#their chorus was a battle cry

[gnzma]

[ guys. why did i accidentally connect radahn's theme to guzma ]

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

that type of dad .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Summary: sometimes, dads just aren't present enough. y/n would rather kill lando than let him become that kind of dad.

˙ᵕ˙ ln x reader ꨄ︎

˙ᵕ˙ flulff ꨄ︎

masterlist ☾☼

the plane shuddered as they boarded, economy seats seeming just a tad too intimate after the first class lounge. y/n settled into the window seat, lando clumsily into the middle, a dad already outstretched in the aisle seat. across the thin gulf, a mom was attempting to calm two toddlers, a battle she was very much losing.

y/n sat by, watching it play out. one of the toddlers wanted a treat, the other a toy. both demanded mother's attention, pronto. meanwhile, the father snored on, a travel pillow draped round his neck.

"seriously?" y/n murmured under her breath to lando rather than to herself. "what an asshole."

lando, eyes wide with watchfulness, nodded.

as soon as the plane departed, the chorus of baby screams ensued. one yelled because his brother stole his blanket. the other bawled because he was supposed to have the window seat. the mother attempted to manage with snacks, toys, and pacifiers but to no avail. the father, bless him, slept undisturbed, now watching a film on his tablet.

y/n's muttering grew into full-fledged rant. "i swear, if we ever get kids, i am never letting you be that guy. never. one kid, one parent. that's the rule. no exceptions."

lando, who was imagining miniature versions of y/n and himself, just blinked. "yes, dear," he said quietly, a goofy smile spreading across his face.

the flight kept going, and so did the toddler chaos. one required a diaper change, the other became instantly hungry. the mom, frazzled, attempted to make her way through the miniature airplane restroom with a wiggling toddler clutched in her arms. the dad? he was now munching on a huge bag of chips, completely unaware of the chaos that was erupting around him.

y/n was seething. "i mean, come on! how can he just sit there? does he not hear the screaming? does he not see his wife struggling? if i didn't know better, i'd think he was a cardboard cutout of a dad."

lando, now picturing y/n as a mother, a small human between them, simply nodded again. "yes, dear," he echoed, his eyes twinkling.

y/n continued ranting the remainder of the flight. "and don't even get me started on sleeping arrangements. if we have two children, one sleeps with me, one sleeps with you. no discussion. i am not handling two toddlers alone. no way."

lando, lost in a daydream of y/n, a warm house, and two small ones, simply smiled. "yes, dear," he breathed, his heart full.

as the plane touched down, the mom was tired but relieved. the dad, well-rested and well-fed, stretched and took his bag. y/n glared at him as they disembarked.

"i mean it, lando," she told him, as they strode through the airport. "if you ever behave like that guy, i'm gone. i swear it."

lando, who was starting to plot their wedding in his mind, nodded simply. "yes, dear," he replied, holding out his hand to her. "i promise."

y/n rolled her eyes, but couldn't help grinning. she knew he'd never be that type of dad. but it felt good to complain, to just get it all out. and lando? he didn't care. he was too busy being joyful that she was already making plans for their future, their kids. even if it meant a lot of "yes, dears" and an official split of childcare responsibilities. he could deal with that. he was a formula 1 driver, for crying out loud. pressure was his middle name. and y/n? she was his everything. even when she was yelling about bad dads on planes. especially then.

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆

yes, i know i was supposed to add y/n and lando helping the mom, but i forgot about it until after i wrote it. sorry. anyways, dee, this is for you. i hope you enjoy this! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday ; @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @peterholland04 ; @justaf1girl ; @greantii ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry ; @hiireadstuff ; @opastries81

[oceanreveuse]

𝗡𝗢𝗪 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚: 𝗵𝘆𝗱𝗿𝗼 𝗱𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗼𝗻, 𝗳𝗲𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗻𝗲𝘂𝘃𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲.

◟sub!neuvillette, dom!reader, canon!au, two dick!neuvi send tweet!! overstimulation, orgasm denial, handjob(s), dacryphilia, forked tongue!neuvi… pet names (baby, mon amour - my love), not proofread, pronouns not used so can be read as gn!reader!!

‘hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don’t cry.’ you remember the rhyme as clear as day, like you’d been raised with it carved into your mind. it’s chimed like a chorus on the streets of fontaine by the children, small and innocent - and adherently unaware of the world around them.

the room fills with another choked sob, whimpering into the pillows of your shared bed. the bedsheets, silk and shiny, are sodden by numerous liquids; tears, drool and if you’re kind enough to your beloved husband, cum. if only that was the circumstance, dragging both of your lithe hands up and down red tipped cocks in languid strokes. you never lose your rhythm and as much as NEUVILLETTE has always held a candle of admiration to your resilience and dexterity, by the archons he wishes you would let up for just a moment - just for him.

neuvillette can feel himself slipping away, crumbling in the palms of your hands the longer he attempts to endure your torture. his cries seem to fall on deaf ears, drowned out ironically by children innocently on the streets of the court of fontaine, outside the window as they chime happily in the downpour, “hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don’t cry!”

there’s a smug look on your face, eyes glittering as you lean over the iudex’s muscular body, decorated nicely by those white hairs that almost pale in comparison to the man’s skin colour. plush lips linger by his pointed ears, breath fanning over his skin that’s warm to the touch. neuvillette has never been one for sweating but it feels like hours since you started and there’s beads glittering on his forehead and neck, threatening to run down crevices untold.

“how sweet of them, don’t you think baby?” you murmur and neuvillette chokes on a noise that gets caught in his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to swallow the lump. his whimpers are so light and airy, almost as dainty as the way the large man carries himself - as if he’s fragile porcelain.

“m-mon amour— hhnngh— p-please—” you cut off the male by capturing his lips in a searing kiss, messy when he arches his back in order to press more against him. he uses it as an escape to muffle his moans that get louder, threatening to breach the walls - and windows - of the bedroom and reach the ears of unsuspecting bystanders. you use it as a means of silencing the otherwise loud dragon, saving yourself the time of hearing his pathetic attempts at begging you for mercy.

he ruts his hips into your hands, forked tongue slivering to fight against your tongue in a hopeless battle of dominance. he wants so badly to finish, for thick ropes of white to paint his abdomen or the back of your throat but you’re relentless and he should have known this from the start. crystalline tears run rivers down flushed cheeks and sharply carved jawlines, rain battering against the windows as the citizens of fontaine call for their children, ushering them into shelter.

the chorus of rhymes end but it doesn’t stop you from filling the silence with a symphony of neuvillette’s desperate whines and delicate whimpers, his moans breathy as he pants to catch his breath. you swipe a thumb teasingly over the tip of one of his cocks, collecting treasured drops of precum and eliciting a sharp hiss from the parted lips of your husband.

your hands pick up pace, watching the way he claws at silken sheets to grasp anything - literally anything. there’s a fire in his abdomen, heavy balls tightening when he’s finally climbing those precious stairs to climax. he’s ready, he’s oh-so-ready for your praise and the soft aftercare you’ll spoil him with, that he’s very much deserved. the poised man prepares himself, rocking his hips into your fists as he chases his high, only for your hands to pull away just at the precipice. his hips stutter, cocks needy and twitching from yet another denial as he chokes out a sob.

your amused voice chides into the hot air of the bedroom, soothing your palms over his tense thighs, “hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don’t cry.”

© oceanreveuse 2024 | reblogs appreciated | do not repost, steal, translate, etc. on any social media platform & do not feed to ai.

[ the magazine is affiliated with @houseofsolisoccasum ]

[tpwk-formula1]

saw you ask for short reqs for drabbles!!

ever since hearing the second pre-chorus of sports car by tate mcrae i cant stop thinking about it (especially with LN tbh) “on the corner of my bed, or maybe on the beach, you can do it on your own while you’re looking at me”

like…lando getting off while you’re staring at each other? maybe even mutual masturbation happening? idk. i’ll let you take over obvs but just that line, especially that last bit, has been swimming in my brain since it dropped and i need your thoughts

AN: I'm ngl I did have to listen to the song... But now listening to it I can see how this has been stuck in your head! I went with the mutual masturbation rout cause that how my brain heard the song hehe.

If you want your own mini drabble just send in the driver and a small idea you want to see written!!

TW: MDNI 18+ Mutual Masturbation

WC: 480+

Y/N POV

"Lan, you're insufferable," I tease while I let my best friend pull me along back into his room.

"Please," Lando begs while settling himself on the corner of bed and rubbing at the crotch of the swim trunks he had thrown on this morning.

"You can watch," I whisper in his ear before taking a step back and giving him a quick little strip tease.

By the time I'm done taking off the sundress I had thrown on over my black bikini Lando had already worked his swim trunks off leaving him to jerk his cock off.

"Fuck so pretty," Lando whines when he sees me pulling the strings of my swim top off.

"Hands to yourself," I tease with a smirk when I see Lando trying to reach out towards me.

Once I was fully undressed I quickly make myself comfortable on the couch in the corner of his room. Lando and I are both making eye contact while I start teasing my hardening nipples.

"Why can't I touch you," Lando asked while giving me his best puppy dog eyes.

"Because we're supposed to just be friends," I reply with a small smirk throwing his words back into his face. It had been a long battle between us but lately we were both losing it.

"Fuck, please," Lando begs again when he sees my fingers trailing down from my nipples towards my already soaked folds.

"Go on, do it yourself," I reply in a breathy moan when my fingers find my throbbing clit.

Lando and I are both watching each other through hooded eyes.

"Fuck," I moan when I sink two fingers into my pussy and finding my G-spot almost instantly.

I use my free hand to pinch and tease at my nipple while still fucking my pussy. I could tell I wasn't gonna last much longer but when Lando's moans and whine start growing in volume I can't help but let my eyes fall to his hard cock throbbing in his hand.

"I'm close," Lando's ragged voice breaks through the sounds of our moans.

"Cum for me Lando," I moan out while dropping my hand from my nipples down to my clit giving myself double stimulation while watching Lando groan and throw his head back with a loud moan before he starts shooting ropes of cum all over his abs and chest.

"Fuck Lando," I cry out as I fall over the edge watching his cum all over himself. I close my eyes and throw my head back letting the waves of my orgasm wash over my body.

When I finally open my eyes coming down from my high I look up to find Lando already staring at me.

"Next time you're moaning my name, you'll be cumming on my cock," Lando says confidently while standing up and walking towards me to place a soft kiss on the forehead.

------

The end!

I hope this was what you were looking for <3

[kaynothanks]

ROMEO DIED

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x fem!Reader

Summary:  You wouldn’t call Billy Hargrove a friend—but misery sure does love company

Warnings: NO, Billy doesn't die, it's just a title! (18+ mdni), swearing (like a lot), smut, thigh riding, billy being a lil bat shit (personality trait?) crying, angst, smoking, sad shit, domestic violence!, it's dark I ain't gonna lie

Word-Count: 25.9k (I don't know how this keeps happening)

To the vast majority, the very essence of childhood was encapsulated in a singular, formative memory—a bright, indelible mark upon the canvas of their existence. These recollections, oft recounted with a gleam in the eye and warmth in the voice, were predominantly woven from the fabric of joyous days. Days spent in the cherished embrace of dearly loved ones, under the golden sun of endless summers or amidst the cozy dimness of a family room lit only by the flickering images of a movie night. Tales of vacations painted in the vivid hues of adventure, of afternoons spent marveling at the wonders housed within the silent watchfulness of zoo enclosures—these were the stories shared, the common thread binding the tapestry of shared human experience.

Yet, amidst this chorus of reminiscences, not once did a voice falter, not once did the flow of memories stutter into silence—as if each story, each recollection, was a pearl, smoothly rolling off the tongue without a moment's hesitation.

You, however, found yourself adrift in this sea of shared nostalgia. When the spotlight of expectation turned to you, when it was your turn to pluck a gem from the treasury of your past, you found the vault seemingly empty. A heavy silence would envelop you, a thick, tangible thing, punctuated only by the expectant gazes of those around you. In those moments, a flurry of panic would dance behind your eyes, a frantic search through the archives of your memory for something—anything—that could pass as a semblance of the joyous tales so freely offered by others.

And so, you took refuge behind the facade of little white lies, crafting tales of your own. Tales that were never lived but painted with enough detail to pass as truth. You knew, instinctively, that these fabrications were necessary—not for your sake, but for theirs. To preserve the sanctity of their bubble-wrapped worlds, where the possibility of a childhood untainted by the same joys was unthinkable, a harsh discord in the symphony of their understanding.

Thus, you crafted a mask from the clay of necessity, molding an awkward smile upon your lips as you spun a tale from the threads of imagination—a story designed to dance gracefully upon the ears of your audience, a melody in the key of fiction they were all too eager to hear. Beneath this veneer of compliance, however, you waged a silent battle, pressing down the memory that surged forth with the clarity and insistence of an unwanted ghost. It was as if you were condemned to an eternal viewing of a particularly distasteful episode of a show, one that had been replayed in the theater of your mind more times than you cared to count.

In those moments, as the lie unfolded from your tongue like the petals of some strange flower, you were mercifully detached from the raw emotions that had once torn through the small, trembling body of your four-year-old self. You were no longer the child cocooned in the dubious sanctuary of a cabinet, its door cracked just enough to admit a sliver of the world outside—a gap so minimal it might have escaped notice altogether, were it not for the significance of the vantage point it offered.

From this slender aperture, you bore witness to a scene that would forever imprint itself upon the canvas of your memory: the harsh, unforgiving grip of your father's hand as it ensnared your mother's head, the violent arc as he brought it crashing down onto the unforgiving surface of the kitchen table. His voice, a thunderous roar that filled the room and set your very soul to trembling, was a soundtrack to the horror unfolding before your eyes, a cacophony that seemed to fuel your incessant shaking.

The final image that burned itself into your retinas, a haunting tableau, was of your mother's slow, agonizing crawl towards you. A rivulet of red, a stark contrast against the pallor of her skin, traced a path down her forehead, a silent testament to the brutality she had endured. And then, with an act of maternal instinct so profound it bordered on the prescient, she reached out to close the cabinet door, shrouding you in darkness. Somehow, she had known—known that even in this desperate moment, her first instinct was to protect you, to shield you from the ugliness of a reality no child should ever have to witness.

In the immediate aftermath, darkness enveloped you, a shroud of impenetrable black that seemed to swallow every shard of light, leaving you suspended in a void where time itself hesitated. It was a silence so profound, a darkness so complete, that for a fleeting series of seconds, you found space to draw breath—a brief respite in the eye of an ongoing storm.

Then, piercing the stillness, came a watery plea—a voice so drenched in despair it seemed to bleed through the air. This was swiftly followed by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a step, a harbinger of chaos yet to unfold. What ensued was a cacophony of crashes and screeches, each imbued with such terror that they seemed to vibrate within the very marrow of your bones. Abruptly, it ceased. The ominous drum of your father's steps receded, and the lament of your mother's cries fell silent.

Within the confines of that cabinet, your sanctuary of shadows, you remained hidden. There, amidst the dust and the dark, you had fostered a belief, a child's naive conviction, that no malevolence could ever breach your fortress of solitude.

Time, however, cared little for such beliefs. You had outgrown the cabinet, outgrown the illusion of invulnerability it had once provided. The specters of those bad things, those harbingers of hurt and harrow, had since learned to find you, to ensnare your mind with their inevitable grasp, to sink their cruel claws deep into your psyche, marking you with scars unseen but deeply felt.

This realization pressed upon you with a weight all its own as you stared into the fractured visage reflected in the broken wardrobe mirror. The spiderweb of cracks across the glass seemed to mock, to distort not just your reflection but the very essence of who you had become. With a heavy heart, you diverted your gaze, a tacit acknowledgment that the sight of your own battered being was a reality you were not ready to confront—not now, perhaps not ever. There was no need to etch this image any deeper into your memory, no need to prolong the inevitable reckoning with your reflection, with the visible manifestations of those all-too-invisible wounds.

In that moment of avoidance, of turning away from the broken mirror, you were confronted with a truth as shattering as the glass before you: the realization that some scars run too deep, their roots entwined with the very fibers of your being, a constant reminder of battles fought and yet to be faced.

With a precision born of necessity, you moved—a delicate ballet of careful contortions designed to avoid the sharp bite of pain that lurked, waiting to pounce with each ill-considered twitch. Bending with the grace of a willow swaying in a gentle breeze, you reached beneath the shadowed underbelly of your bed, fingers searching for the familiar, lightweight case of your first aid kit. The ease with which it came into your hands was a small comfort, quickly extinguished by the sinking realization that greeted you upon its opening.

Inside, the remnants of preparedness mocked you: an empty bottle of saline solution stared back, its purpose exhausted, alongside a few band-aids, torn and useless, victims of your past impatience. The other contents, like the tweezers, lay in wait for a need that did not currently exist. You allowed yourself a moment—a brief, piercing inventory of this inadequate arsenal—before pushing the disappointment aside and hoisting yourself back to a stand.

Clad in the remnants of a past encounter, a hooded jacket left behind by a fleeting connection, you approached the window. It was a silent affair, the window yielding to your touch with the stealth of a whisper, betraying none of the turmoil that brewed within.

The act of escape was nothing short of a physical ordeal. Your limbs, heavy with ache, maneuvered through the small aperture of the trailer window—a testament to both desperation and determination. Once outside, crouched low to avoid unwanted attention, the cool embrace of the night air greeted you. It was a balm, this newfound freedom, a stark contrast to the stifling confines of your room, littered with the debris of broken dreams and shattered expectations. The open air offered a cleanse, a baptism of sorts, from the relentless cycle of cleanup and repair that had become your existence.

Gone were the days of painstakingly removing glass from picture frames before their inevitable destruction; a ritual born from the foresight of their transient nature. The weariness for such tasks clung to you, a cloak woven from threads of frustration and resignation. Yet, here, under the cover of night, with the world stretched wide and open before you, the weight of that cloak seemed, if only for a moment, a little lighter.

As you strode past the silent form of your car, a sigh of irritation escaped your lips, its sound a soft testament to the internal debate you'd just settled. The decision not to awaken the engine into roaring life was not only a tactic to maintain stealth but a silent concession to the fact that walking might just offer the solace and clarity your tangled thoughts so desperately needed. Moreover, it presented an opportunity to prolong your absence from the confines of what was supposed to be home—a place you were increasingly reluctant to return to, especially tonight. He had played his part, an unwelcome performance that assured you of a temporary reprieve from his intrusions, securing you a night free from disturbances, free from his discovery of the emptiness that now characterized your bedroom.

With a sense of resolve, you drew the black hood over your head, plunging your hands into the depths of your pockets as if to anchor yourself to this decision. You embarked on your nocturnal odyssey, leaving the trailer park's dimly lit confines behind. Your path unfolded on the deserted street, feet finding rhythm and balance on the white lines that dissected the asphalt—a tightrope walker in the quiet of the night. A melody, the residue of days spent with the same song on repeat in your car, hummed softly from your lips, a solitary soundtrack to your solitary march.

The gas station, a beacon of fluorescent light in the darkness, promised to be your oasis—a mere thirty-minute pilgrimage from the trailer park. It was a sanctuary that never closed its doors, a constant in the fluctuating chaos of your life. Behind the counter, the night shift was personified by a young man, his attention more on the beef-flavored Space Raiders he chewed with open abandon than on any potential customer.

With your head bowed, a gesture born of habit more than necessity, you navigated the familiar aisles towards the back. This little corner of the gas station, with its modest array of medical supplies, had become an unlikely ally in times of need. The sound of the entrance bell, a faint chime announcing the arrival or departure of a soul, barely registered as you focused on gathering the items that would serve as tonight's band-aids for both physical and metaphorical wounds.

Items gathered in the crook of your arm, you made your way to the counter, a silent procession of one. The goods—a testament to the night's necessities—were unceremoniously deposited onto the surface, a prelude to the exchange of currency for what passed as care in the small hours of a world that never quite slept.

As the cashier busied himself with the register, a mechanical dance of fingers on keys, you cleared your throat to pierce the silence that had settled between you. "Can I get a pack of Marlboros, too?" The words hung in the air, simple yet laden with an unspoken tension.

He paused, his movements halting as his gaze lifted to scrutinize you. There was a moment, brief yet charged, where his frown deepened, a silent commentary on the obscured view of your face. Nevertheless, his hand moved with practiced ease, reaching behind without hesitation and grasping the familiar green box.

Your response was almost instinctive, an eye roll born of the assumptions wrapped around that particular choice. "Red." The word was clipped, tinged with a mix of amusement and annoyance at the stereotype you were unwillingly cast into. As you handed over the money, pulled from the snug refuge of your jeans' back pocket, his suspicion seemed to spike, eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher an unsolved puzzle.

Money exchanged and items clumsily gathered, you were ready to retreat into the night from whence you came. Yet, a thought anchored you in place, a sudden reminder of a need unaddressed. "Could I have the key for the bathroom?" The question, simple in its asking, seemed to hang precariously in the space between you.

"It’s out," came his reply, short, almost reflexive, a barrier thrown up with the ease of someone who had uttered those words too many times.

Yet, you stood your ground, nodding towards the key that dangled tauntingly over his shoulder, within reach yet seemingly miles away. "It’s right behind you." Your words, firm, carried a weight of certainty, a challenge laid bare.

His response was a study in stillness, a monument to inertia, as if the very act of acknowledging the key's existence was beneath him.

"I need it." The finality in your voice, a blend of resolve and a barely contained plea, echoed in the cramped space of the gas station, a testament to the myriad small battles fought in the dead of night, under the fluorescent glow of a whole other world.

"Toilet's broken," he declared, an excuse worn thin by time and repetition.

Indeed, that very toilet had clung to its broken state for a spell nearing two years—a testament to neglect. "I don’t need to use the toilet. I just need to use the room—” you attempted to clarify, seeking a foothold in a rapidly closing door of opportunity.

"Boss said to not let anyone in," came his rebuttal, a line likely recited from a script of convenience rather than concern.

"Dude—" The word hung in the air, a precursor to the battle you felt brewing within. You inhaled deeply, a silent prayer for patience, your teeth clenching in an invisible grip. "Never mind. Have a terrific night," the words coated in a veneer of nicety that you mustered with all your might, your smile, though sarcastic, was an attempt to bridge the chasm of your frustration, hoping its curve was visible beneath the shadow of your hood. "Dickhead," the insult slipped from your lips in a whisper, a secret shared only with the night as you stepped through the door into the embrace of the outside world.

Tired and tinged with annoyance, your gaze swept the vicinity, seeking a haven for the simplest of human needs—to get cleaned up. Then, like a beacon in the night, your eyes settled on a car stationed at the farthest gas pump. It stood solitary, a silent sentinel in the fluorescent glow. You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, a spy's caution, to ensure the car's owner wasn't lurking nearby. The coast appeared clear, save for the presence of the obstinate cashier, now dubbed the idiot in your evening's narrative.

By the dim glow of the gas station's overhead lights, you found a temporary sanctuary beside the car, a silent accomplice to your solitary ritual. With deliberate motions, you placed your newly acquired treasures upon the cold, unforgiving ground and crouched, your body tensing as you prepared to confront the reflection you had been avoiding. The side-view mirror, initially angled to capture the expanse of the road behind, was now coaxed into a new purpose. With a hesitant push, you angled it to reveal your own visage, a canvas marred by the recent past.

The act of lowering your hood felt akin to peeling away a layer of armor, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. What greeted you in the reflective glass was a mosaic of bluing bruises and angry red slashes—a testament to a tale you wished remained untold. A grimace twisted your features at the sight, your heart sinking. The reflection bore evidence of a fierce struggle, a physical manifestation of pain that made the concept of beauty a distant, unattainable dream.

With a sigh, you sought solace in the ritualistic lighting of a cigarette, a small act of defiance against the night's events. The pack crinkled as you extracted one, placing it between your lips with a sense of purpose. Yet, as you patted down your pockets in search of a flame, a sinking realization dawned upon you—your lighter was missing, presumably lost amidst the chaos that now defined your living space. Disappointment seeped into your bones, mixing with the lingering adrenaline and fatigue that clung to your skin.

Undeterred, you turned your attention back to the task at hand. The cigarette, forgotten for the moment, dangled unlit as you began to tend to your wounds with the care of a seasoned medic. Each touch to your skin with a damp tissue was a whisper of comfort, a gentle caress amidst the harsh reality of your existence. The application of Neosporin was a balm not just for the physical scars, but a fleeting attempt to soothe the deeper, unseen injuries that lay beneath

As you were about to seal the wounds with plasters, a testament to your resilience and a badge of your suffering, the tranquility of the moment was shattered. A voice, unexpected and jarring, cut through the silence, startling you from your reverie. The sudden intrusion felt like an invasion, a breach of the fragile peace you had managed to carve out for yourself in the shadows of the night.

"Antiseptic works better."

Through the mirror, you caught a glimpse of the silhouette that dared intrude upon your moment of vulnerability. The cigarette perched precariously between your lips bobbed as you spoke, your voice tinged with the weariness of one too acquainted with pain. "You’re wrong," you countered through the cigarette hanging from your lips after grabbing a second plaster and ripping its package. "In fact," you continued, pressing the adhesive over another wound, "there’s a chance it may damage the skin." Your expertise on the subject was born from necessity, not choice—a testament to the scars you bore, both seen and unseen. As you finished tending to your injuries, gathering your things with a finality that marked the end of the unwanted interaction, you turned to face the source of the unsolicited commentary.

The dim light revealed his identity—the new guy, an unwelcome disturbance in your carefully maintained distance from the world. You shot him a look that spoke volumes, laden with the exhaustion of a soul yearning for nothing more than the sanctuary of a warm bed, before you attempted to leave his presence behind. His voice, however, laced with an unmistakable amusement, halted you once more. "Hey," he called out, a grin audible in his tone. "I know you."

The assertion sparked a flicker of irritation within you, a flare in the dimness of your resolve. "You don’t," you corrected sharply and turned halfway, vexed by your exhaustion and the want for a warm bed. "You might have seen me around, but you don’t know me."

"Christ," he swore, wearing a shit-eating grin that made you want to pull out his infuriatingly long eyelashes one by one. "What pissed in your—"

"Bye," you interjected, rolling your eyes as you turned your back on him, the roll of your eye a silent rebuke to his unfinished query.

"You need a lighter for that, sweetheart?"

Your feet anchored themselves on the spot, your shoulders slouching just the littlest bit; you really, really did need one. Aversion in your bones, you slowly turned back to him. Keeping your distance, you placed yourself across from where he was leaning against his car.

The smirk playing on his lips stretched into a full-blown grin, a silent prelude to the audacity that followed. In one fluid, almost theatrical motion, he reached out, plucking the cigarette from your lips and putting it between his with an ease that spoke of practiced finesse. The silver lighter appeared in his hands as if by magic, its flame dancing to life with a flick that carried the flair of showmanship. The lit cigarette found its way back to his lips, and he inhaled deeply, the smoke exhaling in a deliberate stream toward you, enveloping you in a cloud of provocation as he gauged your reaction, almost baiting an outburst.

Yet, instead of the explosion he anticipated, you simply reclaimed the cigarette from his grasp, a silent acceptance of his unsolicited gesture. "Thanks,” you uttered, the words hanging in the air as you resumed walking, leaving the moment behind.

His voice followed, a casual offer laced with an undefined undercurrent. "You want a ride?"

Your steps faltered, a frown creasing your forehead as his words registered. "That is one hell of a random question to ask a stranger. As a stranger,” you retorted, the skepticism in your voice as palpable as the cool night air that enveloped you both.

"You want one or not?" His reply was curt, edged with impatience, a stark contrast to the mysterious offer he had just extended.

"Why would you offer?" Curiosity laced your tone, mixed with a hint of caution. Billy Hargrove’s reputation had preceded him, painting a picture of a Californian rebel whose actions were as unpredictable as the ocean’s waves, and certainly, acts of chivalry seemed as foreign to him as a language unspoken.

"Forget it." His dismissive gesture, a psuh from the car before he swung the door open, spoke volumes of his irritation. Yet, as he made to seal himself within the metal cocoon of his vehicle, your voice pierced the night, a decision made.

"I do want one."

The car door slammed shut, and for a moment, the only sound was the car's engine coming to life, a growl in the quiet. His gaze, sharp and assessing, met yours through the glass. A roll of his eyes served as his acquiescence to your unspoken plea for a ride. The door cracked open, an invitation as gruff as his tone. "Are you getting your ass in the car or do you need a written invite?"

His words, brusque yet oddly inviting, spurred you into action. The interior of the car enveloped you, the scent of leather and the undercurrent of his cologne mingling in the confined space. No sooner had you fastened the seatbelt than the car lurched forward, tires screeching in protest as Billy Hargrove accelerated into the night, propelling both of you toward the unknown that lay in the direction you had originally been heading.

"I live at—" you began, the words barely taking form before they were cut short.

"I know." His interruption was swift, a statement so sure and unfazed.

