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jensettermandu · 5 days

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clandestine - huh yunjin

genre; angst, sfw

pairing; yunjin x female reader .ft chaewon

content; there's one single reference of them being bare aka nudity but it doesn't say more, reader is a 98' liner and member of blackpink, features chaewon x reader but it's briefly, yunjin is in a huge moral dilemma throughout the whole thing, implications of toxicity

synopsis; Yunjin finds herself at yet another clandestine meeting, the one that leaves her in a high that later crashes, but somehow she can't stop running back to the hell where her devil is. The older woman has a grip on Yunjin that leaves her trying harder than before just to be acknowledged. Love and loyalty has left her in a moral dilemma where she has to make a choice, however, each choice makes her as bad as it makes her good after ending up with the short end of the stick.

wc; 7.6+

songs; illicit affairs - taylor swift , sad girl - lana del rey , francesca - hozier

masterlist

Yunjin exhaled, watching the numbers on the elevator go down, and up on the other as she waited for it to reach her. Her fingers fiddled with the material inside the pockets of her sweats because even if it had become a habit, something that came naturally; Yunjin couldn’t help but be swallowed by guilt and anxiety each time.

It crumbled, her facade was weak and grew weaker each time because of her moral dilemma. It was hard to pretend when she had always been so see-through.

The elevator’s door slid open once it reached her floor, the second one reaching the bottom as she stepped inside.

She hated it when she looked in the mirror and knew the person she was. It was something she couldn’t run from, but that didn’t mean she didn’t try. The guilt ate at her and Yunjin knew exactly how to stop it or how she could have prevented it right from the start. All she did manage to do was pretend that she had no clue who she was because she knew Yunjin and this wasn’t her.

This wasn’t like Yunjin at all; she couldn’t even tell why exactly she got herself into this mess or when she became the mess that she was.

However, the truth was hard to handle, even harder to accept and the hardest to face. This was something she knew she wouldn’t be the only one struggling with if the tiniest stone collided with her house of glass. The tint she put up to cover her lies would crumble and the real layer would let everyone see right through her glass walls and uncover the truth she’s been hiding out of desperation to be noticed.

She wanted to say that she was forced, but she truly wasn’t, the only thing was the force that pulled her towards the hell waiting for her downstairs. The one she shouldn’t feel anything towards as she knew that the girl who felt everything for her was in the other elevator riding right back up to the dorm.

Yunjin felt like a fool, she knew that she was one and she would regret it for the rest of her life as she would live with the fact that she did something she hated herself for; something everyone else would hate her for.

Yunjin lived in a world only one other person knew about, but even if she asked about it they would deny its existence. This was something that only existed to Yunjin because she acknowledged it. Her empathy was too strong to ignore. She convinced herself that she could stop if she wanted to.

Yet when the elevator reached the underground parking lot and she had the choice to not step out and instead go back home she still committed the same old mistakes.

The familiar scent lingered right by the elevators when she stepped out because Yunjin was greedy. She took those steps that could almost be mistaken for prideful when in reality she took long strides to be quicker. There was nothing to be prideful about, it felt like a walk of shame each time yet she proceeded with it. She proceeded to destroy herself for this one person.

The white G Wagon was hard to miss as it stood ready to drive off by the side and this was the girl’s final chance to break this habit. Would it make her feel better if she did? Yunjin would still know what she had done. Would she ever reveal the truth?

Yunjin had been selfish all this time, but it was with other people in mind, wasn’t it? Her intentions were unclear like a city under smog yet she tried to shine through it like the sun because they were good. It didn’t matter what they were because she felt herself crumble each day.

Maybe she got it all mixed up and was trying to make herself feel better; to feel like a hero when she was an anti-hero all along.

She opened the car door, knowing that no one would do it for her and she closed it after climbing inside. For a second she still felt the inner conflict within her as she closed the door, staring right in front of her.

The silent blow of the AC eased the heat caused by her hood being up, the speakers faintly played that music that reminded her of the woman anytime these songs would play. It would always infuse her veins with guilt, shame and regret, but also longing and desires, leaving her stuck at a crossroads.

Those things were all short-lived even if she knew that she would be a mess after.

Her chin was gently grabbed between those slender and cold fingers that turned her face. Yunjin met her eyes and was fighting what they reminded her about; the flaws hiding behind the put-up wall of perfection. Those perfect, tempting, and utterly deceiving eyes she had fallen victim to.

She tilted her head and leaned over the centre panel, closing her eyes in hopes of being blown away by the wind. She wanted to leave her fate to the wind, hoping she could just blow away like a feather that had no purpose and whatever happened couldn’t be blamed on her because the wind controlled her fate so it was all out of her control.

Maybe the wind she would be blown by would be in the second circle of Dante's inferno for these sins. Yet the kiss was gentle compared to what her punishments would be for these selfish acts.

It was gentle yet tormenting when she got a taste of the lipgloss that had mixed with the usual vanilla the woman in the driver’s seat used. Strawberries lingered with the vanilla and Yunjin was swallowed by reality once again, painfully aware that she was here so soon that Chaewon’s lips were still lingering on those that weren’t hers to kiss.

Her lips picked up the remnants of Chaewon’s.

That was all that Yunjin would deserve: remnants.

She tried to pull away because she could stop whenever she wanted.

“Y/n,” Yunjin mumbled, being pulled right back into the kiss, her hood being pulled down as fingers brushed over her nape. With that, she gave in without putting up a fight for any dignity because she never had any, to begin with, if she was seeing Chaewon’s girlfriend.

Her fingers brushed over Y/n’s bare waist, hoping to at least leave goosebumps after her because her marks would always be invincible and Yunjin was nothing but a mere ghost that appeared when everyone else was asleep.

They pulled away, her eyes gazed into Y/n’s eyes, the older’s fingers trailed along her jawline, thumb grazing her lips.

God, she hated Y/n for hurting her friend, but she also loved how she made Chaewon feel, and how good she was to her outside these clandestine meetings. It left her in turmoil knowing how happy Chaewon was while also wanting to be a good friend–she knew she wasn’t–and tell her the truth of how her angel was a devil in disguise.

Yunjin knew that Chaewon was one of the luckiest, but at the same time, unluckiest girls to exist. Despite the war within her it still left her envious if not jealous.

“You look pretty,” Yunjin wanted to cuss Y/n out, she wanted to throw stuff, she wanted to take all her anger out on her, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even if she wanted to. The girl in the driver’s seat with achievements that reached further than Yunjin’s dreams was too perfect to hurt.

Yunjin knew Y/n too well and maybe that was the problem.

Just those words were enough to fluctuate everything she felt and cause her a high; Y/n became a drug that worked each time no matter how horrible the withdrawals felt because of the realisation of how she was jeopardising herself and everyone else.

At moments like these, she pretended to be blind as Y/n pulled away, reaching for her phone, detaching herself completely from Yunjin who pretended that the notification didn’t show on the car screen. Her eyes wandered the white interior of the car; still feeling out of place for so many reasons, the first being that she shouldn’t be here to begin with.

“Where do you wanna head to?” She looked back at Y/n who was looking at the phone in her hands.

The answer she would give depended on how long she wanted to spend with Y/n. On how long she wanted to bask in Y/n’s cold fire. It could vary from 30 minutes at a parking lot nearby that she usually walked to–this time Y/n could in a sense pick her up–or it could be around two hours spent in a hotel room.

The girl could still remember the first few times and how different they were compared to now. Yunjin was truly becoming nothing more than a dirty secret that was supposed to be kept away from all light and she was allowing it herself.

Yunjin knew what was reserved for her; parking lots and hotel rooms, meetings once the sun was down. The lingering gazes before becoming nothing more than air. The act of being someone she wasn’t. Lies that came easier than breathing. Not leaving a single trace of herself anywhere because she was supposed to remain a ghost. Yunjin didn’t exist.

It was all perfectly built yet it felt as fragile as a house of cards where it would all collapse with a single and gentle blow of air.

There was a significant difference between her and Chaewon; obviously. Her older member got treated the way she wished she was yet what Yunjin got wasn’t Y/n making it up to their floor, picking her up, leaving the dorm without having to lie or feel guilt and shame, with no disguise of going on a run in sweatpants and a hoodie.

[Five hours ago]

Yunjin never understood it, she wasn’t sure if she ever would or maybe she hadn’t done it for long enough. It left her with more questions than answers; all being about the person on the other side of the door. It made her heart speed up before it twisted and she wished it could just stop instead because of the wincing pain.

Yunjin hated how good Y/n was at acting while she could feel herself crumble with each second. Was it even acting? It looked like second nature. Or maybe it wasn’t because as long as Yunjin was a secret she would never truly exist unless she was brought to light.

There was nothing between them to the bare eye.

Yet all Y/n did was smile at her and bow as if she wouldn’t kiss her as a greeting whenever it was just them. Still, Yunjin followed, doing the same thing before meeting Y/n’s eyes again. A smile was offered, not a pair of lips against hers or a caress that sent her body through a blazing fire in Y/n’s inferno.

“How are you?”

“I’m…alright.” She got a hum in response as the woman who was her peer slipped her sneakers off. Their eyes met once again, it felt like they always did or maybe Yunjin was hoping for too much yet adrenaline pumped through her whole body as Y/n smiled at her and stepped further inside.

Those stolen glances, those secret stares where their eyes met and only they knew the truth; why did she cherish that?

“That’s good.” She wanted more than a hand coming up to her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. However, Y/n’s touch lingered for a few seconds longer than necessary before she let go and walked towards the living room. Long enough to leave a warmth coursing through Yunjin.

“Where’s Chaewon?”

“Forgot her phone upstairs.”

That was all she got, Yunjin got the finger but wanted to get the whole hand because it was too difficult to separate their clandestine meetings and these meetings where they were nothing more than friends. Her heart yearned for more and she knew that it only made the mess bigger and bloodier than needed.

It wasn’t like she could have gotten more as everyone loved Y/n, especially Kazuha who was a fan of the group Y/n was part of.

Yunjin had listened to the younger girl go on about Y/n and all of Blackpink before. How she looked up to her, how she was a role model to many, how talented she was; great, humble, loving, caring, beautiful, perfect in every aspect of life despite it not being an easy life that she lived. She agreed with the younger girl because it was the truth–

It still left Yunjin wondering if she truly was the only one who had seen past Y/n’s perfect facade. The one that was built up of walls that stretched for miles and climbing over one meant only seeing the hundreds of more walls that were left to climb. Y/n had a perfectly curated image as an idol, but she also had a perfectly curated image for every person she was with and met.

The perfect friend, the perfect daughter, the perfect girlfriend.

South Korea’s Perfection.

Yunjin envied it because it would be so much easier to live on with her life if she were perfect; it would let her carry out her life and secrets with ease.

However, she felt special as she knew that she was one of the few to get past these walls. She felt special because she was more than Y/n’s dirty secret, she knew things the woman didn’t open up about to just anyone. Yunjin knew that she was part of those things she never told and that with Y/n’s perfection, she would forever be a mere ghost, a story that never truly happened.

Y/n knew how to manipulate the beginning and end of every story to her advantage.

Yunjin was aware that Y/n would make it look like she had never existed in her life and maybe that was the only true fear that she carried and not the consequences of being caught.

Never existing in Y/n’s life.

Yet Yunjin dwelled on the choices she had.

Her eyes gazed at Y/n, it just so happened that whenever she was supposed to come over even for a few minutes everyone magically left their rooms. No one wanted to miss her, she always made every room brighter.

She watched Sakura try to stop her from bowing a full 90 degrees; her senior and older by a few months, she knew that Sakura disagreed with being Y/n’s senior. Yet the youngest Blackpink member would do the same to Kazuha and Eunchae, telling them to be less formal.

They didn’t know Y/n like Yunjin did, she saw past it all. It was Y/n’s way of carrying out her perfection no matter where she was, to be that sweetheart everyone loved and wanted.

Yunjin sat down on the couch, in the furthest corner, drowning in the truth under her facade that was far from perfect unlike Y/n’s. Yunjin had flaws just like everyone else and like everyone they would shine through these cracks of feigned perfection leaving her imperfect.

Her eyes continued to linger on the older, they held longing, they held suffering, they held that dull melancholy that haunted Yunjin’s everyday life because Y/n was somehow everywhere.

She was either talked about, solo songs played or group songs, billboards, ads, magazines, Chaewon, Kazuha, Eunchae, Sakura, and a row of Yunjin’s friends. Y/n’s name left everyone’s mouth.

Why would she want to escape perfection though? The longer Yunjin lingered around the more it would possibly rub off on her. Could anything ruin Y/n’s perfection? No. Not unless Yunjin would do it. Yunjin knew what was hiding beneath it.

It was uncharacteristic the way Chaewon quickly thumped down the stairs, but Y/n had that effect, didn’t she? Yunjin didn’t look away, watching her sit on the floor in the middle of Kazuha and Eunchae playing video games on the TV.

