#- same way. you wish you felt that not that you had it

[no-blastbeat-no-applause]

A little while ago I wrote a little something about that. I just finished translating it into english. Here are my thoughts:

Wimp

Thoughts on the patriarchy and why this crap sucks for men too

Queen Energy

I mindlessly let Instagram videos wash over my mind. A sketch wakes me from my pleasant torpor:

A woman dressed in a negligee talks to her husband. She orders him to have sex with her immediately. He says he is tired, he has just come home from work. He doesn't feel like it either. She is not interested. She becomes more direct and aggressive in her statements and demands. All of this culminates in her forcibly shoving a cookie into his mouth, repeating her order and expectantly marching off towards the bedroom.

The comment column is rolling with laughter, congratulates the woman and agrees with her demands. The comments reads something like:

"Her story, her rules, her empire." "Queen energy! This is the vibe we all need!" "Taking what's hers like it was always meant to be"

She should take what she needs; her husband should be a real guy and get it for his wife if and when she wants it.

So the point is: he's a wimp if he doesn't put himself and his needs first. He's not a real man because he doesn't jump when his wife is in the mood.

Let's imagine the gender roles reversed. A man comes home and tells his wife to wait for him naked in the bedroom because he wants to have sex. Regardless of her wishes and desires. Most people would find this behavior unacceptable. And rightly so.

Here though, sexual harassment is portrayed as a joke. Neither the producers nor the recipients seem to be fazed by this.

Such scenes suggest that men always have to be ready and willing. This stereotypical expectation completely ignores the fact that men are also people with boundaries who want to say "yes" or "no". However, in our society - as the comments column impressively shows - they are often denied this choice. Men are not even given the opportunity to prioritize their own wishes because their "yes" is taken for granted. If they do try to set boundaries, they are met with a lack of understanding, rejection, ridicule or even violence. This creates a burden that is subtle but always present.

The video and its comments make fun of a man whose freedom of choice over his own body has been taken away, making him yet another victim of patriarchy and toxic masculinity.

First naked and then alone in the corridor

I was 12 when my mother drove me and my ten-year-old sister to our pediatrician. Everything started as business as usual. The doctor asked us general questions, she took our blood pressure and did what doctors do.

Then something happened that I still remember vividly today. As a burgeoning teenager, I had to get naked from the wais down and lie down on a couch to be examined. My mother and sister both stayed in the room. I was embarrassed. I found it downright agonizing.

The doctor plucked at my penis for several minutes. I didn't know where to look. My face turned bright red and my hands got wet. I was suddenly terribly aware of how my kneecaps felt under my skin.

Then it was finally over.

But now it became particularly irritating: it was my sister's turn. She was facing something similar - with one important difference. I was asked to leave.

Don't get me wrong, I had no interest in participating in my sister's gynecological exam. I just wished that the same consideration had been given to me, a little boy.

My feelings were not ignored, no. No one here had even bothered to take an interest in whether I had any. I was treated with the same respect as the couch in the treatment room. The question of my dignity was about as important as that of the desk.

But that was nothing new for a 12-year-old. After all, I learned to swallow my feelings before I even started elementary school.

"Are you a man or a mouse"?

Of course I'm a man, I'm already four! I suppress every feeling that my environment deems too much or inappropriate.

I've learned that „Indians don't cry.“* Neither do boys. I'm not supposed to make such a fuss and pull myself together.

It eats into your brain. It stays. For almost 40 years and it's still there.

How my tongue got bitten

My aunt was celebrating her sixtieth birthday. The whole thing ended in her favorite pub. We danced, sang, drank and enjoyed ourselves. I chatted with old acquaintances on the edge of the dance floor.

Suddenly, a woman snuck up on me. She started to dance at me aggressively. I found it quite flattering at first. The stranger danced very closely with me, focusing only on me. She made me feel wanted.

But after a while I became uncomfortable. She took it for granted that I would return her advances. She waited for me in front of the toilet. She gave me no opportunity to move without her. She put her arms around me and kissed me on the dance floor.

I didn't want to be seen like this by my family. It was impossible to talk to my friends, my aunt was at the other end of the pub. I told the stranger that I wanted to talk to my family, but she wouldn't let go of me. I spoke to friends, but she pushed her way in.

I could have said "No!" at any time, walked away and enjoyed my evening, sure. But I have internalized the lessons of my youth: my feelings are not important and I have to make my body available, regardless of my own wishes.

I only plucked up the courage to tear myself away when the stranger bit my tongue painfully, because: I didn't kiss her the way she wanted me to.

But even then, at the end of the night, my "No, I don't want that anymore" was met with a complete lack of understanding. She was offended that I was not responding to her wishes. She had never cared about my consensus or my needs.

I was now in a similar role to the man in the sketch: my feelings were put on the back burner in order to offer a woman what she wanted at that moment.

Neither the lady in the sketch nor the stranger at the pub inquired about the wishes of the men in question. None of them asked for consensus. None of them took what they were explicitly told seriously, because they, like all of us, have internalized these toxic patterns of thought and behaviour.

As a farewell, I got a contemptuous "wimp" shouted after me.

And why all this?

I am well aware that the people who suffer most from patriarchy are, of course, those who do not appear traditionally male to society. Women, intersex and trans people, all non-cis-hetero men, should by no means be ignored here. My perspective, however, is that of a cis-het man.

We men are taught that our feelings are not important. We have to be tough and endure instead of being vulnerable and talking openly about our needs. Our bodies are common property. We learn to accept assault and laugh it off.

• The woman in the negligee wants sex? Then go ahead! No matter what the man wants.

• The boy is ashamed to be looked at naked by three women? He shouldn't behave like that!

• A stranger decides you're her plaything this night? Fuck your wishes and your family!

If we don't conform to the norms, we are wimps. We are considered unmanly. We're not real guys.

We need to recognize the harmful influence of sexism on men.

While patriarchy generally privileges men, it also subjects us to restrictive gender roles that harm us.

Even those who are considered the most powerful in the patriarchal hierarchy suffer from it.

The supposed masters turn themselves into the oppressed.

Toxic masculinity harms us and everyone around us.

Sometimes I do wonder if men actually get sexually assaulted and abused at a similar rate that women do but a lot of them just don’t know that’s what’s happening to them

[surielstea]

Embers Entwined

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader was one of the most affected by Beron’s rule, after his death Eris was crowned High Lord and Reader became his personal servant by extension, what happens when she begins to recognize Eris for his kindness and not his cruelty?

Warnings: Beron being a right asshole as usual, and some kissing (*gasp* the scandal!)

A.Note: Sorry it’s been forever!! This one took me awhile but I’m pretty happy with it. Hope you guys enjoy too! Some Azriel smut coming out in a few days also! 💋💋

Word count: 7.9k

The ball was decadent, far grander than in previous years, though I supposed tonight warranted the excess. A special occasion, one that carried far more meaning than the usual frivolous gatherings meant only to remind the rich of their own wealth.

Tonight, the Autumn Court celebrated the coronation of Eris Vanserra. More importantly to me, we celebrated Beron's death.

I would never say such a thing aloud, never give voice to the hatred that simmered in my veins. But I knew I was not alone in my sentiments. Most despised that wretched male—just not enough to ever act against him. Beron had been cruel, but only to those within his grasp. His wife. His sons. His staff. Me, in particular—his personal courtier.

It had been my duty to obey him without question, to smile and nod and endure, no matter what vile thing he asked of me. The words he'd spoken to me, the way he'd toyed with me, broken me, forced me into submission—I would never find peace after him. I knew that.

I stood against the wall of the ballroom, my hands clasped in front of me, a pleasant, vacant smile painted on my lips. The same as always. My black dress marked me as staff, distinguishing me from the nobles twirling beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers. It wasn't an ugly dress—not physically—but the symbolism it carried made my stomach churn.

I was meant to be invisible. To stand for hours, heels biting into my feet, lips aching from feigned delight, waiting. Always waiting for the High Lord's command. That was my place.

But tonight, for the first time at an event like this, someone spoke to me. Not just someone. The newly crowned High Lord.

"Do you not wish to dance?"

His voice was smoother than I expected, rich and effortless, as though the words required no thought. When I turned my head, Eris Vanserra stood before me, resplendent in his deep forest green attire, gold-threaded embroidery glinting beneath the chandeliers. Rings adorned his fingers, catching the light as he gestured vaguely toward the center of the ballroom.

I had known Eris Vanserra since I was a girl—back when my father served as Beron's personal courtier and I trained under him, shadowing his every move. In those early years, Eris and I spent countless hours in the kennels, where I had been sent to feed the hounds, and he had sought my company. Even then, I knew better than to refuse a Vanserra. But it hadn't felt like an order. Not when he spoke so passionately about his dogs, his amber eyes alight with something rare and unguarded.

I had listened, quietly captivated, as he ran his hands through thick fur, naming each hound like they were something precious, something his father could not tarnish. And though I rarely spoke, I knew he never minded.

But time had a way of reshaping things. Our duties grew heavier, our paths diverged, and whatever thread had once tied us together frayed beneath the weight of expectation. I often wondered if he remembered—the girl who once sat beside him in the straw-covered kennels, listening in rapt silence as he spoke of things he loved. Or if I had faded into nothing more than a ghost of his childhood, long forgotten.

I snapped back to the present when I realized my hesitation, startled by his presence, by his question. By him.

I glanced at him only briefly before averting my gaze. I had long since learned better than to expect kindness from the Vanserras, Eris or not. "I'm working, my lord," I answered smoothly, forcing the usual mask into place. "Besides, the late Lord Beron was always particular about the servantry enjoying themselves at these sorts of things."

A flicker of something crossed Eris's face at my words. Perhaps it was amusement, perhaps something else. I wasn't certain. Then, he did something I never would have expected. He extended his hand to me, palm up. A silent command. I stared at it, my heart stuttering.

Was this a trick? A test? Was he waiting for me to disobey so he could remind me of my place? "Well," he mused, tilting his head, "I'm not Beron, am I?"

I swallowed thickly, but I did not take his hand. His amber eyes gleamed as he studied me, something unreadable lurking beneath their molten depths. "You were my father's personal courtier, yes?"

"Correct, my lord."

"And now that he's gone, you're mine." A statement, not a question.

I nodded.

"And you're required to do as I say."

Another nod.

"Then take my hand." His voice was softer now, quieter. "Dance with me." My breath caught in my throat. I hesitated. Was he attempting to humiliate me?

I had seen what his brothers were capable of, how they had reveled in Beron's cruelty, how they had wielded it against others for their own entertainment. I had heard the stories about Eris—his ruthlessness, his ambition, his callous disregard for those beneath him. I had no reason to believe he was any different.

Yet something about the way he stood there, hand still outstretched, gaze unwavering, made my stomach tighten. He wasn't forcing me. He wasn't demanding. He was patient. I hated him for that. For making me doubt my own certainty.

But in the end, I had no choice. With a deep inhale, I placed my hand in his. His fingers curled around mine—warm, steady. Not gripping. But I knew better than to believe in illusions.

Eris Vanserra was his father's son. And I would never trust him.

The moment my hand settled in his, a hush seemed to fall over the space around us—not total silence, but a ripple in the atmosphere, a shift in attention that pressed against my skin like a physical thing.

They were watching. The nobles, the courtiers, the sycophants who had spent years learning to fear and obey Beron, and by extension, his eldest son. They watched, likely waiting for me to make a mistake, waiting to see what game Eris Vanserra was playing.

I was waiting, too. But if this was some cruel trick, he did not let it show.

Eris led me toward the dance floor with unhurried ease, his grip firm but not forceful. A reminder, perhaps, that I was following him willingly. I didn't know what unsettled me more—that he had given me a real choice, or that, despite knowing better, a part of me wanted to believe he truly meant no harm.

The moment we stepped onto the floor, the nearest dancers shifted subtly away, giving us space without making it obvious. No one wanted to be caught in the High Lord's wake, in whatever he was planning.

He turned to face me, releasing my hand only to settle one warm palm against my waist, the other clasping mine once more. I stiffened beneath his touch, the weight of it burning even through the fabric of my dress.

"Relax," he murmured, amusement curling through his tone. "It's a dance, not an execution."

I forced my muscles to remain neutral, my expression placid, though I could still feel the weight of a hundred gazes searing into me. "That remains to be seen."

His lips curved slightly. "If I wanted to make a spectacle of you, I'd have chosen something far more dramatic." He guided me into movement, a slow, fluid step that I had no choice but to follow. "But I much prefer this."

I nearly scoffed, but reeled in my tone, replacing it with a polite one. "Dancing?"

His gaze flickered down to mine, something unreadable within it. "Yes," he admitted, voice quieter now. "It's one of the few things I enjoy."

I arched a brow at him, skepticism bleeding into my tone. "Truly?"

"Truly." A small pause, then, "My mother taught me."

His hold on my waist remained steady, his movements effortless as he guided me through the waltz. "She used to say that knowing how to dance was just as important as knowing how to wield a blade. Both would assist me on a battle field."

I couldn't stop the flicker of surprise at his admission. Not because I doubted his mother's wisdom—if anything, I had always pitied the Lady of Autumn, the horrors she must have endured under Beron's rule—but because I had not expected Eris to share something so personal.

And yet, before I could decide how to respond, he added, "It was the one thing Beron couldn't take from me."

I swallowed, focusing on my movements, on the way his body angled just to keep me steady, to keep the dance seamless.

He was watching me closely, I could feel it. I hated that I could feel it.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my voice quieter than before, as if the words might shatter between us.

His lips twitched, though there was something different in his expression now. A quiet sort of challenge. "Because you're expecting me to be my father."

I stiffened.

"I'm not," he continued, tone smooth, unwavering. "And I think you already know that."

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing down the retort that sat at the edge of my tongue. I wanted to deny it.

Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I had no reason to believe him, that I had no reason to trust him. That, after what I had endured, I had no space left in me for blind hope. But I couldn't. Because, for the first time, I allowed myself to see him—not the heir of Beron Vanserra, not the male who had stood by and done nothing while his father ruled with malice, but the High Lord before me now.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous, cunning, and far too quick-witted for his own good. But he was not his father. And as much as I hated it, as much as it made something twist deep in my chest—

He was also undeniably beautiful.

His russet hair gleamed beneath the chandelier light, his sharp, angular features like something carved from fine marble. And those eyes—deep amber, filled with fire and calculation, but not cruelty. Never cruelty. It unnerved me.

I averted my gaze, the pressure in my throat tightening. "I don't know anything."

His fingers flexed slightly against my waist, the only indication that he had caught the tremor in my voice.

"You will," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. A promise.

I did not know whether it was a comfort or a threat. But I did know one thing—

The game, whatever it was, had only just begun.

As the waltz came to an end, Eris's grip on me loosened, but he did not immediately step away. His amber eyes remained locked onto mine, searching, calculating—always calculating.

I did not look away. I refused to.

Even as my heart pounded against my ribs, even as my throat tightened with the weight of memories that clawed at the back of my mind, I held his gaze.

He exhaled softly, something almost amused flickering in his expression before he lifted my hand, his touch lingering just enough to send a sharp jolt of awareness through me.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that sent heat curling in my gut, Eris pressed a kiss to the back of my hand.

A calculated move. A display of power.

And yet—his lips were warm. Gentle.

He let my hand slip from his grasp, stepping back with an air of ease, as though he had not just sent my already-frazzled mind into chaos.

"Thank you for the dance," he murmured, voice like silk and embers.

I said nothing. Because I couldn't. I simply bowed my head and turned away, ignoring the stares, the whispers that followed me as I slipped back into the shadows of the ballroom.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous. And not for the reasons I had always believed.

I had not been able to get him out of my head.

I hated it.

No matter how much I tried to shove the thoughts away—to remind myself of the horrors I had endured under Beron, of the way his sons had stood idly by for years, of the haunting whispers that surrounded Eris himself—I couldn't stop replaying that moment in my mind.

The warmth of his touch. The softness of his voice. The way he had looked at me, not with hatred, not with indifference, but with something else entirely.

It was a trick. Had to be. And yet, I found myself watching him more than I should have.

Every time he called for something, every time I had to be in his presence, I bowed low, just as I had always done for Beron. I kept my voice neutral, my head down, my routine unchanged.

As if nothing had changed at all. As if I had not danced with him. As if his hands had not burned against my skin. As if I had not spent the past few days wondering, against all reason, if perhaps he was not as evil as I had once believed.

I would not let myself believe it. Not when I had learned, time and time again, that kindness was a dangerous illusion.

So when one of the guards found me in the halls, stopping me with a clipped, "The High Lord is requesting you," a cold dread curled in my stomach.

Requesting me. Not a general summons for any courtiers. Not a task that could have been handled by anyone else. Me.

For a moment, I couldn't move. Memories crashed through me—memories of Beron's summons, of being called for with no warning, no explanation. Of standing before him, knowing what was coming but never being able to predict just how bad it would be.

My hands clenched at my sides. I swallowed hard, pushing down the panic, shoving it deep beneath layers of practiced control.

This was not Beron. I knew that. And yet, my body did not.

With carefully measured steps, I made my way to Eris's study, every inch of me wound tight.

My mind whispered warnings, my heart pounded against my ribs. I forced my hands to remain steady as I knocked once, then pushed the heavy wooden door open.

And there he was—seated behind a grand desk, amber eyes lifting to meet mine the second I entered.

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn.

And the male who, for reasons I could not begin to understand, had called for me.

I braced myself, preparing for whatever awaited me next. And prayed that I was not about to be proven a fool.

The door shut behind me with a soft thud, the sound too final, too reminiscent of a past I wanted to claw away from.

I stayed near the entrance, hands clasped in front of me, chin dipped ever so slightly—not meek, but neutral. Just as I had been trained to be.

Eris sat at his desk, one elbow braced on the armrest of his chair, fingers resting against his temple as he watched me. Not impatient. Not cruel. Just watching. Then, with that signature tilt of his head, he asked, "What's your name?"

I blinked. "My name?"

He arched a golden brow, the flickering candlelight making the sharp angles of his face seem all the more severe.

"I'd like to know who to call for to keep my company, so yes, your name."

Company. Was this a game? A test?

I studied him, searching for the trap, but found nothing except expectation.

I told him my name carefully, waiting for the moment his expression would shift, for him to sneer or mock or twist the knowledge into something mean.

But he only smiled slightly, a soft curve of his lips that felt almost out of place on a face like his.

Before I could think better of it, before I could convince myself to stay silent, I blurted, "Have you been lonely, my lord?"

Eris's head tilted further, amusement flashing in his amber eyes.

I stiffened immediately. "Forgive me for asking. That was incredibly impolite. I'm so—"

"I have." He cut me off smoothly, his voice quieter now, but no less firm.

I swallowed.

"I imagined being High Lord would be quite different," he mused, gaze flickering to the stacks of papers on his desk, the glowing hearth, the empty room around us. "Nevertheless, here we are." He nodded as if conceding something to himself.

My lips parted slightly, but I had nothing to say to that. Nothing that wouldn't cross a line I was still hesitant to even approach.

Instead, I dropped into another practiced bow. "Will that be all, my lord?"

His eyes snapped back to me, something unreadable stirring behind them.

"Eris," he corrected.

I hesitated.

"I am not my father," he said, voice quiet but edged with finality, as if he were daring me to argue. "Nor do I wish to become him. So please, call me Eris."

I nodded slowly. "...Well then, Lord Eris."

"Just Eris, my dear," he corrected again, leaning back slightly. "Like friends."

I didn't know what startled me more—that he wanted me to call him by his name, or that he had referred to me as a friend.

Still, I tried to ignore the warmth curling in my stomach as I forced myself to say, "Eris."

His lips twitched, something satisfied gleaming in his gaze. "Good girl."

The praise sent something unfamiliar down my spine, not in the way it had whenever Beron complimented me... this was different.

"Now come, get comfortable." He gestured toward the plush green chairs adjacent to his desk.

I stared at him. "You want me to sit?"

"Stand, lean, lay, I don't care." He waved a lazy hand. "Just relax."

"My lord—Eris," I corrected, still trying to wrap my mind around the strangeness of this entire interaction. "I don't get paid to... relax."

He smirked. "No, you get paid to follow my orders. And I am ordering you to get comfortable."

I stared at him for a long moment, my heart hammering in my chest as I tried to decipher the true meaning behind all of this.

But I saw no malice in his expression. No cruel intent. Just anticipation.

I swallowed and, slowly, I did as he said. I sat stiffly, hands clasped in my lap, my back straight as if Beron himself was still lurking behind me, waiting to scold me for stepping out of line.

Eris, however, did not acknowledge my rigid posture. He only let out a pleased hum, as if my mere presence was enough to meet whatever unspoken standard he had set for this moment. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he returned his focus to the parchment before him.

The only sounds in the room were the quiet scratching of his quill and the faint crackling of the candlelight.

I should have been grateful for the silence. It was better than savage words, better than commands meant to humiliate me. But instead, an odd tension settled in my chest, as if I were waiting for the real reason he'd called me here to be revealed.

Minutes passed. Then—

"You're staring," Eris murmured without looking up.

I blinked, feeling heat creep up my neck. "I am not."

His lips curved slightly, and he flipped to another parchment. "You are."

"I was merely looking in your direction." It was wrong of me to talk back, but something about him let my tongue a little looser, he didn't seem displeased by it in the slightest.

He hummed, unconvinced, dipping his quill back into ink. "And why, pray tell, were you looking in my direction?"

I hesitated. "...I was thinking."

Amber eyes flicked up from the page. "Dangerous habit."

That small smirk still played on his lips, but something about it was softer than usual, teasing rather than taunting.

I frowned, not ready for this interaction to feel comfortable, for me to feel comfortable. "I don't find it particularly dangerous."

"That's because you've never played with fire." He twirled the quill between his fingers before dragging the tip across the parchment again. "Not the kind that burns."

I scoffed. "You forget who I served before you."

He paused at that, glancing at me fully and my heart rate spiked. Too far, I'd gone too far, just a few words and the walls I built were crumbling before my very eyes.

Something unreadable flickered in his expression, but it was gone before I could place it. Instead, he dipped his head slightly, understanding the point. "Then I imagine you know better than most that fire, when wielded incorrectly, only ever destroys."

I stiffened, his words striking something deep within me.

Is that what I was? A thing destroyed? Is that what he saw when looking at me, or himself?

Eris exhaled, shifting his focus back to his work. "For what it's worth," he murmured, quieter now, "I don't intend to wield it incorrectly."

I studied him carefully, as I had done many times before, searching for the game, for the cruel edge I knew so well from his father.

But there was no trick. Only a High Lord—no, a male—focused on his work, offering me something I had never once been granted in Beron's court.

Peace.

I swallowed, forcing myself to look away, to ignore the unfamiliar warmth creeping into my bones.

Minutes passed again in silence, but this time, it didn't feel quite so heavy.

"I was serious, you know," Eris mused, not bothering to look up as he broke the quiet.

I frowned. "About what?"

"Keeping my company." He flipped to another document, signing something at the bottom. "I'd prefer your presence over my advisors any day. They're old and dull. You, at least, have some spirit."

I scoffed. "I think you are confusing obedience for spirit."

"Oh no, my dear." His lips curved in a knowing smirk. "You and I both know you're anything but obedient."

I bristled, opening my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. "It's alright. I find it... refreshing."

I wasn't sure what unsettled me more—the implication, or the way my stomach twisted at his words. Beron preferred all the servantry to have a fiery spirit, which makes it more fun to break, but he never really could stomp my flames out, and now Eris was sparking the embers. It was dangerous, so dangerous.

Silence fell between us once more.

For a moment, I thought that would be the end of it. That I would sit there, a piece of furniture in this room while he worked, just as I had been in Beron's court.

But then, without looking away from his parchment, Eris murmured, "Tell me something, Fawn."

The way he said that nickname—so deliberate, like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue—sent something sharp down my spine.

"Tell you what?" I asked carefully.

He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled in thought. "Something real."

I hesitated. "That's vague."

"Intentionally so." He arched a brow. "Consider it a challenge."

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he only waited, watching me with that same expectant look, as if he truly wanted to hear something about me.

I exhaled. "I don't like the cold."

His lips twitched. "A courtier of Autumn who doesn't like the cold? Shocking, really." His voice was sarcastic, but something in his eyes told me he knew what I meant.

I shrugged, explaining anyway. "It reminds me of your father." The words left me before I could stop them, before I could think better of them.

Eris didn't flinch, but something in his expression shifted. "I hate the cold, too," he admitted after a beat.

I blinked, caught off guard by his honesty.

He returned his attention to the paper in front of him, but his next words were soft, almost contemplative.

"It's why I keep the fire going."

And despite everything I had come to know about Eris Vanserra—despite everything I feared—those words stayed with me long after I left his study that night.

