#sneaking out or generally running a muck

[m4gp13]

Ethan: If what I think is happening is happening-

Alabaster, half-crawling over the wall on Mt Othrys with someone's wallet in his mouth: 👁👄👁

Ethan: -it better not be

[yallthemwitches]

Final Jily/MWPP Head Canon Post (for now)

Some of which might see the light of day in my fic....who knows!

--In early 7th year when Lily was still not "officially" told about Remus, she used to sneak into James' bed and sleep there until he came back. It was the only time she would do so without permission (she slept there a lot generally but always with him already there), but she knew if she didn't seek him out herself, she wouldn't know if he came back safely or not. James of course wasn't angry about it and Sirius' loved to complain that he never found someone sleeping in his bed.

--Lily was a good singer and really loved to sing along to things or sing around the house. James, loving the Beatles, tried his hand at the guitar and turned out to play pretty decent. Lily loved it when he would make up songs on the spot (which were usually narrations of things happening at that moment.)

-- When Lily and James were publicly "official" they were inseparable and often showing more PDA than should have been accepted for the two head students. This only compounded Snape's hatred for James as everywhere he turned Lily and James were cuddling/snogging/kissing. ( A scene where Snape accidentally witnesses a bit more than snogging might occur in CitW--effectively causing a fight)

--I go back and forth on the now staple community canon that the Heads had their own separate dorms---but at the very least I think they had their own office and bathroom. Lily and James tag teamed making their office extremely decorated with movie/music posters ( Lily had a "Virgin Witch" film poster (1972)* which James loved so much and refused to take down despite McGonnagall not being very enthused by it) , books, a record player, quidditch stuff, and other items that generally interested them. They were widely considered the most "hip" head students in centuries by staff .

the poster:

--Peter was very perturbed by Lily's encroachment on his friend group. Not necessarily taking it to "Yoko" levels, but by the 7th year the marauders interests had shifted away from general merry prank-making and towards the war and ( in James' case) a future with Lily. In some ways Peter blamed Lily for the boys' new found political activism and didn't like the change in the dynamic.

--Turns out Lily loved James' hair despite years of complaining about it. During snogging/sex she would love to pull on it and have her hands through it. In public she would often run her hand through it or absently move bits of his hair out of his face. Seeing that she was so attracted to it, James' teased her endlessly about all the years of nagging she gave him and liked to tease that she was just jealous because she couldn't mess it up herself in those times.

--James stayed over at the Evans' twice:

The first time because Lily invited him over for Petunia's engagement party as moral support. Marge and Vernon's parents were present and upon seeing Lily and James he remarked how "he couldn't wait to see how she would find a way to muck the night up." James, who took that as a personal challenge, spent the evening bringing up the most uncomfortable conversations he could manage ("So Marge, what are your thoughts on Astrology? You look like a Gemini.") then set the home's fire sprinkler system off on purpose when Vernon and Marge were in the sitting room after expecting Lily and Petunia to wash up the dishes. Despite knowing full well what he was doing, Lily couldn't be mad about it and even accepted when James snuck back after saying goodbye so he could come sleep with her.

The second time, was her and James' engagement and things were much easier without the entire Dursley family there. James got to sleep there without secrecy and he was more than happy to rechristen Lily's childhood bed.

-- At Petunia's wedding, Lily was distraught by her sisters choice to leave her out of the wedding party. This only added to the dismal mood as the wedding was extremely boring with no music/dancing/ or general merriment and most people just mulled around.

Attempting to raise Lily's spirits, James charmed an idle record player to play the Beatles Twist and Shout in which he made Lily come dance with him. This caused other people ( who were desperate for something fun) to also start dancing and effectively started a real afterparty. Vernon was not happy, but secretly Petunia was happy to have a bit of liveliness...even if it came from Potter and her sister.

[sburbian-sage]

hey, just stopping by to ask for advice. our session's Space player died, Land's dead, all that, but we can't find their pendant and frog breeding isn't done yet. Running theory is that it's in the Underworld somewhere, as our Seer (Seer of Hope) has something of a hunch (his hunches are pretty reliable and it's better than nothing, also, see ahead).

Thing is, the angels are still mucking about down there, haven't left for some reason. First party sent down there fled in a hurry because those things are MAD. Not sure if our Space player was in cahoots with them or this is just a weird glitch, but they aren't leaving and are extremely violent towards anything that isn't one of them. We think they're clustering around the corpse.

We've tried luring them out by drawing aggro of one or two at a time, scattering them with explosives, and we've managed to kill a couple but this is about as far from ideal as it gets, short of the pendant being dropped into the Forge or something.

Any tips for dealing with this? We can't progress until we get the pendant, and none of us have the stealth or firepower to get it back alone.

Session members: Grace of Space, Seer of Hope, Thief of Might (me), Dame of Flow, Smith of Time, Sylph of Dreams.

In the interest of satisfying your query, I'll answer assuming the Pendant is in fact in the Underworld. The only sidenote before beginning is just a "final double check" of sorts. Even if your resident huncher is generally reliable, "a hunch" is far from conclusive. If "a hunch" is how he (mis)understands or conceptualizes his Seer abilities, then fine. But the majority of final deaths are the result of players trying to do a "solo act" and ending up not having back-up when they needed it. Final messages over chat or in person, notes left in their house, disconcerting behavior, did any evidence point towards them going anywhere but the Underworld? If so, you don't need to go in there. If not, then carry on.

The Angels sticking in the Underworld is indeed unusual behavior. Final death usually results in the "cardiac arrest" of the Heart of the Land (AKA the fake underground sun stops working), and since the Angels are attracted to the Heart, they usually disperse and eventually despawn like everything does in a Dead Land. If the Heart is still active, that's very strong evidence your Grace of Space is alive and your Seer of Hope's dumb hunches are dumb. It could also be a glitch but "it's a glitch" is kind of the coward answer and you shouldn't rely on "things bad because bugs" unless you're truly slamming your head against a wall. Sometimes things are weird.

If the Angels aren't leaving, option one is make them. The fact that you implied you've been able to kill any is impressive, so worst comes to worst, apply cranium directly to brick structure. But the game has a built-in mechanism for it. Sneak in there, but instead of beelining for where you think the body is, go for the underground temples and ruins. Then start smashing stuff. Make bombs to expedite the process. If your vandalism is accompanied with the dying screeches of Angels, that means things are working and you need to keep it up.

If that truly isn't working, then it looks like the only other option is in fact "do the same things you were doing, but better", AKA brick meet skull. You did make the mistake of implying that violence is an option, albeit a shitty and ineffective one. Fortunately, I think there's still a better option, but unfortunately you made another mistake by telling me your Title. You're a Thief, a selfish class very geared towards stealth. And your Aspect is Might, which not only bolsters attempts to face problems head-on but outright grows stronger the more adversity they face. I'm sorry, but you're the ideal candidate for this mission, and it's a mission you're going to have to take alone. Make plans with everyone, treat it like a heist, alchemize whatever sneaking, evasion, and extraction gear you need. Gain advisory from your Seer of Hope and any tech support from the Smith of Time you can. And then plunge in there. If this is some fucked-up variant of an Angry Land, the Angels should calm down once you touch the Pendant.

Upsides, your RP Value is going to skyrocket if you pull this off. Downsides, do not think of them. It's either this, heavier artillery, making sure the Pendant isn't in there, or waiting for your Session to die.

ALSO MORE "FINAL DRASTIC MEASURES" IN CASE THE PENDANT ISN'T THERE OR YOU END UP DYING (unlikely!)

The idea that the Pendant got dropped in the Forge is pretty silly. Ignoring how that's a suicidally bad decision, even getting into a position where you could do that (or begin thinking about it) is pretty unlikely. If that is the case though, just find a way to become immune to lava, simple as.

If the Pendant is just flat-out missing (unlikely!), you could just perform the Space player's duties. You'll suck at them, because you don't intuitively understand how it works, but that's all ownership of the Pendant does. Transfer intuitive knowledge of how to perform duties. Granted, doing a half-assed job of Frog-Breeding is pretty bad, but better than no ass.

Did you check the Skaian Magicant? Also a dumb place to leave a Pendant, but "my seer blindly guessed it was in the underworld" still sounds stupid (and unlikely!) and there's a non-0% chance their "hunch" got scrambled in transit to the Magicant (because scrambling things is what the Magicant does), so check there.

If none of the above works and your session is well and truly fucked, deal with it. Try making a deal with one of your Denizens, Scratch the session, hop inside of a battleship and fling yourself into the Furthest Ring to personally shake my hand and say "hey I'm a fuck-up too". The most unlikely of the unlikelys, but things sounds pretty grim over there. Just assume this is wild doomerposting unless every single other option has been shut down.

[auxiliarydetective]

The OC Halloween Challenge - Day 18

You can find the challenge here!

Today's prompt was...

What’s The Opposite Of Miracles?

Places of worship are supposed to be places of good, where people go for guidance and safety, places full of good beings and devoid of sin. But what if the bad beings sneak in or the sinless place is just a hiding place for those full of sin?

Once again, inspiration struck me for this only once, so there was no poll. I simply remembered a fairly famous scene in a convent about a certain group of paratroopers and realized I needed to write something for Anita. So, here you go:

Anita felt the water run down her skin, a feeling she had missed very dearly these last few months. Week after week, day after day, huddled up in foxholes, not having showered in ages. She had tried to decline the sisters' generous offer multiple times at first. The men weren't allowed inside the living area of the sisters where they had their showers, only Anita was, because she was a woman. Usually it was always her who was denied something because of her gender, so she had tried not to abuse this situation. But in the end, after Lip had encouraged her multiple times, Captain Speirs had ordered her, and so she had taken up the offer in the end. At first she had still felt a little guilty, but the water raining down on her had washed the guilt away along with the dirt.

Anita stepped out of the shower and dried herself off, including her hair, as best as she could. She braided her hair into two braids along her head, turning them into snail-like buns above her neck, the way she had done it so many times since first putting on her jump boots. Finally, she slipped back into the same old, worn-out uniform as before, only that, beneath the fabric, she finally felt clean again.

When she stepped out of the shower room, she was greeted by a whistle and a familiar voice:

"Heeey, Anita! Lookin' sharp! Ready to perform a striptease again?"

Anita scoffed, the response coming out as a reflex:

"Shut up, Skip."

But then she remembered. It hit her like a mortar shell directly to the heart, exploding her flesh without harming it at all, yet the pain was the same. Everything that she had miraculously managed to ignore during her shower came back to her now, all at once. Immediately, tears formed in her eyes. She was frozen in place, couldn't move, couldn't think, only remember.

"You don't wanna talk to your old pals?" Another voice asked, clearly that of Alex Penkala. "Come on, it hasn't been that long."

Shakily, Anita managed to turn around. Behind her stood Skip Muck and Alex Penkala, clothes and bodies stained by dirt and remains of a mortar shell. But there was no blood. Immediately, Anita started sobbing, doubling over.

"Sh," Alex said softly. "It's okay, don't cry."

"Please, don't cry," Skip continued. "We can only have one person see us, so, please, keep quiet if you can."

Anita nodded, covering her mouth with her hands, trying to steady her breathing. This couldn't be real. It had to be a hallucination. By everything she knew, she had probably gotten shot during Dike's awful attempt at an assault on Foy, and everything after that had been either something she was cooking up during a coma or her way of dealing with the journey to the afterlife. Whatever it was, she wasn't going to resist. Even if she was definitely only imagining Skip and Alex being there, she was going to cherish every minute she had with them. They sat down against a wall together, Anita in the middle, Skip on one side, Alex on the other. Their arms touched hers, an odd coldness radiating off of them like a foggy mist. She didn't comment on it, and neither did she mention the fact that they were supposed to be dead. They definitely were dead. But she feared that saying it out loud would cause their apparitions to disappear.

Just as that thought crossed her mind, Anita saw silhouettes around her. She recognized them immediately, having grown so used to identifying them in pitch black nights. Donald Hoobler, Kenneth Webb, Harold Webb, Herron, Mellet, Sowosky... They were the fallen of Bastogne and Foy. All of them gathered together, sitting down in a circle on the floor.

"So, what did we miss?" Skip asked, throwing Anita a smile.

So, Anita started to tell them everything, trying not to sob too much. She couldn't stop herself from crying, the tears steadily flowing down her cheeks, dropping down onto her uniform. All the while, she kept talking, as if there were nothing odd about the situation at all. She summarized the action of the last few days like she would to someone who had just gotten back from the aid station. Nevermind the fact that these people had been even further away. After she was done recounting the events of Foy, they started reminiscing about Toccoa, about Aldbourne, D-Day, Holland... That was until there were steps down the hallway. One by one, the images of her brothers in arms faded as Anita gave them one last smile, doing her hardest to swallow her cries.

"There you are."

"Johnny," Anita replied, giving him her best fake smile. It was just now that she realized how exhausted she actually was. She felt like she couldn’t get up, so she stayed right there, on the ground, where she had been surrounded by fallen friends only a few seconds ago.

"You were expecting someone else, huh?"

"Kinda. But it’s not a bad surprise." Anita patted the floor next to her, prompting Johnny to sit down where a corpse had been sitting a minute before.

"I was starting to think you'd drowned yourself in the showers. I wouldn’t blame you. Nice way to die, compared to out there. At least it's warm. I was worried you'd had the same thought."

"What, and take Don down with me? You know damn well that, at this point, if I die, Don’s gonna follow right behind. I can't do that to him. He's gotta live."

"So do you. Your dad would be losing his only daughter, Arizona would lose a hell of a performer, and we'd all be losing a great friend. Some even more than that."

Anita smiled and shook her head. "You'd be losing your chance at seeing me naked is what you'd do."

"I didn't say that but you did promise that you'd perform for us one day. All the way back in Aldbourne, a few days before D-Day."

"And as long as there's one Toccoa guy still alive, I'll keep that promise."

"See? You don't get to die."

"Hm."

They sat in silence for a while, just staring down the hallway and enjoying the warmth of being inside after so long. But the memory of Skip, Penkala and the others didn't want to leave Anita alone.

"Johnny, do you believe in ghosts?" she finally asked.

Johnny shrugged. "Can't say I've ever seen one. But I could've sworn I heard you talking to someone on my way here and then there was just nobody there."

"I was talking to Skip and the others," Anita admitted before she'd had any time to think about it. "I figured they might wanna know Dike is gone, maybe celebrate a little now that they're not busy fighting anymore."

Johnny scoffed and shook his head. "I hope they get beer in the afterlife. They can make a toast to Dike's incompetence and send a poltergeist to trip 'im up."

Anita sighed. "Please don't tell anyone I talked to dead people, I don't want a Section 8. I'd rather bite a bullet than that."

"I'll stay quiet."

"Be honest, do you think I'm insane?"

"No, I just think you’re tired and you need to sleep." Johnny patted her back, then got to his feet, holding a hand out to her. "C'mon, up we go." Anita took his hand and let herself be pulled up from the ground. "Go cuddle with your boyfriend, hm? Maybe it'll help you both fall asleep. Last time I checked, he was sitting there like an exhausted toddler with a beard. I think he needs a kiss and I'm not giving it to him."

Anita smiled. "I get it. Do you need a kiss? Special offer, you know I'm taken."

"If Don tries to beat me up tomorrow because of this, I'll steal your hairbrush."

"Jokes on you, I won’t be needing it for the next few days."

Anita gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then pulled him back towards were the others were.

"Come on, you need sleep too, otherwise you'll be permanently grumpy again."

[sharpestasp]

Shadow and Bone S2E3

Episode 3

Alina - Feeling cocky. Alina is not coping well with the air. And she's going to try to defeat the Fold. But she lost it, doubt placed in her, or just not strong enough? Alina, you are so naive. She's aware of her failure. Do What Is Right. GOOD ALINA!

Mal - Being protective. Trying to ground Alina enough for her to do it. Mal is great. A good general in the making? Maybe. If he can get the personal out of the way of using that fine brain. OH. Please, yes? ADVISE HER! GO MAL. YES! Also, threesome please.

Sturmhond - Nice airship. He's a very good inventor. Into the fold we go, so the ship cannot go above it. DAMN. Hard landing, but he asks if everyone is okay first? I am loving this white boy. SO thankful he reached a soldier loyal to him. And he is so SAVVY. I love this man, jumping straight to a wedding?

Tolya - Wants luxury. They are a damn fine battle pair, he and Tamar.

Tamar - Wants to hunt. And here comes the army; her face as Sturmhond is revealed.

Kaz - So Asshole Mode. More flashback, yay. Who is the girl? Him actually SEEING Inej's injuries gets the truth, and he comes to help. Oh this is going to be BEAUTIFUL against the Dregs. Come on, Kaz… Gorgeous. He just dusted Per so hard. Oh he knows about the son.

Inej - Inej… what are you doing? And she is back. With intel. And OH she is not happy with Kaz. But when she knows, she commits. She also pushes her luck, but Nina intruded. Oh. She's after Mogens on her own. I feel bad for her, knowing she has to kill him. OOH, Lost Boys moment. OH BABY. Praying over him.

Jesper - Calling out Kaz. He's very angry. He really is more than a pretty face, working out this part of it. OH. Him using his power. He is SO falling for Wylan as Wylan plays. So is Jesper, trying to get him to back out.

Wylan - Accidentally triggering Kaz with mention of the floated bodies. He really doesn't want to sneak in. And we get backstory snippets, again. Comes up with a cover story. And now the piano scene… nice. He is a Good Heart. Poor Wylan! He's trying to save the boy.

Nina - Nina is solid in her resolve. She is trying so hard to help, even though you know she JUST wants Matthias to be free. And she is going to have to see the fight. OH FUCK. Pekka has her. Okay, Nina, what do you do?

Matthias - He's mucking a cell. And finding out what fate awaits him. Oh, he sees the dogs! His reaction to them! And trying to be kind to them. OH NO. Do you have to take the blows to get to the right mindset/ability? Berserker? Is that what a Druskelle is? I think so. And he does not want anything to do with that man.

Genya - She's trying to protect David, and he protects her instead. Ready to act! OH FUCK! She is so scared. GODS that poor woman.

David - taken into Kirigan's need immediately, but I think he's working his own ideas too. Oh he is Genya's in his soul. He is so scared. RUN! GO DAVID! YOU ARE SO BRAVE.

Kirigan - Talking to mummy dearest. "Tidemaker" for the one that held Baghra. He's obsessed with Alina, I think. And he knows Alina is moving again. OH YOU FUCKING BASTARD. Such a bastard. And he lost it! If the bridge is tainting him, as David said… can Alina use that against him?

Baghra - Coming to see how she fucked up, being pointed in telling it. The Firebird is known to Baghra? Is she lying about not? I am curious about her story. Should I read that?

NADIA!!!! - Nice to see her. And she has a brother, Adrik.

ZOYA!!! - MY HEART. She told Alina to knock it off! I love her.

[get-shiggy-with-it]

gin and tonic and bad, bad men

Collab Masterlist

✧ pairing: bartender!dabi x waitstaff!fem!reader

✧ word count: 6k

✧ warnings: misogyny, scummy dabi, noncon/dubcon, yandere vibes, cat calling, toxic relationships, toxic work environment, face fucking (?), smut, semi-public sex (in an alley), alcohol, drunk reader, drunk sex, smoking mention, brief spitting, humiliation, light degradation, probably incorrect use of restaurant terminology, reader is implied female but no body parts are explicitly gendered

✧ summary: Dabi is willing to protect you from those awful, nasty men who torment you at work, but he never does anything on the house -- or the newbie at the bar catches dabi's attention and everyone else's.

