grief, she examined the wound on your chest. Over the past days it had become something you looked forward to; her touch soft as she carefully bandaged the cut, fingers always in contact with your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they trailed over your exposed torso. The sensations could scarcely hold a candle to what you felt when she wrapped the wound on your thigh with clean bindings, but at least there was no need to concentrate so hard on whatever either gruesomely bloody or excruciatingly dull memory you could find. Sometimes, you wondered if she had ever dared to lift the covers… It was only in your sweetest dreams, much like the one you had just woken up from, that her hands wandered beneath the covers to take care of another one of your body’s aching needs.

“My love?” you tried again. “Please tell me what’s bothering you.”

“My lord… I couldn’t,” she replied to your dismay, “it would be too bold.”

“Oh, child, speak freely,” your mother said from the corner of the room with a kind smile on her lips, “you will miss him.” Her words shocked you. Miss you? Why on earth would she have to?

“What does she mean? Will you not be here tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord,” she muttered, “you are healing well. Your mother will resume your care.”

“Why can’t you do it, my love?” you asked, your voice a plea that fell on deaf ears as both Tamsyn and your mother shook their heads.

“It wouldn’t be proper,” she resumed, “you won’t see me again until you get out of this room, I’m afraid.” There was something devious about her voice that you almost missed, but it lingered in her eyes after she had finished speaking, which is where you caught it.

“Am I well enough to get out of bed?” you asked defiantly.

“I see no reason why not,” she answered carefully, “so long as you don’t overwork yourself. Your leg might bother you for a while, still.” You scoffed at the suggestion. Surely whatever pain it would cause, could be no worse than what you had felt before.

Tristan stepped into the room, interrupting your conversation. Unfortunately, there was something you needed to discuss with him, which required you to ask both Tamsyn and your mother to leave. In the doorway, Tamsyn turned around to you once more, and waved goodbye, before being ushered out by your mother.

“Brother,” you said earnestly to him, “thank you.” If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t have made it out of the ambush.

“There’s no need to thank me,” he replied, “besides, it was as much Lowen’s doing as it was mine. You know that.” Indeed, you knew, and he touched on precisely the subject you wished to discuss with him. The events of the night you were injured were fresh in your mind – along with the horrible memories of the days that followed, when you had wondered in earnest whether you would make it home alive at all.

“One night, when we were away, he said he had asked Morwenna’s father for her hand in marriage,” you said.

Tristan seemed surprised by this news. “I wasn’t aware they were engaged to be wed,” he said, eyebrows drawing together in a frown, which deepened as you shook your head.

“They aren’t. He was told he can’t marry her. Apparently, her father wants a better match for her.” Tristan wasn’t daft – although Beryan would readily disagree with you on that, calling you at least as much of a fool in the process – and he caught on to what you were trying to say.

“I don’t believe your uncle has inquired as to what happened,” he said pensively.

“We should tell him it was…”

Just as you were finishing your sentence, your uncle stepped into your bedchamber.

“We should tell who what was whom?” he asked, an eyebrow raised in suspicion. To be quite fair: it must have looked suspicious. Ever since you were boys, you had both easily been able to keep the looks of guilt off your faces when you got caught doing something you ought not to have been doing, and the same applied today. Of course, that only meant that now, everything you did looked suspicious.

“Tell you about the part Lowen played in keeping me from dying, uncle,” you said, looking at Tristan. Your uncle had always valued the opinion of your brother more than he had yours. At first, this had angered you, but now that it absolved you from a host of responsibilities, you didn’t mind as much. You groaned as you attempted to sit up straighter, your shoulder and chest stinging as you put weight on your arm. Meanwhile, Tristan recounted the events of the evening, perhaps exaggerating Lowen’s role in the situation a little, but not enough to give rise to any further suspicion from the king.

“I assume you have a reason for telling me this,” king Marke said as he shifted his gaze from Tristan, to you, and back again.

“We do, uncle,” you said through gritted teeth, as the pain in your shoulder hadn’t faded completely. “You see, our friend seems to be quite taken with the lady Morwenna.”

“Her father doesn’t seem to be too fond of the match because he holds the same station as her own brother, Pyran,” Tristan continued.

“A man seeking a favourable marriage for his daughter seems no cause of concern,” your uncle spoke, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips as he realized where you were going with your little scheme.

“And, naturally, it isn’t,” you said, “were it not for the fact that her father turned Lowen away when he asked for her hand in marriage.”

“Right…” your uncle chuckled.

“It’s sad,” Tristan said.

“Very much so,” you added, looking at your uncle questioningly and examining his face carefully. “Is there anything you can do for him, your majesty?” As careful as you were to not put too much emphasis on the end of your sentence, your uncle gave you a look that was meant as a warning so clearly it scared you a bit.

“I will take your request under advisement,” he finally answered. Both you and Tristan considered it the win it truly was: grants of nobility were quite rare, and for king Marke to even consider extending the honour to Lowen was more than you could have reasonably expected when you made your query.

Four days went by without a sign of your beloved, and you had almost begun to fall into your old rhythm of chores and errands when one day, Morwenna appeared by your house.

“Morwenna?” You were unable to conceal your surprise at seeing her there in the middle of the day. Surely, she must have had some chores of her own? “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Quite the contrary,” she said, brimming with joy. “The king has granted Lowen a title! And a plot of land to call his. I heard he has plans to ask my father for my hand! Tonight!” She took your hands in hers, and as she did, you noticed she was trembling. Now, you weren’t usually one to believe court rumours, but as the source of these tales was Elowen, you dared to assume it was the truth.

“That’s fantastic!” you exclaimed, and the two of you stood there for a while, until your mother came outside to ask if there was a way for you to communicate with less enthusiastic shrieking – only to join in your celebration when Morwenna told her the news as well.

“Well, shouldn’t the both of you be on your way to lady Beryan and lady Elowen?” your mother said.

“My chores, mother,” you started, but she waved at you dismissively.

“You won’t be living with us much longer, my dearest,” she sighed, “I might as well get used to doing these things myself.”

“Mother, are you certain?” you asked.

“Leave, now,” she said, chuckling and waving her hands at you, signalling you to leave, “before I put the both of you to work!”

Beryan was as excited for Morwenna as you were, though you found a hint of jealous longing in her eyes as you looked at her. It got a little worse, even, when Morwenna excitedly blurted out something about how you’d soon all be married.

“Aedan seems to have his eye on you,” you mentioned casually to Beryan when Morwenna was busy fussing over a stain in her gown. It was one of her best ones, and it was unlike girls of your and her means to change throughout the day as you fancied. A few times already, Beryan’s mother had looked at you from a chair in the corner of the room, silently cursing you and the infernal noise you were making as you speculated what Lowen’s proposal would be like. When you mentioned Aedan, her eyes were more piercing than ever before, and Beryan looked as though she wanted to dissolve into mist and float away.

“Absolutely not,” her mother snapped, “Beryan has been promised to Tristan.”

“Beryan!” you shouted as you chased your friend through the courtyard. “When did this happen?”

She just stood there and shrugged, as if she hoped to avoid having to answer you – which she probably did. You let your eyes beg her for her answer, as your lips couldn’t. From the corner of your eye, you noticed that the boys had also entered into the courtyard.

“Before Melot got his permission to court you,” she admitted reluctantly just as Tristan, Aedan and Pyran arrived to where you were standing. She didn’t need to say more; you immediately understood the implication.

“They know?” Tristan asked timidly. Beryan nodded.

“Why did you keep it a secret?” you demanded in a tone that shocked you. “Well? Were you ever going to tell me?”

“I can’t tell you that,” she said, beneath her words clearly audible a plea to stop questioning her. In her eyes, you saw tears well up.

“I can,” Tristan interjected suddenly and resolutely. “We weren’t going to tell you. I wasn’t, Beryan wasn’t, and Melot wasn’t, either.”

“He knew of this?” you stammered, taken aback by the turn this conversation had taken. You didn’t like it one bit.

“There he is, now, ask him yourself,” Tristan gestured to a spot behind you, and when you turned around, you found your beloved there – supported by Lowen and Gerant.

[motownfiction]

mint green

In the summertime, about two weeks after returning home from New York, Sadie decides to paint the bathroom mint green.

She’s not sure why she picked that sickly shade of yellow in the first place. Originally, she thought she’d do a theme with the sun, the moon, and the stars, but after two paint stamps of the sun in two random corners of the room, she was too tired. That’s what happens when you buy a house in the middle of being pregnant, she thinks. You leave the bathroom in stages of disarray.

But it’s been a long time now, and Sadie is tired of looking at a color that reminds her just a little bit of bile. She knows she’s going to choose mint green. Any green is Sadie’s favorite, but mint green might take the top spot. She needs it. She needs something different. Since Sam died, everything’s been too much of the same. Everything’s reminded her of him – his opinions, his laugh, his memories. She’s always felt like she lives in two minds, but it’s harder now. Sadie is trying to live Sam’s life through her own.

And she is so tired.

Painting the bathroom probably won’t fix anything. Hell, Sadie knows it won’t. But it gives her something to do. Something to think about other than Sam and grief; grief and Sam. She dips the rollers in the mint green paint and gets to it, transistor radio crackling out old tunes near her ankles.

Goo-goo, goo-goo Barabajagal / what’s his name now?

She paints and paints. She can’t stop. If she stops, she’ll think about how Sam’s not here to help roll the paint on the wall with her. He was there when Sadie and Daniel initially painted the bathroom yellow. He made jokes about it then, but Sadie laughed him off. She really thought her sun, moon, and stars were going to fix everything. If only Sam could see her now. Taking charge. Making things different. He liked to quote one of those newer U2 songs: “You won’t live any longer / but it’ll feel like it.” Sadie’s lived that way for too long since the accident. She’s made her life too small until she makes it too big.

No more of that. No more late-night drives down Telegraph and no more spontaneous trips to New York when she can just call Lucy and Will on the phone. No more any of that. Sadie has to keep moving, and she has to sweep Daniel and the kids up in her wingspan as she flies.

Sadie thinks about high school, when she took a painting elective that Steph Armstrong also happened to be in. Even then, Sadie reached for all the mint green paint. She was like a really fresh Picasso, only not like Picasso at all. But where some of the other kids gave her shit for all the mint green, Steph was always sweet. She said things like, “Mint green is supposed to be good luck.”

So Sadie never forgot that.

She wonders if that’s what she’s hoping for as she rolls more onto the bathroom walls. Maybe she’s hoping for good luck. But that’s what you’re always after. Good luck. Lately, Sadie’s felt a real lack of it.

She dips the paint in the roller again and presses through.

(part of @nosebleedclub june challenge -- day iv! hate that i’m already behind, but i’m getting there)

[badgerwrites]

Chapter 8

Previous chapter Faint fingers of light weaved through the stars as Rowan shut the house's door behind her.

The pale yellow halo of twilight slowly creeped forward, heralded by a cacophony of trills and whistles of birds perched high above. Rowan hiked her hood over her ears and slinked away like a thief in the night.

She'd been unable to sleep properly. The wee hours of the morning and the fresh air provided a much needed respite, away from the memory of her aunt's concerned eyes and the gentleness of her uncle's rough hand on her cheek. Rowan squeezed her eyelids shut and shook her head, shoving the shame and panic of those moments in some forgotten corner of her subconscious and trotted towards the beach.

The ghostly threads spread further in the sky, snuffing the delicate stars out to make way for the coming dawn.  Rowan couldn't say how long she'd been walking, only that she'd left the village behind. To her right only the infinite, textureless black of the sea, and sand that in the dim light was an eerie ashen colour.

So lost was she in her contemplation she almost missed the familiar silhouette standing on the bank. Charlie. She was slight, almost incorporeal if not for a proud mane of blond hair billowing behind her. Her hands clasped behind her back, her posture pristine as a ballerina's; yet the delicate curve of her neck drooped like a wilting flower as she looked out into the churning obsidian waters.