It became routine.

Every evening, after the day's duties were done, I was summoned to Eris's study. At first, I had thought it was some kind of test, some trick to lull me into a false sense of security before he reminded me of my place. But the days passed, and the cruel words never came. The taunts never sharpened into something harsher.

Instead, I found myself sitting across from him as he worked, the fire crackling between us, filling the silence in ways neither of us felt the need to.

And I was learning things.

Not just about him—but about myself.

I learned that despite being raised under Beron's thumb, Eris did not rule with a hand of iron. He listened—to his advisors, to the reports of the court, to me, even. And when I spoke, he truly listened, as if my words meant something.

More recently I learned that he was—Gods help me���attractive.

That fact had been easy enough to ignore when I hated him, when I thought he was just another Beron in the making. But the more time I spent with him, the more I noticed things I shouldn't—like the sharp angles of his face, the golden hue of his eyes, the way his hands moved across parchment with effortless precision.

It was incredibly inappropriate.

He was a High Lord, for the Gods' sake. I was a mere servant. A courtier, yes, but still beneath him in every sense of the word.

But there were moments—subtle, fleeting—where I felt that he didn't see it that way.

Like when he'd catch me staring and smirk, as if he knew exactly where my thoughts had gone. Like when his fingers would brush against mine as he handed me a book, a touch so brief it might have been an accident, but my traitorous body knew better. Like when he said my name—not the way Beron used to, as if I were an object, a thing that existed for his whims, but as if I were someone worth hearing.

It was dangerous. He was dangerous. And yet, I kept returning to his study, night after night, drawn to him in ways I did not understand.

I was comfortable around him now. Too comfortable. And I wasn't sure if that terrified me or eased me more.

The fire crackled behind him, casting golden light over the room as I sat at his desk, scanning over the trade agreements he had asked me to review. Eris stood in front of the hearth, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the flames with a contemplative expression.

"They're bleeding the smaller villages dry," I murmured, flipping to the next page. "The tariffs are nearly double what they should be."

Eris hummed in response, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "And what do you suggest, fawn?" His voice was rich, edged with amusement.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, biting back a smile at the teasing lilt in his tone. "Lowering them would be a start."

He took a slow sip of whiskey, then turned, his gaze burning even hotter than the fire behind him. "Very well. Lower them."

I blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He smirked, as if amused by my surprise. "You have a sharp mind. It would be a waste not to use it."

A compliment. A genuine one.

I busied myself with the documents, ignoring the warmth that curled in my stomach. But before I could shift to the next matter, I felt it—him.

The space between us disappeared in a breath. Eris leaned over my shoulder, one hand bracing against the desk as he peered down at the papers with me.

His warmth seeped through the thin fabric of my dress, his scent—smoke, cedar, spice—curling around me, intoxicating. I stiffened, my fingers tightening around the quill.

"See?" His voice was softer now, smooth like velvet. "That wasn't so hard."

I swallowed, forcing my focus back to the parchment. "I assume the next set of reports won't be as easy."

His chuckle was low, deep. "Unfortunately, no."

We worked through the rest of it together, his proximity never wavering, his breath occasionally ghosting against my cheek as he murmured his thoughts. It should have been unbearable. It was unbearable. And yet, I didn't pull away.

Not even when he poured me a glass of whiskey.

I had refused at first, telling him I was technically working but he had simply raised an eyebrow and said, "I won't tell the high lord if you don't."

It burned going down, leaving warmth in its wake, emboldening me just enough to loosen the tight grip I always held on myself.

Perhaps that was why, when we finally leaned back in our chairs, the tension of duty momentarily relieved, I dared to meet his gaze with something close to ease.

"You're a better High Lord than I expected," I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty.

He turned his glass between his fingers, watching me over the rim. "High praise, coming from you."

I rolled my eyes, but the smallest of smiles played at my lips. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," he quipped, grinning.

I shook my head, but I wasn't fast enough to hide the way my lips twitched in amusement.

Eris noticed. Of course, he did. And he leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. "Careful, fawn. Keep looking at me like that, and I'll think you actually enjoy my company."

I should have ignored the remark. Should have cut the moment short, should have reminded myself that this was Eris, that I was his courtier and nothing more.

But the whiskey hummed in my blood, and I found myself tilting my chin up slightly, arching a brow.

"Who said I don't?"

His gaze darkened, a flicker of something wicked dancing in those golden eyes.

The air between us tightened, the tension shifting into something heavier, something dangerous.

And for the first time, I wasn't entirely sure if I wanted to run from it.

The room was suffocating with heat—not just from the fire, but from him. From the way he looked at me, like he could see through every carefully placed wall I had built around myself.

I should have left. Should have bowed my head, murmured a polite good night, and returned to the servantry quarters where I belonged.

But I didn't.

Instead, I stayed, rooted in place, watching the way Eris's eyes flickered between my lips and my eyes. The tension stretched unbearably tight, wound so thin that one more word, one more breath, would surely snap it.

And then it did.

One moment, we were speaking, our words slow and softened by whiskey. The next—I was in his arms, and his mouth was on mine.

It was a collision, a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

His lips were searing, his hands gripping my waist as if he couldn't bear to let go, pulling me flush against him. I gasped into the kiss, and he took full advantage, deepening it, his tongue sweeping over mine in a way that made my knees threaten to buckle.

He groaned, low and guttural, and something inside me snapped.

I met his fervor with my own, fingers tangling in his hair, feeling the silk of it between my fingertips as he backed me into the desk. The papers we had worked so hard on crumpled beneath us, utterly forgotten.

He exhaled a quiet curse against my lips as his hands gripped my hips tighter, and I—I didn't stop him. I arched into him, into the warmth, the danger of it.

And then—it happened.

A tether snapped into place.

Invisible, undeniable, unyielding.

My entire body locked up as a force stronger than anything I had ever known latched onto my very soul. The bond—a mating bond—solidified between us like molten steel cooling into iron, a force so absolute it stole the air from my lungs.

No, no, no.

I stumbled back so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet, my hand flying to my lips as if I could erase what had just happened.

Eris reached for me, eyes wide, something dangerously close to awe written across his sharp features. "Wait—"

But I didn't.

I turned and ran.

I ignored the way his voice followed me, calling my name, ignored the way my heart thundered in my chest, the way my mind screamed at me that this was impossible, that it couldn't be real, that it shouldn't be real.

Because if it was—if it was real—then it meant I was bound to him. To him.

Not just the male who had been slipping under my skin, infiltrating the cold emptiness I had built to protect myself. But Beron's son. Beron's heir. A Vanserra. A High Lord.

By the time I reached the servantry quarters, my breaths were ragged, my hands shaking as I shoved my door closed behind me, locking it with trembling fingers.

I pressed my back against the wood, squeezing my eyes shut.

This couldn't be happening. It was a mistake. A trick. A cruel, cruel joke.

I was nothing.

A courtier, a servant.

I did not get to have mates.

And certainly not him.

I curled onto my cot, my hands gripping the fabric of my dress as if I could anchor myself back to reality. I forced my breathing to slow, willed myself to forget the feeling of his lips, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, the way his hands had fit so perfectly against my waist.

I did not sleep that night.

I had been avoiding him.

Days had passed, and I hadn't stepped foot in his study again. I hadn't so much as looked in his direction, even as the court whispered about me, about us, about the undeniable scent of a bond snapping into place.

They all knew.

I could feel their stares, the pity in some, the amusement in others. I knew what they thought—that it was only a matter of time before I bent, before I folded myself into the neat little role fate had carved out for me at Eris's side.

I refused.

I stayed tucked away, keeping to my duties, bowing as I always had when in his presence, keeping my head low, silent. I had done it for years under Beron. I could do it again.

Or at least, I thought I could.

The bond had other plans.

It had been clawing at me, a sick, twisting thing in my chest, gnawing at my ribs every time I kept my distance. The more I ignored it, the worse it became, a restless, aching pressure that built until my hands trembled with the need to do something—run to him, scream, sob. I didn't know which.

I was too caught up in my own mind, too focused on fighting the invisible thread tethering me to him, that I didn't notice the male approaching me until it was too late.

"You've been rather elusive, haven't you?"

I turned sharply, expecting him, expecting Eris—

But it wasn't him.

It was Kyden.

My stomach twisted.

Kyden Vanserra had always taken the most after Beron compared to the rest of his brothers, cruel for the sake of cruelty, sneering down at those he deemed beneath him. Which unfortunately included me.

His smirk was slow, predatory. "I almost mistook you for one of the nobility, standing there all stiff and proper. But then I remembered—you're just a servant, aren't you?"

I forced my body not to react, not to let the memories claw their way up my throat. He had that same look in his tawny eyes that Beron always had on one of the particularly hard days.

Kyden stepped closer, voice a lazy drawl. "And yet, despite your lowly position, you managed to ensnare a High Lord." His lips curled, eyes gleaming with something dark. "Or rather, the bond did. Funny, isn't it? How fate makes fools of us all."

I kept my chin high, my hands at my sides. I would not cower.

He leaned in, his breath brushing against my ear. "You reek of him."

I flinched. Kyden chuckled. "It's amusing, really. Eris, of all people, shackled to someone like you." His gaze flickered over me, assessing, and I knew that look—I had seen it before, a lifetime ago, picking apart my worth, deciding how best to use me.

"What do you think he'll do?" Kyden mused. "Surely, you don't believe he'll actually keep you. A High Lord's mate should be powerful, worthy." He tutted. "You are neither."

The words hit their mark, sinking into my skin like tiny blades, because deep down I knew he was right. This is why I've been avoiding Eris, avoiding having that confrontation that will only result in rejection and sorrow.

"I wonder," he continued, tilting his head, "how long it will take before he grows bored of you. Before he realizes you're nothing more than the same little courtier Beron used to—"

A deep, guttural snarl split the air.

And then Kyden was no longer in my space, no longer crowding me like a looming shadow.

Eris had him by the collar, dragging him back, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl beside his brother's throat.

"Say another word," Eris hissed, voice like fire crackling over dry wood, "and I will tear out your fucking tongue."

Kyden, to his credit, did not flinch. He only grinned. "Touched a nerve, did I?"

Eris's fingers tightened, the flames in the nearby sconces flaring wildly.

"Walk away, Kyden," Eris said, voice quieter now, deadlier. "I raised you better than this."

A beat of silence. Then Kyden huffed a laugh, shoving Eris off him with a roll of his shoulders.

"As you wish, brother." He turned to me, and there was something smug in his eyes, something knowing. "See you around, little courtier."

And then he was gone.

Eris exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair before turning to me.

"Are you—"

I shook my head, stepping back. "Don't."

His jaw tensed.

I couldn't do this. Not here. Not now.

The hallway was silent except for the distant clatter of pots and the hushed murmurs of servants slipping past us, their eyes darting away the moment they caught sight of Eris. I could still feel the ghost of Kyden's words slithering over my skin, the way he had looked at me, spoken to me. But more than that—I could feel the weight of Eris's gaze, burning into me as if he were unraveling every thought in my head.

I didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to feel the way I did when he looked at me.

His amber eyes flickered with something unreadable, something heavy and tense. He hadn't moved since Kyden left, his hands clenched at his sides, as if he was still fighting the urge to chase his brother down and finish what he started.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. We stood nearly a yard away from each other in the servants' passages, the house was so vast that to get from place to place quicker in the manor there were secret paths to take. It was odd for the High Lord to even know about them.

I swallowed hard, then whispered, "Why are you here?"

Eris blinked, as if startled by the question. And then, with the ghost of a smirk, he drawled, "It's my house, isn't it?"

I narrowed my eyes. "You know what I mean."

More silence.

His smirk faded.

"I was looking for you," he admitted finally.

I stared at him, heart hammering against my ribs. "You could've called for me."

His expression darkened, and he took a step closer. "Would you have come?"

I said nothing.

He huffed a bitter laugh. "That's what I thought."

I clenched my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms. "It's my job, Eris," I whispered.

His jaw flexed. His fingers twitched—like he wanted to reach for me, wanted to touch me—but he didn't. Instead, he just stood there, looking more defeated than I'd ever imagined a Vanserra could.

"Can we go somewhere more private?" I asked, my voice quieter now, because we were standing a distance apart with maids and cooks scuttling silently past us, pretending they weren't listening, pretending they couldn't see the invisible string between us.

Eris studied me for a long moment, then nodded. Without another word, he turned on his heel, leading the way.

I followed.

The room he brought me to was small, tucked away in one of the unused wings of the estate. A study, maybe, or a reading room—the kind of place someone could go to disappear.

He shut the door behind me, and then we were alone.

Eris exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Are you alright?"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "I don't know."

His jaw tightened. "Kyden—"

"I don't want to talk about Kyden."

He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. "Then talk to me about something else."

I let out a breath. "About what, Eris?"

He stepped closer, slow and careful, as if I were something fragile. "About why you've been avoiding me."

I scoffed. "You know why."

"I want to hear you say it."

I met his gaze, and the heat in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine. "Because this—" I gestured between us. "—isn't supposed to happen. Because you're a High Lord, and I'm a servant, and this bond—" I swallowed hard. "It's cruel."

Eris's expression was unreadable, but his fingers twitched again, and I wondered if he even realized he kept doing that—kept stopping himself from touching me. "You think the Mother is cruel?"

I hesitated. "I think fate is."

Eris exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Do you hate it that much?"

I didn't answer.

Did I?

Hate was easy. Hate was something I understood, something I could hold onto. Hate had kept me alive under Beron's rule, had hardened me, protected me.

But this? This tether between us, this thing that hummed in my chest, that made my body ache to close the distance between us—

I didn't have a name for it. And that scared me more than anything.

Eris watched me carefully, as if searching for something in my expression. He let out another sigh and retreated, taking a seat on the small leather couch adjacent to the popping fireplace. I watched him silently, still standing by the door.

"I never wanted this either," he admitted, voice softer now. "I spent years ensuring I would never be bound to someone who could be used against me. And yet..." His lips quirked into something bitter. "Yet here we are."

My throat felt tight. "Do you hate it?"

His amber eyes burned. "No."

The breath I took was unsteady.

"You never answered?" he looked up at me.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Shook my head. "I don't know."

Eris nodded once, as if that answer was enough.

Silence stretched between us again.

Finally, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You don't have to accept it," he said. "Not now. Not ever, if that's what you choose." He met my gaze, something like resignation flickering in his eyes. "But I won't apologize for it."

He wanted to keep it? Wanted me to accept it?

I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

He tilted his head, considering me. "So what now?"

I shook my head. "I don't know."

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. "That's twice now."

I scowled. "Shut up."

He chuckled. "I suppose I should be grateful I got anything out of you at all."

I rolled my eyes, but there was no bite to it.

Eris studied me again, quieter this time. "I meant what I said," he murmured. "I was looking for you."

I looked away. "I know."

Silence settled between us again, but it was different now. Less suffocating.

More dangerous.

Because I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep pretending I didn't want him to find me. I approached his side quietly and sat.

The leather couch was cool against my skin as I sank into it beside him, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. The bond thrummed like a second heartbeat, relentless and inescapable.

The son of the man I loathed most in this world was the one I was expected to love beyond reason.

Fate was a sick, twisted thing.

I sighed, tired of thinking, tired of fighting, tired of everything. Slowly, hesitantly, I tilted my head, letting it rest against his shoulder. His body stiffened for a fraction of a second before he relaxed, exhaling a breath I might've imagined.

It was enough for now.

"I'm High Lord," he said after a beat.

"Painfully aware," I murmured.

"Meaning—there are rules of the Autumn Court that I can... simply get rid of."

I huffed a soft, tired laugh. "You're a lord, not a king."

"Mm, true," he mused, tilting his head back against the couch, "but if Rhysand can bend the rules to marry his mate, so can I."

I hesitated. "His court is much more pliable. Autumn is notorious for its... old-fashioned ways."

"Well, the Autumn Court has a new High Lord." His voice was steady, sure. "Let's just hope I'm changing it for the better."

I smiled faintly, my eyes fluttering shut. "You are, 'Ris."

The name slipped out before I could think better of it, before I could remind myself that familiarity with him was dangerous.

His body went still beneath me.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he looked down at me, amber eyes burning with something I couldn't name.

We stared at each other for a long moment, really seeing each other.

And then, quietly, almost reverently, he murmured, "I'm going to kiss you now."

I nodded.

And then he did.

His lips pressed against mine, slow and deep, as if we had all the time in the world. As if the bond wasn't something to be feared but something to be savored. His hand lifted to my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone before sliding into my hair, tilting my face up, pressing deeper.

I sighed into him, gripping the front of his tunic as the bond pulsed between us, as the warmth of his body and the scent of campfire and rainy mornings wrapped around me like something familiar, something I could fall into.

It should have scared me.

But all I could do was kiss him back.

Eris pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my lips. My heart pounded, my thoughts a chaotic mess, but the bond hummed in quiet contentment—as if it had known all along that this was inevitable.

His fingers stayed tangled in my hair, his other hand still cupping my jaw, holding me there, keeping me grounded. "We'll figure this out," he murmured, voice low, steady. Sure.

I let out a slow breath, my hands still fisted in his tunic. "You make it sound so simple."

"It doesn't have to be complicated."

I swallowed hard, my mind already spinning with the realities of what this meant, what it could mean. But as I looked at him, at the quiet determination in his gaze, at the warmth that had nothing to do with the firelight flickering around us, I found myself wanting—just for a moment—to believe him.

So I nodded, just barely.

His lips brushed my temple, lingering there for a heartbeat before he leaned back, his hand finally slipping from my hair. "One step at a time, my dear."

I exhaled, my pulse still thrumming in my throat, and echoed, "One step at a time."

And maybe, just maybe, we'd find our way through this. Together.

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[lessi-lover]

just let go II p.bueckers x a.fudd x reader

just let go II p.bueckers x a.fudd x reader 1.9k

you were exhausted. no, scratch that you beyond exhausted. your body ached from head to toe, your muscles stiff and sore from the sheer amount of work you'd put them through this week. every step you took felt heavier than the last, your limbs moving slowly, your thoughts even slower. it was the kind of tired that crept into your skin and kept clawing at your insides.

there was a lot of good things that came with being a college athlete, but there also came a time where you wish you were anything but. however being on a completely different path to both your girlfriends was more challenging than you had anticipated.

you were all constantly on opposite schedules, and although people agreed that the opportunities you got to travel across the country were amazing, always being apart from them was difficult, especially when they had each other.

they were able to be in the comfort of each other all day, they had their routines, their games, their trainings. and you? you had your nightly factimes with the pair, that's if you were lucky to have a free moment at the same time of course.

normally, this kind of distance didn't really bother you that much. you were quite an independent person and always had been, you never really liked to rely on other people because you knew you could only really put trust in yourself. in general you would get to see paige and azzi at least twice a fortnight, but it had been weeks since you'd last seen them because the last five of your games had been away fixtures.

your busy week deprived you of being able to talk to them, so you learnt how to deal with the distance. but almost over a month of no contact was wearing you homesick, and you couldn't stop thinking about them as much as it killed you. on average, volleyball handed you at least two matches a week, and when you weren't playing or training, you were studying, desperately trying to catch up on content you had missed because of it.

you knew paige and azzi had been trying to reach you. texts, calls, voice messages, every one sitting unanswered by you. you weren’t ignoring them out of anger, and it wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to them. quite the opposite.

but every time their names flashed across your screen, the knife in your chest twisted further. seeing them together on facetime, their interviews coming up on your socials, knowing they had each other while you felt miles away, it hurt. it was easier to pretend you were just too busy to talk than to admit how much you missed them.

but of course, they knew you better than that.

your teammates had casually started dropping hints, as if they had been told you weren't reaching out. “paige texted me earlier,” one of them had said to you after practice. “azzi, too. they were asking if you’re doing okay.” you brushed your teammate off, claiming you were fine, just caught up and you would make sure to call them later.

but their concern didn’t stop there. your captain had pulled you aside after a game, you'd thought she wanted to celebrate the win but it was far from that. “they’re worried about you, you know. you should call them.”

you knew she was right.

as much as you tried to handle everything on your own, holding everything together by a loose thread and as much as you wanted to believe you could just push through the loneliness, you couldn’t keep going like this. the exhaustion wasn’t just physical anymore; it was in your head and was plaguing you like death.

you needed them. you needed the way paige would roll her eyes at your stubborn way of taking care of yourself before pulling you into a hug anyway. you needed the way azzi could make you laugh even when you felt like crying. you needed them and they can't be there for you.

it was like when you bite the inside of your cheek and at first it stings, but then you do it again and again until it just goes numb. that was your head right now, completely numb to any feeling your body tried to communicate. you knew ignoring them and yourself wasn’t fixing anything, but seeing how close they were while you were off doing your own thing, was worse. so you kept pushing them away, trying to convince yourself it was easier like this.

you managed to make it to the door of their dorm, grateful that you hadn't collapsed on the way up the elevator. the only thing that was keeping you going was knowing that you couldn't let them be worried about you anymore. the guilt was eating you alive and the messages you'd ignored over the month sat at the pit of your stomach, mercilessly punching you without fail.

and of course, paige and azzi knew immediately.

"baby, you look like you’re about to collapse." paige muttered as soon as you stepped into their apartment. she was already reaching for you, her fingers brushing over your wrist, then wrapping around it as if you'd slip away if she wasn't fast enough. you allowed the blonde to move you into her dorm, eyes staring blankly as she called out for azzi.

before you could even think of saying anything, azzi was by your side, her hands finding your waist to steady you. you hadn't seen either of them in weeks and the empty look in their eyes was enough to make you want to cry.

"baby! where have you been?" you felt your throat close up at how concerned the brunette looked, you hadn't realised the extent of their worries but it all washed over you as they waited patiently for you to answer. "you should've told us you were this bad." azzi said, trying to guide your frozen body to the couch as your feet dug into the ground in defiance.

"didn't wanna-" you yawned mid-sentence, your body swaying slightly in exhaustion as you held strong in attempting to stop them from moving you around. paige clicked her tongue disapprovingly at you. "yeah, yeah, didn't wanna bother us. sound familiar, az?"

"mhm," azzi hummed, nodding as she glanced back at paige. "she forgets we know her too well." before you could even attempt to argue with them, paige’s grip tightened on your wrist. then without hesitation, she bent down slightly and lifted you into her arms.

"paige." you mumbled weakly, but even you couldn’t bring yourself to fight it. your body went limp almost immediately, too tired to do anything else but let your body surrender to her touch. "nah," paige cut you off. "you’re done mama. i got you." and she did. she always did.

paige's skin against yours only sparked tears, they came unexpectedly, but they weren't born from pain. you felt every part in your body just broke, the explosion in your chest an overwhelming waterfall of emotion that just dropped out of you.

"oh love. you're okay, we've got you. stop fighting us."

azzi's words seemed to wrap around you like a blanket, her arms tightening around your body, as paige settled you down on the couch. the blonde swiped her fingers over you face, wiping away the fragments of you tears and brushing away the hair that had stuck to your face.

you pulled your head away from paige's hand, starting a with frightened look at the two of them.

her arms were secure around you, one wrapped under your knees, the other supporting your back. azzi's grip was effortless, as if her hands dug into your body like a second skin and you welcomed the comfort she offered you. she followed closely, her hand resting against your shoulder as she tried to calm you down.

"you should’ve texted us," paige murmured, her voice full of concern but trying to downplay the anger she had obviously been feeling. "we would’ve come and picked you up."

"s too much," you mumbled, your head falling against paige’s chest. "what’s too much, baby?" the blonde asked, adjusting her hold on you slightly so your back was positioned against her. you exhaled sharply, your fingers weakly gripping the fabric of azzi's shorts. "everything. my head’s too loud."

paige and azzi exchanged a look over your head. you liked the feeling that they were silently talking over you, they were taking your control and that was all you wanted them to do right now. you'd been in a washing machine for the past week, your thoughts just mixing with your feelings until you couldn't differentiate any longer. you needed them to take this from you because you didn't want it anymore. it was too much of a responsibility that you couldn't handle right now, paige and azzi would calm the storm you didn't doubt that.

"relax," azzi asked you, her fingers pressing gently into the knots in your muscles. "you don’t have to do anything right now. just let us take care of you." paige hummed in agreement with the brunette, her hand running through your hair in slow, soothing motions. "we’re in charge, okay? just let go." you felt your eyes flutter shut and your thoughts slip away.

it took you a second to process their words, but when you did, something inside of you unraveled. your body that had been locked up tight with stress, finally sagged against your girlfriends. your brows unlocked, your fingers unclenched, your arms hung limply at your sides, you let your back sink further into paige.

you were too tired to move, but you didn’t need to. they had you. "good girl," paige praised, pressing a kiss to your temple. "that’s it mama. just breathe for us."

a small hum escaped your lips. your head was still loud like before, still chaotic, but their voices cut through the pain, they were the certainty you had been craving.

azzi let her fingers move lower, kneading at your upper back now, working out the thick tension with slow movements that let you drift away. "you’re so tense, babe." she mumbled, more to herself than anything. "no wonder you feel like crap."