Confusion momentarily clouded your thoughts, mingling with a spark of irritation. How the fuck could he possibly know? The question danced at the tip of your tongue, but before it could leap into the open air between you, realization dawned. The company he kept at school, the circles he moved in—those were all the answers you needed. Billy Hargrove, with his effortless charisma and an air of danger that clung to him like a second skin, naturally gravitated towards and was embraced by those you had learned to keep at arm's length. Those very individuals, Carol Perkins, Vicki Carmichael, and Tommy Hagan, had painted your world in stark, unflattering colors, branding you 'trailer trash' with their sneers and jeers for a decade.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape, thinking of them, their cruelty a constant shadow over your school days. If only they knew the disdain you harbored, so potent and vivid. You wished, not for the first time, that their arrogance and aspirations could be forcibly fed back to them, a grotesque cycle that would see their malice choking them, expelled from their mouths like a vile confession of their true natures.

You adjusted the window, allowing just a sliver of the night air to slip through, and extended your arm, the cigarette perched between your fingers, embers dancing with each inhale.

"What happened to your face?" Billy's voice, laced with a curiosity that didn't match his usual demeanor, cut through the hum of the road beneath the car's tires.

"Fell from heaven, of course," you retorted, the words tinged with sarcasm as your eyes rolled, a silent protest against his prying. His persistence was like a thorn—unwanted and sharp. "Nosy much?"

"Catfight?" His guess was off mark, yet it pricked your patience.

You exhaled, a mix of frustration and resignation coloring your tone. "Ran into a tree," the lie smooth on your tongue, as you took another drag, the cigarette's glow a brief flare in the darkness.

He scoffed, disbelief etched in the sound. "And the tree beat you up for that?"

Your agreement came out as a hum, a playful note in the solemn night. "Had a mean right hook, too. Damn birch trees," you quipped, allowing a brief smile to dance on your lips at the absurdity of it all, blowing the smoke out into the night, watching as it dissipated into the cool air.

Silence fell between you, a heavy, tangible thing that seemed to swell with each passing second. It was an odd sort of discomfort, more unsettling than the exchange of words had been, wrapping around you like a thick fog. You found yourself almost wishing for his voice again, to break through the quiet that now felt louder than any spoken word. Yet, as the car sped on, devouring the road with eager haste, the lights of the trailer park approached, promising an end to the journey and the silence that had settled between you.

Suddenly, he extended his hand towards you, an unspoken request hanging in the air. You found yourself momentarily puzzled, your gaze fixed on his fingers before realization dawned. After taking a final, lingering drag from the cigarette, you passed the diminishing ember to him. With an effortless flick, he sent it soaring out of the window, watching as it disappeared into the night after taking it down to its last breath.

"Since when are girls like you smokers of the good stuff?" His voice was casual, yet loaded with an unspoken judgment that hung heavily between you.

The implication behind his words, ‘girls like you’ didn't necessitate an explanation. You understood perfectly—the label wasn't about you personally. It was a placeholder, a stereotype applied broadly to any girl who found herself in his car, a commentary not so much on the individual but on the perceived collective. The notion that somehow, despite the vast differences among individuals, there was a uniformity assumed among all those deemed ‘other’ by those who never bothered to look beyond the surface. It was a tired, worn-out perspective, suggesting that understanding, respect, and equality were territories too foreign for those entrenched in their own narratives.

"I'm not a smoker," you retorted, your voice steady, pushing back against the label he tried to affix to you.

He turned to you, an eyebrow arching in skepticism. "Sweetheart, I think the tree might have hit you in the head." His words, meant to tease, danced in the space between you,

"Special occasions only," you finally spoke, breaking the silence that had settled between you, thick with unvoiced judgments and assumptions. Your voice carried a defiant edge, a sharp contrast to the vulnerability you felt. "Also, fuck you."

Billy's response was a chuckle, the sound low and somewhat amused, as if your resilience added an unexpected flavor to the night's events. "What's the occasion?" he inquired, his tone lighter, yet carrying an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.

You found yourself hesitating, caught on the precipice of disclosure and reticence. The likelihood of crossing paths with him again felt as remote as the stars dotting the night sky above, their light distant and indifferent. You weighed the ephemeral nature of this encounter against the catharsis of sharing, even if just a sliver, of your reality. "Having choices," you said at last, the words feeling like both a confession and a declaration.

"What choices?" His question followed, simple yet laden with the weight of stories untold.

You offered no reply, merely a shrug, a gesture cloaked in layers of meaning. Your silence was your fortress, safeguarding the complexities of a life marked by pain and defiance. Within you, a habit had taken root, a ritual born from the ashes of violence at the hands of your father. Smoking had become your rebellion, your assertion of control in a life that often felt governed by the whims of a man whose presence was as oppressive as it was destructive. To smoke was to choose the manner of your harm, to claim agency over your own demise, however slow and insidious it might be. It was a twisted form of empowerment, preferring the slow burn of tobacco to the acute brutality of paternal hands. Crushing the extinguished remnants of your defiance under your boots served as a tangible metaphor, a declaration that the man who should have been your protector held no more power over you than the spent cigarettes you ground into oblivion.

Entering Billy's car that night, accepting the ride from someone enveloped in rumors and mystery, was a choice emblematic of your current state of being. Bruised, both physically and spiritually, by the very person who should have been your haven, you found yourself gravitating towards choices that flirted with danger. In the shadow of your father's tyranny, even the potential threat of an unknown like Billy felt like a liberation, a dare to the universe that tonight, of all nights, you were the master of your fate, no matter how recklessly that fate was courted.

Merely blocks away from the shadowed outlines of the trailer park, you felt the tension knot tighter in your gut, prompting you to instruct Billy with an urgency that surprised even yourself. "Stop the car here." It was a calculated measure, a bid to remain unseen should your father's usual stupor be interrupted by a rare moment of vigilance. You couldn't risk him spotting you from the confines of an existence you both shared yet endured on vastly different terms.

"Why?" Billy's inquiry sliced through the hum of the engine, a roaring beast that seemed all too eager to encroach upon the sanctuary you so desperately sought to protect.

"'Cause I said so!" The words burst from you, a mix of fear and insistence, as panic clawed at your chest with icy fingers when he veered dangerously close to the trailer park's entrance. "Stop the damn car!" The command was punctuated by the violent squeal of tires as they ground against the asphalt, the sudden deceleration forcing the seat belt to bite cruelly into your already tender flesh. "Thanks for the ride," you managed to huff out, a terse farewell as you swung the door open and exited with a haste born of desperation, the door slamming shut with a resounding finality. "Asshole," you muttered under your breath, a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control over the rapidly fraying edges of your composure.

You had barely taken a few steps when a compulsion, inexplicable and unnerving, urged you to cast a glance over your shoulder. There he was, Billy, his gaze already locked onto your retreating form. Even through the cloak of night, his silhouette was unmistakable, and the distance did little to obscure the wink he sent your way—a gesture that felt both mocking and oddly comforting in its audacity.

With a swift turn of your head, you dismissed the fleeting connection, quickening your pace as if to outstrip the myriad emotions that encounter had stirred within you. The night air, cool and indifferent, seemed to whisper secrets as you disappeared into the labyrinth of shadows that promised both sanctuary and imprisonment.

In the sanctuary of shadow and silence, you made your way to the trailer that bore the dubious honor of being called home. The silver metal shell, tarnished by time and wear, loomed before you, a testament to a life far removed from the dreams you once harbored. With each cautious step, you moved with the stealth of a creature well-versed in the art of invisibility, ensuring that your presence remained undetected by Billy's lingering gaze.

Approaching the window to your room, the cool night air kissed your cheeks, a stark contrast to the warmth that awaited inside. Your hands, acting on the instinct honed by countless nights of return, deftly managed the small but significant task before you. The purchases, a meager collection of necessities and small comforts, found their way through the open window with a soft thud against the carpeted interior, a silent testament to your return.

With the grace of a practiced climber, you hoisted yourself up and through the window, your body moving with an economy of motion born from necessity. The interior of the trailer welcomed you back into its cramped but familiar embrace, the air tinged with the scent of a life lived on the margins.

That night, as the world outside continued its indifferent spin, you took a moment to secure the only sanctuary you knew. The lock on your door clicked into place with a finality that spoke of a desire for solitude, or perhaps, a prayer for safety. In the dim light of your room, surrounded by the humble trappings of your existence, you prepared to surrender to sleep.

The act of locking your door was more than a mere precaution; it was a ritual, a whispered plea to the universe for just one night of peace. As the shadows deepened and the trailer park settled into the quiet hum of the night, you lay down, your thoughts a tangled web of hopes, fears, and the stubborn resilience that had carried you this far. In the stillness that followed, sleep arrived, a reluctant visitor, to claim you in its embrace, offering a temporary reprieve from the trials of a world that waited just beyond the thin walls of your silver metal haven.

…

Dawn's first light crept through the cracks of the blinds, casting a muted glow across the room. You stirred from the uneasy dreams that had plagued your sleep, finding the morning's silence a stark contrast to the tumultuous echoes of last night. With a deep breath, you summoned the strength to face another day, one that began with the painstaking task of camouflage.

Seated before a mirror streaked with age, you embarked on the delicate art of concealing the evidence of yesterday's storm. Each brushstroke was a silent battle, each dab of powder a feeble attempt to erase the marks that pain had etched upon your skin. The bruises, a palette of purples and blues, refused to be hidden completely, protesting under the layers of makeup you applied with a desperation born of necessity.

As you dressed, a sharp twinge of pain caught your breath. The mirror revealed a ghastly bloom of purple spreading like a shadow across your side, just below the ribs—a grim reminder of the violence you wished to forget. A lie formed in your mind, a necessary deception for the physical education teacher, claiming the protection of a condition as natural as it was unrelated to the truth.

The ritual of preparing breakfast unfolded with a practiced ease, though your heart was elsewhere. You moved through the kitchen, your gaze carefully avoiding the man who sat at the table, expecting the service you provided as if it were his due. The sizzling bacon and the scramble of eggs filled the silence between you, a silence as heavy and uncomfortable as the bruises hidden beneath your clothes. His expectations hung over you, a constant reminder of the narrow path you were forced to tread to avoid further displeasure.

School offered no respite from the act you were forced to live. With your hood pulled high, you navigated the halls with a deliberate slowness, dreading the moment you would have to enter the classroom and face the day's challenges. The quiet comfort of anonymity was shattered when Mrs. O'Donnell's voice, sharpened by authority, cut through the air. Your heart sank as her words found you, a beacon spotlighting your defiance.

"I do not condone hats or hoods in my lessons," she declared, her tone leaving no room for dissent. In that moment, the weight of the day pressed down upon you, a reminder of the battles yet to be fought, both in the light of day and in the shadows of your own life.

The atmosphere in the classroom thickened, a palpable tension that clung to your skin as you stood at the precipice of decision. Around you, the collective breath of your peers hung suspended, their curiosity mingled with the anticipation of rebellion they'd come to associate with you. Yet, in that moment of scrutiny, you chose compliance over defiance. With a slow, deliberate motion, you slid your hood back, exposing the canvas of your pain to the voracious eyes around you.

A collective inhale filled the room, a chorus of shock and disbelief that painted you in a light far removed from the anonymity you craved. Even your teacher, usually so composed and authoritative, faltered under the weight of the revelation, her voice lost to the ticking clock that suddenly seemed deafening in the heavy silence.

She recovered, albeit shakily, her command to continue an attempt to restore normalcy to the disrupted order of her classroom. But the damage was done, the facade cracked. You couldn't wait to escape, and the moment the class was dismissed, your hood resumed its place, a shield against the prying eyes and whispered judgments.

The day unfolded exactly as you had dreaded. Each class became a battleground, your hood the flag of your defiance and your bruises the wounds of wars fought in the shadows of your life. The whispers followed you like a relentless shadow, and when lunch arrived, you sought solace in the solitude of the cafeteria's farthest corner. Surrounded by the outcasts and the unnoticed, you found a semblance of peace, even if it was the peace of a pariah among peers dreaming of revolutions they did not understand.

You observed them, the future rebels with their leather bracelets and spiky hair, their existence a stark contrast to the battles you fought daily. They wore their rebellion like a badge of honor, unaware of the true cost of surviving a war against the very fabric of one's life. And as you sat there, hidden in plain sight, you couldn't help but wonder about the diverging paths of those destined for a picture-perfect existence and your own, forged in the crucible of pain and resilience.

Stepping out from the confines of the school building as the day bled into the mellow hues of late afternoon was like shedding an invisible shackle, a temporary respite that made your shoulders relax and your breath come easier. This fleeting sense of liberation accompanied you, a silent companion that whispered promises of tranquility, until the familiar sight of the trailer park loomed ahead, shattering the illusion with the harsh reality waiting within.

As you navigated the maze of silver metal homes, the sight of the lights blazing through the windows of your own trailer felt like a physical blow, a harbinger of the storm that was about to break. Your heart, a frantic drummer in the cage of your ribs, seemed to echo ominously with every step you took toward the creaking door that served as the barrier between you and what awaited inside.

He wasn't supposed to be there, not yet. The very thought was a cold hand squeezing around your heart, draining the color from the world. With trepidation lacing each step, you entered, your gaze flitting nervously from the desolate sofa to the ominously closed door of his bedroom. The strap of your school bag became a lifeline, something tangible to anchor you as you tiptoed toward the sanctuary of your room.

But fate, it seemed, was not on your side. The floor beneath you, a traitor clad in aged wood, groaned loudly under your weight, a sound so jarring in the silence that you couldn't help but wince, your entire being tensing in anticipation of the fallout. Time seemed to stand still, a suspended moment filled with the electric charge of impending doom.

Then, movement shattered the silence. The bedroom door was flung open with such force you half expected it to fly off its hinges, revealing the man who stood in the doorway. His presence filled the space, an imposing figure that you could barely reconcile as the one responsible for your existence. In that moment, as you faced the man who should have been your protector but felt more like a looming threat, you realized the fragility of the peace you so desperately sought in the confines of what you called home.

The utterance of your name, whispered with a darkness that cloaked the room, immediately heightened your senses, alerting you to the imminent storm. Instinctively, your feet shuffled backwards, attempting to put distance between you and the tempest that was your father. His voice cracked through the tension like a whip, "What did we talk about?" The words barely left his lips before your body responded with a quiver, the dread manifesting physically.

"You're just as useless as your bitch mother," he bellowed, his hand cutting through the air with predatory speed to clamp around your throat. Your legs struggled to bear the sudden weight of fear and despair as he dragged you, your resistance feeble against his force, through the claustrophobic hallway into the stark light of the kitchen. There, he released you not in mercy but to crash onto the unforgiving floor, his grip morphing into an iron band around your neck. "Now, I know you ain't the smartest but how can anyone be such a dumb cunt?" His eyes flicked toward the refrigerator with a menacing expectation.

Frozen, more by terror than choice, you remained motionless, inciting his fury further until he yanked you upward by the very lifeline he was squeezing. "Open it!" His command was a shout, propelled by anger, as he thrust you toward the cold metal of the fridge. With every fiber of your being screaming to comply just to make it stop, you mustered the strength to lower your shaking head and fumble with the fridge door.

"What did I tell you?" he growled, his breath hot against your ear.

"To take care of things," you managed to whimper, your voice barely threading through the tightness of his grip.

"That's right," he confirmed with a dark, rumbling voice. But his next words were like daggers, each one punctuating your worthlessness in his eyes. And then, with a brutality that seemed to echo in the sparse kitchen, your head was forcibly introduced to the side of the fridge. The sudden release from his hands felt as much a punishment as the assault, a clear message that you had once again failed to meet his expectations. "Fucking take care of it," he spat, leaving you with the pain and the cold echo of his disdain.

For a fleeting moment after his departure, you remained motionless on the cold kitchen floor, the echo of his retreating footsteps a temporary relief. As you coughed, savoring the rush of oxygen filling your lungs once more, you rose with shaky resolve. Closing the refrigerator with a soft click, you retrieved some cash from the hidden savings can, each movement automatic, driven by necessity rather than thought. Your feet carried you swiftly to your car, a sanctuary of sorts in the midst of chaos.

With trembling hands, you inserted the keys into the ignition, pausing as you caught sight of their unsteady dance. Just as you were about to press the gas pedal, a different sensation caught your attention. Blood, warm and unsettling, trickled down from your nose to your lips. Instinctively, you reached up to wipe it away, only for a solitary tear to escape, tracing a path down your cheek. In a burst of anger, you struck the steering wheel, imagining for a split second it was his face absorbing the impact, receiving the punishment he so richly deserved.

The drive out of the trailer park felt like an escape, albeit a temporary one, as you headed deeper into town. Your destination was the only supermarket in Hawkins that turned a blind eye to selling alcohol to minors. The cashiers, two souls long since resigned to the monotony and despair of their roles, barely registered your presence, their gazes fixed on some distant, unseen point beyond the walls of their confinement.

You found yourself wiping your face again, this time checking the rearview mirror to assess the damage. The sight of your bloodshot eyes was a grim reminder. Physical blows you had learned to endure, but the insults, the verbal lashings that cut deeper than any fist, remained wounds that refused to heal. The most painful barbs were those aimed at your mother, a woman who had possessed nothing in terms of material wealth but had fought valiantly, albeit futilely, to escape the tyranny of your father. She was a woman of courage, standing between you and his wrath, even as cancer waged its own merciless battle within her. Your admiration for her was boundless; on her deathbed, she had worn a smile, radiant and victorious, for in her passing, she had finally escaped the man who had sought to break her spirit.

As you entered the supermarket, you smoothly plucked a basket from the stack beside the entrance, weaving your way through the aisles with a practiced ease. With each step, you carefully selected items, filling the basket with an assortment of goods that you knew would appease your father's palate. The basket grew heavier, a testament to your meticulous effort, until you reached the final checkpoint: the beverage section.

The coolers stood before you, a chilled barrier between thirst and satisfaction. You reached for the door, the cold air brushing against your skin as you grabbed a six-pack of your father's preferred beer. It was then you noticed him, a figure barely three weeks familiar with Hawkins, yet here he was, navigating the town's veins as if born to them. His friends had evidently provided a thorough briefing. Your attempt at a discreet observation failed miserably, as his attention snapped to you, an unspoken acknowledgment between strangers.

Your brows arched in involuntary surprise, not at his presence but at the sight of fresh cuts and bruises marring his face — wounds absent just the night before. A silent question hovered on the tip of your tongue, but before it could take flight, he dismissed the moment with a roll of his eyes and brushed past you, leaving a trail of unspoken stories and a fleeting connection dissipated as quickly as it had formed.

The line at the checkout moved slowly, a trivial inconvenience, yet it granted you a few more moments of anonymity. The store's quaint little bell announced Billy's departure, a sound that seemed to echo the finality of a moment passing. When it was finally your turn, you engaged in the mechanical transaction with the cashier, your mind elsewhere. Stepping out into the waning light, the sight of Billy Hargrove, casually nursing a can of beer against the cool metal of his car, intruded upon your thoughts. His car parked nonchalantly beside yours felt like a deliberate coincidence. The brown paper bag, a temporary vessel for your burdens, found its place in the backseat as you closed the door, acutely aware of his gaze tracing your movements, an invisible tether pulling at the edge of your consciousness.

You cleared your throat, a prelude to breaking the silence as you stood by your car, the keys dancing a nervous ballet in your hand. "Birch tree got you too, huh?" The words slipped out, a tentative bridge spanning the gap between you two.

Billy's scrutiny lingered, a silent appraisal, before his eyes dropped to the testament of violence painted on your skin, eventually locking with yours. "You want a smoke?" His voice broke the tension, an offer hanging in the balance.

Surprised, yet intrigued, you glanced around before nodding, a silent agreement forged in the twilight. You gestured for him to follow, leading him to the supermarket's side where the guardians of refuse, a row of large dumpsters, stood in solemn assembly. Climbing atop one with an ease born of necessity, you found a perch, waiting for him to join you in this makeshift sanctuary away from prying eyes.

Billy, with a nonchalance that seemed to cloak him like a second skin, produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, its silver surface catching the last rays of the sun. With a practiced flick, he ignited a flame, bringing it to the cigarette perched between his lips. The glow of the ember briefly illuminated his face, casting shadows that danced with the smoke. Taking a drag, he then passed the cigarette to you. As you inhaled, the sharp, acrid taste of tobacco filled your lungs, a bitter reminder of choices made, of moments shared in silence and smoke.

As the minutes melted away under the haze of shared smoke and silent camaraderie, the cigarette passed between you became a temporary truce, an unspoken understanding in the twilight of shared solitude. Eventually, Billy broke the silence, his voice rasping slightly from the smoke. "You have blood on your nose."

"Yeah?" Your response was tinged with a nonchalance that belied the undercurrent of tension between you. You accepted the cigarette once more, its ember glowing faintly in the dimming light. "You have some on your lip." Another drag, a momentary escape, then silence enveloped you both once again. The final act of discarding the cigarette to the ground felt almost ceremonial, as you crushed the lingering spark beneath your boot, a definitive end to the fleeting respite. "See you 'round, Hargrove."

Your words hung in the air as you turned to leave, a tentative goodbye to a shared moment of vulnerability. His voice reached out, halting your retreat. "You hungry?"

The question paused you in your tracks, the afternoon sun casting long shadows as you turned to face him. There was something in his gaze, a reflection of weariness and something unspoken, that mirrored your own. For a fleeting second, pity stirred within you, its target unclear, as empathy blurred the lines between self and other.

"I am," you conceded, the admission heavy with an unspoken understanding of the complications it invited. Yet, the reality of your own circumstances pulled you back from the precipice of further entanglement. "But I have to get home, actually." Your smile was a feeble attempt at normalcy, a polite curtain falling on the scene. "Bye, Billy."

His acknowledgment was a silent nod, a mutual recognition of the distance being placed between you once more. As you drove away, the rearview mirror captured the solitary figure of Billy Hargrove, a temporary companion in your shared narrative of survival and solitude, fading into the background of your departing world.

…

An unsettling sense of change lingered in the air, a silent shift that had settled over Hawkins High like a thick fog, imperceptible yet undeniably present. This peculiar feeling began to wrap around you, a subtle yet persistent presence, in the days following your second encounter with Billy Hargrove. As you stepped through the school's doors, braced for the usual barrage of sneers and the biting sting of ‘trailer trash’ hurled in your direction, you found instead a surprising void where hostility once thrived.

This newfound anonymity was strangely soothing, a reprieve wrapped in the unexpected guise of indifference. For once, the hallways that had felt like gauntlets now offered passage free from judgment, allowing you a semblance of peace amidst the storm of daily life. It was an odd sort of liberation, moving unseen and unmarked by the cruel jibes that had once shadowed your steps. For the first time in your tumultuous high school saga, the final bell did not signal a hasty retreat but a deliberate detour to the sanctuary of the art room.

The art class assignment, a canvas awaiting the touch of inspiration, became your excuse to linger in the quiet aftermath of the school day. While your peers carried their artwork home, eager to splash their visions across the canvas in the comfort of their own spaces, such a luxury was a distant dream for you. Home was no haven for creativity; your trailer, a place where art met its end not in completion, but in destruction—torn, smashed, a casualty of the chaos that waited beyond the school's gates.

There, amidst the smell of paint and the soft light filtering through the dust-speckled windows, you found solace. The art room, with its clutter of brushes and the palette of possibilities, offered not just an escape but a moment of creation untainted by the harsh realities that lay in wait outside its doors. It was in these stolen hours, surrounded by the silent witness of unfinished projects and the ghosts of inspiration, that you dared to believe, even if just for a fleeting moment, in the possibility of a world shaped by the stroke of a brush, rather than the sharpness of words.

As the day waned into evening, the corridors of Hawkins High slowly emptied, leaving behind a tranquility punctuated only by the distant hum of the cleaning crew making their final rounds. The fading light cast long shadows across the halls, painting everything in a soft, melancholic glow. You glanced at the hallway clock, a silent reminder of the hours you needed to kill to ensure you'd return to an empty, quiet home, free from the looming presence of your father.

Chewing thoughtfully on your lip, you diverted towards your locker, thoughts swirling with the prospect of solitude. It was then that a wave of laughter and lively banter washed over you, as a group of jocks, fresh from the showers and glowing with the invincibility of youth, breezed past, oblivious to your existence. Their jubilance, a stark contrast to your solitude, left a fleeting shadow across your spirit, one you shook off as you reached your sanctuary—a small, metal locker.

The ritual was familiar and comforting: exchange the day's burdens for the evening's necessities. But as your hand lingered on the locker door, preparing to seal away the day, another hand, unexpected and swift, slammed it shut. Startled, you spun around, only to find yourself inches away from a familiar face framed by a blond mullet, a figure who had become an unexpected constant in the landscape of your days.

"That was rude," slipped from your lips, a feeble attempt to assert some distance between you and the uninvited closeness. Yet, Billy Hargrove stood unyielding, a smirk playing on his lips, evidently amused by the discomfort flickering across your face. The proximity was overwhelming; his presence, a force that seemed to challenge the very air between you. You yearned to retreat, to press back into the cold, indifferent metal of your locker as you had so many times before. But something within, a spark of defiance or perhaps a curiosity yet unnamed, anchored you firmly in place. His gaze, intense and searching, held a question you weren't sure you wanted to answer, igniting a silent standoff in the dimming light of the nearly deserted hallway.

"Oh, I might just disagree with you on that one, sweetheart," Billy chuckled. "In fact, I found it was rather chivalrous of me to spare you from having to close the locker." Billy's grin unfurled like a flag of both charm and challenge, hovering in the nebulous space between disarmingly sweet and maddeningly smug. It was as if his every gesture, every flicker of expression, had been honed to perfection before an audience of his own reflection, each nuance calculated for effect. Whether your suspicion held water mattered little; the notion that behind his practiced ease lay a carefully maintained facade wasn't far-fetched. After all, mastering the art of the mask was a survival skill in its own right.

You responded to his teasing not with retreat, but with a stance of quiet defiance, arms crossed as if to ward off the sway of his charm. Your chin lifted slightly, an unspoken challenge, while a reluctant smile threatened to betray your composure. "I was actually talking about you trying to scare me into having a heart attack, but sure, let's go with your excuse," you retorted, your voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and amusement.

His laughter, rich and unguarded, filled the space between you, a sound that seemed too genuine for someone so practiced in artifice. The hand that had been a casual claim on the locker next to your head shifted slightly, drawing your gaze despite yourself. It was an involuntary flicker of attention, pulled momentarily to the subtle play of his tongue across his lips—a gesture that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, you felt a sudden, inexplicable connection, framed by lashes any starlet would envy. Yet, as quickly as it came, you shook off the allure, the momentary weakness. With a willful effort, you pulled away, stepping back from the invisible line that had drawn you dangerously close to his orbit. The air seemed to clear as you moved, dispelling the strange spell that had momentarily tethered you to him.

"Do you have any… plans for tonight?" His inquiry floated into the space between you, his hand retreating from the locker, leaving behind an echo of warmth where it once rested.

You found yourself momentarily caught in the headlights of his question. Friday evenings were the realm of raucous parties and cozy gatherings among friends, a social tapestry you found yourself conspicuously absent from. Your plans, if they could even be called that, consisted of nothing more than acquiring a solitary snack and retreating to the quiet of your car's hood in some forgotten corner of a parking lot.

"I'm more the spontaneous type," you offered, a deflection born of necessity as you idly scratched at your elbow. The admission of your solitude, especially in front of Hawkins' newest import, the effortlessly cool Californian, seemed a bridge too far.

"Good," he cut in, a word punctuated with decision as he turned on his heel towards the exit. You watched, a mix of surprise and curiosity bubbling within you as you followed him, your steps a beat behind, to his car. He performed the gentlemanly act of unlocking and holding open the passenger door, an invitation hanging silently in the air.

With a gesture towards the parking lot, you demurred, "I got my car here." Your thumb jabbed backward, signaling the aged Volkswagen that wore its rust and verdigris like badges of endurance, a relic from a bygone era now under the scrutiny of his oceanic gaze.

The tapestry of scars your car bore was a map of your tumultuous journey thus far. The rear windows, obscured by patches of duct tape, were a testament to a violent shove that had sent you crashing into them. The dented trunk narrated another tale of youthful recklessness, a collision with a telephone pole just weeks after your sixteenth birthday had granted you the freedom of the road. But it was the scar on your hip, hidden beneath fabric yet forever etched in your flesh, that told the most painful story. A vase, hurled in anger by your father, had shattered upon impact, embedding its fragments into your skin. Alone, you had navigated the sterile lights of the emergency room, weaving a tale of clumsy mishap to explain the glass shards that had to be meticulously extracted from your body.

Billy's gaze on you felt like a searchlight, probing for a jest or a convincing argument as to why you wouldn't abandon your car to join him. "I can’t just leave my car here, Billy," you found yourself protesting, even as part of you yearned for the escape he offered.

His response was a casual shrug, his posture relaxed against the frame of his open car door, the denim fabric of his jacket accentuating the lean muscles beneath. "Sure, you can," he countered with an easy confidence. "I can drive you back here after."

The word lingered between you, a mystery yet to unfold. "After what?"

Another shrug, the gesture becoming a signature of his nonchalance. "After." His reply hung in the air, an invitation to an undefined adventure, sparking a blend of apprehension and exhilaration within you.

The suggestion hung in the air, heavy with a dark humor that twisted your words into a sinister prediction. "You know, that kind of sounds like you are going to hack me up and then just dump my severed limbs here. After."

Billy's reaction was instantaneous, his voice laced with feigned hurt, "I would never do that." For a moment, you almost believed him, almost extended an apology, until the glint of mischief in his ice-blue gaze betrayed his jest. "You would get blood all over my car seats."