✧ a/n: Heyy my first dabi, and he's scummy as hell in this. who's shocked? Not me. This is for the BNHAREM collab and it's a coworker/workplace au! Please go check out all the other works, everyone is so talented! Enjoy~

Dead men tell no tales, but drunk men’s mouths run wild.

Liquor loosens the lips like no other force of nature.

Dabi knows this to be true.

Whiskey runs hot in the blood and makes hands reach to lay claim on whatever is closest, whatever is prettiest within their grasp.

Alcohol on the tongue draws forth cravings from deep, hidden pits in men—bears their ugly truths to the world—and Dabi is the master of this liquid sorcery.

He sits, high and mighty, behind the safety of his bartop and watches the sea of bodies grow loose with vodka and gin and in turn he drinks their secrets. Sees the things they hide in sobriety and knows their nature with a removed certainty that is only found in those who have seen the darkest depths of mankind and come out the other side stinking of their filth.

The mahogany slab that separates Dabi from the waves of slobbering drunkards does nothing to stop the infection from spreading. He knows their thoughts, knows their truth, knows what their hands long to bruise, because they’re his thoughts too.

His truth.

His longing.

Kept only at bay by the simple fact that the boss doesn’t like him drinking on shift. Likes to keep his air of professionalism even if the bar is nothing more than a seedy dive in the bad part of the bad part of town.

Whatever keeps him off Dabi��s back is fine.

“The bar is over there and that door is to the kitchen…”

Toga’s voice pulls him from his stupor. The dirty rag he’d been using to halfheartedly wipe down the counters leaves his skin slick, calluses soft and plump as the water eats at them. She’s showing around one of the new hires. The turn over rate for staff here is so goddamn awful that this is a near weekly occurrence, so Dabi doesn’t pay her much mind as she wanders over.

It isn’t until her face is shoved up against his across the bar that he looks away from his task.

“Say hi to the newbie!” she cackles, smile just deranged enough to keep her safe from the crowds on packed nights.

Toga doesn’t look it but she belongs here too, in the filth and squalor of humans. But not like him. She thrives and gorges herself on their foolishness, twirling through the mob of patrons, always knowing who’s back to pat for gracious tips and who’s to stab when she needs to.

He glances up through his lashes and is both shocked and unsurprised by what he finds.

Hanging off the end of Toga’s arm, you stand out against the dingy background of the taproom. The smog of the bar clings to it’s staff, making their hair dull and their eyes red rimmed. You haven’t been poisoned yet though. The smell of the downpour raging outside still clings to you and errant raindrops drip down your chin like tears.

“Hey,” he grumbles and with another prodding look from Toga tacks on a gruff, “name’s Dabi.”

“He’s our bartender,” Toga provides after his silence and you smile. He guesses cause you don’t know any better.

You’ll learn not to do that down here soon enough.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

Your name slips off your lips and onto his like top shelf tequila. There’s rain on your palm as you reach out for him, so when he takes it to shake, you can’t feel the way the grime clings to his skin—can’t feel the roughness etched into his fingers through the chill.

Can’t see him for what he is.

Meanwhile, you’re practically transparent in the dim, neon light of the bar.

The buttons of your shirt are undone too low, he notices as Toga drags you away to the back. He could warn you, should warn you. That when the late night crowd stumbles in, you’ll want those extra inches of skin covered up. That dressing like that is just asking for something to get smacked.

You must be stupid to not know it, because he doesn’t think you do.

You’re not really carrying yourself like a slut, he thinks, watching you trail along behind his boisterous coworker smiling and nodding and eager to please.

He ought to warn you.

But he knows he won’t.

You’ll be gone within a week and Dabi will swiftly forget your name and face just like the others before you. He’ll sneak shots in while his manager’s back is turned and any memory of you will be filtered out by his abused liver.

But for now, Dabi reigns himself back in to polish some of the obvious stains from his glasses and prepares himself for the show. The doors open in an hour, and he wants to be ready for the action.

The drunk antics of all the city's criminals gets old fast when you’re the one who has to clean up their shit.

Fresh meat is the only real entertainment they ever get around here.

So Dabi watches as you don one of the stained, black aprons and doesn’t tell you to cover up that sliver of your chest practically glowing in the electric red and blue light. Just looks on from the relative sanctuary of the bar as Toga instructs you on how to carry the drink trays and waits patiently to see you be devoured.

After you trip on the way back to the kitchen, Dabi pulls a twenty out of his pocket and shoves it in a jar hidden under the bartop. He makes a mental note to tell the chef he’s betting on just under a week you’ll last.

At the very least he’ll get a free performance and a neat hundred out of your inevitable failure.

He goes back to polishing, only looking up once as you breeze past the bar on your way to unlock the gates for the nocturnal animals of the city to filter in as they please.

You smile at him again as you pass.

Dabi tosses another twenty into the jar.

***

Well, he may have lost the bet, but he can’t find it in himself to mourn the forty dollars too hard.

Today would be your two week anniversary, and honestly, Dabi felt a bit of grudging respect for the determination you showed, no matter how pointless it was.

Determination and foolishness often came hand in hand.

He couldn’t help but think you looked more than a little the fool as you smiled and made unbridled eye contact with the patrons while walking your rounds from table to table. You’d learned enough to cover up a bit more, but he can’t be sure if that’s because you’ve started to notice the stares or because a spring cold front has rolled over the city. Either way, he watches you shiver under the gaze of a particularly rowdy guest and feels a chill run up his own spine as he watches the man’s eyes trail up your thighs, drinking down the slivers of bare skin like his fifth beer of the night.

Dabi is intrigued now.

Wonders how you’ve made it out of the fray every night so far.

Wonders what you’re hiding under those skimpy clothes and friendly, thoughtless smiles.

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out.

It’s inevitable really. When you’re working nights there are certain occupational hazards to expect. So when the little clock above the bar reads just past one in the morning, and you drift out once again into the raging mass of bodies, Dabi isn’t shocked to hear the yelp and smash of glasses just a few minutes later.

The first die has been cast.

He looks up from pouring out two fingers of whiskey just in time to catch the man’s hand slipping between your thighs, dirty fingers digging into the flesh and yanking you down onto his spread legs. The tray of drinks you’d been carrying clatters to the floor, lacing the air with the sweet burn of alcohol and futile outrage.

It’s far too loud to hear what the man says to you, but the way his blackened, ragged nails press five perfect, filthy crescents onto your skin—how they mark you as a worthy target, claiming you with their muck—sends a clear enough message.

Dabi wouldn’t bother watching if it wasn’t you trying to squirm your way out of being passed from lap to lap around the booth. He’s isn’t the least bit ashamed to admit how curious he is to see which way you’ll react.

And while he expects passivity—a drawn look with wide eyes, hoping no reaction at all will leave them bored and searching for a more interesting conquest—Dabi finds himself on the wrong side of the tracks once more.

His eyebrows shoot up, quite the reaction from the generally stony bartender, as your hand cracks open palmed across the face of your captor. A strange, heavy silence falls over the bar. It lasts only a few precious seconds but it’s enough to draw the attention of your manager who pulls you, cursing and snarling like a dog without it’s muzzle, back to the kitchen.

It’s your face that does him in—seals both your fates in dripping cream and purple wax.

Working down here, in this pigsty bar with it’s air that clings and dirties and tarnishes, brightness of any kind is foreign.

Alluring.

And your eyes that shine with the glow of reckless willpower have the same draw as the fat wads of cash that slip too easily from drunk fingers into his tip jar. Defiance is a rare currency in the underworld and Dabi’s fingers itch as your secret is revealed.

You believe you’re worth something.

Even as he hears the rasp of his boss’ voice, berating and threatening from behind the swinging doors, Dabi can’t help but hold the image of your smile turned snarl. You’ll get off with a warning because you’ve lasted this long and it’s a hassle to find replacements with pretty enough faces. But only this once, do it again and you’ll be out on the street.

For his part he tries to look sympathetic when you crowd yourself behind the bar and pout with your tail between your legs.

You haven’t spoken to him since that first night and he hasn’t exactly made an attempt at conversation either.

It wasn’t like you were worth the effort before.

But now, as you sniffle and pretend the pin prick tears in your eyes are just from the bite of the liquor slicked floor, Dabi feels an old heat rise in him. Something stokes the embers that laid dying out inside the prison of his ribs, and he welcomes the familiar burn.

Like an old friend, like a knife at his throat.

The man from before approaches the bar to order another drink and his cloudy eyes don’t even seem to register the way you cower from him, back turned and sinking into the peeling wallpaper. They’ve forgotten you already. To them you are one of dozens, not worth the fight it takes when plenty of properly meek flesh hops from table to table, ripe for picking.

But Dabi see’s the flint in your hands and knows it’s you that lit this fire licking up the back of his throat.

With two rough fingers he beckons you over into the soft overhead spotlights of the bar. Like a beast to its master’s call you shuffle forward into his gravitational pull and look up at him warily.

“Wanna learn how to mix?” he asks, even to him his voice sounds harsh with disuse.

“...sure,” you say quietly, after a brief pause.

You’re warm and soft as he settles behind you, caging you in with his arms under the guise of reaching for a strainer or a jar of olives. Unlike that bastard, now long passed out from drink, Dabi’s face remains free of your claw marks when his chest brushes against you or his hand wanders to the small of your back to move you aside as he serves customers.

He even works up a little smile of his own when you stare, sunny bright over your shoulder at his attempt to distract you from the incident.

The city, the bar, the underground—all of it is an angry, storming ocean filled with angry, storming bodies that swiftly drowns its victims as they desperately tread water in the open, black abyss.

Without him, you’d learn to take the wandering hands and vulgar words or you’d be foolish enough to inhale them in lungfuls and sink to the bottom.

But as you smile and nod while he shows you how long to stir an Old Fashioned, Dabi feels his own neglected determination rise to the challenge.

By the end of the night, you already trail behind him as he does his rounds to each abandoned table. Like a stranded victim to a raft, you cling to the safety he’s dared to provide.

And if he plays his cards right.

He might not come out of this bet so empty handed.

If only you knew, he was no better than the rest of them.

You’d run straight from the trees into the wolf's den.

***

“What’s your favorite drink to make?” you ask.

Dabi glances up at you, his chest pressed against the cool surface of the bar as he surveys the empty taproom. It’s a little over an hour till opening, but the only thing waiting for him outside of this hellhole is an even deeper hellhole, so Dabi almost always finds himself lounging around the abandoned bar. The boss doesn’t care anyway as long as inventory gets taken and any dried blood from the night before is gone by the next day.

You’ve taken to drifting in early too, even sometimes on the nights you don’t work.

Normally, he’d be annoyed, but it’s better you’re here than out on the streets.

At least if you’re bugging him behind the bar, he can keep an eye on you. Dabi’s found recently that you’ve been on his mind with increasing frequency. It’s easier if you’re in his line of sight. There’s a certain reassurance in your dopey little smile and your hand fisted in the back of his shirt—your body knows where you belong even if your pretty little brain hasn’t quite caught up yet.

Pretty.

“My favorite or my best?” he grunts, pushing off the bar and wetting his lips.

“Is there a difference?”

You’re looking at him with what he assumes is meant to be a cocky grin, but he has a hard time taking you seriously with your crossed arms squishing your chest up like that.

“‘Course there is,” he turns to grab one of the highball glasses from it’s rack and sets it down on the counter. “Just because you like something, doesn’t mean you’re good to it.”

When he looks back at you over his shoulder, you’ve got this comical little furrow in your brow.

“To it?”

Dabi presses the tip of his finger into your forehead, “At it, whatever. Don’t frown so much, you’ll look old as fuck soon if you do.”

“You don’t know how old I am,” you scoff and slap his hand away.

“Bet I’m older,” he mumbles, searching the shelves of bottles idly while dropping a few cubes of ice into the glass.

It melts in his palm, slipping through the spaces between his fingers.

Dabi clenches his fist tighter.

“I don’t know about that,” you’re trotting around to the other side of the bar now, slipping into one of the worn, red topped stools and watching him start to mix.

He likes having you for an audience. Any other customer is only concerned with getting his drink as fast a possible, to numb whatever wounds need to be numbed on their insides. But you appreciate the art form of crafting this liquid destruction.

“I’m older where it counts,” he replies simply, pulling a bottle of gin down from near the top shelf and plopping it on the counter.

“Oh really? How’s that?”

Dabi measures out two ounces of sharp, clear liquor and pours it smoothly over the ice. He doesn’t bother looking at you as he works. He knows your eyes won’t leave him.

“Experience,” he offers and doesn’t elaborate.

The tonic water cracks open with a satisfying hiss and bubbles as he tips it into the glass. You trail your fingers through the condensation on the bar absentmindedly.

“I’m not as clueless as you think I am, you know that?”

He does glance at you then, senses the lack of your attention that’s focused on the fading finish of the bar top.

Dabi waits in silence.

You do elaborate.

“There’s some real fucking choice clientele here, but nothing that’s gone down on shifts is like, a new development.”

“No?” he asks because you expect him to respond and because he enjoys the way you perk up when he actually engages in a conversation with you.

He likes that you like it.

His attention.

It’s not often he finds anyone worth the effort.

“No.”

You stare at him expectantly now, eyes flicking between him and the glass as he stirs the drink a few times and grabs a lime wedge.

Dabi rolls his eyes at the clear fishing line you’re casting for more questions, but takes the bait anyway.

He hopes you know how lucky you are.

“What, got groped on the train a few times and now you think you're a seasoned member of the criminal underground?” he squeezes the fruit between two fingers lightly to spread its juice around the rim and lets it float atop the ice. “I fucking knew you were a dramatic little bitch.”

“I am not dramatic,” you pout just like you do every time the boss chews you out.

He gets the distinct feeling you’re just as much of a petulant little brat elsewhere as you are at work. Then again, that is what makes you so interesting. If you didn’t try to gnash those little baby teeth at him every now and again, he wouldn’t have bothered jumping to your rescue so often.

Dabi doesn’t partake in...partners often. People disappoint him, which isn’t shocking considering the amount of shit he’s seen them spew in his years behind the bar. People are dirty and never in the sexy way all those pop songs talk about, and that makes them boring. The allure of inviting someone else into his shoebox little life is shaping them to fit it. You can’t sculpt mud that loses its shape, slips through your fingers and back to the filthy earth where it belongs.

But you haven’t been stained yet.

You sit at his bar looking like a perfect slab of clay, ready for his hands to dip past those sweet, sweet lips and form them to fit only his fingers.

A rare find in a place like this, just like the single malt on his top shelf—unexpected, leaving behind a pleasant burn on his tongue.

He thinks back to that man on the first night he showed you some of the drinks and all the others that came after him. Here, in the bar, you can come scurrying over and hide behind the wall of his chest. You can put Dabi and the counter between you and the mass of hands and whistles.

He hadn’t really bothered to think of what might happen to you when he’s not around.

Who might touch his precious treasure he’s managed to dig out of muck.

Who might try and ruin you before he gets the chance.

His brain is working to rationalize the growing feeling of possession he feels towards the half frown half permanent smile that you fix him with. But he knows.

He knows exactly what he’d like to do to you and how he’d like to do it.

Knows it’s exactly what all those creeps on the train or drunks that stumble in one hour to call would like too.

It’s fine though. People like him wouldn’t be so attracted to people like you if you weren’t asking for it.

And you were asking.

Every time you stood by him, attached at the hip and let him chase off the assholes who tried to get in your pants or practically begged him with your eyes for some scrap of attention—you were asking for him to take control.

Even if you were too stupid to see it for yourself.

Your body knows what you want, even if you deny it with every fiber left of you.

He doesn’t offer another response, just slides the concoction across and into your outstretched hands.

Gin and tonic is simple, bare bones and hard to fuck up. He likes that. Everything else is so goddamn complicated, this type of magic doesn’t need to be.

You seem to forget the weight of the previous conversation and peer curiously down into the glass. Dabi is shameless as he watches your lips wrap around the curved edge and your throat constrict as you swallow.

He likes that more than the floral gin that hits his tongue when you pass the drink back and he sips.

“So which is it, your favorite or your best?”

There’s a pause as he considers the questions before passing the glass back to you.

“My favorite.”

He isn’t looking at the drink when he answers.

“Oh,” you respond quietly, sipping lightly on the drink he’s made and looking at him like he isn’t seconds away from taking you then and there.

“Stay awhile after your shift,” he says, not much thought behind the words. “I’ll drive you home.”

***

You look almost angelic, a beacon amongst the refuse and grime of the back alley, silhouetted by the dying orange glow of a lone street lamp. The door to the kitchen is still rattling in its frame as Dabi pulls you stumbling behind him.

He isn’t angry.

But there’s something burning in him.

In reality, he’d felt the potential of the night the instant he walked through the front doors, slipping behind the bar to clock in only to find you leaned up against the drink racks, ready and waiting.

The same sensation since the first time you’d smiled that dopey smile his way was raging to a crescendo under his skin. He’d been doing you a service all these weeks, keeping you from the prying eyes and fingers of the patrons—keeping them from soiling what was his to ruin.

Tonight he would take what he was owed.

Indulge a bit in what he’d won, the gold nugget he’d plucked from the dirty, city sewer riverbed.

After all, he needed to make sure you were a worthwhile investment.

If the boss thought the restaurant business was risky….well, Dabi knew better.

You struggled a bit as his fingernails dug into the skin on your bicep, but he just tugged harder, clicking his tongue at the jumble of slurred protests you groaned into the sweet summer air. There was a space between the two massive dumpsters out behind the kitchen Dabi used to go to smoke. It was a nice, private little spot. Didn’t smell too great but nothing here did, and that wouldn’t matter when he had you to distract him anyway.

In seconds he had your back to the wall, hidden on either side by steel containers. The brick caught on your uniform and Dabi watched the fabric tighten around your chest and throat. You brought your hands up to his shoulders, but your hands were weak as they shoved at him, easy to gather in one palm and pin down.

He wasn’t exactly sure what put this idea in his head—the urgency in his blood—but it definitely had something to do with that last customer.

It was halfway through your night shift, closing in on one in the morning. Dabi was stuck behind the bar, churning out cheap beers and lines of shots. You’d been forced to brave the sea of regulars, too busy to hide yourself away in the kitchen with Toga or watch with owl-wide eyes as Dabi doled out liquor.

The bar was unusually packed. Not that it was strange for a bar to be full on a Friday night, but he’d never seen the place without an empty seat in sight.

Maybe it was because you were so easily swallowed up by the roiling mass of bodies, or maybe it was because Dabi lost himself in the magic of the drinks—of the mixing and matching and perfecting—that he didn’t notice the man.

That the way this particular customer stared and touched and spoke to you miraculously didn’t end in a smart slap to the face and a screaming session from the manager.

No. It seemed that somewhere along the way he’d let that light in you, the matchstick spark, dwindle just a bit too much, let you sink just a bit too far into the mud of the place. Cause when this man pulled you into his lap and plied you with shot after shot, cheering all the time, calling you his ‘pretty little thing,’ you didn’t put up any fight.