“I at times can’t tell whether it’s Chaewon or an elephant incoming.” She knew just what to say. Y/n’s charm came with silence but it also came with words so it didn’t matter what she did; everyone looked her way yet Yunjin could see deeper than that and still find her just as jarring.

“She only does that when you come over.”

“I’d do it too if I were her.” That cockiness and confidence that didn’t come off as rude made Eunchae smile even bigger, always enjoying Y/n’s wit like everyone else.

Was Yunjin special? It seemed like Y/n was for everyone but her. How did Chaewon do it? Yunjin was just a secret yet it was hard to handle knowing that Y/n was for everyone.

“Eunchae,” Chaewon warned and Yunjin felt the small smile on her face turn sour as she watched her friend get onto the couch. The guilt and jealousy washed over her again.

What right did she have to feel any jealousy? She didn’t. Y/n was Chaewon’s perfect girlfriend all while breaking Yunjin’s heart because she allowed it to happen. She couldn’t shut Y/n out. Being imperfect around someone who carefully threaded through each hole to finish with perfection rubbed off in the wrong way.

It highlighted everyone else’s flaws; Y/n made Yunjin’s flaws stand out even more.

“Are you ready to leave?” Chaewon hummed, Yunjin couldn’t look away, watching with melancholy dancing in her eyes as the leader sat on the couch behind Y/n. The latter looked up and met Chaewon’s gaze.

“Okay, let me just beat these two and then we can head out,” the complaints from the two youngest only intensified the teasing until they ran out of words and Chaewon was able to speak.

“You can do that another time.”

“I could or I do it now and can avoid them next time to spend all my time with you.” It ushered the two youngest to continue to bicker, Y/n would always be able to lift a room with a few words and a smile.

Yunjin found it an art, no matter how simple it could seem, but a person who knew what to say at any given moment was made to entertain. Y/n was a dream and that’s all she would ever be to Yunjin.

When Chaewon was in the room Y/n’s gaze only lingered on the leader and Yunjin was the only one with a longing gaze; Y/n knew how to make her feel like a ghost. She watched and that’s all she could do; Y/n resting her head against Chaewon’s legs, wishing she could be the one running her fingers through Y/n’s hair, brushing over her skin while talking.

It should have been Yunjin and there were things she regretted, but she couldn’t list them in order or tell if she should regret some of them.

[Present]

In secret Yunjin got everything she wanted during these clandestine meetings. Her fingers brushed through Y/n’s hair, basking in the scent and heat still radiating off of the older whose bare skin pressed against Yunjin’s. It was a warmth she craved every time she saw Y/n, to be in the comfort of the woman, to hold Y/n and give the fallen angel the comfort she craved but never asked for.

All of Y/n’s attention was on her, she was more than just a ghost at these moments; Yunjin became a gestalt that Y/n saw.

This was when she forgot all her regrets, shame and guilt where the moral dilemma washed away from her sight because she was too far in hell to see heaven.

This was when she saw the beauty she could only see when she was with the woman. There was no one else she could share it with. This was when she accepted herself for who she was because she could be herself with Y/n and no one else; no one else knew about her secrets in the end.

In the end all Huh Yunjin wanted was to be loved by her devil.

Instead, this time Yunjin was left wondering if Y/n noticed her for who she was. The person she tried to be for Y/n. The woman whom Yunjin got to hold in her arms at these rare yet frequent moments was so sophisticated; it made Yunjin feel half-witted.

Yunjin read the books Y/n liked, consumed the expensive wine and champagne the woman did, and learned about her favourite art; from poems to paintings. She did her best to change certain views and beliefs, and the way she carried herself. She had done everything, but it was to no avail; Y/n wasn’t hers and didn’t seem to take notice.

Y/n never cared about Yunjin the way she wanted to be cared for, she never saw her, never acknowledged her and it only made her try harder even if Chaewon was the one who caught the singer's attention. How did she do it? It was something Yunjin had always wondered. How Chaewon was the one. How did her friend manage to do what she couldn’t seem to do? What did Chaewon have that she didn’t even after trying to be perfect for Y/n?

“Why do you see me?” It made her wonder even more why Y/n kept seeing her this way. It watered her insecurities and made it feel like her flaws and imperfections bloomed bigger. There had to be something special about Chaewon if they had been in a relationship for five months now. Why did Y/n waste time on Yunjin? Yunjin wasn’t the one wasting time, she willingly spent her time on Y/n.

“I can open up to you.”

She knew that her question was too vague and that Y/n wouldn’t say more than what she asked for. Yunjin had learned but kept repeating the same mistakes, that was partly why she was in the same bed as Y/n. She took what she got as long as it came from Y/n’s palm; Yunjin wouldn’t complain. She had no right to even if she would want to.

“You can do that with Chaewon too…” It came out as a mumble, that heaviness washing over her. Yunjin felt like an idiot, that was usually how Y/n made her feel.

“It’s not the same,” Y/n slipped from her grasp once again without any hesitation or looking back. Yunjin would be the only one to look back or hesitate to let go each time.

Yunjin’s eyes gazed at the woman who sat up, her eyes traced her slim back and all its ridges of perfection. All she did was stab a knife in her friend's back, but it wasn’t like she wasn’t paying for it. Each day there was a knife in Yunjin’s chest and it twisted, twisted, and twisted for all the wrong and right reasons.

“How?” Yet she pressed while being fully aware that only she would get hurt by the end since she had been hurt from the start. In the end, Huh Yunjin never learned from her mistakes, if she got hurt once, she got hurt twice, thrice and it went on until it no longer hurt.

But, Huh Yunjin would let Y/n hurt her over and over again, she’d let the woman hurt her a million times. To have her nick at her heart each day, to make it all die a little inside her each time, but she would still let it happen.

“I can’t open up the same way to someone I love as I can to someone like you.”

Y/n was so cold that she burned. The woman was so cold that it nipped Yunjin's cheeks, leaving them red each night she would cry. Y/n was so cold that Yunjin couldn’t help but try her best to warm her even if it hurt her in the process.

The woman stood up, leaving Yunjin all alone in that cold hotel bed that made her feel worthless. She couldn’t look away though, watching as Y/n slid on the hoodie that she had picked up from the back of her car before they left to get to the room. It was Chaewon’s hoodie. Somehow she always carried a little reminder with her and Yunjin couldn’t understand why she did.

Wasn’t it making Y/n get swallowed by guilt like it did with Yunjin? Y/n wasn’t an open book so she couldn’t figure it out unless Y/n read the pages for her which she had done before.

“I can’t know how understanding she truly is and I can’t afford to lose Chaewon.”

Yunjin licked her lips and deeply exhaled to stop herself from shedding tears all while willingly taking the venom bites Y/n would scatter along her body. She hugged the plain sheets closer to her bare body, pulling her knees closer to get comfort because Y/n would never provide it.

It settled that Y/n could afford to lose her. She was just as replaceable as anyone else in Y/n’s life, the only one who wasn’t was Chaewon. Y/n’s hell consisted of multiple dead and forgotten souls and Yunjin could become one of them at any given moment.

“I doubt you would.” She left Y/n’s frame at last and stared at the blank sheets, her fingers twisting the material. It was tearing her in half, Yunjin was stuck in the middle. She wanted Y/n, but at the same time wanted her friend to be happy yet she didn’t want Chaewon to be played and wanted to let her know that Y/n was a devil in disguise. One that was impossible to resist and was the sweetest angel anyone could stumble upon even if she was a fallen one.

It was messed up, but Yunjin was a bigger mess than the one she created. She saw how happy Chaewon was and she was envious; it could have been her yet it all was wrong. Everything she felt, had done and hadn’t done yet was wrong.

“You can’t say you’re sure she won’t leave or look at me differently. I want to be perfect for her, I don’t want her to stop loving me.” It was what Chaewon fell for in the end, just like everyone else. Y/n’s perfection. The girl was aware of that as her clouded by-gloom eyes looked up through her wet lashes at Y/n.

Tears in the rain.

Y/n would never notice or acknowledge the tears of torment that would run down Yunjin’s cheeks and leave her eyes sore. That ache in her chest would forever only be known to her, the reasons for her sleepless nights, why her pillowcase was soaked in a conflict between loyalty and love.

“It’s not possible to love someone who is too honest and opens up their heart until there’s nothing left to bleed. What heart will beat for her? The truth is ugly and imperfect.”

Yunjin knew that it was true, but it wasn’t set in stone because how did she tell Y/n that the woman had opened up to her, bled her heart dry to Yunjin who hadn’t left? It was possible to love someone who was too honest and opened up fully. Yunjin was still there even if not everyone would and maybe the uncertainty was why Chaewon only got to see perfection.

However, Yunjin loved her for more than her Midas touch, she was there despite the ugly imperfections.

She was also aware of Y/n’s biggest fears; the fear of not being able to maintain the image. The idea of even momentarily showing weakness in front of anyone. To be dependent and vulnerable wasn’t an option. Yunjin knew that Y/n was afraid of that intimacy and maybe that was why she never chose Yunjin. She knew about her vulnerabilities, flaws, insecurities, self-hatred, and self-pity. She knew about all the skeletons in Y/n’s closet.

Yunjin knew Y/n too well, she had seen her vulnerable and weak.

She had been led on, Y/n had played her, cheated in a game Yunjin wasn’t aware they were playing. It ended up with her heart in malady once she saw Y/n with Chaewon after letting herself get dragged through this hell for the woman.

The girl had been fooled and continued to be fooled and she let it happen. All she did was watch it happen.

She met Y/n almost a year ago and from the moment she did she found a deeper meaning in every word Y/n said to her. Yunjin got lost in the picture-perfect world Y/n painted for her. She saw the world with rose-coloured glasses, seeing things she only could with Y/n. Those words made her heart race and ultimately fall to the floor in desperation for the woman, waiting for Y/n to pick it up; it got stepped on instead.

Y/n sold her a world that didn’t exist when she was alone, a world she could only see with Y/n.

Yunjin shouldn’t have taken the words to her heart so easily, but she should have taken them for what they were. A short high that was dwindling more with each time. It came so quickly, it would hit her so hard and fast she could barely register it coming and before she knew it it was over and she would crave more. It felt too good and so she held onto those things even if they meant nothing in the end.

That was why Yunjin was staring out the window of Y/n’s car, submerged in a sudden melancholy, fully aware that even if it all dwindled she wouldn’t be able to feel this way with anyone else. There was no one else she would be able to see these things with other than Y/n.

Had she gotten it all that wrong? Had it all been in her head all this time? That there could have been something more before Chaewon?

“When can I see you again?” She was like a court jester, but she wasn’t entertaining anyone unless she enjoyed having her own heart shattered. The way Huh Yunjin acted made it look like she did. She took anything she could.

Her gaze shifted away from the window as her reflection was too clear while they sat in silence in the car. It was the ugly truth, reflecting right at her, she was turning into someone she wasn’t for someone she loved, but would never get love from. What made it much more excruciating was how painfully aware she was of it and how she still tried.

It was poison, Y/n had infected her with her poison and there was no cure for it. It was there to ruin Yunjin and everything around her. It didn’t change how she would still always run to Y/n to get fed more of it.

“I'm flying out to L.A. tomorrow to work on my album and then I’m heading to Coachella. I guess we will see each other there.”

Yunjin looked away as Y/n’s eyes weren’t even subtly glancing her way, the woman wasn’t sparing her any glances. She looked down at her lap, picking at her nails more and more the longer the silence lingered. There was hope that Y/n would acknowledge her misery, in the end, the jester was supposed to be a fool for someone else’s entertainment.

Had she entertained Y/n enough for one night? Did she manage to give her enough in two hours? Yunjin knew that she wasn’t enough, but she wanted to be close to it. To at least touch upon the perfection Y/n was looking for, the one that Chaewon carried.

It tugged on her heart that she had worn on her sleeve, dragging it along with her and letting it bleed dry for someone who didn’t want her blood on their hands.

“Yunjin…”

It made her look up, her heart fluttering in desperation for oxygen only Y/n could provide her when a hand slid over to hers. Y/n’s cold skin brushed over hers, the little embers of her high hoping for a blow so it wouldn’t disappear and could continue because it would let Yunjin fall asleep without crying. Foolish hope bloomed within her, continuously playing herself as she hummed and looked at Y/n who was looking her in the eye. The blackest and dullest yet masked with radiant front eyes that anyone could get lost in.

As always she took anything she could get from Y/n who reached her other hand over to Yunjin’s face. Fingers gently traced along her jaw before brushing away the red strands of hair and fingers tangling at the back of her head. It was these moments when her world got to see the light again and made her believe that the pain she felt wouldn’t be evermore.

She could get lost in Y/n’s eyes and she did, Yunjin did so every single time and she did it so easily. Those deceiving eyes, the ones of the she-devil herself, the ones she broke all her promises for because each time, Yunjin promised herself to never go back again. However, she couldn’t resist the temptation of Y/n’s lips against hers even if it tore her apart after.

