#spring boot project step by step

[happy74827]

Bruised Shadows

[Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: While coming home from another grueling job, Bucky found himself ambushed by the unrelenting warmth of his neighbor’s compassion.

WC: 3002

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Grumpy x Sunshine (fav trope fr)

I decided to post one of my drafts since it has been decades since I’ve posted last… whoops 👀

『••✎••』

Bucky Barnes didn’t notice the blood until it dripped onto the scuffed toe of his boot. A crimson bead, sharp against the black leather, caught the dim hallway light as he trudged toward his apartment. He swiped the back of his flesh hand across the bridge of his nose, smearing the trickle, and grunted. Didn’t hurt. Barely registered. The serum had a way of dulling the sting of split skin and bruised bone—nothing a few hours wouldn’t knit back together. The ache in his knuckles from the job, though? That lingered, a quiet reminder of the fists he’d thrown and the unconscious bodies he’d left sprawled in some warehouse two states over.

The duffel bag slung over his vibranium shoulder thumped rhythmically against his hip, heavy with gear he hadn’t bothered to unpack. Another day, another mess cleaned up with Sam, for which he took most of the credit, but Bucky didn’t care much about the public eye—just the doing. It kept his hands busy and his mind occupied. Kept the nightmares at bay, if only for a night.

He was three steps from his door, key already fished from his pocket, when he heard it—your voice, soft as a damn spring breeze, cutting through the stale air of the hallway.

"James?"

He froze but didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He knew it was you—only you called his name like that like it wasn’t a curse or a weapon. Like it was just… his. He clenched his jaw, the ache in his bruised eye socket pulsing faintly as he willed you to keep walking. You lived two doors down, always too close for comfort, always too you—bright and warm and everything he wasn’t. He’d spent months dodging the way you lingered in his trajectory, all soft smiles and small talk he didn’t deserve.

"James, oh my God, what happened to your face?"

There it was—concern, thick and unfiltered, wrapping around him like a blanket he didn’t ask for. He turned his head just enough to catch you in his peripheral, and Christ, there you were—hair a little messy from whatever late-night project you’d been buried in, eyes wide and shining with that unbearable kindness. You were clutching a mug, steam curling from it, probably tea or something equally gentle. You looked like an angel, and he felt like the devil himself standing there, bloodied and hulking in his tactical gear.

"It’s nothing," he muttered, voice low and rough, turning back to his door. "I’m fine."

"You’re bleeding." Your footsteps pattered closer, too quick for him to escape, and suddenly you were right there—close enough that he could smell the lavender on you, feel the warmth radiating off your skin. His metal arm twitched, instinct screaming at him to pull away before he tainted you somehow. "Your nose, your eye—James, that’s not nothing."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, wincing when it stung the raw skin. "I’ve had worse. Go back to your tea."

But you didn’t. Of course, you didn’t. You never listened when he tried to brush you off, and it drove him up the damn wall—how you’d barrel through his gruff exterior like it was tissue paper. You set the mug on the floor—carefully because you were always careful—and grabbed his sleeve, tugging with a strength that surprised him for someone so soft. "No, you’re coming with me. I’m not letting you bleed all over your apartment when I can help."

"You?" He arched a brow, the bruised one, and regretted it when it pulled at the swelling. "What’re you gonna do, stitch me up?"

"If I have to." Your tone was firm and stubborn, and he hated how it made his chest tighten. "Come on."

He could’ve pulled away. He could’ve shrugged you off with a flick of his arm—vibranium or flesh. It didn’t matter; you were no match for him. He was a goddamn super soldier, a walking weapon, and you were… what? A civilian with a bleeding heart and a brain too sharp for your good. He’d seen you solve crossword puzzles in two minutes flat and heard you ramble about obscure history facts when he’d lingered too long in the laundry room. You weren’t an Avenger, weren’t SHIELD—just a woman who’d wormed her way into his life with cookies and quiet conversations, and now here you were, dragging him toward your apartment like he was some stray you needed to fix.

And he let you. God help him, he let you.

Your place smelled like you—lavender and vanilla and something faintly sweet, like the cookies you’d left outside his door last week with a note that said, "Don’t be a grump; eat something." The lights were warm and soft, nothing like the harsh fluorescents in his sparse apartment. You pushed him toward the couch with a gentle shove, and he dropped the duffel by the door, too tired to argue.

"Sit," you ordered, already darting to the kitchen. "And don’t move."

He sat, legs sprawled, metal arm resting heavily on the cushion. His flesh hand rubbed at the back of his neck, where tension coiled tight. He didn’t belong here—didn’t belong in your orbit, period. You were sunlight, and he was a shadow, all sharp edges and dark corners. The Winter Soldier might’ve been gone, scrubbed clean by Wakanda and time, but the nightmares still clawed at him—flashes of blood screams, faces he couldn’t unsee. He woke up some nights with his vibranium fist clenched so hard it creaked, half-expecting to find a body under him. You didn’t know that. You didn’t know him. And he’d kept it that way, only feeding you scraps—his arm, the war, vague mentions of missions—because the full truth would send you running.

You came back with a damp cloth, a bowl of water, and a first-aid kit that looked like it’d seen better days. "Tilt your head back," you said, kneeling in front of him.

You were too close. Way too close.

"I can do it myself," he grumbled, reaching for the cloth.

You swatted his hand away—actually swatted it like he wasn’t just pounds of muscle and metal who could snap your wrist without blinking. "Stop it. Let me."

He stared at you, jaw tight, blue eyes narrowing under the bruised lid. You stared back, unflinching, and he saw it—the worry etched into your brow, the way your lips pressed together like you were holding back a lecture. He relented, tipping his head back against the couch because fighting you felt like kicking a puppy.

The cloth was cool against his skin, and your touch—God, your touch—was feather-light, dabbing at the blood on his nose with a care that made his throat close up. He watched you through half-lidded eyes, the way your lashes fluttered as you focused, the little furrow between your brows. You were so gentle it hurt, like a bruise he couldn’t shake off.

"You don’t have to do this," he said, quieter than he meant. "I’m not your problem."

"You’re not a problem at all," you shot back, not missing a beat. "You’re my neighbor. And my friend. And you’re hurt, so I’m helping. Deal with it."

Friend. The word lodged in his chest like a bullet. He didn’t have any friends since Steve—not really. Sam, maybe, on a good day. But you? You’d been chipping away at him for months, ever since he’d moved in—leaving him coffee when you caught him coming back from a run, asking about his arm like it was just another part of him, not a relic of his sins. He’d grumbled, dodged, and kept his distance, but you kept coming back, sunny and relentless, until he couldn’t imagine the hallway without you in it.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, brushing the cloth over the swelling around his eye. Your fingers grazed his cheek, and he tensed, every muscle locking up.

"No," he lied. It didn’t hurt—not the way you meant. No, the pain was deeper, a gnawing thing that came from how soft you were, how close you were, how much he wanted to lean into it and couldn’t.

"You’re a terrible liar!" you said, smiling faintly. “You’re all tense. I’m not gonna break you, you know.”

But I could break you, he thought, and the idea made his stomach twist. His strength wasn’t just in the arm—it was in every fiber of him, honed by decades of violence. He could lift you with one hand and crush your bone without trying. He’d done it before, under Hydra’s leash, and the memory of it—of fragile things shattering under his grip… kept him up at night. You didn’t know that. You saw the arm, sure, but you didn’t know its weight or danger.

You rinsed the cloth, pink water swirling in the bowl, and came back to his eye, your breath fanning over his skin. He could feel the heat of you, the steadiness of your hands, and it undid him—slowly, thread by thread. He wanted to pull away, to growl at you to stop, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. Because you were looking at him like he was worth something, and he hadn’t felt that in so long, it scared him.

"Why do you care so much?" he asked, voice rough, almost accusatory. "I’m fine. I’m always fine."

You paused, cloth hovering over his cheek, and your eyes flicked up to his—big, earnest, piercing. "Because you’re not fine, Bucky. Not always. And even if you were, I’d still care. You don’t have to go through everything alone."

His breath hitched, and he hated it—hated how you saw through the cracks he’d patched up with sarcasm and silence. He shifted, flesh hand curling into a fist on his thigh. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Then tell me," you said, soft but insistent. "I mean… you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but… I’m here. You know that, right?"

He didn’t answer. The words were stuck, tangled in the mess of his head. And it seemed as if you knew that because you didn’t push; you just went back to cleaning his face, and the silence stretched thick with everything he wouldn’t say.

When you finished, the blood was gone, the bruising still dark but less angry. You sat back on your heels, studying him like you were checking your work. "There. You look less like you lost a bar fight."

He snorted, a rare sound, and your smile widened—bright, unguarded, like you’d won something. He felt it then, the pull he’d been fighting for months—the way his chest warmed when you looked at him, the way his guard slipped when you laughed. He liked you. More than liked you. And it terrified him.

You stood, gathering the supplies, and he caught your wrist—vibranium fingers light but firm. You froze, eyes darting to his, and he saw the question there, the flicker of surprise.

"You shouldn’t," he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your brows furrowed. "Shouldn’t what?"

"Like me. Care about me. Whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between you, his metal hand dropping to hide under his jacket. "I’m not… I’m not good for you."

The silence that followed was heavy and thick with unspoken things. You didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned forward again, your hand resting lightly on his knee. He could’ve crushed steel with less effort than it took to stay still under that touch.

"James," you said, voice soft but firm, "you don’t get to decide that for me."

He clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking. "You don’t know me. Not really."

"Then tell me." Your eyes searched his, open and unafraid. "Tell me who you are, what you think I can’t handle. Because from where I’m sitting, you’re the guy who’s sat through my terrible movie marathons, who’s fixed my leaky sink without me asking, who’s looked out for me even when you didn’t have to. That’s who I see."

He wanted to argue, to tell you about the bodies he’d left behind, the decades he’d spent as a puppet for killers. But the words wouldn’t come. You were looking at him like he was worth something, and it was unraveling him stitch by stitch.

"You deserve better," he rasped, barely audible. "Someone whole. Someone who’s not… broken."

You shook your head, a small, incredulous laugh escaping you. "James, I don’t want 'better.' I want you. Broken pieces and all."

He stared at you, heart hammering, torn between shoving you away and pulling you closer. Your hand was warm against the cool metal, your gaze unflinching, and he felt the dam break—the walls he’d built crumbling under the weight of you. He wanted to believe it, wanted to let himself have this, but the fear lingered, sharp and insistent.

"You’re too good," he murmured, almost to himself. "Too damn good."

You smiled, small and tentative, and leaned in—just enough that he could feel your breath on his lips. "Maybe you’re just enough."

He didn’t know who moved first—maybe him, maybe you—but suddenly, your lips were on his, soft and warm and tasting faintly of tea. It was slow and hesitant, his flesh hand cupping your cheek like you might shatter if he pressed too hard. The kiss was a question, a confession, and when you sighed against him, he answered—deepening it, letting himself feel you, taste you, for the first time.

The kiss didn’t last as long as he’d liked. He missed you the second you had pulled back to rest your forehead against him. Your fingers brushed his jaw, and he felt the tension bleed out of him, replaced by something softer, something he hadn’t let himself name until now.

"I’m not going anywhere," you whispered.

And for once, he believed it.

[charliemwrites]

There are men across the street.

The house (and you use the term generously) that slumps there has been vacant for some time now. Ever since you moved in a couple years ago, actually. It’s an eyesore for sure. Graffiti on the walls, boards on the windows, a basketball-sized hole in the roof. The porch is the worst of it. Sagging in the middle and crumbling on the ends, stripped and moss-encrusted wood.

But today there are men there, stomping up and down the groaning steps in big, steel-toed boots.

You watch for a bit from the safety of your kitchen window, sipping coffee and batting your cat off the counter. They don’t look like a normal construction crew - wearing all black and not so much as a hammer on their belts. Three of them that you can see, one about average height, one tall, and one very tall. The tall one tags after the shortest of them often, gets pushed and shoved and snapped at it seems like.

You lose interest when the coffee runs out and your phone chimes, shooing you off to the grocery store. All three have disappeared inside by the time you saunter out, keys jingling and reusable bags in hand.

Margot says they’re renovating - likely some rich man’s retirement project. The same thing happened just down the street six months before you moved in, and now Joe has solar panels.

She postulates over the situation across the street while taking delicate bites of the cheesecake she brought over. (A test recipe for her niece’s baby shower in a few weeks. You don’t tell her that it’s too sweet and just sip your tea between bites.) She hypothesizes that one of them is this hypothetical rich man’s son, bringing some handy friends around for extra hands to work.

It sounds about as plausible as Agatha’s mutterings that they’re drug lords, so you nod along and watch your calico sneak up on your tuxedo behind her.

The garden is your own little retirement project. (You’re not actually retired, no matter what your sister snipes. But some smart money moves and a successful writing career is virtually the same with no kids and no spouse.) It’s going about as well as the renovations across the street - which is say, better and quicker than expected.

You planted clover in the yard, and are working on wildflowers in the boxes. The clover is already blooming, little flower tufts springing up for bumblebees to perch on. The wildflowers are mixed success so far, but nothing is dead yet.

You mostly just tootle around to be outside - allotted sunshine lest you become the shut in Bertram accused you of your first couple months.

The cats watch you pick at weeds from the window. Or two of them do. The other one is glaring from the fridge, angry that you tossed her back inside when she tried to slip past your ankles. (With any luck, you’ll have another sibling for them soon, but the handsome orange thing that keeps coming by at dawn and dusk is too stupid to be caught.) All three of them shift to look at something over your shoulder.

“Excuse.”

You don’t startle, thankfully. The voice may be unfamiliar, but neighbors stop by consistently enough that you’re not surprised to have your solitude interrupted.

What you are surprised by is the tall (very, very tall) man standing at the edge of your front yard. One of the renovators.

“Hi,” you say, straightening.

He points a gloved finger at you - no, not at you. Past you. At your cats.

“May I see them?” He asks in a thick German accent.

You blink, surprised and confused.

He’s a big man. Not just unusually tall, but broad as well. Muscle tugs at the fabric of his shirt, cargo pants clinging to his thighs. He also hasn’t bothered to take off the heavy duty dust mask, black sunglasses, or jacket hood obscuring his features. Looks like he’s about to rob you, honestly.

But Agatha’s uncharitable muttering about delinquent men rings like a warning toll. You’re at risk of sinking into the judgmental sea of upper-middle class suburbia, and that’s not water you want to tread.

“Sure!” You reply, ignoring his lack of introduction. “One sec.”

The cats see you dart from view and hurry to meet you at the door, meowing and yowling. You crack it open only wide enough to snatch up your precious firstborn, his leggies sticking out in abject bafflement at being airborne. You make guilty eye contact with your other two fiends before swiftly wedging the door shut again.

Then adjust your son, his little paws resting on your shoulder as you turn. Your visitor is standing right where you left him, perks up when he sees the cat bundled in your arms.

“This is Guy.”

You step closer, ignoring that shred of nervousness that being close to any man (especially one so physically intimidating) brings. To his credit, he only shuffles just enough to offer his hand for inspection.

“Guy?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to adopt him at first, so I just called him Little Guy for so long that he thought that was his name. And then I did adopt him and now he won’t answer to anything else.”

You come by the rambling honestly - an obligate introvert until you moved to this neighborhood. There are few things you ever want to talk about with strangers, but your cats are one of them.

“He is a little guy,” the man muses.

Guy has no reservations about rubbing his fat face on the stranger’s glove, a purr kicking up in his chest. You relax as the man keeps his touch gentle and slow, that little bit of paranoid tension trickling into the soil beneath your feet.

“The other two aren’t as well behaved, I don’t trust them without harnesses on,” you add, nodding at the window.

The man glances up at them. Doesn’t seem to realize that his demise (and yours) is imminent from their glares.

“What are their names?”

You flush. “Rasputin and Shithead. I tell everyone else her name is Susan though.”

A sharp bark of laughter splits the air like a falling ax, cracks right down the middle. It makes you jump a bit - Guy is expectedly unbothered - but still you find yourself gratified. Laughing is good, it means you’re doing things right.

“Sorry,” he says, “but my friend would like that name.”

You gesture at the house across the street. “One of them?”

“Yes, the short one.”

You only just manage not to snort in amusement, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing. The mask moves, you think he might be grinning underneath.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

You doubt you’ll have the opportunity even if you wanted to.

Someone’s at the door.

You’re only half-dressed, waist deep in laundry you have no excuse for putting off so long. Aren’t expecting company either - it’s Sunday morning, everyone should be at their various churches or visiting relatives. Can’t remember the last time someone knocked before noon on a Sunday.

Still, it was a big solid knock. The kind that makes you think it’s not the usual neighbor come by to impose on your space.

You glance down at the hem of your sweatshirt, determine it’s far enough down your thighs to be acceptable, and pad to the door.

You open it to another of the renovators. The “short” one - though you readjust that measurement quickly. He’s still taller than you, it’s just that most anyone seems diminutive compared to his friend.

“Morning,” you chime.

“We need your driveway.” His voice is low and rough, blunt. A sledgehammer to concrete. Also German-accented, you note.

“Oh,” you reply, “what for?”

He grunts. “Work.”

And you, a longtime observer of politely shaking people down for information by this point, smile without teeth.

“Oh, a work truck? It won’t make a mess will it?”

“No.”

You hum, glance at your stupid little sedan parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Okay, I’ll move — Shithead!”

You scramble to grab at the black and white blur of evil, sweeping her up in your arms as she meows in complaint. One of her back feet catches in the hem of your sweatshirt and starts to pull it up as she kicks. You curl an arm under her butt for support, but mostly she just takes the opportunity to chomp down on the meat of your thumb.

You glance at the man. “Shithead is very interested in the renovations.”

He stares. “So that is actually its name. I thought you were being rude and Konig didn’t realize.”

Ah, so that’s his name. You never did get that introduction.

“No, yeah, this is Shithead, I’m sure you can see why.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as she unlatches from your thumb, only to bite down on your wrist.

“So! The truck - when will it be here?”

“Noon.”

“Great! See you around!” You shut the door in his face without getting a name.

You threaten, not for the first time, to turn her into a pair of mittens. She responds by attacking your foot until Rasputin tackles her. Guy cries at the door, probably missing a man he met for all of two minutes.

The work truck stays through the night. Your cats spend all afternoon watching the men cross the street and back. Every once in a while, Guy puts his little feet up on the glass - Konig must be passing by.

You glance out the kitchen window only once and make hard eye contact with the third of their trio. He’s somehow even more covered up than Konig, and yet you get the distinct impression that your gaze is not welcome.

You blink and abandon the dishes for later.

The next morning, they’re already at it when you shuffle outside for the mail. Konig raises a slow hand in greeting, but visibly brightens when you smile sleepily and wave back.

You pass the work truck - the back panel is already open for them to unload wood beams and heavy-looking buckets. Construction stuff, as expected - and not messy, as promised.

You spot a red and white flag decal on the rear window. Austria, isn’t it?

“Did you just wake up?” a flat voice asks.

You squint a little through the morning sun at the man from the day before. The rude one.

You yawn. “Mhmm.”

He frowns at you, disapproval plain. Agatha will like him, you muse, shoving a hand in your mailbox. They both seem to have strong opinions about your sleep schedule.

“It is late.”

“It’s only 8.” You tug out a sheaf of envelopes and begin idly flipping through them.

“The sun is up.”

“So what?”

He clicks his tongue disdainfully. You absently click back. Then jump as a big body lands right in front of you. The third man, two wooden beams balanced on his shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you again, then strides across the street.

“Shoo,” the rude one says. “Men at work, yes?”

You grumble. “See if I bring you cookies.”

Konig glances up from the truck bed, eyes shining. “Cookies?”

Well shit.

Rasputin keeps you company while you cook. He’s the only one allowed on the counter for any length of time. Shithead steals anything and everything, or bats at your hands while you work. Guy has the equal parts endearing and infuriating habit of touching everything with his paws.

Rasputin is the only one who will sit quietly to observe, leaning in for the occasional kiss. Today, he’s watching you bake cookies and assemble sandwiches. A dual-purpose welcome and peace offering to the three men across the street.

Is it too much? Maybe. But you’ve got nothing better to do and kindness won’t break your bank, so. Cookies and sandwiches.

You change clothes while the cookies cool on the pan - a sundress for the warm, late-spring weather. They’ve seen you in your pajamas far too much already.

At the door, you hesitate. This house doesn’t feel inhabited yet, but it also doesn’t feel right to just open the door. It’s quiet inside, so no power tools to drown you out. Making a face, you settle for a firm knock. It takes a minute or two - you think you might hear distant shouting. Then the door swings in fast and hard, nearly startling you.

It’s the third of their trio, the one you’ve yet to speak to. He’s covered head to toe, fabric around his head and face, leaving only sharp blue eyes to glare out.

“Hi,” you begin, hands thankfully too full to fidget. “I brought food.”

His eyes flick to the foil-covered platter in your hands. Then he swings the door wide and pivots on his heel.

“The cat comes too.”

Cat?

You glance down. Sure enough, Rasputin is standing by your legs, his remaining half a tail swishing. You sputter at him - didn’t even realize he snuck out - but all you get is his characteristic raspy “mah” noise. Right then.

He politely trots by your side as you enter, not even shy about your curiosity. The place is gutted, stripped walls and scuffed floors. It smells like dust and plaster and shaved wood. All the lights have been ripped out of the ceiling, exposing wires like nerve-endings.

There are two empty rooms to either side upon entry, a den and a dining room probably. The den even seems to be split into two, with one half sunk lower, accessible by a couple steps.

You follow your unexpected host through the “dining room,” which seems to be more of a satellite staging zone at the moment. There are piles of tools, stacks of materials, a little island of canvas bags. As you pass through, you notice a staircase, and even from the ground floor, you can see that it crosses over to the den on the other side.

The kitchen is stationed towards the back of the house. You try not to wince at the state of the counters. Pockmarked, blistered, scratched, burned, cracked laminate.

The floor has already been pried up to reveal smooth concrete. You scan it quickly for anything that could hurt Rasputin’s feet before entering.

Your neighbor gestures for you to set the platter down on an empty patch of counter, so you do, peeling back the foil.

“Cookies and sandwiches,” you explain just to have something to say.

“Why?” he asks.

You shrug. “To be nice.”

He stares. You blink back.

“I mean, you don’t have to eat them,” you add. “It would just be a waste.”

Rasputin chooses that moment to leap onto the counter, taking a moment to steady himself once he’s landed. With only one eye and a crooked leg, he’s not the most acrobatic or graceful of your babies, but he makes do.

To your shock, though, once he’s gained his bearings, he makes like he’s going to eat one of the sandwiches.

“Ras,” you gasp, surprised. “Absolutely not!”

The little shit doesn’t even resist when you nudge him away, just settles on his haunches, staring at your neighbor. And, to your confusion, your neighbor grunts.

“Konig! Krueger!” he barks.

That must be the rude one’s name. Krueger. You file that tidbit away.

“What’s your name?” You ask. “No one’s told me.”

He eyes you - dare you say suspiciously - letting the silence stretch.

“Nikto,” he rasps finally.

You finish introducing yourself just as the other two enter. Konig’s down to just the dust mask today, while Krueger seems to have donned one for himself.

“You,” Krueger says.

You arch your eyebrows back. “Me.”

“What brings you here?” Konig interjects, much friendlier.

“Well, you really seemed to want cookies yesterday, so I thought I’d bring some with lunch as a welcome to the neighborhood.”

He practically shoves Krueger to get to the kitchen. You politely get out of the way so he can indulge in your offering without getting trampled.

“Danke schön,” he says, scooping up a sandwich.

“No problem,” you answer, smiling.

Krueger deigns to sidle closer, inspecting the platter with a keen eye. Still, you think you see a bit of appreciation in them before he snatches up one of the sandwiches. For some (concerning) reason, you’re gratified by that. (You’ll just blame it on your habit of feeding ferals and strays.)

“I also wanted to give you three a little warning…” Three pairs of eyes pin you in place. You try not to grimace. “Everyone on this block is nosy as hell. They will literally peak in your yard and check your mail.”

“The mail?” Konig asks, appalled.