"i don’t feel like crap," you smiled sleepily, though it was an obvious lie that anyone could see through. paige chuckled, shifting slightly so she could wrap her arms tighter around you. "baby, you can barely keep your eyes open. just let go, okay?"

you didn’t answer, but you didn’t fight them either. it felt good being taken care of like this. it wasn’t often that you let yourself be vulnerable, but you always felt safe around paige and azzi. paige pressed another kiss to your hair, then let her lips linger against your temple. "you’re safe, baby. just rest for us."

"there you go," she murmured. "just breathe." azzi’s touch became lighter now, more of a gentle swipe of her fingers against your skin than anything else. "how’s your head?" she asked softly. it was a loaded question. your head was still loud, still a mess of the frustration and overstimulation that had been bubbling inside you, but it was quieter than before. you didn't feel the need to be above it.

"better," you admitted, your voice barely audible.

"good. that’s all we want."

[777rare]

12TH HOUSE OBSERVATIONS PT.1

THESE NOTES ARE ONLY A STUDY OF MINE AND HAS/HAS NOT BEEN PROVEN YET, SO IF IT DOES NOT RESONATE WITH YOU, FORGIVE ME AS IT WAS ONLY A STUDY/OBSERVATION OF MINE.

I DO NOT PLAGIARIZE, COPY OR REWORD ANY OF MY FELLOW ASTROLOGY OBSERVERS POSTS AND I DEMAND THE SAME IN RETURN.

This post will only be about the studies I've done on the 12th house since that house fascinates me the most out of all the houses in astrology. When it comes to the 12th house, I will also be talking about Neptune and Pisces since they are deeply connected to this house. Even Jupiter is the lord of the 12th house but Neptune qualities are more at prominent with this house.

🩸 In astrology the 12th house represents:

the bed

hospitals

monasteries

foreign lands

secrets

subconscious mind

sleep

dreams

jail, imprisonment

mental asylum

isolation

past lifetimes

Ancestors

past life karma

confined places

the feet

bathroom

large animals like elephants

forests

the unknown

bondage

lifespan and death

bed pleasures

the root chakra

unexpressed emotions

Fake names/identities formed to hide another

The need for Solitude or just solitude in general

Relief work/ how we help others

Some sort of Weapon used against us

🩸Those who have 12th house and/or pisces placements and/or stellium are :

Compassionate

Sensitive

Mystical and mysterious

emotional

Dreamy or a dreamer

Always alert

Individuals with high levels of awareness

Delicate

Merciful and soft-hearted

Lenient

Pitiful

Prone to addictions

🩸I have observed that the 12th house is like a bottomless pit. The 12th house is like a dream, no end and no beginning. Since even Jupiter is the ruler of this house, he enlarges the qualities of planets sitting in this house but because of Neptunes severe prominence, though everything is enlarged, everything is also lost in a heavy fog.

🩸The 12th house is a place of complete darkness, like a black hole. Whatever goes into the black hole disappears in thin air, as if it never existed to begin with. Planets that sit here often have their effects go unrecognised by others in natives.

🩸There is a lack of recognition of the subjects related to the planet in the 12th house, in a persons chart, by others.

Examples:

•A native having mercury in the 12th house is smart, even if it's not in a geeky way, but others often assume them to be dumb.

•A native having moon in the 12th house or pisces are quite understanding people who do care about how others feel but this often goes unrecognised and people assume they care less about how others feel. These individuals are actually very emotional in private.

•A native having Venus in the 12th house actually love very very deeply once they begin loving someone and wish for the deepest intimacy possible with them but they are often termed as heartbreakers and flaky people (the zodiac matters too) who ghost their partners. I have this placement too and so many people have called me a heartbreaker even though I have actually never dated due to my fear of betrayal and have never had anyone confess their feelings for me.

Short story: I did fall in love with someone I was friends with for the first time and I loved that person so so much to the point I waited for 3 years to finally ask them to be mine but I was friendzoned, and then given insane amounts of mixed signals and then realised I was being played with cuz that person dated so many girls at one go and all of them were my friends. It took me 3 years to get over that person. I still think of them though but that's far from the point.

•Natives having 12th house and/or Pisces stellium are the ones who feel everything, even that which cannot be seen, felt, or heard. They are the black sheep in the crowd and no matter how much they fit in with a group, they tend to feel left out or less significant.

These natives have their mind locked up with their demons so their minds are tortured and always overthinking the tiniest of things even though nothing bad is happening.

They often contemplate so much and have an infinite amount of questions when it comes to the truth of life, existence and all things universal. 12th house and/or pisces stellium natives are also the people who appear and disappear Outta nowhere...by this I don't mean just physically, I mean emotionally, mentally, spiritually, energetically and so on.

These natives tend to get lost very easily and often wander around, just admiring existence and nature. These natives love love loveee spending time alone with nature. You can't pin them down because they never touch the ground, they're always in the clouds, dreaming and living the pinterest life in their head.

They also quite dramatic in nature, like drama queens or kings, lol. No doubt, these individuals are spiritual and highly imaginative. These natives are also misunderstood and are emotionally and/or mentally isolated from the human race.

They often desire to leave Earth and fly away to space. This is a huge indicator of a starseed. These people are drawn to extra terrestrial beings and the unknown. Their curiosity runs as deep as the bottomless pit.

•What a 12th house stellium, pisces stellium, and/or mercury retrograde would say when asked to explain their feelings:

"I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself" - Franz Kafka (giving credit)

•How Venus in 12th house people love:

"In a language so old that even the Earth no longer remembers."

•How a person with a 12th house stellium would label themselves:

"People label themselves with all sorts of adjectives. I can only pronounce myself as 'nauseatingly miserable beyond repair'." - Franz Kafka (giving credit)

As a pisces venus (in the 12th house), It is not easy for us all pisces venus natives out there to fall in love and fall out of love with someone...we do find many attractive due to us admiring mostly anything around us but falling in love is a huge deal for us.

We don't just decide to fall in love with someone cuz we find something attractive in them, we value companionship and depth more than anything ( if you have earth sign placements mainly).

So falling in love is extremely soul crushing for us...and falling out of love? Nuh-uh, never happens...we never fall out of love with the person we fall in love with.

No matter how many years pass by, we will maybe accept fate and move forward in life but our heart has a special place for that person we once spoke with....for us, love is more of a painful tragedy that pushes us to sacrifice what we need the most and that weirdly makes us softer as we grow.

When you tell us to move on from someone or convince us that that person we love is not worth it, we wouldn't listen to you cuz when it comes to the matters of the heart, we never listen to anyone but ourselves...our inner voice.

To us love is never wasted because to us love does not rest on reciprocity. We will love with all our heart and no matter how hard our heart breaks, our heart heals back to a stronger one with an unwavering heartbeat that stops at nothing.

The effects of 12th house and the 8th house placements are quite similar but very different at the same time. There is extreme intensity and depth with these houses but the 12th house is much deeper and darker than the 8th house.

Anyways, Thankyou so much for turning in!

I hope you enjoyed this post about the 12th house😊 I will be posting a part 2 as well because I reached the word limit, but again thankyou for your time! ❤️🌻 I hope you all have a bright day ahead!

[daylighted]

FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ─ㅤDEAN & LITTLE FOX ! READER !

" take a look at the sky just before you die — it's the last time you will ! "

file. all the man who never prayed wanted was someone that would listen and hear him. beggars could not be choosers when it came to the listening ears that lent themselves.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ———

dean came to terms with the simple fact that he, as a single individual in an undersaturated business, could not save everyone. but when he watched as you fell from the sky that night, he wished only for the ability to save you.

something had happened in the confines of the clouds before you fell. blood stained your face, your teeth, your pouting lips. your eyes were glossed in utter devastation, the front of the cream-colored silk slip you wore glossy maroon, clinging to your skin.

but it was not any of these details that made dean determined to help, in whatever way he could. it was the wings, wide and bright and untouched on your back. they glimmered like dusts of glitter upon feathers underneath the moonlight, something made of beauty attached to something that looked so wrong to the images in his head.

you don't look at him as you wail into your blood stained palms, the sound of your broken cries ricocheting around the forest, bouncing between tree trunk to tree trunk, muffled in the wind and in between the leaves.

dean doesn't exactly know what to do in this situation. a lot weighed heavily on him, and sure, a few times in these last few months had he begged for someone in the stars to just hear him, but he didn't expect for that someone to fall.

you looked like he felt — broken and shattered and damned. you were beautiful, though, in your ruins.

your red rimmed eyes shift up to meet his at the first sound of grass crunching beneath his feet, daring a step closer.

"what happened?" feels like too harsh of a way to address something so wounded, but it's all he has to offer you. the hand that hovers awkwardly in the dead space between the both of you doesn't seem to be working any miracles for your state, either.

you grasp at the silk clinging to your skin, your hand pulling away shiny and red. the sob you let out cracks through all of his armors and breaks him. "i don't know."

dean hadn't... ever seen an angel so human, before. so utterly unashamed of the tears staining your cheeks, so connected to the vessel you possess that you can't even seem to help yourself.

he'd help you.

hell, how many times had dean held crying girls in his arms and picked up their broken pieces for them? how many times had he clutched the loved ones of people overtaken by monsters, lost to the unnatural and the uncanny, and promised that it would be okay, even knowing that things would never again be the same for them?

you were not something that dean couldn't handle. that he hadn't already handled.

maybe he should have walked away. the gods and the angels didn't once answer him before, and somehow tonight, one literally lands directly in front of him? just for him?

something was off about it. unnatural, uncanny: but nothing that he hadn't dealt with before.

he crouches down to your level, and your eyes are striking. there is definitely something other about you, something a little off that people not trained in his expertise wouldn't pick up on. you could pass as a human more than any other angel could, but up close, he picked at the details with a finetooth comb.

your eyes were not blue, but purple. your ears were a little pointed at the tips. your grateful smile a little too cruel and unfeeling to be genuine. still, when he tried to find a word to describe you in his mind, he could only settle on beautiful, like no other word existed.

he might have asked you what you were. but his pessimism didn't seep all the way down to the marrow of his bones and his heart, and his heart screamed that you were an angel sent just for him. his angel. the one for him to keep safe, and to keep him afloat.

the words die on his tongue, and when staring at you starts to make your expression twist in his trick-playing eyes, you tilt your head up to look up at the starry skies.

"i haven't seen stars in forever," your voice is laced in awe, gaze flitting between each sparkling dot in the deep blue night, like you couldn't seem to settle on one.

dean wants to say, me neither. wants to lay beneath the canopies of leaves and drink in the rare moment of peace he's found here with you. this broken thing still taking the breaths to memorialize beauty through the pain inside of you.

instead, his mouth opens, and something less expected comes out. "come home with me."

there is that flicker in your eyes again. the something other that he can't seem to place, that he loses the moment he clocks it. again, all dean sees when your eyes meet his is that devastating purple, and a devastating amount of shimmering hope in them.

"home?"

dean's face flattens. "...is a motel, an hour or so away."

"a home is a home," you say, and the blood on your hand is dry now. dean knows it because you close the crusted fingers around his own, finally, and allow him to pull you to your feet. "i have not had a home in forever, either."

you won't get the innuendo or jest in his joke, but he says it anyways. "i get to be your first?"

your eyes dance now, those pretty lips once again wicked. "if only you were."

notes. short asf but u just need an intro... b4 we get juicy ok. AND IT'S GONNA GET JUICY QUUUUICK. I AM JUST WRITING THE FIRST TO SAM & TO DEAN TONIGHT SO IF I LET THEM GET LONG ASF IT WILL LIVE IN MY DRAFTS FOREVER </3 ok bye.

tags. @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @theosaurous @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @aileenunfiltered @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @sunsettsam @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling if u want added or taken off pls lmk <3

[bright-side20]

I wanted to write one scene, but it ended up being too long, so I decided to split it into two parts. Here is the first part, I hope you like it :)

Today, the sharp scent of blood filled the air, and the tortured screams echoed through the cavernous room of Hewn City. His shadows felt heavier than ever before.

Azriel could feel it...Elain's gaze on him. Her presence at the corner of the room, her delicate figure frozen in place, haunted him more than the bloodied male kneeling at his feet. The male had been a threat to everything Elain held dear, and Azriel knew there was no choice. He had to do this. But as the male's suffering echoed in his ears, a knot twisted painfully in Azriel's chest.

He had to protect her. Protect them all.

But in doing so, he had stained himself further. The line between what was necessary and what was vile had blurred, and he wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began.

The male in front of him begged, his words a tangled mess of desperation. Azriel didn’t need to listen. He could already feel the truth of his own soul’s decay, taste the bitter resentment in his blood.

But Elain…

His gaze flicked to her again, catching a glimpse of her wide eyes. She stood rigid, like a porcelain doll. Azriel couldn’t help but feel the weight of her gaze piercing him, burning through every inch of his resolve. No one, not even Rhys, had ever stayed to witness him torturing someone...yet here she was.

She would hate him for this.

She would see him for what he truly was...no matter how hard he tried to deny it. A monster. A creature born of shadows, who used pain as a weapon and death as his ally. And he couldn’t blame her.

His life had always been one of violence, of shadows and darkness, while Elain was the light, untarnished, untouched by the blood that stained his hands. But there was no other way. No other choice.

She’ll hate me.

The thought clung to him like dead weight. His hands, slick with sweat, trembled slightly as the shadows danced around him, curling like serpents to torment their victim. But Azriel’s mind was no longer focused on the traitor. It was on her. He wished he knew what she was thinking now.

He had thought he could keep her away from all of this...the horrors he lived with. He had convinced himself he could protect her from seeing the worst parts of him.

But he couldn’t deny that he didn’t regret what he did to the bastard in front of him. Not even a little.

Swiftly, he plunged Truth-Teller into the male’s throat and pulled it out, watching as he gagged on his own blood. He let his magic clean the dagger instantly, wiping away the blood on the blade, on his hands.

He heard Elain’s breath hitch and slowly turned to face her. His eyes landed on her hands...they were trembling slightly. But as soon as she noticed his gaze, she gripped her dress tightly, trying to steady them.

He couldn’t look at her face. He couldn’t look into her eyes.

She would never see him the same way again.

And he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it...to see the horror in her gaze, to watch her look at him with fear, as so many had before.

Azriel slid Truth-Teller back into its sheath, his fingers clenching into fists. His shadows retreated reluctantly, leaving behind the lifeless body at his feet. His chest was tight, his breath coming in sharp, uneven as he stepped toward her, avoiding her eyes.

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “I’ll winnow you home.”

A pause. A hesitation just long enough to make his chest tighten.

Then…

“To the townhouse.”

His head jerked slightly, unable to hide his surprise. He had expected her to refuse. He had expected her to demand an explanation, to cry, to run from him. He had prepared himself for that.

But she wasn’t running.

Not yet.

He swallowed, clenching his jaw. He knew why she wanted to go there. It was familiar, comforting. It was safe. And right now, she wanted to be somewhere safe.

Away from this. Away from him.

His throat felt raw as he reached for her. His eyes widened when she took his hand, her fingers tightening around his. His shadows gathered around them.

Cold air. The world shifting beneath them. And then…

Azriel willed himself to move. To take her away from that place. Away from him. His magic latched onto Elain, the cold bite of his power wrapping around her like a phantom touch. He felt her inhale the moment the world bent around them, shifting, twisting...

And it was over.

He let go of her hand the moment they landed in the foyer of the townhouse. The scent of rain and fresh bread replaced the iron tang of blood. Warmth pressed in on him.

Elain stumbled slightly, unsteady from the winnowing. Azriel’s hand twitched at his side...instinct screamed at him to reach for her. But he couldn’t.

Not with his hands still stained.

Not with the weight of what he had done clinging to him like a second skin.

Elain straightened, blinking rapidly. He should have left the moment they arrived...should have vanished into the night before she could speak, before she could look at him with whatever emotions burned behind those wide, brown eyes.

But he couldn’t move.

His body felt like lead, his lungs tight, his thoughts spiraling.

She was here. She had seen everything.

And still, she wasn’t running.

“I’ll go.” The words came out hoarse, barely audible.

“Azriel.”

The way she said his name stopped him cold. Not with fear. Not with disgust.

Azriel’s breath shuddered out of him. He couldn’t look at her.

If he did, he knew he’d shatter.

“Stay. Please.”

Two words. Soft. Pleading.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He wished she had screamed at him instead. Wished she had turned away, given him the excuse he needed to disappear into the night.

Azriel forced himself to turn to her, expecting...needing to see revulsion, fear, anything that would make it easier to leave.

But there was none.

She wasn’t pale. She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t looking at him like he was a monster.

Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her chest rising and falling.

And her eyes...

Brown and deep, filled with something he couldn’t name. Something that sent a sharp pain through his ribs because it was the last thing he deserved.

She shouldn’t be looking at him like that.

She stepped closer. “That male..he deserved it.”

“He was one of Koschei’s. I would have done the same thing you did to him,” she continued.

He flinched.

She was trying to make sense of it. Trying to justify it. Trying to tell him it was okay.

But it wasn’t.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Elain,” he said, his voice hoarse, pained. “You don’t understand who I am. What I’ve done.”

“I do understand, Azriel,” she said softly, her voice steady “I understand more than you think…”

He shook his head, interrupting her, his eyes closing as if to block out the tenderness in her words.

“No,” he said, the word low . “You don’t. You don’t see the blood on my hands, the lives I’ve taken. You don’t see the monster inside of me. I’ve killed, Elain. I’ve destroyed people without a second thought, without mercy. And I’ve done worse...far worse.”

His voice cracked on the last part, but he didn’t care. It was the truth. He had broken things that could never be fixed, and no matter how much he tried to push it down, the shame clung to him .

Her eyes widened, her lips parted. “A monster? Is that what you think of yourself?”

The shame was suffocating, and the thought of her seeing him as he truly was...seeing the full extent of his darkness...was too much to bear.

With a sharp motion, he turned and walked to the door, ready to vanish, to bury himself in the night. But he couldn't run far enough to escape the ache in his chest.

He pushed open the door of the townhouse, stepping into the cold night air. The rain hit him like a thousand needles, soaking through his leathers, biting into his skin. It wasn’t enough to wash away the blood, but it was all he could do...leave, disappear into the storm, and let it consume him.

But no matter how far he walked, no matter how deep he pushed himself into the rain soaked streets, he couldn’t outrun her.

He heard her soft footsteps behind him.

“Did you think that if I saw you like that, I would finally hate you?” Her voice trembled.

He turned.

Elain stepped closer. The rain had drenched her entirely...her dress clung to her frame, her soaked hair curled wildly around her face. But she didn’t shiver.

“Go back home,” he said, his voice rough.

She ignored him. “That I would finally be scared enough to walk away?”

Azriel clenched his jaw. He had nothing to say to that..because it was true.

Elain took another step forward. “Because if that’s what you thought… if that’s what you wanted…” Her voice dropped, fierce. “Then I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“You should hate me.” The words tore from him, raw and ragged. “You should be afraid.”

“But I’m not,” she shot back. “And you don’t get to decide that for me.”

Rain trickled down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away. She just exhaled sharply. “You act like I don’t know who you are, Azriel. Like I’ve spent all this time looking at you through rose colored glass. But I do.”

He shook his head, stepping back. “You don’t...”

“I do,” she interrupted, her voice firm. “I know exactly who you are. I know what you do, what you have to do.”

His back hit the wall of the garden. He hadn’t even realized he’d been retreating.

Elain followed him, closing the space between them. “But I also know the way you never let anyone else carry the burden with you. The way you take on every horror so the rest of us don’t have to.”

Azriel closed his eyes, his jaw tightening so hard it hurt.

“You’re not a monster,” she said, her voice breaking. “You’re the most loving, caring male I’ve ever known.”

She was so close now that he could feel her warmth against his skin, but he didn’t reach for her. He couldn’t.

“Don’t do this,” he muttered. “I’m not the male who can give you the life you deserve.”

She was silent for a moment, her gaze never leaving him. Then, she said, “I never asked you to be anyone other than who you are. I don’t want the man you think you should be. I want you...the real you. Just you, Azriel.”

“You are worth loving,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “But you have to stop hiding from it. You have to stop running from me.”

“I’ve been so afraid of this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Of letting you in. Of you seeing the parts of me I can’t escape.”

“Let me in,” she said, reaching for him. “I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m not asking you to change. I’m asking you to trust me. To trust us.”

"I love you," she said, her voice soft.

Azriel froze.

The words hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. His heart slammed against his ribs, his breath caught in his throat. Love. She loved him. He had never let himself hope...never dared to believe she could see every dark, broken part of him and still say those words.

A sharp ache spread through his chest, something consuming. He wanted to tell her she shouldn’t, that she deserved better, but the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, a part of him...one he had spent centuries silencing...wanted to believe her. Wanted to hold onto those words...

And then, he gave in.

Before Azriel even realized what he was doing, his hand was buried in her hair, fingers tangled in the damp strands as he pulled her toward him...hard, urgent.

His lips crashed against hers, desperate and demanding, as if he could make her words real, something he could touch and hold. The rain fell harder, cold rivulets running down his face, soaking through his leathers, but all he could feel was her. The warmth of her body pressed against his, the way she gasped into his mouth as he deepened the kiss... He was drowning in the sweet taste of her, his heart racing as he pulled her even closer, not caring about the rain, the storm, or anything else.

She kissed him back with equal force, her fingers clutching his neck, pulling him to her as if she could hold him there, keep him from slipping into the shadows he so often sought refuge in. Every kiss, every stroke of her soft lips sent a wave of heat through his body, settling deep in his gut.

When they finally pulled apart, gasping for air, Azriel pressed his forehead against hers, his breath uneven. His hands trembled as they cupped her face, his thumbs brushing over her flushed cheeks. He let himself drown in the depth of her gaze, in the impossible truth of what she had just given him.

Hope. Life.

"Come home with me," she murmured, her fingers tracing the scarred skin of his hands. "Let me take care of you."

A broken sound escaped him...half laugh, half sob. He nodded, his hand slipping into hers, the warmth of her touch melting the cold of the rain. Together, they walked...toward home...

[atlabeth]

something about her

masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem gideon!reader

summary: you’re reminded why you’re really here while spencer does some unwanted self reflection.

a/n: things have been a little too fun and fluffy around these parts so i had to fix it. it’s easy to forget you’re still dealing w a stalker when you’re busy living in denial <3 enjoy the mess! this whole thing is in spencer's pov bc this all got soooo far away from me

title from the song by stephen sanchez

wc: 5.3k

warning(s): things start to ramp up! stalking, anxiety, lowkey panic attacks, angst, hurt/comfort, r almost has a panic attack, alcohol/mentions of alcoholism, the usual. but more bonding!!

Spencer can’t sleep. 

He’s tried every trick in the book. Counting sheep, counting to one hundred, counting to one hundred backwards, going through the alphabet, going through the alphabet backwards, methods with actual scientific research backing them—none of it works. He’s stared at the ceiling for most of the night. 

He feels like a hypocrite most of all, preaching the importance of adequate sleep when he’ll be lucky to get five hours. But it looks like you barely sleep as is. He probably should keep preaching to you. 

There’s a myriad of reasons to explain it. His hyperactive brain has been responsible for many restless nights. He’s still in unfamiliar territory, and he hasn’t gotten used to sleeping on this bed yet. Lest he forget, he’s your first and only line of protection here from your stalker. That’s enough to keep anyone awake, even FBI. 

But then there’s also… you in general. 

Spencer can’t say he tries not to think about you, because this past week it’s felt like the only thing he’s thought about. 

It’s practically impossible, even before you were shoved into this house together. You have a way of tunneling your way into a person’s mind and refusing to leave—especially his. 

Again, it’s easy enough to pass off. You’re the only ones here, and the time you’re not spending alone you’re spending with each other. Your only choice beyond isolation is to talk to Spencer, and it seems you’re slowly moving past preferring it over him. 

But he doesn’t think he can just pass this off.

He can’t get your smile out of his head. Your moments of levity are so few and far between that it makes them shine bright as the sun. Spencer has learned he loves how you look when you’re happy. He just wishes it wasn’t such a rarity.

Gideon’s lecture rings in his ears. He really had two jobs—keep you safe, and don’t fall for you. Hopefully he only fails the one. 

It’s not like he has to worry about it, though. You might not hate him as much anymore, but you still don’t really like him. As much as it bums him out, it’s for the best. It means that in a week or two, when the team has caught the unsub and all this is over, you can both go your separate ways and you’ll never have to see Spencer again. 