At least Yunjin was comfortable in this hell with this woman who was her devil.

It made her insides rumble with each stroke of Y/n’s lips on hers, Yunjin’s fingers gripping onto the older one's hoodie to avoid facing her fears of losing someone she didn’t have. They rumbled until everything inside of her was destroyed when Y/n pulled away, barely being able to pull away as she mumbled those words right between Yunjin’s parted lips;

“Make sure Chaewon doesn’t find out. You don’t want to lose a friend.”

And suddenly Yunjin wanted to scream and cry all over again about how Y/n ruined her and made her a mess she never knew she could be. That high never lasted as long as she wished it would and Y/n was the one to pull away from Yunjin as if she burned. She did burn, didn’t she? In the end, she had been trying her best to melt the ice that Y/n was, the coldness that Yunjin’s heart fought against, refusing to freeze and stop feeling for the woman.

Y/n surely was sweet like honey but stung like the bees that made it.

All she did was nod because she couldn’t trust her voice, especially when Y/n wouldn’t care for the crack in Yunjin that she caused again. The air felt colder than usual as she stepped out of the car and closed the door after her without a glance from Y/n. She barely managed to step away and the car was already driving away.

The pain was evermore; the second she stepped out from the hell where she forgot everything she was back in the agonising and never-ending dilemma where the lines between right and wrong blurred.

Each time she realised something new; this time was the fact that Y/n had never been the one to ask to see her. Yunjin was always the first one running to her, calling and texting, checking when she could see her. How she was the one to initiate every little thing even as far as being the first one to go for it even after finding out that her friend was in a relationship with Y/n.

Yunjin was always the first to break her own heart for Y/n.

And so she stood in the elevator, going up after being down in hell. Pulling the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands before gently wiping away the tears in her eyes. The lump in her throat hurt, it was like the core of her pain, waiting to be spat out and brought to light, but she couldn’t do it.

Yunjin couldn’t ruin this for Chaewon more than she already had. It hadn’t affected her friend yet, it was only ruining Yunjin who would keep sweeping everything under the rug. There was only so much she could hide under it until the bump would be noticeable though.

If she told Chaewon that Y/n was cheating on her she would be devastated, especially since Y/n wasn’t supposed to be capable of breaking her heart. Y/n was too perfect to break a heart, to break a promise, to ruin the beauty of love. If she told Chaewon, if it would come out in any way she would lose just as much as the girl, if not even more. Yunjin saw it for what it was and what it was, was that Y/n had left her with the short end of the stick.

Her breaths only grew heavier with each floor and staring up at the fluorescent light to keep her tears in did barely anything.

Chaewon would hate her.

Y/n would hate her.

She would lose both and she was stuck in a dilemma.

The promise of never seeing Y/n again repeated itself in her head, convincing herself that this time it would be for real, but she knew it would get broken the second she had the chance to do so. In the end, these burdens would be stuck with her.

If she told Chaewon that Y/n was cheating on her with her then she would lose a friend, but not telling her was making Yunjin a terrible person which she already was. No matter how she would tell Chaewon that she was being cheated on yet loved more than anything at the same time, Yunjin would lose Y/n.

Her thoughts were too disorienting and the walk to her room ended by the couch in the dark apartment. It was all pure torment on her heart and hurt more than anything. With her head buried in her hands, she tried her best to calm down, to keep her promise of not going back, but she didn’t want to lose Y/n either–it didn’t matter if she didn’t have her. However, she didn’t want to keep hurting Chaewon, but she couldn’t simply stop and never say anything even if her friend was the happiest when Y/n was perfect for her.

This was all on her in the end as Y/n wouldn’t ask to see her either way. It was in Yunjin’s hands to stop hurting her friend by no longer being selfish because of love.

“Where were you?”

It startled her, it felt like she got caught red-handed as she flinched, her heart racing, building up nausea in her and the tears increased tenfold. Yunjin looked up with a sniffle and quickly wiped at her eyes.

“I was on a run.” Her voice shook like her whole body was doing on the inside.

“Are you sure?” This time Yunjin’s lies didn’t work and the house made up of perfect lies was starting to show the flaws she had failed to conceal. The fragile house was starting to crack under the pressure and she was doing everything in her to hold it up, but Yunjin was breaking down with it.

“No.” She mumbled and looked away from Chaewon who frowned.

The floor gently creaked under the girl’s feet, Yunjin couldn’t look up, staring down as she constantly wiped away the stinging tears. How could she look her in the eye when she knew the truth but didn’t reveal it? The truth that Chaewon should know.

Yunjin was scared of the countless waves of pain she would have to endure once she revealed it to her. It left her pulling at straws, trying her best to come up with a way to say it without having to suffer more than she already had by loving Y/n. Yunjin was exhausted from the pain she had willingly been going through just to be seen.

Y/n’s scent occupied them–Chaewon was wearing her girlfriend’s hoodie, it was the same hoodie Yunjin once wore when it was just her and the older woman. It was before their beautiful meetings turned into a secret kept from any light that wasn’t the moon.

The couch dipped, and silence fell upon them, but the cracks were starting to fill up with Yunjin’s silent cries, the pain she had held inside. Those lies were starting to shine through. Why was it so difficult? The truth was doing everything to push through them and ruin everything for them and herself.

“Are you okay Yunjin?”

She shook her head, Yunjin was far from okay, she couldn’t remember the last time anything felt okay. Everything that used to be perfect was ruined, her love for Y/n was ruining her, the lies were eating at her, and the guilt was something she drowned in and hadn’t tried to swim up from. Y/n was ruining her. It was all becoming too hard to bear and she was about to give up at the pressure.

“No.” She took a deep breath in, her sleeves were soaked with tears, and her eyelids felt sore from the rough material that she wiped them with. It was all she could do because there was no one to wipe them for her. Did she deserve someone like that? Someone who would be there for her and wipe her tears? It didn’t feel like she did.

Yunjin would continue running to her source of pain though. She would continue doing it even if she promised herself not to because the source of pain was also the only source that made her feel that high that numbed the pain. Her source of pain was the only escape from this misery, the only time she got to see beautiful colours in the ugly.

“What is it?”

It broke something inside Yunjin as Chaewon placed her hand on her shoulder, gently rubbing it, almost coaxing those words out of her because she couldn’t hold the guilt. She would die in it if she didn’t try to swim up and continued to willingly sink in these lies and feelings. It was all killing her. She never wanted to ruin anything for Chaewon or Y/n, but it was ruining her to the core, to a point of what felt like no return if she didn’t break more promises.

Everything she had gone over in her head, about how she would die with these secrets was becoming a blur. How she would let Chaewon be happy, how she would let Y/n be perfect, the urge to continue sweeping everything under the rug was turning into one of removing it and showing all her dirt. The pressure her feelings were putting on her was destroying her glass house and it got harder not to hurt anyone else but herself.

“I’m sorry…” Was all that she could push through, whispering those words through a shaky breath as her throat filled up with tears. She was choking on these burdens she caused herself, losing herself in them.

It made her wonder if things would be different if she never introduced the two after befriending Y/n. Or maybe she would be in Chaewon’s shoes right now, but at least she would have been the one Y/n loved, not the one she used to let out everything to then only have love left for her girlfriend.

Y/n would never hurt Chaewon; Yunjin wouldn’t be hurting if she were in Chaewon’s shoes as long as the truth was kept secret. Right now, the person who would suffer the most was Yunjin if she told the complete truth.

It was followed by yet another silence, the hand on her shoulder stilling and Yunjin could feel the dread. She could feel the consequences of her actions heavily weighing on her shoulders depending on what would come out of her mouth next.

“It’s okay.”

She couldn’t understand her guilt, knowing very well that it was a choice and now she was receiving sympathy from the girl she was hurting.

Chaewon’s hand moved again and Yunjin let the older girl pull her in, resting her head on her shoulder as Chaewon wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her comfort. She stared ahead at the dark TV screen, her tears running as she snivelled with her mouth sealed by fear and shame. This wasn’t Yunjin so how could she admit to doing something that was unlike her?

Chaewon deserved better and Yunjin knew it, but in everyone’s eyes Y/n was the best and she was in Yunjin’s eyes too.

Chaewon fell for Y/n’s perfection.

Yunjin fell for all her flaws and found perfection in them while she hated herself for being so flawed, for hurting her friend and not being able to admit to her sins. Yunjin was too scared to admit to her sins, but she couldn’t let everything else eat at her for much longer or she would suffer even more. She couldn’t leave her friend in the dark.

There were other sins she could bring to light.

“Chaewon…Y/n is cheating on you.”

Sins that weren’t hers.

masterlist

a/n; i hope it was enjoyable/good cause i was struggling. i couldn't feel satisfied with this one despite rereading it three times and am still a bit unsure about whether or not this was good tbh.

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fayes-fics · 4 months

Text

When The World Is Free: Chapter 1 - Sous le ciel de Paris

MASTERPOST | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Welcome to the start of my new multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. Please note that while I do have a plotted outline, I will be posting chapters as I write them, and I expect that process to take quite a few months. Please bear with me! This first chapter sets up the story - reader moving to Paris in the summer of 1939 and bonding with her new flatmate, Eloise Bridgerton. Please note that Benedict won't be turning up for a couple of chapters yet. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy! <3

August 1939

Emerging from the underground Trocadero metro stop, you round the corner of the recently completed, gleaming Palais de Chaillot and stop dead in your tracks. There before you is the most iconic landmark of Paris. Perhaps all of France.

La Tour Eiffel.

Breathtaking in its metallic magnificence, glowing in the setting sun. A sight that buoys your travel-weary soul seven days after you left New York: boats and trains finally bringing you to this wondrous spot. A light breeze even dances over your neck in greeting, a balm from the cloying subterranean heat of the metro.

It's a light elbow check to your arm that pulls you back from a state of reverie.

“A beautiful sight, but one you’ll get used to,” your uncle Robert chuckles, shaking your heavy leather case to indicate it's time to move along. “In fact, I've been told you will be able to see it from your appartement…”

He has accompanied you to Paris and will see you settled into your new adventures before continuing on to visit friends in England. He spent the roaring 20s living right here in the 16th arrondissement himself and, indeed, has arranged for you to share living quarters with a young British lady, a relative of his English friends. It's a comfort to know you’ll have at least one English speaker to chat with as you dive headfirst into learning proper French as you go.

Robert leads you away from the amazing sight and into the bustling streets, alive with cars, trams, bicycles and pedestrians buzzing in all directions. It's all at once like New York City, but yet so different as well, cafe terraces filling the wide pavements with all manner of people gathered to sip robust cafe au lait and refreshing limonade.

Within minutes, you are on a quieter side street and stopping outside a handsome honey-coloured stone facade with wrought iron window balconies and window guards, teaming with colourful, fragrant flowering pots. The number 14 gleaming white on a traditional navy blue tile. Your uncle pushes the enormous wooden door open, beckoning you into a cool whitewash wall corridor with mosaic floor tiles.

“Ahhh, Robert!!” a sophisticated middle-aged lady bustles from a nearby doorway and greets your uncle warmly, kissing both cheeks. It would appear they are friends of old.

“Y/n, this is Madam DuLac, your landlady,” he explains as you offer a handshake, admiring her boucle jacket and chic bun.

“Qu’est-ce?” she signals with a good-natured frown, obviously finding your polite greeting lacking, pulling you into a hug and two-cheeked kiss. She smells like Chanel perfume, cigarettes and baked goods. “You are in Paris now, ma chérie; this is how we greet one another,” she counsels in heavily accented but perfect English.

“You speak English?” you sigh, relieved, your French decidedly lacking.

“Bien sûr,” she smiles. “And please call me Solène,” she adds with a friendly smile.

“Eloise should be home from the library maintenant; the perfect time for you to meet,” she gestures towards an elevator cage surrounded by a sweeping grey marble staircase.

“I think I would prefer to take the stairs,” you admit, nerves flaring at the idea of such a contraption.

Your uncle laughs. “Well, I am taking it; I am not hefting this case of yours up five flights of stairs,” he adds dryly as you gaze up the swirling stairwell.

“Five storeys?” you squeak.

“The view is the best from the top,” Solène advises as she rattles back the cage entry and steps in, looking at you expectantly.

Reluctantly, you follow, all three of you and your luggage crammed into the metal cage as it jerks to life and begins its ascent.

“You will get used to it,” Solène smiles as she reads the apprehension on your face, your vice-like grip on your small vanity case and handbag.

Luckily, the lift reaches your destination safely. One shudder before it stops, and the door concertinas back in Solène’s hand to reveal a sweeping hallway with doors left and right.

“Ici,” she signals, the last door on the right-hand side.

But before you can knock, the door peels open, and a pretty, petite brunette jumps in surprise, dropping the book she is holding.

“Pardon,” she offers in perfect accented French, and you wonder for a split second if it is the correct apartment.