Despite her uncharacteristically subdued demeanor Charlie's whole being radiated sadness. It was wrapped around to her like a cloak, or a black glass slowly choking out a candle as the oxygen runs out. Something in Rowan's heart resonated, and ached keenly in sympathy.

The young artist tentatively approached, hovering a few steps behind and tactfully clearing her throat before speaking.

"Hello."

Dark cerulean eyes looked back at her from behind a curtain of gold hair. Rowan waved at the other girl, awkwardly kicking a bit of sand into the sea as she thought of what to say. 

"Hello," she begun tentatively, "are you... alright?" 

"Look I know it's probably none of my business. But if you're sad, well, I don't want you to be. Not that there's anything wrong with being sad," Rowan added, mentally cursing her clumsiness.

"It's just that I'd like to help, if I can. If you want me to."

Charlie's eyebrows shot up, surprise and confusion briefly overtaking the melancholy. The corners of her lips twitched up in a hint of her signature grin; and Rowan thought she saw her discreetly muffle a shocked chuckle in the palm of her hand.

"My, my! You're one earnest soul, aren't you!" teased the long-haired girl.

The young artist muttered something indecipherable, blushing under her hood. Charlie tensed and rushed to explain herself.

"Please don't be cross with me now, dear. Your kind words were most appreciated." 

For a moment her features softened with gratitude, a warm smile lighting up her face before waning away as she gazed to the horizon again.

She closed her eyes a moment, her chest rising in a deep sigh before gazing back at Rowan.

"I've always loved the morning," she said, "when people are deep in slumber and the woods begin to stir. Alone in the dim light and the soft sounds, I used to feel like I could just... be."

She smiled to herself through half-lidded eyes.

"It was my own personal witching hour, if you will."

Rowan shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Do you mind me being here with you, then?" 

Charlie shook her head.

"No. A kindred spirit's company is always welcome, even during my musings."

The short-haired girl felt a pleasant tension in her cheeks as her mouth curved upwards. "Fair enough."

She thought a moment, then added: "If this is to be our witching hour, does that make us a coven?"

Charlie laughed, her intense blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Indeed. A most vile one."

A companionable silence fell as they waited together for the come of dawn. For the first time in a while, Rowan felt at peace.

Next chapter

[cursivebloodlines]

How many times had Dougie repeated this exact scenario through his head? His fragmented mind in all sorts of directions, all sorts of questions. What she would look like, whether she would look different, how she would be, what he would say. His imagined response could vary from beckoning Laurel into his welcoming, loving and open arms, to wipe away the negative memories and the agonising heartbreak of the last two years and start fresh, or resume where they left off, as though no time had passed at all. Or…it would alternate to the complete opposite, slamming the door in her face and telling her never to speak to him again. Which, of course, never happened. Could never happen –  his resolve could never be quite that strong – not when it came to her. But it was always one way or another. Neither happened. Not whatever this currently was. Somewhere in the middle, in the middle of all things unsaid from before and all the other things he wanted to say after the fact. The back and forths, the thinly veiled curtain of normalcy, partially acting as though nothing had changed when everything had changed. Like they were hanging in some sort of weird limbo. But he would take that over nothing at all. He would take it over more years of silence. As sad and pathetic as it sounded, if he found out before they got together that it would end in pain, devastation and abandonment…the truth of the matter was he would do it all over again, in a heartbeat. If he went back, he would do the same. Repeat the same actions. Meet her, be friends with her, love her with all he had and then some. The only thing he’d change was letting her go that day. Other than that? He would do everything the same. Even if he couldn’t change the ending, he would still relive it all over again. Because she was worth it, and Dougie would do anything for her. He thought he’d moved past that now, but seeing her again brought it all back. Two years trying to move past all the heartache and it took only moments for all that progress to unravel. Even though he was trying so hard to push past it, to deny it all. That was all shoved to the back of his mind, locked away to try and make sense when the time was right. The timing wasn’t right yet; not with her still here. And while Laurel was here, he was determined to make the most of every moment, in case there was a last. Even now, her words enabled another smile to grace his face, tugging up at the corners and softening his features with every word that left her mouth, that still playful tone emanating from her.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You’re probably giving me way too much credit,”  he shot back, though he was clinging on to every word like it was everything because it was; he was in awe of how her words could still mean so much to him, even if he disagreed. How natural the playfulness between them was, even despite everything. How was that even possible? Dougie would happily spend a lifetime trying to answer that question…or just simply enjoying it for whatever it was. And now it was his turn to learn from her, granting her his undivided attention as she always did with him. He always appreciated how patient she was with him, especially when it came to his nonsensical rambles. Laurel always told him how much she learned from him but the truth was, he learned so much from her, too. He always adored listening to whatever ran through her bright mind. He learned so much from her, grown as a person because of her. Became more willing and open to new things rather than burrowing himself deep in his comfort zone. Even now, listening to her tell him about the alleged differences between being a thief and a collector,  Her explanation made sense, the more he considered it and thought about it. Nodding his head, humming pensively as he weighed up the options. The example she gave about the museums solidified it for him, he supposed he could agree. Dougie could’ve sworn he’d read something about it before, come to think of it. Not completely but it was certainly rang some bells of familiarity. Even so, he was sure she could tell him anything and he would believe her, no questions asked. But then he did have a question that came to mind, wondering how this all was meant to relate to him. And…well, she must’ve had the same sort judging by the words that left her mouth next. A wry chuckle escaped him accidentally, unable to help the ways the corners pulled at his lips once more, a soft smile gracing his face. In some way, he supposed it could be similar… if he’s stealing the sayings without giving whoever originally said the credit… though he couldn’t imagine any of those people being bothered about some common bloke from Scotland using them.

Hearing her sort of stumble along her explanation, making sure to point out that the museum collecting or stealing things had nothing to do with him. She reminded him so much of himself in that moment, simply adorable and endearing. Though if it was him, he would have found himself annoying, rather. But her? Never, it was never ever a possibility. “I’ll always listen to you, even if you tell me not to,” he pointed out with a quiet chuckle, not laughing at her just… the whole thing. She was everything. “You are making sense, have been making sense. More sense than I ever will, anyway.” And they still kept playing along with the whole PowerPoint meeting to schedule. And Dougie knew, of course he knew, that they were simply delaying the inevitable here. By keeping up with the joking, by continuing the joke even when it was probably no longer funny - though to him, it may as well have been, it meant they could continue pretending that everything was okay. Live in the past of what used to be a little longer, act like his heart never ached from her absence because she was here now. Push aside his conflicting feelings for a little while longer. His heart doing flips when she suggested sending an invite for this non-existent presentation. He knew if she sent him that invite, he would accept it no matter what. Even if there was a conflict in his schedule, even now he would cancel any existing plans just to see her again. Pathetic? Maybe. Foolish? Completely. But he couldn’t help it, he would always put her first even now they weren’t together. Maybe one day he would put it past him, but not today. “I’ll be sure to refresh my emails, just to make sure I get it. Consider it done,” he teased, unable to help the warmth that coursed his veins at the thought, his heart fluttering still at the thought of seeing her again… if that was something even possible, he wasn’t sure. He could get to that later, though. 

The next thing he knew, she was…thanking him? It was engraved across his face, the confusion. He tried his best to stop the expression on his face but he couldn’t help the automatic, knee-jerk reaction of the raised eyebrows, the opening and closing of his mouth when she spoke, then trailed off. Was his own anxiety rubbing off on Laurel, he wondered? Or was he making her…nervous? That had to be something new, he didn’t remember her feeling nervous about…well, anything really. Doug was clueless; why was she thanking him for today? If anything, it should have been the other way around. Thanking her for coming back, for indulging him with her time and granting him answers he’d been waiting around for. In some ways, the thanks felt like silent apologies. Were they? Or was he doing what he did best: over thinking everything, the way he always did? Unclear. “I um,” he paused, unable to encourage the right words to spring to mind, so he focused on clearing his throat with an offhanded shrug and hint of a smile to match hers. “You don’t have to thank me for…” he trailed off, because he was unsure what he was being thanked for. Today could have been interpreted in several different ways and…right. Overthinking again. “You don’t have to thank me for anything. Really, it should probably be the other way around instead. Thank you for…coming here, especially since you really didn’t have to. You could’ve just left it, I wouldn’t have known better. But you didn’t, and I know how hard it must be, after - after, well, everything. So, thank you. There we go, now I said it,” he added with a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. 

Her face was a picture-perfect portrait. The way he could still make her laugh, even now, by being exaggerating was purely everything. Unable to help the way his heart fluttered at the way she looked at him, seeing pure love and fondness in those eyes he could easily get lost in for hours on end. Or the warmth blooming in his chest without her even trying. Or maybe he was getting his wires crossed, somehow. So much time had passed and yet when they were like this, it was as though no time had passed at all. It made it easier for his resolve to crumble, for him to want to just pretend the last two years had never happened and go back to where they left off.  So much time had passed and yet Laurel still embodied the image of perfection in his eyes. She could do no wrong in his eyes, and it was so easy for Dougie to unravel into old habits and forgive, forgive, forgive. He needed to tone it down a notch or two, come to his senses. He even shook his head as if that would eradicate the thoughts circling his mind before he reminded himself of what this was… (What was it, again?) The sound of her laugh was like music to his ears, and part of him wondered whether she was going to try and take it up a notch and exaggerate, maybe expand upon his feeble attempt to say ‘a little bit’ in the most complicated way and somehow make it even more so. But no, she seemed pretty happy with his comment, which of course was fine. If she was happy, so was he. It was always this way. He simply couldn’t tear his gaze away from her, the light shade of pink tinting her cheeks. An effect that he still had on her. Douglas wondered whether anyone else ever made her blush the way he seemingly did. If he recalled, Laurel likely denied it. Had that changed at all, in those two years? Why did that even matter? It was none of his business, but he couldn’t help himself. It felt like a little win under his belt, knowing that even if everything else changed, this was still something that could still occur. A silly, meaningless detail to dwell on but that was Dougie in a nutshell. Always overthinking. “And here I thought it was so you could keep me in check. Or accountable. We both know I’m not much of a runner,” he jested, struggling to bite back a snicker at his own thoughts, which he simply voiced with, “Pretty funny to think about, huh? Because if you see me running anywhere, my best advice is that you should probably start running too because some shit’s comin’.” Another hilarious mental image. Dwelling on the pretend scenarios in their heads was amusing, if fleeting. Powerpoint presentations, marathons… It had taken two years for them to come face-to-face again, in the flesh, and there they were, spouting on about hypotheticals. Sad, in a way, because he was so used to them planning things together. Things to actually do and not just imaginary scenarios that would never happen. Was that a glimpse into the future trajectory of their relationship? Did they even have a future relationship? Truthfully, he didn’t know. And the more time went on, the more Dougie realised that actually, he didn’t really know anything. So, he supposed he would have to simply wait and see. He’d waited for so long already, he could wait a bit longer.

This whole thing was like being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Dougie should have braced himself for the impact of her responses to his questions. After all, she was answering earnestly which was all that he could have asked for. All that he’d been dreaming about for the last bloody two years. He knew damn well, he was potentially opening up a can of worms by approaching the subject, about asking Laurel about her feelings. Maybe there was a part of him that secretly hoped she would turn around and tell him that this was for closure, and for nothing more. That the feelings she once had for him were gone completely now. Because then, he would know for sure he could close the book of them for once and for all, the chapter at an end. But they never truly ended, so why would he expect any differently? Their wasn’t a definitive end to their relationship. She left, sure, but they hadn’t explicitly broke up. It was open to interpretation. After all, he had expected her to come back. It took way longer than expected but she did come back. It was hard, figuring out where to go when their relationship never had a full, solid conclusion. Dougie did not know what the right thing to do was, where to go from here. What to do with the information he received today, how he felt about anything anymore. To some people, hearing them express their guilt and remorse for the actions and poor decisions they made would make them feel better, but he could only feel worse. Knowing that the person he loved was carrying around so much inside of them, it wasn’t nice at all. It did not bring him any satisfaction. Only made him feel awful because she was feeling bad, and not knowing how to help her without setting himself up for potentially getting hurt again.