That bums him out even more, though. 

He lets out a long sigh. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. JJ, Elle, now you—Morgan would say he really knew how to pick ‘em. Girls who didn’t like him back. 

Just then his phone rings, jolting him out what could have been a convincing play for sleep if not for his thoughts, and he groans a little. Spencer fumbles around for it without lifting his head from the pillow, only turning slightly so he can flick it open and place it against his ear. 

“Gideon, why are you calling this early?” he mumbles. 

“I hope you’re treating her well.”

The gravelly voice through the speaker is a shock, and Spencer doesn’t really process it. His brain still hasn’t turned on. 

“Gideon?” he asks again. 

“I know you ran away. Trying to protect her like you have any right.” 

His blood goes cold as the words finally register. 

This is their unsub. This— this is your stalker. 

“What do you want?” he asks, unable to keep the sharp edge out of his words. 

“You’ve hurt her the same way he has,” the voice continues. “He’s ruined our lives and you don’t care.”

Spencer’s mind is simultaneously blank and running wild. He knows he should try to profile him or talk to him to get something out of him but— but all he feels is anger. 

“What do you want?” he repeats, louder this time. 

“Think about your priorities, Agent Reid. I’ll be watching.” 

The disconnected tone blares in his ear before he can say anything else, and Spencer stares down at his phone in confused annoyance. 

What kind of bullshit game is this guy trying to play with you? 

First he stalks you for a month—possibly months— then sends pictures of you to your door, then forces you into hiding and now he’s just mocking you like this? 

If Gideon is the goal, this bastard is doing a great job of dragging you along. 

Spencer’s heart jumps into his throat all of a sudden. You. 

He grabs his gun off his bedside table then lunges to the door with all the athleticism of a newborn baby giraffe, nearly tripping in his haste to get out into the hallway. He slams your door open once he gets to your room, and the relief that floods through his body when you shoot up from your previously sleeping position is almost dangerous. 

“Spencer?” you grumble, still completely out of it as you rub your eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

You’re alive. You’re okay. You’re still here. 

He opens his mouth to respond, still kind of out of breath, when his phone rings again. Spencer takes it out and is already pressing it to his ear. 

“What the hell do you want from her?” he barks. The absolute nerve of your stalker to call back—

“Reid, it’s me.”

It’s Gideon’s voice that comes out of the speaker this time, and Spencer feels the wave of red hot rage boiling in his stomach crash against a wall of confusion. 

“I—” He swallows deeply, his eyes flicking over to your befuddled expression momentarily before he feels himself flush bright red and look away. “I’m so sorry, sir. I thought you were someone else.” 

“You got a call?”

His blood runs cold. “You mean you got one too?”

Gideon curses and he hears him move around. Pacing in his bedroom, if Spencer knew anything about him. “Tell me my daughter is safe.”

“She— she is,” he stammers. “I’m with her right now.”

“Spencer, what the fuck is going on?” You’re sitting up now, much more aware than you were fifteen seconds ago. “Why do you have your gun— why are you talking to my dad?”

“Do a perimeter check,” Gideon demands. “If he’s there—”

“I know.” Spencer looks back at you and sighs. “You should talk to her.”

“I know,” Gideon echoes. “Let her stay on the line with me while you figure things out.”

He nods and takes the phone from his ear. “Gideon wants to talk with you.”

You’re standing up now, a dumbfounded expression on your face. “Hold on, you still haven’t answered me! What is going on?”

“I got a call from our guy,” he says. Your eyes widen and he can see your chest still. His heart clenches at the sight. “Gideon did too.”

“What?” you breathe. “Wh— what did he want?”

“To scare you.” Spencer holds up his gun. “Can you hide in the closet while I do a perimeter check?”

You scoff. Your demeanor is still shaken, but the fire is more prominent. He’s started to admire that about you. “Spencer, I am not hiding in the closet.”

“Then lock yourself in the bathroom again!” he exclaims. He doesn’t mean for the outburst, but he can’t help it. “Just— I can’t focus if I’m worried about you, and right now the only thing I can think of is how worried I am about you, so I need to know you’re safe while I do this.”

You stare at him, and Spencer stares right back, if a little frantic. He feels his chest rise and fall from the force, a stark contrast to your still body—similar to the panic he knows is in his eyes to the steely cool of yours. 

“I’m not letting you potentially face an insane stalker by yourself,” you finally say. 

Spencer huffs. “I am an FBI agent. I’ve faced worse things than insane stalkers.”

“We’ve been together this whole time,” you insist. “We— we can do this together too.” 

He looks at you again—he can tell you’re not going to move on this. Spencer eventually sighs and holds the phone back up to his ear. 

“I’m assuming you heard that?” 

“Let her go with you,” Gideon says. “It’s riskier for her to be on her own than outside with you. But stay on the line, and stay alert. Nothing can happen to her—do you understand?” 

“I won’t let anything happen to her,” he says. “I meant what I said.” 

“...Good.” 

Spencer holds the phone out to you again, and your lip curls. 

“I’m not—” 

“Come on,” he interrupts, gesturing with his head into the hallway. 

Your annoyance melts into acknowledgement when you realize he’s not blowing you off again, and you nod as you take the phone. Spencer wraps both hands around his gun as he starts moving, you matching his pace as you follow him. 

“Yeah, Dad,” he hears you say behind him. “I’m here.” 

This is what he meant by you needing to stay behind. He’s worried about you more than anything, yes, but he also can’t help but listen. Spencer has very keen ears, to everyone’s simultaneous disdain and appreciation on the team—it makes him a very good asset in the field, but also a very good asset when it comes time for office gossip. 

“No, nothing’s happened yet. Yes— yes, I’m okay, I promise. Spencer’s done an annoyingly good job of keeping me safe.” 

Once Spencer reaches the door, he peers through the peephole to make sure their unsub isn’t embarrassingly obvious. It’s clear, and he turns to face you and raises a hand, then places his finger on his lips. 

“Uh— I have to go dark for a sec,” you say. “We’re checking the perimeter. Don’t worry, I’ll scream if anyone tries to kill me. Be back soon.” 

You pull the phone away from your ear and nod at Spencer, and he holds his breath before he opens the door. 

The frigid air hits both of you at once, and he hears then sees your sharp exhale of breath. It’s been a while since either of you have been outside, but it’s good to know he hasn’t been missing superb weather. 

“Stay close and stay quiet,” Spencer whispers. “I’m your only line of defense out here.” 

He expects you to shoot back with some remark, but you merely nod in response. Spencer hopes he hides the shock he feels before he turns away and starts walking. 

Dawn isn’t for a few more hours—the only real light source is the moon high in the night sky. It doesn't exactly help his nerves to be doing all this in the dark, but part of him is almost thankful to be doing this. Spencer doesn’t know how to deal with you or any of the emotions you stir inside of him or the sleepless nights you cause because he can’t stop thinking of you—but he knows how to do his job, and he knows how to do it damn well. 

He just wishes it didn’t have to come with the unfortunate side effect of you being in immense danger. 

But Spencer does his best to push those thoughts to the back of his mind—right now, he has to have one focus. 

And he does. The two of you stick close to the side of the house, his eyes darting all over as he tries to dig out any details, any possible sign that the unsub was here. The ground is still a thin layer of mud from the storm last night, so it should be easy to find footprints. Spencer’s Converse aren’t doing a great job at keeping him upright—slipping in front of you is too embarrassing for him to even think about. 

All of a sudden, he stops, his arm shooting out in front of you. You don’t realize it for a second and you run into him, your hand wrapping around his arm on instinct to steady yourself. If he wasn’t so shocked at what he was looking at, he would have been bright red over it. 

“What the h—” 

“Footprints,” he whispers.  “Th— they’re almost gone, but—” 

“He was here?” you interrupt. Fear spikes in your voice and your grip tightens on his arm. 

“Last night, maybe.” Spencer swallows the doubt in his throat. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, how he feels—he’s not going to make you feel worse. “The rain probably washed most of them away.” 

“Spencer—”

“I am surprised these are still here, though,” he continues. “The rainfall was really heavy. I wouldn’t expect them to stay in mud like this—” 

“Spencer, look where we are!” you exclaim, gesturing hard with your other hand. He realizes that you’ve let go of his arm by now, but he pushes it out of his head and looks. 

“The window to your room,” he says. The blinds are closed and the lock is in place—he’s made sure every night—but there are small enough gaps between the shutters. 

“He was watching us last night!” Your breathing is starting to come heavier and faster now. “We talked about all that shit and he was just here watching and we didn’t even fucking know!” 

You’re on the edge of hyperventilating. Spencer has got to get you down or else you’re going to have a full blown panic attack out here. 

“Hey, hey— look at me.” He says your name and that, if anything else, gets you to listen and meet his eyes. They’re filled with an unbridled fear he hasn’t seen in you until now. “Don’t think about him. Don’t think about any of this. He’s not here.” 

“He was watching us—” 

“And we’ll figure out what to do next. But you have to stay calm. You can’t let him win.” 

You’re still harried, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your eyes dart all around. Spencer says your name softly, tucks his gun into its holster, then takes your hands in his, hoping that it gives you something to focus that isn’t the rest of this. 

“Just look at me,” he says softly. 

You suck in another shaky breath, but you’re not as frantic as before. You at least look him in the eye, and you don’t wrench your hands out of his grasp. Progress, if nothing else. 

“Breathe with me.” 

You nod—still panicked, but better. Spencer breathes in deep and you do the same, following as he counts up and down with his fingers. It takes a few rounds, but eventually, he’s gotten you off the edge. 

Spencer says your name again, just as soft as before. You’re still breathing slowly in and out. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Better,” you murmur. “I—” 

You’re interrupted by the phone you both forgot was in your hand, Gideon’s voice muddled as it comes from the receiver. You rip your hands out of Spencer’s as you come back into yourself, shaking your head and blinking a few times while you take a few steps away from him. 

“I’m here, Dad,” you say. “We— we’re okay. No, nothing happened.” 

Spencer blinks too. He looks down at his hands, then glances at you, then shakes his head. He walks back over to the footprint and crouches down, trying to keep his mind clear. He commits every detail he can to memory, doing his best to ignore the conversation with your dad in the background. 

Well, he tunes in a little. He can’t help it—he wants to make sure you’re okay. 

“We found a footprint outside my room,” you’re saying. “Spencer thinks it’s your guy. I have no idea. Yes, we are. You don’t have to be so pushy.” You sigh and he feels your gaze on him. “Spencer, we have to finish this up. Dad wants us back inside.” 

He clears his throat as he nods a few times. “Let me get a picture of this first.” 

You hand him the phone and Spencer snaps some photos from a few different angles, hoping forensics will be able to get anything out of it. He hears Gideon’s voice again and he holds it to his ear once more. 

“Gideon?” 

“Reid, get her back inside,” he says. “We can’t take any unnecessary risks.” 

“We haven’t finished securing the perimeter,” he says. 

“Then finish it and get back inside!” he exclaims. “You have proof that he was there—” 

“We don’t know it’s him,” Spencer interrupts. 

“We know there was somebody there!” Gideon shoots back. “I’m not risking her, and from what I’ve heard, you don’t want to either.” 

Spencer feels his cheeks warm as he looks back at you, and he pulls his gun back out of its holster. “Come on. We have to finish this up.” 

“That’s what I said,” you mutter, but you follow him without further protest. 

The rest of the check goes by quickly without any other distractions or surprises, and soon enough you’re back inside. While Spencer chats with Gideon, updating him in a calmer manner on everything with the phone call and the footprint, you’re ruffling through the cabinets. 

Eventually, he sees you pull out a bottle of clear liquid from the corner of his eye. He frowns and realizes that it’s vodka. 

“It’s 4:29 in the morning,” Spencer says, cutting off Gideon almost absentmindedly as you pop the bottle open. 

“And we found out that this place isn’t nearly as safe as anyone thought,” you respond sharply. “I think that warrants some drinking.” 

“That means that you should have a clear mind,” he says. “Alcohol impairs your brain’s communication pathways, as well as your judgment and coordination.” 

“I’ve gotten drunk before, genius,” you mutter as you search for a glass. You end up choosing a the mug you used for coffee the other morning then start pouring. “Enough to know it’s what I need right now.” 

“It can also cause mood swings,” Spencer says. “I think that’s the last thing you need right now.”

You roll your eyes, not even bothering to look back at him as you finish pouring a concerning amount of liquor into the mug. 

“What is going on over there?” Gideon asks. Spencer remembers he’s holding the phone and he puts it back to his ear. 

“I think your daughter is an alcoholic,” he comments. 

“I’m not an alcoholic,” you say sharply. “I just can’t focus on all this right now.” 

“It’s best if she gets some sleep,” Gideon says. “All of this is likely terrifying to her, no matter how hard she tries to hide it.” 

Spencer’s mind flashes back to your near panic attack—your wide eyes full of fear and harried breathing that only made you hyperventilate more when you realized you couldn’t control it. It’s too easy to think of you as some untouchable being from the way you interact with him, bothered by nothing and no one. 

The mask cracks on rare occasion. It makes you seem frighteningly real. 

“You’re right,” Spencer nods. You sip your drink without flinching. He doesn’t think he can even call it a drink if it’s just straight liquor. “We could all use some sleep.” 

“Just make sure she’s safe,” he says. “Make sure the whole place is secure. We’re not—” 

“Taking risks,” he finishes. “Believe me, I know.” 

Gideon is silent for a second, and Spencer takes the time to look at you. The bags under your eyes are even more prominent, and there’s a haunted glint in your eyes as you stare at the wall. You shiver ever so slightly, the outside chill still lingering on your skin. You’ve got pajama pants on but just a plain tee. You didn’t have time to put a sweatshirt on before he pulled you outside in the mania of it all. 

You really are beautiful—but you’re so damn tired. 

Spencer realizes that all he wants to do is give you some respite. 

“I’ll call you back later, then,” Gideon says. “To check in.” 

“Okay.” Spencer’s throat bobs as he averts his eyes from you. “Get some rest too, Gideon.” 

The other end hangs up without a response. Spencer stares down at the phone for a few seconds then sighs before he tucks it back into his pocket. 

“What’d he want?” you ask. 

“I can’t believe you’re drinking vodka out of a coffee mug at four in the morning.”

You frown. “You don’t get to judge me.” 

“It’s not good for you.” 

“None of this is good for me,” you enunciate. “What did my dad want?”

“I’m serious,” Spencer continues. “Drinking on an empty stomach can lead to low blood sugar— drinking at this hour is going to completely disrupt your circadian rhythm.” 

“You know what else has disrupted my circadian rhythm?” you ask mockingly. “Being here. Having a stalker. Finding out that said stalker was also here, watching us. I think that’s a little worse for me than the alcohol.” 

Spencer stares at you, and as you’re prone to do, you stare back. Eventually, he shakes his head and looks away, deciding to quit while he’s ahead. 

“He wants you to get some sleep,” he says. “Wants us both to.” 

You scoff and shake your head, downing much more vodka than you should in one go. Again, you don’t flinch—for a schoolteacher, you handle your liquor very well. “Like I’d get to sleep after this.” 

“It’s important,” Spencer insists. “You’ve gotten— what? Three hours of sleep?” 

“Well, all this excitement has woken me up,” you say. 

“Well, I’m tired,” Spencer says. “So I guess I’ll see you in a few hours.” 

He starts to walk to his room, figuring that you need time to cool off, when—

“Wait.” 

Your voice is oddly strangled, and Spencer stops in his tracks. 

“I—” you stop and sigh, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “I don’t want to be alone right now.” 

“Our rooms are close to each other,” he says. “I’ll be able to hear if you yell.” 

You rub your eyes as you let out another haggard sigh. “I can’t stand to be in that room, Spencer. Not knowing that— that he was right there.” 

Spencer can’t look away from you. Your eyes glint with tears you’re trying to hold back, but you’re laid bare in a way he knows you hate. 

You’re being pushed to your limits against your will, and it kills him that he can’t do anything to help you. Honestly, sometimes he feels useless being stuck here while the rest of the team is out there actively working to help you. All he can do is stand around here and annoy you. 

Except you want him there. For the first time since all of this has started, you want him there. 

It’s the only thing he can do for you right now. How can he refuse? 

“Okay,” he says softly, and he nods. “Okay. We can share my room tonight.” 

The tension in your shoulders fades ever so slightly, and you—thankfully—set the mug down. “Keep your gun close.” 

“I’m not sure you want me shooting when I’m sleep deprived,” Spencer says. 

Your lips twitch just so, and Spencer’s heart skips a beat. He can’t help it. 

He should have known he was in too deep the moment he stepped into this house with you. 

-

“Very cozy,” you say. 

“It’s the same as your room,” Spencer responds. 

You shrug. “It’s messy. Makes it feel like home.” 

He feels his face flush. “I haven’t really been focused on keeping things clean.” 

“Relax.” You sit down on the bed. “I’m not judging you.” 

“Good.” Spencer glances at you as he moves his bag off of your side of the bed. “Because that would be very rude after the generosity I’ve shown you.” 

You laugh and Spencer finds himself smiling at the sound of it. He’s glad he’s turned away, and he’s glad he manages to push it away by the time he’s turned back around. 

You’re wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants now, and it’s strange to see you look so… soft. Every part of you is so sharp, some of it jagged—sometimes you harden around him, sometimes you mellow. He’s a bit tired of the back and forth. 

Maybe that’s what makes him speak up. 

“I’m tired of us always being at odds.” 

Your eyebrows rise and you look at him. “Really?” 

Spencer nods, his will bolstered. “Really. We have a nice talk one night, and I feel like we’ve had a breakthrough, and then you go back to hating me the next morning. I’m— I’m sick of it.” 

He expects you to shoot back with some mocking comment like you always do, making fun of him for wanting more than what little you give him. But instead, you lay back against the pillows and shrug. 

“Okay.” 

He blinks. “Really?” 

“Really,” you nod. “I’m too tired to want to fight right now.” 

“You’re the one that always tries to fight me.” 

“Aren’t you fighting me right now?” 

Spencer shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable.” 

You chuckle. “Still fighting.” 

He stares at you. As usual, you stare back, but this time you can’t fully bite back your smile. For some reason, that gets Spencer to break. He smiles too, and he settles down on the bed next to you. There’s a pillow buffer between you, but it’s still a lot closer than he’s used to. 

Well, he did hold your hands earlier, but that’s because he was bringing you down from a panic attack. That doesn’t mean anything. 

“What a day,” he mutters. 

“And it hasn’t even started yet,” you muse. “I don’t know how you do this kind of shit every day.” 

“I’m not really the target of any of this,” he says. “I usually stay behind the scenes. I’m good with geographical profiles, not chasing down unsubs.” 

You look over at him. “You haven’t really talked about anything you do for the BAU.” 

Spencer shrugs. “I thought it would be a sore subject.” 

You pause. “You’re… probably right.” 

“I figured.” He chuckles, then glances over at you. “But you already know enough about me. You said you would talk about your job. Teaching, and your kids, and all that.” 

Your eyebrows rise. “You actually care?”

Spencer gives you a look. “I thought we were past that part in our friendship.”

“We’re not friends.”

He shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

You roll your eyes, but you go on anyway. “I’m a highschool teacher in Fairfax. You know Mount Vernon High?” 

Spencer nods. “I know the name of every high school in Virginia.” 

“Of course you do,” you huff. “But that’s besides the point. I did my student teacher hours there, and they offered me a full time position. I took it, so I guess I’ve been there since senior year.” You purse your lips. “It’s a little depressing when you look at it like that.” 

“Then don’t look at it like that,” he say. “You said you loved your job.” 

“I do!” You smile again, a bit lighter this time. “My teachers were a huge part of my life, especially in high school.” The lightness fades some, but he notices how you try to hide it. “If I could help even one kid the same way my teachers helped me, then I would have done something with my life.” 

“That’s very noble of you,” Spencer says. “I don’t think I ever would have guessed you were a teacher.” 

“Oh, please,” you say. “You’re a profiler. You’d figure it out.” 

“You wouldn’t know I work with the FBI at first glance.” 

“Well, I’m not a profiler. Besides,” you tip a shoulder, “I have the ulterior motive of wanting to introduce kids to the wonders of physics.” 

Spencer’s eyes light up. “You’re a physics teacher?” 

“I teach a load of science classes, but I carry the banner for AP physics.” You huff a laugh. “You’re probably the only one that doesn’t sound lame to.” 

“I love physics!” he exclaims. “I’ve got a PhD in engineering, remember?” 

You smile— no, you actually grin at him, and he can’t believe he finally broke through the barrier with science. 

“Trust me, I’d love to talk physics with you, boy genius, but—” you’re interrupted with a yawn, and Spencer resists the urge to do the same— “but I think I’m actually about to fall asleep.”  

Spencer shakes his head with a small laugh. He realizes that he’s relaxed while you’ve been talking, limbs looser and fully laying back against the pillows. 

“This was actually part of my master plan to get you to rest,” he says. “Talking science always works with the team.” 

He sees you smile out of his peripherals as you lay fully down, can feel every shift of your body against the mattress while you try to find a good position. 

“It wasn’t you,” you say. “It was the vodka.” 

 “Of course,” he agrees. 

Silence falls over the room as the two of you settle in. You take off your sweatshirt, a slight shiver running through you once you’re back in your tank top. Spencer removes his glasses, and he blinks a few times to adjust to the blurriness.

The bed is big enough for you to both have your own space,, and you’re both careful to keep your backs to each other. The silence is comfortable despite the previous animosity. Maybe all it really did take was for him to start talking science. 

Eventually, though—

“Thank you, Spencer.” Your voice is little more than a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. “I— I know you don’t like me. So it means a lot that you still do all this for me.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, taking your words in. The mingled sounds of your breathing are really the only things filling the room, and he can feel your weight against the mattress. It’s all oddly intimate. 

“You’re wrong.” He’s almost surprised at the sound of his own voice. “I do like you.” 

Your shock shows through the silence. Spencer takes his chance. 

“You’re going through something no one should ever have to experience, and you’re doing it with someone you think stole your life from you.” Spencer shifts ever so slightly. His hands feel inexplicably clammy. “It was unfair of me to take Gideon’s side so often.” 

“Still.” Your words are muffled as you speak half into the mattress. “We have more important things to worry about. It was unfair of me to spend so much time giving you shit. You— you didn’t even know I existed until a month ago.” 

“But now I do.” He pauses. “And I’m glad I do. So you can start looking forward instead of always looking back.” 

Again, silence. It lasts so long Spencer wonders if you’ve fallen asleep. Your breathing is thankfully steady (a side of him is always focused on your breathing just to make sure) and you don’t shift much, so he wouldn’t be surprised. You were exhausted—

“Spencer?” 

His eyes open. He didn’t even realize they had closed. You sound half-asleep, your voice nothing more than a whisper. He wishes more than anything he knew what was going through your mind right now. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m glad you’re here.” 

His heart stutters so blatantly he’s sure you can hear it. Spencer honestly doesn’t know what to say—his mouth is so dry he doesn’t know if he can say anything. 

Spencer thought you hated him. You thought Spencer hated you. 

It’s ironic. 

“Me too,” he eventually manages. 

But there’s no response. You must’ve already fallen asleep again, just conscious enough to say a few words. The rude awakening mixed with the fear and alcohol couldn’t have done you much good. 

Spencer swallows the doubt in his throat and closes his eyes again, trying not to focus on you. It’s practically impossible. 

He’s glad, at least, that you’re able to sleep. You deserve to rest more than anyone. 

Eventually, the sound of your breathing lulls Spencer to sleep. 

You were the one thing he didn’t have on his list.

[crowliphale]

ALRIGHT.... after roughly three days and one complete re-work, i think i can now proudly show off my silly sims creation...

Madrick Roslof's House

(disclaimer: i know it's shown to be a cutesie little cottage in the module but hush i have an overactive imagination)

I took some HEAVY, HEAVY inspiration from @sweet-reaper's fic What Lies Between Us (as in, it was supposed to be a recreation but i'm more than 100% sure i messed some things up) so go give it tons of love!!!

Tour below the cut!

The Outside (front & back)

I'll admit I'm not the greatest exterior decorator, but I'm still happy with how it came out! I was going for a building that wasn't constructed professionally, but rather by the people living in it. Personalized, asymmetrical, kinda like my grandparents house...

The Foyer/Livingroom

You'll notice right away that Roslof has an absolutely chaotic variety of furniture, and that's completely intentional! I wanted it to feel like this house has been lived in for decades, becoming more of a place to store all of Roslof's trinkets rather than an organized space. For sims reasons I gave him a TV, but if it were purely dnd-based that wouldn't be there lol. The dollhouse is there for Hootsie, who's a toddler in my game!