No.

No you smiled that dumb, bright eyed smile at him.

Flashed this nobody asshole Dabi’s sweet little smile and drank the shots he’d poured like Dabi hadn’t wasted the nearly a month driving you home and keeping you safe from the human garbage that wandered in off the street. Like all that work had been for nothing, up in ashes the instant that man’s hand found purchase on your bare thigh and you didn’t so much as squirm in his grip.

You squirm now though.

Fight despite the alcohol blurring your vision and turning your bones to jelly. Normally the boss hates it when his employees drink on shift, but if you want to take it like the fucking slut you were well, who’s Dabi to stop you?

He kept pouring rounds for that table and watched the man tip sweet, top shelf whiskey down your throat. It didn’t take long till you were losing your balance and sinking deeper into the quicksand debris of the bar.

Gin and tonics used to be medicinal—mixed up with quinine to treat malaria. Dabi likes that. Likes the idea that he’s whipping up healing potions instead of Molotovs. Likes the freshness amidst the burn.

But Dabi wants you to burn now.

Wants your throat on fire with the betrayal.

It’s easy to force your knees. The whiskey made you pliant even as you shake your head and look up at him with bleary eyes.

“You’re looking at me now, huh?” he works his tongue across his teeth as the words leave him, spitting straight on your cheek to watch you recoil in disgust. “Didn’t seem too interested in me earlier.”

“I don’t, I’m sorry...what?” you mumble.

He thinks if you were more coherent you might be crying.

Maybe he should have cut you off sooner.

“Don’t act stupid with me,” he still has your hands held above your head and his free hand moves to grip your scalp. “You’ve been behind my bar so many times, there’s no way you don’t know I see everything.”

“Why didn’t you…” Dabi shakes your head as your eyes droop and you gasp at his nails raking your skin. “You could have helped me!”

“What? Help you get fucked by some drunk shit? I don’t think so.”

“No,” you shake your head yourself this time, face screwed up in confusion and as the grit of the alley bites into your knees. “They wouldn’t let me leave, I was scared, Dabi please—”

He is swiftly losing his patience, hand leaving your head to fumble with the clasp of his belt and pants. The look on your face—tears beginning to bead at the corners of your eyes and mouth opening up as words try but fail to find their way off your tongue—is enough to have his cock twitching with interest.

“Listen sweetheart, cause I’m not gonna fucking say this again,” he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in his chest as his dick falls free from his boxers and your eyes go almost all white as he strokes up the ladder of piercings on his shaft. “You might think you’re cut out for this job, but you aren’t shit. Everything’s got a price down here and you’re gonna have to pay the fuck up for what you owe me.”

You look like you want to protest, even in this state—on your knees in an dirty as fuck alley with a fat cock nudging your lips—but he’s got his thumb worked between your teeth, shoving down on your tongue until your jaw pops open and he can sheath himself inside.

The half choke, half sob, half shameful moan that squeezes out past his dick only has Dabi growing harder. It’s been so long since he’s fucked someone’s throat. So long since he’s fucked anything at all, he’s nearly forgotten how goddamn good it feels to have something other than a fist wrapped around him.

His fingers migrate, moving to grip you by the cheeks, keeping your mouth open and jaw locked so you can’t bite him. Not that he thinks you really would.

Your body knows what you want.

And it seems like you really want a fucking dick in your mouth.

He pulls out, listening to the click of the little metal barbells against your teeth and the gasp of air you take before he plunges back in.

“Look at you,” he muses, daring to release your hands which flop uselessly to your sides as he holds your face still and starts to roll his hips. “Don’t know why I waited so long to collect, fucking shit.”

Your neck bulges with every stroke of his hips, and when the ring at the tip of his dick nudges the back of your throat, you gag so pretty he can hardly stand it.

He wonders idly, as you cry and choke on his cock, if you’re thinking about the man in the bar. Wishing it was his length you were lapping at like a good little hole.

Wishing Dabi had been better.

Not like the others.

And for a moment, it has him stilling—the horrid notion that there might have been something not so twisted between you if only he wasn’t scum like the rest, if he wasn’t just hiding his dirt on the inside.

Tar logged lungs and heart.

But then he remembers that if he just fucks you hard enough, you’ll forget all those nasty things until you’re fit just for him. Molded for Dabi right down to the thoughts in your head.

So instead of stopping this now and hoping you’re drunk enough to forget the filth of the alley and the salt of his cum on your tongue, he picks up his pace.

His thighs burn with the effort, not used to this kind of movement after years alone, and your face is a mess of tear tracks and spit that dribbles out in streams around the length of him slamming into your throat.

It’s quick and dirty and hard and everything Dabi has ever been and will always be. Delicious and hot and fresh. His blood is pounding in his ears, drowning out the cries and sobs and whimpers coming from you between his knees. Instead his head is alight with the thought that soon he’ll mark that mouth as his, claim you before the others could. And if the road to hell is paved with good intentions then Dabi doesn’t know where he’s going when he dies, but he’s deep in heaven now.

With a bang and a whimper Dabi will pretend didn’t slip past his lips, he slams past your teeth once more before exploding in your mouth. Thick, white ropes of release coat your tongue and he doesn’t pull out, just works his fingers under your jaw until he feels you swallow around his softening cock.

Only then does he take a step back to survey his work.

Half in shadow, surrounded in trash and debris, cum stained with dirt under your nails, Dabi feels pride well in his chest.

Distantly he thinks that this burning sense of completion, of perfection, of accomplishment, is what an artist must feel—hand finally dropping the brush to gaze upon their life’s work.

A masterpiece.

His perfect, human clay creation.

Your mouth still hangs dumbly open, hands resting on the brick dust coated ground, your eyes are wide and still stare up at him—reminiscent of a peasant gazing onto a king, confused at the power before you. And with the dim burning of the streetlight, illuminating his hair and glinting off the silver piercings adorning his ears, Dabi thinks he must look just that—a king with his crown of bloody jewels.

He watches as you sway and fall forward on your hands and coughing onto the ground. Your chest heaves, your legs shake, and Dabi feels his shoulders soften. He tucks himself away slowly, refastening his belt as your sputtering subsides. With careful steps, he moves to stand in front of you once again, running his hand along the back of your head until your breaths come deeply and his mouth tastes sickly sweet at the way your hands move to grip at his boots.

“Hey,” he mumbles, feeling some strange heat in his face that brings him to his knees before you. “Look at me.”

And you do in an instant.

Dabi half expects a glare, steely and cold like the walk-in but it’s not.

Your eyes are blank and glossy, staring hooded and helpless like a stray cat desperate to be carried away and fed warm milk.

He wipes a bit of his own release from the corner of your mouth and doesn’t question the sudden, intense need to lick behind your teeth. With filthy hands he cups your face and revels in the feel of your swollen lips and the taste of himself on your tongue.

It screams ownership.

And Dabi has never had much to his name so the thought only makes him want to cling harder.

As he pulls away there’s a smear of red dust on your cheek from his thumbs stroking the skin. Marked. Claimed. Coated in a thin layer of grime just like every other poor soul that walks into this place, but that dirt is his. That filth is him, a permanent imprint on your bones.

He thinks you’d look good with his name in black ink etched into your flesh, dark and blatant so anyone who looks at you would know, would see who owns you even when the muck has been washed away.

“You did good,” he says, giving you a smile of his own—maybe his first, surely not his last.

Your voice is nothing more than a sunken ship wreckage of what it once was, interrupted with sniffles and creaks. “I..want to go home….”

“Let me drive you,” his hands reach under your arms to lift you shakily off the ground, head tucked safely into his shoulder as he helps you limp to his car. “Not safe for you to go walking at this time of night. Men can be fucking monsters you know?”

His heart pounds happily in his chest as you nod against him.

“Thanks,” you whisper into his shirt.

Dabi grins wider than he can ever recall. The kind of expression that makes his cheeks ache and his head spin.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” the words drip off his tongue, top shelf truth if he’s ever heard it. “Anytime.”

[iliveiloveiwrite]

You Know What They Say About Weddings // R.W. (celebration fic)

Request: Omg congratulations!!!! Could you do a Ron x Reader with the "theres only one bed" trope and fluff prompts 11 and 1? Thank you so much and congrats again!! - @mischi3f-manag3d

Fluff 1: “I think I’m in love with you.”

Fluff 11: “Apparently all our friends have a bet going that we end up together.”

A/N: Just me that's ridiculously attracted to the photo below? Anyway! Here is your request, I hope you like!! 

Pairing: Ron Weasley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: I don’t think there are any - just a load of fluff really.

Word count: 1.6k

The band hired by Molly Weasley upon the recommendation of an old friend played in the corner of the marquee. The Weasley family and their friends all crowded there; happy to watch the eldest Weasley child, Bill, marry the love of his life, Fleur.

It had been a wonderful ceremony; very few left the service with dry eyes.

You found it hard to keep your emotions in check through it all; wanting so desperately to turn to the youngest Weasley son beside you and ask if he felt the same way as you – if he loved you just as much as you have loved him since Fifth Year.

You think back to this morning; when you had arrived at the Burrow in time to watch the marquee be raised. Your eyes had landed on Ron, and they hadn’t left him. Your eyes ran over his body; drinking in the sight of him in a suit – sleeves rolled up due to the already warm day. Not wanting to be caught, you turned away and rid your mind of the thoughts running through it at warp speed.

With a laugh at the memory, you drag Ron onto the dancefloor. Awkwardness radiates from him, but he dutifully places his hand on your waist and takes your hand in his as your other hand places itself on his shoulder. You laugh together as you try to follow the beat of the song; the dance lessons given by McGonagall doing nothing for either of your left feet. You step on his toes repeatedly, but he doesn’t complain once; he just changes tact – instead of trying to attempt the waltz, he simply changes the hold of his arms and decides to have fun instead.

Spinning around the dancefloor; you can’t help but let yourself imagine. You can’t help but let yourself think of the future you so desperately desired with the very redhead holding you so gently in his arms.

You know what they say about weddings.

-----

Fred leans down to Harry’s ear, pointing towards Ron and you on the dancefloor, “When do you think they’ll pull their finger out?”

Harry laughs, “Worried about the bet, Fred?”

Fred snorts, “Hardly.”

Harry watches his best friend twirl you around on the dancefloor before pulling you back in as you laugh. Harry swivels to face Fred, “You know what they say about weddings.”

--------

You throw off your heels; groaning at the feel of your blood rushing back to your feet. At this height, Ron can easily throw an arm over your shoulder, “Better?”

You nod, “Much.”

Following Ron upstairs, you stifle yawn after yawn. The reception had been one of the best nights of your life; dancing, drinking, laughing – it was a truly happy night. You had danced with Ron for a lot of night; dragging him to the dancefloor for one dance but then staying with him for three more. He eventually left to get drinks whilst you danced with Hermione, Ginny, and Luna – a wide smile across your face.

You hadn’t missed the looks exchanged by the girls when Ron came back to steal your attention. You also hadn’t missed the conversation between Ron’s family and your friends as they watched you continue to the dance with the red-haired man.

You shake your head as you remember that moment; you were aware of the bet they had going. Hermione unable to keep a secret from you had blabbed it to you less than a month after it was made. She felt awful for keeping it from you, but you assured her you didn’t mind too much – curious as to who had what date.

“You don’t mind sharing my room with me?” Ron checks.

You shake your head, smiling at him sleepily, “I don’t mind.”

Ron relaxes somewhat, but he still remains tense, “There’s only one bed.”

You roll your eyes, “How many nights did I sneak into the hospital to stay with you after you hurt your leg?”

Ron blushes, “You’re right. I’ll let you get changed first… just knock when you’re done.”

In that moment, he looks so helpless that you lift yourself onto your tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. The last thing you see before closing his bedroom door is Ron pressing a hand to his cheek with a wide smile.

You knock lightly on the door when you’re done changing. Ron enters the room with a light blush dusting his cheeks; his eyes running over body quickly. He turns to his dresser, pulling out his pyjamas.

“I’ll wait outside for you to finish changing.”

Ron shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it; just turn around.”

“If you’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” He laughs.

You turn to face the singular window; the moon is high in the sky and the sky is so clear that you can see the stars. Looking into the garden, you see Bill and Fleur still dancing – alone, no longer surrounded by family and friends. They have no idea they have an audience; they just remain in each other’s arms, finally happy to have a private moment between them. You shift your gaze when Bill dips his heads to kiss his wife.

You think to yourself; there’s just something about weddings.

Ron coughs; bringing you out of your reverie. Turning around, you find him dressed in some old sweatpants and an old shirt. Your heart softens at the sight of him; his hands flex at his side – his nervous tick

His bed is just big enough for two; you lie side by side on your back, hands laid out by your sides. It would take less than a millimetre of space; less than a second of time to reach out and take his hand in yours, to tangle your fingers together.

But you don’t. You lie next to him; mind racing just as fast as your heart – any sense of tiredness hanging over you chased away the moment you laid down next to the boy you’ve loved since Fifth Year.

“Did you have fun today?” Ron asks in the dark; filling the silence.

“I did. It was nice to see everyone before we go back to school. Harry and Ginny looked particularly close.”

Ron frowns, “My sister and my best friend.”

You giggle, turning onto your side, “Don’t act like you don’t approve.”

Ron sighs with a smile,  “You’ve caught me out,” He furrows his brows, “Did you see them all whispering when we were dancing?”

Nodding, you bite your lip, “Apparently all our friends have a bet going that we end up together.”

Ron snorts, reaching for your hand in the dark, “I know. Harry told me about it tonight.”

You sit up in bed; not letting go of his hand, “How long has it been going on? Hermione told me about it but she never said when it started.”

“Since last year. Harry only brought it up because if we get together by Saturday, he wins the bet.”

You laugh, “I can’t believe them.”

“Absolute gits,” Ron laughs.

You play with your fingers, dropping his hand to do so, “What do you think of the bet?”

Ron sits up, “Why?”

“It doesn’t annoy you?” You question; risking a peek at his face in the limited light of the moon.

“Not particularly. It’s a harmless bet.”

You nod your head; trying not to think too much of it.

“Why? What do you think of the bet?”

You sigh heavily; wondering how best to phrase what you’ve wanted to say to him all day, deciding that the truth is the best way to go. “I think I’m in love with you,” You state; bluntly, honestly.

Ron’s mouth drops open and you start talking without giving him a chance to say anything, “You don’t need to feel the same; really, you don’t,” You grab a pillow, “I’ll go sleep on the couch, I’ll see you in the morning.”

You make to leave but Ron’s hand grips your wrist, “Sit back down. At least give me a chance to reply.”

You sit back down on the bed slowly; your hand still grips the pillow in case you need to sleep downstairs. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Ron asks.

Shrugging your shoulders, you say, “I’m not sure. I wanted to, I really did but then you were with Lavender and I didn’t feel like talking to you a lot and then, and then, and then, I guess I didn’t want to ruin the friendship.”

“I wondered why you pulled away through Lavender; I barely saw you.”

You sigh; crushing the pillow to your chest, “It hurt too much to look at you.”

Ron shuffles on the bed, “If I had known-”

“You’d have what?” You interrupt, “You’d have broken up with her?”

Ron shakes his head, “I’d have never dated her.”

“What?”

“I’d have never dated her,” He repeats, “I’d have asked you out.”

“Oh,” You state.

“Yeah,” Ron mumbles, looking down.

“We’ve mucked this up haven’t we?”

“Nah, we haven’t,” Ron laughs, “We just delayed their bet.”

You giggle, “The bet. Who do we want to win?”

“Who’s the closest to tonight?”

You think for a moment; remembering the piece of paper that Hermione explained was the bet. “I think you were right earlier,” You say, “Harry is the closest by Saturday.”

“What do you think? Shall we let Harry win?”

You smile softly, leaning closer to Ron, “I think I’m okay with Harry winning.”

“Thank Merlin,” Ron whispers before pulling you in for a kiss.

His hand caresses your cheek, and he smiles into the kiss. You soon begin to laugh at the absurdity of it all; having to pull away from the redhead and assure him that it isn’t him you’re laughing at. Your jealousy over Lavender never spurred you to confess your feelings, neither did the Department of Mysteries, but a bet and a wedding has you falling into Ron’s arms.

Well, you know what they say about weddings.

***********

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen @obsessedwithrandomthings @harrypotter289 @kalimagik @heloisedaphnebrightmore @nebulablakemurphy @the-hufflefluffwriter @figlia--della--luna @bforbroadway @idont-knowrn @summer-writes @big-galaxy-chaos @black-lake-confessions @annasofiaearlobe @imboredandneedalife @levylovegood @mytreec @haphazardhufflepuff @teheharrypotter @chaoticgirl04 @accio-rogers @msmimimerton @izzytheninja @slytherinprincess03​ @acciotwinz​ @kashishwrites​

[havenoffandoms]

Man’s Best Friend

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29786457/chapters/73307826#workskin

Summary: When Eskel can’t stomach any human interaction, Lambert brings in the big guns.

This is just an excuse to write some Lil Bleater and Eskel fluff. Check out the link on AO3 for the series @creativwit and I have created (titled the Eskel Fluff Dump, to go with our Eskel Whump Dump, because we’re creative like that). 

Lambert knows that today is not a good day for Eskel when he sees his brother trudging into the kitchen, hair still tousled from where it rested on his pillow all night, and still in his cotton braies and shirt he always wears to bed. Eskel isn't in the habit of not cleaning up before breakfast. In fact, on most occasions when Lambert came down for breakfast Eskel will have been awake for hours already, either getting a headstart on his chores or reading in the library. Not today, it seems. Today Eskel looks like shit.

And Lambert tells him that in the nicest, most caring way possible.

"You, brother, look like you've been dragged by a zeugl through the shitty sewers of both Novigrad and Oxenfurt."

Lambert's easy banter, meant to lighten Eskel's sour mood, only earns him a raised middle finger in response. Which is strange in and of itself, because Eskel is not one for rude gestures. Eskel can destroy a man's reputations using only his words and wit. Lambert knows because he's witnessed it once in his lifetime and to this day the innkeep in Ard Carraigh will let anyone who mentions the name Eskel sleep and eat for free in his establishment.

"Okay, tough crowd," Lambert clicks his tongue once, wrecking his brain for a way to engage Eskel. The latter picks up an apple and a jug of water (at least Lambert hopes it's water and not ale… or vodka) before shuffling out of the kitchen again without sparing Lambert a glance or a word.

Strange. Lambert really should investigate.

__________

"Hey Geralt!"

"Lambert."

Lambert finds Geralt in the stables mucking out Roach's stall. Lambert makes sure to pat his own gelding on the nose in greeting before addressing his brother again.

"Seen Eskel this morning?" Lambert asks casually, as if he's not still internally freaking out at just how terrible their brother looked this morning. Geralt glances up at Lambert briefly, and if Lambert wasn't as well-versed in Geralt's body language he would have missed the concern flash in his yellowish eyes.

"Briefly as he was heading down for breakfast."

"Alright. So maybe you can tell me what crawled up his ass and died there?"

Geralt shrugs his shoulders and resumes his shovelling motion.

"He didn't speak much."