The question of regret was reasonable in his mind. How she spoke of about the disintegration of their relationship wouldn’t have happened if they just stayed friends when they had the chance. There was no way of knowing that for sure, no matter what either of them would’ve believed. Bracing himself for further impact, Dougie was taken aback by the quick reaction to the question he placed in front of her. Quick to answer, quick to declare that no, she absolutely did not regret their relationship. He simply nodded, his hands running across his face, up to his forehead, then through his hair. He waited as she spoke, simply letting Laurel get whatever she was thinking off of her chest. What was he supposed to say to that? There was no way of knowing for sure. There were an infinite number of possibilities how things could have gone. Part of him still wondered whether it still sounded a bit like regret, but he tried to ignore that; she already answered that question only seconds before. Who was he to refute that?  Shrugging his shoulders, he rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t know that. Anything else could’ve happened. We were good friends, yeah but…” We were better together, as more than that. You know that. He wanted to tag that to the end but stopped. It wouldn’t eliminate any other hurt, it would only take that hurt and have it run deeply. “You just don’t know what could’ve happened,” he murmured, shaking his head more so to himself than at her. Hearing his words echoed back to him, Dougie peered back at her. It was almost like she was in disbelief, wondering if she was hearing correctly. A timid smile crept up to his lips, a silent nod like he was quietly confirming that she’d heard right, that he had meant what he’d said. He wouldn’t have told her that if he didn’t believe it. It might’ve made him a fool, but he was a fool in love. And as for telling her about how he knew it wasn’t much to offer her, that was the feelings of his own self doubt creeping in. No matter how much he tried to push those thoughts at bay, they always found a way to sneak in, one way or another. “Okay, sorry.” His default phrase, the one terrible habit he could never quite shake. Apologising for the sake of apologising, apologising for things that were out of his control or not his fault, apologising because he didn’t know what else to say. He’d probably end up apologising for merely existing if he had the chance. “At least… um. At least you know - or remember - now.” Bright side to everything, as he always tried. 

Back to the jokes and the smiles again, a relief. Huffing in response to her accusing him of making her extra weird, a quiet laugh escaped his lips. “Oh, so it’s my fault you’re weird now, is it? Wow, Laurel. That’s low,” he teased, loving that familiar grin on her face. Plain and simple: he would never get enough of this. Of her. And he made a note to cherish however many of those moments they had left; Dougie wasn’t prepared to take those memories for granted ever again, not after what happened. Her comments in return made him smile, especially as he noticed her smile continue to grow. What he would do to make sure that smile never left her face again. God, he missed her so. “Well, I’ll be happy to remind you however many times you want.” He’d try his best, anyhow. And then…well, yeah. The slip. He’d been holding on to hope that Laurel might’ve missed his little slip but judging by the way she stopped mid-sentence and the look on her face said it all. His heart thundered against his chest, a rise of panic bubbling up. That momentary blip soon faded though when she didn’t comment on it, though he did notice the way she reacted. The panic simmered; it was a slip of the tongue, or he was getting way too comfortable way too quickly again. It was complicated. Completely, truly complicated. But having Laurel in his arms silenced the thoughts running rampant in his mind, probably the first form of comfort in a long, long time. Even though everything was tough and he had so much he needed to work through after today, but this moment with her right now? He would take it, make it last for as long as either of them would allow. Right now, he needed it like he needed air to breathe. It felt right. A lot like home, though he was already technically home; he had found a home in her, too. Even if that was no longer the case, for now, for these fleeting few moments, he could pretend that everything was okay. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend nothing had gone wrong, that she hadn’t left him, that this was any ordinary day. (Except that it wasn’t.) But at least whatever happened after they eventually let go - which neither of them seemed to want in that moment - he could say that they had this little moment. If only he did this before, two years ago, the morning she left. To just hold on to her, he could have found an excuse to stop her from seeing her parents that day. They could’ve stayed in their blissful, little bubble. Nothing else mattered. 

“Not just on pause, stopped altogether now. Do keep up,” he reminded her with a weak chuckle, his hand rubbing her back in soothing circles, his other stroking her hair absentmindedly. Then, came the unravelling. Two years of trying to heal from losing her, and after building up himself from the scraps she left of him, Dougie was undone. It pained him to think of those messages, pained him that he couldn’t even recall what some of them were. Despised himself for being pathetic enough to do that, regret oozing out of every pore and particle of his existence. Not only that, but to pile it on her. She probably already felt awful for leaving him with no explanation, he hated being the reason why she likely felt even worse. Not being able to separate the pain and anguish between the before and the now, and how neither of them ended up happy. He could never hide his emotions very well without someone seeing when he was not okay, and this… hearing her explicitly say she received the messages felt he was falling apart. Someone ripped the scab off and now he was bleeding again. Just when he thought he’d healed, he was right back to where he started. Part of him hoped that the next time they met, he could earnestly say he was good, doing better. That would have shown her, past Dougie thought. But he was far too much of an honest man, the type that would give you the clothes off his back if you needed to, no matter what happened in the past. It was his fatal flaw, and his friends often told him he needed to stop being a doormat. But this was different. Laurel never walked all over him. That’s not what this was about. Deep down, he knew she must’ve received the messages. Because when he felt low and missed her dearly, he would scroll through their conversations on the apps they talked on. And then, when he reached the end - his desperate spam. Underneath, in small font, he saw the word ‘Seen.’ But it wasn’t until now, hearing her say it to his face, that it clicked. He already knew, so why was he feeling so overwhelmingly broken?

Rambling when he was clearly upset was another one of his habits. Hoping that if he talked enough, it would hide the evidence like covering up a crime scene. It was one of his tells, instead. The wavering in his voice, the uncertainty. Hearing Laurel start but not finish her sentence, Doug could already have filled in the blanks. An instinctual reaction, the automatic kind that someone says because they don’t know what else to really say. Or, that’s how he felt, even if it wasn’t necessarily true. Though, what Laurel had said did have some element of truth to it. Upset with her? Absolutely. Angry? Like he just said, he couldn’t be if he tried. He was so ridden with devastation that it was too much to be angry too. The heartbreak had been hard enough, draining the life out of him. If he was angry, it was at himself. Angry was too violent of a word to describe it; frustrated was probably the more plausible option. But even if he were angry, it would never necessarily translate to be physically obvious. Douglas would have directed it to himself so she didn’t have to. Over time, the frustration just…faded. He was defeated. Defeated until she came showing up on his doorstep with answers he only dreamed of. Even if he’d been angry, he was never one to raise his voice at anyone. If he did, it would be met with instant apologies. It never solved anything. “Maybe once upon a time, I was those things. Except for being angry, or whatever… I don’t know. I just couldn’t take it out on you. You’ve probably tortured yourself enough to last a lifetime. You don’t deserve that…Or anymore than that and…I guess I just - I don’t know. It’s all so complicated,” he sighed, frustrated with himself with the inability to articulate his thoughts.

When Laurel’s eyes met his, he knew he was done for. Eyes were the window to the soul and all he could see were the words she echoed and the sincerity in them, in her voice. Hearing her say she loved him. Any self preservation tempted to throw out of the window and dump it into a bin. He was hers. He always would be. She was going to be the death of him, but he couldn’t imagine a better way to go. Inhaling a shaky breath, the words he’d been dying to hear, bringing him back to life but killing him all the same. I wish I could take it all back. “If only we could press the undo button and pretend like it didn’t happen..” he uttered weakly, his words barely above a whisper. ‘It’ referencing the distance between them, the heartbreak. Not the whole relationship, never that. His breath was trembling, his eyes drifting all over her face, a snapshot beneath his eyelids. Just in case. Was that how it was going to be now? Trying to capture every slight moment, expression, word, just in case it was the last again? In case she slipped between his fingers once more? He should have moved his hand back, or even better not put it on her face in the first place. Call it muscle memory. Or nostalgia. Dougie could call it whatever he wanted, have any fancy term to try and explain what his mind was going through. It wouldn’t change it. Her words brought him back to reality. I know I won’t hear that anymore. It was hard. Hearing those words from her because there was a part of him dying to say, ‘Don’t say that because its not necessarily true; I do love you. I’ll always love you. I just need time.’ But he couldn’t tell her that. Not because he didn’t love her because he did love her. Still loves her. But what if he couldn’t get past what happened? What if time wasn’t enough? The thought of giving her false hopes… of even trying to delude himself into having false hopes. It would break him more than he already was; he didn’t want to break Laurel, too. And so he said nothing. Instead, Dougie chose let her words hang in the air, clouding over them and settling on their shoulders.

His heart was doing somersaults, at her promises. He thought he might crash when he felt her hand brushing against his skin and then her lips against his hand, searing into his skin. Permanent, like a tattoo. And so familiar. Dougie was weak at the knees, completely and wholly at her mercy. “That day -” He croaked, paused to clear his throat and continued, voice shaky, “That day is never going to happen.” Shaking his head in silent protest to her comment about time and space. He never needed time and space, not with her around. Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, he wondered: was she excusing herself because this was getting too much for her? And using him as an excuse? Might be a result of his overthinking and anxiety at bay, but it felt like she was fading from him again. His heart, shattering again. If she wanted to go, then why couldn’t she just say so? Instead of using him as an excuse. “It’s…I…” His brows furrowed, shrugging his shoulders. Helplessly, he asked, “Where will you go?” It wasn’t until now he realised, he didn’t know where she was staying. Did she live locally now? Did she have a long way to travel? He hoped it wasn’t intrusive to ask, but the question was out now. Dougie didn’t know what he needed, and it wasn’t her place to assume what he needed, not anymore. “If you wanted to go, you could’ve just said,” he muttered under his breath, not even realised he’d uttered the words aloud.

This was all sorts of weird. If she didn't know any better, Laurel would believe she was dreaming. The one that came every other night. A dream of redemption. How she broke his heart, and still - he opened his door for her. That he can even smile and laugh with her around, her heart was in a frenzy. It gave her whiplash, how normal this felt when reality came busting through the door. But maybe, that's the way it should be. She shouldn't allow herself to enjoy this normalcy too much, not when she knew this could only destroy him. What was she supposed to do though? Walk out again? Say goodbye and leave his life before she did more damage? The better part of her knew it was the right thing to do, but that's not what her selfish heart wanted. Her heart didn't often want, and if it did, Laurel always chose to ignore. In her opinion, listening to her heart meant trouble. It had caused trouble in the past...caused chaos in Dougie's life too, the moment she let him in. That's how she viewed it for so long, that's what kept her away. However, it was difficult to ignore her longing, the agonizing pain her heart was in when she set her mind on moving on, on letting him go. His tongue-tied moment was not new to her. In fact, she always thought it was adorable. Just how much he wanted to say, how many words could rush to spill out, and still get tangled along the way. It was one of the things that drew her in. It was odd, but Laurel found him intriguing from the start. Between rushed words and tied tongues, she was hooked. Hooked on the adorable man with the blue eyes and wide smile. "I must've learned the sayings from you," she responded, the playful tone never leaving her lips, even when he complimented her brain. And there he was, with a compliment that meant more to her than anything she's heard before. Being complimented for her brains rather than her physical traits was fairly new, something she really only learned and believed with Dougie. Talking to him was always like communicating with someone from another world in the best way. He said things that she never would consider, opened her eyes to new ideas and concepts. In short, he became her guide to life. Laurel expected the confusion on his face as soon as the words left her lips, she always said things without thinking. Thinking about whether it made sense or it should even be said out loud. If they were on better terms, she may have shared her comment about him being a thief of her heart. It would've been cheesy and funny, she would've seen his wonderful smile again. Maybe that soft tint in his cheeks when he blushed. But instead, she found herself launching into the general explanation. "For some people, yeah I guess so. They can excuse stealing, for the sake of collecting. You know, like museums collecting artifacts and refusing to return them to their proper home." Laurel swore she had read an article about that recently. It was a safe response, but she hated that she couldn't just tell him what she had actually thought. She just wasn't allowed to anymore. "Not that it applies to you! You don't...it's not about you. Just, don't listen to me. I'm not making sense today." This hypothetical PowerPoint became more real the more they talked about it. It seemed pretty established that it was non-existent, but she probably should give it some thought. Joking about clearing his schedule, that could be an opportunity to see him again. They were not a thing anymore, let alone friends, but...maybe acquaintances. Acquaintances met to catch up, which...they could, and she could see him again...right? Frankly, she was afraid to ask, but she did know - she would stick around. Give him space of course, but she would stay. "I'll send a calendar invite for it then, make sure we don't miss the date."