Your response was an eye roll, the tension easing into a grin at the absurdity of it all. "Fine," you declared, your resolve melting as you approached his car. "But don't you dare take me to someplace with all that healthy stuff," you added, a playful warning in your tone as he stepped aside, allowing you to claim the passenger seat as your own. Pausing, one leg already inside, you issued your culinary demands. "I want a burger, some greasy as fuck chili-cheese fries." You paused, a thought occurring. "And maybe a milkshake."

Billy's smirk was a beacon of complicity in the fading light, his teeth a flash of white as he gently closed the door behind you. Circumventing the vehicle with a swagger, he slid into the driver's seat, igniting the engine and bringing the car to life. The sudden eruption of Ted Nugent's distinct voice filled the cabin, the volume dialed to an almost reckless level. You recognized the voice, not out of personal preference, but thanks to a neighbor's musical obsession which had mercifully shifted from Nugent's raspy rock to the heady depths of heavy metal.

As the car pulled away, the world outside blended into a blur, the soundscape within dominated by Nugent's growling melodies. You found yourself enveloped in the paradox of Billy's world, where the threat of fictional dismemberment faded into the background, replaced by the immediate, vivid reality of a quest for the perfect greasy meal.

As Billy caught the wrinkled disapproval on your face, a chuckle escaped him, tinged with amusement. With a swift movement, he dialed the volume down, though the music still filled the car with a lively barrier against silence. It was loud enough to keep the void of conversation at bay, ensuring that the ride was enveloped in a continuous melody rather than awkward pauses.

You found a brief escape as you rolled down the window, extending your hand into the open air, mimicking the actions of your childhood adventures. The wind battled against your palm, inviting you to sway your hand rhythmically, an instinctive dance of freedom and nostalgia. Your eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to the flood of memories that washed over you. Those adventures, as your mother had fondly termed them, were simple yet profoundly magical. They consisted of visits to art museums where she would craft whimsical stories behind each painting, imbuing them with life and laughter. There were hikes through dense woods, where she spun tales of bear hunts, making you believe in the thrill of the chase and the glory of imaginary conquests. On the rare occasion, she would navigate the aisles of thrift stores with you in tow. Financial constraints made these trips bittersweet, as the allure of unattainable treasures tugged at your young heart, a reminder of desires just beyond reach.

These excursions, modest in their execution but rich in imagination, formed a tapestry of cherished moments. They were escapes from the mundane, where every outing with your mother became a venture into the extraordinary, a testament to the power of love and storytelling to transform the ordinary into the unforgettable.

As Billy brought the car to a halt in front of the neon-lit facade of the arcade, you couldn't help but turn to him, an eyebrow arching in silent query. He responded with a heavy sigh, the weight of reluctance in his voice as he confessed the need to pick someone up. A brief glance at the digital watch strapped to his wrist revealed a clenched jaw, a silent testament to his impatience or perhaps something deeper, an annoyance or an obligation weighing heavily on him.

Before you could voice the questions dancing on the tip of your tongue, Billy's hand darted forward, retrieving a cigarette from the pack nestled within the confines of the glove compartment. The swift flick of his lighter brought the cigarette to life, its ember glowing fiercely with each inhalation, a beacon of his momentary escape. Exhaling a cloud of smoke through the window, he extended the cigarette towards you, a gesture of sharing in his solace, yet his eyes never met yours, as if the offer was made out of habit rather than genuine intent.

"I don’t smoke," you stated, a gentle reminder of your stance. His reaction was almost immediate, his gaze shifting to you, eyes searching for any sign of jest. Finding none, only the earnest clarity of your refusal, he muttered a blend of resignation and a half-hearted vow never to offer again, his attention quickly diverting to the arcade's entrance with a stare sharp enough to bore holes through the walls. "Are you trying to open the doors with your mind?" Your teasing broke the silence, a playful nudge against his intensity. As you sank deeper into the embrace of the leather seat, the corners of your lips tugged upwards. "I tried moving a pen once. I swear, I almost had it." Your words floated between you, a light-hearted attempt to pierce the seriousness that had enveloped him, inviting him back to a moment of shared levity amidst the unexpected pause in your night.

"She's late again," Billy grumbled under his breath, a tinge of irritation lacing his voice as his gaze flickered to his wristwatch once more, a silent sentinel of his impatience. "Little dipshit can skate home." His hand moved decisively towards the gear shift, ready to abandon the wait and drive off into the night, but you intervened, placing your hand gently over his, a silent plea for patience.

"We've been waiting here for barely five minutes." Your eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of concern and curiosity as you met his gaze, attempting to understand the rush. "We can wait a little longer. I don't mind." Your words were soft, an offering of compassion in the face of his growing frustration.

At that exact moment, as if summoned by your willingness to wait, a figure emerged from the glowing entrance of the arcade. A ginger-haired girl, her face flushed and breathless from her rush, her relief palpable as her eyes locked onto the familiar blue Camaro. With her skateboard tucked securely under her arm, she hastened her steps, almost speed-walking towards the safety and promise of a ride home that the vehicle represented.

As the ginger-haired girl approached, you smoothly exited the Camaro, your movements fluid and deliberate. Pulling forward the seat to allow her access, she clambered into the back with a graceless smile, her eyes flicking briefly to Billy with a mix of gratitude and irritation. You caught the exchange, a silent laugh hidden behind your facade as you adjusted the seat back into place and reclaimed your spot beside Billy.

The tension in the car was palpable, a silent storm brewing in the small confines of the vehicle. Billy's gaze, sharp and unyielding, found the girl through the rearview mirror, anchoring her with a look that brooked no argument, yet he made no move to merge into the street's flow.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper, a fragile attempt to quell the storm. Her eyes darted away, seeking refuge in any corner that wasn't filled with Billy's imposing presence.

"You remember what we talked about?" Billy's voice cut through the tension, clear and authoritative. His question, more an ultimatum than a query, hung heavy in the air.

"I said, I'm sorry," the girl retorted, her defensiveness surfacing with her words. A scowl began to form on your face, mirroring the growing frustration and discomfort that swirled inside you as Billy remained stationary, his focus unbroken.

His eyes never left her. "What did I tell you?" The gravity in his voice pulled at you, a painful wrench in your heart as you felt the weight of his words. "What did I tell you, Max?" At his question, your emotions teetered on the edge of a precipice, a quiver on your lip the only hint of the turmoil within.

Suddenly, the confined space of the car became too much, the air too thick to breathe. With a surge of resolve, you tore open the door, the sound of it closing behind you a silent scream for escape. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, a futile attempt to steady their shaking, as the silence from within the car enveloped you like a cold embrace, as his voice haunted your mind.

Billy emerged from the car, his silhouette framed by the setting sun as he rounded the hood with measured steps. You stood there, amidst the quiet chaos, closing your eyes to gather the shards of calm scattered by the storm. A deep breath filled your lungs, an attempt to cleanse the tumult within. When his voice broke through the silence, a soft yet piercing inquiry, "You all right, sweetheart?" it felt different this time. Where once the pet names he draped you in felt like silk, now they scratched against your skin like burlap.

The glare you returned was loaded with an unspoken dialogue, a debate raging within you about the wisdom of diving into depths where perhaps you had no place. Yet, the image of the girl, her spirit dimmed in the rearview mirror, tipped the scales. "You didn't have to berate her like that," the words tumbled out, laced with conviction, while your arms folded defensively across your chest. "She said she was sorry twice."

Observing him, you saw the muscles in his jaw clench, a physical manifestation of his rising defensiveness, and his nostrils flared, a silent herald of the storm to come. "How about you stay out of my fucking business?" The words were sharp, a dagger thrown with precision, meant to wound and warn.

As your scoff broke the tense air between you, it carried with it a bewildering sense of revelation. You found yourself staring, almost in disbelief, as the layers of Billy's persona peeled back to reveal the hot-tempered core you had only heard whispers of. Rumors of his impulsive shoves in crowded hallways and aggressive dominance on the basketball court had reached your ears, painting a picture of a boy who wielded his temper as carelessly as he did his charm. The teenage girls of Hawkins High had not been shy in sharing tales of his less savory deeds, and yet, in a strange twist of fate, they still crowned him with their affections, blinded perhaps by the handsome mask he wore. To you, until this moment, he had shown a different face—one that hinted at kindness beneath the rugged exterior.

"I don't think I can come with you. No, actually, I don't want to anymore." The words emerged from your lips, firm and irrevocable, sealing the fate of the evening that had taken an unexpected turn.

At your declaration, a storm seemed to gather on Billy's brow, his forehead creasing with anger as he teetered on the brink of letting loose a venomous retort. "Why are you being such a bi—" His words faltered, clogging the air between you as the realization of his near slip clamped down on his tongue. A sudden shift overtook his features, the anger washing out as if drained by an unseen force, leaving behind a pallid mask of instant regret.

"You know what, Billy?" you threw the words into the thickening twilight, not seeking an answer but rather casting them as a final verdict. Your feet started to retreat, each step a defiant dance away from the scene. "Fuck you. Oh, and while you're at it, why don't you shove those burgers up where the sun never shines, yeah?" With those parting shots, you spun on your heel, the world spinning momentarily before settling as you marched back toward the familiar silhouette of Hawkins High.

"You don't have your car!" His voice chased after you, a mixture of frustration and incredulity painting each syllable.

"And, still, I'd rather walk!" Your voice rang clear into the fading day, a declaration of independence. For good measure, and perhaps for the sake of your bruised pride, you flung one of your favorite gestures over your shoulder, hoping it would catch him in a moment of speechless observation.

Fucking men.

…

A month had woven itself into the fabric of your life since that tumultuous encounter with Billy Hargrove. His existence had become a silent shadow in your days, marked only by the occasional glimpse of his step-sister, a ghostly reminder of the confrontation that had severed whatever thread had begun to tie you to him. It was ironic, really, how the absence of someone could teach you so much about them. Your days flowed on, untouched by his presence, yet whispers of his life seemed to find you.

You learned of his origins, not through any desire of your own but through the idle chatter of classmates, their words painting a picture of a life you hadn't asked to understand. Billy Hargrove, the boy from California, now residing at 4819 Cherry Lane, wrapped in a scent that lingered in the halls—and apparently his pack—long after he had passed through. These snippets of his existence, caught in passing, seemed to stitch a portrait of a person you no longer knew, if indeed you ever really did.

Each revelation, each accidental eavesdrop, added layers to the image of Billy Hargrove, filling in gaps with colors you hadn't chosen. Yet, for all the unrequested knowledge that had found its way to you, the essence of the boy remained elusive, a puzzle pieced together from fragments overheard in passing. The tendrils of your past, entangled with dreams of a future beyond the confines of Hawkins, whispered to you in moments of solitude. Your aspirations reached far beyond the town's limits, aiming for the hallowed halls of college—a beacon of escape from a life mapped out by circumstances rather than choice. Each rejection letter that found its way to you felt like a door slamming shut, while the solitary acceptance, devoid of the golden ticket of a scholarship, seemed a cruel tease of what could be. College represented more than an education; it was your lifeline out of Hawkins, a chance to evade the shadows that lingered there, including him.

Financial realities cast long shadows over your dreams. The fruits of years spent toiling in odd jobs had been whittled away by the necessities of life and the unending demands of medical supplies, a silent testament to the sacrifices made. The money that didn't vanish into the bottomless pit of healthcare needs was swallowed by the mundane yet essential needs for gas and food, leaving nothing for the luxuries that others might take for granted. The memory of purchasing something solely for the joy it brought, something as simple as a new mascara or a piece of clothing in your favorite color, had faded into the realm of distant dreams.

Yet, as you maneuvered the car out of the school's parking lot, a resolve took root within you—a quiet declaration of self-kindness. The day's burdens lifted slightly at the thought of indulging in a small luxury, a token of appreciation for yourself after so long. The thrift store's familiar aisles offered sanctuary and the possibility of finding something uniquely yours. Amidst the labyrinth of second-hand garments, a splash of yellow caught your eye, halting your aimless search. Your fingers grazed the fabric of a flowy yellow dress, the color a vivid echo of happier times.

In that moment, a memory blossomed, vivid and sweet—a day at the lake with your mother, her laughter mingling with the breeze, her own yellow dress a mirror to the one now in your hands. Despite the harsh realities that awaited back home, her smile in that instant had been a beacon of pure joy, untainted by the shadows of daily struggles. The memory, so sharply beautiful, tugged at your heart with a mixture of longing and sorrow. For a fleeting moment, surrounded by the whispers of past lives encapsulated in the thrift store's treasures, you allowed yourself the luxury of reminiscence and the hope of brighter days, fueled by the simple act of choosing something that sparked joy in your heart.

Your fingers hesitated for a moment before firmly grasping the dress, lifting it from its crowded perch among forgotten stories and second chances. As you queued for purchase, the monotony of waiting nudged your attention toward the world beyond the thrift store's window. Your eyes traced the ebb and flow of life on the sidewalk—a tableau of youthful laughter and the disgruntled expressions of passing adults, caught in a silent battle over public decorum.

Your gaze was about to retreat back to the cashier's call when the distinct rumble of a familiar engine sliced through the ambient noise, capturing your attention. A blue Camaro, unmistakable in its assertive presence, blazed past the window, a fleeting shadow in your line of sight. The timing hinted at a routine you'd inadvertently memorized, perhaps Billy Hargrove on his way to collect Max from the arcade. Despite the distance you'd placed between yourself and him, his existence still managed to weave its way into the fabric of your thoughts, an uninvited yet persistent presence.

Groceries, bought with the remnants of your carefully hoarded finances, soon occupied the passenger seat of your car, a tangible reminder of the practical concerns that governed your life. You returned to the trailer park, your vehicle coming to a rest beside the rusted silhouette of home. The neighborhood was alive with the small, personal escapes of those around you—barbecues, beers, and the semblance of community in the individualistic survival of trailer park living. You offered a half-hearted wave to the scattered acknowledgments from your neighbors, a gesture of civility in the shared anonymity of your lives.

One neighbor, a boy around your age with a habitual distance from the trailer park's confines, returned your wave with a shy, fleeting smile. His presence was a rarity, his time usually spent in the freedom of friendships beyond the park's boundaries. A pang of longing touched you at the thought, a wistful wish for connections you hadn't the luxury to foster.

Stepping out of your car, the dress in hand and groceries by your side, you couldn't help but reflect on the paths not taken, the friendships not formed. The trailer park, with its rusted dreams and patchwork communities, held both the weight of your realities and the whispers of what might have been, had circumstances been kinder.

The descent of twilight had always carried a particular solemnity in the trailer park, a silent herald of the end of another day's labors and the beginning of the park's nocturnal repose. As you ascended the weathered steps, the weight of the grocery bags in your hands was a tangible reminder of the day's responsibilities, a mundane yet necessary burden. Your father's gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, met you through the window, his eyes flickering with a mix of wariness and disapproval between you and the neighbor boy who had offered a fleeting gesture of camaraderie. His expression, a familiar tapestry of anger and suspicion, caused you to avert your gaze and hasten your steps, seeking refuge in the relative safety of the indoors.

The call to the living room came at an hour when the world outside had surrendered to the darkness, the only witnesses to its secrets being the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the sky. The neighbors, those transient figures of your day-to-day existence, had retreated behind their doors, driven by the sudden onset of rain. It was in this secluded setting that your father awaited, ensconced in the worn embrace of his brown-leathered armchair, a throne from which he observed the small dominion of your shared living space.

You paused at a cautious distance, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension, a testament to the delicate balance of your relationship. In the dim light, your fingers absently traced the familiar imperfections in your nails, a diversion from the intensity of his scrutiny. Your father, a man whose actions were measured and deliberate, had managed to maintain a facade of normalcy to the outside world. Whatever speculations might have circulated among the neighbors about the dynamics within your trailer, they remained just that—speculations, with no concrete evidence to breach the veil of privacy that curtained your shared existence.

In that moment, standing in the living room's subdued light, the distance between you felt more than just physical; it was a chasm of unspoken words and stifled emotions, a silent battleground where every gesture and glance held weight.

"I'm very disappointed in you," he spoke, orbs glued to your face which was turned to the carpeted floors. "I give you so much and don't expect a lot in return, now, do I?" You closed your eyes, teeth catching your lips as you shook your head no. "That's right." He lifted himself up from his seat, stepping closer. You stilled. "What I can't have, is my daughter whoring herself out to some boys."

You flinched as a hand gripped your jaw. "I don't—"

His hold tightened, warm alcohol-tinges breath hitting your cheek. "And to have so much disrespect to lie to my face."

"Please, Dad, I don't even know his nam—"

"Shut up!" You winced at his harsh tone, a trembling falling into your bones. "How long have you been going around spreading your fucking legs, huh? You think you can just do that while you're living under my roof?" He shoved you back into the kitchen counter, its edges digging into your skin painfully. "Fucking whore," he hissed. "If I ever see you looking at him again, I'm not going to be so nice."

Your voice was a mere whisper. "But I didn't—" A slap echoed and a jarring stinging spread across your cheek.

"Don't you fucking dare to talk back to me!" His fingers dug into your skin further as he yanked you forward and smashed you to the floor. "Who do you think you are, huh?" He ripped you upwards at the roots of your hair, wrenching you across the floor to the front door. Your head smashed into the wood as your father tore it open with no regard for you. His hand fell from your hair as he shoved you forward with his foot. As you didn't do as he pleased fast enough, he kicked you onwards and again until you tumbled down the stairs of your home.

"I don't want no disrespectful whore under my roof.” The night air was heavy with the scent of rain, a foreboding cloak that seemed to amplify your isolation as your father's anger found its final expression in the harsh, definitive sound of the door slamming shut behind you. Stranded in the aftermath, you lay there for a moment, sprawled on the cold, unforgiving ground, every breath a testament to the throbbing pain in your ribs. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you managed to pull yourself into a seated position, the tears that you hadn't invited nor could contain stinging your eyes, mingling with the rain that began to drench you in its cold embrace.

The world around you felt alien, a labyrinth of uncertainties and fears about where the night might take you. Trust, a commodity you found in short supply, left you without a door to knock on, without a sanctuary in which to seek refuge. Even the shelter of your car was denied to you, the keys a distant, unreachable comfort. Your heart heavy, you stood, the direction of your feet a mystery even to yourself as you meandered through the dimly lit streets of Hawkins. It was as if some unseen force guided you, leading you on a path paved with desperation and silent pleas for solace.

Cherry Lane materialized before you almost as if by magic, the familiarity of the surroundings doing little to ease the tumult in your heart. The houses stood like silent sentinels, guarding the secrets of those who dwelled within, until the sight of a blue Camaro, parked with an air of silent expectation, caught your eye. It was a beacon in the gloom, a signpost pointing towards a possibility you hadn't dared to consider until now.

With hesitant steps, you ascended the porch, each footfall a declaration of your vulnerability. The house before you was a tableau of quiet domesticity, its windows glowing softly in the night, yet betraying no hint of the lives unfolding behind them. For a moment, you allowed yourself the small comfort of shelter, the porch a temporary haven from the relentless rain. Gathering the remnants of your courage, you reached out, your hand pausing in mid-air as you braced yourself to bridge the distance between desperation and hope, between solitude and the possibility of finding an ally in the most unexpected of places.

Hesitation gripped you as the absurdity of your situation fully dawned upon you. What madness had driven you to seek refuge here, of all places? It had been over a month since any words had passed between you and Billy, and the possibility of him not being the one to answer the door loomed large in your mind, a specter of potential embarrassment you hadn't fully considered until now. Imagining the awkwardness of explaining your presence to his stepmother or father sent a shiver down your spine. Perhaps the familiar discomfort of your own leaky porch, where sleep would undoubtedly elude you amidst the elements, would have been preferable to the risk of utter humiliation here.

As you turned to make a hasty retreat, a clumsy misstep sent one of the plant pots clattering to the ground, the sound of shattering pottery piercing the steady drum of rain. Mortification washed over you as you knelt, frantically trying to salvage the situation by scooping the spilled soil back into its home, muttering curses under your breath for your own clumsiness.

"What are you doing?" The sound of Billy's voice, laced with confusion and rising over the roar of the rain, caused you to startle, nearly toppling the pot once more in your sudden panic.

You stood, hands smeared with dirt against the fabric of your wet pants, words tripping over themselves in a clumsy attempt to explain. "I'm sorry," was the simple, inadequate conclusion you reached. A nervous laugh escaped you, highlighting the absurdity of your predicament. "I... I don't even know what I'm doing here," you admitted, your voice tinged with the realization of your own folly. "I—I'm going to go. Sorry about the plant."

Billy's gaze drifted past you to the empty street, a silent question in his eyes before returning to you. "Where's your car?" The inquiry was straightforward, yet it left you grappling with the decision of whether to fabricate a lie about its whereabouts.

"I walked," you confessed, the truth slipping out with a hesitance that betrayed your vulnerability.

"In the rain?" His question hung unfinished in the air as his attention abruptly shifted, focusing intently on your face. Whatever he saw there caused a transformation in his demeanor, his previously questioning gaze hardening with resolve. He swung the door wider, an unspoken invitation hanging between you. "Get in," he commanded, a mixture of concern and command in his tone. Your uncertainty was palpable, a silent question mark in your stance until his impatience broke through your indecision. "Do you always need a second invitation? Get inside." His words, more a directive than a suggestion, propelled you forward, his intense stare ushering you into the warmth and shelter of his home. No sooner had the front door clicked shut behind you than Billy’s hand enveloped yours, his grip firm and unexpectedly warm. He led you through the hallway with a sense of urgency, the sound of your sodden shoes squelching against the floor marking your passage. The door to his room was next, closing with a definitive thud that seemed to isolate the world outside. Releasing your hand as though he suddenly remembered the protocol of personal space, Billy turned his attention to the task of decluttering his room with an efficiency that left his clothes arching through the air to land perfectly in a hamper across the space.

You found yourself standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of his room, the chill of your drenched clothes causing you to shiver uncontrollably. Instinctively, you crossed your arms in an attempt to preserve warmth, your gaze drifting downwards before curiosity prompted a survey of your surroundings. The room was a capsule of Billy's world – his bed, a stark island in the chaos, lay opposite the door, while a white dresser burdened with an assortment of items claimed territory to your left. A stereo system and a mirror positioned at the foot of his bed stood guard in front of his closet, serving as silent sentinels of his privacy. The walls were an eclectic gallery featuring a mix of band posters—Metallica's ‘Kill 'Em All’ and Tank's ‘Filth Hounds of Hades’ among them—and a singular, provocatively posed woman adorning a minuscule bikini set.

A cough from Billy broke the silence, his posture shifting uncomfortably as he planted a hand on his hip, mirroring your own awkwardness. "Do you wanna take a hot shower?" His voice, hesitant yet earnest, sliced through the tension.

You matched his earlier gesture, clearing your throat before responding with a nod, your smile timid yet sincere, a silent thank you. "If you don't mind."

His response was quick, almost reflexive. "I wouldn't be asking if I did." The briefest flicker of something akin to regret crossed his features, a look that suggested he found the current situation less than ideal. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, as if to dismiss his own thoughts, he guided you to the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. Handing you a towel with an awkwardness that seemed out of place on him, he promised to find you some dry clothes, leaving you with the comforting prospect of warmth and a momentary escape from the night's chaos. Peeling away the layers of your drenched attire felt like shedding a second, clammy skin, each piece a testament to the frugality that necessity had imposed upon your life. The fabric, cheap and worn, clung to you with a stubborn chill, and even as you stood bare in the relative warmth of the bathroom, shivers danced across your skin, relentless in their embrace.

You stepped over the edge of the tub with a cautious grace, turning the faucet with hands that trembled not just from the cold but from the uncertainty of the moment. As the water sputtered to life, you drew the shower curtain with a swift motion, sealing yourself away from the world for a brief interlude. The array of bottles lining the tub's edge caught your eye, prompting an involuntary snort of amusement.

Billy, it seemed, defied the stereotype of masculine simplicity in skincare, the stereotype that suggested a preference for efficiency over variety. Your father, with his staunch allegiance to three-in-one products, had been your benchmark for male grooming habits. Yet here, in Billy's shower, was a collection that spoke of a different creed. You couldn't help but smirk, a playful curiosity lifting your brows as you inspected the labels one by one. Shampoos, more than one might expect, each bottle worn from use, nestled beside conditioners—one clearly favored, its contents more depleted.

The body wash, singular in its presence, was an olfactory enigma. Unscrewing the cap, you were met with an assault of scents, as if the essence of every cologne and deodorant had been distilled into this one vessel. The smell was overpowering, undeniably masculine, a concentrated embodiment of Billy's presence. You searched for the words to describe it but landed on the singularly fitting—manly.

As the warm water cascaded over you, washing away the layers of the day—the sweat, the remnants of makeup that had survived the downpour—you moved with haste. There was a keen awareness of not overstaying your welcome in this unexpected sanctuary. Gratitude for Billy's kindness mingled with a sense of urgency; such generosity was a rare currency in your world, and you were acutely conscious of its value. In these moments, under the stream of cleansing water, you found a temporary reprieve, a fleeting sense of solace amid the turbulence of your life. The moment your skin felt the cool air of the bathroom, a soft knock echoed against the door, a gentle but unexpected intrusion into your solitude. Clutching the towel around yourself with a sudden modesty, you cracked the door open just enough to extend a hand into the gap. Billy's presence on the other side was palpable, his chuckle a low, soft sound that fluttered through the air as he passed a bundle of clothes to you. "Thanks," you murmured, a rush of words barely escaping before you retreated behind the door once more.

Dressed in the clothes Billy had chosen—socks, boxers, sweats, and a shirt—you paused at the threshold of his room, suddenly conscious of the absence of your bra and acutely aware that he was, too. With a final act of tidiness, you folded the towel meticulously and flicked off the lights, leaving behind the sanctuary of the bathroom for the uncertainty that lay beyond.

You found yourself lingering in the doorway, arms wrapped defensively across your chest, the fabric of his shirt a poor shield against the vulnerability you felt. Billy's gaze upon you was indescribable, heavy with an unspoken expectation as if he wished to peel back the layers of your being and examine the hidden scars that lay beneath.

Mustering what little composure you had, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed, confusion and something else—was it concern?—etching lines into his forehead. "For what?" he queried, his voice a blend of curiosity and something softer.

You diverted your gaze, a sense of intrusion overwhelming you despite the sanctuary he'd provided. "Bothering you. It's late," you admitted, feeling the weight of your unwelcome presence.

The sound of his movement pulled your eyes upward, half-expecting, half-hoping he might bridge the distance between you. Instead, you were met with the sight of his back as he rifled through his nightstand, the tension in the room palpable. "Sit," he commanded, and though under any other circumstance you might have bristled at the order, the exhaustion and gratitude mingling within you coaxed compliance.

Without protest, you perched on the edge of the bed, a silent observer to his actions, the room around you filled with an unspoken dialogue made of glances and gestures, a fragile understanding hanging in the balance. As he pivoted towards you, a black box in his grasp, an electric tension filled the air. He chose not to sit beside you on the bed; instead, he knelt before you, an unexpected intimacy in the space between your parted knees. Your breath caught, a silent gasp lost in the moment, and irritation flared within you as you noticed the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What are you doing?" you inquired, a mix of curiosity and wariness lacing your words, your gaze sharply tracking his movements.

"If I remember correctly, Sweetheart, you gave me a lecture on using Neosporin or otherwise you get scars, right?" His voice held a playful rebuke, cutting off any response you might have mustered. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen, huh?"

His attention fixed on a spot on your forehead, drawing your own hand reflexively to the area he observed, only to flinch at the tender reminder of a wound you hadn't registered until now. The memory of the collision with your trailer door flickered through your mind, a painful blur in the chaos of the night. His touch was unexpectedly gentle as he attended to the wound, a carefulness in his actions that surprised you, challenging what you thought you knew of him. Despite the months you'd spent in his orbit, this moment revealed layers you hadn't glimpsed before.

"You don't have to do that," you found yourself saying as he procured a tube of Neosporin—a recent addition to his kit, no doubt on your advice. "I can do it, too."

"Never said you couldn't," he hummed back, undeterred as he meticulously applied the ointment, his focus undivided. With deliberate care, he placed two butterfly plasters across the cleaned wound, a silent testament to his unspoken concern. Gathering the discarded wrappers and used items, he compressed them in his hand and rose, moving to dispose of the trash. In that small, enclosed space, with the sound of rain a distant murmur against the windows, a different side of Billy was illuminated under the soft glow of the room's lighting — a side tender, careful, and starkly at odds with the rough edges of his usual demeanor. You cleared your throat, a gesture so small yet so loaded with the weight of the evening's events.

"Thank you," you managed to say, voice barely above a whisper. He paused in his motions, turning towards you with a smile so radiant it threatened to stop your heart in its tracks.

"No problem, Sweetheart," he replied, his voice a smooth salve over the jagged edges of the night. As he moved to dispose of the trash, a sudden, inexplicable tumult stirred within you. With a hand pressed against your chest, you sought to quell the storm brewing beneath your ribs, a futile attempt to calm the chaos his mere presence invoked.