"Exactly. Usually he at least spares a good morning. Not even that! He flipped me off this morning," Lambert adds for emphasis, because if Geralt is unwilling to see the severity of the situation then Lambert will make him see it.

"You probably had it coming."

"Beside the point, as usual, pretty boy. Eskel doesn't do shit like that."

"He's only human. Every man has a breaking point."

Lambert throws his hands up in the air dramatically and rolls his eyes at Geralt in an exasperated manner. How does the bard do it, Lambert wonders! It's like Geralt is doing his best to be dense.

"Fine! If you're no help, maybe papa Vesemir will know."

With those words, Lambert leaves the stables and heads straight for the library where he's sure to find the old man.

__________

"No Lambert, I haven't seen Eskel this morning," Vesemir informs him without looking up from the book he's reading, "though I heard him toss and turn all night."

"Probably why he went back to bed this morning after I saw him," Lambert muses. Vesemir looks up then, one eyebrow raised in question.

"Eskel went back to bed?" the old witcher asks, worry barely noticeable in his tone but Lambert just knows . "That's not like him."

"Exactly what I thought."

"Did he say anything to you when you saw him?"

Lambert describes their encounter to Vesemir and watches the man's frown deepen when Lambert mentions that Eskel didn't even bother to get dressed. So Lambert isn't crazy. It is odd seeing Eskel this way.

"This is peculiar," Vesemir comments when Lambert is done, "very peculiar. Did you three drink last night?"

"Nope." Lambert probably takes too much pride in that single statement. So what? He's not drank a drop in two days, where's his medal? "Nope, we all had an early night. Unless Eskel hides a stash of secret alcohol and fisstech from us. If he does, then Vesemir can you please tell him that it's rude not to share with his brothers?"

Vesemir rolls his eyes at that statement, but the worried frown doesn't subside. Lambert is starting to feel agitated himself. If Eskel isn't willing to talk to any of them, if he's intent on avoiding all of them, then how is Lambert supposed to help? Suddenly, an idea hits him.  He manages a quick "Be right back!" in Vesemir's general direction before he leaves the library. He takes the steps two by two and jumps down the last five before dashing to the stables once again. Geralt is long gone, but that doesn't matter. Lambert doesn't need pretty boy's help to carry out his plan.

__________

"Come on, you stupid son of a bitch," Lambert curses as he tries to tie a leash around Lil Bleater's neck, "your dad needs some goat loving!"

Lil Bleater bleats indignantly, then hisses and coughs at him. Lambert didn't even know goats could do that! Creatures from hell they are, he thinks to himself as he grabs Lil Bleater by the horns when she tries to headbutt him in the family jewels.

"You little shit! How are you so tame around Eskel? What does he do to earn your love, she-devil?"

Lil Bleater manages to dislodge her head from Lambert's grasp and once again aims straight for his nuts. Lambert is quick enough to dodge, the Goddess be blessed, and the goat catches him in the thigh instead. Behind him, Lambert hears Scorpion huff and nicker at his predicament. Lambert glares at the stallion over his shoulder.

"I swear to the Gods, you're no horse! Admit it! You're a person trapped in the body of a horse."

Scorpion whinnies in response, then turns his back on Lambert to eat his oats in peace. Lambert will maintain that Scorpion is no regular horse until the day he dies. That horse is far too clever for his own good! Lambert puts those thoughts to one side for the time being. He's got an angry goat to tame. Maybe he should get Geralt to help?

Lambert heaves a sigh. The things he'll do for his brother.

__________

Lambert resorts to using Axii to get the she-devil inside the keep, past Vesemir's attention and up the stairs to Eskel's room. Whatever it is that's troubling Eskel, Lambert is convinced that a cuddle from his faithful Lil Bleater will chase all the dark thoughts away. At least Lambert hopes it will. He's not sure how easily he can sneak a horse into the keep. Yes, Scorpion is his plan B. Your point?

When Lambert reaches Eskel's door, he lifts Axii and tightens his grip on the leash in case Lil Bleater attempts a flash escape. The goat takes several seconds to gather her wits and get her bearings, but to Lambert's surprise she doesn't bleat, or scream, or cough or hiss, when she sees him standing so close to her. Instead, she stares at Eskel's bedroom door and her little tail starts wagging furiously. Aha. So she's been here before, has she? Eskel, Eskel… what would papa Vesemir say?

Lambert knocks on the door, a small smile gracing his lips when he sees the goat bounce around him in excitement. Alright, even Lambert has to admit that the thing is cute when she's not trying to headbut him in the nuts.

"Eskel?"

"Go away," comes the muffled response.

"Alright I will, but first there's someone here who wants to see you."

Lil Bleater chooses this exact moment to let out a heartbroken bleat. Her human is right there, behind this very door, so why isn't she getting to see him yet? Lambert's grin grows when he opens the door and lets the goat run inside the room, heading straight for Eskel's bed. She leaps onto the mattress easily, like she's probably done countless times before. Eskel, who is currently buried under the covers, shifts when he feels Lil Bleater lick at his face. A large hand comes to pet her behind the ear, causing Lil Bleater's tail to wag even more energetically than before.

"Hey girl," Lambert hears Eskel greet her, the gravel in his voice completely gone, "hey, watcha doin' up here?"

"Let's just say uncle Lambert knew that her dad wasn't feeling up to human interaction today, so he thought he'd bring in the big guns."

Eskel peeks at Lambert over his shoulder and his expression softens. He still looks like shit - dark rings under his eyes, hair sticking out, and the funky smell in the room tells Lambert Eskel hasn't opened a window in, oh, probably decades. But despite all of this, there's a smile tugging at the edges of Eskel's lips when Lil Bleater insistently licks at his scars.

"Thank you," he whispers sincerely, "for understanding."

"Hey brother, what is family for? If you need us we'll be about the keep somewhere."

Eskel nods before curling up under the covers again. Lil Bleater finally settles as well and plops down next to Eskel, nestled in the warm spot created by Eskel pulling his legs halfway up to his chest in a foetal position. Lambert's smirk softens into a smile at the sight. Eskel and Lil Bleater, friends for life. Lambert gently closes the door behind him and gives the two some well-deserved privacy.

As Lambert heads downstairs again, whistling a happy tune on his way, he can't help but feel grateful that he doesn't have to resort to his plan B.

[nah-she-didnt]

Teddy

Lately I’ve found myself thinking a lot about time and parallels in the HP timelines. My other one shot, Let’s Have A Baby, similarly jumped between timelines to show how Harry’s story mirrored in the stories of those around him. I’m considering making these into a mini series of two-part flash backs and flash forwards, and any prompts to that affect (or any prompts at all tbh) are welcome and encouraged!!

Enjoy!

--

He found his new friend alone on the playground. Another child must have left the teddy bear behind after a day of sluggish play under the hot summer sun. 

Harry, only six years old himself, spotted the bear alone on a park bench. He lay on his side, one of his stuffed arms hanging off the seat. Harry frowned. He had never had a teddy bear of his own before, and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of stuffed animals in general. After staring at the bear for a few minutes Harry decided that he would have to take the bear home. It wouldn’t do to leave such a poor, unprotected soul out to fend for himself. No, he would take the bear home and keep him in his cupboard under the stairs, it was only fair. 

Harry bounced the whole way back to Number 4, Privet Drive, clutching the arm of his new companion in one hand. He liked the feel of the bear’s soft fabric against his skin, the feeling of holding warm in his hand. The feeling kept him light and excited until he reached the house. 

Number 4 looked cold and uninviting even in an unrelenting heat wave. Harry made his way up the walk to the front door, then paused nervously. He would have to be sure to walk quietly in the house, careful not to run into his aunt or uncle on the way. Once in the safety of his cupboard he could hide the bear under his bed, away from prying eyes. Except at night, Harry thought, when he would sleep with the bear in his own bed for company.

Harry sighed, squared his shoulders, and reached for the door handle. He crept inside, taking care to miss the creaky floorboard on the landing, and made his way down the hall towards his cupboard. He had almost reached the door handle when someone blocked his path. 

Aunt Petunia, today in a puce day dress and checkered apron, towered over him. She pointed at the bear that he had tried, and failed, to hide behind his back. 

“What’s this?” she demanded, grabbing for the bear. 

“Nothing!” Harry yelled, a little too quickly, as he tried to stuff the bear under the back of his t-shirt. 

Aunt Petunia grabbed the bear’s leg and yanked him from Harry’s grip. “Where did you find this? Absolutely filthy, covered in muck.” 

“He’s my friend,” Harry pleaded, his eyes filling with tears. He’d been so close. 

“No, it’s got to go. I won’t have garbage in my house.” And with that, she turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen. Harry watched her dump the bear into the trash through the door before it swung shut. 

Harry stood rooted to the spot. His hand that held the teddy bear felt tingly, as if it could sense that something had been taken from him. He gazed at the closed kitchen door, trying to think of a way to sneak in and grab the teddy, but he knew it was no use. He would never get past his aunt. Instead he sniffed, wiped his nose on his sweater, and retreated to his cupboard. 

--

“Ready?”

Ginny gazed up at him from his side expectantly. They’d been standing on the front landing for nearly five minutes.

“Ten more seconds.” 

“You said that ten seconds ago.” 

Harry groaned. “What if he hates me?” 

“He won’t,” said Ginny for what felt like the hundredth time. 

“What if he cries?” Harry asked nervously.

“He’s a baby! He’s supposed to cry!” Ginny groaned, “come on Harry, we’ve been standing here for ages. He’s going to love you. Just knock, alright?”

Harry took a deep breath and blew it out forcefully. He raised his fist and knocked on the door. 

Harry had only seen Teddy Lupin once before. He’d seen Andromeda holding the sleeping bundle of blankets at Tonks’ and Remus’ funeral. The baby cried through the entire ceremony. Andromeda told Harry he hadn’t stopped crying since the night his parents died. The thought made him want to burst into flames. 

Andromeda led him and Ginny through her cottage. The house was small but bright with photographs that lined every wall. Harry tried to keep his composure as photographs of Tonks, and sometimes Remus, smiled down at him from their frames. 

Teddy was asleep in a bassinet in the kitchen. His tiny fist curled around the hem of his blanket as he slept. He looked nothing like the baby at the funeral, who had been red-faced and screaming. Now he was peaceful, and Harry could clearly see how much the baby resembled his father. 

Andromeda smiled sadly at her grandson. “He finally settled about a week ago. Finally sleeps for more than a few hours at a time. I shouldn’t be surprised, Tonks was the same way.” 

Harry was surprised at how even her voice sounded when she mentioned her daughter. Ginny just laughed. 

“She used to tell me about how bad she was as a kid, always changing her appearance in public and driving you and her dad mental.” 

Andromeda chuckled. “She was a handful, there’s no doubt about it. But she was worth it, and so is he,” she said, gazing at her godson. 

Harry felt his heart ache. Teddy was the only family she had left, but she clearly loved him so much already. Harry had been determined to look after Teddy ever since Remus named him godfather, but now he knew that Teddy would never grow up as he did. Teddy still had a family. 

Ginny nudged Harry stealthily so that Andromeda wouldn’t see. He gave her a quizzical look, and she nodded pointedly towards the bag in his left hand. Harry understood, turning to Andromeda and awkwardly clearing his throat. 

“Ahem, Mrs. To - ah, Andromeda,” he stumbled, his cheeks burning, “we brought something for Teddy.” 

Andromeda looked up surprised. “Oh, how lovely.” 

She accepted the bag with a smile, withdrawing from it’s tissue paper a stuffed yellow teddy bear. The bear had hearts sewn onto the bottom of each foot, a tuft of fur on his head, and a bright pink button nose. He and Ginny visited a muggle toyshop in town before arriving at Andromeda’s. They’d scoured the store for twenty minutes before Harry picked the teddy off the shelf. It was something about the bear’s soft fur and knowing smile. 

Andromeda beamed up at him. “Thank you so much, both of you.” 

“We thought it was fitting,” Ginny beamed, “you know, a teddy for a Teddy.” 

Andromeda laughed. “Oh, that’s so thoughtful. Here, would you like to give it to him?”

Harry flinched. “Me? Oh, no, that’s okay. I’m no good with babies. I’ve - uh - never actually been around a baby.” 

“Oh, go on, Harry,” Ginny smiled, nudging him forward with her shoulder, “babies are easy. He’ll love it.” 

Harry eyed Teddy wearily. The baby had woken up during their conversation, and now blinked sleepily up at him. Harry took the teddy bear from Andromeda and slowly lowered the bear into the crib. He placed the bear on the crib next to Teddy, then withdrew his hand quickly. 

Ginny giggled next to him. “He’s not going to bite!” 

“Oh, bugger off,” muttered Harry under his breath, still eyeing Teddy anxiously. 

The boy squirmed for a minute, flapping his hands as he drifted between sleep and wake. Finally, the baby turned over, draped his hand across the teddy, and fell back asleep. Harry could see his chest rising and falling as he slept, his tiny fingers inadvertently clutching and releasing the teddy bear beside him. Andromeda and Ginny cooed and sighed. 

“God, that’s precious,” whispered Ginny, a huge smile on her face.

Harry smiled down at Teddy Lupin. His godson. He might be bad with babies, but he knew he would make sure that Teddy always had a family who loved him.  

[autumnslance]

Tagged by @elveny. The rest of you Do Not Perceive me. I am blaming this on the villain enjoyers on my dashes/timelines, especially you Emet-likers (Levinia’s comics about WoL having Echoes of Azem memories did NOT help and in fact very much inspired this), and my own random horniness spikes I deal with by writing smut. Also Emet-Selch just being fun to write thanks to his many stinky onion layers.

Will it go anywhere? I don’t know, I’m hoping writing the initial scenario and the general outline idea for more (?!?!) is enough to get it out of my brain (it has a title, some of my mainline WIPs can’t get titles afhjdbrg). Frickin’ Galvus men sneaking up on me and wanting to be written at random, I swear to the Twelve...

Random new WoL cuz even in an AU I cannot and will not do that to my existing roster (also I suck at AUs, and also also this is the WoL who came to mind anyway so hey). But this has been what I’ve been mucking with the last few days. Little more than six sentences.

=========

She scowled up at Emet-Selch as he continued to amble alongside her through the Pendants’ corridors. “Do you really mean to come along the entire way?”

“I said I would escort you,” he replied in that irritating amused manner of his. “I mean to keep my word.”

Elka scoffed. Running into the Ascian at the Wandering Stair as she sought out her bounty hunter contact had not been part of the plan. But Cerigg wasn’t ready to move out yet—still waiting on some parts from the Mean for his plan—and so she’d had a meal and a single drink with the man. She might have returned to his quarters, or invited him to her own, had she not caught sight of Emet-Selch. Had he not engaged her in petty banter until Cerigg had excused himself, leaving her internally cursing. She had hoped to get laid tonight; to soothe the aching want in her body, relieve the tension of the last few weeks since arriving in this strange little world and cut off from her usual casual lovers. The hume hunter had seemed a damn fine option.

But when Elka excused herself to retire, Emet-Selch had invited himself along and seemed determined to play the part of a gentleman.

[litwitlady]

whatever walked there, walked alone - part one

My Halloween fic which I love writing too much to abandon. Content warnings: mentions of child abuse, Alex is dead and not coming back to life, blood, emo poetry.

Michael Guerin exits the city limits and heads west. The sun is beginning to set, framing the mountains in flames of orange and red, painting the sky in purples and pinks. His phone GPS says the house is 13.3 miles from Roswell city center. A scant ten-minute drive.

A few miles later, the ironwork of the property’s fence comes into view. The house is hidden behind several large hawthorn and plum trees, creating a dense canopy that protects the mansion from the blazing desert sun.

Michael parks outside the gate and pulls a bolt cutter from the bed of his truck. The ornate ironwork is buried in English ivy. He clears the vines away and breaks through the chains locking the gate doors, swinging them open. They creak and moan as the rusty hinges strain after years of disuse.

It’s like walking into a dream. Or a nightmare. Another planet, maybe. The desert disappears and suddenly there’s thick grass beneath his boots. Flowers bloom despite the heavy tree coverage and everything green is overgrown. But the house is finally visible – the cornices crumbling, the menacing marble lions shrouded in yellowing moss.

A breeze rustles through the leaves, sending a shiver up Michael’s spine. He feels eyes on the back of his head and spins on his heels. A cat hops out of a maple tree, sending several birds flying from their perches. Michael laughs to himself and turns back towards the house.

Dead, drying leaves are scattered across the stone steps. The giant wood doors are also locked with chains. Michael makes quick work of them and pushes against the splinted oak. But the doors won’t budge. The moisture and heat have warped the wood. So, no matter how hard he pushes, there’s no give. With a sigh he climbs back down the stairs. Vows to come back the next day with the necessary tools.

And maybe not alone.

But as his boots sink back into the grass, he hears the doors open. A thick, musty scent settles in around him. When he glances over his shoulder, the doors are gaping at him like a hungry mouth ready to swallow him whole. The cat dashes past him, through the doors, and he swears he hears his name whispered from somewhere deep inside.

He swallows hard and pulls out his cell phone. But there’s no reception. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to go inside. Definitely not by himself. Wants, instead, to head back to Isobel’s and crawl inside his warm bed. Wants to forget this dilapidated old house even exists.

Michael takes several deep breaths, reclimbs the stairs. And then he forces himself to cross the threshold into the darkness.

The foyer floors are filthy. Covered in muck and grime, the black and white checkered marble barely visible. Spiderwebs crisscross from surface to surface, collecting dust and other debris he’d rather not think too much about. The windows are all curtained with heavy, velvet drapes – allowing no light to pass.

Michael runs his fingers along a gilded mirror, eyes catching on a group of picture frames still hanging from the garish floral wallpaper. He leans forward, blowing the dust from the glass. Sneezes several times. The photos show a family. Father, mother, and four boys – the youngest just a baby. In most of the pictures, the father is dressed in full military regalia. His wife pretty and unsmiling. The children with hands in pockets, devoid of that devilish charm so common to young boys.

He begins to notice a pattern as he follows the frames down the hallway. Three of the boys start to grow up – getting taller, shoulders broadening. But the youngest never grows past eight, maybe nine years old. Michael feels a sadness clutch at his heart. Wonders what happened to the little boy. Suspects it’s nothing good. And likely the reason the house has been left to rot for so long.

The cat reappears out of a hall closet. Michael startles and watches him dash towards the curving staircase, bounding up the stairs. He looks back at the front doors, making sure they are still open. The sunlight is entirely gone now. He pulls out his phone and clicks on the flashlight app. Continues further into the belly of the house.

In the kitchen, he finds the cabinet doors all removed – probably stolen by some house foraging flipper – but the bowls and plates left behind. An eight-burner stove takes up a third of the room. The gigantic commercial refrigerator another third. There are two center islands and clearly the kitchen was for catering lavish parties. Michael is unimpressed by the cold austerity of the space and is already mentally remodeling.

He putters through the cabinets and stumbles upon a collection of toddler-sized sippy cups. There are four – each with a boy’s name painted across the top. Clay, Gregory, Flint, and Alex. He reaches up and pulls the one labeled ‘Alex’ from the shelf. The cup is cracked and chipped around the rim. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck shiver, sending another chill down Michael’s spine. He drops the cup onto the floor, the crash echoing down the hallway.

Upstairs the cat screeches.