“Yeah, I started using a PO Box,” you sigh. You’ve only got so much sanity before you start taking sniper shots with a water gun.

“We will handle it,” Krueger says.

“I’m sure,” you demure. “Anyway, that was all. You can drop the platter off later - or I can come get it. It’s not like you’re far.”

You start looking for Rasputin, only to find him perched on Nikto’s broad shoulder. The man doesn’t even seem bothered by the claws digging through his shirt, scratching a finger at the calico’s cheek.

“Huh,” you say, surprised.

Nikto glances at you, pauses. “What?”

You snort at the bluntness, but grin. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to pet him.”

That’s three for three. Well, two and a half. Shithead could have been trying or escape or go for the ankles for all you know. But Krueger seemed to like her, so that counts for something.

“C’mon my little tank, let’s go,” you coo, approaching.

Rasputin nuzzles his face against Nikto’s once, gives him a parting mraw, then leaps into your waiting arms.

“Bye, guys!” You call, waving over your shoulder as you head for the door.

Konig is the only one to respond with a polite, “see you!” But you don’t take it to heart.

Next

Masterlist

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

a/n: 2.3k - boothill finds you digging around in junk and then offers you a gift he hopes you won't refuse... [plsdontflopplsdontflopplsdont-]

the heavy metal clinking of boothill's foot steps clank their way to your shop's door. an all too familiar door he'd always find himself going up to whenever he was in need of repair- big or small. the swiveling security camera you keep at your entrance blinks with red-lit life and moves to start following his movements as soon as he enters it's field of vision.

who knows if you're ever actually paying attention to the camera feed or not though. you can be careless like that. sometimes you're just out- couldn't be bothered or could care less about the remote feed linked directly to your phone. other times, you're so focused on some project you neglect it entirely.

based on the sign hanging on your shop's door he was familiar with- it seemed that this time in particular you were out.

boothill didn't need to know how to write- much less read well- to take a wild gander as to where you had wondered off to. putting his spring loaded and metal jointed hands on his slim waist, his chin dips with an amused chuckle and shake of his head. the cowboy lifts the toe of his mechanical boot and twists his body fully 'round; his spurs scrapping across the ground during his lazy about-face. with one foot in front of the other and thumbs hooked through the hollow crops of his trousers, the galaxy ranger makes his way towards the junk yard.

it would never occur to the standard person to spend their free time digging around a scrap yard filled with junk thrown out for a reason- but you were anything but standard. if you weren't tinkering around in your shop or finishing up a repair or commission, you were scrounging around the grounds for material or 'hidden treasure'... which was key for just slightly more valuable junk.

a typical haul for you would be a few pieces of scrap metal you could use for wielding, the rare unstripped screw or loose gaggle of bolts, and all sorts of wire. if it saved you a few credits by finding material instead of buying them, you weren't one to argue with free trash.

passing under the wire-metal gate leading into the fenced-off territory, his thumbs still tucked into his pant legs, his ears stay sharp. listening for any sound of you digging around in some heap while his head swivels back and forth to try and catch a glimpse of you.

"ey, sugar, you around!" boothill shouts, one of his hands detaching from his hips to cup around his mouth. he wanders further in, gets more ground, before calling out the same sentence a second time. shaking his head in bewilderment on how far in you had gone digging, he goes even further still and tries calling out a third time.

"here!" you finally answer back. your voice echoes around him, bouncing off the scrap metal and spooking the rats and other critters that call the junk yard home. his head turns in the direction of your voice, the way his body leans towards it before his feet start carrying him that way never took notice in his own mind.

eventually, he makes it to you. squat down to the ground, under the rusty remains of some poor saps long eroded escape pod from whatever solar system they crashed in from. he crosses his arms, then his ankles, leaning his metal shoulder on the ruined dome you were digging under.

the ranger had no idea how long you had been out here, but judging by the half full bag you kept on your shoulder and the grease sticking to your neck and exposed skin he could guess it's been a bit. he chuckles when you dig out a rusted, broken pipe of... something, before tossing it over your shoulder with a disappointed click of your tongue and looking up at him. your cheeks had some gunk on it too, probably from you wiping the back of your gloves on it.

"fancy diggin' around in junk?"

"it's not all junk."

"the fudge it aint," he scoffs. to him, it absolutely was all junk. "this aint called the dang junk yard for nothin, sugar."

"it's a scrap yard."

"stubborn-bottom." you move to stand up, clapping your gloved hands together before taking them off so you could use your hands more freely. "good to see ya took my advice and startin' wearing some forkin' gloves around here." he eyes around at all the rust and sharp metal. "gonna get tetanus or somethin', and we can't have that."

"im liable to get tetanus from you before anything else," you joke so straight-faced it didn't feel like a joke. his crossed arms drop along with his jaw and his stance straightens as he uncrosses his ankles.

"ey', i aint as forkin' filthy as you pretend i am, and you know it." you shrug with a half smirk that was so dismissive he was tempted to keep arguing. you push the goggles you were wearing over your eyes to avoid getting anything in them and possible irritation onto your forehead. seeing the contrast between your sweaty, grease and dirt marked skin and the clean skin that was protected under the goggles had him scoff. "yer filthier than i am, by the look of things."

you roll your eyes and move to climb out of the rusty treasure trove of junk you had deemed no longer having anything of value. reaching out, boothill offers you his hand. you take it easily as he starts pulling you up and out to stand in front of him. your hand drops from his when you stand safely in his bubble, and he isn't sure if you know how close you are or not.

your nose is always so focused in tinkering around or messing with work that you can't always... read the room so to speak. its endearing, until it gets frustrating anyway.

"so, what're you here for this time? need something fixed again- i swear if you already burned through that new servo i replaced a month ago, im going to take off your arm and you won't get it back for a week."

"well, that's awful sweet of you." you knew by his dry tone and sneered lips that exposed his sharp teeth that the word sweet was definitely supposed to be a different five-letter word starting with 's'. one that his broken beacon (which you refuse to fix out of entertainment) wouldn't allow him to say.

"seems like an appropriate consequence to me, considering i don't charge you for repairs."

"i ain't here for not goose-dud repair," he hisses. "i had planned on givin' ya somethin', but based on your sweet attitude i aint so sure about it now."

"you brought me something?" he nods. "from a different solar planet?" he could see the curiosity start to ignite in your eyes. he nods again. you stuff your gloves into a pouch in your pants that he swears you've sewed another pocket into, before you're marching away from him and towards the entrance he had marched from at the beginning of this search. "well come on, let's get a moving!" you shout over your shoulder.

his synthetic voice chuckles at your back. eagerly waltzing after you.

boothill soon finds himself sitting with his knees apart and comfortably lounging with his arms on the back of your worn-down, two-cushioned couch the moment you two got back to the shop. he had taken himself to your quote- reception room, as he waited for you to unload your finds from the junkyard (meaning you just took your bag, flipped it upside and let its content spill out unceremoniously onto your worktable before you would eventually sort through it at a later time).

the tapping of his metal toes against your floor echoed dully against the rug under the sofa as you soon made your way to stand in front of him, hands on your hips and an expectant look in your eyes. flicking the brim of his hat cheekily to get a better look up at you, he lifted his chin.

"my attention is yours," you dramatically sigh, hands flaring to your sides before bouncing back against your legs.

"im flattered, sugar," he jests back. still, he shifts. the small pouch he had strung to his belt that was home to his array of extra fire rounds was soon detached from him. the string of which was used to tie it to him previously, hangs lazily from his metal fingertips. with a raised, semi-skeptical brow, you carefully take it off his hands.

"if this is some sort of prank," you warn. his hands raise in the air with his elbows still resting comfortably on the back of the cushions he was leaning against, gesturing that he meant no harm.

slowly- cautiously- you pull open the bag and remove two different items that had been nestled safely inside.

tossing the now empty bag onto the couch next to boothill's leg, you took each item into one hand and looked between them. one was a small crystal that was no larger than the center of your palm. shining a swirling color of green and blue, you could only imagine that it would look even prettier properly polished and with a light shining behind it. in the other was a small box, one that could be opened with a rusty lid. giving it a small rattle revealed something to be inside. doing so revealed a small robot that had been covered in rust, missing a robotic arm and wires spilling out from under the cracked and broken screen that would most definitely have acted as it's face.

"what's all this?" you ask softly. boothill stands from his lackadaisical lounging on your sofa to come and waltz up to your side. he pointed at the robot sitting sadly in the container he had brought him in first.

"i found this lil fella and thought you'd have a gas fixin' him right up. as for that," he points to the crystal of dual-swirling shades next, "accordin' to my scanners, that there's a pretty dadgum power source." boothill takes the small crystal from your palm and hovers it just above the robot. "it suits him, don't it?" he chuckles.

in truth, the slightly dingy looking crystal shard was too magnificent compared to the busted and rusted robot. but, with a bit of work, repair and love, perhaps the color of the crystal really would look nice against polished sheet metal.

"i figure givin' you somethin' else to tinker with would be more... enriching than just your usual forkin' machines." and it could keep you company, but he didn't say that out loud.

when you would get it working like he knew you could, maybe you'd stop and think about him while he was away chasing his reality out as a galaxy ranger. if you could just spare a single thought towards him every day because of a small robot and shiny rock? he'd be tickled pink.

"he's cute," you whisper gently and boothill wonders if you know you said it out loud at all. he chuckles, bringing his hand up to cup the designed dents atop his cowboy hat. taking it off his head, he gently drops it onto yours, gaining your attention back from the gifts he had given you.

the way you lift your eyes to look at him- filled with something akin to excitement and fondness- and gently cradle the small rusty robot with his hat now shadowing your face, he could almost hear the wires in his chest running on turbo. he'd had to cool down asap before he overheated or crashed.

taking a step back- for his own sake- he leaves his hat on your head before patting your back.

"get to it," he softly tells you. you mutely nod, an excited smile breaking out over your lips as you trot towards a different room. it was a small private work space you retreated to for personal projects. boothill was one that was usually allowed inside since this room was where he would get his tune ups most times.

with boothill following your back, he watches you trot to your work bench. you gently set the robot's box down and remove it from inside. the crystal you submerged in a bowl that you soon fill with polish to let it soak. it took all of ten minutes before you're surrounded by tools and wires and equipment made for digital repairs. all the while boothill remade his comfort in a worn-down rocker you kept in the corner, content on staying put until he was forced to leave. whether it by your or by his next bounty.

he couldn't very well leave you with his hat either, even if it looked better on you than him.

the next time boothill comes into your shop after that gift drop off, it wasn't a visit but a proper repair. running out of cooling agent for his internal hardware was just waiting for a disaster to happen. his synthetic-coded laugh burst into the room jollily as when he sat down on the stool he always planted his ass in for repairs, a small, shiny robot- with the cutest digital expressions and a small blue-green swirling crystal placed in the center of its chest- was waddling across your work bench. a vile of blue cooling agent the near size of his small metal body grasped tightly in its robotic arms.

it chirped happily with a digital reverb when you thank it for bringing the coolant over.

boothill was indeed tickled as pink could get seeing you already attached to the lil fella. he wondered what you named it.

a/n: smol robot go beep-boop (i love the idea of mechanic!reader just having a cute lil guy to follow them around like a puppy :(( [big thanks to @/birinboom and my partner for letting me pick their brain on what gifts boothill ended up giving to the reader bc i had no idea lol smooches <3]

[trappolia]

── KISS ME ONCE AND KISS ME TWICE AND KISS ME ONCE AGAIN

silver vanrouge. silver dreams of you, always you. it only makes it far more painful to break from the chains of malleus' curse to seek the you that exists beyond his dreamscape.

Silver has always taken his time with you.

He has never been able to tell you why. Lilia says that it is just the way he is, ever since he was a boy; he plays by the rules, he goes by a routine that is, as much as possible, not too affected by his strange sleeping habits.

it is why he goes through the meticulous steps of courting you, offering you flowers and gifting you with thoughtful trinkets and even writing letters for your family while your worlds remain separate. It is why it had to be you to take the first step and kiss him one night during a star-gazing date because gods damn it all, you’re sick of waiting.

( Silver had laughed and laughed that night as you apologised for your callous actions; because you were so cute, because he was so in love, because it had all felt like a dream come true when he allowed himself to ignore tradition to cup your cheeks and pull you into another kiss. )

Silver discovers very early on that even when he takes his time, it's all still overwhelming. Like a dream come true, he used to tell Lilia in bouts of deliriousness when he was still caught between dream and reality and his mind was too muddled with sleep to care about embarrassing himself in front of the fae who had raised him.

Like a dream come true.

But what is his dream, exactly?

A cottage deep in the forest of briar valley, with ivy growing up the walls and over the red-tiled roof. Soft, packed dirt with growing flowers of all kinds, spring blossoms of pink, yellow, blue, red, protected by a low wall. There are no horrors with dripping ink and dragging claws, no glowing emerald eyes or scaled wings. Just grass and flowers and sky and nothing.

No. Not nothing. Because there's you.

"I just cleaned, so remember to take off your boots by the door!" Silver hears you call out from inside the cottage. His chest quakes as he lets out a ragged breath, his bag dropping as he rids himself of the extra weight.

The floor below his dirty boots is clean slate compared to the cluttered kitchen to his left and the living area to his right. Silver sees the same threadbare couch by the stone fireplace, cluttered with throw pillows and blankets and an unfinished knitting project. The couch is old. Used. Loved. There are some closed doors beyond the stairs, but Silver doesn't have to check to know what lies behind them. His old childhood bedroom where Lilia used to tuck him in. A bathroom that has been flooded one or more than a few times when he got too carried away with playtime. The small study where he used to have his lessons on reading and writing.

There's something about the sight of his childhood home that sets Silver off, as if he’s caught in crosswinds, but he fumbles his way inside anyway, toeing his shoes off out of ingrained politeness. His footfalls feel heavy and light all at once against the wooden floors as he walks — almost as if by habit — to the kitchen where he had heard your voice come from.

"There you are," you beam at him, putting a kettle of water on top of the same stove that Silver had watched his father cook his meals so many times. Your brows furrow when you notice the strange expression on his face; the emotions whirling in his aurora irises like a hurricane and the trembling of his bottom lip.

You frown, wiping your hands on a cloth rag. "Silver? what's wrong?"

Silver lets out a ragged breath, his hand shaking as it comes up to cradle your own as you cup his face in your palm. What is wrong? This is all he's ever wanted, isn't it? A life with you in the woods he had grown up in, free of worries and dangers and hurt and anger. He's built a home with no fear, no yelling, no uncertainties. Just like the life lilia always wanted to give him.

It's a dream come true.

"You're a dream," Silver whispers when he realises, his hands coming up to cradle your face in turn. He's shaking, he knows that even with his mind whirling, but he just can't help it— he has to touch you, make sure this isn't— this isn't a nightmare—

No. No, no, no. Malleus wouldn't do that. This is his dream. This is what his heart has always yearned for.

"My dream."

"Well, aren't you sappy today?" you muse, lips quirking up in that soft smile that Silver oh so adores to kiss. "What's the occasion?"

"I—" Silver opens his mouth, but no words come out. What can he say? What can he do, knowing that this is all he's ever wanted, but this is a dream. This is a dream and you're not real but gods, does silver want you to be.

A beat passes, and your smile turns sad.

"You know, don't you?"

Silver feels his heart ache. He wants to tell you no. No, please keep this veil over my eyes. Pretend i don’t know this isn’t real. Please. Please.

You reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear with such tenderness that he feels like crying. “You’ve always been so smart, Silver.”

“I’m sorry,” he allows himself to say, because this is the least he owes you— this perfect imitation of you that his mind, Malleus’s magic, has managed to conjure, because in the short time you’ve known him, you’ve managed to ingrain yourself into every fibre of his being so that even under this spell, all Silver can dream about is you, you, you.

Silver doesn't want to wake up. He doesn't, he really doesn't. There's something in him that pulls at his heartstrings, tugging at every vein and nerve as if begging him to stay, please stay. There must be a reason why you're always falling asleep, why this had to happen. Just stay. This is a dream come true, why would you want to wake up?

“You’re still there,” Silver says in a voice so small, it feels like he’s a little boy again, crying and clinging onto Lilia like the fever that sticks to his skin and reminds him of his mortality.

“You’re still there, and I’m here.”

His childhood home is small, but within the cottage and with your hands cradling his face, the thick walls feels unnaturally closer, like something is breathing on the back of his neck. He’s reminded of you, somewhere in Night Raven College, trapped within your own dream. Do you dream of him, he wonders? Has he become your new dream, just as you have become his?

Will he ever see you again?

Silver can't bear the thought of you somehow waking up from your dream — a matter of when rather than if, because Silver knows that you've always had a knack for getting out of impossible situations like this — and realising that he had left you alone to stay in this eternal sleep, with this dream– this illusion of what could have been.

“I have to go,” Silver whispers, and his heart breaks because this might be a dream, but it’s still you. How can he tell you he’s going to leave? He can’t do that. He can’t break your heart like that, he can’t—

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry— I'm so, so sorry.”

He expects you to stop him. What do the stories say about dreams where you’re supposed to be kept unaware, blissfully oblivious to the fact that this utopia is not your reality? Silver expects this dream version of you to pull some sort of trick to lure him back into your trap—

But instead you just smile softly, reaching out to stroke his face, "How lucky I am to have someone like you love me."

Silver hears something crack, resonating in his soul. Is it the chains of Malleus’s magic breaking its hold on him, or the last pieces of his heart shattering at last? He doesn’t know.

Maybe it’s both.

But whatever it is, Silver knows he doesn’t have much time. His hands cup your cheeks, pulling you close to him with the desperation of a dying man.

He feels you gasp against his mouth, lips parting and allowing his tongue to slip inside. He maps the cavern of your mouth as if immortalising it in his mind, like he’ll never see you again after this— because that is very well a possibility, no matter how he tries to ignore it.

Silver kisses you like it’s his last day in this godforsaken world, because it might as well be, and great seven, he should have done this every time he kissed you. He should have kissed you first. He should have kissed you every moment he could instead of taking his time because now he can hear the sand running in the hourglass, and he’s blind to how much time he has left, and he just wants to see you in the flesh again, please, please, please—

The two of you part an eternity later, but it still feels much too soon. There’s so much love in him, and too little time, and Silver feels like drowning.

"Wait for me," Silver pleads. He'll make this dream come true, he swears. He’ll give you all the love he has in this wretched body of his, and then some. He’ll never sleep again even, if only to make this dream come true.

"I will," you whisper breathlessly—

—and with a bittersweet smile and a final, fleeting kiss to his lips, you let him go.

© trappolia 2024

[s1ut-4-rafe]

ALWAYS BEEN YOU | Drew Starkey

MASTERLIST (One Shot)

Pairing - Drew Starkey x HighSchool Sweetheart! Reader

Summary - Years ago, the reader and Drew Starkey were high school sweethearts, convinced forever was yours. But when he left to chase his dreams as an actor, life pulled you apart. Now, he's back in town to visit family, and the last thing either of you expected was to cross paths again.

Word Count - 3628

Content - Fluff, high school sweethearts, second chance, reunion, soft angst, sfw

It’s was a crisp spring morning in Hickory, North Carolina, the kind of day when the air smells like fresh beginnings and the sun’s warmth dances through the trees. A perfect morning for a walk, and you couldn’t help but smile as you stepped into your favorite local café. 

The scent of roasted beans and cinnamon lingered in the air as you waited for your order, your fingers drumming idly against the countertop. It was a simple routine—one you’d done countless times before.

With your drink in hand, you pushed the door open, stepping back into the crisp morning air. The first sip was perfect, rich and smooth, the warmth seeping through you as you started down the familiar path.

You’d been walking this same path for years now, and it never lost its magic. It felt as though nature itself was waking up from a long, sleepy winter, just like you used to feel every time you walked through these park gates, years ago. 

Spring was always your favorite time of year, when everything felt new again. The birds were chirping, the trees were budding, and the flowers that had laid dormant for so long were now in full bloom. It was the kind of place that made you feel grounded, at peace with everything around you.

As your boots crunched against the gravel path, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander back to the days when this park was so much more than just a peaceful place to walk. It was your place, where you and Drew used to come together after school, your laughter echoing through the trees and the distant sounds of the creek flowing gently beside you.

You remembered it so clearly: how he’d always walk with you, never wanting to leave your side. How the air between you always felt charged, even back then. Before he had his car, you’d take the bus together every day, sitting side by side, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. The world felt so big and full of possibility back then, but also so small, because you and Drew had each other. It was simple. It was perfect.

The two of you were inseparable in high school, always finding a way to be together. Whether it was lunch in the courtyard or late-night phone calls until you both fell asleep, you never imagined life without him. He lived just a few streets over, and that made it all the easier. You’d talk about your dreams, his dreams, where you’d both go when graduation came. And you were so sure then, so certain that nothing could ever tear you apart.

But of course, life had a different plan.

After graduation, Drew left for Los Angeles to chase his dream of becoming an actor, which was something you both had always talked about. He promised to visit when he could, but it was clear that life was pulling you in different directions. 

While Drew was headed west, you found yourself on the other side of the world, stepping onto a new college campus that felt both thrilling and overwhelming. You had gotten into your dream school, a prestigious marine biology program, and for the first time, you truly felt like you were where you were meant to be. The ocean had always been your love, and now you were diving into it—literally. 

You studied everything from coral reefs to ocean pollution, learning about how the oceans were changing and how humans were affecting the sea life you had always been so passionate about protecting. It wasn’t just about books and classrooms; you worked on real-world projects, traveling to remote areas to help protect endangered sea creatures, and even working with conservation groups to create plans to help restore the oceans. 

Every day felt like an adventure, whether you were diving in the middle of the ocean or figuring out new ways to fight for the world’s waters. It was hard being so far away from home and from Drew, but this was your dream. And it was unfolding in ways you had never imagined.

That summer before you left, you and Drew sat on this very path, beneath the same oak trees, and talked for hours about your relationship. You had no idea when you went to meet him there that it would be the last time you'd sit together, side by side, in that park. The last time you'd have easy, carefree conversations. The goodbye you shared was mutual, but that didn't make it any less painful. Both of you understood what was at stake—chasing your dreams and finding who you were meant to be.

The text messages and occasional calls faded over time, until they eventually stopped altogether. You never expected to lose him, but somewhere along the way, it happened anyway.

And now, here you are, standing in the same park, and life had changed so much since those days, yet the park remained the same, unchanging.

You took another sip of your coffee, smiling softly to yourself, as a breeze danced through the trees. Sometimes, you couldn’t help but wonder if things would’ve been different if Drew had stayed. But then again, that’s the funny thing about life is it never really lets you know what would have happened.

With a sigh, you decided it was time to get a few things from the grocery store before heading back home. You tucked your hands into the pockets of your jacket and turned toward the street, making your way toward the small, family-owned store near the edge of town. 

The bell above the grocery store door jingled softly as you stepped inside, a scent of fresh produce and baked goods greeting you. It was the small-town market you’d grown up with, the kind where everyone knew everyone’s name—or at least their face. 

You grabbed a basket, moving through the aisles distractedly, your thoughts still swirling around your walk in the park. You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking around aimlessly when you turned the corner to grab a carton of eggs and saw the last person you’d expect to see standing there.

Drew.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. He was really there, standing just a few feet away, casually browsing through the shelves, his dark hair slightly longer than it had been the last time you saw him. His features were still strikingly familiar, strong jaw, those same blue eyes you’d gotten lost in too many times to count, but now there was a certain air about him, like life had marked him in ways you couldn't quite understand.

He hadn’t seen you yet, and you wondered for a second if you should just turn around and make a quick exit. But the pull was too strong. You couldn’t avoid it forever.

You took a step forward, and that's when he turned, his eyes locking onto yours with the same recognition, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. The world felt a little too small, a little too still, as the moment hung between you.

"Hey," he said, his voice low but warm, as if he were still unsure of how to approach this unexpected encounter.

"Hey," you replied, your voice a little softer than usual, like the weight of so many unspoken things was pressing on your chest.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The noise of the store faded into the background as you both tried to adjust to the reality of seeing each other again after so many years. It was like you were both teenagers again, but now you were adults, with different lives and different paths. Awkwardness lingered in the air, but the chemistry that you two shared hadn’t disappeared. It was still there and as strong as ever.