Rising to your feet, you drifted towards the window, seeking solace in the steady downpour that mirrored your inner turmoil. The rain continued to fall, now more fiercely than before, a relentless deluge that held you captive in this moment. You felt his presence before you saw him, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill seeping through the glass.

"Didn't get much of this in California, huh?" you ventured, an attempt to bridge the chasm of silence between you.

He let your question hang in the air, unanswered, yet the fleeting shadow that crossed his face spoke volumes, a bitterness that matched the storm outside. His gaze shifted, momentarily caught in the past before refocusing on the present — on the wound that marred your forehead. "What happened?" he asked, the question simple yet loaded with unspoken concern.

You shrugged, a movement laden with the weight of untold stories. "Nothing," you replied, the lie slipping from your lips as easily as breath, a practiced deception you had mastered over time. "I tripped."

"And that had you walking through the rain in the middle of the night?" His skepticism was palpable, a challenge to the facade you'd constructed.

A battle raged within you, the urge to confess warring with the instinct to conceal. You bit back the tears threatening to spill, the pain of admission too great to bear. "I locked myself out and didn't know what else to do."

"Yeah?" he pressed, his disbelief a tangible force.

"Yeah." Your affirmation was a whisper in the storm, a feeble attempt to maintain the crumbling walls around your heart.

He moved closer, his presence overwhelming, trapping you between the solid reality of his form and the immovable barrier of his closet. "If you don't want to talk about it then say so," he declared, his voice a command that brooked no argument. "Don't lie and pretend to be fine when clearly you aren't."

In that charged moment, with the rain as your sole witness, the space between you became a battleground of unspoken words and concealed wounds, a testament to the complexity of human connection. Your jaw clenched tightly, a tangible manifestation of your frustration and defiance. The notion of receiving unsolicited advice, particularly from him, was almost laughable. Gratitude for his shelter in the storm did not extend to welcoming painful truths. "Oh, that's rich coming from you, Billy. It's not like you aren't just fine all the time," you retorted, your words sharp, laden with a bitterness born of too many hidden truths.

The shift in him was immediate, his anger dissipating as though your words had pierced a veil, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerability he so meticulously guarded. When he raised his hand, the gentle brush of his forefinger against the stray tear on your cheek sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. "I never said I wanted to talk about it," he murmured, his voice soft, revealing a hint of his own battles fought in silence. Your heart fluttered uncontrollably, his touch igniting a flurry of sensations, momentarily tethering you to a moment of raw connection.

The sudden crack of lightning, followed by the deep rumble of thunder, jolted you back to reality, breaking the spell that had momentarily bound you. The urge to flee, to return to the semblance of normalcy that awaited at home, surged within you. "I should probably go," you whispered, hoping against hope that your father's drunken stupor would erase the night's events by morning, that a simple act of domestic normality could smooth over the fractures in your life. "Do you have an umbrella or something?"

His response was instant, a resolute rejection of your plan. "Do you really think I'll let you get back there now? So, you can flash a cut lip and a blue eye tomorrow at school, too?" His words, though posed as a question, left no room for argument. In his refusal to allow you to venture back into the storm, both literal and metaphorical, lay an unspoken pledge of protection, a sanctuary against the tempest that raged beyond his door. "What does it matter?" you found yourself arguing, feeling the weight of your own arms as they fell limply by your sides. The sense of defeat was palpable in the air. "So, I stay tonight, then what, Billy? I'll have to go back eventually, and it's only until the school year's over. Then, I'm gone anyway."

His response came in the form of a growl, though you could tell his anger wasn't directed at you. It stemmed from a place of shared desperation, from having clung to the same sliver of hope himself. "So, you're just gonna let him beat you for the rest of the year?"

Your response was a snort, laced with sarcasm, as you tilted your head, challenging him. "Aren't you doing the same thing?" The silence that followed was telling, even if no words were spoken, until he dared to step closer.

"It does matter, you know," he said, his voice softer now, reducing the physical distance between you yet careful not to invade your personal space.

"Why?" The question came out more as a whisper of disbelief. For the past month, he had acted as if you were barely visible, and suddenly, he seemed to care deeply. "Why now?"

His hesitation was palpable, as if the words he was about to utter could scorch his tongue. "I like you." The simplicity of his confession hung between you, fraught with unspoken complexities.

You bit your lip, a sad, resigned smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you lowered your head. "Don't do that to yourself." The words were barely a whisper, yet they carried the weight of a lifetime. Tears threatened to spill over, a testament to a sentiment you had never expected to receive. The idea that someone could not just tolerate but actually like you was foreign, almost too much to bear. All your life, you had erected walls to keep people at a distance, for their affection meant empathy, and with empathy came pain. The sight of your wounds would become their agony, and in a twisted way, their suffering would become yours, completing a circle of shared hurt you had always sought to avoid.

"Who do you think I am, Billy?" You backed away slowly, trying to maintain some semblance of distance between you and Billy, but the inevitable happened—your retreat was abruptly stopped by the wall. A wave of unfamiliar pressure washed over you. Was it fear? Or perhaps vulnerability? You couldn't quite place the emotion. "I'm not the kind of person to have around. I won't complete you, won't enrich your life,” you stammered out, your voice a mix of warning and fear. These words were your feeble attempt to shield him, to prepare him for the inevitable disappointment that seemed to follow you like a shadow. "I—I'm just so fucked up and stuck trying to put everything... everything broken back into place. I... I can't look for your shards, too."

When your eyes finally dared to meet his, you expected to see annoyance, maybe even rejection. Instead, what you found was empathy, his expression softened, recognizing the turmoil within you as something he too understood. "I don't want you to try and fix me," he said, his tone gentle, soothing the chaotic thoughts swirling in your mind. His hand reached for yours, not as a claim but as a gesture of companionship, of solidarity. "But searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together." In the dimly lit room, where shadows danced across the walls with a life of their own, Billy Hargrove revealed himself in a way that words could scarcely capture. The man you thought you knew, encased in layers of protective anger and a cocksure swagger, allowed those defenses to melt away in your presence. It was as if he peeled back the veneer of bravado, exposing the raw, unguarded depths of his soul—a mosaic of past hurts and present struggles laid bare for only your eyes.

The moment his fingers brushed against your cheek, a cascade of sensations unfurled within you. It was more than a touch; it was an electric current that surged through your veins, rendering you speechless, breathless. As you locked gazes with him, drowning in the ocean of his bright blue eyes, the world seemed to pause. Every attempt at drawing breath felt like an insurmountable task, and yet, paradoxically, you felt more grounded than ever, as if an invisible force tethered you to the very core of the earth. Simultaneously, there lingered an exhilarating sense of lightness, a curious wonder if you might suddenly break free from gravity's embrace and ascend into the ether. The effect Billy had on you was profound, leaving you to ponder if perhaps, in some small way, you affected him similarly.

Did you trouble his thoughts as he did yours? Did your presence steal his breath and unsettle him to his core? Within the quiet chambers of your heart, a small, worn, and lonely piece of you clung to the hope that he might feel the same.

As his index finger traced the contours of your face with reverence, from the softness of your cheek to the furrowed worry lines on your forehead, and finally to the tender vulnerability of your lips, you sensed a hesitancy in him. His other hand, which had been a mere whisper away from yours against the wall, dropped slightly, fingers brushing against the fabric of the shirt he had lent you. With a subtle tug, influenced by a brief flare of his nostrils, it was as if he was battling a storm of desire within, restraining himself with a Herculean effort from crossing a line from which there was no return. In that moment, Billy Hargrove was no longer just a name or a face; he was a force, simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating, threatening to unravel the very fabric of your being.

The words stumbled from your lips, frail and unsteady, shattering the facade of indifference you had desperately clung to. "So—" you began, only to have your voice fracture cruelly midway, exposing the turbulence beneath your calm exterior. "You want to be friends…like officially?"

A crooked smile unfurled across his face, his deep-set eyes twinkling with a blend of amusement and an unexpected trace of shyness. His grip on the fabric of the shirt intensified, his knuckles whitening with the strain. "Trust me, Sweetheart, friends isn’t what I had in mind," he confessed, his voice a low murmur that sent a wave of heat cascading down your spine, igniting a flurry of desire that pooled in the depths of your stomach.

You stood petrified, a statue of anticipation, as an inexplicable longing surged within you, compelling your fingers to twitch at your sides. You yearned to weave your fingers through the silky strands of his meticulously styled hair, to explore the contours of his being with a touch. Yet, as he retreated, fishing a pack of cigarettes from the depths of his jeans, you found yourself anchored in place, watching him with a mixture of astonishment and burgeoning disappointment. It wasn't the withdrawal you had anticipated that took you by surprise, but rather the keen sense of letdown that he didn't pursue the tension crackling between you further.

When he turned his back to you momentarily in search of an ashtray, a childish pout began to form on your lips, a silent testament to your discontent. Billy, however, remained oblivious to your turmoil, opting instead to lean casually against the wall by the open window, exhaling smoke into the tempestuous embrace of the rainy night. You pondered over his actions, the deviation from his usual indifference to smoking indoors. The scent of tobacco, which had once been a source of discomfort, had, over time, woven itself into the tapestry of comforts associated with Billy's presence. It was an aroma that, in the context of his room—a sanctuary of chaotic tranquility—had become oddly reassuring. Mixed with the other, more elusive scents that lingered in the corners of his space, it crafted an ambiance that was undeniably Billy, and in that moment, you realized how deeply entwined your senses had become with the essence of his existence. The array of colognes that enveloped him carried none of the hallmarks of the cheap fragrances that typically permeated the crowded hallways of Hawkins High. His presence, and indeed his room, was suffused with a complex aroma—slightly woody, perhaps a hint of leather, and beneath it all, a subtle undertone of sweetness that floated gently in the air. It was an olfactory melody that intrigued you, a scent that you found unexpectedly comforting.

Wrapped in your own arms, you approached him, a silent figure against the tumult of your thoughts, pressing your back to the wardrobe adjacent to his window. Without a word, he offered the cigarette to you, a gesture that halted you momentarily. As you reached out, the brief touch of his warm fingers against yours sent an inexplicable shiver down your spine, a sensation that seemed to echo on your skin long after the contact had ended. Drawing in the acrid taste of the smoke, you allowed yourself a moment to indulge in the bitterness, your eyes lifting to meet his.

There he was, a grin playing on his lips, watching you with an intensity that rendered you momentarily breathless. The world around you narrowed to the space between you two, your senses hyper-aware of his proximity. The cigarette, now a forgotten prop in your hand, no longer demanded your attention as you found yourself irresistibly drawn into the depths of his blue gaze. An unconscious bite to your lip betrayed your thoughts as your eyes darted to his lips and back again.

He closed the distance with a single, purposeful step, igniting a trail of warmth that flickered to life within you. Billy leaned in, his breath—a mix of smoke and something indefinably sweet—brushed against your cheek, sending ripples of anticipation through you. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, his voice a blend of amusement and challenge. "You gonna smoke that, Sweetheart, or are you just gonna keep staring?"

In that moment, under the weight of his gaze and the heat of his breath, you realized the cigarette was merely a bystander in a dance of tension and unspoken desires, a dance that had you captivated and wanting more. A blush crept up your neck, a vivid testimony to the turmoil within, as you extended the cigarette towards him, a silent plea for normalcy. Yet, instead of simply taking it, he lingered, his chuckle a low rumble against the shell of your ear, sending a cascade of goosebumps down your flesh. He leaned back, his movements languid yet deliberate, eyes locked on yours as he accepted the cigarette, drawing in a slow, purposeful drag. Under the weight of his gaze, your heart raced, each beat a drumroll of anticipation. His lips twitched into a smirk, and in that moment, the tether of your restraint snapped.

Driven by a surge of boldness, you seized the fabric of his shirt, pulling him into a collision of lips. The world narrowed to the point of contact, where fear and desire mingled in a single breath. But as quickly as the impulse came, it retreated, leaving you to recoil in a mix of surprise and mortification. "I'm so sor—"

But your apology was cut short, his hand finding the nape of your neck, an anchor pulling you back into the storm. His lips sealed over yours with a fervor that spoke of raw need and simmering frustration. The sensation in your stomach exploded into a wildfire, racing through your veins, igniting every fiber of your being. His hands, emboldened and roaming, traced paths filled with longing and anticipation, his grip on your hip a silent command that spurred a sharp intake of breath. Yet, as Billy drew you closer, melding your body to his with a hunger that spoke of endless waiting, the kiss deepened, transcending the confines of time and space. The world outside this embrace dissolved into insignificance, leaving nothing but the intensity of your connection, a thirst quenched in the meeting of lips, finally stilled in the embrace of shared desire. Emerging first from the embrace, you found yourself ensnared in a heady daze, breathless from a mixture of oxygen deprivation and the intoxicating effect of Billy's touch. Your hands clung to his shirt collar, a desperate bid to maintain the closeness, the electricity that buzzed between you. Yet, Billy harbored no intention of releasing you into the cold reality just yet. As your eyelids fluttered shut again, his lips embarked on a fervent exploration along the tender expanse of your neck. Each kiss was a brand, igniting fires within your veins, stirring a wild rush of blood that screamed for more.

In his ministrations, Billy was anything but tentative, his actions painting the strokes of your silent wishes with bold, assertive colors. You reveled in the sensation, a glorious chaos made of his fervent kisses and the playful nip of teeth against your skin, eliciting a hitch in your breath that morphed into a soft whine. This sound drew a triumphant grin across his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the effect he wielded over you.

The moment shifted as he gently maneuvered you backward, only to ease himself onto the edge of his bed, pulling you into his orbit with an unspoken command. You remained on your feet, a silent statue, until he chastised you with a playful tilt of his head and a tug on the waistband of the pants he had lent you. "You do always need a second invitation, huh?" he teased, his voice a blend of amusement and desire.

His hands, firm and insistent, found your thighs, drawing you irresistibly onto his lap. Positioned intimately close, your breath caught as the proximity sparked a fresh surge of desire. Your gaze flitted over his features, captivated by the intensity in his eyes before inevitably being drawn to the smug curve of his lips. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze and the promise of his smile, you teetered on the edge of surrender, every fiber of your being alight with anticipation.

In the charged silence of the room, your voice was a mere whisper, a soft breeze that dared not disturb the delicate sphere of intimacy that encased you both. "Is anyone else home?" The words barely left your lips, a testament to the fragile moment you were so afraid to shatter.

Billy's response was a grin, one that spoke volumes of the thoughts he'd kept at bay, now unchained in the privacy of his domain. "No," he breathed, a single syllable heavy with unspoken promises. His hands, emboldened by the assurance of solitude, resumed their exploratory journey with renewed vigor. They ascended your thighs, ventured over the curve of your behind, and continued upwards until the rough warmth of his calloused palms met the smooth expanse of your waist. "Concerned you won't be able to stay quiet, Sweetheart?" he teased, a playful challenge in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine.

You shook your head, a flush of warmth crawling up your neck, betraying your inner turmoil. "Just curious," you managed to say, your fingers finding solace in the soft strands of his blonde hair. Under your gaze, something flickered in his eyes—was it adoration?—a fleeting glimpse into the depths of Billy Hargrove that few were privy to. The realization that you were witnessing the unguarded essence of the man beneath the facade was both exhilarating and daunting, a secret you cherished deep within your heart.

In an unexpected move, he drew you against him, erasing any distance that remained. The gasp that escaped your lips mingled with the air as you became acutely aware of his desire pressing insistently against you. His lips found yours in a seal of fervent need, prompting an involuntary arch of your hips against his. A groan, laced with curses and unbridled yearning, vibrated against your mouth as Billy's restraint began to unravel. And then, with a fluidity that left you breathless, the world flipped—Billy loomed above you, a figure of strength and passionate intent, casting a shadow that promised an escape from the confines of reality. One arm kept him propped up above you, the other sliding beneath your butt, lifting you to meet his movements. A delicate moan fled your tongue, almost lost in the kiss as he sealed his lips onto yours, excitement thrumming in your core. As Billy's lips departed from yours, a reluctant retreat that sent a pang through your chest, you were left gasping beneath him, the room spinning slightly in the absence of his touch. For a brief moment, the world outside the cocoon of his room ceased to exist, leaving nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths hanging in the air. Your eyelids fluttered open only when the tender caress of his thumb traced your bottom lip, drawing your gaze upwards to meet his. In his eyes, a storm of emotions hinted at a struggle, a reluctance to break the connection that had so fiercely ignited between you.

Silently, he rolled away, the loss of his warmth immediate and stark. The soft click of the light switch plunged the room into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the moon's glow filtering through the curtains. "Night, Sweetheart," he murmured, a term of endearment that now seemed to carry a weight of unspoken words between you.

Your brow furrowed, confusion and a myriad of unanswered questions swirling in your mind. The impulse to voice your bewilderment, to ask why he had halted the crescendo of your shared passion, rose sharply within you. Yet, each time your lips parted, no words emerged, as if the gravity of the moment held your voice captive. With a heavy heart, you turned away, presenting your back to him, a silent testament to the tumult within.

As the minutes trickled by, Billy's breaths deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep, a testament to his drift into tranquility. Left alone with your thoughts, the questions continued to dance at the edges of your consciousness, unanswered, echoing in the quiet of the night. Despite the turmoil, the pull of exhaustion proved stronger, and eventually, your eyes closed, surrendering to the elusive promise of rest, even as the mystery of his actions lingered, a shadow at the back of your mind. Upon awakening, you found yourself momentarily lost in the fog of disorientation, the remnants of sleep clouding your senses. As your consciousness gradually sharpened, the events of the night prior began to piece themselves together, painting a vivid picture of unexpected solace. For the first time in what felt like eons, you had been gifted with the luxury of a deep, undisturbed sleep, free from the clutches of anxiety that so often held you captive. The sensation of safety enveloped you, a cocoon of warmth that was both foreign and immensely comforting.

As awareness seeped further into your waking mind, you became acutely conscious of the presence beside you. An arm, strong and reassuring, draped across your middle, its weight a silent promise of protection. A leg, muscular and firm, intertwined with your own, anchoring you to this moment of peace. The thought of disrupting this tranquil intimacy, of stirring him from sleep and thus dissolving the delicate bubble of comfort you found yourself in, was unbearable. So, you settled back down, surrendering to the warmth, allowing yourself a moment more of this rare contentment.

However, reality was never far behind, its relentless march signaled by the crimson digits of the alarm clock on his bedside table. A quiet groan escaped your lips as you registered the time—6:30 a.m. The demands of the day loomed large, a reminder that the sanctuary you found in Billy's arms was but a temporary reprieve. School awaited, a stark return to the routines and expectations that defined your everyday life.

The fragile silence of the morning was shattered abruptly by the growl of an engine cutting through the calm, a harbinger of the chaos to come. The sound of car doors slamming, followed by the rise and fall of angry voices, punctured the tranquility of dawn. A woman's pleading tones, desperate for discretion, clashed with the male fury, an unwelcome intrusion into the peacefulness of the early hours. Footsteps, heavy and ominous, approached the house, the finality of the front door slamming open a jarring wake-up call.

In an instant, Billy was alert, his body tensing as he sat up, the sudden movement a stark contrast to the gentle stillness that had enveloped you moments before. The reality you had momentarily escaped was crashing back down with undeniable force, the impending confrontation a stark reminder of the world waiting beyond the haven of his room. You cursed under your breath, a sharp departure from the warmth and safety that had enveloped you just moments ago. The bed suddenly felt too large and cold as you distanced yourself, your presence—a constant source of comfort—receding with each step you took. Alarmed, you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching your silhouette navigate the dimly lit room. You paused at the door, an unmistakable tension in your posture as you strained to listen to the cacophony of voices and footsteps echoing through the house. It was a dance of shadows and sounds, one you knew all too well, having played the same game of anticipation and fear in your own life.

The voices crescendoed then waned, the storm outside your sanctuary dissipating momentarily. A male voice, harsh and demanding, cut through the relative calm, summoning you with a ferocity that made the air in the room heavier. You watched as the boy before you transformed, your body stiffening, every muscle coiling in dread. It was as if you could see the gears turning in your head, a frantic search for any misstep that could have incited this wrath.

"What's wrong?" Your voice was barely a whisper, a ripple in the tense atmosphere as you moved to join him. But his arm shot out, a barrier between you, a silent plea for you to keep your distance.

The impending confrontation burst into your room with the force of a storm. Your father, a tempest of anger, filled the doorway, his eyes wild, the veins in his neck bulging with every shouted word. His rage was palpable, a living entity that sought to crush everything in its path. And then his eyes found you. In that instant, the fury that had contorted his features melted away, replaced by a facade as thin and fragile as ice over a winter lake. It was a look you recognized, one your own father adopted in the presence of outsiders, a mask that barely concealed the storm raging beneath. His gaze flicked between you and Billy, a silent accusation in the shift of his eyes.

"I thought we agreed on no more... guests?" His voice, though softer, still carried the undercurrent of a threat. You remained silent, a statue in the eye of the storm, your resignation more telling than words could ever be. Your father straightened, adopting a veneer of civility that did nothing to ease the tension clawing at your insides.

"I'm sorry, but my son isn't allowed nightly visitors. Why don't you show your lady friend the door, hm?" The words were spoken with a superficial politeness that did nothing to mask the disdain and control that simmered beneath the surface. It was a moment suspended in time, a crossroads between the sanctuary of the night past and the harsh daylight reality of your present. Billy remained motionless, his gaze fixed unflinchingly on his father. The silence between them was heavy, laden with unspoken threats and long-standing grievances. It was in this tense tableau that he uttered your name, a sound so rarely heard in such a context that it jolted you. “Why don’t you get dressed?” His voice, though soft, carried an uncharacteristic gravity.

With a nod that was more reflex than conscious agreement, you skirted past the palpable tension in the room, escaping to the sanctuary of the bathroom where your clothes awaited, still bearing the chill of being slightly damp. Once enveloped in the privacy it offered, the murmur of voices beckoned you closer, curiosity and concern pressing you to eavesdrop.

“You’re gonna say goodbye to your whore and then you and I are going to have a talk,” you heard, the venom in the elder Hargrove’s voice unmistakable.

Billy’s reply was a shadow of his usual defiance, “She isn’t—”

“What was that?” The threat in his father’s voice was sharp, a warning that brooked no argument.

Unable to bear the thought of the situation escalating in your absence, you stepped back into the fray, positioning yourself as a physical barrier between Billy and his father. The air was electric with tension, a tangible force that seemed to test the very limits of endurance. Yet, your voice, when it came, was steady. “Billy, you promised to drive me home.”

“I’m sorry, but Billy can’t right now,” his father interjected smoothly, a sneer barely concealed beneath his veneer of civility.

“But I have no other way of getting home, sir,” you countered, meeting his gaze with a defiance born of necessity.

“I’m sure it’s close enough to walk. It’s Hawkins, after all,” he dismissed, his tone laced with condescension.

“See, sir, I live just outside of Hawkins, actually.” Your reply was calm, measured, even as you laid bare the stakes of the situation.

“Is that so?” His skepticism was palpable, a challenge thrown down between you.

“Yes, and Billy assured me he would take me home, otherwise I’ll miss school, sir.” Your words, carefully chosen, were a gambit, one that played on his momentary hesitation.

The standoff that followed was a testament to the complex web of power and defiance that characterized the Hargrove household. Eventually, he took a step back, conceding ground with visible reluctance. “Now, we can’t have that, can we?” His once-over was dismissive, reducing you to nothing more than a problem to be solved, a nuisance to be dispatched.

“We will talk when you get back,” he finally said to Billy, his words heavy with unspoken threats.

“I’ll have to drive straight to school after dropping her off, otherwise I’ll miss first period.” Billy’s response was a careful negotiation, a bid for time and a brief reprieve from the confrontation that awaited him. His father’s glare could have scorched the earth, a silent vow of retribution that hung in the air long after he had left the room. Billy closed the door with a quiet click, sealing off the outside world. He leaned against it, a solitary figure momentarily bowed by the weight of his father’s expectations. The sigh that escaped him was one of relief, a brief respite in the eye of an ever-present storm.

"Are you okay?" Your voice was laced with trepidation, the words barely a whisper in the charged atmosphere of the room. A part of you feared his anger, worried that your intervention might have only served to escalate the already volatile situation. Maybe, in his eyes, you were to blame for exacerbating the tension. He turned to face you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that halted your breath. The silence that followed was thick, a tangible entity that seemed to pulse with your racing heart. When he remained motionless, the void of his response sent a spike of panic through you. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make things worse. I should have stayed quiet—"

But before you could further berate yourself, his lips crashed against yours, an urgent, fierce motion that swept away the remnants of the confrontation like debris in a storm. His arms encircled you, pulling you into the eye of his tempest, while your hands found the solid wall of his chest, a grounding point amid the whirlwind. Billy's grin, felt rather than seen, infused the kiss with a defiance, a silent declaration that no force, no matter how daunting, could intrude upon this moment he claimed as solely yours. His hands shamelessly groped at your hips and behind, tongue dominating yours. You pulled away in desperate need for air, panting and dazed. Billy’s lips fell to your neck, sucking and licking at the saltiness of your skin. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you right now.” Squeezing your ass again, he let go of you and, with one last kiss, went to get dressed.

You found yourself adrift in the center of his room, each breath a testament to the whirlwind of emotions that had carried you from silence to this uncharted territory. How, you pondered, had the distance between you closed so swiftly, transforming into an intimacy that left you both breathless and bewildered?

Moments later, the bathroom door swung open, revealing Billy. His readiness was astonishing, his preparation swift beyond anticipation. With a nonchalant ease, he emerged, the very image of casual confidence. "Come on, Sweetheart, let's the hell outta here," he beckoned, his voice a mix of warmth and urgency. Grasping your hand, he guided you towards the promise of freedom beyond these walls. Yet, as fate would have it, his father's voice shattered the brief illusion of escape, calling out to him once more. Instantly, you felt the change in Billy, a tension coiling within him, visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, a silent plea for respite, an attempt to shield his spirit from the weight of reality. Casting a fleeting, half-hearted glance your way, his fingers slipped from yours, leaving a cold absence in their wake as he turned to face whatever storm awaited him.

Left in limbo near the front door, you strained your ears, hoping to catch a fragment of the exchange, but silence was your only companion. With a soft sigh of resignation, you turned your gaze outward, taking in the Hargrove residence bathed in the soft glow of morning light, nestled among the uniformity of Cherry Lane, Hawkins, Indiana.

The neighborhood was a palette of similarity, each house a variation on a theme, distinguished only by the creativity or neglect of its occupants. Some lawns bore the scars of a relentless summer, patches of grass striving towards life amidst the drought, while others lay untamed, a testament to indifference. The Hargrove's lawn, though touched by the season's harshness, was neatly trimmed, a small rebellion against the decay. The path leading to their home was worn, stones cracked and yielding to time, yet adorned with recent attempts at beauty—flowers and bushes planted with hope at their edges.

It was a scene markedly different from the chaos of the trailer park, where the dance of avoidance was a daily routine—sidestepping the debris of forgotten nights and broken dreams. Here, in the relative tranquility of Billy's world, such hazards were absent, a small mercy in the grand tapestry of his life. When Billy reappeared, his stormy demeanor spoke volumes before a word was uttered. The disheveled state of his collar hinted at a confrontation, a silent testament to his father's harsh grasp. He breezed past you, the air crackling with the tension that followed him, his gaze barely grazing yours. You trailed behind, a frown etching your features, though you kept your thoughts to yourself. Settling into the passenger seat of his Camaro, you fastened the seatbelt, a silent barrier between you and the world outside. The cozy sanctuary that had briefly cocooned you both seemed to dissolve into the ether, leaving a palpable distance. Billy had begun to wall himself off once more, retreating from the fragile bridge of intimacy that had been tentatively constructed between you. His words echoed hollowly in the cramped space of the car.

‘Searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together.’

The Camaro's engine roared to life, its vibrancy a stark contrast to the quiet turmoil unfolding within. Your lips pressed tightly together, trying to hold back the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The sharp pang of regret and what-ifs punctured your heart with relentless precision. Had Billy not halted his advances, you might have found solace in his arms, seduced by the illusion of safety he offered. Alone, you might have scoffed at your own gullibility, labeling it as sheer desperation or foolishness. Yet, it was Billy's words that had resonated so deeply with you, mirroring the silent pleas that had haunted your thoughts for far too long. The desire to escape the solitude that clung to you like a second skin was overpowering. You yearned for something more, something profound to anchor you to this world, beyond the fleeting dream of liberation that the future promised. You sought a connection that bore significance, a beacon to guide you through the shadowed corridors of your existence. With the final stretch of senior year unfurling before you, the promise of college lingered on the horizon, a beacon of hope that signaled a departure from the shadows of your past. It was a chance to shed the oppressive weight of your father's legacy, to carve out a space in the world where his influence couldn't reach. You clung to this future with a desperation that was silent yet palpable, the prospect of freedom a balm to the wounds of your upbringing.

Billy, however, wasn't afforded the luxury of such dreams. The grim reality of his situation was a constant companion, a reminder that not all paths led away from hardship. College, a beacon for some, remained a distant, unattainable star for him. Influenced by the harsh criticisms that had echoed from his father's lips, he had internalized a belief in his own inadequacy. Education, a potential key to unlocking doors to a brighter future, held little allure for someone who had been taught to expect nothing from life. Instead, Billy had embraced a different kind of dream—a painstaking accumulation of savings with the hope of one day returning to California, to start anew on terms of his own making.