Michael hears his name whispered again.

And then the doors slam shut.

***

‘The house is haunted, Iz.’ They are at the grocery store, restocking for the week ahead.

She rolls her eyes at him while grabbing more cereal. ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts, Michael. It was just the wind.’

He stares back at her like she’s stupid. ‘There’s no such thing as aliens either. And there was no fucking wind.’

Isobel, hands on hips, stops mid-aisle. ‘The place is a gothic nightmare. It got in your head and freaked you out. The sooner you sell that place the better.’

Intellectually, Michael knows she must be right. But he can’t ignore doors closing on their own and floating voices calling his name.

‘Do you know what happened to the original family? I think their name was Manes?’ He’d pulled the old deed. There wasn’t much to go on other than the name Jesse Manes. ‘I don’t remember them from when we were kids.’

She grabs a bag of rice. ‘Jesse Manes was a General in the Air Force. Served as Chief of Staff to the entire USAF when we were in high school. Really big deal. His kids all went to some military academy on the east coast.’

‘Was? Is he dead?’ He sneaks two boxes of pop-tarts into the cart.

‘Not that I know of. He was dishonorably discharged. Not too long after his youngest son died. Something about an extortion scandal.’ Isobel shrugs her shoulders and turns onto the next aisle.

‘His youngest son? The little boy – Alex.’

She narrows her eyes at him. ‘Alex Manes. Yes. But he was 28 when he died. Killed overseas. Maybe he’s your ghost.’

‘Wait – that doesn’t make sense. That house looks like it’s been abandoned for at least a decade.’ He tries to do the math in his head. Three years might lead to some broken windows and cobwebs, but not the level of decay he’d discovered. The grime on the floors alone would have taken at least twice as long. And the bannister was literally rotting.

‘Don’t know what to tell you. Happened three years ago. I was working with the General on a military fundraising event. And then, poof! He was just gone. Nothing left behind but newspaper gossip. And that house.’ She looks down at her shopping list. ‘I’m going to grab some milk – meet you at checkout.’ She gives a little wave and rolls off.

Michael leans against the row of shelves. Thinks about what Isobel’s told him. He doesn’t know why Edna May Rollings bequeathed the property to him in her will. Or all that money. Sure, he’d mowed her grass a few times – changed her oil. But the Manes property was worth well over a million dollars.

Nothing was making any sense.

*

Later that afternoon, Michael decides to do his own research at the town library. He pulls up article after article from the Roswell Gazette highlighting the many philanthropic endeavors of the Manes family. Jesse Manes often lauded as a hero. His sons all highly decorated military officers themselves.

In all the articles, he only finds mention of an Alex Manes once. In his obituary dated October 14, 2018. The paper mentions he’d been killed by IED while serving in Iraq. There’s a grainy, black and white photo above the obit. Captain Alexander Manes in his uniform, blank expression on his face. And it’s a good face – cheekbones for days, expressive eyes, and a full bottom lip. Michael stops for a minute to admire the handsome soldier and to lament his early demise.

He pulls out his notebook and writes down the names mentioned in the obituary. All of the survivors – mother, father, brothers, distant relatives. Surely, one of them lives within driving distance. If not, there’s always the phone or email. He intends to find some answers.

Michael leaves the library and drives to the Roswell cemetery. The plots are arranged alphabetically, for the most part. And he finds the Manes family relatively easily. Alex’s tombstone is the white marble of fallen soldiers. But there’s no inscription beyond his name or the relevant dates of birth and death. It’s odd not to see a ‘beloved son’ or ‘cherished brother’. He’s beginning to suspect the Manes family buried more than just their son three years ago.

*

The next day Michael heads back to the house. But this time he’s not alone. He’s accompanied by an entire cleaning crew and Isobel. Who merely intends to rifle through the family’s forgotten belongings and steal whatever trinkets catch her eye. And to tease him mercilessly about his ghost.

Michael does his best to avoid everyone. He has his own mission in mind and doesn’t want to be disturbed. The upstairs hallway leads to all the main bedrooms – master on the left and the four smaller rooms on the right. Each of the secondary bedrooms is nearly identical in shape and size. Except for last room – tiny and dark. A single bed compared to the doubles next door. He knows deep in his bones that this was Alex’s room.

A terrific sadness envelops him when he steps inside. He tries to flip the light switch, but nothing happens – the only light whatever sun fights its way through the dirty window.

Michael starts there – wiping the glass clean. He sweeps and mops the floor, dusts the baseboards, and removes the cobwebs. Opening the closet door, he finds a torn cardboard box tucked inside. Pulling back the battered flaps, he discovers several yellowing journals. Pages and pages of scribbled notes and poems and the various ramblings of a teenage boy. He takes the journals to his truck immediately, stashing them beneath his seat.

As the day stretches into night, there’s no sign of any ghosts. No weird noises. No strange whispers. Isobel has taken every mirror in the house among several crystal dishes. Most of the rooms are as spotless as they’re going to get, the smell of bleach giving him a headache. But the place is starting to feel less creepy.

After everyone else leaves, Michael takes one more trip up to Alex’s bedroom. Sits in the middle of the room and waits. For what, he’s not sure. A presence maybe. Which he knows is insane, but something or someone called his name the day before.

The sun is nearly gone. The room is dark and still. That sadness from earlier still pushes at him, but he doesn’t feel afraid. Oddly enough, he feels safe and warm. And then the floor creaks. Not just once. Over and over again. Like someone’s pacing from the window to the bed and back again.

‘Hello?’ His voice sounds scratchy, dry and nervous.

The footsteps stop. Michael’s breath catches as he strains to listen. ‘Alex? Alexander Manes?’ Something blows across the back of his neck. He swallows but stays still.

‘I’m going to bring your journals back. I promise.’ Making a ghost angry is probably a bad idea. ‘I just wanted to get to know you better.’

Nothing happens. And he feels a sinking sense of loss.

*

At Isobel’s later that night, Michael is curled up in his bed staring at Alex’s journals. He’s anxious about reading them. Worries that what he’ll discover is worse than anything he could have ever imagined. Worries that he’ll meet someone in these journals that he’ll come to love. Someone that he’s already lost.

The first journal is marked 2003. It’s plain black with a Further Seems Forever sticker peeling along the spine. Opening to the first page, Michael is struck by how neat the handwriting is. His own is nothing but chicken scratch. But this kid wrote in neat, tidy letters – not a smudge in sight.

July 2003

Today I am a teenager. And I missed mom for the first time in forever. I came home and dad was drinking. Started yelling at me to put his ladder back where I’d found it. But I never, ever touched his stupid ladder. That was Flint. He didn’t care. And now my ribs hurt. Happy Birthday, Alex.

I’ve only been home for two weeks, but I already want to go back to school.

Michael’s fists clench but he continues.

August 2003

Flint got his learner’s permit today. Dad is teaching him how to drive stick. Will probably even buy him a car to take back to school. I fucking hate Flint.

I wrote a poem or maybe a song that I actually like. Here it is:

‘The hallways are empty

And I am blind

Locked in this castle

Where no one is kind’

I know that’s not much. But it’s a start. Been saving up for my guitar. Greg is going to buy it for me once I have enough money.

September 2003

It’s because I’m gay. Why he beats me and no one else. I will try so hard not to be gay anymore.

Tears burn Michael’s eyes. He picks up another journal. This one gray with lots of cartoon doodles marring the cloth cover.

September 2007

Senior year has begun. The Academy finally feels bearable. No upperclassmen to avoid. My fucking dad has me flying out this weekend to interview at the Air Force Academy in Colorado. Fourth son, fourth branch of the military. None of us got a choice, but of course he saved the Air Force for me. Of fucking course.

I snuck out with Maria last week to sing at an open mic night at her mom’s bar. I’ve never felt like that before – enjoying all those eyes on me. Most times I just want to disappear. Forget I exist. There was a guy – curly hair, big hazel eyes. He was beautiful and I worked up enough to courage to talk to him, but he wouldn’t stop staring at Maria. So.

I guess someone at the Pony must have known my dad. Because he was waiting up for me when I crawled back through my bedroom window. I didn’t beg this time. Just let him do what he was going to do. Honestly, I felt like I deserved it. For thinking that guy might actually want to talk to me.

Michael stops breathing. He tries to recall a night at the Pony from fourteen years ago. But he can’t remember ever meeting Alex. He had dated Maria, briefly. Maybe it wasn’t him – maybe he wasn’t the curly-haired, hazel-eyed boy. But the possibility lingers thick in his chest.

December 2007

I’m not going home for Christmas. Even though mom has agreed to show up for appearance’s sake. A perfect fake fucking family. I won’t be missed. Dad laughed when I called and told him. Called me a coward and hung up. He won’t have his favorite punching bag and I hope that means he won’t turn his fists to someone else. Like mom.

Things with Danny haven’t progressed at all. I thought he was flirting with me at the football game, but he hasn’t talked to me since. He’s shy though – kind of like me – so I think I may still have a chance. He’s not going home either – his parents are overseas on some mission trip. Maybe I will be brave enough to kiss him. I’ve never kissed anyone and I’m already 17. Pathetic.

January 2008

Sometimes I look up at the stars

And your eyes look back at me

Filled with the fire of an exploding sun

Sometimes I look up at the stars

And there’s nothing there at all

Just empty space, hollow and undone

So, Danny is dating a townie girl. I’m always so, so stupid. But I’m not giving up on myself no matter how hard this world tries to beat me down. And it’s trying pretty damn hard.

March 2008

Dear Alex,

you are blue and black and yellow

bent and bowed like the dying myrtle tree outside that window

your pliant plentiful petals putrefying in the blades of summer grass

you are unseen and forgotten, disgraced by the midday sun

blown apart like the dandelion waste of suburban landscapes

wilted and wallowed and left without a trace of your own dignity

June 2008

My father’s hands have spent so much time taking. Splitting me open and unthreading the blood, the sweat, the tears of me. Spilling my insides and then stuffing the gore back deep in the darkest recesses of my heart.

I want hands that will take but give something back, leave something behind. Hands that will heal and stitch the splintered parts back together. Hands that will shape the dark edges of me into something bright like hope. I want hands with wings to fly me out of this nightmare.

But instead I’m going to war.

After Alex graduates the military academy, there are no more journals until 2017. Michael spends the next several hours poring over the earlier ones – meticulously kept records of a broken childhood. One abuse after another. Cracked ribs, a shattered wrist, and a never-ending deluge of bruises.

But also, so many dreams. Alex was a hopeful kid, despite the sad poetry, with music in his future. There are pages and pages of songs – the scratching down of harmonies and verses. Intricate details of chord progressions and key changes. Michael grabs his own guitar, strums through some of Alex’s notes. The songs are simple but refined. He wishes he could hear them sung with Alex’s voice.

The 2017 journal stares at Michael from his nightstand. It’s dirty and pocket-sized, bent and beaten at the edges. Caked in blood. He opens to the first page. Alex is in Iraq – the place where he dies – and Michael’s not sure he wants to read further. But he also can’t stop himself.

November 2017

The desert here is different. Hotter, I think. I am always sweating and never clean.  

February 2018

There was a boy. In the carnage. Riddled with bullets. Bullets that may have been my own. I tried to feel something. I did, really. I tried.

March 2018

Only two more months. And then one war exchanged for another. Clay is getting married. I think I’d rather stay here.

The next several pages are stuck together with the dull, brown ink of dried blood. Michael can’t make out more than a word or two through the thick stains, but the entries seem longer and more rambling. The back half of the journal is empty – filled with nothing but blood splatter.

Michael pulls out his laptop. Something about the timeline feels off. Alex’s obit and his tombstone both marked his date of death as October 14, 2018. That’s months after this journal stopped. Months after whatever nightmare caused all this bleeding. He thinks briefly about calling Liz and asking her to ID whoever all this blood belonged to.

He googles ‘Alexander Manes Iraq death’ and nothing obvious pops up in the searches. But on the next page he sees a newspaper article from a Virginia paper, clicks it open. It’s from summer 2018 and includes a list of purple heart recipients. A Captain Alexander Manes among the names.

So, he made it home. Hurt but alive. Michael’s best guess is that he returned to Iraq before his death in October.

He runs several searches for Alex’s brothers. He gets a hit on a Gregory Manes. Local newspaper photo of him with several kids from a science fair. The school is near a reservation in the northwest corner of the state. He jots the information down but decides to start a little closer to home.

People in Roswell must know the Manes family. And so that’s where he’ll begin. Starting with local business owners. First thing in the morning.

[immortalbarnes]

A Cabin For Two | Chapter 3: You’ll Never Know

Bucky Barnes x Reader

summary: Sam visits for  dinner, and you tell the story of how you and Bucky met.

warnings: SMUT! (you can skip it without missing anything), mild swearing and violence

A/N: sorry this is so late, but this is a pretty long one

***bold italicized indicates flashback

masterlist

Sam came over for dinner tonight, and brought an amazing potato salad. You and Bucky tried out a new chicken pot pie recipe, and even though you may have left it in the oven for a little too long because you were dancing to your Dick Haymes vinyl record, it was spectacular. The three of you, and Alpine when he jumped on the table, conversed for the night, then retired to your leather couch with some glasses of wine. The alcohol has no effect on you and your lover, but the feeling of normalcy made you happy enough.

“You know what I just realized,” Sam suddenly changes the subject, “I’ve never heard the story of how you two met. I mean I know it was during the war overseas, but I never got the details. Was Bucky a player back in the day?” His head bobs from left to right as he says player.

“He was!” You laugh.

“No way!” Sam leans forward in surprise, “Bucky had game?”

“I did,” Bucky chuckles, his arm resting behind you on the back of your leather sectional, “Before I got drafted, I was always dragging Steve on a double date. I thought the same charm would work on Y/N.”

“But it didn’t.” You interject, causing Sam to snort.

“Okay, okay, please start from the beginning.” Sam practically begs.

“Okay, well, we met overseas when I was working under Cap for the Howling Commandos.”

…

“Thank you for your hard work, Agent Y/N. Get some rest, you deserve it.” The general thanked you at the end of your meeting. You were a spy working for the Allies, and had just finished a mission gathering intel in a small town housing Hydra soldiers. You were in a camp stationed somewhere in Austria.

“Thank you, General, though I must admit I never get much sleep in those tents.” You joke.

“Well maybe you’d enjoy visiting with our special guests, The Howling Commandos.”

“Captain America’s boys? To what do we owe the pleasure of their visit to?”

“Well, Agent, your mission helped us gather intel on the whereabouts of Zola, so they’ll be staying with us for the next week until a train carrying the man comes through the mountains.”

“Glad to know my mission was to help such a cause,” You smile, and at that the general leaves to attend to more work. As for you, you had free time until your next mission, so you travel to the medical tent to visit one of the nurses you’ve befriended at this camp, Linda.

“Well, looky here! Agent Y/N is back! I was starting to think those Hydra fat-heads actually gotcha this time!” Linda exclaims as you enter the large awning.

“Good to see you too, Linda,” You laugh, “How’s it going?”

“Pretty swell until those Howling Commandos came in the other night. That Bucky fella won’t stop flirting with my ladies.”

“The nerve on him! As a soldier, he should know he shouldn’t be flirting with the staff.”

“Nevermind about him, tell me about your mission!”

You and Linda sat on a cot and you began to tell her everything you were allowed to, from the small village you stayed in to the base you infiltrated, even mentioning a part where you almost got captured, but thankfully you were able to charm your way out of that.

Just as you were finishing your story, a man and a nurse walked into the tent. The man, tall and muscular with clean cut brunette hair, had his arm around the girl’s waist and she was giggling at something he must’ve said.

“Mary! You’re late to your shift!” Linda snapped as she saw the duo walk in.

“Oh, Linda, don’t snap your cap! The tent’s empty!” Mary replied.

“Sorry for keeping her, ma’am, it won’t happen again.” The man apologized half-heartedly.

“Zip it, Barnes, I don’t care if you’re Captain America’s right hand man, you need to quit sneaking around with my girls! We got enough diseases flying through this camp, we don’t need you spreading something new.”

The man, who you now realized was the infamous Bucky Barnes, rolled his eyes with a smirk, kissed Mary on the cheek, and left the tent. Mary began to speak, but was quickly silenced by Linda’s harsh tone.

“I don’t want to hear it! You got tools to clean, so you better get to it!” She ordered, Mary meekly nodded and rushed to work, “What a creep, that must be the third girl he’s run off with, and they haven’t been here half a week!”

“Men like that make me wanna chuck.” You agreed.

…

“Damn, Buck, you were a tiger!” Sam laughed as you finished recalling your first encounter with your now lover.

You look over at Bucky, who was as red as a tomato, “I think she’s exaggerating a little.” He muttered.

“I remember every detail like the back of my hand.” You smirked, taking a sip of the ineffective alcohol.

…

Later that same night, you were in the mess hall, eating whatever muck the cooks said was dinner. At every camp you’ve been shipped to, you’ve always found friends among the soldiers. Even though you had your fair share of whistles and catcalls, there seemed to always be a nice group of men who saw you as their equal. Here it was Richard, David, and Charles. Richard and David were brothers, and Charles was their friend from school; they all enlisted together as soon as David, the youngest, turned 18.

Charles was in the middle of retelling the other night when Richard got too drunk off Astrian alcohol and got his tongue stuck on the flagpole in the middle of camp when a fifth person joined the group directly to your right. All heads at the table turned to see one Bucky Barnes.

“Sergeant, to what do we owe this honor to?” Charles said mockingly, while the Howling Commandos were national heroes, most soldiers just saw them as overrated.

“Couldn’t help but notice the dame sitting with you boys,” He said, turning to you, “Why aren’t you sitting with the other nurses, pretty lady?”

“Because she’s not a nurse,” David spoke up, even though he was the youngest of the bunch, he had no trouble defending any of you, “She’s a spy, and way out of your league.”

“I apologize for my assumptions,” Bucky says with a smirk, “Why don’t you let me make it up to you in my tent tonight.”

David was about to speak up again, but you butted in, “Sorry, Sergeant, but I’m not another one of your call-girls. So, you can knock off now.”

Bucky then leans his elbow on the wooden table, resting his head on his knuckle, and pouts, “You’re a tough one, Miss…”

“Agent L/N,” you correct, at this point there’s steam coming out of you, “Thank you, Barnes, but I’m not interested. I’m too focused on getting in and out of Hydra bases, as for you, you needed America’s Golden Boy to rescue you from one, so my friend here is right when he said I’m out of your league.” Tired of his harassment, you begin to stand and walk away, but he quickly follows suit and grabs your wrist pulling you around. Instinctively, you ball up your fist and hit him square on the jaw. Startled by the sudden action, he stumbles back and falls on the table.

At this point, everyone in the area is staring. Calmly you flip your hair behind your shoulder and turn to leave the mess hall. Exiting, you see none other than the Captain himself running over to check on his best friend, mouthing a sorry as he sees you.

…

“You PUNCHED him!?” Sam injects once more as you retell, “How did you even make eye contact with her after she knocked you INTO A TABLE!”

“Let’s just say that you don’t treat women anything like you did back then.” Bucky says, ashamed of his past self.

“Don’t worry, Sam, he made it up to me later that night.” You smirk.