The Kitchen

Kremy's baby. He practically lives in this room. Despite it being Roslof's house and kitchen, I REALLY leaned into the fact that this is Kremy's space. It's a lot cleaner than some other parts of the house, and feels slightly more updated while keeping that awesome vintage vibe. Not a ton to say, it's probably the 2nd most accurate to my initial vision while reading reaper's fic.

The Dining Room

Not a ton to say here! I honestly didn't even intend on adding a dining room at first, but realized i had an empty room that served no purpose, so why not make it a dining room? I'm really happy with the eclectic collection of chairs, and I felt like a genius for putting one to the side after I replaced it with Hootsie's high chair

~ UPSTAIRS ~

The Guest Room (currently Kremy & Gideon's room)

The MOST accurate to my vision while reading reaper's fic, I think the only part I wish I could change is that the table in the back is meant to be a vanity table. I also would've added more clutter and the shrine to the Baron, but I kinda just don't have the space/CC for that </3 otherwise I love this room!!

Roslof's Room (formerly, now deceased)

This one's the most lackluster in my opinion, I really didn't have a clear picture of what his room looks like. It's also likely getting changed in the future as Hootsie grows up--Maybe I'll move Gideon and Kremy into here at some point... either way it isn't awful, I wouldn't mind spending my final days in here.

Guest Room 2 (Frost & Gricko & Hootsie's room)

I think this is where I strayed the most from reaper's story. Not totally sure how the arrangement is in the fic, i haven't reread it in a minute, but I know I typically make the three other guys all bunk together... but as you can see, this room is WAY too small for that. So instead it's just Frost & Gricko & Hootsie. Didn't put a ton of effort in, but that's mainly because I don't think Frost or Gricko have very many worldly possessions to their names.

~ BASEMENT ~

The Workshop (Gideon's baby)

I literally just DON'T have the CC to make this work that great, but I tried to still arrange things the same way they looked in my mind! Again not much to say, without the proper CC it kinda just became a filler room.

The Storage Closet (Torbek's room)

Poor Torbek... FJDSKFS I'm actually so sorry I put him down here partially as a joke and partially because I couldn't remember where he sleeps in the fic. and because I was pretty much entirely out of space anywhere else. Sorry big guy, I gave you a night light as consolation

~ THE GREENHOUSE ~

The Greenhouse (the greenhouse)

THE GREENHOUSE!! It's my absolute favorite part of the build it's just downright gorgeous, I tried so so hard to make it work despite not having the correct CC/DLC, and I'm super happy with how it came out!! Literally all I would add is some hanging planters from the banisters this thing is great.

and... that's the house! Hooray! Not sure how else to end a post like this, so here's the worst photo ever of how the guys look (+ toddler Hootsie)

I'll probably make another post like this but for the family's closeups/outfits/traits if I notice enough interest for it.. anyway tho hope you liked my silly sims build!! go read reaper's stuff its actually peak i'm so serious!!

[somekidnamedkai]

Can I request Trey clover x reader where he, the reader and adeuce are in the kitchen baking and adeuce knows that Trey and reader like each other but hasn't said it yet. Reader is like okay hand me the tray and they push Trey into their arms and he goes with it. Okay you have me where do you want me now?

Authors note: My first fic from my year long hiatus. I loved this so so much, i hope you enjoy it, thanks for requesting anon!

Character: Trey Clover

Word count: 1073

Warnings: None

You and Trey had obvious chemistry… to everyone except you two. I mean, you and Trey were just friends. That didn’t stop you from having a huge crush on him though. How could you not? Not only was he gorgeous, he was attentive and kind. But there was no way he felt the same, at least not in your opinion. 

Your friends Ace and Deuce, however, thought differently. Why, you ask? Because Trey had said the same thing to them, how he adored you and your beautiful smile and how he wished you felt the same but you didn’t. The pair of first years just looked at each other in return, wondering how the two of you were just so oblivious to each other's obvious pining. Maybe if the two of you opened your eyes you’d just see how you were meant for each other. Which is why Ace and Deuce took it upon themselves to get you together.

You, Ace, and Deuce were in the Heartslabyul kitchen with Trey, getting ready to bake tarts, cakes, cookies, and other treats for the upcoming unbirthday party. Trey had needed some help preparing, and you being the lovesick fool, I mean, good friend that you were, offered to help him, stringing Ace and Deuce along, which to your surprise they went along with, which only made you question what they were scheming.

You were currently mixing some dough for a batch of cookies you were baking, although your mind kept drifting elsewhere, wondering how different this scenario would be had you been dating Trey. Would he be closer to you, showing you more hands-on what to you, or would he keep his vice housewarden exterior and devote everything to make sure the treats were perfect for the party, after all, his housewarden was a perfectionist. “Thanks again, Prefect, your help is greatly appreciated,” Trey’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. He looked perfect over there, his hair all messy, some dough on his face, and his grin- you shook your head, bringing yourself back to reality once again. 

“Anytime, Trey, it’s no problem, really,” you replied to your friend, a small smile appearing on your face after his compliment. You returned to your task poured some chocolate chips into the cookie batter and mixed them in. Soon you were finished with the mixing and were reading to start putting the cookies on a tray to bake. You looked around, unable to find a tray to place the cookies on, “hey can someone hand me the tray?” you asked aloud, hoping one of the others had one near you.

To your surprise, Trey was shoved into your arms by your snickering first-year friends whom you glared at for a second before returning your attention to the vice housewarden in your arms. “Alright, prefect, you have me, what do you want me to do now?” He asked you following it up with a wink.

“I-uh- Ace!” You shouted but the first year was nowhere to be seen, neither was Deuce. You pushed Trey away, blushing furiously, and turned away, hoping your crush wouldn’t notice how red you were right now. “Uhm, could you hand me a cookie tray?” You asked, getting shy all of a sudden. Despite being head over heels for the man in front of you, it wasn’t like you to be shy around him.

Trey chuckled, and you looked at him, noticing a redness in his cheeks. Which only made you more flustered. “Sure you wouldn’t want me doing anything else?” He asked with a grin before walking away to grab a tray. “You have strong arms,” Trey blurted out, before quickly adding on to his words, “I mean- you caught me fairly easily when those two shoved me at you, neither of us lost our balance.” He rambled on as he returned with two cookie trays in his hands. 

“Oh, thank you,” You said gently as you grabbed the trays from his hands and quickly busied yourself with placing balls of dough onto the trays in front of you to distract yourself from him. “I wonder what that was about anyways,” you tried laughing it off as you carefully rolled balls of dough, making sure all of them were an inch, not too big or small.

Trey chuckled as he nodded in agreement, “They probably did that because of my crush on you. Trying to quite literally push us together,” he said nonchalantly as if he didn’t just confess to having a crush on you.

You sputtered and stuttered for a second, before recollecting yourself and speaking “You have a crush on me? Seriously?” You were shocked, there was no way he didn’t feel the same, and yet he did. This must have been some kind of prank. Yup, Ace and Deuce would walk back in any minute now and say so.

Trey chuckled slightly before answering “Yeah, I have a major crush on you, those two wouldn’t stop teasing me about it for weeks. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with saying that, I hope you don’t mind and we can still be friends.”

Your jaw could have hit the ground with how shocked you were. Here he was, your best friend and crush confessing to you all because of a prank from Ace and Deuce. You silently reminded yourself to thank them later before looking into Trey’s eyes. “No,” you started and Trey looked disappointed for a second before you started speaking again “I mean- I want to be more than friends, I- I like you too, I have for a long time now, in fact, I also told Ace and Deuce although I regret it, but I really like you, and how perfect you are and-” 

Trey cut you off by cupping your cheeks and kissing you, which you returned, feeling his lips on yours. It was an amazing feeling that you wanted to never end. But it did as Trey pulled away and smiled at you. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could there was cheering coming from the door. The two of you turned to look to see what it was and it was your favorite duo, standing there cheering like this was an Olympic sport. “Finally.” Ace said, “It only took you two forever to confess.” The two of you laughed before looking back at each other and smiled before kissing again.

[jumiinx]

napalm ;; vi x reader

cw: pitfighter!vi, established relationship, hurt/comfort?, except it's more angst than comfort sorryyy, vi is nicer in this one i promise, blood mention, smut implied. men and minors dni.

wc: 831

vi had promised to stop fighting.

and yet still, every night, she found herself in the ring once more, letting out her anger on whichever poor fool decided to fight her. 

it would end the same, with her knuckles bloody and a few random bruises decorating her body.

but this time was worse. way worse. 

it was some shimmer-junkie who had fucked her up badly. and it ended with her barely being conscious, and the fight was called off. she could see it in his eyes when he threw punches, the bright, feral pink drug swirling around in his eyes. his blows were sloppy and unfocused, driven by pure strength and instinct. 

her abdomen screamed at her with every step she took as she stumbled through the dingy streets of the undercity. with her hand on the wall, she managed to stumble through the narrow alley, her other hand clutching at her side. 

the stinging pain at her side was nothing in comparison to her dread of seeing the look on your face. you would check her for injuries and kiss the worst bruises. you wouldn’t judge her, but she could see that it was affecting you. 

she couldn’t handle seeing the worry on your face. 

so she had promised you that she would quit the fights, and you agreed. 

but there was something in her that couldn’t stop, no matter how hard she tried. 

the adrenaline after winning was like nothing else. it filled an ache that nothing else could, not even your love.

she felt like she was honoring vander every time she won.

because for every win, it was just a reminder that she couldn’t save her father.

𝜗𝜚

you were up late, pacing around your shared apartment. the only sound was the soft thumping of your feet against the floor.

normally she would be home by now. she was never gone for this long. you couldn’t help but worry, knowing she was most likely in the pit again.

you never went out in the lanes this late, but if she didn’t come back in five minutes then-

you stop, hearing the door open. 

for a moment, all you could hear was her panting. after you walk towards the door, your eyes zone in on the nasty, dark contusion. 

a quiet gasp leaves your lips.

“vi-”

“i know.” she grimaces, before trudging in, leaning against the wall. her knuckles were bloody, a few drops of the crimson liquid still dripping down and landing on the floor.

you immediately go up to her and check the deep wound. “fuck, vi. you promised-” you hiss, your gaze snapping up to meet her powder-blue orbs. 

your eyebrows were scrunched together, but you knew you couldn’t be mad at her for very long.

“i, i got so worried. you scared me.” there was no real bite in your words, you loved her too much for that. she knew that. 

“ah, i’ve had worse, from before we met.” a lie. or maybe not, you couldn’t tell. 

you lean up and rest your forehead against her, savoring the smell, and even sweat of her, while the pink ends of her hair tickle your nose. you wished she would realize how harmful this was for her, and for you.

vi’s voice was full of shame. “i’m-.” she paused, unable to finish, and she knew the rush from fighting was something she would never give up. you knew that. 

and so you help take her jacket off, with your soft hands wrapping bandages around her toned torso. you wince at every pained groan that leaves her lips. you wrap up her hands with white gauze, and the fabric felt like torture as it rubbed against her wounded knuckles. good. maybe she’ll learn.

her arm wraps around your shoulder and you help her lay on the bed. 

“do you need anything for the pain?” you ask softly. always doting on her. you were too sweet, too good for her.

she shook her head, her knuckles now no longer bloody as they rested on their cheap mattress. “just you.” vi looked up at you from where you stood, and suddenly the scary pitfighter of zaun didn’t seem so daunting anymore.

you trace her cheek, and lean down for a kiss. 

it was soft, gentle. everything she wasn’t.

“please, vi.” you murmur against her lips. “i can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.” her scarred upper lip pursed, and she kissed you once more. an apology. she was never good with words.

you lower yourself onto her lap, being mindful of the numerous abrasions. you let her leave light pecks on your neck. each one their own plea for forgiveness. 

you grasp her jaw and you feel her hands wrap around your waist as they pull you closer. 

“show me you’re sorry.” you mumble, already feeling her hands rest on your thighs. 

vi grins.

“mmh…my favorite part.” she chuckles, before pulling you to her lips once more. 

𝜗𝜚

[thequietkid-moonie]

Omg omg yasss Soul mate Au~ Can we get Kafka, Firefly, and Raun mei with a meeting their soul mate? I totally feel like with Firefly and Ruan mei it'd be a world changing event, like everything just suddenly clicks for them, particularly with Ruan mei

Meeting their soulmate

[ SCENARIO, SOULMATE AU ] [ Firefly, Ruan Mei ] [ Honkai Star Rail ]

yesyesyesyesyeeees thank uuuuu <333 im so happyyyyy!! Soulmate AU is definetly one of my favorites and I enjoyed writing this so so so sooooooooo much <333

hehe I hope you like it as much as I did

Firefly

Firefly have known about soulmates for a long ago, she have hear some of her friends talk about how everyone borns with a soulmate, someone with who you are destinated to be with and how both will recognize each other the moment you two meet, honestly it was quite cheesy but still made Firefly wonder if she even has one, she is embarrased by it but she used to daydream about meeting her soulmate, however she always brush off the thought, reminding herself that since she has born only to fight in battle, to be part of the war, she probably doesn't even have one

It wasn't until after so long, after she was awake again, when she became part of the Stellaron Hunters and got to finally experience a life when she finally found her soulmate

Firefly has even forgotten all the time she used to spend daydreaming about this day, because she didn't wanted to think about it, even if now she can experience life with some more freedom everyone only have one soulmate, both are almost made to each other and even if she had a soulmate for how it has being you probably aren't out there anymore, that was what she thought and thats why she stopped thinking about it

She was on a mision when she catched a glince of you at the distance, it was just a second that she saw a glimpse of you in the corner of her eyes and yet she felt like time has stopped, her eyes widen and almost as an instinct she look back, looking all around until her eyes were finally locked in yours

Firefly's eyes widen and her lips were pursed, she feels herself almost panicing and had to take a deep breath just to make sure she was still breathing, she didn't knew how to react, she didn't even expected to have a soulmate anymore but here you were, looking at her with the same surprise

Firefly wanted to run away and hide, she was so scared of actually having a soulmate, this meant that life was recognizing her as someone worthy of living, it was recognizing her as an actual individual and not just a weapon for war, but, what about you? Would you accept her just the way she is? What if you don't like what she is? What if she is not enough? What if she is not a good soulmate? Her mind and heart raced with anxiety and fear, only being interrupted when you called out for her

You could be as flustered and even be the most shy person but the fact that you two were soulmates makes everything easier, once you two were finally speaking all anxiety was vanished, it was as if both have known each other for years now, the first conversation was a bit clumsy but it was flowing, along with the wish to don't get away from each other, making Firefly feel like it was alright, you two were meant to each other after all

Ruan Mei

Ruan Mei has never been strange of the concept of soulmates, her parents were the soulmate of each other, thats why both supported the other on their work and pasion even until death, that have left a great impresion of the soulmates to her, for Ruan Mei, even if the whole concept was something against anything science could say she still look at it with some interest and fascination

Despite actually liking the whole thing of the soulmates Ruan Mei never really tried to go out of her way to find her soulmate, she trusted that if you two really were destinated to each other you two will eventually meet, in the mean time she dedicate herself to her work

Ruan Mei has a hard time dealing with feelings and interactions, thats also why she never made more to find you, but at the end she was right since you two one day so casually crossed in each other paths, she was distracted in her thoughts, too busy clearing details of her work in her mind when suddenly felt something, a strange feeling that make her whole body, imediatly stopped in her tracks before slowly looking back not really knowing what was calling out of her so bad, and then is when she saw you

The moment her eyes met yours her eyes widen and she lost her voice, taking a shaky breath as she tried to understand, she knew it was you, despite not having any evidence nor any reason to believe it she knew you were her soulmate, and this made her heart beat faster and her cheeks turn a bit pink. It took Ruan Mei a moment before she looked down, placing a hand over her chest to feel her heartbeat, her heart was beating fast with excitment and yet she felt calm, she felt flustered but her mind was still clear, how strange and yet extraordinary

Before your could say anything Ruan Mei was already walking in your direction, with a smile and forgetting to keep a respectful distance she reached your side, bluntly saying that she was your soulmate and that she was happy, she doesn't even understand it at all but she doesn't care, she doesn't want to stop feeling this way

The closer she was to you and the more she heard your voice the more made Ruan Mei felt more and more, somehow she felt happy, a kind of happiness and excitment she has never felt before and she wants to find out what this feelings are, she wants to study herself and this thing of having her soulmate, without even understanding the weight of her words Ruan Mei took your hands and expresses how happy she is that you two have meet, how she wants to be with you and never let go, she is not a stranger of losing, she have lost people she hold dear before but with you she hopes that never happens, because she doesn't want to stop feeling this way, she doesn't want to lose you

[punkrockmlchael]

Secret Admirer

Masterlist | Gareth Emerson Masterlist

Gareth Emerson x Fem Cheerleader!Reader

Modern AU ; Secret Admirer to Lovers

Warnings: This is literally just fluff because I just.. needed this, No like literally buckle up for the fluffiest fluff, big bad and scary Gareth is actually a huge and sweet teddy bear when you get to know him, Secret Admirer!Gareth, Cheerleader!Reader, Best Friend!Chrissy, Kind of mean girl cheerleader friends, Gareth has little sisters, Gareth has a cat

Synopsis: Random love letters continue to find their way into your locker at school, it felt like each and every day there was a new one. As time goes on your friends are constantly guessing who they think your "Secret Admirer" actually is. But, they couldn't have been more wrong. This has been giving me trouble because I wanted it to be the best it could be and I continued to come back to it. It has nothing to do with Valentine's Day but I made it a goal to finish it before then and this, uh, this turned out pretty long... So, to anyone that was waiting I'm sorry for the delay but I hope you enjoy how this turned out! Thanks for reading! + once again thank you to the loves of my life @keeryhours + @the-witty-pen-name

Word Count: 7k

Notes. 

Love notes? 

No, just notes… right? 

That’s how it all started… with some small and subtle handwritten notes. Sweet little anonymous notes that always seemed to brighten your day and compliment you when you needed them the most. They came so often you were starting to wonder how you never noticed them being placed inside your locker… they must’ve been stuffed through the gaps but whoever was placing them definitely had to be quick and cunning if you never noticed them before, right?

It felt like every single day when you opened your locker a new handwritten note would fall to the ground and land at your feet. Each and every note seemed to have come from the same person—the consistent handwriting didn’t hide that, it actually only accentuated the fact that all these notes were from one person. But, alas, you never were able to find out who was sending them…

The scribbly and slightly slanted handwriting was a stark contrast to the nice and neat little square the paper was always folded into. It was funny, really, there was so much detail put into the folding of the paper but the handwriting was borderline unreadable unless you squinted and tilted your head to just the right angle. These notes were also never addressed with any name, any initials, anything; never even a clue as to who this person was, they never seemed to slip up and give away their identity. Which left you constantly playing the guessing game of who this person was and why they chose you to supply letters to. 

Each time a new note fell to the ground you’d look around, trying to spot if there was anyone lurking in the shadows and watching you. But, you never found anyone, at least, you never seemed to find someone who was actively watching you and your moves… if they were watching you they were doing it so discreetly that you never once thought anything of it. They were good at concealing their identity, really. 

Every little love note from your secret admirer, as Chrissy had called it, made its way into your folder. It brought a smile to your face every time the folder was opened, but you still wished you knew who exactly was writing the letters that put a huge smile on your face.

And more importantly… did they know they were putting these smiles on your face? Or, was all of this just a trick someone was playing on you? There’s no way you could have a secret admirer… right?

You sighed, yawning softly as you put the combination into your locker on autopilot. You had a late night; a pep rally was directly after school and the championship basketball game followed soon after. So, that meant that you cheered your little butt off for the entire school during said pep rally and for the entire town that had decided to come out to the championship game. All the while the band played in the background to help keep everyone interacted with obnoxious sounds of basketball coming from the court. (You know, the dribbling, the squeaks of sneakers, the shouts from players and the crowd; yeah, all of that.) Fortunately, Hawkins had won the championship game; the first big win in years. Unfortunately, that meant that you were stuck being dragged to a party after the game with your best friends and fellow cheerleaders, Chrissy and Kate. Apparently despite being a school night, the win still needed to be celebrated. But, really, what was the point? The game was already done, the win already secured by Jason Carver as he made the game winning shot at the buzzer. 

God, what more was there to celebrate? You wanted to celebrate your bed. But, no. Instead you were dragged out of the gym and to the biggest party you’d ever been to. Chrissy and Kate assured you that you’d be back home by 9 o’clock at night, but once 11 o’clock hit your body was finally resting in your bed comfortably, only to lie awake for ages. The clock showing 1:25 in the morning was the last thing you remembered before finally falling asleep.

You felt like you were running on empty as you yawned yet again, desperately craving an overly sweet iced coffee flavored with caramel syrup with extra whipped cream on top and maybe some extra caramel drizzle on top of that light and fluffy whipped cream. Yeah… that sounded like heaven right now. Caffeine buzz… sugar buzz… honestly, either sounded like they would help at this point in time. After struggling with your locker combination a couple of times, you finally succeeded and opened your locker to grab your English textbook. As you flung the door open, a small folded piece of paper landed at your feet. 

You raised an eyebrow and looked down at the paper by your feet before looking around the hall to see if there was anyone watching you. When you didn’t see anyone actively paying attention to you, you shrugged, bending down to reach for the paper. 

You held the small, perfectly folded paper in your hands before you opened it carefully, reading the contents to yourself.

You looked really pretty at the school pep rally yesterday.

You blushed to yourself, folding the paper back up quickly. You stuffed it in your pocket and grabbed your English textbook, closing your locker. You turned when you heard your name, looking at Kate as she walked towards you with a big grin on her face. Clearly, she was not affected by the late night like you were. She was looking as peppy and chipper as ever… damn, how did she do it? Did she already down that sugary and caffeine filled coffee of your dreams without you?

“Hey, girl,” Kate smiled, bumping your shoulder with her own gently. “How’d you sleep?” She giggled, taking in your tired and disheveled looking appearance. “I texted you, you didn’t respond. I had thought maybe you didn’t wake up in time for school this morning!” 

Looking at Kate, you rolled your eyes as a small scoff left your mouth. “I saw your text, I just didn’t have the brain power to reply. And as for sleeping? I slept like hell, thanks,” you muttered, making the short walk to your English class. Kate walked alongside you, smiling at you.

“Sorry, girl, I thought maybe you could survive off of a few hours of sleep.” She teased, walking into the classroom with you. You sighed, sinking into your seat.

“I can’t,” you replied softly, grabbing your folder out of your backpack. You grabbed the tiny piece of paper from your pants pocket and slid it in the folder discreetly for safe keeping. “And, I think you know that I can’t. I’m going to be honest, I think the only solution at this point is an iced coffee with too much caramel and too much whipped cream.” 

“Damn. Well, you better wake up quick,” she smirked, watching you rest your head in your hands. “Don’t think you want detention with the freaks today.” She added, motioning towards the boys of the Hellfire club. Eddie and Jeff stood around Gareth’s desk, talking far too loud for only being 7 o’clock in the morning. They continued to laugh and talk amongst each other, something about camping? No, a campaign? What the hell was a campaign? You really weren’t sure what they were going on about this early in the morning… it seemed like a foreign language to you and the other students that heard their conversation.

“Kate, don’t call them that,” you yawned again, watching the three boys continue to laugh until the bell rang. “They’re not freaks,” you mumbled, smiling softly when you saw Gareth look at you and smile.

“They are totally freaks, though.” Kate muttered back, looking at the board in the front of the room. 

But you didn’t hear her. You just yawned again, giving Gareth one last smile before looking at the board as well. You were clinging to the hope that you could at least make it to lunch in order to get a nap in… who needed to eat anyways?

You sat in study hall, reading The Great Gatsby to yourself as others around you mumbled and talked amongst themselves about various topics. No one else was doing any homework, and you didn’t really blame them. No one ever actually did homework in study hall… it was the class that students took to tell their parents they would be getting ahead of their schoolwork, but, really, it was just a free for all social hour. Even the teacher that watched study hall didn’t really care, she used this free time to pretend she was grading papers for her class but she was really just swiping through her latest dating app matches trying to find Mr. Right on her phone under the desk. And, it was kind of funny watching her sit and mumble to herself when she didn’t get a match she wanted but, also, this was Hawkins… not many suitors for a teacher at the local high school in her mid 30s. 

Normally you’d be sitting with Chrissy giggling with each other while watching the teacher as she aggressively swiped on her phone, mumbling to herself more. Then you’d move on to giggling about your latest cheer practice, then you’d be discussing the latest shade of nail polish you bought, then you’d go back to giggling about the latest funny video you saw online before finally discussing the newest skirt you had picked up at the mall. But, not today. Today you were just unlucky as Chrissy was sick which left you all alone in study hall. So, you might as well work on some homework… right?