Expect the unexpected. It seemed like that they were both experiencing that today. Her surprise visit, his surprise reaction. His and hers, in the weirdest way possible. "I..yeah," remnants of her smile remained; the nervous feeling was taking over. Possibly the only mutual feeling left between them, surprise. No time for pity though, she did do this to herself. "Well, I'm surprised in a good way, and yeah I mean...thank you for..." for what? For being you and being so kind to even open your door? But maybe, he mistook the knock for someone else and never meant to. The voice in her mind was quick to make an appearance. It was more like, thank you for not shutting the door on my face and letting me talk to you, after everything. Yes, that made more sense, though Laurel said none of that. "Well, thank you for today, I really appreciate it." And just like that, she traded the apologies for thank you's, all in this weird apology tour.

Oh, she had the heart eyes. Yep. Her gaze softened, the corners of her lips inevitably turning upwards as he responded with his own interpretation of a tiny bit. Dougie couldn't be cuter than in this moment, how he looked with his face scrunched up, the melodic laugh that came after. Her favorite sound in this world, the sound that represented happiness for her. How had she gone so long without it? She didn't really know. Their pictures and videos that lived in her phone helped, always a sore reminder of what she lost. What she gave up. In her mind, gave him up to protect him from her self-destructive circle. Look how well that turned out. "Okay okay, agree. Just the tiniest bit," she spoke in between soft laughs. How easily they got carried away, going back and forth on their flaws, and now they were laughing it out and trying to reduce it to the tiny bit they were joking about now. Something told her that no matter how much they discussed it, they wouldn't agree on the flaws. One always trying to convince the other that they were more flawed. Perhaps, Dougie was right though..about making mistakes. Mistakes happened, everyone was flawed, and it was necessary to move past it. All that did was remind her that she should've been honest with him, show her flaws to him - let her be accepted by him. Love should've been enough, right? The blushing was not expected, the warmth building in her cheeks left her conflicted. How easily he affected her, how that had not changed even after all this time. “Running buddies? I like that, I’d probably need the accountability.” Is this what they had been reduced to? Hypotheticals and imaginary scenarios? It hurt to think about, which is why she tried to not dwell on it. It was easier to enjoy the scenario, how amusing it was to think of doing these mundane things with him again - even if the likelihood was slim. Dougie running for fun just didn’t seem accurate, even in their hypothetical. Perhaps she needed to suggest something else, another imaginary plan for them in this hypothetical world.

Laurel didn't know what else to tell him, how else to tell him that it wasn't his fault. It probably wouldn't make a difference to him. She couldn't imagine the pain and hurt she caused him. All this time with no answers, he was probably thinking the worst. She never bothered to answer any of his messages or voicemails, not even the drunk ones. Though, it was tempting. There were so many times where Laurel got so close, even typed a message here and there, but she could never bring herself to press send. Always reminding herself that staying away was for the best, that it probably hurt him a lot at first but maybe, time had done its work. That maybe, her being away had led him to something better.

When she uttered his name, Laurel didn't really have any idea of where she was going with her words. What direction it would go in. Instead, it was a shabby attempt to say anything to break the silence between them, to snap them both out of the million thoughts that were in their minds. Still, all it really did was put the attention on her. Laurel spoke up, and it seemed like she just needed to keep going because Dougie was silent. Her eyes tried finding any expression, any indication of what may be running through his mind, but she couldn't decipher much. Not right now. He only repeated okay. Had she broken him? Brows furrowed momentarily, no that couldn't be it. Laurel could only hope some of her words were making it through; asking for more than that would be selfish. His response was met with a small smile and a nod, acknowledging his well wishes. Still, it didn't deter her - Laurel would piece his words eventually. No biggie. The question did catch her off guard a bit, she had to admit. Mostly because she didn't expect him to even want to ask..to know what she was thinking or feeling. It wasn't easy, to answer the question - how do you feel? Because, her feelings were right at the tip of her tongue, just wanting to exclaim - I love you! I have never stopped loving you, and I can paint this picture that I'm only here to give you the truth and leave..but the truth is, I came back for you. I'm selfish and I've hurt you every time. I should've stayed away, but I'm here instead because I haven't been able to stop loving you and I haven't felt right since I left. It just didn't seem right to unload all of this on him. His response to her question made sense, no idea if there was ever a right time. Yep, a shrug made sense. Laurel noticed the way he dropped his gaze, perhaps she should've skipped the first part of how she felt. Talking of her guilt didn't help anyone, and all she wanted to do was avoid hurting him more.

Laurel could tell he was hesitant to ask, she had hurt him again...hadn't she? Her protests quickly fell from her lips, "no no I don't!" A sharp breath inhaled before she kept speaking. It was a conflicting feeling, selective regret. She could never regret him or regret their relationship. He brought her happiness like she had never known. "I could never regret us...I just can't help but think that I wouldn't have hurt you if I had just...been your friend. We were good friends, right? I like to think I wouldn't have messed that up," she admitted. His quiet words were not expected, her eyes drawn up to see him once more. I've always been here. Laurel should've never forgotten that. It killed her, how he was right there for her once again. Words were caught in her throat, how to answer that...how to repay his kindness. "I-I didn't lose you..." she repeated his words as if trying to process and believe them. "And you're still here..." She glanced back up at him, always? She was almost tempted to ask if he was sure. If she really would always have him, because Laurel really wanted to believe it. Desperately wanted to believe in something. "Don't say that, that it's not a lot. It's everything to me...knowing that I can still count on you. I don't know when I forgot that."

The mom topic was behind them. Thankfully. Laurel couldn't bear continuing to talk about her, especially when she could see that even Dougie wasn't believing what he was selling. Still, the topic was done. "Hm, sounds to me like you made me extra weird," she said, accompanying his chuckle with a grin. Trying to return to the laughter and jokes, her new safe space. "You're right, maybe I overdid it a bit." And there was a laugh once more as she nodded. "Yes, you did say that already, but a reminder never hurts." When he laughed, her smile grew. A triumphant one, she couldn't help but be proud of the fact that she had made him smile again. Laurel shrugged in agreement, "right again, guess it won't change anything but—" words caught in her throat once more. This was becoming a usual thing for her today. Wait, hold on...did he just say that? Had Laurel heard him right? My love? Those were words she had not heard in a while, and was not expecting to hear, though she longed for them. More than anything. She wanted to remain calm, not react to avoid any awkwardness. It was difficult to control her facial expressions though, no matter how much she tried. Her eyes widened, mouth agape, as she tried to find something to say. Words just failed her. Then, Dougie coughed as if to snap them out of the moment, and she wanted to ask...ask what he meant by that. Did he really mean it? What did it mean? But no, if he wanted to ignore it, she had to oblige. No matter how much it made her heart jump. Her arms remained wrapped around him, endless comfort was right here. Everything about this was complicated, including this hug right now. Yet, she couldn't find it in herself to let go of him. He was her home, simple as that. She could hug 1,000 people and Laurel still wouldn't feel this way. This was all him, it was a feeling she couldn't have with anyone else. Or perhaps, she just couldn't let go because she knew that once she let go, she probably won't have another chance to be in his arms again. This was her last opportunity, a weird..final goodbye kind of thing. She didn't really know what she meant by making things right, Laurel only knew she was determined to do so. Whatever that could mean to Dougie. Distance, no distance. Never seeing her again to let him move on. Anything really, she was willing to do it. There was only a nod to his answer. It wasn't a no, and it might be foolish to believe in hope, but she did. She really did believe that him thinking about it was progress.

"Right, apologies are on pause," she answered him, a breathy laugh following before she allowed her head to lay on his chest. This was everything. Something so simple bringing her back to life. Mentioning the messages was not the right move, Laurel knew that now. Which was worse though? Admitting she read and heard everything, or pretending that she ignored it all? Perhaps, not saying anything at all. Her mind reminded her. Laurel remembered them all though. The messages tormented her, the drunk voicemails only made her cry. That phone was abandoned after a few weeks, and it would only ever be charged and turned on when she was drunk off her ass, and she missed him. She couldn't help herself, wanting to see his face in an old picture or watching a silly video, but she could never escape the wave of messages that flooded her phone as soon as it turned on. Not that she would tell him that. He didn't need to know that, and frankly, it was the least she deserved. Was he crying? Laurel heard him sniffle and her heart immediately shattered. God, would she ever stop fucking up? Answer was probably no. And his pleads, no Dougie please no. She couldn't keep doing this to him. That was her conclusion. Laurel wanted to stay in the area, rebuild whatever she could, but at whose expense? His? Impossible. She didn't dare. Silence was back, Laurel couldn't answer. So, she said it. Told him what she had been feeling for the past two years, driven by her yearning. How much she missed him. This didn't help the situation at all, but it was already out. It wasn't blurted out, it wasn't something she could cover with a cough. Besides, why would she? Laurel meant it. She couldn't hide that. Now, she didn't expect him to drop everything, they get back together, and it's a happy ending for everyone. No. Laurel wasn't that hopeful or naive. Whichever worked best. She had hurt him badly, and as kind as he was, trying to help alleviate some of her guilt - it didn't change the facts.

And then he spoke. Caught her by surprise again, though the response was...more or less, what she expected. As he pulled back, Laurel felt her heart sink. This was it. She had fucked up one last time. "No you don't have to..." say anything. Yeah, that's what she meant to say, but the pang in her chest prevented her from continuing. She glanced down for a moment as he rubbed his eyes, probably trying to clean himself up. Laurel didn't want to point it out, but she could tell he had teared up. The sniffling earlier had been a clue. She almost didn't want to answer, why it'd be easier it he was mad. Well, for starters, Laurel was very familiar with the emotion. She felt it was easier to navigate. She just wondered if handling his anger would be easier than being received with kindness. That one felt trickier to her. "I..." a sigh escaped her, unsure how to explain the logic in her mind. "I guess it just...it's the emotion I'm most familiar with. I don't know...I guess I figured you'd be upset, angry with me..and I can't wrap my head around you...not." Not exploding on her, not yelling, and essentially - unleashing all their anger on her? It was how things usually worked, she thought. Accept all their anger because it was a just punishment.

The more he spoke, the more she concluded: Dougie was an angel. A soft, beautiful angel that she never deserved. This man who had continuously shown her more kindness than she deserved was asserting that he could never be mad at her, that he couldn't yell at her. What to do with all that kindness? An apology almost tumbled out from her lips, ready to say sorry for his brain being mush, but she remembered: no more of those. His touch was electrifying, a shaky hum caught in her lips as he stroked her cheek. Instinctively, her eyes fluttered closed, taking the moment to really commit this to memory. Another memory to save for a rainy day. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes, finding his eyes, not wanting to lose the intricate details of those baby blues. "I wish I could take it all back," she said quietly. It was a loophole, another way to apologize without saying sorry. Laurel remained silent as he spoke, each word taking a piece of her heart and shattering it, like a plate being thrown to the floor. It wasn't his fault, god no. She could never blame him, but it didn't change the feeling in her chest. Dougie was right though. She couldn't just expect to hear those words, not anymore. "Please...don't," a soft shake of her head. "You don't need to...you know, say that. Or anything really. I just couldn't keep that to myself anymore, but I'm not...I know I won't hear that anymore."