…

Long after the incident, you were in your tent trying to fall asleep. Being the only non-nurse in the camp at the moment, you were blessed to have one to yourself, but as you mentioned before you always had trouble resting.

Trying to clear your head, you decide to exit the tent and take a walk in the chilly Austrian night. You immediately smell smoke and turn to see the faint glow of a fire not too far away. In search of the warmth, and maybe some company, you sneak your way to the source of the heat. Once you approach the fire, you are met with the back of Bucky Barnes once again.

“Can’t sleep either?” You inquire, slightly startling the man.

“Always been a light sleeper, and I can’t stop thinking about how rude I was to you earlier. Sorry about that, ma’am. I wanted to find you and apologize, but Steve advised that you needed to be alone.”

“Apology accepted, Barnes,” You sit down next to him and take in the warmth of the fire, “But I have to ask why you thought that was appropriate.”

“Honestly, I don’t know how else to approach a woman. Especially someone way out of my league, like your buddy said.”

“You didn’t leave a good impression in the first place when you walked in the med tent with your third nurse of the week adorning your side.”

“You were there!?” He says, shocked, “Oh, hell, Y/N, I didn’t know that was you with Linda! I’m so sorry! I thought you were still on your mission.”

“My mission? How’d you know about that?”

“Peggy Carter told us about your mission finding Zola, and when she showed me and the boys your picture, I swear I’ve never seen a prettier lady in all my life.” He admitted, throwing you off guard.

“Wow, Bucky, I’m flattered, but your plan was to sleep around with the nurses until I returned? Not a good first impression?”

His eyes went wide. “Sleep around? No, no, Y/N, I swear I haven’t done anything with those ladies! They’re the ones chasing me!” He pauses for a moment, “but I guess that’s the reputation I’ve been building for myself. But the truth is, Y/N, ever since Peggy told us about you, I haven’t even looked at another woman. You’re my dream gal.”

You stare intently in his blue eyes looking for any hint of charm. Maybe this was just a game to get in your skirt? As the crackling fire reflected in his eyes, all you could see was the truth.

…

“That is so cute!!” Sam interrupts, “Please tell me this is when you two fell in love.”

“Let me finish!” You scold playfully.

…

“Bucky… You’ve been waiting for me?” You say, finally taking in all his breathtaking features: his strong jaw, broad shoulders, perfect pink lips.

“How could  I not be? You’re strong, independent, gorgeous, and don’t fall at my feet like any other girl. What else could I want?”

Speechless, you just stare at him in awe, his baby blues returning the gesture. You stay like this for what feels like light years, until he finally speaks up again,

“May I kiss you, Y/N?”

“Please.”

And just like that, his lips are on yours. It’s passionate and hungry, like he’s been starved for days. You quickly return the emotions, melting in his touch. The fire was burning out, but you still felt sparks fly through you as your lips mend together. His large hands embrace you, his left on your cheek, the warm sensation of his skin on yours, and his right on your hip. Your arms snake around his neck and you feel his short hair prick at your wrists.

Out of air, you both pull back and rest your foreheads on one another, breathing hard as you notice there’s a huge smile plastered on his face when you sit back.

“You are the most dynamite gal I’ve ever met.”

“You’re not too bad yourself, Barnes.” You say through heavy breaths. He chuckles at your snark.

“Totally worth the knuckle sandwich I got earlier.” he jokes.

“Sorry about that.”

“Nah, I deserved it.”

“How about you let me make it up to ya?” You wink.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I’m thinking we put out this fire and go back to my tent.”

Hurriedly, you put out the remaining embers and lead him to your secluded tent. After making sure your neighbors were sound asleep, you practically ripped open your tent trying to get in, Bucky following suit.

As soon as he entered, he was on top of you, his lips claiming yours once more, and his arms on either side of you. Like before, this kiss was deep and passionate, but you felt something else within. Lust, perhaps?

“Wait, Bucky,” You suddenly tense up, pushing him off of you, “How do I know any of this is real? How do I know I’m not just another skirt?”

“Y/N, darling, for the past month since I first heard about ya, every girl that’s even talked to me made me wish it was you. You’re everything I want and more, doll, let me prove it to ya.” There’s a sadness in his eyes, like he’s hurt that you’d even think that. That look is everything you need to believe him.

With that reassurance, you climb up and straddle his lap, your hands going to his hair as you lean down and kiss him once more. His warm hands travel straight to your hips as he deepens the kiss, asking permission into your mouth, to which you eagerly accept.

His tongue explores your mouth with a passion, and you moan into it. Suddenly, you’re gasping for air once more and pull back. He practically growls at the sight of you, lipstick smeared and blouse wrinkled.

“Please doll, let me make love to ya, I’m begging ya.” His brooklyn accent peaking out as he talks in a low tone.

“Please do, Sergeant.” You pant.

As soon as those words leave your mouth, his eyes practically go black. He carefully lays you down and begins to undo the latches on his royal blue uniform jacket. As soon as his toned chest is revealed, he begins to work the buttons of your blouse, separating the front to expose your nude bra; next to go is your skirt, and you’re in nothing but your undergarments.

“Golly, doll, you are perfection.” He whispers in awe, he leans down to kiss your cleavage and begins to move lower and lower towards your underwear before going back up to his starting point between your breasts. Your hands reach down and start to fumble with the belt of his uniform pants. Noticing your struggle, he sits up to start to work the buckles undone and shimmies out of his muted green cargo pants and underwear

You had only an instant to take him in, thick thighs, toned calves, and a thick cock. Suddenly he was hovering over you once more, his hands expertly undoing your bra latches.

“You must have had practice.” You mock, receiving a shy chuckle from him.

He discards your bra, and you decide to handle your bottoms, quickly sliding them off and having them join the rest of your clothes. Now it’s his turn to admire you.

“Just when I thought this couldn’t get any better. Y/N Y/L/N, you are a goddess.” He praises you, a small blush reddening your cheeks. You just now noticed the slickness between your legs.

“Buc-”

“James, that’s my real name.”

“James, please take me.”

“Anything for you, doll.”

He lines himself up with your entrance and slowly pushes in, making eye contact with you the entire time, his warm hands cradling your face. Your lips form a small ‘O’ as you feel him fill you up.

“J-James…” You quietly moan.

“Oh, Y/N, babydoll.” He whispers, slowly moving in and out of you. You’ve been with your fair share of men, but nothing could even come close to comparing to the feeling of James inside you.

He begins to pick up the pace, and his left hand travels down and instantly finds your clit. He begins to rub soft circles in time with the rhythm he is slamming into you. You’re on cloud nine. Eyes never leaving each other, his blue orbs leaving you in a daze.

Suddenly, you’re snapped out by the coil in your lower stomach tightening, signalling that you’re close to release.

“God, James, I’m so close.” And with that he picks up the pace, harshly slamming in and out while adding more pressure to your nub to bring out your orgasm.

“C’mon, doll, let it go for me.”

And with that, a wave of electricity, nothing like you’ve ever felt before, rushes through you. He continues to move within you to help you ride out your orgasm, both of you heavily panting.

Next thing you know, you feel him release inside of you. His hot white coating your insides.

“Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry.” He stutters, pulling out, “I couldn’t help my-”

“It’s fine,” you interject, “Thank you. Th-that was amazing, James.” You never saw yourself having kids, but now you could only see yourself starting a family with him.

All of a sudden, you were overwhelmed with the feeling of harsh cold, for coming out of your sexual haze, you realize that you’re stark naked with only a thin tent protecting you from the Austrian winter. You begin to shiver, and Bucky instinctively rushes to get you back into clothing and under a blanket. After you’re both dressed once more, he begins to get up and leave.

“Ja- uhm, Bucky, where are you going?”

“Back to my tent?”

“Stay please.”

“I never thought you’d say that.”

You invite him under your blanket and rest your head on his chest, his muscular arms enveloping you in even more warmth.

“Is it too early to say I love you?” He asks after a moment of silence.

“Not after all of that.” You joke.

“Well, Y/N, I love you.”

“I love you too, James.”

You always had trouble sleeping in tents, but that night you fell asleep instantly.

…

“You said I love you after you fucked in a tent!?” Sam pipes up, shocked, “That fast?”

“Well it was the 40’s, Sam, there wasn’t a ton of dating and getting to know each other. It was more like settle down quickly and start a family.” Bucky explains, “And that night, there was an unexplainable feeling there. I think we both felt it.” He looks intently at you, locking eyes, and you nod in agreement.

“How long did this go on?” Sam asks, even more interested.

“About a week,” You sigh, “We snuck around without most of the soldiers knowing. The only people we told were Steve, Linda, Richard, David, and Charles. My friends were a little iffy about it after those first couple of incidences, but when they saw us together they quickly supported it.”

“Steve knew how obsessed with her I was, so he was there for us from the beginning.” Bucky adds.

“About a week later, The Howling Commandos were sent on the train mission, the one I gathered intel for, and that was when Bucky fell and got captured by Hydra again. Steve and the guys returned and broke the news to me, and I lost it…”

…

It wasn’t too long until the group returned from the train. You didn’t care much about the outcome of the mission, for Bucky was your main concern.

Once you heard the news of their return, you ventured into the main tent to see the Commandos and the generals… but no Bucky.

You made eye contact with Steve, and his face instantly dropped, scaring you.

“Steve? How did the mission go? Where’s Bucky?”

He grabs your shoulder and pulls you outside back into the freezing cold,

“We failed the mission. On the train we were ambushed by a soldier with major blasters, and he shot Bucky off the train. He fell into a ravine, and we couldn’t find his body… So we can only assume he died.”

No, it can’t be true. Pain hit your entire body as your eyes began to water, and suddenly, you were gasping for air. Steve grabbed you to keep you steady.

“No, Steve, please tell me you’re joking, please, PLEASE.” You were practically begging,

“I’m sorry, Y/N. Sergeant Barnes is dead.”

“NO! NO HE’S NOT! NOT MY BUCKY!” You screamed between jagged breaths.

“What’s going on here!?” A general demands as he exits the tent.

“He’s… gone…” You say quietly, trying to gather yourself.

“Agent Y/L/N? Did you and Sergeant Barnes have a fling?” The general asks.

“He was the love of my life!” You wretch, “We were supposed to start a family!”

“Y/N, you’ll be okay… We can get through this… He was my best friend.” Steve tries to calm you down.

“No, Steve, you don’t understand!” You grab his broad shoulders as your wild eyes meet his, “I’m pregnant.”

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Dawn in Your Eyes Part 3

Part 1 Part 2 

         Alfie put off the favor that he owed his cousin. It wasn’t so much a favor as he felt it was an obligation. She asked and he seldom turned her down. It still wasn’t an ideal situation. He had to ask Julia for a favor. And it was a favor this time around because he was sure Elizabeth wouldn’t stop asking until he gave her a definitive answer. Either Julia said absolutely, unequivocally no. Or she’d caved in and agreed which Alfie thought was highly unlikely.

         Still, Elizabeth would call his bluff if he said he asked when he never did. So he made the very short trip over to the office. The secretary in the front recognized the gangster just as everyone in Camden did.

         “Mrs. Ellner in?” Alfie asked without pleasantries.

         “She is. Could you take a seat to wait for her? She’ll be out in a minute.” There was always the brief hesitation in someone’s voice when they knew who he was. The hint of worry that his reputation would explode and he’d become violent. Rumors spread fast. Most people knew that Alfie only had issues with people who gave him a good enough reason. Sure, he could be unreasonable at times but not a bone in his body was about to get upset at a secretary who asked him to wait a moment.

         He nodded and sat down in one of the love seats that had been set up in the small front room. He rested his cane by his knee and folded his hands on his lap. Every so often the secretary, a young woman who looked no older than twenty-five, glanced nervously at him. But there wasn’t anything he could do to reassure her that he was calm. Even his idle stance was intimidating, he knew that. It was carefully crafted.

         After just a few minutes of waiting, the door behind the secretary’s desk opened. Julia stepped out and frowned when her eyes fell on Alfie.

         “Mr. Solomons, we don’t have a meeting scheduled.”

         “Yeah, well, thought you liked dropping in unannounced.” He stood up with a grunt.

         The older woman raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t argue. “Why don’t you come in?” She held out an arm towards her office.

         “Nah, I’ll be quick.” He promised. “My cousin stopped by the other day asking ‘bout Caroline.”

         Julia’s expression soured even more. “Alfie, I told you…”

         “I know what you said. This ain’t about me.” He held up a hand as he clarified. “She’s looking for someone to help with her husband’s charity work.”

         Julia knew about Elizabeth and knew her husband was a very popular politician in London. The young man who was taking Parliament by storm. Attractive to the elite of London and the working class. “I’d be more than happy to help with that. If you’d give me her information, I’ll get in touch with her as soon as I’m able to.”

         “She requested Caroline’s help personally.”

         The two stood in silence for a moment. Julia’s eyes never leaving Alfie. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as she considered the pros and cons to the agreement. “This isn’t one of your ploys.”

         “I don’t do business with my cousin or her husband. Politics really isn’t my forte, now is it? Prefer to stay out of all that muck.”

         Julia studied every inch of his face, trying to spot a tell of his deception. But as far as she knew, the man was being honest. “If I find out that you’re taking advantage of the situation…”

         “Far too busy.” He interrupted. “I’ll give you my cousin’s information for you to pass ‘long to Caroline. That way, I’m not involved in any sort of the matter.” He reached into his coat to pull out a slip of paper with Elizabeth’s number and address.

         Julia took it, suspicion still clouding her face. “Very well. I’ll give this to Caroline.” She agreed and placed the paper on her secretary’s desk. The young woman doing everything she could to pretend that she wasn’t hanging off their every word.