While reading, you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, pouting to yourself when it moved over your ear again. You ran your fingers through your locks, sighing when you realized how short your hair actually was now. It framed your face perfectly—like you had wanted—but now it was too short to pull back into a ponytail, to place in a bun and apparently too short to even push back behind your ears to get it out of your face. 

Damn haircut.

You continued to attempt to push the strands of hair behind your ears before sighing to yourself, setting the book down on the table. You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms over your chest as you looked out the window, watching the wind blow the dry and brittle leaves around the field gently.

The sounds of the people talking around you started to become muffled as you continued to look out the window, watching the leaves dance through the air without a care in the world. There was a big gust of wind, the leaves flying through the wind freely, tauntingly almost, as you sat and watched. Your copy of The Great Gatsby sat long forgotten in front of you as your eyes followed the leaves outside the window.

You glanced over to the table in front of the window, watching as the Hellfire boys sat around in a circle having a very intense discussion. How do these boys always seem to be so in the zone and have the most intense conversations no matter the time of day? It kind of made you envious of the fact that they all enjoyed each other’s company and didn’t care what others around them thought—literally, they were so loud. They were polar opposites of so many others; most people in high school were so caught up in wanting to be popular and needing to fall into a specific category that they would do anything for it. But not these boys; no, these boys were different.

You watched as the boys continued to joke around with each other before Gareth stood up. He nodded at the others and walked past your table, smiling at you a little as he walked towards the door. You smiled at him before you glanced back at your book, picking it up again to attempt to dive back into the story you needed to desperately finish for English class. 

After a few minutes you were finally able to get back into your book. You became so engrossed in the story telling of Nick Carraway that you didn’t notice Gareth slip back into the room and back into his seat at the table with his Hellfire friends. They all went back to talking and joking with each other during the remainder of study hall. 

The annoying ring of the bell and the sound of your classmates packing their belongings up in a hurry was what finally pulled you out of your book. You sighed, marking the page you were on before you stuffed the book in your backpack and stood up, making your way out the door and down the hall to your locker. 

You put your combination in gracefully, opening the door to grab the correct books for your homework. A small piece of paper fell to your feet, landing on top of your converse shoes. You picked it up and unfolded it, reading the note to yourself.

You got a haircut; I like it. It looks good on you.

You blushed softly, reading the words on the paper before you glanced around you. There weren't many people roaming the hall at this time; it seemed like everyone was already out the door or on their way to practices and clubs. The only person walking towards you was your locker neighbor—Gareth. He smiled at you softly before he stopped next to you, putting the combination in his locker. You smiled back, holding the paper to your chest before you attempted to tuck the short strands of hair behind your ear again.

You grabbed your folder from your locker, placing the note inside carefully before shutting the door quietly. You glanced at Gareth, watching as he went through his less than tidy locker. Papers were scattered about the inside, crumpled and ripped and continuing to move with each movement he made.

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself, eyes stuck in his locker. He glanced at you and smiled a little. “Hey, uh, what’re the odds you know the homework we’re supposed to do for English tonight?” 

You smiled, looking at him with a slight nod. “Yeah, uh, here,” you replied, grabbing your planner from your bag. You turned it to the correct day before you handed it to him. Gareth smiled as he took his cellphone out of his pocket, snapping a picture of the homework you had written down. 

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver… I swear I had it written down but can’t find it.” He stopped for a second, looking up at you. “Did you get a haircut?” He asked softly, his smile growing more. 

You nodded, running your fingers through your now short hair. “Uh, yeah. I’m not a huge fan of it…”

“Well, I think it looks good on you,” Gareth replied, closing his locker. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” He asked, looking at you. You smiled, a pink tint covering your cheeks.

“Yeah… see you tomorrow, Gareth…” Gareth nodded at your response, smiling again as he turned away and walked towards the theater room, catching up with his friends Jeff and Eddie. You stood there for a second, watching him leave and begin laughing again with his friends. 

“Hey?” Kate called your name, walking towards you. “You okay? What are you looking at?” She asked, stopping next to you. You hummed, turning towards her.

“Huh? Oh, uh, nothing. Sorry, I was kind of zoning out…” 

“Right, well, ready for practice?” She asked, looking at you.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry.” You replied, turning to walk towards the locker room. 

“What were you looking at?” Kate asked, walking alongside you. You shrugged, not wanting to admit to her that you were watching one of the freaks as she called him.

“Oh, nothing. I thought I heard something… you know?”

Kate raised an eyebrow, not believing you. “Yeah, sure.”

“Stupid fucking glasses,” you muttered to yourself, squinting as you looked at the board in your World History class. You tried to move a bit closer, leaning over your desk as you scribbled some notes sloppily in your notebook. When you realized that even moving closer to the board wasn’t helping, you sighed to yourself. You sat back in your seat as your teacher continued to speak to the entire class, making more and more notes on the white board about the latest World History Lesson.

You took your glasses off and squinted again, trying to keep up with the notes that were being written on the board. A small groan escaped your lips as you gave up on reading the board, instead taking notes based on what your teacher was speaking aloud. 

Gareth glanced up at you as he took his own notes, noticing how you seemed to be struggling with seeing the board. He raised an eyebrow as you put your new glasses back on, eyes directly on your notebook now as you wrote down everything you heard. You attempted to keep up with the notes, struggling slightly as your pen moved across the paper in hasty scribbles, it would be a miracle if you could even reread these notes later. 

Once the bell rang you stood up and moved towards the front of the room, looking at the board once again only this time from a closer view. You quickly wrote down any of the notes you had missed, comparing your notebook to the board a few times before gathering your belongings. You snapped a quick picture of the notes on the board with your phone to compare later before you walked to your locker, smiling at Gareth slightly as he stood at his own locker. 

He smiled at you, nodding at you slightly. “Hey,” he said softly, grabbing his textbook for his next class. “New glasses?” He asked, motioning to his own face.

“Hey, uh, yeah… I, uh, I got them yesterday after school,” you replied, putting the combination into your locker. 

“Nice, well, they look good on you.” Gareth replied, closing his locker. “I really like the black frames on you, they really make your eyes pop.” 

“Thanks,” you smiled, blushing softly. You opened your locker and watched a folded piece of paper fall to your feet. You bent down to grab it, opening it slightly to read the contents to yourself. Your eyes skimmed over the note, squinting slightly as you took in the words that were written on the paper.

You got new glasses, huh? The black frames look totally badass on you. 

You blushed a bit, reading over the note again. Someone else had actually noticed your new glasses and thought they looked good? And, they even went out of their way to compliment you on your new glasses, putting this note in your locker for you to find? You smiled a little, thinking to yourself. You thought these new glasses were terrible… they were just too big and bulky. Not to mention, they kind of gave you a bit of a headache, and they made it difficult to see the board in class right now. You pushed your glasses up higher on the bridge of your nose, examining the note in greater detail. 

God, whose handwriting was that? Who did you know that could write in such a sloppy, slanted manner? And, why—no, how—was the paper always folded up so perfectly?

You folded the note back up and stuffed it into your pocket. Glancing up, you noticed Gareth was gone and was probably off to his next class by now.

“Hey!” You jumped at the sound of Chrissy walking towards you, giggling to herself. “Woah, you good girl?” She asked, looking at you with a smile. 

“Huh? Yeah, sorry, just… have a headache,” you mumbled, grabbing your notebook from your locker before shutting it quickly.

“Yeah, I’ve heard new glasses can do that to you.” She said softly with a small frown. “But, at least you can see, right?” 

“Something like that,” you replied, nodding as you looked at her. “Ready for class?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Chrissy nodded, walking with you towards your next class. Your right hand made its way into your pocket, playing with the folded note gently. 

God, who was leaving these notes?

“Oh my god, this is so weird,” you smiled from your seat at the cheerleader lunch table. You were sitting next to Chrissy and across from Kate, a wide smile on your face as you looked at both of them.

“What?” Kate asked, smiling at you.

“Yeah, what’re you going on about, girlie?” Chrissy smiled, taking a bite of her salad.

“This is like my first lunch without braces in god knows how long.” You smiled brightly, showing off your perfectly straight and shiny teeth. “There’s so many foods I can eat now like… I can have gum again, I can have potato chips, I can have popcorn. My god, I am so excited to eat all the food I haven’t been able to lately.” 

“How many selfies have you taken so far?” Chrissy giggled, looking at you with a smile. “I have to think you’ve at least taken a couple of selfies already to show off your brand new smile.”

You giggled, taking a bite of one of your baby carrots. “Maybe just a few… you know, just had to take some pictures and test out some new angles,” you smiled more, running your tongue over your teeth. It felt weird. It was smooth, and there were no more braces.

“I have to admit, you look good without the braces,” Kate smiled, looking at you. “Don’t get me wrong, you were always beautiful but you look so happy without them on.”

“Yeah, your smile is so contagious.” Chrissy smiled as well, agreeing with Kate. You smiled at them both, continuing to munch on your baby carrots with ranch.

“You’re both going to make me blush,” you giggled. You finished your lunch while joking with your friends before the bell rang. 

“Shit, I forgot I have a math test,” Kate said, standing up.

“Damn, that means I have a math test,” Chrissy groaned, standing up as well. They both looked at you and smiled, “see you after school, girl.” 

“Yep! See you at cheer practice,” you smiled, rising from your seat. You grabbed your items and made your way to your locker. You put your combination in and opened the door, watching yet again as a small piece of folded paper fell to your feet. This one was a little different, your name was on the outside of the paper with a small smiley face drawn next to it.

You bent down and picked up the paper, reading your name on the outside before you opened it, looking at the contents within.

No more braces, huh? God, your smile is breathtaking. 

You blushed a bright red, unable to hide the wide smile that was forming on your face. Who is the one person that keeps noticing these small little changes about you? And, follow up question, why do they feel the need to tell you through these notes? Are they seeing the smile that forms on your face after you read the notes? Are they doing it as a joke?

Reading over the note again, you smiled as you looked into your locker, reaching for your textbook. You grabbed your folder as well, placing the note inside before you closed the locker door and made your way towards your next class wearing the same smile you had when you first read the note—a huge, bright and contagious smile, as Chrissy called it. 

“Have you figured out who your secret admirer is yet?” Kate, asked as you walked towards your lockers together after cheer practice was finally over. The halls were dim and empty, the three of you the only ones around for the time being. 

“It’s Steve! No, it’s Andy! Wait, maybe it’s Tommy,” Chrissy squealed, naming off all of the popular boys in your grade.

“Chrissy, come on, you’re just throwing names out left and right at this point,” Kate commented, shaking her head. You shrugged, walking towards your locker.

“I think you are both too invested in this,” you said, stopping at your locker. “I mean, they’re just little letters and I don’t even know who they’re from!” You said, putting your locker combination in. “It’s not a big deal.”

“They’re love letters,” Kate corrected, looking at you. “That is, like, so totally a big deal!”

“Yeah! This could be your future boyfriend! Your future husband, the father of your children,” Chrissy gushed, watching as you opened your locker.

“You two are just so—” you started, cutting yourself off as you looked into your locker. You raised your eyebrow, looking at the girls before redirecting your attention back to the locker. 

“We’re so what?” Chrissy asked, giggling.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Kate asked, moving to get a better look in your locker.

You picked up the single red rose that was sitting in your locker, holding it up. You lifted it to your nose, sniffing it gently before you noticed the piece of paper attached to it. You quickly unfolded it, reading the contents as a smile appeared on your face.

You’re the most beautiful girl in the world ♡

You looked up at Kate and Chrissy, smiles forming on their faces as well. “Still think it’s not a big deal?” Kate asked, taking a peek at the love note. “Someone is like, in love with you!”

“Oh, my god,” Chrissy squealed again, jumping up and down. “This is so perfect, oh my god, what if he’s planning on asking you to Prom?”

“Chrissy, I still don’t even know who he is,” you reminded her, looking down the hall to see if you could find anyone. Then again, it was after school and clubs… not too many people were still here willingly. No, just a few teachers and the janitors tended to linger around the building at this time.

“Come on, it has to be Steve, he’s always watching you while we’re cheering!” Chrissy smiled, looking at you. 

“Oh, my god, picture it,” Kate smiled, joining in on Chrissy’s excitement. “Prom; Chrissy and Jason, me and Billy, and you and Steve!”

“Isn’t he with Nancy?” You asked, sniffing the rose again. Kate shook her head rapidly. 

“No! They broke up!”

“Yeah, she’s with Jonathan now,” Chrissy added, looking at you. “Oh, god, I hope it’s Steve!” 

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at your two friends and their speculations. You grabbed your things and smiled at them, closing your locker. “You guys are crazy,” you said, looking at them. “But, I have to go. I have to go work on a World History project with my partner.”

“Partner?” Chrissy asked, gasping slightly. “Wait, is it Steve?” 

“Or Andy? Or Tommy?” Kate asked, giggling with Chrissy. You shook your head and looked at them.

“No, it’s Gareth.” 

“The freak?” Chrissy asked. You shook your head slightly and looked at her.

“Don’t call him that, he’s actually pretty nice… I think,” you replied, shrugging slightly.

“Oh, god, don’t tell me you have a crush on one of the freaks,” Kate said softly, rolling her eyes. 

“Look, I have to go. I’m already late, I texted him and told him I’d be there around five and it’s almost five thirty!” You panicked, grabbing your phone to send Gareth a text. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bye!” You added, running towards the door as you typed out a text to Gareth. 

You made it to your car and started the short drive to Gareth’s house from the high school. He had sent you a text back that you read once you pulled up to his house, a text back that just said ‘it’s fine, no biggie,’ but to you it felt like a biggie, in fact, it felt like a big biggie. You hated being late and even more, you hated blowing people off. You grabbed your bag and hopped out of the car, walking towards the front door; taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door, waiting for someone to answer. 

After a minute or so a cute little girl opened the door. She was probably around seven or so and looked just like Gareth—she had blue eyes, fluffy hair with little curls thrown about and an adorable smile with a tooth missing in the front. She held a small baby blue teddy bear under her arm and smiled up at you.

“Hi! I’m Gracie,” she beamed, looking at you.

“Hi, Gracie,” you smiled at her. “Is Gareth home?”

She nodded and giggled, turning around. “Gare! Your girlfriend is here!” She turned back to you and smiled, “you’re pretty.”

You blushed softly as she called you her brother’s girlfriend, smiling a little. “Why, thank you, Gracie.” After a minute Gareth came walking to the front door, looking at Gracie.

“Why are you yelling at me?” He asked, noticing you at the door. He smiled at you slightly before looking back at Gracie.

“I said your girlfriend is here,” Gracie said, pointing to you. “She’s pretty, Gare, are you going to kiss her?” 

You stifled a laugh, biting your lip as you looked at her with a small smile. Gareth turned a bright shade of red before he shook his head, pointing towards the living room. “Okay, that’s enough. Don’t you have a tea party to get back to?” Gracie gasped and nodded, looking at Gareth.

“You’re right! Mr. Fluffy is waiting for me!” And with that Gracie was running back to her tea party, forgetting you were even at the door. Gareth shook his head and looked up at you, still a bit pink as he stepped to the side and motioned for you to come in.

“Hey, uh, sorry about… her,” he said softly, closing the door behind you as you walked in. “She’s got… quite the imagination,” Gareth trailed off, looking into the living room as he watched his sister go back to her tea party with her stuffed animals. “We can go to my room,” he said, directing his attention back to you with a small smile.

“That sounds good,” you nodded, smiling as you followed him into the house and up the stairs. Along the way, you took note of all the decorations in the house. There were so many family pictures on the walls along with various other pictures. You lingered on one slightly, smiling at what appeared to be Gareth when he was younger with his parents. He was standing in front of their house in between his mom and dad with a toothless grin on his face, his hair was a mess, a fluffy mop on his head. You smiled softly, eyes flickering from the picture back to the boy in front of you. 

He stopped in front of a door that had a Metallica poster on the back and opened it, motioning for you to go first. You smiled at him, stepping into his room as you looked around. There were metal posters everywhere as well as pictures of him and his friends hanging on the wall. His dresser had a ton of little dragon figurines on it with a book that said Dungeons and Dragons Player’s Handbook. 

“Sorry, it’s kind of messy,” Gareth apologized, moving some of his clothes off of his bed. “I’m actually so terrible at putting my clothes away… very toxic trait of mine,” he mumbled, walking towards his closet. You giggled softly, watching him walk past you.

“Oh, mine too, it’s okay,” you smiled, watching him throw the clothes in his closet.

“You can take a seat on my bed, get comfy or whatever, we might be here for a bit.” He said, looking back at you. You glanced at his bed, taking note of the dark colored bedspread and blankets. You walked towards it, sitting gently. You grabbed your textbook and notebook from your bag, placing them on the bed in front of you as you grabbed a pen. You placed your bag down beside you and jumped when you felt the bed move, looking back to see a black cat staring at you curiously.

“Oh, hi,” you said softly, reaching out to pet the cat gently. Gareth closed his closet door and grabbed his notebook and textbook as well, looking back at his bed with a smile.

“Oh yeah, sorry, I probably should have warned you about him. You’re not like allergic or anything are you?” He asked, sitting next to you on his bed. You shook your head, scratching the cat behind his ears as he started purring, nuzzling against your leg. “Well, that’s Ozzy.” He smiled, “he’s kind of an attention whore.”

“Well, hi Ozzy,” you smiled, scratching his head more. “You are so cute, Gareth didn’t tell me he had such a cute little kitty friend at home.” Gareth smiled a little, watching you interact with Ozzy.

“I kind of forgot you’ve never been to my house, otherwise I would have warned you about Gracie too.” He said, opening his notebook to his most recent notes.

“Yeah, I didn’t know you had a sister either,” you nodded, looking at him with a small smile. “She’s cute, though. She looks just like you.”

“Yeah, I get that alot.” Gareth replied, setting his notebook down as he tapped his thighs for Ozzy. Ozzy meowed and walked towards him, jumping into his lap before he curled up in a ball, purring more. “She is definitely the cuter sibling.”

You giggled to yourself, looking at your notebook in front of you. You smiled as you glanced at his notebook and stopped in your tracks when you saw his notes on the page. More specifically, when you saw his handwriting on the notebook page. That consistent scribbly, slanted handwriting was staring at you, teasing you; taunting you and calling out to you. 

Why? Because you know you’ve seen it before.

In fact, you’ve seen that handwriting so often recently. And it was currently sitting in your folder on numerous pieces of paper as well as sitting in your car with a bright red rose. 

You glanced up at him, watching as he continued to pet Ozzy on his lap.

Holy shit.

Gareth Emerson was your secret admirer. 

You walked through the gym in your red ball gown, weaving through the groups of people. While you had come to this dance with Chrissy and Kate, they were off now dancing with their boyfriends. Which was fine, it just meant that you were now alone for the time being. 

You made your way towards the punch table, grabbing yourself a cup before you took in your surroundings. You glanced around the room, sipping on the punch. Your eyes landed on the one person you were looking for–Gareth Emerson. He was sitting alone at a table in the corner, messing with his tie. 

It had been about a month since you had realized that Gareth was the one supplying the letters in your locker. And, since that day, his letters haven't stopped… in fact, they have actually increased to coming daily. Sometimes even twice a day. You wondered if he knew that you knew who he was… if he did know that you knew, he was doing an amazing job at hiding it. If he didn’t know then… well, he was just crazy.

Because you had been wanting to say something to him ever since the eventful day when you first recognized his handwriting and found out who he was. You just never found the right time. At least, until tonight—prom night. For some reason, tonight seemed like the perfect time to tell him, to show him, to confess your mutual feelings that had been growing towards him since you started spending time with him one on one. 

It was prom after all, wasn’t tonight about love and relationships and all that other cheesy shit?

You smiled to yourself and grabbed another cup of punch carefully. You made your way towards the table Gareth was sitting at, taking a seat next to him. He looked up at you and smiled, “hey, you, uh, you look great,” Gareth said, taking in your appearance. He smiled softly as he watched the red lace fabric hug your upper body and curves before it flowed into a poofy ball gown skirt at your hips. Damn, you looked too good in that, and red was always his favorite color. Curse you for picking up on that and for wearing it specifically for him.

“Thanks,” you smiled, setting both cups of punch down on the table. “You clean up pretty well too, you know.” You giggled, looking at him. “I have to admit, I’m pretty surprised you’re here. School dances don’t seem like your kind of thing. But, I brought you some punch.” 

Gareth blushed softly, shrugging as his fingers continued to play with the end of his red tie. “Thanks. And, I had to wear this suit somewhere, you know?” He replied, looking up at you. “Are you… uh, all alone tonight?” He asked, his right hand moving towards the cup of punch you placed in front of him. 

“Kind of,” you responded, looking at him with a smile. “I came with Kate and Chrissy but they’re with Jason and Billy.” You motioned towards your friends who were dancing with their boyfriends. You hung your purse on the edge of your chair before resting your arms on the table. You looked at Gareth with a smile on your face, “what about you?”

Gareth smiled, looking at you. “What about me?” He asked, taking a drink of the overly sweet punch you had brought him.

“I mean,” you smiled, “where are your friends? Or are you also all alone tonight?”

“Ah,” he smiled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Kind of? Eddie is flirting with girls, trying to get someone to dance with him and, honestly, I’m not too sure where Jeff and Grant ended up…”

“And you’re not asking any girls to dance?” You asked, looking at Gareth. He looked up at you and shook his head.

“Oh, no, I don’t think any girl would want to dance with me anyways…”

“That’s not true,” you replied, “I bet there are plenty of girls that would like to dance with you.”

“Yeah, right,” Gareth shook his head. “Like who?”

You shrugged, smiling at him. “Good question.” You reached for your purse, pulling out a small piece of folded paper. You handed it to him and giggled softly.

He looked at you and raised an eyebrow, looking down at the folded piece of paper in his hand. He unfolded it carefully, looking at the contents carefully. 

Will you dance with me, my secret admirer? ♡

Gareth read the paper and looked up at you, turning a bright red. “How, uh… how did you know it was… me?” He asked softly, folding the paper back up. He tucked it into his jacket pocket gently, eyes on you again as he looked you up and down subtly. 

“Well, your handwriting during our History project kind of gave it away for me,” you giggled. “So, will you dance with me?” You asked, standing up. You placed your hand out for Gareth to grab, smiling when he stood up and placed his hand in yours.

“Of course I’ll dance with you,” he said softly, pulling you towards the dance floor just in time for a slow song. “Though, I must admit, I am terrible at dancing.” 

“Yeah, me too,” you replied, wrapping your arms around his neck gently. Gareth smiled softly, placing his hands on your hips gently. 

“You’re not like… I don’t know… weirded out by me placing those notes and stuff in your locker, are you?” He asked softly, pulling you closer to his body gently.

“No, not really… should I be?” You asked, smiling up at him. “If we’re being honest with each other, I have always had a tiny bit of a crush on you and I was secretly hoping you were the one planting all the letters for me…” 

“Really?” Gareth asked softly, swaying with you to the music. “Well, if we’re being honest with each other… the truth is I’ve had a crush on you for quite a while, and, I guess I was just… nervous that you wouldn't like a freak like me,” Gareth admitted softly, leaning closer to you.

“What do you mean?” You asked, moving your face closer to his.

“Well, you’re a cheerleader, I’m a freak… we just, don’t really go together, you know?” 

“Why are you calling yourself a freak?” You frowned. 

“Because, well, that’s kind of what I am? You’re popular and I’m just, well, a freak.”

“No,” you argued, shaking your head. “You’re really cool and really sweet and to be honest… being popular doesn’t mean anything. I like you for you, and truth is; I’d love to get to know the real you more.” 

“Really?” Gareth asked, smiling softly. 

“Really.”

“Well, uh, in that case,” Gareth said, leaning closer. “Can I… uh, can I kiss you?” He asked softly. 

“Please,” you replied. 

Gareth smiled and leaned in closer, placing his lips against yours softly. You smiled, kissing him back as your fingers played with his hair on the back of his neck gently. Gareth’s right hand moved up to your face, caressing your cheek softly as he pulled you closer to him with his left hand that was still placed in your hip. 

He pulled away slightly, resting his forehead against yours. “Would you, maybe, uh, want to go out with me sometime?” He stuttered out softly, looking at you. 

“Absolutely.” You replied, leaving another soft kiss on his lips.

gareth tag list: wanna be added? comment + let me know! @keeryhours ; @darkyuffie-blog ; @luveediary ; @the-witty-pen-name ; @bastardstevie ; @pupwrites ; @swiftieintheupsidedown ; @hawkinsmafia ; @the-unforgivenn ; @corrodedcorpses ; @potatoesenpaii ; @cowboylikemunson

[phantomof-themcu]

Unyielding: Claws and Scales

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Summary: After a long night of dealing with the politics of your divine family, you return home only to find Loki waiting��furious, wounded, and unwilling to let her disappearance go unchallenged. What begins as a clash of wills turns into something far more intimate, as anger, love, and longing collide in the sanctuary of their penthouse. But beneath the sharp words and burning touches lies a deeper truth—one that neither of them dares to speak aloud, yet both are desperate to prove.