Yet, a shadow lurked in the recesses of his mind, a specter of doubt that cast long, dark silhouettes across his aspirations. On some days, it was but a whisper, easily ignored. On others, it roared to life, a cruel reminder that perhaps his dreams were just that—figments of wishful thinking, doomed to remain unfulfilled.

The journey to your trailer park passed in silence, each lost in their own reverie. As Billy's car rolled to a halt, you murmured a terse ‘bye’ and exited, the finality of the gesture marking the end of an era. Retrieving your spare key from its hiding spot beneath an empty vase, you slipped inside, intent on changing clothes and gathering your belongings. You assumed Billy would have driven off by then, his presence a chapter closed as abruptly as it had opened.

However, upon emerging from your room, you found him rooted in place in the heart of your kitchen, his gaze transfixed by something beyond the window. The sight of him, so unexpectedly still and contemplative, caught you off guard. In that moment, the kitchen—a space so familiar and yet suddenly imbued with a new, unspoken significance—became a silent witness to the complexities of connection and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, some dreams refuse to be confined by the shadows that chase them. In the fading light of the afternoon, the question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected, "Doesn't that one drug dealer live around here?" It was an innocuous inquiry, perhaps, but in the context of your shared silence, it felt charged with an undercurrent of concern.

Billy's presence, both imposing and unexpectedly comforting, loomed beside you, a steadfast figure in the shifting sands of your tumultuous life. Your voice, laced with a hint of surprise at its own firmness, broke the stillness. "Why are you still here?" The question was more than just words; it was an expression of the myriad emotions swirling within you, a mix of confusion, desperation, and a fragile glimmer of hope.

He seemed taken aback, as if your tone had shattered an invisible barrier between you. The moment stretched, filled with an unspoken tension that danced in the air, palpable yet elusive. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a warmth, a promise, "I thought I had made myself clear, Sweetheart. I'm not gonna put you up to that shit alone anymore." His words, sincere and unwavering, offered a beacon of solidarity in the chaos that had become your existence.

You found yourself at a crossroads, teetering between skepticism and the yearning to believe in the possibility of an ally. It was a delicate balance, the choice to trust, to lean into the uncertainty rather than retreat into the familiar embrace of solitude. With a quiet resolve, you chose hope over despair. "Let's get out of here," you agreed, stepping into a future uncertain yet suddenly less daunting with Billy by your side.

The journey to Hawkins High was a study in contrasts, the roar of Billy's Camaro slicing through the quiet streets, a herald of change. Anxiety gnawed at you, the prospect of walking into school with Billy Hargrove by your side—a notion so fraught with implications, real and imagined. His presence was a double-edged sword, offering protection yet drawing attention, the weight of countless eyes a tangible pressure against your skin.

Yet, as you emerged from the car, Billy's protective aura enveloped you, his glares warding off the curious and the judgmental alike. He became your shield, a guardian against the world's harsh judgments, his reluctance to leave your side a testament to a burgeoning bond, forged in adversity and softened in moments of shared vulnerability.

The day passed in a blur, the rhythm of school life punctuated by Billy's steadfast companionship, a promise kept. And when the final bell rang, it was his car that awaited, Max in the backseat, a silent acknowledgment of the shifting dynamics of your intertwined lives.

The drive home was a brief interlude, a moment of calm before the next chapter. Billy's insistence on ensuring your safety, his promise to meet at the Hawkins Community Pool, was a new thread in the tapestry of your unfolding story.

…

The pool, a place of childhood traumas and lost innocence, loomed large in your memories. Yet, as you drove towards it, the realization that Billy had carved out a space for himself there, as a lifeguard, offered a glimpse into his own attempts at navigating life's turbulent waters. The parking lot was deserted, save for the familiar silhouette of Billy's Camaro. The unlocked gate stood as an invitation, a threshold to cross into a space that was both familiar and fraught with the echoes of past fears.

Yet, in this moment, it was not the specter of childhood bullies that filled your thoughts but the prospect of standing beside Billy in this quiet, abandoned sanctuary. It was an opportunity to redefine the spaces that had once defined you, to reclaim a piece of yourself in the company of someone who was, against all odds, becoming an integral part of your journey. As you navigated through the dimly lit gates, the air hung heavy with the anticipation of the evening. Your voice, laced with a mix of irritation and playful defiance, cut through the quiet, "Billy?" The words fell into the silence, unanswered, as you moved deeper into the shadowy expanse of the pool area. The setting sun cast a soft, yellowish hue over everything, the lights around the pool flickering to life in a welcoming yet eerie glow.

Again, you called out, a whisper tinged with exasperation. "Billy?" It seemed ridiculous, this cat-and-mouse game, and yet, there was a part of you that couldn't deny the thrill of the chase. Your footsteps echoed against the concrete as you approached the locker rooms, the sound a solitary reminder of your presence in the vast, empty space. With a mix of annoyance and determination, you halted, the frustration evident in your voice as you threatened the unseen presence of Billy Hargrove with playful retribution. “Billy Hargrove, you had better get your butt out here now, or imma kick it when I see it.” No sooner had the words left your lips than you found yourself abruptly pulled backward, a gasp escaping you as you collided with a solid, reassuringly warm chest.

"Damn, Sweetheart," came Billy's hushed voice, a smile evident in its timbre, sending shivers down your spine. "Didn’t know you would be so violent."

The annoyance you felt dissolved into an electrifying tension as you turned within his grasp, your gaze lifting to meet his. The grin adorning his face was infectious, his fingers gently brushing away a stray lock of hair from your forehead with an intimacy that set your heart racing. There he was, inches away, the warmth of his breath caressing your cheek in the cool air of the locker room. The proximity was intoxicating, a mere tilt of your head away from a kiss that seemed both inevitable and yet delicately suspended in the space between you.

You stood there, caught in his gaze, the world outside the locker room melting away. The anticipation was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to draw you closer without moving. It was a dance of moments and possibilities, each second stretching out as you waited for him to bridge the final distance.

In the soft, flickering light, the realization dawned on you how swiftly and completely Billy Hargrove had ensnared you, his presence alone enough to tilt your world off its axis. And there, in the silence that enveloped you both, you wondered if he too felt the gravity of this moment, this turning point that seemed poised to redefine everything. His hand, a warm presence against your skin, retreated, leaving a cool trail of longing in its wake. As he stepped back, the absence of his touch was immediate and stark, a silent protest forming in the back of your mind, yearning for the connection you were on the cusp of deepening. You watched him, a mix of emotions swirling within you. The situation had spiraled into a realm of the ridiculous—a term that barely scratched the surface of this intricate dance you both found yourselves entangled in.

"What are we doing here, Billy? It's still way too cold to go swimming." Your voice carried a hint of bewilderment, laced with a curiosity that refused to be quelled.

His response came with that signature grin, a look that promised mischief and excitement in equal measure. "Who said anything about hopping into the pool, Sweetheart?" The question hung between you, playful and inviting. As he pulled you along, a sense of adventure bubbled within you, despite the confusion that furrowed your brow.

The sauna loomed ahead, a promise of warmth and perhaps something more—an intimacy yet explored. Billy's excitement was palpable, his enthusiasm for the job and its perks infectious. "Since I'm going to be working here, I thought I'd show you what kind of privileges you could have over the summer."

"Privileges I could have?" The concept seemed foreign, amusing even. A sauna, of all things, wasn't exactly on your list of desired amenities. The skepticism must have been clear upon your face as you questioned the appeal, the idea of sweating in a small room hardly enticing.

"You'll see what I'm talking about," he assured you, his confidence unwavering.

As he opened the door to the sauna, a wave of heat greeted you, enveloping your senses in a cocoon of warmth that was surprisingly welcoming. The wood-paneled room, with its benches lining the walls and the gentle hum of heat radiating from the stones, offered a retreat from the world outside. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the chaos of daily life could not penetrate.

Billy's hand found yours once again, his touch grounding as he led you inside. The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you both in this haven of warmth and whispered promises. As you took a seat, the heat began to work its magic, loosening muscles and easing tensions you hadn't even realized you carried.

The air, thick with warmth, seemed to draw you both closer, an unspoken invitation to explore the connection that had been building between you. Here, in the seclusion of the sauna, the rest of the world fell away, leaving only the two of you in a space where time seemed to slow, where every breath and heartbeat felt magnified.

Billy's gaze met yours, a question lingering in the depth of his eyes, a silent query if you were ready to dive into the unknown together. In that moment, the sauna became more than just a room—it became a crucible for whatever was simmering between you, a place where the heat wasn't just physical but emotional, a catalyst for desires and confessions yet unspoken.

The air vibrated with anticipation, each moment stretching, filled with the promise of revelations and a closeness that went beyond the physical. In the dim light and enveloping warmth of the sauna, you realized that this wasn't just about the privileges of summer or the novelty of a new experience. It was about discovering each other, about unraveling the layers of connection that had drawn you together.

Pent-up was merely one of many ways to describe what you were feeling, with his fingers dancing beneath your shirt and withdrawing as quickly as they had come—a teasing grin on his face, making you aware that Billy knew exactly of the effect he had on you. “You’re such an asshole, you know?” You hissed, frown deepening as he pulled his shirt over his head and put it down on the bench, using it to sit on.

He chuckled lowly, hands threading through his wild locks, tongue running over the sharp edges of his teeth. “’C’mere,” he simply stated, fingers moving in a lazy motion to accompany his words. You hesitated for a second, lips catching between your teeth as you moved forward and into his grasp. “You gotta be so hot, Sweetheart,” he started, fingers already working at removing your top. “Let’s take this off, hm?”

Words vanishing from your lips, just as quick as your common sense, you nodded, letting him pull the shirt over your head. You didn’t know where it ended up, didn’t—couldn’t—care when his hands started unbuttoning your pants with swift movements. The loose article of clothing fell from your form and Billy’s hands instantly went forward, grasping your thighs and pulling you closer. He groaned greedily, fingers digging deeper into your flesh as he nosed along your stomach and the line of your panties. There was an incessant fluttering in your stomach as his tongue slowly slid from your naval lower.

 “Billy,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shot, as his teeth pulled on the fabric of your panties, your hands falling to his broad shoulders.

“Yeah, Sweetheart?” He mused, fingers sliding to the sides of your panties, before hooking his thumbs in the cotton. Flashing a grin up to your dizzy frame, he started pulling the fabric down your legs. “S’there something you wanna ask me, baby?” You shook your head in answer, swallowing heavily as you felt the cotton drop at your feet. “Had me so hard the whole day,” he groaned, pressing a sudden kiss to your core and you went rigid in anticipation. Heat gathered low in your stomach, down to your unsatisfied center.

“Kept thinking ‘bout pulling you into the locker room and fucking you stupid.” At the moan that tumbled from your throat, a dark chuckle fell from his lips. “Yeah, you’d have liked that, Sweetheart, ain’t that right?”

You whispered again, “Billy,” you tone edged with want.

“Hm?” He hummed, raising a casual brow at you as though his fingers weren’t trailing along the seams of your core. Even if he seemed utterly unaffected by the moment, you noticed the slight shift in his hips, as he adjusted himself. You forced yourself to swallow, eyes straying to the hardening bulge in his tight jeans. So terribly affected by only the thought of him, another rush of heat slithered to the pit of your stomach and lower. “C’mere here,” Billy said again, leading you onto his thigh with a quiet wickedness that set your chest aflame. He chuckled at your hesitance as you slowly settled on his thigh, the pressure against your core immediately pulling a whimper from you. His rough hand slid back to your hips, gripping tightly as the other one found your neck and brought your lips to his.

Sweat was leisurely building at the nape of your neck, a result of not only the sauna’s heat but Billy’s unhinged action, as he started to move you on his thigh. You nestled your head into the crook of his neck with a low moan, desire overshadowing your humiliation as you started to follow the pressure of his hand. Your head was starting to float with pleasure when Billy lifted his leg a little, the rough material of his jeans hitting your small bundle of nerves. A whimper slipped from your lips and onto Billy’s glistening skin. His thigh beneath your core felt so thick and sturdy, as he was whispering words so terribly vile they shook your being. One of his palms snapped harshly against the bared skin of your ass, the slap echoing in the small confinement of the sauna.

“Look at you,” Billy cooed, moving you back on his thigh before he jerked you back forward, your chest flush again his as he held you still. “Making such a mess for me, Sweetheart.” With a particularly hard grin of your hips, you felt his bulge pressing into the side of your thigh, straining beneath the blue fabric of his jeans. You whimpered at the feeling, the graze pushing a low groan from Billy’s reddened lips. Trying to move again against his thigh, his arm gripped you closer against him, a broad grin flashing at the needy whine that came from you in response. “Tell me what you need, Sweetheart,” he hushed in such a sinister tone, the devil couldn’t have said it any sweeter.

“You,” you said with no second of hesitation. It wasn’t just an admission of the desire lingering in your core, but a promise of not wanting to fight the world alone anymore. You had done it long enough, both of you.

[soulofapatrick]

I Choose You - Aaron Hotchner x female reader

Summary: What if Foyet makes Hotch choose between you and Haley during Season 5 Episode 9

Words: 1.5K

Warnings: angst; injury; kidnapping; near-death

Notes: Would you like a hospital part two?

Y/N’s POV

Foyet's voice, dripping with malice, reverberates through the room, sending icy tendrils of fear snaking down my spine. I can feel the weight of his words pressing down on us like a suffocating blanket, a cruel reminder of the nightmare we're trapped in. "You have to choose, Aaron," Foyet's words hang heavy in the air, each syllable laced with malice. "Choose who lives and who dies."

My heart lurches in my chest as I steal a glance at Haley beside me. Her once composed demeanour now shattered, tears glisten in her eyes like unshed diamonds, silent witnesses to the terror that grips us all. But beneath the fear, there's a silent plea, a desperate prayer for mercy that hangs unspoken in the air. 

I reach out to Haley, my hand trembling with the weight of unspoken words, but she refuses to meet my gaze. Her eyes remain fixed on Hotch, her ex-husband, her silent cries echoing in the deafening silence of the room. I can feel the weight of her accusation, the unspoken blame that hangs heavy between us like a shadow. I want to comfort her, to offer her some shred of solace in this sea of darkness, but my words catch in my throat, suffocated by the overwhelming sense of helplessness that threatens to consume us all.

Hotch's new partner, that's what I am. A constant reminder of the life he left behind, the choices he made. And now, in this moment of unspeakable terror, those choices loom large, casting a long shadow over our fractured lives. The pain and terror on her face makes me act before I can think about it, jumping to my feet and punching Foyet as hard as I can, hearing a cracking that I’m not sure is me or him. He stumbles back and Haley is crying out in fear. 

The gunshot that follows is deafening, the sound echoing through the room like a thunderclap. My head cracks against the floor, Haley screams and I can hear a muffled sound come through the phone before pain explodes in my shoulder, a searing agony that steals the air from my lungs. Everything around me blurs as waves of nausea wash over me, threatening to pull me under. I bite down hard on my lip to stile a cry, refusing to give Foyet the satisfaction of hearing me scream. 

Through the haze of pain, I can hear the sharp intake of breaths from the phone, the panicked shouts echoing in my head. But, amidst the chaos, amidst the pain, one thought pierces through the fog in my mind - Jack. I have to protect Jack at all costs. He’s upstairs, vulnerable and unaware of the danger lurking downstairs. 

With every ounce of determination I can muster, I push myself to my feet, the room spinning around me like a dervish of shadows and pain. Each step is a battle against the agony that courses through my wounded shoulder, threatening to pull me under with its relentless grip. But I refuse to yield. Jack needs me. 

Stumbling and swaying like a ship caught in a tempest, I make my way towards the stairs, each movement a Herculean effort against the overwhelming tide of pain. The world distorts and blurs around me, the edges of my vision swimming in a sea of darkness and light. But I press on, driven by a single, unyielding purpose - to protect Jack at all costs. He's my beacon in the storm, my reason to endure, and I will not falter in my duty to keep him safe.

The stairs loom before me like a mountain to be conquered, each step a monumental struggle against the forces that seek to drag me down. And then, in a cruel twist of fate, my strength fails me, and I stumble, my body crashing against the unforgiving carpet below. Pain explodes in a symphony of agony, a chorus of screams that reverberates through the empty halls of my mind. Blood pools beneath me, staining the carpet crimson with its silent accusation. 

But amidst the chaos, amidst the pain, there is a beacon of hope - Jack. With trembling hands, I crawl towards the wardrobe, my heart pounding in my chest at the sight of his small form nestled within its confines.

Relief washes over me like a tidal wave as I gather him into my arms, his warmth a balm against the cold embrace of fear that threatens to consume us both. In that moment, holding him close, everything feels right, as if the world has finally found its balance once more. But the illusion is shattered all too soon, replaced by the harsh reality of our situation. I look into Jack's eyes, so innocent and trusting, and feel a pang of guilt twist in the depths of my soul. 

I have to ask him to do the unthinkable, to press his small jumper against the bleeding wound on my shoulder, to stay as quiet as possible and pray that help arrives before it's too late. With trembling hands, I reach out to Jack, my fingers trembling as I gently clamp my hand over his small mouth, a silent plea for his silence in the face of danger. Another gunshot reverberates through the house, its echo a chilling reminder of the horrors that lurk below. My heart sinks as Jack has just lost a parent and he doesn’t even know it. 

“Don’t make a sound.” I whisper, my voice slurred with pain and exhaustion, the words a desperate prayer in the darkness that threatens to consume us both. 

Jack's eyes are wide with fear, but there's a determination there too, a flicker of strength that belies his tender years. Despite the terror that grips him, he nods, his small hand instinctively pressing the jumper harder against my bleeding wound, as if trying to stem the tide of blood that threatens to spill forth.

As I begin to fade in and out of consciousness, the world around me blurs into a hazy labyrinth of pain and uncertainty. My hand slips from Jack's mouth, the warmth of his breath fading into the chill of the night as I teeter on the edge of oblivion. The darkness threatens to swallow me whole, its tendrils reaching out with icy fingers to drag me into the abyss.

I reagin consciousness momentarily, hearing Jack’s voice, small yet resolute as it pierces through the darkness like a beacon of hope, calling out for his dad and the members of the team he can remember the names of, a desperate plea. 

And then, blessed oblivion claims me again, pulling me into its embrace with gentle hands and whispered promises of respite. 

As consciousness gradually returns, it feels like emerging from the depths of a murky sea, the world slowly coming into focus around me. Sirens wail in a cacophony of urgency, their shrill cries cutting through the air like a clarion call to salvation. They rhythmic hum of the ambulance’s wheels against the road lulls me into a strange sense of calm, a respite from the chaos that has consumed me. 

The pain in my shoulder, once a searing inferno threatening to consume me whole, now simmers beneath the surface like embers in the night, dulled by the merciful touch of oblivion. 

And then, as if guided by some unseen hand, my gaze falls upon the one constant in this tumultuous storm - the hand clasped in mine. It's warm and steady, a silent reassurance amidst the chaos that surrounds us. Following the line of the hand with bleary eyes, I find myself locking gazes with Hotch, his presence a beacon of strength in the darkness that threatens to consume us. His eyes, filled with worry and relief, speak volumes without uttering a single word, a silent testament to the bond that binds us together.

“I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.” He soothes despite being covered in blood himself. His other hand is shooting my hair off my face and I wanna snuggle into it but he’s covered in blood. 

“Haley?” I ask, remembering the second gunshot and Hotch’s face flickers for a second before he squeezes my hand, bringing it up to his lips and kisses the back of it gently. It’s all I need to know that the muffled sound I heard through the phone after the gunshot was Hotch choosing. 

A choked sob leaving my throat and Hotch presses a chaste kiss to my forehead, mumbling softly, “Rest, the others will meet us at the hospital.” 

“Hotch.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

“You chose me...” 

“I chose you.” 

Criminal Minds Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

@guacam011y

[mnnuni]

Not just sex

Jay Halstead x Reader

Summary: Jay and reader live the evolution of their relationship Warnings: smut Words: 2491 Author's note: I actually don't know if i like the ending and I think there may be some typos, sorry

"I swear to you, the chief's face at that" (Y/N) was practically crying while she told the story "Otis was covered in flour from head to toe, we never understood how it happen"

"Because he's an idiot sweetheart" Hermann said while passing her table and handing her the beer she ordered; she pointed at him "very true, but still"

Jay loved seeing her laughing so much.

"wait wait wait" Adam was chuckling too, "if it was just flour, why did you hear a- how did you said it?"

"a BOOM" she moved her hands to simulate an explosion. She knew he was only asking her to make fun of her, but she laughed at that too.

They were all hanging out at Molly's, as per usual; everyone talking with everyone, about everything, bit (Y/N) could only think of how amazingly blue were Jay's eyes in front of her;

At some point during the evening, (Y/N) send Capp to the smiling blondie across the bar -Lord knew he needed to get laid and that woman was willing on doing it-

Just half an hour later Adam and Kim disappeared too, and they left (Y/N) and Jay alone. The tension was palpable.

They didn't last long like that, swirling their beers through their fingers, looking at each other... (Y/N) hoped noone could notice the true intentions under their eyes, Jay thought they were so obvious with their glances that everyone knew about them and were only waiting for them to confirm anything. Either way, when they got to that point of the night, neither could care less of anything other than each other.

(Y/N) got up to announce she was going to head home but Jay caught her arm, he brought her near him pretending to hug her goodbye to whisper "I'll take you home" and lightly bite her ear; he did it so naturally that noone noticed, but the goosebumps (Y/N) got from just that...

She tried to contain herself, to walk normally through the bar and act like she wasn't going to scream Jay's name in a few minutes but Jay took her hand the moment they stepped out of the bar.

It was so natural.

Too natural. (Y/N) left it and began to walk to the cars, Jay scoffed but was smiling at her.

When they got in Jay's car the air shifted in an awkwardness that didn't belong to them; (Y/N) had a feeling Jay wanted to kiss her and couldn't comprehend why he wasn't doing it. Jay really really wanted to kiss her, but maybe rushing things wasn't a good idea: he didn't want "just sex" with her, and she had to understand it.

Jay leaned over and turned the radio on, "oh my God I love this song" (Y/N) beamed and started to sing. She was so fucking beautiful like this: comfortable and happy in Jay's presence. He loved it. At the chorus of the second song, Jay finally put his hand on her thigh. He could practically feel the internal battle that (Y/N) was fighting between giving in or pretend his touch didn't affect her so much. Jay loved this too.

"I have to say, I really want to stay the night tonight"

It was a simple sentence, but from the way he put it (Y/N) knew it was more than that. He didn't say "I want sex and you're the only one who wants it with me" -which (Y/N) swore multiple times that wasn't true and that there was a very long line of women anywhere he was- no, he wanted to let her know that she made him hard with just a look and he couldn't even think to rest his hands from her but was more than happy to just sleep in the same bed if that's what she wanted.

Don't get her wrong, (Y/N) wanted to jump his bones off, but tease him like this was so fun... So she pretended he didn't say anything and kept signing until they got to her apartment.

She kept her act going smiling at him and kissing his cheek as a thank you for getting her home, she got out of the car and started walking to her flat.

It got him the time that (Y/N) arrived to her door to show up, while she was searching for the keys she felt his hands on her waist. "Took you long enough" she looked up at him and finally looked him in the eyes again. Jay didn't let her say anything else, slamming his lips to hers and devouring her on her porch. When she felt his tongue pushing at her lips she couldn't control herself anymore and opened her mouth to let him do whatever he liked. In their little bubble of hands and mouths they forgot where they were and only returned to reality when (Y/N)'s keys fell from her hands and made a noise. The pair got away from eachother, Jay got the keys and opened the door but it was (Y/N) that pushed him inside and blocked him at the door to kiss him again.

Jay pushed her away with his hands on her waist, (Y/N) was ready to have sex on her couch but he had other plans. He lifted her shirt and turned her around, flashing her back to his chest and while he kissed her neck gently and unbuttoned her jeans he guided her to her bedroom.

When (Y/N) turned to look at him, Jay was shirtless too and was pushing her to the bed to make her sit.

He was so handsome.

He left her in her underwear and was gently pushing her legs apart now, he got on his knees and started kissing and biting her thighs. (Y/N)'s breath stopped in her throat when Jay got to her panties, grabbed them with his teeth and proceeded to take them away with his mouth.

He had a wonderful mouth.

"So wet for me". He knew it was only for him, but liked the reminder. (Y/N) settled on her elbows to look at him better but when he finally licked a stripe she closed her eyes and put a hand in his hair. Jay kept licking her up and down until he heard a whimper and knew it was the moment to start sucking on her clit and massaging her lips with his fingers;

"Jay" she breathed out, he was looking at her through his lashes and she clenched at his look. He entered her with both fingers and (Y/N) moaned again; Jay was fucking smirking on her her pussy. When she tightened her grasp on his hair Jay became a hungry man and devoured her all, "please don't stop".

Oh he would never...

(Y/N) was a mess of moans and screams and Jay wanted so desperately to cume with her, but she was the priority now.

"I-I'm" she couldn't resist anymore, "I know baby" a suck "let it all go" a pump of his fingers "cum for me baby" a last lick. And then it all went away because (Y/N) was a panting wreck and Jay was eating her orgasm out until she calmed down.

When she slumped on her back on the mattress Jay slowed down and started to clean her, slowly, gently and kissing every part of her now red pussy.

After he was done he got up, took off his jeans and boxer and lay down with her. He didn't expect to do anything else, he just wanted to be near her and feel her. (Y/N) turned to him and smiled, she got closer and whispered a content "hi", Jay chuckled at her "hi baby".

Looking at him in all his naked glory, after an orgasm, made her want more, (Y/N) bit her lip and got even closer "I want you". Jay thought she was even hotter when she spoke her desire out loud, but he also knew that her pussy's lips were swollen "you sure?", she travelled her hand from his chest to his dick. (Y/N) squeezed his tip making him hiss, "positive".

Jay smiled and turned to her nightstand to pick a condom while (Y/N) kissed his back and caressed his shoulders. When he got back he already opened the package but she stopped him, "what- something wrong?" she shook her head "I want to do it". She already got the envelope in her hands and Jay's eyebrows never shot up so fast, "if-if you're okay with it", Jay seemed to come back to earth "I-I-I- of course!" she smiled "you're so fucking hot" he confessed kissing her again. While they kissed (Y/N) picked the condom and slowly unraveled it on Jay, he moaned in her mouth and swore he never experienced something hotter.

They lay back on the bed and Jay started to grind on her, "don't tease" she hissed and he smiled.

He loved to tease her.

Jay entered at a slow pace, he wanted to feel every inch of her stretch to his dick. (Y/N) wanted to scream from the first instant he started to move, but she put her hand on her mouth to muffle her noises. Jay didn't agree. He put her hands on top of her head and purred in her ears at the sign "I want to hear you while I fuck you". She would definitely moan now.

Jay on top was so good: he kissed her neck and mumbled dirty things in her ears. And he had so much control of his thrusts, he could almost hit her g spot.

But (Y/N) wanted to be in charge too. It was her on top now and she loved how one of Jay's hands was on her hip and the other on her breast, flicking and squeezing her nipple from time to time. When she was on top they both were a mess of moans and grunts because she was able to grind her clit too and Jay loved the sight of her tits so near his face when she jumped up and down. This time (Y/N) swore Jay didn't moan, he said "I love you". She stopped for a second.

Nahh it couldn't be.

"Jay I-" her movements were becoming sloppy, Jay put both his hands on her hips to steady her "I know baby, I know". She couldn't keep it anymore, so Jay pushed her back on the bed and started to thrusts into her so hard they were both screaming. When Jay came he didn't stop until (Y/N) closed her eyes and finally let go.

After some moments he gently pulled out of her and let her breathe. He threw away the condom and got his boxers again; (Y/N) was happily watching him go around in her room to find her "sleeping t-shirt" from the bed. He sat on the bed again and put it on her, kissing every part of her during the process.

"You okay?"

He always asked her after. She always said "more than okay" and then she stretched her arms to him to make him hug her and sleep with her. He didn't need the grabby hands, he would have done it anyway, but Jay loved seeing her so cozy around him.

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

Jay Halstead slept so well that night and had a wonderful breakfast with (Y/N) the following morning that he didn't realise what he did up until he heard Adam whisper "I love you" to Kim before she left for a few hours the precinct.

"Oh shit"

Yeah he screwed up big time.

"What?", Adam was already laughing at his face, Antonio was rather concerned instead "what'd you do Halstead?" "I told (Y/N) I love her". He didn't realise what he'd done now either, he was too in shock. Nobody knew about them and he just confessed his love to everyone.

"You did what?" , Antonio's concern shifted to confusion; that seemed to shake Jay to reality "Um-", then they started with the questions "(Y/N) as in (Y/N) (Y/L/N)? The firefighter?" "How long have you two been seeing eachother?" "I knew there was something when-"

"Halstead"

He never thanked God enough for the call from Voight, "Sarge?" "I need you at the 51, Boden already knows what I need, go talk to him", yeah and that's why he didn't thank him.

Adam burst out laughing at Jay's petrified face, "is there a problem, Halstead?" "No Sarge".

He got up and started going like he was doing the walk of shame.

Now Antonio's expression was one of pure amusement.