Wait, letting her go? She was it for him? So caught up in her thoughts, she almost missed what he said. Words that would have her heart jumping with joy, instead only pained her to hear. He was it for her too, but she didn't dare say it. Couldn't bring more hurt to him. "I won't..I won't go. I mean, I'll leave your apartment of course." Terrible joke, terrible timing. Though, the truth. It's not like she was going tell him she needed a place to crash or something. "But, I mean that I won't leave. I'll be here until, one day, you decide you don't want me here anymore...then I'll go. I'll do anything you ask." Her hand tentatively reached out to hold his, the one stroking her cheek, and held his hand in hers. A faint squeeze before she brought his hands up to her lips, a soft kiss pressed on his hand. There she was, doing things she wasn't supposed to. "I put a lot on you today Dougie...but you don't need to do or say anything. Really. It is a lot, I'm not...time and space is what you need...I'm probably not helping...by being here." Time and space would probably help him clear his head. Maybe, he'd talk with a friend about this. His friends might help him land somewhere, remind him of what she did. And, at the end of the day, whichever way he landed, she would respect. "I just can't keep hurting you Dougie...I think this has been enough for today. I should probably go, not..going away," specifying seemed like the right thing to do. "I'll...I'll be around, promise."

[imaginearyparties]

I WON'T MIND

PAIRING: 40's!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader, Reader x OMC (Past)

SUMMARY: Your old pal Bucky only has a few hours before he goes off to war. Somehow, he winds up spending them with you.

A/N: This was originally a request for a fic inspired by I Won't Mind by Raveena. I can't seem to track down the original request, so I hope the anon who sent it in sees it!

WARNINGS: widowed!Reader, smoking of cigarettes, implied sexual content (but nothing explicit), happy ending with tragic implications

WC: 6.5k

MASTERLIST

May 14, 1943 | 8:30 PM

The fading sunlight is just out of reach down the alley, the shadows of the building surrounding you encasing you in nearly total darkness. The streetlights are coming on. 

Your apartment beckons to you, just upstairs, full of hand-me-down furniture and faded pictures and that damn gold star banner in your window that wrings out your gut like a wet dish towel. (You can’t help but glare at all the blue star banners you pass around the neighborhood, all the husbands and brothers and sons still alive somewhere across the Atlantic. You often wonder how many of them will turn gold; how many of these men will never return home). 

You sigh and settle yourself against the alley wall, pulling a pack of Chesterfields from your purse. You stuff one between your lips, and just as you’re about to bring the lighter to it, a shadow passes over the mouth of the alley. Two figures - one in trousers and one in a skirt - enter. 

“It’s a real shame Steve didn’t come with us,” says the skirt. “Bonnie was looking forward to dancing with him.” 

The cloying tone grates your nerves, and you know instantly that it belongs to Connie Bryant, nice and pretty and fresh out of high school, who lives with her folks two floors up from you. 

Trousers leans back against the alley wall, parallel to you. “Well, his loss was my gain. It’s not every day a guy gets two beautiful girls to take him dancing.”

Recognition sparks at the corners of your mind - his voice is familiar; deep and soft despite the flirtatious tone. 

Connie giggles behind one of her delicate hands. There’s silence for a moment - someone’s waiting. 

“I should probably get back,” she says.

The man nods. When his silhouette shifts you see his hat is sharp and structured. A soldier, then.

“Thanks for coming out with me tonight, Con.”

She smiles, genteel. “You stay safe out there, Bucky.”

Bucky. Your mind swirls with memories: pulp magazines, a cleft chin, a boy calling out taunts behind him as you race to keep up. An empty seat at your husband’s funeral. 

Well I’ll be damned, you think. Bucky Barnes. 

You almost miss it as Connie draws nearer to him, going up on her toes a little to press her lips to his cheek like a fairytale princess, and then she slips out of the alley. (The end).

Bucky leans his head back against the brick of your building. He takes a moment to look at the sky, now a dusky purple. Then his head turns down and to the side into the darkness that’s hiding you. His gaze is casual, but then, he squints, body tensing. Yours does too, only just realizing that your cigarette from earlier is still hanging between your lips.You’re frozen for a solid minute as Bucky squints directly at you. His posture relaxes, head tilting back again. Tension seeps from your body, thinking you’re in the clear but then-

“Eavesdropping’s pretty rude y’know,” he calls out. 

You tense again, cheeks heating immediately. 

“It’s a public alleyway,” you defend, but you pull the cig from your lips and step forward so that he can see you better.

Bucky’s eyes go wide. “Y/n?!”

“Howdy, Buck.”

He lets out a huff of laughter, bright and buoyant, just like it’d been when you were kids. His arms go out wide, and before you know it you’re enveloped in a bear hug, cheek pressed up against his chest. You can’t help a small smile, even as your body stays stiff.

“C’mere, let me see you,” he says, catching your hand and pulling until you’re both standing at the lip of the alley, under the streetlight.

You can see him better in this light, make out the details of what is, in fact, a dress uniform, and the distinguished cleft in his freshly shaved chin. He studies you too, taking in the rumpled dress you wore to work and what you’re sure is a fallen hairstyle. You squirm a little under the scrutiny. 

“Last I heard you were in Wisconsin,” you say, diverting his attention from your appearance. 

“Just got back,” he nods. And then, quieter, “I ship out tomorrow.”

A pang strikes through your chest. You and Bucky had grown up together, had been friends as far back as your memory stretches.

“Well,” you conceal the falter in your smile with a glance at the ground, “I’m glad I caught you before you left. It’s been too long, Barnes.”

A familiar smirk stretches his lips. “Oh, so you’ve missed me sweetheart?”

It’s a game you used to play as teenagers. Bucky as the cocky, pining cassanova and you as the cold-hearted, disinterested object of desire. You were the Spencer Tracy and Claudette Colbert of Brooklyn Heights. You fall back into your role with alarming ease. 

“No,” you pitch your voice like Snow White’s. “But I’m a concerned citizen. I go too long without seeing the village idiot, I worry something might’ve happened to him.”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “How little you’ve changed, Mrs. Kelly.”

Oh, how you wish that were true. Your gaze falls to your beat up shoes. 

“Hey, you wanna get out of here?” he says. 

You quirk a brow at him. 

“C’mon, there’s no diner in this city that ain’t open right now. My treat.”

“I’m not much company these days,” you say. 

It’s an honest warning. (You’re more ghost than guest to your friends these days).

“Oh, I won’t mind,” he shrugs. There’s mischief in his eyes. “‘Sides, I bet I can be enough fun for the both of us.”

He’s wearing an easy smile, like you really could say no and he’d be disappointed but wouldn’t hold it against you. 

You purse your lips and squint your eyes, pretending to think about it.

“Alright, Barnes,” you tell him. “But you’d better make it worth my while.”

His lips press themselves into a smug little victory smile.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, bringing his fingers to his temple in a mock salute.

“Shut up,” you grumble, following him out of the alley.

8:55 PM

It takes about twenty five minutes to actually find an open diner, which you rib Bucky over the entire way there. He doesn’t even have the decency to be apologetic about it, instead mocking your poor princess feet. (You and Bucky are Brooklyn born, tough as nails. You’ve never been gentle with each other).

When you do finally find a place, you’re quickly seated at a booth next to a window, a waitress poised with her notepad at the ready. 

“What’ll it be?” the waitress asks.

She’s older, with a stern set to her thin lips and an eye on Bucky. 

“I’ll have your finest slice of apple pie,” Bucky tells her, handing her his menu alongside his most charming smile. 

The waitress is unimpressed.

“For you?”

“An egg cream, please.”

She nods and folds her notebook up. She gives Bucky a parting glare, and he gives her an equal and opposite grin. Her ire is so genuine and his innocence so false that you can’t help it - you snort. 

The waitress turns her glare on you and you immediately fake a cough. Bucky grins again, adding in a bat of his eyelash for good measure. And that just sets you off into another laugh, which turns into more coughing, and by the time the waitress walks away with a huff both you and Bucky are laughing and coughing intermittently, attracting the eyes of other late night diner patrons. 

When you finally calm down, he’s looking right at you. 

Bucky’s eyes are both gray and blue, like looking at a cloudless sky through cigarette smoke, and there’s a real intensity about them when he’s not joking around. You’ve seen him look like that before; at Steve when he’d suffered another bully’s beating, at his sisters when they were acting out, or at some assholes that tried to feel you up on a street corner. It’s different when it’s turned on you. Your mouth is suddenly dry. 

“You can stop giving me those eyes, Barnes, I’m already here with you.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. He squints for less than a second before his smile turns easy and playful. 

“I’m only looking atcha, doll.”

You roll your eyes at the ridiculous nickname - you know for a fact that he only calls you that because it pisses you off - and change the subject. 

“So, how do you even know Connie Bryant?” 

Your tone comes out more derisive than you intend. Bucky doesn’t comment on it. 

“She’s uh… she’s a friend of Ruth’s.”

Your eyes go wide. “Jeez, is Ruth eighteen already?” 

Bucky nods. “Feels like just yesterday we were walking her to her first day of school.”

Your memory supplies you with images of the youngest Barnes, her chubby little hand enveloped in the firm grip of fifteen year-old Bucky. Bucky had told you, Steve, Kitty and Becca to go on ahead, he’d take Ruth on his own, but Ruth had pouted until you all agreed to walk with her. Sometime in the journey you’d taken up Ruth’s other hand, and you and Bucky had swung her between you at street corners while you waited for the cars to go by. 

“That was…” you trail off, bouncing numbers around in your head, “eleven years ago.”

Bucky puffs his cheeks and exhales.“They grow up so fast.” 

He’d said the same thing walking Ruth to school that day, with a wistful smile that felt too real to be a joke. (Bucky was always doing that; being young and old all at once). 

“How is your family doing? I haven’t seen them in years.”

“Oh, they’re all alright. Becca’s working in a war factory, wearing one of those jumpsuits everyday. Kitty’s got it in her head that she’s gonna go volunteer for the Red Cross, but between me an’ Ma I don’t think that’ll actually happen. And Ruth-” Bucky groans, put upon and exhausted “-Ruth’s got a boyfriend, this ‘Joe’ character. I think they’re fixin’ to get hitched soon. As though she doesn’t have her whole life to hunker down with some idiot-”

“Careful, Barnes,” you interject.

Bucky scoffs, his slight 

“Oh, come off it, Kelly wasn’t nearly as much of an idiot as this Joe kid is. This is all your fault anyways.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “My fault?”

“Ruth’s always using you as her argument, saying, ‘Y/n got married straight out of high school!’”

The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them. “Yeah, and look how well it turned out for me.”

You look down before you have a chance to see what shade of pity Bucky’s expression has fallen into. You don’t need to see it on Bucky’s face. 

You grimace. “See? Told you I’m no fun anymore.”

Frank’s memory settles over the diner booth like a storm cloud. Bucky fidgets with his hands. Frank lingers like that, a dark aura around you to people more than someone you loved and lost. Sometimes, you’re not sure which of you is doing the haunting: Frank, who’s actually dead, or you, who ghosts through and ruins everyone else’s fun. 

Bucky clears his throat. 

You look up to see him leaning in, Spencer Tracy charm oozing from a conspiratorial smile as if you hadn’t just killed the mood like a cat bringing a dead rat in from the yard. 

“D’you remember that day we all went to Coney Island together?”

“You mean, the day you made Steve so sick on The Cyclone that he hurled all over the boardwalk?”

His brows shoot up. “That’s what you choose to remember?”

“Am I supposed to remember something else from that day?”

Bucky gasps in mock offense. “I won you a teddy bear at the shooting game!”

You furrow your brows, combing through your memories. “You sure about that Barnes?” you ask when you come up blank. 