“Eloise, this is y/n,” Solène gestures.

“Ohhh, hello,” she grins, and the whiplash back to a plummy British accent is momentarily confusing. “I was about to go read in the courtyard, thought you might not be turning up today. Anyway… come in, come in!”

You shake her proffered hand as she ushers you into the apartment. Instantly, you feel a warmth spreading in your belly, like you have come home. It's light and airy, with large windows looking out across the Parisian rooftops, and yes, to the left is indeed the Eiffel Tower, still gleaming in the fading evening light. But the place also feels homely, that sort of messy that is lived in, comfortable. A large velvet sofa with tumbling stacks of books around it, a little kitchenette awash with colourful enamel cookware, and a jumble of art deco posters and random paintings adorning the walls.

“Solène, I don't suppose you've baked any more of those rather delicious madeleines, have you? To welcome my new housemate?” Eloise pipes up with a chipper, conspiratorial wink your way.

You already like her.

“Effronte!” Solène exclaims with fond exasperation before pausing. “There may be some…”

“I remember those!” your uncle adds with a tinge of nostalgia as he drops your suitcase. “You are in for such a treat, y/n.”

“Well, while our landlady decides if she’s willing to share the treats she has obviously baked but is being coy about…”Eloise raises a pointed eyebrow at the woman before returning to you. “...let me show you your room, then maybe a drink? I'm sure it's been a long journey.”

You nod and, with an exchange of grins, follow her down a corridor. She sweeps open the door to a lovely room, a large double bed with matching bedside tables and a dresser. But best of all, french doors onto a Juliet balcony overlooking a quiet courtyard filled with a riot of birch trees, their leaves gently rustling in the evening breeze.

“Mostly, it’s pesky pigeons down there, but you do get the occasional blackbird singing in the morning,” Eloise smiles as if intuiting your thoughts.

You spend some moments wandering the room and checking out the various fixtures, running idle hands over the furniture, already feeling remarkably at home with your new housemate and, indeed, your new home for the next twelve months.

“I'm just next door,” Eloise reveals, pointing a thumb over her shoulder.

Your uncle appears in the doorway to announce that he and Solène are off to catch up as you unpack and suggests you all reunite for dinner later at a local bistro. It all sounds so very Parisian chic; you cannot wait.

“So tell me about yourself,” Eloise flops onto your bed, already wonderfully casual in your presence, as you open your case and the wardrobe to unpack.

“I’m y/n. I'm from a little town on Long Island called Patchogue, about fifty miles outside New York City. I'm 22…”

“Me too!” she interjects, then signals for you to proceed.

“I wanted to see the world before I settled down. And I’ve dreamed of living in Paris since I was a little girl...” You feel your eyes misting at the fact it's now finally coming true as you continue. “So my parents agreed to pay for me to come to Paris for a year. Under the strict agreement, I get married when I return…”

“You have a fiancé?”

“Yes. Well, sort of. Stanley. We practically grew up together, and we’ve been going steady since we were eighteen.”

“Going steady? That's so American,” Eloise chuckles.

You nod with a giggle, then continue. “He hasn't proposed formally yet, says he is saving up for a ‘real nice’ ring, but it will happen. He is the son of my dad’s business partner. They run a construction company. So, while I'm here, they are building a home for us to live in when I return. We will get married next summer and move right in.”

“You don't mind?” Eloise frowns.

“Don’t mind what?” you query as you hang up your favourite dress.

“That your future is so… plotted out. I couldn't bear the idea. It's why I think my mother let me move to Paris. She was so fed up with me refusing to settle down.” Eloise laughs, idly flicking through the magazine you were reading on your journey.

“I suppose I've never really expected anything else,” you shrug, pausing as you put away your hosiery, but her words make you contemplative. “You don't have a boyfriend back home?”

“God, no. Too many pretty Frenchmen to entertain me here,” she winks. “I’ll introduce you to some, just in case you change your mind,” she breezes, climbing off your bed and drifting to the door. “Wine?”

“Oh… well, why not? When in France, etc,” you agree and close the drawer on the pile of cardigans you have just safely stacked.

“That's the spirit!” she effuses over her shoulder as you follow her back into the living room, the Eiffel Tower still glittering in the dusk.

“This place is so lovely,” you sigh, transfixed by the view as she wanders over and hands you a glass.

“It is a pretty magical view,” she agrees, staring at the skyline with you, watching as each window seems to illuminate in soft yellow with the dying light.

“And the decor, too; I see you love books as much as me,” you smile, tilting your head to the piles before taking a sip of red wine. It's the perfect balance of refreshing, mellow fruitiness and tart tannin coating your tongue, so much better than any wine back home.

“Oh god, yes! I work in the library. I can bring home as many as I want,” she enthuses.

“So, are there actually any left on the shelves?” you jest, lightly, savouring your drink and wandering to take a closer look at a smaller painting that catches your eye. It's very different to all of the others.

“My god, this is beautiful,” you breathe, hugging your wineglass to your chest as you stare transfixed at the art. It appears to be a large country house, probably British, bathed in the warm pinkish light of dawn.

“That's home. Aubrey Hall in Kent. I think the family made me bring it in the hopes it would make me homesick,” Eloise deadpans.

“It’s a wonderful piece,” you breathe, fingers reaching out to lightly trace over the heavily oiled brushstrokes. Something about it is so captivating and intimate.

“I'll be sure to let the artist know,” she smirks. “Although I'm reticent to give him any more praise, seeing as, unfortunately, he is my brother.”

“Your brother painted this?” taken aback by the revelation, assuming it an heirloom.

She nods and comes to stand next to you. “Yup. Benedict. Second eldest. I'm fifth of eight, by the way. Hence ‘E’ for Eloise. It's a thing,” she rolls her eyes.

“Wow. Big family. I just have one brother...”

“Lucky you. Although, as much as he is irritating, if I could only keep one sibling, it probably would be him,” she admits, taking a swig of wine.

“I love art,” you sigh, finally tearing your gaze from the canvas but already knowing it is something you will return to again and again. A pull you can’t quite understand.

“Oh, then I know the perfect job for you! There’s a gallery around the corner from the library, and I saw a sign saying they wanted an English speaker to assist international visitors! You would be perfect!”

“I would love that!” you extol, even as a tiny part of your brain lingers on the idea that it would be too good to be true if it all worked out, that fleeting sense of foreboding in paradise.

“Excellent!” Eloise’s enthusiasm pulls you back to the immediate. “So let’s get your glad rags on! It's time to hit the town for your first night in Paris!”

And thus, you find yourself being bundled back into your room to refresh and change for your first night in the city of your dreams. Indeed, as you find yourself being led by Eloise, arm looped in yours, through the bustling evening streets to a little bistro, your uncle and Solène already waiting at a table with smiling faces and drinks in hand, you can't help but feel this really is the only place in the world you could ever want to be…

Your adventure is just beginning.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

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thepathwechooseif · 4 months

Text

DEMO TBA

In the English countryside in 1914, you live with your two children on your late husband’s grand estate. Two years have passed since the tragic sinking of the Titanic, from which you became a single parent.

Though surrounded by wealth and community, you remain lost in a fog of grief. But with the arrival of summer, the neighbouring family prepares to host their annual month-long house party. Your curious children persuade you to attend, hoping the festivities will lift your sorrow.

Lucas/Lucia Bertham, the family's charming heir, bonds with your children and seems to understand you in a way others cannot. But will secrets regarding their family's future prevent love?

Azra Hays arrives, a traveling storyteller with a gift for magic in their words that soothes your soul. Gardner Isaac Hill has loved you in silence, finding joy through your children's smiles.

More suitors await too - brilliant sculptor Zephyr Langston, whose art mirrors your heart, and Doctor Henry Bellman, who ministers to the people with patience and good humor.

As festivities crescendo with masques, fireworks and more, you start to believe in love and laughter again. But which person holds your whole heart? And will dark forces from the past destroy this new paradise you’ve begun to build?

The summer promises intrigue, blessings, and maybe a sweet romance if you can let go of history and embrace the gifts of tomorrow.

Customise your character as well as your children’s

Choose where you live and how you dress

Your choices have an impact on how society reacts to you!

Uncover secrets from your past!

Pursuing different ROs with varying levels of affection leads to unique story endings that resolve the mystery

Lucas/Lucia Bertham (m/f/nb)

The Heir, 26, Lucas/Lucia Bertham is the only child and heir to the prestigious title and lands of Bertham. They are a successful businessperson, but relish returning to their ancestral home each summer. While other young people prefer to travel abroad, they prefer the simple pleasures of country life. They take their duty as head of the manor seriously, helping tenants with an approachable demeanor. Though destined to marry well for station one day, they remain single and enjoy lively flirtations. While others dance at balls, they are the happiest hosting gatherings under the stars or riding alongside farm laborers by day. Lucas/Lucia lights up any room with their charm, wit and easy smiles. But is there a lonely heart searching for more beneath this carefree facade? As always, only time will tell what develops between Lucas/Lucia and you over the magical summer months at Bertham.

Isaac Hill(m)

The Gardner, 35, Isaac Hill has lived and worked on your estate for years. His strong, weather-worn hands coax beauty from the soil. Gardenings comes naturally to gentle-souled Isaac, as does his way with any creature in need of care. The expansive gardens are his pride and joy, a wonderland open for all to enjoy. Despite his huge build, muscular arms and calloused palms, his demeanor remains soft-spoken yet self-assured. While most village maidens sigh for officers or heirs, Isaac's gentle soul and way with children has turned many a head. But he remains devoted to coaxing new life from the earth, finding solace in small things. Perhaps amid the Bertham's blossoms, Isaac's own heart may bud anew this summer as well.

Zephyr Langston(m/f/nb)

The Sculptor, 27, Zephyr Langston hails from one of London's most prestigious arts families. Though young, their sculptures have already gained fame across England. While many London soirees vie for their presence, Zephyr relishes escaping to the countryside each summer. Using moody landscapes as inspiration, they work tirelessly to capture fleeting emotions in stone. Some say their sculptures are too sensually lifelike, but the Berthams proudly collect their edgy works. Zephyr charms salon attendees but remains unmarried, focused solely on their "passionate mistress," their art. Though prone to brooding moody spells while working, they come alive at parties with a playful wit. Could this summer be when they find inspiration of the heart as well as hands among the Bertham estate's rolling hills?

Henry Bellman(m)

The Doctor, 29, though young, he runs the village medical practice with a maturity beyond his years. What he lacks in words, Henry more than makes up for with his compassionate bedside manner. He listens with steady brown eyes that seem to see into patients' very souls. While others chat idly, Henry prefers observing life unfold with subtle calm. An avid reader, he's as learned as any university man but without pretense. More than one farmer's daughter has blushed starry-eyed receiving his attentions, yet he remains a bachelor focused solely on his work. The Berthams value Lucas greatly for his discretion and healing touch. But does his solemn façade hide deeper passions waiting to emerge? As always, only time will tell what mysteries lie beneath the calm exterior of Doctor Henry Bellman, and what intrigues he may stir in your heart this season.

Azra Hays(m/f/nb)

The Storyteller, 27, Azra Hays is a free spirit , with mischievous eyes like the summer sky. While others settle, Azra is happiest wandering the countryside in their worn boots, flute in hand.They’re a jack of all trades but lives for their art - spinning spellbinding tales that transport listeners far from their daily toils. With their easy smile and flirty manner, Azra charms all they meet. Yet beneath this bohemian exterior beats a kind and generous heart, always helping travelers in need. An orphan from youth, they never take their freedom or talents for granted. Azra makes their coin sharing folklore, gossip and bawdy jokes in villages along their route. But they save their most magical stories for moonlit campfires, weaving magic that leaves audiences in awe. Some say their nose for intrigue could even rival the Sherlock Holmes tales. Will Azra linger longer this year among Bertham's gardens and party revelries? Is there feeling breeding beyond friendship beneath Azra's roguish charm? As always, only time will tell the true depth of bonds woven beneath the summer stars.

#interactive fiction #no demo #twine game #twine wip #twine interactive fiction #twine story #twine if #wip #status: wip

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your-local-simp-writers · 11 months

Text

Midnight Serenade

Word Count: 662

Warnings: None

Hobie Brown x Fem! Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The night was dark and heavy with fatigue as Hobie made his way home. The weight of the world, or in his case, the weight of his heroic responsibilities, bore down on him. It had been a long day of patrolling the streets and fighting crime.

As he entered the quiet sanctuary of his apartment, his eyes fell upon you, peacefully engrossed in your own world. The soft glow of the lamp illuminated your face as you lay on the bed, headphones on, lost in a realm of music and digital wonder.

Hobie, ever the blunt and stone-faced individual, couldn't help but feel a warmth in his heart at the sight of you. In that moment, he decided to shed the weight of his alter ego and embrace the simplicity of being himself.