Pairing: mcu/avengers!Loki x black!fem!goddess!reader (It is alluded that you are something similar to, if not, MCU Bast. Or, just represented by panthers)

Word Count:1.5k

Author’s Note: Hey y’all. This is my first fanfic I’ve written since I was like…I don’t know, 10? Regardless, I just felt like I haven’t seen enough pairings of certain characters (from all fandoms) with a black reader. I’ve loved Loki my entire MCU trip and I used to wish someone would write a fanfic for me when I was younger so, I guess this is for anyone who’s wished the same thing. Here you go! Also, let me know if y’all want me to write the “spicy” scene. I’m not opposed to it. Please, like, comment, and share!

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The moment I slipped through the doors of our penthouse, I exhaled, willing the tension in my shoulders to dissipate. The council meeting had been insufferable. To reprimand both my little brother Khonshu and my little sister Ammit was an ordeal I would rather not repeat. The Ennead never changed—prideful, stubborn, and exhausting.

I eased off my sandals, flexing my toes against the cool floor, savoring the contrast after a night spent standing in the presence of too many self-important gods. My siblings. But before I could take another step, the lights flared on.

My body tensed instinctively. The hairs on my arms stood on end, and a startled yelp—a distinctly feline sound—escaped my lips before I could swallow it.

"So much for cat-like stealth."

Loki’s voice was cool, but there was something simmering beneath it, something sharp. He stood in the doorway of our bedroom, his hand still on the switch, his expression unreadable. His emerald eyes glowed in the artificial light, his face cast in a mask of restrained anger.

I sighed, brushing an errant curl from my face. "Handling business that did not concern you."

Loki did not move, but his presence filled the space between us. "Where were you?"

"Loki—"

"Where?" The question was no longer gentle.

I turned, walking toward the living room, letting my fingers trace over the sleek furniture as I put space between us. "The council meeting ran long. Our domains required mediation. I was needed."

His steps were soundless as he followed me. "What have I told you about leaving without a word?" His voice was lower now, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

I turned to face him, arms crossing over my chest. "And what have I told you about caging me?"

Loki's jaw tightened, his lips a thin line. "You speak as if I wish to control you. I only ask for the courtesy of knowing where you go."

"Courtesy? Or control?" My voice was a blade, slicing between us. My gentle accent wasn't so gentle in that moment.

His nostrils flared, his hands clenching at his sides. "Do not twist my words, my panthress. Do you know what it does to me, waking to find you gone with no trace? Do you know the madness that grips me when I imagine the worst? You may be a goddess, but even gods fall. And I—" He stopped himself, exhaling sharply.

A pause stretched between us, charged and fragile. I could feel the anger rolling off him in waves, barely contained, crashing against the unyielding shore of my calm.

I took a step closer. "You fear losing me."

His eyes darkened. "I know what it is to lose. I know what it is to be abandoned, to be discarded like something worthless. Do not make me feel that way again."

The confession settled between us, raw and aching.

I inhaled, reaching up to touch his face, my fingers grazing the sharp angles of his jaw. "I am not leaving you. I will always return to you."

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into my touch before pulling away, pacing. "I do not need reassurances. I need actions. I need you to understand that when you disappear without a word, it is not just an absence—it is a wound. And wounds, my dearest, fester."

His voice was not just anger; it was pain, old and deep. A wound that even time had not healed.

I studied him, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers curled into fists as if he were holding himself together.

"Loki, you are not the only one who has lost," I murmured, stepping closer, pressing my palm against his chest. "You are not the only one who has been left behind. But I am not leaving you. Not now. Not ever."

His gaze locked onto mine, searching for the truth in my words. And whatever he found there made his anger shift, change. It did not disappear, but it softened, melted into something else entirely.

His hands found my waist, his grip firm but no longer rigid. "Swear it."

I arched a brow. "You doubt me?"

His lips quirked, the ghost of a smile. "I doubt everything. It is my nature."

I exhaled a laugh, my fingers tracing the sharp lines of his collarbone. "Then let me prove it to you."

The air between us thickened, charged. The battle of words was over, but another battle—a different kind—was about to begin.

Loki was not gentle. He was desperate, a storm restrained for too long, and now finally unleashed. The way his hands found my skin, his lips claimed mine—it was not merely passion. It was possession, a reminder of all the times I had slipped through his fingers before and a vow that he would not allow it again.

I matched him, unyielding. He may be a god of mischief, chaos if you will, but I was not willing to beam down. I was grace, control, fluidity. For every desperate grasp, I gave an effortless caress, for every demanding press of lips, I met him with measured defiance. We moved through the space like warriors in battle, a clash of dominance and surrender, a test of limits and breaking points.

He lifted me with ease, pressing me against the cool wall, the contrast of temperature sending a shiver down my spine. His lips moved along my throat, breath hot, words a whisper between fervent kisses. "You make me mad, my sweet panthress. Mad with need, with fear, with want."

I tangled my fingers in his dark hair, pulling just enough to make him groan. "And yet, you still love me."

A low chuckle, dark and full of something possessive. "Hopelessly."

I smiled against his lips before biting down lightly, making him hiss in surprise and pleasure. "Then prove it."

By the time we reached the bed, I was no longer sure where he ended and I began. The moonlight painted patterns on our skin, the ebony glow of a body perfectly fit with its ivory-toned constellation. The city beyond our windows oblivious to the storm that raged within our sanctuary.

Words faded into gasps, into whispered names, into silent promises etched into the very essence of our beings. And when the storm finally settled, when bodies lay entwined and breath slowed, there was no need for more reassurances.

We had spoken in the only language that mattered now.

And in the morning, when the world called for us once more, I knew we would answer it together.

[whoredyceps]

"OH LOVER BOY!" || 28 Days of Love: A Valentine's Challenge + Series

day twelve: "for you, i would."

ᰔ pairing: din djarin x reader

ᰔ summary: your time had run out, and the bounty hunter has come to collect his target. is he ready to face the music?

ᰔ author's note: this is a continuation of the last din ficlet i wrote. i wish i could be like "omg hehe so cute!" but uh, it turned out so angsty. maybe if i make another part to this, they'll have a happy ending. surely ain't this one though!

ᰔ content warning: angsty angst feelings feelings angst, unspoken feelings, steely!din, alludes to dangerous situations. no beta— we die like men

"Mandalorian," you hummed. "Back so soon?"

"You know why I'm here." Din stood rigid on your doorstep. He had a hand on his phaser, not that it surprised you. How he stood, the tone of his voice. It was telling.

"Back for another round with the handcuffs?" You teased. Even in the most dire of situations, you were one to jest.

There was a tense silence that hung between you, something you couldn't read from the Mandalorian. You sighed and dropped the exterior you held up for him. Without a word, you opened the door and let him inside.

Din watched you carefully as he stepped inside. His hand never left his side, ready for anything you threw at him. It felt a bit ridiculous— this whole thing.

Why did you treat him the way you did in your last encounter? Many had tried to escape their bounties, but with you...

You handled him with kid gloves— No, that wasn't it. You saw past him, saw past the harsh exterior and his mask. Those eyes pierced his mind and soul.

When traversing to his next informant, all Din thought of was you. How did you get him in bed? How did you bring out this tiny piece of him that had been hidden and shoved down? This shriveled, starved nerve in him that craved for someone else to take control. You confused him.

"Let me change first, please. I don't want to go like this." Your tone surprised Din. Everything about the person who stood in front of him was not who greeted him last time.

"Take your time."

It was your turn to be surprised by the bounty hunter. The morning after he left, you were sure he'd return with guns blazing. After all, he had left his bounty without so much as a scratch. Every moment until this one had the back of your mind full of what was to come when he came to collect his bounty.

"Thank you." You bowed your head before you slipped past him. You expected him to follow, and he did.

The last time you two had been in the same room, the circumstances were vastly different. You had hoped to show him more of your prized possessions, and you liked to think that he may have enjoyed it.

Now, you felt this suffocating tension that hung in the air. It choked you, filled your throat and lungs with every breath. Not that the Mandalorian came to do his job, but the target on the back of your head had finally hit the bullseye. The end of your freedom had come in the form of a bounty hunter.

"Why are they asking for you?" Din broke the silence. He couldn't stand it, how distance had wedged itself between the two of you. There were only a few feet, but miles separated you now.

"I wouldn't say putting a price on my head is asking," you huffed out a bitter laugh. "I thought you didn't ask questions like that." You slipped off the lounging robe you had worn. Instead, you traded it for something more sturdy, pants and a simple long tunic. It came with some leather pieces, but you didn't bother. Every part of the outfit wasn't you. No one got to have that part of you now.

"I'd say there are circumstances that change that," Din returned. He watched you carefully. While his hand was on the blaster, there was no need for it. In the short time he had known you, it didn't seem like something you'd do. At least, he gave you the benefit of the doubt.

"Have you found a soft spot for me under all that armor?" You tried to smirk, but it didn't reach your eyes. It was hard to find humor in a moment like this.

Din didn't answer, and you didn't expect him to. You stood in front of the mirror and gathered yourself. After a beat, you turned to the bounty hunter and held your wrists to him. A silent surrender, ready for the real cuffs you knew he had.

Instead, he shook his head. Without a word, he motioned for you to lead the way out. You hated how quiet it was. Even with the music you had left on before Din arrived, there was the loud buzz of nothingness that rang in your ears.

You followed him to the Razor Crest, which he let you on first. Once inside, he finally put a set of cuffs on your wrists. They were heavier, thick and cut into your skin. It left a bitter taste in your mouth, the irony of the situation.

"Find somewhere to sit." Din closed the ship and finally moved his hand from the phaser at his side. He watched you sit on the floor, against one of the walls near where he piloted the ship.

"You can sit in a chair, you know?" It was an attempt to lighten the situation— why he tried, he wasn't sure.

Din bit back a sigh as you shook your head. He felt something acidic in his stomach as he took in your expression. He had seen it on many other bounties, the haunted look in their eyes as they approached their own demise. While he wasn't sure what fate awaited you, he had a feeling he'd figure it out.

"I'll stay here, if you don't mind." You tucked your knees against your chest, your arms wrapped around as you curled up.

That static silence lingered in the air as time passed. You laid your head back against a panel; your eyes drifted to the slivers of glass you saw from where you sat.

"You never answered my question." Din wasn't able to stomach another minute of silence. What he once had been so comfortable in— a blanket he had grown so used to— had been ripped and tossed to the side.

You tore your gaze away from the sights of the galaxy. Silently, you stood behind the pilot's chair. The view was nice, to see what the bounty hunter traversed through.

"Why should I tell you?" Instead of hostility, it was simple curiosity. You leaned into his peripheral, your eyes still on the stars that whizzed past the ship.

Din tried to think of a reason, but he came up short. He didn't have one, truthfully. It was his curiosity that had gotten the better of him. You waited for an answer, but when he gave you more silence, you sighed.

"As much as we'd like to run from what troubles us, that is often not the case. Once the claws have sunk in, they drag you back time and time again." Without his helmet on, you would have seen the way the bounty hunter glanced at you. He noticed the slight grimace on your face.

"Why run? Face it head on, and finish it once and for all." Din set the ship to auto-pilot as he turned the chair towards you.

You tried to hide your expression, but he noticed how you tensed. For things left unspoken, your actions spoke clearly.

"I know nothing of you, Mandalorian, but you know as well as I do that it's easier said than done. To return..." You shook your head and looked down. "How much is the bounty? It'll pay you well?"

Din looked to you. He contemplated whether he wanted to tell the truth or not. What did he gain from it? What did you lose from it? Would it bring you comfort, or push you past a point you couldn't return from.

"Enough that I took it without much thought," Din finally said. He watched your expression even though it was unclear. He turned back to watch the course the Razor Crest was set on.

"I can't blame you, I suppose. If it's who I think it is, they'll make the pay well worth your time." You gave a humorless chuckle. "Well, I hope you'll use your credits well."

The comment was off handed, but it didn't sit well with Din. It was the nature of his job, to turn people in for a price. Those who had fallen victim to the bounty hunter's target made sure to remind him of that.

Why did your comment feel like a swift kick to the throat?

"It's a job," Din said. "It's all business."

"Was what we did just business?" You asked in return. Part of you wished you saw the expression on his face, but when his hand gripped one of the handles on the console, you had a good idea of what it may look like.

"What we did," Din hesitated. "It was one time. It won't happen again."

There it was— that damn silence. You looked away from Din, back out at the expanse of the universe.

"I know. Any pleasures I've grown accustomed to have all vanished in the blink of an eye. I'll miss you, Mandalorian," you admitted. "Perhaps it's selfish, but I had hoped you would return again. Under different circumstances, though."

"You knew I would come back." Din glanced back at you.

"I suppose I always knew it would come to this. With you, with the bounty..." You trailed off, the thought left to hang between you two.

"Did you expect me to abandon myself? My morals and honor?" Din wasn't insulted, but it rubbed him the wrong way. Everything about you felt like that— like every part of you brushed against him and lingered. Searing hot to the touch, only for it to simmer under his skin.

"For you, I would." You said it without hesitation, your eyes pointed right at the T-shaped visor on the bounty hunter's head. "If I knew the price on your head and knew I was sending you back into the jaws of something vile, I would abandon myself."

You didn't wait for the silence to follow. With a shift of your hands, hope of some relief from the pain of the handcuffs for naught, you stalked out of the room.

It would be days before you made it to your destination, which still wasn't enough time to gather all your thoughts and feelings. That, mixed with the dread and torment only left you catatonic in the tiny bunk you found solace in.

Now, you were the one in bed, handcuffs left you to submit to the bounty hunter. Perhaps next time, you'd be more specific.

[ani-iu]

[𝟏/𝟐] 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 | angel 𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐦 × female sinner 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 × 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐨

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You are a sinner in Hell, and you want to die—permanently. You own nothing, not even your soul, and struggle every day just to exist. That is why you view the annual exterminations as your only hope and the last pardon from God to sinners.

When the day comes and you lie down with an exorcist angel hovering above you, you accept your fate with a serene smile on your face. Finally, you will be free.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

But your executioner just had to be the first man himself.

Killing sinners when they want it is not as fun, which is why Adam presents you with a deal—your kind likes those, right? He will kill you, but only if you are willing to listen to him spill everything that is weighing on his soul. Dead tell no tales, and Adam really needs someone to talk to.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: angst; bittersweet ending; implied/referenced suicide; suicidal thoughts; implied/referenced rape/non-con; rape/non-con elements; drug use and addiction; self-image issues; canon-typical violence; explicit sexual content; dubious consent; unhealthy power dynamic expressed through cannibalism; religious imagery & symbolism; religious guilt; Adam being Adam; blood and gore; dead dove: do not eat. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7,6k.

// wrath of god

𝐘ou were falling for a while—as if everything slowed down the moment you jumped.

At first, you had your eyes opened. The crisp late November air was cold but not unpleasant against your sweaty skin—invigorating even—and when you opened your mouth, it tasted of a faint hint of ice and stifling city pollution. You never felt so at peace as you did at that moment, so you allowed your tense body to surrender itself to gravity rather quickly and without much fight. 

It was only once you got closer to splattering against the pavement that you finally closed your eyes and, with a palpitating heart, braced yourself for the impact. But it never came.

You just kept falling.

And falling.

Delayed confrontation with your painful death not only confused you but also twisted your stomach in a suffocating swirl of anxiety-inducing inevitability and sick giddiness. Was this the moment I would see my life flash in front of me?

You wished—no—you needed to catch a vivid glimpse of your sun-drenched childhood days, unclouded by the passing of time. It wouldn’t have changed a thing. You already made your irreversible decision. However, it felt strange not to cry in this circumstance, and perhaps childhood nostalgia would have been able to squeeze a few drops out of you. 

To be honest, you didn’t know who you were trying to please with the waterworks, but after spending your entire life seeking approval from others, you wanted to end it the same way by showing off to the first responders your glossy, tear-stained cheeks while they scrape off your mangled body from the asphalt.

Yet, all you could think of was the ten-minute countdown toward the end, which played inside your mind on a taunting loop—ending the moment you hopped over the railing to your death and starting again the moment the door of the balcony clicked shut behind you.

Click.

Back pressed against the glass, you stand frozen in place for a moment, simply listening to the clamour of the city below. Icy snowflakes fall over your shoulders, creating a comforting blanket of pure white, but your body quickly melts it all away as if something as tainted as you didn’t deserve its biting solace.

You clutch your phone close to your chest like it is the only thing keeping you grounded at the moment.

Carefully and without loosening your deadly grip, you peel the device away until the screen senses your face and unlocks itself, presenting you with a lengthy list of contacts.

Thumb gliding over the wet screen as you scroll through hundreds of numbers brings you back to reality alongside a heavy feeling in your gut. You are reminded of just how useless the device is to you.

But your desperation has grown since the last time you contemplated reaching out for help. To the point you even consider setting aside any animosity you hold toward your mother. You could reach out to her, but, childishly, you have her contact listed under her name, and, well, her name turns out to be common enough to have three namesakes saved in your contacts, making it impossible to decide which one to call.

Yet, you don’t even try to call at least one of them. Your pride is stuck inside your throat—impossible to swallow. So you lock your phone and drop it into your coat pocket, substituting the device for a pack of cigarettes.

The filter sticks to your dry lips while you intensely watch the flame repeatedly lose the fight against the wind. Yet, with furrowed eyebrows, you refuse to let the fire die—rolling your thumb against the steel wheel of the lighter to spark it up again. 

And again.

The moment smoke hits the back of your throat, you release a sigh of contentment before taking a shaky lungful. All the tension leaves your body as you lean against the safety railing and shake the ash into the darkness below, watching it dance together with the falling snowflakes in one harmonious rhythm.

"Tempting, isn't it?"

So much for peace and quiet.

You push away from the edge and twist your body toward the devil himself.

You just had to get in his way, had to catch his predatory gaze from across the room after one of the fashion shows you were modelling at. As if any of this was even my choice. Nothing was. I didn't choose him, but he chose me—to drug, defile, and pass around his pretentious, disgusting buddies.

Said man is leaning against the doorway, his dark hair blending in with the night. He turns his head toward the railing you are leaning against and follows his suggestion with a mocking laugh. "It’s not like you would be missed. After all, you are still here."

He leaves you after that, not bothering to close the door behind him. He knows you will come back. You always do.

Flicking the butt of the cigarette, you watch it free fall and just disappear into the pitch-black abyss below—used and discarded. You still remember how light the filter felt in between your fingers. I bet its fall is light too—

You take a step back as if the wet phone in your pocket has finally short-circuited and electrocuted you.

I am loved, you tell yourself as you push your freezing hand into your pocket until your bony fingers curl around the cell phone.

You haven’t entertained the thought of jumping until now. That should show that this isn’t your doing; these aren’t your thoughts. He is the parasite that infected yet another aspect of your life.

Pulling out the device with shaking hands, you stare at an empty lock screen.

He is lying, trying to get a rise out of you, your racing mind supplies as your grip tightens.

The screen turns dark, and the phone stays silent. You hold it for a while longer—your phone as well as your breath.

The air you exhale comes out as a puffy cloud. You look up at the sky and the falling snowflakes. They cover your face in small blotches, their coldness lasting a moment like a small, calming kiss against your burning skin. Then they melt and roll down your face and down your neck into the inside of your shirt.

Daring a glance over the railing, you slowly become mesmerised by the serenity and tranquillity that darkness provides.

And you can’t help but believe him.

No one would notice if I just disappeared.

With that last thought, you finally hit the ground with a jarring slam. The impact knocked the remaining air out of your lungs, paralysing your body with the most overwhelming pain and making any kind of movement impossible for a short moment. A bloodcurdling scream pierced right through the ringing in your ears, and only when you felt your throat burn did you realise that the screaming belonged to you—not some kind of wounded animal.

Pain was the clearest indication that you were still alive, and fearing that you had somehow managed to survive your attempt, you opened your eyes only to be confronted with a reality that was even worse than that.

The air around you was heavy like lead, crushing your whole being to the ground and filling your lungs with sour and bitter fumes. Everything around you was drenched in red. It was as if you fell through the earth's crust all the way to its magmatic middle. The seemingly impossible scenario would have provided an explanation for the long fall and seemed much more plausible to you than what the pentagram above would imply.

However, before you could comprehend your current predicament to the full extent, the dainty silver cross that you always wore around your neck began to burn you through your clothing, causing you to grip it without a second thought and frantically tug on the chain to take it off. It scorched your palm, filling the air with the nauseatingly sweet smell of burnt flesh.

If asked, you wouldn’t have been able to say for certain how long it took for it to finally break—you still don’t know—you just remember the short-lived relief, which quickly got overshadowed by the heavy implication of the aftermath.

There was an ugly taste in the back of your throat as you watched in horror how the precious metal melted in front of your eyes, becoming so hot that the silver puddle turned red and blended in with the ground beneath your feet. You wanted to scream in horror, but all that left your throat was a pathetic whimper. 

Not only were you in Hell, but this gesture felt like the God you prayed to your whole life just slammed the door of His home right in front of your face.

At some point, you had managed to drag yourself into a nearby alley to get your bearings. But the moment your heavy head hit the wall, one of the back doors opened, and you saw a demon being tossed out, their bones cracking as they rolled down the steep flight of stairs, landing right by your feet.

That's how you met Isaac—a sinner whom you genuinely considered a friend, even though you sometimes wondered if he was real or merely a figment of your imagination, given how he made your afterlife a tiny bit more bearable. His optimism was infectious, yet you couldn't miss the way his smile always hinted at the regret he never fully expressed to you. But it wasn't like you divulged much about yourself either, as fear always held you back despite your longing for connection.

That’s who you were—a coward. And you stayed true to that title, remaining hidden in the shadows even while Isaac was being butchered by an angel from Heaven.

You physically couldn’t move. Instead, you attempted to justify your cowardice by reminding yourself how agonisingly painful regeneration is for sinners. If you also got hurt, no one else would take care of your friend, so you stayed in your hideout until the early hours of the morning when the flock of angels finally retreated back into the sky. 

Once you approached the scene, all you saw were the fleshy pieces scattered on the brimstone. If you hadn’t witnessed the slaughter for yourself, there would be no way for you to put a name to the innards that were left behind. 

You sat there, cradling the wet chunks of meat in your frail hold, until night fell. It wasn't until the end of the next day that it finally dawned on you that Isaac was not coming back. 

And for the first time since your arrival in Hell, you smiled.

In your despair, you had forgotten that when God closes the door, He opens a window. And as you hugged the rotting meat closer to yourself until the mince spilt out of your embrace, you thanked God—in the form of a little prayer murmured under your nose—for showing you that window of hope.

Since then, the only thing on your mind has been next year's extermination.

» » »

It was definitely suicide that earned you a one-way ticket to Hell, yet sometimes you can't help but wonder if it's modelling.

It's a stupid thought, and it’s not like it matters that much now anyway, but being stuck in Hell—a place where sinners endure repetitive and eternal punishment tailored to their sins—and doing the same thing you did in life... damn it, you just can’t help but wonder if that’s what got you here in the first place.

After all, it seems that everything went downhill in your life and afterlife once you signed your modelling contract—both times signing away your soul.

Even so, you wouldn’t have it any other way. Your eyes never squint when the stage lights cut you out from the surrounding darkness. And the rush you get—it’s almost worth everything unpleasant that comes with it. It’s your Achilles heel and the only thing you can still enjoy down here.

You also used to love the mirror and how it reflected your carefully crafted image, but now it mocks you. Your reflection is mostly blurry, and your features look so warped that it’s as if your mind can’t fully comprehend your new appearance. Guilt. Maybe this is your true punishment—not the eternal flames of Hell, but the torment of your own gaze.

So you meticulously navigate the house of mirrors that is Velvette’s studio, your head downturned in sorrow and shame like a wannabe penitent Mary Magdalene.

You conceal this weakness in character under the guise of being for others' eyes and not your own—a product of the Vees for the masses to consume. The self-effacing slogan is intriguing and seems to work for Velvette. You are a mannequin for her pretty clothes, and that’s it. She cares very little about your inner demons.

But nothing matters anymore, as you make your way down the hall for one last stop before you go to find yourself an empty spot somewhere in the streets. You doubt it will be difficult to do that. It shouldn't be crowded. Not tonight, at least.

For a year you suffered through Velevette’s verbal and physical abuse, avoided Vox’s reflective screen, and tried to stay away from Valentino. He was the most difficult of the Vees to avoid. And that is saying much, as even now—as you make your way down the hall—you keep pulling onto the silk lapels of your robe in a desperate attempt to hide your exposed skin from the blinking cameras seemingly at every corner.