“Of course I’m sure! I-” his smile falters. “Steve.”

Your mind uncovers an image of Steve, even paler than his normal sickly Irish hue, hunched over on the boardwalk with Bucky rubbing his back. 

“Holy cow, that’s right! Steve threw up all over it!”

You laugh, memories rushing back to you. Across the table, Bucky chuckles too.

“I was so mad at him over that!”

“‘You owe me a teddy bear Steven Rogers!’” Bucky intones in a high pitched voice. 

You smack his arm where it rests on the table. “Stop, I was not that bad!”

“‘I had already named it and everything’!” he imitates again.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. 

“Oh, jeez. I was so proud of that bear.”

You peel your hands back from your face to see Bucky’s eyebrow quirked. 

“What was so important about the bear?”

You huff. “Maggie Anderson had been bragging about guys giving her gifts, and all the other girls had talked about something a boy had gotten them, and I had nothing. I knew it would’ve shut her up if I told her that Bucky Barnes had won a prize, just for me.”

“Really?” There’s a stupid little smile on his face. “I was Bucky Barnes to the other girls?”

You glare at him. “Oh, shut up.”

The blankness of Bucky’s expression makes you sit up in your seat.

“They were always talking about you, asking me if you were going with anyone and did I know if you were interested in them? It was so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?”

“Yes, embarrassing. Always getting asked questions about your love life and never getting asked any about my own, because they knew that I didn’t have one.”

You sigh, chin falling on to your hand. 

(You don’t tell him that it was equally embarrassing having such a massive crush on him, and always getting side-stepped for some other girl. Always being asked about him because he wasn’t your boyfriend, and the other girls could tell that he never would be.)

“Before Frank asked me on a date I thought I was gonna die an old maid.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not!” You shrug. “It’s not like I’m much to look at now but I definitely wasn’t back then.”

Bucky frowns at you. “Stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Talkin’ like you’re somethin’ less than a pretty girl that I have the honor of buyin’ an egg cream for.”

He’s teasing - lips stretched into a smirk and a brow quirked your way. You hate yourself for the part of your stupid little heart that flutters anyway. 

You roll your eyes. “I’m no Connie Bryant.”

You expect him to give you a once over, throw in a joke - “No, she’s got better legs!” or “Really? And here I was thinking I was on a date with her this whole time!” - but instead, he gives you a hard look. 

“No. You’re not.”

Bucky looks like he’s got more to say but the waitress is back, sliding a slice of pie in front of Bucky and an egg cream in front of you. 

“Is that all for you folks?” she asks, voice devoid of both inflection and joy.

Any trace of concern departs Bucky’s face in an instant. He exaggeratedly shakes his head.  

“Thank you very much ma’am,” he tells her with a beatific smile. 

She offers a parting glare before going back behind the counter. 

When his eyes find you again, your eyebrows are raised.

“What?” he asks, wide eyed and not at all innocent.

You suppress a smile with a sip of your egg cream, willing your ghost to leave you alone for a little longer.

9:43 PM

Conversation flows easily after that. Bucky asks all sorts of questions: how your folks are doing, what your job is like, if you still work with what’s-her-name that Bucky went out with a few times. Bucky regales you with about a decade’s worth of Steve Rogers getting beat up stories that Steve himself was smart enough not to tell you about, making sympathetic noises every time you say you’re gonna wring Steve’s neck. 

(Bucky had spent his whole life following Steve into boiling water, and you had always been about three steps behind him ready to tear them both a new one. For years, Frank had been right on your heels, smoothing the situation over with a fond grimace and a “she just worries about the two of you”).  

Before the pair of you know it, Bucky’s pie has been reduced to a sheen of apple filling on his plate, your egg cream nothing but sticky chocolate syrup at the bottom of your glass. 

“I have to powder my nose,” you say, throwing your napkin on the table.

“You go ahead. I’ll settle up at the counter so I can walk you home.”

You pretend to swoon as you exit the diner booth and head for the restrooms on the other side of the place.

When you emerge from the bathroom all of ten minutes later, you find Bucky standing by the front entrance, talking to a woman. She’s facing away from you, so you can only see Bucky’s face, stretched into the most plastic polite smile you’ve ever seen him muster. The closer you get to them, the easier it is to hear your conversation, and by the time you’ve sidled up next to Bucky, you’ve identified the stranger. 

“Maggie, you remember Y/n,” Bucky says. 

Maggie Anderson’s eyes go wide when they land on you. 

“Oh, Y/n! I didn’t even see you there!” Her voice is too loud. “How are you, dear?”

“I’m doing just fine, thanks Maggie.”

You do genuinely want to ask how she is but you’re prevented by Maggie cutting you off.

“Oh dear it must just be just so difficult for you.” 

“I remember on the first day of eleventh grade, I forgot to bring a pencil. Imagine! I’d picked the perfect dress, and I had all my notebooks and I didn’t have a single pencil. I was so upset.”

She pauses, cueing you and Bucky to nod sympathetically.

“So I’m sitting there in Mrs. Wasilewski’s class - you remember her, the arithmetic teacher with the old country accent? - anyways, I was sitting there, near tears, and then there’s a tap on my shoulder. And I look up and there’s Frank Kelly, holding out a pencil.”

And G-d bless Maggie Scaglione, she truly believes it when she says, “He was just so good.”

In the absence of anything better to say you respond: “Yeah, Frank was like that.”

Bucky lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like it’s intended to cover a snort. 

“Well, we should really get going, Maggie. Got an early morning tomorrow.”

“Oh, oh, of course! It was nice running into you, Bucky.”

Maggie leans forward, taking one of your hands in both of hers. She finds your eyes, making direct and piercing contact. “Anything you need, Y/n. Me and the girls from church have you covered.”

You nod, expression as solemn as you can muster. “Thank you, Maggie.”

She smiles big and practically skips in the other direction. 

You look to Bucky and find him looking at you, identical expressions on both your faces.

“Bless her heart,” he says. You sock him on the arm because it’d be rude to laugh as hard as you want to. 

The two of you walk down the block away from the light of the diner (and out of earshot of Maggie). It’s gotten colder with the setting of the sun. Bucky’s hands are shoved in his pockets, in a way that sort of denigrates the respectability of his pristine uniform. It reminds you of him as a teenager, Steve on one side of him and Frank on the other, huddling close as you all walked home in the winter back when none of you could afford a new coat. 

“Is it always like that when people run into you?” Bucky asks, breaking you out of your memories. 

“Sort of. That or you can tell they’re making a point of not bringing him up.”

“Jeez. I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

You shrug. There’s a pang in your chest, but you keep whatever feeling that might indicate at bay. 

“And what was that story? Christ, she made it out like Frank should be declared a martyr on the grounds of lending her a pencil.”

Your lip twitches. “She means well.”

Something knowing catches in Bucky’s eye. It’s what Frank would’ve said. 

“Still, Frank deserves better.”

He’s right. Frank Kelly deserves to be the subject of novels he’d never have read and poetry he never would’ve understood. (The kind he’d have asked you to explain to him, with that lazy smile on his face he always gave you when he was asking for something he knew you wanted to give.)

“What story would you tell about Frank, then?”

Bucky frowns, thinking face etching lines on his forehead that aren’t otherwise visible. 

The bustle of the evening carries on around you, cabbies honking at each other and shopkeepers sweeping their stoops and locking their doors. Bucky’s eyes dart over to you a couple of times. You’re not sure what he’s looking for, but he seems to find it, because he licks his lips and says, “I’d tell the one about our pact.”

Your brows furrow. You raise your brows at him.

Bucky ducks his head. “C’mon, there’s no way Frankie never told you about this.”

“Hard to say he did when I clearly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bucky chuckles. There’s a decidedly nervous lilt to it. 

“Y’know, the pact we made that if one of us got you to go steady with us, the other would bow out?”

You stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk. “What?”

Bucky stops next to you. You’re struck with the intensity of his hazy blue stare, wide and wondering where it’s locked onto you. 

Bucky groans. “Seriously, Y/n. You don’t mean to tell me that Kelly never told you-”

He cuts himself off. Clearly, Frank never told you any of this.

Bucky’s cheeks tint a shade darker. That intense stare of his is now firmly trained on his shoes.

“You remember the summer after ninth grade, when that heat wave hit and Frank and Steve started coming over every night because I was the only one with roof access and the only bearable way to sleep was outside?”

You nod. You and the Barnes sisters had somehow managed to fit all four of your adolescent bodies on the Barnes’s fire escape that summer.

“Well, we got to talking about girls, which we couldn’t do normally because you were around. And Frank and I realized we were both after the same girl.”

He takes a break from looking at his shoes to peek up at you.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” 

“What,” you say again. 

Bucky smiles like you’re an idiot before launching back into his story. “So, anyways, we decide that our friendship is too important to lose over a girl, and that you were too important to any of us to lose over some stupid fight. So we made a pact.”

At this point he gently touches your arm, pulling you from your stupor. He motions an arm out in front of him. You manage to get your feet walking again, making your way down the smaller blocks near your building.

“We swore that we’d play fair with it. Neither of us could make the other one look bad, or tell you that the other had a crush on you. Whoever managed to steal your heart got to keep it, no contest.”

Bucky shakes his head. “He even gave me most of the summer as a head start. But once you and Frank went out once, that was it. I never stood a chance.”

Your mind reels. 

“You definitely stood a chance,” you manage to say.

You remember Frank, fifteen, freckled and already a head taller than you, asking you out in late August. How he was nearly shaking with nerves. How he looked at you and said, “I know you’re hung up on Barnes. I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a chance anyways.” And how you were so angry that he was right that you agreed to the date just to prove him wrong.

Bucky’s head snaps up. “What?”

You squirm under his gaze. “Bucky, I was head over heels for you. Frank knew it, Steve knew it, Becca knew it. I think you were the only person in Brooklyn Heights who didn’t.”

“No, no you didn’t. I flirted with you all the time and you never once showed any interest.”

Your jaw drops. “You did not flirt with me!”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. “I did too flirt with you!”

You shake your head. “You never treated me like a girl!”

Your building is suddenly right in front of you. Instead of halting the conversation, you swing into the alley you’d met in earlier. Bucky follows hot on your heels.

Bucky’s eyes bulge from their sockets with such a force that his head bobs. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You made it out like it was one big joke to flirt with me!”

“Because you could see that what I did with the other girls was all bullshit!” Bucky scrubs a hand over, voice going softer. Fonder. “You’re too smart to be wooed.”

Your heart is in your throat when you say, “Doesn’t mean I didn’t want someone to try.” 

You kick a rock, the small sound of pebble against pavement echoing in the space between you and Bucky. 

“Guess it doesn’t matter, really,” he sighs. “You and Frank got married and here we are.”

You laugh, trying to shake the tension from your shoulders. 

“Yeah, you’d never have married me.”

Bucky has the audacity to sound pissed when he asks, “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come off it Barnes. You’re not the settle down type, and you certainly weren’t when we were back in school.”

“I’d marry you right now.”

You could punch him for how serious he looks about it. Your heart skips a treacherous beat, even as your mind screams too soon, too soon, too soon. 

“That’s not funny, Bucky.”

“I’m not being funny.” 

The laugh you let out is startled, bitter even to your own ears. “Oh yeah? You propose to Connie Bryant earlier, too?”

“What is it with you and Connie Bryant?!” Bucky asks, exasperated. “What, are ya jealous or somethin’?”

You stop still. You feel like you’re going to vibrate out of your skin, like you’re gonna smack Bucky Barnes so hard the cleft comes out of his chin. 

“Do you know how many guys in the neighborhood have taken Connie Bryant out on their last night in town?”

Bucky sighs, exasperated. “What does that have to do with-”

“Eighteen. Or, nineteen,” you fling a hand out to gesture towards him. “And why wouldn’t they? She’s perfectly lovely. She’s pretty and she’s sweet and she’s fun and she’s always got a friend who can tag along if your buddy needs a dance partner. And they write to her, y’know? It feels like at least once a week I see Connie Bryant in the mailroom downstairs oohing and ahhing over whatever fresh letter she’s been sent from whatever poor asshole promised he’d write to her. And do you know how many of those assholes are dead?”