         “Always a pleasure talking to you, Mrs. Ellner.” Alfie sighed and turned to leave. Yes, he would do what he could to stay away from Caroline. But he had a sneaking suspicion that Elizabeth would make that very difficult for him. She had a habit of sticking her nose into places it didn’t belong.

 ~~~~~~~~~ 

         “Mr. Levi, I just wanted to thank you again for allowing me this opportunity.” Robert led Caroline into his office. “I must say I don’t know much about politics.”

         He smiled. “That’s quite alright. My wife can answer any questions you may have. I’m afraid she’s a bit of a social butterfly and enjoys talking.” He chuckled. Of course, Richard absolutely loved this about his dear Elizabeth. She was nothing like the women his parents had intended for him to be betrothed to. Her intellect was unmatched and sometimes he felt a little taken aback by her level of problem-solving and critical thinking. They often had animated discussions about whatever crossed their minds. Politics, current events, history, technology, and science. Sometimes they disagreed and became a little heated. But they never went to bed angry with one another.

         Richard felt like he could gloat a bit. He had by far, the best marriage out of any of his old mates from university. Seldom did he go very long without complimenting his wife. The woman he claimed was smarter than half of the Commons.

         “That’s alright. We come from a very similar background so I imagine we’d have much to talk about.” Caroline smiled and instructed Pilot to lie down after Richard pulled out a chair for her.

         “I can imagine it’s difficult, navigating the world full of people who don’t quite understand what it’s like for you. My Lizzie always calls me daft,” The young man chuckled and sat behind his desk. “But I often feel guilty because I don’t truly know the obstacles she faces.”

         “I assure you that she’s probably just grateful you’re aware,” Caroline said gently. It was refreshing to hear a man so concerned over his wife’s welfare.

         He smiled and carefully adjusted a framed photograph of his wedding day. Richard’s family was Jewish, but they were far wealthier and less orthodox than Elizabeth’s side. His smile faded a bit when he spotted Alfie towards the back of the wedding party. He stood solemnly, his hands laced together in front of him, rings visible.

         Elizabeth had informed her husband of her coy plot. She mentioned Alfie’s adoration for Caroline, although Richard thought she might’ve been exaggerating. Since Alfie and he didn’t see eye to eye on many things, Richard was uneasy with the idea. Caroline seemed sweet and although he knew blindness didn’t define a person, he worried Alfie might use her or her aunt’s wealth.

         “I do apologize for my wife’s tardiness.” Richard checked his pocket watch. “She’s keen on speaking to everyone on her way here.”

         “Are you speaking about your wife behind her back?” Elizabeth strolled in with Buck by her side. “For your information, zeeskeit, I’m only five minutes late.”

         “Which is a miracle.” He grinned and stood up to kiss her cheek. “I’ve just been speaking to Miss Ellner a bit.”

         Elizabeth found a seat beside Caroline and rested her cane against her husband’s desk. “As we discussed over the phone, Richard would love to fund the creation of another chapter of your aunt’s charity. And I’m sure your aunt would be pleased if you took control of this chapter.”

         Caroline’s eyes widened in disbelief. “That is very generous. I’m not sure if I’m…well I don’t think I’d be so perfect for that role. A woman like me…”

         “Knows exactly what she’s doing,” Elizabeth assured her and reached out to touch her arm. “Who could possibly be better? Your aunt must have taught you a lot. Aside from her, you must be the most knowledgeable.”

         “Wow, well I-I’m not sure what to say.”

         Richard opened a folder of plans. “We’ve several prospective properties, all very well kept and in good areas. There are people who would be willing to donate to such a cause, as well as wealthier families who would be willing to pay for your services. That way, you’d have resources to donate more dogs to those who can’t afford it.” He laid out a few papers in front of him. “There’s a lovely place in Belgravia. There’s a location in Kensington or one in Westminster that are both suitable.”

         Caroline’s lips moved slightly but she couldn’t get the words out. The names of such prestigious areas of London were alarming. “I uh, well, they must be very nice but I don’t think I can afford to relocate to those areas.”

         Elizabeth brushed off her concern. “Nonsense, we’ll make sure to make accommodations for you. No need to worry about money. Construction would begin as soon as we’ve the permits. Meanwhile, Richard and I will start to spread the news. If you’d like, it would be lovely to have a charity event to raise funds. That way, people may meet you and see how lovely you are.”

         The woman spoke with such intense passion that it was a bit difficult to hold the same optimism. Caroline had never attempted such a feat before. She wasn’t even sure she could run the chapter in Camden Town. But she was sure her aunt wouldn’t want to move. She loved Camden too much and would turn up her nose at somewhere like Kensington. It didn’t mean that Caroline would fit any better.

         She relied so much on Julia. “I’ve never lived on my own before.” She admitted. Of course, what was the shame in that? She was a blind woman. Society would always keep her boxed in with relatives.

         “Well, maybe we could make arrangements. Or, oh Richard, we’ve got the extra bedroom on the third floor.” Elizabeth exclaimed. “I know it’s much better to have your own space but I’ve got a lovely young woman who helps me ‘round the house. That way, you wouldn’t be on your own.”

         Her tone was so affectionate and caring, Caroline had a hard time turning her down. “I suppose we could try it out, although I wouldn’t want to intrude on your life.”

         Richard chuckled. “It would be nice to have someone else around the house to take sides in our debates. And Misty is very kind, she takes wonderful care of Lizzie when she needs it.”

         Caroline instinctually reached out for Pilot. The Newfoundland’s heavy fur calming her down. The prospect was so thrilling and yet so frightening. She’d never made such a leap before. But did she really want to stay in Camden? Under her aunt’s strong wing. Being so close to a man she actually adored. The man who had rejected her.

         “I think it sounds like a wonderful idea.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~

         “Aerated Bread Company of Camden Town,” Alfie muttered, the phone receiver balanced between his shoulder and ear.

         “Alfie, kuzin, you’ve yet to contact me. It’s been nearly three months!” Elizabeth’s incredulous voice came from the other line.

         “Right, Liz, been busy.” It wasn’t a bad thing to hear from his cousin, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk. And he knew exactly what she was calling to talk about.

         “Well, have you even received my invitation?” She demanded.

         Alfie eyed the cream-colored invitation muddled in the mix of paperwork on his desk. “Erm, no.”

         “Bullshit!” She replied sourly. “You did and you didn’t respond.”

         “Liz, to be fucking honest m’not gonna crash some fucking charity event.”

         “You’re not crashing it ‘cause I’ve fucking invited you, moron.”

         He grumbled and grabbed the invitation, shaking off loose papers that covered it. “I ain’t goin’. Julia’ll have my bollocks.”

         “She’s not going.”

         “Eh?”

         “I said she’s not going. A friend of hers passed away so she’ll be attending the funeral. However, she gave permission for Caroline to go. Frankly, I’m not sure she needs permission. She’s lived with us for nearly two months now.”

         Alfie’s thoughts came to a full stop. Perhaps it was the independence that she’d been craving. A bit of leeway from her aunt. A position in the charity that those around her had to acknowledge. It was everything Alfie expected her to be able to do. Damned if he wanted to congratulate her. But he didn’t think he had a place in her life anymore. Not after he’d turned away even if it was at the request of Julia.

         “I can hear it in her voice, Alf, she wants to see you again.” Elizabeth’s voice softened. “When I said I’d invited you, she asked if I would tell her the moment you replied.”

         Alfie forced himself to read the details of the event.

         Sunday, nine-thirty, the Ritz, Palm Court.

         It sounded exhausting already. But the chance to see Caroline was enough to get him to cave in. “I’ll be there.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~

         Social events such as the ones Elizabeth loved, Alfie absolutely abhorred. Men and women who were richer than ninety-nine percent of the population. Most of those hadn’t ever had to work a day in their life for said money. They simply won the lottery of life and were born to a family with riches spilling out of their pockets.

         Alfie had half a mind to extort all of them for a piece of the pie. Certainly they all had some skeletons in the many closets of their grand estates. But that would be exhausting work as well. And it was enough that he actually agreed to attend the damned thing. He knew that once he said yes to going, he’d have to go. If he didn’t, Elizabeth would be furious and pout when she inevitably showed up at the bakery the next day to pester him.

         It was easier just to get it over with. Go for half an hour, mingle, be seen by Richard, speak to Elizabeth, congratulate Caroline, and then he could leave.

           Dressed well, Alfie cleaned up a little and wore a derby hat instead of his usual wide-brimmed cap. He wasn’t opposed to wearing nice things; in fact, it was entertaining to show off his wealth sometimes. Even if he didn’t exactly fit the standard of men there. Didn’t fucking matter.

         The lavish Palm Court was filled with all of Richard and Elizabeth’s friends, colleagues, and even distant acquaintances. The more the merrier. The French style created a golden, cream hue. Lighting up the atmosphere as champagne was poured and laughter reflected off the many mirrors and chandeliers.

         Alfie moved through the crowd of socialites, using his stature to move the chattering heirs. He eventually found his cousin donned in an emerald green dress, a necklace of complementary gemstones, and elbow-length gloves. Buck was not by her side, perhaps having a night off, Richard taking his place. Elizabeth linked arms with her husband, chattering away. Richard smiling and laughing along with her, enamored by his wife’s charm and wit.

         “Richard, Liz.” Alfie cleared his throat and swallowed his enormous pride to greet them politely.

         “Alfie, so glad you could come.” Richard thanked him for pleasantries with a firm handshake.

         “Alfie, I knew you wouldn’t stand us up!” Elizabeth exclaimed happily. “Richard, where is Caroline? Is she nearby?”

         “I believe she’s speaking with Mrs. Montgomery. Should I get her?”

         “No, no, don’t worry ‘bout it, mate.” Alfie balked and took the excuse not to see the woman. “Might not want to see me here.”

         “Pft, nonsense. Misty said she looks a dream and you must congratulate her on her success.” Elizabeth insisted firmly. “Go find her.”

         Alfie glanced at Richard who shrugged and pointed to the left of them. “Fine.” He muttered and went to follow his direction. A few feet away, past a few tipsy people was Caroline standing with Pilot by her side. Misty was absolutely correct. The woman looked a sight to behold. No doubt his cousin had insisted she wear something eye-catching. She wore a cream-colored gown that grazed the floor and looked like it was made of pure silk, gleaming in the soft light. Her ash-brown hair was done up in elaborate braids and curls. A gold barrette adorning her hair. A necklace of gold and diamonds rested comfortably against her collarbone.

         It was like he’d never seen her before. She was beautiful, there was no doubt, but he wondered what she truly felt about the pomp that his cousin had surrounded her in.

         Alfie stopped about a foot away, waiting for her to finish up her conversation with an older woman who looked like she wouldn’t care if she dropped a hundred pounds down the drain.

         Pilot glanced up at Alfie, a hint of recognition in his brown eyes, but he remained by Caroline.

         Eventually, the woman touched Caroline’s arm and wished her luck. Alfie stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Lot of congratulations are in order, ain’t they?”

         Caroline’s face lit up. “Alfie?”

         “Surprised I showed up?” He asked sheepishly.

         She smiled and turned towards the direction of his voice. “I didn’t think it would be your cup of tea but I hoped you would come.”

         It was much more difficult than Alfie anticipated. To hear the breathless excitement in her gentle voice. The hope in her gray eyes. To see her dressed to the nines. He was far too weak. “Well, had to see the woman behind all the buzz.”

         She blushed and shrugged. “I think Elizabeth is the buzz, not me.”

         “Nah, it’s you.” He smiled.

         She bit her painted lip and tilted her head to the side. “Would you escort me outside? I’d like to bring Pilot out and I want to get a breath of air.”

         Too weak. “Sure, love.”

         She took his arm and he led her out of the room vibrating with voices and music. The lobby was a bit quieter, albeit still lavish and stuffy. It wasn’t until they walked outside were they both able to breathe.

 ~~~~~~~~~`

         They walked across the street to Green Park. The smaller park framed with trees that were just starting to bud in the young spring months. Caroline let Pilot’s lead a little looser so he could sniff at the grass. His massive paws dragging through the damp grass while Alfie and she walked slowly along the path. Lamps cast a dim glow over the empty park. The stars were dulled but some were visible through the intertwining tree branches.

         “Caroline I-”

         Alfie began to speak but she interrupted. “Is this park prettier than Camden Gardens?” She asked curiously.

         “I uh…” He glanced around the dark park. “Bit plain I s’pose.”

         “It’s nearly spring though.”

         “Don’t make it pretty.”

         She stopped and reached out for his hand. “What makes it pretty?”

         He swallowed and stared at her made-up face. Cautiously, he ran his thumb over her smooth cheek. “Its character. Don’t matter how many flowers are out or what the fucking trees look like. S’bout the heart and soul of it. I love Camden ‘cause of the people there. Sure, may not look as good as a place like this, but the people are all snakes, ain’t they?”

         “I think you see the worst in the world.” She wrapped her fingers around his wrist so he wouldn’t move his hand from her face. “You see the worst in yourself. You’re blind, Alfie.”

         He couldn’t breathe properly. “Can see you.” He mumbled.

         “Can you?”

         He grunted a confirmation.

         “What do you see?” She asked, refusing to drop the issue.

         He studied her face as if he didn’t already know what it looked like. As if he were expecting to see something else or something new. But she was as beautiful as he remembered. Tender eyes, clouded over but still receptive. Still full of emotion. Her delicate lips and soft jawline. “I see a woman I would kill to be in love with. A woman who would be the fucking light of my life. The woman I would never fucking tire of. But she’s the woman I can’t have.”

         Her lips set firmly and she found his cheek. “Are you looking at me?” She felt the nod of his head. “Then you’re looking at the woman that you already have. You are so much more than the man you think you are. So much better than this awful world we’ve been born into.”

         Alfie closed his eyes and leaned into her hand resting on his cheek. “You can’t forgive me sins.”

         “No, I can’t. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still care for you. And it doesn’t mean you won’t care for me.”

         He forced himself to open his eyes. So weak. “I would protect you to the ends of the fucking Earth.”

         A smile formed on her face and she stepped closer to him. “And I’d love you all the way there.”

         He chuckled and pressed his forehead to hers. “Your aunt’s going to fucking kill me.”