Quickly changing into comfortable clothes, he slipped into the bed beside you. With a mischievous smile on his face, he gently pulled off your headphones, startling you from your reverie. His strong arms encircled you, drawing you close in an unexpected display of affection.

"Oi, love," he said in his charming British accent, his voice laced with a hint of playfulness. "Thought I'd join you in this late-night escapade."

You blinked in surprise, a blush tinting your cheeks at his sudden presence. His directness and stoic nature always had a way of catching you off guard, but you couldn't deny the warmth that spread through your body as he held you close.

"I... I didn't expect you to be here," you stammered, a mixture of confusion and delight in your voice.

Hobie chuckled softly, his breath tickling your ear. "Well, can't resist the company of someone as captivating as you, can I? Besides, I could use a break from all the web-slinging and crime-fighting."

You nestled against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back. "I'm glad you're here. It's nice to have you by my side."

He tightened his embrace, his voice softening. "You have no idea how much I cherish these moments with you. You bring light to my darkest days."

As he began to braid your hair, his fingers gently working through the strands, you couldn't help but let out a contented sigh.

"Feels nice," you mused, your eyes closing as his touch sent tingles of warmth cascading through your scalp.

Hobie's voice held a hint of a smile. "Glad you think so. I've got a knack for this, you know? Perhaps I missed my calling as a hairstylist."

You chuckled, tilting your head slightly to give him better access. "Well, I'm glad you're using your skills on me."

The room fell into a comfortable silence as the braid took shape, the rhythm of his fingers soothing both your body and mind. With each gentle tug and twist, it felt as though he was weaving a bond between the two of you—something tangible and irreplaceable.

Once he finished, Hobie leaned back, admiring his handiwork with a small smirk. "There you go, love. Now you've got a proper crown fit for a queen."

You reached up to touch the braid, a smile gracing your lips. "Thank you, Hobie. This means a lot to me."

He gave you a tender kiss on the forehead, his voice filled with sincerity. "No need to thank me, love. Anything for you."

As you snuggled against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into a peaceful state, you couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of love and contentment. In this moment, Hobie's stoic facade had crumbled, revealing the true depths of his affection for you.

Together, you drifted into a serene slumber, knowing that you were safe and loved in each other's arms. And as the night faded into dawn, the braid in your hair served as a reminder of the unbreakable bond you shared—a symbol of the quiet, heartfelt moments that made your love for each other uniquely beautiful.

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thsillystringbeanscribbler · 4 months

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Bunny Slippers

Summary: While on the hunt for their dad the Winchester brothers are encouraged by Bobby to reach out to an old hunting buddy of John and Bobby. The trip leads to meeting not only a rugged hunter which is a missing puzzle piece to their dad's disappearance but also got to make the acquaintance of his lovely daughter.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader [ OC ]

Warnings: mostly fluff with a sprinkle of possible violence or angst, maybe slow burn (i'm not too sure)

Word Count: 4,685 words

Author's Note: This is my first ever fanfiction. I dont really know how to write y/n so oc is all you're getting. I recently discovered the world of Supernatural and I am in love. This story takes place during Season 1, it doesn't really follow the story line and there might be some lore in accuracies. Please be kind, and I hope you enjoy my little story.

image from Pinterest

With Bobby's wise counsel and the elusive hints scattered in John's journal, he implored the brothers to seek out Rob Blackburn, who could potentially steer them toward John. Rob, as Bobby explained, wasn't just an ally; he was a long-time comrade of both John Winchester and Bobby, often accompanying them on perilous hunts. Armed with this knowledge, Sam and Dean embarked on their journey to Boston in the trusty Impala. Dean took the wheel, immersing himself in the thumping beats of rock and roll, while Sam, map in hand, navigated the labyrinth of roads leading to Robert Blackburn's whereabouts. The pages of John's journal rustled in the background, revealing his own trek to Massachusetts, where he had joined forces with Rob to confront a formidable Wendigo.

In the early autumn morning, the Impala turned down the street of the Blackburn home, the epitome of historical charm found in Boston. The townhouse stands out with its red brick facade, large curved windows adorned with black shutters, and stately black entrance doors. Wrought iron railings line the stone steps leading up to the front doors, and mature trees along the sidewalk cast dappled shadows onto the cobblestone street. The vehicle comes to a halt in front of the winsome townhouse, with its elegance further accentuated by the cascading wisteria, lending a touch of natural beauty to the urban setting.

Dean cut the engine, his gaze shifting from the Blackburn residence to his brother. Sam, peering at Dean, broke the silence with his characteristic intensity. "So, think you're ready to face whatever's in there?" he asked, his voice tinged with both concern and determination.

Dean responded with his usual bravado, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ready? Sam, I was born ready. Let's do this." His tone was confident, almost playful, yet underscored by the seriousness of their mission.

Moving in unison, the brothers climbed the steps to the Blackburn residence. A silent exchange of resolve passed between them as Dean turned to face the ominous black door. He pressed the doorbell, and for a moment, there was only silence. Impatient, Dean began to knock forcefully, intent on getting an answer.

Before he could knock again, hurried footsteps approached from inside. The door swung open to reveal a petite, dishevelled woman. Her light auburn curls were hastily tied atop her head, and her sleepy green eyes, magnified by tortoise-rimmed circle glasses, blinked at the unexpected visitors. Dean's gaze travelled over her, taking in the oversized Van Halen band t-shirt, the long flannel Batman pyjama pants tucked into mismatched white tube socks, and the pink bunny slippers, all indicating she had indeed just rolled out of bed.

The woman, stifling a yawn and crossing her arms defensively, addressed them with a groggy, gravelly voice. "Hello? Can I help you with something?" Her sleepy demeanour contrasted sharply with the urgency of their visit.

The faintest hint of a smile played across Dean's face, a touch of warmth amidst the crisp Boston morning. The dishevelled stranger before him, a haphazardly charming vision in her comic book pyjamas and mismatched socks, sparked a flicker of amusement in his hunter's gaze. She couldn't be much older than Sam, he mused, who was barely past the threshold of twenty-two himself.

Clearing his throat, Dean straightened up a little, his eyes locking onto hers with an earnest steadiness. "Morning," he started, his voice carrying the signature gravel of a man used to long nights and the roar of a V8 engine. "Sorry to wake you, but we're looking for Rob Blackburn. The thing is," he paused, the weight of their search momentarily tightening his features, "our dad was working a case with him, and now... Dad's gone off the grid. We were hoping Rob might have some answers."

He watched her closely, not just for her response, but for any sign, any tell that might unravel the mystery of their father's whereabouts.

The woman's head tilted slightly, causing a few untamed curls to escape her hastily made morning bun. She squinted at Dean, her eyebrows knitting together in a puzzled frown. As her gaze shifted between Dean and Sam, a hint of wariness crept into her expression. "Sorry," she murmured, her free hand sliding under her glasses to rub at a sleepy eye. "But who are you guys, exactly?" she asked, her lips pursed slightly, clearly waiting for an explanation.

Dean met her gaze squarely, his expression a blend of seriousness and charm. "Name's Dean and this towering figure here is my brother, Sam," he said with a hint of a smirk. "We're here looking for Rob. You might know him through our dad, John Winchester. They go way back, and it's kind of important we talk to him." His tone carried the urgency of their quest, yet remained respectful, acknowledging the oddity of their early morning visit.

Her eyebrows lifted from their puzzled frown as the name John Winchester sparked a flicker of recognition in her features. Hesitating for a moment, she leaned slightly forward, peering past Sam and Dean to scan the street. Her green eyes settled on the shiny black Chevy parked in front of the house. Dean, noticing her gaze, followed it to the Impala.

With his trademark flirtatious smile, Dean couldn't resist a playful comment. "Hey, if you're interested, I could show you what she's really capable of," he said, nodding towards the Impala. The woman's eyes snapped back to Dean, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. Realizing how his words might have sounded, Dean quickly clarified with a cheeky grin, "The Impala, I mean. A ride in the car."

She nodded silently, her cheeks now a deeper shade of red. A bit flustered, she stuttered, "Uh–" but then, meeting Sam's hazel eyes, she paused, took a deep breath, and regained her composure. "I'll be right back," she said before gently closing the door.

Dean left staring at the black door, perked up his ears as he heard her voice escalate inside, calling out, "Dad! The Winchesters are here!" After a brief silence, her voice rose again, more insistent this time, "DAD!"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look of surprise at the volume of her shout. The response came in the form of a deep, muffled reply from within. The door creaked open again, and the woman offered an awkward smile. "He'll be down so–"

Before she could finish, a tall, muscular man in plaid flannel pyjama pants and a simple grey t-shirt descended the stairs. He stood imposingly behind her, his voice deep and gravelly. "Mornin'," he greeted, eyeing the brothers. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Definitely John's boys," he observed as he extended his hand.

Dean grasped his hand firmly. "Dean," he introduced himself with a nod.

Sam followed suit, shaking Rob's hand. "Sam. It's good to meet you."

Rob's genuine smile broadened. "Rob. Nice to finally meet you boys. John's told me a lot about you two."

In the midst of the heartfelt introductions, Rob's daughter slipped out under her father's arm, who was now holding the door open. He quickly turned his head to call after her, "Jay, boil the water. We're gonna need some coffee."

Rob then stepped aside, inviting them in. "C'mon in," he said, glancing once more at the street as the brothers entered. "Damn, is that John's Impala?" he asked, intrigued.

Dean turned back to Rob, a hint of pride in his voice. "Actually, she's mine now. Dad left her to me. She's got more history and miles on her than most cars on the road. Runs like a dream, though." His words were laced with respect and a touch of nostalgia for both the car and his father.

The boys followed the barefoot Rob Blackburn into his living room. The space was a testament to a life well-lived and richly layered, a striking balance between the modern and the memorabilia of yesteryear. They stepped through the wooden archway, and Dean's gaze swept the room—a harmony of contemporary and eclectic tastes.

The living room was bathed in morning sunlight from a large, bay window framing the greenery and wisteria blossoms outside, its grandeur contrasted by the cozy array of furniture. A plush, dark green sofa accented with earth-toned pillows invited comfort and long conversations. Across the room, a pair of vintage armchairs stood guard, their fabric hinting at a past era. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, a ladder poised as if in mid-ascent, suggesting a world of knowledge and stories just out of reach. In the center, a stately wooden coffee table bore the weight of books and vases, while a Persian rug beneath whispered tales of ancient craftsmanship.

Above the mantel, a flat-screen TV was mounted, an anachronism amid the classical vibe. The mantle itself was a gallery of personal history, with frames marching across its length like milestones. Dean's eyes traced the journey of the dishevelled girl named Jay through frozen moments: school plays, graduations, and candid laughter.

One photograph, in particular, seized Dean's attention, squeezing his heart with the force of a long-forgotten song. There, captured in the stillness of time, was a young woman with auburn curls, her arm casually draped over a youthful Mary Winchester. Beside her, a younger Rob stood with an easy stance, and on the other side, John Winchester's smile reached out, as bright and as real as if he were standing in the room with them.

Dean found his voice, roughened by the swell of memory. "You've got quite the place here, Rob. Feels like a home that's seen a lot of good times," he said, his eyes not leaving the photograph.

Rob, following Dean's gaze, nodded with a touch of nostalgia. "Yeah, it's been through a lot. Every piece has a story, especially those photos," he said, his voice softening. "That one there," he pointed to the photograph that held Dean's gaze, "was from a summer BBQ we had right after John got back from a tour. Good times indeed, Dean.”

With a comforting pat on Dean's shoulder, Rob motioned towards the dark green sofa. "Please, take a seat," he said in a voice that carried the warmth of a seasoned host. Sam was already lounging there, looking every bit the part of a man ready to delve into matters of gravity and ghosts. Rob's towering presence moved towards one of the vintage armchairs, his movements measured and graceful. He sank into the chair with the ease of a man in his own sanctuary.

Dean observed Rob, taking in the rugged features that spoke of a life lived much like their father's—on the road, but always returning home. The man sitting across from him had a face that bore the marks of laughter and squinting against the sun, a generous beard that was well kept but suggested it could tell stories of its own. His hair, though tousled from sleep, had the hint of waves, and the light caught the flecks of gray that ran through it like silver threads in a tapestry. There was a certain comfort in his ruggedness, an unspoken kinship that Dean recognized well.

Rob caught Dean's gaze and chuckled, a sound that seemed to reverberate around the room. "My apologies, if I'd known Johnny's boys would be showing up on my doorstep, I'd have made myself presentable," he said, his fingers raking through his hair in a vain attempt to tame it.

Their conversation was paused as Jay quietly made her entrance, her arms full with an offering of steaming mugs. Dean's eyes followed her every step, noting the careful balance as she placed the coffee on the table with precision. The small, satisfied smile that danced across her lips made Dean's own lips twitch in response. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a look of comical frustration.

Jay stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes closed, speaking through gritted teeth. "I was so proud of not spilling coffee, I forgot people might want milk and sugar too."