Drew shifted, scratching the back of his neck with a nervous chuckle. "I, uh, didn't expect to run into you here."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "I didn't either, to be honest."

There was another beat of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable now. It was just... natural. After all this time, it felt like you were both trying to piece together the puzzle of who you were now, who you had been, and how it all fit.

Finally, Drew spoke again, a little more at ease now. "Well, I’m in town visiting my family for a bit," he explained, his cart full of groceries. "I’m actually just picking up some things for them... but, uh, I was wondering—"

He paused for a second, his gaze drifting away from yours for a split second before locking back onto you, searching your face as if asking for permission.

"Would you like to catch up tonight? Maybe grab a drink or just walk around? I mean... I’m sure we both have a lot to talk about."

Your heart skipped. There was a hopeful glint in his eyes, and even though you both knew how much time had passed, how much had changed, it felt like the past was right there between you. The idea of catching up, of talking about everything and nothing, was tempting.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, I’d like that. Where should we meet?"

Drew’s smile widened, and for the briefest moment, everything felt like it used to—easy, comfortable, like no time had passed at all.

"How about our spot?" he suggested. "Our bench at the park. 5 o'clock sound good?"

"Perfect," you said. The words felt light, easy, like a promise.

He gave you one last look, and you could see something in his eyes—something that had always been there, even if it had faded a little over time. You both had been part of each other's lives once, and maybe, just maybe, tonight could help you figure out where you stood now.

"See you then," Drew said with a soft smile before turning to grab a few more things from the shelves, his footsteps fading as you made your way to the checkout.

As you paid for your items, a mix of excitement and nerves swirled in your stomach. This was unexpected, yes, but it also felt like something you didn’t want to miss. Drew was back in town. And maybe, just maybe, this was the chance to figure out what had never quite been finished between the two of you.

After the unexpected encounter at the store, you needed to ground yourself. The afternoon stretched out before you, and nothing was pressing on your schedule. You figured the best thing to do was to take a moment to breathe and ease your mind before meeting Drew later.

Back in your apartment, you slipped off your shoes and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on for some tea. You couldn’t help but smile a little, the warm cup of tea filling your hands as you watched the sunlight peek through the curtains.

It had been such a long time since you’d felt this level of quiet peace, like things were settled for just a moment. It was so easy to get caught up in the day-to-day, in the responsibilities that came with work and adulting, but today felt different. Maybe it was the reminder of simpler times or the unexpectedness of seeing Drew, but everything felt a little... lighter.

You spent the next few hours doing small things around the apartment, organizing old books, folding laundry, and listening to music softly in the background. You didn’t want to dive too deep into thoughts of the past yet. There was enough space in your mind for the present, for this new chapter you had built for yourself, and for today’s unexpected reunion. But it didn’t stop your mind from drifting now and then.

As the day wore on, you started to feel a quiet sense of anticipation, a tinge of excitement that you couldn’t quite place. After a light dinner, you started to get ready to leave. It was still a little before five when you grabbed your jacket and checked the time. There was no rush; just enough time to get to the park and breathe in the fresh air. You didn’t want to overthink this; just enjoy the moment of finally seeing him again. 

The walk to the park was peaceful. The streets were quieter than usual, the soft murmur of the town around you giving way to the sound of your footsteps. The park came into view as you rounded the corner, there was a comforting familiarity to it all—the park, the bench, even the light rustle of the trees overhead.

When you finally reached the bench, you spotted Drew sitting there. He looked the same in many ways, but older too. It was the kind of look that made you realize just how much time had passed, how much had changed. Yet, there was something about him still that was so familiar. You hesitated for a moment, taking in the sight of him sitting there, just as he used to.

He looked up as you approached, his eyes lighting up with surprise and recognition. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Hey," he said, standing up as you reached the bench. "I’m glad you came."

You returned the smile, settling onto the bench beside him. "I am, too."

The moment hung between you two, just a little heavy with unspoken words. You shifted slightly, the same old chemistry between you both still there, but also... different. There was an awkwardness, a distance that couldn’t be ignored. You weren’t sure what to say, and neither was he. For a few moments, the quiet of the park surrounded you—soft winds rustling the leaves, birds calling in the distance.

"So," Drew finally broke the silence, his voice lighter now. "Remember that day we went to the beach and I ended up with that ridiculous sunburn?"

You laughed at the memory, the sound of it filling the air between you two. "How could I forget? You were miserable for days. And you wouldn’t let me hear the end of it."

He grinned, clearly amused by the memory. "I deserved it. I was stupid enough to ignore your warnings about sunscreen." His smile faded slightly, like he was lost in thought for a moment. "But, you know, even that day felt... perfect. Everything about it felt right. The whole time, I knew I never wanted it to end."

You nodded, your heart stirring with the memory of those simpler days. The carefree summers, the laughter, the little moments when you and Drew felt like you were the only two people in the world. It almost felt like no time had passed at all, but the truth was undeniable: so much had changed, so much had shifted in the time between then and now.

Drew cleared his throat softly, looking over at you. "Do you ever wonder how things might’ve been if we hadn’t... gone in different directions?"

The question hung there, unspoken for so long, yet now was finally asked aloud. You looked away for a moment, taking a deep breath. "Sometimes," you admitted quietly. "I mean, it’s hard not to. I don’t know if things would’ve worked out, but I guess we’ll never know."

A moment of silence passed between you two before you looked at him again, your gaze a little more searching. You couldn’t stop the question that had been nagging at you since he left—since everything fell apart so suddenly. "Why did you really leave, Drew? You promised you’d visit. The calls, the texts... everything just stopped. Why didn’t you come back like you said you would?"

Drew’s expression shifted, and for a brief moment, his face became a little guarded. But then, his eyes softened, his gaze locking with yours as he took a deep breath. "I didn’t know how to handle it," he said quietly, his voice thick with regret. 

"I thought that it was the right thing to do, for both of us. I thought you deserved more than what I could give you at the time, I was never around. I didn’t want to drag you into my world, into all that uncertainty. But that was the wrong choice. I should’ve kept in touch. I should’ve made the effort. I wasn’t... I wasn’t strong enough to stay."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking down for a moment, like he was trying to find the right words. "The truth is, I never got over you. I tried to move on with other people, but it was never the same. No matter who I was with, it didn’t feel right. You were always there. You were always in my head."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. It was everything you’d wanted to hear, but now that it was said, everything felt even more complicated than before. You wanted to say something, but the words felt stuck in your throat. 

Without thinking, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a soft, hesitant kiss. It was slow, lingering, like neither of you wanted to rush through it, not now, not after everything that had been said.

When you pulled back, your eyes locked onto Drew’s. The air between you felt heavier now, as though the kiss had opened up something neither of you were sure how to deal with. You could feel the tension, the unspoken words, and the feelings you both had buried deep over the years. There was so much left unsaid, so much left unresolved. But one thing was for sure now, whatever had been between you two, it was still there.

He looked at you, his expression soft but uncertain. "So... what now?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if he wasn’t sure how to navigate this space between you both.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "I don’t know," you said honestly, a slight smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "I guess... we take this one step at a time?"

Drew gave a small, nervous laugh, the sound of it almost as familiar as the way he used to laugh when he was caught off guard. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly unsure but clearly wanting to be near you. "I know I’ve made a mess of things. But... I don’t want to mess this up again." His gaze softened, his voice earnest now. "I’ve missed you, Y/N, more than I ever thought I would."

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten. You could feel it too—the ache of missed opportunities, the gap that had formed between you over the years.

You looked out at the park for a moment, the peaceful surroundings a sharp contrast to the emotions swirling between you two. "I never stopped thinking about you either, Drew," you admitted softly. "I just... I had to keep going. I couldn’t keep waiting for you to come back. But really, I don’t know what happens next."

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Look, I’m not asking for everything to be the same as it was before. I just want to be in your life again. Even if it’s a little messy at first. I want the chance to make things right... If you’ll let me."

You took another deep breath, the weight of his words settling in your chest. You didn’t have all the answers, and you couldn’t predict where this would go, but one thing was for certain: this moment felt like the beginning of something new. Something raw. Something real.

You reached out, your hand brushing his. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it felt like enough. It felt like a promise.

"I want to see where this goes," you said, your voice steady but gentle. 

Drew smiled, his whole face lighting up with a quiet relief. "That sounds perfect."

There was a moment of silence between you two, the kind that was full of unspoken understanding. And then, Drew spoke again, his voice firm but filled with determination.

"I’m not leaving anytime soon," he said, his gaze locking with yours. "I came back to visit, but... I think I need more time here. I want to figure things out with you. To make up for all the years we lost." His eyes softened with vulnerability.

The weight of his words settled in your chest, and you couldn’t help but smile, a mixture of relief and hope swirling inside you. This wasn’t just about him staying in town for a few extra days—he was making a choice, a commitment, to be present and to see where this could go.

"Are you sure? I mean…can you do that?" you asked, your voice a little breathless, both surprised and touched by his determination.

Drew nodded, his smile widening. "I’m sure, and yes, I can. I’m not ready to walk away from you again, not without giving this everything I’ve got."

The way he looked at you made your heart flutter, a mixture of hope and warmth blooming in your chest. You weren’t sure what the future would hold, but for the first time in a long while, you felt like you could face it.

"Okay," you said, a soft laugh escaping your lips. "Let’s see where this goes, then."

Drew grinned, his hand tightening around yours just a little, as if anchoring both of you to this moment. The park, the breeze, the way the evening light bathed everything in a soft glow—it all felt right. Like a new beginning, though neither of you could know what that would look like yet.

But you were willing to find out. Together.

[kirain]

Part seven of my appreciation project.

@yappacadaver A fic based on their wonderful art piece here and here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

The world stood still.

The battle was over, the blight vanquished, and Elgar'nan was dead. What remained of his influence was nothing more than hardened tendrils of corruption, now inert, forming a crude staircase down from the empty battlefield. One by one, the wearied heroes descended, each step agonising, their bodies battered but unbroken.

As Mara's boots met solid ground, the air shifted. Silence shattered into a wave of sound—a roar of celebration, clapping hands, shouts of triumph.

Applause.

Mara barely processed it. The cheers, the grateful weeping of the saved, the elation in the voices around her—it all seemed distant, as though she were submerged beneath dark waters. She saw it, knew what it meant, but she didn't feel it.

Her eyes swept over the crowd, their faces blurred and unimportant. She only wanted to see one man, and she found him.

Emmrich.

He stood nearby, his golden bracelets dulled by grime but still gleaming in the sun's rising light. His vest was torn, his shirt sticky with sweat and streaked with blood, his silver hair damp and unruly against his forehead. He was bruised and exhausted, yet he'd never looked more enticing.

As if sensing Mara's gaze, he turned towards her, his large hazel eyes brimming with need. A smile tugged at his lips, weak but fervent, ignoring the soreness in his joints. Before she could think, before she could breathe, he hobbled over to her and cupped her face with calloused, trembling hands.

And then he kissed her.

Mara inhaled greedily as his lips met hers, neither of them caring that hundreds were bearing witness. The way his mouth parted against hers, the heat of him, the way he tasted of steel and the residual drags of mana—it wasn't a dream nor an illusion. It was real.

They were alive.

They won.

As her hand caressed his cheek, her body balancing on her toes to reach him, his fingers curled at the nape of her neck, his other arm wrapping around her waist. Tilting her back, he deepened the kiss—a confession of every unspoken fear, every desperate prayer, every moment spent wondering if they'd survive.

"Darling..." he wheezed, his eyes flitting shut as he enjoyed her.

Simply enjoyed her. He hadn't had many opportunities, even after she escaped from the Fade. The best night of his life—their stolen hours in the Necropolis, the way they talked, touched, and made love—had also been the shortest. Made bittersweet knowing it could have been their last.

But now, it was over. The danger passed.

When they finally parted, their breaths mingled in the space between them, heavy and lustful. Mara wanted more, but as she moved to kiss him again, Emmrich suddenly stumbled back, the colour draining from his face.

"Emmrich?" she asked, following him.

His nose wrinkled, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. "I reek," he gagged. "Like blood and sweat." His eyes drifted to her swollen lips, mortified; surely she had noticed. "Forgive me. I don't know what came over me."

Mara laughed, catching him by the wrist. "You think that bothers me? Did you forget I'm a Crow?"

"It bothers me," he croaked. "Darkspawn, Venatori—who knows what pernicious pathogens they carried? I don't want to get you sick, my love."

Mara grinned, trailing a finger down the front of his tattered vest, her voice dropping to a sinful murmur.

"Then let's go take a bath."

Emmrich flinched, then returned her seductive expression.

The applause raged on, but for Mara, the only thing that mattered was the way the older man laced his fingers with hers, unwilling to let her go.

-----

The spring bath. A marvel to behold, where the heroes of Thedas were welcomed to bask in its luxury. The water lapped at Emmrich's chest, mending aches he'd neglected for days. The fragrant blend of elfroot oil, lavender, and daylilies clung to the steam rising around him, mixing with the fainter scent of the potted plants that lined the walls.

Everything about this place—calm, indulgent, long overdue—was a reward he never even dared to fantasise about.

As he raked wet fingers through his hair, he sighed, letting his head sink into the soft towel behind him. For the first time in months, he allowed himself to relax. He would never claim he'd earned it, but his companions had insisted. None would disturb him—save for one.

Soft footsteps echoed across the jade flooring, and Emmrich lifted his head to greet her.

Mara.

She stood at the edge of the bath, bare and radiant in the sunlight streaming through the high glass windows. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders in luscious waves, and her sharp eyes—usually so alert and calculating—now shined with a sense of freedom and serenity.

Emmrich held his breath, drinking her in. "You're so beautiful," he uttered.

"Even with my scar?" she asked, running her finger along the indentation from her left shoulder to her right breast.

"Darling," he said, a bright blush flaring across his cheeks, "every inch of you is perfect."

Mara smiled, then stepped into the tub, sinking gracefully into the water, the ripples distorting her reflection like a splash of paint on a canvas.

"You're perfect," she stressed, aware that he still harboured insecurities about his age.

Emmrich huffed, but before he could argue, she slid onto his lap, straddling him, her thighs caging his hips. Her arms wove around his neck, her skin like silk against his own.

For a long while, neither of them spoke, each one staring at the other with an aura of desire.

Then, their lips met in a slow, lingering kiss—one that spoke of solace and devotion. Emmrich's hands traced up her back, his fingers ghosting over her spine, muscle, and hints of grit left over from battle. He wanted her, needed her, and he refused to wait a second longer, lest some other threat tear her from his grasp. Gods, cultists—all of them be damned. With a hungry moan, he pulled her closer, pressing his lips to the delicate line of her jaw, then lower, to the pulse of her throat.

"Yes..." Mara gasped, tightening her embrace, burying her face into his neck.

"Are you ready, darling?"

He shifted beneath her, his hands finding her waist, preparing to move her into a more comfortable position—but then he froze.

She was shaking.

A light tremor at first, barely noticeable through the heat of the water. Then more pronounced.

Emmrich let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension he suddenly felt. "You must be very excited," he teased.

She didn't respond.

His stomach twisted.

"Mara?"

Still, nothing. Just the tightness of her arms around his shoulders, the slight shudder in her breath.

Then, he heard it—a partially suppressed sob. His heart clenched. Immediately, he wrapped her up, one hand sliding to the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair.

"Darling, what's wrong?"

Another shaky breath. Another barely-there sob.

He rubbed her back, panic creeping into his tone. "Darling, please. Talk to me."

Mara inhaled loudly, as if forcing down another cry, then finally—finally—she spoke.

"I'm sorry..." she choked. "I ruined the moment."

"No, no. You didn't, my darling. You didn't." He tried to lean back, to see her face, but she was curled so tightly against him, as if hiding herself out of shame. "Mara, please... tell me what's wrong. You know you can tell me anything, yes? Please, darling, maybe I can help. What is it?"

She sniffed, shaking her head. "Nothing's wrong, Emmrich. For the first time in ages, nothing's wrong." She squeezed tighter, her legs hugging his hips, yet careful not to hurt him. "I just..."

Emmrich closed his eyes and rocked her through the water, willing the gentle motion to soothe her. "Go on, darling. I'm listening."

Mara sighed, his support a balm to her weary soul. "I've just been... holding everything in since Varric put me in charge." Her voice was raw, quiet. "I've been so—"

She swallowed her words, unable to say it.

"Scared?" Emmrich offered.

She nodded.

"Oh, Mara..." He held her tighter, giving her a moment to unwind. "Look at me."

Gently, he eased her back, his chest aching at the sight of the tears rolling down her cheeks. He'd never seen her like this—relief, sorrow, ecstasy, and fear overwhelming her all at once. Without hesitation, he cupped her face, brushing his thumbs beneath her lashes.

"I saw how hard this was on you every day, yet I can't even begin to imagine what you were going through," he said, his hazel eyes fixed on hers. "But I need you to hear this: we never would have made it without you."

She whimpered at his praise, her lips trembling. "I was so worried I'd fail everyone."

"You didn't," he said, his voice firm. "You were incredible. I was terrified of losing you, but if anyone could lead us to victory, I knew it was you."

"Emmrich, I didn't—"

"I knew it was you," he averred. "From the moment I met you, you were indomitable. You kept everyone's spirits up. You made the difficult decisions. You suffered a living nightmare in the Fade, but came through it stronger than before." He leaned in, pecking her lips before returning to her gaze. "Darling, it's over, but not despite your efforts—because of them. You're a natural-born leader." He grinned, playfully pinching her chin. "And so damn irresistible."

Mara let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sob. Then she smiled, resting her forehead against his.

"I'm sorry for... the hysterics."

"Hysterics?" He frowned. "How many times have I unloaded my problems onto you?"

"That was different," Mara chuckled. "And I was happy to help."

"It wasn't different," Emmrich tittered. "My love, you have nothing to apologise for, and I'm glad you shared that with me."

"...I'm just so tired."

Emmrich kissed her temple, cradling her close. "Then sleep. I've got you."

She was silent for a moment, soaking him in. Then, with a sudden scoff, she pulled back, mischief flickering through her exhaustion.

"I'm not that tired," she smirked.

Emmrich arched a brow, caught between amusement and adoration. "No?"

Mara shook her head, then kissed him again, her tongue pushing past his lips as the warmth of the bath enveloped them.

"Mmm..." Emmrich melted beneath her, his hands wandering lower as the heat between them intensified. "Not too tired for some 'rigorous activities'?"

"Never," she purred.

The steam thickened, swirling around them in a fog, until their world shrank to nothing but their sensual touch and the heady pounding of their hearts.

[attapullman]

Stupid White Car | Neighbor!Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: Pretty trees and cozy fire pit nights are all you expected when Robert mentioned wanting to landscape his backyard. And then the architect in the slutty white Benz shows up.

Word Count: 810

Warnings: none except sorry if your name is Alyssa 😬

A Note From Mo: The world's biggest shoutout to my favourite Bradshaw Baddie @roosterforme for coming up with this delicious idea and beta-ing this sake-written, jealousy-fueled oneshot for the neighbor!Bob anthology. Hope this satisfies everyone's appetite until Part III graces your screens.

The project was supposed to be done a week ago. No more white Mercedes in his driveway, no more lemonade on the back patio, no more mulch deliveries outside business hours. No more her.

When Robert announced he was finally landscaping his boring grass lawn while on leave, you had encouraged him. Dreams of sitting out there with him by a fire pit under some string lights danced before your eyes. But now you’re wishing he had kept his patchy lawn that turned into a mud pit at the slightest chance of rain.

Then she showed up.

You were working in your home office, deep into a spreadsheet, when you heard a female voice in the yard next door. Face pressed into the window, turning just so, a tiny postage stamp of his yard visible from your vantage point. Your sweet boyfriend walking around his desolate lawn, pointing out problems, while the most stunning woman followed him, smiling and nodding and jotting down notes. 

It should be illegal for him to look so good in faded jeans with grass stains. Or for her to pull off work boots so well. 

You missed your three o’clock meeting observing them from your hideout, having moved to the laundry room where you could see his yard better. Watched them sit at the little finicky table he needed to replace and go over pages in her catalog, pointing out the design features he liked and what she recommended. 

You didn’t know words like drip irrigation and concept plan could sound so…intimate.

Now it’s been weeks, and that annoying little car is always in his driveway. When she’s not “supervising” the subcontractor, she’s delivering supplies or needing to go over the plans one last time. The 15th has come and gone, and yet she’s still here. And you’re not sure whether it’s your imagination or not that her blouses suddenly have one less button done.

It’s a beautiful spring day outside, and you wish you were out there instead of holed up trying to make sense of this budget. The window is open to allow a soft breeze, tickling the skin not covered by your thin tshirt. An hour ago you shot Robert a text asking if he wanted to have dinner out tonight, try out that new bistro with the cute patio and enjoy the sunshine and some tiramisu. 

Maybe add in an evening walk along the beach? Ending with a night cap and him wrapped in your overstuffed comforter, enjoying his last night of leave blissfully unaware of the rest of the world.

Checking your quiet phone again, you settle down to your computer. And then you hear a perfect twinkle of a laugh. 

You abandon your computer and race down to the laundry, face pressed against the glass as emerald green jealousy licks along your skin.

No wonder you haven’t heard from Robert, his full attention is on his landscape architect as she has him choose between gravels for the stepping stones they’re finally installing. He’s brought out lemonade. Innocent blue eyes trained on her and laughing good-naturedly as she makes a joke about mortar. A joke a little too sultry for your taste.

You didn’t even hear her car pull in. When you talked to him last night he acted like all decisions had been made, one more full day of work and his backyard would be summer ready. It’s not a surprise she has weaseled herself into another visit.

Their hands accidentally brush as they flip between sample pages. Your entire being is rigid, the world in front of you an ominous red. How dare she touch what’s yours!

Before reasoning can interfere, you’re slipping on sandals and racing to the back fence. Pupils wild, heart racing, the green-eyed monster hot on your heels. 

The latch on his fence, newly installed, nearly pulverized in your jealousy-fueled mission. The gate swings open and there they sit, too close for your liking, her manicured fingers gliding along his forearm as she explains costs. 

Robert stands from his chair, shock and surprise written all over his face. He’s never seen this look in your eyes, this possession written all over your features. The woman raises her eyebrows to you, mildly shocked, mildly irritated you’ve interrupted her meeting with her favorite client.

“Alyssa, this is my, uh, neighbor next door…” he trails off awkwardly, realizing he’s never had to introduce you since that fateful night in your kitchen.

You see her smirk. Her revealing blouse. Her eyes that pity you. And from the corner of your eye, you see that stupid white Mercedes.

Rounding the rickety table, Robert’s eyes are filled with nothing but affection. A gentle reminder that she’s had his time, but you have his heart.

Your shoulders relax, returning her smug smile as you complete his sentence. “Neighbor…and girlfriend.”

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[dearharriet]

Whatever; Steve Harrington 🌓

summary: they say you’ll meet every person in your life twice. the second time you meet steve, you’re in college, and he’s very different from what you remember.

word count: 3.2K

warnings: fem!r, mentions + content of previous bullying, ex-bully!steve, alcohol consumption, some unresolved emotions, angst, hurt/comfort

a/n: i swear im alive i’m just stupidly busy. hope y’all like this one xxx

You circled back to Steve so quickly that a lick of embarrassment flamed at your cheeks, but really, you couldn’t have stopped it. His presence was fascinating, and like a passerby can’t look away from a car accident, you couldn’t resist inspecting Steve.

The house was very dark and humid, crowded with people that went to your university, and people who didn’t. Steve, for example, who had appeared—now for a second time—seemingly out of nowhere. Two weeks ago you’d spotted him at a party across town that a scene band threw, but he’d disappeared before you could talk to him. Tonight, he wasn’t so lucky.

To your relief, he received your sudden presence very gracefully, almost sheepishly. He was bowing his head and his broad shoulders shrunk together carefully. You wanted to say something very bold, something to grab his attention like fancy meeting you here, but the totality of your unfamiliarity made you hesitate.

“Where’ve you been?” you shouted instead, hugging your chest to feign casualness. It sounded, you realized, like you were inquiring as to where he’d been five minutes ago, not indefinitely post-graduation. Steve didn’t seem to mind.