You wanted to escape Valentino. You really did. But you were dependent on the overlord.

The pain from your fall never left you. It weighs on you like a heavy burden of sin. It’s Hell—you are supposed to suffer—yet coming to terms with it doesn’t make it better.

The drugs do. They placate the pain for a short while, but it all comes back sooner or later. Bit by bit, it returns slowly, like some sick joke. But it’s bearable at first, and it tricks you into thinking that you can manage it on your own. You don’t need the drugs. You don’t need him. However, then it comes back just as unbearable as it was before, and your resolve gets crushed, allowing Valentino to play a saviour again.

Your footsteps are quiet. The magenta carpeting below muffles the clicking sound your high heels make, and the further you venture away from Velvette’s side of the building, the sparser all the mirrors become and the higher your chin raises.

Finally, you come to a stop in front of the double door.

With your arms at your sides, you try to remind yourself of the shame you feel every time you leave his penthouse, that it’s not worth it. Valentino’s smoke made you retch, and his touch made you sick, but it all also reminded you of the time when you were alive. The most horrible parts of it, but for you—someone who is desperately clinging to the last remnants of their humanity—it was a comforting reminder.

You open the door to what can only be described as a sanctum of vanity. You step into Valentino’s carefully crafted reality, an empire built on charm and exploitation, bleeding hedonism from its every crevice. The air is clouded in a thick mist of smoke, hiding the true danger within. Yet even if you can’t see him, you can sense his presence and feel his invisible gaze undressing you from afar.

And suddenly your surroundings become insignificant.

"Ah, I was wondering if you would show your beautiful face tonight. Are you done playing hard to get?" A voice emerges somewhere from the thick, pink cloud of smoke. Valentino shifts from lying back on one of the opulent loveseats into a sitting position, legs spread apart, inviting. Coincidentally, he has also exchanged his usual attire for an old Hollywood-style robe, befitting his role as a film director, you suppose. It has flowing sleeves adorned with fluffy trim around the edges that Velvette would most likely describe as tacky and cheap-looking. "Come on, don’t keep me waiting, muñeca."

You don’t say anything as you step further into the room, the door closing shut behind you. Valentino already has you in his trap, ever since you took your first breath in this room. Your eyelids feel heavy until they drop to cover half of your irises, mirroring your body as you subserviently lower yourself onto your knees before the tall, hulking moth overlord and crawl closer to him.

You hear Valentino chuckle as he exhales another puff of smoke that caresses your skin with a featherlike softness and wraps around your ankles like chains, slowing down your movements by weighing down your limbs. The bliss you feel—as you inhale more of the vinaceous and just as intoxicating smoke—is overwhelming.

Your robe creeps up with every move, exposing your bare calves. Another move and it’s your thighs on display.

Valentino extends his hand to you like salvation—like a lifeline to which you can’t help but cling every single time, even if you say to yourself it’s the last time. Even if right now you feel utterly humiliated and disappointed with yourself.

Once he wraps his fingers around your wrist, he drags you like a ragdoll until you are kneeling between his spread-out knees. With your arm still in his bruising grasp, you support your weight on your free one, pressing your palm into a velveteen cushion beside his leg. Now that both of your hands are occupied, you lower your face towards his crotch, gazing up at him as you do.

As you are about to reach and lift the thin layer of his robe with your teeth, Valentino tugs your pliant body on top of his until you find your place in his lap instead. A startled gasp followed up by a little whine leaves your mouth—he caught you off guard, and the way he forcefully pulls you up hurts, but the little sound might as well be interpreted by the man as disappointment towards him taking away a sweet treat from you.

"Eager little thing you are." His tone is teasing and overlaid with his smooth, saccharine-sweet accent. But that is only the surface level. You can’t help but pick up a tinge of surprise in Valentino’s voice, like he is surprised by your audacity to try and avoid him and then attempt to suck his dick, the action that he regards as a prize rather than a torment to your jaw.

A shiver runs down your spine, and your empty stomach swirls with unease as all you can do is go along with whatever he has in store for you, even if it feels like being accompanied on a walk and seeing a guillotine at the end of the trail.

His lower set of arms brushes up and down along your thighs, eyes never leaving your body while you take that time to work on tugging and tearing at the silky fabric to expose more of your skin for his enjoyment, bearing it all to his hungry gaze. He hums in approval, moving his hands upwards from your thighs until his palms rest on your ass and hips, nudging you to get closer to him. 

Your knees tremble from the force and from having to support the weight of your body, so you sit down, feeling him already hard underneath the thin layer of his robe. You sigh, unable to suppress the involuntary throb between your legs which spurs you into grinding against Valentino just to feel some kind of relief for the itch you can’t seem to scratch on your own.

"I knew you would be back. There’s no way a little dependent slut like you could get away." His hands, still resting on your backside, take a firmer grip on the plump flesh, helping you move faster, harder. The friction sends pleasant tingles across your whole body, and you close your eyes, greedily enjoying the pleasure while it lasts, which you know won’t be long. You are so lost in it that you don’t even notice when one of Valentino’s hands from his upper set of arms roughly grabs you by your jaw, bringing your face in line with his. "Even if you try."

Valentino’s palm unassumingly rests on the column of your neck for a bit, until his grip tightens and he forcefully hoists you up till you are back on your knees. You roughly swallow down your answer and simply nod. If you weren’t Velvette’s prized model, Valentino would have snatched you for the studio a long time ago.

His lips stretch into a satisfied smirk, but it doesn’t bring you much comfort.

For a second your gaze flutters downwards, where you notice that his other hand has moved to grab his cock that already has beads of precum spilling to the surface of the tip. He smears it with his thumb and gives his whole length a few languid strokes with little amusement.

Finally, he lets go of your face and this time brings his bruising touch up to your waist while he aligns his tip with your dripping folds.

Valentino is not gentle, and he doesn’t waste time on anything apart from his own pleasure—pushing his cock inside you with no care for your comfort. The stretch, as your bruised inner walls try to accommodate him on such short notice and with no preparation, is excruciating.

You grab his shoulders and try to slow down the painful descent while taking deep breaths in order to relax your muscles before Valentino loses his patience.

Speaking of the man—he leans back to watch over the stiff, trembling mess that is you with a bored yet contemplative expression. One of his upper set of hands rests comfortably over the backrest of the loveseat, his fingers drumming against the velvet upholstery. The other brings the cigarette holder closer to his lips.

"I—ngh!" can’t is what you want to say but are unable to through gritted teeth. It was a mistake to come here, your inner voice screams at you, and you scream back, I know that!

Your cunt clenches around him as your body naturally tries to push him out of you, but then he blows another plume of the headily noxious smoke into your face and smirks as he watches how your pupils instantaneously dilate. 

What you inhale knocks down your defences and allows Valentino to forcefully thrust the rest of himself into you. All you can do is dig your nails into his shoulder blades and throw your head back in relief that the worst is over.

The force is a silent threat that you understand clearly, so before he gets angry, you pick yourself up on shaky legs and lower yourself down on his throbbing cock, adopting a pace you know he enjoys while bouncing through the pain.

Desperately searching for a way to take your mind off the situation, you peek over his shoulder at the window walls that provide you with the sprawling skyline of Pentagram City. But not for long.

As the sky behind the glass slowly turns into a slightly deeper and darker shade of vermilion, the outside vanishes, leaving you to stare at the reflection of the room, which makes Valentino’s penthouse look isolated and endless. 

You can see the outline of your figure reflected in the glass like your body is still there; you can feel it mounted on Valentino’s cock, but your consciousness is back there by the window, akin to a frigidly indifferent onlooker watching from a distance, judging.

The ache from the overlord’s bruising touch is gone, as is the excruciating pain lingering from your fall to damnation. You just feel numb.

The face of your reflection is a swirl of colour—a mix of your skin tone, the tint of your lips, and the hue of your irises—as if the image is so unrecognisable to your brain that it cannot even generate the most basic human features. You hardly remember what you look like as is; it would not matter if the reflection is accurate either way.

Valentino grabs you by the hair and brings your attention back to the present moment by aligning your face with his own. You could see yourself reflected in his glasses if not for the tears glossing over your vision.

Both of your lips are parted and inches away—his hot breath mixes with your own to the point you can taste the sickly sweet remnants of smoke on your tongue.

With half-lidded eyes, you pant out breathless little ah ah ah’s every time his hips meet with your own, and a little shudder accompanying his every exhale is the only indicator that he somewhat enjoys this and isn’t just doing it as a humiliating punishment.

Valentino is close. His thrusts have become more erratic, chasing after his own need for release.

You whimper when he lowers his head and, with hot lips, grazes the dewy skin pulled taut over your collarbone—not yet kissing it but close. Oh, so close. 

A girl can dream about a tender little kiss, and in a momentary lapse in judgement, you allow that possibility to hang heavy in the air like the cloying smell of sex as you tilt your head slightly sideways and lift your chin, leaving your neck vulnerable to him to do as he pleases.

But Valentino doesn’t do sweet little kisses, and if that well-known character quirk of his did not clue you in, then a gust of breath over your pulse point should have been a warning.

"Ah!"

Valentino sinks his teeth into the juncture where your neck and shoulder connect. The pleasant pressure in your lower stomach gets replaced with a sinking feeling as the sharp pain locks your whole body with excruciating pain.

He spills himself into your trembling body while you weakly push against him in an attempt to get away, but all it does is help him tear the chunk of meat and tendons out of your body.

Valentino growls into your open wound, and you stop resisting. His hot cum flowing down your legs is as uncomfortably hot as the bile rising up your throat.

You hear him loudly gulp down the bloody chunk and chuckle, "It doesn’t matter that I don’t own your soul on paper. You will always be mine. Even when this heals up," he licks a long stripe against the pulsing wound, making you gasp and squirm. The deceptively charming tone of his voice is gone just like that, replaced by one with a warning undertone exhaled right into the bloody injury. "There will always be a piece of you missing. Don’t make me wait for you next time."

Like a child hiding a broken vase before your parents even notice the glass shards, you smile at him, knowing that after tonight you will have nothing to worry about. You could make any promise; it won’t matter.

You exhale contentedly, "I won’t, Valentino. Never."

Valentino hums, stroking your upper arm with soft, sensual caresses, none the wiser to your plans. The unusual gentleness, alongside lightheadedness from blood loss and rhythmic throbbing in your neck, begins to slowly lull you to sleep. Your eyelids grow heavier with every touch that Valentino spares you, and unconsciously you begin to negotiate with yourself, only for a little bit… I will close my eyes for a moment… Hell knows I deserve it—

Doubtful that sinners have guardian angels, but unable to explain the sudden need to meet Valentino’s palpably piercing gaze in any other way, you cannot do anything but thank God that you do before you succumb to the temptation of sleep.

The terror in that moment is greater than exhaustion. You quickly scramble to your feet, swaying to the sides like a sapling trying its best to hold up against the wind. 

Your arms are shaking and going numb; you can’t even feel the piece of clothing in your hands. A thin layer of fresh skin has already stretched over the wound at the base of your neck, but as you tug your robe back onto your shoulders, the thin layer rips, blinding you with pain until the black spots in your vision grow bigger.

Gentle, the man is not, and still knowing this, you almost fell for the trap. All this time, he has seen through you and almost ensnared you. Shame on you for thinking yourself to be wiser.

Valentino hasn’t made a move to drag you back. He… just smiles, while one of his many arms is twirling the cigarette holder between long, dexterous fingers. The fresh smoke hits your nose, and you feel your mouth start watering.

You don’t play with untamed fire for any longer than you already have, quickly making your way on wobbly legs towards the door. It slams shut with a resounding thud, but not before Valentino’s mocking purr slips through the crack and hits you on the way out.

"Better hurry, muñeca."

Hyperventilating, you stumble into a wall. The stale smell of smoke permeates the air even outside Valentino’s room in the hallway. There’s a taste of bile in the back of your throat as you feel it coming up, but all you can do is lean your forehead against the wall, close your eyes, and ride it out without, hopefully, regurgitating the stomach acids on the carpet.

With an exhale, you will yourself to open your eyes, afraid of falling asleep. Not here, not now.

Your wounded arm hangs limp beside you as the drops of viscous blood drip from the tips of your fingers onto the carpeting below.

Finally, you push yourself to stand straight, and with an ungainly walk, you exit the tower.

You look back only once.

Lost in a trance-like daze, you don't know how long you wandered the streets or when you managed to doze off in the spot you ultimately decided to pick as your final resting place. When you jump awake, all you know is that you eventually did.

The first of seven loud, steely bell rings echoes through the air, symbolising the start of the extermination. It is soon followed by the second and the third one.

In the rubble and decay left over from the last extermination, desperate sinners get ready for a new one—scrambling to hide against the inevitable.

Feeling indifferent towards their plight, you hug your knees closer to your chest, take out your last cigarette, and press the tip against the ground to light it. You take the first puff and close your eyes, exhaling the acrid smoke through your nose with a shaky breath as another loud chime rings through the air and sends a shiver down your spine.

You are ready to die, your inner voice tries to placate you as you subconsciously dig your heels into the ground with an overwhelming want to flee. You never wanted to die—not in life, nor the after. All you wish is for the pain to finally stop. And if this is what it’s going to take…

Another inhale.

You flick the ash, some of it falling on the tip of your stiletto. You don’t bother brushing it away. Instead, you raise your gaze to take in your surroundings and can't help but feel something swirling inside your stomach. Is that... longing?

Not for Hell, that’s for sure, but rather resurfacing memories that this part of the Pride Ring brings to the forefront of your mind. You are in the industrial area of Pentagram City, nestled somewhere behind the Carmine factories. Maybe it’s weird to find nostalgia in concrete, but as you remember yourself, you were always the sentimental type, especially before dying. And looking at the sculptural, dilapidated buildings—that are only good at serving a functional purpose—reminds you of your home before you got swept up in the fake glamour of the fashion world.

Concrete’s grey colour gives off a cold feeling to many, but you harbour a different kind of sentiment towards monochrome structures. You rarely visited your childhood home after your career as a model kicked off, so the memories you have of it are saturated with the dreamlike wonder of a curious child whose mind worked tirelessly to supply colour to even the most drab parts of suburbia.

And in her youthful eyes, the concrete was never cold—not in colour, and most definitely not in feeling.

Be it the sunset, painting the walls of a concrete-panelled five-storey apartment building in the warmest of colours, or your little self trying to climb on top of the concrete tunnels at the playground that had been exposed to the sun all day—your palms firmly pressed against the warm, rough surface as you pushed yourself upward, straining to lift your body on top, and painfully scraping your bare knees until they were stained with warm blood and throbbed with hot pain. To you, the concrete was warm and felt like home.

Until it didn’t.

You grew, and the oversaturated lens through which you used to gaze at life began fading out into an all-consuming fog of depressing grey. You wanted more from the miserable existence, chased unreachable dreams and that childhood high, substituting the lack of colour in your life with artificial big city lights.

Simultaneously, your ambitions got bigger, but no accomplishment could replicate the youthful optimism you once had, and no drug could synthesise it. 

You pursued the unattainable until you burnt out.

Casting your gaze at the filter between your fingers, you are taken out of your contemplative haze by another ring of the bell. You have gotten so lost in your own thoughts that you are unsure if it’s the fifth or the seventh ring.

Cries of murder have become white noise after two years of living in literal Hell, but these screams now are different. Sinners yell for others of their kind to hide, and at first, only the distant echoes of their desperation reach you. That is until the nearest sinner to you blocks your line of vision and screams into your face.

"Don’t just sit there! Hide—"

Just like that, an angelic steel-edged axe, bearing a close resemblance to a musical instrument, cuts the sinner obliquely through. His mouth doesn’t have time to even have time to close properly as the top half of his body is already sliding off to the ground before he can finish the sentence. His lower half follows soon after and crumbles down in the same spot he once stood.

Slimy, black intestines, like live eels, slither near your feet, angrily hissing at you as the hot ground underneath sizzles them. You attempt to dodge them with your feet, letting out a petrified squeal as one of them bursts open and the fountain of blood sprays along your skin and the silk fabric of your robe.

That last ring of the bell you heard a second ago was indeed the last one.

The sinner is no longer blocking your view, but before you can take a good look at who dealt them their final blow, you are being kicked in your chest, causing you to tumble backwards and your head to hit the ground with a sickening crack. Your eyes snap shut from the force and pain. And you keep them that way.

Your ears prickle at the sound of sandy gravel crunching underneath his steps until you feel the heavy-duty combat boot press into your chest cavity with a weight and hardness akin to that of metal.

Exorcist angels, like true bringers of death, pierce the congealed blood skies with their scythe-like wings in unparalleled grace and speed. Monochrome in their colour scheme reminds you of a more hellish version of a common swift. They are small yet lethal, but the angel on you, digging his boot into your barely covered skin, is bigger and heavier and, most importantly—set on making the punishing pain last.

Just your luck.

You try to breathe, but the pressure on your ribcage constricts your chest. The feeling is soon followed up by a sickening crack. And you couldn’t be happier. You have never felt as close to salvation as you did in this moment. The pain is almost euphoric. 

Then, you feel the cold lick of the angel's blade against your neck, merely ghosting your skin. You arch your back in an absolutely sinful manner so the sharp silver edge of his weapon would glide against your skin, inviting him to slice it through.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

You open your eyes to look at the demonic face of an angel, hm… ironic.

He doesn’t suit his surroundings. Be it the incandescence of a halo above his head, casting a saintly shine over him, or the soft pastel colour palette of his robes sticking out amidst the eternally burning inferno, like the whiteness of Heaven in the bloody sky.

Even the red blood of the sinner, running down his weapon and dripping near the angel’s feet, doesn’t seem to ruin his sanctimonious image. Filthy—yes, as it stains the pristine visage of something sacred, but spilt righteously.

The angel’s pitiless eyes glint like his unfurled, golden wings.

"Are you deaf?"

His voice is spiced with mockery, like an action of spitting on someone but expressed with words.

"No, I heard you. I’m just wondering why you haven’t killed me yet."

He looks at you and blinks twice, assessing the situation.

Then he gets up from you. 

You hungrily inhale lungfuls of sulphuric air once the pressure lifts from your chest. Gasping, you scramble to reach out for him, cutting the pads of your fingers against the sharp blade of his axe. No— NO!

Without mercy, he swats your hand away with so much force that it numbly dangles beside you, but that’s when you try again with your other one. This one he grabs in his firm hold, applying pressure until your bones scream for you to surrender. As if you care about anything that happens to your ugly sinner body. You welcome pain.

He keeps you at arm's length like a flea-infested mongrel, but his words are as clear as if he had somehow gotten inside your head and screamed them into your mind.

"Bitch, you just had to ruin it for me! It’s no fun if you want it!"

You don't manage to say anything. You just open your mouth, gathering words. Not the first time I’ve heard those words from a man. There’s a pang in your chest. You have managed to ruin this not only for yourself but for others.

You are so insignificant, even killing you is not worth it.

"Sorry."

"Huh?"

"Please… I just want peace." Eternal peace.

The holographic mouth curls into an ugly snarl as he growls a wordless, ‘How dare you want something, and how dare you expect me to oblige?'

That was not the right thing to say.

The angel tugs you closer till you lose your balance and fall face-first into him, but before you can collide with his stomach, he manhandles you, grabbing you by the jaw. Your head is firmly tilted, forcing your gaze to meet his. His hand feels huge; long fingers envelop the entirety of the right side of your face while his thumb is jabbed into your cheek on the left, pushing the tender flesh inwards until it painfully smushes against the sharp edges of your molars and draws blood. His palm covers your mouth and nose, not allowing you to breathe. One squeeze of his hand and he could crush your head like a rotten fruit that has gone soft.

Instinctively, your body’s natural reaction is to grab your executioner by the wrist to stop him from causing you more harm. However, before your fingers can make contact with his inky skin, you quickly withdraw and forcefully drop your hand beside you, digging your nails into your fleshy thigh and tensing the muscles in your jaw. You will endure this—anything—if only it means that you will be free.

But that does not mean that this is not excruciating. It takes a lot for you to cry, yet the searing pain from his rough touch is enough to wet your eyelashes. You feel the stinging in your eyes, and as much as you don’t want to break down, you can’t keep the tears at bay. 

So you cry.

Embarrassment ignites your cheeks as you feel the droplets wet your cheeks. The tears pool in the arch where his index finger and thumb connect, but it doesn’t repulse him away from you. Instead, it seems to pique his interest as he loosens his grip, allowing the salty droplets to roll down your skin.

Then he smears the liquid across your skin.

Time stands still in that moment. The screaming around you fades into nothing, replaced by the pounding of your heart inside your ears.

Adam was very much looking forward to this year’s extermination. 

His self-pity and feelings of loneliness have flared up these days, and not even a quick fuck with a beautiful winner did it for him anymore. So what better way to rid himself of misery than by glutting his soul with merciless slaughter?

Adam was a hunter all his life. At a time when the earth was bare and there was little to entertain himself with other than the pleasures of the flesh, chasing wildlife was as much a means to get food as it was a source of entertainment.

And habits are difficult to quit.

Zoomorphic amalgamations replaced wild animals in the afterlife—both more or less the same, but admittedly, humans warped by sin were much more fun to hunt and butcher because of their human-like cognition. They were the ultimate prey. 

As soon as Adam descended from Heaven, he swung his axe, slicing through the first deformed sinner with little thought or care put towards the action. He needed to get it out of his system, and fast.

Then why wasn’t he feeling better?

Deep down he knew that he really needed to talk to someone. His reflection in the mirror wasn’t cutting it anymore after millennia. But he could not trust anyone enough to open up. Who could fault him for that? Every time he dared to open his heart, he got played.

He would never repeat the same mistake.

But then the sinner crumbled to the ground, revealing you.

Adam was taken aback at first. You didn’t look the part.

And that made him livid. Was his mind messing with him?

He felt the anger boiling in his veins as he kicked you to the ground. Feeling the impact against his foot when it collided with your body, hearing your bones crack, and smelling your blood only reiterated that he was not hallucinating. You were real.

And on top of everything—you wished for death.

Who, or more precisely, what, were you?

He watched you struggle in his grasp like a fish that he plucked out of water with his bare hands.

When he saw those tears rolling down your cheeks, he couldn’t help but feel that surge of authority flow through him. That’s how you were supposed to look from the very first second of you two crossing paths—trembling, crying, and pleading to spare your life. Now you weren’t so brave, shaking like the last yellow leaf, barely holding up against the autumn wind. Pathetic.

But as the first teardrop finally travelled the short distance from your eyes towards the sharp edge of your jaw and unceremoniously fell between you two, the damned ground let out a hiss as if sprayed with holy water, leaving Adam to stand there wide-eyed. No, it couldn’t be—

His wet thumb glided across your cheek with precision as, with each stroke, he hoped to remove more and more makeup, but all he did was knead the dewy skin.

The angel’s face glitches, and that’s when he suddenly lets go of you, allowing you to free fall back to the ground.

"Okay, listen, here’s the deal. I hate giving sinners what they want, and death, well, it’s usually not their kink. But! I’m feeling generous and seeing how embarrassingly desperate you are—I have one condition." His voice takes a different tone, leaving you noticeably confused at the suddenness. "Listen to me vent, and I will slit your throat at the end."

On the ground, you prop yourself up on your elbows and look at him with your jaw slack. Splayed out with your legs bent at the knees, you stare at Adam unblinking.

After a moment of silence, you hide your face in your palm and mumble to yourself. "I really hit my head hard..."

"Whore," he warns, and your head snaps in his direction. You tug on the lapels of your robe, which, after everything that happened, barely covered your breasts, defiantly crossing your legs with furrowed eyebrows. "I will put a mark on you so no exorcist’s blade would ever touch your suicidal ass, and then you will spend the rest of your miserable existence—"

You contort your face into a forced smile.

"I will do it."

[helpwhyamiontumbllr]

jamie tartt angst

i’m just envisioning teenage jamie being so angry at himself for being a queer man, being so unbelievably angry that he was one of them one of the men his father told him to never be apart of.

“don’t be soft.”

“don’t be gay.”

“you are a fucking man”

jamie never forgot the way he spat those words with such vitriol it sat a burning lump in his throat. jamie was not able to cry for years, he knew how the belt sores felt, he knew how they bled.

jamie tartt would receive the beating of his life if his father found out he was one of them.

jamie throughout his highschool years dated girls he never loved, watching the boys he had crushes on flock to other women, as if they were ants to honey. he watched them with such intensity, the way they held the girls they were with, the way they spoke to them, all of it and just wished it was him.

jamie still liked girls, he thought they were beautiful, soft, and clever but he also loved boys in the same way he loved girls.

it was infuriating.

there was something wrong with him.