         “Not with me standing in front of you.” She murmured and tilted her head to kiss him.

~~~~~~~~~

          Elizabeth wouldn’t stop rejoicing after he told her what had happened. In fact, it took Alfie a few times to get her to calm down and stop making such a scene.

         “Oh, it won’t take long to arrange a wedding. Somewhere outside, the gardens. We’ll make a beautiful chuppah!”

         “Hey, now,” He pointed at his cousin when the startling mention of a wedding left her mouth. “’Nough of that nonsense. We ain’t getting married.”

         Elizabeth pursed her lips for a second but she couldn’t hold back her excitement. “Oh, but Alfie it’s clear how much you love her!” She gushed. “I can hear it in your voice every time you talk about her.”

         Love. Oh boy, if that didn’t send Alfie reeling in a panic. He had spoken about love to her the night before. The night they kissed for the first time. But it was just a word. Elizabeth spoke the word like it was an everlasting commitment. A commitment before the eyes of God. Hardly anything scared Alfie. He’d looked down the barrel of a gun countless times before without fear. Death was merely an old friend that he was waiting to meet up with again. But love. Love made his stomach twist into knots with worry. How terrifying it would be to be in love. The possibility of letting her down. Of never being everything she needed. The inevitable. The day that he simply wasn’t enough and she withdrew. Or God forbid something happened to her because of his foolishness.

         “Hush now.” Alfie scolded Elizabeth. “I shoulda never fucking told you anything.”

         His cousin pouted and sighed. “Why do you try to fight with every emotion you have?” She asked from her seat by his desk.

         “I don’t.” He muttered and tried to busy himself by the filing cabinet. But he wasn’t really doing anything productive. Just picking up some papers, shuffling them around, glancing at the words, and putting them away again.

         “Well, you fight every good emotion. You’ve no issue when it comes to anger.” She agreed with a shrug. “But when you have a chance to be happy, you shy away from it. Why are you so afraid of love?”

         Alfie sometimes wondered whether Elizabeth’s blindness gave her a higher level of perception. Some sort of energy she picked up from every word he spoke. Maybe that’s why she was such a good socialite. She could read people without even being able to see their face. “Why d’you feel like you can worm your way into me personal life?” He retorted childishly.

         Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Be like that. Just don’t ask me about how Caroline talks about you.”

         He scoffed. “You’re such a little yenta. Don’t you have friends to gossip with?”

         She looked a little disappointed that her ploy didn’t pan out. “She speaks of you so fondly, Alfie.” Ignoring his comment, she continued on to try and crack him open and get to the soft spot that she knew he had.

         But he simply grunted in response.

         “Sometimes I ask if we’re talking about the same Alfie because apparently you’re a whole lot nicer to her than you are to me. Says you’re the kindest man she’s ever met and the only person to really treat her so gently without making her feel useless.”

         Alfie paused and stared ahead at the clock on the wall. “Well…” He exhaled heavily and shook his head. “Liz, it ain’t right.”

         “What?” She demanded. “What isn’t right? That you’ve treated a woman with respect? That you’ve developed feelings for her? You’re not heartless, Alfred, even if you’ve tried to convince the world that you are.” Caroline stood up and wrapped her hand around Buck’s lead. “I think you should step away from who you are when you step inside this bakery. Put yourself back in that moment last night with her. You didn’t walk away, you kissed her. There had to have been some reason and I think you can’t keep running from that reason.” She passed by him and walked out of his office. Leaving him to think.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~

         Alfie left work early. Abandoning Ollie without explanation. Ishmael drove him to Kensington. Since Caroline still lived with Richard and Elizabeth, he’d known her address for months. But he’d kept his distance.

         Their building was a multi-leveled apartment with a polished, white exterior. A balcony fixed over the stairs held up by Tuscan orders. When he traveled up the front steps, he noticed a large bouquet left at the door.

         Alfie stooped down to pick it up and knocked on the door.

         Misty opened the door. The young woman who cared after the house and Elizabeth was familiar with him. And like most of London, she was cautious whenever he stopped by.

         “Mr. Solomons, good afternoon.” She smiled politely. “Mrs. Levi isn’t in now, I’m afraid she’s gone on a walk.”

         “Hello, Misty. I’m actually after Caroline if she’s in.” He explained feeling very out of place on the front step of the lavish building.

         Misty’s eyes went from his face to the bouquet in his hands. “Oh…yes, I believe she’s in the parlor. I’ll fetch her.”

         Alfie realized the implications and handed the flowers to her. “Erm, these were left on the porch. Just wanted to bring them in for you.”

         “Oh.” A hint of relief passed over her face. “Yes, thank you.” She took the bouquet and went inside, opening the door wider for him. “Come in.”

         He stepped inside and waited by the door. He could hear Misty explaining that Alfie had come calling. A few moments later, Caroline came out of the parlor. She was without the aid of her cane or Pilot. Instead, she walked with slight caution, reaching out to touch the doorframe and other guiding points. After months at Richard and Elizabeth’s, she had become familiar with the layout and could find her way around without much issue.

         She smiled. “Elizabeth said you’d be around soon.”

         Of course, she did. Although Alfie hadn’t specified ever visiting, his cousin knew him well enough to see through his weaknesses. And he had a severe weakness for Caroline. “Can we speak privately?”

         “Of course.”

         Caroline held his arm, letting him lead her back to the parlor. Pilot was curled up on the rug and lifted his head when he saw the familiar man enter. His tail wagged but he remained still and alert.

         Alfie sat beside her on the sofa. A book sat on the coffee table in front of where she’d been sitting before. Grateful for a distraction, he picked up the book and opened it to the marked page.

         The pages were lined with braille. He grazed his fingers over the indentations that were unrecognizable to him. When she was younger, Elizabeth had shown how her name and his name felt written in braille. But he hadn’t learned any further.

         Misty entered the room with the bouquet of flowers that she had placed in a crystal vase with fresh water. “Miss Ellner, someone left you flowers.” She explained and set the vase down on the coffee table.

         The scent of freesia and rose bloomed in the parlor. Caroline reached out to feel the fragile petals between her fingers. “Who sent them?” She asked.

         Misty read the card that had been left among the flowers. “A Mr. Thompson.” She answered. “He wrote how he wishes to see you again and hopes you’ll be in touch.”

         “Oh, yes.” Caroline nodded. “We spoke at the gala. He was a very nice man. Could you write a thank you note for him?”

         “Yes, miss.” Misty nodded and left the parlor again, shutting the door behind her.

         Alfie was seeing red. A man had sent her flowers? A rich man? A man who had tried to woo her at the gala? The outright nerve of such a stuck up, entitled, snake.

         Caroline didn’t sense the jealousy positively radiating from Alfie beside her. She simply sighed and plucked the petal from the rose. “How utterly pointless.” She mumbled.

         That piqued his interest and he glanced over. “Eh?”

         “Oh, I just…I don’t really like receiving flowers as a gift.” She admitted sheepishly. “I understand it was a good gesture. I just…I’d much rather they were left to grow instead of being cut down. I feel like I can’t truly appreciate them when they’re wasting away in a vase.”

         “What sorta gifts do you like?” Alfie set down her book. He was mildly pleased to see that she appeared uninterested by Mr. Thompson’s gesture.

         “Oh, I don’t necessarily need anything.” She shrugged. “I much prefer spending time with people.”

         Since Caroline didn’t explicitly name him as a person she liked to hang out with, Alfie wouldn’t make any assumptions. Instead, he just nodded and scratched his beard. “So…were thinking about that night.”

         A small played on her face. “Were you now? Second-guessing kissing the blind girl.”

         Even though she spoke with a teasing lilt, his face went a little pink. “No, no…I don’t go ‘round kissing people and then ignore them.” He tried to defend himself.

         She laughed and touched his knee. “Alfie, I’m playing with you. Although I was a little worried that you’d maybe-oh I dunno. Maybe you were caught up in the moment and now you’ve got cold feet.”

         He touched her cheek and gently guided her so she was facing him. Elizabeth was right. Damn it, she was always right and it drove Alfie fucking insane. But she was. And she was right about Caroline. Alfie tried too hard to push away all the feelings he was told were weak. Love, affection, humility, tenderness. All the things that took away from the steel exterior he’d worked so hard to craft.

         But Caroline walked right through that barrier. Passing through as if it were nothing but a thin mist in the air. A simple sheet of silk separating them. She grabbed a hold of his heart and refused to let go.

         Alfie sighed and leaned forward to kiss her.

         She immediately smiled when she felt the tickle of his beard against her cheek. Their lips molding perfectly together, fostering the warmth between them. Her hand lifting from his neck and rested on the back of his neck. Her light, airy touch caused goosebumps to run down his arms.

         When they parted, both of them had been rendered breathless. Caroline laughed softly and pressed her forehead to his. “I guess that answers my questions.”

         “Ain’t ever felt the way I feel ‘bout you.” He murmured. “And m’fucking terrified of these feelings. But I can’t stay away from you.”

         “Then don’t.” She pressed a few more kisses to his lips. “Stay with me, Alfie.

         He swallowed and felt every self-destructive urge bubbling in his throat. Telling him to get up and walk away. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

         “Alfie?” When he had been silent for quite some time, Caroline worried a little. She wasn’t sure whether she had pressed him too much or came on too strong.

         “So that Thompson, fella. You weren’t kissing him too, aye?” He teased.

         She smiled and shook her head. “I don’t even remember what he said to me. I was too busy hoping someone else would show up.”

         He grinned and felt his anxieties fade away. “Oh yeah? Who would that be then?”

         “Just kiss me, you silly man.”

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Masterlist

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Ever So Sweet

Many thanks to the AMAZING @theheavycrown for this spectacular graphic and for just being an incredible human being. On to the emo cupcake fic. (Song 4-A song that reminds you of someone you’d rather forget- Ever So Sweet- The Early November)

Ever so sweet

You baked it in cakes for me.

What you left behind,

It hurts my teeth.

Bring in the past

With the postcards you sent for me.

Every line,

It brings me right back down.

“Relax, Jug, it’s just a cookie. It’s not gonna bite you,” Toni teases the cookie in front of his face for a few seconds before retracting it back, rolling her eyes and taking a bite of the treat herself. 

Sweet Pea, pulling the wrapper off a delicately frosted white cupcake moaned as the strawberry center spilled onto his hands. “Yeah man,” he says through a mouthful of confectionary. “I didn’t think you EVER turned down food. Especially food as good as this,” his point articulated by shoving the remainder of the cupcake into his mouth.

“I just don’t have much of an appetite for sweets at the moment,” Jughead replies, picking his bag up off the floor. He tries not to look across the cafeteria, at the table laden with perfectly baked delights, decorated meticulously in blue and yellow, raising funds for some Vixen related expense or other. 

“Your loss, man.” 

(If that isn’t the understatement of the century, Jughead Jones didn’t know what is. And it has nothing to do with cupcakes.)

Well, it has something to do with cupcakes. A flour-handprint map of her body. Batter-tinged kisses. Frosting in more places than was sanitary, they came to find out. Every cookie—brownie, cake, pie— now turning to dust in his mouth.   His once overwhelming penchant for all things sweet went out the door around the same time he asked Betty to stay behind hers.

Jughead shakes his head and makes for the doors, averting his gaze so he misses the blonde beauty watching his back as he slinks from the caf. 

He knew it would be hard coming back to Riverdale, especially considering the circumstances of their separation, but he didn’t realize they’d be walking right into a bake sale. A Betty Cooper bake sale, no less. He knew from the first sign that she was organizing it, and from the first whiff of sugary-decadence, knew she was behind the treats actualization. 

He tries to do what he told her to do, move on, but every day he’s back in these halls he wonders if the reasons he presented are even valid anymore. Nothing in this town was “safe”. Realistically, the petty crimes of the Serpents were a drop in the collective nightmare bucket that was Riverdale but he still resolves to keep her firmly away from any such activity.    

Before he knows it he’s back at the cafeteria. He hasn’t intentionally walked his way back. (It’s not like he’s forgotten the layout of the school he lived in) It’s just now, every turn leads to more stares and hushed conversations about the weird loner who picked up a gang when he crossed the tracks.  The leather jacket that felt like armor on the South Side feels more like a straight jacket, suffocating and choking the parts of himself he once knew to be true. A swatch of gold across the room distracts him, almost as if she knows he sees her with how slowly she turns around to face him. He finds himself helplessly rooted to the spot as their eyes finally meet. 

They look more blue in this light than the green he knows them to be. Lips, as pink and kissable as ever, quirk into a facsimile of a smile as she lifts her hand to him. He nods tersely in response, stepping back and turning to get away from anyone else who dares walk by him with something she baked in their hands. 

Without meaning to, again, he finds himself standing in front of a familiar door. He’s only gone in once when she was there, finding the memories too hard to bear when he has to see her face and smell her perfume but not be able to reach out and touch her. 

The door to the Blue and Gold opens with ease; crossing the threshold is much more difficult. 

Once inside, the onslaught of memories is tamped down, or drowned out, by whoever is screaming through his headphones. At this desk, the one that was his before his world turned upside down, words flow from his fingers as though they’re meant to do nothing in this world but create.

He isn’t sure how long he’s been in there exactly, he has a free period after lunch that he usually spends writing anyway, today the words come freely, without hesitation or question. He stops only when in his periphery a dainty hand appears, holding what looks to be the biggest chocolate cupcake he’s ever seen.

Jughead slides the headphones down so they rest against his neck, not bothering to pause the noise spilling from them. “It didn’t look like you ate much today,” Betty says, still holding the cupcake out to him. Closing his laptop he moves to take it from her, careful not to meet any part of her skin with his. 

He wants to say he isn’t hungry, but she knows him too well. Regardless of what their relationship is now, he refuses to lie to her. More carefully he says, “I haven’t had the appetite for sweets.”

She nods, hands wringing in front of her now that they’re empty. “I know the feeling.”

Part of him wonders if it’s something to do with Alice, Betty’s aversion to food in general, it seems to stem from her. He looks at the cupcake and tries to remember seeing any more on the bake sale table, or in anyone's hands, but he can’t seem to place them. He clears his throat. “Maybe if I’d seen these I’d have been more inclined to help the Vixens…”

“Raise money for the South Side Rec Center.” she supplies, eyes shining brightly when his head snaps toward hers. “Toni mentioned something about the roof needing repairs so we figured this was the best way, not only to raise the money but to show some outward communal unity. Who can resist a bake sale?” She shrugs as if any of what she’s just said was nonchalant. Something bubbles in his chest, a mix of pride and hope and it feels so, so good he doesn’t even try to fight it. 

“Who can resist a Betty Cooper run bake sale is the more apropos question,” her smile falters a little as his own mouth softens into one. 

“It didn’t seem too hard for you to stay away. Once upon a time, it would have been impossible for you to resist. And for the record,” she takes a deep breath, straightening her spine so she seems impossibly tall in front of him. The sun is streaming through the windows now, lighting her up, her ethereal beauty never more appreciated than at this moment. “You didn’t see those because they weren’t for sale.”

He holds the cupcake in question up, it seems innocuous enough, chocolate cake, chocolate frosting. He bets it tastes amazing, exactly like he remembers from when they’d make them together. There are a few other things he remembers as the chocolatey aroma assails his senses: how much richer the batter tasted between their fused mouths, the way her tongue swirled around his finger in her attempt to remove every last drop of frosting he’d try to sneak when her back was turned. He shivers despite feeling like he’s burning under the layers of flannel and leather. 

“That seems like a bad business decision, Betts. You could raise the money with these alone,” he says setting the cupcake down on his laptop, not missing the way she winces when the old nickname slips out. She recovers quickly though. She always does, he tells himself knowing full well that’s not entirely (if at all) true. 

“It is my best cupcake. Cheryl tried to put them out but seeing them, well,” her head shakes as if she’s trying to rid herself of her thoughts entirely. “Turns out you’re the only person I want, to have one.” The pause between ‘want’ and ‘to’ sets his teeth on edge. He wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around her, taste the indescribable sweetness that is Betty Cooper, press pieces of the cupcake to her swollen lips and feel her sharp tongue caress his rough, ready skin once more. It doesn’t make it any easier that she’s standing in front of him in her Vixens uniform, hands worrying the hem of her skirt.

But that day won’t be today. It can’t be, not yet. Not until he’s on steadier ground with the Serpents, not until he knows she won’t have to wade through the muck just to stand at his side.  Instead of saying any of this he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “Thanks for thinking of me, Betty.”

He watches her swallow, jaw clenching before she softly replies, “It’s all I do, Juggie.” She turns away from him quickly, crossing the room and closing the door quietly behind her. It’s only fair, he supposes, that it’s his turn to watch the person he loves walk away. 

There’s wetness on his cheeks that wasn’t there a moment ago and his sniffles seem louder than should be allowed to be in the stillness of the room. His eyes find the cupcake and his stomach rumbles in response. He knows that even one taste will be too much, like she was, and he’ll be ruined all over. He stares the cupcake down until the bell rings knowing he can’t throw it away but isn’t able to bring himself to eat it either. 

After he packs up his laptop, he finds a roll of paper towels and attempts to wrap the cupcake. (It might be a little squished by the time he gets home but he’s sure FP will appreciate it nonetheless.) It’s like a brick in his hand, on his mind, on his heart, even as it sits in his locker waiting for the day to end. Nothing this good is supposed to hurt this badly. He knows that’s patently untrue; his relationship with Betty was the best thing in his life and when it ended, both times, he felt utterly unmoored.

He’s trying to find his bearings, to balance life and the Serpents and his own expectations without hurting anyone else. He has to get his head on right before he falls on his knees and begs her to take him back. 

She deserves that much. All of him. It’s not like he’s waiting to meet some impossible standard he thinks she deserves, he knows she’ll accept the broken parts and help him piece them back together. But he needs to be able to do the same for her, and right now he simply can’t. There are too many variables out of their control. 

When she walks out of their shared class at the end of the day and stops to look back at him he knows it isn’t over. She still looks sad, there’s a slightly red hue to her eyes that wasn’t there earlier, but she still smiles at him. He can’t help but return it.

Later, after he finally gets home, the now deformed cupcake sits on the counter. When he took it from his locker it felt lighter than it had going in, something delicate that deserved treasuring rather than needing to be lugged. Instead of leaving it for his father he decides to eat half, now that he’s had a minute to get over himself. He’s realized that even if it’s symbolic or too reminiscent of a past he’s desperately trying to get back to, that it’s just a cupcake. That Betty Cooper made especially for him, and that can never be a bad thing. 

Surprisingly, the chocolate doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as he thought it would.

[filthysmile]

𝔹𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕗𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕤 -- Closed Drabble 001

Stained snow.

Bright red like a ruby amongst powdered pearls, it brought joy and excitement to the killer. Bandaged hands rubbing the cold liquid between his fingertips and making note of the trail from what he could see. 

Lifting his mask up and away from blurred, wind stung eyes; he blinked few times to clear his vision. Interested on just who would be stupid enough to trespass so close to the lodge. 

『❛ These fucking meat sack’s are just getting more and more cocky... ❜』 Frank spat at the idea, knowing the so claimed ‘survivors’ where trying to rummage the stockpile of goods him and his Legion had acquired over their many trials. He couldn’t exactly blame them though. Medicine was as scarce as food and even for killer’s they had to steal from one another to survive. 

Stashing his blade in his pocket, he chose not to pursue the trail of blood. Instead opting for the smart route and heading back to the run down resort him and the other’s called home. Knowing his bets where better placed guarding the goods rather than chasing false leads.

『❛ You fucks ain’t leading me away that easily. I’ve played your game before.❜』 Grumbling softly, Frank stepped indoors, rubbing the snow and muck from his sneakers as he entered through sheer habit. Leaving his mask to rest upon the check in desk and tossing back his water soaked hood. 

Taking a good look at his surroundings, he stopped and listened. The fireplace crackling and the building’s generator rumbling on as usual. Nothing so far out of the ordinary, but he wasn’t the kind to leave things up to chance. Not with his stash of ‘treasure’ on the line. 

Off to the side and down large creaking steps, he made his way into the basement and storage. Otherwise known as Joey’s room. Passing by the other legionnaire’s hammock and letting calloused fingers brush against the soft but old and worn cotton gently. It was a blanket they had stolen from Herman’s Hospital and one he was never getting back.

『❛  Should get Joey more blankets...  ❜』     Frank noted to himself. Taking in the cold draft and thinking for someone other than himself for a moment. At least until the soft sound of breathing caught his attention. Gentle and quiet unlike the slight rasp of his own from years of teenage smoking. 

Pulling forth his knife, he pushed the hammock aside slowly and gripped the handle of his blade, steadying his own breaths as it offered him focus. 

Rounding the corner however he was met with -- Nothing. 

Or rather, nothing but the wind gently howling through the rotting boards of the basement. Causing a soft whisper like sound that made the legion leader grumble.

Bringing a hand up to pinch and massage the bridge of his nose in irritation, he rolled his eyes and turned on foot to head back upstairs. At least, until he came face to face with the creator of the before seen blood trail.

『❛  Jesus FUCK Susie! You can’t fucking sneak up on me like that!   ❜』 Frank snarled as he felt his heart skip a beat. Leaving him gasping for his breath for a moment before shaking off the feeling of being startled. Noticing the way she was holding her shoulder and the thick streams of tears that fell from her eyes. 

『❛  What happened to you? You get jumped or some shit, angel face?   ❜』 He asked with some sense of genuine concern for her, listening to her explain her trial and the one who had attacked her with a shard of glass as he grabbed one of the many medical kits they had measly tossed in the corner of the basement alongside the rest of their stolen goods. 

Hushing her softly as she began to sob, he pat her mess of pink and brunette hair before ushering her back upstairs with himself to follow. 

『❛  Save your breath Suse’. I got the picture.  ❜』 He reassured her the best he could. Patting her back softly as they made their way over to the couch and fireplace. Watching as she took off her sweater and he removed his jacket for better mobility. 

Checking over her wound, it didn’t seem like anything worse than it could have been. Sure it was bleeding quite heavily, but it didn’t look too deep and he couldn’t see the bone of her shoulder. 

Popping open the kit, he grabbed all he needed and moved himself closer to her until she was almost in his lap. Wrapping his left arm around the front of her and holding her right shoulder from the front. Giving her a nod of permission as she opened her mouth and placed braced teeth against his scarred and tattooed skin.

『❛ You know the drill. Bite till it doesn’t hurt.  ❜』 Frank said slightly muffled as he used his teeth to pop open a bottle of disinfecting alcohol. This wasn’t their first time doing this, and the many indent scars of her teeth along his arm was proof enough. 

『❛   Just relax angel. I’ll take care of you.   ❜』

[amixiifish]

Heat- Chapter 9: The Painted Lady

Zuko walked into the town with the rest of them this time, finally accepting it wasn’t his fault these people were suffering. As they walked by the stalls, they were shocked to see people actually laughing, many were healed, and some even had food and clean water. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Katara slightly puff up with pride at the development. The corner of his lips quirks up. He knew she was going to do something like this. She knew she could’ve helped these people, and she followed through with it. 

“Hey Dock, is Shoe around?” Sokka asks, referring to his supposed “brother.” Dock walks around the back of his shop and comes back wearing a different hat. 

“Hey there. Back again, aren’t ya?” he asks. Sokka goes to say something, but Toph pushes him out of the way. 

“We need more food. Our friend is sick and we can’t leave until he gets better,” she says, slamming some money onto the table. After bantering with the shopkeeper, the gang takes their food and walks to the town center.

“Can you believe how much a village can be affected by just one lady?” Katara says, “I mean, spirit?” The townspeople are putting up a statue in honor of the Painted Lady, and Zuko watches with awe. 

Sokka scoffs. “Well, I hope she returns every night,” Zuko glances at Katara to gauge her reaction; her expression gets angrier every second he speaks. “Otherwise, this place would go right back to the way it was.” 

Katara whips around to face him, a scowl etched into her face. Zuko flinches back, and Katara glances over at him with an expression of motherly concern before facing her brother again.“Why would you say that? Look at how much better off these people are.” Her face brightens slowly but surely as she talks. 

“Yeah, now, but without her, they wouldn’t be able to fend for themselves.” Katara folds her arms over her chest. “If she really wanted to help, she would use her spirit magic to blow up the factory.” He imitates an explosion, and Aang, being the child he is, joins in. Katara, though, looks thoughtful and looks over to Zuko, almost as if asking for his permission. He shrugs. 

Later, when Katara’s about to sneak out, Zuko grabs her hand as she gets up. 

“Can I come with you?” An expression of surprise flits across her face, but she nods. 

He stuffs both of their sleeping bags with Appa’s shed fur, and silently watches Katara do her makeup. She’s going to impersonate the painted lady, Zuko realizes. They get up to leave, and Katara realizes they have a problem- how was Zuko going to cross the water? She hesitates before deftly scooping him up in her arms. He yelps quietly but slowly settles as she crosses. Zuko tensed in her arms when he hears Momo chittering behind them, then sees Aang following them. He presses himself into Katara’s robes, trying to hide, and Katara holds him in such a way that he’s completely hidden by her robes. Aang doesn’t relent and continues chasing them, even at the great speed that Katara was going at. 

“I know Hei Bai, we’re close personal friends!” He calls after them, using his water-bending skills to chase them. Katara goes faster. They reach the land in record time yet Aang still trails them.

Katara and Zuko stop behind a ledge, and Katara glances over to see if they’ve lost him. They’re safe- ah, nope, surprise, bitch. 

“My name’s Aang,” he says from above them. Katara startles. “I’m the Avatar.” He pulls his headband down, revealing his arrow. Zuko rolls his eyes. We know that, genius. You really don’t recognize your friend? 

“Why, hello, Avatar. I wish I could talk, but I am very busy.” Katara modulates her voice so that it sounds different and older. Zuko stifles a laugh, and she pinches him under her robe. 

Aang casts his eyes down to the ground. “ Yeah, me too. I hate that.” Zuko assumes he’s talking about Sokka’s master plan.

“Hey, you’re really pretty for a spirit,” Aang says earnestly to Katara. Zuko actually does laugh then, quietly. She pinches him again. Aang, thankfully, doesn’t notice. 

“I don’t get to meet too many spirits, but the ones I do… not very attractive.” He tells her. Zuko bookmarks this conversation in his head to tease Katara within the near future. 

“Thank you, but…” She trails off. 

“You seem familiar, too.” He tries to peek into her veil, and Katara shifts uncomfortably.

“A lot of people say that,” she tries. 

“No, you really seem familiar.” Aang creases his eyebrows. 

“Look, I really should get going,” Katara turns away and starts to walk away before Aang hits her with a blast of air. Her hat and veil fly up, exposing her face.

“Katara?” He asks. 

“Hi, Aang,” she sighs. Zuko takes this as his cue to get out. 

“Hey, Aang,” he greets. Aang’s jaw drops. 

“Zuko?!” He all but screeches. Both Zuko and Katara shush him. “You were in there? How?!”

Zuko shrugs. “How are you the painted lady?” He asks, pointing to Katara. 

“She put on makeup and helped people. Not that hard,” Zuko snarked.

Katara hits him on the back of his head. “I need to help these people, Aang. I can’t just sit and watch them suffer.” 

Aang sighs, then brightens. “You’re like a secret hero! Can I help too?”

“If you want to help, there’s one more thing we have to do.” 

They go down to the factory. Muck flows out of the vents, and Katara waterbends it so the three of them can crawl through. Katara starts looking around to assess the weakest points of the structure. 

“You want to destroy this factory?” Aang asks incredulously. 

“Yes. Sokka was just kidding, but he was right,” she explains.

“For once in his life,” Zuko mutters. Katara hits him again, and he rubs the back of his head.

“Getting rid of this factory is the only way to help these people permanently.”

Katara, Aang, and Zuko make quick work of the factory between the three of them and their bending. Katara slices the chains of the molten metal holders, and Zuko and Aang tip them, along with generally wreaking havoc upon the factory. Katara calls on a huge wave of water from the river just outside and floods the whole place, which results in some things breaking and exploding. They run out of it and make it back to camp just as the sun is starting to come up. On their walk back, Zuko watches amusedly as Aang recounts what the explosion looked like.

“Shh, Aang! We don’t want to wake Sokka or Jet up!” Katara chides quietly.

They turn the corner to their campsite, only to see Sokka, Jet, and Toph standing in a line, their arms crossed.  

“Hi… Sokka.” 

Katara sighs and Aang flinches. “I think it’s a bit too late,” he mumbles.

“No, really?” Katara whispers back, deadpan.

“You! You’re the Painted Lady! You’ve been helping those people! You faked Appa’s sickness! You put our mission in jeopardy, Katara!” Sokka fumes. Toph sticks her tongue out to show her purple tongue and holds up the bag of berries.

“Guys,” Zuko says looking with alarm at the water. 

“No!” Katara shoots back. “I will never turn my back on people in need that I can help! If you don’t want to, then fuck you!”

“Guys!” Toph yells. “The fire nation army is going to the town!”

“They must think the townspeople destroyed the factory,” Aang said, horror etched on his face.

“You destroyed the factory!” Jet exclaims, surprised.

“Sokka said to!” Katara counters.

“I also said use ghost noises! No one listens to me! Especially not you!” Sokka shrieks.

“Guys, shut up and focus. Katara, go turn into the painted lady and help! Aang, you’re going to help, but secretly.” Zuko directs. “Fine, but I’m helping,” Sokka says. “Let’s do this,” Jet says with a grin.Toph cracks her knuckles. A smirk was found on Katara’s usually kind face.“Let’s show them what we can do.”After destroying the army, Katara revealed herself to the townspeople. They were affronted, at first, but realized slowly that they needed the help. They cleared the water, slowly but surely, and a freshwater lake was formed all around the quaint little town. They said their goodbyes and Katara’s content smile made the trip all the worthwhile.Later, if the Gaang learns that Katara and Zuko were visited by the original Painted Lady while washing clothes, they decide to withhold comments.