“Hawkins,” he replied, matter-of-fact. “You?”

“Hawkins?” you repeated, ignoring his courtesy. “That’s not like you.” In truth, you probably knew very little about what would be like him and what would not, so you tacked on, “Not to be presumptuous or anything, sorry.”

In school, you and Steve saw very much of each other yet spoke next to never. In the spring of your sophomore year, Tommy Hagan’s father made him walk about the neighborhood and offer to mow lawns for money—something about growing hair on his chest, forming a sense of responsibility—and your mother had just broken her wrist, so she gave him a five dollar bill every Saturday for three months to help out. Tommy was awful at it, and he loathed you, and when you returned to school in September he’d dragged Carol and Steve with him into his loathing.

One day, you couldn’t recall what date—or even what month—but you remembered the three of them had come to find you after classes were done after you’d stayed late. You missed a question on some test, or there was something about a project, whatever. You knew it was late because the halls were empty, and your recollection of that relied heavily on the memory of Carol’s chilling laugh echoing down them, which you never forgot.

“God, Tommy, you’re sadistic.”

They prowled closer, just around the bend. Tommy and Carol were chortling and you could imagine them hanging all over each other the way that they often did. Steve cut in abrasively, something frenetic in his tone.

“I’m telling you, she’s not here, man.”

Steve’s voice bounced down the corridor and sounded back, like radar pinging around and around, detecting movement.

“Relax, Harrington, what’s the rush?”

“Rachel’s waitin’ on me, that’s what,” Steve replied. “And I still gotta drop you two assholes off.”

“Your gal-pal can wait, Steve,” Carol sneered, and you thought her voice was edged with something sharper than exasperation. “Besides, this’ll be fun.”

They turned the corner, and you realized then that it was likely you they were looking for, and it was suddenly too late to turn and hide. You froze, bag heavy on your shoulder and damp starting to form on your brow.

“Ah-ha! Just the girl we wanted to see,” Tommy sang, his voice already lilting meanly. You took a step back, wondering if they’d really chase you if you bolted. Carol had heeled boots on, and you were certain Tommy and Steve wouldn’t hunt down a girl no matter how twisted they were. A guy, sure, but you?

It didn’t matter, because you didn’t run, which you could only blame on yourself and your tendency to petrify under pressure. Anything you chose seemed the worst option, which made the logical solution to do nothing.

“She looks about ready to run,” Carol peered as they came closer, which was very astute for her, all things considered.

“Yeah, maybe.” Tommy grinned. “You wanna play, goodie-two-shoes? Me ‘n Steve’ll give you a head start.”

In retrospect, the roles of Tommy and Carol and Steve, and even you, are played by their fully grown versions. Of course you all looked very young, sounded very young—being fifteen at the time—but it all comes back as if it happened yesterday. It’s warped by everything that happened after.

“Yeah, why don’t you just get it over with, save us all a little time?” Steve picked, his expression almost bored.

You pressed your lips together. Carol stepped behind you, prodding at your bag, and you recoiled, backing closer to the lockers.

“Nah, she’s too chicken-shit,” she hissed, and then ripped your bag from your arms. When you lunged for her, Tommy pushed you back into the metal wall of lockers, and your shoulder blade landed hard on a dial-lock.

“Jesus H Christ, Tommy,” Steve laughed awkwardly, “could you have pushed her any harder?”

“Whatever, man,” Tommy waved him off, watching as Carol dug through your satchel. “You’re soft.”

Steve’s features tightened then, all of a sudden like a switch had been flipped. He took his hand out of his hair and strode over to Carol, taking your bag and emptying its contents onto the linoleum. Notebooks and pens, highlighters and, embarrassingly, a heap of pads, all washed over the floor. Carol had your journal in her hands and Steve took that too, discarding it with everything else.

“I’m fuckin’ tired of this shit,” he muttered, “let’s go.”

“Boo,” Carol complained, “what a wet blanket.”

“Yeah, why don’t you stay here with the teachers’ pet,” Tommy gibed, gesturing at you, “since you both love being L-A-M-E.”

He spelled the word out, holding a backwards L on his forehead that Carol copied.

“Yeah, and who’s gonna drive you home, Tommy?” Steve challenged. Tommy clenched his jaw, rolling his eyes petulantly. Carol’s hip popped as she dropped her hand, lips smacking. “That's what I thought.”

Steve brushed past them then, properly regal and entitled, and they followed him begrudgingly, swapping resentful glances until you couldn’t see them anymore.

In the minutes it took to gather your things back into your bag, you couldn’t resist the cloudy thought that Steve dumping your bag felt like a mercy. In the company of many rabider dogs, his offense was almost magnanimous, and, despite it being your things, felt more targeted at Tommy and Carol than at you. On your way home you decided that that was stupid, and that you were likely feeding into a fantasy that would eventually hurt you.

It wasn’t until after graduation that you realized they were bullying you. At the time it obviously hadn’t felt friendly, but you’d been so fictile then that you assumed most of the blame. When your mind changed, the word bullying alone felt too childish to bear, so you decided it was fine and that you were over it.

Standing before you at the party, Steve was folded in on himself. The memory juxtaposed so coarsely against how he looked now.

“Not like me?” he repeated.

“I just mean,” you continued, “I would’ve thought you’d go to school. Here in Chicago, maybe. I don't know. Indi, at the least.”

He shook his head, cradling his damp beer can closer.

“Yeah, well, I'm not smart like you,” he answered. “I didn’t really get accepted anywhere.”

Steve’s cheeks pinked with embarrassment, but he didn’t look all that dejected. You were sure that was the nicest thing he’d ever said to you, and the added element of self-depreciation threw you off-kilter.

“You still talk with Carol and Tommy and stuff?” It wasn’t much of a question, but Steve looked profoundly confused.

“What? No, I um—“ He licked his lips, looking down. “They ditched me when Hargrove came into town. You don’t remember?”

“Oh,” you said. “No, I must’ve missed that.”

“Yeah, that’s uh. S’ probably for the best. You shouldn’t have been caught up with us anyways.” It sounded like an apology, though not direct enough for you to accept in any way.

“Well it’s not like I never saw Tommy H. and Carol again,” you said, admittedly sour. “I figured you were off with Nancy or whatever. Where is she anyways?”

“Nancy?” You nodded. Shrugging, Steve said, “I wouldn’t know. We broke up in 1984.”

“Oh,” you jolted , “sorry about that.”

“Nah, don’t be.” He looked very sorry about it himself, like he was still wishing it away.

“Well, I am. I always thought you two would get married or something. She seemed like she knew how to keep you in line.”

Steve smiled softly, vaguely.

“Yeah, Nancy’s like that.”

His sentence ended there and didn’t pick back up, and you felt terribly anxious about what to say next. As often as you denied it, you did want to see people from school again, if only to show them they didn’t win. You wanted to happen upon Steve The Hair Harrington, or Tommy H. or Carol Perkins or anyone at all just to affirm that, yes, you were doing significantly better than they expected you to. You wore shoes with heels and makeup and you were just like them, only you could writhe in shameless glory because you were never a prick.

“So what do you do? No school?”

Steve leaned closer then, apprehensive as he brought his mouth to your ear.

“D’you wanna talk outside?” He asked, and then pulled back to gauge your expression. “I can’t hear very well,” he explained, some level of shame coloring him. You nodded tolerantly, following him out to the porch.

It was clear and cold in the Chicago suburbs, like a freshly opened bottle of coke, and you could see Orion’s Belt. You had on a white leather jacket that kept you just warm enough.

“You seem to like it better here,” Steve observed. Your earlier question stood forgotten from the journey outside.

“In a way,” you agreed.

“People are nicer?”

You pinched your brows thoughtfully.

“I wouldn’t say nicer, no.” Fiddling with your jewelry, you looked at the sky. “People have been rude to me here before, but it’s…it isn’t like Hawkins.” You swallowed a freezing breath, wondering if Steve was really standing next to you. “I can leave at any time if it gets to be too much. Or, like, tell them to fuck off if I wanted to. In high school I just had to sit there and take it, and then come back the next day for more.”

Blowing out a stiff laugh, you looked back to Steve. His eyes were downcast, face crumpled, and it looked like he would eat his own mouth before he said a word in response. It was painfully silent, so silent that the wind and your racing heart played a spoilt song together at Steve’s inattentive audience.

Your face felt warm with humiliation. Conversation had grown on you, or so you thought, enough that you wouldn’t become carried away into overzealous speeches to people who didn’t care. You cleared your throat uncomfortably, frowning.

“Do you like Chicago?” You asked Steve, and it turned brittle in the air, like a wisp of ash from a fire.

“I’m so sorry,” his aggrieved response came, and it carved your chest open to hear, in a way. It was something you imagined, a moment you craved, a fantasy you knew would never occur. Now that it had, you felt a million miles away, like he’d said some magic word and hypnotized you, stealing your present mind and leaving you cavernous and vulnerable.

“It’s really okay, Steve,” you said hoarsely. “We were kids, and you were as stuck as I was.”

“I was not,” he sternly denied.

“Sure you were,” you insisted, “it was eat or be eaten. I can’t blame you for not wanting to be picked on.”

“Because I would have died from being unliked,” he retorted sarcastically. You gave him a look as if to say that’s not fair, but you knew he was right. It would have been a different kind of unlike for him. If he’d forfeited his social standing, all of the cruelty and indifference he got would have been directly his decision, and his courage would have been gratifying enough to sustain him.

“Well,” you stammered persistently, “I still think you’re okay. I forgive you.”

“Look, I’m—“ Steve huffed, scrubbing at his hair anxiously. “I’m not trying to fish for compliments. Really. I just have this terrible feeling that you convinced yourself that it’s okay, what all happened in school. But it’s not okay. It’s not.”

He looked into your eyes hotly, a wild turn to his features, and you felt oddly nauseous. You looked at your shoes to avoid his stare, slim heeled boots that all the pretty girls wore in school, and you wondered how you’d feel about those girls if you’d never slipped them on, never had a guy take you home because you looked so good in them.

“What do you want me to do, then?” you asked.

Steve was silent for a moment.

“Whatever you feel,” he replied, “what I want is besides the point.”

“Not to me,” you mumbled, and then regretted it instantly. You pulled your jacket tight around you and shivered, said: “I don’t know what to do.”

A tear tracked hot and shameful down your cheek, dancing with the porch light and the stars and Steve’s eyes. You felt like the whole world was watching you flounder and choke like a fish on a dock. You sucked in, and air stole down your throat in three distinct parts, stuttering and painful.

Steve reached for you then, taking your arm into his grip and crushing you to his chest. Through teary eyes you could spy into the house where the party still thundered. It looked shockingly vibrant and warm inside, a world away from your moment with Steve on the frigid veranda. He was holding your head gently and rubbing at your back, and you could only think of how much you’d been craving this. How you’d yearned over intellectual conversations and counseling sessions for something as real as this moment, here, with Steve. He knew you better than anyone inside, anyone in Chicago, even, and you could not fathom how that had happened.

Pressing into him, you sniffled pitifully and hid your face.

“Sorry for crying,” you said, “I really didn’t want to.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Steve said, for the second time that night. You liked the way he said it, with a soft sternness that left no room for argument. He even went on further to say: “It’s okay if you want to cry some more.”

You rubbed his sleek jacket between your fingers and looked at him.

“You won’t tell anyone?”

Steve laughed, and you knew then that he wouldn’t, like you knew he wasn’t laughing at your expense.

“Who am I gonna tell?” he asked genuinely. You thought about it.

“Tommy or…” Steve shook his head. “No, right, you said that.”

You pretended to think some more, but you had nothing. You said, “I don’t know,” and then expected Steve to give you a name, like you were playing a guessing game and you’d lost. Instead, he drew his arms tighter around your shoulders, so that your chin was trapped on his chest as you looked up at him.

“I won’t tell a soul if that’s what you want,” he admitted, a shiny frond of his hair escaping the fray to sway between you two. “I think I’d do whatever you asked, actually.”

He seemed very affronted by that fact, as if he was only discovering it as he told you, right then.

“Would you—” You licked your lips. Looked at Steve’s. Asked: “Would you kiss me?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathed, “‘course.”

He kissed you then, acerbic ale transferring from his lips to yours. The stray hair caught between your foreheads, doing what your noses could not and flattening. Steve’s hands held you firmly, at the back of your neck and on your upper arm, and it made you shudder. He was kissing you dizzy—not nearly the first you’d ever had, but certainly the first that felt worthwhile, the first that felt good and right and deserved.

As you pulled away shyly, Steve kept his eyes closed, his jaw working and his breath uneven.

“Steve?” you called.

“Hm?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

Steve hummed negatively, tapping his forehead back onto yours and finally blinking his eyes open.

“No, sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be sorry.” You smiled, and Steve grinned knowingly, like he could tell he’d be hearing that a hundred times a week from then on. You asked him what he was thinking and he fiddled with your jacket collar nervously.

“Just about you. In Chicago and everything. Where that puts us.” Steve scrunched his face in a sort of wince like that might upset you. “I mean, not that there has to be an us at all—if that’s not what you want, or if I’m getting ahead of myself.”

He says the last bit like a question, like a request. Like: Please say I’m not getting ahead of myself?

“No, I wouldn’t say you are,” you assured him. “I didn’t even think about the distance. Does it bother you?”

“Yeah,” Steve said without hesitation, but a small abashed smile played on his lips. “But I meant what I said, whatever you say goes. Whatever you want me to do.”

You looked him over, from the tallest strand of his styled hair down to where your chests met, taking in his moles and the fibers of his shirt.

“Do you have anyone at home that you’d miss?” you asked, and Steve’s face said everything, even as he shook his head stubbornly.

“Baby, whatever you want. Ask me to move up and I will.”

Smiling, you kissed him curiously, the feeling so novel and thrilling. His responding squeeze on your arm shot through you to your very center.

“I still have my family in Hawkins,” you told him dazedly. “I go home every holiday. We can visit. And it’s only a year and half before I graduate, and then we can figure something new out.”

Steve smiled dryly, perhaps anticipating a different answer, but ultimately you knew it’d be best not to rush anything. You were content, all of the excitement and adrenaline seeping from your body and making you feel soft around the edges. You shivered a touch, and Steve rocked you both to and fro.

“Do you wanna go back inside,” he asked, his mouth on your hairline. You shook your head, stuffing your face in the junction of his neck and shoulder.

“Can we stay here just a little longer?” you pleaded.

“‘Course we can,” Steve granted, soothing his fingers through your hair. “Whatever you want.”

+

thank u for reading xx

masterlist

[whoopsyeahokay]

Alphabet Soup

summary: prompt fill. the journey of a clandestine love affair at several stages because Wally Clark craves what he can't have and refuses to keep his hands to himself. and you live for it.

pairing: grey!Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut. AU - modern setting. romanticized toxic behavior. cheating (not on you). fighting. harassment. possessive/protective. egregious use of the word 'baby'.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🧿

Alphabet Soup - E

E is for the effort Wally will make to keep a smile on your face. He won't admit it, but actions speak louder and his are all out screaming.

The music pounds, upbeat and frenetic, everyone writhing in the living room like it's Studio 54. Drinks spill over the brims of red solos, rowdy, raucous, celebrating another victory by the Devils. Wally feels good and loose and ready to party, E in his blood and whiskey in his cup. Ever the lovesick boyfriend Janet trained him to be, he performs; his hand on her hip as she grinds her ass against him. She doesn't care that he won't get hard for her, but she scowls when, four songs in, he starts to plump up.

Because there you are like angelic visitation, surrounded by your friends who fade into the ether along with the rest of the world as you step onto the makeshift dancefloor in a teeny skirt and a top that's all cleavage and collarbone. You toss your head back, hips gyrating in a tease that snares Wally's attention, eyes closed as you lose yourself to the rhythm.

Wally's mouth waters.

He wants to fuck between your tits, to fuck you in that itty bitty skirt, to fuck you with those thigh-high boots still on, and fuck baby, you know how to make an entrance. But Janet drags him to the kitchen and tells him to get her a drink, no ice, extra vodka and he obliges for the image he has to project. His buddies are crowded around the keg, boisterous, teasing each other. Travis calls over everyone's heads to ask Janet when her awkward fawn of a step-sister became a fox.

Wally's knuckles whiten around the vodka bottle.

Two hours later and Wally's sober, his eyes sharp, his body rigid as he watches Travis try to woo you with washed-up oneliners and too much touching. His fingers in your hair, his hand on your waist, pressuring you into playing beer bong with him so he can stand behind you and guide every toss.

After the game, he tries to take you somewhere private, "It'll be good, I promise." And you shove him away, turning only to be grabbed by the wrist, looking for someone to help without making a scene. Wally's eyes lock with yours and his blood boils when he sees tears in the corners. That's fucking it.

The music is too loud and everyone's too drunk to notice Wally grab Travis by the shirt and push him through the door into the room by the stairs. The laundry room, Wally doesn't realize, on his knees over Travis, one fist in Travis' shirt while the other beats his fucking face in. The only thing that prevents Wally from killing the guy is your voice begging him to stop.

Wally's up in an instant, cradling your face with bloody fingers, forehead pressed to yours, "It's okay, baby, he won't touch you again." A deep, filthy kiss, another, another. Travis groans; Wally spits on him as he walks by, escorting you through the laundry room to the back door. Down the porch steps and to his car, his hand never leaving yours.

He thanks Christ that his parents moved him into the apartment above the garage over spring break. It's a bachelor pad disaster, but he'll worry about décor when he doesn't have you trembling in his arms, head on his shoulder, sitting in his lap just a fraction too far from where you should be.

His hands gently slide up your legs to your thighs, gripping, urging you forward, "Come here, baby girl...sit where you know I want you." He whispers, hand still tacky with Travis' blood, fingers combing your hair back to see your face. Beautiful, big eyes and tearstained red cheeks. "Let me help you forget..."

Janet texts him, the boys call him, and Wally turns off his phone. Cock-deep inside you, kissing you like he's trying to erase the night before he had you under him. Your legs hooked over his shoulders, thigh-high boots still on.

🧿___________________________

MASTERLIST

also available on AO3!

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[ugotnojamzzz]

Chapter 18

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Synopsis: mc can’t catch a fucking break, can she?

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language. Also, don’t come for me over the theme, people. It’s an Alternate Universe, which means the bangtan boys are essentially what I like to call meat puppets to serve the storyline. This is obviously not a projection of their actual real-life personas.

Wordcount: 3k

Masterlist

Chapter 17

—

The ride was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind that wrapped itself around your throat.

Y/N sat in the backseat of the black SUV, flanked by an armed guard on each side. The security detail followed in a second vehicle, but it was the man seated at the front—Namjoon—that kept the silence oppressive. No one had spoken since she’d been fetched from her room and told that they were taking her somewhere outside the mansion. Not a word, not even a glance.

She watched the back of his head, sharp profile reflected faintly in the glass. His jaw was locked. That meant something.

Everything did, with Namjoon.

The road narrowed. Trees grew thicker the farther they drove, gnarled branches curling over the pavement like ribs. The sky above them was pale gray, clouds swollen with threat.

He hadn’t said anything about where they were going or why.

Y/N didn’t ask questions—not when she knew the answers might be worse than her assumptions.

She turned slightly, catching a glimpse of Jungkook from the corner of her eye. He sat on her left, staring straight ahead, expression carved from stone. One gloved hand rested on his thigh, the other on the gun holstered beneath his coat. Every part of him looked tense, coiled. Like a spring held in place by sheer force of will.

He had come back from whatever mission he’d been on a couple of days prior. For Y/N, though, signs of his presence had remained strictly limited to the sound of his bedroom door opening and closing and that of his boots against the hardwood floor.

He hadn’t even looked at her. Not once.

Good.

She was in no mood to deal with whatever storm was still brewing behind those eyes.

The SUV slowed as they passed through a narrow metal gate. Guards nodded as they drove by—Namjoon didn’t return the gesture. He didn’t need to.

The SUV rolled to a halt in front of what appeared to be a traditional hanok building. They all stepped out of the vehicle, and YN spotted armed guards at every corner. She finally allowed herself to wonder where it was they had taken her, when suddenly—

The door opened.

A woman stepped out. Tall. Perfectly pressed blouse. Not a hair out of place.

Her heels clicked against the stone, each step deliberate, sharp. She offered Namjoon a saccharine smile—genuine, if you didn’t look too closely.

“My son,” she said, voice warm like tea just before it scalds. She took Namjoon’s hands delicately in hers. “You’ve come.”

He inclined his head. « Eomoni. »

Her gaze slid over Y/N without acknowledgment. And then, finally, landed on Jungkook.

Her smile vanished like breath on glass.

“Huh,” she said to Namjoon. “You brought him.”

Not a question. Not surprise. Disdain wrapped in a bow.

Namjoon didn’t reply.

They were ushered through the front doors, a wave of sterile air greeting them like a slap.

Jungkook fell into step behind her. His presence was a shadow at her back, quiet but heavy. She didn’t look at him.

Y/N’s steps slowed as they moved deeper into the building. She could hear it now—faint, slow beeping. A machine. A monitor. Life measured in numbers.

Namjoon didn’t stop walking. Didn’t explain.

At the end of the hallway, two guards in black suits stepped aside. A wide, sliding door stood ahead—polished wood, flanked by pale linen.

“Let us through,” Namjoon guarded.

The guards obeyed.

The sliding door opened without a sound.

Inside, sunlight streamed through the tall panel windows, so bright Y/N had to squint.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust—just long enough to register the tapestries on the walls, the bonsai trees placed in every corner.

But it wasn’t the décor that made her pause.

It was the person sitting beneath the light.

She staggered back a step, breath splintering in her chest.

There he was.

The Tiger emperor himself.

—

Mr. Kim sat cross-legged on a cushion before a low lacquered table, a thick IV line disappearing into the crook of his left arm. The machine it fed into beeped faintly behind him, ignored.

He wore a dark gray durumagi, severe in its simplicity. No embroidery. No unnecessary flourish. Just clean, tailored lines.

A nurse poured tea from a small clay pot into thin ceramic cups. She didn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

Y/N stopped in the doorway, her body tense, her instincts flaring. So, she thought, the man really hasn’t kicked the bucket just yet, then.

“Abeoji,” Namjoon said evenly, bowing at the waist.

Mr. Kim didn’t look up immediately. When he did, it was slow—like he’d known they were there the whole time but allowed the pause to settle on purpose.

His gaze landed first on Namjoon. “You came.”

“You summoned,” Namjoon replied.

A flicker of something passed between them. Not warmth, not respect. Just recognition. Power, acknowledged.

Then the old man’s gaze slid to Jungkook.

For a beat, nothing moved.

Y/N could feel it—the thickness in the air, the static that came from words unsaid. Whatever passed between them was sharp, old and barbed.

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. He bowed low. Deeper than Namjoon had.

But he said nothing.

When he rose, the old man’s eyes were still on him. Silent.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. He only straightened, unreadable.

Then Mr. Kim turned his eyes to Y/N.

Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t seen the almighty leader of the Kim clan since the Unity Summit, ten years before. His eyes, though duller than she remembered, still carried the weight of someone to be feared. The nasty scars that ran diagonally across his face pulled at the corner of his mouth, giving him a permanent sneer. She suddenly found herself having to fight hard against the urge to bow to the man. Some old reflex from her childhood.

“So,” he hummed, “the little raven finally grew some feathers.”

Y/N’s spine stiffened.

Before she could respond, a soft, fluttery voice chimed from the side.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Mrs. Kim said, stepping around them. Her hands wrung nervously at the hem of her sleeve, though her voice was pleasant. “The doctor said—”

Mr. Kim raised one hand.

She fell silent instantly.

The motion was small. Efficient.

Y/N felt a chill crawl down her neck.

Now she understood where Namjoon had learned that gesture—the command that didn’t require a word.

Mrs. Kim’s face tightened. She offered a shallow bow and turned for the door, the nurse quietly following her.

Namjoon cleared his throat softly. “We’ve been thi—“

“Leave us,” Mr. Kim spoke nonchalantly. His eyes still on Y/N.

Namjoon hesitated only a second. Then he nodded and stepped back.