When he finally arrived at the firestatione, everyone was there. Perfect, he thought, he was gonna embarass himself in front of a platoon of firefighters whithout them even understanding why. He tried to act as cool as possible, asking Severide to see their chief and everything was going smoothly. That was untill he passed Boden's door and saw (Y/N) sat on the couch in the chief's office.

"Ah Detective, I know why you're here", Boden started the search for some documents and Jay could only look at (Y/N); she nodded and saluted him with a short "detective" and a smirk.

Jay wanted to be swallowed by the abyss of the Earth.

Boden handed him two folders and thanked him for the help his unit was giving him to... something- he didn't really listen to anything other than his thoughts.

"Can I talk to you?" he asled (Y/N) when he was sure Boden had finished. She was rather confused but agreed nonetheless; (Y/N) led him to the lockers to be sure of have some privacy. She sat on a bench and he sat next to her, (Y/N) couldn't understand why Jay wasn't looking her in the eyes...

She took his hand to shake him from the visible spiral he was getting himself into and made him look at her.

Three seconds had passed, only three seconds and Jay exploded just because he finally looked at her "I love you"

(Y/N) felt the world stopping, the floor under her feet collapsing and the sky opening.

HE WHAT?

"I'm sorry, I imagined saying it in other circumstances but just before coming down here I realized I actually told you yesterday- which is even more terrible, I am so sorry, telling such a thing while you're on top of me is so... but it slipped and now that i saw you I couldn't wait anymore because I-I feel like I ruined everything"

(Y/N) couldn't decide if she was going to cry or laugh at his face.

"You love me?"

Jay wanted to crawl on the floor and never see the light again, but then he saw her tearing eyes and little smile of amusement and breathed a sigh of relief; "yes, (Y/N). I love you so much"

Yeah now she was crying for real.

She jumped at his neck and kissed him with an emotion he though he never felt.

"I love you Jay Halsted".

[mxtxfanatic]

Wei Wuxian at His Best: Arrogant

The cultivation world liked to slander Wei Wuxian about his "arrogance," but is it really arrogance if one knows perfectly well of their own capabilities? Wei Wuxian, for one, can follow through on all his promises. Here are some of my favorite moments where Wei Wuxian is deservedly arrogant:

Wei Wuxian stepped inside the hall, and, one on the left and one on the right, lifted Lady Mo and Mo Ziyuan’s dead bodies. In a low voice, he urgently said, “Why aren’t you awake yet?” As soon as the words left his mouth, their souls returned. An instant later, Lady Mo and Mo Ziyuan’s eyes rolled into the back of their heads, their irises replaced with a blank white gaze. The characteristic piercing shrieks of newly revived vicious ghosts tore from their mouths. In the middle of the screeching, one high and one low, another corpse, trembling with fear, also crawled its way up, and in a voice which was as quiet as it could be, joined the chorus with a soft, soft cry. This was Lady Mo’s husband. The cries were loud enough. The resentment great enough. Wei Wuxian was extremely satisfied, and smiling lightly, said, “Do you recognize the hand outside?” Then he commanded, “Tear it apart.” The three Mo’s were like three black winds; they flew out in the blink of an eye.

—Chapt. 5: Feral IV, fanyiyi

Wei Wuxian stood in front of them, lowered his head slightly, and greeted them politely. The paper effigies returned his politeness and then some by bowing. Wei Wuxian pointed outside. “Bring the living person inside. Eliminate everything else.” ... In only a short period, the twin girls chopped the fifteen or sixteen walking corpses into so many pieces they were impossible to reassemble. The dead body parts tumbled all over the ground! Having secured an overwhelming victory, the paper maids followed their orders and carried inside the weakened man who had been running from the walking corpses.

—Chapt. 36: Flora IV, fanyiyi

Only vicious corpses could fight such a ferocious battle. If two living people fought the same way, they would have long lost an arm and a leg, or cracked their skulls open and splattered their brains everywhere! “Guess who’ll win?” Xue Yang asked. “Is there a need to? Wen Ning, of course,” Wei Wuxian said.

—Chapt. 37: Flora V, fanyiyi

Before he could finish speaking, Wei WuXian had quickly tied the ribbon over his eyes to cover his sight. He positioned his arrow, drew his bow, and released—it hit! The series of actions was both smooth and fast. The others didn’t even realize what he wanted to do. They couldn’t even see his movements clearly before the center of the target had been pierced through. After a moment of silence, overwhelming cheers rang throughout the watching towers, with even greater intensity than those for Jin ZiXuan. The corners of Wei WuXian’s lips curved slightly. Spinning the bow within his hands, he tossed it back.

—Chapt. 69: Departure, exr

[wintersoldiersoul]

Hold Me

TW: Depression, weight loss, mention of suicidal thoughts

You heard the chatter from the living room when you stepped off the elevator at the tower. A chorus of laughter could be heard, laughter that typically you’d be itching to join in with. But recently, you couldn’t. You just needed to go to your room and curl up in bed. 

The depression hit you out of nowhere. One bad day turned into two which turned into weeks where you couldn’t stop your thoughts from spiraling to dark places. Places that terrified you. It was hard being an Avenger and a college student and battling depression definitely didn’t make it any easier. You didn’t wanna do anything. You didn’t wanna exist anymore. 

You passed by Thor, Steve, Tony, and Bucky all seated with beers in hand. “Hey, baby,” Bucky greeted you cheerfully. “Come join us!”

You gave them all a small smile. “I’m pretty tired,” you answered. “I think I’m gonna go lie down for a bit.” You didn’t want anyone, especially Bucky, to know how dark it was in your head. You were always the “nice” one. The “helpful” one. But it was so exhausting especially when every day you were battling the heaviness inside of your chest. You never got to snap. You always had to just be nice.

“Alright, sweetheart,” your boyfriend said with a smile. 

No, you thought. Come with me. Come hold me. It was like you had two different people in your brain. One terrified of Bucky finding out how miserable you were and one wanting to spill it all to him. For him to hold you and make the pain go away. But somehow that first voice always ended up being a little stronger.

You trudged to the oasis of your bedroom, quickly throwing off the clothes you had on in favor of pajamas. As far as you were concerned, you weren’t getting out of bed for the rest of the day. You never really felt hungry anymore, so you didn’t worry about skipping dinner.

You thought Bucky didn’t notice. You thought he was oblivious to the way your smile never reached your eyes anymore, or the weight you had lost. You thought he didn’t hear when you cried softly at night. But he did. He noticed it all.

“I’m worried about her,” he sighed out in the living room. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asked. “She seems fine to me. You heard her, she’s just tired.” 

Bucky shook his head and took a sip of his beer. “It’s more than that. She-she doesn’t smile anymore. Not real smiles. She’s losing weight and she hardly eats anything. I’ve been waiting for her to come to me, I mean I never wanna push her but I don’t know how much longer I can just ignore it.”

“You should talk to her about it. Maybe you’re just overthinking and nothing’s wrong,” Tony suggested.

“No,” Bucky rubbed his face. “I know my girl. This isn’t her.”

Back in the bedroom, silent tears fell from your eyes. You didn’t even know what you were crying about. It was just a part of your daily routine at this point. You cried because you were frustrated that you felt this way. Because you just wanted it to stop.

The door creaked open, shining a streak of light into the dark room. You quickly turned your head and pretended to be asleep, hoping that Bucky wouldn’t catch on. But you were too late to hide it from your boyfriend and his supersoldier senses.

He sat down on the bed next to you and began to rub your back. “Y/N,” he whispered calmly. Seeing you cry broke his heart in pieces. He couldn’t just stand back anymore and watch you in so much pain. “Baby, you gotta talk to me. What’s going on with you, love?”

You didn’t speak at first. You just began to cry harder into the pillow at his words. The way he touched you like you were so fragile, the gentle tone of his voice, it was all too much. You didn’t deserve his sympathy.

“Oh angel…” he whispered, hearing your cries get more intense. “Let it out. It’s okay.” He continued rubbing your back as you cried for a little longer. “Can you sit up for me?” He asked, once you had calmed down. You did as he asked, positioning yourself upright and looking at him. Your eyes were red and puffy and the sight of you broke Bucky’s heart. “What’s going on, honey?” 

“I…” you tried to tell him, but you couldn’t find the words. You didn’t even have a reason to be depressed. Nothing happened that had triggered it. Who were you to complain when Bucky had been through so much? “I’m okay. Just a long day. I’m really tired.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, taking your hand. “You think I haven’t noticed you’ve been off? Baby, all you do whenever you get home from class is lie in bed. You don’t care about grades like you used to. You don’t eat anything and you’ve lost so much weight. I’m really scared.” His eyes held the kind of sincerity you could only imagine. No one had ever looked at you with so much love and care. 

“I can’t explain it,” you whispered so quietly that it was barely audible.

“Can’t explain what?” “I don’t know why I feel this way,” you continued, a few more tears spilling out. “I just feel like everything is hopeless. It’s like I have a bag of rocks sitting on my chest all the time and it hurts so much. And I don’t know why! Nothing changed. Nothing happened. One day it just came and it never left.”

Bucky inched a little closer to you. “Are you feeling depressed, honey?”

You looked down at your hands and nodded slowly. “Yeah,” you breathed. “I think I’m really depressed, Buck. And I feel so stupid because I don’t know why! I’m supposed to be the happy one who’s there for everyone. I wanna be there for you! You have actual shit that you’ve been through. What’s my excuse?”

He pulled you tightly into a hug. He had suspected that you were battling depression but hearing you say it outloud terrified him. “Oh baby…” he whispered, stroking your hair. “You know depression doesn’t always have a reason. You don’t have to experience something big or traumatic to feel depressed. Sometimes it just happens. It’s just the chemicals in your brain. And that doesn’t make your experience any less valid or important. The fact that I’ve been through something doesn’t mean that you have to be my glue. It doesn't mean that you can’t fall apart too.” 

His words made you begin sobbing again. How was it possible that he still wanted you when he knew the truth now? He was seeing how much of a mess you were yet he was still here comforting you. “I feel like everything is so out of control,” you cried. “I wanna do my homework but I just can’t find the energy to get out of bed. I don’t have the energy to even care anymore. I just want it all to be over.” Your last sentence made Bucky’s veins go ice cold. “Y/N, I need you to tell me the truth right now, okay? A-are you thinking about hurting yourself? Do you wanna die?” He spoke, voice shaking.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t really think I wanna die but… I just don’t really wanna live. I know that makes no sense.”

“I understand. It’s like you’re not thinking about killing yourself but right now it’s hard to be alive and fight. Is that why you just come home and sleep all day?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s easier to just sleep the pain away. Being conscious in my head has been really tiring. And I’m afraid that if this continues that I might want to hurt myself. I don’t right now but what if it gets to that point?” You looked up at him with big eyes.

Bucky squeezed you tighter like he was terrified you would disappear from his arms. “I’m not gonna let you get there. Never, okay? You’re gonna get help. And you’re gonna feel so much better. Baby you have so much life left to live and enjoy. You and me, we have a whole life together to live. So you can’t let yourself fall into this hole, okay? It’s gonna be hard but I’m gonna help you through it.”

“Y-yeah. Okay,” You sniffled. “You can go back out with the guys. I didn’t mean to ruin your time.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Oh shh. You know I was only with them to distract myself from missing you til you got here,” he laughed. “You’re my favorite person on the entire planet, baby. And I’m really happy you opened up to me because I’ve been worried sick these past few weeks. It’s like I’ve been watching you turn into a ghost of yourself.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I thought you didn’t notice. I thought I was hiding it well.”

He looked into your eyes and touched your cheek. “I notice every single thing about you. I know when your smiles are real or fake, okay? I know when you don’t actually eat anything and you just shove food around your plate to make it look like you are.” he paused. “Speaking of, I’m really worried about that, too. Is that part of the depression?” 

You nodded. “I just never really feel hungry anymore.”

“We’re gonna work on that too. Okay honey girl?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now can I make you something small to eat, just to start? I’m so scared for you, baby.” His eyes were full of genuine fear at the size you were.

“Something small and simple, okay? I-I’ll try to eat it.” 

“That’s my girl.” Bucky left the room, returning a few minutes later with a bowl of fruit in his hand. “Here, just try to eat even a little bit, okay? Then I tell you what. I’m gonna run you a nice bath and light your favorite candles. Then we can spend the rest of the night cuddled up together watching a movie. Tomorrow we’ll start to put in the hard work but for tonight just let me comfort my girl.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his words. “That sounds perfect.” 

So that’s what you did. He ran a bath and lit cinnamon scented candles and you both sat in there for a while enjoying the relaxation of each other’s presence. You spent the rest of the night marathoning halloween movies before falling asleep in his arms. The hard work was about to begin. It was gonna suck, you knew that. But maybe there really was a light to look forward to.

[suzannahnatters]

Let Your Knights Weep

One of the big things I've had to train myself out of when writing medieval historical fiction?

The stiff upper lip.

This used to really bewilder my editor, who for some time attempted to nudge me away from having my grown men weep and wail and blubber, but for me it's an essential part of the setting. Whether in grief or fear, medieval people did not hold things back.

Here are some of my favourite quotes to explain.

First, a couple from two great 20th century medievalists:

CS Lewis in his Letters put it this way:

“By the way, don't 'weep inwardly' and get a sore throat. If you must weep, weep: a good honest howl! I suspect we - and especially, my sex - don't cry enough now-a-days. Aeneas and Hector and Beowulf, Roland and Lancelot blubbered like schoolgirls, so why shouldn't we?”

Dorothy Sayers, in her fabulous Introduction to her translation of THE SONG OF ROLAND, speaking of Charlemagne discovering Roland's body on the battlefield:

Here too, I think we must not reckon it weakness in him that he is overcome by grief for Roland’s death, that he faints upon the body and has to be raised up by the barons and supported by them while he utters his lament. There are fashions in sensibility as in everything else. The idea that a strong man should react to great personal and national calamities by a slight compression of the lips and by silently throwing his cigarette into the fireplace is of very recent origin. By the standards of feudal epic, Charlemagne’s behaviour is perfectly correct. Fainting, weeping, and lamenting is what the situation calls for. The assembled knights and barons all decorously follow his example. They punctuate his lament with appropriate responses:

By hundred thousand the French for sorrow sigh; There’s none of them but utters grievous cries.

At the end of the next laisse:

He tears his beard that is so white of hue, Tears from his head his white hair by the roots; And of the French an hundred thousand swoon.

We may take this response as being ritual and poetic; grief, like everything else in the Epic, is displayed on the heroic scale. Though men of the eleventh century did, in fact, display their emotions much more openly than we do, there is no reason to suppose that they made a practice of fainting away in chorus. But the gesture had their approval; that was how they liked to think of people behaving. In every age, art holds up to us the standard pattern of exemplary conduct, and real life does its best to conform. From Charlemagne’s weeping and fainting we can draw no conclusions about his character except that the poet has represented him as a perfect model of the “man of feeling” in the taste of the period.

OK, now let's dig into some quotes that I found just in Christopher Tyerman's Chronicles of the First Crusade and Joinville's Life of St Louis:

Truly you would have grieved and sobbed in pity when the Turks killed any of our men....

As for the knights, they stood about in a great state of gloom, wringing their hands because they were so frightened and miserable, not knowing what to do with themselves and their armour, and offering to sell their shields, valuable breastplates and helmets for threepence or fivepence or any price they could get....

When Guy, who was a very honourable knight, had heard these lies, he and all the others began to weep and to make loud lamentation....

They stayed in the houses cowering, some some for hunger and some for fear of the Turks....

Now at vigils, the time of trust in God’s compassion, many gave up hope and hurriedly lowered themselves with ropes from the wall-tops; and in the city soldiers, returning from the encounter, circulated widely a rumour that mass decapitation of the defenders was in store. To add weight to the terror, they too fled…

In the course of that day’s battle there had been many people, and of fine appearance too, who had come very shamefully flying over the little bridge you know of and had fled away so panic-stricken that all our attempts to make them stay with us had been in vain. I could tell you some of their names, but shall refrain from doing so, because they are now dead.

I could go on looking for quotes in all the other medieval literature I've read, but that would be beyond the scope of this Tumblr post.

In the meantime, this leads me to make some comments on how trauma was perceived.

In Jonathan Riley-Smith's The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading, the author discusses the mental breakdowns suffered by the first crusaders during the second siege of Antioch, which caused many of them to flee at the moment of direst need:

In these stressful circumstances it is not surprising that the crusaders were often very frightened. At times, indeed, they seem to have been almost paralysed by a terror that they themselves could hardly comprehend. … When the crusade was bottled up in Antioch by Kerbogha's relief force it was gripped by such blind panic that there was the prospect of a mass break-out and on the night of 10 or 11 Juney 1098 Bohemond and Adhemar had the gates of the city closed. It is worth noting that many of those whom later chroniclers, writing after the events in comparative comfort in Europe, vilified for cowardice and desertion seem to have been treated more charitably by their fellow-crusaders, who must have understood what pressures they had been under.

--

In conclusion: the way we feel about things today in the English-speaking isn't necessarily the way people felt about things in the past (and this goes for other cultures, real or imagined, too). I'm continually catching myself writing people with stiff upper lips and emotional reservations, and having to remind myself that the culture was different back them. If a grown man wanted to weep, he could. That's a good thing. (Oh, and my medieval historical fantasy? Check out the Watchers of Outremer series on Amazon or wherever books are sold!)

[high-mackrels-musings]

Shatterpoint: A Mace Windu Musical Concept Chapter 1: Guide Us

A fun fact about me besides my love of Star Wars is that I love musicals. I have no musical talent whatsoever, but I still like the idea of writing musicals. And in the last few days I’ve had a rather silly idea of taking Revenge of the Sith and framing it as a musical, that idea eventually morphed into a musical set during the Clone Wars, but from the perspective of Mace Windu.

Mace is an often misunderstood character, especially from people who never read legends. And I thought this would be a fun idea for me to just have some fun with this. So, I got to writing an opening song for this, though as I said I’m not a songwriter by any means, but if anyone really wants me to continue let me know.

Link to song.

Chapter 2: A Leader

Chapter 3: A Daughter

Guide Us

[The musical begins, the sounds of blaster fire, vague battlefield orders heard, sounds of struggle as smoke fills the screen, intercut with lights of lightsabers and blasters. Three young padawans followed by clones enter. The padawans desperate and feeling overwhelmed sing].

Padawan #1 Come on my Jedi Can’t you see? We must hold the line For if we fall, the people die.

Padawan #2 There’s too many We’re surrounded

Padawan #3 There’s too many of them.

Padawan #1 Hold the line!

Padawan #2: We need another plan.

[Clones Fall and a Jedi does as well. A chorus begins to be heard humming. This chorus of Jedi will frequently return, they’ll act as a sort of Greek Chorus]

Jedi Chorus: So many fall So many die The young and brightest of our order In the name of peace and a republic That does not care.

Padawan #3

Retreat! We must retreat

Jedi Chorus: Untrained for war Untrained for this Meant for peace, but what is peace? Have we lost our way.

[A clone Commander appears, he runs to the eldest of the padawans.]

Clone Commander: The droids have broken our lines, Commander, what are your orders?

[The Padawan hesitates, and the clone grows more desperate.]

Clone Commander: What are your orders?!

[Suddenly a commanding voice sounds out.]

Mace Windu: Hold the line, Commander. Hold the line! (To the Padawans) Young ones, courage now—this is not the time to falter.

[The smoke clears slightly as Mace Windu strides into view, his purple lightsaber igniting with a resolute hum.]

Jedi Chorus: Master Windu, champion of the Jedi… Master Windu, where justice and courage lie… Master Windu, the shield against despair, Master Windu, a light in shadows’ lair.

Mace Windu:

Listen, young ones, the storm is here, But a Jedi stands, we do not fear. The galaxy turns in endless strife, Yet we are the shield, the blade of life.

Feel the Force, let it guide, Hold to the light, don’t run, don’t hide. Even in darkness, hope will rise, For the Jedi endure where chaos dies.

[The Padawans, emboldened by Mace’s presence, sing with renewed strength, echoing his confidence.]

Eldest Padawan: Come on, let’s do this!

Other Padawans: Master Windu, we follow— For the Republic, we fight, fight, fight!

Mace Windu (Inner Monologue): Meant to be a leader, meant to be a warrior, But they don’t see my doubts—my barrier. Could have ended this war before it began, Had my sword at the ready, but I had doubt… I’m just a man.

We must fight, change our role, But all of this war—it takes its toll. I see them fall, I see them die, My brothers, my sisters—hear their cry.

Jedi Chorus: Master Windu, guide us, lead us… Master Windu, hear us, teach us… Master Windu, show us what a Jedi can be, Master Windu, the strength of us is he.

[Mace Windu fights back, uses his lightsaber to lead and destroy battle droids as he gives orders the music grows quiet signifying that we are listening to his inner thoughts.]

Mace Windu: Jedi, follow my lead The republic will not fall, this is our creed Fight for the light, fight not for peace We fight for justice, this war will cease.

Padawans and Clones (chorus): Hold the line, hold the light, In the shadow of war, we fight, fight, fight! For justice, for hope, for the galaxy’s flame, We’ll endure, we’ll prevail, we’ll honor the name!

Master Windu, guide us, lead us… Master Windu, hear us, teach us… Master Windu, show us what a Jedi can be, Master Windu, the strength of us is he.

[The scene ends with Mace Windu standing strong, his purple lightsaber cutting through the haze, the battlefield momentarily stilled as the music fades into silence. The Jedi Chorus lingers as if carried on the wind.]

[mschievousx]

now and then | b.b.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x ofc

summary: loraine silva always knew she was not normal. she loves unusual things. she loves her father's guns, horses, boxing, climbing a tree, falling from a tree, engineering, astronomy... oh, and a man eleven years older.

series masterlist

xi. eleven: every word you say

the sunlight did not reach her face. there was no sunlight in sight at all, aside from the most external door that shows a little hint of the visible spectrum. she stirred awake on the hard floor she slept, if she had any at all. she slowly sat up, finding the colonel on the adjacent cell, staring into nothingness.

they have yet to acknowledge each other's presence, trapped in their own battles inside. it was a surreal thing—to feel that it was both the end and the beginning. they have long let go of any hopes in receiving a lighter sentence, and that act is what made it possible for them to breathe despite the stifling feeling.

they have found freedom. losing all hope was freedom.

hence, the young silva raised her gaze to the ragged man across. his rank is not apparent on his current state, stripped off of dignity and proper legacy. she pulled him to the deepest ocean floor a man has never explored to.

"i am so sorry, raphael." raine broke the silence, feeling utterly apologetic for bringing the man with her in this fate.

"there is no need." he replied, closing his eyes as he leaned on the wall.

there really was no need. although his tone may have sounded frustrated, it was not directed to the girl. coming to think of it, he believes he would have done the same. he actually did, when he admitted to the suspicions just so she could be saved. the young silva, however, was hardheaded. a small chuckle left his lips as he looked at her in thought.

"you know, your father would be proud."

"oh, silence." raine rolled her eyes in jest, "i have not slept well with how much my eyes poured last night. do not make me cry again."

"but it is true."

"i know," she turned to him with weak eyes, "he asked me one time, if he was being too forceful in making me the viscountess or also the fact that he taught me things that a proper lady would not have preferred."

she laughed at the memory of her father teaching her how to hold a dagger at four, and her mother in utter worry as she caught them both.

"he was afraid he turned me into something he wanted instead of being someone I want to be."

the lady chuckled before continuing, "i told him I do not see myself embroidering at all. he laughed like crazy."

raphael weakly laughed at the story. by the mention of the girl's teaching experiences, a memory resurfaced in his mind as well.

"did you know that your father used to say you shoot like—i apologise for the term we use in the military amongst men—a virgin?"

despite being above average compared to the general public, her shooting really did not pass her father's standards. she could shoot, yes, but it would not have been enough for war. armand concluded that it was enough at the very least for self-defense.

raphael lifted one end of his lips, "i bet he would say otherwise now."

"that is because now i am not." she said with indifference, missing the way the man sat up from his leaning, turning to her fully.

"...wait, what—you mean...?" he asked curiously, his will returning to his voice in spite of their current situation.

raine looked at him and she found it interesting how curious he was at the topic. she let out a short giggle before slowly nodding. his mouth noticeably went ajar at that as he pried more.

"the bridgerton son?" she nodded once again, raphael leaning back down in surprise, shaking his head in disbelief, "your father is going to kill you."

"no need. the crown is doing it for him."

both laughed in chorus—how they could still jest in a situation like this is lost. perhaps, it was there saving grace. little joys do really count.

"i cannot fathom what you could possibly find so amusing in a place like this."

the queen's voice announced her arrival, her face grimacing in disgust at the place. the two greeted her with respect, standing from their position. she looked around, as if assessing their surroundings before settling her eyes to the girl.

her majesty sighed resignedly, "why ever did you have to shoot him?"

"he talked too much."

"that he did." she had no problem agreeing with that statement at all. the lord had been bothering her as well before about royal familial matters.

she clasped her hands, forming the words to say, "i have spoken to have a private execution for you both. it was granted. this is the least i could do, considering everyone has voted for a beheading instead of hanging."

raine nodded thankfully at that. she did not care much. either way, they would be dead. she inquired further, "the soldiers?"

"all free from the charges."

the two released a breath of relief. that was one of their main goals—for the rest of the troop to be able to go home and spend the following years with their families.

"thank you, aunt lottie. that is all i ask." she smiled warmly to the older woman.

"it will be in an hour." the queen noted, pertaining to the execution.

it must already be five in the afternoon already. the young silva did not know how time flew by so fast. she neared the girl, pushing a hand through the bars of her cell. raine held her hand as she continued.

"make death proud to take us."

raphael and raine's ears perked at that, their brows crossing as the queen took back her hand slowly, "how do you know of it?"

charlotte offered them a smile before she turned away, "your father had been a good company."

after the queen, major gilbert and the viscount bridgerton also stopped to visit them. the former relayed the gratefulness of the soldiers by the news of their freedom, while the latter updated her on how the queen is working on for a proper investigation against the said involved people in the treason with the help of the papers that was left to him. they did not take long, of course. the prison had that effect. it was very suffocating.

yet, her breath came back at the sight of the man in front of her.

"what are you doing here?" she said in concern, her lips quivering as she scrambled on her feet.

benedict reached to her, cupping her face with a tearful smile, "i told you. i will always be here."

she shut her eyes in shame of her current state, "you should not see me like this."

he chuckled with tears in his eyes, "like painfully beautiful?"

"like dying." she corrected in all honesty as he went silent, his heavy breathing speaking for himself.

his lips formed a thin line, features traced with painstaking gaze, "you are so unfair."

"i know," she admitted, knowing exactly what he meant, "i am so sorry."

he hushed her, his palms still on her cheeks as he soothed—both tracing the tear marks that intensified their emotions.

"forget about me. let go of this grief completely." she bleakly uttered, torment clear on her voice.

benedict immediately responded a multiple series of 'no' with an intense shaking of his head in disagreement. he would do anything to not forget her, both the joy and painful memories. he would cherish everything that she was present in. he would cling onto every word she utters.

"and in case you do forget about me," she continued, cupping his face with the utmost care, "i hope you remember by my touch alone.

he nodded fervently, "i love you."

he leaned his head to hers, their breaths exchanging as if he was used to the taste of pain on a dead friday night.

"i love you too."

they wanted to be together for as long as they could, and if that's not very long, well, then that's just how it is. and so, they held each other for the last time, coming to terms that if this life will be this cruel, he would spend the rest of his life praying that the next will not be.

he wanted to badly stay with her, to stop the time and prolong this moment. but, it seemed like he had angered the gods as a guard knocked his truncheon on the door, calling for him to exit for the fifteen-minute preparation before the execution.

━━━ ✦ ❘ ☽ 【❖】 ☾ ❘ ✦ ━━━

no later, guards entered the cells, taking both prisoners with no austerity in their touch. it was so strange for them to the point that it was hard to swallow. they have seized and lead criminals of darkest crimes to their end, yet they find themselves wanting to break the two out.

a viscountess and a colonel, both still children in their own way.

they have never thought there comes a day they would dread their work, and the executioner would say the same. because just as they all arrived in the execution stage, the forty-five soldiers, four members of the bridgerton family, and the queen are in attendance. as she caught sight of them, raine offered a brief, forlorn smile. these people are the ones who she is most thankful of.

executions happen at a faster pace than the young silva thought. one moment they were walking, the next they were kneeling. the executioner bowed to the both of them when they arrived, now asking for forgiveness on the duty he must do in a while. loraine granted him that.

he stood back up, announcing clearly, "you have been granted to speak your final words."

she turned to take a look at raphael, the latter nodding as a sign for her to speak for them both. raine casted her head down in thinking of the words she must say for the last time. she looked back at them all, to no one in particular, and dared to raise her eyes to her terrible fate as she began.

"when a crime goes unpunished, the world is unbalanced. when the wrong is unavenged, the heavens look down on us in shame. we too must die for this circle of vengeance to be closed. we will leave this record of our courage so the world will know who we were and what we did."

as she ended, they both tied the cloth firmly to cover their eyes. at the absence of sight, fear started to creep in. she could hear the executioner stepping away from her and to the colonel first. he declared with resolve, a means of comforting the two souls.