Dean leaned forward, picked up one of the mugs, and met her frustrated gaze with a reassuring smile. "Don't sweat it, Jay. I take my coffee black as midnight on a moonless night," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. "It's the best way to kick-start the day, especially when there's work to be done." He took a sip, letting the rich bitterness of the coffee linger, a stark contrast to the gentle chaos of the morning.

Jay—no, Julia—looked momentarily taken aback, an unspoken question flickering in her eyes about Dean's use of her nickname. Before she could voice it, Rob intervened with a throaty chuckle that broke the brief silence. "Dean, Sam, if it wasn't already apparent, this spirited individual is my daughter Julia."

Julia's expression folded into a mix of amusement and mild embarrassment at her father's words. "Introductions must've slipped my mind earlier," Rob added, his eyes twinkling with paternal amusement.

With a graceful motion that seemed to betray her earlier fluster, Julia tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Was a bit scattered, to be honest," she admitted as a soft hue painted her cheeks.

He offered her a warm, appreciative smile, and she, in turn, blushed a shade deeper, hastily picking up the one mug that held coffee lightened with milk. "Anyway, I'm—" she started, her voice trailing off as she backed away, thumbing in the direction of the staircase, "—going to get dressed."

With that, Julia turned, her retreat up the stairs as quick as it was quiet, leaving the conversation to hang in the warm, coffee-scented air of the living room.

The trio settled into an easy silence, the kind that speaks of understanding rather than discomfort. Eventually, Rob broke the stillness, setting his coffee cup down with a soft clink. "Not that I'm complaining about having John's boys over," he began, his voice even and curious, "but what brings you to my door?"

Sam, always the one to dive into the details, took the lead. "Well, Rob, from what we've pieced together with Bobby's input and clues from Dad's journal, it seems John was here in Boston not too long ago. He was helping you out with a wendigo situation," he explained. "You might have been one of the last people to see him. Now, Dean and I are crisscrossing the country, trying to track him down."

Dean, meanwhile, was only half-listening, his mind wandering as he sipped the robust black coffee. His thoughts were momentarily caught up with Julia—her surprising affinity for classic rock band shirts, her effortless command of the room, despite her earlier disarray. There was an allure there that Dean couldn't quite dismiss.

Realizing he needed to jump back into the conversation, he met Rob's gaze over the rim of his mug. "So, any chance Julia might know something that could help us out?" he asked, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of hope. It was a thinly veiled attempt to weave Julia back into their narrative—perhaps more for another encounter than actual investigative purposes.

Rob leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips as he cradled his mug. "Julia? She wasn't really involved with the hunting side of things with John. She's the brains, does all the research," he began, but the strains of Led Zeppelin suddenly filled the room, filtering through the walls of Julia’s bedroom, in a muffled but unmistakable riff.

He laughed, a low, rich sound, and shook his head affectionately. "Yeah, she's a history major. She’s got her nose usually buried in old books. But she did dig into the Wendigo lore while John was around. Spent a few hours picking his brain, so it might be worth a shot to ask her," Rob conceded, acknowledging the potential value in speaking with his daughter once more.

As the sun arced higher in the sky outside the arch window, time seemed to fold in on itself within the Blackburn residence. The conversation ebbed and flowed naturally, the brothers and Rob exchanging tales and theories about the elusive Wendigo. Engrossed in the retelling, they barely noticed the passage of time until the Led Zeppelin anthem that had been humming in the background abruptly ceased. A hush fell over the house, and Dean couldn't help but cast a puzzled look towards Rob, who appeared unfazed by the sudden silence, continuing his story with the ease of a man accustomed to the unpredictable soundtrack of a busy household.

Dean's attention was drawn towards the hallway as a flash of red caught his eye—a pair of Converse sneakers, the unmistakable hallmark of a casual yet deliberate style. As Julia came into view, his gaze instinctively followed the line of her high-waisted jeans up to her neatly tucked-in white shirt. Gone was the disarray of the morning; in its place stood Julia, transformed. Her light auburn curls, now tamed and flowing gracefully down her back, framed a face of calm composure.

She paused in the archway, and for a moment, there was a silent exchange as Dean's eyes met hers—no longer sleepy, but sharp and full of life.

Rob, seizing the opportunity, looked up at his daughter with a mix of pride and practicality. "Perfect timing, Jay. Do you recall any of the details from when John helped out with the Wendigo case? I'd take a stab at finding the research in the office, but I still can't make heads or tails of your organization system."

Julia's lips pursed lightly, a subtle indication she was preparing to delve into her mental archives, but before she could articulate her thoughts, Rob interjected with decisiveness. "Great, I'll go get changed, and you can show the boys what you've got."

Julia nodded, a silent agreement to take the lead, and Dean couldn't help but feel a twinge of admiration for the way she navigated her father's expectations with grace. There was more to Julia than met the eye, and Dean was keen to uncover the depths of her knowledge—not just for the sake of their quest, but perhaps, for the simple pleasure of her company.

As Rob ascended the stairs, Julia began gathering the empty coffee mugs with an efficiency that spoke of routine. She gave Sam and Dean a quick, playful grin. "I'll just drop these off in the kitchen, then we can dive into the research. Hope you're ready for a bit of a deep dive," she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of excitement about the task ahead. She turned on her heel, the cups clinking softly as she vanished down the hall.

Dean watched her go, an appreciative gleam in his eye. Sam, catching this all-too-familiar look, turned his entire body to face his brother, his expression a blend of warning and wisdom.

"Dean, I'm gonna say this once: tread carefully, man," Sam advised, leaning in slightly to emphasize his point.

Dean turned to his brother, feigning innocence. "What are you talking about, Sammy?"

Sam fixed Dean with a knowing look, the kind that only a lifetime of brotherhood could perfect. "Julia. I see that look in your eyes," he cautioned, his voice serious but not unkind.

A roguish smirk danced across Dean's face, his thoughts lingering on the spark he'd felt during their brief interactions. "Can't help it if there's a mutual spark. And come on, Sam—she's smart, she's into Zeppelin, and she's got that whole natural beauty thing going on. It's not just me," Dean defended with a casual shrug, trying to brush off the gravity of Sam's warning with his characteristic nonchalance.

Julia reemerged with a swift grace, pausing at the doorway, her demeanor alight with the thrill of sharing her world. The excitement seemed to emanate from her, an infectious energy that promised revelations and secrets held within her scholarly trove. As Sam and Dean stood, ready to be led into her realm of research, Sam's encouragement was both genuine and anticipatory.

"Rob mentioned you're quite the expert. Can't wait to see the treasures you've been working on," he said, his kind smile acknowledging her expertise.

Julia's response was tinged with humility and appreciation. "That's really nice of you to say," she replied, leading the way up the stairs with a lightness in her step that suggested she was as eager to share as they were to learn.

Reaching the second-floor landing, they were greeted by the impressive sight of a bookshelf that seemed to serve both as a doorway and a guardian of knowledge. Passing through the archway, both Winchesters couldn't help but pause, struck by the beauty of the room that unfolded before them.

They were surrounded by the warmth of aged wood and the silent stories of countless tomes. A built-in window seat nestled against a bay window offered a view of the soft purple wisteria blossoms framing the glass. The room was steeped in the warmth of vintage charm and the whispered stories of countless books. The walls are lined with towering shelves, crafted from dark, polished wood that gleams under the soft golden hue of strategically placed lamps. Each shelf is a testament to a bibliophile's passion, densely packed with books of varying sizes, their spines creating a colourful mosaic that speaks to years of collection and care.

In one corner, a plush armchair sits invitingly, upholstered in a rich, patterned fabric that echoes the bygone era of Victorian elegance. Next to it, a small table holds a crystal decanter of amber liquid and matching glasses, alongside a pile of well-thumbed novels, suggesting a perfect nook for sipping and reading. The heavy curtains pulled back from a large window allow the gentle light to filter in, casting a serene glow over the scene.

Despite the room's orderly foundations, there's a deliberate messiness to it that adds character. Stacks of books and papers teeter precariously on every available surface, including the floor, where a worn Persian rug lays as a testament to the many hours spent lost in literature. The desk is a landscape of creative chaos, with open books, notes scribbled on loose papers, and a vintage typewriter pushed to one side to make room for a modern laptop, showing the blend of old and new.

Unique artifacts are nestled among the books: a vintage globe, a brass telescope, and curious trinkets like skulls and antique scissors, each with its own untold backstory. The space is a sanctuary of knowledge, history, and personal quirks, inviting you to explore its depths, both literary and personal.

As Julia completed a graceful pirouette, her arms outstretched to present the room, her eyes met theirs with a spark of shared understanding. "This is where the magic happens," she declared, her smile as genuine as the passion that clearly fueled her pursuit of knowledge. The invitation was clear, and the Winchesters stepped into her world, ready to be enchanted by the magic of her making.

The effervescent joy Julia exuded was infectious, and Dean found himself basking in a reflected glow of happiness as he watched her navigate the room. He leaned against the doorway, observing her as she gathered an armful of papers and books, her movements a dance of efficiency amid the charming chaos. With a deft hand, she rehomed the collected clutter atop another table already brimming with the weight of research.

"Here," she sang out, her voice carrying the lightness of a melody, as she flitted from one end of the room to the other, her presence transforming the space into something ethereal. She was like a sprite in her own domain, orchestrating the energy of the room with every sweep of her arm.

Sam and Dean approached the cleared chairs with a hint of hesitation, not wanting to disturb the artful disorder of her workspace. They settled into the seats, and Julia paused in her bustling, resting a hand on the back of Dean's chair. For a moment, she stood still, lost in thought, and Dean found himself enveloped in the subtle scent that clung to her—pistachio, perhaps, and something sweetly salted, like caramel. It was warm and inviting, and his heart thrummed a little faster in his chest as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Julia's contemplative silence broke, and she turned her gaze to meet Sam's, her expression earnest. "I have a lot of material on the Wendigo—notes, theories, patterns. John had me assist him with something else, too," she confided, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "But before I share anything, you have to promise not to tell my dad. He tends to be... overly protective about certain things."

Her eyes lingered on Sam, seeking an assurance of confidentiality, an unspoken pact between them. Dean felt a tug of curiosity, an eagerness to delve into the knowledge she held, and he nodded in silent agreement, keenly aware of the trust she was placing in their hands.

Sam met Julia's earnest gaze, understanding the gravity of her request. He nodded, a silent promise etched into the gesture. "You have our word, Julia. Whatever you share with us stays between us," Sam assured her, his tone underscored with the seriousness of a sworn oath.

Dean, who had been momentarily caught in the sensory spell of Julia's presence, now anchored himself in the moment, the importance of her trust not lost on him. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking with hers, reinforcing the vow. "We've kept secrets bigger than a bunker," he said, a soft, conspiratorial edge to his voice. "Your research is safe with us."

Julia, seemingly satisfied with their assurance, pulled a deep breath before she began, her eyes momentarily flitting to the ceiling as if gathering the threads of her thoughts. "Okay," she started, her voice now a hushed whisper, "John and I were looking into some lore—old, obscure stuff, not just your run-of-the-mill monster tales. It's about something much older, something he was tracking long before the Wendigo."

The room seemed to hold its breath as Julia spoke, the brothers leaning in, captivated by the prelude to secrets yet untold. The promise they had made bound them to this space, to the words that were about to unfold, weaving them into the fabric of Julia's clandestine work.

With the silence of one well-versed in the quietude of libraries, Julia drifted towards the bay window, her figure briefly silhouetted against the gentle light. She took a swift left into a nook, where a ceiling-high cupboard was nestled like a secret chamber within the room. Sam and Dean sat in anticipation, their ears tuned to the soft hum of her tune, punctuated by the rustle of papers as she rummaged within the cupboard's depths.

The cupboard doors clicked shut, and Julia returned to the table, her arms wrapped around a thick brown accordion folder that seemed to challenge her with its heft. With careful steps, she approached, placing the folder on the table before sliding into the last remaining chair—inevitably, the one next to Dean.

As she scooted her chair in, the proximity brought a subtle contact; her knee brushed against Dean's, a fleeting touch that sent a heightened awareness coursing through him. Julia opened the folder with a sense of ceremony, unleashing a cascade of notebooks and papers, each leaf carrying the weight of diligent inquiry.

Sam immediately delved into one of the notebooks, his eyes scanning the bubbly script and the stark sketches that accompanied the text. Dean, however, remained focused on Julia, his curiosity piqued not just by the research but by the researcher herself.

"So, what was it my dad had you digging into?" Dean inquired, his voice low and earnest, inviting confidence.

Julia's gaze lifted to meet his, a current of intensity passing between them. "A demon," she began, her voice barely above a murmur, as if the very word might invoke the creature's attention. Her eyes flicked to Sam's, ensuring she had both brothers' undivided attention, before she continued, "The Yellow-Eyed Demon."

To be continued . . .