Jungkook didn’t move.

Y/N glanced at him, uncertain, but his face gave nothing away. Then, slowly, he bowed again—single, deep arc—and left without a word.

The door slid shut. And then it was just her, the tea and the old king on the floor.

He didn’t speak right away. Just lifted the cup the nurse had poured and took a slow, deliberate sip.

It flashed when he moved—just a flicker of gold. But Y/N knew what it was. The tiger’s head, glinting in the sun. The signet ring on his finger that crowned the Kim leader.

“Sit,” he finally broke the silence, voice quiet but sharp. “Let’s talk.”

Y/N sat down slowly across from him, the cushion firm beneath her, the lacquered table between them cool to the touch. Her back was straight, her hands in her lap. Only then did she notice the chessboard set neatly between them. The pieces were arranged and waiting—white in front of him, black in front of her. Of course.

“You play?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she replied after a beat.

“Then play,” he nodded as he made the first move, one of his white pawns landing in her direction.

Y/N blinked. This wasn’t exactly what she had expected when she had stepped through the door. But as he remained still, unphased by her delay, she finally looked down at the board and moved one of her modest black pawns, symmetrical to his. Methodical. Controlled.

“Is this why I’m here?” she asked eventually, moving a knight into play. “A match?”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers. “A conversation.”

“Same difference.”

“Touché,” he smiled softly, “I suppose every conversation is a match.”

“Only if you’re willing to play.”

“Everyone is always playing,” he said, shifting his bishop forward. “Some just don’t realize it yet.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She moved another pawn.

Several more moves passed in silence, the rhythm of strategy like the beat of an invisible drum between them. The pieces clacked against the board softly, a calm contrast to the tension that hummed like electricity in the room.

“Care to take a guess as to why you’re really here?” he asked, without looking at her.

“I assume it’s not for the company,” Y/N replied, voice measured.

That earned her a flick of his gaze. The scar across his face twitched slightly with what might’ve been amusement—or irritation. It was hard to tell. “Namjoon said you had teeth.” He paused as he contemplated his next move.

“Let’s see,” he continued, his voice still sharp despite its frailty. “Your little presence among us—as our ‘guest,’—it creates… complications.”

“Complications?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, his eyes narrowing. “A raven in a tiger’s den. No matter how still you sit, the talons are always visible.”

Y/N stiffened. “I’m not exactly here by choice.”

“Indeed you are not,” he agreed, his smile widening. “You’re here because you were caught. Like prey.”

Her jaw tightened at the insult, but she bit back the retort forming on her tongue.

“I wonder,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “how mighty Park Sanghoon would feel if he could see you know. His daughter, playing house with our kind.”

The mention of her father hit like a blow to the chest, but Y/N forced her expression to remain impassive. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Namjoon shot her a warning glance, but the old man chuckled—a dry, rasping sound that sent a shiver down her spine.

“I see it’s not just her eyes you inherited,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I like that. She was bold, too.”

The room seemed to freeze.

Y/N’s swallowed thickly. Her mother.

Mr. Kim’s expression shifted, softening ever so slightly. “She had a fire,” he continued, his voice quieting. “A light that made men stupid. Myself included.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, caught off-guard by the sudden change in his tone. The man who had spoken moments ago with venom now seemed almost wistful.

“Of course,” he added, staring into his tea. “That was before your father destroyed her.”

Y/N’s fingers curled into fists. “She made her choices.”

“She did,” he said, his eyes narrowing again. “And we know where it led her. Killed by enemies, wasn’t it? What a waste. But then, I suppose love seldom concerns itself with logic.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say. The idea of this man, this ruthless, cold creature, speaking of love was almost incomprehensible.

“She was a free spirit, beautiful and vibrant. Only too kind for this world. Never knew how to play the long game,” he continued, sliding his rook into position. “And your father…” He shook his head, his gaze darkening. “He was all teeth and fury. No patience. No vision. Though, I suppose you must know that better than most.”

Her stomach churned, but she didn’t flinch. « I’m not my father. »

“No,” he murmured, his gaze boring into hers. “You’re not. But you do carry his blood, whether you like it or not. And blood has a way of catching up to you.”

Before she could respond, his hand shot out over the table, grabbing her wrist with surprising strength. She tensed as his fingers digged into her skin.

“Such a funny thing, the human pulse, » he mumbled in contemplation, his gaze dropping to the scar on her arm. “Like a hummingbird under your skin, begging to be set free.”

She clenched her jaw.

“I see it in your eyes. That assurance, that—poise. Like you think there’s still a clean way out of this.”

She stared him down. “I know there isn’t.”

Now he smiled—this time, it was real. Ugly. Satisfied.

“Smart girl,” he said, and finally let go.

Her skin burned where he’d touched her, but she didn’t move, didn’t rub the mark.

“My son thinks you can be trusted,” he said, tone turning colder again. “He thinks you’ll behave if he plays nice.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

“I don’t believe in playing nice,” he continued.

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked onto hers. Then he moved his queen, capturing her rook with ruthless precision.

A minute passed and the board had turned a mess of clashing pieces, the battle tilting precariously.

“You—are defensive,” he observed, capturing her pawn with his knight. “Always reacting. Always waiting.”

“I’d rather wait than overreach,” she replied, her voice steady.

“Waiting doesn’t win wars,” he said, sliding his rook across the board. “It only delays the inevitable.”

“And charging in doesn’t guarantee victory,” she countered, moving her bishop with deliberate precision.

He chuckled softly. “You think you’re being clever. But cleverness only matters if you survive long enough to use it.”

The game shifted suddenly as he moved his knight.

“Check,” he said, his voice calm.

Y/N stared at the board, her mind racing. She could feel his eyes on her, sharp and unyielding, waiting for her next move.

“You’ve backed yourself into a corner,” he said quietly. “Do you even see it?”

She moved her knight hesitantly. “Corners can be good places to regroup.”

His eyes flicked to her, his expression faintly impressed. “Spoken like someone who’s spent too much time in one.”

Y/N didn’t respond, her focus locked on the board.

“You have potential,” he said after a moment, his tone softer now. “But potential means nothing without purpose. Do you know yours?”

She glanced up, meeting his gaze. “To survive.”

“Good answer.” He leaned back slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.  “But not good enough, I’m afraid.” He moved his knight one final time. Smug. As though he’d always known exactly how the game would end. In one confident flick of his wrist he took her queen and blocked her king.

No way out.

Check mate.

“You’ll learn, girl,” he spoke. “In the long run, the only victories that are worth anything are those that come at a painful price.”

Y/N glanced at the board one last time before rising to her feet slowly. Her heart was still ticking a little too fast from the—match.

“Is that all?” she asked, her voice cool but clipped. “I was brought here to play chess and listen to veiled threats?”

Across the board, the old man’s lips curled faintly, the scar on his cheek pulling the smile into something far more unsettling than kind.

“No threats,” he said. “Only reminders.”

He reached for his teacup, fingers trembling slightly now, as if the energy required to play the game had finally caught up to him.

She stared him down. She wasn’t leaving without a proper answer. He let out a sigh.

“I’m old,” he continued, his voice a low rasp. “Sick. And wise enough to know my days are counted.”

Y/N said nothing.

He didn’t look at her when he spoke next—just stared into the steam curling from his tea.

“I suppose I—selfishly—wanted to see them one last time before I return to the ground.”

A pause.

“See what?” she asked, unsure she wanted the answer.

He looked up. Right at her. Through her. She coule see something sad flicker in his gaze.

Then finally, he spoke, something softer than a murmur.

“Her eyes.”

The weight of the words fell heavy, like ash. There was no need to ask who he was referring to. Before Y/N could speak the sliding door opened behind her.

—

They didn’t speak as they left.

The car ride was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of leather seats when someone shifted. Y/N stared out the window, but her mind wasn’t on the blurred cityscape.

It was still in that room. Still sitting across from that dying man, with his knotted fingers and quiet threats, with eyes that saw through her, past her, down into the marrow.

You carry his blood, whether you like it or not.

Her wrist still tingled where he’d touched her. Not bruised—but marked.

She was used to being watched, judged. But that had felt different. She hated the way his words clung to her skin, like smoke in her hair after a fire.

They pulled up to the compound gates just as the sky began to bruise purple. Y/N walked ahead toward the front doors, automatic, like her body was moving before her mind could catch up.

Y/N was the first through the door, still trapped in her own head. The warmth inside welcomed her in—unaware of the storm still clinging to her skin. She was so distracted, in fact, that she didn’t notice the low rumble of voice in the distance, heated, sharp, until—

“There she is!” A voice pierced through.

Y/N didn’t even have time to flinch.

A blur. A rush of sound and motion.

Then a body collided with hers with the force of a speeding truck.

The wind was knocked clean out of her lungs as she hit the floor, hard. “What the—” she gasped, head spinning, trying to orient herself—

But her attacker was already on top of her, fists full of hair, knee pressing into her sternum.

“You fucking Park bitch!”

—

Tatatataaaa. Suspense. Hope you liked it!! Gimme feedback people!! Who else is wondering what the fuck is going on? 🙋‍♀️ jk lol I got the next few chapters lined up.

Chapter 19

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

@loumin908

@mageprincess7

@drunkzseok

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@jjk970901

[darkfruhlingsgefuhle]

Smoke & Celluloid

Inglourious Basterds Pairing: Dieter Hellstrom / F!Reader Tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers Part 2/?

You heard the knock before the bell.

Three, sharp. Intentional.

You were already behind the counter when the door opened. Already composed. As if you hadn’t been waiting all morning, heart coiled like a spring.

Dieter Hellstrom stepped inside again, just as precise, just as unreadable. The leather of his gloves creaked faintly as he pulled them tighter. His black boots were perfectly polished to, his black leather coat made his silhouette sinister, his cap covered the keen gaze of his iced-blue eyes.

“Bonjour,” he said, voice low.

His eyes swept over the room like yesterday hadn’t ended.

You gave him the same look you’d practiced in the mirror — casual, alert, faintly puzzled. “Monsieur Hellstrom. Back so soon?”

He paused a fraction too long.

Then: “I said I’d return.”

You gestured toward the cinema, the register, the neat little space arranged like a dollhouse. “You’re welcome to inspect, as promised. Nothing’s changed since yesterday.”

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

“I disagree,” he said.

Your fingers froze over the edge of the desk.

He took a step forward.

“You seemed… different today.”

Your lips parted slightly — just slightly — but you closed them again. “Is that part of your inspection?”

There it was.

That flicker.

His jaw flexed once. His eyes narrowed like he was parsing a code buried beneath your words.

“You tell me,” he said, stepping closer.

You didn’t move. Wouldn’t give him the ground.

He stood on the other side of the ticket counter now, too close, his shadow stretching over the polished wood between you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The only sound was the distant hum of the projector upstairs. Or maybe that was your blood in your ears.

His gaze dropped — not inappropriately, but appraising. Calculating.

“Do you live alone?” he asked suddenly.

A test.

“Yes,” you replied. No hesitation.

But the pause afterward was heavy.

You knew better than to fill it.

“Strange,” he murmured. “For a woman running a business. In these times.”

Another test.

You tilted your head slightly. “The French government supports independence, monsieur. Women must do what they can.”

That made his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Not amusement.

Something else.

“You speak like someone rehearsed.”

You allowed the smallest laugh, light and false like cheap champagne.

“Perhaps I’ve had practice.”

He leaned forward, just slightly.

“I think you’ve had plenty.”

Your breath caught.

Not fear. Not quite.

But a shift in the air. Like a storm crossing the edge of the horizon.

Dieter straightened again, brushing a hand across the counter as if dismissing the moment.

“I’ll check the booth,” he said flatly.

You nodded. “Of course.”

He walked past, and you felt the room realign with his movement — gravity following him like smoke.

But the moment between you still hung in the air like an unfinished sentence.

Dieter’s POV:

The booth was clean. Organized.

That, somehow, irritated him more than if it hadn’t been.

Everything in its place. Everything accounted for. Like her.

Still, he opened drawers. Ran fingers over the ledger. Flipped through the projection reels. Titles matched.

But none of it mattered.

He was already certain she was lying.

He just didn’t know about what.

And worse — far worse — was the gnawing heat beneath his ribs.

The way she looked at him. Not with fear. Not exactly. But with defiance pressed into stillness. Like a coiled wire.

She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t shrink. Didn’t charm. Didn’t plead.

She held.

She watched him like she was waiting for him to crack.

And something in him — something buried deep under medals and procedure — wanted to.

Not with violence. Not with suspicion.

With understanding.

That was the worst part. That part that wanted to see her undo.

But he couldn’t allow that. He wouldn’t. She was lying. That made her dangerous.

And yet…

He wasn’t leaving.

Not yet.

[leiawritesstories]

EPILOGUE: UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: swearing, graphic torture, scheming, horny Rowaelin

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Read on AO3

A/N: you guys....this is the end 🥹😱😭😭😭 (or is it mwahaha) thank you thank you THANK YOU for letting me share this work with all of you!! it is the biggest fanfic project i've ever taken on, and I'm both awestruck and deeply sad that it's finally reached its end. but!! keep your eyes open ehehe, there might be a little something *else* coming!! ;))

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three Months Later

The early spring night was cloudy and crisp, a biting breeze curling in from the mountains and slicing into Aelin’s bones even through the layers of her clothes, her protective vest and thigh guards, and the almost ridiculous amount of weapons concealed on her body. She narrowed her eyes and shot a withering glare through the thick darkness, her vision cast in stark green lines through the night-vision lenses built into her helmet. 

“How much longer do we have to freeze our tits off?” she muttered into the mouthpiece. 

Rowan’s husky chuckle crackled through the earpiece. “It’s not that cold, Fireheart.” 

“You soldiers and your stupid cold tolerance,” she griped. “Not all of us are built to stand around in the mountains for hours on end.” 

“Not all of us are built for climbing around rooftops in the middle of winter either,” he drawled. 

“Fair enough.” A smile flickered across her face, concealed beneath the helmet and half-mask. A moment later, something shifted in the corner of her vision, and she turned her head slowly to catch the movement. In the half-hidden cabin tucked into the forested foothills, a door cracked open, and a male figure stuck his head through the space. He waited, and after a tense, breathless stretch of silence, he opened the door all the way. 

“Now,” Aelin hissed into her mouthpiece, not waiting for Rowan’s confirmation before she uncurled herself from her crouch and darted across the clearing, little more than a shadow bouncing between the towering pines under the cover of the thick darkness. In a handful of seconds, she was at the cabin’s steps, Rowan at her side, and the two of them charged up and burst into the cabin and came face to face with the barrel of the smuggler’s gun. 

He was a small man, barely Aelin’s height, and the shotgun aimed at her face was nearly half as heavy as he was, if the shaking strain in his arms was any indication. “Down,” he snarled, lips peeling back from his teeth in a vicious parody of a smirk. 

“I don’t fucking think so,” Aelin crooned. In a single swift instant, she’d buried a blade in the smuggler’s thigh, causing him to howl sharply in pain and drop the shotgun with a rumbling clatter. 

“Bitch!” the smuggler swore, following it up with a string of swearing in his native tongue. 

Rowan kicked the man in the back of his injured leg, sending him crumpling to the floor. “Watch your filthy fucking mouth around my wife.” 

Aelin smirked, pushed her helmet back, and tossed Rowan the coil of rope that had been looped onto her belt. “Is now a bad time to mention how hot that was?” 

Her husband made quick work of tying up the struggling, cursing smuggler, pushed his own helmet back, and shrugged. “I didn’t mind.” 

“Gods almighty, you two!” a different voice groaned. “I’m gonna need to scrub my eyes out with bleach.” 

“Oh, calm down, Cass,” Aelin snorted. “Ro and I have both seen how you are around your wife.” 

Cassian Ilnair, special agent with Prythian Interpol, grinned wryly. “Touché.” He turned his attention back to the now-compliant smuggler tied up on the ground, Rowan’s boot still pressed into his back. “Evening, Koschei.” 

If looks could kill, Koschei’s murderous glare would have put Cassian six feet under. He garbled out something unintelligible through the gag stuffed into his mouth and flailed as best as he could with his limbs restrained. 

“I’m sure he’s happy to see you too,” Aelin said dryly. “Did you find the stash?” 

“Follow me.” Cassian turned on his heel and headed into the back of the cabin. 

Rowan and Aelin shared a look, and Rowan hoisted Koschei over his shoulder and followed Aelin and Cassian. They went down to the cabin’s basement and found a plain black steel box sitting on the concrete floor, and when Aelin opened it and catalogued its contents, every carefully packaged sheet of SecondSkin was intact and in place. 

“All in order,” she said. She gazed thoughtfully at Koschei, whom Rowan had placed in the single chair in the basement. “I should’ve known you Middengard bastards would be the first ones to try and steal my tech when it went public.” 

Koschei spat the gag out of his mouth—Rowan had loosened it—and jerked his arms vainly against the very secure knots. “You fucking bitch,” he spat. 

Aelin’s eyes cooled to icy steel. “Cass, we’ll take it from here.” 

Cassian closed the box with a crisp click, stood up, and nodded. “The delivery was recovered successfully. No further notes.” He closed the solid, fireproof door to the basement behind him as he left. 

“I’m starting to think you could use some new vocabulary,” Aelin mused, tipping her head to the side as she leveled an assessing look at the smuggler. “Ro, love. If you would?” 

“Of course.” Rowan handed her a pair of black latex gloves, and she snapped them on over the flexible leather gloves already on her hands. 

“I thought I was clear,” Aelin began, slowly circling the chair, “when I said that SecondSkin would never be used for evil.” She clicked her tongue. “Not even two months later, some tricky little bastard steals a case.” Koschei’s mouth formed the start of something nasty, and she struck, dragging a slender, wickedly curved little blade down his collarbones, slicing his dirty shirt open and raising a bright little trail of blood. 

He let out a shuddering breath. “You…you say this?” 

“Of course I did.” Aelin sketched an elaborate bow in front of the smuggler. “Haven’t we been introduced? My name is Celaena Sardothien.” 

Koschei’s eyes widened in sudden, fearful recognition, and Aelin chuckled darkly as she slid that blade down his stomach, just barely breaking the skin. “Boss,” he gasped, his skin going ashen. 

“That’s me.” 

His glare was venomous. “You kill my top supplier, Arobynn.” 

Aelin raised a brow. “Supplier? That’s a nice way of describing what Arobynn trafficked, you slimy piece of rat shit.” 

“Heartless bitch,” Koschei snapped. 

Aelin exchanged her blade for a scalpel and drove it into Koschei’s knee, just below the joint. His face went white, and he yelled out something garbled. She jerked the blade out and slid it into the other side of his knee, slicing through the tendons with a tidy little flick of her wrist. “Nobody ever said anything about the Boss having a heart, smuggler.” 

“And nobody gets to call my wife that,” Rowan added, slamming his brass-knuckled fist into Koschei’s side. Deep blue bruising bloomed out from the impact, and Koschei howled. 

Aelin smirked at her husband over the smuggler’s thrashing body. “Should I mention how turned on I am right now?” 

Rowan raised a brow. “We’re in the middle of something, love.” 

“I can fix that.” She walked one gloved hand up the side of Koschei’s contorted face, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and jerked his head backwards. “You got lucky, smuggler.” His mouth opened to bite out a question, but she silenced him with a swift, precise slash of her knife across his throat. 

Two muffled gunshots cracked through the suddenly still air at the same time. 

“Was that really necessary?” Aelin drawled, releasing the smuggler’s limp head. It tumbled forward, hanging loosely over the blood still spilling down his front. 

Rowan shrugged as he holstered his gun. “You can’t be too certain.” 

“True.” She stripped the bloodied gloves from her hands and tossed them into the corpse’s lap, then tapped one finger against the tiny device nestled into her left ear. “You there, Con?” 

After a moment of crackling static, Connall’s voice sounded. “Took you long enough, Boss.” 

“Smartass,” she grumbled. “We’re bringing up the smuggler’s worthless corpse now, if you care.” 

Con chuckled. “I’ll be outside the cabin.” 

Rowan cut through the zip ties around Koschei’s body’s limbs and almost effortlessly kicked the body from the chair into a black plastic tarp spread out on the floor. He made quick work of wrapping it up, and he threw the whole bundle over his shoulder. “Ready, Ae?” 

“Yeah.” She finished tucking the blades she’d sanitized into various sheathes on her vest, and she followed him up the basement stairs. At the top, she picked up the hose that was coiled up next to the door, turned it on, and doused the whole concrete-walled basement in the bleach solution they’d loaded into the tank that the hose connected to. “All clean,” she said after the flow to the hose dribbled to a stop. 

“Good.” Rowan led the way out of the cabin, pausing once he got to the door to scan for any signs of backup. 

“Is he always this paranoid?” Con mused, appearing from behind a cluster of pines. 

Rowan scowled and flipped off the other man. “Dick.” 

“He calls it being vigilant,” Aelin snickered, enjoying the irritation that flickered in the corner of Rowan’s jaw. 

“And it’s saved my ass multiple times,” he added dryly. 

“Sure,” Con agreed sardonically. He turned and started walking through the forest. “This way.” He led them to a waiting helicopter stationed in a wide clearing, and he shoved open the side door and retrieved a box filled with heavy rocks. “We’ll dump the body over the bay,” he said, and he helped Rowan and Aelin load a number of rocks into the zipped-up tarp bag. 

They climbed into the helicopter, and Con settled into the pilot’s seat, secured his headset, and had them lifting into the air within minutes. He flew low over the bay, and when he gave the nod, Aelin placed one boot on the smuggler’s body and kicked it out the door. It tumbled into the bay with a heavy splash, immediately sinking far below the surface. 

“Rot in hell,” she muttered, and she shoved the door closed with a satisfyingly final thud. 

The rest of the flight passed in silence, and Con brought the helicopter expertly down at the Interpol airfield next to the seaport. Aelin and Rowan had both changed into clean, non-bloodied clothes during the short flight, and Aelin strapped her vest back into place, comforted by its weight. Under the cover of the darkness, which was just beginning to edge towards dawn, the three of them crossed the airfield, entered the seaport docks, and wove their way across to a nondescript steel transport ship. Rowan went up to knock on the boarding door. 

Aelin ducked under a barrier, grabbed a rope ladder swinging off the side of the ship, and swiftly scaled it, landing on the main deck. “Morning, pirate.” 

Rolfe rolled his eyes. “If you’d just waited ten seconds, you could go through the boarding door like a normal person.” 

“Ah, you forget, Lord Pirate Rolfe.” She chuckled. “I’m not prone to waiting or normalcy.” 

~

Two weeks after returning from the Prythian op, Aelin left the Staghorn labs at the very end of the day and inhaled a massive, relieved gulp of fresh air. As much as she loved working as a chemical engineer, the labs got stale and monotonous after such a long day, and she needed Orynth’s crisp breeze in her lungs. 

She drove through the darkening but blessedly traffic-free streets, left the city, and rolled down her windows as she headed towards the Oakwald. Towards her home. The scent of pine curled into her car, and she grinned, her heart full and light. It was only a short time before she turned down a now-familiar gravel path and followed its gentle curve up to the house. Golden warmth spilled from the wide windows, and she caught a glimpse of Rowan’s form moving around in the kitchen. She parked, locked up her car, and slipped around the side of the house to enter through the side door. He was absorbed in his cooking, and she successfully crept up behind him on criminally silent feet, released a tiny blade from her sleeve, and hooked a leg around his waist and tucked the blade against his throat in one smooth, swift movement. 

He froze, the spoon clattering from his hand to the tile floor, and she felt him stiffen in his pants. “Hi, Fireheart,” he whispered, his throat barely moving against her blade. 

She brushed a featherlight kiss against the back of his neck. “Hi, love. Miss me?” 

“Always.” 

“As do I.” Aelin retracted her blade, and she barely had time to draw in a breath before Rowan spun her around and caged her in against the counter. 

“Welcome home, love,” he murmured, dipping his head so his lips were a breath away from hers. “Did you have fun making my heart almost jump out of my chest?” 

“Of course I did.” She grinned. “I thought your supersoldier reflexes would catch me, though.” 

“I seem to have a blind spot for you,” he said, mirth softening the heat blazing in his eyes. He kissed her slowly, savoring the taste of her lips, and she sighed into it, curling her fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt. 