"death is proud to take you."

raine exhaled peacefully at that. it was a reply to their previous convictions—a way of reassuring they have done well.

and so, she did not panic, even when the sound of a drop on the floor filled the place.

raphael had been a great friend, soldier, and a person. the silva would not mind having to fight beside him once again.

the room stayed silent, with no other noise but the small whimpers of the audience. however, it was immediately overshadowed by the sound of footsteps, nearing her one step at a time. she guessed this must be it.

loraine's mind became blank. she hurried herself to think of memories—those that she would love to relive. she had a strange belief that it would not be as painful if she was feeling happy. but, it was also strangely hard to be one in the moment. all she could think of was that maybe, dying is the best option for her in this life. there was no home for her anymore.

and when she greets death, she hoped it is gentle. she hoped it is like going home. she believed a great happiness awaited her somewhere.

and for this reason, she remained calm as the axe hit her neck.

the audience found themselves letting go of the prolonged silence, breaking out to their cries. however, one person did not have any tear or voice left in himself anymore as he stared at the trail of blood that was starting to accumulate and flow away from the body.

indeed, a lot can happen in a day.

he was annoyed by her in one, taken by her in one, and loved her in one. he is grieving for her in one, and he will long for her in one.

and so, he was left with nothing but to face reality—realising that a very frightening thought is now shadowing him intimately.

when tomorrow depends to a person, what should one do? when that person is lost, does that mean tomorrow is too?

love was there. it may have not changed anything. it may have not saved anyone. but, it still matters that the love was there.

because, raine did not need to be saved. she needed to be found and appreciated for who exactly she was. her father has taught her that this world was only a preparation for the next, that all they can ask is to leave it having loved and being loved.

and benedict, until the very last moment, made that known to her and everyone else. she was found. she was appreciated. she was loved.

all by him.

taglist: @aadu2173 @imgondeletedis @pumkiinpasties @rebleforkicks @perseny @everavenclaw @datingbtr @peetahpahkah @myo11 @idek-what-to-put @aysamuka

[claimedcrossbows]

Served! Sanji x Fem!reader

Slight anime spoilers/foreshadowing.

This is OPLA Sanji though.

-

You were laid down in your quarters trying to keep the vomit down after you had been sick the entire night. Your head was killing you and you were simply not ready for whatever chaos was happening downstairs, but you had a kitchen to run, so you slowly got dressed, and slowly made your way downstairs to absolute anarchy.

“Y/n! We’re out of crawfish and it’s tonight's specials!” Your little sister says immediately approaching you.

“How did we run out of crawfish?” You groaned.

“Rasha forgot to order more and the nearest port ship is still a day away.” She explains frantically.

“Substitute it for lobster in the mac and cheese, and 86 the Crawfish Etouffe Balls.” You demanded hoarsely your vocal chords still fried from vomitting all night.

“Y/N are you okay? You look awful.” Your sister says looking at your haggard appearance and your overall sweaty pale face.

“Great, now go do as I told you, and make it quick rumor has it a critic is dining with us tonight!” You say the last part loud enough to attract your team of cooks attention.

“YES CHEF!” A chorus of voices ring out as you nod and all but wobble your way to the fridge for some much needed seltzer water.

Of all the days for one of the most known critics on the grandline to come pay your restaurant a visit it just had to be today when you could barely stand up right.

Fortunately for you you had a great team of chefs under your command as you watched them all hurry about prepping and making numerous dishes that looked about as masterful as could be.

You were by far one of the best restaurants on the grandline, your restaurant resided on a small beach in a lighthouse where many ships sailing by frequented your restaurant when they were in need of a good meal and conversation.

And you were no doubt one of best female chef’s the grand line had ever seen.

At just age 7 you had won your local cooking competition taking home a wonderful gift basket of exotic spices that had eventually lead you to your well known name of The Spice Queen.

You specialized in Cajun styled cooking, but you could cook just about anything in any style, you were well versed in cuisine having read numerous cookbooks throughout your life, you even knew quite a few special recipes to help revitalize sailors who were in need of more than just a flavorful meal.

Many pirates sought you out after large scaled battles that left them in tatters, if anyone asked any of those pirates what saved their lives and healed their wounds, they would name you.

Which is how you got your second name, as The Crock Pot Doc.

Yep, one taste of your special famous soup was said to cure a man on his death bed.

But none of that mattered if you couldn’t pull off a perfect dinner service tonight of all nights. You had to make sure this critic was absolutely blown away and you weren’t about to let a little food poisoning stop you.

So you chugged your seltzer water and began mincing and julienning veggies.

That was until a loud bang echoed throughout the entire lighthouse followed by a bunch of screaming and crying.

You quickly put down your knife and made it to the dining area where you absolutely could not believe your eyes at what had unfolded before you.

“WE NEED THE CROCK POT DOC, BRING THEM,PLEASE HURRY!” A man in a straw hat yellled looking around the room of patrons and chefs who had also exited the kitchen to see what was happening.

You stepped forward trying to process the sight before you, a group of pirates had barged into your restaurant all with desperate faces and who you could only assume was the captain carrying a orange haired woman who looked to be on the brink of death.

“I’m her, what the hell is going on??” You asked trying to wrap your head around this and the current state of your dining room that has been nearly destroyed by their barging in.

The straw hat man hastily made his way toward you carrying the woman with desperate eyes.

“I’m Monkey D. Luffy, and you have to save my friends life.” He said shakily but with a determination you could respect.

You laughed in disbelief, this man trashes your dining room on a special night and expects you to just save his friends life??

“And why would I do that?” You scoff looking at the state of the girl who looked worse than you felt.

“Because I’m the man who will be king of the pirates, and I promise I will pay you whatever you need and more if you save Nami’s life.” He says unwavering.

A few of your cooks scoff and laugh, “King of the pirates? This kid?” One of your cooks laughs.

You frown, “I don’t work for free, especially not when I have a important critic frequenting my restaurant tonight, there’s a doctor village not to far from here maybe a day’s travel at the Drum Kingdom-”

“She doesn’t have a day!” Luffy stresses.

Your frown deepens, your about to protest before a wave of nausea makes you wince. “Look I don’t have time for this I’m sorry but you need to leave-”

“Madam.” A voice behind this so called Captain Luffy rings out and you look past the kid and sees a tall blonde man in a black suit stepping forward, his face tense but gentle as he addressed you. “I understand your busy, but she will die if she doesn’t receive some kind of medical attention and I hear your not only one of the best cooks on these seas, but your cooking even rivals most medicines prescribed by doctors.” He says as he walks up to you.

“And you are?” You ask raising a skeptical brow.

“Sanji, The best cook in all of the east blue and maybe the world Mam’.” He says confidently as he shoots you a wink.

You immediately laugh, “Wow you have a lot of nerve to say that to my face.”

His face drops as he immediately shakes his head, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to offend you I just-”

“Well you wouldn’t be a good cook if you weren’t cocky, so there must be some talent behind your words.” You say crossing your arms. “Your Sanji, Chef Zeff’s prodigy I assume.” You say watching his eyes widen.

A small smirk crosses his lips, “Ah, so you’ve heard of me madam?” He says flirtatiously.

“Yeah, I heard a flirty handsome chef trained by Chef Zeff himself has been making his name in the culinary world as one of the best chef’s out here.”

“Oh really?” He says his smile widening.

“Yeah, but it looks like they only got the flirty part right.” You smirk back watching his face drop.

“Sanji’s the best cook on the grandline!!” Luffy immediately defends.

“Yet he can’t make a healing dish?” You interject.

Luffy grunts in annoyance, “Look we don’t have time for this Nami’s dying will you help us or not!?” He shouts angrily.

“N-”

“You say a food critics coming tonight right?” Sanji suddenly says.

You turn to him and nod, “Yes and I need to get ready-”

“You look sick, how do you expect to impress a critic and you can barely stand up right?” He asks staring directly into your eyes.

“How the hell do you know i’m sick?” You questioned.

“I know when a lady’s suffering.” He says gently.

You didn’t know how to respond to that so you just let him continue.

“So how about a deal, I help lead your cooks tonight and pull off an exsquisit meal to impress the critic, and you in turn heal my friend?” He says.

“And what makes you think you can make any of my dishes East Blue Boy?” You challenge, honestly intrigued by the cockiness of this man.

“I’m a fast learner mam, just give me a sample of what needs to be cooked and i’ll make it.” He says.

You were about to deny this foolish request until the sounds of numerous peoples stomachs gurgling suddenly caught your attention.

“Uhhhggg, Chef Y/N we don’t feel so good.” One your top chefs say holding their stomachs.

“Neither do I.” Chef Rasha groans.

“Oh no..” Another chef groans running out the room and into the bathroom.

“I feel fine?” Your little sister says looking at you in disbelief as more and more chefs ran out the room in distress as you watched your customers quickly flee out the front door.

You couldn’t believe this..your entire staff had contracted food poisioning.

You look between Luffy and the dying woman and then back at Sanji as your stomach churned even more.

Uhg.

“Fine, but my little sister will be your sous chef, she’s basically the mini version of me so listen to her directly got it?” You say approaching the blonde man who’s flirtatious smile made its way back onto his face.

“Anything you say Madam-’ ”And please stop with the Madam, Call me Chef, Y/N.”

“Chef Y/n, beautiful name, fits a beautiful woman.” He says.

Your stomach churns again as you quickly grab your little sisters chef hat and proceed to heavily vomit directly into it.

“Wow Sanji, your flirting literally made her vomit.” A man says placing a pitiful hand on his shoulder.

“Shut it Usopp!” Sanji hisses. “I’m going to have my friends help me considering your now understaffed, is that okay?” He asks looking at your concerningly handing you a handkerchief from his suits pocket.

“Fine, but don’t let that one” You say pointing to luffy. “Anywhere near the food.” You say getting a strange vibe from the straw hat boy just from the way he was eyeing your customers abandoned plates of food they had left.

“Trust me, I wasn’t.” He admits.

“Fine its a deal.” You say reaching out your clammy shaky hand that he immediately picks up and kisses.

Your face contorts into disgust as you take your hand back, just who did you let in your kitchen??

-

Hey guys wanted to do a little Sanji One shot I think this will be a two parter but I thought it would be so cool if Sanji met another incredibly talented chef who just so happened to be a woman right before we meet Chopper at the Drum Kingdom arc!!

[mintyys-blog]

avengers x reader: avengers Tower Shenanigans

WARNINGS: none

Living in Avengers Tower was… an experience. Between super soldiers, a billionaire with too much time on his hands, and a god who spoke like he walked out of a Shakespeare play, there was never a dull moment.

Your day started with Sam and Bucky fighting over the last piece of toast. Again.

“I had it first, Barnes,” Sam said, holding the plate just out of reach.

“You took it from my plate,” Bucky shot back, narrowing his eyes.

“I don’t see your name on it.”

“I don’t see your name on it either,” you pointed out, sipping your coffee.

Bucky turned to you. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m on the side of whoever doesn’t drag me into this nonsense.”

Right then, Steve entered, looking as fresh as a man from the 1940s could. “Are you two seriously fighting over toast?”

“Yes,” they answered at the same time.

Steve sighed, took the toast, and ate it in one bite. Sam and Bucky stared in horror.

“This is why I don’t live here full-time,” Rhodey muttered as he walked past.

Tony, being Tony, had decided that a normal lunch was too boring. Instead, he made it interesting.

“I call it the ‘Ultimate Spicy Challenge,’” Tony announced, grinning like a mad scientist. “One of these wings is coated in a sauce so hot it made Thor cry.”

Thor scoffed. “A falsehood. I merely shed a single tear.”

“Because your mouth was on fire,” Clint reminded him.

You eyed the plate of wings. “So we’re just eating them and hoping for the best?”

“Basically,” Tony said.

Peter, who was visiting, hesitated. “Uh, Mr. Stark, I have school tomorrow. I can’t die today.”

“Relax, Underoos. If you die, I’ll bring you back. Probably.”

Predictably, chaos ensued. Sam took a bite, turned red, and ran out of the kitchen. Bucky, trying to act tough, ate a whole wing and instantly regretted his life choices. Steve, in an act of reckless 1940s bravado, ate two and had to be forcibly stopped before he drank milk straight from the carton.

Meanwhile, you and Natasha just watched, unimpressed. “Men,” Natasha muttered, shaking her head.

Movie nights in the Tower were never peaceful. Choosing a movie was a battle in itself.

“I vote Star Wars,” Peter said enthusiastically.

“No,” Bucky said immediately.

“Why not?”

“Last time we watched it, Tony wouldn’t stop comparing me to Darth Vader.”

“To be fair, you do have a metal arm,” you said.

Bucky glared at you. “Traitor.”

“I vote The Notebook,” Wanda said.

A chorus of groans followed.

“No way,” Clint said. “I am not watching that again.”

“You cried last time,” Natasha pointed out.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

In the end, you compromised with an action movie. But halfway through, Thor got too excited, flung Mjolnir in celebration, and shattered the TV.

Silence.

Thor cleared his throat. “Fear not, friends. I shall replace it at once.”

Tony sighed. “Yeah, yeah, put it on Asgard’s tab.”

“Does Asgard even have a tab?” you asked.

Thor grinned. “No, but Stark does.”

And that was just another day at Avengers Tower.

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 24 - The Story of That Past

Summary: Tension runs high as Arthur grapples with the weight of impossible choices, his loyalty to the gang tested against his growing desperation to protect Kate. Meanwhile, Kate endures her own silent battle, caught between the chilling reality of her imprisonment and the lingering hope that Arthur will not abandon her.

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

AN: This is a shorter chapter (8k words), a bit of a break from what happened in the last one while also setting up what's coming....

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig @marygillisapologist @eternalsams @lunawolfclaw  @yallgotkik

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Caretaking, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

In the center of the clock, inside the now–choices gather, waiting to be made. The swamp is alive with anticipation. Dangers and saviors. Lovers and predators. The lie is in the separation. The truth is always growing. ~ Lily Brooks-Dalton

The darkness begins to dissolve with the dawn. The morning birds take up their chorus and claim the day as the encroaching sun warms the land and chases the fog. Arthur trudged toward Shady Belle; their home, their refuge. A kingdom of lesser glory, nestled within the embrace of the bayou. His clothes clung to him, damp and heavy, a physical reminder of the regret and fury that weighed on his soul. The events of the night replayed endlessly in his mind, each iteration amplifying the bitter truth: he had lost her.

Kate was gone—taken prisoner. 

The woman he loved was in the clutches of the law. Being held in a cell he knew was meant for someone like him. The money they'd risked so much for was swallowed by the Lanahachee.Whatever riches they had, slipped from their pockets in their escape. The river's hungry waves lay claim to the treasure. 

Time was of the essence now, the ticking clock posed the next greatest threat. Like a predator nipping at his heels. Arthur needed to act fast, before a fate that should have been his own was inflicted upon her. He couldn’t bear the thought of the noose tightening around Kate’s neck, of the life they’d barely begun slipping away forever.

At camp, the day unfolded with routine indifference. Figures moved sluggishly through the morning haze: Pearson cracking eggs and humming an off-key tune, the girls gathering laundry into baskets, and others nursing steaming cups of coffee as they shook off the remnants of sleep. A few greeted Arthur, their voices warm and casual, but he ignored them. His gaze locked on the weathered table where Dutch, Hosea, John, and Micah sat in conversation, and he made a beeline for it.

“Arthur!” Dutch called cheerfully, a smile curling beneath his mustache. “You look like you’ve seen better days. Where’s your companions?” His eyes flicked to the muddy, damp clothing and Arthur’s lone arrival.

“Riverboat was a bust,” Arthur snapped. “We lost the money—and they took Kate.”

The atmosphere shifted in an instant. Hosea and John turned toward him, their faces mirroring his urgency—first shock, then confusion. Dutch sighed, leaning back in his chair and swirling his coffee lazily. “That’s a shame,” he mused. “There was a lot of money on that boat.”

Arthur’s anger boiled over, his fist slamming onto the table with enough force to rattle the plates and cups. “Did I stutter?” he growled in a low roar. “The law has Kate, we need to hit the prison before they hang her!”

His outburst drew the attention of the entire camp, heads swiveling to watch the confrontation. Hosea raised a calming hand, his tone measured but firm. “Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, son. They’ve no reason to hang her—not yet. Most likely, she’ll get a trial.” His gaze softened as he gestured for Arthur to sit. “But we need to know exactly what happened on that boat.”

Arthur leaned forward, his fists pressed against the splintered surface of the table, knuckles whitening under the strain. His breath hissed out, slow and measured, as he fought to temper the storm building inside him. “Same thing that always happens, ‘Sea,” he began, low and ragged. “Ran into some fella that recognized me. Didn’t have time to think—I killed ‘em before he even drew. You know how the rest goes.”

John tilted his head, his curiosity cutting through the tension. “How’d he recognize you? From Blackwater?”

Arthur shook his head sharply, his lips pressing into a grim line as guilt weighed on him like a millstone around his neck. There was no time to dwell on the how or the why, not now. But the truth corroded the edges of his mind—this was his fault. It always was. 

Having lived his life with a heavy hand, Arthur carved his way through the world with the kind of cruelty that had been beaten into him from the start. It was all he knew, but that didn’t make it right. 

If only he’d done things differently—if he’d been kinder, softer, more patient. Or maybe if he’d refused to help Mary altogether. His chest tightened at the thought, a bitter cocktail of regret and remorse. If he’d turned her away, none of this would’ve happened. Kate wouldn’t be rotting in a cell because of his choices. But there was no going back, no undoing the path he had carved.

“Does it matter?” He didn’t wait for an answer, the words tumbling out in a growl. “Javier and I damn near killed every lawman on that boat. Civilians got caught in it too.” He hesitated, his jaw tightening as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. “Kate’s pianist...he—” Arthur stopped himself, swallowing hard. “None of it matters. What matters is Kate’s not well, hasn’t been for some time. She’s alone in that cell, and she’s countin’ on me to get her out.”

The table fell silent, John and Hosea exchanging somber glances. Hosea leaned back in his chair, his face creased with thought, while Dutch smoothed the edge of his mustache, staring off into the distance as if searching for answers in the murky swamp beyond.

Dutch exhaled slowly, setting down his coffee with deliberate calm. “Arthur,” he said finally, measured yet edged with caution. “I understand how you feel, but breaking her out right now? That’s suicide. The law’s probably on high alert after last night, and Saint Denis is crawling with Pinkertons. You’d get yourself killed—or worse, all of us.”

Arthur straightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “She ain’t just anyone, Dutch. She’s one of us.” His voice cracked, betraying his anger and desperation. “We can’t just leave her there to rot.”

“We’re not leaving her,” Hosea gently reminded. 

Dutch countered, his eyes narrowing. “We need to be smart about this. Rushing in without a plan isn’t going to help anyone, least of all her.”

Micah, who had been lounging in his seat with a smug grin, leaned forward, tapping the table with his finger. “Now hold on a second,” his oily voice drawled. “Ain’t the Saint Denis Bank on the same block as the jail?”

The air went still, everyone turning to look at him. Micah’s grin widened as he leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Two birds, one stone, gentlemen. We plan it right, we hit the bank and spring the lady. Walk out with Kate plus a whole lotta money.”

Arthur shot Micah a look of pure disdain. “What the fuck are you gettin’ on about? This ain’t about the goddamn money, Micah—”

“Now, wait a moment, Arthur,” Dutch interrupted cautiously, leaning forward with a glint in his eye that Arthur had seen too many times before. The gears in Dutch’s mind were already spinning, and his voice took on that same smooth edge, the one he used when trying to sell his schemes to the gang. “That… is certainly an idea,” he said, a finger rising to punctuate the thought. “This might be a new opportunity for us.”

John scoffed audibly, shaking his head with exasperation. “Jesus fucking Christ, Dutch,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It never ends with you, does it?” 

Arthur could feel the heat rising under his skin, his anger simmering close to the surface. He stared at the man he had devoted his life to, the man who was supposed to lead them—not gamble their lives for profit. “You want to rob the bank and break Kate out at the same time?” His voice dripped with disbelief, tinged with bitter disappointment. “That,” he emphasized, shaking his head, “is how you’ll get her killed.”

“You’d be risking her life, Dutch,” Hosea added firmly in agreement, carrying the weight of reason. Arthur felt a flicker of gratitude for the older man’s support, but it did little to cool the fire inside him.

Dutch waved them both off with a dismissive flick of his hand, taking a deliberate sip of coffee as though the conversation didn’t warrant urgency. Before anyone could speak again, Micah leaned forward with that snake-like grin, slick and taunting. “She knew the risks when she started sleepin’ with ya, cowpoke. Hell, I’m surprised—the women you touch don’t seem to live long—”

The words barely left Micah’s mouth before Arthur lunged across the table, his hand gripping Micah’s collar and yanking him forward with a crash that sent cups and plates flying. The sound of clattering metal rang out as Arthur hauled him over the table, his voice was venomous. “You got somethin’ to say to me?” Arthur snarled, eyes burning with fury. “Go on, say it again—I’d sure love to shut you up right now.”

Dutch shot to his feet, his chair tumbling back against the dirt floor as he shouted, “That’s enough!” 

His voice carried a commanding weight, but Arthur didn’t let go, his grip on Micah tight as iron. Dutch stepped closer, grabbing Arthur’s arm in an attempt to pull him away. Arthur wrenched free with a sharp jerk, his glare snapping to Dutch.

“We need money, Arthur!” Dutch bellowed, his gravelly voice echoing through the hollow, rotting camp of Shady Belle. “We need more money! Or do you think this world is just gonna hand us a goddamn miracle?”

Arthur released Micah with a rough shove, sending him sprawling backward, but his fury didn’t fade—it only burned inside him, bitter and heavy. The tension around camp was substantial, every gaze locked on the fractured core of their so-called family. Their fearless leader and his right-hand man. 

With a growl Arthur shot back, “you’re gamblin’ with her life, Dutch. Or is she just another pawn in your grand plan?” His eyes darkened with anger. 

“You lost the money and the girl. What do you expect me to do? March in there, guns blazing, and demand her release? Oh, and while I’m at it, maybe ask for ten thousand dollars too?” Dutch snapped, sharp with irritation as his patience wore thin.

Dutch’s words hung in the air, unyielding, echoing with the desperation of a man who had tied his soul to his schemes. Arthur didn’t need to hear any more to know the truth: Dutch wasn’t thinking about Kate, or the gang, or even their survival. It was the allure of money, of power, of proving to the world that he was still the man with all the answers. 

It burned in his eyes, that unrelenting need to reclaim what he thought he deserved. Arthur could see it clear as day, a fire that consumed everything—loyalty, love, even common sense. No matter how much Arthur wanted to fight it, to question his authority, he knew it was already too late.

The weight of it settled in Arthur’s chest like a stone, pressing down with every breath he took. He’d been through this too many times before—watching Dutch chase an ideal that was as hollow as the promises he made. Arthur’s heart twisted with something deeper than anger, even deeper than frustration: it was betrayal. 

Using Kate’s imprisonment to achieve his greed goes far beyond Arthur’s moral code. It was unforgivable. 

A bitter realization that no matter how hard he fought, how much of himself he gave, he was losing the man he had once believed in. Kate’s life, the gang’s safety, his own hopes—they were all just collateral in Dutch’s endless pursuit of an impossible dream. 

Arthur turned away, his gaze falling to the dirt beneath his boots, as if he could find some clarity there. But all he saw was the shadow of what they had been and the ruin they were becoming.

Hosea cleared his throat and stood up cautiously, his movements slow like he was approaching a spooked animal. “Dutch, please,” he said, soft but firm. “I insist we discuss this in more detail before making any rash decisions.” He gestured toward the decrepit manor, trying to guide Dutch away from the growing tension and toward a calmer space where reason might prevail.

“Indeed,” Dutch nodded, the fire in his eyes momentarily dimming. “Let’s work out the kinks, old girl. We could pull this off as soon as a week from now,” he mused, already envisioning the glory of his next big scheme.

The words hit Arthur like a physical blow. A week? The thought of leaving Kate alone, vulnerable, for even another hour gnawed at him like a caged wild animal. As Dutch passed by, Arthur reached out, his hand clamping down on the older man’s shoulder with restrained force. 

Leaning close, he growled in his throat, “all these years Dutch, you’ve had my devotion. But you know, I can really hate you sometimes.”

Dutch stopped, his expression unshaken, the picture of calculated calm. “You can hate me all you want, son,” he said, his tone almost paternal, as though scolding a rebellious child. 

“But you will respect me. I know this woman means a lot to you, but these people,” he gestured broadly to the camp, “they follow me. And when I’m gone, they’ll just find another monster. Do you know why, Arthur?” 

He leaned in close, dropping to a near whisper, heavy with the weight of his convictions. “Because they have to. They have to justify their wages. You’ll see.”

Arthur’s glare lingered, his fists tightening as Dutch walked away with that same confident stride, the one Arthur had once found reassuring. But now, it filled him with bitter resentment. The man he’d followed so faithfully, the man he’d believed in, felt more like a stranger with each passing day. Every decision Dutch made seemed to pull them further into chaos, and Arthur could feel the threads of his loyalty fraying, unraveling one by one.

His mind drifted to Kate, the only constant in a life of shifting sands. She was the one who truly held his loyalty, the one who knew his heart. And now, she was alone, locked away in a cold, unforgiving cell, likely wondering if he was coming for her. He wanted nothing more than to pull her out of this mess, to take her far away from Dutch, the gang, and the endless trail of blood and lies. For once, he longed to devote himself to something pure—someone who had become his entire world. His reason for breathing.

The weight of his past chained him to this life, and the thought of breaking free left him torn between duty and desire.

Micah stood next, brushing off his shirt as he sneered at Arthur. “You should be thanking me, you know,” he drawled, grin cutting like a dagger. “I just saved your girl’s ass back there— I’d say she owes me more than you do.” With a snide chuckle, he sauntered off, leaving Arthur’s fists clenched and his jaw tight with rage.

Only John remained at the table, leaning back in his chair as he watched the others disperse. After a moment of silence, he spoke, steady and reassuring. “You know I’ll help you, Arthur. I owe you that much.” His words carried a quiet resolve, a loyalty that Arthur felt down to his core, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.

Arthur let out a weary sigh, dragging a calloused hand down his face as if trying to wipe away the weight of the day. His body felt heavy, drained of energy, but his thoughts churned endlessly, circling back to Kate. She was strong—he knew that. Capable. But the thought of her sitting alone in that cell plagued him like a sickness. He clung to the small mercy that they wouldn’t hang her without a trial, and the trial was still days away. 

There’s still time, he told himself, as much to convince his heart as his mind. It was a fragile hope, but it was all he had.

“Thanks, Marston,” Arthur muttered, his voice rough and quiet. 

He didn’t wait for a response before turning and heading toward the manor, towards the room he shared with Kate. As he climbed the stairs he thought about how the space that once felt warm and alive, illuminated by her presence, now felt empty and hollow. He ached to change out of his damp, grimy clothes, to collapse onto that bed and let the weight of regret crush him fully. The anger that had burned so fiercely earlier had faded, leaving only a raw, consuming grief that settled deep in his chest like a parasite.

Arthur couldn’t help but toy with the thought of turning himself in to secure her freedom. He’d been a wanted man for so long—maybe it was time to finally hang up his old hat and face the reckoning he’d been dodging. But what good would he be to her if he was dead? The thought gnawed at him, twisting his insides. Maybe she’d be better off without him anyway, safer without his shadow looming over her. 

A bitter voice in the back of his mind whispered that, after all this, she might not even want him anymore. Perhaps seeing the darker, unforgivable side of him had poisoned whatever bond they shared, leaving her with nothing but regret.

But it mattered little what she thought of him now, he would never leave her behind. Arthur loved her too much for that.

As Arthur finished buttoning his shirt and adjusting his suspenders, the momentary calm was shattered by a sharp, piercing cry that cut through the morning air. The weight of his exhaustion vanished in an instant, replaced by the familiar sting of adrenaline. Grabbing his revolver and rifle, he pushed through the bedroom porch door, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. His eyes scanned the camp, every muscle tensed for action.

A lone figure approached on horseback, and Arthur’s heart skipped as he saw the women scattering in distress. His eyes narrowed, and he lifted his rifle, ready to take aim. But as the figure drew closer, he saw Mary-Beth running toward the rider.

Her voice breaking as she screamed, “Oh God! It’s Kieran!” 

Arthur squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, but the grotesque sight made his blood run cold. Kieran, once a quiet member of their gang, was now an unrecognizable horror. His head, gruesomely severed and held in his hands, revealed empty sockets where his eyes had once been. Mary-Beth’s horrified wail pierced the air as she reached for him, but Tilly pulled her back, sensing a deeper threat.

The horse reared, and Kieran’s lifeless body slumped to the ground with a sickening thud, the wet crunch of his fall echoing through the camp. The silence stretched on for a moment, as everyone anticipated what’s next. Arthur’s stomach churned, but there was no time to grieve. The trees at the edge of the camp shifted, and figures began to emerge—more men. 

The O'Driscolls.

Arthur’s blood turned to ice. “Everybody take cover!” he shouted, voice carrying over the chaos. 