Chapter Two

#supernatural #dean winchester #sam and dean #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #spn #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x oc #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural imagine #sam winchester #supernatural fic #supernatural season 1 #dean winchester imagine

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agentnatesewell · 4 months

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tremendous tasks, dear friends

the wayhaven chronicles | barbara robertson (f!detective) / nate sewell / mason + family (lucas daniels) | 5k words | rated G

happy holidays to @delucadarling on this twelfth night and epiphany eve! i have simply fallen in love with barbie and had such a wonderful time writing for her for the @wayhavensecretsanta

.🎄.

Within the forested woods surrounding a deceptively inconspicuous town, one brimming with holiday cheer and festive wishes, bustling with last-minute preparations of a yuletide celebration for humans and supernaturals alike, sits a dilapidated building. A relic of a time ago, thought abandoned and unbothered, hiding a veiled mansion beyond its crumbling facade.

In this warehouse, now as familiar as home, Barbara Robertson - detective or agent depending on when and who one asks - sits in the center of the living room elegantly dressed for the season. One last task, a final check-in, for the next day’s Wayhaven Christmas Fete remains, and her trusted Filofax is set securely nearby, traded for a cup of steaming, glasses-fogging drinking chocolate. Hands warming against the gold rimmed and whimsically painted precious porcelain, she shifts her attention from event planning to listening, intently, of past traditions once forgone and now renewed.

In this living room, now his home, Nathaniel Sewell - agent and acting commanding agent, a temporary promotion until their team leader returns from a self assigned important mission - sits adjacent, on the floor with long legs tucked beneath him; sweeping his hand over carefully laid materials, collected from the nature surrounding them, on the ivory lace-embroidered cloth covered coffee table. He picks out a hard confection from a glass jar in the middle of the table, passes it to her then reminisces, “My earlier days, when I was with my family, during the Advent period before Christmas Day, my brother and I would spend the morning hours collecting what we could on our grounds. Not dissimilar to what we’ve found on our strolls in town and the community garden this autumn.”

Long branches of holly from the gardens, deepest green leaves with sharp, curved edges, clusters of bright, reddest berries; vines of ivy growing along on the outer stone of their home, long stems dense with lined green and white leaves; hardy sprigs of rosemary from their kitchen window garden, fragrant and robust; precious bundles of mistletoe, from the town’s nursery, with pretty pearlescent white berries; and perhaps his most prized possession of the season, from a bespoke shoppe, a singular pear sitting on a bed of gold foil.

“Are you making a wreath,” she inquires, leaning closer to the greenery. Fingers already occupied with proffered candy instinctively seek her pencil, and blindly slide behind her ear, in case there is need to write any pertinent information of this tradition. As she inspects, Barbie notices there isn’t any sort of evergreen present that she’d become accustomed to with modern wreaths, though perhaps Nate had used all he could find to festoon along the fireplace mantle, perhaps all the evergreen in Wayhaven and the surrounding forest.

“A Christmas Bough.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile plays at the corner of his mouth, voice trailing and he falls into a fog of nostalgia, happy memories returning to overshadow those which usually haunt him. As his thoughts fade, Nate chances a glance at Barbie, and he is pulled back into the present. For behind a curling strand of her blond hair, fallen away from her gilded claw clip, peeks a twist of red and white, and the scent of peppermint. The pencil which is usually there in her hand, in peril of becoming her drink stirrer.

“Barbie?”

“Nate?” The abrupt change in his tone, now alarmed, draws Barbie away from her study. She looks up towards him, green eyes peering over her red plaid-rimmed glasses, taking note at how amusement highlights the honeyed hues of his brown eyes, and how he’s closing the already narrow gap between them, brows raised questioningly and silently awaiting permission to come closer.

And it is easy for her to grant him such permission, as Nate is always so careful, comforting, safe, even in this spontaneity, and Barbie is quite curious what it is that has attracted his attention.

The brush of his thumb across her cheek, his fingers curling at her temple and over the shell of her ear prove far more exhilarating than any spice and sugar rush incurred during the holiday season. Nate chuckles, deep and resonating, just as silver bells sing, and he pulls away, his palm open. “You might find that peppermint candy complements the dark chocolate of your beverage far more than your pencil might.”

“What,” Barbie looks at her cup, pencil between the rim and its high handle, and groans. “Oh my god.” Shaking her head, she drops the utensil with a sharp laugh. “Guess I needed this break. Helping Tina organize the Fete at the station this year is keeping me busier than I imagined. Especially with all of,” she waves her hand, “this.”

Nate knows she is referencing her continued training with the Agency and on-call, standby assistance for the Wayhaven Police Department’s local cases - taking a holiday encouraged, always, during their sporadic diners at the local bistro - but does hope she has been enjoying the past week spent transforming their, in his opinion, humble home into a Christmas wonderland so expertly designed, it would rival the most elegant department store displays. And though Adam and, by order, Unit Bravo, had been convinced by Nate’s suggestion of team building exercises, Barbie has been enjoying herself. Excitement casting her in gold and silver radiance, she is even more breathtaking, indulging herself in the season. Dressed in themed ensembles, time made and spent introducing Farah to popcorn tins and Christmas themed movies, baking and icing so many cookies, decorating while singing tunes so delightful, he has been humming them both in tandem and alone.

Regardless, Barbie deserves empathy and understanding, and a second candy cane. “May I say that the Fete has been coming along quite nicely, and will surely be memorable for years to come.”

“You may,” she accepts his compliment, allowing her fingers, nails painted to resemble ribbon tied gift wrap, to just barely glide along his as she accepts the candy. To avoid a repeat of a near miss, Barbie stirs her drinking chocolate with the straight side of the candied stick, inhaling the melding scents as the steam rises and evaporates into the air. “Thank you, Nate.”

Pleasant moment aside, and desperately needing the embarrassing moment aside, Barbie points the candy cane, melting end, at the table. “Tell me about your Christmas Bough. I thought it was called a Kissing Bough?”

Nate nods. “You’re correct. Formally, these were called Christmas Boughs, and traditionally, Kissing Boughs. Every year, from when we could carry in ash wood or willow wood branches, our bough would adorn the doorway to our drawing room, welcoming our guests for the many parties held during the twelve days post Christmas. Usually family, many cousins, family friends.”

Barbie places her cup on the table, resting her elbow on the edge, listening intently once more. The cadence of his voice again melodic, a nostalgic recitation in celebration of a life passed instead of a sorrow of a life lost.

“One modern convenience this year.” Nate points to a neat stack of green craft wire, set opposite of the shining pear. “Bending curved tree branches into circles is much easier these days, but I would like to focus more on this particular foliage”

“Do they hold any meaning?” She asks, knowing too well that rarely does Nate take on a task casually.

“Holly,” Nate works as he speaks, nimble hands still familiar with the process from centuries ago, tying the branches together with the wire, a blur of green and red repeating until creating a circle. “Everlasting life.”

The irony is not lost on Barbie. By how Nate blinks his eyes, an attempt to keep them clear, she knows it’s not lost on him, either. But then he clears his throat, shapes his mouth back into a smile, and transfers the rest of the holly branches and half of the wire to the space in front of her. An offer to join him, and she obliges; observing and enamored by his hands, mirroring his motions to create a second circle.

“Ivy,” Nate continues, “dependence and endurance. Rosemary, remembrance.” Running the tip of a finger along the leaves, breathing in the released fragrance, he takes a deep breath. Another breath.

As silence grows, the bough making process is acknowledged as a memorial by them both. When her half is complete and returned to him, Barbie lays a hand on Nate’s shoulder. Immediately, she feels him relax, and this time the deep breath is an exhalation. When he turns to her, his smile is genuine, grateful for her grace. “Thank you. My apologies, for my sentimentality.”

“What about the mistletoe?” She squeezes his shoulder, and hopes the question cheers him up.

“Ah, mistletoe.” Nate lifts a bundle for himself, a second one for Barbie. She keeps it for herself. “A good luck charm. One could, during the celebratory period, greet their guests or each other for a kiss. A suitor could kiss the one they wished to court, on the cheek, and we did make sure all parties were in accordance. All would hope to be kissed, lest they endure the bad luck of being left out. There was a limit, as with every kiss, a berry would be picked. When all was gone, the kissing ceased.” He chuckles, picking a single spray which had fallen out of place. “Milton’s pockets would be full by night’s end, as he was rather outgoing and effortlessly charming.”

Barbie plucks a gem-like berry to roll between her fingers, twisting her lips as her gaze shifts towards Nate, finding he has done the same. It comes as a surprise to them both, a happy and quite welcome surprise, when Barbie closes the space between, kissing Nate’s cheek. Drawing away, she puts the berry in his palm. “There, now you have one, too.”

Behind a second, cordial-ish, exchange, through the doorway of this living room which has yet to bear the meaningful ornament of greeting, shaking bruising snowflakes off the jacket he’s worn during his overnight patrol of the town - stubborn to accept the order to dress weather-appropriately from their temporary leader, until an approving hum from Barbie, he will keep to himself that he did not mind the shearling-lined leather moto jacket that kept him from freezing - Mason grimaces at the warm welcome of glittering ornaments, the droning and inescapable music repeating too many damn times, and the strong and tangled scents of cassis, eucalyptus, white musk, and pine.

Thick blankets of snow keep him from his reprieve on the rooftop, and if it was any other season besides one that compels humans to decorate their homes with garish and gaudy blinking lights, corral them into the streets to sing in groups, he would volunteer to take the next patrol. But it isn’t wholly terrible, though. In the living room he can wait for Barbie to tie up any loose-ends, as she’d called them, with her next-day festival preparation; maybe Nate will help her, and Mason can retreat to the quietest and dimmest corner of the room to look out the window and watch the hidden parts of the forest, untouched by merry well-wishers.

Her voice cuts through his annoyance, happier he knows but unsure how to tell. She sounds like she did the other day as he watched her hang monogrammed stockings over the fireplace, Nate explaining some change, some rise and fall in her sound, more cheerful. When he hears Barbie laugh, the tension in his body fades, and the abrasive reminders of the season taunting his senses fall into the background. Mason sheds his coat, rubbing his hands over his arms to avoid losing too much heat too fast, and follows a conversation to the middle of the room, in front of the couch and on the floor.

Too far to perch on the arm of the velvet armchair, where he’s most comfortable when Barbie is around, he instead sits on the edge of the coffee table, angling away from the herbs and plants invading his senses. Any other time the seemingly innocuous rosemary would have him retreating, but she turns to him. And Barbie is fucking - glowing. Mason blinks, wondering if his retinas are taking longer to heal from the morning’s snow glare than usual. Still glowing with a pink tint to her cheeks, and damnit if that halo around her doesn’t make him think of that angel on top of their second Christmas tree, and damnit that he’s lost the cool edge to his entrance.

“Elf got your tongue, sunshine?” Barbie asks, smoothest he’s ever seen her, at least with a candy cane between her teeth.

In his periphery, Mason spots a small bundle of leaves and the plant is easily identifiable. Cheap, plastic replicas in abundance at the previous night’s party in some sort of garden dome when he’d walked through the park on his route. He swipes a sprig and twirls it, answering, “Wouldn’t mind you catching my ton-”

“Hello, Mason,” Nate sighs, tying what is left of the mistletoe together. “How was your patrol?”

Giggling teenagers and metal scraping at the ice rink and the entire town smells of vanilla, chocolate and sugar, that flashing robotic Santa waving in the air are all enough to keep anything interesting from happening; too chaotic to focus any magic, too much of a headache to get up to any trouble. Mason shrugs, “Same old.”

Settled, finally giving notice to whatever Nate and Barbie are actually doing, Mason juts his chin in the direction of the circles of holly. “You aren’t done decorating this place yet?”

“It’s a Kissing bough,” Barbie explains, rising to her knees to meet Mason. Nate subtly coughs the alternative ‘Christmas bough’, likely as a means to keep the atmosphere light and less hot, less heavy - wholesome! “When you’re under, you give a kiss, and get a reward.” She leans in, one hand on his thigh and he grins, arm slinking around her waist, ready for a knock-her-tights-off kind of kiss. But instead of her mouth, his is met with a waxy, tasteless and not sticky clump of berries. “It’s not up yet, Mason.” Smiling, having amused herself, she sits at the coffee table once more, awaiting Nate’s next instruction.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you would like to thread this wire through the pear.” Nate knows he is pushing Mason’s good will and willingness to participate in any more decorating, yet persists with his inclusion. “This should be our final project.”

“Wait! One more!”

From a flash of purple and a cloud of glitzing gingerbread scents and mirth, attention is captured towards the fir and cedar garlanded mantle in this living room, and standing between a cozy, crackling fire and the main Christmas tree, eight feet all and so elegantly adorned, skirt at the base holding exquisitely wrapped gifts, is Farah Hauville - home from one last visit to the Christmas Tree Lot at the edge of town for the season before taking over agent patrol for the rest of the day - standing atilt, resting an elbow on the top branch of a small, a quite small pine tree.