Bucky, sensing where this is headed, doesn’t say a word. 

You smile, all cruelty. “None of ‘em. Not a single one. And it wouldn’t really matter if any of ‘em did die, because they don’t really mean anything to her. It’s not like any of them are her husband. So Connie Bryant gets asked out all the time, and I sit in my empty apartment and watch her leave, because nobody wants me around.”

“Y/n-”

“No, you don’t understand. People don’t know what to do with me.”

(It’s not the whole truth. They’d known how to talk to you when your husband died. 

“I’m so sorry about Frank,” they’d said, and baked their casseroles and raised money for the war effort and helped you hang a gold star flag in your window so that the whole neighborhood could see what you no longer had. But these days all they do is ask how you’re getting along, with the same pitying and anxious expression one might direct towards a neighborhood stray. A look real similar to the one Bucky’s giving you right now).

“I’m their worst fucking nightmare, y’know? Everyone knows someone in the war. So I’m a reminder of what could happen to them, that any day their soldier could die. So nobody calls me up, nobody asks me to come out. I’m Frank Kelly’s ghost and nobody wants me around.”

Tears burn at your eyes and your throat wants to close in on itself. 

“Even you, Bucky! Shit, we’ve known each other our whole lives and you didn’t write me one letter when you were at basic. You didn’t tell me you were coming home! You coulda taken me out tonight, with Steve - who I’m sure would’ve had a better time if there’d been someone there who was actually interested in talking to him - but you didn’t. You took Connie Bryant. Because she’s the kind of girl people actually want to have around. The kind of girl you tell when you ship off to war. The kind you write letters to from the front.”

You sigh, drained completely of any energy you had for this argument. The first boy you ever loved looks at you like you’ve just appeared out of nowhere. 

“I think I could fill Frank’s entire empty casket with all those g-ddamn letters,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “So yeah, Bucky. I’m sure as shit jealous of Connie Bryant.”

Silence hangs over you, makes your shoulders pull into your ears. Your face is flushed, the effort of holding back tears as embarrassing as all of what you’ve just said. You don’t realize that you’re shivering until you feel the warmth of fabric around your shoulders. Bucky, sans jacket, props an arm up against the alley wall and leans, facing you. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s doing that thing with his eyes again, where the whole world’s focused right on you. “I shouldn’t have fallen off after Frank.”

You take a shuddering breath. Let it out through your teeth. 

“Why did you?”

You make no effort to accept his apology. (He’s already long been forgiven). 

Bucky turns away from you, pressing his back against the alley wall. He lets out a lot of air. Minutes pass. 

“I’m afraid of the war.” He says it like he’s talking about the weather, but his fists are balled up in his pockets and his jaw is tight. “I’m not s’posed to be, but I am.”

You nod, pulling his jacket tighter around you. 

“I-” he starts, licks his lips, then starts again quieter, “It wasn’t ‘cause of Kelly. Everytime I saw you looking so…”

He doesn’t need to describe what you looked like those first few months. You remember it. 

“It was like watching exactly what it’d be like for my sisters or my ma if something happened to me. I got spooked.”

He takes a breath that’s just steady enough to not be gasping. “I’m sorry.”

You nod. Your eyes burn. 

(You can remember a version of Bucky, twelve and knobby-kneed, sitting next to you in the hospital during one of Steve’s worst fevers. 

“Are you gonna cry, Bucky Barnes?” you’d asked, when your own breath quaked at the sight of your vibrant friend, paler than a ghost halfway to heaven. 

“I don’t cry,” he’d spat at you, even as he swiped his red eyes with the sleeve of his sweater.

“Well, neither do I,” you’d told him, never one to be outdone.)

(Look at you now, both liars.)

“For the record,” you tell him, keeping your gaze steady on his face so he really hears it. “I’d be just as torn up as your family if something happened to you.”

Bucky nods. He swipes at his eyes with his fancy uniform sleeve. 

“Noted.”

You give him the privacy to sort himself out. He does so for you too. You’re both facing your apartment building. The sun has long since buried itself in the Hudson, only the streetlamps and lit up windows available to lend you sight.

Bucky turns his face skyward and mutters something, too quiet for you to hear. And then he looks at you and says “I’m sorry,” with the kind of rueful smile on his face that means he wishes he were sorry, but he isn’t at all. 

Before you can ask him what the hell that’s supposed to mean he’s closing the little space between you in the alley and crushing his lips against yours. 

You have a minute of paralyzed inaction, Bucky’s arms coming up to clutch your body against his.

You’re still stock still when Bucky pulls away.

“Y/n?”

His cheeks are flushed and his brow is heavy with concern and it’s there, in the arms of the first boy you’ve ever loved, that you make your choice.

You spare a thought for your dead husband, only six months in the ground. And then you grab Bucky by the shirt collar and kiss him back. 

Kissing Bucky is nothing like you’d imagined when you were a kid. He’s not princely or cool or gentle. Bucky kisses you with all of himself, mashing his lips into yours and plastering his whole body against you, like he’s scared that if he doesn’t fuse your skin together you might disappear entirely. Bucky Barnes kisses like a tough kid from Brooklyn who never let himself cry.

You don’t know how much time passes with you two like that, holding each other tight enough to bruise and kissing until your lungs scream out for air. 

You don’t know where you got the idea (or the courage) but before you know it you’re asking, “Do you wanna come upstairs?”

Bucky’s sinful smile falters. “Y/n, you don’t hafta-”

“It’s got nothin’ to do with ‘hafta’,” you say, even as your mind screams that it does, it does, it does. 

“Alright,” he pulls his bottom lip between white flag teeth. “If you insist.”

The two of you ascend the staircase in silence until you reach your fourth floor apartment. You turn the key in the lock and push the door open, glancing behind you to catch Bucky wiping his hands against his thighs. You turn around fully and lift your brows (another confirmation, just to be extra sure). Bucky moves his hands to your waist and leans his head down. Your lips lock again at the same time you get a grip on his tie and pull. 

Bucky Barnes stumbles, tie-first, through your front door. 

His hands leave your waist only for the second it takes to push the door closed behind him, and then they’re on you, stroking your hips and cupping your jaw. His fingers are gentle and light, even as they force goosebumps to surface on every inch of your skin. As much as it turns you on, it sort of makes your eyes burn. 

(You and Bucky are Brooklyn born, tough as nails. You’ve never been gentle with each other before).

You stumble backwards blindly until you’re in your bedroom, the back of your legs hitting the base of your bed. Bucky pulls away long enough for you both to strip, leaving him in his undershirt and underwear and you in your bra, girdle, and panties. You can see the outline of all the muscle basic must’ve given him through his undershirt, rippling with every heaving breath he takes. His eyes rake down your figure, still intense, but more in the way hunger makes you look at food. 

“You sure you still…?”

“Y/n,” he groans. His eyes find yours, conveying an emotion somewhere between exasperated and fond and brutally honest. “I’ve wanted this since 1933.”

Oh lord. You flush hot. 

“Then get to it, Barnes.” 

Bucky brings his hand up against his forehead in a mock salute. 

“Yes ma’am,” he smiles, beatific. 

His lips are on yours again before you can tell him to shut up.

May 15, 1943 | 12:00 AM 

Your bedroom is dark, save for the burning end of a cigarette wedged between Bucky’s lips. 

It just barely illuminates the features of his face, catching on the sweat that lingers on his brow (confirmation of what you’d just done together). You reach over and pluck the cigarette right from Bucky’s lips. He grumbles, but allows you to take it without putting up much of a fight. 

“Hey Buck?” you say, taking a drag. He turns to you. “Thank you for telling me that story about Frank.”

He smiles, lazy. “Hey, I’ll tell you all the stories I have about ‘im if it gets me in your bed again.”

Bucky lifts to covers to peek down at your naked form. You smack him on the arm. He grins.

Silence settles over you again. You take another drag of Bucky's cigarette.

“Kelly loved you, y’know? Even when he should’ve been sayin’ all the gross things guys say about girls, Kelly would tell us about how he was gonna build you a house on the beach in California and give you ten of his Irish Catholic babies.”

You snort. It was a fantasy he’d shared with you many times over the years. 

“He’d have gotten one hell of a sunburn,” you joke. Your voice is overly fond.

“That’s for sure.”

You raise the cigarette to your lips for another drag. Bucky steals it from you right before it meets your lips. You grumble, but allow him to take it without much of a fight. 

“Would you ever want you to get married again?” he asks you.

“I think so. I think it’s what Frank would want for me.”

Bucky’s lips stretch into a pleased smile. “I’ll marry you for him, then.”

You laugh, loud and startled, the way Bucky’s made you laugh since you were small. “Not this again.”

“Oh c’mon, imagine it! We’ll move out to California, and I’ll build you a big house on the beach.”

You do imagine it: standing on a beach in California with your bare feet sinking into the sand. You hear your name called out and there’s Bucky behind you, sunkissed cheeks pushed out from that same familiar cheeky grin on his face. It seems warm and happy and so far removed from the grime of New York, from anything you and Bucky actually are. Your chest physically aches with the longing to give that to him. 

He grins at you, waggles his eyebrows. “So what d’ya say, doll? You wanna be Mrs. James Barnes?”

“Go to sleep, Bucky.”

“Jeez, let a guy dream, will ya?”

“Go to sleep, Bucky,” you say, softer this time.

He huffs, but puts out his cigarette on the ashtray next to the bed, plunging the room into total darkness. You feel Bucky shift down next to you in bed, throwing an arm over your naked torso. He pulls you into him and presses a kiss to your hair.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Barnes,” he whispers. 

Right before sleep takes you, your eyes catch on the gold star banner in your window and for the first time since you hung the thing, it makes you smile. 

To Mrs. Frank Kelly, you think. And the future Mrs. Bucky Barnes, G-d help her. 

You fall asleep in the arms of the first boy you ever loved and dream of the sea.

[amerrierworld]

Little Songbird (pt 2)

Part 1: x

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu becomes addicted to your voice and wants to hear you… sing some more.

Characters: Alcina Dimitrescu x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,870

Warnings: The Smut Chapter~

Over the next few days, Lady Dimitrescu barely caught a glance of you. Either you were overworking yourself, or avoiding her. The thought made her bristle with annoyance, mostly aimed at herself. Had she scared you off?

Down below in the servants’ quarters, you tried your best not to pay attention to the rush of heat that went through your body every time you remembered Lady Dimitrescu’s lingering gaze on you. 

You hadn’t seen her, or frankly you had tried avoiding her. You kept to your duties, overworking yourself, distracting yourself, wondering if what you felt was unholy. Wondering if she felt the same.

“Lady Dimitrescu has asked you to clean her personal study,” the head housemaid said one day in the kitchens. You paled a little, nearly dropping the plate you were drying off.

“..Oh?”

“You’re to go there after dinner tonight.” She was absent-mindedly polishing some of the silverware at the counter, not noticing how you had reacted. “The Lady will run you through what’s needed.”

“She.. she’ll be there?” 

“Yes, of course," she replied, “she’d never let any of us in by ourselves. I would know.”

She definitely would. It was only her that would ever be allowed in Lady Dimitrescu’s study to clean. But she didn’t seem to mind it was you who was on that duty tonight... you dreaded the massive list of things you would probably have to do. Was this a punishment?

“Clean yourself up before you go.” She eyed your dirtied apron and ashy skirt. “No use if you're just going to mess up what you’ll be cleaning.”

And so, with fresh clothes and your face scrubbed clean of grease, you made your way up through the castle levels to get to the study. On the way, you heard faint buzzing down the hall. 

You turned to see dark robes disappearing around the corner, and suddenly the dimly-lit hallway was a lot more ominous and foreboding than before. Hurrying down the direction you needed to go, you tried not to drop any of your supplies as your heart-rate picked up.