Their quiet morning was changed in an instant. He moved swiftly, taking shelter behind the railing and firing off shots, his mind racing as he aimed with precision. Colm O'Driscoll had finally found them, and was taking his revenge. The time for sorrow and regret was gone. He couldn’t afford to hesitate now. 

The sight of Kieran’s brutal end ignited a new rage in Arthur, but it was quickly buried under the cold resolve that had become his second skin. The gang was fractured, and their world was falling apart—the bitter truth was that there was no saving it. Dutch was blinded by his obsession with power, and the others were powerless without him, each consumed by their own sins and survival. 

There was no hope in this place, and there hadn’t been for a very long time. 

But for Kate, Arthur knew he had to make it out alive. He reminded himself he had to keep fighting for her. He wasn’t going to let her die in a cell, forgotten and abandoned. No, he would tear through every O'Driscoll in his path, and when this war was over, he would go to her. Even if he had to crawl on his knees.

He would make damn sure of it.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate stirred in the darkness, the cold seeping into her bones as her consciousness clawed its way back to the surface. Flashes of the previous night's event assaulting her mind in fragments. Her body felt impossibly heavy, her limbs unresponsive as she lay curled on the rough, cold bench of the jail cell. A sharp chill ran through her, and the air reeked of unfamiliar smells, making her stomach churn. As her senses slowly returned, her head began to spin, a pounding ache radiating behind her eyes. She squeezed them shut, but the motion only made the dizziness worse. Her vision blurred when she finally forced them open, the dim light of the jail swimming before her like a mirage.

Her mouth was dry, her throat raw, and bile rose to the back of her throat. She tried to make a sound, but all that came out was air. Panic gripped her chest as she realized she was going to be sick. She tried to push herself up, her weak arms trembling beneath her. A distant murmur of voices caught her attention, faint and distorted, as though underwater.

“She’s waking up,” one of the guards said, sharp and impatient.

Another voice, gruffer and closer, barked out an order. “Get her a bucket before she makes a mess of herself.”

Heavy boots echoed down the corridor, each step reverberating in her pounding head as Kate struggled to focus on the sound—anything to ground her swirling thoughts. Her stomach churned violently, her trembling body coated in a cold sweat as she desperately fought back another wave of nausea. Darkness threatened to close in around her again, and she feared she might lose consciousness. The sharp clang of the cell door unlocking jolted through her like a gunshot, intensifying the ache in her skull. The heavy door groaned open, its rusty hinges protesting, and a metal bucket clattered to the floor in front of her, the noise cutting through the suffocating silence. 

On cue, her stomach lurched violently, a wave of nausea sweeping over her with crushing force. She barely managed to grab the edge of the bucket they had shoved toward her, retching up what little remained in her stomach. The sound was harsh and guttural, echoing through the small cell. Her chest heaved uncontrollably as she gagged, the sharp spasms making it nearly impossible to catch her breath. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the drool that clung to her trembling chin.

Shame washed over her like a tidal wave, burning hotter than the fever she could feel building in her body. She imagined how pathetic she must look to the guards watching, and the thought made her throat tighten with fresh humiliation. The effort drained what little strength she had left, her limbs trembling as the world tilted dangerously. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, and as the cold stone pressed against her cheek, she gave in to the pull of unconsciousness once more.

In her senseless state, Kate dreamed she was riding with Arthur through endless fields of tall golden grass, the warm sun bathing them in a soft glow. Lorena’s steady breaths beneath her thighs were a comforting rhythm, and Arthur’s smile—a real, genuine smile—made her heart flutter with a fleeting sense of peace. She wanted to linger in the moment, to hold on to the rare sight of his happiness, but a creeping dread began to seep in. 

The sky darkened, and a massive black wave rose on the horizon, surging forward with roaring ferocity. Its foaming white edges swept over the field like a predator’s teeth, and before she could react, it tore Arthur away from her. The distance between them grew vast, and she reached out, calling his name in desperation as the wave swallowed the light and left her alone in the void.

Kate woke with a startled cry, her body convulsing as her stomach churned violently. She lunged for the rusted bucket, pulling it into her lap with trembling hands, her knuckles bone-white against the cold metal. She heaved, dry and fruitless, each spasm tightening the iron vise around her throbbing head. The pounding pain drowned out her senses, and it wasn’t until a calm, authoritative voice broke through that she realized she wasn’t alone.

“You don’t look too well, Miss McCanon,” the man said, carrying a weight of control that sent a shiver through her fevered body. 

Something about it scratched at the edges of her memory, but before she could piece it together, another wave of nausea hit. She doubled over, dry-heaving again, the sound pitiful in the quiet cell.

The man turned sharply, addressing a guard with a harshness that cut through Kate’s misery. “I want a doctor in here, now.”

“Sir, we have strict orders from the chief. No outside contact,” the guard replied hesitantly, his words laced with unease.

The man’s growl was filled with impatience. “Your chief takes orders from me. Go get the doctor.” 

His voice cracked like a whip, and the command froze Kate mid-breath. She wiped her sleeve across her mouth, the lingering taste of bile stinging her tongue, and watched as the man unlocked the cell door and stepped inside.

He carried a stool in one hand, a small tray with food and water in the other. Each movement deliberate, he bent to set the items on the stone bench, and Kate’s breath hitched as recognition struck her like a blow to the chest. 

Agent Andrew Milton, lead detective from the Pinkerton Agency.

Her heart sank, ice spreading through her veins as she stared at the man who had haunted their every step, the very agent of destruction threatening to unravel Arthur’s world—and hers—with a noose. She had crossed paths with him twice before, each encounter a warning she and the gang had barely escaped. Now, there was no running. No one to shield her.

Milton settled onto the stool, his gaze boring into her as if cataloging every weakness. Kate’s mouth went dry, her eyes flickering to the cup of water on the tray. It tempted her, offering the promise of relief to her parched throat and knotted stomach. Milton followed her glance and gestured toward the tray with an open palm. The gesture caught her off guard—calm, almost courteous, yet it felt like a mirage to something more sinister.

Leaning back on the stool, Milton’s fingers drummed a steady rhythm on his thigh as a cold smile tugged at his lips. “What an unfortunate circumstance we find ourselves in,” he said smoothly, as though they were sharing afternoon tea rather than a cell.

Kate ignored him, her trembling hands reaching for the cup. She drank deeply, the water cool and soothing against her raw throat. It felt like heaven, a small mercy in the nightmare she was living. Setting the cup down with a soft clink, she reached for the plate. The apple slices and crackers were humble offerings, but to her, they were a feast. She bit into an apple slice, the tangy sweetness stinging her cracked lips, and chewed slowly, savoring every bite.

“Why bother calling for a doctor if you’re just going to hang me?” she rasped, her voice hoarse and brittle, a faint shadow of the woman she once was.

Milton chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m not a monster, Miss McCanon. I’m simply a man doing his job,” he replied casually, as if he were commenting on the weather.

Kate scoffed, the sound rough in her throat. She bit into another slice of apple, her jaw working mechanically as her mind raced and throbbed with every pulse of her heart.

Clearing his throat, Milton shifted his tone to one of authority. “We’ve been digging into your past,” he started in a light voice, but his words carried weight. Kate’s stomach tightened, her heart pounding in her ears. She kept her focus on the plate, refusing to meet his eyes.

“The second-born child of Italian immigrant Madeleine Biviano and Englishman Thomas Walker,” Milton recited like a storyteller weaving a tale. “Raised on a modest dairy farm outside Boston. Your first tragedy was the Wollaston train derailment in ’78. Lost your mother and little sister in the wreck.”

Kate’s chest tightened as the memories clawed their way to the surface, raw and unrelenting. She was only twelve years old at the time, but that day had shattered her childhood. Clenching her jaw, she forced herself to chew, as if by continuing to eat she could stifle the rising tide of pain. The story of her past was one she had spent years burying beneath layers of resolve, yet here it was, laid bare by the stranger across from her. Her mind whirled, trying to untangle the threads of why this man was weaving her history into his game.

“The farm was lost a few years after their deaths. So you and your father moved in with family friends. Where you met your deceased husband Noah McCanon. Then your brother took up work in the mines, only to meet his end in a collapse in ’86.” He shook his head, his mock sympathy dripping with condescension. “And poor old daddy couldn’t handle the grief. Tough break.”

Leaning forward slightly, he continued, “Kate McCanon,” emphasizing her name like he was peeling away a mask, “orphaned. Widowed. Childless after the red death claimed what was left of your family. You’ve had a hard life—a long way from Boston now, aren’t we?”

Kate’s fear tightened its grip around her throat, but she swallowed it down. “You don’t know anything about my life,” she bit out, sharper now, though it wavered at the edges.

“Oh, I know plenty,” Milton said evenly. “I know you fell in with savages after leaving home. Played Injun for a while before striking out on your own.” His gaze was steady, pinning her in place.

Kate turned her face away, her mind racing. How could he know all of this? How had they pieced together her past—a life she had buried so long ago? None of it mattered now. The truth wasn’t her ally here; it was his weapon. He would twist it, use it, until there was nothing left of her to defend.

“We only brought justice to those who deserved it,” she said quietly though the words rang hollow. 

Milton clicked his tongue, “doing my job for me, I can imagine.” He quipped sarcastically. 

“I was a different person back then,” Kate countered, though the effort was futile. 

Her heart raced as Milton leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk curling the corners of his lips. “We talked to a few people in town after Van Der Linde fled. Picked up a kid in Rhodes, heir to the Gray family fortune. Beau, as I’m sure you remember.” He paused, watching for her reaction. “He was a chatty kid. Only had pleasant things to say about you.”

Kate’s eyes darted up, her breath catching in her throat. Confusion settling over her pallid features. “What does he have to do with this?” she asked.

Milton raised a brow, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on his thigh as he shrugged. “Well, it’s not every day we come across someone with such fond memories of a criminal,” he said casually. “Beau told us all about Miss McCanon. How you stood by his side when nobody else would, helped him stand up to his family. Even mentioned how you wanted to leave that gang behind for good.”

Kate’s stomach churned, the apple slices she had forced down threatening to come back up. “If you’re trying to guilt me, it won’t work,” she bit out, though her voice trembled with the effort.

“Oh, I’m not here to guilt you,” Milton replied smoothly. “Just pointing out that you’ve got a history of helping people in need. As you can imagine this came to me as a surprise. It’s admirable, really.”

The subtle compliment aroused something in her, giving her a morsel of confidence. Straightening herself she answered, “like I said, I’ve changed.” 

“But it does make me wonder…” He leaned forward, his dark eyes boring into hers. “What is a woman like you still doing with Arthur Morgan?”

Kate was quiet, and the silence stretched between them for what felt like an eternity. “Arthur he’s—,” Kate said quietly. “He’s just trying to protect his own.”

Milton’s expression hardened. “He’s a degenerate murderer, same as that maniac they all follow so blindly. Don’t tell me you’re naive enough to think otherwise. The rose-colored glasses have to come off, Miss McCanon. He is a killer. Last night should’ve been enough to prove that to you.”

Kate swallowed hard as fractured memories from the night before clawed their way to the surface. “Th-there must have been a reason,” she stammered. “We weren’t there to hurt anyone—”

“Yet innocent people always seem to end up dead wherever he goes,” Milton interrupted, his voice biting.

Images she had tried to suppress flooded back: lifeless bodies crumpled on blood-soaked floors, the screams of panicked bystanders, and the chaos that seemed to follow in Arthur’s wake. Her stomach churned as the memory of Vin, her pianist, lying among the carnage, forced the air from her lungs, tightening her throat. She clenched her fists, willing the nausea to subside, the weight of Milton’s words pressing down on her like a stone.

What had happened? Kate's mind raced, desperately trying to piece together the chaos of the previous night. Something had gone horribly wrong—she’d known it the moment she saw the hollow, detached look in Arthur’s eyes. The memory of his body pressed against hers brought a painful mix of longing and grief. Even in the throes of his rage, he had shielded her from the damage, clinging to the last shreds of his humanity. 

She was the thread holding him together, the link between the man he was and the man he was trying to be. The weight of that realization made her stomach twist violently. Reaching for the bucket, she retched, the taste of bile and apple burning the back of her throat.

As if on cue, the sound of heavy boots echoed down the hallway. The guards approached, a doctor trailing in their wake. Milton greeted the physician and stood, gathering the stool and empty tray with ease.

Before leaving the cell, the agent paused, cold eyes settling on her. “I know you and Mr. Morgan are quite fond of each other,” he said smoothly. 

“I’m counting on that connection to bring him right to me.”

Kate’s chest tightening as the weight of Milton’s words settled over her. Her hands trembled, curling into the fabric of her skirt as she watched him leave. The cell felt colder, smaller, as if his threat had sucked the air from it. Her mind raced, the implications twisting into her gut like a knife. Milton wasn’t just toying with her—he was using the situation to his advantage. Kate was the bait, and Arthur was the prey. Her heart ached with equal parts dread and guilt, knowing that her capture might lead him straight to his death.

The doctor set his worn leather bag on the bench and knelt down, his weathered face creased with both age and a quiet concern that seemed out of place in this grim setting. His hands trembled slightly as he rummaged through his tools, the faint metallic clink of instruments filling the tense silence. When his gaze met Kate’s pale, sweat-dampened face, his eyes lingered on the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the unsteady tremor in her frame.

“You’re in a bad way, miss,” he said softly, his voice carrying a kindness she hadn’t anticipated. He adjusted the glasses resting on his nose and leaned in closer. “Let’s get a proper look at you.”

Kate sat still, her fingers gripping the edge of the bench as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. She winced as his fingers pressed gently against her throat and around her temple. Every touch sent a fresh wave of pain radiating through her skull. Her throat burned with each shallow breath, and her heart thudded unevenly in her chest.

“Dizzy spells? Vomiting?” he asked, his tone calm but probing. Kate nodded weakly, unable to find the strength to respond aloud.

He worked methodically, his hands steady as he pressed along her scalp, searching for signs of injury. She flinched when his fingers found a tender spot at the base of her head, drawing a quiet hiss of pain from her lips. The doctor pulled back, his brow furrowing. With a heavy sigh, he sat back on his heels, folding his hands on his knee.

“You’ve got a nasty concussion, likely from a blow to the head,” he said gravely.

Kate didn’t respond, her grip tightening on the bench as her vision swam slightly.

The doctor moved on, lifting her wrist to check her pulse, his lips moving silently as he counted. He pinched the skin on the back of her hand, watching how slowly it settled back into place. 

His frown deepened. “You’re anemic,” he announced, his voice edged with clinical detachment.

Kate blinked at him, her mind slow to process the words.

“Your blood’s weak,” he explained. “Could be from malnourishment or blood loss. Either way, you’re in no condition to withstand much. You need iron-rich foods—beef liver, beans, leafy greens—and plenty of rest and fluids. When was the last time you ate properly?”

Her memory felt fragmented, the previous night already blurred by exhaustion and trauma. “I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor straightened with a groan, his joints popping as he stood. He turned to one of the guards stationed outside the cell. “She needs proper meals, quiet, and a few days to recover,” he said firmly. “Don’t expect her to run—she doesn’t have the strength for it.”

The guard gave a curt nod, his expression impassive.

The doctor gathered his tools, casting one last glance at Kate as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “Try to rest,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “It won’t be quick, but you’ll mend.”

Kate nodded faintly, watching as he exited the cell. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating in her aching skull.

Leaning back against the cold wall, Kate closed her eyes and let her fingers trail over the frayed hem of her dress, the coarse fabric grounding her in the present. Her thoughts churned, a dark cocktail of worry for Arthur combined with Milton’s threatening words. 

She longed for him—the warmth of his presence, the way he always knew how to calm her fears, how he had shielded her from the cruelty. How he spoke to her softly despite the intensity of their situation. But now, in the cold silence of her cell, his absence was a weight that crushed her chest. The doctor had said she would mend, but she felt as though she were unraveling piece by piece—and somewhere in the shadows, the storm was only beginning. 

Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, her breath hitching in quiet sobs as she struggled to hold onto the hope that by some miracle Arthur would come for her, even as Milton’s words echoed in her mind.

Threatening to tear everything apart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The smoke of gunfire still hung heavy in the air around the shattered remnants of their camp. Arthur leaned against the crumbling fountain in the courtyard, his body burdened with exhaustion. His breath came in shallow gasps, the adrenaline that had carried him through the attack now ebbing, leaving a dull ache in its place. The old wound on his shoulder throbbed deeply, the pain radiating in waves with his drumming heartbeat. He was so terribly tired.

Arthur’s hands trembled as he reloaded his revolver, though the threat had passed for the moment, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t over—not truly.

“Arthur,” Charles’ steady voice broke through the haze. He approached carefully, his bow slung over his shoulder, the faint lines of concern etched into his face. “You alright?”

Arthur nodded stiffly, though he knew he didn’t look it. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, and his legs felt like they might give out any second. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered, waving Charles off even as the other man’s steady gaze lingered.

“You should try to find some rest,” Charles said, his tone leaving little room for argument. “You’ve been carrying too much lately.”

Arthur managed a bitter chuckle, his gaze averting to assess the damage of the rest of camp. “Ain’t nobody else gonna do it,” he muttered under his breath, though he knew Charles heard. The truth of it was a weight he couldn’t put down. No matter how hard he tried.

Charles sighed and sat on the edge of the fountain beside him. “Colm can really hate,” he said after a moment, his eyes trailing to the lifeless O’Driscolls littering the ground. His gaze lingered on Kieran’s body, a stark reminder of what loyalty cost.

Arthur rubbed a hand over his jaw, saying nothing. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant murmur of the gang regrouping. Charles tried again, his voice softer this time. “I heard what happened to Kate,” he said. “Part of me is glad she wasn’t here to see this.”

Arthur turned to him, and in his eyes, Charles saw the weight of unspoken words. Sorrow. Remorse. Anger. A storm of emotions that spoke of a burden far heavier than exhaustion. It wasn’t just the weight of the world that was crushing him, but Kate as well. He had let her down.

“Oh, Arthur,” Charles said quietly. “She’ll be okay. She’s alive—that’s what matters right now.”

It was the only solace he could offer, though he knew it would never be enough. The truth hung heavy between them: they were all at the mercy of uncertainty now, clinging to hope in a world that offered none.

The others were emerging cautiously from their hiding spots, murmuring amongst themselves as they took stock of the damage. A few broken crates, some scattered supplies—but no one was hurt. For that, Arthur was silently grateful, though it didn’t ease the gnawing pit in his stomach.

His gaze drifted toward the central campfire, where Dutch’s figure loomed. Assessing the damage and the situation they’ve found themselves in. Arthur hated to admit it, but they needed him now. More than ever. The gang was shaken, uncertain of their next steps, and as much as Dutch had steered them wrong in recent days, his voice was the only one they’d follow.

“Arthur,” Dutch’s sharp voice cut through the heavy stillness of the aftermath, carrying an edge that demanded attention. His measured strides crunched against the dirt, his eyes flitting over the wreckage of the camp and the wary faces of the gang. “We need to get moving.”

Arthur straightened with an effort, his body screaming against the weight of his fatigue. His shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed him earlier, but he pushed the pain aside. He was the gang’s anchor, the one who couldn’t afford to falter. His jaw clenched as Dutch stopped in front of him, his expression unreadable. Whatever Dutch had to say, it would come with consequences.

“You thinkin’ we should start lookin’ for another camp?” Arthur asked quietly, careful not to stir the simmering tension among the others.

Dutch’s lips curved into a thin smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. Before he could answer, John and Hosea approached, their steps slow and cautious. Charles rose to stand beside them, his stance rigid and ready, like he was bracing for a fight.

“You’re not thinking big enough, Arthur,” Dutch said finally, carrying a note of patronage. He gestured broadly to the ruined camp, the lifeless O’Driscolls scattered across the ground. “You’re focused on the small picture—survival. I’m looking at the bigger game. Vast problems require vast solutions. And opportunities.”

Arthur shook his head, standing to meet Dutch at eye level. “I’m not sure I get what you’re sayin’, Dutch,” he said, though the weariness in his voice gave it a sharper edge than he intended.

Dutch’s grin widened, his expression almost feverish, like a man on the brink of revelation. “Oh, you will, son,” he said with unnerving confidence. He turned, addressing the small group that had gathered. “We can’t stay here. Colm’s made sure of that. He’ll bring heat down on us, and we can’t afford the attention.”

Arthur folded his arms, his frown deepening as Dutch’s words sank in.

“Tomorrow,” Dutch continued, “we move deeper into Lagras. We’ll find a temporary camp, and after we regroup, we start preparing.”

“Prepare for what?” Arthur snapped, his exhaustion sharpening his tone. “We’ve been scramblin’ for more money for six months, Dutch. You really think another move’s gonna fix all this?”

Dutch’s gaze darkened, but he kept his composure, tilting his head like a patient teacher lecturing a stubborn student. “The bank,” he said simply, his voice cutting through the growing murmurs of unease.

Charles let out a low sigh, and John shook his head, muttering something under his breath. The tension was thick, every man weighing Dutch’s words against the grim reality they faced.

“We hit the bank tomorrow,” Dutch declared, his voice rising with conviction. “We send a group ahead to set up camp, and the rest of us get what we need to leave this hell behind for good.”

Arthur felt his blood start to boil, the fatigue giving way to something hotter and more dangerous. “And what about Kate?” he insisted, voice rising despite himself. “You just plannin’ on leavin’ her behind in all this mess?”

Dutch raised a hand, silencing Arthur with a single commanding gesture. “Kate,” he said, drawing out her name like a curse. “She’s coming with us. You, Hosea, and a few others will go get her from the prison. While myself and the others rob the bank.”

As he spoke, Dutch stepped closer, placing a heavy hand on Arthur’s injured shoulder. Arthur’s teeth clenched against the dull pain, but he didn’t pull away. The weight of Dutch’s hand was no comfort—it was a warning.

Dutch’s voice dropped, low and menacing, just for Arthur to hear. “I’ve got a plan, son. It’s all coming together. But if you keep doubting me, you’ll be the one who doesn’t make it out alive. And poor Katie…” His lips curled into a cruel smile. “She’ll be waiting on her loyal cowboy for the rest of her goddamn life.”

Arthur felt a chill crawl up his spine, but he refused to flinch. Dutch leaned in even closer, his voice a venomous whisper. “I need that loyalty, Arthur. But I have a feeling you’ll betray me in the end.”

Dutch pulled back, his expression smoothing into something almost fatherly as he addressed the rest of the group. But the words he’d left in Arthur’s ear burned hotter than the ache in his shoulder. Arthur swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides, the weight of Dutch’s manipulation pressing down like an iron shackle. The mask was finally starting to crack, and Arthur was seeing the ugly man beneath it. 

Tomorrow. 

The word echoed in Arthur’s mind, heavy with both hope and dread. It was a promise he clung to—Kate would be with him again soon. But Dutch’s plan, reckless as it was, turned that hope into something fragile, like a thread pulled too taut. His gut churned at the thought of what lay ahead. To use her escape as a distraction for robbing the bank—it wasn’t just risking her life. It was risking everything. The dwindling trust, and what little sense of unity the gang had left.

Arthur’s mind raced, playing out the million ways it could go wrong. Colm O’Driscolls might already be planning another attack, the law could close in too fast, or Dutch’s obsession could spiral into chaos. And yet, what choice did he have? She was in this mess because of him. Every path forward felt like it sent them two steps back. And it always ended in blood. 

But no matter how it all played out, Arthur would shoulder the responsibility. He always did.

There was no room for hesitation. No time to dwell on the "what ifs." Arthur rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers coming away grimy from the sweat, dirt and blood that clung to his skin. He needed to pack, needed to meet with Dutch and Hosea to finalize the plan, needed to keep moving. 

Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not now. Not until she was safe in his arms again. Even if he tried, he knew the voice in the back of his mind would rob him of any rest, whispering doubts, fears, and guilt like an unrelenting ache.

The weight of what was coming pressed on Arthur’s chest, squeezing his resolve tighter with every shallow breath. He didn’t deserve absolution, not from Kate or anyone else. But still, a quiet, desperate plea slipped through the cracks of his battered soul.

Please, forgive me Kate.

AN: Alright guys, another heavy chapter coming up next. I'm really excited to get into the next several chapters, I've had them planned out since I first began brainstorming this fic and I can't believe it's finally time to work on them!

I'm going to try and work on Ch 25 throughout the week and have it up before Christmas but I can't make any promises because I'm going to be so so busy with the holidays. So at the latest, hopefully two weeks. Thankfully, I work for a public school so I have the entire holiday break off :)

[dragonfirerogue-writes]

A/N: So, I was working on a story and then I couldn't edit it anymore... Probably cuz I took too long. Oops. Sorry @starry-fool

Sing With Me?

The Hat of Fate can burn.

Because of that accursed thing, you were now sitting in the living room of one Quinn Fabray. As the new kid in school, she scared the ever living shit out of you. While she wasn't quite the HBIC anymore, Quinn was still quite intimidating. What sucked further was that the two of you couldn't agree on ANYTHING.

"What about this one?"

"We've done that song already."

"This one?"

"No."

You had been at this for the past hour. Almost every suggestion you had was rejected one way or another. Quinn wasn't helping either. It was as if she wasn't even trying. It was frustrating.

"You suggest something then!" You groan, throwing your arms in the air. "Even if you don't care, it's still an assignment."

The blonde just rolls her eyes and levels you with a glare.

"Look. It doesn't matter anyway. Rachel and Finn are gonna sing, Mr. Schue will fawn over them and the rest of us are shoved into the sidelines. That's just how it is."

"That can change! There are so many great voices in the club. There's always a chance."

At that, Quinn slams her hand onto the table, startling you into silence.

"Things aren't going to change! Why bother trying!? If Mercedes and Santana can't, then we definitely have no shot. So just give up, dumbass!"

The other girl gets up and stomps away, leaving you stunned. You try not to cry. You were never great when someone yelled at you. Regardless, after a moment, you slowly gather your things and move to put your shoes on and leave. Why fight a losing battle?

-----+++++-----

Quinn felt horrible. After hearing the front door close, she knew she screwed up. She knew she forgot the main reason for the Glee Club's existence.

Acceptance. Love of singing. Love of each other.

She had to apologize, but you weren't making it easy. The next day at school, Quinn couldn't find you at all outside of class. It was clear you were avoiding her and it made her feel even worse.

By the time lunch came around, Quinn nearly gave up her search. It wasn't until she heard rhythmic tapping coming from an empty classroom. Peeking her head in, the blonde finds you sitting, headphones on while tapping a pencil onto the desk. She was about to get your attention, but then you started singing.

I could play any game with you

I could say what you want me to

I could lie, I could lie

She listens to your voice and suddenly realizes that your voices would mesh incredibly well together without her changing her natural tone too much. So she stands there, listening further while you continue to lose yourself into the song. The song was unfamiliar, but it was easy enough for her to pick up the chorus.

So she does and joins in the next time it comes around.

Even through your headphones, you hear Quinn's voice and it startles you.

"Quinn? What are you doing here?" You ask, standing up and pulling the headphones from your head.

"Looking for you," she replies with a smile. "I wanted to apologize for last night. Honestly, I shouldn't care about the drama and politicking. I've been in too much of it and I'm tired." She shakes her head. "Let's just have fun and sing, yeah? That's what we're in the club for, right?"

Her hand reaches out towards yours and waits. It was an offering. Of friendship? Of teamwork? All of the above? You weren't sure, but you were willing to find out. Your hand grasps hers and you look into those shining hazel eyes.

"Let's figure out what to sing then."

Quinn pulls you out of the classroom and you walk alongside her.

"Actually, I really liked the song you were singing. Teach me that one?"

Her hand never lets go of yours.

-----+++++-----

In the span of the week, you and Quinn work on your duet. Together, you figure out the lyrics and arrangement relatively quickly and dedicate the rest of your time to rehearsal. It doesn't take long for you to notice a shift in your relationship though.

You're sitting in Quinn's living room again. While you were opposite each other, you were still sitting close enough for your knees to touch. Quinn's voice blends with yours as you practice. But at a certain lyric, your eyes meet and there's a sudden tension in the room.

And if I go, will you love me

Will you love me when I come back

You were performing tomorrow. You were going to show the club that a performance doesn't need the best voices. You just needed to have fun. You and Quinn had worked hard to show this.

But this? This seemed like so much more.

The singing had ebbed as soon as you locked eyes. The air was so heavy, you could hardly breathe. It wasn't until Quinn's eyes flicked to your lips did you look away.

"Heh... I think we have that, what did Mr. Schue say? Vocal chemistry?" You say awkwardly. You could feel Quinn's eyes boring into you. "M-maybe we'll convince him to change things up, yeah?"

Suddenly, there was a hand on your cheek and you were staring into hazel eyes again.

"It doesn't matter if Mr. Schue changes things," Quinn says. Did she get even closer to you? She got even closer to you. You can feel her breath against your face. "But maybe we can still shake things up a little."

The smirk she pulls draws your attention to her lips and now you can't look away. You lean in and press your lips to hers. It starts out soft and tentative. You feel Quinn let out a soft sigh before pressing a little further into you. When you finally part, a small laugh escapes from you.

"Yeah, that'll shake things up."

Quinn just pulls you against her again.

"And as great as that is, I just want to 'sing' with you again."

Another kiss, plus many more, follow. You don't end up rehearsing anymore. Things were more than perfect.