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips. 

“I love you,” he returned. “To whatever end. Crime record and all.”  

She beamed up at him. “To whatever end,” she echoed, voicing the words engraved into their wedding bands. “And as for that record, don’t you remember? Mrs. Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius was pronounced innocent…until proven guilty.”

~~~

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[gay-for-the-snz]

Blossoming (M, allergy)

So THIS POST from @ithadtobesneezing was really hot and I had to write something for it, so <3 here it is!! Looking at a date in the first six months of Elliott dating his ex-husband, and a little discovery about the reality of moving cross country. Allergies, some mess, 2.5k

⁂

It's cool, but not unpleasantly cold as he sits on the bench. It's a late spring this year, but things are finally starting to shake the worst of the winter and look towards warming up. It seems he wasn't the only one who'd had the idea of taking advantage of the first day over fifty this year--the park is packed with people all trying to soak up the first rays of sun they've felt on their skin in months.

It's more crowded than he'd anticipated. It makes his chest tighten with the idea of being observed by others. When he'd agreed to meet Elliott, he'd imagined a more clandestine affair. Unfortunately, subtlety and Elliott are two concepts that are mutually exclusive.

Having spoken of the devil, so he appears, strolling down the paved path in a garishly yellow shirt, matching yellow hair tie and ribbon trimming his braid. His fingers, long and thin and graceful, are adorned in yellow polish, a motif of the sun in the middle of each. Avoiding being seen with him is not going to be possible--everyone must have seen him coming in, and now he's walked right up to him.

"This is your idea of subtlety?" He dodges the hand that reaches to hold his, his volume kept low. "Take the ribbon out, at the very least."

"What, this is a new shirt? You said to dress nicely, and this was the nicest one I have--I got it just for this!" He's an open book, whether he wants to be or not--everything about him is written in black and white and cheerful yellow, from the length of his hair to the little sashay to his steps. He can't escape notice, not for who he is nor what he is, but he begrudgingly unties the ribbon and stuffs it into his pocket. "There, is that what you wanted?"

It's not, but he's not about to ruin this date by arguing any further, so he lets it be with a calm smile. "Come on, let's take a walk. It's crowded here."

Elliott scuffs the toe of his boot against the pavement, arms crossed over his chest in irritation. "I don't get why you brought me out here if you don't even wanna hold my hand. We could've done this at your apartment instead, or we could find a nice spot under a bridge where no one'll see you with me."

"Elliott..."

"I just--are you embarrassed? Is it 'cause you think I'm not good enough?" His voice is rising just like his volume, and a couple nearby pointedly avoids looking at them so conspicuously he knows they're listening.

"Walk with me and we'll talk." He smooths the dark waves back with his hand, feeling the way they catch against his watch and the button on his sleeve like a warning--or, perhaps, as a reminder that he hasn't slept since yesterday morning and hasn't even had the chance to get a real shower, just what he could do in a minute in the sink and then bolt back out the door.

He's known Elliott to be many things in the six months they've been dating, and he's thankful that while "overdramatic" is one of them, "forgiving" overtakes it in the hierarchy of traits that compose him. He settles soon enough, likely thanks in part to the light breeze that picks up while they walk. It carries something with it, sweet and fragrant, and he spots the source at the opposite end of the path from them.

Some local gardening club, or a volunteer organization, or something of the like set up a project to "beautify unused spaces" around the city, and the end of the park (butting up against an ugly, vacant lot) was one of the sites they'd chosen. He'd been dismissive when they'd first announced it--truthfully, he barely even remembered the announcement--but seeing it blooming might have changed his mind.

And, more importantly than any of that, it looks private and secluded. "You like gardening, right? Let's go check out what they've started over there."

"Oh, it's beautiful! Corben, we've got to go look at them--look at how big they are! They're so colorful? Come on, come on!" He takes him by the wrist and practically drags him along, chatting animatedly about what type they might be, and whether or not they're abnormally tall for their species, or if they're likely to come back next year or are just here for the splash of a season and will die out again after that.

Truthfully, he isn't listening that closely. None of it means anything to him, but it makes him happy, so he's content to just listen to him ramble about things. If he wants to spend their date explaining the intricacies of whatever methods were used to produce the blooms in front of them, then that's fine by him.

He swipes a gentle knuckle at his eyes before tilting one flower to show its face. "So this guy here--I don't know if you can see him that well--is a clematis, and they love to grow and vine up things. I've got one trellised on the side of the driveway right now, but it's not near as pretty as this one. Look at all the buds! It's going to go crazy here soon."

Strolling with him, watching how absolutely animated he gets when he talks about them, pointing at each as they make their way from plot to plot, bed to bed, is a treat. It's so nice to see him smile, to see him touching the blossoms and pointing out different features they have--this one's petals, and this one's thorns, and that this one is deer resistant, and this one is drought hardy; he loves seeing him actually excited about something and truly enjoying himself.

"...and then these ones are dahlias, and they--th-they-? heSSHhue! eTSShyue!" It seems to have caught them both off guard, because he barely gets his hands up in time to catch the pair of them.

"Bless you!"

His eyes are wide in surprise as he lowers his hands and sheepishly wipes them on his pants. "Thank you! Sorry, I--snf!--might be a little chilly? It is kind of breezy today..."

"Is that your subtle way of asking for my jacket?"

"Well, if a very handsome man wanted to offer me his jacket, who would I be to refuse?"

He bats his lashes, and he can't help but notice that they look kind of red. It isn't terribly noticeable, nor is it obtrusive in his features, but he can't un-notice it now that he's seen it, nor can he stop himself from noticing that his nose is a soft shade of pink and a little damp at the nostrils. It could just be the chill--after all, it's got a breeze, and they're shaded by the maples and cedars, but he can't help but worry that he may be coming down with something.

Yet again.

The jacket slipped off his shoulders doesn't even get the chance to make it to Elliott's before he gasps and twists aside, sneezing openly towards the ground before he can get his elbow up to cover the rest of them. "hiH-! iISSHhyuue! hiH'ITSShhieww! 'TSshhue! iISSHHhyuuee!"

"Jesus, Elliott, bless you! You're not sick again, are you?"

"No, I--snF!--I don't feel sick? I'm just--snfff!--I'm so sniffly?" He scrubs hard at his nose, irritation and itchiness evident in the action. "I don't think I'm sick." He reiterates, unconvincingly, as he rubs hard and blushes the skin a shade of pink. "But this is--I mean, something is definitely bothering my nose."

"And your eyes?"

He looks up in surprise. "Yeah, how did--?"

"I can see it." He gestures vaguely to his own eyes for emphasis. "They're red and look itchy."

"They are." His nose is running, and he keeps sniffling like he's losing the battle against it. "I think--IthinkI'mgoingtosneeze-?" He trails off into a desperate gasp, but it doesn't amount to anything this time, save for another rough scrub at his nose--though this does end up with a grimace at the sheen of moisture left behind. He awkwardly wipes it on his pants. "That's gross, I'm sorry."

"Well, if it's not a cold, then your allergies?"

"No, these--sNF!--dahlias are designed not to do that, they're formal doubles, and there's--snffFF!--really not much else here that'd be doing anything." It's getting more evident while they continue standing here that he's going to keep getting worse. The sniffles are growing wetter and more frequent, even as he tries to protest that it's fine and it's nothing and it probably isn't even allergies but definitely isn't a cold.

He glances around, at the fine layer of pollen on the ground around them, then turns his gaze skyward. "Fine, it's not the flowers. What about the trees?"

"The trees?"

"Yeah, it could be the trees. Cedars and maples and others all pollinate this time of year. The other guys at work are starting to feel it this last week, and I got a note when I checked the weather this morning that tree pollen was 'very high'."

"eIISSHHhue!"

"That's about what I thought."

"yiISSHH'ue!"

"Okay, come on, we've gotta get you somewhere else." He takes Elliott by the wrist, pulling him out of the little garden and out to somewhere with a little more room to breathe. Moving him towards a bench is a process when he keeps having to stop to sneeze, but he finally manages to corral him far enough that he's able to sit.

"This--hH!--sucks."

"You'll be fine." Hopefully. He looks atrocious right now. Red and itchy and teary, his nose running desperately and matched by dark streaks across his cheeks from what he can only assume is mascara; he looks like he's been weeping, which is not really the look he'd like to be going for right now.

He doesn't want to look like he's with him, but he especially doesn't want to look like he's with a man who's been sobbing horribly. It hardly escapes attention, especially when he cannot stop sneezing like this. He's making a mess of things, himself especially.

"I'm--I'm s--hH--sorry-!"

"Elliott, don't--"

"hH--!? hiISSHHh'yue! iISSHhieeww! hiITSSHHhhue! Do you--iTSHhue!--have any--eISSHHhyue!--tissues? hH! huH--!? huUSSHHhieww! Oh my God, excuse me--"

He snaps down with it, his bright shirt darkened by the droplets of moisture across it. His inner elbows are nothing but damp patches, and at some point he's given up on trying to use them to cover, the front of his shirt speckled by the fit that doesn't seem to really be slowing down much.

"I don't have any tissues or napkins, but I can go get something--?"

"eEIISSHHhuuee!"

"Jesus Christ, do I need to drive you home?"

"No, I'm--h-hh...hiISshhyue! iISshhieww! It's not far--"

Well, at least it seems like it's slowing down somewhat. Not entirely, but he supposes he'll take what he can get. Distancing themselves from being directly beneath the trees looks like it was the right call, but he doubts the damage is going to be reversed so easily as just to take a stroll a bit away. "Elliott, take your shirt off."

"But--"

"Take your shirt off. Use it like a tissue, I don't fucking care if it's gross, and put my coat on. We'll get you some Benadryl and I'll take you back to the apartment so you can take care of this."

"I'm sorry t--hh!--to ruin our--eESshhyue!--ruin our date...I didn't think this was going to--snfFF!--be a problem!"

"It's fine." He averts his eyes as soon as Elliott peels his shirt off, and cringes at the sound of him blowing his nose, the sound so desperate and liquid that he can only imagine how badly he's been sniffling and trying to keep everything at bay. "Bless you."

"Thank you." He blushes, his consonants starting to dull from the allergic inflammation that's creeping into him now, but gratefully accepts the coat that's thrusted against his chest. "I think it's--sdf!--fine now, maybe..."

People are staring. He gets up abruptly, and walks across the field back towards his car as fast as he can while his heart hammers in his chest. Elliott scrambles behind him, catching up and keeping pace with his long strides as they make their way back towards the car.

"Whoa, I'm sorry I wasn't moving fast enough! Next time you can say something instead of taking off like a whippet after a stick!"

He's sure that Elliott just walked here--that's the whole reason they'd chosen this park, was it was close enough to where his boss lives that he was able to walk over here without having to try and borrow the car from him, which means he won't have to worry about bringing him back for a vehicle.

It isn't until they're sitting in the car, doors shut for privacy, that he releases the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "So I guess now we know we should check the pollen forecast before going out?"

"That's not fair. I wasn't--sdF!--really allergic to much back in Virginia!"

"Well, regardless of what you've got back east, you're definitely allergic to something on this coast. You look like you're going to die, and you sound like it, too." He doesn't comment, but it seems that a pattern may be emerging regarding his health in general.

"H-huh...uUSSHh'ue! 'SHhue! ...guh. Excuse me."

"You're going to have to deal with all of this until we can get to the apartment and you can get something to sort of...clean up." The man next to him is a tear-streaked, soggy mess that's still snuffling into a shirt that's been sacrificed for the greater good of not ruining his car. Getting it detailed because 'my boyfriend sneezed all over it' is something he doesn't wanna have to do.

"I'm almost done, I swear--snFFF!--it's just a little itchy still." He rubs hard at his eyes, the back of his wrist--perhaps the only part of his hands that he doesn't think he's seen him sneeze into so far today--grinding hard against them. They look red and gritty and uncomfortable, and it makes him feel bad to watch him like this.

"Elliott, you look like you're dying."

"It's not as bad as it looks. Like, a little Benadryl will have me feeling right as rain."

"You're going to sneeze to death. You're going to suffocate."

"iIDSSHhue! Hih'DZzhhyue! sdFF! It's fide--" His lashes flutter, his nose--red now from all of the attention it's been being paid throughout this--dripping and scrunching from side to side against the tickle that he can only imagine how badly has settled into him. He doesn't want to, it's clear in the way he hesitates, but he blows his nose into the fabric again, sodden and glistening in the afternoon sun.

"Elliott." Here, away from all the prying eyes of anyone else, he pauses; the hand on the gearshift drifts to take hold of his cheek, a thumb brushing away an itchy tear that's trailing down his skin. "Let's get you back to my place, and we'll get you showered and dosed up with something to get you feeling better."

Elliott leans into his touch like a pitiful dog, and he leans close to press a kiss to his temple. "Can you love me even though I'm gross?"

"I think I can."

"Good." He snuffles, and rests his head against his shoulder. "Take me home, then."

[maggplays]

On the Wings of Ravens

This is the beginning of Killian's story, which I'm in the process of turning into a visual novel type mod.

FOC/MOC Stardew Valley Teen +

Read on AO3

Chapter 1: The Morel of the Story

WHUMP! Ohhhh… Mochi… I groan and pull the covers back over my head. It can’t be morning already… Delicate paws invade and pat my face, then… “OUCH! That was a claw, you stinker! Alright, alright, I’m up. Time for breakfast.” I throw off the cozy blankets and shiver when my feet hit the cold wooden floorboards. I really need to get a rug. Padding over to the dresser, I quickly throw on some jeans and a hoodie, wrangling my wild red hair into an approximation of a ponytail. Good enough. I bet Grandpa is chuckling in his grave, knowing his night owl granddaughter is being forced to arise at the (butt)crack of dawn to care for his old farm. Gift my ass! Sigh. I’ll admit this is so much better than the city, I’d take dragging myself out of bed early over working in a gray corporate cube any day. Mochi butts her head against my legs, purring and spinning, an adorable alarm clock. Awwww… it’s worth it for sure. I let my tuxedo cat lead me to the kitchen and flip the switch on the coffee maker. Bless Sebastian… I thank him every morning for giving me this old machine.

Mochi fed and contentedly snuggled on my lap, coffee in hand, I gaze out the window at the field outside. The sprinklers are running, water drops glittering like diamonds as they scatter over my crops. Beautiful. Ah, there’s Shane coming up the trail on his way to care for the chickens and other animals. He’s been such a reliable farmhand, ever since the day I hired him the stress of farm work has dissipated and I’ve been able to focus on my magic studies with Raz. Mustn't forget to meet him at the tower tonight, I better practice that monster repelling potion. I can hear him scolding me already. Hmmm… what should I make for dinner? “It’s always food with you, child,” Raz, get out of my head, it’s too early. Better get moving though, ingredients won’t forage themselves and I’m out of herbs. And mushrooms… mmmm mushroom soup…

Taking my last sip of coffee, I drop the cup in the sink for later, toss some supplies in my satchel, and with a final scratch under the chin for Mochi, head out the door. The crisp fall air fills my lungs as I step over the threshold. Shane gives me a salute from the chicken coop, he’s surrounded by his loving fans, heh! The path through the farm to the woods near Raz’s tower is well worn, I’ve added pavers over time and planted flowers along the way. Passing by the freshwater spring, I notice a gap between two cozy trees. The perfect place for a bench, maybe that will be my next project. A beautiful spot for two people to enjoy a morning cup of coffee… sigh… Don’t go there, Lil, you’ll find someone someday. Someone who can see past the wild red hair that’s always a mess, dirty fingernails, slouchy pants and military boots. I suppose I could actually try, but… then would I even be me? I don’t know. “Don’t worry about looking like a girl from a magazine, that’s so boring! Just be who you are. You don’t want to spend your life pretending, do you? If some stupid guy can’t see how beautiful you are, then he’s not worth your time.” Wisdom from Abby. She is a great friend, full of drama but definitely a lot of fun. And smarter than she knows.

The walk to the woods isn’t that long, but long enough to give me time to think. It’s not always a good thing, I tend to get caught up in random inner monologues and forget to keep track of time. Minutes turn to hours and the afternoon slips away. Mushroom soup… it sounded amazing this morning, but now I’m starting to regret my choice. I can’t find any decent morels out here anywhere and it’s getting late, the light is fading and I can feel the damp of evening in the air. I’ll have to wait for tomorrow to cook it anyway, I really should just give up and head back. Get a fresh start in the morning. I glance around at the trees and realize I haven’t been paying attention to where my feet are taking me. Nothing looks familiar, I must have wandered into a remote area without thinking… sigh. Well, it’s not like I haven’t camped out in the woods before, there’s nothing overly dangerous around here anyway. Only a few slimes and some cave bats, but I know how to keep them away from a camp. It’s a good chance to practice my potion-making skills. I can just see Raz rolling his eyes in frustration at my lack of attention leading to getting myself lost. “Lilith, you really must keep your mind on your task! Someday, you will need this potion and I’d hate to see you injured or worse because you weren’t listening to my explanation.” His deep voice, laced with frustration and concern echoes in my head. Yes, yes, I remember. I set my backpack down and start rummaging for the ingredients to mix up a monster repellant and hopefully a snack. 

Ohhh wait! What’s that? A flash of light buff color catches my eye from under the leaves… I swear it’s a— YES!! Perfect, a beautiful morel just asking to become a delicious soup. "Don't even try to hide from me, I know you're here somewhere... I just saw you…”, a strange sing-song voice drifts to my ears… what the hell? Frozen, my hand suspended in space above the mushroom, I hold my breath. I didn’t sense anyone here and I can always tell if someone is nearby, one of the benefits of being so closely connected to the earth and plants. Vibrations of footsteps travel to my feet from a great distance. Much to Sam’s disappointment, he’s never been able to sneak up and surprise me. “Come out, come out wherever you are…” That voice… the tone is so melodic and… Lil, you idiot, some psycho is out in the woods stalking you and you’re fixating on his voice like a ridiculous teenager! Just grab the damn mushroom, girl! 

“Oh THERE you are!” A rush of wind and flash of feathery black like... wings? Then... Hey!! My mushroom! It’s gone, just like that, snatched right out of my fingers… “Gotcha! Oh, nice! You're exactly what I need— Woah, sorry, I—"

Blink.

I look up into... crystal ice and fire sparking under long black lashes, ebony brows, silver strands blending to black... Damn— The forest seems to go silent, all I can see is the face inches from my own, his eyes wide in surprise, full lips parted, words hanging, suspended in mid-breath. "Hi! Um... jeez, I'm sorry, I was so focused on finding a morel that I didn't even see... You. Heh… Oh, where are my manners? I'm Killian. The guy who just snatched this perfect specimen right out of your hands. Here, take it. I'll find another.” He grins, teeth flashing white, still hovering a breath away, eyes shining with expectation and amusement. Abruptly, he steps back, his long black coat covered in feathers seeming to flicker around him. Now I can see him clearly, leaning casually on a tree in a wine red button-down shirt, gray pants, and tall strappy boots. Glancing down, I see the beautiful morel resting in my palm, whole and unblemished. Of course I notice my nails, covered in fresh dirt from the day’s foraging.

"Are you out mushroom hunting? Of course you are, why else would you be here in the woods with a satchel and a knife? I hope you're finding everything you need. Erm… are you planning to camp out here? It… might not be the best idea.” His brows knit together in concern. “This area of the woods is a little… odd. If you need a place to stay, there’s an old tower just east of here, only a few minutes walk, you can’t miss it. The resident is a cranky old prune of a wizard, but he’s friendly enough and will offer you food and shelter.” Killian smiles again, holding out a gloved hand. I realize I’m still crouching at the base of the tree, staring up at this incredible man. I reach up and clasp his wrist, feeling his fingers wrap tightly around mine, pulling me to my feet. Hsssttt… electricity pricks at my fingertips and I glance down at my hand… my fingers had slid above his glove and were touching the bare skin of his wrist… I’ve never felt anything like this, so… alive… he’s definitely a mage, I’ve only felt this kind of magic residue in Raz’s tower. This is different though, full of vitality and… something I can’t quite define… warm and— Wait… did he just call Raz a cranky old prune?? Heh! 

Killian chuckles as he gradually relaxes his grip and releases my hand, holding my eyes captive. “Well, how are you enjoying my forest… ah…”, he cocks his head to the side, biting his lower lip. Shit, I was so fascinated by his eyes, voice, lips… that feeling of his skin… Lil, get it together! Oh yeah, I forgot to tell him my name.

“Lil, it’s… Lil. I was just out foraging for ingredients… I’m making mushroom soup. I always make way too much, if you want, I’m happy to share seeing as this mushroom sort of belongs to both of us… I’m at the old farm…” What the hell? Why did I say that? No WAY he’s going to come over to some wild, bumbling girl’s house for frickin’ mushroom soup! You’ve really done it now, Lil. Talk about awkward… ugh…  

Killian pauses for a moment… “Lil… is that short for… oh, never mind. You know, mushroom soup happens to be one of my favorites, I might take you up on that offer. Don’t worry though, I won’t just show up at your door uninvited.” He glances down, long lashes obscuring the brilliant blue and warm brown of his eyes. “Ah, this area of the woods is… not exactly safe to be wandering about alone. I’d feel better if I walked with you, at least to where you can see the tower. Unusual things tend to happen here, and I’d feel responsible if you were to be found…” He turns and takes a few steps before looking back, his long, feathered coat swirling around his legs, soft evening glow shimmering over his dark hair, highlighting the silvery strands around his face. Grinning, he beckons to me, light glinting off a silver ear cuff in the shape of a raven. “I can always look for another morel in the moonlight, the tower is just over that rise.”

My lungs are burning... Gasp… did I literally forget to breathe? I quickly step up to join Killian and we head towards the small hill. “I often forage here, but I’ve never run into you before, I’d remember if I had… It’s unusual to find someone so grounded in this forest.” Grounded? I raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh! That must have sounded strange. I mean, someone so substantial. Erm… solid? Not… ephemeral? Hmm… I don’t think that’s helping… Ah well, here we are, the tower is just there. Stay on this path and you’ll have no issues losing track of it. That was quite a nice walk, it was a pleasure to meet you, Lil. If you happen to come here again, I hope you lose your way.” Killian chuckles as he strides back the way we came, his form seeming to bend and flicker… I blink and he’s yards further down the path… what…? "Where are you hiding? You know I'll find you, my lovely morel…” His voice drifts back to me on the wind as I turn and head to the tower. I glance down at the morel in my hand and pause. “Don’t tarry…” So close I feel his breath on my ear as warm air swirls around me; I snap my head towards the sound, but no one is there.

My feet carry me on the path to the tower, suddenly feeling irresistibly drawn to its solid presence, relative safety and… normalcy. Raz has some explaining to do, why has he never mentioned someone as unforgettable as Killian? Eyes of crystal and flame… What did he say? How are you enjoying my forest? So strange, and yet… somehow, he made perfect sense.

—----------------------------------------

I take a deep breath and trudge up the tower steps, pausing to lightly trace the vine carvings on the door frame before pressing my palm to the worn wooden panel. It swings silently open at my touch, Raz must be in. The air in the tower is inviting, smelling of spices, ancient books, and tobacco. The scent of safety, comfort, home. I drag the air into my lungs, after such an unusual evening, it’s nice to feel some familiarity. “Raz? Are you up here?” The words seem to fall from my lips to the floor, dampened by the plush carpets and shelves of books, but if Raz is here, I know he can hear me. The whistle of the teapot reaches my ears, bright and cheerful, calling me to the kitchen.

“Ah, there you are. Where have you been? It’s quite late, I was just contemplating sending a junimo in search of you.” Raz presses a cup of tea into my hands, the comforting warmth of the mug seeping into my skin. The fire crackles merrily in the fireplace, casting warm light over the room. “Sit, sit… I can see by your expression you have a story to tell. Come sit with me by the fire.” Shifting some old tombs from his worn leather chair to a nearby table, Raz takes his seat and I settle across from him. I stare into my tea, suddenly unsure where to begin. Nothing for it but to just start and see where the tale takes me.

“This morning, I had a craving for mushroom soup. The morels are beautiful this time of year and there’s something about a warm bowl of soup on a crisp fall morning.” I pause, looking over into the flames, as if for clarity. Raz nods patiently, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “Of course I had no morels in the cellar, so I set off in search of a few. The walk was absolutely lovely, the leaves are just starting to turn their reds, oranges, and yellows. The pumpkin patch is really coming along as well, I think I’ll have some beauties this year, Abby will be thrilled! She’s already come by—“

“Lil, do you think a point will be coming along any time soon?” Raz, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, takes a leisurely sip of tea.

“Alright. Back to the mushrooms.” Raz raises an eyebrow and strums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Don’t get all huffy, the mushrooms are an integral part of my story, essential to the plot, most vital! You’ll see.” Raz noisily slurps his tea, expressing his skepticism. “I was walking through the forest looking for a morel for my soup, you see. They should be everywhere, but I couldn’t find a single one. Then, just as I was about to give up and go home, I saw it. The most beautiful morel ever to have sprouted from a spore, nestled under a leafy blanket. So I reached out to pluck it when—“ SLURP! I take a long sip of tea. “Ahhh, this tea is wonderful!”