Just around the corner, you kept thinking, just a little further and-

“Boo!” 

You shrieked, shock coursing through your body in a split second as Miss Daniela appeared right in your face when you turned the last corner. Her bloodied mouth split into a wide, cunning smile at your reaction, your face flushing red in embarrassment and sudden fear.

“Oh, now that was fun, wasn’t it?” she cackled, circling around you with the curiosity of a feline, far too close for comfort, “I haven't seen you up here before.”

The water in your bucket had managed to spill over the side in your jump, and you felt your stockings and shoes soaking through. You grimaced at the feeling and Miss Daniela could only giggle.

She tugged at your hair like a bratty younger sibling as she disappeared in a swarm of insects that buzzed around your head, calling after you,

“Have fun~” 

You felt the water squish in your shoes as you walked the last few steps towards the intimidating double-doors of Lady Dimitrescu’s personal study.

It wasn’t anything like the last study you had cleaned. It felt massive to you- everything must have been custom made for her. The chairs, the desk, the bookcase. You’d have to do some real climbing to clean all the nooks and crannies in here.

But it was the piano in the centre of the room that really caught your eye. It was dark- but not quite black. There was a rich, deep red sheen to it, and just like everything else in the room, it seemed to tower above you.

And her- 

Lady Dimitrescu was already in her nightly attire- a long-sleeved nightgown. It was a cream colour, as always, and you wondered if the light was a little stronger, how sheer the fabric would be..

“Ah, there you are.” Lady Dimitrescu’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts, and you straightened up a little. “Come closer, little songbird. Into the light.”

The nickname made you blush furiously, though you did as she asked. So she hadn’t forgotten you. Was that supposed to be a relief? The squish of your shoes made you grimace, and from the way her eyes trailed down, she heard it as well.

“Did it rain on the way here?” she asked, dryly. You looked down at the carpet, clutching your supplies. You were leaving footprints behind. You’d definitely have to clean that thoroughly.

“I- I spilled some water on the way here. I.. tripped,” you said. You didn’t think ratting out her daughter would put the Lady in a good mood. 

Her expression didn’t prove to you that she believed you, but she let it be. She picked up a small sheet of paper with listed chores and handed it to you without much thought.

You expected an explosive list of unending duties, but you were quite surprised with the sparse instructions. Dust the bookshelves, sweep under the piano, scrub the floors...

This was one of the few rooms in the entire castle that looked, quite frankly, immaculate. Everything seemed to have a place already, so you really didn’t need to do much at all.

You quietly set to work without any further commentary, and didn’t catch the way Lady Dimitrescu watched you from her desk when you came into her peripheral vision. The letters from Mother Miranda didn’t register in her mind as she listened to you work, hoping for the sound of your voice. Then she heard you hum, lightly, only for you to catch yourself mid-dusting, and stop altogether.

When you got to the piano, you needed to move the bench to get under and sweep, but when you pushed against the heavy piece of furniture, it screeched against the floor, startling both of you.

“Sorry,” you squeaked, barely audible. You looked up and caught her deep yellow eyes staring at you intently, and something stirred deep inside you.

“I didn’t know you played,” you commented once you realized Lady Dimitrescu wasn’t going to say anything to break the awkward silence. In fact, she adored seeing you so flustered and shy, and didn’t want it to end.

“I don’t often,” she eventually replied. She stood up from her desk, and you nearly snapped your neck keeping your eyes on hers as she rose above you.

You hurried out of the way as she came to sit on the bench. Lady Dimitrescu lifted the fallboard and a soft, light chord rung out as she pressed down on the keys. 

“Can you match pitch?” She was testing some of the sound in various chords, simple but effective. You watched her fingers dance, only to realize you had not seen her without gloves before now. The nails were painted in a dark, deep red. Her fingers were long and pale, and the skin on the backs of her hands were marred with little silvery scars. You wondered what they tasted like.

She gestured for you to come sit next to her, and you clambered up on the bench to kneel on the cushion. Lady Dimitrescu played a little more as you hummed along with the chords. 

“Sing a song for me, pet,” she said, without glancing towards you. Her hands stilled to give you a moment to think, but your brain was only short-circuiting. It was like all of a sudden, every known song had disappeared from your memory.

Then a finger tapped your chin and lifted your head up to gaze into her eyes, and you sighed in contentment at the physical touch. 

Her eyebrow quirked a little, as if barely registering the sound you made. 

“No? No ideas?” she asked. Her perfume was that much denser when close to you, and it overwhelmed you. You could only weakly shake your head, nerves churning in your stomach.

“Well, we can’t have that,” she hummed. “I still want to hear you, little one.”

“I’m sorry...” you began, but she tutted. She’d make you sing in a.. different way. She wasn’t going to let you go after all those agonizing days without getting to hear you properly.

The hand that was holding your chin dropped down to your thigh. Your eyes were still adoringly glued to her face as she dropped the fallboard back over the keys. It nearly made her blush.

The world surged around you as you were suddenly lifted up from your seat. You were put on top of the piano, facing Lady Dimitrescu, and she nudged your legs apart so she could lean forward a little more. Your eyes were level with hers now, and you caught a flash of her white teeth as she smiled, lovingly, but devilishly. 

“Do you think you can sing well?” she asked, one hand wrapping around the entirety of one of your ankles. You immediately shook your head. The dampness of your feet and legs caught her attention, and she tutted again.

“Off,” she ordered, leaning away, before wiping her hand on her dress. You hurriedly did as she asked, tugging down your still-wet stockings, ripping a little bit of the fabric, but you couldn’t mind with the way Lady Dimitrescu was eyeing you.

“Good girl.”

You clamped your thighs together, and she definitely didn’t miss that. Her hand went back to wrap around your ankle, now fabric-free. The other reached out to cup the side of your jaw, trailing down and wrapping around your neck, squeezing lightly for less than a second. Then it lowered even more and undid the top button of your dress.

“Still want to stay and sing for me, little songbird?” she asked, her hand lingering, but not moving from its spot. “Your tasks are long done.”

That was not true, you hadn’t even swept yet. But you slowly began to realize maybe the chores had nothing to do with you coming up here tonight.

The question burned deep inside you, and Lady Dimitrescu looked like she wasn’t going to move until you gave your consent. Though you loved the tension that was building, you began to feel restless.

“Yes, please.” You inched your legs a little wider, and her smile grew. 

“Such a pleasant sound, your voice,” she said, as her hand from your ankle trailed up your leg. “I was enraptured many weeks ago, when I heard you for the first time.”

“You.. you’ve heard me before?” you gasped a little, because her cool fingers pressed against the sensitive inside of your thighs. You thought you were always alone when you sang during work.

“Oh yes,” she grinned, “now sing for me, little pet. Make all the noise you want.”

Her mouth was on yours in an instant, filling your lungs with perfume and warm breath. The buttons on your dress came apart as her hands pulled at them one by one. Your skirt was pushed up, and then she pressed down on your torso to get you to lie on your back. The piano was smooth and cold beneath, and there was a brief moment you regretted that it was definitely going to be dirtied by what was to come. But then Lady Dimitrescu’s mouth latched onto your neck and all thoughts evaporated from your brain. 

There was a pinch as she nipped at the soft skin between neck and shoulder, making your back arch and your body lift off the piano.

“Hmm.. delightful,” she growled. Her large hands slid up your dress and your entire lower half was exposed.

“Oh, I can smell you,” she sighed. She pulled back only a moment to tug the dress off your whole body. Your fingers scrabbled against the piano’s slick surface as you felt your nipples harden at her touch.

She sat back on the bench and scooted forward, leaning down to inhale your alluring smell as you lay there, gasping for air. 

“Now.” She pulled your legs apart, eyes zoning in on your cunt. “I want to hear you sing.”

Her mouth pressed against your folds and a warm, wet tongue slipped up to catch your clit. A squeal escaped you and she kissed it a little more in reward.

“That’s it. More.”

Her fingers dug into your thighs before she began sucking and licking almost aggressively. Your body was trembling with every swipe of her tongue, every delicate nibble on your folds.

Your gasps rose in volume, your voice breaking in small squeaks and whimpers. Though she adored it when you carried a tune, this was much more satisfying. 

Her tongue pressed inside without any hesitation. You felt it curl and push inside you, catching your wetness and scent. A low growl in the back of her throat made you cry out, and her grip tightened even more.

It wasn’t going to take long, you realized. The despair in her relentless tongue, her piercing eyes watching your body rise and drip with sweat made the coil tighten with every passing moment. 

Her pupils were blown, and every time you let out another sound, she pressed on a little harder, a little faster.

“Oh!” Her tongue had slipped out and were replaced by two thick fingers. Your cry of delight earned you her warm lips wrapping around your clit, and you couldn’t help but grab at her head of thick, smooth hair. 

The curls slipped delightfully through your fingers and you were watching the ceiling, trying to make out the shapes in the darkness, until she pulled away and said,

“Eyes on me, dear. Nowhere else.”

You had to hoist yourself up with one hand to watch her, and she got back to work immediately. Eyes locked, one hand in her hair, and hers wrapped around you so tightly you couldn’t move away. 

“Fuck..” you hissed out as her fingers curled. Her eyes flashed; she seemed to like it, so you kept going.

“Please..” you begged, hips trying to buck in her hold, “oh, please please.. it feels..s-so good.”

Your thighs had been completely smeared by her lipstick, or those were bruises forming from her grip. Either way, the marks made your head spin with arousal. 

“Please don’t stop... Please, don’t ever stop.” You were gasping, trying hard to focus on your words, but then her mouth sucked hard on your clit, and you were lost in meaningless sounds and little cries of pleasure as you came.

She didn’t stop, revelling in your gasps and broken whimpers, music to her ears. When your body began pulling away and you felt a tingling sensitivity every time she tried to touch your clit again, that was when she knew to let you go. 

Lady Dimitrescu sat back a moment, basking in the sight of you, wet and spent, spread out over her piano and with cum dripping down your thighs. She lifted her hand and wiped her mouth with the back of it to catch any further stray lipstick, but she didn’t quite catch all of it. 

When you could finally breathe normally, you sat up slowly and trembled again under her piercing gaze. 

Your small hands reached out to cup her cheeks, startling her. She thought you’d dash off with your bucket and leave immediately. You inched closer and used your thumbs to wipe the last bits of lipstick, and then kissed her. Soft, sweet, just like your singing. 

You peppered her lips and chin with kisses for a few minutes. She allowed all of it, held you close as you breathed her in. You shifted, feeling your body unstick from the piano with an unsavoury sound and you pulled a face, making her laugh. It made you giddy inside.

You stayed like that for a long while, and you relished in how warm and soft she was. 

“Perhaps you can sing again for me sometime,” she suggested, “an actual song.”

You buried your head into the crook of her neck, making a whiny noise in the back of your throat. She said she liked your singing, yes, but it still intimidated you. Whether it was nerves, or the fact it was her that was listening.. but you did want to please her. Always.

“You realize you sing beautifully, little one?” she eventually asked. “Even when I’m not inside you?”

You let out a burst of giggles and she lovingly kissed your shoulder. The glee of her enjoying your voice and the aftermath of your orgasm soared like butterflies inside you.

“You best get back to your duties,” she hummed, though her hand curved around your waist and held you close, like she wasn’t going to let you go. “The shelves in this castle aren’t going to dust themselves.”

You laughed again, feeling adoration swell up inside you as you ran your fingers through her loosened locks of hair. 

“...can I come back tomorrow night?” you asked feebly.

She chuckled, low and sultry, and tipped your head up to look at her, “you can come whenever you want.”

Your face went beet-red in a matter of second and she grinned widely.

“But tomorrow night.. come to my chambers. And don’t bother with your supplies. Won’t want you getting wet again... at least not like that.”

A/N: thank you all for the love on part 1 ☺️ I hope this meets your expectations <3