Amber eyes sparkling with triumph, Farah sweeps her hand out in an arc, resting it on her hip. “Ta da! What do you all think? Natey, Barbie? Mason.”

Not just quite small, the tree is rather sparse. Uneven weight distribution, inconsistent branch thickness and needle distribution - some thick with vibrant needles while others rather pale and almost white, some with just tufts at the end. A lone pinecone sits towards the base, and there may have been a debate if the bird’s nest fell or broke apart.

Nate stands, stepping slowly and surely to the tree, mind whirling as he thinks of how to express his thoughts; keep Farah from being crestfallen, express his gratitude for her enthusiasm, how to hide the tree in plain sight and preferably outside. “Certainly a unique tree,” he manages, “though, I do wonder if it would be better suited in the hallway. Could be set in an urn outside of your bedroom door and we can bedeck after your shift - wrap a strand of fairy lights, drape tinsel, use the rest of the ribbon.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Farah replies, bouncing, “This tree has been in that lot since it opened, and no one has given it a chance! A second look! I know it’s not pretty, it doesn’t match the other trees we brought home. It’s not perfect,” Farah flails her arms, pointing to the three other trees in the room that could have been portraits in a magazine. “But it deserves love, doesn’t it? Like the great philosopher, Linus, said.”

“Linus? I’m not familiar with their work.” Nate pokes at a dull needle with this index finger. “Unless you mean Linus of Thrace, the musician.”

Barbie soon joins, shadowed by Mason, and circles the tree to study it. “‘Charlie Brown Christmas’. Farah and I watched while you read ‘The Gift of the Magi’.”

“You were even playing the song the next day,” Farah remarks, miming him at the piano. He nods in response, fingertips brushing along the edge of a healthier branch. She continues her plea, turning to throw her arms out, wide and dramatic, and quotes, “‘I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It’s not bad at all. Maybe it just needs a little love.’”

“Farah,” Nate rubs the back of his neck, knowing she’d likely practiced her speech during her last few patrols about town. The tree truly does not fit in with the well planned out, specific aesthetic of the room but he is moved by her effort, her passion. “I can promise to find space for it. In here.”

To the great shock of everyone, Mason grabs a smooth, circular red ornament from the main tree, fixes it to a sagging branch on the new addition. He comments before Nate can protest, “I like it. It’s irregular, obviously intended by nature to be so. Has character. Leave it where it is, at least it’ll be something interesting to look at.”

Barbie stops pacing, following Mason’s lead, with a green ornament she hangs on an opposite, slightly lighter branch. Just a little trimming, tinsel and lights and ribbon, and this tree could truly be special. One of a kind. Its own new tradition.

It gives her an idea.

Leaving the others to discuss re-arrangement, Barbie walks back to sit on an empty space of the coffee table to consult the ‘CF’ section of her Filofax. A layout of the main room of the Christmas Fete is centered by a hallway length runner rug with tables at either side for Haley’s hot cocoa and treats station, beginning at an entry arch and a dais at its end. On the side of the page, the cast. Elves - Len’s kid and Douglas, Mrs. Claus - Tina, Santa Claus - Lucas, making his debut.

Lucas, her beloved brother and subject of her final, most important task - confirming his, and Adam’s, flight details and estimated arrival. Barbie checks the time, and tapping her phone screen she notes alerts from his airline. Five minute delay, ten minute delay, confirmation of arrival, a text from him.

Another hour or two from the city, and Barbie and Lucas will be reunited after far too long apart - and she can hardly wait! Smiling to herself, singing to herself that song from their childhood Christmas pageant, Barbie pencils in a small tree in the space between Mrs. and Santa Claus. She calls to the group, asking Farah, “Could you bring this Charlie Brown Tree to the Fete tomorrow? It’s just the right size, wouldn’t be in Lucas and Tina’s way. Added bonus, the people in town seeing what they missed out on, how a little love goes a long way.”

Nate places a hand to his chest, mouthing a ‘thank you’ to Barbie. Farah claps hers in excitement. “It would be an honor! I’m going to get Nate’s decoration box and get this little guy ready for the show! I’ll drop it off at the station.” Taking a hold of the tree at its base, Farah lifts it like a piece of paper and runs off and out of the room. And it is a testament to Nate’s reflexes and agility that he catches the two ornaments shaken off, and returns them to their home.

A ring of Barbie’s phone interrupts the calm in Farah’s wake.

Video call, her mirror image on the screen and Barbie gives her glasses a quick adjustment before swiping her finger across the glass to answer.

“Ho, ho, ho!” A voice bellows, and there is a grinning Lucas, dark brown hair expertly mussed under the brim of his vintage, thrift-shop treasure, red flannel and white wool Santa Hat. “Merry Christmas!”

Barbie waves, laughing, widening the camera view to show off the living room, then back to her. Nate greets Lucas, unsure where to stand and if he can even see him, moves to lean over Barbie’s shoulder where the pocket of his brown leather jacket fills the display. His own cellular phone rings and he excuses himself to answer. Mason shakes his head, and, arms folded, walks to settle on the edge of the couch.

Back to Lucas, and now Barbie spots a twinkling flash against the red of his hat, one more, behind him white snow flurrying and thickening with each passing second. His voice muffled, harsh streaks of wind silencing him, though she can pick up the unmistakable and clear, deep accent of Adam Du Mortain, calm and authoritative.

There is a leaden, sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Snow squall,” she finally hears, and when did Lucas move? Blurred behind the camera lens, he has found shelter inside the doors of the airport. Fellow travelers behind him converge into small groups, collective voices rising in confusion and frustration relaying the news to their loved ones. Airplanes had been taking off and landing, no imminent threat of weather. “Barbie, roads are closed, don’t know when they’ll open. Promise I’ll be home as soon as I can, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make the Fete tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay,” she answers, nodding, glancing around the room to find Nate speaking animatedly and Mason watching snow swirling outside. “Just stay safe, Luke, alright? Keep me updated. Is Adam with you?”

“Ordering the weather to behave,” he chuckles, attempting to keep her spirits from crashing. “Look, Barbie, I’m sorry.”

Trying to formulate a plan, alternatives and logistics, how to inform Tina, Barbie doesn’t respond until she hears her name again. She shakes her head, “It’s alright. Take your time. We will figure this out. Don’t do anything hasty or dangerous, you need to come home in one piece.” Barbie looks at the screen again, zoom tighter on Lucas, notices the same plush red and fluffy white at his shoulders. “Are you wearing your Santa costume?”

“If you’re going to travel for the holidays, you’ve got to travel in style and make a big entrance. Besides, someone has to spread holiday cheer amongst the masses.”

“Keep them distracted and don’t have too much fun. Again, stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon.”

As she ends the call, Barbie consults her Filofax, searching for an answer. Surely, she wrote up a back-up plan for Santa, Mrs. Claus, and the Elves, and she did but Sung committed to the community Christmas Feast. She turns to a blank page, scribbles thoughts - Surely, Adam will take care of Lucas. Surely, Mrs. Claus could take the place of her husband, saying he needs a head start on his journey, the children could video-chat with him.

“Barbie,” Nate’s voice is as understanding and gentle as his gait, taking a seat next to her, patting her back with a touch so light it does not register. He finds Mason, raising his brows and tilting his head and in seconds, Mason stands before them. “I spoke with Adam. Unexpected change of weather a few miles northwest of the city, might be due to magic gone awry, and does not appear to be malicious. Unit Golf has been dispatched to secure the situation, and Adam will be working with them. Bravo is on standby, but he feels this should be contained without our intervention.”

Mason shrugs, Barbie is still writing in her organizer.

Turning towards her, Nate’s smile is encouraging, “Now, you are in need of a Saint Nicholas for your Christmas Fete tomorrow. Do you have Lucas’ costume? He and I are of similar build and height, and I would be glad to stand in for him.”

Barbie, facial muscles finally moving and her mouth falling into an unintentionally pretty pout, unlocks her phone, finds her text messages, and brings up a picture to show him, then Mason. Lucas, mid-laugh, Santa hat flopping to the side, Santa jacket open with a white shirt underneath, Santa trousers on underneath, standing with a not so stiff shouldered, slightly amused Adam in the midst of white and colored glistering lights. “Spreading so much cheer that he performed a holiday miracle, making Adam smile.”

Mason, concerned with the pallor of her skin and the dullness in her eyes, crouches down and pats his pockets, where his now banished cigarettes were once stored - to prevent a fire hazard in this room of shimmering, glimmering potential kindling - pulls out a package, a monstrosity, a little cake shaped like an evergreen tree, an emergency treat purchased at the convenience store. Smushed, and he decides there is no way he will let her raise her blood sugar with something that tastes like plastic. “Eat something if you’re going into figuring-out mode. Maybe not this, I’ll get you something that doesn’t look like reindeer vomit.”

Nate, rubbing his bottom lip with this thumb, remembers the prior year’s Christmas celebrations. A truly magical time in this already magical town, every year healing from the tragedies at the start of their permanent tenure. He recalls a certain gentleman, an embodiment of the legend and a hero to each child, reading their name from a scroll and making them believe to be the most special. “Mr. Rockwell. He was treasured, and enjoyed the role.”

“Retired. Out of town to visit his new grandchild.” Barbie taps her pencil against the cover of her Filofax. Nate’s mention of the Santa Claus of the past decade, of his generosity and love, his joy infectious, reminds her of a conversation - between Mr. Rockwell and his wife, Lucas and Tina, and her. A transition of tradition.

“Wait.” Her eyes open wide, sparkling once more with another idea. “We are brilliant! Mr. Rockwell left us his suit, even though it was too short for Lucas, something about keeping the Christmas spirit. It should still be at the station, I’ll call Tina to confirm.”

Once more in the middle of this living room, Mason returns to see two faces look at him expectantly, and though there is some he does not understand, he understands the faces of two schemers. Especially one who has talked him into decorating more than he ever thought he would in eternity, and one he would do just about any damn thing for. He shoves the cookie, on a napkin to avoid another lecture by Nate, towards Barbie. “Eat this. And what do you both want?”

“Tina said the Santa costume is at the station, and she’s running a lint roller over it to get rid of any dust. You’re about Mr. Rockwell’s height -”

“No.”

Nate makes a second attempt, honeyed words pleading, “for no more than two hours. It would mean so much to this town that has become our home. It would mean -”

“I’m not dealing with any little brat screaming in my ears about some presents.”

“It would mean a lot to me,” Barbie finishes for Nate, flatly. “We will keep the kids calm, Nate and Farah will entertain them. Tina will talk to them, and you can just check their names against a roster and repeat their wish. Then take a picture with them.”

“Nope. Besides, we’re supposed to be in the shadows.”

Nate nods, acknowledging that Mason is correct. The accessories, such as the full, white beard, may be uncomfortable for him, as well as the inevitable sounds which come with the excitement of children. It may not be such a fair ask, and there may be some other possibilities. “Babs, there may be some adjustments I can have made to the suit, to accompany the length of my arms and legs. The tailor in town, I am sure, is quite busy. I can, however, make a request with ours at the Agency.”

An attempt to speak comes out as a squeak, and Barbie throws her arms around Nate’s shoulders in a hug. “Thank you, Nate. Really. We should go now, and get to your tailor as soon as possible.”

Mason, silver eyes sharp and observant, regards Barbie and he guesses she’s relieved, with the sharp exhale of breath, taking a bite of the cookie and writing down some last notes. There is an errant thump in his chest, and he rubs his palm against it. Then regards Nate, also exhaling a breath, longer, and his hands slide into his pockets, their refuge.

And damnit, her smile is making his jaw tingle, and he stretches it to alleviate that sensation. Damnit, she is so fucking beautiful like this, merry and jovial. And, groaning, Mason drags his hand down his face, wrapping his fingers behind his neck.

He thinks he might regret this for eternity, but then figures that being able to do what Nate is doing, make her glow like that again, so ecstatic? Maybe that’ll make an afternoon of misery worth everything.

“Wait,” he reaches, finding Barbie’s hand, and pulls them both up. “You just have to promise to stay near me, alright, sweetheart?”

Barbie’s mouth falls open, and she truly is stunned, frozen in place as she processes his answer. She then grins, thanking him with a kiss to his cheek. “You got it, Santa.”

In the midst of hazing lights, luminous trees and the rising dawn of the Eve, there is a stir. In this living room, under a bough and honoring the custom of the mistletoe, a couple hushes each other between deep kisses and berry extraction. His senses are heightened once more, and he grumbles an announcement of visitors. She spies past the door and wishes, one small wish, that he will appear.

And to her delight, they are not just any visitors.

The commanding agent will claim this a completed, successful mission, but with a hearty and robust, “Merry Christmal to all!”, Lucas will say that with a little magic, he fulfilled his Christmas promise.

fin.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc fanfic #wayhavensecretsanta #nate sewell #twc mason #mar writes twc

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