“Hmph! You are a trial, what did I do to deserve a student like you?” He sets down his empty cup and crosses his arms, I catch a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, I reached out to pluck the morel when before my eyes flashed a feathered cloak and the mushroom was gone, vanished, snatched from my very fingers!” Raz’s eyes narrow and he leans forward in his chair. Now, this is intriguing! He never reacts this visibly to my stories. “I looked up and was caught by a pair of eyes, one icy blue crystal and the other flaming ember. A man I’ve never met before and as you know, I’ve met nearly everyone who lives around here. He laughed and gave me back the mushroom, and asked if I was planning to camp for the night. I admitted I had wandered further than I realized and didn’t think I could make my way home before dark, then he offered to guide me here. Oddly enough, the tower was quite close. It was strange that I couldn’t see it. Once he knew I was on the right path, he took his leave. I know it was silly of me to trust a stranger, but there was something about his mana… I knew immediately he was safe.”

Raz takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, grumbling as he leans back in his chair. “Curse that boy. Always a bother, no end of irritation.”

“So you do know each other, he did mention you. He said his name was Killian. He also mentioned that the forest in that area was odd, and that I shouldn’t tarry there.”

“Ah, so he’s going by that name again. At least he has some sense in his head. Lil, you mentioned you were turned around, lost. You weren’t lost. You were trapped in a dimensional pocket, one that Killian created.” A… what? I look curiously at Raz, I’ve never heard that term before. “Did you notice anything strange in the woods? Trees appearing that weren’t there a moment ago, traveling a great distance with a single step, walking straight on a path that appears to wind, hearing sounds that come from everywhere… or nowhere?” Peering at Raz, I slowly nod. “As I thought. Killian likes to play with dimensional magic. He thinks it’s… fun. You just happened to step into the rift before he could close it. Hmm… think of the visible world as a blanket spread flat on the floor. Then pinch up a small wrinkle. That’s a dimensional pocket. The world around it is normal, but once you’re in that wrinkle, things become quite odd.”

That does make sense, Killian did say some things that sounded backwards, but at the time seemed perfectly correct. And his voice warning me to not linger… “Is it dangerous? I didn’t feel any malice or ill intent from him. And when I touched his arm…” Raz’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, quite an unusual night indeed! “What…? He only gave me a hand up, it was nothing.”

“Dear girl, I’m… older than you, but even I can see it wasn’t nothing. What did you feel?”

I laugh, Killian’s voice playing in my head calling Raz an old prune. “It just felt like strong static electricity when my fingers touched his skin, that’s all. It was probably only from the long coat he was wearing.”

Raz sighs and nods, he knows I’m not being entirely upfront and I can tell I’ll be getting more questions from him later. “If you’re willing to listen to a wizard’s advice, stay away from Killian. He’s unpredictable, emotional, and not exactly… stable. The kind of distraction you do not need and would be unable to ignore.”

Now it’s my turn to lean forward in my chair. “How do you know him? Did he fight in the wars with you? Is he in the ministry? An old student?”

Raz clucks his tongue. “Look at you, fascinated by a man you barely met. Of course he didn’t fight in the wars with me, he’s but a child. Don’t let the gray hair fool you, he’s the same age as Lance, not even a century on this earth. I— Hmph. I should have told you he was a grizzled old man, tch… And to answer your relevant question, no, it’s normally not dangerous, but it is problematic. Or at the very least, obnoxious. I lost my favorite blackberry bush to one of his dimensional shenanigans.” 

I sit back in my chair, smiling to myself at Raz’s grousing. Killian… One thing is certain, I’m going to find out who you are.

[sephirthoughts]

Father: Verb

Epilogue (3 of 4)

The long-foretold Lucrecia chapter.

Rating: general

It was a completely insignificant day in late spring, one year, and the sun rode high above the rocky hills and weather-worn karsts of the Nibel region. The wind, up here, was colloquially called ‘the breath of the world’, and one could almost feel the planet’s living vitality in its brisk and spirited gusts, as they strove to toss you right off the mountain. This was perfectly usual, of course, and also much of the reason no one ventured out into this goddess-forsaken waste.

What was different about this day, was that a pair of booted footsteps had joined the wind, in whispering amongst the knee-high sedge grasses, knocking wisps of pollen into the air, and collecting bits of fluff on tall, black shin guards. These were not the meandering steps of a leisure hiker, nor the hurried footfalls of one who’d got lost from the trail, and was in haste to find it again. These steps were deliberate, following some prearranged path, though there was none to be seen, amid the tumbled rocks and windswept brush.

At length, the boots made their way to their apparent destination. It was a secluded mountain lake, crystal blue and nearly perfectly round—no doubt formed in the caldera of some long dormant volcano—that lay at the center of a green and tranquil oasis, hidden away in the inhospitable highlands, like a fairyland in a children’s tale.

At the northwestern end of the small lake, the thunder of the tributary falls rumbled down, from the high ridge. The waterfall was more energetic than usual, today, due to heavy snowpack in the mountains above, this past winter, so misty spray billowed and white foam roiled riotously, in the deep-blue basin below.

When the black boots came to the falls, they continued, undaunted, sure-footed as a mountain goat on the slippery rocks, as the cold spray beaded on well-polished leather, and rolled down in heavy drops, like dew.

At a wave of the hand from the owner of those boots, the waterfall, despite being swollen with snowmelt and rather proud of itself at the moment, stood meekly aside, to let the visitor pass through. There were some, after all, for whom even nature itself had no power to bar the way.

Perfectly concealed behind this glimmering curtain of living glass, was a narrow crevice, hardly wider than a single person. The boots proceeded, turning sidewise, to squeeze through, and vanish into the dark.

Deep inside the mountain ridge, this narrow crevice widened into a traversable path. Deeper still, the path opened up into a glittering cave, of tremendous size, in which the terrific heat and pressure of ancient volcanic activity had caused mass-crystallization of liquefied minerals. This had created the hundreds of strange stalactite and stalagmite columns, which stood like an eerie forest of stone, spanning from the floor to the ceiling of the cave, as far as the eye could see.

Eventually, the densely packed columns gave way to an open area, like a natural amphitheater, where the cave ceiling domed up and the floor smoothed out. At the center of this area, lay a circular pool, of faintly glowing water, which surrounded a much different mineral formation.

It was a pillar, formed of gigantic spars of some naturally luminous crystal, clear and slightly turquoise tinted, like enchanted ice. This pillar and the smaller crystal structures that had grown out from it, acted as the light source in the cave, illuminating the surrounding environment with a dreamy, otherworldly glow.

The light was not the most remarkable feature of this crystal pillar, however. Most remarkable was that, within the main column of transparent crystal, could be seen the figure of a young woman. She was dressed in white, and her lovely and delicate-featured face wore an expression of peaceful repose. Her eyes were closed, and her head slightly bowed, with her hands clasped on her chest, in a posture of prayer.

It was unclear, whether this was the true body of a woman, suspended in the luminous, mako-saturated crystal, or merely a visual remnant, graven into it by the life force of the planet, but the distinction was immaterial, to the one who observed her, now. This was her final resting place. That was all that mattered.

The black boots slowed their pace, crunching over the crystal gravel at a heavy, almost funerary cadence, until at long last, they arrived before the limpid pool, and the woman in her crystalline reliquary. There they stood, for a long time. And for a long time, there was no sound, but the little plashes of dripping water, afar off, in the dark recesses of the cavern.

Finally, a voice spoke softly, into the echoing silence. “So, we meet at last…mother.”

The crystal pillar’s fairie-light shone pale and glimmering on a cascade of silver hair, and illuminated the face of a young man, very like to that of the woman in the crystal. His was a sharper, harder beauty than hers, especially about the brow and catlike blue-green eyes, but his mouth and chin particularly, belonged entirely to her. Seeing their faces together, there could be no mistaking their close relation.

“In the likely case that you don’t recognize me, I am your son, Sephiroth,” the silver-haired man continued. He caught himself reflexively placing a hand over his heart and tucked it behind his back, instead. “I’ve come to…to pay my respects, I suppose. I hope you will forgive me for not coming sooner. My father has gently urged me to visit you for many years, but somehow, I could never bring myself to do it.”

The woman in the crystal remained serene and silent.

“He doesn’t know I’m here today. In fact, I’ve told no one what I intended to do. I couldn’t bear to feel the pressure of their thoughts, on the subject. This…is between you and me.”

Heedless of the glowing, ankle-deep water, he strode directly across the circular pool and stepped onto the disc of stone that formed the base of the crystal pillar. The woman’s figure was suspended a couple of feet above the base, but she was rather petite, and thus he, being nearly seven feet tall, stood almost at eye-level with her.

“You look different, from your photograph,” he remarked, without emotion. “A bit older. Thinner. Of course, when you came here, you were burdened by cares that did not yet weigh upon you, when that picture was taken.”

He reached out his gloved hand, as if to touch the crystal, where her face was, then withdrew it again, straightening up proudly.

“But I’ve not come here to talk about you. I have come to tell you who I am. I am the son of Vincent Valentine. I am now the most powerful single entity on this planet, aside from my father. In my early life, I was raised by various scientists and handlers, in Shinra Manor, to be the first SOLDIER—the flagship of Shinra’s genetically enhanced military. A professional war criminal. But…that never came to be. In the end, I never fought a single battle on Shinra’s behalf.

“When I was fourteen years old, I burned the manor to the ground and escaped with my father. We spent the following years working against Shinra from the shadows; subverting their people, embedding our own in their system, growing inside them like a virus. And when the time came to strike, it was far too late for them to fight us. We neutralized the host and took over, with…minimal bloodshed.

“What you knew as the Shinra Electric Power Company, is now called the World Regenesis Organization. It is still the greatest socioeconomic and political force, in the world, but under the guidance of our people, it is steadily being restructured; from a parasitic behemoth, draining the planet of its life force, to a benevolent, non-profit enterprise, actively fostering the harmonious existence of humans with the natural world.

“It has been…slow going, to be perfectly honest. Most of our work, so far, has been dedicated to undoing the decades of damage done by Shinra, in its previous incarnation. It will take centuries for those wounds to fully heal. But now, at least, there is hope. They even tell me that flowers are returning to Midgar. That is how things currently stand, with me. Of course, we must address the elephant in the room, sooner or later, so let us have it out, and be done with it, shall we?”

He stopped and took a long breath, letting it out slowly, and somewhat relaxing his heretofore stiff, formal posture.  

“First things first, it is only right to tell you that my father forgave you, for everything. He never really blamed you, despite my attempts to convince him he should. And I did attempt to convince him he should. Because…I blamed you. That is the whole truth.

“I won’t paint a falsely pretty picture of the catastrophe you left in your wake, to spare your feelings. Your troubles are over. The lives that you left behind—mine and my father’s—have continued on. Sometimes in misery and desolation, sometimes in sorrow and regret, but mostly…in hope. And in joy. You see, the terrible fate you foresaw—the destruction of the planet in a hell of fire, and me as a the angel of death—will never come to pass. But, perhaps I should begin at the beginning.

“Your apocalyptic visions did come true, once. In another future. But in that future, that version of myself found a way to free himself from fate. When his body died, he broke the chains of destiny, and bent the will of the lifestream to his purpose. Freed from his physical form, he traveled backward, through the timeline, gathering each version of us, from each crucial turning point, and brought them to me, to show me the way.

“With their help, I freed my father from Shinra’s slavery, and killed that old monster who tortured us. Yes, I killed Hojo, with my own hands. He has been dead for…seventeen years, now. Hardly time to even begin to undo all the evil he caused. May his houseless spirit wander the netherworld, with neither rest nor comfort, till all his wrongs have been erased from the memory of time.

“But where was I? Ah, yes. After I rid the world of Hojo, and Chaos rid the world of Jenova’s corruption, we began to create our vision, for the future. Since then, I have accomplished everything my other selves died to make possible. I have made all the things right, that went so wrong, in their futures. I have killed those who should have been killed and saved all those who should have been saved—”

He broke off and lowered his head, with an expression of pain.

“I should say…I have saved all but one. My father. I can’t save him. There is nothing I can do, to release him from the fate that you, willing or no, have damned him to. Because of the method you used to preserve his life, he has become one with Chaos. He no longer has a human soul, and can no longer merge with the lifestream.”

He looked up at her again, with his teeth bared and fire in his eyes.

“Do you understand what that means? It means he can never die. People say that I am immortal, but they have no idea what true immortality is. I am only ageless. I can live as long as I wish to, and I can also die. My father will never have that choice. He is truly immortal.

“That is the full horror of the curse you have laid upon him. When the sun burns out and this planet is nothing but a lifeless rock, hurtling aimlessly through the void, he will still exist, in that indestructible demonic form. And there is nothing…nothing I can do, to spare him the torment of aeons, that lies in his future.”

He paused and turned away, cupping his forehead in his hand, and clearing his throat, to regain control of his wavering voice. When he turned back, he appeared perfectly tranquil, again, but for the hint of pink that rimmed his eyes.

“For so many years, whenever I confronted the infinite tragedy that will be my father’s existence, I blamed you. I hated you. I cursed you bitterly. But…that was a child’s reaction, to a blurred and oversimplified understanding of reality. Despite all the knowledge I gained from my future selves, it seems that only experience, earned in the true passing of years, brings wisdom. And with wisdom comes reflection. And regret.”

Reaching into his long, black coat, he withdrew an old, dog-eared, faded and weather-stained book. Some of the yellowed pages had come loose and had been carefully tucked back in, held in place with paper clips.

“I’m sure you recognize this book. This is your journal. Not your research notes. This is the private diary, that you kept hidden from everyone. After your disappearance, it was mailed anonymously to Valentine Manor, of all things, where it lay in the library for many years, disregarded. It was recently discovered by an archivist, and brought to me, after its authentication. I beg your pardon for reading it, without your permission, but you understand.”

Smiling wistfully, he touched the battered leather cover of the book with his fingertips, tracing its surface gently, as if it were the face of a loved one. Then his brow furrowed and he swallowed hard, as if against some tautness in his throat.

“It has been…painful, to read this tale, knowing the end already. To witness, in real time, as it were, the hope and optimism of a young woman, her heartbreak and disillusionment, and her eventual decline into despair.

“But, through the words written here, I have come to know her. I have come to know Lucrecia. A passionate scholar and brilliant scientist, and sometimes, a rather silly and idealistic young woman. I have come to know her hopes and dreams. Her triumphs and disappointments. The fears and doubts she never dared speak aloud.

“I have come to know my mother. Not the lofty ideal I had constructed in my mind, as a child. Not the scapegoat for all my misery, that I made you into, as an adolescent. But the living, flesh and blood woman that you were. The unvarnished truth of you, in all its human ugliness and beauty.

“I know now that you truly did love my grandfather, though you never admitted it, in so many words. The way you wrote of him, in such starry-eyed hyperbole, was both comically trite and infinitely endearing. I know also that you cared deeply for my father. I know the way your guilt gnawed at you, with every word you spoke to one another. The way Grimoire seemed to be looking at you, from his son’s eyes.

“I have come to know also of your love for…for me. You must understand that I had always thought of my conception as the calculated act of a scientific mind, that did not care for the eventual human cost, when there were groundbreaking experimental results to be had. I know, now, how I—how I wronged you, in thinking of you that way.”

He broke off yet again, taking a shaky breath, to steady himself.

“Through your journal, I was by your side, when you made that impulsive decision to create a child, with my father’s genetic material. I felt your horror and grief, at his death, counterpoised with your anxious excitement, as the new life grew in your body. I felt your mind turn, from justification, to hesitation, to abhorrence of the things that you had done to me. I experienced your abject agony, when you awoke from the cesarean operation to find your infant gone, and yourself trapped and powerless to go to him. I heard you weep and beg and plead, over and over, to be allowed to see your son, and I watched those pleas fall on deaf ears. I know now that you never abandoned me and that you loved me, desperately. That you never even held me in your arms, and still you longed for me with every fiber of your being, just as I longed for you.”

A tear escaped and rolled down his cheek, which he quickly brushed away.

“You know, Hojo once told me I never had a name, and that Sephiroth was only a project designation. But I learned from your journal that you had chosen that name, for your future child, long before the project existed. Long before you even met the old serpent.”

He lowered his eyes and touched the cover of the book again, smiling softly, to himself.  

“Rather eccentric, and perhaps a bit pretentious, to name your unborn child a collective noun, for the channels of the divine creative force, in the tree of life. But you were young and full of grand ideas. You can be forgiven for such a flight of fancy. And, for what it’s worth, I’ve always liked my name. It sounds enigmatic and imposing, and it is unique in the world. Or—it was, anyway. So many babies are christened Sephiroth every year, now, that the census bureau has become sick to death of it, and lay the blame squarely at my feet.

“But I’ve strayed from my topic. I understand, now, that you were not to blame for the evil that befell us all. Yes, you made choices that led to terrible suffering, but without that malevolent man to perpetrate his atrocities, no choice of yours could have caused things to happen as they did. You made mistakes, mother, but you always intended to do good. He always intended to do evil. That is the great difference between you and him.

“You were deceived and used, then isolated and tormented, by that old viper, just as we were. He preyed upon your ambition, used your hopes and dreams to blind you, and slowly closed the walls around you. Then, he made certain you would blame your own foolishness and weakness, for the results. Finally, when you could bear the guilt and misery no longer, he allowed you to run away, to die alone in the wilderness. He never even sent anyone to search for you.

“I told you that with wisdom comes reflection and regret, and I have tasted this cup to its dregs. My regret has weighed heavily upon me, these past several years. I regret the injustice I’ve done you, by blaming and hating you, for the horror of my life. I regret wasting so many years in bitterness and anger, directed at you, because I couldn’t contend with the real source of all my pain: that for all my power—all my strength of will—there are still those things over which I have no control.

“Mother, I…I’m sorry.” His voice, smooth and steady till now, wavered and broke. For the first time in his life, perhaps, he made no move to conceal or wipe away the tears, that overflowed and spilled freely down his face. “I’m sorry for taking so long to grow up. I’m sorry for not even trying to understand you. I’m sorry for wanting your love so desperately, that a boy’s unrequited yearning metastasized into a man’s bitter resentment.

“The truth is, I only ever hated you for not being there. For not loving me enough to live. I know that is illogical and selfish, but I was a child. All I knew was my own pain. My own need for a mother. I grew so fixated on it, that I became unstable and destructive. That was when the old monster gave me the locket with your photo, and told me your name was Jenova.

“That little thing soothed me more than any of the tranquilizing drugs they tried on me. When I was still very small, I used to open my locket and whisper to your picture, at night, telling you of the things I’d accomplished, so that you’d be proud of me. I used to imagine that the smile in that photograph was meant for me.

“As I grew older, and more hardened by the ugly brutality of my life, I taught myself that such behavior was childish and shameful. I stopped talking to you. I stopped smiling back, when I looked at your picture. But the pain of your absence didn’t heal. It deepened and festered, in the darkness of my loneliness and grief, while the old monster tormented me, in the name of making me strong.

“Then one day…Vincent came. He was brought to me, to be a handler and bodyguard. I’m sorry to state it so bluntly, but he fully usurped your place in my heart, within hours of our meeting. It was not so terribly fickle, as it sounds, though. I knew he was my father, the moment I laid eyes on him.

“Not consciously, of course. I didn’t dare to admit that glimmer of heart-piercing hope into my world of darkness. And yet I knew it. My blood and my bones knew it—that he belonged to me, and I to him. Can I be blamed for transferring all of my childish longing and love, from the mother who was nothing but a picture in a locket, to the father who was solid and tangible, and right in front of me?

“Vincent dawned upon my world like a new sun, and transformed everything I knew, from drab monochrome to brilliant color. He taught me about spaghetti and birthdays, and watched movies with me. He was the first person who hugged me, and he was…he was the first person who ever said they loved me.

“To say that I returned his love would be a gross understatement. I was obsessed with him. Fixated on him. I wanted to bind him to me forever, and never let him escape. I would have burned the world for him, if I thought he wanted it. But, as it turned out, he was a good man. So I became good, too.

“As good as I can be, at least. I am still a man who loves to such excess, that I would unhesitatingly destroy the lives and happiness of anyone who dared stand between me and my loved ones.” He gave a rueful smile. “Our family really is given to romantic melodrama, are we not?

“But despite the grasping, jealous, needy way I loved him, my father never pushed me away. Never told me I was wrong. Never rejected me. Since the day we destroyed the monsters who authored all of our grief, and broke free of the yoke of Shinra, we have never been separated. I don’t mean physically, of course. We are grown men, we can’t be attached at the hip, all the time. But, no matter how far apart we are, we are always together.  

“You see, he gave me his heart. That is not a figure of speech, it’s here in my chest, beside my own.”

This time, he did lay a hand on his heart, and from his chest, a pale light shone, between his fingers. “You must remember this. It is the heart you gave him, mother. That he then gave to me, your son. Poetic, no? What did I say about our family and romantic melodrama?

“Speaking of family, what would my grandfather have thought, if he’d known about me? Did he ever imagine that you loved him enough to give birth to his son’s son, just to preserve a piece of him in the world? I wonder.”

He sighed and the light receded back into his chest.

“I wish I’d had a chance to meet him. He must have been a captivating man, to so deeply ensnare a heart like yours, whose first love was always science. For all of the heartache it caused, I hope he at least reciprocated your feelings, to some degree. All the evidence suggests that he did. As did his son. Two generations of Valentine men have died for you, and because of you, one will never die. A heavy burden for even a woman’s soul to bear.”

He smiled wryly at the beautiful face in the crystal, then looked away, clearing his throat.

“That’s…a joke you have no way of understanding. There is a certain person of my acquaintance—a Cetra seer, who reads auras and such things. She told me I had a woman’s soul. I should take it as a compliment, she said, because women’s souls are by far the stronger.

“There are many reasons my soul should seem abnormal, to a seer, but I would like to think that I carry a piece of your soul with me, mother. And that it was part of you, she saw in me. Because the more I am like you, the less I am like that thing. That dead abomination, behind the glass, in the mako tank. Its face haunts me, even to this day, and my body, though purified of its corruption, still bears its marks.”

He placed his gloved hands on his own cheeks, then ran them back through his silver hair, his eyes unfocused, darting back and forth. After a moment, though, he shook himself, and the spell seemed to pass.

“That is the secret I can never tell, mother,” he resumed, looking up at her. “I was born to be a monster. It is only by constant and conscious effort of will, that I have not become one. Not my will, alone, though. I would have given in, long ago. It is the love of my father, and those close to me, that has kept me on the right path. That has stopped me straying into darkness.

“So many suffered and died needlessly, in the other future, who now live happy and free from that terrible fate. They will never know the monster I could have become. But I will never not know. No matter how many I save, how much I change, how much of myself I give to this world, I can never erase the knowledge, that if my steps had faltered but a little, along the path, I would have destroyed the planet, and killed them all.

“I defied destiny, mother. I wiped the slate clean and created a new future, a new fate, and yet…I am still alone. A demon walking among the innocent. A wolf among the sheep. I can wear their hide and speak their tongues, but I can never be one of them.

“That was the real price I paid, to rewrite fate. It wasn’t the death of my physical body, at each inflection point. It was the sacrifice of my innocence, to return innocence to this world. I have paid dearly, for the lives and freedom of all its children. I have paid with my soul.

“My hands are clean, and yet my shoulders bear the weight of ten-thousand sins. How can a soul so blameless in deed, be so blackened in essence? How can I atone for sins I will never commit? How can I heal scars that have never felt a wound? Can I be forgiven, for what I have not done?”

He laid his hands on the luminous pillar and leaned his forehead upon it.

“If you knew me, as I am now, would you love me, nonetheless? Would you ever be proud to call me your son?”

Though he knew it was only childish wishfulness, he could almost swear he felt a faint warmth and pressure, on his skin, as if gentle arms reached out to embrace him, with infinite tenderness and unfathomable love. With that, the gates were flung wide, and the depths of his heart poured forth, a wordless hymn of sorrow and joy, as vast as the heavens and as deep as the abyss.

Borne down by the weight of it, he sunk to his knees, clinging to the crystal pillar, as shuddering sobs racked his invincible body, and tears poured down like snowmelt in spring, splashing onto the crystal-strewn floor at his mother's feet. Even when he had wept himself hoarse, till he had no tears left, he still clung to the pillar, gasping out wet, stuttering breaths, that fogged its glassy surface.

At long last, he grew calm again, and rose to his feet, wiping his face with his gloved hand. Then, peeling off the gloves, he laid his palms on the pillar and let his forehead rest against it, inches from his mother’s lips, whose kiss he would never feel. So close, and yet separated by an impassable divide.

“I’m getting married, mother,” he said hoarsely, after a while. “To my other half, my soul mate, my fated one…I don’t even know what to call him, for I have loved him in so many lifetimes. But in this life, I can finally say I have earned his love.

“I wish that you could know him. That you could see how good he is to me, and how good he is for me. How shall I tell you about him, in a credible way, when to me, he is perfection in human form? He has golden hair and bright blue eyes, like the sky and sea, and lovely little freckles, though he likes to deny they exist. He is small, for a man, but he isn’t the least bit soft or submissive, and his tongue is as sharp as his sword.

“I love him madly, even more when he scolds me. I would do anything for him. I have done everything for him. For my beloved, I have reshaped the fate of this world, with my own hands. For him, I have built this gentle kingdom, ringed in spears, so that he may live in peace, and without fear for the future.

“Back when we were children, walking on the beach together, collecting shells and sea glass, and talking about our hopes and dreams, I did tell him I intended to marry him, one day. But I never attempted to hold him, in my hand. I never attempted to bind him to me, lest I break his wings and suffocate him, with my love.

“Though it cost me deep anxiety and tremendous pain, I let my little bird fly as free as he wished. But he always came back to me, on his own. He loves me, mother. He knows the whole truth of me—everything, even the monstrous things my other selves did in their futures—and still, he loves me. Of all the people in this world, he chose me, to spend his life with.

“I had planned to wait until he turned twenty-one, to formally propose marriage, but when it came to it, he proposed to me, before I got the chance. Of course, he took Knight Fair’s suggestion and did it at a shareholders meeting, in the presence of all our friends and associates. And the Turks, who were there pretending to provide extra security, but really came to see the show.

“It was profoundly embarrassing. And…it was the most joyous moment of my life. To know once and for all, that I was chosen. That I was sought after and desired. That he loved me, as I loved him, and that he wanted to declare it before the world.

“For I always doubt, mother. No matter how I am reassured, I always doubt that I am truly loved or wanted. I feel…alien. As if those around me know I don’t belong, and are only awaiting the slightest pretext to cast me out from among them.

“My psychiatrist—my current psychiatrist, that is, my previous few have suddenly relocated or given up the profession—calls it social anxiety, related to an autism spectrum disorder. I suppose she knows her business, but it seems unfair that my superior brain can suffer from human dysfunction, and yet due to that very superiority, they have yet to find a medication that has any effect on me.

“Before I stray off topic and forget, I should tell you that my father is engaged to be married, as well. To someone my age, no less, the old villain. But everyone thinks they’re a perfect match, and no one is scandalized by it in the least, because despite his advanced age, my father looks as if he’s the younger of the pair. So it goes. I, too, will look younger than my beloved, one day. It will be in the far, far future, since he has been enhanced, but he will grow old. The day will come when he will leave me and return to the lifestream.

“As for my father…even I can’t say what his future holds. I only know I must find a way to save him. I can’t bear to think of him, bereft of everyone and everything he ever knew and loved, facing eternity alone. But even if I can’t alter his fate, I can at least not allow him to face it alone. He does not know, but I have already decided that I will not die, until he does.

“Somehow, I will save him, from the terrible curse of immortality, and only when he leaves this existence, will I consent to leave it, with him. That is my vow, before heaven and earth. My father and I will cross into the afterlife together, or not at all.” He lowered his head and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I am sorry to disappoint you, mother, but it seems I will not be the one to break the family curse of romantic melodrama. But, with a name like Sephiroth, can you really be surprised?”

In the end, he loitered in that place for many hours, pouring out the minutiae of his life to his silent mother, in the way very young children will do, only all at once and in a torrential flood, since there were three decades of such anecdotes to get through. When he did depart, at long last, he smiled and pressed a kiss to the cold surface of the crystal pillar, where her forehead was.

“I love you, mother. You don’t have to worry about me, anymore. I will be alright. Rest now, and be at peace.”

As he left the cavern, Sephiroth paused and took a last, lingering look at his mother’s beautiful face, before he turned away, again, and the echo of his footsteps faded away, into the darkness.

Had he remained, a moment longer, he may have seen what appeared to be a single tear, roll down the pale cheek, within the luminous crystal. Perhaps a remnant of the young woman’s spirit still clung to her form, and was moved by her son’s love, to this final expression of emotion. Or perhaps it was only a trick of the light.

Several days later, WRO seismologists reported a massive seismic event, in the Nibel region, the likes of which hadn’t been seen in geological ages. When it was investigated, it was found that the quake had been caused by the sudden, catastrophic collapse of half a mountain range, which had been sitting atop a network of huge, volcanic caves, making the entire structure unsupportable. They considered it miraculous that the range had stood as long as it had.

The good news, however, was that there were no casualties, since those highlands were uninhabitable, and no loss of property. That is to say, nearly no loss of property. The tremors were felt all the way in Nibelheim, where multiple cats were startled out of naps, and half a dozen vases were shaken off shelves, to meet their untimely demise on Nibelheim’s famously tough wood floors.

As for a small, volcanic lake, high in the rocky hills, which was swallowed in the collapse; only a few geologists and intrepid mountaineers ever knew it existed, so no one lamented its loss.

THE AUTHOR HAS SOMETHING TO SAY the fun one is next! tons of cameos, ahoy!! hooray tying up loose ends!!!

[beefromanoff]

Project Mockingbird Ch. 24

summary: post-briefing fallout. a chilling flashback. Bucky and Char not using their words well. atonement. revenge. spite?

pairing: Bucky Barnes x OC

author's note: so........I'm sorry in advance for the emotional wreckage of this chapter. enjoy <3

tag list: @bangtanxberm @scott-loki-barnes @kayhi808 @charmedbysarge @cjand10 @capswife @otterlycanadian

(let me know if you want to be added <3)

chapter list

Late Afternoon | SHIELD Compound

Charlotte hadn’t stopped moving since she’d stormed out of the briefing room that morning.

She’d run. Hard. Longer than she had in years, until her legs burned and her lungs felt like they were being grated from the inside. The trail around the compound blurred beneath her feet, each lap bleeding into the next until she couldn’t remember when she’d started or how many she’d done.

Somewhere around what she assumed was the twenty-fifth mile, her wrist monitor’s light blinked from green to yellow.

That was when she stopped. Somewhere deep inside her, his voice still echoed. Telling her to hit the brakes, to listen to herself. For once, she actually did. If only to spite him for thinking she’d never learn.

She ignored the cramping in her calves, the raw sting in her heels from socks that had rubbed past their breaking point. Ignored the sharp pang behind her ribs that came every few steps, begging her to sit for a moment and catch her breath. But she wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

She was terrified of slowing down and risking all the emotions she’d been running from catching back up with her. So she kept walking, one foot after another, towards her building. 

Back inside, the shower was scalding—deliberately so. She let the heat pour over her until her skin turned blotchy and raw, like she could melt off the memory of his fingers from the last few nights. From the safe house. From her skin. Her bones.

She didn’t scrub. She just stood there. Let it burn.

By the time she dressed, her limbs felt like boiled noodles from the exertion and the heat. She threw on the first set of clean clothes she could find—Nat’s old jeans and a white button up, sliding a belt on to secure the pants to her body. She dried her hair halfway before hearing raindrops hit her windows, resigning herself as she left it to dry the rest of the way in her natural loose waves. She slipped her feet into boots and made her way through the thankfully empty common room. From the elevator to the path across the compound, she moved on autopilot. The rain was nothing more than a light spring drizzle, so she didn’t bother with an umbrella. She entered into the building that housed the lab before long anyways.

She wasn’t planning to say much to Calla. She just needed to do something. Anything.

The compound halls were quiet at this hour, bathed in that late-afternoon lethargy that still affected even the most elite training facility in the world..

She didn’t realize how fast she was walking until the sound of footsteps caught up behind her.

“Agent Rossi?”

Charlotte turned.

A junior agent—young, mid-twenties maybe, with a SHIELD badge clipped to his belt—approached her, holding a tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, adjusting his grip on the tablet. “Just need a quick signature on the final mission report from the Prague op. Lead agent evaluation’s already been filled out, but protocol says we still need yours on the last page.”

She blinked at him. “Sure,” she said, voice flat. “Yeah. No problem.”

He held the tablet out to her.

Charlotte nodded absently, taking it without looking up. “Yeah. Sure.”

She scrolled with her thumb, eyes scanning the top page—debrief summary, asset assessments, tactical breakdown. The usual.

Until she hit a subheader: Lead Agent Evaluation – Barnes, J.

Her thumb stilled.

Her eyes skimmed the section, heartbeat slowing to a crawl as the words sharpened into focus:

“Agent Rossi demonstrated repeated disregard for undercover protocol and public perception during mission 87-3. She disobeyed direct orders and compromised the chain of command. While her skill set remains formidable, her emotional volatility in the field presents an ongoing liability. It is my professional recommendation that she not be reassigned to active missions until further psychological assessment has been completed.” —Barnes, James B.

Charlotte’s thumb hovered over the screen like it didn’t belong to her, like if she didn’t move, maybe the words would rearrange themselves into something less gutting. Less final.

She read it again.

And again.

The world didn’t blur—it sharpened. Every edge of fluorescent light above her buzzed too loud. Every breath of the agent across from her echoed like it was happening in a cavern.

She’d spent the day trying to figure out how to choke down Bucky’s comments in the briefing, how to make sense of it.

But this? This was a knife.

A professionally worded. Clinical. Objective. Traitorous. Fucking. Knife.

She could hear his voice in every word. He hadn’t just criticized her performance. He’d discredited her entire capability in the field.

He didn’t say she had a bad day. Made a bad judgement call. He said she was unstable. Dangerous. A liability.

And the worst part—the part that made her stomach lurch and her knees feel suddenly too hollow to stand on—was that some awful, secret piece of her believed him. Believed that he was right.

Believed that he’d seen the truth no one else had the guts to say.

Believed that he’d always seen it.

Not good enough. Not stable enough. Not safe.

Her thumb curled tightly around the edge of the tablet, the screen groaning under her grip.

No. No, fuck that.

Not from him.

Not after everything.

“Is something wrong?” the agent asked gently.

Charlotte looked up. Her face was blank. Cold. That practiced, perfect mask.

“No,” she said. “I’ll handle it.”

She handed back the tablet without signing and walked out, the echo of her boots sharp against the floor.

The agent stared after her, confused, until she turned the corner and disappeared down the hall.

______

Late 2015  | Bucharest

The streets of Bucharest were crowded—shoulder to shoulder with locals and tourists, noise and color blending into chaos. Bucky moved with purpose, head low beneath his hood, careful not to draw attention. But he could feel it—the shift in the air. Like something sharp brushing against the back of his neck.

He didn’t need to see her to know.

She was close.

He turned slightly, just enough to glance behind him. And there she was. Their Mockingbird.

She moved through the crowd like a shadow—fluid, silent, deadly. Civilian clothes. Neutral expression. Nothing out of place. But Bucky saw it. The stiffness in her shoulders. The exactness in her stride. The calculated sweep of her eyes, ticking through faces like a weapon scanning for a lock.

His stomach twisted.

They sent her after me.

She didn’t see him—yet—but she was close. Too close.

He ducked into a narrow alley, heart hammering, back pressed against cold brick. He waited, breathing shallow. Listening.

He risked another glance.

There she was again. Right at the edge of the alley, weaving through the crowd with quiet precision. Her face—

It was empty.

That same terrifying stillness they’d programmed into him. Cold. Detached. Her features slack with focus, with obedience. She wasn’t herself, not that he ever really knew who that was. She was inhuman.

She was the weapon they made her.

And she didn’t even know how close she’d come to accomplishing her mission this time.

He wanted to run to her. Pull her out. Grab her and disappear into the shadows like he should’ve done years ago. Even if he had to knock her unconscious to get her out of here. 

But then he saw them.

Scattered through the crowd like vultures—HYDRA agents, blending in, eyes fixed on her. One sipping coffee. One pretending to read a newspaper. Another with a camera. None of them were watching him.

They were watching her.

Not to protect her. To keep her in line. To keep her from disappearing.

They’d learned from their mistake with him. They weren’t going to lose their new favorite weapon. Not without blood. He suspected they were under orders to splatter her brains across the pavement rather than let her escape. His stomach lurched and he forced the nausea down.

He looked at her one more time—how she moved, how still her eyes were, how deeply she’d disappeared inside herself.

And he made the only choice he could.

He slipped into the shadows.

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Present Day | Training Room

The steady, punishing beat of Bucky’s fists against the punching bag echoed through the training room. They were steady, relentless, like he was trying to beat back something inside him that wouldn’t stay down. The knuckles on his right hand were raw. He hadn't bothered to tape them when he showed up an hour ago, ready to feel everything. His jaw was tight. Sweat clung to him in a sheen, plastering his hair to his forehead. He'd opted to leave the lights off, the high windows letting in just enough light from the overcast day to draw long shadows on the floor. His own person ghost, haunting his peripheral as he moved.

He heard her before he saw her—boots striking the mat in quick, deliberate strides. They were just erratic enough for him to know she wasn't coming here on friendly business. 

He turned just in time for Charlotte to shove him square in the chest.

He staggered, caught off guard, arms instinctively rising. Not to strike back, but to defend against her onslaught as she was already reloading to hit him again. “Charlotte—”

She didn’t wait. Her fist cracked into his right shoulder as he blocked her knee driving up against his ribs. He remained on the defensive.

"Fight back," She ground out, gritting her teeth as she swung an elbow and lunged forward. He dodged it, jerking backwards and retreating across the mat. He was disarmed enough by her rage that he didn't regain his balance, didn't snap into combat mode.

"I'm not going to—" He dropped underneath a sharp right hook. "Fight you—"

Her left knuckles collided with his face in a jab he missed as he pleaded with her eyes. She felt the soft skip of his lip burst as she made contact. Blood bloomed instantly, a pool of red leaking from the corner of his mouth. His head snapped back with the force, a grunt escaping him.

She didn’t slow. Didn’t hold back. No remorse flickered in her eyes—only fury, frayed and unrelenting.

Bucky caught her next punch with one hand and deflected the other with his forearm. “Charlotte—stop—”

She twisted, broke free of his grip, and whirled to drive her elbow back into his ribs. He grunted, catching her arms as he pulled her back against his chest, trying to restrain her without hurting her. “This isn’t how—”

She arched her back and shoved off him, breath ragged, already reloading her weight on her back foot. He dodged her next swing but didn’t strike back, didn’t retaliate. He refused to hurt her, but he wasn’t just going to stand there and get torn apart either. 

“Dammit, Char,” he muttered, ducking another swing. “Talk to me.”

She didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn't. Instead, she launched into a melee of kicks, one after the other, driving him backwards as he dodged them. 

This wasn't either of their standard fighting rhythm. Charlotte was ordinarily calculated, precise, calm as her body slipped into what it was programmed to do. But now, she was fighting with her heart rather than her mind. Bloodlust clouded her vision as she carried on, throwing her full force into every blow, not caring how much energy she wasted. Stumbling backwards, Bucky was far from his element. His strength came from going on the offensive, striking first, hitting harder, finishing things quickly. But with Charlotte, the end was the only thing he never wanted to see. Even as she seemed intent on beating the shit out of him. So he kept retreating, kept raising his hands to deflect kick after kick.

Finally, she froze. Chest heaving, fists trembling, eyes blazing as they met his for the first time since she'd stormed in.

"Why?” One word. A single, splintering accusation. She hurled it at him with as much force as any of her blows.

Bucky exhaled like it had been trapped in his chest for hours. “Maria asked for an objective report. She gave me an ultimatum. I gave her what she wanted. I wasn’t trying to—”

“Less than a day,” she cut in, voice sharp, “after I gave you the one untouched piece of myself I had left. And you hung me out to dry already.”

His shoulders dropped like the weight of her words was actually pressing down on them. His gaze dropped to the floor, jaw tightening.

A pause.

Bucky had no excuse. Not one that would matter.

He stepped toward her, slow, hands lowered like he was approaching a live wire. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he said, voice low. “I thought—God, Char, I thought it would protect you. If they thought I was being unfair, playing favorites, we'd never be assigned to anything together again. If I was objective, they’d sideline you temporarily. Keep you out of the field. Let's be honest, you don't always have the best track record of self-preservation. If I'm not there, I don't trust anyone else to watch your back like I would. I wasn't trying to undermine you,  I didn’t mean to cut you down. I was just doing...I tried to do the right thing. I was trying to keep us from getting separated and I was trying to keep you breathing, Charlotte.”

Her expression didn’t shift.

Bucky took another step. “You’re not a liability. You never were. I just… I don't want to lose you. Not as a teammate, and not...for good.”

For a second, he held her gaze, thought she might say something. Might look away. Might soften.

Instead, she said, “Make it up to me.”

His head tilted ever so slightly. Blood rushed in his ears. He felt the same beat pulsing in his lip and ribcage where she'd landed her hardest hits. It was all background noise. The only thing he wanted to hear was her voice. He wanted to hear her say that she meant what he thought she did.

“Now?”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. “Now.”

He looked at her like she might destroy him. Like maybe she already had.

“Charlotte…”

She stepped in, close enough to feel her breath against his neck. Her voice was low and cutting. “For God’s sake. And I’m the one who can’t follow orders?”

Something inside him cracked. He reached out with both hands and cupped her jaw, pulling her into a deep kiss without caring about the blood still spilling out of his lip.

He held her like she was something sacred. Like he was a man on death row and she was the judge who'd just expunged his record. Like she was the first and last good thing he'd ever known.

She kissed him like she was trying to prove a point.

Ferocity. Pressure. Aggression. A low, unguarded sound escaped him—half relief, half ruin—as she put her hands on his chest and backed him toward the wall. His hands trailed softly from her face to her waist, unsure. She gave a final shove as they closed the gap between his back and the wall, thrusting him into it with more force than necessary.

She didn’t stop kissing him.

There was nothing warm in it—only control. Sharp, deliberate control. She kissed him like she could make him taste the betrayal she felt. He tilted his head, trying to kiss her deeper, one hand coming back up into her hair at the nape of her neck.

She bit his lip.

His breath hitched as fresh blood filled his mouth—reopening the cut that had only just begun to clot. The gasp didn’t slow her. If anything, it seemed to spur her on. She broke the kiss only to lift the hem of his shirt and rip it over his head. Lifting his arms, he obliged her, trying not to be unnerved by the still-angry haze in her eyes. Her lips crashed into his as she threw his shirt off to the side.

He groaned into the kiss when her fingers raked down his chest, nails dragging fire in their wake. His hands worked her belt loose, fumbling with the button of her jeans beneath. Impatiently her hands shoved his out of the way, tugging her pants just low enough to get what she came for. His hands slid up to the buttons of her shirt, making it halfway down before she turned and shoved him to the mat. He followed her lead, dropping to his knees and letting her join him, both of their hands wrestling with the tie on his drawstring pants as their words were lost into the kiss. The knot relented, her hands tugged his waistband down and revealed that he was more than ready for her. 

Bucky wasn't sure if he imagined it when he saw her eyes dart down, raking across his body, but he swore her pupils dilated. She refused to meet his eyes as she tangled her hands in his hair and pulled him back into a kiss, the metallic tang of his blood still on her tongue.

“Charlotte—” he rasped.

“Shut up,” she whispered—not cruel. Just absolute. "Shut up and make it up to me."

The point of no return. Bucky drew a breath, desire and guilt and absolution muddled together in his mind, and crossed right over. He gripped her arms and in one movement, spun her on her knees so her back was against his. Her pants were still half-on, shirt half unbuttoned and pushed up to her ribs—no undressing, no tenderness. Just access. Just control.

"You sure?" His voice was rough, one thread of restraint intact as he lined himself up behind her.

"Do it," She damn near growled.

He thrust into her. The gasp she let out was the first human sound she'd made since she came into the room. One of his arms wrapped around her, holding her to him in the somewhat awkward position they were in, both kneeling on the mat. The other gripped her hips with bruising strength, giving him leverage to push into her again and again and again. 

One hand reached behind him to tangle in his hair, and he leaned in, kissing her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone. She yanked his head back by the hair.

“Don’t,” she warned. Her voice didn’t shake.

She arched her back, sending him even deeper. Despite himself, Bucky's head fell back, a moan escaping his throat as he picked the rhythm back up. Charlotte leaned forward, falling to her hands and knees, pulling him with her. His left hand braced himself on the mat, and his right hand snaked around her waist to find itself between her legs. He didn't ask for permission before giving her what he knew she liked. Needed.

Her breath hitched the second his fingers found her. Not because she was surprised, but because it felt good—infuriatingly good. Her forehead dropped to the mat, hands fisting against it, her body no longer pretending to keep control. Bucky watched her carefully, his own control fraying with every fractured sound that slipped from her lips.

She didn’t speak, didn’t guide him. She didn’t need to.

He knew every cue—every stutter in her breath, every shift in her hips, every way she tried to stay silent and failed.

She was unraveling against him, but she wouldn't let it show. Not fully.

Her hand reached back, blindly grabbing for his thigh, his hip, anything to ground herself. When her nails dug into his skin, it pulled a growl from deep in his chest.

He leaned forward slightly, letting his forehead rest between her shoulder blades, their bodies slick with sweat and steam, the air between them thick and too quiet. He was losing himself in the rhythm, in the way her body welcomed him even as her mind screamed stay away.

Bucky didn't know what it meant. He just knew he couldn’t stop.

Her breathing hitched once—twice—then turned sharp and fractured as she came apart beneath him, biting down on her own lip so hard he could almost feel the sting himself.

The sound she made wasn’t loud.

It was haunted.

He followed her over the edge seconds later, vision blurring at the edges as his body folded forward, wrapped around hers like he could shield her from something that had already happened.

Their bodies stilled. For a moment, time itself stood still along with them. They both collapsed to the mat, Bucky's left arm draped over Charlotte's back. 

Both of their breathing heavy, irregular. For a moment, he wondered if it was all okay. If they'd be okay. He closed his eyes, searching for any kind of words to communicate what the hell he felt. Before he could find them, Charlotte moved. She rolled out from under him, standing and zipping her pants like she hadn’t just shattered him on the floor. She fastened her belt but left the top half of her shirt forgotten and unbuttoned.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position, still breathing hard. He looked up at her, dazed and broken wide open. There was something desperate, needy in his eyes.

She didn’t even meet them to see it.

His voice cracked the silence, raw and raspy. "Char..."

“Emotional volatility in the field presents an ongoing liability,” she said, her voice calm, cold, venomous. 

She turned away, heading for the door. Her footsteps echoed through the otherwise empty room. She didn’t once, but as she walked out, she wiped his blood off her mouth with the back of her hand.

And then she was gone.